The Twelve Chairs (21 page)

The word rang out and reverberated noisily down the stairs.
"Hoo-hoo!" they echoed.
"Caretaker! Caretaker!"
"Hum-hum! Hum-hum!"
It was at this point that the engineer,  impatiently  shifting from one
bare foot  to the other, suddenly slipped and, to regain his balance, let go
of the door.
The  brass  bolt of the Yale lock clicked into place and the door  shut
fast.  The wall shook. Not  appreciating the irrevocable nature  of what had
happened, Ernest  Pavlovich pulled  at the door  handle. The  door  did  not
budge.
In dismay  the engineer  pulled  the  handle  again several  times  and
listened,  his heart beating fast. There was a churchlike evening stillness.
A little  light still  filtered  through the multicoloured glass of the high
window.
A fine  thing to happen, thought  Shukin. "You son of a bitch," he said
to the  door.  Downstairs, voices broke through  the  silence like exploding
squibs. Then came the muffled bark of a dog in one of the rooms. Someone was
pushing a  pram upstairs. Ernest Pavlovich  walked timidly  up and down  the
landing. "Enough to drive you crazy!"
It all seemed too outrageous to have actually  happened. He went  up to
the door and listened again. Suddenly he heard a different sort of noise. At
first he thought it was someone walking about in the apartment.
Somebody may have got in through the back door, he thought, although he
knew that the back door was locked and that no one could have got in.
The  monotonous  sound  continued. The  engineer  held  his  breath and
suddenly realized that the sound was that of running water. It was evidently
pouring  from all the taps  in the apartment. Ernest  Pavlovich almost began
howling.
The situation was awful.  A full-grown man with a  moustache and higher
education  was standing  on a  ninth-floor  landing in the centre of Moscow,
naked except for a covering of bursting soapsuds. There was nowhere he could
go. He would rather have gone to jail than show himself in that state. There
was only one thing to do-hide. The bubbles were bursting and making his back
itch. The  lather on his face had already dried; it made him look  as though
he had the mange and puckered his skin like a hone.
Half  an hour  passed. The  engineer kept rubbing  himself against  the
whitewashed walls  and groaning, and  made several unsuccessful attempts  to
break in the door. He became dirty and horrible.
Shukin decided to go downstairs to the caretaker  at any price. There's
no  other way  out. None. The  only thing to do is hide 10  the  caretaker's
room.
Breathing  heavily and  covering  himself with his  hand as men do when
they enter the water, Ernest Pavlovich  began  creeping  downstairs close to
the banister. He reached the landing between the eighth and ninth floors.
His body reflected  multicoloured rhombuses  and squares of light  from
the  window. He looked like  Harlequin secretly listening to a  conversation
between Columbine and Pierrot. He had just turned to go down the next flight
when the  lock of an apartment door  below snapped  open and a girl came out
carrying a ballet  dancer's attache  case. Ernest Pavlovich  was back on his
landing before the girl had taken one step. He was practically  deafened  by
the terrible beating of his heart.
It was half an hour before the engineer  recovered sufficiently to make
another sortie. This time he  was fully  determined to  hurtle  down at full
speed, ignoring  everything, and  make  it  to  the  promised  land  of  the
caretaker's room.
He started  off. Silently taking four stairs at a  time,  the  engineer
raced downstairs. On the landing of the sixth floor he stopped for a moment.
This was his undoing. Someone was coming up.
"Insufferable brat!" said a woman's voice, amplified many times  by the
stairway. "How many times do I have to tell him!"
Obeying instinct rather than  reason, like a cat pursued by dogs Ernest
Pavlovich tore up to the ninth floor again.
Back on his own land, all covered with wet footmarks, he silently burst
into  tears,  tearing his hair and  swaying convulsively. The hot  tears ran
through the coating of soap and formed two wavy furrows.
"Oh, my God!" moaned the engineer. "Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord!"
There was no sign of  life. Then he heard the noise of a truck going up
the  street. So there was life somewhere! Several  times more  he  tried  to
bring himself to go downstairs, but his  nerve gave way each  time. He might
as well have been in a burial vault.
"Someone's left a  trail behind  him, the pig!" he heard an old woman's
voice say from the landing below.
The engineer ran to the wall and butted it several times with his head.
The  most sensible thing to do, of course, would  have been to keep shouting
until  someone  came,  and  then  put himself at  their  mercy.  But  Ernest
Pavlovich had  completely lost his  ability to  reason; breathing heavily he
wandered round and round the landing.
There was no way out.

In the editorial offices of the large daily newspaper Lathe, located on
the second  floor of the House of the Peoples, material was  hurriedly being
got ready for the typesetters.
News items and articles were  selected from the reserve (material which
had been set up  but not included in the previous number) and  the number of
lines occupied were counted up; then began the daily haggling for space.
The newspaper was able to print forty-four  hundred lines in all on its
four pages. This had to include everything: cables, articles, social events,
letters from  correspondents, advertisements, one  satirical sketch in verse
and two in prose,  cartoons,  photographs, as well as special sections, such
as theatre, sports,  chess, the  editorial, second  editorial,  reports from
Soviet Party and trade-union  organizations, serialized novels,  features on
life  in  the  capital, subsidiary  items  under  the title  of  "Snippets",
popular-science articles, radio programmes, and other odds-and-ends. In all,
about ten thousand lines of material from all sections was set up, hence the
distribution of space was usually accompanied by dramatic scenes.
The first  person to run  to the editor  was the  chess  correspondent,
Maestro Sudeikin.  He posed a polite though bitter question. "What? No chess
today?"
"No  room," replied the editor. "There's a long special  feature. Three
hundred lines."
"But today's Saturday. Readers are expecting the Sunday section. I have
the  answers to problems.  I have a splendid study by Neunyvako, and  I also
have-"
"All right, how much do you want?"
"Not less than a hundred and fifty."
"All right, if it's answers to problems, we'll give you sixty lines."
The maestro tried for  another thirty so  that at  least  the Neunyvako
could  go in  (the wonderful Tartokover vs. Bogolyubov game  had  been lying
about for a month), but was rebuffed.
Persidsky, the reporter, arrived.  "Do you want some impressions of the
Plenum?" he asked softly.
"Of  course," cried  the editor. "It was held the day before yesterday,
after all!"
"I  have  the  Plenum,"  said  Persidsky  even  more softly,  "and  two
sketches, but they won't give me any room."
"Why won't they? Who did you talk to? Have they gone crazy?"
The  editor hurried  off  to  have  an argument.  He  was  followed  by
Persidsky, intriguing  as he went; behind  them  both ran  a member  of  the
advertisement section.
"We have the Sekarov fluid to go in," he cried gloomily.
The office manager  trailed along  after them, dragging a chair he  had
bought at an auction for the editor.
"The  fluid  can   go   in  on  Thursday.  Today  we're  printing   our
supplements!"
"You won't make  much from free advertisements, and the fluid  has been
paid for."
"Very  well,  we'll clear up the matter in the  night  editor's office.
Give the advertisements to Pasha. He's just going over there."
The  editor  sat  down  to  read  the  editorial.  He  was  immediately
interrupted  from  that  entertaining  occupation. Next  to  arrive  was the
artist.
"Aha!" said the  editor, "very good! I have  a subject for a cartoon in
view of the latest cable from Germany."
"What about this?" said the artist. '"The Steel Helmet  and the General
Situation in Germany'?"
"All right, you work something out and then show it to me."
The  artist  went  back  to  his  department.  He  took   a  square  of
drawing-paper and  made  a  pencil sketch of  an emaciated dog. On the dog's
head he drew a German helmet with a spike. Then he turned to the wording. On
the  animal's  body he  printed the word 'Germany', then  he printed 'Danzig
Corridor' on its curly tail, 'Dreams of Revenge' on its jaw, 'Dawes Plan' on
its  collar, and  'Stresemann' on its protruding tongue. In front of the dog
the artist drew a picture of  Poincare holding a piece of meat in  his hand.
He thought of something to write on the piece of meat, but the meat was  too
small and the word would not fit. Anyone less quick-witted than a cartoonist
would have  lost his head, but, without  a second thought, the artist drew a
shape like a label of the  kind found on necks  of bottles near the piece of
meat and wrote 'French Guarantees of Security' in tiny letters inside it. So
that  Poincare should not  be confused  with any other French  statesman, he
wrote the word 'Poincare' on his stomach. The drawing was ready.
The desks of the art  department were covered with  foreign  magazines,
large-size  pairs  of scissors, bottles  of  India ink  and whiting. Bits of
photographs-a  shoulder, a  pair of legs, and a section  of  countryside-lay
about on the floor.
There were five artists who scraped the photographs with Gillette razor
blades to brighten them up; they also improved the contrast by touching them
up  with  India ink  and  whiting, and wrote  their  names and the size  (3?
squares, 2 columns, and so on) on the reverse side,  since these  directions
are required in zincography.
There  was a foreign delegation sitting  in the  chief editor's office.
