, gave a last dribble and was silent for ever.
     The  old women were  sent  to  clean  the floor. Lowering  his head and
waddling slightly, the fire inspector went up to Pasha Emilevich.
     "A  friend of  mine," began  Ostap  importantly,  "also  used  to  sell
government property. He now lives a monastic life in the penitentiary."
     "I find  your groundless  accusations strange," said Pasha, who smelled
strongly of foam.
     "Who did you sell the chair to?" asked Ostap in a ringing whisper.
     Pasha  Emilevich,  who had supernatural understanding, realized at this
point he was about to be beaten, if not kicked.
     "To a second-hand dealer."
     "What's his address?"
     "I'd never seen him before."
     "Never?"
     "No, honestly."
     "I  ought  to  bust  you  in the  mouth," said  Ostap  dreamily,  "only
Zarathustra wouldn't allow it. Get to hell out of here!"
     Pasha Emilevich grinned fawningly and began walking away.
     "Come back, you abortion," cried Ostap haughtily. "What was  the dealer
like?"
     Pasha  Emilevich  described  him   in  detail,  while   Ostap  listened
carefully.  The  interview was  concluded by  Ostap with  the  words:  "This
clearly has nothing to do with fire precautions."
     In the corridor the bashful Alchen went up to Ostap and gave him a gold
piece.
     "That comes under  Article  114  of  the Criminal  Code,"  said  Ostap.
"Bribing officials in the course of their duty."
     Nevertheless  he  took  the  money  and, without  saying good-bye, went
towards the door. The door, which was fitted  with  a  powerful contraption,
opened  with  an  effort and  gave Ostap a  one-and-a-half-ton  shove in the
backside.
     "Good  shot!"  said  Ostap, rubbing  the affected part. "The hearing is
continued."


        CHAPTER NINE

        WHERE ARE YOUR CURLS?

     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.


        CHAPTER TEN

        THE MECHANIC, THE PARROT, AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER

     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:

        ODESSA ROLL BAKERY
     MOSCOW
     BUN ARTEL

     The sign depicted  a  young man wearing  a  tie and ankle-length French
trousers.  Ift  one  dislocated hand he held  the fabulous  cornucopia, from
which poured an avalanche of ochre-coloured  buns; whenever necessary, these
were passed off as Moscow rolls. The young man had a sexy smile on his face.
On  the  other  side,  the  Fastpack  packing  office  announced  itself  to
prospective clients by a black board with round gold lettering.
     Despite the appreciable difference in the signs and also in the capital
possessed by  the two dissimilar enterprises, they both engaged in  the same
business,  namely, speculation in  all types of  fabrics: coarse wool,  fine
wool, cotton, and, whenever  silk of good  colour and design came their way,
silk as well.
     Passing through the tunnel-like gateway and turning right into the yard
with  its  cement well, you could see two doorways without  porches,  giving
straight on to the angular flagstones of the yard. A dulled brass plate with
a name engraved in script was fixed to the right-hand door:

        V.M. POLESOV

     The left-hand door was fitted with a piece of whitish tin:

        FASHIONS AND MILLINERY

     This was also only for show.
     Inside the fashions-and-millinery workroom there was no esparterie,  no
trimmings, no headless dummies  with soldierly bearing, nor any large  heads
for elegant ladies' hats. Instead, the  three-room apartment was occupied by
an immaculately white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was riddled  with
fleas, but could not complain since it was unable to  talk. For days  on end
it used to crack sunflower seeds and spit  the husks through the bars of its
tall, circular  cage on to  the carpet. It only  needed a concertina and new
squeaky Wellingtons to resemble a peasant on a  spree.  Dark-brown patterned
curtains  flapped  at  the  window.  Dark-brown  hues  predominated  in  the
apartment. Above  the piano  was a reproduction of Boecklin's  "Isle  of the
Dead" in  a fancy frame of dark-green oak, covered with glass. One corner of
the glass had  been broken off some time before, and the flies  had added so
many finishing touches to the  picture at this  bared section that it merged
completely with the frame. What was going on in that section of the "Isle of
the Dead" was quite impossible to say.
     The owner herself was  sitting in  the  bedroom  and laying  out cards,
resting  her  arms  on  an  octagonal  table  covered  by a  dirty Richelieu
tablecloth. In front of her sat Widow Gritsatsuyev, in a fluffy shawl.
     "I should warn  you, young lady, that  I  don't  take  less than  fifty
kopeks per session,' said the fortune-teller.
     The  widow, whose  anxiousness  to find a new husband  knew no  bounds,
agreed to pay the price.
     "But  predict the  future as well, please,"  she said plaintively. "You
will be  represented by the  Queen of  Clubs." "I  was  always  the Queen of
Hearts," objected the widow. The fortune-teller consented  apathetically and
began manipulating  the  cards. A rough  estimation of the  widow's lot  was
ready in a  few minutes. Both  major and minor difficulties awaited her, but
near to her heart was  the King of  Clubs, who  had befriended the Queen  of
Diamonds.
     A fair copy of the prediction was made from the widow's hand. The lines
of her hand were clean, powerful, and faultless. Her life line stretched  so
far that  it  ended  up at her pulse and,  if it told the  truth, the  widow
should  have lived till doomsday. The  head line and line of brilliancy gave
reason to believe that she would  give up  her  grocery business and present
mankind with masterpieces in the realm  of art, science, and social studies.
Her Mounts  of Venus  resembled Manchurian volcanoes and revealed incredible
reserves of love and affection. The fortune-teller explained all this to the
widow, using  the  words and  phrases current among graphologists, palmists,
and horse-traders.
     "Thank you, madame," said the widow. "Now I  know who the King of Clubs
is. And I know who the Queen of  Diamonds is, too. But  what about the King?
Does that  mean  marriage?" "It does, young lady." The widow went home  in a
dream,  while  the  fortune-teller  threw the cards into a  drawer,  yawned,
displaying the mouth  of a fifty-year-old woman, and went into the  kitchen.
There  she busied herself  with the meal that was warming on a Graetz stove;
wiping her hands on  her apron like a cook, she took a  chipped-enamel  pail
and went into the yard to fetch water.
     She  walked  across  the  yard, dragging  her  flat feet. Her  drooping
breasts wobbled lazily inside her dyed  blouse. Her  head  was  crowned with
greying hair. She  was an  old woman, she  was  dirty, she regarded everyone
with suspicion, and she had a sweet tooth. If Ippolit Matveyevich  had  seen
her  now,  he would never  have recognized Elena Bour, his former  mistress,
about whom the clerk of the court had once said in verse that "her lips were
inviting and she was so spritely!" At the well, Mrs. Bour was greeted by her
neighbour,  Victor Mikhailovich  Polesov, the mechanic-intellectual, who was
collecting water in an empty petrol tin. Polesov had the face of an operatic
Mephistopheles who is carefully rubbed with burnt cork just before  he  goes
on stage.
     As  soon as they had exchanged greetings, the neighbours  got down to a
discussion of the affair concerning the whole of Stargorod.
     "What times we live in!" said Polesov ironically. "Yesterday I went all
over the town but  couldn't find any three-eighths-inch dies anywhere. There
were none available. And to think-they're going to open a tramline!"
     Elena Stanislavovna, who had as much idea about three-eighths-inch dies
as a student of the  Leonardo da Vinci ballet school, who  thinks that cream
comes from cream tarts, expressed her sympathy.
     "The  shops we have now! Nothing but long queues.  And the names of the
shops are so dreadful. Stargiko!"
     "But I'll tell you something  else, Elena Stanislavovna. They have four
General Electric engines left. And they just about work, although the bodies
are junk. The windows  haven't any shock absorbers. I've  seen  them myself.
The  whole lot rattles. Horrible! And the  other  engines are from  Kharkov.
Made entirely by the State Non-Ferrous Metallurgy Industry."
     The mechanic stopped talking in irritation. His black face glistened in
the  sun. The whites of his eyes  were yellowish.  Among the artisans owning
cars in  Stargorod, of whom  there were many,  Victor Polesov  was  the most
gauche, and most frequently made an ass  of himself. The reason for this was
his  over-ebullient nature.  He  was  an  ebullient  idler. He  was  forever
effervescing. In his own workshop in the  second yard of no. 7 Pereleshinsky
Street,  he was never  to be  found. Extinguished  portable  furnaces  stood
deserted  in  the  middle of  his  stone shed, the  corners  of  which  were
cluttered up with punctured tyres, torn Triangle tyre covers, rusty padlocks
(so enormous you could have locked town gates with them), fuel cans with the
names  "Indian" and "Wanderer",  a  sprung  pram, a useless  dynamo,  rotted
rawhide belts, oil-stained rope, worn emery paper, an  Austrian bayonet, and
a great deal of other broken, bent and dented junk. Clients could never find
Victor Mikhailovich.  He  was  always out somewhere giving orders. He had no
time for work. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch a horse . and
cart drive  into his  or anyone else's  yard.  He immediately went  out and,
clasping his  hands  behind  his back,  watched the  carter's  actions  with
contempt. Finally he could bear it no longer.
     "Where do  you  think you're going?"  he used to shout  in a  horrified
voice. "Move over!"
     The startled carter would move the cart over.
     "Where do you think you're  moving to, wretch?"  Victor Polesov  cried,
rushing up  to the  horse.  "In  the old days you would have got a slap  for
that, then you would have moved over."
     Having given orders in this  way  for half an hour or so, Polesov would
be just about to return to his workshop, where a broken bicycle pump awaited
repair, when the peaceful life of the  town would be disturbed by some other
contretemps. Either two carts entangled their axles in the street and Victor
Mikhailovich  would  show the best  and  quickest  way to separate them,  or
workmen would be replacing a telegraph pole and  Polesov would check that it
was perpendicular  with  his  own  plumb-line  brought  specially  from  the
workshop; or, finally, the fire-engine would go past and Polesov, excited by
the noise of the siren and burned up with curiosity, would chase after it.
     But  from time  to  time  Polesov was  seized  by  a mood  of practical
activity.  For several days he used to  shut himself up in  his workshop and
toil in  silence. Children ran freely  about the yard and shouted what  they
liked,  carters described  circles in the  yard,  carts  completely  stopped
entangling  their  axles  and  fire-engines  and hearses  sped  to  the fire
unaccompanied-Victor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after a bout of this
kind, he emerged from the workshop with a motor-cycle, pulling it like a ram
by   the   horns;  the   motor-cycle   was   made  up  of   parts  of  cars,
fire-extinguishers,  bicycles  and  typewriters.  It  had  a  one-and-a-half
horsepower Wanderer  engine and Davidson wheels, while  the  other essential
parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the
words "Trial Run" hung on a cord  from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without
looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.
There  was  no  spark  for at  least ten minutes, but then  came  a metallic
splutter and  the contraption shuddered  and enveloped itself in  a cloud of
filthy   smoke.  Polesov  jumped  into  the  saddle,  and  the  motor-cycle,
accelerating  madly, carried him through the tunnel into the  middle  of the
roadway and  stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and  investigate the
mysterious  vehicle when  it  suddenly  reversed  and,  whisking its creator
through the same tunnel, stopped  at its  original point of departure in the
yard, grunted  peevishly,  and  blew  up. Victor  Mikhailovich escaped  by a
miracle  and  during  the  next  bout  of  activity  used  the  bits of  the
motor-cycle to make  a stationary engine, very similar to a real  one-except
that it did not work.
     The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was
the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative
that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he
undertook to repair the iron gates and paint  them any colour  he liked. For
its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov
the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a
special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.
     Victor  Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set  to work
in  his  shop with enthusiasm. It took several days  to un-rivet the  gates.
They were  taken  to pieces. Iron  curlicues  lay in the pram; iron bars and
spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to  inspect
the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in  the town. A water  main burst
on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of
the  misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen,  and every few
minutes looking into the hole in the ground.
     As soon as his  organizational  ardour  had  somewhat  abated,  Polesov
returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard  were
already playing with  the iron curlicues  and spikes of the gates of no.  5.
Seeing  the  wrathful  mechanic,  the children dropped their playthings  and
fled.  Half  the  curlicues were missing and were never  found.  After  that
Polesov lost interest in the gates.
     But then  terrible things began to happen in no.  5, which was now wide
open to all. The wet  linen  was stolen from  the  attics,  and one  evening
someone  even carried  off  a samovar that was  singing in the yard. Polesov
himself took part  in the pursuit, but the  thief ran  at quite a pace, even
though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over
his shoulder,  covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the  lead,  with foul
abuse.  The one  who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.
He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to
open, and  residents returning from a spree had no one to give  a tip to. At
first  the  yard-keeper kept  coming  to  ask if  the  gates  would  soon be
finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats.  The
housing cooperative  sent Polesov written  reminders, and there was talk  of
taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.
     Standing by  the well,  the fortune-teller and  the mechanic-enthusiast
continued their conversation.
     "Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for
the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"
     "When  will  all this  end!"  said Elena  Stanislavovna. "We live  like
savages!"
     "There's  no end  to  it. .  .  . Yes.  Do  you  know who I saw  today?
Vorobyaninov."
     In  her  amazement  Elena  Stanislavovna   leaned  against   the  wall,
continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.
     "I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for
the  hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly  two
people  came  towards  me.  One of  them  seemed  familiar;  he looked  like
Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.
I told them  it used to be  a girls' secondary school,  and later became the
housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just  said,
Thanks' and  went off. Then I  saw clearly that it  really was Vorobyaninov,
only  without  his  moustache.  The other one  with him was  a  fine-looking
fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought. . ."
     At  that  moment  Victor  Mikhailovich  noticed  something  unpleasant.
Breaking off what  he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind
the dustbin. Into the yard  sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped
by the well and  began looking round at the  buildings.  Not seeing  Polesov
anywhere, he asked sadly:
     "Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"
     "I really don't  know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."
And  with  unusual nervousness she hurried off  to  her  apartment, spilling
water from the pail.
     The  yard-keeper stroked the  cement block at the  top of the well  and
went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:

        ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP

     was another sign:

        METAL WORKSHOP
     AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS

     under  which  there hung  a heavy  padlock. The  yard-keeper kicked the
padlock and said with loathing:
     "Ugh, that stinker!"
     He stood by the  workshop for another two  or  three minutes working up
the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it
to the well in the middle  of the yard, and standing on it  with both  feet,
began creating an unholy row.
     "You  have thieves in no. 7!" howled  the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all
kinds! That  seven-sired  viper! Secondary education indeed! I  don't give a
damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"
     During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting
behind the  dustbin  and feeling  depressed. Window-frames flew open  with a
bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
     People strolled into the yard from outside in  curiosity. At the  sight
of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
     "Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"
     The  yard-keeper's  parliamentary expressions were  richly interspersed
with swear words, to  which he gave  preference. The members of the fair sex
crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed
where they were.
     "I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"
     While  the  scene was at its  height, a militiaman appeared and quietly
began hauling the fellow  off to the police station. He was assisted by Some
young  toughs  from  Fastpack.  The  yard-keeper  put  his  arms around  the
militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.
     A weary Victor  Mikhailovich  jumped out from behind the dustbin. There
was a stir among the audience.
     "Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. "I'll show you! You
louse!"
     But the  yard-keeper  was weeping bitterly and could  not hear. He  was
carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove
Repairs"  was  also  taken  along as factual  evidence. Victor  Mikhailovich
bristled with fury for some time.
     "Sons of  bitches!"  he  said, turning to  the  spectators.  "Conceited
bums!"
     "That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena  Stanislavovna  from
the window. "Come in here a moment."
     She  placed a dish of  stewed fruit in front of  Polesov and, pacing up
and down the room, began asking him questions.
     "But I tell you it was him-without his  moustache, but definitely him,"
said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well. It was the spitting image
of Vorobyaninov."
     "Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?"
     An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.
     "Well, what do you think? "
     He chuckled with even greater irony.
     "At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks."
     "Do you think he's in danger? "
     The reserves of  irony amassed by Polesov over  the ten years since the
revolution  were  inexhaustible.  A  series  of smiles of  varying force and
scepticism lit up his face.
     "Who  isn't   in  danger   in  Soviet  Russia,  especially  a  man   in
Vorobyaninov's position. Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off
for nothing."
     "Has  he  been sent from  abroad?" asked  Elena  Stanislavovna,  almost
choking.
     "Definitely," replied the brilliant mechanic.
     "What is his purpose here?"
     "Don't be childish!"
     "I must see him all the same."
     "Do you know what you're risking? "
     "I don't care. After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than
see Ippolit Matveyevich."
     And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were
still in love with one another.
     "I beg you to find him.  Find out where he  is. You go  everywhere;  it
won't be difficult for you. Tell him I want to see him. Do you hear?"
     The  parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on  its perch,
was  startled by the noisy  conversation; it turned upside down and froze in
that position.
     "Elena Stanislavovna," said  the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his
hands to his chest, "I will contact him."
     "Would  you like  some  more  stewed fruit?"  asked the fortune-teller,
deeply touched.
     Victor  Mikhailovich  consumed  the stewed fruit  irritably, gave Elena
Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and
then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.


        CHAPTER ELEVEN

        THE MIRROR-OF-LIFE INDEX

     The next day the partners saw that it  was no longer convenient to live
in  the  caretaker's room. Tikhon  kept muttering away  to  himself and  had
become  completely  stupid,  having seen  his  master  first  with  a  black
moustache,  then  with a green  one, and finally  with no moustache  at all.
There was nothing to sleep  on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in
on Tikhon's new felt  boots. His old  ones stood  in the corner  and did not
help to purify the air, either.
     "I declare the old boys' reunion over," said Ostap. "We  must move to a
hotel."
     Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. "I can't."
     "Why not?"
     "I shall have to register."
     "Aren't your papers in order?"
     "My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours
will spread."
     The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.
     "How do  you  like  the  name Michelson?"  suddenly asked the  splendid
Ostap.
     "Which Michelson? The Senator?"
     "No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union."
     "I don't get you."
     "That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!"
     Bender took  a  union card out of  his  green jacket  and  handed it to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
     "Konrad  Karlovich  Michelson,  aged  forty-eight,  non-party   member,
bachelor;  union member  since 1921 and a person of  excellent character;  a
good friend  of mine and  seems to  be  a friend of children. . .  . But you
needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you."
     Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. "But is it right? "
     "Compared with our" concession, this misdeed, though it does come under
the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game."
     Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.
     "You're  an  idealist,  Konrad Karlovich. You're  lucky,  otherwise you
might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov."
     There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon,
the concessionaires went out into the street.
     They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms.  Ostap threw the whole of
the small hotel  staff into confusion.  First he  looked at the seven-rouble
rooms,  but disliked  the furnishings.  The  cleanliness  of the five-rouble
rooms  pleased  him more,  but  the carpets  were  shabby  and there was  an
objectionable  smell. In the three-rouble rooms everything  was satisfactory
except for the pictures.
     "I can't live in a room with landscapes," said Ostap.
     They had to take a  room for one rouble,  eighty. It had no landscapes,
no  carpets, and the  furniture was very conservative -two  beds and a night
table.
     "Stone-age style," observed Ostap with  approval. "I hope  there aren't
any prehistoric monsters in the mattresses."
     "Depends on  the season," replied the cunning room-cleaner. "If there's
a  provincial convention  of some kind, then  of  course  there aren't  any,
because we have many  visitors and we clean the place thoroughly before they
arrive.  But at other  times you may  find some.  They come  across from the
Livadia Rooms next door."
     That day the concessionaires  visited the  Stargorod communal services,
where they  obtained  the information they required. It turned  out that the
housing division had  been disbanded in 1921 and that its voluminous records
had been merged with those of the communal services.
     The smooth  operator got down to business. By  evening the partners had
found out the  address  of  the  head of the records department, Bartholomew
Korobeinikov, a former  clerk in the Tsarist town administration  and now an
office-employment official.
     Ostap  attired himself  in  his  worsted waistcoat,  dusted his  jacket
against the  back of a chair, demanded a rouble, twenty  kopeks from Ippolit
Matveyevich, and  set off  to visit the  record-keeper.  Ippolit Matveyevich
remained at the Sorbonne Hotel and paced up and down  the narrow gap between
the two beds in  agitation.  The  fate of the whole  enterprise was  in  the
balance  that cold, green evening. If they could get hold of copies  of  the
orders   for  the   distribution  of   the   furniture  requisitioned   from
Vorobyaninov's house, half  the  battle  had been won.  There would still be
tremendous difficulties facing them, but at least they would be on the right
track.
     "If  only we can  get  the orders,"  whispered Ippolit  Matveyevich  to
himself, lying on the bed, "if only we can get them."
     The springs of the battered mattress nipped him like fleas, but  he did
not  feel them. He still only had a vague idea of what would follow once the
orders had been obtained, but felt sure everything would then go swimmingly.
     Engrossed in  his  rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about  on the
bed. The springs bleated underneath him.
     Ostap  had to go right across  town. Korobeinikov lived  in Gusishe, on
the outskirts.
     It was an area populated largely by railway workers.  From time to time
a  snuffl