IN THE COLUMBUS THEATRE

Ippolit Matveyevich was slowly becoming a boot-licker. Whenever he

looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge.

It was so hot in Ivanopulo's room that Vorobyaninov's chairs creaked

like logs in the fireplace. The smooth operator was having a nap with the

light-blue waistcoat under his head.

Ippolit Matveyevich looked out of the window. A carriage emblazoned

with a coat of arms was moving along the curved side street, past the tiny

Moscow gardens. The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after another,

a horseguard in a brass helmet, society ladies, and fluffy white clouds.

Drumming the roadway with their hooves, the horses drew the carriage past

Ippolit Matveyevich. He winced with disappointment.

The carriage bore the initials of the Moscow communal services and was

being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all.

In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking old man with a fluffy white

beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was none other than Count

Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would probably have hailed the

old man and chatted with him about the good old days.

Count Bulanov was deeply troubled. As he whipped up the horses, he

mused about the red tape that was strangling the sub-department of

sanitation, and on account of which he had not received for six months the

apron he was entitled to under his contract.

"Listen," said the smooth operator suddenly. "What did they call you as

a boy?"

"What do you want to know for?"

"I just want to know what to call you. I'm sick of calling you

Vorobyaninov, and Ippolit Matveyevich is too stuffy. What were you called?

Ippy?"

"Pussy," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker.

"That's more like it. So look, Pussy, see what's wrong with my back. It

hurts between the shoulder-blades."

Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over his head. Before Pussy Vorobyaninov

was revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous; a back of enchanting

shape, but rather dirty.

"Aha! I see some redness."

Between the smooth operator's shoulders were some strangely shaped

mauve bruises which reflected colours like a rainbow in oil.

"Honestly, it's the number eight," exclaimed Vorobyaninov. "First time

I've ever seen a bruise like that."

"Any other number?" asked Ostap.

"There seems to be a letter P."

"I have no more questions. It's quite clear. That damned pen! You see

how I suffer, Pussy, and what risks I run for your chairs. These

arithmetical figures were branded on me by the huge self-falling pen with a

No. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back at

the very moment I inserted my hands inside the chief editor's chair. But

you! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair so

that I had to go and do your work for you? I won't even mention the auction.

A fine time to go woman-chasing. It's simply bad for you at your age to do

that. Look after your health. Take me, on the other hand. I got the widow's

chair. I got the two Shukin chairs. It was me who finally got Iznurenkov's

chair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to Lapis's. There was

only one chair that you managed to run down, and that was with the help of

your holy enemy, the archbishop."

Silently walking up and down in his bare feet, the technical adviser

reasoned with the submissive Pussy.

The chair which had vanished into the goods yard of October Station was

still a blot on the glossy schedule of the concession. The four chairs in

the Columbus Theatre were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make a

trip down the Volga aboard the lottery ship, S.S. Scriabin, and was

presenting the premiere of The Marriage that day as the last production of

the season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in Moscow and look

for the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or go on tour with the

troupe. Ostap was in favour of the latter.

"Or perhaps we should split up?" he suggested. "I'll go off with the

theatre and you stay and find out about the chair in the goods yard."

Pussy's grey eyelashes flickered so fearfully, however, that Ostap did

not bother to continue.

"Of the two birds," said Ostap, "the meatier should be chosen. Let's go

together. But the expenses will be considerable. We shall need money. I have

sixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh, I forgot. At your age a maiden's

love is so expensive! I decree that we go together to the premiere of The

Marriage. Don't forget to wear tails. If the chairs are still there and

haven't been sold to pay social-security debts, we can leave tomorrow.

Remember, Vorobyaninov, we've now reached the final act of the comedy My

Mother-in-Low's Treasure. The Finita la Comedia is fast approaching,

Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights! Oh, my

younger days! Oh, the smell of the wings! So many memories! So many

intrigues and affairs I How talented I was in my time in the role of Hamlet!

In short, the hearing is continued."

For the sake of economy they went to the theatre on foot. It was still

quite light, but the street lamps were already casting their lemon light.

Spring was dying before everyone's eyes. Dust chased it from the squares,

and a warm breeze drove it from the side streets. Old women fondled the

beauty and drank tea with it at little round tables in the yards. But

spring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it so

much wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where the young men were already

strolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bow

ties, and boots.

