The Twelve Chairs (11 page)

"May  I make  out a  receipt?"  inquired  the  record-keeper,  adroitly
arching himself.
"You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!"
"I will then."
"Do that!"
They  went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in
neat  handwriting  and  handed  it  smilingly  to  his  visitor.  The  chief
concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in
a  singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious
orders.
"Well, so  long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a
lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king
of the office!"
The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand.
"Good-bye!" repeated Ostap.
He moved towards the door.
Korobeinikov was at a loss to  understand. He even looked on  the table
to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly:
"What about the money?"
"What  money?"  said  Ostap,  opening the door.  "Did  I hear  you  say
something about money? "
"Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!"
"Honestly, chum,"  crooned  Ostap, "I swear by  my late father,  I'd be
glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account."
The old man  began to tremble and put out a puny  hand to restrain  his
nocturnal visitor.
"Don't be a fool," said  Ostap  menacingly. "I'm  telling  you in plain
Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!"
The door slammed.  Korobeinikov opened it  and ran into the street, but
Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing
overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke.
"Things are  moving," cried Ostap to  the driver,  "things  are moving,
gentlemen of the jury!"
The driver could not hear;  he waved his hand, and  the wheels  of  the
locomotive began pulling  the steel elbows of the cranks with  still greater
force. The locomotive raced away.
Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back
into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room
and  kicked  the table with rage.  The clog-shaped  ash-tray  with  the word
"Triangle"  on  it jumped up and  down,  and the glass  clinked  against the
decanter.
Never before had  Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.
He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such
brilliant simplicity that all he could  do was stand for  some time, lashing
out at the thick legs of the table.
In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned
to  him  in cases  of  extreme need. He  acted as a  pawnbroker and  charged
cannibalistic  rates of interest. He  had been doing this for  several years
and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game,
a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.
"A  fine thing!"  he cried, remembering the  lost orders.  "From now on
money  in advance.  How could I have  bungled it like that? I gave  him  the
walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by
hand. . . ."
An uncertain hand had been  ringing  the bell marked  "Please Ring" for
some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door
was  still open,  when  there was a  heavy  thud, and'  the voice  of  a man
entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:
"How do I get in?"
Korobeinikov went into the  hallway, took  hold of  somebody's coat (it
felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.
"I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.
After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both  sides, it came
to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding
Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore  was  not averse to paying
for it.  Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great  amusement,  the  visitor
turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to
keep something  in memory of him, for example, a  walnut drawing-room suite.
The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.
Korobeinikov  asked a  hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's
memory  considerably  lower than that, say  thirty  roubles. They agreed  on
fifty.
"I'd  like  the  money  first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of
mine."
"Does it matter if I give it to you  in  ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked
Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat.
"I'll take them at the official rate of exchange.  Today's rate is nine
and a half."
Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half
in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper. The latter counted
the coins twice, scooped them  up into one hand and, requesting  his visitor
to wait, went to fetch the orders. Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for
long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P,  quickly found the
right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's
wife. Disembowelling  the  bundle, he selected  the order for twelve  walnut
chairs from  the Hambs  factory,  issued to  Comrade  Bruns,  resident of 34
Vineyard Street. Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled
to himself and took the order to the purchaser.
"Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser.
"All  there  together. It's  a  splendid suite. It'll  make  you drool.
Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!"
Father  Theodore  rapturously   gave  the  record-keeper  a   prolonged
handshake  and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in  the hall,
fled into the darkness of the night.
For  quite  a while longer Bartholomeich  chuckled to  himself  at  the
customer he had cheated. He spread the gold coins out in a row on  the table
and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs.
"What  is  it about  Vorobyaninov's furniture that  attracts them?"  he
wondered. "They're out of their minds."
He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on  the
narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep.

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