Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

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!"

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BASHFUL CHISELLER

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:

"We hear the sound of distant jingling,

The troika's on its round;

Far into the distant stretches

The sparkling snowy ground."

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.

"Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta,

Te-ro-rom, tu-ru-rum, tu-ru-rum . . ."

"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.

"Come this way," invited the assistant warden.

Before going any further, Ostap scrutinized the furniture in the first

room. It consisted of a table, two garden benches with iron legs (one of

them had the name "Nicky" carved on the back), and a light-brown harmonium.

"Do they use primus stoves or anything of that kind in this room?"

"No, no. This is where our recreational activities are held. We have a

choir, and drama, painting, drawing, and music circles."

When he reached the word "music" Alexander Yakovlevich blushed. First

his chin turned red, then his forehead and cheeks. Alchen felt very ashamed.

He had sold all the instruments belonging to the wind section a long time

before. The feeble lungs of the old women had never produced anything more

than a puppy-like squeak from them, anyway. It was ridiculous to see such a

mass of metal in so helpless a condition. Alchen had not been able to resist

selling the wind section, and now he felt very guilty.

A slogan written in large letters on a piece of the same mouse-grey

woollen cloth spanned the wall between the windows. It said:

A BRASS BAND IS THE PATH

TO COLLECTIVE CREATIVITY

"Very good," said Ostap. "This recreation room does not constitute a

fire hazard. Let's go on."

Passing through the front rooms of Vorobyaninov's house, Ostap could