Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

up and down the deck with his hands in his pockets, ignoring Vorobyaninov on

the quayside.

At first Ippolit Matveyevich made signs; then he was even daring enough

to whistle. But Bender paid no heed. Turning his back on the president of

the concession, he watched with interest as the hydraulic press was lowered

into the hold.

Final preparations for casting off were being made. Agafya Tikhonovna,

alias Mura, ran with clattering feet from her cabin to the stern, looked at

the water, loudly shared her delight with the balalaika virtuoso, and

generally caused confusion among the honoured officials of the lottery

enterprise.

The ship gave a second hoot. At the terrifying sound the clouds moved

aside. The sun turned crimson and sank below the horizon. Lamps and street

lights came on in the town above. From the market in Pochayevsky Ravine

there came the hoarse voices of gramophones competing for the last

customers. Dismayed and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich kept shouting something,

but no one heard him. The clanking of winches drowned all other sounds.

Ostap Bender liked effects. It was only just before the third hoot,

when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he had been abandoned to the

mercy of fate, that Ostap noticed him.

"What are you standing there like a coy suitor for? I thought you were

aboard long ago. They're just going to raise the gangplank. Hurry up! Let

this citizen board. Here's his pass."

Ippolit Matveyevich hurried aboard almost in tears.

"Is this your boy?" asked the boss suspiciously.

"That's the one," said Ostap. "If anyone says he's a girl, I'm a

Dutchman!"

The fat man glumly went away.

"Well, Pussy," declared Ostap, "we'll have to get down to work in the

morning. I hope you can mix paints. And, incidentally, I'm an artist, a

graduate of the Higher Art and Technical Workshops, and you're my assistant.

If you don't like the idea, go back ashore at once."

Black-green foam surged up from under the stern. The ship shuddered;

cymbals clashed together, flutes, cornets, trombones and tubas thundered out

a wonderful march, and the town, swinging around and trying to balance,

shifted to the left bank. Continuing to throb, the ship moved into midstream

and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. A minute later it was so far away

that the lights of the town looked like sparks from a rocket that had frozen

in space.

The murmuring of typewriters could still be heard, but nature and the

Volga were gaining the upper hand. A cosiness enveloped all those aboard the

S.S. Scriabin. The members of the lottery committee drowsily sipped their

tea. The first meeting of the union committee, held in the prow, was marked

by tenderness. The warm wind breathed so heavily, the water lapped against

the sides of the ship so gently, and the dark outline of the shore sped past

the ship so rapidly that when the chairman of the union committee, a very

positive man, opened his mouth to speak about working conditions in the

unusual situation, he unexpectedly for himself, and for everyone else, began

singing:

"A ship sailed down the Volga,

Mother Volga, River Volga. . ."

And the other, stern-faced members taking part in the meeting rumbled

the chorus:

"The lilac bloo-ooms. . ."

The resolution on the chairman's report was just not recorded. A piano

began to play. Kh. Ivanov, head of the musical accompaniment, drew the most

lyrical notes from the instrument. The balalaika virtuoso trailed after

Murochka and, not finding any words of his own to express his love, murmured

the words of a love song.

"Don't go away! Your kisses still fire me, your passionate embraces

never tire me. The clouds have not awakened in the mountain passes, the

distant sky has not yet faded as a pearly star."

Grasping the rail, Simbievich-Sindievich contemplated the infinite

heavens. Compared with them, his scenic effects appeared a piece of

disgusting vulgarity. He looked with revulsion at his hands, which had taken

such an eager part in arranging the scenic effects for the classical comedy.

At the moment the languor was greatest, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin

and Zalkind, who were in the stern of the ship, began banging away at their

surgical and brewery appliances. They were rehearsing. Instantly the mirage

was dispelled. Agafya Tikhonovna yawned and, ignoring the balalaika

virtuoso, went to bed. The minds of the trade unionists were again full of

working conditions, and they dealt with the resolution. After careful

consideration, Simbievich-Sindievich came to the conclusion that the

production of The Marriage was not really so bad. An irate voice from the

darkness called Georgetta Tiraspolskikh to a producer's conference. Dogs

began barking in the villages and it became chilly.

Ostap lay in a first-class cabin on a leather divan, thoughtfully

staring at a green canvas work belt and questioning Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Can you draw? That's a pity. Unfortunately, I can't, either."

He thought for a while and then continued.

"What about lettering? Can't do that either? Too bad. We're supposed to

be artists. Well, we'll manage for a day or so before they kick us out. In

the time we're here we can do everything we need to. The situation has

become a bit more complicated. I've found out that the chairs are in the

producer's cabin. But that's not so bad in the long run. The important thing

is that we're aboard. All the chairs must be examined before they throw us

off. It's too late for today. The producer's already asleep in his cabin."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A SHADY COUPLE

People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime.

Rafts floated up and down-huge fields of logs with little wooden houses on

them. A small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve

over the paddle cover towed along three oil barges in a line. The Red

Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin overtook a convoy

of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making

a circle, turning against the stream.

Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on

to the Bramino quayside. With this line the shoremen hauled over the thick

end of the mooring rope. The screws began turning the opposite way and half

the river was covered with seething foam. The Scriabin shook from the

cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for

the lottery, which did not start until ten.

Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would have done on land-at

nine sharp. No one changed his habits. Those who were late for work on land

were late here, too, although they slept on the very premises. The field

staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very

quickly. Office-boys swept out their cabins with the same lack of interest

as they swept out the offices in Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and

hurried with notes from the registry to the personnel department, not a bit

surprised that the latter was in the stern and the registry in the prow. In

the mutual settlement cabin the abacuses clicked like castanets and the

adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was

being hauled over the coals.

Scorching his bare feet on the hot deck, the smooth operator walked

round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he