The Twelve Chairs (18 page)

nice things with him there.
They were saved for a while by the cabaret. A well-fed man in a morning
coat and patent-leather shoes came on to the stage.
"Well, here we are again,"  he  said  breezily, addressing the  public.
"Next on our programme  we have the  well-known Russian folk-singer  Barbara
Godlevsky."
Ippolit Matveyevich  drank his  vodka and said nothing. Since  Liza did
not drink and kept wanting to  go home,  he had to hurry to finish the whole
decanter.
By the time the singer had been  replaced by an entertainer in a ribbed
velvet shirt, who came on to the stage and began to sing:
Roaming,
You're always roaming
As though with all the life outside
Your appendix will be satisfied,
Roaming,
Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
Ippolit Matveyevich was already well in his cups and, together with all
the other  customers in the  restaurant,  whom half an  hour earlier  he had
considered rude  and  niggardly Soviet thugs,  was clapping  in  time to the
music and joining in the chorus:
Roaming,
Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
He kept jumping  up and  going  to  the  gentlemen's  without  excusing
himself.  The  nearby  tables  had  already begun calling  him "daddy",  and
invited him over for a glass of beer. But he  did not go. He suddenly became
proud and suspicious. Liza stood up determinedly.
"I'm going. You stay.  I can go home by myself." "Certainly not I As  a
member of the upper class I cannot allow that.
"Carport! The bill! Bums!"
Ippolit Matveyevich stared at the bill for some  time, swaying  in  his
chair.
"Nine  roubles, twenty kopeks," he muttered. "Perhaps you'd  also  like
the key of the apartment where the money is."
He ended  up  by being  marched downstairs  by the  arm. Liza could not
escape, since the social lion had the cloakroom ticket.
In the  first side  street Ippolit  Matveyevich leaned against Liza and
began to paw her. Liza fought him off.
"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it! Stop it!"
"Let's go to a hotel," Vorobyaninov urged.
Liza freed herself with difficulty and, without taking aim, punched the
lady-killer on the nose. The pince-nez with the gold  nose-piece fell to the
ground  and,  getting in the way of  one of the  square-toed baronial  boots
broke with a crunch.
The evening breeze
Sighs through the trees
Choking back her tears, Liza ran home down Silver Lane.
Loud and fast
Flows the
Gualdalquivir.
The blinded Ippolit Matveyevich trotted off in  the opposite direction,
shouting "Stop! Thief!"
Then he cried for a long time and, still  weeping, bought a full basket
of  bagels  from an old woman. Reaching the  Smolensk market,  now empty and
dark, he walked up and down  for some time, throwing the bagels all over the
place like a sower sowing seed. As he went, he shouted in a tuneless voice:
Roaming,
You're always roaming,
Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
Later on he befriended  a taxi-driver, poured out his heart to him, and
told him in a muddled way about the jewels.
"A gay old gentleman," exclaimed the taxi-driver.
Ippolit  Matveyevich was  really  in  a gay mood,  but the  gaiety  was
clearly of a rather reprehensible nature, because he woke up at about eleven
the next day in  the  local police-station. Of the two hundred  roubles with
which  he had  shamefully begun  his night of enjoyment and debauchery, only
twelve remained.
He felt like death. His spine ached, his liver hurt, and his  head felt
as if he had a lead  pot on top of  it. But the most awful thing was that he
could not remember how and  where he could have spent so much  money. On the
way home he had to stop at the  optician's to have new lenses fitted in  his
pince-nez.
Ostap  looked  in  surprise  at   the  bedraggled  figure  of   Ippolit
Matveyevich for some  time  but  said  nothing.  He  was cold and  ready for
battle.

The auction was due to  begin at five o'clock. Citizens were allowed in
to inspect the lots at four. The friends arrived  at three o'clock and spent
a whole hour looking at a machine-building exhibition next door.
"It looks as though by tomorrow,"  said Ostap, "given good will on both
sides, we ought to be able  to buy that little locomotive. A pity there's no
price tag on it. It's nice to own your own locomotive."
Ippolit  Matveyevich was in a highly nervous  state.  The chairs  alone
could console him.
He  did not  leave  them  until the moment  the  auctioneer,  in  check
trousers and a beard reaching  to his Russian covert-coat tunic, mounted the
stand.
The concessionaires took their places in the  fourth row on the  right.
Ippolit Matveyevich began to get very excited.  He  thought the chairs would
be sold at  once,  but they were  actually the third  item  on the list, and
first came the usual auction junk: odd pieces of dinner services embellished
with coats  of  arms;  a  sauce  dish;  a  silver  glass-holder;  a  Petunin
landscape; a  bead  handbag;  a  brand-new  primus burner; a  small  bust of
Napoleon; linen  brassieres;  a  tapestry "Hunter shooting  wild  duck", and
other trash.
