The messenger was drinking healthful kefir.
Six little bottles already stood empty in front of him, and he was busily shaking the thick liquid into his glass from the seventh.
In the morning, the new secretary had distributed the pay according to the list signed by Bender, and the pals were enjoying the cool breezes that were emanating from the Italian stone slabs of the bar, from the heavy metal icebox that was filled with moist feta cheese, from the darkened cylinders of fizzy water, and from the marble counter.
A chunk of ice slid out of the ice box and sat on the floor, bleeding water.
It was a pleasant sight compared to the exhausted appearance of the street, with its short shadows, people beaten down by the heat, and dogs dazed from thirst.
“Chernomorsk is such a nice city!” said Panikovsky, licking his lips. “Kefir is good for the heart.”
For some reason, Balaganov found this piece of information quite amusing.
Laughing, the Vice President accidentally squashed his pastry, squeezing out a thick sausage-like link of cream that he barely managed to catch in midair.
“You know, Shura,” continued Panikovsky, “somehow, I no longer trust Bender.
I don’t think he’s doing the right thing.”
“Watch it!” said Balaganov menacingly. “Who cares what you think?”
“No, seriously.
I have a lot of respect for Ostap Ibragimovich: what a man!
Even Funt—and you know how much I respect Funt—even he said that Bender is a brain.
But I have to tell you, Shura: Funt is an ass!
He’s such a fool, I’m telling you!
A wretched, miserable person, that’s all!
Bender, I have nothing against him.
But there’s something that just doesn’t feel right.
I’ll tell you everything, Shura, like you were my brother.”
Nobody had spoken to Shura like a brother since his last chat with a police detective.
That’s why he was pleased to hear the messenger’s words and carelessly allowed him to continue.
“You know, Shura,” said Panikovsky in a whisper, “I have a lot of respect for Bender, but I have to tell you: Bender is an ass!
A wretched, miserable person, I swear!”
“Hey, watch it!” Balaganov warned him.
“Why are you saying that?
Just think of what he’s wasting our money on.
Think about it!
What do we need this stupid office for?
It costs a fortune!
Funt alone gets 120.
Then there’s the secretary!
Then those two guys showed up and they got paid today, too. I saw it myself. They came from the employment agency!
What’s the point of all this?
He says: For legality.
I don’t give a damn about legality if it costs us so much.
How about those antlers? Sixty-five rubles!
And that inkwell set!
And all those hole binders!”
Panikovsky unbuttoned his shirt, and the fifty-kopeck dickey that was attached to his neck rolled up instantly, like a parchment scroll.
But the violator of the pact was so worked up he didn’t even notice.
“Yes, Shura.
You and I earn our miserly wages while he enjoys all the luxuries.
Tell me, did he really have to go to the Caucasus?
He says it was a business trip.
Yeah, right!
Panikovsky doesn’t have to believe everything they tell him!
I was the one who went to buy the ticket for him.
A first-class ticket, mind you!
This fancy show-off can’t even take second class!