The Twelve Chairs (2 page)

Hunter College 1960
Part I

There were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral homes in the
regional centre of N. that the inhabitants seemed to be born merely in order
to have a shave,  get  their  hair cut,  freshen up their  heads with toilet
water and then die. In actual fact,  people came into the world, shaved, and
died rather rarely  in  the regional centre  of N. Life in  N. was extremely
quiet.  The   spring  evenings  were  delightful,  the  mud  glistened  like
anthracite in the light of the moon,  and all the young men of the town were
so much  in love with the secretary  of  the communal-service workers' local
committee that she found difficulty in collecting their subscriptions.
Matters  of   life  and   death  did  not  worry   Ippolit  Matveyevich
Vorobyaninov,  although  by the nature of his  work he  dealt with them from
nine till five every day, with a half-hour break for lunch.
Each morning, having drunk  his ration of hot  milk brought  to him  by
Claudia  Ivanovna in  a  streaky  frosted-glass tumbler,  he  left the dingy
little house and went outside  into the vast  street bathed  in weird spring
sunlight; it was called Comrade Gubernsky Street. It was the nicest kind  of
street  you  can  find in regional  centres. On the left you could  see  the
coffins of the Nymph Funeral Home  glittering with silver through undulating
green-glass panes. On the right, the dusty, plain oak  coffins of Bezenchuk,
the undertaker, reclined sadly behind small windows from which the putty was
peeling  off. Further  up, "Master Barber Pierre and  Constantine"  promised
customers  a "manicure" and  "home curlings". Still further on  was  a hotel
with  a  hairdresser's,  and beyond  it  a  large  open  space  in  which  a
straw-coloured calf stood tenderly licking the rusty sign propped up against
a solitary gateway. The sign read: Do-Us-the-Honour Funeral Home.
Although  there  were  many  funeral  homes,  their  clientele  was not
wealthy.  The  Do-Us-the-Honour  had gone  broke three years before  Ippolit
Matveyevich settled in the town of N., while Bezenchuk drank like a fish and
had once tried to pawn his best sample coffin.
People rarely died  in  the  town of N. Ippolit  Matveyevich knew  this
better than anyone because he worked in the registry office, where he was in
charge of the registration of deaths and marriages.
The  desk  at  which  Ippolit  Matveyevich worked  resembled an ancient
gravestone. The  left-hand corner  had  been  eaten away by rats. Its wobbly
legs quivered under the weight of  bulging tobacco-coloured  files of notes,
which  could provide  any required information on  the  origins  of the town
inhabitants and the  family  trees  that had grown up in the barren regional
soil.
On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half
past seven and immediately slipped on to his nose an old-fashioned pince-nez
with a  gold nosepiece. He did not wear glasses. At one time, deciding  that
it was not hygienic to  wear pince-nez, he went to  the  optician and bought
himself a pair of frameless spectacles with gold-plated sidepieces. He liked
the spectacles from the  very  first, but his wife (this was  shortly before
she died) found that they made him look the spitting image of Milyukov,  and
he  gave them  to  the  man  who  cleaned  the yard.  Although  he  was  not
shortsighted, the fellow grew accustomed  to the glasses and enjoyed wearing
them.
"Bonjour!" sang Ippolit Matveyevich to  himself as he lowered his  legs
from the bed. "Bonjour" showed that he had woken up in a. good humour. If he
said  "Guten Morgen" on awakening,  it  usually  meant that  his  liver  was
playing tricks,  that it was no joke being fifty-two,  and that the  weather
was damp at the time.
Ippolit Matveyevich thrust  his legs into  pre-revolutionary  trousers,
tied the  ribbons around his ankles, and pulled on short, soft-leather boots
with narrow,  square toes. Five  minutes later he  was neatly  arrayed in  a
yellow  waistcoat  decorated with  small silver  stars  and a lustrous  silk
jacket that reflected the colours of  the  rainbow as it  caught  the light.