They  had to be  patient and  wait. It was hard to wait when the chairs
were all there; their goal was within reach.
"What  a rumpus there'd  be," thought Ostap, "if they  knew what little
goodies were being sold here today in the form of those chairs."
"A  figure  depicting  Justice!"  announced  the auctioneer.  "Made  of
bronze. In perfect condition. Five roubles. Who'll bid more?  Six and a half
on  the right. Seven at the end. Eight roubles  in  front in the first  row.
Going for eight roubles. Going. Gone to the first row in front."
A girl with a receipt  book immediately hurried over to the citizen  in
the first row.
The  auctioneer's hammer rose  and  fell. He  sold  an  ash-tray,  some
crystal glass and a porcelain powder bowl.
Time dragged painfully.
"A bronze bust of Alexander  the Third. Would make a good  paperweight.
No  use for anything else. Going at  the marked price, one bust of Alexander
the Third."
There was laughter among the audience.
"Buy it,  Marshal,"  said Ostap sarcastically.  "You  like that sort of
thing."
Ippolit Matveyevich made no reply;  he could not take  his eyes off the
chairs.
"No offers? The bust of  Alexander the Third  is  removed from  sale. A
figure depicting Justice.  Apparently the twin of  the one just sold. Basil,
hold up the Justice. Five roubles. Who'll give me more?"
There was  a snuffling sound  from the first row. The citizen evidently
wanted a complete set of Justices.
"Five roubles for the bronze Justice."
"Six!" sang out the citizen.
"Six roubles in front. Seven. Nine roubles on the right at the end."
"Nine and a half," said the lover of Justice quietly, raising his hand.
"Nine and a half in front. Going for nine and a half. Going. Gone!"
The hammer  came down and the girl hastened over to the  citizen in the
first  row. He  paid up and wandered  off into  the next room to receive his
bronze.
"Ten chairs from a palace," said the auctioneer suddenly.
"Why from a palace? " gasped Ippolit Matveyevich quietly.
Ostap became angry. "To hell with you! Listen and stop fooling!"
"Ten  chairs from a  palace, Walnut. Period of Alexander the Second. In
perfect condition. Made by  the cabinet-maker Hambs. Basil,  hold one of the
chairs under the light."
Basil seized the chair  so roughly that Ippolit Matveyevich  half stood
up.
"Sit down, you damned  idiot," hissed Ostap. "Sit down, I tell you. You
make me sick!"
Ippolit  Matveyevich's  jaw  had dropped.  Ostap  was  pointing  like a
setter. His eyes shone.
"Ten walnut chairs. Eighty roubles."
There was a stir in the  room. Something  of use in the house was being
sold. One after another the hands flew up. Ostap remained calm.
146
"Why don't you bid?" snapped Vorobyaninov.
"Get out!" retorted Ostap, clenching his teeth.
"A hundred and twenty roubles at the back. A hundred and twenty-five in
the next seat. A hundred and forty."
Ostap calmly turned his back on the stand and surveyed his competitors.
The auction was at  its height.  Every seat was taken. The lady sitting
directly behind  Ostap was tempted by the chairs and, after a few words with
her  husband  ("Beautiful chairs! heavenly  workmanship,  Sanya. And  from a
palace!"), put up her hand.
"A hundred and forty-five, fifth row on the right. Going!"
The stir died down. Too expensive.
"A hundred and forty-five, going for the second time."
Ostap   was  nonchalantly   examining   the   stucco  cornice.  Ippolit
Matveyevich was sitting with his head down, trembling.
"One hundred and forty-five. Gone!"
But  before  the shiny  black hammer could  strike the  plyboard stand,
Ostap had turned  around, thrown up his hand, and called out, quite quietly:
"Two hundred."
All the  heads turned towards  the concessionaires.  Peaked caps, cloth
caps, yachting caps and hats were set  in action. The auctioneer raised  his
bored face and looked at Ostap.
"Two hundred," he said.  "Two hundred in the fourth  row  on the right.
Any  more  bids? Two hundred roubles for  a palace suite of walnut furniture
consisting of ten pieces. Going  at two hundred roubles to the fourth row on
the right. Going!"
The hand with the hammer was poised above the stand.
"Mama!" said Ippolit Matveyevich loudly.
Ostap,  pink and calm,  smiled. The hammer  came down making a heavenly
sound.
"Gone," said the auctioneer. "Young lady, fourth row on the right."
"Well, chairman, was that effective?" asked Ostap.  "What would you  do
without a technical adviser, I'd like to know? "
Ippolit  Matveyevich grunted happily. The  young  lady  trotted over to
them.
