Seeing that the chairman was still in the throes of doubt, the first son stroked his brother’s red, Irish-setter locks and asked softly:
“So when did you come from Mariupol, where you were staying with our grandmother?”
“Yes, I was staying,” mumbled the Lieutenant’s second son, “with her.”
“So why didn’t you write more often? I was very worried.”
“I was busy,” answered the redhead gloomily.
Afraid that his inquisitive brother might ask him what exactly kept him so busy, which was largely doing time at correctional facilities in various jurisdictions, the second son of Lieutenant Schmidt seized the initiative and asked a question himself:
“And why didn’t you write?”
“I did write,” replied his sibling unexpectedly. Feeling a great rush of playfulness he added, “I’ve been sending you registered letters. Here, I’ve got the receipts.”
He produced a pile of frayed slips of paper from his side pocket, which, for some reason, he showed to the chairman of the city council instead of his brother—from a safe distance.
Oddly, the sight of the paper reassured the chairman somewhat, and the brothers’ reminiscences grew even more vivid. The redhead became quite comfortable and gave a fairly coherent, albeit monotonous, rendition of the popular brochure “The Revolt on the Ochakov.” His brother embellished the dry presentation with such picturesque vignettes that the chairman, who had started to calm down, pricked up his ears again.
Nevertheless, he let the brothers go in peace, and they rushed outside with great relief.
They stopped behind the corner of the city hall.
“Talk about childhood,” said the first son, “when I was a child, I used to kill clowns like you on the spot. With a slingshot.”
“And why is that?” inquired the famous father’s second son light-heartedly.
“Such are the tough rules of life. Or, to put it briefly, life imposes its tough rules on us. Why did you barge into the office? Didn’t you see the chairman wasn’t alone?”
“I thought . . .”
“Ah, you thought? So you do think on occasion? You are a thinker, aren’t you? What is your name, Mr. Thinker? Spinoza? Jean-Jacques Rousseau? Marcus Aurelius?”
The redhead kept quiet, feeling guilty as charged.
“All right, I forgive you. You may live. And now let’s introduce ourselves. We are brothers, after all, and family ties carry certain obligations. My name is Ostap Bender. May I ask your original name?”
“Balaganov,” said the redhead. “Shura Balaganov.”
“I’m not asking what you do for a living,” said Bender politely, “but I do have some inkling. Probably something intellectual? How many convictions this year?”
“Two,” replied Balaganov freely.
“Now that’s no good. Why are you selling your immortal soul? A man should not let himself get convicted. It’s amateurish. Theft, that is. Beside the fact that stealing is a sin—and I’m sure your mother introduced you to that notion—it is also a pointless waste of time and energy.”
Ostap could have gone on and on about his philosophy of life, but Balaganov interrupted him.
“Look,” he said, pointing into the green depths of the Boulevard of Prodigies. “See that man in the straw hat?”
“I see him,” said Ostap dismissively. “So what? Is that the governor of the island of Borneo?”
“That’s Panikovsky,” said Shura. “The son of Lieutenant Schmidt.”
An aging man, leaning slightly to one side, was making his way through the alley in the shade of regal lindens. A hard straw hat with a ribbed brim sat askew on his head. His pants were so short that the white straps of his long underwear were showing. A golden tooth was glowing beneath his mustache, like the tip of a burning cigarette.
“What, yet another son?” said Ostap. “This is getting funny.”
Panikovsky approached the city hall, pensively traced a figure eight in front of the building, grabbed his hat with both hands and set it straight on his head, tidied up his jacket, sighed deeply, and went inside.
“The Lieutenant had three sons,” remarked Bender, “two smart ones, one a fool. We have to warn him.”
“No, don’t,” said Balaganov, “next time he’ll know better than to break the pact.”
“What pact? What are you talking about?”
“Wait, I’ll tell you later. Look, he’s in, he’s in!”
“I am a jealous man,” confessed Bender, “but there’s nothing to be jealous of here. Have you ever seen a bullfight? Let’s go watch.”
The children of Lieutenant Schmidt, now fast friends, stepped out from behind the corner and approached the window of the chairman’s office.
The chairman was sitting behind the grimy, unwashed glass. He was writing quickly. Like all those engaged in writing, he looked grieved. Suddenly he raised his head. The door swung open, and in came Panikovsky. Holding his hat against his greasy jacket, he stopped in front of the desk and moved his thick lips for a long time. Then the chairman jumped in his chair and opened his mouth wide. The brothers heard a long howl.
Whispering “Fall back, now!” Ostap dragged Balaganov away. They ran to the boulevard and hid behind a tree.
“Take your hats off,” said Ostap, “bare your heads. The body is about to be escorted outside.”
He was right. The thunderous cadences of the chairman’s voice could still be heard when two large men appeared in the doorway of the city hall. They were carrying Panikovsky. One held his arms, the other his legs.
“The remains,” narrated Ostap, “were carried out by the friends and family of the deceased.”
The men dragged the third, foolish offspring of Lieutenant Schmidt out to the porch and started slowly swinging him back and forth. Panikovsky silently gazed into the blue sky with resignation.
“After a brief funeral service . . .” continued Ostap.
At this very moment the men, having given Panikovsky’s body sufficient momentum, threw him out onto the street.
“. . . the ashes were interred,” concluded Bender.
Panikovsky plopped on the ground like a toad. He quickly got up and, leaning to one side even more than before, ran down the Boulevard of Prodigies with amazing speed.
“All right,” said Ostap, “now tell me how the bastard broke the pact and what that pact was all about.”
Chapter 2
The Thirty Sons of
Lieutenant Schmidt
The eventful morning came to an end. Without discussion, Bender and Balaganov walked briskly away from the city hall. A long, dark-blue steel rail was being carried down the main street in an open peasant cart. The street was ringing and singing, as if the peasant in rough fisherman’s clothes was carrying a giant tuning fork rather than a rail. The sun beat down on the display in the window of the visual aids store, where two skeletons stood in a friendly embrace amidst globes, skulls, and the cheerfully painted cardboard liver of an alcoholic. The modest window of the sign shop was largely filled with glazed metal signs that read closed for lunch, lunch break 2-3 p.m., closed for lunch break, closed, store closed, and, finally, a massive black board with closed for inventory in gold lettering. Apparently these blunt statements were particularly popular