Petrov Eugene

Ilf Ilya

The Twelve Chairs

The Twelve Chairs

by Ilya Ilf and Eugene Petrov

Translated from the Russian by John Richardson

Introduction

PART I:

THE LION OF STARGOROD

1 Bezenchuk and the Nymphs

2 Madame Petukhov's Demise

3 The Parable of the Sinner

4 The Muse of Travel

5 The Smooth Operator

6 A Diamond Haze

7 Traces of the Titanic

8 The Bashful Chiseller

9 Where Are Your Curls?

10 The Mechanic, the Parrot, and the Fortune-teller

11 The Mirror-of-Life Index

12 A Passionate Woman Is a Poet's Dream

13 Breathe Deeper: You're Excited!

14 The Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare

PART II:

IN MOSCOW

15 A Sea of Chairs

16 The Brother Berthold Schwartz Hostel

17 Have Respect for Mattresses, Citizens!

18 The Furniture Museum

19 Voting the European Way

20 From Seville to Granada

21 Punishment

22 Ellochka the Cannibal

23 Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov

24 The Automobile Club

25 Conversation with a Naked Engineer

26 Two Visits

27 The Marvellous Prison Basket

28 The Hen and the Pacific Rooster

29 The Author of the "Gavriliad"

30 In the Columbus Theatre

PART III:

MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE

31 A Magic Night on the Volga

32 A Shady Couple

33 Expulsion from Paradise

34 The Interplanetary Chess Tournament

35 Et Alia

36 A View of the Malachite Puddle

37 The Green Cape

38 Up in the Clouds

39 The Earthquake

40 The Treasure

INTRODUCTION

It has long been  my considered opinion that strains  in Russo-American

relations  are  inevitable as  long  as  the  average  American  persists in

picturing the Russian as a gloomy, moody,  unpredictable individual, and the

average Russian in  seeing the American as  childish,  cheerful and, on  the

whole,  rather primitive. Naturally, we each resent the other side's  unjust

opinions  and ascribe them,  respectively,  to  the  malice of capitalist or

Communist propaganda. What  is to blame for this? Our national  literatures;

or, more exactly, those portions of them which are read. Since few Americans

know people of the Soviet Union from personal experience, and vice versa, we

both depend to a great extent on information gathered from the printed page.

The Russians know us-let us forget for a moment about Pravda-from  the works

of Jack London, James Fenimore  Cooper, Mark Twain and O. Henry. We know the

Russians-let  us  temporarily  disregard the  United Nations-as we have seen

them depicted in certain novels of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky  and in the later

dramas of Chekhov.

There are  two ways to  correct these  misconceptions. One  would be to

import  into   Russia  a  considerable  number  of  sober,   serious-minded,

Russian-speaking American tourists, in  exchange for  an identical number of

cheerful,  logical,  English-speaking Russians who  would visit America. The

other, less costly form  of  cultural exchange would be for  the Russians to

read more  of Hawthorne, Melville,  Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, and for

us to become better  acquainted with the less  solemn-though not at all less

profound-Russians.   We   should   do   well  to   read   more   of   Gogol,

Saltykov-Shchedrin,  Chekhov  (the  short  stories  and  the  one-act plays)

and-among Soviet authors-to  read Mikhail  Zoshchenko  and Ilf  and  Petrov.

Thus,  in  its modest  way, the  present  volume-though outwardly  not  very

"serious" should contribute  to our better understanding of Russia  and  the

Russians and aid us in facing the perils of peaceful coexistence.

If writers were to  be judged not by the reception accorded  to them by

literary  critics but  by their popularity  with  the reading  public, there

could  be no doubt that the late team of Ilf and Petrov would have few peers

among Soviet  men of letters. Together with another  humorist,  the recently

deceased Mikhail Zoshchenko, for many years they baffled and outraged Soviet

editors  and delighted Soviet  readers.  Yet  even while  their  works  were

officially  criticized  in the literary journals for a variety of  sins (the

chief among them being  insufficient ideological militancy and, ipso  facto,

inferior educational value), the available  copies of  earlier editions were

literally  read to shreds  by  millions of Soviet citizens.  Russian readers

loved Ilf and Petrov because these two writers provided them with  a form of

catharsis rarely available to the Soviet citizen-the opportunity to laugh at

the sad and ridiculous aspects of Soviet existence.

Anyone familiar  with Soviet  press and  literature knows  one of their

most depressing features-the  emphasis  on the pompous and the weighty,  and

the almost total absence of the  light touch. The USSR has a  single Russian

journal of humour and  satire, Krokodil, which is seldom amusing. There is a

very  funny man  in the Soviet circus,  Oleg Popov, but  he is a  clown  and

seldom talks. At the present time, among  the 4,801 full-time Soviet writers

there is not a single talented humorist. And yet the thirst for humour is so

great in Russia that it was  recognized as a state problem by Malenkov, who,

during his short career as Prime Minister after  Stalin's death, appealed to

Soviet writers to become modern Gogols and Saltykov-Shchedrins. The writers,

however, seem to have remembered only too well the risks of producing humour

and satire in a  totalitarian state (irreverent laughter can  easily provoke

accusations  of  political disloyalty, as  was  the case with  Zoschenko  in

1946), and the appeal did not bring about desired results. Hence, during the

"liberal"  years  of  1953-7  the  Soviet  Government made available,  as  a

concession to its humour-starved subjects, new editions of the old works  of

Soviet humorists, including 200,000  copies of Ilf and  Petrov's  The Twelve

Chairs and The Little Golden Calf.

Muscovites  and  Leningraders  might  disagree,  but  there  is  strong

evidence to indicate  that  during  the first  decades of  this century  the

capital of Russian humour was Odessa, a bustling, multilingual, cosmopolitan

city on the Black Sea. In his recently published memoirs, the veteran Soviet

novelist  Konstantin  Paustovsky  fondly  recalls   the  sophisticated   and

iconoclastic Odessa of the early post-revolutionary years.  Among the famous

sons  of Odessa were Isaac Babel, the writer  of brilliant,  sardonic  short

stories;  Yurii Olesha, the  creator of  modernistic, ironic tales; Valentin

Katayev,  author  of  Squaring  the  Circle,  perhaps the best comedy in the

Soviet repertory; and both members of the team of Ilf and Petrov.

Ilya  Ilf (pseudonym  of  Fainzilberg) was born in 1897; Yevgeny Petrov

(pseudonym of Katayev,  a younger brother of Valentin) in 1903. The  two men

met  in Moscow,  where they both worked on the railwaymen's newspaper, Gudok

(Train Whistle). Their "speciality" was reading letters to the editor, which

is  a  traditional  Soviet means for  voicing grievances  about bureaucracy,

injustices  and  shortages.  Such  letters would sometimes get published  as

feuilletons,  short humorous stories somewhat reminiscent of Chekhov's early

output. In  1927 Ilf and Petrov formed a literary partnership, publishing at

first  under  a variety of names, including some whimsical ones, like Fyodor

Tolstoyevsky. In their joint "autobiography" Ilf and Petrov wrote :

It is  very  difficult  to  write  together.  It  was  easier  for  the

Goncourts,  we suppose. After all, they were brothers, while we are not even

related  to each other. We are  not even  of  the  same  age.  And  even  of

different  nationalities;  while  one is  a Russian  (the enigmatic  Russian

soul), the other is a Jew (the enigmatic Jewish soul).

The literary partnership  lasted for ten  years,  until 1937, when Ilya

Ilf died of tuberculosis. Yevgeny Petrov was killed in 1942 during the siege

of Sebastopol.

The  two writers are famed chiefly  for three  books-The Twelve  Chairs

(1928;  known  in  a British translation as Diamonds  to Sit On); The Little

Golden Calf  (1931), a tale of the tribulations of a Soviet millionaire  who

is afraid  to spend any  money  lest he  be  discovered  by  the police; and

One-Storey-High  America  (1936; known  in a British  translation as  Little

Golden  America), an amusing and, on the whole,  friendly account of the two

writers' adventures in the land of  Wall Street, the  Empire State Building,

cars, and aspiring capitalists.

The  plot  of  The Twelve Chairs is very simple. The mother-in-law of a

former nobleman named Vorobyaninov discloses on  her  deathbed a secret: she

hid  her  diamonds  in  one  of the family's  chairs that  subsequently  was

appropriated  by the Soviet  authorities. Vorobyaninov is joined by  a young

crook named Ostap Bender with whom he forms a partnership, and together they

proceed to locate these chairs. The partners have a competitor in the priest

Vostrikov, who  has also learned of  the secret  from his dying parishioner.

The competing treasure-hunters travel  throughout Russia,  which enables the

authors to show us glimpses of little towns, Moscow, and Caucasian  resorts,

and  also have the three central characters  meet a  wide  variety of people

-Soviet  bureaucrats,  newspapermen,   survivors  of  the  pre-revolutionary

propertied classes, provincials, and Muscovites.

The events described in the novel are  set in 1927, that is, toward the

end of  the period of the New Economic Policy, which was characterized  by a

temporary truce between  the Soviet  regime's Communist ideology and limited

private enterprise in  commerce, industry and agriculture. The coffin-making

and bagel-making businesses referred to in the novel  have  long  since been

nationalized; the former noblemen masquerading as petty Soviet employees and

many  of  the  colleagues of the priest described  by Ilf  and Petrov are no

longer  alive;  and it is  impossible to imagine the existence today  of  an

anti-Soviet "conspiracy"  similar  to  the humorists' "Alliance of the Sword

and Ploughshare".

Other  than that, however,  the Soviet Union  described in the novel is

very  much like  the Soviet  Union  of  1960, industrial  progress  and  the

Sputniks notwithstanding. The  standard  of  living in  1927  was relatively

high; it  subsequently declined. Now it is just slightly higher than  it was

thirty years  ago.  The  present grotesquely  overcrowded  and  poor-quality

housing (there is not  even  a Russian word  for  "privacy"  I)  is not much

different  from the conditions Ilf and  Petrov knew. There are now, as there

were then, people to whom sausage is a luxury, as it was to the newlyweds in

The  Twelve  Chairs.  Embezzlers  of  state property,  though  denounced  as

"survivals of the capitalist past",  are found by thousands among  young men

in their thirties and forties. The ominous  door signs protecting  Communist

bureaucrats, from unwanted visitors still adorn Soviet offices.  Nor has the

species  of  Ellochka  the  Cannibal,  the  vulgar  and  greedy  wife  of  a

hardworking  engineer,  become  extinct. And there are  still multitudes  of

Muscovites  who  flock  to museums to see how prosperously  the  bourgeoisie

lived  before the Revolution-Muscovites  who are  mistaken for art lovers by

unsuspecting  Western tourists who then report  at home  a tremendous Soviet

interest  in the fine arts. Why, even the ZAGS remains unchanged; only a few

months ago Komsomolskaya Pravda,  a youth newspaper, demanded that something

be  done about  it,  because brides and  grooms  are  embarrassed  when  the

indifferent clerk inquires whether they came to  register a  birth, a death,

or wish to get  married-just  as  Ippolit  Matveyevich Vorobyaninov did over

thirty years ago in the little Soviet town deep in the provinces.

Similarly,  the  "poet" Lapis  who peddled  nearly  identical verse  to

various   trade  publications-providing  his  hero  Gavrila  with  different

professions  such  as chemist,  postman, hunter, etc., to  give the  poem  a

couleur local suitable for each of the journals-  enjoys excellent health to

this  day. There  are  hundreds of recent  Soviet novels, poems  and  dramas

written by as many  Soviet writers which differ  only in the  professions of

their  protagonists; in their character  delineations and conflicts they are

all very much alike. And, finally, the custom of delivering formal political

speeches, all of them  long, boring, and  terribly repetitious, persists  to

our times. These speeches are still  a regular feature at all  public events

in the USSR.

Thus the Western reader, in addition to being entertained, is likely to

profit from the reading of The Twelve Chairs by getting a glimpse of certain

aspects of daily life in the Soviet Union which are not normally included in

Intourist itineraries.

The hero  of The  Twelve Chairs (and  also, it might  be added, of  The

Little Golden  Calf) is Ostap  Bender,  "the smooth operator", a resourceful

rogue and confidence man. Unlike the nobleman  Vorobyaninov  and the  priest

Vostrikov,  Bender  is  not  a  representative of  the ancient  regime. Only

twenty-odd years old, he does not even remember pre-revolutionary Russia: at

the first meeting of the "Alliance of  the Sword and Ploughshare" Bender has

some difficulty playing the role of a  tsarist  officer.  Ostap Bender  is a

Soviet crook, born  of  Soviet conditions and quite willing to co-exist with

the  Soviet  system  to  which  he  has  no  ideological  or  even  economic

objections. Ostap Bender's inimitable slangy Russian is heavily  spiced with

cliches of the Communist jargon. Bender knows the  vulnerabilities of Soviet

state  functionaries and exploits them for his  own purposes. He  also knows

that the Soviet Man is not very different from the Capitalist Man-that he is

just  as  greedy,  lazy, snobbish,  cowardly  and  gullible-and  uses  these

weaknesses  to his,  Ostap Bender's, advantage. And  yet,  in spite of Ostap

Bender's dishonesty and lack of scruples, we somehow get to like him. Bender

is  gay, carefree and  clever,  and when we  see him  matching his wits with

those of Soviet bureaucrats, we hope that he wins.

In  the  end  Ostap  Bender and  his accomplices lose;  yet,  strangely

enough, the end of the novel seems forced, much like the cliche happy ending

of a mediocre Hollywood film. One must understand, however, that even in the

comparatively  "liberal" 1920s it was difficult for  a Soviet author  not to

supply a  happy  Soviet  ending  to a  book otherwise  as aloof  from Soviet

ideology as The Twelve Chairs. And so, at the  end of the novel, one of  the

greedy fortune-hunters  is killed by his partner, while the other two end up

in  a  psychiatric  ward. But  at least  Ilf and Petrov  have spared us from

seeing Ostap Bender contrasted with a virtuous upright Soviet hero,  and for

this we  must  be  grateful. Much  as in Gogol's Inspector General  and Dead

Souls and  in the satires of Saltykov-Shchedrin, we observe with fascination

a  Russia  of  embezzlers,  knaves  and  stupid  government  officials.   We

understand  their  weaknesses  and  vices, for they are common  to  all men.

Indeed,  we can  even get  to like these  people, as we  could  not like the

stuffy  embodiments of Communist virtues who  inhabit the great  majority of

Soviet novels.

Inevitably,  some of  the  humour  must  get  lost  in  the  process of

translation. The protagonists in  The  Twelve Chairs are for the  most  part

semi-educated men, but they all aspire to  kulturnost, and  love to refer to

classics  of  Russian  literature-which  they usually  misquote.  They  also

frequently  mispronounce  foreign  words  with  comical   effect.  These  no

translator  could  possibly salvage. But  the English-speaking  reader won't

miss the ridiculous  quality of  the "updated" version of The Marriage on  a

Soviet stage, even if he has never seen a traditional performance of Gogol's

comedy; he  will detect with equal ease the hilarious scheme of Ostap Bender

to  "modernize"  a famous canvas  by Repin even  if  he  has  never seen the

original painting. Fortunately, most of the comic qualities of the novel are

inherent in  the actions of the protagonists, and these are not affected  by

being translated. They  will only serve to prove once again that, basically,

Soviet Russians  are fed  with  the  same food, hurt  with the same weapons,

subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by

the same winter and summer" as all men are.

MAURICE FRIEDBERQ

Hunter College 1960

Part I

THE LION OF STARGOROD

CHAPTER ONE

BEZENCHUK AND THE NYMPHS

There were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral homes in the

regional centre of N. that the inhabitants seemed to be born merely in order

to have a shave,  get  their  hair cut,  freshen up their  heads with toilet

water and then die. In actual fact,  people came into the world, shaved, and

died rather rarely  in  the regional centre  of N. Life in  N. was extremely

quiet.  The   spring  evenings  were  delightful,  the  mud  glistened  like

anthracite in the light of the moon,  and all the young men of the town were

so much  in love with the secretary  of  the communal-service workers' local

committee that she found difficulty in collecting their subscriptions.

Matters  of   life  and   death  did  not  worry   Ippolit  Matveyevich

Vorobyaninov,  although  by the nature of his  work he  dealt with them from

nine till five every day, with a half-hour break for lunch.

Each morning, having drunk  his ration of hot  milk brought  to him  by

Claudia  Ivanovna in  a  streaky  frosted-glass tumbler,  he  left the dingy

little house and went outside  into the vast  street bathed  in weird spring

sunlight; it was called Comrade Gubernsky Street. It was the nicest kind  of

street  you  can  find in regional  centres. On the left you could  see  the

coffins of the Nymph Funeral Home  glittering with silver through undulating

green-glass panes. On the right, the dusty, plain oak  coffins of Bezenchuk,

the undertaker, reclined sadly behind small windows from which the putty was

peeling  off. Further  up, "Master Barber Pierre and  Constantine"  promised

customers  a "manicure" and  "home curlings". Still further on  was  a hotel

with  a  hairdresser's,  and beyond  it  a  large  open  space  in  which  a

straw-coloured calf stood tenderly licking the rusty sign propped up against

a solitary gateway. The sign read: Do-Us-the-Honour Funeral Home.

Although  there  were  many  funeral  homes,  their  clientele  was not

wealthy.  The  Do-Us-the-Honour  had gone  broke three years before  Ippolit

Matveyevich settled in the town of N., while Bezenchuk drank like a fish and

had once tried to pawn his best sample coffin.

People rarely died  in  the  town of N. Ippolit  Matveyevich knew  this

better than anyone because he worked in the registry office, where he was in

charge of the registration of deaths and marriages.

The  desk  at  which  Ippolit  Matveyevich worked  resembled an ancient

gravestone. The  left-hand corner  had  been  eaten away by rats. Its wobbly

legs quivered under the weight of  bulging tobacco-coloured  files of notes,

which  could provide  any required information on  the  origins  of the town

inhabitants and the  family  trees  that had grown up in the barren regional

soil.

On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half

past seven and immediately slipped on to his nose an old-fashioned pince-nez

with a  gold nosepiece. He did not wear glasses. At one time, deciding  that

it was not hygienic to  wear pince-nez, he went to  the  optician and bought

himself a pair of frameless spectacles with gold-plated sidepieces. He liked

the spectacles from the  very  first, but his wife (this was  shortly before

she died) found that they made him look the spitting image of Milyukov,  and

he  gave them  to  the  man  who  cleaned  the yard.  Although  he  was  not

shortsighted, the fellow grew accustomed  to the glasses and enjoyed wearing

them.

"Bonjour!" sang Ippolit Matveyevich to  himself as he lowered his  legs

from the bed. "Bonjour" showed that he had woken up in a. good humour. If he

said  "Guten Morgen" on awakening,  it  usually  meant that  his  liver  was

playing tricks,  that it was no joke being fifty-two,  and that the  weather

was damp at the time.

Ippolit Matveyevich thrust  his legs into  pre-revolutionary  trousers,

tied the  ribbons around his ankles, and pulled on short, soft-leather boots

with narrow,  square toes. Five  minutes later he  was neatly  arrayed in  a

yellow  waistcoat  decorated with  small silver  stars  and a lustrous  silk

jacket that reflected the colours of  the  rainbow as it  caught  the light.

Wiping away the drops of water  still clinging to  his  grey hairs after his

ablutions,  Ippolit  Matveyevich fiercely wiggled  his moustache, hesitantly

felt  his  bristly  chin,  gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush  and,

then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who

had just come into the room.

"Eppole-et," she thundered, "I had a bad dream last night."

The word "dream" was pronounced with a French "r".

Ippolit  Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law  up and down. He  was six

feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for  him to look down

on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt.

Claudia Ivanovna continued: "I dreamed  of the deceased Marie with  her

hair down, and wearing a golden sash."

The  iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at  the

rumble of  Claudia Ivanovna's voice. "I am very disturbed. I fear  something

may happen."  These last words were uttered with such force that  the square

of   bristling  hair  on  Ippolit  Matveyevich's  head  moved  in  different

directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly:

"Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?"

It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit

Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her

advanced  age gave  little hope  of  any improvement.  She was stingy in the

extreme, and  it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's  poverty which prevented her

giving rein to  this passion. Her voice was  so strong  and fruity  that  it

might well have been envied by Richard  the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is

well known, horses  used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing

of all  about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed

of girls  in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid  worn by dragoons,

caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats  who went for walks

at  night  carrying clappers, and  knitting-needles which  hopped around the

room by  themselves making  a distressing  tinkle. An empty-headed woman was

Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her  upper lip was covered

by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.

Ippolit  Matveyevich  left  the  house  in rather  an  irritable  mood.

Bezenchuk  the  undertaker was standing at the entrance  to his  tumble-down

establishment, leaning against the  door with his hands crossed. The regular

collapse of  his commercial undertakings plus  a long period of practice  in

the consumption of intoxicating drinks had  made his eyes bright yellow like

a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.

"Greetings to an honoured guest!" he  rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov.

"Good mornin'."

Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled  beaver hat. "How's your

mother-in-law,  might  I  inquire?  "  "Mrr-mrr,"  said  Ippolit Matveyevich

indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.

"God grant  her health," said Bezenchuk  bitterly. "Nothin' but losses,

durn it." And crossing his  hands on his  chest, he again leaned against the

doorway.

At  the entrance  to the  Nymph  Funeral Home Ippolit  Matveyevich  was

stopped once more.  There were three owners of the Nymph.  They all bowed to

Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.

"She's  well," replied Ippolit Matveyevich. "The things she  does! Last

night she saw a golden girl with her hair down. It was a dream."

The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly.

These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov  on  his way,  and contrary to

his usual practice, he did not arrive  at  work until the clock  on the wall

above the slogan "Finish Your Business and Leave" showed five past nine.

Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache,

Ippolit Matveyevich was known  in the office as  Maciste.* although the real

Maciste   had   no   moustache.   (  Translator's   Note:   Maciste  was  an

internationally known Italian actor of the time.)

Taking a blue  felt  cushion out  of  a  drawer  in the  desk,  Ippolit

Matveyevich  placed  it  on  his  chair,  aligned  his  moustache  correctly

(parallel  to  the top  of the desk) and sat down  on  the  cushion,  rising

slightly higher than  his three colleagues.  He  was not  afraid of  getting

piles; he was afraid  of wearing  out his trousers-that was why he  used the

blue cushion.

All these  operations were watched timidly  by  two young persons-a boy

and  a  girl.  The young man, who wore a padded  cotton coat, was completely

overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink,  the clock

that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice

"Finish Your Business  and Leave". The  young  man in  the coat had not even

begun  his  business,  but he  was  nonetheless ready to leave. He  felt his

business was  so  insignificant  that  it  was  shameful  to disturb  such a

distinguished-looking   grey-haired   citizen   as   Vorobyaninov.   Ippolit

Matveyevich  also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could

wait, so he opened folder no.  2 and,  with a twitch of the  cheek, immersed

himself in  the papers. The girl, who had on a long jacket edged  with shiny

black  ribbon,  whispered  something  to  the  young  man  and,   pink  with

embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Comrade," she said, "where do we . . ."

The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly

for himself, blurted out:

"Get married!"

Ippolit Matveyevich  looked thoughtfully at the  rail behind  which the

young couple were standing.

"Birth? Death?"

"Get married?" repeated the young  man in the coat and looked round him

in confusion.

The girl gave a giggle. Things were going fine. Ippolit Matveyevich set

to work with the skill of a magician. In spidery handwriting he recorded the

names of the bride and  groom in  thick registers,  sternly  questioned  the

witnesses,  who  had to  be  fetched  from  outside, breathed  tenderly  and

lengthily  on the square rubber stamps and then,  half  rising  to his feet,

impressed them  upon the tattered identification papers. Having received two

roubles  from  the newly-weds "for administration  of  the sacrament", as he

said  with a  smirk,  and  given  them a receipt,  Ippolit Matveyevich  drew

himself up to his splendid height,  automatically pushing out  his chest (he

had worn a corset at one  time). The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his

shoulders like epaulettes. His appearance was slightly comic, but singularly

impressive.  The  biconcave  lenses  of  his  pince-nez flashed  white  like

searchlights. The young couple stood in awe.

"Young people,"  said  Ippolit  Matveyevich  pompously,  "allow  me  to

congratulate you,  as they used  to say, on your legal marriage. It is very,

very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the

realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!'

Having  made  this  address, Ippolit  Matveyevich shook hands with  the

newly  married  couple,  sat  down,  and,  extremely  pleased with  himself,

continued  to read the  papers in folder  no. 2. At the next desk the clerks

sniggered into their ink-wells.  The quiet routine of  the  working day  had

begun. No  one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages  desk. Through the windows

citizens could be  seen  making their  way  home, shivering  in  the  spring

chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough co-operative

began  crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then  came the mechanical rattling and

squeaking of a car engine.  A thick cloud of violet  smoke billowed out from

Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the  clanking grew louder.  Through  the smoke

appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with

its minute radiator and  bulky body.  Floundering in the mud as it went, the

car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a

cloud of poisonous  smoke. The  clerks remained standing  at the window  for

some  time, commenting on  the event  and  attempting to  connect  it with a

possible reduction in staff. A little while later  Bezenchuk cautiously went

past  along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town

trying to find out if anyone had died.

The working day was drawing to  a close. In the nearby white and yellow

belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one

by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting,

and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square.

It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be

born on that day had  been born  and  registered in  the thick  ledgers. All

those  wishing to  get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the

thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of  the undertakers, there had not

been a single death. Ippolit  Matveyevich  packed up his files, put the felt

cushion  away  in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache  with a comb, and was

just about  to leave, having  visions  of a bowl of steaming soup, when  the

door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold.

"Greetings  to an honoured  guest,"  said  Ippolit  Matveyevich  with a

smile. "What can I do for you?"

The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable

to utter a word.

"Well?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely.

"Does  the  Nymph,  durn  it,  really  give  good  service?"  said  the

undertaker vaguely. "Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a  coffin needs

so much wood alone."

"What?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"It's  the Nymph. . .  . Three families livin' on one  rotten business.

And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the

tassels  ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in

1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a

good coffin."

"What  are  you  talking  about?   Are  you  crazy?"   snapped  Ippolit

Matveyevich and moved towards the door.  "Your coffins will drive you out of

your mind."

Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first

and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience.

"When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one

firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I

tell  you straight, there's  nothin' to beat  mine. You  don't  even need to

look."

Ippolit  Matveyevich  turned  round  angrily, glared at  Bezenchuk, and

began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office

that day, he felt rotten.

The three  owners of the Nymph  were standing by their establishment in

the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that  morning.

They appeared  not to have exchanged a single  word with one another,  yet a

striking change  in  their expressions  and a  kind  of secret  satisfaction

darkly  gleaming  in their eyes indicated that they had  heard something  of

importance.

At  the  sight of  his  business rivals,  Bezenchuk waved  his hand  in

despair and called after Vorobyaninov in a whisper: "I'll make it thirty-two

roubles." Ippolit Matveyevich  frowned and increased his pace. "You can have

credit,"  added Bezenchuk. The three owners of the Nymph said  nothing. They

sped after  Vorobyaninov in  silence,  continually  doffing their  caps  and

bowing as they went.

Highly annoyed  by  the stupid attentions of the  undertakers,  Ippolit

Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably

wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of

hunger, went into the hallway. He was met by Father Theodore,  priest of the

Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room

and  was looking hot and bothered. Holding up his cassock in his right hand,

Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich.

It was  then  that Vorobyaninov noticed  the extra cleanliness and  the

unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in

his  nose from  the  strong smell  of  medicine. In  the outer room  Ippolit

Matveyevich was met by his neighbour,  Mrs.  Kuznetsov,  the agronomist. She

spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about.

"She's  worse. She's  just made her confession. Don't make a noise with

your boots."

"I'm not," said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. "What's happened?"

Mrs.  Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner

room: "Very severe heart attack."

Then, clearly repeating what she had  heard, added: "The possibility of

her not recovering should not be discounted. I've been on my feet all day. I

came this  morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was

no one  in the kitchen and no one in  this room either. So I thought Claudia

Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to

for some time. You  know what flour  is like  nowadays. If  you don't buy it

beforehand . . ."

Mrs.  Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour

and the  high price of it and how  she found Claudia  Ivanovna lying by  the

tiled  stove  completely  unconscious, had  not a groan from  the next  room

impinged painfully on  Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. He quickly crossed himself

with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room.

CHAPTER TWO

MADAME PETUKHOV'S DEMISE

Claudia Ivanovna lay  on her  back with one arm under her head. She was

wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion

when ladies wore the "chanticleer" and had just begun to dance the tango.

Claudia  Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed  absolutely nothing.

Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

"Claudia Ivanovna!" called Ippolit Matveyevich.

His  mother-in-law  moved   her   lips  rapidly,  but  instead  of  the

trumpet-like sounds to  which his ear  was accustomed,  Ippolit  Matveyevich

only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a

leap. A tear  suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a

drop of mercury.

"Claudia Ivanovna," repeated Vorobyaninov, "what's the matter?"

But again he received no answer.  The old woman had closed her eyes and

slumped to one side.

The  agronomist came quietly  into the room  and  led him away  like  a

little boy taken to be washed.

"She's  dropped  off.  The doctor didn't say  she was to  be disturbed.

Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out

how much an ice-bag costs."

Ippolit Matveyevich  obeyed  Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable

superiority in such matters.

It was a long way  to  the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his

fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.

It was almost dark, but  against the  fading light the frail  figure of

Bezenchuk could  be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of

bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge

from an  iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the

undertakers  sprang  to attention,  like  soldiers.  Bezenchuk shrugged  his

shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:

"Always in me way, durn 'em."

In the  middle  of  the square, near the bust of  the "poet  Zhukovsky,

which was inscribed with the  words "Poetry is God  in  the Sacred Dreams of

the Earth",  an animated  conversation was in progress following the news of

Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The  general opinion  of  the  assembled citizens

could have been summed up as "We all have to go sometime" and "What the Lord

gives, the Lord takes back".

The  hairdresser "Pierre  and Constantine"-who also answered readily to

the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the  way-once again took the opportunity to

air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok.

"Modern  science,"  Andrew Ivanovich  was  saying,  "has  achieved  the

impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his

chin. In the old days that usually resulted in blood-poisoning. But they say

that nowadays,  in  Moscow-I don't know  whether it's true  or not-a freshly

sterilized shaving brush is used for every customer." The citizens gave long

sighs. "Aren't you overdoing it  a bit,  Andrew?  "  "How could there  be  a

different brush for every person? That's a good one!"

Prusis,  a former member of the proletariat  intelligentsia, and now  a

private stall-owner, actually became excited.

"Wait a moment, Andrew Ivanovich. According to the  latest census,  the

population of Moscow is more than two  million. That means they'd need  more

than two million brushes. Seems rather curious."

The conversation  was  becoming heated,  and  heaven only knows how  it

would have  ended  had not Ippolit Matveyevich  appeared  at the end of  the

street. "He's off to the chemist's again.  Things  must  be  bad." "The  old

woman  will  die. Bezenchuk  isn't running  round  the  town in a flurry for

nothing." "What does the doctor say? "

"What doctor? Do you call those people in  the social-insurance  office

doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!"

"Pierre  and Constantine", who had been  longing for a chance to make a

pronouncement  on  the subject  of medicine,  looked  around cautiously, and

said:

"Haemoglobin  is  what counts  nowadays."  Having  said  that, he  fell

silent. The citizens also fell silent, each reflecting in his own way on the

mysterious power of haemoglobin.

When  the moon rose and cast  its minty  light on the miniature bust of

Zhukovsky, a  rude word  could clearly be seen chalked on the poet's  bronze

back.

This inscription had first appeared on June 15, 1897, the same day that

the bust had  been unveiled.  And despite  all  the efforts  of  the tsarist

police, and  later the  Soviet militia, the  defamatory word had  reappeared

each day with unfailing regularity.

The  samovars were  already  singing in the little  wooden houses  with

their  outside  shutters, and it  was time for  supper. The citizens stopped

wasting their time and went their way. A wind began to blow.

In  the meantime  Claudia  Ivanovna  was  dying.  First she  asked  for

something  to  drink,  then  said  she  had  to get  up  and  fetch  Ippolit

Matveyevich's best boots from the cobbler. One  moment she complained of the

dust which, as she put it, was enough to make you choke, and the next  asked

for all the lamps to be lit.

Ippolit Matveyevich paced up and down the room, tired of worrying.  His

mind was full  of  unpleasant,  practical thoughts. He was  thinking  how he

would have to ask for an advance at the  mutual assistance office, fetch the

priest, and answer  letters of condolence from  relatives. To  take his mind

off these things, Ippolit Matveyevich went  out  on the porch. There, in the

green light of the moon, stood Bezenchuk the undertaker.

"So  how would you like  it, Mr.  Vorobyaninov?" asked  the undertaker,

hugging his cap to his chest. "Yes, probably," answered Ippolit  Matveyevich

gloomily.  "Does  the  Nymph,  durn  it,  really  give  good  service?" said

Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. "Go to the devil! You make me sick!"

"I'm not doin' nothin'. I'm only  askin' about the tassels and brocade.

How shall I make it? Best quality? Or how?"

"No tassels  or brocade. Just an ordinary coffin made  of pine-wood. Do

you understand? "

Bezenchuk  put his  finger  to  his  lips to  show that  he  understood

perfectly,  turned round  and,  managing  to  balance  his cap  on  his head

although  he  was  staggering,  went off.  It  was  only  then  that Ippolit

Matveyevich noticed that he was blind drunk.

Ippolit Matveyevich felt singularly upset. He  tried to picture himself

coming  home to an empty, dirty  house.  He was  afraid  his mother-in-law's

death would deprive him of  all  those little luxuries and set  ways  he had

acquired  with  such  effort  since  the revolution-a  revolution  which had

stripped him of  much  greater luxuries and a grander way of life. "Should I

marry?" he  wondered.  "But  who?  The  militia  chief's  niece  or  Barbara

Stepanova, Prusis's sister? Or maybe I should hire a housekeeper. But what's

the use? She would only drag me around  the law courts. And it would cost me

something, too!"

The  future  suddenly  looked  black for Ippolit Matveyevich.  Full  of

indignation and  disgust  at  everything around him,  he went back  into the

house. Claudia Ivanovna was no longer  delirious. Lying high on her pillows,

she looked  at Ippolit Matveyevich, in full  command of her  faculties,  and

even sternly, he thought.

"Ippolit Matveyevich," she  whispered clearly. "Sit close to me. I want

to tell you something."

Ippolit   Matveyevich   sat   down  in   annoyance,  peering  into  his

mother-in-law's thin, bewhiskered face. He made an attempt  to smile and say

something  encouraging,  but  the  smile  was   hideous  and  no   words  of

encouragement  came  to  him.  An  awkward  wheezing noise was all he  could

produce.

"Ippolit,"   repeated   his   mother-in-law,  "do   you   remember  our

drawing-room suite?"

"Which  one?"  asked  Ippolit  Matveyevich with  that  kind  of  polite

attention that is only accorded to the very sick.

"The one . . . upholstered in English chintz."

"You mean the suite in my house?"

"Yes, in Stargorod."

"Yes,  I remember it very well . . . a sofa, a dozen chairs and a round

table with six legs. It was splendid furniture. Made by Hambs. . . . But why

does it come to mind?"

Claudia Ivanovna, however, was  unable to answer. Her  face had  slowly

begun  to turn  the colour of  copper  sulphate.  For  some  reason  Ippolit

Matveyevich also caught  his breath. He clearly remembered the  drawing-room

in  his  house  and its symmetrically  arranged walnut furniture with curved

legs,  the polished parquet floor, the old brown grand  piano,  and the oval

black-framed daguerreotypes of high-ranking relatives on the walls.

Claudia Ivanovna then said in a wooden, apathetic voice:

"I sewed my jewels into the seat of a chair."

Ippolit Matveyevich looked sideways at the old woman.

"What jewels?" he asked mechanically, then, suddenly realizing what she

had said, added quickly:

"Weren't they taken when the house was searched?"

"I hid the jewels in a chair," repeated the old woman stubbornly.

Ippolit  Matveyevich  jumped up and,  taking  a close  look at  Claudia

Ivanovna's stony face lit by the paraffin lamp, saw she was not raving.

"Your jewels!" he cried, startled at the loudness of his own voice. "In

a chair? Who induced you to do that? Why didn't you give them to me?"

"Why  should I have  given  them to  you  when you  squandered  away my

daughter's  estate?" said  the  old  woman  quietly  and viciously.  Ippolit

Matveyevich sat down and immediately stood up again.

His heart was  noisily  sending  the blood coursing around his body. He

began to hear a ringing in his ears.

"But you took them out again, didn't you? They're here, aren't they?"

The old woman shook her head.

"I didn't have time. You remember  how  quickly and unexpectedly we had

to  flee. They were left  in  the chair . .. the one  between the terracotta

lamp and the fireplace."

"But that was madness! You're just like your daughter," shouted Ippolit

Matveyevich loudly.

And no longer concerned for the fact  that  he was at the bedside of  a

dying woman, he pushed back his chair  with a crash and began prancing about

the room.

"I suppose you realize what may have happened to the chairs? Or do  you

think they're  still there in the drawing-room in  my house, quietly waiting

for you to come and get your jewellery? " The old woman did not answer.

The registry clerk's wrath was so  great that the pince-nez fell of his

nose and  landed  on the floor with a tinkle, the gold nose-piece glittering

as it passed his knees.

"What?  Seventy thousand roubles' worth of jewellery hidden in a chair!

Heaven knows who may sit on that chair!"

At this point Claudia Ivanovna gave  a sob and leaned forward with  her

whole body towards the edge of the bed. Her hand described a semi-circle and

reached  out  to grasp  Ippolit  Matveyevich, but  then fell back on to  the

violet  down  quilt. Squeaking with fright, Ippolit Matveyevich ran to fetch

his neighbour. "I think she's dying," he cried.

The agronomist crossed herself  in  a  businesslike  way  and,  without

hiding her curiosity, hurried into  Ippolit Matveyevich's house, accompanied

by  her  bearded  husband, also an agronomist.  In  distraction Vorobyaninov

wandered into the municipal park.

While the two agronomists  and  their  servants  tidied up the deceased

woman's  room,  Ippolit Matveyevich  roamed  around the  park,  bumping into

benches  and mistaking for bushes the young couples  numb with  early spring

love.

The strangest things  were  going on in Ippolit  Matveyevich's head. He

could hear the sound of gypsy choirs and orchestras composed of big-breasted

women playing the tango over and over again;  he imagined the Moscow  winter

and  a  long-bodied  black  trotter  that   snorted  contemptuously  at  the

passers-by.  He  imagined  many  different things:  a  pair  of  deliriously

expensive orange-coloured panties, slavish devotion, and a possible  trip to

Cannes. Ippolit Matveyevich began walking more slowly and suddenly  stumbled

over the form of Bezenchuk the undertaker. The  latter was asleep,  lying in

the middle of the path in his fur coat. The jolt woke him up. He sneezed and

stood up briskly.

"Now don't you  worry, Mr Vorobyaninov,"  he  said heatedly, continuing

the  conversation started a while before. "There's lots of work  goes into a

coffin."

"Claudia Ivanovna's dead," his client informed him.

"Well, God rest her soul," said Bezenchuk.  "So  the old  lady's passed

away.  Old ladies  pass away . . . or they depart  this life. It depends who

she is. Yours, for instance, was small and plump, so she passed away. But if

it's one who's a bit bigger and thinner, then they say she has departed this

life. . . ."

"What do you mean 'they say'? Who says?"

"We   say.   The   undertakers.   Now   you,   for   instance.   You're

distinguished-lookin' and tall, though a bit on the thin side. If you should

die, God forbid, they'll say you  popped off. But a tradesman, who  belonged

to the former merchants' guild, would breathe his last. And if  it's someone

of  lower status, say  a caretaker, or a peasant,  we say he has  croaked or

gone west. But  when the high-ups die, say a railway conductor or someone in

administration, they say he has kicked  the bucket. They say: 'You  know our

boss has kicked the bucket, don't you?' "

Shocked  by  this  curious  classification  of human mortality, Ippolit

Matveyevich asked:

"And what will the undertakers say about you when you die?"

"I'm small fry. They'll say, 'Bezenchuk's gone', and nothin' more."

And then he added grimly:

"It's not possible for me to pop off or kick the bucket; I'm too small.

But what about the  coffin, Mr Vorobyaninov? Do you really want  one without

tassels and brocade? "

But Ippolit Matveyevich, once more immersed in dazzling dreams,  walked

on without answering. Bezenchuk followed him, working something  out on  his

fingers and muttering to himself, as he always did.

The moon had long since vanished and there was a wintry  cold. Fragile,

wafer-like  ice covered  the puddles.  The  companions  came  out on Comrade

Gubernsky Street, where the wind was tussling with the hanging shop-signs. A

fire-engine drawn  by skinny horses  emerged from the  direction of Staropan

Square with a noise like the lowering of a blind.

Swinging their canvas  legs from the platform, the firemen wagged their

helmeted heads and sang in intentionally tuneless voices:

"Glory to our fire chief,

Glory to dear Comrade Pumpoff!"

"They've  been  havin'  a  good  time  at  Nicky's  wedding,"  remarked

Bezenchuk  nonchalantly.  "He's the  fire  chief's  son."  And  he scratched

himself under his coat. "So you really want it without tassels and brocade?"

By that moment Ippolit Matveyevich had finally made up his mind.  "I'll

go  and  find  them,"  he  decided,  "and   then  we'll  see."  And  in  his

jewel-encrusted visions  even his deceased  mother-in-law  seemed nicer than

she had actually been. He turned to Bezenchuk and said:

"Go on then, damn you, make it! With brocade! And tassels!"

CHAPTER THREE

THE PARABLE OF THE SINNER

Having  heard  the dying Claudia Ivanovna's confession, Father Theodore

Vostrikov,  priest  of  the  Church  of St.  Frol  and  St.  Laurence,  left

Vorobyaninov's house in a complete daze and  the whole way home kept looking

round him distractedly and smiling to himself in confusion. His bewilderment

became  so  great  in  the  end  that  he was  almost  knocked down  by  the

district-executive-committee motor-car,  Gos. No. 1. Struggling  out of  the

cloud of purple smoke  issuing from the infernal  machine,  Father Vostrikov

reached the stage  of complete distraction, and, despite his  venerable rank

and middle age, finished the journey at a frivolous half-gallop.

His  wife, Catherine, was laying the table for supper. On the days when

there was no evening service to conduct, Father  Theodore liked  to have his

supper  early. This  time, however, to his wife's surprise, the holy father,

having  taken  off his hat  and  warm  padded cassock, skipped past into the

bedroom, locked himself  in and began chanting the prayer  "It Is Meet" in a

tuneless voice.

His wife sat down on a chair and whispered in alarm:

"He's up to something again."

Father Theodore's tempestuous soul knew no rest, nor had ever known it.

Neither at the time when he was Theo, a pupil of the Russian Orthodox Church

school,  nor  when he  was  Theodore Ivanych, a bewhiskered  student  at the

college. Having left the college and studied law at the university for three

years in 1915 Vostrikov became afraid of the possibility of mobilization and

returned to the  Church. He  was  first  anointed  a deacon, then ordained a

priest and  appointed to the  regional centre of  N. But  the whole time, at

every stage of  his clerical and  secular career, Father Theodore never lost

interest in worldly possessions.

He cherished the dream of possessing  his own candle factory. Tormented

by the vision of thick  ropes of wax winding on to the factory drums, Father

Theodore devised various schemes that would bring in enough basic capital to

buy a little factory in Samara which he had had his eye on for some time.

Ideas  occurred to Father  Theodore  unexpectedly, and when they did he

used to get down to work on the spot. He once started making  a  marble-like

washing-soap;  he made  pounds and pounds of it, but despite an enormous fat

content,  the soap would not lather, and it cost twice as much as the Hammer

and Plough brand,  to boot. For a long time after it  remained in the liquid

state  gradually decomposing on  the porch  of  the house, and whenever  his

wife,  Catherine,  passed it,  she  would  wipe away a  tear.  The soap  was

eventually thrown into the cesspool.

Reading  in  a farming  magazine  that  rabbit meat was  as  tender  as

chicken, that rabbits were highly  prolific, and  that a  keen  farmer could

make  a mint of  money  breeding them, Father Theodore  immediately acquired

half a dozen stud rabbits, and two months later, Nerka the dog, terrified by

the  incredible  number of long-eared creatures filling the yard and  house,

fled to an unknown destination. However, the wretchedly  provincial citizens

of  the  town of  N. proved  extraordinarily conservative and, with  unusual

unanimity,  refused  to buy Vostrikov's rabbits. Then Father Theodore had  a

talk with his wife and decided to enhance his diet with the rabbit meat that

was supposed to  be tastier  than  chicken. The  rabbits were roasted whole,

turned into rissoles and cutlets, made into soup, served cold for supper and

baked in  pies. But to no avail. Father Theodore worked it out that even  if

they switched exclusively to a diet of rabbit, the family  could not consume

more than forty of the  creatures  a  month, while the monthly increment was

ninety, with the number increasing in a geometrical progression.

The Vostrikovs then decided to sell home-cooked  meals. Father Theodore

spent a whole  evening  writing out an advertisement in indelible  pencil on

neatly cut sheets of  graph paper, announcing the sale of  tasty home-cooked

meals prepared in pure butter. The advertisement began "Cheap and Good!" His

wife filled an enamel dish  with flour-and-water paste, and late one evening

the holy father went around sticking the advertisements on all the telegraph

poles, and also in the vicinity of state-owned institutions.

The new idea was a great success. Seven people appeared the  first day,

among them Bendin, the  military-commissariat clerk, by  whose endeavour the

town's oldest monument-a triumphal arch, dating from the time of the Empress

Elizabeth-had  been  pulled down  shortly  before  on  the  ground  that  it

interfered  with  the  traffic. The dinners were very popular. The next  day

there were fourteen  customers. There  was  hardly  enough  time to skin the

rabbits.  For  a whole week things  went swimmingly and Father Theodore even

considered starting  up  a small fur-trading business, without a  car,  when

something quite unforeseen took place.

The Hammer and Plough co-operative, which had been shut for three weeks

for stock-taking, reopened, and some of the  counter hands, panting with the

effort,  rolled a barrel of  rotten  cabbage into the yard shared  by Father

Theodore,  and  dumped the  contents  into the cesspool.  Attracted  by  the

piquant smell, the rabbits hastened to the cesspool, and the next morning an

epidemic broke  out among the gentle rodents. It only raged for three hours,

but during that time it finished off two hundred and forty adult rabbits and

an uncountable number of offspring.

The shocked priest had been  depressed for two whole months, and it was

only now,  returning from Vorobyaninov's  house and to  his wife's surprise,

locking  himself  in  the bedroom,  that he regained  his spirits. There was

every indication that Father Theodore had been captivated by some new idea.

Catherine  knocked  on the  bedroom door with her knuckle. There was no

reply, but the chanting grew louder. A moment later the door opened slightly

and through  the  crack  appeared  Father Theodore's face, brightened  by  a

maidenly flush.

"Let  me  have  a  pair  of  scissors quickly,  Mother," snapped Father

Theodore.

"But what about your supper? "

"Yes, later on."

Father Theodore  grabbed the  scissors, locked the door again, and went

over to a mirror hanging on the wall in a black scratched frame.

Beside the  mirror  was an ancient folk-painting, entitled "The Parable

of the Sinner", made from a copperplate and neatly hand-painted. The parable

had  been a great consolation to Vostrikov  after  the  misfortune with  the

rabbits. The picture clearly showed the transient nature  of earthly things.

The top  row was  composed of  four drawings with meaningful and consolatory

captions in Church Slavonic: Shem saith a prayer, Ham soweth wheat,  Japheth

enjoyeth power, Death overtaketh  all. The figure of Death  carried a scythe

and  a  winged  hour-glass and looked as  if  made  of  artificial limbs and

orthopaedic appliances; he  was  standing on deserted hilly  ground with his

legs wide apart, and his  general appearance made  it clear that  the fiasco

with the rabbits was a mere trifle.

At this moment Father Theodore preferred  "Japheth enjoyeth power". The

drawing  showed a fat, opulent man with  a  beard sitting on  a throne  in a

small room.

Father Theodore  smiled and, looking closely at himself in the  mirror,

began  snipping at his fine beard. The scissors clicked,  the hairs fell  to

the floor,  and five minutes later Father Theodore knew he was absolutely no

good at beard-clipping. His  beard was  all askew; it looked  unbecoming and

even suspicious.

Fiddling  about  for  a while  longer, Father  Theodore  became  highly

irritated, called his wife, and, handing her the scissors, said peevishly:

"You can help me, Mother. I can't do anything with these rotten hairs."

His wife threw up her hands in astonishment.

"What have you done to yourself?" she finally managed to say.

"I haven't  done anything. I'm trimming my beard. It seems to have gone

askew just here. . . ."

"Heavens!"  said  his  wife, attacking  his curls.  "Surely  you're not

joining the Renovators, Theo dear?"

Father Theodore  was delighted  that the  conversation had  taken  this

turn.

"And why shouldn't I join the Renovators, Mother? They're human-beings,

aren't they?"

"Of  course they're human-beings," conceded his  wife venomously,  "but

they go to the cinema and pay alimony."

"Well, then, I'll go to the cinema as well."

"Go on then!"

•Twill!"

"You'll get tired of it. Just look at yourself in the mirror."

And indeed,  a lively black-eyed  countenance with a short, odd-looking

beard  and an  absurdly  long moustache  peered out of the mirror  at Father

Theodore. They trimmed down the moustache to the right proportions.

What happened next amazed Mother still  more. Father  Theodore declared

that he had to go  off on a business trip that  very evening,  and asked his

wife to go round to her brother, the baker, and borrow his fur-collared coat

and duck-billed cap for a week.

"I won't go," said his wife and began weeping.

Father  Theodore  walked  up  and  down  the  room for  half  an  hour,

frightening his wife by the change in his expression  and  telling  her  all

sorts of  rubbish. Mother could  understand only  one  thing-for no apparent

reason Father Theodore had cut his hair,  intended to go off somewhere  in a

ridiculous cap, and was leaving her for good.

"I'm  not  leaving you," he kept saying.  "I'm not.  I'll be back  in a

week. A man can have a job to do, after all. Can he or can't he?"

"No, he can't," said his wife.

Father Theodore even had to strike the table with his fist, although he

was normally a mild person  in his treatment of his  near  ones.  He  did so

cautiously,  since  he had never done  it before,  and, greatly alarmed, his

wife threw a kerchief around her head and ran to fetch the civilian clothing

from her brother.

Left  alone, Father Theodore thought for  a moment,  muttered, "It's no

joke  for women,  either," and  pulled out a small tin trunk from under  the

bed. This type  of trunk  is mostly  found  among  Red  Army soldiers. It is

usually lined with striped paper, on top of which is a picture  of Budyonny,

or  the lid of a Bathing Beach cigarette box depicting three lovelies on the

pebbly  shore  at  Batumi.   The  Vostrikovs'  trunk  was  also  lined  with

photographs, but,  to Father Theodore's annoyance, they were not of Budyonny

or Batumi  beauties.  His  wife had  covered  the inside of  the trunk  with

photographs cut out of the magazine Chronicle of the 1914 War. They included

"The Capture of Peremyshl", "The  Distribution of Comforts to Other Ranks in

the Trenches", and all sorts of other things.

Removing the  books that were lying  at  the top (a set  of the Russian

Pilgrim for 1913; a fat tome, History of the Schism, and a brochure entitled

A  Russian in Italy, the cover of  which showed a smoking  Vesuvius), Father

Theodore reached down into the very bottom of the  trunk and drew out an old

shabby hat belonging to  his  wife. Wincing at the smell of moth-balls which

suddenly assailed  him from the trunk,  he tore apart the lace and trimmings

and took from the  hat  a heavy  sausage-shaped object wrapped in linen. The

sausage-shaped object contained  twenty  ten-rouble gold coins, all that was

left of Father Theodore's business ventures.

With a habitual movement of the hand, he lifted his cassock and stuffed

the sausage  into the pocket of his striped trousers.  He then  went over to

the chest of drawers and took twenty roubles in three- and five-rouble notes

from a  sweet-box. There  were twenty roubles left in the box. "That will do

for the housekeeping," he decided.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE MUSE OF TRAVEL

An  hour before  the evening  mail-train was due in,  Father  Theodore,

dressed in a  short coat  which came  just below  the  knee, and carrying  a

wicker basket, stood in line in front of the booking-office and kept looking

apprehensively at  the station entrance. He was afraid that  in spite of his

insistence,  his wife might  come  to  see him  off,  and  then  Prusis, the

stall-owner, who was sitting in the buffet treating the income-tax collector

to a glass of beer, would immediately recognize him. Father  Theodore stared

with shame and surprise  at his striped trousers, now exposed to the view of

the entire laity.

The process of boarding a train without reserved seats took  its normal

and scandalous  course.  Staggering  under  the  weight  of  enormous sacks,

passengers ran  from the front of  the train to the  back,  and then  to the

front again. Father Theodore followed them in a daze. Like everyone else, he

spoke to  the conductors  in an ingratiating tone, like everyone else he was

afraid he had been  given  the  "wrong" ticket, and it was only when he  was

finally allowed  into a coach  that his customary calm returned and  he even

became happy.

The locomotive hooted at the top of its  voice and the train moved off,

carrying Father Theodore into  the unknown on business that  was mysterious,

yet promised great things.

An interesting thing, the permanent way. Once he gets on to it the most

ordinary  man in the  street feels a certain animation in  himself  and soon

turns into  a passenger, a  consignee, or simply a trouble-maker  without  a

ticket,  who makes life difficult  for the teams of conductors  and platform

ticket-inspectors.

The  moment  a  passenger  approaches  the  right   of  way,  which  he

amateurishly calls a railway station, his life is completely changed.  He is

immediately  surrounded by predatory  porters with white aprons  and  nickel

badges on their chests, and his luggage is obsequiously picked up. From that

moment,  the  citizen no  longer is his own master. He  is  a  passenger and

begins to  perform all the duties of one. These duties are many, though they

are not unpleasant.

Passengers eat a lot. Ordinary mortals do not eat during the night, but

passengers do. They eat fried chicken, which is expensive, hard-boiled eggs,

which are bad  for  the stomach,  and olives. Whenever the train passes over

the points,  numerous teapots in  the  rack  clatter together,  and  legless

chickens  (the legs have been torn out by the  roots by  passengers) jump up

and down in their newspaper wrapping.

The  passengers,  however, are  oblivious of  all this. They  tell each

other jokes. Every three  minutes the whole compartment rocks with laughter;

then there is a silence and a soft-spoken voice tells the following story:

"An old Jew lay dying. Around him were his wife and children. 'Is Monya

here?' asks the  Jew with  difficulty. 'Yes,  she's here.' 'Has Auntie Brana

come?' 'Yes.' 'And where's Grandma?  I  don't  see her.'  'She's over here.'

'And Isaac?' 'He's here, too.' 'What about the children?' They're all here.'

'Then who's minding the shop?'"

This very moment the teapots begin rattling and the chickens fly up and

down in the rack, but the passengers do not notice. Each one has a favourite

story  ready,  eagerly  awaiting its  turn.  A  new raconteur,  nudging  his

neighbours and  calling out in a pleading tone, "Have  you  heard this one?"

finally gains attention and begins:

"A Jew comes home and gets into bed beside his wife. Suddenly he  hears

a  scratching noise under the bed.  The Jew  reaches his hand underneath the

bed and asks: 'Is that  you, Fido?'  And Fido licks his hand and says: 'Yes,

it's me.' "

The  passengers  collapse  with  laughter;  a  dark  night  cloaks  the

countryside. Restless sparks fly from  the funnel,  and the slim signals  in

their  luminous green  spectacles  flash snootily  past,  staring above  the

train.

An interesting thing, the right of way! Long, heavy trains race to all'

parts  of the country. The way is open at every  point. Green  lights can be

seen everywhere; the track  is clear. The polar express goes up to Murmansk.

The K-l  draws out of Kursk Station, bound for Tiflis, arching its back over

the  points. The  far-eastern courier  rounds Lake Baikal and approaches the

Pacific at full speed.

The Muse of Travel is calling.  She has already plucked Father Theodore

from his quiet regional cloister and cast him  into  some unknown  province.

Even Ippolit Matveyevich  Vorobyaninov, former  marshal  of the nobility and

now clerk in a  registry office, is stirred to  the depths of  his heart and

highly excited at the great things ahead.

People speed  all  over  the  country. Some  of  them  are looking  for

scintillating  brides thousands of miles  away, while others, in pursuit  of

treasure, leave  their jobs in the post office  and rush off like schoolboys

to Aldan. Others simply  sit  at home,  tenderly stroking an imminent hernia

and reading the works of Count Salias, bought  for five kopeks instead of  a

rouble.

The day after the funeral, kindly arranged by Bezenchuk the undertaker,

Ippolit Matveyevich went  to work and, as part  of  the duties with which he

was charged, duly  registered in his own hand the demise of Claudia Ivanovna

Petukhov, aged  fifty-nine, housewife,  non-party-member,  resident  of  the

regional centre of N., by origin a member of the upper class of the province

of  Stargorod. After this, Ippolit  Matveyevich granted  himself  a two-week

holiday due to him, took forty-one roubles in salary,  said good-bye  to his

colleagues, and went home. On the way he stopped at the chemist's.

The chemist, Leopold  Grigorevich,  who  was called Lipa by his friends

and  family,  stood  behind   the   red-lacquered  counter,  surrounded   by

frosted-glass  bottles  of poison, nervously trying to sell the fire chief's

sister-in-law  "Ango  cream  for  sunburn  and  freckles-gives  the  skin an

exceptional whiteness". The fire chief's sister-in-law,  however, was asking

for  "Rachelle  powder, gold  in colour-gives  the skin  a  tan not normally

acquirable". The chemist had  only the Ango cream in  stock, and the  battle

between these two very different cosmetics raged for half an hour. Lipa  won

in  the  end  and sold the  fire chief's sister-in-law  some lipstick  and a

bugovar, which is a device similar in principle to the samovar,  except that

it looks like a watering-can and catches bugs.

"What can I get you?"

"Something for the hair."

"To make it grow, to remove it, or to dye it? "

"Not to make it grow," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "To dye it."

"We have a  wonderful  hair  dye called  Titanic.  We got  it from  the

customs people;  it was  confiscated.  It's  a jet  black  colour. A  bottle

containing a  six months' supply costs three  roubles,  twelve kopeks. I can

recommend it to you, as a good friend."

Ippolit  Matveyevich twiddled  the bottle in his hands,  looked at  the

label with a sigh, and put down his money on the counter.

He went home and, with a feeling of revulsion,  began  pouring  Titanic

onto his head and moustache. A stench filled the house.

By  the time dinner was over, the stench had cleared, the moustache had

dried and become matted and was very difficult to comb. The jet-black colour

turned out to have a greenish tint, but there was no time for a second try.

Taking from his mother-in-law's jewel box a list of the gems, found the

night before, Ippolit Matveyevich counted  up  his cash-in-hand, locked  the

house,  put the key  in  his  back pocket and  took  the no.  7  express  to

Stargorod.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE SMOOTH OPERATOR

At  half  past  eleven  a  young  man aged about  twenty-eight  entered

Stargorod from the direction of the village of Chmarovka, to the north-east.

A waif ran along behind him.

"Mister!" cried the boy gaily, "gimme ten kopeks!"

The young man took a warm apple out of his pocket "and handed it to the

waif, but the  child  still kept running behind. Then the young  man stopped

and, looking ironically at the boy, said quietly:

"Perhaps you'd also like the key of the apartment where the money is?"

The  presumptuous  waif then  realized  the  complete  futility of  his

pretensions and dropped behind.

The young man had  not  told the truth.  He  had no money, no apartment

where it might have been found, and no key with which to open it. He did not

even have a coat. The young man entered the town in a green suit tailored to

fit  at the waist and an  old  woollen scarf  wound several times around his

powerful neck.  On his feet  were  patent-leather boots with orange-coloured

suede uppers. He had no socks on. The young man carried an astrolabe.

Approaching the market, he broke into a  song: "O, Bayadere, tum-ti-ti,

tum-ti-ti."

In  the market he found plenty going on. He squeezed into  the  line of

vendors selling  wares  spread out  on  the  ground  before them, stood  the

astrolabe in front of him and began shouting:

"Who  wants an  astrolabe? Here's  an  astrolabe  going  cheap. Special

reduction for delegations and women's work divisions !"

At first the unexpected supply met  with little demand; the delegations

of housewives were more  interested in obtaining commodities in short supply

and were milling around the  cloth and drapery stalls. A detective from  the

Stargorod  criminal investigation  department  passed  the  astrolabe-vendor

twice, but  since  the instrument in no way resembled the typewriter  stolen

the day before from the Central Union  of Dairy Co-operatives, the detective

stopped glaring at the young man and passed on.

By  lunchtime the astrolabe  had  been sold to  a repairman  for  three

roubles.

"It measures  by  itself," he said,  handing over the  astrolabe to its

purchaser, "provided you have something to measure."

Having rid himself of the calculating  instrument, the happy  young man

had lunch in the Tasty Corner snack bar, and then went to have a look at the

town.  He  passed  along  Soviet Street,  came  out  into  Red  Army  Street

(previously  Greater Pushkin Street), crossed  Co-operative Street and found

himself again on Soviet Street. But it was  not the same Soviet  Street from

which  he had come.  There were  two  Soviet  Streets  in  the town. Greatly

surprised  by this fact, the young man carried  on and found himself in Lena

Massacre  Street  (formerly  Denisov Street).  He stopped  outside no. 28, a

pleasant two-storeyed private house, which bore a sign saying:

USSR RSFSR

SECOND SOCIAL SECURITY HOME

OF THE

STAR-PROV-INS-AD

and  requested  a  light from  the  caretaker, who was sitting  by  the

entrance on a stone bench.

"Tell me, dad,"  said the  young man,  taking  a  puff,  "are there any

marriageable young girls in this town? "

The old caretaker did not show the least surprise.

"For  some a mare'd be a  bride," he  answered, readily  striking up  a

conversation.

"I  have  no  more questions,"  said  the  young  man  quickly. And  he

immediately asked one more: "A house like this and no girls in it?"

"It's a long while since there've  been  any young girls here," replied

the  old  man.  "This  is  a  state  institution-a  home  for old-age  women

pensioners."

"I see. For ones born before historical materialism?"

"That's it. They were born when they were born."

"And  what  was  here in  the  house  before  the  days  of  historical

materialism?"

"When was that?"

"In the old days. Under the former regime."

"Oh, in the old days my master used to live here."

"A member of the bourgeoisie")"

"Bourgeoisie yourself! I told you. He was a marshal of the nobility."

"You mean he was from the working class?"

"Working class yourself! He was a marshal of the nobility."

The conversation with the intelligent caretaker so poorly versed in the

class structure of society might have gone on  for heaven knows how long had

not the young man got down to business.

"Listen, granddad," he said, "what about a drink?"

"All right, buy me one!"

They were gone an hour. When they returned, the caretaker was the young

man's best friend.

"Right, then,  I'll stay the night with  you," said the newly  acquired

friend.

"You're a good man. You can stay here for the rest  of your life if you

like."

Having  achieved  his aim, the young man  promptly  went down into  the

caretaker's room, took off his orange-coloured boots, and, stretching out on

a bench, began thinking out a plan of action for the following day.

The young  man's  name  was  Ostap Bender.  Of  his background he would

usually  give only  one  detail. "My dad," he  used  to say, "was a  Turkish

citizen."  During  his life  this son  of  a Turkish  citizen  had had  many

occupations. His lively nature had prevented him  from devoting  himself  to

any one thing for long  and  kept him  roving  through the  country, finally

bringing him to Stargorod without any socks and without a key, apartment, or

money.

Lying in the caretaker's room,  which was  so warm that it stank, Ostap

Bender weighed up in his mind two possibilities for a career.

He could  become  a polygamist and calmly  move on from  town  to town,

taking with him  a suitcase  containing his latest  wife's valuables, or  he

could go the  next  day to the  Stargorod Commission  for the Improvement of

Children's  Living Conditions  and suggest they undertake the popularization

of  a brilliantly  devised,  though  yet  unpainted,  picture  entitled "The

Bolsheviks Answer Chamberlain" based on Repin's famous canvas "The Zaporozhe

Cossacks  Answer the  Sultan". If it worked, this possibility could bring in

four hundred or so roubles.

The two possibilities had been thought up by Ostap during his last stay

in Moscow. The polygamy idea was  conceived after reading a law-court report

in the evening paper,  which clearly stated that the convicted man was given

only a two-year  sentence,  while the second idea  came  to Bender as he was

looking round the Association  of  Revolutionary Artists' exhibition, having

got in with a free pass.

Both possibilities had their drawbacks, however. To begin a career as a

polygamist without a heavenly grey polka-dot suit was unthinkable. Moreover,

at  least ten roubles would  be  needed for purposes of  representation  and

seduction. He could get married, of course,  in his green field-suits, since

his virility and good  looks were absolutely  irresistible to the provincial

belles looking for husbands, but that would have been, as Ostap used to say,

"poor workmanship".  The question of the painting was not all plain  sailing

either. There  might be difficulties of a purely technical nature.  It might

be awkward, for instance,  to show Comrade  Kalinin in a fur  cap  and white

cape,  while  Comrade Chicherin was  stripped  to  the waist. They  could be

depicted in ordinary dress, of course,  but that would not be quite the same

thing.

"It wouldn't have the right effect!" said Ostap aloud.

At this point he noticed that the caretaker had been prattling away for

some time, apparently reminiscing about the previous owner of the house.

"The police chief used to salute him. . . . I'd go and wish him a happy

new year,  let's say, and he'd give  me three roubles. At Easter, let's say,

he'd give me another three roubles.  . . . Then on his birthday,  let's say.

In  a year I'd get as  much  as  fifteen  roubles from wishing him. He  even

promised to  give me a medal. 'I want my caretaker to have a medal,' he used

to say.  That's what he would say: 'Tikhon,  consider that you already  have

the medal.'"

"And did he give you one? "

"Wait a moment. .  . . T don't  want a caretaker  without a medal,'  he

used to say. He went  to St. Petersburg to get me a medal. Well,  the  first

time  it  didn't  work  out. The officials didn't want to give  me one. 'The

Tsar,' he used to say, 'has gone abroad. It isn't possible just now.' So the

master told me to wait. 'Just wait a  bit, Tikhon,' he used  to say, 'you'll

get your medal.' "

"And what happened to this master of yours? Did they bump him off?"

"No one  bumped him off. He went away. What was the good of him staying

here with the soldiers? . . . Do they give medals to caretakers nowadays?"

"Certainly. I can arrange one for you."

The caretaker looked at Bender with veneration.

"I can't be without one. It's that kind of work."

"Where did your master go?"

"Heaven knows. People say he went to Paris."

"Ah, white acacia-the emigre's flower! So he's an emigre!"

"Emigre yourself. . . . He went to Paris, so people say. And the  house

was taken over for old women. You greet them every day, but they don't  even

give you a ten-kopek bit! Yes, he was some master!"

At that moment the rusty bell above the door began to ring.

The  caretaker ambled over to the door, opened it,  and stepped back in

complete amazement.

On the  top step  stood  Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov with  a black

moustache   and  black   hair.  His  eyes   behind  his   pince-nez   had  a

pre-revolutionary twinkle.

"Master!" bellowed Tikhon with delight. "Back from Paris!"

Ippolit Matveyevich became embarrassed by the presence of the stranger,

whose bare purple feet he had just spotted protruding from behind the table,

and was about to leave again when Ostap Bender briskly jumped up  and made a

low bow.

"This isn't Paris, but you're welcome to our abode."

Ippolit Matveyevich felt himself forced to say something.

"Hello, Tikhon. I certainly haven't come from Paris. Where  did you get

that strange idea from?"

But  Ostap Bender,  whose long  and noble nose had caught the  scent of

roast meat, did not give the caretaker time to utter a word.

"Splendid," he  said, narrowing his eyes. "You haven't come from Paris.

You've no doubt come from Kologriv to visit your deceased grandmother."

As he spoke, he tenderly embraced the caretaker and pushed him  outside

the door before the old man had time  to realize what was happening. When he

finally  gathered  his wits, all he knew was that  his  master had come back

from Paris, that he himself had been pushed out of his own room, and that he

was clutching a rouble note in his left hand.

Carefully locking  the door,  Bender turned to  Vorobyaninov,  who  was

still standing in the middle of the room, and said:

"Take it easy, everything's all right! My  name's Bender. You may  have

heard of me!"

"No, I haven't," said Ippolit Matveyevich nervously.

"No, how  could  the name of Ostap Bender be known in Paris? Is it warm

there  just  now? It's a  nice  city.  I  have  a married cousin there.  She

recently sent me a silk handkerchief by registered post."

"What   rubbish   is  this?"  exclaimed   Ippolit  Matveyevich.   "What

handkerchief? I haven't come from Paris at all. I've come from . . ."

"Marvellous! You've come from Morshansk!"

Ippolit Matveyevich had never had dealings with so spirited a young man

as Ostap Bender and began to feel peculiar.

"Well, I'm going now," he said.

"Where  are you going? You  don't  need to hurry  anywhere.  The secret

police will come  for you, anyway." Ippolit  Matveyevich was  speechless. He

undid his coat with its threadbare velvet collar and sat down on  the bench,

glaring at Bender.

"I don't know what you mean," he said in a low voice.

"That's no harm. You soon will. Just one moment."

Ostap put on his orange-coloured boots and walked up and down the room.

"Which frontier did you cross? Was it the Polish, Finnish,  or Rumanian

frontier? An expensive  pleasure, I  imagine.  A  friend  of  mine  recently

crossed the  frontier.  He lives  in  Slavuta,  on our side, and his  wife's

parents live on the other. He had  a row with his wife over a family matter;

she comes  from a temperamental family. She spat in his face and  ran across

the frontier to her parents. The fellow sat around for a few  days but found

things weren't going well. There was no dinner and the room was dirty, so he

decided to make it up  with  her. He waited till night and then crossed over

to  his  mother-in-law.  But the  frontier  guards nabbed him, trumped up  a

charge,  and gave him six  months. Later on he was expelled from  the  trade

union. The wife,  they say, has now gone back, the  fool, and her husband is

in  prison. She is able to  take him things. .  . . Did you  come that  way,

too?"

"Honestly," protested Ippolit Matveyevich, suddenly  feeling himself in

the  power  of the  talkative young man who had  come  between  him and  the

jewels.  "Honestly,  I'm  a  citizen  of  the  RSFSR.  I  can  show  you  my

identification papers, if you want."

"With  printing  being as  well  developed  as it is  in  the West, the

forgery of Soviet  identification  papers is  nothing. A friend of mine even

went as far as forging American dollars. And you know how difficult that is.

The paper has those different-coloured little lines on it. It requires great

technique.  He managed to get rid of them on the Moscow black market, but it

turned out later that  his  grandfather,  a  notorious  currency-dealer, had

bought  them all  in  Kiev  and  gone absolutely  broke.  The  dollars  were

counterfeit, after all. So your papers may not help you very much either."

Despite his annoyance at having to sit in a smelly caretaker's room and

listen  to  an  insolent young  man burbling about the shady dealings of his

friends, instead of actively  searching for the jewels, Ippolit  Matveyevich

could not  bring himself to leave. He felt great trepidation  at the thought

that the young stranger  might spread it round the town that the  ex-marshal

had come  back. That would be the end of everything, and he might be put  in

jail as well.

'Don't  tell  anyone you saw me," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "They might

really think  I'm an emigre." "That's more like it!  First we have an Emigre

who has returned to his home town, and then we  find he is afraid the secret

police will catch him."

"But I've told you a hundred times, I'm not an emigre."

"Then who are you? Why are you here?"

"I've come from N. on certain business."

"What business?"

"Personal business."

"And then you say you're not an emigre! A friend of mine . . ."

At this point, Ippolit Matveyevich, driven to despair by the stories of

Bender's friends, and seeing that he was not getting anywhere, gave in.

"All right," he said. "I'll tell you everything."

Anyway, it might  be  difficult without  an  accomplice,  he thought to

himself,  and this fellow seems to be a really  shady character. He might be

useful.

CHAPTER SIX

A DIAMOND HAZE

Ippolit  Matveyevich  took  off his  stained  beaver  hat,  combed  his

moustache, which gave off a shower of sparks at  the touch of the comb, and,

having cleared  his throat in determination,  told Ostap  Bender, the  first

rogue who  had come his way, what his dying mother-in-law had told him about

her jewels.

During the account,  Ostap jumped up  several times and, turning to the

iron stove, said delightedly:

"Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury. Things are moving."

An hour later they were both sitting  at the rickety table, their heads

close together, reading  the  long  list of jewellery which had  at one time

adorned  the   fingers,  neck,   ears,  bosom  and  hair  of  Vorobyaninov's

mother-in-law.

Ippolit Matveyevich adjusted the  pince-nez, which kept falling off his

nose, and said emphatically:

"Three strings  of pearls. .  . . Yes, I remember them. Two with  forty

pearls  and the long one  had  a hundred  and ten. A  diamond pendant .  . .

Claudia  Ivanovna  used  to  say it  was  worth four  thousand  roubles;  an

antique."

Next came the rings: not thick, silly, and cheap engagement  rings, but

fine,  lightweight rings set  with pure, polished diamonds; heavy,  dazzling

earrings  that bathe a small female  ear in multi-coloured  light; bracelets

shaped  like serpents,  with emerald scales;  a clasp bought with the profit

from a fourteen-hundred-acre harvest; a  pearl necklace that  could only  be

worn  by  a famous prima donna; to crown everything was a diadem worth forty

thousand roubles.

Ippolit  Matveyevich looked  round  him.  A grass-green  emerald  light

blazed up and shimmered in the dark corners of the caretaker's dirty room. A

diamond  haze  hung near  the ceiling. Pearls  rolled across  the table  and

bounced along the floor. The room swayed in the mirage of gems. The sound of

Ostap's voice brought the excited Ippolit Matveyevich back to earth.

"Not a bad choice. The stones have been tastefully selected, I see. How

much did all this jazz cost?"

"Seventy to seventy-five thousand."

"Hm . . . Then it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand now."

"Really as much as that?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich jubilantly.

"Not less than that. However, if I were you, dear friend from  Paris, I

wouldn't give a damn about it."

"What do you mean, not give a damn?"

"Just  that.  Like  they  used  to  before  the  advent  of  historical

materialism."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you. How many chairs were there?"

"A dozen. It was a drawing-room suite."

"Your drawing-room suite was probably used for firewood long ago."

Ippolit Matveyevich was so alarmed that he actually stood up.

"Take  it   easy.   I'll   take   charge.  The  hearing  is  continued.

Incidentally, you and I will have to conclude a little deal."

Breathing heavily, Ippolit Matveyevich nodded his  assent. Ostap Bender

then began stating his terms.

"In the event  of  acquisition of  the treasure, as a direct partner in

the concession and  as technical  adviser, I  receive sixty  per  cent.  You

needn't pay my national health; I don't care about that."

Ippolit Matveyevich turned grey.

"That's daylight robbery!"

"And how much did you intend offering me? "

"Well.  . .  er  .  . . five per  cent, or maybe even ten per cent. You

realize, don't you, that's fifteen thousand roubles!"

"And that's all?"

"Yes

"Maybe you'd like me to  work for nothing and also  give you the key of

the apartment where the money is? "

"In that case, I'm sorry," said Vorobyaninov through his nose.

"I have every reason to believe I can manage the business by myself."

"Aha! In  that case,  I'm sorry," retorted the splendid Ostap.  "I have

just as much  reason to believe, as Andy Tucker used to say, that I can also

manage your business by myself."

"You villain!' cried Ippolit Matveyevich, beginning to shake.

Ostap remained unmoved.

"Listen, gentleman from Paris, do you know  your jewels are practically

in my pocket?  And I'm  only interested in you as long as  I wish to prolong

your old age."

Ippolit Matveyevich realized at  this point that iron hands had gripped

his throat.

"Twenty per cent," he said morosely.

"And my grub?" asked Ostap with a sneer.

"Twenty-five."

"And the key of the apartment?"

"But that's thirty-seven and a half thousand!"

"Why be so  precise? Well, all  right, I'll settle  for fifty per cent.

We'll go halves."

The haggling  continued,  and Ostap  made a further  concession. Out of

respect for Vorobyaninov, he was prepared to work for forty per cent.

"That's sixty thousand!" cried Vorobyaninov.

"You're  a  rather nasty  man,"  retorted Bender.  "You're  too fond of

money."

"And I suppose you aren't?" squeaked Ippolit Matveyevich in a flutelike

voice.

"No, I'm not."

"Then why do you want sixty thousand? "

"On principle!"

Ippolit Matveyevich took a deep breath.

"Well, are things moving?" pressed Ostap.

Vorobyaninov breathed  heavily  and  said humbly:  "Yes, •  things  are

moving."

"It's a bargain. District Chief of the Comanchi!"

As soon as Ippolit  Matveyevich,  hurt by the nickname, "Chief  of  the

Comanchi", had  demanded an  apology,  and Ostap, in  a formal apology,  had

called him "Field Marshal", they set about working out their disposition.

At midnight Tikhon,  the caretaker, hanging on to all the garden fences

on the way  and clinging to the lamp posts, tottered  home to his cellar. To

his misfortune, there was a full moon.

"Ah!  The intellectual  proletarian! Officer of the  Broom!"  exclaimed

Ostap, catching sight of the doubled-up caretaker.

The caretaker  began making  low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind

sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the

stillness of the night.

"That's nice," said Ostap to Vorobyaninov.  "Your caretaker is rather a

vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?"

"Yes, it is," said the caretaker unexpectedly.

"Listen, Tikhon," began Ippolit  Matveyevich.  "Have you any  idea what

happened to my furniture, old man ? "

Ostap  carefully supported Tikhon  so that the words could  flow freely

from his  mouth. Ippolit  Matveyevich  waited  tensely.  But the caretaker's

mouth,  in which every  other  tooth was  missing, only produced a deafening

yell:

"Haa-aapy daa-aays . .."

The room was filled with an almighty  din. The  caretaker industriously

sang the whole song through. He moved  about the room bellowing,  one moment

sliding senseless  under a chair, the next moment  hitting his  head against

the  brass weights of the  clock, and  then going down on one  knee. He  was

terribly happy.

Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.

"Cross-examination  of  the  witness will  have to be  adjourned  until

tomorrow morning," said Ostap. "Let's go to bed."

They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a  chest of drawers, to

the bench.

Vorobyaninov  and  Ostap decided  to sleep  together in the caretaker's

bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on  a red-and-black  checked  cowboy shirt;

under  the  shirt, he was not  wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's

yellow  waistcoat,  already familiar to  readers,  he  was  wearing  another

light-blue worsted waistcoat.

"There's  a  waistcoat  worth buying," said  Ostap enviously. "Just  my

size. Sell it to me!"

Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would  be  awkward to refuse  to  sell  the

waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.

Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.

"You'll have the money when we sell the  treasure," said Bender, taking

the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.

"No, I can't  do things like that," said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing.

"Please give it back."

Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.

"There's  stinginess for you," he cried. "We undertake business worth a

hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble  over eight roubles! You want to

learn to live it up!"

Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his

pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:

25//F/27

Issued to Comrade Bender

Rs.8

Ostap took a look at the notebook.

"Oho! If  you're going to open an  account for me, then at least do  it

properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under 'debit' don't forget to put down

the  sixty thousand  roubles  you  owe me, and under  'credit' put down  the

waistcoat. The balance  is  in my favour-59,992  roubles. I  can live  a bit

longer."

Thereupon  Ostap   fell  into  a   silent,   childlike  sleep.  Ippolit

Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and  his baronial boots,  left on

his  darned Jaegar  underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he

went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of  the bed  there  was not

enough blanket, and it was cold.  On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth

operator's body, vibrant with ideas.

All three had bad dreams.

Vorobyaninov  had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation

department,  velvet shirts, and  Bezenchuk the  undertaker in a tuxedo,  but

unshaven.

Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Co-operative;

and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper.

And  the  caretaker dreamed that a  horse escaped from  the  stable. He

looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and

gloomy, without having found it. For some  time he stared in surprise at the

people sleeping in his bed.

Not understanding  anything,  he  took his broom and went out into  the

street to carry out  his  basic duties,  which were to  sweep  up the  horse

droppings and shout at the old-women pensioners.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TRACES OF THE TITANIC

Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven, mumbled "Guten

Morgen", and went over to the wash-basin. He washed himself with enthusiasm,

cleared his throat, noisily  rinsed his face, and  shook his head to get rid

of  the  water  which  had  run  into  his  ears.  He   dried  himself  with

satisfaction,  but  on  taking  the   towel  away  from  his  face,  Ippolit

Matveyevich noticed that it  was stained with the same  black colour that he

had  used  to   dye  his  horizontal  moustache  two  days  before.  Ippolit

Matveyevich's  heart sank. He  rushed to  get his pocket mirror.  The mirror

reflected a large nose and the left-hand side of a moustache as green as the

grass  in  spring.  He  hurriedly  shifted the  mirror  to  the  right.  The

right-hand  mustachio  was  the  same  revolting  colour. Bending  his  head

slightly, as though  trying  to  butt the  mirror, the unhappy man perceived

that the  jet  black still  reigned supreme in the centre of  his square  of

hair, but that the edges were bordered with the same green colour.

Ippolit Matveyevich's whole  being emitted  a groan so loud that  Ostap

Bender opened his eyes.

"You're out of your mind!" exclaimed Bender, and immediately closed his

sleepy lids.

"Comrade Bender," whispered the victim of the Titanic imploringly.

Ostap woke up  after a great  deal of shaking and persuasion. He looked

closely at  Ippolit Matveyevich  and  burst into a howl of laughter. Turning

away from the  founder of the concession, the chief director  of  operations

and  technical adviser rocked with laughter, seized hold of  the top of  the

bed, cried "Stop, you're killing me!" and again was convulsed with mirth.

"That's not nice of you, Comrade  Bender," said Ippolit Matveyevich and

twitched his green moustache.

This gave new strength  to the  almost exhausted Ostap, and his  hearty

laughter continued for ten minutes. Regaining his breath, he suddenly became

very serious.

"Why are you glaring at me  like a  soldier at a louse? Take a  look at

yourself."

"But the chemist told me it would be jet black and  wouldn't wash  off,

with either hot water or cold water, soap or paraffin. It was contraband."

"Contraband? All  contraband is made in Little Arnaut Street in Odessa.

Show me the bottle. . . . Look at this! Did you read this?" '-"Yes."

"What  about  this bit  in  small print? It clearly  states  that after

washing with  hot or  cold water, soap  or paraffin, the hair should  not be

rubbed with a towel, but dried in the sun or in front of a primus stove. Why

didn't you do so? What can you do now with that greenery? "

Ippolit Matveyevich was very depressed. Tikhon came  in  and seeing his

master with a green moustache, crossed himself and asked for money to have a

drink. "Give this hero of labour a  rouble," suggested  Ostap, "only  kindly

don't  charge  it  to me. It's a personal matter between you and your former

colleague.  Wait a minute, Dad, don't go away!  There's  a little  matter to

discuss."

Ostap  had  a  talk with the  caretaker about the  furniture, and  five

minutes later the concessionaires knew the whole story. The entire furniture

had been taken away to the  housing division  in 1919, with the exception of

one drawing-room chair that had first been in Tikhon's charge, but was later

taken from him by the assistant warden of the second social-security home.

"Is it here in the house then?"

"That's right."

"Tell me, old  fellow,"  said Ippolit  Matveyevich,  his  heart beating

fast, "when you had the chair, did you . . . ever repair it?"

"It  didn't  need  repairing. Workmanship was good in those  days.  The

chair could last another thirty years."

"Right, off you  go, old fellow.  Here's another rouble and  don't tell

anyone I'm here."

"I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov."

Sending  the caretaker on his  way with  a  cry of "Things are moving,"

Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache.

"It will have to be dyed again. Give  me some money and I'll  go to the

chemist's. Your Titanic  is no damn  good, except for dogs. In the old  days

they  really  had good  dyes. A racing  expert once told  me  an interesting

story. Are you interested  in horse-racing? No? A pity; it's exciting. Well,

anyway  . . . there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky. He

lost five  hundred thousand roubles on races. King of the losers! So when he

had nothing  left except  debts and  was thinking  about  suicide,  a  shady

character gave  him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles. The count

went away and came back a  year later with a three-year-old  Orloff trotter.

From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three

hundred thousand  on  top. Broker-that  was  the  name  of the  horse-had an

excellent pedigree and always came in first. He actually beat McMahon in the

Derby  by  a whole  length.  Terrific!  . . .  But  then Kurochkin-heard  of

him?-noticed that all  the  horses  of  the Orloff breed were  losing  their

coats,  while Broker,  the darling,  stayed  the same  colour. There  was an

unheard-of scandal. The count  got three years.  It  turned out that  Broker

wasn't an Orloff  at  all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed.  Crossbreeds

are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them!

Which? There's a dye for you! Not quite like your moustache!"

"But what about the pedigree? You said it was a good one."

"Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit! Give me the

money for the dye."

Ostap came back with a new mixture.

"It's called 'Naiad'. It may be better than the Titanic. Take your coat

off!"

The  ceremony  of re-dyeing began.  But  the "Amazing  chestnut  colour

making the hair  soft and  fluffy" when mixed with the green  of the Titanic

unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache  all colours of

the rainbow.

Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the

perfumeries, both those state-owned  and the illegal  ones on Little  Arnaut

Street in Odessa.

"I don't  suppose  even Aristide Briand  had  a  moustache like  that,"

observed  Ostap cheerfully.  "However,  I  don't recommend living in  Soviet

Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours. It will have to be shaved off."

"I can't  do that," said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice.

"That's impossible."

"Why? Has it some association or other?"

"I can't do that," repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head.

"Then you  can  stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life,

and I'll go for the chairs. The first one is upstairs, by the way."

"All right, shave it then!"

Bender found  a  pair  of scissors  and  in  a  flash  snipped off  the

moustache, which fell silently to the floor. When the hair had been cropped,

the technical adviser took  a yellowed Gillette razor from his pocket and  a

spare blade from  his wallet, and began shaving Ippolit Matveyevich, who was

almost in tears by this time.

"I'm using my last blade on you, so don't  forget to credit me with two

roubles for the shave and haircut."

"Why so expensive?" Ippolit managed to  ask, although  he was convulsed

with grief. "It should only cost forty kopeks."

"For reasons  of security,  Comrade  Field Marshal!" promptly  answered

Ostap.

The sufferings of a man whose head is being shaved with  a safety razor

are incredible. This  became  clear to Ippolit  Matveyevich  from  the  very

beginning of the operation. But all things come to an end.

"There! The  hearing continues! Those  suffering  from nerves shouldn't

look."

Ippolit  Matveyevich shook himself free  of  the nauseating  tufts that

until  so recently had  been  distinguished  grey hair,  washed himself and,

feeling a  strong tingling sensation all over his head, looked at himself in

the mirror for the hundredth time that day.  He  was unexpectedly pleased by

what he saw. Looking at him was  the careworn, but rather  youthful, face of

an unemployed actor.

"Right, forward march, the bugle is sounding!" cried  Ostap. "I'll make

tracks for the housing division, while you go to the old women."

"I can't," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "It's too  painful for me to enter

my own house."

"I see. A touching story. The  exiled  baron! All right, you go to  the

housing division, and I'll get busy here. Our rendezvous will be here in the

caretaker's room. Platoon: 'shun!"

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BASHFUL CHISELLER

The Assistant Warden of  the Second  Home  of Stargorod Social Security

Administration  was a  shy little  thief.  His whole being protested against

stealing,  yet it  was impossible for  him not to  steal.  He  stole and was

ashamed  of  himself.  He stole  constantly and was  constantly  ashamed  of

himself, which was why his smoothly shaven cheeks always burned with a blush

of confusion, shame, bashfulness and embarrassment.  The assistant  warden's

name  was   Alexander  Yakovlevich,  and  his   wife's  name  was  Alexandra

Yakovlevna. He used  to call  her Sashchen, and she used to call him Alchen.

The world has never seen such a bashful chiseller as Alexander Yakovlevich.

He was not only  the  assistant warden, but also the chief warden.  The

previous  one  had been dismissed for rudeness to the inmates,  and had been

appointed conductor of a symphony orchestra. Alchen was completely different

from  his ill-bred boss. Under the system of  fuller  workdays, he took upon

himself  the  running  of  the  home, treating  the  pensioners with  marked

courtesy, and introducing important reforms and innovations.

Ostap Bender pulled  the heavy  oak door  of  the Vorobyaninov home and

found himself  in the  hall. There was a smell of  burnt porridge.  From the

upstairs rooms came  the confused sound of  voices, like a distant  "hooray"

from a line  of troops. There was no one  about and no one appeared.  An oak

staircase  with two flights  of once-lacquered stairs led upward.  Only  the

rings were now left; there was  no sign of the stair rods that had once held

the carpet in place.

"The Comanche chief  lived in vulgar luxury," thought Ostap  as he went

upstairs.

In the first  room, which was spacious  and light,  fifteen  or so  old

women in dresses made of the cheapest mouse-grey woollen cloth were  sitting

in a circle.

Craning their  necks and keeping their eyes on a healthy-looking man in

the middle, the old women were singing:

"We hear the sound of distant jingling,

The troika's on its round;

Far into the distant stretches

The sparkling snowy ground."

The choirmaster, wearing a  shirt and trousers  of the  same mouse-grey

material, was beating time with both  hands and, turning from side  to side,

kept shouting:

"Descants, softer! Kokushkin, not so loud!"

He caught sight  of Ostap, but  unable to restrain the movement  of his

hands, merely glanced  at  the newcomer and continued conducting. The  choir

increased its volume with an effort, as though singing through a pillow.

"Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta,

Te-ro-rom, tu-ru-rum, tu-ru-rum . . ."

"Can  you tell me where I can find  the assistant warden?" asked Ostap,

breaking into the first pause.

"What do you want, Comrade?"

Ostap  shook  the conductor's  hand  and  inquired  amiably:  "National

folk-songs? Very interesting! I'm the fire inspector."

The assistant warden looked ashamed.

"Yes, yes,"  he  said,  with  embarrassment.  "Very  opportune.  I  was

actually going to write you a report."

"There's nothing to worry about," said Ostap magnanimously. "I'll write

the report myself. Let's take a look at the premises."

Alchen  dismissed the choir with a wave of his hand, and  the old women

made off with little steps of delight.

"Come this way," invited the assistant warden.

Before going  any further, Ostap scrutinized the furniture in the first

room.  It consisted of a table, two garden benches with  iron  legs (one  of

them had the name "Nicky" carved on the back), and a light-brown harmonium.

"Do they use primus stoves or anything of that kind in this room?"

"No, no. This is where our recreational activities are  held. We have a

choir, and drama, painting, drawing, and music circles."

When he reached the word "music"  Alexander Yakovlevich blushed.  First

his chin turned red, then his forehead and cheeks. Alchen felt very ashamed.

He had sold  all  the instruments  belonging to the wind section a long time

before.  The feeble  lungs of the old women had never produced anything more

than a puppy-like squeak from them, anyway. It was ridiculous  to see such a

mass of metal in so helpless a condition. Alchen had not been able to resist

selling the wind section, and now he felt very guilty.

A slogan  written in large  letters on  a piece  of the same mouse-grey

woollen cloth spanned the wall between the windows. It said:

A BRASS BAND IS THE PATH

TO COLLECTIVE CREATIVITY

"Very good,"  said Ostap. "This recreation room  does not  constitute a

fire hazard. Let's go on."

Passing through  the front rooms of Vorobyaninov's  house, Ostap  could

see  no  sign  of  a  walnut  chair with  curved  legs  and  English  chintz

upholstery. The  iron-smooth walls were plastered with directives  issued to

the  Second  Home.  Ostap   read  them   and,  from  time  to  time,   asked

enthusiastically:

"Are the chimneys swept regularly? Are the stoves working properly?"

And, receiving exhaustive answers, moved on.

The fire inspector made a  diligent  search  for at least one corner of

the  house  which  might constitute  a  fire  hazard,  but in  that  respect

everything seemed  to  be in  order.  His  second quest,  however, was  less

successful.  Ostap  went into the dormitories. As he appeared, the old women

stood up and  bowed low. The rooms contained  beds covered with blankets, as

hairy as a dog's coat, with the word "Feet" woven at one end. Below the beds

were trunks, which at the initiative of Alexander Yakovlevich, who  liked to

do  things  in a  military fashion,  projected exactly  one-third  of  their

length.

Everything in the Home was marked by its extreme modesty; the furniture

that consisted  solely of garden benches taken from Alexander Boulevard (now

renamed  in honour  of  the Proletarian  Voluntary Saturdays),  the paraffin

lamps  bought  at  the  local  market,  and  the  very  blankets  with  that

frightening word, "Feet". One feature of the  house, however,  had been made

to last and was developed on a grand scale-to wit, the door springs.

Door springs were Alexander  Yakovlevich's  passion. Sparing no effort,

he  fitted all  the doors  in the house with springs of  different types and

systems.  There  were  very  simple  ones  in  the  form  of  an  iron  rod;

compressed-air ones with  cylindrical brass pistons;  there  were  ones with

pulleys that raised and lowered heavy bags of shot. There were springs which

were so  complex in design that the local mechanic could only shake his head

in  wonder.  And  all  the cylinders,  springs  and counterweights were very

powerful, slamming doors shut with the  swiftness of  a mousetrap.  Whenever

the mechanisms  operated, the whole  house shook. With pitiful  squeals, the

old women tried to  escape the onslaught of the  doors, but not always  with

success. The doors gave  the fugitives  a thump in the back, and at the same

time, a counterweight shot past their ears with a dull rasping sound.

As Bender and the  assistant warden walked around the house, the  doors

fired a noisy salute.

But the  feudal  magnificence had  nothing to hide: the  chair was  not

there.  As the search progressed, the fire inspector  found  himself in  the

kitchen. Porridge was cooking  in a large copper pot  and gave off the smell

that  the  smooth operator had noticed in the hall. Ostap  wrinkled his nose

and said: "What is it cooking in?  Lubricating  oil?"  "It's pure  butter, I

swear it," said Alchen, blushing to the roots of his hair. "We buy it from a

farm." He felt very ashamed.

"Anyway, it's not a  fire risk," observed Ostap.  The  chair was not in

the kitchen, either. There was only a stool, occupied by the cook, wearing a

cap and apron of mouse-grey woollen material.

"Why  is everybody's clothing grey? That cloth  isn't even fit  to wipe

the  windows  with!"  The shy Alchen was even more  embarrassed.  "We  don't

receive enough funds." He was disgusted with himself.

Ostap looked at him disbelievingly and said: "That is no concern of the

fire brigade, which I am at present representing." Alchen was alarmed.

"We've taken all the necessary fire precautions," he declared. "We even

have a fire extinguisher. An Eclair."

The  fire inspector reluctantly proceeded in the direction of  the fire

extinguisher, peeping into the lumber rooms as he went. The red-iron nose of

the extinguisher caused the inspector particular annoyance, despite the fact

that it was the only  object in the house which had any connection with fire

precautions. "Where did you get it? At the market?" And without  waiting for

an  answer from  the  thunderstruck  Alexander Yakovlevich,  he  removed the

Eclair from the  rusty  nail  on  which it was  hanging,  broke the  capsule

without warning, and quickly pointed the nose in the air. But instead of the

expected stream of foam,  all that came out was a high-pitched hissing which

sounded like the ancient hymn "How Glorious Is Our Lord on Zion".

"You obviously  did get it  at  the  market," said Ostap,  his  earlier

opinion confirmed.  And he put back  the fire extinguisher,  which was still

hissing, in its place.

They moved on, accompanied by the hissing.

Where can it be?  wondered Ostap. I don't like  the look of things. And

he made up his mind not to leave the place until he had found out the truth.

While the fire inspector and the assistant warden were  crawling  about

the  attics, considering  fire  precautions  in  detail  and  examining  the

chimneys,  the Second Home  of the Stargorod Social  Security Administration

carried on its daily routine.

Dinner  was  ready.  The  smell   of  burnt  porridge  had  appreciably

increased, and it overpowered all the sourish  smells inhabiting the  house.

There  was a rustling in the corridors. Holding iron  bowls full of porridge

in front of them with both hands, the old women cautiously  emerged from the

kitchen and sat down at a  large table,  trying not to look at the refectory

slogans, composed  by  Alexander Yakolevich and  painted  by his  wife.  The

slogans read:

FOOD IS THE SOURCE OF HEALTH

ONE EGG CONTAINS AS MUCH FAT AS A HALF-POUND OF MEAT

BY CAREFULLY MASTICATING YOUR FOOD YOU HELP SOCIETY

MEAT IS BAD FOR YOU

These sacred words aroused in the old ladies memories of teeth that had

disappeared before the revolution, eggs  that had been lost at approximately

the same time,  meat that was inferior to eggs in fat, and  perhaps even the

society that they were prevented from helping by careful mastication.

Seated  at table  in  addition to  the  old women were Isidor, Afanasy,

Cyril and Oleg, and also Pasha  Emilevich. Neither in age  nor sex did these

young men fit into the pattern of social security, but they were the younger

brothers of Alchen,  and Pasha Emilevich was  Alexandra Yakovlevna's cousin,

once removed. The young men, the  oldest of whom was the thirty-two-year-old

Pasha Emilevich, did  not consider their life in the pensioners' home in any

way abnormal.  They lived on the  same basis as the old  women; they too had

government-property beds and  blankets  with  the  word  "Feet";  they  were

clothed in  the same mouse-grey material as the old women, but on account of

their youth  and  strength  they  ate better than  the  latter.  They  stole

everything in the house  that  Alchen did not manage to steal himself. Pasha

could  put away four pounds of fish at one go, and he once  did  so, leaving

the home dinnerless.

Hardly had  the  old women had time to  taste  their porridge when  the

younger  brothers and  Pasha Emilevich rose from  the  table, having gobbled

down their share, and went, belching, into the kitchen to look for something

more digestible.

The meal continued. The old women began jabbering:

"Now they'll stuff themselves full and start bawling songs."

"Pasha Emilevich sold the chair  from the recreation room this morning.

A second-hand dealer took it away at the back door."

"Just you see. He'll come home drunk tonight."

At  this  moment  the  pensioners'  conversation  was interrupted by  a

trumpeting noise that even drowned the hissing of the fire extinguisher, and

a husky voice began:

'. . . vention .. ."

The old women hunched their shoulders and, ignoring  the loudspeaker in

the corner on the  floor, continued eating in the hope that fate would spare

them, but the loud-speaker cheerfully went on: •

"Evecrashshsh . . . viduso . . . valuable  invention. Railwayman of the

Murmansk Railway,  Comrade  Sokutsky, S  Samara,  O Oriel, K  Kaliningrad, U

Urals, Ts Tsaritsina, K Kaliningrad, Y York. So-kuts-ky."

The trumpet wheezed and renewed the broadcast in a thick voice.

". . . vented a system of signal lights for snow ploughs. The invention

has been approved by Dorizul. . . ."

The  old women floated  away to their  rooms like grey  ducklings.  The

loud-speaker,  jigging up and  down  by its own power, blared  away into the

empty room:

"And we will now play some Novgorod folk music."

Far, far away, in the centre of the earth, someone strummed a balalaika

and a black-earth Battistini broke into song:

"On the wall the bugs were sitting,

Blinking at the sky;

Then they saw the tax inspector

And crawled away to die."

In  the  centre  of the  earth the  verses  brought  forth  a  storm of

activity.  A  horrible gurgling  was heard  from the  loud-speaker.  It  was

something between  thunderous applause and  the  eruption  of an underground

volcano.

Meanwhile the disheartened fire inspector had descended an attic ladder

backwards  and was  now  back  in the kitchen,  where  he  saw five citizens

digging  into a barrel  of  sauerkraut  and bolting it  down.  They  ate  in

silence. Pasha Emilevich alone waggled his head in the style of an epicurean

and, wiping some strings of cabbage from his moustache, observed:

"It's a sin to eat cabbage like this without vodka."

"Is this a new intake of women?" asked Ostap.

"They're orphans," replied Alchen, shouldering the inspector out of the

kitchen and surreptitiously shaking his fist at the orphans.

"Children of the Volga Region?"

Alchen was confused.

"A trying heritage from the Tsarist regime?"

Alchen spread his arms as much as to say: "There's nothing  you can  do

with a heritage like that."

"Co-education by the composite method?"

Without  further  hesitation   the  bashful  Alchen  invited  the  fire

inspector to take pot luck and lunch with him.

Pot  luck  that  day  happened  to  be  a  bottle  of  Zubrovka  vodka,

home-pickled  mushrooms, minced  herring,  Ukrainian  beet  soup  containing

first-grade meat, chicken and rice, and stewed apples.

"Sashchen," said Alexander  Yakovlevich,  "I want you to meet a comrade

from the province fire-precaution administration."

Ostap  made  his  hostess  a  theatrical  bow  and  paid  her  such  an

interminable and ambiguous compliment that he could hardly get to the end of

it.  Sashchen, a  buxom woman,  whose  good looks  were  somewhat  marred by

sideburns  of the kind  that Tsar Nicholas used to have, laughed  softly and

took a drink with the two men.

"Here's to your communal services," exclaimed Ostap.

The lunch went off gaily, and it was not until they reached  the stewed

fruit that Ostap remembered the point of his visit.

"Why  is it," he asked, "that  the  furnishings  are so  skimpy in your

establishment?"

"What do you mean?" said Alchen. "What about the harmonium?"

"Yes, I know, vox humana. But you have absolutely nothing at all of any

taste to sit on. Only garden benches."

"There's a  chair in the recreation room,"  said Alchen  in an offended

tone.  "An  English chair.  They say it  was  left  over from  the  original

furniture."

"By the way,  I  didn't see  your  recreation room. How  is it from the

point of view of  fire hazard? It won't let  you  down, I hope. I had better

see it."

"Certainly."

Ostap thanked his hostess for the lunch and left.

No  primus was used in the recreation room; there was no portable stove

of any  kind; the  chimneys were in a good state  of repair and were cleaned

regularly, but the  chair, to the  incredulity of Alchen, was missing.  They

ran to look for it. They  looked under the  beds  and under the trunks;  for

some reason or  other they moved back the harmonium; they questioned the old

women, who kept looking at Pasha Emilevich timidly,  but  the chair was just

not there.  Pasha Emilevich  himself showed great  enthusiasm in the search.

When  all had calmed down,  Pasha  still kept  wandering from room  to room,

looking under decanters, shifting iron teaspoons, and muttering:

"Where can it be? I saw it myself this morning. It's ridiculous !"

"It's depressing, girls," said Ostap in an icy voice.

"It's absolutely ridiculous!" repeated Pasha Emilevich impudently.

At this point,  however,  the  Eclair fire extinguisher, which had been

hissing the  whole  time,  took  a high F,  which  only the People's Artist,

Nezhdanova, can do, stopped for a second and  then emitted its  first stream

of foam, which soaked the ceiling and knocked the cook's cap off.  The first

stream of foam was  followed by another, mouse-grey in  colour, which bowled

over young  Isidor Yakovlevich. After that  the  extinguisher began  working

smoothly. Pasha Emilevich, Alchen  and  all the surviving brothers raced  to

the spot.

"Well done," said Ostap. "An idiotic invention!"

As soon as  the old women were  left alone  with Ostap and without  the

boss, they at once began complaining:

"He's brought his family into the home. They eat up everything."

"The piglets get milk and we get porridge."

"He's taken everything out of the house."

"Take it easy, girls," said  Ostap, retreating. "You need  someone from

the labour-inspection department. The Senate hasn't empowered me . . ."

The old women were not listening.

"And that Pasha Melentevich. He went  and sold a chair today. I saw him

myself."

"Who did he sell it to? " asked Ostap quickly.

"He sold it. . . that's all. He was going to steal my blanket. . ."

A  fierce struggle was  going  on  in the  corridor.  But  mind finally

triumphed over matter and the extinguisher, trampled under Pasha Emilevich's

feet of iron, gave a last dribble and was silent for ever.

The  old women were  sent  to  clean  the floor. Lowering  his head and

waddling slightly, the fire inspector went up to Pasha Emilevich.

"A  friend of  mine," began  Ostap  importantly,  "also  used  to  sell

government property. He now lives a monastic life in the penitentiary."

"I find  your groundless  accusations strange," said Pasha, who smelled

strongly of foam.

"Who did you sell the chair to?" asked Ostap in a ringing whisper.

Pasha  Emilevich,  who had supernatural understanding, realized at this

point he was about to be beaten, if not kicked.

"To a second-hand dealer."

"What's his address?"

"I'd never seen him before."

"Never?"

"No, honestly."

"I  ought  to  bust  you  in the  mouth," said  Ostap  dreamily,  "only

Zarathustra wouldn't allow it. Get to hell out of here!"

Pasha Emilevich grinned fawningly and began walking away.

"Come back, you abortion," cried Ostap haughtily. "What was  the dealer

like?"

Pasha  Emilevich  described  him   in  detail,  while   Ostap  listened

carefully.  The  interview was  concluded by  Ostap with  the  words:  "This

clearly has nothing to do with fire precautions."

In the corridor the bashful Alchen went up to Ostap and gave him a gold

piece.

"That comes under  Article  114  of  the Criminal  Code,"  said  Ostap.

"Bribing officials in the course of their duty."

Nevertheless  he  took  the  money  and, without  saying good-bye, went

towards the door. The door, which was fitted  with  a  powerful contraption,

opened  with  an  effort and  gave Ostap a  one-and-a-half-ton  shove in the

backside.

"Good  shot!"  said  Ostap, rubbing  the affected part. "The hearing is

continued."

CHAPTER NINE

WHERE ARE YOUR CURLS?

While  Ostap  was inspecting the  pensioners' home, Ippolit Matveyevich

had left the  caretaker's room  and was wandering  along the streets of  his

home town, feeling the chill on his shaven head.

Along  the  road  trickled clear  spring water.  There  was a  constant

splashing and plopping as diamond drops dripped  from the rooftops. Sparrows

hunted for manure,  and  the  sun  rested  on  the roofs.  Golden carthorses

drummed  their hoofs against the bare road and, turning their ears downward,

listened with pleasure to their own sound. On  the damp telegraph poles  the

wet  advertisements,  "I  teach  the  guitar   by  the  number  system"  and

"Social-science lessons for  those preparing for the People's Conservatory",

were  all  wrinkled up, and  the letters  had  run.  A platoon of  Red  Army

soldiers in winter  helmets  crossed a  puddle that began at  the  Stargorod

co-operative  shop   and  stretched  as   far  as   the   province  planning

administration,  the  pediment  of  which was crowned  with plaster  tigers,

figures of victory and cobras.

Ippolit Matveyevich walked along, looking  with interest  at the people

passing him in  both directions. As one  who had spent the whole of his life

and also the revolution in Russia, he was able  to see how  the way  of life

was changing and acquiring  a new countenance.  He had  become used  to this

fact, but he seemed to be used to only one  point on the globe-the  regional

centre  of N. Now he was back in  his  home town,  he realized he understood

nothing. He felt just  as  awkward and  strange as though he really  were an

emigre just  back from Paris.  In the old days, whenever he rode through the

town in his  carriage, he  used invariably to meet friends or people he knew

by sight. But now he had gone some way along  Lena Massacre Street and there

was no friend to be  seen. They had vanished, or they might have changed  so

much that  they  were no  longer  recognizable, or perhaps they  had  become

unrecognizable  because  they  wore  different clothes  and  different hats.

Perhaps they had changed their walk. In any case, they were no longer there.

Vorobyaninov  walked along, pale, cold and  lost. He completely  forgot

that he was supposed to be looking for the housing division. He crossed from

pavement  to pavement and  turned into side streets, where  the  uninhibited

carthorses were quite  intentionally drumming their hoofs. There was more of

winter in the side streets, and  rotting ice was still to be seen in places.

The whole town was a  different colour; the blue houses had become green and

the  yellow  ones  grey. The fire  indicators had disappeared  from the fire

tower, the fireman no longer climbed up  and down, and the streets were much

noisier than Ippolit Matveyevich could remember.

On Greater Pushkin Street, Ippolit Matveyevich was amazed by the tracks

and overhead cables of the tram system, which he had never seen in Stargorod

before. He had not read the papers and did not know that the two tram routes

to the  station  and the  market were due to be  opened  on May  Day. At one

moment Ippolit Matveyevich felt he had  never left Stargorod, and  the  next

moment it was like a place completely unfamiliar to him.

Engrossed in these thoughts, he reached Marx and Engels Street. Here he

re-experienced a childhood  feeling that at any moment a friend would appear

round the corner of  the two-storeyed house with its  long balcony. He  even

stopped  walking in anticipation.  But the friend did  not appear. The first

person to come round the corner was a  glazier with a  box of Bohemian glass

and a dollop of copper-coloured putty. Then came a swell in a suede cap with

a  yellow leather peak.  He was pursued  by some  elementary-school children

carrying books tied with straps.

Suddenly Ippolit Matveyevich felt a hotness in his palms  and a sinking

feeling  in his stomach. A  stranger with a kindly face was  coming straight

towards  him,  carrying a  chair by  the  middle,  like a  'cello.  Suddenly

developing  hiccups  Ippolit Matveyevich  looked  closely at  the chair  and

immediately recognized it.

Yes!  It  was  a Hambs chair  upholstered  in  flowered  English chintz

somewhat  darkened by the storms of the  revolution; it was  a  walnut chair

with  curved legs. Ippolit Matveyevich felt as  though a gun had gone off in

his ear.

"Knives  and  scissors  sharpened! Razors  set!" cried a baritone voice

nearby. And immediately came the shrill echo;

"Soldering and repairing!"

"Moscow News, magazine Giggler, Red Meadow."

Somewhere up above, a glass pane was removed with a crash. A truck from

the grain-mill-and-lift-construction  administration passed  by,  making the

town vibrate. A  militiaman  blew  his whistle. Everything brimmed over with

life. There was no time to be lost.

With  a  leopard-like spring,  Ippolit  Matveyevich  leaped towards the

repulsive stranger and silently tugged at the chair. The stranger tugged the

other  way.  Still  holding  on  to  one  leg  with  his  left hand, Ippolit

Matveyevich  began forcibly  detaching the  stranger's fat fingers from  the

chair.

"Thief!" hissed the stranger, gripping the chair more firmly.

"Just a moment, just a moment!" mumbled Ippolit Matveyevich, continuing

to unstick the stranger's fingers.

A  crowd began  to gather. Three  or four people  were already standing

nearby, watching the struggle with lively interest. They both glanced around

in  alarm  and,  without  looking  at one another or  letting  go the chair,

rapidly moved on as if nothing were the matter.

"What's happening?" wondered Ippolit Matveyevich in dismay.

What the  stranger  was thinking  was impossible  to say,  but  he  was

walking in a most determined way.

They  kept walking more  and  more quickly until they  saw  a  clearing

scattered with bits of brick and  other building materials  at  the end of a

blind alley; then both turned into  it simultaneously. Ippolit Matveyevich's

strength now increased fourfold.

"Give it to me!" he shouted, doing away with all ceremony.

"Help!" exclaimed the stranger, almost inaudibly.

Since both of them had their hands  occupied with the chair, they began

kicking one another. The  stranger's  boots  had  metal studs, and at  first

Ippolit Matveyevich  came  off  badly. But he soon  adjusted  himself,  and,

skipping to the left and right  as though doing a Cossack  dance, managed to

dodge his  opponents' blows, trying  at  the same  time to  catch him in the

stomach.  He  was not successful, since the  chair was  in the way,  but  he

managed to  land him a kick on the kneecap, after which the enemy could only

lash out with one leg.

"Oh, Lord!" whispered the stranger.

It was  at  this moment that Ippolit Matveyevich saw that the  stranger

who had carried off his chair in the most outrageous manner  was none  other

than Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence.

"Father!"  he   exclaimed,  removing   his  hands  from  the  chair  in

astonishment.

Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally loosed his grip. The  chair,

no longer supported by either of them, fell on to the brick-strewn ground.

"Where's your moustache, my dear Ippolit Matveyevich?" asked the cleric

as caustically as possible.

"And what about your curls? You used to have curls, I believe!"

Ippolit Matveyevich's  words conveyed utter  contempt. He  threw Father

Theodore a  look of singular disgust and, tucking the chair  under his  arm,

turned to  go. But the priest had now recovered from his  embarrassment  and

was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of "No,

I'm  sorry," he grasped  hold of the chair again. Their initial position was

restored. The two opponents stood clutching the chair  and, moving from side

to side, sized one another up like cats or  boxers. The tense pause lasted a

whole minute.

"So  you're after my property,  Holy  Father?" said Ippolit Matveyevich

through clenched teeth and kicked the holy father in the hip.

Father Theodore feinted and viciously kicked the marshal in  the groin,

making him double up.

"It's not your property."

"Whose then?"

"Not yours!"

"Whose then?"

"Not yours!"

"Whose then? Whose?"

Spitting at each other in this way, they kept kicking furiously.

"Whose property is it then?" screeched the marshal, sinking his foot in

the holy father's stomach.

"It's nationalized  property," said the holy  father firmly, overcoming

his pain.

"Nationalized? "

"Yes, nationalized."

They were jerking out the words so quickly that they ran together.

" Who-nationalized-it? "

"The-Soviet-Government. The-Soviet-Government."

"Which-government? "

"The-working-people's-government."

"Aha!" said Ippolit Matveyevich  icily. "The government  of workers and

peasants?"

"Yes!"

"Hmm  . . .  then maybe  you're a member of the  Communist  Party, Holy

Father?"

"Maybe I am!"

Ippolit Matveyevich could no  longer restrain himself and with a shriek

of "Maybe  you are" spat juicily  in Father  Theodore's kindly face.  Father

Theodore immediately spat in Ippolit Matveyevich's face and also  found  his

mark. They had  nothing with which to wipe  away the spittle since they were

still holding  the  chair. Ippolit  Matveyevich made  a  noise  like  a door

opening and thrust the chair at his enemy with all his might. The enemy fell

over, dragging the panting Vorobyaninov  with him. The struggle continued in

the stalls.

Suddenly there was a crack and both front legs broke on simultaneous'y.

The  opponents completely forgot  one another  and began tearing  the walnut

treasure-chest  to  pieces.  The  flowered  English  chintz  split  with the

heart-rending  scream of a seagull. The back was  torn off by  a mighty tug.

The  treasure  hunters ripped off the sacking together  with the brass tacks

and, grazing their hands on the springs, buried their fingers in the woollen

stuffing. The  disturbed springs hummed. Five minutes  later  the  chair had

been picked clean. Bits and pieces were all that was left. Springs rolled in

all directions, and the wind blew the rotten padding all over  the clearing.

The curved legs lay in a hole. There were no jewels.

"Well, have you found anything?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, panting.

Father Theodore, covered in tufts of wool, puffed and said nothing.

"You crook!" shouted Ippolit Matveyevich. "I'll break your neck, Father

Theodore!"

"I'd like to see you! " retorted  the priest. "Where are you  going all

covered in fluff? " "Mind your own business!"

"Shame  on  you, Father! You're  nothing  but a  thief!"  "I've  stolen

nothing from you."

"How  did you find out  about  this?  You  exploited the  sacrament  of

confession for your own ends. Very nice! Very fine!"

With  an indignant "Fooh! " Ippolit Matveyevich left  the clearing and,

brushing his sleeve as  he  went,  made for  home.  At  the corner  of  Lena

Massacre and Yerogeyev streets he caught sight of his partner. The technical

adviser and director-general  of the concession was having the suede  uppers

of  his boots cleaned with canary polish; he  was  standing half-turned with

one  foot  slightly  raised.  Ippolit  Matveyevich  hurried up  to him.  The

director was gaily crooning the shimmy:

"The camels used to do it,

The barracudas used to dance it,

Now the whole world's doing the shimmy."

"Well,  how was the housing division?" he asked in a  businesslike way,

and immediately added:

"Wait a  moment.  Don't tell  me now; you're  too  excited. Cool down a

little."

Giving the shoeshiner  seven kopeks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm

and led  him down the street. He listened very carefully  to  everything the

agitated Ippolit Matveyevich told him.

"Aha! A  small black beard? Right!  A coat  with  a sheepskin collar? I

see. That's  the chair from the  pensioner's home. It  was  bought today for

three roubles."

"But wait a moment. . . ."

And  Ippolit Matveyevich told the chief concessionaire all about Father

Theodore's low tricks.

Ostap's face clouded.

"Too  bad," he said. "Just like a detective story. We have a mysterious

rival. We must steal a march on him. We can always break his head later."

As the friends  were having a  snack in the  Stenka Razin beer-hall and

Ostap was asking questions about the  past and present state of  the housing

division, the day came to an end.

The golden carthorses became  brown again. The diamond drops  grew cold

in mid-air and plopped  on to  the  ground.  In  the beer-halls  and Phoenix

restaurant the price of beer went up. Evening had come; the street lights on

Greater Pushkin Street lit up and a detachment of Pioneers went by, stamping

their feet, on the way home from their first spring outing.

The  tigers,   figures   of  victory,  and   cobras   on  top   of  the

province-planning  administration  shone  mysteriously  in  the light of the

advancing moon.

As  he  made  his way home  with Ostap, who  was  now suddenly  silent,

Ippolit  Matveyevich  gazed  at the  tigers  and  cobras. In his  time,  the

building had  housed the Provincial  Government  and the  citizens had  been

proud of their cobras, considering them one of the sights of Stargorod.

"I'll find  them," thought Ippolit  Matveyevich,  looking at one of the

plaster figures of victory.

The  tigers swished their tails  lovingly,  the cobras  contracted with

delight, and Ippolit Matveyevich's heart filled with determination.

CHAPTER TEN

THE MECHANIC, THE PARROT, AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER

No. 7 Pereleshinsky  Street was not one of  Stargorod's best buildings.

Its two storeys were constructed in the style of  the Second Empire and were

embellished  with  timeworn lion heads,  singularly reminiscent of  the once

well-known  writer   Artsybashec.  There   were  exactly  seven   of   these

Artsybashevian physiognomies,  one for each of the windows  facing on to the

street. The faces had been placed at the keystone of each window.

There were two  other embellishments on the building, though these were

of a purely commercial nature. On one side hung the radiant sign:

ODESSA ROLL BAKERY

MOSCOW

BUN ARTEL

The sign depicted  a  young man wearing  a  tie and ankle-length French

trousers.  Ift  one  dislocated hand he held  the fabulous  cornucopia, from

which poured an avalanche of ochre-coloured  buns; whenever necessary, these

were passed off as Moscow rolls. The young man had a sexy smile on his face.

On  the  other  side,  the  Fastpack  packing  office  announced  itself  to

prospective clients by a black board with round gold lettering.

Despite the appreciable difference in the signs and also in the capital

possessed by  the two dissimilar enterprises, they both engaged in  the same

business,  namely, speculation in  all types of  fabrics: coarse wool,  fine

wool, cotton, and, whenever  silk of good  colour and design came their way,

silk as well.

Passing through the tunnel-like gateway and turning right into the yard

with  its  cement well, you could see two doorways without  porches,  giving

straight on to the angular flagstones of the yard. A dulled brass plate with

a name engraved in script was fixed to the right-hand door:

V.M. POLESOV

The left-hand door was fitted with a piece of whitish tin:

FASHIONS AND MILLINERY

This was also only for show.

Inside the fashions-and-millinery workroom there was no esparterie,  no

trimmings, no headless dummies  with soldierly bearing, nor any large  heads

for elegant ladies' hats. Instead, the  three-room apartment was occupied by

an immaculately white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was riddled  with

fleas, but could not complain since it was unable to  talk. For days  on end

it used to crack sunflower seeds and spit  the husks through the bars of its

tall, circular  cage on to  the carpet. It only  needed a concertina and new

squeaky Wellingtons to resemble a peasant on a  spree.  Dark-brown patterned

curtains  flapped  at  the  window.  Dark-brown  hues  predominated  in  the

apartment. Above  the piano  was a reproduction of Boecklin's  "Isle  of the

Dead" in  a fancy frame of dark-green oak, covered with glass. One corner of

the glass had  been broken off some time before, and the flies  had added so

many finishing touches to the  picture at this  bared section that it merged

completely with the frame. What was going on in that section of the "Isle of

the Dead" was quite impossible to say.

The owner herself was  sitting in  the  bedroom  and laying  out cards,

resting  her  arms  on  an  octagonal  table  covered  by a  dirty Richelieu

tablecloth. In front of her sat Widow Gritsatsuyev, in a fluffy shawl.

"I should warn  you, young lady, that  I  don't  take  less than  fifty

kopeks per session,' said the fortune-teller.

The  widow, whose  anxiousness  to find a new husband  knew no  bounds,

agreed to pay the price.

"But  predict the  future as well, please,"  she said plaintively. "You

will be  represented by the  Queen of  Clubs." "I  was  always  the Queen of

Hearts," objected the widow. The fortune-teller consented  apathetically and

began manipulating  the  cards. A rough  estimation of the  widow's lot  was

ready in a  few minutes. Both  major and minor difficulties awaited her, but

near to her heart was  the King of  Clubs, who  had befriended the Queen  of

Diamonds.

A fair copy of the prediction was made from the widow's hand. The lines

of her hand were clean, powerful, and faultless. Her life line stretched  so

far that  it  ended  up at her pulse and,  if it told the  truth, the  widow

should  have lived till doomsday. The  head line and line of brilliancy gave

reason to believe that she would  give up  her  grocery business and present

mankind with masterpieces in the realm  of art, science, and social studies.

Her Mounts  of Venus  resembled Manchurian volcanoes and revealed incredible

reserves of love and affection. The fortune-teller explained all this to the

widow, using  the  words and  phrases current among graphologists, palmists,

and horse-traders.

"Thank you, madame," said the widow. "Now I  know who the King of Clubs

is. And I know who the Queen of  Diamonds is, too. But  what about the King?

Does that  mean  marriage?" "It does, young lady." The widow went home  in a

dream,  while  the  fortune-teller  threw the cards into a  drawer,  yawned,

displaying the mouth  of a fifty-year-old woman, and went into the  kitchen.

There  she busied herself  with the meal that was warming on a Graetz stove;

wiping her hands on  her apron like a cook, she took a  chipped-enamel  pail

and went into the yard to fetch water.

She  walked  across  the  yard, dragging  her  flat feet. Her  drooping

breasts wobbled lazily inside her dyed  blouse. Her  head  was  crowned with

greying hair. She  was an  old woman, she  was  dirty, she regarded everyone

with suspicion, and she had a sweet tooth. If Ippolit Matveyevich  had  seen

her  now,  he would never  have recognized Elena Bour, his former  mistress,

about whom the clerk of the court had once said in verse that "her lips were

inviting and she was so spritely!" At the well, Mrs. Bour was greeted by her

neighbour,  Victor Mikhailovich  Polesov, the mechanic-intellectual, who was

collecting water in an empty petrol tin. Polesov had the face of an operatic

Mephistopheles who is carefully rubbed with burnt cork just before  he  goes

on stage.

As  soon as they had exchanged greetings, the neighbours  got down to a

discussion of the affair concerning the whole of Stargorod.

"What times we live in!" said Polesov ironically. "Yesterday I went all

over the town but  couldn't find any three-eighths-inch dies anywhere. There

were none available. And to think-they're going to open a tramline!"

Elena Stanislavovna, who had as much idea about three-eighths-inch dies

as a student of the  Leonardo da Vinci ballet school, who  thinks that cream

comes from cream tarts, expressed her sympathy.

"The  shops we have now! Nothing but long queues.  And the names of the

shops are so dreadful. Stargiko!"

"But I'll tell you something  else, Elena Stanislavovna. They have four

General Electric engines left. And they just about work, although the bodies

are junk. The windows  haven't any shock absorbers. I've  seen  them myself.

The  whole lot rattles. Horrible! And the  other  engines are from  Kharkov.

Made entirely by the State Non-Ferrous Metallurgy Industry."

The mechanic stopped talking in irritation. His black face glistened in

the  sun. The whites of his eyes  were yellowish.  Among the artisans owning

cars in  Stargorod, of whom  there were many,  Victor Polesov  was  the most

gauche, and most frequently made an ass  of himself. The reason for this was

his  over-ebullient nature.  He  was  an  ebullient  idler. He  was  forever

effervescing. In his own workshop in the  second yard of no. 7 Pereleshinsky

Street,  he was never  to be  found. Extinguished  portable  furnaces  stood

deserted  in  the  middle of  his  stone shed, the  corners  of  which  were

cluttered up with punctured tyres, torn Triangle tyre covers, rusty padlocks

(so enormous you could have locked town gates with them), fuel cans with the

names  "Indian" and "Wanderer",  a  sprung  pram, a useless  dynamo,  rotted

rawhide belts, oil-stained rope, worn emery paper, an  Austrian bayonet, and

a great deal of other broken, bent and dented junk. Clients could never find

Victor Mikhailovich.  He  was  always out somewhere giving orders. He had no

time for work. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch a horse . and

cart drive  into his  or anyone else's  yard.  He immediately went  out and,

clasping his  hands  behind  his back,  watched the  carter's  actions  with

contempt. Finally he could bear it no longer.

"Where do  you  think you're going?"  he used to shout  in a  horrified

voice. "Move over!"

The startled carter would move the cart over.

"Where do you think you're  moving to, wretch?"  Victor Polesov  cried,

rushing up  to the  horse.  "In  the old days you would have got a slap  for

that, then you would have moved over."

Having given orders in this  way  for half an hour or so, Polesov would

be just about to return to his workshop, where a broken bicycle pump awaited

repair, when the peaceful life of the  town would be disturbed by some other

contretemps. Either two carts entangled their axles in the street and Victor

Mikhailovich  would  show the best  and  quickest  way to separate them,  or

workmen would be replacing a telegraph pole and  Polesov would check that it

was perpendicular  with  his  own  plumb-line  brought  specially  from  the

workshop; or, finally, the fire-engine would go past and Polesov, excited by

the noise of the siren and burned up with curiosity, would chase after it.

But  from time  to  time  Polesov was  seized  by  a mood  of practical

activity.  For several days he used to  shut himself up in  his workshop and

toil in  silence. Children ran freely  about the yard and shouted what  they

liked,  carters described  circles in the  yard,  carts  completely  stopped

entangling  their  axles  and  fire-engines  and hearses  sped  to  the fire

unaccompanied-Victor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after a bout of this

kind, he emerged from the workshop with a motor-cycle, pulling it like a ram

by   the   horns;  the   motor-cycle   was   made  up  of   parts  of  cars,

fire-extinguishers,  bicycles  and  typewriters.  It  had  a  one-and-a-half

horsepower Wanderer  engine and Davidson wheels, while  the  other essential

parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the

words "Trial Run" hung on a cord  from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without

looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.

There  was  no  spark  for at  least ten minutes, but then  came  a metallic

splutter and  the contraption shuddered  and enveloped itself in  a cloud of

filthy   smoke.  Polesov  jumped  into  the  saddle,  and  the  motor-cycle,

accelerating  madly, carried him through the tunnel into the  middle  of the

roadway and  stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and  investigate the

mysterious  vehicle when  it  suddenly  reversed  and,  whisking its creator

through the same tunnel, stopped  at its  original point of departure in the

yard, grunted  peevishly,  and  blew  up. Victor  Mikhailovich escaped  by a

miracle  and  during  the  next  bout  of  activity  used  the  bits of  the

motor-cycle to make  a stationary engine, very similar to a real  one-except

that it did not work.

The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was

the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative

that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he

undertook to repair the iron gates and paint  them any colour  he liked. For

its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov

the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a

special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.

Victor  Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set  to work

in  his  shop with enthusiasm. It took several days  to un-rivet the  gates.

They were  taken  to pieces. Iron  curlicues  lay in the pram; iron bars and

spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to  inspect

the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in  the town. A water  main burst

on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of

the  misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen,  and every few

minutes looking into the hole in the ground.

As soon as his  organizational  ardour  had  somewhat  abated,  Polesov

returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard  were

already playing with  the iron curlicues  and spikes of the gates of no.  5.

Seeing  the  wrathful  mechanic,  the children dropped their playthings  and

fled.  Half  the  curlicues were missing and were never  found.  After  that

Polesov lost interest in the gates.

But then  terrible things began to happen in no.  5, which was now wide

open to all. The wet  linen  was stolen from  the  attics,  and one  evening

someone  even carried  off  a samovar that was  singing in the yard. Polesov

himself took part  in the pursuit, but the  thief ran  at quite a pace, even

though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over

his shoulder,  covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the  lead,  with foul

abuse.  The one  who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.

He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to

open, and  residents returning from a spree had no one to give  a tip to. At

first  the  yard-keeper kept  coming  to  ask if  the  gates  would  soon be

finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats.  The

housing cooperative  sent Polesov written  reminders, and there was talk  of

taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.

Standing by  the well,  the fortune-teller and  the mechanic-enthusiast

continued their conversation.

"Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for

the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"

"When  will  all this  end!"  said Elena  Stanislavovna. "We live  like

savages!"

"There's  no end  to  it. .  .  . Yes.  Do  you  know who I saw  today?

Vorobyaninov."

In  her  amazement  Elena  Stanislavovna   leaned  against   the  wall,

continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.

"I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for

the  hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly  two

people  came  towards  me.  One of  them  seemed  familiar;  he looked  like

Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.

I told them  it used to be  a girls' secondary school,  and later became the

housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just  said,

Thanks' and  went off. Then I  saw clearly that it  really was Vorobyaninov,

only  without  his  moustache.  The other one  with him was  a  fine-looking

fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought. . ."

At  that  moment  Victor  Mikhailovich  noticed  something  unpleasant.

Breaking off what  he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind

the dustbin. Into the yard  sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped

by the well and  began looking round at the  buildings.  Not seeing  Polesov

anywhere, he asked sadly:

"Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"

"I really don't  know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."

And  with  unusual nervousness she hurried off  to  her  apartment, spilling

water from the pail.

The  yard-keeper stroked the  cement block at the  top of the well  and

went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:

ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP

was another sign:

METAL WORKSHOP

AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS

under  which  there hung  a heavy  padlock. The  yard-keeper kicked the

padlock and said with loathing:

"Ugh, that stinker!"

He stood by the  workshop for another two  or  three minutes working up

the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it

to the well in the middle  of the yard, and standing on it  with both  feet,

began creating an unholy row.

"You  have thieves in no. 7!" howled  the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all

kinds! That  seven-sired  viper! Secondary education indeed! I  don't give a

damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"

During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting

behind the  dustbin  and feeling  depressed. Window-frames flew open  with a

bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.

People strolled into the yard from outside in  curiosity. At the  sight

of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.

"Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"

The  yard-keeper's  parliamentary expressions were  richly interspersed

with swear words, to  which he gave  preference. The members of the fair sex

crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed

where they were.

"I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"

While  the  scene was at its  height, a militiaman appeared and quietly

began hauling the fellow  off to the police station. He was assisted by Some

young  toughs  from  Fastpack.  The  yard-keeper  put  his  arms around  the

militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.

A weary Victor  Mikhailovich  jumped out from behind the dustbin. There

was a stir among the audience.

"Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. "I'll show you! You

louse!"

But the  yard-keeper  was weeping bitterly and could  not hear. He  was

carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove

Repairs"  was  also  taken  along as factual  evidence. Victor  Mikhailovich

bristled with fury for some time.

"Sons of  bitches!"  he  said, turning to  the  spectators.  "Conceited

bums!"

"That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena  Stanislavovna  from

the window. "Come in here a moment."

She  placed a dish of  stewed fruit in front of  Polesov and, pacing up

and down the room, began asking him questions.

"But I tell you it was him-without his  moustache, but definitely him,"

said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well. It was the spitting image

of Vorobyaninov."

"Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?"

An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.

"Well, what do you think? "

He chuckled with even greater irony.

"At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks."

"Do you think he's in danger? "

The reserves of  irony amassed by Polesov over  the ten years since the

revolution  were  inexhaustible.  A  series  of smiles of  varying force and

scepticism lit up his face.

"Who  isn't   in  danger   in  Soviet  Russia,  especially  a  man   in

Vorobyaninov's position. Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off

for nothing."

"Has  he  been sent from  abroad?" asked  Elena  Stanislavovna,  almost

choking.

"Definitely," replied the brilliant mechanic.

"What is his purpose here?"

"Don't be childish!"

"I must see him all the same."

"Do you know what you're risking? "

"I don't care. After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than

see Ippolit Matveyevich."

And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were

still in love with one another.

"I beg you to find him.  Find out where he  is. You go  everywhere;  it

won't be difficult for you. Tell him I want to see him. Do you hear?"

The  parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on  its perch,

was  startled by the noisy  conversation; it turned upside down and froze in

that position.

"Elena Stanislavovna," said  the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his

hands to his chest, "I will contact him."

"Would  you like  some  more  stewed fruit?"  asked the fortune-teller,

deeply touched.

Victor  Mikhailovich  consumed  the stewed fruit  irritably, gave Elena

Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and

then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE MIRROR-OF-LIFE INDEX

The next day the partners saw that it  was no longer convenient to live

in  the  caretaker's room. Tikhon  kept muttering away  to  himself and  had

become  completely  stupid,  having seen  his  master  first  with  a  black

moustache,  then  with a green  one, and finally  with no moustache  at all.

There was nothing to sleep  on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in

on Tikhon's new felt  boots. His old  ones stood  in the corner  and did not

help to purify the air, either.

"I declare the old boys' reunion over," said Ostap. "We  must move to a

hotel."

Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I shall have to register."

"Aren't your papers in order?"

"My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours

will spread."

The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.

"How do  you  like  the  name Michelson?"  suddenly asked the  splendid

Ostap.

"Which Michelson? The Senator?"

"No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union."

"I don't get you."

"That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!"

Bender took  a  union card out of  his  green jacket  and  handed it to

Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Konrad  Karlovich  Michelson,  aged  forty-eight,  non-party   member,

bachelor;  union member  since 1921 and a person of  excellent character;  a

good friend  of mine and  seems to  be  a friend of children. . .  . But you

needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you."

Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. "But is it right? "

"Compared with our" concession, this misdeed, though it does come under

the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game."

Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.

"You're  an  idealist,  Konrad Karlovich. You're  lucky,  otherwise you

might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov."

There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon,

the concessionaires went out into the street.

They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms.  Ostap threw the whole of

the small hotel  staff into confusion.  First he  looked at the seven-rouble

rooms,  but disliked  the furnishings.  The  cleanliness  of the five-rouble

rooms  pleased  him more,  but  the carpets  were  shabby  and there was  an

objectionable  smell. In the three-rouble rooms everything  was satisfactory

except for the pictures.

"I can't live in a room with landscapes," said Ostap.

They had to take a  room for one rouble,  eighty. It had no landscapes,

no  carpets, and the  furniture was very conservative -two  beds and a night

table.

"Stone-age style," observed Ostap with  approval. "I hope  there aren't

any prehistoric monsters in the mattresses."

"Depends on  the season," replied the cunning room-cleaner. "If there's

a  provincial convention  of some kind, then  of  course  there aren't  any,

because we have many  visitors and we clean the place thoroughly before they

arrive.  But at other  times you may  find some.  They come  across from the

Livadia Rooms next door."

That day the concessionaires  visited the  Stargorod communal services,

where they  obtained  the information they required. It turned  out that the

housing division had  been disbanded in 1921 and that its voluminous records

had been merged with those of the communal services.

The smooth  operator got down to business. By  evening the partners had

found out the  address  of  the  head of the records department, Bartholomew

Korobeinikov, a former  clerk in the Tsarist town administration  and now an

office-employment official.

Ostap  attired himself  in  his  worsted waistcoat,  dusted his  jacket

against the  back of a chair, demanded a rouble, twenty  kopeks from Ippolit

Matveyevich, and  set off  to visit the  record-keeper.  Ippolit Matveyevich

remained at the Sorbonne Hotel and paced up and down  the narrow gap between

the two beds in  agitation.  The  fate of the whole  enterprise was  in  the

balance  that cold, green evening. If they could get hold of copies  of  the

orders   for  the   distribution  of   the   furniture  requisitioned   from

Vorobyaninov's house, half  the  battle  had been won.  There would still be

tremendous difficulties facing them, but at least they would be on the right

track.

"If  only we can  get  the orders,"  whispered Ippolit  Matveyevich  to

himself, lying on the bed, "if only we can get them."

The springs of the battered mattress nipped him like fleas, but  he did

not  feel them. He still only had a vague idea of what would follow once the

orders had been obtained, but felt sure everything would then go swimmingly.

Engrossed in  his  rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about  on the

bed. The springs bleated underneath him.

Ostap  had to go right across  town. Korobeinikov lived  in Gusishe, on

the outskirts.

It was an area populated largely by railway workers.  From time to time

a  snuffling locomotive would  back its way along the walled-off embankment,

above the houses. For a  second the roof-tops were lit by the blaze from the

firebox.  Now and then empty goods  trains went  by,  and  from time to time

detonators  could  be heard  exploding.  Amid the  huts and temporary wooden

barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats.

Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club- checked the

address from a piece of paper, and halted  in front of  the  record-keeper's

house. He rang a bell marked "Please Ring" in embossed letters.

After  prolonged questioning as to "Who do you want?" and "What  is  it

about?"   the  door  was   opened,  and  he   found   himself  in   a  dark,

cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did

not speak.

"Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?" asked Ostap.

The person who had been  breathing took Ostap  by  the arm and  led him

into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him

a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt

that  this  was  Citizen  Korobeinikov  himself.  Without  waiting   for  an

invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down.

The old man looked fearlessly at  the high-handed stranger and remained

silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation.

"I've  come on  business. You  work  at  the communal-services  records

office, don't you? "

The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively.

"And you worked before that in the housing division?"

"I have worked everywhere," he answered gaily.

"Even in the Tsarist town administration?"

Here  Ostap  smiled graciously.  The old man's back  contorted for some

time and finally ended up in a  position implying that his employment in the

Tsarist town administration  was something  long  passed and that it was not

possible to remember everything for sure.'

"And may  I ask what I can  do  for you?"  said the host, regarding his

visitor with interest.

"You may," answered the visitor. "I am Vorobyaninov's son."

"Whose? The marshal's?"

"Yes." . "Is he still alive?"

"He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest."

"Yes," said the old man without any particular grief, "a sad event. But

I didn't think he had any children."

"He didn't," said Ostap amiably in confirmation.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm from a morganatic marriage."

"Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son? "

"Right!"

"How is she?"

"Mum's been in her grave some time."

"I see. I see. How sad."

And  the  old  man gazed at  Ostap  with tears of sympathy in his eyes,

although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in

the market.

"We  all  pass away," he said, "but  please tell  me  on what  business

you're here, my dear . . . I don't know your name."

"Voldemar," promptly replied Ostap.

"Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good."

The  old man sat down at the table covered  with patterned oilcloth and

peered into Ostap's eyes.

In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his

parents. He much regretted that  he had invaded the privacy of the respected

record-keeper so  late  at night  and disturbed  him by the visit, but hoped

that the respected record-keeper would  forgive  him  when he knew what  had

brought him.

"I would like to have some of my dad's furniture," concluded Ostap with

inexpressible filial love, "as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the

furniture from dad's house?"

"That's difficult," said the old  man after a moment's thought. "Only a

well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask? "

"I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines."

The old man looked dubiously  at young  Vorobyaninov's  green suit, but

made no comment.

"A smart young man," he thought.

"A typical  old bastard," decided Ostap, who had  by then completed his

observation of Korobeinikov.

"So there you are," said Ostap.

"So there  you  are,"  said the  record-keeper.  "It's  difficult,  but

possible."

"And  it  involves expense,"  suggested  the refrigeration-plant  owner

helpfully.

