Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

turned to go. But the priest had now recovered from his embarrassment and

was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of "No,

I'm sorry," he grasped hold of the chair again. Their initial position was

restored. The two opponents stood clutching the chair and, moving from side

to side, sized one another up like cats or boxers. The tense pause lasted a

whole minute.

"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:

"The camels used to do it,

The barracudas used to dance it,

Now the whole world's doing 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.

CHAPTER TEN

THE MECHANIC, THE PARROT, AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER

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