Beyond the rusted roofs, attic windows, and radio antennas, one could see the blue water, a small tugboat racing at full speed, and a steamer’s yellow funnel with a large red letter on it.
From time to time, Panikovsky would raise his head and start counting.
He was converting pounds into ounces, ounces into ancient grains, and each time he’d come up with a figure so attractive it made the violator of the pact squeal ever so slightly.
Some time after 10 P.M. that night, the half-brothers were trudging towards the Bureau for the Collection of Horns and Hoofs, stooping under the weight of two large kettlebells.
Panikovsky carried his share in both arms, sticking his stomach out and puffing happily.
He stopped frequently, put his weight down on the sidewalk, and mumbled:
“I’ll get married!
I swear, I’ll get married!” The mighty Balaganov carried his weight on his shoulder.
Sometimes Panikovsky would fail to turn the corner properly due to the weight’s momentum.
Then Balaganov would grab Panikovsky’s collar with his free hand and send his body in the right direction.
They stopped at the entrance to their office.
“Now we’ll each saw off a little piece,” said Panikovsky anxiously, “and tomorrow we’ll sell them.
There’s a watchmaker I know, Mr. Bieberham.
He’ll give us a good price.
Unlike that government place, where you’ll never get a good price.”
But then the conspirators noticed a light coming from under the green office curtains.
“Who could it be, at this time of night?” asked Balaganov in surprise, bending down to peek through the keyhole.
Ostap Bender was sitting behind his desk in the lateral beam of a bright electric lamp, writing furiously.
“Writer!” said Balaganov, laughing heartily and letting Panikovsky peek into the keyhole.
“Of course,” uttered Panikovsky after taking a long, hard look, “he’s at it again.
I’m telling you, this miserable man makes me laugh.
But where are we going to saw now?”
The half-brothers lifted their weights and went on into the darkness, continuing their lively discussion about selling two pieces of gold to the watchmaker the first thing in the morning, for starters.
Meanwhile, the grand strategist was finishing his account of the life of Alexander Ivanovich Koreiko.
The five little log cabins that comprised the Face the Country set all had their bronze lids off.
Ostap dipped his pen indiscriminately, wherever his hand went, fidgeted in his chair, and shuffled his feet under the desk.
He had the bleary face of a gambler who’s been losing all night and only at the break of dawn finally hits a winning streak.
All night the banks were ahead and the cards weren’t coming out right.
The gambler kept changing tables, trying to outwit fate and find a lucky spot.
But the cards just wouldn’t behave.
He already started to sweat the cards, that is, look at the first card and then squeeze out the second one as slowly as possible. He was already pushing cards over the edge of the table and peeking at them from underneath, or placing two cards face to face and opening them like a book. In other words, he went through all the motions of a loser.
But nothing worked.
He’d been getting mostly face cards: jacks with ropey mustaches, queens smelling paper flowers, and kings with doormen’s beards.
Black and red tens were showing up frequently, too. In other words, the hands were lousy—the kind that are officially known as baccarat, and unofficially as rags. And only when the chandeliers dim and go off, when losers in worn collars snore and choke on chairs under the NO SLEEPING signs, a miracle occurs.
The banks suddenly start losing, the disgusting pictures and tens disappear, the eights and nines come out one by one.
The gambler no longer darts around the room, no longer sweats the cards or peeks under them.
He senses he’s on a winning streak.
The regulars crowd behind the lucky man, pull on his shoulders, and whisper fawningly:
“Uncle Yura, can I have three rubles?”
While he, proud and pale, turns the cards over daringly and takes the last shirts off his partners’ backs amid the calls
“Table nine now has spots available!” and
“Fifty kopecks from each of you, amateurs!”
And the green table with white lines and curves drawn on it becomes a happy and joyful sight for him, like a soccer field.
Ostap no longer had any doubts.
The game was turning his way.
All that had been unclear became clear.
The numerous people with ropey mustaches and kingly beards that Ostap had encountered, and who had left their traces in the yellow folder with shoelace straps, had suddenly dropped off, and the white-eyed ham-face, with wheat-blonde eyebrows and drill-sergeant jowls, came to the fore, sweeping everyone and everything else aside.
Ostap put a full stop, blotted his work with a press whose silver handle was shaped like a bear cub, and started filing the papers.
He liked to keep his files in order.
He admired the smoothed-out testimonials, telegrams, and assorted official papers for the last time.