EXPULSION FROM PARADISE

While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would

wait, and others that it would not, time passed in its usual way. The dusty

Moscow May was followed by a dusty June. In the regional centre of N., the

Gos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan Square and

Comrade Gubernsky Street for two days, now and then enveloping the vicinity

in desperate quantities of smoke. One by one the shamefaced members of the

Sword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison, having signed a

statement that they would not leave the town. Widow Gritsatsuyev (the

passionate woman and poet's dream) returned to her grocery business and was

fined only fifteen roubles for not placing the price list of soap, pepper,

blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in a

big-hearted woman.

"Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!"

Ippolit Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into his quivering hands.

Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness.

A beacon flashed on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river

and swam after the ship.

"Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else."

"There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Then you have a look as well."

Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his arm as far

as he could inside the chair. He could feel the ends of the springs between

his fingers, but nothing else that was hard. There was a dry, stale smell of

disturbed dust from the chair.

"Nothing?"

"No."

Ostap picked up the chair and hurled it far over the side. There was a

heavy splash. Shivering in the damp night air, the concessionaires went back

to their cabin filled with doubts.

"Well, at any rate we found something," said Bender.

Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and looked at it in a

daze.

"Come on, come on! What are you goggling at?"

The box was opened. On the bottom lay a copper plate, green with age,

which said:

WITH THIS CHAIR

CRAFTSMAN

HAMBS

begins a new batch of furniture

St. Petersburg 1865

Ostap read the inscription aloud.

"But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"You're remarkably shrewd, my dear chair-hunter. As you see, there

aren't any."

Vorobyaninov was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting moustache

twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He looked as though he

was about to beat his face with his ears in desperation.

The cold, sober voice of the smooth operator had its usual magic

effect. Vorobyaninov stretched his hands along the seams of his worn

trousers and kept quiet.

"Shut up, sadness. Shut up, Pussy. Some day we'll have the laugh on the

stupid eighth chair in which we found the silly box. Cheer up! There are

three more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred."

During the night a volcanic pimple erupted on the aggrieved Ippolit

Matveyevich's cheek. All his sufferings, all his setbacks, and the whole

ordeal of the jewel hunt seemed to be summed up in the pimple, which was

tinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue.

"Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap.

Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and went to fetch the paints,

his tall figure slightly bent, like a fishing rod. The transparent was

begun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck.

And the third day of the voyage commenced.

It commenced with a brief clash between the brass band and the sound

effects over a place to rehearse.

After breakfast, the toughs with the brass tubes and the slender

knights with the Esmarch douches both made their way to the stern at the

same time. Galkin managed to get to the bench first. A clarinet from the

brass band came second.

"The seat's taken," said Galkin sullenly.

"Who by?" asked the clarinet ominously.

"Me, Galkin."

"Who else?"

"Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind."

"Haven't you got a Yolkin as well? This is our seat."

Reinforcements were brought up on both sides. The most powerful machine

in the band was the helicon, encircled three times by a brass serpent. The

French horn swayed to and fro, looking like a human ear, and the trombones

were in a state of readiness for action. The sun was reflected a thousand

times in their armour. Beside them the sound effects looked dark and small.

Here and there a bottle glinted, the enema douches glimmered faintly, and

the saxophone, that outrageous take-off of a musical instrument, was pitiful

to see.

"The enema battalion," said the bullying clarinet, "lays claim to this

seat."

"You," said Zalkind, trying to find the most cutting expression he

could, "you are the conservatives of music!"

"Don't prevent us rehearsing."

"It's you who're preventing us. The less you rehearse on those

chamber-pots of yours, the nicer it sounds."

"Whether you rehearse on those samovars of yours or not makes no damn

difference."

Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained where they were and

obstinately began playing their own music. Down the river floated sounds

that could only have been made by a tram passing slowly over broken glass.

The brass played the Kexholm Lifeguards' march, while the sound effects

rendered a Negro dance, "An Antelope at the Source of the Zambesi". The

shindy was ended by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lottery

committee.

At eleven o'clock the magnum opus was completed. Walking backwards,

Ostap and Vorobyaninov dragged their transparent up to the bridge. The fat

little man in charge ran in front with his hands in the air. By joint effort

the transparent was tied to the rail. It towered above the passenger deck

like a cinema screen. In half an hour the electrician had laid cables to the

back of the transparent and fitted up three lights inside it. All that

remained was to turn the switch.

Off the starboard bow the lights of Vasyuki could already be made out

through the darkness.

The chief summoned everyone to the ceremonial illumination of the

transparent. Ippolit Matveyevich and the smooth operator watched the

proceedings from above, standing beside the dark screen.

Every event on board was taken seriously by the floating government

department. Typists, messengers, executives, the Columbus Theatre, and

members of the ship's company crowded on to the passenger deck, staring

upward.

"Switch it on!" ordered the fat man.

The transparent lit up.

Ostap looked down at the crowd. Their faces were bathed in pink light.

The onlookers began laughing; then there was silence and a stern voice from

below said:

"Where's the second-in-command?"

The voice was so peremptory that the second-in-command rushed down

without counting the steps.

"Just have a look," said the voice, "and admire your work!"

"We're about to be booted off," whispered Ostap to Ippolit Matveyevich.

And, indeed, the little fat man came flying up to the top deck like a

hawk.

"Well, how's the transparent?" asked Ostap cheekily. "Is it long

enough?"

"Collect your things!" shouted the fat man.

"What's the hurry?"

"Collect your things! You're going to court! Our boss doesn't like to

joke."

"Throw him out!" came the peremptory voice from below.

"But, seriously, don't you like our transparent? Isn't it really any

good?"

There was no point in continuing the game. The Scriabin had already

heaved to, and the faces of the bewildered Vasyuki citizens crowding the

pier could be seen from the ship. Payment was categorically refused. They

were given five minutes to collect their things.

"Incompetent fool," said Simbievich-Sindievich as the partners walked

down on to the pier. "They should have given the transparent to me to do. I

would have done it so that no Meyer-hold would have had a look-in!"

On the quayside the concessionaires stopped and looked up. The

transparent shone bright against the dark sky.

"Hm, yes," said Ostap, "the transparent is rather outlandish. A lousy

job!"

Compared with Ostap's work, any picture drawn with the tail of an

unruly donkey would have been a masterpiece. Instead of a sower sowing

bonds, Ostap's mischievous hand had drawn a stumpy body with a sugar-loaf

head and thin whiplike arms.

Behind the concessionaires the ship blazed with light and resounded

with music, while in front of them, on the high bank, was the darkness of

provincial midnight, the barking of a dog, and a distant accordion.

"I will sum up the situation," said Ostap light-heartedly. "Debit: not

a cent of money; three chairs sailing down the river; nowhere to go; and no

SPCC badge. Credit: a 1926 edition of a guidebook to the Volga (I was forced

to borrow it from Monsieur Simbievich's cabin). To balance that without a

deficit would be very difficult. We'll have to spend the night on the quay."

The concessionaires arranged themselves on the riverside benches. By

the light of a battered kerosene lamp Ostap read the guide-book:

On the right-hand bank is the town of Vasyuki. The commodities

despatched from here are timber, resin, bark and bast; consumer goods are

delivered here for the region, which is fifty miles from the nearest

railway.

The town has a population of 8,000; it has a state-owned cardboard

factory employing 520 workers, a small foundry, a brewery and a tannery.

Besides normal academic establishments, there is also a forestry school.

"The situation is more serious than I thought," observed Ostap. "It

seems out of the question that we'll be able to squeeze any money out of the

citizens of Vasyuki. We nevertheless need thirty roubles. First, we have to

eat, and, second, we have to catch up the lottery ship and meet the Columbus

Theatre in Stalingrad."

Ippolit Matveyevich curled up like an old emaciated tomcat after a

skirmish with a younger rival, an ebullient conqueror of roofs, penthouses

and dormer windows.

Ostap walked up and down the benches, thinking and scheming. By one

o'clock a magnificent plan was ready. Bender lay down by the side of his

partner and went to sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE INTERPLANETARY CHESS TOURNAMENT

A tall, thin, elderly man in a gold pince-nez and very dirty

paint-splashed boots had been walking about the town of Vasyuki since early

morning, attaching hand-written notices to walls. The notices read:

On June 22,1927,

a lecture entitled

A FRUITFUL OPENING IDEA

will be given at the Cardboardworker Club

by Grossmeister (Grand Chess Master) O. Bender

after which he will play

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 660