Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

Engrossed in his rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about on the

bed. The springs bleated underneath him.

Ostap had to go right across town. Korobeinikov lived in Gusishe, on

the outskirts.

It was an area populated largely by railway workers. From time to time

a snuffling locomotive would back its way along the walled-off embankment,

above the houses. For a second the roof-tops were lit by the blaze from the

firebox. Now and then empty goods trains went by, and from time to time

detonators could be heard exploding. Amid the huts and temporary wooden

barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats.

Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club- checked the

address from a piece of paper, and halted in front of the record-keeper's

house. He rang a bell marked "Please Ring" in embossed letters.

After prolonged questioning as to "Who do you want?" and "What is it

about?" the door was opened, and he found himself in a dark,

cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did

not speak.

"Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?" asked Ostap.

The person who had been breathing took Ostap by the arm and led him

into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him

a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt

that this was Citizen Korobeinikov himself. Without waiting for an

invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down.

The old man looked fearlessly at the high-handed stranger and remained

silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation.

"I've come on business. You work at the communal-services records

office, don't you? "

The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively.

"And you worked before that in the housing division?"

"I have worked everywhere," he answered gaily.

"Even in the Tsarist town administration?"

Here Ostap smiled graciously. The old man's back contorted for some

time and finally ended up in a position implying that his employment in the

Tsarist town administration was something long passed and that it was not

possible to remember everything for sure.'

"And may I ask what I can do for you?" said the host, regarding his

visitor with interest.

"You may," answered the visitor. "I am Vorobyaninov's son."

"Whose? The marshal's?"

"Yes." . "Is he still alive?"

"He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest."

"Yes," said the old man without any particular grief, "a sad event. But

I didn't think he had any children."

"He didn't," said Ostap amiably in confirmation.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm from a morganatic marriage."

"Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son? "

"Right!"

"How is she?"

"Mum's been in her grave some time."

"I see. I see. How sad."

And the old man gazed at Ostap with tears of sympathy in his eyes,

although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in

the market.

"We all pass away," he said, "but please tell me on what business

you're here, my dear . . . I don't know your name."

"Voldemar," promptly replied Ostap.

"Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good."

The old man sat down at the table covered with patterned oilcloth and

peered into Ostap's eyes.

In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his

parents. He much regretted that he had invaded the privacy of the respected

record-keeper so late at night and disturbed him by the visit, but hoped

that the respected record-keeper would forgive him when he knew what had

brought him.

"I would like to have some of my dad's furniture," concluded Ostap with

inexpressible filial love, "as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the

furniture from dad's house?"

"That's difficult," said the old man after a moment's thought. "Only a

well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask? "

"I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines."

The old man looked dubiously at young Vorobyaninov's green suit, but

made no comment.

"A smart young man," he thought.

"A typical old bastard," decided Ostap, who had by then completed his

observation of Korobeinikov.

"So there you are," said Ostap.

"So there you are," said the record-keeper. "It's difficult, but

possible."

"And it involves expense," suggested the refrigeration-plant owner

helpfully.

"A small sum . . ."

" 'Is nearer one's heart', as Maupassant used to say. The information

will be paid for."

"All right then, seventy roubles."

"Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?"

The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine.

"Joke if you will. . ."

"I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?"

"Have you the money on you? "

Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket.

"Then now, if you like," said Korobeinikov triumphantly.

He lit a candle and led Ostap into the next room. Besides a bed,

obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself, the room contained a

desk piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves.

The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the

edges of the shelves. Bundles of orders bound with new string lay on the

shelves.

"Oho!" exclaimed the delighted Ostap. "A full set of records at home."

"A complete set," said the record-keeper modestly. "Just in case, you

know. The communal services don't need them and they might be useful to me

in my old age. We're living on top of a volcano, you know. Anything can

happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it

be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will

have preserved it? Who will have looked after it? Korobeinikov! So the

gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And

I don't need very much; ten roubles an order will do me. Otherwise, they

might as well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture

without me."

Ostap looked at the old man in rapture.

"A marvellous office," he said. "Complete mechanization. You're an

absolute hero of labour!"

The flattered record-keeper began explaining the details of his

pastime. He opened the thick registers.

"It's all here," he said, "the whole of Stargorod. All the furniture.

Who it was taken from and who it was given to. And here's the alphabetical

index-the mirror of life! Whose furniture do you want to know about?

Angelov, first-guild merchant? Certainly. Look under A. A, Ak, Am, Am,

Angelov. The number? Here it is-82742. Now give me the stock book. Page 142.

Where's Angelov? Here he is. Taken from Angelov on December 18, 1918:

Baecker grand piano, one, no. 97012; piano stools, one, soft; bureaux, two;

wardrobes, four (two mahogany); bookcases, one . . . and so on. And who was

it all given to? Let's look at the distribution register. The same number.

Issued to. The bookcase to the town military committee, three wardrobes to

the Skylark boarding school, another wardrobe for the personal use of the

Stargorod province food office. And where did the piano go? The piano went

to the old-age pensioners' home, and it's there to this day."

"I don't think I saw a piano there," thought Ostap, remembering

Alchen's shy little face.

"Or for instance, Murin, head of the town council. So we look under M.

It's all here. The whole town. Pianos, settees, pier glasses, chairs,