Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

him Vorobyaninov's lilac-stubble chin. Vorobyaninov was unconscious.

"At last," said Ostap, like a patient recovering from typhus, "we have

a dead certainty. The last chair [at the word "chair", Ippolit Matveyevich

stirred] may have vanished into the goods yard of October Station, but has

by no means been swallowed up by the ground. What's wrong? The hearing is

continued."

Bricks came crashing down nearby. A ship's siren gave a protracted

wail.

CHAPTER FORTY

THE TREASURE

On a rainy day in October, Ippolit Matveyevich, in his silver

star-spangled waistcoat and without a jacket, was working busily in

Ivanopulo's room. He was working at the windowsill, since there still was no

table in the room. The smooth operator had been commissioned to paint a

large number of address plates for various housing co-operatives. The

stencilling of the plates had been passed on to Vorobyaninov, while Ostap,

for almost the whole of the month since their return to Moscow, had cruised

round the area of the October Station looking with incredible avidity for

clues to the last chair, which undoubtedly contained Madame Petukhov's

jewels. Wrinkling his brow, Ippolit Matveyevich stencilled away at the iron

plates. During the six months of the jewel race he had lost certain of his

habits.

At night Ippolit Matveyevich dreamed about mountain ridges adorned with

weird transparents, Iznurenkov, who hovered in front of him, shaking his

brown thighs, boats that capsized, people who drowned, bricks falling out of

the sky, and ground that heaved and poured smoke into his eyes.

Ostap had not observed the change in Vorobyaninov, for he was with him

every day. Ippolit Matveyevich, however, had changed in a remarkable way.

Even his gait was different; the expression of his eyes had become wild and

his long moustache was no longer parallel to the earth's surface, but

drooped almost vertically, like that of an aged cat.

He had also altered inwardly. He had developed determination and

cruelty, which were traits of character unknown to him before. Three

episodes had gradually brought out these streaks in him: the miraculous

escape from the hard fists of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, his debut in the

field of begging in the Flower Garden at Pyatigorsk, and, finally, the

earthquake, since which Ippolit Matveyevich had become somewhat unhinged and

harboured a secret loathing for his partner.

Ippolit Matveyevich had recently been seized by the strongest

suspicions. He was afraid that Ostap would open the chair without him and

make off with the treasure, abandoning him to his own fate. He did not dare

voice these suspicions, knowing Ostap's strong arm and iron will. But each

day, as he sat at the window scraping off surplus paint with an old, jagged

razor, Ippolit Matveyevich wondered. Every day he feared that Ostap would

not come back and that he, a former marshal of the nobility, would die of

starvation under some wet Moscow wall.

Ostap nevertheless returned each evening, though he never brought any

good news. His energy and good spirits were inexhaustible. Hope never

deserted him for a moment.

There was a sound of running footsteps in the corridor and someone

crashed into the cabinet; the plywood door flew open with the ease of a page

turned by the wind, and in the doorway stood the smooth operator. His

clothes were soaked, and his cheeks glowed like apples. He was panting.

"Ippolit Matveyevich!" he shouted. "Ippolit Matveyevich!" Vorobyaninov was

startled. Never before had the technical adviser called him by his first two

names. Then he cottoned on. . . .

"It's there?" he gasped.

"You're dead right, it's there, Pussy. Damn you."

"Don't shout. Everyone will hear."

"That's right, they might hear," whispered Ostap. "It's there, Pussy,

and if you want, I can show it to you right away. It's in the

railway-workers' club, a new one. It was opened yesterday. How did I find

it? Was it child's play? It was singularly difficult. A stroke of genius,

brilliantly carried through to the end. An ancient adventure. In a word,

first rate!"

Without waiting for Ippolit Matveyevich to pull on his jacket, Ostap

ran to the corridor. Vorobyaninov joined him on the landing. Excitedly

shooting questions at one another, they both hurried along the wet streets

to Kalanchev Square. They did not even think of taking a tram.

"You're dressed like a navvy," said Ostap jubilantly. "Who goes about

like that, Pussy? You should have starched underwear, silk socks, and, of

course, a top hat. There's something noble about your face. Tell me, were

you really a marshal of the nobility?"

Pointing out the chair, which was standing in the chess-room, and

looked a perfectly normal Hambs chair, although it contained such untold

wealth, Ostap pulled Ippolit Matveyevich into the corridor. There was no one

about. Ostap went up to a window that had not yet been sealed for the winter

and drew back the bolts on both sets of frames.

"Through this window," he said, "we can easily get into the club at any

time of the night. Remember, Pussy, the third window from the front

entrance."

For a while longer the friends wandered about the club, pretending to

be railway-union representatives, and were more and more amazed by the

splendid halls and rooms.

"If I had played the match in Vasyuki," said Ostap, "sitting on a chair

like this, I wouldn't have lost a single game. My enthusiasm would have

prevented it. Anyway, let's go, old man. I have twenty-five roubles. We

ought to have a glass of beer and relax before our nocturnal visitation. The

idea of beer doesn't shock you, does it, marshal? No harm. Tomorrow you can

lap up champagne in unlimited quantities."

By the time they emerged from the beer-hall, Bender was thoroughly

enjoying himself and made taunting remarks at the passers-by. He embraced

the slightly tipsy Ippolit Matveyevich round the shoulders and said

lovingly:

"You're an extremely nice old man, Pussy, but I'm not going to give you

more than ten per cent. Honestly, I'm not. What would you want with all that

money? "

"What do you mean, what would I want?" Ippolit Matveyevich seethed with

rage.

Ostap laughed heartily and rubbed his cheek against his partner's wet

sleeve.

"Well, what would you buy, Pussy? You haven't any imagination.

Honestly, fifteen thousand is more than enough for you. You'll soon die,

you're so old. You don't need any money at all. You know, Pussy, I don't

think I'll give you anything. I don't want to spoil you. I'll take you on as

a secretary, Pussy my lad. What do you say? Forty roubles a month and all

your grub. You get work clothes, tips, and national health. Well, is it a

deal?"

Ippolit Matveyevich tore his arm free and quickly walked ahead. Jokes

like that exasperated him. Ostap caught him up at the entrance to the little

pink house. "Are you really mad at me?" asked Ostap. "I was only joking.

You'll get your three per cent. Honestly, three per cent is all you need,

Pussy."

Ippolit Matveyevich sullenly entered the room. "Well, Pussy, take three

per cent." Ostap was having fun. "Come on, take three. Anyone else would.

You don't have any rooms to rent. It's a blessing Ivanopulo has gone to Tver

for a whole year. Anyway, come and be my valet. . . an easy job."

Seeing that Ippolit Matveyevich could not be baited, Ostap yawned

sweetly, stretched himself, almost touching the ceiling as he filled his