The Twelve Chairs (17 page)

What will they  fight  with?  Old-fashioned rifles.  And  the  Air  Force? A
prominent communist told me that they only have  . . . well, how many planes
do you think they have?"
"About two hundred."
"Two  hundred? Not  two hundred, but thirty-two. And France has  eighty
thousand fighters."
It was past midnight when they all went home.
"Yes, indeed. They've got the Bolsheviks worried."
The  governor   took  the  mayor   home.  They  both  walked  with   an
exaggeratedly even pace.
"Governor!" Charushnikov was  saying. "How can you be  a  governor when
you aren't even a general!"
"I shall be a  civilian  governor. Why, are  you jealous? I'll jail you
whenever I want. You'll have your fill of jail from me."
"You can't jail me. I've been elected and entrusted with authority."
"They prefer elected people in jail."
"Kindly  don't  try to  be  funny,"  shouted  Charushnikov for all  the
streets to hear.
"What are you shouting for, you fool?"  said the governor. "Do you want
to spend the night in the police station?"
"I can't spend  the night in the police station,"  retorted  the mayor.
"I'm a government employee."
A star  twinkled. The night  was enchanting.  The  argument between the
governor and the mayor continued down Second Soviet Street.

Wait a minute  now, where is Father Theodore? Where is the shorn priest
from the Church of St. Frol and St.  Laurence? Was he not about to go to see
citizen  Bruns  at 34  Vineyard Street?  Where  is that  treasure-seeker  in
angel's clothing and sworn enemy of Ippolit Vorobyaninov, at present cooling
his heels in the dark corridor by the safe.
Gone is Father  Theodore. He has been  spirited  away. They  say he was
seen at Popasnaya station on the Donets railway, hurrying along the platform
with a teapot full of hot water.
Greedy  is Father Theodore. He wants  to be  rich. He is chasing  round
Russia in  search of the furniture belonging to General  Popov's wife, which
does not contain a darn thing, to tell the truth.
He  is on his way through Russia. And all he does  is write letters  to
his wife:
Letter -from Father Theodore
written from Kharkov Station to his wife
in the district centre of N.
My Darling Catherine Alexandrovna,
I owe you an apology. I have left you alone, poor thing, at a time like
this. I must tell you everything. You will understand and, I hope, agree.
It was not,  of course, to join the new church movement that I  went. I
had no intention of doing so, God forbid!
Now read this carefully. We shall soon  begin  to live differently. You
remember I told  you about the  candle factory. It will be ours, and perhaps
one or two other things  as  well. And you won't have to cook your own meals
or have boarders any more. We'll go to Samara and hire servants.
I'm on to something, but you must keep it absolutely secret: don't even
tell Marya Ivanovna. I'm looking for treasure.  Do you remember the deceased
Claudia  Ivanovna,  Vorobyaninov's  mother-in-law?  Just  before her  death,
Claudia Ivanovna disclosed to me that her  jewels were hidden in  one of the
drawing-room chairs (there are twelve of them) at her house in Stargorod,
Don't think, Katey,  that I'm just a common thief.  She bequeathed them
to  me  and  instructed me  not to  let  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  her lifelong
tormentor, get them. That's why I left so suddenly, you poor thing.
Don't condemn me.
I went to Stargorod, and what do you think-that old woman-chaser turned
up as well. He had found out. He must have tortured the old woman before she
died. Horrible man! And there was some criminal travelling with him: he  had
hired himself a  thug. They fell upon me and tried to get rid of me. But I'm
not one to be trifled with: I didn't give in.
At  first I  went off on  a  false track.  I  only found one  chair  in
Vorobyaninov's house (it's  now a  home for pensioners); I  was carrying the
chair to my room in the Sorbonne Hotel when  suddenly  a man came around the
corner roaring like a lion  and rushed  at me, seizing  the chair. We almost
had a fight. He wanted to shame me. Then I looked closely and who was it but
Vorobyaninov. Just imagine, he  had  cut off  his  moustache and shaved  his
head, the crook. Shameful at his age.
We broke open the chair, but  there was nothing there. It was not until
later  that  I realized  I was on the wrong track. But at that moment  I was
very distressed.
I felt outraged and I told that old libertine the truth to his face.
What a disgrace, I said, at your age. What mad things are  going on  in
Russia nowadays when a marshal of the nobility pounces on  a minister of the
church like  a lion  and rebukes him for not being in the  Communist  Party.
You're  a  low fellow,  I said, you  tormented Claudia Ivanovna and you want
someone else's property-which is now state-owned and no longer his.
He was ashamed and went away-to the brothel, I imagine.
So I went back to my  room in the Sorbonne and started to make plans. I
thought of something  that  bald-headed fool  would never have dreamed of. I
decided to find  the person who had distributed the requisitioned furniture.
So you see,  Katey,  I  did  well  to study law at college: it has served me
well.  I found the person in question the  next day. Bartholomeich,  a  very
decent old man. He lives quietly with his grandmother and works hard to earn
his living. He  gave me all the documents. It's true I had to reward him for
the service. I'm now  out of  money (I'll come  to that). It turned out that
all twelve  chairs from Vorobyaninov's  house went to engineer Bruns  at  34
Vineyard Street. Note  that  all the chairs went to  one person, which I had
not expected (I was afraid the chairs might  have gone to different places).
I was  very  pleased at this.  Then I met  that wretch  Vorobyaninov  in the
Sorbonne  again. I gave him a good talking  to and  didn't spare his friend,
the thug, either. I was very afraid they might find out my secret,  so I hid
in the hotel until they left.
Bruns turned  out to have  moved from  Stargorod to Kharkov in 1922  to
take up an appointment. I learned  from the  caretaker that he had taken all
his furniture and was looking after  it very  carefully. He's said  to  be a
shrewd person.
I'm now sitting in  the station at Kharkov and writing for this reason:
first, I love you very much and keep thinking of  you, and, second, Bruns is
no longer here.  But don't despair. Bruns is  now working in  Rostov  at the
New-Ros-Cement plant. I have just enough  money for the fare. I'm leaving in
an  hour's time  on  a  mixed passenger-goods  train. Please  stop  by  your
brother-in-law's, my sweet, and get fifty roubles from him (he owes it to me
and promised to pay)  and send it to:  Theodore Ivanovich Vostrikov, Central
Post Office, Rostov, to await  collection. Send  a money  order  by post  to
economize. It will cost thirty kopeks.
What's the news in the town?
Has  Kondratyevna  been to see you? Tell Father Cyril that I'll be back
soon and that I've gone to see my  dying aunt in Voronezh. Be economical. Is
Evstigneyev  still having  meals? Give  him my regards. Say I've gone to  my
aunt.
How's  the weather? It's already summer here  in Kharkov. A noisy city,
the centre  of  the  Ukrainian Republic. After the provinces it's like being
abroad.
Please do the following:
(1)  Send my summer cassock to the cleaner (it's  better to spend Rs. 3
on cleaning than waste money on buying a new one); (2) look  after yourself;
and (3) when you write to Gulka, mention casually that I've gone to Voronezh
to see my aunt.
Give everyone my regards. Say I'll be back soon.
With tender kisses and blessings, Your husband,
Theo.
P.S. Where can Vorobyaninov be roving about at the moment?
Love dries a man up. The bull lows with desire. The rooster cannot keep
still. The marshal of the nobility loses his appetite.
Leaving  Ostap and the student Ivanopulo in a bar,  Ippolit Matveyevich
made his way  to the little pink house and took up his stand by the cabinet.
He could hear the sound of trains  leaving  for Castille  and the  splash of
departing steamers.
As in far-off Alpujarras
The golden mountains fade
His heart was  fluttering like a  pendulum. There was a ticking in  his
ears.
And guitars strum out their summons
Come forth, my pretty maid.
Uneasiness spread along the  corridor.  Nothing could thaw  the cold of
the cabinet.
From Seville to Granada
Through the stillness of the night-
Gramophones droned in the pencil boxes. Primuses hummed like bees.
Comes the sound of serenading
Comes the ring of swords in fight.
In  short,  Ippolit Matveyevich  was head over heels in love  with Liza
Kalachov.
Many people  passed Ippolit Matveyevich  in the corridor, but  they all
smelled  of  either tobacco, vodka,  disinfectant, or  stale  soup.  In  the
obscurity of  the  corridor  it was possible to distinguish people  only  by
their smell or  the heaviness of their tread. Liza  had not come by. Ippolit
Matveyevich was sure of that.  She did not smoke, drink vodka, or wear boots
with  iron  studs. She could not have smelled of iodine  or cod's-head.  She
could only exude the tender  fragrance  of  rice pudding or tastily prepared
hay, on which Mrs. Nordman-Severov  fed the famous painter Repin for such  a
long time.
And then he heard  light, uncertain footsteps. Someone was coming  down
the corridor, bumping into its elastic walls and murmuring sweetly.
"Is that you, Elizabeth Petrovna? " asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Can you tell me where the Pfefferkorns live?" a deep voice replied. "I
can't see a damn thing in the dark!"
Ippolit  Matveyevich said nothing in his alarm.  The Pfefferkorn-seeker
waited for an answer but, not getting one, moved on, puzzled.
It was nine  o'clock before Liza  came. They  went out into  the street
under a caramel-green evening sky.
"Where shall we go?" asked Liza.
Ippolit Matveyevich looked  at her pale, shining  face and, instead  of
saying  "I   am  here,  Inezilla,   beneath  thy  window,"  began  to   talk
long-windedly and tediously about the  fact  that  he had not been in Moscow
for a  long  time  and  that  Paris was  infinitely better than the  Russian
capital, which was always a large, badly planned village, whichever way  you
turned it.
"This isn't  the Moscow I remember,  Elizabeth Petrovna. Now  there's a
stinginess  everywhere. In  my day we spent  money like water. 'We only live
once.' There's a song called that."
They walked the length of Prechistenka Boulevard and came out on to the
embankment by the Church of Christ the Saviour.
A  line  of  black-brown fox  tails  stretched  along the far  side  of
Moskvoretsk  Bridge. The  power stations were  smoking  like  a  squadron of
ships. Trams rattled  across  the bridge and boats  moved  up  and  down the
river. An accordion was sadly telling its tale.
Taking  hold of  Ippolit  Matveyevich's  hand, Liza  told him about her
troubles: the  quarrel  with  her  husband, the  difficulty of  living  with
eavesdropping neighbours, the ex-chemists, and  the monotony of a vegetarian
diet.
Ippolit Matveyevich listened and began thinking. Devils were aroused in
him.  He visualized a  wonderful supper. He decided  he must  in some way or
other make an overwhelming impression on the girl.
"Let's go to the theatre," he suggested.
"The cinema would be better," said Liza, "it's cheaper."
"Why think of money? A night like this and you worry about the cost!"
The devils in him threw prudence to  the wind, set the couple in a cab,
without haggling about the  fare, and took them  to  the Ars cinema. Ippolit
Matveyevich was splendid. He bought  the  most expensive seats. They did not
wait  for the show to finish, however. Liza was used to cheaper seats nearer
the screen and could not see so well from the thirty-fourth row.
In his pocket Ippolit Matveyevich  had half  the sum  obtained  by  the
concessionaires from the  Stargorod conspirators. It was a  lot of money for
Vorobyaninov,  so unaccustomed to luxury. Excited by  the  possibility of an
easy  conquest,  he  was  ready  to  dazzle  Liza  with  the  scale  of  his
entertaining. He considered himself admirably equipped for this, and proudly
remembered how easily he had once won the  heart of Elena Bour.  It was part
of his nature to  spend money  extravagantly and showily. He had been famous
in Stargorod for his good manners and ability to converse with any woman. He
thought  it  would  be  amusing  to  use  his  pre-revolutionary  polish  on
conquering  a little  Soviet  girl, who  had  never  seen anything  or known
anything.
