Ilf and Petrov. The Twelve Chairs
страница №8
..., wrapped hisboots up in paper, and turned towards the door.
"You're all white at the back," said Ellochka in a phonographic voice.
"Good-bye, Ella."
He hoped that this time at least his wife would refrain from her usual
metallic vocables. Ellochka also felt the seriousness of the occasion. She
strained herself, searching for suitable words for the parting. They soon
came to mind.
"Going by taxi? Ter-r-rific!"
The engineer hurtled downstairs like an avalanche.
Ellochka spent the evening with Fimka Sobak. They discussed a
singularly important event which threatened to upset world economy.
"It seems they will be worn long and wide," said Fimka, sinking her
head into her shoulders like a hen.
"Gloom!"
Ellochka looked admiringly at Fimka Sobak. Mile Sobak was reputed to be
a cultured girl and her vocabulary contained about a hundred and eighty
words. One of the words was one that Ellochka would not even have dreamed
of. It was the meaningful word "homosexuality".
Fimka Sobak was undoubtedly a cultured girl.
Their animated conversation lasted well into the night.
At ten the next morning the smooth operator arrived at Varsonofefsky
Street. In front of him ran the waif from the day before. He pointed out the
house.
"You're not telling stories?"
"Of course not, mister. In there, through the front door."
Bender gave the boy an honestly earned rouble.
"That's not enough," said the boy, like a taxi-driver.
"The ears of a dead donkey. Get them from Pushkin. On your way,
defective one!"
Ostap knocked at the door without the least idea what excuse he would
use for his visit. In conversations with young ladies he preferred
inspiration.
"Oho?" asked a voice behind the door.
"On business," replied Ostap.
The door opened and Ostap went into a room that could only have been
furnished by someone with the imagination of a woodpecker. The walls were
covered with picture postcards of film stars, dolls and Tambov tapestries.
Against this dazzling background it was difficult to make out the little
occupant of the room. She was wearing a gown made from one of Ernest
Pavlovich's shirts, trimmed with some mysterious fur.
Ostap knew at once how he should behave in such high society. He closed
his eyes and took a step backwards. "A beautiful fur!" he exclaimed.
"You're kidding," said Ellochka tenderly. "It's Mexican jerboa."
"It can't be. They made a mistake. You were given a much better fur.
It's Shanghai leopard. Yes, leopard. I recognize it by the shade. You see
how it reflects the sun. Just like emerald!"
Ellochka had dyed the Mexican jerboa with green water-colour herself,
so the morning visitor's praise was particularly pleasing.
Without giving her time to recover, the smooth operator poured out
everything he had ever heard about furs. After that they discussed silk, and
Ostap promised to make his charming hostess a present of several thousand
silkworms which he claimed the Chairman of the Central Executive Committee
of Uzbekistan had brought him.
"You're the right kind of kid," observed Ellochka as a result of the
first few minutes of friendship.
"You're surprised, of course, by this early visit from a stranger."
"Ho-ho!"
"But I've come on a delicate matter."
"You're kidding."
"You were at the auction yesterday and made a remarkable impression on
me."
"You're being vulgar!"
"Heavens! To be vulgar to such a charming woman would be inhuman."
"Ghastly!" .
The conversation continued along these lines, now and then producing
splendid results.
But all the time Ostap's compliments became briefer and more watery. He
had noticed that the second chair was not there. It was up to him to find a
clue. Interspersing his questions with flowery Eastern flattery, he found
out all about the events of the day before in Ellochka's life.
"Something new," he thought, "the chairs are crawling all over the
place, like cockroaches."
"Sell me the chair, dear lady," said Ostap unexpectedly. "I like it
very much. Only with your female intuition could you have chosen such an
artistic object. Sell it to me, young lady, and I'll give you seven
roubles."
"You're being vulgar, kid," said Ellochka slyly.
"Ho-ho!" said Ostap, trying to make her understand. I must approach her
differently, he decided. Let's suggest an exchange.
"You know that in Europe now and in the best homes in Philadelphia
they've reintroduced the ancient custom of pouring tea through a strainer?
It's remarkably effective and elegant."
Ellochka pricked up her ears.
"A diplomat I know has just arrived back from Vienna and brought me one
as a present. It's an amusing thing."
"It must be great," said Ellochka with interest.
"Oho! Ho-ho! Let's make an exchange. You give me the chair and I'll
give you the tea-strainer. Would you like that? "
The sun rolled about in the strainer like an egg. Spots of light danced
on the ceiling. A dark corner of the room was suddenly lit up. The strainer
made the same overwhelming impression on Ellochka as an old tin can makes on
a Mumbo Jumbo cannibal. In such circumstances the cannibal shouts at the top
of his voice. Ellochka, however, merely uttered a quiet "Ho-ho."
Without giving her time to recover, Ostap put the strainer down on the
table, took the chair, and having found out the address of the charming
lady's husband, courteously bowed his way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ABSALOM VLADIMIROVICH IZNURENKOV
There followed a busy time for the concessionaires. Ostap contended
that the chairs should be struck while the iron was hot. Ippolit Matveyevich
was granted an amnesty, although Ostap, from time to time, would ask him
such questions as:
"Why the hell did I ever take up with you? What do I need you for,
anyway? You ought to go home to your registry office where the corpses and
newborn babes are waiting for you. Don't make the infants suffer. Go back
there!"
But in his heart the smooth operator had become very much attached to
the wild marshal. "Life wouldn't be such fun without him," he thought. And
he would glance now and then at Ippolit Matveyevich, whose head was just
beginning to sprout a new crop of silvery hair.
Ippolit Matveyevich's initiative was allotted a fair share of the work
schedule. As soon as the placid Ivanopulo had gone out, Bender would try to
drum into his partner's head the surest way to get the treasure.
"Act boldly. Don't ask too many questions. Be more cynical- people like
it. Don't do anything through a third party. People are smart. No one's
going to hand you the jewels on a plate. But don't do anything criminal.
We've got to keep on the right side of the law."
Their search progressed, however, without much success. The criminal
code plus a large number of bourgeois prejudices retained by the citizens of
the capital made things difficult. People just would not tolerate nocturnal
visits through their windows, for instance. The work could only be done
legally.
The same day that Ostap visited Ellochka Shukin a new piece of
furniture appeared in Ivanopulo's room. It was the chair bartered for the
tea-strainer-their third trophy of the expedition. The partners had long
since passed the stage where the hunt for the jewels aroused strong feelings
in them, where they clawed open the chairs and gnawed the springs.
"Even if there's nothing inside," Ostap said, "you must realize we've
gained at least ten thousand roubles. Every chair opened increases our
chances. What does it matter if there's nothing in the little lady's chair?
We don't have to break it to pieces. Let Ivanopulo furnish his room with it.
It will be pleasanter for us too."
That day the concessionaires trooped out of the little pink house and
went off in different directions. Ippolit Matveyevich was entrusted with the
stranger with the bleat from Sadovaya Spasskaya Street; he was given
twenty-five roubles to cover expenses, ordered to keep out of beer-halls and
not to come back without the chair. For himself the smooth operator chose
Ellochka's husband.
Ippolit Matveyevich crossed the city in a no. 6 bus. As he bounced up
and down on the leather seat, almost hitting his head against the roof, he
wondered how he would find out the bleating stranger's name, what excuse to
make for visiting him, what his first words should be, and how to get to the
point.
Alighting at Red Gates, he found the right house from the address Ostap
had written down, and began walking up and down outside. He could not bring
himself to go in. It was an old, dirty Moscow hotel, which had been
converted into a housing co-operative, and was resided in, to judge from the
shabby frontage, by tenants who persistently avoided their payments.
For a long time Ippolit Matveyevich remained by the entrance,
continually approaching and reading the handwritten notice threatening
neglectful tenants until he knew it by heart; then, finally, still unable to
think of anything, he went up the stairs to the second floor. There were
several doors along the corridor. Slowly, as though going up to the
blackboard at school to prove a theorem he had not properly learned, Ippolit
Matveyevich approached Room 41. A visiting card was pinned upside-down to
the door by one drawing-pin.
Absalom Vladimirovich
IZNURENKOV
In a complete daze, Ippolit Matveyevich forgot to knock. He opened the
door, took three zombie-like steps forward and found himself in the middle
of the room.
"Excuse me," he said in a strangled voice, "can I see Comrade
Iznurenkov?"
Absalom Vladimirovich did not reply. Vorobyaninov raised his head and
saw there was no one in the room.
It was not possible to guess the proclivities of the occupant from the
outward appearance of the room. The only thing that was clear was that he
was a bachelor and had no domestic help. On the window-sill lay a piece of
paper containing bits of sausage skin. The low divan by the wall was piled
with newspapers. There were a few dusty books on the small bookshelf.
Photographs of tomcats, little cats, and female cats looked down from the
walls. In the middle of the room, next to a pair of dirty shoes which had
toppled over sideways, was a walnut chair. Crimson wax seals dangled from
all the pieces of furniture, including the chair from the Stargorod mansion.
Ippolit Matveyevich paid no attention to this. He immediately forgot about
the criminal code and Ostap's admonition, and ran towards the chair.
At this moment the papers on the divan began to stir. Ippolit
Matveyevich started back in fright. The papers moved a little way and fell
on to the floor; from beneath them emerged a small, placid tomcat. It looked
uninterestedly at Ippolit Matveyevich and began to wash itself, catching at
its ear, face and whiskers with its paw.
"Bah!" said Ippolit Matveyevich and dragged the chair towards the door.
The door opened for him and there on the threshold stood the occupant of the
room, the stranger with the bleat. He was wearing a coat under which could
be seen a pair of lilac underpants. He was carrying his trousers in Ms hand.
It could be said that there was no one like Absalom Vladimirovich
Iznurenkov in the whole Republic. The Republic valued his services. He was
of great use to it. But, for all that, he remained unknown, though he was
just as skilled in his art as Chaliapin was in singing, Gorky in writing,
Capablanca in chess, Melnikov in ice-skating, and that very large-nosed and
brown Assyrian occupying the best place on the corner of Tverskaya and
Kamerger streets was in cleaning black boots with brown polish.
Chaliapin sang. Gorky wrote great novels. Capablanca prepared for his
match against Alekhine. Melnikov broke records. The Assyrian made citizens'
shoes shine like mirrors. Absalom Iznurenkov made jokes.
He never made them without reason, just for the effect. He made them to
order for humorous journals. On his shoulders he bore the responsibility for
highly important campaigns, and supplied most of the Moscow satirical
journals with subjects for cartoons and humorous anecdotes.
Great men make jokes twice in their lifetime. The jokes boost their
fame and go down in history. Iznurenkov produced no less than sixty
first-rate jokes a month, which everyone retold with a smile, but he
nonetheless remained in obscurity. Whenever one of Iznurenkov's witticisms
was used as a caption for a cartoon, the glory went to the artist. The
artist's name was placed above the cartoon. Iznurenkov's name did not
appear.
"It's terrible," he used to cry. "It's impossible for me to sign my
name. What am I supposed to sign? Two lines?"
And he continued with his virulent campaign against the enemies of
society-dishonest members of co-operatives, embezzlers, Chamberlain and
bureaucrats. He aimed his sting at bootlickers, apartment-block
superintendents, owners of private property, hooligans, citizens reluctant
to lower their prices, and industrial executives who tried to avoid economy
drives.
As soon as the journals came out, the jokes were repeated in the circus
arena, reprinted in the evening press without reference to the source, and
offered to audiences from the variety stage by "entertainers writing their
own words and music".
Iznurenkov managed to be funny about fields of activity in which you
would not have thought it was possible to say anything humorous at all. From
the arid desert of excessive increases in the cost of production Iznurenkov
managed to extract a hundred or so masterpieces of wit. Heine would have
given up in despair had he been asked to say something funny and at the same
time socially useful about the unfair tariff rates on slow-delivery goods
consignments; Mark Twain would have fled from the subject, but Iznurenkov
remained at his post. He chased from one editorial office to another,
bumping into ash-tray stands and bleating. In ten minutes the subject had
been worked out, the cartoon devised, and the caption added.
When he saw a man in his room just about to remove the chair with the
seal, Absalom Iznurenkov waved his trousers, which had just been pressed at
the tailor's, gave a jump, and screeched: "That's ridiculous! I protest! You
have no right. There's a law, after all. It's not intended for fools, but
you may have heard the furniture can stay another two weeks! I shall
complain to the Public Prosecutor. After all, I'm going to pay!"
Ippolit Matveyevich stood motionless, while Iznurenkov threw off his
coat and, without moving away from the door, pulled on the trousers over his
fat, Chichickovian legs. Iznurenkov was portly, but his face was thin.
Vorobyaninov had no doubt in his mind that he was about to be seized
and hauled off to the police. He was therefore very surprised when the
occupant of the room, having adjusted his dress, suddenly became calmer.
"You must understand," he said in a tone of conciliation, "I cannot
agree to it."
Had he been in Iznurenkov's shoes, Ippolit Matveyevich would certainly
not have agreed to his chairs being stolen in broad daylight either. But he
did not know what to say, so he kept silent.
"It's not my fault. It's the fault of the musicians' organization. Yes,
I admit I didn't pay for the hired piano for eight months. But at least I
didn't sell it, although there was plenty of opportunity. I was honest, but
they behaved like crooks. They took away the piano, and then went to court
about it and had an inventory of my furniture made. There's nothing to put
on the inventory. All this furniture constitutes work tools. The chair is a
work tool as well."
Ippolit Matveyevich was beginning to see the light.
"Put that chair down!" screeched Iznurenkov suddenly. "Do you hear, you
bureaucrat?"
Ippolit Matveyevich obediently put down the chair and mumbled: "I'm
sorry, there's been a misunderstanding. It often happens in this kind of
work!"
At this Iznurenkov brightened up tremendously. He began running about
the room singing: "And in the morning she smiled again before her window."
He did not know what to do with his hands. They flew all over the place. He
started tying his tie, then left off without finishing. He took up a
newspaper, then threw it on the floor without reading anything.
"So you aren't going to take away the furniture today? . . .' Good. .
.Ah! Ah!"
Taking advantage of this favourable turn of events, Ippolit Matveyevich
moved towards the door.
"Wait!" called Iznurenkov suddenly. "Have you ever seen such a cat?
Tell me, isn't it really extraordinarily fluffy?"
Ippolit Matveyevich found the cat in his trembling hands.
"First-rate," babbled Absalom Vladimirovich, not knowing what to do
with this excess of energy. "Ah! Ah!"
He rushed to the window, clapped his hands, and began making slight but
frequent bows to two girls who were watching him from a window of the house
opposite. He stamped his feet and gave sighs of longing.
"Girls from the suburbs! The finest fruit! . . . First-rate! . . . Ah!
. . . 'And in the morning she smiled again before her window'."
"I'm leaving now, Citizen," said Ippolit Matveyevich stupidly.
"Wait, wait!" Iznurenkov suddenly became excited. "Just one moment! Ah!
Ah! The cat . . . Isn't it extraordinarily fluffy? Wait. . . I'll be with
you in a moment."
He dug into all his pockets with embarrassment, ran to the side, came
back, looked out of the window, ran aside, and again returned.
"Forgive me, my dear fellow," he said to Vorobyaninov, who stood with
folded arms like a soldier during all these operations. With these words he
handed the marshal a half-rouble piece.
"No, no, please don't refuse. All labour must be rewarded."
"Much obliged," said Ippolit Matveyevich, surprised at his own
resourcefulness,
"Thank you, dear fellow. Thank you, dear friend."
As he went down the corridor, Ippolit Matveyevich could hear bleating,
screeching, and shouts of delight coming from Iznurenkov's room.
