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 multi-coloured 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, • 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 Co-operative;

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

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 1121