The Twelve Chairs (27 page)

People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime.
Rafts floated up and  down-huge fields of  logs with little wooden houses on
them. A  small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve
over  the paddle cover towed  along three  oil  barges  in a line.  The  Red
Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin  overtook a convoy
of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making
a circle, turning against the stream.
Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on
to the Bramino quayside. With this line  the shoremen hauled over  the thick
end of the mooring rope. The screws  began turning the opposite way and half
the  river was covered  with seething  foam.  The Scriabin  shook  from  the
cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for
the lottery, which did not start until ten.
Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would  have  done  on land-at
nine sharp. No one changed his  habits. Those who were late for work on land
were late here, too, although they  slept on  the very  premises.  The field
staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very
quickly. Office-boys swept  out  their cabins with the same lack of interest
as  they swept out the offices in  Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and
hurried with notes from  the registry to the personnel department, not a bit
surprised that the latter was in the stern and  the registry in the prow. In
the mutual  settlement  cabin the abacuses clicked like  castanets  and  the
adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was
being hauled over the coals.
Scorching his  bare feet on the  hot  deck, the smooth  operator walked
round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he
kept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every worker
should have government bonds in his pocket."
The smooth  operator  was doing  his  best, but his lack of  talent was
painfully obvious. The  words slanted downward and, at one stage,  it looked
as though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then,  with the boy Pussy's
help, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was now
more careful. Before  daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lines
with  string  and chalk,  and  was now painting in  the letters, cursing the
innocent Vorobyaninov.
Vorobyaninov  carried out his  duties  as  boy  conscientiously. He ran
below for  hot water, melted the glue,  sneezing as  he did so,  poured  the
paints into a bucket, and looked fawningly  into the exacting artist's eyes.
When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed  it  on
the side.
The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see  what  the new
artist's  work looked  like from there. The  letters  of  the  words were of
different  sizes and  slightly cockeyed, but nothing could be done about it.
He had to be content.
The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches.
The  sound of the  music brought children  running from the whole of Bramino
and, after  them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band went
on blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. A
meeting began. From the porch steps of  Korobkov's tea-house came the  first
sounds of a report on the international situation.
From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see
the  white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little way
from the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker,
and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands.  Then the music
began again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playing
as it went. A crowd of people poured after it.
The lottery device mechanically threw  up its combination  of  figures.
Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizens
watched and listened.
Ostap hurried  down  for a moment, made  certain all the inmates of the
ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again.
"Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art
department. Stand by the entrance to the  first-class corridor  and sing. If
anyone comes, sing louder."
The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? "
"Whatever  else,  don't make it  'God Save  the Tsar'.  Something  with
feeling.  'The Apple' or 'A  Beauty's  Heart'. But I warn you, if you  don't
come out with your aria in time .  . .  This isn't the experimental theatre.
I'll wring your neck."
The smooth operator padded  into the cherry-panelled  corridor  in  his
bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected his
figure. He read the plate on the door:
Nich. Sestrin
Producer
Columbus Theatre
The  mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying
a  chair with curved legs. He  sped  along the corridor, out on to the deck,
and,  glancing   at  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  took  the  chair  aloft  to  the
wheelhouse.  There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the  chair
to the back and said warningly:
"The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly
anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as  soon
as it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents."
A minute later the chair  was  covered up with sheets  of ply-board and
bunting, and was no longer visible.
Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever.
"Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could
open it  on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right away
and--"
"And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we
perhaps  take it back  to  Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry  we took
your chair, but  unfortunately  we didn't find anything in it, so here it is
back somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?"
As always,  the smooth  operator  was right.  Ippolit  Matveyevich only
recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of  the overture played on the
Esmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck.
The lottery operations were  over for the day. The onlookers spread out
on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negro
minstrels. Galkin,  Palkin,  Malkin, Chalkin and  Zalkind  kept  looking  up
proudly as though to say: 'There,  you see! And you said the  popular masses
would not understand. But art finds a way!'
After this the  Colombus troupe gave a  short variety show with singing
and dancing  on an improvised  stage, the point of which  was to demonstrate
how Vavila the peasant boy won  fifty thousand  roubles and what came of it.
The actors, who  had  now  freed  themselves  from the chains  of  Sestrin's
constructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tuneful
voices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied.
Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles.
The balalaika was set in motion.  It  went  flying behind the  player's
back and from there came the "If the master has  a chain, it means he has no
watch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gave
forth quite a few difficult variations.
It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led  out a herd of
girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances.
While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its  voyage, while the
captain  talked  with the  engine-room  through the  speaking-tube,  and the
boilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and,  to
everyone's  delight, began  playing dances.  Picturesque  groups of  dancers
formed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down  a  soft, apricot light.
It  was an  ideal moment for  some newsreel shots. And, indeed,  Polkan  the
cameraman emerged  yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had  grown used
to his part as  general office  boy,  followed him, cautiously  carrying the
camera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polka
was being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping  their feet as  though
they wanted to split the planet. The  girls sailed around. Onlookers crowded
the  terraces and slopes.  An avant-garde French cameraman  would have found
enough  material here  to keep  him busy for  three  days.  Polkan, however,
having run his piggy eyes  along the bank, immediately turned around, ambled
to the  committee chairman, stood  him against a white  wall,  pushed a book
into his hand, and, asking  him not to move,  smoothly  turned the handle of
his cine-camera  for some minutes. He then led the bashful  chairman aft and
took him against the setting sun.
Having  completed his shots,  Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and
locked himself in.
Once more  the hooter sounded and once  more the sun hid in terror. The
second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave.
Ostap thought with trepidation of the  coming morning. Ahead of him was
the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing  bonds. This artistic
ordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with the
lettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower.
"Keep  it  in mind," warned  the  fat man, "from  Vasyuki onward we are
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.

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: