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 roof-tops 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."

"I don't think I saw a piano there," thought Ostap, remembering

Alchen's shy little face.

"Or for instance, Murin, head of the town council. So we look under M.

It's all here. The whole town. Pianos, settees, pier glasses, chairs,

divans, pouffes, chandeliers . . . even dinner services."

"Well," said Ostap, "they ought to erect a monument to you. But let's

get to the point. The letter V, for example."

"The letter V it is," responded Korobeinikov willingly. "In one moment.

Vm, Vn. Vorotsky, no. 48238, Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich, your father,

God rest his soul, was a man with a big heart. . . A Baecker piano, no.

54809. Chinese vases, marked, four, from Sevres in France; Aubusson carpets,

eight, different sizes; a tapestry, "The Shepherd Boy'; a tapestry, 'The

Shepherd Girl'; Tekke carpets, two; Khorassan carpets, one; stuffed bears

with dish, one; a bedroom suite to seat twelve; a dining-room suite to seat

sixteen; a drawing-room suite to seat twelve, walnut, made by Hambs."

"And who was given it?" asked Ostap impatiently. "We're just coming to

that. The stuffed bear with dish went to the police station No. 2. The

Shepherd Boy tapestry went to the art treasure collection; the Shepherd Girl

tapestry to the water-transport club; the Aubusson, Tekke and Khorassan

carpets to the Ministry of Foreign Trade. The bedroom suite went to the

hunters' trade-union; the dining-room suite to the Stargorod branch of the

chief tea administration. The walnut suite was divided up. The round table

and one chair went to the pensioners' home, a curved-back settee was given

to the housing division (it's still in the hall, and the bastards spilled

grease all over the covering); one chair went to Comrade Gritsatsuyev as an

imperialist war invalid, at his own request, granted by Comrade Burkin, head

of the housing division. Ten chairs went to Moscow to the furniture museum,

in accordance with a circular sent round by the Ministry of Education . . .

Chinese vases, marked .. ."

"Well done!" said Ostap jubilantly. "That's more like it! Now it would

be nice to see the actual orders."

"In a moment. We'll come to the orders in a moment. Letter V, No.

48238."

The old man went up to the cupboard and, standing on tiptoe, took down

the appropriate bundle.

"Here you are. All your father's furniture. Do you want all the

orders?"

"What would I do with all of them? Just something to remind me of my

childhood. The drawing-room suite . . . I remember how I used to play on the

Khorassan carpet in the drawing-room, looking at the Shepherd Boy tapestry .

. . I had a fine time, a wonderful childhood. So let's stick to the

drawing-room suite, dad."

Lovingly the old man began to open up the bundle of green counterfoils

and searched for the orders in question. He took out five of them. One was

for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for the round table, and one for

tapestry.

"lust see. They're all in order. You know where each item is. All the

counterfoils have the addresses on them and also the receiver's own

signature. So no one can back out if anything happens. Perhaps you'd like

Madame Popov's furniture? It's very good and also made by Hambs."

But Ostap was motivated solely by love for his parents; he grabbed the

orders, stuffed them in the depths of his pocket and declined the furniture

belonging to General Popov's wife.

"May I make out a receipt?" inquired the record-keeper, adroitly

arching himself.

"You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!"

"I will then."

"Do that!"

They went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in

neat handwriting and handed it smilingly to his visitor. The chief

concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in

a singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious

orders.

"Well, so long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a

lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king

of the office!"

The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand.

"Good-bye!" repeated Ostap.

He moved towards the door.

Korobeinikov was at a loss to understand. He even looked on the table

to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly:

"What about the money?"

"What money?" said Ostap, opening the door. "Did I hear you say

something about money? "

"Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!"

"Honestly, chum," crooned Ostap, "I swear by my late father, I'd be

glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account."

The old man began to tremble and put out a puny hand to restrain his

nocturnal visitor.

"Don't be a fool," said Ostap menacingly. "I'm telling you in plain

Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!"

The door slammed. Korobeinikov opened it and ran into the street, but

Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing

overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke.

"Things are moving," cried Ostap to the driver, "things are moving,

gentlemen of the jury!"

The driver could not hear; he waved his hand, and the wheels of the

locomotive began pulling the steel elbows of the cranks with still greater

force. The locomotive raced away.

Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back

into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room

and kicked the table with rage. The clog-shaped ash-tray with the word

"Triangle" on it jumped up and down, and the glass clinked against the

decanter.

Never before had Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.

He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such

brilliant simplicity that all he could do was stand for some time, lashing

out at the thick legs of the table.

In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned

to him in cases of extreme need. He acted as a pawnbroker and charged

cannibalistic rates of interest. He had been doing this for several years

and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game,

a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.

"A fine thing!" he cried, remembering the lost orders. "From now on

money in advance. How could I have bungled it like that? I gave him the

walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by

hand. . . ."

An uncertain hand had been ringing the bell marked "Please Ring" for

some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door

was still open, when there was a heavy thud, and' the voice of a man

entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:

"How do I get in?"

Korobeinikov went into the hallway, took hold of somebody's coat (it

felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.

"I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.

After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both sides, it came

to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding

Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore was not averse to paying

for it. Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great amusement, the visitor

turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to

keep something in memory of him, for example, a walnut drawing-room suite.

The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.

Korobeinikov asked a hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's

memory considerably lower than that, say thirty roubles. They agreed on

fifty.

"I'd like the money first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of

mine."

"Does it matter if I give it to you in ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked

Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat.

"I'll take them at the official rate of exchange. Today's rate is nine

and a half."

Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half

in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper. The latter counted

the coins twice, scooped them up into one hand and, requesting his visitor

to wait, went to fetch the orders. Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for

long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P, quickly found the

right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's

wife. Disembowelling the bundle, he selected the order for twelve walnut

chairs from the Hambs factory, issued to Comrade Bruns, resident of 34

Vineyard Street. Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled

to himself and took the order to the purchaser.

"Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser.

"All there together. It's a splendid suite. It'll make you drool.

Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!"

Father Theodore rapturously gave the record-keeper a prolonged

handshake and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in the hall,

fled into the darkness of the night.

For quite a while longer Bartholomeich chuckled to himself at the

customer he had cheated. He spread the gold coins out in a row on the table

and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs.

"What is it about Vorobyaninov's furniture that attracts them?" he

wondered. "They're out of their minds."

He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on the

narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM

During the night the cold was completely consumed. It became so warm

that the feet of early passers-by began to ache. The sparrows chirped

various nonsense. Even the hen that emerged from the kitchen into the hotel

yard felt a surge of strength and tried to take off. The sky was covered

with small dumpling-like clouds and the dustbin reeked of violets and soupe

paysanne. The wind lazed under the eaves. Tomcats lounged on the rooftops

and, half closing their eyes, condescendingly watched the yard, across which

the room-cleaner, Alexander, was hurrying with a bundle of dirty washing.

Things began stirring in the corridors of the Sorbonne. Delegates were

arriving from other regions for the opening of the tramway. A whole crowd of

them got down from a wagon bearing the name of the Sorbonne Hotel.

The sun was warming to its fullest extent. Up flew the corrugated iron

shutters of the shops, and workers in Soviet government offices on their way

to work in padded coats breathed heavily and unbuttoned themselves, feeling

the heaviness of spring.

On Co-operative Street an overloaded truck belonging to the

grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration broke a spring, and Victor

Polesov arrived at the scene to give advice.

From one of the rooms furnished with down-to-earth luxury (two beds and

a night table) came a horse-like snorting and neighing. Ippolit Matveyevich

was happily washing himself and blowing his nose. The smooth operator lay in

bed inspecting the damage to his boots.

"By the way," he said, "kindly settle your debt."

Ippolit Matveyevich surfaced from under his towel and looked at his

partner with bulging, pince-nezless eyes.

"Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? What are you

surprised about? The debt? Yes! You owe me some money. I forgot to tell you

yesterday that I had to pay, with your authority, seventy roubles for the

orders. Herewith the receipt. Sling over thirty-five roubles.

Concessionaires, I hope, share the expenses on an equal footing?"

Ippolit Matveyevich put on his pince-nez, read the receipt and,

sighing, passed over the money. But even that could not dampen his spirits.

The riches were in their hands. The thirty-rouble speck of dust vanished in

the glitter of a. diamond mountain.

