The Twelve Chairs (23 page)

CITIZEN  O. BENDER  WAS KNOCKED DOWN  YESTERDAY ON  SVERDLOV  SQUARE BY
HORSE-CAB NO. 8974. THE VICTIM WAS UNHURT EXCEPT FOR SLIGHT SHOCK.
"It was the cab-driver who suffered slight shock, not me," grumbled  O.
Bender.  "The  idiots!  They write and write,  and  don't know what  they're
writing  about.  Aha!  So  that's  the Lathe.  Very, very  pleasant.  Do you
realize, Vorobyaninov, that this report might have  been written  by someone
sitting on our chair? A fine thing that is!"
The smooth  operator  lapsed  into thought. He had  found an excuse  to
visit the newspaper office.
Having found out  from the  editor that all the rooms  on both sides of
the corridor were occupied  by the editorial offices, Ostap assumed a  naive
air  and made  a  round  of the premises.  He had  to find  out  which  room
contained the chair.
He strode into the union committee room, where  a  meeting of the young
motorists was in progress, but saw  at once  there  was  no chair  there and
moved on to the next room. In the clerical office he pretended to be waiting
for a resolution; in the reporters'  room he  asked where  it  was they were
selling the wastepaper, as advertised; in the editor's office he asked about
subscriptions, and in the humorous-sketch section  he wanted  to  know where
they accepted notices concerning lost documents.
By this  method he  eventually arrived at  the  chief  editor's office,
where  the  chief  editor  was sitting on the concessionaires' chair bawling
into a telephone.
Ostap needed time to reconnoitre the terrain.
"Comrade editor,  you  have  published a downright libellous  statement
about me."
"What libellous statement?"
Taking his time, Ostap unfolded a copy of  the Lathe. Glancing round at
the door, he saw it had a Yale lock.  By removing a  small piece of glass in
the door it would be possible to slip a hand through and unlock it  from the
inside.
The chief editor read the item which Ostap pointed out to him.
"Where do you see a libellous statement there?"
"Of course, this bit:
The victim was unhurt except
for slight shock.'"
"I don't understand."
Ostap looked tenderly at the chief editor and the chair.
"Am I likely to be shocked by some cab-driver? You have disgraced me in
the eyes of the world. You must publish an apology."
"Listen, citizen," said  the chief  editor, "no one has disgraced  you.
And we don't publish apologies for such minor points."
"Well, I shall not let  the matter rest, at any rate," replied Ostap as
he left the room.
He had seen all he wanted.

The  Stargorod branch of  the  ephemeral Sword and Ploughshare and  the
young  toughs from Fastpack formed  a  queue outside  the Grainproducts meal
shop.
Passers-by kept stopping.
"What's the queue for?" asked the citizens.
In a tiresome queue outside a  shop  there  is  always one person whose
readiness to chatter increases  with his distance from the shop doorway. And
furthest of all stood Polesov.
"Things have reached a pretty pitch,"  said the fire chief. "We'll soon
be eating oilcake. Even 1919 was better than this. There's only enough flour
in the town for four days."
The citizens twirled their moustaches disbelievingly  and  argued  with
Polesov, quoting the Stargorod Truth.
Having  proved  to him as easily as  pie that  there was as  much flour
available as they required and that there was no need to panic, the citizens
ran home, collected all their ready cash, and joined the flour queue.
When they had  bought  up  all the  flour in the shop, the toughs  from
Fastpack switched to groceries and formed a queue for tea and sugar.
In three days Stargorod was in the grip  of an acute food and commodity
shortage.  Representatives  from the co-operatives and  state-owned  trading
organizations proposed that until the arrival of food  supplies,  already on
their way,  the sale of comestibles should be restricted to a pound of sugar
and five pounds of flour a head.
The next day an antidote to this was found.
At  the  head of the sugar queue stood Alchen. Behind him was his wife,
Sashchen,  Pasha Emilevich,  four  Yakovleviches  and all fifteen  old-women
pensioners in  their woollen  dresses. As  soon as he had bled the  shop  of
twenty-two  pounds of  sugar,  Alchen  led his  queue  across to  the  other
co-operatives, cursing Pasha Emilevich as he went for gobbling up his ration
of one  pound of granulated sugar. Pasha was pouring the sugar into his palm
and transferring it to his enormous mouth. Alchen  fussed about all  day. To
avoid such unforeseen losses, he took Pasha from the queue and put him on to
carrying the  goods  purchased to the  local market. There Alchen slyly sold
the booty of sugar, tea and marquisette to the privately-owned stalls.
Polesov stood in the queue chiefly for  reasons of principle. He had no
money, so  he  could  not buy  anything.  He  wandered from queue  to queue,
listening  to the conversations,  made  nasty  remarks, raised  his eyebrows
knowingly, and complained about conditions. The result  of  his insinuations
was  that  rumours  began  to  go  around  that  some  sort  of  underground
organization had arrived with a supply of swords and ploughshares.
Governor  Dyadyev  made ten thousand  roubles  in  one  day.  What  the
chairman of the stock-exchange committee made, even his wife did not know.
The  idea that he belonged to a secret  society gave Kislarsky no rest.
The rumours  in the  town were the  last straw. After a sleepless night, the
chairman of  the stock-exchange  committee made up  his  mind that  the only
thing that could shorten ms term of  imprisonment was to make a clean breast
of it.
"Listen, Henrietta," he said to his  wife,  "it's time  to transfer the
textiles to your brother-in-law."
"Why,  will the secret police  really come for  you?"  asked  Henrietta
Kislarsky.
"They  might. Since there  isn't  any freedom of trade  in the country,
I'll have to go to jail some time or other,"
"Shall I prepare  your  underwear? What misery for  me to  have to keep
taking you things. But why don't you become a Soviet employee? After all, my
brother-in-law is a trade-union member and he doesn't do too badly."
Henrietta  did not know that fate had promoted her  husband to the rank
of chairman of the stock-exchange committee. She was therefore calm.
"I may not come back tonight," said Kislarsky, "in which case bring  me
some things tomorrow to the jail. But please  don't bring  any cream  puffs.
What kind of fun is it eating cold tarts?"
"Perhaps you ought to take the primus?"
"Do you think  I would  be  allowed  a primus in my  cell?  Give  me my
basket."
Kislarsky  had  a special prison basket.  Made to  order, it was  fully
adapted for all purposes. When opened out, it acted as a  bed, and when half
open it  could be  used as a table. Moreover,  it could be substituted for a
cupboard; it  had shelves, hooks and drawers. His  wife put some cold supper
and fresh underwear into the all-purpose basket.
"You don't need  to see me  off,"  said  her experienced  husband.  "If
Rubens comes for  the money,  tell him there isn't any. Goodbye!  Rubens can
wait."
And Kislarsky walked  sedately out into the street, carrying the prison
basket by the handle.
"Where are you going, citizen Kislarsky? " Polesov hailed him.
He  was standing by a telegraph  pole  and shouting encouragement to  a
post-office  worker who was clambering up  towards the  insulators, gripping
the pole with iron claws.
"I'm going to confess," answered Kislarsky.
"What about?"
"The Sword and Ploughshare."
Victor Mikhailovich  was speechless.  Kislarsky sauntered  towards  the
province public  prosecutor's  office,  sticking out his  little  egg-shaped
belly, which was encircled by a wide belt with an outside pocket.
Victor Mikhailovich napped his wings and flew off to see Dyadyev.
"Kislarsky's a stooge," cried Polesov. "He's just gone to squeal on us.
He's even still in sight."
"What? And with his basket?" said the  horrified governor of Stargorod.
"Yes."
Dyadyev kissed his wife, shouted to her that if Rubens  came he was not
to get any money, and raced out into the  street. Victor Mikhailovich turned
a circle, clucked  like a hen that had just laid an egg, and  rushed to find
Nikesha and Vladya.
In the meantime, Kislarsky sauntered slowly along  in  the direction of
the prosecutor's office. On the way he met Rubens  and had a  long talk with
him.  "And what about  the money?" asked  Rubens.  "My  wife will give it to
you."
"And why are you carrying that basket?" Rubens inquired suspiciously.
"I'm going to the steam baths." "Well, have a good steam!"
Kislarsky then  called  in  at the state-owned  sweetshop, formerly the
Bonbons de Varsovie, drank a  cup  of coffee, and ate a piece of layer cake.
It was time  to  repent. The  chairman of the  stock-exchange committee went
into the reception room of the  prosecutor's office. It was empty. Kislarsky
went up  to a door marked "Province Public Prosecutor" and knocked politely.
"Come in," said a familiar voice.
Kislarsky went  inside  and halted in amazement.  His  egg-shaped belly
immediately  collapsed and  wrinkled like a  date. What he  saw was  totally
unexpected.
The  desk behind  which  the  prosecutor was sitting was  surrounded by
members of the  powerful Sword  and Ploughshare organization.  Judging  from
their gestures and plaintive voices, they had confessed to everything.
"Here he is," said Dyadyev, "the ringleader  and Octobrist."  "First of
all," said Kislarsky,  putting down the basket on the floor and  approaching
the desk,  "I am not  an  Octobrist;  next,  I have always been  sympathetic
towards the Soviet regime, and third, the ringleader is not  me, but Comrade
Charushnikov, whose address is-"
"Red  Army Street!" shouted  Dyadyev. "Number three!"  chorused Nikesha
and Vladya. "Inside the yard on the right!" added Polesov. "I can show you."
Twenty minutes  later they brought in Charushnikov, who promptly denied
ever having seen any of the persons present in the room before in his  life,
and then, without pausing, went  on to denounce Elena  Stanislavovna. It was
only when he was in  his cell, wearing  clean underwear and stretched out on
his  prison basket, that the chairman of  the stock-exchange committee  felt
happy and at ease.
During  the crisis  Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender managed to stock up with
enough provisions and commodities for her shop to last at least four months.
Regaining  her calm, she began pining once more  for  her young husband, who
was languishing at meetings of the Junior Council  of Ministers.  A visit to
the fortune-teller brought no reassurance.
Alarmed  by  the  disappearance  of   the  Stargorod  Areopagus,  Elena
Stanislavovna  dealt  the cards with outrageous negligence.  The cards first
predicted  the end  of  the  world,  then  a meeting with  her husband  in a
government institution in the presence of an enemy-the King of Spades.
What  is more, the actual  fortune-telling ended up rather  oddly, too.
Police agents arrived (Kings of  Spades) and took away  the prophetess to  a
government institution (the public prosecutor's office).
Left  alone  with the parrot, the widow was about to leave in confusion
when the parrot struck the bars of its cage with its  beak and spoke for the
first time in its life.
"The times we live in!" it said sardonically,  covering its  head  with
one wing and pulling a feather from underneath.
Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender made for the door in fright.
A stream of heated, muddled words followed her. The ancient bird was so
upset by the  visit of the police and the removal of its owner that it began
shrieking out all the words it knew. A prominent place in its repertoire was
occupied by Victor Polesov.
"Given the absence . . ." said the parrot testily.
And, turning upside-down on its perch, it winked at  the widow, who had
stopped motionless by the  door,  as much as to say: "Well, how do  you like
it, widow?"
"Mother!" gasped Gritsatsuyev.
"Which  regiment  were you  in?" asked the parrot  in  Bender's  voice.
"Cr-r-r-rash! Europe will help us."
As soon as the widow had fled, the parrot  straightened its shirt front
and uttered the words which people had  been trying unsuccessfully for years
to make it say:
"Pretty Polly!"
The  widow fled howling down  the street. At her house an agile old man
was waiting for her. It was Bartholomeich.
"It's about the advertisement," said Bartholomeich. "I've been here for
two hours."
The heavy hoof of presentiment struck the widow a blow in the heart.
"Oh," she intoned, "it's been a gruelling experience."
"Citizen  Bender  left  you,  didn't  he?  It  was  you   who  put  the
advertisement in, wasn't it?"
The widow sank on to the sacks of flour.
"How weak your constitution is," said Bartholomeich sweetly. "I'd first
like to find out about the reward. . . ."
"Oh, take  everything.  I need  nothing  any more . .  ."  burbled  the
sensitive widow.
"Right, then. I  know the whereabouts of your sonny boy, O. Bender. How
much is the reward?"
"Take everything," repeated the widow.
"Twenty roubles," said Bartholomeich dryly.
The  widow  rose  from  the  sacks.  She  was  covered with  flour. Her
flour-dusted eyelashes flapped frenziedly. "How much?" she asked.
"Fifteen roubles." Bartholomeich lowered  his price. He sensed it would
be difficult making the wretched woman cough up as much as three roubles.
Trampling  the  sacks underfoot, the  widow advanced  on  the  old man,
called  upon the heavenly  powers to bear witness, and with their assistance
drove a hard bargain.
"Well,  all right,  make  it  five  roubles. Only I want  the  money in
advance, please: it's a rule of mine."
Bartholomeich took  two newspaper  clippings from  his  notebook,  and,
without letting go of them, began reading.
"Take a look  at  these in  order. You wrote 'Missing from home . . . I
implore, etc.' That's right, isn't it? That's the Stargorod Truth. And  this
is what they wrote about  your little boy in the Moscow newspapers. Here . .
.  'Knocked down  by  a horse.' No, don't smile, Madame, just listen  . .  .
'Knocked down by a horse.' But alive.  Alive, I tell you. Would I ask  money
for a corpse? So that's it . . . 'Knocked down by a horse. Citizen O. Bender
was  knocked down yesterday on Sverdlov Square by horse-cab number 8974. The
victim was unhurt except for slight shock.' So I'll give you these documents
and you give me the money in advance. It's a rule of mine."
Sobbing, the widow handed over the money. Her husband, her dear husband
in  yellow  boots  lay on distant  Moscow  soil  and a  cab-horse, breathing
flames, was kicking his blue worsted chest.
Bartholomeich's  sensitive  nature  was  satisfied  with  the  adequate
reward.  He went  away, having explained to  the widow that further clues to
her  husband's whereabouts could be  found for sure  at the  offices of  the
Lathe, where, naturally, everything was known.
Letter  from  Father Theodore  written  in  Rostov  at  the  Milky  Way
hot-water stall to his wife in the regional centre of N.
My darling Kate,
A fresh disaster has befallen me, but I'll come to that. I received the
money in good time, for which sincere thanks. On arrival in Rostov I went at
once to the address.  New-Ros-Cement  is an enormous  establishment;  no one
there had ever  heard of Engineer Bruns. I was about to  despair  completely
when they gave me an idea. Try the personnel office, they said. I did.  Yes,
they  told me, we  did  have someone of that name;  he was doing responsible
work, but left  us  last  year  to go to  Baku  to  work  for  As-Oil as  an
accident-prevention specialist.
Well, my dear, my journey will not be as brief as I expected. You write
that the  money is running  out.  It can't be helped, Catherine. It won't be
long now.  Have patience, pray to God, and sell my diagonal-cloth  student's
uniform. And there'll soon be other expenses to be  borne of another nature.
Be ready for everything.
The  cost of living in Rostov  is awful. I  paid Rs.  2.25  for a hotel
room.  I  haven't enough  to get to Baku. I'll cable  you from there  if I'm
successful.
The  weather here  is very  hot.  I carry  my  coat around with me. I'm
afraid to leave anything in my  room-they'd steal it before  you had time to
turn around. The people here are sharp.
I  don't  like  Rostov.  It  is  considerably inferior  to  Kharkov  in
population and geographical position. But don't worry, Mother. God  willing,
we'll take a trip to Moscow together. Then you'll see it's a completely West
European city. And then we will go to live in Samara near our factory.
Has Vorobyaninov come back? Where can he be? Is Estigneyev still having
meals? How's  my cassock since it was cleaned? Make  all our friends believe
I'm at my aunt's deathbed. Write the same thing to Gulenka.
Yes! I forgot  to  tell you about a terrible thing that happened  to me
today.
I was  gazing  at the  quiet  Don,  standing by the bridge and thinking
about our future  possessions.  Suddenly a wind came up and blew my cap into
the river. It was your brother's, the baker's, I was the only one to see it.
I had to  make a new outlay  and buy an English cap for Rs. 2.50. Don't tell
your brother anything about what happened. Tell him I'm in Voronezh.
I'm having trouble with my underwear. I wash  it in the  evening and if
it  hasn't dried by the morning, I put it on damp. It's even pleasant in the
present heat.
With love and kisses,
Your husband eternally,
Theo.