The Twelve Chairs, Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov: Read FREE Full Text Online (English Translation)

First published in 1928 by the magazine “30 Days,”

then by the publishing house “Zemlya i fabrika.”

This book is in the public domain

Reprint by Publishing House №10

Publication date July 23, 2025

Translation from Russian

371 Pages, Font 12 pt, Bookman Old Style

Electronic edition, File size 2.0 MB

Cover design, Translate by Yulia Basharova

Copyright© Yulia Basharova 2025. All rights reserved

 

Table of Contents

PART ONE. THE STARGOROD LION

Chapter 1. Bezenchuk and “The Nymphs” 9

Chapter 2. The Demise of Madam Petukhova. 22

Chapter 3. The Mirror of the Sinner 34

Chapter 4. The Muse of Distant Wanderings. 43

Chapter 5. The Great Schemer 49

Chapter 6. Diamond Smoke. 62

Chapter 7. The Traces of “Titanic” 70

Chapter 8. The Blue Thief 77

Chapter 9. Where are Your Curls?. 94

Chapter 10. The Locksmith, the Parrot, and the Fortune-Teller 105

Chapter 11. The Alphabet of “The Mirror of Life” 121

Chapter 12. A Sultry Woman — A Poet’s Dream.. 140

Chapter 13. Breathe Deeper: You are Excited! 157

Chapter 14. “The Union of the Sword and Plow” 181

PART TWO. IN MOSCOW

Chapter 15. Amidst an Ocean of Chairs. 202

Chapter 16. Monk Berthold Schwarz’s Hostel 205

Chapter 17. Respect Mattresses, Citizens. 216

Chapter 18. The Furniture Museum.. 225

Chapter 19. European-Style Voting. 238

Chapter 20. From Seville to Grenada. 253

Chapter 21. The Execution. 270

Chapter 22. Ellochka the Cannibal 287

Chapter 23. Abessalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. 300

Chapter 24. The Automobile Club. 316

Chapter 25. Conversation with a Naked Engineer 328

Chapter 26. Two Visits. 338

Chapter 27. The Remarkable Do-Prov Basket 346

Chapter 28. The Hen And The Pacific Rooster 359

Chapter 29. The Author of “Gavriliada” 372

Chapter 30. At the Columbus Theater 383

Chapter 31. A Magical Night on the Volga. 403

PART THREE. MADAM PETUKHOVA’S TREASURE

Chapter 32. An Unclean Pair 415

Chapter 33. Expulsion from Paradise. 426

Chapter 34. The Interplanetary Chess Congress. 435

Chapter 35. And Others. 458

Chapter 36. View of the Malachite Puddle. 464

Chapter 37. Green Cape. 478

Chapter 38. Under the Clouds. 491

Chapter 39. The Earthquake. 503

Chapter 40. The Treasure. 523

 

PART ONE

THE STARGOROD LION

 

Chapter 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 exceptionally stingy, and only Ippolit Matveevich’s poverty prevented 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 commercial 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.

“How is your dear mother-in-law’s health, may I ask?”

“Mm-mm-mm,” Ippolit Matveevich replied vaguely, and, shrugging his straight shoulders, proceeded onwards.

“Well, God grant her good health,” Bezenchuk said bitterly, “such losses we incur, confound it all!”

And again, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door.

At the gates of the “Nymph” funeral bureau, Ippolit Matveevich was detained again.

There were three owners of “Nymph.” They bowed in unison to Ippolit Matveevich and in chorus inquired about his mother-in-law’s health.

“She’s well, well,” Ippolit Matveevich replied, “what could happen to her! Today she saw a golden girl, with her hair down. Such was her vision in a dream.” The three “nymphs” exchanged glances and sighed loudly. All these conversations delayed Ippolit Matveevich on his way, and he, contrary to habit, arrived at work when the clock hanging above the slogan “Do your business – and leave” showed five past nine.

Ippolit Matveevich was nicknamed Maciste at the office because of his tall stature, and especially his mustache, although the real Maciste had no mustache.

Taking a blue felt cushion from his desk drawer, Ippolit Matveevich placed it on the table, aligned his mustache correctly (parallel to the table line), and sat on the cushion, rising slightly above his three colleagues. Ippolit Matveevich didn’t fear hemorrhoids; he feared wearing out his trousers and therefore used the blue felt.

Two young people — a man and a young woman — shyly observed all the manipulations of the Soviet clerk. The man, in a cotton-padded broadcloth jacket, was completely overwhelmed by the office atmosphere, the smell of alizarin ink, the clock that often breathed heavily, and especially the stern poster “Do your business – and leave.” Although the man in the jacket hadn’t even begun his business, he already wanted to leave. It seemed to him that the matter he had come for was so insignificant that it was shameful to bother such a prominent gray-haired citizen as Ippolit Matveevich about it. Ippolit Matveevich himself understood that the visitor’s business was small, that it could wait, and so, opening binder No. 2 and twitching his cheek, he delved into the papers. The young woman, in a long jacket trimmed with shiny black braid, whispered to the man and, warming with shame, slowly began to move towards Ippolit Matveevich.

“Comrade,” she said, “where here…”

The man in the jacket sighed happily and, unexpectedly to himself, bellowed:

“To get married!”

Ippolit Matveevich looked attentively at the railing behind which the couple stood.

“Birth? Death?”

“To get married,” the man in the jacket repeated, looking around in confusion.

The young woman snickered. The matter was well underway. Ippolit Matveevich, with the dexterity of a conjurer, set to work. He recorded the names of the newlyweds in his old-womanish handwriting in thick books, sternly questioned the witnesses whom the bride had run out to fetch from the courtyard, breathed long and tenderly on the square stamps, and, rising slightly, pressed them onto the worn passports. Accepting two rubles from the newlyweds and issuing a receipt, Ippolit Matveevich said with a smirk, “For the performance of the sacrament,” and rose to his full splendid height, habitually puffing out his chest (he used to wear a corset). Thick yellow rays of sun lay on his shoulders like epaulets. He looked somewhat comical, but extraordinarily solemn. The biconcave lenses of his pince-nez shone with a white spotlight. The young couple stood like lambs.

“Young people,” Ippolit Matveevich declared grandiloquently, “allow me to congratulate you, as was formerly said, on your lawful marriage. It is very, very pleasant to see young people like yourselves, who, holding hands, go towards the achievement of eternal ideals. Very, very pleasant!”

Having delivered this tirade, Ippolit Matveevich shook the newlyweds’ hands, sat down, and, quite pleased with himself, continued reading papers from binder No. 2.

At the next desk, the clerks grunted into their inkwells.

The calm flow of the workday began. No one disturbed the death and marriage registration desk. Through the window, citizens could be seen, shivering from the spring chill, dispersing to their homes. Exactly at noon, a rooster crowed in the “Plow and Hammer” cooperative. No one was surprised. Then came the metallic quacking and clatter of a motor. A thick cloud of purple smoke rolled out from Comrade Gubernsky Street. The clatter intensified. Soon, the outlines of the district executive committee’s car, State No. 1, with a tiny radiator and bulky body, appeared from behind the smoke. The car, churning in the mud, crossed Staropanskaya Square and, swaying, disappeared into the poisonous smoke. The clerks stood at the window for a long time, commenting on the incident and linking it to a possible staff reduction. After a while, Master Bezenchuk carefully walked across the wooden boardwalks. He wandered around the town all day, inquiring if anyone had died.

The workday was drawing to a close. On the nearby yellowish-white bell tower, the bells rang with all their might. The windows rattled. Jackdaws flew from the belfry, held a meeting above the square, and flew away. The evening sky froze over the deserted square. It was time for Ippolit Matveevich to leave. Everything that was to be born that day had been born and recorded in the thick books. All those wishing to be married had been married and also recorded in the thick books. And there was, to the clear ruin of the undertakers, not a single death. Ippolit Matveevich put away his papers, hid the felt cushion in the drawer, fluffed his mustache with a comb, and was just about to leave, dreaming of a fiery soup, when the office door swung open, and Bezenchuk, the coffin maker, appeared on its threshold.

“Honor to the dear guest,” Ippolit Matveevich smiled. “What do you have to say?”

Although the master’s wild face glowed in the encroaching twilight, he couldn’t say anything.

“Well?” Ippolit Matveevich asked more strictly.

“Does ‘Nymph,’ confound it, give good merchandise?” the coffin maker mumbled vaguely. “Can it truly satisfy a customer? A coffin — it takes so much wood…”

“What?” Ippolit Matveevich asked.

“Well, ‘Nymph’… Three families live off that one little trade. Their material isn’t the same, and the finishing is worse, and the brush is flimsy, confound it. But I’m an old firm. Founded in nineteen hundred seven. My coffin — it’s a gem, choice, amateur…”

“What, have you gone mad?” Ippolit Matveevich asked meekly and moved towards the exit. “You’ll go crazy among coffins.”

Bezenchuk obligingly pulled the door open, let Ippolit Matveevich pass, and then followed him, trembling as if with impatience.

“Back when ‘Welcome’ was around, now that was something! No firm, not even in Tver itself, could stand against their glaze — confound it. But now, frankly, there’s no better product than mine. Don’t even look.”

Ippolit Matveevich turned around angrily, glared at Bezenchuk for a second, and walked a little faster. Although no unpleasantries had occurred at work that day, he felt quite nasty.

The three owners of “Nymph” stood by their establishment in the same poses in which Ippolit Matveevich had left them that morning. It seemed they hadn’t spoken a word to each other since then, but a striking change in their faces, a mysterious satisfaction dimly flickering in their eyes, showed that they knew something significant.

At the sight of his commercial rivals, Bezenchuk desperately waved his hand, stopped, and whispered after Vorobyaninov:

“I’ll let it go for thirty-two rubles.”

Ippolit Matveevich grimaced and quickened his pace.

“On credit, if you like,” Bezenchuk added. The three owners of “Nymph,” however, said nothing. They silently followed Vorobyaninov, continuously doffing their caps as they walked and bowing politely.

Thoroughly angered by the undertakers’ foolish persistence, Ippolit Matveevich ran up the porch steps faster than usual, irritably scraped the mud off his boots on the step, and, feeling intense pangs of hunger, entered the hallway. Father Fyodor, the priest of the Church of Flor and Lavr, came out of the room towards him, radiating heat. Picking up his cassock with his right hand and ignoring Ippolit Matveevich, Father Fyodor hurried towards the exit.

It was then that Ippolit Matveevich noticed the excessive cleanliness, a jarring new disorder in the arrangement of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling in his nose from a strong medicinal scent. In the first room, Ippolit Matveevich was met by his neighbor, agronomist Kuznetsova. She whispered and waved her hands:

“She’s worse; she just confessed. Don’t thump your boots.”

“I’m not thumping,” Ippolit Matveevich answered meekly. “What happened?”

Madam Kuznetsova pursed her lips and pointed towards the door of the second room:

“A severe heart attack.” And, repeating clearly someone else’s words that she liked for their significance, she added:

“The possibility of a fatal outcome is not excluded. I’ve been on my feet all day today. I came this morning for the meat grinder, looked — the door was open, no one in the kitchen, no one in this room either, well, I thought Klavdia Ivanovna went for flour for kulich. She was going to just now. Flour now, you know, if you don’t buy it in advance…”

Madam Kuznetsova would have talked for a long time about flour, about the high prices, and about how she found Klavdia Ivanovna lying by the tiled stove in a completely lifeless state, but a groan from the next room painfully struck Ippolit Matveevich’s ear. He quickly crossed himself with a slightly numb hand and went into his mother-in-law’s room.

 

Chapter 2. The Demise of Madam Petukhova

 

Klavdia Ivanovna lay on her back, one hand tucked under her head. Her head was adorned with an intensely apricot-colored cap, which had been fashionable in some year when ladies wore “chantecler” and were just beginning to dance the Argentine “tango.”

Klavdia Ivanovna’s face was solemn but expressed absolutely nothing. Her eyes stared at the ceiling.

“Klavdia Ivanovna!” Vorobyaninov called out. His mother-in-law’s lips moved quickly, but instead of the trumpet-like sounds Ippolit Matveevich was accustomed to, he heard a quiet, thin, and pitiful moan that made his heart stir. A shining tear unexpectedly and quickly rolled from her eye and, like mercury, slid across her face.

“Klavdia Ivanovna,” Vorobyaninov repeated, “what’s wrong?”

But again, he received no answer. The old woman closed her eyes and tilted slightly onto her side.

The agronomist quietly entered the room and led him away by the hand, like a boy being taken to bathe.

“She’s fallen asleep. The doctor said not to disturb her. My dear, go to the pharmacy. Here’s the receipt, and find out how much ice bags cost.” Ippolit Matveevich completely submitted to Madam Kuznetsova, sensing her undeniable superiority in such matters.

It was a long way to the pharmacy. Like a schoolboy, clutching the prescription in his fist, Ippolit Matveevich hurried out into the street.

It was almost dark. Against the fading twilight, the scrawny figure of Bezenchuk, the coffin maker, could be seen, leaning against a fir gate, eating bread and onions. Squatting nearby were the three “nymphs,” licking their spoons and eating buckwheat porridge from a cast-iron pot. At the sight of Ippolit Matveevich, the undertakers straightened up like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his shoulders indignantly and, extending a hand in the direction of his competitors, grumbled:

“They’re getting in the way, confound them. In the middle of Staropanskaya Square, by the bust of the poet Zhukovsky with the inscription carved on its pedestal: ‘Poetry is God in the holy dreams of the earth,’ lively conversations were taking place, sparked by the news of Klavdia Ivanovna’s serious illness. The general opinion of the assembled townspeople was that ‘we’ll all end up there’ and that ‘God gave, and God took away.'”

The hairdresser “Pierre and Konstantin,” who readily answered to the name “Andrei Ivanovich,” didn’t miss the opportunity to display his medical knowledge, gleaned from the Moscow magazine “Ogonyok.”

“Modern science,” Andrei Ivanovich said, “has reached the impossible. Take, for example, if a client gets a pimple on his chin. Before, it could lead to blood poisoning, but now in Moscow, they say — I don’t know if it’s true or not — each client gets a separate sterilized brush.”

The citizens sighed at length.

“You’re exaggerating a bit there, Andrei…”

“Where have you ever seen a separate brush for every person? He’ll invent anything!”

The former proletarian of intellectual labor, now stallholder Prusis, even became agitated:

“Excuse me, Andrei Ivanovich, according to the last census, Moscow has more than two million inhabitants? So, that means more than two million brushes are needed? Quite original.”

The conversation was growing heated and who knows where it would have led if Ippolit Matveevich hadn’t appeared at the end of Osypnaya Street.

“He ran to the pharmacy again. Things are bad, then.”

“The old woman will die. No wonder Bezenchuk is running around town beside himself.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“What doctor! Are those in the health insurance fund even doctors? They’d cure a healthy man to death!”

“Pierre and Konstantin,” who had long been itching to make a medical statement, spoke, looking around cautiously:

“Now all the power is in hemoglobin.” Having said this, “Pierre and Konstantin” fell silent. The townspeople also fell silent, each pondering in their own way the mysterious powers of hemoglobin.

When the moon rose and its minty light illuminated the miniature bust of Zhukovsky, a short swear word written in chalk could be clearly distinguished on its copper back.

For the first time, such an inscription appeared on the bust on June 15, 1897, the night immediately following the monument’s unveiling. And no matter how hard the police, and later the militia, tried, the abusive inscription was meticulously renewed every day.

In the wooden houses with external shutters, samovars were already singing. It was dinner time. The citizens didn’t waste time and dispersed. The wind began to blow.

Meanwhile, Klavdia Ivanovna was dying. She would alternately ask for a drink, then say that she needed to get up and fetch Ippolit Matveevich’s formal boots, which were out for repair, then complain about the dust, which, according to her, was suffocating, then ask for all the lamps to be lit.

Ippolit Matveevich, who was already tired of worrying, paced the room. Unpleasant household thoughts crept into his mind. He thought about having to get an advance from the mutual aid fund, running to fetch the priest, and answering condolence letters from relatives. To distract himself a bit, Ippolit Matveevich went out onto the porch. In the green moonlight stood Bezenchuk, the coffin maker.

“So, what do you command, Mr. Vorobyaninov?” the master asked, pressing his cap to his chest.

“Well, I suppose so,” Ippolit Matveevich replied gloomily.

“And ‘Nymph,’ confound it, does it really offer good merchandise!” Bezenchuk became agitated.

“Oh, go to hell! I’m tired of you!”

“I’m just saying. About the brushes and the brocade. How should I do it, confound it? First-class, prima? Or what?”

“Without any brushes or brocade. A simple wooden coffin. Pine. Understand?”

Bezenchuk put a finger to his lips, indicating that he understood everything, turned around, and, balancing his cap but still swaying, went on his way. Only then did Ippolit Matveevich notice that the master was mortally drunk.

Ippolit Matveevich again felt extraordinarily nasty inside. He couldn’t imagine how he would enter the empty, cluttered apartment. It seemed to him that with his mother-in-law’s death, the small comforts and habits he had painstakingly created for himself after the revolution, which had stolen his great comforts and broad habits, would disappear. “Marry?” Ippolit Matveevich thought. “Whom? The police chief’s niece, Varvara Stepanovna, Prusis’s sister? Or perhaps hire a housekeeper? No way! She’d drag me through the courts. And it’s expensive too.”

Life immediately turned black in Ippolit Matveevich’s eyes. Full of indignation and disgust for everything in the world, he returned to the house.

Klavdia Ivanovna was no longer delirious. Lying high on the pillows, she looked at Ippolit Matveevich, who had entered, quite meaningfully and, it seemed to him, even sternly.

“Ippolit,” she whispered distinctly, “sit beside me. I must tell you…”

Ippolit Matveevich sat down reluctantly, peering at his mother-in-law’s emaciated, mustachioed face. He tried to smile and say something encouraging. But his smile turned out to be wild, and no encouraging words came to mind. Only an awkward squeak escaped Ippolit Matveevich’s throat.

“Ippolit,” his mother-in-law repeated, “do you remember our drawing-room suite?”

“Which one?” Ippolit Matveevich asked with a solicitousness only possible towards very ill people.

“That one… Upholstered in English chintz…”

“Ah, that was in my house?”

“Yes, in Stargorod…”

“I remember, I remember perfectly… A sofa, a dozen chairs, and a round table with six legs. The furniture was excellent, from Gambs… Why did you recall it?”

But Klavdia Ivanovna couldn’t answer. Her face slowly began to take on a copper sulfate color. For some reason, Ippolit Matveevich also felt his breath catch. He distinctly recalled the drawing-room in his mansion, the symmetrically arranged walnut furniture with curved legs, the polished waxed floor, the old brown piano, and the oval black frames with daguerreotypes of dignified relatives on the walls.

Then Klavdia Ivanovna, in a wooden, indifferent voice, said:

“I sewed my diamonds into the seat of a chair.” Ippolit Matveevich glanced at the old woman.

“What diamonds?” he asked mechanically, but immediately caught himself. “Weren’t they confiscated then, during the search?”

“I hid the diamonds in a chair,” the old woman stubbornly repeated.

Ippolit Matveevich jumped up and, looking at Klavdia Ivanovna’s stone-like face, illuminated by the kerosene lamp, realized that she was not delirious.

“Your diamonds!” he cried, startled by the force of his own voice. “In a chair! Who put that idea in your head? Why didn’t you give them to me?”

“How could I give you the diamonds when you squandered my daughter’s estate?” the old woman said calmly and maliciously.

Ippolit Matveevich sat down and immediately stood up again. His heart noisily sent streams of blood throughout his body. His head began to throb.

“But you took them out, didn’t you? Are they here?” The old woman shook her head negatively.

“I didn’t have time. You remember how quickly and unexpectedly we had to flee. They remained in the chair that stood between the terracotta lamp and the fireplace.”

“But this is madness! How much you resemble your daughter!” Ippolit Matveevich cried out at the top of his voice.

And no longer bothered by being at the bedside of a dying woman, he pushed a chair aside with a crash and scurried around the room. The old woman indifferently watched Ippolit Matveevich’s actions.

“But do you even imagine where these chairs might have ended up? Or do you perhaps think they are quietly standing in my drawing-room, waiting for you to come and collect your r-regalia?” The old woman did not answer.

From anger, the civil registry clerk’s pince-nez fell from his nose and, flashing its golden bridge by his knees, crashed to the floor.

“What? To sew diamonds worth seventy thousand into a chair! Into a chair on which God knows who is sitting!…”

Here Klavdia Ivanovna sobbed and moved her entire body towards the edge of the bed. Her hand, describing a semicircle, tried to grasp Ippolit Matveevich, but immediately fell back onto the quilted purple blanket.

Ippolit Matveevich, yelping with fear, rushed to his neighbor.

“She’s dying, I think!”

The agronomist diligently crossed herself and, not hiding her curiosity, ran into Ippolit Matveevich’s house along with her husband, a bearded agronomist. Vorobyaninov himself stumbled bewildered into the city garden.

While the agronomist couple and their servant tidied the deceased’s room, Ippolit Matveevich wandered through the garden, bumping into benches and mistaking couples stiff from early spring love for bushes.

God knows what was going on in Ippolit Matveevich’s head. Gypsy choirs sounded, busty ladies’ orchestras continuously played “tango-amapa,” and he envisioned the Moscow winter and a black, long-legged trotter contemptuously snorting at pedestrians. Many things appeared to Ippolit Matveevich: intoxicatingly expensive orange long underwear, a lackey’s devotion, and a possible trip to Cannes.

Ippolit Matveevich walked more slowly and suddenly stumbled over the body of Bezenchuk, the coffin maker. The master was sleeping, lying in his sheepskin coat across the garden path. The jolt woke him, he sneezed, and quickly stood up.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Vorobyaninov,” he said warmly, as if continuing the conversation they had started earlier. “A coffin — it loves work.”

“Klavdia Ivanovna has died,” the client informed him.

“Well, may she rest in peace,” Bezenchuk agreed. “So, the old woman passed away… Old women, they always pass away… Or give up their soul to God — it depends on the old woman. Yours, for example, is small and stout — so she passed away. But, for example, a larger and leaner one — she’s considered to give up her soul to God…”

“What do you mean, ‘considered’? Who considers this?”

“We do. The masters. For example, you, a prominent man, tall, though thin. You, it’s considered, if, God forbid, you die, that you ‘kicked the bucket.’ And a tradesman, of the former merchant guild, he, it’s said, ‘ordered a long life.’ And if someone of a lower rank, a janitor, for example, or a peasant, about him they say: ‘he flipped over’ or ‘stretched his legs.’ But when the most powerful die, railway conductors or someone from the authorities, it’s considered that they ‘gave up the ghost.’ That’s what they say about them: ‘Our man, did you hear, gave up the ghost.'”

Stunned by this strange classification of human deaths, Ippolit Matveevich asked:

“Well, and when you die, what will the masters say about you?”

“I’m a small man. They’ll say: ‘Bezenchuk croaked.’ And nothing more. And he added sternly:

“It’s impossible for me to ‘give up the ghost’ or ‘kick the bucket’: my build is small… And about the coffin, Mr. Vorobyaninov? Are you really going to have it without brushes and brocade?”

But Ippolit Matveevich, again immersed in dazzling dreams, answered nothing and moved forward. Bezenchuk followed him, counting something on his fingers and, as usual, muttering.

The moon had long vanished. It was winter-cold. The puddles were again covered with brittle, waffle-like ice. On the street named after Comrade Gubernsky, where the companions had emerged, the wind fought with the signs. From the direction of Staropanskaya Square, with the sounds of a lowering blind, a fire brigade on thin horses rode out.

The firefighters, dangling their canvas-clad legs from the platform, shook their helmeted heads and sang in deliberately unpleasant voices:

“Glory to our fire chief, Glory to our dear Comrade Nasosov!”

“They were at Kolka’s wedding, the fire chief’s son,” Bezenchuk said indifferently, scratching his chest under his sheepskin coat. “So, really, without brocade and without anything?”

Just then, Ippolit Matveevich had already decided everything. “I’ll go,” he decided, “I’ll find them. And then we’ll see.” And in his diamond-filled dreams, even his deceased mother-in-law seemed dearer to him than she had been. He turned to Bezenchuk:

“To hell with you! Do it! Brocade! With brushes!”

 

Chapter 3. The Mirror of the Sinner

 

After confessing the dying Klavdia Ivanovna, Father Fyodor Vostrikov, priest of the Church of Flor and Lavr, left Vorobyaninov’s house in a state of complete agitation. He walked all the way to his apartment, looking around distractedly and smiling shyly. By the end of his journey, his absent-mindedness had reached such a degree that he almost ended up under the district executive committee’s car, State No. 1. Emerging from the purple fog emitted by the infernal machine, Father Vostrikov became utterly distraught and, despite his venerable clerical rank and middle age, covered the rest of the way at a frivolous half-gallop.

Matushka Katerina Alexandrovna was setting the table for supper. Father Fyodor, on days free from all-night vigils, liked to dine early. But now, taking off his hat and his warm, padded cassock, the priest quickly slipped into the bedroom, much to Matushka’s surprise, locked himself in, and began to hum “It is Truly Meet” in a muffled voice. Matushka sat down on a chair and whispered fearfully:

“He’s started something new…” Father Fyodor’s impetuous soul knew no peace. It had never known it. Not when he was a seminary student, Fedia, nor when he was a mustachioed seminarian, Fyodor Ivanovich. After leaving the seminary for the university and studying at the law faculty for three years, Vostrikov, in 1915, feared possible mobilization and once again pursued a spiritual path. First, he was ordained a deacon, and then consecrated as a priest and appointed to the district town of N. And always, in all stages of his spiritual and civil career, Father Fyodor remained a covetous man.

Father Vostrikov dreamed of owning a candle factory. Tormented by the vision of large factory drums winding thick wax ropes, Father Fyodor invented various projects whose implementation was supposed to provide him with basic and working capital to buy the small factory he had long had his eye on in Samara.

Ideas would strike Father Fyodor unexpectedly, and he would immediately set to work. Father Fyodor began to boil marbled laundry soap; he boiled pounds of it, but the soap, although it contained a huge percentage of fats, didn’t lather and, in addition, cost three times more than the “Plow-and-Hammer” brand. The soap then lay soaking and decomposing in the hallway for a long time, so much so that Katerina Alexandrovna would even weep when she walked past it. And then, later, the soap was thrown into the cesspool.

After reading in some livestock magazine that rabbit meat was tender, like chicken, that they bred in large numbers, and that their breeding could bring considerable profits to a thrifty owner, Father Fyodor immediately acquired half a dozen breeders, and two months later, the dog Nerka, frightened by the incredible number of long-eared creatures filling the yard and house, ran away to parts unknown. The accursed townspeople of N turned out to be extremely conservative and with rare unanimity did not buy Vostrikov’s rabbits. Then Father Fyodor, after consulting with his wife, decided to adorn his menu with rabbits, whose meat supposedly surpassed chicken in taste. They prepared roasted rabbits, cutlets, Pozharsky cutlets; rabbits were boiled in soup, served cold for dinner, and baked in babkas. This led to nothing. Father Fyodor calculated that by switching exclusively to a rabbit diet, the family could eat no more than forty animals a month, while the monthly litter was ninety, and this number would increase geometrically each month.

Then the Vostrikovs decided to offer home-cooked meals. Father Fyodor spent the entire evening writing with a chemical pencil on neatly cut sheets of arithmetic paper an advertisement for delicious home-cooked meals, prepared exclusively with fresh cow’s butter. The advertisement began with the words: “Cheap and tasty.” His wife filled an enamel bowl with flour paste, and Father Fyodor, late in the evening, pasted the advertisements on all telegraph poles and near Soviet institutions.

The new venture was a great success. On the very first day, seven people appeared, including Bendin, the military commissariat clerk, and Kozlov, the head of the landscaping sub-department, through whose efforts the town’s only ancient monument — the Triumphal Arch of Elizabeth’s time, which, he claimed, obstructed street traffic — had recently been demolished. They all greatly enjoyed the meal. The next day, fourteen people appeared. They couldn’t skin the rabbits fast enough. For a whole week, business went splendidly, and Father Fyodor was already considering opening a small furrier business, without a motor, when a completely unforeseen incident occurred.

The “Plow and Hammer” cooperative, which had been locked for three weeks due to an inventory count, reopened, and the counter workers, puffing with effort, rolled a barrel of rotten cabbage into the backyard, which was shared with Father Fyodor’s yard, and dumped it into the cesspool. Attracted by the pungent smell, the rabbits flocked to the pit, and the very next morning a plague began among the tender rodents. It raged for only three hours but laid low two hundred and forty breeders and an uncounted number of offspring.

A stunned Father Fyodor quieted down for a full two months and only now, returning from Vorobyaninov’s house and, to his wife’s surprise, locking himself in the bedroom, did his spirits revive. Everything indicated that Father Fyodor was enlightened by a new idea that had seized his entire soul.

Katerina Alexandrovna knocked on the bedroom door with the bone of a bent finger. There was no answer, only the singing intensified. A minute later, the door slightly opened, and Father Fyodor’s face appeared in the crack, a girlish blush playing on it.

“Give me the scissors quickly, mother,” Father Fyodor said rapidly.

“What about supper?”

“Alright. Later.”

Father Fyodor snatched the scissors, locked himself in again, and approached the wall mirror in its scratched black frame.

Next to the mirror hung an old folk print, “The Mirror of the Sinner,” printed from a copper plate and pleasantly hand-colored. “The Mirror of the Sinner” had especially comforted Father Fyodor after the rabbit failure. The popular print clearly showed the transience of all earthly things. Along its top row were four drawings, signed in Slavic script, significant and soul-calming: “This one prays, Ham sows wheat, Japheth holds power. Death rules all.” Death held a scythe and an hourglass with wings. She seemed made of prosthetics and orthopedic parts and stood, legs wide apart, on an empty, hilly ground. Her appearance clearly stated that the rabbit failure was a trivial matter.

Now Father Fyodor liked the picture “Japheth holds power” more. A portly, wealthy man with a beard sat on a throne in a small hall.

Father Fyodor smiled and, looking carefully at himself in the mirror, began to trim his venerable beard. Hair fell to the floor, the scissors squeaked, and five minutes later Father Fyodor realized that he was completely inept at trimming a beard. His beard turned out to be lopsided, indecent, and even suspicious.

After lingering by the mirror a little longer, Father Fyodor grew angry, called his wife, and, holding out the scissors to her, said irritably:

“At least help me, mother. I simply cannot manage my hair.” Matushka was so surprised that she even drew her hands back.

“What have you done to yourself?” she finally uttered.

“Done nothing. Just trimming. Please help. It seems a bit crooked here…”

“Lord,” Matushka said, reaching for Father Fyodor’s curls, “surely, Fedyenka, you aren’t going to join the Renovated Church?”

Father Fyodor was pleased with this turn in the conversation.

“And why, mother, shouldn’t I join the Renovated Church? Are the Renovated not people?”

“People, of course they are people,” Matushka agreed venomously, “they go to movie theaters, they pay alimony…”

“Well, I’ll go running to movie theaters too.”

“Go ahead and run.”

“And I will run.”

“You’ll run yourself ragged. Look at yourself in the mirror.” And indeed, a lively, black-eyed face with a small, wild beard and ridiculously long mustache peered back at Father Fyodor from the mirror.

They began to trim his mustache, bringing it to proportional dimensions.

What followed amazed Matushka even more. Father Fyodor declared that he had to leave that very evening on business and demanded that Katerina Alexandrovna run to her brother the baker and borrow his sheepskin-collared coat and brown duck cap for a week.

“I won’t go anywhere!” Matushka declared and burst into tears.

For half an hour, Father Fyodor paced the room and, frightening his wife with his changed face, talked nonsense. Matushka understood only one thing: Father Fyodor had, for no reason, cut his hair, wanted to go God knows where in a ridiculous cap, and was abandoning her.

“I’m not abandoning you,” Father Fyodor insisted, “I’m not abandoning you, I’ll be back in a week. A man can have business, can’t he? Can he or can’t he?”

“He cannot,” his wife said. Father Fyodor, a gentle man in his dealings with others, even had to thump the table with his fist. Although he thumped cautiously and awkwardly, as he had never done so before, his wife was still very frightened and, putting on her scarf, ran to her brother for civilian clothes.

Left alone, Father Fyodor thought for a moment, said, “It’s hard for women too,” and pulled out a tin-covered chest from under the bed. Such chests are mostly found among Red Army soldiers. They are pasted with striped wallpaper, over which proudly stands a portrait of Budyonny or a cardboard cut-out from a “Plage” cigarette box with three beauties lying on a pebble-strewn Batum shore. The Vostrikovs’ chest, to Father Fyodor’s displeasure, was also pasted with pictures, but there was no Budyonny, nor Batum beauties there. His wife had covered the entire interior of the chest with photographs cut from the magazine “Chronicle of the 1914 War.” There was “The Capture of Przemysl,” and “Distribution of warm clothing to lower ranks in positions,” and who knows what else was there.

Placing the books that lay on top on the floor — a complete set of the magazine “Russian Pilgrim” for 1903, the very thick “History of the Schism,” and a brochure “Russian in Italy,” whose cover showed a smoking Vesuvius — Father Fyodor plunged his hand to the very bottom of the chest and pulled out an old, worn-out bonnet of his wife’s.

Squeezing his eyes shut from the smell of naphthalene that suddenly wafted from the chest, Father Fyodor, tearing the lace and insertions, took a heavy linen sausage from the bonnet. The sausage contained twenty gold ten-ruble coins — all that remained of Father Fyodor’s commercial adventures.

With a habitual movement of his hand, he lifted a corner of his cassock and slipped the sausage into the pocket of his striped trousers. Then he went to the dresser and took fifty rubles in three-ruble and five-ruble notes from a candy box. Twenty rubles still remained in the box.

“That will be enough for household expenses,” he decided.

 

Chapter 4. The Muse of Distant Wanderings

 

An hour before the evening mail train arrived, Father Fyodor, in a short coat reaching just below his knees and with a wicker basket, stood in line at the ticket counter, glancing nervously at the entrance doors. He was afraid that his wife, against his explicit wishes, would rush to the station to see him off, and then Prusis, the stallholder, who was sitting in the buffet treating the financial agent to beer, would immediately recognize him. Father Fyodor looked with surprise and shame at his striped trousers, exposed to the gaze of all laypeople.

Boarding the unreserved train was, as usual, chaotic. Passengers, bent under the weight of enormous bags, scurried from the front of the train to the back and from the back to the front. Father Fyodor, bewildered, ran with everyone else. Like everyone else, he spoke to the conductors in an ingratiating voice, and like everyone else, he feared that the cashier had given him the “wrong” ticket. Only when finally allowed into the carriage did he return to his usual calm and even cheered up.

The locomotive cried out at full voice, and the train started, carrying Father Fyodor into the unknown distance on a mysterious errand that, it seemed, promised great benefits.

A fascinating thing is the right-of-way. An ordinary citizen, stepping into it, feels a certain fussiness and quickly transforms either into a passenger, a consignee, or simply a ticketless vagabond, darkening the lives and professional activities of conductor crews and platform controllers.

From the moment a citizen enters the right-of-way, which they amateurishly call a station or a depot, their life sharply changes. Immediately, “Ermak Timofeyevichs” in white aprons with nickel-plated heart-shaped badges rush up to them and obligingly pick up their luggage. From this moment on, the citizen no longer belongs to themselves. They are a passenger and begin to fulfill all the duties of a passenger. These duties are complex but pleasant.

A passenger eats a lot. Ordinary mortals do not eat at night, but a passenger eats at night too. They eat roasted chicken, which is expensive for them, hard-boiled eggs, which are bad for the stomach, and olives. When the train passes over a switch, numerous teapots clatter on the shelves, and chickens, wrapped in newspaper cones and deprived of legs ruthlessly torn off by passengers, bounce around.

But passengers don’t notice any of this. They tell anecdotes. Regularly, every three minutes, the entire carriage bursts into booming laughter. Then silence falls, and a velvety voice delivers the next anecdote:

“An old Jew is dying. His wife stands there, his children. ‘Is Monya here?’ the Jew asks faintly. ‘Yes.’ ‘Has Aunt Brana arrived?’ ‘She has.’ ‘Where’s Grandma? I don’t see her.’ ‘There she stands.’ ‘And Isaac?’ ‘Isaac’s here.’ ‘And the children?’ ‘All the children are here.’ ‘Then who’s left in the shop?!'”

Instantly, the teapots begin to clatter, and the chickens fly about on the upper shelves, disturbed by the thunderous laughter. But the passengers don’t notice this. Each one carries a cherished anecdote in their heart, trembling, waiting for its turn. A new performer, elbowing neighbors and pleadingly shouting, “Oh, they told me this one!”  —  manages to grab attention with difficulty and begins:

“A Jew comes home and lies down next to his wife. Suddenly he hears someone scratching under the bed. The Jew puts his hand under the bed and asks: ‘Is that you, Jack?’ And Jack licks his hand and answers: ‘It’s me.'”

Passengers die of laughter, the dark night covers the fields, nimble sparks fly from the locomotive’s chimney, and thin semaphores in glowing green glasses pass by fastidiously, looking over the train.

A fascinating thing is the right-of-way! Long, heavy long-distance trains run to all corners of the country. The road is open everywhere. Everywhere the green light burns — the way is clear. The Polar Express ascends to Murmansk. Bent and hunched over the switch, the “First-K” rushes out of Kursky Station, clearing the way to Tiflis. The Far Eastern courier rounds Lake Baikal, approaching the Pacific Ocean at full speed.

The muse of distant wanderings beckons man. It has already torn Father Fyodor from his quiet district abode and cast him into God knows what province. Even the former marshal of the nobility, now civil registry clerk Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov, is disturbed in his very core and has conceived God knows what. People are carried across the country. One finds a radiant bride ten thousand kilometers from his place of service. Another, in pursuit of treasure, abandons the post and telegraph office and, like a schoolboy, runs to Aldan. And a third just sits at home, lovingly stroking a ripe hernia and reading the works of Count Salias, bought for five kopecks instead of a ruble.

On the second day after the funeral, the arrangements for which Master Bezenchuk had kindly taken upon himself, Ippolit Matveevich went to work and, fulfilling his duties, personally registered the demise of Klavdia Ivanovna Petukhova, fifty-nine years old, a housewife, non-party member, residing in district town N and originally from the nobility of Stargorod province. Then Ippolit Matveevich requested his legally permitted two-week leave, received forty-one rubles in holiday pay, and, bidding farewell to his colleagues, went home. On the way, he stopped at the pharmacy.

Pharmacist Leopold Grigorievich, whom his family and friends called Lipa, stood behind the red lacquered counter, surrounded by milky jars of poison, and nervously sold the fire chief’s sister-in-law “Ango cream, against sunburn and freckles, gives exceptional whiteness to the skin.” The fire chief’s sister-in-law, however, demanded “Rachel powder in golden color, gives the body an even, naturally unattainable tan.” But the pharmacy only had Ango cream against sunburn, and the battle of such opposing perfumery products lasted half an hour. Lipa ultimately won, selling the fire chief’s sister-in-law lipstick and a bedbug-boiler, an appliance built on the principle of a samovar but resembling a watering can.

“What did you want?”

“A hair product.”

“For growth, removal, coloring?”

“Growth? What growth!” Ippolit Matveevich said. “For coloring.”

“For coloring, there’s a wonderful product called ‘Titanic.’ Received from customs. Contraband goods. Cannot be washed off with cold or hot water, soap lather, or kerosene. Radical black color. A bottle lasts six months and costs three rubles twelve kopecks. I recommend it as to a good acquaintance.” Ippolit Matveevich twirled the square bottle of “Titanic” in his hands, sighed as he looked at the label, and put the money on the counter.

Ippolit Matveevich returned home and with disgust began to pour “Titanic” on his head and mustache. A foul odor spread through the apartment.

After dinner, the stench lessened, his mustache dried, matted together, and could only be combed with great difficulty. The radical black color turned out to have a somewhat greenish tint, but there was no time to dye it again.

Ippolit Matveevich took the list of valuables he had found the day before from his mother-in-law’s casket, counted all his available money, locked the apartment, put the keys in his back pocket, got on accelerated train No. 7, and left for Stargorod.

 

Chapter 5. The Great Schemer

 

At half past eleven, a young man of about twenty-eight entered Stargorod from the northwest, from the direction of the village of Chmarovka. A homeless boy ran behind him.

“Uncle,” he cried cheerfully, “give me ten kopecks!” The young man took a warm apple from his pocket and gave it to the homeless boy, but he wouldn’t give up. Then the pedestrian stopped, looked at the boy ironically, and quietly said:

“Perhaps you’d also like the key to the apartment where the money is kept?”

The presumptuous homeless boy understood the groundlessness of his claims and fell behind.

The young man had lied: he had no money, no apartment where it could be kept, and no key to unlock such an apartment. He didn’t even have a coat. The young man entered the city in a fitted green suit. His powerful neck was wrapped several times in an old wool scarf, and his feet were clad in patent leather boots with orange suede uppers. He wore no socks under his boots. In his hand, the young man held an astrolabe. “O bayadere, ti-ri-rim, ti-ri-ra!” he sang, approaching the market.

Here, he found plenty to do. He squeezed into the line of vendors selling goods from a makeshift stall, held out the astrolabe, and began to shout in a serious voice:

“Who wants an astrolabe? Astrolabe for sale, cheap! Discounts for delegations and women’s departments!”

The unexpected offer did not generate demand for a long time. Delegations of housewives were more interested in scarce goods and crowded around the fabric stalls. The agent of the Stargubrozysk (Stargorod Province Criminal Investigation Department) had already passed the astrolabe vendor twice. But since the astrolabe in no way resembled the typewriter stolen yesterday from the Maslotsentr (Butter Center) office, the agent stopped magnetizing the young man with his eyes and left.

By lunchtime, the astrolabe was sold to a locksmith for three rubles.

“It measures itself,” the young man said, handing the astrolabe to the buyer, “if only there were something to measure.”

Freed from the clever instrument, the cheerful young man had lunch at the “Corner of Taste” canteen and went to explore the city. He walked along Sovetskaya Street, came out onto Krasnoarmeyskaya (formerly Big Pushkinskaya), crossed Kooperativnaya, and found himself back on Sovetskaya. But this was not the same Sovetskaya he had just walked: there were two Sovetskaya streets in the city. After marveling at this circumstance for a while, the young man found himself on Lenskikh Sobytiy Street (formerly Denisovskaya). Near the beautiful two-story mansion No. 28, with a sign that read:

 

USSR, RSFSR 2nd HOUSE OF SOCIAL SECURITY OF STARGUBSTRAKH

 

The young man stopped to light a cigarette from the janitor, who was sitting on a stone bench by the gates.

“Hey, old man,” the young man asked, taking a drag, “are there any brides in your town?”

The old janitor wasn’t at all surprised.

“Even a mare can be a bride to someone,” he replied, readily joining the conversation.

“I have no more questions,” the young man quickly stated. And immediately asked a new one:

“In such a house and no brides?”

“Our brides,” the janitor countered, “have long been sought in the afterlife with lanterns. We have a state almshouse here: old women live on full pension.”

“I see. The ones born before historical materialism?”

“That’s right. When they were born, they were born.”

“And what was in this house before historical materialism?”

“When was that?”

“Back then, under the old regime.”

“Ah, under the old regime, my master lived here.”

“A bourgeois?”

“You’re the bourgeois! I told you — a marshal of the nobility.”

“A proletarian, then?”

“You’re the proletarian! I told you — a marshal.”

The conversation with the clever janitor, who had a poor grasp of society’s class structure, would have gone on for God knows how long if the young man hadn’t taken decisive action.

“Listen, grandpa,” he said, “a glass of wine wouldn’t be bad.”

“Well, treat me.”

For an hour, both disappeared, and when they returned, the janitor was already the young man’s most loyal friend.

“So I’ll stay the night with you,” the new friend said.

“As far as I’m concerned, you can live here your whole life, if you’re a good person.”

Having achieved his goal so quickly, the guest promptly descended into the janitor’s room, took off his orange boots, and stretched out on the bench, pondering his plan for tomorrow.

The young man’s name was Ostap Bender. From his biography, he usually only shared one detail: “My father,” he would say, “was a Turkish subject.” The son of a Turkish subject had changed many occupations in his life. The liveliness of his character, which prevented him from dedicating himself to any one pursuit, constantly threw him to different parts of the country and now brought him to Stargorod without socks, without a key, without an apartment, and without money.

Lying in the warmly odorous janitor’s room, Ostap Bender polished in his mind two possible career options.

He could become a bigamist and calmly move from town to town, dragging a new suitcase filled with valuables seized from the current wife.

Or he could go to the Stardetkomissiya (Stargorod Children’s Commission) tomorrow and offer them to take on the distribution of a yet-to-be-painted but brilliantly conceived painting: “Bolsheviks Writing a Letter to Chamberlain,” based on Repin’s popular painting: “Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks to Sultan Mehmed IV.” If successful, this option could bring in about four hundred rubles.

Both options were conceived by Ostap during his last stay in Moscow. The bigamy option was born under the influence of a court report he had read in an evening newspaper, which clearly stated that a certain bigamist had received only two years without strict isolation. Option No. 2 was born in Bender’s head when he surveyed the exhibition of AKHRR. (AKHRR – Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia.)

However, both projects had their drawbacks. Starting a career as a bigamist without a magnificent, dappled grey suit was impossible. Moreover, he needed at least ten rubles for representation and seduction. He could, of course, marry in his campaign-green suit, because Bender’s masculine strength and beauty were completely irresistible to provincial Margaritas of marrying age, but that would be, as Ostap put it, “low quality, not clean work.” With the painting, too, not everything was smooth: purely technical difficulties might arise. Would it be convenient to paint Comrade Kalinin in a papakha and white burka, and Comrade Chicherin shirtless? If necessary, of course, all characters could be drawn in ordinary suits, but that wouldn’t be the same.

“It won’t have the same effect!” Ostap said aloud.

Then he noticed that the janitor had been talking passionately about something for a long time. It turned out the janitor was reminiscing about the former owner of the house:

“The police chief saluted him… You come to him, say, on New Year’s with congratulations — he gives you three rubles… On Easter, say, another three rubles. And then, say, on their saint’s day you congratulate him… Well, just from congratulations alone, fifteen rubles would accrue in a year… He even promised to present me with a medal. ‘I want,’ he said, ‘my janitor to have a medal.’ He even said, ‘You, Tikhon, consider yourself already with a medal…'”

“So, did they give it?”

“Just wait… ‘I don’t need a janitor without a medal,’ he said. He went to Saint Petersburg for the medal. Well, the first time, I’ll tell you, it didn’t work out. The gentlemen officials didn’t want to. ‘The Tsar,’ he said, ‘has gone abroad, it’s impossible now.’ The master ordered me to wait. ‘You, Tikhon,’ he said, ‘wait, you won’t be without a medal.'”

“And your master, was he, like, shot?” Ostap asked unexpectedly.

“No one shot him. He left himself. Why would he sit here with the soldiers… And now do they give medals for janitorial service?”

“They do. I can get one for you.” The janitor looked at Bender with respect.

“I can’t be without a medal. It’s my duty.”

“Where did your master go?”

“Who knows! People said he went to Paris.”

“Ah!… White acacia, flowers of emigration… So he’s an emigrant?”

“You’re the emigrant… To Paris, people say, he went. And the house was taken for old women… You can congratulate them every day — you won’t even get a dime!… Ah! What a master he was!…”

At that moment, the rusty bell above the door jiggled. The janitor, grunting, shuffled to the door, opened it, and stepped back in extreme confusion.

On the top step stood Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov, black-mustached and black-haired. His eyes shone under his pince-nez with a pre-war gleam.

“Master!” Tikhon mooed passionately. “From Paris!”

Ippolit Matveevich, embarrassed by the presence of a stranger in the janitor’s room, whose bare purple feet he had only just seen from behind the edge of the table, became flustered and was about to flee, but Ostap Bender quickly sprang up and bowed low before Ippolit Matveevich.

“Though we’re not Paris, you’re welcome to our humble abode.”

“Hello, Tikhon,” Ippolit Matveevich was forced to say, “I’m not from Paris at all. What put that idea in your head?”

But Ostap Bender, whose long, noble nose clearly detected the smell of something cooking, didn’t let the janitor utter a sound.

“Excellent,” he said, winking, “you’re not from Paris. Of course, you’ve come from Kologriv to visit your deceased grandmother.”

As he spoke, he gently embraced the bewildered janitor and ushered him out the door before the latter understood what had happened. When he recovered, he could only grasp that the master had arrived from Paris, that he, Tikhon, had been thrown out of the janitor’s room, and that a paper ruble was clutched in his left hand.

Carefully locking the door behind the janitor, Bender turned to Vorobyaninov, who was still standing in the middle of the room, and said:

“Calm down, everything’s fine. My name is Bender! Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Never heard of you,” Ippolit Matveevich replied nervously.

“Well, how could the name Ostap Bender be known in Paris? Is it warm in Paris now? It’s a good city. My cousin is married there. She recently sent me a silk scarf in a registered letter…”

“What nonsense!” Ippolit Matveevich exclaimed. “What scarves? I didn’t come from Paris, but from…”

“Strange, strange! From Morshansk.” Ippolit Matveevich had never dealt with such a temperamental young man as Bender and felt unwell.

“Well, you know, I’m leaving,” he said.

“Where will you go? You have nowhere to rush. The GPU will come to you themselves.”

Ippolit Matveevich was at a loss for words, unbuttoned his coat with its shedding velvet collar, and sat on the bench, looking unfriendly at Bender.

“I don’t understand you,” he said in a fallen voice.

“That’s not scary. You’ll understand now. Just a moment.”

Ostap put on his orange boots on his bare feet, walked around the room, and began:

“Which border did you cross? Polish? Finnish? Romanian? Must have been an expensive pleasure. An acquaintance of mine recently crossed the border; he lives in Slavuta, on our side, and his wife’s parents are on the other side. He quarreled with his wife over a family matter, and she’s from a touchy family. She spat in his face and ran across the border to her parents. This acquaintance sat alone for three days and saw that things were bad: no dinner, the room was dirty, and he decided to make up. He went out at night and walked across the border to his father-in-law. That’s when the border guards caught him, fabricated a case, imprisoned him for six months, and then expelled him from the trade union. Now, they say, his wife ran back, the fool, and the husband is sitting in prison. She brings him food parcels… And you, did you also cross the Polish border?”

“Honestly,” Ippolit Matveevich stammered, feeling an unexpected dependence on the talkative young man who stood in his way to the diamonds, “honestly, I am a citizen of the RSFSR. After all, I can show my passport…”

“With the modern development of printing in the West, printing a Soviet passport is such a trifle that it’s ridiculous to talk about… An acquaintance of mine even went so far as to print dollars. And you know how hard it is to counterfeit American dollars? The paper has those, you know, multicolored fibers. It requires great technical knowledge. He successfully offloaded them on the Moscow black market; then it turned out that his grandfather, a famous currency speculator, bought them in Kyiv and was completely ruined because the dollars were still fake. So you can also lose out with your passport.”

Ippolit Matveevich, angered that instead of energetically searching for diamonds, he was sitting in a smelly janitor’s room listening to the chatter of a young boor about his acquaintances’ shady dealings, still couldn’t bring himself to leave. He felt a strong timidity at the thought that the unknown young man would blab throughout the city that the former marshal had arrived. Then — everything would be over, and he might even be arrested.

“Please, don’t tell anyone you saw me,” Ippolit Matveevich pleaded, “they might really think I’m an emigrant.”

“There! There! This is congenial! First, the assets: we have an emigrant who has returned to his hometown. Liabilities: he’s afraid of being taken to the GPU.”

“But I’ve told you a thousand times that I’m not an emigrant.”

“Then who are you? Why did you come here?”

“Well, I came from town N on business.”

“What business?”

“Well, personal business.”

“And after that, you say you’re not an emigrant?… An acquaintance of mine also came…”

Here Ippolit Matveevich, driven to despair by Bender’s stories about his acquaintances and seeing that he couldn’t be swayed from his position, surrendered.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll explain everything to you.” “After all, it’s hard without an assistant,” Ippolit Matveevich thought, “and he seems to be a big crook. Such a person could be useful.”

 

 

 

Chapter 6. Diamond Smoke

 

Ippolit Matveevich took off his mottled beaver hat, combed his mustache, from which a friendly flock of electric sparks flew out at the touch of the comb, and, clearing his throat decisively, told Ostap Bender, the first scoundrel he encountered, everything he knew about the diamonds from his dying mother-in-law’s words.

During the story, Ostap jumped up several times and, turning to the iron stove, enthusiastically cried out:

“The ice has broken, gentlemen of the jury! The ice has broken!”

An hour later, they were both sitting at a wobbly table, leaning their heads together, reading a long list of jewels that had once adorned his mother-in-law’s fingers, neck, ears, chest, and hair.

Ippolit Matveevich, constantly adjusting the pince-nez that swayed on his nose, emphatically pronounced:

“Three strings of pearls… I remember well. Two with forty beads each, and one large one with a hundred and ten. A diamond pendant… Klavdia Ivanovna said it was worth four thousand, antique work…”

Next came rings: not wedding rings, thick, foolish, and cheap, but thin, light, with clean, washed diamonds inlaid in them; heavy, dazzling pendants, casting multicolored fire onto a small female ear; bracelets in the shape of snakes with emerald scales; a fermoir that consumed the harvest from five hundred dessiatines; a pearl necklace that only a famous operetta prima donna could afford; crowning it all was a forty-thousand-ruble tiara.

Ippolit Matveevich looked around. In the dark corners of the plague-ridden janitor’s room, an emerald spring light flashed and trembled. Diamond smoke hung under the ceiling. Pearl beads rolled across the table and bounced on the floor. The precious mirage shook the room.

An agitated Ippolit Matveevich only came to his senses at the sound of Ostap’s voice.

“Not a bad selection. The stones, I see, were chosen with taste. How much did all this music cost?”

“Seventy to seventy-five thousand.”

“Mhm… So now it’s worth a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Really that much?” Vorobyaninov asked joyfully.

“No less. Only you, my dear comrade from Paris, should spit on all this.”

“How spit?”

“With saliva,” Ostap replied, “as people spat before the era of historical materialism. Nothing will come of it.”

“How so?”

“Like this. How many chairs were there?”

“A dozen. A drawing-room suite.”

“Your drawing-room suite has probably long since burned in stoves.”

Vorobyaninov was so frightened that he even stood up.

“Calm down, calm down. I’m taking charge of this. The meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. By the way, we need to conclude a small agreement, you and I.”

Ippolit Matveevich, breathing heavily, nodded his assent. Then Ostap Bender began to draw up the terms.

“In case the treasure is realized, I, as a direct participant in the concession and technical manager of the operation, receive sixty percent, and you don’t have to pay social insurance for me. I don’t care about that.” Ippolit Matveevich turned pale.

“This is robbery in broad daylight.”

“And how much did you intend to offer me?”

“W-w-well, five percent, well, ten, at most. You understand, that’s fifteen thousand rubles!”

“You don’t want anything else?”

“N-no.”

“Or perhaps you want me to work for free and even give you the key to the apartment where the money is kept?”

“In that case, excuse me,” Vorobyaninov said nasally. “I have every reason to believe that I can handle this myself.”

“Aha! In that case, excuse me,” the magnificent Ostap countered, “I have no less reason, as Andy Tucker used to say, to assume that I can handle your business alone.”

“Swindler!” Ippolit Matveevich cried, trembling. Ostap was cold.

“Listen, mister from Paris, do you know that your diamonds are almost in my pocket! And you only interest me inasmuch as I want to secure your old age.”

Only then did Ippolit Matveevich understand what iron claws had gripped his throat.

“Twenty percent,” he said grimly.

“And my board?” Ostap asked mockingly.

“Twenty-five.”

“And the key to the apartment?”

“But that’s thirty-seven and a half thousand!”

“Why such precision? Well, so be it — fifty percent. Half yours, half mine.”

The bargaining continued. Ostap conceded more. Out of respect for Vorobyaninov’s person, he agreed to work for forty percent.

“Sixty thousand!” Vorobyaninov cried.

“You are quite a vulgar person,” Bender countered, “you love money more than you should.”

“And you don’t love money?” Ippolit Matveevich wailed in a flute-like voice.

“I don’t.”

“Then why do you want sixty thousand?”

“On principle!”

Ippolit Matveevich just caught his breath.

“Well, has the ice broken?” Ostap pressed.

Vorobyaninov puffed and said submissively:

“It has broken.”

“Well, shake on it, district chief of the Comanches! The ice has broken! The ice has broken, gentlemen of the jury!”

After Ippolit Matveevich, offended by the nickname “chief of the Comanches,” demanded an apology and Ostap, delivering an apologetic speech, called him a field marshal, they proceeded to formulate the disposition.

At midnight, the janitor Tikhon, clutching at every passing picket fence and clinging to posts for long stretches, dragged himself to his basement. To his misfortune, it was a new moon.

“Ah! Proletarian of intellectual labor! Worker of the broom!” Ostap exclaimed, seeing the janitor bent over like a wheel.

The janitor mooed in a low and passionate voice, like a toilet sometimes suddenly begins to gurgle hotly and fussily in the dead of night.

“This is congenial,” Ostap informed Ippolit Matveevich, “and your janitor is quite a boor. How can one get so drunk on a single ruble?”

“P-possibly,” the janitor said unexpectedly.

“Listen, Tikhon,” Ippolit Matveevich began, “do you know, my friend, what happened to my furniture?”

Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that speech could flow freely from his wide-open mouth. Ippolit Matveevich waited in suspense. But from the janitor’s mouth, where teeth grew unevenly, a deafening cry burst forth:

“There w-w-were happy days…”

The janitor’s room filled with thunder and ringing. The janitor diligently and zealously performed the song, not missing a single word. He roared, moving around the room, sometimes unconsciously diving under the table, sometimes hitting his cap against the copper cylindrical weight of a “grandfather clock,” sometimes falling to one knee. He was terribly cheerful.

Ippolit Matveevich was completely lost.

“We’ll have to postpone the interrogation of witnesses until morning,” Ostap said. “Let’s sleep.”

The janitor, heavy in sleep like a dresser, was carried to the bench.

Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to lie together on the janitor’s bed. Ostap had a black and red plaid “cowboy” shirt under his jacket. There was nothing else under the cowboy shirt. However, Ippolit Matveevich, under the moonlit waistcoat familiar to the reader, had another one — a bright blue worsted one.

“A waistcoat perfect for sale,” Bender said enviously, “it would fit me just right. Sell it.”

Ippolit Matveevich felt awkward refusing his new companion and direct participant in the concession. He, wincing, agreed to sell the waistcoat for his price — eight rubles.

“Money — after the realization of our treasure,” Bender declared, taking the still warm waistcoat from Vorobyaninov.

“No, I can’t do that,” Ippolit Matveevich said, blushing. “Allow me the waistcoat back.”

Ostap’s delicate nature was outraged.

“But this is shopkeeping!” he cried. “To start a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-ruble venture and quarrel over eight rubles! Learn to live lavishly!”

Ippolit Matveevich blushed even more, took out a small notepad, and calligraphically wrote:

 

25/IV-27

Issued to Comrade Bender

1. — 8

 

Ostap looked into the notebook.

“Oh! If you’re already opening an account for me, at least keep it correctly. Set up a debit, set up a credit. Don’t forget to enter the sixty thousand rubles you owe me in the debit, and the waistcoat in the credit. The balance in my favor is fifty-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-two rubles. Still survivable.”

After this, Ostap fell into a soundless, childlike sleep. And Ippolit Matveevich took off his woolen wristbands and baronial boots, and, remaining in his patched hunting underwear, snorting, he crawled under the blanket. He was very uncomfortable. On the outer side, where the blanket was lacking, it was cold, and on the other side, he was burning from the young, idea-filled body of the great schemer. All three had dreams.

Vorobyaninov had dark dreams: microbes, the criminal investigation department, velvet Tolstoy blouses, and the coffin maker Bezenchuk in a tuxedo, but unshaven.

Ostap saw Mount Fuji-Yama, the head of the Butter Trust, and Taras Bulba selling postcards with views of Dneprostroy.

And the janitor dreamed that a horse had left the stable. In his dream, he searched for it until morning and, not finding it, woke up broken and gloomy. For a long time, he looked with surprise at the people sleeping in his bed. Understanding nothing, he took his broom and headed for the street to perform his direct duties: picking up horse droppings and shouting at the almshouse residents.

 

Chapter 7. The Traces of “Titanic”

 

Ippolit Matveevich woke up as usual at half past seven, rumbled “gut morgen,” and headed to the washbasin. He washed with pleasure: spitting, lamenting, and shaking his head to get rid of the water that had gotten into his ears. Drying himself was pleasant, but when he took the towel from his face, Ippolit Matveevich saw that it was stained with the radical black color that had been dyeing his horizontal mustache since the day before yesterday. Ippolit Matveevich’s heart sank. He rushed to his pocket mirror. The mirror reflected a large nose and a left mustache as green as young grass. Ippolit Matveevich quickly moved the mirror to the right. The right mustache was the same disgusting color. Bending his head, as if wanting to butt the mirror, the unfortunate man saw that the radical black color still dominated the center of his hair, but the edges were bordered by the same grassy fringe.

Ippolit Matveevich’s entire being let out such a loud groan that Ostap Bender opened his eyes.

“You’re out of your mind!” Bender exclaimed and immediately closed his sleepy eyelids.

“Comrade Bender,” the victim of “Titanic” whispered imploringly.

Ostap woke up after many shoves and persuasions. He looked carefully at Ippolit Matveevich and laughed joyfully. Turning away from the founding director of the concession, the chief operations manager and technical director shuddered, grabbed the back of the bed, cried, “I can’t!”  —  and then burst out laughing again.

“It’s not nice of you, Comrade Bender,” said Ippolit Matveevich, trembling his green mustache.

This gave new strength to the exhausted Ostap. His hearty laughter continued for another ten minutes. Catching his breath, he immediately became very serious.

“Why are you looking at me with such angry eyes, like a soldier at a louse? Look at yourself?”

“But the pharmacist told me it would be a radical black color. Doesn’t wash off with cold or hot water, or soap lather, or kerosene… Contraband goods.”

“Contraband? All contraband is made in Odessa, on Mala Arnautskaya Street. Show me the bottle… And then look. Did you read this?”

“I did.”

“And this  —  in small print? It clearly states that after washing with hot and cold water or soap lather and kerosene, the hair should by no means be wiped, but dried in the sun or by a primus stove… Why didn’t you dry it? Where will you go now with this green ‘fake’?”

Ippolit Matveevich was crushed. Tikhon entered. Seeing the master with green mustaches, he crossed himself and asked for a hangover cure.

“Give a ruble to the hero of labor,” Ostap suggested, “and please, don’t charge it to my account. This is your intimate business with a former colleague… Wait, old man, don’t leave, there’s a little something.”

Ostap started a conversation with the janitor about the furniture, and within five minutes, the concessionaires knew everything. All the furniture had been taken to the housing department in 1919, with the exception of one living room chair, which was first in Tikhon’s possession, and then taken from him by the quartermaster of the 2nd social security house.

“So it’s here in the house?”

“It’s here.”

“And tell me, my friend,” Vorobyaninov asked, holding his breath, “when the chair was with you, did you… not repair it?”

“It’s impossible to repair. In the old days, the work was good. Such a chair can last another thirty years — ”

“Well, go on, my friend, take another ruble, and mind you don’t say I arrived.”

“Grave, citizen Vorobyaninov.” Having sent the janitor away and shouted: “The ice has broken,” Ostap Bender again addressed Ippolit Matveevich’s mustache:

“We’ll have to dye it again. Give me the money — I’ll go to the pharmacy. Your ‘Titanic’ is useless, only good for dyeing dogs… In the old days, there was a real dye!… A racing professor once told me an exciting story. Were you interested in horse racing? No? Too bad. Exciting stuff. So… There was this famous schemer, Count Drutsky. He lost five hundred thousand at the races. A king of losing! And then, when he had nothing left but debts and the Count was thinking of suicide, a little crook gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty rubles. The Count left and returned a year later with an Orlov Trotter, a three-year-old. After that, the Count not only got his money back but even won another three hundred thousand. His Orlov Trotter ‘Makler’ with an excellent certificate always came first. In the derby, he beat ‘Mac-Mahon’ by a whole body length. Thunder!… But then Kurochkin (have you heard of him?) notices that all the Orlov Trotters start changing their coat color — only ‘Makler,’ like a darling, doesn’t change color. The scandal was unheard of! The Count was given three years. It turned out that ‘Makler’ was not an Orlov Trotter, but a re-dyed half-breed, and half-breeds are much livelier than Orlov Trotters, and they are not allowed within a mile of them. How about that?… Now that’s a dye! Not like your mustache!…”

“But the certificate? He had an excellent certificate, didn’t he?”

“The same as the label on your ‘Titanic,’ fake! Give me the money for the dye.” Ostap returned with a new mixture.

“‘Naiad.’ Perhaps better than your ‘Titanic.’ Take off your jacket!”

The re-dyeing ritual began. But the “amazing chestnut color, giving the hair softness and fluffiness,” mixed with the green of “Titanic,” unexpectedly colored Ippolit Matveevich’s head and mustache in the colors of the solar spectrum.

Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten anything since morning, angrily cursed all perfume factories, both state-owned and underground, located in Odessa, on Mala Arnautskaya Street.

“Such mustaches must not even be found on Aristide Briand,” Ostap cheerfully remarked, “but living with such ultraviolet hair in Soviet Russia is not recommended. You’ll have to shave it.”

“I can’t,” Ippolit Matveevich replied sadly, “it’s impossible.”

“What, is your mustache dear to you as a memory?”

“I can’t,” Vorobyaninov repeated, bowing his head.

“Then you’ll sit in the janitor’s room your whole life, and I’ll go for the chairs. By the way, the first chair is right above our heads.”

“Shave!”

Finding the scissors, Bender instantly snipped off the mustache; it fell silently to the floor. Having finished the haircut, the technical director took a yellowed “Gillette” razor from his pocket, and a spare blade from his wallet, and began to shave the almost weeping Ippolit Matveevich.

“I’m using my last razor on you. Don’t forget to charge two rubles to my debit for the shave and haircut.” Shuddering with grief, Ippolit Matveevich still asked:

“Why so expensive? Everywhere it costs forty kopecks!”

