Ilf and Petrov. The Twelve Chairs Translated from the Russian by John Richardson The original Russian title: Двенадцать стульев OCR: Tuocs Introduction PART I: THE LION OF STARGOROD 1 Bezenchuk and the Nymphs 2 Madame Petukhov's Demise 3 The Parable of the Sinner 4 The Muse of Travel 5 The Smooth Operator 6 A Diamond Haze 7 Traces of the Titanic 8 The Bashful Chiseller 9 Where Are Your Curls? 10 The Mechanic, the Parrot, and the Fortune-teller 11 The Mirror-of-Life Index 12 A Passionate Woman Is a Poet's Dream 13 Breathe Deeper: You're Excited! 14 The Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare PART II: IN MOSCOW 15 A Sea of Chairs 16 The Brother Berthold Schwartz Hostel 17 Have Respect for Mattresses, Citizens! 18 The Furniture Museum 19 Voting the European Way 20 From Seville to Granada 21 Punishment 22 Ellochka the Cannibal 23 Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov 24 The Automobile Club 25 Conversation with a Naked Engineer 26 Two Visits 27 The Marvellous Prison Basket 28 The Hen and the Pacific Rooster 29 The Author of the "Gavriliad" 30 In the Columbus Theatre PART III: MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE 31 A Magic Night on the Volga 32 A Shady Couple 33 Expulsion from Paradise 34 The Interplanetary Chess Tournament 35 Et Alia 36 A View of the Malachite Puddle 37 The Green Cape 38 Up in the Clouds 39 The Earthquake 40 The Treasure INTRODUCTION It has long been my considered opinion that strains in Russo-American relations are inevitable as long as the average American persists in picturing the Russian as a gloomy, moody, unpredictable individual, and the average Russian in seeing the American as childish, cheerful and, on the whole, rather primitive. Naturally, we each resent the other side's unjust opinions and ascribe them, respectively, to the malice of capitalist or Communist propaganda. What is to blame for this? Our national literatures; or, more exactly, those portions of them which are read. Since few Americans know people of the Soviet Union from personal experience, and vice versa, we both depend to a great extent on information gathered from the printed page. The Russians know us-let us forget for a moment about Pravda-from the works of Jack London, James Fenimore Cooper, Mark Twain and O. Henry. We know the Russians-let us temporarily disregard the United Nations-as we have seen them depicted in certain novels of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and in the later dramas of Chekhov. There are two ways to correct these misconceptions. One would be to import into Russia a considerable number of sober, serious-minded, Russian-speaking American tourists, in exchange for an identical number of cheerful, logical, English-speaking Russians who would visit America. The other, less costly form of cultural exchange would be for the Russians to read more of Hawthorne, Melville, Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, and for us to become better acquainted with the less solemn-though not at all less profound-Russians. We should do well to read more of Gogol, Saltykov-Shchedrin, Chekhov (the short stories and the one-act plays) and-among Soviet authors-to read Mikhail Zoshchenko and Ilf and Petrov. Thus, in its modest way, the present volume-though outwardly not very "serious" should contribute to our better understanding of Russia and the Russians and aid us in facing the perils of peaceful coexistence. If writers were to be judged not by the reception accorded to them by literary critics but by their popularity with the reading public, there could be no doubt that the late team of Ilf and Petrov would have few peers among Soviet men of letters. Together with another humorist, the recently deceased Mikhail Zoshchenko, for many years they baffled and outraged Soviet editors and delighted Soviet readers. Yet even while their works were officially criticized in the literary journals for a variety of sins (the chief among them being insufficient ideological militancy and, ipso facto, inferior educational value), the available copies of earlier editions were literally read to shreds by millions of Soviet citizens. Russian readers loved Ilf and Petrov because these two writers provided them with a form of catharsis rarely available to the Soviet citizen-the opportunity to laugh at the sad and ridiculous aspects of Soviet existence. Anyone familiar with Soviet press and literature knows one of their most depressing features-the emphasis on the pompous and the weighty, and the almost total absence of the light touch. The USSR has a single Russian journal of humour and satire, Krokodil, which is seldom amusing. There is a very funny man in the Soviet circus, Oleg Popov, but he is a clown and seldom talks. At the present time, among the 4,801 full-time Soviet writers there is not a single talented humorist. And yet the thirst for humour is so great in Russia that it was recognized as a state problem by Malenkov, who, during his short career as Prime Minister after Stalin's death, appealed to Soviet writers to become modern Gogols and Saltykov-Shchedrins. The writers, however, seem to have remembered only too well the risks of producing humour and satire in a totalitarian state (irreverent laughter can easily provoke accusations of political disloyalty, as was the case with Zoschenko in 1946), and the appeal did not bring about desired results. Hence, during the "liberal" years of 1953-7 the Soviet Government made available, as a concession to its humour-starved subjects, new editions of the old works of Soviet humorists, including 200,000 copies of Ilf and Petrov's The Twelve Chairs and The Little Golden Calf. Muscovites and Leningraders might disagree, but there is strong evidence to indicate that during the first decades of this century the capital of Russian humour was Odessa, a bustling, multilingual, cosmopolitan city on the Black Sea. In his recently published memoirs, the veteran Soviet novelist Konstantin Paustovsky fondly recalls the sophisticated and iconoclastic Odessa of the early post-revolutionary years. Among the famous sons of Odessa were Isaac Babel, the writer of brilliant, sardonic short stories; Yurii Olesha, the creator of modernistic, ironic tales; Valentin Katayev, author of Squaring the Circle, perhaps the best comedy in the Soviet repertory; and both members of the team of Ilf and Petrov. Ilya Ilf (pseudonym of Fainzilberg) was born in 1897; Yevgeny Petrov (pseudonym of Katayev, a younger brother of Valentin) in 1903. The two men met in Moscow, where they both worked on the railwaymen's newspaper, Gudok (Train Whistle). Their "speciality" was reading letters to the editor, which is a traditional Soviet means for voicing grievances about bureaucracy, injustices and shortages. Such letters would sometimes get published as feuilletons, short humorous stories somewhat reminiscent of Chekhov's early output. In 1927 Ilf and Petrov formed a literary partnership, publishing at first under a variety of names, including some whimsical ones, like Fyodor Tolstoyevsky. In their joint "autobiography" Ilf and Petrov wrote : It is very difficult to write together. It was easier for the Goncourts, we suppose. After all, they were brothers, while we are not even related to each other. We are not even of the same age. And even of different nationalities; while one is a Russian (the enigmatic Russian soul), the other is a Jew (the enigmatic Jewish soul). The literary partnership lasted for ten years, until 1937, when Ilya Ilf died of tuberculosis. Yevgeny Petrov was killed in 1942 during the siege of Sebastopol. The two writers are famed chiefly for three books-The Twelve Chairs (1928; known in a British translation as Diamonds to Sit On); The Little Golden Calf (1931), a tale of the tribulations of a Soviet millionaire who is afraid to spend any money lest he be discovered by the police; and One-Storey-High America (1936; known in a British translation as Little Golden America), an amusing and, on the whole, friendly account of the two writers' adventures in the land of Wall Street, the Empire State Building, cars, and aspiring capitalists. The plot of The Twelve Chairs is very simple. The mother-in-law of a former nobleman named Vorobyaninov discloses on her deathbed a secret: she hid her diamonds in one of the family's chairs that subsequently was appropriated by the Soviet authorities. Vorobyaninov is joined by a young crook named Ostap Bender with whom he forms a partnership, and together they proceed to locate these chairs. The partners have a competitor in the priest Vostrikov, who has also learned of the secret from his dying parishioner. The competing treasure-hunters travel throughout Russia, which enables the authors to show us glimpses of little towns, Moscow, and Caucasian resorts, and also have the three central characters meet a wide variety of people -Soviet bureaucrats, newspapermen, survivors of the pre-revolutionary propertied classes, provincials, and Muscovites. The events described in the novel are set in 1927, that is, toward the end of the period of the New Economic Policy, which was characterized by a temporary truce between the Soviet regime's Communist ideology and limited private enterprise in commerce, industry and agriculture. The coffin-making and bagel-making businesses referred to in the novel have long since been nationalized; the former noblemen masquerading as petty Soviet employees and many of the colleagues of the priest described by Ilf and Petrov are no longer alive; and it is impossible to imagine the existence today of an anti-Soviet "conspiracy" similar to the humorists' "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare". Other than that, however, the Soviet Union described in the novel is very much like the Soviet Union of 1960, industrial progress and the Sputniks notwithstanding. The standard of living in 1927 was relatively high; it subsequently declined. Now it is just slightly higher than it was thirty years ago. The present grotesquely overcrowded and poor-quality housing (there is not even a Russian word for "privacy" I) is not much different from the conditions Ilf and Petrov knew. There are now, as there were then, people to whom sausage is a luxury, as it was to the newlyweds in The Twelve Chairs. Embezzlers of state property, though denounced as "survivals of the capitalist past", are found by thousands among young men in their thirties and forties. The ominous door signs protecting Communist bureaucrats, from unwanted visitors still adorn Soviet offices. Nor has the species of Ellochka the Cannibal, the vulgar and greedy wife of a hardworking engineer, become extinct. And there are still multitudes of Muscovites who flock to museums to see how prosperously the bourgeoisie lived before the Revolution-Muscovites who are mistaken for art lovers by unsuspecting Western tourists who then report at home a tremendous Soviet interest in the fine arts. Why, even the ZAGS remains unchanged; only a few months ago Komsomolskaya Pravda, a youth newspaper, demanded that something be done about it, because brides and grooms are embarrassed when the indifferent clerk inquires whether they came to register a birth, a death, or wish to get married-just as Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov did over thirty years ago in the little Soviet town deep in the provinces. Similarly, the "poet" Lapis who peddled nearly identical verse to various trade publications-providing his hero Gavrila with different professions such as chemist, postman, hunter, etc., to give the poem a couleur local suitable for each of the journals- enjoys excellent health to this day. There are hundreds of recent Soviet novels, poems and dramas written by as many Soviet writers which differ only in the