LITMIR.BIZ

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functioning capitalist country with long established bourgeois traditions. In such places, a millionaire is a well-known figure. His address is common knowledge. He lives in a mansion somewhere in Rio de Janeiro. You go to see him in his office and you take his money without even having to go past the front hall, right after greeting him. And on top of that, you do it nicely and politely: “Hello, Sir, please don’t worry. I’m going to have to bother you a bit. All right. Done.” That’s it. That’s civilization for you! What could be simpler? A gentleman in the company of gentlemen takes care of a bit of business. Just don’t shoot up the chandelier, there’s no need for that. And here… my God! This is such a cold country. Everything is hidden, everything is underground. Even the Commissariat of Finance, with its mighty fiscal apparatus, cannot find a Soviet millionaire. A millionaire may very well be sitting at the next table in this so-called summer garden, drinking forty-kopeck Tip-Top beer. That’s what really upsets me!”

      “Does that mean,” Balaganov asked after a pause, “that if you could find such a secret millionaire, then….?”

      “Hold it right there. I know what you’re going to say. No, it’s not what you think, not at all. I won’t try to choke him with a pillow or pistol-whip him. None of that silliness. Oh, if only I could find a millionaire! I’ll make sure he’ll bring me the money himself, on a platter with a blue rim.”

      “That sounds really good,” chuckled Balaganov simple-heartedly. “Five hundred thousand on a platter with a blue rim.”

      Balaganov got up and started circling the table. He smacked his lips plaintively, stopped, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, sat down without uttering a word, and then got up again. Ostap watched his routine nonchalantly.

      “So he’d bring it himself?” asked Balaganov suddenly in a raspy voice. “On a platter? And if he doesn’t? Where is that Rio de Janeiro? Far away? I don’t believe that every single man there wears white pants. Forget it, Bender. With five hundred thousand one can live a good life even here.”

      “Absolutely,” said Ostap smiling, “one certainly can. But don’t get worked up for no reason. You don’t have the five hundred thousand, do you?”

      A deep wrinkle appeared on Balaganov’s smooth, virginal forehead. He looked at Ostap uncertainly and said slowly:

      “I know a millionaire.”

      Bender lost his lively expression immediately; his face turned harsh and began to resemble the profile on a coin again.

      “Go away,” he said, “I give to charity only on Saturdays. Don’t pull my leg.”

      “I give you my word, Monsieur Bender…”

      “Listen, Shura, if you insist on switching to French, please call me citoyen, not monsieur. It means citizen. And what, incidentally, is this millionaire’s address?”

      “He lives in Chernomorsk.”

      “Of course, I knew that. Chernomorsk! Down there, even before the war, a man with ten thousand rubles was called a millionaire. And now… I can imagine! No, I’m sure this is pure nonsense!”

      “Wait, just let me finish. He’s a real millionaire. You see, Bender, I was in their detention center recently…”

      Ten minutes later, the half-brothers left the cooperative beer garden. The grand strategist felt like a surgeon who is about to perform a rather serious operation. Everything is ready. Gauze and bandages are steaming in the electric sterilizers, a nurse in a white toga moves silently across the tiled floor, the medical glass and nickel shine brightly. The patient lies languorously on a glass table, staring at the ceiling. The heated air smells like German chewing gum. The surgeon, his arms spread wide, approaches the operating table, accepts a sharp sterilized dagger from an assistant, and says to the patient dryly:

      “Allrighty, take off your nightie.”

      “It’s always like this with me,” said Bender, his eyes shining, “I have to start a project worth a million while I’m noticeably short of monetary instruments. My entire capital – fixed, working, and reserve – amounts to five rubles… What did you say the name of that underground millionaire was?”

      “Koreiko,” said Balaganov.

      “Oh yes, Koreiko. A very good name. Are you sure nobody knows about his millions?”

      “Nobody except me and Pruzhansky. But I already told you that Pruzhansky will be in prison for about three more years. If you could only see how he moaned and groaned when I was about to be released. He probably had a hunch that he shouldn’t have told me about Koreiko.”

      “The fact that he disclosed his secret to you was no big deal. That’s not why he moaned and groaned. He must have had a premonition that you would tell the whole story to me. That is indeed a big loss for poor Pruzhansky. By the time he gets out of prison, Koreiko’s only consolation will be the cliché that there’s no shame in poverty.”

      Ostap took off his summer cap, waved it in the air, and asked:

      “Do I have any gray hair?”

      Balaganov sucked in his stomach, spread his feet to the width of a rifle butt, and boomed like a soldier:

      “No, Sir!”

      “I will. Great battles await us. Your hair, Balaganov, will turn gray too.”

      Balaganov suddenly giggled childishly:

      “How did you put it? He’ll bring the money himself on a platter with a blue rim?”

      “A platter for me,” said Ostap, “and a small plate for you.”

      “But what about Rio de Janeiro? I want white pants too.”

      “Rio de Janeiro is the cherished dream of my youth,” said the grand strategist seriously, “keep your paws off it. Now back to business. Send the forward guards to my command. Troops are to report to the city of Chernomorsk asap. Full dress uniform. Start the music! I am commanding the parade!”

      Chapter 3. Gas is yours, ideas ours

      A year before Panikovsky violated the pact by trespassing on someone else’s territory, the first automobile appeared in the town of Arbatov. The town’s trailblazing automotive pioneer was a motorist by the name of Kozlevich. It was his decision to start a new life that brought him to the steering wheel.

      The old life of Adam Kozlevich was sinful.

      He repeatedly violated the Criminal Code of the Russian Socialist Republic, specifically Article 162, which deals with the misappropriation of another person’s property (theft). This article has many sections, but sinful Adam had no interest in Section A (theft committed without the use of technical devices). That was too primitive for him. Section E, which carried the penalty of incarceration for up to five years, did not suit him either. He didn’t want to spend too much time in prison. Having been interested in all things technical since he was a child, Kozlevich devoted his energies to Article C (felonious misappropriation of another person’s property committed with the use of technical devices, or repeatedly, or in collusion with other individuals, at train stations, in ports, on boats, on trains, or in hotels).

      But Kozlevich had very bad luck. He was caught whether he utilized his beloved technical devices or made do without them. He was caught at train stations, in ports, on boats, and in hotels. He was also caught on trains. He was caught even when, in total despair, he resorted to grabbing property in collusion with other individuals.

      After a total of about three years in jail, Adam Kozlevich decided that it was much better to accumulate your own property honestly and overtly than to take it from others covertly. This decision brought peace to his restless soul. He became a model inmate, published denunciatory poems in the prison newsletter, Day In and Day Out, and worked hard in the machine shop. The penitentiary system had a salutary effect on him. Adam Kazimirovich Kozlevich, 46, single, of peasant origin, of the former Czestochowa District, multiple repeat offender, came out of prison an honest man.

      After two years of working in a Moscow garage, he bought a used car; it was so ancient that its appearance on the

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