“For conspiracy, Comrade Field Marshal,” Bender quickly replied.

The suffering of a person whose head is being shaved with a safety razor is incredible. Ippolit Matveevich understood this from the very beginning of the operation. But the end, which comes to everything, arrived.

“Done. The meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Nervous individuals are asked not to look! Now you look like Boborykin, the famous couplet writer.”

Ippolit Matveevich shook off the disgusting scraps that had so recently been beautiful grey hairs, washed himself, and, feeling a strong burning sensation all over his head, stared at himself in the mirror for the hundredth time that day. What he saw unexpectedly pleased him. A face distorted by suffering but quite youthful, like that of an actor without an engagement, looked back at him.

“Well, march forward, the trumpet calls!” Ostap cried. “I’m off to the housing department, or rather, to the house where the housing department once was, and you — to the old women!”

“I can’t,” Ippolit Matveevich said, “it will be very difficult for me to enter my own house.”

“Ah, yes!… An exciting story! The exiled baron! Alright. You go to the housing department, and I’ll work here. Rallying point — in the janitor’s room. Parade — alley!”

 

Chapter 8. The Blue Thief

 

The quartermaster of the 2nd House of Stargorod Social Security was a shy thief. His entire being protested against stealing, but he couldn’t help but steal. He stole, and he was ashamed. He stole constantly, he was constantly ashamed, and therefore his cleanly shaven cheeks always glowed with a blush of embarrassment, bashfulness, shyness, and confusion. The quartermaster’s name was Alexander Yakovlevich, and his wife’s name was Alexandra Yakovlevna. He called her Sashkhen, she called him Alkhen. The world had never seen such a blue thief as Alexander Yakovlevich.

He was not only the quartermaster but also the general manager. The previous one had been removed for rude treatment of the residents and appointed bandmaster of a symphony orchestra. Alkhen was nothing like his ill-mannered predecessor. As part of his intensified workday, he took over the management of the house and treated the pensioners with exceptional politeness, introducing important reforms and innovations.

Ostap Bender pulled the heavy oak door of Vorobyaninov’s mansion and found himself in the vestibule. It smelled of burnt porridge here. From the upper floors came a cacophony, like a distant “hurrah” in a chain. No one was there, and no one appeared. An oak staircase, with once lacquered steps, led up two flights. Now only rings protruded from it, and the brass rods that once held the carpet to the steps were gone.

“The leader of the Comanches, however, lived in vulgar luxury,” Ostap thought as he ascended.

In the very first room, bright and spacious, sat about fifteen grey-haired old women in dresses of the cheapest mouse-colored toile de Nord, gathered in a circle. With necks strained and eyes fixed on the blooming man standing in the center, the old women sang:

 

The jingle of bells is heard from afar.

It’s the familiar rush of a troika…

And in the distance, widely stretched,

Sparkling snow, a white shroud!

 

The choir leader, in a grey tolstovka of the same toile de Nord and toile de Nord trousers, beat time with both hands and, spinning, called out:

“Sopranos, quieter! Kokushkina, softer!” He saw Ostap but, unable to restrain the movements of his hands, only gave the newcomer an unfriendly look and continued to conduct. The choir rumbled with effort, as if through a pillow:

 

Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta,

To-ro-rom, tu-ru-rum, tu-ru-rum…

 

“Excuse me, where can I see the comrade quartermaster here?” Ostap managed to say, breaking through during the first pause.

“What’s the matter, comrade?”

Ostap shook the conductor’s hand and asked amiably:

“Folk songs? Very interesting. I’m a fire inspector.”

The quartermaster was ashamed.

“Yes, yes,” he said, embarrassed, “this is just in time. I was even planning to write a report.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Ostap declared magnanimously, “I’ll write the report myself. Well, let’s look at the premises.”

Alkhen dismissed the choir with a wave of his hand, and the old women departed with small, joyful steps.

“Please follow me,” the quartermaster invited. Before proceeding, Ostap stared at the furniture in the first room. In the room stood: a table, two garden benches with iron legs (on the back of one, the name “Kolya” was deeply carved), and a reddish harmonium.

“Are primus stoves not lit in this room? Temporary ovens and such?”

“No, no. Here we have clubs: choral, drama, fine arts, and music…”

Upon reaching the word “music,” Alexander Yakovlevich blushed. First his chin flared, then his forehead and cheeks. Alkhen was very ashamed. He had long ago sold all the instruments of the brass band. The weak lungs of the old women anyway only blew puppy squeals from them. It was ridiculous to see this mass of metal in such a helpless state. Alkhen couldn’t help but steal the band. And now he was very ashamed.

On the wall, stretching from window to window, hung a slogan written in white letters on a piece of mouse-colored toile de Nord:

 

“BRASS BAND – THE PATH TO COLLECTIVE CREATIVITY.”

 

“Very good,” said Ostap, “the room for club activities presents no fire hazard. Let’s move on.”

Passing through the front rooms of Vorobyaninov’s mansion at a brisk pace, Ostap noticed no walnut chair with curved legs, upholstered in light English chintz with flowers. Orders for House No. 2 of Stargorod Social Security were pasted on the ironed marble walls. Ostap read them, occasionally asking energetically: “Are the chimneys cleaned regularly? Are the stoves in order?” And, receiving exhaustive answers, moved on.

The fire inspector diligently searched for even one corner of the house that presented a fire hazard, but in that regard, everything was safe. However, the search was unsuccessful. Ostap entered the bedrooms. The old women stood up and bowed low at his appearance. Here stood cots, covered with shaggy, dog-hair-like blankets, on one side of which the word “Feet” was factory-woven. Under the beds were small chests, pulled out exactly one-third by Alexander Yakovlevich’s initiative, who liked a military arrangement of things.

Everything in House No. 2 struck the eye with its excessive modesty: both the furniture, consisting exclusively of garden benches brought from Alexandrovsky Boulevard, now named Proletarian Subbotniks Boulevard, and the market kerosene lamps, and the very blankets with the frightening word “Feet.” But only one thing in the house was made strongly and luxuriously: the door springs.

Door mechanisms were Alexander Yakovlevich’s passion. Having put in great effort, he equipped all the doors without exception with springs of the most diverse systems and designs. There were the simplest springs in the form of an iron bar. There were pneumatic springs with brass cylindrical pumps. There were devices on pulleys with descending weighty shot bags. There were also springs of such complex designs that the social security locksmith merely shook his head in wonder. All these cylinders, springs, and counterweights possessed mighty force. The doors slammed shut with the same speed as mousetrap doors. The entire house trembled from the work of the mechanisms. The old women, with sad squeaks, fled from the doors that lunged at them, but they did not always manage to escape. The doors overtook the fugitives and pushed them in the back, and from above, with a dull caw, a counterweight was already descending, flying past the temple like a cannonball.

When Bender and the quartermaster walked through the house, the doors saluted with terrible thuds.

Behind all this fortress-like splendor, nothing was hidden — there was no chair. In search of fire hazards, the inspector entered the kitchen. There, in a large laundry boiler, porridge was cooking, the smell of which the great schemer had detected back in the vestibule. Ostap twitched his nose and said:

“Is this on machine oil?”

“By God, on pure butter!” Alkhen said, blushing to tears. “We buy it from a farm.”

He was very ashamed.

“However, this poses no fire hazard,” Ostap noted.

There was no chair in the kitchen either. There was only a stool on which the cook sat, wearing an apron and a toile de Nord cap.

“Why are all your outfits grey, and the cheesecloth such that it’s only good for wiping windows?”

The shy Alkhen bowed his head even further.

“Credits are insufficient.”

He was disgusted with himself. Ostap looked at him doubtfully and said:

“This does not concern the fire department, which I currently represent.”

Alkhen was scared.

“Against fire,” he declared, “we have taken all measures. There’s even an ‘Eclair’ foam extinguisher.”

The inspector, glancing into pantries along the way, reluctantly proceeded to the extinguisher. The red tin cone, although it was the only item in the house related to fire safety, caused particular irritation in the inspector.

“Did you buy it at the flea market?”

And, without waiting for an answer from the thunderstruck Alexander Yakovlevich, he took the “Eclair” from its rusty nail, without warning broke the capsule, and quickly turned the cone upwards. But instead of the expected foam stream, the cone emitted a thin hiss, reminiscent of the ancient melody “How Glorious Is Our Lord in Zion.”

“Of course, at the flea market,” Ostap confirmed his initial opinion and hung the still singing extinguisher back in its place. Accompanied by the hiss, they moved on. “Where could it be?” Ostap thought. “I’m starting not to like this.” And he decided not to leave the toile de Nord palace until he knew everything.

During the time the inspector and the quartermaster were climbing through attics, delving into all the details of fire safety and chimney arrangements, the 2nd House of Stargorod Social Security lived its ordinary life.

Dinner was ready. The smell of burnt porridge intensified noticeably and overwhelmed all the other sour smells residing in the house. A rustling sound filled the corridors. The old women, carrying tin bowls of porridge in both hands before them, cautiously emerged from the kitchen and sat down to eat at the common table, trying not to look at the slogans hung in the dining room, personally composed by Alexander Yakovlevich and artistically executed by Alexandra Yakovlevna. The slogans were:

 

“FOOD IS A SOURCE OF HEALTH”

“ONE EGG CONTAINS AS MUCH FAT AS 1/2 POUND OF MEAT”

“THOROUGHLY CHEWING FOOD, YOU HELP SOCIETY” AND

“MEAT IS HARMFUL”

 

All these holy words awakened in the old women memories of teeth that had disappeared even before the revolution, of eggs that had vanished around the same time, of meat that was inferior to eggs in terms of fat, and perhaps also of the society they were deprived of helping by thoroughly chewing their food.

Besides the old women, sitting at the table were Isidor Yakovlevich, Afanasy Yakovlevich, Kirill Yakovlevich, Oleg Yakovlevich, and Pasha Emilevich. Neither by age nor by gender did these young men harmonize with the tasks of social security; however, the four Yakovlevichs were Alkhen’s younger brothers, and Pasha Emilevich was Alexandra Yakovlevna’s cousin once removed. The young men, the eldest of whom was 32-year-old Pasha Emilevich, did not consider their life in the social security house abnormal. They lived in the house on the rights of old women; they also had state-owned beds with blankets on which “Feet” was written; they were dressed, like the old women, in mouse-colored toile de Nord, but thanks to their youth and strength, they ate better than the residents. They stole everything in the house that Alkhen hadn’t managed to steal. Pasha Emilevich could devour two kilograms of sprat in one sitting, which he once did, leaving the entire house without dinner.

The old women had barely begun to properly taste the porridge when the Yakovlevichs, along with Emilevich, swallowed their portions and, belching, rose from the table and went to the kitchen in search of something digestible. Dinner continued. The old women began to murmur:

“Now they’ll gorge themselves and start yelling songs!”

“And Pasha Emilevich sold a chair from the Red Corner this morning. He carried it out the back to a reseller.”

“Look, he’ll come home drunk today…” At that moment, the residents’ conversation was interrupted by a trumpet-like snort that drowned out even the continuing singing of the fire extinguisher, and a cow-like voice began:

“…invention…”

The old women, hunched over and not turning towards the loud speaker standing in the corner on the washed parquet, continued to eat, hoping that this cup would pass them by. But the loud speaker cheerfully continued:

“…Evokrrkhhhs… a valuable invention. The track foreman of the Murmansk railway, Comrade Sokutsky — Samara, Orel, Cleopatra, Ustinya, Tsaritsyn, Klementy, Iphigenia, York  —  So-kuts-ky…”

The trumpet rasped, drew breath, and in a nasal voice resumed the broadcast:

“…invented a light signaling system for snowplows. The invention has been approved by Dorizul — Darya, Onega, Raymond…”

The old women, like grey ducks, floated into their rooms. The trumpet, bouncing with its own power, continued to rage in the empty room:

“…And now, listen to the Novgorod ditties…”

Far, far away, in the very center of the earth, someone strummed balalaika strings, and the chernozem Battistini began to sing:

 

Bedbugs sat on the wall,

And squinted in the sun,

Saw the tax inspector –

Immediately kicked the bucket…

 

In the center of the earth, these ditties caused a flurry of activity. A terrible rumble was heard in the trumpet. Perhaps it was thunderous applause, or perhaps underground volcanoes had started working.

Meanwhile, the gloomy fire inspector descended the attic ladder backwards and, finding himself in the kitchen again, saw five citizens who were digging sour cabbage directly from a barrel with their hands and gorging themselves on it. They ate in silence. Only Pasha Emilevich gourmandishly twisted his head and, removing cabbage strands from his mustache, spoke with difficulty:

“It’s a sin to eat such cabbage without vodka.”

“A new batch of old women?” Ostap asked.

“These are orphans,” Alkhen replied, elbowing the inspector out of the kitchen and subtly threatening the orphans with his fist.

“Children of the Volga region?”

Alkhen hesitated.

“A heavy legacy of the tsarist regime?”

Alkhen spread his hands: well, nothing to be done, if such is the legacy.

“Co-education of both sexes using a comprehensive method?”

The shy Alexander Yakovlevich immediately, without delay, invited the fire inspector to dine on whatever God provided.

On this day, God provided Alexander Yakovlevich for dinner a bottle of zubrovka, homemade mushrooms, herring forshmak, Ukrainian borscht with first-grade meat, chicken with rice, and dried apple compote.

“Sashkhen,” Alexander Yakovlevich said, “meet a comrade from the provincial fire department.”

Ostap artistically bowed to the lady of the house and delivered such a long and ambiguous compliment that he couldn’t even finish it. Sashkhen — a tall lady, whose prettiness was somewhat marred by Nicolas-era half-sideburns — laughed quietly and drank with the men.

“I drink to your communal household!” Ostap exclaimed.

Dinner passed cheerfully, and only during the compote did Ostap remember the purpose of his visit.

“Why,” he asked, “is the inventory in your kefir establishment so meager?”

“What do you mean,” Alkhen fussed, “what about the harmonium?”

“I know, I know, vox humanum. But there’s absolutely nothing tasteful to sit on here. Just garden tubs.”

“There’s a chair in the Red Corner,” Alkhen took offense, “an English chair. They say it’s left from the old furniture.”

“By the way, I haven’t seen your Red Corner. How is it in terms of fire safety? Will it let us down? I’ll have to take a look.”

“Welcome.”

Ostap thanked the hostess for dinner and set off. In the Red Corner, no primus stoves were lit, there were no temporary ovens, the chimneys were in good repair and cleaned regularly, but the chair, to Alkhen’s immense surprise, was gone. They rushed to look for the chair. They looked under beds and benches, moved the harmonium for some reason, questioned the old women, who looked warily at Pasha Emilevich, but still did not find the chair. Pasha Emilevich showed great diligence in searching for the chair. Everyone else had calmed down, but Pasha Emilevich still wandered through the rooms, peering under carafes, moving tin tea mugs, and mumbling:

“Where could it be? It was here today, I saw it with my own eyes! It’s even funny.”

“It’s sad, maidens,” Ostap said in an icy voice.

“It’s just funny!” Pasha Emilevich repeated brazenly.

But then the constantly singing “Eclair” foam extinguisher took the highest F, which only the People’s Artist of the Republic, Nezhdanova, is capable of, paused for a second, and with a scream released the first stream of foam, flooding the ceiling and knocking the toile de Nord cap off the cook’s head. After the first stream, the foam extinguisher released a second stream of toile de Nord color, knocking down the underage Isidor Yakovlevich. After that, the “Eclair”‘s operation became uninterrupted.

Pasha Emilevich, Alkhen, and all the surviving Yakovlevichs rushed to the scene.

“Clean work!” Ostap said. “Idiotic invention!”

The old women, left alone with Ostap, without supervision, immediately began to state their grievances:

“He settled his brothers in the house. They gorge themselves.”

“He feeds milk to piglets, but shoves porridge at us.”

“He took everything out of the house.”

“Quiet, maidens,” Ostap said, backing away, “this is for the labor inspectorate to deal with. The senate hasn’t authorized me.” The old women didn’t listen.

“And Pasha Melentievich, he took that chair today and sold it. I saw it myself.”

“To whom?” Ostap shouted.

“He sold it — that’s all. He tried to sell my blanket.” In the corridor, a fierce struggle with the extinguisher was ongoing. Finally, human genius triumphed, and the foam extinguisher, trampled by Pasha Emilevich’s iron feet, released its last sluggish stream and fell silent forever.

The old women were sent to wash the floor. The fire inspector lowered his head and, swaying his hips slightly, approached Pasha Emilevich.

“An acquaintance of mine,” Ostap said weightily, “also sold state furniture. Now he’s become a monk — he’s in prison.”

“Your baseless accusations are strange to me,” Pasha Emilevich remarked, from whom emanated a strong smell of foam streams.

“Who did you sell the chair to?” Ostap asked in a jingling whisper.

Here Pasha Emilevich, possessing a supernatural intuition, understood that he was about to be beaten, perhaps even with kicks.

“To a reseller,” he replied.

“Address?”

“I saw him for the first time in my life.”

“First time in your life?”

“By God.”

“I’d punch you in the face,” Ostap dreamily announced, “but Zarathustra doesn’t allow it. Well, get lost.”

Pasha Emilevich smiled ingratiatingly and began to retreat.

“Well, you, abortion victim,” Ostap said arrogantly, “tie up the ends, don’t cast off. Was the reseller a blonde, a brunette?”

Pasha Emilevich began to explain in detail. Ostap listened carefully and concluded the interview with the words:

“This, of course, does not concern the fire department.”

In the corridor, the shy Alkhen approached the departing Bender and gave him a chervonets.

“This is Article 114 of the Criminal Code,” Ostap said, “giving a bribe to an official in the performance of duty.”

But he took the money and, without saying goodbye to Alexander Yakovlevich, headed for the exit. The door, equipped with a mighty device, opened with difficulty and gave Ostap a kick to the behind weighing one and a half tons.

“The strike happened,” Ostap said, rubbing the bruised spot, “the meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury!”

 

Chapter 9. Where are Your Curls?

 

While Ostap was inspecting the 2nd House of Stargorod Social Security, Ippolit Matveevich, having left the janitor’s room and feeling cold on his shaven head, moved through the streets of his hometown.

Bright spring water ran along the pavement. There was a continuous crackling and clatter of diamond-like drops falling from the roofs. Sparrows hunted for manure. The sun sat on all the roofs. Golden cart horses deliberately clattered their hooves loudly on the bare pavement and, bowing their ears low, listened with pleasure to their own clatter. On the damp telegraph poles, wet advertisements with blurred letters shivered: “Guitar lessons by digital system” and “Lessons in social studies for those preparing for the people’s conservatory.” A platoon of Red Army soldiers in winter helmets crossed a puddle that began at the Stargiko shop and stretched all the way to the provincial planning department building, whose pediment was crowned with plaster tigers, victories, and cobras.

Ippolit Matveevich walked, looking with interest at the passers-by. He, who had lived his whole life in Russia and experienced the revolution, had seen how everyday life broke, was altered, and changed. He was used to this, but it turned out that he was only used to it at one point on the globe — in the district town of M. Arriving in his hometown, he realized he understood nothing. He felt awkward and strange, as if he truly were an emigrant who had just arrived from Paris. In former times, driving through the city in a carriage, he would invariably meet acquaintances or people he knew by sight. Now he had walked four blocks along Lenskikh Sobytiy Street, but no acquaintances appeared. They had vanished, or perhaps they had aged so much that they were unrecognizable, or perhaps they had become unrecognizable because they wore different clothes, different hats. Perhaps they had changed their gait. In any case, they were gone.

Ippolit Matveevich walked pale, cold, lost. He had completely forgotten that he needed to search for the housing department. He crossed from sidewalk to sidewalk and turned into alleys where the unharnessed cart horses deliberately clattered their hooves even louder. In the alleys, there was more winter, and here and there lay rotting ice. The entire city was a different color. Blue houses had turned green, yellow ones grey, the bombs had disappeared from the fire tower, no firemen walked on it anymore, and the streets were much noisier than Ippolit Matveevich remembered.

On Big Pushkinskaya, Ippolit Matveevich was surprised by the never-before-seen tracks and tram poles with wires in Stargorod. Ippolit Matveevich did not read newspapers and did not know that by May Day, two tram lines were to be opened in Stargorod: Vokzalnaya (Station) and Privoznaya (Market). At times, Ippolit Matveevich felt as if he had never left Stargorod, and at other times, Stargorod appeared to him as a completely unfamiliar place.

Lost in such thoughts, he reached Marx and Engels Street. At this spot, a childish sensation returned to him: that at any moment, an acquaintance must surely emerge from behind the corner of the two-story house with a long balcony. Ippolit Matveevich even paused in anticipation. But no acquaintance appeared. First, a glazier appeared from around the corner with a box of Bohemian glass and a loaf of copper-colored putty. Then, a dandy in a suede cap with a yellow leather visor emerged from around the corner. Behind him ran children, primary school students, with books strapped to their backs.

Suddenly, Ippolit Matveevich felt heat in his palms and coolness in his stomach. Directly towards him came an unknown citizen with a kind face, holding a chair suspended, like a cello. Ippolit Matveevich, who was unexpectedly seized by hiccups, peered closer and immediately recognized his chair.

Yes! It was a Gambs chair, upholstered in English chintz with flowers, darkened by the revolutionary storms; it was a walnut chair with curved legs. Ippolit Matveevich felt as if he had been shot in the ear.

“Knives sharpened, scissors, razors honed!” a baritone bass cried nearby. And immediately a thin echo reached him:

“Solder, stuff!..”

“Moscow newspaper ‘Izvestiya,’ ‘Smebach’ magazine, ‘Krasnaya Niva’ (Red Field)!..”

Somewhere upstairs, glass shattered with a clang. A Melstroy truck rumbled through the city, shaking it. A militiaman whistled. Life was boiling and overflowing. There was no time to lose.

Ippolit Matveevich approached the outrageous stranger with a leopard-like leap and silently pulled the chair towards himself. The stranger pulled the chair back. Then Ippolit Matveevich, holding onto the leg with his left hand, forcefully tried to peel the stranger’s thick fingers from the chair.

“Robbery,” the stranger whispered, holding the chair even tighter.

“Allow me, allow me,” Ippolit Matveevich stammered, continuing to peel off the stranger’s fingers.

A crowd began to gather. About three people already stood nearby, watching the conflict unfold with the keenest interest.

Then both glanced around warily and, without looking at each other but not releasing the chair from their tenacious grip, quickly walked forward, as if nothing had happened.

“What is this?” Ippolit Matveevich thought desperately.

What the stranger was thinking could not be understood, but his gait was most determined.

They walked faster and faster, and upon seeing an empty lot in a secluded alley, covered with rubble and building materials, they turned into it as if on command. Here, Ippolit Matveevich’s strength quadrupled.

“Allow me, then!” he shouted, unashamedly.

“Help!” the stranger exclaimed faintly.

And since both their hands were occupied with the chair, they began to kick each other. The stranger’s boots had horseshoes, and Ippolit Matveevich fared quite badly at first. But he quickly adapted and, hopping right and left as if dancing a krakowiak, dodged his opponent’s blows and tried to hit the enemy in the stomach. He failed to hit the stomach because the chair was in the way, but he did hit his opponent’s kneecap, after which the latter could only kick with his left leg.

“Oh God!” the stranger whispered. And then Ippolit Matveevich saw that the stranger, who had outrageously stolen his chair, was none other than the priest of the Church of Flora and Lavra — Father Fyodor Vostrikov. Ippolit Matveevich was taken aback.

“Father!” he exclaimed, removing his hands from the chair in surprise.

Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally unclasped his fingers. The chair, unsupported by anyone, fell onto the broken bricks.

“Where is your mustache, esteemed Ippolit Matveevich?” the spiritual person asked with the utmost sarcasm.

“And where are your curls? You had curls, didn’t you?”

Unbearable contempt was heard in Ippolit Matveevich’s words. He drenched Father Fyodor with a look of extraordinary nobility and, taking the chair under his arm, turned to leave. But Father Fyodor, having already recovered from his embarrassment, did not grant Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of “No, I beg you,” he again grabbed the chair. The first position was restored.

The opponents stood, clutching the legs like cats or boxers, eyeing each other, pacing from side to side.

A heart-stopping pause lasted a full minute.

“So it’s you, Holy Father,” Ippolit Matveevich grated, “hunting for my property?”

With these words, Ippolit Matveevich kicked the Holy Father in the thigh.

Father Fyodor deftly kicked the marshal maliciously in the groin, making him double over.

“This is not your property.”

“Whose then?”

“Not yours.”

“Whose then?”

“Not yours, not yours.”

“Whose then, whose?”

“Not yours.”

Hissing like this, they kicked furiously.

“Whose property is this?” the marshal wailed, burying his foot in the Holy Father’s stomach. Overcoming the pain, the Holy Father said firmly:

“This is nationalized property.”

“Nationalized?”

“Yes, yes, nationalized.”

They spoke with such unusual speed that the words merged.

“Nationalized by whom?”

“By Soviet power! By Soviet power!”

“Which power?”

“The power of the working people.”

“A-a-ah!..” Ippolit Matveevich said, growing cold. “By the power of workers and peasants?”

“Ye-e-e-es!”

“M-m-m! So, perhaps you, Holy Father, are a party member?”

“M-maybe?”

Here Ippolit Matveevich could not bear it and, with a wail of “maybe!”, spat heartily into Father Fyodor’s kind face. Father Fyodor immediately spat back into Ippolit Matveevich’s face and also hit the mark. There was nothing to wipe the saliva with: their hands were occupied with the chair. Ippolit Matveevich made the sound of an opening door and pushed his enemy with the chair with all his might. The enemy fell, pulling the gasping Vorobyaninov with him. The struggle continued on the ground.

Suddenly, there was a crack, and both front legs broke off at once. Forgetting about each other, the opponents began to tear at the walnut treasure chest. With a mournful cry like a seagull, the English chintz with flowers ripped apart. The back flew off, thrown by a mighty impulse. The treasure hunters tore at the matting along with the copper buttons and, hurting themselves on the springs, plunged their fingers into the wool stuffing. The disturbed springs sang. Five minutes later, the chair was gnawed to pieces. Only bits and pieces remained. Springs rolled in all directions. The wind carried rotten wool across the wasteland. The curved legs lay in a pit. There were no diamonds.

“Well, did you find them?” Ippolit Matveevich asked, out of breath.

Father Fyodor, covered in bits of wool, was panting and silent.

“You’re a swindler!” Ippolit Matveevich shouted. “I’ll smash your face, Father Fyodor!”

“You’re too short-handed,” the priest replied.

“Where will you go, all covered in fluff?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Shame on you, Father! You’re just a thief!”

“I didn’t steal anything from you!”

“How did you find out about this? Did you use the secret of confession for your own benefit? Very good! Very beautiful!”

Ippolit Matveevich, with an indignant “phooey,” left the wasteland and, cleaning the sleeves of his coat as he walked, headed home. At the corner of Lenskikh Sobytiy Street and Yerofeevsky Lane, Vorobyaninov saw his companion. The technical director and chief manager of the concession stood half-turned, raising his left leg. His suede boot uppers were being polished with canary-yellow cream. Ippolit Matveevich ran up to him. The director carelessly hummed “Shimmy”:

Camels used to do this before,

Batacudas used to dance like that before,

But now the whole world dances the shimmy…

“Well, how was the housing department?” he asked briskly and immediately added: “Wait, don’t tell me, you’re too agitated, cool down.”

Giving the shoe shiner seven kopecks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm and dragged him down the street. Ostap listened with great attention to everything the agitated Ippolit Matveevich recounted.

“Aha! A small black beard? Right! A coat with a lambskin collar? I understand. This is the chair from the almshouse. Bought this morning for three rubles.”

“But wait…”

And Ippolit Matveevich told the chief concessionaire about all of Father Fyodor’s scoundrelly acts. Ostap’s mood darkened.

“A sour business,” he said, “Leichtweiss’s cave. A mysterious rival. We need to get ahead of him, and we can always feel his face later.”

While the friends had a snack at the “Stenka Razin” beer hall and Ostap inquired which building used to house the housing department and what institution was in it now, the day ended.

The golden cart horses had turned brown again. The diamond-like drops cooled in flight and splashed to the ground. In the beer halls and the “Phoenix” restaurant, beer prices had risen: evening had arrived. Electric lamps lit up on Big Pushkinskaya, and a detachment of pioneers marched home with a drumming stomp from their first spring stroll.

The tigers, victories, and cobras of the provincial planning department glowed mysteriously under the moon entering the city.

Walking home with Ostap, who had suddenly fallen silent, Ippolit Matveevich looked at the provincial planning department’s tigers and cobras. In his time, the provincial zemstvo administration was located here, and citizens were very proud of the cobras, considering them a Stargorod landmark.

“I’ll find them,” Ippolit Matveevich thought, gazing at the plaster victory.

The tigers gently wagged their tails, the cobras joyfully contracted, and Ippolit Matveevich’s soul filled with confidence.

 

Chapter 10. The Locksmith, the Parrot, and the Fortune-Teller

 

House No. 7 on Pereleshinsky Lane was not among the best buildings in Stargorod. Its two stories, built in the Second Empire style, were adorned with battered lion heads, extraordinarily similar to the face of the then-famous writer Artsybashev. There were exactly eight Artsybashev-like visages, one for each window facing the lane. These lion faces were located in the window keys.

There were two more decorations on the house, but these were purely commercial. On one side hung an azure sign:

ODESSA BAGEL ARTEL “MOSCOW BAGELS”

 

The sign depicted a young man in a tie and short French trousers. In one twisted hand, he held a fabulous horn of plenty, from which ochre Moscow bagels tumbled in an avalanche, also serving as Odessa bagels when needed. The young man smiled voluptuously. On the other side, the “Bystroupak” packaging office announced itself to esteemed client-citizens with a black sign featuring round golden letters.

Despite the noticeable difference in signs and circulating capital, both these disparate enterprises were engaged in the same business: speculating in all kinds of manufactured goods — coarse-wool, fine-wool, cotton, and if silk of good colors and patterns came their way, then silk as well.

Passing through the gate, bathed in tunnel darkness and water, and turning right into the courtyard with a cement well, one could see two doors without porches, opening directly onto the sharp stones of the courtyard. A dull copper plaque with the surname inscribed in flowing letters was on the right door:

 

1. M. POLESOV

 

The left one was equipped with a small white tin sign:

 

FASHIONS AND HATS

 

This too was merely an appearance. Inside the fashion and hat workshop, there was neither trim, nor finishing, nor headless mannequins with military bearing, nor headed blocks for elegant ladies’ hats. Instead of all this tinsel, a spotlessly white parrot in red underpants lived in the three-room apartment. The parrot was plagued by fleas, but it couldn’t complain to anyone because it didn’t speak in a human voice. All day long, the parrot gnawed seeds and spat husks onto the carpet through the bars of its tower-like cage. All it lacked was a harmonica and new whistling galoshes to resemble a drunken solitary artisan. Dark brown curtains with blobs swayed on the windows. Dark brown tones predominated in the apartment. Above the piano hung a reproduction of Böcklin’s “Isle of the Dead” in a fantastical dark-green polished oak frame, under glass. One corner of the glass had long since fallen out, and the exposed part of the picture was so adorned with flies that it completely merged with the frame. What was happening in this part of the Isle of the Dead — it was impossible to tell anymore.

In the bedroom, the hostess herself sat on the bed and, leaning her elbows on an octagonal table covered with a dirty Richelieu tablecloth, laid out cards. In front of her sat the widow Gritsatsuyeva in a fluffy shawl.

“I must warn you, my dear,” the hostess said, “that I don’t charge less than fifty kopecks per session.”

The widow, knowing no bounds in her desire to find a new husband, agreed to pay the stipulated price.

“Only please, tell me the future too,” she pleaded plaintively.

“You should be read as the queen of clubs.” The widow objected:

“I’ve always been the queen of hearts.” The hostess indifferently agreed and began to combine the cards. A rough reading of the widow’s fate was given within a few minutes. The widow was to expect major and minor troubles, and on her heart lay a king of clubs, with whom a queen of diamonds was friendly.

The final fortune-telling was done by palmistry. The lines on widow Gritsatsuyeva’s hand were clean, strong, and flawless. The life line extended so far that its end reached her pulse, and if the line spoke the truth, the widow should live until Judgment Day. The line of intellect and art gave reason to hope that the widow would abandon her grocery trade and bestow upon humanity unparalleled masterpieces in any field of art, science, or social studies. The mounts of Venus on the widow’s hand resembled Manchurian hills and revealed marvelous reserves of love and tenderness.

The fortune-teller explained all this to the widow, using words and terms common among graphologists, palmists, and horse dealers.

“Thank you very much, madam,” the widow said, “now I know who the king of clubs is. And the queen of diamonds is also very familiar to me. Is the king a marrying one?”

“Marrying, dear.”

The invigorated widow strode home. And the fortune-teller, sweeping the cards into a drawer, yawned, revealing the maw of a fifty-year-old woman, and went to the kitchen. There she fussed with dinner, which was warming on a “Grets” kerosene stove, wiped her hands on her apron like a cook, took a bucket with chipped enamel, and went out into the yard for water.

She walked through the yard, moving heavily on her flat feet. Her half-ruined bust bounced limply in her re-dyed blouse. A whisk of greying hair grew on her head. She was an old woman, rather dirty, looked at everyone suspiciously, and loved sweets. If Ippolit Matveevich had seen her now, he would never have recognized Elena Bour, his old beloved, about whom the court secretary once said in verse that she was “inviting kisses, all so airy.” At the well, Madame Bour was greeted by her neighbor Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov, an intellectual locksmith, who was filling a gasoline can with water. Polesov had the face of an opera devil, carefully smeared with soot before being released onto the stage.

After exchanging greetings, the neighbors began to talk about the matter that occupied all of Stargorod.

“To what we’ve come,” Polesov said ironically, “yesterday I ran all over the city, couldn’t get 3/8 inch dies. None. None! And they’re going to launch a tram.”

Elena Stanislavovna, who had as much understanding of 3/8 inch dies as a student of Leonardo da Vinci’s choreography courses has of agriculture, supposing that cottage cheese is extracted from dumplings, nevertheless sympathized:

“What stores there are now! Now it’s only queues, and no stores. And the names of these stores are the most horrible. Stargiko!..”

“No, you know, Elena Stanislavovna, that’s nothing! They still have four ‘General Electric Company’ motors left. Well, those will somehow work, although the bodies are such trash!… The glass isn’t on rubber. I saw it myself. Everything will rattle… Gloom! And the other motors are Kharkiv work. Solid State Industrial Non-Ferrous Metals. They won’t last a verst. I looked at them…”

The locksmith irritably fell silent. His black face gleamed in the sun. The whites of his eyes were yellowish. Among the artisan-motorists, with whom Stargorod abounded, Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov was the most awkward and most often got into trouble. The reason for this was his excessively effervescent nature. He was an effervescent idler. He constantly frothed. It was impossible to find him in his own workshop, located in the second courtyard of House No. 7 on Pereleshinsky Lane. A burnt-out portable forge stood forlornly in the middle of the stone shed, in the corners of which were piled punctured inner tubes, torn “Triangle” tire treads, reddish locks — so huge that one could lock cities with them — soft fuel tanks with “Indian” and “Wanderer” inscriptions, a child’s spring carriage, a perpetually stalled dynamo, rotten raw leather belts, oily tow, worn sandpaper, an Austrian bayonet, and a multitude of torn, bent, and crushed junk. Customers could not find Viktor Mikhailovich. Viktor Mikhailovich was already directing something somewhere. He had no time for work. He could not calmly watch a drayman with cargo entering his or someone else’s yard. Polesov immediately went out into the yard and, with his hands clasped behind his back, contemptuously observed the actions of the driver. Finally, his heart could not bear it.

“Who drives in like that?” he shouted in horror. “Turn around!”

The frightened driver turned.

“Where are you turning, mug?” Viktor Mikhailovich suffered, lunging at the horse. “In the old days, they would have slapped you, then you would have turned.”

After commanding like this for half an hour, Polesov was about to return to the workshop, where an unrepaired bicycle pump awaited him, but then the calm life of the city was usually disturbed again by some misunderstanding. Either carts would get their axles tangled in the street, and Viktor Mikhailovich would indicate how best and quickest to untangle them; or a telegraph pole would be changed, and Polesov would check its perpendicularity to the ground with his own specially brought plumb bob from the workshop; or, finally, a fire brigade would pass by, and Polesov, agitated by the sounds of the trumpet and incinerated by the fire of anxiety, would run after the chariots.

However, at times, Viktor Mikhailovich was overtaken by the element of real action. For several days, he would hide in the workshop and work silently. Children freely ran around the yard and shouted whatever they wanted, draymen described any curves in the yard, carts in the street completely stopped getting tangled, and fire chariots and hearses rolled alone to fires — Viktor Mikhailovich was working. Once, after one such binge, he led a motorcycle into the yard, like a ram by the horns, assembled from bits of cars, fire extinguishers, bicycles, and typewriters. The one-and-a-half horsepower engine was a Wanderer, the wheels were Davidsons, and other essential parts had long lost their brand. A cardboard poster “Test” hung from the saddle on a string. A crowd gathered. Without looking at anyone, Viktor Mikhailovich turned the pedal with his hand. There was no spark for ten minutes. Then there was a metallic munching sound, the device trembled and enveloped itself in dirty smoke. Viktor Mikhailovich sprang into the saddle, and the motorcycle, gaining insane speed, carried him through the tunnel to the middle of the pavement and immediately stopped, as if cut off by a zero. Viktor Mikhailovich was about to dismount and inspect his mysterious machine, but it suddenly reversed and, carrying its creator through the same tunnel, stopped at the starting point — in the middle of the courtyard, grumbled, sighed, and exploded. Viktor Mikhailovich miraculously survived, and from the debris of the motorcycle, during the next drinking spree, he built a stationary engine that looked very much like a real one but did not work.

The culmination of the intellectual locksmith’s academic activity was the epic of the gate of the neighboring house No. 5. The housing cooperative of this house concluded a contract with Viktor Mikhailovich, according to which Polesov undertook to bring the iron gate of the house into full order and paint it in some economical color, at his discretion. On the other hand, the housing cooperative undertook to pay V. M. Polesov, upon acceptance of the work by a special commission, twenty-one rubles and seventy-five kopecks. Stamp duties were charged to the performer of the work.

Viktor Mikhailovich dragged away the gate like Samson. In the workshop, he enthusiastically set to work. Two days were spent on dismantling the gate. It was disassembled into its component parts. Cast-iron curls lay in the children’s carriage; iron bars and spears were stacked under the workbench. Several more days were spent inspecting the damage. And then a big nuisance occurred in the city: a main water pipe burst on Drovyanaya Street, and Viktor Mikhailovich spent the rest of the week at the accident site, smiling ironically, shouting at the workers, and constantly peering into the chasm.

When Viktor Mikhailovich’s organizational fervor somewhat subsided, he again approached the gate, but it was too late: the courtyard children were already playing with the cast-iron curls and spears of the gate of house No. 5. Seeing the enraged locksmith, the children fearfully dropped their trinkets and ran away. Half of the curls were missing, and they could not be found. After this, Viktor Mikhailovich completely lost interest in the gate.

And in house No. 5, wide open, terrible events were taking place. Wet laundry was stolen from the attics, and one evening even a boiling samovar was carried away from the courtyard. Viktor Mikhailovich personally participated in the pursuit of the thief, but the thief, although carrying a boiling samovar in his outstretched hands, from whose rigid pipe flames shot out, ran very briskly and, turning back, cursed Viktor Mikhailovich, who was ahead of everyone, with foul words. But most of all, the janitor of house No. 5 suffered. He lost his nightly earnings: there was no gate, nothing to open, and no one to pay him his kopecks for letting them in. At first, the janitor came to inquire when the gate would be reassembled, then he begged Christ and God, and finally he began to utter vague threats. The housing cooperative sent Viktor Mikhailovich written reminders. The matter smelled of a court case. The situation became more and more tense.

Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the enthusiastic locksmith continued their conversation.

“Given the absence of impregnated sleepers,” Viktor Mikhailovich shouted across the entire courtyard, “it won’t be a tram, but just misery!”

“When will all this end!” Elena Stanislavovna said. “We live like savages.”

“There’s no end to it… Yes! Do you know who I saw today? Vorobyaninov.”

Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the well, still holding the full bucket of water in amazement.

“I go to the communal economy to renew the lease for the workshop, I walk down the corridor. Suddenly two people approach me. I look — something familiar. As if it were Vorobyaninov’s face. And they ask: ‘Tell me, what kind of institution used to be in this building?’ I say that it used to be a girls’ gymnasium, and then the housing department. ‘Why do you ask?’ I ask. And they say ‘thank you’ and walk on. Then I clearly saw that it was Vorobyaninov himself, only without a mustache. How did he get here? And the other one with him — a handsome man. Clearly a former officer. And then I thought…”

At that moment, Viktor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant. Interrupting his speech, he grabbed his can and quickly hid behind a garbage bin. The janitor of house No. 5 slowly entered the courtyard, stopped by the well, and began to survey the courtyard buildings. Not noticing Viktor Mikhailovich anywhere, he grew sad.

“Viktor the locksmith isn’t here again?” he asked Elena Stanislavovna.

“Oh, I don’t know anything,” the fortune-teller said, “I don’t know anything.”

And in extraordinary agitation, spilling water from the bucket, she hurriedly went to her place.

The janitor stroked the cement block of the well and went to the workshop. Two steps after the sign:

 

ENTRANCE TO THE LOCKSMITH’S WORKSHOP

 

there was another sign:

 

LOCKSMITH’S WORKSHOP AND PRIMUS REPAIR

 

under which hung a heavy lock. The janitor kicked the lock and said with hatred:

“Oh, gangrene!”

The janitor stood by the workshop for another three minutes, filling himself with the most venomous feelings, then tore off the sign with a crash, carried it to the middle of the courtyard, to the well, and, standing on it with both feet, began to make a scene.

“Thieves live in your house number seven!” the janitor shrieked. “All kinds of scoundrels! A seven-fathered viper! Has a secondary education!… I don’t care about your secondary education!… Damned gangrene!..”

At that time, the seven-fathered viper with a secondary education sat behind the garbage bin on the can and was yearning.

Frames burst open with a crash, and cheerful residents peered out of the windows. From the street, curious people slowly entered the courtyard. At the sight of the audience, the janitor became even more enraged.

“Mechanic-locksmith!” the janitor screamed. “You dog aristocrat!”

The janitor liberally interspersed parliamentary expressions with obscene words, which he preferred. The weaker female sex, thickly clustered on the windowsills, was very indignant at the janitor but did not leave the windows.

“I’ll smash your face!” the janitor raged. “Educated fellow!”

When the scandal was at its peak, a militiaman appeared and silently began to drag the troublemaker to the district station. The young men from “Bystroupak” helped the militiaman.

The janitor humbly hugged the militiaman around the neck and cried. The danger had passed.

Then Viktor Mikhailovich, who had been longing to get out, leaped from behind the garbage bin. The audience buzzed.

“Boor!” Viktor Mikhailovich shouted after the procession. “Boor! I’ll show you! Scoundrel!”

The bitterly sobbing janitor heard none of this. He was being carried in their arms to the station. To the same place, as material evidence, they dragged the sign “Locksmith’s workshop and primus repair.” Viktor Mikhailovich continued to swagger for a long time.

“Sons of bitches,” he said, addressing the spectators, “they think too highly of themselves! Boors!”

“That’s enough, Viktor Mikhailovich!” Elena Stanislavovna shouted from the window. “Come to my place for a minute.”

She placed a saucer of compote in front of Viktor Mikhailovich and, pacing the room, began to ask questions.

“But I’m telling you, it’s him, without a mustache, but it’s him,” Viktor Mikhailovich shouted as usual, “well, I know him perfectly! Vorobyaninov, exactly alike!”

“Quiet, my God! Why do you think he came?”

An ironic smile appeared on Viktor Mikhailovich’s black face.

“Well, what do you think?” He smiled with even greater irony.

“Certainly not to sign treaties with the Bolsheviks.”

“Do you think he’s in danger?”

The reserves of irony accumulated by Viktor Mikhailovich over ten years of revolution were inexhaustible. Series of smiles of varying intensity and skepticism played on his face.

“Who in Soviet Russia is not in danger, especially a person in Vorobyaninov’s position? Mustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off for nothing.”

“Was he sent from abroad?” Elena Stanislavovna asked, almost choking.

“Undoubtedly,” the ingenious locksmith replied.

“For what purpose is he here?”

“Don’t be a child.”

“It doesn’t matter. I need to see him.”

“And do you know what you’re risking?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter! After ten years of separation, I cannot help but see Ippolit Matveevich.”

It truly seemed to her that fate had separated them at a time when they loved each other.

“I beg you, 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 red underpants, dozing on its perch, was startled by the loud conversation, flipped upside down, and froze in that position.

“Elena Stanislavovna,” the mechanic-locksmith said, rising and pressing his hands to his chest, “I will find him and contact him.”

“Perhaps you’d like more compote?” the fortune-teller asked, moved.

Viktor Mikhailovich ate the compote, gave a harsh lecture on the improper design of the parrot’s cage, and said goodbye to Elena Stanislavovna, recommending that she keep everything in the strictest confidence.

 

Chapter 11. The Alphabet of “The Mirror of Life”

 

On the second day, the companions realized that living in the janitor’s room was no longer convenient. Tikhon grumbled, completely bewildered after seeing his master first with a black mustache, then a green one, and finally without any mustache at all. There was nowhere to sleep. The janitor’s room smelled of rotting manure, emanating from Tikhon’s new felt boots. The old felt boots stood in the corner and did not ozonate the air either.

“I consider the evening of reminiscences closed,” Ostap said, “we need to move to a hotel.”

Ippolit Matveevich flinched.

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“We’ll have to register there.”

“Is your passport not in order?”

“No, the passport is in order, but my surname is well known in the city. There will be talk.”

The concessionaires fell silent in thought.

“Do you like the surname Mikhelson?” the magnificent Ostap asked unexpectedly.

“Which Mikhelson? The senator?”

“No. A member of the union of Soviet trade employees.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“That’s from a lack of technical skills. Don’t be a ladybug.”

Bender took a trade union card from his green jacket and handed it to Ippolit Matveevich.

“Konrad Karlovich Mikhelson, forty-eight years old, non-party, single, union member since 1921, a highly moral person, a good acquaintance of mine, seems to be a friend of children… But you don’t have to be friends with children: the police won’t demand that of you.”

Ippolit Matveevich blushed.

“But is it appropriate?”

“Compared to our concession, this act, though provided for by the Criminal Code, still has the innocent appearance of a children’s game of rat.”

Vorobyaninov still stumbled.

“You are an idealist, Konrad Karlovich. You’re lucky, otherwise, imagine, you might suddenly have to become some Papa-Khristozopoulo or Zlovunov.”

Quick agreement followed, and the concessionaires, without saying goodbye to Tikhon, went out into the street. They settled in the furnished rooms “Sorbonne.” Ostap agitated the entire small staff of hotel servants. First, he surveyed the seven-ruble rooms, but was dissatisfied with their furnishings. He liked the furnishings of the five-ruble rooms better, but the carpets were somewhat shabby and the smell was offensive. In the three-ruble rooms, everything was fine, except for the paintings.

“I cannot live in the same room with landscapes,” Ostap said.

They had to settle in a room for one ruble eighty kopecks. There were no landscapes, no carpets, and the furniture was strictly maintained: two beds and a nightstand.

“Stone Age style,” Ostap noted with approval. “And are there no prehistoric animals in the mattresses?”

“Depends on the season,” the cunning corridor attendant replied, “if, for example, there’s some provincial congress, then, of course, no, because there are many passengers and a big cleaning takes place before them. But at other times, it really happens that they run in. From the neighboring ‘Livadia’ rooms.”

On the same day, the concessionaires visited the Stargorod Communal Economy Department, where they received all the necessary information. It turned out that the housing department had been disbanded in 1921 and that its extensive archive had been merged with the archive of the Stargorod Communal Economy Department.

The great schemer set to work. By evening, the companions already knew the home address of the archive manager, Varfolomey Korobeinikov, a former official of the city administration’s chancellery, now an office worker.

Ostap put on a worsted waistcoat, beat his jacket against the back of the bed, demanded one ruble twenty kopecks from Ippolit Matveevich for representation expenses, and set off to visit the archivist. Ippolit Matveevich remained in the “Sorbonne” and nervously began to pace in the gorge between the two beds. That evening, green and cold, the fate of the entire enterprise was being decided. If they could get copies of the orders by which the furniture confiscated from Vorobyaninov’s mansion was distributed, the дело could be considered half successful. Further difficulties, of course, were unimaginable, but the thread would already be in their hands.

“Just to get the orders,” Ippolit Matveevich whispered, falling onto the bed, “just the orders!..”

The springs of the broken mattress bit him like fleas. He didn’t feel it. He still vaguely imagined what would follow the receipt of the orders, but he was sure that then everything would go smoothly: “And with butter,” it somehow spun in his head, “you won’t spoil the porridge.”

Meanwhile, a big mess was brewing. Overcome by a rosy dream, Ippolit Matveevich tossed and turned on the bed. The springs beneath him bleated.

Ostap had to cross the entire city. Korobeinikov lived in Gusishche — a suburb of Stargorod.

Mainly railway workers lived there. Sometimes, above the houses, along the embankment fenced with a thin-walled concrete fence, a puffing locomotive would pass in reverse. The roofs of the houses would be momentarily illuminated by the blazing fire of the locomotive’s firebox. Sometimes empty wagons would roll, sometimes firecrackers would explode. Among the shacks and temporary barracks stretched long brick buildings of still damp cooperative houses.

Ostap passed a glowing island — the railway club, checked the address on a piece of paper, and stopped at the archivist’s small house. He twisted the doorbell with the embossed letters “please twist.”

After lengthy inquiries, “to whom” and “why,” they opened for him, and he found himself in a dark entrance hall cluttered with cabinets. In the darkness, someone was breathing on Ostap, but said nothing.

“Where is citizen Korobeinikov here?” Bender asked.

The breathing person took Ostap’s hand and led him into the dining room, lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw before him a small, neat old man with an unusually flexible back. There was no doubt that this old man was citizen Korobeinikov himself. Ostap pulled up a chair without invitation and sat down.

The old man fearlessly looked at the self-appointed guest and remained silent. Ostap politely began the conversation first:

“I’ve come to you on business. Do you work in the Stargorod Communal Economy archive?”

The old man’s back moved and arched affirmatively.

“And before that, you worked in the housing department?”

“I served everywhere,” the old man said cheerfully.

“Even in the city administration’s chancellery?”

At this, Ostap smiled gracefully. The old man’s back writhed for a long time and finally settled in a position indicating that service in the city administration was a long-past affair and that it was absolutely impossible to remember everything.

“But allow me to ask anyway, to what do I owe this honor?” the host asked, looking at the guest with interest.

“I will allow it,” the guest replied. “I am Vorobyaninov’s son.”

“Which one? The marshal’s?”

“His.”

“And is he alive?”

“Deceased, citizen Korobeinikov. Passed away.”

“Yes,” the old man said without much sadness, “a sad event. But, it seems, he had no children?”

“No,” Ostap kindly confirmed.

“How then?..”

“Nothing. I am from a morganatic marriage.”

“Are you Elena Stanislavovna’s son?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“And how is her health?”

“Mama has long been in the grave.”

“So, so, oh, how sad!”

And for a long time, the old man looked at Ostap with tears of sympathy, although no later than today he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the market, in the meat row.

“Everyone dies,” he said. “But still, allow me to ask, on what business, esteemed sir, I don’t know your name…”

“Waldemar,” Ostap quickly supplied.

“Vladimir Ippolitovich? Very good. So. I’m listening to you, Vladimir Ippolitovich.”

The old man sat down at the table, covered with a patterned oilcloth, and looked directly into Ostap’s eyes.

Ostap expressed his sorrow for his parents in carefully chosen words. He deeply regretted intruding so late into the dwelling of the esteemed archivist and causing him inconvenience with his visit, but hoped that the esteemed archivist would forgive him when he learned what feeling had prompted him to do so.

“I would like,” Ostap concluded with inexpressible filial love, “to find something of father’s furniture to preserve his memory. Do you know to whom the furniture from father’s house was transferred?”

“A complex matter,” the old man replied, thinking, “only a well-off person can afford it… And you, forgive me, what do you do?”

“Freelance. My own meat and cold storage plant on cooperative principles in Samara.”

The old man looked at the young Vorobyaninov’s green attire with doubt, but did not object. “A quick young man,” he thought. Ostap, who by this time had finished his observations of Korobeinikov, decided that “the old man is a typical scoundrel.”

“So,” Ostap said.

“So,” the archivist said, “it’s difficult, but possible…”

“Will it require expenses?” the owner of the meat and cold storage plant helped.

“A small sum…”

“Closer to the body, as Maupassant says. The information will be paid for.”

“Well then, seventy rubles.”

“Why so much? Is oats expensive these days?”

The old man rattled softly, wiggling his spine.

“You’re joking, sir…”

“Agreed, father. Money for the orders. When should I come to you?”

“Do you have the money with you?”

Ostap readily patted his pocket.

“Then please come even now,” Korobeinikov said solemnly.

He lit a candle and led Ostap into the next room. There, besides a bed, on which the owner of the house evidently slept, stood a desk piled with ledgers, and a long office cabinet with open shelves. Printed letters: A, B, C, and so on, up to the rearguard letter Ya, were glued to the edges of the shelves. On the shelves lay stacks of orders, tied with fresh string.

“Oho!” exclaimed the delighted Ostap. “A complete archive at home!”

“Completely complete,” the archivist modestly replied. “I, you know, just in case… The communal economy doesn’t need it, but it might come in handy in my old age… We live, you know, as if on a volcano… anything can happen… Then people will rush to look for their furniture, and where is it, the furniture? Here it is! Here! In the cabinet. And who preserved it, who saved it? Korobeinikov. And the gentlemen will say thank you to the old man, help him in his old age… And I don’t need much — they’ll give a tenner for an order — and that’s thanks enough… Otherwise, go try, look for wind in the field. They won’t find it without me!”

Ostap looked at the old man with delight.

“A wonderful chancellery,” he said, “complete mechanization. You are truly a hero of labor!”

The flattered archivist began to initiate his guest into the details of his beloved work. He opened thick ledgers of accounting and distribution.

“Everything is here,” he said, “all of Stargorod! All the furniture! Who took what when, to whom it was issued when. And this is the alphabetical book, the mirror of life! Whose furniture are you interested in? First Guild Merchant Angelov’s? Please. Look at letter A. Letter A, Ak, Am, An, Angelov… Number? Here, 82 742. Now the ledger here. Page 142. Where is Angelov? Here is Angelov. Taken from Angelov on December 18, 1918: ‘Becker’ grand piano No. 97012, soft stool for it, two desks, four wardrobes (two mahogany), one chiffonier, and so on… And to whom was it given?.. We look at the distribution book. The same number 82 742… Given. Chiffonier — to the city military commissariat, three wardrobes — to the ‘Lark’ children’s boarding school… And one more wardrobe — at the personal disposal of the secretary of the Stargorod Food Committee. And where did the grand piano go? The grand piano went to the social security office, to the 2nd house. And the grand piano is still there to this day…”

“I didn’t see such a grand piano there,” Ostap thought, recalling Alkhen’s shy face.

“Or, for example, from the head of the city administration’s chancellery, Murin… So, you need to look under letter M. Everything is here. The whole city. Grand pianos here, all sorts of settees, dressing tables, armchairs, small sofas, ottomans, chandeliers… Even dinner sets are here…”

“Well,” Ostap said, “a monument not made by hands should be erected to you. But let’s get down to business. For example, letter V.”

“There is letter V,” Korobeinikov readily responded. “Just a moment. Vm, Vn, Voritsky, No. 48 238 Vorobyaninov, Ippolit Matveevich, your father, may he rest in peace, he was a man of great soul… ‘Becker’ grand piano No. 54809, Chinese vases, marked — four, from the French ‘Sevres’ factory, Aubusson carpets — eight, of various sizes, ‘Shepherdess’ tapestry, ‘Shepherd’ tapestry, Tekke carpets — two, Khorasan carpets — one, stuffed bear with a platter — one, bedroom set — twelve pieces, dining set — sixteen pieces, living room set — fourteen pieces, walnut, by the master Gambs…”

“And to whom were they distributed?” Ostap asked impatiently.

“We’re getting to that now. Stuffed bear with a platter — to the second police district. ‘Shepherd’ tapestry — to the fund of artistic values. ‘Shepherdess’ tapestry — to the water transport workers’ club. Aubusson, Tekke, and Khorasan carpets — to the People’s Commissariat of Foreign Trade. Bedroom set — to the hunters’ union, dining set — to the Stargorod branch of Glavchai. Walnut living room set — in parts. Round table and one chair — to the 2nd social security house, sofa with a curved back — at the disposal of the housing department (still stands in the hallway, they’ve greased all the upholstery, scoundrels), and one more chair — to comrade Gritsatsuev, as an invalid of the imperialist war, according to his application and the resolution of comrade Burkin, head of the housing department. Ten chairs to Moscow, to the museum of furniture craftsmanship, according to the circular letter of the People’s Commissariat of Education… Chinese vases, marked…”

“Excellent,” Ostap said triumphantly, “this is congenial! It would be good to see the orders as well.”

“Just a moment, we’ll get to the orders. For No. 48 238, letter V.”

The archivist went to the cabinet and, standing on tiptoes, took down the required bundle.

“Here you are. All your father’s furniture is here. Do you want all the orders?”

“Why would I want all of them… So… Childhood memories — the living room set… I remember playing in the living room on the Khorasan carpet, looking at the ‘Shepherdess’ tapestry… Those were good times, a golden childhood!… So, we’ll limit ourselves to the living room set, father.”

The archivist lovingly began to straighten the bundle of green stubs and started looking for the required orders there. Korobeinikov selected five. One order for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for a round table, and one for the “Shepherdess” tapestry.

“As you wish. Everything is in order. Where everything is — it’s all known. All addresses are written on the stubs and the recipient’s handwritten signature. So no one can deny it, should anything happen. Perhaps you’d like General Popova’s set? Very good. Also Gambs’s work.”

But Ostap, moved by love exclusively for his parents, grabbed the orders, shoved them to the very bottom of his side pocket, and refused the general’s set.

“Can I write a receipt?” the archivist inquired, cleverly bending.

“You can,” Bender kindly said, “write, fighter for an idea.”

“So I’ll write it.”

“Cover!”

They moved to the first room. Korobeinikov wrote a receipt in calligraphic handwriting and, smiling, handed it to the guest. The chief concessionaire accepted the paper with extraordinary politeness with two fingers of his right hand and put it in the same pocket where the precious orders already lay.

“Well, goodbye for now,” he said, squinting, “I seem to have troubled you greatly. I dare not burden you with my presence any longer. Your hand, head of the chancellery.”

The stunned archivist weakly shook the hand offered to him.

“Goodbye,” Ostap repeated. He moved towards the exit.

Korobeinikov understood nothing. He even looked at the table, to see if the guest had left money there, but there was no money on the table either. Then the archivist very quietly asked:

“And the money?”

“What money?” Ostap said, opening the door. “You seem to have asked about some money?”

“Yes, of course! For the furniture! For the orders!”

“My dear,” Ostap sang, “by God, I swear on the honor of my late father. Gladly, but I don’t have it, I forgot to take it from my current account.”

The old man trembled and stretched out his frail paw, wanting to detain the night visitor.

“Quiet, fool,” Ostap said menacingly, “they’re telling you in plain Russian — tomorrow, means tomorrow. Well, goodbye! Write letters!..”

The door slammed shut with a bang. Korobeinikov opened it again and ran out into the street, but Ostap was already gone. He walked quickly past the bridge. A locomotive passing over the viaduct illuminated him with its lights and enveloped him in smoke.

“The ice has broken!” Ostap shouted to the engineer, “The ice has broken, ladies and gentlemen of the jury!”

The engineer didn’t hear, waved his hand, the machine’s wheels pulled the steel elbows of the cranks harder, and the locomotive sped away.

Korobeinikov stood in the icy breeze for about two minutes and, cursing vilely, returned to his little house.

An unbearable bitterness overcame him. He stood in the middle of the room and furiously began to kick the table. The ashtray, made in the shape of a galosh with a red inscription “Triangle,” bounced, and the glass clinked against the decanter.

Never before had Varfolomey Korobeinikov been so basely deceived. He could deceive anyone, but here he had been fooled with such ingenious simplicity that he stood for a long time, banging on the thick spoons of the dining table.

Korobeinikov was known as Varfolomeich in Gusishche. He was only approached in extreme need. Varfolomeich took things as collateral and charged exorbitant interest. He had been doing this for several years and had never been caught. And now he was losing money on his best commercial venture, from which he expected large profits and a secure old age.

“Jokes?!” he shouted, remembering the lost orders. “Now money only in advance, and how did I make such a mistake? I gave away the walnut living room set with my own hands!… The ‘Shepherdess’ tapestry alone is priceless! Handmade!..”

The “please twist” doorbell had long been turned by someone’s uncertain hand, and before Varfolomeich could remember that the front door had been left open, a heavy thud sounded in the hallway and a voice of a man entangled in the labyrinth of cabinets called out:

“How do I get in here?”

Varfolomeich went into the hallway, pulled someone’s coat towards him (felt to the touch — drape) and led Father Fyodor into the dining room.

“My sincere apologies,” Father Fyodor said.

After ten minutes of mutual evasions and cunning, it became clear that citizen Korobeinikov indeed had some information about Vorobyaninov’s furniture, and Father Fyodor was not averse to paying for this information. Moreover, to the archivist’s keen delight, the visitor turned out to be the former marshal’s own brother and passionately wished to preserve his memory by acquiring the walnut living room set. The brother of Vorobyaninov had the warmest memories of his youth associated with this set.

Varfolomeich asked for a hundred rubles. The visitor valued his brother’s memory significantly lower, at about thirty rubles. They agreed on fifty.

“I would ask for the money upfront,” the archivist declared, “that’s my rule.”

“And is it alright if I pay in gold tens?” Father Fyodor hurried, tearing the lining of his jacket.

“I’ll accept it at the current rate. Nine and a half. Today’s rate.”

Vostrikov shook out five yellow coins from his sausage, added two and a half silver coins to them, and pushed the whole pile to the archivist. Varfolomeich counted the coins twice, scooped them into his hand, asked the guest to wait a minute, and went for the orders. In his secret chancellery, Varfolomeich did not ponder long, opened the alphabet — the mirror of life — to the letter P, quickly found the required number, and took the bundle of General Popova’s orders from the shelf. Rummaging through the bundle, Varfolomeich selected one order from it, issued to comrade Brooks, residing at Vinogradnaya, 34, for twelve walnut chairs from the Gambs factory. Marveling at his shrewdness and ability to maneuver, the archivist smirked and took the orders to the buyer.

“All in one place?” the buyer exclaimed.

“One to one. They are all there. A remarkable set. You’ll lick your fingers. Anyway, what’s there to explain to you! You know yourself!”

Father Fyodor enthusiastically shook the archivist’s hand for a long time and, bumping countless times into the cabinets in the hallway, ran off into the night darkness.

Varfolomeich continued to mock the duped buyer for a long time. He placed the gold coins in a row on the table and sat for a long time, sleepily looking at the five bright circles.

“Why are they so drawn to Vorobyaninov’s furniture?” he thought. “They’ve gone mad.”

He undressed, prayed inattentively to God, lay down in his narrow maiden bed, and fell asleep with a worried expression.

Chapter 12. A Sultry Woman — A Poet’s Dream

 

Overnight, the cold was completely gone. It became so warm that early passersby’s legs ached. Sparrows chirped nonsense. Even a chicken, emerging from the kitchen into the hotel courtyard, felt a surge of energy and tried to fly. The sky was dotted with small cloud dumplings, and the garbage can emanated the scent of violets and peasant soup. The wind swooned under the eaves. Cats sprawled on the roof and, condescendingly squinting, watched the courtyard, through which the corridor boy Alexander scurried with a bundle of dirty laundry.

A commotion arose in the corridors of “Sorbonne.” Delegates from the districts had arrived for the tram’s opening. A whole crowd of them disembarked from the hotel’s line with the “Sorbonne” sign.

The sun warmed with full intensity. The corrugated iron shutters of shops flew upwards. Soviet workers, who had come to work in padded coats, gasped, unbuttoned their coats, feeling the weight of spring.

On Kooperativnaya Street, a heavily loaded Melstroy truck’s spring broke, and Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov, who arrived at the scene, offered advice.

In the room, furnished with business-like luxury (two beds and a nightstand), horse-like snorts and neighs were heard: Ippolit Matveevich was cheerfully washing up and clearing his nose. The great schemer lay in bed, examining the damage to his boots.

“By the way,” he said, “I ask you to settle the debt.”

Ippolit Matveevich emerged from the towel and looked at his companion with bulging, pince-nez-less eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like a soldier at a louse? What surprised you? The debt? Yes! You owe me money. I forgot to tell you yesterday that I paid seventy rubles for the orders, according to your authorization. Attached herewith is the receipt. Transfer thirty-five rubles here. Concessionaires, I hope, participate in expenses on an equal basis?”

Ippolit Matveevich put on his pince-nez, read the note, and, with a sigh, handed over the money. But even that could not overshadow his joy. Riches were within reach. The thirty-ruble speck of dust vanished in the radiance of a diamond mountain.

Ippolit Matveevich, smiling radiantly, went out into the corridor and began to stroll. Plans for a new life, built on a precious foundation, delighted him. “And the holy father?” he mentally gloated. “Still a fool. He won’t see the chairs, just as he won’t see his own beard.”

Reaching the end of the corridor, Vorobyaninov turned around. The white, cracked door of No. 13 opened, and directly opposite him came out Father Fyodor in a blue kosovorotka, belted with a worn black cord with a lush tassel. His kind face was beaming with happiness. He too had come out into the corridor for a walk. The rivals met several times and, looking triumphantly at each other, continued on their way. At the ends of the corridor, both turned simultaneously and approached each other again… Ippolit Matveevich’s chest was bubbling with delight. Father Fyodor was overcome by the same feeling. A feeling of regret for the defeated opponent overcame both. Finally, during the fifth round, Ippolit Matveevich couldn’t resist.

“Greetings, Father,” he said with inexpressible sweetness.

Father Fyodor gathered all the sarcasm given to him by God and replied:

“Good morning, Ippolit Matveevich.”

The enemies parted. When their paths converged again, Vorobyaninov dropped:

“Did I hurt you during our last encounter?”

“No, not at all, it was very pleasant to meet,” replied the triumphant Father Fyodor.

They were separated again. Father Fyodor’s face began to irritate Ippolit Matveevich.

“You probably don’t serve mass anymore, do you?” he asked at their next meeting.

“Serve mass? Parishioners have scattered to the cities, searching for treasures.”

“Note — their own treasures! Their own!”

“I don’t know whose, but they are searching.”

Ippolit Matveevich wanted to say something nasty and even opened his mouth for that purpose, but he couldn’t think of anything and angrily proceeded to his room. A minute later, the son of the Turkish subject, Ostap Bender, emerged from it in a blue waistcoat, and, stepping on his shoelaces, headed towards Vostrikov. The roses on Father Fyodor’s cheeks withered and turned to ash.

“Do you buy old things?” Ostap asked menacingly. “Chairs? Guts? Wax boxes?”

“What do you want?” Father Fyodor whispered.

“I want to sell you old trousers.”

The priest froze and recoiled.

“Why are you silent, like a bishop at a reception?”

Father Fyodor slowly walked towards his room.

“We buy old things, we steal new ones!” Ostap shouted after him.

Vostrikov drew in his head and stopped at his door. Ostap continued to taunt him:

“Well, what about the trousers, highly esteemed minister of cult? Are you taking them? There are also sleeves from a waistcoat, a bagel hole, and a dead donkey’s ears. In bulk, the whole lot — it’ll be cheaper. And they’re not in the chairs, no need to search! Eh?!”

The door closed behind the minister of cult. Satisfied, Ostap, flapping his shoelaces against the carpet, slowly walked back. When his massive figure had moved sufficiently far away, Father Fyodor quickly poked his head out the door and, with long-suppressed indignation, squeaked:

“You’re the fool!”

“What?” Ostap shouted, rushing back, but the door was already locked, and only the latch clicked.

Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand like a horn to his mouth, and distinctly said:

“How much for opium for the people?”

Silence from behind the door.

“Father, you are a vulgar man!” Ostap shouted.

At the same second, a pencil darted out of the keyhole and wiggled, with which Father Fyodor tried to sting his enemy. The concessionaire recoiled in time and grabbed the pencil. The enemies, separated by the door, silently began to pull the pencil towards themselves. Youth triumphed, and the pencil, resisting like a splinter, slowly crept out of the keyhole. With this trophy, Ostap returned to his room. The companions became even more cheerful.

“And the enemy runs, runs, runs!” Ostap sang. On the edge of the pencil, he carved an offensive word with a penknife, ran into the corridor, and, dropping the pencil into the keyhole embrasure, immediately returned.

The friends brought out the green stubs of the orders and began to study them carefully.

“The order for the ‘Shepherdess’ tapestry,” Ippolit Matveevich said dreamily. “I bought this tapestry from a Petersburg antique dealer.”

“To hell with the shepherdess!” Ostap shouted, tearing the order to shreds.

“Round table… Evidently, from the set…”

“Give me the table. To hell with the table! Two orders remained: one for 10 chairs, issued to the museum of furniture craftsmanship in Moscow, the other for one chair — to Comrade Gritsatsuyev, in Stargorod, on Plekhanov Street, 15.”

“Get your money ready,” Ostap said, “we might have to go to Moscow.”

“But there’s a chair here too, isn’t there?”

“One chance in ten. Pure mathematics. And even then, if citizen Gritsatsuyev hasn’t used it to light his bourgeois stove.”

“Don’t joke like that, please.”

“It’s nothing, nothing, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Mikhelson, we’ll find it! It’s a holy cause! We’ll wear cambric footcloths, eat Margot cream.”

“It seems to me somehow,” Ippolit Matveevich remarked, “that the valuables must be in this very chair.”

“Ah! It seems to you? What else seems to you? Nothing? Well, alright. We’ll work Marxist-style. We’ll leave the sky to the birds, and we’ll turn to the chairs. I am tormented by the desire to see the invalid of the imperialist war, citizen Gritsatsuyev, Plekhanov Street, house fifteen, as soon as possible. Don’t fall behind, Konrad Karlovich. We’ll make a plan on the way.”

Passing Father Fyodor’s door, the vengeful son of the Turkish subject kicked it. A faint growl of the hunted competitor was heard from inside the room.

“What if he follows us!” Ippolit Matveevich feared.

“After today’s meeting of ministers on the yacht, no reconciliation is possible. He’s afraid of me.”

The friends returned only in the evening. Ippolit Matveevich was preoccupied. Ostap was beaming. He wore new crimson boots with round rubber heels screwed onto them, chessboard socks in green and black check, a cream cap, and a semi-silk scarf of a Romanian hue.

“He does have it,” Ippolit Matveevich said, recalling the visit to the widow Gritsatsuyeva, “but how do we get that chair? Buy it?”

“How indeed,” Ostap replied, “not to mention the completely unproductive expense, it will cause talk. Why one chair? Why this particular chair?..”

“What should we do?”

Ostap lovingly examined the backs of his new boots.

“Chic modern,” he said. “What to do? Don’t worry, chairman, I’ll take on the operation myself. No chair will resist these little boots.”

“No, you know,” Ippolit Matveevich brightened, “when you were talking to Madame Gritsatsuyeva about the flood, I sat on our chair, and, honestly, I felt something hard underneath. They’re there, by God. There… Well, by God, I feel it.”

“Don’t worry, citizen Mikhelson.”

“We must steal it at night! By God, steal it!”

“However, for a Marshal of the Nobility, your scale is too small. And do you know the technique of this matter? Perhaps you have a travel kit with a set of lock picks hidden in your suitcase? Get it out of your head! It’s typical dandiness — robbing a poor widow.”

Ippolit Matveevich came to his senses.

“But I want it sooner,” he said pleadingly.

“Only cats are born quickly,” Ostap noted instructively. “I’ll marry her.”

“Whom?”

“Madame Gritsatsuyeva.”

“Why?”

“To calmly, without fuss, dig through the chair.”

“But you’ll be tying yourself down for life!”

“What one won’t do for the good of the concession!”

“For life!” Ippolit Matveevich whispered.

Ippolit Matveevich waved his hands in extreme surprise. His shaved, pastoral face bared, revealing blue teeth unbrushed since his departure from town N.

“For life!” Ippolit Matveevich whispered. “That’s a big sacrifice.”

“Life!” Ostap said. “Sacrifice! What do you know about life and sacrifices? Do you think that if you were evicted from a mansion, you know life? And if your fake Chinese vase was confiscated, is that a sacrifice? Life, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is a complex thing, but, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this complex thing opens simply, like a box. You just have to know how to open it. Whoever cannot open it, perishes. Have you heard of the hussar-monk?” Ippolit Matveevich had not heard.

“Bulanov! Haven’t heard? The hero of aristocratic Petersburg? You will hear now.”

And Ostap Bender told Ippolit Matveevich a story, the astonishing beginning of which had stirred all of high society Petersburg, and an even more astonishing end had been lost and passed completely unnoticed in recent years.

 

THE STORY OF THE HUSSAR-MONK

 

The brilliant hussar, Count Alexei Bulanov, as Bender rightly stated, was indeed a hero of aristocratic Petersburg. The name of the magnificent cavalryman and rake was constantly on the lips of the stiff inhabitants of palaces on English Embankment and in the columns of society chronicles. Very often, a photographic portrait of the handsome hussar appeared on the pages of illustrated magazines — a jacket embroidered with brandenburgs and trimmed with granular karakul, high slicked-back temples, and a short, victorious nose.

Count Bulanov was known as a participant in many secret duels with fatal outcomes, overt romances with the most beautiful, unapproachable ladies of society, crazy antics against respected public figures, and heartfelt carousals that inevitably ended in the beating of civilians.

The Count was handsome, young, rich, happy in love, happy at cards, and happy in inheriting property. His relatives died frequently, and their inheritances increased the hussar’s already enormous fortune.

He was daring and brave. He helped the Abyssinian Negus Menelik in his war with the Italians. He sat under the large Abyssinian stars, wrapped in a white burnous, gazing at a three-verst map of the area. The torchlight cast wavering shadows on the Count’s slicked temples. At his feet sat his new friend, the Abyssinian boy Vasya.

Having defeated the troops of the Italian king, the Count returned to Petersburg with the Abyssinian Vasya. Petersburg greeted the hero with flowers and champagne. Count Alexei once again plunged into the carefree abyss of pleasures, as it is said in high society novels. People continued to speak of him with redoubled admiration, women poisoned themselves because of him, and men envied him. The Abyssinian invariably stood on the footboard of the Count’s carriage, which flew along Millionnaya Street, astonishing passersby with his blackness and slender build.

And suddenly, everything ended. Count Alexei Bulanov disappeared. Princess Belorussian-Baltic, the Count’s last paramour, was inconsolable. The Count’s disappearance caused a great stir. Newspapers were full of conjectures. Detectives were exhausted. But all was in vain. The Count’s traces could not be found.

When the commotion had already subsided, a letter arrived from Averkiyeva Hermitage, explaining everything. The brilliant Count, hero of aristocratic Petersburg, a Balthazar of the 19th century, had taken the schema. Horrifying details were reported. It was said that the Count-monk wore chains weighing several poods, and that he, accustomed to fine French cuisine, now ate only potato peelings. A whirlwind of assumptions arose. It was said that the Count had a vision of his deceased mother. Women wept. A string of carriages stood at the entrance of Princess Belorussian-Baltic’s palace. The Princess and her husband received condolences. New rumors were born. They awaited the Count’s return. It was said that it was a temporary religious madness. It was asserted that the Count had fled from debts. It was reported that an unhappy romance was to blame for everything.

But in reality, the hussar became a monk to comprehend life. He never returned. Little by little, he was forgotten. Princess Baltic became acquainted with an Italian singer, and the Abyssinian Vasya left for his homeland.

In the monastery, Count Alexei Bulanov, who took the name Evpl, exhausted himself with great feats. He indeed wore chains, but it seemed to him that this was not enough for the knowledge of life. Then he invented a special monastic form for himself: a klobuk (monk’s cowl) with a perpendicular visor that covered his face, and a cassock that restricted movement. With the abbot’s blessing, he began to wear this form. But even this seemed insufficient to him. Overcome by pride, he retired to a forest dugout and began to live in an oak coffin.

The feat of the schemamonk Evpl filled the monastery with astonishment. He ate only rusks, the supply of which was replenished every three months.

So twenty years passed. Evpl considered his life wise, correct, and the only true one. Living became extraordinarily easy for him, and his thoughts were crystal clear. He comprehended life and understood that it was impossible to live otherwise.

One day, he was surprised to notice that in the place where he had been accustomed to finding rusks for twenty years, there was nothing. He had not eaten for four days. On the fifth day, an unknown old man in bast shoes came and said that the monks had been evicted by the Bolsheviks and a state farm had been set up in the monastery. Leaving a few rusks, the old man, weeping, left. The schemamonk did not understand the old man. Bright and serene, he lay in the coffin and rejoiced in the knowledge of life. The old peasant continued to bring rusks.

So several more undisturbed years passed.

One day, the dugout door opened, and several people, bent over, entered. They approached the coffin and silently began to examine the elder. These were tall men in spurred boots, in enormous riding breeches, and with Mausers in polished wooden holsters. The elder lay in the coffin, with outstretched hands, and looked at the newcomers with a radiant gaze. A long and light gray beard covered half of the coffin. The strangers jingled their spurs, shrugged, and departed, carefully closing the door behind them.

Time passed. Life revealed itself to the schemamonk in all its fullness and sweetness. On the night that followed the day when the schemamonk finally understood that everything in his knowledge was bright, he unexpectedly woke up. This surprised him. He never woke up at night. Reflecting on what had woken him, he fell asleep again and immediately woke up again, feeling a strong burning sensation in his back. Comprehending the cause of this burning, he tried to fall asleep, but could not. Something was bothering him. He did not sleep until morning. The next night, someone woke him again. He tossed and turned until morning, quietly moaning and unconsciously scratching his arms. During the day, having gotten up, he accidentally looked into the coffin. Then he understood everything: crimson bedbugs quickly scurried across the corners of his gloomy bed. The schemamonk became disgusted.

On the same day, the old man came with rusks. And then the ascetic, who had been silent for twenty-five years, spoke. He asked him to bring a little kerosene. Hearing the great silent one speak, the peasant was taken aback. However, ashamed and hiding a small bottle, he brought the kerosene. As soon as the old man left, the hermit, with a trembling hand, smeared all the seams and grooves of the coffin. For the first time in three days, Evpl fell asleep peacefully. Nothing disturbed him. He smeared the coffin with kerosene in the following days as well. But two months later, he realized that bedbugs could not be eliminated with kerosene. At night, he quickly turned over and prayed loudly, but prayers helped even less than kerosene.

Six months passed in unspeakable torment before the hermit addressed the old man again. The second request struck the old man even more. The schemamonk asked to bring him “Aragats” powder against bedbugs from the city. But “Aragats” did not help either. The bedbugs multiplied unusually quickly. The schemamonk’s robust health, which twenty-five years of fasting could not break, noticeably deteriorated. A dark, desperate life began. The coffin seemed disgusting and uncomfortable to the schemamonk Evpl. At night, on the peasant’s advice, he burned the bedbugs with a splinter of wood. The bedbugs died, but did not give up.

The last remedy was tried: products of the Glick brothers — a pink liquid with the smell of poisoned peach called “Klopin.” But even this did not help. The situation worsened. Two years after the beginning of the great struggle, the hermit accidentally noticed that he had completely stopped thinking about the meaning of life, because he was engaged in exterminating bedbugs around the clock.

Then he understood that he had been mistaken. Life, just as it had been twenty-five years ago, was dark and mysterious. He had failed to escape worldly anxieties. To live physically on earth and spiritually in heaven proved impossible.

Then the elder rose and nimbly left the dugout. He stood amidst the dark green forest. It was an early, dry autumn. Right by the dugout, a whole family of thick-bellied white mushrooms had pushed their way out of the ground. An unknown bird sat on a branch and sang a solo. The sound of a passing train was heard. The earth trembled. Life was beautiful. The elder, without looking back, walked forward.

He now serves as a coachman for the horse base of the Moscow Communal Economy.

After telling Ippolit Matveevich this highly instructive story, Ostap polished his crimson boots with his jacket sleeve, played a fanfare on his lips, and left.

Towards morning, he stumbled into the room, took off his shoes, placed his crimson footwear on the nightstand, and began to stroke the glossy leather, murmuring with tender passion:

“My little friends.”

“Where were you?” Ippolit Matveevich asked groggily.

“At the widow’s,” Ostap replied indistinctly.

“Well?”

Ippolit Matveevich propped himself on his elbow.

“And you’re marrying her?”

Ostap’s eyes sparkled.

“Now I must marry her, like an honest man.”

Ippolit Matveevich grunted in embarrassment.

“A sultry woman,” Ostap said, “a poet’s dream. Provincial spontaneity. Such subtropics are long gone in the center, but on the periphery, in the provinces — they can still be found.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow is impossible: May Day — everything is closed.”

“What about our business? You’re getting married… And we might have to go to Moscow.”

“Well, why are you worried? The meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”

“And your wife?”

“Wife? A diamond widow? The last question! A sudden departure due to a summons from the center. A small report in the Lesser Council of People’s Commissars. A farewell scene and a chicken for the road. We’ll travel comfortably. Sleep. We have a free day tomorrow.”

 

Chapter 13. Breathe Deeper: You are Excited!

 

On the morning of May First, Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst for activity, rushed out onto the street and sped towards the center. At first, his diverse talents could not find their proper application, because there were still few people and the festive grandstands, guarded by mounted police, were empty. But by nine o’clock, orchestras in different parts of the city began to purr, snort, and whistle. Housewives rushed out of their gates.

A column of music workers, in soft turn-down collars, somehow squeezed into the middle of the railway workers’ procession, getting underfoot and hindering everyone.

A truck, draped with a green plywood locomotive of the “Shch” series, kept bumping into the music workers from behind. At the same time, shouts came from the very belly of the locomotive to the toilers of the oboe and flute:

“Where’s your coordinator? Are you supposed to be on Krasnoarmeyskaya Street?! Can’t you see, you’ve cut in and created a traffic jam!”

Here, to the dismay of the music workers, Viktor Mikhailovich intervened.

“Of course, you need to turn here, into the dead end! They can’t even organize a holiday!” Polesov exclaimed, straining his voice. “This way! This way! What an incredible mess!”

Trucks from the Stargorod Communal Economy Department and Melstroy transported children. The smallest stood at the sides of the truck, while the taller ones were in the middle. The juvenile army waved paper flags and rejoiced to the point of exhaustion.

Pioneer drums rattled. Pre-conscripts puffed out their chests and tried to keep in step. It was cramped, noisy, and hot. Traffic jams formed every minute and dissipated every minute. To pass the time in a jam, old men and activists were swung. The old men wailed in women’s voices. The activists flew silently, with serious faces. In one cheerful column, Viktor Mikhailovich, who was making his way to the other side, was mistaken for a coordinator and they began to swing him. Polesov kicked his legs like a clown.

A dummy of the English minister Chamberlain was carried, whom a worker with anatomical muscles hit on the top hat with a cardboard hammer. Three Komsomol members in tailcoats and white gloves rode past in a car. They looked at the crowd in embarrassment.

“Vasya!” they shouted from the sidewalk. “Bourgeois! Give back your suspenders.”

Girls sang. In the crowd of social security employees, Alkhen walked with a large red bow on his chest and thoughtfully droned:

 

But from the taiga to the British seas,

The Red Army is the strongest of all!..

 

Phys Ed students, on command, separately shouted something indistinct.

Everything was moving, riding, and marching towards the new tram depot, from which, precisely at one o’clock in the afternoon, the first electric tram car in Stargorod was to emerge.

No one knew exactly when the Stargorod tram began to be built.

Somehow, in 1920, when the subbotniks (volunteer workdays) began, the depot workers and cable makers went to Gusishche with music and dug some pits all day. They dug a lot of deep and large pits. A comrade in an engineer’s cap ran among the workers. Foremen with colorful poles followed him. On the next subbotnik, they worked in the same place. Two pits, dug in the wrong place, had to be filled in again. The comrade in the engineer’s cap flew at the foremen and demanded explanations. New pits were dug even deeper and wider.

Then bricks were brought, and real construction workers appeared. They began to lay the foundation. Then everything quieted down. The comrade in the engineer’s cap still occasionally came to the deserted construction site and walked for a long time in the brick-lined pit, muttering:

“Cost accounting.”

He patted the foundation with a stick and ran home to the city, covering his frozen ears with his palms. The engineer’s surname was Treukhov. The tram station, the construction of which had stalled on the foundation, had been conceived by Treukhov long ago, back in 1912, but the city administration rejected the project. Two years later, Treukhov resumed his assault on the city administration, but the war interfered. After the war, the revolution interfered. Now NEP, cost accounting, and self-sufficiency interfered. In summer, the foundation became overgrown with flowers, and in winter, children made ice slides there.

Treukhov dreamed of a great undertaking. He found it tedious to work in the improvement department of the Stargorod Communal Economy Department, mending sidewalk edges and drawing up estimates for installing advertising pillars. But there was no great undertaking. The tram project, submitted again for consideration, struggled in the higher provincial authorities, was approved, disapproved, transferred for consideration to the center, but regardless of approval or disapproval, it gathered dust, because in neither case was money given.

“This is barbarism!” Treukhov shouted at his wife. “No money? But is there money to overpay for cab drivers, for horse-drawn delivery of goods to the station? Stargorod cabbies fleece the living and the dead! Of course, it’s a monopoly of marauders! Try walking five versts to the station with your things!… The tram will pay for itself in six years!”

His faded mustache sagged angrily. His snub-nosed face twitched. He pulled blueprints printed by heliography on blue paper from the table, angrily showed them to his wife for the thousandth time. There were plans for the station, the depot, and twelve tram lines.

“To hell with the twelve. They can wait. But three, three lines! Without them, Stargorod will suffocate.” Treukhov snorted and went to the kitchen to saw wood. He performed all the household chores himself. He designed and built a cradle for the child and a washing machine. At first, he washed the laundry himself, explaining to his wife how to use the machine. At least a fifth of Treukhov’s salary went to subscribing to foreign technical literature. To make ends meet, he quit smoking.

He also dragged his project to the new head of the Stargorod Communal Economy Department, Gavrilin, who had been transferred to Stargorod from Samarkand. The new head, darkened by the Turkestan sun, listened to Treukhov for a long time, but without much attention, casually reviewed all the blueprints, and finally said:

“But in Samarkand, no tram is needed. Everyone rides donkeys there. A donkey costs three rubles — a bargain. And it lifts about ten poods!… Such a small donkey, it’s even surprising!”

“That’s Asia for you!” Treukhov said angrily. “A donkey costs three rubles, but you need to feed it thirty rubles a year.”

“And on your tram, how much can you ride for thirty rubles? Three hundred times. Not even every day of the year.”

“Well, then go and order your donkeys!” Treukhov shouted and ran out of the office, slamming the door.

Since then, the new head made it a habit to ask Treukhov sarcastic questions when they met:

“Well, how about it, shall we order donkeys or build a tram?”

Gavrilin’s face resembled a smoothly planed turnip. His eyes were sly.

About two months later, Gavrilin summoned the engineer and said to him seriously:

“I’ve got a little plan here. One thing is clear to me: there’s no money, and a tram isn’t a donkey — you can’t buy it for three rubles. We need to lay down a material base here. What’s the practical solution? A joint-stock company! What else? A loan! With interest. In how many years should the tram pay for itself?”

“From the day of commissioning of the first three lines — in six years.”

“Well, let’s say ten. Now, the joint-stock company. Who will join? The Food Trust, Maslotsentr. Do the cable workers need a tram? They do! We’ll be sending freight cars to the station. So, the cable workers! The People’s Commissariat of Railways might give a little. Well, the provincial executive committee will give. That’s for sure. And once we start — Gosbank and Kombank will give a loan. That’s my little plan. On Friday, there will be a discussion at the presidium of the provincial executive committee. If we decide, it’s up to you to stop.”

Treukhov, agitated, washed laundry until late at night and explained to his wife the advantages of tram transport over horse-drawn.

On Friday, the matter was resolved favorably. And the torments began. The joint-stock company was put together with great difficulty. The People’s Commissariat of Railways sometimes joined, sometimes did not join, the shareholders. The Food Trust tried in every way to get only ten percent of the shares instead of fifteen. Finally, the entire package of shares was distributed, although not without clashes. Gavrilin was summoned to the Provincial Control Commission for applying pressure. However, everything turned out well. All that remained was to begin.

“Well, Comrade Treukhov,” Gavrilin said, “start. Do you feel you can build it? Exactly. This isn’t buying a donkey.”

Treukhov drowned in work. The time for the great undertaking he had dreamed of for years had come. Estimates were written, a construction plan was drawn up, orders were placed. Difficulties arose where they were least expected. There were no concrete specialists in the city, and they had to be ordered from Leningrad. Gavrilin hurried them, but the factories promised to deliver machines only in a year and a half. And they were needed, at the latest, in a year. Only the threat of ordering machines from abroad had an effect. Then smaller troubles came. Either the necessary sizes of shaped iron could not be found, or untreated sleepers were offered instead of impregnated ones. Finally, they got what was needed, but Treukhov, who went to the sleeper impregnation plant himself, rejected 60% of the sleepers. The cast-iron parts had cavities. The wood was raw. The rails were good, but they began to arrive a month late. Gavrilin often came to the construction site in an old, cold-ridden “Fiat” to the station. Here, altercations broke out between him and Treukhov.

While the tram station and depot were being built and assembled, the Stargorod residents only made jokes.

In the “Stargorodskaya Pravda,” the tram issue was taken up by the city’s well-known feuilletonist Prince of Denmark, who now wrote under the pseudonym “Flywheel.” No less than three times a week, Flywheel erupted with a long everyday essay on the progress of construction. The third page of the newspaper, which abounded with notes under skeptical headlines: “Doesn’t smell much like a club,” “On weak points,” “Inspections are needed, but what about brilliance and long tails,” “Good and… bad,” “What we are happy about and what we are not,” “Tighten up the pests of enlightenment,” and “It’s time to end the paper sea” — began to present readers with sunny and vigorous headlines for Flywheel’s essays: “How we build, how we live,” “The giant will soon start,” “A humble builder,” and so on, in the same vein.

Treukhov unfolded the newspaper with a tremor and, feeling disgust for his fellow writers, read cheerful lines about himself:

…I climb the rafters. The wind hums in my ears.

Up there — he is, this inconspicuous builder of our powerful tram station, this seemingly thin, snub-nosed man, in a shabby cap with little hammers.

I remember: “He stood on the shore of desolate waves, full of great thoughts.”

I approach. Not a single breeze. The rafters do not stir. I ask:

“How are the tasks being fulfilled?”

The unsightly face of the builder, engineer Treukhov, brightens…

He shakes my hand. He says:

“Seventy percent of the task has already been completed.”

The article ended thus: He shakes my hand goodbye… Behind me, the rafters hum. Workers scurry here and there. Who can forget these seething passions of the working construction site, this plain figure of our builder?

FLYWHEEL.

 

What saved Treukhov was only that he had no time to read the newspaper and sometimes managed to skip Comrade Flywheel’s writings.

Once, Treukhov could not stand it and wrote a carefully thought-out, sarcastic refutation.

“Of course,” he wrote, “bolts can be called transmission, but people who understand nothing about construction do this. And then I would like to note to Comrade Flywheel that rafters only hum when the structure is about to collapse. To say that about rafters is like asserting that a cello gives birth to children. Accept etc.”

After this, the restless Prince stopped appearing at the construction site, but the everyday essays still adorned the third page, sharply standing out against the background of ordinary ones: “15,000 rubles rusting,” “Housing lumps,” “Material cries,” and “Curiosity and tears.”

The construction was nearing its end. Rails were welded by the thermite method, and they stretched without gaps from the station itself to the slaughterhouses and from the market to the cemetery.

At first, the opening of the tram was planned to coincide with the ninth anniversary of October, but the tram car factory, citing “fittings,” failed to deliver the cars on time. The opening had to be postponed until May Day. By this day, everything was absolutely ready.

The concessionaires leisurely walked with the demonstrations to Gusishche. All of Stargorod gathered there. The new depot building was entwined with coniferous arches, flags flapped, and the wind rustled through the slogans. A mounted policeman galloped after the first ice cream vendor, who had, God knows how, gotten into the empty, cordoned-off circle by the tram workers. Between the two gates of the depot stood a sparse, still empty grandstand with a microphone-amplifier. Delegates approached the grandstand. The combined orchestra of communal workers and cable makers tested the strength of their lungs. A drum lay on the ground.

Through the bright hall of the depot, where ten light-green tram cars, numbered from 701 to 710, stood, a Moscow correspondent in a hairy cap wandered. A camera hung on his chest, into which he often and anxiously looked. The correspondent was looking for the chief engineer to ask him a few questions about trams. Although the correspondent’s essay about the tram’s opening, including a summary of the yet-to-be-delivered speeches, was already prepared in his head, the correspondent diligently continued his research, finding fault only in the absence of a buffet.

In the crowd, people sang, shouted, and gnawed on sunflower seeds, waiting for the tram to start.

The presidium of the provincial executive committee ascended the grandstand. The Prince of Denmark, stuttering, exchanged phrases with a fellow penman. They awaited the arrival of Moscow newsreel cinematographers.

“Comrades!” Gavrilin said. “Allow me to declare the solemn meeting for the opening of the Stargorod tram open.”

The brass pipes moved, sighed, and played the “Internationale” three times in a row.

“The floor for a report is given to Comrade Gavrilin!” Gavrilin shouted.

Prince of Denmark-Flywheel and the Moscow guest, without conferring, wrote in their notebooks:

“The solemn meeting opened with a report by the chairman of the Stargorod Communal Economy Department, Comrade Gavrilin. The crowd turned to listen.”

Both correspondents were entirely different people. The Moscow guest was single and young. Prince-Flywheel, burdened with a large family, was long past forty. One always lived in Moscow, the other had never been to Moscow. The Muscovite loved beer, while Flywheel-Danish drank nothing but vodka. But despite this difference in character, age, habits, and upbringing, the impressions of both journalists were cast into the same worn-out, used, dust-covered phrases. Their pencils scribbled, and a new entry appeared in their notebooks: “On the holiday, the streets of Stargorod seemed to widen…”

Gavrilin began his speech well and simply:

“To build a tram,” he said, “is not to buy a donkey.”

In the crowd, Ostap Bender’s loud laughter suddenly broke out. He appreciated the phrase. Encouraged by the reception, Gavrilin, without understanding why, suddenly began to speak about the international situation. He tried several times to get his report back on track, but to his horror, he found he couldn’t. The words, against the speaker’s will, turned out to be international. After Chamberlain, to whom Gavrilin devoted half an hour, the American Senator Borah entered the international arena. The crowd softened. The correspondents immediately wrote: “In vivid expressions, the speaker outlined the international position of our Union…” The impassioned Gavrilin spoke ill of the Romanian boyars and moved on to Mussolini. And only towards the end of his speech did he overcome his second international nature and speak in good business-like terms:

“And I think, comrades, that this tram, which will now leave the depot, thanks to whom was it launched? Of course, comrades, thanks to you, thanks to all the workers who truly worked not out of fear, but, comrades, out of conscience. And also, comrades, thanks to an honest Soviet specialist, chief engineer Treukhov. Thanks to him too!..”

They started looking for Treukhov, but couldn’t find him. The representative of Maslotsentr, who had long been burning with impatience, squeezed through to the railing of the grandstand, waved his hand, and loudly spoke about the international situation. At the end of his speech, both correspondents, listening to the sparse applause, quickly wrote: “Noisy applause, turning into an ovation…” Then they considered that “turning into an ovation…” might be too strong. The Muscovite decided and crossed out the ovation. Flywheel sighed and left it.

The sun quickly rolled down the inclined plane. Greetings were pronounced from the grandstand. The orchestra played a fanfare every minute. The evening turned a bright blue, and the meeting continued. Both speakers and listeners had long felt that something was wrong, that the meeting had dragged on, and that they needed to proceed with the tram launch as soon as possible. But everyone was so used to speaking that they couldn’t stop.

Finally, Treukhov was found. He was dirty, and before going to the grandstand, he spent a long time washing his face and hands in the office.

“The floor is given to the chief engineer, Comrade Treukhov!” Gavrilin announced joyfully. “Well, speak, otherwise I was saying all the wrong things,” he added in a whisper.

Treukhov wanted to say a lot. About the subbotniks, and about the hard work, about everything that had been done and what else could be done. And much could be done: the city could be freed from the infectious imported market, covered glass buildings could be built, a permanent bridge could be built instead of the temporary one annually demolished by ice drift, finally, the project for building a huge meat and cold storage plant could be implemented. Treukhov opened his mouth and, stumbling, began to speak:

“Comrades! The international position of our state…”

And then he mumbled such platitudes that the crowd, having listened to the sixth international speech, grew cold. Only when he finished did Treukhov realize that he too had not said a word about the tram. “How annoying,” he thought, “we absolutely don’t know how to speak, absolutely.”

And he remembered the speech of a French communist he had heard at a meeting in Moscow. The Frenchman spoke about the bourgeois press. “These acrobats of the pen,” he exclaimed, “these virtuosos of farce, these jackals of rotary presses…” The first part of the speech the Frenchman delivered in the tone of A, the second part — in the tone of C, and the last, pathetic part — in the tone of E. His gestures were moderate and graceful.

“And we only stir up mud,” Treukhov decided, “it would be better not to speak at all.”

It was already completely dark when the chairman of the provincial executive committee cut the red ribbon that blocked the exit from the depot with scissors. Workers and representatives of public organizations began to settle into the tram cars with a clamor. Thin bells struck, and the first tram car, driven by Treukhov himself, rolled out of the depot to the deafening shouts of the crowd and the groans of the orchestra. The illuminated cars seemed even more dazzling than during the day. They all floated in a train through Gusishche; after passing under the railway bridge, they easily ascended into the city and turned onto Big Pushkinskaya Street. In the second car, the orchestra rode, and, sticking their instruments out of the windows, played Budyonny’s march.

Gavrilin, in a conductor’s uniform jacket, with a bag over his shoulder, jumping from car to car, smiled tenderly, gave ill-timed rings, and handed passengers invitation tickets for May 1st at 9 p.m. for a:

SOLEMN EVENING

 

to be held at the communal workers’ club according to the following program:

 

1. Report by Comrade Mosin
2. Presentation of a certificate by the union of communal workers
3. Unofficial part: a large concert and family dinner with a buffet.

 

On the platform of the last car stood Viktor Mikhailovich, who had, God knows how, ended up among the honorary guests. He sniffed at the motor. To Polesov’s extreme surprise, the motor looked excellent and, apparently, was working properly. The windows did not rattle. After inspecting them in detail, Viktor Mikhailovich was convinced that they were, after all, on rubber. He had already made several comments to the tram driver and was considered by the public an expert on tram affairs in the West.

“The air brake isn’t working well,” Polesov declared, looking triumphantly at the passengers, “it’s not sucking.”

“Nobody asked you,” the tram driver replied, “it might suck eventually.”

After a festive tour of the city, the tram cars returned to the depot, where a crowd awaited them. Treukhov was swung already in the full brilliance of electric lamps. Gavrilin was also swung, but since he weighed about six poods and did not fly high, he was soon released. Comrade Mosin, technicians, and workers were swung. Viktor Mikhailovich was swung for the second time that day. Now he no longer kicked his legs, but, looking strictly and seriously at the starry sky, he soared and hovered in the night darkness. Landing for the last time, Polesov noticed that no one but the former marshal Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov was holding his leg and laughing with a nasty laugh. Polesov politely freed himself, moved slightly aside, but did not let the marshal out of his sight. Noticing that Ippolit Matveevich, along with a young stranger, obviously a former officer, were leaving, Viktor Mikhailovich cautiously followed them.

When everything was over and Gavrilin, in his lilac “Fiat,” was waiting for Treukhov, who was giving the last instructions, to go with him to the club, a Ford pick-up truck with newsreel cinematographers pulled up to the depot gates.

First to nimbly jump out of the car was a man in dodecagonal horn-rimmed glasses and an elegant sleeveless leather coat. A sharp, long beard grew straight from the man’s Adam’s apple. The second man dragged a film camera, getting tangled in a long scarf of the style that Ostap Bender usually called “chic modern.” Then assistants, spotlights, and girls crawled out of the truck. The whole group rushed into the depot with shouts.

“Attention!” cried the bearded coat-owner. “Kolya! Set up the spotlights!”

Treukhov blushed and moved towards the night visitors.

“Are you the cinema people?” he asked. “Why didn’t you come during the day?”

“And when is the tram opening scheduled?”

“It’s already open.”

“Yes, yes, we were a little delayed. A good location came up. A lot of work. Sunset! Anyway, we’ll manage. Kolya! Give us light! Revolving wheel! Close-up! Moving feet of the crowd — close-up. Lyuda! My dear! Walk around! Kolya, start! Start. Go! Walk, walk, walk… Enough. Thank you. Now we’ll film the builder. Comrade Treukhov? Please, Comrade Treukhov. No, not like that. In three-quarters… Like this, more original, against the background of the tram… Kolya! Start! Say something!..”

“Well, I really feel so awkward!..”

“Magnificent!.. Good!.. Say more!.. Now you’re talking to the first tram passenger… Lyuda! Get into the frame. Yes. Breathe deeper: you’re excited!.. Kolya! Close-up of the legs!.. Start!.. Yes, yes… Thank you very much… Stop!..”

Gavrilin heavily climbed out of the long-trembling “Fiat” and came to call his lagging friend. The director with the hairy Adam’s apple became lively.

“Kolya! Here! Excellent type. Worker! Tram passenger! Breathe deeper. You’re excited. You’ve never ridden a tram before. Start! Breathe!”

Gavrilin snorted with hatred.

“Wonderful!.. My dear!.. Come here! Greetings from the Komsomol!.. Breathe deeper. You’re excited… Yes… Wonderful. Kolya, finished.”

“Aren’t you going to film the tram?” Treukhov asked shyly.

“You see,” the leather-clad director mumbled, “the lighting conditions don’t allow it. We’ll have to finish filming in Moscow. Kisses!”

The newsreel crew disappeared in a flash.

“Well, let’s go, friend, rest,” Gavrilin said. “Did you start smoking?”

“I started,” Treukhov confessed, “couldn’t resist.”

At the family dinner, the hungry, nicotine-addicted Treukhov drank three shots of vodka and became completely drunk. He kissed everyone, and everyone kissed him. He wanted to say something kind to his wife, but only laughed. Then he shook Gavrilin’s hand for a long time and said:

“You’re an oddball! You need to learn to design railway bridges! It’s a wonderful science. And most importantly — absolutely simple. The bridge over the Hudson…”

Half an hour later, he was completely carried away and delivered a philippic directed against the bourgeois press:

“These acrobats of farce, these hyenas of the pen! These virtuosos of rotary presses!” he shouted. His wife took him home in a cab.

“I want to ride the tram,” he told his wife, “well, why don’t you understand? If there’s a tram, then you have to ride it!… Why? Firstly, it’s profitable…”

Polesov followed the concessionaires, held back for a long time, and, waiting until no one was around, approached Vorobyaninov.

“Good evening, Mr. Ippolit Matveevich,” he said respectfully. Vorobyaninov felt uneasy.

“I don’t have the honor,” he mumbled.

Ostap moved his right shoulder forward and approached the intellectual locksmith.

“Now, now,” he said, “what do you want to say to my friend?”

“You don’t need to worry,” Polesov whispered, looking around. “I’m from Elena Stanislavovna…”

“What? She’s here?”

“Here. And she really wants to see you.”

“Why?” Ostap asked. “And who are you?”

“I… You, Ippolit Matveevich, don’t think anything like that. You don’t know me, but I remember you very well.”

“I would like to visit Elena Stanislavovna,” Vorobyaninov said hesitantly.

“She expressly asked you to come.”

“Yes, but how did she know?..”

“I met you in the communal economy corridor and thought for a long time: a familiar face. Then I remembered. You, Ippolit Matveevich, don’t worry about anything! Everything will be completely secret.”

“An acquaintance?” Ostap asked business-like.

“Hmm, an old acquaintance…”

“Then perhaps we could have dinner with the old acquaintance? I, for example, am terribly hungry, and everything is closed.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then let’s go. Lead us, mysterious stranger.”

And Viktor Mikhailovich, through courtyards, constantly looking around, led the companions to the fortune teller’s house, in Pereleshinsky Lane.

 

Chapter 14. “The Union of the Sword and Plow”

 

When a woman ages, many unpleasant things can happen to her: teeth may fall out, hair may gray and thin, shortness of breath may develop, obesity may strike, extreme thinness may overcome her, but her voice will not change. It will remain the same as it was when she was a schoolgirl, a bride, or a young rake’s lover.

Therefore, when Polesov knocked on the door and Elena Stanislavovna asked, “Who’s there?” — Vorobyaninov flinched. His lover’s voice was the same as in ’99, before the opening of the Paris exhibition. But upon entering the room and squeezing his eyelids against the light, Ippolit Matveevich saw that no trace of her former beauty remained.

“How you’ve changed!” he said involuntarily.

The old woman threw herself around his neck.

“Thank you,” she said, “I know what you risked by coming to me. You are still the same magnanimous knight. I don’t ask why you came from Paris. You see, I am not curious.”

“But I didn’t come from Paris at all,” Vorobyaninov said, bewildered.

“My colleague and I arrived from Berlin,” Ostap corrected, pressing Ippolit Matveevich’s elbow, “it’s not advisable to speak of this aloud.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” the fortune teller exclaimed. “Come in here, into this room… And you, Viktor Mikhailovich, forgive me, but would you mind coming back in half an hour?”

“Oh!” Ostap remarked. “A first date! Difficult moments! Allow me to withdraw as well. Will you permit me to join you, my dearest Viktor Mikhailovich?”

The locksmith trembled with joy. Both went to Polesov’s apartment, where Ostap, sitting on a broken gate from house No. 5 in Pereleshinsky Lane, began to develop phantasmagoric ideas for the salvation of the homeland before the astonished lone craftsman with a motor.

An hour later, they returned to find the old people completely mellowed out.

“Do you remember, Elena Stanislavovna?” Ippolit Matveevich was saying.

“And do you remember, Ippolit Matveevich?” Elena Stanislavovna was saying.

“It seems the psychological moment for dinner has arrived,” Ostap thought. And, interrupting Ippolit Matveevich, who was recalling the city council elections, he said:

“In Berlin, there’s a very strange custom — they eat so late that you can’t tell if it’s an early dinner or a late lunch.”

Elena Stanislavovna stirred, averted her rabbit-like gaze from Vorobyaninov, and shuffled to the kitchen.

“And now, act, act, and act!” Ostap said, lowering his voice to the point of complete illegality. He took Polesov’s hand.

“The old woman won’t let us down? A reliable woman?”

Polesov clasped his hands in prayer.

“Your political credo?”

“Always!” Polesov replied enthusiastically.

“You are, I hope, a Kirillovite?”

“Exactly so.”

Polesov straightened himself up.

“Russia will not forget you!” Ostap roared.

Ippolit Matveevich, holding a sweet pastry in his hand, listened to Ostap with bewilderment, but he couldn’t be stopped. He was on a roll. The great schemer felt inspiration, an intoxicating state before a more-than-average blackmail. He paced the room like a leopard.

Elena Stanislavovna found him in such an agitated state, struggling to drag a samovar from the kitchen. Ostap gallantly sprang to her, took the samovar on the go, and placed it on the table. The samovar whistled. Ostap decided to act.

“Madam,” he said, “we are happy to see in your person…”

He didn’t know whom he was happy to see in the person of Elena Stanislavovna. He had to start over. Of all the elaborate phrases of the Tsarist regime, only some “graciously pleased to command” revolved in his head. But that was out of place. So he began business-like:

“Strict secret! State secret!”

Ostap gestured towards Vorobyaninov:

“Who, in your opinion, is this mighty old man? Don’t speak, you cannot know. This is a giant of thought, the father of Russian democracy, and a person close to the emperor.”

Ippolit Matveevich stood up to his full magnificent height and looked around in bewilderment. He understood nothing, but, knowing from experience that Ostap Bender never spoke in vain, he remained silent. Everything that was happening caused Polesov to tremble. He stood with his chin tilted towards the ceiling, in the pose of a man preparing for a ceremonial march. Elena Stanislavovna sat on a chair, looking at Ostap in fear.

“Are there many of ours in the city?” Ostap asked directly. “What’s the mood like?”

“In the presence of absence…” Viktor Mikhailovich said and began to confusingly explain his troubles. Here were the rude yard cleaner of house No. 5, who had a high opinion of himself, and handkerchiefs three eighths of an inch, and the tram, and so on.

“Good!” Ostap thundered. “Elena Stanislavovna! With your help, we want to contact the best people of the city, whom cruel fate has driven underground. Who can be invited to your place?”

“Who can be invited! Maxim Petrovich, perhaps, with his wife?”

“Without his wife,” Ostap corrected, “without his wife! You will be the only pleasant exception. Who else?”

In the discussion, to which Viktor Mikhailovich actively joined, it turned out that they could invite the same Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov, a former city duma councilor, and now miraculously counted among Soviet workers, Dyadyev, the owner of “Bystroupak,” Kislyarsky, the chairman of the Odessa bagel artel “Moscow Bagels,” and two young men without surnames, but quite suitable.

“In that case, please invite them immediately to a small meeting. Under the strictest secrecy.” Polesov spoke:

“I’ll run to Maxim Petrovich, for Nikesha and Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna, please take the trouble and go to “Bystroupak” and for Kislyarsky.”

Polesov rushed off. The fortune teller looked at Ippolit Matveevich with reverence and also left.

“What does this mean?” Ippolit Matveevich asked.

“It means,” Ostap replied, “that you are a backward person.”

“Why?”

“Because! Forgive the trivial question: how much money do you have?”

“What money?”

“All kinds. Including silver and copper.”

“Thirty-five rubles.”

“And with that money you intended to cover all the expenses of our enterprise?” Ippolit Matveevich was silent.

“Listen, my dear patron. It seems to me that you understand me. You’ll have to be a giant of thought and a person close to the emperor for an hour.”

“Why?”

“Because we need working capital. Tomorrow is my wedding. I’m not a beggar. I want to feast on this momentous day.”

“What should I do?” Ippolit Matveevich groaned.

“You must be silent. Sometimes, for importance, puff out your cheeks.”

“But this is… deception.”

“Who is saying that? Is it Count Tolstoy? Or Darwin? No. I hear it from the lips of a man who only yesterday was about to break into Gritsatsuyeva’s apartment at night and steal furniture from the poor widow. Don’t think about it. Be silent. And don’t forget to puff out your cheeks.”

“Why get involved in such a dangerous business? They might inform.”

“Don’t worry about that. I don’t go for bad chances. The matter will be conducted in such a way that no one will understand anything. Let’s drink tea.”

While the concessionaires drank and ate, and the parrot cracked sunflower shells, guests entered the apartment.

Nikesha and Vladya came with Polesov. Viktor Mikhailovich did not dare to introduce the young men to the giant of thought. They settled in a corner and began to observe how the father of Russian democracy ate cold veal. Nikesha and Vladya were completely mature simpletons. Each of them was about thirty years old. They apparently liked very much that they were invited to the meeting.

The former city duma councilor Charushnikov, a stout old man, shook Ippolit Matveevich’s hand for a long time and looked into his eyes. Under Ostap’s supervision, the city old-timers began to exchange memories. After letting them talk, Ostap turned to Charushnikov:

“What regiment did you serve in?”

Charushnikov puffed.

“I… I, so to speak, didn’t serve at all, because, being entrusted with public trust, I ran for elections.”

“Are you a nobleman?”

“Yes. I was.”

“You, I hope, remain one now? Be strong.”

“Your help will be needed. Polesov told you? Abroad will help us. The halt is due to public opinion. Complete secrecy of the organization. Attention!”

Ostap shooed Polesov away from Nikesha and Vladya and asked with genuine severity:

“What regiment did you serve in? You’ll have to serve the fatherland. Are you noblemen? Very good. The West will help us. Be strong. Complete secrecy of deposits, that is, of the organization. Attention.”

Ostap was carried away. Things seemed to be falling into place. Introduced by Elena Stanislavovna to the owner of “Bystroupak,” Ostap took him aside, told him to be strong, inquired what regiment he had served in, and promised assistance from abroad and complete secrecy of the organization. The owner of “Bystroupak”‘s first impulse was to run away from the conspiratorial apartment as quickly as possible. He considered his firm too solid to engage in a risky business. But, glancing at Ostap’s agile figure, he hesitated and began to think: “What if it works out?!… However, it all depends on how it’s presented.”

The friendly conversation at the tea table became livelier. The initiates religiously kept the secret and talked about city news.

The last to arrive was Citizen Kislyarsky, who, not being a nobleman and never having served in Guards regiments, immediately understood the state of affairs from a brief conversation with Ostap.

“Be strong,” Ostap said instructively.

Kislyarsky promised.

“As a representative of private capital, you cannot remain deaf to the groans of the people.”

Kislyarsky sadly sympathized.

“Do you know who this is?” Ostap asked, pointing to Ippolit Matveevich.

“Of course,” Kislyarsky replied, “that’s Mr. Vorobyaninov.”

“This,” Ostap said, “is a giant of thought, the father of Russian democracy, a person close to the emperor.”

“At best, two years with strict isolation,” Kislyarsky thought, starting to tremble. “Why did I come here?”

“Secret union of the sword and plow!” Ostap whispered ominously.

“Ten years,” a thought flashed through Kislyarsky’s mind.

“However, you may leave, but I warn you, we have long arms!”

“I’ll show you, you son of a bitch,” Ostap thought. “I won’t let you go for less than a hundred rubles.”

Kislyarsky turned to marble. Just today, he had eaten such a delicious and peaceful dinner, chicken giblets, broth with nuts, and knew nothing about the terrible “union of the sword and plow.” He stayed: “long arms” made an unfavorable impression on him.

“Citizens!” Ostap said, opening the meeting. “Life dictates its own laws, its cruel laws. I will not speak to you about the purpose of our gathering — it is known to you. The purpose is sacred. From everywhere we hear groans. From all corners of our vast country, cries for help are heard. We must extend a helping hand, and we will extend it. Some of you serve and eat bread with butter, others engage in seasonal work and eat sandwiches with caviar. Both sleep in their beds and cover themselves with warm blankets. Only small children, homeless children, are unsupervised. These flowers of the street, or, as the proletarians of intellectual labor put it, flowers on the asphalt, deserve a better fate. We, gentlemen of the jury, must help them. And we, gentlemen of the jury, will help them.”

The great schemer’s speech evoked various feelings among the listeners.

Polesov did not understand his new friend — the young guardsman.

“What children?” he thought. “Why children?” Ippolit Matveevich didn’t even try to understand anything. He had long since given up on everything and sat silently, puffing out his cheeks. Elena Stanislavovna was saddened, Nikesha and Vladya looked devotedly at Ostap’s blue waistcoat.

The owner of “Bystroupak” was extremely pleased. “Beautifully crafted,” he decided, “under such a sauce, one can even give money. In case of success — honor! If not — it’s my sixteenth concern. I helped children — and that’s the end of it.”

Charushnikov exchanged a meaningful glance with Dyadyev and, acknowledging the speaker’s conspiratorial skill, continued to roll bread balls on the table.

Kislyarsky was over the moon. “A golden mind,” he thought. It seemed to him that he had never loved homeless children so much as he did that evening.

“Comrades!” Ostap continued. “Immediate help is needed. We must snatch the children from the tenacious clutches of the street, and we will snatch them from there. We will help the children. Let us remember that children are the flowers of life. I invite you now to make your contributions and help the children, only the children and no one else. Do you understand me?”

Ostap took a receipt book from his side pocket.

“I ask you to make contributions.”

Ippolit Matveevich will confirm my authority.

Ippolit Matveevich puffed up and tilted his head. Even the simple-minded Nikesha and Vladya, and the bustling locksmith himself, understood the secret essence of Ostap’s allegories.

“In order of seniority, gentlemen,” Ostap said, “let’s start with the esteemed Maxim Petrovich.”

Maxim Petrovich fidgeted and gave a mere thirty rubles.

“I’ll give more in better times!” he declared.

“Better times will come soon,” Ostap said. “However, this does not apply to the homeless children whom I currently represent.” Nikesha and Vladya gave eight rubles.

“Not enough, young men.” The young men blushed.

Polesov ran home and brought fifty.

“Bravo, hussar!” Ostap said. “For a lone hussar with a motor, this is enough for the first time. What will the merchants say?”

Dyadyev and Kislyarsky haggled for a long time and complained about the leveling. Ostap was inexorable:

“In the presence of Ippolit Matveevich himself, I consider these conversations superfluous.”

Ippolit Matveevich bowed his head. The merchants donated two hundred rubles each for the children.

“Total,” Ostap proclaimed, “four hundred eighty-eight rubles. Ah! Twelve rubles short for a round figure.”

Elena Stanislavovna, who had held out for a long time, went to the bedroom and brought out the sought-after twelve rubles in her reticule.

The rest of the meeting was rushed and less formal. Ostap began to frolic. Elena Stanislavovna completely softened. The guests gradually dispersed, respectfully saying goodbye to the organizers.

“You will be specially notified about the date of the next meeting,” Ostap said goodbye, “strictest secrecy. The work of helping children must remain secret… This, by the way, is in your personal interest.”

At these words, Kislyarsky felt like giving another fifty rubles, but no longer coming to any meetings. He barely restrained himself from this impulse.

“Well,” Ostap said, “let’s get moving. You, Ippolit Matveevich, I hope, will take advantage of Elena Stanislavovna’s hospitality and spend the night with her. By the way, it’s also useful for our conspiracy to separate for a while. And I’m off.”

Ippolit Matveevich desperately winked at Ostap, but he pretended not to notice and went out into the street.

After walking a block, he remembered that he had five hundred honestly earned rubles in his pocket.

“Cabbie!” he shouted. “Take me to ‘Phoenix’!”

“That can be done,” the cabbie said.

He slowly drove Ostap to the closed restaurant.

“What’s this? Closed?”

“Due to May First.”

“Ah, damn them! I have plenty of money, and nowhere to celebrate! Well, then head to Plekhanova Street. Do you know it?”

Ostap decided to go to his fiancée.

“And what was this street called before?” the cabbie asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where should I go then? I don’t know either.”

Nevertheless, Ostap told him to drive and search. They drove around the empty night city for about an hour and a half, questioning night watchmen and police officers. One police officer struggled for a long time and finally reported that Plekhanova was none other than the former Gubernatorskaya.

“Oh, Gubernatorskaya! I know Gubernatorskaya well. I’ve been driving to Gubernatorskaya for twenty-five years.”

“Well, then go!”

They arrived at Gubernatorskaya, but it turned out not to be Plekhanova, but Karla Marxa.

Exasperated, Ostap resumed his search for the lost Plekhanova Street. But he didn’t find it.

Dawn palely illuminated the face of the rich sufferer, who had failed to entertain himself.

“Take me to ‘Sorbonne’!” he shouted. “You’re a cabbie too! Don’t know Plekhanova!”

The widow Gritsatsuyeva’s abode shone. At the head of the wedding table sat the marriage king — the son of a Turkish subject. He was elegant and drunk. The guests were noisy.

The young bride was no longer young. She was at least thirty-five years old. Nature had generously endowed her. Everything was there: watermelon breasts, a blunt nose, painted cheeks, and a powerful back of the head. She adored her new husband and was very afraid of him. Therefore, she called him not by his given name or even his patronymic, which she never learned, but by his surname: Comrade Bender.

Ippolit Matveevich was again sitting on the coveted chair. Throughout the wedding dinner, he bounced on it to feel something solid. Sometimes he succeeded. Then he liked everyone present, and he furiously began to shout “bitter.”

Ostap constantly delivered speeches, toasts, and remarks. They drank to public education and the irrigation of Uzbekistan. After this, the guests began to disperse. Ippolit Matveevich lingered in the hallway and whispered to Bender:

“So don’t delay. They’re there.”

“You are a covetous man,” the drunken Ostap replied, “wait for me at the hotel. Don’t go anywhere. I can come any minute. Pay the hotel bill. Have everything ready. Adieu, Field Marshal! Wish me good night.”

Ippolit Matveevich wished him well and went to “Sorbonne” to worry.

At five in the morning, Ostap appeared with the chair. Ippolit Matveevich was deeply affected. Ostap placed the chair in the middle of the room and sat down.

“How did you manage it?” Vorobyaninov finally uttered.

“Very simply, like family. The widow is sleeping and dreaming. It was a shame to wake her. ‘Don’t wake her at dawn.’ Alas! I had to leave a note for my beloved: ‘Departing for a report in Novokhopersk. Don’t wait for me for dinner. Your Gopher.’ And I grabbed the chair from the dining room. There are no trams at these early hours — I rested on the chair on the way.”

Ippolit Matveevich lunged at the chair with a growl.

“Quiet,” Ostap said, “we need to act without noise.”

He took pliers from his pocket, and the work began.

“Did you lock the door?” Ostap asked. Pushing away the impatient Vorobyaninov, Ostap carefully opened the chair, trying not to damage the English chintz with flowers.

“Such material is no longer available; we must preserve it. A shortage of goods, nothing to be done.”

All this brought Ippolit Matveevich to extreme irritation.

“Done,” Ostap said quietly. He lifted the covers and began to feel between the springs with both hands. A prominent vein appeared on his forehead.

“Well?” Ippolit Matveevich repeated in various tones. “Well? Well?”

“Well, well,” Ostap replied irritably, “one chance in eleven. And this chance…” He rummaged thoroughly in the chair and concluded:

“…And this chance is not ours yet.”

He rose to his full height and began to clean his knees. Ippolit Matveevich rushed to the chair.

There were no diamonds. Ippolit Matveevich’s arms drooped. But Ostap was still cheerful.

“Now our chances have increased.” He paced the room.

“Never mind! This chair cost the widow more than it cost us.”

Ostap took a golden brooch with glass stones, a puffed golden bracelet, half a dozen gilded spoons, and a tea strainer from his side pocket.

In his grief, Ippolit Matveevich did not even realize that he had become an accomplice in an ordinary theft.

“A vulgar thing,” Ostap remarked, “but you must admit that I could not leave my beloved woman without leaving some memento of her. However, we should not waste time. This is only the beginning. The end is in Moscow. And a furniture museum is not like a widow; it will be harder there!”

The companions shoved the broken chair pieces under the bed and, counting the money (which, together with the donations for the children, amounted to five hundred thirty-five rubles), drove to the station for the Moscow train. They had to cross the entire city by cab. On Kooperativnaya Street, they saw Polesov, running along the sidewalk like a timid antelope. The janitor of house No. 5 in Pereleshinsky Lane was chasing him. Turning the corner, the concessionaires managed to notice that the janitor had caught up with Viktor Mikhailovich and began to beat him. Polesov shouted “Help!” and “Brute!”

Until the train departed, they sat in the restroom, fearing an encounter with the beloved woman.

The train carried the friends to the bustling center. The friends pressed against the window. The cars sped over Gusishche. Suddenly, Ostap roared and grabbed Vorobyaninov’s bicep.

“Look, look!” he shouted. “Quickly! Alkhen, you son of a bitch!..”

Ippolit Matveevich looked down. Beneath the embankment, a burly, mustachioed young man was pulling a wheelbarrow loaded with a reddish harmonium and five window frames. A shy-looking citizen in a mouse-colored sweatshirt pushed the wheelbarrow.

The sun broke through the clouds. The crosses of the churches shone.

Ostap, laughing, leaned out the window and bellowed:

“Pashka! Are you going to the flea market?”

Pasha Emilevich raised his head, but saw only the buffers of the last car and worked his legs even harder.

“Did you see?” Ostap asked joyfully. “Beauty! That’s how people work!”

Ostap clapped the saddened Vorobyaninov on the back.

“Nothing, old man! Don’t despair! The meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Tomorrow evening we’ll be in Moscow!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART TWO

IN MOSCOW

 

Chapter 15. Amidst an Ocean of Chairs

 

Statistics know everything.

The exact amount of arable land in the USSR has been precisely accounted for, subdivided into chernozem, loam, and loess. All citizens of both sexes are recorded in neat, thick books, so well known to Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov — the registry office books. It is known how much of what food the average citizen of the republic eats per year. It is known how much vodka this average citizen drinks on average, with an approximate indication of the snacks consumed. It is known how many hunters, ballerinas, revolver lathes, dogs of all breeds, bicycles, monuments, girls, lighthouses, and sewing machines there are in the country.

How much life, full of fervor, passions, and thought, gazes at us from statistical tables!

Who is he, the rosy-cheeked individual, sitting at a table with a napkin on his chest and eagerly devouring steaming food? Around him lie herds of miniature bulls. Fat pigs huddle in a corner of the table. In a special statistical pool, countless sturgeon, burbot, and sabrefish splash. Chickens sit on the individual’s shoulders, arms, and head. Domestic geese, ducks, and turkeys fly in the feathery clouds. Two rabbits hide under the table. On the horizon rise pyramids and Babylons of baked bread. A small fortress of jam is washed by a river of milk. A cucumber, the size of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, stands on the horizon. Behind ramparts of salt and pepper, wines, vodkas, and liqueurs march in platoons. In the rearguard, a pitiful handful of non-alcoholic beverages trail: non-combatant narzans, lemonades, and siphons in wire mesh.

Who is this rosy-cheeked individual — a glutton, a drunkard, and a sweet tooth? Gargantua, king of the Dipsodes? Sylas Fosse? The legendary soldier Yashka Red Shirt? Lucullus?

It is not Lucullus. It is Ivan Ivanovich Sidorov or Sidor Sidorovich Ivanov; an average citizen, who consumes on average throughout his life all the food depicted in the table. He is a normal consumer of calories and vitamins, a quiet forty-year-old bachelor, working in a state haberdashery and knitwear store.

There’s no hiding from statistics. It has precise information not only about the number of dentists, sausage makers, syringes, janitors, film directors, prostitutes, thatched roofs, widows, cab drivers, and bells, but it even knows how many statisticians there are in the country. And one thing it doesn’t know. It doesn’t know how many chairs there are in the USSR. There are a great many chairs.

The last statistical census determined the population of the Union republics to be one hundred and forty-three million people. If we exclude ninety million peasants who prefer benches, sleeping platforms, and earthen banks to chairs, and in the East, worn carpets and rugs, there are still fifty million people for whom chairs are household necessities. If we also take into account possible miscalculations and the habit of some Union citizens to sit between two chairs, then, just in case, halving the total number, we find that there must be at least twenty-six and a half million chairs in the country. For certainty, we will discard another six and a half million. The remaining twenty million will be the minimum number.

Among this ocean of chairs, made of walnut, oak, ash, rosewood, mahogany, and Karelian birch, among spruce and pine chairs, the heroes of the novel must find a Gámbsev walnut chair with curved legs, concealing in its English chintz-upholstered belly the treasures of Madame Petukhova.

The concessionaires were lying on the upper bunks, still asleep, when the train carefully crossed the Oka River and, picking up speed, began to approach Moscow.

Chapter 16. Monk Berthold Schwarz’s Hostel

 

Ippolit Matveevich and Ostap, leaning against each other, stood by the open window of the hard-class carriage and attentively watched the cows slowly descending from the embankment, the pine needles, and the wooden dacha platforms. All the travel anecdotes had already been told. “Stargorodskaya Pravda” from Tuesday had been read down to the advertisements and was covered in grease stains. All the chickens, eggs, and olives were eaten.

The most agonizing part of the journey remained — the last hour before Moscow.

From sparse forests and groves, cheerful dachas sprang up to the embankment. Among them were wooden palaces, glittering with glass verandas and freshly painted iron roofs. There were also simple wooden log cabins with tiny square windows, real traps for summer residents.

While the passengers, with the air of connoisseurs, examined the horizon and, distorting their memories of the Battle of the Kalka River, recounted to each other Moscow’s past and present, Ippolit Matveevich stubbornly tried to imagine the furniture museum. The museum appeared to him as a multi-mile corridor, along whose walls chairs stood like tapestries. Vorobyaninov saw himself walking rapidly between them.

“How it will be with the furniture museum is still unknown. Will it work out?” he asked anxiously.

“It’s time for you, leader, to undergo electric therapy. Don’t throw a premature tantrum. If you can’t help but worry, then worry silently.”

The train jumped on the switches. Watching it, the semaphores gaped. The tracks multiplied. The approach of a huge railway junction was felt. The grass disappeared, replaced by slag. Shunting locomotives whistled. Switchmen trumpeted. Suddenly, the rumble intensified. The train rolled into a corridor between empty trains and, clicking like a turnstile, began to count cars.

The tracks doubled.

The train burst out of the corridor. The sun struck. Low, close to the ground, points lanterns, resembling small axes, scurried about. Smoke billowed. The locomotive, puffing, let out snow-white sideburns. A shout arose on the turntable. Depot workers drove the locomotive into its stall.

From the abrupt braking, the train’s joints crunched. Everything shrieked, and it seemed to Ippolit Matveevich that he had entered the realm of toothache. The train docked at the asphalt platform.

This was Moscow. This was Ryazansky  —  the freshest and newest of all Moscow’s railway stations.

None of Moscow’s other eight stations boast such vast and high premises as Ryazansky. The entire Yaroslavsky Station, with its pseudo-Russian crests and heraldic hens, could easily fit into the large buffet-restaurant of Ryazansky Station.

Moscow’s railway stations are the city’s gates. Every day, they welcome and send off thirty thousand passengers. Through Alexandrovsky Station enters a foreigner on rubber soles, in a golf suit (knickerbockers and thick woolen stockings showing). From Kursky, a Caucasian in a brown lambskin hat with ventilation holes and a tall Volga native with a hemp beard arrive in Moscow. From Oktyabrsky, a semi-responsible worker with a magnificent pigskin briefcase jumps out. He came from Leningrad for matters of coordination, agreement, and concrete coverage. Representatives of Kiev and Odessa penetrate the capital through Bryansky Station. Already at Tikhonova Pustyn station, the Kievans begin to smile disdainfully. They know perfectly well that Khreshchatyk is the best street on earth. Odessans carry baskets and flat boxes with smoked mackerel. They also know the best street on earth. But it’s certainly not Khreshchatyk; it’s Lassalle Street, formerly Deribasovskaya. From Saratov, Atkarsk, Tambov, Rtishchevo, and Kozlov, people arrive in Moscow from Paveletsky Station. The smallest number of people arrive in Moscow via Savyolovsky. These are shoemakers from Taldom, residents of Dmitrov, workers from the Yakhroma factory, or a gloomy dacha owner who lives year-round at Khlebnikovo station. The journey to Moscow from here is short. The longest distance on this line is one hundred and thirty versts. From Yaroslavsky Station, people arrive in the capital from Vladivostok, Khabarovsk, Chita, from distant and large cities.

The most outlandish passengers, however, are at Ryazansky Station. These are Uzbeks in white muslin turbans and floral robes, red-bearded Tajiks, Turkmens, Khivans, and Bukharans, over whose republics shines the eternal sun.

The concessionaires struggled to the exit and found themselves on Kalanchevskaya Square. To their right rose the heraldic hens of Yaroslavsky Station. Directly opposite them, Oktyabrsky Station, painted in two colors with oil paint, gleamed dully. Its clock showed five past ten. The clock on Yaroslavsky Station showed exactly ten. And looking at the dark blue dial of Ryazansky Station, adorned with zodiac signs, the travelers noticed that the clock showed five to ten.

“Very convenient for dates!” Ostap said. “Always ten minutes’ head start.”

The cab driver made a kissing sound with his lips. They drove under a bridge, and a magnificent panorama of the capital city unfolded before the travelers.

