The Twelve Chairs (5 page)

At  half  past  eleven  a  young  man aged about  twenty-eight  entered
Stargorod from the direction of the village of Chmarovka, to the north-east.
A waif ran along behind him.
"Mister!" cried the boy gaily, "gimme ten kopeks!"
The young man took a warm apple out of his pocket "and handed it to the
waif, but the  child  still kept running behind. Then the young  man stopped
and, looking ironically at the boy, said quietly:
"Perhaps you'd also like the key of the apartment where the money is?"
The  presumptuous  waif then  realized  the  complete  futility of  his
pretensions and dropped behind.
The young man had  not  told the truth.  He  had no money, no apartment
where it might have been found, and no key with which to open it. He did not
even have a coat. The young man entered the town in a green suit tailored to
fit  at the waist and an  old  woollen scarf  wound several times around his
powerful neck.  On his feet  were  patent-leather boots with orange-coloured
suede uppers. He had no socks on. The young man carried an astrolabe.
Approaching the market, he broke into a  song: "O, Bayadere, tum-ti-ti,
tum-ti-ti."
In  the market he found plenty going on. He squeezed into  the  line of
vendors selling  wares  spread out  on  the  ground  before them, stood  the
astrolabe in front of him and began shouting:
"Who  wants an  astrolabe? Here's  an  astrolabe  going  cheap. Special
reduction for delegations and women's work divisions !"
At first the unexpected supply met  with little demand; the delegations
of housewives were more  interested in obtaining commodities in short supply
and were milling around the  cloth and drapery stalls. A detective from  the
Stargorod  criminal investigation  department  passed  the  astrolabe-vendor
twice, but  since  the instrument in no way resembled the typewriter  stolen
the day before from the Central Union  of Dairy Co-operatives, the detective
stopped glaring at the young man and passed on.
By  lunchtime the astrolabe  had  been sold to  a repairman  for  three
roubles.
"It measures  by  itself," he said,  handing over the  astrolabe to its
purchaser, "provided you have something to measure."
Having rid himself of the calculating  instrument, the happy  young man
had lunch in the Tasty Corner snack bar, and then went to have a look at the
town.  He  passed  along  Soviet Street,  came  out  into  Red  Army  Street
(previously  Greater Pushkin Street), crossed  Co-operative Street and found
himself again on Soviet Street. But it was  not the same Soviet  Street from
which  he had come.  There were  two  Soviet  Streets  in  the town. Greatly
surprised  by this fact, the young man carried  on and found himself in Lena
Massacre  Street  (formerly  Denisov Street).  He stopped  outside no. 28, a
pleasant two-storeyed private house, which bore a sign saying:

SECOND SOCIAL SECURITY HOME
OF THE
STAR-PROV-INS-AD
and  requested  a  light from  the  caretaker, who was sitting  by  the
entrance on a stone bench.
"Tell me, dad,"  said the  young man,  taking  a  puff,  "are there any
marriageable young girls in this town? "
The old caretaker did not show the least surprise.
"For  some a mare'd be a  bride," he  answered, readily  striking up  a
conversation.
"I  have  no  more questions,"  said  the  young  man  quickly. And  he
immediately asked one more: "A house like this and no girls in it?"
"It's a long while since there've  been  any young girls here," replied
the  old  man.  "This  is  a  state  institution-a  home  for old-age  women
pensioners."
"I see. For ones born before historical materialism?"
"That's it. They were born when they were born."
"And  what  was  here in  the  house  before  the  days  of  historical
materialism?"
"When was that?"
"In the old days. Under the former regime."
"Oh, in the old days my master used to live here."
"A member of the bourgeoisie")"
"Bourgeoisie yourself! I told you. He was a marshal of the nobility."
"You mean he was from the working class?"
"Working class yourself! He was a marshal of the nobility."
The conversation with the intelligent caretaker so poorly versed in the
class structure of society might have gone on  for heaven knows how long had
not the young man got down to business.
"Listen, granddad," he said, "what about a drink?"
"All right, buy me one!"
They were gone an hour. When they returned, the caretaker was the young
man's best friend.
"Right, then,  I'll stay the night with  you," said the newly  acquired
friend.
"You're a good man. You can stay here for the rest  of your life if you
like."
Having  achieved  his aim, the young man  promptly  went down into  the
caretaker's room, took off his orange-coloured boots, and, stretching out on
a bench, began thinking out a plan of action for the following day.
