Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

divans, pouffes, chandeliers . . . even dinner services."

"Well," said Ostap, "they ought to erect a monument to you. But let's

get to the point. The letter V, for example."

"The letter V it is," responded Korobeinikov willingly. "In one moment.

Vm, Vn. Vorotsky, no. 48238, Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich, your father,

God rest his soul, was a man with a big heart. . . A Baecker piano, no.

54809. Chinese vases, marked, four, from Sevres in France; Aubusson carpets,

eight, different sizes; a tapestry, "The Shepherd Boy'; a tapestry, 'The

Shepherd Girl'; Tekke carpets, two; Khorassan carpets, one; stuffed bears

with dish, one; a bedroom suite to seat twelve; a dining-room suite to seat

sixteen; a drawing-room suite to seat twelve, walnut, made by Hambs."

"And who was given it?" asked Ostap impatiently. "We're just coming to

that. The stuffed bear with dish went to the police station No. 2. The

Shepherd Boy tapestry went to the art treasure collection; the Shepherd Girl

tapestry to the water-transport club; the Aubusson, Tekke and Khorassan

carpets to the Ministry of Foreign Trade. The bedroom suite went to the

hunters' trade-union; the dining-room suite to the Stargorod branch of the

chief tea administration. The walnut suite was divided up. The round table

and one chair went to the pensioners' home, a curved-back settee was given

to the housing division (it's still in the hall, and the bastards spilled

grease all over the covering); one chair went to Comrade Gritsatsuyev as an

imperialist war invalid, at his own request, granted by Comrade Burkin, head

of the housing division. Ten chairs went to Moscow to the furniture museum,

in accordance with a circular sent round by the Ministry of Education . . .

Chinese vases, marked .. ."

"Well done!" said Ostap jubilantly. "That's more like it! Now it would

be nice to see the actual orders."

"In a moment. We'll come to the orders in a moment. Letter V, No.

48238."

The old man went up to the cupboard and, standing on tiptoe, took down

the appropriate bundle.

"Here you are. All your father's furniture. Do you want all the

orders?"

"What would I do with all of them? Just something to remind me of my

childhood. The drawing-room suite . . . I remember how I used to play on the

Khorassan carpet in the drawing-room, looking at the Shepherd Boy tapestry .

. . I had a fine time, a wonderful childhood. So let's stick to the

drawing-room suite, dad."

Lovingly the old man began to open up the bundle of green counterfoils

and searched for the orders in question. He took out five of them. One was

for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for the round table, and one for

tapestry.

"lust see. They're all in order. You know where each item is. All the

counterfoils have the addresses on them and also the receiver's own

signature. So no one can back out if anything happens. Perhaps you'd like

Madame Popov's furniture? It's very good and also made by Hambs."

But Ostap was motivated solely by love for his parents; he grabbed the

orders, stuffed them in the depths of his pocket and declined the furniture

belonging to General Popov's wife.

"May I make out a receipt?" inquired the record-keeper, adroitly

arching himself.

"You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!"

"I will then."

"Do that!"

They went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in

neat handwriting and handed it smilingly to his visitor. The chief

concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in

a singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious

orders.

"Well, so long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a

lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king

of the office!"

The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand.

"Good-bye!" repeated Ostap.

He moved towards the door.

Korobeinikov was at a loss to understand. He even looked on the table

to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly:

"What about the money?"

"What money?" said Ostap, opening the door. "Did I hear you say

something about money? "

"Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!"

"Honestly, chum," crooned Ostap, "I swear by my late father, I'd be

glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account."

The old man began to tremble and put out a puny hand to restrain his

nocturnal visitor.

"Don't be a fool," said Ostap menacingly. "I'm telling you in plain

Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!"

The door slammed. Korobeinikov opened it and ran into the street, but

Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing

overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke.

"Things are moving," cried Ostap to the driver, "things are moving,

gentlemen of the jury!"

The driver could not hear; he waved his hand, and the wheels of the

locomotive began pulling the steel elbows of the cranks with still greater

force. The locomotive raced away.

Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back

into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room

and kicked the table with rage. The clog-shaped ash-tray with the word

"Triangle" on it jumped up and down, and the glass clinked against the

decanter.

Never before had Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.

He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such

brilliant simplicity that all he could do was stand for some time, lashing

out at the thick legs of the table.

In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned

to him in cases of extreme need. He acted as a pawnbroker and charged

cannibalistic rates of interest. He had been doing this for several years

and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game,

a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.

"A fine thing!" he cried, remembering the lost orders. "From now on

money in advance. How could I have bungled it like that? I gave him the

walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by

hand. . . ."

An uncertain hand had been ringing the bell marked "Please Ring" for

some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door

was still open, when there was a heavy thud, and' the voice of a man

entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:

"How do I get in?"

Korobeinikov went into the hallway, took hold of somebody's coat (it

felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.

"I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.

After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both sides, it came

to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding

Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore was not averse to paying

for it. Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great amusement, the visitor

turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to

keep something in memory of him, for example, a walnut drawing-room suite.

The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.

Korobeinikov asked a hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's

memory considerably lower than that, say thirty roubles. They agreed on