CONVERSATION WITH A NAKED ENGINEER

Ostap's appearance in the editorial offices was preceded by a number of

events of some importance.

Not finding Ernest Pavlovich at home (the apartment was locked and the

owner probably at work), the smooth operator decided to visit him later on,

and in the meantime he wandered about the town. Tortured by a thirst for

action, he crossed streets, stopped in squares, made eyes at militiamen,

helped ladies into buses, and generally gave the impression by his manner

that the whole of Moscow with its monuments, trams, vegetable vendors,

churches, stations and hoardings had gathered at his home for a party. He

walked among the guests, spoke courteously to them, and found something nice

to say to each one. So many guests at one party somewhat tired the smooth

operator. Furthermore, it was after six o'clock and time to visit engineer

Shukin.

But fate had decided that before seeing Ernest Pavlovich, Ostap had to

be delayed a couple of hours in order to sign a statement for the militia.

On Sverdlov Square the smooth operator was knocked down by a horse. A

timid white animal descended on him out of the blue and gave him a shove

with its bony chest. Bender fell down, breaking out in a sweat. It was very

hot. The white horse loudly apologized and Ostap briskly jumped up. His

powerful frame was undamaged. This was all the more reason for a scene.

The hospitable and friendly host of Moscow was unrecognisable. He

waddled up to the embarrassed old man driving the cab and punched him in his

padded back. The old man took his punishment patiently. A militiaman came

running up.

"I insist you report the matter," cried Ostap with emotion.

His voice had the metallic ring of a man whose most sacred feelings had

been hurt. And, standing by the wall of the Maly Theatre, on the very spot

where there was later to be a statue to the Russian dramatist Ostrovsky,

Ostap signed a statement and granted a brief interview to Perdidsky, who had

come hurrying over. Persidsky did not shirk his arduous duties. He carefully

noted down the victim's name and sped on his way.

Ostap majestically set off again. Still feeling the effects of the

clash with the white horse, and experiencing a belated regret for not having

been able to give the cab-driver a belt on the neck as well, Ostap reached

Shukin's house and went up to the seventh floor, taking two stairs at a

time. A heavy drop of liquid struck him on the head. He looked up and a thin

trickle of dirty water caught him right in the eye.

Someone needs his nose punching for tricks like that, decided Ostap.

He hurried upward. A naked man covered with white fungus was sitting by

the door of Shukin's apartment with his back to the stairs. He was sitting

on the tiled floor, holding his head in his hands and rocking from side to

side.

The naked man was surrounded by water oozing from under the apartment

door.

"Oh-oh-oh," groaned the naked man. "Oh-oh-oh."

"Is it you splashing water about?" asked Ostap irritably. "What a place

to take a bath. You must be crazy!"

The naked man looked at Ostap and burst into tears.

"Listen, citizen, instead of crying, you ought to go to the bathroom.

Just look at yourself. You look like a picador."

"The key," moaned the engineer.

"What key?" asked Ostap.

"Of the ap-ap-apartment."

"Where the money is?"

The naked man was hiccupping at an incredible rate.

Nothing could daunt Ostap. He began to see the light. And, finally,

when he realized what had happened, he almost fell over the banister with

laughter.

"So you can't get into the apartment. But it's so simple."

Trying not to dirty himself against the naked engineer, Ostap went up

to the door, slid a long yellow fingernail into the Yale lock, and carefully

began moving it up and down, and left and right.

The door opened noiselessly and the naked man rushed into the flooded

apartment with a howl of delight.

The taps were gushing. In the dining-room the water had formed a

whirlpool. In the bedroom it had made a calm lake, on which a pair of

slippers floated about as serenely as swans. Some cigarette ends had

collected together in a corner like a shoal of sleepy fish.

Vorobyaninov's chair was standing in the dining-room, where the flood

of water was greatest. Small white waves lapped against all four legs. The

chair was rocking slightly and appeared to be about to float away from its

pursuer. Ostap sat down on it and drew up his feet. Ernest Pavlovich, now

himself again, turned off all the taps with a cry of "Pardon me! ! Pardon

me!", rinsed himself, and appeared before Bender stripped to the waist in a

pair of wet slacks rolled up to the knee.

"You absolutely saved my life," he exclaimed with feeling. "I apologize

for not shaking your hand, but I'm all wet. You know, I almost went crazy."

"You seemed to be getting on that way."

"I found myself in a horrible situation."

And Ernest Pavlovich gave the smooth operator full details of the

misfortune which had befallen him, first laughing nervously and then

becoming more sober as he relived the awful experience.

"Had you not come, I would have died," he said in conclusion.

"Yes," said Ostap, "something similar once happened to me, too. Even a

bit worse."

The engineer was now so interested in anything concerned with such

situations that he put down the pail in which he was collecting water, and

began listening attentively.

"It was just like what happened to you," began Bender, "only it was

winter, and not in Moscow, but Mirgorod during one of those merry little

periods of occupation, between Makhno and Tyunuynik in '19. I was living

with a family. Terrible Ukrainians ! Typical property-owners. A one-storey

house and loads of different junk. You should note that with regard to

sewage and other facilities, they have only cesspools in Mirgorod. Well, one

night I nipped out in my underclothes, right into the snow. I wasn't afraid

of catching cold-it was only going to take a moment. I nipped out and

automatically closed the door behind me. It was about twenty degrees below.

