Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

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 Co-operative;

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.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TRACES OF THE TITANIC

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."

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