Description
This exciting collection features two iconic novels that have become true classics of satire. At the heart of the action is the charming and resourceful Ostap Bender, the “Great Schemer,” whose ingenuity knows no bounds.
In the first part, The Twelve Chairs, Bender and his partner Ippolit Vorobyaninov embark on a frantic chase for Madame Petukhova’s diamonds, hidden inside one of the twelve chairs of a fine furniture set.
The adventures continue in The Golden Calf, where Ostap dreams of Rio de Janeiro. To make this dream come true, he needs a million, and he finds the perfect target: the underground millionaire Koreiko.
Brilliant humor, sharp irony, and an unforgettable journey through the roads of an era await you, filled with curious situations and keen observations of life.
THE TWELVE CHAIR
Dedicated to
Valentin Petrovich Kataev
PART ONE. THE STARGOROD LION
1. Bezenchuk and “The Nymphs”
The district town of N had so many barbershops and funeral bureaus that it seemed the townspeople were born only to be shaved, get a haircut, freshen their heads with vegetaline, and then immediately die. In reality, people in the district town of N were born, shaved, and died quite rarely. Life in town N was exceptionally quiet. Spring evenings were intoxicating, the mud shimmered like anthracite under the moon, and all the town’s youth were so deeply in love with the secretary of the communal workers’ local committee that it hindered their ability to collect membership dues.
Questions of love and death didn’t concern Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov, though he dealt with these matters in his official capacity from nine in the morning until five in the evening daily, with a half-hour break for breakfast.
In the mornings, after drinking his portion of hot milk, served by Klavdia Ivanovna in a frosty, veined glass, he would step out of the dimly lit little house onto the spacious street named after Comrade Gubernsky, full of wondrous spring light. It was one of the most pleasant streets found in district towns. To the left, through wavy greenish glass, the coffins of the “Nymph” funeral bureau shimmered. To the right, behind small windows with crumbling putty, lay the gloomy, dusty, and dull oak coffins of Bezenchuk, the coffin maker.
Further on, “Hairdresser Pierre and Konstantin” promised their clients “nail care” and “home perms.” Even further, there was a hotel with a barbershop, and beyond it, in a large vacant lot, stood a fawn calf gently licking a rusty sign leaning against a solitary gate:
FUNERAL OFFICE “WELCOME”
Though there were many funeral businesses, their clientele was not wealthy. “Welcome” had gone bankrupt three years before Ippolit Matveevich settled in town N, and Master Bezenchuk drank heavily and even once tried to pawn his best display coffin.
People in town N died rarely, and Ippolit Matveevich knew this better than anyone, as he worked in the civil registry office, where he oversaw the registration of deaths and marriages.
The desk where Ippolit Matveevich worked resembled an old tombstone. Its left corner had been destroyed by rats. Its flimsy legs trembled under the weight of plump, tobacco-colored folders filled with records, from which one could glean all information about the genealogies of town N’s inhabitants and the “genealogical firewood” that had grown on the meager district soil.
On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveevich woke up as usual at half past seven and immediately poked his nose into his old-fashioned pince-nez with a gold bridge. He didn’t wear spectacles. Once, deciding that wearing a pince-nez was unhygienic, Ippolit Matveevich went to an optician and bought rimless glasses with gilded shafts. He liked the glasses at first, but his wife (this was shortly before her death) found that in them he looked exactly like Milyukov, and he gave the glasses to the janitor. The janitor, though not nearsighted, got used to the glasses and wore them with pleasure.
“Bonjour!” Ippolit Matveevich sang to himself as he swung his legs out of bed. “Bonjour” indicated that Ippolit Matveevich had woken up in a good mood. Saying “Guten Morgen” upon waking usually meant that his liver was acting up, that fifty-two years was no joke, and that the weather was damp today. Ippolit Matveevich slipped his lean legs into pre-war, ready-made trousers, tied them at the ankles with ribbons, and plunged into short, soft boots with narrow square toes. Five minutes later, Ippolit Matveevich was adorned in a moon-colored waistcoat sprinkled with tiny silver stars and an iridescent luster jacket. Wiping the last dewdrops from his gray hair after washing, Ippolit Matveevich ferociously twitched his mustache, hesitantly touched his rough chin, brushed his short-cropped, “aluminum” hair, and, smiling courteously, moved to greet his entering mother-in-law, Klavdia Ivanovna.
“Ippole-et,” she boomed, “today I had a bad dream.”
The word “dream” was pronounced with a French accent.
Ippolit Matveevich looked down at his mother-in-law. He stood one hundred and eighty-five centimeters tall, and from such a height, it was easy and comfortable for him to regard his mother-in-law with some disdain. Klavdia Ivanovna continued:
“I saw the deceased Marie with her hair down and in a golden sash.”
From the booming sounds of Klavdia Ivanovna’s voice, the cast-iron lamp with its “core,” “shot,” and dusty glass trinkets trembled.
“I’m very worried. I’m afraid something might happen.”
The last words were uttered with such force that the bob of hair on Ippolit Matveevich’s head swayed from side to side. He wrinkled his face and distinctly said:
“Nothing will happen, Maman. Have you paid for the water yet?”
It turned out they hadn’t. The galoshes hadn’t been washed either. Ippolit Matveevich didn’t like his mother-in-law.
Klavdia Ivanovna was foolish, and her advanced age offered no hope that she would ever become wiser. She was exce-ptionally stingy, and only Ippolit Matveevich’s poverty pre-vented this captivating feeling from fully blossoming. Her voice had such power and depth that Richard the Lionheart, whose shouts, as is known, made horses crouch, would have envied it. And besides — which was the most dreadful thing — Klavdia Ivanovna had dreams. She always had them. She dreamed of girls in sashes, horses embroidered with yellow dragoon piping, janitors playing harps, archangels in sheepskin coats walking around at night with rattles in their hands, and knitting needles that jumped around the room by themselves, making a distressing clatter. Klavdia Ivanovna was an empty old woman. In addition to everything, a mustache had grown under her nose, and each hair of the mustache resembled a shaving brush.
Ippolit Matveevich, slightly irritated, left the house.
At the entrance to his dilapidated establishment stood Bezenchuk, the coffin maker, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms. From the systematic failures of his com-mercial ventures and long-term consumption of alcoholic beverages, the master’s eyes were bright yellow, like a cat’s, and burned with an unquenchable fire.
“Honor to the dear guest!” he rattled off, seeing Ippolit Matveevich. “Good morning!”
Ippolit Matveevich politely raised his stained castor hat.
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