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

Sending the caretaker on his way with a cry of «Things are moving», Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache.

«It will have to be dyed again. Give me some money and I'll go to the chemist's. Your Titanic is no damn good, except for dogs. In the old days they really had good dyes. A racing expert once told me an interesting story. Are you interested in horse-racing? No? A pity; it's exciting. Well, anyway … there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky. He lost five hundred thousand roubles on races. King of the losers! So when he had nothing left except debts and was thinking about suicide, a shady character gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles. The count went away and came back a year later with a three-year-old Orloff trotter. From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three hundred thousand on top. Broker-that was the name of the horse-had an excellent pedigree and always came in first. He actually beat McMahon in the Derby by a whole length. Terrific! … But then Kurochkin-heard of him? – noticed that all the horses of the Orloff breed were losing their coats, while Broker, the darling, stayed the same colour. There was an unheard-of scandal. The count got three years. It turned out that Broker wasn't an Orloff at all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed. Crossbreeds are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them! Which? There's a dye for you! Not quite like your moustache!»

«But what about the pedigree? You said it was a good one».

«Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit! Give me the money for the dye».

Ostap came back with a new mixture.

«It's called ‘Naiad'. It may be better than the Titanic. Take your coat off!»

The ceremony of re-dyeing began. But the «Amazing chestnut colour making the hair soft and fluffy» when mixed with the green of the Titanic unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache all colours of the rainbow.

Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the perfumeries, both those state-owned and the illegal ones on Little Arnaut Street in Odessa.

«I don't suppose even Aristide Briand had a moustache like that», observed Ostap cheerfully. «However, I don't recommend living in Soviet Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours. It will have to be shaved off».

«I can't do that», said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice. «That's impossible».

«Why? Has it some association or other?»

«I can't do that», repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head.

«Then you can stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life, and I'll go for the chairs. The first one is upstairs, by the way».

«All right, shave it then!»

Bender found a pair of scissors and in a flash snipped off the moustache, which fell silently to the floor. When the hair had been cropped, the technical adviser took a yellowed Gillette razor from his pocket and a spare blade from his wallet, and began shaving Ippolit Matveyevich, who was almost in tears by this time.

«I'm using my last blade on you, so don't forget to credit me with two roubles for the shave and haircut».

«Why so expensive?» Ippolit managed to ask, although he was convulsed with grief. «It should only cost forty kopeks».

«For reasons of security, Comrade Field Marshal!» promptly answered Ostap.

The sufferings of a man whose head is being shaved with a safety razor are incredible. This became clear to Ippolit Matveyevich from the very beginning of the operation. But all things come to an end.

«There! The hearing continues! Those suffering from nerves shouldn't look».

Ippolit Matveyevich shook himself free of the nauseating tufts that until so recently had been distinguished grey hair, washed himself and, feeling a strong tingling sensation all over his head, looked at himself in the mirror for the hundredth time that day. He was unexpectedly pleased by what he saw. Looking at him was the careworn, but rather youthful, face of an unemployed actor.

«Right, forward march, the bugle is sounding!» cried Ostap. «I'll make tracks for the housing division, while you go to the old women».

«I can't», said Ippolit Matveyevich. «It's too painful for me to enter my own house».

«I see. A touching story. The exiled baron! All right, you go to the housing division, and I'll get busy here. Our rendezvous will be here in the caretaker's room. Platoon: ‘shun!»

The Assistant Warden of the Second Home of Stargorod Social Security Administration was a shy little thief. His whole being protested against stealing, yet it was impossible for him not to steal. He stole and was ashamed of himself. He stole constantly and was constantly ashamed of himself, which was why his smoothly shaven cheeks always burned with a blush of confusion, shame, bashfulness and embarrassment. The assistant warden's name was Alexander Yakovlevich, and his wife's name was Alexandra Yakovlevna. He used to call her Sashchen, and she used to call him Alchen. The world has never seen such a bashful chiseller as Alexander Yakovlevich.

He was not only the assistant warden, but also the chief warden. The previous one had been dismissed for rudeness to the inmates, and had been appointed conductor of a symphony orchestra. Alchen was completely different from his ill-bred boss. Under the system of fuller workdays, he took upon himself the running of the home, treating the pensioners with marked courtesy, and introducing important reforms and innovations.

Ostap Bender pulled the heavy oak door of the Vorobyaninov home and found himself in the hall. There was a smell of burnt porridge. From the upstairs rooms came the confused sound of voices, like a distant «hooray» from a line of troops. There was no one about and no one appeared. An oak staircase with two flights of once-lacquered stairs led upward. Only the rings were now left; there was no sign of the stair rods that had once held the carpet in place.

«The Comanche chief lived in vulgar luxury», thought Ostap as he went upstairs.

In the first room, which was spacious and light, fifteen or so old women in dresses made of the cheapest mouse-grey woollen cloth were sitting in a circle.

Craning their necks and keeping their eyes on a healthy-looking man in the middle, the old women were singing:

The choirmaster, wearing a shirt and trousers of the same mouse-grey material, was beating time with both hands and, turning from side to side, kept shouting:

«Descants, softer! Kokushkin, not so loud!»

He caught sight of Ostap, but unable to restrain the movement of his hands, merely glanced at the newcomer and continued conducting. The choir increased its volume with an effort, as though singing through a pillow.

«Can you tell me where I can find the assistant warden?» asked Ostap, breaking into the first pause.

«What do you want, Comrade?»

Ostap shook the conductor's hand and inquired amiably: «National folk-songs? Very interesting! I'm the fire inspector».

The assistant warden looked ashamed.

«Yes, yes», he said, with embarrassment. «Very opportune. I was actually going to write you a report».

«There's nothing to worry about», said Ostap magnanimously. «I'll write the report myself. Let's take a look at the premises».

Alchen dismissed the choir with a wave of his hand, and the old women made off with little steps of delight.