“Where are we going, though?” Ippolit Matveevich asked.

“To good people,” Ostap replied, “there are masses of them in Moscow. And they’re all my acquaintances.”

“And we’ll stay with them?”

“It’s a hostel. If not with one, then a place will always be found with another.”

There was a commotion in Okhotny Ryad. Unlicensed street vendors scattered, carrying trays on their heads like geese. A policeman lazily trudged after them. Homeless children sat by an asphalt vat, blissfully inhaling the smell of boiling tar.

They turned onto Arbat Square, drove along Prechistensky Boulevard, and, turning right, stopped on Sivtsev Vrazhek.

“What kind of house is this?” Ippolit Matveevich asked.

Ostap looked at the pink house with a mezzanine and replied:

“The Monk Berthold Schwarz Chemical Students’ Hostel.”

“A monk, really?”

“Oh, I was joking, just joking. It’s named after Semashko. As befits an ordinary student hostel in Moscow, the chemical students’ house had long been occupied by people with a rather distant relation to chemistry. The students had scattered. Some had graduated and left for their appointments, others had been expelled for academic failure. It was this latter group, growing year by year, that formed in the pink house something between a housing cooperative and a feudal settlement. In vain did new student cohorts try to break into the hostel. The ex-chemists were unusually inventive and repelled all attacks. The house was given up on. It came to be considered wild and disappeared from all MUNEE plans. It was as if it didn’t exist. Yet it did exist, and people lived in it.”

The concessionaires climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned into a completely dark corridor.

“Light and air,” Ostap said. Suddenly in the darkness, right by Ippolit Matveevich’s elbow, someone snorted.

“Don’t be scared,” Ostap remarked, “it’s not in the corridor. It’s behind the wall. Plywood, as is known from physics, is the best sound conductor. Be careful! Hold on to me! There must be a fireproof safe somewhere here.”

The cry that Vorobyaninov immediately let out, having hit his chest on a sharp iron corner, showed that the safe was indeed somewhere there.

“Does it hurt?” Ostap inquired. “It’s nothing yet. These are physical torments. But how much moral torment there was here — it’s horrifying to remember. There used to be a skeleton standing right here, the property of a student named Ivanopulo. He bought it at Sukharevka, but was afraid to keep it in his room. So visitors would first bump into the cash register, and then the skeleton would fall on them. Pregnant women were very displeased.”

Up the winding staircase, the companions ascended to the mezzanine. The large mezzanine room was cut by plywood partitions into long slices, each two arshins wide. The rooms resembled pencil cases, with the only difference being that, in addition to pencils and pens, there were people and primus stoves here.

“Are you home, Kolya?” Ostap asked softly, stopping at the central door.

In response, all five pencil cases stirred and chattered.

“Home,” came the answer from behind the door.

“Oh, those idiots have guests again so early!” a female voice whispered from the far pencil case on the left.

“Let the man sleep!” grumbled pencil case No. 2.

In the third pencil case, there was joyful hissing:

“The police came for Kolya. For yesterday’s broken glass.”

The fifth pencil case was silent. A primus stove roared there, and people were kissing.

Ostap kicked the door. The entire plywood structure shook, and the concessionaires entered Kolya’s crack. The scene that appeared before Ostap, despite its outward innocence, was horrifying. The only furniture in the room was a red-striped mattress lying on four bricks. But this was not what worried Ostap. Kolya’s furniture had been known to him for a long time. Kolya himself, sitting on the mattress with his legs up, also didn’t surprise him. But next to him sat such a heavenly creature that Ostap immediately became gloomy. Such girls are never business acquaintances — their eyes are too blue and their necks too clean for that. These are lovers, or even worse, wives — and beloved wives. And indeed, Kolya called the creature Liza, used “ty” (informal “you”) with her, and made playful gestures.

Ippolit Matveevich took off his beaver hat. Ostap called Kolya into the corridor. They whispered there for a long time.

“Beautiful morning, madam,” Ippolit Matveevich said.

The blue-eyed lady laughed and, without any apparent connection to Ippolit Matveevich’s remark, began to talk about what fools lived in the neighboring pencil case.

“They deliberately light the primus stove so that their kissing can’t be heard. But, you understand, that’s stupid. We hear everything. They, in fact, hear nothing because of their primus stove. Do you want me to show you now? Listen!”

And Kolya’s wife, who understood all the secrets of the primus stove, said loudly:

“Zverevs are fools!”

Behind the wall, the infernal singing of the primus stove and the sounds of kisses could be heard.

“See? They hear nothing. The Zverevs are fools, blockheads, and psychopaths. See!..”

“Yes,” Ippolit Matveevich said.

“And we don’t keep a primus stove. Why? We go to a vegetarian canteen for dinner, although I’m against a vegetarian canteen. But when Kolya and I got married, he dreamed of us going to the vegetarian place together. Well, so we go. I really like meat. And there they have noodle cutlets. Only please, don’t tell Kolya anything…” At this point, Kolya returned with Ostap.

“Well, if it’s absolutely impossible for us to stay with you, we’ll go to Panteley’s.”

“Right, guys!” Kolya shouted. “Go to Ivanopulo’s. He’s a good guy.”

“Come visit us,” Kolya’s wife said, “my husband and I would be very happy.”

“They’re inviting guests again!” exclaimed the far pencil case indignantly. “Haven’t they had enough guests!”

“And you — you’re fools, blockheads, and psychopaths, it’s none of your business!” Kolya’s wife said, without raising her voice.

“Do you hear, Ivan Andreevich,” the far pencil case became agitated, “your wife is being insulted, and you’re silent.”

Invisible commentators from other pencil cases also chimed in. The verbal skirmish escalated. The companions went downstairs to Ivanopulo’s.

The student wasn’t home. Ippolit Matveevich lit a match. A note hung on the door: “Will not be back before 9 PM. Panteley.”

“No problem,” Ostap said, “I know where the key is.”

He fumbled under the fireproof safe, retrieved the key, and opened the door.

Student Ivanopulo’s room was exactly the same size as Kolya’s, but it was a corner room. One of its walls was stone, which the student was very proud of. Ippolit Matveevich noted with chagrin that the student didn’t even have a mattress.

“We’ll make ourselves comfortable,” Ostap said, “a decent cubic capacity for Moscow. If all three of us lie on the floor, there will even be a little space left. But Panteley — that son of a bitch! Where did he put the mattress, I wonder?”

The window faced the alley. A policeman was walking there. Opposite, in a house built in the manner of a Gothic tower, was the embassy of a tiny power. They were playing tennis behind an iron fence. A white ball flew. Short exclamations were heard.

“Out,” Ostap said, “the class of play is not high. However, let’s rest.”

The concessionaires spread newspapers on the floor. Ippolit Matveevich took out the small decorative pillow he carried with him.

Ostap collapsed onto the telegrams and fell asleep. Ippolit Matveevich had been asleep for a long time.

Chapter 17. Respect Mattresses, Citizens

 

“Liza, let’s go eat!”

“I don’t feel like it. I already ate yesterday.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I won’t eat fake rabbit.”

“Well, that’s silly!”

“I can’t eat vegetarian sausages.”

“Today you’ll eat charlotte.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Speak quieter.”

Everything was audible. And the young spouses switched to a dramatic whisper.

Two minutes later, Kolya understood for the first time in three months of married life that his beloved woman liked carrot, potato, and pea sausages much less than he did.

“So you prefer dog meat to dietary food?” Kolya shouted, in his fervor forgetting the eavesdropping neighbors.

“Speak quieter!” Liza shouted loudly. “And besides, you treat me badly. Yes! I love meat! Sometimes. What’s wrong with that?”

Kolya fell silent in astonishment. This turn was unexpected for him. Meat would punch a huge, unfillable hole in Kolya’s budget. Pacing along the mattress where a blushing Liza sat curled up, the young husband made desperate calculations.

Copying blueprints at the “Technosila” design bureau brought Kolya Kalachov no more than forty rubles even in the best months. Kolya didn’t pay for the apartment. In the wild settlement, there was no building manager, and rent was an abstract concept there. Ten rubles went to Liza’s sewing and cutting courses, which granted technical school rights. Dinner for two (one first course – monastery borscht and one second course – fake rabbit or real noodles), honestly eaten half and half at the vegetarian canteen “Do Not Steal,” took thirteen rubles a month from the couple’s budget. The rest of the money disappeared somewhere unknown. This bothered Kolya the most. “Where does the money go?” he pondered, drawing a long and thin line with a ruling pen on sky-blue tracing paper. Under such conditions, switching to meat-eating meant ruin. Therefore, Kolya spoke fervently:

“Just think, devouring the corpses of slaughtered animals! Cannibalism disguised as culture! All diseases come from meat.”

“Of course,” Liza said with timid irony, “for example, tonsillitis.”

“Yes, yes, tonsillitis too! What do you think? A body weakened by constant meat consumption is unable to resist infection.”

“How silly!”

“That’s not silly. What’s silly is someone who strives to stuff their stomach without caring about the number of vitamins.”

Kolya suddenly fell silent. More and more obscuring the background of bland and limp noodle dishes, porridge, potato nonsense, a large pork cutlet appeared before Kolya’s inner eye. It seemed to have just jumped out of the frying pan. It was still sizzling, bubbling, and emitting spicy smoke. A bone protruded from the cutlet like a dueling pistol.

“You must understand,” Kolya shouted, “a single pork cutlet takes a week off a person’s life!”

“Let it take!” Liza said. “Fake rabbit takes half a year. Yesterday, when we ate the carrot stew, I felt like I was dying. I just didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why didn’t you want to tell?”

“I didn’t have the strength. I was afraid to cry.”

“And now you’re not afraid?”

“Now I don’t care anymore.”

Liza burst into tears.

“Leo Tolstoy,” Kolya said with a trembling voice, “also didn’t eat meat.”

“Yes-s,” Liza replied, hiccupping from tears, “the Count ate asparagus.”

“Asparagus isn’t meat.”

“But when he wrote ‘War and Peace,’ he ate meat! He ate, ate, ate! And when he wrote ‘Anna Karenina’ — he devoured, devoured, devoured!”

“Shut up!”

“Devoured! Devoured! Devoured!”

“And when he wrote ‘The Kreutzer Sonata,’ did he also devour then?” Kolya asked venomously.

“‘The Kreutzer Sonata’ is small. He should have tried writing ‘War and Peace’ on vegetarian sausages!”

“Why are you, finally, pestering me with your Tolstoy?”

“I’m pestering you with Tolstoy? Me? I’m pestering you with Tolstoy?”

Kolya also switched to the formal “вы” (you). In the pencil cases, there was loud jubilation. Liza hastily pulled a blue knitted cap from the back of her head to her forehead.

“Where are you going?”

“Leave me alone. I’m going on business.”

And Liza ran away.

“Where could she have gone?” Kolya wondered. He listened.

“Too much freedom has been given to your kind under Soviet power,” they said in the far pencil case on the left.

“Will she drown herself?” they decided in the third pencil case. The fifth pencil case lit its primus stove and engaged in its usual kisses. Liza ran agitatedly through the streets.

It was that hour of Sunday when fortunate people transport mattresses from the market along Arbat Street.

Newlyweds and average Soviet citizens are the main buyers of spring mattresses. They carry them upright and embrace them with both hands. And why shouldn’t they embrace the blue, shimmering with flowers, foundation of their happiness!

Citizens! Respect the spring mattress with blue flowers! It is the family hearth, the alpha and omega of furnishing, the whole and entirety of home comfort, a love base, the father of the primus stove! How sweetly one sleeps to the democratic ringing of its springs! What wonderful dreams a person sees falling asleep on its blue canvas! What respect every mattress owner enjoys.

A person deprived of a mattress is pathetic. He does not exist. He pays no taxes, has no wife, acquaintances do not lend him money “until Wednesday,” taxi drivers yell insults after him, girls laugh at him: they do not like idealists. A person deprived of a mattress mostly writes poetry:

Under the soft chime of Bure clocks, it’s pleasant to rest in a rocking chair.

Snowflakes swirl in the yard, and, like dreams, jackdaws fly.

He creates at a high telegraph desk, delaying busy mattress owners who have come to send telegrams.

The mattress breaks human life. A certain attractive and as yet unresearched force lurks in its upholstery and springs. To the inviting chime of its springs, people and things flock. The financial agent comes, and girls. They want to be friends with mattress owners. The financial agent does this for fiscal purposes, pursuing the benefit of the state, and the girls — selflessly, obeying the laws of nature.

The blossoming of youth begins. The financial agent, having collected the tax, like a bee collecting spring nectar, flies off with a joyful buzz to his district hive. And the ebbing girls are replaced by a wife and a “Juwel No. 1” primus stove.

The mattress is insatiable. It demands sacrifices. At night, it emits the sound of a falling ball. It needs a shelving unit. It needs a table on clumsy pedestals. Clanging its springs, it demands curtains, drapes, and kitchen utensils. It pushes a person and tells him:

“Go! Buy a rolling pin and a grater!”

“I’m ashamed of you, man, you still don’t have a carpet!”

“Work! I’ll soon bring you children! You’ll need money for diapers and a stroller.”

The mattress remembers everything and does everything its own way. Even a poet cannot escape the common fate. Here he is, carrying a mattress from the market, pressing against its soft belly in horror.

“I will break your stubbornness, poet!” says the mattress. “You won’t have to run to the telegraph to write poetry anymore. And is it even worth writing them at all? Serve! And the balance will always be in your favor. Think about your wife and children.”

“I don’t have a wife!” the poet shouts, recoiling from the springy teacher.

“She will be. And I won’t vouch that she’ll be the most beautiful girl on earth. I don’t even know if she’ll be kind. Prepare for anything. You will have children.”

“I don’t like children!”

“You will love them!”

“You’re scaring me, citizen mattress!”

“Shut up, fool! You don’t know everything! You’ll even take out a loan for furniture at Mosdrev.”

“I’ll kill you, mattress!”

“Puppy! If you dare to do that, the neighbors will report you to the housing authority.”

So every Sunday, to the joyful ringing of mattresses, happy people circulate through Moscow.

But not by this alone, of course, is Moscow’s Sunday remarkable. Sunday is a museum day.

There is a special category of people in Moscow. They understand nothing about painting, are not interested in architecture, and do not like ancient monuments. This category visits museums solely because they are located in beautiful buildings. These people wander through dazzling halls, enviously examining painted ceilings, touching what is forbidden to touch, and ceaselessly muttering:

“Ah! People used to live!”

It doesn’t matter to them that the walls are painted by the Frenchman Puvis de Chavannes. What matters to them is to find out how much it cost the former owner of the mansion. They ascend staircases with marble sculptures on the landings and imagine how many footmen stood there, how much salary and tips each footman received. Porcelain stands on the fireplace, but without paying attention to it, they decide that a fireplace is unprofitable: too much firewood is used. In the dining room, paneled with oak, they do not look at the remarkable carving. One thought torments them: what did the former owner — a merchant — eat here, and how much would it cost at today’s high prices?

In any museum, you can find such people. While tours march briskly from one masterpiece to another, such a person stands in the middle of the hall and, looking at nothing, moans yearningly:

“Ah! People used to live!”

Liza ran along the street, swallowing tears. Thoughts urged her on. She thought about her happy and poor life.

“Oh, if there were a table and two chairs, it would be quite nice. And a primus stove, after all, needs to be bought. One needs to settle down somehow.”

She slowed down because she suddenly remembered her quarrel with Kolya. Moreover, she was very hungry. Her hatred for her husband flared up suddenly.

“This is simply disgraceful!” she said aloud. She wanted to eat even more strongly.

“Alright, alright. I know what to do myself.”

And Liza, blushing, bought a sandwich with boiled sausage from a street vendor. No matter how hungry she was, eating on the street felt awkward. After all, she was a mattress owner and had a keen understanding of life. She looked around and entered the doorway of a two-story mansion. There, experiencing great pleasure, she began to eat the sandwich. The sausage was tempting. A large excursion group entered the doorway. Passing Liza, who stood by the wall, the tourists looked at her. “Let them see!” the embittered Liza decided.

 

Chapter 18. The Furniture Museum

 

Liza wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and brushed crumbs from her blouse. She felt cheerier. She stood before a sign that read:

 

MUSEUM OF FURNITURE CRAFTSMANSHIP

 

Returning home was inconvenient. There was no one to go to. Twenty kopecks lay in her pocket. And Liza decided to start her independent life with a visit to the museum. After checking her cash, Liza went to the vestibule.

There, she immediately bumped into a man with a well-worn beard, who, fixing a heavy gaze on a malachite column, strained through his mustache:

“People lived richly!”

Liza looked at the column with respect and went upstairs.

In small square rooms, with ceilings so low that everyone entering them seemed like a giant, Liza wandered for about ten minutes.

These were rooms furnished in Pavlovsk Empire style, with mahogany and Karelian birch — furniture that was strict, wonderful, and warlike. Two square cabinets, whose glass doors were crisscrossed with spears, stood opposite a writing desk. The desk was boundless. To sit at it was like sitting at Theatre Square, with the Bolshoi Theatre, its colonnade, and its quartet of bronze horses dragging Apollo to the premiere of “The Red Poppy,” appearing on the table like an inkwell. At least, that’s how it seemed to Liza, who was raised on carrots like some rabbit. In the corners stood armchairs with high backs, their tops curled like ram’s horns. Sunlight lay on the peach upholstery of the armchairs.

One immediately wanted to sit in such an armchair, but sitting on it was forbidden.

Liza mentally compared how the armchair of priceless Pavlovsk Empire style would look next to her red-striped mattress. It came out  —  not bad. She read a plaque on the wall with the scientific and ideological justification of the Pavlovsk Empire style and, saddened that she and Kolya did not have a room in this palace, walked out into an unexpected corridor.

On her left, from floor level, ran low, semicircular windows. Through them, below her feet, Liza saw a huge, white, double-height hall with columns. Furniture also stood in the hall, and visitors wandered about. Liza stopped. Never before had she seen a hall beneath her feet.

Marveling and swooning, she looked down for a long time. Suddenly, she noticed that her acquaintances from today — Bender and his companion, the clean-shaven, distinguished old man — were moving from armchairs to a desk down there.

“How nice!” Liza said. “It won’t be so boring.”

She was very happy, ran downstairs, and immediately got lost. She ended up in a red living room, which contained about forty items. This was walnut furniture with curved legs. There was no exit from the living room. She had to run back through a round room with overhead light, furnished, it seemed, only with floral cushions.

She ran past brocade armchairs of the Italian Renaissance, past Dutch cabinets, past a large Gothic bed with a canopy on black twisted columns. A person on this bed would have seemed no bigger than a nut.

Finally, Liza heard the hum of tourists, inattentively listening to their guide, who was denouncing Catherine II’s imperialistic designs in connection with the late Empress’s love for Louis XVI style furniture.

This was the large, double-height hall with columns. Liza went to its opposite end, where her acquaintance Comrade Bender was warmly conversing with his clean-shaven companion. Approaching, Liza heard a resonant voice:

“Shik-modern style furniture. But that, it seems, is not what we need.”

“Yes, but there are obviously other halls here. We need to systematically inspect everything.”

“Hello,” Liza said.

Both turned and immediately grimaced.

“Hello, Comrade Bender. I’m glad I found you. Otherwise, it’s boring alone. Let’s look at everything together.”

The concessionaires exchanged glances. Ippolit Matveevich straightened up, although it was unpleasant for him that Liza might delay them in the important task of finding the diamond furniture.

“We are typical provincials,” Bender said impatiently, “but how did you, a Muscovite, get here?”

“Completely by chance. I had a fight with Kolya.”

“Oh, really?” Ippolit Matveevich remarked.

“Well, let’s leave this hall,” Ostap said.

“But I haven’t even seen it yet. It’s so pretty.”

“Here we go!” Ostap whispered into Ippolit Matveevich’s ear. And, turning to Liza, he added: “There’s absolutely nothing to see here. A decadent style. The Kerensky era.”

“Someone told me there’s Gámbsev furniture here somewhere,” Ippolit Matveevich informed, “let’s go there, perhaps.”

Liza agreed, and taking Vorobyaninov’s arm (he seemed to her an amazingly kind representative of science), headed for the exit. Despite the seriousness of the situation and the decisive moment in the search for treasures, Bender, walking behind the pair, laughed playfully. He was amused by the leader of the Comanches in the role of a gentleman.

Liza greatly hindered the concessionaires. While they could determine at a glance that there was no necessary furniture in a room and were involuntarily drawn to the next, Liza lingered for a long time in each section. She read aloud all the printed critiques of the furniture, made sharp remarks about the visitors, and stood for a long time by each exhibit. Involuntarily and quite unnoticed by herself, she adapted the furniture she saw to her room and needs. She didn’t like the Gothic bed at all. The bed was too big. Even if Kolya had miraculously managed to get a room of three square sazhens, the medieval bed still wouldn’t fit in the room. However, Liza spent a long time admiring the bed, measuring its actual area with steps. Liza was very amused. She did not notice the sour expressions of her companions, whose chivalrous characters did not allow them to rush headlong into Master Gambs’s room.

“Let’s be patient,” Ostap whispered, “the furniture won’t leave; and you, leader, don’t pressure the girl. I’m jealous.” Vorobyaninov smiled complacently. The halls stretched slowly. There was no end to them. Furniture from the Alexandrine era was represented by numerous sets. Its relatively small size delighted Liza.

“Look, look!” she cried trustingly, grabbing Vorobyaninov’s sleeve. “Do you see this desk? It would fit our room perfectly. Right?”

“Lovely furniture!” Ostap said angrily. “Only decadent.”

“I’ve already been here,” Liza said, entering the red living room, “I don’t think it’s worth staying here.”

To her surprise, her companions, indifferent to the furniture, froze by the doors like sentries.

“Why have you stopped? Let’s go. I’m already tired.”

“Wait,” Ippolit Matveevich said, freeing himself from her hand, “just a minute.”

The large room was overcrowded with furniture. Gámbsev chairs were arranged along the wall and around the table. A sofa in the corner was also surrounded by chairs. Their curved legs and comfortable backs were thrillingly familiar to Ippolit Matveevich. Ostap looked at him searchingly. Ippolit Matveevich turned red.

“You’re tired, young lady,” he said to Liza, “sit down here and rest, and he and I will walk around a bit. This seems to be an interesting hall.”

Liza was seated. The concessionaires moved to the window.

“Are they?” Ostap inquired.

“Looks like them. Need to inspect more carefully. Are all the chairs here? Let me count. Wait, wait…”

Vorobyaninov began to shift his gaze from chair to chair.

“Excuse me,” he finally said, “twenty chairs. That can’t be. There should only be ten of them.”

“But look closely. Maybe these aren’t the chairs.”

They began to walk among the chairs.

“Well?” Ostap urged.

“The back doesn’t seem to be like mine.”

“So, not them?”

“Not them.”

“I seem to have gotten involved with you for nothing.”

Ippolit Matveevich was completely dejected.

“Alright,” Ostap said, “the meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. A chair is not a needle. It will be found. Give me the warrants. We’ll have to make an unpleasant contact with the museum administration. Sit next to the girl and stay there. I’ll be right back.”

“Why are you so sad?” Liza said. “Are you tired?”

Ippolit Matveevich evaded her with silence.

“Do you have a headache?”

“Yes, a little. Worries, you know. The lack of female affection affects one’s way of life.”

Liza was surprised at first, and then, looking at her clean-shaven interlocutor, she truly pitied him. Vorobyaninov’s eyes were suffering. His pince-nez did not hide the sharply defined bags under his eyes. The rapid transition from the quiet life of a provincial registry office clerk to the uncomfortable and troublesome existence of a diamond hunter and adventurer did not come easily. Ippolit Matveevich had lost a lot of weight, and his liver had started to ache. Under Bender’s strict supervision, Ippolit Matveevich was losing his identity and rapidly dissolving into the mighty intellect of the son of a Turkish subject. Now, left alone for a moment with the charming citizen Kalachova, he wanted to tell her about all his sorrows and anxieties, but he did not dare.

“Yes,” he said, gazing tenderly at his interlocutor, “such are the matters. How are you, Elizaveta…”

“Petrovna. And what’s your name?” They exchanged first names and patronymics.

“A tale of expensive love,” Ippolit Matveevich thought, looking into Liza’s simple face. So passionately, so irresistibly did the old leader desire female affection, the absence of which greatly affected his way of life, that he immediately took Liza’s little hand in his wrinkled hands and spoke ardently about Paris. He wanted to be rich, extravagant, and irresistible. He wanted to enthrall and, to the sound of orchestras, drink Rederers with a beauty from a ladies’ orchestra in a private room. What was there to talk about with this girl, who undoubtedly knew nothing about Rederers or ladies’ orchestras and who by her nature could not even grasp the full charm of this genre? And yet, he wanted so much to be captivating! And Ippolit Matveevich captivated Liza with stories about Paris.

“Are you a scientist?” Liza asked.

“Yes, in a way,” Ippolit Matveevich replied, feeling that since meeting Bender, he had regained a impudence uncharacteristic of him in recent years.

“And how old are you, forgive my indiscretion?”

“That’s irrelevant to the science I currently represent.”

This quick and pointed answer subdued Liza.

“But still? Thirty? Forty? Fifty?”

“Almost. Thirty-eight.”

“Oh! You look much younger.”

Ippolit Matveevich felt happy.

“When will you grant me the happiness of seeing you again?” Ippolit Matveevich asked nasally.

Liza became very ashamed. She fidgeted in her chair and grew sad.

“Where did Comrade Bender disappear to?” she said in a thin voice.

“So when?” Vorobyaninov asked impatiently. “When and where will we meet?”

“Well, I don’t know. Whenever you want.”

“Today?”

“Today?”

“I beg you.”

“Well, fine. Let it be today. Come visit us.”

“No, let’s meet outdoors. The weather is so wonderful now. You know the poem: ‘It’s May, the playful one, this May, the enchanter, wafts with its fresh fan.'”

“Are those Zharov’s verses?”

“M-m… I think so. So today? Where?”

“How strange you are! Wherever you want. Do you want — by the fireproof safe? You know? When it gets dark…”

Hardly had Ippolit Matveevich managed to kiss Liza’s hand, which he did very solemnly, in three stages, when Ostap returned. Ostap was very business-like.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said quickly, “but my friend and I cannot escort you. A small but very important matter has arisen. We urgently need to go to a certain place.” Ippolit Matveevich gasped.

“Goodbye, Elizaveta Petrovna,” he said hastily, “forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, but we are in a terrible hurry.”

And the companions ran off, leaving the surprised Liza in the room, abundantly furnished with Gámbsev furniture.

“If it weren’t for me,” Ostap said as they descended the stairs, “nothing would have come of it. Pray to me! Pray, pray, don’t be afraid, your head won’t fall off! Listen! Your furniture has no museum significance. Its place is not in a museum, but in a penal battalion barracks. Are you satisfied with this situation?”

“What an insult!” exclaimed Vorobyaninov, who had begun to free himself from the yoke of the powerful intellect of the son of a Turkish subject.

“Silence,” Ostap said coldly, “you don’t know what’s happening. If we don’t seize our furniture now — it’s over. We’ll never see it. Just now I had a difficult conversation in the office with the head of this historical dump.”

“Well, what then?” Ippolit Matveevich shouted. “What did the head say to you?”

“He said everything that needed to be said. Don’t worry. ‘Tell me,’ I asked him, ‘how do you explain that the furniture from Stargorod, sent to you by order, is not in stock?’ I asked this, of course, politely, in a comradely manner. ‘What furniture is this?’ he asks. ‘I don’t observe such facts in my museum.’ I immediately slipped him the warrants. He looked in the books. Searched for half an hour and finally comes back. Well, how do you imagine it? Where is this furniture?”

“Sold?” Vorobyaninov squeaked.

“Imagine, no. Imagine that it survived in such a mess. As I already told you, it has no museum value. It was dumped in the warehouse, and only yesterday, mind you, yesterday, after seven years (it lay in the warehouse for seven years!), it was sent to auction for sale. The Glavnauka auction. And if it wasn’t bought yesterday or this morning, it’s ours! Are you satisfied?”

“Faster!” Ippolit Matveevich shouted.

“Cabbie!” Ostap yelled. They got in without bargaining.

“Pray to me, pray! Don’t be afraid, Hofmarschall! Wine, women, and cards are assured for us. Then we’ll settle up for the blue waistcoat too.”

Into the passage on Petrovka, where the auction hall was located, the concessionaires ran in, brisk as stallions.

In the very first room of the auction, they saw what they had been searching for so long. All ten of Ippolit Matveevich’s chairs stood along the wall on their curved legs. Even their upholstery hadn’t darkened, faded, or deteriorated. The chairs were fresh and clean, as if they had just come from under the careful supervision of Klavdiya Ivanovna.

“Are these them?” Ostap asked.

“My God, my God,” Ippolit Matveevich repeated, “they are, they are. They are exactly them. This time, no doubt whatsoever.”

“Just to be sure, let’s check,” Ostap said, trying to remain calm. He approached the seller:

“Excuse me, these chairs, I believe, are from the furniture museum?”

“These? Yes, these are.”

“And are they for sale?”

“They are for sale.”

“What’s the price?”

“There’s no price yet. They’re going up for auction.”

“Aha. Today?”

“No. The bidding is already over for today. Tomorrow at five o’clock.”

“And they’re not for sale right now?”

“No. Tomorrow at five o’clock.”

It was impossible to leave the chairs immediately.

“Allow me,” Ippolit Matveevich stammered, “to inspect them. May I?”

The concessionaires spent a long time examining the chairs, sitting on them, and, for appearances, looking at other items. Vorobyaninov snorted and kept nudging Ostap with his elbow.

“Pray to me!” Ostap whispered. “Pray, leader.”

Ippolit Matveevich was ready not only to pray to Ostap but even to kiss the soles of his crimson boots.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.” He wanted to sing…

 

Chapter 19. European-Style Voting

 

While the friends led a culturally enlightening lifestyle, visiting museums and making advances to girls in Stargorod, on Plekhanov Street, the double widow Gritsatsuyeva, a stout and weak woman, deliberated and conspired with her neighbors. They all collectively examined the note left by Bender and even held it up to the light. But there were no watermarks on it, and even if there were, the mysterious scribbles of the magnificent Ostap would not have become clearer.

Three days passed. The horizon remained clear. Neither Bender, nor the tea strainer, nor the hollow bracelet, nor the chair returned. All these animate and inanimate objects had disappeared in the most mysterious way.

Then the widow took radical measures. She went to the office of “Stargorodskaya Pravda,” where they quickly concocted an advertisement for her:

PLEADING with persons who know the whereabouts of Comrade Bender, aged 25-30. He left home. Dressed in a green suit, yellow shoes, and a blue waistcoat. Brunet. Those who provide information are requested to notify for a decent reward. Plekhanov Street, 15, Gritsatsuyeva.

“Is this your son?” they asked sympathetically at the office.

“He’s my husband!” the sufferer replied, covering her face with a handkerchief.

“Ah, your husband!”

“My lawful one. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. You might still want to contact the police.”

The widow was frightened. She feared the police. Accompanied by strange looks, the widow left.

The appeal echoed three times from the pages of “Stargorodskaya Pravda.” But the great country remained silent. No one was found who knew the whereabouts of the brunet in yellow shoes. No one came for the decent reward. The neighbors gossiped.

The widow’s brow darkened more and more each day. And strange thing: her husband flashed by like a rocket, dragging with him into the black sky a good chair and a family tea strainer, and yet the widow still loved him. Who can understand the heart of a woman, especially a widow?

They had grown accustomed to the tram in Stargorod and boarded it fearlessly. The conductors shouted with fresh voices: “No seats,” and everything proceeded as if the tram had been introduced in the city during Vladimir the Red Sun’s time. Invalids of all groups, women with children, and Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov boarded the carriages from the front platform. To the cry: “Get your tickets!” Polesov importantly said: “Annual” — and remained next to the tram driver. He did not have an annual ticket, nor could he.

The stay of Vorobyaninov and the great schemer left a deep mark on the city.

The conspirators carefully kept the secret entrusted to them. Even Viktor Mikhailovich, who was itching to spill his exciting secrets to the first person he met, remained silent. However, remembering Ostap’s mighty shoulders, Polesov restrained himself. He only relieved his soul in conversations with the fortune-teller.

“And what do you think, Elena Stanislavovna,” he would say, “how do you explain the absence of our leaders?”

Elena Stanislavovna was also very interested in this, but she had no information.

“And don’t you think, Elena Stanislavovna,” the restless locksmith continued, “that they are currently carrying out a special assignment?”

The fortune-teller was convinced that this was exactly the case. The parrot in red underpants apparently held the same opinion. It looked at Polesov with its round, intelligent eye, as if saying: “Give me some seeds, and I’ll tell you everything right now. Viktor, you will be governor. All locksmiths will be subordinate to you. And the janitor of house No. 5 will remain a janitor, an arrogant boor.”

“And don’t you think, Elena Stanislavovna, that we need to continue our work? After all, we can’t sit idly by?” The fortune-teller agreed and remarked:

“But Ippolit Matveevich is a hero!”

“A hero, Elena Stanislavovna! Clearly. And that combat officer with him? A man of business! Whatever you say, Elena Stanislavovna, but things cannot stand like this. Absolutely cannot.”

And Polesov began to act. He made regular visits to all members of the secret society “Sword and Plow,” especially badgering the cautious owner of the Odessa bagel cooperative “Moscow Bagels,” Citizen Kislyarsky. At the sight of Polesov, Kislyarsky turned black. And words about the necessity of action drove the timid bagel-maker to distraction.

By the end of the week, everyone gathered at Elena Stanislavovna’s room with the parrot. Polesov was boiling.

“You, Viktor, don’t babble,” Dyadyev, the sensible one, told him, “why are you running around the city all day?”

“We must act!” Polesov shouted.

“We must act, but shouting is absolutely unnecessary. Gentlemen, this is how I imagine it all. Since Ippolit Matveevich said so, the matter is sacred. And, presumably, we don’t have long to wait. We don’t need to know how it will all happen: that’s what military men are for. But we are the civilian part — representatives of the city’s intelligentsia and merchants. What’s important to us? To be ready. Do we have anything? Do we have a center? No. Who will lead the city? There’s no one. And that, gentlemen, is the most important thing. The English, gentlemen, it seems, will no longer stand on ceremony with the Bolsheviks. That’s the first sign for us. Everything will change, gentlemen, and very quickly. I assure you.”

“Well, we don’t doubt that,” Charushnikov said, puffing himself up.

“And it’s excellent that you don’t doubt it. What’s your opinion, Mr. Kislyarsky? And yours, young men?”

Nikeshka and Vladya expressed, by their whole demeanor, confidence in a quick change. And Kislyarsky, who understood from the words of the head of the “Bystroupak” trading firm that he would not have to take direct part in armed clashes, happily assented.

“What should we do now?” Viktor Mikhailovich asked impatiently.

“Wait,” Dyadyev said, “take an example from Mr. Vorobyaninov’s companion. What agility! What caution! Did you notice how quickly he shifted the matter to helping the homeless? That’s how we should act too. We are just helping children. So, gentlemen, let’s nominate candidates!”

“We propose Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov as the Marshal of Nobility!” exclaimed the young men Nikeshka and Vladya. Charushnikov cleared his throat condescendingly.

“No, no! He’ll be at least a minister. Or even higher — a dictator!”

“Oh, gentlemen,” Dyadyev said, “the marshal is a secondary matter! We need to think about the governor, not the marshal. Let’s start with the governor. I think…”

“Mr. Dyadyev!” Polesov shouted enthusiastically. “Who else should take the reins of the whole province?”

“I am very flattered by the trust…” Dyadyev began. But then the suddenly reddened Charushnikov stepped forward.

“This question, gentlemen,” he said with strain in his voice, “should be ventilated.” He tried not to look at Dyadyev. The owner of “Bystroupak” proudly examined his boots, to which wooden shavings clung.

“I don’t object,” he uttered, “let’s vote. By secret ballot or open?”

“We don’t need the Soviet way,” Charushnikov said offendedly, “let’s vote honestly, in the European style — secretly.”

They voted with slips of paper. Four votes were cast for Dyadyev. Two for Charushnikov. Someone abstained. It was clear from Kislyarsky’s face that it was him. He did not want to spoil relations with the future governor, whoever he might be.

When the trembling Polesov announced the results of the fair European ballot, a heavy silence fell in the room. They tried not to look at Charushnikov. The unsuccessful candidate for governor sat as if spat upon.

Elena Stanislavovna felt very sorry for him. She was the one who voted for him.

Charushnikov, experienced in electoral matters, cast his second vote for himself. The kind Elena Stanislavovna immediately said:

“And I propose that we elect Monsieur Charushnikov as the city mayor after all.”

“Why ‘after all’?” the magnanimous governor said. “Not ‘after all,’ but precisely him and no one else. Mr. Charushnikov’s public activity is well known to us.”

“We ask, we ask!” everyone shouted.

“So, consider the election confirmed?”

The spat-upon Charushnikov revived and even protested:

“No, no, gentlemen, I ask for a ballot. The city mayor should be balloted for even more strictly than the governor. If, gentlemen, you wish to show me trust, then please, I beg you, ballot!”

Slips of paper showered into the empty sugar bowl.

“Six votes — for,” Polesov said, “and one abstained.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Mayor!” Kislyarsky said, from whose face it was clear that he had abstained this time too. “Congratulations!”

Charushnikov blossomed.

“It remains to refresh ourselves, Your Excellency,” he said to Dyadyev. “Fly, Polesov, to ‘Oktyabr.’ Do you have money?”

Polesov made a mysterious gesture with his hand and ran off. The elections were temporarily interrupted and continued at supper.

The former director of the noble gymnasium, now a bookseller, Raspopov, was nominated as the trustee of the educational district. He was highly praised. Only Vladya, who had drunk three glasses of vodka, suddenly protested:

“He cannot be elected. He gave me a failing grade in logic at the graduation exam.”

They pounced on Vladya.

“At such a decisive hour,” they shouted at him, “one cannot think of one’s own good! Think of the fatherland!”

Vladya was agitated so quickly that he even voted for his tormentor himself. Raspopov was elected by all votes with one abstention.

Kislyarsky was offered the post of chairman of the stock exchange committee. He did not object to this, but abstained during the vote just in case.

Going through acquaintances and relatives, they chose: a police chief, the head of the assay chamber, an excise officer, a tax officer, and a factory inspector; they filled the vacancies of district prosecutor, chairman, secretary, and members of the court; they nominated chairmen of the zemstvo and merchant administrations, the guardianship of children, and, finally, the burghers’ administration. Elena Stanislavovna was elected trustee of the “Drop of Milk” and “White Flower” societies. Nikeshka and Vladya, due to their youth, were appointed special assignment officials under the governor.

“Al-low me!” Charushnikov suddenly exclaimed. “The governor gets two officials! What about me?”

“The city mayor,” the governor said softly, “is not entitled to special assignment officials by staff.”

“Well, a secretary then.”

Dyadyev agreed. Elena Stanislavovna also brightened up.

“Couldn’t we,” she said timidly, “I have a young man here, a very nice and well-mannered boy. Madame Cherkesova’s son… Very, very nice, very capable… He’s unemployed right now. He’s on the labor exchange. He even has a ticket. They promised to find him a job in the union soon… Couldn’t you take him on?” His mother would be very grateful.

“Perhaps it might be possible,” Charushnikov said graciously, “what do you think of this, gentlemen? Alright. In general, I think it will work out.”

“Well,” Dyadyev remarked, “it seems, in broad strokes… everything? Everything, it seems?”

“And me?” a thin, agitated voice suddenly rang out.

Everyone turned around. In the corner, next to the parrot, stood a completely distraught Polesov. Tears welled up in Viktor Mikhailovich’s black eyelids. Everyone felt very ashamed. The guests suddenly remembered that they were drinking Polesov’s vodka and that he was generally one of the main organizers of the Stargorod branch of “Sword and Plow.”

Elena Stanislavovna clutched her temples and cried out in alarm.

“Viktor Mikhailovich!” everyone groaned. “My dear fellow! Sweetheart! How can you be so shameless? Why are you standing in the corner? Come here right now!”

Polesov approached. He was suffering. He did not expect such callousness from his comrades in the sword and plow. Elena Stanislavovna could not bear it.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “this is terrible! How could you forget our dear Viktor Mikhailovich?”

She stood up and kissed the aristocratic locksmith on his sooty forehead.

“Surely, gentlemen, Viktor Mikhailovich would not be a worthy trustee of the educational district or a police chief?”

“Ah, Viktor Mikhailovich?” the governor asked. “Do you want to be a trustee?”

“Well, of course, he will be an excellent, humane trustee!” the city mayor supported, swallowing a mushroom and wincing.

“And Raspop-ov?” Viktor Mikhailovich asked resentfully. “You’ve already appointed Raspopov?”

“Yes, indeed, what about Raspopov?”

“A fire chief, perhaps?…”

“A fire chief!” Viktor Mikhailovich suddenly exclaimed, agitated. Before him instantly arose fire chariots, the gleam of lights, the sound of trumpets and drum rolls. Axes flashed, torches swayed, the earth opened up, and black dragons carried him to the fire at the city theater.

“A fire chief? I want to be a fire chief!”

“Well, that’s excellent! Congratulations. Henceforth, you are the fire chief.”

“To the prosperity of the fire brigade!” the chairman of the stock exchange committee said ironically.

Everyone pounced on Kislyarsky:

“You’ve always been a leftist! We know you!”

“Gentlemen, how am I a leftist?”

“We know, we know!…”

“Leftist!”

“All Jews are leftists!”

“But, by God, gentlemen, I don’t understand these jokes.”

“Leftist, leftist, don’t hide it!”

“He sleeps at night and dreams of Milyukov!”

“Cadet! Cadet!”

“The Cadets sold Finland,” Charushnikov suddenly bellowed, “did they take money from the Japanese? They bred Armenians.”

Kislyarsky could not bear the torrent of baseless accusations. Pale, with glittering eyes, the chairman of the stock exchange committee clutched the back of a chair and said in a ringing voice:

“I have always been an Octobrist and will remain one.”

They began to sort out who sympathized with which party.

“First of all, gentlemen, democracy,” Charushnikov said, “our city self-government must be democratic. But without the little Cadets. They caused us enough trouble in seventeen!”

“I hope,” the governor inquired venomously, “there are no so-called Social Democrats among us?”

To the left of the Octobrists, who were represented at the meeting by Kislyarsky, there was no one. Charushnikov declared himself “center.” On the far right flank stood the fire chief. He was so right-wing that he did not even know which party he belonged to. They started talking about war.

“Any day now,” Dyadyev said.

“There will be war, there will be.”

“I advise you to stock up on some things before it’s too late.”

“You think so?” Kislyarsky worried.

“What do you think? Do you think you’ll be able to get anything during the war? Flour will disappear from the market immediately! Silver coins — as if through the ground, all sorts of paper money will circulate, postage stamps with equal circulation, and all such things.”

“War is a decided matter.”

“You know best,” Dyadyev said, “but I’m putting all my free funds into buying necessities.”

“What about your factory business?”

“The factory is one thing, and flour and sugar are another. So I advise you too. I strongly advise you.”

Polesov smirked.

“How will the Bolsheviks fight? With what? With what will they fight? Old rifles? And the air force? A prominent communist told me that they have — well, what do you think, how many airplanes?”

“About two hundred!”

“Two hundred? Not two hundred, but thirty-two! And France has eighty thousand combat aircraft.”

They parted after midnight.

“Yes-s… The Bolsheviks have ruined everything.”

The governor went to see off the city mayor.

Both walked exaggeratedly straight.

“Governor!” Charushnikov said. “What kind of governor are you if you’re not a general?”

“I’ll be a civilian general, and you’re jealous? When I want, I’ll put you in jail. You’ll sit there long enough.”

“You can’t imprison me. I’m elected, entrusted with confidence.”

“For one elected, they give two unelected.”

“I a-ask you not to be witty with me!” Charushnikov suddenly shouted to the whole street.

“Why are you shouting, fool?” the governor asked. “Do you want to spend the night in the police station?”

“I can’t spend the night in the police station,” the city mayor replied, “I’m a Soviet employee…”

A star shone. The night was magical. On Second Sovetskaya Street, the argument between the governor and the city mayor continued.

 

Chapter 20. From Seville to Grenada

 

But wait, where is Father Fyodor? Where is the tonsured priest of the Church of Frol and Lavr? He was, it seems, going to Grape Street, house No. 34, to Citizen Bruns? Where is this treasure hunter in the guise of an angel and sworn enemy of Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov, who is now on duty in the dark corridor near the fireproof safe?

Father Fyodor has vanished. Fate led him astray. They say he was seen at Popasnaya station, on the Donetsk railways. He was running along the platform with a kettle of boiling water…

Father Fyodor craved wealth. He was carried across Russia in pursuit of General Popova’s furniture set, which, it must be admitted, contained absolutely nothing. The father travels across Russia, only writing letters to his wife.

 

FATHER FYODOR’S LETTER,

written by him in Kharkov, at the station, to his wife in the provincial town of N

 

My darling, Katerina Alexandrovna! I am deeply sorry. I abandoned you, poor thing, alone at such a time.

I must tell you everything. You will understand me and, hopefully, agree.

Of course, I never joined any “Living Church” movement, nor did I ever intend to; God forbid!

Now read carefully. We will soon live differently. Do you remember me telling you about a small candle factory? We will have one, and perhaps something else too. And you will no longer have to cook dinners yourself or keep boarders. We’ll go to Samara and hire servants.

The matter is this, but you must keep it a big secret, don’t tell anyone, not even Maria Ivanovna. I am looking for a treasure. Do you remember the late Klavdia Ivanovna Petukhova, Vorobyaninov’s mother-in-law? Before her death, Klavdia Ivanovna revealed to me that her diamonds were hidden in one of the twelve drawing-room chairs in her Stargorod house.

Katenka, don’t think I’m some kind of thief. She bequeathed these diamonds to me and told me to guard them from Ippolit Matveevich, her long-time tormentor.

That is why I left you, poor thing, so unexpectedly. Please don’t blame me.

I arrived in Stargorod, and imagine — that old womanizer also turned up there. He found out somehow. He must have tortured the old woman before her death. A terrible man! And some criminal is traveling with him — he hired a bandit. They directly attacked me, tried to kill me. But I’m not that kind of person; you can’t push me around; I didn’t give in.

At first, I went down the wrong path. I only found one chair in Vorobyaninov’s house (where there is now a charitable institution); I carry my furniture back to my room at the “Sorbonne” hotel, and suddenly from around the corner, a man lunges at me with a growl, like a lion, pouncing and grabbing the chair. It almost came to a fight. They wanted to disgrace me. Then I looked closer — it was Vorobyaninov. He shaved, imagine that, and bared his head, a swindler disgracing himself in his old age.

We broke open the chair — there was nothing there. It was then that I realized I had been led astray. But at the time, I was very upset.

I felt offended, and I told that dissolute fellow the whole truth to his face.

“What a disgrace in old age,” I said, “what barbarity has now come to Russia: for a marshal of nobility to throw himself like a lion at a clergyman and reproach him for being non-partisan! You,” I said, “are a base man, Klavdia Ivanovna’s tormentor, and a hunter of other people’s property, which is now state property, not his.”

He became ashamed, and he “walked away from me, probably to a public house.

And I went back to my room at the “Sorbonne” and began to think about the further plan. And I realized something that would never have occurred to that shaven fool: I decided to find the person who distributed the requisitioned furniture. Imagine, Katenka, it wasn’t for nothing that I studied at the law faculty — it came in handy. I found this person. The very next day I found him. Varfolomeich — a very decent old man. He lives with his old grandmother, earning his bread through hard labor. He gave me all the documents. I had to, however, reward him for such a service. I was left without money (but more on that later). It turned out that all twelve drawing-room chairs from Vorobyaninov’s house went to Engineer Bruns, on Vinogradnaya Street, house No. 34. Note that all the chairs went to one person, which I had not expected at all (I was afraid the chairs would end up in different places). I was very happy about this. Just then, at the “Sorbonne,” I met that scoundrel Vorobyaninov again. I gave him and his friend, the bandit, a good scolding, spared no words. I was very afraid they would find out my secret, and I hid in the hotel until they checked out.

Bruns, it turns out, left Stargorod in 1923 for Kharkov, where he was assigned to serve. I found out from the doorman that he took all the furniture with him and preserves it very carefully. He is, they say, a steady man.

I’m sitting at the station in Kharkov now, writing this for the following reasons. Firstly, I love you very much and remember you, and secondly, Bruns is no longer here. But don’t be sad. Bruns is now serving in Rostov, at “Novoroscement,” as I found out. I’m short on travel money. I’m leaving in an hour on a freight and passenger train. And you, my dear, please go to your brother-in-law, take fifty rubles from him (he owes me and promised to give it back) and send it to Rostov: general post office, poste restante, Fyodor Ioannovich Vostrikov. For economy, send the transfer by mail. It will cost thirty kopecks. What’s the news in our town? What’s new? Did Kondratyevna come to see you? Tell Father Kirill that I’ll be back soon: say I went to an dying aunt in Voronezh. Save money. Is Evstigneev still having lunch? Greet him for me. Tell him I went to my aunt.

How’s the weather? Here in Kharkov, it’s completely summer. The city is noisy — the center of the Ukrainian Republic. After the province, it feels like I’ve gone abroad. Do this:

Send my summer cassock to the dry cleaner (better to pay 3 rubles for cleaning than to buy a new one).

Take care of your health.

When you write to Gulenka, casually mention that I went to my aunt in Voronezh.

Greet everyone for me. Tell them I’ll be back soon. I kiss you tenderly, embrace you, and bless you. Your husband, Fedya.

P.S.: Where is Vorobyaninov now?

 

Love withers a person. The bull moans with passion. The rooster paces restlessly. The Marshal of Nobility loses his appetite.

Leaving Ostap and the student Ivanopulo at the tavern, Ippolit Matveevich crept into the pink house and took up position by the fireproof safe. He heard the sound of trains departing for Castile and the splash of steamers setting sail.

 

The golden edges of distant Alpujarras fade.

His heart swung like a pendulum. His ears ticked.

To the inviting sound of the guitar,

Come out, my dear.

Anxiety permeated the corridor. Nothing could melt the cold of the fireproof safe.

From Seville to Granada

In the quiet twilight of nights…

Gramophones groaned in the pencil cases. The buzzing hum of primus stoves resounded.

Serenades ring out,

The clash of swords echoes…

 

In short, Ippolit Matveevich was utterly infatuated with Liza Kalachova.

Many people passed Ippolit Matveevich in the corridor, but they smelled of tobacco, or vodka, or medicine, or day-old cabbage soup. In the gloom of the corridor, people could only be distinguished by their smell or the heaviness of their steps. Liza didn’t pass by. Ippolit Matveevich was certain of this. She didn’t smoke, didn’t drink vodka, and didn’t wear iron-studded boots. She couldn’t smell of iodine or cod-head. From her, only the tenderest scent of rice porridge or deliciously prepared hay could emanate, the kind Madame Nordman-Severova had fed the famous artist Ilya Repin for so long.

But then light, hesitant footsteps were heard. Someone was walking down the corridor, bumping into its elastic walls and muttering sweetly.

“Is that you, Elizaveta Petrovna?” Ippolit Matveevich asked in a velvety voice.

A deep voice replied:

“Tell me, please, where do the Pfefferkorns live here? You can’t make out a thing in this darkness.”

Ippolit Matveevich fell silent in alarm. The Pfefferkorn seeker waited in bewilderment for an answer and, receiving none, crawled further on.

Liza didn’t arrive until nine o’clock. They went out into the street, under the caramel-green evening sky.

“Where shall we walk?” Liza asked. Ippolit Matveevich looked at her bright, luminous face and, instead of directly saying: “Here I am, Inezilla, standing beneath your window,” began to speak at length and tediously about how he hadn’t been in Moscow for a long time and how Paris was incomparably better than the White-Stoned City, which, no matter how you looked at it, remained a haphazardly planned large village.

“I remember Moscow, Elizaveta Petrovna, not like this. Now there’s a sense of stinginess in everything. But we, in our time, didn’t spare money. ‘We only live once,’ there’s a song like that.”

They walked through the entire Prechistensky Boulevard and came out onto the embankment, to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior.

Beyond the Moskvoretsky Bridge stretched dark brown fox tails. The Moges electric stations smoked like a squadron. Trams rumbled over the bridges. Boats moved along the river. A harmonica played a sad tune.

Clutching Ippolit Matveevich’s hand, Liza told him about all her disappointments. About the quarrel with her husband, about the difficult life among eavesdropping neighbors — former chemists — and about the monotony of their vegetarian table.

Ippolit Matveevich listened and thought. Demons awoke within him. He imagined a wonderful dinner. He concluded that such a girl needed to be dazzled by something.

“Let’s go to the theater,” Ippolit Matveevich suggested.

“Better the cinema,” Liza said, “it’s cheaper at the cinema.”

“Oh! What do money matter! Such a night, and suddenly some money.”

Completely unleashed demons, without bargaining, put the couple in a cab and took them to the “Ars” cinema. Ippolit Matveevich was magnificent. He bought the most expensive tickets. However, they didn’t last until the end of the screening. Liza was used to sitting in cheap seats, up close, and had trouble seeing from the expensive thirty-fourth row.

In Ippolit Matveevich’s pocket lay half the sum the concessionaires had received from the Stargorod conspirators. This was a large sum of money for Vorobyaninov, who had grown unaccustomed to luxury. Now, excited by the possibility of easy love, he intended to dazzle Liza with his lavishness. For this, he considered himself excellently prepared. He proudly recalled how easily he had once won the heart of the beautiful Elena Bour. The habit of spending money easily and pompously was inherent in him. He was famous in Stargorod for his good manners and ability to converse with any lady. It seemed ridiculous to him to expend all his old-regime polish on conquering a small Soviet girl who had not yet really seen or known anything.

After a brief persuasion, Ippolit Matveevich took Liza to “Prague,” an exemplary MSPO canteen — “the best place in Moscow,” as Bender had told him.

“Prague” struck Liza with its abundance of mirrors, light, and flowerpots. This was forgivable for Liza: she had never before visited large, exemplary restaurants. But the mirrored hall quite unexpectedly struck Ippolit Matveevich as well. He lagged behind, having forgotten restaurant etiquette. Now he was positively ashamed of his baronial boots with square toes, his single pair of pre-war trousers, and his moon-colored waistcoat, sprinkled with a silver star.

Both were embarrassed and froze in full view of the rather motley public.

“Let’s go over there, to the corner,” Vorobyaninov suggested, although there were free tables right by the stage, where the orchestra was sawing out a routine medley from “Bayadere.”

Feeling that everyone was looking at her, Liza quickly agreed. The social lion and conqueror of women, Vorobyaninov, followed her, embarrassed. The social lion’s worn trousers hung like a bag from his thin backside. The conqueror of women hunched over and, to overcome his embarrassment, began to wipe his pince-nez. No one approached their table. Ippolit Matveevich had not expected this. And instead of gallantly conversing with his lady, he remained silent, languished, timidly tapped the ashtray on the table, and endlessly cleared his throat. Liza looked around curiously; the silence became unnatural. But Ippolit Matveevich could not utter a word. He had forgotten what he always said in such cases.

“Be so kind!” he called out to the passing public catering workers.

“Just a moment, sir!” the waiters shouted on the move.

Finally, the menu was brought. Ippolit Matveevich, with a sense of relief, delved into it.

“However,” he muttered, “veal cutlets — two twenty-five, fillet — two twenty-five, vodka — five rubles.”

“For five rubles, a large carafe, sir,” the waiter informed, looking around impatiently.

“What’s wrong with me?” Ippolit Matveevich horrified. “I’m becoming ridiculous.”

“Here, please,” he said to Liza with belated politeness, “would you like to choose? What will you eat?”

Liza felt ashamed. She saw how proudly the waiter looked at her companion, and understood that he was doing something wrong.

“I don’t want to eat at all,” she said in a trembling voice. “Or… tell me, comrade, do you have anything vegetarian?”

The waiter began to stamp his feet like a horse.

“We don’t keep vegetarian, sir. Unless it’s an omelet with ham.”

“Then this,” Ippolit Matveevich said, having decided, “give us some sausages. You’ll eat sausages, Elizaveta Petrovna, won’t you?”

“I will.”

“So. Sausages. These ones, for a ruble twenty-five. And a bottle of vodka.”

“It’ll be in a carafe.”

“Then — a large carafe.”

The public catering worker looked at the defenseless Liza with transparent eyes.

“What will you have with your vodka? Fresh caviar? Salmon? Rasstegai?”

The registrar’s clerk continued to rage within Ippolit Matveevich.

“No need,” he said with unpleasant rudeness. “How much are your pickled cucumbers? Well, fine, give two.”

The waiter ran off, and silence again settled at the table. Liza spoke first:

“I’ve never been here before. It’s very nice here.”

“Yes-s,” Ippolit Matveevich drawled, calculating the cost of the order.

“It’s nothing,” he thought, “I’ll drink the vodka — I’ll loosen up. Otherwise, it’s really awkward somehow.”

But when he drank the vodka and ate the cucumber, he didn’t loosen up but grew even gloomier. Liza didn’t drink. The tension didn’t disappear. And then a man approached their table and, looking at Liza caressingly, offered to sell her flowers.

Ippolit Matveevich pretended not to notice the mustachioed florist, but he didn’t leave. It was absolutely impossible to exchange pleasantries in his presence.

The concert program came to the rescue for a while. A plump man in a morning coat and patent leather shoes came out onto the stage.

“Well, here we are again,” he said casually to the audience. “The next number on our concert program will be the world performer of Russian folk songs, well known in Maryina Roscha. Varvara Ivanovna Godlevskaya. Varvara Ivanovna! Please come forward!”

Ippolit Matveevich drank vodka and remained silent. Since Liza wasn’t drinking and kept wanting to go home, he had to hurry to finish the whole carafe.

When a couplet-singer in a corduroy velvet Tolstovka, who had replaced the singer famous in Maryina Roscha, came onto the stage and began to sing:

 

You walk, you wander everywhere,

As if your appendix

Will be sated by walking,

You walk,

Ta-ra-ra-ra, —

 

Ippolit Matveevich was already quite tipsy and, along with all the patrons of the exemplary dining hall whom he had, just half an hour ago, considered boors and stingy Soviet bandits, clapped his hands in rhythm and began to sing along:

 

You walk,

Ta-ra-ra-ra…

 

He frequently jumped up and, without excusing himself, went to the restroom. Neighboring tables were already calling him “uncle” and inviting him over for a glass of beer. But he didn’t go. He suddenly became proud and suspicious. Liza decisively stood up from the table:

“I’m leaving. You stay. I’ll get home myself.”

“No, why? As a nobleman, I cannot allow it! Señor! The bill! Bo-ors!..”

Ippolit Matveevich looked at the bill for a long time, rocking in his chair.

“Nine rubles twenty kopecks?” he muttered. “Perhaps I should also give you the key to the apartment where the money is kept?”

It ended with Ippolit Matveevich being led downstairs, carefully supported by his arms. Liza couldn’t run away because the cloakroom ticket was with the high-society lion.

In the very first alley, Ippolit Matveevich leaned his shoulder against Liza and began to grab her. Liza silently pulled away.

“Listen!” she said. “Listen! Listen!”

“Let’s go to the rooms!” Vorobyaninov urged.

Liza forcefully freed herself and, without aiming, punched the conqueror of women in the nose. Immediately, his pince-nez with the gold bridge fell off and, landing under the square toe of his baronial boot, crumbled with a crunch.

 

The night zephyr

Pours ether…

 

Liza, choking back tears, ran down Serebryany Lane towards home.

 

It roars,

The Guadalquivir flows.

 

The blinded Ippolit Matveevich trotted quickly in the opposite direction, shouting:

“Stop thief!”

Then he cried for a long time and, still crying, bought all of an old woman’s bagels, along with her basket. He went out to Smolensky Market, empty and dark, and walked back and forth there for a long time, scattering bagels as a sower casts seeds. As he did so, he unmusically cried:

 

You walk,

You wander everywhere,

Ta-ra-ra-ra…

 

Then Ippolit Matveevich befriended a cab driver, poured out his whole soul to him, and incoherently told him about the diamonds.

“A merry gentleman!” the cab driver exclaimed.

Ippolit Matveevich was indeed cheerful. Apparently, his cheerfulness was somewhat reprehensible, because by about eleven in the morning, he woke up in a police station. Of the two hundred rubles with which he had so disgracefully begun his night of pleasures and delights, only twelve remained with him.

He felt as if he was dying. His spine ached, his liver throbbed, and he felt as if a lead pot had been placed on his head. But the most terrible thing was that he absolutely could not remember where and how he could have spent such a large sum of money. On the way home, he had to stop at an optician’s and get new lenses put into his pince-nez frame. Ostap looked at Ippolit Matveevich’s disheveled figure for a long time, with surprise, but said nothing. He was cold and ready for a fight.

 

Chapter 21. The Execution

 

The auction was set to open at five o’clock. Citizens were allowed to view the items starting at four. The friends arrived at three and spent a full hour examining the machine-building exhibition located nearby.

“It looks like,” said Ostap, “that tomorrow, with good will, we’ll be able to buy this little locomotive. It’s a pity the price isn’t listed. Still, it would be nice to have our own locomotive.”

Ippolit Matveevich was restless. Only the chairs could console him.

He only moved away from them when the auctioneer, in plaid “century” trousers and a beard cascading over a Russian covert coat Tolstoy shirt, climbed onto the rostrum.

The concessionaires took seats in the fourth row on the right. Ippolit Matveevich began to worry intensely. He thought the chairs would be sold immediately. But they were number forty-three, and the usual auction junk and bric-a-brac came up for sale first: mismatched crest services, a gravy boat, a silver cup holder, a landscape by the artist Petunin, a beaded reticule, a brand new primus stove burner, a bust of Napoleon, linen brassieres, a tapestry titled “Hunter Shooting Wild Ducks,” and other nonsense.

They had to endure and wait. Waiting was very difficult: all the chairs were present; the goal was near, within arm’s reach.

“What a commotion would start here,” Ostap thought, surveying the auction crowd, “if they knew what a ‘cucumber’ was going to be sold today under the guise of these chairs.”

“Figure depicting Justice!” the auctioneer proclaimed. “Bronze. In perfect order. Five rubles. Who offers more? Six and a half, on the right, at the back — seven. Eight rubles in the first row, straight ahead. Second call, eight rubles, straight ahead. Third call, in the first row, straight ahead.”

A young woman with a receipt immediately hurried to the citizen in the first row to collect the money.

The auctioneer’s hammer tapped. Ashtrays from a palace, Baccarat glass, and a porcelain powder box were sold.

Time dragged on agonizingly.

“Bronze bust of Alexander III. Can serve as a paperweight. Seems suitable for little else. The bust of Alexander III starts from the offered price.”

The audience laughed.

“Buy it, Marshal,” Ostap quipped, “you seem to like him.”

Ippolit Matveevich kept his eyes on the chairs and remained silent.

“No bidders? The bronze bust of Alexander III is withdrawn from auction. Figure depicting Justice. Seems to be a pair to the one just bought. Vasily, show ‘Justice’ to the public. Five rubles. Who offers more?”

A snorting sound came from the first row, straight ahead. Apparently, the citizen wanted to have “Justice” in full.

“Five rubles — bronze ‘Justice’!”

“Six!” the citizen said clearly.

“Six rubles, straight ahead. Seven. Nine rubles, on the right at the back.”

“Nine and a half,” the “Justice” enthusiast said quietly, raising his hand.

“And a half, straight ahead. Second call, and a half, straight ahead. Third call, and a half.”

The hammer fell. A young lady rushed to the citizen in the first row.

He paid and shuffled to another room to collect his bronze.

“Ten chairs from a palace!” the auctioneer suddenly announced.

“Why from a palace?” Ippolit Matveevich quietly gasped. Ostap got angry:

“Go to hell! Listen and don’t budge!”

“Ten chairs from a palace. Walnut. Alexander II era. In perfect order. Work of the Gambs furniture workshop. Vasily, bring one chair under the spotlight.”

Vasily dragged the chair so roughly that Ippolit Matveevich jumped.

“Sit down, you cursed idiot, you’re a burden on my head!” Ostap hissed. “Sit down, I tell you!”

Ippolit Matveevich’s lower jaw began to tremble. Ostap took a stance. His eyes brightened.

“Ten walnut chairs. Eighty rubles.”

The hall livened up. A useful household item was being sold. Hands popped up one after another. Ostap was calm.

“Why aren’t you bidding?” Vorobyaninov attacked him.

“Get lost,” Ostap replied, gritting his teeth.

“One hundred twenty rubles, in the back. One hundred thirty-five, same place. One forty.”

Ostap calmly turned his back to the rostrum and, with a smirk, began to examine his competitors.

The auction was in full swing. There were no free seats left. Just behind Ostap, a lady, after discussing with her husband, was tempted by the chairs (“Wonderful semi-armchairs! Exquisite work! Sanya! From the palace!”) and raised her hand.

“One hundred forty-five, in the fifth row on the right. Once. The hall quieted. Too expensive.

“One hundred forty-five. Twice.”

Ostap indifferently examined the stucco cornice. Ippolit Matveevich sat, head bowed, and shuddered.

“One hundred forty-five. Thrice.”

But before the black lacquered hammer struck the plywood rostrum, Ostap turned, threw his hand up, and said quietly:

“Two hundred.”

All heads turned towards the concessionaires. Caps, peaked caps, and hats stirred. The auctioneer raised his bored face and looked at Ostap.

“Two hundred, once,” he said, “two hundred, in the fourth row on the right, twice. No more bidders? Two hundred rubles, a walnut palace suite of ten items. Two hundred rubles — thrice, in the fourth row on the right.”

The hand with the hammer hung over the rostrum.

“Mama!” Ippolit Matveevich said loudly.

Ostap, rosy and calm, smiled. The hammer fell, emitting a heavenly sound.

“Sold,” said the auctioneer. “Young lady! In the fourth row on the right.”

“Well, chairman, impressive?” Ostap asked. “What, I wonder, would you do without a technical director?”

Ippolit Matveevich happily grunted. The young lady was trotting towards them.

“Did you buy the chairs?”

