it then!"
     Bender found  a  pair  of scissors  and  in  a  flash  snipped off  the
moustache, which fell silently to the floor. When the hair had been cropped,
the technical adviser took  a yellowed Gillette razor from his pocket and  a
spare blade from  his wallet, and began shaving Ippolit Matveyevich, who was
almost in tears by this time.
     "I'm using my last blade on you, so don't  forget to credit me with two
roubles for the shave and haircut."
     "Why so expensive?" Ippolit managed to  ask, although  he was convulsed
with grief. "It should only cost forty kopeks."
     "For reasons  of security,  Comrade  Field Marshal!" promptly  answered
Ostap.
     The sufferings of a man whose head is being shaved with  a safety razor
are incredible. This  became  clear to Ippolit  Matveyevich  from  the  very
beginning of the operation. But all things come to an end.
     "There! The  hearing continues! Those  suffering  from nerves shouldn't
look."
     Ippolit  Matveyevich shook himself free  of  the nauseating  tufts that
until  so recently had  been  distinguished  grey hair,  washed himself and,
feeling a  strong tingling sensation all over his head, looked at himself in
the mirror for the hundredth time that day.  He  was unexpectedly pleased by
what he saw. Looking at him was  the careworn, but rather  youthful, face of
an unemployed actor.
     "Right, forward march, the bugle is sounding!" cried  Ostap. "I'll make
tracks for the housing division, while you go to the old women."
     "I can't," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "It's too  painful for me to enter
my own house."
     "I see. A touching story. The  exiled  baron! All right, you go to  the
housing division, and I'll get busy here. Our rendezvous will be here in the
caretaker's room. Platoon: 'shun!"


        CHAPTER EIGHT

        THE BASHFUL CHISELLER

     The Assistant Warden of  the Second  Home  of Stargorod Social Security
Administration  was a  shy little  thief.  His whole being protested against
stealing,  yet it  was impossible for  him not to  steal.  He  stole and was
ashamed  of  himself.  He stole  constantly and was  constantly  ashamed  of
himself, which was why his smoothly shaven cheeks always burned with a blush
of confusion, shame, bashfulness and embarrassment.  The assistant  warden's
name  was   Alexander  Yakovlevich,  and  his   wife's  name  was  Alexandra
Yakovlevna. He used  to call  her Sashchen, and she used to call him Alchen.
The world has never seen such a bashful chiseller as Alexander Yakovlevich.
     He was not only  the  assistant warden, but also the chief warden.  The
previous  one  had been dismissed for rudeness to the inmates,  and had been
appointed conductor of a symphony orchestra. Alchen was completely different
from  his ill-bred boss. Under the system of  fuller  workdays, he took upon
himself  the  running  of  the  home, treating  the  pensioners with  marked
courtesy, and introducing important reforms and innovations.
     Ostap Bender pulled  the heavy  oak door  of  the Vorobyaninov home and
found himself  in the  hall. There was a smell of  burnt porridge.  From the
upstairs rooms came  the confused sound of  voices, like a distant  "hooray"
from a line  of troops. There was no one  about and no one appeared.  An oak
staircase  with two flights  of once-lacquered stairs led upward.  Only  the
rings were now left; there was  no sign of the stair rods that had once held
the carpet in place.
     "The Comanche chief  lived in vulgar luxury," thought Ostap  as he went
upstairs.
     In the first  room, which was spacious  and light,  fifteen  or so  old
women in dresses made of the cheapest mouse-grey woollen cloth were  sitting
in a circle.
     Craning their  necks and keeping their eyes on a healthy-looking man in
the middle, the old women were singing:

     "We hear the sound of distant jingling,
     The troika's on its round;
     Far into the distant stretches
     The sparkling snowy ground."

     The choirmaster, wearing a  shirt and trousers  of the  same mouse-grey
material, was beating time with both  hands and, turning from side  to side,
kept shouting:
     "Descants, softer! Kokushkin, not so loud!"
     He caught sight  of Ostap, but  unable to restrain the movement  of his
hands, merely glanced  at  the newcomer and continued conducting. The  choir
increased its volume with an effort, as though singing through a pillow.

     "Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta,
     Te-ro-rom, tu-ru-rum, tu-ru-rum . . ."

     "Can  you tell me where I can find  the assistant warden?" asked Ostap,
breaking into the first pause.
     "What do you want, Comrade?"
     Ostap  shook  the conductor's  hand  and  inquired  amiably:  "National
folk-songs? Very interesting! I'm the fire inspector."
     The assistant warden looked ashamed.
     "Yes, yes,"  he  said,  with  embarrassment.  "Very  opportune.  I  was
actually going to write you a report."
     "There's nothing to worry about," said Ostap magnanimously. "I'll write
the report myself. Let's take a look at the premises."
     Alchen  dismissed the choir with a wave of his hand, and  the old women
made off with little steps of delight.
     "Come this way," invited the assistant warden.
     Before going  any further, Ostap scrutinized the furniture in the first
room.  It consisted of a table, two garden benches with  iron  legs (one  of
them had the name "Nicky" carved on the back), and a light-brown harmonium.
     "Do they use primus stoves or anything of that kind in this room?"
     "No, no. This is where our recreational activities are  held. We have a
choir, and drama, painting, drawing, and music circles."
     When he reached the word "music"  Alexander Yakovlevich blushed.  First
his chin turned red, then his forehead and cheeks. Alchen felt very ashamed.
He had sold  all  the instruments  belonging to the wind section a long time
before.  The feeble  lungs of the old women had never produced anything more
than a puppy-like squeak from them, anyway. It was ridiculous  to see such a
mass of metal in so helpless a condition. Alchen had not been able to resist
selling the wind section, and now he felt very guilty.
     A slogan  written in large  letters on  a piece  of the same mouse-grey
woollen cloth spanned the wall between the windows. It said:


        A BRASS BAND IS THE PATH
     TO COLLECTIVE CREATIVITY

     "Very good,"  said Ostap. "This recreation room  does not  constitute a
fire hazard. Let's go on."
     Passing through  the front rooms of Vorobyaninov's  house, Ostap  could
see  no  sign  of  a  walnut  chair with  curved  legs  and  English  chintz
upholstery. The  iron-smooth walls were plastered with directives  issued to
the  Second  Home.  Ostap   read  them   and,  from  time  to  time,   asked
enthusiastically:
     "Are the chimneys swept regularly? Are the stoves working properly?"
     And, receiving exhaustive answers, moved on.
     The fire inspector made a  diligent  search  for at least one corner of
the  house  which  might constitute  a  fire  hazard,  but in  that  respect
everything seemed  to  be in  order.  His  second quest,  however, was  less
successful.  Ostap  went into the dormitories. As he appeared, the old women
stood up and  bowed low. The rooms contained  beds covered with blankets, as
hairy as a dog's coat, with the word "Feet" woven at one end. Below the beds
were trunks, which at the initiative of Alexander Yakovlevich, who  liked to
do  things  in a  military fashion,  projected exactly  one-third  of  their
length.
     Everything in the Home was marked by its extreme modesty; the furniture
that consisted  solely of garden benches taken from Alexander Boulevard (now
renamed  in honour  of  the Proletarian  Voluntary Saturdays),  the paraffin
lamps  bought  at  the  local  market,  and  the  very  blankets  with  that
frightening word, "Feet". One feature of the  house, however,  had been made
to last and was developed on a grand scale-to wit, the door springs.
     Door springs were Alexander  Yakovlevich's  passion. Sparing no effort,
he  fitted all  the doors  in the house with springs of  different types and
systems.  There  were  very  simple  ones  in  the  form  of  an  iron  rod;
compressed-air ones with  cylindrical brass pistons;  there  were  ones with
pulleys that raised and lowered heavy bags of shot. There were springs which
were so  complex in design that the local mechanic could only shake his head
in  wonder.  And  all  the cylinders,  springs  and counterweights were very
powerful, slamming doors shut with the  swiftness of  a mousetrap.  Whenever
the mechanisms  operated, the whole  house shook. With pitiful  squeals, the
old women tried to  escape the onslaught of the  doors, but not always  with
success. The doors gave  the fugitives  a thump in the back, and at the same
time, a counterweight shot past their ears with a dull rasping sound.
     As Bender and the  assistant warden walked around the house, the  doors
fired a noisy salute.
     But the  feudal  magnificence had  nothing to hide: the  chair was  not
there.  As the search progressed, the fire inspector  found  himself in  the
kitchen. Porridge was cooking  in a large copper pot  and gave off the smell
that  the  smooth operator had noticed in the hall. Ostap  wrinkled his nose
and said: "What is it cooking in?  Lubricating  oil?"  "It's pure  butter, I
swear it," said Alchen, blushing to the roots of his hair. "We buy it from a
farm." He felt very ashamed.
     "Anyway, it's not a  fire risk," observed Ostap.  The  chair was not in
the kitchen, either. There was only a stool, occupied by the cook, wearing a
cap and apron of mouse-grey woollen material.
     "Why  is everybody's clothing grey? That cloth  isn't even fit  to wipe
the  windows  with!"  The shy Alchen was even more  embarrassed.  "We  don't
receive enough funds." He was disgusted with himself.
     Ostap looked at him disbelievingly and said: "That is no concern of the
fire brigade, which I am at present representing." Alchen was alarmed.
     "We've taken all the necessary fire precautions," he declared. "We even
have a fire extinguisher. An Eclair."
     The  fire inspector reluctantly proceeded in the direction of  the fire
extinguisher, peeping into the lumber rooms as he went. The red-iron nose of
the extinguisher caused the inspector particular annoyance, despite the fact
that it was the only  object in the house which had any connection with fire
precautions. "Where did you get it? At the market?" And without  waiting for
an  answer from  the  thunderstruck  Alexander Yakovlevich,  he  removed the
Eclair from the  rusty  nail  on  which it was  hanging,  broke the  capsule
without warning, and quickly pointed the nose in the air. But instead of the
expected stream of foam,  all that came out was a high-pitched hissing which
sounded like the ancient hymn "How Glorious Is Our Lord on Zion".
     "You obviously  did get it  at  the  market," said Ostap,  his  earlier
opinion confirmed.  And he put back  the fire extinguisher,  which was still
hissing, in its place.
     They moved on, accompanied by the hissing.
     Where can it be?  wondered Ostap. I don't like  the look of things. And
he made up his mind not to leave the place until he had found out the truth.
     While the fire inspector and the assistant warden were  crawling  about
the  attics, considering  fire  precautions  in  detail  and  examining  the
chimneys,  the Second Home  of the Stargorod Social  Security Administration
carried on its daily routine.
     Dinner  was  ready.  The  smell   of  burnt  porridge  had  appreciably
increased, and it overpowered all the sourish  smells inhabiting the  house.
There  was a rustling in the corridors. Holding iron  bowls full of porridge
in front of them with both hands, the old women cautiously  emerged from the
kitchen and sat down at a  large table,  trying not to look at the refectory
slogans, composed  by  Alexander Yakolevich and  painted  by his  wife.  The
slogans read:

        FOOD IS THE SOURCE OF HEALTH
     ONE EGG CONTAINS AS MUCH FAT AS A HALF-POUND OF MEAT
     BY CAREFULLY MASTICATING YOUR FOOD YOU HELP SOCIETY
     MEAT IS BAD FOR YOU

     These sacred words aroused in the old ladies memories of teeth that had
disappeared before the revolution, eggs  that had been lost at approximately
the same time,  meat that was inferior to eggs in fat, and  perhaps even the
society that they were prevented from helping by careful mastication.
     Seated  at table  in  addition to  the  old women were Isidor, Afanasy,
Cyril and Oleg, and also Pasha  Emilevich. Neither in age  nor sex did these
young men fit into the pattern of social security, but they were the younger
brothers of Alchen,  and Pasha Emilevich was  Alexandra Yakovlevna's cousin,
once removed. The young men, the  oldest of whom was the thirty-two-year-old
Pasha Emilevich, did  not consider their life in the pensioners' home in any
way abnormal.  They lived on the  same basis as the old  women; they too had
government-property beds and  blankets  with  the  word  "Feet";  they  were
clothed in  the same mouse-grey material as the old women, but on account of
their youth  and  strength  they  ate better than  the  latter.  They  stole
everything in the house  that  Alchen did not manage to steal himself. Pasha
could  put away four pounds of fish at one go, and he once  did  so, leaving
the home dinnerless.
     Hardly had  the  old women had time to  taste  their porridge when  the
younger  brothers and  Pasha Emilevich rose from  the  table, having gobbled
down their share, and went, belching, into the kitchen to look for something
more digestible.
     The meal continued. The old women began jabbering:
     "Now they'll stuff themselves full and start bawling songs."
     "Pasha Emilevich sold the chair  from the recreation room this morning.
A second-hand dealer took it away at the back door."
     "Just you see. He'll come home drunk tonight."
     At  this  moment  the  pensioners'  conversation  was interrupted by  a
trumpeting noise that even drowned the hissing of the fire extinguisher, and
a husky voice began:
     '. . . vention .. ."
     The old women hunched their shoulders and, ignoring  the loudspeaker in
the corner on the  floor, continued eating in the hope that fate would spare
them, but the loud-speaker cheerfully went on: 
     "Evecrashshsh . . . viduso . . . valuable  invention. Railwayman of the
Murmansk Railway,  Comrade  Sokutsky, S  Samara,  O Oriel, K  Kaliningrad, U
Urals, Ts Tsaritsina, K Kaliningrad, Y York. So-kuts-ky."
     The trumpet wheezed and renewed the broadcast in a thick voice.
     ". . . vented a system of signal lights for snow ploughs. The invention
has been approved by Dorizul. . . ."
     The  old women floated  away to their  rooms like grey  ducklings.  The
loud-speaker,  jigging up and  down  by its own power, blared  away into the
empty room:
     "And we will now play some Novgorod folk music."
     Far, far away, in the centre of the earth, someone strummed a balalaika
and a black-earth Battistini broke into song:

     "On the wall the bugs were sitting,
     Blinking at the sky;
     Then they saw the tax inspector
     And crawled away to die."

     In  the  centre  of the  earth the  verses  brought  forth  a  storm of
activity.  A  horrible gurgling  was heard  from the  loud-speaker.  It  was
something between  thunderous applause and  the  eruption  of an underground
volcano.
     Meanwhile the disheartened fire inspector had descended an attic ladder
backwards  and was  now  back  in the kitchen,  where  he  saw five citizens
digging  into a barrel  of  sauerkraut  and bolting it  down.  They  ate  in
silence. Pasha Emilevich alone waggled his head in the style of an epicurean
and, wiping some strings of cabbage from his moustache, observed:
     "It's a sin to eat cabbage like this without vodka."
     "Is this a new intake of women?" asked Ostap.
     "They're orphans," replied Alchen, shouldering the inspector out of the
kitchen and surreptitiously shaking his fist at the orphans.
     "Children of the Volga Region?"
     Alchen was confused.
     "A trying heritage from the Tsarist regime?"
     Alchen spread his arms as much as to say: "There's nothing  you can  do
with a heritage like that."
     "Co-education by the composite method?"
     Without  further  hesitation   the  bashful  Alchen  invited  the  fire
inspector to take pot luck and lunch with him.
     Pot  luck  that  day  happened  to  be  a  bottle  of  Zubrovka  vodka,
home-pickled  mushrooms, minced  herring,  Ukrainian  beet  soup  containing
first-grade meat, chicken and rice, and stewed apples.
     "Sashchen," said Alexander  Yakovlevich,  "I want you to meet a comrade
from the province fire-precaution administration."
     Ostap  made  his  hostess  a  theatrical  bow  and  paid  her  such  an
interminable and ambiguous compliment that he could hardly get to the end of
it.  Sashchen, a  buxom woman,  whose  good looks  were  somewhat  marred by
sideburns  of the kind  that Tsar Nicholas used to have, laughed  softly and
took a drink with the two men.
     "Here's to your communal services," exclaimed Ostap.
     The lunch went off gaily, and it was not until they reached  the stewed
fruit that Ostap remembered the point of his visit.
     "Why  is it," he asked, "that  the  furnishings  are so  skimpy in your
establishment?"
     "What do you mean?" said Alchen. "What about the harmonium?"
     "Yes, I know, vox humana. But you have absolutely nothing at all of any
taste to sit on. Only garden benches."
     "There's a  chair in the recreation room,"  said Alchen  in an offended
tone.  "An  English chair.  They say it  was  left  over from  the  original
furniture."
     "By the way,  I  didn't see  your  recreation room. How  is it from the
point of view of  fire hazard? It won't let  you  down, I hope. I had better
see it."
     "Certainly."
     Ostap thanked his hostess for the lunch and left.
     No  primus was used in the recreation room; there was no portable stove
of any  kind; the  chimneys were in a good state  of repair and were cleaned
regularly, but the  chair, to the  incredulity of Alchen, was missing.  They
ran to look for it. They  looked under the  beds  and under the trunks;  for
some reason or  other they moved back the harmonium; they questioned the old
women, who kept looking at Pasha Emilevich timidly,  but  the chair was just
not there.  Pasha Emilevich  himself showed great  enthusiasm in the search.
When  all had calmed down,  Pasha  still kept  wandering from room  to room,
looking under decanters, shifting iron teaspoons, and muttering:
     "Where can it be? I saw it myself this morning. It's ridiculous !"
     "It's depressing, girls," said Ostap in an icy voice.
     "It's absolutely ridiculous!" repeated Pasha Emilevich impudently.
     At this point,  however,  the  Eclair fire extinguisher, which had been
hissing the  whole  time,  took  a high F,  which  only the People's Artist,
Nezhdanova, can do, stopped for a second and  then emitted its  first stream
of foam, which soaked the ceiling and knocked the cook's cap off.  The first
stream of foam was  followed by another, mouse-grey in  colour, which bowled
over young  Isidor Yakovlevich. After that  the  extinguisher began  working
smoothly. Pasha Emilevich, Alchen  and  all the surviving brothers raced  to
the spot.
     "Well done," said Ostap. "An idiotic invention!"
     As soon as  the old women were  left alone  with Ostap and without  the
boss, they at once began complaining:
     "He's brought his family into the home. They eat up everything."
     "The piglets get milk and we get porridge."
     "He's taken everything out of the house."
     "Take it easy, girls," said  Ostap, retreating. "You need  someone from
the labour-inspection department. The Senate hasn't empowered me . . ."
     The old women were not listening.
     "And that Pasha Melentevich. He went  and sold a chair today. I saw him
myself."
     "Who did he sell it to? " asked Ostap quickly.
     "He sold it. . . that's all. He was going to steal my blanket. . ."
     A  fierce struggle was  going  on  in the  corridor.  But  mind finally
triumphed over matter and the extinguisher, trampled under Pasha Emilevich's
feet of iron, gave a last dribble and was silent for ever.
     The  old women were  sent  to  clean  the floor. Lowering  his head and
waddling slightly, the fire inspector went up to Pasha Emilevich.
     "A  friend of  mine," began  Ostap  importantly,  "also  used  to  sell
government property. He now lives a monastic life in the penitentiary."
     "I find  your groundless  accusations strange," said Pasha, who smelled
strongly of foam.
     "Who did you sell the chair to?" asked Ostap in a ringing whisper.
     Pasha  Emilevich,  who had supernatural understanding, realized at this
point he was about to be beaten, if not kicked.
     "To a second-hand dealer."
     "What's his address?"
     "I'd never seen him before."
     "Never?"
     "No, honestly."
     "I  ought  to  bust  you  in the  mouth," said  Ostap  dreamily,  "only
Zarathustra wouldn't allow it. Get to hell out of here!"
     Pasha Emilevich grinned fawningly and began walking away.
     "Come back, you abortion," cried Ostap haughtily. "What was  the dealer
like?"
     Pasha  Emilevich  described  him   in  detail,  while   Ostap  listened
carefully.  The  interview was  concluded by  Ostap with  the  words:  "This
clearly has nothing to do with fire precautions."
     In the corridor the bashful Alchen went up to Ostap and gave him a gold
piece.
     "That comes under  Article  114  of  the Criminal  Code,"  said  Ostap.
"Bribing officials in the course of their duty."
     Nevertheless  he  took  the  money  and, without  saying good-bye, went
towards the door. The door, which was fitted  with  a  powerful contraption,
opened  with  an  effort and  gave Ostap a  one-and-a-half-ton  shove in the
backside.
     "Good  shot!"  said  Ostap, rubbing  the affected part. "The hearing is
continued."


        CHAPTER NINE

        WHERE ARE YOUR CURLS?

     While  Ostap  was inspecting the  pensioners' home, Ippolit Matveyevich
had left the  caretaker's room  and was wandering  along the streets of  his
home town, feeling the chill on his shaven head.
     Along  the  road  trickled clear  spring water.  There  was a  constant
splashing and plopping as diamond drops dripped  from the rooftops. Sparrows
hunted for manure,  and  the  sun  rested  on  the roofs.  Golden carthorses
drummed  their hoofs against the bare road and, turning their ears downward,
listened with pleasure to their own sound. On  the damp telegraph poles  the
wet  advertisements,  "I  teach  the  guitar   by  the  number  system"  and
"Social-science lessons for  those preparing for the People's Conservatory",
were  all  wrinkled up, and  the letters  had  run.  A platoon of  Red  Army
soldiers in winter  helmets  crossed a  puddle that began at  the  Stargorod
co-operative  shop   and  stretched  as   far  as   the   province  planning
administration,  the  pediment  of  which was crowned  with plaster  tigers,
figures of victory and cobras.
     Ippolit Matveyevich walked along, looking  with interest  at the people
passing him in  both directions. As one  who had spent the whole of his life
and also the revolution in Russia, he was able  to see how  the way  of life
was changing and acquiring  a new countenance.  He had  become used  to this
fact, but he seemed to be used to only one  point on the globe-the  regional
centre  of N. Now he was back in  his  home town,  he realized he understood
nothing. He felt just  as  awkward and  strange as though he really  were an
emigre just  back from Paris.  In the old days, whenever he rode through the
town in his  carriage, he  used invariably to meet friends or people he knew
by sight. But now he had gone some way along  Lena Massacre Street and there
was no friend to be  seen. They had vanished, or they might have changed  so
much that  they  were no  longer  recognizable, or perhaps they  had  become
unrecognizable  because  they  wore  different clothes  and  different hats.
Perhaps they had changed their walk. In any case, they were no longer there.
     Vorobyaninov  walked along, pale, cold and  lost. He completely  forgot
that he was supposed to be looking for the housing division. He crossed from
pavement  to pavement and  turned into side streets, where  the  uninhibited
carthorses were quite  intentionally drumming their hoofs. There was more of
winter in the side streets, and  rotting ice was still to be seen in places.
The whole town was a  different colour; the blue houses had become green and
the  yellow  ones  grey. The fire  indicators had disappeared  from the fire
tower, the fireman no longer climbed up  and down, and the streets were much
noisier than Ippolit Matveyevich could remember.
     On Greater Pushkin Street, Ippolit Matveyevich was amazed by the tracks
and overhead cables of the tram system, which he had never seen in Stargorod
before. He had not read the papers and did not know that the two tram routes
to the  station  and the  market were due to be  opened  on May  Day. At one
moment Ippolit Matveyevich felt he had  never left Stargorod, and  the  next
moment it was like a place completely unfamiliar to him.
     Engrossed in these thoughts, he reached Marx and Engels Street. Here he
re-experienced a childhood  feeling that at any moment a friend would appear
round the corner of  the two-storeyed house with its  long balcony. He  even
stopped  walking in anticipation.  But the friend did  not appear. The first
person to come round the corner was a  glazier with a  box of Bohemian glass
and a dollop of copper-coloured putty. Then came a swell in a suede cap with
a  yellow leather peak.  He was pursued  by some  elementary-school children
carrying books tied with straps.
     Suddenly Ippolit Matveyevich felt a hotness in his palms  and a sinking
feeling  in his stomach. A  stranger with a kindly face was  coming straight
towards  him,  carrying a  chair by  the  middle,  like a  'cello.  Suddenly
developing  hiccups  Ippolit Matveyevich  looked  closely at  the chair  and
immediately recognized it.
     Yes!  It  was  a Hambs chair  upholstered  in  flowered  English chintz
somewhat  darkened by the storms of the  revolution; it was  a  walnut chair
with  curved legs. Ippolit Matveyevich felt as  though a gun had gone off in
his ear.
     "Knives  and  scissors  sharpened! Razors  set!" cried a baritone voice
nearby. And immediately came the shrill echo;
     "Soldering and repairing!"
     "Moscow News, magazine Giggler, Red Meadow."
     Somewhere up above, a glass pane was removed with a crash. A truck from
the grain-mill-and-lift-construction  administration passed  by,  making the
town vibrate. A  militiaman  blew  his whistle. Everything brimmed over with
life. There was no time to be lost.
     With  a  leopard-like spring,  Ippolit  Matveyevich  leaped towards the
repulsive stranger and silently tugged at the chair. The stranger tugged the
other  way.  Still  holding  on  to  one  leg  with  his  left hand, Ippolit
Matveyevich  began forcibly  detaching the  stranger's fat fingers from  the
chair.
     "Thief!" hissed the stranger, gripping the chair more firmly.
     "Just a moment, just a moment!" mumbled Ippolit Matveyevich, continuing
to unstick the stranger's fingers.
     A  crowd began  to gather. Three  or four people  were already standing
nearby, watching the struggle with lively interest. They both glanced around
in  alarm  and,  without  looking  at one another or  letting  go the chair,
rapidly moved on as if nothing were the matter.
     "What's happening?" wondered Ippolit Matveyevich in dismay.
     What the  stranger  was thinking  was impossible  to say,  but  he  was
walking in a most determined way.
     They  kept walking more  and  more quickly until they  saw  a  clearing
scattered with bits of brick and  other building materials  at  the end of a
blind alley; then both turned into  it simultaneously. Ippolit Matveyevich's
strength now increased fourfold.
     "Give it to me!" he shouted, doing away with all ceremony.
     "Help!" exclaimed the stranger, almost inaudibly.
     Since both of them had their hands  occupied with the chair, they began
kicking one another. The  stranger's  boots  had  metal studs, and at  first
Ippolit Matveyevich  came  off  badly. But he soon  adjusted  himself,  and,
skipping to the left and right  as though doing a Cossack  dance, managed to
dodge his  opponents' blows, trying  at  the same  time to  catch him in the
stomach.  He  was not successful, since the  chair was  in the way,  but  he
managed to  land him a kick on the kneecap, after which the enemy could only
lash out with one leg.
     "Oh, Lord!" whispered the stranger.
     It was  at  this moment that Ippolit Matveyevich saw that the  stranger
who had carried off his chair in the most outrageous manner  was none  other
than Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence.
     "Father!"  he   exclaimed,  removing   his  hands  from  the  chair  in
astonishment.
     Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally loosed his grip. The  chair,
no longer supported by either of them, fell on to the brick-strewn ground.
     "Where's your moustache, my dear Ippolit Matveyevich?" asked the cleric
as caustically as possible.
     "And what about your curls? You used to have curls, I believe!"
     Ippolit Matveyevich's  words conveyed utter  contempt. He  threw Father
Theodore a  look of singular disgust and, tucking the chair  under his  arm,
turned to  go. But the priest had now recovered from his  embarrassment  and
was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of "No,
I'm  sorry," he grasped  hold of the chair again. Their initial position was
restored. The two opponents stood clutching the chair  and, moving from side
to side, sized one another up like cats or  boxers. The tense pause lasted a
whole minute.
     "So  you're after my property,  Holy  Father?" said Ippolit Matveyevich
through clenched teeth and kicked the holy father in the hip.
     Father Theodore feinted and viciously kicked the marshal in  the groin,
making him double up.
     "It's not your property."
     "Whose then?"
     "Not yours!"
     "Whose then?"
     "Not yours!"
     "Whose then? Whose?"
     Spitting at each other in this way, they kept kicking furiously.
     "Whose property is it then?" screeched the marshal, sinking his foot in
the holy father's stomach.
     "It's nationalized  property," said the holy  father firmly, overcoming
his pain.
     "Nationalized? "
     "Yes, nationalized."
     They were jerking out the words so quickly that they ran together.
     " Who-nationalized-it? "
     "The-Soviet-Government. The-Soviet-Government."
     "Which-government? "
     "The-working-people's-government."
     "Aha!" said Ippolit Matveyevich  icily. "The government  of workers and
peasants?"
     "Yes!"
     "Hmm  . . .  then maybe  you're a member of the  Communist  Party, Holy
Father?"
     "Maybe I am!"
     Ippolit Matveyevich could no  longer restrain himself and with a shriek
of "Maybe  you are" spat juicily  in Father  Theodore's kindly face.  Father
Theodore immediately spat in Ippolit Matveyevich's face and also  found  his
mark. They had  nothing with which to wipe  away the spittle since they were
still holding  the  chair. Ippolit  Matveyevich made  a  noise  like  a door
opening and thrust the chair at his enemy with all his might. The enemy fell
over, dragging the panting Vorobyaninov  with him. The struggle continued in
the stalls.
     Suddenly there was a crack and both front legs broke on simultaneous'y.
The  opponents completely forgot  one another  and began tearing  the walnut
treasure-chest  to  pieces.  The  flowered  English  chintz  split  with the
heart-rending  scream of a seagull. The back was  torn off by  a mighty tug.
The  treasure  hunters ripped off the sacking together  with the brass tacks
and, grazing their hands on the springs, buried their fingers in the woollen
stuffing. The  disturbed springs hummed. Five minutes  later  the  chair had
been picked clean. Bits and pieces were all that was left. Springs rolled in
all directions, and the wind blew the rotten padding all over  the clearing.
The curved legs lay in a hole. There were no jewels.
     "Well, have you found anything?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, panting.
     Father Theodore, covered in tufts of wool, puffed and said nothing.
     "You crook!" shouted Ippolit Matveyevich. "I'll break your neck, Father
Theodore!"
     "I'd like to see you! " retorted  the priest. "Where are you  going all
covered in fluff? " "Mind your own business!"
     "Shame  on  you, Father! You're  nothing  but a  thief!"  "I've  stolen
nothing from you."
     "How  did you find out  about  this?  You  exploited the  sacrament  of
confession for your own ends. Very nice! Very fine!"
     With  an indignant "Fooh! " Ippolit Matveyevich left  the clearing and,
brushing his sleeve as  he  went,  made for  home.  At  the corner  of  Lena
Massacre and Yerogeyev streets he caught sight of his partner. The technical
adviser and director-general  of the concession was having the suede  uppers
of  his boots cleaned with canary polish; he  was  standing half-turned with
one  foot  slightly  raised.  Ippolit  Matveyevich  hurried up  to him.  The
director was gaily crooning the shimmy:

     "The camels used to do it,
     The barracudas used to dance it,
     Now the whole world's doing the shimmy."

     "Well,  how was the housing division?" he asked in a  businesslike way,
and immediately added:
     "Wait a  moment.  Don't tell  me now; you're  too  excited. Cool down a
little."
     Giving the shoeshiner  seven kopeks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm
and led  him down the street. He listened very carefully  to  everything the
agitated Ippolit Matveyevich told him.
     "Aha! A  small black beard? Right!  A coat  with  a sheepskin collar? I
see. That's  the chair from the  pensioner's home. It  was  bought today for
three roubles."
     "But wait a moment. . . ."
     And  Ippolit Matveyevich told the chief concessionaire all about Father
Theodore's low tricks.
     Ostap's face clouded.
     "Too  bad," he said. "Just like a detective story. We have a mysterious
rival. We must steal a march on him. We can always break his head later."
     As the friends  were having a  snack in the  Stenka Razin beer-hall and
Ostap was asking questions about the  past and present state of  the housing
division, the day came to an end.
     The golden carthorses became  brown again. The diamond drops  grew cold
in mid-air and plopped  on to  the  ground.  In  the beer-halls  and Phoenix
restaurant the price of beer went up. Evening had come; the street lights on
Greater Pushkin Street lit up and a detachment of Pioneers went by, stamping
their feet, on the way home from their first spring outing.
     The  tigers,   figures   of  victory,  and   cobras   on  top   of  the
province-planning  administration  shone  mysteriously  in  the light of the
advancing moon.
     As  he  made  his way home  with Ostap, who  was  now suddenly  silent,
Ippolit  Matveyevich  gazed  at the  tigers  and  cobras. In his  time,  the
building had  housed the Provincial  Government  and the  citizens had  been
proud of their cobras, considering them one of the sights of Stargorod.
     "I'll find  them," thought Ippolit  Matveyevich,  looking at one of the
plaster figures of victory.
     The  tigers swished their tails  lovingly,  the cobras  contracted with
delight, and Ippolit Matveyevich's heart filled with determination.


        CHAPTER TEN

        THE MECHANIC, THE PARROT, AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER

     No. 7 Pereleshinsky  Street was not one of  Stargorod's best buildings.
Its two storeys were constructed in the style of  the Second Empire and were
embellished  with  timeworn lion heads,  singularly reminiscent of  the once
well-known  writer   Artsybashec.  There   were  exactly  seven   of   these
Artsybashevian physiognomies,  one for each of the windows  facing on to the
street. The faces had been placed at the keystone of each window.
     There were two  other embellishments on the building, though these were
of a purely commercial nature. On one side hung the radiant sign:

        ODESSA ROLL BAKERY
     MOSCOW
     BUN ARTEL

     The sign depicted  a  young man wearing  a  tie and ankle-length French
trousers.  Ift  one  dislocated hand he held  the fabulous  cornucopia, from
which poured an avalanche of ochre-coloured  buns; whenever necessary, these
were passed off as Moscow rolls. The young man had a sexy smile on his face.
On  the  other  side,  the  Fastpack  packing  office  announced  itself  to
prospective clients by a black board with round gold lettering.
     Despite the appreciable difference in the signs and also in the capital
possessed by  the two dissimilar enterprises, they both engaged in  the same
business,  namely, speculation in  all types of  fabrics: coarse wool,  fine
wool, cotton, and, whenever  silk of good  colour and design came their way,
silk as well.
     Passing through the tunnel-like gateway and turning right into the yard
with  its  cement well, you could see two doorways without  porches,  giving
straight on to the angular flagstones of the yard. A dulled brass plate with
a name engraved in script was fixed to the right-hand door:

        V.M. POLESOV

     The left-hand door was fitted with a piece of whitish tin:

        FASHIONS AND MILLINERY

     This was also only for show.
     Inside the fashions-and-millinery workroom there was no esparterie,  no
trimmings, no headless dummies  with soldierly bearing, nor any large  heads
for elegant ladies' hats. Instead, the  three-room apartment was occupied by
an immaculately white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was riddled  with
fleas, but could not complain since it was unable to  talk. For days  on end
it used to crack sunflower seeds and spit  the husks through the bars of its
tall, circular  cage on to  the carpet. It only  needed a concertina and new
squeaky Wellingtons to resemble a peasant on a  spree.  Dark-brown patterned
curtains  flapped  at  the  window.  Dark-brown  hues  predominated  in  the
apartment. Above  the piano  was a reproduction of Boecklin's  "Isle  of the
Dead" in  a fancy frame of dark-green oak, covered with glass. One corner of
the glass had  been broken off some time before, and the flies  had added so
many finishing touches to the  picture at this  bared section that it merged
completely with the frame. What was going on in that section of the "Isle of
the Dead" was quite impossible to say.
     The owner herself was  sitting in  the  bedroom  and laying  out cards,
resting  her  arms  on  an  octagonal  table  covered  by a  dirty Richelieu
tablecloth. In front of her sat Widow Gritsatsuyev, in a fluffy shawl.
     "I should warn  you, young lady, that  I  don't  take  less than  fifty
kopeks per session,' said the fortune-teller.
     The  widow, whose  anxiousness  to find a new husband  knew no  bounds,
agreed to pay the price.
     "But  predict the  future as well, please,"  she said plaintively. "You
will be  represented by the  Queen of  Clubs." "I  was  always  the Queen of
Hearts," objected the widow. The fortune-teller consented  apathetically and
began manipulating  the  cards. A rough  estimation of the  widow's lot  was
ready in a  few minutes. Both  major and minor difficulties awaited her, but
near to her heart was  the King of  Clubs, who  had befriended the Queen  of
Diamonds.
     A fair copy of the prediction was made from the widow's hand. The lines
of her hand were clean, powerful, and faultless. Her life line stretched  so
far that  it  ended  up at her pulse and,  if it told the  truth, the  widow
should  have lived till doomsday. The  head line and line of brilliancy gave
reason to believe that she would  give up  her  grocery business and present
mankind with masterpieces in the realm  of art, science, and social studies.
Her Mounts  of Venus  resembled Manchurian volcanoes and revealed incredible
reserves of love and affection. The fortune-teller explained all this to the
widow, using  the  words and  phrases current among graphologists, palmists,
and horse-traders.
     "Thank you, madame," said the widow. "Now I  know who the King of Clubs
is. And I know who the Queen of  Diamonds is, too. But  what about the King?
Does that  mean  marriage?" "It does, young lady." The widow went home  in a
dream,  while  the  fortune-teller  threw the cards into a  drawer,  yawned,
displaying the mouth  of a fifty-year-old woman, and went into the  kitchen.
There  she busied herself  with the meal that was warming on a Graetz stove;
wiping her hands on  her apron like a cook, she took a  chipped-enamel  pail
and went into the yard to fetch water.
     She  walked  across  the  yard, dragging  her  flat feet. Her  drooping
breasts wobbled lazily inside her dyed  blouse. Her  head  was  crowned with
greying hair. She  was an  old woman, she  was  dirty, she regarded everyone
with suspicion, and she had a sweet tooth. If Ippolit Matveyevich  had  seen
her  now,  he would never  have recognized Elena Bour, his former  mistress,
about whom the clerk of the court had once said in verse that "her lips were
inviting and she was so spritely!" At the well, Mrs. Bour was greeted by her
neighbour,  Victor Mikhailovich  Polesov, the mechanic-intellectual, who was
collecting water in an empty petrol tin. Polesov had the face of an operatic
Mephistopheles who is carefully rubbed with burnt cork just before  he  goes
on stage.
     As  soon as they had exchanged greetings, the neighbours  got down to a
discussion of the affair concerning the whole of Stargorod.
     "What times we live in!" said Polesov ironically. "Yesterday I went all
over the town but  couldn't find any three-eighths-inch dies anywhere. There
were none available. And to think-they're going to open a tramline!"
     Elena Stanislavovna, who had as much idea about three-eighths-inch dies
as a student of the  Leonardo da Vinci ballet school, who  thinks that cream
comes from cream tarts, expressed her sympathy.
     "The  shops we have now! Nothing but long queues.  And the names of the
shops are so dreadful. Stargiko!"
     "But I'll tell you something  else, Elena Stanislavovna. They have four
General Electric engines left. And they just about work, although the bodies
are junk. The windows  haven't any shock absorbers. I've  seen  them myself.
The  whole lot rattles. Horrible! And the  other  engines are from  Kharkov.
Made entirely by the State Non-Ferrous Metallurgy Industry."
     The mechanic stopped talking in irritation. His black face glistened in
the  sun. The whites of his eyes  were yellowish.  Among the artisans owning
cars in  Stargorod, of whom  there were many,  Victor Polesov  was  the most
gauche, and most frequently made an ass  of himself. The reason for this was
his  over-ebullient nature.  He  was  an  ebullient  idler. He  was  forever
effervescing. In his own workshop in the  second yard of no. 7 Pereleshinsky
Street,  he was never  to be  found. Extinguished  portable  furnaces  stood
deserted  in  the  middle of  his  stone shed, the  corners  of  which  were
cluttered up with punctured tyres, torn Triangle tyre covers, rusty padlocks
(so enormous you could have locked town gates with them), fuel cans with the
names  "Indian" and "Wanderer",  a  sprung  pram, a useless  dynamo,  rotted
rawhide belts, oil-stained rope, worn emery paper, an  Austrian bayonet, and
a great deal of other broken, bent and dented junk. Clients could never find
Victor Mikhailovich.  He  was  always out somewhere giving orders. He had no
time for work. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch a horse . and
cart drive  into his  or anyone else's  yard.  He immediately went  out and,
clasping his  hands  behind  his back,  watched the  carter's  actions  with
contempt. Finally he could bear it no longer.
     "Where do  you  think you're going?"  he used to shout  in a  horrified
voice. "Move over!"
     The startled carter would move the cart over.
     "Where do you think you're  moving to, wretch?"  Victor Polesov  cried,
rushing up  to the  horse.  "In  the old days you would have got a slap  for
that, then you would have moved over."
     Having given orders in this  way  for half an hour or so, Polesov would
be just about to return to his workshop, where a broken bicycle pump awaited
repair, when the peaceful life of the  town would be disturbed by some other
contretemps. Either two carts entangled their axles in the street and Victor
Mikhailovich  would  show the best  and  quickest  way to separate them,  or
workmen would be replacing a telegraph pole and  Polesov would check that it
was perpendicular  with  his  own  plumb-line  brought  specially  from  the
workshop; or, finally, the fire-engine would go past and Polesov, excited by
the noise of the siren and burned up with curiosity, would chase after it.
     But  from time  to  time  Polesov was  seized  by  a mood  of practical
activity.  For several days he used to  shut himself up in  his workshop and
toil in  silence. Children ran freely  about the yard and shouted what  they
liked,  carters described  circles in the  yard,  carts  completely  stopped
entangling  their  axles  and  fire-engines  and hearses  sped  to  the fire
unaccompanied-Victor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after a bout of this
kind, he emerged from the workshop with a motor-cycle, pulling it like a ram
by   the   horns;  the   motor-cycle   was   made  up  of   parts  of  cars,
fire-extinguishers,  bicycles  and  typewriters.  It  had  a  one-and-a-half
horsepower Wanderer  engine and Davidson wheels, while  the  other essential
parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the
words "Trial Run" hung on a cord  from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without
looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.
There  was  no  spark  for at  least ten minutes, but then  came  a metallic
splutter and  the contraption shuddered  and enveloped itself in  a cloud of
filthy   smoke.  Polesov  jumped  into  the  saddle,  and  the  motor-cycle,
accelerating  madly, carried him through the tunnel into the  middle  of the
roadway and  stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and  investigate the
mysterious  vehicle when  it  suddenly  reversed  and,  whisking its creator
through the same tunnel, stopped  at its  original point of departure in the
yard, grunted  peevishly,  and  blew  up. Victor  Mikhailovich escaped  by a
miracle  and  during  the  next  bout  of  activity  used  the  bits of  the
motor-cycle to make  a stationary engine, very similar to a real  one-except
that it did not work.
     The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was
the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative
that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he
undertook to repair the iron gates and paint  them any colour  he liked. For
its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov
the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a
special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.
     Victor  Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set  to work
in  his  shop with enthusiasm. It took several days  to un-rivet the  gates.
They were  taken  to pieces. Iron  curlicues  lay in the pram; iron bars and
spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to  inspect
the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in  the town. A water  main burst
on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of
the  misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen,  and every few
minutes looking into the hole in the ground.
     As soon as his  organizational  ardour  had  somewhat  abated,  Polesov
returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard  were
already playing with  the iron curlicues  and spikes of the gates of no.  5.
Seeing  the  wrathful  mechanic,  the children dropped their playthings  and
fled.  Half  the  curlicues were missing and were never  found.  After  that
Polesov lost interest in the gates.
     But then  terrible things began to happen in no.  5, which was now wide
open to all. The wet  linen  was stolen from  the  attics,  and one  evening
someone  even carried  off  a samovar that was  singing in the yard. Polesov
himself took part  in the pursuit, but the  thief ran  at quite a pace, even
though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over
his shoulder,  covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the  lead,  with foul
abuse.  The one  who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.
He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to
open, and  residents returning from a spree had no one to give  a tip to. At
first  the  yard-keeper kept  coming  to  ask if  the  gates  would  soon be
finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats.  The
housing cooperative  sent Polesov written  reminders, and there was talk  of
taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.
     Standing by  the well,  the fortune-teller and  the mechanic-enthusiast
continued their conversation.
     "Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for
the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"
     "When  will  all this  end!"  said Elena  Stanislavovna. "We live  like
savages!"
     "There's  no end  to  it. .  .  . Yes.  Do  you  know who I saw  today?
Vorobyaninov."
     In  her  amazement  Elena  Stanislavovna   leaned  against   the  wall,
continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.
     "I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for
the  hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly  two
people  came  towards  me.  One of  them  seemed  familiar;  he looked  like
Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.
I told them  it used to be  a girls' secondary school,  and later became the
housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just  said,
Thanks' and  went off. Then I  saw clearly that it  really was Vorobyaninov,
only  without  his  moustache.  The other one  with him was  a  fine-looking
fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought. . ."
     At  that  moment  Victor  Mikhailovich  noticed  something  unpleasant.
Breaking off what  he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind
the dustbin. Into the yard  sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped
by the well and  began looking round at the  buildings.  Not seeing  Polesov
anywhere, he asked sadly:
     "Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"
     "I really don't  know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."
And  with  unusual nervousness she hurried off  to  her  apartment, spilling
water from the pail.
     The  yard-keeper stroked the  cement block at the  top of the well  and
went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:

        ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP

     was another sign:

        METAL WORKSHOP
     AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS

     under  which  there hung  a heavy  padlock. The  yard-keeper kicked the
padlock and said with loathing:
     "Ugh, that stinker!"
     He stood by the  workshop for another two  or  three minutes working up
the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it
to the well in the middle  of the yard, and standing on it  with both  feet,
began creating an unholy row.
     "You  have thieves in no. 7!" howled  the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all
kinds! That  seven-sired  viper! Secondary education indeed! I  don't give a
damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"
     During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting
behind the  dustbin  and feeling  depressed. Window-frames flew open  with a
bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
     People strolled into the yard from outside in  curiosity. At the  sight
of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
     "Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"
     The  yard-keeper's  parliamentary expressions were  richly interspersed
with swear words, to  which he gave  preference. The members of the fair sex
crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed
where they were.
     "I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"
     While  the  scene was at its  height, a militiaman appeared and quietly
began hauling the fellow  off to the police station. He was assisted by Some
young  toughs  from  Fastpack.  The  yard-keeper  put  his  arms around  the
militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.
     A weary Victor  Mikhailovich  jumped out from behind the dustbin. There
was a stir among the audience.
     "Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. "I'll show you! You
louse!"
     But the  yard-keeper  was weeping bitterly and could  not hear. He  was
carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove
Repairs"  was  also  taken  along as factual  evidence. Victor  Mikhailovich
bristled with fury for some time.
     "Sons of  bitches!"  he  said, turning to  the  spectators.  "Conceited
bums!"
     "That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena  Stanislavovna  from
the window. "Come in here a moment."
     She  placed a dish of  stewed fruit in front of  Polesov and, pacing up
and down the room, began asking him questions.
     "But I tell you it was him-without his  moustache, but definitely him,"
said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well. It was the spitting image
of Vorobyaninov."
     "Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?"
     An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.
     "Well, what do you think? "
     He chuckled with even greater irony.
     "At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks."
     "Do you think he's in danger? "
     The reserves of  irony amassed by Polesov over  the ten years since the
revolution  were  inexhaustible.  A  series  of smiles of  varying force and
scepticism lit up his face.
     "Who  isn't   in  danger   in  Soviet  Russia,  especially  a  man   in
Vorobyaninov's position. Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off
for nothing."
     "Has  he  been sent from  abroad?" asked  Elena  Stanislavovna,  almost
choking.
     "Definitely," replied the brilliant mechanic.
     "What is his purpose here?"
     "Don't be childish!"
     "I must see him all the same."
     "Do you know what you're risking? "
     "I don't care. After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than
see Ippolit Matveyevich."
     And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were
still in love with one another.
     "I beg you to find him.  Find out where he  is. You go  everywhere;  it
won't be difficult for you. Tell him I want to see him. Do you hear?"
     The  parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on  its perch,
was  startled by the noisy  conversation; it turned upside down and froze in
that position.
     "Elena Stanislavovna," said  the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his
hands to his chest, "I will contact him."
     "Would  you like  some  more  stewed fruit?"  asked the fortune-teller,
deeply touched.
     Victor  Mikhailovich  consumed  the stewed fruit  irritably, gave Elena
Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and
then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.