Wiping away the drops of water  still clinging to  his  grey hairs after his
ablutions,  Ippolit  Matveyevich fiercely wiggled  his moustache, hesitantly
felt  his  bristly  chin,  gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush  and,
then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who
had just come into the room.
"Eppole-et," she thundered, "I had a bad dream last night."
The word "dream" was pronounced with a French "r".
Ippolit  Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law  up and down. He  was six
feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for  him to look down
on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt.
Claudia Ivanovna continued: "I dreamed  of the deceased Marie with  her
hair down, and wearing a golden sash."
The  iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at  the
rumble of  Claudia Ivanovna's voice. "I am very disturbed. I fear  something
may happen."  These last words were uttered with such force that  the square
of   bristling  hair  on  Ippolit  Matveyevich's  head  moved  in  different
directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly:
"Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?"
It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit
Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her
advanced  age gave  little hope  of  any improvement.  She was stingy in the
extreme, and  it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's  poverty which prevented her
giving rein to  this passion. Her voice was  so strong  and fruity  that  it
might well have been envied by Richard  the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is
well known, horses  used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing
of all  about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed
of girls  in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid  worn by dragoons,
caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats  who went for walks
at  night  carrying clappers, and  knitting-needles which  hopped around the
room by  themselves making  a distressing  tinkle. An empty-headed woman was
Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her  upper lip was covered
by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.
Ippolit  Matveyevich  left  the  house  in rather  an  irritable  mood.
Bezenchuk  the  undertaker was standing at the entrance  to his  tumble-down
establishment, leaning against the  door with his hands crossed. The regular
collapse of  his commercial undertakings plus  a long period of practice  in
the consumption of intoxicating drinks had  made his eyes bright yellow like
a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.
"Greetings to an honoured guest!" he  rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov.
"Good mornin'."
Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled  beaver hat. "How's your
mother-in-law,  might  I  inquire?  "  "Mrr-mrr,"  said  Ippolit Matveyevich
indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.
"God grant  her health," said Bezenchuk  bitterly. "Nothin' but losses,
durn it." And crossing his  hands on his  chest, he again leaned against the
doorway.
At  the entrance  to the  Nymph  Funeral Home Ippolit  Matveyevich  was
stopped once more.  There were three owners of the Nymph.  They all bowed to
Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.
"She's  well," replied Ippolit Matveyevich. "The things she  does! Last
night she saw a golden girl with her hair down. It was a dream."
The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly.
These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov  on  his way,  and contrary to
his usual practice, he did not arrive  at  work until the clock  on the wall
above the slogan "Finish Your Business and Leave" showed five past nine.
Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache,
Ippolit Matveyevich was known  in the office as  Maciste.* although the real
Maciste   had   no   moustache.   (  Translator's   Note:   Maciste  was  an
internationally known Italian actor of the time.)
Taking a blue  felt  cushion out  of  a  drawer  in the  desk,  Ippolit
Matveyevich  placed  it  on  his  chair,  aligned  his  moustache  correctly
(parallel  to  the top  of the desk) and sat down  on  the  cushion,  rising
slightly higher than  his three colleagues.  He  was not  afraid of  getting
piles; he was afraid  of wearing  out his trousers-that was why he  used the
blue cushion.
All these  operations were watched timidly  by  two young persons-a boy
and  a  girl.  The young man, who wore a padded  cotton coat, was completely
overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink,  the clock
that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice
"Finish Your Business  and Leave". The  young  man in  the coat had not even
begun  his  business,  but he  was  nonetheless ready to leave. He  felt his
business was  so  insignificant  that  it  was  shameful  to disturb  such a
distinguished-looking   grey-haired   citizen   as   Vorobyaninov.   Ippolit
Matveyevich  also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could
wait, so he opened folder no.  2 and,  with a twitch of the  cheek, immersed
himself in  the papers. The girl, who had on a long jacket edged  with shiny
black  ribbon,  whispered  something  to  the  young  man  and,   pink  with
embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Comrade," she said, "where do we . . ."
The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly
for himself, blurted out:
"Get married!"
Ippolit Matveyevich  looked thoughtfully at the  rail behind  which the
young couple were standing.
"Birth? Death?"
"Get married?" repeated the young  man in the coat and looked round him
in confusion.
The girl gave a giggle. Things were going fine. Ippolit Matveyevich set
to work with the skill of a magician. In spidery handwriting he recorded the
names of the bride and  groom in  thick registers,  sternly  questioned  the
witnesses,  who  had to  be  fetched  from  outside, breathed  tenderly  and
lengthily  on the square rubber stamps and then,  half  rising  to his feet,
impressed them  upon the tattered identification papers. Having received two
roubles  from  the newly-weds "for administration  of  the sacrament", as he
said  with a  smirk,  and  given  them a receipt,  Ippolit Matveyevich  drew
himself up to his splendid height,  automatically pushing out  his chest (he
had worn a corset at one  time). The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his
shoulders like epaulettes. His appearance was slightly comic, but singularly
impressive.  The  biconcave  lenses  of  his  pince-nez flashed  white  like
searchlights. The young couple stood in awe.
"Young people,"  said  Ippolit  Matveyevich  pompously,  "allow  me  to
congratulate you,  as they used  to say, on your legal marriage. It is very,
very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the
realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!'
Having  made  this  address, Ippolit  Matveyevich shook hands with  the
newly  married  couple,  sat  down,  and,  extremely  pleased with  himself,
continued  to read the  papers in folder  no. 2. At the next desk the clerks
sniggered into their ink-wells.  The quiet routine of  the  working day  had
begun. No  one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages  desk. Through the windows
citizens could be  seen  making their  way  home, shivering  in  the  spring
chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough co-operative
began  crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then  came the mechanical rattling and
squeaking of a car engine.  A thick cloud of violet  smoke billowed out from
Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the  clanking grew louder.  Through  the smoke
appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with
its minute radiator and  bulky body.  Floundering in the mud as it went, the
car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a
cloud of poisonous  smoke. The  clerks remained standing  at the window  for
some  time, commenting on  the event  and  attempting to  connect  it with a
possible reduction in staff. A little while later  Bezenchuk cautiously went
past  along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town
trying to find out if anyone had died.
The working day was drawing to  a close. In the nearby white and yellow
belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one
by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting,
and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square.
It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be
born on that day had  been born  and  registered in  the thick  ledgers. All
those  wishing to  get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the
thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of  the undertakers, there had not
been a single death. Ippolit  Matveyevich  packed up his files, put the felt
cushion  away  in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache  with a comb, and was
just about  to leave, having  visions  of a bowl of steaming soup, when  the
door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold.
"Greetings  to an honoured  guest,"  said  Ippolit  Matveyevich  with a
smile. "What can I do for you?"
The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable
to utter a word.
"Well?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely.
"Does  the  Nymph,  durn  it,  really  give  good  service?"  said  the
undertaker vaguely. "Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a  coffin needs
so much wood alone."
"What?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"It's  the Nymph. . .  . Three families livin' on one  rotten business.
And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the
tassels  ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in
1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a
good coffin."
"What  are  you  talking  about?   Are  you  crazy?"   snapped  Ippolit
Matveyevich and moved towards the door.  "Your coffins will drive you out of
your mind."
Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first
and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience.
"When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one
firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I
tell  you straight, there's  nothin' to beat  mine. You  don't  even need to
look."
Ippolit  Matveyevich  turned  round  angrily, glared at  Bezenchuk, and
began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office
that day, he felt rotten.
The three  owners of the Nymph  were standing by their establishment in
the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that  morning.
They appeared  not to have exchanged a single  word with one another,  yet a
striking change  in  their expressions  and a  kind  of secret  satisfaction