The young  man's  name  was  Ostap Bender.  Of  his background he would
usually  give only  one  detail. "My dad," he  used  to say, "was a  Turkish
citizen."  During  his life  this son  of  a Turkish  citizen  had had  many
occupations. His lively nature had prevented him  from devoting  himself  to
any one thing for long  and  kept him  roving  through the  country, finally
bringing him to Stargorod without any socks and without a key, apartment, or
money.
Lying in the caretaker's room,  which was  so warm that it stank, Ostap
Bender weighed up in his mind two possibilities for a career.
He could  become  a polygamist and calmly  move on from  town  to town,
taking with him  a suitcase  containing his latest  wife's valuables, or  he
could go the  next  day to the  Stargorod Commission  for the Improvement of
Children's  Living Conditions  and suggest they undertake the popularization
of  a brilliantly  devised,  though  yet  unpainted,  picture  entitled "The
Bolsheviks Answer Chamberlain" based on Repin's famous canvas "The Zaporozhe
Cossacks  Answer the  Sultan". If it worked, this possibility could bring in
four hundred or so roubles.
The two possibilities had been thought up by Ostap during his last stay
in Moscow. The polygamy idea was  conceived after reading a law-court report
in the evening paper,  which clearly stated that the convicted man was given
only a two-year  sentence,  while the second idea  came  to Bender as he was
looking round the Association  of  Revolutionary Artists' exhibition, having
got in with a free pass.
Both possibilities had their drawbacks, however. To begin a career as a
polygamist without a heavenly grey polka-dot suit was unthinkable. Moreover,
at  least ten roubles would  be  needed for purposes of  representation  and
seduction. He could get married, of course,  in his green field-suits, since
his virility and good  looks were absolutely  irresistible to the provincial
belles looking for husbands, but that would have been, as Ostap used to say,
"poor workmanship".  The question of the painting was not all plain  sailing
either. There  might be difficulties of a purely technical nature.  It might
be awkward, for instance,  to show Comrade  Kalinin in a fur  cap  and white
cape,  while  Comrade Chicherin was  stripped  to  the waist. They  could be
depicted in ordinary dress, of course,  but that would not be quite the same
thing.
"It wouldn't have the right effect!" said Ostap aloud.
At this point he noticed that the caretaker had been prattling away for
some time, apparently reminiscing about the previous owner of the house.
"The police chief used to salute him. . . . I'd go and wish him a happy
new year,  let's say, and he'd give  me three roubles. At Easter, let's say,
he'd give me another three roubles.  . . . Then on his birthday,  let's say.
In  a year I'd get as  much  as  fifteen  roubles from wishing him. He  even
promised to  give me a medal. 'I want my caretaker to have a medal,' he used
to say.  That's what he would say: 'Tikhon,  consider that you already  have
the medal.'"
"And did he give you one? "
"Wait a moment. .  . . T don't  want a caretaker  without a medal,'  he
used to say. He went  to St. Petersburg to get me a medal. Well,  the  first
time  it  didn't  work  out. The officials didn't want to give  me one. 'The
Tsar,' he used to say, 'has gone abroad. It isn't possible just now.' So the
master told me to wait. 'Just wait a  bit, Tikhon,' he used  to say, 'you'll
get your medal.' "
"And what happened to this master of yours? Did they bump him off?"
"No one  bumped him off. He went away. What was the good of him staying
here with the soldiers? . . . Do they give medals to caretakers nowadays?"
"Certainly. I can arrange one for you."
The caretaker looked at Bender with veneration.
"I can't be without one. It's that kind of work."
"Where did your master go?"
"Heaven knows. People say he went to Paris."
"Ah, white acacia-the emigre's flower! So he's an emigre!"
"Emigre yourself. . . . He went to Paris, so people say. And the  house
was taken over for old women. You greet them every day, but they don't  even
give you a ten-kopek bit! Yes, he was some master!"
At that moment the rusty bell above the door began to ring.
The  caretaker ambled over to the door, opened it,  and stepped back in
complete amazement.
On the  top step  stood  Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov with  a black
moustache   and  black   hair.  His  eyes   behind  his   pince-nez   had  a
pre-revolutionary twinkle.
"Master!" bellowed Tikhon with delight. "Back from Paris!"
Ippolit Matveyevich became embarrassed by the presence of the stranger,
whose bare purple feet he had just spotted protruding from behind the table,
and was about to leave again when Ostap Bender briskly jumped up  and made a
low bow.
"This isn't Paris, but you're welcome to our abode."
Ippolit Matveyevich felt himself forced to say something.
"Hello, Tikhon. I certainly haven't come from Paris. Where  did you get
that strange idea from?"
But  Ostap Bender,  whose long  and noble nose had caught the  scent of
roast meat, did not give the caretaker time to utter a word.
"Splendid," he  said, narrowing his eyes. "You haven't come from Paris.
You've no doubt come from Kologriv to visit your deceased grandmother."
As he spoke, he tenderly embraced the caretaker and pushed him  outside
the door before the old man had time  to realize what was happening. When he
finally  gathered  his wits, all he knew was that  his  master had come back
from Paris, that he himself had been pushed out of his own room, and that he
was clutching a rouble note in his left hand.
Carefully locking  the door,  Bender turned to  Vorobyaninov,  who  was
still standing in the middle of the room, and said:
"Take it easy, everything's all right! My  name's Bender. You may  have
heard of me!"
"No, I haven't," said Ippolit Matveyevich nervously.
"No, how  could  the name of Ostap Bender be known in Paris? Is it warm
there  just  now? It's a  nice  city.  I  have  a married cousin there.  She
recently sent me a silk handkerchief by registered post."
"What   rubbish   is  this?"  exclaimed   Ippolit  Matveyevich.   "What
handkerchief? I haven't come from Paris at all. I've come from . . ."
"Marvellous! You've come from Morshansk!"
Ippolit Matveyevich had never had dealings with so spirited a young man
as Ostap Bender and began to feel peculiar.
"Well, I'm going now," he said.
"Where  are you going? You  don't  need to hurry  anywhere.  The secret
police will come  for you, anyway." Ippolit  Matveyevich was  speechless. He
undid his coat with its threadbare velvet collar and sat down on  the bench,
glaring at Bender.
"I don't know what you mean," he said in a low voice.
"That's no harm. You soon will. Just one moment."
Ostap put on his orange-coloured boots and walked up and down the room.
"Which frontier did you cross? Was it the Polish, Finnish,  or Rumanian
frontier? An expensive  pleasure, I  imagine.  A  friend  of  mine  recently
crossed the  frontier.  He lives  in  Slavuta,  on our side, and his  wife's
parents live on the other. He had  a row with his wife over a family matter;
she comes  from a temperamental family. She spat in his face and  ran across
the frontier to her parents. The fellow sat around for a few  days but found
things weren't going well. There was no dinner and the room was dirty, so he
decided to make it up  with  her. He waited till night and then crossed over
to  his  mother-in-law.  But the  frontier  guards nabbed him, trumped up  a
charge,  and gave him six  months. Later on he was expelled from  the  trade
union. The wife,  they say, has now gone back, the  fool, and her husband is
in  prison. She is able to  take him things. .  . . Did you  come that  way,
too?"
"Honestly," protested Ippolit Matveyevich, suddenly  feeling himself in
the  power  of the  talkative young man who had  come  between  him and  the
jewels.  "Honestly,  I'm  a  citizen  of  the  RSFSR.  I  can  show  you  my
identification papers, if you want."
"With  printing  being as  well  developed  as it is  in  the West, the
forgery of Soviet  identification  papers is  nothing. A friend of mine even
went as far as forging American dollars. And you know how difficult that is.
The paper has those different-coloured little lines on it. It requires great
technique.  He managed to get rid of them on the Moscow black market, but it
turned out later that  his  grandfather,  a  notorious  currency-dealer, had
bought  them all  in  Kiev  and  gone absolutely  broke.  The  dollars  were
counterfeit, after all. So your papers may not help you very much either."
Despite his annoyance at having to sit in a smelly caretaker's room and
listen  to  an  insolent young  man burbling about the shady dealings of his
friends, instead of actively  searching for the jewels, Ippolit  Matveyevich
could not  bring himself to leave. He felt great trepidation  at the thought
that the young stranger  might spread it round the town that the  ex-marshal
had come  back. That would be the end of everything, and he might be put  in
jail as well.
'Don't  tell  anyone you saw me," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "They might
really think  I'm an emigre." "That's more like it!  First we have an Emigre
who has returned to his home town, and then we  find he is afraid the secret
police will catch him."
"But I've told you a hundred times, I'm not an emigre."
"Then who are you? Why are you here?"
"I've come from N. on certain business."
"What business?"
"Personal business."
"And then you say you're not an emigre! A friend of mine . . ."
At this point, Ippolit Matveyevich, driven to despair by the stories of
Bender's friends, and seeing that he was not getting anywhere, gave in.
"All right," he said. "I'll tell you everything."
Anyway, it might  be  difficult without  an  accomplice,  he thought to
himself,  and this fellow seems to be a really  shady character. He might be
useful.