Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

the noise of the siren and burned up with curiosity, would chase after it.

But from time to time Polesov was seized by a mood of practical

activity. For several days he used to shut himself up in his workshop and

toil in silence. Children ran freely about the yard and shouted what they

liked, carters described circles in the yard, carts completely stopped

entangling their axles and fire-engines and hearses sped to the fire

unaccompanied-Victor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after a bout of this

kind, he emerged from the workshop with a motor-cycle, pulling it like a ram

by the horns; the motor-cycle was made up of parts of cars,

fire-extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. It had a one-and-a-half

horsepower Wanderer engine and Davidson wheels, while the other essential

parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the

words "Trial Run" hung on a cord from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without

looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.

There was no spark for at least ten minutes, but then came a metallic

splutter and the contraption shuddered and enveloped itself in a cloud of

filthy smoke. Polesov jumped into the saddle, and the motor-cycle,

accelerating madly, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the

roadway and stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and investigate the

mysterious vehicle when it suddenly reversed and, whisking its creator

through the same tunnel, stopped at its original point of departure in the

yard, grunted peevishly, and blew up. Victor Mikhailovich escaped by a

miracle and during the next bout of activity used the bits of the

motor-cycle to make a stationary engine, very similar to a real one-except

that it did not work.

The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was

the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative

that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he

undertook to repair the iron gates and paint them any colour he liked. For

its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov

the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a

special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.

Victor Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set to work

in his shop with enthusiasm. It took several days to un-rivet the gates.

They were taken to pieces. Iron curlicues lay in the pram; iron bars and

spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to inspect

the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in the town. A water main burst

on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of

the misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen, and every few

minutes looking into the hole in the ground.

As soon as his organizational ardour had somewhat abated, Polesov

returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard were

already playing with the iron curlicues and spikes of the gates of no. 5.

Seeing the wrathful mechanic, the children dropped their playthings and

fled. Half the curlicues were missing and were never found. After that

Polesov lost interest in the gates.

But then terrible things began to happen in no. 5, which was now wide

open to all. The wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening

someone even carried off a samovar that was singing in the yard. Polesov

himself took part in the pursuit, but the thief ran at quite a pace, even

though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over

his shoulder, covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the lead, with foul

abuse. The one who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.

He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to

open, and residents returning from a spree had no one to give a tip to. At

first the yard-keeper kept coming to ask if the gates would soon be

finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats. The

housing cooperative sent Polesov written reminders, and there was talk of

taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.

Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the mechanic-enthusiast

continued their conversation.

"Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for

the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"

"When will all this end!" said Elena Stanislavovna. "We live like

savages!"

"There's no end to it. . . . Yes. Do you know who I saw today?

Vorobyaninov."

In her amazement Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the wall,

continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.

"I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for

the hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly two

people came towards me. One of them seemed familiar; he looked like

Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.

I told them it used to be a girls' secondary school, and later became the

housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said,

Thanks' and went off. Then I saw clearly that it really was Vorobyaninov,

only without his moustache. The other one with him was a fine-looking

fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought. . ."

At that moment Victor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant.

Breaking off what he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind

the dustbin. Into the yard sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped

by the well and began looking round at the buildings. Not seeing Polesov

anywhere, he asked sadly:

"Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"

"I really don't know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."

And with unusual nervousness she hurried off to her apartment, spilling

water from the pail.

The yard-keeper stroked the cement block at the top of the well and

went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:

ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP

was another sign:

METAL WORKSHOP

AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS

under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the

padlock and said with loathing:

"Ugh, that stinker!"

He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up

the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it

to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet,

began creating an unholy row.

"You have thieves in no. 7!" howled the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all

kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a

damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"

During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting

behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a

bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.

People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight

of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.

"Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"

The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed

with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex

crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed

where they were.

"I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"

While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly