Ilya Ilf, Yevgeny Petrov
The Twelve Chairs

Part I. The Lion of Stargorod

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Сhapter One. Bezenchuk and the Nymphs

There were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral homes in the regional centre of N. that the inhabitants seemed to be born merely in order to have a shave, get their hair cut, freshen up their heads with toilet water and then die. In actual fact, people came into the world, shaved, and died rather rarely in the regional centre of N. Life in N. was extremely quiet. The spring evenings were delightful, the mud glistened like anthracite in the light of the moon, and all the young men of the town were so much in love with the secretary of the communal-service workers' local committee that she found difficulty in collecting their subscriptions.

Matters of life and death did not worry Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, although by the nature of his work he dealt with them from nine till five every day, with a half-hour break for lunch.

Each morning, having drunk his ration of hot milk brought to him by Claudia Ivanovna in a streaky frosted-glass tumbler, he left the dingy little house and went outside into the vast street bathed in weird spring sunlight; it was called Comrade Gubernsky Street. It was the nicest kind of street you can find in regional centres. On the left you could see the coffins of the Nymph Funeral Home glittering with silver through undulating green-glass panes. On the right, the dusty, plain oak coffins of Bezenchuk, the undertaker, reclined sadly behind small windows from which the putty was peeling off. Further up, «Master Barber Pierre and Constantine» promised customers a «manicure» and «home curlings». Still further on was a hotel with a hairdresser's, and beyond it a large open space in which a straw-coloured calf stood tenderly licking the rusty sign propped up against a solitary gateway. The sign read: Do-Us-the-Honour Funeral Home.

Although there were many funeral homes, their clientele was not wealthy. The Do-Us-the-Honour had gone broke three years before Ippolit Matveyevich settled in the town of N., while Bezenchuk drank like a fish and had once tried to pawn his best sample coffin.

People rarely died in the town of N. Ippolit Matveyevich knew this better than anyone because he worked in the registry office, where he was in charge of the registration of deaths and marriages.

The desk at which Ippolit Matveyevich worked resembled an ancient gravestone. The left-hand corner had been eaten away by rats. Its wobbly legs quivered under the weight of bulging tobacco-coloured files of notes, which could provide any required information on the origins of the town inhabitants and the family trees that had grown up in the barren regional soil.

On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven and immediately slipped on to his nose an old-fashioned pince-nez with a gold nosepiece. He did not wear glasses. At one time, deciding that it was not hygienic to wear pince-nez, he went to the optician and bought himself a pair of frameless spectacles with gold-plated sidepieces. He liked the spectacles from the very first, but his wife (this was shortly before she died) found that they made him look the spitting image of Milyukov, and he gave them to the man who cleaned the yard. Although he was not shortsighted, the fellow grew accustomed to the glasses and enjoyed wearing them.

«Bonjour!» sang Ippolit Matveyevich to himself as he lowered his legs from the bed. «Bonjour» showed that he had woken up in a. good humour. If he said «Guten Morgen» on awakening, it usually meant that his liver was playing tricks, that it was no joke being fifty-two, and that the weather was damp at the time.

Ippolit Matveyevich thrust his legs into pre-revolutionary trousers, tied the ribbons around his ankles, and pulled on short, soft-leather boots with narrow, square toes. Five minutes later he was neatly arrayed in a yellow waistcoat decorated with small silver stars and a lustrous silk jacket that reflected the colours of the rainbow as it caught the light. Wiping away the drops of water still clinging to his grey hairs after his ablutions, Ippolit Matveyevich fiercely wiggled his moustache, hesitantly felt his bristly chin, gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush and, then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who had just come into the room.

«Eppole-et», she thundered, «I had a bad dream last night».

The word «dream» was pronounced with a French «r».

Ippolit Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law up and down. He was six feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for him to look down on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt.

Claudia Ivanovna continued: «I dreamed of the deceased Marie with her hair down, and wearing a golden sash».

The iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at the rumble of Claudia Ivanovna's voice. «I am very disturbed. I fear something may happen». These last words were uttered with such force that the square of bristling hair on Ippolit Matveyevich's head moved in different directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly:

«Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?»

It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her advanced age gave little hope of any improvement. She was stingy in the extreme, and it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's poverty which prevented her giving rein to this passion. Her voice was so strong and fruity that it might well have been envied by Richard the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is well known, horses used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing of all about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed of girls in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid worn by dragoons, caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats who went for walks at night carrying clappers, and knitting-needles which hopped around the room by themselves making a distressing tinkle. An empty-headed woman was Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her upper lip was covered by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.

Ippolit Matveyevich left the house in rather an irritable mood. Bezenchuk the undertaker was standing at the entrance to his tumble-down establishment, leaning against the door with his hands crossed. The regular collapse of his commercial undertakings plus a long period of practice in the consumption of intoxicating drinks had made his eyes bright yellow like a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.

«Greetings to an honoured guest!» he rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov. «Good mornin'».

Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled beaver hat. «How's your mother-in-law, might I inquire?» «Mrr-mrr», said Ippolit Matveyevich indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.

«God grant her health», said Bezenchuk bitterly. «Nothin' but losses, durn it». And crossing his hands on his chest, he again leaned against the doorway.

At the entrance to the Nymph Funeral Home Ippolit Matveyevich was stopped once more. There were three owners of the Nymph. They all bowed to Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.

«She's well», replied Ippolit Matveyevich. «The things she does! Last night she saw a golden girl with her hair down. It was a dream».

The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly.

These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov on his way, and contrary to his usual practice, he did not arrive at work until the clock on the wall above the slogan «Finish Your Business and Leave» showed five past nine.

Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache, Ippolit Matveyevich was known in the office as Maciste. Аlthough the real Maciste had no moustache. (Translator's Note: Maciste was an internationally known Italian actor of the time.)

Taking a blue felt cushion out of a drawer in the desk, Ippolit Matveyevich placed it on his chair, aligned his moustache correctly (parallel to the top of the desk) and sat down on the cushion, rising slightly higher than his three colleagues. He was not afraid of getting piles; he was afraid of wearing out his trousers-that was why he used the blue cushion.

All these operations were watched timidly by two young persons-a boy and a girl. The young man, who wore a padded cotton coat, was completely overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink, the clock that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice «Finish Your Business and Leave». The young man in the coat had not even begun his business, but he was nonetheless ready to leave. He felt his business was so insignificant that it was shameful to disturb such a distinguished-looking grey-haired citizen as Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could wait, so he opened folder no. 2 and, with a twitch of the cheek, immersed himself in the papers. The girl, who had on a long jacket edged with shiny black ribbon, whispered something to the young man and, pink with embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich.

«Comrade», she said, «where do we…»

The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly for himself, blurted out:

«Get married!»

Ippolit Matveyevich looked thoughtfully at the rail behind which the young couple were standing.

«Birth? Death?»

«Get married?» repeated the young man in the coat and looked round him in confusion.

The girl gave a giggle. Things were going fine. Ippolit Matveyevich set to work with the skill of a magician. In spidery handwriting he recorded the names of the bride and groom in thick registers, sternly questioned the witnesses, who had to be fetched from outside, breathed tenderly and lengthily on the square rubber stamps and then, half rising to his feet, impressed them upon the tattered identification papers. Having received two roubles from the newlyweds «for administration of the sacrament», as he said with a smirk, and given them a receipt, Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height, automatically pushing out his chest (he had worn a corset at one time). The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his shoulders like epaulettes. His appearance was slightly comic, but singularly impressive. The biconcave lenses of his pince-nez flashed white like searchlights. The young couple stood in awe.

«Young people», said Ippolit Matveyevich pompously, «allow me to congratulate you, as they used to say, on your legal marriage. It is very, very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!»

Having made this address, Ippolit Matveyevich shook hands with the newly married couple, sat down, and, extremely pleased with himself, continued to read the papers in folder no. 2. At the next desk the clerks sniggered into their inkwells. The quiet routine of the working day had begun. No one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages desk. Through the windows citizens could be seen making their way home, shivering in the spring chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough cooperative began crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then came the mechanical rattling and squeaking of a car engine. A thick cloud of violet smoke billowed out from Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the clanking grew louder. Through the smoke appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with its minute radiator and bulky body. Floundering in the mud as it went, the car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a cloud of poisonous smoke. The clerks remained standing at the window for some time, commenting on the event and attempting to connect it with a possible reduction in staff. A little while later Bezenchuk cautiously went past along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town trying to find out if anyone had died.

The working day was drawing to a close. In the nearby white and yellow belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting, and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square.

It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be born on that day had been born and registered in the thick ledgers. All those wishing to get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of the undertakers, there had not been a single death. Ippolit Matveyevich packed up his files, put the felt cushion away in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache with a comb, and was just about to leave, having visions of a bowl of steaming soup, when the door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold.

«Greetings to an honoured guest», said Ippolit Matveyevich with a smile. «What can I do for you?»

The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable to utter a word.

«Well?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely.

«Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?» said the undertaker vaguely. «Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a coffin needs so much wood alone».

«What?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

«It's the Nymph…. Three families livin' on one rotten business. And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the tassels ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in 1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a good coffin».

«What are you talking about? Are you crazy?» snapped Ippolit Matveyevich and moved towards the door. «Your coffins will drive you out of your mind».

Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience.

«When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I tell you straight, there's nothin' to beat mine. You don't even need to look».

Ippolit Matveyevich turned round angrily, glared at Bezenchuk, and began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office that day, he felt rotten.

The three owners of the Nymph were standing by their establishment in the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that morning. They appeared not to have exchanged a single word with one another, yet a striking change in their expressions and a kind of secret satisfaction darkly gleaming in their eyes indicated that they had heard something of importance.

At the sight of his business rivals, Bezenchuk waved his hand in despair and called after Vorobyaninov in a whisper: «I'll make it thirty-two roubles». Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and increased his pace. «You can have credit», added Bezenchuk. The three owners of the Nymph said nothing. They sped after Vorobyaninov in silence, continually doffing their caps and bowing as they went.

Highly annoyed by the stupid attentions of the undertakers, Ippolit Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of hunger, went into the hallway. He was met by Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room and was looking hot and bothered. Holding up his cassock in his right hand, Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich.

It was then that Vorobyaninov noticed the extra cleanliness and the unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in his nose from the strong smell of medicine. In the outer room Ippolit Matveyevich was met by his neighbour, Mrs. Kuznetsov, the agronomist. She spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about.

«She's worse. She's just made her confession. Don't make a noise with your boots».

«I'm not», said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. «What's happened?»

Mrs. Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner room: «Very severe heart attack».

Then, clearly repeating what she had heard, added: «The possibility of her not recovering should not be discounted. I've been on my feet all day. I came this morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was no one in the kitchen and no one in this room either. So I thought Claudia Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to for some time. You know what flour is like nowadays. If you don't buy it beforehand …»

Mrs. Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour and the high price of it and how she found Claudia Ivanovna lying by the tiled stove completely unconscious, had not a groan from the next room impinged painfully on Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. He quickly crossed himself with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room.

Сhapter Two. Madame Petukhov's Demise

Claudia Ivanovna lay on her back with one arm under her head. She was wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion when ladies wore the «chanticleer» and had just begun to dance the tango.

Claudia Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed absolutely nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

«Claudia Ivanovna!» called Ippolit Matveyevich.

His mother-in-law moved her lips rapidly, but instead of the trumpet-like sounds to which his ear was accustomed, Ippolit Matveyevich only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a leap. A tear suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a drop of mercury.

«Claudia Ivanovna», repeated Vorobyaninov, «what's the matter?»

But again he received no answer. The old woman had closed her eyes and slumped to one side.

The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a little boy taken to be washed.

«She's dropped off. The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed. Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out how much an ice-bag costs».

Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable superiority in such matters.

It was a long way to the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.

It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge from an iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:

«Always in me way, durn em».

In the middle of the square, near the bust of the «poet Zhukovsky, which was inscribed with the words „Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of the Earth“, an animated conversation was in progress following the news of Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The general opinion of the assembled citizens could have been summed up as „We all have to go sometime“ and „What the Lord gives, the Lord takes back“».

The hairdresser «Pierre and Constantine»-who also answered readily to the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the way-once again took the opportunity to air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok.

«Modern science», Andrew Ivanovich was saying, «has achieved the impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his chin. In the old days that usually resulted in blood-poisoning. But they say that nowadays, in Moscow-I don't know whether it's true or not-a freshly sterilized shaving brush is used for every customer». The citizens gave long sighs. «Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Andrew?» «How could there be a different brush for every person? That's a good one!»

Prusis, a former member of the proletariat intelligentsia, and now a private stall-owner, actually became excited.

«Wait a moment, Andrew Ivanovich. According to the latest census, the population of Moscow is more than two million. That means they'd need more than two million brushes. Seems rather curious».

The conversation was becoming heated, and heaven only knows how it would have ended had not Ippolit Matveyevich appeared at the end of the street. «He's off to the chemist's again. Things must be bad». «The old woman will die. Bezenchuk isn't running round the town in a flurry for nothing». «What does the doctor say?»

«What doctor? Do you call those people in the social-insurance office doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!»

«Pierre and Constantine», who had been longing for a chance to make a pronouncement on the subject of medicine, looked around cautiously, and said:

«Haemoglobin is what counts nowadays». Having said that, he fell silent. The citizens also fell silent, each reflecting in his own way on the mysterious power of haemoglobin.

When the moon rose and cast its minty light on the miniature bust of Zhukovsky, a rude word could clearly be seen chalked on the poet's bronze back.

This inscription had first appeared on June 15, 1897, the same day that the bust had been unveiled. And despite all the efforts of the tsarist police, and later the Soviet militia, the defamatory word had reappeared each day with unfailing regularity.

The samovars were already singing in the little wooden houses with their outside shutters, and it was time for supper. The citizens stopped wasting their time and went their way. A wind began to blow.

In the meantime Claudia Ivanovna was dying. First she asked for something to drink, then said she had to get up and fetch Ippolit Matveyevich's best boots from the cobbler. One moment she complained of the dust which, as she put it, was enough to make you choke, and the next asked for all the lamps to be lit.

Ippolit Matveyevich paced up and down the room, tired of worrying. His mind was full of unpleasant, practical thoughts. He was thinking how he would have to ask for an advance at the mutual assistance office, fetch the priest, and answer letters of condolence from relatives. To take his mind off these things, Ippolit Matveyevich went out on the porch. There, in the green light of the moon, stood Bezenchuk the undertaker.

«So how would you like it, Mr. Vorobyaninov?» asked the undertaker, hugging his cap to his chest. «Yes, probably», answered Ippolit Matveyevich gloomily. «Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?» said Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. «Go to the devil! You make me sick!»

«I'm not doin' nothin'. I'm only askin' about the tassels and brocade. How shall I make it? Best quality? Or how?»

«No tassels or brocade. Just an ordinary coffin made of pine-wood. Do you understand?»

Bezenchuk put his finger to his lips to show that he understood perfectly, turned round and, managing to balance his cap on his head although he was staggering, went off. It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed that he was blind drunk.

Ippolit Matveyevich felt singularly upset. He tried to picture himself coming home to an empty, dirty house. He was afraid his mother-in-law's death would deprive him of all those little luxuries and set ways he had acquired with such effort since the revolutiona revolution which had stripped him of much greater luxuries and a grander way of life. «Should I marry?» he wondered. «But who? The militia chief's niece or Barbara Stepanova, Prusis's sister? Or maybe I should hire a housekeeper. But what's the use? She would only drag me around the law courts. And it would cost me something, too!»

The future suddenly looked black for Ippolit Matveyevich. Full of indignation and disgust at everything around him, he went back into the house. Claudia Ivanovna was no longer delirious. Lying high on her pillows, she looked at Ippolit Matveyevich, in full command of her faculties, and even sternly, he thought.

«Ippolit Matveyevich», she whispered clearly. «Sit close to me. I want to tell you something».

Ippolit Matveyevich sat down in annoyance, peering into his mother-in-law's thin, bewhiskered face. He made an attempt to smile and say something encouraging, but the smile was hideous and no words of encouragement came to him. An awkward wheezing noise was all he could produce.

«Ippolit», repeated his mother-in-law, «do you remember our drawing-room suite?»

«Which one?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich with that kind of polite attention that is only accorded to the very sick.

«The one … upholstered in English chintz».

«You mean the suite in my house?»

«Yes, in Stargorod».

«Yes, I remember it very well … a sofa, a dozen chairs and a round table with six legs. It was splendid furniture. Made by Hambs…. But why does it come to mind?»

Claudia Ivanovna, however, was unable to answer. Her face had slowly begun to turn the colour of copper sulphate. For some reason Ippolit Matveyevich also caught his breath. He clearly remembered the drawing-room in his house and its symmetrically arranged walnut furniture with curved legs, the polished parquet floor, the old brown grand piano, and the oval black-framed daguerreotypes of high-ranking relatives on the walls.

Claudia Ivanovna then said in a wooden, apathetic voice:

«I sewed my jewels into the seat of a chair».

Ippolit Matveyevich looked sideways at the old woman.

«What jewels?» he asked mechanically, then, suddenly realizing what she had said, added quickly:

«Weren't they taken when the house was searched?»

«I hid the jewels in a chair», repeated the old woman stubbornly.

Ippolit Matveyevich jumped up and, taking a close look at Claudia Ivanovna's stony face lit by the paraffin lamp, saw she was not raving.

«Your jewels!» he cried, startled at the loudness of his own voice. «In a chair? Who induced you to do that? Why didn't you give them to me?»

«Why should I have given them to you when you squandered away my daughter's estate?» said the old woman quietly and viciously. Ippolit Matveyevich sat down and immediately stood up again.

His heart was noisily sending the blood coursing around his body. He began to hear a ringing in his ears.

«But you took them out again, didn't you? They're here, aren't they?»

The old woman shook her head.

«I didn't have time. You remember how quickly and unexpectedly we had to flee. They were left in the chair… the one between the terracotta lamp and the fireplace».

«But that was madness! You're just like your daughter», shouted Ippolit Matveyevich loudly.

And no longer concerned for the fact that he was at the bedside of a dying woman, he pushed back his chair with a crash and began prancing about the room.

«I suppose you realize what may have happened to the chairs? Or do you think they're still there in the drawing-room in my house, quietly waiting for you to come and get your jewellery?» The old woman did not answer.

The registry clerk's wrath was so great that the pince-nez fell of his nose and landed on the floor with a tinkle, the gold nosepiece glittering as it passed his knees.

«What? Seventy thousand roubles' worth of jewellery hidden in a chair! Heaven knows who may sit on that chair!»

At this point Claudia Ivanovna gave a sob and leaned forward with her whole body towards the edge of the bed. Her hand described a semi-circle and reached out to grasp Ippolit Matveyevich, but then fell back on to the violet down quilt. Squeaking with fright, Ippolit Matveyevich ran to fetch his neighbour. «I think she's dying», he cried.

The agronomist crossed herself in a businesslike way and, without hiding her curiosity, hurried into Ippolit Matveyevich's house, accompanied by her bearded husband, also an agronomist. In distraction Vorobyaninov wandered into the municipal park.

While the two agronomists and their servants tidied up the deceased woman's room, Ippolit Matveyevich roamed around the park, bumping into benches and mistaking for bushes the young couples numb with early spring love.

The strangest things were going on in Ippolit Matveyevich's head. He could hear the sound of gypsy choirs and orchestras composed of big-breasted women playing the tango over and over again; he imagined the Moscow winter and a long-bodied black trotter that snorted contemptuously at the passers-by. He imagined many different things: a pair of deliriously expensive orange-coloured panties, slavish devotion, and a possible trip to Cannes. Ippolit Matveyevich began walking more slowly and suddenly stumbled over the form of Bezenchuk the undertaker. The latter was asleep, lying in the middle of the path in his fur coat. The jolt woke him up. He sneezed and stood up briskly.

«Now don't you worry, Mr Vorobyaninov», he said heatedly, continuing the conversation started a while before. «There's lots of work goes into a coffin».

«Claudia Ivanovna's dead», his client informed him.

«Well, God rest her soul», said Bezenchuk. «So the old lady's passed away. Old ladies pass away … or they depart this life. It depends who she is. Yours, for instance, was small and plump, so she passed away. But if it's one who's a bit bigger and thinner, then they say she has departed this life…».

«What do you mean ‘they say'? Who says?»

«We say. The undertakers. Now you, for instance. You're distinguished-lookin' and tall, though a bit on the thin side. If you should die, God forbid, they'll say you popped off. But a tradesman, who belonged to the former merchants' guild, would breathe his last. And if it's someone of lower status, say a caretaker, or a peasant, we say he has croaked or gone west. But when the high-ups die, say a railway conductor or someone in administration, they say he has kicked the bucket. They say: „You know our boss has kicked the bucket, don't you?“»

Shocked by this curious classification of human mortality, Ippolit Matveyevich asked:

«And what will the undertakers say about you when you die?»

«I'm small fry. They'll say, ‘Bezenchuk's gone', and nothin' more».

And then he added grimly:

«It's not possible for me to pop off or kick the bucket; I'm too small. But what about the coffin, Mr Vorobyaninov? Do you really want one without tassels and brocade?»

But Ippolit Matveyevich, once more immersed in dazzling dreams, walked on without answering. Bezenchuk followed him, working something out on his fingers and muttering to himself, as he always did.

The moon had long since vanished and there was a wintry cold. Fragile, wafer-like ice covered the puddles. The companions came out on Comrade Gubernsky Street, where the wind was tussling with the hanging shop-signs. A fire-engine drawn by skinny horses emerged from the direction of Staropan Square with a noise like the lowering of a blind.

Swinging their canvas legs from the platform, the firemen wagged their helmeted heads and sang in intentionally tuneless voices:

«Glory to our fire chief,
Glory to dear Comrade Pumpoff!»

«They've been havin' a good time at Nicky's wedding», remarked Bezenchuk nonchalantly. «He's the fire chief's son». And he scratched himself under his coat. «So you really want it without tassels and brocade?»

By that moment Ippolit Matveyevich had finally made up his mind. «I'll go and find them», he decided, «and then we'll see». And in his jewel-encrusted visions even his deceased mother-in-law seemed nicer than she had actually been. He turned to Bezenchuk and said:

«Go on then, damn you, make it! With brocade! And tassels!»

Chapter Three. The Parable of the Sinner

Having heard the dying Claudia Ivanovna's confession, Father Theodore Vostrikov, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, left Vorobyaninov's house in a complete daze and the whole way home kept looking round him distractedly and smiling to himself in confusion. His bewilderment became so great in the end that he was almost knocked down by the district-executive-committee motor-car, Gos. No. 1. Struggling out of the cloud of purple smoke issuing from the infernal machine, Father Vostrikov reached the stage of complete distraction, and, despite his venerable rank and middle age, finished the journey at a frivolous half-gallop.

His wife, Catherine, was laying the table for supper. On the days when there was no evening service to conduct, Father Theodore liked to have his supper early. This time, however, to his wife's surprise, the holy father, having taken off his hat and warm padded cassock, skipped past into the bedroom, locked himself in and began chanting the prayer «It Is Meet» in a tuneless voice.

His wife sat down on a chair and whispered in alarm:

«He's up to something again».

Father Theodore's tempestuous soul knew no rest, nor had ever known it. Neither at the time when he was Theo, a pupil of the Russian Orthodox Church school, nor when he was Theodore Ivanych, a bewhiskered student at the college. Having left the college and studied law at the university for three years in 1915 Vostrikov became afraid of the possibility of mobilization and returned to the Church. He was first anointed a deacon, then ordained a priest and appointed to the regional centre of N. But the whole time, at every stage of his clerical and secular career, Father Theodore never lost interest in worldly possessions.

He cherished the dream of possessing his own candle factory. Tormented by the vision of thick ropes of wax winding on to the factory drums, Father Theodore devised various schemes that would bring in enough basic capital to buy a little factory in Samara which he had had his eye on for some time.

Ideas occurred to Father Theodore unexpectedly, and when they did he used to get down to work on the spot. He once started making a marble-like washing-soap; he made pounds and pounds of it, but despite an enormous fat content, the soap would not lather, and it cost twice as much as the Hammer and Plough brand, to boot. For a long time after it remained in the liquid state gradually decomposing on the porch of the house, and whenever his wife, Catherine, passed it, she would wipe away a tear. The soap was eventually thrown into the cesspool.

Reading in a farming magazine that rabbit meat was as tender as chicken, that rabbits were highly prolific, and that a keen farmer could make a mint of money breeding them, Father Theodore immediately acquired half a dozen stud rabbits, and two months later, Nerka the dog, terrified by the incredible number of long-eared creatures filling the yard and house, fled to an unknown destination. However, the wretchedly provincial citizens of the town of N. proved extraordinarily conservative and, with unusual unanimity, refused to buy Vostrikov's rabbits. Then Father Theodore had a talk with his wife and decided to enhance his diet with the rabbit meat that was supposed to be tastier than chicken. The rabbits were roasted whole, turned into rissoles and cutlets, made into soup, served cold for supper and baked in pies. But to no avail. Father Theodore worked it out that even if they switched exclusively to a diet of rabbit, the family could not consume more than forty of the creatures a month, while the monthly increment was ninety, with the number increasing in a geometrical progression.

The Vostrikovs then decided to sell home-cooked meals. Father Theodore spent a whole evening writing out an advertisement in indelible pencil on neatly cut sheets of graph paper, announcing the sale of tasty home-cooked meals prepared in pure butter. The advertisement began «Cheap and Good!» His wife filled an enamel dish with flour-and-water paste, and late one evening the holy father went around sticking the advertisements on all the telegraph poles, and also in the vicinity of state-owned institutions.

The new idea was a great success. Seven people appeared the first day, among them Bendin, the military-commissariat clerk, by whose endeavour the town's oldest monument-a triumphal arch, dating from the time of the Empress Elizabeth-had been pulled down shortly before on the ground that it interfered with the traffic. The dinners were very popular. The next day there were fourteen customers. There was hardly enough time to skin the rabbits. For a whole week things went swimmingly and Father Theodore even considered starting up a small fur-trading business, without a car, when something quite unforeseen took place.

The Hammer and Plough cooperative, which had been shut for three weeks for stock-taking, reopened, and some of the counter hands, panting with the effort, rolled a barrel of rotten cabbage into the yard shared by Father Theodore, and dumped the contents into the cesspool. Attracted by the piquant smell, the rabbits hastened to the cesspool, and the next morning an epidemic broke out among the gentle rodents. It only raged for three hours, but during that time it finished off two hundred and forty adult rabbits and an uncountable number of offspring.

The shocked priest had been depressed for two whole months, and it was only now, returning from Vorobyaninov's house and to his wife's surprise, locking himself in the bedroom, that he regained his spirits. There was every indication that Father Theodore had been captivated by some new idea.

Catherine knocked on the bedroom door with her knuckle. There was no reply, but the chanting grew louder. A moment later the door opened slightly and through the crack appeared Father Theodore's face, brightened by a maidenly flush.

«Let me have a pair of scissors quickly, Mother», snapped Father Theodore.

«But what about your supper?»

«Yes, later on».

Father Theodore grabbed the scissors, locked the door again, and went over to a mirror hanging on the wall in a black scratched frame.

Beside the mirror was an ancient folk-painting, entitled «The Parable of the Sinner», made from a copperplate and neatly hand-painted. The parable had been a great consolation to Vostrikov after the misfortune with the rabbits. The picture clearly showed the transient nature of earthly things. The top row was composed of four drawings with meaningful and consolatory captions in Church Slavonic: Shem saith a prayer, Ham soweth wheat, Japheth enjoyeth power, Death overtaketh all. The figure of Death carried a scythe and a winged hour-glass and looked as if made of artificial limbs and orthopaedic appliances; he was standing on deserted hilly ground with his legs wide apart, and his general appearance made it clear that the fiasco with the rabbits was a mere trifle.

At this moment Father Theodore preferred «Japheth enjoyeth power». The drawing showed a fat, opulent man with a beard sitting on a throne in a small room.

Father Theodore smiled and, looking closely at himself in the mirror, began snipping at his fine beard. The scissors clicked, the hairs fell to the floor, and five minutes later Father Theodore knew he was absolutely no good at beard-clipping. His beard was all askew; it looked unbecoming and even suspicious.

Fiddling about for a while longer, Father Theodore became highly irritated, called his wife, and, handing her the scissors, said peevishly:

«You can help me, Mother. I can't do anything with these rotten hairs».

His wife threw up her hands in astonishment.

«What have you done to yourself?» she finally managed to say.

«I haven't done anything. I'm trimming my beard. It seems to have gone askew just here…».

«Heavens!» said his wife, attacking his curls. «Surely you're not joining the Renovators, Theo dear?»

Father Theodore was delighted that the conversation had taken this turn.

«And why shouldn't I join the Renovators, Mother? They're human-beings, aren't they?»

«Of course they're human-beings», conceded his wife venomously, «but they go to the cinema and pay alimony».

«Well, then, I'll go to the cinema as well».

«Go on then!»

«ХTwill!»

«You'll get tired of it. Just look at yourself in the mirror».

And indeed, a lively black-eyed countenance with a short, odd-looking beard and an absurdly long moustache peered out of the mirror at Father Theodore. They trimmed down the moustache to the right proportions.

What happened next amazed Mother still more. Father Theodore declared that he had to go off on a business trip that very evening, and asked his wife to go round to her brother, the baker, and borrow his fur-collared coat and duck-billed cap for a week.

«I won't go», said his wife and began weeping.

Father Theodore walked up and down the room for half an hour, frightening his wife by the change in his expression and telling her all sorts of rubbish. Mother could understand only one thing-for no apparent reason Father Theodore had cut his hair, intended to go off somewhere in a ridiculous cap, and was leaving her for good.

«I'm not leaving you», he kept saying. «I'm not. I'll be back in a week. A man can have a job to do, after all. Can he or can't he?»

«No, he can't», said his wife.

Father Theodore even had to strike the table with his fist, although he was normally a mild person in his treatment of his near ones. He did so cautiously, since he had never done it before, and, greatly alarmed, his wife threw a kerchief around her head and ran to fetch the civilian clothing from her brother.

Left alone, Father Theodore thought for a moment, muttered, «It's no joke for women, either», and pulled out a small tin trunk from under the bed. This type of trunk is mostly found among Red Army soldiers. It is usually lined with striped paper, on top of which is a picture of Budyonny, or the lid of a Bathing Beach cigarette box depicting three lovelies on the pebbly shore at Batumi. The Vostrikovs' trunk was also lined with photographs, but, to Father Theodore's annoyance, they were not of Budyonny or Batumi beauties. His wife had covered the inside of the trunk with photographs cut out of the magazine Chronicle of the 1914 War. They included «The Capture of Peremyshl», «The Distribution of Comforts to Other Ranks in the Trenches», and all sorts of other things.

Removing the books that were lying at the top (a set of the Russian Pilgrim for 1913; a fat tome, History of the Schism, and a brochure entitled A Russian in Italy, the cover of which showed a smoking Vesuvius), Father Theodore reached down into the very bottom of the trunk and drew out an old shabby hat belonging to his wife. Wincing at the smell of moth-balls which suddenly assailed him from the trunk, he tore apart the lace and trimmings and took from the hat a heavy sausage-shaped object wrapped in linen. The sausage-shaped object contained twenty ten-rouble gold coins, all that was left of Father Theodore's business ventures.

With a habitual movement of the hand, he lifted his cassock and stuffed the sausage into the pocket of his striped trousers. He then went over to the chest of drawers and took twenty roubles in three-and five-rouble notes from a sweet-box. There were twenty roubles left in the box. «That will do for the housekeeping», he decided.

Chapter Four. The Muse of Travel

An hour before the evening mail-train was due in, Father Theodore, dressed in a short coat which came just below the knee, and carrying a wicker basket, stood in line in front of the booking-office and kept looking apprehensively at the station entrance. He was afraid that in spite of his insistence, his wife might come to see him off, and then Prusis, the stall-owner, who was sitting in the buffet treating the income-tax collector to a glass of beer, would immediately recognize him. Father Theodore stared with shame and surprise at his striped trousers, now exposed to the view of the entire laity.

The process of boarding a train without reserved seats took its normal and scandalous course. Staggering under the weight of enormous sacks, passengers ran from the front of the train to the back, and then to the front again. Father Theodore followed them in a daze. Like everyone else, he spoke to the conductors in an ingratiating tone, like everyone else he was afraid he had been given the «wrong» ticket, and it was only when he was finally allowed into a coach that his customary calm returned and he even became happy.

The locomotive hooted at the top of its voice and the train moved off, carrying Father Theodore into the unknown on business that was mysterious, yet promised great things.

An interesting thing, the permanent way. Once he gets on to it the most ordinary man in the street feels a certain animation in himself and soon turns into a passenger, a consignee, or simply a trouble-maker without a ticket, who makes life difficult for the teams of conductors and platform ticket-inspectors.

The moment a passenger approaches the right of way, which he amateurishly calls a railway station, his life is completely changed. He is immediately surrounded by predatory porters with white aprons and nickel badges on their chests, and his luggage is obsequiously picked up. From that moment, the citizen no longer is his own master. He is a passenger and begins to perform all the duties of one. These duties are many, though they are not unpleasant.

Passengers eat a lot. Ordinary mortals do not eat during the night, but passengers do. They eat fried chicken, which is expensive, hardboiled eggs, which are bad for the stomach, and olives. Whenever the train passes over the points, numerous teapots in the rack clatter together, and legless chickens (the legs have been torn out by the roots by passengers) jump up and down in their newspaper wrapping.

The passengers, however, are oblivious of all this. They tell each other jokes. Every three minutes the whole compartment rocks with laughter; then there is a silence and a soft-spoken voice tells the following story:

«An old Jew lay dying. Around him were his wife and children. ‘Is Monya here?' asks the Jew with difficulty. ‘Yes, she's here.' ‘Has Auntie Brana come?' ‘Yes.' ‘And where's Grandma? I don't see her.' ‘She's over here.' ‘And Isaac?' ‘He's here, too.' ‘What about the children?' They're all here.' ‘Then who's minding the shop?'»

This very moment the teapots begin rattling and the chickens fly up and down in the rack, but the passengers do not notice. Each one has a favourite story ready, eagerly awaiting its turn. A new raconteur, nudging his neighbours and calling out in a pleading tone, «Have you heard this one?» finally gains attention and begins:

«A Jew comes home and gets into bed beside his wife. Suddenly he hears a scratching noise under the bed. The Jew reaches his hand underneath the bed and asks: „Is that you, Fido?“ And Fido licks his hand and says: „Yes, it's me.“»

The passengers collapse with laughter; a dark night cloaks the countryside. Restless sparks fly from the funnel, and the slim signals in their luminous green spectacles flash snootily past, staring above the train.

An interesting thing, the right of way! Long, heavy trains race to all' parts of the country. The way is open at every point. Green lights can be seen everywhere; the track is clear. The polar express goes up to Murmansk. The K-l draws out of Kursk Station, bound for Tiflis, arching its back over the points. The far-eastern courier rounds Lake Baikal and approaches the Pacific at full speed.

The Muse of Travel is calling. She has already plucked Father Theodore from his quiet regional cloister and cast him into some unknown province. Even Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, former marshal of the nobility and now clerk in a registry office, is stirred to the depths of his heart and highly excited at the great things ahead.

People speed all over the country. Some of them are looking for scintillating brides thousands of miles away, while others, in pursuit of treasure, leave their jobs in the post office and rush off like schoolboys to Aldan. Others simply sit at home, tenderly stroking an imminent hernia and reading the works of Count Salias, bought for five kopeks instead of a rouble.

The day after the funeral, kindly arranged by Bezenchuk the undertaker, Ippolit Matveyevich went to work and, as part of the duties with which he was charged, duly registered in his own hand the demise of Claudia Ivanovna Petukhov, aged fifty-nine, housewife, non-party-member, resident of the regional centre of N., by origin a member of the upper class of the province of Stargorod. After this, Ippolit Matveyevich granted himself a two-week holiday due to him, took forty-one roubles in salary, said goodbye to his colleagues, and went home. On the way he stopped at the chemist's.

The chemist, Leopold Grigorevich, who was called Lipa by his friends and family, stood behind the red-lacquered counter, surrounded by frosted-glass bottles of poison, nervously trying to sell the fire chief's sister-in-law «Ango cream for sunburn and freckles-gives the skin an exceptional whiteness». The fire chief's sister-in-law, however, was asking for «Rachelle powder, gold in colour-gives the skin a tan not normally acquirable». The chemist had only the Ango cream in stock, and the battle between these two very different cosmetics raged for half an hour. Lipa won in the end and sold the fire chief's sister-in-law some lipstick and a bugovar, which is a device similar in principle to the samovar, except that it looks like a watering-can and catches bugs.

«What can I get you?»

«Something for the hair».

«To make it grow, to remove it, or to dye it?»

«Not to make it grow», said Ippolit Matveyevich. «To dye it».

«We have a wonderful hair dye called Titanic. We got it from the customs people; it was confiscated. It's a jet black colour. A bottle containing a six months' supply costs three roubles, twelve kopeks. I can recommend it to you, as a good friend».

Ippolit Matveyevich twiddled the bottle in his hands, looked at the label with a sigh, and put down his money on the counter.

He went home and, with a feeling of revulsion, began pouring Titanic onto his head and moustache. A stench filled the house.

By the time dinner was over, the stench had cleared, the moustache had dried and become matted and was very difficult to comb. The jet-black colour turned out to have a greenish tint, but there was no time for a second try.

Taking from his mother-in-law's jewel box a list of the gems, found the night before, Ippolit Matveyevich counted up his cash-in-hand, locked the house, put the key in his back pocket and took the no. 7 express to Stargorod.

Chapter Five. The Smooth Operator

At half past eleven a young man aged about twenty-eight entered Stargorod from the direction of the village of Chmarovka, to the north-east. A waif ran along behind him.

«Mister!» cried the boy gaily, «gimme ten kopeks!»

The young man took a warm apple out of his pocket and handed it to the waif, but the child still kept running behind. Then the young man stopped and, looking ironically at the boy, said quietly:

«Perhaps you'd also like the key of the apartment where the money is?»

The presumptuous waif then realized the complete futility of his pretensions and dropped behind.

The young man had not told the truth. He had no money, no apartment where it might have been found, and no key with which to open it. He did not even have a coat. The young man entered the town in a green suit tailored to fit at the waist and an old woollen scarf wound several times around his powerful neck. On his feet were patent-leather boots with orange-coloured suede uppers. He had no socks on. The young man carried an astrolabe.

Approaching the market, he broke into a song: «O, Bayadere, tum-ti-ti, tum-ti-ti».

In the market he found plenty going on. He squeezed into the line of vendors selling wares spread out on the ground before them, stood the astrolabe in front of him and began shouting:

«Who wants an astrolabe? Here's an astrolabe going cheap. Special reduction for delegations and women's work divisions!»

At first the unexpected supply met with little demand; the delegations of housewives were more interested in obtaining commodities in short supply and were milling around the cloth and drapery stalls. A detective from the Stargorod criminal investigation department passed the astrolabe-vendor twice, but since the instrument in no way resembled the typewriter stolen the day before from the Central Union of Dairy Cooperatives, the detective stopped glaring at the young man and passed on.

By lunchtime the astrolabe had been sold to a repairman for three roubles.

«It measures by itself», he said, handing over the astrolabe to its purchaser, «provided you have something to measure».

Having rid himself of the calculating instrument, the happy young man had lunch in the Tasty Corner snack bar, and then went to have a look at the town. He passed along Soviet Street, came out into Red Army Street (previously Greater Pushkin Street), crossed Cooperative Street and found himself again on Soviet Street. But it was not the same Soviet Street from which he had come. There were two Soviet Streets in the town. Greatly surprised by this fact, the young man carried on and found himself in Lena Massacre Street (formerly Denisov Street). He stopped outside no. 28, a pleasant two-storeyed private house, which bore a sign saying:

USSR RSFSR SECOND SOCIAL SECURITY HOME

OF THE STAR-PROV-INS-AD

and requested a light from the caretaker, who was sitting by the entrance on a stone bench.

«Tell me, dad», said the young man, taking a puff, «are there any marriageable young girls in this town?

The old caretaker did not show the least surprise.

„For some a mare'd be a bride,“ he answered, readily striking up a conversation.

„I have no more questions,“ said the young man quickly. And he immediately asked one more: „A house like this and no girls in it?“

„It's a long while since there've been any young girls here,“ replied the old man. „This is a state institution-a home for old-age women pensioners“.

„I see. For ones born before historical materialism?“

„That's it. They were born when they were born“.

„And what was here in the house before the days of historical materialism?“

„When was that?“

„In the old days. Under the former regime“.

„Oh, in the old days my master used to live here“.

„A member of the bourgeoisie“)»

«Bourgeoisie yourself! I told you. He was a marshal of the nobility».

«You mean he was from the working class?»

«Working class yourself! He was a marshal of the nobility».

The conversation with the intelligent caretaker so poorly versed in the class structure of society might have gone on for heaven knows how long had not the young man got down to business.

«Listen, granddad», he said, «what about a drink?»

«All right, buy me one!»

They were gone an hour. When they returned, the caretaker was the young man's best friend.

«Right, then, I'll stay the night with you», said the newly acquired friend.

«You're a good man. You can stay here for the rest of your life if you like».

Having achieved his aim, the young man promptly went down into the caretaker's room, took off his orange-coloured boots, and, stretching out on a bench, began thinking out a plan of action for the following day.

The young man's name was Ostap Bender. Of his background he would usually give only one detail. «My dad», he used to say, «was a Turkish citizen». During his life this son of a Turkish citizen had had many occupations. His lively nature had prevented him from devoting himself to any one thing for long and kept him roving through the country, finally bringing him to Stargorod without any socks and without a key, apartment, or money.

Lying in the caretaker's room, which was so warm that it stank, Ostap Bender weighed up in his mind two possibilities for a career.

He could become a polygamist and calmly move on from town to town, taking with him a suitcase containing his latest wife's valuables, or he could go the next day to the Stargorod Commission for the Improvement of Children's Living Conditions and suggest they undertake the popularization of a brilliantly devised, though yet unpainted, picture entitled «The Bolsheviks Answer Chamberlain» based on Repin's famous canvas «The Zaporozhe Cossacks Answer the Sultan». If it worked, this possibility could bring in four hundred or so roubles.

The two possibilities had been thought up by Ostap during his last stay in Moscow. The polygamy idea was conceived after reading a law-court report in the evening paper, which clearly stated that the convicted man was given only a two-year sentence, while the second idea came to Bender as he was looking round the Association of Revolutionary Artists' exhibition, having got in with a free pass.

Both possibilities had their drawbacks, however. To begin a career as a polygamist without a heavenly grey polka-dot suit was unthinkable. Moreover, at least ten roubles would be needed for purposes of representation and seduction. He could get married, of course, in his green field-suits, since his virility and good looks were absolutely irresistible to the provincial belles looking for husbands, but that would have been, as Ostap used to say, «poor workmanship». The question of the painting was not all plain sailing either. There might be difficulties of a purely technical nature. It might be awkward, for instance, to show Comrade Kalinin in a fur cap and white cape, while Comrade Chicherin was stripped to the waist. They could be depicted in ordinary dress, of course, but that would not be quite the same thing.

«It wouldn't have the right effect!» said Ostap aloud.

At this point he noticed that the caretaker had been prattling away for some time, apparently reminiscing about the previous owner of the house.

«The police chief used to salute him…. I'd go and wish him a happy new year, let's say, and he'd give me three roubles. At Easter, let's say, he'd give me another three roubles…. Then on his birthday, let's say. In a year I'd get as much as fifteen roubles from wishing him. He even promised to give me a medal. ‘I want my caretaker to have a medal,' he used to say. That's what he would say: „Tikhon, consider that you already have the medal.“»

«And did he give you one?»

«Wait a moment…. I don't want a caretaker without a medal,' he used to say. He went to St. Petersburg to get me a medal. Well, the first time it didn't work out. The officials didn't want to give me one. „The Tsar,“ he used to say, „has gone abroad. It isn't possible just now.“ So the master told me to wait. „Just wait a bit, Tikhon,“ he used to say, „you'll get your medal.“»

«And what happened to this master of yours? Did they bump him off?»

«No one bumped him off. He went away. What was the good of him staying here with the soldiers? … Do they give medals to caretakers nowadays?»

«Certainly. I can arrange one for you».

The caretaker looked at Bender with veneration.

«I can't be without one. It's that kind of work».

«Where did your master go?»

«Heaven knows. People say he went to Paris».

«Ah, white acacia-the emigre's flower! So he's an emigre!»

«Emigre yourself…. He went to Paris, so people say. And the house was taken over for old women. You greet them every day, but they don't even give you a ten-kopek bit! Yes, he was some master!»

At that moment the rusty bell above the door began to ring.

The caretaker ambled over to the door, opened it, and stepped back in complete amazement.

On the top step stood Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov with a black moustache and black hair. His eyes behind his pince-nez had a pre-revolutionary twinkle.

«Master!» bellowed Tikhon with delight. «Back from Paris!»

Ippolit Matveyevich became embarrassed by the presence of the stranger, whose bare purple feet he had just spotted protruding from behind the table, and was about to leave again when Ostap Bender briskly jumped up and made a low bow.

«This isn't Paris, but you're welcome to our abode».

Ippolit Matveyevich felt himself forced to say something.

«Hello, Tikhon. I certainly haven't come from Paris. Where did you get that strange idea from?»

But Ostap Bender, whose long and noble nose had caught the scent of roast meat, did not give the caretaker time to utter a word.

«Splendid», he said, narrowing his eyes. «You haven't come from Paris. You've no doubt come from Kologriv to visit your deceased grandmother».

As he spoke, he tenderly embraced the caretaker and pushed him outside the door before the old man had time to realize what was happening. When he finally gathered his wits, all he knew was that his master had come back from Paris, that he himself had been pushed out of his own room, and that he was clutching a rouble note in his left hand.

Carefully locking the door, Bender turned to Vorobyaninov, who was still standing in the middle of the room, and said:

«Take it easy, everything's all right! My name's Bender. You may have heard of me!»

«No, I haven't», said Ippolit Matveyevich nervously.

«No, how could the name of Ostap Bender be known in Paris? Is it warm there just now? It's a nice city. I have a married cousin there. She recently sent me a silk handkerchief by registered post».

«What rubbish is this?» exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. «What handkerchief? I haven't come from Paris at all. I've come from …»

«Marvellous! You've come from Morshansk!»

Ippolit Matveyevich had never had dealings with so spirited a young man as Ostap Bender and began to feel peculiar.

«Well, I'm going now», he said.

«Where are you going? You don't need to hurry anywhere. The secret police will come for you, anyway». Ippolit Matveyevich was speechless. He undid his coat with its threadbare velvet collar and sat down on the bench, glaring at Bender.

«I don't know what you mean», he said in a low voice.

«That's no harm. You soon will. Just one moment».

Ostap put on his orange-coloured boots and walked up and down the room.

«Which frontier did you cross? Was it the Polish, Finnish, or Rumanian frontier? An expensive pleasure, I imagine. A friend of mine recently crossed the frontier. He lives in Slavuta, on our side, and his wife's parents live on the other. He had a row with his wife over a family matter; she comes from a temperamental family. She spat in his face and ran across the frontier to her parents. The fellow sat around for a few days but found things weren't going well. There was no dinner and the room was dirty, so he decided to make it up with her. He waited till night and then crossed over to his mother-in-law. But the frontier guards nabbed him, trumped up a charge, and gave him six months. Later on he was expelled from the trade union. The wife, they say, has now gone back, the fool, and her husband is in prison. She is able to take him things…. Did you come that way, too?»

«Honestly», protested Ippolit Matveyevich, suddenly feeling himself in the power of the talkative young man who had come between him and the jewels. «Honestly, I'm a citizen of the RSFSR. I can show you my identification papers, if you want».

«With printing being as well developed as it is in the West, the forgery of Soviet identification papers is nothing. A friend of mine even went as far as forging American dollars. And you know how difficult that is. The paper has those different-coloured little lines on it. It requires great technique. He managed to get rid of them on the Moscow black market, but it turned out later that his grandfather, a notorious currency-dealer, had bought them all in Kiev and gone absolutely broke. The dollars were counterfeit, after all. So your papers may not help you very much either».

Despite his annoyance at having to sit in a smelly caretaker's room and listen to an insolent young man burbling about the shady dealings of his friends, instead of actively searching for the jewels, Ippolit Matveyevich could not bring himself to leave. He felt great trepidation at the thought that the young stranger might spread it round the town that the ex-marshal had come back. That would be the end of everything, and he might be put in jail as well.

«Don't tell anyone you saw me», said Ippolit Matveyevich. «They might really think I'm an emigre». «That's more like it! First we have an Emigre who has returned to his home town, and then we find he is afraid the secret police will catch him».

«But I've told you a hundred times, I'm not an emigre».

«Then who are you? Why are you here?»

«I've come from N. on certain business».

«What business?»

«Personal business».

«And then you say you're not an emigre! A friend of mine …»

At this point, Ippolit Matveyevich, driven to despair by the stories of Bender's friends, and seeing that he was not getting anywhere, gave in.

«All right», he said. «I'll tell you everything».

Anyway, it might be difficult without an accomplice, he thought to himself, and this fellow seems to be a really shady character. He might be useful.

Chapter Six. A Diamond Haze

Ippolit Matveyevich took off his stained beaver hat, combed his moustache, which gave off a shower of sparks at the touch of the comb, and, having cleared his throat in determination, told Ostap Bender, the first rogue who had come his way, what his dying mother-in-law had told him about her jewels.

During the account, Ostap jumped up several times and, turning to the iron stove, said delightedly:

«Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury. Things are moving».

An hour later they were both sitting at the rickety table, their heads close together, reading the long list of jewellery which had at one time adorned the fingers, neck, ears, bosom and hair of Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law.

Ippolit Matveyevich adjusted the pince-nez, which kept falling off his nose, and said emphatically:

«Three strings of pearls…. Yes, I remember them. Two with forty pearls and the long one had a hundred and ten. A diamond pendant … Claudia Ivanovna used to say it was worth four thousand roubles; an antique».

Next came the rings: not thick, silly, and cheap engagement rings, but fine, lightweight rings set with pure, polished diamonds; heavy, dazzling earrings that bathe a small female ear in multicoloured light; bracelets shaped like serpents, with emerald scales; a clasp bought with the profit from a fourteen-hundred-acre harvest; a pearl necklace that could only be worn by a famous prima donna; to crown everything was a diadem worth forty thousand roubles.

Ippolit Matveyevich looked round him. A grass-green emerald light blazed up and shimmered in the dark corners of the caretaker's dirty room. A diamond haze hung near the ceiling. Pearls rolled across the table and bounced along the floor. The room swayed in the mirage of gems. The sound of Ostap's voice brought the excited Ippolit Matveyevich back to earth.

«Not a bad choice. The stones have been tastefully selected, I see. How much did all this jazz cost?»

«Seventy to seventy-five thousand».

«Hm … Then it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand now».

«Really as much as that?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich jubilantly.

«Not less than that. However, if I were you, dear friend from Paris, I wouldn't give a damn about it».

«What do you mean, not give a damn?»

«Just that. Like they used to before the advent of historical materialism».

«Why?»

«I'll tell you. How many chairs were there?»

«A dozen. It was a drawing-room suite».

«Your drawing-room suite was probably used for firewood long ago».

Ippolit Matveyevich was so alarmed that he actually stood up.

«Take it easy. I'll take charge. The hearing is continued. Incidentally, you and I will have to conclude a little deal».

Breathing heavily, Ippolit Matveyevich nodded his assent. Ostap Bender then began stating his terms.

«In the event of acquisition of the treasure, as a direct partner in the concession and as technical adviser, I receive sixty per cent. You needn't pay my national health; I don't care about that».

Ippolit Matveyevich turned grey.

«That's daylight robbery!»

«And how much did you intend offering me?»

«Well… er … five per cent, or maybe even ten per cent. You realize, don't you, that's fifteen thousand roubles!»

«And that's all?»

«Yes»

«Maybe you'd like me to work for nothing and also give you the key of the apartment where the money is?»

«In that case, I'm sorry», said Vorobyaninov through his nose.

«I have every reason to believe I can manage the business by myself».

«Aha! In that case, I'm sorry», retorted the splendid Ostap. «I have just as much reason to believe, as Andy Tucker used to say, that I can also manage your business by myself».

«You villain!» cried Ippolit Matveyevich, beginning to shake.

Ostap remained unmoved.

«Listen, gentleman from Paris, do you know your jewels are practically in my pocket? And I'm only interested in you as long as I wish to prolong your old age».

Ippolit Matveyevich realized at this point that iron hands had gripped his throat.

«Twenty per cent», he said morosely.

«And my grub?» asked Ostap with a sneer.

«Twenty-five».

«And the key of the apartment?»

«But that's thirty-seven and a half thousand!»

«Why be so precise? Well, all right, I'll settle for fifty per cent. We'll go halves».

The haggling continued, and Ostap made a further concession. Out of respect for Vorobyaninov, he was prepared to work for forty per cent.

«That's sixty thousand!» cried Vorobyaninov.

«You're a rather nasty man», retorted Bender. «You're too fond of money».

«And I suppose you aren't?» squeaked Ippolit Matveyevich in a flutelike voice.

«No, I'm not».

«Then why do you want sixty thousand?»

«On principle!»

Ippolit Matveyevich took a deep breath.

«Well, are things moving?» pressed Ostap.

Vorobyaninov breathed heavily and said humbly: «Yes, Х things are moving».

«It's a bargain. District Chief of the Comanchi!»

As soon as Ippolit Matveyevich, hurt by the nickname, «Chief of the Comanchi», had demanded an apology, and Ostap, in a formal apology, had called him «Field Marshal», they set about working out their disposition.

At midnight Tikhon, the caretaker, hanging on to all the garden fences on the way and clinging to the lamp posts, tottered home to his cellar. To his misfortune, there was a full moon.

«Ah! The intellectual proletarian! Officer of the Broom!» exclaimed Ostap, catching sight of the doubled-up caretaker.

The caretaker began making low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the stillness of the night.

«That's nice», said Ostap to Vorobyaninov. «Your caretaker is rather a vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?»

«Yes, it is», said the caretaker unexpectedly.

«Listen, Tikhon», began Ippolit Matveyevich. «Have you any idea what 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 Cooperative; 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.

Chapter Seven. Traces of the Titanic

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!»

Chapter Eight. The Bashful Chiseller

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:

A BRASS BAND IS THE PATH 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:

FOOD IS THE SOURCE OF HEALTH

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 loudspeaker cheerfully went on: Х

«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 loudspeaker, 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 loudspeaker. 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 goodbye, 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».

Chapter Nine. Where Are Your Curls?

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 cooperative 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.

It was at this moment that Ippolit Matveyevich saw that the stranger who had carried off his chair in the most outrageous manner was none other than Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence.

«Father!» he exclaimed, removing his hands from the chair in astonishment.

Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally loosed his grip. The chair, no longer supported by either of them, fell on to the brick-strewn ground.

«Where's your moustache, my dear Ippolit Matveyevich?» asked the cleric as caustically as possible.

«And what about your curls? You used to have curls, I believe!»

Ippolit Matveyevich's words conveyed utter contempt. He threw Father Theodore a look of singular disgust and, tucking the chair under his arm, turned to go. But the priest had now recovered from his embarrassment and was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of «No, I'm sorry», he grasped hold of the chair again. Their initial position was restored. The two opponents stood clutching the chair and, moving from side to side, sized one another up like cats or boxers. The tense pause lasted a whole minute.

«So you're after my property, Holy Father?» said Ippolit Matveyevich through clenched teeth and kicked the holy father in the hip.

Father Theodore feinted and viciously kicked the marshal in the groin, making him double up.

«It's not your property».

«Whose then?»

«Not yours!»

«Whose then?»

«Not yours!»

«Whose then? Whose?»

Spitting at each other in this way, they kept kicking furiously.

«Whose property is it then?» screeched the marshal, sinking his foot in the holy father's stomach.

«It's nationalized property», said the holy father firmly, overcoming his pain.

«Nationalized?»

«Yes, nationalized».

They were jerking out the words so quickly that they ran together.

«Who-nationalized-it?»

«The-Soviet-Government. The-Soviet-Government».

«Which-government?»

«The-working-people's-government».

«Aha!» said Ippolit Matveyevich icily. «The government of workers and peasants?»

«Yes!»

«Hmm … then maybe you're a member of the Communist Party, Holy Father?»

«Maybe I am!»

Ippolit Matveyevich could no longer restrain himself and with a shriek of «Maybe you are» spat juicily in Father Theodore's kindly face. Father Theodore immediately spat in Ippolit Matveyevich's face and also found his mark. They had nothing with which to wipe away the spittle since they were still holding the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich made a noise like a door opening and thrust the chair at his enemy with all his might. The enemy fell over, dragging the panting Vorobyaninov with him. The struggle continued in the stalls.

Suddenly there was a crack and both front legs broke on simultaneous'y. The opponents completely forgot one another and began tearing the walnut treasure-chest to pieces. The flowered English chintz split with the heart-rending scream of a seagull. The back was torn off by a mighty tug. The treasure hunters ripped off the sacking together with the brass tacks and, grazing their hands on the springs, buried their fingers in the woollen stuffing. The disturbed springs hummed. Five minutes later the chair had been picked clean. Bits and pieces were all that was left. Springs rolled in all directions, and the wind blew the rotten padding all over the clearing. The curved legs lay in a hole. There were no jewels.

«Well, have you found anything?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich, panting.

Father Theodore, covered in tufts of wool, puffed and said nothing.

«You crook!» shouted Ippolit Matveyevich. «I'll break your neck, Father Theodore!»

«I'd like to see you!» retorted the priest. «Where are you going all covered in fluff?» «Mind your own business!»

«Shame on you, Father! You're nothing but a thief!» «I've stolen nothing from you».

«How did you find out about this? You exploited the sacrament of confession for your own ends. Very nice! Very fine!»

With an indignant «Fooh!» Ippolit Matveyevich left the clearing and, brushing his sleeve as he went, made for home. At the corner of Lena Massacre and Yerogeyev streets he caught sight of his partner. The technical adviser and director-general of the concession was having the suede uppers of his boots cleaned with canary polish; he was standing half-turned with one foot slightly raised. Ippolit Matveyevich hurried up to him. The director was gaily crooning the shimmy:

«The camels used to do it,
The barracudas used to dance it,
Now the whole world's doing the shimmy».

«Well, how was the housing division?» he asked in a businesslike way, and immediately added:

«Wait a moment. Don't tell me now; you're too excited. Cool down a little».

Giving the shoeshiner seven kopeks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm and led him down the street. He listened very carefully to everything the agitated Ippolit Matveyevich told him.

«Aha! A small black beard? Right! A coat with a sheepskin collar? I see. That's the chair from the pensioner's home. It was bought today for three roubles».

«But wait a moment…».

And Ippolit Matveyevich told the chief concessionaire all about Father Theodore's low tricks.

Ostap's face clouded.

«Too bad», he said. «Just like a detective story. We have a mysterious rival. We must steal a march on him. We can always break his head later».

As the friends were having a snack in the Stenka Razin beer-hall and Ostap was asking questions about the past and present state of the housing division, the day came to an end.

The golden carthorses became brown again. The diamond drops grew cold in mid-air and plopped on to the ground. In the beer-halls and Phoenix restaurant the price of beer went up. Evening had come; the street lights on Greater Pushkin Street lit up and a detachment of Pioneers went by, stamping their feet, on the way home from their first spring outing.

The tigers, figures of victory, and cobras on top of the province-planning administration shone mysteriously in the light of the advancing moon.

As he made his way home with Ostap, who was now suddenly silent, Ippolit Matveyevich gazed at the tigers and cobras. In his time, the building had housed the Provincial Government and the citizens had been proud of their cobras, considering them one of the sights of Stargorod.

«I'll find them», thought Ippolit Matveyevich, looking at one of the plaster figures of victory.

The tigers swished their tails lovingly, the cobras contracted with delight, and Ippolit Matveyevich's heart filled with determination.

Chapter Ten. The Mechanic, the Parrot, and the Fortune-teller

No. 7 Pereleshinsky Street was not one of Stargorod's best buildings. Its two storeys were constructed in the style of the Second Empire and were embellished with timeworn lion heads, singularly reminiscent of the once well-known writer Artsybashec. There were exactly seven of these Artsybashevian physiognomies, one for each of the windows facing on to the street. The faces had been placed at the keystone of each window.

