by Ilya Ilf and Eugene Petrov 18 страница

to rustle loudly. Ostap spread his arms.

"Why don't you come to me, my little hen? Your Pacific rooster is so

tired after the meeting of the Junior Council of Ministers."

The widow had no imagination.

"Bunny," she called for the fifth time, "open the door, Comrade

Bender."

"Hush, girl! Modesty becomes a woman. What's all the jumping about

for?"

The widow was in agony.

"Why are you torturing yourself?" asked Ostap. "Who's preventing you

from living? "

The widow burst into tears.

"Wipe your eyes, Citizeness. Every one of your tears is a molecule in

the cosmos."

"But I've been waiting and waiting. I closed down the shop. I've come

for you, Comrade Bender."

"And how does it feel on the stairs? Not draughty, I hope?"

The widow slowly began to seethe like a huge monastery samovar.,

"Traitor!" she spat out with a shudder.

Ostap had a little time left. He clicked his fingers and, swaying

rhythmically, crooned:

"We all go through times

When the devil's beside us,

When a young woman's charms

Arouse passion inside us."

"Drop dead!" advised the widow at the end of the dance. "You stole my

bracelet, a present from my husband. And why did you take the chair? "

"Now you're getting personal," Ostap observed coldly.

"You stole, you stole!" repeated the widow.

"Listen, girl. Just remember for future reference that Ostap Bender

never stole anything in his life."

"Then who took the tea-strainer?"

"Ah, the tea-strainer! From your non-liquid fund. And you consider that

theft? In that case our views on life are diametrically opposed."

"You took it," clucked the widow.

"So if a young and healthy man borrows from a provincial grandmother a

kitchen utensil for which she has no need on account of poor health, he's a

thief, is he? Is that what you mean?"

"Thief! Thief!"

The widow threw herself against the door. The glass rattled. Ostap

realized it was time to go.

"I've no time to kiss you," he said. "Good-bye, beloved. We've parted

like ships at sea."

"Help!" screeched the widow.

But Ostap was already at the end of the corridor. He climbed on to the

windowsill and dropped heavily to the ground, moist after the night rain,

and hid in the glistening playgrounds.

The widow's cries brought the night watchman. He let her out,

threatening to have her fined.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE AUTHOR OF THE "GAVRILIAD"

As Madame Gritsatsuyev was leaving the block of offices, the more

modest ranks of employees were beginning to arrive at the House of the

Peoples: there were messengers, in-and-out girls, duty telephonists, young

assistant accountants, and state-sponsored apprentices.

Among them was Nikifor Lapis, a very young man with a sheep's-head

haircut and a cheeky face.

The ignorant, the stubborn, and those making their first visit to the

House of the Peoples entered through the front entrance. Nikifor Lapis made

his way into the building through the dispensary. At the House of the

Peoples he was completely at home and knew the quickest ways to the oases

where, under the leafy shade of departmental journals, royalties gushed from

clear springs.

First of all, Nikifor went to the snack-bar. The nickel-plated register

made a musical sound and ejected three checks. Nikifor consumed some

yoghurt, having opened the paper-covered jar, then a cream puff which looked

like a miniature flower-bed. He washed it all down with tea. Then Lapis

leisurely began making the round of his possessions.

His first visit was to the editorial office of the monthly sporting

magazine Gerasim and Mumu. Comrade Napernikov had not yet arrived, so

Nikifor moved on to the Hygroscopic Herald, the weekly mouthpiece by which

pharmaceutical workers communicated with the outside world.

"Good morning!" said Nikifor. "I've written a marvellous poem."

"What about?" asked the editor of the literary page. "On what subject?

You know, Trubetskoi, our magazine..."

To give a more subtle definition of the essence of the Hygroscopic

Herald, the editor gestured with his fingers.

Trubetskoi-Lapis looked at his white sailcloth trousers, leaned

backward, and said in a singsong voice: "The Ballad of the Gangrene".

'.'That's interesting," said the hygroscopic individual. "It's about

time we introduced prophylaxis in popular form."

Lapis immediately began declaiming:

"Gavrila took to bed with gangrene.

The gangrene made Gavrila sick..."

The poem went on in the same heroic iambic tetrameter to relate how,

through ignorance, Gavrila failed to go to the chemist's in time and died

because he had not put iodine on a scratch.

"You're making progress, Trubetskoi," said the editor in approval. "But

we'd like something a bit longer. Do you understand?"

He began moving his fingers, but nevertheless took the terrifying

ballad, promising to pay on Tuesday.

In the magazine Telegraphist's Week Lapis was greeted hospitably.

"A good thing you've come, Trubetskoi. We need some verse right away.

But it must be about life, life, and life. No lyrical stuff. Do you hear,

Trubetskoi? Something about the everyday life of post-office workers, but at

the same time... Do you get me?"

"Only yesterday I was thinking about the everyday life of post-office

workers, and I concocted the following poem. It's called 'The Last Letter'.

Here it is:

"Gavrila had a job as postman.

Gavrila took the letters round..."

The story of Gavrila was contained in seventy-two lines. At the end of

the poem, Gavrila, although wounded by a fascist bullet, managed to deliver

the letter to the right address.

"Where does it take place? " they asked Lapis.

It was a good question. There were no fascists in the USSR, and no

Gavrilas or members of the post-office union abroad.

"What's wrong?" asked Lapis. "It takes place here, of course, and the

fascist is disguised."

"You know, Trubetskoi, you'd do better to write about a radio station."

"Why don't you want the postman? "

"Let's wait a bit. We'll take it conditionally.

The crestfallen Nikifor Trubetskoi-Lapis went back to Gerasim and Mumu.

Napernikov was already at his desk. On the wall hung a greatly enlarged

picture of Turgenev with a pince-nez, waders, and a double-barrel shotgun

across his shoulders. Beside Napernikov stood Lapis's rival, a poet from the

suburbs.

The same old story of Gavrila was begun again, but this time with a

hunting twist to it. The work went under the title of "The Poacher's

Prayer".

Gavrila lay in wait for rabbits.

Gavrila shot and winged a doe...

"Very good!" said the kindly Napernikov. "You have surpassed Entich

himself in this poem, Trubetskoi. Only there are one or two things to be

changed. The first thing is to get rid of the word 'prayer'."

"And 'rabbit'," said the rival.

"Why 'rabbit'?" asked Nikifor in surprise.

"It's the wrong season."

"You hear that, Trubetskoi! Change the word 'rabbit' as well."

After transformation the poem bore the title "The Poacher's Lesson" and

the rabbits were changed to snipe. It then turned out that snipe were not

game birds in the summer, either. In its final form the poem read:

Gavrila lay in wait for sparrows.

Gavrila shot and winged a bird...

After lunch in the canteen, Lapis set to work again. His white trousers

flashed up and down the corridor. He entered various editorial offices and

sold the many-faced Gavrila.

In the Co-operative Flute Gavrila was submitted under the title of "The

Eolean Recorder".

Gavrila worked behind the counter. Gavrila did a trade in flutes...

The simpletons in the voluminous magazine The Forest as It Is bought a

short poem by Lapis entitled "On the Verge". It began like this:

Gavrila passed through virgin forest,

Hacking at the thick bamboo...

The last Gavrila for that day worked in a bakery. He was found a place

in the editorial office of The Cake Worker. The poem had the long and sad

title of "Bread, Standards of Output, and One's Sweetheart". The poem was

dedicated to a mysterious Hina Chlek. The beginning was as epic as before:

Gavrila had a job as baker.

Gavrila baked the cakes and bread...

After a delicate argument, the dedication was deleted.

The saddest thing of all was that no one gave Lapis any money. Some

promised to pay him on Tuesday, others said Thursday, or Friday in two

weeks' time. He was forced to go and borrow money from the enemy camp-the

place where he was never published.

Lapis went down to the second floor and entered the office of the

Lathe. To his misfortune he immediately bumped into Persidsky, the slogger.

"Ah!" exclaimed Persidsky, "Lapsus!"

"Listen," said Nikifor Lapis, lowering his voice. "Let me have three

roubles. Gerasim and Mumu owes me a pile of cash."

"I'll give you half a rouble. Wait a moment. I'm just coming."

And Persidsky returned with a dozen employees of the Lathe. Everyone

joined in the conversation.

"Well, how have you been making out?" asked Persidsky.

"I've written a marvellous poem!"

"About Gavrila? Something peasanty? 'Gavrila ploughed the fields early.