Outside in the street, Vorobyaninov remembered Ostap, and trembled with
fear.
Ernest Pavlovich Shukin was wandering about the empty apartment
obligingly loaned to him by a friend for the summer, trying to decide
whether or not to have a bath.
The three-room apartment was at the very top of a nine-storey building.
The only thing in it besides a desk and Vorobyaninov's chair was a pier
glass. It reflected the sun and hurt his eyes. The engineer lay down on the
desk and immediately jumped up again. It was red-hot.
"I'll go and have a wash," he decided.
He undressed, felt cooler, inspected himself in the mirror, and went
into the bathroom. A coolness enveloped him. He climbed into the bath,
doused himself with water from a blue enamel mug, and soaped himself
generously. Covered in lather, he looked like a Christmas-tree decoration.
"Feels good," said Ernest Pavlovich.
Everything was fine. It was cool. His wife was not there. He had
complete freedom ahead of him. The engineer knelt down and turned on the tap
in order to wash off the soap. The tap gave a gasp and began making slow,
undecipherable noises. No water came out. Ernest Pavlovich inserted a
slippery little finger into the hole. Out poured a thin stream of water and
then nothing more. Ernest Pavlovich frowned, stepped out of the bath,
lifting each leg in turn, and went into the kitchen. Nothing was forthcoming
from the tap in there, either.
Ernest Pavlovich shuffled through the rooms and stopped in front of the
mirror. The soap was stinging his eyes, his back itched, and suds were
dripping on to the floor. Listening to make certain there was still no water
running in the bath, he decided to call the caretaker.
He can at least bring up some water, thought the engineer, wiping his
eyes and slowly getting furious, or else I'm in a mess.
He looked out of the window. Down below, at the bottom of the well of
the building, there were some children playing.
"Caretaker!" shouted Ernest Pavlovich. "Caretaker!"
No one answered.
Then Ernest Pavlovich remembered that the caretaker lived at the front
of the building under the stairway. He stepped out on to the cold tiled
floor and, keeping the door open with one arm, leaned over the banister.
There was only one apartment on that landing, so Ernest Pavlovich was not
afraid of being seen in his strange suit of soapsuds.
"Caretaker!" he shouted downstairs.
The word rang out and reverberated noisily down the stairs.
"Hoo-hoo!" they echoed.
"Caretaker! Caretaker!"
"Hum-hum! Hum-hum!"
It was at this point that the engineer, impatiently shifting from one
bare foot to the other, suddenly slipped and, to regain his balance, let go
of the door.
The brass bolt of the Yale lock clicked into place and the door shut
fast. The wall shook. Not appreciating the irrevocable nature of what had
happened, Ernest Pavlovich pulled at the door handle. The door did not
budge.
In dismay the engineer pulled the handle again several times and
listened, his heart beating fast. There was a churchlike evening stillness.
A little light still filtered through the multicoloured glass of the high
window.
A fine thing to happen, thought Shukin. "You son of a bitch," he said
to the door. Downstairs, voices broke through the silence like exploding
squibs. Then came the muffled bark of a dog in one of the rooms. Someone was
pushing a pram upstairs. Ernest Pavlovich walked timidly up and down the
landing. "Enough to drive you crazy!"
It all seemed too outrageous to have actually happened. He went up to
the door and listened again. Suddenly he heard a different sort of noise. At
first he thought it was someone walking about in the apartment.
Somebody may have got in through the back door, he thought, although he
knew that the back door was locked and that no one could have got in.
The monotonous sound continued. The engineer held his breath and
suddenly realized that the sound was that of running water. It was evidently
pouring from all the taps in the apartment. Ernest Pavlovich almost began
howling.
The situation was awful. A full-grown man with a moustache and higher
education was standing on a ninth-floor landing in the centre of Moscow,
naked except for a covering of bursting soapsuds. There was nowhere he could
go. He would rather have gone to jail than show himself in that state. There
was only one thing to do-hide. The bubbles were bursting and making his back
itch. The lather on his face had already dried; it made him look as though
he had the mange and puckered his skin like a hone.
Half an hour passed. The engineer kept rubbing himself against the
whitewashed walls and groaning, and made several unsuccessful attempts to
break in the door. He became dirty and horrible.
Shukin decided to go downstairs to the caretaker at any price. There's
no other way out. None. The only thing to do is hide 10 the caretaker's
room.
Breathing heavily and covering himself with his hand as men do when
they enter the water, Ernest Pavlovich began creeping downstairs close to
the banister. He reached the landing between the eighth and ninth floors.
His body reflected multicoloured rhombuses and squares of light from
the window. He looked like Harlequin secretly listening to a conversation
between Columbine and Pierrot. He had just turned to go down the next flight
when the lock of an apartment door below snapped open and a girl came out
carrying a ballet dancer's attache case. Ernest Pavlovich was back on his
landing before the girl had taken one step. He was practically deafened by
the terrible beating of his heart.
It was half an hour before the engineer recovered sufficiently to make
another sortie. This time he was fully determined to hurtle down at full
speed, ignoring everything, and make it to the promised land of the
caretaker's room.
He started off. Silently taking four stairs at a time, the engineer
raced downstairs. On the landing of the sixth floor he stopped for a moment.
This was his undoing. Someone was coming up.
"Insufferable brat!" said a woman's voice, amplified many times by the
stairway. "How many times do I have to tell him!"