There were two other embellishments on the building, though these were of a purely commercial nature. On one side hung the radiant sign:

ODESSA ROLL BAKERY

MOSCOW BUN ARTEL

The sign depicted a young man wearing a tie and ankle-length French trousers. Ift one dislocated hand he held the fabulous cornucopia, from which poured an avalanche of ochre-coloured buns; whenever necessary, these were passed off as Moscow rolls. The young man had a sexy smile on his face. On the other side, the Fastpack packing office announced itself to prospective clients by a black board with round gold lettering.

Despite the appreciable difference in the signs and also in the capital possessed by the two dissimilar enterprises, they both engaged in the same business, namely, speculation in all types of fabrics: coarse wool, fine wool, cotton, and, whenever silk of good colour and design came their way, silk as well.

Passing through the tunnel-like gateway and turning right into the yard with its cement well, you could see two doorways without porches, giving straight on to the angular flagstones of the yard. A dulled brass plate with a name engraved in script was fixed to the right-hand door:

V.M. POLESOV

The left-hand door was fitted with a piece of whitish tin:

FASHIONS AND MILLINERY

This was also only for show.

Inside the fashions-and-millinery workroom there was no esparterie, no trimmings, no headless dummies with soldierly bearing, nor any large heads for elegant ladies' hats. Instead, the three-room apartment was occupied by an immaculately white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was riddled with fleas, but could not complain since it was unable to talk. For days on end it used to crack sunflower seeds and spit the husks through the bars of its tall, circular cage on to the carpet. It only needed a concertina and new squeaky Wellingtons to resemble a peasant on a spree. Dark-brown patterned curtains flapped at the window. Dark-brown hues predominated in the apartment. Above the piano was a reproduction of Boecklin's «Isle of the Dead» in a fancy frame of dark-green oak, covered with glass. One corner of the glass had been broken off some time before, and the flies had added so many finishing touches to the picture at this bared section that it merged completely with the frame. What was going on in that section of the «Isle of the Dead» was quite impossible to say.

The owner herself was sitting in the bedroom and laying out cards, resting her arms on an octagonal table covered by a dirty Richelieu tablecloth. In front of her sat Widow Gritsatsuyev, in a fluffy shawl.

«I should warn you, young lady, that I don't take less than fifty kopeks per session», said the fortune-teller.

The widow, whose anxiousness to find a new husband knew no bounds, agreed to pay the price.

«But predict the future as well, please», she said plaintively. «You will be represented by the Queen of Clubs». «I was always the Queen of Hearts», objected the widow. The fortune-teller consented apathetically and began manipulating the cards. A rough estimation of the widow's lot was ready in a few minutes. Both major and minor difficulties awaited her, but near to her heart was the King of Clubs, who had befriended the Queen of Diamonds.

A fair copy of the prediction was made from the widow's hand. The lines of her hand were clean, powerful, and faultless. Her life line stretched so far that it ended up at her pulse and, if it told the truth, the widow should have lived till doomsday. The head line and line of brilliancy gave reason to believe that she would give up her grocery business and present mankind with masterpieces in the realm of art, science, and social studies. Her Mounts of Venus resembled Manchurian volcanoes and revealed incredible reserves of love and affection. The fortune-teller explained all this to the widow, using the words and phrases current among graphologists, palmists, and horse-traders.

«Thank you, madame», said the widow. «Now I know who the King of Clubs is. And I know who the Queen of Diamonds is, too. But what about the King? Does that mean marriage?» «It does, young lady». The widow went home in a dream, while the fortune-teller threw the cards into a drawer, yawned, displaying the mouth of a fifty-year-old woman, and went into the kitchen. There she busied herself with the meal that was warming on a Graetz stove; wiping her hands on her apron like a cook, she took a chipped-enamel pail and went into the yard to fetch water.

She walked across the yard, dragging her flat feet. Her drooping breasts wobbled lazily inside her dyed blouse. Her head was crowned with greying hair. She was an old woman, she was dirty, she regarded everyone with suspicion, and she had a sweet tooth. If Ippolit Matveyevich had seen her now, he would never have recognized Elena Bour, his former mistress, about whom the clerk of the court had once said in verse that «her lips were inviting and she was so spritely!» At the well, Mrs. Bour was greeted by her neighbour, Victor Mikhailovich Polesov, the mechanic-intellectual, who was collecting water in an empty petrol tin. Polesov had the face of an operatic Mephistopheles who is carefully rubbed with burnt cork just before he goes on stage.

As soon as they had exchanged greetings, the neighbours got down to a discussion of the affair concerning the whole of Stargorod.

«What times we live in!» said Polesov ironically. «Yesterday I went all over the town but couldn't find any three-eighths-inch dies anywhere. There were none available. And to think-they're going to open a tramline!»

Elena Stanislavovna, who had as much idea about three-eighths-inch dies as a student of the Leonardo da Vinci ballet school, who thinks that cream comes from cream tarts, expressed her sympathy.

«The shops we have now! Nothing but long queues. And the names of the shops are so dreadful. Stargiko!»

«But I'll tell you something else, Elena Stanislavovna. They have four General Electric engines left. And they just about work, although the bodies are junk. The windows haven't any shock absorbers. I've seen them myself. The whole lot rattles. Horrible! And the other engines are from Kharkov. Made entirely by the State Non-Ferrous Metallurgy Industry».

The mechanic stopped talking in irritation. His black face glistened in the sun. The whites of his eyes were yellowish. Among the artisans owning cars in Stargorod, of whom there were many, Victor Polesov was the most gauche, and most frequently made an ass of himself. The reason for this was his over-ebullient nature. He was an ebullient idler. He was forever effervescing. In his own workshop in the second yard of no. 7 Pereleshinsky Street, he was never to be found. Extinguished portable furnaces stood deserted in the middle of his stone shed, the corners of which were cluttered up with punctured tyres, torn Triangle tyre covers, rusty padlocks (so enormous you could have locked town gates with them), fuel cans with the names «Indian» and «Wanderer», a sprung pram, a useless dynamo, rotted rawhide belts, oil-stained rope, worn emery paper, an Austrian bayonet, and a great deal of other broken, bent and dented junk. Clients could never find Victor Mikhailovich. He was always out somewhere giving orders. He had no time for work. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch a horse and cart drive into his or anyone else's yard. He immediately went out and, clasping his hands behind his back, watched the carter's actions with contempt. Finally he could bear it no longer.

«Where do you think you're going?» he used to shout in a horrified voice. «Move over!»

The startled carter would move the cart over.

«Where do you think you're moving to, wretch?» Victor Polesov cried, rushing up to the horse. «In the old days you would have got a slap for that, then you would have moved over».

Having given orders in this way for half an hour or so, Polesov would be just about to return to his workshop, where a broken bicycle pump awaited repair, when the peaceful life of the town would be disturbed by some other contretemps. Either two carts entangled their axles in the street and Victor Mikhailovich would show the best and quickest way to separate them, or workmen would be replacing a telegraph pole and Polesov would check that it was perpendicular with his own plumb-line brought specially from the workshop; or, finally, the fire-engine would go past and Polesov, excited by the noise of the siren and burned up with curiosity, would chase after it.

But from time to time Polesov was seized by a mood of practical activity. For several days he used to shut himself up in his workshop and toil in silence. Children ran freely about the yard and shouted what they liked, carters described circles in the yard, carts completely stopped entangling their axles and fire-engines and hearses sped to the fire unaccompanied-Victor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after a bout of this kind, he emerged from the workshop with a motor-cycle, pulling it like a ram by the horns; the motor-cycle was made up of parts of cars, fire-extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. It had a one-and-a-half horsepower Wanderer engine and Davidson wheels, while the other essential parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the words «Trial Run» hung on a cord from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand. There was no spark for at least ten minutes, but then came a metallic splutter and the contraption shuddered and enveloped itself in a cloud of filthy smoke. Polesov jumped into the saddle, and the motor-cycle, accelerating madly, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the roadway and stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and investigate the mysterious vehicle when it suddenly reversed and, whisking its creator through the same tunnel, stopped at its original point of departure in the yard, grunted peevishly, and blew up. Victor Mikhailovich escaped by a miracle and during the next bout of activity used the bits of the motor-cycle to make a stationary engine, very similar to a real one-except that it did not work.

The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing cooperative that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he undertook to repair the iron gates and paint them any colour he liked. For its part, the housing cooperative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.

Victor Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set to work in his shop with enthusiasm. It took several days to un-rivet the gates. They were taken to pieces. Iron curlicues lay in the pram; iron bars and spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to inspect the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in the town. A water main burst on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of the misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen, and every few minutes looking into the hole in the ground.

As soon as his organizational ardour had somewhat abated, Polesov returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard were already playing with the iron curlicues and spikes of the gates of no. 5. Seeing the wrathful mechanic, the children dropped their playthings and fled. Half the curlicues were missing and were never found. After that Polesov lost interest in the gates.

But then terrible things began to happen in no. 5, which was now wide open to all. The wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening someone even carried off a samovar that was singing in the yard. Polesov himself took part in the pursuit, but the thief ran at quite a pace, even though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over his shoulder, covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the lead, with foul abuse. The one who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5. He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to open, and residents returning from a spree had no one to give a tip to. At first the yard-keeper kept coming to ask if the gates would soon be finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats. The housing cooperative sent Polesov written reminders, and there was talk of taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.

Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the mechanic-enthusiast continued their conversation.

«Given the absence of seasoned sleepers», cried Victor Mikhailovich for the whole yard to hear, «it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!»

«When will all this end!» said Elena Stanislavovna. «We live like savages!»

«There's no end to it…. Yes. Do you know who I saw today? Vorobyaninov».

In her amazement Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the wall, continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.

«I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for the hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly two people came towards me. One of them seemed familiar; he looked like Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days. I told them it used to be a girls' secondary school, and later became the housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said, Thanks' and went off. Then I saw clearly that it really was Vorobyaninov, only without his moustache. The other one with him was a fine-looking fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought…»

At that moment Victor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant. Breaking off what he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind the dustbin. Into the yard sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped by the well and began looking round at the buildings. Not seeing Polesov anywhere, he asked sadly:

«Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?»

«I really don't know», said the fortune-teller. «I don't know at all». And with unusual nervousness she hurried off to her apartment, spilling water from the pail.

The yard-keeper stroked the cement block at the top of the well and went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:

ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP

was another sign:

METAL WORKSHOP

AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS

under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the padlock and said with loathing:

«Ugh, that stinker!»

He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet, began creating an unholy row.

«You have thieves in no. 7!» howled the yard-keeper. «Riffraff of all kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!»

During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.

People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.

«Fitter-mechanic!» he cried. «Damn aristocrat!»

The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed where they were.

«I'll push his face in!» he raged. «Education indeed!»

While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly began hauling the fellow off to the police station. He was assisted by Some young toughs from Fastpack. The yard-keeper put his arms around the militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.

A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin. There was a stir among the audience.

«Bum!» cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. «I'll show you! You louse!»

But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear. He was carried to the police station, and the sign «Metal Workshop and Primus Stove Repairs» was also taken along as factual evidence. Victor Mikhailovich bristled with fury for some time.

«Sons of bitches!» he said, turning to the spectators. «Conceited bums!»

«That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich», called Elena Stanislavovna from the window. «Come in here a moment».

She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up and down the room, began asking him questions.

«But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him», said Polesov, shouting as usual. «I know him well. It was the spitting image of Vorobyaninov».

«Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?»

An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.

«Well, what do you think?»

He chuckled with even greater irony.

«At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks».

«Do you think he's in danger?»

The reserves of irony amassed by Polesov over the ten years since the revolution were inexhaustible. A series of smiles of varying force and scepticism lit up his face.

«Who isn't in danger in Soviet Russia, especially a man in Vorobyaninov's position. Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off for nothing».

«Has he been sent from abroad?» asked Elena Stanislavovna, almost choking.

«Definitely», replied the brilliant mechanic.

«What is his purpose here?»

«Don't be childish!»

«I must see him all the same».

«Do you know what you're risking?»

«I don't care. After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than see Ippolit Matveyevich».

And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were still in love with one another.

«I beg you to find him. Find out where he is. You go everywhere; it won't be difficult for you. Tell him I want to see him. Do you hear?»

The parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on its perch, was startled by the noisy conversation; it turned upside down and froze in that position.

«Elena Stanislavovna», said the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his hands to his chest, «I will contact him».

«Would you like some more stewed fruit?» asked the fortune-teller, deeply touched.

Victor Mikhailovich consumed the stewed fruit irritably, gave Elena Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.

Chapter Eleven. The Mirror-of-Life Index

The next day the partners saw that it was no longer convenient to live in the caretaker's room. Tikhon kept muttering away to himself and had become completely stupid, having seen his master first with a black moustache, then with a green one, and finally with no moustache at all. There was nothing to sleep on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in on Tikhon's new felt boots. His old ones stood in the corner and did not help to purify the air, either.

«I declare the old boys' reunion over», said Ostap. «We must move to a hotel».

Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. «I can't».

«Why not?»

«I shall have to register».

«Aren't your papers in order?»

«My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours will spread».

The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.

«How do you like the name Michelson?» suddenly asked the splendid Ostap.

«Which Michelson? The Senator?»

«No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union».

«I don't get you».

«That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!»

Bender took a union card out of his green jacket and handed it to Ippolit Matveyevich.

«Konrad Karlovich Michelson, aged forty-eight, non-party member, bachelor; union member since 1921 and a person of excellent character; a good friend of mine and seems to be a friend of children… But you needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you».

Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. «But is it right?»

«„Compared with our“ concession, this misdeed, though it does come under the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game».

Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.

«You're an idealist, Konrad Karlovich. You're lucky, otherwise you might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov».

There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon, the concessionaires went out into the street.

They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms. Ostap threw the whole of the small hotel staff into confusion. First he looked at the seven-rouble rooms, but disliked the furnishings. The cleanliness of the five-rouble rooms pleased him more, but the carpets were shabby and there was an objectionable smell. In the three-rouble rooms everything was satisfactory except for the pictures.

«I can't live in a room with landscapes», said Ostap.

They had to take a room for one rouble, eighty. It had no landscapes, no carpets, and the furniture was very conservative – two beds and a night table.

«Stone-age style», observed Ostap with approval. «I hope there aren't any prehistoric monsters in the mattresses».

«Depends on the season», replied the cunning room-cleaner. «If there's a provincial convention of some kind, then of course there aren't any, because we have many visitors and we clean the place thoroughly before they arrive. But at other times you may find some. They come across from the Livadia Rooms next door».

That day the concessionaires visited the Stargorod communal services, where they obtained the information they required. It turned out that the housing division had been disbanded in 1921 and that its voluminous records had been merged with those of the communal services.

The smooth operator got down to business. By evening the partners had found out the address of the head of the records department, Bartholomew Korobeinikov, a former clerk in the Tsarist town administration and now an office-employment official.

Ostap attired himself in his worsted waistcoat, dusted his jacket against the back of a chair, demanded a rouble, twenty kopeks from Ippolit Matveyevich, and set off to visit the record-keeper. Ippolit Matveyevich remained at the Sorbonne Hotel and paced up and down the narrow gap between the two beds in agitation. The fate of the whole enterprise was in the balance that cold, green evening. If they could get hold of copies of the orders for the distribution of the furniture requisitioned from Vorobyaninov's house, half the battle had been won. There would still be tremendous difficulties facing them, but at least they would be on the right track.

«If only we can get the orders», whispered Ippolit Matveyevich to himself, lying on the bed, «if only we can get them».

The springs of the battered mattress nipped him like fleas, but he did not feel them. He still only had a vague idea of what would follow once the orders had been obtained, but felt sure everything would then go swimmingly.

Engrossed in his rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about on the bed. The springs bleated underneath him.

Ostap had to go right across town. Korobeinikov lived in Gusishe, on the outskirts.

It was an area populated largely by railway workers. From time to time a snuffling locomotive would back its way along the walled-off embankment, above the houses. For a second the rooftops were lit by the blaze from the firebox. Now and then empty goods trains went by, and from time to time detonators could be heard exploding. Amid the huts and temporary wooden barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats.

Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club-checked the address from a piece of paper, and halted in front of the record-keeper's house. He rang a bell marked «Please Ring» in embossed letters.

After prolonged questioning as to «Who do you want?» and «What is it about?» the door was opened, and he found himself in a dark, cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did not speak.

«Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?» asked Ostap.

The person who had been breathing took Ostap by the arm and led him into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt that this was Citizen Korobeinikov himself. Without waiting for an invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down.

The old man looked fearlessly at the high-handed stranger and remained silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation.

«I've come on business. You work at the communal-services records office, don't you?»

The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively.

«And you worked before that in the housing division?»

«I have worked everywhere», he answered gaily.

«Even in the Tsarist town administration?»

Here Ostap smiled graciously. The old man's back contorted for some time and finally ended up in a position implying that his employment in the Tsarist town administration was something long passed and that it was not possible to remember everything for sure.'

«And may I ask what I can do for you?» said the host, regarding his visitor with interest.

«You may», answered the visitor. «I am Vorobyaninov's son».

«Whose? The marshal's?»

«Yes».

«Is he still alive?»

«He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest».

«Yes», said the old man without any particular grief, «a sad event. But I didn't think he had any children».

«He didn't», said Ostap amiably in confirmation.

«What do you mean?»

«I'm from a morganatic marriage».

«Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son?»

«Right!»

«How is she?»

«Mum's been in her grave some time».

«I see. I see. How sad».

And the old man gazed at Ostap with tears of sympathy in his eyes, although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in the market.

«We all pass away», he said, «but please tell me on what business you're here, my dear … I don't know your name».

«Voldemar», promptly replied Ostap.

«Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good».

The old man sat down at the table covered with patterned oilcloth and peered into Ostap's eyes.

In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his parents. He much regretted that he had invaded the privacy of the respected record-keeper so late at night and disturbed him by the visit, but hoped that the respected record-keeper would forgive him when he knew what had brought him.

«I would like to have some of my dad's furniture», concluded Ostap with inexpressible filial love, «as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the furniture from dad's house?»

«That's difficult», said the old man after a moment's thought. «Only a well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask?»

«I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines».

The old man looked dubiously at young Vorobyaninov's green suit, but made no comment.

«A smart young man», he thought.

«A typical old bastard», decided Ostap, who had by then completed his observation of Korobeinikov.

«So there you are», said Ostap.

«So there you are», said the record-keeper. «It's difficult, but possible».

«And it involves expense», suggested the refrigeration-plant owner helpfully.

«A small sum…»

«„Is nearer one's heart“, as Maupassant used to say. The information will be paid for».

«All right then, seventy roubles».

«Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?»

The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine.

«Joke if you will…»

«I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?»

«Have you the money on you?»

Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket.

«Then now, if you like», said Korobeinikov triumphantly.

He lit a candle and led Ostap into the next room. Besides a bed, obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself, the room contained a desk piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves. The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the edges of the shelves. Bundles of orders bound with new string lay on the shelves.

«Oho!» exclaimed the delighted Ostap. «A full set of records at home».

«A complete set», said the record-keeper modestly. «Just in case, you know. The communal services don't need them and they might be useful to me in my old age. We're living on top of a volcano, you know. Anything can happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will have preserved it? Who will have looked after it? Korobeinikov! So the gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And I don't need very much; ten roubles an order will do me. Otherwise, they might as well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture without me».

Ostap looked at the old man in rapture.

«A marvellous office», he said. «Complete mechanization. You're an absolute hero of labour!»

The flattered record-keeper began explaining the details of his pastime. He opened the thick registers.

«It's all here», he said, «the whole of Stargorod. All the furniture. Who it was taken from and who it was given to. And here's the alphabetical index-the mirror of life! Whose furniture do you want to know about? Angelov, first-guild merchant? Certainly. Look under A. A, Ak, Am, Am, Angelov. The number? Here it is-82742. Now give me the stock book. Page 142. Where's Angelov? Here he is. Taken from Angelov on December 18, 1918: Baecker grand piano, one, no. 97012; piano stools, one, soft; bureaux, two; wardrobes, four (two mahogany); bookcases, one … and so on. And who was it all given to? Let's look at the distribution register. The same number. Issued to. The bookcase to the town military committee, three wardrobes to the Skylark boarding school, another wardrobe for the personal use of the Stargorod province food office. And where did the piano go? The piano went to the old-age pensioners' home, and it's there to this day».

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