Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

Ippolit Matveyevich was wakened by the sound of waves dashing against

the porthole.

They reached Yalta in calm weather on an enervating sunny morning.

Having recovered from his seasickness, the marshal was standing at the prow

near the ship's bell with its embossed Old Slavonic lettering. Gay Yalta had

lined up its tiny stalls and floating restaurants along the shore. On the

quayside there were waiting carriages with velvet-covered seats and linen

awnings, motor-cars and buses belonging to the "Krymkurso" and "Crimean

Driver" societies. Brick-coloured girls twirled parasols and waved

kerchiefs.

The friends were the first to go ashore, on to the scorching

embankment. At the sight of the concessionaires, a citizen in a tussore-silk

suit dived out of the crowd of people meeting the ship and idle onlookers

and began walking quickly towards the exit to the dockyard. But too late.

The smooth operator's eagle eye had quickly recognized the silken citizen.

"Wait a moment, Vorobyaninov," cried Ostap.

And he raced off at such a pace that he caught up the silken citizen

about ten feet from the exit. He returned instantly with a hundred roubles.

"He wouldn't give me any more. Anyway, I didn't insist; otherwise he

won't be able to get home."

And indeed, at that very moment Kislarsky was fleeing in a bus for

Sebastopol, and from there went home to Stargorod by third class.

The concessionaires spent the whole day in the hotel sitting naked on

the floor and every few moments running under the shower in the bathroom.

But the water there was like warm weak tea. They could not escape from the

heat. It felt as though Yalta was just about to melt and flow into the sea.

Towards eight that evening the partners struggled into their red-hot

shoes, cursing all the chairs in the world, and went to the theatre.

The Marriage was being shown. Exhausted by the heat, Stepan almost fell

over while standing on his hands. Agafya ran along the wire, holding the

parasol marked "I want Podkolesin" in her dripping hands. All she really

wanted at that moment was a drink of ice water. The audience was thirsty,

too. For this reason and perhaps also because the sight of Stepan gorging a

pan of hot fried eggs was revolting, the performance did not go over.

The concessionaires were satisfied as soon as they saw that their

chair, together with three new rococo armchairs, was safe.

Hiding in one of the boxes, they patiently waited for the end of the

performance; it dragged on interminably. Then, finally, the audience left

and the actors hurried away to try to cool off. The theatre was empty except

for the shareholders in the concession. Every living thing had hurried out

into the street where fresh rain was, at last, falling fast.

"Follow me, Pussy," ordered Ostap. "Just in case, we're provincials who

couldn't find the exit."

They made their way on to the stage and, striking matches, though they

still collided with the hydraulic press, searched the whole stage.

The smooth operator ran up a staircase into the props room.

"Up here! "he called.

Waving his arms, Vorobyaninov raced upstairs.

"Do you see?" said Ostap, lighting a match.

Through the darkness showed the corner of a Hambs chair and part of the

parasol with the word "want".

"There it is! There is our past, present and future. Light a match,

Pussy, and I'll open it up."

Ostap dug into his pockets for the tools.

"Right," he said, reaching towards the chair. "Another match, marshal."

The match flared up, and then a strange thing happened. The chair gave

a jump and suddenly, before the very eyes of the amazed concessionaires,

disappeared through the floor.

"Mama!" cried Vorobyaninov, and went flying over to the wall, although

he had not the least desire to do so.

The window-panes came out with a crash and the parasol with the words

"I want Podkolesin" flew out of the window, towards the sea. Ostap lay on

the floor, pinned down by sheets of cardboard.

It was fourteen minutes past midnight. This was the first shock of the

great Crimean earthquake of 1927.

A severe earthquake, wreaking untold disaster throughout the peninsula,

had plucked the treasure from the hands of the concessionaires.

"Comrade Bender, what's happening?" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in

terror.

Ostap was beside himself. The earthquake had blocked his path. It was

the only time it had happened in his entire, extensive practice.

"What is it?" screech Vorobyaninov.

Screaming, ringing, and trampling feet could be heard from the street.

"We've got to get outside immediately before the wall caves in on us.

Quick! Give me your hand, softie."

They raced to the door. To their surprise, the Hambs chair was lying on

its back, undamaged, at the exit from the stage to the street. Growling like

a dog, Ippolit Matveyevich seized it in a death-grip.

"Give me the pliers," he shouted to Bender. "Don't be a stupid fool,"

gasped Ostap. "The ceiling is about to collapse, and you stand there going

out of your mind! Let's get out quickly."

"The pliers," snarled the crazed Vorobyaninov. "To hell with you.

Perish here with your chair, then. I value my life, if you don't."

With these words Ostap ran for the door. Ippolit Matveyevich picked up

the chair with a snarl and ran after him.

Hardly had they reached the middle of the street when the ground heaved

sickeningly under their feet; tiles came off the roof of the theatre, and

the spot where the concessionakes had just been standing was strewn with the

remains of the hydraulic press.

"Right, give me the chair now," said Bender coldly. "You're tired of

holding it, I see." "I won't!" screeched Ippolit Matveyevich. "What's this?

Mutiny aboard? Give me the chair, do you hear?"

"It's my chair," clucked Vorobyaninov, drowning the weeping, shouting

and crashing on all sides., "In that case, here's your reward, you old

goat!" And Ostap hit Vorobyaninov on the neck with his bronze fist. At that

moment a fire engine hurtled down the street and in the lights of its

headlamps Ippolit Matveyevich glimpsed such a terrifying expression on

Ostap's face that he instantly obeyed and gave up the chair.

"That's better," said Ostap, regaining his breath. "The mutiny has been

suppressed. Now, take the chair and follow me. You are responsible for the

state of the chair. The chair must be preserved even if there are ten

earthquakes. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

The whole night the concessionaires wandered about with the

panic-stricken crowds, unable to decide, like everyone else, whether or not

to enter the abandoned buildings, and expecting new shocks.

At dawn, when the terror had died down somewhat, Ostap selected a spot

near which there was no wall likely to collapse, or people likely to

interfere, and set about opening the chair.

The results of the autopsy staggered both of them-there was nothing in

the chair. The effect of the ordeal of the night and morning was 'too much

for Ippolit Matveyevich; he burst into a vicious, high-pitched cackle.

Immediately after this came the third shock. The ground heaved and

swallowed up the Hambs chair; its flowered pattern smiled at the sun that

was rising in a dusty sky.

Ippolit Matveyevich went down on all fours and, turning his haggard

face to the dark purple disc of the sun, began howling. The smooth operator

fainted as he listened to him. When he regained consciousness, he saw beside