Yevgeny Petrov - The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке

The caretaker began making low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the stillness of the night.

«That's nice», said Ostap to Vorobyaninov. «Your caretaker is rather a vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?»

«Yes, it is», said the caretaker unexpectedly.

«Listen, Tikhon», began Ippolit Matveyevich. «Have you any idea what happened to my furniture, old man?»

Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening yell:

«Haa-aapy daa-aays…»

The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was terribly happy.

Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.

«Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until tomorrow morning», said Ostap. «Let's go to bed».

They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to the bench.

Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt; under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another light-blue worsted waistcoat.

«There's a waistcoat worth buying», said Ostap enviously. «Just my size. Sell it to me!»

Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.

Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.

«You'll have the money when we sell the treasure», said Bender, taking the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.

«No, I can't do things like that», said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing. «Please give it back».

Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.

«There's stinginess for you», he cried. «We undertake business worth a hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to learn to live it up!»

Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:

25//F/27

Issued to Comrade Bender

Rs.8

Ostap took a look at the notebook.

«Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under ‘debit' don't forget to put down the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under ‘credit' put down the waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit longer».

Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth operator's body, vibrant with ideas.

All three had bad dreams.

Vorobyaninov had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation department, velvet shirts, and Bezenchuk the undertaker in a tuxedo, but unshaven.

Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Cooperative; and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper.

And the caretaker dreamed that a horse escaped from the stable. He looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and gloomy, without having found it. For some time he stared in surprise at the people sleeping in his bed.

Not understanding anything, he took his broom and went out into the street to carry out his basic duties, which were to sweep up the horse droppings and shout at the old-women pensioners.

Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven, mumbled «Guten Morgen», and went over to the wash-basin. He washed himself with enthusiasm, cleared his throat, noisily rinsed his face, and shook his head to get rid of the water which had run into his ears. He dried himself with satisfaction, but on taking the towel away from his face, Ippolit Matveyevich noticed that it was stained with the same black colour that he had used to dye his horizontal moustache two days before. Ippolit Matveyevich's heart sank. He rushed to get his pocket mirror. The mirror reflected a large nose and the left-hand side of a moustache as green as the grass in spring. He hurriedly shifted the mirror to the right. The right-hand mustachio was the same revolting colour. Bending his head slightly, as though trying to butt the mirror, the unhappy man perceived that the jet black still reigned supreme in the centre of his square of hair, but that the edges were bordered with the same green colour.

Ippolit Matveyevich's whole being emitted a groan so loud that Ostap Bender opened his eyes.

«You're out of your mind!» exclaimed Bender, and immediately closed his sleepy lids.

«Comrade Bender», whispered the victim of the Titanic imploringly.

Ostap woke up after a great deal of shaking and persuasion. He looked closely at Ippolit Matveyevich and burst into a howl of laughter. Turning away from the founder of the concession, the chief director of operations and technical adviser rocked with laughter, seized hold of the top of the bed, cried «Stop, you're killing me!» and again was convulsed with mirth.

«That's not nice of you, Comrade Bender», said Ippolit Matveyevich and twitched his green moustache.

This gave new strength to the almost exhausted Ostap, and his hearty laughter continued for ten minutes. Regaining his breath, he suddenly became very serious.

«Why are you glaring at me like a soldier at a louse? Take a look at yourself».

«But the chemist told me it would be jet black and wouldn't wash off, with either hot water or cold water, soap or paraffin. It was contraband».

«Contraband? All contraband is made in Little Arnaut Street in Odessa. Show me the bottle… Look at this! Did you read this?» – «Yes».

«What about this bit in small print? It clearly states that after washing with hot or cold water, soap or paraffin, the hair should not be rubbed with a towel, but dried in the sun or in front of a primus stove. Why didn't you do so? What can you do now with that greenery?»

Ippolit Matveyevich was very depressed. Tikhon came in and seeing his master with a green moustache, crossed himself and asked for money to have a drink. «Give this hero of labour a rouble», suggested Ostap, «only kindly don't charge it to me. It's a personal matter between you and your former colleague. Wait a minute, Dad, don't go away! There's a little matter to discuss».

Ostap had a talk with the caretaker about the furniture, and five minutes later the concessionaires knew the whole story. The entire furniture had been taken away to the housing division in 1919, with the exception of one drawing-room chair that had first been in Tikhon's charge, but was later taken from him by the assistant warden of the second social-security home.

«Is it here in the house then?»

«That's right».

«Tell me, old fellow», said Ippolit Matveyevich, his heart beating fast, «when you had the chair, did you … ever repair it?»

«It didn't need repairing. Workmanship was good in those days. The chair could last another thirty years».

«Right, off you go, old fellow. Here's another rouble and don't tell anyone I'm here».

«I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov».