The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке

«What can I get you?»

«Something for the hair».

«To make it grow, to remove it, or to dye it?»

«Not to make it grow», said Ippolit Matveyevich. «To dye it».

«We have a wonderful hair dye called Titanic. We got it from the customs people; it was confiscated. It's a jet black colour. A bottle containing a six months' supply costs three roubles, twelve kopeks. I can recommend it to you, as a good friend».

Ippolit Matveyevich twiddled the bottle in his hands, looked at the label with a sigh, and put down his money on the counter.

He went home and, with a feeling of revulsion, began pouring Titanic onto his head and moustache. A stench filled the house.

By the time dinner was over, the stench had cleared, the moustache had dried and become matted and was very difficult to comb. The jet-black colour turned out to have a greenish tint, but there was no time for a second try.

Taking from his mother-in-law's jewel box a list of the gems, found the night before, Ippolit Matveyevich counted up his cash-in-hand, locked the house, put the key in his back pocket and took the no. 7 express to Stargorod.

Chapter Five. The Smooth Operator

At half past eleven a young man aged about twenty-eight entered Stargorod from the direction of the village of Chmarovka, to the north-east. A waif ran along behind him.

«Mister!» cried the boy gaily, «gimme ten kopeks!»

The young man took a warm apple out of his pocket and handed it to the waif, but the child still kept running behind. Then the young man stopped and, looking ironically at the boy, said quietly:

«Perhaps you'd also like the key of the apartment where the money is?»

The presumptuous waif then realized the complete futility of his pretensions and dropped behind.

The young man had not told the truth. He had no money, no apartment where it might have been found, and no key with which to open it. He did not even have a coat. The young man entered the town in a green suit tailored to fit at the waist and an old woollen scarf wound several times around his powerful neck. On his feet were patent-leather boots with orange-coloured suede uppers. He had no socks on. The young man carried an astrolabe.

Approaching the market, he broke into a song: «O, Bayadere, tum-ti-ti, tum-ti-ti».

In the market he found plenty going on. He squeezed into the line of vendors selling wares spread out on the ground before them, stood the astrolabe in front of him and began shouting:

«Who wants an astrolabe? Here's an astrolabe going cheap. Special reduction for delegations and women's work divisions!»

At first the unexpected supply met with little demand; the delegations of housewives were more interested in obtaining commodities in short supply and were milling around the cloth and drapery stalls. A detective from the Stargorod criminal investigation department passed the astrolabe-vendor twice, but since the instrument in no way resembled the typewriter stolen the day before from the Central Union of Dairy Cooperatives, the detective stopped glaring at the young man and passed on.

By lunchtime the astrolabe had been sold to a repairman for three roubles.

«It measures by itself», he said, handing over the astrolabe to its purchaser, «provided you have something to measure».

Having rid himself of the calculating instrument, the happy young man had lunch in the Tasty Corner snack bar, and then went to have a look at the town. He passed along Soviet Street, came out into Red Army Street (previously Greater Pushkin Street), crossed Cooperative Street and found himself again on Soviet Street. But it was not the same Soviet Street from which he had come. There were two Soviet Streets in the town. Greatly surprised by this fact, the young man carried on and found himself in Lena Massacre Street (formerly Denisov Street). He stopped outside no. 28, a pleasant two-storeyed private house, which bore a sign saying:

USSR RSFSR SECOND SOCIAL SECURITY HOME

OF THE STAR-PROV-INS-AD

and requested a light from the caretaker, who was sitting by the entrance on a stone bench.

«Tell me, dad», said the young man, taking a puff, «are there any marriageable young girls in this town?

The old caretaker did not show the least surprise.

„For some a mare'd be a bride,“ he answered, readily striking up a conversation.

„I have no more questions,“ said the young man quickly. And he immediately asked one more: „A house like this and no girls in it?“

„It's a long while since there've been any young girls here,“ replied the old man. „This is a state institution-a home for old-age women pensioners“.

„I see. For ones born before historical materialism?“

„That's it. They were born when they were born“.

„And what was here in the house before the days of historical materialism?“

„When was that?“

„In the old days. Under the former regime“.

„Oh, in the old days my master used to live here“.

„A member of the bourgeoisie“)»

«Bourgeoisie yourself! I told you. He was a marshal of the nobility».

«You mean he was from the working class?»

«Working class yourself! He was a marshal of the nobility».

The conversation with the intelligent caretaker so poorly versed in the class structure of society might have gone on for heaven knows how long had not the young man got down to business.

«Listen, granddad», he said, «what about a drink?»

«All right, buy me one!»

They were gone an hour. When they returned, the caretaker was the young man's best friend.

«Right, then, I'll stay the night with you», said the newly acquired friend.

«You're a good man. You can stay here for the rest of your life if you like».

Having achieved his aim, the young man promptly went down into the caretaker's room, took off his orange-coloured boots, and, stretching out on a bench, began thinking out a plan of action for the following day.

The young man's name was Ostap Bender. Of his background he would usually give only one detail. «My dad», he used to say, «was a Turkish citizen». During his life this son of a Turkish citizen had had many occupations. His lively nature had prevented him from devoting himself to any one thing for long and kept him roving through the country, finally bringing him to Stargorod without any socks and without a key, apartment, or money.

Lying in the caretaker's room, which was so warm that it stank, Ostap Bender weighed up in his mind two possibilities for a career.

He could become a polygamist and calmly move on from town to town, taking with him a suitcase containing his latest wife's valuables, or he could go the next day to the Stargorod Commission for the Improvement of Children's Living Conditions and suggest they undertake the popularization of a brilliantly devised, though yet unpainted, picture entitled «The Bolsheviks Answer Chamberlain» based on Repin's famous canvas «The Zaporozhe Cossacks Answer the Sultan». If it worked, this possibility could bring in four hundred or so roubles.

The two possibilities had been thought up by Ostap during his last stay in Moscow. The polygamy idea was conceived after reading a law-court report in the evening paper, which clearly stated that the convicted man was given only a two-year sentence, while the second idea came to Bender as he was looking round the Association of Revolutionary Artists' exhibition, having got in with a free pass.

Both possibilities had their drawbacks, however. To begin a career as a polygamist without a heavenly grey polka-dot suit was unthinkable. Moreover, at least ten roubles would be needed for purposes of representation and seduction. He could get married, of course, in his green field-suits, since his virility and good looks were absolutely irresistible to the provincial belles looking for husbands, but that would have been, as Ostap used to say, «poor workmanship». The question of the painting was not all plain sailing either. There might be difficulties of a purely technical nature. It might be awkward, for instance, to show Comrade Kalinin in a fur cap and white cape, while Comrade Chicherin was stripped to the waist. They could be depicted in ordinary dress, of course, but that would not be quite the same thing.

«It wouldn't have the right effect!» said Ostap aloud.

At this point he noticed that the caretaker had been prattling away for some time, apparently reminiscing about the previous owner of the house.

«The police chief used to salute him…. I'd go and wish him a happy new year, let's say, and he'd give me three roubles. At Easter, let's say, he'd give me another three roubles…. Then on his birthday, let's say. In a year I'd get as much as fifteen roubles from wishing him. He even promised to give me a medal. ‘I want my caretaker to have a medal,' he used to say. That's what he would say: „Tikhon, consider that you already have the medal.“»

«And did he give you one?»

«Wait a moment…. I don't want a caretaker without a medal,' he used to say. He went to St. Petersburg to get me a medal. Well, the first time it didn't work out. The officials didn't want to give me one. „The Tsar,“ he used to say, „has gone abroad. It isn't possible just now.“ So the master told me to wait. „Just wait a bit, Tikhon,“ he used to say, „you'll get your medal.“»

«And what happened to this master of yours? Did they bump him off?»

«No one bumped him off. He went away. What was the good of him staying here with the soldiers? … Do they give medals to caretakers nowadays?»

«Certainly. I can arrange one for you».

The caretaker looked at Bender with veneration.

«I can't be without one. It's that kind of work».

«Where did your master go?»

«Heaven knows. People say he went to Paris».

«Ah, white acacia-the emigre's flower! So he's an emigre!»

«Emigre yourself…. He went to Paris, so people say. And the house was taken over for old women. You greet them every day, but they don't even give you a ten-kopek bit! Yes, he was some master!»

At that moment the rusty bell above the door began to ring.

The caretaker ambled over to the door, opened it, and stepped back in complete amazement.

On the top step stood Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov with a black moustache and black hair. His eyes behind his pince-nez had a pre-revolutionary twinkle.

«Master!» bellowed Tikhon with delight. «Back from Paris!»

Ippolit Matveyevich became embarrassed by the presence of the stranger, whose bare purple feet he had just spotted protruding from behind the table, and was about to leave again when Ostap Bender briskly jumped up and made a low bow.

«This isn't Paris, but you're welcome to our abode».

Ippolit Matveyevich felt himself forced to say something.

«Hello, Tikhon. I certainly haven't come from Paris. Where did you get that strange idea from?»

But Ostap Bender, whose long and noble nose had caught the scent of roast meat, did not give the caretaker time to utter a word.

«Splendid», he said, narrowing his eyes. «You haven't come from Paris. You've no doubt come from Kologriv to visit your deceased grandmother».

As he spoke, he tenderly embraced the caretaker and pushed him outside the door before the old man had time to realize what was happening. When he finally gathered his wits, all he knew was that his master had come back from Paris, that he himself had been pushed out of his own room, and that he was clutching a rouble note in his left hand.

Carefully locking the door, Bender turned to Vorobyaninov, who was still standing in the middle of the room, and said:

«Take it easy, everything's all right! My name's Bender. You may have heard of me!»

«No, I haven't», said Ippolit Matveyevich nervously.

«No, how could the name of Ostap Bender be known in Paris? Is it warm there just now? It's a nice city. I have a married cousin there. She recently sent me a silk handkerchief by registered post».

«What rubbish is this?» exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. «What handkerchief? I haven't come from Paris at all. I've come from …»

«Marvellous! You've come from Morshansk!»

Ippolit Matveyevich had never had dealings with so spirited a young man as Ostap Bender and began to feel peculiar.

«Well, I'm going now», he said.

«Where are you going? You don't need to hurry anywhere. The secret police will come for you, anyway». Ippolit Matveyevich was speechless. He undid his coat with its threadbare velvet collar and sat down on the bench, glaring at Bender.

«I don't know what you mean», he said in a low voice.

«That's no harm. You soon will. Just one moment».

Ostap put on his orange-coloured boots and walked up and down the room.

«Which frontier did you cross? Was it the Polish, Finnish, or Rumanian frontier? An expensive pleasure, I imagine. A friend of mine recently crossed the frontier. He lives in Slavuta, on our side, and his wife's parents live on the other. He had a row with his wife over a family matter; she comes from a temperamental family. She spat in his face and ran across the frontier to her parents. The fellow sat around for a few days but found things weren't going well. There was no dinner and the room was dirty, so he decided to make it up with her. He waited till night and then crossed over to his mother-in-law. But the frontier guards nabbed him, trumped up a charge, and gave him six months. Later on he was expelled from the trade union. The wife, they say, has now gone back, the fool, and her husband is in prison. She is able to take him things…. Did you come that way, too?»

«Honestly», protested Ippolit Matveyevich, suddenly feeling himself in the power of the talkative young man who had come between him and the jewels. «Honestly, I'm a citizen of the RSFSR. I can show you my identification papers, if you want».

«With printing being as well developed as it is in the West, the forgery of Soviet identification papers is nothing. A friend of mine even went as far as forging American dollars. And you know how difficult that is. The paper has those different-coloured little lines on it. It requires great technique. He managed to get rid of them on the Moscow black market, but it turned out later that his grandfather, a notorious currency-dealer, had bought them all in Kiev and gone absolutely broke. The dollars were counterfeit, after all. So your papers may not help you very much either».

Despite his annoyance at having to sit in a smelly caretaker's room and listen to an insolent young man burbling about the shady dealings of his friends, instead of actively searching for the jewels, Ippolit Matveyevich could not bring himself to leave. He felt great trepidation at the thought that the young stranger might spread it round the town that the ex-marshal had come back. That would be the end of everything, and he might be put in jail as well.

«Don't tell anyone you saw me», said Ippolit Matveyevich. «They might really think I'm an emigre». «That's more like it! First we have an Emigre who has returned to his home town, and then we find he is afraid the secret police will catch him».

«But I've told you a hundred times, I'm not an emigre».

«Then who are you? Why are you here?»

«I've come from N. on certain business».

«What business?»

«Personal business».

«And then you say you're not an emigre! A friend of mine …»

At this point, Ippolit Matveyevich, driven to despair by the stories of Bender's friends, and seeing that he was not getting anywhere, gave in.

«All right», he said. «I'll tell you everything».

Anyway, it might be difficult without an accomplice, he thought to himself, and this fellow seems to be a really shady character. He might be useful.

Chapter Six. A Diamond Haze

Ippolit Matveyevich took off his stained beaver hat, combed his moustache, which gave off a shower of sparks at the touch of the comb, and, having cleared his throat in determination, told Ostap Bender, the first rogue who had come his way, what his dying mother-in-law had told him about her jewels.

During the account, Ostap jumped up several times and, turning to the iron stove, said delightedly:

«Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury. Things are moving».

An hour later they were both sitting at the rickety table, their heads close together, reading the long list of jewellery which had at one time adorned the fingers, neck, ears, bosom and hair of Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law.

Ippolit Matveyevich adjusted the pince-nez, which kept falling off his nose, and said emphatically:

«Three strings of pearls…. Yes, I remember them. Two with forty pearls and the long one had a hundred and ten. A diamond pendant … Claudia Ivanovna used to say it was worth four thousand roubles; an antique».

Next came the rings: not thick, silly, and cheap engagement rings, but fine, lightweight rings set with pure, polished diamonds; heavy, dazzling earrings that bathe a small female ear in multicoloured light; bracelets shaped like serpents, with emerald scales; a clasp bought with the profit from a fourteen-hundred-acre harvest; a pearl necklace that could only be worn by a famous prima donna; to crown everything was a diadem worth forty thousand roubles.

Ippolit Matveyevich looked round him. A grass-green emerald light blazed up and shimmered in the dark corners of the caretaker's dirty room. A diamond haze hung near the ceiling. Pearls rolled across the table and bounced along the floor. The room swayed in the mirage of gems. The sound of Ostap's voice brought the excited Ippolit Matveyevich back to earth.

«Not a bad choice. The stones have been tastefully selected, I see. How much did all this jazz cost?»

«Seventy to seventy-five thousand».

«Hm … Then it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand now».

«Really as much as that?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich jubilantly.

«Not less than that. However, if I were you, dear friend from Paris, I wouldn't give a damn about it».

«What do you mean, not give a damn?»

«Just that. Like they used to before the advent of historical materialism».

«Why?»

«I'll tell you. How many chairs were there?»

«A dozen. It was a drawing-room suite».

«Your drawing-room suite was probably used for firewood long ago».

Ippolit Matveyevich was so alarmed that he actually stood up.

«Take it easy. I'll take charge. The hearing is continued. Incidentally, you and I will have to conclude a little deal».

Breathing heavily, Ippolit Matveyevich nodded his assent. Ostap Bender then began stating his terms.

«In the event of acquisition of the treasure, as a direct partner in the concession and as technical adviser, I receive sixty per cent. You needn't pay my national health; I don't care about that».

Ippolit Matveyevich turned grey.

«That's daylight robbery!»

«And how much did you intend offering me?»

«Well… er … five per cent, or maybe even ten per cent. You realize, don't you, that's fifteen thousand roubles!»

«And that's all?»

«Yes»

«Maybe you'd like me to work for nothing and also give you the key of the apartment where the money is?»

«In that case, I'm sorry», said Vorobyaninov through his nose.

«I have every reason to believe I can manage the business by myself».

«Aha! In that case, I'm sorry», retorted the splendid Ostap. «I have just as much reason to believe, as Andy Tucker used to say, that I can also manage your business by myself».

«You villain!» cried Ippolit Matveyevich, beginning to shake.

Ostap remained unmoved.

«Listen, gentleman from Paris, do you know your jewels are practically in my pocket? And I'm only interested in you as long as I wish to prolong your old age».

Ippolit Matveyevich realized at this point that iron hands had gripped his throat.

«Twenty per cent», he said morosely.

«And my grub?» asked Ostap with a sneer.

«Twenty-five».

«And the key of the apartment?»

«But that's thirty-seven and a half thousand!»

«Why be so precise? Well, all right, I'll settle for fifty per cent. We'll go halves».

The haggling continued, and Ostap made a further concession. Out of respect for Vorobyaninov, he was prepared to work for forty per cent.

«That's sixty thousand!» cried Vorobyaninov.

«You're a rather nasty man», retorted Bender. «You're too fond of money».

«And I suppose you aren't?» squeaked Ippolit Matveyevich in a flutelike voice.

«No, I'm not».

«Then why do you want sixty thousand?»

«On principle!»

Ippolit Matveyevich took a deep breath.

«Well, are things moving?» pressed Ostap.

Vorobyaninov breathed heavily and said humbly: «Yes, Х things are moving».

«It's a bargain. District Chief of the Comanchi!»

As soon as Ippolit Matveyevich, hurt by the nickname, «Chief of the Comanchi», had demanded an apology, and Ostap, in a formal apology, had called him «Field Marshal», they set about working out their disposition.

At midnight Tikhon, the caretaker, hanging on to all the garden fences on the way and clinging to the lamp posts, tottered home to his cellar. To his misfortune, there was a full moon.

«Ah! The intellectual proletarian! Officer of the Broom!» exclaimed Ostap, catching sight of the doubled-up caretaker.

The caretaker began making low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the stillness of the night.

«That's nice», said Ostap to Vorobyaninov. «Your caretaker is rather a vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?»

«Yes, it is», said the caretaker unexpectedly.

«Listen, Tikhon», began Ippolit Matveyevich. «Have you any idea what happened to my furniture, old man?»

Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening yell:

«Haa-aapy daa-aays…»

The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was terribly happy.

Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.

«Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until tomorrow morning», said Ostap. «Let's go to bed».

They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to the bench.

Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt; under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another light-blue worsted waistcoat.

«There's a waistcoat worth buying», said Ostap enviously. «Just my size. Sell it to me!»

Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.

Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.

«You'll have the money when we sell the treasure», said Bender, taking the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.

«No, I can't do things like that», said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing. «Please give it back».

Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.

«There's stinginess for you», he cried. «We undertake business worth a hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to learn to live it up!»

Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:

25//F/27

Issued to Comrade Bender

Rs.8

Ostap took a look at the notebook.

«Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under ‘debit' don't forget to put down the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under ‘credit' put down the waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit longer».

Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth operator's body, vibrant with ideas.