The office interpreter  looked into the  speaker's face  and, turning to the
chief editor, said: "Comrade Arnaud would like to know .. ."
They  were  discussing the running  of  a Soviet  newspaper. While  the
interpreter was explaining to the chief editor what Comrade Arnaud wanted to
know, Arnaud, in  velvet  plus  fours,  and all the other foreigners  looked
curiously at a red pen with a No.  86 nib which was leaning against the wall
in the corner. The nib almost touched the ceiling and the holder was as wide
as an  average man's body  at the  thickest part. It  was quite possible  to
write with it; the nib was a real one although it was actually bigger than a
large pike.
"Hohoho!  " laughed  the  foreigners.  "Kolossal! "  The pen  had  been
presented to the editorial office by a correspondents' congress.
Sitting on Vorobyaninov's chair, the chief  editor  smiled and, nodding
first  towards the pen  and then at his guests, happily explained  things to
them.
The  clamour in the offices continued. Persidsky brought  in an article
by Semashko and the editor promptly deleted the chess section from the third
page. Maestro Sudeikin no longer battled for Neunyvako's wonderful study; he
was only concerned about saving the solutions. After a  struggle more  tense
than his match with Lasker  at the San Sebastian tournament, he won a  place
at the expense of Life-and-the-Law.
Semashko  was sent to  the compositors.  The editor buried himself once
more in  the editorial. He had decided to read it at all costs, just for the
sporting interest.
He had just  reached the bit  that said ". .  . but the contents of the
pact are such that, if the League of Nations registers  it, we  will have to
admit that . . ." when Life-and-the-Law, a hairy man, came  up  to  him. The
editor continued reading,  avoiding the eyes of Life-and-the-Law, and making
unnecessary notes on the editorial.
Life-and-the-Law  went  around to the  other  side of him and said in a
hurt voice: "I don't understand."
"Uhunh," said the editor, trying to play for time. "What's the matter?"
"The matter is  that on  Wednesday  there was  no Life-and-the-Law,  on
Friday there was no Life-and-the-Law, on Thursday you carried only a case of
alimony which you had in reserve, and on Saturday you're leaving out a trial
which has  been written up for  some time in all other papers. It's  only us
who-"
"Which other papers?" cried the editor. "I haven't seen it."
"It will appear again tomorrow and we'll be too late."
"But when you  were asked to report  the  Chubarov case,  what did  you
write?  It  was  impossible to get  a  line out  of you. I  know.  You  were
reporting the case for an evening paper."
"How do you know?"
"I know. I was told."
"In that case I know who told you. It was Persidsky. The same Persidsky
who  blatantly  uses the  editorial-office  services  to  send  material  to
Leningrad."
"Pasha," said the editor quietly, "fetch Persidsky."
Life-and-the-Law sat indifferently on the  window  ledge. In the garden
behind him  birds and  young  skittle players could  be  seen busily  moving
about. They litigated  for some time.  The  editor ended the hearing  with a
smart  move:  he deleted the chess  and  replaced it with  Life-and-the-Law.
Persidsky was given a warning.
It was five o'clock, the busiest time for the office.
Smoke curled above the over-heated typewriters.  The reporters dictated
in  voices harshened by haste. The senior typist  shouted at the rascals who
slipped in their material unobserved and out of turn.
Down the corridor came the office poet. He was courting a typist, whose
modest hips unleashed his poetic emotions. He used to lead her to the end of
the corridor by the window and  murmur words of  love  to her,  to which she
usually replied: "I'm working overtime today and I'm very busy."
That meant she loved another.
The  poet got in  everyone's  way and  asked all  his friends  the same
favour with monotonous regularity. "Let me have ten kopeks for the tram."
He sauntered into the local correspondents' room in  search of the sum.
Wandering about between the desks at which the  readers  were  working,  and
fingering the piles of despatches, he renewed his efforts. The readers,  the
most hardboiled people in the office (they were made that way by the need to
read through a hundred letters a day, scrawled by hands which were more used
to axes, paint-brushes and wheelbarrows than a pen), were silent.
The  poet  visited the despatch  office  and  finally  migrated  to the
clerical section. But besides not getting the ten kopeks, he was buttonholed
by Avdotyev,  a member of the Young  Communist League, who proposed that the
poet  should  join  the  Automobile  Club.  The  poet's enamoured  soul  was
enveloped in a cloud of petrol fumes. He took two paces to the side, changed
into third gear, and disappeared from sight.
Avdotyev was not a bit discouraged. He believed  in the triumph  of the
car idea. In the editor's room he carried on the struggle, on the sly, which
also prevented the editor from finishing the editorial.
"Listen, Alexander  Josifovich,  wait a moment, it's a serious matter,"
said  Avdotyev,  sitting  down  on  the  editor's  desk.  "We've  formed  an
automobile club.  Would the editorial office give us a loan  of five hundred
roubles for eight months?"
"Like hell it would."
"Why? Do you think it's a dead duck?"
"I don't think, I know. How many members are there?"
"A large number already."
For the moment the club only consisted of  the organizer,  but Avdotyev
did not enlarge on this.
"For  five hundred roubles we can buy a car at the 'graveyard'. Yegorov
has already picked one out  there. He  says the repairs  won't come to  more
than five hundred.  That's a thousand altogether. So I thought of recruiting
twenty  people, each of whom will give fifty. Anyway,  it'll be  fun.  We'll
learn to drive. Yegorov will be the instructor and in three months' time, by
August,  we'll all be able to drive.  We'll have a car and each one  in turn
can go where he likes."
"What about the five hundred for the purchase?"
"The mutual-assistance fund will provide that on interest. We'll pay it
off. So I'll put you down, shall I?"
But the editor was rather bald, hard-worked, and enslaved by his family
and apartment, liked  to have a  rest  after dinner  on the settee, and read
Pravda before going to sleep. He thought for a moment and then declined.
Avdotyev approached each desk in  turn and repeated  his  fiery speech.
His  words  had a dubious  effect on the old men, which meant for him anyone
above the age of twenty. They snapped at him, excusing themselves by  saying
they were already friends of  children and regularly  paid twenty  kopeks  a
year for the benefit of the poor mites. They would like to join, but. . .
"But what?"  cried  Avdotyev.  "Supposing  we had  a  car  today?  Yes,
supposing  we put down  a  blue six-cylinder Packard  in  front of  you  for
fifteen kopeks a year, with petrol and oil paid for by the government?"
"Go away," said the old men. "It's the last call,  you're preventing us
from working." The car idea was fading and beginning  to give off fumes when
a champion of the  new  enterprise was finally found. Persidsky jumped  back
from the telephone with a  crash  and,  having listened to  Avdotyev,  said:
"You're tackling it the  wrong  way. Give  me the sheet. Let's  begin at the
beginning."
Accompanied by Avdotyev, Persidsky began a new round.
"You, you old mattress,"  he said to  a blue-eyed boy,  "you don't even
have to give any money. You have bonds from  '27,  don't you?  For how much?
For five  hundred? All the better. You hand over  the bonds to the club. The
capital comes from the  bonds.  By August we will have cashed all the  bonds
and bought the car."
"What happens if my bond wins a prize?" asked the boy defiantly.
"How much do you expect to win?"
"Fifty thousand."
"We'll buy cars with the money. And  the  same thing if I win.  And the
same  if Avdotyev wins. In other words, no matter whose bonds win, the money
will be spent on cars.  Do you understand now? You crank! You'll drive along
the  Georgian Military Highway  in your  own car. Mountains, you  idiot! And
Life-and-the-Law,  social events, accidents, and  the  young lady -you know,
the one who does the films-will all go zooming along behind you in their own
cars as well. Well? Well? You'll be courting!"
In the depths of  his  heart no bond-holder believes in the possibility
of a win. At the same  time he is  jealous  of his neighbours' and  friends'
bonds.  He is dead scared that they will win and that he, the eternal loser,
will be left out in the cold.  Hence the  hope of  a win  on the  part of an
office  colleague  drew  the  bond-holders  into  the  new  club.  The  only
disturbing thought was that none  of their  bonds  would  win.  That  seemed
rather  unlikely, though, and, furthermore, the Automobile  Club had nothing
to lose,  since  one car  from the  graveyard was guaranteed by the  capital
earned from the bonds.
In five minutes twenty people had been recruited. As soon as it was all
over, the editor arrived, having heard about the club's alluring prospects.
"Well,  fellows,"  he  said, "why shouldn't I put  my name down on  the
list?"
"Why not, old man," replied Avdotyev, "only not on our list. We have  a
full  complement  and  no new members  are being admitted  for the next five
years. You'd do better to enrol yourself as a friend of children. It's cheap
and sure. Twenty kopeks a year and no need to drive anywhere."
The editor looked sheepish, remembered  that he  was indeed on the  old
side, sighed, and went back to finish reading the entertaining editorial.
He was stopped  in the corridor by a good-looking man with a Circassian
face.
"Say, Comrade, where's the editorial office of the Lathe!"
It was the smooth operator.