Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

place where the people of Pyatigorsk allow the sightseers in free. I will

remove that blemish on the town's escutcheon and rectify the regrettable

omission."

And Ostap acted as his reason, instinct, and the situation in hand

prompted.

He stationed himself at the entrance to the Drop and, rustling the

receipt book, called out from time to time:

"Buy your tickets here, citizens. Ten kopeks. Children and servicemen

free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!"

It was a sure bet. The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went to the Drop,

and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no great

difficulty. The non-union members, of whom there were many in Pyatigorsk,

were a great help.

They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked

tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:

"You see, Tanyusha, what did I tell you? And you said there was no

charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?"

"You're absolutely right. It would be quite impossible not to charge

for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members."

Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the

Drop in two wagons. Ostap was alarmed and was about to pretend to be an

innocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded round the smooth operator so

timidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice:

"Union members, ten kopeks; but since representatives of the militia

can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks."

The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what purpose the

money was being collected.

"For general repairs to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't

drop too much."

While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of the malachite

puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame,

stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by, mumbled his

three phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."

People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly. However, by

exploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pulling

at their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of the

Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.

The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra

played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between. Brightly

coloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, and

came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying

matsoni on the verandah of the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne

and sulphur gas.

"Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.

"Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice

right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah!

Ah! First rate!"

Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about

in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He had

changed his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with a

playful spotted pattern. He was in unusual spirits and from time to time

jumped as much as five or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov did not

recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.

"Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald?

Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!"

Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused

marshal's hand and ran off. But for some time afterwards his thick thighs

could be glimpsed in various parts of the Flower Garden, and his voice

seemed to float down from the trees.

"Ah! Ah! 'Don't sing to me, my beauty, of sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They

remind me of another life and a distant shore.' 'And in the morning she

smiled again.' First rate!"

Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he

did so. He missed a lot.

In the enchanting darkness of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shukin

strolled through the park, dragging after her the submissive and newly

reconciled Ernest Pavlovich. The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard

battle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud American girl had recently set

sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.

"Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!"

In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen. Her cheeks

were still adorned with sideburns. Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab,

washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her

sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.

After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had

been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan, "By carefully

masticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have a

holiday and enjoy himself. Fate itself had saved the full-bellied little

crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap

would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.

Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to the spring as the musicians were

folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting

couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.

"How much did you collect?" asked Ostap as soon as the marshal's

hunched figure appeared at the spring.

"Seven roubles, twenty-nine kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest,

copper and silver."

"For the first go-terrific! An executive's rate! You amaze me, Pussy.

But what fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know? You didn't give him

change, I hope?"

"It was Iznurenkov."

"What, really? Absalom! Why, that rolling stone. Where has he rolled

to! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn't recognize you!"

"He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma. And laughed."

"There, you see, marshal, it's not really so bad being a beggar,

particularly with a moderate education and a feeble voice. And you were

stubborn about it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were the Lord

Privy Seal. Well, Pussy my lad, I haven't been wasting my time, either.

Fifteen roubles. Altogether that's enough."

The next morning the fitter received his money and brought them two

chairs in the evening. He claimed it was not possible to get the third chair

as the sound effects were playing cards on it.

For greater security the friends climbed practically to the top of

Mashuk.

Beneath, the lights of Pyatigorsk shone strong and steady. Below

Pyatigorsk more feeble lights marked Goryachevodsk village. On the horizon

Kislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines.

Ostap glanced up at the starry sky and took the familiar pliers from

his pocket.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE GREEN CAPE

Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden

house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of which

cast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his white

shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineer

was restlessly awaiting his dinner.

Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a

petulant, chubby little boy:

"Moo-oosie!"

The house was silent.