Mauve-powdered girls circulated between the holy of holies of the

Moscow Consumers' Union and the 'Commune' cooperative. The girls were

swearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace,

though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses were

no better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much on

the edges of the roadway. Cyclists rode noiselessly by from their first

large international match at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream man

trundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squinted

timorously at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by the

flashing signal with which he regulated the traffic, and was not dangerous.

The two friends made their way through the hustle and bustle.

Temptation lay in wait for them at every step. Different types of meat on

skewers were being roasted in full view of the street in the tiny eating

plates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of string

music was wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great Silent

Film' cinema. A loud-speaker raved away at a tram-stop.

It was time to put a spurt on. The friends reached the foyer of the

Columbus Theatre.

Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the list of seat prices.

"Rather expensive, I'm afraid," he said. "Three roubles for the sixteenth

row."

"How I dislike these provincial philistines," Ostap observed. "Where

are you going? Can't you see that's the box office?"

"Where else? We won't get in without tickets."

"Pussy, you're vulgar. In every well-built theatre there are two

windows. Only courting couples and wealthy heirs go to the box-office

window. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you may observe) go

straight to the manager's window."

And, indeed, at the box-office window were only about five modestly

dressed people. They may have been wealthy heirs or courting couples. At the

manager's window, however, there was great activity. A colourful line had

formed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which a

provincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notes

from friendly directors, actors, editors, theatrical costumiers, the

district militia chief, and other persons closely connected with the

theatre, such as members of the theatre and film critics' association, the

'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental Circus

Workshop, and some extraordinary name, like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. About

eight people had notes from Espere Eclairovich.

Ostap barged into the line, jostled aside the Fortinbrasites, and, with

a cry of "I only want some information: can't you see I haven't taken my

galoshes off!" pushed his way to the window and peered inside.

The manager was working like a slave. Bright diamonds of __

perspiration irrigated his fat face. The telephone interrupted him all the

time and rang with the obstinacy of a tram trying to pass through the

Smolensk market.

"Hurry up and give me the note!" he shouted at Ostap.

"Two seats," said Ostap quietly, "in the stalls."

"Who for?"

"Me."

"And who might you be?"

"Now surely you know me?"

"No, I don't."

But the stranger's gaze was so innocent and open that the manager's

hand by itself gave Ostap two seats in the eleventh row,

"All kinds come here," said the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "Who

knows who they are? They may be from the Ministry of Education. I seem to

have seen him at the Ministry. Where else could it have been? "

And mechanically issuing passes to the lucky film and theatre critics,

the manager went on quietly trying to remember where he had seen those clear

eyes before.

When all the passes had been issued and the lights went down in the

foyer, he remembered he had seen them in the Taganka prison in 1922, while

he was doing time for some trivial matter.

Laughter echoed from the eleventh row where the concessionaires were

sitting. Ostap liked the musical introduction performed by the orchestra on

bottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistled

and the curtain went up, wafting a breath of cool air.

To the surprise of Vorobyaninov, who was used to a classical

interpretation of The Marriage, Podkolesin was not on the stage. Searching

around with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard triangles hanging from the

ceiling and painted the primary colours of the spectrum. There "were no

doors or blue muslin windows. Beneath the multicoloured triangles danced

young ladies in large hats from black cardboard. The clinking of bottles

brought forth Podkolesin, who charged into the crowd riding on Stepan's

back. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed the young

ladies with words which were not in the play, he bawled out :

"Stepan!"

At the same time he leaped to one side and froze in a difficult pose.

The Esmarch douches began to clatter.

"Stepan!" repeated Podkolesin, taking another leap.

But since Stepan, who was standing right there in a leopard skin, did

not respond, Podkolesin asked tragically:

"Why are you silent, like the League of Nations?"

"I'm obviously afraid of Chamberlain," replied Stepan, scratching his

skin.

There was a general feeling that Stepan would oust Podkolesin and

become the chief character in this modernized version of the play.

"Well, is the tailor making a coat?"

A leap. A blow on the Esmarch douches. Stepan stood on his hands with

an effort and, still in that position, answered:

"Yes, he is."

The orchestra played a potpourri from Madam Butterfly. Stepan stood on

his hands the whole time. His face flooded with colour.

"And didn't the tailor ask what the master wanted such good cloth for?"