I knocked, but got no answer. You can't stand in one spot or you freeze. I

knocked, ran about, knocked, and ran around, but there was no answer. And

the thing is that not one of those devils was asleep. It was a terrible

night; the dogs were howling and there was a sound of shots somewhere

nearby. And there's me running about the snowdrifts in my summer shorts. I

kept knocking for almost an hour. I was nearly done. And why didn't they

open the door- what do you think? They were busy hiding their property and

sewing up their money in cushions. They thought it was a police raid. I

nearly slaughtered them afterwards."

This was all very close to the engineer's heart.

"Yes," said Ostap, "so you are engineer Shukin."

"Yes, but please don't tell anyone about this. It would be awkward."

"Oh, sure! Entre nous and tete a tete, as the French say. But I came to

see you for a reason, Comrade Shukin."

"I'll be extremely pleased to help you."

"Grand merci!. It's a piddling matter. Your wife asked me to stop by

and collect this chair. She said she needed it to make a pair. And she

intends sending you instead an armchair."

"Certainly," exclaimed Ernest Pavlovich. "Only too happy. But why

should you bother yourself? I can take it for you. I can do it today."

"No, no. It's no bother at all for me. I live nearby."

The engineer fussed about and saw the smooth operator as far as the

door, beyond which he was afraid to go, despite the fact that the key had

been carefully placed in the pocket of his wet slacks.

Former student Ivanopulo was presented with another chair. The

upholstery was admittedly somewhat the worse for wear, but it was

nevertheless a splendid chair and exactly like the first one.

Ostap was not worried by the failure of the chair, the fourth in line.

He was familiar with all the tricks of fate.

It was the chair that had vanished into the goods yard of October

Station which cut like a huge dark mass through the well-knit pattern of his

deductions. His thoughts about that chair were depressing and raised grave

doubts.

The smooth operator was in the position of a roulette player who only

bets on numbers; one of that breed of people who want to win thirty-six

times their stake all at once. The situation was even worse than that. The

concessionaires were playing a kind of roulette in which zero could come up

eleven out of twelve times. And, what was more, the twelfth number was out

of sight, heaven knows where, and possibly contained a marvellous win.

The chain of distressing thoughts was interrupted by the advent of the

director-in-chief. His appearance alone aroused forebodings in Ostap.

"Oho!" said the technical adviser. "I see you're making progress. Only

don't joke with me. Why have you left the chair outside? To have a laugh at

my expense? "

"Comrade Bender," muttered the marshal.

"Why are you trying to unnerve me? Bring it here at once. Don't you see

that the new chair that I am sitting on has made your acquisition many times

more valuable? "

Ostap leaned his head to one side and squinted.

"Don't torment the child," he said at length in his deep voice.

"Where's the chair? Why haven't you brought it?"

Ippolit Matveyevich's muddled report was interrupted by shouts from the

floor, sarcastic applause and cunning questions. Vorobyaninov concluded his

report to the unanimous laughter of his audience.

"What about my instructions?" said Ostap menacingly. "How many times

have I told you it's a sin to steal. Even back in Stargorod you wanted to

rob my wife, Madame Gritsatsuyev; even then I realized you had the character

of a petty criminal. The most this propensity will ever get you is six

months inside. For a master-mind, and father of Russian democracy, your

scale of operations isn't very grand. And here are the results. The chair

has slipped through your fingers. Not only that, you've spoiled an easy job.

Just try making another visit there. That Absalom will tear your head off.

It's lucky for you that you were helped by that ridiculous fluke, or else

you'd have been behind bars, misguidedly waiting for me to bring you things.

I shan't bring you anything, so keep that in mind. What's Hecuba to me?

After all, you're not my mother, sister, or lover."

Ippolit Matveyevich stood looking at the ground in acknowledgment of

his worthlessness.

"The point is this, chum. I see the complete uselessness of our working

together. At any rate, working with as uncultured a partner as you for forty

per cent is absurd. Volens, nevolens, I must state new conditions."

Ippolit Matveyevich began breathing. Up to that moment he had been

trying not to breathe.

"Yes, my ancient friend, you are suffering from organizational

impotence and greensickness. Accordingly, your share is decreased. Honestly,

do you want twenty per cent?"

Ippolit Matveyevich shook his head firmly.

"Why not? Too little for you?"

"T-too little."

"But after all, that's thirty thousand roubles. How much do you want?"

"I'll accept forty."

"Daylight robbery!" cried Ostap, imitating the marshal's intonation

during their historic haggling in the caretaker's room. "Is thirty thousand

too little for you? You want the key of the apartment as well?"

"It's you who wants the key of the apartment," babbled Ippolit

Matveyevich.

"Take twenty before it's too late, or I might change my mind. Take

advantage of my good mood."

Vorobyaninov had long since lost the air of smugness with which he had

begun the search for the jewels.

The ice that had started moving in the caretaker's room, the ice that

had crackled, cracked, and smashed against the granite embankment, had

broken up and melted. It was no longer there. Instead there was a wide

stretch of rushing water which bore Ippolit Matveyevich along with it,

'buffeting him from side to side, first knocking him against a beam, then

tossing him against the chairs, then carrying him away from them. He felt

inexpressible fear. Everything frightened him. Along the river floated

refuse, patches of oil, broken hen-coops, dead fish, and a ghastly-looking

cap. Perhaps it belonged to Father Theodore, a duck-bill cap blown off by

the wind in Rostov. Who knows? The end of the path was not in sight. The

former marshal of the nobility was not being washed ashore, nor had he the

strength or wish to swim against the stream.

He was being carried out into the open sea of adventure.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 1115