“Well, let me tell you, Balaganov, you are a loser.
Don’t be offended.
I’m just trying to point out your exact position in the grand scheme of things.”
“Go to hell!” said Balaganov rudely.
“So you took offense anyway?
Do you really think that being the Lieutenant’s son doesn’t make you a loser?”
“But you are a son of Lieutenant Schmidt yourself!” exclaimed Balaganov.
“You are a loser,” repeated Ostap. “Son of a loser.
Your children will be losers, too.
Look, kiddo.
What happened this morning was not even a phase, it was nothing, a pure accident, an artist’s whim.
A gentleman in search of pocket money.
It’s not in my nature to fish for such a miserable rate of return.
And what kind of a trade is that, for God’s sake!
Son of Lieutenant Schmidt!
Well, maybe another year, maybe two.
And then what?
Your red locks will grow familiar, and they’ll simply start beating you up.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” asked Balaganov, alarmed. “How am I supposed to win my daily bread?”
“You have to think,” said Ostap sternly.
“I, for one, live off ideas.
I don’t beg for a lousy ruble from the city hall.
My horizons are broader.
I see that you love money selflessly.
Tell me, what amount appeals to you?”
“Five thousand,” answered Balaganov quickly.
“Per month?”
“Per year.”
“In that case, we have nothing to talk about.
I need five hundred thousand.
A lump sum preferably, not in installments.”
“Would you accept installments, if you had to?” asked Balaganov vindictively.
Ostap looked back at him closely and replied with complete seriousness:
“I would.
But I need a lump sum.”
Balaganov was about to crack a joke about this as well, but then raised his eyes to look at Ostap and thought better of it.
In front of him was an athlete with a profile that could be minted on a coin.
A thin white scar ran across his dark-skinned throat.
His playful eyes sparkled with determination.
Balaganov suddenly felt an irresistible urge to stand at attention.
He even wanted to clear his throat, which is what happens to people in positions of moderate responsibility when they talk to a person of much higher standing.
He did indeed clear his throat and asked meekly:
“What do you need so much money for . . . and all at once?”
“Actually, I need more than that,” said Ostap, “Five hundred thousand is an absolute minimum. Five hundred thousand fully convertible rubles. I want to go away, Comrade Shura, far, far away. To Rio de Janeiro.”
“Do you have relatives down there?” asked Balaganov.
“Do you think I look like a man who could possibly have relatives?”
“No, but I thought . . .”
“I don’t have any relatives, Comrade Shura, I’m alone in this world.
I had a father, a Turkish subject, but he died a long time ago in terrible convulsions.
That’s not the point.