Stepan, who by this time was pitting in the orchestra cuddling the

conductor, answered: "No, he didn't. He's not a member of the British

Parliament, is he?"

"And didn't the tailor ask whether the master wished to get married?"

"The tailor asked whether the master wanted to pay alimony."

At this point the lights went out and the audience began stamping their

feet. They kept up the stamping until Podkolesin's voice could be heard

saying from the stage:

The Marriage

Text. . . N. V. Gogol

Verse . . . M. Cherchezlafemmov

Adaptation. . . I. Antiokhiisky

Musical accompaniment. . . Kh. Ivanov

Producer . . . Nich. Sestrin

Scenic effects . . . Simbievich-Sindievich

Lighting . . . Platon Plashuk. Sound effects . . . Galkin,

Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.

Make-up. . . Krult workshops; wigs by Foma Kochur

Furniture by the Fortinbras woodwork shops attached to the

Balthazar Umslopogas

Acrobatics instructress: Georgetta Tiraspolskikh

Hydraulic press operated by Fitter Mechnikov

Programme composed, imposed

and printed by the

KRULT FACTORY SCHOOL

"Citizens! Don't be alarmed! The lights went out on purpose, as part of

the act. It's required for the scenic effects."

The audience gave in. The lights did not go up again until the end of

the act. The drums rolled in complete darkness. A squad of soldiers dressed

as hotel doormen passed by, carrying torches. Then Kochkarev arrived,

apparently on a camel. This could only be judged from the following

dialogue.

"Ouch, how you frightened me! And you came on a camel, too."

"Ah, so you noticed, despite the darkness. I wanted to bring you a

fragrant camellia!"

During the intermission the concessionaires read the programme.

"Do you like it?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked timidly.

"Do you?"

"It's very interesting-only Stepan is rather odd."

"No, I don't like it," said Ostap. "Particularly the fact that the

furniture is from some Vogopas workshops or other. I hope those aren't our

chairs adapted to the new style."

Their fears were unjustified. At the beginning of the second act all

four chairs were brought on to the stage by Negroes in top hats.

The matchmaking scene aroused the greatest interest among the audience.

At the moment Agafya Tikhonovna was coming down a rope stretched across the

entire width of the theatre, the terrifying orchestra let out such a noise

that she nearly fell off into the audience. But on the stage she balanced

perfectly. She was wearing flesh-coloured tights and a bowler. Maintaining

her balance by means of a green parasol on which was written "I want

Podkolesin", she stepped along the wire and everyone below immediately saw

that her feet were dirty. She leaped from the wire straight on to a chair,

whereupon the Negroes, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in a tutu, and the matchmaker

in a bus driver's uniform all turned backward somersaults. Then they had a

five-minute rest, to hide which the lights were turned out again.

The suitors were also very comic, particularly Omlette. In his place a

huge pan of fried eggs was brought on to the stage. The sailor wore a mast

with a sail.

In vain did Starikov the merchant cry out that he was being crippled by

taxes. Agafaya Tikhonovna did not like him. She married Stepan. They both

dived into the fried eggs served by Podkolesin, who had turned into a

footman. Kochkarev and Fekla sang ditties about Chamberlain and the

repayment he hoped to extort from Germany. The Esmarch douches played a hymn

for the dying and the curtain came down, wafting a breath of cool air.

"I'm satisfied with the performance," said Ostap. "The chairs are

intact. But we've no time to lose. If Agafya Tikhonovna is going to land on

those chairs each day, they won't last very long."

Jostling and laughing, the young men in their fashioned jackets

discussed the finer points of the scenic effects.

"You need some shut-eye, Pussy," said Ostap. "We have to stand in line

for tickets early tomorrow morning. The theatre is leaving by express for

Nizhni tomorrow evening at seven. So get two seats in a hard coach to Nizhni

on the Kursk Railway. We'll sit it out. It's only one night."

The next day the Columbus Theatre was sitting in the buffet at Kursk

Station. Having taken steps to see that the scenic effects went by the same

train, Simbievich-Sindievich was having a snack at one of the tables.

Dipping his moustache into the beer, he asked the fitter nervously:

"The hydraulic press won't get broken on the way, will it?"

"It's not the press that's the trouble," said fitter Mechnikov.

"It's that it only works for five minutes and we have to cart it around

the whole summer."

"Was it any easier with the 'time projector' from the Ideology Powder!"

"Of course it was. The projector was big, but not so fragile."

At the next table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a youngish woman with hard

shiny legs, like skittles. The sound effects -Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,

Chalkin and Zalkind-fussed around her.

"You didn't keep in time with me yesterday," she complained. "I might

have fallen off."

"What can we do?" clamoured the sound effects. "Two douches broke."

"You think it's easy to get an Esmarch douche from abroad nowadays? "

cried Galkin.

"Just try going to the State Medical Supply Office. It's impossible to

buy a thermometer, let alone an Esmarch douche," added Palkin.

"Do you play thermometers as well?" asked the girl, horrified.

"It's not that we play thermometers," observed Zalkind, "but that the

damned douches are enough to drive you out of your mind and we have to take

our own temperatures."

Nich. Sestrin, stage manager and producer, was strolling along the

platform with his wife. Podkolesin and Kochkarev had downed three vodkas and

were wooing Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, each trying to outdo the other.

The concessionaires had arrived two hours before the train was due to

depart and were now on their sixth round of the garden laid out in front of

the station.

Ippolit Matveyevich's head was whirling. The hunt for the chairs was

entering the last lap. Long shadows fell on the scorching roadway. Dust

settled on their wet, sweaty faces. Cabs rattled past them and there was a

smell of petrol. Hired vehicles set down their passengers. Porters ran up to

them and carried off the bags, while their badges glittered in the sun. The

Muse of Travel had people by the throat.

"Let's get going as well," said Ostap.

Ippolit Matveyevich meekly consented. All of a sudden he came face to

face with Bezenchuk, the undertaker.

"Bezenchuk!" he exclaimed in amazement. "How did you get here?"

Bezenchuk doffed his cap and was speechless with joy. "Mr.

Vorobyaninov," he cried. "Greetin's to an honoured guest."

"Well, how are things?"

"Bad," answered the undertaker.

"Why is that?"

"I'm lookin' for clients. There ain't none about."

"Is the Nymph doing better than you?"

"Likely! Could they do better than me? No chance. Since your

mother-in-law, only Tierre and Constantine' has croaked."

"You don't say! Did he really die?"

"He croaked, Ippolit Matveyevich. He croaked at his post. He was

shavin' Leopold the chemist when he croaked. People said it was his insides

that bust, but I think it was the smell of medicine from the chemist that he

couldn't take."

"Dear me, dear me," muttered Ippolit Matveyevich. "So you buried him,

did you?"

"I buried him. Who else could? Does the Nymph, damn 'em, give tassels?"

"You got in ahead of them, then? "

"Yes, I did, but they beat me up afterwards. Almost beat the guts out

of me. The militia took me away. I was in bed for two days. I cured myself

with spirits."

"You massaged yourself?"

"No, I don't do that with spirits."

"But what made you come here? "

"I've brought my stock."

"What stock?"

"My own. A guard I know helped me bring it here free in the guard's

van. Did it as a friend."

It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed a neat pile of

coffins on the ground a little way from Bezenchuk. Some had tassels, others

did not. One of them Ippolit Matveyevich recognized immediately. It was the

large, dusty oak coffin from Bezenchuk's shop window.

"Eight of them," said Bezenchuk smugly. "Like gherkins."

"But who needs your coffins here? They have plenty of their own

undertakers."

"What about the flu?"

"What flu?"

"The epidemic. Prusis told me flu was ragin' in Moscow and there was

nothin' to bury people in. All the coffins were used up. So I decided to put

thin's right."

Ostap, who had been listening to the conversation with curiosity,

intervened. "Listen, dad, the flu epidemic is in Paris."

"In Paris?"

"Yes, go to Paris. You'll make money. Admittedly, there may be some

trouble with the visa, but don't give up. If Briand likes you, you'll do

pretty well. They'll set you up as undertaker-royal to the Paris

municipality. Here they have enough of their own undertakers."

Bezenchuk looked around him wildly. Despite the assurances of Prusis,

there were certainly no bodies lying about; people were cheerfully moving

about on their feet, and some were even laughing.

Long after the train had carried off the concessionaires, the Columbus

Theatre, and various other people, Bezenchuk was still standing in a daze by

his coffins. His eyes shone in the approaching darkness with an unfading

light.

PART III

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 775