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

«So you're after my property, Holy Father?» said Ippolit Matveyevich through clenched teeth and kicked the holy father in the hip.

Father Theodore feinted and viciously kicked the marshal in the groin, making him double up.

«It's not your property».

«Whose then?»

«Not yours!»

«Whose then?»

«Not yours!»

«Whose then? Whose?»

Spitting at each other in this way, they kept kicking furiously.

«Whose property is it then?» screeched the marshal, sinking his foot in the holy father's stomach.

«It's nationalized property», said the holy father firmly, overcoming his pain.

«Nationalized?»

«Yes, nationalized».

They were jerking out the words so quickly that they ran together.

«Who-nationalized-it?»

«The-Soviet-Government. The-Soviet-Government».

«Which-government?»

«The-working-people's-government».

«Aha!» said Ippolit Matveyevich icily. «The government of workers and peasants?»

«Yes!»

«Hmm … then maybe you're a member of the Communist Party, Holy Father?»

«Maybe I am!»

Ippolit Matveyevich could no longer restrain himself and with a shriek of «Maybe you are» spat juicily in Father Theodore's kindly face. Father Theodore immediately spat in Ippolit Matveyevich's face and also found his mark. They had nothing with which to wipe away the spittle since they were still holding the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich made a noise like a door opening and thrust the chair at his enemy with all his might. The enemy fell over, dragging the panting Vorobyaninov with him. The struggle continued in the stalls.

Suddenly there was a crack and both front legs broke on simultaneous'y. The opponents completely forgot one another and began tearing the walnut treasure-chest to pieces. The flowered English chintz split with the heart-rending scream of a seagull. The back was torn off by a mighty tug. The treasure hunters ripped off the sacking together with the brass tacks and, grazing their hands on the springs, buried their fingers in the woollen stuffing. The disturbed springs hummed. Five minutes later the chair had been picked clean. Bits and pieces were all that was left. Springs rolled in all directions, and the wind blew the rotten padding all over the clearing. The curved legs lay in a hole. There were no jewels.

«Well, have you found anything?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich, panting.

Father Theodore, covered in tufts of wool, puffed and said nothing.

«You crook!» shouted Ippolit Matveyevich. «I'll break your neck, Father Theodore!»

«I'd like to see you!» retorted the priest. «Where are you going all covered in fluff?» «Mind your own business!»

«Shame on you, Father! You're nothing but a thief!» «I've stolen nothing from you».

«How did you find out about this? You exploited the sacrament of confession for your own ends. Very nice! Very fine!»

With an indignant «Fooh!» Ippolit Matveyevich left the clearing and, brushing his sleeve as he went, made for home. At the corner of Lena Massacre and Yerogeyev streets he caught sight of his partner. The technical adviser and director-general of the concession was having the suede uppers of his boots cleaned with canary polish; he was standing half-turned with one foot slightly raised. Ippolit Matveyevich hurried up to him. The director was gaily crooning the shimmy:

«Well, how was the housing division?» he asked in a businesslike way, and immediately added:

«Wait a moment. Don't tell me now; you're too excited. Cool down a little».

Giving the shoeshiner seven kopeks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm and led him down the street. He listened very carefully to everything the agitated Ippolit Matveyevich told him.

«Aha! A small black beard? Right! A coat with a sheepskin collar? I see. That's the chair from the pensioner's home. It was bought today for three roubles».

«But wait a moment…».

And Ippolit Matveyevich told the chief concessionaire all about Father Theodore's low tricks.

Ostap's face clouded.

«Too bad», he said. «Just like a detective story. We have a mysterious rival. We must steal a march on him. We can always break his head later».

As the friends were having a snack in the Stenka Razin beer-hall and Ostap was asking questions about the past and present state of the housing division, the day came to an end.

The golden carthorses became brown again. The diamond drops grew cold in mid-air and plopped on to the ground. In the beer-halls and Phoenix restaurant the price of beer went up. Evening had come; the street lights on Greater Pushkin Street lit up and a detachment of Pioneers went by, stamping their feet, on the way home from their first spring outing.

The tigers, figures of victory, and cobras on top of the province-planning administration shone mysteriously in the light of the advancing moon.

As he made his way home with Ostap, who was now suddenly silent, Ippolit Matveyevich gazed at the tigers and cobras. In his time, the building had housed the Provincial Government and the citizens had been proud of their cobras, considering them one of the sights of Stargorod.

«I'll find them», thought Ippolit Matveyevich, looking at one of the plaster figures of victory.

The tigers swished their tails lovingly, the cobras contracted with delight, and Ippolit Matveyevich's heart filled with determination.

No. 7 Pereleshinsky Street was not one of Stargorod's best buildings. Its two storeys were constructed in the style of the Second Empire and were embellished with timeworn lion heads, singularly reminiscent of the once well-known writer Artsybashec. There were exactly seven of these Artsybashevian physiognomies, one for each of the windows facing on to the street. The faces had been placed at the keystone of each window.

There were two other embellishments on the building, though these were of a purely commercial nature. On one side hung the radiant sign:

ODESSA ROLL BAKERY

MOSCOW BUN ARTEL

The sign depicted a young man wearing a tie and ankle-length French trousers. Ift one dislocated hand he held the fabulous cornucopia, from which poured an avalanche of ochre-coloured buns; whenever necessary, these were passed off as Moscow rolls. The young man had a sexy smile on his face. On the other side, the Fastpack packing office announced itself to prospective clients by a black board with round gold lettering.

Despite the appreciable difference in the signs and also in the capital possessed by the two dissimilar enterprises, they both engaged in the same business, namely, speculation in all types of fabrics: coarse wool, fine wool, cotton, and, whenever silk of good colour and design came their way, silk as well.

Passing through the tunnel-like gateway and turning right into the yard with its cement well, you could see two doorways without porches, giving straight on to the angular flagstones of the yard. A dulled brass plate with a name engraved in script was fixed to the right-hand door:

V.M. POLESOV

The left-hand door was fitted with a piece of whitish tin:

FASHIONS AND MILLINERY

This was also only for show.

Inside the fashions-and-millinery workroom there was no esparterie, no trimmings, no headless dummies with soldierly bearing, nor any large heads for elegant ladies' hats. Instead, the three-room apartment was occupied by an immaculately white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was riddled with fleas, but could not complain since it was unable to talk. For days on end it used to crack sunflower seeds and spit the husks through the bars of its tall, circular cage on to the carpet. It only needed a concertina and new squeaky Wellingtons to resemble a peasant on a spree. Dark-brown patterned curtains flapped at the window. Dark-brown hues predominated in the apartment. Above the piano was a reproduction of Boecklin's «Isle of the Dead» in a fancy frame of dark-green oak, covered with glass. One corner of the glass had been broken off some time before, and the flies had added so many finishing touches to the picture at this bared section that it merged completely with the frame. What was going on in that section of the «Isle of the Dead» was quite impossible to say.