Obeying instinct rather than reason, like a cat pursued by dogs Ernest
Pavlovich tore up to the ninth floor again.
Back on his own land, all covered with wet footmarks, he silently burst
into tears, tearing his hair and swaying convulsively. The hot tears ran
through the coating of soap and formed two wavy furrows.
"Oh, my God!" moaned the engineer. "Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord!"
There was no sign of life. Then he heard the noise of a truck going up
the street. So there was life somewhere! Several times more he tried to
bring himself to go downstairs, but his nerve gave way each time. He might
as well have been in a burial vault.
"Someone's left a trail behind him, the pig!" he heard an old woman's
voice say from the landing below.
The engineer ran to the wall and butted it several times with his head.
The most sensible thing to do, of course, would have been to keep shouting
until someone came, and then put himself at their mercy. But Ernest
Pavlovich had completely lost his ability to reason; breathing heavily he
wandered round and round the landing.
There was no way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE AUTOMOBILE CLUB
In the editorial offices of the large daily newspaper Lathe, located on
the second floor of the House of the Peoples, material was hurriedly being
got ready for the typesetters.
News items and articles were selected from the reserve (material which
had been set up but not included in the previous number) and the number of
lines occupied were counted up; then began the daily haggling for space.
The newspaper was able to print forty-four hundred lines in all on its
four pages. This had to include everything: cables, articles, social events,
letters from correspondents, advertisements, one satirical sketch in verse
and two in prose, cartoons, photographs, as well as special sections, such
as theatre, sports, chess, the editorial, second editorial, reports from
Soviet Party and trade-union organizations, serialized novels, features on
life in the capital, subsidiary items under the title of "Snippets",
popular-science articles, radio programmes, and other odds-and-ends. In all,
about ten thousand lines of material from all sections was set up, hence the
distribution of space was usually accompanied by dramatic scenes.
The first person to run to the editor was the chess correspondent,
Maestro Sudeikin. He posed a polite though bitter question. "What? No chess
today?"
"No room," replied the editor. "There's a long special feature. Three
hundred lines."
"But today's Saturday. Readers are expecting the Sunday section. I have
the answers to problems. I have a splendid study by Neunyvako, and I also
have-"
"All right, how much do you want?"
"Not less than a hundred and fifty."
"All right, if it's answers to problems, we'll give you sixty lines."
The maestro tried for another thirty so that at least the Neunyvako
could go in (the wonderful Tartokover vs. Bogolyubov game had been lying
about for a month), but was rebuffed.
Persidsky, the reporter, arrived. "Do you want some impressions of the
Plenum?" he asked softly.
"Of course," cried the editor. "It was held the day before yesterday,
after all!"
"I have the Plenum," said Persidsky even more softly, "and two
sketches, but they won't give me any room."
"Why won't they? Who did you talk to? Have they gone crazy?"
The editor hurried off to have an argument. He was followed by
Persidsky, intriguing as he went; behind them both ran a member of the
advertisement section.
"We have the Sekarov fluid to go in," he cried gloomily.
The office manager trailed along after them, dragging a chair he had
bought at an auction for the editor.
"The fluid can go in on Thursday. Today we're printing our
supplements!"
"You won't make much from free advertisements, and the fluid has been
paid for."
"Very well, we'll clear up the matter in the night editor's office.
Give the advertisements to Pasha. He's just going over there."
The editor sat down to read the editorial. He was immediately
interrupted from that entertaining occupation. Next to arrive was the
artist.
"Aha!" said the editor, "very good! I have a subject for a cartoon in
view of the latest cable from Germany."
"What about this?" said the artist. '"The Steel Helmet and the General
Situation in Germany'?"
"All right, you work something out and then show it to me."
The artist went back to his department. He took a square of
drawing-paper and made a pencil sketch of an emaciated dog. On the dog's
head he drew a German helmet with a spike. Then he turned to the wording. On
the animal's body he printed the word 'Germany', then he printed 'Danzig
Corridor' on its curly tail, 'Dreams of Revenge' on its jaw, 'Dawes Plan' on
its collar, and 'Stresemann' on its protruding tongue. In front of the dog
the artist drew a picture of Poincare holding a piece of meat in his hand.
He thought of something to write on the piece of meat, but the meat was too
small and the word would not fit. Anyone less quick-witted than a cartoonist
would have lost his head, but, without a second thought, the artist drew a
shape like a label of the kind found on necks of bottles near the piece of
meat and wrote 'French Guarantees of Security' in tiny letters inside it. So
that Poincare should not be confused with any other French statesman, he
wrote the word 'Poincare' on his stomach. The drawing was ready.
The desks of the art department were covered with foreign magazines,
large-size pairs of scissors, bottles of India ink and whiting. Bits of
photographs-a shoulder, a pair of legs, and a section of countryside-lay
about on the floor.
There were five artists who scraped the photographs with Gillette razor
blades to brighten them up; they also improved the contrast by touching them
up with India ink and whiting, and wrote their names and the size (3?
squares, 2 columns, and so on) on the reverse side, since these directions
are required in zincography.
There was a foreign delegation sitting in the chief editor's office.
The office interpreter looked into the speaker's face and, turning to the
chief editor, said: "Comrade Arnaud would like to know .. ."
