THE GREEN CAPE

Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden

house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of which

cast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his white

shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineer

was restlessly awaiting his dinner.

Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a

petulant, chubby little boy:

"Moo-oosie!"

The house was silent.

The tropical flora fawned on the engineer. Cacti stretched out their

spiky mittens towards him. Dracaena shrubs rustled their leaves. Banana

trees and sago palms chased the flies from his face, and the roses with

which the verandah was woven fell at his feet.

But all in vain. Bruns was hungry. He glowered petulantly at the

mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant cape at Batumi, and called out in a

singsong voice:

"Moosie, moosie!"

The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air. There was no

answer. Bruns had visions of a large golden-brown goose with sizzling,

greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out:

"Moosie, where's the goosie?"

"Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on

at me."

The engineer, who was already pouting his lips into the accustomed

shape, promptly answered:

"Moosie, you haven't any pity for your little hubby."

"Get out, you glutton," came the reply from inside.

The engineer did not give in, however. He was just about to continue

his appeals for the goose, which had been going on unsuccessfully for two

hours, when a sudden rustling made him turn round.

From the black-green clumps of bamboo there had emerged a man in torn

blue tunic-shirt-belted with a shabby twisted cord with tassels-and frayed

striped trousers. The stranger's kindly face was covered with ragged

stubble. He was carrying his jacket in his hand.

The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice:

"Where can I find Engineer Bruns?"

"I'm Engineer Bruns," said the goose-charmer in an unexpectedly deep

voice. "What can I do for you?"

The man silently fell to his knees. It was Father Theodore.

"Have you gone crazy? " cried the engineer. "Stand up, please."

"I won't," said Father Theodore, following the engineer with his head

and gazing at him with bright eyes.

"Stand up."

"I won't."

And carefully, so that it would not hurt, the priest began beating his

head against the gravel.

"Moosie, come here!" shouted the frightened engineer. "Look what's

happening! Please get up. I implore you."

"I won't," repeated Father Theodore.

Moosie ran out on to the verandah; she was very good at interpreting

her husband's intonation.

Seeing the lady, Father Theodore promptly crawled over to her and,

bowing to her feet, rattled off:

"On you, Mother, on you, my dear, on you I lay my hopes."

Engineer Bruns thereupon turned red in the face, seized the petitioner

under the arms and, straining hard, tried to lift him to his feet. Father

Theodore was crafty, however, and tucked up his legs. The disgusted Bruns

dragged his extraordinary visitor into a corner and forcibly sat him in a

chair (a Hambs chair, not from Vorobyaninov's house, but one belonging to

General Popov's wife).

"I dare not sit in the presence of high-ranking persons," mumbled

Father Theodore, throwing the baker's jacket, which smelt of kerosene,

across his knees.

And he made another attempt to go down on his knees.

With a pitiful cry the engineer restrained him by the shoulders.

"Moosie," he said, breathing heavily, "talk to this citizen. There's

been some misunderstanding."

Moosie at once assumed a businesslike tone.

"In my house," she said menacingly, "kindly don't go down on anyone's

knees."

"Dear lady," said Father Theodore humbly, "Mother!"

"I'm not your mother. What do you want? "

The priest began burbling something incoherent, but apparently deeply

moving. It was only after lengthy questioning that they were able to gather

that he was asking them to do him a special favour and sell him the suite of

twelve chairs, one of which he was sitting on at that moment.

The engineer let go of Father Theodore with surprise, whereupon the

latter immediately plumped down on his knees again and began creeping after

the engineer like a tortoise.

"But why," cried the engineer, trying to dodge Father Theodore's long

arms, "why should I sell my chairs? It's no use how much you go down on your

knees like that, I just don't understand anything."

"But they're my chairs," groaned the holy father.

"What do you mean, they're yours? How can they be yours? You're crazy.

Moosie, I see it all. This man's a crackpot."

"They're mine," repeated the priest in humiliation.

"Do you think I stole them from you, then?" asked the engineer

furiously. "Did I steal them? Moosie, this is blackmail."

"Oh, Lord," whispered Father Theodore.

"If I stole them from you, then take the matter to court, but don't

cause pandemonium in my house. Did you hear that, Moosie? How impudent can

you get? They don't even let a man have his dinner in peace."

