The Twelve Chairs (15 page)

"Liza, let's go and have dinner!"
"I don't feel like it. I had dinner yesterday."
"I don't get you."
"I'm not going to eat mock rabbit."
"Oh, don't be silly!"
"I can't exist on vegetarian sausages."
"Today you can have apple pie."
"I just don't feel like it."
"Not so loud. Everything can be heard."
The young couple changed voices to a stage whisper.
Two minutes later Nicky realized for the  first time in three months of
married life that his beloved liked sausages of  carrots, potatoes, and peas
less than he did.
"So  you  prefer  dog  meat  to  a  vegetarian  diet,"   cried   Nicky,
disregarding the eavesdropping neighbours in his burst of anger.
"Not so loud, I say!" shouted Liza. "And then you're nasty  to me! Yes,
I do like meat. At times. What's so bad about that?"
Nicky said  nothing in  his amazement. This  was an unexpected turn  of
events.  Meat would  make an enormous,  unfillable  hole  in his budget. The
young  husband strolled  up  and  down  beside  the mattress  on  which  the
red-faced  Liza was sitting curled  up into a ball,  and made some desperate
calculations.
His job of tracing blueprints at the Technopower  design office brought
Nicky Kalachov no more than forty roubles,  even in the  best months. He did
not  pay any rent  for the apartment for there  was no housing  authority in
that jungle settlement and rent was an abstract concept. Ten roubles went on
Liza's dressmaking lessons. Dinner for the two of them (one first  course of
monastery beet soup and a second course of phoney rabbit or genuine noodles)
consumed  in  two  honestly  halved  portions  in  the  Thou-Shalt-Not-Steal
vegetarian canteen  took  thirteen  roubles  each  month  from  the  married
couple's budget. The rest of their money dwindled away  heavens knows where.
This  disturbed  Nicky most  of all. "Where does the  money go?" he  used to
wonder, drawing a thin line with a  special pen on sky-blue tracing paper. A
change to meat-eating under these  circumstances would  mean  ruin. That was
why Nicky had spoken so heatedly.
"Just  think  of eating the  bodies of dead animals. Cannibalism in the
guise of culture. All diseases stern from meat."
"Of  course  they  do,"  said  Liza  with modest  irony,  "angina,  for
instance."
"Yes, they do-including angina. Don't you believe  me? The organism  is
weakened  by  the  continual consumption of meat  and  is  unable to  resist
infection."
"How stupid!"
"It's not stupid. It's the stupid person who tries to stuff his stomach
full without bothering about the quantity of vitamins."
Nicky suddenly became quiet. An enormous pork chop had loomed up before
his inner eye, driving  the insipid,  uninteresting baked  noodles, porridge
and potato  nonsense further  and further into the  background. It seemed to
have  just come out of the pan. It was  sizzling, bubbling,  and giving  off
spicy fumes. The bone stuck out like the barrel of a duelling pistol.
"Try to understand," said Nicky, "a pork chop reduces a man's life by a
week."
"Let it," said  Liza. "Mock rabbit reduces  it by six months. Yesterday
when  we were eating  that carrot  entree I  felt I was going to die. Only I
didn't want to tell you."
"Why didn't you want to tell me?"
"I hadn't the strength. I was afraid of crying."
"And aren't you afraid now?"
"Now I don't care." Liza began sobbing.
"Leo  Tolstoy,"  said  Nicky  in  a  quavering  voice, "didn't eat meat
either."
"No," retorted  Liza,  hiccupping  through her  tears,  "the count  ate
asparagus."
"Asparagus isn't meat."
"But when he was writing War and Peace he did eat meat. He did! He did!
And  when  he was  writing Anna  Karenina  he  stuffed himself  and  stuffed
himself."
"Do shut up!"
"Stuffed himself! Stuffed himself!"
"And I suppose while he was writing The Kreutzer Sonata he also stuffed
himself?" asked Nicky venomously.
"The Kreutzer Sonata is short. Just imagine him trying to write War and
Peace on vegetarian sausages! "
"Anyway, why do you keep nagging me about your Tolstoy?"
"Me nag you about Tolstoy! I like that. Me nag you!"
There was  loud merriment in the pencil boxes. Liza hurriedly pulled  a
blue knitted hat on to her head.
"Where are you going?"
"Leave me alone. I have something to do."
And she fled.
"Where can she have gone?" Nicky wondered. He listened hard.
"Women like you have a lot of freedom under the Soviet regime," said  a
voice in the last pencil box on  the left.  "She's gone  to drown  herself,"
decided the third pencil  box. The  fifth pencil box  lit the primus and got
down to the routine kissing. Liza ran from street to street in agitation.
It  was that Sunday hour  when lucky people  carry mattresses along the
Arbat and from the market.
Newly-married couples and  Soviet farmers are the principal  purchasers
of spring mattresses. They carry them upright, clasping them with both arms.
Indeed, how can they help clasping those blue, shiny-flowered foundations of
their happiness!
Citizens!  have  respect for  a blue-flowered  spring mattress.  It's a
family hearth. The be-all and the end-all of furnishings and the essence  of
domestic  comfort;  a base for love-making; the  father of  the primus.  How
sweet it  is to sleep to the democratic hum of  its springs. What marvellous
dreams a man may have when he falls asleep on its blue hessian. How great is
the respect enjoyed by a mattress owner.
A man without a mattress is pitiful. He does not exist. He does not pay
taxes; he has  no wife; friends will not  lend him money "until  Wednesday";
cab-drivers  shout  rude words after him and girls laugh at him. They do not
like idealists.
People without mattresses largely write such verse as:
It's nice to rest in a rocking-chair
To the quiet tick of a Bouret clock.
When snow flakes swirling fill the air
And the daws pass, like dreams, In a flock.
They compose the verse at high desks in  the post  office, delaying the
efficient mattress owners who come to send telegrams.
A  mattress  changes  a  man's  life.  There is  a  certain attractive,
unfathomed force hidden in its  covering and springs. People and things come
together  to the alluring ring of its  springs. It  summons  the  income-tax
collector and girls.  They both want to be friends with the1 mattress owner.
The  tax collector  does  so for fiscal reasons and  for  the benefit of the
state, and the girls do so unselfishly, obeying the laws of nature.
Youth  begins  to  bloom.  Having collected  his  tax  like a bumblebee
gathering spring honey,  the tax  collector flies away  with a joyful hum to
his district hive. And the fast-retking girls are replaced by a wife  and  a
Jewel No. 1 primus.
A mattress is insatiable.  It demands sacrifices. At night it makes the
sound  of a bouncing  ball. It needs a bookcase. It needs a table with thick
stupid  legs. Creaking its  springs,  it demands drapes, a door curtain, and
pots and pans for the kitchen. It shoves people and says to them:
"Goon! Buy a washboard and rolling-pin!"
"I'm ashamed of you, man. You haven't yet got a carpet."
"Work! I'll soon give  you children. You need  money for nappies and  a
pram."
A mattress remembers and does everything in its own way.
Not even a poet  can escape the common lot. Here he comes, carrying one
from the market, hugging it to his soft belly with horror.
"I'll break  down your resistance,  poet," says the mattress.  "You  no
longer need  to run to the post  office to  write poetry. And, anyway, is it
worth  writing? Work and the balance will always  be  in your  favour. Think
about your wife and children!"
"I haven't  a wife," cries  the  poet, staggering back  from his sprung
teacher.
"You will have! But I don't guarantee she will be the loveliest girl on
earth. I don't even know whether she will be kind. Be prepared for anything.
You will have children."
"I don't like children."
"You will."
"You frighten me, citizen mattress."
"Shut up, you fool.  You  don't know  everything.  You'll  also  obtain
credit from the Moscow woodworking factory."
"I'll kill you, mattress!"
"Puppy! If you dare to, the neighbours will denounce you to the housing
authority."
So  every Sunday lucky people cruise around Moscow to the joyful  sound
of mattresses.  But  that is not the only  thing, of  course,  which makes a
Moscow Sunday. Sunday is museum day.
There is a  special  group of people  in  Moscow who know nothing about
art,  are  not  interested  in  architecture,  and do  not  like  historical
monuments.  These  people visit  museums solely  because they are  housed in
splendid buildings.  These people stroll through  the  dazzling rooms,  look
enviously at the frescoes, touch the things they are requested not to touch,
and mutter continually:
"My, how they used to live!"
They are not concerned with the  fact that the murals were  painted  by
the Frenchman Puvis de Chavannes. They are only concerned with how much they
cost the  former  owner of the  house. They go  up  staircases  with  marble
statues  on the landings and try to imagine how many footmen  used to  stand
there,  what wages were  paid to  them, and how much they received in  tips.
There is china on the mantelpiece,  but they disregard  it and decide that a
fireplace  is not such a good thing, as it  uses up a  lot  of wood. In  the
oak-panelled dining-room they do not examine the wonderful carving. They are
troubled by  one thought: what used the  former merchant-owner  to eat there
and how much would it cost at present prices.
People like this can be found in any museum.  While the conducted tours
are cheerfully moving from one work of art  to  another, this kind of person
stands in the middle of the room and, looking in front of him, sadly moans:
"My, how they used to live!"
Liza ran along the street, stifling her tears. Her thoughts spurred her
on. She was thinking about her poor, unhappy life.
"If  we  just  had a table and two more chairs, it would be  fine.  And
we'll have a primus in the long run. We must get organized."
She  slowed  down,  suddenly  remembering   her  quarrel   with  Nicky.
Furthermore,  she felt  hungry. Hatred for her husband suddenly welled up in
her.
"It's simply disgraceful," she said aloud.
She felt even more hungry.
"Very well, then, I know what I'll do."
And Liz blushingly bought a slice of  bread and sausage  from a vendor.
Hungry as she was, it was awkward eating in the street. She  was, after all,
a mattress-owner and understood the subtleties of life. Looking around,  she
turned into the entrance to a large two-storeyed house. Inside, she attacked
the  slice  of  bread  and  sausage  with  great  avidity.  The  sausage was
delicious.  A  large  group  of tourists entered the doorway. They looked at
Liza by the wall as they passed.
Let them look! decided the infuriated girl.

Liza wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and brushed the crumbs off her
blouse. She felt happier. She was standing in front of a notice that read:

To return home would be awkward. She  had  no one she could go and see.
There were twenty kopeks in her pocket. So Liza decided to begin her life of
independence with a visit to the museum. Checking her cash in hand, she went
into the lobby.
Inside  she immediately bumped into a  man  with a shabby beard who was
staring  at  a  malachite column  with  a grieved expression  and  muttering
through his moustache:
"People certainly lived well!"
Liza looked respectfully at the column and went upstairs.
For  ten minutes or so she  sauntered through small  square rooms  with
ceilings so low that people entering them looked like giants.
The rooms  were furnished in the  style of  the period of Emperor  Paul
with mahogany  and Karelian birch furniture  that was  austere, magnificent,
and militant. Two square dressers, the doors of which were crisscrossed with
spears, stood  opposite a writing  desk.  The  desk was  vast. Sitting at it
would have been like sitting at  the Theatre Square with the Bolshoi Theatre
with its colonnade and four bronze horses  drawing Apollo to the first night
of "The Red Poppy"  as an inkwell. At least, that is how it  seemed to Liza,
who was being reared on carrots like a rabbit. There were high-backed chairs
in the corners of the room with tops twisted to resemble the horns of a ram.
The sunshine lay on their peach-coloured covers.
The chairs looked very inviting, but it was forbidden to sit on them.
Liza made a mental comparison to see how a priceless Empire chair would
look beside her red-striped mattress. The result was not too bad.  She  read
the plate on the wall which gave a  scientific and ideological justification
of the period, and,  regretting that she  and Nicky  did not  have a room in
this  palatial  building,  went  out,  unexpectedly  finding  herself  in  a
corridor.
Along the left-hand-side, at floor  level,  was a line  of semicircular
windows. Through them Liza could see below her a huge columned hall with two
rows of large windows. The  hall was  also full of  furniture, and  visitors
strolled about inspecting it. Liza stood still.  Never before had she seen a
room under her feet.
Marvelling and  thrilling at the sight, she stood for some  time gazing
downward. Suddenly she noticed the friends she had made that day, Bender and
his travelling companion, the distinguished-looking old man with the  shaven
head; they were moving from the chairs towards the desks.
"Good," said Liza. "Now I won't be so bored."
She brightened  up considerably, ran downstairs,  and immediately  lost
her way. She  came  to a  red drawing-room in which there were  about  forty
pieces of furniture. It was walnut furniture with curved  legs. There was no
exit  from the drawing-room, so she had to run back through a circular  room
with windows  at the  top,  apparently  furnished with nothing but  flowered
cushions.
She  hurried past Renaissance  brocade chairs,  Dutch dressers, a large
Gothic bed with a canopy resting on four twisted columns. In a bed like that
a person would have looked no larger than a nut.
At length Liza heard the  drone of a batch of tourists as they listened
inattentively to  the guide unmasking the imperialistic designs of Catherine
II in connection with the deceased empress's love of Louis Quinze furniture.
This  was in fact the large  columned  hall with the two  rows of large
windows. Liza made  towards  the far  end, where  her  acquaintance, Comrade
Bender, was talking heatedly to his shaven-headed companion.
As she approached, she could hear a sonorous voice saying:
"The furniture is chic moderne, but not apparently what we want."
"No,  but there  are  other rooms as well. We  must examine  everything
systematically."
"Hello!" said Liza.
They both turned around and immediately frowned.
"Hello, Comrade Bender. I'm glad I've found you. It's boring by myself.
Let's look at everything together."
The  concessionaires exchanged  glances. Ippolit Matveyevich  assumed a
dignified air, although  the  idea  that  Liza  might delay  their important
search for the chair with the jewels was not a pleasant one.
"We are typical provincials," said Bender impatiently. "But how did you
get here, Miss Moscow?"
"Quite by accident. I had a row with Nicky."
"Really?" Ippolit Matveyevich observed.
"Well, let's leave this room," said Ostap.
"But I haven't looked at it yet. It's so nice."
"That's done  it!" Ostap  whispered  to Vorobyaninov.  And,  turning to
Liza, he  added:  "There's  absolutely  nothing to  see here.  The style  is
decadent. The Kerensky period."
"I'm  told  there's  some  Hambs  furniture  somewhere  here,"  Ippolit
Matveyevich declared. "Maybe we should see that."
Liza  agreed  and,  taking  Vorobyaninov's   arm  (she  thought  him  a
remarkably  nice  representative of science), went towards the exit. Despite
the  seriousness of the  situation, at this decisive  moment in the treasure
hunt, Bender  laughed good-humouredly as he walked behind the couple. He was
amused at the chief of the Comanche in the role of a cavalier.
Liza was a  great hindrance to  the concessionaires. Whereas they could
determine at a glance whether or  not the room contained  the furniture they
were after,  and if  not, automatically make for the next,  Liza  browsed at
length in  each section. She read all the printed tags, made cutting remarks
about the  other visitors, and dallied at  each exhibit. Completely  without
realizing it, she was mentally adapting all the furniture she saw to her own
room and  requirements. She did not like the Gothic bed  at all. It  was too
big. Even if Nicky in some miraculous way acquired a room six yards  square,
the mediaeval couch would still not fit into it. Liza walked round and round
the bed, measuring  its true area  in paces. She was very happy. She did not
notice the sour faces of her companions, whose chivalrous  natures prevented
them from heading for the Hambs room at full pelt.
"Let's be patient," Ostap whispered. "The furniture won't run away. And
don't squeeze the girl, Marshal, I'm jealous!" Vorobyaninov laughed smugly.
The rooms went on  and on. There was no  end to them. The furniture  of
the Alexander  period  was  displayed in batches. Its relatively  small size
delighted Liza.
"Look,  look!"  she cried, seizing Ippolit  Matveyevich by  the sleeve.
"You see that bureau? That would suit our room wonderfully, wouldn't it?"
"Charming furniture," said Ostap testily. "But decadent." "I've been in
here already," said Liza as she entered the red drawing-room. "I don't think
it's worth stopping here."
To   her  astonishment,   the   indifferent  companions  were  standing
stock-still by the door like sentries.
"Why have you stopped? Let's go on. I'm tired."
"Wait," said Ippolit Matveyevich, freeing his arm. "One moment."
The large room was  crammed  with furniture. Hambs chairs were arranged
along the  wall and  around  a  table.  The  couch in  the  corner  was also
encircled by chairs. Their curved legs and comfortable backs were excitingly
familiar  to  Ippolit  Matveyevich.   Ostap  looked  at  him  questioningly.
Vorobyaninov was flushed.
"You're tired, young lady," he said to Liza. "Sit down here a moment to
rest  while  he and I  walk around a bit.  This seems to  be an  interesting
room."
They sat Liza down. Then the concessionaires went over to the window.
"Are they the ones?" Ostap asked.
"It looks like it. I must have a closer look."
"Are they all here?"
"I'll  just count them. Wait a moment." Vorobyaninov began shifting his
eyes from one  chair to another. "Just a second," he said at length. "Twenty
chairs! That can't be right. There are only supposed to be twelve."
"Take a good look. They may not be the right ones."
They began walking among the chairs.
"Well?" Ostap asked impatiently.
"The back doesn't seem to be the same as in mine."
"So they aren't the ones?"
"No, they're not."
"What a waste of time it was taking up with you!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was completely crushed.
"All right,"  said  Ostap, "the hearing is continued.  A chair isn't  a
needle in a haystack. We'll find it.  Give me  the orders.  We will  have to
establish unpleasant contact with the museum  curators. Sit  down beside the
girl and wait. I'll be back soon."
"Why are you so depressed?" asked Liza, "Are you tired?"
Ippolit Matveyevich tried not to answer.
"Does your head ache?"
"Yes, slightly. I have worries,  you know. Lack  of a woman's affection
has an effect on one's tenor of life."
Liza  was at first  surprised, and  then,  looking at  her  bald-headed
companion,  felt  truly sorry for  him.  Vorobyaninov's  eyes  were full  of
suffering. His pince-nez could not hide the sharply outlined bags underneath
them. The rapid change from the quiet life of a clerk in a district registry
office  to  the uncomfortable,  irksome  existence  of a  diamond hunter and
adventurer had left its mark. Ippolit Matveyevich had become extremely  thin
and  his  liver  had started  paining  him.  Under the strict supervision of
Bender he was losing his  own personality  and rapidly being absorbed by the
powerful intellect of the son  of a Turkish citizen. Now  that he  was  left
alone for a minute with the charming Liza, he felt an urge to tell her about
his trials and tribulations, but did not dare to do so.
"Yes," he said, gazing tenderly at  his companion, "that's  how  it is.
How are you, Elizabeth. . ."
"Petrovna. And what's your name?"
They exchanged names  and  patronymics. "A tale of  true love," thought
Ippolit Matveyevich, peering into Liza's simple face. So passionately and so
irresistibly  did  the   old  marshal  want  a  woman's  affection  that  he
immediately  seized  Liza's  tiny hand  in his own  wrinkled hands and began
talking  enthusiastically of Paris. He wanted to be  rich,  extravagant  and
irresistible. He wanted to captivate a beauty  from  the all-women orchestra
and drink champagne with her in a private dining-room to the sound of music.
What  was the  use of talking  to a girl who knew absolutely  nothing  about
women's orchestras or  wine,  and  who  by  nature would not appreciate  the
delights of  that  kind of  life?  But  he  so much wanted to be attractive!
Ippolit Matveyevich enchanted Liza  with his  account of Paris.  "Are  you a
scientist?" asked Liza.
"Yes, to a certain extent,", replied  Ippolit Matveyevich, feeling that
since first meeting Bender  he had  regained some of the  nerve  that he had
lost in recent years.
"And how old are you, if it's not an indiscreet question?"
"That  has  nothing  to do  with  the  science  which  I am at  present
representing."
Liza  was  squashed  by the prompt and apt reply. "But,  anyway-thirty,
forty, fifty?"
"Almost. Thirty-seven."
"Oh! You look much younger."
Ippolit Matveyevich felt happy.  "When will you give me the pleasure of
seeing you again? " he asked through his nose.
Liza  was  very  ashamed.  She  wriggled about  on  her seat  and  felt
miserable. "Where has Comrade Bender got to?" she asked in a thin voice.
