The Twelve Chairs (30 page)

It  was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and  washed.  Even Mashuk,
overgrown with shrubbery and small clumps of trees, was carefully combed and
exuded a smell of toilet water.
White trousers of the most  varied  types flashed up and down  the  toy
platform: there  were trousers  made of twill, moleskin, calamanco, duck and
soft  flannel.  People were walking about  in sandals  and Apache shirts. In
their  heavy,  dirty boots,  heavy dusty  trousers,  heated  waistcoats  and
scorching jackets, the  concessionaires  felt very  out of place. Among  the
great variety of  gaily coloured  cottons in which  the girls  of the resort
were parading themselves,  the brightest and most elegant was the uniform of
the stationmaster.
To the surprise of all newcomers, the stationmaster was a woman. Auburn
curls peeped  from  under her  red peaked cap with  its two lines of  silver
braid around the band. She wore a white tunic and a white skirt.
As soon  as the travellers had  had a  good look at the station-master,
had  read the freshly pasted  notices  advertising  the tour of the Columbus
Theatre and drunk two five-kopek glasses of mineral  water, they  went  into
the town on the Station-Flower Garden  tram  route.  They were  charged  ten
kopeks to go into the Flower Garden.
In the Flower Garden there was a great deal of music, a large number of
happy people,  and  very  few  flowers.  A  symphony orchestra  in  a  white
shell-like construction was playing the "Dance of the Gnats"; narzan mineral
water  was  on sale in the  Lermontov gallery, and was also obtainable  from
kiosks and vendors walking around.
No one had time for the two grimy jewel-hunters.
"My, Pussy," said Ostap, "we're out of place in all this festivity."
The  concessionaires spent their  first night at  the spa  by a  narzan
spring.
It  was only  there, in  Pyatigorsk,  when  the  Columbus  Theatre  had
performed  their  version  of  The Marriage  to  an  audience  of  astounded
town-dwellers  for the  third  time,  that the  partners  realized the  real
difficulties  involved  in their treasure hunt. To  find their way  into the
theatre as  they  had  planned proved  impossible.  Galkin,  Palkin, Malkin,
Chalkin  and  Zalkind  slept  in  the wings,  since  their  modest  earnings
prevented them from living in a hotel.
The days passed, and the friends were slowly reaching the end of  their
tether,  spending  their  nights  'at  the  site  of  Lermontov's  duel  and
subsisting by carrying the baggage of peasant tourists.
On  the  sixth  day Ostap  managed to  strike up an  acquaintance  with
Mechnikov,  the  fitter in  charge  of  the  hydraulic  press. By this time,
Mechnikov, who had no money and was forced to get rid of his daily hang-over
by drinking mineral water, was in a terrible state and had  been observed by
Ostap to sell  some of the theatre props at the market. Final  agreement was
reached during  the morning libation by a spring.  The fitter  called  Ostap
"Palsie" and seemed about to consent.
"That's possible," he  said.  "That's  always possible, palsie. It's my
pleasure, palsie."
Ostap realized at once that the fitter knew his stuff.
The contracting  parties  looked  one another  in  the  eye,  embraced,
slapped each other's backs and laughed politely.
"Well," said Ostap, "ten for the whole deal."
"Palsie!" exclaimed  the astonished  fitter, "don't  make me mad. I'm a
man who's suffering from the narzan."
"How much do you want then?"
"Make  it  fifty. After all, it's government  property. I'm a man who's
suffering."
"All right, accept twenty. Agreed? I see from your eyes you agree."
"Agreement is the result of complete non-objection on both sides."
"There are no  flies  on this one,"  whispered  Ostap to  Vorobyaninov.
"Take a lesson."
"When will you bring the chairs?"
"You'll get the chairs when I get the money."
"That's fine," said Ostap without thinking.
"Money in advance," declared the fitter. "The money in the morning, the
chairs in the evening; or, the money  in  the evening,  the chairs the  next
morning."
"What about the chairs this morning, the money tomorrow evening," tried
Ostap.
"Palsie, I'm a man who's suffering. Such terms are revolting."
"But  the  point  is,  I  won't receive  my  money  by telegraph  until
tomorrow," said Ostap.
"Then  we'll  discuss the  matter tomorrow,"  concluded  the  obstinate
fitter.  "And in the  meantime, palsie, have a nice  time at the spring. I'm
off. Simbievich has me by the throat. I've no strength left. Can  you expect
a man to thrive on mineral water?"
And resplendent in the sunlight, Mechnikov went off.
Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich.
"The time  we  have," he said, "is  the money we don't have.  Pussy, we
must decide  on a career. A hundred and  fifty  thousand  roubles, zero zero
kopeks awaits  us. We only need twenty  roubles for the treasure to be ours.
We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."
Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully.
"OS with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy."
He  took the  jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov,  threw it  on the
ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.
"What  are  you  doing?"  howled Vorobyaninov. "I've  been wearing that
jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."
"Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your  hat. Now,  sprinkle
your trousers with  dust  and  pour  some mineral  water over them. Be quick
about it."
In  a  few  moments  Ippolit  Matveyevich  was  dirty  to  the point of
revulsion.
"Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money."
"What  am I supposed to do?" asked  Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully. "You
know French, I hope? "
"Not very well. What I learned at school." "Hm . . . then we'll have to
operate with what you learned at school. Can you say  in French, 'Gentleman,
I haven't eaten for six days'?"
"M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . .
je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do you
say 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,  six.  It's: 'Je  ne mange pas six
jours' "
"What an accent,  Pussy! Anyway, what do you expect from  a  beggar. Of
course a  beggar  in  European  Russia  wouldn't  speak  French as  well  as
Milerand. Right, pussy, and how much German do you know?"
"Why  all this?"  exclaimed Ippolit  Matveyevich. "Because," said Ostap
weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're  going to stand in
the shade and beg for alms in French,  German  and Russian,  emphasizing the
fact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. The
net profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"
Ippolit  Matveyevich was transfigured.  His chest  swelled  up like the
Palace  bridge  in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire,  and his nose seemed to
Ostap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.
"Dear  me," said the smooth operator, not  in  the least alarmed. "Just
look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."
"Never,"  suddenly  said Ippolit  Matveyevich, "never has  Vorobyaninov
held out his hand."
"Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap.
"So you've never held out your hand?"
"No, I have not."
"Spoken  like a true  gigolo. You've been living  off me for  the  last
three months. For three months I've been providing  you  with food and drink
and educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position and
say . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you  go right
away  to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by nightfall, or  else
I'm  automatically  removing  you  from  the  list  of  shareholders in  the
concession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ."
"Yes," mumbled the marshal.
"In that case, repeat the words."
"M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur
ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma."
"Once again. Make it more heart-rending."
Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words.
"All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go.
The rendezvous  is  at midnight  here  by  the  spring. That's  not for
romantic  reasons,  mind you,  but  simply because people  give more in  the
evening."
"What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?"
"Don't worry  about me.  As  usual, I  shall  be where things  are most
difficult."
The friends went their ways.
Ostap hurried  to a  small stationery shop, bought a  book of  receipts
with  his last  ten-kopek bit, and sat on a stone block for  an  hour or so,
numbering the receipts and scribbling something on each one.
"System above all," he muttered to himself. "Every public kopek must be
accounted for."
The smooth operator marched up the mountain road  that led round Mashuk
to the site of Lermontov's duel with Martynov, passing sanatoriums  and rest
homes.
Constantly overtaken  by buses  and two-horse carriages, he  arrived at
the Drop.
A narrow path cut in the cliff led to a conical drop. At the end of the
path was a parapet from which  one could see a puddle of  stinking malachite
at the bottom  of  the  Drop. This  Drop is considered one of the  sights of
Pyatigorsk and is  visited by  a large number of tourists in the course of a
day.
Ostap had seen at once that for a man without prejudice  the Drop could
be a source of income.
"What a  remarkable thing,"  mused  Ostap, "that  the  town  has  never
thought  of charging ten kopeks  to see the Drop.  It seems to  be the  only
place where the people of Pyatigorsk  allow  the sightseers  in free. I will
remove that  blemish on  the town's escutcheon and  rectify the  regrettable
omission."
And  Ostap  acted as his  reason, instinct,  and the  situation in hand
prompted.
He stationed  himself at the  entrance  to  the Drop and,  rustling the
receipt book, called out from time to time:
"Buy your tickets here, citizens.  Ten kopeks.  Children and servicemen
free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!"
It was a sure bet.  The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went  to the Drop,
and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no great
difficulty. The non-union  members,  of  whom there were many in Pyatigorsk,
were a great help.
They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked
tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:
"You  see,  Tanyusha,  what did I tell you? And you said  there  was no
charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?"
"You're  absolutely right.  It would be quite impossible not to  charge
for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members."
Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the
Drop in two  wagons.  Ostap was alarmed and was  about to pretend to  be  an
innocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded  round the smooth operator so
timidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice:
"Union  members, ten  kopeks;  but since representatives of the militia
can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks."
The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what  purpose the
money was being collected.
"For general repairs  to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't
drop too much."
While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of  the  malachite
puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich,  hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame,
stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes  of the passers-by, mumbled his
three phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."
People  not only  gave  little, they somehow gave unwillingly.  However,  by
exploiting  his purely Parisian pronunciation of the  word mange and pulling
at  their  heart-strings  by  his desperate position  as an ex-member of the
Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.
The  gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra
played Strauss,  Brahms and  Grieg  with  long  pauses in  between. Brightly
coloured  crowds drifted past  the old marshal, chattering as they went, and
came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying
matsoni on the verandah of  the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne
and sulphur gas.
"Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.
"Tell me, were you really a  member of the  State  Duma?" asked a voice
right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah!
Ah! First rate!"
Ippolit  Matveyevich raised  his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about
in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich  Iznurenkov. He had
changed  his brown  Lodz  suit  for a  white  coat and grey trousers with  a
playful spotted pattern. He  was in unusual  spirits and  from time to  time
jumped as  much as  five  or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov  did  not
recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.
"Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald?
Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!"
Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused
marshal's  hand and ran off. But  for some time afterwards his thick  thighs
could  be glimpsed  in  various parts of  the Flower  Garden, and  his voice
seemed to float down from the trees.
"Ah! Ah! 'Don't  sing to me,  my beauty, of  sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They
remind me  of another  life and  a distant shore.'  'And in the  morning she
smiled again.' First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he
did so. He missed a lot.
In  the enchanting darkness  of the Pyatigorsk  night,  Ellochka Shukin
strolled through  the  park, dragging  after her the  submissive  and  newly
reconciled Ernest Pavlovich.  The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard
battle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud  American girl had recently set
sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.
"Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!"
In  the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen.  Her  cheeks
were still adorned  with sideburns.  Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab,
washing  it down with  Kahetinsky  wine  no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her
sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.
After the liquidation  of the second  pensioners' home  (everything had
been  sold,  including  the  cook's  cap   and  the  slogan,  "By  carefully
masticating  your  food  you  help society"),  Alchen had decided  to have a
holiday  and  enjoy  himself. Fate itself had  saved the full-bellied little
crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap
would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.
Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to  the spring  as the musicians  were
folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting
couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.
"How  much  did you collect?"  asked Ostap  as  soon  as  the marshal's
hunched figure appeared at the spring.
"Seven  roubles, twenty-nine  kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest,
copper and silver."