Страница:
happened to my furniture, old man ? "
Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely
from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's
mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening
yell:
"Haa-aapy daa-aays . .."
The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously
sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment
sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against
the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was
terribly happy.
Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.
"Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until
tomorrow morning," said Ostap. "Let's go to bed."
They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to
the bench.
Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's
bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt;
under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's
yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another
light-blue worsted waistcoat.
"There's a waistcoat worth buying," said Ostap enviously. "Just my
size. Sell it to me!"
Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the
waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.
Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.
"You'll have the money when we sell the treasure," said Bender, taking
the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.
"No, I can't do things like that," said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing.
"Please give it back."
Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.
"There's stinginess for you," he cried. "We undertake business worth a
hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to
learn to live it up!"
Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his
pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:
25//F/27
Issued to Comrade Bender
Rs.8
Ostap took a look at the notebook.
"Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it
properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under 'debit' don't forget to put down
the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under 'credit' put down the
waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit
longer."
Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit
Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on
his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he
went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not
enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth
operator's body, vibrant with ideas.
All three had bad dreams.
Vorobyaninov had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation
department, velvet shirts, and Bezenchuk the undertaker in a tuxedo, but
unshaven.
Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Co-operative;
and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper.
And the caretaker dreamed that a horse escaped from the stable. He
looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and
gloomy, without having found it. For some time he stared in surprise at the
people sleeping in his bed.
Not understanding anything, he took his broom and went out into the
street to carry out his basic duties, which were to sweep up the horse
droppings and shout at the old-women pensioners.
Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven, mumbled "Guten
Morgen", and went over to the wash-basin. He washed himself with enthusiasm,
cleared his throat, noisily rinsed his face, and shook his head to get rid
of the water which had run into his ears. He dried himself with
satisfaction, but on taking the towel away from his face, Ippolit
Matveyevich noticed that it was stained with the same black colour that he
had used to dye his horizontal moustache two days before. Ippolit
Matveyevich's heart sank. He rushed to get his pocket mirror. The mirror
reflected a large nose and the left-hand side of a moustache as green as the
grass in spring. He hurriedly shifted the mirror to the right. The
right-hand mustachio was the same revolting colour. Bending his head
slightly, as though trying to butt the mirror, the unhappy man perceived
that the jet black still reigned supreme in the centre of his square of
hair, but that the edges were bordered with the same green colour.
Ippolit Matveyevich's whole being emitted a groan so loud that Ostap
Bender opened his eyes.
"You're out of your mind!" exclaimed Bender, and immediately closed his
sleepy lids.
"Comrade Bender," whispered the victim of the Titanic imploringly.
Ostap woke up after a great deal of shaking and persuasion. He looked
closely at Ippolit Matveyevich and burst into a howl of laughter. Turning
away from the founder of the concession, the chief director of operations
and technical adviser rocked with laughter, seized hold of the top of the
bed, cried "Stop, you're killing me!" and again was convulsed with mirth.
"That's not nice of you, Comrade Bender," said Ippolit Matveyevich and
twitched his green moustache.
This gave new strength to the almost exhausted Ostap, and his hearty
laughter continued for ten minutes. Regaining his breath, he suddenly became
very serious.
"Why are you glaring at me like a soldier at a louse? Take a look at
yourself."
"But the chemist told me it would be jet black and wouldn't wash off,
with either hot water or cold water, soap or paraffin. It was contraband."
"Contraband? All contraband is made in Little Arnaut Street in Odessa.
Show me the bottle. . . . Look at this! Did you read this?" '-"Yes."
"What about this bit in small print? It clearly states that after
washing with hot or cold water, soap or paraffin, the hair should not be
rubbed with a towel, but dried in the sun or in front of a primus stove. Why
didn't you do so? What can you do now with that greenery? "
Ippolit Matveyevich was very depressed. Tikhon came in and seeing his
master with a green moustache, crossed himself and asked for money to have a
drink. "Give this hero of labour a rouble," suggested Ostap, "only kindly
don't charge it to me. It's a personal matter between you and your former
colleague. Wait a minute, Dad, don't go away! There's a little matter to
discuss."
Ostap had a talk with the caretaker about the furniture, and five
minutes later the concessionaires knew the whole story. The entire furniture
had been taken away to the housing division in 1919, with the exception of
one drawing-room chair that had first been in Tikhon's charge, but was later
taken from him by the assistant warden of the second social-security home.
"Is it here in the house then?"
"That's right."
"Tell me, old fellow," said Ippolit Matveyevich, his heart beating
fast, "when you had the chair, did you . . . ever repair it?"