Smiling radiantly, Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the corridor and

began strolling up and down. His plans for a new life built on a foundation

of precious stones brought him great comfort. "And the holy father," he

gloated, "has been taken for a ride. He'll see as much of the chairs as his

beard."

Reaching the end of the corridor, Vorobyaninov turned round. The

cracked white door of room no. 13 opened wide, and out towards him came

Father Theodore in a blue tunic encircled by a shabby black cord with a

fluffy tassel. His kindly face was beaming with happiness. He had also come

into the corridor to stretch his legs. The rivals approached one another

several times, looking at each other triumphantly as they passed. At the two

ends of the corridor they both turned simultaneously and approached again. .

. . Ippolit Matveyevich's heart was bursting with joy. Father Theodore was

experiencing a similar feeling. Each was sorry for his defeated enemy. By

the time they reached the fifth lap, Ippolit Matveyevich could restrain

himself no longer.

"Good morning, Father," he said with inexpressible sweetness.

Father Theodore mustered all the sarcasm with which God had endowed him

and replied with:

"Good morning, Ippolit Matveyevich."

The enemies parted. When their paths next crossed, Vorobyaninov said

casually:

"I hope I didn't hurt you at our last meeting."

"Not at all, it was very pleasant to see you," replied the other

jubilantly..

They moved apart again. Father Theodore's physiognomy began to disgust

Ippolit Matveyevich.

"I don't suppose you're saying Mass any more?" he remarked at the next

encounter.

"There's nowhere to say it. The parishioners have all run off in search

of treasure."

"Their own treasure, mark you. Their own!"

"I don't know whose it is, but only that they're looking for it."

Ippolit Matveyevich wanted to say something nasty and even opened his

mouth to do so, but was unable to think of anything and angrily returned to

his room. At that moment, the son of a Turkish citizen, Ostap Bender,

emerged from the room in a light-blue waistcoat, and, treading on his own

laces, went towards Vostrikov. The roses on Father Theodore's cheeks

withered and turned to ash.

"Do you buy rags and bones?" he asked menacingly. "Chairs, entrails,

tins of boot polish?"

"What do you want?" whispered Father Theodore.

"I want to sell you an old pair of trousers."

The priest stiffened and moved away.

"Why are you silent, like an archbishop at a party?"

Father Theodore slowly walked towards his room.

"We buy old stuff and steal new stuff!" called Ostap after him.

Vostrikov lowered his head and stopped by the door. Ostap continued

taunting him.

"What about my pants, my dear cleric? Will you take them? There's also

the sleeves of a waistcoat, the middle of a doughnut, and the ears of a dead

donkey. The whole lot is going wholesale-it's cheaper. And they're not

hidden in chairs, so you won't need to look for them."

The door shut behind the cleric.

Ostap sauntered back satisfied, his laces flopping against the carpet.

As soon as his massive figure was sufficiently far away, Father

Theodore quickly poked his head round the door and, with long pent-up

indignation, squeaked:

"Silly old fool!"

"What's that?" cried Ostap, promptly turning back but the door was

already shut and the only sound was the click of the lock.

Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand to his mouth, and said

clearly:

"How much is opium for the people?"

There was silence behind the door:

"Dad, you're a nasty old man," said Ostap loudly.

That very moment the point of Father Theodore's pencil shot out of the

keyhole and wiggled in the air in an attempt to sting his enemy. The

concessionaire jumped back in time and grasped hold of it. Separated by the

door, the adversaries began a tug-of-war. Youth was victorious, and the

pencil, clinging like a splinter, slowly crept out of the keyhole. Ostap

returned with the trophy to his room, where the partners were still more

elated.

"And the enemy's in flight, flight, flight," he crooned.

He carved a rude word on the edge of the pencil with a pocket-knife,

ran into the corridor, pushed the pencil through the priest's keyhole, and

hurried back.

The friends got out the green counterfoils and began a careful

examination of them.

"This one's for the Shepherd Girl tapestry," said Ippolit Matveyevich

dreamily. "I bought it from a St. Petersburg antique dealer."

"To hell with the Shepherd Girl," said Ostap, tearing the order to

ribbons.

"A round table . . . probably from the suite. . ."

"Give me the table. To hell with the table!"

Two orders were left: one for ten chairs transferred to the furniture

museum in Moscow, and the other for the chair given to Comrade Gritsatsuyev

in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.

"Have your money ready," said Ostap. "We may have to go to Moscow."

"But there's a chair here!"

"One chance in ten. Pure mathematics. Anyway, citizen Gritsatsuyev may

have lit the stove with it."

"Don't joke like that!"

"Don't worry, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Michelson, we'll find them.

It's a sacred cause!"

"We'll be wearing cambric footcloths and eating Margo cream."

"I have a hunch the jewels are in that very chair."

"Oh, you have a hunch, do you. What other hunches do you have? None?

All right. Let's work the Marxist way. We'll leave the sky to the birds and

deal with the chairs ourselves. I can't wait to meet the imperialist war

invalid, citizen Gritsatsuyev, at 15 Plekhanov Street. Don't lag behind,

Konrad Karlovich. We'll plan as we go."

As they passed Father Theodore's door the vengeful son of a Turkish

citizen gave it a kick. There was a low snarling from the harassed rival

inside.

"Don't let him follow us!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in alarm.

"After today's meeting of the foreign ministers aboard the yacht no

rapprochement is possible. He's afraid of me."

The friends did not return till evening. Ippolit Matveyevich looked

worried. Ostap was beaming. He was wearing new raspberry-coloured shoes with

round rubber heel taps, green-and-black check socks, a cream cap, and a

silk-mixture scarf of a brightly coloured Rumanian shade.

"It's there all right," said Vorobyaninov, reflecting on his visit to

Widow Gritsatsuyev, "but how are we going to get hold of it? By buying it?"

"Certainly not!" said Ostap. "Besides being a totally unproductive

expense, that would start rumours. Why one chair, and why that chair in

particular?"

"What shall we do?"

Ostap lovingly inspected the heels of his new shoes.

"Chic moderne" he said. "What shall we do? Don't worry, Judge, I'll

take on the operation myself. No chair can withstand these shoes."

Ippolit Matveyevich brightened up.

"You know, while you were talking to Mrs. Gritsatsuyev about the flood,

I sat down on our chair and I honestly felt something hard underneath me.

They're there, I'll swear to it. They're there, I know it."

"Don't get excited, citizen Michelson."

"We must steal it during the night; honestly, we must steal it!"

"For a marshal of the nobility your methods are too crude. Anyway, do

you know the technique? Maybe you have a travelling kit with a set of

skeleton keys. Get rid of the idea. It's a scummy trick to rob a poor

widow."

Ippolit Matveyevich pulled himself together.

"It's just that we must act quickly," he said imploringly.

"Only cats are born quickly," said Ostap instructively. "I'll marry

her."

"Who?"

"Madame Gritsatsuyev."

"Why?"

"So that we can rummage inside the chair quietly and without any fuss."

"But you'll tie yourself down for life!"

"The things we do for the concession!"

"For life!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in a whisper.

He threw up his hands in amazement. His pastor-like face was bristly

and his bluish teeth showed they had not been cleaned since the day he left

the town of N.

"It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Life!" said Ostap. "Sacrifice! What do you know about life and

sacrifices? Do you think that just because you were evicted from your own

house you've tasted life? And just because they requisitioned one of your

imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice? Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a

complex affair, but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex affair which can be

managed as simply as opening a box. All you have to do is to know how to

open it. Those who don't-have had it."

Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the sleeve of his jacket, played

a flourish with his lips and went off.

Towards morning he rolled into the room, took off his shoes, put them

on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly:

"My little friends."

"Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep.

"At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice.

Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow.

"And are you going to marry her? "

Ostap's eyes sparkled.

"I'll have to make an honest woman of her now."

Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment.

"A passionate woman," said Ostap, "is a poet's dream. Provincial

straightforwardness. Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital

of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas."

"When's the wedding?"

"The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow's impossible. It's May Day, and

everything's shut."

"But what about our own business? You're getting married . . . but we

may have to go to Moscow."

"What are you worried about? The hearing is continued."

"And the wife?"

"Wife? The little diamond widow? She's our last concern. A sudden

summons to the capital. A short report to be given to the Junior Council of

Ministers. A wet-eyed farewell and a roast chicken for the journey. We'll

travel in comfort. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a holiday."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 849