THE EARTHQUAKE

"What do you think, marshal," said Ostap as the concessionaires

approached the settlement of Sioni, "how can we earn money in a dried-up

spot like this?"

Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could

have kept himself going was begging, but here in the mountain spirals and

ledges there was no one to beg from.

Anyway, there was begging going on already-alpine begging, a special

kind. Every bus and passenger car passing through the settlement was

besieged by children who performed a few steps of a local folk dance to the

mobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of:

"Give us money! Give money!"

The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and continued on their

way to the Cross gap.

"A noble cause," said Ostap. "No capital outlay needed. The income is

small, but in our case, valuable."

By two o'clock of the second day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich

had performed his first dance for the aerial passengers, under the

supervision of the smooth operator. The dance was rather like a mazurka; the

passengers, drunk with the exotic beauty of the Caucasus, took it for a

native lezginka and rewarded him with three five-kopek bits. The next

vehicle, which was a bus going from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz, was entertained

by the smooth operator himself.

"Give me money! Give money," he shouted angrily.

The amused passengers richly rewarded his capering about, and Ostap

collected thirty kopeks from the dusty road. But the Sioni children showered

their competitors with stones, and, fleeing from the onslaught, the

travellers made off at the double for the next village, where they spent

their earnings on cheese and local flat bread.

The concessionaires passed their days in this way. They spent the

nights in mountain-dwellers' huts. On the fourth day they went down the

hairpin bends of the road and arrived in the Kaishaur valley. The sun was

shining brightly, and the partners, who had been frozen to the marrow in the

Cross gap, soon warmed up their bones again.

The Daryal cliffs, the gloom and the chill of the gap gave way to the

greenery and luxury of a very deep valley. The companions passed above the

Aragva river and went down into the valley, settled by people and teeming

with cattle and food. There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, or

simply steal. It was the Transcaucasus.

The heartened concessionaires increased their pace.

In Passanaur, in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels and

several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushes

opposite the Hotel France, with its garden and two chained-up bear cubs.

They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest.

Their rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car horn,

the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment. The friends

peeped out. Three identical new cars were driving up to the Hotel France in

line. The cars stopped without any noise.

Out of the first one jumped Persidsky; he was followed by

Life-and-the-Law smoothing down his dusty hair. Out of the other cars

tumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club.

"A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!"

The sleepy figures staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the

bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs.

"Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's the reporter

from the Scriabin, one of those who criticized our transparent. They've

certainly arrived in style. What's it all about?"

Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to Persidsky in the most

elegant fashion.

"Bonjour!" said the reporter. "Where have I seen you before, dear

friend? Aha! I remember. The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?"

Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely.

"Wait a moment, wait a moment," continued Persidsky, who had a

reporter's retentive memory. "Wasn't it you who was knocked down by a

carthorse in Sverdlov Square? "

"That's right. And as you so neatly expressed it, I also suffered

slight shock."

"What are you doing here? Working as an artist?"

"No, I'm on a sightseeing trip."

"On foot?"

"Yes, on foot. The experts say a car trip along the Georgian Military

Highway is simply ridiculous."

"Not always ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always. For instance, our

trip isn't exactly ridiculous. We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars,

collectively owned. A direct link between Moscow and Tiflis. Petrol hardly

costs anything. Comfort and speed. Soft springs. Europe!"

"How did you come by it all?" asked Ostap enviously. "Did you win a

hundred thousand? "

"Not a hundred, but we won fifty."

"Gambling?"

"With a bond belonging to the automobile club."

"I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars."

"That's right."

"I see. Maybe you need a manager? I know a young man. He doesn't

drink."

"What sort of manager?"

"Well, you know . . . general management, business advice, instruction

with visual aids by the complex method. . ."

"I see what you mean. No, we don't need a manager."

"You don't?"

"Unfortunately not. Nor an artist."

"In that case let me have ten roubles."

"Avdotyin," said Persidsky, "kindly give this citizen ten roubles on my

account. I don't need a receipt. This person is unaccountable."

"That's extraordinarily little," observed Ostap, "but I'll accept it. I

realize the great difficulty of your position. Naturally, if you had won a

hundred thousand, you might have loaned me a whole five roubles. But you won

only fifty thousand roubles, zero kopeks. In any case, many thanks."

Bender politely raised his hat. Persidsky politely raised his hat.

Bender bowed most courteously. Persidsky replied with a most courteous bow.