Gavrila just adored his plough'?"

"Not about Gavrila. That's a pot-boiler," said Lapis defensively. "I've

written about the Caucasus."

"Have you ever been to the Caucasus?"

"I'm going in two weeks."

"Aren't you afraid, Lapis? There are jackals there."

"Takes more than that to frighten me. Anyway, the ones in the Caucasus

aren't poisonous."

They all pricked up their ears at this reply.

"Tell me, Lapis," said Persidsky, "what do you think jackals are?"

"I know what they are. Leave me alone."

"All right, tell us then if you know."

"Well, they're sort of... like... snakes."

"Yes, of course, right as usual. You think a wild-goat's saddle is

served at table together with the spurs."

"I never said that," cried Trubetskoi...

"You didn't say it, you wrote it. Napernikov told me you tried to palm

off some doggerel on Gerasim and Mumu, supposed to be about the everyday

life of hunters. Honestly, Lapis, why do you write about things you've never

seen and haven't the first idea about? Why is the peignoir in your poem

'Canton' an evening dress? Why?"

"You philistine!" said Lapis boastfully.

"Why is it that in your poem 'The Budyonny Stakes' the jockey tightens

the hame strap and then gets into the coach box? Have you ever seen a hame

strap?"

"Yes."

"What's it like?"

"Leave me alone. You're nuts!",

"Have you ever seen a coach box or been to the races?"

"You don't have to go everywhere!" cried Lapis. "Pushkin wrote poems

about Turkey without ever having been there."

"Oh, yes. Erzerum is in Tula province, of course."

Lapis did not appreciate the sarcasm. He continued heatedly. "Pushkin

wrote from material he read. He read the history of the Pugachov revolt and

then wrote about it. It was Entich who told me about the races."

After this masterly defence, Persidsky dragged the resisting Lapis into

the next room. The onlookers followed. On the wall hung a large newspaper

clipping edged in black like an obituary notice.

"Did you write this piece for the Captain's Bridge!"

"Yes, I did."

"I believe it was your first attempt at prose. Congratulations! 'The

waves rolled across the pier and fell headlong below like a jack.' A lot of

help to the Captain's Bridge you are!' The Bridge won't forget you for some

time!"

"What's the matter?"

"The matter is... do you know what a jack is?"

"Of course I know. Leave me alone."

"How do you envisage a jack? Describe it in your own words."

"It... sort of... falls."

"A jack falls. Note that, everyone. A jack falls headlong. Just a

moment, Lapis, I'll bring you half a rouble. Don't let him go."

But this time, too, there was no half-rouble forthcoming. Persidsky

brought back the twenty-first volume of the Brockhaus encyclopaedia.

"Listen! 'Jack: a machine for lifting heavy weights. A simple jack used

for lifting carriages, etc., consists of a mobile toothed bar gripped by a

rod which is turned by means of a lever'... And here... 'In 1879 John

Dixon set up the obelisk known as Cleopatra's Needle by means of four

workers operating four hydraulic jacks.' And this instrument, in your

opinion, can fall headlong? So Brockhaus has deceived humanity for fifty

years? Why do you write such rubbish instead of learning? Answer!" "I need

the money."

"But you never have any. You're always trying to cadge half-roubles."

"I bought some furniture and went through my budget." "And how much

furniture did you buy? You get paid for your pot-boilers as much as they're

worth-a kopek." "A kopek be damned. I bought a chair at an auction which-"

"Is sort of like a snake? "

"No, from a palace. But I had some bad luck. Yesterday when I arrived

back from-"

"Hina Chlek's," cried everyone present in one voice. "Hina! I haven't

lived with Hina for years. I was returning from a discussion on Mayakovsky.

I went in. The window was open. I felt at once something had happened."

"Dear, dear," said Persidsky, covering his face with his hands. "I

feel, Comrades, that Lapis's greatest masterpiece has been stolen. 'Gavrila

had a job as doorman; Gavrila used to open doors.'"

"Let me finish. Absolute vandalism! Some wretches had got into the

apartment and ripped open the entire chair covering. Could anyone lend me

five roubles for the repairs?"

"Compose a new Gavrila for the repairs. I'll even give you the

beginning. Wait a moment. Yes, I know. 'Gavrila hastened to the market,

Gavrila bought a rotten chair.' Write it down quickly. You can make some

money on that in the Chest-of-Drawers Gazette. Oh, Trubetskoi, Trubetskoi!

Anyway, why are you called Trubetskoi? Why don't you choose a better name?

Niki for Dolgoruky. Or Nikifor Valois. Or, still better, Citizen Niki-for

Sumarokov-Elston. If ever you manage to get some easy job, then you can

write three lines for Gerasim right away and you have a marvellous way to

save yourself. One piece of rubbish is signed Sumarokov, the second Elston,

and the third Yusupov. God, you hack!"

CHAPTER THIRTY

IN THE COLUMBUS THEATRE

Ippolit Matveyevich was slowly becoming a boot-licker. Whenever he

looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge.

It was so hot in Ivanopulo's room that Vorobyaninov's chairs creaked

like logs in the fireplace. The smooth operator was having a nap with the

light-blue waistcoat under his head.

Ippolit Matveyevich looked out of the window. A carriage emblazoned

with a coat of arms was moving along the curved side street, past the tiny

Moscow gardens. The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after another,

a horseguard in a brass helmet, society ladies, and fluffy white clouds.

Drumming the roadway with their hooves, the horses drew the carriage past

Ippolit Matveyevich. He winced with disappointment.

The carriage bore the initials of the Moscow communal services and was

being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all.

In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking old man with a fluffy white

beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was none other than Count

Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would probably have hailed the

old man and chatted with him about the good old days.

Count Bulanov was deeply troubled. As he whipped up the horses, he

mused about the red tape that was strangling the sub-department of

sanitation, and on account of which he had not received for six months the

apron he was entitled to under his contract.

"Listen," said the smooth operator suddenly. "What did they call you as

a boy?"

"What do you want to know for?"

"I just want to know what to call you. I'm sick of calling you

Vorobyaninov, and Ippolit Matveyevich is too stuffy. What were you called?

Ippy?"

"Pussy," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker.

"That's more like it. So look, Pussy, see what's wrong with my back. It

hurts between the shoulder-blades."

Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over his head. Before Pussy Vorobyaninov

was revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous; a back of enchanting

shape, but rather dirty.

"Aha! I see some redness."

Between the smooth operator's shoulders were some strangely shaped

mauve bruises which reflected colours like a rainbow in oil.

"Honestly, it's the number eight," exclaimed Vorobyaninov. "First time

I've ever seen a bruise like that."

"Any other number?" asked Ostap.

"There seems to be a letter P."

"I have no more questions. It's quite clear. That damned pen! You see

how I suffer, Pussy, and what risks I run for your chairs. These

arithmetical figures were branded on me by the huge self-falling pen with a

No. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back at

the very moment I inserted my hands inside the chief editor's chair. But

you! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair so

that I had to go and do your work for you? I won't even mention the auction.

A fine time to go woman-chasing. It's simply bad for you at your age to do

that. Look after your health. Take me, on the other hand. I got the widow's

chair. I got the two Shukin chairs. It was me who finally got Iznurenkov's

chair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to Lapis's. There was

only one chair that you managed to run down, and that was with the help of

your holy enemy, the archbishop."

Silently walking up and down in his bare feet, the technical adviser

reasoned with the submissive Pussy.

The chair which had vanished into the goods yard of October Station was

still a blot on the glossy schedule of the concession. The four chairs in

the Columbus Theatre were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make a

trip down the Volga aboard the lottery ship, S.S. Scriabin, and was

presenting the premiere of The Marriage that day as the last production of

the season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in Moscow and look

for the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or go on tour with the

troupe. Ostap was in favour of the latter.

"Or perhaps we should split up?" he suggested. "I'll go off with the

theatre and you stay and find out about the chair in the goods yard."

Pussy's grey eyelashes flickered so fearfully, however, that Ostap did

not bother to continue.

"Of the two birds," said Ostap, "the meatier should be chosen. Let's go

together. But the expenses will be considerable. We shall need money. I have

sixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh, I forgot. At your age a maiden's

love is so expensive! I decree that we go together to the premiere of The

Marriage. Don't forget to wear tails. If the chairs are still there and

haven't been sold to pay social-security debts, we can leave tomorrow.

Remember, Vorobyaninov, we've now reached the final act of the comedy My

Mother-in-Low's Treasure. The Finita la Comedia is fast approaching,

Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights! Oh, my

younger days! Oh, the smell of the wings! So many memories! So many

intrigues and affairs I How talented I was in my time in the role of Hamlet!

In short, the hearing is continued."

For the sake of economy they went to the theatre on foot. It was still

quite light, but the street lamps were already casting their lemon light.

Spring was dying before everyone's eyes. Dust chased it from the squares,

and a warm breeze drove it from the side streets. Old women fondled the

beauty and drank tea with it at little round tables in the yards. But

spring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it so

much wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where the young men were already

strolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bow

ties, and boots.

Mauve-powdered girls circulated between the holy of holies of the

Moscow Consumers' Union and the 'Commune' cooperative. The girls were

swearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace,

though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses were

no better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much on

the edges of the roadway. Cyclists rode noiselessly by from their first

large international match at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream man

trundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squinted

timorously at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by the

flashing signal with which he regulated the traffic, and was not dangerous.

The two friends made their way through the hustle and bustle.

Temptation lay in wait for them at every step. Different types of meat on

skewers were being roasted in full view of the street in the tiny eating

plates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of string

music was wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great Silent

Film' cinema. A loud-speaker raved away at a tram-stop.

It was time to put a spurt on. The friends reached the foyer of the

Columbus Theatre.

Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the list of seat prices.

"Rather expensive, I'm afraid," he said. "Three roubles for the sixteenth

row."

"How I dislike these provincial philistines," Ostap observed. "Where

are you going? Can't you see that's the box office?"

"Where else? We won't get in without tickets."

"Pussy, you're vulgar. In every well-built theatre there are two

windows. Only courting couples and wealthy heirs go to the box-office

window. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you may observe) go

straight to the manager's window."

And, indeed, at the box-office window were only about five modestly

dressed people. They may have been wealthy heirs or courting couples. At the

manager's window, however, there was great activity. A colourful line had

formed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which a

provincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notes

from friendly directors, actors, editors, theatrical costumiers, the

district militia chief, and other persons closely connected with the

theatre, such as members of the theatre and film critics' association, the

'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental Circus

Workshop, and some extraordinary name, like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. About

eight people had notes from Espere Eclairovich.

Ostap barged into the line, jostled aside the Fortinbrasites, and, with

a cry of "I only want some information: can't you see I haven't taken my

galoshes off!" pushed his way to the window and peered inside.

The manager was working like a slave. Bright diamonds of __

perspiration irrigated his fat face. The telephone interrupted him all the

time and rang with the obstinacy of a tram trying to pass through the

Smolensk market.

"Hurry up and give me the note!" he shouted at Ostap.

"Two seats," said Ostap quietly, "in the stalls."

"Who for?"

"Me."

"And who might you be?"

"Now surely you know me?"

"No, I don't."

But the stranger's gaze was so innocent and open that the manager's

hand by itself gave Ostap two seats in the eleventh row,

"All kinds come here," said the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "Who

knows who they are? They may be from the Ministry of Education. I seem to

have seen him at the Ministry. Where else could it have been? "

And mechanically issuing passes to the lucky film and theatre critics,

the manager went on quietly trying to remember where he had seen those clear

eyes before.

When all the passes had been issued and the lights went down in the

foyer, he remembered he had seen them in the Taganka prison in 1922, while

he was doing time for some trivial matter.

Laughter echoed from the eleventh row where the concessionaires were

sitting. Ostap liked the musical introduction performed by the orchestra on

bottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistled

and the curtain went up, wafting a breath of cool air.

To the surprise of Vorobyaninov, who was used to a classical

interpretation of The Marriage, Podkolesin was not on the stage. Searching

around with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard triangles hanging from the

ceiling and painted the primary colours of the spectrum. There "were no

doors or blue muslin windows. Beneath the multicoloured triangles danced

young ladies in large hats from black cardboard. The clinking of bottles

brought forth Podkolesin, who charged into the crowd riding on Stepan's

back. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed the young

ladies with words which were not in the play, he bawled out:

"Stepan!"

At the same time he leaped to one side and froze in a difficult pose.

The Esmarch douches began to clatter.

"Stepan!" repeated Podkolesin, taking another leap.

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