They were discussing the running of a Soviet newspaper. While the
interpreter was explaining to the chief editor what Comrade Arnaud wanted to
know, Arnaud, in velvet plus fours, and all the other foreigners looked
curiously at a red pen with a No. 86 nib which was leaning against the wall
in the corner. The nib almost touched the ceiling and the holder was as wide
as an average man's body at the thickest part. It was quite possible to
write with it; the nib was a real one although it was actually bigger than a
large pike.
"Hohoho! " laughed the foreigners. "Kolossal! " The pen had been
presented to the editorial office by a correspondents' congress.
Sitting on Vorobyaninov's chair, the chief editor smiled and, nodding
first towards the pen and then at his guests, happily explained things to
them.
The clamour in the offices continued. Persidsky brought in an article
by Semashko and the editor promptly deleted the chess section from the third
page. Maestro Sudeikin no longer battled for Neunyvako's wonderful study; he
was only concerned about saving the solutions. After a struggle more tense
than his match with Lasker at the San Sebastian tournament, he won a place
at the expense of Life-and-the-Law.
Semashko was sent to the compositors. The editor buried himself once
more in the editorial. He had decided to read it at all costs, just for the
sporting interest.
He had just reached the bit that said ". . . but the contents of the
pact are such that, if the League of Nations registers it, we will have to
admit that . . ." when Life-and-the-Law, a hairy man, came up to him. The
editor continued reading, avoiding the eyes of Life-and-the-Law, and making
unnecessary notes on the editorial.
Life-and-the-Law went around to the other side of him and said in a
hurt voice: "I don't understand."
"Uhunh," said the editor, trying to play for time. "What's the matter?"
"The matter is that on Wednesday there was no Life-and-the-Law, on
Friday there was no Life-and-the-Law, on Thursday you carried only a case of
alimony which you had in reserve, and on Saturday you're leaving out a trial
which has been written up for some time in all other papers. It's only us
who-"
"Which other papers?" cried the editor. "I haven't seen it."
"It will appear again tomorrow and we'll be too late."
"But when you were asked to report the Chubarov case, what did you
write? It was impossible to get a line out of you. I know. You were
reporting the case for an evening paper."
"How do you know?"
"I know. I was told."
"In that case I know who told you. It was Persidsky. The same Persidsky
who blatantly uses the editorial-office services to send material to
Leningrad."
"Pasha," said the editor quietly, "fetch Persidsky."
Life-and-the-Law sat indifferently on the window ledge. In the garden
behind him birds and young skittle players could be seen busily moving
about. They litigated for some time. The editor ended the hearing with a
smart move: he deleted the chess and replaced it with Life-and-the-Law.
Persidsky was given a warning.
It was five o'clock, the busiest time for the office.
Smoke curled above the over-heated typewriters. The reporters dictated
in voices harshened by haste. The senior typist shouted at the rascals who
slipped in their material unobserved and out of turn.
Down the corridor came the office poet. He was courting a typist, whose
modest hips unleashed his poetic emotions. He used to lead her to the end of
the corridor by the window and murmur words of love to her, to which she
usually replied: "I'm working overtime today and I'm very busy."
That meant she loved another.
The poet got in everyone's way and asked all his friends the same
favour with monotonous regularity. "Let me have ten kopeks for the tram."
He sauntered into the local correspondents' room in search of the sum.
Wandering about between the desks at which the readers were working, and
fingering the piles of despatches, he renewed his efforts. The readers, the
most hardboiled people in the office (they were made that way by the need to
read through a hundred letters a day, scrawled by hands which were more used
to axes, paint-brushes and wheelbarrows than a pen), were silent.
The poet visited the despatch office and finally migrated to the
clerical section. But besides not getting the ten kopeks, he was buttonholed
by Avdotyev, a member of the Young Communist League, who proposed that the
poet should join the Automobile Club. The poet's enamoured soul was
enveloped in a cloud of petrol fumes. He took two paces to the side, changed
into third gear, and disappeared from sight.
Avdotyev was not a bit discouraged. He believed in the triumph of the
car idea. In the editor's room he carried on the struggle, on the sly, which
also prevented the editor from finishing the editorial.
"Listen, Alexander Josifovich, wait a moment, it's a serious matter,"
said Avdotyev, sitting down on the editor's desk. "We've formed an
automobile club. Would the editorial office give us a loan of five hundred
roubles for eight months?"
"Like hell it would."
"Why? Do you think it's a dead duck?"
"I don't think, I know. How many members are there?"
"A large number already."
For the moment the club only consisted of the organizer, but Avdotyev
did not enlarge on this.
"For five hundred roubles we can buy a car at the 'graveyard'. Yegorov
has already picked one out there. He says the repairs won't come to more
than five hundred. That's a thousand altogether. So I thought of recruiting
twenty people, each of whom will give fifty. Anyway, it'll be fun. We'll
learn to drive. Yegorov will be the instructor and in three months' time, by
August, we'll all be able to drive. We'll have a car and each one in turn
can go where he likes."
"What about the five hundred for the purchase?"
"The mutual-assistance fund will provide that on interest. We'll pay it
off. So I'll put you down, shall I?"
But the editor was rather bald, hard-worked, and enslaved by his family
and apartment, liked to have a rest after dinner on the settee, and read
Pravda before going to sleep. He thought for a moment and then declined.
Avdotyev approached each desk in turn and repeated his fiery speech.
His words had a dubious effect on the old men, which meant for him anyone
above the age of twenty. They snapped at him, excusing themselves by saying
they were already friends of children and regularly paid twenty kopeks a
year for the benefit of the poor mites. They would like to join, but. . .
"But what?" cried Avdotyev. "Supposing we had a car today? Yes,
supposing we put down a blue six-cylinder Packard in front of you for
fifteen kopeks a year, with petrol and oil paid for by the government?"
"Go away," said the old men. "It's the last call, you're preventing us
from working." The car idea was fading and beginning to give off fumes when
a champion of the new enterprise was finally found. Persidsky jumped back
from the telephone with a crash and, having listened to Avdotyev, said:
"You're tackling it the wrong way. Give me the sheet. Let's begin at the
beginning."
Accompanied by Avdotyev, Persidsky began a new round.
"You, you old mattress," he said to a blue-eyed boy, "you don't even
have to give any money. You have bonds from '27, don't you? For how much?
For five hundred? All the better. You hand over the bonds to the club. The
capital comes from the bonds. By August we will have cashed all the bonds
and bought the car."
"What happens if my bond wins a prize?" asked the boy defiantly.
"How much do you expect to win?"
"Fifty thousand."
"We'll buy cars with the money. And the same thing if I win. And the
same if Avdotyev wins. In other words, no matter whose bonds win, the money
will be spent on cars. Do you understand now? You crank! You'll drive along
the Georgian Military Highway in your own car. Mountains, you idiot! And
Life-and-the-Law, social events, accidents, and the young lady -you know,
the one who does the films-will all go zooming along behind you in their own
cars as well. Well? Well? You'll be courting!"
In the depths of his heart no bond-holder believes in the possibility
of a win. At the same time he is jealous of his neighbours' and friends'
bonds. He is dead scared that they will win and that he, the eternal loser,
will be left out in the cold. Hence the hope of a win on the part of an
office colleague drew the bond-holders into the new club. The only
disturbing thought was that none of their bonds would win. That seemed
rather unlikely, though, and, furthermore, the Automobile Club had nothing
to lose, since one car from the graveyard was guaranteed by the capital
earned from the bonds.
In five minutes twenty people had been recruited. As soon as it was all
over, the editor arrived, having heard about the club's alluring prospects.
"Well, fellows," he said, "why shouldn't I put my name down on the
list?"
"Why not, old man," replied Avdotyev, "only not on our list. We have a
full complement and no new members are being admitted for the next five
years. You'd do better to enrol yourself as a friend of children. It's cheap
and sure. Twenty kopeks a year and no need to drive anywhere."
The editor looked sheepish, remembered that he was indeed on the old
side, sighed, and went back to finish reading the entertaining editorial.
He was stopped in the corridor by a good-looking man with a Circassian
face.
"Say, Comrade, where's the editorial office of the Lathe!"
It was the smooth operator.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CONVERSATION WITH A NAKED ENGINEER
Ostap's appearance in the editorial offices was preceded by a number of
events of some importance.
Not finding Ernest Pavlovich at home (the apartment was locked and the
owner probably at work), the smooth operator decided to visit him later on,
and in the meantime he wandered about the town. Tortured by a thirst for
action, he crossed streets, stopped in squares, made eyes at militiamen,
helped ladies into buses, and generally gave the impression by his manner
that the whole of Moscow with its monuments, trams, vegetable vendors,
churches, stations and hoardings had gathered at his home for a party. He
walked among the guests, spoke courteously to them, and found something nice
to say to each one. So many guests at one party somewhat tired the smooth
operator. Furthermore, it was after six o'clock and time to visit engineer
Shukin.
But fate had decided that before seeing Ernest Pavlovich, Ostap had to
be delayed a couple of hours in order to sign a statement for the militia.
On Sverdlov Square the smooth operator was knocked down by a horse. A
timid white animal descended on him out of the blue and gave him a shove
with its bony chest. Bender fell down, breaking out in a sweat. It was very
hot. The white horse loudly apologized and Ostap briskly jumped up. His
powerful frame was undamaged. This was all the more reason for a scene.
The hospitable and friendly host of Moscow was unrecognisable. He
waddled up to the embarrassed old man driving the cab and punched him in his
padded back. The old man took his punishment patiently. A militiaman came
running up.
"I insist you report the matter," cried Ostap with emotion.
His voice had the metallic ring of a man whose most sacred feelings had
been hurt. And, standing by the wall of the Maly Theatre, on the very spot
where there was later to be a statue to the Russian dramatist Ostrovsky,
Ostap signed a statement and granted a brief interview to Perdidsky, who had
come hurrying over. Persidsky did not shirk his arduous duties. He carefully
noted down the victim's name and sped on his way.
Ostap majestically set off again. Still feeling the effects of the
clash with the white horse, and experiencing a belated regret for not having
been able to give the cab-driver a belt on the neck as well, Ostap reached
Shukin's house and went up to the seventh floor, taking two stairs at a
time. A heavy drop of liquid struck him on the head. He looked up and a thin
trickle of dirty water caught him right in the eye.
Someone needs his nose punching for tricks like that, decided Ostap.
He hurried upward. A naked man covered with white fungus was sitting by
the door of Shukin's apartment with his back to the stairs. He was sitting
on the tiled floor, holding his head in his hands and rocking from side to
side.
The naked man was surrounded by water oozing from under the apartment
door.