        CHAPTER ELEVEN

        THE MIRROR-OF-LIFE INDEX

     The next day the partners saw that it  was no longer convenient to live
in  the  caretaker's room. Tikhon  kept muttering away  to  himself and  had
become  completely  stupid,  having seen  his  master  first  with  a  black
moustache,  then  with a green  one, and finally  with no moustache  at all.
There was nothing to sleep  on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in
on Tikhon's new felt  boots. His old  ones stood  in the corner  and did not
help to purify the air, either.
     "I declare the old boys' reunion over," said Ostap. "We  must move to a
hotel."
     Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. "I can't."
     "Why not?"
     "I shall have to register."
     "Aren't your papers in order?"
     "My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours
will spread."
     The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.
     "How do  you  like  the  name Michelson?"  suddenly asked the  splendid
Ostap.
     "Which Michelson? The Senator?"
     "No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union."
     "I don't get you."
     "That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!"
     Bender took  a  union card out of  his  green jacket  and  handed it to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
     "Konrad  Karlovich  Michelson,  aged  forty-eight,  non-party   member,
bachelor;  union member  since 1921 and a person of  excellent character;  a
good friend  of mine and  seems to  be  a friend of children. . .  . But you
needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you."
     Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. "But is it right? "
     "Compared with our" concession, this misdeed, though it does come under
the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game."
     Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.
     "You're  an  idealist,  Konrad Karlovich. You're  lucky,  otherwise you
might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov."
     There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon,
the concessionaires went out into the street.
     They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms.  Ostap threw the whole of
the small hotel  staff into confusion.  First he  looked at the seven-rouble
rooms,  but disliked  the furnishings.  The  cleanliness  of the five-rouble
rooms  pleased  him more,  but  the carpets  were  shabby  and there was  an
objectionable  smell. In the three-rouble rooms everything  was satisfactory
except for the pictures.
     "I can't live in a room with landscapes," said Ostap.
     They had to take a  room for one rouble,  eighty. It had no landscapes,
no  carpets, and the  furniture was very conservative -two  beds and a night
table.
     "Stone-age style," observed Ostap with  approval. "I hope  there aren't
any prehistoric monsters in the mattresses."
     "Depends on  the season," replied the cunning room-cleaner. "If there's
a  provincial convention  of some kind, then  of  course  there aren't  any,
because we have many  visitors and we clean the place thoroughly before they
arrive.  But at other  times you may  find some.  They come  across from the
Livadia Rooms next door."
     That day the concessionaires  visited the  Stargorod communal services,
where they  obtained  the information they required. It turned  out that the
housing division had  been disbanded in 1921 and that its voluminous records
had been merged with those of the communal services.
     The smooth  operator got down to business. By  evening the partners had
found out the  address  of  the  head of the records department, Bartholomew
Korobeinikov, a former  clerk in the Tsarist town administration  and now an
office-employment official.
     Ostap  attired himself  in  his  worsted waistcoat,  dusted his  jacket
against the  back of a chair, demanded a rouble, twenty  kopeks from Ippolit
Matveyevich, and  set off  to visit the  record-keeper.  Ippolit Matveyevich
remained at the Sorbonne Hotel and paced up and down  the narrow gap between
the two beds in  agitation.  The  fate of the whole  enterprise was  in  the
balance  that cold, green evening. If they could get hold of copies  of  the
orders   for  the   distribution  of   the   furniture  requisitioned   from
Vorobyaninov's house, half  the  battle  had been won.  There would still be
tremendous difficulties facing them, but at least they would be on the right
track.
     "If  only we can  get  the orders,"  whispered Ippolit  Matveyevich  to
himself, lying on the bed, "if only we can get them."
     The springs of the battered mattress nipped him like fleas, but  he did
not  feel them. He still only had a vague idea of what would follow once the
orders had been obtained, but felt sure everything would then go swimmingly.
     Engrossed in  his  rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about  on the
bed. The springs bleated underneath him.
     Ostap  had to go right across  town. Korobeinikov lived  in Gusishe, on
the outskirts.
     It was an area populated largely by railway workers.  From time to time
a  snuffling locomotive would  back its way along the walled-off embankment,
above the houses. For a  second the roof-tops were lit by the blaze from the
firebox.  Now and then empty goods  trains went  by,  and  from time to time
detonators  could  be heard  exploding.  Amid the  huts and temporary wooden
barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats.
     Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club- checked the
address from a piece of paper, and halted  in front of  the  record-keeper's
house. He rang a bell marked "Please Ring" in embossed letters.
     After  prolonged questioning as to "Who do you want?" and "What  is  it
about?"   the  door  was   opened,  and  he   found   himself  in   a  dark,
cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did
not speak.
     "Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?" asked Ostap.
     The person who had been  breathing took Ostap  by  the arm and  led him
into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him
a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt
that  this  was  Citizen  Korobeinikov  himself.  Without  waiting   for  an
invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down.
     The old man looked fearlessly at  the high-handed stranger and remained
silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation.
     "I've  come on  business. You  work  at  the communal-services  records
office, don't you? "
     The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively.
     "And you worked before that in the housing division?"
     "I have worked everywhere," he answered gaily.
     "Even in the Tsarist town administration?"
     Here  Ostap  smiled graciously.  The old man's back  contorted for some
time and finally ended up in a  position implying that his employment in the
Tsarist town administration  was something  long  passed and that it was not
possible to remember everything for sure.'
     "And may  I ask what I can  do  for you?"  said the host, regarding his
visitor with interest.
     "You may," answered the visitor. "I am Vorobyaninov's son."
     "Whose? The marshal's?"
     "Yes." . "Is he still alive?"
     "He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest."
     "Yes," said the old man without any particular grief, "a sad event. But
I didn't think he had any children."
     "He didn't," said Ostap amiably in confirmation.
     "What do you mean?"
     "I'm from a morganatic marriage."
     "Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son? "
     "Right!"
     "How is she?"
     "Mum's been in her grave some time."
     "I see. I see. How sad."
     And  the  old  man gazed at  Ostap  with tears of sympathy in his eyes,
although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in
the market.
     "We  all  pass away," he said, "but  please tell  me  on what  business
you're here, my dear . . . I don't know your name."
     "Voldemar," promptly replied Ostap.
     "Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good."
     The  old man sat down at the table covered  with patterned oilcloth and
peered into Ostap's eyes.
     In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his
parents. He much regretted that  he had invaded the privacy of the respected
record-keeper so  late  at night  and disturbed  him by the visit, but hoped
that the respected record-keeper would  forgive  him  when he knew what  had
brought him.
     "I would like to have some of my dad's furniture," concluded Ostap with
inexpressible filial love, "as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the
furniture from dad's house?"
     "That's difficult," said the old  man after a moment's thought. "Only a
well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask? "
     "I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines."
     The old man looked dubiously  at young  Vorobyaninov's  green suit, but
made no comment.
     "A smart young man," he thought.
     "A typical  old bastard," decided Ostap, who had  by then completed his
observation of Korobeinikov.
     "So there you are," said Ostap.
     "So there  you  are,"  said the  record-keeper.  "It's  difficult,  but
possible."
     "And  it  involves expense,"  suggested  the refrigeration-plant  owner
helpfully.
     "A small sum . . ."
     " 'Is nearer one's heart', as  Maupassant used  to say. The information
will be paid for."
     "All right then, seventy roubles."
     "Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?"
     The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine.
     "Joke if you will. . ."
     "I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?"
     "Have you the money on you? "
     Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket.
     "Then now, if you like," said Korobeinikov triumphantly.
     He  lit a  candle  and  led Ostap into the  next  room. Besides  a bed,
obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself,  the room  contained a
desk  piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves.
The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the
edges  of the shelves. Bundles of orders  bound with new string  lay  on the
shelves.
     "Oho!" exclaimed the delighted Ostap. "A full set of records at home."
     "A complete set," said  the record-keeper modestly.  "Just in case, you
know.  The communal services  don't need them and they might be useful to me
in  my  old age. We're living on top of a  volcano,  you  know. Anything can
happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it
be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will
have  preserved  it? Who will  have looked after  it?  Korobeinikov! So  the
gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And
I don't need  very much; ten roubles  an order will do me.  Otherwise,  they
might as  well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture
without me."
     Ostap looked at the old man in rapture.
     "A marvellous office,"  he  said.  "Complete  mechanization.  You're an
absolute hero of labour!"
     The  flattered  record-keeper  began  explaining  the  details  of  his
pastime. He opened the thick registers.
     "It's all  here," he said, "the whole of Stargorod. All  the furniture.
Who it was taken from and  who it was given to. And  here's the alphabetical
index-the  mirror  of  life!  Whose furniture  do  you want  to  know about?
Angelov,  first-guild merchant? Certainly.  Look  under  A.  A, Ak, Am,  Am,
Angelov. The number? Here it is-82742. Now give me the stock book. Page 142.
Where's Angelov?  Here  he is.  Taken  from Angelov  on  December  18, 1918:
Baecker grand piano, one,  no. 97012; piano stools, one, soft; bureaux, two;
wardrobes,  four (two mahogany); bookcases, one . . . and so on. And who was
it all given to?  Let's look at the  distribution register. The same number.
Issued to. The bookcase  to the town military  committee, three wardrobes to
the  Skylark boarding school, another wardrobe  for the personal use  of the
Stargorod province food  office. And where did  the piano go? The piano went
to the old-age pensioners' home, and it's there to this day."
     "I  don't  think I  saw  a  piano  there," thought  Ostap,  remembering
Alchen's shy little face.
     "Or  for instance, Murin, head of the town council. So we look under M.
It's  all here.  The  whole town.  Pianos, settees,  pier  glasses,  chairs,
divans, pouffes, chandeliers . . . even dinner services."
     "Well,"  said Ostap, "they ought to erect a monument to you.  But let's
get to the point. The letter V, for example."
     "The letter V it is," responded Korobeinikov willingly. "In one moment.
Vm, Vn. Vorotsky, no. 48238, Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich, your father,
God  rest  his soul, was a man with  a big  heart. . . A  Baecker piano, no.
54809. Chinese vases, marked, four, from Sevres in France; Aubusson carpets,
eight, different  sizes;  a tapestry, "The  Shepherd  Boy'; a tapestry, 'The
Shepherd Girl'; Tekke  carpets, two;  Khorassan carpets,  one; stuffed bears
with dish, one; a bedroom suite  to seat twelve; a dining-room suite to seat
sixteen; a drawing-room suite to seat twelve, walnut, made by Hambs."
     "And who was given it?" asked Ostap impatiently. "We're just coming  to
that.  The  stuffed bear with  dish went  to the  police  station No. 2. The
Shepherd Boy tapestry went to the art treasure collection; the Shepherd Girl
tapestry  to  the  water-transport  club; the  Aubusson, Tekke and Khorassan
carpets  to the Ministry of  Foreign  Trade. The  bedroom suite went  to the
hunters' trade-union; the  dining-room suite to the Stargorod branch of  the
chief tea  administration.  The walnut suite was divided up. The round table
and one chair  went  to the pensioners' home, a curved-back settee was given
to the housing division (it's still  in the  hall, and  the bastards spilled
grease all over the covering); one chair went to Comrade Gritsatsuyev as  an
imperialist war invalid, at his own request, granted by Comrade Burkin, head
of the housing division. Ten chairs went  to Moscow to the furniture museum,
in accordance with  a circular sent round by the Ministry of Education . . .
Chinese vases, marked .. ."
     "Well done!" said Ostap jubilantly. "That's more  like it! Now it would
be nice to see the actual orders."
     "In  a  moment.  We'll  come to the orders in a moment.  Letter  V, No.
48238."
     The old man went up to the cupboard  and, standing on tiptoe, took down
the appropriate bundle.
     "Here you  are.  All  your  father's  furniture. Do you  want  all  the
orders?"
     "What would I do with  all of  them? Just something to  remind me of my
childhood. The drawing-room suite . . . I remember how I used to play on the
Khorassan carpet in the drawing-room, looking at the Shepherd Boy tapestry .
.  .  I  had  a fine time,  a  wonderful childhood. So  let's stick  to  the
drawing-room suite, dad."
     Lovingly the old man began to open up the bundle of green  counterfoils
and searched for the orders in question. He took  out five  of them. One was
for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for the round table, and one for
tapestry.
     "lust  see. They're all  in order. You know where each item is. All the
counterfoils  have  the  addresses  on  them  and  also  the  receiver's own
signature.  So no one can back out  if anything happens. Perhaps you'd  like
Madame Popov's furniture? It's very good and also made by Hambs."
     But Ostap was motivated solely  by love for his parents; he grabbed the
orders, stuffed them in the depths of his pocket  and declined the furniture
belonging to General Popov's wife.
     "May  I make  out a  receipt?"  inquired  the  record-keeper,  adroitly
arching himself.
     "You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!"
     "I will then."
     "Do that!"
     They  went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in
neat  handwriting  and  handed  it  smilingly  to  his  visitor.  The  chief
concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in
a  singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious
orders.
     "Well, so  long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a
lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king
of the office!"
     The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand.
     "Good-bye!" repeated Ostap.
     He moved towards the door.
     Korobeinikov was at a loss to  understand. He even looked on  the table
to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly:
     "What about the money?"
     "What  money?"  said  Ostap,  opening the door.  "Did  I hear  you  say
something about money? "
     "Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!"
     "Honestly, chum,"  crooned  Ostap, "I swear by  my late father,  I'd be
glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account."
     The old man  began to tremble and put out a puny  hand to restrain  his
nocturnal visitor.
     "Don't be a fool," said  Ostap  menacingly. "I'm  telling  you in plain
Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!"
     The door slammed.  Korobeinikov opened it  and ran into the street, but
Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing
overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke.
     "Things are  moving," cried Ostap to  the driver,  "things  are moving,
gentlemen of the jury!"
     The driver could not hear;  he waved his hand, and  the wheels  of  the
locomotive began pulling  the steel elbows of the cranks with  still greater
force. The locomotive raced away.
     Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back
into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room
and  kicked  the table with rage.  The clog-shaped  ash-tray  with  the word
"Triangle"  on  it jumped up and  down,  and the glass  clinked  against the
decanter.
     Never before had  Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.
He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such
brilliant simplicity that all he could  do was stand for  some time, lashing
out at the thick legs of the table.
     In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned
to  him  in cases  of  extreme need. He  acted as a  pawnbroker and  charged
cannibalistic  rates of interest. He  had been doing this for  several years
and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game,
a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.
     "A  fine thing!"  he cried, remembering the  lost orders.  "From now on
money  in advance.  How could I have  bungled it like that? I gave  him  the
walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by
hand. . . ."
     An uncertain hand had been  ringing  the bell marked  "Please Ring" for
some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door
was  still open,  when  there was a  heavy  thud, and'  the voice  of  a man
entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:
     "How do I get in?"
     Korobeinikov went into the  hallway, took  hold of  somebody's coat (it
felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.
     "I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.
     After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both  sides, it came
to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding
Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore  was  not averse to paying
for it.  Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great  amusement,  the  visitor
turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to
keep something  in memory of him, for example, a  walnut drawing-room suite.
The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.
     Korobeinikov  asked a  hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's
memory  considerably  lower than that, say  thirty  roubles. They agreed  on
fifty.
     "I'd  like  the  money  first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of
mine."
     "Does it matter if I give it to you  in  ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked
Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat.
     "I'll take them at the official rate of exchange.  Today's rate is nine
and a half."
     Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half
in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper. The latter counted
the coins twice, scooped them  up into one hand and, requesting  his visitor
to wait, went to fetch the orders. Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for
long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P,  quickly found the
right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's
wife. Disembowelling  the  bundle, he selected  the order for twelve  walnut
chairs from  the Hambs  factory,  issued to  Comrade  Bruns,  resident of 34
Vineyard Street. Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled
to himself and took the order to the purchaser.
     "Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser.
     "All  there  together. It's  a  splendid suite. It'll  make  you drool.
Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!"
     Father  Theodore  rapturously   gave  the  record-keeper  a   prolonged
handshake  and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in  the hall,
fled into the darkness of the night.
     For  quite  a while longer Bartholomeich  chuckled to  himself  at  the
customer he had cheated. He spread the gold coins out in a row on  the table
and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs.
     "What  is  it about  Vorobyaninov's furniture that  attracts them?"  he
wondered. "They're out of their minds."
     He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on  the
narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep.


        CHAPTER TWELVE

     A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM

     During the night the  cold  was completely consumed. It became  so warm
that the  feet of early  passers-by began  to  ache.  The  sparrows  chirped
various nonsense. Even the hen that emerged from the kitchen into  the hotel
yard felt  a surge of strength and tried to  take off.  The sky was  covered
with small dumpling-like clouds  and the dustbin reeked of violets and soupe
paysanne. The wind lazed under the  eaves. Tomcats lounged  on  the rooftops
and, half closing their eyes, condescendingly watched the yard, across which
the room-cleaner, Alexander, was hurrying with a bundle of dirty washing.
     Things began stirring in the corridors of the Sorbonne. Delegates  were
arriving from other regions for the opening of the tramway. A whole crowd of
them got down from a wagon bearing the name of the Sorbonne Hotel.
     The sun was warming to its  fullest extent. Up flew the corrugated iron
shutters of the shops, and workers in Soviet government offices on their way
to work in padded coats breathed heavily and  unbuttoned themselves, feeling
the heaviness of spring.
     On  Co-operative   Street  an  overloaded  truck   belonging   to   the
grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration  broke a  spring, and Victor
Polesov arrived at the scene to give advice.
     From one of the rooms furnished with down-to-earth luxury (two beds and
a  night table) came a horse-like snorting and neighing. Ippolit Matveyevich
was happily washing himself and blowing his nose. The smooth operator lay in
bed inspecting the damage to his boots.
     "By the way," he said, "kindly settle your debt."
     Ippolit  Matveyevich surfaced  from under his towel and  looked at  his
partner with bulging, pince-nezless eyes.
     "Why are  you  staring  at me like a soldier  at a  louse? What are you
surprised about? The debt? Yes!  You owe me some money. I forgot to tell you
yesterday that I had to  pay,  with your authority, seventy roubles  for the
orders.   Herewith   the   receipt.    Sling   over   thirty-five   roubles.
Concessionaires, I hope, share the expenses on an equal footing?"
     Ippolit  Matveyevich  put  on  his  pince-nez,  read the  receipt  and,
sighing, passed over the money.  But even that could not dampen his spirits.
The riches were  in their hands. The thirty-rouble speck of dust vanished in
the glitter of a. diamond mountain.
     Smiling radiantly, Ippolit Matveyevich went out into  the corridor  and
began  strolling up and down. His plans for a new life built on a foundation
of  precious stones  brought  him  great comfort. "And  the holy father," he
gloated, "has been  taken for a ride. He'll see as much of the chairs as his
beard."
     Reaching the  end of  the  corridor,  Vorobyaninov  turned  round.  The
cracked white door of  room no.  13  opened  wide,  and out towards him came
Father Theodore in  a blue tunic  encircled by  a shabby black cord  with  a
fluffy tassel. His kindly face was beaming  with happiness. He had also come
into  the corridor to  stretch  his  legs. The rivals approached one another
several times, looking at each other triumphantly as they passed. At the two
ends of the corridor they both turned simultaneously and approached again. .
. . Ippolit Matveyevich's heart was bursting with  joy.  Father Theodore was
experiencing  a similar feeling. Each was sorry  for his defeated enemy.  By
the  time  they reached the  fifth lap,  Ippolit  Matveyevich could restrain
himself no longer.
     "Good morning, Father," he said with inexpressible sweetness.
     Father Theodore mustered all the sarcasm with which God had endowed him
and replied with:
     "Good morning, Ippolit Matveyevich."
     The enemies parted.  When their  paths next crossed,  Vorobyaninov said
casually:
     "I hope I didn't hurt you at our last meeting."
     "Not  at all, it was  very  pleasant  to  see you,"  replied the  other
jubilantly..
     They moved apart again. Father Theodore's physiognomy began  to disgust
Ippolit Matveyevich.
     "I  don't suppose you're saying Mass any more?" he remarked at the next
encounter.
     "There's nowhere to say it. The parishioners have all run off in search
of treasure."
     "Their own treasure, mark you. Their own!"
     "I don't know whose it is, but only that they're looking for it."
     Ippolit Matveyevich wanted to say something nasty  and even  opened his
mouth to do so, but was unable  to think of anything and angrily returned to
his room.  At that  moment,  the  son  of a  Turkish citizen, Ostap  Bender,
emerged from the  room in a light-blue waistcoat,  and, treading on  his own
laces,  went  towards  Vostrikov.  The  roses  on Father  Theodore's  cheeks
withered and turned to ash.
     "Do you  buy rags  and bones?"  he asked menacingly. "Chairs, entrails,
tins of boot polish?"
     "What do you want?" whispered Father Theodore.
     "I want to sell you an old pair of trousers."
     The priest stiffened and moved away.
     "Why are you silent, like an archbishop at a party?"
     Father Theodore slowly walked towards his room.
     "We buy old stuff and steal new stuff!" called Ostap after him.
     Vostrikov  lowered his head and stopped  by the door.  Ostap  continued
taunting him.
     "What about my  pants, my dear cleric? Will you take them? There's also
the sleeves of a waistcoat, the middle of a doughnut, and the ears of a dead
donkey. The  whole  lot is  going  wholesale-it's  cheaper.  And they're not
hidden in chairs, so you won't need to look for them."
     The door shut behind the cleric.
     Ostap sauntered back satisfied, his laces flopping against the carpet.
     As  soon  as  his  massive figure  was  sufficiently  far  away, Father
Theodore  quickly  poked his  head round  the door  and, with  long  pent-up
indignation, squeaked:
     "Silly old fool!"
     "What's  that?"  cried  Ostap,  promptly turning back but the  door was
already shut and the only sound was the click of the lock.
     Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand to  his mouth, and said
clearly:
     "How much is opium for the people?"
     There was silence behind the door:
     "Dad, you're a nasty old man," said Ostap loudly.
     That very moment the point of Father Theodore's pencil  shot out of the
keyhole  and wiggled  in  the  air  in  an attempt to sting his  enemy.  The
concessionaire jumped back  in time and grasped hold of it. Separated by the
door,  the adversaries  began  a tug-of-war.  Youth was victorious,  and the
pencil,  clinging like  a splinter, slowly crept  out of  the keyhole. Ostap
returned with  the trophy to his  room, where the partners  were  still more
elated.
     "And the enemy's in flight, flight, flight," he crooned.
     He  carved a rude word on the edge  of  the pencil with a pocket-knife,
ran into  the corridor, pushed the  pencil through the priest's keyhole, and
hurried back.
     The  friends  got  out  the  green  counterfoils  and  began  a careful
examination of them.
     "This one's for the Shepherd Girl  tapestry," said Ippolit  Matveyevich
dreamily. "I bought it from a St. Petersburg antique dealer."
     "To  hell with the Shepherd Girl," said  Ostap, tearing  the  order  to
ribbons.
     "A round table . . . probably from the suite. . ."
     "Give me the table. To hell with the table!"
     Two orders were left: one  for ten chairs transferred  to the furniture
museum in Moscow, and the other  for the chair given to Comrade Gritsatsuyev
in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.
     "Have your money ready," said Ostap. "We may have to go to Moscow."
     "But there's a chair here!"
     "One  chance in ten. Pure mathematics. Anyway, citizen Gritsatsuyev may
have lit the stove with it."
     "Don't joke like that!"
     "Don't worry, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Michelson, we'll find them.
It's a sacred cause!"
     "We'll be wearing cambric footcloths and eating Margo cream."
     "I have a hunch the jewels are in that very chair."
     "Oh, you have a  hunch,  do you. What other  hunches do you have? None?
All right. Let's work the Marxist way. We'll leave the sky to the birds  and
deal with the  chairs ourselves.  I can't  wait to  meet the imperialist war
invalid, citizen  Gritsatsuyev,  at  15 Plekhanov Street. Don't lag  behind,
Konrad Karlovich. We'll plan as we go."
     As  they passed  Father Theodore's door the  vengeful son of a  Turkish
citizen  gave it a kick. There  was  a  low snarling from the harassed rival
inside.
     "Don't let him follow us!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in alarm.
     "After  today's meeting of the  foreign  ministers aboard  the yacht no
rapprochement is possible. He's afraid of me."
     The friends  did  not return till  evening. Ippolit  Matveyevich looked
worried. Ostap was beaming. He was wearing new raspberry-coloured shoes with
round  rubber heel taps,  green-and-black check  socks,  a cream  cap, and a
silk-mixture scarf of a brightly coloured Rumanian shade.
     "It's  there all right," said Vorobyaninov, reflecting on his  visit to
Widow Gritsatsuyev, "but how are we going to get hold of it? By buying it?"
     "Certainly not!"  said Ostap. "Besides  being  a  totally  unproductive
expense,  that  would start rumours. Why  one  chair, and  why that chair in
particular?"
     "What shall we do?"
     Ostap lovingly inspected the heels of his new shoes.
     "Chic moderne"  he said.  "What shall we do? Don't  worry,  Judge, I'll
take on the operation myself. No chair can withstand these shoes."
     Ippolit Matveyevich brightened up.
     "You know, while you were talking to Mrs. Gritsatsuyev about the flood,
I  sat down on our chair  and I  honestly felt something hard underneath me.
They're there, I'll swear to it. They're there, I know it."
     "Don't get excited, citizen Michelson."
     "We must steal it during the night; honestly, we must steal it!"
     "For a marshal of the nobility  your methods are  too crude. Anyway, do
you know  the technique?  Maybe you  have  a  travelling  kit with a  set of
skeleton  keys.  Get rid of the idea. It's a  scummy  trick  to rob  a  poor
widow."
     Ippolit Matveyevich pulled himself together.
     "It's just that we must act quickly," he said imploringly.
     "Only  cats  are  born quickly,"  said Ostap instructively. "I'll marry
her."
     "Who?"
     "Madame Gritsatsuyev."
     "Why?"
     "So that we can rummage inside the chair quietly and without any fuss."
     "But you'll tie yourself down for life!"
     "The things we do for the concession!"
     "For life!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in a whisper.
     He threw up  his hands in  amazement. His pastor-like face  was bristly
and  his bluish teeth showed they had not been cleaned since the day he left
the town of N.
     "It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.
     "Life!"  said  Ostap.  "Sacrifice!  What do  you  know  about life  and
sacrifices? Do you think  that just because  you were evicted from your  own
house you've tasted life? And just because  they  requisitioned one  of your
imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice? Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a
complex affair,  but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex  affair  which can be
managed as  simply  as  opening a box. All you have to do is  to know how to
open it. Those who don't-have had it."
     Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the  sleeve of his jacket, played
a flourish with his lips and went off.
     Towards  morning he rolled into  the room, took off his shoes, put them
on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly:
     "My little friends."
     "Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep.
     "At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice.
     Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow.
     "And are you going to marry her? "
     Ostap's eyes sparkled.
     "I'll have to make an honest woman of her now."
     Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment.
     "A  passionate  woman,"  said  Ostap, "is  a  poet's dream.  Provincial
straightforwardness. Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital
of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas."
     "When's the wedding?"
     "The day  after  tomorrow. Tomorrow's  impossible.  It's  May Day,  and
everything's shut."
     "But what  about our own business? You're getting married . . .  but we
may have to go to Moscow."
     "What are you worried about? The hearing is continued."
     "And the wife?"
     "Wife? The  little diamond  widow? She's  our  last  concern. A  sudden
summons to the  capital. A short report to be given to the Junior Council of
Ministers. A wet-eyed farewell and  a  roast chicken for the  journey. We'll
travel in comfort. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a holiday."


        CHAPTER THIRTEEN

     BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!

     On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst
for activity, hurried out into  the  street and  headed  for the  centre. At
first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there
were still few people about  and  the reviewing  stands, guarded  by mounted
militiamen,  were empty. By  nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring,
wheezing,  and  whistling in  various  parts of  the town.  Housewives  came
running out of their gates.
     A column of musicians'-union  officials in soft collars somehow strayed
into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and
upsetting everyone.
     A  lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter
"S"  kept running into the musicians  from behind, eliciting shouts from the
bowels  of the locomotive in  the direction of the  toilers of  the oboe and
flute:
     "Where's your supervisor? You're not supposed to be on Red Army Street!
Can't you see you're causing a traffic jam?"
     At  this  point, to  the  misfortune of the  musicians,  Victor Polesov
intervened.
     "That's right! You're supposed to turn into the blind alley here.  They
can't even organize a parade! Scandalous!"
     The children were riding in lorries belonging to the Stargorod communal
services   and  the  grain-mill-and-lift-construction  administration.   The
youngest  ones stood at  the sides  of the lorry and the bigger  ones in the
middle. The junior army waved paper flags and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
It was crowded, noisy, and  hot. Every  minute there  were bottlenecks,  and
every  other  minute  they  were  cleared.  To  pass  the  time  during  the
bottlenecks the  crowd tossed old men and activists in  the air. The old men
wailed  in  squeaky voices,  while the  activists sailed  up and  down  with
serious faces in silence. One merry column of  people  mistook Polesov for a
supervisor as he was trying to squeeze  through them and began tossing  him.
Polesov thrashed about like Punchinello.
     Then came an effigy of Neville Chamberlain, being beaten on his top-hat
with  a cardboard hammer by a worker possessing a model anatomical physique.
This was followed by a truck carrying  three members  of the Communist Youth
in  tails  and   white  gloves.  They   kept  looking   at  the  crowd  with
embarrassment.
     "Basil!" shouted someone from the pavement,  "you bourgeois ! Give back
those braces!"
     Girls  were   singing.  Alchen  was  marching   along  in  a  group  of
social-security  workers with a  large red  bow on his chest. As he  went he
crooned in a nasal voice:

     From the forests of Siberia
     To the British Sea,
     There's no one superior
     To the Red Army. . . .

     At  a  given  command,  gymnasts  disjointedly  shouted  out  something
unintelligible. Everything walked, rode and marched to  the  new tram  depot
from where  at exactly one  o'clock the first electric tram in Stargorod was
due to move off.
     No one  knew  exactly  when  the construction  of the tramline had been
begun. Some time back in 1920, when  voluntary Saturday work was introduced,
railway workers  and  ropemakers had marched to Gusishe to the accompaniment
of music  and spent the whole day digging  holes. They dug a great number of
large, deep holes.  A comrade in  an engineer's cap  had run about among the
diggers, followed by a foreman carrying coloured  poles. Work had  continued
at the  same spot the next Saturday. Two holes dug in the wrong place had to
be  filled in again.  The comrade  descended on the  foreman and demanded an
explanation. Then fresh holes had been dug that were even bigger and deeper.
Next,  the bricks  were delivered and  the real  builders arrived. They  set
about laying the foundations, but then everything  quieted down. The comrade
in the engineer's cap still  appeared now and then at the deserted  building
site and wandered round and round the brick-lined pit, muttering:
     "Cost accounting!"
     He tapped the foundations  with a stick and then hurried home, covering
his frozen ears with his hands. The engineer's name was Treukhov.
     The idea of the tram depot, the  construction of  which ceased abruptly
at the  foundation stage, was conceived by Treukhov in 1912, but the Tsarist
town council had rejected the project. Two years later Treukhov  stormed the
town council  again, but the  war prevented any headway. Then the Revolution
interfered, and  now the  New  Economic Plan,  cost accounting,  and capital
recovery were the obstacles. The foundations were overgrown with flowers  in
the summer, and in the winter children turned them into a snow-slide.
     Treukhov dreamed  of great  things. He was sick and tired of working in
the town-improvement department of the Stargorod communal services, tired of
mending  the kerbs,  and tired of estimating the  cost of hoardings. But the
great  things  did  not  pan  out. The  tramline  project,  re-submitted for
consideration, became  bogged down at the higher instances of the provincial
administration; it was approved by one and rejected by another, passed on to
the  capital, regardless of  approval or rejection,  became covered in dust,
and no money was forthcoming.
     "It's barbarous!" Treukhov shouted  at his wife. "No money, indeed! But
they have enough money to pay for cab drivers and for carting merchandise to
the station!  The  Stargorod's cab-drivers would rob their own grandmothers!
It's a pillagers' monopoly, of course. Just try  carrying your own stuff  to
the station! A tramline would pay for itself in six years."
     His withered moustache drooped  angrily, and his snub-nosed face worked
convulsively. He took some blueprints out of the desk and showed them to his
wife for  the thousandth time. They  were plans  for a  terminus,  depot and
twelve tramcar routes.
     "To hell with twelve routes! They can wait. But three! Three! Stargorod
will choke without them!"
     Treukhov snorted and went into the kitchen to chop wood. He did all the
household  chores  himself. He  designed and built a cradle for the baby and
also constructed a washing-machine. For a  while he washed the clothes in it
himself, explaining to his wife how to work the machine. At least a fifth of
Treukhov's salary went on subscriptions to foreign  technical literature. To
make ends meet he gave up smoking.
     He  took  his  project to  Gavrilin,  the  new chief of  the  Stargorod
communal  services who had  been  transferred from Samarkand. The new chief,
deeply tanned  by  the  Tunisian sun, listened  to Treukhov  for some  time,
though without particular attention, and finally said:
     "In Samarkand, you know, we don't need trams. Everyone rides donkeys. A
donkey  costs three roubles-dirt cheap-and it  can carry about three hundred
pounds. Just a little donkey; it's amazing!"
     "But  that's  Asia,"  said  Treukhov angrily.  "A  donkey  costs  three
roubles, but you need thirty roubles a year to feed it."
     "And  how many times  do you think you can  travel  on  your  trams for
thirty roubles? Three hundred. And that's not even every day for a year."
     "Then you'd better send for some of your donkeys," shouted Treukhov and
rushed out of the office, slamming  the door. Whenever he  met Treukhov from
that time on, the new chief would ask derisively: "Well, then, shall we send
for donkeys or build a tramway?"
     Gavrilin's face was like a smoothly-peeled turnip. His eyes were filled
with cunning.  About two months later  he sent for the engineer and said  to
him earnestly:
     "I have a  little plan. One thing is  clear,  though; there's no money,
and  a tramline is not like a donkey-it can't  be bought for three  roubles.
We'll  have  to  get  some  funds.  What  practical  solution  is  there?  A
shareholding  company?  What else? A loan  repayable with interest! How long
will it take for a tramline to pay for itself? "
     "Six years from the opening of the first three routes."
     "Well, let's say  ten years  then. Now,  the shareholding company.  Who
will  buy the shares? The food co-operatives and the-central  union of dairy
co-operatives.  Do  the  ropemakers  need  trams? Yes, they do.  We will  be
dispatching  freight cars to the railway station.  So that's the ropemakers.
The Ministry of Transport  may  contribute something,  and also the province
executive committee. That's  definite.  And once we've got things going, the
State Bank and the Commercial Bank will  give  us loans. So that's my little
plan. It is going  to  be discussed at  the executive  committee  meeting on
Friday, and if they agree, the rest is up to you."
     Treukhov stayed up till the early hours, excitedly  washing clothes and
explaining   to  his   wife  the   advantages  of  trams  over   horse-drawn
transportation.
     The decision taken  on the Friday was favourable. But that was when the
trouble  started. It proved very difficult to form  a shareholding  company.
The  Ministry  of  Transport  kept  changing  its  mind   about  becoming  a
shareholder. The food co-operatives tried their best to avoid taking fifteen
per cent of the shares and only wanted to take ten per cent. The shares were
finally distributed, though not without a few skirmishes. Gavrilin was sent,
for  by  the  province control  commission  and  reprimanded  for using  his
position to exert pressure. But everything  came out all  right, and then it
was only a question of beginning.
     "Well, Comrade Treukhov," said  Gavrilin, "get  cracking! Do you  think
you'll manage? Well and good. It's not like buying a donkey."
     Treukhov immersed himself  in  his work.  The great things which he had
dreamed   of  for  years  had   finally  arrived.  Estimates  were  made,  a
construction programme drawn up, and the materials ordered. But difficulties
arose where they were least expected. It was found that there were no cement
experts in Stargorod, so they had to  be brought in from Leningrad. Gavrilin
tried to force the pace, but the plants could not deliver  the machinery for
eighteen months,  even though it was actually  needed within  a year, at the
latest. A threat to order the  machinery from abroad, however, brought about
the  required  effect.  Then  there were minor  difficulties.  First it  was
impossible to  find shaped iron  of the right size, then unseasoned sleepers
were  received  instead  of  seasoned  ones. The  right  ones  were  finally
delivered,  but  Treukhov, who had gone personally to  the  seasoning plant,
rejected sixty per cent of the sleepers. There were defects in the cast-iron
parts,  and  the timber  was  damp.  Gavrilin made  frequent  visits  to the
building sites in his ancient, wheezing Fiat and had rows with Treukhov.
     While  the terminus  and  depot  were  being  erected, the citizens  of
Stargorod merely made jokes.
     In  the  Stargorod Truth the tra