No, Father Theodore did not want to recover "his" chairs by taking the

matter to court. By no means. He knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolen

them from him. Oh, no. That was the last idea he had in his mind. But the

chairs had nevertheless belonged to him before the revolution, and his wife,

who was on her deathbed in Voronezh, was very attached to them. It was to

comply with her wishes and not on his own initiative that he had taken the

liberty of finding out the whereabouts of the chairs and coming to see

Citizen Bruns. Father Theodore was not asking for charity. Oh, no. He was

sufficiently well off (he owned a small candle factory in Samara) to sweeten

his wife's last few minutes by buying the old chairs. He was ready to

splurge and pay twenty roubles for the whole set of chairs.

"What?" cried the engineer, growing purple. "Twenty roubles? For a

splended drawing-room suite? Moosie, did you hear that? He really is a nut.

Honestly he is."

"I'm not a nut, but merely complying with the wishes of my wife who

sent me."

"Oh, hell!" said the engineer. "Moosie, he's at it again. He's crawling

around again."

"Name your price," moaned Father Theodore, cautiously beating his head

against the trunk of an araucaria.

"Don't spoil the tree, you crazy man. Moosie, I don't think he's a nut.

He's simply distraught at his wife's illness. Shall we sell him the chairs

and get rid of him? Otherwise, he'll crack his skull."

"And what are we going to sit on?" asked Moosie.

"We'll buy some more."

"For twenty roubles?"

"Suppose I don't sell them for twenty. Suppose I don't sell them for

two hundred, but supposing I do sell them for two-fifty?"

In response came the sound of a head against a tree.

"Moosie, I'm fed up with this!"

The engineer went over to Father Theodore, with his mind made up and

began issuing an ultimatum.

"First, move back from the palm at least three paces; second, stand up

at once; third, I'll sell you the chairs for two hundred and fifty and not a

kopek less."

"It's not for personal gain," chanted Father Theodore, "but merely in

compliance with my sick wife's wishes."

"Well, old boy, my wife's also sick. That's right, isn't it, Moosie?

Your lungs aren't in too good a state, are they? But on the strength of that

I'm not asking you to . . . er . . . sell me your jacket for thirty kopeks."

"Have it for nothing," exclaimed Father Theodore.

The engineer waved him aside in irritation and then said coldly:

"Stop your tricks. I'm not going to argue with you any more.

I've assessed the worth of the chairs at two hundred and fifty roubles

and I'm not shifting one cent." "Fifty," offered the priest.

"Moosie," said the engineer, "call Bagration. Let him see this citizen

off the premises." "Not for personal gain. . . ." "Bagration!"

Father Theodore fled in terror, while the engineer went into the

dining-room and sat down to the goose. Bruns's favourite bird had a soothing

effect on him. He began to calm down.

Just as the engineer was about to pop a goose leg into his pink mouth,

having first wrapped a piece of cigarette paper around the bone, the face of

the priest appeared appealingly at the window.

"Not for personal gain," said a soft voice. "Fifty-five roubles." The

engineer let out a roar without turning around. Father Theodore disappeared.

The whole of that day Father Theodore's figure kept appearing at

different points near the house. At one moment it was seen coming out of the

shade of the cryptomeria, at another it rose from a mandarin grove; then it

raced across the back yard and, fluttering, dashed towards the botanical

garden.

The whole day the engineer kept calling for Moosie, complaining about

the crackpot and his own headache. From time to time Father Theodore's voice

could be heard echoing through the dusk.

"A hundred and eight," he called from somewhere in the sky. A moment

later his voice came from the direction of Dumbasoc's house.

"A hundred and forty-one. Not for personal gain, Mr. Brans, but merely

. . ."

At length the engineer could stand it no longer; he came out on to the

verandah and, peering into the darkness, began shouting very clearly:

"Damn you! Two hundred roubles then. Only leave us alone." There was a

rustle of disturbed bamboo, the sound of a soft groan and fading footsteps,

then all was quiet.

Stars floundered in the bay. Fireflies chased after Father Theodore and

circled round his head, casting a greenish medicinal glow on his face.

"Now the goose is flown," muttered the engineer, going inside.

Meanwhile, Father Theodore was speeding along the coast in the last bus in

the direction of Batumi. A slight surf washed right up to the side of him;

the wind blew in his face, and the bus hooted in reply to the whining

jackals.

That evening Father Theodore sent a telegram to his wife in the town of

N.

GOODS FOUND STOP WIRE ME TWO HUNDRED THIRTY STOP SELL ANYTHING STOP

THEO

For two days he loafed about elatedly near Bruns's house, bowing to

Moosie in the distance, and even making the tropical distances resound with

shouts of "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes of my wife who

sent me."

Two days later the money was received together with a desperate

telegram:

SOLD EVERYTHING STOP NOT A CENT LEFT STOP KISSES AND AM WAITING STOP

EVSTIGNEYEV STILL HAVING MEALS STOP KATEY

Father Theodore counted the money, crossed himself frenziedly, hired a

cart, and drove to the Green Cape.

The weather was dull. A wind from the Turkish frontier blew across

thunderclouds. The strip of blue sky became narrower and narrower. The wind

was near gale force. It was forbidden to take boats to sea and to bathe.

Thunder rumbled above Batumi. The gale shook the coast.

Reaching Bruns's house, the priest ordered the Adzhar driver to wait

and went to fetch the furniture.

"I've brought the money," said Father Theodore. "You ought to lower

your price a bit."

"Moosie," groaned the engineer, "I can't stand any more of this."

"No, no, I've brought the money," said Father Theodore hastily, "two

hundred, as you said."

"Moosie, take the money and give him the chairs, and let's get it over

with. I've a headache."

His life ambition was achieved. The candle factory in Samara was

falling into his lap. The jewels were pouring into his pocket like seeds.

Twelve chairs were loaded into the cart one after another. They were

very like Vorobyaninov's chairs, except that the covering was not flowered

chintz, but rep with blue and pink stripes.

Father Theodore was overcome with impatience. Under his shirt behind a

twisted cord he had tucked a hatchet. He sat next to the driver and,

constantly looking round at the chairs, drove to Batumi. The spirited horses

carried the holy father and his treasure down along the highway past the

Finale restaurant, where the wind swept across the bamboo tables and

arbours, past a tunnel that was swallowing up the last few tank cars of an

oil train, past the photographer, deprived that overcast day of his usual

clientele, past a sign reading "Batumi Botanical Garden", and carried him,

not too quickly, along the very line of surf. At the point where the road

touched the rocks, Father Theodore was soaked with salty spray. Rebuffed by

the rocks, the waves turned into waterspouts and, rising up to the sky,

slowly fell back again.

The jolting and the spray from the surf whipped Father Theodore's

troubled spirit into a frenzy. Struggling against the wind, the horses

slowly approached Makhinjauri. From every side the turbid green waters

hissed and swelled. Right up to Batumi the white surf swished like the edge

of a petticoat peeking from under the skirt of a slovenly woman.

"Stop!" Father Theodore suddenly ordered the driver. "Stop,

Mohammedan!"

Trembling and stumbling, he started to unload the chairs on to the

deserted shore. The apathetic Adzhar received his five roubles, whipped up

the horses and rode off. Making sure there was no one about, Father Theodore

carried the chairs down from the rocks on to a dry patch of sand and took

out his hatchet.

For a moment he hesitated, not knowing where to start. Then, like a man

walking in his sleep, he went over to the third chair and struck the back a

ferocious blow with the hatchet. The chair toppled over undamaged.

"Aha!" shouted Father Theodore. "I'll show you!"

And he flung himself on the chair as though it had been a live animal.

In a trice the chair had been hacked to ribbons. Father Theodore could not

hear the sound of the hatchet against the wood, cloth covering, and springs.

All sounds were drowned by the powerful roar of the gale.

"Aha! Aha! Aha!" cried the priest, swinging from the shoulder.

One by one the chairs were put out of action. Father Theodore's fury

increased more and more. So did the fury of the gale. Some of the waves came

up to his feet.

From Batumi to Sinop there was a great din. The sea raged and vented

its spite on every little ship. The S.S. Lenin sailed towards Novorossisk

with its two funnels smoking and its stern plunging low in the water. The

gale roared across the Black Sea, hurling thousand-ton breakers on to the

shore of Trebizond, Yalta, Odessa and Konstantsa. Beyond the still in the

Bosporus and the Dardanelles surged the Mediterranean. Beyond the Straits of

Gibraltar, the Atlantic smashed against the shores of Europe. A belt of

angry water encircled the world.

And on the Batumi shore stood Father Theodore, bathed in sweat and

hacking at the final chair. A moment later it was all over. Desperation

seized him. With a dazed look at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs,

he turned back. The water grabbed him by the feet. He lurched forward and

ran soaked to the road. A huge wave broke on the spot where he had been a

moment before and, swirling back, washed away the mutilated furniture.

Father Theodore no longer saw anything. He staggered along the road, hunched

and hugging his fist to his chest.

He went into Batumi, unable to see anything about him. His position was

the most terrible thing of all. Three thousand miles from home and twenty

roubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question.

Father Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he was advised in a

perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contraband

Batumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowd

of porters.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 889