The blank space was filled out by Polykhaev himself, as needed, depending on the situation at hand.
Little by little, Polykhaev grew very fond of his universal resolution and applied it with ever-increasing frequency.
In the end, he started using it to respond to the various abuses, machinations, intrigues, and outrages committed by his own employees.
For example:
IN RESPONSE TO the brazen outrage by the bookkeeper Kukushkind, who demanded overtime pay, WE THE HERCULEANS . . . Or:
IN RESPONSE TO the ghastly machinations and disgraceful intrigues by the staff member Borisokhlebsky, who requested an unscheduled vacation, WE THE HERCULEANS . . .”—and so on and so forth.
Each situation had to be immediately responded to by improving, increasing, intensifying, doing away with, reducing, stepping up, ceasing, relentlessly fighting, joining, switching, transferring, as well as anything that may be necessary henceforth.
And only after castigating Kukushkind or Borisokhlebsky in this manner would the director apply a shorter stamp: ISSUE A WARNING. POLYKHAEV or ASSIGN TO A REMOTE LOCATION. POLYKHAEV.
Upon their first encounter with the rubber resolution, some of the Herculeans became concerned.
The long list of action items made them nervous.
They were particularly troubled by the Roman alphabet and the need to join the Society Against Convention on the Opera Stage. But everything worked out just fine.
Of course, Sardinevich went out of his way and organized a club named “Down With the Queen of Spades!” in addition to a branch of the above-mentioned society, but that was the end of it.
As the fan-like hum of voices continued behind Polykhaev’s door, Impala Mikhailovna got down to work.
The stamps on the stand were arranged by size—from the smallest one, AGREED. POLYKHAEV, to the grandest, universal one—and the stand itself resembled an elaborate musical instrument in the circus, the one on which the white clown with the sun painted on his lower back plays Braga’s Serenade with sticks.
The secretary would select a stamp with a more or less appropriate response and apply it to the document at hand.
She made particularly good use of the cautious stamp, EASY DOES IT, remembering that this was the director’s favorite.
The work went smoothly.
The stamp was a perfect substitute for the man.
Polykhaev in rubber was just as good as Polykhaev in person.
The Hercules had already emptied out, and only the barefoot cleaning ladies with their dirty buckets were walking around the hallways; the last typist, who had stayed on for an hour after work in order to copy Sergey Yesenin’s lines for herself —AS I LAY DOWN THE GILDED RUGS OF POEMS, I WISH TO TELL YOU WORDS OF TENDER LOVE—had already left; and Impala Mikhailovna, who had grown tired of waiting, had already gotten up and started massaging her eyelids with her cold fingers—when the door to Polykhaev’s office shuddered, then opened, and Ostap Bender slowly came out.
He looked past Impala Mikhailovna and walked away, waving a yellow folder with shoelace straps.
Polykhaev was next to emerge from the cool shadows of the palms and ficus.
Impala looked at her powerful friend and sunk silently onto the square pad that covered the hard seat of her chair.
Thank God the other employees were already gone and couldn’t see their boss at that moment.
A diamond tear sat in his mustache, like a little bird in a tree.
Polykhaev blinked incredibly quickly and rubbed his hands vigorously, as if he was trying to make fire by friction, like a native of Oceania. He ran after Ostap, smiling pitifully and stooping forward.
“So what’s going to happen now?” he mumbled, rushing ahead of Ostap from one side, then from the other. “I’m not going down, am I?
I’m begging you, please, please tell me, I’m not going down?
I don’t have to worry, do I?”
He was about to add that he had a wife and kids, and Impala and kids by her, and kids by yet another woman in Rostov-on-the-Don, but something squeaked in his throat, and he didn’t say anything.
With tearful howls, he followed Ostap all the way to the entrance.
The building was deserted, and they came across only two other people on the way.
Yegor Sardinevich stood at the end of the hallway.
Seeing the grand strategist, he clapped his hand over his mouth and stepped back into a niche.
Down below, in the stairwell, Berlaga was peeking out from behind the marble woman with the electric torch.
He bowed to Ostap slavishly and even uttered
“How do you do?”, but Ostap ignored the Viceroy’s greetings.
When they reached the door, Polykhaev grabbed Ostap’s sleeve and murmured:
“I told you everything.
Honest!
I don’t have to worry, right?
Do I?”
“Only an insurance policy will make your life completely worry-free,” replied Ostap without slowing down.
“Any life insurance agent will tell you that.
Personally, I have no need for you any more.
The authorities, on the other hand, may develop an interest in you fairly soon.”
CHAPTER 20 THE CAPTAIN DANCES A TANGO
Balaganov and Panikovsky sat at a white table in a small refreshment bar whose sign was adorned with crudely painted blue siphons.
The Vice President for Hoofs was munching on a long cream-filled pastry, making sure that the cream didn’t escape from the other end.
He was chasing down this heavenly chow with seltzer water flavored with a green syrup called Fresh Hay.