Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

roubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question.

Father Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he was advised in a

perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contraband

Batumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowd

of porters.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

UP IN THE CLOUDS

Three days after the concessionaires' deal with Mechnikov the fitter,

the Columbus Theatre left by railway via Makhacha-Kala and Baku. The whole

of these three days the concessionaires, frustrated by the contents of the

two chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to bring them the third of

the Columbus chairs. But the narzan-tortured fitter converted the whole of

the twenty roubles into the purchase of plain vodka and drank himself into

such a state that he was kept locked up in the props room.

"That's Mineral Waters for you!" said Ostap, when he heard about the

theatre's departure. "A useful fool, that fitter. Catch me having dealings

with theatre people after this!"

Ostap became much more nervy than before. The chances of finding the

treasure had increased infinitely.

"We need money to get to Vladikavkaz," said Ostap. "From there we'll

drive by car to Tiflis along the Georgian Military Highway. Glorious

scenery! Magnificent views! Wonderful mountain air! And at the end of it

all-one hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks. There is some

point in continuing the hearing."

But it was not quite so easy to leave Mineral Waters. Vorobyaninov

proved to have absolutely no talent for bilking the railway, and so when all

attempts to get him aboard a train had failed he had to perform again in the

Flower Garden, this time as an educational district ward. This was not at

all a success. Two roubles for twelve hours' hard and degrading work, though

it was a large enough sum for the fare to Vladikavkaz.

At Beslan, Ostap, who was travelling without a ticket, was thrown off

the train, and the smooth operator impudently ran behind it for a mile or

so, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich.

Soon after, Ostap managed to jump on to a train slowly making its way

to the Caucasian ridge. From his position on the steps Ostap surveyed with

great curiosity the panorama of the mountain range that unfolded before him.

It was between three and four in the morning. The mountain-tops were

lit by dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains.

"Too showy," he said. "Weird kind of beauty. An idiot's imagination. No

use at all."

At Vladikavkaz station the passengers were met by a large open bus

belonging to the Transcaucasian car-hire-and-manufacturing society, and

nice, kind people said:

"Those travelling by the Georgian Military Highway will be taken into

the town free."

"Hold on, Pussy," said Ostap. "We want the bus. Let them take us free."

When the bus had given him a lift to the centre of the town, however,

Ostap was in no hurry to put his name down for a seat in a car. Talking

enthusiastically to Ippolit Matveyevich, he gazed admiringly at the view of

the cloud-enveloped Table Mountain, but finding that it really was like a

table, promptly retired.

They had to spend several days in Vladikavkaz. None of their attempts

to obtain money for the road fare met with any success, nor provided them

with enough money to buy food. An attempt to make the citizens pay ten-kopek

bits failed. The mountain ridge was so high and clear that it was not

possible to charge for looking at it. It was visible from practically every

point, and there were no other beauty spots in Vladikavkaz. There was the

Terek, which flowed past the "Trek", but the town charged for entry to that

without Ostap's assistance. The alms collected in two days by Ippolit

Matveyevich only amounted to thirteen kopeks.

"There's only one thing to do," said Ostap. "We'll go to Tiflis on

foot. We can cover the hundred miles in five days. Don't worry, dad, the

mountain view is delightful and the air is bracing . . . We only need money

for bread and salami sausage. You can add a few Italian phrases to your

vocabulary, or not, as you like; but by evening you've got to collect at

least two roubles. We won't have a chance to eat today, dear chum. Alas!

What bad luck!"

Early in the morning the partners crossed the little bridge across the

Terek river, went around the barracks, and disappeared deep into the green

valley along which ran the Georgian Military Highway.

"We're in luck, Pussy," said Ostap. "It rained last night so we won't

have to swallow the dust. Breathe in the fresh air, marshal. Sing something.

Recite some Caucasian poetry and behave as befits the occasion."

But Ippolit Matveyevich did not sing or recite poetry. The road went

uphill. The nights spent in the open made themselves felt by pains in his

side and heaviness in his legs, and the salami sausage made itself felt by a

constant and griping indigestion. He walked along, holding in his hand a

five-pound loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper, his left foot dragging

slightly.

On the move again! But this time towards Tiflis; this time along the

most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich could not have cared

less. He did not look around him as Ostap did. He certainly did not notice

the Terek, which now could just be heard rumbling at the bottom of the

valley. It was only the ice-capped mountain-tops glistening in the sun which

somehow reminded him of a sort of cross between the sparkle of diamonds and

the best brocade coffins of Bezenchuk the undertaker.

After Balta the road entered and continued as a narrow ledge cut in the

dark overhanging cliff. The road spiralled upwards, and by evening the

concessionaires reached the village of Lars, about three thousand feet above

sea level.

They passed the night in a poor native hotel without charge and were

even given a glass of milk each for delighting the owner and his guests with

card tricks.

The morning was so glorious that Ippolit Matveyevich, braced by the

mountain air, began to stride along more cheerfully than the day before.

Just behind Lars rose the impressive rock wall of the Bokovoi ridge. At this

point the Terek valley closed up into a series of narrow gorges. The scenery

became more and more sombre, while the inscriptions on the cliffs grew more

frequent At the point where the cliffs squeezed the Terek's flow between

them to the extent that the span of the bridge was no more than ten feet,

the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions on the side of the gorge that

Ostap forgot the majestic sight of the Daryal gorge and shouted out, trying

to drown the rumble and rushing of the Terek:

"Great people! Look at that, marshal! Do you see it? Just a little

higher than the cloud and slightly lower than the eagle! An inscription

which says, 'Micky and Mike, July 1914'. An unforgettable sight! Notice the

artistry with which it was done. Each letter is three feet high, and they

used oil paints. Where are you now, Nicky and Mike?"

"Pussy," continued Ostap, "let's record ourselves for prosperity, too.

I have some chalk, by the way. Honestly, I'll go up and write 'Pussy and

Ossy were here'."

And without giving it much thought, Ostap put down the supply of

sausage on the wall separating the road from the seething depths of the

Terek and began clambering up the rocks. At first Ippolit Matveyevich