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A SHADY COUPLE
People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime. Rafts floated up and down-huge fields of logs with little wooden houses on them. A small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve over the paddle cover towed along three oil barges in a line. The Red Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin overtook a convoy of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making a circle, turning against the stream. Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on to the Bramino quayside. With this line the shoremen hauled over the thick end of the mooring rope. The screws began turning the opposite way and half the river was covered with seething foam. The Scriabin shook from the cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for the lottery, which did not start until ten. Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would have done on land-at nine sharp. No one changed his habits. Those who were late for work on land were late here, too, although they slept on the very premises. The field staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very quickly. Office-boys swept out their cabins with the same lack of interest as they swept out the offices in Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and hurried with notes from the registry to the personnel department, not a bit surprised that the latter was in the stern and the registry in the prow. In the mutual settlement cabin the abacuses clicked like castanets and the adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was being hauled over the coals. Scorching his bare feet on the hot deck, the smooth operator walked round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he kept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every worker should have government bonds in his pocket." The smooth operator was doing his best, but his lack of talent was painfully obvious. The words slanted downward and, at one stage, it looked as though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then, with the boy Pussy's help, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was now more careful. Before daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lines with string and chalk, and was now painting in the letters, cursing the innocent Vorobyaninov. Vorobyaninov carried out his duties as boy conscientiously. He ran below for hot water, melted the glue, sneezing as he did so, poured the paints into a bucket, and looked fawningly into the exacting artist's eyes. When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed it on the side. The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see what the new artist's work looked like from there. The letters of the words were of different sizes and slightly cockeyed, but nothing could be done about it. He had to be content. The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches. The sound of the music brought children running from the whole of Bramino and, after them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band went on blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. A meeting began. From the porch steps of Korobkov's tea-house came the first sounds of a report on the international situation. From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see the white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little way from the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker, and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands. Then the music began again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playing as it went. A crowd of people poured after it. The lottery device mechanically threw up its combination of figures. Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizens watched and listened. Ostap hurried down for a moment, made certain all the inmates of the ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again. "Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art department. Stand by the entrance to the first-class corridor and sing. If anyone comes, sing louder." The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? " "Whatever else, don't make it 'God Save the Tsar'. Something with feeling. 'The Apple' or 'A Beauty's Heart'. But I warn you, if you don't come out with your aria in time . . . This isn't the experimental theatre. I'll wring your neck." The smooth operator padded into the cherry-panelled corridor in his bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected his figure. He read the plate on the door:
Nich. Sestrin Producer Columbus Theatre
The mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying a chair with curved legs. He sped along the corridor, out on to the deck, and, glancing at Ippolit Matveyevich, took the chair aloft to the wheelhouse. There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the chair to the back and said warningly: "The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as soon as it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents." A minute later the chair was covered up with sheets of ply-board and bunting, and was no longer visible. Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever. "Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could open it on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right away and--" "And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we perhaps take it back to Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry we took your chair, but unfortunately we didn't find anything in it, so here it is back somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?" As always, the smooth operator was right. Ippolit Matveyevich only recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of the overture played on the Esmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck. The lottery operations were over for the day. The onlookers spread out on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negro minstrels. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind kept looking up proudly as though to say: 'There, you see! And you said the popular masses would not understand. But art finds a way!' After this the Colombus troupe gave a short variety show with singing and dancing on an improvised stage, the point of which was to demonstrate how Vavila the peasant boy won fifty thousand roubles and what came of it. The actors, who had now freed themselves from the chains of Sestrin's constructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tuneful voices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied. Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles. The balalaika was set in motion. It went flying behind the player's back and from there came the "If the master has a chain, it means he has no watch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gave forth quite a few difficult variations. It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led out a herd of girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances. While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its voyage, while the captain talked with the engine-room through the speaking-tube, and the boilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and, to everyone's delight, began playing dances. Picturesque groups of dancers formed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down a soft, apricot light. It was an ideal moment for some newsreel shots. And, indeed, Polkan the cameraman emerged yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had grown used to his part as general office boy, followed him, cautiously carrying the camera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polka was being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping their feet as though they wanted to split the planet. The girls sailed around. Onlookers crowded the terraces and slopes. An avant-garde French cameraman would have found enough material here to keep him busy for three days. Polkan, however, having run his piggy eyes along the bank, immediately turned around, ambled to the committee chairman, stood him against a white wall, pushed a book into his hand, and, asking him not to move, smoothly turned the handle of his cine-camera for some minutes. He then led the bashful chairman aft and took him against the setting sun. Having completed his shots, Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and locked himself in. Once more the hooter sounded and once more the sun hid in terror. The second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave. Ostap thought with trepidation of the coming morning. Ahead of him was the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing bonds. This artistic ordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with the lettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower. "Keep it in mind," warned the fat man, "from Vasyuki onward we are holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent." "Don't worry at all," said Ostap, basing his hopes on that evening, rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent." It was a starry, windy night. The animals in the lottery arc were lulled to sleep. The lions from the lottery committee were asleep. So were the lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the rabbits from mutual settlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound effects, and the pigeons from the typistry. Only the shady couple lay awake. The smooth operator emerged from his cabin after midnight. He was followed by the noiseless shadow of the faithful Pussy. They went up on deck and silently approached the chair, covered with plyboard sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap stood the chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with a pair of pliers and inserted his hand. "Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice.
Letter from Theodore written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife In the regional centre of N.
My dear and precious Kate, Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the Good-Value Furnished Rooms, having finished all my business. The city of Baku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you still have to go by electric train and I haven't any money. This picturesque city is washed by the Caspian. It really is very large in size. The heat here is awful. I carry my coat in one hand and my jacket in the other, and it's still too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practically no money. But no harm, my dear, we'll soon have plenty. We'll travel everywhere and settle properly in Samara, near our factory, and we'll have liqueurs to drink. But to get to the point. In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic. There are many people from other parts here. Especially Armenians and Persians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar and saw many Turkish clothes and shawls. I wanted to buy you a present of a Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when we are rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedan blanket. Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian; and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary. Both these happenings greatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviour towards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, but had actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for the jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it was covered with kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, my dearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals? I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's not here just now. He's gone to Batumi on vacation. His family is living permanently in Batumi. I spoke to some people and they said all his furniture is there in Batumi. He has a little house there, at the Green Cape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs. 15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news from Batumi. Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed in Voronezh.
Your husband ever, Theo.
P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value. I'm very grieved. A good thing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Date: 2015-01-02; view: 740
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