professions of their protagonists; in their character delineations and conflicts they are all very much alike. And, finally, the custom of delivering formal political speeches, all of them long, boring, and terribly repetitious, persists to our times. These speeches are still a regular feature at all public events in the USSR. Thus the Western reader, in addition to being entertained, is likely to profit from the reading of The Twelve Chairs by getting a glimpse of certain aspects of daily life in the Soviet Union which are not normally included in Intourist itineraries. The hero of The Twelve Chairs (and also, it might be added, of The Little Golden Calf) is Ostap Bender, "the smooth operator", a resourceful rogue and confidence man. Unlike the nobleman Vorobyaninov and the priest Vostrikov, Bender is not a representative of the ancient regime. Only twenty-odd years old, he does not even remember pre-revolutionary Russia: at the first meeting of the "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare" Bender has some difficulty playing the role of a tsarist officer. Ostap Bender is a Soviet crook, born of Soviet conditions and quite willing to co-exist with the Soviet system to which he has no ideological or even economic objections. Ostap Bender's inimitable slangy Russian is heavily spiced with cliches of the Communist jargon. Bender knows the vulnerabilities of Soviet state functionaries and exploits them for his own purposes. He also knows that the Soviet Man is not very different from the Capitalist Man-that he is just as greedy, lazy, snobbish, cowardly and gullible-and uses these weaknesses to his, Ostap Bender's, advantage. And yet, in spite of Ostap Bender's dishonesty and lack of scruples, we somehow get to like him. Bender is gay, carefree and clever, and when we see him matching his wits with those of Soviet bureaucrats, we hope that he wins. In the end Ostap Bender and his accomplices lose; yet, strangely enough, the end of the novel seems forced, much like the cliche happy ending of a mediocre Hollywood film. One must understand, however, that even in the comparatively "liberal" 1920s it was difficult for a Soviet author not to supply a happy Soviet ending to a book otherwise as aloof from Soviet ideology as The Twelve Chairs. And so, at the end of the novel, one of the greedy fortune-hunters is killed by his partner, while the other two end up in a psychiatric ward. But at least Ilf and Petrov have spared us from seeing Ostap Bender contrasted with a virtuous upright Soviet hero, and for this we must be grateful. Much as in Gogol's Inspector General and Dead Souls and in the satires of Saltykov-Shchedrin, we observe with fascination a Russia of embezzlers, knaves and stupid government officials. We understand their weaknesses and vices, for they are common to all men. Indeed, we can even get to like these people, as we could not like the stuffy embodiments of Communist virtues who inhabit the great majority of Soviet novels. Inevitably, some of the humour must get lost in the process of translation. The protagonists in The Twelve Chairs are for the most part semi-educated men, but they all aspire to kulturnost, and love to refer to classics of Russian literature-which they usually misquote. They also frequently mispronounce foreign words with comical effect. These no translator could possibly salvage. But the English-speaking reader won't miss the ridiculous quality of the "updated" version of The Marriage on a Soviet stage, even if he has never seen a traditional performance of Gogol's comedy; he will detect with equal ease the hilarious scheme of Ostap Bender to "modernize" a famous canvas by Repin even if he has never seen the original painting. Fortunately, most of the comic qualities of the novel are inherent in the actions of the protagonists, and these are not affected by being translated. They will only serve to prove once again that, basically, Soviet Russians are fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer" as all men are. MAURICE FRIEDBERQ Hunter College 1960 Part I THE LION OF STARGOROD CHAPTER ONE BEZENCHUK AND THE NYMPHS There were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral homes in the regional centre of N. that the inhabitants seemed to be born merely in order to have a shave, get their hair cut, freshen up their heads with toilet water and then die. In actual fact, people came into the world, shaved, and died rather rarely in the regional centre of N. Life in N. was extremely quiet. The spring evenings were delightful, the mud glistened like anthracite in the light of the moon, and all the young men of the town were so much in love with the secretary of the communal-service workers' local committee that she found difficulty in collecting their subscriptions. Matters of life and death did not worry Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, although by the nature of his work he dealt with them from nine till five every day, with a half-hour break for lunch. Each morning, having drunk his ration of hot milk brought to him by Claudia Ivanovna in a streaky frosted-glass tumbler, he left the dingy little house and went outside into the vast street bathed in weird spring sunlight; it was called Comrade Gubernsky Street. It was the nicest kind of street you can find in regional centres. On the left you could see the coffins of the Nymph Funeral Home glittering with silver through undulating green-glass panes. On the right, the dusty, plain oak coffins of Bezenchuk, the undertaker, reclined sadly behind small windows from which the putty was peeling off. Further up, "Master Barber Pierre and Constantine" promised customers a "manicure" and "home curlings". Still further on was a hotel with a hairdresser's, and beyond it a large open space in which a straw-coloured calf stood tenderly licking the rusty sign propped up against a solitary gateway. The sign read: Do-Us-the-Honour Funeral Home. Although there were many funeral homes, their clientele was not wealthy. The Do-Us-the-Honour had gone broke three years before Ippolit Matveyevich settled in the town of N., while Bezenchuk drank like a fish and had once tried to pawn his best sample coffin. People rarely died in the town of N. Ippolit Matveyevich knew this better than anyone because he worked in the registry office, where he was in charge of the registration of deaths and marriages. The desk at which Ippolit Matveyevich worked resembled an ancient gravestone. The left-hand corner had been eaten away by rats. Its wobbly legs quivered under the weight of bulging tobacco-coloured files of notes, which could provide any required information on the origins of the town inhabitants and the family trees that had grown up in the barren regional soil. On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven and immediately slipped on to his nose an old-fashioned pince-nez with a gold nosepiece. He did not wear glasses. At one time, deciding that it was not hygienic to wear pince-nez, he went to the optician and bought himself a pair of frameless spectacles with gold-plated sidepieces. He liked the spectacles from the very first, but his wife (this was shortly before she died) found that they made him look the spitting image of Milyukov, and he gave them to the man who cleaned the yard. Although he was not shortsighted, the fellow grew accustomed to the glasses and enjoyed wearing them. "Bonjour!" sang Ippolit Matveyevich to himself as he lowered his legs from the bed. "Bonjour" showed that he had woken up in a. good humour. If he said "Guten Morgen" on awakening, it usually meant that his liver was playing tricks, that it was no joke being fifty-two, and that the weather was damp at the time. Ippolit Matveyevich thrust his legs into pre-revolutionary trousers, tied the ribbons around his ankles, and pulled on short, soft-leather boots with narrow, square toes. Five minutes later he was neatly arrayed in a yellow waistcoat decorated with small silver stars and a lustrous silk jacket that reflected the colours of the rainbow as it caught the light. Wiping away the drops of water still clinging to his grey hairs after his ablutions, Ippolit Matveyevich fiercely wiggled his moustache, hesitantly felt his bristly chin, gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush and, then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who had just come into the room. "Eppole-et," she thundered, "I had a bad dream last night." The word "dream" was pronounced with a French "r". Ippolit Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law up and down. He was six feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for him to look down on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt. Claudia Ivanovna continued: "I dreamed of the deceased Marie with her hair down, and wearing a golden sash." The iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at the rumble of Claudia Ivanovna's voice. "I am very disturbed. I fear something may happen." These last words were uttered with such force that the square of bristling hair on Ippolit Matveyevich's head moved in different directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly: "Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?" It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her advanced age gave little hope of any improvement. She was stingy in the extreme, and it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's poverty which prevented her giving rein to this passion. Her voice was so strong and fruity that it might well have been envied by Richard the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is well known, horses used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing of all about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed of girls in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid worn by dragoons, caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats who went for walks at night carrying clappers, and knitting-needles which hopped around the room by themselves making a distressing tinkle. An empty-headed woman was Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her upper lip was covered by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush. Ippolit Matveyevich left the house in rather an irritable mood. Bezenchuk the undertaker was standing at the entrance to his tumble-down establishment, leaning against the door with his hands crossed. The regular collapse of his commercial undertakings plus a long period of practice in the consumption of intoxicating drinks had made his eyes bright yellow like a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light. "Greetings to an honoured guest!" he rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov. "Good mornin'." Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled beaver hat. "How's your mother-in-law, might I inquire? " "Mrr-mrr," said Ippolit Matveyevich indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way. "God grant her health," said Bezenchuk bitterly. "Nothin' but losses, durn it." And crossing his hands on his chest, he again leaned against the doorway. At the entrance to the Nymph Funeral Home Ippolit Matveyevich was stopped once more. There were three owners of the Nymph. They all bowed to Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health. "She's well," replied Ippolit Matveyevich. "The things she does! Last night she saw a golden girl with her hair down. It was a dream." The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly. These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov on his way, and contrary to his usual practice, he did not arrive at work until the clock on the wall above the slogan "Finish Your Business and Leave" showed five past nine. Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache, Ippolit Matveyevich was known in the office as Maciste.* although the real Maciste had no moustache. ( Translator's Note: Maciste was an internationally known Italian actor of the time.) Taking a blue felt cushion out of a drawer in the desk, Ippolit Matveyevich placed it on his chair, aligned his moustache correctly (parallel to the top of the desk) and sat down on the cushion, rising slightly higher than his three colleagues. He was not afraid of getting piles; he was afraid of wearing out his trousers-that was why he used the blue cushion. All these operations were watched timidly by two young persons-a boy and a girl. The young man, who wore a padded cotton coat, was completely overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink, the clock that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice "Finish Your Business and Leave". The young man in the coat had not even begun his business, but he was nonetheless ready to leave. He felt his business was so insignificant that it was shameful to disturb such a distinguished-looking grey-haired citizen as Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could wait, so he opened folder no. 2 and, with a twitch of the cheek, immersed himself in the papers. The girl, who had on a long jacket edged with shiny black ribbon, whispered something to the young man and, pink with embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich. "Comrade," she said, "where do we . . ." The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly for himself, blurted out: "Get married!" Ippolit Matveyevich looked thoughtfully at the rail behind which the young couple were standing. "Birth? Death?" "Get married?" repeated the young man in the coat and looked round him in confusion. The girl gave a giggle. Things were going fine. Ippolit Matveyevich set to work with the skill of a magician. In spidery handwriting he recorded the names of the bride and groom in thick registers, sternly questioned the witnesses, who had to be fetched from outside, breathed tenderly and lengthily on the square rubber stamps and then, half rising to his feet, impressed them upon the tattered identification papers. Having received two roubles from the newly-weds "for administration of the sacrament", as he said with a smirk, and given them a receipt, Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height, automatically pushing out his chest (he had worn a corset at one time). The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his shoulders like epaulettes. His appearance was slightly comic, but singularly impressive. The biconcave lenses of his pince-nez flashed white like searchlights. The young couple stood in awe. "Young people," said Ippolit Matveyevich pompously, "allow me to congratulate you, as they used to say, on your legal marriage. It is very, very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!' Having made this address, Ippolit Matveyevich shook hands with the newly married couple, sat down, and, extremely pleased with himself, continued to read the papers in folder no. 2. At the next desk the clerks sniggered into their ink-wells. The quiet routine of the working day had begun. No one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages desk. Through the windows citizens could be seen making their way home, shivering in the spring chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough co-operative began crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then came the mechanical rattling and squeaking of a car engine. A thick cloud of violet smoke billowed out from Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the clanking grew louder. Through the smoke appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with its minute radiator and bulky body. Floundering in the mud as it went, the car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a cloud of poisonous smoke. The clerks remained standing at the window for some time, commenting on the event and attempting to connect it with a possible reduction in staff. A little while later Bezenchuk cautiously went past along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town trying to find out if anyone had died. The working day was drawing to a close. In the nearby white and yellow belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting, and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square. It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be born on that day had been born and registered in the thick ledgers. All those wishing to get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of the undertakers, there had not been a single death. Ippolit Matveyevich packed up his files, put the felt cushion away in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache with a comb, and was just about to leave, having visions of a bowl of steaming soup, when the door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold. "Greetings to an honoured guest," said Ippolit Matveyevich with a smile. "What can I do for you?" The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable to utter a word. "Well?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely. "Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?" said the undertaker vaguely. "Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a coffin needs so much wood alone." "What?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich. "It's the Nymph. . . . Three families livin' on one rotten business. And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the tassels ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in 1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a good coffin." "What are you talking about? Are you crazy?" snapped Ippolit Matveyevich and moved towards the door. "Your coffins will drive you out of your mind." Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience. "When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I tell you straight, there's nothin' to beat mine. You don't even need to look." Ippolit Matveyevich turned round angrily, glared at Bezenchuk, and began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office that day, he felt rotten. The three owners of the Nymph were standing by their establishment in the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that morning. They appeared not to have exchanged a single word with one another, yet a striking change in their expressions and a kind of secret satisfaction darkly gleaming in their eyes indicated that they had heard something of importance. At the sight of his business rivals, Bezenchuk waved his hand in despair and called after Vorobyaninov in a whisper: "I'll make it thirty-two roubles." Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and increased his pace. "You can have credit," added Bezenchuk. The three owners of the Nymph said nothing. They sped after Vorobyaninov in silence, continually doffing their caps and bowing as they went. Highly annoyed by the stupid attentions of the undertakers, Ippolit Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of hunger, went into the hallway. He was met by Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room and was looking hot and bothered. Holding up his cassock in his right hand, Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich. It was then that Vorobyaninov noticed the extra cleanliness and the unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in his nose from the strong smell of medicine. In the outer room Ippolit Matveyevich was met by his neighbour, Mrs. Kuznetsov, the agronomist. She spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about. "She's worse. She's just made her confession. Don't make a noise with your boots." "I'm not," said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. "What's happened?" Mrs. Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner room: "Very severe heart attack." Then, clearly repeating what she had heard, added: "The possibility of her not recovering should not be discounted. I've been on my feet all day. I came this morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was no one in the kitchen and no one in this room either. So I thought Claudia Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to for some time. You know what flour is like nowadays. If you don't buy it beforehand . . ." Mrs. Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour and the high price of it and how she found Claudia Ivanovna lying by the tiled stove completely unconscious, had not a groan from the next room impinged painfully on Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. He quickly crossed himself with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room. CHAPTER TWO MADAME PETUKHOV'S DEMISE Claudia Ivanovna lay on her back with one arm under her head. She was wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion when ladies wore the "chanticleer" and had just begun to dance the tango. Claudia Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed absolutely nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "Claudia Ivanovna!" called Ippolit Matveyevich. His mother-in-law moved her lips rapidly, but instead of the trumpet-like sounds to which his ear was accustomed, Ippolit Matveyevich only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a leap. A tear suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a drop of mercury. "Claudia Ivanovna," repeated Vorobyaninov, "what's the matter?" But again he received no answer. The old woman had closed her eyes and slumped to one side. The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a little boy taken to be washed. "She's dropped off. The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed. Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out how much an ice-bag costs." Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable superiority in such matters. It was a long way to the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street. It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge from an iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said: "Always in me way, durn 'em." In the middle of the square, near the bust of the "poet Zhukovsky, which was inscribed with the words "Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of the Earth", an animated conversation was in progress following the news of Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The general opinion of the assembled citizens could have been summed up as "We all have to go sometime" and "What the Lord gives, the Lord takes back". The hairdresser "Pierre and Constantine"-who also answered readily to the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the way-once again took the opportunity to air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok. "Modern science," Andrew Ivanovich was saying, "has achieved the impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his chin. In the old days that usually resulted in blood-poisoning. But they say that nowadays, in Moscow-I don't know whether it's true or not-a freshly sterilized shaving brush is used for every customer." The citizens gave long sighs. "Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Andrew? " "How could there be a different brush for every person? That's a good one!" Prusis, a former member of the proletariat intelligentsia, and now a private stall-owner, actually became excited. "Wait a moment, Andrew Ivanovich. According to the latest census, the population of Moscow is more than two million. That means they'd need more than two million brushes. Seems rather curious." The conversation was becoming heated, and heaven only knows how it would have ended had not Ippolit Matveyevich appeared at the end of the street. "He's off to the chemist's again. Things must be bad." "The old woman will die. Bezenchuk isn't running round the town in a flurry for nothing." "What does the doctor say? " "What doctor? Do you call those people in the social-insurance office doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!" "Pierre and Constantine", who had been longing for a chance to make a pronouncement on the subject of medicine, looked around cautiously, and said: "Haemoglobin is what counts nowadays." Having said that, he fell silent. The citizens also fell silent, each reflecting in his own way on the mysterious power of haemoglobin. When the moon rose and cast its minty light on the miniature bust of Zhukovsky, a rude word could clearly be seen chalked on the poet's bronze back. This inscription had first appeared on June 15, 1897, the same day that the bust had been unveiled. And despite all the efforts of the tsarist police, and later the Soviet militia, the defamatory word had reappeared each day with unfailing regularity. The samovars were already singing in the little wooden houses with their outside shutters, and it was time for supper. The citizens stopped wasting their time and went their way. A wind began to blow. In the meantime Claudia Ivanovna was dying. First she asked for something to drink, then said she had to get up and fetch Ippolit Matveyevich's best boots from the cobbler. One moment she complained of the dust which, as she put it, was enough to make you choke, and the next asked for all the lamps to be lit. Ippolit Matveyevich paced up and down the room, tired of worrying. His mind was full of unpleasant, practical thoughts. He was thinking how he would have to ask for an advance at the mutual assistance office, fetch the priest, and answer letters of condolence from relatives. To take his mind off these things, Ippolit Matveyevich went out on the porch. There, in the green light of the moon, stood Bezenchuk the undertaker. "So how would you like it, Mr. Vorobyaninov?" asked the undertaker, hugging his cap to his chest. "Yes, probably," answered Ippolit Matveyevich gloomily. "Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?" said Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. "Go to the devil! You make me sick!" "I'm not doin' nothin'. I'm only askin' about the tassels and brocade. How shall I make it? Best quality? Or how?" "No tassels or brocade. Just an ordinary coffin made of pine-wood. Do you understand? " Bezenchuk put his finger to his lips to show that he understood perfectly, turned round and, managing to balance his cap on his head although he was staggering, went off. It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed that he was blind drunk. Ippolit Matveyevich felt singularly upset. He tried to picture himself coming home to an empty, dirty house. He was afraid his mother-in-law's death would deprive him of all those little luxuries and set ways he had acquired with such effort since the revolution-a revolution which had stripped him of much greater luxuries and a grander way of life. "Should I marry?" he wondered. "But who? The militia chief's niece or Barbara Stepanova, Prusis's sister? Or maybe I should hire a housekeeper. But what's the use? She would only drag me around the law courts. And it would cost me something, too!" The future suddenly looked black for Ippolit Matveyevich. Full of indignation and disgust at everything around him, he went back into the house. Claudia Ivanovna was no longer delirious. Lying high on her pillows, she looked at Ippolit Matveyevich, in full command of her faculties, and even sternly, he thought. "Ippolit Matveyevich," she whispered clearly. "Sit close to me. I want to tell you something." Ippolit Matveyevich sat down in annoyance, peering into his mother-in-law's thin, bewhiskered face. He made an attempt to smile and say something encouraging, but the smile was hideous and no words of encouragement came to him. An awkward wheezing noise was all he could produce. "Ippolit," repeated his mother-in-law, "do you remember our drawing-room suite?" "Which one?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich with that kind of polite attention that is only accorded to the very sick. "The one . . . upholstered in English chintz." "You mean the suite in my house?" "Yes, in Stargorod." "Yes, I remember it very well . . . a sofa, a dozen chairs and a round table with six legs. It was splendid furniture. Made by Hambs. . . . But why does it come to mind?" Claudia Ivanovna, however, was unable to answer. Her face had slowly begun to turn the colour of copper sulphate. For some reason Ippolit Matveyevich also caught his breath. He clearly remembered the drawing-room in his house and its symmetrically arranged walnut furniture with curved legs, the polished parquet floor, the old brown grand piano, and the oval black-framed daguerreotypes of high-ranking relatives on the walls. Claudia Ivanovna then said in a wooden, apathetic voice: "I sewed my jewels into the seat of a chair." Ippolit Matveyevich looked sideways at the old woman. "What jewels?" he asked mechanically, then, suddenly realizing what she had said, added quickly: "Weren't they taken when the house was searched?" "I hid the jewels in a chair," repeated the old woman stubbornly. Ippolit Matveyevich jumped up and, taking a close look at Claudia Ivanovna's stony face lit by the paraffin lamp, saw she was not raving. "Your jewels!" he cried, startled at the loudness of his own voice. "In a chair? Who induced you to do that? Why didn't you give them to me?" "Why should I have given them to you when you squandered away my daughter's estate?" said the old woman quietly and viciously. Ippolit Matveyevich sat down and immediately stood up again. His heart was noisily sending the blood coursing around his body. He began to hear a ringing in his ears. "But you took them out again, didn't you? They're here, aren't they?" The old woman shook her head. "I didn't have time. You remember how quickly and unexpectedly we had to flee. They were left in the chair . .. the one between the terracotta lamp and the fireplace." "But that was madness! You're just like your daughter," shouted Ippolit Matveyevich loudly. And no longer concerned for the fact that he was at the bedside of a dying woman, he pushed back his chair with a crash and began prancing about the room. "I suppose you realize what may have happened to the chairs? Or do you think they're still there in the drawing-room in my house, quietly waiting for you to come and get your jewellery? " The old woman did not answer. The registry clerk's wrath was so great that the pince-nez fell of his nose and landed on the floor with a tinkle, the gold nose-piece glittering as it passed his knees. "What? Seventy thousand roubles' worth of jewellery hidden in a chair! Heaven knows who may sit on that chair!" At this point Claudia Ivanovna gave a sob and leaned forward with her whole body towards the edge of the bed. Her hand described a semi-circle and reached out to grasp Ippolit Matveyevich, but then fell back on to the violet down quilt. Squeaking with fright, Ippolit Matveyevich ran to fetch his neighbour. "I think she's dying," he cried. The agronomist crossed herself in a businesslike way and, without hiding her curiosity, hurried into Ippolit Matveyevich's house, accompanied by her bearded husband, also an agronomist. In distraction Vorobyaninov wandered into the municipal park. While the two agronomists and their servants tidied up the deceased woman's room, Ippolit Matveyevich roamed around the park, bumping into benches and mistaking for bushes the young couples numb with early spring love. The strangest things were going on in Ippolit Matveyevich's head. He could hear the sound of gypsy choirs and orchestras composed of big-breasted women playing the tango over and over again; he imagined the Moscow winter and a long-bodied black trotter that snorted contemptuously at the passers-by. He imagined many different things: a pair of deliriously expensive orange-coloured panties, slavish devotion, and a possible trip to Cannes. Ippolit Matveyevich began walking more slowly and suddenly stumbled over the form of Bezenchuk the undertaker. The latter was asleep, lying in the middle of the path in his fur coat. The jolt woke him up. He sneezed and stood up briskly. "Now don't you worry, Mr Vorobyaninov," he said heatedly, continuing the conversation started a while before. "There's lots of work goes into a coffin." "Claudia Ivanovna's dead," his client informed him. "Well, God rest her soul," said Bezenchuk. "So the old lady's passed away. Old ladies pass away . . . or they depart this life. It depends who she is. Yours, for instance, was small and plump, so she passed away. But if it's one who's a bit bigger and thinner, then they say she has departed this life. . . ." "What do you mean 'they say'? Who says?" "We say. The undertakers. Now you, for instance. You're distinguished-lookin' and tall, though a bit on the thin side. If you should die, God forbid, they'll say you popped off. But a tradesman, who belonged to the former merchants' guild, would breathe his last. And if it's someone of lower status, say a caretaker, or a peasant, we say he has croaked or gone west. But when the high-ups die, say a railway conductor or someone in administration, they say he has kicked the bucket. They say: 'You know our boss has kicked the bucket, don't you?' " Shocked by this curious classification of human mortality, Ippolit Matveyevich asked: "And what will the undertakers say about you when you die?" "I'm small fry. They'll say, 'Bezenchuk's gone', and nothin' more." And then he added grimly: "It's not possible for me to pop off or kick the bucket; I'm too small. But what about the coffin, Mr Vorobyaninov? Do you really want one without tassels and brocade? " But Ippolit Matveyevich, once more immersed in dazzling dreams, walked on without answering. Bezenchuk followed him, working something out on his fingers and muttering to himself, as he always did. The moon had long since vanished and there was a wintry cold. Fragile, wafer-like ice covered the puddles. The companions came out on Comrade Gubernsky Street, where the wind was tussling with the hanging shop-signs. A fire-engine drawn by skinny horses emerged from the direction of Staropan Square with a noise like the lowering of a blind. Swinging their canvas legs from the platform, the firemen wagged their helmeted heads and sang in intentionally tuneless voices: "Glory to our fire chief, Glory to dear Comrade Pumpoff!" "They've been havin' a good time at Nicky's wedding," remarked Bezenchuk nonchalantly. "He's the fire chief's son." And he scratched himself under his coat. "So you really want it without tassels and brocade?" By that moment Ippolit Matveyevich had finally made up his mind. "I'll go and find them," he decided, "and then we'll see." And in his jewel-encrusted visions even his deceased mother-in-law seemed nicer than she had actually been. He turned to Bezenchuk and said: "Go on then, damn you, make it! With brocade! And tassels!" CHAPTER THREE THE PARABLE OF THE SINNER Having heard the dying Claudia Ivanovna's confession, Father Theodore Vostrikov, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, left Vorobyaninov's house in a complete daze and the whole way home kept looking round him distractedly and smiling to himself in confusion. His bewilderment became so great in the end that he was almost knocked down by the district-executive-committee motor-car, Gos. No. 1. Struggling out of the cloud of purple smoke issuing from the infernal machine, Father Vostrikov reached the stage of complete distraction, and, despite his venerable rank and middle age, finished the journey at a frivolous half-gallop. His