The Twelve Chairs (29 page)

but that did not disturb the smooth operator in the least. He had worked out
a surprise plan to extract him from the most hopeless game.
The Grossmeister was greeted  with  applause.  The small  club-room was
decorated with  coloured flags left over from an  evening held a week before
by  the lifeguard rescue service. This  was  clear,  furthermore,  from  the
slogan on the wall:

IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES
Ostap bowed, stretched  out his hands as though  restraining the public
from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.
"Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice:
"the  subject  of  my lecture  today is  one on which  I spoke, not  without
certain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago. The subject of my
lecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.
"What,  Comrades,  is  an opening? And  what,  Comrades, is an idea? An
opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia. And what, Comrades, is an idea? An
idea,  Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form. Even with
insignificant forces  you  can master  the whole of  the chessboard.  It all
depends on each  separate individual.  Take,  for example,  the  fair-haired
young man sitting in the third  row. Let's assume he plays well. .  . ." The
fair-haired young man turned red.
"And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play
very well."
Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow.
"What do  we see, Comrades?  We see  that the fair-haired fellow  plays
well and  that the other one  plays badly. And no  amount  of lecturing  can
change  this correlation of  forces  unless each  separate  individual keeps
practising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell you
some  instructive stories  about  our esteemed ultramodernists,  Capablanca,
Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."
Ostap  told  the  audience  a  few  antiquated  anecdotes,  gleaned  in
childhood  from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first  half of the
evening.
The brevity  of  the lecture caused certain surprise. The  one-eyed man
was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.
The beginning of  the  simultaneous chess  match,  however, allayed the
one-eyed chess player's growing  suspicions. Together  with the rest, he set
up the tables along three sides of the room. Thirty enthusiasts in  all took
their  places  to play  the  Grossmeister. Many  of  them  were  in complete
confusion  and kept glancing at books on chess to refresh their knowledge of
complicated variations, with the  help  of which they hoped  not to have  to
resign before the twenty-second move, at least.
Ostap ran his eyes along  the line of black chessmen surrounding him on
three sides,  looked at the door, and then began the game. He went up to the
one-eyed man, who was sitting at the first  board, and moved the king's pawn
forward two squares.
One-eye immediately seized hold of his ears and began thinking hard.
A whisper  passed  along the  line of players.  "The  Grossmeister  has
played pawn to king four."
Ostap  did not pamper his opponents with a  variety of openings. On the
remaining twenty-nine boards he  made  the same  move-pawn to king four. One
after another the enthusiasts seized their heads and  launched into feverish
discussions. Those who were not playing followed the Grossmeister with their
eyes. The only amateur photographer in the town was about to clamber on to a
chair and light  his magnesium  flare when Ostap waved his arms angrily and,
breaking off his drift along the boards, shouted loudly:
"Remove the photographer! He is disturbing my chess thought!"
What  would  be the point of  leaving a photograph of  myself  in  this
miserable  town, thought Ostap to himself. I don't much like having dealings
with the militia.
Indignant  hissing  from  the  enthusiasts  forced the  photographer to
abandon  his attempt. In  fact, their annoyance was  so  great  that he  was
actually put outside the, door.
At  the  third  move  it  became  clear  that  in  eighteen  games  the
Grossmeister  was playing  a Spanish gambit. In the other twelve the  blacks
played the old-fashioned, though fairly reliable, Philidor defence. If Ostap
had  known  he was  using such cunning gambits  and countering  such  tested
defences,  he would  have been most surprised.  The  truth of the matter was
that he was playing chess for the second time in his life.
At  first  the  enthusiasts,  and  first  and  foremost  one-eye,  were
terrified at the Grossmeister's obvious craftiness.
With   singular   ease,  and  no  doubt  scoffing  to  himself  at  the
backwardness of the  Vasyuki enthusiasts, the Grossmeister sacrificed  pawns
and  other  pieces  left  and  right.  He even  sacrificed his queen  to the
brown-haired fellow  whose skill had  been so belittled during  the lecture.
The man was horrified and  about to resign; it was only by a terrific effort
of will that he was able to continue.
The  storm  broke  about  five   minutes  later.  "Mate!"  babbled  the
brown-haired  fellow, terrified out of his wits. "You're checkmate,  Comrade
Grossmeister!'
Ostap analysed the  situation, shamefully called a rook  a "castle" and
pompously  congratulated the fellow on his win.  A hum  broke out  among the
enthusiasts.
Time to push off, thought Ostap, serenely wandering  up  and  down  the
rows of tables and casually moving pieces about.
"You've  moved the knight wrong, Comrade  Grossmeister,"  said one-eye,
cringing. "A knight doesn't go like that."
"So  sorry,"  said  the  Grossmeister,  "I'm  rather  tired  after  the
lecture."