"It didn't need repairing. Workmanship was good in those days. The
chair could last another thirty years."
"Right, off you go, old fellow. Here's another rouble and don't tell
anyone I'm here."
"I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov."
Sending the caretaker on his way with a cry of "Things are moving,"
Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache.
"It will have to be dyed again. Give me some money and I'll go to the
chemist's. Your Titanic is no damn good, except for dogs. In the old days
they really had good dyes. A racing expert once told me an interesting
story. Are you interested in horse-racing? No? A pity; it's exciting. Well,
anyway . . . there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky. He
lost five hundred thousand roubles on races. King of the losers! So when he
had nothing left except debts and was thinking about suicide, a shady
character gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles. The count
went away and came back a year later with a three-year-old Orloff trotter.
From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three
hundred thousand on top. Broker-that was the name of the horse-had an
excellent pedigree and always came in first. He actually beat McMahon in the
Derby by a whole length. Terrific! . . . But then Kurochkin-heard of
him?-noticed that all the horses of the Orloff breed were losing their
coats, while Broker, the darling, stayed the same colour. There was an
unheard-of scandal. The count got three years. It turned out that Broker
wasn't an Orloff at all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed. Crossbreeds
are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them!
Which? There's a dye for you! Not quite like your moustache!"
"But what about the pedigree? You said it was a good one."
"Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit! Give me the
money for the dye."
Ostap came back with a new mixture.
"It's called 'Naiad'. It may be better than the Titanic. Take your coat
off!"
The ceremony of re-dyeing began. But the "Amazing chestnut colour
making the hair soft and fluffy" when mixed with the green of the Titanic
unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache all colours of
the rainbow.
Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the
perfumeries, both those state-owned and the illegal ones on Little Arnaut
Street in Odessa.
"I don't suppose even Aristide Briand had a moustache like that,"
observed Ostap cheerfully. "However, I don't recommend living in Soviet
Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours. It will have to be shaved off."
"I can't do that," said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice.
"That's impossible."
"Why? Has it some association or other?"
"I can't do that," repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head.
"Then you can stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life,
and I'll go for the chairs. The first one is upstairs, by the way."
"All right, shave 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!"
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:
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:
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."
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.
Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely
from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's
mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening
yell:
"Haa-aapy daa-aays . .."
The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously
sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment
sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against
the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was
terribly happy.
Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.
"Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until
tomorrow morning," said Ostap. "Let's go to bed."
They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to
the bench.
Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's
bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt;
under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's
yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another
light-blue worsted waistcoat.
"There's a waistcoat worth buying," said Ostap enviously. "Just my
size. Sell it to me!"
Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the
waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.
Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.
"You'll have the money when we sell the treasure," said Bender, taking
the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.
"No, I can't do things like that," said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing.
"Please give it back."
Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.
"There's stinginess for you," he cried. "We undertake business worth a
hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to
learn to live it up!"
Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his
pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:
25//F/27
Issued to Comrade Bender
Rs.8
Ostap took a look at the notebook.
"Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it
properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under 'debit' don't forget to put down
the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under 'credit' put down the
waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit
longer."
Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit
Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on
his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he
went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not
enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth
operator's body, vibrant with ideas.
All three had bad dreams.
Vorobyaninov had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation
department, velvet shirts, and Bezenchuk the undertaker in a tuxedo, but
unshaven.
Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Co-operative;
and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper.
And the caretaker dreamed that a horse escaped from the stable. He
looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and
gloomy, without having found it. For some time he stared in surprise at the
people sleeping in his bed.
Not understanding anything, he took his broom and went out into the
street to carry out his basic duties, which were to sweep up the horse
droppings and shout at the old-women pensioners.
Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven, mumbled "Guten
Morgen", and went over to the wash-basin. He washed himself with enthusiasm,
cleared his throat, noisily rinsed his face, and shook his head to get rid
of the water which had run into his ears. He dried himself with
satisfaction, but on taking the towel away from his face, Ippolit
Matveyevich noticed that it was stained with the same black colour that he
had used to dye his horizontal moustache two days before. Ippolit
Matveyevich's heart sank. He rushed to get his pocket mirror. The mirror
reflected a large nose and the left-hand side of a moustache as green as the
grass in spring. He hurriedly shifted the mirror to the right. The
right-hand mustachio was the same revolting colour. Bending his head
slightly, as though trying to butt the mirror, the unhappy man perceived
that the jet black still reigned supreme in the centre of his square of
hair, but that the edges were bordered with the same green colour.
