And the girl would quietly laugh and pull her hands away.
Night, dark, deep night, as mentioned before, shrouded the whole country.
The monarchist Khvorobyov groaned in his sleep because he saw a giant union card in his dream.
Engineer Talmudovsky snored on the upper bunk on the train headed from Kharkov to Rostov, lured by a higher salary.
The two American gentlemen rolled on the broad Atlantic waves, carrying the recipe for a delicious wheat moonshine home.
Basilius Lokhankin was tossing on his couch and stroking his injured parts.
The old puzzle-maker Sinitsky was wasting electricity, working on a picture puzzle entitled
“Find the chairman of the pumping station general staff meeting, convened to elect local union officials,” which he intended for The Plumbing Journal. He was trying to be quiet, so as not to wake Zosya.
Polykhaev lay in bed with Impala Mikhailovna.
Other Herculeans slept nervously in various parts of the city.
Alexander Ivanovich Koreiko, worried about his riches, couldn’t sleep.
If he had nothing, he’d be sleeping well.
We already know what Bender, Balaganov, and Panikovsky were doing.
Only Kozlevich, the owner-driver of the Antelope, will not be mentioned here, even though he had already got himself into trouble of a very sensitive nature.
Early in the morning, Bender opened his doctor’s bag, took out the policeman’s cap with the crest of the city of Kiev, stuck it in his pocket, and went to see Alexander Ivanovich Koreiko.
On his way, he pestered the milk delivery women—as the hour of these resourceful ladies had already begun, while the hour of the office dwellers hadn’t yet—and murmured the lyrics of the love song:
“But now the joys of our first date no longer move me like before.”
The grand strategist wasn’t being entirely honest; his first date with the millionaire clerk excited him.
Entering No. 16 Lesser Tangential Street, he stuck his official cap on his head, frowned, and knocked on the door.
Alexander Ivanovich stood in the middle of the room.
He was wearing a sleeveless fishnet undershirt and had already slipped into his lowly clerk pants.
The room was furnished with exemplary austerity, which in tsarist times was typical of orphanages and other such institutions that were under the patronage of Empress Maria Fyodorovna.
There were just three pieces: a small metal field-hospital bed, a kitchen cabinet with doors that were held shut by wooden latches that one normally sees on country outhouses, and a beat-up Vienna chair.
There were a few dumbbells in the corner, along with two large kettle-bell weights, the joy of a weightlifter.
Seeing a policeman, Alexander Ivanovich took a heavy step forward.
“Citizen Koreiko?” asked Ostap, smiling radiantly.
“That’s me,” answered Alexander Ivanovich, also expressing his joy at seeing a representative of law and order.
“Alexander Ivanovich?” inquired Ostap, smiling even more radiantly.
“Precisely,” confirmed Koreiko, turning up the heat of his joy as high as he could.
After that, the only thing left to the grand strategist was to sit down on the Vienna chair and generate a supernatural smile.
Having accomplished this, he looked at Alexander Ivanovich.
But the millionaire clerk made a huge effort and projected God knows what on his face: adoration, delight, happiness, and quiet admiration all at once.
All on account of his happy encounter with a representative of law and order.
This escalation of smiles and emotions was reminiscent of a manuscript by the composer Franz Liszt, where a note on the first page said to play “fast”; on the second page—“very fast”; on the third—“much faster”; on the fourth—“as fast as possible”; and on the fifth—“still faster.”
Seeing that Koreiko was already on page five, and that any further competition was simply impossible, Ostap got down to business.
“Actually, I have something for you,” he said, turning serious.
“Please, be my guest,” replied Alexander Ivanovich, also clouding over.
“We’ve got good news for you.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
Sad beyond measure, Ostap delved into his pocket.
Koreiko watched him with an altogether funereal expression.
A metal Caucasus cigarette box emerged.
However, there was no exclamation of surprise, as Ostap had expected.
The underground millionaire stared at the box blankly.
Ostap took out the money, carefully counted it, pushed the pile towards Alexander Ivanovich, and said:
“Ten thousand, even.
Kindly make out a receipt for me.”
“This is a mistake, Comrade,” said Koreiko very quietly. “What ten thousand?
What receipt?”
“What do you mean?