ET ALIA

Morning found the concessionaires in sight of Chebokary. Ostap was

dozing at the rudder while Ippolit Matveyevich sleepily moved the oars

through the water. Both were shivering from the chilliness of the night.

Pink buds blossomed in the east. Ippolit Matveyevich's pince-nez was all of

a glitter. The oval lenses caught the light and alternately reflected one

bank and then the other. A signal beacon from the left bank arched in the

biconcave glass. The blue domes of Chebokary sailed past like ships. The

garden in the east grew larger, and the buds changed into volcanoes, pouring

out lava of the best sweetshop colours. Birds on the bank were causing a

noisy scene. The gold nosepiece of the pince-nez flashed and dazzled the

Grossmeister. The sun rose. Ostap opened his eyes and stretched himself,

tilting the boat and cracking his joints.

"Good morning, Pussy," he said, suppressing a yawn. "I come to bring

greetings and to tell you the sun is up and is making something over there

glitter with a bright, burning light. . ." "The pier. . . ." reported

Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap took out the guide-book and consulted it. "From

all accounts it's Chebokary. I see: 'Let us note the pleasantly situated

town of Chebokary.' "Do you really think it's pleasantly situated, Pussy?

'At the present time Chebokary has 7,702 inhabitants' "Pussy! Let's give up

our hunt for the jewels and increase the population to 7,704. What about it?

It would be very effective. We'll open a 'Petits Chevaux' gaming-house and

from the 'Petits Chevaux' we'll have une grande income. Anyway, to continue:

'Founded in 1555, the town has preserved some very interesting

churches. Besides the administrative institutions of the Chuvash Republic,

Chebokary also has a workers' school, a Party school, a teachers' institute,

two middle-grade schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. On

the quayside and in the bazaar it is possible to see Chuvash and Cheremis

nationals, distinguishable by their dress. . . .'"

But before the friends were able to reach the quay, where the Chuvash

and Cheremis nationals were to be seen, their attention was caught by an

object floating downstream ahead of the boat.

"The chair!" cried Ostap. "Manager! It's our chair!"

The partners rowed over to the chair. It bobbed up and down, turned

over, went under, and came up farther away from the boat. Water poured

freely into its slashed belly.

It was the chair opened aboard the Scriabin, and it was now floating

slowly towards the Caspian Sea.

"Hi there, friend!" called Ostap. "Long time no see. You know,

Vorobyaninov, that chair reminds me of our life. We're also floating with

the tide. People push us under and we come up again, although they aren't

too pleased about it. No one likes us, except for the criminal investigation

department, which doesn't like us, either. Nobody has any time for us. If

the chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, the only thing left

of us would have been the coroner's report. 'Both bodies lay with their feet

to the south-east and their heads to the north-west. There were jagged

wounds in the bodies, apparently inflicted by a blunt instrument.' The

enthusiasts would have beaten us with chessboards, I imagine. That's

certainly a blunt instrument. The first body belonged to a man of about

fifty-five, dressed in a torn silk jacket, old trousers, and old boots. In

the jacket pocket was an identification card bearing the name Konrad

Karlovich Michelson . ..' That's what they would have written about you,

Pussy."

"And what would they have written about you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich

irritably.

"Ah! They would have written something quite different about me. It

would have gone like this: 'The second corpse belonged to a man of about

twenty-seven years of age. He loved and suffered. He loved money and

suffered from a lack of it. His head with its high forehead fringed with

raven-black curls was turned towards the sun. His elegant feet, size

forty-two boots, were pointing towards the northern lights. The body was

dressed in immaculate white clothes, and on the breast was a gold harp

encrusted with mother-of-pearl, bearing the words of the song "Farewell, New

Village!" The deceased youth engaged in poker-work, which was clear from the

permit No. 86/1562, issued on 8/23/24 by the Pegasus-and-Parnasus

craftsmen's artel, found in the pocket of his tails.' And they would have

buried me, Pussy, with pomp and circumstance, speeches, a band, and my

grave-stone would have had the inscription 'Here lies the unknown

central-heating engineer and conqueror, Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria Bender

Bey, whose father, a Turkish citizen, died without leaving his son,

Ostap-Suleiman, a cent. The deceased's mother was a countess of independent

means."

Conversing along these lines, the concessionaires nosed their way to

the bank.

That evening, having increased their capital by five roubles from the

sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends went aboard the diesel ship Uritsky

and sailed for Stalingrad, hoping to overtake the slow-moving lottery ship

and meet the Columbus Theatre troupe in Stalingrad.

The Scriabin reached Stalingrad at the beginning of July. The friends

met it, hiding behind crates on the quayside. Before the ship was unloaded,

a lottery was held aboard and some big prizes were won.

They had to wait four hours for the chairs. First to come ashore was

the theatre group and then the lottery employees. Persidsky's shining face

stood out among them. As they lay in wait, the concessionaires could hear

him shouting:

"Yes, I'll come to Moscow immediately. I've already sent a telegram.

And do you know which one? 'Celebrating with you.' Let them guess who it's

from."

Then Persidsky got into a hired car, having first inspected it

thoroughly, and drove off, accompanied for some reason by shouts of

"Hooray!"

As soon as the hydraulic press had been unloaded, the scenic effects

were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen by the time they unloaded

the chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse carts and, gaily shouting,

went straight to the station.

"I don't think they're going to play in Stalingrad," said Ippolit

Matveyevich.

Ostap was in a quandary.

"We'll have to travel with them," he decided. "But where's the money?

Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."

At the station it turned out that the theatre was going to Pyatigorsk

via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.

"Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.

"I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly.

"Damn you! Better not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll

do the bilking."

Ippolit Matveyevich was bought a ticket in an upholstered coach and

with it travelled to the station Mineral Waters on the North Caucasus

Railway. Keeping out of sight of the troupe alighting at the station

(decorated with oleander shrubs in green tubs), the former marshal went to

look for Ostap.

Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line

coaches, Ostap was still not to be seen. He finally arrived in the evening

and found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.

"Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?"

"You were in a state, and you had a ticket in your pocket! And I

wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of the last coach of your

train? Who spent three hours waiting like an idiot for a goods train with

empty mineral-water bottles? You're a swine, citizen marshal! Where's the

theatre? "

"In Pyatigorsk."

"Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is

three roubles. It isn't much, of course, but enough for the first purchase

of mineral water and railway tickets."

Creaking like a cart, the train left for Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes

later, passing Zmeika and Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the foot

of Mashuk.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 902