“We did!” exclaimed the long-restrained Ippolit Matveevich. “We, we. When can we take them?”

“Whenever you like. Even now!”

The tune “You walk, you wander everywhere” danced wildly in Ippolit Matveevich’s head. “Our chairs, ours, ours, ours!” His whole body cried out. “Ours!” cried his liver. “Ours!” confirmed his appendix.

He was so overjoyed that pulses appeared in the most unexpected places. Everything vibrated, swayed, and crackled under the pressure of unheard-of happiness. He saw a train approaching St. Gotthard. On the open platform of the last carriage stood Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov in white trousers, smoking a cigar. Edelweiss flowers gently fell onto his head, once again adorned with shimmering aluminum gray. He was rolling towards Eden.

“But why two hundred thirty, and not two hundred?” Ippolit Matveevich heard. It was Ostap speaking, turning the receipt in his hands.

“Fifteen percent commission is included,” the young lady replied.

“Well, what can be done! Take it!”

Ostap pulled out his wallet, counted out two hundred rubles, and turned to the general director of the enterprise:

“Cough up thirty rubles, my dearest, and be quick about it: don’t you see — the lady is waiting. Well?”

Ippolit Matveevich made not the slightest attempt to produce the money.

“Well? Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? Stunned with happiness?”

“I have no money,” Ippolit Matveevich finally mumbled.

“Who doesn’t?” Ostap asked very quietly.

“I don’t.”

“And the two hundred rubles?!”

“I… m-m-m… l-lost them.”

Ostap looked at Vorobyaninov, quickly assessing the crumpling of his face, the greenness of his cheeks, and the swollen bags under his eyes.

“Give me the money!” he whispered with hatred. “Old bastard!”

“So, will you pay?” the young lady asked.

“Just a moment!” Ostap said, smiling charmingly, “a slight hitch.”

There was still a small hope. They might be persuaded to wait for the money.

At this point, the revived Ippolit Matveevich, spluttering saliva, burst into the conversation.

“Allow me!” he howled. “Why a commission? We know nothing of such a commission! You should warn people. I refuse to pay these thirty rubles.”

“Very well,” the young lady said meekly, “I’ll arrange everything right now.”

Taking the receipt, she hurried to the auctioneer and spoke a few words to him. The auctioneer immediately rose. His beard gleamed under the bright electric lights.

“According to the rules of the auction,” he loudly declared, “any person refusing to pay the full sum for an item purchased by him must leave the hall. The bidding on the chairs is canceled.” The astonished friends sat motionless.

“I request you!” the auctioneer said. The effect was great. The audience laughed maliciously. Ostap still didn’t get up. He hadn’t experienced such blows in a long time.

“I r-request you!”

The auctioneer sang in a voice that brooked no objections. Laughter in the hall intensified.

And they left. Few left the auction hall with such bitter feelings. Vorobyaninov went first. With his straight, bony shoulders hunched, in his shortened jacket and absurd baronial boots, he walked like a crane, feeling the warm, friendly gaze of the great schemer behind him.

The concessionaires stopped in the room next to the auction hall. Now they could only look at the marketplace through a glass door. The way there was already blocked. Ostap remained silently friendly.

“Outrageous conduct,” Ippolit Matveevich muttered timidly, “utter disgrace! We should complain to the police about them.” Ostap remained silent.

“No, really, this is what the devil knows what it is!” Vorobyaninov continued to fret. “They’re extorting three times the price from the working people. By God!… Two hundred thirty rubles for some used ten chairs. It’s maddening…”

“Yes,” Ostap said woodenly.

“Really?” Vorobyaninov asked again. “It’s enough to drive one mad!”

“Indeed.”

Ostap approached Vorobyaninov closely and, looking around, delivered a short, strong, and unnoticed by outsiders blow to the Marshal’s side.

“There’s your police! There’s your high price for chairs for the workers of all countries! There’s your night walks with girls! There’s your gray hair in your beard! There’s your demon in your rib!”

Ippolit Matveevich did not utter a sound throughout the execution.

From the side, it might have seemed that a respectful son was talking to his father, only the father was shaking his head too vigorously.

“Well, now get out!”

Ostap turned his back to the director of the enterprise and began to look into the auction hall. A minute later, he looked around.

Ippolit Matveevich was still standing behind him, with his hands at his sides.

“Ah, you’re still here, the life of the party? Go! Well?”

“Com-rade Bender,” Vorobyaninov pleaded. “Comrade Bender!”

“Go! Go! And don’t come to Ivanopulo! I’ll kick you out!”

“Com-rade Bender!”

Ostap no longer turned around. Something happened in the hall that interested Bender so much that he opened the door slightly and began to listen.

“It’s all lost!” he mumbled.

“What’s lost?” Vorobyaninov asked obsequiously.

“They’re selling the chairs separately, that’s what. Perhaps you’d like to acquire one? Please. I’m not stopping you. But I doubt they’ll let you in. And you don’t seem to have much money.”

At this time, the following was happening in the auction hall: the auctioneer, feeling that he wouldn’t be able to wring two hundred rubles out of the public at once (too large a sum for the small fry remaining in the hall), decided to get these two hundred rubles in pieces. The chairs were again put up for auction, but this time individually.

“Four chairs from a palace. Walnut. Upholstered. Work of Gambs. Thirty rubles. Who offers more?”

All of Ostap’s decisiveness and coolness quickly returned.

“Well, you, ladies’ man, stand here and don’t leave. I’ll be back in five minutes. And you watch who and what. Make sure not a single chair leaves.”

A plan immediately formed in Bender’s mind, the only possible one given the difficult circumstances they found themselves in.

He ran out onto Petrovka, headed to the nearest asphalt cauldron, and entered into a business conversation with the homeless children.

He returned to Ippolit Matveevich in five minutes, as promised. The homeless children were ready at the entrance to the auction.

“They’re selling, they’re selling,” Ippolit Matveevich whispered, “four and two already sold.”

“You really helped us out,” Ostap said, “rejoice. It was all in our hands, you understand — in our hands. Can you understand that?”

In the hall, a creaky voice echoed, a voice bestowed by nature only on auctioneers, croupiers, and glaziers:

“And a half, to the left. Thrice. One more chair from a palace. Walnut. In perfect condition. And a half, straight ahead. Once — and a half, straight ahead.”

Three chairs were sold individually. The auctioneer announced the sale of the last chair. Anger choked Ostap. He again pounced on Vorobyaninov. His insulting remarks were full of bitterness. Who knows how far Ostap would have gone in his satirical exercises if he hadn’t been interrupted by a quickly approaching man in a suit of Lodz brown colors. He waved his plump arms, jumped and bounced, as if playing tennis.

“And tell me,” he asked Ostap hastily, “is this really an auction? Yes? An auction? And are things really being sold here? Wonderful!”

The stranger bounced away, and his face lit up with many smiles.

“Are things really being sold here? And can one really buy cheaply? High class? Very, very! Ah!..”

The stranger, wiggling his plump hips, rushed into the hall past the stunned concessionaires and bought the last chair so quickly that Vorobyaninov only grunted. The stranger, receipt in hand, ran to the checkout counter.

“And tell me, can I take the chair now? Wonderful!… Ah!… Ah!…”

Bleating incessantly and constantly in motion, the stranger loaded the chair onto a cab and drove off. A homeless child ran after him.

Gradually, all the new owners of the chairs dispersed and drove away. Ostap’s juvenile agents dashed after them. He himself left too. Ippolit Matveevich timidly followed behind. The day seemed like a dream to him. Everything happened quickly and not at all as expected.

On Sivtsev Vrazhek, pianos, mandolins, and accordions celebrated spring. Windows were flung open. Flowerbeds in clay pots filled the windowsills. A fat man, with an open hairy chest, in suspenders, stood by the window and sang passionately. A cat slowly crept along the wall. Kerosene lamps glowed in the food stalls.

Near the pink house, Kolya was strolling. Seeing Ostap walking ahead, he politely greeted him and approached Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveevich warmly welcomed him. Kolya, however, did not waste time.

“Good evening,” he said decisively, and, unable to restrain himself, hit Ippolit Matveevich in the ear.

Simultaneously, Kolya uttered a rather vulgar phrase, in the opinion of Ostap, who was observing the scene:

“That’s what will happen to everyone,” Kolya said in a childish voice, “who encroaches…”

Kolya did not finish what exactly they would encroach upon. He stood on tiptoes and, closing his eyes, slapped Vorobyaninov on the cheek.

Ippolit Matveevich raised his elbow but dared not even squeak.

“That’s right,” Ostap kept saying, “and now on the neck. Twice. Like that. Nothing you can do. Sometimes eggs have to teach a runaway chicken… One more time… Like that. Don’t be shy. Don’t hit him on the head anymore. That’s his weakest spot.”

If the Stargorod conspirators had seen the giant of thought and father of Russian democracy at this critical moment for him, one must assume the secret society “Sword and Plow” would have ceased to exist.

“Well, I think that’s enough,” Kolya said, putting his hand in his pocket.

“Just one more time,” Ostap pleaded.

“To hell with him! He’ll know better next time!”

Kolya left. Ostap went up to Ivanopulo and looked down. Ippolit Matveevich stood diagonally from the house, leaning against the cast-iron embassy fence.

“Citizen Mikhelson!” Ostap shouted. “Conrad Karlovich! Enter the premises! I permit it!”

Ippolit Matveevich entered the room already slightly livelier.

“Unheard-of insolence!” he said angrily. “I barely restrained myself.”

“Oh, dear, dear,” Ostap sympathized, “what kind of youth we have now! Terrible youth! Persecuting other people’s wives! Squandering other people’s money… Utter decadence. And tell me, when they hit you on the head, does it really hurt?”

“I’ll challenge him to a duel!”

“Wonderful! I can recommend a good acquaintance of mine. He knows the dueling code by heart and possesses two brooms, perfectly suitable for a fight to the death. You can take Ivanopulo and the neighbor on the right as seconds. He’s a former honorary citizen of the town of Kologriv and still brags about that title. Or we could arrange a duel with meat grinders — that’s more elegant. Every wound is undoubtedly fatal. The defeated opponent is mechanically turned into a cutlet. Does that suit you, Marshal?”

At this moment, a whistle came from the street, and Ostap went to receive intelligence from the homeless children.

The homeless children coped excellently with the task entrusted to them. Four chairs ended up in the Columbus Theater. The homeless child meticulously described how these chairs were transported on a wheelbarrow, how they were unloaded and dragged into the building through the artists’ entrance. The location of the theater was well known to Ostap.

Two chairs were taken away by cab, as another young scout said, by a “fancy tart.” The boy, apparently, wasn’t highly gifted. The lane where the chairs were taken — Varsonofyevsky Lane — he knew, he even remembered that the apartment number was seventeen, but he couldn’t remember the house number at all.

“He ran very fast,” the homeless child said, “it just slipped my mind.”

“You won’t get any money,” the employer declared.

“Uncle-e-e!… I’ll show you.”

“Good! Stay. Let’s go together.”

The bleating citizen, it turned out, lived on Sadovaya-Spasskaya. Ostap wrote down his exact address in his notebook.

The eighth chair went to the House of Peoples. The boy who pursued this chair turned out to be a clever one. Overcoming obstacles in the form of a commandant’s office and numerous couriers, he managed to enter the building and confirmed that the chair had been bought by the supply manager of the “Stanka” editorial office.

Two boys were still missing. They arrived almost simultaneously, breathless and tired.

“Kazarmenny Lane, near Chistye Prudy.”

“Number?”

“Nine. And apartment nine. There are Tatars living next door. In the courtyard. I even carried the chair for him. We walked.”

The last messenger brought sad news. At first, everything was fine, but then everything went bad. The buyer entered the freight yard of the Oktyabrsky Station with the chair, and it was impossible to follow him — the OVO NKPS guards were at the gates.

“He probably left,” the homeless child concluded his report.

This greatly alarmed Ostap. Having rewarded the homeless children royally — a ruble per messenger, not counting the messenger from Varsonofyevsky Lane who had forgotten the house number (he was ordered to appear early the next day) — the technical director returned home and, without answering the disgraced board chairman’s questions, began to strategize.

“Nothing is lost yet. We have the addresses, and there are many old, proven methods to acquire the chairs: 1) simple acquaintance, 2) a love intrigue, 3) acquaintance with a break-in, 4) exchange, and 5) money. The last is the most reliable. But money is scarce.” Ostap looked ironically at Ippolit Matveevich. The great schemer’s usual mental freshness and emotional balance returned. Money, of course, could be obtained. In reserve were: the painting “Bolsheviks Writing a Letter to Chamberlain,” a tea strainer, and the full possibility of continuing a career as a polygamist.

Only the tenth chair caused concern. There was a lead, of course, but what a lead! — vague and hazy.

“Well then,” Ostap said loudly. “Such chances can be seized. I’m playing nine to one. The meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Do you hear? You! Juror!”

 

Chapter 22. Ellochka the Cannibal

 

William Shakespeare’s vocabulary, according to researchers, consists of 12,000 words. The vocabulary of a cannibal from the “Mumbo-Jumbo” tribe consists of 300 words.

Ellochka Shchukina managed easily and freely with thirty.

Here are the words, phrases, and interjections meticulously chosen by her from the entire great, verbose, and mighty Russian language:

 

1. “You’re rude.”
2. “Ho-ho!” (Expresses, depending on the circumstances: irony, surprise, delight, hatred, joy, contempt, and satisfaction.)
3. “Famous.”
4. “Gloomy.” (Regarding everything. For example: “gloomy Petya came,” “gloomy weather,” “gloomy incident,” “gloomy cat,” etc.)
5. “Gloom.”
6. “Creepy.” (For example, upon meeting a good acquaintance: “creepy meeting.”)
7. “Lad.” (Regarding all male acquaintances, regardless of age or social standing.)
8. “Don’t teach me how to live.”
9. “Like a child.” (I beat him like a child,” — when playing cards. “I cut him off like a child,” — apparently, in a conversation with a responsible tenant.)
10. “Be-e-eauty!”
11. “Fat and handsome.” (Used as a characteristic for inanimate and animate objects.)
12. “Let’s go by cab.” (Said to her husband.)
13. “Let’s go by taxi.” (To male acquaintances.)
14. “Your whole back is white.” (A joke.)
15. “Big deal.”
16. “-ulya.” (Affectionate ending for names. For example: Mishulya, Zinulya.)
17. “Oh-ho!” (Irony, surprise, delight, hatred, joy, contempt, and satisfaction.)

 

The remaining words, extremely few in number, served as a link between Ellochka and department store clerks.

If you examine the photographs of Ellochka Shchukina hanging above her husband, Engineer Ernest Pavlovich Shchukin’s bed (one full-face, the other in profile), it’s not difficult to notice a forehead of pleasant height and convexity, large moist eyes, the sweetest little nose in Moscow province, and a chin with a small, ink-drawn spot.

Ellochka’s height flattered men. She was small, and even the most scrawny men looked tall and mighty next to her.

As for distinguishing marks, there were none. Ellochka didn’t need them. She was beautiful.

The two hundred rubles her husband received monthly from the “Electrolyustra” factory were an insult to Ellochka. They could in no way aid the colossal struggle Ellochka had been waging for four years, ever since she assumed the social position of a housewife, Shchukin’s wife. The struggle was waged with full exertion of her strength. It consumed all resources. Ernest Pavlovich took evening work home, refused servants, kindled the primus stove, took out the trash, and even fried cutlets.

But it was all fruitless. A dangerous enemy was steadily undermining their household more and more each year. Four years ago, Ellochka noticed she had a rival across the ocean. Misfortune visited Ellochka on that joyful evening when she was trying on a very pretty crepe de chine blouse. In this outfit, she seemed almost a goddess.

“Ho-ho!” she exclaimed, reducing the astonishingly complex feelings that seized her to this cannibalistic cry.

Simply put, these feelings could have been expressed in the following phrase: “Seeing me like this, men will be agitated. They will tremble. They will follow me to the ends of the earth, stammering with love. But I will be cold. Are they even worthy of me? I am the most beautiful. There is no such elegant blouse anywhere on Earth.”

But there were only thirty words, and Ellochka chose the most expressive one — “ho-ho.”

At such a grand hour, Fimka Sobak came to her. She brought with her the frosty breath of January and a French fashion magazine. On the first page, Ellochka stopped. A glittering photograph depicted the daughter of American millionaire Vanderbilt in an evening dress. There were furs and feathers, silk and pearls, extraordinary lightness of cut, and a breathtaking hairstyle. This settled everything.

“Oh-ho!” Ellochka said to herself. This meant: “either me or her.” The next morning found Ellochka at the hairdresser’s. Here she lost her beautiful black braid and dyed her hair red. Then she managed to climb another step of that ladder that brought Ellochka closer to the shining paradise where millionaire daughters stroll, not even fit to be shoe soles for housewife Shchukina. A dog fur, imitating a muskrat, was bought on workers’ credit. It was used to trim an evening dress.

Mr. Shchukin, who had long cherished the dream of buying a new drawing board, became somewhat despondent.

The dog-trimmed dress dealt the arrogant Vanderbildt-girl the first accurate blow. Then the proud American was dealt three consecutive blows. Ellochka acquired a chinchilla palatine (a Russian rabbit killed in Tula province) from the domestic furrier Fimochka Sobak, got herself a pigeon hat made of Argentine felt, and re-tailored her husband’s new jacket into a fashionable women’s jacket. The millionaire’s daughter swayed, but she was evidently saved by the affectionate Papa Vanderbilt.

The next issue of the fashion magazine contained portraits of the cursed rival in four forms: 1) in black-brown foxes, 2) with a diamond star on her forehead, 3) in an aviation suit (high boots, a very thin green jacket, and gloves with cuffs inlaid with medium-sized emeralds), and 4) in a ball gown (cascades of jewels and a little silk).

Ellochka mobilized. Papa-Shchukin took a loan from the mutual aid fund. They gave him no more than thirty rubles. A new powerful effort radically undermined the household. They had to fight in all areas of life. Recently, photographs of the miss in her new castle in Florida were received. Ellochka also had to acquire new furniture. She bought two upholstered chairs at an auction. (A successful purchase! Absolutely couldn’t miss it!) Without asking her husband, Ellochka took money from the dining funds. Ten days and four rubles remained until the fifteenth.

Ellochka stylishly transported the chairs along Varsonofyevsky Lane. Her husband wasn’t home. However, he soon appeared, dragging a briefcase-chest with him.

“Gloomy husband came,” Ellochka said distinctly.

All her words were pronounced clearly and popped out briskly, like peas.

“Hello, Elenochka, what is this? Where did the chairs come from?”

“Ho-ho!”

“No, really?”

“Be-e-eauty!”

“Yes. The chairs are good.”

“Fa-a-amous!”

“Did someone give them to you?”

“Oh-ho!”

“What?! Did you really buy them? With what money? Surely not household funds? I told you a thousand times…”

“Ernestulya! You’re rude!”

“Well, how can you do that?! We’ll have nothing to eat!”

“Big deal!”

“But this is outrageous! You’re living beyond your means!”

“You’re joking!”

“Yes, yes. You’re living beyond your means…”

“Don’t teach me how to live!”

“No, let’s talk seriously. I receive two hundred rubles…”

“Gloom!”

“I don’t take bribes, I don’t steal money, and I don’t know how to forge it…”

“Creepy!”

Ernest Pavlovich fell silent.

“Here’s the thing,” he finally said, “we can’t live like this.”

“Ho-ho,” Ellochka said, sitting on the new chair.

“We need to part ways.”

“Big deal!”

“We’re not compatible. I…”

“You’re a fat and handsome lad.”

“How many times have I asked you not to call me ‘lad’!”

“You’re joking!”

“And where did you get this idiotic jargon!”

“Don’t teach me how to live!”

“Oh, damn it!” the engineer cried.

“You’re rude, Ernestulya.”

“Let’s part peacefully.”

“Oh-ho!”

“You won’t prove anything to me! This argument…”

“I’ll beat you like a child.”

“No, this is absolutely unbearable. Your arguments cannot stop me from the step I am forced to take. I’m going for the drayman right now.”

“You’re joking!”

“We’ll divide the furniture equally.”

“Creepy!”

“You’ll receive a hundred rubles a month. Even one hundred twenty. The room will stay with you. Live as you wish, but I can’t…”

“Famous,” Ellochka said contemptuously.

“And I’ll move in with Ivan Alekseevich.”

“Oh-ho!”

“He went to his dacha and left me his whole apartment for the summer. I have the key… Only there’s no furniture.”

“Be-e-eauty!”

Ernest Pavlovich returned five minutes later with the janitor.

“Well, I won’t take the wardrobe, you need it more, but please, the writing desk… And take one of these chairs, janitor. I’ll take one of these two chairs. I think I have the right to do that, don’t I?!”

Ernest Pavlovich tied his belongings in a large knot, wrapped his boots in newspaper, and turned towards the door.

“Your whole back is white,” Ellochka said in a gramophone voice.

“Goodbye, Elena.”

He expected his wife to refrain from her usual metallic words, at least on this occasion. Ellochka also felt the gravity of the moment. She tensed and began searching for appropriate words for their parting. They quickly came:

“Will you go by taxi? Be-e-eauty!”

The engineer tumbled down the stairs like an avalanche. Ellochka spent the evening with Fimka Sobak. They discussed an extraordinarily important event that threatened to overturn the world economy.

“It seems they’ll be wearing long and wide,” Fima said, dipping her head into her shoulders like a chicken.

“Gloom.”

And Ellochka looked at Fima Sobak with respect. Mademoiselle Sobak was known as a cultured girl: her vocabulary contained about one hundred eighty words. Moreover, she knew one word that Ellochka couldn’t even dream of. It was a rich word: homosexuality. Fima Sobak was undoubtedly a cultured girl.

The lively conversation dragged on well past midnight. At ten o’clock in the morning, the great schemer entered Varsonofyevsky Lane. The same homeless boy from yesterday ran ahead. He pointed to the house.

“Are you lying?”

“What are you saying, uncle… Right here, into the main entrance.”

Bender handed the boy his honestly earned ruble.

“You need to add more,” the boy said in a cab driver’s manner.

“Ears from a dead donkey. You’ll get them from Pushkin. Goodbye, defective one.”

Ostap knocked on the door, not thinking at all about what pretext he would use to enter. For conversations with ladies, he preferred inspiration.

“Oh-ho?” a voice from behind the door asked.

“Business,” Ostap replied.

The door opened. Ostap entered the room, which could only have been furnished by a creature with the imagination of a woodpecker. Movie postcards, dolls, and Tambov tapestries hung on the walls. Against this colorful background, which made one’s eyes ripple, it was difficult to notice the small mistress of the room. She wore a dressing gown, remade from Ernest Pavlovich’s Tolstoy shirt and trimmed with mysterious fur.

Ostap immediately understood how to behave in polite society. He closed his eyes and took a step back.

“Beautiful fur!” he exclaimed.

“You’re joking!” Ellochka said tenderly. “It’s a Mexican jerboa.”

“That can’t be. You’ve been deceived. You were given much better fur. These are Shanghai leopards. Yes, indeed! Leopards! I recognize them by their shade. See how the fur plays in the sun!… Emerald! Emerald!”

Ellochka herself had dyed the Mexican jerboa with green watercolor, and therefore the morning visitor’s praise was especially pleasant to her.

Without giving the hostess time to recover, the great schemer poured out everything he had ever heard about furs. After that, they talked about silk, and Ostap promised to give the charming hostess several hundred silk cocoons, supposedly brought to him by the chairman of the Central Executive Committee of Uzbekistan.

“You’re quite a lad,” Ellochka noted as a result of the first few minutes of their acquaintance.

“Of course, my early visit as an unknown man surprised you?”

“Ho-ho!”

“But I’ve come to you on a delicate matter.”

“You’re joking!”

“You were at the auction yesterday and made an extraordinary impression on me.”

“You’re rude!”

“Pardon me! It would be inhuman to be rude to such a charming woman.”

“Creepy!”

The conversation continued in the same vein, yielding, however, in some cases, marvelous results. But Ostap’s compliments became more watery and shorter with each passing moment. He noticed that there was no second chair in the room. He had to pick up the trail. Interspersing his questions with flowery Eastern flattery, Ostap learned about the events that had taken place in Ellochka’s life yesterday.

“A new problem,” he thought, “the chairs are scattering like cockroaches.”

“My dear girl,” Ostap said unexpectedly, “sell me this chair. I like it very much. Only you, with your feminine intuition, could choose such an artistic thing. Sell it, girl, and I’ll give you seven rubles.”

“You’re rude, lad,” Ellochka said slyly.

“Ho-ho,” Ostap explained patiently.

“I need to act differently with her,” he decided. “Let’s propose an exchange.”

“You know, now in Europe and in the best houses of Philadelphia, an old fashion has been revived — serving tea through a tea strainer. Extremely effective and very elegant.”

Ellochka became alert.

“A diplomat friend of mine just arrived from Vienna and brought it as a gift. An amusing thing.”

“It must be famous,” Ellochka said, interested.

“Oh-ho! Ho-ho! Let’s exchange. You give me the chair, and I’ll give you the strainer. Want to?”

And Ostap took a small gilded tea strainer from his pocket.

The sun rolled in the strainer like an egg. Sunbeams danced on the ceiling. The dark corner of the room was unexpectedly illuminated. The item made the same irresistible impression on Ellochka as an old tin can of preserves makes on a Mumbo-Jumbo cannibal. In such cases, the cannibal screams at the top of his lungs; Ellochka, however, softly moaned:

“Ho-ho!”

Without giving her time to recover, Ostap placed the strainer on the table, took the chair, and, after learning her husband’s address from the charming woman, bowed gallantly.

 

Chapter 23. Abessalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov

 

A busy time began for the concessionaires. Ostap insisted that they should strike while the iron, or rather the chairs, were hot. Ippolit Matveevich was amnestied, though from time to time Ostap would interrogate him:

“Why on earth did I get involved with you? What good are you to me, really? Go home, to the registry office. Your deceased await you there, your newborns. Don’t torment the infants. Go!”

But deep down, the great schemer had grown attached to the wild Marshal. “Life isn’t as funny without him,” Ostap thought. And he would glance cheerfully at Vorobyaninov, whose head had already sprouted a silver lawn.

In the work plan, a considerable place was given to Ippolit Matveevich’s initiative. As soon as the quiet Ivanopulo left, Bender would hammer into his partner’s head the shortest paths to finding treasures:

“Act boldly. Don’t ask anyone. More cynicism. People like it. Don’t undertake anything through third parties. There are no more fools. No one will pull diamonds out of someone else’s pocket for you. But also, no criminality. We must honor the Code.”

Nevertheless, the searches proceeded without particular brilliance. The Criminal Code and the enormous number of bourgeois prejudices retained by the capital’s inhabitants hindered them. They, for example, could not stand nocturnal visits through the transom window. They had to work only legally.

On the day Ostap visited Ellochka Shchukina, furniture appeared in the room of the student Ivanopulo. It was a chair exchanged for a tea strainer — the third trophy of the expedition. Long gone was the time when the hunt for diamonds aroused powerful emotions in the partners, when they clawed at chairs and gnawed at their springs.

“Even if there’s nothing in the chairs,” Ostap would say, “consider that we’ve earned at least ten thousand. Each opened chair increases our chances. So what if there’s nothing in the lady’s chair? There’s no need to break it for that. Let Ivanopulo furnish his place. It’s more pleasant for us.”

That same day, the concessionaires fluttered out of the pink house and went their separate ways. Ippolit Matveevich was entrusted with the bleating stranger from Sadovaya-Spasskaya, given twenty-five rubles for expenses, instructed not to enter beer halls, and not to return without the chair. The great schemer took on Ellochka’s husband himself.

Ippolit Matveevich crossed the city on bus No. 6. Jolting on the leather bench and soaring to the lacquered ceiling of the carriage, he thought about how to find out the bleating citizen’s surname, what pretext to use to enter his place, what to say as the first phrase, and how to get to the core of the matter.

Getting off at Krasnye Vorota, he found the right house at the address Ostap had written down and began to walk around it. He didn’t dare to enter. It was an old, dirty Moscow hotel, converted into a housing cooperative, staffed, judging by the shabby facade, by malicious non-payers.

Ippolit Matveevich stood for a long time opposite the entrance, approached it, memorized a handwritten announcement with threats to negligent residents, and, having thought of nothing, went up to the second floor. Individual rooms opened onto the corridor. Slowly, as if approaching a blackboard to prove an unlearned theorem, Ippolit Matveevich approached room No. 41. On the door, hanging by a single thumbtack, upside down, was a business card:

 

ABESSALOM VLADIMIROVICH IZNURENKOV

 

In a complete daze, Ippolit Matveevich forgot to knock, opened the door, took three somnambulistic steps, and found himself in the middle of the room.

“Excuse me,” he said in a choked voice, “may I see Comrade Iznurenkov?”

Abessalom Vladimirovich did not reply. Vorobyaninov raised his head and only then saw that there was no one in the room. From its appearance, it was impossible to determine the inclinations of its owner. It was only clear that he was single and had no servants. On the windowsill lay a piece of paper with sausage casings. The couch by the wall was piled with newspapers. On a small shelf stood a few dusty books. Colorful photographs of cats, kittens, and kitties looked down from the walls. In the middle of the room, next to dirty, fallen-over boots, stood a walnut chair. On all items of furniture, including the chair from the Stargorod mansion, dangled crimson sealing wax stamps. But Ippolit Matveevich paid no attention to this. He immediately forgot about the Criminal Code, Ostap’s instructions, and rushed to the chair.

At this moment, the newspapers on the couch stirred. Ippolit Matveevich was frightened. The newspapers crawled and fell to the floor. A calm kitten emerged from beneath them. It looked indifferently at Ippolit Matveevich and began to wash itself, pawing its ear, cheek, and whisker.

“Phew!” Ippolit Matveevich said. And he dragged the chair towards the door. The door opened by itself. The owner of the room appeared on the threshold — the bleating stranger. He was in a coat, from under which purple long johns were visible. In his hand, he held trousers.

About Abessalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov, it could be said that there was no other such person in the entire republic. The republic valued him for his merits. He brought it great benefit. And yet he remained unknown, although in his art he was as much a master as Shalyapin was in singing, Gorky in literature, Capablanca in chess, Melnikov in speed skating, and the most big-nosed, most brown Assyrian occupying the best spot at the corner of Tverskaya and Kamergersky — in polishing shoes with yellow cream.

Shalyapin sang. Gorky was writing a big novel, Capablanca was preparing for a match with Alekhine. Melnikov was breaking records. The Assyrian was polishing citizens’ shoes to a sunny shine. Abessalom Iznurenkov — was witty.

He never cracked jokes aimlessly, for the sake of a clever phrase. He did it for assignments from humorous magazines. On his shoulders, he carried the most responsible campaigns, providing themes for drawings and feuilletons for most Moscow satirical magazines.

Great people are witty twice in their lives. These witticisms increase their fame and become history. Iznurenkov produced no less than sixty first-class witticisms a month, which were repeated with a smile by everyone, and yet he remained unknown. If Iznurenkov’s witticism signed a drawing, the glory went to the artist. The artist’s name was placed above the drawing. Iznurenkov’s name was not there.

“This is terrible!” he would cry. “It’s impossible to sign. What will I sign under? Under two lines?”

And he continued to fight fiercely with the enemies of society: bad cooperators, embezzlers, Chamberlain, bureaucrats. He stung with his witticisms sycophants, house managers, private traders, department heads, hooligans, citizens unwilling to lower prices, and economic managers who shirked the austerity regime.

After the magazines were published, the witticisms were delivered from the circus arena, reprinted by evening newspapers without citing the source, and presented to the public from the stage by “author-couplet singers.”

Iznurenkov managed to be witty in areas where, it seemed, nothing funny could possibly be said. From such a barren desert as inflated overhead costs, Iznurenkov managed to squeeze out about a hundred masterpieces of humor. Heine would have thrown up his hands if he had been asked to say something funny and at the same time socially useful about the incorrect tariffication of low-speed cargo; Mark Twain would have run away from such a topic. But Iznurenkov remained at his post.

He would run through editorial rooms, bumping into ashtrays and bleating. In ten minutes, the topic was processed, the drawing conceived, and a headline attached.

Seeing a man in his room carrying away a sealed chair, Abessalom Vladimirovich brandished his freshly ironed trousers, jumped up, and shrieked:

“You’ve gone mad! I protest! You have no right! There is, after all, a law! Although it’s not written for fools, perhaps you’ve heard that furniture can stand for another two weeks!… I’ll complain to the prosecutor!… I’ll pay, finally!”

Ippolit Matveevich stood still, while Iznurenkov threw off his coat and, without moving from the door, pulled his trousers over his full, like Chichikov’s, legs. Iznurenkov was somewhat plump, but his face was thin.

Vorobyaninov had no doubt that he would be seized and dragged to the police. Therefore, he was extremely surprised when the owner of the room, having sorted out his attire, unexpectedly calmed down.

“Understand,” the owner began in a conciliatory tone, “I simply cannot agree to this.”

Ippolit Matveevich, in Iznurenkov’s place, also ultimately wouldn’t have agreed to have his chairs stolen in broad daylight. But he didn’t know what to say, and so he remained silent.

“It’s not my fault. It’s the Music Department’s fault. Yes, I confess. I haven’t paid for the rented piano for eight months, but I haven’t sold it either, although I had every opportunity to do so. I acted honestly, and they acted like swindlers. They took the instrument and even sued me and seized my furniture. They can’t seize anything of mine. This furniture is a tool of production. And the chair is also a tool of production!”

Ippolit Matveevich began to understand something.

“Let go of the chair!” Abessalom Vladimirovich suddenly shrieked. “Do you hear? You! Bureaucrat!”

Ippolit Matveevich obediently let go of the chair and stammered:

“Excuse me, a misunderstanding, just doing my job.”

At this, Iznurenkov became terribly cheerful. He ran around the room and sang: “And in the morning she smiled again at her window, as always.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They flew about. He started to tie his tie and, without finishing, threw it down. Then he grabbed a newspaper and, without reading anything in it, threw it on the floor.

“So you won’t take the furniture today?… Good!… Ah! Ah!”

Ippolit Matveevich, taking advantage of the favorable circumstances, moved towards the door.

“Wait,” Iznurenkov suddenly cried out. “Have you ever seen such a cat? Tell me, is he really extraordinarily fluffy?”

The kitten found itself in Ippolit Matveevich’s trembling hands.

“High class!..” Abessalom Vladimirovich mumbled, not knowing what to do with his excess energy. “Ah!.. Ah!..”

He rushed to the window, threw up his hands, and began to bow quickly and shallowly to two girls looking at him from the window of the opposite house. He stomped in place and lavished languid sighs:

“Girls from the suburbs! The best fruit!… High class!… Ah!… ‘And in the morning she smiled again at her window, as always…'”

“So I’ll be going, citizen,” the concession director said foolishly.

“Wait, wait!” Iznurenkov suddenly became agitated. “Just a moment!… Ah!… And the kitten? Isn’t he truly extraordinarily fluffy?… Wait!… I’ll be right there!..”

He nervously fumbled through all his pockets, ran off, returned, gasped, looked out the window, ran off again, and returned again.

“Excuse me, my dear,” he said to Vorobyaninov, who stood at attention throughout all these manipulations. With these words, he gave the Marshal half a ruble.

“No, no, please don’t refuse. All labor must be paid for.”

“Much obliged,” Ippolit Matveevich said, surprised by his own quick wit.

“Thank you, dear, thank you, my dear!..” Walking down the corridor, Ippolit Matveevich heard bleating, squealing, singing, and passionate cries coming from Iznurenkov’s room.

On the street, Vorobyaninov remembered Ostap and trembled with fear.

Ernest Pavlovich Shchukin wandered through the empty apartment, kindly lent to him for the summer by a friend, and pondered whether to take a bath or not.

The three-room apartment was located directly under the roof of a nine-story building. Besides a writing desk and Vorobyaninov’s chair, it only had a pier glass. The sun reflected in the mirror and stung his eyes. The engineer lay down on the writing desk, but immediately jumped up. Everything was scorching hot.

“I’ll go wash up,” he decided.

He undressed, cooled down, looked at himself in the mirror, and went to the bathroom. Coolness enveloped him. He climbed into the tub, poured water over himself from a blue enameled mug, and lathered himself generously. He was covered in flakes of foam and looked like a Christmas old man.

“Good!” Ernest Pavlovich said. Everything was good. It was cool. His wife was gone. Complete freedom lay ahead. The engineer sat down and turned the tap to rinse off the soap. The tap sputtered and began to speak something inaudible. No water came out. Ernest Pavlovich poked his slippery little finger into the tap’s opening. A thin stream trickled out, but nothing more. Ernest Pavlovich grimaced, got out of the tub, lifting his feet one by one, and went to the kitchen tap. But he couldn’t coax anything out of there either.

Ernest Pavlovich sloshed back into the rooms and stopped in front of the mirror. The foam stung his eyes, his back itched, and soap flakes fell onto the parquet floor. Listening for water in the bathroom, Ernest Pavlovich decided to call the janitor.

“Let him at least bring some water,” the engineer decided, rubbing his eyes and slowly simmering, “otherwise, it’s hell knows what.”

He looked out the window. Children were playing at the very bottom of the courtyard shaft.

“Janitor!” Ernest Pavlovich shouted. “Janitor!” No one answered.

Then Ernest Pavlovich remembered that the janitor lived in the main entrance, under the stairs. He stepped onto the cold tiles and, holding the door with his hand, leaned down. There was only one apartment on the landing, and Ernest Pavlovich was not afraid of being seen in his strange attire of soap flakes.

“Janitor!” he shouted down. The word boomed and rolled noisily down the steps.

“Hoo-hoo!” the staircase replied.

“Janitor! Janitor!”

“Humm-humm! Humm-humm!”

At this point, the impatiently shuffling barefoot engineer slipped and, to maintain his balance, let go of the door. The door clicked shut with the brass tongue of an American lock. The wall trembled. Ernest Pavlovich, not yet understanding the irreparable nature of what had happened, pulled the doorknob. The door wouldn’t budge.

The engineer tugged at it a few more times in a daze and listened with a pounding heart. There was a twilight church silence. Light barely pierced through the multicolored panes of the tall window. “A predicament,” Ernest Pavlovich thought.

“You scoundrel!” he said to the door. Below, like firecrackers, human voices began to boom and explode. Then, like a loudspeaker, a small house dog barked.

A baby carriage was being pushed up the stairs. Ernest Pavlovich cowardly paced the landing.

“It’s enough to drive one mad!”

It seemed to him that all this was too wild to be actually happening. He again approached the door and listened. He heard some new sounds. At first, it seemed to him that someone was walking in the apartment.

“Perhaps someone came from the back entrance?” he thought, although he knew that the back door was locked and no one could enter the apartment.

The monotonous noise continued. The engineer held his breath. Then he realized that the noise was caused by splashing water. It was evidently running from all the taps in the apartment. Ernest Pavlovich almost roared.

The situation was terrible. In Moscow, in the city center, on the landing of the ninth floor, stood a grown, mustachioed man with a higher education, absolutely naked and covered in still-moving soap foam. He had nowhere to go. He would rather agree to go to prison than appear in such a state. Only one option remained — to disappear. The foam popped and burned his back. On his arms and face, it had already hardened, looking like scabs and tightening his skin like a razor strop.

Half an hour passed like this. The engineer rubbed against the lime-washed walls, groaned, and several times unsuccessfully tried to break down the door. He became dirty and terrifying.

Shchukin decided to go downstairs, to the janitor, whatever the cost.

“There’s no other way out, none. Only to hide with the janitor!”

Gasping and covering himself with his hand, as men do when entering water, Ernest Pavlovich slowly began to creep along the railing. He found himself on the landing between the eighth and ninth floors.

His figure was illuminated by the multicolored rhombuses and squares of the window. He looked like Harlequin, eavesdropping on Columbine and Pierrot’s conversation. He had already turned into a new flight of stairs when suddenly the door lock of the lower apartment fired, and a young lady with a ballet case came out of the apartment. No sooner had the young lady taken a step than Ernest Pavlovich found himself back on his own landing. He was almost deafened by the terrible pounding of his heart.

Only half an hour later did the engineer recover and manage to attempt another sally. This time, he firmly decided to dash downstairs and, ignoring everything, run to the cherished janitor’s room.

So he did. Silently leaping four steps at a time and whimpering, the member of the bureau of the engineers and technicians’ section bounced downstairs. On the sixth-floor landing, he paused for a second. This ruined him. Someone was coming up from below.

“Incorrigible boy!” a woman’s voice was heard, amplified many times by the stairwell loudspeaker. “How many times have I told him!”

Ernest Pavlovich, obeying instinct rather than reason, like a cat pursued by dogs, flew up to the ninth floor.

Finding himself on the platform, soiled with wet footprints, he silently wept, pulling at his hair and rocking convulsively. Boiling tears cut into the soap crust and burned two wavy furrows in it.

“Lord!” the engineer said. “My God! My God!”

There was no life. And yet he clearly heard the sound of a truck driving by on the street. That meant people were living somewhere!

He urged himself several more times to go downstairs but could not — his nerves gave out. He had ended up in a crypt.

“They’ve left a trail like pigs!” he heard an old woman’s voice from the lower landing.

The engineer ran to the wall and butted it with his head several times. The most sensible thing to do would have been, of course, to scream until someone came, and then surrender to whoever arrived. But Ernest Pavlovich had completely lost his ability to reason and, breathing heavily, turned on the landing. There was no way out.

 

Chapter 24. The Automobile Club

 

In the newsroom of the large daily newspaper “Stanok,” located on the second floor of the House of Peoples, material was being frantically prepared for typesetting.

Notes and articles were being pulled from the “pen” (material already typeset but not included in the previous issue), their line counts were tallied, and the daily haggling for space began.

In total, the newspaper could fit 4400 lines across its four pages (columns). This had to include everything: telegrams, articles, chronicles, letters from worker-correspondents, advertisements, one satirical poem and two prose pieces, caricatures, photographs, special sections: theater, sports, chess, editorials and sub-editorials, announcements from Soviet, party, and professional organizations, a serialized novel, artistic essays on metropolitan life, trifles titled “Grains,” popular science articles, radio news, and various miscellaneous materials. In total, the material gathered for all departments amounted to some ten thousand lines. Therefore, the allocation of space on the pages was usually accompanied by dramatic scenes.

First to rush to the editorial secretary was Maestro Sudeykin, head of the chess department. He asked a polite but bitter question:

“What? No chess today?”

“No room,” the secretary replied. “The basement is big. Three hundred lines.”

“But it’s Saturday today. Readers expect the Sunday section. I have answers to problems, I have a lovely study by Neunywako, I finally have…”

“All right. How many do you want?”

“No less than a hundred and fifty.”

“All right. Since there are answers to problems, we’ll give sixty lines.”

The maestro tried to beg for another thirty lines, at least for Neunywako’s study (the remarkable Indian game Tartakover–Bogolyubov had been with him for over a month), but he was pushed aside. Persitsky, a reporter, arrived.

“Do we need to publish impressions from the plenum?” he asked very quietly.

“Of course!” the secretary shouted. “We talked about it the day before yesterday!”

“The plenum is there,” Persitsky said even more quietly, “and two sketches, but they won’t give me space.”

“How won’t they? Who did you talk to? Have they gone mad?”

The secretary ran off to argue. Persitsky, intriguing as he went, followed him, and behind him still ran an employee from the advertisements department.

“We have Sekarov’s fluid!” he cried in a mournful voice.

Behind them shambled the supply manager, dragging a soft chair bought for the editor at an auction.

“The fluid is for Tuesday. Today we’re publishing our supplements!”

“How much will you get from your free ads? We’ve already received money for the fluid.”

“All right, we’ll sort it out in the night editorial office. Give the ad to Pasha. She’s just heading to the night shift now.”

The secretary sat down to read the editorial. He was immediately pulled away from this engrossing activity. The artist arrived.

“Aha,” the secretary said, “very good. There’s a topic for a caricature, in connection with the latest telegrams from Germany.”

“I think so,” the artist murmured: “The Steel Helmet and the general situation in Germany…”

“Good. So combine it somehow, and then show it to me.”

The artist went to his department. He took a square of drawing paper and sketched a skinny dog in pencil. On the dog’s head, he placed a German helmet with a spike. Then he began to add inscriptions. On the animal’s body, he printed the word “Germany,” on its twisted tail – “Danzig Corridor,” on its jaw – “Dreams of Revenge,” on its collar – “Dawes Plan,” and on its protruding tongue – “Stresemann.” In front of the dog, the artist placed Poincaré, holding a piece of meat in his hand. The artist also intended to put an inscription on the meat, but the piece was too small, and the inscription wouldn’t fit. A person less ingenious than a newspaper cartoonist would have been at a loss, but the artist, without hesitation, drew something resembling a recipe tied to a bottle neck next to the meat and on it wrote in tiny letters: “French proposals for security guarantees.” To ensure Poincaré wouldn’t be mistaken for any other statesman, the artist wrote “Poincaré” on his stomach. The sketch was ready.

On the tables of the art department lay foreign magazines, large scissors, jars of ink and white paint. On the floor lay scraps of photographs: someone’s shoulder, someone’s legs, and pieces of landscape.

About five artists were scraping photographs with Gillette razor blades, lightening them; sharpening images by touching them up with ink and white paint, and putting a signature and size on the back: 3 3/4 squares, 2 columns, and so on — instructions needed for zincography.

An foreign delegation was sitting in the editor’s room. The editorial translator looked at the speaking foreigner’s face and, addressing the editor, said:

“Comrade Arno wishes to know…” The conversation was about the structure of the Soviet newspaper. While the translator explained to the editor what Comrade Arno wished to know, Arno himself, in velvet cycling trousers, and all the other foreigners curiously looked at the red pen with nib No. 86, which was leaning against the corner of the room. The nib almost touched the ceiling, and the pen’s wide part was as thick as a medium-sized person’s torso. One could actually write with this pen: the nib was real, though it surpassed a large pike in size.

“Oh-ho-ho!” the foreigners laughed. “Colossal!”

This pen was presented to the editorial office by a congress of worker-correspondents.

The editor, sitting on Vorobyaninov’s chair, smiled and, nodding his head quickly alternately at the pen and at his guests, explained cheerfully.

The shouting in the secretariat continued. Persitsky brought Semashko’s article, and the secretary urgently struck out the chess department from the third page layout. Maestro Sudeykin was no longer fighting for the lovely Neunywako study. He strove to save at least the problem solutions. After a struggle more intense than his match with Lasker at the San Sebastian tournament, the maestro won himself a spot at the expense of the “Court and Life” section.

Semashko’s article was sent for typesetting. The secretary again immersed himself in the editorial. The secretary decided to read it at all costs, out of pure sporting interest.

When he reached the passage: “…However, the content of the latest pact is such that if the League of Nations registers it, then it will have to be admitted that…”, “Court and Life,” a hairy man, approached him. The secretary continued reading, deliberately not looking towards “Court and Life” and making unnecessary notes in the editorial.

“Court and Life” came around from the other side and said, offended:

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, well,” the secretary mumbled, trying to stall for time, “what’s the matter?”

“The thing is, there was no ‘Court and Life’ on Wednesday, no ‘Court and Life’ on Friday, on Thursday only the alimony case from the ‘pen’ was published, and on Saturday they’re removing a trial that’s been written about in all newspapers for a long time, and only we…”

“Where are they writing?” the secretary shouted. “I haven’t read it.”

“It will appear everywhere tomorrow, and we’ll be late again.”

“And when you were assigned the Chubarov case, what did you write? We couldn’t get a single line from you. I know. You wrote about the Chubarovites in the evening paper.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know. They told me.”

“In that case, I know who told you. Persitsky told you, that Persitsky who, in full view of all Moscow, uses the editorial office’s equipment to send material to Leningrad.”

“Pasha!” the secretary said quietly. “Call Persitsky.”

“Court and Life” sat indifferently on the windowsill.

Behind him was a garden where birds andgorodki players were busy. The dispute was debated for a long time. The secretary ended it with a clever move: he threw out the chess section and put “Court and Life” in its place. Persitsky received a warning.

It was the busiest time in the newsroom — five o’clock.

Smoke curled above the clattering typewriters. Employees dictated in voices made unpleasant by haste. The senior typist yelled at the rascals who were subtly slipping their material in out of turn.

The editorial poet walked down the corridor. He was courting a typist whose modest hips unleashed his poetic feelings. He led her to the end of the corridor and by the window spoke words of love, to which the girl replied:

“I have overtime work today, and I’m very busy.”

This meant that she loved someone else. The poet got underfoot and approached all his acquaintances with a strikingly monotonous request:

“Give me ten kopecks for the tram!”

For this sum, he wandered into the worker-correspondents’ department. After milling around the desks where the “readers” worked and touching piles of correspondence with his hands, the poet resumed his attempts. The readers, the most severe people in the editorial office (made so by the necessity of reading a hundred letters a day, scrawled by hands more familiar with an axe, a painter’s brush, or a wheelbarrow than with writing), remained silent.

The poet visited the expedition and eventually moved to the office. But there, he not only didn’t get ten kopecks but was even attacked by the Komsomol member Avdotyev: the poet was offered to join an automobile club. The poet’s enamored soul was shrouded in gasoline fumes. He took two steps aside and, shifting into third gear, disappeared from sight.

Avdotyev was not at all discouraged. He believed in the triumph of the automobile idea. In the secretariat, he waged a quiet battle. This prevented the secretary from finishing reading the editorial.

“Listen, Alexander Iosifovich. Wait, this is serious,” Avdotyev said, sitting on the secretary’s desk. “We’ve formed an automobile club. Will the editorial office lend us five hundred rubles for eight months?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“What? Do you think it’s a lost cause?”

“I don’t think, I know. How many members do you have in your club?”

“Already very many.”

The club currently consisted only of its sole organizer, but Avdotyev didn’t elaborate on that.

“For five hundred rubles, we’ll buy a car at the ‘graveyard’ [junkyard]. Egorov has already spotted one. Repairs, he says, won’t cost more than five hundred. A total of a thousand. So I’m thinking of recruiting twenty people, fifty each. It will be wonderful. We’ll learn to drive. Egorov will be the chief. And in three months — by August — we’ll all know how to drive, we’ll have a car, and everyone can take turns going wherever they want.”

“And the five hundred rubles for the purchase?”

“The mutual aid fund will give it with interest. We’ll pay it back. So, should I sign you up?”

But the secretary was already balding, worked a lot, was under the sway of family and apartment, liked to lie on the couch after dinner and read “Pravda” before bed. He thought about it and refused.

“You,” Avdotyev said, “are an old man!” Avdotyev approached each desk and repeated his fiery speeches. Among the old men, whom he considered all employees over twenty, his words had a doubtful effect. They grumbled dismissively, insisting that they were already friends of children and regularly paid twenty kopecks a year for the good cause of helping poor little ones. They would, strictly speaking, agree to join the new club, but…

“What ‘but’?” Avdotyev shouted. “What if the car were here today? Yes? What if you had a blue six-cylinder Packard on your desk for fifteen kopecks a year, and gasoline and lubricants at the government’s expense?!”

“Go on, go on!” the old men said. “It’s the last dispatch now, you’re hindering work!”

The automotive idea flickered and began to smoke. Finally, a pioneer of the new venture was found. Persitsky slammed the phone down, listened to Avdotyev, and said:

“You’re not approaching this right, give me a sheet. Let’s start over.”

And Persitsky, along with Avdotyev, began a new round of canvassing.

“You, old mattress,” Persitsky said to the blue-eyed youth, “you don’t even need to give money for this. Do you have a 1927 loan bond? For how much? For fifty? Even better. You give these bonds to our club. Capital will be formed from the bonds. By August, we’ll be able to realize all the bonds and buy a car.”

“What if my bond wins?” the youth defended himself.

“And how much do you want to win?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Fifty thousand will buy cars. And if I win — likewise. And if Avdotyev — likewise. In short, no matter whose bond wins, the money goes to cars. Do you understand now? You oddball! You’ll drive your own car along the Georgian Military Road! Mountains! Fool!… And behind you, ‘Court and Life’ will be rolling in their own cars, and the chronicle, the incidents department, and that lady, you know, who does movies… Well? Well? You’ll court her!..”

Every bondholder, deep down, doesn’t believe in the possibility of winning. But he is very jealous of the bonds of his neighbors and acquaintances. He fears nothing more than that they will win, while he, the perennial loser, will again be left with nothing. Therefore, the hope of a colleague’s winning irresistibly pushed bondholders into the bosom of the new club. The only thing that bothered them was the fear that no bond would win. But for some reason, this seemed unlikely, and besides, the automobile club lost nothing: one car from the “graveyard” was guaranteed from the capital formed by the bonds.

Twenty people signed up in five minutes. When the matter was crowned with success, the secretary arrived, having heard about the tempting prospects of the automobile club.

“Well, guys,” he said, “shouldn’t I sign up too?”

“Sign up, old man, why not,” Avdotyev replied, “just not with us. Unfortunately, we already have a full roster, and the admission of new members has been suspended until nineteen twenty-nine. You’d better sign up for the ‘Friends of Children.’ It’s cheap and peaceful. Twenty kopecks a year, and you don’t need to go anywhere.”

The secretary hesitated, remembered that he was indeed already a bit old, sighed, and went to finish reading the captivating editorial.

“Tell me, comrade,” a handsome man with a Circassian face stopped him in the corridor, “where is the editorial office of the ‘Stanok’ newspaper?” It was the great schemer.

 

Chapter 25. Conversation with a Naked Engineer

 

Ostap Bender’s appearance in the newsroom was preceded by a series of significant events.

Not finding Ernest Pavlovich during the day (the apartment was locked, and the owner was probably at work), the great schemer decided to visit him later, and for now, he strolled around the city. Tormented by a thirst for activity, he crossed streets, stopped in squares, flirted with policemen, helped ladies onto buses, and generally had such an air about him as if all of Moscow with its monuments, trams, MosSelProm women, churches, train stations, and advertising pillars had gathered for his reception. He walked among the guests, conversed amiably with them, and had a warm word for everyone. Receiving such a large number of visitors somewhat tired the great schemer. Moreover, it was already past six o’clock, and he had to go to Engineer Shchukin’s.

But fate decreed that before meeting Ernest Pavlovich, Ostap had to be delayed for about two hours to sign a small report. In Theater Square, the great schemer was struck by a horse. Quite unexpectedly, a timid white animal ran into him and pushed him with its bony chest. Bender fell, covered in sweat. It was very hot. The white horse loudly apologized. Ostap quickly got up. His powerful body suffered no damage. This gave him all the more reason and opportunity for a scandal.

The hospitable and amiable host of Moscow was unrecognizable. He swaggered up to the embarrassed old cab driver and punched him in the padded back. The old man patiently endured the punishment. A policeman ran up.

“I demand a report!” Ostap cried with pathos. In his voice, there were metallic notes of a man offended in his most sacred feelings. And, standing by the wall of the Maly Theatre, at the very spot where a monument to the great Russian playwright Ostrovsky would later be erected, Ostap signed the report and gave a short interview to the arriving Persitsky. Persitsky did not disdain dirty work. He carefully wrote down the victim’s surname and first name in his notebook and rushed off.

Ostap proudly set off. Still reliving the white horse’s attack and feeling belated regret that he hadn’t managed to hit the cab driver in the neck as well, Ostap, taking two steps at a time, ascended to the seventh floor of Shchukin’s house. Here, a heavy drop fell on his head. He looked up. A small waterfall of dirty water poured into his eyes from the upper landing.

“For such tricks, one should punch them in the face,” Ostap decided.

He rushed upstairs. At the door of Shchukin’s apartment, with his back to him, sat a naked man, covered in white scales. He sat directly on the tiled floor, holding his head and swaying.

Around the naked man was water that had leaked through the crack of the apartment door.

“Oh-oh-oh,” groaned the naked man, “oh-oh-oh…”

“Tell me, are you the one pouring water here?” Ostap asked irritably. “What kind of swimming pool is this? Have you gone mad!”

The naked man looked at Ostap and sobbed.

“Listen, citizen, instead of crying, perhaps you should go to a bathhouse? Look at yourself! You look like some kind of picador!”

“Key,” the engineer mooed.

“What key?” Ostap asked.

“To the ap-p-artment.”

“Where’s the money?”

The naked man hiccuped with astonishing speed. Nothing could faze Ostap. He began to understand. And when he finally understood, he almost fell over the railing from laughter, which it would have been useless to fight.

“So you can’t get into the apartment? But it’s so simple!”

Trying not to get dirty on the naked man, Ostap approached the door, inserted the long yellow nail of his thumb into the crack of the American lock, and carefully began to turn it from right to left and from top to bottom.

The door silently opened, and the naked man, with a joyful howl, ran into the flooded apartment.

The taps roared. Water in the dining room formed a whirlpool. In the bedroom, it stood as a calm pond, on which night slippers floated quietly, like swans. Cigarette butts huddled in a corner like a sleepy school of fish.

Vorobyaninov’s chair stood in the dining room, where the water current was strongest. White ripples formed around all four of its legs. The chair trembled slightly and seemed about to float away from its pursuer immediately. Ostap sat on it and tucked up his legs. Ernest Pavlovich, having recovered, screaming “pardon! pardon!..” closed the taps, washed himself, and appeared before Bender naked to the waist and in wet trousers rolled up to his knees.

“You simply saved me!” he cried excitedly. “Excuse me, I can’t shake your hand, I’m all wet. You know, I almost went mad.”

“That’s probably where it was headed.”

“I found myself in a terrible situation.” And Ernest Pavlovich, reliving the terrible incident, now gloomy, now nervously laughing, recounted the details of his misfortune to the great schemer.

“If it weren’t for you, I would have perished,” the engineer concluded.

“Yes,” Ostap said, “I had a similar case myself. Even a little worse.”

The engineer was so interested in everything concerning such stories that he even dropped the bucket with which he was collecting water and listened intently.

“Exactly like yours,” Bender began, “only it was in winter, and not in Moscow, but in Mirgorod, during one of the cheerful intervals between Makhno and Tyutyunik in nineteen nineteen. I lived with a family there. Desperate Ukrainians! Typical proprietors: a one-story house and a lot of different junk. I must tell you that as for plumbing and other conveniences in Mirgorod, there are only cesspools. Well, one night I ran out in just my underwear right onto the snow: I wasn’t afraid of a cold — it was a momentary thing. I ran out and automatically slammed the door shut behind me. Twenty degrees of frost. I knock — they don’t open. I can’t stand still: I’ll freeze! I knock and run, I knock and run — they don’t open. And, most importantly, not a single soul in the house is sleeping. A terrible night. Dogs howling. Shots fired somewhere. And I’m running through snowdrifts in summer long johns. I knocked for a whole hour. Almost died. And why, do you think, didn’t they open? They were hiding property, sewing ‘kerenki’ (obsolete currency) into a pillow. They thought it was a search. I almost killed them afterwards.”

All of this resonated deeply with the engineer.

“Yes,” Ostap said, “so you are Engineer Shchukin?”

“I am. Only please, don’t tell anyone. It’s awkward, really.”

“Oh, please! Entre nous, tête-à-tête. Four eyes, as the French say. And I’m here on business, Comrade Shchukin.”

“I’ll be extremely glad to serve you.”

“Grand merci. A trifle. Your wife asked me to come to you and take this chair. She said she needed it for a pair. And she’s going to send you an armchair.”

“Yes, please!” exclaimed Ernest Pavlovich. “I’m very glad. And why trouble yourself? I can bring it myself. Today.”

“No, why bother! For me, it’s nothing at all. I live nearby, it’s no trouble for me.”

The engineer fussed and escorted the great schemer to the very door, which he was afraid to cross, although the key was already prudently placed in the pocket of his wet trousers.

The former student Ivanopulo was presented with another chair. Its upholstery was, admittedly, slightly damaged, but it was still a beautiful chair and, moreover, exactly like the first.

Ostap was not troubled by the failure with this chair, the fourth in a row. He knew all of fate’s tricks.

Only the chair that had drifted into the depths of the welding yard of the October Station cut into the coherent system of his conclusions like a dark mass. Thoughts of this chair were unpleasant and brought on heavy doubt.

The great schemer was in the position of a roulette player who bets exclusively on numbers, one of those people who want to win thirty-six times their stake immediately. The situation was even worse: the concessionaires were playing a roulette game where zero occurred on eleven out of twelve numbers. And the twelfth number itself was out of sight, God knows where, and possibly held a wonderful win.

This chain of sorrowful reflections was interrupted by the arrival of the chief director. His very appearance aroused unpleasant feelings in Ostap.

“Oh!” said the technical director. “I see you’re making progress. Just don’t play games with me. Why did you leave the chair outside the door? To amuse yourself at my expense?”

“Comrade Bender,” the leader muttered.

“Ah, why do you play on my nerves! Bring it here quickly, bring it! You see, the new chair I’m sitting on has increased the value of your acquisition many times over.”

Ostap tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t torment the child,” he finally boomed, “where’s the chair? Why didn’t you bring it?”

Ippolit Matveevich’s rambling report was interrupted by shouts from the audience, ironic applause, and tricky questions. Vorobyaninov finished his report to the unanimous laughter of the audience.

“And my instructions?” Ostap asked menacingly. “How many times have I told you that stealing is a sin! Even then, when you wanted to rob my wife, Madam Gritsatsuyeva, in Stargorod, even then I understood that you have a petty criminal character. The most these abilities can lead you to is six months without strict isolation. For a giant of thought and the father of Russian democracy, the scale seems small, and these are the results. The chair that was in your hands slipped away. Not only that, you spoiled a good spot! Try making a second visit there. That Abessalom will tear your head off. It’s your luck that an idiotic accident helped you, otherwise you’d be behind bars and waiting in vain for me to bring you a parcel. I won’t bring you a parcel, keep that in mind. What is Hecuba to me? You are not my mother, sister, or lover, after all.”

Ippolit Matveevich, aware of his utter insignificance, stood dejected.

“Listen, my dear, I see the complete pointlessness of our joint work. In any case, working with such an uncultured companion as you, forty percent seems absurd to me. Volens-nolens, I must set new conditions.”

Ippolit Matveevich breathed. Until then, he had tried not to breathe.

“Yes, my old friend, you suffer from organizational impotence and pale weakness. Accordingly, your shares are decreasing. Honestly, do you want twenty percent?”

Ippolit Matveevich shook his head decisively.

“Why don’t you want it? Is it not enough?”

“Not enough.”

“But that’s thirty thousand rubles! How much do you want?”

“I agree to forty.”

“Daylight robbery!” Ostap said, mimicking the leader’s intonations during the historical bargaining in the janitor’s room. “Thirty thousand is not enough for you? Do you need the apartment key too?”

“You need the apartment key,” Ippolit Matveevich stammered.

“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 self-satisfied look with which he had once begun his search for diamonds.

The ice that had broken in the janitor’s room, the ice that had thundered, cracked, and hit the granite embankment, had long since shattered and melted. The ice was gone. There was widely spilled water, which carelessly carried Ippolit Matveevich, tossing him from side to side, sometimes hitting him against a log, sometimes colliding him with chairs, sometimes carrying him away from those chairs. Ippolit Matveevich felt an unspeakable fear. Everything frightened him. Debris, oil residues, broken chicken coops, dead fish, someone’s terrible hat floated down the river. Perhaps it was Father Fyodor’s hat, a duckbill cap, torn off by the wind in Rostov? Who knows! The end of the journey was not in sight. He was not washed ashore, and the former Marshal of the Nobility had neither the strength nor the desire to swim against the current. He was being carried out into the open sea of adventures.

 

Chapter 26. Two Visits

 

Like a swaddled infant who, without stopping for a second, unclenches and clenches its waxy fists, wiggles its legs, turns its large Antonovka-apple-sized head, adorned with a bonnet, and blows bubbles from its mouth, Abessalom Iznurenkov was in a state of perpetual restlessness. He wiggled his plump legs, twirled his clean-shaven little chin, let out gasps, and made gestures with his hairy hands as if he were doing exercises with elastic bands.

He led a very bustling life, appearing everywhere and suggesting something, rushing down the street like a frightened chicken, speaking quickly aloud as if calculating the insurance for a stone, iron-roofed building. The essence of his life and activity was that he organically could not focus on any task, object, or thought for more than a minute.

If a witticism didn’t appeal and didn’t elicit instant laughter, Iznurenkov didn’t try to convince the editor, like others, that the witticism was good and only required a little thought for full appreciation; he immediately offered a new one.

“What’s bad is bad,” he would say, “of course.” In shops, Abessalom Vladimirovich created such a commotion, appeared and disappeared so quickly before the eyes of astonished clerks, bought a box of chocolate so expansively that the cashier expected to receive at least thirty rubles from him. But Iznurenkov, dancing at the cash register and clutching his tie as if he were being strangled, threw a crumpled three-ruble note onto the glass plate and, bleating gratefully, ran off.

If this man could stop himself for just two hours, the most unexpected events would occur.

Perhaps Iznurenkov would sit down at a table and write a beautiful novella, or perhaps an application to the mutual aid fund for a non-repayable loan, or a new clause to the law on housing use, or a book titled “The Art of Dressing Well and Behaving in Society.”

But he could not do this. His furiously working legs carried him away, the pencil flew like an arrow from his moving hands, his thoughts jumped.

Iznurenkov ran around the room, and the seals on the furniture shook like earrings on a dancing gypsy. On the chair sat a giggling girl from the suburbs.

“Ah, ah,” Abessalom Vladimirovih would exclaim, “divine! ‘The queen with voice and gaze enlivens her lush feast…’ Ah, ah! High class!… You are Queen Margot.”

The queen from the suburbs, understanding none of this, laughed respectfully.

“Well, eat the chocolate, well, I beg you!… Ah, ah!… Charming!”

He kissed the queen’s hands every minute, admired her modest attire, shoved the cat at her, and asked ingratiatingly:

“Isn’t he really like a parrot? A lion! A lion! A real lion! Tell me, is he truly extraordinarily fluffy?… And his tail! His tail! Tell me, is it really a big tail? Ah!”

Then the cat flew into a corner, and Abessalom Vladimirovich, pressing his hands to his plump, milky chest, began to bow to someone out the window. Suddenly, a valve clicked in his troubled head, and he began to provocatively crack jokes about the physical and mental qualities of his guest:

“Tell me, is this brooch really made of glass? Ah! Ah! What sparkle!… You’ve blinded me, honestly!… And tell me, is Paris really a big city? Is the Eiffel Tower really there?… Ah! Ah!… What hands!… What a nose!… Ah!”

He didn’t hug the girl. It was enough for him to pay compliments. And he spoke incessantly. The torrent of them was interrupted by Ostap’s unexpected appearance.

The great schemer twirled a scrap of paper in his hands and sternly interrogated:

“Does Iznurenkov live here? Is that you?”

Abessalom Vladimirovich anxiously peered into the visitor’s stony face. In his eyes, he tried to read what claims would now be presented: whether it was a fine for a broken tram window during a conversation, a summons to the people’s court for unpaid rent, or an offer to subscribe to a magazine for the blind.

“What is this, comrade,” Bender said harshly, “it’s completely unacceptable to drive away a state courier.”

“What courier?” Iznurenkov was horrified.

“You know perfectly well what kind. I’m taking out the furniture now. I’ll ask you, citizen, to vacate the chair,” Ostap said strictly.

The citizen, to whom just now the most lyrical poems had been read, rose from her seat.

“No! Stay seated!” Iznurenkov shouted, covering the chair with his body. “They have no right.”

“As for rights, you’d better keep silent, citizen! You need to be conscientious. Clear the furniture! The law must be obeyed!”

With these words, Ostap grabbed the chair and shook it in the air.

“I’m taking out the furniture!” Bender declared resolutely.

“No, you’re not taking it out!”

“How am I not taking it out,” Ostap chuckled, walking out into the corridor with the chair, “when I am precisely taking it out.”

Abessalom kissed the queen’s hand and, bowing his head, ran after the stern judge. The latter was already descending the stairs.

“And I’m telling you, you have no right. By law, furniture can stand for two weeks, but it’s only been three days! Maybe I’ll pay!”

Iznurenkov buzzed around Ostap like a bee. In this manner, both found themselves on the street. Abessalom Vladimirovich ran after the chair all the way to the corner. Here he saw sparrows hopping around a manure pile. He looked at them with enlightened eyes, mumbled, clapped his hands, and, bursting into laughter, said:

“High class! Ah! Ah!… What a twist on the theme?”

Engrossed in developing the theme, Iznurenkov cheerfully turned back and, skipping, ran home. He only remembered the chair at home, finding the girl from the suburbs standing in the middle of the room. Ostap had taken the chair away by cab.

“Learn,” he said to Ippolit Matveevich, “the chair was taken with bare hands. For free. Do you understand?”

After the chair was opened, Ippolit Matveevich grew sad.

“The odds are increasing,” Ostap said, “but not a single kopeck of money. Tell me, did your late mother-in-law like to joke?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Perhaps there are no diamonds?”

Ippolit Matveevich waved his hands so much that his jacket rose up.

“In that case, everything is wonderful. Let’s hope that Ivanopulo’s possessions will increase by only one more chair.”

“They wrote about you in the newspapers today, Comrade Bender,” Ippolit Matveevich said ingratiatingly. Ostap frowned.

He didn’t like it when the press raised a fuss about his name.

“What are you babbling about? In what newspaper?”

Ippolit Matveevich triumphantly unfolded “Stanok.”

“Here. In the ‘What Happened Today’ section.” Ostap calmed down somewhat because he only feared articles in the expository sections: “Our Hairpins” and “Abusers  —  to Court.”

Indeed, in the “What Happened Today” section, in nonpareil type, it was printed:

 

HIT BY A HORSE

Yesterday, on Sverdlov Square, citizen O. Bender was hit by a horse belonging to cab driver No. 8974. The injured party escaped with only a slight fright.

 

“It was the cab driver who escaped with a slight fright, not me,” O. Bender grumbled. “Idiots! They write and write and don’t even know what they’re writing. Ah! This is ‘Stanok.’ Very, very pleasant. Do you know, Vorobyaninov, that this note might have been written while sitting on our chair? What a funny story!” The great schemer became thoughtful. A reason for visiting the editorial office had been found. After inquiring with the secretary that all the rooms to the right and left along the entire length of the corridor were occupied by the editorial staff, Ostap put on a simple-minded look and began to tour the editorial premises: he needed to find out which room the chair was in.

He slipped into the local committee, where a meeting of young automobilists was already underway, and since he immediately saw that the chair wasn’t there, he moved to the next room. In the office, he pretended to be awaiting a resolution; in the worker-correspondents’ department, he inquired where, according to the announcement, waste paper was sold; in the secretariat, he asked about subscription terms, and in the feuilletonists’ room, he asked where advertisements for lost documents were accepted.

In this way, he reached the editor’s room, who, sitting on the concession chair, was booming into the telephone receiver.

Ostap needed time to carefully study the surroundings.

“Here, Comrade Editor, I’ve been formally slandered,” Bender said.

“What slander?” the editor asked.

Ostap slowly unfolded a copy of “Stanok.” Looking back at the door, he saw an American lock on it. If he were to cut out a piece of glass in the door, he could easily reach in and open the lock from the inside.

The editor read the note Ostap pointed out.

“In what, comrade, do you see slander?”

“How so! This part: ‘The injured party escaped with only a slight fright.'”

“I don’t understand.”

Ostap looked kindly at the editor and at the chair.

“Me, frightened by some cab driver! Disgraced before the whole world — a retraction is needed.”

“Listen, citizen,” the editor said, “no one disgraced you, and we don’t issue retractions for such trifles.”

“Well, anyway, I won’t let this matter drop,” Ostap said, leaving the office. He had already seen everything he needed.

 

Chapter 27. The Remarkable Do-Prov Basket

 

The Stargorod branch of the ephemeral “Sword and Plow” along with the lads from “Bystroupak” (Quick-Pack) lined up in an endless queue at the “Khleboprodukt” flour warehouse. Passersby stopped.

“What’s the queue for?” citizens asked. In the tedious queue outside a shop, there’s always one talkative person whose loquaciousness increases the further they are from the shop doors. And furthest of all was Polesov.

“We’ve come to this,” said the fire chief, “soon we’ll all switch to oilcake. It was even better in ’19. There’s only enough flour in the city for four days.”

Citizens skeptically twirled their moustaches, argued with Polosov, and referred to “Stargorodskaya Pravda.”

Having proven to Polosov, as two plus two makes four, that there was plenty of flour in the city and that there was no need to panic, the citizens ran home, took all their cash, and joined the flour queue.

The lads from “Bystroupak,” having bought all the flour in the warehouse, moved on to groceries and formed a tea-and-sugar queue.

In three days, Stargorod was gripped by a food and goods crisis. Representatives of cooperation and state trade proposed, until the arrival of provisions already en route, to limit the release of goods to one pound of sugar and five pounds of flour per person. The next day, an antidote was invented. First in line for sugar was Alchen. Behind him – his wife Sashkhen, Pasha Emilyevich, four Yakovleviches, and all fifteen sheltered old women in moiré dresses. Having extracted half a pood of sugar from the Stargiko store, Alchen led his queue to another cooperative, cursing Pasha Emilyevich along the way, who had managed to devour his allotted pound of granulated sugar. Pasha poured the sugar in a mound onto his palm and sent it into his wide maw. Alchen bustled all day. To avoid shrinkage and spillage, he removed Pasha Emilyevich from the queue and put him to work transporting the purchased goods to the market. There, Alchen shyly resold the acquired sugar, flour, tea, and marquisette to private shops.

Polesov stood in queues mainly on principle. He had no money and couldn’t buy anything anyway. He wandered from queue to queue, listened to conversations, made caustic remarks, significantly raised his eyebrows, and prophesied. The consequence of his innuendos was that the city was filled with rumors about the arrival of some underground organization “from Sword and Plow.”

Governor Dyadyev earned ten thousand in one day. How much the chairman of the stock exchange committee, Kislyarsky, earned, even his wife didn’t know.

The thought of belonging to a secret society gave Kislyarsky no peace. The rumors circulating in the city completely frightened him. After a sleepless night, the chairman of the stock exchange committee decided that only a sincere confession could shorten his prison term.

“Listen, Henrietta,” he told his wife, “it’s time to move the manufactured goods to your brother-in-law’s.”

“What, are they coming?” asked Henrietta Kislyarskaya.

“They might. If there’s no freedom of trade in the country, then I must eventually go to jail, mustn’t I?”

“So, should I prepare the laundry? My miserable life! Always carrying parcels. And why don’t you become a Soviet employee? Your brother-in-law is a trade union member, and — nothing! But this one absolutely has to be a red merchant!”

Henrietta didn’t know that fate had made her husband the chairman of the stock exchange committee. Therefore, she was calm.

“Perhaps I won’t come home to sleep,” Kislyarsky said, “then you come with a parcel tomorrow. Only, please, don’t bring vareniki. What pleasure do I get from eating cold vareniki?”

“Perhaps you’ll take a primus stove with you?”

“As if they’d let you keep a primus stove in your cell! Give me my basket.”

Kislyarsky had a special Do-Prov (House of Preliminary Detention) basket. Made to a special order, it was quite versatile. When unfolded, it served as a bed; when semi-unfolded, a table; moreover, it replaced a wardrobe: it had shelves, hooks, and drawers. His wife put a cold dinner and fresh linen in the universal basket.

“You don’t have to see me off,” the experienced husband said. “If Rubens comes for money, tell him there’s no money. Goodbye! Rubens can wait.”

And Kislyarsky calmly walked out into the street, holding the Do-Prov basket by its handle.

“Where are you going, Citizen Kislyarsky?” called Polosov.

He was standing by a telegraph pole, cheering on a communications worker who, clinging to the pole with iron claws, was climbing towards the insulators.

“I’m going to confess,” Kislyarsky replied.

“To what?”

“To the ‘Sword and Plow’.”

Victor Mikhailovich was speechless. And Kislyarsky, sticking out his egg-shaped belly, encircled by a wide dacha belt with an attached pocket for a watch, leisurely walked to the provincial prosecutor’s office.

Victor Mikhailovich flapped his wings and flew to Dyadyev.

“Kislyarsky is a provocateur!” the fire chief shouted. “He just went to denounce. You can still see him.”

“What? And he has the basket with him?” the Stargorod governor was horrified.

“He does.”

Dyadyev kissed his wife, shouted that if Rubens came, not to give him money, and rushed out into the street. Victor Mikhailovich spun around, groaned like a hen laying an egg, and ran to Vladya and Nikesha.

Meanwhile, Citizen Kislyarsky, slowly strolling, approached the provincial prosecutor’s office. On the way, he met Rubens and talked with him for a long time.

“What about the money?” Rubens asked.

“You’ll come to my wife for the money.”

“Why do you have a basket?” Rubens inquired suspiciously.

“I’m going to the bathhouse.”

“Well, I wish you light steam.”

Then Kislyarsky went into the SSPO confectionery, formerly “Bonbon de Varsovie,” drank a glass of coffee, and ate a puff pastry. It was time to go and confess. The chairman of the stock exchange committee entered the reception room of the provincial prosecutor’s office. It was empty. Kislyarsky approached the door, on which was written: “Provincial Prosecutor,” and politely knocked.

“Come in!” replied a voice well-known to Kislyarsky.

Kislyarsky entered and stopped in amazement. His egg-shaped belly immediately deflated and shriveled like a date. What he saw was a complete surprise to him.

The desk at which the prosecutor sat was surrounded by members of the powerful “Sword and Plow” organization. Judging by their gestures and tearful voices, they were confessing everything.

“Here he is,” exclaimed Dyadyev, “the main Octoberist!”

“First of all,” Kislyarsky said, placing the Do-Prov basket on the floor and approaching the table, “first of all, I am not an Octoberist, then I have always sympathized with Soviet power, and thirdly, I am not the main one, but Comrade Charushnikov, whose address is…”

“Krasnoarmeyskaya!” Dyadyev shouted.

“Number three!” Vladya and Nikesha chimed in.

“Into the courtyard and to the left,” added Victor Mikhailovich, “I can show you.”

Twenty minutes later, Charushnikov was brought in, who first of all declared that he had never seen any of the people present in the office in his life. After that, without any break, Charushnikov denounced Elena Stanislavovna.

Only in the cell, having changed his linen and stretched out on the Do-Prov basket, did the chairman of the stock exchange committee feel light and calm.

Madam Gritsatsuyeva-Bender had managed to stock up on foodstuffs and goods for her small shop for at least four months during the crisis. Having calmed down, she again grew sad about her young husband, languishing at the meetings of the Small Sovnarkom. A visit to the fortune-teller brought no relief.

Elena Stanislavovna, alarmed by the disappearance of the entire Stargorod Areopagus, shuffled the cards with outrageous carelessness. The cards foretold now the end of the world, now a salary increase, now a meeting with her husband in a state institution in the presence of an ill-wisher — the king of spades.

And the fortune-telling itself ended somewhat strangely. Agents — kings of spades — arrived and took the soothsayer to a state institution, to the prosecutor.

Left alone with the parrot, the widow, in confusion, was about to leave when suddenly the parrot pecked at the cage and, for the first time in its life, spoke in a human voice.

“We’ve come to this!” it said sardonically, covered its head with its wing, and plucked a feather from under its armpit.

Madam Gritsatsuyeva-Bender, terrified, rushed to the door.

A hot, rambling speech poured after her. The ancient bird was so struck by the agents’ visit and the mistress’s removal to a state institution that it began to shout all the words it knew. Victor Mikhailovich Polesov occupied the largest place in its repertoire.

“In the presence of absence,” the bird said irritably.

And, turning upside down on its perch, it winked at the widow, frozen at the door, as if saying: “Well, how do you like that, widow?”

“My mother!” Gritsatsuyeva moaned.

“In what regiment did you serve?” the parrot asked in Bender’s voice. “Kra-r-r-r-rack… Europe will help us.”

After the widow’s flight, the parrot straightened its dickey and spoke the words that people had unsuccessfully tried to extract from it for thirty years:

“Popka is a fool!”

The widow ran down the street, wailing. And at home, a fidgety old man was waiting for her. It was Varfolomeich.

“According to the advertisement,” Varfolomeich said, “I’ve been waiting for two hours, miss.”

A heavy hoof of foreboding struck Gritsatsuyeva’s heart.

“Oh!” the widow sang. “My soul is languishing!”

“Citizen Bender seems to have left you? You put an advertisement?” The widow fell onto the sacks of flour.

“What weak organisms you have,” Varfolomeich said sweetly. “I would first like to clarify about the remuneration…”

“Oh!… Take everything! I don’t regret anything now!” the sensitive widow wailed.

“So, then. I know the whereabouts of your son O. Bender. What will the remuneration be?”

“Take everything!” the widow repeated.

“Twenty rubles,” Varfolomeich said dryly.

The widow rose from the sacks. She was covered in flour. Her powdered eyelashes blinked rapidly.

“How much?” she asked again.

“Fifteen rubles,” Varfolomeich lowered the price.

He sensed that even three rubles would be difficult to extract from the unfortunate woman.

Trampling on the sacks, the widow advanced on the old man, invoked heavenly power as a witness, and with its help achieved a firm price.

“Well then, God be with you, let it be five rubles. Only I’ll ask for the money upfront. That’s my rule.”

Varfolomeich took two newspaper clippings from his notebook and, without letting go of them, began to read:

“Here, please see in order. You wrote, then: ‘I beg… Comrade Bender left home… green suit, yellow shoes, blue vest…’ Correct, isn’t it? That’s ‘Stargorodskaya Pravda,’ then. And here’s what they’re writing about your son in the capital’s newspapers. Here… ‘Hit by a horse…’ Don’t be upset, ma’am, just listen… ‘Hit by a horse…’ Yes, he’s alive, alive! I tell you, alive. Would I take money for a dead man? So: ‘Hit by a horse. Yesterday, on Sverdlov Square, citizen O. Bender was hit by a horse belonging to cab driver No. 8974. The injured party escaped with only a slight fright…’ So, I’m providing you with these documents, and you give me the money upfront… That’s my rule.”

The widow tearfully handed over the money. Her husband, her dear husband in yellow shoes, lay on the distant Moscow ground, and the fire-breathing cab horse kicked its hoof against his blue worsted chest.

Varfolomeich’s sensitive soul was satisfied with the decent remuneration. He left, explaining to the widow that additional traces of her husband would undoubtedly be found in the editorial office of the “Stanok” newspaper, where, of course, everything in the world was known.

 

LETTER FROM FATHER FYODOR,

 

written in Rostov, in the “Milky Way” boiler room, to his wife in the provincial town of N.

 

My dear Katya, another disappointment has struck me, but more on that later. I received the money perfectly on time, for which I heartily thank you. Upon arriving in Rostov, I immediately ran to the address. “Novoroscement” is a very large institution; no one there even knew Engineer Bruns. I was about to despair completely, but they gave me a hint. Go, they said, to the personnel department. I went. “Yes,” they told me, “there was such a person working for us, performing responsible duties, but, they said, he left us last year. He was lured to Baku, to work for Azneft, on safety engineering matters.”

Well, my dear, my journey is not as brief as we thought. You write that money is running out. Nothing to be done, Katerina Alexandrovna. The end won’t be long in coming. Arm yourself with patience, pray to God, and sell my diagonal student uniform. We’ll have even more expenses than this. Be ready for anything.

The cost of living in Rostov is terrible. I paid 2 rubles 25 kopecks for a room in a hotel. The money will be enough to get to Baku. From there, if successful, I’ll telegraph you.

The weather here is hot. I carry my coat on my arm. I’m afraid to leave it in the room — it might be stolen at any moment. The people here are troublesome.

I don’t like the city of Rostov. In terms of population and geographical location, it is significantly inferior to Kharkov. But never mind, mother, God willing, we’ll go to Moscow together. You’ll see then — it’s quite a Western European city. And then we’ll live in Samara, near our factory.

Has Vorobyaninov returned? Where is he prowling now? Is Yevstigneyev still dining out? How is my cassock after cleaning? Keep everyone you know confident that I am by my auntie’s bedside. Write the same to Gulenka.

 

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you about a terrible incident that happened to me today.

Admiring the quiet Don, I stood by the bridge and dreamed of our future prosperity. Then the wind picked up and carried your brother, the baker’s, cap into the river. That was the last I saw of it. I had to incur a new expense: buying an English cap for 2 rubles 50 kopecks. Don’t tell your brother, the baker, anything about what happened. Convince him that I am in Voronezh.

It’s hard with the laundry. I wash it in the evening, and if it doesn’t dry, I put it on damp in the morning. In this heat, it’s even pleasant. I kiss you and hug you. Your forever husband, Fedya.

Chapter 28. The Hen And The Pacific Rooster

 

The reporter Persitsky was busily preparing for the bicentennial anniversary of the great mathematician Isaac Newton.

In the midst of his work, Styopa from “Science and Life” entered. A stout woman shuffled in behind him.

“Listen, Persitsky,” Styopa said, “this woman has come to you on business. Come here, citizen, this comrade will explain to you.” Styopa chuckled and ran off.

“Well?” Persitsky asked. “What can I do for you?”

Madam Gritsatsuyeva (it was she) cast languid eyes on the reporter and silently handed him a piece of paper.

“So,” Persitsky said, “…hit by a horse… escaped with a slight fright… What’s the problem?”

“The address,” the widow pleaded, “could I perhaps get the address?”

“Whose address?”

“O. Bender’s.”

“How would I know?”

“But the comrade said you knew.”

“I don’t know anything. Go to the address bureau.”

“But maybe you could remember, comrade? In yellow boots.”

“I’m in yellow boots myself. Two hundred thousand more people in Moscow walk around in yellow boots. Perhaps you need to know their addresses? Then by all means. I’ll drop all my work and take care of it. In six months, you’ll know everything. I’m busy, citizen.”

But the widow, who had developed great respect for Persitsky, followed him down the corridor and, with her starched petticoat rustling, repeated her requests.

“That scoundrel Styopa,” Persitsky thought. “Well, no matter, I’ll set the inventor of perpetual motion on him, he’ll jump for me.”

“Well, what can I do?” Persitsky asked irritably, stopping in front of the widow. “How can I know the address of citizen O. Bender? Am I the horse that ran him over? Or the cab driver whom he punched in the back right before my eyes?..”

The widow replied with a vague rumble, in which only “comrade” and “very much you” could be made out. The day’s activities at the House of Peoples had already ended. The offices and corridors were empty. Somewhere, a typewriter was still clacking out the last page.

“Pardon, madam, you see I’m busy!”

With these words, Persitsky disappeared into the restroom. After spending ten minutes there, he came out cheerfully. Gritsatsuyeva patiently rustled her skirts at the corner of two corridors. As Persitsky approached, she began to speak again. The reporter was furious.

“Look, auntie,” he said, “all right, I’ll tell you where your O. Bender is. Go straight down the corridor, then turn right and go straight again. There will be a door. Ask for Cherepennikov. He should know.”

And Persitsky, pleased with his invention, disappeared so quickly that the starched little widow didn’t have time to get any additional information.

Straightening her skirts, Madam Gritsatsuyeva walked down the corridor.

The corridors of the House of Peoples were so long and narrow that those walking through them involuntarily quickened their pace. By any passerby, one could tell how far they had walked. If they walked at a slightly accelerated pace, it meant their journey had just begun. Those who had passed two or three corridors developed a medium trot. And sometimes one could see a person running at full speed: they were in the fifth corridor stage. A citizen who had covered eight corridors could easily compete in speed with a bird, a racehorse, and the world champion runner Nurmi.

Turning right, Madam Gritsatsuyeva ran. The parquet creaked.

A brunette in a blue waistcoat and crimson shoes quickly walked towards her. It was clear from Ostap’s face that his visit to the House of Peoples at such a late hour was due to the extraordinary affairs of the concession. Evidently, a meeting with his beloved was not part of the technical director’s plans.

At the sight of the little widow, Bender turned and, without looking back, walked along the wall.

“Comrade Bender!” the widow shouted in delight, “where are you going?”

The great schemer increased his pace. The widow also sped up.

“Wait, let me tell you something,” she pleaded.

But the words did not reach Ostap’s ears. The wind was already singing and whistling in his ears. He raced through the fourth corridor, darting past flights of internal iron stairs. He left his beloved only an echo, which the staircase noises repeated to her for a long time.

“Well, thanks,” Ostap grumbled, sitting on the fifth floor, “found a time for a rendezvous. Who sent this sultry lady here? It’s time to liquidate the Moscow branch of the concession, or else, God forbid, a solitary hussar with an engine will come to me.”

At this time, Madam Gritsatsuyeva, separated from Ostap by three floors, a thousand doors, and a dozen corridors, wiped her flushed face with the hem of her petticoat and began her search. First, she wanted to quickly find her husband and explain herself. Dim lamps lit up in the corridors. All the lamps, all the corridors, and all the doors were identical. The widow became frightened. She wanted to leave.

Obeying the corridor progression, she sped up with increasing velocity. After half an hour, it was impossible to stop. The doors of presidiums, secretariats, local committees, organizational departments, and editorial offices thundered past on both sides of her bulky body. As she moved, her iron skirts overturned ashtrays. With a clanging noise, the ashtrays rolled in her wake. Eddies and whirlpools formed in the corners of the corridors. Open transoms slammed shut. Pointing fingers, painted with stencils on the walls, jabbed at the poor traveler.

Finally, Gritsatsuyeva reached the landing of an internal staircase. It was dark there, but the widow overcame her fear, ran downstairs, and pulled the glass door. The door was locked. The widow rushed back. But the door through which she had just passed was also closed by someone’s caring hand.

In Moscow, people love to lock doors. Thousands of main entrances are boarded up from the inside, and hundreds of thousands of citizens make their way to their apartments through back entrances. The year eighteen had long passed, the concept of a “raid on an apartment” had long become vague, house-by-house security organized by residents for safety had disappeared, the problem of street traffic was being resolved, huge power stations were being built, the greatest scientific discoveries were being made, but there was no one who would dedicate their life to solving the problem of closed doors.

Who is the person who will solve the riddle of cinemas, theaters, and circuses?

Three thousand people must enter the circus in ten minutes through a single door, opened only in one half. The other ten doors, specially adapted for passing large crowds of people, are closed. Who knows why they are closed? Perhaps twenty years ago, a trained donkey was stolen from the circus stable, and since then, the management, in fear, has walled up convenient entrances and exits. Or perhaps a draft once chilled a famous aerial king, and the closed doors are just an echo of the scandal caused by the king.

In theaters and cinemas, the public is released in small batches, supposedly to avoid congestion. It is very easy to avoid congestion — one only needs to open the abundant exits. But instead, the administration acts by force. Ushers, linking arms, form a living barrier and thus hold the public under siege for at least half an hour. And the doors, the cherished doors, closed even under Paul I, are still closed today.

Fifteen thousand football fans, excited by the spirited play of the Moscow team, are forced to squeeze through a gap to the tram, a gap so narrow that one lightly armed warrior could hold back forty thousand barbarians, reinforced by two siege towers.

The sports stadium has no roof, but there are several gates. Only a small gate is open. One can only exit by breaking through the gates. After every major competition, they are broken. But in concern for fulfilling a sacred tradition, they are carefully restored and tightly locked each time.

If there is no longer any possibility of hanging a door (this happens when there is nothing to hang it on), all kinds of hidden doors are put into use:

 

1. Barriers.
2. Turnstiles.
3. Overturned benches.
4. Prohibitory signs.
5. Ropes.

 

Barriers are widely used in institutions. They block access to the desired employee.

The visitor, like a tiger, walks along the barrier, trying to attract attention with gestures. This is not always successful. And perhaps the visitor has brought a useful invention! Or perhaps they simply want to pay income tax! But the barrier prevented it — the invention remained unknown, and the tax remained unpaid.

A turnstile is used on the street. It is placed in spring on a noisy thoroughfare, ostensibly to fence off ongoing sidewalk repairs. And instantly, the noisy street becomes deserted. Pedestrians seep into their desired locations via other streets. They have to walk an extra kilometer every day, but their light-winged hope does not abandon them. Summer passes. Leaves wither. But the turnstile still stands. The repairs are not done. And the street is deserted.

Overturned garden benches block the entrances to Moscow’s public gardens, which, due to the outrageous negligence of the builders, are not equipped with sturdy gates.

A whole book could be written about prohibitory signs, but this is not currently in the authors’ plans.

These signs are of two kinds: direct and indirect. Direct ones include:

 

NO ENTRY

NO ENTRY FOR UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS

NO THROUGHFARE

 

Such signs are sometimes hung on the doors of institutions, especially those heavily frequented by the public.

Indirect signs are the most destructive. They do not prohibit entry, but a rare daredevil would risk exercising their right. Here they are, these shameful signs:

 

DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT REPORTING

NO RECEPTION

YOUR VISIT DISTURBS A BUSY PERSON

 

Where it is impossible to place a barrier or a turnstile, overturn benches, or hang a prohibitory sign — ropes are stretched. They are stretched by inspiration, in the most unexpected places. If they are stretched at the height of a person’s chest, the matter is limited to a slight fright and somewhat nervous laughter. A rope stretched at ankle height can cripple a person.

To hell with doors! To hell with queues at theater entrances! Allow entry without reporting! We implore you to remove the turnstile placed by the negligent house manager at his dilapidated panel! Away with the overturned benches! Put them back in place! It’s pleasant to sit in the public garden at night. The air is clean, and smart thoughts come to mind!

Madam Gritsatsuyeva, sitting on the stairs by the locked glass door in the very middle of the House of Peoples, thought about her widow’s fate, occasionally dozing off and waiting for morning.

From the lit corridor, yellow light from electric ceiling lights poured through the glass door onto the widow. Ashy morning light penetrated through the staircase windows.

It was a quiet hour, when the morning was still young and pure. At this hour, Gritsatsuyeva heard footsteps in the corridor. The widow quickly stood up and pressed herself against the glass. At the end of the corridor, a blue waistcoat flashed. Crimson shoes were powdered with plaster. The fickle son of a Turkish subject, brushing dust from his jacket, approached the glass door.

“Gopher!” the widow called. “Go-o-pher!” She breathed on the glass with inexpressible tenderness. The glass fogged up, going into rainbow-colored spots. Blue and rainbow ghosts shone in the fog and rainbows.

Ostap did not hear the widow’s cooing. He scratched his back and anxiously shook his head. Another second — and he would have disappeared around the corner.

With a groan of “Comrade Bender!” the poor wife drummed on the glass. The great schemer turned around.

“Ah,” he said, seeing that he was separated from the widow by a closed door, “you’re here too?”

“Here, here,” the widow repeated joyfully.

“Embrace me, my joy, we haven’t seen each other for so long,” the technical director invited.

The widow bustled. She bounced behind the door like a siskin in a cage. Her skirts, quiet for the night, rattled again. Ostap opened his arms.

“Why don’t you come, my little hen? Your Pacific rooster is so tired from the meeting of the Small Sovnarkom.”

The widow was devoid of imagination.

“Gopher,” she said for the fifth time. “Open the door for me, Comrade Bender.”

“Quiet, girl! Modesty adorns a woman. What are these jumps for?”

The widow suffered.

“Well, why are you tormenting yourself?” Ostap asked. “Who’s stopping you from living?”

“He left himself, and he asks!”

And the widow cried.

“Wipe your eyes, citizen. Every tear of yours is a molecule in the cosmos.”

“But I waited and waited, closed the shop. I came after you, Comrade Bender…”

“Well, and how do you like living on the stairs now? Not drafty?”

The widow began to slowly simmer, like a large monastic samovar.

“Traitor!” she uttered, trembling.

Ostap still had a little free time. He snapped his fingers and, swaying rhythmically, quietly sang:

 

A particle of the devil in us

Is sometimes contained!

And the power of female charms

Ignites a fire in the breast…

 

“May you burst!” the widow wished at the end of the dance. “You stole the bracelet, my husband’s gift. And why did you take the chair?”

“You seem to be getting personal?” Ostap noted coldly.

“He stole, he stole!” the widow repeated.

“Listen, girl: engrave it on your little nose that Ostap Bender never stole anything.”

“And who took the strainer?”

“Ah, the strainer! From your illiquid fund? And you consider that theft? In that case, our views on life are diametrically opposed.”

“He took it away,” the widow cooed.

“So, if a young, healthy man borrowed a kitchen utensil from a provincial old woman that she didn’t need, due to her poor health, then he’s a thief? Is that how you want me to understand you?”

“Thief, thief!”

“In that case, we will have to part ways. I agree to a divorce.”

The widow rushed at the door. The glass trembled. Ostap understood it was time to leave.

“No time for embraces,” he said, “farewell, my beloved! We parted like ships at sea.”

“Guard!” the widow shrieked.

But Ostap was already at the end of the corridor. He stepped onto the windowsill, jumped heavily onto the damp ground after the night rain, and disappeared into the glittering sports gardens.

The awakened watchman stumbled upon the widow’s cries. He released the prisoner, threatening her with a fine.

 

Chapter 29. The Author of “Gavriliada”

 

When Madam Gritsatsuyeva left the inhospitable camp of the offices, employees of the most humble ranks were already streaming into the House of Peoples: couriers, incoming and outgoing young ladies, shift telephone operators, young accounting assistants, and armored teenagers.

Among them moved Nikifor Lyapis, a very young man with a sheep-like haircut and an immodest gaze.

Ignoramuses, stubborn people, and first-time visitors entered the House of Peoples through the main entrance. Nikifor Lyapis entered the building through the polyclinic. He was a familiar figure in the House of Peoples and knew the shortest paths to the oases where bright springs of honoraria gushed under the broad-leaved canopy of departmental magazines.

First of all, Nikifor Lyapis went to the buffet. The nickel-plated cash register played a match and issued three receipts. Nikifor ate cultured milk, breaking the paper seal on the cup, and a cream cake resembling a flowerbed. He washed it all down with tea. Then Lyapis unhurriedly began to tour his domains.

His first visit was to the editorial office of the monthly hunting magazine “Gerasim and Mumu.” Comrade Naperkinov was not yet there, and Nikifor Lyapis moved on to the “Hygroscopic Herald,” a weekly mouthpiece through which pharmacy workers communicated with the outside world.

“Good morning,” Nikifor said. “I’ve written some remarkable poems.”

“About what?” asked the head of the literary page. “On what theme? You know, Trubetskoy, that our magazine…”

The head wiggled his fingers for a more subtle definition of the essence of the “Hygroscopic Herald.”

Trubetskoy-Lyapis looked at his trousers of white matting, leaned back, and said melodically:

“The Ballad of Gangrene.”

“That’s interesting,” remarked the hygroscopic personage. “It’s high time to promote prophylactic ideas in a popular form.”

Lyapis immediately recited:

 

Gavryla suffered from gangrene,

Gavryla lay down from gangrene…

 

Further, in the same spirited four-foot iambic verse, the story of Gavryla unfolded, who, in his ignorance, did not go to the pharmacy in time and died because he did not apply iodine to his wound.

“You’re making progress, Trubetskoy,” the editor approved, “but we’d like even more… You understand?”

He wiggled his fingers, but took the terrible ballad, promising to pay on Tuesday.

In the magazine “Morse Operator’s Daily Life,” Lyapis was greeted hospitably.

“It’s good you came, Trubetskoy. We just need poems. But — everyday life, everyday life, everyday life. No lyricism. Do you hear, Trubetskoy? Something from the life of telegraph workers and at the same time, you understand?..”

“Yesterday I was indeed reflecting on the daily life of telegraph workers. And such a poem poured out of me. It’s called: ‘The Last Letter.’ Here…”

 

Gavryla served as a postman,

Gavryla delivered letters…

 

The story of Gavryla was contained in seventy-two lines. At the end of the poem, the postman Gavryla, struck by a fascist’s bullet, still delivers the letter to its address.

“Where did this take place?” Lyapis was asked.

The question was legitimate. There are no fascists in the USSR, and no Gavrylas, members of the communications workers’ union, abroad.

“What’s the matter?” Lyapis said. “The action takes place, of course, here, and the fascist is disguised.”

“You know, Trubetskoy, why don’t you write us something about a radio station instead?”

“And why don’t you want the postman?”

“Let it lie for a bit. We’ll take it conditionally.”

A saddened Nikifor Lyapis-Trubetskoy went back to “Gerasim and Mumu.” Naperkinov was already sitting at his desk. On the wall hung a greatly enlarged portrait of Turgenev, wearing a pince-nez, swamp boots, and holding a double-barreled shotgun. Next to Naperkinov stood Lyapis’s competitor — a poet from the suburbs.

The old song about Gavryla began, but with a hunting slant. The creation was titled: “The Poacher’s Prayer.”

 

Gavryla waited for a hare in ambush,

Gavryla shot the hare…

 

“Very good!” said the kind Naperkinov. “Trubetskoy, in this poem, you have surpassed Entikh himself. Only a few things need correction. First, root out ‘prayer’.”

“And the hare,” said the competitor.

“Why the hare?” Naperkinov was surprised.

“Because it’s not the season.”

“Do you hear, Trubetskoy, change the hare too.”

The poem, in its transformed form, was titled “A Lesson to the Poacher,” and the hares were replaced by snipes. Then it turned out that snipes are also not hunted in summer. In its final form, the verses read:

 

Gavryla waited for a bird in ambush.

Gavryla shot the bird… etc.

 

After breakfast in the dining room, Lyapis set to work again. His white trousers flashed in the darkness of the corridors. He entered editorial offices and sold the multi-faceted Gavryla.

To the “Cooperative Flute,” Gavryla was submitted under the title “Aeolian Flute.”

 

Gavryla served behind the counter.

Gavryla traded in flutes…

 

Simpletons from the thick magazine “Forest, As It Is” bought a short poem from Lyapis titled “At the Edge of the Forest.” It began like this:

 

Gavryla walked through a curly forest,

Gavryla chopped bamboo.

 

The last Gavryla for the day was engaged in baking bread. He found a place in the editorial office of “The Bakery Worker.” The poem bore a long and sad title: “About Bread, Product Quality, and a Beloved.” The poem was dedicated to the mysterious Khina Chlek. The beginning was still epic:

 

Gavryla served as a baker,

Gavryla baked a roll…

 

The dedication, after a delicate struggle, was discarded. The saddest part was that Lyapis was not given money anywhere. Some promised to pay on Tuesday, others — on Thursday or Friday — in two weeks. He had to go borrow money from the enemies’ camp — where Lyapis was never published.

Lyapis descended from the fifth floor to the second and entered the secretariat of “Stanok.” To his misfortune, he immediately ran into the diligent Persitsky.

“Ah!” exclaimed Persitsky. “Lapsus!”

“Listen,” Nikifor Lyapis said, lowering his voice, “give me three rubles. ‘Gerasim and Mumu’ owes me a heap of money.”

“I’ll give you fifty kopecks. Wait. I’ll be right back.”

And Persitsky returned, bringing with him a dozen employees of “Stanok.” A general conversation ensued.

“Well, how was business?” Persitsky asked.

“I wrote some remarkable poems!”

“About Gavryla? Something peasant-like? ‘Gavryla plowed since dawn, Gavryla adored his plow’?”

“What Gavryla! That’s hack work!” Lyapis defended himself. “I wrote about the Caucasus.”

“And have you been to the Caucasus?”

“I’m going in two weeks.”

“And aren’t you afraid, Lapsus? There are jackals there!”

“That frightens me very much! They’re not poisonous in the Caucasus!”

After this answer, everyone became wary.

“Tell me, Lapsus,” Persitsky asked, “what, in your opinion, are jackals like?”

“Yes, I know, leave me alone!”

“Well, tell us, if you know!”

“Well, they’re… in the form of a snake.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right, as always. In your opinion, the saddle of a wild goat is served at the table with stirrups, right?”

“I never said that!” Trubetskoy shouted.

“You didn’t say it. You wrote it. Naperkinov told me that you tried to palm off such verses on him for ‘Gerasim and Mumu,’ supposedly from the life of hunters. Tell me honestly, Lapsus, why do you write about things you’ve never seen in your life and have no idea about? Why, in your poem ‘Canton,’ is a peignoir a ball gown? Why?!”

“You’re a petty bourgeois,” Lyapis said boastfully.

“Why, in the poem ‘Budyonny Prize Race,’ does your jockey tighten the traces on the horse and then sit on the coachman’s box? Have you ever seen traces?”

“I have.”

“Well, tell us what they’re like!”

“Leave me alone. You’re crazy!”

“And have you seen a coachman’s box? Have you been to races?”

“It’s not necessary to be everywhere!” Lyapis shouted. “Pushkin wrote Turkish poems and never been to Turkey.”

“Oh yes, Erzrum is in the Tula Governorate, isn’t it?”

Lyapis didn’t understand the sarcasm. He continued hotly:

“Pushkin wrote based on materials. He read the history of the Pugachev rebellion, and then he wrote. And Entikh told me everything about the races.”

After this masterful defense, Persitsky dragged the resisting Lyapis into the next room. The spectators followed them. On the wall there hung a large newspaper clipping, outlined with a mourning border.

“Did you write this essay in ‘Captain’s Bridge’?”

“I did.”

“This, it seems, is your first attempt at prose? Congratulations! ‘Waves rolled over the pier and fell down like a rapid jack…’ Well, you’ve really done ‘Captain’s Bridge’ a favor! ‘Bridge’ won’t forget you for a long time, Lyapis!”

“What’s the matter?”

“The thing is… Do you know what a jack is?”

“Well, of course, I know, leave me alone…”

“How do you imagine a jack? Describe it in your own words.”

“It’s like… it falls, in a word.”

“A jack falls. Note it everyone! A jack falls rapidly! Wait, Lapsus, I’ll bring you fifty kopecks now. Don’t let him go!”

But this time too, the fifty kopecks were not issued. Persitsky dragged out the twenty-first volume of Brockhaus from the reference bureau, from Domitius to Yevreynov. Between Domitius, a fortress in the Grand Duchy of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, and Dommel, a river in Belgium and the Netherlands, the desired word was found.

“Listen! ‘Jack (German: Daumkraft)  —  one of the machines for lifting considerable weights. The ordinary simple jack, used for lifting carriages, etc., consists of a movable toothed bar, which is gripped by a gear rotated by means of a handle…’ And so on. And further: ‘John Dickson in 1879 set the obelisk known as “Cleopatra’s Needle” in place with the help of four workers operating four hydraulic jacks.’ And this device, in your opinion, has the ability to fall rapidly? So, Brockhaus and Efron have been deceiving humanity for fifty years? Why are you hacking instead of learning? Answer!”

“I need money.”

“But you never have any. You’re always scrounging for fifty kopecks.”

“I bought furniture and went over budget.”

“And did you buy a lot of furniture? They pay you for your hack work as much as it’s worth — a pittance!”

“A good pittance! I bought such a chair at an auction…”

“In the shape of a snake?”

“No. From a palace. But misfortune struck me. Yesterday I came home at night…”

“From Khina Chlek?” the attendees shouted in unison.

“Khina!… I haven’t lived with Khina for a long time. I was returning from Mayakovsky’s dispute. I arrive. The window is open. I immediately felt that something had happened.”

“Oh, dear, dear!” Persitsky said, covering his face with his hands. “I feel, comrades, that Lapsus’s best masterpiece, ‘Gavryla served as a janitor, Gavryla was hired as a janitor,’ has been stolen.”

“Let me finish. Unbelievable hooliganism! Some scoundrels broke into my room and ripped up all the upholstery of the chair. Perhaps someone could lend five for repairs?”

“For repairs, compose a new Gavryla. I can even give you the beginning. Wait, wait… Now… Here: ‘Gavryla bought a chair at the market, Gavryla had a bad chair.’ Write it down quickly. This can be profitably sold to ‘The Chest of Drawers’ Voice’… Oh, Trubetskoy, Trubetskoy!… Oh, by the way, Lapsus, why are you Trubetskoy? Why don’t you take an even better pseudonym? For example, Dolgoruky! Nikifor Dolgoruky! Or Nikifor Valois? Or even better: Citizen Nikifor Sumarokov-Elston? If you get a good feeding trough, three verses in ‘Germumu’ at once, then your way out of the situation is brilliant. One piece of nonsense signed by Sumarokov, another piece of rubbish by Elston, and the third by Yusupov… Oh, you hack!”

 

Chapter 30. At the Columbus Theater

 

Ippolit Matveyevich was gradually becoming a sycophant. When he looked at Ostap, his eyes took on a light blue gendarme hue.

It was so hot in Ivanopulo’s room that the dried-out Vorobyaninov chairs crackled like firewood in a fireplace. The great schemer rested, with his blue waistcoat tucked under his head.

Ippolit Matveyevich looked out the window. There, along crooked alleys, past tiny Moscow gardens, a heraldic carriage sped by. In its black lacquer, bowing passersby were alternately reflected: a copper-headed horse guard, city ladies, and plump white clouds. Clattering on the pavement with their hooves, the horses carried the carriage past Ippolit Matveyevich. He turned away in disappointment.

The carriage bore the emblem of the MKH (Moscow Communal Economy), was intended for garbage transportation, and its wooden sides reflected nothing.

On the box sat a brave old man with a fluffy gray beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that the coachman was none other than Count Alexey Bulanov, the famous Hussar-hermit, he would probably have called out to the old man to talk to him about the charming times gone by.

Count Alexey Bulanov was deeply troubled. Whipping the horses, he sadly pondered the bureaucracy corroding the sanitation sub-department, due to which the Count had not been issued the special apron stipulated by the general contract for six months now.

“Listen,” the great schemer suddenly said, “what were you called as a child?”

“And why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing! I just don’t know what to call you. I’m tired of calling you Vorobyaninov, and Ippolit Matveyevich is too sour. What were you called? Ipa?”

“Kitty,” Ippolit Matveyevich replied, smiling faintly.

“Congenial. So, Kitty,” – please look at my back. It hurts between my shoulder blades.”

Ostap pulled his “cowboy” shirt over his head. Before Kitty Vorobyaninov, an ample back of a provincial Antinous was revealed, a back of charming shape, but somewhat dirty.

“Oh,” Ippolit Matveyevich said, “some kind of redness.”

Between the great schemer’s shoulder blades, bruises of strange outlines shimmered with an oily rainbow, turning purple.

“Honestly, it’s the number eight!” exclaimed Vorobyaninov. “First time I’ve seen a bruise like that.”

“And no other number?” Ostap asked calmly.

“Looks like the letter ‘R’.”

“No more questions. Everything is clear. That cursed pen! You see, Kitty, how I suffer, what dangers I expose myself to because of your chairs. These arithmetic signs were inflicted on me by a large self-falling pen with nib number eighty-six. You should note that the cursed pen fell on my back at the very moment I plunged my hands into the interior of the editor’s chair. And you, you don’t know how to do anything properly. Who messed up the Iznurenkovsky chair so badly that I had to clean up after you? I’m not even talking about the auction. Found time for a fling! At your age, philandering is just harmful! Take care of your health!… Look at me! Behind me is the widow’s chair. Behind me are two Shchukin’s chairs. I ultimately did the Iznurenkovsky chair! I went to the editorial office and to Lyapis! And only one single chair did you bring to a victorious conclusion, and even that with the help of our sacred enemy — the archbishop.”

Silently padding across the room in bare feet, the technical director admonished the submissive Kitty.

The chair that disappeared in the freight yard of the October Station still remained a dark spot on the sparkling plan of concession work. Four chairs in the Columbus Theater represented a sure catch. But the theater was leaving for a Volga tour on the lottery steamboat “Skryabin” and was showing the premiere of “The Marriage” as its last performance of the season. It was necessary to decide — whether to stay in Moscow to search for the chair lost in the vastness of Kalanchevskaya Square, or to go on a touring trip with the troupe. Ostap inclined towards the latter.

“Or perhaps we’ll split up?” Ostap asked. “I’ll go with the theater, and you stay and keep an eye on the chair in the freight yard.”

But Kitty blinked his gray eyelashes so timidly that Ostap didn’t continue.

“Of two hares,” he said, “you choose the fatter one. We’ll go together. But the expenses will be great. Money will be needed. I have sixty rubles left. How much do you have? Ah, I forgot! At your age, maidenly love costs so much! I decree: today we are going to the theater for the premiere of ‘The Marriage.’ Don’t forget to wear your tailcoat. If the chairs are still in place and haven’t been sold for social insurance debts, we leave tomorrow. Remember, Vorobyaninov, the last act of the comedy ‘My Mother-in-Law’s Treasure’ is approaching. The finita la commedia is near, Vorobyaninov! Don’t breathe, my old friend! Align on the footlights! Oh, my youth! Oh, the smell of the wings! So many memories! So many intrigues! How much talent I showed in my time as Hamlet! In short, the meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury!”

For economy, they walked to the theater. It was still quite light, but the streetlights were already shining with a lemon glow. Spring was dying before everyone’s eyes. Dust chased it from the squares, a hot breeze pushing it into an alley. There, old women caressed the beauty and drank tea with her in courtyards, at round tables. But spring’s life was over — it wasn’t allowed among people. And it longed to go to Pushkin’s monument, where young people were already strolling in colorful caps, drainpipe trousers, “dog’s delight” ties, and “Jimmy” shoes.

Girls, sprinkled with lilac powder, circulated between the MSPO temple and the “Kommunar” cooperative (between the former Filippov and former Eliseev). The girls cursed distinctly. At this hour, passersby slowed their steps, but not only because Tverskaya was getting crowded. Moscow horses were no better than Stargorod’s: they also deliberately clattered their hooves on the pavement ends. Cyclists silently flew from the “Young Pioneers” stadium, from the first big intercity match. The ice cream vendor pushed his green chest, full of May thunder, casting wary glances at the militiaman; but the militiaman, shackled by the glowing semaphore that regulated street traffic, was not dangerous.

In all this bustle, two friends moved. Temptations arose at every turn. In tiny eateries, visible to the whole street, Karsky, Caucasian, and fillet shashliks were fried. Hot and pungent smoke rose to the bright sky. String music poured from beer halls, restaurants, and the “Great Silent” cinema. A loudspeaker blared at the tram stop.

They needed to hurry. The friends entered the echoing foyer of the Columbus Theater.

Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the price list for seats.

“Still,” he said, “very expensive. Sixteenth row — three rubles.”

“How I dislike,” Ostap remarked, “these petty bourgeois, provincial simpletons! Where are you going? Don’t you see this is the box office?”

“Well, then where? They won’t let us in without a ticket!”

“Kitty, you’re vulgar. Every well-appointed theater has two windows. Only lovers and rich heirs approach the box office window. The rest of the citizens (who, as you can see, are the overwhelming majority) go directly to the administrator’s window.”

And indeed, in front of the box office window stood about five modestly dressed people. Perhaps they were rich heirs or lovers. But at the administrator’s window, there was a lively crowd. A colorful queue stood there. Young people in fashionable jackets and trousers of a cut that a provincial could only dream of, confidently waved notes from their acquaintances — directors, actors, editorial offices, the theater costumer, the district police chief, and other persons closely connected with the theater, such as: members of the association of theater and film critics, the society “Tears of Poor Mothers,” the school board of the “circus experiment workshop,” and some “Fortinbras at Umslopogas.” About eight people stood with notes from Esper Eklerovich.

Ostap cut into the queue, pushed aside the Fortinbras supporters, and, shouting: “I just need information, don’t you see I haven’t even taken off my galoshes,” forced his way to the window and peered inside.

The administrator toiled like a stevedore. Bright diamond sweat drenched his fat face. The telephone disturbed him every minute and rang with the persistence of a tram making its way through the Smolensk market.

“Quick,” he shouted to Ostap, “your paper?”

“Two seats,” Ostap said quietly, “in the stalls.”

“For whom?”

“For me!”

“And who are you that I should give you seats?”

“And yet I think you know me.”

“I don’t recognize you.”

But the stranger’s gaze was so pure, so clear, that the administrator’s hand automatically assigned Ostap two seats in the eleventh row.

“All sorts of people come here,” the administrator said, shrugging, “who knows who they are! Maybe he’s from Narkompros (People’s Commissariat of Education)? I think I’ve seen him at Narkompros. Where have I seen him?”

And, mechanically issuing passes to happy theater and film critics, the quieted Yakov Menelaevich continued to recall where he had seen those pure eyes.

When all the passes were issued and the lights in the foyer were dimmed, Yakov Menelaevich remembered: those pure eyes, that confident gaze, he had seen in Taganskaya prison in 1922, when he himself was there for a trivial matter.

From the eleventh row, where the concessionaires sat, laughter was heard. Ostap liked the musical introduction, performed by the orchestra on bottles, Esmarch’s irrigators, saxophones, and large regimental drums. A flute whistled, and the curtain, wafting coolness, parted.

To Vorobyaninov’s surprise, accustomed to the classical interpretation of “The Marriage,” Podkolesin was not on stage. Searching with his eyes, Ippolit Matveyevich saw plywood rectangles hanging from the ceiling, painted in the primary colors of the solar spectrum. There were no doors, no blue muslin windows. Under the colorful rectangles, ladies in large hats cut from black cardboard danced. Bottle groans brought Podkolesin onto the stage, who crashed into the crowd riding Stepan. Podkolesin was dressed in a chamberlain’s uniform. Chasing away the ladies with words not found in the play, Podkolesin wailed:

“Ste-pa-an!”

Simultaneously, he jumped aside and froze in a difficult pose. Esmarch’s irrigators rattled.

“Ste-pa-an!!” Podkolesin repeated, making another jump.

But since Stepan, standing right there and dressed in a leopard skin, did not respond, Podkolesin tragically asked:

“Why are you silent, like the League of Nations?”

“Apparently, I was frightened by Chamberlain,” Stepan replied, scratching his skin.

It was felt that Stepan would push Podkolesin aside and become the main character of the modernized play.

“Well, is the tailor sewing the frock coat?”

A jump. A clang on Esmarch’s irrigators. Stepan with effort did a handstand and in that position replied:

“He is!”

The orchestra played a medley from “Madame Butterfly.” All this time, Stepan remained in a handstand. His face was flushed.

“And,” Podkolesin asked, “did the tailor not ask, ‘why does the master need such fine cloth’?”

Stepan, who by then was already sitting in the orchestra and embracing the conductor, replied:

“No, he didn’t ask. Is he a member of the English Parliament?”

“And did the tailor not ask, ‘does the master want to marry’?”

“The tailor asked if the master wanted to pay alimony.”

After this, the lights went out, and the audience stomped their feet. They stomped until Podkolesin’s voice was heard from the stage:

“Citizens! Don’t worry! The lights were turned off on purpose, as part of the action. The material design requires it.”

The audience submitted. The lights remained off until the end of the act. Drums thundered in complete darkness. A detachment of soldiers in hotel doorman uniforms passed with lanterns. Then, apparently on a camel, Kochkarev arrived. All this could be judged from the following dialogue:

“Phew, how you scared me! And you even came on a camel!”

“Ah, you noticed, despite the darkness?! And I wanted to present you with a sweet ver-bludo (camel, but also sounds like “dish” in Russian)!”

During the intermission, the concessionaires read the poster:

 

THE MARRIAGE

 

Text  —  N.V. Gogol

Verse  —  M. Shershelyafamov

Literary Montage  —  I. Antiochsky

Musical Accompaniment  —  Kh. Ivanov

Author of the Play  —  Nik. Sestrin

Material Design  —  Simbiyevich-Sindyevich.

Lighting  —  Platon Plashchuk.

Sound Design  —  Galkina, Palkina, Malkina, Chalkina and Zalkind.

Makeup  —  Krult Workshop.

Wigs  —  Foma Kochura.

Furniture  —  Fortinbras at Umslopogas woodworking workshops named after Balthazar.

Acrobatics Instructor  —  Georgette Tiraspolsky.

Hydraulic Press  —  operated by fitter Mechnikov.

Poster typeset, laid out, and printed at KRULT FZU school.

 

“Do you like it?” Ippolit Matveyevich asked timidly.

“And you?”

“Very interesting, only Stepan is somehow strange.”

“I didn’t like it,” Ostap said, “especially that their furniture is from some Vogopas workshops. Haven’t they adapted our chairs in a new way?”

These fears turned out to be groundless. At the very beginning of the second act, all four chairs were carried onto the stage by Black men in top hats.

The matchmaking scene aroused the greatest interest in the audience. At the moment when Agafya Tikhonovna began to descend on a wire stretched across the entire hall, the terrible orchestra of Kh. Ivanov made such a noise that from it alone Agafya Tikhonovna should have fallen into the audience. However, Agafya performed perfectly on stage. She was in a flesh-colored leotard and a man’s bowler hat. Balancing a green umbrella with the inscription: “I want Podkolesin,” she stepped along the wire, and from below, everyone could see her dirty soles. She jumped from the wire directly onto the chair. Simultaneously, all the Black men, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in ballet tutus, and the matchmaker in a tram driver’s costume performed backward somersaults. Then everyone rested for five minutes, to conceal which the lights were again turned off.

The suitors were very funny, especially Yaitchnitsa. Instead of him, a large fried egg on a frying pan was brought out. The sailor had a mast with a sail.

In vain, the merchant Starikov shouted that he was being choked by the patent and the equalizing system. Agafya Tikhonovna did not like him. She married Stepan. Both began to devour the fried eggs, which Podkolesin, transformed into a lackey, served them. Kochkarev and Fekla sang couplets about Chamberlain and about the alimony that the British minister collects from Germany. A funeral knell was played on Esmarch’s irrigators. And the curtain, wafting coolness, slammed shut.

“I am pleased with the performance,” Ostap said, “the chairs are intact. But we have no time to delay. If Agafya Tikhonovna coos on them daily, they won’t last long.”

Young people in fashionable jackets, pushing and laughing, delved into the intricacies of the material and sound design.

“Well,” Ostap indicated, “you, Kitty, need to go — bye-bye. Tomorrow morning we need to get in line for tickets. The theater leaves at seven in the evening on an express train to Nizhny. So you take two hard seats for the journey to Nizhny, Kursk Railway. It’s not a problem — we’ll sit. Only one night.”

The next day, the entire Columbus Theater sat in the buffet of the Kursk Station. Simbiyevich-Sindyevich, having taken measures to ensure that the material design would travel on the same train, was having a snack at a table. Soaking his mustache in beer, he anxiously asked the fitter:

“Will the hydraulic press not break on the way?”

“There’s trouble with this press,” Mechnikov replied. “It works for us for five minutes, but we’ll have to transport it all summer.”

“And was it easier for you with the ‘time projector’ from the play ‘Ideology Powder’?”

“Of course, easier. The projector was bigger, but not so fragile.”

At the next table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a young girl with legs hard and shiny like bowling pins. Around her bustled the sound design team — Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin, and Zalkind.

“You were out of sync yesterday,” Agafya Tikhonovna complained, “I could easily fall.”

The sound design team clamored:

“What can we do! Two irrigators burst!”

“Where can you get a foreign Esmarch’s irrigator now?” Galkin shouted.

“Go to Gosmedtorg. You can’t even buy a thermometer, let alone Esmarch’s irrigators!” Palkin supported.

“And do you play on thermometers too?” the girl was horrified.

“We don’t play on thermometers,” Zalkind noted, “but because of these cursed irrigators, you literally get sick — you have to take your temperature.”

The author of the play and chief director Nik. Sestrin strolled with his wife along the platform. Podkolesin and Kochkarev downed three shots each and vied for Georgette Tiraspolsky’s attention.

The concessionaires, who had arrived two hours before the train’s departure, had already made their fifth circuit around the square in front of the station.

Ippolit Matveyevich’s head was spinning. The chase for the chairs was entering a decisive stage. Elongated shadows lay on the hot pavement. Dust settled on wet, sweaty faces. Hired cabs pulled up. There was the smell of gasoline. Hired cars dropped off passengers. Ermak Timofeevichs ran out to meet them, carrying suitcases, their oval plaques shining in the sun. The muse of distant travels grabbed people by the throat.

“Well, let’s go too,” Ostap said. Ippolit Matveyevich meekly agreed. Just then, he came face to face with the undertaker Bezenchuk.

“Bezenchuk!” he said in extreme surprise. “How did you get here?”

Bezenchuk removed his cap and was joyfully dumbfounded.

“Mr. Vorobyaninov!” he shouted. “Honor to the dear guest!”

“Well, how are things?”

“Things are bad,” the undertaker replied.

“Why so?”

“I’m looking for a client. The client isn’t coming.”

“Is ‘Nympha’ undercutting you?”

“How could she! Could she undercut me? No cases. After your mother-in-law, only one ‘Pierre and Konstantin’ has passed on.”

“What are you saying? Has he really died?”

“Passed on, Ippolit Matveyevich. Passed on at his post. He was shaving our pharmacist Leopold and passed on. People said there was an internal rupture, but I think the deceased inhaled medicine from that pharmacist and couldn’t take it.”

“Oh, dear, dear,” Ippolit Matveyevich mumbled, “oh, dear, dear! Well, then you buried him?”

“I buried him. Who else? Does ‘Nympha,’ blast her, give a brush?”

“You won, then?”

“I won. Only they beat me afterwards. Almost knocked my heart out. The police rescued me. I lay for two days, treated myself with alcohol.”

“Rubbing it in?”

“We don’t need to rub it in.”

“And what brought you here?”

“Brought goods.”

“What goods?”

“My own goods. An acquaintance, a conductor, helped me transport them for free in the postal car. Through connections.”

Ippolit Matveyevich only now noticed that a stack of coffins stood on the ground some distance from Bezenchuk. Some were with tassels, others without. Ippolit Matveyevich quickly recognized one of them. It was a large, dusty oak coffin from Bezenchuk’s display window.

“Eight pieces,” Bezenchuk said smugly, “one like another. Like cucumbers.”

“And who needs your goods here? There are enough of our own craftsmen here.”

“And the flu?”

“What flu?”

“Epidemic. Prusis told me that the flu is raging in Moscow, that there’s nothing to bury people in. All the material has been used up. So I decided to improve business.”

Ostap, who had listened to the entire conversation with curiosity, intervened:

“Listen, old man, the flu is raging in Paris.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes, indeed. Go to Paris. You’ll make a killing there! True, there will be some difficulties with the visa, but don’t be sad, old man. If Briand takes a liking to you, you’ll live well: you’ll get a job as a court undertaker at the Paris municipality. And here there are enough undertakers of our own.”

Bezenchuk looked around wildly. Indeed, in the square, despite Prusis’s assurances, no corpses were lying around, people were cheerfully on their feet, and some of them were even laughing.

The train had long since carried away the concessionaires, the Columbus Theater, and the rest of the public, but Bezenchuk still stood dazed over his coffins. In the deepening darkness, his eyes burned with a yellow, unquenchable fire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART THREE

MADAM PETUKHOVA’S

TREASURE

 

Chapter 31. A Magical Night on the Volga

 

To the left of the passenger berths of the Volga State River Shipping Company, under the inscription: “Moor by the rings, guard the grating, do not touch the walls,” stood the great schemer with his friend and closest assistant, Kitty Vorobyaninov.

Flags flapped above the piers. Smoke, curly like cauliflower, billowed from the steamboat funnels. The steamboat “Anton Rubinstein,” docked at berth No. 2, was being loaded. Stevedores plunged iron hooks into bales of cotton; cast-iron pots were lined up in a square on the pier, along with wet-salted hides, bundles of wire, crates of sheet glass, balls of binder twine, millstones, two-colored bony agricultural machines, wooden pitchforks, baskets covered with burlap filled with young cherries, and herring barrels.

The “Skryabin” was not there. This greatly worried Ippolit Matveyevich.

“Why are you worried?” Ostap asked. “Imagine that the ‘Skryabin’ is here. Well, how would you get on it? Even if we had money to buy a ticket, it wouldn’t work. This steamboat doesn’t take passengers.”

Ostap had managed to chat with the head of the hydraulic press, fitter Mechnikov, on the train, and learned everything from him. The steamboat “Skryabin,” leased by the People’s Commissariat of Finance, was to make a voyage from Nizhny to Tsaritsyn, stopping at every pier and holding a lottery drawing for a winning loan. For this purpose, an entire institution had traveled from Moscow: the lottery commission, the office, a brass band, a cameraman, correspondents from central newspapers, and the Columbus Theater. The theater was to perform plays en route popularizing the idea of state loans. Up to Stalingrad, the theater was fully supported by the lottery commission, and then planned, at its own risk, to undertake a major touring trip through the Caucasus and Crimea with “The Marriage.”

The “Skryabin” was late. It was promised that it would arrive from the backwater, where the final preparations were being made, only by evening. Therefore, the entire apparatus that had arrived from Moscow, awaiting embarkation, set up a bivouac on the pier.

Tender creatures with small suitcases and garment bags sat on bundles of wire, guarding their Underwoods, and looking apprehensively at the stevedores. A citizen with a purple goatee perched on a millstone. On his knees lay a stack of enameled plates. On the top one, a curious person could read:

 

DEPARTMENT OF MUTUAL SETTLEMENTS

 

Pedestal desks and other, more modest, tables were stacked one on top of another. A sentry strolled by a sealed safe. Persitsky, the representative of “Stanok,” looked through Zeiss binoculars with eightfold magnification at the fairground.

Turning against the current, the steamboat “Skryabin” approached. On its sides, it carried plywood shields with rainbow images of giant bonds. The steamboat roared, imitating the cry of a mammoth, or perhaps another animal that replaced the steamboat siren in prehistoric times.

The financial-theatrical bivouac came alive. Lottery employees ran down the city’s slopes. A plump Platon Plashchuk rolled towards the steamboat in a cloud of dust. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin, and Zalkind ran out of the “Raft” tavern. Stevedores were already toiling over the safe. The acrobatics instructor Georgette Tiraspolsky ascended the gangway with a gymnastic stride. Simbiyevich-Sindyevich, concerned about the material design, stretched his arms now towards the Kremlin heights, now towards the captain standing on the bridge. The cameraman carried his apparatus high above the heads of the crowd and, still moving, demanded a four-berth cabin for setting up a laboratory.

In the general melee, Ippolit Matveyevich made his way to the chairs and, beside himself, started to drag one chair aside.

“Drop the chair!” Bender cried. “Are you out of your mind? We’ll take one chair, and the rest will be lost to us forever. You should rather think about how to get on the steamboat.”

Musicians, belted with brass pipes, walked along the pier. They looked with disgust at the saxophones, flexatones, beer bottles, and Esmarch’s irrigators with which the sound design team was armed.

The lottery wheels were brought on a Ford van. It was a complex structure, made of six rotating cylinders, sparkling with copper and glass. Its installation on the lower deck took a long time.

The stomping and quarreling continued until late evening.

In the lottery hall, a stage was being set up, posters and slogans were nailed to the walls, wooden benches for visitors were arranged, and electrical wires were spliced to the lottery wheels. Desks were placed at the stern, and from the typists’ cabin, interspersed with laughter, came the clicking of typewriters. A pale man with a purple goatee walked all over the steamboat and hung his enameled plates on the corresponding doors:

 

DEPARTMENT OF MUTUAL SETTLEMENTS

PERSONNEL DEPARTMENT

GENERAL OFFICE

ENGINE ROOM

 

To the large plates, the man with the goatee attached smaller plates:

 

NO ENTRY WITHOUT BUSINESS

NO RECEPTION

NO ENTRY FOR UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS

ALL INQUIRIES AT REGISTRATION

 

The first-class saloon was equipped as an exhibition of banknotes and bonds. This caused an outburst of indignation from Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin, and Zalkind.

“Where will we eat?” they fretted. “What if it rains?”

“Oh,” Nik. Sestrin said to his assistant, “I can’t…? What do you think, Seryozha, can we do without sound design?”

“What are you saying, Nikolai Konstantinovich! The artists are used to the rhythm.”

Then a new clamor arose. The quintet had found out that the author of the play had dragged all four chairs into his cabin.

“So, so,” the quintet said with irony, “and we’ll have to rehearse sitting on beds, while Nikolai Konstantinovich and his wife, Gusta, who has nothing to do with our collective, sit on the four chairs. Maybe we want our wives to come on the trip too!”

From the shore, the great schemer glared at the lottery steamboat.

A new burst of shouts reached the concessionaires’ ears.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!” a commission member shouted.

“How was I supposed to know he’d get sick?”

“This is outrageous! Then go to RABIS (Union of Art Workers) and demand that they urgently dispatch an artist to us.”

“Where am I going to go? It’s six o’clock now. RABIS has been closed for a long time. And the steamboat leaves in half an hour.”

“Then you’ll draw it yourself. Since you took responsibility for decorating the steamboat, you’ll have to figure it out however you can.”

Ostap was already running up the gangway, elbowing stevedores, young women, and simply curious onlookers. He was stopped at the entrance:

“Pass!”

“Comrade!” Bender roared. “You! You! The plump one! Who needs an artist!”

Five minutes later, the great schemer was sitting in the white cabin of the plump quartermaster of the floating lottery and negotiating the terms of employment.

“So, comrade,” the plump man said, “we will require the following from you: the execution of artistic posters, inscriptions, and the completion of a banner. Our artist started it and fell ill. We left him here in the hospital. Well, of course, general supervision of the artistic part. Can you take that on? And I warn you — there’s a lot of work.”

“Yes, I can take that on. I’ve had to do such work before.”

“And you can leave with us right away?”

“That will be a bit difficult, but I will try.”

A large and heavy burden fell from the quartermaster’s shoulders. Feeling a childlike lightness, the fat man looked at the new artist with a radiant gaze.

“Your terms?” Ostap asked boldly. “Bear in mind, I am not an undertaker’s office.”

“The terms are piecework. According to RABIS rates.”

Ostap winced, which cost him great effort.

“But, in addition, free board,” the plump man hastily added, “and a separate cabin.”

“Well, alright,” Ostap said with a sigh, “I agree. But I also have a boy, an assistant, with me.”

“About the boy, I don’t know. No credit has been allocated for the boy. At your own expense — please. Let him live in your cabin.”

“Well, have it your way. My boy is nimble. He’s used to Spartan conditions.”

Ostap received passes for himself and the nimble boy, put the cabin key in his pocket, and stepped onto the hot deck. He felt considerable satisfaction at the touch of the key. It was the first time in his turbulent life. He had a key and an apartment. Only money was lacking. But it was right there, nearby, in the chairs. The great schemer, with his hands in his pockets, walked along the side, not noticing Vorobyaninov left on the shore.

Ippolit Matveyevich at first made silent gestures, and then even dared to squeak. But Bender was deaf. Turning his back to the concession chairman, he carefully watched the procedure of lowering the hydraulic press into the hold.

The final preparations for departure were being made. Agafya Tikhonovna, also known as Mura, tapping her feet, ran from her cabin to the stern, looked into the water, loudly shared her delights with the virtuoso balalaika player, and by all this caused confusion among the esteemed figures of the lottery enterprise.

The steamboat gave its second whistle. From the terrible sounds, the clouds shifted. The sun turned crimson and plunged below the horizon. In the upper city, lamps and streetlights lit up. From the market in Pochayevsky Ravine came the rasping sounds of gramophones, competing before the last buyers. Stunned and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich was shouting something, but he couldn’t be heard. The clanking of the winch drowned out all other sounds.

Ostap Bender loved effects. Only before the third whistle, when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he was abandoned to his fate, Ostap noticed him:

“Why are you standing there, like someone betrothed? I thought you were already on the steamboat long ago. They’re removing the gangway now! Run quickly! Let this citizen through! Here’s the pass.”

Ippolit Matveyevich, almost crying, ran onto the steamboat.

“Is this your boy?” the quartermaster asked suspiciously.

“A boy,” Ostap said, “is he bad? Whoever says it’s a girl, let him be the first to cast a stone at me!”

The fat man grimly walked away.

“Well, Kitty,” Ostap remarked, “we’ll have to get to work in the morning. I hope you can mix paints. And then this: I am an artist, a graduate of VKHUTEMAS (Higher Art and Technical Studios), and you are my assistant. If you think that’s not the case, then quickly run back to shore.”

Black and green foam burst from under the stern. The steamboat shuddered, brass cymbals clashed, flutes, cornets, trombones, and basses blared a wonderful march, and the city, turning and balancing, moved to the left bank. Continuing to tremble, the steamboat settled with the current and quickly sped into the darkness. Behind them, stars, lamps, and colorful port signs swayed. A minute later, the steamboat had moved so far that the city lights appeared like frozen rocket powder.

The murmur of working “Underwoods” could still be heard, but nature and the Volga took over. A languor enveloped everyone on the steamboat “Skryabin.” Members of the lottery commission sipped their tea languidly. At the first meeting of the local committee, taking place at the bow, tenderness reigned. The warm evening breathed so loudly, the water lapped so softly against the sides, the dark outlines of the banks flew past the sides of the steamboat so quickly, that the chairman of the local committee, a thoroughly positive man, opening his mouth to deliver a speech about working conditions in an unusual environment, unexpectedly for everyone and for himself, began to sing:

 

The steamboat floated on the Volga,

Volga, mother river…

 

And the rest of the stern participants of the meeting rumbled the chorus:

 

Li-lac blooms…

 

The resolution on the local committee chairman’s report was never written. Sounds of a piano drifted. The head of musical accompaniment, Kh. Ivanov, drew the most lyrical notes from the instrument. The virtuoso balalaika player shuffled behind Murochka and, finding no words of his own to express his love, mumbled the words of a romance:

“Don’t leave! Your kisses are fiery, I am not yet weary of your passionate caress. In the mountain gorges the clouds have not awakened, the pearl star has not dimmed the horizon…”

Simbiyevich-Sindyevich, clutching the railings, contemplated the celestial abyss. Compared to it, the material design of “The Marriage” seemed to him outrageous slovenliness. He looked with disgust at his hands, which had taken an ardent part in the material design of the classical comedy.

At the moment of greatest languor, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin, and Zalkind, positioned at the stern, struck their pharmacy and beer instruments. They were rehearsing. The mirage dissipated at once. Agafya Tikhonovna yawned and, ignoring the virtuoso sighing, went to sleep. In the souls of the local committee members, the general contract resonated again, and they set to work on the resolution. Simbiyevich-Sindyevich, after mature reflection, came to the conclusion that the design of “The Marriage” was not so bad after all. An irritated voice from the darkness called Georgette Tiraspolsky to a meeting with the director. Dogs barked in the villages. It grew fresh.

In the first-class cabin, Ostap, lying on a leather sofa and thoughtfully looking at a cork belt covered with green canvas, questioned Ippolit Matveyevich:

“Can you draw? That’s a shame. Unfortunately, I can’t either.”

He thought for a moment and continued:

“And can you do letters? You can’t either? That’s not good at all! After all, we’re artists! Well, we can stall for a couple of days, and then we’ll be thrown off. In these two days, we must manage to do everything we need. The situation has become a bit more difficult. I found out that the chairs are in the director’s cabin. But even that isn’t so terrible in the end. The important thing is that we’re on the steamboat. Until we’re thrown off, all the chairs must be inspected. It’s too late tonight. The director is sleeping in his cabin.”

 

Chapter 32. An Unclean Pair

 

People were still sleeping, but the river was alive as if it were daytime. Rafts floated by — enormous fields of logs with huts built on them. A small, fierce tugboat, with its name “Lord of Storms” arched across its paddlebox, dragged three oil barges tied in a row. The swift mail boat “Red Latvia” sped past from below. The “Skryabin” overtook a dredging caravan and, measuring the depth with a striped pole, began to describe an arc, turning against the current.

On the steamboat, people began to wake up. A heavy weight with a twine attached flew onto the “Barmino” pier. With this line, the pier attendants pulled the thick end of the mooring rope towards them. The screws began to spin in reverse. Half the river was covered with churning foam. The “Skryabin” trembled from the sharp blows of the screw and docked alongside the pier. It was still early. Therefore, the lottery drawing was scheduled to begin at ten o’clock.

Service on the “Skryabin” began, as if on land, promptly at nine. No one changed their habits. Those who were late for work on land were late here too, even though they slept in the establishment itself. The expeditionary staff of the People’s Commissariat of Finance quickly adapted to the new routine. Couriers swept cabins with the same indifference with which they swept offices in Moscow. Cleaners delivered tea, ran with papers from the registry to the personal desk, not at all surprised that the personal desk was located at the stern and the registry at the bow. From the mutual settlements cabin came the castanet sound of abacus beads and the grinding of an adding machine. Someone was being scolded in front of the captain’s cabin.

The great schemer, burning his bare feet on the upper deck, walked around a long, narrow strip of red calico, painting a slogan on it, the text of which he constantly checked against a piece of paper:

“All for the lottery! Every worker must have a state loan bond in his pocket.”

The great schemer tried very hard, but his lack of talent still showed. The inscription crept downwards, and the piece of calico seemed hopelessly spoiled. Then Ostap, with the help of Kitty the boy, turned the strip inside out and began to paint again. Now he was more careful. Before daubing the letters, he snapped two parallel lines with a chalked string and, quietly cursing the innocent Vorobyaninov, began to depict the words.

Ippolit Matveyevich conscientiously performed the duties of the boy. He ran downstairs for hot water, melted glue, sneezed as he poured paints into the bucket, and obligingly looked into the eyes of the demanding artist. The finished and dried slogan was carried downstairs by the concessionaires and attached to the side of the ship.

The plump man who had hired Ostap ran to the shore and watched the new artist’s work from there. The letters of the slogan were of varying thickness and somewhat slanted. There was no other option, however — they had to be content with this.

The brass band disembarked and began to blare exhilarating marches. At the sound of the music, children from all over Barmino rushed over, and behind them, men and women moved from the apple orchards. The orchestra thundered until the members of the lottery commission disembarked. A meeting began. From the porch of Korobkov’s tea house, the first sounds of a report on the international situation poured forth.

The Columbus company stared at the gathering from the steamboat. From there, one could see the white headscarves of the women, standing cautiously away from the porch, the motionless crowd of men listening to the orator, and the orator himself, occasionally waving his arms. Then the music played. The orchestra turned and, without ceasing to play, moved towards the gangway. The crowd surged after it.

The lottery apparatus methodically ejected combinations of numbers. Wheels spun, numbers were announced, and the Barmino residents watched and listened.

Ostap ran over for a minute, made sure that all the inhabitants of the steamboat were in the lottery hall, and then ran back to the deck.

“Vorobyaninov,” he whispered, “I have an urgent artistic matter for you. Stand at the exit of the first-class corridor and wait. If anyone approaches — sing louder.” The old man was taken aback.

“What should I sing?”

“Certainly not ‘God Save the Tsar!’ Something passionate: ‘Yablochko’ or ‘Heart of a Beauty.’ But I warn you, if you don’t start your aria on time!… This is not an Experimental Theater! I’ll tear your head off.”

The great schemer, slapping his bare heels, ran into the corridor, paneled with cherry wood. For a second, a large mirror at the end of the corridor reflected his figure. He read the plate on the door:

 

NIK. SESTRIN

DIRECTOR OF THE COLUMBUS THEATER

 

The mirror cleared. Then the great schemer reappeared in it. In his hand he held a chair with bent legs. He rushed down the corridor, went out onto the deck, and, exchanging glances with Ippolit Matveyevich, carried the chair up to the helmsman’s cabin. There was no one in the glass cabin. Ostap carried the chair to the stern and said instructively:

“The chair will stay here until night. I have thought everything through. Almost no one comes here except us. Let’s cover the chair with posters, and when it gets dark, we can calmly examine its contents.”

A minute later, the chair, piled with plywood sheets and red calico, was no longer visible.

Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized by gold fever.

“Why don’t we take it to our cabin?” he asked impatiently. “We could open it right now, and if we found diamonds, we’d go ashore immediately…”

“And if we didn’t? Then what? What would we do with it? Or perhaps take it back to Citizen Sestrin and politely say: ‘Excuse us, we stole your chair, but unfortunately, we found nothing in it, so please accept it back in a somewhat damaged condition!’ Is that what you would do?”

The great schemer was right, as always. Ippolit Matveyevich recovered from his embarrassment only at the moment when the sounds of an overture, performed on Esmarch’s irrigators and beer batteries, soared from the deck.

The lottery operations for the day were finished. The spectators were seated on the shore slopes and, against all expectations, noisily expressed their approval of the pharmacy-Negro ensemble. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin, and Zalkind looked on proudly, as if saying: “See! And you claimed that the broad masses wouldn’t understand. Art always gets through!” Then, on the improvised stage, a light vaudeville with singing and dancing was performed by the Columbus company, its content boiling down to how Vavila won fifty thousand rubles and what came of it. The artists, having cast off the shackles of Niksestrin’s constructivism, played cheerfully, danced energetically, and sang with sweet voices. The shore was quite satisfied.

The second act featured the balalaika virtuoso. The shore was covered with smiles.

“Mistress, mistress,” the virtuoso worked, “madam-mistress.”

The balalaika moved. It flew behind the artist’s back, and from behind came: “If the master has a chain, then the master has no watch!” It soared into the air and, in its short flight, released many of the most difficult variations.

It was Georgette Tiraspolsky’s turn. She led out a small herd of girls in sarafans. The concert ended with Russian dances.

While the “Skryabin” prepared for further sailing, while the captain spoke into the tube with the engine room and the steamboat furnaces blazed, heating the water, the brass band again disembarked and, to general amusement, began to play dances. Picturesque groups, full of movement, formed. The setting sun cast a soft apricot light. It was the ideal hour for filming. And indeed, the cameraman Polkan, yawning, emerged from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had already grown accustomed to the role of the general boy, carefully carried the camera behind Polkan. Polkan approached the side of the ship and gazed at the shore. There, on the grass, they danced a soldier’s polka. The boys stomped their bare feet with such force as if they wanted to split our planet. The girls swayed. Spectators were seated on the terraces and slopes of the shore. A French cameraman from the “Avant-garde” group would have found three days’ worth of work here. But Polkan, glancing at the shore with his rat-like eyes, immediately turned away, trotted up to the commission chairman, positioned him against a white wall, thrust a book into his hand, and, asking him not to move, smoothly cranked the camera for a long time. Then he led the embarrassed chairman to the stern and filmed him against the sunset.

Having finished filming, Polkan importantly retired to his cabin and locked himself in. Again the whistle roared, and again the sun fled in fright. The second night fell. The steamboat was ready to depart.

Ostap thought with dread about tomorrow morning. He had to cut a figure of a sower scattering bonds out of a cardboard sheet. This artistic feat was beyond the great schemer. If Ostap somehow managed with letters, he had no resources left for a pictorial representation of the sower.

“So keep in mind,” the fat man warned, “we start evening lotteries from Vasyuki, and we absolutely cannot do without a banner.”

“Please, don’t worry,” Ostap declared, hoping not so much for tomorrow morning but for this evening, “the banner will be ready.”

A starry, windy night fell. The inhabitants of the lottery ark fell asleep.

Lions from the lottery commission slept. Lambs from the personal desk slept, goats from accounting, rabbits from the mutual settlements department, hyenas and jackals of sound design, and doves from the typing bureau.

Only one unclean pair did not sleep. The great schemer left his cabin shortly after midnight. He was followed by the silent shadow of the faithful Kitty. They ascended to the upper deck and silently approached the chair, covered with plywood sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap set the chair on its legs, clenched his jaws, ripped open the upholstery with pliers, and put his hand under the seat.

The wind swept across the upper deck. In the sky, the stars gently stirred. Beneath their feet, deep below, black water lapped. The shores were out of sight. Ippolit Matveyevich trembled.

“Got it!” Ostap said in a muffled voice.

 

LETTER FROM FATHER FYODOR,

written by him in Baku, from the furnished rooms “Cost” to his wife in the provincial town of N

 

My dear and priceless Katya! With every hour we approach our happiness. I am writing to you from the furnished rooms “Cost” after having attended to all my affairs. The city of Baku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you have to go there by electric train, and I have no money. The picturesque city is washed by the Caspian Sea. It is indeed very large. The heat here is terrible. I carry my coat on one arm, my jacket on the other — and it’s still hot. My arms are sweating. I keep treating myself to tea. And there’s almost no money. But it’s no matter, my dear, Katerina Alexandrovna, soon we will have money in abundance. We will visit everywhere, and then settle down nicely in Samara, near our factory, and drink our liqueurs. However, to the point.

By its geographical location and population, the city of Baku significantly exceeds the city of Rostov. However, it is inferior to the city of Kharkov in terms of its movement. There are many foreigners here. And especially many Armenians and Persians here. Here, my dear, it’s not far to Turkey. I was also at the bazaar, and I saw many Turkish things and shawls. I wanted to buy you a Muslim head covering as a gift, but I had no money. And I thought that when we get rich (and that day should be counted in days), then it will be possible to buy a Muslim head covering.

Oh, my dear, I forgot to write to you about two terrible incidents that happened to me in Baku: 1) I dropped your brother the baker’s jacket into the Caspian Sea, and 2) a one-humped camel spat on me at the bazaar. Both of these incidents extremely surprised me. Why do the authorities allow such outrage against passing passengers, especially since I did not touch the camel, but even pleased him by tickling his nostril with a twig! And the jacket was caught by everyone together, barely recovered, and it turned out to be completely covered in kerosene. I don’t know what I’ll tell your brother, the baker. You, my dear, keep your mouth shut for now. Is Evstigneyev still having dinner?

I re-read the letter and saw that I didn’t manage to tell you anything about the matter. Engineer Bruns indeed works at Azneft. Only he is not in Baku right now. He went on vacation to the city of Batum. His family has a permanent residence in Batum. I spoke with people here, and they say that Bruns indeed has all his furniture in Batum. He lives there in a dacha, on Zelyony Mys (Green Cape) — there is such a dacha place there (expensive, they say). The journey from here to Batum is 15 rubles and some kopecks. Send twenty here by telegram, I will telegraph everything to you from Batum. Spread rumors in the city that I am still at my aunt’s bedside in Voronezh. Your eternally devoted husband, Fedya.

Postscript: While taking the letter to the mailbox, your brother the baker’s coat was stolen from me in the “Cost” rooms. I am so distraught! It’s good that it’s summer now! Don’t tell your brother anything.

 

Chapter 33. Expulsion from Paradise

 

Meanwhile, while some of the novel’s characters were convinced that time was on their side, and others believed that time waited for no one, time went on its usual course. A dusty June followed a dusty May in Moscow. In the provincial town of N, State Car No. 1, damaged on a bump, had stood for two weeks at the corner of Staropanskaya Square and Comrade Gubernsky Street, periodically engulfing the surroundings in desperate smoke. From the Stargorod DOPr (Department of Political Rights), the embarrassed participants of the “Sword and Plowshare” conspiracy emerged one by one — they had signed a pledge not to leave the town. The widow Gritsatsuyeva (a sultry woman, a poet’s dream) returned to her grocery business and was fined fifteen rubles for not displaying a price list for soap, pepper, bluing, and other small goods in a prominent place — a forgetfulness excusable for a woman with a big heart!

“Got it!” Ostap repeated in a choked voice. “Hold this!”

Ippolit Matveyevich took the flat wooden box into his trembling hands. Ostap continued to rummage in the chair in the dark. A coastal beacon flashed. A golden column lay on the water and floated after the steamboat.

“What the devil!” Ostap exclaimed. “There’s nothing else!”

“C-c-can’t be,” Ippolit Matveyevich stammered.

“Well, you look too!”

Vorobyaninov, holding his breath, fell to his knees and plunged his hand up to his elbow under the seat. Between his fingers, he felt the base of a spring. There was nothing else solid. A dry, disgusting smell of disturbed dust emanated from the chair.

“Nothing?” Ostap asked.

“Nothing.”

Then Ostap lifted the chair and threw it far overboard. A heavy splash was heard. Shivering from the night dampness, the concessionaires returned to their cabin in doubt.

“So,” Bender said. “At least we found something.”

Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and stared at it blankly.

“Come on, come on! Why are you gawking!”

The box was opened. At the bottom lay a tarnished copper plate with the inscription:

 

WITH THIS ARMCHAIR MASTER GAMBS

begins a new set of furniture. 1865 St. Petersburg

 

Ostap read the inscription aloud.

“And where are the diamonds?” Ippolit Matveyevich asked.

“You’re remarkably perceptive, my dear stool-hunter! As you can see, there are no diamonds.”

Vorobyaninov was a pitiful sight. His slightly overgrown mustache twitched, the lenses of his pince-nez were foggy. He seemed to be slapping his cheeks with his ears in despair.

The great schemer’s cold, rational voice had its usual magical effect. Vorobyaninov straightened his arms along his worn seams and fell silent.

“Be quiet, sadness, be quiet, Kitty! Someday we’ll laugh at the foolish eighth chair, in which a stupid little plate was found. Hang in there. There are still three chairs — ninety-nine chances out of a hundred!” Overnight, a volcanic pimple erupted on Ippolit Matveyevich’s cheek, which was extremely distressed. All the suffering, all the failures, all the agony of the diamond chase — all of it seemed to have migrated into the pimple, now glowing with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry, and bluing.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Ostap asked. Ippolit Matveyevich convulsively sighed and, tall and slightly bent like a fishing rod, went for the paints. The creation of the banner began. The concessionaires toiled on the upper deck. And the third day of sailing began. It started with a brief skirmish between the brass band and the sound design team over rehearsal space.

After breakfast, from two sides simultaneously, hulking men with brass instruments and skinny knights of Esmarch’s irrigators headed for the stern. Galkin was the first to manage to sit on the stern bench. A clarinet from the brass band ran up second.

“Place taken,” Galkin said gruffly.

“By whom taken?” the clarinet asked ominously.

“By me, Galkin.”

“And by whom else?”

“Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin, and Zalkind.”

“And you don’t have Yelkin? This is our spot.”

Reinforcements approached from both sides. The helicon, the most powerful instrument in the orchestra, stood, thrice belted by a copper Gorynych serpent. A horn, resembling an ear, swayed. Trombones stood at full battle readiness. The sun reflected a thousand times in their battle armor. The sound design team looked dark and small. Bottle glass twinkled there, enema bags glowed faintly, and the saxophone — an outrageous parody of a wind instrument, a seminal extract of a real wind pipe — was pitiful and resembled a nose warmer.

“The enema battalion,” said the taunting clarinet, “claims the spot.”

“You,” Zalkind said, trying to find the most offensive expression, “you are music conservatives!”

“Don’t disturb our rehearsal!”

“Are you disturbing us? The less you rehearse on your chamber pots, the more beautiful it sounds.”

“And on your samovars, rehearse or don’t rehearse, nothing will come of it.”

Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained in place and stubbornly played their own music. Sounds rushed down the river that only a tram slowly crawling over broken glass could make. The wind players performed the march of the Keksgolm Life Guards Regiment, and the sound design team performed a Negro dance: “Antelope at the Source of the Zambezi.” The scandal was stopped by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lottery commission.

At eleven o’clock, the great work was completed. Backing up, Ostap and Vorobyaninov dragged the banner to the captain’s bridge. In front of them, with arms raised to the stars, ran the plump quartermaster. By joint efforts, the banner was tied to the railings. It loomed over the passenger deck like a screen. In half an hour, the electrician ran wires to the back of the banner and fitted three light bulbs inside it. All that remained was to flip the switch.

Ahead, to the right of the bow, the lights of the city of Vasyuki were already visible.

To celebrate the illumination of the banner, the quartermaster gathered all the inhabitants of the steamboat. Ippolit Matveyevich and the great schemer looked down at the assembled crowd; they stood on either side of the still dark tablet.

Every event on the steamboat was taken to heart by the floating institution. Typists, couriers, responsible workers, Columbus players, and the steamboat crew gathered, craning their necks, on the passenger deck.

“Go!” the plump man commanded.

The banner lit up.

Ostap looked down at the crowd. A pink light fell on their faces.

The spectators laughed. Then silence fell. And a stern voice from below said:

“Where’s the quartermaster?”

The voice was so authoritative that the quartermaster, without counting the steps, rushed down.

“Look,” the voice said, “admire your work!”

“They’ll kick us out now!” Ostap whispered to Ippolit Matveyevich.

And indeed, the plump man flew onto the upper deck like a hawk.

“Well, how’s the banner?” Ostap asked impudently. “Does it get the message across?”

“Pack your bags!” the quartermaster shouted.

“What’s the rush?”

“P-a-ack your bags! Out! You’ll go to court! Our boss doesn’t like jokes!”

“Chase him away!” the authoritative voice from below echoed.

“No, seriously, you don’t like the banner? Is it, really, an unimpressive banner?”

There was no point in continuing the charade. The “Skryabin” had already docked at Vasyuki, and from the steamboat, one could see the stunned faces of the Vasyukians, who had gathered at the pier.

Money was flatly refused. They were given five minutes to pack.

“Son of a bitch,” Simbiyevich-Sindyevich said as the companions disembarked onto the pier. “If they had entrusted the banner’s design to me, I would have done it so well that Meyerhold himself couldn’t have kept up with me.”

On the pier, the concessionaires stopped and looked up. In the black sky, the banner glowed.

“Hmm,” Ostap said, “the banner is quite wild. A miserable execution.”

A drawing made by the tail of an unruly mule would have seemed a museum piece compared to Ostap’s banner. Instead of a sower scattering bonds, Ostap’s mischievous hand had depicted a sort of stump with a sugar head and thin whips instead of arms.

Behind the concessionaires, the steamboat blazed with light and thundered with music, while ahead, on the high bank, was the gloom of a provincial midnight, dog barking, and a distant accordion.

“Let’s summarize the situation,” Ostap said cheerfully. “Passive: not a penny of money, three chairs going downriver, nowhere to spend the night, and not a single children’s commission badge. Active: a 1926 edition Volga guide (had to borrow it from Monsieur Simbiyevich in his cabin). It’s very difficult to achieve a deficit-free balance. We’ll have to spend the night on the pier.”

The concessionaires settled on the pier benches.

By the light of a shabby kerosene lamp, Ostap read from the guide:

“On the high right bank is the city of Vasyuki. From here, timber, tar, bast, bast matting are shipped, and consumer goods are brought here for the region, which is 50 kilometers from the railway. The city has 8,000 inhabitants, a state cardboard factory with 320 workers, a small iron foundry, breweries, and tanneries. Among educational institutions, besides general education schools, there is a forest technical school.”

“The situation is much more serious than I supposed,” Ostap said. “Extorting money from the Vasyukians seems to me an insoluble problem for now. And we need at least thirty rubles. First, we need to eat, and second, to overtake the lottery tub and meet the Columbus company on land, in Stalingrad.”

Ippolit Matveyevich curled up like an old, skinny cat after a skirmish with a young rival — a fiery owner of roofs, attics, and dormer windows.

Ostap strolled along the benches, pondering and combining. By one in the morning, a magnificent plan was ready. Bender lay down next to his companion and fell asleep.

 

Chapter 34. The Interplanetary Chess Congress

 

In the morning, a tall, thin old man in golden pince-nez and short, very dirty, paint-stained boots walked around Vasyuki. He was pasting handwritten posters on the walls:

 

June 22, 1927. At the “Kartonazhnik” club premises, a lecture will be held on the topic:

“A FRUITFUL OPENING IDEA” AND A SIMULTANEOUS CHESS EXHIBITION ON 160 BOARDS

by Grandmaster (Senior Master) O. Bender

Everyone brings their own boards. Entry fee for playing: 50 kopecks. Entry fee for spectators: 20 kopecks. Starts promptly at 6 p.m. Administration: K. Michelson.

 

The grandmaster himself also wasted no time. Having rented the club for three rubles, he moved to the chess section, which for some reason was located in the corridor of the horse-breeding management.

In the chess section sat a one-eyed man reading a novel by Spielhagen in Panteleyev’s edition.

“Grandmaster O. Bender!” Ostap declared, sitting on the table. “I’m holding a simultaneous exhibition here.”

The single eye of the Vasyuki chess player widened to its natural limits.

“Just a moment, Comrade Grandmaster!” the one-eyed man cried. “Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”

And the one-eyed man ran off. Ostap surveyed the chess section’s room. On the walls hung photographs of racehorses, and on the table lay a dusty ledger titled: “Achievements of the Vasyuki Chess Section for 1925.”

The one-eyed man returned with a dozen citizens of various ages. They all approached in turn to introduce themselves, stated their names, and respectfully shook the grandmaster’s hand.

“Just passing through Kazan,” Ostap said curtly. “Yes, yes, the exhibition is tonight, come. But now, forgive me, I’m not in form: tired after the Carlsbad tournament.”

The Vasyuki chess players listened to Ostap with filial love. Ostap was carried away. He felt a surge of new energy and chess ideas.

“You wouldn’t believe,” he said, “how far chess thought has advanced. You know, Lasker has stooped to vulgar things; it’s impossible to play with him anymore. He smokes out his opponents with cigars. And he deliberately smokes cheap ones, so the smoke is more disgusting.” The chess world was in turmoil. The grandmaster moved on to local topics.

“Why is there no intellectual play in the provinces? For example, your chess section. It’s just called: chess section. Boring, girls! Why don’t you, really, give it a beautiful, truly chess-like name? That would attract the general public to the section. You could call your section, for example: ‘The Chess Club of Four Knights,’ or ‘Red Endgame,’ or ‘Loss of Quality with Gain of Tempo.’ That would be good! Resonant!” The idea was a success.

“Indeed,” said the Vasyukians, “why not rename our section to ‘The Chess Club of Four Knights’?”

Since the bureau of the chess section was right there, Ostap organized a brief meeting under his honorary chairmanship, at which the section was unanimously renamed “The Chess Club of Four Knights.” The grandmaster, personally using the lessons from the “Skryabin,” artistically executed a sign on a piece of cardboard with four knights and the corresponding inscription.

This important undertaking promised a flourishing of chess thought in Vasyuki.

“Chess!” Ostap declared. “Do you know what chess is? It advances not only culture but also the economy! Do you know that your ‘Chess Club of Four Knights,’ if properly managed, can completely transform the city of Vasyuki?”

Ostap hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. Therefore, his eloquence was extraordinary.

“Yes!” he shouted. “Chess enriches the country! If you agree to my project, you will descend from the city to the pier by marble staircases! Vasyuki will become the center of ten provinces! What have you heard about the city of Semmering before? Nothing! But now this little town is rich and famous only because an international tournament was organized there. That’s why I say: an international chess tournament must be held in Vasyuki.”

“How?” everyone cried.

“A perfectly realistic thing,” the grandmaster replied, “my personal connections and your initiative  —  that’s all that’s necessary and sufficient to organize an international Vasyuki tournament. Think how beautiful it will sound: ‘The 1927 International Vasyuki Tournament.’ The arrival of José Raúl Capablanca, Emanuel Lasker, Alekhine, Nimzowitsch, Reti, Rubinstein, Maroczy, Tarrasch, Vidmar, and Dr. Grigoriev is guaranteed. In addition, my participation is also guaranteed!”

“But the money!” groaned the Vasyukians. “They all need to be paid money! Many thousands of rubles! Where can we get it?”

“Everything is taken into account by the mighty hurricane,” said O. Bender, “the entrance fees will provide the money.”

“Who here will pay such insane money? The Vasyukians…”

“What Vasyukians! The Vasyukians won’t pay money. They’ll receive it! It’s all incredibly simple. Chess enthusiasts from all over the world will flock to a tournament with such great masters. Hundreds of thousands of well-to-do people will strive to come to Vasyuki. First, river transport won’t be able to handle such a number of passengers. Therefore, the People’s Commissariat of Railways will build a Moscow-Vasyuki railway line. That’s one. Two is hotels and skyscrapers to accommodate guests. Three is the uplift of agriculture within a thousand-kilometer radius: guests need to be supplied — vegetables, fruits, caviar, chocolates. The palace where the tournament will take place — four. Five — the construction of garages for guest automobiles. To transmit the sensational results of the tournament to the whole world, a super-powerful radio station will have to be built. That’s six. Now, regarding the Moscow-Vasyuki railway line. Undoubtedly, it won’t have enough capacity to transport everyone who wants to come to Vasyuki. Hence, the ‘Greater Vasyuki’ airport — regular departures of mail planes and dirigibles to all corners of the world, including Los Angeles and Melbourne.”

Dazzling prospects unfolded before the Vasyuki enthusiasts. The limits of the room expanded. The rotting walls of the horse-breeding nest collapsed, and in their place, a thirty-three-story glass palace of chess thought rose into the blue sky. In every hall, in every room, and even in the bullet-like elevators, thoughtful people sat and played chess on malachite-inlaid boards…

Marble staircases descended into the blue Volga. Ocean liners stood on the river. Portly foreigners, chess ladies, Australian fans of the Indian Defense, Hindus in white turbans, adherents of the Spanish Game, Germans, French, New Zealanders, inhabitants of the Amazon River basin, and Muscovites, Leningraders, Kievans, Siberians, and Odessans — all envious of the Vasyukians — ascended to the city by funicular.

Cars moved in a continuous stream among the marble hotels. But then — everything stopped. From the fashionable “Passed Pawn” hotel emerged world champion José Raúl Capablanca y Graupera. He was surrounded by ladies. A militiaman, dressed in a special chess uniform (plaid breeches and elephants on his lapels), politely saluted. The one-eyed chairman of the Vasyuki “Club of Four Knights” approached the champion with dignity.

The conversation between the two luminaries, conducted in English, was interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Grigoriev and future world champion Alekhine.

Cheers of welcome shook the city. José Raúl Capablanca y Graupera winced. At a wave of the one-eyed man’s hand, a marble staircase was brought to the airplane. Dr. Grigoriev ran down it, waving his new hat in greeting and commenting on the fly about Capablanca’s possible mistake in his upcoming match with Alekhine.

Suddenly, a black dot was spotted on the horizon. It rapidly approached and grew, transforming into a large emerald parachute. Like a large radish, a man with a small suitcase hung from the parachute ring.

“It’s him!” the one-eyed man shouted. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! I recognize the great chess philosopher, Dr. Lasker. Only he in the whole world wears such green socks.”

José Raúl Capablanca y Graupera winced again.

A marble staircase was quickly set up for Lasker, and the sprightly ex-champion, blowing off a speck of dust that had settled on his left sleeve during the flight over Silesia, fell into the one-eyed man’s embrace. The one-eyed man took Lasker by the waist, led him to the champion, and said:

“Make up! I beg you on behalf of the broad masses of Vasyuki! Make up!”

José Raúl sighed loudly and, shaking the old veteran’s hand, said:

“I have always admired your idea of moving the bishop in the Spanish Game from b5 to c4.”

“Hurrah!” exclaimed the one-eyed man. “Simple and convincing, in the champion’s style!” And the entire unimaginable crowd picked up the chant:

“Hurrah! Vivat! Banzai! Simple and convincing, in the champion’s style!!!”

Express trains pulled up to the twelve Vasyuki railway stations, disgorging ever new crowds of chess enthusiasts.

The sky was already ablaze with luminous advertisements when a white horse was led through the city streets. It was the only horse that had survived the mechanization of Vasyuki’s transport. By special decree, it had been renamed a knight, although it had been considered a mare its entire life. Chess admirers greeted it, waving palm branches and chessboards.

“Don’t worry,” Ostap said, “my project guarantees your city an unprecedented flourishing of productive forces. Think about what will happen when the tournament ends and all the guests leave. Moscow residents, constrained by the housing crisis, will rush to your magnificent city. The capital will automatically move to Vasyuki. The government will come here. Vasyuki will be renamed New Moscow, Moscow — Old Vasyuki. Leningraders and Kharkovites will gnash their teeth, but there’s nothing they can do. New Moscow will become the most elegant center of Europe, and soon, of the entire world.”

“The entire world!!!” groaned the stunned Vasyukians.

“Yes! And subsequently, the entire universe. Chess thought, having transformed a provincial town into the capital of the globe, will turn into an applied science and invent methods of interplanetary communication. Signals will fly from Vasyuki to Mars, Jupiter, and Neptune. Communication with Venus will become as easy as traveling from Rybinsk to Yaroslavl. And then, who knows, perhaps in eight years, Vasyuki will host the first interplanetary chess congress in the history of the universe!”

Ostap wiped his noble brow. He was so hungry that he would gladly have eaten a roasted chess knight.

“Y-yes,” the one-eyed man squeezed out, sweeping the dusty room with a crazed gaze. “But how do we practically implement the event, so to speak, lay the foundation?”

Those present watched the grandmaster intently.

“I repeat, practically, the matter depends only on your initiative. I take all the organization upon myself, I repeat. There are no material costs, apart from telegram expenses.”

The one-eyed man nudged his comrades.

“Well!” he asked. “What do you say?”

“We’ll do it! We’ll do it!” the Vasyukians chattered.

“How much money is needed for these… telegrams?”

“A ridiculous sum,” Ostap said, “one hundred rubles.”

“We only have twenty-one rubles and sixteen kopecks in the cash register. This, of course, we understand, is far from enough…”

But the grandmaster proved to be an accommodating organizer.

“Alright,” he said, “give me your twenty rubles.”

“Will that be enough?” the one-eyed man asked.

“Enough for the initial telegrams. And then donations will start pouring in, and you won’t know what to do with the money.”

Having tucked the money into his green travel jacket, the grandmaster reminded the gathered audience about his lecture and simultaneous exhibition on 160 boards, courteously bade them farewell until evening, and went to the “Kartonazhnik” club to meet Ippolit Matveyevich.

“I’m starving,” Vorobyaninov said in a crackling voice.

He was already sitting at the ticket window but hadn’t collected a single kopeck yet and couldn’t even buy a pound of bread. In front of him lay a wire green basket, intended for collection. Such baskets are used in middle-class homes for knives and forks.

“Listen, Vorobyaninov,” Ostap cried, “stop cash operations for an hour and a half! Let’s go eat at the public catering. On the way, I’ll outline the situation. By the way, you need to shave and clean up. You just look like a tramp. A grandmaster cannot have such suspicious acquaintances.”

“Haven’t sold a single ticket,” Ippolit Matveyevich reported.

“No matter. They’ll come running by evening. The city has already donated twenty rubles to me for organizing an international chess tournament.”

“Then why do we need a simultaneous exhibition?” the administrator whispered. “They might beat us. And with twenty rubles, we can immediately board the steamboat — the ‘Karl Liebknecht’ just arrived from upriver — and calmly go to Stalingrad and wait there for the theater’s arrival. Maybe we’ll manage to open the chairs there. Then we’ll be rich, and everything will belong to us.”

“One cannot say such foolish things on an empty stomach. It negatively affects the brain. For twenty rubles, we might make it to Stalingrad… But on what money will we eat? Vitamins, dear Comrade Leader, are not given to anyone for free. But from the expansive Vasyukians, we can extort about thirty rubles for the lecture and the exhibition.”

“They’ll beat us!” Vorobyaninov said bitterly.

“Of course, there’s a risk. They might bash our heads in. However, I have an idea that will keep you safe, at least. But more on that later. For now, let’s go taste the local dishes.”

By six o’clock in the evening, the well-fed, shaven, and cologne-scented grandmaster entered the “Kartonazhnik” club’s ticket office.

Well-fed and shaven, Vorobyaninov was briskly selling tickets.

“Well, how is it?” the grandmaster quietly asked.

“Thirty for entrance and twenty for playing,” the administrator replied.

“Sixteen rubles. Weak, weak!”

“What are you saying, Bender, look at the queue! They’ll inevitably beat us.”

“Don’t think about that. When they beat you, you’ll cry, but for now, don’t delay! Learn to sell!”

An hour later, there were thirty-five rubles in the cash register. The audience in the hall was agitated.

“Close the window! Give me the money!” Ostap said. “Now, listen. Here are five rubles for you; go to the pier, rent a boat for about two hours, and wait for me on the shore, below the barn. We’ll take an evening stroll together. Don’t worry about me. I’m in top form today.”

The grandmaster entered the hall. He felt invigorated and knew for certain that the first move e2-e4 would not lead to any complications. The remaining moves, however, were still completely shrouded in mist, but this did not bother the great schemer in the least. He had prepared a completely unexpected escape even for the most hopeless game.

The grandmaster was met with applause. The small club hall was decorated with colorful flags.

A week ago, an evening of the “Society for the Salvation on Waters” had taken place, as evidenced by a slogan on the wall:

 

THE CAUSE OF HELPING THE DROWNING IS THE WORK OF THE DROWNING THEMSELVES

 

Ostap bowed, extended his hands as if rejecting undeserved applause, and ascended the stage.

“Comrades!” he said in a beautiful voice. “Comrades and brothers in chess, the subject of my lecture today is what I lectured on, and I must admit, not without success, in Nizhny Novgorod a week ago. The subject of my lecture is a fruitful opening idea. What is an opening, comrades, and what is an idea, comrades? An opening, comrades, is ‘Quasi una fantasia.’ And what, comrades, does an idea mean? An idea, comrades, is human thought, clothed in a logical chess form. Even with insignificant forces, one can master the entire board. Everything depends on each individual. For example, that blond fellow in the third row over there. Let’s say he plays well…”

The blond in the third row blushed.

“And that brunette over there, let’s say, plays worse.”

Everyone turned and also examined the brunette.

“What do we see, comrades? We see that the blond plays well, and the brunette plays poorly. And no lectures will change this balance of power if each individual does not constantly train in checkers… I mean, in chess… And now, comrades, I will tell you a few instructive stories from the practice of our esteemed hypermodernists Capablanca, Lasker, and Dr. Grigoriev.”

Ostap told the audience several ancient anecdotes, gleaned from his childhood in the “Blue Journal,” and thus concluded the interlude.

Everyone was slightly surprised by the brevity of the lecture. And the one-eyed man kept his single eye fixed on the grandmaster’s footwear.

However, the simultaneous exhibition that began delayed the growing suspicion of the one-eyed chess player. Along with everyone else, he arranged the tables in a U-shape. A total of thirty amateurs sat down to play against the grandmaster. Many of them were completely flustered and constantly looked into chess textbooks, refreshing their memory of complex variations with which they hoped to surrender to the grandmaster at least after the twenty-second move.

Ostap’s gaze swept over the ranks of “blacks” that surrounded him from all sides, at the closed door, and he fearlessly set to work. He approached the one-eyed man, who was sitting at the first board, and moved the king’s pawn from square e2 to square e4.

The one-eyed man immediately grabbed his ears with his hands and began to think intensely. A rustle went through the rows of amateurs:

“The grandmaster played e2-e4.” Ostap did not spoil his opponents with a variety of openings. On the other twenty-nine boards, he performed the same operation: he moved the king’s pawn from e2 to e4. One by one, the amateurs clutched their hair and plunged into feverish deliberations. The non-players turned their gazes to the grandmaster. The city’s only photography enthusiast had already clambered onto a chair and was about to ignite the magnesium, but Ostap angrily waved his hands and, interrupting his movement along the boards, loudly shouted:

“Remove the photographer! He’s interfering with my chess thought!”

“Why leave my photo in this miserable little town. I don’t like dealing with the police,” he decided to himself.

The indignant shushing of the amateurs forced the photographer to abandon his attempt. The outrage was so great that the photographer was even expelled from the premises. On the third move, it became clear that the grandmaster was playing eighteen Spanish Games. In the remaining twelve, the black players employed the Philidor Defense, which, although outdated, was quite sound. If Ostap had known that he was playing such intricate games and encountering such a tried-and-true defense, he would have been extremely surprised. The fact was that the great schemer was playing chess for the second time in his life.

At first, the amateurs, and the one-eyed man first among them, were horrified. The grandmaster’s cunning was undeniable.

With extraordinary ease and undoubtedly sneering inwardly at the backward amateurs of Vasyuki, the grandmaster sacrificed pawns, heavy and light pieces right and left. He even sacrificed a queen to the brunette he had disparaged in the lecture. The brunette was horrified and wanted to immediately resign, but only by a tremendous effort of will forced himself to continue the game.

Thunder in a clear sky sounded five minutes later.

“Mate!” stammered the utterly terrified brunette. “You are mated, Comrade Grandmaster.”

Ostap analyzed the position, shamefully called the “queen” a “queen,” and pompously congratulated the brunette on his victory. A murmur ran through the ranks of the amateurs.

“Time to flee,” Ostap thought, calmly strolling among the tables and carelessly moving the pieces.

“You’ve placed the knight incorrectly, Comrade Grandmaster,” the one-eyed man fawned. “A knight doesn’t move like that.”

“Pardon, pardon, my apologies,” the grandmaster replied, “I’m a bit tired after the lecture.”

Within the next ten minutes, the grandmaster lost ten more games.

Surprised cries echoed in the “Kartonazhnik” club. A conflict was brewing. Ostap lost fifteen games in a row, and soon three more. Only the one-eyed man remained. At the beginning of the game, he had made many mistakes out of fear and was now struggling to bring the game to a victorious conclusion. Ostap, unnoticed by those around him, stole a black rook from the board and hid it in his pocket.

The crowd pressed tightly around the players.

“My rook was just here!” the one-eyed man cried, looking around. “And now it’s gone!”

“If it’s not there, then it wasn’t there!” Ostap replied rudely.

“How could it not be there? I remember clearly!”

“Of course, it wasn’t there!”

“Where did it go? Did you win it?”

“I won it.”

“When? On what move?”

“Why are you bothering me with your rook? If you’re resigning, just say so!”

“Excuse me, comrades, I have all the moves recorded!”

“The office is taking notes,” Ostap said.

“This is outrageous!” the one-eyed man roared. “Give me back my rook.”

“Surrender, surrender, what is this cat-and-mouse game!”

“Give me back the rook!”

With these words, the grandmaster, realizing that delay was akin to death, scooped up several pieces in his hand and hurled them at the head of the one-eyed opponent.

“Comrades!” the one-eyed man shrieked. “Look, everyone! An amateur is being beaten!”

The chess players of Vasyuki were stunned. Without losing precious time, Ostap hurled a chessboard at the lamp and, striking someone’s jaws and foreheads in the ensuing darkness, ran out into the street. The Vasyuki amateurs, falling over each other, rushed after him.

It was a moonlit evening. Ostap sped along the silver street as lightly as an angel, pushing off from the sinful earth. Due to Vasyuki’s failure to become the center of the universe, he had to run not among palaces, but among log houses with external shutters. Behind him rushed the chess enthusiasts.

“Hold the grandmaster!” the one-eyed man roared.

“Scoundrel!” the others supported.

“Dandies!” the grandmaster snapped back, increasing his speed.

“Help!” shouted the aggrieved chess players. Ostap leaped up the stairs leading to the pier. He had to run four hundred steps. On the sixth landing, two amateurs were already waiting for him, having made their way there by a roundabout path directly up the slope. Ostap looked back. From above, a dense group of enraged Philidor Defense fans rolled down like a pack of dogs. There was no retreat. So Ostap ran forward.

“I’ll get you now, you bastards!” he yelled at the brave scouts, lunging from the fifth landing.

The frightened scouts yelped, tumbled over the railing, and rolled off somewhere into the darkness of the hummocks and slopes. The path was clear.

“Hold the grandmaster!” rolled from above. The pursuers ran, clattering on the wooden staircase like falling bowling pins.

Having reached the shore, Ostap swerved to the right, searching with his eyes for the boat with his loyal administrator.

Ippolit Matveyevich sat idyllically in the small boat. Ostap flopped onto the bench and furiously began to row away from the shore. A minute later, stones flew into the boat. One of them struck Ippolit Matveyevich. A dark lump grew just above his volcanic pimple. Ippolit Matveyevich buried his head in his shoulders and whimpered.

“Oh, another one! They almost tore my head off, and I’m fine: cheerful and lively. And if you consider an additional fifty rubles of net profit, then for one bump on your head, that’s a pretty decent fee.”

Meanwhile, the pursuers, who had only just realized that the plan to transform Vasyuki into New Moscow had collapsed and that the grandmaster was taking fifty hard-earned Vasyuki rubles out of the city, boarded a large boat and, shouting, rowed to the middle of the river. About thirty people crammed into the boat. Everyone wanted to personally participate in the reprisal against the grandmaster. The expedition was commanded by the one-eyed man. His single eye shone in the night like a beacon.

“Hold the grandmaster!” they yelled from the overloaded barge.

“Move, Kitty!” Ostap said. “If they catch us, I can’t guarantee the safety of your pince-nez.”

Both boats moved downstream. The distance between them was shrinking. Ostap was exhausted.

“You won’t get away, you bastards!” they shouted from the barge. Ostap did not answer; there was no time. The oars ripped from the water. Water flew in streams from under the furiously churning oars and into the boat.

“Go for it,” Ostap whispered to himself. Ippolit Matveyevich suffered. The barge was triumphant. Its high hull was already overtaking the concessionaires’ small boat from the left, to pin the grandmaster to the shore. A lamentable fate awaited the concessionaires. The joy on the barge was so great that all the chess players moved to the starboard side, intending, upon catching up with the small boat, to fall upon the villainous grandmaster with overwhelming force.

“Guard your pince-nez, Kitty!” Ostap cried in despair, dropping the oars. “It’s about to begin!”

“Gentlemen!” Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly exclaimed in a reedy voice. “Are you really going to beat us?”

“You bet!” roared the Vasyuki amateurs, preparing to jump into the boat.

But at this moment, an extremely offensive incident occurred for honest chess players worldwide. The barge suddenly listed and scooped up water with its starboard side.

“Careful!” squeaked the one-eyed captain. But it was already too late. Too many amateurs had gathered on the starboard side of the Vasyuki dreadnought. Changing its center of gravity, the barge did not hesitate and, in full accordance with the laws of physics, capsized.

A general wail broke the tranquility of the river.

“Ooh-aah!” the chess players groaned drawn out. A full thirty amateurs found themselves in the water. They quickly surfaced and, one by one, clung to the overturned barge. The one-eyed man was the last to reach it.

“Dandies!” Ostap cried in delight. “Why aren’t you beating your grandmaster? If I’m not mistaken, you wanted to beat me?”

Ostap circled the shipwrecked.

“You understand, Vasyuki individuals, that I could drown each of you individually, but I grant you life. Live, citizens! Only, for goodness’ sake, don’t play chess! You simply don’t know how to play! Oh, you dandies, dandies… Let’s go, Ippolit Matveyevich, further. Farewell, one-eyed amateurs! I’m afraid Vasyuki will not become the center of the universe. I don’t think chess masters would come to fools like you, even if I asked them to. Farewell, lovers of strong chess sensations! Long live ‘The Chess Club of Four Knights’!”

 

Chapter 35. And Others

 

Morning found the concessionaires within sight of Cheboksary. Ostap dozed at the tiller. Ippolit Matveyevich drowsily dipped the oars into the water. Both shivered from the cold night. In the east, pink buds bloomed. Ippolit Matveyevich’s pince-nez grew brighter. Its oval lenses shimmered, alternately reflecting both banks. A semaphore from the left bank curved in the double-concave glass. The blue domes of Cheboksary floated like ships. The garden in the east grew larger. The buds turned into volcanoes and began to erupt lava of the finest confectionery colors. Birds on the left bank raised a loud and boisterous scandal. The golden bridge of the pince-nez flashed and blinded the grandmaster. The sun rose.

Ostap opened his eyes and stretched, tilting the boat and cracking his bones.

“Good morning, Kitty,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I’ve come to greet you, to tell you that the sun has risen, that its hot light trembled over something or other…”

“The pier,” Ippolit Matveyevich reported. Ostap pulled out the guidebook and consulted it.

“By all accounts, Cheboksary. So, so…”

“We draw your attention to the very beautifully situated city of Cheboksary…”

“Kitty, is it, really, beautifully situated?”

“Currently, Cheboksary has 7,702 inhabitants.”

“Kitty! Let’s abandon the diamond chase and increase Cheboksary’s population to seven thousand seven hundred and four people. Eh? That would be very effective… We’ll open a ‘Petit-Choux’ and from that ‘Petit-Choux’ we’ll earn a reliable grand-piece of bread… Well, next.”

“Founded in 1555, the city has preserved several very interesting churches. Besides the administrative institutions of the Chuvash Republic, it also has: a workers’ faculty, a party school, a pedagogical technical school, two secondary schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. At the Cheboksary pier and market, one can see Chuvash and Cheremis people, distinguished by their appearance…”

But even before the friends approached the pier, where Chuvash and Cheremis people could be seen, their attention was drawn to an object floating downstream ahead of the boat.

“A chair!” Ostap cried. “Administrator! Our chair is floating.”

The companions rowed towards the chair. It swayed, rotated, submerged, reappeared, drifting away from the concessionaires’ boat. Water freely poured into its torn belly.

It was the chair opened on the “Skryabin,” now slowly heading towards the Caspian Sea.

“Hello, buddy!” Ostap shouted. “Long time no see! You know, Vorobyaninov, this chair reminds me of our lives. We, too, are drifting downstream. We are sunk, we resurface, though it seems we don’t please anyone by doing so. No one likes us, except for the Criminal Investigation Department, and they don’t like us either. No one cares about us. If the chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, all that would remain of us would be a corpse examination report: ‘Both bodies lie with their feet to the southeast, and their heads to the northwest. The bodies have ragged wounds, apparently inflicted by some blunt instrument.’ The amateurs would have beaten us, obviously, with chessboards. The instrument, needless to say, is rather blunt… ‘The first corpse belongs to a man about fifty-five years old, dressed in a torn luster jacket, old trousers, and old boots. In his jacket pocket, an identity card in the name of Konrad Karlovich, citizen Michelson…’ That, Kitty, is what they would have written about you.”

“And what would they have written about you?” Vorobyaninov asked angrily.

“Oh! They would have written something completely different about me. They would have written this: ‘The second corpse belongs to a man twenty-seven years old. He loved and suffered. He loved money and suffered from its lack. His head, with a high forehead framed by raven-black curls, is turned towards the sun. His elegant feet, size forty-two shoes, are directed towards the aurora borealis. The body is clad in unsullied white robes, on his chest a golden harp inlaid with mother-of-pearl and the notes of a romance: “Farewell, New Village.” The deceased youth was engaged in wood burning, as evidenced by an identity card found in his frock coat pocket, issued on 23 VIII-24 by the handicraft artel “Pegasus and Parnassus” under No. 86/1562.’ And they will bury me, Kitty, splendidly, with an orchestra, with speeches, and on my monument will be carved: ‘Here lies the famous heat engineer and destroyer Ostap-Suleyman-Berta-Maria Bender-bey, whose father was a Turkish subject and died without leaving his son Ostap-Suleyman the slightest inheritance. The deceased’s mother was a countess and lived off unearned income.'”

Conversing in this manner, the concessionaires moored to the Cheboksary bank.

In the evening, having increased their capital by five rubles from the sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends boarded the steamboat “Uritsky” and sailed to Stalingrad, intending to overtake the slow lottery steamboat along the way and meet the Columbus troupe in Stalingrad.

The “Skryabin” arrived in Stalingrad at the beginning of July. The friends met it, hiding behind crates on the pier. Before unloading, a lottery drawing was held on the steamboat. Large prizes were drawn.

They had to wait about four hours for the chairs. First, the Columbus company members and lottery employees poured off the steamboat. Among them, Persitsky’s beaming face stood out.

Sitting in ambush, the concessionaires heard his cries:

“Yes! I’m going to Moscow right away! I’ve already sent the telegram! And do you know what it said? ‘Rejoicing with you.’ Let them guess!”

Then Persitsky got into a rented car, after thoroughly inspecting it and feeling the radiator, and “drove off, for some reason accompanied by cries of ‘hurrah!'”

After the hydraulic press was unloaded from the steamboat, the Columbus company’s stage props began to be carried out. The chairs were brought out after dark. The Columbus company members loaded themselves into five horse-drawn vans and, cheering merrily, rolled straight to the train station.

“It seems they won’t be playing in Stalingrad,” Ippolit Matveyevich said.

This puzzled Ostap.

“We’ll have to go,” he decided, “but with what money? Anyway, let’s go to the station, and we’ll see there.”

At the station, it turned out that the theater was going to Pyatigorsk via Tikhoretskaya-Mineralnye Vody. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.

“Do you know how to travel as a stowaway?” Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.

“I’ll try,” Ippolit Matveyevich said timidly.

“To hell with you! Better not try! I forgive you once more. Alright, I’ll be the stowaway.”

A ticket was bought for Ippolit Matveyevich in a hard-seat, non-reserved car, in which the former leader arrived at the “Mineralnye Vody” station of the North Caucasus Railways, lined with oleanders in green tubs, and trying to avoid the Columbus company members disembarking from the train, began to look for Ostap.

The theater had long since left for Pyatigorsk, settling into new dacha carriages, but Ostap was still nowhere to be found. He arrived only in the evening and found Vorobyaninov in complete disarray.

“Where have you been?” the leader moaned. “I was so exhausted!”

“You were exhausted, traveling with a ticket in your pocket? And I, then, wasn’t exhausted? So it wasn’t me who was kicked off the buffers of your train in Tikhoretskaya? So it wasn’t me who sat there for three hours like an idiot, waiting for a freight train with empty Narzan bottles? You’re a pig, Citizen Leader! Where’s the theater?”

“In Pyatigorsk.”

“Let’s go! I scraped together something on the way. The net income is three rubles. That’s not much, of course, but it’s enough for the first purchase of Narzan and train tickets.”

The dacha train, rattling like a cart, dragged the travelers to Pyatigorsk in fifty minutes. Past Zmeyka and Beshtau, the concessionaires arrived at the foot of Mashuk.

 

Chapter 36. View of the Malachite Puddle

 

It was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and washed. Even Mashuk, overgrown with bushes and groves, seemed thoroughly combed and exuded the scent of mountain vegetal.

White trousers of the most diverse kinds flitted across the toy-like platform: trousers made of sacking, devil’s leather, calamine, canvas, and soft flannel. Here, people walked in sandals and “apache” shirts. The concessionaires, in heavy, dirty boots, heavy dusty trousers, hot waistcoats, and scorching jackets, felt out of place. Among all the variety of cheerful chintz fabrics worn by the resort girls, the brightest and most elegant was the station master’s uniform.

To the surprise of all visitors, the station master was a woman. Red curls escaped from under her red cap with two silver braids on the band. She wore a white uniform tunic and a white skirt.

Having admired the station master, read the freshly posted announcement about the Columbus Theater’s performances in Pyatigorsk, and drunk two five-kopeck glasses of Narzan, the travelers entered the city by tram on the “Station – Tsvetnik” line. They paid ten kopecks to enter “Tsvetnik.”

In “Tsvetnik” there was a lot of music, many cheerful people, and very few flowers. The symphony orchestra performed “Dance of the Mosquitoes” in a white shell. Narzan was sold in the Lermontov Gallery. Narzan was sold at kiosks and by hawkers.

No one paid attention to the two dirty diamond seekers.

“Ah, Kitty,” Ostap said, “we are strangers at this celebration of life.”

The concessionaires spent their first night at the Narzan spring.

It was only here, in Pyatigorsk, when the Columbus Theater was performing its “Marriage” for the third time before the astonished townspeople, that the companions understood the full difficulty of their treasure hunt. Entering the theater, as they had previously assumed, was impossible. Behind the scenes, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin, and Zalkind slept, their meager diet not allowing them to live in a hotel.

Thus, days passed, and the friends were exhausted, spending nights at the site of Lermontov’s duel and earning a living by carrying luggage for middle-class tourists.

On the sixth day, Ostap managed to make the acquaintance of fitter Mechnikov, who was in charge of the hydraulic press. By this time, Mechnikov, due to lack of money, daily sobered up with Narzan from the spring and was in a terrible state; Ostap observed him selling some theatrical props in the market. The final agreement was reached during the morning libation at the spring. Fitter Mechnikov called Ostap “Dusia” (darling) and agreed.

“You can,” he said, “it’s always possible, Dusia. With our pleasure, Dusia.” Ostap immediately understood that the fitter was an expert. The contracting parties looked into each other’s eyes, embraced, slapped each other on the back, and politely laughed.

“Well,” Ostap said, “a ten-spot for the whole job!”

“Dusia!” the fitter exclaimed in surprise. “You’re making me angry. I am a man tormented by Narzan.”

“How much do you want?”

“Make it fifty. After all, it’s state property. I’m a tormented man.”

“Alright. Take twenty! Agreed? Well, I see by your eyes that you agree.”

“Agreement is a product of complete non-resistance from the parties.”

“He puts it well, the dog,” Ostap whispered in Ippolit Matveyevich’s ear, “learn from him.”

“When will you bring the chairs?”

“Chairs for money.”

“That can be done,” Ostap said without thinking.

“Money first,” the fitter declared. “Morning – money, evening – chairs, or evening – money, and the next morning – chairs.”

“Or perhaps today – chairs, and tomorrow – money?” Ostap tried.

“But Dusia, I am a tormented man. My soul cannot accept such terms.”

“But I,” Ostap said, “will only receive money by telegram tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll talk,” the stubborn fitter concluded. “And for now, Dusia, good luck at the spring, I’m off: I have a lot of work with the press. Simbiyevich is choking me. I don’t have enough strength. And can one live on Narzan alone?”

And Mechnikov, magnificently illuminated by the sun, departed.

Ostap looked sternly at Ippolit Matveyevich.

“The time,” he said, “that we have is the money that we don’t have. Kitty, we must make a career. One hundred and fifty thousand rubles and zero kopecks lie before us. We only need twenty rubles for the treasure to be ours. Here, one must not shy away from any means. All or nothing. I choose ‘all,’ even if he is clearly a Pole.”

Ostap thoughtfully circled Vorobyaninov.

“Take off your jacket, leader, quickly,” he said unexpectedly.

Ostap took the jacket from the surprised Ippolit Matveyevich’s hands, threw it on the ground, and began to trample it with his dusty boots.

“What are you doing?” Vorobyaninov wailed. “I’ve been wearing this jacket for fifteen years, and it’s still like new!”

“Don’t worry! It won’t be like new for long! Give me your hat! Now sprinkle your trousers with dust and douse them with Narzan. Quickly!”

Ippolit Matveyevich became disgustingly dirty within a few minutes.

“Now you’re ripe and fully capable of earning money by honest labor.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Vorobyaninov asked tearfully.

“You know French, I hope?”

“Very poorly. Within the limits of the gymnasium course.”

“Hmm… You’ll have to operate within those limits. Can you say the following phrase in French: ‘Gentlemen, I haven’t eaten for six days’?”

“Monsieur,” Ippolit Matveyevich began, stumbling, “monsieur, hm, hm… je ne, what is it, je ne mange pas… six, how is it: un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq… six… six… jours. So, je ne mange pas six jours.”

“What an accent you have, Kitty! But what can you expect from a beggar! Of course, a beggar in European Russia speaks French worse than Millerand. Well, Kisulya, and to what extent do you know German?”

“Why do I need all this?” Ippolit Matveyevich exclaimed.

“Because,” Ostap said weighty, “you will now go to ‘Tsvetnik,’ stand in the shade, and beg in French, German, and Russian, emphasizing that you are a former member of the State Duma from the Kadet faction. All the net proceeds will go to fitter Mechnikov. Understand?”

Ippolit Matveyevich was transformed. His chest curved like the Palace Bridge in Leningrad, his eyes shot fire, and from his nostrils, it seemed to Ostap, thick smoke poured. His mustache slowly began to rise.

“Ay-ay-ay,” said the great schemer, not at all frightened, “look at him. Not a man, but some kind of Humpbacked Horse!”

“Never,” Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly began to ventriloquize, “never has Vorobyaninov extended his hand.”

“Then you’ll kick the bucket, you old fool!” Ostap shouted. “You haven’t extended your hand?”

“I haven’t.”

“How do you like this freeloading? Three months he’s been living at my expense. Three months I’ve been feeding him, watering him, and educating him, and now this freeloader takes a third position and declares that he… Well! Enough, comrade! One of two things: either you immediately go to ‘Tsvetnik’ and bring ten rubles by evening, or I automatically exclude you from the number of concessionaire shareholders. I’m counting to five. Yes or no? One…”

“Yes,” the leader mumbled.

“In that case, repeat the incantation.”

“Monsieur, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek auf dem Stück Brot. Give something to a former State Duma deputy.”

“Once more. More pitifully!”

Ippolit Matveyevich repeated.

“Well, good. You have a talent for begging embedded since childhood. Go. Meeting at the spring at midnight. This, mind you, is not for romance, but simply — more is given in the evening.”

“And you,” Ippolit Matveyevich asked, “where will you go?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m acting, as always, in the most difficult place.” The friends parted ways.

Ostap ran to a stationery shop, bought a receipt book there with his last ten kopecks, and sat on a stone pillar for about an hour, renumbering receipts and signing each one.

“First of all, system,” he muttered, “every public kopeck must be accounted for.”

The great schemer moved with a rifleman’s stride along the mountain road leading around Mashuk to the site of Lermontov’s duel with Martynov, past sanatoriums and rest homes.

Overtaken by buses and horse-drawn carriages, Ostap reached the Proval.

A small gallery carved into the rock led to a conical pit. The gallery ended in a small balcony, from which one could see a puddle of malachite-colored, foul-smelling liquid at the bottom of the Proval. This Proval is considered an attraction of Pyatigorsk, and therefore, a considerable number of excursions and individual tourists visit it daily.

Ostap immediately realized that the Proval could be a profitable venture for a person free of prejudice:

“Amazing,” Ostap mused, “how the city hasn’t thought of charging ten kopecks for entry to the Proval until now. This seems to be the only place where Pyatigorsk residents let tourists in without money. I will eliminate this shameful stain on the city’s reputation; I will correct this annoying oversight.”

And Ostap acted as his reason, healthy instinct, and the existing situation dictated.

He stopped at the entrance to the Proval and, shaking a receipt book in his hands, occasionally shouted:

“Buy tickets, citizens! Ten kopecks! Children and Red Army soldiers free! Students — five kopecks! Non-union members — thirty kopecks!”

Ostap was hitting the mark. Pyatigorsk residents did not go to the Proval, and extracting ten kopecks from a Soviet tourist for entry “somewhere” posed not the slightest difficulty. By five o’clock, he had collected about six rubles. Non-union members, of whom there were many in Pyatigorsk, helped. Everyone trustingly handed over their ten-kopeck coins, and one rosy-cheeked tourist, seeing Ostap, triumphantly told his wife:

“See, Tanyusha, what I told you yesterday? And you said that you don’t need to pay for entry to the Proval. Impossible. Right, comrade?”

“Absolutely right,” Ostap confirmed, “it’s impossible not to charge for entry. Union members — ten kopecks, and non-union members — thirty kopecks.”

Before evening, an excursion of Kharkov militiamen arrived at the Proval in two carriages. Ostap was frightened and wanted to pretend to be an innocent tourist, but the militiamen huddled so timidly around the great schemer that there was no way to retreat. Therefore, Ostap shouted in a rather firm voice:

“Union members — ten kopecks, but since police representatives can be equated with students and children, they pay five kopecks each.”

The militiamen paid, delicately inquiring about the purpose of the five-kopeck charge.

“For the capital repair of the Proval,” Ostap answered brazenly, “so it doesn’t collapse too much.”

While the great schemer deftly traded on the view of the malachite puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunched over and drowning in shame, stood under an acacia and, without looking at the strollers, chewed on the three phrases he had been given:

“Monsieur, je ne mange pas… Geben Sie mir bitte… Give something to a State Duma deputy…”

He didn’t receive little, but it was somehow joyless. However, by playing on the pure Parisian pronunciation of the word “mange” and stirring souls with the plight of the former State Duma member, he managed to gather about three rubles in copper coins.

Gravel crunched under the feet of the strollers. The orchestra, with small pauses, played Strauss, Brahms, and Grieg. The bright crowd, chattering, rolled past the old leader and returned. Lermontov’s shadow invisibly hovered over the citizens, who were enjoying matsoni on the veranda of the buffet. It smelled of cologne and Narzan gases.

“Give something to a former member of the State Duma,” the leader mumbled.

“Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?” a voice sounded above Ippolit Matveyevich’s ear. “And did you really attend meetings? Oh! Oh! High class!”

Ippolit Matveyevich raised his face and froze. Before him, bouncing like a sparrow, was the plump Avessalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He had changed his brownish Lodz suit for a white jacket and gray trousers with a playful sparkle. He was unusually lively and sometimes bounced five vershoks (approx. 8.75 inches) off the ground. Iznurenkov did not recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to pepper him with questions:

“Tell me, did you really see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald? Oh! Oh! What a topic! High class!”

Continuing to spin, Iznurenkov slipped three rubles to the bewildered leader and ran off. But for a long time, his plump thighs flashed in “Tsvetnik,” and it seemed as if from the trees came:

“Oh! Oh! ‘Do not sing, my beauty, in my presence, the sad songs of Georgia!’ Oh! Oh! ‘They remind me of another life and a distant shore!…’ Oh! Oh! ‘And in the morning she smiled again!’ High class!..”

Ippolit Matveyevich continued to stand, his eyes turned to the ground. And he stood there in vain. He missed much.

In the wondrous gloom of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shchukina strolled through the park alleys, dragging behind her the obedient, reconciled Ernest Pavlovich. The trip to Kislye Vody (Sour Waters) was the final chord in the difficult struggle with Vanderbilt’s daughter. The proud American had recently sailed to the Sandwich Islands on her own yacht for entertainment.

“Ho-ho!” echoed in the night’s silence. “Splendid, Ernestulya! Be-ea-uty!”

In the illuminated buffet, the light-fingered thief Alkhen sat with his wife, Sashkhen. Her cheeks were still adorned with Nikolayev half-sideburns. Alkhen shyly ate shashlik Karsky-style, washing it down with Kakhetian No. 2, while Sashkhen, stroking her sideburns, awaited her ordered sturgeon.

After the liquidation of the second social security home (everything was sold, including even the chef’s gold lamé cap and the slogan: “Chewing your food thoroughly, you help society”), Alkhen decided to rest and amuse himself. Fate itself preserved this well-fed crook. He had planned to go to the Proval that day but didn’t make it in time. This saved him: Ostap would have squeezed no less than thirty rubles from the timid quartermaster.

Ippolit Matveyevich trudged to the spring only when the musicians were folding their music stands, the festive crowd was dispersing, and only loving couples were heavily breathing in the thin alleys of “Tsvetnik.”

“How much did you collect?” Ostap asked when the bent figure of the leader appeared at the spring.

“Seven rubles twenty-nine kopecks. Three rubles in paper. The rest — copper and a little silver.”

“For a first gig, amazing! The rate of a responsible worker! You touch me, Kitty! But what fool gave you three rubles, I’d like to know? Maybe you gave change?”

“Iznurenkov gave it.”

“No way! Avessalom? Well, well, what a character! Where did he end up! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn’t recognize you!”

“He asked about the State Duma! He laughed!”

“See, leader, it’s not so bad to be a beggar, especially with moderate education and poor voice projection! And you were still stubborn, acting like the Lord Keeper of the Seal! Well, Kisochka, and I didn’t waste my time either. Fifteen rubles, like a single kopeck. In total — enough.”

The next morning, the fitter received the money and in the evening brought two chairs. The third chair, according to him, was impossible to take. The sound design team was playing cards on it.

For greater safety, the friends climbed almost to the very top of Mashuk.

Below, Pyatigorsk glowed with solid, immovable lights. Below Pyatigorsk, faint lights marked the village of Goryachevodskaya. On the horizon, Kislovodsk emerged from behind the mountain in two parallel dotted lines.

Ostap looked at the starry sky and took out the familiar pliers from his pocket.

 

Chapter 37. Green Cape

 

Engineer Bruns sat on the stone veranda of his dacha on Green Cape under a large palm tree, whose starched leaves cast sharp and narrow shadows on the engineer’s shaved head, his white shirt, and on the Gamms-style chair from Generaless Popova’s set, on which the engineer languished, waiting for dinner.

Bruns puckered his thick, full lips into a tube and, with the voice of a mischievous toddler, drawled:

“Mu-u-usic!”

The dacha was silent.

Tropical flora caressed the engineer. Cacti extended their prickly mitts towards him. Dracaenas rustled their leaves. Banana and sago palms shooed flies from the engineer’s bald head. Roses, entwining the veranda, fell at his sandals.

But all was in vain. Bruns wanted to eat dinner. He irritably looked at the pearly bay, at the distant cape of Batumi, and melodiously called out:

“Mu-u-u-usic! Mu-u-u-usic!”

In the damp subtropical air, the sound quickly faded. There was no answer. Bruns imagined a large brown goose with sizzling fatty skin and, unable to contain himself, shrieked:

“Mu-u-u-usic!!! Is the goose ready?!”

“Andrey Mikhailovich!” a woman’s voice cried from the room. “Don’t bother me!”

The engineer, who had already formed his accustomed lips into a tube, immediately replied:

“Mu-u-u-usic! You don’t feel sorry for your little man!”

“Get out, glutton!” came the reply from the room.

But the engineer did not give in. He was about to continue his goose calls, which he had been unsuccessfully making for two hours, but an unexpected rustle made him turn around.

From the black-green bamboo thickets emerged a man in a torn blue kosovorotka, girt with a worn, twisted cord with thick tassels, and in faded striped trousers. A shaggy beard bristled on the stranger’s kind face. In his hands he held a jacket. The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice:

“Where is Engineer Bruns?”

“I am Engineer Bruns,” said the goose charmer in an unexpectedly deep voice. “How may I help you?”

The man silently collapsed to his knees. It was Father Fyodor.

“You’ve gone mad!” exclaimed the engineer, jumping up. “Please, get up!”

“I won’t,” replied Father Fyodor, moving his head after the engineer and looking at him with clear eyes.

“Get up!”

“I won’t!”

And Father Fyodor carefully, so as not to hurt himself, began to tap his head against the gravel.

“Mu-u-u-usic! Come here!” cried the frightened engineer. “Look what’s happening. Get up, I beg you. Please, I implore you!”

“I won’t,” Father Fyodor repeated. Musya ran out onto the veranda, having a subtle understanding of her husband’s intonations.

Upon seeing the lady, Father Fyodor, without rising from his knees, nimbly crawled closer to her, bowed at her feet, and began to babble quickly:

“Upon you, mother, upon you, dear one, I rely on you.”

Then Engineer Bruns blushed, grabbed the petitioner under his armpits, and, straining, lifted him to his feet, but Father Fyodor was cunning and tucked in his legs. The indignant Bruns dragged the strange guest into a corner and forcibly seated him in an armchair (a Gamms-style one, by no means from Vorobyaninov’s mansion, but from Generaless Popova’s living room).

“I dare not,” Father Fyodor mumbled, placing the kerosene-smelling baker’s jacket on his knees, “I do not dare to sit in the presence of high-ranking individuals.”

And Father Fyodor attempted to fall to his knees again.

The engineer, with a sad cry, held Father Fyodor by the shoulders.

“Musya,” he said, breathing heavily, “talk to this citizen. There’s some misunderstanding here.”

Musya immediately adopted a businesslike tone.

“In my house,” she said sternly, “please, don’t get down on any knees!”

“Dear one!” Father Fyodor was touched. “Mother!”

“I’m no mother of yours. What do you want?”

The priest began to babble something unintelligible, but apparently touching. Only after long questioning was it possible to understand that he was asking, as a special favor, to sell him a set of twelve chairs, on one of which he was currently sitting.

The engineer, in surprise, released Father Fyodor’s shoulders, who immediately plopped to his knees and began to chase the engineer turtle-like.

“Why,” cried the engineer, dodging Father Fyodor’s long arms, “why should I sell my chairs? No matter how much you fall to your knees, I can’t understand anything!”

“But these are my chairs,” Father Fyodor moaned.

“What do you mean, yours? Where from, yours? Have you lost your mind? Musya, now everything is clear to me! He’s clearly a lunatic!”

“Mine,” Father Fyodor repeated humbly.

“So, in your opinion, I stole them from you?” the engineer flared up. “Stole them? Do you hear, Musya! This is some kind of blackmail!”

“God forbid,” Father Fyodor whispered.

“If I stole them from you, then sue me and don’t create pandemonium in my house! Do you hear, Musya! The audacity of it. They won’t even let me eat dinner like a human being!”

No, Father Fyodor did not want to demand “his” chairs through legal action. By no means. He knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolen chairs from him. Oh no! He never even thought of it. But these chairs, nevertheless, belonged to him, Father Fyodor, before the revolution, and they were infinitely dear to his wife, who was now dying in Voronezh. Fulfilling her will, and by no means out of his own impudence, he allowed himself to find out the location of the chairs and appear before Citizen Bruns. Father Fyodor was not asking for alms. Oh no! He was well-off enough (a small candle factory in Samara) to gladden his wife’s last moments by purchasing old chairs. He was willing to be generous and pay about twenty rubles for the entire set.

“What?” the engineer cried, turning crimson. “Twenty rubles? For a beautiful living room set? Musya! Do you hear? He’s still a lunatic! By God, a lunatic!”

“I am not a lunatic. I am only fulfilling the will of my wife who sent me…”

“Oh, damn it,” said the engineer, “he’s started crawling again! Musya! He’s crawling again!”

“Name your price, then,” Father Fyodor groaned, cautiously banging his head against the trunk of an araucaria.

“Don’t damage the tree, you strange man! Musya, he doesn’t seem like a lunatic. He’s just upset, apparently, by his wife’s illness. Should we sell him the chairs, eh? Will he leave us alone, eh? Otherwise, he’ll crack his forehead!”

“And what will we sit on?” Musya asked.

“We’ll buy others.”

“For twenty rubles?”

“For twenty, let’s say, I won’t sell. Let’s say I won’t sell for two hundred either… But for two hundred and fifty, I will sell.”

The answer was a terrible thump of a head against a dracaena.

“Well, Musya, I’m tired of this already.” The engineer resolutely approached Father Fyodor and began to dictate an ultimatum:

“First, move at least three steps away from the palm; second, immediately stand up. Third, I will sell the furniture for two hundred and fifty rubles, no less.”

“Not for greed,” Father Fyodor sang, “but only to fulfill the will of my sick wife,”

“Well, my dear, my wife is also sick. It’s true, Musya, your lungs aren’t in order? But I don’t demand on that basis that you… well… sell me, say, your jacket for thirty kopecks.”

“Take it for free!” Father Fyodor exclaimed. The engineer irritably waved his hand and said coldly:

“Stop your jokes. I’m not entering into any more discussions. The chairs are valued by me at two hundred and fifty rubles, and I will not concede a single kopeck.”

“Fifty,” Father Fyodor offered.

“Musya!” said the engineer. “Call Bagration. Let him escort the citizen!”

“Not for greed…”

“Bagration!”

Father Fyodor fled in fear, and the engineer went into the dining room and sat down to eat the goose. The beloved bird had a beneficial effect on Bruns. He began to calm down.

At the moment the engineer, wrapping a bone in cigarette paper, brought the goose leg to his pink mouth, Father Fyodor’s pleading face appeared in the window.

“Not for greed,” a soft voice said. “Fifty-five rubles.”

The engineer growled without looking back. Father Fyodor disappeared.

All day afterwards, Father Fyodor’s figure flitted across all parts of the dacha. Now he would run out from the shadow of cryptomerias, now he would appear in the mandarin grove, now he would fly across the black courtyard and, trembling, rush towards the Botanical Garden.

The engineer spent the whole day calling Musya, complaining about the lunatic and about his headache. In the ensuing darkness, Father Fyodor’s voice occasionally rang out.

“One hundred thirty-eight!” he cried from somewhere in the sky.

And a minute later, his voice came from the direction of Dumbasov’s dacha.

“One hundred forty-one,” Father Fyodor offered, “not for greed, Mr. Bruns, but only…”

Finally, the engineer could not bear it any longer, stepped into the middle of the veranda, and peering into the darkness, began to shout rhythmically:

“To hell with you! Two hundred rubles! Just get lost.”

A rustle of disturbed bamboos, a quiet moan, and retreating footsteps were heard. Then everything fell silent. Stars struggled in the bay. Fireflies chased Father Fyodor, circling around his head, bathing his face in a greenish medical light.

“Well, what geese they are nowadays,” the engineer mumbled, entering the rooms.

Meanwhile, Father Fyodor flew in the last bus along the seashore towards Batumi. Right beside him, with the sound of a turning page, a gentle surf rolled in, the wind slapped his face, and the wailing of jackals answered the car’s siren.

That same evening, Father Fyodor sent the following telegram to his wife, Katerina Alexandrovna, in town N:

FOUND GOODS SEND TWO HUNDRED THIRTY BY TELEGRAPH SELL WHAT YOU WANT FEDYA

For two days he wandered enthusiastically around Bruns’ dacha, bowed to Musya from afar, and even occasionally filled the tropical distances with cries of:

“Not for greed, but only by the will of my spouse who sent me!”

On the third day, the money was received with a desperate telegram:

 

SOLD EVERYTHING LEFT WITHOUT A SINGLE KOPECK KISSING AND WAITING EVSTIGNEEV STILL DINING KATYA

 

Father Fyodor counted the money, piously crossed himself, hired a van, and drove to Green Cape.

The weather was gloomy. From the Turkish border, the wind drove in clouds. The Chorokh (river) was smoking. The blue layer in the sky kept shrinking. The storm reached six points on the scale. Swimming and going out to sea in boats were forbidden. A roar and thunder stood over Batumi. The storm shook the shores.

Upon reaching Engineer Bruns’ dacha, Father Fyodor told the Ajarian driver in a bashlyk (hood) to wait and went for the furniture.

“I brought the money,” Father Fyodor said, “you could have given a little discount.”

“Musya,” the engineer groaned, “I can’t take any more!”

“No, no, I brought the money,” Father Fyodor hurried, “two hundred rubles, as you said.”

“Musya! Take the money from him! Give him the chairs. And let him do it quickly. I have a migraine.”

The goal of his entire life was achieved. The candle factory in Samara practically jumped into his hands. Diamonds poured into his pockets like seeds.

Twelve chairs were loaded into the van one by one. They greatly resembled Vorobyaninov’s, with the only difference being that their upholstery was not chintz with flowers, but rep, blue with a pink stripe.

Impatience seized Father Fyodor. Under his coat, behind the twisted cord, an axe was tucked. Father Fyodor sat next to the driver and, constantly glancing back at the chairs, drove towards Batumi. The brisk horses carried Father Fyodor and his treasures down to the highway, past the “Final” restaurant, whose bamboo tables and gazebos were swept by the wind, past the tunnel that swallowed the last oil tanks on the route, past the photographer, deprived of his usual clientele on this gloomy day, past the sign “Batumi Botanical Garden,” and then proceeded not too quickly along the very line of the surf. At the point where the road touched the massifs, Father Fyodor was doused with salty spray. Rebuffed from the shore by the massifs, the waves turned into geysers, rose to the sky, and slowly fell.

The jolts and explosions of the surf heated Father Fyodor’s disturbed spirit. The horses, battling the wind, slowly approached Makhindzhauri. As far as the eye could see, murky green waters whistled and swelled. All the way to Batumi, the white foam of the surf fluttered, like the hem of a petticoat peeking out from under a sloppy lady’s dress.

“Stop!” Father Fyodor suddenly shouted to the driver. “Stop, Muslim!”

And he, trembling and stumbling, began to unload the chairs onto the deserted shore. The indifferent Ajarian received his five rubles, lashed his horses, and drove away. And Father Fyodor, convinced that there was no one around, dragged the chairs from the cliff onto a small, still dry patch of beach and took out his axe.

For a moment he was in doubt, not knowing which chair to start with. Then, like a somnambulist, he approached the third chair and viciously struck its back with the axe. The chair toppled over, undamaged.

“Aha!” Father Fyodor cried. “I’ll show you!”

And he threw himself at the chair as if it were a living creature. In an instant, the chair was chopped to pieces. Father Fyodor did not hear the blows of the axe against the wood, the rep, and the springs. In the mighty roar of the storm, all extraneous sounds were muffled as if in felt.

“Aha! Aha! Aha!” Father Fyodor kept saying, chopping wildly.

The chairs were dismantled one by one. Father Fyodor’s rage grew. And so did the storm. Some waves reached Father Fyodor’s feet.

From Batumi to Sinop, there was a great noise. The sea raged and unleashed its fury on every small vessel. The steamer “Lenin,” smoking from its two funnels and heavily settling at the stern, approached Novorossiysk. The storm swirled in the Black Sea, throwing thousand-ton waves onto the shores of Trabzon, Yalta, Odessa, and Constanta. Beyond the quiet of the Bosphorus and Dardanelles, the Mediterranean Sea thundered. Beyond the Strait of Gibraltar, the Atlantic Ocean pounded against Europe. Angry water encircled the globe.

And on the Batumi shore stood Father Fyodor, sweating profusely, chopping up the last chair. A minute later, it was all over. Despair seized Father Fyodor. Casting a dazed glance at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs he had created, he retreated. The water grabbed his feet. He lunged forward and, soaking wet, dashed onto the highway. A large wave crashed on the spot where Father Fyodor had just stood and, rolling back, dragged away the entire mutilated Generaless Popova’s set. Father Fyodor no longer saw this. He trudged along the highway, bent over and pressing a wet fist to his chest.

He entered Batumi, blindly seeing nothing around him. His situation was dire. Five thousand kilometers from home, with twenty rubles in his pocket, it was absolutely impossible to reach his hometown.

Father Fyodor passed the Turkish bazaar, where he was advised in an ideal whisper to buy Cat’s powder, silk stockings, and unbanderole-d Sukhum tobacco, trudged to the station, and got lost in the crowd of porters.

 

Chapter 38. Under the Clouds

 

Three days after the concessionaires’ deal with fitter Mechnikov, the Columbus Theater departed by rail via Makhachkala and Baku. For all these three days, the concessionaires, unsatisfied with the contents of the two chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to deliver the third, and last, of the Columbus chairs. But the fitter, tormented by Narzan, spent all twenty rubles on plain vodka and reached such a state that he was kept locked up in the prop room.

“There’s your Kislye Vody!” Ostap declared, upon learning of the theater’s departure. “That fitter is a son of a bitch! After this, deal with theater workers!”

Ostap became much more restless than before. The chances of finding the treasures had increased immeasurably.

“We need money for a trip to Vladikavkaz,” Ostap said. “From there, we’ll go to Tiflis by car along the Georgian Military Road. Charming views! Breathtaking scenery! Wonderful mountain air! And the grand finale – one hundred and fifty thousand rubles and zero kopecks. It makes sense to continue the session.”

But leaving Mineralnye Vody was not so easy. Vorobyaninov turned out to be a hopeless train stowaway, and since his attempts to board a train were unsuccessful, he had to perform near “Tsvetnik” as a former trustee of an educational district. This met with very little success. Two rubles for twelve hours of hard and humiliating work. A sum, however, sufficient for the journey to Vladikavkaz.

In Beslan, Ostap, who was traveling without a ticket, was thrown off the train, and the great schemer brazenly ran after the train for about three versts, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich.

After this, Ostap managed to jump onto the step of the train slowly pulling towards the Caucasus Range. From this position, Ostap curiously gazed at the panorama of the Caucasus mountain range unfolding before him.

It was four in the morning. The mountain peaks were illuminated by a dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains.

“Too much chic,” he said. “Wild beauty. An idiot’s imagination. A useless thing.”

At the Vladikavkaz station, a large open bus from Zakavtopromtorg awaited arrivals, and kindly people said:

“Those who are going along the Georgian Military Road, we’ll take to the city for free.”

“Where are you going, Kitty?” Ostap said. “To the bus for us. Let them take us for free.”

After being driven by bus to the Zakavtopromtorg office, Ostap, however, did not rush to sign up for a seat in a car. Lively conversing with Ippolit Matveyevich, he admired Table Mountain girded by a cloud and, finding that the mountain indeed resembled a table, quickly departed.

They had to stay in Vladikavkaz for several days. But all attempts to get money for the journey along the Georgian Military Road either brought no results at all, or provided only enough for daily sustenance. The attempt to collect ten-kopeck pieces from citizens failed. The Caucasus Range was so high and visible that it was impossible to charge money for viewing it. It could be seen from almost everywhere. There were no other beauties in Vladikavkaz. As for the Terek, it flowed past the “Track,” for entry to which the city charged money without Ostap’s help. The collection of alms by Ippolit Matveyevich brought in thirteen kopecks in two days.

“Enough,” Ostap said, “there’s only one way out: walk to Tiflis. In five days, we’ll cover two hundred versts. No big deal, old man, charming mountain views, fresh air!… We need money for bread and amateur sausage. You can add a few Italian phrases to your lexicon, if you like, but by evening you must collect no less than two rubles! We won’t be having dinner today, dear comrade. Alas! Poor chances…”

At dawn, the concessionaires crossed the bridge over the Terek, bypassed the barracks, and plunged into the green valley along which the Georgian Military Road ran.

“We’re lucky, Kitty,” Ostap said, “it rained last night, so we won’t have to swallow dust. Breathe deeply, leader, the clean air. Sing. Recall Caucasian poems. Behave as you should!…”

But Ippolit Matveyevich neither sang nor recalled poems. The road was uphill. The nights spent under the open sky reminded him of themselves with a stitch in his side, heavy legs, and the amateur sausage — a constant and tormenting heartburn. He walked, leaning to one side, holding a five-pound loaf of bread wrapped in a Vladikavkaz newspaper, and slightly dragging his left leg.

Again, walking! This time to Tiflis, this time along the most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich didn’t care. He didn’t look around like Ostap. He resolutely didn’t notice the Terek, which was already beginning to rumble at the bottom of the valley. And only the icy peaks, shining under the sun, vaguely reminded him of something: either the glitter of diamonds, or the best velvet coffins of master Bezencuk.

After Balta, the road entered a gorge and proceeded along a narrow cornice carved into dark, sheer cliffs. The road spiraled upwards, and in the evening the concessionaires found themselves at the Lare station, a thousand meters above sea level.

They spent the night in a poor dukhana (inn) for free and even received a glass of milk each, having charmed the owner and his guests with card tricks.

The morning was so lovely that even Ippolit Matveyevich, invigorated by the mountain air, stepped out more briskly than yesterday. Beyond Lare station, the grandiose wall of the Lateral Range immediately rose. The Terek valley here was enclosed by narrow defiles. The landscape became increasingly gloomy, and the inscriptions on the rocks more numerous. Where the rocks so constricted the flow of the Terek that the bridge span was only ten sazhens (about 70 feet), the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions on the rocky walls of the gorge that Ostap, forgetting the majesty of the Darial Gorge, cried out, trying to overcome the roar and groans of the Terek:

“Great people! Pay attention, leader. See? Just above the clouds and a little below the eagle! The inscription: ‘Kolya and Mika, July 1914.’ An unforgettable sight! Note the artistic execution! Each letter is a meter high and painted with oil paint! Where are you now, Kolya and Mika?”

“Kitty,” Ostap continued, “let’s immortalize ourselves too. We’ll show Mika up. I even have chalk, by the way! By God, I’ll climb up now and write: ‘Kitty and Osya were here.'”

And Ostap, without hesitation, placed his amateur sausage supplies on the parapet that guarded the highway from the seething abyss of the Terek, and began to climb the rock.

Ippolit Matveyevich initially followed the ascent of the great schemer, but then became distracted and, turning around, began to examine the foundation of Queen Tamara’s castle, preserved on a rock resembling a horse’s tooth.

At this time, two versts from the concessionaires, from the Tiflis side, Father Fyodor entered the Darial Gorge. He walked with a measured soldier’s stride, looking straight ahead with firm diamond eyes and leaning on a tall crutch with a curved end.

With his last money, Father Fyodor had traveled to Tiflis and was now walking home, subsisting on charitable donations. While crossing the Krestovy Pass (2345 meters above sea level), he was bitten by an eagle. Father Fyodor swung his crutch at the audacious bird and continued on his way.

He walked, entangled in the clouds, and muttered:

“Not for greed, but only by the will of my wife who sent me!”

The distance between the enemies was shrinking. Turning around a sharp projection, Father Fyodor bumped into the old man with the golden pince-nez.

The gorge split in Father Fyodor’s eyes, the Terek ceased its millennial cry.

Father Fyodor recognized Vorobyaninov. After the terrible failure in Batumi, after all hopes had collapsed, the new opportunity to acquire wealth affected Father Fyodor in an extraordinary way.

He grabbed Ippolit Matveyevich by his scrawny Adam’s apple and, clenching his fingers, cried out in a hoarse voice:

“Where did you put the treasures of your murdered mother-in-law?”

Ippolit Matveyevich, expecting nothing of the sort, remained silent, his eyes bulging so much that they almost touched the lenses of his pince-nez.

“Speak!” Father Fyodor commanded. “Repent, sinner!”

Vorobyaninov felt that he was losing his breath. Then Father Fyodor, already triumphant, saw Bender jumping on the rock. The technical director was descending, shouting at the top of his lungs:

Breaking against gloomy rocks,The waves boil and foam…

Great fear struck Father Fyodor’s heart. He mechanically continued to hold the leader by the throat, but his knees began to tremble.

“Ah, who is this?!” Ostap shouted amicably. “A competing organization!”

Father Fyodor did not hesitate. Obeying a beneficial instinct, he grabbed the concessionaire’s sausage and bread and ran away.

“Beat him, Comrade Bender!” Ippolit Matveyevich, having caught his breath, shouted from the ground.

“Catch him! Hold him!”

Ostap whistled and whooped.

“Tyu-u-u!” he cried, giving chase. “The Battle of the Pyramids, or Bender on the hunt! Where are you running, client? I can offer you a well-gutted chair!”

Father Fyodor could not bear the torment of the chase and climbed a perfectly sheer cliff. He was pushed upwards by his heart, rising to his very throat, and a peculiar itch in his heels known only to cowards. His feet detached themselves from the granite and carried their master upwards.

“U-u-u!” Ostap cried from below. “Hold him!”

“He took our provisions!” Ippolit Matveyevich wailed, running up to Ostap.

“Stop!” Ostap thundered. “Stop, I tell you!” But this only gave new strength to the exhausted Father Fyodor. He shot up and in a few leaps found himself ten sazhens higher than the highest inscription.

“Give back the sausage!” Ostap implored. “Give back the sausage, you fool! I’ll forgive everything!”

Father Fyodor heard nothing more. He found himself on a flat ledge, which no human had ever reached before. A desolate terror seized Father Fyodor. He realized that he would not be able to climb down. The cliff dropped perpendicularly to the highway, and an descent back down was unthinkable. He looked down. Ostap was raging below, and at the bottom of the gorge, the leader’s golden pince-nez gleamed.

“I’ll give back the sausage!” Father Fyodor cried. “Get me down!”

In response, the Terek thundered, and passionate cries emanated from Queen Tamara’s castle. Owls lived there.

“Get me do-o-own!” Father Fyodor cried piteously.

He saw all the concessionaires’ maneuvers. They ran below the cliff and, judging by their gestures, were horribly swearing.

An hour later, Father Fyodor, lying on his stomach with his head hanging down, saw Bender and Vorobyaninov heading towards the Krestovy Pass.

A swift night descended. In the pitch darkness and hellish roar, directly under the clouds, Father Fyodor trembled and wept. He no longer needed earthly treasures. He wanted only one thing: down, to the ground.

At night he roared so loudly that he occasionally drowned out the Terek, and in the morning he fortified himself with amateur sausage and bread and laughed satanically at the cars speeding below. The rest of the day he spent contemplating the mountains and the heavenly body — the sun. And the next night he saw Queen Tamara. The Queen flew to him from her castle and coquettishly said:

“We’ll be neighbors.”

“Mother!” Father Fyodor said feelingly. “Not for greed…”

“I know, I know,” the Queen remarked, “but only by the will of your wife who sent you.”

“How do you know?” Father Fyodor wondered.

“Oh, I know. Come over, neighbor. We’ll play ‘sixty-six’! Eh?”

She laughed and flew away, releasing fireworks into the night sky.

On the third day, Father Fyodor began to preach to the birds. For some reason, he tried to convert them to Lutheranism.

“Birds,” he told them in a resonant voice, “repent of your sins publicly!”

On the fourth day, he was already being pointed out to tourists from below.

“To the right is Queen Tamara’s castle,” experienced guides would say, “and to the left stands a living person, and how he lives and how he got there, is also unknown.”

“What wild people!” the tourists marvelled. “Children of the mountains!”

Clouds drifted by. Eagles circled above Father Fyodor. The boldest among them stole the rest of the amateur sausage and, with a flap of its wing, dropped about a pound and a half of bread into the foaming Terek.

Father Fyodor shook his finger at the eagle and, smiling radiantly, whispered:

God’s little bird knowsNeither care, nor toil,Nor busily weavesA lasting nest.

The eagle glanced at Father Fyodor, cried “coo-coo-re-coo” and flew away.

“Ah, you eagle, eagle, you’re a big bitch!” Ten days later, a fire brigade with the necessary equipment and supplies arrived from Vladikavkaz and rescued Father Fyodor.

As he was being brought down, he clapped his hands and sang in an unpleasant voice:

And you will be the queen of the wor-r-r-rld,My eter-r-r-nal fr-r-riend!

And the stern Caucasus repeatedly echoed the words of M. Yu. Lermontov and the music of A. Rubinstein.

“Not for greed,” Father Fyodor said to the fire chief, “but only…”

The laughing priest was taken on a fire ladder to a psychiatric hospital.

 

Chapter 39. The Earthquake

 

“What do you think, leader,” Ostap asked as the concessionaires approached the village of Sioni, “how can one make a living in this stunted area, located two versts high?” Ippolit Matveyevich remained silent. The only occupation by which he could earn a livelihood was begging, but here, on the mountain spirals and ledges, there was no one to ask.

However, begging did exist here, but it was a very special kind of begging — Alpine style: children would run up to every bus or car passing by the village and perform a few steps of a Naursk Lezghinka in front of the moving audience; after that, the children would run after the car, shouting:

“Give money! Give money!”

Passengers would throw five-kopeck coins and ascend towards the Krestovy Pass.

“A sacred cause,” Ostap said, “no capital investment required, earnings are not great, but valuable in our situation.”

By two o’clock on the second day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich, under the supervision of the great schemer, performed his first dance before the fleeting passengers. This dance resembled a mazurka, but the passengers, sated with the wild beauties of the Caucasus, took it for a Lezghinka and rewarded him with three five-kopeck coins. Before the next car, which turned out to be a bus traveling from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz, the technical director himself danced and leaped.

“Give money! Give money!” he shouted angrily.

The laughing passengers generously rewarded his jumps. Ostap collected thirty kopecks in the road dust. But then the Sioni children showered the competitors with a hail of stones. Fleeing the attack, the travelers hastened to the nearest aul, where they spent their earnings on cheese and chureki (Georgian bread).

In these activities, the concessionaires spent their days. They slept in mountain saklyas (huts). On the fourth day, they descended the highway’s zigzags into the Kaishauri Valley. Here the sun was hot, and the companions’ bones, thoroughly chilled at the Krestovy Pass, quickly warmed up.

The Darial cliffs, the gloom and cold of the pass, gave way to the greenness and coziness of the deepest valley. The travelers walked above the Aragvi, descending into a valley populated by people and abundant in livestock and food. Here they could beg for something, earn something, or simply steal. This was Transcaucasia.

Cheered up, the concessionaires walked faster. In Pasanauri, a hot, wealthy village with two hotels and several dukhanas, the friends begged for churek and settled in the bushes opposite the “France” hotel with a garden and two bear cubs on a chain. They enjoyed the warmth, the delicious bread, and the well-deserved rest.

However, their rest was soon interrupted by the squeal of car sirens, the rustle of new tires on the flint highway, and joyful exclamations. The friends looked out. Three identical new cars pulled up in a string to “France.” The cars stopped silently. Persitsky jumped out of the first car. “Court and Life” emerged behind him, straightening his dusty hair. Then members of the “Machine Tool” newspaper’s automobile club poured out of all the cars.

“Halt!” Persitsky cried. “Owner! Fifteen shashliks!”

In “France,” sleepy figures stirred, and the cries of a ram being dragged by its legs to the kitchen resounded.

“Don’t you recognize this young man?” Ostap asked. “He’s the reporter from ‘Skryabin,’ one of the critics of our banner. What style they arrived with, though! What does this mean?”

Ostap approached the shashlik eaters and bowed to Persitsky in the most elegant manner.

“Bonjour!” said the reporter. “Where have I seen you, dear comrade? Ah-ha! I recall. The artist from ‘Skryabin’! Isn’t that right?”

Ostap pressed his hand to his heart and bowed courteously.

“Allow me, allow me,” Persitsky continued, possessing a reporter’s tenacious memory. “Wasn’t it you in Moscow, on Sverdlov Square, who was run over by a cab horse?”

“Yes, yes! And furthermore, as you so aptly put it, I supposedly got off with a slight fright.”

“And here, are you working in the artistic field?”

“No, I’m here for excursion purposes.”

“On foot?”

“On foot. Experts claim that traveling the Georgian Military Road by car is simply foolish.”

“Not always foolish, my dear, not always! We, for example, are not traveling so foolishly. The cars, as you can see, are our own, I emphasize — our own, collective. Direct Moscow-Tiflis connection. Fuel costs next to nothing. Convenience and speed of movement. Soft springs. Europe!”

“Where did you get all this?” Ostap asked enviously. “Did you win a hundred thousand?”

“Not a hundred, but fifty we won.”

“In the ‘nine’?”

“On a bond belonging to the automobile club.”

“Yes,” said Ostap, “and with that money you bought cars?”

“As you can see!”

“Well, well. Perhaps you need a senior manager? I know a young man. A teetotaler.”

“What kind of senior manager?”

“Well, like… general leadership, business advice, visual training using an integrated method… Eh?”

“I understand you. No, not needed.”

“Not needed?”

“No. Unfortunately. And an artist is not needed either.”

“In that case, give me ten rubles.”

“Avdotyin,” Persitsky said. “Be good enough to give this citizen three rubles at my expense. No receipt needed. This person is not accountable.”

“That’s extremely little,” Ostap remarked, “but I accept. I understand the difficulty of your situation. Of course, if you had won a hundred thousand, you probably would have lent me a whole five-ruble note. But you only won fifty thousand rubles and zero kopecks. In any case — thank you!”

Bender courteously removed his hat. Persitsky courteously removed his hat. Bender bowed most graciously. Persitsky responded with a most gracious bow. Bender waved his hand in greeting. Persitsky, sitting at the wheel, waved his hand. But Persitsky drove off in a beautiful car towards shining distances, in the company of cheerful friends, while the great schemer remained on the dusty road with his foolish companion.

“Did you see that splendor?” Ostap asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

“Zakavtopromtorg or the private society ‘Motor’?” Vorobyaninov inquired businesslike, who in a few days of travel had become perfectly acquainted with all types of motor transport on the road. “I was about to go up to them and dance.”

“You’ll soon become utterly stupid, my poor friend. What Zakavtopromtorg is this? These people, do you hear, Kitty, w-o-n fifty thousand rubles! You see for yourself, Kisulya, how cheerful they are and how much mechanical junk they’ve bought! When we get our money, we’ll spend it much more rationally. Won’t we?”

And the friends, dreaming of what they would buy when they became rich, left Pasanauri. Ippolit Matveyevich vividly imagined buying new socks and going abroad. Ostap’s dreams were grander. His projects were enormous: either damming the Blue Nile or opening a gambling mansion in Riga with branches in all the limitrophs.

On the third day before lunch, having passed the boring and dusty places: Ananuri, Dushet, and Tsilkani, the travelers approached Mtskheta — the ancient capital of Georgia. Here the Kura turned towards Tiflis.

In the evening, the travelers passed ZAGES — the Zemo-Avchala Hydroelectric Power Station. Glass, water, and electricity sparkled with various lights. All this was reflected and trembled in the rapidly flowing Kura.

Here the concessionaires made friends with a peasant who brought them by araba (cart) to Tiflis by eleven in the evening, at the very hour when the evening freshness draws out the residents of the Georgian capital, weary after a stuffy day.

“The town isn’t bad,” Ostap said, stepping onto Shota Rustaveli Avenue, “you know, Kitty…”

Suddenly, Ostap, without finishing, rushed after some citizen, caught up with him about ten paces away, and began to converse animatedly with him.

Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side.

“Do you know who that is?” he whispered quickly. “That’s ‘Odessa Bagel Artel – Moscow Bagels,’ Citizen Kislyarsky. Let’s go to him. Now you are again, paradoxically, a giant of thought and the father of Russian democracy. Don’t forget to puff out your cheeks and twitch your mustache. They’ve grown quite a bit, by the way. Oh, damn it! What a chance! Fortune! If I don’t bleed him for five hundred rubles now, spit in my eye! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Indeed, at some distance from the concessionaires stood a fearfully milky-blue Kislyarsky in a tussore suit and a boater hat.

“You seem to be acquainted,” Ostap whispered, “this is a person close to the emperor, a giant of thought and the father of Russian democracy. Pay no attention to his suit. It’s for conspiracy. Take us somewhere immediately. We need to talk.”

Kislyarsky, who had come to the Caucasus to rest from the shocks of Stargorod, was completely overwhelmed. Muttering some nonsense about the stagnation in the bagel business, Kislyarsky put the terrifying acquaintances in a carriage with silver-plated spokes and a footboard and drove them to Mount David. They ascended to the top of this restaurant-mountain by funicular. Tiflis, with its thousands of lights, slowly crept into the underworld. The conspirators ascended directly to the stars.

Restaurant tables were set on the grass. A Caucasian orchestra thumped dully, and a little girl, under the happy glances of her parents, on her own initiative, danced a Lezghinka between the tables.

“Order something to be served,” Bender explained.

At the experienced Kislyarsky’s command, wine, greens, and salty Georgian cheese were served.

“And something to eat,” Ostap said. “If you only knew, dear Mr. Kislyarsky, what Ippolit Matveyevich and I have had to endure, you would marvel at our courage.”

“Again!” Kislyarsky thought with despair. “My torment begins again. And why didn’t I go to Crimea? I clearly wanted to go to Crimea! And Henrietta advised it!”

But he submissively ordered two shashliks and turned his obliging face to Ostap.

“So,” Ostap said, looking around and lowering his voice, “in a nutshell. We’ve been under surveillance for two months, and probably tomorrow an ambush will be waiting for us at the safe house. We’ll have to shoot our way out.”

Kislyarsky’s cheeks turned silvery.

“We are glad,” Ostap continued, “to meet a devoted fighter for the homeland in these troubled times.”

“Hmm… yes!” Ippolit Matveyevich proudly drawled, remembering with what hungry fervor he had danced the Lezghinka not far from Sioni.

“Yes,” Ostap whispered. “We hope, with your help, to strike down the enemy. I will give you a parabellum.”

“No need,” Kislyarsky said firmly. In the next minute, it turned out that the chairman of the stock exchange committee was unable to take part in tomorrow’s battle. He was very sorry, but he could not. He was not familiar with military affairs. That’s why he was chosen as chairman of the stock exchange committee. He was in complete despair, but to save the life of the father of Russian democracy (he himself was an old Octobrist), he was ready to provide possible financial assistance.

“You are a true friend of the fatherland!” Ostap said solemnly, washing down the fragrant shashlik with sweet Kypiani wine. “Five hundred rubles can save a giant of thought.”

“Tell me,” Kislyarsky asked plaintively, “can’t two hundred rubles save a giant of thought?”

Ostap could not resist and enthusiastically kicked Ippolit Matveyevich under the table.

“I think,” Ippolit Matveyevich said, “that bargaining is inappropriate here!”

He immediately received a kick in the thigh, which meant: “Bravo, Kitty, bravo, that’s what school means!”

Kislyarsky heard the voice of the giant of thought for the first time in his life. He was so astonished by this circumstance that he immediately handed Ostap five hundred rubles. Then he paid the bill and, leaving his friends at the table, left due to a headache. Half an hour later he sent a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:

 

FOLLOWING YOUR ADVICE CRIMEA JUST IN CASE PREPARE BASKET

 

The long privations that Ostap Bender had endured demanded immediate compensation. Therefore, that same evening, the great schemer drank himself into a stupor on the restaurant mountain and nearly fell out of the funicular car on the way to the hotel. The next day he realized a long-cherished dream. He bought a magnificent gray suit with a subtle pattern. It was hot in this suit, but he still wore it, drenched in sweat. For Vorobyaninov, a white pique suit and a naval cap with the golden stamp of an unknown yacht club were bought at the Tifkoopertsiya ready-to-wear store. In this attire, Ippolit Matveyevich resembled an amateur merchant admiral. His posture straightened. His gait became firm.

“Ah!” Bender exclaimed, “high class! If I were a woman, I’d give such a masculine handsome man as you an eight percent discount on the usual price. Ah! Ah! In this state, we can socialize! Can you socialize, Kitty?”

“Comrade Bender,” Vorobyaninov insisted, “what about the chair? We need to find out what’s with the theater.”

“Ho-ho!” Ostap retorted, dancing with a chair in the large Moorish room of the “Oriant” hotel. “Don’t teach me how to live. I’m angry now. I have money. But I’m generous. I give you twenty rubles and three days to loot the city! I am like Suvorov!… Loot the city, Kitty! Have fun!”

And Ostap, swaying his hips, began to sing at a rapid tempo:

 

Evening bells, evening bells,

How many thoughts they evoke.

 

The friends drank non-stop for a whole week. Vorobyaninov’s admiral’s suit became covered with multi-colored wine stains, and on Ostap’s suit, they spread into one large rainbow stain.

“Hello!” Ostap said on the eighth morning, after deciding to read “Zarya Vostoka” (Dawn of the East) with a hangover. “Listen, you drunkard, what smart people write in the newspapers! Listen!”

 

THEATER CHRONICLE

 

Yesterday, September 3rd, the Moscow Columbus Theater, having completed its tour in Tiflis, departed for a tour in Yalta.

 

The theater plans to stay in Crimea until the beginning of the winter season in Moscow.

“Aha! I told you so!” Vorobyaninov said.

“What did you tell me!” Ostap snapped back. However, he was flustered. This oversight was very unpleasant for him. Instead of finishing the treasure hunt in Tiflis, they now had to move to the Crimean Peninsula. Ostap immediately got down to business. Tickets to Batumi were bought, and second-class berths were reserved on the steamer “Pestel,” which was to depart from Batumi to Odessa on September 7th at 11 PM Moscow time.

On the night of September tenth to eleventh, when the “Pestel,” not calling at Anapa due to a storm, turned into the open sea and set course directly for Yalta, Ippolit Matveyevich had a dream.

He dreamed that he, in an admiral’s suit, stood on the balcony of his Stargorod house and knew that the crowd below awaited something from him. A large crane lowered a pig with black speckles to his feet.

Tikhon, the janitor, came in a suit jacket and, grabbing the pig by its hind legs, said:

“Ekh, blast it all! Does ‘Nymph’ ever give a brushstroke!”

A dagger appeared in Ippolit Matveyevich’s hands. With it, he struck the pig in the side, and from the large, wide wound, diamonds poured out and bounced across the cement. They jumped and clattered louder and louder. And finally, their knocking became unbearable and terrifying.

Ippolit Matveyevich awoke from a wave crashing against the porthole.

They approached Yalta in calm weather, on an exhausting, sunny morning. The leader, recovered from seasickness, strutted on the bow, near the bell adorned with cast Slavic ligature. Cheerful Yalta lined its tiny shops and floating restaurants along the shore. Carriages with velvet seats under canvas cut-out awnings, cars, and buses of “Krymkurso” and the “Crimean Driver” cooperative stood at the pier. Brick girls twirled open umbrellas and waved handkerchiefs.

The friends were the first to disembark onto the scorching embankment. At the sight of the concessionaires, a citizen in a tussore suit emerged from the crowd of greeters and onlookers and quickly strode towards the port exit. But it was too late. The great schemer’s hunting gaze quickly recognized the tussore-clad citizen.

“Wait, Vorobyaninov!” Ostap cried.

And he rushed forward so quickly that he caught up with the tussore-clad man ten steps from the exit. Ostap immediately returned with a hundred rubles.

“He won’t give more. Anyway, I didn’t insist, otherwise he wouldn’t have anything to go home with.”

And indeed, Kislyarsky immediately fled by car to Sevastopol, and from there by third class home to Stargorod.

The concessionaires spent the entire day in the hotel, sitting naked on the floor and constantly running to the shower. But the water was warm, like bad tea. There was no escape from the heat. It seemed that Yalta would just melt and flow into the sea.

By eight in the evening, cursing all the chairs in the world, the companions donned hot boots and went to the theater.

“The Marriage” was playing. Stepan, exhausted by the heat, standing on his hands, almost fell. Agafya Tikhonovna ran on a tightrope, holding a damp umbrella with the inscription: “I want Podkolyosin.” At that moment, as throughout the day, she wanted only one thing: cold water with ice. The audience also wanted to drink. Therefore, perhaps, and because the sight of Stepan devouring hot scrambled eggs was disgusting, the play was not liked.

The concessionaires were satisfied, because their chair, along with three new opulent Rococo armchairs, was in place.

Hiding in one of the boxes, the friends patiently waited for the incredibly protracted performance to end. The audience finally dispersed, and the actors rushed to cool off. No one remained in the theater except the shareholding members of the concessionary enterprise. All living beings had rushed out into the street, into the refreshing rain that had finally poured down.

“Follow me, Kitty,” Ostap commanded. “If anything, we’re provincials who couldn’t find our way out of the theater.”

They made their way onto the stage and, striking matches, but still hitting a hydraulic press, examined the entire stage.

The great schemer ran up the stairs to the prop room.

“Come here!” he cried.

Vorobyaninov, waving his arms, rushed upstairs.

“See?” Ostap said, striking a match. From the gloom emerged the corner of a Gamms-style chair and a section of an umbrella with the inscription: “…want…”

“Here! Here is our future, present, and past. Light the matches, Kitty. I’ll open it.” And Ostap reached into his pocket for his tools.

“Well then,” he said, reaching out to the chair, “another match, leader.”

A match flared, and strangely enough, the chair itself jumped aside and suddenly, before the astonished concessionaires’ eyes, fell through the floor.

“Mama!” Ippolit Matveyevich cried, flying back against the wall, although he had no desire to do so.

Glass shattered with a crash, and the umbrella with the inscription: “I want Podkolyosin,” caught by a whirlwind, flew out the window towards the sea. Ostap lay on the floor, lightly crushed by plywood shields.

It was twelve hours and fourteen minutes. This was the first shock of the great Crimean earthquake of 1927.

A nine-point tremor, which caused countless disasters throughout the peninsula, tore the treasure from the hands of the concessionaires.

“Comrade Bender! What is this?” Ippolit Matveyevich cried in horror.

Ostap was beside himself: an earthquake stood in his way. This was the only such instance in his rich practice.

“What is this?” Vorobyaninov howled. From the street came shouts, clanging, and stomping.

“This means we need to get out into the street immediately before the wall collapses on us. Faster! Faster! Give me your hand, hat.”

And they rushed to the exit. To their surprise, by the door leading from the stage to the alley, lay a whole and undamaged Gamms-style chair on its back. With a dog-like yelp, Ippolit Matveyevich clung to it with a death grip.

“Give me the pliers!” he shouted to Ostap.

“You scabby idiot!” Ostap groaned. “The ceiling’s about to collapse, and he’s losing his mind here! Faster, out into the air!”

“Pliers!” roared the maddened Ippolit Matveyevich.

“Oh, to hell with you! Perish here with your chair! Is my life dear to me as a memory?”

With these words, Ostap rushed to the door. Ippolit Matveyevich barked and, grabbing the chair, ran after Ostap.

As soon as they were in the middle of the alley, the ground sickeningly swayed beneath their feet, tiles fell from the theater roof, and on the spot the concessionaires had just left, the remains of the hydraulic press already lay.

“Well, now give me the chair,” Bender said coolly. “You seem to be tired of holding it.”

“I won’t give it!” Ippolit Matveyevich shrieked.

“What is this? Mutiny on the ship? Give me the chair. Do you hear?”

“This is my chair!” Vorobyaninov squawked, overriding the groans, cries, and cracking sounds coming from everywhere.

“In that case, take your fee, old galosh!”

And Ostap struck Vorobyaninov on the neck with a brass palm.

At that very moment, a fire brigade with torches raced through the alley, and in their flickering light, Ippolit Matveyevich saw such a terrible expression on Bender’s face that he immediately submitted and gave up the chair.

“Well, now that’s good,” Ostap said, catching his breath, “the mutiny is suppressed. And now, take the chair and carry it after me. You are responsible for the integrity of the item. Even if there’s a fifty-point tremor, the chair must be preserved! Understood?”

“Understood.”

All night the concessionaires wandered with the panicked crowds, not daring, like everyone else, to enter the abandoned houses and awaiting new shocks.

At dawn, when the fear had somewhat subsided, Ostap chose a spot near which there were no walls that could collapse, and no people who could interfere, and proceeded to dismantle the chair.

The results of the dismantling astonished both concessionaires. There was nothing in the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich, unable to bear all the shocks of the night and morning, let out a rat-like giggle.

Immediately following this, the third shock occurred, the earth opened up and swallowed the Gamms-style chair, which had been spared by the first tremor and then torn apart by people, its little flowers smiling at the sun rising in the dusty clouds.

Ippolit Matveyevich got on all fours and, turning his crumpled face to the murky crimson sun disk, howled. Listening to him, the great schemer fainted. When he regained consciousness, he saw Vorobyaninov’s chin, overgrown with lilac stubble, beside him. Ippolit Matveyevich was unconscious.

“After all,” Ostap said in the voice of a convalescing typhoid patient, “now we have a hundred chances out of a hundred left. The last chair (at the word ‘chair,’ Ippolit Matveyevich regained consciousness) disappeared in the freight yard of the Oktyabrskaya Station, but by no means fell through the earth. What’s the matter? The meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Bricks were falling with a crash somewhere. A steamboat siren wailed mournfully.

 

Chapter 40. The Treasure

 

On a rainy day in late October, Ippolit Matveyevich, without his jacket, in a moonlight-patterned waistcoat sprinkled with tiny silver stars, bustled about Ivanopulo’s room. Ippolit Matveyevich worked on the windowsill, as there was still no table in the room. The great schemer had received a large artistic order for making address plates for housing cooperatives. Ostap had entrusted Vorobyaninov with stenciling the plates, while he himself, for almost a month since arriving in Moscow, had been circling the area around Oktyabrsky Station, searching with incomprehensible passion for traces of the last chair, which undoubtedly contained Madame Petukhova’s diamonds.

Wrinkling his forehead, Ippolit Matveyevich stenciled the iron plates. In half a year of his diamond chase, he had lost his former habits.

At night, Ippolit Matveyevich saw mountain ranges adorned with wild banners, Izurenkov fluttered before his eyes, his brown thighs trembling, boats capsized, people drowned, bricks fell from the sky, and the gaping earth spewed sulfurous smoke into his eyes.

Ostap, who was with Ippolit Matveyevich daily, noticed no change in him. Meanwhile, Ippolit Matveyevich had changed remarkably. Ippolit Matveyevich’s gait was no longer the same, his eyes had a wild expression, and his grown mustache no longer stuck out parallel to the earth’s surface, but almost perpendicularly, like an old cat’s.

Ippolit Matveyevich had also changed internally. New traits of decisiveness and cruelty, previously uncharacteristic of him, appeared in his character. Three episodes gradually fostered these new feelings in him: the miraculous rescue from the heavy fists of the Vasyuki amateurs, his first debut as a beggar near Pyatigorsk’s “Tsvetnik,” and finally, the earthquake, after which Ippolit Matveyevich was somewhat damaged and harbored a secret hatred for his companion.

Lately, Ippolit Matveyevich had been tormented by intense suspicions. He feared that Ostap would open the chair himself and, taking the treasures, would leave, abandoning him to his fate. He dared not voice his suspicions, knowing Ostap’s heavy hand and unyielding character. Every day, sitting by the window and cleaning dried letters with an old jagged razor, Ippolit Matveyevich languished. Every day he feared that Ostap would not come again and that he, the former marshal of the nobility, would starve to death under a wet Moscow fence.

But Ostap came every evening, though he brought no joyful news. His energy and cheerfulness were inexhaustible. Hope never left him for a moment.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor, and someone crashed into the fireproof cabinet, and the plywood door swung open as easily as a wind-blown page. The great schemer stood on the threshold. He was drenched in water, his cheeks glowing like apples. He was breathing heavily.

“Ippolit Matveyevich!” he cried. “Listen, Ippolit Matveyevich!”

Vorobyaninov was surprised. Never before had the technical director called him by his full name. And suddenly he understood…

“You found it?” he exhaled.

“That’s exactly it, I found it. Oh, Kitty, damn you!”

“Don’t shout, everyone can hear.”

“Right, right, they might hear,” Ostap whispered quickly. “Yes, Kitty, yes, and if you wish, I can demonstrate it right now. It’s in the railway workers’ club, the new club… The opening was yesterday… How did I find it? Nonsense? An extraordinarily difficult thing! A brilliant combination, brilliantly executed to the end! An ancient adventure!… In short, high class!”

Without waiting for the shocked Ippolit Matveyevich to put on his jacket, Ostap rushed into the corridor. Vorobyaninov joined him on the stairs. Both, excitedly peppering each other with questions, raced along the wet streets to Kalanchevskaya Square. They didn’t even think of taking a tram.

“You’re dressed like a shoemaker!” Ostap chattered joyfully. “Who walks like that, Kitty? You need starched linen, 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?”

Having shown the leader the chair, which stood in the chess club room and had the most ordinary Gamms-style appearance, though it concealed untold valuables, Ostap dragged Vorobyaninov into the corridor. There wasn’t a soul there. Ostap approached the window, which had not yet been sealed for winter, and pulled out the latches of both frames.

“Through this little window,” he said, “we will easily and gently enter the club at any hour tonight. Remember, Kitty,  —  the third window from the main entrance.”

The friends continued to wander around the club for a long time under the guise of UONO (District Public Education Department) representatives and could not stop admiring the beautiful halls and rooms.

“If I played in Vasyuki,” Ostap said, “sitting on such a chair, I wouldn’t lose a single game. Enthusiasm wouldn’t allow it. However, let’s go, old man, I have twenty-five rubles under my skin. We must drink beer and rest before our night visit. Does beer shock you, leader? No problem. Tomorrow you’ll be lapping up champagne in unlimited quantities.”

Walking from the beer hall to Sivtsev Vrazhek, Bender was terribly merry and pestered passers-by. He put his arm around the slightly tipsy Ippolit Matveyevich and spoke tenderly:

“You’re an extremely nice old man, Kitty, but I won’t give you more than ten percent. I swear, I won’t. Well, why do you need so much money? Why?”

“Why, why?” Ippolit Matveyevich fumed.

Ostap laughed wholeheartedly and pressed his cheek against his concession-partner’s wet sleeve.

“Well, what will you buy, Kitty? Well, what? You have no imagination at all. By God, fifteen thousand will be more than enough for you… You’ll die soon, you’re old. You don’t need money at all… You know, Kitty, I think I won’t give you anything. It’s spoiling. I’ll take you, Kisulya, as my secretary. Eh? Forty rubles a month. My keep. Four days off… Eh? Work clothes, tips, social insurance… Eh? Does this offer suit you?”

Ippolit Matveyevich snatched his hand away and quickly walked ahead. These jokes drove him to a frenzy.

Ostap caught up with Vorobyaninov at the entrance to the pink mansion.

“Are you really offended with me?” Ostap asked. “I was just joking. You’ll get your three percent. By God, three percent is enough for you, Kitty.”

Ippolit Matveyevich sullenly entered the room.

“Eh? Kitty,” Ostap frolicked, “agree to three percent! By God, agree! Someone else would have agreed. You don’t need to buy rooms, since Ivanopulo left for Tver for a whole year. Or just come work for me as a valet… A comfortable position.”

Seeing that Ippolit Matveyevich could not be roused by anything, Ostap yawned sweetly, stretched up to the ceiling, filling his broad chest with air, and said:

“Well, friend, get your pockets ready. We’ll go to the club before dawn. That’s the best time. The guards are sleeping and having sweet dreams, for which they are often fired without severance pay. For now, my dear, I advise you to rest.”

Ostap settled onto three chairs, collected from different parts of Moscow, and, falling asleep, muttered:

“Or as a valet!… A decent salary… Food… Tips… Well, well, just kidding… The meeting continues, ladies and gentlemen of the jury! The ice has broken, ladies and gentlemen of the jury!”

These were the great schemer’s last words. He fell into a carefree sleep, deep, refreshing, and unburdened by dreams.

Ippolit Matveyevich went outside. He was full of despair and malice. The moon jumped across the cloudy hummocks. The wet grilles of the mansions shone greasily. Gas lamps, surrounded by halos of water dust, glowed anxiously. A drunk was pushed out of the “Eagle” beer hall. The drunk yelled. Ippolit Matveyevich winced and walked firmly back. He had one desire: to finish everything as soon as possible.

He entered the room, looked sternly at the sleeping Ostap, wiped his pince-nez, and took the razor from the windowsill. Dried flakes of oil paint were visible on its serrations. He put the razor in his pocket, walked past Ostap once more, without looking at him, but hearing his breath, and found himself in the corridor. It was quiet and sleepy here. Apparently, everyone had already gone to bed. In the complete darkness of the corridor, Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly smiled in the most caustic way and felt the skin on his forehead move. To check this new sensation, he smiled again. He suddenly remembered that in the gymnasium, a student named Pykhteev-Kakuev could wiggle his ears.

Ippolit Matveyevich reached the stairs and listened carefully. There was no one on the stairs. From the street came the clatter of a cab horse’s hooves, deliberately loud and distinct, as if counting on an abacus. The leader, with a cat-like tread, returned to the room, took twenty-five rubles and pliers from Ostap’s jacket hanging on a chair, put on his dirty admiral’s cap, and listened again.

Ostap slept quietly, without snoring. His nasopharynx and lungs worked perfectly, inhaling and exhaling air steadily. A massive hand hung down to the floor. Ippolit Matveyevich, feeling the momentary throbbing of his temporal pulse, slowly pulled up his right sleeve above the elbow, wrapped a waffle towel around his exposed arm, went to the door, took the razor from his pocket, and, gauging the room’s distances with his eyes, flipped the switch. The light went out, but the room was slightly illuminated by the bluish, aquarium-like light of a streetlamp.

“All the better,” Ippolit Matveyevich whispered.

He approached the head of the bed and, holding the razor far back, plunged the entire blade obliquely into Ostap’s throat with all his might, immediately pulled the razor out, and jumped back against the wall. The great schemer made a sound like a kitchen sink sucking in residual water. Ippolit Matveyevich managed not to get stained with blood. Wiping the stone wall with his jacket, he crept to the blue door and for a second looked at Ostap again. His body arched twice and fell back against the chair backs. The street light shimmered on the black puddle that had formed on the floor.

“What is this puddle?” Ippolit Matveyevich thought. “Yes, yes, blood… Comrade Bender has died.”

Vorobyaninov unwound the slightly soiled towel, threw it away, then carefully placed the razor on the floor and left, quietly closing the door.

Finding himself on the street, Ippolit Matveyevich scowled and, muttering: “The diamonds are all mine, not six percent at all,” walked to Kalanchevskaya Square.

At the third window from the main entrance of the railway club, Ippolit Matveyevich stopped. The mirrored windows of the new building shimmered pearly grey in the light of the approaching morning. In the damp air, the muffled voices of shunting locomotives sounded. Ippolit Matveyevich deftly scrambled onto the cornice, pushed the frame, and silently jumped into the corridor.

Easily navigating the grey pre-dawn halls of the club, Ippolit Matveyevich entered the chess room and, catching his head on the portrait of Emanuel Lasker hanging on the wall, approached the chair. He was not in a hurry. He had nowhere to be surprised. No one was chasing him.

Grandmaster O. Bender slept an eternal sleep in the pink mansion on Sivtsev Vrazhek.

Ippolit Matveyevich sat on the floor, clasped the chair with his sinewy legs, and with the coolness of a dentist, began to pull out the brass nails from the chair, not missing a single one. On the sixty-second nail, his work ended. The English chintz and burlap lay loosely on the chair’s upholstery.

He only needed to lift them to see the cases, small cases, and boxes filled with precious stones.

“Immediately to a car,” Ippolit Matveyevich thought, having learned worldly wisdom in the school of the great schemer, “to the station. And to the Polish border. For some little stone, they’ll ferry me to the other side, and there…”

And, wanting to see “there” as quickly as possible, Ippolit Matveyevich pulled the chintz and burlap off the chair. His eyes beheld springs, beautiful English springs, and upholstery, remarkable upholstery, of pre-war quality, which could no longer be found anywhere. But nothing else was contained in the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich mechanically rummaged through the upholstery and sat for half an hour, not releasing the chair from his tenacious legs and stupidly repeating:

“Why is there nothing here? This cannot be! This cannot be!”

It was almost light when Vorobyaninov, abandoning everything as it was in the chess room, forgetting his pliers and the cap with the golden stamp of a non-existent yacht club there, unnoticed by anyone, heavily and tiredly climbed out the window into the street.

“This cannot be,” he repeated, walking a block away. “This cannot be!”

And he returned to the club and began pacing along its large windows, moving his lips:

“This cannot be! This cannot be! This cannot be.”

Occasionally he would cry out and grab his head, wet with the morning mist. Remembering all the events of the night, he shook his grey locks. The diamond excitement had proved too strong a remedy: he had aged in five minutes.

“They’re walking here, all sorts of people are walking,” Vorobyaninov heard above his ear.

He saw the watchman in canvas overalls and cold boots. The watchman was very old and, apparently, kind.

“They walk and walk,” the old man, tired of his nightly solitude, said sociably, “and you, too, comrade, are interested. And rightly so. Our club, one might say, is extraordinary.”

Ippolit Matveyevich looked painfully at the rosy-cheeked old man.

“Yes,” the old man said, “this club is extraordinary. There’s no other like it anywhere.”

“And what is so extraordinary about it?” Ippolit Matveyevich asked, collecting his thoughts.

The old man looked at Vorobyaninov joyfully. Apparently, he enjoyed the story of the extraordinary club himself, and he liked to repeat it.

“Well, and so,” the old man began, “I’ve been a watchman here for ten years, and nothing like this has ever happened. You listen, soldier. Well, there was always a club here, you know, the first traction service section. And I watched over it. It was a good-for-nothing club… They heated it, and heated it, and couldn’t do anything. And Comrade Krasilnikov comes up to me: ‘Where, he says, does your firewood go?’ And do I eat this firewood? Comrade Krasilnikov struggled with the club — it was damp here, cold there, no room for the brass band, and playing in the theater was pure torment: the artists were freezing. For five years they asked for credit for a new club, but I don’t know what came of it. The Dorprofsozh (Railway Workers’ Union) did not approve the credit. Only in the spring Comrade Krasilnikov bought a chair for the stage, a good chair, soft…”

Ippolit Matveyevich, leaning his entire body on the watchman, listened. He was in a semi-faint. And the old man, bursting into joyful laughter, told how he had once climbed onto this chair to unscrew an electric light bulb, and then tumbled down.

“I slipped off that chair, its upholstery ripped. And I see — from under the upholstery, glass shards are spilling out, and white beads on a string.”

“Beads,” Ippolit Matveyevich mumbled.

“Beads!” the old man shrieked with delight. “And I looked, soldier, further, and there were different boxes. I didn’t even touch these boxes. I went straight to Comrade Krasilnikov and reported it. And then I reported it to the commission. I didn’t touch these boxes and I didn’t touch them. And it was a good thing I did, soldier, because a treasure was found there, hidden by the bourgeoisie…”

“Where is the treasure?” the leader cried.

“Where, where,” the old man mimicked, “here, soldier, you need to have some sense. Here they are!”

“Where? Where?”

“Right here!” the rosy-cheeked guard shouted, enjoying the effect he produced. “Right here! Wipe your glasses! The club was built on them, soldier! See? Here it is, the club! Steam heating, checkers with clocks, a buffet, a theater, no galoshes allowed!…”

Ippolit Matveyevich froze and, without moving, scanned the cornices with his eyes.

So this is where it was, Madame Petukhova’s treasure! Here it is! All here! All one hundred and fifty thousand rubles and zero kopecks, as Ostap Suleiman-Berta-Maria Bender liked to say.

The diamonds had transformed into solid facade glass and reinforced concrete slabs, the cool gymnasiums were made of pearls. The diamond diadem had become a theater hall with a revolving stage, ruby pendants had grown into entire chandeliers, golden emerald snake bracelets had turned into a beautiful library, and the clasp had reincarnated into a children’s nursery, a glider workshop, a chess room, and a billiard room.

The treasure remained, it was preserved and even increased. It could be touched by hand, but it could not be carried away. It had passed into the service of other people.

Ippolit Matveyevich touched the granite facing with his hands. The coldness of the stone transferred to his very heart. And he cried out.

His scream, wild, passionate, and fierce — the scream of a she-wolf shot through — flew to the center of the square, swirled under the bridge and, pushed back from all sides by the sounds of the waking big city, began to fade and in a minute withered. A magnificent autumn morning rolled from the wet roofs onto the streets of Moscow. The city moved into its everyday march.