“I’m not going,” said Ostap, “on account of my bashful pride.
She awoke the janissary in me.
I sent this heartless woman 350 rubles worth of telegrams from Moscow and didn’t even get a fifty-kopeck response.
And that’s considering I’ve had any number of housewives, housekeepers, widows, and even a dental technician—they all loved me!
No, Adam, I’m not going!
See you!”
The grand strategist returned to the hotel and pulled the suitcase with the million from under the bed, where it sat next to a pair of worn-out shoes.
For a while, he stared mindlessly at it, then grabbed it by the handle and went outside.
The wind gripped Ostap’s shoulders and dragged him toward Seaside Boulevard. It was deserted. The white benches—covered with romantic messages that had been carved in summers past—were empty.
A low-sitting cargo ship with thick upright masts was skirting the lighthouse on its way to the outer roadstead.
“Enough,” said Ostap, “the golden calf is not for me.
Whoever wants it can have it.
Let him be a free-range millionaire!”
He looked back and, seeing that there wasn’t anybody around, threw the suitcase onto the gravel.
“It’s all yours,” he said to the black maples and bowed graciously.
He started walking down the tree-lined alley without looking back.
First he moved slowly, at a leisurely pace, then put his hands into his pockets—they were suddenly getting in his way—and speeded up, in order to allay his doubts.
He forced himself to turn the corner and even started singing, but a minute later he turned around and ran back.
The suitcase was still there.
However, a rather unremarkable-looking middle-aged man was already approaching it from the other side, bending down and reaching for it.
“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Ostap from afar.
“I’ll show you how to grab other people’s suitcases!
You can’t leave anything even for a moment!
Outrageous!”
The man shrugged sullenly and retreated.
And Bender went trudging on with the golden calf in his hands.
“Now what?” he wondered. “What do I do with this goddamn booty? It’s brought me nothing but anguish!
Should I burn it?”
The grand strategist found this thought intriguing.
“Actually, there’s a fireplace in my room.
Burn it in the fireplace!
That’s regal!
An act worthy of Cleopatra!
Into the fire!
Stack after stack!
Why should I waste my time on it?
No, wait, that’s stupid.
Burning money is in poor taste!
It’s ostentatious!
But what can I do with it, other than party like a swine?
What a ridiculous situation!
The museum director thinks he can slap together a Louvre with just three hundred rubles. Any organized group of waterworks employees or something—or a playwrights’ cooperative—can use a million to build a near-skyscraper, complete with a flat roof for holding open-air lectures.
But Ostap Bender, a descendant of the janissaries, can’t do a damn thing!
The ruling working class is smothering a lone millionaire!”
Wondering what to do with the million, the grand strategist paced through the park, sat on the parapet, and stared morosely at the steamer that was rocking outside the breakwater.
“No, fire is not the answer.
Burning money is cowardly and inelegant.
I need to come up with a strong statement.
What if I endow the Balaganov Scholarship at the radio technicians’ correspondence school?
Or buy fifty thousand silver teaspoons, recast them into an equestrian statue of Panikovsky, and install it on his grave?