To say goodbye to Polykhaev.”
“What?” the chosen people would react with alarm. “Is Polykhaev leaving?
Is he being reassigned?”
“No, no.
He’s going to the Center to see about the building.
So don’t be late.
Eight o’clock sharp, at my place.”
The good-bye party was a lot of fun.
Polykhaev sat holding a goblet, while the employees looked at him admiringly and clapped their hands in unison, singing:
Drink it up, drink it up, drinkitup. Drink it up, drink it up, drinkitup.
They sang until their beloved director had emptied a substantial number of goblets and a few tall thin glasses as well. He then took his turn and started singing in an unsteady voice:
“On that old Kaluga Highway, near milepost forty-nine . . .”
But nobody ever found out what exactly happened near that milepost, because Polykhaev, without warning, switched to a different song:
On the streetcar number four Someone dropped dead by the door. Now they drag the stiff away, Whooptie-doo!
Hop, hey-hey . . .
After Polykhaev left, productivity at the Hercules dropped a little.
It would have been silly to work hard without knowing whether you’re staying put or will be forced to traipse to the Tin and Bacon Co. with all your stationery.
But it would have been even sillier to work hard after Polykhaev came back.
He returned a conquering hero, as Bomze put it: the Hercules got to keep its building, and so the employees spent their office hours making fun of Municipal Affairs.
The crushed opponent asked to at least be given the sinks and the armored beds, but Polykhaev, riding the crest of his success, didn’t even respond.
Then the hostilities resumed.
The Center was inundated with complaints.
Polykhaev went there in person to refute them.
The triumphant “drinkitup” was heard at Bomze’s place with ever-increasing frequency, and an ever-increasing number of Herculeans were sucked into the fight for the building.
Lumber and timber were gradually forgotten.
When Polykhaev occasionally found something relating to export-quality cedar or plywood on his desk, he was so flabbergasted that, at first, he didn’t even understand what they wanted from him.
At the moment, he was immersed in a crucial task—luring two particularly dangerous employees from Municipal Affairs with an offer of higher salaries.
“You’re in luck,” said Ostap to his companion. “You’re witnessing an amusing exercise—Ostap Bender in hot pursuit.
Watch and learn!
A petty criminal like Panikovsky would have written Koreiko a note:
‘Put six hundred rubles under the trash can outside or else’—and added a cross, a skull, and a candle at the bottom.
Sonka the Golden Hand, whose skills I am by no means trying to denigrate, in the end would have resorted to a simple honeytrap, which would have brought her perhaps fifteen hundred.
A woman, what can you expect?
Or take Cornet Savin, if you will.
An outstanding swindler.
As the saying goes, a swindler through and through.
And what would he have done?
He would have gone to Koreiko’s home, claiming to be the Tsar of Bulgaria, made a scene at the building manager’s office, and messed the whole thing up.
Me, I’m not in a hurry, you can see that.
We’ve been in Chernomorsk for a full week, and I’m only now headed to our first date . . .
Ah, here’s Finance and Accounting.
Well, rally mechanic, show me the patient.
You are an expert on Koreiko, after all.”
The deafening hall was full of visitors. Balaganov led Bender to the corner where Chevazhevskaya, Koreiko, Kukushkind, and Dreyfus sat behind a yellow divider.
Balaganov raised his hand to point out the millionaire, when Ostap angrily whispered:
“Why don’t you yell at the top of your lungs:
‘There he is, the rich guy!
Hold him!’ Quiet now.
Let me guess.
Which one of the four?”