"So when,  then?" asked Vorobyaninov impatiently. "When and where shall
we meet?"
"Well, I don't know. Whenever you like."
"Is today all right?"
"Today?"
"Please!"
"Well, all right. Today, if you like. Come and see us."
"No, let's meet outside.  The weather's so wonderful at present. Do you
know the poem 'It's mischievous May, it's magical May, who is waving his fan
of freshness'?"
"Is that Zharov?"
"Mmm . . . I think so. Today, then? And where?"
"How strange you are. Anywhere you like. By the cabinet if you want. Do
you know it? As soon as it's dark."
Hardly had Ippolit Matveyevich time to kiss  Liza's hand, which he  did
solemnly  and  in  three  instalments,  when Ostap  returned.  He  was  very
businesslike.
"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he said quickly, "but my friend and I cannot
see you home.  A small  but important  matter  has  arisen. We  have  to  go
somewhere urgently."
Ippolit Matveyevich caught his breath.  "Good-bye, Elizabeth Petrovna,"
he said hastily. "I'm very, very sorry, but we're in a terrible hurry."
The  partners  ran  off, leaving  the astonished  Liza in  the room  so
abundantly furnished with Hambs chairs.
"If it weren't for me," said Ostap as they went downstairs, "not a damn
thing would get done. Take your hat off to me!  Go on! Don't be afraid! Your
head won't  fall off!  Listen! The museum has no use for your furniture. The
right  place  for  it is  not  a  museum, but the  barracks of a  punishment
battalion. Are you satisfied with the situation?"
"What nerve!"  exclaimed  Vorobyaninov, who had begun to  free  himself
from the other's powerful intellect.
"Silence!" said Ostap  coldly. "You don't know what's happening.  If we
don't get hold of your furniture, everything's lost. We'll never  see  it. I
have just had a depressing conversation with the curator of  this historical
refuse-dump."
"Well, and what did he say,"  cried Ippolit  Matveyevich, "this curator
of yours? "
"He said all he  needed to. Don't worry. Tell me,' I said to him,  'how
do  you explain the fact that the  furniture requisitioned in  Stargorod and
sent  to your  museum  isn't here?" I asked him  politely,  of course, as  a
comrade.  'Which  furniture?'  he  asks. 'Such things  do  not  occur  in my
museum.' I immediately shoved the orders under his  nose. He began rummaging
in the  files. He  searched for  about half  an hour and finally  came back.
Well,  guess  what  happened  to  the  furniture!"  "Not  lost?  "  squeaked
Vorobyaninov.
"No, just imagine! Just imagine, it remained safe and sound through all
the confusion.  As I told you, it  has no museum  value.  It was dumped in a
storehouse  and  only  yesterday, mind  you,  only  yesterday,  after  seven
years-it had been in the storehouse seven years-it was sent to be auctioned.
The auction is  being  held  by  the  chief  scientific  administration. And
provided  no  one bought it  either  yesterday or this morning,  it's ours."
"Quick!" Ippolit Matveyevich shouted. "Taxi! "Ostap yelled.
They got in without even arguing about the price. "Take your hat off to
me! Don't  be  afraid, Hofmarshal! Wine,  women and cards  will be provided.
Then we'll settle for the light-blue waistcoat as well."
As  friskily  as foals, the concessionaires  tripped into  the Petrovka
arcade where the auction rooms were located.
In  the first auction room they caught sight of what they had long been
chasing. All ten chairs  were lined along the wall.  The  upholstery had not
even become darker, nor had it faded or been in any way  spoiled. The chairs
were as  fresh and  clean  as when  they  had first  been  removed from  the
supervision  of  the zealous Claudia Ivanovna.  "Are  those the ones?" asked
Ostap.
"My God,  my God," Vorobyaninov kept repeating. "They're the ones.  The
very ones. There's no doubt this time."
"Let's make certain, just in case," said Ostap, trying to remain calm.
They went up to an auctioneer.
"These chairs are from the furniture museum, aren't they? "
"These? Yes, they are."
"And they're for sale?"
"Yes."
"At what price?"
"No price yet. They're up for auction."
"Aha! Today?"
"No. The auction has finished for today. Tomorrow at five."
"And they're not for sale at the moment? "