"A small sum . . ."

" 'Is nearer one's heart', as  Maupassant used  to say. The information

will be paid for."

"All right then, seventy roubles."

"Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?"

The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine.

"Joke if you will. . ."

"I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?"

"Have you the money on you? "

Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket.

"Then now, if you like," said Korobeinikov triumphantly.

He  lit a  candle  and  led Ostap into the  next  room. Besides  a bed,

obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself,  the room  contained a

desk  piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves.

The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the

edges  of the shelves. Bundles of orders  bound with new string  lay  on the

shelves.

"Oho!" exclaimed the delighted Ostap. "A full set of records at home."

"A complete set," said  the record-keeper modestly.  "Just in case, you

know.  The communal services  don't need them and they might be useful to me

in  my  old age. We're living on top of a  volcano,  you  know. Anything can

happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it

be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will

have  preserved  it? Who will  have looked after  it?  Korobeinikov! So  the

gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And

I don't need  very much; ten roubles  an order will do me.  Otherwise,  they

might as  well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture

without me."

Ostap looked at the old man in rapture.

"A marvellous office,"  he  said.  "Complete  mechanization.  You're an

absolute hero of labour!"

The  flattered  record-keeper  began  explaining  the  details  of  his

pastime. He opened the thick registers.

"It's all  here," he said, "the whole of Stargorod. All  the furniture.

Who it was taken from and  who it was given to. And  here's the alphabetical

index-the  mirror  of  life!  Whose furniture  do  you want  to  know about?

Angelov,  first-guild merchant? Certainly.  Look  under  A.  A, Ak, Am,  Am,

Angelov. The number? Here it is-82742. Now give me the stock book. Page 142.

Where's Angelov?  Here  he is.  Taken  from Angelov  on  December  18, 1918:

Baecker grand piano, one,  no. 97012; piano stools, one, soft; bureaux, two;

wardrobes,  four (two mahogany); bookcases, one . . . and so on. And who was

it all given to?  Let's look at the  distribution register. The same number.

Issued to. The bookcase  to the town military  committee, three wardrobes to

the  Skylark boarding school, another wardrobe  for the personal use  of the

Stargorod province food  office. And where did  the piano go? The piano went

to the old-age pensioners' home, and it's there to this day."

"I  don't  think I  saw  a  piano  there," thought  Ostap,  remembering

Alchen's shy little face.

"Or  for instance, Murin, head of the town council. So we look under M.

It's  all here.  The  whole town.  Pianos, settees,  pier  glasses,  chairs,

divans, pouffes, chandeliers . . . even dinner services."

"Well,"  said Ostap, "they ought to erect a monument to you.  But let's

get to the point. The letter V, for example."

"The letter V it is," responded Korobeinikov willingly. "In one moment.

Vm, Vn. Vorotsky, no. 48238, Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich, your father,

God  rest  his soul, was a man with  a big  heart. . . A  Baecker piano, no.

54809. Chinese vases, marked, four, from Sevres in France; Aubusson carpets,

eight, different  sizes;  a tapestry, "The  Shepherd  Boy'; a tapestry, 'The

Shepherd Girl'; Tekke  carpets, two;  Khorassan carpets,  one; stuffed bears

with dish, one; a bedroom suite  to seat twelve; a dining-room suite to seat

sixteen; a drawing-room suite to seat twelve, walnut, made by Hambs."

"And who was given it?" asked Ostap impatiently. "We're just coming  to

that.  The  stuffed bear with  dish went  to the  police  station No. 2. The

Shepherd Boy tapestry went to the art treasure collection; the Shepherd Girl

tapestry  to  the  water-transport  club; the  Aubusson, Tekke and Khorassan

carpets  to the Ministry of  Foreign  Trade. The  bedroom suite went  to the

hunters' trade-union; the  dining-room suite to the Stargorod branch of  the

chief tea  administration.  The walnut suite was divided up. The round table

and one chair  went  to the pensioners' home, a curved-back settee was given

to the housing division (it's still  in the  hall, and  the bastards spilled

grease all over the covering); one chair went to Comrade Gritsatsuyev as  an

imperialist war invalid, at his own request, granted by Comrade Burkin, head

of the housing division. Ten chairs went  to Moscow to the furniture museum,

in accordance with  a circular sent round by the Ministry of Education . . .

Chinese vases, marked .. ."

"Well done!" said Ostap jubilantly. "That's more  like it! Now it would

be nice to see the actual orders."

"In  a  moment.  We'll  come to the orders in a moment.  Letter  V, No.

48238."

The old man went up to the cupboard  and, standing on tiptoe, took down

the appropriate bundle.

"Here you  are.  All  your  father's  furniture. Do you  want  all  the

orders?"

"What would I do with  all of  them? Just something to  remind me of my

childhood. The drawing-room suite . . . I remember how I used to play on the

Khorassan carpet in the drawing-room, looking at the Shepherd Boy tapestry .

.  .  I  had  a fine time,  a  wonderful childhood. So  let's stick  to  the

drawing-room suite, dad."

Lovingly the old man began to open up the bundle of green  counterfoils

and searched for the orders in question. He took  out five  of them. One was

for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for the round table, and one for

tapestry.

"lust  see. They're all  in order. You know where each item is. All the

counterfoils  have  the  addresses  on  them  and  also  the  receiver's own

signature.  So no one can back out  if anything happens. Perhaps you'd  like

Madame Popov's furniture? It's very good and also made by Hambs."

But Ostap was motivated solely  by love for his parents; he grabbed the

orders, stuffed them in the depths of his pocket  and declined the furniture

belonging to General Popov's wife.

"May  I make  out a  receipt?"  inquired  the  record-keeper,  adroitly

arching himself.

"You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!"

"I will then."

"Do that!"

They  went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in

neat  handwriting  and  handed  it  smilingly  to  his  visitor.  The  chief

concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in

a  singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious

orders.

"Well, so  long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a

lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king

of the office!"

The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand.

"Good-bye!" repeated Ostap.

He moved towards the door.

Korobeinikov was at a loss to  understand. He even looked on  the table

to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly:

"What about the money?"

"What  money?"  said  Ostap,  opening the door.  "Did  I hear  you  say

something about money? "

"Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!"

"Honestly, chum,"  crooned  Ostap, "I swear by  my late father,  I'd be

glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account."

The old man  began to tremble and put out a puny  hand to restrain  his

nocturnal visitor.

"Don't be a fool," said  Ostap  menacingly. "I'm  telling  you in plain

Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!"

The door slammed.  Korobeinikov opened it  and ran into the street, but

Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing

overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke.

"Things are  moving," cried Ostap to  the driver,  "things  are moving,

gentlemen of the jury!"

The driver could not hear;  he waved his hand, and  the wheels  of  the

locomotive began pulling  the steel elbows of the cranks with  still greater

force. The locomotive raced away.

Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back

into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room

and  kicked  the table with rage.  The clog-shaped  ash-tray  with  the word

"Triangle"  on  it jumped up and  down,  and the glass  clinked  against the

decanter.

Never before had  Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.

He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such

brilliant simplicity that all he could  do was stand for  some time, lashing

out at the thick legs of the table.

In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned

to  him  in cases  of  extreme need. He  acted as a  pawnbroker and  charged

cannibalistic  rates of interest. He  had been doing this for  several years

and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game,

a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.

"A  fine thing!"  he cried, remembering the  lost orders.  "From now on

money  in advance.  How could I have  bungled it like that? I gave  him  the

walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by

hand. . . ."

An uncertain hand had been  ringing  the bell marked  "Please Ring" for

some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door

was  still open,  when  there was a  heavy  thud, and'  the voice  of  a man

entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:

"How do I get in?"

Korobeinikov went into the  hallway, took  hold of  somebody's coat (it

felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.

"I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.

After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both  sides, it came

to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding

Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore  was  not averse to paying

for it.  Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great  amusement,  the  visitor

turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to

keep something  in memory of him, for example, a  walnut drawing-room suite.

The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.

Korobeinikov  asked a  hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's

memory  considerably  lower than that, say  thirty  roubles. They agreed  on

fifty.

"I'd  like  the  money  first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of

mine."

"Does it matter if I give it to you  in  ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked

Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat.

"I'll take them at the official rate of exchange.  Today's rate is nine

and a half."

Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half

in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper. The latter counted

the coins twice, scooped them  up into one hand and, requesting  his visitor

to wait, went to fetch the orders. Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for

long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P,  quickly found the

right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's

wife. Disembowelling  the  bundle, he selected  the order for twelve  walnut

chairs from  the Hambs  factory,  issued to  Comrade  Bruns,  resident of 34

Vineyard Street. Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled

to himself and took the order to the purchaser.

"Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser.

"All  there  together. It's  a  splendid suite. It'll  make  you drool.

Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!"

Father  Theodore  rapturously   gave  the  record-keeper  a   prolonged

handshake  and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in  the hall,

fled into the darkness of the night.

For  quite  a while longer Bartholomeich  chuckled to  himself  at  the

customer he had cheated. He spread the gold coins out in a row on  the table

and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs.

"What  is  it about  Vorobyaninov's furniture that  attracts them?"  he

wondered. "They're out of their minds."

He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on  the

narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM

During the night the  cold  was completely consumed. It became  so warm

that the  feet of early  passers-by began  to  ache.  The  sparrows  chirped

various nonsense. Even the hen that emerged from the kitchen into  the hotel

yard felt  a surge of strength and tried to  take off.  The sky was  covered

with small dumpling-like clouds  and the dustbin reeked of violets and soupe

paysanne. The wind lazed under the  eaves. Tomcats lounged  on  the rooftops

and, half closing their eyes, condescendingly watched the yard, across which

the room-cleaner, Alexander, was hurrying with a bundle of dirty washing.

Things began stirring in the corridors of the Sorbonne. Delegates  were

arriving from other regions for the opening of the tramway. A whole crowd of

them got down from a wagon bearing the name of the Sorbonne Hotel.

The sun was warming to its  fullest extent. Up flew the corrugated iron

shutters of the shops, and workers in Soviet government offices on their way

to work in padded coats breathed heavily and  unbuttoned themselves, feeling

the heaviness of spring.

On  Co-operative   Street  an  overloaded  truck   belonging   to   the

grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration  broke a  spring, and Victor

Polesov arrived at the scene to give advice.

From one of the rooms furnished with down-to-earth luxury (two beds and

a  night table) came a horse-like snorting and neighing. Ippolit Matveyevich

was happily washing himself and blowing his nose. The smooth operator lay in

bed inspecting the damage to his boots.

"By the way," he said, "kindly settle your debt."

Ippolit  Matveyevich surfaced  from under his towel and  looked at  his

partner with bulging, pince-nezless eyes.

"Why are  you  staring  at me like a soldier  at a  louse? What are you

surprised about? The debt? Yes!  You owe me some money. I forgot to tell you

yesterday that I had to  pay,  with your authority, seventy roubles  for the

orders.   Herewith   the   receipt.    Sling   over   thirty-five   roubles.

Concessionaires, I hope, share the expenses on an equal footing?"

Ippolit  Matveyevich  put  on  his  pince-nez,  read the  receipt  and,

sighing, passed over the money.  But even that could not dampen his spirits.

The riches were  in their hands. The thirty-rouble speck of dust vanished in

the glitter of a. diamond mountain.

Smiling radiantly, Ippolit Matveyevich went out into  the corridor  and

began  strolling up and down. His plans for a new life built on a foundation

of  precious stones  brought  him  great comfort. "And  the holy father," he

gloated, "has been  taken for a ride. He'll see as much of the chairs as his

beard."

Reaching the  end of  the  corridor,  Vorobyaninov  turned  round.  The

cracked white door of  room no.  13  opened  wide,  and out towards him came

Father Theodore in  a blue tunic  encircled by  a shabby black cord  with  a

fluffy tassel. His kindly face was beaming  with happiness. He had also come

into  the corridor to  stretch  his  legs. The rivals approached one another

several times, looking at each other triumphantly as they passed. At the two

ends of the corridor they both turned simultaneously and approached again. .

. . Ippolit Matveyevich's heart was bursting with  joy.  Father Theodore was

experiencing  a similar feeling. Each was sorry  for his defeated enemy.  By

the  time  they reached the  fifth lap,  Ippolit  Matveyevich could restrain

himself no longer.

"Good morning, Father," he said with inexpressible sweetness.

Father Theodore mustered all the sarcasm with which God had endowed him

and replied with:

"Good morning, Ippolit Matveyevich."

The enemies parted.  When their  paths next crossed,  Vorobyaninov said

casually:

"I hope I didn't hurt you at our last meeting."

"Not  at all, it was  very  pleasant  to  see you,"  replied the  other

jubilantly..

They moved apart again. Father Theodore's physiognomy began  to disgust

Ippolit Matveyevich.

"I  don't suppose you're saying Mass any more?" he remarked at the next

encounter.

"There's nowhere to say it. The parishioners have all run off in search

of treasure."

"Their own treasure, mark you. Their own!"

"I don't know whose it is, but only that they're looking for it."

Ippolit Matveyevich wanted to say something nasty  and even  opened his

mouth to do so, but was unable  to think of anything and angrily returned to

his room.  At that  moment,  the  son  of a  Turkish citizen, Ostap  Bender,

emerged from the  room in a light-blue waistcoat,  and, treading on  his own

laces,  went  towards  Vostrikov.  The  roses  on Father  Theodore's  cheeks

withered and turned to ash.

"Do you  buy rags  and bones?"  he asked menacingly. "Chairs, entrails,

tins of boot polish?"

"What do you want?" whispered Father Theodore.

"I want to sell you an old pair of trousers."

The priest stiffened and moved away.

"Why are you silent, like an archbishop at a party?"

Father Theodore slowly walked towards his room.

"We buy old stuff and steal new stuff!" called Ostap after him.

Vostrikov  lowered his head and stopped  by the door.  Ostap  continued

taunting him.

"What about my  pants, my dear cleric? Will you take them? There's also

the sleeves of a waistcoat, the middle of a doughnut, and the ears of a dead

donkey. The  whole  lot is  going  wholesale-it's  cheaper.  And they're not

hidden in chairs, so you won't need to look for them."

The door shut behind the cleric.

Ostap sauntered back satisfied, his laces flopping against the carpet.

As  soon  as  his  massive figure  was  sufficiently  far  away, Father

Theodore  quickly  poked his  head round  the door  and, with  long  pent-up

indignation, squeaked:

"Silly old fool!"

"What's  that?"  cried  Ostap,  promptly turning back but the  door was

already shut and the only sound was the click of the lock.

Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand to  his mouth, and said

clearly:

"How much is opium for the people?"

There was silence behind the door:

"Dad, you're a nasty old man," said Ostap loudly.

That very moment the point of Father Theodore's pencil  shot out of the

keyhole  and wiggled  in  the  air  in  an attempt to sting his  enemy.  The

concessionaire jumped back  in time and grasped hold of it. Separated by the

door,  the adversaries  began  a tug-of-war.  Youth was victorious,  and the

pencil,  clinging like  a splinter, slowly crept  out of  the keyhole. Ostap

returned with  the trophy to his  room, where the partners  were  still more

elated.

"And the enemy's in flight, flight, flight," he crooned.

He  carved a rude word on the edge  of  the pencil with a pocket-knife,

ran into  the corridor, pushed the  pencil through the priest's keyhole, and

hurried back.

The  friends  got  out  the  green  counterfoils  and  began  a careful

examination of them.

"This one's for the Shepherd Girl  tapestry," said Ippolit  Matveyevich

dreamily. "I bought it from a St. Petersburg antique dealer."

"To  hell with the Shepherd Girl," said  Ostap, tearing  the  order  to

ribbons.

"A round table . . . probably from the suite. . ."

"Give me the table. To hell with the table!"

Two orders were left: one  for ten chairs transferred  to the furniture

museum in Moscow, and the other  for the chair given to Comrade Gritsatsuyev

in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.

"Have your money ready," said Ostap. "We may have to go to Moscow."

"But there's a chair here!"

"One  chance in ten. Pure mathematics. Anyway, citizen Gritsatsuyev may

have lit the stove with it."

"Don't joke like that!"

"Don't worry, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Michelson, we'll find them.

It's a sacred cause!"

"We'll be wearing cambric footcloths and eating Margo cream."

"I have a hunch the jewels are in that very chair."

"Oh, you have a  hunch,  do you. What other  hunches do you have? None?

All right. Let's work the Marxist way. We'll leave the sky to the birds  and

deal with the  chairs ourselves.  I can't  wait to  meet the imperialist war

invalid, citizen  Gritsatsuyev,  at  15 Plekhanov Street. Don't lag  behind,

Konrad Karlovich. We'll plan as we go."

As  they passed  Father Theodore's door the  vengeful son of a  Turkish

citizen  gave it a kick. There  was  a  low snarling from the harassed rival

inside.

"Don't let him follow us!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in alarm.

"After  today's meeting of the  foreign  ministers aboard  the yacht no

rapprochement is possible. He's afraid of me."

The friends  did  not return till  evening. Ippolit  Matveyevich looked

worried. Ostap was beaming. He was wearing new raspberry-coloured shoes with

round  rubber heel taps,  green-and-black check  socks,  a cream  cap, and a

silk-mixture scarf of a brightly coloured Rumanian shade.

"It's  there all right," said Vorobyaninov, reflecting on his  visit to

Widow Gritsatsuyev, "but how are we going to get hold of it? By buying it?"

"Certainly not!"  said Ostap. "Besides  being  a  totally  unproductive

expense,  that  would start rumours. Why  one  chair, and  why that chair in

particular?"

"What shall we do?"

Ostap lovingly inspected the heels of his new shoes.

"Chic moderne"  he said.  "What shall we do? Don't  worry,  Judge, I'll

take on the operation myself. No chair can withstand these shoes."

Ippolit Matveyevich brightened up.

"You know, while you were talking to Mrs. Gritsatsuyev about the flood,

I  sat down on our chair  and I  honestly felt something hard underneath me.

They're there, I'll swear to it. They're there, I know it."

"Don't get excited, citizen Michelson."

"We must steal it during the night; honestly, we must steal it!"

"For a marshal of the nobility  your methods are  too crude. Anyway, do

you know  the technique?  Maybe you  have  a  travelling  kit with a  set of

skeleton  keys.  Get rid of the idea. It's a  scummy  trick  to rob  a  poor

widow."

Ippolit Matveyevich pulled himself together.

"It's just that we must act quickly," he said imploringly.

"Only  cats  are  born quickly,"  said Ostap instructively. "I'll marry

her."

"Who?"

"Madame Gritsatsuyev."

"Why?"

"So that we can rummage inside the chair quietly and without any fuss."

"But you'll tie yourself down for life!"

"The things we do for the concession!"

"For life!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in a whisper.

He threw up  his hands in  amazement. His pastor-like face  was bristly

and  his bluish teeth showed they had not been cleaned since the day he left

the town of N.

"It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Life!"  said  Ostap.  "Sacrifice!  What do  you  know  about life  and

sacrifices? Do you think  that just because  you were evicted from your  own

house you've tasted life? And just because  they  requisitioned one  of your

imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice? Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a

complex affair,  but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex  affair  which can be

managed as  simply  as  opening a box. All you have to do is  to know how to

open it. Those who don't-have had it."

Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the  sleeve of his jacket, played

a flourish with his lips and went off.

Towards  morning he rolled into  the room, took off his shoes, put them

on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly:

"My little friends."

"Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep.

"At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice.

Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow.

"And are you going to marry her? "

Ostap's eyes sparkled.

"I'll have to make an honest woman of her now."

Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment.

"A  passionate  woman,"  said  Ostap, "is  a  poet's dream.  Provincial

straightforwardness. Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital

of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas."

"When's the wedding?"

"The day  after  tomorrow. Tomorrow's  impossible.  It's  May Day,  and

everything's shut."

"But what  about our own business? You're getting married . . .  but we

may have to go to Moscow."

"What are you worried about? The hearing is continued."

"And the wife?"

"Wife? The  little diamond  widow? She's  our  last  concern. A  sudden

summons to the  capital. A short report to be given to the Junior Council of

Ministers. A wet-eyed farewell and  a  roast chicken for the  journey. We'll

travel in comfort. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a holiday."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!

On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst

for activity, hurried out into  the  street and  headed  for the  centre. At

first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there

were still few people about  and  the reviewing  stands, guarded  by mounted

militiamen,  were empty. By  nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring,

wheezing,  and  whistling in  various  parts of  the town.  Housewives  came

running out of their gates.

A column of musicians'-union  officials in soft collars somehow strayed

into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and

upsetting everyone.

A  lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter

"S"  kept running into the musicians  from behind, eliciting shouts from the

bowels  of the locomotive in  the direction of the  toilers of  the oboe and

flute:

"Where's your supervisor? You're not supposed to be on Red Army Street!

Can't you see you're causing a traffic jam?"

At  this  point, to  the  misfortune of the  musicians,  Victor Polesov

intervened.

"That's right! You're supposed to turn into the blind alley here.  They

can't even organize a parade! Scandalous!"

The children were riding in lorries belonging to the Stargorod communal

services   and  the  grain-mill-and-lift-construction  administration.   The

youngest  ones stood at  the sides  of the lorry and the bigger  ones in the

middle. The junior army waved paper flags and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

It was crowded, noisy, and  hot. Every  minute there  were bottlenecks,  and

every  other  minute  they  were  cleared.  To  pass  the  time  during  the

bottlenecks the  crowd tossed old men and activists in  the air. The old men

wailed  in  squeaky voices,  while the  activists sailed  up and  down  with

serious faces in silence. One merry column of  people  mistook Polesov for a

supervisor as he was trying to squeeze  through them and began tossing  him.

Polesov thrashed about like Punchinello.

Then came an effigy of Neville Chamberlain, being beaten on his top-hat

with  a cardboard hammer by a worker possessing a model anatomical physique.

This was followed by a truck carrying  three members  of the Communist Youth

in  tails  and   white  gloves.  They   kept  looking   at  the  crowd  with

embarrassment.

"Basil!" shouted someone from the pavement,  "you bourgeois ! Give back

those braces!"

Girls  were   singing.  Alchen  was  marching   along  in  a  group  of

social-security  workers with a  large red  bow on his chest. As he  went he

crooned in a nasal voice:

From the forests of Siberia

To the British Sea,

There's no one superior

To the Red Army. . . .

At  a  given  command,  gymnasts  disjointedly  shouted  out  something

unintelligible. Everything walked, rode and marched to  the  new tram  depot

from where  at exactly one  o'clock the first electric tram in Stargorod was

due to move off.

No one  knew  exactly  when  the construction  of the tramline had been

begun. Some time back in 1920, when  voluntary Saturday work was introduced,

railway workers  and  ropemakers had marched to Gusishe to the accompaniment

of music  and spent the whole day digging  holes. They dug a great number of

large, deep holes.  A comrade in  an engineer's cap  had run about among the

diggers, followed by a foreman carrying coloured  poles. Work had  continued

at the  same spot the next Saturday. Two holes dug in the wrong place had to

be  filled in again.  The comrade  descended on the  foreman and demanded an

explanation. Then fresh holes had been dug that were even bigger and deeper.

Next,  the bricks  were delivered and  the real  builders arrived. They  set

about laying the foundations, but then everything  quieted down. The comrade

in the engineer's cap still  appeared now and then at the deserted  building

site and wandered round and round the brick-lined pit, muttering:

"Cost accounting!"

He tapped the foundations  with a stick and then hurried home, covering

his frozen ears with his hands. The engineer's name was Treukhov.

The idea of the tram depot, the  construction of  which ceased abruptly

at the  foundation stage, was conceived by Treukhov in 1912, but the Tsarist

town council had rejected the project. Two years later Treukhov  stormed the

town council  again, but the  war prevented any headway. Then the Revolution

interfered, and  now the  New  Economic Plan,  cost accounting,  and capital

recovery were the obstacles. The foundations were overgrown with flowers  in

the summer, and in the winter children turned them into a snow-slide.

Treukhov dreamed  of great  things. He was sick and tired of working in

the town-improvement department of the Stargorod communal services, tired of

mending  the kerbs,  and tired of estimating the  cost of hoardings. But the

great  things  did  not  pan  out. The  tramline  project,  re-submitted for

consideration, became  bogged down at the higher instances of the provincial

administration; it was approved by one and rejected by another, passed on to

the  capital, regardless of  approval or rejection,  became covered in dust,

and no money was forthcoming.

"It's barbarous!" Treukhov shouted  at his wife. "No money, indeed! But

they have enough money to pay for cab drivers and for carting merchandise to

the station!  The  Stargorod's cab-drivers would rob their own grandmothers!

It's a pillagers' monopoly, of course. Just try  carrying your own stuff  to

the station! A tramline would pay for itself in six years."

His withered moustache drooped  angrily, and his snub-nosed face worked

convulsively. He took some blueprints out of the desk and showed them to his

wife for  the thousandth time. They  were plans  for a  terminus,  depot and

twelve tramcar routes.

"To hell with twelve routes! They can wait. But three! Three! Stargorod

will choke without them!"

Treukhov snorted and went into the kitchen to chop wood. He did all the

household  chores  himself. He  designed and built a cradle for the baby and

also constructed a washing-machine. For a  while he washed the clothes in it

himself, explaining to his wife how to work the machine. At least a fifth of

Treukhov's salary went on subscriptions to foreign  technical literature. To

make ends meet he gave up smoking.

He  took  his  project to  Gavrilin,  the  new chief of  the  Stargorod

communal  services who had  been  transferred from Samarkand. The new chief,

deeply tanned  by  the  Tunisian sun, listened  to Treukhov  for some  time,

though without particular attention, and finally said:

"In Samarkand, you know, we don't need trams. Everyone rides donkeys. A

donkey  costs three roubles-dirt cheap-and it  can carry about three hundred

pounds. Just a little donkey; it's amazing!"

"But  that's  Asia,"  said  Treukhov angrily.  "A  donkey  costs  three

roubles, but you need thirty roubles a year to feed it."

"And  how many times  do you think you can  travel  on  your  trams for

thirty roubles? Three hundred. And that's not even every day for a year."

"Then you'd better send for some of your donkeys," shouted Treukhov and

rushed out of the office, slamming  the door. Whenever he  met Treukhov from

that time on, the new chief would ask derisively: "Well, then, shall we send

for donkeys or build a tramway?"

Gavrilin's face was like a smoothly-peeled turnip. His eyes were filled

with cunning.  About two months later  he sent for the engineer and said  to

him earnestly:

"I have a  little plan. One thing is  clear,  though; there's no money,

and  a tramline is not like a donkey-it can't  be bought for three  roubles.

We'll  have  to  get  some  funds.  What  practical  solution  is  there?  A

shareholding  company?  What else? A loan  repayable with interest! How long

will it take for a tramline to pay for itself? "

"Six years from the opening of the first three routes."

"Well, let's say  ten years  then. Now,  the shareholding company.  Who

will  buy the shares? The food co-operatives and the-central  union of dairy

co-operatives.  Do  the  ropemakers  need  trams? Yes, they do.  We will  be

dispatching  freight cars to the railway station.  So that's the ropemakers.

The Ministry of Transport  may  contribute something,  and also the province

executive committee. That's  definite.  And once we've got things going, the

State Bank and the Commercial Bank will  give  us loans. So that's my little

plan. It is going  to  be discussed at  the executive  committee  meeting on

Friday, and if they agree, the rest is up to you."

Treukhov stayed up till the early hours, excitedly  washing clothes and

explaining   to  his   wife  the   advantages  of  trams  over   horse-drawn

transportation.

The decision taken  on the Friday was favourable. But that was when the

trouble  started. It proved very difficult to form  a shareholding  company.

The  Ministry  of  Transport  kept  changing  its  mind   about  becoming  a

shareholder. The food co-operatives tried their best to avoid taking fifteen

per cent of the shares and only wanted to take ten per cent. The shares were

finally distributed, though not without a few skirmishes. Gavrilin was sent,

for  by  the  province control  commission  and  reprimanded  for using  his

position to exert pressure. But everything  came out all  right, and then it

was only a question of beginning.

"Well, Comrade Treukhov," said  Gavrilin, "get  cracking! Do you  think

you'll manage? Well and good. It's not like buying a donkey."

Treukhov immersed himself  in  his work.  The great things which he had

dreamed   of  for  years  had   finally  arrived.  Estimates  were  made,  a

construction programme drawn up, and the materials ordered. But difficulties

arose where they were least expected. It was found that there were no cement

experts in Stargorod, so they had to  be brought in from Leningrad. Gavrilin

tried to force the pace, but the plants could not deliver  the machinery for

eighteen months,  even though it was actually  needed within  a year, at the

latest. A threat to order the  machinery from abroad, however, brought about

the  required  effect.  Then  there were minor  difficulties.  First it  was

impossible to  find shaped iron  of the right size, then unseasoned sleepers

were  received  instead  of  seasoned  ones. The  right  ones  were  finally

delivered,  but  Treukhov, who had gone personally to  the  seasoning plant,

rejected sixty per cent of the sleepers. There were defects in the cast-iron

parts,  and  the timber  was  damp.  Gavrilin made  frequent  visits  to the

building sites in his ancient, wheezing Fiat and had rows with Treukhov.

While  the terminus  and  depot  were  being  erected, the citizens  of

Stargorod merely made jokes.

In  the  Stargorod Truth the tram story was reported by the "Prince  of

Denmark",  writer of humorous pieces, known to the whole  town under the pen

name of  "Flywheel".  Not  less than three times  a week, in a long account,

Flywheel  expressed his  irritation at the slowness of the construction. The

newspaper's third column -which used to bound with such sceptical  headlines

as "No sign of  a club", "Around the weak points", "Inspections  are needed,

but what is the point of shine and long tails?" "Good and . . . bad",  "What

we  like and  what  we don't",  "Deal with  the saboteurs of education", and

"It's  time to  put an  end to red tape"-began to present readers  with such

sunny and encouraging headings  at the top  of Flywheel's reports as "How we

are living and how we  are building", "Giant  will soon start work", "Modest

builder", and so on, in that vein.

Treukhov used to open the newspaper with a shudder and, feeling disgust

for the brotherhood of writers, read such cheerful lines about himself as:

. . . I'm climbing over the rafters with the wind whistling in my ears.

Above me is the invisible builder  of our powerful tramway, that  thin,

pug-nosed man in a shabby cap with crossed hammers.

It  brings  to mind Pushkin's poem: "There  he  stood,  full  of  great

thoughts, on the bank. . . ."

I approach him. Not a breath of air. The rafters do not stir.

I ask him:  How  is the work progressing? Engineer Treukhov's ugly face

brightens up. . . .

He  shakes my hand and says: "Seventy per  cent of the target  has been

reached." [The article ended like this]:

He shakes my hand  in farewell.  The rafters  creak behind me. Builders

scurry to and fro. Who could  forget the  feverish activity of the  building

site or the homely face of our builder?

FLYWHEEL

The only thing  that saved Treukhov was that he had no time to read the

papers and usually managed to miss Comrade Flywheel's jottings.

On one occasion  Treukhov  could not restrain himself,  and  he wrote a

carefully worded and malicious reply.

"Of course [he wrote], you can  call  a bolt a transmission, but people

who do so know nothing  about building. And  I would like  to  point out  to

Comrade  Flywheel that the only  time rafters creak is when the  building is

about  to fall down. To speak  of  rafters in this way  is much the same  as

claiming that a 'cello can give birth to children.

"Yours, [etc.]"

After that the indefatigable prince stopped visiting the building site,

but his reports continued to grace  the  third column, standing  out sharply

against  a background of such  prosaic  headlines as "15,000 Roubles Growing

Rusty", "Housing Hitches",  "Materials Are  Weeping",  and  "Curiosities and

Tears".

The construction was nearing its end. Rails were welded by the thermite

method,  and  they  stretched,  without   gaps,  from  the  station  to  the

slaughterhouse, and from the market to the cemetery.

In the beginning it was intended to time the opening of the tramway for

the Ninth Anniversary of  the October Revolution, but the car-building plant

was  unable  to supply the cars by  the promised  date and made  some excuse

about  "fittings".  The opening had  to be postponed until May Day. By  this

date everything was definitely ready.

Wandering about,  the concessionaires reached Gusishe at the  same time

as the  processions. The  whole of  Stargorod was there.  The new depot  was

decorated  with  garlands  of  evergreen;  the flags flapped, and  the  wind

rippled the banners. A mounted militiaman galloped after an ice-cream seller

who had somehow got into the circular space cordoned off by railway workers.

A  rickety  platform, as  yet empty, with a  public-address system,  towered

between the two gates of the depot. Delegates began mounting the platform. A

combined band  of communal-service workers and ropemakers was trying out its

lungs. The drum lay on the ground.

A  Moscow  correspondent  in  a shaggy  cap wandered around inside  the

depot, which  contained ten light-green trams  numbered 701  to  710. He was

looking for  the  chief engineer in order to ask him a  few questions on the

subject of tramlines. Although the correspondent had already prepared in his

mind  the  report  on  the opening,  with  a  summary  of  the speeches,  he

conscientiously continued  his search, his only  complaint being the absence

of a bar. The crowds sang, yelled, and  chewed sunflower seeds while waiting

for the railway to be opened.

The presidium of the province executive committee mounted the platform.

The  Prince of Denmark  stammered out a  few  phrases to his  fellow writer.

Newsreel cameramen from Moscow were expected any moment.

"Comrades," said Gavrilin, "I declare the official meeting to celebrate

the opening of the Stargorod tramway open."

The  brass   trumpets  sprang  into  action,  sighed,  and  played  the

International right through three times.

"Comrade Gavrilin will now give a report," cried Comrade Gavrilin.

The Prince of Denmark (Flywheel) and the visitor from Moscow both wrote

in their notebooks, without collusion:

"The ceremony opened with a report by Comrade Gavrilin, Chairman of the

Stargorod Communal Services. The crowd listened attentively."

The  two  correspondents were people of completely different types. The

Muscovite was young and  single,  while Flywheel  was burdened  with a large

family and had passed his forties some time ago. One had lived in Moscow all

his life, while the other  had  never been  there. The Muscovite liked beer,

while Flywheel  never  let anything but  vodka pass his  lips.  Despite this

difference  in  character,  age,  habits   and   upbringing,   however,  the

impressions  of  both  the  journalists were  cast  in the  same  hackneyed,

second-hand,  dust-covered  phrases.  Their  pencils  began  scratching  and

another observation was recorded in the notebooks: "On this day of festivity

it is as though the streets of Stargorod have grown wider. . . ."

Gavrilin  began his speech in a  good  and simple  fashion. "Building a

tramway is not like buying a donkey."

A loud guffaw was suddenly heard from Ostap Bender in the crowd; he had

appreciated the remark. Heartened by the response, Gavrilin, without knowing

why himself, suddenly switched to the international situation. Several times

he attempted to bring  his speech back on to  the rails, but, to his horror,

found  he  was  unable to.  The  international  words  just  flowed  out  by

themselves, against the speaker's will. After Chamberlain, to whom  Gavrilin

devoted  half  an hour, the  international  arena was  taken by the American

Senator  Borah;  the  crowd  began to  wilt. Both correspondents wrote: "The

speaker  described  the  international situation in vivid language.  .  . ."

Gavrilin,  now  worked up,  made  some nasty  comments  about  the  Rumanian

nobility  and then turned to  Mussolini. It was only towards the end  of his

speech that he was able to suppress his  second international nature and say

in a good, businesslike way:

"And so, Comrades, I think that the tram about to leave the depot . . .

is  leaving on  whose  account? Yours, of  course, Comrades-and  that of all

workers   who  have  really  worked,  not  from  fear,  Comrades,  but  from

conscience. It  is also  due, Comrades,  to  that honest  Soviet specialist,

Chief Engineer Treukhov. We must thank him as well."

A search  for  Treukhov  was made, but he  was  not to  be  found.  The

representative  of the dairy co-operatives, who had been itching to have his

say, squeezed  through  to the front  of the platform, waved  his hand,  and

began speaking loudly  of  the international  situation. At the  end  of the

speech, both correspondents promptly jotted down, and they  listened  to the

feeble applause: "Loud applause turning into an ovation." They both wondered

whether "turning  into an ovation" wasn't too strong. The Muscovite made  up

his mind to cross it out. Flywheel sighed and left it.

The sun rapidly rolled  down an inclined plane.  Slogans resounded from

the platform, and the band  played a flourish. The  sky  became a vivid dark

blue and the meeting went on and on. Both the speakers and the listeners had

felt  for some time  that something was  wrong, that the meeting had gone on

much too long and that the tramway should be started up as soon as possible.

But they had all become so used to talking that they could not stop.

Treukhov was  finally found. He  was covered with dirt  and took a long

time to wash his face and hands before going on to the platform.

"Comrade Treukhov, chief engineer, will now say a few words," announced

Gavrilin jubilantly. "Well,  say something-I said all the wrong things,"  he

added in a whisper.

Treukhov wanted to  say a number  of things. About voluntary Saturdays,

the difficulties of his work, and about everything  that  had  been done and

remained to do. And there was  a  lot to be done: the town ought to do  away

with  the  horrible  market;  there  were  covered  glass  buildings  to  be

constructed; a permanent  bridge  could  be built  instead  of  the  present

temporary one, which was swept away each year by the ice drifts, and finally

there was the plan for a very large meat-refrigeration plant.

Treukhov opened  his  mouth and,  stuttering, began.  "Comrades  !  The

international position of our  country . . ." And then he went on  to burble

such boring truisms that the crowd, now listening to its sixth international

speech, lost interest.

It was only when he had finished that Treukhov realized he had not said

a  word  about the tramway.  "It's  a  shame," he said to  himself, "we have

absolutely no idea how to make speeches."

He remembered  hearing a speech by a French Communist at  a  meeting in

Moscow. The Frenchman was talking about the bourgeois press. "Those acrobats

of the pen, those virtuosos of farce, those jackals of the rotary press," he

exclaimed. The first  part of his speech had been delivered in the key of A,

the second in C, and the final part, the pathetique, had been  in the key of

E. His gestures were moderate and elegant.

"But  we  only  make a mess of things," decided Treukhov. "It would  be

better if we didn't talk at all."

It was  completely  dark when the chairman  of  the  province executive

committee  snipped  the  red  tape  sealing  off  the  depot.  Workers   and

representatives of public organizations noisily began taking  their seats in

the  trams.  There  was a  tinkling  of bells and the first tram, driven  by

Treukhov himself, sailed out of the depot to the  accompaniment of deafening

shouts from the crowd and groans from the band. The  illuminated cars seemed

even more dazzling than in the  daytime. They made their way through Gusishe

in  a line;  passing  under the railway bridge, they climbed easily into the

town  and  turned into Greater Pushkin Street. The  band was  in  the second

tramcar; poking their trumpets out  of  the windows they played the Budyonny

march.

Gavrilin,  in a conductor's  coat and with  a bag across his shoulders,

smiled tenderly as he  jumped from one car  to another, ringing the  bell at

the wrong time and handing out invitations to:

on May 1 at 9 p.m.

GALA EVENING

at the COMMUNAL SERVICES WORKERS' CLUB

Programme

1. Report by Comrade Mosin.

2. Award of certificates by the Communal Service Workers' Union.

3. Informal half: grand concert, family supper and bar.

On the  platform of the last car stood Victor Polesov, who had  somehow

or other been included among the guests  of honour. He sniffed the motor. To

his extreme surprise, it looked perfectly all right and seemed to be working

normally. The glass in  the  windows was not  rattling,  and, looking at the

panes closely, he saw that they were padded with rubber. He had already made

several comments to the driver and was now considered by the public to be an

expert on trams in the West.

"The  pneumatic brake isn't  working too well,"  said  Polesov, looking

triumphantly at the passengers. "It's not sucking!"

"Nobody asked  you," replied  the  driver. "It  will no  doubt suck all

right,"

Having  made a  festive round of  the town,  the  cars returned  to the

depot, where a crowd was  waiting for them. Treukhov  was tossed in  the air

beneath the full glare of electric lights. They also tried tossing Gavrilin,

but since he  weighed almost  216 pounds and did not  soar very high, he was

quickly set  down  again. Comrade Mosin and  various  technicians were  also

tossed. Victor  Polesov was then tossed  for the second time  that day. This

time he did not kick  with his  legs, but soared up and down, gazing sternly

and seriously at  the starry sky. As he soared up for the last time, Polesov

noticed that  the person holding him  by the  foot  and laughing nastily was

none other than the  former  marshal of  the  nobility, Ippolit  Matveyevich

Vorobyaninov. Polesov politely freed himself and went a short distance away,

still keeping the marshal in sight. Observing  that Ippolit  Matveyevich and

the  young  stranger  with  him,  clearly an  ex-officer,  were leaving,  he

cautiously started to follow them.

As soon as everything was over, and Comrade Gavrilin was sitting in his

lilac Fiat  waiting  for Treukhov to  issue final instructions so  that they

could then drive  together  to  the club,  a  Ford  station-wagon containing

newsreel cameramen drove up to the depot gates.

A  man wearing  twelve-sided horn-rimmed  spectacles  and  a sleeveless

leather coat  was  the first to spring nimbly  out  of the vehicle.  A  long

pointed beard grew straight  out of his  Adam's apple. A second man  carried

the camera and kept tripping over a long scarf of the kind that Ostap Bender

usually called chic moderne.  Next  came  assistants,  lights and girls. The

whole group tore into the depot with loud shouts.

"Attention!"  cried the bearded  owner  of the leather coat. "Nick, set

the lights up!"

Treukhov turned crimson and went over to the late arrivals.

"Are you the newsreel reporters?" he asked. "Why didn't you come during

the day? "

"When is the tramway going to be opened? "

"It has already been opened."

"Yes, yes, we are a little late. We came across some good nature shots.

There was loads of work. A sunset! But, anyway,  we'll manage. Nick, lights!

Close-up of  a turning  wheel. Close-up  of  the  feet of  the moving crowd.

Lyuda, Milochka, start walking! Nick, action! Off you go! Keep walking, keep

walking  !  That's  it,  thank  you!  Now we'll  take the  builder.  Comrade

Treukhov?  Would   you   mind,  Comrade   Treukhov?   No,   not  like  that.

Three-quarters. Like this, it's  more original!  Against a tram  . . . Nick!

Action! Say something! "

"I. . . I. . . honestly, I feel so awkward!"

"Splendid! Good! Say something else!  Now you're talking to  the  first

passenger. Lyuda, come into the picture! That's it.  Breathe  deeper, you're

excited!  .  . . Nick! A close-up  of their legs!  Action! That's it. Thanks

very much. Cut! "

Gavrilin clambered  out of the  throbbing Fiat and went  to  fetch  his

missing friend. The producer with the hairy Adam's apple came to life.

"Nick!  Over  here!  A  marvellous character type.  A  worker!  A  tram

passenger.  Breathe  deeper, you're excited! You've  never been  in  a  tram

before. Breathe! "

Gavrilin wheezed malevolently.

"Marvellous!  Milochka, come here! Greetings from  the Communist Youth!

Breathe deeper, you're excited! That's it! Swell! Nick, cut!"

"Aren't you going to film the tramway?" asked Treukhov shyly.

"You see," lowed the leather producer, "the lighting conditions make it

difficult. We'll have to fill in the shots in Moscow. 'Bye-'bye!"

The newsreel reporters disappeared quicker than lightning.

"Well,  let's  go and  relax, pal,"  said  Gavrilin. "What's this?  You

smoking!"

"I've begun smoking," confessed Treukhov. "I couldn't stop myself."

At the family gathering, the hungry Treukhov smoked one cigarette after

another,  drank  three  glasses  of  vodka,  and became hopelessly drunk. He

kissed everyone and  they kissed him. He tried to say  something nice to his

wife, but only burst into laughter. Then he shook Gavrilin's hand for a long

time and said:

"You're a strange one! You should learn to  build railway bridges. It's

a wonderful science, and the  chief thing is that  it's so simple.  A bridge

across the Hudson . . ."

Half an hour later he was  completely gone and made a Philippic against

the bourgeois press.

"Those acrobats of the press, those hyenas of the pen!  Those virtuosos

of the rotary printing machine!" he cried.

His wife took him home in a horse-cab.

"I want to go by tram," he said to his wife.  "Can't you understand? If

there's  a  tramway system, we should use  it.  Why? First, because it's  an

advantage!"

Polesov  followed  the concessionaires, spent  some  time mustering his

courage,  and  finally,  waiting until there was  no  one  about, went up to

Vorobyaninov.

"Good evening, Mr. Ippolit Matveyevich!" he said respectfully.

Vorobyaninov turned pale. "I don't think I know you," he mumbled.

Ostap   stuck  out   his   right   shoulder  and   went   up   to   the

mechanic-intellectual. "Come on  now, what is  it  that you want  to tell my

friend?"

"Don't be alarmed," whispered Polesov, "Elena Stanislavovna sent me."

"What! Is she here?"

"Yes, and she wants to see you."

"Why?" asked Ostap. "And who are you?"

"I . . . Don't you think anything of the sort, Ippolit Matveyevich. You

don't know me, but I remember you very well."

"I'd   like   to   visit  Elena   Stanislavovna,"   said   Vorobyaninov

indecisively.

"She's very anxious to see you."

"Yes, but how did she find out? "

"I  saw  you in  the  corridor  of the  communal  services building and

thought to myself for  a long time:  'I know that face.'  Then I remembered.

Don't  worry  about anything, Ippolit Matveyevich. It will all be absolutely

secret."

"Do you know the woman?" asked Ostap in a business-like tone.

"Mm . . . yes. An old friend."

"Then we might go  and have  supper with your  old friend. I'm famished

and all the shops are shut."

"We probably can."

"Let's go, then. Lead the way, mysterious stranger."

And  Victor  Mikhailovich,  continually  looking behind  him,  led  the

partners  through   the   back  yards  to  the   fortune-teller's  house  on

Pereleshinsky Street.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE ALLIANCE OF THE SWORD AND PLOUGHSHARE

When a woman grows old, many unpleasant things may happen to  her:  her

teeth may  fall out, her hair may  thin out and  turn grey, she  may  become

short-winded, she may unexpectedly  develop fat or  grow extremely thin, but

her  voice  never  changes.  It  remains  just as  it was  when  she  was  a

schoolgirl, a bride, or some young rake's mistress.

That was why Vorobyaninov trembled when Polesov knocked at the door and

Elena Stanislavovna  answered:  "Who's that?" His mistress's  voice  was the

same as it had been in 1899 just before the opening  of the Paris Fair.  But

as soon as he entered  the  room, squinting from  the glare of the light, he

saw that there was not a trace of her former beauty left.

"How you've changed," he said involuntarily.

The old woman threw  herself on to his neck. "Thank you,"  she said. "I

know  what you risk by coming  here  to see  me.  You're the same chivalrous

knight.  I'm not  going-  to  ask you  why you're here  from Paris. I'm  not

curious, you see."

"But  I haven't come from Paris  at all," said  Ippolit  Matveyevich in

confusion.

"My colleague  and  I  have come from  Berlin,"  Ostap  corrected  her,

nudging Ippolit Matveyevich, "but it's  not advisable to  talk about it  too

loudly."

"Oh, how pleased I am  to see you," shrilled the  fortune-teller. "Come

in here,  into this room. And I'm sorry, Victor Mikhailovich,  but  couldn't

you come back in half an hour?"

"Oh!" Ostap remarked. "The first meeting.  Difficult  moments! Allow me

to withdraw as well. May I come with you, dear Victor Mikhailovich?"

The  mechanic  trembled  with  joy.  They  both  went off  to Polesov's

apartment, where Ostap, sitting  on a piece of  one of  the gates  of No.  5

Pereleshinsky Street, outlined his phantasmagoric ideas for the salvation of

the motherland to the  dumbstruck artisan.  An  hour  later they returned to

find the old couple lost in reminiscence.

"And do you remember, Elena  Stanislavovna?"  Ippolit  Matveyevich  was

saying.

"And  do you remember,  Ippolit Matveyevich?"  Elena  Stanislavovna was

saying.

"The  psychological moment for supper  seems  to have arrived," thought

Ostap,  and,  interrupting  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  who  was  recalling   the

elections  to  the Tsarist  town council, said: "They  have  a  very strange

custom in Berlin. They eat so late that you can't tell whether it's an early

supper or a late lunch."

Elena  Stanislavovna  gave  a  start,   took   her  rabbit's  eyes  off

Vorobyaninov, and dragged herself into the kitchen.

"And now we must act, act, and act," said Ostap, lowering  his voice to

a conspiratorial whisper.  He took Polesov  by the  arm.  "The  old woman is

reliable, isn't she, and won't give us away?"

Polesov joined his hands as though praying.

"What's your political credo?"

"Always!" replied Polesov delightedly.

"You support Kirillov, I hope?"

"Yes, indeed." Polesov stood at attention.

"Russia will not forget you," Ostap rapped out.

Holding a pastry in his hand, Ippolit Matveyevich listened in dismay to

Ostap, but there was no holding the smooth operator. He was carried away. He

felt inspired and ecstatically  pleased at  this above-average blackmail. He

paced up and down like a leopard.

This was the state in which Elena Stanislavovna found him as she carted

in the  samovar from the kitchen. Ostap gallantly  ran over to her, took the

samovar without  stopping, and  placed  it on the table. The samovar  gave a

peep and Ostap decided to act.

"Madame," he said, "we are happy to see in you . . ."

He did not know whom he was happy to see in Elena Stanislavovna. He had

to  start again. Of all the flowery expressions of  the Tsarist regime, only

one kept coming to mind-"has graciously commanded". This was  out  of place,

so he began in a businesslike way.

"Strict secrecy. A  state secret." He pointed  to Vorobyaninov. "Who do

you  think this  powerful old man  is? Don't  say  you don't  know. He's the

master-mind,  the father  of Russian  democracy and  a person  close  to the

emperor."

Ippolit  Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height and goggled

in  confusion. He  had no  idea  of what  was happening,  but  knowing  from

experience that  Ostap Bender never  did anything  without good reason, kept

silent. Polesov was thrilled. He stood with his chin tucked in, like someone

about to begin a parade.

Elena Stanislavovna sat down in a chair and looked at Ostap in fright.

"Are there  many of us in the  town?" he asked  outright.  "What's  the

general feeling?"

"Given the absence .  . ." said Polesov, and began a muddled account of

his troubles. These included that conceited bum, the yard-keeper from no. 5,

the three-eighths-inch dies, the tramway, and so on.

"Good!" snapped  Ostap. "Elena Stanislavovna!  With your  assistance we

want to contact the best people in the town who have been forced underground

by a cruel fate. Who can we ask to come here?"

"Who can we ask! Maxim Petrovich and his wife."

"No women,"  Ostap  corrected  her.  "You  will  be  the only  pleasant

exception. Who else?"

From the discussion, in which Polesov also took an active part, it came

to light that they could ask Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov,  a former Tsarist

town councillor, who had now in some miraculous  way been raised to the rank

of a Soviet official; Dyadyev, owner of Fastpack; Kislarsky, chairman of the

Odessa  Roll  Bakery  of  the  Moscow Bun Artel; and two young  men who were

nameless but fully reliable.

"In that  case,  please  ask them  to  come here at once  for  a  small

conference. In the greatest secrecy."

Polesov  began speaking.  "I'll  fetch  Maxim  Petrovich,  Nikesha, and

Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna,  be so good as to run down to Fastpack

for Kislarsky."

Polesov  sped  off.  The  fortune-teller  looked  reverently at Ippolit

Matveyevich and also went off.

"What does this mean?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"It means," retorted Ostap, "that you're behind the times."

"Why?"

"Because! Excuse a vulgar question, but how much money do you have?"

"What money?"

"All kinds-including silver and copper."

"Thirty-five roubles."

"And I  suppose  you  intended  to  recover the  entire outlay  on  the

enterprise with that much money? "

Ippolit Matveyevich was silent.

"Here's the point, dear boss. I reckon you understand me. You will have

to be the master-mind and person close to the emperor for an hour or so."

"Why?"

"Because  we need capital.  Tomorrow's my wedding. I'm  not a beggar. I

want to have a good time on that memorable day."

"What do T have to do?" groaned Ippolit Matveyevich.

"You  have to keep quiet. Puff  out your  cheeks  now and then to  look

important."

"But that's. . .fraud!"

"Who are you  to talk-Count Tolstoy or Darwin?  That comes  well from a

man who was only yesterday preparing to break  into Gritsatsuyev's apartment

at night and steal her furniture.  Don't think too much. Just keep quiet and

don't forget to puff out your cheeks."

"Why  involve  ourselves in  such  a  dangerous business. We  might  be

betrayed."

"Don't worry  about that.  I don't  bet on poor  odds. We'll work it so

that none of them understands anything. Let's have some tea."

While the concessionaires were eating and drinking,  and the parrot was

cracking sunflower seeds, the guests began arriving at the apartment.

Nikesha and  Vladya came with  Victor Mikhailovich. He was  hesitant to

introduce the young men to the master-mind. They  sat  down in a  corner and

watched the father of Russian democracy eating cold veal. Nikesha and Vladya

were complete and utter  gawks.  Both were  in their late twenties and  were

apparently very pleased at being invited to the meeting.

Charusknikov, the former  Tsarist  town councillor, was a fat,  elderly

man. He gave Ippolit Matveyevich a prolonged handshake  and  peered into his

face.

Under  the  supervision  of  Ostap,  the  old-timers  began  exchanging

reminiscences.

As  soon  as the  conversation was moving  smoothly,  Ostap  turned  to

Charushnikov. "Which regiment were you in?"

Charushnikov  took a deep breath. "I . . . I . . . wasn't, so to speak,

in any, since I was entrusted with the confidence of society and was elected

to office."

"Are you a member of the upper class?"

"Yes, I was."

"I hope you still are. Stand firm! We shall need your help. Has Polesov

told you?  We will  be helped from abroad.  It's only a  question of  public

opinion. The organization is strictly secret. Be careful!"

Ostap chased Polesov away  from Nikesha and Vladya and  asked them with

genuine severity: "Which regiment were you in? You  will have  to serve your

fatherland.  Are you  members of  the upper class? Very good. The West  will

help us. Stand firm! Contributions-I mean the organization-will  be strictly

secret. Be careful!"

Ostap was on  form. Things seemed to be going well. Ostap led the owner

of Fastpack into a corner as soon as Elena Stanislavovna had introduced him,

advised  him to  stand firm, inquired  which  regiment he had served in, and

promised  him   assistance   from  abroad   and   complete  secrecy  of  the

organization.  The first  reaction of the owner of Fastpack was a  desire to

run away from the conspiratorial apartment as soon as possible. He felt that

his firm was too solvent to  engage in such a risky business.  But  taking a

look at Ostap's athletic figure, he hesitated and began thinking: "Supposing

. . . Anyway, it all depends on what kind of sauce this thing will be served

with."

The tea-party conversation livened up. Those initiated religiously kept

the secret and chatted about the town.

Last to arrive was citizen  Kislarsky, who, being neither a  member  of

the upper class nor a former guardsman, quickly sized up the situation after

a brief talk with Ostap.

"Stand firm!" said Ostap instructively.

Kislarsky promised he would.

"As a representative of private enterprise, you cannot ignore the cries

of the people."

Kislarsky saddened sympathetically.

"Do  you  know who  that is  sitting there?"  asked Ostap,  pointing to

Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Of course," said Kislarsky. "It's Mr. Vorobyaninov."

"That,"  said  Ostap,  "is  the  master-mind,  the  father  of  Russian

democracy and a person close to the emperor."

Two years' solitary confinement at best, thought  Kislarsky,  beginning

to tremble. Why did I have to come here?

"The  secret  Alliance of the  Sword and Ploughshare," whispered  Ostap

ominously.

Ten years, flashed through Kislarsky's mind.

"You can leave, by the way, but I warn you, we have a long reach." I'll

show  you, you son of a bitch, thought  Ostap. You'll not get away from here

for less than a hundred roubles.

Kislarsky became like marble.  That  day he had had  such a good, quiet

dinner of  chicken gizzards  and soup  with nuts, and  knew nothing  of  the

terrible "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare". He stayed. The words "long

reach" made an unfavourable impression on him.

"Citizens,"  said  Ostap, opening  the meeting, "life dictates  its own

laws,  its  own cruel  laws. I am not going to  talk about  the  aim of  our

gathering-you all know it. Our aim is sacred. From everywhere we hear cries.

From every corner of our huge  country people are calling for help.  We must

extend a helping hand and we will do so. Some of you have work and eat bread

and butter;  others earn on the side  and eat  caviar sandwiches. All of you

sleep in your own beds and wrap yourselves in warm blankets. It  is only the

young  children, the waifs  and  strays,  who  are not  looked  after. These

flowers of  the  street,  or, as the white-collar  proletarians  call  them,

'flowers in asphalt', deserve a better lot. We must help  them, gentlemen of

the jury, and, gentlemen of the jury, we will do so."

The  smooth  operator's  speech  caused different  reactions  among the

audience.

Polesov  could  not understand  his  young friend,  the guards officer.

"What children?" he wondered. "Why children?"

Ippolit Matveyevich did not even try to understand. He was utterly sick

and tired with the whole business and sat there in silence, puffing out  his

cheeks.

Elena Stanislavovna  became  melancholy.  Nikesha  and  Vladya gazed in

devotion at Ostap's sky-blue waistcoat.

The  owner  of Fastpack was extremely pleased. Nicely put,  he decided.

With that  sauce I might even contribute some  money. If  it's successful, I

get the  credit. If it's not,  I don't know anything about it. I just helped

the children, and that's all.

Charushnikov  exchanged a significant look with Dyadyev and, giving the

speaker his  due  for  conspiratorial ability, continued rolling  pellets of

bread across the table.

Kislarsky was in seventh heaven. What a brain,  he thought. He  felt he

had never loved waifs and strays as much as that evening.

"Comrades," Ostap continued, "immediate help is required.  We must tear

these  children from the clutches  of the street, and we will do so. We will

help  these children. Let us remember that they are  the  flowers of life. I

now invite you to make your contributions and help the children-the children

alone and no one else. Do you understand me? "

Ostap took a receipt book from his side pocket.

"Please make your contributions. Ippolit Matveyevich will  vouch for my

authority."

Ippolit Matveyevich puffed out his cheeks  and bowed his head. At this,

even the dopey Nikesha and Vladya, and the fidgety  mechanic, too,  realized

the point of Ostap's allusions.

"In  order of seniority, gentlemen," said Ostap. "We'll begin with dear

Maxim Petrovich."

Maxim Petrovich fidgeted and forced himself to give thirty roubles. "In

better times I'd give more," he declared.

"Better  times will soon  be  coming,"  said  Ostap. "Anyway,  that has

nothing to do with the children who I am at present representing."

Nikesha and Vladya gave eight roubles. "That's not much, young men."

The young men reddened. Polesov ran home  and brought back fifty. "Well

done, hussar,"  said  Ostap. "For  a  car-owning  hussar working by  himself

that's enough for the first time. What say the merchants?"

Dyadyev and Kislarsky haggled for some time and complained about taxes.

Ostap was unmoved. "I consider such talk  out of  place in the presence

of Ippolit Matveyevich."

Ippolit  Matveyevich bowed  his  head.  The merchants  contributed  two

hundred roubles each for the benefit of the children.

"Four hundred and eighty-five roubles in all," announced Ostap. "Hm . .

. twelve roubles short of a round figure."

Elena Stanislavovna, who  had been trying to stand firm for some  time,

went into  the  bedroom and  brought back the necessary twelve roubles  in a

bag.

The remaining part of the meeting was more subdued  and less festive in

nature. Ostap began to get frisky.  Elena Stanislavovna drooped  completely.

The guests gradually dispersed, respectfully taking leave of the organizers.

"You  will be  given special notice  of the date  of our next meeting,"

said Ostap  as they left. "It's  strictly  secret. The  cause must  be  kept

secret. It's also in your own interests, by the way."

At these words,  Kislarsky  felt the urge to give another fifty roubles

and not to come to any more meetings. He only just restrained himself.

"Right,"  said  Ostap, "let's get moving.  Ippolit Matveyevich,  you, I

hope, will take advantage of Elena Stanislavovna's hospitality and spend the

night here. It will be a  good thing for the conspiracy if we separate for a

time, anyway, as a blind. I'm off."

Ippolit Matveyevich was winking broadly, but Ostap pretended he had not

noticed and went out into the street. Having gone a block, he remembered the

five hundred honestly earned roubles in his pocket.

"Cabby! " he cried. "Take me to the Phoenix."

The cabby leisurely drove Ostap to a closed restaurant.

"What's this! Shut?"

"On account of May Day."

"Damn them! All the money in the world and nowhere to have a good time.

All right, then, take me to Plekhanov Street. Do you know it?"

"What was the street called before? " asked the cabby.

"I don't know."

"How can I get there? I don't know it, either."

Ostap nevertheless ordered him to drive on and find it.

For an  hour  and a half they cruised  around the dark  and empty town,

asking watchmen and militiamen the way. One militiaman racked his brains and

at length informed them that Plekhanov Street was none other than the former

Governor Street.

"Governor  Street!  I've been  taking  people  to  Governor  Street for

twenty-five years."

"Then drive there!"

They arrived at Governor Street, but  it turned out to be Karl Marx and

not Plekhanov Street.

The frustrated Ostap  renewed his search for the  lost  street, but was

not able to find  it. Dawn cast  a pale  light  on  the  face of the moneyed

martyr who had been prevented from disporting himself.

"Take me to the Sorbonne Hotel!" he  shouted.  "A fine  driver you are!

You don't even know Plekhanov! "

Widow Gritsatsuyev's palace glittered. At the head of the banquet table

sat the  King  of Clubs-the son  of a Turkish citizen. He  was  elegant  and

drunk. All the guests were talking loudly.

The  young bride  was no longer young. She was  at  least  thirty-five.

Nature  had  endowed  her  generously.  She  had  everything:  breasts  like

watermelons,  a bulging  nose, brightly coloured cheeks and a powerful neck.

She adored her new husband and was afraid of him. She did not therefore call

him by  his first name, or  by his patronymic, which she had not managed  to

find out, anyway, but by his surname-Comrade Bender.

Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting on his cherished chair. All through the

wedding  feast he bounced up and down, trying to  feel something hard.  From

time to time he did. Whenever this happened, the people present pleased him,

and he began shouting "Kiss the bride" furiously.

Ostap kept  making speeches and proposing toasts. They  drank to public

education and the irrigation of  Uzbekistan. Later on the  guests  began  to

depart. Ippolit Matveyevich lingered in the hall and whispered to Bender:

"Don't waste time, they're there."

"You're a moneygrubber," replied the drunken Ostap. "Wait for me at the

hotel. Don't go anywhere. I may  come at any  moment. Settle  the hotel bill

and have everything ready. Adieu, Field Marshal! Wish me good night!"

Ippolit Matveyevich did so and went back to the Sorbonne to worry.

Ostap turned up at five in the morning carrying the chair. Vorobyaninov

was speechless. Ostap put down the chair in the middle of  the room  and sat

on it.

"How did you manage it? " Vorobyaninov finally got out.

"Very simple. Family style. The widow was asleep and dreaming. It was a

pity to wake her. 'Don't wake her at dawn!' Too bad! I had to leave  a note.

'Going to Novokhopersk to make a  report. Won't be back to dinner. Your  own

Bunny.' And I  took the chair from the dining-room.  There aren't  any trams

running at this time of the morning, so I rested on the chair on the way."

Ippolit  Matveyevich  flung himself towards  the  chair with a burbling

sound.

"Go easy," said Ostap, "we must avoid making a  noise." He took  a pair

of pliers out of his pocket, and work soon  began to hum.  "Did you lock the

door?" he asked.

Pushing  aside  the impatient Vorobyaninov,  he  neatly  laid  open the

chair, trying not to damage the flowered chintz.

"This kind  of cloth isn't to be had  any more; it should be preserved.

There's a dearth of consumer goods and nothing can be done about it."

Ippolit Matveyevich was driven to a state of extreme irritation.

"There,"  said Ostap  quietly. He raised the covering  and groped among

the  springs with  both  his hands. The  veins  stood out like a  "V" on his

forehead.

"Well?" Ippolit  Matveyevich  kept repeating  in  various  keys. "Well?

Well?"

"Well  and well," said Ostap irritably. "One chance in eleven . . ." He

thoroughly examined the inside  of the chair and concluded: "And this chance

isn't ours."

He stood up  straight and  dusted his knees. Ippolit  Matveyevich flung

himself  on the  chair.  The  jewels  were not there.  Vorobyaninov's  hands

dropped, but Ostap was in good spirits as before.

"Our chances have now increased."

He began walking up and down the room.

"It doesn't matter.  The chair cost the widow twice as  much  as it did

us."

He took out of  his side pocket a gold brooch set with coloured stones,

a hollow bracelet  of  imitation gold,  half-a-dozen  gold teaspoons, and  a

tea-strainer.

In  his grief Ippolit Matveyevich  did not  even realize  that  he  had

become an accomplice in common or garden theft.

"A shabby trick," said Ostap, "but you must  agree I couldn't leave  my

beloved without something to remember her by.  However, we haven't  any time

to  lose. This  is  only the beginning.  The  end will  be in Moscow.  And a

furniture museum is not like a widow-it'll be a bit more difficult."

The partners  stuffed the pieces of the chair under the bed and, having

counted  their  money  (together  with the contributions  for the children's

benefit, they  had five  hundred  and  thirty-five  roubles),  drove to  the

station to catch the Moscow train.

They had to drive right across the town.

On Co-operative  Street they caught sight of  Polesov running along the

pavement like a startled  antelope. He was being pursued by  the yard-keeper

from  No. 5  Pereleshinsky  Street.  Turning the corner, the concessionaires

just had time  to  see the yard-keeper  catch him up  and begin bashing him.

Polesov was shouting "Help!" and "Bum!"

Until the train departed they sat  in  the gentlemen's to avoid meeting

the beloved.

The train whisked the friends towards the  noisy  capital. They pressed

against the window. The cars were speeding over Gusishe.

Suddenly Ostap let out a  roar and seized Vorobyaninov by  the  biceps.

"Look, look!" he cried. "Quick! It's Alchen, that son of a bitch!"

Ippolit  Matveyevich looked downward. At the bottom of the embankment a

tough-looking young  man  with  a moustache was pulling a wheelbarrow loaded

with a light-brown harmonium and five window frames. A shamefaced citizen in

a mouse-grey shirt was pushing the barrow from behind.

The sun forced its way through the dark clouds, and on the churches the

crosses glittered.

"Pashka! Going to market?"

Pasha  Emilevich raised his head but only saw  the  buffers of the last

coach; he began working even harder with his legs.

"Did you see that?" asked  Ostap delightedly. "Terrific! That's the way

to work! "

Ostap slapped the mournful Vorobyaninov on the back.

"Don't worry,  dad! Never  say die! The hearing  is continued. Tomorrow

evening we'll be in Moscow."

PART II

IN MOSCOW

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A SEA OF CHAIRS

Statistics know everything.

It has been calculated with precision how much  ploughland there is  in

the USSR, with subdivision into black earth, loam and loess. All citizens of

both sexes have been recorded in those neat, thick registers-so  familiar to

Ippolit  Matveyevich Vorobyaninov-the registry office ledgers.  It  is known

how much of a  certain food is consumed yearly by the average citizen in the

Republic.  It  is known  how  much vodka is imbibed as  an  average  by this

average citizen, with a rough indication of the titbits consumed with it. It

is known how many hunters, ballerinas, revolving lathes, dogs of all breeds,

bicycles, monuments, girls, lighthouses and sewing machines there are in the

country.

How much life, full of fervour, emotion  and thought, there is in those

statistical tables!

Who  is  this rosy-cheeked individual  sitting at a table with a napkin

tucked into his  collar and  putting away the  steaming  victuals with  such

relish? He  is surrounded with herds  of miniature bulls. Fattened pigs have

congregated  in one  corner  of the statistical  table. Countless numbers of

sturgeon,  burbot and chekhon  fish splash about  in  a special  statistical

pool. There are hens sitting on  the individual's head, hands and shoulders.

Tame geese, ducks  and turkeys  fly  through cirrus clouds. Two  rabbits are

hiding  under the table.  Pyramids  and  Towers  of Babel made of bread rise

above the horizon. A small fortress of  jam is washed by a river of  milk. A

pickle the  size of  the  leaning  tower of  Pisa  appears on  the  horizon.

Platoons of wines, spirits and  liqueurs  march behind  ramparts of salt and

pepper. Tottering along in  the rear in  a  miserable  bunch  come  the soft

drinks: the non-combatant soda waters, lemonades and wire-encased syphons.

Who is  this rosy-cheeked individual-a  gourmand and  a  tosspot-with a

sweet  tooth? Gargantua,  King  of the Dipsodes?  Silaf Voss? The  legendary

soldier, Jacob Redshirt? Lucullus?

It is not  Lucullus. It is Ivan  Ivanovich Sidorov or Sidor  Sidorovich

Ivanov-an average citizen who  consumes  all the victuals  described in  the

statistical table as an average throughout his life. He is a normal consumer

of calories and  vitamins, a quiet forty-year-old  bachelor, who works in  a

haberdashery and knitwear shop.

You  can never hide  from  statistics. They  have exact information not

only  on the number of dentists, sausage  shops, syringes, caretakers,  film

directors, prostitutes, thatched roofs, widows, cab-drivers and bells;  they

even know how many statisticians there are in the country.

But there is one thing that they do not know.

They do not know how many chairs there are in the USSR.

There are many chairs.

The  census calculated  the  population of  the  Union Republics  at  a

hundred  and forty-three  million people.  If we leave  aside ninety million

peasants  who prefer benches, boards and  earthen seats, and  in the east of

the country, shabby carpets and rugs, we still have fifty million people for

whom  chairs are  objects of prime  necessity in their everyday lives. If we

take  into account possible  errors in calculation and  the habit of certain

citizens  in the Soviet Union of sitting  on the fence,  and then halve  the

figure just in case, we find that there cannot be less than twenty-six and a

half million  chairs in the country. To  make the figure truer we  will take

off another six and  a  half million. The twenty million left is the minimum

possible number.

Amid this sea of chairs made of  walnut,  oak,  ash, rosewood, mahogany

and Karelian  birch,  amid  chairs made  of fir and pine-wood, the heroes of

this novel are to find  one Hambs walnut chair with curved  legs, containing

Madame Petukhov's treasure inside its chintz-upholstered belly.

The  concessionaires lay on the upper berths  still asleep as the train

cautiously  crossed the Oka river and, increasing  its speed, began  nearing

Moscow.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE BROTHER BERTHOLD SCHWARTZ HOSTEL

Leaning against one another, Ippolit Matveyevich and Ostap stood at the

open window  of the unupholstered railway  carriage and  gazed at  the  cows

slowly descending the  embankment, the pine needles and the  plank platforms

of the country stations.

The traveller's  stories had  all  been  told.  Tuesday's copy  of the,

Stargorod Truth had been read right through,  including  the advertisements,

and  was now covered in  grease spots. The chickens, eggs and olives had all

been consumed.

All that remained was the most  wearisome  lap of the journey -the last

hour before Moscow.

Merry  little country houses  came  bounding up to the  embankment from

areas of sparse woodland and clumps of  trees.  Some  of  them  were  wooden

palaces with verandahs of shining glass  and newly  painted iron roofs. Some

were  simple  log  cabins  with  tiny square  windows,  real  box-traps  for

holiday-makers.

While the passengers scanned the  horizon  with the air of  experts and

told each other  about the  history of Moscow, muddling up what they vaguely

remembered about  the battle  of  Kalka, Ippolit Matveyevich  was trying  to

picture the furniture museum. He imagined a tremendously long corridor lined

with chairs. He saw himself walking rapidly along between them.

"We still don't know what the museum will be like . . . how things will

turn out," he was saying nervously.

"It's time you had some shock treatment, Marshal. Stop having premature

hysterics! If you can't help suffering, at least suffer in silence."

The train bounced over the switches and the signals opened their mouths

as they watched it. The railway  tracks multiplied constantly and proclaimed

the approach of a huge junction. Grass  disappeared from  the sides and  was

replaced  by cinder;  goods trains whistled and  signalmen  hooted. The  din

suddenly  increased as  the train dived in between two lines of  empty goods

trucks and, clicking like a turnstile, began counting them off.

The tracks kept dividing.

The train  leapt out  of  the  corridor of trucks and the sun came out.

Down  below, by the very ground, point signals like  hatchets  moved rapidly

backward  and forward. There  came  a shriek  from  a turntable where  depot

workers were herding a locomotive into its stall.

The  train's  joints  creaked  as the  brakes  were  suddenly  applied.

Everything squealed and set Ippolit Matveyevich's teeth  on edge.  The train

came to a halt by an asphalt platform.

It was Moscow. It was Ryazan  Station, the freshest  and newest  of all

the Moscow termini.

None of  the eight other Moscow stations had  such vast, high-ceilinged

halls  as   the   Ryazan.  The  entire  Yaroslavl  station   with   all  its

pseudo-Russian heraldic  ornamentation  could easily have  fitted  into  the

large buffet-restaurant of the Ryazan.

The concessionaires  pushed their  way through to  the  exit and  found

themselves on Kalanchev Square. On their right towered the heraldic birds of

Yaroslavl Station. Directly in front of them was October Station, painted in

two colours dully reflecting the light. The clock showed  five past ten. The

clock  on top of the Yaroslavl said exactly ten o'clock.  Looking  up at the

Ryazan Station clock, with its zodiac dial, the travellers noted that it was

five to ten.

"Very convenient for dates," said Ostap. "You  always have ten minutes'

grace."

The coachman made a kissing  sound with his lips  and they passed under

the bridge. A majestic panorama of the capital unfolded before them.

"Where are we going, by the way?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked.

"To visit nice  people," Ostap replied. "There  are masses  of them  in

Moscow and they're all my friends."

"And we're staying with them?"

"It's  a hostel.  If we  can't  stay  with one, we  can  always  go  to

another."

On Hunter's Row there was  confusion.  Unlicensed hawkers were  running

about in disorder like geese, with their trays  on their heads. A militiaman

trotted along lazily after them. Some waifs  were sitting beside  an asphalt

vat, breathing in the pleasant smell of boiling tar.

They came  out  on  Arbat Square, passed  along Prechistenka Boulevard,

and, turning right, stopped in a small street called Sivtsev Vrazhek.

"What building is that?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked.

Ostap looked at  the  pink house with a projecting attic  and answered:

"The Brother Berthold Schwartz Hostel for chemistry students."

"Was he really a monk? "

"No, no I'm only joking. It's the Semashko hostel."

As befits  the normal run of student hostels in  Moscow,  this building

had long  been  lived  in by  people  whose connections  with chemistry were

somewhat remote.  The  students  had  gone  their  ways;  some of  them  had

completed  their  studies and gone off  to take  up  jobs, and some had been

expelled for failing their exams. It was the latter group  which, growing in

number  from   year  to  year,  had  formed  something   between  a  housing

co-operative  and a feudal settlement in the little pink house. In vain  had

ranks of freshmen sought to invade the hostel; the  ex-chemists  were highly

resourceful and repulsed all assaults. Finally the  house was  given up as a

bad  job  and  disappeared from  the housing programmes  of the Moscow  real

estate  administration. It was as though it had never existed. It did exist,

however, and there were people living in it.

The concessionaires went upstairs to the second floor and turned into a

corridor cloaked in complete darkness.

"Light and airy!" said Ostap.

Suddenly someone wheezed in the darkness, just by Ippolit Matveyevich's

elbow.

"Don't be alarmed,"  Ostap observed. "That wasn't in  the corridor, but

behind the  wall.  Plyboard,  as  you  know  from physics, is  an  excellent

conductor of sound. Careful!  Hold on to me! There should  be a cabinet here

somewhere."

The cry  uttered  at that moment by  Ippolit  Matveyevich as he hit his

chest against  a  sharp  steel corner showed that there was indeed a cabinet

there somewhere.

"Did  you  hurt  yourself?"  Ostap inquired.  "That's  nothing.  That's

physical pain. I'd hate to think how much mental suffering has gone on here.

There used to be a skeleton in here belonging to a student called Ivanopulo.

He bought it  at  the market, but was afraid  to keep  it  in  his  room. So

visitors first bumped into the cabinet and then the skeleton fell on top  of

them. Pregnant women were always very annoyed."

The partners wound their way up a spiral staircase to the  large attic,

which was divided  by plyboard partitions  into long slices  five feet wide.

The rooms  were like pencil boxes,  the  only difference being that  besides

pens and pencils they contained people and primus stoves as well.

"Are  you  there,  Nicky?" Ostap asked  quietly, stopping at  a central

door.

The response  was an  immediate stirring  and chattering  in  all  five

pencil boxes.

"Yes," came the answer from behind the door.

"That fool's guests have  arrived too early again!" whispered a woman's

voice in the last box on the left.

"Let a fellow sleep, can't you!" growled box no. 2.

There was a delighted hissing from the third box.

"It's the militia to see Nicky about that window he smashed yesterday."

No one spoke in the fifth pencil box;  instead came the hum of a primus

and the sound of kissing.

Ostap  pushed open  the door  with his foot. The whole of the  plyboard

erection gave a shake and the concessionaires entered Nicky's cell.

The scene that  met Ostap's  eye was horrible, despite all its  outward

innocence. The only furniture in the room was a red-striped mattress resting

on four bricks. But it was not that which disturbed Ostap, who had long been

aware  of the state of Nicky's furniture;  nor was he surprised to see Nicky

himself, sitting  on  the  legged  mattress. It  was the  heavenly  creature

sitting beside him who made Ostap's face cloud over immediately. Such  girls

never make good business  associates. Their eyes are too blue and the  lines

of  their necks too clean for  that sort of thing. They  make mistresses or,

what  is  worse,  wives-beloved wives. And,  indeed,  Nicky  addressed  this

creature as Liza and made funny faces at her.

Ippolit Matveyevich took off  his  beaver cap, and Ostap  led Nicky out

into the corridor, where they conversed in whispers for some time.

"A splendid morning, madam," said Ippolit Matveyevich.

The blue-eyed  madam  laughed  and, without  any  apparent  bearing  on

Ippolit Matveyevich's remark, began telling him what fools the people in the

next box were.

"They light the primus on purpose so  that they won't be heard kissing.

But think how silly that is. We can all hear.  The point is they  don't hear

anything themselves because of the primus. Look, I'll show you."

And Nicky's wife, who had mastered all the secrets of the primus stove,

said loudly: "The Zveryevs are fools!"

From behind the  wall came the infernal hissing of the primus stove and

the sound of kisses.

"You see! They can't hear  anything. The Zveryevs are fools, asses  and

cranks! You see!"

"Yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich.

"We don't have a  primus, though. Why? Because we eat at the vegetarian

canteen, although I'm against a vegetarian  diet. But  when Nicky and I were

married, he was longing for us to eat together in the vegetarian canteen, so

that's  why we go there. I'm actually  very fond of meat,  but all  you  get

there is rissoles made of noodles. Only please don't say anything to Nicky."

At this point Nicky and Ostap returned.

"Well, then,  since we definitely can't stay with you, we'll go and see

Pantelei."

"That's right,  fellows," cried Nicky, "go and see  Ivanopulo.  He's  a

good sport."

"Come and visit us," said Nicky's  wife. "My  husband and I will always

be glad to see you."

"There they go inviting  people again!" said an indignant voice in  the

last pencil box. "As though they didn't have enough visitors!"

"Mind your own business,  you fools, asses  and  cranks!"  said Nicky's

wife without raising her voice.

"Do you  hear that, Ivan Andreyevich?"  said an agitated  voice  in the

last box. "They insult your wife and you say nothing."

Invisible commentators  from the other boxes  added their voices to the

fray and the verbal  cross-fire increased. The partners went  downstairs  to

Ivanopulo.

The student  was  not at home. Ippolit  Matveyevich lit a match and saw

that  a note was pinned to the door. It read: "Will not be back before nine.

Pantelei".

"That's no  harm," said Ostap.  "I know  where  the key is." He  groped

underneath the cabinet, produced a key, and unlocked the door.

Ivanopulo's  room was exactly of the same size as Nicky's, but, being a

corner room, had one wall made of brick;  the student was very proud  of it.

Ippolit Matveyevich noted with dismay that he did not even have a mattress.

"This will do nicely," said Ostap. "Quite a  decent size for Moscow. If

we all three  lie on  the  floor, there  will even be some  room to spare. I

wonder what that son of a bitch, Pantelei, did with the mattress."

The window looked out on to a narrow street.  A  militiaman was walking

up and  down  outside the  little house opposite, built  in  the style of  a

Gothic tower, which housed the embassy of  a  minor  power. Behind  the iron

gates some people could be seen playing tennis. The white ball flew backward

and forward accompanied by short exclamations.

"Out!"  said  Ostap. "And  the standard of play  is not good.  However,

let's have a rest."

The  concessionaires  spread   newspapers  on  the  floor  and  Ippolit

Matveyevich brought out the cushion which he carried with him.

Ostap dropped down  on  to  the papers and  dozed off. Vorobyaninov was

already asleep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HAVE RESPECT FOR MATTRESSES, CITIZENS!

"Liza, let's go and have dinner!"

"I don't feel like it. I had dinner yesterday."

"I don't get you."

"I'm not going to eat mock rabbit."

"Oh, don't be silly!"

"I can't exist on vegetarian sausages."

"Today you can have apple pie."

"I just don't feel like it."

"Not so loud. Everything can be heard."

The young couple changed voices to a stage whisper.

Two minutes later Nicky realized for the  first time in three months of

married life that his beloved liked sausages of  carrots, potatoes, and peas

less than he did.

"So  you  prefer  dog  meat  to  a  vegetarian  diet,"   cried   Nicky,

disregarding the eavesdropping neighbours in his burst of anger.

"Not so loud, I say!" shouted Liza. "And then you're nasty  to me! Yes,

I do like meat. At times. What's so bad about that?"

Nicky said  nothing in  his amazement. This  was an unexpected turn  of

events.  Meat would  make an enormous,  unfillable  hole  in his budget. The

young  husband strolled  up  and  down  beside  the mattress  on  which  the

red-faced  Liza was sitting curled  up into a ball,  and made some desperate

calculations.

His job of tracing blueprints at the Technopower  design office brought

Nicky Kalachov no more than forty roubles,  even in the  best months. He did

not  pay any rent  for the apartment for there  was no housing  authority in

that jungle settlement and rent was an abstract concept. Ten roubles went on

Liza's dressmaking lessons. Dinner for the two of them (one first  course of

monastery beet soup and a second course of phoney rabbit or genuine noodles)

consumed  in  two  honestly  halved  portions  in  the  Thou-Shalt-Not-Steal

vegetarian canteen  took  thirteen  roubles  each  month  from  the  married

couple's budget. The rest of their money dwindled away  heavens knows where.

This  disturbed  Nicky most  of all. "Where does the  money go?" he  used to

wonder, drawing a thin line with a  special pen on sky-blue tracing paper. A

change to meat-eating under these  circumstances would  mean  ruin. That was

why Nicky had spoken so heatedly.

"Just  think  of eating the  bodies of dead animals. Cannibalism in the

guise of culture. All diseases stern from meat."

"Of  course  they  do,"  said  Liza  with modest  irony,  "angina,  for

instance."

"Yes, they do-including angina. Don't you believe  me? The organism  is

weakened  by  the  continual consumption of meat  and  is  unable to  resist

infection."

"How stupid!"

"It's not stupid. It's the stupid person who tries to stuff his stomach

full without bothering about the quantity of vitamins."

Nicky suddenly became quiet. An enormous pork chop had loomed up before

his inner eye, driving  the insipid,  uninteresting baked  noodles, porridge

and potato  nonsense further  and further into the  background. It seemed to

have  just come out of the pan. It was  sizzling, bubbling,  and giving  off

spicy fumes. The bone stuck out like the barrel of a duelling pistol.

"Try to understand," said Nicky, "a pork chop reduces a man's life by a

week."

"Let it," said  Liza. "Mock rabbit reduces  it by six months. Yesterday

when  we were eating  that carrot  entree I  felt I was going to die. Only I

didn't want to tell you."

"Why didn't you want to tell me?"

"I hadn't the strength. I was afraid of crying."

"And aren't you afraid now?"

"Now I don't care." Liza began sobbing.

"Leo  Tolstoy,"  said  Nicky  in  a  quavering  voice, "didn't eat meat

either."

"No," retorted  Liza,  hiccupping  through her  tears,  "the count  ate

asparagus."

"Asparagus isn't meat."

"But when he was writing War and Peace he did eat meat. He did! He did!

And  when  he was  writing Anna  Karenina  he  stuffed himself  and  stuffed

himself."

"Do shut up!"

"Stuffed himself! Stuffed himself!"

"And I suppose while he was writing The Kreutzer Sonata he also stuffed

himself?" asked Nicky venomously.

"The Kreutzer Sonata is short. Just imagine him trying to write War and

Peace on vegetarian sausages! "

"Anyway, why do you keep nagging me about your Tolstoy?"

"Me nag you about Tolstoy! I like that. Me nag you!"

There was  loud merriment in the pencil boxes. Liza hurriedly pulled  a

blue knitted hat on to her head.

"Where are you going?"

"Leave me alone. I have something to do."

And she fled.

"Where can she have gone?" Nicky wondered. He listened hard.

"Women like you have a lot of freedom under the Soviet regime," said  a

voice in the last pencil box on  the left.  "She's gone  to drown  herself,"

decided the third pencil  box. The  fifth pencil box  lit the primus and got

down to the routine kissing. Liza ran from street to street in agitation.

It  was that Sunday hour  when lucky people  carry mattresses along the

Arbat and from the market.

Newly-married couples and  Soviet farmers are the principal  purchasers

of spring mattresses. They carry them upright, clasping them with both arms.

Indeed, how can they help clasping those blue, shiny-flowered foundations of

their happiness!

Citizens!  have  respect for  a blue-flowered  spring mattress.  It's a

family hearth. The be-all and the end-all of furnishings and the essence  of

domestic  comfort;  a base for love-making; the  father of  the primus.  How

sweet it  is to sleep to the democratic hum of  its springs. What marvellous

dreams a man may have when he falls asleep on its blue hessian. How great is

the respect enjoyed by a mattress owner.

A man without a mattress is pitiful. He does not exist. He does not pay

taxes; he has  no wife; friends will not  lend him money "until  Wednesday";

cab-drivers  shout  rude words after him and girls laugh at him. They do not

like idealists.

People without mattresses largely write such verse as:

It's nice to rest in a rocking-chair

To the quiet tick of a Bouret clock.

When snow flakes swirling fill the air

And the daws pass, like dreams, In a flock.

They compose the verse at high desks in  the post  office, delaying the

efficient mattress owners who come to send telegrams.

A  mattress  changes  a  man's  life.  There is  a  certain attractive,

unfathomed force hidden in its  covering and springs. People and things come

together  to the alluring ring of its  springs. It  summons  the  income-tax

collector and girls.  They both want to be friends with the1 mattress owner.

The  tax collector  does  so for fiscal reasons and  for  the benefit of the

state, and the girls do so unselfishly, obeying the laws of nature.

Youth  begins  to  bloom.  Having collected  his  tax  like a bumblebee

gathering spring honey,  the tax  collector flies away  with a joyful hum to

his district hive. And the fast-retking girls are replaced by a wife  and  a

Jewel No. 1 primus.

A mattress is insatiable.  It demands sacrifices. At night it makes the

sound  of a bouncing  ball. It needs a bookcase. It needs a table with thick

stupid  legs. Creaking its  springs,  it demands drapes, a door curtain, and

pots and pans for the kitchen. It shoves people and says to them:

"Goon! Buy a washboard and rolling-pin!"

"I'm ashamed of you, man. You haven't yet got a carpet."

"Work! I'll soon give  you children. You need  money for nappies and  a

pram."

A mattress remembers and does everything in its own way.

Not even a poet  can escape the common lot. Here he comes, carrying one

from the market, hugging it to his soft belly with horror.

"I'll break  down your resistance,  poet," says the mattress.  "You  no

longer need  to run to the post  office to  write poetry. And, anyway, is it

worth  writing? Work and the balance will always  be  in your  favour. Think

about your wife and children!"

"I haven't  a wife," cries  the  poet, staggering back  from his sprung

teacher.

"You will have! But I don't guarantee she will be the loveliest girl on

earth. I don't even know whether she will be kind. Be prepared for anything.

You will have children."

"I don't like children."

"You will."

"You frighten me, citizen mattress."

"Shut up, you fool.  You  don't know  everything.  You'll  also  obtain

credit from the Moscow woodworking factory."

"I'll kill you, mattress!"

"Puppy! If you dare to, the neighbours will denounce you to the housing

authority."

So  every Sunday lucky people cruise around Moscow to the joyful  sound

of mattresses.  But  that is not the only  thing, of  course,  which makes a

Moscow Sunday. Sunday is museum day.

There is a  special  group of people  in  Moscow who know nothing about

art,  are  not  interested  in  architecture,  and do  not  like  historical

monuments.  These  people visit  museums solely  because they are  housed in

splendid buildings.  These people stroll through  the  dazzling rooms,  look

enviously at the frescoes, touch the things they are requested not to touch,

and mutter continually:

"My, how they used to live!"

They are not concerned with the  fact that the murals were  painted  by

the Frenchman Puvis de Chavannes. They are only concerned with how much they

cost the  former  owner of the  house. They go  up  staircases  with  marble

statues  on the landings and try to imagine how many footmen  used to  stand

there,  what wages were  paid to  them, and how much they received in  tips.

There is china on the mantelpiece,  but they disregard  it and decide that a

fireplace  is not such a good thing, as it  uses up a  lot  of wood. In  the

oak-panelled dining-room they do not examine the wonderful carving. They are

troubled by  one thought: what used the  former merchant-owner  to eat there

and how much would it cost at present prices.

People like this can be found in any museum.  While the conducted tours

are cheerfully moving from one work of art  to  another, this kind of person

stands in the middle of the room and, looking in front of him, sadly moans:

"My, how they used to live!"

Liza ran along the street, stifling her tears. Her thoughts spurred her

on. She was thinking about her poor, unhappy life.

"If  we  just  had a table and two more chairs, it would be  fine.  And

we'll have a primus in the long run. We must get organized."

She  slowed  down,  suddenly  remembering   her  quarrel   with  Nicky.

Furthermore,  she felt  hungry. Hatred for her husband suddenly welled up in

her.

"It's simply disgraceful," she said aloud.

She felt even more hungry.

"Very well, then, I know what I'll do."

And Liz blushingly bought a slice of  bread and sausage  from a vendor.

Hungry as she was, it was awkward eating in the street. She  was, after all,

a mattress-owner and understood the subtleties of life. Looking around,  she

turned into the entrance to a large two-storeyed house. Inside, she attacked

the  slice  of  bread  and  sausage  with  great  avidity.  The  sausage was

delicious.  A  large  group  of tourists entered the doorway. They looked at

Liza by the wall as they passed.

Let them look! decided the infuriated girl.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE FURNITURE MUSEUM

Liza wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and brushed the crumbs off her

blouse. She felt happier. She was standing in front of a notice that read:

MUSEUM OF FURNITURE-MAKING

To return home would be awkward. She  had  no one she could go and see.

There were twenty kopeks in her pocket. So Liza decided to begin her life of

independence with a visit to the museum. Checking her cash in hand, she went

into the lobby.

Inside  she immediately bumped into a  man  with a shabby beard who was

staring  at  a  malachite column  with  a grieved expression  and  muttering

through his moustache:

"People certainly lived well!"

Liza looked respectfully at the column and went upstairs.

For  ten minutes or so she  sauntered through small  square rooms  with

ceilings so low that people entering them looked like giants.

The rooms  were furnished in the  style of  the period of Emperor  Paul

with mahogany  and Karelian birch furniture  that was  austere, magnificent,

and militant. Two square dressers, the doors of which were crisscrossed with

spears, stood  opposite a writing  desk.  The  desk was  vast. Sitting at it

would have been like sitting at  the Theatre Square with the Bolshoi Theatre

with its colonnade and four bronze horses  drawing Apollo to the first night

of "The Red Poppy"  as an inkwell. At least, that is how it  seemed to Liza,

who was being reared on carrots like a rabbit. There were high-backed chairs

in the corners of the room with tops twisted to resemble the horns of a ram.

The sunshine lay on their peach-coloured covers.

The chairs looked very inviting, but it was forbidden to sit on them.

Liza made a mental comparison to see how a priceless Empire chair would

look beside her red-striped mattress. The result was not too bad.  She  read

the plate on the wall which gave a  scientific and ideological justification

of the period, and,  regretting that she  and Nicky  did not  have a room in

this  palatial  building,  went  out,  unexpectedly  finding  herself  in  a

corridor.

Along the left-hand-side, at floor  level,  was a line  of semicircular

windows. Through them Liza could see below her a huge columned hall with two

rows of large windows. The  hall was  also full of  furniture, and  visitors

strolled about inspecting it. Liza stood still.  Never before had she seen a

room under her feet.

Marvelling and  thrilling at the sight, she stood for some  time gazing

downward. Suddenly she noticed the friends she had made that day, Bender and

his travelling companion, the distinguished-looking old man with the  shaven

head; they were moving from the chairs towards the desks.

"Good," said Liza. "Now I won't be so bored."

She brightened  up considerably, ran downstairs,  and immediately  lost

her way. She  came  to a  red drawing-room in which there were  about  forty

pieces of furniture. It was walnut furniture with curved  legs. There was no

exit  from the drawing-room, so she had to run back through a circular  room

with windows  at the  top,  apparently  furnished with nothing but  flowered

cushions.

She  hurried past Renaissance  brocade chairs,  Dutch dressers, a large

Gothic bed with a canopy resting on four twisted columns. In a bed like that

a person would have looked no larger than a nut.

At length Liza heard the  drone of a batch of tourists as they listened

inattentively to  the guide unmasking the imperialistic designs of Catherine

II in connection with the deceased empress's love of Louis Quinze furniture.

This  was in fact the large  columned  hall with the two  rows of large

windows. Liza made  towards  the far  end, where  her  acquaintance, Comrade

Bender, was talking heatedly to his shaven-headed companion.

As she approached, she could hear a sonorous voice saying:

"The furniture is chic moderne, but not apparently what we want."

"No,  but there  are  other rooms as well. We  must examine  everything

systematically."

"Hello!" said Liza.

They both turned around and immediately frowned.

"Hello, Comrade Bender. I'm glad I've found you. It's boring by myself.

Let's look at everything together."

The  concessionaires exchanged  glances. Ippolit Matveyevich  assumed a

dignified air, although  the  idea  that  Liza  might delay  their important

search for the chair with the jewels was not a pleasant one.

"We are typical provincials," said Bender impatiently. "But how did you

get here, Miss Moscow?"

"Quite by accident. I had a row with Nicky."

"Really?" Ippolit Matveyevich observed.

"Well, let's leave this room," said Ostap.

"But I haven't looked at it yet. It's so nice."

"That's done  it!" Ostap  whispered  to Vorobyaninov.  And,  turning to

Liza, he  added:  "There's  absolutely  nothing to  see here.  The style  is

decadent. The Kerensky period."

"I'm  told  there's  some  Hambs  furniture  somewhere  here,"  Ippolit

Matveyevich declared. "Maybe we should see that."

Liza  agreed  and,  taking  Vorobyaninov's   arm  (she  thought  him  a

remarkably  nice  representative of science), went towards the exit. Despite

the  seriousness of the  situation, at this decisive  moment in the treasure

hunt, Bender  laughed good-humouredly as he walked behind the couple. He was

amused at the chief of the Comanche in the role of a cavalier.

Liza was a  great hindrance to  the concessionaires. Whereas they could

determine at a glance whether or  not the room contained  the furniture they

were after,  and if  not, automatically make for the next,  Liza  browsed at

length in  each section. She read all the printed tags, made cutting remarks

about the  other visitors, and dallied at  each exhibit. Completely  without

realizing it, she was mentally adapting all the furniture she saw to her own

room and  requirements. She did not like the Gothic bed  at all. It  was too

big. Even if Nicky in some miraculous way acquired a room six yards  square,

the mediaeval couch would still not fit into it. Liza walked round and round

the bed, measuring  its true area  in paces. She was very happy. She did not

notice the sour faces of her companions, whose chivalrous  natures prevented

them from heading for the Hambs room at full pelt.

"Let's be patient," Ostap whispered. "The furniture won't run away. And

don't squeeze the girl, Marshal, I'm jealous!" Vorobyaninov laughed smugly.

The rooms went on  and on. There was no  end to them. The furniture  of

the Alexander  period  was  displayed in batches. Its relatively  small size

delighted Liza.

"Look,  look!"  she cried, seizing Ippolit  Matveyevich by  the sleeve.

"You see that bureau? That would suit our room wonderfully, wouldn't it?"

"Charming furniture," said Ostap testily. "But decadent." "I've been in

here already," said Liza as she entered the red drawing-room. "I don't think

it's worth stopping here."

To   her  astonishment,   the   indifferent  companions  were  standing

stock-still by the door like sentries.

"Why have you stopped? Let's go on. I'm tired."

"Wait," said Ippolit Matveyevich, freeing his arm. "One moment."

The large room was  crammed  with furniture. Hambs chairs were arranged

along the  wall and  around  a  table.  The  couch in  the  corner  was also

encircled by chairs. Their curved legs and comfortable backs were excitingly

familiar  to  Ippolit  Matveyevich.   Ostap  looked  at  him  questioningly.

Vorobyaninov was flushed.

"You're tired, young lady," he said to Liza. "Sit down here a moment to

rest  while  he and I  walk around a bit.  This seems to  be an  interesting

room."

They sat Liza down. Then the concessionaires went over to the window.

"Are they the ones?" Ostap asked.

"It looks like it. I must have a closer look."

"Are they all here?"

"I'll  just count them. Wait a moment." Vorobyaninov began shifting his

eyes from one  chair to another. "Just a second," he said at length. "Twenty

chairs! That can't be right. There are only supposed to be twelve."

"Take a good look. They may not be the right ones."

They began walking among the chairs.

"Well?" Ostap asked impatiently.

"The back doesn't seem to be the same as in mine."

"So they aren't the ones?"

"No, they're not."

"What a waste of time it was taking up with you!"

Ippolit Matveyevich was completely crushed.

"All right,"  said  Ostap, "the hearing is continued.  A chair isn't  a

needle in a haystack. We'll find it.  Give me  the orders.  We will  have to

establish unpleasant contact with the museum  curators. Sit  down beside the

girl and wait. I'll be back soon."

"Why are you so depressed?" asked Liza, "Are you tired?"

Ippolit Matveyevich tried not to answer.

"Does your head ache?"

"Yes, slightly. I have worries,  you know. Lack  of a woman's affection

has an effect on one's tenor of life."

Liza  was at first  surprised, and  then,  looking at  her  bald-headed

companion,  felt  truly sorry for  him.  Vorobyaninov's  eyes  were full  of

suffering. His pince-nez could not hide the sharply outlined bags underneath

them. The rapid change from the quiet life of a clerk in a district registry

office  to  the uncomfortable,  irksome  existence  of a  diamond hunter and

adventurer had left its mark. Ippolit Matveyevich had become extremely  thin

and  his  liver  had started  paining  him.  Under the strict supervision of

Bender he was losing his  own personality  and rapidly being absorbed by the

powerful intellect of the son  of a Turkish citizen. Now  that he  was  left

alone for a minute with the charming Liza, he felt an urge to tell her about

his trials and tribulations, but did not dare to do so.

"Yes," he said, gazing tenderly at  his companion, "that's  how  it is.

How are you, Elizabeth. . ."

"Petrovna. And what's your name?"

They exchanged names  and  patronymics. "A tale of  true love," thought

Ippolit Matveyevich, peering into Liza's simple face. So passionately and so

irresistibly  did  the   old  marshal  want  a  woman's  affection  that  he

immediately  seized  Liza's  tiny hand  in his own  wrinkled hands and began

talking  enthusiastically of Paris. He wanted to be  rich,  extravagant  and

irresistible. He wanted to captivate a beauty  from  the all-women orchestra

and drink champagne with her in a private dining-room to the sound of music.

What  was the  use of talking  to a girl who knew absolutely  nothing  about

women's orchestras or  wine,  and  who  by  nature would not appreciate  the

delights of  that  kind of  life?  But  he  so much wanted to be attractive!

Ippolit Matveyevich enchanted Liza  with his  account of Paris.  "Are  you a

scientist?" asked Liza.

"Yes, to a certain extent,", replied  Ippolit Matveyevich, feeling that

since first meeting Bender  he had  regained some of the  nerve  that he had

lost in recent years.

"And how old are you, if it's not an indiscreet question?"

"That  has  nothing  to do  with  the  science  which  I am at  present

representing."

Liza  was  squashed  by the prompt and apt reply. "But,  anyway-thirty,

forty, fifty?"

"Almost. Thirty-seven."

"Oh! You look much younger."

Ippolit Matveyevich felt happy.  "When will you give me the pleasure of

seeing you again? " he asked through his nose.

Liza  was  very  ashamed.  She  wriggled about  on  her seat  and  felt

miserable. "Where has Comrade Bender got to?" she asked in a thin voice.

"So when,  then?" asked Vorobyaninov impatiently. "When and where shall

we meet?"

"Well, I don't know. Whenever you like."

"Is today all right?"

"Today?"

"Please!"

"Well, all right. Today, if you like. Come and see us."

"No, let's meet outside.  The weather's so wonderful at present. Do you

know the poem 'It's mischievous May, it's magical May, who is waving his fan

of freshness'?"

"Is that Zharov?"

"Mmm . . . I think so. Today, then? And where?"

"How strange you are. Anywhere you like. By the cabinet if you want. Do

you know it? As soon as it's dark."

Hardly had Ippolit Matveyevich time to kiss  Liza's hand, which he  did

solemnly  and  in  three  instalments,  when Ostap  returned.  He  was  very

businesslike.

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he said quickly, "but my friend and I cannot

see you home.  A small  but important  matter  has  arisen. We  have  to  go

somewhere urgently."

Ippolit Matveyevich caught his breath.  "Good-bye, Elizabeth Petrovna,"

he said hastily. "I'm very, very sorry, but we're in a terrible hurry."

The  partners  ran  off, leaving  the astonished  Liza in  the room  so

abundantly furnished with Hambs chairs.

"If it weren't for me," said Ostap as they went downstairs, "not a damn

thing would get done. Take your hat off to me!  Go on! Don't be afraid! Your

head won't  fall off!  Listen! The museum has no use for your furniture. The

right  place  for  it is  not  a  museum, but the  barracks of a  punishment

battalion. Are you satisfied with the situation?"

"What nerve!"  exclaimed  Vorobyaninov, who had begun to  free  himself

from the other's powerful intellect.

"Silence!" said Ostap  coldly. "You don't know what's happening.  If we

don't get hold of your furniture, everything's lost. We'll never  see  it. I

have just had a depressing conversation with the curator of  this historical

refuse-dump."

"Well, and what did he say,"  cried Ippolit  Matveyevich, "this curator

of yours? "

"He said all he  needed to. Don't worry. Tell me,' I said to him,  'how

do  you explain the fact that the  furniture requisitioned in  Stargorod and

sent  to your  museum  isn't here?" I asked him  politely,  of course, as  a

comrade.  'Which  furniture?'  he  asks. 'Such things  do  not  occur  in my

museum.' I immediately shoved the orders under his  nose. He began rummaging

in the  files. He  searched for  about half  an hour and finally  came back.

Well,  guess  what  happened  to  the  furniture!"  "Not  lost?  "  squeaked

Vorobyaninov.

"No, just imagine! Just imagine, it remained safe and sound through all

the confusion.  As I told you, it  has no museum  value.  It was dumped in a

storehouse  and  only  yesterday, mind  you,  only  yesterday,  after  seven

years-it had been in the storehouse seven years-it was sent to be auctioned.

The auction is  being  held  by  the  chief  scientific  administration. And

provided  no  one bought it  either  yesterday or this morning,  it's ours."

"Quick!" Ippolit Matveyevich shouted. "Taxi! "Ostap yelled.

They got in without even arguing about the price. "Take your hat off to

me! Don't  be  afraid, Hofmarshal! Wine,  women and cards  will be provided.

Then we'll settle for the light-blue waistcoat as well."

As  friskily  as foals, the concessionaires  tripped into  the Petrovka

arcade where the auction rooms were located.

In  the first auction room they caught sight of what they had long been

chasing. All ten chairs  were lined along the wall.  The  upholstery had not

even become darker, nor had it faded or been in any way  spoiled. The chairs

were as  fresh and  clean  as when  they  had first  been  removed from  the

supervision  of  the zealous Claudia Ivanovna.  "Are  those the ones?" asked

Ostap.

"My God,  my God," Vorobyaninov kept repeating. "They're the ones.  The

very ones. There's no doubt this time."

"Let's make certain, just in case," said Ostap, trying to remain calm.

They went up to an auctioneer.

"These chairs are from the furniture museum, aren't they? "

"These? Yes, they are."

"And they're for sale?"

"Yes."

"At what price?"

"No price yet. They're up for auction."

"Aha! Today?"

"No. The auction has finished for today. Tomorrow at five."

"And they're not for sale at the moment? "

"No. Tomorrow at five."

They could not leave the chairs at once, just like that.

"Do you mind if we have a look at them?" Ippolit Matveyevich stammered.

The concessionaires examined  the chairs at great length, sat on  them,

and, for the sake of appearances, looked at the other lots. Vorobyaninov was

breathing hard and kept nudging Ostap.

"Take your hat off to me, Marshal!"

Ippolit Matveyevich was not only prepared to take his hat off to Ostap;

he was even ready to kiss the soles of his crimson boots.

"Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow," he kept saying.

He felt an urge to sing.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

VOTING THE EUROPEAN WAY

While the friends were  leading a cultured  and  edifying way of  life,

visiting museums and making passes at girls, the  double-widow Gritsatsuyev,

a fat and feeble woman, was consulting and conspiring with her neighbours in

Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.

They examined the note left by Bender in groups, and even held it up to

the  light.  But  it  had no watermark,  and even  if it had, the mysterious

squiggles of the splendid Ostap would not have been any clearer.

Three days passed. The horizon remained clear. Neither  Bender, the tea

strainer, the imitation-gold bracelet, nor the chair returned. These animate

and inanimate objects had all disappeared in the most puzzling way.

The widow then decided to take drastic measures. She went to the office

of  the Stargorod Truth, where they briskly  concocted for her the following

notice:

MISSING FROM HOME.  I implore anyone knowing  the whereabouts  of  Com.

Bender  to inform me. Aged 25-30, brown  hair, last  seen dressed in a green

suit,  yellow  boots and a blue waistcoat. Information  on the above  person

will be adequately rewarded. Gritsatsuyev, 15 Plekhanov St.

"Is he your son?" they asked sympathetically in the office.

"Husband!" replied the martyr, covering her face with a handkerchief.

"Your husband!"

"Why not? He's legal."

"Nothing. You ought really to go to the militia."

The  widow was alarmed.  She was terrified  of the  militia. She  left,

accompanied by curious glances.

Three  times  did the columns  of the  Stargorod Truth  send out  their

summons, but  the great land  was  silent. No one came forward who  knew the

whereabouts of a brown-haired man in  yellow  boots. No one  came forward to

collect the adequate reward. The neighbours continued to gossip.

People became used  to  the Stargorod tramway  and rode  on it  without

trepidation. The conductors shouted "Full up" in fresh voices and everything

proceeded as though the trams had been going since the  time of St. Vladimir

the  Red Sun.  Disabled  persons of all  categories,  women and children and

Victor  Polesov  sat at the front of the cars. To the cry of "Fares  please"

Polesov used to  answer "Season" and remain next to the  driver. He did  not

have a season ticket, nor could he have had one.

The sojourn of Vorobyaninov and the smooth operator left a deep imprint

on the town.

The conspirators  carefully  kept the secret  entrusted to  them.  Even

Polesov  kept  it, despite  the fact  that he  was dying  to blurt  out  the

exciting  secret to the first person he met.  But  then, remembering Ostap's

powerful  shoulders,  he stood  firm.  He  only  poured  out  his  heart  in

conversations with the fortune-teller.

"What do you think,  Elena Stanislavovna?" he  would  ask.  "How do you

explain the absence of our leaders? "

Elena  Stanislavovna   was  also  very   intrigued,  but  she  had   no

information.

"Don't you  think,  Elena  Stanislavovna,"  continued the indefatigable

mechanic, "that they're on a special mission at present?"

The fortune-teller was convinced that this was the case. Their  opinion

was apparently shared by the parrot in the red underpants as well. It looked

at Polesov with a round, knowing eye as if to say: "Give me  some  seeds and

I'll tell  you all about  it. You'll be governor, Victor. All the  mechanics

will be  in your charge.  And  the  yard-keeper from  no. 5 will  remain  as

before- a conceited bum."

"Don't  you  think  we  ought   to  carry   on   without   them,  Elena

Stanislavovna? Whatever happens, we can't sit around doing nothing."

The  fortune-teller agreed  and  remarked:  "He's  a hero,  our Ippolit

Matveyevich."

"He is a hero,  Elena Stanislavovna, that's  clear. But what about  the

officer   with  him?  A   go-getting  fellow.  Say  what  you   like,  Elena

Stanislavovna, but things can't go on like this. They definitely can't."

And Polesov  began to act. He made regular visits to all the members of

the secret society "Sword  and Ploughshare", pestering Kislarsky, the  canny

owner of the Odessa Roll Bakery of  the Moscow Bun  artel, in particular. At

the sight of Polesov, Kislarsky's face darkened. And his talk of the need to

act drove the timid bun-maker to distraction.

Towards  the week-end they all met at Elena Stanislavovna's in the room

with the parrot. Polesov was bursting with energy.

"Stop blathering, Victor," said the clear-thinking Dyadyev. "What  have

you been careering round the town for days on end for?"

"We must act!" cried Polesov.

"Act yes, but  certainly not shout. This is  how  I see the  situation,

gentlemen. Once Ippolit Matveyevich has spoken, his words are sacred. And we

must assume we haven't long to wait.  How it will  all  take place, we don't

need  to know;  there are  military people to take care of that. We are  the

civilian  contingent-  representatives  of   the  town  intelligentsia   and

merchants. What's important for us? To be ready. Do we have anything?  Do we

have a centre? No.  Who will  be governor  of the town? There's no  one. But

that's the main  thing, gentlemen. I don't think the British will  stand  on

ceremony with the Bolsheviks. That's our first sign. It will all change very

rapidly, gentlemen, I assure you."

"Well,  we don't doubt that in the least,"  said Charushnikov,  puffing

out his cheeks.

"And a very good thing you don't. What do you think, Mr. Kislarsky? And

you, young men?"

Nikesha  and Vladya  both looked absolutely  certain of a rapid change,

while Kislarsky happily nodded assent, having gathered from what the head of

Fastpack had said that he  would  not be required to participate directly in

any  armed clashes. "What are  we to do?" asked Polesov impatiently. "Wait,"

said  Dyadyev. "Follow  the  example of  Mr. Vorobyaninov's  companion.  How

smart! How shrewd! Did you notice how quickly he got around to assistance to

waifs and  strays?  That's  how  we should  all act. We're only  helping the

children. So, gentlemen, let's nominate our candidates."

"We  propose  Ippolit  Matveyevich  Vorobyaninov   as  marshal  of  the

nobility," exclaimed the young Nikesha and Vladya.

Charushnikov coughed condescendingly. "What do  you mean!  Nothing less

than a minister for him. Higher, if you like. Make him a dictator."

"Come, come, gentlemen," said Dyadyev, "a marshal  is the last thing to

think about. We need a governor. I think. . ."

"You, Mr. Dyadyev," cried  Polesov ecstatically. "Who else  is there to

take the reins in our province."

"I am most flattered by  your confidence ..  ." Dyadyev began,  but  at

this point Charushnikov, who had suddenly turned pink, began to speak.

"The question, gentlemen," he said in a strained voice,  "ought to have

been aired."

He tried not to look at Dyadyev.

The owner of Fastpack also looked at his boots, which had wood shavings

sticking to them.

"I don't object,"  he said. "Let's put it to the vote. Secret ballot or

a show of hands? "

"We  don't need to  do it  in the Soviet style," said Charushnikov in a

hurt voice. "Let's vote in an honest European way, by secret ballot."

They  voted  on  pieces  of  paper. Dyadyev  received  four  votes  and

Charushnikov two. Someone had abstained. It was clear from  Kislarsky's face

that he was the one. He did not  wish to spoil his relations with the future

governor, whoever he might be.

When Polesov  excitedly  announced the results of  the-honest  European

ballot,  there  was  silence  in  the  room.  They  tried  not  to  look  at

Charushnikov. The unsuccessful candidate for governor sat in humiliation.

Elena Stanislavovna felt very  sorry  for him, as  she had voted in his

favour. Charushnikov obtained his second vote by voting for himself; he was,

after all, well versed in electoral procedure.

"Anyway,  I propose  Monsieur Charushnikov  as mayor,"  said the kindly

Elena Stanislavovna immediately.

"Why 'anyway'?"  asked the magnanimous governor. "Not anyway,  but  him

and no  one  else.  Mr. Charushnikov's public activity is well known  to  us

all."

"Hear, hear I" they all cried.

"Then we can consider the election accepted?"

The humiliated Charushnikov  livened up and even tried to protest. "No,

no, gentlemen,  I request a vote. It's even more  necessary  to vote  for  a

mayor  than  for  a  governor.  If  you wish  to  show  me  your confidence,

gentlemen, I ask  you to hold  a ballot." Pieces  of  paper poured  into the

empty   sugar-bowl.    "Six   votes   in   favour   and   one   abstention."

"Congratulations,  Mr. Mayor," said Kislarsky, whose face gave  away that he

had abstained this time, too. "Congratulations !'

Charushnikov swelled with pride.

"And now it only remains to take some refreshment, Your Excellency," he

said  to Dyadyev.  "Polesov, nip down to the October  beer-hall. Do you have

any money?"

Polesov  made  a  mysterious  gesture  with  his hand and  ran off. The

elections were temporarily adjourned and resumed after supper.

As  ward of  the educational  region they  appointed  Raspopov,  former

headmaster of  a private school,  and now a second-hand book  dealer. He was

greatly praised. R was only Vladya who  protested  suddenly, after his third

glass of vodka.

"We  mustn't  elect  him.  He  gave  me  bad  marks  in  logic  at  the

school-leaving exams." They all went for Vladya.

"At such a decisive hour, you must not think of your own good. Think of

the fatherland."

They brainwashed Vladya so quickly that he even voted in favour of  his

tormentor. Raspopov was elected by six votes with one abstention.

Kislarsky  was  offered  the post  of  chairman  of the  stock-exchange

committee. He did not object, but abstained during the voting just in case.

Drawing  from  among  friends  and relations, they elected  a  chief of

police, a head of the assay office, and a customs and excise inspector; they

filled  the  vacancies of regional  public  prosecutor, judge,  clerk of the

court,  and  other  law  court officials;  they appointed  chairmen for  the

Zemstvo  and merchants'  council,  the children's  welfare  committee,  and,

finally,  the shop-owners' council. Elena  Stanislavovna was elected ward of

the Drop-of-Milk  and White-Flower  societies.  On account  of  their youth,

Nikesha  and  Vladya  were appointed  special-duty  clerks attached  to  the

governor.

"Wait a minute," exclaimed Charushnikov suddenly. "The governor has two

clerks,  and  what about  me?"  "A  mayor is  not entitled  to  special-duty

clerks." "Then give me a secretary."

Dyadyev consented. Elena Stanislavovna also had something to say.

"Would it be possible,"  she said,  faltering,  "I know  a young man, a

nice and well-brought-up boy. Madame Cherkesov's son. He's a very, very nice

and clever  boy. He  hasn't a job  at present  and has to keep going  to the

employment office.  He's  even a  trade-union member. They promised to  find

work for him in  the union. Couldn't you take him?  His mother would be very

grateful."

"It  might be  possible," said Charushnikov graciously.  "What  do  you

think, gentlemen? All right. I think that could be arranged."

"Right, then-that seems to be about all," Dyadyev observed.

"What about me?" a high-pitched, nervous voice suddenly said.

They all turned around. A very upset Victor Polesov was standing in the

corner next to the  parrot. Tears  were bubbling  on his black  eyelids. The

guests  all felt  very  ashamed,  remembering that  they  had  been drinking

Polesov's vodka  and  that he was basically  one of  the  organizers  of the

Stargorod branch of the Sword and Ploughshare.

Elena Stanislavovna seized her head and gave a horrified screech.

"Victor Mikhailovich!"  they all gasped.  "Pal! Shame  on you! What are

you doing in the corner? Come out at once."

Polesov  came  near.  He  was  suffering.  He  had  not  expected  such

callousness from his fellow-members of the Sword and Ploughshare.

Elena  Stanislavovna was unable to  restrain  herself. "Gentlemen," she

said, "this is awful. How could you  forget Victor Mikhailovich, so dear  to

us  all?" She  got  up  and  kissed  the  mechanic-aristocrat  on  his sooty

forehead. "Surely Victor Mikhailovich is worthy of being a ward  or a police

chief."

"Well, Victor Mikhailovich," asked the governor, "do  you want to  be a

ward?"

"Well of course,  he  would make a splendid,  humane  ward," put in the

mayor, swallowing a mushroom and frowning.

"But what about Raspopov? You've already nominated Raspopov."

"Yes, indeed, what shall we do with Raspopov?"

"Make him a fire chief, eh?"

"A fire chief!" exclaimed Polesov, suddenly becoming excited.

A vision  of fire-engines, the glare of lights, the  sound of the siren

and the drumming of hoofs suddenly flashed through his mind. Axes glimmered,

torches  wavered, the ground heaved, and black dragons carried him to a fire

at the town theatre.

"A fire chief! I want to be a fire chief!"

"Well, that's fine. Congratulations! You're now the fire chief."

"Let's drink to the  prosperity of the fire brigade," said the chairman

of the stock-exchange committee sarcastically.

They all went for him.

"You were always left-wing! We know you!"

"What do you mean, gentlemen, left-wing?"

"We know, we know I"

"Left-wing!"

"All Jews are left-wing I"

"Honestly, gentlemen, I don't understand such jokes."

"You're left-wing, don't try to hide it!"

"He dreams about Milyukov at night."

"Cadet! You're a Cadet."

"The Cadets sold Finland," cried Charushnikov suddenly.

"And took money from the Japanese. They split the Armenians."

Kislarsky could not endure the  stream of groundless accusations. Pale,

his eyes blazing, the chairman of  the stock-exchange committee grasped hold

of his chair and said in a ringing voice:

"I was  always a  supporter of the Tsar's  October  manifesto and still

am."

They began to sort out who belonged to which party.

"Democracy  above  all,   gentlemen,"  said   Charushnikov.  "Our  town

government must be democratic."

"But without Cadets! They did the dirty on us in 1917."

"I  hope,' said  the governor acidly, "that there aren't any  so-called

Social Democrats among us."

There  was   nobody   present  more   left-wing  than  the  Octobrists,

represented at the meeting by Kislarsky. Charushnikov declared himself to be

the  "centre".  The  extreme  right-wing  was  the  fire  chief.  He was  so

right-wing that he did not know which party he belonged to.

They talked about war.

"Any day now," said Dyadyev.

"There'll be a war, yes, there will."

"I advise stocking up with a few things before it's too late."

"Do you think so?" asked Kislarsky in alarm.

"Well, what  do  you  think?  Do you suppose  you  can  get anything in

wartime? Flour would disappear from the market right away. Silver coins will

vanish  completely. There'll be all sorts of paper currency, and stamps will

have the same value as banknotes, and all that sort of thing."

"War, that's for sure."

"You  may  think  differently, but  I'm spending all  my  spare cash on

buying up essential commodities," said Dyadyev.

"And what about your textile business? "

"Textiles can  look  out for  themselves, but  the  flour and sugar are

important."

"That's what I advise you. I urge you, even."

Polesov laughed derisively.  "How can the Bolsheviks fight? What  with?

What will they  fight  with?  Old-fashioned rifles.  And  the  Air  Force? A

prominent communist told me that they only have  . . . well, how many planes

do you think they have?"

"About two hundred."

"Two  hundred? Not  two hundred, but thirty-two. And France has  eighty

thousand fighters."

It was past midnight when they all went home.

"Yes, indeed. They've got the Bolsheviks worried."

The  governor   took  the  mayor   home.  They  both  walked  with   an

exaggeratedly even pace.

"Governor!" Charushnikov was  saying. "How can you be  a  governor when

you aren't even a general!"

"I shall be a  civilian  governor. Why, are  you jealous? I'll jail you

whenever I want. You'll have your fill of jail from me."

"You can't jail me. I've been elected and entrusted with authority."

"They prefer elected people in jail."

"Kindly  don't  try to  be  funny,"  shouted  Charushnikov for all  the

streets to hear.

"What are you shouting for, you fool?"  said the governor. "Do you want

to spend the night in the police station?"

"I can't spend  the night in the police station,"  retorted  the mayor.

"I'm a government employee."

A star  twinkled. The night  was enchanting.  The  argument between the

governor and the mayor continued down Second Soviet Street.

CHAPTER TWENTY

FROM SEVILLE TO GRANADA

Wait a minute  now, where is Father Theodore? Where is the shorn priest

from the Church of St. Frol and St.  Laurence? Was he not about to go to see

citizen  Bruns  at 34  Vineyard Street?  Where  is that  treasure-seeker  in

angel's clothing and sworn enemy of Ippolit Vorobyaninov, at present cooling

his heels in the dark corridor by the safe.

Gone is Father  Theodore. He has been  spirited  away. They  say he was

seen at Popasnaya station on the Donets railway, hurrying along the platform

with a teapot full of hot water.

Greedy  is Father Theodore. He wants  to be  rich. He is chasing  round

Russia in  search of the furniture belonging to General  Popov's wife, which

does not contain a darn thing, to tell the truth.

He  is on his way through Russia. And all he does  is write letters  to

his wife:

Letter -from Father Theodore

written from Kharkov Station to his wife

in the district centre of N.

My Darling Catherine Alexandrovna,

I owe you an apology. I have left you alone, poor thing, at a time like

this. I must tell you everything. You will understand and, I hope, agree.

It was not,  of course, to join the new church movement that I  went. I

had no intention of doing so, God forbid!

Now read this carefully. We shall soon  begin  to live differently. You

remember I told  you about the  candle factory. It will be ours, and perhaps

one or two other things  as  well. And you won't have to cook your own meals

or have boarders any more. We'll go to Samara and hire servants.

I'm on to something, but you must keep it absolutely secret: don't even

tell Marya Ivanovna. I'm looking for treasure.  Do you remember the deceased

Claudia  Ivanovna,  Vorobyaninov's  mother-in-law?  Just  before her  death,

Claudia Ivanovna disclosed to me that her  jewels were hidden in  one of the

drawing-room chairs (there are twelve of them) at her house in Stargorod,

Don't think, Katey,  that I'm just a common thief.  She bequeathed them

to  me  and  instructed me  not to  let  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  her lifelong

tormentor, get them. That's why I left so suddenly, you poor thing.

Don't condemn me.

I went to Stargorod, and what do you think-that old woman-chaser turned

up as well. He had found out. He must have tortured the old woman before she

died. Horrible man! And there was some criminal travelling with him: he  had

hired himself a  thug. They fell upon me and tried to get rid of me. But I'm

not one to be trifled with: I didn't give in.

At  first I  went off on  a  false track.  I  only found one  chair  in

Vorobyaninov's house (it's  now a  home for pensioners); I  was carrying the

chair to my room in the Sorbonne Hotel when  suddenly  a man came around the

corner roaring like a lion  and rushed  at me, seizing  the chair. We almost

had a fight. He wanted to shame me. Then I looked closely and who was it but

Vorobyaninov. Just imagine, he  had  cut off  his  moustache and shaved  his

head, the crook. Shameful at his age.

We broke open the chair, but  there was nothing there. It was not until

later  that  I realized  I was on the wrong track. But at that moment  I was

very distressed.

I felt outraged and I told that old libertine the truth to his face.

What a disgrace, I said, at your age. What mad things are  going on  in

Russia nowadays when a marshal of the nobility pounces on  a minister of the

church like  a lion  and rebukes him for not being in the  Communist  Party.

You're  a  low fellow,  I said, you  tormented Claudia Ivanovna and you want

someone else's property-which is now state-owned and no longer his.

He was ashamed and went away-to the brothel, I imagine.

So I went back to my  room in the Sorbonne and started to make plans. I

thought of something  that  bald-headed fool  would never have dreamed of. I

decided to find  the person who had distributed the requisitioned furniture.

So you see,  Katey,  I  did  well  to study law at college: it has served me

well.  I found the person in question the  next day. Bartholomeich,  a  very

decent old man. He lives quietly with his grandmother and works hard to earn

his living. He  gave me all the documents. It's true I had to reward him for

the service. I'm now  out of  money (I'll come  to that). It turned out that

all twelve  chairs from Vorobyaninov's  house went to engineer Bruns  at  34

Vineyard Street. Note  that  all the chairs went to  one person, which I had

not expected (I was afraid the chairs might  have gone to different places).

I was  very  pleased at this.  Then I met  that wretch  Vorobyaninov  in the

Sorbonne  again. I gave him a good talking  to and  didn't spare his friend,

the thug, either. I was very afraid they might find out my secret,  so I hid

in the hotel until they left.

Bruns turned  out to have  moved from  Stargorod to Kharkov in 1922  to

take up an appointment. I learned  from the  caretaker that he had taken all

his furniture and was looking after  it very  carefully. He's said  to  be a

shrewd person.

I'm now sitting in  the station at Kharkov and writing for this reason:

first, I love you very much and keep thinking of  you, and, second, Bruns is

no longer here.  But don't despair. Bruns is  now working in  Rostov  at the

New-Ros-Cement plant. I have just enough  money for the fare. I'm leaving in

an  hour's time  on  a  mixed passenger-goods  train. Please  stop  by  your

brother-in-law's, my sweet, and get fifty roubles from him (he owes it to me

and promised to pay)  and send it to:  Theodore Ivanovich Vostrikov, Central

Post Office, Rostov, to await  collection. Send  a money  order  by post  to

economize. It will cost thirty kopeks.

What's the news in the town?

Has  Kondratyevna  been to see you? Tell Father Cyril that I'll be back

soon and that I've gone to see my  dying aunt in Voronezh. Be economical. Is

Evstigneyev  still having  meals? Give  him my regards. Say I've gone to  my

aunt.

How's  the weather? It's already summer here  in Kharkov. A noisy city,

the centre  of  the  Ukrainian Republic. After the provinces it's like being

abroad.

Please do the following:

(1)  Send my summer cassock to the cleaner (it's  better to spend Rs. 3

on cleaning than waste money on buying a new one); (2) look  after yourself;

and (3) when you write to Gulka, mention casually that I've gone to Voronezh

to see my aunt.

Give everyone my regards. Say I'll be back soon.

With tender kisses and blessings, Your husband,

Theo.

P.S. Where can Vorobyaninov be roving about at the moment?

Love dries a man up. The bull lows with desire. The rooster cannot keep

still. The marshal of the nobility loses his appetite.

Leaving  Ostap and the student Ivanopulo in a bar,  Ippolit Matveyevich

made his way  to the little pink house and took up his stand by the cabinet.

He could hear the sound of trains  leaving  for Castille  and the  splash of

departing steamers.

As in far-off Alpujarras

The golden mountains fade

His heart was  fluttering like a  pendulum. There was a ticking in  his

ears.

And guitars strum out their summons

Come forth, my pretty maid.

Uneasiness spread along the  corridor.  Nothing could thaw  the cold of

the cabinet.

From Seville to Granada

Through the stillness of the night-

Gramophones droned in the pencil boxes. Primuses hummed like bees.

Comes the sound of serenading

Comes the ring of swords in fight.

In  short,  Ippolit Matveyevich  was head over heels in love  with Liza

Kalachov.

Many people  passed Ippolit Matveyevich  in the corridor, but  they all

smelled  of  either tobacco, vodka,  disinfectant, or  stale  soup.  In  the

obscurity of  the  corridor  it was possible to distinguish people  only  by

their smell or  the heaviness of their tread. Liza  had not come by. Ippolit

Matveyevich was sure of that.  She did not smoke, drink vodka, or wear boots

with  iron  studs. She could not have smelled of iodine  or cod's-head.  She

could only exude the tender  fragrance  of  rice pudding or tastily prepared

hay, on which Mrs. Nordman-Severov  fed the famous painter Repin for such  a

long time.

And then he heard  light, uncertain footsteps. Someone was coming  down

the corridor, bumping into its elastic walls and murmuring sweetly.

"Is that you, Elizabeth Petrovna? " asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Can you tell me where the Pfefferkorns live?" a deep voice replied. "I

can't see a damn thing in the dark!"

Ippolit  Matveyevich said nothing in his alarm.  The Pfefferkorn-seeker

waited for an answer but, not getting one, moved on, puzzled.

It was nine  o'clock before Liza  came. They  went out into  the street

under a caramel-green evening sky.

"Where shall we go?" asked Liza.

Ippolit Matveyevich looked  at her pale, shining  face and, instead  of

saying  "I   am  here,  Inezilla,   beneath  thy  window,"  began  to   talk

long-windedly and tediously about the  fact  that  he had not been in Moscow

for a  long  time  and  that  Paris was  infinitely better than the  Russian

capital, which was always a large, badly planned village, whichever way  you

turned it.

"This isn't  the Moscow I remember,  Elizabeth Petrovna. Now  there's a

stinginess  everywhere. In  my day we spent  money like water. 'We only live

once.' There's a song called that."

They walked the length of Prechistenka Boulevard and came out on to the

embankment by the Church of Christ the Saviour.

A  line  of  black-brown fox  tails  stretched  along the far  side  of

Moskvoretsk  Bridge. The  power stations were  smoking  like  a  squadron of

ships. Trams rattled  across  the bridge and boats  moved  up  and  down the

river. An accordion was sadly telling its tale.

Taking  hold of  Ippolit  Matveyevich's  hand, Liza  told him about her

troubles: the  quarrel  with  her  husband, the  difficulty of  living  with

eavesdropping neighbours, the ex-chemists, and  the monotony of a vegetarian

diet.

Ippolit Matveyevich listened and began thinking. Devils were aroused in

him.  He visualized a  wonderful supper. He decided  he must  in some way or

other make an overwhelming impression on the girl.

"Let's go to the theatre," he suggested.

"The cinema would be better," said Liza, "it's cheaper."

"Why think of money? A night like this and you worry about the cost!"

The devils in him threw prudence to  the wind, set the couple in a cab,

without haggling about the  fare, and took them  to  the Ars cinema. Ippolit

Matveyevich was splendid. He bought  the  most expensive seats. They did not

wait  for the show to finish, however. Liza was used to cheaper seats nearer

the screen and could not see so well from the thirty-fourth row.

In his pocket Ippolit Matveyevich  had half  the sum  obtained  by  the

concessionaires from the  Stargorod conspirators. It was a  lot of money for

Vorobyaninov,  so unaccustomed to luxury. Excited by  the  possibility of an

easy  conquest,  he  was  ready  to  dazzle  Liza  with  the  scale  of  his

entertaining. He considered himself admirably equipped for this, and proudly

remembered how easily he had once won the  heart of Elena Bour.  It was part

of his nature to  spend money  extravagantly and showily. He had been famous

in Stargorod for his good manners and ability to converse with any woman. He

thought  it  would  be  amusing  to  use  his  pre-revolutionary  polish  on

conquering  a little  Soviet  girl, who  had  never  seen anything  or known

anything.

With  little  persuasion  Ippolit Matveyevich  took Liza  to the Prague

Restaurant, the  showpiece of the Moscow  union  of consumer societies;  the

best place in Moscow, as Bender used to say.

The  Prague  awed  Liza by the copious mirrors, lights and flower-pots.

This was excusable; she had never before  been in a restaurant of this kind.

But the mirrored room unexpectedly awed Ippolit Matveyevich, too. He was out

of  touch and  had  forgotten about the  world of restaurants.  Now he  felt

ashamed of his baronial boots with  square toes, pre-revolutionary trousers,

and yellow, star-spangled waistcoat.

They  were  both embarrassed and  stopped suddenly at the sight of  the

rather motley public.

"Let's go  over  there in the corner," suggested Vorobyaninov, although

there  were tables free just by the stage, where the orchestra was  scraping

away at the stock potpourri from the "Bayadere".

Liza  quickly agreed, feeling that  all eyes  were upon her. The social

lion and lady-killer,  Vorobyaninov,  followed  her  awkwardly.  The  social

lion's shabby trousers drooped baggily from his thin behind. The lady-killer

hunched  his shoulders and began  polishing his pince-nez  in an attempt  to

cover up his embarrassment.

No  one took their  order. Ippolit Matveyevich  had not expected  this.

Instead  of gallantly  conversing with his lady, he remained silent, sighed,

tapped the  table  timidly with  an ashtray,  and coughed incessantly.  Liza

looked around her  with curiosity; the silence became unnatural. But Ippolit

Matveyevich could not think of anything to  say.  He  had forgotten what  he

usually said in such cases.

"We'd like to order," he called to waiters as they flew past.

"Just coming, sir," cried the waiters without stopping.

A menu  was  eventually brought, and Ippolit Matveyevich buried himself

in it with relief.

"But veal cutlets are two twenty-five, a fillet is two twenty-five, and

vodka is five roubles," he mumbled.

"For five roubles  you get  a  large decanter,  sir," said the  waiter,

looking around impatiently.

"What's  the matter with  me?"  Ippolit  Matveyevich-asked  himself  in

horror. "I'm making myself ridiculous."

"Here you are,"  he  said  to Liza  with belated courtesy, "you  choose

something. What would you like? "

Liza felt ashamed. She  saw how haughtily the waiter was looking at her

escort, and realized he was doing something wrong.

"I'm not at all hungry," she said in  a shaky voice. "Or wait, have you

anything vegetarian?"

"We don't serve vegetarian dishes. Maybe a ham omelette? "

"All  right, then,"  said Ippolit Matveyevich, having made up his mind,

"bring  us   some  sausages.  You'll  eat  sausages,  won't  you,  Elizabeth

Petrovna?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Sausages, then.  These at  a  rouble twenty-five each. And a bottle of

vodka."

"It's served by the decanter."

"Then a large one."

The public-catering employee gave the defenceless Liza a knowing look.

"What will you have with the vodka? Fresh caviar? Smoked salmon?"

The registry-office  employee continued to rage in Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Nothing," he said rudely. "How much are the salted gherkins? All right, let

me have two."

The waiter hurried away and  silence  reigned once  more at the  table.

Liza was the first to speak.

"I've never been here before. It's very nice."

"Ye-es," said  Vorobyaninov slowly, working  out the cost of  what they

had ordered.  "Never mind," he thought, "I'll drink some vodka and loosen up

a bit. I feel so awkward at the moment."

But when he had drunk the vodka and accompanied it with  a gherkin,  he

did  not loosen  up, but  rather  became  more  gloomy. Liza did  not  drink

anything. The tension continued. Then someone else approached the table and,

looking tenderly at Liza, tried to sell them flowers.

Ippolit  Matveyevich pretended not  to  notice the  bewhiskered  flower

seller, but he kept  hovering near the table. It was quite impossible to say

nice things with him there.

They were saved for a while by the cabaret. A well-fed man in a morning

coat and patent-leather shoes came on to the stage.

"Well, here we are again,"  he  said  breezily, addressing the  public.

"Next on our programme  we have the  well-known Russian folk-singer  Barbara

Godlevsky."

Ippolit Matveyevich  drank his  vodka and said nothing. Since  Liza did

not drink and kept wanting to  go home,  he had to hurry to finish the whole

decanter.

By the time the singer had been  replaced by an entertainer in a ribbed

velvet shirt, who came on to the stage and began to sing:

Roaming,

You're always roaming

As though with all the life outside

Your appendix will be satisfied,

Roaming,

Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .

Ippolit Matveyevich was already well in his cups and, together with all

the other  customers in the  restaurant,  whom half an  hour earlier  he had

considered rude  and  niggardly Soviet thugs,  was clapping  in  time to the

music and joining in the chorus:

Roaming,

Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .

He kept jumping  up and  going  to  the  gentlemen's  without  excusing

himself.  The  nearby  tables  had  already begun calling  him "daddy",  and

invited him over for a glass of beer. But he  did not go. He suddenly became

proud and suspicious. Liza stood up determinedly.

"I'm going. You stay.  I can go home by myself." "Certainly not I As  a

member of the upper class I cannot allow that.

"Carport! The bill! Bums!"

Ippolit Matveyevich stared at the bill for some  time, swaying  in  his

chair.

"Nine  roubles, twenty kopeks," he muttered. "Perhaps you'd  also  like

the key of the apartment where the money is."

He ended  up  by being  marched downstairs  by the  arm. Liza could not

escape, since the social lion had the cloakroom ticket.

In the  first side  street Ippolit  Matveyevich leaned against Liza and

began to paw her. Liza fought him off.

"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it! Stop it!"

"Let's go to a hotel," Vorobyaninov urged.

Liza freed herself with difficulty and, without taking aim, punched the

lady-killer on the nose. The pince-nez with the gold  nose-piece fell to the

ground  and,  getting in the way of  one of the  square-toed baronial  boots

broke with a crunch.

The evening breeze

Sighs through the trees

Choking back her tears, Liza ran home down Silver Lane.

Loud and fast

Flows the

Gualdalquivir.

The blinded Ippolit Matveyevich trotted off in  the opposite direction,

shouting "Stop! Thief!"

Then he cried for a long time and, still  weeping, bought a full basket

of  bagels  from an old woman. Reaching the  Smolensk market,  now empty and

dark, he walked up and down  for some time, throwing the bagels all over the

place like a sower sowing seed. As he went, he shouted in a tuneless voice:

Roaming,

You're always roaming,

Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .

Later on he befriended  a taxi-driver, poured out his heart to him, and

told him in a muddled way about the jewels.

"A gay old gentleman," exclaimed the taxi-driver.

Ippolit  Matveyevich was  really  in  a gay mood,  but the  gaiety  was

clearly of a rather reprehensible nature, because he woke up at about eleven

the next day in  the  local police-station. Of the two hundred  roubles with

which  he had  shamefully begun  his night of enjoyment and debauchery, only

twelve remained.

He felt like death. His spine ached, his liver hurt, and his  head felt

as if he had a lead  pot on top of  it. But the most awful thing was that he

could not remember how and  where he could have spent so much  money. On the

way home he had to stop at the  optician's to have new lenses fitted in  his

pince-nez.

Ostap  looked  in  surprise  at   the  bedraggled  figure  of   Ippolit

Matveyevich for some  time  but  said  nothing.  He  was cold and  ready for

battle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PUNISHMENT

The auction was due to  begin at five o'clock. Citizens were allowed in

to inspect the lots at four. The friends arrived  at three o'clock and spent

a whole hour looking at a machine-building exhibition next door.

"It looks as though by tomorrow,"  said Ostap, "given good will on both

sides, we ought to be able  to buy that little locomotive. A pity there's no

price tag on it. It's nice to own your own locomotive."

Ippolit  Matveyevich was in a highly nervous  state.  The chairs  alone

could console him.

He  did not  leave  them  until the moment  the  auctioneer,  in  check

trousers and a beard reaching  to his Russian covert-coat tunic, mounted the

stand.

The concessionaires took their places in the  fourth row on the  right.

Ippolit Matveyevich began to get very excited.  He  thought the chairs would

be sold at  once,  but they were  actually the third  item  on the list, and

first came the usual auction junk: odd pieces of dinner services embellished

with coats  of  arms;  a  sauce  dish;  a  silver  glass-holder;  a  Petunin

landscape; a  bead  handbag;  a  brand-new  primus burner; a  small  bust of

Napoleon; linen  brassieres;  a  tapestry "Hunter shooting  wild  duck", and

other trash.