Ippolit Matveyevich's whole being emitted a groan so loud that Ostap
Bender opened his eyes.
"You're out of your mind!" exclaimed Bender, and immediately closed his
sleepy lids.
"Comrade Bender," whispered the victim of the Titanic imploringly.
Ostap woke up after a great deal of shaking and persuasion. He looked
closely at Ippolit Matveyevich and burst into a howl of laughter. Turning
away from the founder of the concession, the chief director of operations
and technical adviser rocked with laughter, seized hold of the top of the
bed, cried "Stop, you're killing me!" and again was convulsed with mirth.
"That's not nice of you, Comrade Bender," said Ippolit Matveyevich and
twitched his green moustache.
This gave new strength to the almost exhausted Ostap, and his hearty
laughter continued for ten minutes. Regaining his breath, he suddenly became
very serious.
"Why are you glaring at me like a soldier at a louse? Take a look at
yourself."
"But the chemist told me it would be jet black and wouldn't wash off,
with either hot water or cold water, soap or paraffin. It was contraband."
"Contraband? All contraband is made in Little Arnaut Street in Odessa.
Show me the bottle. . . . Look at this! Did you read this?" '-"Yes."
"What about this bit in small print? It clearly states that after
washing with hot or cold water, soap or paraffin, the hair should not be
rubbed with a towel, but dried in the sun or in front of a primus stove. Why
didn't you do so? What can you do now with that greenery? "
Ippolit Matveyevich was very depressed. Tikhon came in and seeing his
master with a green moustache, crossed himself and asked for money to have a
drink. "Give this hero of labour a rouble," suggested Ostap, "only kindly
don't charge it to me. It's a personal matter between you and your former
colleague. Wait a minute, Dad, don't go away! There's a little matter to
discuss."
Ostap had a talk with the caretaker about the furniture, and five
minutes later the concessionaires knew the whole story. The entire furniture
had been taken away to the housing division in 1919, with the exception of
one drawing-room chair that had first been in Tikhon's charge, but was later
taken from him by the assistant warden of the second social-security home.
"Is it here in the house then?"
"That's right."
"Tell me, old fellow," said Ippolit Matveyevich, his heart beating
fast, "when you had the chair, did you . . . ever repair it?"
"It didn't need repairing. Workmanship was good in those days. The
chair could last another thirty years."
"Right, off you go, old fellow. Here's another rouble and don't tell
anyone I'm here."
"I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov."
Sending the caretaker on his way with a cry of "Things are moving,"
Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache.
"It will have to be dyed again. Give me some money and I'll go to the
chemist's. Your Titanic is no damn good, except for dogs. In the old days
they really had good dyes. A racing expert once told me an interesting
story. Are you interested in horse-racing? No? A pity; it's exciting. Well,
anyway . . . there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky. He
lost five hundred thousand roubles on races. King of the losers! So when he
had nothing left except debts and was thinking about suicide, a shady
character gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles. The count
went away and came back a year later with a three-year-old Orloff trotter.
From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three
hundred thousand on top. Broker-that was the name of the horse-had an
excellent pedigree and always came in first. He actually beat McMahon in the
Derby by a whole length. Terrific! . . . But then Kurochkin-heard of
him?-noticed that all the horses of the Orloff breed were losing their
coats, while Broker, the darling, stayed the same colour. There was an
unheard-of scandal. The count got three years. It turned out that Broker
wasn't an Orloff at all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed. Crossbreeds
are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them!
Which? There's a dye for you! Not quite like your moustache!"
"But what about the pedigree? You said it was a good one."
"Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit! Give me the
money for the dye."
Ostap came back with a new mixture.
"It's called 'Naiad'. It may be better than the Titanic. Take your coat
off!"
The ceremony of re-dyeing began. But the "Amazing chestnut colour
making the hair soft and fluffy" when mixed with the green of the Titanic
unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache all colours of
the rainbow.
Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the
perfumeries, both those state-owned and the illegal ones on Little Arnaut
Street in Odessa.
"I don't suppose even Aristide Briand had a moustache like that,"
observed Ostap cheerfully. "However, I don't recommend living in Soviet
Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours. It will have to be shaved off."
"I can't do that," said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice.
"That's impossible."
"Why? Has it some association or other?"
"I can't do that," repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head.
"Then you can stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life,
and I'll go for the chairs. The first one is upstairs, by the way."
"All right, shave 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!"
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:
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:
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."
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.
Конец бесплатного ознакомительного фрагмента