The Twelve Chairs (8 page)

While  Ostap  was inspecting the  pensioners' home, Ippolit Matveyevich
had left the  caretaker's room  and was wandering  along the streets of  his
home town, feeling the chill on his shaven head.
Along  the  road  trickled clear  spring water.  There  was a  constant
splashing and plopping as diamond drops dripped  from the rooftops. Sparrows
hunted for manure,  and  the  sun  rested  on  the roofs.  Golden carthorses
drummed  their hoofs against the bare road and, turning their ears downward,
listened with pleasure to their own sound. On  the damp telegraph poles  the
wet  advertisements,  "I  teach  the  guitar   by  the  number  system"  and
"Social-science lessons for  those preparing for the People's Conservatory",
were  all  wrinkled up, and  the letters  had  run.  A platoon of  Red  Army
soldiers in winter  helmets  crossed a  puddle that began at  the  Stargorod
co-operative  shop   and  stretched  as   far  as   the   province  planning
administration,  the  pediment  of  which was crowned  with plaster  tigers,
figures of victory and cobras.
Ippolit Matveyevich walked along, looking  with interest  at the people
passing him in  both directions. As one  who had spent the whole of his life
and also the revolution in Russia, he was able  to see how  the way  of life
was changing and acquiring  a new countenance.  He had  become used  to this
fact, but he seemed to be used to only one  point on the globe-the  regional
centre  of N. Now he was back in  his  home town,  he realized he understood
nothing. He felt just  as  awkward and  strange as though he really  were an
emigre just  back from Paris.  In the old days, whenever he rode through the
town in his  carriage, he  used invariably to meet friends or people he knew
by sight. But now he had gone some way along  Lena Massacre Street and there
was no friend to be  seen. They had vanished, or they might have changed  so
much that  they  were no  longer  recognizable, or perhaps they  had  become
unrecognizable  because  they  wore  different clothes  and  different hats.
Perhaps they had changed their walk. In any case, they were no longer there.
Vorobyaninov  walked along, pale, cold and  lost. He completely  forgot
that he was supposed to be looking for the housing division. He crossed from
pavement  to pavement and  turned into side streets, where  the  uninhibited
carthorses were quite  intentionally drumming their hoofs. There was more of
winter in the side streets, and  rotting ice was still to be seen in places.
The whole town was a  different colour; the blue houses had become green and
the  yellow  ones  grey. The fire  indicators had disappeared  from the fire
tower, the fireman no longer climbed up  and down, and the streets were much
noisier than Ippolit Matveyevich could remember.
On Greater Pushkin Street, Ippolit Matveyevich was amazed by the tracks
and overhead cables of the tram system, which he had never seen in Stargorod
before. He had not read the papers and did not know that the two tram routes
to the  station  and the  market were due to be  opened  on May  Day. At one
moment Ippolit Matveyevich felt he had  never left Stargorod, and  the  next
moment it was like a place completely unfamiliar to him.
Engrossed in these thoughts, he reached Marx and Engels Street. Here he
re-experienced a childhood  feeling that at any moment a friend would appear
round the corner of  the two-storeyed house with its  long balcony. He  even
stopped  walking in anticipation.  But the friend did  not appear. The first
person to come round the corner was a  glazier with a  box of Bohemian glass
and a dollop of copper-coloured putty. Then came a swell in a suede cap with
a  yellow leather peak.  He was pursued  by some  elementary-school children
carrying books tied with straps.
Suddenly Ippolit Matveyevich felt a hotness in his palms  and a sinking
feeling  in his stomach. A  stranger with a kindly face was  coming straight
towards  him,  carrying a  chair by  the  middle,  like a  'cello.  Suddenly
developing  hiccups  Ippolit Matveyevich  looked  closely at  the chair  and
immediately recognized it.
Yes!  It  was  a Hambs chair  upholstered  in  flowered  English chintz
somewhat  darkened by the storms of the  revolution; it was  a  walnut chair
with  curved legs. Ippolit Matveyevich felt as  though a gun had gone off in
his ear.
"Knives  and  scissors  sharpened! Razors  set!" cried a baritone voice
nearby. And immediately came the shrill echo;
"Soldering and repairing!"
"Moscow News, magazine Giggler, Red Meadow."
Somewhere up above, a glass pane was removed with a crash. A truck from
the grain-mill-and-lift-construction  administration passed  by,  making the
town vibrate. A  militiaman  blew  his whistle. Everything brimmed over with
life. There was no time to be lost.
With  a  leopard-like spring,  Ippolit  Matveyevich  leaped towards the
repulsive stranger and silently tugged at the chair. The stranger tugged the
other  way.  Still  holding  on  to  one  leg  with  his  left hand, Ippolit
Matveyevich  began forcibly  detaching the  stranger's fat fingers from  the
chair.
"Thief!" hissed the stranger, gripping the chair more firmly.
"Just a moment, just a moment!" mumbled Ippolit Matveyevich, continuing
to unstick the stranger's fingers.
A  crowd began  to gather. Three  or four people  were already standing
nearby, watching the struggle with lively interest. They both glanced around
in  alarm  and,  without  looking  at one another or  letting  go the chair,
rapidly moved on as if nothing were the matter.
"What's happening?" wondered Ippolit Matveyevich in dismay.
What the  stranger  was thinking  was impossible  to say,  but  he  was
walking in a most determined way.
They  kept walking more  and  more quickly until they  saw  a  clearing
scattered with bits of brick and  other building materials  at  the end of a
blind alley; then both turned into  it simultaneously. Ippolit Matveyevich's
strength now increased fourfold.
"Give it to me!" he shouted, doing away with all ceremony.
"Help!" exclaimed the stranger, almost inaudibly.
Since both of them had their hands  occupied with the chair, they began
kicking one another. The  stranger's  boots  had  metal studs, and at  first
Ippolit Matveyevich  came  off  badly. But he soon  adjusted  himself,  and,
skipping to the left and right  as though doing a Cossack  dance, managed to
dodge his  opponents' blows, trying  at  the same  time to  catch him in the
stomach.  He  was not successful, since the  chair was  in the way,  but  he
managed to  land him a kick on the kneecap, after which the enemy could only
lash out with one leg.
"Oh, Lord!" whispered the stranger.
It was  at  this moment that Ippolit Matveyevich saw that the  stranger
who had carried off his chair in the most outrageous manner  was none  other
than Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence.
"Father!"  he   exclaimed,  removing   his  hands  from  the  chair  in
astonishment.
Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally loosed his grip. The  chair,
no longer supported by either of them, fell on to the brick-strewn ground.
"Where's your moustache, my dear Ippolit Matveyevich?" asked the cleric
as caustically as possible.
"And what about your curls? You used to have curls, I believe!"
Ippolit Matveyevich's  words conveyed utter  contempt. He  threw Father
Theodore a  look of singular disgust and, tucking the chair  under his  arm,
turned to  go. But the priest had now recovered from his  embarrassment  and
was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of "No,
I'm  sorry," he grasped  hold of the chair again. Their initial position was
restored. The two opponents stood clutching the chair  and, moving from side
to side, sized one another up like cats or  boxers. The tense pause lasted a
whole minute.
"So  you're after my property,  Holy  Father?" said Ippolit Matveyevich
through clenched teeth and kicked the holy father in the hip.
Father Theodore feinted and viciously kicked the marshal in  the groin,
making him double up.
"It's not your property."
"Whose then?"
"Not yours!"
"Whose then?"
"Not yours!"
"Whose then? Whose?"
Spitting at each other in this way, they kept kicking furiously.
"Whose property is it then?" screeched the marshal, sinking his foot in
the holy father's stomach.
"It's nationalized  property," said the holy  father firmly, overcoming
his pain.
"Nationalized? "
"Yes, nationalized."
They were jerking out the words so quickly that they ran together.
" Who-nationalized-it? "
"The-Soviet-Government. The-Soviet-Government."
"Which-government? "
"The-working-people's-government."
"Aha!" said Ippolit Matveyevich  icily. "The government  of workers and
peasants?"
"Yes!"
"Hmm  . . .  then maybe  you're a member of the  Communist  Party, Holy
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.

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: