Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

indignation, squeaked:

"Silly old fool!"

"What's that?" cried Ostap, promptly turning back but the door was

already shut and the only sound was the click of the lock.

Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand to his mouth, and said

clearly:

"How much is opium for the people?"

There was silence behind the door:

"Dad, you're a nasty old man," said Ostap loudly.

That very moment the point of Father Theodore's pencil shot out of the

keyhole and wiggled in the air in an attempt to sting his enemy. The

concessionaire jumped back in time and grasped hold of it. Separated by the

door, the adversaries began a tug-of-war. Youth was victorious, and the

pencil, clinging like a splinter, slowly crept out of the keyhole. Ostap

returned with the trophy to his room, where the partners were still more

elated.

"And the enemy's in flight, flight, flight," he crooned.

He carved a rude word on the edge of the pencil with a pocket-knife,

ran into the corridor, pushed the pencil through the priest's keyhole, and

hurried back.

The friends got out the green counterfoils and began a careful

examination of them.

"This one's for the Shepherd Girl tapestry," said Ippolit Matveyevich

dreamily. "I bought it from a St. Petersburg antique dealer."

"To hell with the Shepherd Girl," said Ostap, tearing the order to

ribbons.

"A round table . . . probably from the suite. . ."

"Give me the table. To hell with the table!"

Two orders were left: one for ten chairs transferred to the furniture

museum in Moscow, and the other for the chair given to Comrade Gritsatsuyev

in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.

"Have your money ready," said Ostap. "We may have to go to Moscow."

"But there's a chair here!"

"One chance in ten. Pure mathematics. Anyway, citizen Gritsatsuyev may

have lit the stove with it."

"Don't joke like that!"

"Don't worry, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Michelson, we'll find them.

It's a sacred cause!"

"We'll be wearing cambric footcloths and eating Margo cream."

"I have a hunch the jewels are in that very chair."

"Oh, you have a hunch, do you. What other hunches do you have? None?

All right. Let's work the Marxist way. We'll leave the sky to the birds and

deal with the chairs ourselves. I can't wait to meet the imperialist war

invalid, citizen Gritsatsuyev, at 15 Plekhanov Street. Don't lag behind,

Konrad Karlovich. We'll plan as we go."

As they passed Father Theodore's door the vengeful son of a Turkish

citizen gave it a kick. There was a low snarling from the harassed rival

inside.

"Don't let him follow us!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in alarm.

"After today's meeting of the foreign ministers aboard the yacht no

rapprochement is possible. He's afraid of me."

The friends did not return till evening. Ippolit Matveyevich looked

worried. Ostap was beaming. He was wearing new raspberry-coloured shoes with

round rubber heel taps, green-and-black check socks, a cream cap, and a

silk-mixture scarf of a brightly coloured Rumanian shade.

"It's there all right," said Vorobyaninov, reflecting on his visit to

Widow Gritsatsuyev, "but how are we going to get hold of it? By buying it?"

"Certainly not!" said Ostap. "Besides being a totally unproductive

expense, that would start rumours. Why one chair, and why that chair in

particular?"

"What shall we do?"

Ostap lovingly inspected the heels of his new shoes.

"Chic moderne" he said. "What shall we do? Don't worry, Judge, I'll

take on the operation myself. No chair can withstand these shoes."

Ippolit Matveyevich brightened up.

"You know, while you were talking to Mrs. Gritsatsuyev about the flood,

I sat down on our chair and I honestly felt something hard underneath me.

They're there, I'll swear to it. They're there, I know it."

"Don't get excited, citizen Michelson."

"We must steal it during the night; honestly, we must steal it!"

"For a marshal of the nobility your methods are too crude. Anyway, do

you know the technique? Maybe you have a travelling kit with a set of

skeleton keys. Get rid of the idea. It's a scummy trick to rob a poor

widow."

Ippolit Matveyevich pulled himself together.

"It's just that we must act quickly," he said imploringly.

"Only cats are born quickly," said Ostap instructively. "I'll marry

her."

"Who?"

"Madame Gritsatsuyev."

"Why?"

"So that we can rummage inside the chair quietly and without any fuss."

"But you'll tie yourself down for life!"

"The things we do for the concession!"

"For life!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in a whisper.

He threw up his hands in amazement. His pastor-like face was bristly

and his bluish teeth showed they had not been cleaned since the day he left

the town of N.

"It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Life!" said Ostap. "Sacrifice! What do you know about life and

sacrifices? Do you think that just because you were evicted from your own

house you've tasted life? And just because they requisitioned one of your

imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice? Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a

complex affair, but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex affair which can be

managed as simply as opening a box. All you have to do is to know how to

open it. Those who don't-have had it."

Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the sleeve of his jacket, played

a flourish with his lips and went off.

Towards morning he rolled into the room, took off his shoes, put them

on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly:

"My little friends."

"Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep.

"At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice.

Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow.

"And are you going to marry her? "

Ostap's eyes sparkled.

"I'll have to make an honest woman of her now."

Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment.

"A passionate woman," said Ostap, "is a poet's dream. Provincial

straightforwardness. Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital

of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas."

"When's the wedding?"

"The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow's impossible. It's May Day, and

everything's shut."

"But what about our own business? You're getting married . . . but we

may have to go to Moscow."

"What are you worried about? The hearing is continued."

"And the wife?"

"Wife? The little diamond widow? She's our last concern. A sudden

summons to the capital. A short report to be given to the Junior Council of

Ministers. A wet-eyed farewell and a roast chicken for the journey. We'll

travel in comfort. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a holiday."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!

On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst

for activity, hurried out into the street and headed for the centre. At

first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there

were still few people about and the reviewing stands, guarded by mounted

militiamen, were empty. By nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring,

wheezing, and whistling in various parts of the town. Housewives came

running out of their gates.

A column of musicians'-union officials in soft collars somehow strayed

into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and

upsetting everyone.

A lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter