by Ilya Ilf and Eugene Petrov 20 страница

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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

EXPULSION FROM PARADISE

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:

WITH THIS CHAIR

CRAFTSMAN

HAMBS

begins a new batch of furniture

St. Petersburg 1865

Ostap read the inscription aloud.

"But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"You're remarkably shrewd, my dear chair-hunter. As you see, there

aren't any."

Vorobyaninov was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting moustache

twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He looked as though he

was about to beat his face with his ears in desperation.

The cold, sober voice of the smooth operator had its usual magic

effect. Vorobyaninov stretched his hands along the seams of his worn

trousers and kept quiet.

"Shut up, sadness. Shut up, Pussy. Some day we'll have the laugh on the

stupid eighth chair in which we found the silly box. Cheer up! There are

three more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred."

During the night a volcanic pimple erupted on the aggrieved Ippolit

Matveyevich's cheek. All his sufferings, all his setbacks, and the whole

ordeal of the jewel hunt seemed to be summed up in the pimple, which was

tinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue.

"Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap.

Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and went to fetch the paints,

his tall figure slightly bent, like a fishing rod. The transparent was

begun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck.

And the third day of the voyage commenced.

It commenced with a brief clash between the brass band and the sound

effects over a place to rehearse.

After breakfast, the toughs with the brass tubes and the slender

knights with the Esmarch douches both made their way to the stern at the

same time. Galkin managed to get to the bench first. A clarinet from the

brass band came second.

"The seat's taken," said Galkin sullenly.

"Who by?" asked the clarinet ominously.

"Me, Galkin."

"Who else?"

"Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind."

"Haven't you got a Yolkin as well? This is our seat."

Reinforcements were brought up on both sides. The most powerful machine

in the band was the helicon, encircled three times by a brass serpent. The

French horn swayed to and fro, looking like a human ear, and the trombones

were in a state of readiness for action. The sun was reflected a thousand

times in their armour. Beside them the sound effects looked dark and small.

Here and there a bottle glinted, the enema douches glimmered faintly, and

the saxophone, that outrageous take-off of a musical instrument, was pitiful

to see.

"The enema battalion," said the bullying clarinet, "lays claim to this

seat."

"You," said Zalkind, trying to find the most cutting expression he

could, "you are the conservatives of music!"

"Don't prevent us rehearsing."

"It's you who're preventing us. The less you rehearse on those

chamber-pots of yours, the nicer it sounds."

"Whether you rehearse on those samovars of yours or not makes no damn

difference."

Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained where they were and

obstinately began playing their own music. Down the river floated sounds

that could only have been made by a tram passing slowly over broken glass.

The brass played the Kexholm Lifeguards' march, while the sound effects

rendered a Negro dance, "An Antelope at the Source of the Zambesi". The

shindy was ended by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lottery

committee.

At eleven o'clock the magnum opus was completed. Walking backwards,

Ostap and Vorobyaninov dragged their transparent up to the bridge. The fat

little man in charge ran in front with his hands in the air. By joint effort

the transparent was tied to the rail. It towered above the passenger deck

like a cinema screen. In half an hour the electrician had laid cables to the

back of the transparent and fitted up three lights inside it. All that

remained was to turn the switch.

Off the starboard bow the lights of Vasyuki could already be made out

through the darkness.

The chief summoned everyone to the ceremonial illumination of the

transparent. Ippolit Matveyevich and the smooth operator watched the

proceedings from above, standing beside the dark screen.

Every event on board was taken seriously by the floating government

department. Typists, messengers, executives, the Columbus Theatre, and

members of the ship's company crowded on to the passenger deck, staring

upward.

"Switch it on!" ordered the fat man.

The transparent lit up.

Ostap looked down at the crowd. Their faces were bathed in pink light.

The onlookers began laughing; then there was silence and a stern voice from

below said:

"Where's the second-in-command?"

The voice was so peremptory that the second-in-command rushed down

without counting the steps.

"Just have a look," said the voice, "and admire your work!"

"We're about to be booted off," whispered Ostap to Ippolit Matveyevich.

And, indeed, the little fat man came flying up to the top deck like a

hawk.

"Well, how's the transparent?" asked Ostap cheekily. "Is it long

enough?"

"Collect your things!" shouted the fat man.

"What's the hurry?"

"Collect your things! You're going to court! Our boss doesn't like to

joke."

"Throw him out!" came the peremptory voice from below.

"But, seriously, don't you like our transparent? Isn't it really any

good?"

There was no point in continuing the game. The Scriabin had already

heaved to, and the faces of the bewildered Vasyuki citizens crowding the

pier could be seen from the ship. Payment was categorically refused. They

were given five minutes to collect their things.

