“A million tons of pig iron.
By the end of the year.
The commission concluded that it was doable.
But the funniest thing is that Kharkov actually approved it!”
Ostap didn’t find this funny in the least, but the new passengers burst out laughing and their rubber coats squeaked noisily.
“But what about Bubeshko?” asked the youngest of them excitedly. “He probably has his heels dug in?”
“Not any more.
He ended up making a fool of himself.
But it was really something!
First he started a fight . . . you know Bubeshko, he’s one tough cookie . . .
Eight hundred and twenty-five thousand tons and not a ton more.
Then things got sticky.
Deliberately underestimating the capacity . . . Check!
Artificially lowering the bar—check!
He should have admitted his mistakes right away, without reservation.
But no!
He’s got his pride!
Like he’s a blue-blood or something!
Just confess—and that’s the end of it.
But he had to do it piece by piece.
Wanted to protect his reputation.
So he did this Dostoyevskian song and dance:
‘On the one hand, I admit, but on the other, I have to point out . . .’
But what is there to point out, that’s just spineless wiggling!
So our Bubeshko had to write another memo.”
The passengers laughed again.
“But even then he didn’t say a word about his opportunism.
So it went on and on.
Every day, a new memo.
Now they want to set up a special section for him—Corrections and Disavowals.
He knows he’s dug himself into a hole, and he wants to get out, but he made such a mess that there’s nothing he can do now.
He really lost it in his latest memo:
‘Yes, I admit my mistake . . . but I consider this memo insufficient.’”
Ostap had long ago left for the washroom but the new passengers still hadn’t finished laughing.
When he returned, the compartment was swept clean, the bunks lowered, and the attendant was on his way out, holding down a pile of sheets and blankets with his chin.
The young men, who were not afraid of drafts, opened the window, and the autumn breeze thrashed and rolled around the compartment like an ocean wave locked inside a box.
Ostap threw the suitcase with the million onto the luggage net and made himself comfortable on the lower bunk, glancing amicably at his new neighbors. They were settling into the first-class car with unusual gusto. They kept looking into the mirror on the door, jumping up and down on the couch to test the strength of its springs and cushions, admiring the quality of the smooth red upholstery, and pressing all the buttons.
From time to time, one of them would disappear for a few minutes, then return and confer with his companions in a whisper.
Finally, a girl dressed in a men’s woolen overcoat and tennis shoes with strings laced around her ankles, in the ancient Greek style, appeared in the doorway.
“Comrades!” she said firmly. “That’s not very nice.
We want to ride in luxury, too.
We ought to switch at the next station.”
Bender’s companions started hooting in protest.
“Oh, come on.
Everybody has the same rights as you do,” continued the girl. “We already drew lots.
It fell to Tarasov, Parovitsky, and myself.
Off you go to third class.”
From the ensuing ruckus, Ostap deduced that they were members of a large group of engineering students who were returning to Chernomorsk after their summer internships.
There weren’t enough seats in third class for everybody, so they had to purchase three first-class tickets and split the difference among the whole group.
Consequently, the girl stayed put, while the three firstborns cleared the premises with belated dignity.