Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent."

"Don't worry at all," said Ostap, basing his hopes on that evening,

rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent."

It was a starry, windy night. The animals in the lottery arc were

lulled to sleep. The lions from the lottery committee were asleep. So were

the lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the rabbits from mutual

settlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound effects, and the pigeons from

the typistry.

Only the shady couple lay awake. The smooth operator emerged from his

cabin after midnight. He was followed by the noiseless shadow of the

faithful Pussy. They went up on deck and silently approached the chair,

covered with plyboard sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap stood

the chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with a

pair of pliers and inserted his hand.

"Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice.

Letter from Theodore

written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife

In the regional centre of N.

My dear and precious Kate,

Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the

Good-Value Furnished Rooms, having finished all my business. The city of

Baku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you still have

to go by electric train and I haven't any money. This picturesque city is

washed by the Caspian. It really is very large in size. The heat here is

awful. I carry my coat in one hand and my jacket in the other, and it's

still too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practically

no money. But no harm, my dear, we'll soon have plenty. We'll travel

everywhere and settle properly in Samara, near our factory, and we'll have

liqueurs to drink. But to get to the point.

In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is

considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic.

There are many people from other parts here. Especially Armenians and

Persians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar and

saw many Turkish clothes and shawls. I wanted to buy you a present of a

Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when we

are rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedan

blanket.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me

here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian;

and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary. Both these happenings

greatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviour

towards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, but

had actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for the

jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it was

covered with kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, my

dearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals?

I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance

to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's not

here just now. He's gone to Batumi on vacation. His family is living

permanently in Batumi. I spoke to some people and they said all his

furniture is there in Batumi. He has a little house there, at the Green

Cape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs.

15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news

from Batumi. Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed in

Voronezh.

Your husband ever,

Theo.

P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your

brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value. I'm very grieved. A good

thing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

EXPULSION FROM PARADISE

While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would

wait, and others that it would not, time passed in its usual way. The dusty

Moscow May was followed by a dusty June. In the regional centre of N., the

Gos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan Square and

Comrade Gubernsky Street for two days, now and then enveloping the vicinity

in desperate quantities of smoke. One by one the shamefaced members of the

Sword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison, having signed a

statement that they would not leave the town. Widow Gritsatsuyev (the

passionate woman and poet's dream) returned to her grocery business and was

fined only fifteen roubles for not placing the price list of soap, pepper,

blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in a

big-hearted woman.

"Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!"

Ippolit Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into his quivering hands.

Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness.

A beacon flashed on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river

and swam after the ship.

"Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else."

"There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Then you have a look as well."

Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his arm as far

as he could inside the chair. He could feel the ends of the springs between

his fingers, but nothing else that was hard. There was a dry, stale smell of

disturbed dust from the chair.

"Nothing?"

"No."

Ostap picked up the chair and hurled it far over the side. There was a

heavy splash. Shivering in the damp night air, the concessionaires went back

to their cabin filled with doubts.

"Well, at any rate we found something," said Bender.

Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and looked at it in a

daze.

"Come on, come on! What are you goggling at?"

The box was opened. On the bottom lay a copper plate, green with age,

which said:

WITH THIS CHAIR

CRAFTSMAN

HAMBS

begins a new batch of furniture

St. Petersburg 1865

Ostap read the inscription aloud.

"But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"You're remarkably shrewd, my dear chair-hunter. As you see, there

aren't any."

Vorobyaninov was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting moustache

twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He looked as though he

was about to beat his face with his ears in desperation.

The cold, sober voice of the smooth operator had its usual magic

effect. Vorobyaninov stretched his hands along the seams of his worn

trousers and kept quiet.

"Shut up, sadness. Shut up, Pussy. Some day we'll have the laugh on the

stupid eighth chair in which we found the silly box. Cheer up! There are

three more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred."

During the night a volcanic pimple erupted on the aggrieved Ippolit

Matveyevich's cheek. All his sufferings, all his setbacks, and the whole

ordeal of the jewel hunt seemed to be summed up in the pimple, which was

tinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue.

"Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap.

Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and went to fetch the paints,

his tall figure slightly bent, like a fishing rod. The transparent was

begun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck.

And the third day of the voyage commenced.

It commenced with a brief clash between the brass band and the sound

effects over a place to rehearse.