And then he remembered that yesterday, deciding that he needed to start living properly, he had resolved to build himself a mansion in the Oriental style.
He spent the whole morning dreaming big dreams.
He pictured a house with minarets, a doorman with the face of a statue, a second living room, a pool room, and for some reason, a conference room.
At the Land Use Department of the City Council, the grand strategist was told that he could indeed obtain a plot.
At the construction office, however, everything fell apart.
The doorman tumbled, his stone face banging loudly, the gilded conference room shook, and the minarets collapsed.
“Are you a private citizen?” they asked the millionaire at the office.
“Yes,” replied Ostap, “a highly distinct individual.”
“Unfortunately, we only build for groups and organizations.”
“Cooperative, governmental, and non-governmental?” asked Bender bitterly.
“Precisely.”
“And me?”
“And you can do it yourself.”
“But where am I going to get the stones, the bolts?
The molding, for that matter?”
“You’re going to have to find it somewhere.
It’ll be hard, though: the supplies have already been allocated to various industries and cooperatives.”
That must have been the reason for the outrageous scene the night before.
Still lying down, Ostap pulled out his little notebook and began to count his expenses since the time he had acquired his million.
The memorable entry on the first page read:
Camel 180.00 r.
Sheep 30.00 r.
Kumis 1.75 r.
Total 211.75 r.
What followed wasn’t much better.
The fur coat, a dinner, a train ticket, another dinner, another ticket, three turbans (purchased for a rainy day), horse cabs, the vase, and all kinds of junk.
Apart from the fifty thousand for Balaganov, which didn’t bring him any happiness, the million was still intact.
“They won’t let me invest my capital!” fulminated Ostap. “They just won’t!
Maybe I should live the intellectual life, like my friend Lokhankin?
After all, I’ve already accumulated some material riches, now it’s time to start adding a few spiritual treasures.
I need to learn the meaning of life, immediately.”
He remembered that the hotel lobby filled up every day with young women who were seeking to discuss matters of the soul with the visiting philosopher from India.
“I’ll go see the Indian,” he decided.
“That way, I’ll finally learn what it’s all about. Granted, it’s a bit over the top, but there’s no other way.”
Without parting with his suitcase or changing out of his crumpled suit, Bender descended to the mezzanine and knocked on the great man’s door.
An interpreter answered.
“Is the philosopher available?” inquired Ostap.
“It depends,” answered the interpreter politely. “Are you a private citizen?”
“No, no,” said the grand strategist hastily, “I’m from a cooperative organization.”
“Are you with a group?
How many people?
You know, it’s hard for the Teacher to see individuals, he prefers to talk to . . .”
“Collectives?” Ostap picked up the key. “I was actually sent by my collective to clarify an important, fundamental issue regarding the meaning of life.”
The interpreter left and returned five minutes later.
He pulled the drapery aside and announced theatrically:
“The cooperative organization who wishes to learn the meaning of life may now enter.”
The great poet and philosopher, wearing a brown velvet cassock and a matching pointy cap, sat in an armchair with a high and uncomfortable back made of carved wood.
He had a dark, delicate face, with the black eyes of a second lieutenant.
His beard, white and broad like a formal dickey, covered his chest.
A woman stenographer sat at his feet.