Bender waved his hand in farewell. Persidsky, sitting at the wheel, did the

same. Persidsky drove off in his splendid car into the glittering distances

in the company of his gay friends, while the smooth operator was left on the

dusty road with his fool of a partner.

"Did you see that swank? "

"The Transcaucasian car service, or the private 'Motor' company? "

asked Ippolit Matveyevich in a businesslike way; he was now thoroughly

acquainted with all types of transportation on the road. "I was just about

to do a dance for them."

"You'll soon be completely dotty, my poor friend. How could it be the

Transcaucasian car service? Those people have won fifty thousand roubles,

Pussy. You saw yourself how happy they were and how much of that mechanical

junk they had bought. When we find our money, we'll spend it more sensibly,

won't we?"

And imagining what they would buy when they became rich, the friends

left Passanaur. Ippolit Matveyevich vividly saw himself buying some new

socks and travellirig abroad. Ostap's visions were more ambitious. Something

between damming the Blue Nile and opening a gaming-house in Riga with

branches in the other Baltic states.

The travellers reached Mtskhet, the ancient capital of Georgia, on the

third day, before lunch. Here the Kura river turned towards Tiflis.

In the evening they passed the Zerno-Avchal hydro-electric station. The

glass, water and electricity all shone with different-coloured light. It was

reflected and scattered by the fast-flowing Kura.

It was there the concessionaires made friends with a peasant who gave

them a lift into Tiflis in his cart; they arrived at 11 p.m., that very hour

when the cool of the evening summons into the streets the citizens of the

Georgian capital, limp after their sultry day.

"Not a bad little town," remarked Ostap, as they came out into

Rustavelli Boulevard. "You know, Pussy. . ."

Without finishing what he was saying, Ostap suddenly darted after a

citizen, caught him up after ten paces, and began an animated conversation

with him.

Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side.

"Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the

Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's go and see him. However paradoxical it seems,

you are now the master-mind and father of Russian democracy again. Don't

forget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite a

bit, by the way. A hell of a piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fifty

roubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!"

And indeed, a short distance away from the concessionaires stood

Kislarsky in a tussore-silk suit and a boater; he was a milky blue colour

with fright.

"I think you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman

close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don't

pay attention to his suit; that's part of our security measures. Take us

somewhere right away. We've got to have a talk."

Kislarsky, who had come to the Caucasus to recover from his gruelling

experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about a

recession in the roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriage

with silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. They

went up to the top of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowly

disappeared into the depths in a thousand lights. The conspirators were

ascending to the very stars.

At the restaurant the tables were set up on a lawn. A Caucasian band

made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tables

of her own accord, watched happily by her parents.

"Order something," suggested Bender.

The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese.

"And something to eat," said Ostap. "If you only knew, dear Mr.

Kislarsky, the things that Ippolit Matveyevich and I have had to suffer,

you'd be amazed at our courage."

There he goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will

start all over again. Why didn't I go to the Crimea? I definitely wanted to

go to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too.

But he ordered two shishkebabs without a murmur, and turned his

unctuous face towards Ostap.

"Here's the point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice.

"They've been following us for two months and will probably ambush us

tomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out."

Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead.

"Under the circumstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal

patriot."

"Mmm .. . yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich proudly, remembering the

hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni.

"Yes," whispered Ostap, "we're hoping-with your aid-to defeat the

enemy. I'll give you a pistol."

"There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly.

The next moment it was made clear that the chairman of the

stock-exchange committee would not have the opportunity of taking part in

the coming battle. He regretted it very much. He was not familiar with

warfare, and it was just for this reason that he had been elected chairman

of the stock-exchange committee. He was very much disappointed, but was

prepared to offer financial assistance to save the life of the father of

Russian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist).

"You're a true friend of society," said Ostap triumphantly, washing

down the spicy kebab with sweetish Kipiani wine. "Fifty can save the

master-mind."

"Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully.

Ostap could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich under

the table in delight.

"I consider that haggling," said Ippolit Matveyevich, "is somewhat out

of place here."

He immediately received a kick on the thigh which meant- Well done,

Pussy, that's the stuff!

It was the first time in his life that Kislarsky had heard the

master-mind's voice. He was so overcome that he immediately handed over

fifty roubles. Then he paid the bill and, leaving the friends at the table,

departed with the excuse that he had a headache. Half an hour later he

dispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 941