wife, Catherine, was laying the table for supper. On the days when there was no evening service to conduct, Father Theodore liked to have his supper early. This time, however, to his wife's surprise, the holy father, having taken off his hat and warm padded cassock, skipped past into the bedroom, locked himself in and began chanting the prayer "It Is Meet" in a tuneless voice. His wife sat down on a chair and whispered in alarm: "He's up to something again." Father Theodore's tempestuous soul knew no rest, nor had ever known it. Neither at the time when he was Theo, a pupil of the Russian Orthodox Church school, nor when he was Theodore Ivanych, a bewhiskered student at the college. Having left the college and studied law at the university for three years in 1915 Vostrikov became afraid of the possibility of mobilization and returned to the Church. He was first anointed a deacon, then ordained a priest and appointed to the regional centre of N. But the whole time, at every stage of his clerical and secular career, Father Theodore never lost interest in worldly possessions. He cherished the dream of possessing his own candle factory. Tormented by the vision of thick ropes of wax winding on to the factory drums, Father Theodore devised various schemes that would bring in enough basic capital to buy a little factory in Samara which he had had his eye on for some time. Ideas occurred to Father Theodore unexpectedly, and when they did he used to get down to work on the spot. He once started making a marble-like washing-soap; he made pounds and pounds of it, but despite an enormous fat content, the soap would not lather, and it cost twice as much as the Hammer and Plough brand, to boot. For a long time after it remained in the liquid state gradually decomposing on the porch of the house, and whenever his wife, Catherine, passed it, she would wipe away a tear. The soap was eventually thrown into the cesspool. Reading in a farming magazine that rabbit meat was as tender as chicken, that rabbits were highly prolific, and that a keen farmer could make a mint of money breeding them, Father Theodore immediately acquired half a dozen stud rabbits, and two months later, Nerka the dog, terrified by the incredible number of long-eared creatures filling the yard and house, fled to an unknown destination. However, the wretchedly provincial citizens of the town of N. proved extraordinarily conservative and, with unusual unanimity, refused to buy Vostrikov's rabbits. Then Father Theodore had a talk with his wife and decided to enhance his diet with the rabbit meat that was supposed to be tastier than chicken. The rabbits were roasted whole, turned into rissoles and cutlets, made into soup, served cold for supper and baked in pies. But to no avail. Father Theodore worked it out that even if they switched exclusively to a diet of rabbit, the family could not consume more than forty of the creatures a month, while the monthly increment was ninety, with the number increasing in a geometrical progression. The Vostrikovs then decided to sell home-cooked meals. Father Theodore spent a whole evening writing out an advertisement in indelible pencil on neatly cut sheets of graph paper, announcing the sale of tasty home-cooked meals prepared in pure butter. The advertisement began "Cheap and Good!" His wife filled an enamel dish with flour-and-water paste, and late one evening the holy father went around sticking the advertisements on all the telegraph poles, and also in the vicinity of state-owned institutions. The new idea was a great success. Seven people appeared the first day, among them Bendin, the military-commissariat clerk, by whose endeavour the town's oldest monument-a triumphal arch, dating from the time of the Empress Elizabeth-had been pulled down shortly before on the ground that it interfered with the traffic. The dinners were very popular. The next day there were fourteen customers. There was hardly enough time to skin the rabbits. For a whole week things went swimmingly and Father Theodore even considered starting up a small fur-trading business, without a car, when something quite unforeseen took place. The Hammer and Plough co-operative, which had been shut for three weeks for stock-taking, reopened, and some of the counter hands, panting with the effort, rolled a barrel of rotten cabbage into the yard shared by Father Theodore, and dumped the contents into the cesspool. Attracted by the piquant smell, the rabbits hastened to the cesspool, and the next morning an epidemic broke out among the gentle rodents. It only raged for three hours, but during that time it finished off two hundred and forty adult rabbits and an uncountable number of offspring. The shocked priest had been depressed for two whole months, and it was only now, returning from Vorobyaninov's house and to his wife's surprise, locking himself in the bedroom, that he regained his spirits. There was every indication that Father Theodore had been captivated by some new idea. Catherine knocked on the bedroom door with her knuckle. There was no reply, but the chanting grew louder. A moment later the door opened slightly and through the crack appeared Father Theodore's face, brightened by a maidenly flush. "Let me have a pair of scissors quickly, Mother," snapped Father Theodore. "But what about your supper? " "Yes, later on." Father Theodore grabbed the scissors, locked the door again, and went over to a mirror hanging on the wall in a black scratched frame. Beside the mirror was an ancient folk-painting, entitled "The Parable of the Sinner", made from a copperplate and neatly hand-painted. The parable had been a great consolation to Vostrikov after the misfortune with the rabbits. The picture clearly showed the transient nature of earthly things. The top row was composed of four drawings with meaningful and consolatory captions in Church Slavonic: Shem saith a prayer, Ham soweth wheat, Japheth enjoyeth power, Death overtaketh all. The figure of Death carried a scythe and a winged hour-glass and looked as if made of artificial limbs and orthopaedic appliances; he was standing on deserted hilly ground with his legs wide apart, and his general appearance made it clear that the fiasco with the rabbits was a mere trifle. At this moment Father Theodore preferred "Japheth enjoyeth power". The drawing showed a fat, opulent man with a beard sitting on a throne in a small room. Father Theodore smiled and, looking closely at himself in the mirror, began snipping at his fine beard. The scissors clicked, the hairs fell to the floor, and five minutes later Father Theodore knew he was absolutely no good at beard-clipping. His beard was all askew; it looked unbecoming and even suspicious. Fiddling about for a while longer, Father Theodore became highly irritated, called his wife, and, handing her the scissors, said peevishly: "You can help me, Mother. I can't do anything with these rotten hairs." His wife threw up her hands in astonishment. "What have you done to yourself?" she finally managed to say. "I haven't done anything. I'm trimming my beard. It seems to have gone askew just here. . . ." "Heavens!" said his wife, attacking his curls. "Surely you're not joining the Renovators, Theo dear?" Father Theodore was delighted that the conversation had taken this turn. "And why shouldn't I join the Renovators, Mother? They're human-beings, aren't they?" "Of course they're human-beings," conceded his wife venomously, "but they go to the cinema and pay alimony." "Well, then, I'll go to the cinema as well." "Go on then!" Twill!" "You'll get tired of it. Just look at yourself in the mirror." And indeed, a lively black-eyed countenance with a short, odd-looking beard and an absurdly long moustache peered out of the mirror at Father Theodore. They trimmed down the moustache to the right proportions. What happened next amazed Mother still more. Father Theodore declared that he had to go off on a business trip that very evening, and asked his wife to go round to her brother, the baker, and borrow his fur-collared coat and duck-billed cap for a week. "I won't go," said his wife and began weeping. Father Theodore walked up and down the room for half an hour, frightening his wife by the change in his expression and telling her all sorts of rubbish. Mother could understand only one thing-for no apparent reason Father Theodore had cut his hair, intended to go off somewhere in a ridiculous cap, and was leaving her for good. "I'm not leaving you," he kept saying. "I'm not. I'll be back in a week. A man can have a job to do, after all. Can he or can't he?" "No, he can't," said his wife. Father Theodore even had to strike the table with his fist, although he was normally a mild person in his treatment of his near ones. He did so cautiously, since he had never done it before, and, greatly alarmed, his wife threw a kerchief around her head and ran to fetch the civilian clothing from her brother. Left alone, Father Theodore thought for a moment, muttered, "It's no joke for women, either," and pulled out a small tin trunk from under the bed. This type of trunk is mostly found among Red Army soldiers. It is usually lined with striped paper, on top of which is a picture of Budyonny, or the lid of a Bathing Beach cigarette box depicting three lovelies on the pebbly shore at Batumi. The Vostrikovs' trunk was also lined with photographs, but, to Father Theodore's annoyance, they were not of Budyonny or Batumi beauties. His wife had covered the inside of the trunk with photographs cut out of the magazine Chronicle of the 1914 War. They included "The Capture of Peremyshl", "The Distribution of Comforts to Other Ranks in the Trenches", and all sorts of other things. Removing the books that were lying at the top (a set of the Russian Pilgrim for 1913; a fat tome, History of the Schism, and a brochure entitled A Russian in Italy, the cover of which showed a smoking Vesuvius), Father Theodore reached down into the very bottom of the trunk and drew out an old shabby hat belonging to his wife. Wincing at the smell of moth-balls which suddenly assailed him from the trunk, he tore apart the lace and trimmings and took from the hat a heavy sausage-shaped object wrapped in linen. The sausage-shaped object contained twenty ten-rouble gold coins, all that was left of Father Theodore's business ventures. With a habitual movement of the hand, he lifted his cassock and stuffed the sausage into the pocket of his striped trousers. He then went over to the chest of drawers and took twenty roubles in three- and five-rouble notes from a sweet-box. There were twenty roubles left in the box. "That will do for the housekeeping," he decided. CHAPTER FOUR THE MUSE OF TRAVEL An hour before the evening mail-train was due in, Father Theodore, dressed in a short coat which came just below the knee, and carrying a wicker basket, stood in line in front of the booking-office and kept looking apprehensively at the station entrance. He was afraid that in spite of his insistence, his wife might come to see him off, and then Prusis, the stall-owner, who was sitting in the buffet treating the income-tax collector to a glass of beer, would immediately recognize him. Father Theodore stared with shame and surprise at his striped trousers, now exposed to the view of the entire laity. The process of boarding a train without reserved seats took its normal and scandalous course. Staggering under the weight of enormous sacks, passengers ran from the front of the train to the back, and then to the front again. Father Theodore followed them in a daze. Like everyone else, he spoke to the conductors in an ingratiating tone, like everyone else he was afraid he had been given the "wrong" ticket, and it was only when he was finally allowed into a coach that his customary calm returned and he even became happy. The locomotive hooted at the top of its voice and the train moved off, carrying Father Theodore into the unknown on business that was mysterious, yet promised great things. An interesting thing, the permanent way. Once he gets on to it the most ordinary man in the street feels a certain animation in himself and soon turns into a passenger, a consignee, or simply a trouble-maker without a ticket, who makes life difficult for the teams of conductors and platform ticket-inspectors. The moment a passenger approaches the right of way, which he amateurishly calls a railway station, his life is completely changed. He is immediately surrounded by predatory porters with white aprons and nickel badges on their chests, and his luggage is obsequiously picked up. From that moment, the citizen no longer is his own master. He is a passenger and begins to perform all the duties of one. These duties are many, though they are not unpleasant. Passengers eat a lot. Ordinary mortals do not eat during the night, but passengers do. They eat fried chicken, which is expensive, hard-boiled eggs, which are bad for the stomach, and olives. Whenever the train passes over the points, numerous teapots in the rack clatter together, and legless chickens (the legs have been torn out by the roots by passengers) jump up and down in their newspaper wrapping. The passengers, however, are oblivious of all this. They tell each other jokes. Every three minutes the whole compartment rocks with laughter; then there is a silence and a soft-spoken voice tells the following story: "An old Jew lay dying. Around him were his wife and children. 'Is Monya here?' asks the Jew with difficulty. 'Yes, she's here.' 'Has Auntie Brana come?' 'Yes.' 'And where's Grandma? I don't see her.' 'She's over here.' 'And Isaac?' 'He's here, too.' 'What about the children?' They're all here.' 'Then who's minding the shop?'" This very moment the teapots begin rattling and the chickens fly up and down in the rack, but the passengers do not notice. Each one has a favourite story ready, eagerly awaiting its turn. A new raconteur, nudging his neighbours and calling out in a pleading tone, "Have you heard this one?" finally gains attention and begins: "A Jew comes home and gets into bed beside his wife. Suddenly he hears a scratching noise under the bed. The Jew reaches his hand underneath the bed and asks: 'Is that you, Fido?' And Fido licks his hand and says: 'Yes, it's me.' " The passengers collapse with laughter; a dark night cloaks the countryside. Restless sparks fly from the funnel, and the slim signals in their luminous green spectacles flash snootily past, staring above the train. An interesting thing, the right of way! Long, heavy trains race to all' parts of the country. The way is open at every point. Green lights can be seen everywhere; the track is clear. The polar express goes up to Murmansk. The K-l draws out of Kursk Station, bound for Tiflis, arching its back over the points. The far-eastern courier rounds Lake Baikal and approaches the Pacific at full speed. The Muse of Travel is calling. She has already plucked Father Theodore from his quiet regional cloister and cast him into some unknown province. Even Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, former marshal of the nobility and now clerk in a registry office, is stirred to the depths of his heart and highly excited at the great things ahead. People speed all over the country. Some of them are looking for scintillating brides thousands of miles away, while others, in pursuit of treasure, leave their jobs in the post office and rush off like schoolboys to Aldan. Others simply sit at home, tenderly stroking an imminent hernia and reading the works of Count Salias, bought for five kopeks instead of a rouble. The day after the funeral, kindly arranged by Bezenchuk the undertaker, Ippolit Matveyevich went to work and, as part of the duties with which he was charged, duly registered in his own hand the demise of Claudia Ivanovna Petukhov, aged fifty-nine, housewife, non-party-member, resident of the regional centre of N., by origin a member of the upper class of the province of Stargorod. After this, Ippolit Matveyevich granted himself a two-week holiday due to him, took forty-one roubles in salary, said good-bye to his colleagues, and went home. On the way he stopped at the chemist's. The chemist, Leopold Grigorevich, who was called Lipa by his friends and family, stood behind the red-lacquered counter, surrounded by frosted-glass bottles of poison, nervously trying to sell the fire chief's sister-in-law "Ango cream for sunburn and freckles-gives the skin an exceptional whiteness". The fire chief's sister-in-law, however, was asking for "Rachelle powder, gold in colour-gives the skin a tan not normally acquirable". The chemist had only the Ango cream in stock, and the battle between these two very different cosmetics raged for half an hour. Lipa won in the end and sold the fire chief's sister-in-law some lipstick and a bugovar, which is a device similar in principle to the samovar, except that it looks like a watering-can and catches bugs. "What can I get you?" "Something for the hair." "To make it grow, to remove it, or to dye it? " "Not to make it grow," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "To dye it." "We have a wonderful hair dye called Titanic. We got it from the customs people; it was confiscated. It's a jet black colour. A bottle containing a six months' supply costs three roubles, twelve kopeks. I can recommend it to you, as a good friend." Ippolit Matveyevich twiddled the bottle in his hands, looked at the label with a sigh, and put down his money on the counter. He went home and, with a feeling of revulsion, began pouring Titanic onto his head and moustache. A stench filled the house. By the time dinner was over, the stench had cleared, the moustache had dried and become matted and was very difficult to comb. The jet-black colour turned out to have a greenish tint, but there was no time for a second try. Taking from his mother-in-law's jewel box a list of the gems, found the night before, Ippolit Matveyevich counted up his cash-in-hand, locked the house, put the key in his back pocket and took the no. 7 express to Stargorod. CHAPTER FIVE THE SMOOTH OPERATOR At half past eleven a young man aged about twenty-eight entered Stargorod from the direction of the village of Chmarovka, to the north-east. A waif ran along behind him. "Mister!" cried the boy gaily, "gimme ten kopeks!" The young man took a warm apple out of his pocket "and handed it to the waif, but the child still kept running behind. Then the young man stopped and, looking ironically at the boy, said quietly: "Perhaps you'd also like the key of the apartment where the money is?" The presumptuous waif then realized the complete futility of his pretensions and dropped behind. The young man had not told the truth. He had no money, no apartment where it might have been found, and no key with which to open it. He did not even have a coat. The young man entered the town in a green suit tailored to fit at the waist and an old woollen scarf wound several times around his powerful neck. On his feet were patent-leather boots with orange-coloured suede uppers. He had no socks on. The young man carried an astrolabe. Approaching the market, he broke into a song: "O, Bayadere, tum-ti-ti, tum-ti-ti." In the market he found plenty going on. He squeezed into the line of vendors selling wares spread out on the ground before them, stood the astrolabe in front of him and began shouting: "Who wants an astrolabe? Here's an astrolabe going cheap. Special reduction for delegations and women's work divisions !" At first the unexpected supply met with little demand; the delegations of housewives were more interested in obtaining commodities in short supply and were milling around the cloth and drapery stalls. A detective from the Stargorod criminal investigation department passed the astrolabe-vendor twice, but since the instrument in no way resembled the typewriter stolen the day before from the Central Union of Dairy Co-operatives, the detective stopped glaring at the young man and passed on. By lunchtime the astrolabe had been sold to a repairman for three roubles. "It measures by itself," he said, handing over the astrolabe to its purchaser, "provided you have something to measure." Having rid himself of the calculating instrument, the happy young man had lunch in the Tasty Corner snack bar, and then went to have a look at the town. He passed along Soviet Street, came out into Red Army Street (previously Greater Pushkin Street), crossed Co-operative Street and found himself again on Soviet Street. But it was not the same Soviet Street from which he had come. There were two Soviet Streets in the town. Greatly surprised by this fact, the young man carried on and found himself in Lena Massacre Street (formerly Denisov Street). He stopped outside no. 28, a pleasant two-storeyed private house, which bore a sign saying: USSR RSFSR SECOND SOCIAL SECURITY HOME OF THE STAR-PROV-INS-AD and requested a light from the caretaker, who was sitting by the entrance on a stone bench. "Tell me, dad," said the young man, taking a puff, "are there any marriageable young girls in this town? " The old caretaker did not show the least surprise. "For some a mare'd be a bride," he answered, readily striking up a conversation. "I have no more questions," said the young man quickly. And he immediately asked one more: "A house like this and no girls in it?" "It's a long while since there've been any young girls here," replied the old man. "This is a state institution-a home for old-age women pensioners." "I see. For ones born before historical materialism?" "That's it. They were born when they were born." "And what was here in the house before the days of historical materialism?" "When was that?" "In the old days. Under the former regime." "Oh, in the old days my master used to live here." "A member of the bourgeoisie")" "Bourgeoisie yourself! I told you. He was a marshal of the nobility." "You mean he was from the working class?" "Working class yourself! He was a marshal of the nobility." The conversation with the intelligent caretaker so poorly versed in the class structure of society might have gone on for heaven knows how long had not the young man got down to business. "Listen, granddad," he said, "what about a drink?" "All right, buy me one!" They were gone an hour. When they returned, the caretaker was the young man's best friend. "Right, then, I'll stay the night with you," said the newly acquired friend. "You're a good man. You can stay here for the rest of your life if you like." Having achieved his aim, the young man promptly went down into the caretaker's room, took off his orange-coloured boots, and, stretching out on a bench, began thinking out a plan of action for the following day. The young man's name was Ostap Bender. Of his background he would usually give only one detail. "My dad," he used to say, "was a Turkish citizen." During his life this son of a Turkish citizen had had many occupations. His lively nature had prevented him from devoting himself to any one thing for long and kept him roving through the country, finally bringing him to Stargorod without any socks and without a key, apartment, or money. Lying in the caretaker's room, which was so warm that it stank, Ostap Bender weighed up in his mind two possibilities for a career. He could become a polygamist and calmly move on from town to town, taking with him a suitcase containing his latest wife's valuables, or he could go the next day to the Stargorod Commission for the Improvement of Children's Living Conditions and suggest they undertake the popularization of a brilliantly devised, though yet unpainted, picture entitled "The Bolsheviks Answer Chamberlain" based on Repin's famous canvas "The Zaporozhe Cossacks Answer the Sultan". If it worked, this possibility could bring in four hundred or so roubles. The two possibilities had been thought up by Ostap during his last stay in Moscow. The polygamy idea was conceived after reading a law-court report in the evening paper, which clearly stated that the convicted man was given only a two-year sentence, while the second idea came to Bender as he was looking round the Association of Revolutionary Artists' exhibition, having got in with a free pass. Both possibilities had their drawbacks, however. To begin a career as a polygamist without a heavenly grey polka-dot suit was unthinkable. Moreover, at least ten roubles would be needed for purposes of representation and seduction. He could get married, of course, in his green field-suits, since his virility and good looks were absolutely irresistible to the provincial belles looking for husbands, but that would have been, as Ostap used to say, "poor workmanship". The question of the painting was not all plain sailing either. There might be difficulties of a purely technical nature. It might be awkward, for instance, to show Comrade Kalinin in a fur cap and white cape, while Comrade Chicherin was stripped to the waist. They could be depicted in ordinary dress, of course, but that would not be quite the same thing. "It wouldn't have the right effect!" said Ostap aloud. At this point he noticed that the caretaker had been prattling away for some time, apparently reminiscing about the previous owner of the house. "The police chief used to salute him. . . . I'd go and wish him a happy new year, let's say, and he'd give me three roubles. At Easter, let's say, he'd give me another three roubles. . . . Then on his birthday, let's say. In a year I'd get as much as fifteen roubles from wishing him. He even promised to give me a medal. 'I want my caretaker to have a medal,' he used to say. That's what he would say: 'Tikhon, consider that you already have the medal.'" "And did he give you one? " "Wait a moment. . . . T don't want a caretaker without a medal,' he used to say. He went to St. Petersburg to get me a medal. Well, the first time it didn't work out. The officials didn't want to give me one. 'The Tsar,' he used to say, 'has gone abroad. It isn't possible just now.' So the master told me to wait. 'Just wait a bit, Tikhon,' he used to say, 'you'll get your medal.' " "And what happened to this master of yours? Did they bump him off?" "No one bumped him off. He went away. What was the good of him staying here with the soldiers? . . . Do they give medals to caretakers nowadays?" "Certainly. I can arrange one for you." The caretaker looked at Bender with veneration. "I can't be without one. It's that kind of work." "Where did your master go?" "Heaven knows. People say he went to Paris." "Ah, white acacia-the emigre's flower! So he's an emigre!" "Emigre yourself. . . . He went to Paris, so people say. And the house was taken over for old women. You greet them every day, but they don't even give you a ten-kopek bit! Yes, he was some master!" At that moment the rusty bell above the door began to ring. The caretaker ambled over to the door, opened it, and stepped back in complete amazement. On the top step stood Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov with a black moustache and black hair. His eyes behind his pince-nez had a pre-revolutionary twinkle. "Master!" bellowed Tikhon with delight. "Back from Paris!" Ippolit Matveyevich became embarrassed by the presence of the stranger, whose bare purple feet he had just spotted protruding from behind the table, and was about to leave again when Ostap Bender briskly jumped up and made a low bow. "This isn't Paris, but you're welcome to our abode." Ippolit Matveyevich felt himself forced to say something. "Hello, Tikhon. I certainly haven't come from Paris. Where did you get that strange idea from?" But Ostap Bender, whose long and noble nose had caught the scent of roast meat, did not give the caretaker time to utter a word. "Splendid," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You haven't come from Paris. You've no doubt come from Kologriv to visit your deceased grandmother." As he spoke, he tenderly embraced the caretaker and pushed him outside the door before the old man had time to realize what was happening. When he finally gathered his wits, all he knew was that his master had come back from Paris, that he himself had been pushed out of his own room, and that he was clutching a rouble note in his left hand. Carefully locking the door, Bender turned to Vorobyaninov, who was still standing in the middle of the room, and said: "Take it easy, everything's all right! My name's Bender. You may have heard of me!" "No, I haven't," said Ippolit Matveyevich nervously. "No, how could the name of Ostap Bender be known in Paris? Is it warm there just now? It's a nice city. I have a married cousin there. She recently sent me a silk handkerchief by registered post." "What rubbish is this?" exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. "What handkerchief? I haven't come from Paris at all. I've come from . . ." "Marvellous! You've come from Morshansk!" Ippolit Matveyevich had never had dealings with so spirited a young man as Ostap Bender and began to feel peculiar. "Well, I'm going now," he said. "Where are you going? You don't need to hurry anywhere. The secret police will come for you, anyway." Ippolit Matveyevich was speechless. He undid his coat with its threadbare velvet collar and sat down on the bench, glaring at Bender. "I don't know what you mean," he said in a low voice. "That's no harm. You soon will. Just one moment." Ostap put on his orange-coloured boots and walked up and down the room. "Which frontier did you cross? Was it the Polish, Finnish, or Rumanian frontier? An expensive pleasure, I imagine. A friend of mine recently crossed the frontier. He lives in Slavuta, on our side, and his wife's parents live on the other. He had a row with his wife over a family matter; she comes from a temperamental family. She spat in his face and ran across the frontier to her parents. The fellow sat around for a few days but found things weren't going well. There was no dinner and the room was dirty, so he decided to make it up with her. He waited till night and then crossed over to his mother-in-law. But the frontier guards nabbed him, trumped up a charge, and gave him six months. Later on he was expelled from the trade union. The wife, they say, has now gone back, the fool, and her husband is in prison. She is able to take him things. . . . Did you come that way, too?" "Honestly," protested Ippolit Matveyevich, suddenly feeling himself in the power of the talkative young man who had come between him and the jewels. "Honestly, I'm a citizen of the RSFSR. I can show you my identification papers, if you want." "With printing being as well developed as it is in the West, the forgery of Soviet identification papers is nothing. A friend of mine even went as far as forging American dollars. And you know how difficult that is. The paper has those different-coloured little lines on it. It requires great technique. He managed to get rid of them on the Moscow black market, but it turned out later that his grandfather, a notorious currency-dealer, had bought them all in Kiev and gone absolutely broke. The dollars were counterfeit, after all. So your papers may not help you very much either." Despite his annoyance at having to sit in a smelly caretaker's room and listen to an insolent young man burbling about the shady dealings of his friends, instead of actively searching for the jewels, Ippolit Matveyevich could not bring himself to leave. He felt great trepidation at the thought that the young stranger might spread it round the town that the ex-marshal had come back. That would be the end of everything, and he might be put in jail as well. 'Don't tell anyone you saw me," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "They might really think I'm an emigre." "That's more like it! First we have an Emigre who has returned to his home town, and then we find he is afraid the secret police will catch him." "But I've told you a hundred times, I'm not an emigre." "Then who are you? Why are you here?" "I've come from N. on certain business." "What business?" "Personal business." "And then you say you're not an emigre! A friend of mine . . ." At this point, Ippolit Matveyevich, driven to despair by the stories of Bender's friends, and seeing that he was not getting anywhere, gave in. "All right," he said. "I'll tell you everything." Anyway, it might be difficult without an accomplice, he thought to himself, and this fellow seems to be a really shady character. He might be useful. CHAPTER SIX A DIAMOND HAZE Ippolit Matveyevich took off his stained beaver hat, combed his moustache, which gave off a shower of sparks at the touch of the comb, and, having cleared his throat in determination, told Ostap Bender, the first rogue who had come his way, what his dying mother-in-law had told him about her jewels. During the account, Ostap jumped up several times and, turning to the iron stove, said delightedly: "Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury. Things are moving." An hour later they were both sitting at the rickety table, their heads close together, reading the long list of jewellery which had at one time adorned the fingers, neck, ears, bosom and hair of Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law. Ippolit Matveyevich adjusted the pince-nez, which kept falling off his nose, and said emphatically: "Three strings of pearls. . . . Yes, I remember them. Two with forty pearls and the long one had a hundred and ten. A diamond pendant . . . Claudia Ivanovna used to say it was worth four thousand roubles; an antique." Next came the rings: not thick, silly, and cheap engagement rings, but fine, lightweight rings set with pure, polished diamonds; heavy, dazzling earrings that bathe a small female ear in multi-coloured light; bracelets shaped like serpents, with emerald scales; a clasp bought with the profit from a fourteen-hundred-acre harvest; a pearl necklace that could only be worn by a famous prima donna; to crown everything was a diadem worth forty thousand roubles. Ippolit Matveyevich looked round him. A grass-green emerald light blazed up and shimmered in the dark corners of the caretaker's dirty room. A diamond haze hung near the ceiling. Pearls rolled across the table and bounced along the floor. The room swayed in the mirage of gems. The sound of Ostap's voice brought the excited Ippolit Matveyevich back to earth. "Not a bad choice. The stones have been tastefully selected, I see. How much did all this jazz cost?" "Seventy to seventy-five thousand." "Hm . . . Then it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand now." "Really as much as that?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich jubilantly. "Not less than that. However, if I were you, dear friend from Paris, I wouldn't give a damn about it." "What do you mean, not give a damn?" "Just that. Like they used to before the advent of historical materialism." "Why?" "I'll tell you. How many chairs were there?" "A dozen. It was a drawing-room suite." "Your drawing-room suite was probably used for firewood long ago." Ippolit Matveyevich was so alarmed that he actually stood up. "Take it easy. I'll take charge. The hearing is continued. Incidentally, you and I will have to conclude a little deal." Breathing heavily, Ippolit Matveyevich nodded his assent. Ostap Bender then began stating his terms. "In the event of acquisition of the treasure, as a direct partner in the concession and as technical adviser, I receive sixty per cent. You needn't pay my national health; I don't care about that." Ippolit Matveyevich turned grey. "That's daylight robbery!" "And how much did you intend offering me? " "Well. . . er . . . five per cent, or maybe even ten per cent. You realize, don't you, that's fifteen thousand roubles!" "And that's all?" "Yes "Maybe you'd like me to work for nothing and also give you the key of the apartment where the money is? " "In that case, I'm sorry," said Vorobyaninov through his nose. "I have every reason to believe I can manage the business by myself." "Aha! In that case, I'm sorry," retorted the splendid Ostap. "I have just as much reason to believe, as Andy Tucker used to say, that I can also manage your business by myself." "You villain!' cried Ippolit Matveyevich, beginning to shake. Ostap remained unmoved. "Listen, gentleman from Paris, do you know your jewels are practically in my pocket? And I'm only interested in you as long as I wish to prolong your old age." Ippolit Matveyevich realized at this point that iron hands had gripped his throat. "Twenty per cent," he said morosely. "And my grub?" asked Ostap with a sneer. "Twenty-five." "And the key of the apartment?" "But that's thirty-seven and a half thousand!" "Why be so precise? Well, all right, I'll settle for fifty per cent. We'll go halves." The haggling continued, and Ostap made a further concession. Out of respect for Vorobyaninov, he was prepared to work for forty per cent. "That's sixty thousand!" cried Vorobyaninov. "You're a rather nasty man," retorted Bender. "You're too fond of money." "And I suppose you aren't?" squeaked Ippolit Matveyevich in a flutelike voice. "No, I'm not." "Then why do you want sixty thousand? " "On principle!" Ippolit Matveyevich took a deep breath. "Well, are things moving?" pressed Ostap. Vorobyaninov breathed heavily and said humbly: "Yes,  things are moving." "It's a bargain. District Chief of the Comanchi!" As soon as Ippolit Matveyevich, hurt by the nickname, "Chief of the Comanchi", had demanded an apology, and Ostap, in a formal apology, had called him "Field Marshal", they set about working out their disposition. At midnight Tikhon, the caretaker, hanging on to all the garden fences on the way and clinging to the lamp posts, tottered home to his cellar. To his misfortune, there was a full moon. "Ah! The intellectual proletarian! Officer of the Broom!" exclaimed Ostap, catching sight of the doubled-up caretaker. The caretaker began making low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the stillness of the night. "That's nice," said Ostap to Vorobyaninov. "Your caretaker is rather a vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?" "Yes, it is," said the caretaker unexpectedly. "Listen, Tikhon," began Ippolit Matveyevich. "Have you any idea what happened to my furniture, old man ? " Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening yell: "Haa-aapy daa-aays . .." The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was terribly happy. Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do. "Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until tomorrow morning," said Ostap. "Let's go to bed." They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to the bench. Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt; under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another light-blue worsted waistcoat. "There's a waistcoat worth buying," said Ostap enviously. "Just my size. Sell it to me!" Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession. Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles. "You'll have the money when we sell the treasure," said Bender, taking the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body. "No, I can't do things like that," said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing. "Please give it back." Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed. "There's stinginess for you," he cried. "We undertake business worth a hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to learn to live it up!" Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting: 25//F/27 Issued to Comrade Bender Rs.8 Ostap took a look at the notebook. "Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under 'debit' don't forget to put down the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under 'credit' put down the waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit longer." Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth operator's body, vibrant with ideas. All three had bad dreams. Vorobyaninov had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation department, velvet shirts, and Bezenchuk the undertaker in a tuxedo, but unshaven. Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Co-operative; and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper. And the caretaker dreamed that a horse escaped from the stable. He looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and gloomy, without having found it. For some time he stared in surprise at the people sleeping in his bed. Not understanding anything, he took his broom and went out into the street to carry out his basic duties, which were to sweep up the horse droppings and shout at the old-women pensioners. CHAPTER SEVEN TRACES OF THE TITANIC Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven, mumbled "Guten Morgen", and went over to the wash-basin. He washed himself with enthusiasm, cleared his throat, noisily rinsed his face, and shook his head to get rid of the water which had run into his ears. He dried himself with satisfaction, but on taking the towel away from his face, Ippolit Matveyevich noticed that it was stained with the same black colour that he had used to dye his horizontal moustache two days before. Ippolit Matveyevich's heart sank. He rushed to get his pocket mirror. The mirror reflected a large nose and the left-hand side of a moustache as green as the grass in spring. He hurriedly shifted the mirror to the right. The right-hand mustachio was the same revolting colour. Bending his head slightly, as though trying to butt the mirror, the unhappy man perceived that the jet black still reigned supreme in the centre of his square of hair, but that the edges were bordered with the same green colour. Ippolit Matveyevich's whole being emitted a groan so loud that Ostap Bender opened his eyes. "You're out of your mind!" exclaimed Bender, and immediately closed his sleepy lids. "Comrade Bender," whispered the victim of the Titanic imploringly. Ostap woke up after a great deal of shaking and persuasion. He looked closely at Ippolit Matveyevich and burst into a howl of laughter. Turning away from the founder of the concession, the chief director of operations and technical adviser rocked with laughter, seized hold of the top of the bed, cried "Stop, you're killing me!" and again was convulsed with mirth. "That's not nice of you, Comrade Bender," said Ippolit Matveyevich and twitched his green moustache. This gave new strength to the almost exhausted Ostap, and his hearty laughter continued for ten minutes. Regaining his breath, he suddenly became very serious. "Why are you glaring at me like a soldier at a louse? Take a look at yourself." "But the chemist told me it would be jet black and wouldn't wash off, with either hot water or cold water, soap or paraffin. It was contraband." "Contraband? All contraband is made in Little Arnaut Street in Odessa. Show me the bottle. . . . Look at this! Did you read this?" '-"Yes." "What about this bit in small print? It clearly states that after washing with hot or cold water, soap or paraffin, the hair should not be rubbed with a towel, but dried in the sun or in front of a primus stove. Why didn't you do so? What can you do now with that greenery? " Ippolit Matveyevich was very depressed. Tikhon came in and seeing his master with a green moustache, crossed himself and asked for money to have a drink. "Give this hero of labour a rouble," suggested Ostap, "only kindly don't charge it to me. It's a personal matter between you and your former colleague. Wait a minute, Dad, don't go away! There's a little matter to discuss." Ostap had a talk with the caretaker about the furniture, and five minutes later the concessionaires knew the whole story. The entire furniture had been taken away to the housing division in 1919, with the exception of one drawing-room chair that had first been in Tikhon's charge, but was later taken from him by the assistant warden of the second social-security home. "Is it here in the house then?" "That's right." "Tell me, old fellow," said Ippolit Matveyevich, his heart beating fast, "when you had the chair, did you . . . ever repair it?" "It didn't need repairing. Workmanship was good in those days. The chair could last another thirty years." "Right, off you go, old fellow. Here's another rouble and don't tell anyone I'm here." "I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov." Sending the caretaker on his way with a cry of "Things are moving," Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache. "It will have to be dyed again. Give me some money and I'll go to the chemist's. Your Titanic is no damn good, except for dogs. In the old days they really had good dyes. A racing expert once told me an interesting story. Are you interested in horse-racing? No? A pity; it's exciting. Well, anyway . . . there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky. He lost five hundred thousand roubles on races. King of the losers! So when he had nothing left except debts and was thinking about suicide, a shady character gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles. The count went away and came back a year later with a three-year-old Orloff trotter. From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three hundred thousand on top. Broker-that was the name of the horse-had an excellent pedigree and always came in first. He actually beat McMahon in the Derby by a whole length. Terrific! . . . But then Kurochkin-heard of him?-noticed that all the horses of the Orloff breed were losing their coats, while Broker, the darling, stayed the same colour. There was an unheard-of scandal. The count got three years. It turned out that Broker wasn't an Orloff at all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed. Crossbreeds are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them! Which? There's a dye for you! Not quite like your moustache!" "But what about the pedigree? You said it was a good one." "Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit! Give me the money for the dye." Ostap came back with a new mixture. "It's called 'Naiad'. It may be better than the Titanic. Take your coat off!" The ceremony of re-dyeing began. But the "Amazing chestnut colour making the hair soft and fluffy" when mixed with the green of the Titanic unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache all colours of the rainbow. Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the perfumeries, both those state-owned and the illegal ones on Little Arnaut Street in Odessa. "I don't suppose even Aristide Briand had a moustache like that," observed Ostap cheerfully. "However, I don't recommend living in Soviet Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours. It will have to be shaved off." "I can't do that," said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice. "That's impossible." "Why? Has it some association or other?" "I can't do that," repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head. "Then you can stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life, and I'll go for the chairs. The first one is upstairs, by the way." "All right, shave