With  little  persuasion  Ippolit Matveyevich  took Liza  to the Prague
Restaurant, the  showpiece of the Moscow  union  of consumer societies;  the
best place in Moscow, as Bender used to say.
The  Prague  awed  Liza by the copious mirrors, lights and flower-pots.
This was excusable; she had never before  been in a restaurant of this kind.
But the mirrored room unexpectedly awed Ippolit Matveyevich, too. He was out
of  touch and  had  forgotten about the  world of restaurants.  Now he  felt
ashamed of his baronial boots with  square toes, pre-revolutionary trousers,
and yellow, star-spangled waistcoat.
They  were  both embarrassed and  stopped suddenly at the sight of  the
rather motley public.
"Let's go  over  there in the corner," suggested Vorobyaninov, although
there  were tables free just by the stage, where the orchestra was  scraping
away at the stock potpourri from the "Bayadere".
Liza  quickly agreed, feeling that  all eyes  were upon her. The social
lion and lady-killer,  Vorobyaninov,  followed  her  awkwardly.  The  social
lion's shabby trousers drooped baggily from his thin behind. The lady-killer
hunched  his shoulders and began  polishing his pince-nez  in an attempt  to
cover up his embarrassment.
No  one took their  order. Ippolit Matveyevich  had not expected  this.
Instead  of gallantly  conversing with his lady, he remained silent, sighed,
tapped the  table  timidly with  an ashtray,  and coughed incessantly.  Liza
looked around her  with curiosity; the silence became unnatural. But Ippolit
Matveyevich could not think of anything to  say.  He  had forgotten what  he
usually said in such cases.
"We'd like to order," he called to waiters as they flew past.
"Just coming, sir," cried the waiters without stopping.
A menu  was  eventually brought, and Ippolit Matveyevich buried himself
in it with relief.
"But veal cutlets are two twenty-five, a fillet is two twenty-five, and
vodka is five roubles," he mumbled.
"For five roubles  you get  a  large decanter,  sir," said the  waiter,
looking around impatiently.
"What's  the matter with  me?"  Ippolit  Matveyevich-asked  himself  in
horror. "I'm making myself ridiculous."
"Here you are,"  he  said  to Liza  with belated courtesy, "you  choose
something. What would you like? "
Liza felt ashamed. She  saw how haughtily the waiter was looking at her
escort, and realized he was doing something wrong.
"I'm not at all hungry," she said in  a shaky voice. "Or wait, have you
anything vegetarian?"
"We don't serve vegetarian dishes. Maybe a ham omelette? "
"All  right, then,"  said Ippolit Matveyevich, having made up his mind,
"bring  us   some  sausages.  You'll  eat  sausages,  won't  you,  Elizabeth
Petrovna?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Sausages, then.  These at  a  rouble twenty-five each. And a bottle of
vodka."
"It's served by the decanter."
"Then a large one."
The public-catering employee gave the defenceless Liza a knowing look.
"What will you have with the vodka? Fresh caviar? Smoked salmon?"
The registry-office  employee continued to rage in Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Nothing," he said rudely. "How much are the salted gherkins? All right, let
me have two."
The waiter hurried away and  silence  reigned once  more at the  table.
Liza was the first to speak.
"I've never been here before. It's very nice."
"Ye-es," said  Vorobyaninov slowly, working  out the cost of  what they
had ordered.  "Never mind," he thought, "I'll drink some vodka and loosen up
a bit. I feel so awkward at the moment."
But when he had drunk the vodka and accompanied it with  a gherkin,  he
did  not loosen  up, but  rather  became  more  gloomy. Liza did  not  drink
anything. The tension continued. Then someone else approached the table and,
looking tenderly at Liza, tried to sell them flowers.
Ippolit  Matveyevich pretended not  to  notice the  bewhiskered  flower
seller, but he kept  hovering near the table. It was quite impossible to say