"Was it you who bought the chairs?"
"Yes, us!" Ippolit Matveyevich burst out.  "Us!  Us!  When can  we have
them?"
"Whenever you please. Now if you like."
The tune "Roaming, you're always roaming" went madly round and round in
Ippolit  Matveyevich's  head. "The chairs are  ours! Ours! Ours!"  His whole
body  was  shouting  it. "Ours!"  cried  his  liver.  "Ours!"  endorsed  his
appendix.
He  was so  overjoyed  that  he  suddenly  felt  twitches  in the  most
unexpected places.  Everything  vibrated,  rocked,  and crackled  under  the
pressure of unheard-of bliss. He saw the train approaching the St. Gotthard.
On  the  open platform  of the  last car stood Ippolit  Matveyevich in white
trousers, smoking a cigar. Edelweiss  fell  gently on to his head, which was
again covered with  shining,  aluminium-grey  hair. He was on his way to the
Garden of Eden. "Why  two hundred and thirty  and  not two hundred?" said  a
voice next to him.
It was Ostap speaking; he was fiddling with the receipt.
"Fifteen per cent commission is included," answered the girl.
"Well, I suppose that's all right. Here you are."
Ostap took out his wallet, counted out two hundred roubles, and  turned
to the director-in-chief of the enterprise.
"Let me have thirty roubles, pal, and make it snappy. Can't you see the
young lady's waiting?"
Ippolit Matveyevich made no attempt at all to get the money.
"Well?  Why are you staring at me  like a soldier  at a  louse? Are you
crazy with joy or something?"
"I don't have the money," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich at length.
"Who doesn't?" asked Ostap very quietly.
"I don't."
"And the two hundred roubles? "
"I. . . I. . . lost it."
Ostap looked at  Vorobyaninov  and quickly grasped  the meaning of  the
flabbiness of his face, the  green  pallor of the cheeks, and the bags under
the swollen eyes.
"Give me the money," he whispered with loathing, "you old bastard!"
"Well, are you going to  pay?" asked the girl. "One moment," said Ostap
with a charming smile, "there's been a slight hitch."
There was  still a  faint hope that they might persuade her to wait for
the money. Here Ippolit Matveyevich, who had now recovered his senses, broke
into the conversation.
"Just a moment," he spluttered. "Why is there commission? We don't know
anything about that. You should have warned us. I  refuse  to pay the thirty
roubles."
"Very well," said the girl curtly. "I'll see to that."
Taking  the receipt, she  hurried back  to the auctioneer and had a few
words with him.
The auctioneer immediately stood up. His beard glistened in the  strong
light of the electric lamps.
"In accordance  with auctioneering regulations,"  he  stated,  "persons
refusing  to pay the full sum of  money for  items  purchased must leave the
hall. The sale of the chairs is revoked."
The dazed friends sat motionless.
The effect was terrific. There was rude  guffawing  from the onlookers.
Ostap remained seated, however. He  had not suffered  such a blow for a long
time.
"You're asked to leave."
The auctioneer's singsong voice was firm.
The laughter in the room grew louder.
So  they left. Few  people have  ever  left an auction  room  with more
bitterness.
Vorobyaninov went first. With his bony shoulders hunched up, and in his
shrunken jacket and silly baronial boots, he  walked like  a crane; he  felt
the warm and friendly glance of the smooth operator behind.
The concessionaires  stopped in the room next to the auction hall. They
could now only watch the proceedings through a glass door. The path back was
barred. Ostap maintained a friendly silence.
"An   outrageous  system,"   murmured  Ippolit   Matveyevich   timidly.
"Downright disgraceful! We should complain to the militia."
Ostap said nothing.
"No, but really,  it's  the  hell  of  a  thing."  Ippolit  Matveyevich
continued  ranting.  "Making  the  working  people  pay  through  the  nose.
Honestly! Two hundred and thirty roubles for ten old chairs. It's mad!"
"Yes," said Ostap woodenly.
"Isn't it? " said Vorobyaninov again. "It's mad!"
"Yes."
Ostap went up close to Vorobyaninov and,  having looked around, hit the
marshal a quick,  hard,  and unobserved  blow in the side.  "That's for  the
militia.  That's for the  high price of  chairs  for working  people of  all
countries. That's for going after girls  at  night. That's for being a dirty
old man."
Ippolit Matveyevich took his punishment without a sound.
From the  side it looked as though a respectful son was conversing with
his  father,  except that  the father  was  shaking  his  head a little  too
vigorously.
"Now get out of here!"
Ostap turned  his back  on  the  director  of the enterprise and  began
watching the auction hall. A moment later he looked around.
Ippolit Matveyevich  was still standing there,  with  his hands by  his
sides.
"Oh! You're still here, life and soul of the party! Go on, get out!"
"Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov implored, "Comrade Bender!"
"Go on, go!  And don't come  back to Ivanopulo's because I'll throw you
out."
Ostap  did  not turn around again. Something was  going on  in the hall
which  interested  him so much  that he opened  the glass door slightly  and
began listening.
"That's done it," he muttered.
"What has?" asked Vorobyaninov obsequiously.
"They're selling the chairs separately, that's  what. Maybe  you'd like
to buy one? Go ahead, I'm not stopping  you. I doubt, though whether they'll
let you in. And you haven't much money, I gather."
In the meantime, in the auction  hall, the auctioneer,  feeling that he
would  be  unable  to make  any member  of the  public  cough up two hundred
roubles  all at once  (too large a sum for the small fry  left), decided  to
obtain  his price in bits and pieces. The chairs came up  for auction again,
but this time in lots.
"Four chairs from a palace. Made of walnut. Upholstered. Made by Hambs.
Thirty roubles. Who'll give me more?"
Ostap had soon regained his former power of decision and sang-froid.
"You stay here, you  ladies' favourite, and don't go away. I'll be back
in  five  minutes. You stay here and see who  buys the  chairs. Don't miss a
single one."
Ostap had  thought of a plan-the only one possible  under the difficult
circumstances facing them.
He hurried out into the Petrovka, made for the nearest asphalt vat, and
had a businesslike conversation with some waifs.
Five minutes later he was back as promised with the waifs waiting ready
at the entrance to the auction rooms.
"They're being sold," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Four and then two
have already gone."
"See what you've done!" said Ostap. "Admire your handiwork! We had them
in our hands . . . in our hands, don't you realize!"
From  the  hall came  a  squeaky  voice  of  the  kind endowed  only to
auctioneers, croupiers and glaziers.
". .  . and  a half on my left. Three. One more chair from the  palace.
Walnut. In perfect condition. And a half on the right. Going for three and a
half in front."
Three chairs were sold separately. The auctioneer announced the sale of
the last chair. Ostap choked with fury. He  let fly  at  Vorobyaninov again.
His abusive remarks were  full of  bitterness. Who knows how far Ostap might
not have gone in this satirical exercise  had he not been interrupted by the
approach  of a man in a brown Lodz  suit.  The man  waved  his plump  hands,
bowed,  and jumped up and down and backwards and forwards, as though playing
tennis.
"Tell me,  is there really an auction here?"  he asked Ostap hurriedly.
"Yes? An auction. And are they really selling things here? Wonderful."
The stranger jumped  backwards,  his  face wreathed  with  smiles.  "So
they're really selling  things  here? And  one can buy  cheaply? First-rate.
Very, very much so. Ah!"
Swinging   his  hips,  the   stranger   rushed   past   the  bewildered
concessionaires  into  the hall and bought  the  last  chair so quickly that
Vorobyaninov could only croak. With the receipt in his hand the stranger ran
up to the collection counter.
"Tell me, do I get the chair now? Wonderful! Ah! Ah!"
Bleating  endlessly  and  skipping about the  whole time, the  stranger
loaded the chair on to a cab and drove off. A waif ran behind,  hot  on  his
trail.
The new  chair  owners gradually dispersed by cab and  on foot. Ostap's
junior agents hared after them.  Ostap himself left and Vorobyaninov timidly
followed him. The day  had been like a nightmare. Everything had happened so
quickly and not at all as anticipated.
On Sivtsev Vrazhek,  pianos, mandolins  and accordions were celebrating
the  spring.  Windows  were wide  open. Flower  pots  lined the windowsills.
Displaying his  hairy chest,  a fat man stood by a window in  his braces and
sang. A cat slowly made its way  along  a wall. Kerosene  lamps blazed above
the food stalls.
Nicky was strolling about  outside the little pink house. Seeing Ostap,
who  was  walking in  front,  he greeted  him politely  and then went  up to
Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich greeted him cordially. Nicky, however, was
not going to waste time.
"Good evening," he said  and, unable to control himself,  boxed Ippolit
Matveyevich's  ears. As he did so he uttered a phrase,  which in the opinion
of Ostap, who was witnessing the scene, was a rather vulgar one.
"That's what everyone will get,"  said Nicky  in a childish voice, "who
tries . . ."
Who tries exactly what, Nicky did not specify. He  stood on tiptoe and,
closing his eyes, slapped Vorobyaninov's face.
Ippolit Matveyevich raised his  elbow slightly but did not dare utter a
sound.