The Twelve Chairs (33 page)

"What  do  you  think, marshal,"  said  Ostap  as  the  concessionaires
approached the settlement  of Sioni,  "how can we earn money in  a  dried-up
spot like this?"
Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could
have kept himself going was  begging, but here in  the  mountain spirals and
ledges there was no one to beg from.
Anyway,  there was begging going on already-alpine  begging, a  special
kind.  Every  bus  and  passenger  car  passing through the  settlement  was
besieged by children who performed a few  steps of a local folk dance to the
mobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of:
"Give us money! Give money!"
The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and  continued on  their
way to the Cross gap.
"A noble cause,"  said Ostap. "No capital  outlay needed. The income is
small, but in our case, valuable."
By two o'clock of the second  day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich
had  performed  his  first  dance  for  the  aerial  passengers,  under  the
supervision of the smooth operator. The dance was rather like a mazurka; the
passengers, drunk with  the exotic beauty  of the  Caucasus, took  it  for a
native  lezginka  and  rewarded him with  three  five-kopek  bits.  The next
vehicle, which  was a bus going from Tiflis  to Vladikavkaz, was entertained
by the smooth operator himself.
"Give me money! Give money," he shouted angrily.
The  amused  passengers richly  rewarded  his capering about, and Ostap
collected thirty kopeks from the dusty road. But the Sioni children showered
their  competitors  with  stones,  and,  fleeing  from  the  onslaught,  the
travellers made  off at the double  for  the next village,  where they spent
their earnings on cheese and local flat bread.
The  concessionaires passed  their days  in  this way. They  spent  the
nights  in  mountain-dwellers'  huts.  On the fourth day they went down  the
hairpin  bends of the road and arrived in the  Kaishaur valley.  The sun was
shining brightly, and the partners, who had been frozen to the marrow in the
Cross gap, soon warmed up their bones again.
The Daryal cliffs, the gloom and the  chill  of the gap gave way to the
greenery  and luxury  of a very deep valley. The companions passed above the
Aragva river and  went down into the valley, settled  by people and  teeming
with cattle and  food. There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, or
simply steal. It was the Transcaucasus.
The heartened concessionaires increased their pace.
In Passanaur,  in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels  and
several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushes
opposite  the  Hotel France,  with its garden  and two chained-up bear cubs.
They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest.
Their  rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car  horn,
the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment. The friends
peeped out. Three identical new  cars were driving up to the Hotel France in
line. The cars stopped without any noise.
Out   of   the  first   one  jumped  Persidsky;   he  was  followed  by
Life-and-the-Law  smoothing  down  his dusty  hair.  Out of  the other  cars
tumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club.
"A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!"
The sleepy figures  staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the
bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs.
"Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's  the  reporter
from  the  Scriabin, one  of  those who  criticized our transparent. They've
certainly arrived in style. What's it all about?"
Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to  Persidsky in the most
elegant fashion.
"Bonjour!"  said  the  reporter. "Where  have  I  seen you before, dear
friend? Aha! I remember. The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?"
Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely.
"Wait  a  moment,  wait  a  moment," continued  Persidsky,  who  had  a
reporter's retentive memory.  "Wasn't  it  you who  was knocked  down  by  a
carthorse in Sverdlov Square? "
"That's  right. And as you so  neatly  expressed  it, I  also  suffered
slight shock."
"What are you doing here? Working as an artist?"
"No, I'm on a sightseeing trip."
"On foot?"
"Yes, on foot.  The experts say a car trip along  the Georgian Military
Highway is simply ridiculous."
"Not always  ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always. For instance,  our
trip isn't exactly ridiculous. We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars,
collectively owned. A direct  link between Moscow and  Tiflis. Petrol hardly
costs anything. Comfort and speed. Soft springs. Europe!"
"How did  you come by  it all?"  asked Ostap  enviously. "Did you win a
hundred thousand? "
"Not a hundred, but we won fifty."