"Incompetent fool," said Simbievich-Sindievich as the partners walked

down on to the pier. "They should have given the transparent to me to do. I

would have done it so that no Meyer-hold would have had a look-in!"

On the quayside the concessionaires stopped and looked up. The

transparent shone bright against the dark sky.

"Hm, yes," said Ostap, "the transparent is rather outlandish. A lousy

job!"

Compared with Ostap's work, any picture drawn with the tail of an

unruly donkey would have been a masterpiece. Instead of a sower sowing

bonds, Ostap's mischievous hand had drawn a stumpy body with a sugar-loaf

head and thin whiplike arms.

Behind the concessionaires the ship blazed with light and resounded

with music, while in front of them, on the high bank, was the darkness of

provincial midnight, the barking of a dog, and a distant accordion.

"I will sum up the situation," said Ostap light-heartedly. "Debit: not

a cent of money; three chairs sailing down the river; nowhere to go; and no

SPCC badge. Credit: a 1926 edition of a guidebook to the Volga (I was forced

to borrow it from Monsieur Simbievich's cabin). To balance that without a

deficit would be very difficult. We'll have to spend the night on the quay."

The concessionaires arranged themselves on the riverside benches. By

the light of a battered kerosene lamp Ostap read the guide-book:

On the right-hand bank is the town of Vasyuki. The commodities

despatched from here are timber, resin, bark and bast; consumer goods are

delivered here for the region, which is fifty miles from the nearest

railway.

The town has a population of 8,000; it has a state-owned cardboard

factory employing 520 workers, a small foundry, a brewery and a tannery.

Besides normal academic establishments, there is also a forestry school.

"The situation is more serious than I thought," observed Ostap. "It

seems out of the question that we'll be able to squeeze any money out of the

citizens of Vasyuki. We nevertheless need thirty roubles. First, we have to

eat, and, second, we have to catch up the lottery ship and meet the Columbus

Theatre in Stalingrad."

Ippolit Matveyevich curled up like an old emaciated tomcat after a

skirmish with a younger rival, an ebullient conqueror of roofs, penthouses

and dormer windows.

Ostap walked up and down the benches, thinking and scheming. By one

o'clock a magnificent plan was ready. Bender lay down by the side of his

partner and went to sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE INTERPLANETARY CHESS TOURNAMENT

A tall, thin, elderly man in a gold pince-nez and very dirty

paint-splashed boots had been walking about the town of Vasyuki since early

morning, attaching hand-written notices to walls. The notices read:

On June 22,1927,

a lecture entitled

A FRUITFUL OPENING IDEA

will be given at the Cardboardworker Club

by Grossmeister (Grand Chess Master) O. Bender

after which he will play

A SIMULTANEOUS CHESS MATCH

on 160 boards

Admission............... 20 kopeks

Participation.............. 50 kopeks

Commencement at 6 p.m. sharp

Bring your own chessboards

MANAGER: K. Michelson

The Grossmeister had not been wasting his time, either. Having rented

the club for three roubles, he hurried across to the chess section, which

for some reason or other was located in the corridor of the horse-breeding

administration.

In the chess section sat a one-eyed man reading a Panteleyev edition of

one of Spielhagen's novels.

"Grossmeister O. Bender!" announced Bender, sitting down on the table.

"I'm organizing a simultaneous chess match here."

The Vasyuki chess player's one eye opened as wide as its natural limits

would allow.

"One second, Comrade Grossmeister," he cried. "Take a seat, won't you?

I'll be back in a moment."

And the one-eyed man disappeared. Ostap looked around the chess-section

room. The walls were hung with photographs of racehorses; on the table lay a

dusty register marked "Achievements of the Vasyuki Chess Section for 1925".

The one-eyed man returned with a dozen citizens of varying ages. They

all introduced themselves in turn and respectfully shook hands with the

Grossmeister.

"I'm on my way to Kazan," said Ostap abruptly. "Yes, yes, the match is

this evening. Do come along. I'm sorry, I'm not in form at the moment. The

Carlsbad tournament was tiring."

The Vasyuki chess players listened to him with filial love in their

eyes. Ostap was inspired, and felt a flood of new strength and chess ideas.

"You wouldn't believe how far chess thinking has advanced," he said.

"Lasker, you know, has gone as far as trickery. It's impossible to play him

any more. He blows cigar smoke over his opponents and smokes cheap cigars so

that the smoke will be fouler. The chess world is greatly concerned."

The Grossmeister then turned to more local affairs.

"Why aren't there any new ideas about in the province? Take, for

instance, your chess section. That's what it's called-the chess section.

That's boring, girls! Why don't you call it something else, in true chess

style? It would attract the trade-union masses into the section. For

example, you could call it The Four Knights Chess Club', or The Red

End-game', or 'A Decline in the Standard of Play with a Gain in Pace'. That

would be good. It has the right kind of sound."

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