"Oh-oh-oh," groaned the naked man. "Oh-oh-oh."
"Is it you splashing water about?" asked Ostap irritably. "What a place
to take a bath. You must be crazy!"
The naked man looked at Ostap and burst into tears.
"Listen, citizen, instead of crying, you ought to go to the bathroom.
Just look at yourself. You look like a picador."
"The key," moaned the engineer.
"What key?" asked Ostap.
"Of the ap-ap-apartment."
"Where the money is?"
The naked man was hiccupping at an incredible rate.
Nothing could daunt Ostap. He began to see the light. And, finally,
when he realized what had happened, he almost fell over the banister with
laughter.
"So you can't get into the apartment. But it's so simple."
Trying not to dirty himself against the naked engineer, Ostap went up
to the door, slid a long yellow fingernail into the Yale lock, and carefully
began moving it up and down, and left and right.
The door opened noiselessly and the naked man rushed into the flooded
apartment with a howl of delight.
The taps were gushing. In the dining-room the water had formed a
whirlpool. In the bedroom it had made a calm lake, on which a pair of
slippers floated about as serenely as swans. Some cigarette ends had
collected together in a corner like a shoal of sleepy fish.
Vorobyaninov's chair was standing in the dining-room, where the flood
of water was greatest. Small white waves lapped against all four legs. The
chair was rocking slightly and appeared to be about to float away from its
pursuer. Ostap sat down on it and drew up his feet. Ernest Pavlovich, now
himself again, turned off all the taps with a cry of "Pardon me! ! Pardon
me!", rinsed himself, and appeared before Bender stripped to the waist in a
pair of wet slacks rolled up to the knee.
"You absolutely saved my life," he exclaimed with feeling. "I apologize
for not shaking your hand, but I'm all wet. You know, I almost went crazy."
"You seemed to be getting on that way."
"I found myself in a horrible situation."
And Ernest Pavlovich gave the smooth operator full details of the
misfortune which had befallen him, first laughing nervously and then
becoming more sober as he relived the awful experience.
"Had you not come, I would have died," he said in conclusion.
"Yes," said Ostap, "something similar once happened to me, too. Even a
bit worse."
The engineer was now so interested in anything concerned with such
situations that he put down the pail in which he was collecting water, and
began listening attentively.
"It was just like what happened to you," began Bender, "only it was
winter, and not in Moscow, but Mirgorod during one of those merry little
periods of occupation, between Makhno and Tyunuynik in '19. I was living
with a family. Terrible Ukrainians ! Typical property-owners. A one-storey
house and loads of different junk. You should note that with regard to
sewage and other facilities, they have only cesspools in Mirgorod. Well, one
night I nipped out in my underclothes, right into the snow. I wasn't afraid
of catching cold-it was only going to take a moment. I nipped out and
automatically closed the door behind me. It was about twenty degrees below.
I knocked, but got no answer. You can't stand in one spot or you freeze. I
knocked, ran about, knocked, and ran around, but there was no answer. And
the thing is that not one of those devils was asleep. It was a terrible
night; the dogs were howling and there was a sound of shots somewhere
nearby. And there's me running about the snowdrifts in my summer shorts. I
kept knocking for almost an hour. I was nearly done. And why didn't they
open the door- what do you think? They were busy hiding their property and
sewing up their money in cushions. They thought it was a police raid. I
nearly slaughtered them afterwards."
This was all very close to the engineer's heart.
"Yes," said Ostap, "so you are engineer Shukin."
"Yes, but please don't tell anyone about this. It would be awkward."
"Oh, sure! Entre nous and tete a tete, as the French say. But I came to
see you for a reason, Comrade Shukin."
"I'll be extremely pleased to help you."
"Grand merci!. It's a piddling matter. Your wife asked me to stop by
and collect this chair. She said she needed it to make a pair. And she
intends sending you instead an armchair."
"Certainly," exclaimed Ernest Pavlovich. "Only too happy. But why
should you bother yourself? I can take it for you. I can do it today."
"No, no. It's no bother at all for me. I live nearby."
The engineer fussed about and saw the smooth operator as far as the
door, beyond which he was afraid to go, despite the fact that the key had
been carefully placed in the pocket of his wet slacks.
Former student Ivanopulo was presented with another chair. The
upholstery was admittedly somewhat the worse for wear, but it was
nevertheless a splendid chair and exactly like the first one.
Ostap was not worried by the failure of the chair, the fourth in line.
He was familiar with all the tricks of fate.
It was the chair that had vanished into the goods yard of October
Station which cut like a huge dark mass through the well-knit pattern of his
deductions. His thoughts about that chair were depressing and raised grave
doubts.
The smooth operator was in the position of a roulette player who only
bets on numbers; one of that breed of people who want to win thirty-six
times their stake all at once. The situation was even worse than that. The
concessionaires were playing a kind of roulette in which zero could come up
eleven out of twelve times. And, what was more, the twelfth number was out
of sight, heaven knows where, and possibly contained a marvellous win.
The chain of distressing thoughts was interrupted by the advent of the
director-in-chief. His appearance alone aroused forebodings in Ostap.
"Oho!" said the technical adviser. "I see you're making progress. Only
don't joke with me. Why have you left the chair outside? To have a laugh at
my expense? "
"Comrade Bender," muttered the marshal.
"Why are you tryi...