During the next ten minutes the Grossmeister lost a further ten games.
Cries  of  surprise  echoed  through  the   Cardboardworker  club-room.
Conflict was near. Ostap lost fifteen  games in succession, and then another
three.
Only one-eye was left. At the beginning of the game he had made a large
number of mistakes  from nervousness and was only now bringing the game to a
victorious conclusion. Unnoticed  by  those around, Ostap  removed the black
rook from the board and hid it in his pocket.
A crowd of people pressed tightly around the players.
"I had a rook on  this  square a moment ago,"  cried  one-eye,  looking
round, "and now it's gone!"
"If  it's not there now, it wasn't there  at all,"  said  Ostap, rather
rudely.
"Of course it was. I remember it distinctly!"
"Of course it wasn't!"
"Where's it gone, then? Did you take it?"
"Yes, I took it."
"At which move?"
"Don't try to confuse me  with your  rook.  If  you want to resign, say
so!"
"Wait a moment, Comrades, I have all the moves written down."
"Written down my foot!"
"This is disgraceful!" yelled one-eye. "Give me back the rook!"
"Come on, resign, and stop this fooling about."
"Give me back my rook!"
At this point  the Grossmeister, realizing that procrastination was the
thief of  time, seized a handful of chessmen and  threw them in his one-eyed
opponent's face.
"Comrades!"  shrieked   one-eye.   "Look,  everyone,  he's  hitting  an
amateur!"
The chess players of Vasyuki were aghast.
Without wasting  valuable time,  Ostap hurled  a chessboard at the lamp
and, hitting out at jaws and faces in the ensuing darkness, ran out into the
street. The Vasyuki chess enthusiasts,  falling over each other, tore  after
him.
It was a moonlit  evening.  Ostap  bounded along the silvery street  as
lightly  as an angel  repelled  from  the sinful  earth.  On account  of the
interrupted transformation of Vasyuki into the centre  of the world, it  was
not between  palaces that Ostap had  to run, but wooden houses  with outside
shutters.
The chess enthusiasts raced along behind.
"Catch the Grossmeister!" howled one-eye.
"Twister!" added the others.
"Jerks!" snapped back the Grossmeister, increasing his speed.
"Stop him!" cried the outraged chess players.
Ostap began  running  down the steps  leading down to  the quay. He had
four  hundred steps to go. Two enthusiasts, who had  taken a short cut  down
the hillside, were waiting for him at the bottom of the sixth  flight. Ostap
looked  over his shoulder. The advocates of Philidor's  defence were pouring
down the steps like a pack of wolves. There  was no  way back, so he kept on
going.
"Just wait till I  get you, you  bastards!" he shouted at  the  two-man
advance party, hurtling down from the sixth flight.
The frightened troopers gasped,  fell over  the balustrade, and  rolled
down into the darkness of mounds and slopes. The path was clear.
"Stop the Grossmeister !" echoed shouts from above.
The pursuers clattered down the wooden steps with  a noise like falling
skittle balls.
Reaching  the river  bank, Ostap  made to the right, searching with his
eyes for the boat containing his faithful manager.
Ippolit Matveyevich  was  sitting serenely in the  boat.  Ostap dropped
heavily into a seat and began rowing for all he was worth. A minute  later a
shower of stones  flew in  the direction  of the boat,  one of  them hitting
Ippolit Matveyevich. A yellow bruise appeared  on the side  of his face just
above  the  volcanic pimple.  Ippolit Matveyevich hunched his shoulders  and
began whimpering.
"You are a softie! They practically lynched me, but I'm still happy and
cheerful.  And if you  take the  fifty roubles net profit  into account, one
bump on the head isn't such an unreasonable price to pay."
In the meantime, the  pursuers, who had only just  realized that  their
plans  to  turn  Vasyuki  into   New  Moscow  had  collapsed  and  that  the
Grossmeister was absconding with fifty vital Vasyukian roubles, piled into a
barge and, with  loud shouts, rowed out  into midstream. Thirty people  were
crammed into the boat, all of  whom were  anxious to take a personal part in
settling  the score with the Grossmeister. The  expedition was  commanded by
one-eye, whose single peeper shone in the night like a lighthouse.
"Stop the Grossmeister!" came shouts from the overloaded barge.
"We must step on it, Pussy!" said  Ostap. "If they catch up  with us, I
won't be responsible for the state of your pince-nez."
Both boats were moving downstream. The gap  between them was narrowing.
Ostap was going all out.
"You won't escape, you rats!" people were shouting from the barge.
Ostap had no time to answer. His oars flashed in and out of  the water,
churning it up so that it came down in floods in the boat.
Keep going! whispered Ostap to himself.
Ippolit Matveyevich had  given up hope. The larger boat was  gaining on
them and its long  hull was already flanking  them to port in an attempt  to
force  the  Grossmeister  over  to  the  bank.  A  sorry  fate  awaited  the
concessionaires.  The  jubilance of the chess  players in the  barge  was so
great that they all moved across to the sides to  be in a better position to
attack the villainous  Grossmeister in superior  forces as soon as they drew
alongside the smaller boat.
"Watch  out  for  your  pince-nez,  Pussy," shouted  Ostap  in despair,
throwing aside the oars. "The fun is about to begin."
"Gentlemen!"  cried  Ippolit  Matveyevich  in  a  croaking voice,  "you
wouldn't hit us, would you? "
"You'll see!" roared the enthusiasts, getting  ready  to leap  into the
boat.
But  at that  moment  something  happened which will outrage all honest
chess players throughout the world. The barge  listed  heavily  and  took in
water on the starboard side.
"Careful!" squealed the one-eyed captain.
But it was too late. There were too many enthusiasts on one side of the
Vasyuki dreadnought.  As the  centre of  gravity shifted, the  boat  stopped
rocking, and, in full conformity with the laws of physics, capsized.
A concerted wailing disturbed the tranquillity of the river.
"Ooooooh!" groaned the chess players.
All thirty  enthusiasts disappeared  under the water. They quickly came
up one by  one and seized hold of the upturned boat. The last to surface was
one-eye.
"You jerks!" cried Ostap in  delight. "Why  don't you come and get your
Grossmeister? If I'm not mistaken, you intended to trounce me, didn't you? "
Ostap made a circle around the shipwrecked mariners.
"You realize, individuals of Vasyuki, that I could drown you all one by
one, don't you? But I'm going to spare your lives.
Live on, citizens! Only  don't  play chess  any more, for  God's  sake.
You're just no good at it, you  jerks! Come  on, Ippolit  Matveyevich, let's
go. Good-bye, you one-eyed amateurs! I'm afraid Vasyuki will never become  a
world centre. I doubt whether the  masters of chess  would  ever visit fools
like you, even if I asked them to.  Good-bye,  lovers of chess thrills! Long
live the 'Four Knights Chess Club'!"

Morning  found  the concessionaires  in sight of  Chebokary. Ostap  was
dozing at  the  rudder  while Ippolit Matveyevich  sleepily  moved the  oars
through the  water. Both were  shivering from the chilliness of  the  night.
Pink buds  blossomed in the east. Ippolit Matveyevich's pince-nez was all of
a glitter. The oval lenses caught  the  light and  alternately reflected one
bank  and then the other. A signal beacon from the left bank arched  in  the
biconcave glass.  The blue domes  of Chebokary sailed  past like  ships. The
garden in the east grew larger, and the buds changed into volcanoes, pouring
out  lava of the best sweetshop colours.  Birds on the  bank were  causing a
noisy  scene. The  gold  nosepiece of the pince-nez flashed and  dazzled the
Grossmeister. The  sun  rose. Ostap opened  his eyes  and stretched himself,
tilting the boat and cracking his joints.
"Good morning,  Pussy," he  said, suppressing a yawn. "I come  to bring
greetings and to tell you the sun  is up and is  making something over there
glitter with  a  bright, burning light. . ."  "The  pier.  .  . ."  reported
Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap took out the guide-book and  consulted  it. "From
all  accounts it's  Chebokary. I see: 'Let  us note the pleasantly  situated
town  of Chebokary.' "Do you really think it's pleasantly  situated,  Pussy?
'At the present time Chebokary  has 7,702 inhabitants' "Pussy! Let's give up
our hunt for the jewels and increase the population to 7,704. What about it?
It would be  very effective.  We'll open a 'Petits Chevaux' gaming-house and
from the 'Petits Chevaux' we'll have une grande income. Anyway, to continue:
'Founded  in  1555,  the  town  has  preserved  some  very  interesting
churches. Besides the administrative institutions  of  the Chuvash Republic,
Chebokary also has a workers' school, a Party school, a teachers' institute,
two middle-grade  schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. On
the quayside  and in  the bazaar it is possible  to see Chuvash and Cheremis
nationals, distinguishable by their dress. . . .'"
But before the friends were able to reach  the quay, where  the Chuvash
and Cheremis nationals were to be  seen, their  attention  was caught by  an
object floating downstream ahead of the boat.
"The chair!" cried Ostap. "Manager! It's our chair!"
The  partners rowed  over to the  chair. It  bobbed up and down, turned
over, went  under,  and came  up farther away from the  boat.  Water  poured
freely into its slashed belly.
It was the chair opened aboard  the  Scriabin, and  it was now floating
slowly towards the Caspian Sea.
"Hi  there,  friend!"  called  Ostap.  "Long  time  no  see. You  know,
Vorobyaninov, that chair reminds me of our  life. We're  also  floating with
the  tide. People push us under and we  come up  again, although they aren't
too pleased about it. No one likes us, except for the criminal investigation
department,  which doesn't  like us, either. Nobody has any time for us.  If
the chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, the only thing left
of us would have been the coroner's report. 'Both bodies lay with their feet
to  the south-east  and their  heads  to the  north-west. There  were jagged
wounds  in  the  bodies,  apparently inflicted  by a  blunt instrument.' The
enthusiasts  would  have  beaten  us  with chessboards,  I  imagine.  That's
certainly a  blunt  instrument. The  first body belonged  to a man  of about
fifty-five, dressed in a torn silk  jacket, old trousers,  and old boots. In
the jacket  pocket  was  an identification  card  bearing  the  name  Konrad
Karlovich Michelson  . ..'  That's what they would have  written about  you,
Pussy."
"And what would they have written about you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich
irritably.
"Ah! They would have written  something  quite different  about  me. It
would have gone like  this:  'The second corpse belonged to a  man of  about
twenty-seven years  of  age.  He  loved  and suffered.  He  loved  money and
suffered from a lack of it. His head  with its  high  forehead fringed  with
raven-black  curls  was  turned  towards the  sun. His  elegant  feet,  size
forty-two boots, were  pointing  towards the northern  lights. The body  was
dressed in  immaculate white clothes,  and on  the breast  was  a  gold harp
encrusted with mother-of-pearl, bearing the words of the song "Farewell, New
Village!" The deceased youth engaged in poker-work, which was clear from the
permit  No.  86/1562,  issued   on  8/23/24   by   the  Pegasus-and-Parnasus
craftsmen's  artel, found  in the pocket of  his tails.' And they would have
buried  me, Pussy, with  pomp  and circumstance,  speeches,  a  band, and my
grave-stone  would   have  had  the  inscription  'Here  lies  the   unknown
central-heating engineer and  conqueror,  Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria Bender
Bey, whose  father,  a  Turkish  citizen,  died  without  leaving  his  son,
Ostap-Suleiman, a cent. The deceased's  mother was a countess of independent
means."
Conversing along  these  lines, the  concessionaires nosed their way to
the bank.
That evening, having increased their capital by  five  roubles from the
sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends  went  aboard  the diesel ship Uritsky
and sailed for Stalingrad,  hoping  to overtake the slow-moving lottery ship
and meet the Columbus Theatre troupe in Stalingrad.
The Scriabin reached Stalingrad  at the beginning  of July. The friends
met it, hiding behind crates on the quayside.  Before the ship was unloaded,
a lottery was held aboard and some big prizes were won.
They had to wait four hours  for the chairs. First to  come  ashore was
the theatre group and then  the lottery employees. Persidsky's shining  face
stood  out among  them. As they lay in wait, the concessionaires could  hear
him shouting:
"Yes,  I'll  come to  Moscow immediately. I've already sent a telegram.
And do you know  which one? 'Celebrating with you.' Let them guess who  it's
from."
Then  Persidsky  got  into  a  hired  car,  having  first  inspected it
thoroughly,  and  drove  off,  accompanied  for  some  reason by  shouts  of
"Hooray!"
As soon as  the hydraulic press had been unloaded,  the  scenic effects
were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen  by the  time they unloaded
the chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse  carts and, gaily shouting,
went straight to the station.
"I  don't think  they're  going  to play in  Stalingrad," said  Ippolit
Matveyevich.
Ostap was in a quandary.
"We'll have to travel with them,"  he decided.  "But where's the money?
Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."
At the station it turned out that the  theatre  was going to Pyatigorsk
via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.
"Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.
"I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly.
"Damn you! Better  not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll
do the bilking."
Ippolit  Matveyevich was bought a  ticket in an  upholstered  coach and
with it  travelled  to  the  station Mineral Waters  on  the North  Caucasus
Railway.  Keeping  out  of sight  of the  troupe  alighting  at  the station
(decorated with oleander  shrubs in  green tubs), the former marshal went to
look for Ostap.
Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line
coaches, Ostap was  still not to be seen. He finally arrived in  the evening
and found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.
"Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?"
"You  were in a state,  and you  had a  ticket in your  pocket!  And  I
wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of  the last coach of your
train?  Who  spent three hours  waiting like an idiot for a goods train with
empty mineral-water bottles?  You're  a swine, citizen marshal! Where's  the
theatre? "
"In Pyatigorsk."
"Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is
three roubles. It  isn't much, of course, but  enough for the first purchase
of mineral water and railway tickets."
Creaking like a cart, the train left for  Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes
later,  passing Zmeika and  Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the foot
of Mashuk.