by Ilya Ilf and Eugene Petrov 6 страница

Father?"

"Maybe I am!"

Ippolit Matveyevich could no longer restrain himself and with a shriek

of "Maybe you are" spat juicily in Father Theodore's kindly face. Father

Theodore immediately spat in Ippolit Matveyevich's face and also found his

mark. They had nothing with which to wipe away the spittle since they were

still holding the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich made a noise like a door

opening and thrust the chair at his enemy with all his might. The enemy fell

over, dragging the panting Vorobyaninov with him. The struggle continued in

the stalls.

Suddenly there was a crack and both front legs broke on simultaneous'y.

The opponents completely forgot one another and began tearing the walnut

treasure-chest to pieces. The flowered English chintz split with the

heart-rending scream of a seagull. The back was torn off by a mighty tug.

The treasure hunters ripped off the sacking together with the brass tacks

and, grazing their hands on the springs, buried their fingers in the woollen

stuffing. The disturbed springs hummed. Five minutes later the chair had

been picked clean. Bits and pieces were all that was left. Springs rolled in

all directions, and the wind blew the rotten padding all over the clearing.

The curved legs lay in a hole. There were no jewels.

"Well, have you found anything?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, panting.

Father Theodore, covered in tufts of wool, puffed and said nothing.

"You crook!" shouted Ippolit Matveyevich. "I'll break your neck, Father

Theodore!"

"I'd like to see you! " retorted the priest. "Where are you going all

covered in fluff? " "Mind your own business!"

"Shame on you, Father! You're nothing but a thief!" "I've stolen

nothing from you."

"How did you find out about this? You exploited the sacrament of

confession for your own ends. Very nice! Very fine!"

With an indignant "Fooh! " Ippolit Matveyevich left the clearing and,

brushing his sleeve as he went, made for home. At the corner of Lena

Massacre and Yerogeyev streets he caught sight of his partner. The technical

adviser and director-general of the concession was having the suede uppers

of his boots cleaned with canary polish; he was standing half-turned with

one foot slightly raised. Ippolit Matveyevich hurried up to him. The

director was gaily crooning the shimmy:

"The camels used to do it,

The barracudas used to dance it,

Now the whole world's doing the shimmy."

"Well, how was the housing division?" he asked in a businesslike way,

and immediately added:

"Wait a moment. Don't tell me now; you're too excited. Cool down a

little."

Giving the shoeshiner seven kopeks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm

and led him down the street. He listened very carefully to everything the

agitated Ippolit Matveyevich told him.

"Aha! A small black beard? Right! A coat with a sheepskin collar? I

see. That's the chair from the pensioner's home. It was bought today for

three roubles."

"But wait a moment...."

And Ippolit Matveyevich told the chief concessionaire all about Father

Theodore's low tricks.

Ostap's face clouded.

"Too bad," he said. "Just like a detective story. We have a mysterious

rival. We must steal a march on him. We can always break his head later."

As the friends were having a snack in the Stenka Razin beer-hall and

Ostap was asking questions about the past and present state of the housing

division, the day came to an end.

The golden carthorses became brown again. The diamond drops grew cold

in mid-air and plopped on to the ground. In the beer-halls and Phoenix

restaurant the price of beer went up. Evening had come; the street lights on

Greater Pushkin Street lit up and a detachment of Pioneers went by, stamping

their feet, on the way home from their first spring outing.

The tigers, figures of victory, and cobras on top of the

province-planning administration shone mysteriously in the light of the

advancing moon.

As he made his way home with Ostap, who was now suddenly silent,

Ippolit Matveyevich gazed at the tigers and cobras. In his time, the

building had housed the Provincial Government and the citizens had been

proud of their cobras, considering them one of the sights of Stargorod.

"I'll find them," thought Ippolit Matveyevich, looking at one of the

plaster figures of victory.

The tigers swished their tails lovingly, the cobras contracted with

delight, and Ippolit Matveyevich's heart filled with determination.

CHAPTER TEN

THE MECHANIC, THE PARROT, AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER

No. 7 Pereleshinsky Street was not one of Stargorod's best buildings.

Its two storeys were constructed in the style of the Second Empire and were

embellished with timeworn lion heads, singularly reminiscent of the once

well-known writer Artsybashec. There were exactly seven of these

Artsybashevian physiognomies, one for each of the windows facing on to the

street. The faces had been placed at the keystone of each window.

There were two other embellishments on the building, though these were

of a purely commercial nature. On one side hung the radiant sign:

ODESSA ROLL BAKERY

MOSCOW

BUN ARTEL

The sign depicted a young man wearing a tie and ankle-length French

trousers. Ift one dislocated hand he held the fabulous cornucopia, from

which poured an avalanche of ochre-coloured buns; whenever necessary, these

were passed off as Moscow rolls. The young man had a sexy smile on his face.

On the other side, the Fastpack packing office announced itself to

prospective clients by a black board with round gold lettering.

Despite the appreciable difference in the signs and also in the capital

possessed by the two dissimilar enterprises, they both engaged in the same

business, namely, speculation in all types of fabrics: coarse wool, fine

wool, cotton, and, whenever silk of good colour and design came their way,

silk as well.

Passing through the tunnel-like gateway and turning right into the yard

with its cement well, you could see two doorways without porches, giving

straight on to the angular flagstones of the yard. A dulled brass plate with

a name engraved in script was fixed to the right-hand door:

V.M. POLESOV

The left-hand door was fitted with a piece of whitish tin:

FASHIONS AND MILLINERY

This was also only for show.

Inside the fashions-and-millinery workroom there was no esparterie, no

trimmings, no headless dummies with soldierly bearing, nor any large heads

for elegant ladies' hats. Instead, the three-room apartment was occupied by

an immaculately white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was riddled with

fleas, but could not complain since it was unable to talk. For days on end

it used to crack sunflower seeds and spit the husks through the bars of its

tall, circular cage on to the carpet. It only needed a concertina and new

squeaky Wellingtons to resemble a peasant on a spree. Dark-brown patterned

curtains flapped at the window. Dark-brown hues predominated in the

apartment. Above the piano was a reproduction of Boecklin's "Isle of the

Dead" in a fancy frame of dark-green oak, covered with glass. One corner of

the glass had been broken off some time before, and the flies had added so

many finishing touches to the picture at this bared section that it merged

completely with the frame. What was going on in that section of the "Isle of

the Dead" was quite impossible to say.

The owner herself was sitting in the bedroom and laying out cards,

resting her arms on an octagonal table covered by a dirty Richelieu

tablecloth. In front of her sat Widow Gritsatsuyev, in a fluffy shawl.

"I should warn you, young lady, that I don't take less than fifty

kopeks per session,' said the fortune-teller.

The widow, whose anxiousness to find a new husband knew no bounds,

agreed to pay the price.

"But predict the future as well, please," she said plaintively. "You

will be represented by the Queen of Clubs." "I was always the Queen of

Hearts," objected the widow. The fortune-teller consented apathetically and

began manipulating the cards. A rough estimation of the widow's lot was

ready in a few minutes. Both major and minor difficulties awaited her, but

near to her heart was the King of Clubs, who had befriended the Queen of

Diamonds.

A fair copy of the prediction was made from the widow's hand. The lines

of her hand were clean, powerful, and faultless. Her life line stretched so

far that it ended up at her pulse and, if it told the truth, the widow

should have lived till doomsday. The head line and line of brilliancy gave

reason to believe that she would give up her grocery business and present

mankind with masterpieces in the realm of art, science, and social studies.

Her Mounts of Venus resembled Manchurian volcanoes and revealed incredible

reserves of love and affection. The fortune-teller explained all this to the

widow, using the words and phrases current among graphologists, palmists,

and horse-traders.

"Thank you, madame," said the widow. "Now I know who the King of Clubs

is. And I know who the Queen of Diamonds is, too. But what about the King?

Does that mean marriage?" "It does, young lady." The widow went home in a

dream, while the fortune-teller threw the cards into a drawer, yawned,

displaying the mouth of a fifty-year-old woman, and went into the kitchen.

There she busied herself with the meal that was warming on a Graetz stove;

wiping her hands on her apron like a cook, she took a chipped-enamel pail

and went into the yard to fetch water.

She walked across the yard, dragging her flat feet. Her drooping

breasts wobbled lazily inside her dyed blouse. Her head was crowned with

greying hair. She was an old woman, she was dirty, she regarded everyone

with suspicion, and she had a sweet tooth. If Ippolit Matveyevich had seen

her now, he would never have recognized Elena Bour, his former mistress,

about whom the clerk of the court had once said in verse that "her lips were

inviting and she was so spritely!" At the well, Mrs. Bour was greeted by her

neighbour, Victor Mikhailovich Polesov, the mechanic-intellectual, who was

collecting water in an empty petrol tin. Polesov had the face of an operatic

Mephistopheles who is carefully rubbed with burnt cork just before he goes

on stage.

As soon as they had exchanged greetings, the neighbours got down to a

discussion of the affair concerning the whole of Stargorod.

"What times we live in!" said Polesov ironically. "Yesterday I went all

over the town but couldn't find any three-eighths-inch dies anywhere. There

were none available. And to think-they're going to open a tramline!"

Elena Stanislavovna, who had as much idea about three-eighths-inch dies

as a student of the Leonardo da Vinci ballet school, who thinks that cream

comes from cream tarts, expressed her sympathy.

"The shops we have now! Nothing but long queues. And the names of the

shops are so dreadful. Stargiko!"

"But I'll tell you something else, Elena Stanislavovna. They have four

General Electric engines left. And they just about work, although the bodies

are junk. The windows haven't any shock absorbers. I've seen them myself.

The whole lot rattles. Horrible! And the other engines are from Kharkov.

Made entirely by the State Non-Ferrous Metallurgy Industry."

The mechanic stopped talking in irritation. His black face glistened in

the sun. The whites of his eyes were yellowish. Among the artisans owning

cars in Stargorod, of whom there were many, Victor Polesov was the most

gauche, and most frequently made an ass of himself. The reason for this was

his over-ebullient nature. He was an ebullient idler. He was forever

effervescing. In his own workshop in the second yard of no. 7 Pereleshinsky

Street, he was never to be found. Extinguished portable furnaces stood

deserted in the middle of his stone shed, the corners of which were

cluttered up with punctured tyres, torn Triangle tyre covers, rusty padlocks

(so enormous you could have locked town gates with them), fuel cans with the

names "Indian" and "Wanderer", a sprung pram, a useless dynamo, rotted

rawhide belts, oil-stained rope, worn emery paper, an Austrian bayonet, and

a great deal of other broken, bent and dented junk. Clients could never find

Victor Mikhailovich. He was always out somewhere giving orders. He had no

time for work. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch a horse. and

cart drive into his or anyone else's yard. He immediately went out and,

clasping his hands behind his back, watched the carter's actions with

contempt. Finally he could bear it no longer.

"Where do you think you're going?" he used to shout in a horrified

voice. "Move over!"

The startled carter would move the cart over.

"Where do you think you're moving to, wretch?" Victor Polesov cried,

rushing up to the horse. "In the old days you would have got a slap for

that, then you would have moved over."

Having given orders in this way for half an hour or so, Polesov would

be just about to return to his workshop, where a broken bicycle pump awaited

repair, when the peaceful life of the town would be disturbed by some other

contretemps. Either two carts entangled their axles in the street and Victor

Mikhailovich would show the best and quickest way to separate them, or

workmen would be replacing a telegraph pole and Polesov would check that it

was perpendicular with his own plumb-line brought specially from the

workshop; or, finally, the fire-engine would go past and Polesov, excited by

the noise of the siren and burned up with curiosity, would chase after it.

But from time to time Polesov was seized by a mood of practical

activity. For several days he used to shut himself up in his workshop and

toil in silence. Children ran freely about the yard and shouted what they

liked, carters described circles in the yard, carts completely stopped

entangling their axles and fire-engines and hearses sped to the fire

unaccompanied-Victor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after a bout of this

kind, he emerged from the workshop with a motor-cycle, pulling it like a ram

by the horns; the motor-cycle was made up of parts of cars,

fire-extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. It had a one-and-a-half

horsepower Wanderer engine and Davidson wheels, while the other essential

parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the

words "Trial Run" hung on a cord from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without

looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.

There was no spark for at least ten minutes, but then came a metallic

splutter and the contraption shuddered and enveloped itself in a cloud of

filthy smoke. Polesov jumped into the saddle, and the motor-cycle,

accelerating madly, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the

roadway and stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and investigate the

mysterious vehicle when it suddenly reversed and, whisking its creator

through the same tunnel, stopped at its original point of departure in the

yard, grunted peevishly, and blew up. Victor Mikhailovich escaped by a

miracle and during the next bout of activity used the bits of the

motor-cycle to make a stationary engine, very similar to a real one-except

that it did not work.

The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was

the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative

that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he

undertook to repair the iron gates and paint them any colour he liked. For

its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov

the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a

special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.

Victor Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set to work

in his shop with enthusiasm. It took several days to un-rivet the gates.

They were taken to pieces. Iron curlicues lay in the pram; iron bars and

spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to inspect

the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in the town. A water main burst

on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of

the misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen, and every few

minutes looking into the hole in the ground.

As soon as his organizational ardour had somewhat abated, Polesov

returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard were

already playing with the iron curlicues and spikes of the gates of no. 5.

Seeing the wrathful mechanic, the children dropped their playthings and

fled. Half the curlicues were missing and were never found. After that

Polesov lost interest in the gates.

But then terrible things began to happen in no. 5, which was now wide

open to all. The wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening

someone even carried off a samovar that was singing in the yard. Polesov

himself took part in the pursuit, but the thief ran at quite a pace, even

though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over

his shoulder, covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the lead, with foul

abuse. The one who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.

He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to

open, and residents returning from a spree had no one to give a tip to. At

first the yard-keeper kept coming to ask if the gates would soon be

finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats. The

housing cooperative sent Polesov written reminders, and there was talk of

taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.

Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the mechanic-enthusiast

continued their conversation.

"Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for

the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"

"When will all this end!" said Elena Stanislavovna. "We live like

savages!"

"There's no end to it.... Yes. Do you know who I saw today?

Vorobyaninov."

In her amazement Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the wall,

continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.

"I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for

the hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly two

people came towards me. One of them seemed familiar; he looked like

Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.

I told them it used to be a girls' secondary school, and later became the

housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said,

Thanks' and went off. Then I saw clearly that it really was Vorobyaninov,

only without his moustache. The other one with him was a fine-looking

fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought..."

At that moment Victor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant.

Breaking off what he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind

the dustbin. Into the yard sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped

by the well and began looking round at the buildings. Not seeing Polesov

anywhere, he asked sadly:

"Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"

"I really don't know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."

And with unusual nervousness she hurried off to her apartment, spilling

water from the pail.

The yard-keeper stroked the cement block at the top of the well and

went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:

ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP

was another sign:

METAL WORKSHOP

AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS

under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the

padlock and said with loathing:

"Ugh, that stinker!"

He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up

the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it

to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet,

began creating an unholy row.

"You have thieves in no. 7!" howled the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all

kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a

damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"

During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting

behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a

bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.

People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight

of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.

"Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"

The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed

with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex

crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed

where they were.

"I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"

While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly

began hauling the fellow off to the police station. He was assisted by Some

young toughs from Fastpack. The yard-keeper put his arms around the

militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.

A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin. There

was a stir among the audience.

"Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. "I'll show you! You

louse!"

But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear. He was

carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove

Repairs" was also taken along as factual evidence. Victor Mikhailovich

bristled with fury for some time.

"Sons of bitches!" he said, turning to the spectators. "Conceited

bums!"

"That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena Stanislavovna from

the window. "Come in here a moment."

She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up

and down the room, began asking him questions.

"But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him,"

said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well. It was the spitting image

of Vorobyaninov."

"Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?"

An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.

"Well, what do you think? "

He chuckled with even greater irony.

"At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks."

"Do you think he's in danger? "

The reserves of irony amassed by Polesov over the ten years since the

revolution were inexhaustible. A series of smiles of varying force and

scepticism lit up his face.

"Who isn't in danger in Soviet Russia, especially a man in

Vorobyaninov's position. Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off

for nothing."

"Has he been sent from abroad?" asked Elena Stanislavovna, almost

choking.

"Definitely," replied the brilliant mechanic.

"What is his purpose here?"

"Don't be childish!"

"I must see him all the same."

"Do you know what you're risking? "

"I don't care. After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than

see Ippolit Matveyevich."

And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were

still in love with one another.

"I beg you to find him. Find out where he is. You go everywhere; it

won't be difficult for you. Tell him I want to see him. Do you hear?"

The parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on its perch,

was startled by the noisy conversation; it turned upside down and froze in

that position.

"Elena Stanislavovna," said the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his

hands to his chest, "I will contact him."

"Would you like some more stewed fruit?" asked the fortune-teller,

deeply touched.

Victor Mikhailovich consumed the stewed fruit irritably, gave Elena

Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and

then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE MIRROR-OF-LIFE INDEX

The next day the partners saw that it was no longer convenient to live

in the caretaker's room. Tikhon kept muttering away to himself and had

become completely stupid, having seen his master first with a black

moustache, then with a green one, and finally with no moustache at all.

There was nothing to sleep on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in

on Tikhon's new felt boots. His old ones stood in the corner and did not

help to purify the air, either.

"I declare the old boys' reunion over," said Ostap. "We must move to a

hotel."

Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I shall have to register."

"Aren't your papers in order?"

"My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours

will spread."

The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.

"How do you like the name Michelson?" suddenly asked the splendid

Ostap.

"Which Michelson? The Senator?"

"No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union."

"I don't get you."

"That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!"

Bender took a union card out of his green jacket and handed it to

Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Konrad Karlovich Michelson, aged forty-eight, non-party member,

bachelor; union member since 1921 and a person of excellent character; a

good friend of mine and seems to be a friend of children.... But you

needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you."

Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. "But is it right? "

"Compared with our" concession, this misdeed, though it does come under

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