A SHADY COUPLE

People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime.

Rafts floated up and down-huge fields of logs with little wooden houses on

them. A small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve

over the paddle cover towed along three oil barges in a line. The Red

Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin overtook a convoy

of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making

a circle, turning against the stream.

Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on

to the Bramino quayside. With this line the shoremen hauled over the thick

end of the mooring rope. The screws began turning the opposite way and half

the river was covered with seething foam. The Scriabin shook from the

cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for

the lottery, which did not start until ten.

Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would have done on land-at

nine sharp. No one changed his habits. Those who were late for work on land

were late here, too, although they slept on the very premises. The field

staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very

quickly. Office-boys swept out their cabins with the same lack of interest

as they swept out the offices in Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and

hurried with notes from the registry to the personnel department, not a bit

surprised that the latter was in the stern and the registry in the prow. In

the mutual settlement cabin the abacuses clicked like castanets and the

adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was

being hauled over the coals.

Scorching his bare feet on the hot deck, the smooth operator walked

round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he

kept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every worker

should have government bonds in his pocket."

The smooth operator was doing his best, but his lack of talent was

painfully obvious. The words slanted downward and, at one stage, it looked

as though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then, with the boy Pussy's

help, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was now

more careful. Before daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lines

with string and chalk, and was now painting in the letters, cursing the

innocent Vorobyaninov.

Vorobyaninov carried out his duties as boy conscientiously. He ran

below for hot water, melted the glue, sneezing as he did so, poured the

paints into a bucket, and looked fawningly into the exacting artist's eyes.

When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed it on

the side.

The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see what the new

artist's work looked like from there. The letters of the words were of

different sizes and slightly cockeyed, but nothing could be done about it.

He had to be content.

The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches.

The sound of the music brought children running from the whole of Bramino

and, after them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band went

on blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. A

meeting began. From the porch steps of Korobkov's tea-house came the first

sounds of a report on the international situation.

From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see

the white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little way

from the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker,

and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands. Then the music

began again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playing

as it went. A crowd of people poured after it.

The lottery device mechanically threw up its combination of figures.

Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizens

watched and listened.

Ostap hurried down for a moment, made certain all the inmates of the

ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again.

"Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art

department. Stand by the entrance to the first-class corridor and sing. If

anyone comes, sing louder."

The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? "

"Whatever else, don't make it 'God Save the Tsar'. Something with

feeling. 'The Apple' or 'A Beauty's Heart'. But I warn you, if you don't

come out with your aria in time . . . This isn't the experimental theatre.

I'll wring your neck."

The smooth operator padded into the cherry-panelled corridor in his

bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected his

figure. He read the plate on the door:

Nich. Sestrin

Producer

Columbus Theatre

The mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying

a chair with curved legs. He sped along the corridor, out on to the deck,

and, glancing at Ippolit Matveyevich, took the chair aloft to the

wheelhouse. There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the chair

to the back and said warningly:

"The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly

anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as soon

as it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents."

A minute later the chair was covered up with sheets of ply-board and

bunting, and was no longer visible.

Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever.

"Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could

open it on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right away

and--"

"And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we

perhaps take it back to Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry we took

your chair, but unfortunately we didn't find anything in it, so here it is

back somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?"

As always, the smooth operator was right. Ippolit Matveyevich only

recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of the overture played on the

Esmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck.

The lottery operations were over for the day. The onlookers spread out

on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negro

minstrels. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind kept looking up

proudly as though to say: 'There, you see! And you said the popular masses

would not understand. But art finds a way!'

After this the Colombus troupe gave a short variety show with singing

and dancing on an improvised stage, the point of which was to demonstrate

how Vavila the peasant boy won fifty thousand roubles and what came of it.

The actors, who had now freed themselves from the chains of Sestrin's

constructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tuneful

voices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied.

Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles.

The balalaika was set in motion. It went flying behind the player's

back and from there came the "If the master has a chain, it means he has no

watch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gave

forth quite a few difficult variations.

It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led out a herd of

girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances.

While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its voyage, while the

captain talked with the engine-room through the speaking-tube, and the

boilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and, to

everyone's delight, began playing dances. Picturesque groups of dancers

formed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down a soft, apricot light.

It was an ideal moment for some newsreel shots. And, indeed, Polkan the

cameraman emerged yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had grown used

to his part as general office boy, followed him, cautiously carrying the

camera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polka

was being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping their feet as though

they wanted to split the planet. The girls sailed around. Onlookers crowded

the terraces and slopes. An avant-garde French cameraman would have found

enough material here to keep him busy for three days. Polkan, however,

having run his piggy eyes along the bank, immediately turned around, ambled

to the committee chairman, stood him against a white wall, pushed a book

into his hand, and, asking him not to move, smoothly turned the handle of

his cine-camera for some minutes. He then led the bashful chairman aft and

took him against the setting sun.

Having completed his shots, Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and

locked himself in.

Once more the hooter sounded and once more the sun hid in terror. The

second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave.

Ostap thought with trepidation of the coming morning. Ahead of him was

the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing bonds. This artistic

ordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with the

lettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower.

"Keep it in mind," warned the fat man, "from Vasyuki onward we are

holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent."

"Don't worry at all," said Ostap, basing his hopes on that evening,

rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent."

It was a starry, windy night. The animals in the lottery arc were

lulled to sleep. The lions from the lottery committee were asleep. So were

the lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the rabbits from mutual

settlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound effects, and the pigeons from

the typistry.

Only the shady couple lay awake. The smooth operator emerged from his

cabin after midnight. He was followed by the noiseless shadow of the

faithful Pussy. They went up on deck and silently approached the chair,

covered with plyboard sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap stood

the chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with a

pair of pliers and inserted his hand.

"Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice.

Letter from Theodore

written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife

In the regional centre of N.

My dear and precious Kate,

Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the

Good-Value Furnished Rooms, having finished all my business. The city of

Baku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you still have

to go by electric train and I haven't any money. This picturesque city is

washed by the Caspian. It really is very large in size. The heat here is

awful. I carry my coat in one hand and my jacket in the other, and it's

still too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practically

no money. But no harm, my dear, we'll soon have plenty. We'll travel

everywhere and settle properly in Samara, near our factory, and we'll have

liqueurs to drink. But to get to the point.

In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is

considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic.

There are many people from other parts here. Especially Armenians and

Persians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar and

saw many Turkish clothes and shawls. I wanted to buy you a present of a

Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when we

are rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedan

blanket.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me

here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian;

and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary. Both these happenings

greatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviour

towards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, but

had actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for the

jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it was

covered with kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, my

dearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals?

I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance

to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's not

here just now. He's gone to Batumi on vacation. His family is living

permanently in Batumi. I spoke to some people and they said all his

furniture is there in Batumi. He has a little house there, at the Green

Cape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs.

15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news

from Batumi. Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed in

Voronezh.

Your husband ever,

Theo.

P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your

brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value. I'm very grieved. A good

thing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 599