"Gambling?"
"With a bond belonging to the automobile club."
"I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars."
"That's right."
"I  see. Maybe you  need a  manager?  I  know a young  man.  He doesn't
drink."
"What sort of manager?"
"Well, you know . . . general management, business  advice, instruction
with visual aids by the complex method. . ."
"I see what you mean. No, we don't need a manager."
"You don't?"
"Unfortunately not. Nor an artist."
"In that case let me have ten roubles."
"Avdotyin," said Persidsky, "kindly give this citizen ten roubles on my
account. I don't need a receipt. This person is unaccountable."
"That's extraordinarily little," observed Ostap, "but I'll accept it. I
realize  the great difficulty  of your position. Naturally, if you had won a
hundred thousand, you might have loaned me a whole five roubles. But you won
only fifty thousand roubles, zero kopeks. In any case, many thanks."
Bender  politely raised  his hat.  Persidsky  politely raised  his hat.
Bender bowed most courteously. Persidsky  replied with a most courteous bow.
Bender waved his hand in farewell. Persidsky, sitting at the wheel, did  the
same. Persidsky drove off in his splendid  car into the glittering distances
in the company of his gay friends, while the smooth operator was left on the
dusty road with his fool of a partner.
"Did you see that swank? "
"The  Transcaucasian car service,  or the  private  'Motor' company?  "
asked  Ippolit  Matveyevich  in a  businesslike way;  he was now  thoroughly
acquainted with all types of transportation on  the road. "I was  just about
to do a dance for them."
"You'll soon be completely  dotty, my poor friend.  How could it be the
Transcaucasian car  service? Those people have won  fifty  thousand roubles,
Pussy. You saw yourself how  happy they were and how much of that mechanical
junk they had bought.  When we find our money, we'll spend it more sensibly,
won't we?"
And  imagining what they would buy when  they became rich,  the friends
left  Passanaur.  Ippolit  Matveyevich vividly saw himself buying  some  new
socks and travellirig abroad. Ostap's visions were more ambitious. Something
between  damming the  Blue  Nile and opening  a  gaming-house  in Riga  with
branches in the other Baltic states.
The travellers reached Mtskhet,  the ancient capital of Georgia, on the
third day, before lunch. Here the Kura river turned towards Tiflis.
In the evening they passed the Zerno-Avchal hydro-electric station. The
glass, water and electricity all shone with different-coloured light. It was
reflected and scattered by the fast-flowing Kura.
It was there  the  concessionaires made friends with a peasant who gave
them a lift into Tiflis in his cart; they arrived at 11 p.m., that very hour
when the cool of the evening  summons  into the streets the citizens  of the
Georgian capital, limp after their sultry day.
"Not  a bad  little  town,"  remarked  Ostap,  as they  came  out  into
Rustavelli Boulevard. "You know, Pussy. . ."
Without  finishing what  he  was saying,  Ostap suddenly darted after a
citizen, caught him up after ten  paces, and began an  animated conversation
with him.
Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side.
"Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the
Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's  go and see him. However paradoxical it seems,
you are now  the master-mind  and father  of Russian  democracy again. Don't
forget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite a
bit, by the way. A hell of a  piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fifty
roubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!"
And  indeed,  a short  distance away  from  the  concessionaires  stood
Kislarsky  in a tussore-silk suit and a  boater;  he was a milky blue colour
with fright.
"I think  you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman
close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don't
pay attention  to  his  suit; that's  part of our security measures. Take us
somewhere right away. We've got to have a talk."
Kislarsky, who  had come to the Caucasus to  recover from his gruelling
experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about a
recession in the  roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriage
with silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. They
went up  to  the top  of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowly
disappeared into the  depths  in  a  thousand  lights. The conspirators were
ascending to the very stars.
At the  restaurant  the tables were set up  on a lawn. A Caucasian band
made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tables
of her own accord, watched happily by her parents.
"Order something," suggested Bender.
The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese.