They  had to be  patient and  wait. It was hard to wait when the chairs

were all there; their goal was within reach.

"What  a rumpus there'd  be," thought Ostap, "if they  knew what little

goodies were being sold here today in the form of those chairs."

"A  figure  depicting  Justice!"  announced  the auctioneer.  "Made  of

bronze. In perfect condition. Five roubles. Who'll bid more?  Six and a half

on  the right. Seven at the end. Eight roubles  in  front in the first  row.

Going for eight roubles. Going. Gone to the first row in front."

A girl with a receipt  book immediately hurried over to the citizen  in

the first row.

The  auctioneer's hammer rose  and  fell. He  sold  an  ash-tray,  some

crystal glass and a porcelain powder bowl.

Time dragged painfully.

"A bronze bust of Alexander  the Third. Would make a good  paperweight.

No  use for anything else. Going at  the marked price, one bust of Alexander

the Third."

There was laughter among the audience.

"Buy it,  Marshal,"  said Ostap sarcastically.  "You  like that sort of

thing."

Ippolit Matveyevich made no reply;  he could not take  his eyes off the

chairs.

"No offers? The bust of  Alexander the Third  is  removed from  sale. A

figure depicting Justice.  Apparently the twin of  the one just sold. Basil,

hold up the Justice. Five roubles. Who'll give me more?"

There was  a snuffling sound  from the first row. The citizen evidently

wanted a complete set of Justices.

"Five roubles for the bronze Justice."

"Six!" sang out the citizen.

"Six roubles in front. Seven. Nine roubles on the right at the end."

"Nine and a half," said the lover of Justice quietly, raising his hand.

"Nine and a half in front. Going for nine and a half. Going. Gone!"

The hammer  came down and the girl hastened over to the  citizen in the

first  row. He  paid up and wandered  off into  the next room to receive his

bronze.

"Ten chairs from a palace," said the auctioneer suddenly.

"Why from a palace? " gasped Ippolit Matveyevich quietly.

Ostap became angry. "To hell with you! Listen and stop fooling!"

"Ten  chairs from a  palace, Walnut. Period of Alexander the Second. In

perfect condition. Made by  the cabinet-maker Hambs. Basil,  hold one of the

chairs under the light."

Basil seized the chair  so roughly that Ippolit Matveyevich  half stood

up.

"Sit down, you damned  idiot," hissed Ostap. "Sit down, I tell you. You

make me sick!"

Ippolit  Matveyevich's  jaw  had dropped.  Ostap  was  pointing  like a

setter. His eyes shone.

"Ten walnut chairs. Eighty roubles."

There was a stir in the  room. Something  of use in the house was being

sold. One after another the hands flew up. Ostap remained calm.

146

"Why don't you bid?" snapped Vorobyaninov.

"Get out!" retorted Ostap, clenching his teeth.

"A hundred and twenty roubles at the back. A hundred and twenty-five in

the next seat. A hundred and forty."

Ostap calmly turned his back on the stand and surveyed his competitors.

The auction was at  its height.  Every seat was taken. The lady sitting

directly behind  Ostap was tempted by the chairs and, after a few words with

her  husband  ("Beautiful chairs! heavenly  workmanship,  Sanya. And  from a

palace!"), put up her hand.

"A hundred and forty-five, fifth row on the right. Going!"

The stir died down. Too expensive.

"A hundred and forty-five, going for the second time."

Ostap   was  nonchalantly   examining   the   stucco  cornice.  Ippolit

Matveyevich was sitting with his head down, trembling.

"One hundred and forty-five. Gone!"

But  before  the shiny  black hammer could  strike the  plyboard stand,

Ostap had turned  around, thrown up his hand, and called out, quite quietly:

"Two hundred."

All the  heads turned towards  the concessionaires.  Peaked caps, cloth

caps, yachting caps and hats were set  in action. The auctioneer raised  his

bored face and looked at Ostap.

"Two hundred," he said.  "Two hundred in the fourth  row  on the right.

Any  more  bids? Two hundred roubles for  a palace suite of walnut furniture

consisting of ten pieces. Going  at two hundred roubles to the fourth row on

the right. Going!"

The hand with the hammer was poised above the stand.

"Mama!" said Ippolit Matveyevich loudly.

Ostap,  pink and calm,  smiled. The hammer  came down making a heavenly

sound.

"Gone," said the auctioneer. "Young lady, fourth row on the right."

"Well, chairman, was that effective?" asked Ostap.  "What would you  do

without a technical adviser, I'd like to know? "

Ippolit  Matveyevich grunted happily. The  young  lady  trotted over to

them.

"Was it you who bought the chairs?"

"Yes, us!" Ippolit Matveyevich burst out.  "Us!  Us!  When can  we have

them?"

"Whenever you please. Now if you like."

The tune "Roaming, you're always roaming" went madly round and round in

Ippolit  Matveyevich's  head. "The chairs are  ours! Ours! Ours!"  His whole

body  was  shouting  it. "Ours!"  cried  his  liver.  "Ours!"  endorsed  his

appendix.

He  was so  overjoyed  that  he  suddenly  felt  twitches  in the  most

unexpected places.  Everything  vibrated,  rocked,  and crackled  under  the

pressure of unheard-of bliss. He saw the train approaching the St. Gotthard.

On  the  open platform  of the  last car stood Ippolit  Matveyevich in white

trousers, smoking a cigar. Edelweiss  fell  gently on to his head, which was

again covered with  shining,  aluminium-grey  hair. He was on his way to the

Garden of Eden. "Why  two hundred and thirty  and  not two hundred?" said  a

voice next to him.

It was Ostap speaking; he was fiddling with the receipt.

"Fifteen per cent commission is included," answered the girl.

"Well, I suppose that's all right. Here you are."

Ostap took out his wallet, counted out two hundred roubles, and  turned

to the director-in-chief of the enterprise.

"Let me have thirty roubles, pal, and make it snappy. Can't you see the

young lady's waiting?"

Ippolit Matveyevich made no attempt at all to get the money.

"Well?  Why are you staring at me  like a soldier  at a  louse? Are you

crazy with joy or something?"

"I don't have the money," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich at length.

"Who doesn't?" asked Ostap very quietly.

"I don't."

"And the two hundred roubles? "

"I. . . I. . . lost it."

Ostap looked at  Vorobyaninov  and quickly grasped  the meaning of  the

flabbiness of his face, the  green  pallor of the cheeks, and the bags under

the swollen eyes.

"Give me the money," he whispered with loathing, "you old bastard!"

"Well, are you going to  pay?" asked the girl. "One moment," said Ostap

with a charming smile, "there's been a slight hitch."

There was  still a  faint hope that they might persuade her to wait for

the money. Here Ippolit Matveyevich, who had now recovered his senses, broke

into the conversation.

"Just a moment," he spluttered. "Why is there commission? We don't know

anything about that. You should have warned us. I  refuse  to pay the thirty

roubles."

"Very well," said the girl curtly. "I'll see to that."

Taking  the receipt, she  hurried back  to the auctioneer and had a few

words with him.

The auctioneer immediately stood up. His beard glistened in the  strong

light of the electric lamps.

"In accordance  with auctioneering regulations,"  he  stated,  "persons

refusing  to pay the full sum of  money for  items  purchased must leave the

hall. The sale of the chairs is revoked."

The dazed friends sat motionless.

The effect was terrific. There was rude  guffawing  from the onlookers.

Ostap remained seated, however. He  had not suffered  such a blow for a long

time.

"You're asked to leave."

The auctioneer's singsong voice was firm.

The laughter in the room grew louder.

So  they left. Few  people have  ever  left an auction  room  with more

bitterness.

Vorobyaninov went first. With his bony shoulders hunched up, and in his

shrunken jacket and silly baronial boots, he  walked like  a crane; he  felt

the warm and friendly glance of the smooth operator behind.

The concessionaires  stopped in the room next to the auction hall. They

could now only watch the proceedings through a glass door. The path back was

barred. Ostap maintained a friendly silence.

"An   outrageous  system,"   murmured  Ippolit   Matveyevich   timidly.

"Downright disgraceful! We should complain to the militia."

Ostap said nothing.

"No, but really,  it's  the  hell  of  a  thing."  Ippolit  Matveyevich

continued  ranting.  "Making  the  working  people  pay  through  the  nose.

Honestly! Two hundred and thirty roubles for ten old chairs. It's mad!"

"Yes," said Ostap woodenly.

"Isn't it? " said Vorobyaninov again. "It's mad!"

"Yes."

Ostap went up close to Vorobyaninov and,  having looked around, hit the

marshal a quick,  hard,  and unobserved  blow in the side.  "That's for  the

militia.  That's for the  high price of  chairs  for working  people of  all

countries. That's for going after girls  at  night. That's for being a dirty

old man."

Ippolit Matveyevich took his punishment without a sound.

From the  side it looked as though a respectful son was conversing with

his  father,  except that  the father  was  shaking  his  head a little  too

vigorously.

"Now get out of here!"

Ostap turned  his back  on  the  director  of the enterprise and  began

watching the auction hall. A moment later he looked around.

Ippolit Matveyevich  was still standing there,  with  his hands by  his

sides.

"Oh! You're still here, life and soul of the party! Go on, get out!"

"Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov implored, "Comrade Bender!"

"Go on, go!  And don't come  back to Ivanopulo's because I'll throw you

out."

Ostap  did  not turn around again. Something was  going on  in the hall

which  interested  him so much  that he opened  the glass door slightly  and

began listening.

"That's done it," he muttered.

"What has?" asked Vorobyaninov obsequiously.

"They're selling the chairs separately, that's  what. Maybe  you'd like

to buy one? Go ahead, I'm not stopping  you. I doubt, though whether they'll

let you in. And you haven't much money, I gather."

In the meantime, in the auction  hall, the auctioneer,  feeling that he

would  be  unable  to make  any member  of the  public  cough up two hundred

roubles  all at once  (too large a sum for the small fry  left), decided  to

obtain  his price in bits and pieces. The chairs came up  for auction again,

but this time in lots.

"Four chairs from a palace. Made of walnut. Upholstered. Made by Hambs.

Thirty roubles. Who'll give me more?"

Ostap had soon regained his former power of decision and sang-froid.

"You stay here, you  ladies' favourite, and don't go away. I'll be back

in  five  minutes. You stay here and see who  buys the  chairs. Don't miss a

single one."

Ostap had  thought of a plan-the only one possible  under the difficult

circumstances facing them.

He hurried out into the Petrovka, made for the nearest asphalt vat, and

had a businesslike conversation with some waifs.

Five minutes later he was back as promised with the waifs waiting ready

at the entrance to the auction rooms.

"They're being sold," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Four and then two

have already gone."

"See what you've done!" said Ostap. "Admire your handiwork! We had them

in our hands . . . in our hands, don't you realize!"

From  the  hall came  a  squeaky  voice  of  the  kind endowed  only to

auctioneers, croupiers and glaziers.

". .  . and  a half on my left. Three. One more chair from the  palace.

Walnut. In perfect condition. And a half on the right. Going for three and a

half in front."

Three chairs were sold separately. The auctioneer announced the sale of

the last chair. Ostap choked with fury. He  let fly  at  Vorobyaninov again.

His abusive remarks were  full of  bitterness. Who knows how far Ostap might

not have gone in this satirical exercise  had he not been interrupted by the

approach  of a man in a brown Lodz  suit.  The man  waved  his plump  hands,

bowed,  and jumped up and down and backwards and forwards, as though playing

tennis.

"Tell me,  is there really an auction here?"  he asked Ostap hurriedly.

"Yes? An auction. And are they really selling things here? Wonderful."

The stranger jumped  backwards,  his  face wreathed  with  smiles.  "So

they're really selling  things  here? And  one can buy  cheaply? First-rate.

Very, very much so. Ah!"

Swinging   his  hips,  the   stranger   rushed   past   the  bewildered

concessionaires  into  the hall and bought  the  last  chair so quickly that

Vorobyaninov could only croak. With the receipt in his hand the stranger ran

up to the collection counter.

"Tell me, do I get the chair now? Wonderful! Ah! Ah!"

Bleating  endlessly  and  skipping about the  whole time, the  stranger

loaded the chair on to a cab and drove off. A waif ran behind,  hot  on  his

trail.

The new  chair  owners gradually dispersed by cab and  on foot. Ostap's

junior agents hared after them.  Ostap himself left and Vorobyaninov timidly

followed him. The day  had been like a nightmare. Everything had happened so

quickly and not at all as anticipated.

On Sivtsev Vrazhek,  pianos, mandolins  and accordions were celebrating

the  spring.  Windows  were wide  open. Flower  pots  lined the windowsills.

Displaying his  hairy chest,  a fat man stood by a window in  his braces and

sang. A cat slowly made its way  along  a wall. Kerosene  lamps blazed above

the food stalls.

Nicky was strolling about  outside the little pink house. Seeing Ostap,

who  was  walking in  front,  he greeted  him politely  and then went  up to

Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich greeted him cordially. Nicky, however, was

not going to waste time.

"Good evening," he said  and, unable to control himself,  boxed Ippolit

Matveyevich's  ears. As he did so he uttered a phrase,  which in the opinion

of Ostap, who was witnessing the scene, was a rather vulgar one.

"That's what everyone will get,"  said Nicky  in a childish voice, "who

tries . . ."

Who tries exactly what, Nicky did not specify. He  stood on tiptoe and,

closing his eyes, slapped Vorobyaninov's face.

Ippolit Matveyevich raised his  elbow slightly but did not dare utter a

sound.

"That's right," said Ostap, "and now on the neck. Twice.

That's it. Can't be helped.  Sometimes the eggs have to teach  a lesson

to a chicken who gets out of hand. Once more, that's it. Don't be shy. Don't

hit him any more on the head, it's his weakest point."

If  the Stargorod conspirators had seen the master-mind  and  father of

Russian democracy at  that crucial moment, it can be  taken for certain that

the  secret  alliance of  the Sword  and Ploughshare would  have  ended  its

existence.

"That's enough, I think," said Nicky, hiding his hand in his pocket.

"Just once more," implored Ostap.

"To hell with him. He'll know next time."

Nicky went  away.  Ostap went upstairs to Ivanopulo's  and looked down.

Ippolit  Matveyevich stood sideways to  the  house, leaning against the iron

railing of the embassy.

"Citizen  Michelson,"  he called.  "Konrad  Karlovich.  Come inside.  I

permit you."

Ippolit  Matveyevich entered  the  room  in  slightly  better  spirits.

"Unheard-of  impudence,"  he  exclaimed  angrily. "I  could  hardly  control

myself."

"Dear, dear," sympathized  Ostap. "What has  the modern youth  come to?

Terrible  young people!  Chase  after  other  people's  wives.  Spend  other

people's money. Complete decadence. But  tell  me, does it really  hurt when

they hit you on the head? "

"I'll challenge him to a duel!"

"Fine! I  can recommend  a good  friend of  mine. He knows the duelling

code by heart and has two brooms quite suitable for a struggle to the death.

You can have Ivanopulo and his  neighbour  on the right as  seconds. He's an

ex-honorary citizen of  the city  of Kologriv and still even brags about the

title. Or you can have  a duel with mincing-machines-it's more elegant. Each

wound is  definitely  fatal. The  wounded adversary is  automatically turned

into a meat ball. How do you like the idea, Marshal?"

At that moment there was a whistle from  the street and Ostap went down

to receive the* reports from his young agents.

The waifs had coped splendidly with their mission. Four chairs had gone

to  the Columbus Theatre. The  waif explained in detail  how the chairs were

transported in a  wheelbarrow, unloaded and carted into the building through

the stage-door. Ostap already knew the location of the theatre.

Another young  pathfinder said that two chairs had been taken away in a

taxi. The boy did not seem  to be very bright. He knew the  street where the

chairs had  been taken and even remembered  the number of  the apartment was

17, but could not remember the number of the house.

152

"I ran too quick," said the waif. "It flew out me head."

"You won't get any money," declared the boss.

"But, mister! I'll show you the place."

"All right, stay here. We'll go there together."

The citizen with the  bleat turned out  to live  on Sadovaya Spasskaya.

Ostap jotted down the exact address in a notebook.

The eighth chair had been  taken to  the House of the Peoples. The  boy

who had followed  this chair proved to have initiative. Overcoming  barriers

in the form of the commandant's office and numerous messengers, he had found

his way into  the building and discovered  the chair had been  bought by the

editor of the Lathe newspaper.

Two  boys had not  yet come back. They  arrived almost  simultaneously,

panting and tired.

"Barrack Street in the Clear Lakes district."

"Number?"

"Nine. And the apartment is nine. There were  Tatars living in the yard

next door. I carried the chair the last part of the way. We went on foot."

The final messenger  brought sad  tidings. At first everything had been

all right, but then everything had gone all wrong.  The purchaser  had taken

his  chair into  the goods  yard of  October  Station and  it had  not  been

possible to  slip in after him, as there were armed guards from the Ministry

of Transport standing at the gates.

"He left by train, most likely," said the waif, concluding his report.

This  greatly disconcerted Ostap.  Rewarding  the  waifs  royally,  one

rouble each  (except for  the  herald  from  Varsonofefsky Street,  who  had

forgotten the number and was told to come back the next  day), the technical

adviser went back inside and, ignoring the many questions put  to him by the

disgraced chairman of the board, began to scheme.

"Nothing's lost yet.  We have the addresses and  there are many old and

reliable tricks for getting the  chairs:  simple friendship;  a love affair;

friendship plus  housebreaking; barter; and  money. The  last  is  the  most

reliable. But we haven't much money."

Ostap  glanced ironically  at  Ippolit Matveyevich. The smooth operator

had regained his usual  clarity of thought and mental  balance. It would, of

course,  be possible to  get the  money. Their  reserve included the picture

"Chamberlain Answers the Bolsheviks", the tea-strainer, and full opportunity

for continuing a career of polygamy.

The only trouble was the tenth chair. There was a trail  to follow, but

only a diffuse and vague one.

"Well, anyway," Ostap decided aloud,  "we can easily bet on those odds.

I'll  stake nine  to  one. The hearing is  continued. Do you  hear? Hey you,

member of the jury? "

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ELLOCHKA THE CANNIBAL

William Shakespeare's vocabulary  has been estimated by  the experts at

twelve thousand words.  The vocabulary of a Negro from the Mumbo Jumbo tribe

amounts to three hundred words.

Ellochka Shukin managed easily and fluently on thirty.

Here  are  the words, phrases and interjections  which she fastidiously

picked from the great, rich and expressive Russian language:

1. You're being vulgar.

2. Ho-ho (expresses irony, surprise,  delight, loathing, joy,  contempt

and satisfaction, according to the circumstances).

3. Great!

4.  Dismal   (applied  to  everything-for  example:  "dismal  Pete  has

arrived", "dismal weather", or a "dismal cat").

5. Gloom.

6. Ghastly (for example:  when meeting a close female  acquaintance, "a

ghastly meeting").

7. Kid (applied to all male acquaintances,  regardless of age or social

position).

8. Don't tell me how to live!

9. Like  a babe ("I whacked him like a babe" when playing cards,  or "I

brought him down like a babe," evidently when talking to a legal tenant).

10.Ter-r-rific!

11. Fat  and good-looking (used to describe both animate and  inanimate

objects).

12. Let's go by horse-cab (said to her husband).

13. Let's go by taxi (said to male acquaintances).

14. You're all white at the back! (joke).

15. Just imagine!

16.  Ula  (added  to a name to  denote  affection-for example: Mishula,

Zinula).

17.  Oho!  (irony,  surprise,  delight,  loathing,  joy,  contempt  and

satisfaction).

The  extraordinary  small  number  of  words  remaining  were  used  as

connecting links between Ellochka and department-store assistants.

If you looked at the photographs of  Ellochka Shukin which her husband,

engineer Ernest Pavlovich Shukin, had hanging over  his bed (one profile and

the other  full-face),  you would easily see her pleasantly high  and curved

forehead, big  liquid  eyes,  the  cutest little  nose in the  whole of  the

province of Moscow, and a chin with a small beauty spot.

Men found Ellochka's  height nattering. She was  petite, and  even  the

puniest little men looked hefty he-men beside her.

She had  no particular distinguishing features; she did not need  them.

She was pretty.

The  two hundred  roubles  which her  husband earned each month  at the

Electrolustre  works was an insult to Ellochka. It was of  no help at all in

the  tremendous  battle  which she had  been waging for the past four years,

from  the  moment  she acquired the social  status of housewife and Shukin's

spouse.  The  battle  was  waged  at  full  pressure. It  absorbed  all  her

resources. Ernest Pavlovich took home work  to do in the evening, refused to

have  servants, lit the primus himself, put out  the refuse, and even cooked

meat balls.

But it was all useless.  A dangerous  enemy was  ruining the  household

more and more every year. Four years earlier Ellochka  had noticed she had a

rival  across  the ocean.  The misfortune had  come upon Ellochka one  happy

evening while she was trying on a very pretty crepe de Chine blouse. It made

her look almost a goddess.

"Ho-ho!" she exclaimed, summing up by  that cannibal cry  the amazingly

complex emotions which had overcome her.

More simply, the emotions could have been expressed  by the  following:

men will become  excited when they see me like this. They will tremble. They

will follow me to the edge of the  world,  hiccupping with love. But I shall

be cold. Are you  really worthy of me? I am still the prettiest girl of all.

No one in the world has such an elegant blouse as this.

But  there  were  only  thirty  words, so Ellochka  selected  the  most

expressive one-"Ho-ho!"

It  was at this hour of greatness that Fimka Sobak came to see her. She

brought with her the icy breath of January  and a  French fashion  magazine.

Ellochka got no further than the first page. A glossy  photograph showed the

daughter of  the  American billionaire, Vanderbilt, in an evening  dress. It

showed  furs  and  plumes,  silks and pearls, an unusually simple  cut and a

stunning hair-do. That settled  everything. "Oho!" said Ellochka to herself.

That   meant  "she  or  me".   The  next  morning  found  Ellochka  at   the

hairdresser's, where she  relinquished her beautiful black plait and had her

hair dyed red. Then she was able to climb another step up the ladder leading

her to  the  glittering  paradise frequented by billionaires' daughters, who

were no match for housewife Shukin. A dog skin made to look like muskrat was

bought with a loan and added the finishing touch to the evening dress.

Mister  Shukin, who  had long cherished  the  dream  of  buying  a  new

drawing-board, became rather depressed.

The dog-trimmed dress was the first well-aimed blow at Miss Vanderbilt.

The snooty American girl  was then  dealt three more in succession. Ellochka

bought  a chinchilla  tippet (Russian rabbit caught in  Tula Province)  from

Fimka Sobak,  a private  furrier, acquired a hat made of dove-grey Argentine

felt, and  converted  her  husband's new  jacket into a  stylish  tunic. The

billionaire's  daughter was shaken, but  the affectionate  Daddy  Vanderbilt

evidently came to the rescue.

The latest  number of  the magazine  contained a portrait of the cursed

rival in four different styles: (1) in  black-brown fox; (2) with a  diamond

star on her forehead; (3) in a flying  suit (high  boots, a very  thin green

coat  and  gauntlets,  the  tops  of  which were encrusted  with medium-size

emeralds); and (4) in a ball gown (cascades of jewellery and a little silk).

Ellochka mustered  her  forces.  Daddy Shukin obtained a loan from  the

mutual-assistance fund, but they  would only give  him thirty  roubles. This

desperate  new effort radically undermined  the  household economy,  but the

battle had to be  waged on all fronts. Not long before some snapshots of the

Miss in her new castle in Florida had been  received. Ellochka,  too, had to

acquire  new  furniture. She bought two  upholstered chairs at  an  auction.

(Successful buy! Wouldn't have missed it for  the world.) Without asking her

husband, Ellochka took the money  from the dinner  fund. There were ten days

and four roubles left to the fifteenth.

Ellochka transported the chairs down Varsonofefsky Street in style. Her

husband was not at home, but arrived soon after, carrying a brief-case.

"The dismal husband has arrived," said Ellochka clearly and distinctly.

All her  words were pronounced distinctly and popped out as  smartly as

peas from a pod.

"Hello, Ellochka, what's all this? Where did the chairs come from?"

"Ho-ho!"

"No, really?"

"Ter-r-rific!"

"Yes, they're nice chairs."

"Great!"

"A present from someone?"

"Oho!"

"What? Do you mean you bought them?  Where did the money come from? The

housekeeping money? But I've told you a thousand times . . ."

"Ernestula, you're being vulgar!"

"How could you do a thing like that? We won't have anything to eat!"

"Just imagine!"

"But it's outrageous! You're living beyond your means."

"You're kidding."

"No, no. You're living beyond your means."

"Don't tell me how to live!"

"No, let's have a serious talk. I get two hundred roubles. . ."

"Gloom!"

"I  don't  take  bribes, don't  steal  money,  and  don't know  how  to

counterfeit it. . . ."

"Ghastly!"

Ernest Pavlovich dried up.

"The point is this," he said after a while; "we can't go on this way."

"Ho-ho!" said Ellochka, sitting down on the new chair.

"We will have to get a divorce."

"Just imagine!"

"We're not compatible. I. . ."

"You're a fat and good-looking kid."

"How many times have I told you not to call me a kid."

"You're kidding!"

"And where did you get that idiotic jargon from?"

"Don't tell me how to live!"

"Oh, hell!" cried the engineer.

"You're being vulgar, Ernestula!"

"Let's get divorced peaceably."

"Oho!"

"You won't prove anything to me. This argument. . ."

"I'll whack you like a babe."

"No, this is absolutely intolerable. Your  arguments cannot  prevent me

from taking the step forced upon me. I'm going to get the removal van."

"You're kidding!"

"We'll divide up the furniture equally."

"Ghastly!"

"You'll get a hundred  roubles a month. Even a hundred and  twenty. The

room will be yours. Live how you like, I can't go on this way."

"Great!" said Ellochka with contempt.

"I'll move in with Ivan Alexeyvich."

"Oho!"

"He's  gone to the country and left me  his apartment for the summer. I

have the key. . . . Only there's no furniture."

"Ter-r-rific!"

Five minutes later Ernest Pavlovich came back with the caretaker.

"I'll leave the wardrobe. You need  it more. But I'll have the desk, if

you don't mind. And take this chair, caretaker. I'll take one of the chairs.

I think I have the right to, don't I?"

Ernest Pavlovich gathered  his  things into a large bundle, wrapped his

boots up in paper, and turned towards the door.

"You're all white at the back," said Ellochka in a phonographic voice.

"Good-bye, Ella."

He  hoped that this time at least his wife would refrain from her usual

metallic  vocables. Ellochka also felt  the seriousness of the occasion. She

strained herself, searching for  suitable words for  the parting.  They soon

came to mind.

"Going by taxi? Ter-r-rific!"

The engineer hurtled downstairs like an avalanche.

Ellochka  spent  the  evening   with  Fimka  Sobak.  They  discussed  a

singularly important event which threatened to upset world economy.

"It seems  they will  be worn  long and wide," said Fimka, sinking  her

head into her shoulders like a hen.

"Gloom!"

Ellochka looked admiringly at Fimka Sobak. Mile Sobak was reputed to be

a  cultured girl  and her vocabulary  contained about  a  hundred and eighty

words. One of the  words was one  that Ellochka would not even  have dreamed

of. It was the meaningful word "homosexuality".

Fimka Sobak was undoubtedly a cultured girl.

Their animated conversation lasted well into the night.

At ten  the next morning the smooth  operator arrived  at Varsonofefsky

Street. In front of him ran the waif from the day before. He pointed out the

house.

"You're not telling stories?"

"Of course not, mister. In there, through the front door."

Bender gave the boy an honestly earned rouble.

"That's not enough," said the boy, like a taxi-driver.

"The  ears  of  a  dead donkey. Get  them  from Pushkin.  On  your way,

defective one!"

Ostap knocked at  the door without the least idea what  excuse he would

use  for  his  visit.  In  conversations  with  young  ladies  he  preferred

inspiration.

"Oho?" asked a voice behind the door.

"On business," replied Ostap.

The door opened and Ostap  went into a room that could  only  have been

furnished  by someone with  the imagination of a woodpecker. The walls  were

covered with picture postcards of film stars, dolls  and Tambov  tapestries.

Against  this dazzling background  it  was difficult to make out the  little

occupant  of the room.  She was wearing  a  gown  made  from one  of  Ernest

Pavlovich's shirts, trimmed with some mysterious fur.

Ostap knew at once how he should behave in such high society. He closed

his eyes and took a step backwards. "A beautiful fur!" he exclaimed.

"You're kidding," said Ellochka tenderly. "It's Mexican jerboa."

"It can't be. They made  a  mistake. You were given a much better  fur.

It's  Shanghai leopard. Yes, leopard. I recognize  it by the shade.  You see

how it reflects the sun. Just like emerald!"

Ellochka  had  dyed the Mexican jerboa with green water-colour herself,

so the morning visitor's praise was particularly pleasing.

Without  giving  her time to recover,  the smooth  operator poured  out

everything he had ever heard about furs. After that they discussed silk, and

Ostap promised to  make his charming hostess  a present of several  thousand

silkworms which he claimed the Chairman  of the Central  Executive Committee

of Uzbekistan had brought him.

"You're the right kind of kid," observed Ellochka  as a  result of  the

first few minutes of friendship.

"You're surprised, of course, by this early visit from a stranger."

"Ho-ho!"

"But I've come on a delicate matter."

"You're kidding."

"You were  at the auction yesterday and made a remarkable impression on

me."

"You're being vulgar!"

"Heavens! To be vulgar to such a charming woman would be inhuman."

"Ghastly!" .

The  conversation continued along these lines,  now and  then producing

splendid results.

But all the time Ostap's compliments became briefer and more watery. He

had noticed that the second chair was not there. It was up to him to find  a

clue. Interspersing  his questions  with flowery Eastern  flattery, he found

out all about the events of the day before in Ellochka's life.

"Something  new," he thought, "the chairs are  crawling  all  over  the

place, like cockroaches."

"Sell me  the  chair,  dear lady," said Ostap  unexpectedly. "I like it

very much. Only  with  your female  intuition could you have chosen such  an

artistic  object. Sell it to  me,  young  lady,  and  I'll  give  you  seven

roubles."

"You're being vulgar, kid," said Ellochka slyly.

"Ho-ho!" said Ostap, trying to make her understand. I must approach her

differently, he decided. Let's suggest an exchange.

"You know that  in Europe now and  in the best  homes  in  Philadelphia

they've reintroduced  the ancient custom of pouring  tea through a strainer?

It's remarkably effective and elegant."

Ellochka pricked up her ears.

"A diplomat I know has just arrived back from Vienna and brought me one

as a present. It's an amusing thing."

"It must be great," said Ellochka with interest.

"Oho!  Ho-ho! Let's  make  an exchange. You give me the chair and  I'll

give you the tea-strainer. Would you like that? "

The sun rolled about in the strainer like an egg. Spots of light danced

on  the ceiling. A dark corner of the room was suddenly lit up. The strainer

made the same overwhelming impression on Ellochka as an old tin can makes on

a Mumbo Jumbo cannibal. In such circumstances the cannibal shouts at the top

of his voice. Ellochka, however, merely uttered a quiet "Ho-ho."

Without giving her time to  recover, Ostap put the strainer down on the

table,  took the chair, and having  found  out the address  of the  charming

lady's husband, courteously bowed his way out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ABSALOM VLADIMIROVICH IZNURENKOV

There  followed a  busy  time for the  concessionaires. Ostap contended

that the chairs should be struck while the iron was hot. Ippolit Matveyevich

was  granted  an amnesty,  although Ostap, from time to  time, would ask him

such questions as:

"Why the  hell did I ever take  up with  you?  What do I need  you for,

anyway?  You ought to go home  to your registry office where the corpses and

newborn babes are  waiting for  you. Don't make  the infants suffer. Go back

there!"

But  in  his heart the smooth operator had become very much attached to

the wild marshal. "Life wouldn't be such  fun without  him," he thought. And

he would glance now and then at  Ippolit  Matveyevich, whose  head was  just

beginning to sprout a new crop of silvery hair.

Ippolit Matveyevich's initiative was allotted a fair share of the  work

schedule. As soon as the placid Ivanopulo had gone out, Bender  would try to

drum into his partner's head the surest way to get the treasure.

"Act boldly. Don't ask too many questions. Be more cynical- people like

it. Don't  do  anything  through a  third party. People are  smart. No one's

going to hand you the jewels  on  a  plate.  But don't do anything criminal.

We've got to keep on the right side of the law."

Their  search progressed, however, without  much success.  The criminal

code plus a large number of bourgeois prejudices retained by the citizens of

the capital made things difficult. People just would  not tolerate nocturnal

visits through  their windows,  for  instance. The work could only  be  done

legally.

The  same  day  that  Ostap  visited  Ellochka  Shukin a new  piece  of

furniture appeared in Ivanopulo's  room.  It was the  chair bartered for the

tea-strainer-their  third  trophy of the  expedition. The partners had  long

since passed the stage where the hunt for the jewels aroused strong feelings

in them, where they clawed open the chairs and gnawed the springs.

"Even  if there's nothing inside,"  Ostap said, "you must realize we've

gained  at  least  ten thousand roubles.  Every  chair opened increases  our

chances. What does it matter if there's nothing  in the little lady's chair?

We don't have to break it to pieces. Let Ivanopulo furnish his room with it.

It will be pleasanter for us too."

That day  the concessionaires trooped out of the  little pink house and

went off in different directions. Ippolit Matveyevich was entrusted with the

stranger  with  the  bleat  from Sadovaya  Spasskaya  Street;  he  was given

twenty-five roubles to cover expenses, ordered to keep out of beer-halls and

not to come back  without the chair. For  himself the smooth operator  chose

Ellochka's husband.

Ippolit Matveyevich crossed  the  city in a no. 6 bus. As he bounced up

and down on the leather seat,  almost hitting his head against the  roof, he

wondered how he  would find out the bleating stranger's name, what excuse to

make for visiting him, what his first words should be, and how to get to the

point.

Alighting at Red Gates, he found the right house from the address Ostap

had written down, and began  walking up and down outside. He could not bring

himself  to go  in. It  was  an  old,  dirty Moscow  hotel, which  had  been

converted into a housing co-operative, and was resided in, to judge from the

shabby frontage, by tenants who persistently avoided their payments.

For  a  long  time  Ippolit   Matveyevich  remained  by  the  entrance,

continually approaching  and  reading  the  handwritten  notice  threatening

neglectful tenants until he knew it by heart; then, finally, still unable to

think of anything, he went up the stairs to  the  second  floor.  There were

several  doors  along  the  corridor.  Slowly,  as though going  up  to  the

blackboard at school to prove a theorem he had not properly learned, Ippolit

Matveyevich  approached Room 41.  A visiting card  was pinned upside-down to

the door by one drawing-pin.

Absalom Vladimirovich

IZNURENKOV

In a complete daze,  Ippolit Matveyevich forgot to knock. He opened the

door, took  three zombie-like steps forward and found himself in  the middle

of the room.

"Excuse  me,"  he said  in  a  strangled  voice,  "can  I  see  Comrade

Iznurenkov?"

Absalom Vladimirovich did  not  reply. Vorobyaninov raised his head and

saw there was no one in the room.

It  was not possible to guess the proclivities of the occupant from the

outward appearance of the  room. The only  thing that was clear was  that he

was a bachelor and had no domestic help. On  the window-sill lay a  piece of

paper containing bits of sausage skin. The low  divan by the wall was  piled

with  newspapers.  There  were  a few dusty books on  the  small  bookshelf.

Photographs  of tomcats,  little cats, and female cats looked down  from the

walls. In the middle of the room,  next to a pair  of dirty shoes which  had

toppled  over sideways, was  a walnut chair.  Crimson wax seals dangled from

all the pieces of furniture, including the chair from the Stargorod mansion.

Ippolit Matveyevich  paid no attention to this. He  immediately forgot about

the criminal code and Ostap's admonition, and ran towards the chair.

At  this  moment  the  papers  on  the  divan  began  to stir.  Ippolit

Matveyevich  started back in fright. The papers  moved a little way and fell

on to the floor; from beneath them emerged a small, placid tomcat. It looked

uninterestedly at  Ippolit Matveyevich and began to wash itself, catching at

its ear, face and whiskers with its paw.

"Bah!" said Ippolit Matveyevich and dragged the chair towards the door.

The door opened for him and there on the threshold stood the occupant of the

room, the  stranger with the bleat. He  was wearing a coat under which could

be seen a pair of lilac underpants. He was carrying his trousers in Ms hand.

It could be said  that  there  was  no  one  like Absalom Vladimirovich

Iznurenkov  in the whole Republic.  The Republic valued his services. He was

of great use to it. But, for  all  that, he remained unknown,  though he was

just  as skilled in  his art as Chaliapin was  in singing, Gorky in writing,

Capablanca in chess, Melnikov in ice-skating, and that  very large-nosed and

brown  Assyrian occupying  the best place  on  the  corner of Tverskaya  and

Kamerger streets was in cleaning black boots with brown polish.

Chaliapin sang. Gorky wrote great  novels. Capablanca prepared for  his

match against Alekhine. Melnikov broke  records. The Assyrian made citizens'

shoes shine like mirrors. Absalom Iznurenkov made jokes.

He never made them without reason, just for the effect. He made them to

order for humorous journals. On his shoulders he bore the responsibility for

highly  important  campaigns,  and  supplied most  of the  Moscow  satirical

journals with subjects for cartoons and humorous anecdotes.

Great men make  jokes twice in  their lifetime.  The jokes  boost their

fame  and  go  down  in  history.  Iznurenkov  produced  no less  than sixty

first-rate jokes  a  month,  which everyone  retold with  a  smile,  but  he

nonetheless  remained  in obscurity. Whenever one of Iznurenkov's witticisms

was  used as a caption for  a  cartoon, the  glory went  to  the artist. The

artist's name was  placed  above  the  cartoon. Iznurenkov's  name  did  not

appear.

"It's terrible," he used  to cry.  "It's impossible for  me to sign  my

name. What am I supposed to sign? Two lines?"

And he  continued with  his virulent campaign  against the  enemies  of

society-dishonest  members of  co-operatives,  embezzlers,  Chamberlain  and

bureaucrats.   He   aimed   his   sting  at   bootlickers,   apartment-block

superintendents,  owners of  private property, hooligans, citizens reluctant

to lower their prices, and industrial  executives who tried to avoid economy

drives.

As soon as the journals came out, the jokes were repeated in the circus

arena,  reprinted  in the evening press without reference to the source, and

offered to audiences  from the variety stage by  "entertainers writing their

own words and music".

Iznurenkov  managed  to be funny about fields of activity  in which you

would not have thought it was possible to say anything humorous at all. From

the arid desert of  excessive increases in the cost of production Iznurenkov

managed to  extract a  hundred or  so masterpieces of wit. Heine  would have

given up in despair had he been asked to say something funny and at the same

time  socially useful about the unfair tariff rates on  slow-delivery  goods

consignments; Mark  Twain would have  fled  from the subject, but Iznurenkov

remained at his  post.  He  chased  from one editorial  office  to  another,

bumping into ash-tray  stands and  bleating. In ten minutes the  subject had

been worked out, the cartoon devised, and the caption added.

When he saw a man in his room just about to remove  the  chair with the

seal,  Absalom Iznurenkov waved his trousers, which had just been pressed at

the tailor's, gave a jump, and screeched: "That's ridiculous! I protest! You

have no  right.  There's a law, after all. It's not  intended for fools, but

you  may  have  heard  the furniture  can stay  another  two weeks!  I shall

complain to the Public Prosecutor. After all, I'm going to pay!"

Ippolit  Matveyevich stood motionless, while  Iznurenkov  threw off his

coat and, without moving away from the door, pulled on the trousers over his

fat, Chichickovian legs. Iznurenkov was portly, but his face was thin.

Vorobyaninov  had no  doubt in his mind that he was about  to be seized

and  hauled off  to  the  police. He was  therefore very  surprised when the

occupant of the room, having adjusted his dress, suddenly became calmer.

"You must  understand,"  he  said in a tone of conciliation, "I  cannot

agree to it."

Had  he been in Iznurenkov's shoes, Ippolit Matveyevich would certainly

not have agreed to his chairs being stolen in broad daylight either.  But he

did not know what to say, so he kept silent.

"It's not my fault. It's the fault of the musicians' organization. Yes,

I admit I didn't  pay for the  hired piano for eight months. But at least  I

didn't sell it, although  there was plenty of opportunity. I was honest, but

they behaved like crooks. They  took away the piano,  and then went to court

about it and had an  inventory  of my furniture made. There's nothing to put

on  the inventory. All this furniture constitutes work tools. The chair is a

work tool as well."

Ippolit Matveyevich was beginning to see the light.

"Put that chair down!" screeched Iznurenkov suddenly. "Do you hear, you

bureaucrat?"

Ippolit Matveyevich  obediently put down  the chair  and mumbled:  "I'm

sorry, there's been a misunderstanding.  It often happens  in  this kind  of

work!"

At this Iznurenkov  brightened up tremendously.  He began running about

the room singing: "And in the  morning she smiled  again before her window."

He did not know what to  do with his hands. They flew all over the place. He

started  tying his tie,  then  left  off without  finishing.  He took  up  a

newspaper, then threw it on the floor without reading anything.

"So you aren't going to take away the furniture  today? . . .' Good.  .

.Ah! Ah!"

Taking advantage of this favourable turn of events, Ippolit Matveyevich

moved towards the door.

"Wait!"  called Iznurenkov  suddenly.  "Have you ever seen  such a cat?

Tell me, isn't it really extraordinarily fluffy?"

Ippolit Matveyevich found the cat in his trembling hands.

"First-rate," babbled  Absalom  Vladimirovich, not knowing what  to  do

with this excess of energy. "Ah! Ah!"

He rushed to the window, clapped his hands, and began making slight but

frequent bows to two girls who were watching him from a window  of the house

opposite. He stamped his feet and gave sighs of longing.

"Girls from the suburbs! The finest fruit! .  . . First-rate! . . . Ah!

. . . 'And in the morning she smiled again before her window'."

"I'm leaving now, Citizen," said Ippolit Matveyevich stupidly.

"Wait, wait!" Iznurenkov suddenly became excited. "Just one moment! Ah!

Ah! The cat . . . Isn't  it extraordinarily fluffy? Wait. .  .  I'll be with

you in a moment."

He dug into  all his pockets with embarrassment, ran to the  side, came

back, looked out of the window, ran aside, and again returned.

"Forgive me,  my dear fellow," he said  to Vorobyaninov, who stood with

folded  arms like a soldier during all these operations. With these words he

handed the marshal a half-rouble piece.

"No, no, please don't refuse. All labour must be rewarded."

"Much  obliged,"  said  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  surprised   at  his  own

resourcefulness,

"Thank you, dear fellow. Thank you, dear friend."

As he went down the corridor, Ippolit Matveyevich could  hear bleating,

screeching, and shouts of delight coming from Iznurenkov's room.

Outside in the street, Vorobyaninov remembered Ostap, and trembled with

fear.

Ernest  Pavlovich  Shukin  was  wandering  about  the  empty  apartment

obligingly loaned  to  him  by a  friend for the  summer,  trying  to decide

whether or not to have a bath.

The three-room apartment was at the very top of a nine-storey building.

The  only thing  in it  besides  a desk and Vorobyaninov's chair  was a pier

glass.  It reflected the sun and hurt his eyes. The engineer lay down on the

desk and immediately jumped up again. It was red-hot.

"I'll go and have a wash," he decided.

He undressed,  felt cooler, inspected himself in the  mirror, and  went

into  the bathroom.  A coolness enveloped  him.  He  climbed into the  bath,

doused himself  with  water from  a  blue enamel  mug,  and  soaped  himself

generously. Covered in lather, he looked like a Christmas-tree decoration.

"Feels good," said Ernest Pavlovich.

Everything  was  fine.  It was  cool. His  wife  was not there. He  had

complete freedom ahead of him. The engineer knelt down and turned on the tap

in order to wash  off the  soap. The tap gave a gasp and began  making slow,

undecipherable  noises.  No  water  came  out. Ernest  Pavlovich inserted  a

slippery  little finger into the hole. Out poured a thin stream of water and

then  nothing  more.  Ernest Pavlovich  frowned,  stepped out of  the  bath,

lifting each leg in turn, and went into the kitchen. Nothing was forthcoming

from the tap in there, either.

Ernest Pavlovich shuffled through the rooms and stopped in front of the

mirror. The  soap  was stinging his eyes,  his back  itched,  and  suds were

dripping on to the floor. Listening to make certain there was still no water

running in the bath, he decided to call the caretaker.

He can at least bring up some water, thought the  engineer, wiping  his

eyes and slowly getting furious, or else I'm in a mess.

He looked out of the window. Down below, at  the  bottom of the well of

the building, there were some children playing.

"Caretaker!" shouted Ernest Pavlovich. "Caretaker!"

No one answered.

Then Ernest Pavlovich remembered  that the caretaker lived at the front

of the building  under the  stairway. He  stepped  out  on to the cold tiled

floor  and, keeping  the door  open with one arm, leaned over the  banister.

There  was only one apartment  on that landing, so  Ernest Pavlovich was not

afraid of being seen in his strange suit of soapsuds.

"Caretaker!" he shouted downstairs.

The word rang out and reverberated noisily down the stairs.

"Hoo-hoo!" they echoed.

"Caretaker! Caretaker!"

"Hum-hum! Hum-hum!"

It was at this point that the engineer,  impatiently  shifting from one

bare foot  to the other, suddenly slipped and, to regain his balance, let go

of the door.

The  brass  bolt of the Yale lock clicked into place and the door  shut

fast.  The wall shook. Not  appreciating the irrevocable nature  of what had

happened, Ernest  Pavlovich pulled  at the door  handle. The  door  did  not

budge.

In dismay  the engineer  pulled  the  handle  again several  times  and

listened,  his heart beating fast. There was a churchlike evening stillness.

A little  light still  filtered  through the multicoloured glass of the high

window.

A fine  thing to happen, thought  Shukin. "You son of a bitch," he said

to the  door.  Downstairs, voices broke through  the  silence like exploding

squibs. Then came the muffled bark of a dog in one of the rooms. Someone was

pushing a  pram upstairs. Ernest Pavlovich  walked timidly  up and down  the

landing. "Enough to drive you crazy!"

It all seemed too outrageous to have actually  happened. He went  up to

the door and listened again. Suddenly he heard a different sort of noise. At

first he thought it was someone walking about in the apartment.

Somebody may have got in through the back door, he thought, although he

knew that the back door was locked and that no one could have got in.

The  monotonous  sound  continued. The  engineer  held  his  breath and

suddenly realized that the sound was that of running water. It was evidently

pouring  from all the taps  in the apartment. Ernest  Pavlovich almost began

howling.

The situation was awful.  A full-grown man with a  moustache and higher

education  was standing  on a  ninth-floor  landing in the centre of Moscow,

naked except for a covering of bursting soapsuds. There was nowhere he could

go. He would rather have gone to jail than show himself in that state. There

was only one thing to do-hide. The bubbles were bursting and making his back

itch. The  lather on his face had already dried; it made him look  as though

he had the mange and puckered his skin like a hone.

Half  an hour  passed. The  engineer kept rubbing  himself against  the

whitewashed walls  and groaning, and  made several unsuccessful attempts  to

break in the door. He became dirty and horrible.

Shukin decided to go downstairs to the caretaker  at any price. There's

no  other way  out. None. The  only thing to do is hide 10  the  caretaker's

room.

Breathing  heavily and  covering  himself with his  hand as men do when

they enter the water, Ernest Pavlovich  began  creeping  downstairs close to

the banister. He reached the landing between the eighth and ninth floors.

His body reflected  multicoloured rhombuses  and squares of light  from

the  window. He looked like  Harlequin secretly listening to a  conversation

between Columbine and Pierrot. He had just turned to go down the next flight

when the  lock of an apartment door  below snapped  open and a girl came out

carrying a ballet  dancer's attache  case. Ernest Pavlovich  was back on his

landing before the girl had taken one step. He was practically  deafened  by

the terrible beating of his heart.

It was half an hour before the engineer  recovered sufficiently to make

another sortie. This time he  was fully  determined to  hurtle  down at full

speed, ignoring  everything, and  make  it  to  the  promised  land  of  the

caretaker's room.

He started  off. Silently taking four stairs at a  time,  the  engineer

raced downstairs. On the landing of the sixth floor he stopped for a moment.

This was his undoing. Someone was coming up.

"Insufferable brat!" said a woman's voice, amplified many times  by the

stairway. "How many times do I have to tell him!"

Obeying instinct rather than  reason, like a cat pursued by dogs Ernest

Pavlovich tore up to the ninth floor again.

Back on his own land, all covered with wet footmarks, he silently burst

into  tears,  tearing his hair and  swaying convulsively. The hot  tears ran

through the coating of soap and formed two wavy furrows.

"Oh, my God!" moaned the engineer. "Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord!"

There was no sign of  life. Then he heard the noise of a truck going up

the  street. So there was life somewhere! Several  times more  he  tried  to

bring himself to go downstairs, but his  nerve gave way each  time. He might

as well have been in a burial vault.

"Someone's left a  trail behind  him, the pig!" he heard an old woman's

voice say from the landing below.

The engineer ran to the wall and butted it several times with his head.

The  most sensible thing to do, of course, would  have been to keep shouting

until  someone  came,  and  then  put himself at  their  mercy.  But  Ernest

Pavlovich had  completely lost his  ability to  reason; breathing heavily he

wandered round and round the landing.

There was no way out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE AUTOMOBILE CLUB

In the editorial offices of the large daily newspaper Lathe, located on

the second  floor of the House of the Peoples, material was  hurriedly being

got ready for the typesetters.

News items and articles were  selected from the reserve (material which

had been set up  but not included in the previous number) and  the number of

lines occupied were counted up; then began the daily haggling for space.

The newspaper was able to print forty-four  hundred lines in all on its

four pages. This had to include everything: cables, articles, social events,

letters from  correspondents, advertisements, one  satirical sketch in verse

and two in prose,  cartoons,  photographs, as well as special sections, such

as theatre, sports,  chess, the  editorial, second  editorial,  reports from

Soviet Party and trade-union  organizations, serialized novels,  features on

life  in  the  capital, subsidiary  items  under  the title  of  "Snippets",

popular-science articles, radio programmes, and other odds-and-ends. In all,

about ten thousand lines of material from all sections was set up, hence the

distribution of space was usually accompanied by dramatic scenes.

The first  person to run  to the editor  was the  chess  correspondent,

Maestro Sudeikin.  He posed a polite though bitter question. "What? No chess

today?"

"No  room," replied the editor. "There's a long special  feature. Three

hundred lines."

"But today's Saturday. Readers are expecting the Sunday section. I have

the  answers to problems.  I have a splendid study by Neunyvako, and  I also

have-"

"All right, how much do you want?"

"Not less than a hundred and fifty."

"All right, if it's answers to problems, we'll give you sixty lines."

The maestro tried for  another thirty so  that at  least  the Neunyvako

could  go in  (the wonderful Tartokover vs. Bogolyubov game  had  been lying

about for a month), but was rebuffed.

Persidsky, the reporter, arrived.  "Do you want some impressions of the

Plenum?" he asked softly.

"Of  course," cried  the editor. "It was held the day before yesterday,

after all!"

"I  have  the  Plenum,"  said  Persidsky  even  more softly,  "and  two

sketches, but they won't give me any room."

"Why won't they? Who did you talk to? Have they gone crazy?"

The  editor hurried  off  to  have  an argument.  He  was  followed  by

Persidsky, intriguing  as he went; behind  them  both ran  a member  of  the

advertisement section.

"We have the Sekarov fluid to go in," he cried gloomily.

The office manager  trailed along  after them, dragging a chair he  had

bought at an auction for the editor.

"The  fluid  can   go   in  on  Thursday.  Today  we're  printing   our

supplements!"

"You won't make  much from free advertisements, and the fluid  has been

paid for."

"Very  well,  we'll clear up the matter in the  night  editor's office.

Give the advertisements to Pasha. He's just going over there."

The  editor  sat  down  to  read  the  editorial.  He  was  immediately

interrupted  from  that  entertaining  occupation. Next  to  arrive  was the

artist.

"Aha!" said the  editor, "very good! I have  a subject for a cartoon in

view of the latest cable from Germany."

"What about this?" said the artist. '"The Steel Helmet  and the General

Situation in Germany'?"

"All right, you work something out and then show it to me."

The  artist  went  back  to  his  department.  He  took   a  square  of

drawing-paper and  made  a  pencil sketch of  an emaciated dog. On the dog's

head he drew a German helmet with a spike. Then he turned to the wording. On

the  animal's  body he  printed the word 'Germany', then  he printed 'Danzig

Corridor' on its curly tail, 'Dreams of Revenge' on its jaw, 'Dawes Plan' on

its  collar, and  'Stresemann' on its protruding tongue. In front of the dog

the artist drew a picture of  Poincare holding a piece of meat in  his hand.

He thought of something to write on the piece of meat, but the meat was  too

small and the word would not fit. Anyone less quick-witted than a cartoonist

would have  lost his head, but, without  a second thought, the artist drew a

shape like a label of the  kind found on necks  of bottles near the piece of

meat and wrote 'French Guarantees of Security' in tiny letters inside it. So

that  Poincare should not  be confused  with any other French  statesman, he

wrote the word 'Poincare' on his stomach. The drawing was ready.

The desks of the art  department were covered with  foreign  magazines,

large-size  pairs  of scissors, bottles  of  India ink  and whiting. Bits of

photographs-a  shoulder, a  pair of legs, and a section  of  countryside-lay

about on the floor.

There were five artists who scraped the photographs with Gillette razor

blades to brighten them up; they also improved the contrast by touching them

up  with  India ink  and  whiting, and wrote  their  names and the size  (3?

squares, 2 columns, and so on) on the reverse side,  since these  directions

are required in zincography.

There  was a foreign delegation sitting  in the  chief editor's office.

The office interpreter  looked into the  speaker's face  and, turning to the

chief editor, said: "Comrade Arnaud would like to know .. ."

They  were  discussing the running  of  a Soviet  newspaper. While  the

interpreter was explaining to the chief editor what Comrade Arnaud wanted to

know, Arnaud, in  velvet  plus  fours,  and all the other foreigners  looked

curiously at a red pen with a No.  86 nib which was leaning against the wall

in the corner. The nib almost touched the ceiling and the holder was as wide

as an  average man's body  at the  thickest part. It  was quite possible  to

write with it; the nib was a real one although it was actually bigger than a

large pike.

"Hohoho!  " laughed  the  foreigners.  "Kolossal! "  The pen  had  been

presented to the editorial office by a correspondents' congress.

Sitting on Vorobyaninov's chair, the chief  editor  smiled and, nodding

first  towards the pen  and then at his guests, happily explained  things to

them.

The  clamour in the offices continued. Persidsky brought  in an article

by Semashko and the editor promptly deleted the chess section from the third

page. Maestro Sudeikin no longer battled for Neunyvako's wonderful study; he

was only concerned about saving the solutions. After a  struggle more  tense

than his match with Lasker  at the San Sebastian tournament, he won a  place

at the expense of Life-and-the-Law.

Semashko  was sent to  the compositors.  The editor buried himself once

more in  the editorial. He had decided to read it at all costs, just for the

sporting interest.

He had just  reached the bit  that said ". .  . but the contents of the

pact are such that, if the League of Nations registers  it, we  will have to

admit that . . ." when Life-and-the-Law, a hairy man, came  up  to  him. The

editor continued reading,  avoiding the eyes of Life-and-the-Law, and making

unnecessary notes on the editorial.

Life-and-the-Law  went  around to the  other  side of him and said in a

hurt voice: "I don't understand."

"Uhunh," said the editor, trying to play for time. "What's the matter?"

"The matter is  that on  Wednesday  there was  no Life-and-the-Law,  on

Friday there was no Life-and-the-Law, on Thursday you carried only a case of

alimony which you had in reserve, and on Saturday you're leaving out a trial

which has  been written up for  some time in all other papers. It's  only us

who-"

"Which other papers?" cried the editor. "I haven't seen it."

"It will appear again tomorrow and we'll be too late."

"But when you  were asked to report  the  Chubarov case,  what did  you

write?  It  was  impossible to get  a  line out  of you. I  know.  You  were

reporting the case for an evening paper."

"How do you know?"

"I know. I was told."

"In that case I know who told you. It was Persidsky. The same Persidsky

who  blatantly  uses the  editorial-office  services  to  send  material  to

Leningrad."

"Pasha," said the editor quietly, "fetch Persidsky."

Life-and-the-Law sat indifferently on the  window  ledge. In the garden

behind him  birds and  young  skittle players could  be  seen busily  moving

about. They litigated  for some time.  The  editor ended the hearing  with a

smart  move:  he deleted the chess  and  replaced it with  Life-and-the-Law.

Persidsky was given a warning.

It was five o'clock, the busiest time for the office.

Smoke curled above the over-heated typewriters.  The reporters dictated

in  voices harshened by haste. The senior typist  shouted at the rascals who

slipped in their material unobserved and out of turn.

Down the corridor came the office poet. He was courting a typist, whose

modest hips unleashed his poetic emotions. He used to lead her to the end of

the corridor by the window and  murmur words of  love  to her,  to which she

usually replied: "I'm working overtime today and I'm very busy."

That meant she loved another.

The  poet got in  everyone's  way and  asked all  his friends  the same

favour with monotonous regularity. "Let me have ten kopeks for the tram."

He sauntered into the local correspondents' room in  search of the sum.

Wandering about between the desks at which the  readers  were  working,  and

fingering the piles of despatches, he renewed his efforts. The readers,  the

most hardboiled people in the office (they were made that way by the need to

read through a hundred letters a day, scrawled by hands which were more used

to axes, paint-brushes and wheelbarrows than a pen), were silent.

The  poet  visited the despatch  office  and  finally  migrated  to the

clerical section. But besides not getting the ten kopeks, he was buttonholed

by Avdotyev,  a member of the Young  Communist League, who proposed that the

poet  should  join  the  Automobile  Club.  The  poet's enamoured  soul  was

enveloped in a cloud of petrol fumes. He took two paces to the side, changed

into third gear, and disappeared from sight.

Avdotyev was not a bit discouraged. He believed  in the triumph  of the

car idea. In the editor's room he carried on the struggle, on the sly, which

also prevented the editor from finishing the editorial.

"Listen, Alexander  Josifovich,  wait a moment, it's a serious matter,"

said  Avdotyev,  sitting  down  on  the  editor's  desk.  "We've  formed  an

automobile club.  Would the editorial office give us a loan  of five hundred

roubles for eight months?"

"Like hell it would."

"Why? Do you think it's a dead duck?"

"I don't think, I know. How many members are there?"

"A large number already."

For the moment the club only consisted of  the organizer,  but Avdotyev

did not enlarge on this.

"For  five hundred roubles we can buy a car at the 'graveyard'. Yegorov

has already picked one out  there. He  says the repairs  won't come to  more

than five hundred.  That's a thousand altogether. So I thought of recruiting

twenty  people, each of whom will give fifty. Anyway,  it'll be  fun.  We'll

learn to drive. Yegorov will be the instructor and in three months' time, by

August,  we'll all be able to drive.  We'll have a car and each one  in turn

can go where he likes."

"What about the five hundred for the purchase?"

"The mutual-assistance fund will provide that on interest. We'll pay it

off. So I'll put you down, shall I?"

But the editor was rather bald, hard-worked, and enslaved by his family

and apartment, liked  to have a  rest  after dinner  on the settee, and read

Pravda before going to sleep. He thought for a moment and then declined.

Avdotyev approached each desk in  turn and repeated  his  fiery speech.

His  words  had a dubious  effect on the old men, which meant for him anyone

above the age of twenty. They snapped at him, excusing themselves by  saying

they were already friends of  children and regularly  paid twenty  kopeks  a

year for the benefit of the poor mites. They would like to join, but. . .

"But what?"  cried  Avdotyev.  "Supposing  we had  a  car  today?  Yes,

supposing  we put down  a  blue six-cylinder Packard  in  front of  you  for

fifteen kopeks a year, with petrol and oil paid for by the government?"

"Go away," said the old men. "It's the last call,  you're preventing us

from working." The car idea was fading and beginning  to give off fumes when

a champion of the  new  enterprise was finally found. Persidsky jumped  back

from the telephone with a  crash  and,  having listened to  Avdotyev,  said:

"You're tackling it the  wrong  way. Give  me the sheet. Let's  begin at the

beginning."

Accompanied by Avdotyev, Persidsky began a new round.

"You, you old mattress,"  he said to  a blue-eyed boy,  "you don't even

have to give any money. You have bonds from  '27,  don't you?  For how much?

For five  hundred? All the better. You hand over  the bonds to the club. The

capital comes from the  bonds.  By August we will have cashed all the  bonds

and bought the car."

"What happens if my bond wins a prize?" asked the boy defiantly.

"How much do you expect to win?"

"Fifty thousand."

"We'll buy cars with the money. And  the  same thing if I win.  And the

same  if Avdotyev wins. In other words, no matter whose bonds win, the money

will be spent on cars.  Do you understand now? You crank! You'll drive along

the  Georgian Military Highway  in your  own car. Mountains, you  idiot! And

Life-and-the-Law,  social events, accidents, and  the  young lady -you know,

the one who does the films-will all go zooming along behind you in their own

cars as well. Well? Well? You'll be courting!"

In the depths of  his  heart no bond-holder believes in the possibility

of a win. At the same  time he is  jealous  of his neighbours' and  friends'

bonds.  He is dead scared that they will win and that he, the eternal loser,

will be left out in the cold.  Hence the  hope of  a win  on the  part of an

office  colleague  drew  the  bond-holders  into  the  new  club.  The  only

disturbing thought was that none  of their  bonds  would  win.  That  seemed

rather  unlikely, though, and, furthermore, the Automobile  Club had nothing

to lose,  since  one car  from the  graveyard was guaranteed by the  capital

earned from the bonds.

In five minutes twenty people had been recruited. As soon as it was all

over, the editor arrived, having heard about the club's alluring prospects.

"Well,  fellows,"  he  said, "why shouldn't I put  my name down on  the

list?"

"Why not, old man," replied Avdotyev, "only not on our list. We have  a

full  complement  and  no new members  are being admitted  for the next five

years. You'd do better to enrol yourself as a friend of children. It's cheap

and sure. Twenty kopeks a year and no need to drive anywhere."

The editor looked sheepish, remembered  that he  was indeed on the  old

side, sighed, and went back to finish reading the entertaining editorial.

He was stopped  in the corridor by a good-looking man with a Circassian

face.

"Say, Comrade, where's the editorial office of the Lathe!"

It was the smooth operator.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CONVERSATION WITH A NAKED ENGINEER

Ostap's appearance in the editorial offices was preceded by a number of

events of some importance.

Not finding Ernest Pavlovich at home (the apartment was  locked and the

owner probably at work), the  smooth operator decided to visit him later on,

and in the meantime he  wandered  about the  town. Tortured by  a thirst for

action, he  crossed  streets, stopped  in squares, made eyes  at militiamen,

helped ladies  into buses, and generally  gave the impression  by his manner

that  the whole  of  Moscow with  its monuments,  trams, vegetable  vendors,

churches, stations  and hoardings  had  gathered at his home for a party. He

walked among the guests, spoke courteously to them, and found something nice

to say to  each one.  So many guests at one party somewhat  tired the smooth

operator. Furthermore,  it was after six o'clock and  time to visit engineer

Shukin.

But fate had  decided that before seeing Ernest Pavlovich, Ostap had to

be delayed a couple of hours in order to sign a statement for the militia.

On Sverdlov Square the smooth operator  was  knocked down by a horse. A

timid white animal  descended on  him  out  of the blue and gave him a shove

with its bony chest. Bender fell down, breaking out in  a sweat. It was very

hot. The white  horse loudly  apologized  and  Ostap briskly jumped  up. His

powerful frame was undamaged. This was all the more reason for a scene.

The  hospitable and  friendly  host of  Moscow was  unrecognisable.  He

waddled up to the embarrassed old man driving the cab and punched him in his

padded back.  The old man  took his  punishment patiently. A militiaman came

running up.

"I insist you report the matter," cried Ostap with emotion.

His voice had the metallic ring of a man whose most sacred feelings had

been hurt. And, standing by the  wall of the Maly Theatre, on the very  spot

where  there was  later to be a statue  to  the Russian dramatist Ostrovsky,

Ostap signed a statement and granted a brief interview to Perdidsky, who had

come hurrying over. Persidsky did not shirk his arduous duties. He carefully

noted down the victim's name and sped on his way.

Ostap majestically set off again.  Still  feeling  the  effects of  the

clash with the white horse, and experiencing a belated regret for not having

been able  to give the cab-driver a belt on the neck  as well, Ostap reached

Shukin's  house and went up to the  seventh floor,  taking  two stairs  at a

time. A heavy drop of liquid struck him on the head. He looked up and a thin

trickle of dirty water caught him right in the eye.

Someone needs his nose punching for tricks like that, decided Ostap.

He hurried upward. A naked man covered with white fungus was sitting by

the door of  Shukin's apartment  with his back to the stairs. He was sitting

on the tiled floor, holding his head in his  hands  and rocking from side to

side.

The naked man was surrounded  by water oozing  from under the apartment

door.

"Oh-oh-oh," groaned the naked man. "Oh-oh-oh."

"Is it you splashing water about?" asked Ostap irritably. "What a place

to take a bath. You must be crazy!"

The naked man looked at Ostap and burst into tears.

"Listen, citizen, instead of  crying, you ought to go  to the bathroom.

Just look at yourself. You look like a picador."

"The key," moaned the engineer.

"What key?" asked Ostap.

"Of the ap-ap-apartment."

"Where the money is?"

The naked man was hiccupping at an incredible rate.

Nothing  could daunt  Ostap. He began to see the light.  And,  finally,

when he realized  what had  happened, he almost fell over the  banister with

laughter.

"So you can't get into the apartment. But it's so simple."

Trying not  to dirty himself against the  naked engineer, Ostap went up

to the door, slid a long yellow fingernail into the Yale lock, and carefully

began moving it up and down, and left and right.

The door opened  noiselessly and the naked man rushed into  the flooded

apartment with a howl of delight.

The  taps  were  gushing.  In  the dining-room the water had  formed  a

whirlpool. In  the bedroom  it  had  made  a calm lake,  on  which a pair of

slippers  floated  about as  serenely  as  swans.  Some  cigarette ends  had

collected together in a corner like a shoal of sleepy fish.

Vorobyaninov's chair was  standing in  the dining-room, where the flood

of water was greatest. Small  white waves lapped  against all four legs. The

chair was rocking slightly  and appeared to  be about to float away from its

pursuer. Ostap sat down  on it and drew  up his feet. Ernest  Pavlovich, now

himself again,  turned off all the  taps with a cry of "Pardon me! !  Pardon

me!", rinsed himself, and appeared before Bender stripped  to the waist in a

pair of wet slacks rolled up to the knee.

"You absolutely saved my life," he exclaimed with feeling. "I apologize

for not shaking your hand, but I'm all wet. You know, I almost went crazy."

"You seemed to be getting on that way."

"I found myself in a horrible situation."

And  Ernest Pavlovich  gave the  smooth operator full  details  of  the

misfortune  which had  befallen  him,  first  laughing  nervously  and  then

becoming more sober as he relived the awful experience.

"Had you not come, I would have died," he said in conclusion.

"Yes," said Ostap, "something similar once happened to me, too.  Even a

bit worse."

The  engineer  was  now so interested  in  anything concerned with such

situations  that he put down the pail in which  he was collecting water, and

began listening attentively.

"It  was just like what  happened to  you," began Bender, "only it  was

winter,  and not  in Moscow, but  Mirgorod during one of those merry  little

periods of  occupation, between  Makhno and  Tyunuynik in '19. I was  living

with  a family.  Terrible Ukrainians ! Typical property-owners. A one-storey

house  and  loads of different junk. You  should  note that  with  regard to

sewage and other facilities, they have only cesspools in Mirgorod. Well, one

night I nipped out  in my underclothes, right into the snow. I wasn't afraid

of catching  cold-it  was only  going  to  take  a moment. I  nipped out and

automatically closed the door behind me. It was about twenty  degrees below.

I knocked, but got  no answer. You can't stand in one spot  or you freeze. I

knocked, ran  about,  knocked, and ran around, but there was  no answer. And

the  thing is that not one of those devils  was  asleep. It was  a  terrible

night;  the dogs  were  howling and there  was  a sound  of shots  somewhere

nearby. And there's me  running about the snowdrifts in  my summer shorts. I

kept knocking for  almost an hour. I  was  nearly done. And why  didn't they

open the door-  what do you think? They were busy hiding  their property and

sewing  up their  money in cushions. They thought it  was a  police raid.  I

nearly slaughtered them afterwards."

This was all very close to the engineer's heart.

"Yes," said Ostap, "so you are engineer Shukin."

"Yes, but please don't tell anyone about this. It would be awkward."

"Oh, sure! Entre nous and tete a tete, as the French say. But I came to

see you for a reason, Comrade Shukin."

"I'll be extremely pleased to help you."

"Grand merci!.  It's a  piddling matter. Your wife  asked me to stop by

and collect this  chair.  She said she needed it  to  make  a pair.  And she

intends sending you instead an armchair."

"Certainly,"  exclaimed  Ernest  Pavlovich. "Only  too happy.  But  why

should you bother yourself? I can take it for you. I can do it today."

"No, no. It's no bother at all for me. I live nearby."

The  engineer fussed  about and saw the  smooth operator as  far as the

door, beyond which he was  afraid to  go, despite  the fact that the key had

been carefully placed in the pocket of his wet slacks.

Former  student  Ivanopulo  was  presented  with  another  chair.   The

upholstery  was  admittedly  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear,  but   it  was

nevertheless a splendid chair and exactly like the first one.

Ostap was not worried by the  failure of the chair, the fourth in line.

He was familiar with all the tricks of fate.

It  was the  chair that  had vanished  into the  goods yard of  October

Station which cut like a huge dark mass through the well-knit pattern of his

deductions. His thoughts about that chair were  depressing  and raised grave

doubts.

The smooth  operator was in the position of a  roulette player who only

bets  on numbers; one  of  that  breed of  people who want to win thirty-six

times their stake all at once. The  situation was  even worse than that. The

concessionaires were  playing a kind of roulette in which zero could come up

eleven out  of  twelve times. And, what was more, the twelfth number was out

of sight, heaven knows where, and possibly contained a marvellous win.

The chain  of distressing thoughts was interrupted by the advent of the

director-in-chief. His appearance alone aroused forebodings in Ostap.

"Oho!" said the technical adviser. "I see you're making  progress. Only

don't joke with me. Why have  you left the chair outside? To have a laugh at

my expense? "

"Comrade Bender," muttered the marshal.

"Why are you trying to unnerve me? Bring it here at once. Don't you see

that the new chair that I am sitting on has made your acquisition many times

more valuable? "

Ostap leaned his head to one side and squinted.

"Don't  torment the  child,"  he  said  at length in  his  deep  voice.

"Where's the chair? Why haven't you brought it?"

Ippolit Matveyevich's muddled report was interrupted by shouts from the

floor, sarcastic applause and cunning questions. Vorobyaninov concluded  his

report to the unanimous laughter of his audience.

"What about  my  instructions?" said Ostap menacingly. "How many  times

have  I told you it's  a sin to steal.  Even back in Stargorod you wanted to

rob my wife, Madame Gritsatsuyev; even then I realized you had the character

of  a petty criminal.  The most  this propensity will ever get  you  is  six

months inside.  For a master-mind, and  father  of  Russian democracy,  your

scale of  operations  isn't very grand.  And here are the results. The chair

has slipped through your fingers. Not only that, you've spoiled an easy job.

Just  try making another visit there. That Absalom will tear your head  off.

It's  lucky  for you that you  were helped by that ridiculous fluke, or else

you'd have been behind bars, misguidedly waiting for me to bring you things.

I  shan't bring you  anything, so  keep  that in mind.  What's Hecuba to me?

After all, you're not my mother, sister, or lover."

Ippolit Matveyevich  stood  looking at the ground in acknowledgment  of

his worthlessness.

"The point is this, chum. I see the complete uselessness of our working

together. At any rate, working with as uncultured a partner as you for forty

per cent is absurd. Volens, nevolens, I must state new conditions."

Ippolit  Matveyevich  began breathing. Up to that  moment  he  had been

trying not to breathe.

"Yes,  my  ancient  friend,  you   are  suffering  from  organizational

impotence and greensickness. Accordingly, your share is decreased. Honestly,

do you want twenty per cent?"

Ippolit Matveyevich shook his head firmly.

"Why not? Too little for you?"

"T-too little."

"But after all, that's thirty thousand roubles. How much do you want?"

"I'll accept forty."

"Daylight  robbery!" cried  Ostap, imitating  the marshal's  intonation

during their historic haggling in  the caretaker's room. "Is thirty thousand

too little for you? You want the key of the apartment as well?"

"It's you  who  wants  the  key  of  the  apartment,"  babbled  Ippolit

Matveyevich.

"Take twenty  before it's  too late, or I might change  my  mind.  Take

advantage of my good mood."

Vorobyaninov had long since lost the air of smugness with which he  had

begun the search for the jewels.

The ice that had started moving in the caretaker's  room, the ice  that

had  crackled,  cracked, and smashed  against  the  granite embankment,  had

broken  up  and melted. It  was no  longer there. Instead there was  a  wide

stretch  of rushing water  which bore  Ippolit  Matveyevich along  with  it,

'buffeting him  from side to side, first  knocking him against  a beam, then

tossing him  against the  chairs, then carrying him away from them. He  felt

inexpressible fear.  Everything  frightened  him.  Along  the river  floated

refuse, patches of  oil, broken hen-coops,  dead fish, and a ghastly-looking

cap. Perhaps it  belonged  to Father Theodore, a  duck-bill cap blown off by

the wind  in Rostov. Who  knows? The  end of the path was not  in sight. The

former marshal of  the nobility was not being washed ashore, nor had he  the

strength or wish to swim against the stream.

He was being carried out into the open sea of adventure.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

TWO VISITS

Like  an unswaddled babe that  clenches and unclenches  its waxen fists

without stopping, moves its legs, waggles its cap-covered head, the size  of

a  large Antonov  apple, and blows bubbles, Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov

was eternally in a state of unrest. He moved  his  plump  legs, waggled  his

shaven chin,  produced sighing noises, and made gestures with his hairy arms

as though doing gymnastics on the end of strings.

He  led a  very busy  life,  appeared everywhere, and made  suggestions

while  tearing down  the street like a  frightened  chicken;  he  talked  to

himself very rapidly as if working out  the premium on  a stone, iron-roofed

building.  The  whole  secret of  his  life  and activity was  that  he  was

organically incapable of concerning himself with any one matter, subject, or

thought for longer than a minute.

If  his  joke  was  not successful and did  not  cause  instant  mirth,

Iznurenkov, unlike others, did not attempt to persuade the chief editor that

the  joke was  good and  required reflection  for complete appreciation;  he

immediately suggested another one.

"What's bad is bad," he used to say, "and that's the end of it."

When  in  shops,  Iznurenkov  caused  a  commotion  by   appearing  and

disappearing  so  rapidly in  front of the sales people, and buying boxes of

chocolates so grandly, that the cashier expected  to receive at least thirty

roubles. But Iznurenkov, dancing up and down by the cash desk and pulling at

his tie as though  it choked him, would throw down a  crumpled  three-rouble

note on to the glass plate and make off, bleating gracefully.

If  this man  had  been able  to stay still for  even as little  as two

hours, the most unexpected things might have happened.

He might  have sat down  at a desk  and written  a marvellous novel, or

perhaps  an application to the mutual-assistance  fund for a permanent loan,

or a new  clause in  the  law on the utilization of housing space, or a book

entitled How to Dress Well and Behave in Society.

But he was unable to do so. His madly working legs carried him off, the

pencil flew out of his gesticulating hands, and his thoughts jumped from one

thing to another.

Iznurenkov  ran about the  room, and  the seals on  the furniture shook

like the earrings on a gypsy dancer. A giggling girl from the suburbs sat on

the chair.

"Ah! Ah!" cried Absalom Vladimirovich, "divine! Ah! Ah! First rate! You

are Queen Margot."

The queen from the suburbs laughed respectfully, though she  understood

nothing.

"Have some chocolate, do! Ah! Ah! Charming."

He kept  kissing her hands, admiring her modest attire, pushing the cat

into  her lap, and asking,  fawningly: "He's just like a parrot, isn't he? A

lion. A real lion. Tell me, isn't he  extraordinarily fluffy? And his  tail.

It really is a huge tail, isn't it?"

The cat then went  flying into the corner, and,  pressing  his hands to

his milk-white chest,  Absalom Vladimirovich began bowing to someone outside

the window. Suddenly a valve popped open in his  madcap mind and he began to

be witty about his visitor's physical and spiritual attributes.

"Is  that  brooch  really  made  of glass?  Ah!  Ah!  What  brilliance.

Honestly, you dazzle me. And tell me,  is  Paris really a big city? Is there

really an Eiffel Tower there? Ah! What hands! What a nose!"

He did not kiss the girl. It was enough for him to pay her compliments.

And he talked without end. The flow  of compliments was interrupted  by  the

unexpected appearance of Ostap.

The smooth operator fiddled  with  a piece of paper and asked  sternly:

"Does Iznurenkov live here? Is that you? "

Absalom  Vladimirovich peered uneasily into  the stranger s stony face.

He tried to  read in his eyes exactly what demands were forthcoming; whether

it was a fine for breaking  a  tram  window during a conversation, a summons

for not paying his rent, or a contribution to a magazine for the blind.

"Come  on, Comrade," said  Ostap  harshly,  "that's not  the  way to do

things-kicking out a bailiff."

"What bailiff? " Iznurenkov was horrified.

"You  know very well. I'm  now  going  to  remove the furniture. Kindly

remove yourself from that chair, citizeness," said Ostap sternly.

The  young citizeness, who only a  moment before  had been listening to

verse by the most lyrical of poets, rose from her seat.

"No, don't move," cried Iznurenkov, sheltering the chair with his body.

"They have no right."

"You'd  better  not talk  about rights,  citizen.  You  should  be more

conscientious. Let go of the furniture! The law must be obeyed."

With these words, Ostap seized the chair and shook it in the air.

"I'm removing the furniture," said Ostap resolutely.

"No, you're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not, when I am?"  Ostap chuckled,  carrying  the

chair into the corridor.

Absalom kissed  his lady's hand and, inclining his head,  ran after the

severe judge. The latter was already on his way downstairs.

"And I say you have no right. By law the furniture can stay another two

weeks, and it's only three days so far. I may pay!"

Iznurenkov buzzed  around  Ostap like a bee,  and in this  manner  they

reached  the street. Absalom Vladimirovich chased the chair right  up to the

end of the street. There he caught sight of some sparrows hopping about by a

pile of manure.  He looked  at  them with twinkling eyes, began muttering to

himself, clapped his hands, and, bubbling with laughter, said:

"First rate! Ah! Ah! What a subject!"

Engrossed in working out the subject, he gaily turned around and rushed

home, bouncing as he went. He only remembered the chair when he arrived back

and found the girl from the suburbs standing up in the middle of the room.

Ostap took the chair away by cab.

"Take note,"  he said to  Ippolit  Matveyevich, "the chair was obtained

with my bare hands. For nothing. Do you understand?"

When they had opened the chair, Ippolit Matveyevich's spirits were low.

"The  chances are continually improving," said Ostap, "but we haven't a

kopek. Tell me, was your  late mother-in-law fond of practical  jokes by any

chance? "

"Why?"

"Maybe there aren't any jewels at all."

Ippolit Matveyevich waved his hands about  so violently that his jacket

rode up.

"In  that  case everything's fine. Let's hope  that  Ivanopulo's estate

need only be increased by one more chair."

"There  was  something in the  paper about you  today, Comrade Bender,"

said Ippolit Matveyevich obsequiously.

Ostap frowned. He did not like the idea of being front-page news. "What

are you blathering about? Which newspaper?"

Ippolit Matveyevich  triumphantly opened the Lathe. "Here it is. In the

section 'What Happened Today'."

Ostap  became  a  little  calmer;  he  was  only  worried about  public

denouncements  in  the   sections  "Our  Caustic  Comments"  and  "Take  the

Malefactors to Court".

Sure  enough, there in  nonpareil type  in the  section "What  Happened

Today" was the item:

KNOCKED DOWN BY A HORSE

CITIZEN  O. BENDER  WAS KNOCKED DOWN  YESTERDAY ON  SVERDLOV  SQUARE BY

HORSE-CAB NO. 8974. THE VICTIM WAS UNHURT EXCEPT FOR SLIGHT SHOCK.

"It was the cab-driver who suffered slight shock, not me," grumbled  O.

Bender.  "The  idiots!  They write and write,  and  don't know what  they're

writing  about.  Aha!  So  that's  the Lathe.  Very, very  pleasant.  Do you

realize, Vorobyaninov, that this report might have  been written  by someone

sitting on our chair? A fine thing that is!"

The smooth  operator  lapsed  into thought. He had  found an excuse  to

visit the newspaper office.

Having found out  from the  editor that all the rooms  on both sides of

the corridor were occupied  by the editorial offices, Ostap assumed a  naive

air  and made  a  round  of the premises.  He had  to find  out  which  room

contained the chair.

He strode into the union committee room, where  a  meeting of the young

motorists was in progress, but saw  at once  there  was  no chair  there and

moved on to the next room. In the clerical office he pretended to be waiting

for a resolution; in the reporters'  room he  asked where  it  was they were

selling the wastepaper, as advertised; in the editor's office he asked about

subscriptions, and in the humorous-sketch section  he wanted  to  know where

they accepted notices concerning lost documents.

By this  method he  eventually arrived at  the  chief  editor's office,

where  the  chief  editor  was sitting on the concessionaires' chair bawling

into a telephone.

Ostap needed time to reconnoitre the terrain.

"Comrade editor,  you  have  published a downright libellous  statement

about me."

"What libellous statement?"

Taking his time, Ostap unfolded a copy of  the Lathe. Glancing round at

the door, he saw it had a Yale lock.  By removing a  small piece of glass in

the door it would be possible to slip a hand through and unlock it  from the

inside.

The chief editor read the item which Ostap pointed out to him.

"Where do you see a libellous statement there?"

"Of course, this bit:

The victim was unhurt except

for slight shock.'"

"I don't understand."

Ostap looked tenderly at the chief editor and the chair.

"Am I likely to be shocked by some cab-driver? You have disgraced me in

the eyes of the world. You must publish an apology."

"Listen, citizen," said  the chief  editor, "no one has disgraced  you.

And we don't publish apologies for such minor points."

"Well, I shall not let  the matter rest, at any rate," replied Ostap as

he left the room.

He had seen all he wanted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE MARVELLOUS PRISON BASKET

The  Stargorod branch of  the  ephemeral Sword and Ploughshare and  the

young  toughs from Fastpack formed  a  queue outside  the Grainproducts meal

shop.

Passers-by kept stopping.

"What's the queue for?" asked the citizens.

In a tiresome queue outside a  shop  there  is  always one person whose

readiness to chatter increases  with his distance from the shop doorway. And

furthest of all stood Polesov.

"Things have reached a pretty pitch,"  said the fire chief. "We'll soon

be eating oilcake. Even 1919 was better than this. There's only enough flour

in the town for four days."

The citizens twirled their moustaches disbelievingly  and  argued  with

Polesov, quoting the Stargorod Truth.

Having  proved  to him as easily as  pie that  there was as  much flour

available as they required and that there was no need to panic, the citizens

ran home, collected all their ready cash, and joined the flour queue.

When they had  bought  up  all the  flour in the shop, the toughs  from

Fastpack switched to groceries and formed a queue for tea and sugar.

In three days Stargorod was in the grip  of an acute food and commodity

shortage.  Representatives  from the co-operatives and  state-owned  trading

organizations proposed that until the arrival of food  supplies,  already on

their way,  the sale of comestibles should be restricted to a pound of sugar

and five pounds of flour a head.

The next day an antidote to this was found.

At  the  head of the sugar queue stood Alchen. Behind him was his wife,

Sashchen,  Pasha Emilevich,  four  Yakovleviches  and all fifteen  old-women

pensioners in  their woollen  dresses. As  soon as he had bled the  shop  of

twenty-two  pounds of  sugar,  Alchen  led his  queue  across to  the  other

co-operatives, cursing Pasha Emilevich as he went for gobbling up his ration

of one  pound of granulated sugar. Pasha was pouring the sugar into his palm

and transferring it to his enormous mouth. Alchen  fussed about all  day. To

avoid such unforeseen losses, he took Pasha from the queue and put him on to

carrying the  goods  purchased to the  local market. There Alchen slyly sold

the booty of sugar, tea and marquisette to the privately-owned stalls.

Polesov stood in the queue chiefly for  reasons of principle. He had no

money, so  he  could  not buy  anything.  He  wandered from queue  to queue,

listening  to the conversations,  made  nasty  remarks, raised  his eyebrows

knowingly, and complained about conditions. The result  of  his insinuations

was  that  rumours  began  to  go  around  that  some  sort  of  underground

organization had arrived with a supply of swords and ploughshares.

Governor  Dyadyev  made ten thousand  roubles  in  one  day.  What  the

chairman of the stock-exchange committee made, even his wife did not know.

The  idea that he belonged to a secret  society gave Kislarsky no rest.

The rumours  in the  town were the  last straw. After a sleepless night, the

chairman of  the stock-exchange  committee made up  his  mind that  the only

thing that could shorten ms term of  imprisonment was to make a clean breast

of it.

"Listen, Henrietta," he said to his  wife,  "it's time  to transfer the

textiles to your brother-in-law."

"Why,  will the secret police  really come for  you?"  asked  Henrietta

Kislarsky.

"They  might. Since there  isn't  any freedom of trade  in the country,

I'll have to go to jail some time or other,"

"Shall I prepare  your  underwear? What misery for  me to  have to keep

taking you things. But why don't you become a Soviet employee? After all, my

brother-in-law is a trade-union member and he doesn't do too badly."

Henrietta  did not know that fate had promoted her  husband to the rank

of chairman of the stock-exchange committee. She was therefore calm.

"I may not come back tonight," said Kislarsky, "in which case bring  me

some things tomorrow to the jail. But please  don't bring  any cream  puffs.

What kind of fun is it eating cold tarts?"

"Perhaps you ought to take the primus?"

"Do you think  I would  be  allowed  a primus in my  cell?  Give  me my

basket."

Kislarsky  had  a special prison basket.  Made to  order, it was  fully

adapted for all purposes. When opened out, it acted as a  bed, and when half

open it  could be  used as a table. Moreover,  it could be substituted for a

cupboard; it  had shelves, hooks and drawers. His  wife put some cold supper

and fresh underwear into the all-purpose basket.

"You don't need  to see me  off,"  said  her experienced  husband.  "If

Rubens comes for  the money,  tell him there isn't any. Goodbye!  Rubens can

wait."

And Kislarsky walked  sedately out into the street, carrying the prison

basket by the handle.

"Where are you going, citizen Kislarsky? " Polesov hailed him.

He  was standing by a telegraph  pole  and shouting encouragement to  a

post-office  worker who was clambering up  towards the  insulators, gripping

the pole with iron claws.

"I'm going to confess," answered Kislarsky.

"What about?"

"The Sword and Ploughshare."

Victor Mikhailovich  was speechless.  Kislarsky sauntered  towards  the

province public  prosecutor's  office,  sticking out his  little  egg-shaped

belly, which was encircled by a wide belt with an outside pocket.

Victor Mikhailovich napped his wings and flew off to see Dyadyev.

"Kislarsky's a stooge," cried Polesov. "He's just gone to squeal on us.

He's even still in sight."

"What? And with his basket?" said the  horrified governor of Stargorod.

• "Yes."

Dyadyev kissed his wife, shouted to her that if Rubens  came he was not

to get any money, and raced out into the  street. Victor Mikhailovich turned

a circle, clucked  like a hen that had just laid an egg, and  rushed to find

Nikesha and Vladya.

In the meantime, Kislarsky sauntered slowly along  in  the direction of

the prosecutor's office. On the way he met Rubens  and had a  long talk with

him.  "And what about  the money?" asked  Rubens.  "My  wife will give it to

you."

"And why are you carrying that basket?" Rubens inquired suspiciously.

"I'm going to the steam baths." "Well, have a good steam!"

Kislarsky then  called  in  at the state-owned  sweetshop, formerly the

Bonbons de Varsovie, drank a  cup  of coffee, and ate a piece of layer cake.

It was time  to  repent. The  chairman of the  stock-exchange committee went

into the reception room of the  prosecutor's office. It was empty. Kislarsky

went up  to a door marked "Province Public Prosecutor" and knocked politely.

"Come in," said a familiar voice.

Kislarsky went  inside  and halted in amazement.  His  egg-shaped belly

immediately  collapsed and  wrinkled like a  date. What he  saw was  totally

unexpected.

The  desk behind  which  the  prosecutor was sitting was  surrounded by

members of the  powerful Sword  and Ploughshare organization.  Judging  from

their gestures and plaintive voices, they had confessed to everything.

"Here he is," said Dyadyev, "the ringleader  and Octobrist."  "First of

all," said Kislarsky,  putting down the basket on the floor and  approaching

the desk,  "I am not  an  Octobrist;  next,  I have always been  sympathetic

towards the Soviet regime, and third, the ringleader is not  me, but Comrade

Charushnikov, whose address is-"

"Red  Army Street!" shouted  Dyadyev. "Number three!"  chorused Nikesha

and Vladya. "Inside the yard on the right!" added Polesov. "I can show you."

Twenty minutes  later they brought in Charushnikov, who promptly denied

ever having seen any of the persons present in the room before in his  life,

and then, without pausing, went  on to denounce Elena  Stanislavovna. It was

only when he was in  his cell, wearing  clean underwear and stretched out on

his  prison basket, that the chairman of  the stock-exchange committee  felt

happy and at ease.

During  the crisis  Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender managed to stock up with

enough provisions and commodities for her shop to last at least four months.

Regaining  her calm, she began pining once more  for  her young husband, who

was languishing at meetings of the Junior Council  of Ministers.  A visit to

the fortune-teller brought no reassurance.

Alarmed  by  the  disappearance  of   the  Stargorod  Areopagus,  Elena

Stanislavovna  dealt  the cards with outrageous negligence.  The cards first

predicted  the end  of  the  world,  then  a meeting with  her husband  in a

government institution in the presence of an enemy-the King of Spades.

What  is more, the actual  fortune-telling ended up rather  oddly, too.

Police agents arrived (Kings of  Spades) and took away  the prophetess to  a

government institution (the public prosecutor's office).

Left  alone  with the parrot, the widow was about to leave in confusion

when the parrot struck the bars of its cage with its  beak and spoke for the

first time in its life.

"The times we live in!" it said sardonically,  covering its  head  with

one wing and pulling a feather from underneath.

Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender made for the door in fright.

A stream of heated, muddled words followed her. The ancient bird was so

upset by the  visit of the police and the removal of its owner that it began

shrieking out all the words it knew. A prominent place in its repertoire was

occupied by Victor Polesov.

"Given the absence . . ." said the parrot testily.

And, turning upside-down on its perch, it winked at  the widow, who had

stopped motionless by the  door,  as much as to say: "Well, how do  you like

it, widow?"

"Mother!" gasped Gritsatsuyev.

"Which  regiment  were you  in?" asked the parrot  in  Bender's  voice.

"Cr-r-r-rash! Europe will help us."

As soon as the widow had fled, the parrot  straightened its shirt front

and uttered the words which people had  been trying unsuccessfully for years

to make it say:

"Pretty Polly!"

The  widow fled howling down  the street. At her house an agile old man

was waiting for her. It was Bartholomeich.

"It's about the advertisement," said Bartholomeich. "I've been here for

two hours."

The heavy hoof of presentiment struck the widow a blow in the heart.

"Oh," she intoned, "it's been a gruelling experience."

"Citizen  Bender  left  you,  didn't  he?  It  was  you   who  put  the

advertisement in, wasn't it?"

The widow sank on to the sacks of flour.

"How weak your constitution is," said Bartholomeich sweetly. "I'd first

like to find out about the reward. . . ."

"Oh, take  everything.  I need  nothing  any more . .  ."  burbled  the

sensitive widow.

"Right, then. I  know the whereabouts of your sonny boy, O. Bender. How

much is the reward?"

"Take everything," repeated the widow.

"Twenty roubles," said Bartholomeich dryly.

The  widow  rose  from  the  sacks.  She  was  covered with  flour. Her

flour-dusted eyelashes flapped frenziedly. "How much?" she asked.

"Fifteen roubles." Bartholomeich lowered  his price. He sensed it would

be difficult making the wretched woman cough up as much as three roubles.

Trampling  the  sacks underfoot, the  widow advanced  on  the  old man,

called  upon the heavenly  powers to bear witness, and with their assistance

drove a hard bargain.

"Well,  all right,  make  it  five  roubles. Only I want  the  money in

advance, please: it's a rule of mine."

Bartholomeich took  two newspaper  clippings from  his  notebook,  and,

without letting go of them, began reading.

"Take a look  at  these in  order. You wrote 'Missing from home . . . I

implore, etc.' That's right, isn't it? That's the Stargorod Truth. And  this

is what they wrote about  your little boy in the Moscow newspapers. Here . .

.  'Knocked down  by  a horse.' No, don't smile, Madame, just listen  . .  .

'Knocked down by a horse.' But alive.  Alive, I tell you. Would I ask  money

for a corpse? So that's it . . . 'Knocked down by a horse. Citizen O. Bender

was  knocked down yesterday on Sverdlov Square by horse-cab number 8974. The

victim was unhurt except for slight shock.' So I'll give you these documents

and you give me the money in advance. It's a rule of mine."

Sobbing, the widow handed over the money. Her husband, her dear husband

in  yellow  boots  lay on distant  Moscow  soil  and a  cab-horse, breathing

flames, was kicking his blue worsted chest.

Bartholomeich's  sensitive  nature  was  satisfied  with  the  adequate

reward.  He went  away, having explained to  the widow that further clues to

her  husband's whereabouts could be  found for sure  at the  offices of  the

Lathe, where, naturally, everything was known.

Letter  from  Father Theodore  written  in  Rostov  at  the  Milky  Way

hot-water stall to his wife in the regional centre of N.

My darling Kate,

A fresh disaster has befallen me, but I'll come to that. I received the

money in good time, for which sincere thanks. On arrival in Rostov I went at

once to the address.  New-Ros-Cement  is an enormous  establishment;  no one

there had ever  heard of Engineer Bruns. I was about to  despair  completely

when they gave me an idea. Try the personnel office, they said. I did.  Yes,

they  told me, we  did  have someone of that name;  he was doing responsible

work, but left  us  last  year  to go to  Baku  to  work  for  As-Oil as  an

accident-prevention specialist.

Well, my dear, my journey will not be as brief as I expected. You write

that the  money is running  out.  It can't be helped, Catherine. It won't be

long now.  Have patience, pray to God, and sell my diagonal-cloth  student's

uniform. And there'll soon be other expenses to be  borne of another nature.

Be ready for everything.

The  cost of living in Rostov  is awful. I  paid Rs.  2.25  for a hotel

room.  I  haven't enough  to get to Baku. I'll cable  you from there  if I'm

successful.

The  weather here  is very  hot.  I carry  my  coat around with me. I'm

afraid to leave anything in my  room-they'd steal it before  you had time to

turn around. The people here are sharp.

I  don't  like  Rostov.  It  is  considerably inferior  to  Kharkov  in

population and geographical position. But don't worry, Mother. God  willing,

we'll take a trip to Moscow together. Then you'll see it's a completely West

European city. And then we will go to live in Samara near our factory.

Has Vorobyaninov come back? Where can he be? Is Estigneyev still having

meals? How's  my cassock since it was cleaned? Make  all our friends believe

I'm at my aunt's deathbed. Write the same thing to Gulenka.

Yes! I forgot  to  tell you about a terrible thing that happened  to me

today.

I was  gazing  at the  quiet  Don,  standing by the bridge and thinking

about our future  possessions.  Suddenly a wind came up and blew my cap into

the river. It was your brother's, the baker's, I was the only one to see it.

I had to  make a new outlay  and buy an English cap for Rs. 2.50. Don't tell

your brother anything about what happened. Tell him I'm in Voronezh.

I'm having trouble with my underwear. I wash  it in the  evening and if

it  hasn't dried by the morning, I put it on damp. It's even pleasant in the

present heat.

With love and kisses,

Your husband eternally,

Theo.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE HEN AND THE PACIFIC ROOSTER

Persidsky  the  reporter  was  busily  preparing for  the two-hundredth

anniversary of the great mathematician Isaac Newton.

While the work  was in full swing, Steve came in from Science and Life.

A plump citizeness trailed after him.

"Listen, Persidsky," said  Steve,  "this citizeness has come to see you

about something. This way, please, lady. The comrade will explain to you."

Chuckling to himself, Steve left.

"Well?" asked Persidsky. "What can I do for you?"

Madame Gritsatsuyev  (it  was  she)  fixed her  yearning  eyes  on  the

reporter and silently handed him a piece of paper.

"So," said Persidsky, "knocked down by a horse . . . What about it?"

"The  address," beseeched the widow, "wouldn't it  be possible to  have

the address?"

"Whose address?"

"O. Bender's."

"How should I know it? "

"But the comrade said you would."

"I have no idea of it. Ask the receptionist."

"Couldn't you remember, Comrade? He was wearing yellow boots."

"I'm wearing  yellow  boots  myself.  In Moscow there are  two  hundred

thousand  people  wearing  yellow   boots.  Perhaps  you'd  like  all  their

addresses? By all means. I'll leave what I'm doing and do it for you. In six

months' time you'll know them all. I'm busy, citizeness."

But the widow  felt great respect for Persidsky and  followed him  down

the corridor, rustling her starched petticoat and repeating her requests.

That son of a  bitch, Steve, thought Persidsky. All  right, then,  I'll

set the inventor of perpetual motion on him. That will make him jump.

"What can I do about it?" said Persidsky irritably, halting in front of

the widow. "How  do I know the  address  of Citizen O. Bender? Who am I, the

horse that  knocked him down? Or the cab-driver he punched in the back-in my

presence?"

The  widow  answered  with a  vague  rumbling from  which it  was  only

possible to decipher the words "Comrade" and "Please".

Activities  in  the House of  the  Peoples  had already  finished.  The

offices and corridors had emptied. Somewhere  a typewriter was polishing off

a final page.

"Sorry, madam, can't you see I'm busy?"

With these words  Persidsky hid in the lavatory.  Ten minutes  later he

gaily emerged. Widow Gritsatsuyev  was patiently rustling  her  petticoat at

the  corner  of  two corridors. As Persidsky approached, she  began  talking

again.

The reporter grew furious.

"All right,  auntie," he  said, "I'll tell you where your Bender is. Go

straight  down the corridor, turn right, and then continue  straight. You'll

see a door. Ask Cherepennikov. He ought to know."

And, satisfied with his fabrication, Persidsky  disappeared  so quickly

that  the  starched  widow had  no time  to  ask  for  further  information.

Straightening her petticoat, Madame Gritsatsuyev went down the corridor.

The  corridors of the  House of  the Peoples were so  long and | narrow

that people walking  down  them inevitably  quickened their pace. You  could

tell from  anyone  who passed how far they had come. If they walked slightly

faster than normal, it meant the marathon had only just begun. Those who had

already completed two  or three corridors developed a fairly fast  trot. And

from time to  time  it was  possible  to see someone running  along  at full

speed; he had reached the  five-corridor stage. A citizen who had gone eight

corridors could  easily  compete  with a bird, racehorse or Nurmi, the world

champion runner.

Turning to the  right, the  widow Gritsatsuyev began running. The floor

creaked.

Coming  towards her  at  a  rapid  pace  was  a brown-haired  man in  a

light-blue waistcoat and crimson boots.  From Ostap's  face it was clear his

visit to the House of the Peoples at  so late  an hour I was necessitated by

the  urgent affairs  of the concession.  The | technical adviser's plans had

evidently not envisaged an encounter with his loved one.

At the  sight  of the widow,  Ostap about-faced  and,  without  looking

around, went back, keeping close to the wall.

"Comrade Bender," cried the widow in delight. "Where are you going? "

The smooth operator increased his speed. So did the widow.

"Listen to me," she called.

But her words  did not  reach  Ostap's ears.  He heard the sighing  and

whistling  of the wind.  He tore  down the fourth corridor and  hurtled down

flights of  iron  stairs. All he left for his  loved  one  was an echo which

repeated the starcase noises for some time.

"Thanks,"  muttered  Ostap,  sitting down on the  ground  on the  fifth

floor. "A fine time for a rendezvous. Who invited the  passionate lady here?

It's  time to liquidate the Moscow branch of the concession, or else I might

find that self-employed mechanic here as well."

At that  moment,  Widow Gritsatsuyev,  separated from  Ostap  by  three

storeys, thousands of doors and dozens of corridors, wiped her hot face with

the edge of  her petticoat and  set off again.  She  intended  to  find  her

husband as quickly as possible and  have it out with him. The corridors were

lit with dim lights. All the lights,  corridors and doors were the same. But

soon she began to feel terrified and only wanted to get away.

Conforming  to  the  corridor progression,  she  hurried  along  at  an

ever-increasing rate. Half an hour later  it was impossible to stop her. The

doors  of  presidiums, secretariats, union  committee  rooms, administration

sections and editorial offices flew open with a crash on  either side of her

bulky body. She upset ash-trays as she went with her iron skirts.  The trays

rolled after her with the clatter  of  saucepans.  Whirlwinds and whirlpools

formed at the ends of  the  corridors. Ventilation windows flapped. Pointing

fingers stencilled on the walls dug into the poor widow.

She finally found herself on a  stairway landing. It was dark,  but the

widow  overcame her fear, ran down, and pulled at a glass door. The door was

locked. The widow hurried back, but the door through which she had just come

had just been locked by someone's thoughtful hand.

In Moscow they like to lock doors.

Thousands of  front  entrances  are  boarded up  from  the inside,  and

thousands of citizens find their  way into their apartments through the back

door.  The year 1918 has long  since  passed; the concept of a "raid on  the

apartment" has long since become something vague; the apartment-house guard,

organized  for  purposes  of  security,  has  long  since vanished;  traffic

problems are being solved; enormous power stations are being built  and very

great scientific discoveries are  being made, but there is  no one to devote

his life to studying the problem of the closed door.

Where is the man who  will solve the enigma of  the  cinemas, theatres,

and circuses?

Three thousand members of the public have ten minutes in which to enter

the  circus through  one  single  doorway,  half  of  which  is closed.  The

remaining ten doors designed to accommodate large crowds of people are shut.

Who knows why they are shut? It  may be that twenty years  ago  a performing

donkey  was stolen from the circus stable and ever since the  management has

been walling up convenient entrances and exits in  fear. Or  perhaps at some

time  a famous queen  of the air  felt  a draught  and  the closed doors are

merely a repercussion of the scene she caused.

The  public is  allowed  into  theatres and  cinemas in  small batches,

supposedly to avoid bottlenecks.  It is quite easy to avoid bottlenecks; all

you  have  to do is  open  the  numerous  exits.  But  instead of  that  the

management  uses  force; the attendants link arms and form a living barrier,

and in this way keep the public at bay for at  least half an hour. While the

doors, the cherished doors, closed as far back as Peter the Great, are still

shut.

Fifteen thousand football fans elated  by  the superb  play  of a crack

Moscow team are forced  to squeeze their way to  the tram through a crack so

narrow  that  one  lightly  armed  warrior  could  hold  off  forty thousand

barbarians supported by two battering rams.

A sports stadium  does not have a roof, but it does have several exits.

All that is open is a wicket gate. You can get out  only by breaking through

the main gates. They are always broken after every great sporting event. But

so great is the  desire  to keep up the sacred tradition, they are carefully

repaired each time and firmly shut again.

If there is no  chance  of hanging a door (which happens when  there is

nothing on which to hang it), hidden doors of all kinds come into play:

1. Rails

2. Barriers

3. Upturned benches

4. Warning signs

5. Rope

Rails are very common in government offices.

They prevent access to the official you want to see.

The visitor walks up and down the rail like a tiger, trying  to attract

attention by making signs. This  does not always  work. The visitor may have

brought  a  useful invention! He might  only want to pay his income tax. But

the rail is in  the way. The unknown invention is  left outside; and the tax

is left unpaid.

Barriers are used on the street.

They  are set up in spring on a noisy main street, supposedly to  fence

off the part of the pavement  being repaired. And the noisy street instantly

becomes deserted.  Pedestrians  filter through to their  destinations  along

other streets. Each day they have to go an extra half-mile, but hope springs

eternal.  The summer  passes. The leaves  wither.  And the  barrier is still

there. The repairs have not been done. And the street is deserted.

Upturned benches  are used to block  the  entrances to gardens  in  the

centre of the Moscow squares, which on account of the disgraceful negligence

of the builders have not been fitted with strong gateways.

A whole book could be written about warning signs, but that  is not the

intention of the authors at present.

The signs are of two types-direct and indirect:

NO ADMITTANCE

NO ADMITTANCE TO OUTSIDERS

NO ENTRY

These notices are sometimes hung on the  doors  of  government  offices

visited by the public in particularly great numbers.

The indirect signs are more insidious. They do not  prohibit entry; but

rare is the adventurer  who will risk exercising his rights. Here they  are,

those shameful signs:

NO ENTRY EXCEPT ON BUSINESS

NO CONSULTATIONS

BY YOUR VISIT YOU ARE DISTURBING A BUSY MAN

Wherever it  is  impossible  to  place rails or  barriers, to  overturn

benches or hang up warning signs, ropes are used. They  are stretched across

your path according to mood, and in the  most unexpected places. If they are

stretched  at chest level they cause no  more  than slight shock and nervous

laughter. But when stretched at ankle level they can cripple you for life.

To hell with doors! To hell with queues outside theatres.  Allow us  to

go in without business. We implore you to  remove the barrier set up by  the

thoughtless  apartment superintendent on the pavement by his door. There are

the upturned  benches!  Put  them  the right  side  up!  It  is precisely at

night-time that it is so nice to sit in the gardens in the squares. The  air

is clear and clever thoughts come to mind.

Sitting on the  landing by the locked glass  door in the very centre of

the House of the  Peoples,  Mrs. Gritsatsuyev contemplated her widow's  lot,

dozed off from time to time, and waited for morning.

The yellow light of  the  ceiling lamps poured on to the widow  through

the glass door from the illuminated corridor. The ashen morn made its way in

through the window of the stairway.

It was that  quiet hour when the morning is fresh  and young. It was at

this hour that the widow heard footsteps  in the  corridor. The widow jumped

up and pressed against the  glass.  She caught a glimpse of a blue waistcoat

at the end of the corridor.  The crimson  boots were dusty with plaster. The

flighty son of a Turkish citizen approached the glass door, brushing a speck

of dust from the sleeve of his jacket.

"Bunny!" called the widow. "Bun-ny!"

She breathed on the glass with unspeakable tenderness. The glass misted

over and made rainbow circles. Beyond  the mistiness and  rainbows glimmered

blue and raspberry-coloured spectres.

Ostap did not hear the widow's cooing. He scratched his back and turned

his head anxiously. Another second and he would have been around the corner.

With  a groan of  "Comrade Bender", the poor wife began drumming on the

window. The smooth operator turned around.

"Oh,"  he said, seeing he was separated from the widow by a glass door,

"are you here, too?"

"Yes, here, here," uttered the widow joyfully.

"Kiss me, honey,"  the technical adviser invited. "We haven't seen each

other for such a long time!"

The widow was in a frenzy. She hopped up  and down behind the door like

a finch  in a cage. The petticoat which had been silent for  the night began

to rustle loudly. Ostap spread his arms.

"Why don't you  come to  me,  my little hen? Your Pacific rooster is so

tired after the meeting of the Junior Council of Ministers."

The widow had no imagination.

"Bunny,"  she  called  for  the fifth time,  "open  the  door,  Comrade

Bender."

"Hush, girl!  Modesty becomes a  woman.  What's  all the  jumping about

for?"

The widow was in agony.

"Why are  you torturing yourself?" asked Ostap.  "Who's  preventing you

from living? "

The widow burst into tears.

"Wipe your eyes, Citizeness. Every  one  of your tears is a molecule in

the cosmos."

"But I've  been waiting and waiting. I closed  down the shop. I've come

for you, Comrade Bender."

"And how does it feel on the stairs? Not draughty, I hope?"

The widow slowly began to seethe like a huge monastery samovar. ,

"Traitor!" she spat out with a shudder.

Ostap  had a little time left.  He  clicked  his fingers  and,  swaying

rhythmically, crooned:

"We all go through times

When the devil's beside us,

When a young woman's charms

Arouse passion inside us."

"Drop dead!" advised the  widow at the end of the dance. "You  stole my

bracelet, a present from my husband. And why did you take the chair? "

"Now you're getting personal," Ostap observed coldly.

"You stole, you stole!" repeated the widow.

"Listen,  girl. Just remember  for future  reference that  Ostap Bender

never stole anything in his life."

"Then who took the tea-strainer?"

"Ah, the tea-strainer! From your non-liquid fund. And you consider that

theft? In that case our views on life are diametrically opposed."

"You took it," clucked the widow.

"So if a young and healthy man borrows  from a provincial grandmother a

kitchen utensil for  which she has no need on account of poor health, he's a

thief, is he? Is that what you mean?"

"Thief! Thief!"

The widow threw  herself  against  the door.  The  glass rattled. Ostap

realized it was time to go.

"I've no  time to kiss you," he said. "Good-bye,  beloved. We've parted

like ships at sea."

"Help!" screeched the widow.

But Ostap was already at the end of the corridor.  He climbed on to the

windowsill  and dropped heavily to the ground,  moist after the night  rain,

and hid in the glistening playgrounds.

The  widow's  cries  brought  the  night  watchman.  He  let  her  out,

threatening to have her fined.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE AUTHOR OF THE "GAVRILIAD"

As Madame  Gritsatsuyev  was leaving the  block of  offices,  the  more

modest  ranks of employees were  beginning to arrive at  the  House  of  the

Peoples:  there  were messengers, in-and-out girls, duty telephonists, young

assistant accountants, and state-sponsored apprentices.

Among them was Nikifor Lapis,  a  very  young man with  a  sheep's-head

haircut and a cheeky face.

The  ignorant, the stubborn, and those making their first visit  to the

House of the Peoples entered through the front entrance.  Nikifor Lapis made

his  way  into the  building through  the  dispensary. At  the  House of the

Peoples he was completely at home  and knew the  quickest  ways to the oases

where, under the leafy shade of departmental journals, royalties gushed from

clear springs.

First of all, Nikifor went to the snack-bar. The nickel-plated register

made  a  musical  sound  and  ejected  three  checks. Nikifor consumed  some

yoghurt, having opened the paper-covered jar, then a cream puff which looked

like  a miniature flower-bed. He washed  it  all down  with tea. Then  Lapis

leisurely began making the round of his possessions.

His  first  visit  was to the editorial office of the monthly  sporting

magazine Gerasim and  Mumu.  Comrade  Napernikov  had  not yet  arrived,  so

Nikifor moved  on to  the Hygroscopic Herald, the weekly mouthpiece by which

pharmaceutical workers communicated with the outside world.

"Good morning!" said Nikifor. "I've written a marvellous poem."

"What about?" asked the editor  of the literary page. "On what subject?

You know, Trubetskoi, our magazine . . ."

To  give a  more subtle definition  of the essence of  the  Hygroscopic

Herald, the editor gestured with his fingers.

Trubetskoi-Lapis  looked  at  his   white  sailcloth  trousers,  leaned

backward, and said in a singsong voice: "The Ballad of the Gangrene".

'.'That's  interesting," said the hygroscopic  individual. "It's  about

time we introduced prophylaxis in popular form."

Lapis immediately began declaiming:

"Gavrila took to bed with gangrene.

The gangrene made Gavrila sick . . ."

The poem went  on in the same heroic  iambic tetrameter to  relate how,

through ignorance, Gavrila  failed to go to the chemist's  in time  and died

because he had not put iodine on a scratch.

"You're making progress, Trubetskoi," said the editor in approval. "But

we'd like something a bit longer. Do you understand?"

He  began  moving  his fingers, but  nevertheless took  the  terrifying

ballad, promising to pay on Tuesday.

In the magazine Telegraphist's Week Lapis was greeted hospitably.

"A good thing you've come,  Trubetskoi. We need some  verse right away.

But it must be about life, life, and  life.  No lyrical stuff. Do  you hear,

Trubetskoi? Something about the everyday life of post-office workers, but at

the same time . . . Do you get me?"

"Only  yesterday I was thinking about  the everyday life of post-office

workers,  and I concocted the following poem. It's called 'The Last Letter'.

Here it is:

"Gavrila had a job as postman.

Gavrila took the letters round . . ."

The story of Gavrila was contained in seventy-two lines. At the  end of

the  poem, Gavrila, although wounded by a fascist bullet, managed to deliver

the letter to the right address.

"Where does it take place? " they asked Lapis.

It was  a good question.  There  were no fascists in  the  USSR, and no

Gavrilas or members of the post-office union abroad.

"What's  wrong?" asked Lapis. "It takes place here, of course, and  the

fascist is disguised."

"You know, Trubetskoi, you'd do better to write about a radio station."

"Why don't you want the postman? "

"Let's wait a bit. We'll take it conditionally.

The crestfallen Nikifor Trubetskoi-Lapis went back to Gerasim and Mumu.

Napernikov  was already at  his desk. On  the wall  hung  a greatly enlarged

picture of Turgenev with a pince-nez, waders,  and a  double-barrel  shotgun

across his shoulders. Beside Napernikov stood Lapis's rival, a poet from the

suburbs.

The same old story  of Gavrila  was begun again, but this time  with  a

hunting  twist  to  it.  The work  went under  the  title  of "The Poacher's

Prayer".

Gavrila lay in wait for rabbits.

Gavrila shot and winged a doe . . .

"Very  good!"  said  the kindly  Napernikov. "You have surpassed Entich

himself  in  this  poem, Trubetskoi. Only there are one or two things to  be

changed. The first thing is to get rid of the word 'prayer'."

"And 'rabbit'," said the rival.

"Why 'rabbit'?" asked Nikifor in surprise.

"It's the wrong season."

"You hear that, Trubetskoi! Change the word 'rabbit' as well."

After transformation the poem bore the title "The Poacher's Lesson" and

the rabbits  were  changed to snipe. It then turned out that  snipe were not

game birds in the summer, either. In its final form the poem read:

Gavrila lay in wait for sparrows.

Gavrila shot and winged a bird . . .

After lunch in the canteen, Lapis set to work again. His white trousers

flashed up  and down the corridor. He entered various editorial offices  and

sold the many-faced Gavrila.

In the Co-operative Flute Gavrila was submitted under the title of "The

Eolean Recorder".

Gavrila worked behind the counter. Gavrila did a trade in flutes . . .

The simpletons in the voluminous magazine The  Forest as It Is bought a

short poem by Lapis entitled "On the Verge". It began like this:

Gavrila passed through virgin forest,

Hacking at the thick bamboo . . .

The last Gavrila for that day  worked in a bakery. He was found a place

in the editorial  office of The Cake Worker. The  poem had the long  and sad

title of "Bread, Standards of Output, and  One's  Sweetheart". The  poem was

dedicated to a mysterious Hina Chlek. The beginning was as epic as before:

Gavrila had a job as baker.

Gavrila baked the cakes and bread . . .

After a delicate argument, the dedication was deleted.

The saddest thing of all  was that  no one gave  Lapis any  money. Some

promised to  pay him  on  Tuesday,  others said Thursday,  or  Friday in two

weeks' time.  He was forced to go  and  borrow money from the enemy camp-the

place where he was never published.

Lapis  went  down to the second floor  and  entered the office  of  the

Lathe. To his misfortune he immediately bumped into Persidsky, the slogger.

"Ah!" exclaimed Persidsky, "Lapsus!"

"Listen,"  said Nikifor Lapis, lowering his  voice. "Let me  have three

roubles. Gerasim and Mumu owes me a pile of cash."

"I'll give you half a rouble. Wait a moment. I'm just coming."

And  Persidsky returned with a dozen employees of the  Lathe.  Everyone

joined in the conversation.

"Well, how have you been making out?" asked Persidsky.

"I've written a marvellous poem!"

"About Gavrila? Something peasanty? 'Gavrila ploughed the fields early.

Gavrila just adored his plough'?"

"Not about Gavrila. That's a pot-boiler," said Lapis defensively. "I've

written about the Caucasus."

"Have you ever been to the Caucasus?"

"I'm going in two weeks."

"Aren't you afraid, Lapis? There are jackals there."

"Takes more than that  to frighten me. Anyway, the ones in the Caucasus

aren't poisonous."

They all pricked up their ears at this reply.

"Tell me, Lapis," said Persidsky, "what do you think jackals are?"

"I know what they are. Leave me alone."

"All right, tell us then if you know."

"Well, they're sort of . . . like . . . snakes."

"Yes, of course,  right as  usual. You  think  a wild-goat's saddle  is

served at table together with the spurs."

"I never said that," cried Trubetskoi. . .

"You didn't say it, you wrote  it. Napernikov told me you tried to palm

off  some doggerel on Gerasim and  Mumu, supposed  to  be about the everyday

life of hunters. Honestly, Lapis, why do you write about things you've never

seen  and haven't the first  idea about? Why  is the peignoir in  your  poem

'Canton' an evening dress? Why?"

"You philistine!" said Lapis boastfully.

"Why is it that  in your poem 'The Budyonny Stakes' the jockey tightens

the hame strap and then gets into the  coach  box? Have you ever seen a hame

strap?"

"Yes."

"What's it like?"

"Leave me alone. You're nuts!" ,

"Have you ever seen a coach box or been to the races?"

"You  don't have to go everywhere!"  cried Lapis. "Pushkin wrote  poems

about Turkey without ever having been there."

"Oh, yes. Erzerum is in Tula province, of course."

Lapis did not appreciate the sarcasm. He  continued heatedly.  "Pushkin

wrote from material he  read. He read the history of the Pugachov revolt and

then wrote about it. It was Entich who told me about the races."

After this masterly defence, Persidsky dragged the resisting Lapis into

the next  room.  The onlookers followed.  On the wall hung a large newspaper

clipping edged in black like an obituary notice.

"Did you write this piece for the Captain's Bridge!"

"Yes, I did."

"I  believe it  was your first attempt  at prose. Congratulations! 'The

waves rolled across the pier and  fell headlong below like a jack.' A lot of

help to the Captain's  Bridge you are!' The Bridge won't forget you for some

time!"

"What's the matter?"

"The matter is . . . do you know what a jack is?"

"Of course I know. Leave me alone."

"How do you envisage a jack? Describe it in your own words."

"It. . . sort of. . . falls."

"A  jack  falls. Note  that,  everyone. A jack  falls headlong. Just  a

moment, Lapis, I'll bring you half a rouble. Don't let him go."

But this time, too, there  was  no  half-rouble forthcoming.  Persidsky

brought back the twenty-first volume of the Brockhaus encyclopaedia.

"Listen! 'Jack: a machine for lifting heavy weights. A simple jack used

for lifting carriages, etc., consists of  a mobile toothed bar gripped  by a

rod which is turned by means of a lever'  . . . And here . . . 'In 1879 John

Dixon set  up  the  obelisk  known  as Cleopatra's Needle by means  of  four

workers  operating  four  hydraulic  jacks.' And  this  instrument, in  your

opinion, can fall  headlong? So  Brockhaus  has deceived humanity  for fifty

years?  Why do you write such rubbish instead of  learning? Answer!" "I need

the money."

"But you never have any. You're always trying to cadge half-roubles."

"I bought  some furniture and  went through  my budget."  "And how much

furniture did you  buy? You get paid for your pot-boilers as much as they're

worth-a kopek."  "A kopek be damned. I bought a  chair at an auction which-"

"Is sort of like a snake? "

"No,  from a palace. But I had some bad  luck. Yesterday when I arrived

back from-"

"Hina Chlek's," cried  everyone present in one voice. "Hina!  I haven't

lived with Hina for years. I was returning from a discussion on  Mayakovsky.

I went in. The window was open. I felt at once something had happened."

"Dear,  dear,"  said  Persidsky,  covering his face  with his hands. "I

feel, Comrades, that Lapis's greatest masterpiece has been stolen.  'Gavrila

had a job as doorman; Gavrila used to open doors.'"

"Let  me finish.  Absolute vandalism! Some  wretches  had got into  the

apartment  and  ripped open the entire chair covering. Could anyone lend  me

five roubles for the repairs?"

"Compose  a  new  Gavrila  for  the repairs. I'll  even  give  you  the

beginning. Wait  a moment.  Yes, I know.  'Gavrila hastened  to the  market,

Gavrila  bought  a rotten chair.' Write it down  quickly. You can make  some

money on that in  the Chest-of-Drawers Gazette.  Oh, Trubetskoi, Trubetskoi!

Anyway, why  are you called Trubetskoi? Why don't you  choose a better name?

Niki for Dolgoruky. Or Nikifor  Valois. Or,  still  better, Citizen Niki-for

Sumarokov-Elston. If  ever you  manage to get some easy  job,  then you  can

write three  lines for Gerasim right away and you  have a marvellous way  to

save  yourself. One piece of rubbish is signed Sumarokov, the second Elston,

and the third Yusupov. God, you hack!"

CHAPTER THIRTY

IN THE COLUMBUS THEATRE

Ippolit Matveyevich  was slowly becoming  a  boot-licker.  Whenever  he

looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge.

It was so hot in Ivanopulo's  room  that Vorobyaninov's  chairs creaked

like logs in the fireplace. The  smooth operator  was having a nap with  the

light-blue waistcoat under his head.

Ippolit Matveyevich  looked out  of the window.  A carriage  emblazoned

with a coat of arms  was moving along the curved side street,  past the tiny

Moscow gardens. The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after  another,

a horseguard in  a brass  helmet, society  ladies, and  fluffy white clouds.

Drumming the roadway with their  hooves, the horses drew  the  carriage past

Ippolit Matveyevich. He winced with disappointment.

The carriage bore the initials  of the Moscow communal services and was

being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all.

In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking  old  man with a fluffy white

beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was  none other than Count

Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would  probably have hailed the

old man and chatted with him about the good old days.

Count Bulanov was  deeply troubled. As  he  whipped  up  the horses, he

mused  about  the  red  tape  that  was  strangling  the  sub-department  of

sanitation, and on account of which he  had not received for  six months the

apron he was entitled to under his contract.

"Listen," said the smooth operator suddenly. "What did they call you as

a boy?"

"What do you want to know for?"

"I just  want to  know  what  to  call  you.  I'm  sick of calling  you

Vorobyaninov, and  Ippolit Matveyevich is  too stuffy. What were you called?

Ippy?"

"Pussy," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker.

"That's more like it. So look, Pussy, see what's wrong with my back. It

hurts between the shoulder-blades."

Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over  his head. Before Pussy Vorobyaninov

was  revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous;  a back of enchanting

shape, but rather dirty.

"Aha! I see some redness."

Between  the  smooth  operator's shoulders were  some strangely  shaped

mauve bruises which reflected colours like a rainbow in oil.

"Honestly, it's the number  eight," exclaimed Vorobyaninov. "First time

I've ever seen a bruise like that."

"Any other number?" asked Ostap.

"There seems to be a letter P."

"I have no more questions. It's quite clear. That damned  pen! You  see

how  I  suffer,  Pussy,  and  what  risks  I  run  for  your  chairs.  These

arithmetical figures were branded  on me by the huge self-falling pen with a

No. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back at

the very moment  I inserted  my hands  inside the chief  editor's chair. But

you! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair so

that I had to go and do your work for you? I won't even mention the auction.

A fine time to  go woman-chasing.  It's simply bad for you at your age to do

that. Look after your health. Take me,  on the other hand. I got the widow's

chair.  I got the two Shukin chairs.  It was me who finally got Iznurenkov's

chair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to  Lapis's. There was

only one chair that you managed to run down,  and that was  with the help of

your holy enemy, the archbishop."

Silently  walking  up and down in his bare  feet, the technical adviser

reasoned with the submissive Pussy.

The chair which had vanished into the goods yard of October Station was

still a blot on the glossy schedule  of  the concession. The four  chairs in

the Columbus  Theatre  were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make  a

trip  down the  Volga  aboard  the lottery  ship,  S.S.  Scriabin,  and  was

presenting the premiere of The Marriage that  day as the last  production of

the  season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in  Moscow and  look

for the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or  go on tour with the

troupe. Ostap was in favour of the latter.

"Or perhaps we should split up?" he  suggested.  "I'll go  off with the

theatre and you stay and find out about the chair in the goods yard."

Pussy's grey eyelashes flickered so fearfully, however, that Ostap  did

not bother to continue.

"Of the two birds," said Ostap, "the meatier should be chosen. Let's go

together. But the expenses will be considerable. We shall need money. I have

sixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh,  I forgot. At your age a maiden's

love is so expensive! I decree  that we go  together to the premiere  of The

Marriage.  Don't forget  to  wear tails. If the  chairs  are still there and

haven't been sold  to  pay  social-security  debts,  we  can leave tomorrow.

Remember,  Vorobyaninov,  we've now reached the  final act of the  comedy My

Mother-in-Low's  Treasure.  The  Finita  la  Comedia  is  fast  approaching,

Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights!  Oh, my

younger  days!  Oh,  the  smell  of  the wings!  So many memories!  So  many

intrigues and affairs I How talented I was in my time in the role of Hamlet!

In short, the hearing is continued."

For the  sake of economy they went to the theatre on foot. It was still

quite light, but the  street lamps  were  already casting their lemon light.

Spring was dying before  everyone's eyes. Dust chased it from  the  squares,

and a warm breeze drove it from  the  side  streets.  Old women fondled  the

beauty  and drank  tea  with  it  at little  round tables in  the yards. But

spring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it so

much wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where  the  young men were already

strolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bow

ties, and boots.

Mauve-powdered  girls circulated  between the  holy  of  holies  of the

Moscow Consumers'  Union  and the  'Commune'  cooperative.  The  girls  were

swearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace,

though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses were

no better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much on

the edges of the roadway.  Cyclists  rode  noiselessly by  from their  first

large  international  match  at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream man

trundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squinted

timorously  at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by the

flashing signal with which he regulated the traffic, and was not dangerous.

The  two  friends  made  their  way  through  the  hustle  and  bustle.

Temptation lay  in wait for them  at every  step. Different types of meat on

skewers were being  roasted in  full  view of the street in the  tiny eating

plates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of string

music  was  wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great Silent

Film' cinema. A loud-speaker raved away at a tram-stop.

It was time  to put a spurt on. The  friends  reached  the foyer of the

Columbus Theatre.

Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the list of seat prices.

"Rather expensive,  I'm afraid," he said. "Three roubles  for  the sixteenth

row."

"How I  dislike these provincial  philistines,"  Ostap observed. "Where

are you going? Can't you see that's the box office?"

"Where else? We won't get in without tickets."

"Pussy,  you're  vulgar.  In  every well-built  theatre there  are  two

windows.  Only  courting  couples  and wealthy heirs  go  to the  box-office

window. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you  may observe)  go

straight to the manager's window."

And, indeed,  at the box-office window  were  only about  five modestly

dressed people. They may have been wealthy heirs or courting couples. At the

manager's  window, however,  there  was great activity. A colourful line had

formed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which a

provincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notes

from  friendly   directors,  actors,  editors,  theatrical  costumiers,  the

district  militia  chief,  and other  persons  closely  connected  with  the

theatre,  such as members of the theatre and film  critics' association, the

'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental Circus

Workshop, and some extraordinary name,  like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. About

eight people had notes from Espere Eclairovich.

Ostap barged into the line, jostled aside the Fortinbrasites, and, with

a cry of "I only want some  information: can't  you  see I haven't taken  my

galoshes off!" pushed his way to the window and peered inside.

The  manager  was  working  like  a  slave.   Bright  diamonds  of   __

perspiration irrigated his fat face. The  telephone interrupted him all  the

time  and  rang with the  obstinacy  of a  tram trying  to pass  through the

Smolensk market.

"Hurry up and give me the note!" he shouted at Ostap.

"Two seats," said Ostap quietly, "in the stalls."

"Who for?"

"Me."

"And who might you be?"

"Now surely you know me?"

"No, I don't."

But  the stranger's  gaze was  so innocent and open that the  manager's

hand by itself gave Ostap two seats in the eleventh row,

"All kinds come here," said  the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "Who

knows who  they are? They may  be from the Ministry of  Education. I seem to

have seen him at the Ministry. Where else could it have been? "

And mechanically issuing passes  to the lucky film and theatre critics,

the manager went on quietly trying to remember where he had seen those clear

eyes before.

When  all the  passes had  been issued and the lights went down  in the

foyer,  he remembered he had seen them in the Taganka prison  in 1922, while

he was doing time for some trivial matter.

Laughter echoed  from  the eleventh  row where the concessionaires were

sitting. Ostap liked the musical  introduction performed by the orchestra on

bottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistled

and the curtain went up, wafting a breath of cool air.

To  the   surprise  of  Vorobyaninov,  who  was  used  to  a  classical

interpretation of The  Marriage, Podkolesin was not on the stage.  Searching

around with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard  triangles hanging from the

ceiling  and painted the primary colours of  the spectrum.  There  "were  no

doors or blue muslin  windows. Beneath  the  multicoloured triangles  danced

young  ladies in  large hats  from black  cardboard. The clinking of bottles

brought forth  Podkolesin, who  charged  into the  crowd riding on  Stepan's

back. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed  the young

ladies with words which were not in the play, he bawled out :

"Stepan!"

At the same time he leaped to one side and froze  in a  difficult pose.

The Esmarch douches began to clatter.

"Stepan!" repeated Podkolesin, taking another leap.

But since Stepan, who was  standing right  there in a leopard skin, did

not respond, Podkolesin asked tragically:

"Why are you silent, like the League of Nations?"

"I'm obviously afraid of Chamberlain,"  replied Stepan,  scratching his

skin.

There was  a  general  feeling that  Stepan would  oust Podkolesin  and

become the chief character in this modernized version of the play.

"Well, is the tailor making a coat?"

A leap. A blow on the Esmarch douches. Stepan stood  on his hands  with

an effort and, still in that position, answered:

"Yes, he is."

The orchestra played a potpourri from Madam Butterfly.  Stepan stood on

his hands the whole time. His face flooded with colour.

"And didn't the tailor ask what the master wanted such good cloth for?"

Stepan,  who  by this time  was pitting  in the orchestra  cuddling the

conductor,  answered:  "No,  he didn't. He's not a  member  of  the  British

Parliament, is he?"

"And didn't the tailor ask whether the master wished to get married?"

"The tailor asked whether the master wanted to pay alimony."

At this point the lights went out and the audience began stamping their

feet. They kept  up  the stamping until  Podkolesin's voice could  be  heard

saying from the stage:

The Marriage

Text. . . N. V. Gogol

Verse . . . M. Cherchezlafemmov

Adaptation. . . I. Antiokhiisky

Musical accompaniment. . . Kh. Ivanov

Producer . . . Nich. Sestrin

Scenic effects . . . Simbievich-Sindievich

Lighting . . . Platon Plashuk. Sound effects . . . Galkin,

Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.

Make-up. . . Krult workshops; wigs by Foma Kochur

Furniture by the Fortinbras woodwork shops attached to the

Balthazar Umslopogas

Acrobatics instructress: Georgetta Tiraspolskikh

Hydraulic press operated by Fitter Mechnikov

Programme composed, imposed

and printed by the

KRULT FACTORY SCHOOL

"Citizens! Don't be alarmed! The lights went out on purpose, as part of

the act. It's required for the scenic effects."

The audience  gave in. The lights did not  go up again until the end of

the act. The drums rolled in complete darkness. A squad of soldiers  dressed

as  hotel doormen  passed  by,  carrying torches.  Then  Kochkarev  arrived,

apparently  on a  camel. This  could  only  be  judged  from  the  following

dialogue.

"Ouch, how you frightened me! And you came on a camel, too."

"Ah,  so you  noticed,  despite the darkness. I  wanted to bring  you a

fragrant camellia!"

During the intermission the concessionaires read the programme.

"Do you like it?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked timidly.

"Do you?"

"It's very interesting-only Stepan is rather odd."

"No,  I don't like it," said Ostap.  "Particularly  the  fact  that the

furniture is from some  Vogopas workshops or other. I hope those aren't  our

chairs adapted to the new style."

Their fears were  unjustified. At the beginning of  the second  act all

four chairs were brought on to the stage by Negroes in top hats.

The matchmaking scene aroused the greatest interest among the audience.

At the moment Agafya Tikhonovna was coming down a rope  stretched across the

entire width of the theatre, the  terrifying orchestra  let out such a noise

that she nearly  fell off  into the audience.  But on the stage she balanced

perfectly. She was  wearing flesh-coloured  tights and a bowler. Maintaining

her  balance  by  means of  a green parasol  on which  was  written  "I want

Podkolesin",  she stepped along  the wire and everyone below immediately saw

that her  feet were dirty. She leaped from the wire straight  on to a chair,

whereupon  the Negroes, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in a  tutu, and the matchmaker

in a  bus driver's uniform all turned backward  somersaults. Then they had a

five-minute rest, to hide which the lights were turned out again.

The suitors were  also very comic, particularly Omlette. In his place a

huge pan of fried  eggs was brought  on to the stage. The sailor wore a mast

with a sail.

In vain did Starikov the merchant cry out that he was being crippled by

taxes.  Agafaya Tikhonovna did not like him.  She married Stepan.  They both

dived  into  the  fried eggs served  by Podkolesin,  who  had turned into  a

footman.  Kochkarev  and  Fekla  sang  ditties  about  Chamberlain  and  the

repayment he hoped to extort from Germany. The Esmarch douches played a hymn

for the dying and the curtain came down, wafting a breath of cool air.

"I'm satisfied with the  performance,"  said  Ostap.  "The  chairs  are

intact. But we've no time to lose. If Agafya Tikhonovna  is going to land on

those chairs each day, they won't last very long."

Jostling and  laughing,  the  young  men  in  their  fashioned  jackets

discussed the finer points of the scenic effects.

"You need some shut-eye, Pussy," said Ostap. "We have  to stand in line

for tickets early tomorrow  morning. The theatre  is leaving by express  for

Nizhni tomorrow evening at seven. So get two seats in a hard coach to Nizhni

on the Kursk Railway. We'll sit it out. It's only one night."

The next day the  Columbus Theatre was sitting in  the  buffet at Kursk

Station.  Having taken steps to see that the scenic effects went by the same

train,  Simbievich-Sindievich was having a  snack  at  one  of  the  tables.

Dipping his moustache into the beer, he asked the fitter nervously:

"The hydraulic press won't get broken on the way, will it?"

"It's not the press that's the trouble," said fitter Mechnikov.

"It's that it only works for five minutes and we have to cart it around

the whole summer."

"Was it any easier with the 'time projector' from the Ideology Powder!"

"Of course it was. The projector was big, but not so fragile."

At the next  table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a  youngish  woman with  hard

shiny  legs, like  skittles.  The  sound  effects  -Galkin,  Palkin, Malkin,

Chalkin and Zalkind-fussed around her.

"You didn't keep in time  with me  yesterday," she complained. "I might

have fallen off."

"What can we do?" clamoured the sound effects. "Two douches broke."

"You  think it's easy to get an Esmarch douche from abroad  nowadays? "

cried Galkin.

"Just try going to the  State Medical Supply Office. It's impossible to

buy a thermometer, let alone an Esmarch douche," added Palkin.

"Do you play thermometers as well?" asked the girl, horrified.

"It's not  that we play  thermometers," observed Zalkind, "but that the

damned douches are enough  to drive you out of your mind and we have to take

our own temperatures."

Nich. Sestrin,  stage  manager and  producer, was strolling  along  the

platform with his wife. Podkolesin and Kochkarev had downed three vodkas and

were wooing Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, each trying to outdo the other.

The concessionaires  had arrived two hours  before the train was due to

depart and were now on their sixth round of the garden laid out in front  of

the station.

Ippolit Matveyevich's head was  whirling. The hunt for  the chairs  was

entering the last lap.  Long  shadows  fell on  the  scorching roadway. Dust

settled on  their wet, sweaty faces. Cabs rattled past them and there  was a

smell of petrol. Hired vehicles set down their passengers. Porters ran up to

them  and carried off the bags, while their badges glittered in the sun. The

Muse of Travel had people by the throat.

"Let's get going as well," said Ostap.

Ippolit Matveyevich meekly consented. All of a sudden he  came face  to

face with Bezenchuk, the undertaker.

"Bezenchuk!" he exclaimed in amazement. "How did you get here?"

Bezenchuk   doffed  his  cap   and  was  speechless   with   joy.  "Mr.

Vorobyaninov," he cried. "Greetin's to an honoured guest."

"Well, how are things?"

"Bad," answered the undertaker.

"Why is that?"

"I'm lookin' for clients. There ain't none about."

"Is the Nymph doing better than you?"

"Likely!  Could  they  do  better  than  me?  No  chance.   Since  your

mother-in-law, only Tierre and Constantine' has croaked."

"You don't say! Did he really die?"

"He croaked,  Ippolit  Matveyevich.  He  croaked at  his  post.  He was

shavin'  Leopold the chemist when he croaked. People said it was his insides

that bust, but I think it was the smell of medicine from the chemist that he

couldn't take."

"Dear  me, dear me," muttered  Ippolit Matveyevich. "So you buried him,

did you?"

"I buried him. Who else could? Does the Nymph, damn 'em, give tassels?"

"You got in ahead of them, then? "

"Yes,  I did, but  they beat me up afterwards. Almost beat the guts out

of me. The militia  took me away. I was in bed for two days.  I cured myself

with spirits."

"You massaged yourself?"

"No, I don't do that with spirits."

"But what made you come here? "

"I've brought my stock."

"What stock?"

"My  own. A guard I know helped  me bring it  here free in  the guard's

van. Did it as a friend."

It  was  only  then that  Ippolit  Matveyevich noticed  a neat pile  of

coffins on the ground a little way from Bezenchuk. Some had tassels,  others

did not.  One of them Ippolit Matveyevich recognized immediately. It was the

large, dusty oak coffin from Bezenchuk's shop window.

"Eight of them," said Bezenchuk smugly. "Like gherkins."

"But who  needs  your  coffins  here?  They have  plenty  of  their own

undertakers."

"What about the flu?"

"What flu?"

"The  epidemic. Prusis told me  flu was ragin'  in Moscow and there was

nothin' to bury people in. All the coffins were used up. So I decided to put

thin's right."

Ostap,  who had been  listening  to  the  conversation  with curiosity,

intervened. "Listen, dad, the flu epidemic is in Paris."

"In Paris?"

"Yes,  go to  Paris.  You'll make  money. Admittedly, there may be some

trouble with the visa,  but don't give up.  If Briand  likes you, you'll  do

pretty   well.  They'll  set  you  up  as  undertaker-royal  to  the   Paris

municipality. Here they have enough of their own undertakers."

Bezenchuk  looked around him  wildly. Despite the assurances of Prusis,

there  were certainly no bodies  lying about;  people were cheerfully moving

about on their feet, and some were even laughing.

Long  after the train had carried off the concessionaires, the Columbus

Theatre, and various other people, Bezenchuk was still standing in a daze by

his  coffins. His  eyes shone  in the approaching darkness with  an unfading

light.

PART III

MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A MAGIC NIGHT ON THE VOLGA

The smooth  operator stood with his friend and closest associate, Pussy

Vorobyaninov, on the  left of the passenger landing-stage of the state-owned

Volga  River Transport  System under a  sign  which said: "Use the rings for

mooring, mind the grating, and keep clear of the wall".

Flags fluttered  above the quay. Smoke as curly as a cauliflower poured

from the funnels. The S.S. Anton Rubinstein was being  loaded at pier No. 2.

Dock workers dug their iron claws  into  bales  of  cotton;  iron  pots were

stacked in a square on the quayside, which was littered  with treated hides,

bundles of wire, crates of sheet glass, rolls  of cord  for binding sheaves,

mill-stones,   two-colour   bony  agricultural  implements,  wooden   forks,

sack-lined baskets of early cherries, and casks of herrings.

The Scriabin was not in, which greatly disturbed Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Why worry about it?" asked Ostap. "Suppose the Scriabin were here. How

would you  get aboard?  Even if you had the money to buy  a ticket, it still

wouldn't be any use. The boat doesn't take passengers."

While still on the  train, Ostap had  already had a  chance  to talk to

Mechnikov, the fitter in  charge of  the  hydraulic press, and had found out

everything. The S.S. Scriabin had been chartered by the  Ministry of Finance

and was due to sail  from Nizhni to Tsaritsin,  calling at every river port,

and holding a government-bond  lottery. A complete government department had

left Moscow for the trip, including a lottery committee, an office  staff, a

brass band, a cameraman, reporters from  the central press and the  Columbus

Theatre. The theatre was there to perform  plays  which popularised the idea

of  government loans.  Up  to  Stalingrad  the Columbus Theatre  was  on the

establishment of the lottery committee, after which the  theatre had decided

to tour the Caucasus and the Crimea with The Marriage at its own risk.

The Scriabin  was  late.  A promise was given that  she would leave the

backwater, where  last-minute preparations were  being made, by evening.  So

the whole department from Moscow set up  camp on the quayside and waited  to

go aboard.

Tender creatures  with attache1  cases and hold-alls sat on the bundles

of wire,  guarding  their Underwoods, and  glancing  apprehensively  at  the

stevedores.  A  citizen  with a  violet  imperial  positioned  himself on  a

mill-stone. On his knees was a pile of enamel plates. A curious person could

have read the uppermost one:

Mutual Settlement Department

Desks with ornamental  legs and other,  more modest, desks stood on top

of one another. A guard sauntered up and down  by a  sealed safe. Persidsky,

who  was representing  the  Lathe, gazed  at the  fairground  through  Zeiss

binoculars with eightfold magnification.

The  S.S.  Scriabin approached, turning  against the  stream. Her sides

were  decked  with plyboard sheets  showing  brightly  coloured  pictures of

giant-sized bonds.  The ship gave a roar, imitating  the sound of a mammoth,

or possibly some other animal used in prehistoric times, as a substitute for

the sound of a ship's hooter.

The finance-and-theatre camp came  to life. Down the slopes to the quay

came the lottery  employees.  Platon Plashuk, a fat little man, toddled down

to the ship in a cloud  of dust. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind

flew out of  the  Raft beer-hall.  Dockers  were already loading  the  safe.

Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, the acrobatics instructress, hurried up the gangway

with  a  springy walk,  while Simbievich-Sindievich, still worried about the

scenic effects, raised his hands, at one moment to the  Kremlin heights, and

at another towards the captain standing on the bridge. The cameraman carried

his camera  high above the heads of  the crowd, and as he went he demanded a

separate cabin in which to set up a darkroom.

Amid the  general confusion, Ippolit  Matveyevich made  his way over to

the chairs and was about to drag one away to one side.

"Leave the chair  alone!" snarled Bender.  "Are  you  crazy? Even if we

take  one, the others will disappear for good. You'd do better to think of a

way to get aboard the ship."

Belted with brass tubes, the band passed  along the landing-stage.  The

musicians looked with  distaste  at the saxophones, flexotones, beer bottles

and Esmarch douches, with which the sound effects were armed.

The  lottery wheels arrived in a Ford  station wagon. They  were  built

into a  complicated device composed of  six  rotating cylinders with shining

brass and glass. It  took some  time to  set them up on  the lower deck. The

stamping about and exchange of abuse continued until late evening.

In the lottery hall  people were erecting  a stage,  fixing notices and

slogans to  the  walls,  arranging  benches  for the  visitors, and  joining

electric cables to the lottery wheels. The desks were in the stern,  and the

tapping of typewriters, interspersed with laughter,  could be heard from the

typists' cabin. The pale man in the violet imperial walked the length of the

ship, hanging his enamel plates on the relevant doors.

Mutual Settlement Department

Personnel Department

Office

Engine Room

To the larger plates the man with the imperial added smaller plates.

No entry except on business

No consultations

No admittance to outsiders

All inquiries at the registry

The first-class  saloon had  been fitted up  for an exhibition of  bank

notes and bonds.  This  aroused a wave  of indignation  from Galkin, Palkin,

Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.

"Where are  we  going  to eat?" they fretted. "And what  happens if  it

rains?"

"This  is too much," said  Nich. Sestrin to his assistant. "What do you

think, Seryozha? Can we do without the sound effects?"

"Lord, no, Nicholas Constantinovich. The actors  are used to the rhythm

by now."

A fresh racket broke  out. The "Five" had found that  the stage manager

had taken all four chairs to his cabin.

"So that's it," said the "Five" ironically. "We're supposed to rehearse

sitting on our berths, while Sestrin and his wife, Gusta, who has nothing to

do with  our group, sit on the  four chairs. Perhaps  we should have brought

our own wives with us on this trip."

The lottery ship was  watched malevolently from the  bank by the smooth

operator. A fresh outbreak of shouting reached the concessionaires' ears.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" cried a committee member.

"How was I to know he would fall ill."

"A  hell of a mess we're in! Then go to  the  artists'-union office and

insist that an artist be sent here immediately."

"How  can  I? It's now six o'clock. The union office closed  long  ago.

Anyway, the ship is leaving in half an hour."

"Then you  can do the painting yourself. Since you're  responsible  for

the decorations on the ship, get out of the mess any way you like!"

Ostap was already  running up  the  gangplank, elbowing his way through

the dockers, young ladies, and idle onlookers. He was stopped at the top.

"Your pass?'

"Comrade!"  roared Bender.  "You! You! The  little fat man! The one who

needs an artist!"

Five minutes later the smooth operator was sitting  in the  white cabin

occupied by  the fat little assistant manager of  the  floating lottery, and

discussing terms.

"So  we  want you to  do  the following, Comrade," said  fatty.  "Paint

notices,  inscriptions, and  complete the transparent. Our  artist began the

work,  but  is  now ill.  We've left  him at the  hospital. And, of  course,

general supervision of the art department.

Can you take that on? I warn you, incidentally, there's a great deal of

work."

"Yes,  I can undertake that. I've had occasion  to do that kind of work

before."

"And you can come along with us now?"

"That will be difficult, but I'll try."

A large  and heavy  burden fell from  the  shoulders  of the  assistant

manager. With a feeling of relief, the fat man looked at the new artist with

shining eyes.

"Your terms?" asked Ostap  sharply.  "Remember,  I'm not from a funeral

home."

"It's piecework. At union rates."

Ostap frowned, which was very hard for him.

"But free meals as  well," added the tubby man hastily. "And a separate

cabin."

"All right," said  Ostap,  "I  accept. But I have a boy, an  assistant,

with me."

"I don't know about the  boy. There are no funds for a boy. But at your

own expense by all means. He can live in your cabin."

"As you like. The kid is smart. He's used to Spartan conditions."

Ostap was given  a pass for himself  and for the smart boy; he put  the

key of the cabin in his pocket and went out onto the hot deck. He felt great

satisfaction as he fingered the key. For the first time  in  his stormy life

he had both a key and an apartment. It  was  only  the money  he lacked. But

there was some right next to him  in  the chairs. The smooth operator walked

up and down the deck with his hands in his pockets, ignoring Vorobyaninov on

the quayside.

At first Ippolit Matveyevich made signs; then he was even daring enough

to whistle.  But Bender  paid no heed. Turning his back on the  president of

the concession, he watched with interest as the  hydraulic press was lowered

into the hold.

Final preparations  for casting off were being made. Agafya Tikhonovna,

alias Mura, ran with  clattering feet from her cabin to the stern, looked at

the  water,  loudly  shared her delight with  the  balalaika  virtuoso,  and

generally  caused  confusion  among  the  honoured officials of  the lottery

enterprise.

The ship gave a second hoot.  At the terrifying sound the clouds  moved

aside. The  sun turned crimson and sank below the  horizon. Lamps and street

lights came on  in  the  town above. From the  market  in Pochayevsky Ravine

there  came  the  hoarse  voices  of  gramophones  competing  for  the  last

customers. Dismayed and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich kept shouting something,

but no one heard him. The clanking of winches drowned all other sounds.

Ostap Bender  liked  effects. It  was only just  before the third hoot,

when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he had been abandoned to the

mercy of fate, that Ostap noticed him.

"What are you standing there like a coy suitor for?  I thought you were

aboard  long ago. They're just going to raise the  gangplank. Hurry  up! Let

this citizen board. Here's his pass."

Ippolit Matveyevich hurried aboard almost in tears.

"Is this your boy?" asked the boss suspiciously.

"That's  the one,"  said Ostap. "If  anyone  says he's  a girl,  I'm  a

Dutchman!"

The fat man glumly went away.

"Well, Pussy," declared Ostap, "we'll have to get down  to  work in the

morning.  I hope you can  mix paints.  And, incidentally,  I'm  an artist, a

graduate of the Higher Art and Technical Workshops, and you're my assistant.

If you don't like the idea, go back ashore at once."

Black-green  foam surged up from  under the stern. The  ship shuddered;

cymbals clashed together, flutes, cornets, trombones and tubas thundered out

a  wonderful march, and  the town,  swinging around and trying  to  balance,

shifted to the left bank. Continuing to throb, the ship moved into midstream

and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. A minute later it was so far away

that the lights of the town looked like sparks from a rocket that had frozen

in space.

The murmuring of typewriters could still  be heard, but nature and  the

Volga were gaining the upper hand. A cosiness enveloped all those aboard the

S.S. Scriabin. The members  of the lottery committee  drowsily  sipped their

tea. The  first meeting of the union committee, held in the prow, was marked

by tenderness. The warm wind  breathed so heavily, the water  lapped against

the sides of the ship so gently, and the dark outline of the shore sped past

the ship so  rapidly that when the  chairman  of the union committee, a very

positive  man, opened his  mouth  to  speak about working conditions  in the

unusual situation, he unexpectedly for himself, and for everyone else, began

singing:

"A ship sailed down the Volga,

Mother Volga, River Volga. . ."

And the other, stern-faced  members taking part in  the meeting rumbled

the chorus:

"The lilac bloo-ooms. . ."

The resolution on the chairman's report was just  not recorded. A piano

began  to play. Kh. Ivanov, head of the musical accompaniment, drew the most

lyrical  notes from  the instrument. The  balalaika  virtuoso  trailed after

Murochka and, not finding any words of his own to express his love, murmured

the words of a love song.

"Don't go  away! Your  kisses  still fire me,  your passionate embraces

never tire me.  The  clouds have not awakened in  the mountain  passes,  the

distant sky has not yet faded as a pearly star."

Grasping  the  rail,  Simbievich-Sindievich contemplated  the  infinite

heavens. Compared  with  them,  his  scenic  effects  appeared  a  piece  of

disgusting vulgarity. He looked with revulsion at his hands, which had taken

such an eager part in arranging the scenic effects for the classical comedy.

At the moment the languor was greatest, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin

and Zalkind, who  were in the stern of the ship, began banging away at their

surgical and  brewery appliances. They were rehearsing. Instantly the mirage

was  dispelled.  Agafya   Tikhonovna  yawned  and,  ignoring  the  balalaika

virtuoso, went to bed. The minds of  the trade  unionists were again full of

working conditions,  and  they  dealt  with  the resolution.  After  careful

consideration,  Simbievich-Sindievich  came  to  the  conclusion   that  the

production  of  The Marriage was not  really so bad. An irate voice from the

darkness  called Georgetta  Tiraspolskikh  to a  producer's conference. Dogs

began barking in the villages and it became chilly.

Ostap  lay  in  a first-class cabin on  a leather  divan,  thoughtfully

staring at a green canvas work belt and questioning Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Can you draw? That's a pity. Unfortunately, I can't, either."

He thought for a while and then continued.

"What about lettering? Can't do that either? Too bad. We're supposed to

be artists. Well, we'll manage for a day or so before  they kick  us out. In

the time  we're here we  can do everything  we  need  to. The  situation has

become a bit  more complicated. I've  found out that  the  chairs are in the

producer's cabin. But that's not so bad in the long run. The important thing

is that we're aboard.  All the chairs must be examined before they  throw us

off. It's too late for today. The producer's already asleep in his cabin."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A SHADY COUPLE

People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime.

Rafts floated up and  down-huge fields of  logs with little wooden houses on

them. A  small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve

over  the paddle cover towed  along three  oil  barges  in a line.  The  Red

Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin  overtook a convoy

of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making

a circle, turning against the stream.

Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on

to the Bramino quayside. With this line  the shoremen hauled over  the thick

end of the mooring rope. The screws  began turning the opposite way and half

the  river was covered  with seething  foam.  The Scriabin  shook  from  the

cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for

the lottery, which did not start until ten.

Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would  have  done  on land-at

nine sharp. No one changed his  habits. Those who were late for work on land

were late here, too, although they  slept on  the very  premises.  The field

staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very

quickly. Office-boys swept  out  their cabins with the same lack of interest

as  they swept out the offices in  Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and

hurried with notes from  the registry to the personnel department, not a bit

surprised that the latter was in the stern and  the registry in the prow. In

the mutual  settlement  cabin the abacuses clicked like  castanets  and  the

adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was

being hauled over the coals.

Scorching his  bare feet on the  hot  deck, the smooth  operator walked

round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he

kept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every worker

should have government bonds in his pocket."

The smooth  operator  was doing  his  best, but his lack of  talent was

painfully obvious. The  words slanted downward and, at one stage,  it looked

as though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then,  with the boy Pussy's

help, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was now

more careful. Before  daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lines

with  string  and chalk,  and  was now painting in  the letters, cursing the

innocent Vorobyaninov.

Vorobyaninov  carried out his  duties  as  boy  conscientiously. He ran

below for  hot water, melted the glue,  sneezing as  he did so,  poured  the

paints into a bucket, and looked fawningly  into the exacting artist's eyes.

When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed  it  on

the side.

The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see  what  the new

artist's  work looked  like from there. The  letters  of  the  words were of

different  sizes and  slightly cockeyed, but nothing could be done about it.

He had to be content.

The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches.

The  sound of the  music brought children  running from the whole of Bramino

and, after  them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band went

on blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. A

meeting began. From the porch steps of  Korobkov's tea-house came the  first

sounds of a report on the international situation.

From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see

the  white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little way

from the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker,

and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands.  Then the music

began again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playing

as it went. A crowd of people poured after it.

The lottery device mechanically threw  up its combination  of  figures.

Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizens

watched and listened.

Ostap hurried  down  for a moment, made  certain all the inmates of the

ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again.

"Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art

department. Stand by the entrance to the  first-class corridor  and sing. If

anyone comes, sing louder."

The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? "

"Whatever  else,  don't make it  'God Save  the Tsar'.  Something  with

feeling.  'The Apple' or 'A  Beauty's  Heart'. But I warn you, if you  don't

come out with your aria in time .  . .  This isn't the experimental theatre.

I'll wring your neck."

The smooth operator padded  into the cherry-panelled  corridor  in  his

bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected his

figure. He read the plate on the door:

Nich. Sestrin

Producer

Columbus Theatre

The  mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying

a  chair with curved legs. He  sped  along the corridor, out on to the deck,

and,  glancing   at  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  took  the  chair  aloft  to  the

wheelhouse.  There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the  chair

to the back and said warningly:

"The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly

anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as  soon

as it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents."

A minute later the chair  was  covered up with sheets  of ply-board and

bunting, and was no longer visible.

Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever.

"Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could

open it  on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right away

and--"

"And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we

perhaps  take it back  to  Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry  we took

your chair, but  unfortunately  we didn't find anything in it, so here it is

back somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?"

As always,  the smooth  operator  was right.  Ippolit  Matveyevich only

recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of  the overture played on the

Esmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck.

The lottery operations were  over for the day. The onlookers spread out

on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negro

minstrels. Galkin,  Palkin,  Malkin, Chalkin and  Zalkind  kept  looking  up

proudly as though to say: 'There,  you see! And you said the  popular masses

would not understand. But art finds a way!'

After this the  Colombus troupe gave a  short variety show with singing

and dancing  on an improvised  stage, the point of which  was to demonstrate

how Vavila the peasant boy won  fifty thousand  roubles and what came of it.

The actors, who  had  now  freed  themselves  from the chains  of  Sestrin's

constructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tuneful

voices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied.

Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles.

The balalaika was set in motion.  It  went  flying behind the  player's

back and from there came the "If the master has  a chain, it means he has no

watch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gave

forth quite a few difficult variations.

It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led  out a herd of

girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances.

While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its  voyage, while the

captain  talked  with the  engine-room  through the  speaking-tube,  and the

boilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and,  to

everyone's  delight, began  playing dances.  Picturesque  groups of  dancers

formed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down  a  soft, apricot light.

It  was an  ideal moment for  some newsreel shots. And, indeed,  Polkan  the

cameraman emerged  yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had  grown used

to his part as  general office  boy,  followed him, cautiously  carrying the

camera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polka

was being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping  their feet as  though

they wanted to split the planet. The  girls sailed around. Onlookers crowded

the  terraces and slopes.  An avant-garde French cameraman  would have found

enough  material here  to keep  him busy for  three  days.  Polkan, however,

having run his piggy eyes  along the bank, immediately turned around, ambled

to the  committee chairman, stood  him against a white  wall,  pushed a book

into his hand, and, asking  him not to move,  smoothly  turned the handle of

his cine-camera  for some minutes. He then led the bashful  chairman aft and

took him against the setting sun.

Having  completed his shots,  Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and

locked himself in.

Once more  the hooter sounded and once  more the sun hid in terror. The

second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave.

Ostap thought with trepidation of the  coming morning. Ahead of him was

the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing  bonds. This artistic

ordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with the

lettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower.

"Keep  it  in mind," warned  the  fat man, "from  Vasyuki onward we are

holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent."

"Don't worry at all,"  said Ostap,  basing his  hopes on that  evening,

rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent."

It was  a starry, windy night.  The  animals  in  the  lottery arc were

lulled to sleep. The lions from the  lottery  committee were asleep. So were

the  lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the  rabbits from mutual

settlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound  effects, and the pigeons from

the typistry.

Only the shady couple lay  awake. The smooth  operator emerged from his

cabin  after  midnight.  He  was  followed  by the noiseless  shadow  of the

faithful Pussy.  They went  up  on deck  and  silently approached the chair,

covered with plyboard  sheets. Carefully removing the  covering, Ostap stood

the chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with a

pair of pliers and inserted his hand.

"Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice.

Letter from Theodore

written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife

In the regional centre of N.

My dear and precious Kate,

Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the

Good-Value Furnished  Rooms, having finished  all my  business. The city  of

Baku is very large. They say  kerosene is extracted here, but you still have

to go by electric train and I  haven't  any money. This  picturesque city is

washed  by the  Caspian. It really is very large in  size. The  heat here is

awful. I carry  my  coat in one  hand  and my jacket in the  other, and it's

still too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practically

no  money. But  no harm,  my dear,  we'll soon  have  plenty.  We'll  travel

everywhere and settle properly in Samara,  near our factory, and we'll  have

liqueurs to drink. But to get to the point.

In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is

considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior  to Kharkov in traffic.

There  are  many  people  from  other parts  here.  Especially Armenians and

Persians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar and

saw many  Turkish clothes  and shawls.  I wanted to buy  you a  present of a

Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when we

are rich (it's only a matter  of days) we'll be able  to buy the  Mohammedan

blanket.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me

here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian;

and (2) I  was spat on in  the bazaar by a dromedary.  Both these happenings

greatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows  such scandalous  behaviour

towards travellers, all the more since I had not  touched the dromedary, but

had  actually been  nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for  the

jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it;  it was

covered with  kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, my

dearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals?

I  have just  read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance

to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's not

here  just  now.  He's  gone  to  Batumi on vacation. His  family  is living

permanently  in  Batumi.  I  spoke  to some people and  they  said  all  his

furniture  is  there in  Batumi.  He has  a little house there, at the Green

Cape-that's the  name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs.

15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news

from Batumi. Spread the  rumour  that  I'm  still  at my aunt's  deathbed in

Voronezh.

Your husband ever,

Theo.

P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your

brother's  coat from my  room  at the Good-Value. I'm very  grieved. A  good

thing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

EXPULSION FROM PARADISE

While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would

wait, and  others that it would not, time passed in its usual way. The dusty

Moscow  May was followed by a dusty June. In  the regional centre of N., the

Gos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan  Square and

Comrade Gubernsky Street for two days,  now and then enveloping the vicinity

in desperate quantities of  smoke. One by one the shamefaced members  of the

Sword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison,  having signed a

statement  that they would  not leave  the  town.  Widow  Gritsatsuyev  (the

passionate woman and poet's  dream) returned to her grocery business and was

fined only fifteen roubles for not placing the  price list of  soap, pepper,

blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in a

big-hearted woman.

"Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!"

Ippolit  Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into  his  quivering hands.

Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness.

A  beacon flashed  on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river

and swam after the ship.

"Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else."

"There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Then you have a look as well."

Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his  arm as  far

as he could inside the chair. He  could feel the ends of the springs between

his fingers, but nothing else that was hard. There was a dry, stale smell of

disturbed dust from the chair.

"Nothing?"

"No."

Ostap picked up the chair and  hurled it far over the side. There was a

heavy splash. Shivering in the damp night air, the concessionaires went back

to their cabin filled with doubts.

"Well, at any rate we found something," said Bender.

Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and looked at it in  a

daze.

"Come on, come on! What are you goggling at?"

The box  was opened. On  the bottom lay a copper plate, green with age,

which said:

WITH THIS CHAIR

CRAFTSMAN

HAMBS

begins a new batch of furniture

St. Petersburg 1865

Ostap read the inscription aloud.

"But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"You're remarkably  shrewd,  my  dear chair-hunter. As  you see,  there

aren't any."

Vorobyaninov  was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting  moustache

twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He  looked as though he

was about to beat his face with his ears in desperation.

The  cold, sober  voice of  the smooth operator  had  its  usual  magic

effect.  Vorobyaninov  stretched his  hands  along  the  seams  of his  worn

trousers and kept quiet.

"Shut up, sadness. Shut up, Pussy. Some day we'll have the laugh on the

stupid  eighth chair  in which we  found  the silly box. Cheer up! There are

three more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred."

During the  night a  volcanic pimple erupted on  the  aggrieved Ippolit

Matveyevich's cheek.  All his sufferings, all  his  setbacks, and the  whole

ordeal  of the jewel hunt seemed  to be  summed up in the  pimple, which was

tinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue.

"Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap.

Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and  went to  fetch the paints,

his tall  figure  slightly  bent,  like a fishing  rod. The  transparent was

begun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck.

And the third day of the voyage commenced.

It  commenced with a brief clash  between the  brass band and the sound

effects over a place to rehearse.

After  breakfast,  the  toughs  with  the brass tubes and  the  slender

knights with the Esmarch douches both  made  their way to the stern  at  the

same  time. Galkin  managed to get to  the bench first. A clarinet  from the

brass band came second.

"The seat's taken," said Galkin sullenly.

"Who by?" asked the clarinet ominously.

"Me, Galkin."

"Who else?"

"Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind."

"Haven't you got a Yolkin as well? This is our seat."

Reinforcements were brought up on both sides. The most powerful machine

in the band was the helicon, encircled three times by a  brass  serpent. The

French horn swayed to and fro,  looking like a human  ear, and the trombones

were in a  state of readiness for  action. The sun  was reflected a thousand

times in their armour. Beside them the sound effects looked  dark and small.

Here and  there a  bottle glinted, the  enema douches glimmered faintly, and

the saxophone, that outrageous take-off of a musical instrument, was pitiful

to see.

"The enema  battalion," said the bullying clarinet, "lays claim to this

seat."

"You," said Zalkind,  trying  to find the  most cutting  expression  he

could, "you are the conservatives of music!"

"Don't prevent us rehearsing."

"It's  you  who're preventing  us.  The  less  you  rehearse  on  those

chamber-pots of yours, the nicer it sounds."

"Whether you rehearse on those samovars  of yours or not makes  no damn

difference."

Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained where they were  and

obstinately began  playing  their own music. Down the  river  floated sounds

that could only have been made by a tram  passing  slowly over broken glass.

The  brass  played the Kexholm Lifeguards'  march, while  the sound  effects

rendered a  Negro dance,  "An Antelope at the  Source  of the  Zambesi". The

shindy was ended by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lottery

committee.

At  eleven o'clock the  magnum opus was  completed. Walking  backwards,

Ostap and  Vorobyaninov  dragged their transparent up to the bridge. The fat

little man in charge ran in front with his hands in the air. By joint effort

the transparent was tied  to  the rail. It towered  above the passenger deck

like a cinema screen. In half an hour the electrician had laid cables to the

back  of the  transparent  and fitted  up  three lights  inside it. All that

remained was to turn the switch.

Off the starboard bow the lights of  Vasyuki could  already be made out

through the darkness.

The chief  summoned everyone  to  the  ceremonial illumination  of  the

transparent.  Ippolit  Matveyevich  and  the  smooth  operator  watched  the

proceedings from above, standing beside the dark screen.

Every event  on board was  taken seriously  by the floating  government

department.  Typists,  messengers, executives,  the  Columbus  Theatre,  and

members  of the ship's company crowded  on  to the  passenger  deck, staring

upward.

"Switch it on!" ordered the fat man.

The transparent lit up.

Ostap looked down at the crowd. Their  faces were bathed in pink light.

The onlookers  began laughing; then there was silence and a stern voice from

below said:

"Where's the second-in-command?"

The voice  was  so peremptory that  the  second-in-command rushed  down

without counting the steps.

"Just have a look," said the voice, "and admire your work!"

"We're about to be booted off," whispered Ostap to Ippolit Matveyevich.

And,  indeed, the little fat man came flying up to  the top deck like a

hawk.

"Well,  how's  the transparent?"  asked  Ostap  cheekily.  "Is it  long

enough?"

"Collect your things!" shouted the fat man.

"What's the hurry?"

"Collect  your things! You're going to court! Our boss doesn't like  to

joke."

"Throw him out!" came the peremptory voice from below.

"But, seriously, don't you  like  our transparent? Isn't it really  any

good?"

There  was  no point in continuing  the game. The  Scriabin had already

heaved  to,  and the faces  of the bewildered Vasyuki citizens  crowding the

pier could be seen from the  ship. Payment  was categorically refused.  They

were given five minutes to collect their things.

"Incompetent fool," said Simbievich-Sindievich  as  the partners walked

down on to the pier. "They should have given the  transparent to me to do. I

would have done it so that no Meyer-hold would have had a look-in!"

On  the  quayside  the  concessionaires  stopped  and  looked  up.  The

transparent shone bright against the dark sky.

"Hm, yes,"  said Ostap, "the transparent is rather  outlandish. A lousy

job!"

Compared with  Ostap's  work, any picture  drawn with  the  tail  of an

unruly  donkey  would have  been a  masterpiece.  Instead of a  sower sowing

bonds,  Ostap's mischievous hand  had  drawn a stumpy body with a sugar-loaf

head and thin whiplike arms.

Behind the  concessionaires  the  ship blazed  with light and resounded

with music, while in front of them,  on the high bank,  was the darkness  of

provincial midnight, the barking of a dog, and a distant accordion.

"I will sum up the situation," said Ostap light-heartedly.  "Debit: not

a cent of money; three chairs sailing down the river;  nowhere to go; and no

SPCC badge. Credit: a 1926 edition of a guidebook to the Volga (I was forced

to borrow it from Monsieur  Simbievich's cabin).  To balance  that without a

deficit would be very difficult. We'll have to spend the night on the quay."

The  concessionaires arranged  themselves on the  riverside benches. By

the light of a battered kerosene lamp Ostap read the guide-book:

On  the  right-hand  bank  is  the  town  of  Vasyuki. The  commodities

despatched from  here are  timber, resin, bark  and bast; consumer goods are

delivered  here for  the region,  which is  fifty  miles  from  the  nearest

railway.

The  town has  a population  of 8,000; it has a  state-owned  cardboard

factory employing  520 workers, a  small foundry, a brewery  and  a tannery.

Besides normal academic establishments, there is also a forestry school.

"The  situation is more  serious than I thought,"  observed  Ostap. "It

seems out of the question that we'll be able to squeeze any money out of the

citizens of Vasyuki. We nevertheless need thirty  roubles. First, we have to

eat, and, second, we have to catch up the lottery ship and meet the Columbus

Theatre in Stalingrad."

Ippolit  Matveyevich curled up like  an  old  emaciated tomcat after  a

skirmish  with a younger  rival, an ebullient conqueror of roofs, penthouses

and dormer windows.

Ostap walked up and  down the benches,  thinking and scheming.  By  one

o'clock a  magnificent  plan was ready. Bender  lay down by the side of  his

partner and went to sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE INTERPLANETARY CHESS TOURNAMENT

A  tall,  thin,  elderly  man  in  a  gold  pince-nez  and  very  dirty

paint-splashed  boots had been walking about the town of Vasyuki since early

morning, attaching hand-written notices to walls. The notices read:

On June 22,1927,

a lecture entitled

A FRUITFUL OPENING IDEA

will be given at the Cardboardworker Club

by Grossmeister (Grand Chess Master) O. Bender

after which he will play

A SIMULTANEOUS CHESS MATCH

on 160 boards

Admission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 kopeks

Participation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 kopeks

Commencement at 6 p.m. sharp

Bring your own chessboards

MANAGER : K. Michelson

The Grossmeister had  not been wasting his  time, either. Having rented

the club for three  roubles, he hurried across  to  the chess section, which

for some reason or  other was located in the corridor of the  horse-breeding

administration.

In the chess section sat a one-eyed man reading a Panteleyev edition of

one of Spielhagen's novels.

"Grossmeister O. Bender!"  announced Bender, sitting down on the table.

"I'm organizing a simultaneous chess match here."

The Vasyuki chess player's one eye opened as wide as its natural limits

would allow.

"One second, Comrade  Grossmeister," he cried. "Take a seat, won't you?

I'll be back in a moment."

And the one-eyed man disappeared. Ostap looked around the chess-section

room. The walls were hung with photographs of racehorses; on the table lay a

dusty register marked "Achievements of the Vasyuki Chess Section for 1925".

The one-eyed man returned  with a dozen citizens of varying ages.  They

all  introduced  themselves  in turn  and respectfully shook hands  with the

Grossmeister.

"I'm on my way to Kazan," said Ostap abruptly. "Yes, yes, the  match is

this evening.  Do come along.  I'm sorry, I'm not in form at the moment. The

Carlsbad tournament was tiring."

The Vasyuki  chess players listened  to him with  filial love  in their

eyes. Ostap was inspired, and felt a flood of new strength and chess ideas.

"You wouldn't believe how far chess thinking has  advanced,"  he  said.

"Lasker, you know,  has gone as far as trickery. It's impossible to play him

any more. He blows cigar smoke over his opponents and smokes cheap cigars so

that the smoke will be fouler. The chess world is greatly concerned."

The Grossmeister then turned to more local affairs.

"Why  aren't there any  new ideas  about  in  the  province? Take,  for

instance,  your chess  section. That's what  it's called-the  chess section.

That's boring, girls! Why don't you call  it something else,  in true  chess

style?  It  would  attract  the trade-union  masses  into  the  section. For

example,  you could  call  it  The  Four Knights Chess  Club',  or  The  Red

End-game', or 'A Decline in the Standard of Play  with a Gain in Pace'. That

would be good. It has the right kind of sound."

The idea was successful.

"Indeed," exclaimed  the citizens, "why shouldn't we rename our section

The Four Knights Chess Club'?"

Since the  chess committee was  there on the  spot,  Ostap  organized a

one-minute meeting under his  honorary  chairmanship, and the chess  section

was  unanimously renamed The Four Knights Chess  Club'. Benefiting  from his

lessons aboard the Scriabin, the Grossmeister artistically drew four knights

and the appropriate caption on a sheet of cardboard.

This important step promised the flowering of chess thought in Vasyuki.

"Chess!" said  Ostap. "Do you  realize  what chess  is? It promotes the

advance of  culture and  also  the economy.  Do  you realize  that  The Four

Knights   Chess  Club',  given  the  right  organization,  could  completely

transform the town of Vasyuki?"

Ostap  had not  eaten  since  the day  before, which  accounted for his

unusual eloquence.

"Yes," he cried, "chess  enriches a country! If  you agree to my  plan,

you'll soon be descending marble steps  to the quay! Vasyuki will become the

centre  of ten provinces! What  did you ever hear of  the town of  Semmering

before? Nothing! But now that miserable little town  is rich and famous just

because an international  tournament was  held  there. That's why I  say you

should organize an international chess tournament in Vasyuki."

"How?" they all cried.

"It's a  perfectly  practical  plan,"  replied  the  Grossmeister.  "My

connections and your activity are all that are required for an international

tournament in  Vasyuki.  Just  think  how  fine that  would  sound-The  1927

International Tournament to be held in  Vasyuki!' Such players as Jose-Raoul

Capablanca,  Lasker,  Alekhine,  Reti, Rubinstein, Tarrasch, Widmar  and Dr.

Grigoryev are bound to come. What's more, I'll take part myself!"

"But what about the money?" groaned  the citizens. "They would all have

to be paid. Many thousands of roubles! Where would we get it?"

"A powerful hurricane takes everything into account,"  said Ostap. "The

money will come from collections."

"And who do you think is going to pay that kind of money? The people of

Vasyuki?"

"What do you mean, the people of Vasyuki? The people of Vasyuki are not

going to  pay money, they're going to receive it. It's all extremely simple.

After all, chess enthusiasts will come from all over the world  to attend  a

tournament   with   such   great  champions.   Hundreds  of   thousands   of

people-well-to-do  people-will  head  for  Vasyuki.  Naturally,  the   river

transport will not be able  to cope with such  a large number of passengers.

So the Ministry of Railways will  have  to build a main  line from Moscow to

Vasyuki. That's one thing.  Another is hotels and skyscrapers to accommodate

the  visitors.  The  third  thing is  improvement of the  agriculture over a

radius of five  hundred miles; the visitors  have to be provided with fruit,

vegetables,  caviar and chocolate. The building for the actual tournament is

the  next  thing.  Then  there's  construction  of garages  to  house  motor

transport  for the visitors. An extra-high power radio station will  have to

be built to broadcast the sensational  results of the tournament to the rest

of the world. Now about the Vasyuki railway. It most likely won't be able to

carry all the passengers wanting to come to Vasyuki, so we will have to have

a 'Greater Vasyuki' airport  with regular nights by mail planes and airships

to all parts of the globe, including Los Angeles and Melbourne."

Dazzling  vistas  unfolded  before  the  Vasyuki chess enthusiasts. The

walls of the room melted away. The rotting walls of the stud-farm  collapsed

and in their  place  a thirty-storey building towered  into the  sky.  Every

hall,  every  room, and  even the lightning-fast  lifts  were full of people

thoughtfully playing chess on malachite encrusted boards.

Marble  steps  led down to  the  blue Volga. Ocean-going  steamers were

moored on the river. Cablecars communicating with the town centre carried up

heavy-faced  foreigners,  chess-playing ladies, Australian advocates of  the

Indian  defence, Hindus in turbans, devotees of the Spanish gambit, Germans,

Frenchmen,  New Zealanders, inhabitants  of the  Amazon  basin,  and finally

Muscovites, citizens of Leningrad and Kiev, Siberians and natives of Odessa,

all envious of the citizens of Vasyuki.

Lines  of  cars  moved  in  between the  marble hotels.  Then  suddenly

everything stopped. From out  of  the fashionable  Pass Pawn  Hotel came the

world champion Capablanca. He was surrounded by  women. A militiaman dressed

in  special chess uniform (check breeches and bishops in his lapels) saluted

smartly.  The  one-eyed president  of the  "Four  Knights  Club" of  Vasyuki

approached the champion in a dignified manner.

The conversation  between the two luminaries, conducted in English, was

interrupted by  the arrival  by  air  of  Dr. Grigoryev and the future world

champion, Alekhine.

Cries of  welcome shook the  town.  Capablanca glowered.  At a wave  of

one-eye's hand, a set of marble steps was run up to the plane. Dr. Grigoryev

came down,  waving his hat and commenting, as he went, on a possible mistake

by Capablanca in his forthcoming match with Alekhine.

Suddenly a black dot was noticed on the horizon. It approached rapidly,

growing larger and  larger until  it  finally turned  into a  large  emerald

parachute. A man with an attache case  was hanging from  the harness, like a

huge radish.

"Here he is!" shouted one-eye. "Hooray,  hooray, I recognize  the great

philosopher and chess player Dr. Lasker. He is the only person  in the world

who wears those green socks." Capablanca glowered again.

The marble steps  were quickly  brought up for Lasker to alight on, and

the cheerful  ex-champion, blowing from his sleeve a speck of dust which had

settled on him over Silesia f ell into  the arms of  one-eye. The latter put

his arm around Lasker's waist and walked him over to the champion, saying:

"Make up your quarrel!  On  behalf of the  popular masses of Vasyuki, I

urge you to make up your quarrel."

Capablanca sighed loudly and, shaking hands with the veteran,  said: "I

always admired your idea of moving QK5 to QB3 in the Spanish gambit."

"Hooray!"  exclaimed one-eye. "Simple and convincing in the style of  a

champion."

And the incredible crowd joined in with: "Hooray! Vivat! Banzai! Simple

and convincing in the style of a champion!"

Express trains sped into the twelve  Vasyuki stations,  depositing ever

greater crowds of chess enthusiasts.

Hardly had the sky begun to glow from the brightly lit  advertisements,

when a white horse was led  through the streets of the town. It was the only

horse  left after the mechanization of the town's transportation. By special

decree it had been renamed a  stallion, although it had actually been a mare

the whole of its life. The lovers of chess acclaimed it with palm leaves and

chessboards.

"Don't worry,"  continued Ostap,  "my scheme will guarantee the town an

unprecedented  boom in your production forces. Just  think what will  happen

when  the tournament  is over and the  visitors  have  left. The citizens of

Moscow,  crowded  together  on account of  the  housing shortage, will  come

flocking  to  your   beautiful  town.  The  capital  will  be  automatically

transferred  to  Vasyuki. The  government  will move here.  Vasyuki  will be

renamed  New  Moscow, and  Moscow  will become  Old  Vasyuki. The  people of

Leningrad and Kharkov will gnash their teeth in fury but won't be able to do

a  thing about  it.  New Moscow  will  soon become the  most elegant city in

Europe and, soon afterwards, in the whole world."

"The whole world!! I" gasped the citizens of Vasyuki in a daze.

"Yes, and, later on, in the universe. Chess thinking-which has turned a

regional centre into the capital of the world-will become an applied science

and will invent ways of  interplanetary communication. Signals  will be sent

from Vasyuki to Mars, Jupiter and Neptune. Communications with Venus will be

as easy as going  from Rybinsk  to Yaroslavl.  And then  who  knows what may

happen? In maybe eight or so years the first interplanetary chess tournament

in the history of the world will be held in Vasyuki."

Ostap wiped his noble brow.  He  was  so hungry he  could have eaten  a

roasted knight from the chessboard.

"Ye-es,"  said the one-eyed man with  a sigh, looking  around the dusty

room with an insane light in  his eye, "but how are we to  put the plan into

effect, to lay the basis, so to say?"

They all looked at the Grossmelster tensely.

"As I say, in practice the plan depends entirely  on  your activity.  I

will do all  the  organizing myself. There will be no actual expense, except

for the cost of the telegrams."

One-eyed nudged his companions. "Well?" he asked, "what do you say?"

"Let's do it, let's do it!" cried the citizens.

"How much money is needed for the . . . er . . . telegrams?"

"A mere bagatelle. A hundred roubles."

"We  only  have twenty-one roubles  in  the  cash box. We  realize,  of

course, that it is by no means enough . . ."

But the Grossmeister proved to  be accommodating. "All right," he said,

"give me the twenty roubles."

"Will it be enough?" asked one-eye.

"It'll  be enough  for the  initial telegrams. Later  on  we can  start

collecting contributions. Then there'll be so much money we shan't know what

to do with it."

Putting  the money away in  his  green field  jacket, the  Grossmeister

reminded the gathered citizens of his lecture  and simultaneous match on one

hundred  and sixty boards, and, taking leave of them until evening, made his

way to the Cardboard-worker Club to find Ippolit Matveyevich.

"I'm starving," said Vorobyaninov in a tremulous voice.

He was  already sitting  at the window of the box office, but  had  not

collected one kopek; he could not even buy a hunk of bread. In  front of him

lay a green wire basket intended for the money. It was the kind that is used

in middle-class houses to hold the cutlery.

"Listen, Vorobyaninov," said Ostap, "stop your cash transactions for an

hour and  come and  eat  at  the  caterers' union canteen. I'll describe the

situation as we go. By the way, you need a shave and brush-up. You look like

a tramp. A Grossmeister cannot have such suspicious-looking associates."

"I haven't sold a single ticket," Ippolit Matveyevich informed him.

"Don't worry. People will  come  flocking  in towards evening. The town

has  already  contributed  twenty  roubles  for   the   organization  of  an

international chess tournament."

"Then why bother about the simultaneous match?" whispered his  manager.

"You may lose the games anyway. With twenty roubles we can  now  buy tickets

for  the  ship-the  Karl  Liebknecht  has just  come  in-travel  quietly  to

Stalingrad and  wait for  the  theatre  to arrive. We can probably  open the

chairs there. Then we'll be rich and the world will belong to us."

"You shouldn't say such silly things on an empty stomach. It has a  bad

effect on the brain. We might  reach Stalingrad on twenty  roubles, but what

are we going  to eat with?  Vitamins, my dear comrade marshal, are not given

away  free. On the other hand, we can get  thirty roubles  out of the locals

for the lecture and match."

"They'll slaughter us!" said Vorobyaninov.

"It's a risk, certainly. We may be manhandled a bit. But anyway, I have

a nice little plan which will save you, at least. But we can talk about that

later on. Meanwhile, let's go and try the local dishes."

Towards six  o'clock  the  Grossmeister,  replete,  freshly shaven, and

smelling of  eau-de-Cologne, went into the box office of the Cardboardworker

Club.

Vorobyaninov, also freshly shaven, was busily selling tickets.

"How's it going? " asked the Grossmeister quietly.

"Thirty have gone  in and  twenty  have  paid  to  play," answered  his

manager.

"Sixteen roubles. That's bad, that's bad!" -

"What do you mean, Bender?  Just look  at the number of people standing

in line. They're bound to beat us up."

"Don't think about it. When they hit you, you can cry. In the meantime,

don't dally. Learn to do business."

An  hour  later  there  were thirty-five roubles  in  the cash box. The

people in the clubroom were getting restless.

"Close  the window and  give me the  money!" said Bender.  "Now listen!

Here's five roubles. Go down to the quay, hire a boat for a couple of hours,

and wait for me by the riverside just below  the warehouse. We're going  for

an evening boat trip. Don't worry about me. I'm in good form today."

The Grossmeister entered the clubroom. He felt in good spirits and knew

for certain that the first  move-pawn  to  king four-would not cause him any

complications. The remaining  moves were, admittedly,  rather  more obscure,

but that did not disturb the smooth operator in the least. He had worked out

a surprise plan to extract him from the most hopeless game.

The Grossmeister was greeted  with  applause.  The small  club-room was

decorated with  coloured flags left over from an  evening held a week before

by  the lifeguard rescue service. This  was  clear,  furthermore,  from  the

slogan on the wall:

ASSISTANCE TO DROWNING PERSONS IS

IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES

Ostap bowed, stretched  out his hands as though  restraining the public

from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.

"Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice:

"the  subject  of  my lecture  today is  one on which  I spoke, not  without

certain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago. The subject of my

lecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.

"What,  Comrades,  is  an opening? And  what,  Comrades, is an idea? An

opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia. And what, Comrades, is an idea? An

idea,  Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form. Even with

insignificant forces  you  can master  the whole of  the chessboard.  It all

depends on each  separate individual.  Take,  for example,  the  fair-haired

young man sitting in the third  row. Let's assume he plays well. .  . ." The

fair-haired young man turned red.

"And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play

very well."

Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow.

"What do  we see, Comrades?  We see  that the fair-haired fellow  plays

well and  that the other one  plays badly. And no  amount  of lecturing  can

change  this correlation of  forces  unless each  separate  individual keeps

practising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell you

some  instructive stories  about  our esteemed ultramodernists,  Capablanca,

Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."

Ostap  told  the  audience  a  few  antiquated  anecdotes,  gleaned  in

childhood  from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first  half of the

evening.

The brevity  of  the lecture caused certain surprise. The  one-eyed man

was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.

The beginning of  the  simultaneous chess  match,  however, allayed the

one-eyed chess player's growing  suspicions. Together  with the rest, he set

up the tables along three sides of the room. Thirty enthusiasts in  all took

their  places  to play  the  Grossmeister. Many  of  them  were  in complete

confusion  and kept glancing at books on chess to refresh their knowledge of

complicated variations, with the  help  of which they hoped  not to have  to

resign before the twenty-second move, at least.

Ostap ran his eyes along  the line of black chessmen surrounding him on

three sides,  looked at the door, and then began the game. He went up to the

one-eyed man, who was sitting at the first  board, and moved the king's pawn

forward two squares.

One-eye immediately seized hold of his ears and began thinking hard.

A whisper  passed  along the  line of players.  "The  Grossmeister  has

played pawn to king four."

Ostap  did not pamper his opponents with a  variety of openings. On the

remaining twenty-nine boards he  made  the same  move-pawn to king four. One

after another the enthusiasts seized their heads and  launched into feverish

discussions. Those who were not playing followed the Grossmeister with their

eyes. The only amateur photographer in the town was about to clamber on to a

chair and light  his magnesium  flare when Ostap waved his arms angrily and,

breaking off his drift along the boards, shouted loudly:

"Remove the photographer! He is disturbing my chess thought!"

What  would  be the point of  leaving a photograph of  myself  in  this

miserable  town, thought Ostap to himself. I don't much like having dealings

with the militia.

Indignant  hissing  from  the  enthusiasts  forced the  photographer to

abandon  his attempt. In  fact, their annoyance was  so  great  that he  was

actually put outside the, door.

At  the  third  move  it  became  clear  that  in  eighteen  games  the

Grossmeister  was playing  a Spanish gambit. In the other twelve the  blacks

played the old-fashioned, though fairly reliable, Philidor defence. If Ostap

had  known  he was  using such cunning gambits  and countering  such  tested

defences,  he would  have been most surprised.  The  truth of the matter was

that he was playing chess for the second time in his life.

At  first  the  enthusiasts,  and  first  and  foremost  one-eye,  were

terrified at the Grossmeister's obvious craftiness.

With   singular   ease,  and  no  doubt  scoffing  to  himself  at  the

backwardness of the  Vasyuki enthusiasts, the Grossmeister sacrificed  pawns

and  other  pieces  left  and  right.  He even  sacrificed his queen  to the

brown-haired fellow  whose skill had  been so belittled during  the lecture.

The man was horrified and  about to resign; it was only by a terrific effort

of will that he was able to continue.

The  storm  broke  about  five   minutes  later.  "Mate!"  babbled  the

brown-haired  fellow, terrified out of his wits. "You're checkmate,  Comrade

Grossmeister!'

Ostap analysed the  situation, shamefully called a rook  a "castle" and

pompously  congratulated the fellow on his win.  A hum  broke out  among the

enthusiasts.

Time to push off, thought Ostap, serenely wandering  up  and  down  the

rows of tables and casually moving pieces about.

"You've  moved the knight wrong, Comrade  Grossmeister,"  said one-eye,

cringing. "A knight doesn't go like that."

"So  sorry,"  said  the  Grossmeister,  "I'm  rather  tired  after  the

lecture."

During the next ten minutes the Grossmeister lost a further ten games.

Cries  of  surprise  echoed  through  the   Cardboardworker  club-room.

Conflict was near. Ostap lost fifteen  games in succession, and then another

three.

Only one-eye was left. At the beginning of the game he had made a large

number of mistakes  from nervousness and was only now bringing the game to a

victorious conclusion. Unnoticed  by  those around, Ostap  removed the black

rook from the board and hid it in his pocket.

A crowd of people pressed tightly around the players.

"I had a rook on  this  square a moment ago,"  cried  one-eye,  looking

round, "and now it's gone!"

"If  it's not there now, it wasn't there  at all,"  said  Ostap, rather

rudely.

"Of course it was. I remember it distinctly!"

"Of course it wasn't!"

"Where's it gone, then? Did you take it?"

"Yes, I took it."

"At which move?"

"Don't try to confuse me  with your  rook.  If  you want to resign, say

so!"

"Wait a moment, Comrades, I have all the moves written down."

"Written down my foot!"

"This is disgraceful!" yelled one-eye. "Give me back the rook!"

"Come on, resign, and stop this fooling about."

"Give me back my rook!"

At this point  the Grossmeister, realizing that procrastination was the

thief of  time, seized a handful of chessmen and  threw them in his one-eyed

opponent's face.

"Comrades!"  shrieked   one-eye.   "Look,  everyone,  he's  hitting  an

amateur!"

The chess players of Vasyuki were aghast.

Without wasting  valuable time,  Ostap hurled  a chessboard at the lamp

and, hitting out at jaws and faces in the ensuing darkness, ran out into the

street. The Vasyuki chess enthusiasts,  falling over each other, tore  after

him.

It was a moonlit  evening.  Ostap  bounded along the silvery street  as

lightly  as an angel  repelled  from  the sinful  earth.  On account  of the

interrupted transformation of Vasyuki into the centre  of the world, it  was

not between  palaces that Ostap had  to run, but wooden houses  with outside

shutters.

The chess enthusiasts raced along behind.

"Catch the Grossmeister!" howled one-eye.

"Twister!" added the others.

"Jerks!" snapped back the Grossmeister, increasing his speed.

"Stop him!" cried the outraged chess players.

Ostap began  running  down the steps  leading down to  the quay. He had

four  hundred steps to go. Two enthusiasts, who had  taken a short cut  down

the hillside, were waiting for him at the bottom of the sixth  flight. Ostap

looked  over his shoulder. The advocates of Philidor's  defence were pouring

down the steps like a pack of wolves. There  was no  way back, so he kept on

going.

"Just wait till I  get you, you  bastards!" he shouted at  the  two-man

advance party, hurtling down from the sixth flight.

The frightened troopers gasped,  fell over  the balustrade, and  rolled

down into the darkness of mounds and slopes. The path was clear.

"Stop the Grossmeister !" echoed shouts from above.

The pursuers clattered down the wooden steps with  a noise like falling

skittle balls.

Reaching  the river  bank, Ostap  made to the right, searching with his

eyes for the boat containing his faithful manager.

Ippolit Matveyevich  was  sitting serenely in the  boat.  Ostap dropped

heavily into a seat and began rowing for all he was worth. A minute  later a

shower of stones  flew in  the direction  of the boat,  one of  them hitting

Ippolit Matveyevich. A yellow bruise appeared  on the side  of his face just

above  the  volcanic pimple.  Ippolit Matveyevich hunched his shoulders  and

began whimpering.

"You are a softie! They practically lynched me, but I'm still happy and

cheerful.  And if you  take the  fifty roubles net profit  into account, one

bump on the head isn't such an unreasonable price to pay."

In the meantime, the  pursuers, who had only just  realized that  their

plans  to  turn  Vasyuki  into   New  Moscow  had  collapsed  and  that  the

Grossmeister was absconding with fifty vital Vasyukian roubles, piled into a

barge and, with  loud shouts, rowed out  into midstream. Thirty people  were

crammed into the boat, all of  whom were  anxious to take a personal part in

settling  the score with the Grossmeister. The  expedition was  commanded by

one-eye, whose single peeper shone in the night like a lighthouse.

"Stop the Grossmeister!" came shouts from the overloaded barge.

"We must step on it, Pussy!" said  Ostap. "If they catch up  with us, I

won't be responsible for the state of your pince-nez."

Both boats were moving downstream. The gap  between them was narrowing.

Ostap was going all out.

"You won't escape, you rats!" people were shouting from the barge.

Ostap had no time to answer. His oars flashed in and out of  the water,

churning it up so that it came down in floods in the boat.

Keep going! whispered Ostap to himself.

Ippolit Matveyevich had  given up hope. The larger boat was  gaining on

them and its long  hull was already flanking  them to port in an attempt  to

force  the  Grossmeister  over  to  the  bank.  A  sorry  fate  awaited  the

concessionaires.  The  jubilance of the chess  players in the  barge  was so

great that they all moved across to the sides to  be in a better position to

attack the villainous  Grossmeister in superior  forces as soon as they drew

alongside the smaller boat.

"Watch  out  for  your  pince-nez,  Pussy," shouted  Ostap  in despair,

throwing aside the oars. "The fun is about to begin."

"Gentlemen!"  cried  Ippolit  Matveyevich  in  a  croaking voice,  "you

wouldn't hit us, would you? "

"You'll see!" roared the enthusiasts, getting  ready  to leap  into the

boat.

But  at that  moment  something  happened which will outrage all honest

chess players throughout the world. The barge  listed  heavily  and  took in

water on the starboard side.

"Careful!" squealed the one-eyed captain.

But it was too late. There were too many enthusiasts on one side of the

Vasyuki dreadnought.  As the  centre of  gravity shifted, the  boat  stopped

rocking, and, in full conformity with the laws of physics, capsized.

A concerted wailing disturbed the tranquillity of the river.

"Ooooooh!" groaned the chess players.

All thirty  enthusiasts disappeared  under the water. They quickly came

up one by  one and seized hold of the upturned boat. The last to surface was

one-eye.

"You jerks!" cried Ostap in  delight. "Why  don't you come and get your

Grossmeister? If I'm not mistaken, you intended to trounce me, didn't you? "

Ostap made a circle around the shipwrecked mariners.

"You realize, individuals of Vasyuki, that I could drown you all one by

one, don't you? But I'm going to spare your lives.

Live on, citizens! Only  don't  play chess  any more, for  God's  sake.

You're just no good at it, you  jerks! Come  on, Ippolit  Matveyevich, let's

go. Good-bye, you one-eyed amateurs! I'm afraid Vasyuki will never become  a

world centre. I doubt whether the  masters of chess  would  ever visit fools

like you, even if I asked them to.  Good-bye,  lovers of chess thrills! Long

live the 'Four Knights Chess Club'!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ET ALIA

Morning  found  the concessionaires  in sight of  Chebokary. Ostap  was

dozing at  the  rudder  while Ippolit Matveyevich  sleepily  moved the  oars

through the  water. Both were  shivering from the chilliness of  the  night.

Pink buds  blossomed in the east. Ippolit Matveyevich's pince-nez was all of

a glitter. The oval lenses caught  the  light and  alternately reflected one

bank  and then the other. A signal beacon from the left bank arched  in  the

biconcave glass.  The blue domes  of Chebokary sailed  past like  ships. The

garden in the east grew larger, and the buds changed into volcanoes, pouring

out  lava of the best sweetshop colours.  Birds on the  bank were  causing a

noisy  scene. The  gold  nosepiece of the pince-nez flashed and  dazzled the

Grossmeister. The  sun  rose. Ostap opened  his eyes  and stretched himself,

tilting the boat and cracking his joints.

"Good morning,  Pussy," he  said, suppressing a yawn. "I come  to bring

greetings and to tell you the sun  is up and is  making something over there

glitter with  a  bright, burning light. . ."  "The  pier.  .  . ."  reported

Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap took out the guide-book and  consulted  it. "From

all  accounts it's  Chebokary. I see: 'Let  us note the pleasantly  situated

town  of Chebokary.' "Do you really think it's pleasantly  situated,  Pussy?

'At the present time Chebokary  has 7,702 inhabitants' "Pussy! Let's give up

our hunt for the jewels and increase the population to 7,704. What about it?

It would be  very effective.  We'll open a 'Petits Chevaux' gaming-house and

from the 'Petits Chevaux' we'll have une grande income. Anyway, to continue:

'Founded  in  1555,  the  town  has  preserved  some  very  interesting

churches. Besides the administrative institutions  of  the Chuvash Republic,

Chebokary also has a workers' school, a Party school, a teachers' institute,

two middle-grade  schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. On

the quayside  and in  the bazaar it is possible  to see Chuvash and Cheremis

nationals, distinguishable by their dress. . . .'"

But before the friends were able to reach  the quay, where  the Chuvash

and Cheremis nationals were to be  seen, their  attention  was caught by  an

object floating downstream ahead of the boat.

"The chair!" cried Ostap. "Manager! It's our chair!"

The  partners rowed  over to the  chair. It  bobbed up and down, turned

over, went  under,  and came  up farther away from the  boat.  Water  poured

freely into its slashed belly.

It was the chair opened aboard  the  Scriabin, and  it was now floating

slowly towards the Caspian Sea.

"Hi  there,  friend!"  called  Ostap.  "Long  time  no  see. You  know,

Vorobyaninov, that chair reminds me of our  life. We're  also  floating with

the  tide. People push us under and we  come up  again, although they aren't

too pleased about it. No one likes us, except for the criminal investigation

department,  which doesn't  like us, either. Nobody has any time for us.  If

the chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, the only thing left

of us would have been the coroner's report. 'Both bodies lay with their feet

to  the south-east  and their  heads  to the  north-west. There  were jagged

wounds  in  the  bodies,  apparently inflicted  by a  blunt instrument.' The

enthusiasts  would  have  beaten  us  with chessboards,  I  imagine.  That's

certainly a  blunt  instrument. The  first body belonged  to a man  of about

fifty-five, dressed in a torn silk  jacket, old trousers,  and old boots. In

the jacket  pocket  was  an identification  card  bearing  the  name  Konrad

Karlovich Michelson  . ..'  That's what they would have  written about  you,

Pussy."

"And what would they have written about you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich

irritably.

"Ah! They would have written  something  quite different  about  me. It

would have gone like  this:  'The second corpse belonged to a  man of  about

twenty-seven years  of  age.  He  loved  and suffered.  He  loved  money and

suffered from a lack of it. His head  with its  high  forehead fringed  with

raven-black  curls  was  turned  towards the  sun. His  elegant  feet,  size

forty-two boots, were  pointing  towards the northern  lights. The body  was

dressed in  immaculate white clothes,  and on  the breast  was  a  gold harp

encrusted with mother-of-pearl, bearing the words of the song "Farewell, New

Village!" The deceased youth engaged in poker-work, which was clear from the

permit  No.  86/1562,  issued   on  8/23/24   by   the  Pegasus-and-Parnasus

craftsmen's  artel, found  in the pocket of  his tails.' And they would have

buried  me, Pussy, with  pomp  and circumstance,  speeches,  a  band, and my

grave-stone  would   have  had  the  inscription  'Here  lies  the   unknown

central-heating engineer and  conqueror,  Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria Bender

Bey, whose  father,  a  Turkish  citizen,  died  without  leaving  his  son,

Ostap-Suleiman, a cent. The deceased's  mother was a countess of independent

means."

Conversing along  these  lines, the  concessionaires nosed their way to

the bank.

That evening, having increased their capital by  five  roubles from the

sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends  went  aboard  the diesel ship Uritsky

and sailed for Stalingrad,  hoping  to overtake the slow-moving lottery ship

and meet the Columbus Theatre troupe in Stalingrad.

The Scriabin reached Stalingrad  at the beginning  of July. The friends

met it, hiding behind crates on the quayside.  Before the ship was unloaded,

a lottery was held aboard and some big prizes were won.

They had to wait four hours  for the chairs. First to  come  ashore was

the theatre group and then  the lottery employees. Persidsky's shining  face

stood  out among  them. As they lay in wait, the concessionaires could  hear

him shouting:

"Yes,  I'll  come to  Moscow immediately. I've already sent a telegram.

And do you know  which one? 'Celebrating with you.' Let them guess who  it's

from."

Then  Persidsky  got  into  a  hired  car,  having  first  inspected it

thoroughly,  and  drove  off,  accompanied  for  some  reason by  shouts  of

"Hooray!"

As soon as  the hydraulic press had been unloaded,  the  scenic effects

were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen  by the  time they unloaded

the chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse  carts and, gaily shouting,

went straight to the station.

"I  don't think  they're  going  to play in  Stalingrad," said  Ippolit

Matveyevich.

Ostap was in a quandary.

"We'll have to travel with them,"  he decided.  "But where's the money?

Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."

At the station it turned out that the  theatre  was going to Pyatigorsk

via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.

"Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.

"I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly.

"Damn you! Better  not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll

do the bilking."

Ippolit  Matveyevich was bought a  ticket in an  upholstered  coach and

with it  travelled  to  the  station Mineral Waters  on  the North  Caucasus

Railway.  Keeping  out  of sight  of the  troupe  alighting  at  the station

(decorated with oleander  shrubs in  green tubs), the former marshal went to

look for Ostap.

Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line

coaches, Ostap was  still not to be seen. He finally arrived in  the evening

and found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.

"Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?"

"You  were in a state,  and you  had a  ticket in your  pocket!  And  I

wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of  the last coach of your

train?  Who  spent three hours  waiting like an idiot for a goods train with

empty mineral-water bottles?  You're  a swine, citizen marshal! Where's  the

theatre? "

"In Pyatigorsk."

"Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is

three roubles. It  isn't much, of course, but  enough for the first purchase

of mineral water and railway tickets."

Creaking like a cart, the train left for  Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes

later,  passing Zmeika and  Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the foot

of Mashuk.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

A VIEW OF THE MALACHITE PUDDLE

It  was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and  washed.  Even Mashuk,

overgrown with shrubbery and small clumps of trees, was carefully combed and

exuded a smell of toilet water.

White trousers of the most  varied  types flashed up and down  the  toy

platform: there  were trousers  made of twill, moleskin, calamanco, duck and

soft  flannel.  People were walking about  in sandals  and Apache shirts. In

their  heavy,  dirty boots,  heavy dusty  trousers,  heated  waistcoats  and

scorching jackets, the  concessionaires  felt very  out of place. Among  the

great variety of  gaily coloured  cottons in which  the girls  of the resort

were parading themselves,  the brightest and most elegant was the uniform of

the stationmaster.

To the surprise of all newcomers, the stationmaster was a woman. Auburn

curls peeped  from  under her  red peaked cap with  its two lines of  silver

braid around the band. She wore a white tunic and a white skirt.

As soon  as the travellers had  had a  good look at the station-master,

had  read the freshly pasted  notices  advertising  the tour of the Columbus

Theatre and drunk two five-kopek glasses of mineral  water, they  went  into

the town on the Station-Flower Garden  tram  route.  They were  charged  ten

kopeks to go into the Flower Garden.

In the Flower Garden there was a great deal of music, a large number of

happy people,  and  very  few  flowers.  A  symphony orchestra  in  a  white

shell-like construction was playing the "Dance of the Gnats"; narzan mineral

water  was  on sale in the  Lermontov gallery, and was also obtainable  from

kiosks and vendors walking around.

No one had time for the two grimy jewel-hunters.

"My, Pussy," said Ostap, "we're out of place in all this festivity."

The  concessionaires spent their  first night at  the spa  by a  narzan

spring.

It  was only  there, in  Pyatigorsk,  when  the  Columbus  Theatre  had

performed  their  version  of  The Marriage  to  an  audience  of  astounded

town-dwellers  for the  third  time,  that the  partners  realized the  real

difficulties  involved  in their treasure hunt. To  find their way  into the

theatre as  they  had  planned proved  impossible.  Galkin,  Palkin, Malkin,

Chalkin  and  Zalkind  slept  in  the wings,  since  their  modest  earnings

prevented them from living in a hotel.

The days passed, and the friends were slowly reaching the end of  their

tether,  spending  their  nights  'at  the  site  of  Lermontov's  duel  and

subsisting by carrying the baggage of peasant tourists.

On  the  sixth  day Ostap  managed to  strike up an  acquaintance  with

Mechnikov,  the  fitter in  charge  of  the  hydraulic  press. By this time,

Mechnikov, who had no money and was forced to get rid of his daily hang-over

by drinking mineral water, was in a terrible state and had  been observed by

Ostap to sell  some of the theatre props at the market. Final  agreement was

reached during  the morning libation by a spring.  The fitter  called  Ostap

"Palsie" and seemed about to consent.

"That's possible," he  said.  "That's  always possible, palsie. It's my

pleasure, palsie."

Ostap realized at once that the fitter knew his stuff.

The contracting  parties  looked  one another  in  the  eye,  embraced,

slapped each other's backs and laughed politely.

"Well," said Ostap, "ten for the whole deal."

"Palsie!" exclaimed  the astonished  fitter, "don't  make me mad. I'm a

man who's suffering from the narzan."

"How much do you want then?"

"Make  it  fifty. After all, it's government  property. I'm a man who's

suffering."

"All right, accept twenty. Agreed? I see from your eyes you agree."

"Agreement is the result of complete non-objection on both sides."

"There are no  flies  on this one,"  whispered  Ostap to  Vorobyaninov.

"Take a lesson."

"When will you bring the chairs?"

"You'll get the chairs when I get the money."

"That's fine," said Ostap without thinking.

"Money in advance," declared the fitter. "The money in the morning, the

chairs in the evening; or, the money  in  the evening,  the chairs the  next

morning."

"What about the chairs this morning, the money tomorrow evening," tried

Ostap.

"Palsie, I'm a man who's suffering. Such terms are revolting."

"But  the  point  is,  I  won't receive  my  money  by telegraph  until

tomorrow," said Ostap.

"Then  we'll  discuss the  matter tomorrow,"  concluded  the  obstinate

fitter.  "And in the  meantime, palsie, have a nice  time at the spring. I'm

off. Simbievich has me by the throat. I've no strength left. Can  you expect

a man to thrive on mineral water?"

And resplendent in the sunlight, Mechnikov went off.

Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich.

"The time  we  have," he said, "is  the money we don't have.  Pussy, we

must decide  on a career. A hundred and  fifty  thousand  roubles, zero zero

kopeks awaits  us. We only need twenty  roubles for the treasure to be ours.

We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."

Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully.

"OS with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy."

He  took the  jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov,  threw it  on the

ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.

"What  are  you  doing?"  howled Vorobyaninov. "I've  been wearing that

jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."

"Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your  hat. Now,  sprinkle

your trousers with  dust  and  pour  some mineral  water over them. Be quick

about it."

In  a  few  moments  Ippolit  Matveyevich  was  dirty  to  the point of

revulsion.

"Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money."

"What  am I supposed to do?" asked  Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully. "You

know French, I hope? "

"Not very well. What I learned at school." "Hm . . . then we'll have to

operate with what you learned at school. Can you say  in French, 'Gentleman,

I haven't eaten for six days'?"

"M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . .

je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do you

say 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,  six.  It's: 'Je  ne mange pas six

jours' "

"What an accent,  Pussy! Anyway, what do you expect from  a  beggar. Of

course a  beggar  in  European  Russia  wouldn't  speak  French as  well  as

Milerand. Right, pussy, and how much German do you know?"

"Why  all this?"  exclaimed Ippolit  Matveyevich. "Because," said Ostap

weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're  going to stand in

the shade and beg for alms in French,  German  and Russian,  emphasizing the

fact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. The

net profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"

Ippolit  Matveyevich was transfigured.  His chest  swelled  up like the

Palace  bridge  in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire,  and his nose seemed to

Ostap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.

"Dear  me," said the smooth operator, not  in  the least alarmed. "Just

look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."

"Never,"  suddenly  said Ippolit  Matveyevich, "never has  Vorobyaninov

held out his hand."

"Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap.

"So you've never held out your hand?"

"No, I have not."

"Spoken  like a true  gigolo. You've been living  off me for  the  last

three months. For three months I've been providing  you  with food and drink

and educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position and

say . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you  go right

away  to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by nightfall, or  else

I'm  automatically  removing  you  from  the  list  of  shareholders in  the

concession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ."

"Yes," mumbled the marshal.

"In that case, repeat the words."

"M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur

ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma."

"Once again. Make it more heart-rending."

Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words.

"All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go.

The rendezvous  is  at midnight  here  by  the  spring. That's  not for

romantic  reasons,  mind you,  but  simply because people  give more in  the

evening."

"What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?"

"Don't worry  about me.  As  usual, I  shall  be where things  are most

difficult."

The friends went their ways.

Ostap hurried  to a  small stationery shop, bought a  book of  receipts

with  his last  ten-kopek bit, and sat on a stone block for  an  hour or so,

numbering the receipts and scribbling something on each one.

"System above all," he muttered to himself. "Every public kopek must be

accounted for."

The smooth operator marched up the mountain road  that led round Mashuk

to the site of Lermontov's duel with Martynov, passing sanatoriums  and rest

homes.

Constantly overtaken  by buses  and two-horse carriages, he  arrived at

the Drop.

A narrow path cut in the cliff led to a conical drop. At the end of the

path was a parapet from which  one could see a puddle of  stinking malachite

at the bottom  of  the  Drop. This  Drop is considered one of the  sights of

Pyatigorsk and is  visited by  a large number of tourists in the course of a

day.

Ostap had seen at once that for a man without prejudice  the Drop could

be a source of income.

"What a  remarkable thing,"  mused  Ostap, "that  the  town  has  never

thought  of charging ten kopeks  to see the Drop.  It seems to  be the  only

place where the people of Pyatigorsk  allow  the sightseers  in free. I will

remove that  blemish on  the town's escutcheon and  rectify the  regrettable

omission."

And  Ostap  acted as his  reason, instinct,  and the  situation in hand

prompted.

He stationed  himself at the  entrance  to  the Drop and,  rustling the

receipt book, called out from time to time:

"Buy your tickets here, citizens.  Ten kopeks.  Children and servicemen

free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!"

It was a sure bet.  The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went  to the Drop,

and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no great

difficulty. The non-union  members,  of  whom there were many in Pyatigorsk,

were a great help.

They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked

tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:

"You  see,  Tanyusha,  what did I tell you? And you said  there  was no

charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?"

"You're  absolutely right.  It would be quite impossible not to  charge

for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members."

Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the

Drop in two  wagons.  Ostap was alarmed and was  about to pretend to  be  an

innocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded  round the smooth operator so

timidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice:

"Union  members, ten  kopeks;  but since representatives of the militia

can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks."

The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what  purpose the

money was being collected.

"For general repairs  to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't

drop too much."

While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of  the  malachite

puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich,  hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame,

stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes  of the passers-by, mumbled his

three phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."

People  not only  gave  little, they somehow gave unwillingly.  However,  by

exploiting  his purely Parisian pronunciation of the  word mange and pulling

at  their  heart-strings  by  his desperate position  as an ex-member of the

Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.

The  gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra

played Strauss,  Brahms and  Grieg  with  long  pauses in  between. Brightly

coloured  crowds drifted past  the old marshal, chattering as they went, and

came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying

matsoni on the verandah of  the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne

and sulphur gas.

"Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.

"Tell me, were you really a  member of the  State  Duma?" asked a voice

right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah!

Ah! First rate!"

Ippolit  Matveyevich raised  his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about

in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich  Iznurenkov. He had

changed  his brown  Lodz  suit  for a  white  coat and grey trousers with  a

playful spotted pattern. He  was in unusual  spirits and  from time to  time

jumped as  much as  five  or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov  did  not

recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.

"Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald?

Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!"

Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused

marshal's  hand and ran off. But  for some time afterwards his thick  thighs

could  be glimpsed  in  various parts of  the Flower  Garden, and  his voice

seemed to float down from the trees.

"Ah! Ah! 'Don't  sing to me,  my beauty, of  sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They

remind me  of another  life and  a distant shore.'  'And in the  morning she

smiled again.' First rate!"

Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he

did so. He missed a lot.

In  the enchanting darkness  of the Pyatigorsk  night,  Ellochka Shukin

strolled through  the  park, dragging  after her the  submissive  and  newly

reconciled Ernest Pavlovich.  The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard

battle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud  American girl had recently set

sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.

"Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!"

In  the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen.  Her  cheeks

were still adorned  with sideburns.  Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab,

washing  it down with  Kahetinsky  wine  no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her

sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.

After the liquidation  of the second  pensioners' home  (everything had

been  sold,  including  the  cook's  cap   and  the  slogan,  "By  carefully

masticating  your  food  you  help society"),  Alchen had decided  to have a

holiday  and  enjoy  himself. Fate itself had  saved the full-bellied little

crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap

would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.

Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to  the spring  as the musicians  were

folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting

couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.

"How  much  did you collect?"  asked Ostap  as  soon  as  the marshal's

hunched figure appeared at the spring.

"Seven  roubles, twenty-nine  kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest,

copper and silver."

"For  the first go-terrific! An executive's rate!  You amaze me, Pussy.

But what  fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know? You didn't give him

change, I hope?"

"It was Iznurenkov."

"What, really? Absalom! Why,  that  rolling stone. Where has he  rolled

to! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn't recognize you!"

"He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma. And laughed."

"There, you  see,  marshal, it's not  really so  bad  being  a  beggar,

particularly with  a  moderate  education and a  feeble voice. And  you were

stubborn about  it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were  the Lord

Privy Seal.  Well, Pussy my lad,  I haven't been  wasting  my  time, either.

Fifteen roubles. Altogether that's enough."

The next morning the fitter  received  his money and  brought them  two

chairs in the evening. He claimed it was not possible to get the third chair

as the sound effects were playing cards on it.

For  greater  security the friends  climbed practically to the  top  of

Mashuk.

Beneath,  the  lights  of  Pyatigorsk  shone strong  and  steady. Below

Pyatigorsk more  feeble lights marked  Goryachevodsk village. On the horizon

Kislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines.

Ostap glanced up  at  the starry sky and took the familiar  pliers from

his pocket.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE GREEN CAPE

Engineer Bruns  was sitting on  the stone verandah of his little wooden

house at the Green  Cape,  under a large palm,  the starched leaves of which

cast narrow, pointed shadows  on  the back  of his  shaven neck,  his  white

shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame  Popov's suite, on which the engineer

was restlessly awaiting his dinner.

Bruns  pouted  his thick, juicy  lips  and called in  the  voice  of  a

petulant, chubby little boy:

"Moo-oosie!"

The house was silent.

The tropical flora fawned  on the engineer. Cacti  stretched out  their

spiky mittens towards  him.  Dracaena  shrubs rustled their  leaves.  Banana

trees and sago  palms chased the flies from  his face,  and  the roses  with

which the verandah was woven fell at his feet.

But all  in  vain.  Bruns was  hungry. He  glowered  petulantly at  the

mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant  cape at Batumi, and called  out  in  a

singsong voice:

"Moosie, moosie!"

The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air. There was no

answer. Bruns  had visions  of  a  large  golden-brown goose with  sizzling,

greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out:

"Moosie, where's the goosie?"

"Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on

at me."

The  engineer, who  was already  pouting  his lips  into the accustomed

shape, promptly answered:

"Moosie, you haven't any pity for your little hubby."

"Get out, you glutton," came the reply from inside.

The engineer did not  give in, however. He  was just  about to continue

his  appeals for the  goose, which had been going on unsuccessfully  for two

hours, when a sudden rustling made him turn round.

From the black-green clumps  of  bamboo there had emerged a man in torn

blue tunic-shirt-belted  with a shabby twisted  cord with tassels-and frayed

striped  trousers.  The  stranger's  kindly  face  was  covered with  ragged

stubble. He was carrying his jacket in his hand.

The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice:

"Where can I find Engineer Bruns?"

"I'm Engineer  Bruns,"  said the goose-charmer  in an unexpectedly deep

voice. "What can I do for you?"

The man silently fell to his knees. It was Father Theodore.

"Have you gone crazy? " cried the engineer. "Stand up, please."

"I  won't," said Father Theodore, following the  engineer with his head

and gazing at him with bright eyes.

"Stand up."

"I won't."

And carefully, so that it would not hurt, the priest  began beating his

head against the gravel.

"Moosie, come  here!"  shouted the frightened  engineer.  "Look  what's

happening! Please get up. I implore you."

"I won't," repeated Father Theodore.

Moosie ran out  on to the verandah;  she was very  good at interpreting

her husband's intonation.

Seeing  the lady, Father  Theodore promptly crawled  over  to her  and,

bowing to her feet, rattled off:

"On you, Mother, on you, my dear, on you I lay my hopes."

Engineer Bruns thereupon  turned red in the face, seized the petitioner

under  the arms and,  straining hard,  tried to lift him to his feet. Father

Theodore  was crafty, however, and  tucked up  his legs. The disgusted Bruns

dragged his  extraordinary visitor into a corner  and forcibly sat him  in a

chair (a  Hambs chair, not from  Vorobyaninov's house,  but one belonging to

General Popov's wife).

"I  dare not  sit in the presence  of  high-ranking  persons,"  mumbled

Father  Theodore,  throwing  the  baker's jacket, which  smelt  of kerosene,

across his knees.

And he made another attempt to go down on his knees.

With a pitiful cry the engineer restrained him by the shoulders.

"Moosie,"  he said, breathing heavily,  "talk  to this citizen. There's

been some misunderstanding."

Moosie at once assumed a businesslike tone.

"In my house," she said  menacingly, "kindly  don't go down on anyone's

knees."

"Dear lady," said Father Theodore humbly, "Mother!"

"I'm not your mother. What do you want? "

The priest  began burbling something incoherent, but apparently  deeply

moving. It was only after lengthy questioning that they  were able to gather

that he was asking them to do him a special favour and sell him the suite of

twelve chairs, one of which he was sitting on at that moment.

The  engineer let go of  Father Theodore  with  surprise, whereupon the

latter immediately  plumped down on his knees again and began creeping after

the engineer like a tortoise.

"But why," cried the engineer, trying to  dodge Father Theodore's  long

arms, "why should I sell my chairs? It's no use how much you go down on your

knees like that, I just don't understand anything."

"But they're my chairs," groaned the holy father.

"What do you mean, they're yours? How can they be  yours? You're crazy.

Moosie, I see it all. This man's a crackpot."

"They're mine," repeated the priest in humiliation.

"Do  you  think  I stole  them  from  you,  then?" asked  the  engineer

furiously. "Did I steal them? Moosie, this is blackmail."

"Oh, Lord," whispered Father Theodore.

"If I stole  them from you, then take  the  matter to court, but  don't

cause pandemonium in  my house. Did  you hear that, Moosie? How impudent can

you get? They don't even let a man have his dinner in peace."

No,  Father Theodore did not want to recover "his" chairs by taking the

matter  to  court. By  no means. He  knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolen

them  from him. Oh, no. That was  the last idea he had in his mind. But  the

chairs had nevertheless belonged to him before the revolution, and his wife,

who was on her deathbed in Voronezh,  was very attached  to  them. It was to

comply with  her wishes and not on his own initiative that he had taken  the

liberty  of finding  out the whereabouts  of the chairs  and coming  to  see

Citizen Bruns. Father Theodore  was not asking for charity.  Oh, no.  He was

sufficiently well off (he owned a small candle factory in Samara) to sweeten

his  wife's  last  few  minutes  by buying the  old chairs. He was  ready to

splurge and pay twenty roubles for the whole set of chairs.

"What?"  cried the  engineer,  growing purple.  "Twenty roubles? For  a

splended drawing-room suite? Moosie, did you hear that? He  really is a nut.

Honestly he is."

"I'm  not  a nut, but  merely complying with the wishes of my  wife who

sent me."

"Oh, hell!" said the engineer. "Moosie, he's at it again. He's crawling

around again."

"Name your price,"  moaned Father Theodore, cautiously beating his head

against the trunk of an araucaria.

"Don't spoil the tree, you crazy man. Moosie, I don't think he's a nut.

He's  simply distraught at his wife's illness. Shall we sell  him the chairs

and get rid of him? Otherwise, he'll crack his skull."

"And what are we going to sit on?" asked Moosie.

"We'll buy some more."

"For twenty roubles?"

"Suppose I don't  sell them for  twenty. Suppose I  don't sell them for

two hundred, but supposing I do sell them for two-fifty?"

In response came the sound of a head against a tree.

"Moosie, I'm fed up with this!"

The  engineer went over to Father Theodore,  with his mind  made up and

began issuing an ultimatum.

"First, move back  from the palm at least three paces; second, stand up

at once; third, I'll sell you the chairs for two hundred and fifty and not a

kopek less."

"It's not for personal gain," chanted  Father Theodore,  "but merely in

compliance with my sick wife's wishes."

"Well, old boy,  my wife's also  sick. That's  right, isn't it, Moosie?

Your lungs aren't in too good a state, are they? But on the strength of that

I'm not asking you to . . . er . . . sell me your jacket for thirty kopeks."

"Have it for nothing," exclaimed Father Theodore.

The engineer waved him aside in irritation and then said coldly:

"Stop your tricks. I'm not going to argue with you any more.

I've assessed the worth of the chairs at  two hundred and fifty roubles

and I'm not shifting one cent." "Fifty," offered the priest.

"Moosie,"  said the engineer, "call Bagration. Let him see this citizen

off the premises." "Not for personal gain. . . ." "Bagration!"

Father  Theodore  fled  in terror, while  the  engineer  went  into the

dining-room and sat down to the goose. Bruns's favourite bird had a soothing

effect on him. He began to calm down.

Just as  the engineer was about to pop a goose leg into his pink mouth,

having first wrapped a piece of cigarette paper around the bone, the face of

the priest appeared appealingly at the window.

"Not for personal gain," said a soft  voice.  "Fifty-five roubles." The

engineer let out a roar without turning around. Father Theodore disappeared.

The whole  of that  day  Father  Theodore's  figure  kept appearing  at

different points near the house. At one moment it was seen coming out of the

shade of the cryptomeria, at another it  rose from a mandarin grove; then it

raced  across the  back yard  and,  fluttering, dashed towards the botanical

garden.

The whole day  the engineer  kept calling for Moosie, complaining about

the crackpot and his own headache. From time to time Father Theodore's voice

could be heard echoing through the dusk.

"A hundred and eight," he called from  somewhere  in the  sky. A moment

later his voice came from the direction of Dumbasoc's house.

"A hundred and forty-one.  Not for personal gain, Mr. Brans, but merely

. . ."

At length the engineer could stand it  no longer; he came out on to the

verandah and, peering into the darkness, began shouting very clearly:

"Damn you! Two hundred roubles then. Only leave us alone."  There was a

rustle  of disturbed bamboo, the sound of a soft groan and fading footsteps,

then all was quiet.

Stars floundered in the bay. Fireflies chased after Father Theodore and

circled round his head, casting a greenish medicinal glow on his face.

"Now  the  goose  is  flown,"  muttered  the  engineer,  going  inside.

Meanwhile, Father Theodore  was speeding along the  coast in the last bus in

the direction of Batumi. A  slight surf  washed right up to the side of him;

the wind blew in  his  face, and the  bus hooted  in  reply to  the  whining

jackals.

That evening Father Theodore sent a telegram to his wife in the town of

N.

GOODS  FOUND  STOP WIRE  ME TWO HUNDRED THIRTY STOP SELL ANYTHING  STOP

THEO

For  two  days he  loafed about  elatedly near Bruns's house, bowing to

Moosie in the distance, and even making the  tropical distances resound with

shouts of  "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes  of my  wife who

sent me."

Two  days later the  money  was  received  together  with  a  desperate

telegram:

SOLD EVERYTHING  STOP NOT A  CENT  LEFT STOP KISSES AND AM WAITING STOP

EVSTIGNEYEV STILL HAVING MEALS STOP KATEY

Father Theodore  counted the money, crossed himself frenziedly, hired a

cart, and drove to the Green Cape.

The  weather  was  dull.  A wind from the Turkish  frontier blew across

thunderclouds. The  strip of blue sky became narrower and narrower. The wind

was  near gale force. It was forbidden  to take boats to sea  and  to bathe.

Thunder rumbled above Batumi. The gale shook the coast.

Reaching Bruns's house, the priest ordered  the Adzhar  driver to  wait

and went to fetch the furniture.

"I've  brought the  money," said Father  Theodore.  "You ought to lower

your price a bit."

"Moosie," groaned the engineer, "I can't stand any more of this."

"No, no, I've  brought the  money,"  said Father Theodore hastily, "two

hundred, as you said."

"Moosie, take the money and give him the chairs, and let's get it  over

with. I've a headache."

His life  ambition  was  achieved. The candle  factory  in  Samara  was

falling into his lap. The jewels were pouring into his pocket like seeds.

Twelve chairs were  loaded into the  cart  one after another. They were

very like  Vorobyaninov's chairs, except that the covering was not  flowered

chintz, but rep with blue and pink stripes.

Father Theodore was  overcome with impatience. Under his shirt behind a

twisted  cord  he had tucked  a  hatchet.  He  sat next to  the  driver and,

constantly looking round at the chairs, drove to Batumi. The spirited horses

carried the holy  father and his treasure  down along  the highway  past the

Finale  restaurant, where the  wind  swept  across  the  bamboo  tables  and

arbours, past a tunnel  that was swallowing up the last few tank  cars of an

oil  train, past the photographer, deprived that  overcast day of his  usual

clientele, past a  sign reading "Batumi Botanical Garden",  and carried him,

not too quickly, along the very line of surf.  At  the point  where the road

touched the  rocks, Father Theodore was soaked with salty spray. Rebuffed by

the rocks,  the  waves turned  into waterspouts and, rising up  to the  sky,

slowly fell back again.

The  jolting and the spray  from the  surf  whipped  Father  Theodore's

troubled spirit  into a frenzy. Struggling  against  the  wind,  the  horses

slowly approached  Makhinjauri.  From every  side  the  turbid green  waters

hissed and swelled. Right up to Batumi the white surf swished like the  edge

of a petticoat peeking from under the skirt of a slovenly woman.

"Stop!"  Father   Theodore   suddenly  ordered   the   driver.   "Stop,

Mohammedan!"

Trembling and stumbling, he  started to  unload the  chairs  on  to the

deserted shore. The apathetic Adzhar  received his five roubles,  whipped up

the horses and rode off. Making sure there was no one about, Father Theodore

carried the  chairs down  from the rocks on  to a dry patch of sand and took

out his hatchet.

For a moment he hesitated, not knowing where to start. Then, like a man

walking in his sleep, he went over to the third chair and  struck the back a

ferocious blow with the hatchet. The chair toppled over undamaged.

"Aha!" shouted Father Theodore. "I'll show you!"

And he flung himself on the chair as though it had  been a live animal.

In a trice the  chair had been hacked to ribbons.  Father Theodore could not

hear the sound of the hatchet against the wood, cloth covering, and springs.

All sounds were drowned by the powerful roar of the gale.

"Aha! Aha! Aha!" cried the priest, swinging from the shoulder.

One by one the chairs were  put  out of action. Father Theodore's  fury

increased more and more. So did the fury of the gale. Some of the waves came

up to his feet.

From  Batumi to Sinop there was a great din.  The sea raged  and vented

its  spite on  every little ship. The S.S. Lenin  sailed towards Novorossisk

with its  two funnels  smoking and its stern plunging  low in the water. The

gale  roared across the Black  Sea, hurling thousand-ton  breakers on to the

shore of Trebizond, Yalta,  Odessa  and  Konstantsa. Beyond the still in the

Bosporus and the Dardanelles surged the Mediterranean. Beyond the Straits of

Gibraltar,  the  Atlantic smashed against  the shores of Europe.  A belt  of

angry water encircled the world.

And on  the Batumi  shore stood  Father Theodore, bathed in  sweat  and

hacking  at the  final  chair. A  moment later  it was all over. Desperation

seized him.  With  a dazed look at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs,

he turned back. The water grabbed  him by the feet. He  lurched forward  and

ran  soaked to the road. A  huge wave broke on the spot where he had been  a

moment  before  and,  swirling  back,  washed away the mutilated  furniture.

Father Theodore no longer saw anything. He staggered along the road, hunched

and hugging his fist to his chest.

He went into Batumi, unable to see anything about him. His position was

the most  terrible thing of all.  Three thousand miles from home and  twenty

roubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question.

Father  Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he  was advised  in  a

perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contraband

Batumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowd

of porters.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

UP IN THE CLOUDS

Three  days  after the concessionaires' deal with Mechnikov the fitter,

the  Columbus Theatre left by railway via Makhacha-Kala and  Baku. The whole

of these three days  the concessionaires, frustrated  by the contents of the

two chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to bring them the third of

the Columbus chairs.  But the narzan-tortured  fitter converted the whole of

the  twenty roubles into the purchase of plain  vodka and drank himself into

such a state that he was kept locked up in the props room.

"That's Mineral  Waters  for you!" said Ostap, when  he heard about the

theatre's  departure. "A useful fool, that fitter. Catch  me having dealings

with theatre people after this!"

Ostap became much more nervy  than before.  The chances  of finding the

treasure had increased infinitely.

"We  need money to get  to  Vladikavkaz," said Ostap. "From there we'll

drive  by  car  to  Tiflis  along  the  Georgian Military  Highway. Glorious

scenery!  Magnificent  views! Wonderful mountain air! And at the end  of  it

all-one hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks.  There is some

point in continuing the hearing."

But it  was  not quite so  easy to  leave Mineral Waters.  Vorobyaninov

proved to have absolutely no talent for bilking the railway, and so when all

attempts to get him aboard a train had failed he had to perform again in the

Flower  Garden, this time as an educational district ward. This  was not  at

all a success. Two roubles for twelve hours' hard and degrading work, though

it was a large enough sum for the fare to Vladikavkaz.

At Beslan, Ostap, who was travelling without  a  ticket, was thrown off

the train, and the  smooth  operator impudently ran behind it for a  mile or

so, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich.

Soon after, Ostap  managed  to jump on to a train slowly making its way

to the Caucasian ridge. From his position on the steps  Ostap surveyed  with

great curiosity the panorama of the mountain range that unfolded before him.

It was between three and  four  in the morning. The  mountain-tops were

lit by dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains.

"Too showy," he said. "Weird kind of beauty. An idiot's imagination. No

use at all."

At  Vladikavkaz station the passengers were met by  a  large  open  bus

belonging  to the  Transcaucasian  car-hire-and-manufacturing  society,  and

nice, kind people said:

"Those travelling by  the Georgian Military  Highway will be taken into

the town free."

"Hold on, Pussy," said Ostap. "We want the bus. Let them take us free."

When the bus had given  him a lift to the  centre of the town, however,

Ostap was in  no hurry to put  his  name down for a seat  in a  car. Talking

enthusiastically to Ippolit Matveyevich, he gazed admiringly at  the view of

the cloud-enveloped Table Mountain, but  finding  that it really  was like a

table, promptly retired.

They had  to spend several days  in Vladikavkaz. None of their attempts

to obtain money  for the road  fare met with any success, nor  provided them

with enough money to buy food. An attempt to make the citizens pay ten-kopek

bits failed.  The  mountain  ridge was  so  high and clear that  it was  not

possible to charge for looking at it. It  was visible from practically every

point, and  there were no other  beauty spots in  Vladikavkaz. There was the

Terek, which flowed  past the "Trek", but the town charged for entry to that

without Ostap's  assistance.  The  alms collected  in  two  days by  Ippolit

Matveyevich only amounted to thirteen kopeks.

"There's only one thing  to  do," said Ostap.  "We'll go to  Tiflis  on

foot.  We can  cover the hundred miles in five  days.  Don't worry, dad, the

mountain view is delightful and the air is bracing  . . . We only need money

for  bread  and salami sausage. You  can  add a few  Italian phrases to your

vocabulary, or  not, as you  like; but  by evening you've  got to collect at

least two  roubles. We won't  have  a chance to eat today, dear chum.  Alas!

What bad luck!"

Early in the morning the partners crossed the little bridge across  the

Terek river, went around the barracks,  and disappeared  deep into the green

valley along which ran the Georgian Military Highway.

"We're in luck,  Pussy," said Ostap. "It rained  last night so we won't

have to swallow the dust. Breathe in the fresh air, marshal. Sing something.

Recite some Caucasian poetry and behave as befits the occasion."

But Ippolit  Matveyevich did not sing or  recite  poetry. The road went

uphill.  The nights spent  in the open made themselves felt by  pains in his

side and heaviness in his legs, and the salami sausage made itself felt by a

constant and  griping  indigestion. He walked  along, holding in his  hand a

five-pound  loaf  of  bread  wrapped in  newspaper,  his left foot  dragging

slightly.

On  the move again! But  this  time towards Tiflis; this time along the

most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich could  not  have cared

less. He did not  look around him as Ostap did. He  certainly did not notice

the  Terek,  which now could  just  be  heard rumbling at the  bottom of the

valley. It was only the ice-capped mountain-tops glistening in the sun which

somehow reminded  him of a sort of cross between the sparkle of diamonds and

the best brocade coffins of Bezenchuk the undertaker.

After Balta the road entered and continued as a narrow ledge cut in the

dark  overhanging  cliff. The  road spiralled  upwards, and  by  evening the

concessionaires reached the village of Lars, about three thousand feet above

sea level.

They  passed the  night in a poor native hotel without charge  and were

even given a glass of milk each for delighting the owner and his guests with

card tricks.

The  morning was  so  glorious that Ippolit Matveyevich,  braced by the

mountain air, began to  stride  along more  cheerfully than the day  before.

Just behind Lars rose the impressive rock wall of the Bokovoi ridge. At this

point the Terek valley closed up into a series of narrow gorges. The scenery

became more and more sombre, while  the inscriptions on the cliffs grew more

frequent At the point where  the  cliffs squeezed  the Terek's flow  between

them to the extent that the  span  of  the bridge was no more than ten feet,

the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions  on  the side of the gorge that

Ostap forgot  the majestic sight of the Daryal gorge and shouted out, trying

to drown the rumble and rushing of the Terek:

"Great  people!  Look at  that, marshal!  Do you see it?  Just a little

higher than the  cloud and  slightly lower  than the eagle!  An  inscription

which says, 'Micky and Mike, July 1914'. An unforgettable sight! Notice  the

artistry with which it was  done. Each letter  is three feet high,  and they

used oil paints. Where are you now, Nicky and Mike?"

"Pussy," continued Ostap, "let's record ourselves for prosperity,  too.

I have some chalk,  by the  way. Honestly, I'll go  up and  write 'Pussy and

Ossy were here'."

And  without giving  it  much  thought,  Ostap put down the  supply  of

sausage on the  wall  separating the  road from the  seething  depths of the

Terek  and began  clambering  up  the rocks.  At  first Ippolit  Matveyevich

watched  the smooth  operator's ascent, but then lost  interest and began to

survey the  base of Tamara's  castle, which stood on a rock like  a  horse's

tooth.

Just at this time, about a mile  away from  the concessionaires, Father

Theodore entered the Daryal gorge from  the direction  of Tiflis. He marched

along like a soldier with his eyes, as hard as diamonds, fixed ahead of him,

supporting himself on a large crook.

With his last remaining money  Father Theodore  had  reached Tiflis and

was now walking home, subsisting on charity. While crossing the Cross gap he

had been  bitten  by an eagle. Father Theodore hit out at the insolent  bird

with his crook and continued on his way.

As he went along, intermingling with the clouds, he muttered:

"Not for personal gain, but at the wishes of my wife who sent me."

The distance between the enemies narrowed. Turning a sharp bend, Father

Theodore came across an old man in a gold pince-nez.

The  gorge split asunder  before  Father  Theodore's  eyes.  The  Terek

stopped its thousand-year-old roar.

Father Theodore recognized Vorobyaninov. After  the terrible  fiasco in

Batumi, after  all his  hopes had been dashed,  this new  chance of  gaining

riches had  an  extraordinary  effect  on  the  priest.  He grabbed  Ippolit

Matveyevich by his scraggy Adam's apple, squeezed his fingers  together, and

shouted hoarsely:

"What  have you done with the treasure that you slew your mother-in-law

to obtain?" Ippolit Matveyevich, who had not been expecting anything of this

nature, said nothing, but his  eyes bulged  so  far that they almost touched

the lenses of his pince-nez.

"Speak!" ordered the priest. "Repent, you sinner!"

Vorobyaninov felt himself losing his senses.

Suddenly Father  Theodore caught sight of  Bender leaping from rock  to

rock; the  technical adviser  was coining down, shouting at the  top  of his

voice:

"Against the  sombre  rocks  they  dash,  Those  waves,  they foam  and

splash."

A  terrible  fear  gripped Father  Theodore. He continued  mechanically

holding the marshal by the throat, but his knees began to knock.

"Well,  of  all people!" cried  Ostap  in  a  friendly tone. "The rival

concern."

Father  Theodore  did not  dally. Obeying his healthy  instinct,  '  he

grabbed the concessionaires' bread and sausage and fled.

"Hit him,  Comrade Bender!" cried  Ippolit Matveyevich, who was sitting

on the ground recovering his breath. "Catch him!. Stop him I"

Ostap began whistling and whooping.

"Wooh-wooh,"  he  warbled,  starting  in pursuit.  "The  Battle of  the

Pyramids or  Bender  goes hunting. Where are you  going, client? I can offer

you a well-gutted chair."

This persecution was too much for Father Theodore and he began climbing

up a  perpendicular wall of rock.  He was spurred on by his heart, which was

in his mouth, and an itch in his heels known only to cowards. His legs moved

over the granite by themselves, carrying their master aloft.

"Wooooh-woooh!" yelled Ostap from below. "Catch him!"

"He's taken our supplies," screeched Vorobyaninov, running up.

"Stop!" roared Ostap. "Stop, I tell you."

But this only lent new strength to the exhausted priest. He wove about,

making  several  leaps,  and  finally  ended  ten  feet  above  the  highest

inscription.

"Give  back our sausage!"  howled Ostap.  "Give  back  the sausage, you

fool, and we'll forget everything."

Father  Theodore no longer heard anything. He  found himself on a  flat

ledge,  on  to  which no  man  had ever climbed before. Father  Theodore was

seized by a sickening dread.  He realized he  could never  get down again by

himself. The cliff face dropped vertically to the road.

He looked below. Ostap was gesticulating  furiously, and  the marshal's

gold pince-nez glittered at the bottom of the gorge.

"I'll give back the  sausage," cried  the  holy father,  "only  get  me

down."

He could  see  all  the  movements of  the  concessionaires.  They were

running  about  below  and,  judging  from  their  gestures,  swearing  like

troopers.

An hour later,  lying on his stomach and peering over the  edge, Father

Theodore saw Bender and Vorobyaninov going off in the direction of the Cross

gap.

Night fell  quickly. Surrounded  by pitch darkness and  deafened by the

infernal roar,  Father Theodore trembled and wept up in the  very clouds. He

no longer wanted earthly treasures, he only wanted one thing-to  get down on

to the ground.

During the night he  howled so loudly  that at  times the sound of  the

Terek was drowned, and when morning came,  he fortified himself with sausage

and bread and  roared with demoniac laughter at the cars passing underneath.

The rest of the day was spent contemplating the mountains and  that heavenly

body, the sun. The  next night he saw the Tsaritsa  Tamara. She  came flying

over to him from her castle and said coquettishly:

"Let's be neighbours! "

"Mother!" said Father Theodore with feeling. "Not for personal gain . .

."

"I know, I know,"  observed the Tsaritsa, "but merely at the  wishes of

your wife who sent you."

"How did you know?" asked the astonished priest.

"I just know. Why don't you  stop  by, neighbour? We'll play sixty-six.

What about it?"

She gave a laugh and flew off, letting  off firecrackers into the night

sky as she went.

The day after, Father  Theodore began preaching to the birds. For  some

reason he tried to sway them towards Lutheranism.

"Birds," he said in a sonorous voice, "repent your sins publicly."

On the fourth day he was pointed out to tourists from below.

"On  the  right we have  Tamara's castle,"  explained  the  experienced

guides, "and on the left is a live human being, but it is not  known what he

lives on or how he got there."

"My,  what  a  wild  people!"  exclaimed  the  tourists  in  amazement.

"Children of the mountains!"

Clouds  drifted  by. Eagles cruised above Father Theodore's  head.  The

bravest of them stole the remains of the sausage  and with its wings swept a

pound and a half of bread into the foaming Terek.

Father Theodore wagged his finger at the  eagle and, smiling radiantly,

whispered:

"God's  bird does not know Either  toil  or unrest, He leisurely builds

His long-lasting nest."

The eagle  looked sideways at Father Theodore, squawked  cockadoodledoo

and flew away.

"Oh, eagle, you eagle, you bitch of a bird!"

Ten  days later  the  Vladikavkaz  fire  brigade  arrived with suitable

equipment and brought Father Theodore down.

As they were lowering him,  he clapped his hands and sang in a tuneless

voice:

"And you will be queen of all the world, My lifelo-ong frie-nd!"

And the rugged Caucuses re-echoed Rubinstein's setting of the Lermontov

poem many times.

"Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes . . ." Father Theodore

told the fire chief.

The cackling priest was  taken on  the  end  of  a  fire ladder to  the

psychiatric hospital.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

THE EARTHQUAKE

"What  do  you  think, marshal,"  said  Ostap  as  the  concessionaires

approached the settlement  of Sioni,  "how can we earn money in  a  dried-up

spot like this?"

Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could

have kept himself going was  begging, but here in  the  mountain spirals and

ledges there was no one to beg from.

Anyway,  there was begging going on already-alpine  begging, a  special

kind.  Every  bus  and  passenger  car  passing through the  settlement  was

besieged by children who performed a few  steps of a local folk dance to the

mobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of:

"Give us money! Give money!"

The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and  continued on  their

way to the Cross gap.

"A noble cause,"  said Ostap. "No capital  outlay needed. The income is

small, but in our case, valuable."

By two o'clock of the second  day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich

had  performed  his  first  dance  for  the  aerial  passengers,  under  the

supervision of the smooth operator. The dance was rather like a mazurka; the

passengers, drunk with  the exotic beauty  of the  Caucasus, took  it  for a

native  lezginka  and  rewarded him with  three  five-kopek  bits.  The next

vehicle, which  was a bus going from Tiflis  to Vladikavkaz, was entertained

by the smooth operator himself.

"Give me money! Give money," he shouted angrily.

The  amused  passengers richly  rewarded  his capering about, and Ostap

collected thirty kopeks from the dusty road. But the Sioni children showered

their  competitors  with  stones,  and,  fleeing  from  the  onslaught,  the

travellers made  off at the double  for  the next village,  where they spent

their earnings on cheese and local flat bread.

The  concessionaires passed  their days  in  this way. They  spent  the

nights  in  mountain-dwellers'  huts.  On the fourth day they went down  the

hairpin  bends of the road and arrived in the  Kaishaur valley.  The sun was

shining brightly, and the partners, who had been frozen to the marrow in the

Cross gap, soon warmed up their bones again.

The Daryal cliffs, the gloom and the  chill  of the gap gave way to the

greenery  and luxury  of a very deep valley. The companions passed above the

Aragva river and  went down into the valley, settled  by people and  teeming

with cattle and  food. There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, or

simply steal. It was the Transcaucasus.

The heartened concessionaires increased their pace.

In Passanaur,  in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels  and

several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushes

opposite  the  Hotel France,  with its garden  and two chained-up bear cubs.

They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest.

Their  rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car  horn,

the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment. The friends

peeped out. Three identical new  cars were driving up to the Hotel France in

line. The cars stopped without any noise.

Out   of   the  first   one  jumped  Persidsky;   he  was  followed  by

Life-and-the-Law  smoothing  down  his dusty  hair.  Out of  the other  cars

tumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club.

"A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!"

The sleepy figures  staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the

bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs.

"Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's  the  reporter

from  the  Scriabin, one  of  those who  criticized our transparent. They've

certainly arrived in style. What's it all about?"

Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to  Persidsky in the most

elegant fashion.

"Bonjour!"  said  the  reporter. "Where  have  I  seen you before, dear

friend? Aha! I remember. The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?"

Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely.

"Wait  a  moment,  wait  a  moment," continued  Persidsky,  who  had  a

reporter's retentive memory.  "Wasn't  it  you who  was knocked  down  by  a

carthorse in Sverdlov Square? "

"That's  right. And as you so  neatly  expressed  it, I  also  suffered

slight shock."

"What are you doing here? Working as an artist?"

"No, I'm on a sightseeing trip."

"On foot?"

"Yes, on foot.  The experts say a car trip along  the Georgian Military

Highway is simply ridiculous."

"Not always  ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always. For instance,  our

trip isn't exactly ridiculous. We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars,

collectively owned. A direct  link between Moscow and  Tiflis. Petrol hardly

costs anything. Comfort and speed. Soft springs. Europe!"

"How did  you come by  it all?"  asked Ostap  enviously. "Did you win a

hundred thousand? "

"Not a hundred, but we won fifty."

"Gambling?"

"With a bond belonging to the automobile club."

"I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars."

"That's right."

"I  see. Maybe you  need a  manager?  I  know a young  man.  He doesn't

drink."

"What sort of manager?"

"Well, you know . . . general management, business  advice, instruction

with visual aids by the complex method. . ."

"I see what you mean. No, we don't need a manager."

"You don't?"

"Unfortunately not. Nor an artist."

"In that case let me have ten roubles."

"Avdotyin," said Persidsky, "kindly give this citizen ten roubles on my

account. I don't need a receipt. This person is unaccountable."

"That's extraordinarily little," observed Ostap, "but I'll accept it. I

realize  the great difficulty  of your position. Naturally, if you had won a

hundred thousand, you might have loaned me a whole five roubles. But you won

only fifty thousand roubles, zero kopeks. In any case, many thanks."

Bender  politely raised  his hat.  Persidsky  politely raised  his hat.

Bender bowed most courteously. Persidsky  replied with a most courteous bow.

Bender waved his hand in farewell. Persidsky, sitting at the wheel, did  the

same. Persidsky drove off in his splendid  car into the glittering distances

in the company of his gay friends, while the smooth operator was left on the

dusty road with his fool of a partner.

"Did you see that swank? "

"The  Transcaucasian car service,  or the  private  'Motor' company?  "

asked  Ippolit  Matveyevich  in a  businesslike way;  he was now  thoroughly

acquainted with all types of transportation on  the road. "I was  just about

to do a dance for them."

"You'll soon be completely  dotty, my poor friend.  How could it be the

Transcaucasian car  service? Those people have won  fifty  thousand roubles,

Pussy. You saw yourself how  happy they were and how much of that mechanical

junk they had bought.  When we find our money, we'll spend it more sensibly,

won't we?"

And  imagining what they would buy when  they became rich,  the friends

left  Passanaur.  Ippolit  Matveyevich vividly saw himself buying  some  new

socks and travellirig abroad. Ostap's visions were more ambitious. Something

between  damming the  Blue  Nile and opening  a  gaming-house  in Riga  with

branches in the other Baltic states.

The travellers reached Mtskhet,  the ancient capital of Georgia, on the

third day, before lunch. Here the Kura river turned towards Tiflis.

In the evening they passed the Zerno-Avchal hydro-electric station. The

glass, water and electricity all shone with different-coloured light. It was

reflected and scattered by the fast-flowing Kura.

It was there  the  concessionaires made friends with a peasant who gave

them a lift into Tiflis in his cart; they arrived at 11 p.m., that very hour

when the cool of the evening  summons  into the streets the citizens  of the

Georgian capital, limp after their sultry day.

"Not  a bad  little  town,"  remarked  Ostap,  as they  came  out  into

Rustavelli Boulevard. "You know, Pussy. . ."

Without  finishing what  he  was saying,  Ostap suddenly darted after a

citizen, caught him up after ten  paces, and began an  animated conversation

with him.

Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side.

"Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the

Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's  go and see him. However paradoxical it seems,

you are now  the master-mind  and father  of Russian  democracy again. Don't

forget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite a

bit, by the way. A hell of a  piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fifty

roubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!"

And  indeed,  a short  distance away  from  the  concessionaires  stood

Kislarsky  in a tussore-silk suit and a  boater;  he was a milky blue colour

with fright.

"I think  you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman

close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don't

pay attention  to  his  suit; that's  part of our security measures. Take us

somewhere right away. We've got to have a talk."

Kislarsky, who  had come to the Caucasus to  recover from his gruelling

experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about a

recession in the  roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriage

with silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. They

went up  to  the top  of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowly

disappeared into the  depths  in  a  thousand  lights. The conspirators were

ascending to the very stars.

At the  restaurant  the tables were set up  on a lawn. A Caucasian band

made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tables

of her own accord, watched happily by her parents.

"Order something," suggested Bender.

The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese.

"And something  to  eat," said  Ostap. "If  you  only  knew,  dear  Mr.

Kislarsky, the things  that  Ippolit Matveyevich  and I have had to  suffer,

you'd be amazed at our courage."

There he  goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will

start all over again. Why didn't I go to  the Crimea? I definitely wanted to

go to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too.

But  he  ordered  two  shishkebabs without  a  murmur,  and  turned his

unctuous face towards Ostap.

"Here's the  point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice.

"They've  been  following  us  for  two months and will  probably ambush  us

tomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out."

Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead.

"Under the circumstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal

patriot."

"Mmm  ..  .  yes," said  Ippolit Matveyevich  proudly, remembering  the

hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni.

"Yes," whispered  Ostap, "we're  hoping-with  your  aid-to  defeat  the

enemy. I'll give you a pistol."

"There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly.

The   next  moment  it  was   made  clear  that  the  chairman  of  the

stock-exchange  committee would  not  have the opportunity of taking part in

the  coming battle.  He regretted  it very much. He was  not  familiar  with

warfare, and it was just for this  reason that  he had been elected chairman

of  the  stock-exchange  committee. He  was very  much disappointed, but was

prepared  to offer  financial assistance to save the life  of the  father of

Russian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist).

"You're a true friend  of society,"  said Ostap  triumphantly,  washing

down the  spicy  kebab  with sweetish  Kipiani  wine.  "Fifty can  save  the

master-mind."

"Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully.

Ostap  could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich  under

the table in delight.

"I consider that haggling," said Ippolit  Matveyevich, "is somewhat out

of place here."

He immediately  received  a kick on the thigh  which meant-  Well done,

Pussy, that's the stuff!

It  was the  first time  in  his  life  that Kislarsky  had  heard  the

master-mind's  voice. He was  so  overcome  that he immediately handed  over

fifty roubles. Then he paid  the bill and, leaving the friends at the table,

departed with  the  excuse  that  he had  a headache. Half an hour  later he

dispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:

GOING TO CRIMEA AS YOU ADVISED STOP PREPARE BASKET JUST IN CASE

The  many  privations  which  Ostap  had  suffered  demanded  immediate

compensation. That evening the  smooth operator  drank himself into a stupor

and practically fell out of the cable-car  on the way back to the hotel. The

next  day he  realized  a  long-cherished dream  and bought a  heavenly grey

polka-dot suit. It was  hot wearing it, but he nevertheless did so, sweating

profusely.  In  the  Tif-Co-Op men's shop, Vorobyaninov  was bought a  white

pique" suit and a  yachting cap with the gold insignia of some unknown yacht

club. In  this  attire Ippolit Matveyevich looked like an amateur admiral in

the merchant navy. His figure straightened up and his gait became firmer.

"Ah," said Bender,  "first rate! If I were a girl, I'd give  a handsome

he-man like you an eight  per cent reduction off  my usual price. My, we can

certainly get around like this. Do you know how to get around, Pussy? "

"Comrade  Bender," Vorobyaninov  kept saying,  "what about  the chairs?

We've got to find out what happened to the theatre."

"Hoho," retorted Ostap, dancing with a  chair  in a large Moorish-style

room in the Hotel Orient.  "Don't tell me how to live. I'm now evil.  I have

money, but I'm magnanimous. I'll give you twenty  roubles  and three days to

loot  the city.  I'm  like  Suvorov. .  .  . Loot  the  city,  Pussy!  Enjoy

yourself!"

And swaying his hips, Ostap sang in quick time:

"The evening bells, the evening bells, How  many thoughts they bring. .

. ."

The  friends caroused  wildly  for a whole  week. Vorobyaninov's  naval

uniform became covered with apple-sized wine  spots of different colours; on

Ostap's suit the stains suffused into one large rainbow-like apple.

"Hi!"  said  Ostap  on the  eighth morning,  so  hung-over that  he was

reading the  newspaper  Dawn of the East. "Listen, you  drunken sot, to what

clever people are writing in the press! Listen!

THEATRE NEWS

The  Moscow  Columbus Theatre left  yesterday, Sept. 3, for  a tour  of

Yalta, having  completed its stay in Tiflis.  The  theatre  is  planning  to

remain in the Crimea until the opening of the winter season in Moscow.'"

"What did I tell you!" said Vorobyaninov.

"What did you tell me!" snapped back Ostap.

He  was  nevertheless  embarrassed.  The  careless  mistake  was   very

unpleasant. Instead of ending the  treasure hunt in Tiflis, they  now had to

move on to  the Crimean peninsula. Ostap  immediately  set to  work. Tickets

were bought to  Batumi and  second-class-berths reserved on the  S.S. Pestel

leaving Batumi for Odessa at 11 p.m. Moscow time on September 7.

On  the night  of September 10, as the Pestel turned out to sea and set

sail for  Yalta  without calling at Anapa  on account of  the gale,  Ippolit

Matveyevich had a dream.

He dreamed he  was standing in his admiral's  uniform on the balcony of

his house in  Stargorod, while the crowd gathered below waited for him to do

something. A large crane deposited a black-spotted pig at his feet.

Tikhon  the caretaker appeared and, grabbing the pig by  the hind legs,

said:

"Durn it. Does the Nymph really provide tassels?"

Ippolit Matveyevich found a dagger in  his hand.  He stuck it into  the

pig's side, and jewels came pouring out  of the large wound and rolled on to

the cement floor. They jumped about and clattered  more and more loudly. The

noise finally became unbearable and terrifying,

Ippolit  Matveyevich was wakened  by the sound of waves dashing against

the porthole.

They  reached Yalta  in  calm weather on  an enervating  sunny morning.

Having recovered  from his seasickness, the marshal was standing at the prow

near the ship's bell with its embossed Old Slavonic lettering. Gay Yalta had

lined up its tiny stalls and  floating  restaurants along  the shore. On the

quayside there were  waiting carriages  with velvet-covered  seats and linen

awnings,  motor-cars  and  buses belonging to  the "Krymkurso"  and "Crimean

Driver"   societies.   Brick-coloured  girls  twirled  parasols   and  waved

kerchiefs.

The  friends  were  the  first  to  go  ashore,  on  to  the  scorching

embankment. At the sight of the concessionaires, a citizen in a tussore-silk

suit dived out of  the crowd of people  meeting the ship and  idle onlookers

and began walking quickly towards the exit to  the dockyard. But  too  late.

The smooth operator's eagle eye had quickly recognized the silken citizen.

"Wait a moment, Vorobyaninov," cried Ostap.

And  he raced off at such a pace that  he caught up  the silken citizen

about ten feet from the exit. He returned instantly with a hundred roubles.

"He wouldn't give me any more. Anyway,  I  didn't insist;  otherwise he

won't be able to get home."

And indeed, at that very moment  Kislarsky  was  fleeing in  a bus  for

Sebastopol, and from there went home to Stargorod by third class.

The concessionaires spent the whole day  in the  hotel sitting naked on

the floor and every  few moments running under  the shower  in the bathroom.

But the water there was like warm weak  tea. They could not  escape from the

heat. It felt as though Yalta was just about to melt and flow into the sea.

Towards  eight that evening the  partners struggled  into their red-hot

shoes, cursing all the chairs in the world, and went to the theatre.

The Marriage was being shown. Exhausted by the heat, Stepan almost fell

over while  standing  on his hands. Agafya ran along the  wire,  holding the

parasol marked "I  want Podkolesin"  in her dripping  hands.  All she really

wanted at that moment  was a drink  of ice water.  The audience was thirsty,

too. For this reason and perhaps also  because the sight of Stepan gorging a

pan of hot fried eggs was revolting, the performance did not go over.

The concessionaires were  satisfied  as soon as  they  saw  that  their

chair, together with three new rococo armchairs, was safe.

Hiding  in one  of the boxes, they patiently waited for the end  of the

performance; it dragged on  interminably.  Then, finally, the audience  left

and the actors hurried away to try to cool off. The theatre was empty except

for  the shareholders in  the concession. Every living thing had hurried out

into the street where fresh rain was, at last, falling fast.

"Follow me, Pussy," ordered Ostap. "Just in case, we're provincials who

couldn't find the exit."

They  made their way on to the stage and, striking matches, though they

still collided with the hydraulic press, searched the whole stage.

The smooth operator ran up a staircase into the props room.

"Up here! "he called.

Waving his arms, Vorobyaninov raced upstairs.

"Do you see?" said Ostap, lighting a match.

Through the darkness showed the corner of a Hambs chair and part of the

parasol with the word "want".

"There it  is! There  is our past,  present and future. Light a  match,

Pussy, and I'll open it up."

Ostap dug into his pockets for the tools.

"Right," he said, reaching towards the chair. "Another match, marshal."

The match flared  up, and then a strange thing happened. The chair gave

a jump and  suddenly, before  the  very eyes of the amazed  concessionaires,

disappeared through the floor.

"Mama!" cried Vorobyaninov, and went flying over  to the wall, although

he had not the least desire to do so.

The window-panes came out  with a crash and the parasol with  the words

"I want Podkolesin" flew out  of the window, towards the  sea. Ostap lay  on

the floor, pinned down by sheets of cardboard.

It was fourteen minutes past midnight. This  was the first shock of the

great Crimean earthquake of 1927.

A severe earthquake, wreaking untold disaster throughout the peninsula,

had plucked the treasure from the hands of the concessionaires.

"Comrade  Bender,  what's  happening?"  cried  Ippolit  Matveyevich  in

terror.

Ostap was beside  himself. The earthquake had  blocked his path. It was

the only time it had happened in his entire, extensive practice.

"What is it?" screech Vorobyaninov.

Screaming, ringing, and trampling feet could be heard from the street.

"We've got to get outside immediately before the wall caves  in  on us.

Quick! Give me your hand, softie."

They raced to the door. To their surprise, the Hambs chair was lying on

its back, undamaged, at the exit from the stage to the street. Growling like

a dog, Ippolit Matveyevich seized it in a death-grip.

"Give  me the pliers," he shouted to  Bender. "Don't be a stupid fool,"

gasped  Ostap. "The ceiling is about to collapse, and you stand there  going

out of your mind! Let's get out quickly."

"The pliers,"  snarled the  crazed Vorobyaninov.  "To  hell  with  you.

Perish here with your chair, then. I value my life, if you don't."

With these words Ostap ran  for the door. Ippolit Matveyevich picked up

the chair with a snarl and ran after him.

Hardly had they reached the middle of the street when the ground heaved

sickeningly under their feet; tiles came  off  the roof of  the theatre, and

the spot where the concessionakes had just been standing was strewn with the

remains of the hydraulic press.

"Right, give me the  chair now," said  Bender coldly. "You're  tired of

holding it, I see." "I won't!" screeched  Ippolit Matveyevich. "What's this?

Mutiny aboard? Give me the chair, do you hear?"

"It's my chair," clucked Vorobyaninov,  drowning the  weeping, shouting

and  crashing  on all  sides.,  "In that case, here's your  reward,  you old

goat!" And Ostap hit Vorobyaninov on the neck with his bronze fist. At  that

moment a  fire engine  hurtled  down  the  street and in the  lights of  its

headlamps  Ippolit  Matveyevich  glimpsed such a  terrifying  expression  on

Ostap's face that he instantly obeyed and gave up the chair.

"That's better," said Ostap, regaining his breath. "The mutiny has been

suppressed. Now,  take the chair and follow me. You  are responsible for the

state of  the  chair. The  chair  must be  preserved  even if  there are ten

earthquakes. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

The   whole  night   the   concessionaires  wandered  about   with  the

panic-stricken crowds, unable to decide, like  everyone else, whether or not

to enter the abandoned buildings, and expecting new shocks.

At dawn, when the terror had died down somewhat, Ostap  selected a spot

near  which  there was no  wall  likely  to collapse,  or  people likely  to

interfere, and set about opening the chair.

The results of the autopsy staggered both of them-there  was nothing in

the  chair. The effect of the ordeal of the night  and morning was 'too much

for Ippolit Matveyevich; he burst into a vicious, high-pitched cackle.

Immediately after this came the  third shock.  The  ground  heaved  and

swallowed up the Hambs chair;  its flowered pattern smiled  at the  sun that

was rising in a dusty sky.

Ippolit Matveyevich went  down on all  fours  and, turning  his haggard

face to  the dark purple disc of the sun, began howling. The smooth operator

fainted as he listened to him. When he regained consciousness, he saw beside

him Vorobyaninov's lilac-stubble chin. Vorobyaninov was unconscious.

"At last," said Ostap, like a patient recovering  from typhus, "we have

a dead certainty. The last chair [at the word  "chair",  Ippolit Matveyevich

stirred] may have vanished into  the goods yard  of October Station, but has

by no means been  swallowed  up by  the ground. What's wrong? The hearing is

continued."

Bricks  came crashing down nearby. A  ship's  siren  gave  a protracted

wail.

CHAPTER FORTY

THE TREASURE

On  a  rainy  day  in  October,  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  in  his  silver

star-spangled  waistcoat  and  without  a  jacket,  was  working  busily  in

Ivanopulo's room. He was working at the windowsill, since there still was no

table in  the  room. The  smooth  operator had been commissioned to paint  a

large number  of address  plates  for  various  housing  co-operatives.  The

stencilling  of the plates  had been passed on to Vorobyaninov, while Ostap,

for almost the whole of the month since  their return to Moscow, had cruised

round  the area of  the October Station looking with  incredible avidity for

clues  to  the last  chair, which  undoubtedly  contained  Madame Petukhov's

jewels. Wrinkling his brow, Ippolit  Matveyevich stencilled away at the iron

plates. During the six  months of the  jewel race he had lost certain of his

habits.

At night Ippolit Matveyevich dreamed about mountain ridges adorned with

weird transparents, Iznurenkov, who hovered  in  front  of him, shaking  his

brown thighs, boats that capsized, people who drowned, bricks falling out of

the sky, and ground that heaved and poured smoke into his eyes.

Ostap had not observed the change in Vorobyaninov, for he  was with him

every day. Ippolit  Matveyevich, however,  had changed in  a remarkable way.

Even his gait was different; the expression  of his eyes had become wild and

his long moustache  was  no  longer  parallel  to the earth's  surface,  but

drooped almost vertically, like that of an aged cat.

He  had  also altered  inwardly.  He  had  developed  determination and

cruelty,  which  were  traits  of  character  unknown to him  before.  Three

episodes had  gradually  brought  out these streaks  in him: the  miraculous

escape from the  hard fists  of the  Vasyuki  enthusiasts,  his debut in the

field of  begging  in  the Flower Garden at  Pyatigorsk,  and, finally,  the

earthquake, since which Ippolit Matveyevich had become somewhat unhinged and

harboured a secret loathing for his partner.

Ippolit  Matveyevich  had   recently  been   seized  by  the  strongest

suspicions. He was afraid that  Ostap would  open the chair  without him and

make off with the treasure, abandoning him to his  own fate. He did not dare

voice these  suspicions, knowing Ostap's strong  arm and iron will. But each

day, as he sat at the window scraping off surplus paint with an  old, jagged

razor, Ippolit  Matveyevich wondered. Every day he  feared that  Ostap would

not come  back and that he, a former marshal of the  nobility, would die  of

starvation under some wet Moscow wall.

Ostap nevertheless returned  each  evening, though he never brought any

good  news. His  energy  and  good  spirits were inexhaustible.  Hope  never

deserted him for a moment.

There was  a sound  of  running  footsteps in the corridor  and someone

crashed into the cabinet; the plywood door flew open with the ease of a page

turned  by  the  wind, and in the doorway  stood the  smooth  operator.  His

clothes were soaked, and his  cheeks  glowed  like apples. He  was  panting.

"Ippolit  Matveyevich!"  he shouted. "Ippolit Matveyevich!" Vorobyaninov was

startled. Never before had the technical adviser called him by his first two

names. Then he cottoned on. . . .

"It's there?" he gasped.

"You're dead right, it's there, Pussy. Damn you."

"Don't shout. Everyone will hear."

"That's  right, they might hear,"  whispered Ostap. "It's there, Pussy,

and  if  you  want,  I  can  show  it  to   you  right  away.  It's  in  the

railway-workers' club, a  new one.  It was opened  yesterday. How did I find

it? Was  it  child's  play? It was singularly difficult. A stroke of genius,

brilliantly carried through  to  the end. An  ancient adventure. In a  word,

first rate!"

Without waiting  for Ippolit Matveyevich to pull  on his  jacket, Ostap

ran  to  the corridor. Vorobyaninov  joined him  on  the landing.  Excitedly

shooting  questions at one another, they both  hurried along the wet streets

to Kalanchev Square. They did not even think of taking a tram.

"You're dressed  like a navvy,"  said Ostap jubilantly. "Who goes about

like that, Pussy?  You  should have starched underwear, silk socks,  and, of

course,  a  top hat.  There's something noble about your face. Tell me, were

you really a marshal of the nobility?"

Pointing  out  the chair, which was  standing  in the  chess-room,  and

looked  a  perfectly normal Hambs chair, although  it contained  such untold

wealth, Ostap pulled Ippolit Matveyevich into the corridor. There was no one

about. Ostap went up to a window that had not yet been sealed for the winter

and drew back the bolts on both sets of frames.

"Through this window," he said, "we can easily get into the club at any

time  of  the  night.  Remember,  Pussy,  the  third window  from the  front

entrance."

For a while longer the friends wandered  about  the club, pretending to

be railway-union  representatives, and  were more  and  more  amazed by  the

splendid halls and rooms.

"If I had played the match in Vasyuki," said Ostap, "sitting on a chair

like  this, I wouldn't have lost  a  single game.  My enthusiasm would  have

prevented  it. Anyway, let's go, old man.  I  have  twenty-five  roubles. We

ought to have a glass of beer and relax before our nocturnal visitation. The

idea of beer doesn't shock you, does it, marshal? No  harm. Tomorrow you can

lap up champagne in unlimited quantities."

By the  time  they emerged  from the beer-hall, Bender  was  thoroughly

enjoying  himself and  made taunting remarks  at the passers-by. He embraced

the  slightly  tipsy  Ippolit  Matveyevich  round  the  shoulders  and  said

lovingly:

"You're an extremely nice old man, Pussy, but I'm not going to give you

more than ten per cent. Honestly, I'm not. What would you want with all that

money? "

"What do you mean, what would I want?" Ippolit Matveyevich seethed with

rage.

Ostap laughed  heartily and rubbed his  cheek against his partner's wet

sleeve.

"Well,  what  would  you  buy,  Pussy?  You  haven't  any  imagination.

Honestly, fifteen  thousand is more  than enough for  you.  You'll soon die,

you're so old.  You don't need  any money at all.  You know, Pussy, I  don't

think I'll give you anything. I don't want to spoil you. I'll take you on as

a secretary, Pussy  my lad. What do  you  say? Forty roubles a month and all

your grub. You  get  work clothes, tips, and national health. Well,  is it a

deal?"

Ippolit Matveyevich  tore his arm free  and quickly walked ahead. Jokes

like that exasperated him. Ostap caught him up at the entrance to the little

pink house. "Are you  really mad  at  me?" asked  Ostap. "I was only joking.

You'll  get your three per  cent. Honestly,  three per cent is all you need,

Pussy."

Ippolit Matveyevich sullenly entered the room. "Well, Pussy, take three

per cent."  Ostap was having fun.  "Come on,  take three. Anyone else would.

You don't have any rooms to rent. It's a blessing Ivanopulo has gone to Tver

for a whole year. Anyway, come and be my valet. . . an easy job."

Seeing that  Ippolit Matveyevich  could not  be  baited,  Ostap  yawned

sweetly, stretched himself,  almost touching  the ceiling as he  filled  his

broad chest with air, and said:

"Well,  friend,  make  your  pockets ready.  We'll go to  the club just

before  dawn. That's  the best  time. The  watchmen are asleep, having sweet

dreams,  for  which they get fired without  severance  pay. In the meantime,

chum, I advise you to have a nap."

Ostap  stretched  himself  out  on  the  three  chairs,  acquired  from

different corners of Moscow, and said, as he dozed off:

"Or  my valet . . . a decent  salary.  No,  I  was  joking. .  . .  The

hearing's continued. Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury."

Those  were the smooth  operator's  last  words. He  fell  into a deep,

refreshing sleep, untroubled by dreams.

Ippolit  Matveyevich  went  out   into  the  street.  He  was  full  of

desperation and cold fury. The moon  hopped about among  the banks of cloud.

The  wet  railings of  the  houses glistened  greasily.  In  the street  the

flickering gas lamps were encircled by halos  of moisture. A drunk was being

thrown out  of the  Eagle  beer-hall. He began bawling.  Ippolit Matveyevich

frowned and went back inside. His one wish was to finish the whole  business

as soon as possible.

He went back into the room, looked  grimly at the sleeping Ostap, wiped

his pince-nez and took up the  razor  from the window sill. There were still

some dried  scales of oil paint on its  jagged edge. He put the razor in his

pocket, walked past  Ostap  again, without looking at him, but listening  to

his  breathing, and then went  out into the corridor. It was dark and sleepy

out there. Everyone had evidently gone to bed. In  the pitch darkness of the

corridor Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly smiled in the most  evil way, and felt

the skin creep on his forehead. To test this new sensation he  smiled again.

He suddenly remembered a boy at school who had been able to move his ears.

Ippolit  Matveyevich went as far as the stairs and  listened carefully.

There was  no one there. From the street came the  drumming of a carthorse's

hooves, intentionally loud and clear as  though someone was  counting on  an

abacus. As stealthily as a cat, the marshal went back into the room, removed

twenty-five roubles and the  pair  of pliers from Ostap's jacket  hanging on

the  back  of  a chair,  put on  his  own yachting cap,  and again  listened

intently.

Ostap was sleeping quietly.  His nose and lungs were working perfectly,

smoothly inhaling  and exhaling air. A brawny  arm hung  down to  the floor.

Conscious  of  the  second-long pulses  in  his  temple, Ippolit Matveyevich

slowly  rolled  up  his  right   sleeve   above  the   elbow   and  bound  a

wafer-patterned towel around his bare arm; he stepped back to the door, took

the razor out of his  pocket, and gauging  the position of  the furniture in

the room turned the  switch. The light went  out, but the room was still lit

by a bluish aquarium-like light from the street lamps.

"So much the better," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.

He approached the back of the chair and, drawing back his hand with the

razor, plunged the blade slantways into Ostap's throat,  pulled it  out, and

jumped backward towards the wall. The smooth operator  gave a  gurgle like a

kitchen sink  sucking  down the  last water.  Ippolit Matveyevich managed to

avoid being splashed with blood. Wiping the  wall with his  jacket, he stole

towards the blue door, and for a brief moment looked back at Ostap. His body

had arched twice and slumped against the backs of the chairs. The light from

the street moved across a black puddle forming on the floor.

What  is  that  puddle?  wondered  Vorobyaninov.  Oh, yes,  it's blood.

Comrade Bender is dead.

He  unwound the slightly stained  towel, threw it  aside, carefully put

the razor on the floor, and left, closing the door quietly.

Finding himself in the street, Vorobyaninov scowled and, muttering "The

jewels are all mine, not just six per cent," went off to Kalanchev Square.

He stopped at the  third window from the front entrance  to the railway

club.  The  mirrorlike windows of  the  new club  shone  pearl-grey  in  the

approaching  dawn.  Through  the damp air came  the muffled voices  of goods

trains. Ippolit  Matveyevich  nimbly scrambled on  to the  ledge, pushed the

frames, and silently dropped into the corridor.

Finding his way  without difficulty through  the grey pre-dawn halls of

the club, he reached the chess-room and went over to the  chair, bumping his

head on a  portrait of Lasker hanging on the wall. He was in no hurry. There

was no point in it. No one was after him. Grossmeister Bender was asleep for

ever in the little pink house.

Ippolit  Matveyevich  sat down on the  floor, gripped the chair between

his sinewy legs, and  with the  coolness of  a dentist, began extracting the

tacks, not  missing a single  one. His work was complete at the sixty-second

tack. The English chintz and canvas lay loosely on top of the stuffing.

He had  only  to lift  them  to  see  the  caskets,  boxes,  and  cases

containing the precious stones.

Straight  into a  car, thought Ippolit Matveyevich, who had learned the

facts of  life from the smooth  operator, then to the station, and on to the

Polish frontier. For a small gem they should get me across, then . . .

And desiring to find out  as soon  as possible what would happen  then,

Ippolit Matveyevich pulled away the covering from the chair. Before his eyes

were springs, beautiful  English springs, and  stuffing,  wonderful  pre-war

stuffing, the like of  which you  never see nowadays. But there was  nothing

else in the chair. Ippolit  Matveyevich mechanically turned the chair inside

out and sat for  a whole hour clutching it between his legs and repeating in

a dull voice:

"Why  isn't there anything there?  It can't be right. It can't  be." It

was almost  light when  Vorobyaninov, leaving everything as  it  was in  the

chess-room and forgetting  the pliers  and  his  yachting  cap with the gold

insignia of a non-existent yacht club,  crawled tired,  heavy and unobserved

through the window into the street.

"It can't be right," he kept repeating, having walked a block away. "It

can't be right."

Then  he returned to the club  and  began wandering  up and down by the

large windows, mouthing the words: "It can't be right. It can't be."

From time to time he let out a shriek and  seized hold of his head, wet

from the morning  mist. Remembering the events of  that night, he shook  his

dishevelled grey hair. The excitement of the jewels was too much for him; he

had withered in five minutes. "There's all kinds come here!" said a voice by

his ear,

He  saw  in  front of him a watchman  in  canvas work-clothes and  poor

quality boots. He was very old and evidently friendly.

"They keep comin'," said the  old man politely, tired of  his nocturnal

solitude. "And  you,  comrade, are interested. That's right. Our club's kind

of unusual."

Ippolit Matveyevich looked ruefully at the red-cheeked old man.

"Yes, sir," said the old man, "a very unusual club; there ain't another

like it."

"And what's so unusual about it?"  asked Ippolit Matveyevich, trying to

gather his wits.

The little old man  beamed at  Vorobyaninov. The story of  the  unusual

club seemed to please him, and he liked to retell it.

"Well, it's  like this," began the old man, "I've  been a watchman here

for  more'n ten years, and nothing like that ever happened.  Listen, soldier

boy! Well, there used to be a  club  here,  you know the one, for workers in

the first transportation division. I used to be the watchman. A no-good club

it was. They  heated  and  heated and  couldn't  do  anythin'. Then  Comrade

Krasilnikov comes to me and asks,  'Where's all that firewood goin'?' Did he

think I was eatin' it or somethin"? Comrade  Krasilnikov had a job with that

club, he did. They asked for five years' credit  for a new club, but I don't

know what became of it. They  didn't allow the credit. Then,  in the spring,

Comrade Krasilnikov bought a new chair for the stage, a good soft'n."

With his  whole  body  close  to the  watchman's,  Ippolit  Matveyevich

listened.  He  was  only half  conscious,  as  the watchman,  cackling  with

laughter,  told how he had once clambered  on  to the chair to put in  a new

bulb and missed his footing.

"I slipped off the chair and the coverin' was torn off. So I look round

and see bits of glass and beads on a string come pouring out."

"Beads?" repeated Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Beads!" hooted the old man with delight. "And I look, soldier boy, and

there are all  sorts of little boxes. I didn't touch 'em. I went straight to

Comrade Krasilnikov and reported it.  And that's  what I told the  committee

afterwards. I didn't touch the boxes, I didn't.  And a  good thing I didn't,

soldier boy. Because jewellery was found  in 'em, hidden by the bourgeois. .

. ."

"Where are the jewels?" cried the marshal.

"Where, where?" the watchman imitated him. "Here they are, soldier boy,

use your imagination! Here they are."

"Where?"

"Here  they are!"  cried  the ruddy-faced old man, enjoying the effect.

"Wipe your eyes. The club was  built with  them, soldier boy. You  see? It's

the club. Central heating, draughts with timing-clocks, a  buffet,  theatre;

you aren't allowed inside in your galoshes."

Ippolit Matveyevich stiffened and,  without moving, ran  his eyes  over

the ledges.

So that was where it was. Madame Petukhov's treasure. There. All of it.

A  hundred  and fifty thousand roubles, zero  zero kopeks, as Ostap Suleiman

Bertha Maria Bender used to say.

The jewels had turned  into a solid frontage of glass and ferroconcrete

floors. Cool gymnasiums had  been made  from the pearls. The diamond  diadem

had  become a theatre-auditorium with  a revolving stage; the ruby  pendants

had grown into chandeliers;  the serpent bracelets had been transformed into

a beautiful library, and the clasp had metamorphosed into a creche, a glider

workshop, a chess and billiards room.

The  treasures remained; it had been preserved  and had even grown.  It

could be touched with the hand, though not  taken away. It had gone into the

service of new  people. Ippolit Matveyevich  felt  the  granite  facing. The

coldness of the stone penetrated deep into his heart.

And he gave a cry.

It was an insane, impassioned wild cry-the cry of a vixen  shot through

the body-it flew into  the  centre of the square, streaked under the bridge,

and, rebuffed everywhere by the sounds of the waking city, began fading  and

died away  in a moment.  A marvellous  autumn  morning slipped from  the wet

roof-tops into the Moscow streets. The city set off on its daily routine.

Table of Contents

Translated from the Russian

INTRODUCTION

Part I THE LION OF STARGOROD

CHAPTER ONE BEZENCHUK AND THE NYMPHS

CHAPTER TWO MADAME PETUKHOV'S DEMISE

CHAPTER THREE THE PARABLE OF THE SINNER

CHAPTER FOUR THE MUSE OF TRAVEL

CHAPTER FIVE THE SMOOTH OPERATOR

CHAPTER SIX A DIAMOND HAZE

CHAPTER SEVEN TRACES OF THE TITANIC

CHAPTER EIGHT THE BASHFUL CHISELLER

CHAPTER NINE WHERE ARE YOUR CURLS?

CHAPTER TEN THE MECHANIC, THE PARROT, AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER

CHAPTER ELEVEN THE MIRROR-OF-LIFE INDEX

CHAPTER TWELVE A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM

CHAPTER THIRTEEN BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE ALLIANCE OF THE SWORD AND PLOUGHSHARE

PART II IN MOSCOW

CHAPTER FIFTEEN A SEA OF CHAIRS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE BROTHER BERTHOLD SCHWARTZ HOSTEL

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN HAVE RESPECT FOR MATTRESSES, CITIZENS!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE FURNITURE MUSEUM

CHAPTER NINETEEN VOTING THE EUROPEAN WAY

CHAPTER TWENTY FROM SEVILLE TO GRANADA

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE PUNISHMENT

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO ELLOCHKA THE CANNIBAL

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ABSALOM VLADIMIROVICH IZNURENKOV

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE AUTOMOBILE CLUB

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CONVERSATION WITH A NAKED ENGINEER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX TWO VISITS

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN THE MARVELLOUS PRISON BASKET

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT THE HEN AND THE PACIFIC ROOSTER

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE THE AUTHOR OF THE "GAVRILIAD"

CHAPTER THIRTY IN THE COLUMBUS THEATRE

PART III MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE A MAGIC NIGHT ON THE VOLGA

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO A SHADY COUPLE

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE EXPULSION FROM PARADISE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR THE INTERPLANETARY CHESS TOURNAMENT

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE ET ALIA

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX A VIEW OF THE MALACHITE PUDDLE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN THE GREEN CAPE

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT UP IN THE CLOUDS

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE THE EARTHQUAKE

CHAPTER FORTY THE TREASURE

Content

Petrov Eugene, et al The Twelve Chairs