"And something  to  eat," said  Ostap. "If  you  only  knew,  dear  Mr.
Kislarsky, the things  that  Ippolit Matveyevich  and I have had to  suffer,
you'd be amazed at our courage."
There he  goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will
start all over again. Why didn't I go to  the Crimea? I definitely wanted to
go to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too.
But  he  ordered  two  shishkebabs without  a  murmur,  and  turned his
unctuous face towards Ostap.
"Here's the  point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice.
"They've  been  following  us  for  two months and will  probably ambush  us
tomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out."
Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead.
"Under the circumstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal
patriot."
"Mmm  ..  .  yes," said  Ippolit Matveyevich  proudly, remembering  the
hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni.
"Yes," whispered  Ostap, "we're  hoping-with  your  aid-to  defeat  the
enemy. I'll give you a pistol."
"There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly.
The   next  moment  it  was   made  clear  that  the  chairman  of  the
stock-exchange  committee would  not  have the opportunity of taking part in
the  coming battle.  He regretted  it very much. He was  not  familiar  with
warfare, and it was just for this  reason that  he had been elected chairman
of  the  stock-exchange  committee. He  was very  much disappointed, but was
prepared  to offer  financial assistance to save the life  of the  father of
Russian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist).
"You're a true friend  of society,"  said Ostap  triumphantly,  washing
down the  spicy  kebab  with sweetish  Kipiani  wine.  "Fifty can  save  the
master-mind."
"Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully.
Ostap  could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich  under
the table in delight.
"I consider that haggling," said Ippolit  Matveyevich, "is somewhat out
of place here."
He immediately  received  a kick on the thigh  which meant-  Well done,
Pussy, that's the stuff!
It  was the  first time  in  his  life  that Kislarsky  had  heard  the
master-mind's  voice. He was  so  overcome  that he immediately handed  over
fifty roubles. Then he paid  the bill and, leaving the friends at the table,
departed with  the  excuse  that  he had  a headache. Half an hour  later he
dispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:

The  many  privations  which  Ostap  had  suffered  demanded  immediate
compensation. That evening the  smooth operator  drank himself into a stupor
and practically fell out of the cable-car  on the way back to the hotel. The
next  day he  realized  a  long-cherished dream  and bought a  heavenly grey
polka-dot suit. It was  hot wearing it, but he nevertheless did so, sweating
profusely.  In  the  Tif-Co-Op men's shop, Vorobyaninov  was bought a  white
pique" suit and a  yachting cap with the gold insignia of some unknown yacht
club. In  this  attire Ippolit Matveyevich looked like an amateur admiral in
the merchant navy. His figure straightened up and his gait became firmer.
"Ah," said Bender,  "first rate! If I were a girl, I'd give  a handsome
he-man like you an eight  per cent reduction off  my usual price. My, we can
certainly get around like this. Do you know how to get around, Pussy? "
"Comrade  Bender," Vorobyaninov  kept saying,  "what about  the chairs?
We've got to find out what happened to the theatre."
"Hoho," retorted Ostap, dancing with a  chair  in a large Moorish-style
room in the Hotel Orient.  "Don't tell me how to live. I'm now evil.  I have
money, but I'm magnanimous. I'll give you twenty  roubles  and three days to
loot  the city.  I'm  like  Suvorov. .  .  . Loot  the  city,  Pussy!  Enjoy
yourself!"
And swaying his hips, Ostap sang in quick time:
"The evening bells, the evening bells, How  many thoughts they bring. .
. ."
The  friends caroused  wildly  for a whole  week. Vorobyaninov's  naval
uniform became covered with apple-sized wine  spots of different colours; on
Ostap's suit the stains suffused into one large rainbow-like apple.
"Hi!"  said  Ostap  on the  eighth morning,  so  hung-over that  he was
reading the  newspaper  Dawn of the East. "Listen, you  drunken sot, to what
clever people are writing in the press! Listen!