ing locomotive would back its way along the walled-off embankment, above the houses. For a second the roof-tops were lit by the blaze from the firebox. Now and then empty goods trains went by, and from time to time detonators could be heard exploding. Amid the huts and temporary wooden barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats. Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club- checked the address from a piece of paper, and halted in front of the record-keeper's house. He rang a bell marked "Please Ring" in embossed letters. After prolonged questioning as to "Who do you want?" and "What is it about?" the door was opened, and he found himself in a dark, cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did not speak. "Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?" asked Ostap. The person who had been breathing took Ostap by the arm and led him into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt that this was Citizen Korobeinikov himself. Without waiting for an invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down. The old man looked fearlessly at the high-handed stranger and remained silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation. "I've come on business. You work at the communal-services records office, don't you? " The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively. "And you worked before that in the housing division?" "I have worked everywhere," he answered gaily. "Even in the Tsarist town administration?" Here Ostap smiled graciously. The old man's back contorted for some time and finally ended up in a position implying that his employment in the Tsarist town administration was something long passed and that it was not possible to remember everything for sure.' "And may I ask what I can do for you?" said the host, regarding his visitor with interest. "You may," answered the visitor. "I am Vorobyaninov's son." "Whose? The marshal's?" "Yes." . "Is he still alive?" "He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest." "Yes," said the old man without any particular grief, "a sad event. But I didn't think he had any children." "He didn't," said Ostap amiably in confirmation. "What do you mean?" "I'm from a morganatic marriage." "Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son? " "Right!" "How is she?" "Mum's been in her grave some time." "I see. I see. How sad." And the old man gazed at Ostap with tears of sympathy in his eyes, although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in the market. "We all pass away," he said, "but please tell me on what business you're here, my dear . . . I don't know your name." "Voldemar," promptly replied Ostap. "Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good." The old man sat down at the table covered with patterned oilcloth and peered into Ostap's eyes. In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his parents. He much regretted that he had invaded the privacy of the respected record-keeper so late at night and disturbed him by the visit, but hoped that the respected record-keeper would forgive him when he knew what had brought him. "I would like to have some of my dad's furniture," concluded Ostap with inexpressible filial love, "as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the furniture from dad's house?" "That's difficult," said the old man after a moment's thought. "Only a well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask? " "I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines." The old man looked dubiously at young Vorobyaninov's green suit, but made no comment. "A smart young man," he thought. "A typical old bastard," decided Ostap, who had by then completed his observation of Korobeinikov. "So there you are," said Ostap. "So there you are," said the record-keeper. "It's difficult, but possible." "And it involves expense," suggested the refrigeration-plant owner helpfully. "A small sum . . ." " 'Is nearer one's heart', as Maupassant used to say. The information will be paid for." "All right then, seventy roubles." "Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?" The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine. "Joke if you will. . ." "I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?" "Have you the money on you? " Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket. "Then now, if you like," said Korobeinikov triumphantly. He lit a candle and led Ostap into the next room. Besides a bed, obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself, the room contained a desk piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves. The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the edges of the shelves. Bundles of orders bound with new string lay on the shelves. "Oho!" exclaimed the delighted Ostap. "A full set of records at home." "A complete set," said the record-keeper modestly. "Just in case, you know. The communal services don't need them and they might be useful to me in my old age. We're living on top of a volcano, you know. Anything can happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will have preserved it? Who will have looked after it? Korobeinikov! So the gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And I don't need very much; ten roubles an order will do me. Otherwise, they might as well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture without me." Ostap looked at the old man in rapture. "A marvellous office," he said. "Complete mechanization. You're an absolute hero of labour!" The flattered record-keeper began explaining the details of his pastime. He opened the thick registers. "It's all here," he said, "the whole of Stargorod. All the furniture. Who it was taken from and who it was given to. And here's the alphabetical index-the mirror of life! Whose furniture do you want to know about? Angelov, first-guild merchant? Certainly. Look under A. A, Ak, Am, Am, Angelov. The number? Here it is-82742. Now give me the stock book. Page 142. Where's Angelov? Here he is. Taken from Angelov on December 18, 1918: Baecker grand piano, one, no. 97012; piano stools, one, soft; bureaux, two; wardrobes, four (two mahogany); bookcases, one . . . and so on. And who was it all given to? Let's look at the distribution register. The same number. Issued to. The bookcase to the town military committee, three wardrobes to the Skylark boarding school, another wardrobe for the personal use of the Stargorod province food office. And where did the piano go? The piano went to the old-age pensioners' home, and it's there to this day." "I don't think I saw a piano there," thought Ostap, remembering Alchen's shy little face. "Or for instance, Murin, head of the town council. So we look under M. It's all here. The whole town. Pianos, settees, pier glasses, chairs, divans, pouffes, chandeliers . . . even dinner services." "Well," said Ostap, "they ought to erect a monument to you. But let's get to the point. The letter V, for example." "The letter V it is," responded Korobeinikov willingly. "In one moment. Vm, Vn. Vorotsky, no. 48238, Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich, your father, God rest his soul, was a man with a big heart. . . A Baecker piano, no. 54809. Chinese vases, marked, four, from Sevres in France; Aubusson carpets, eight, different sizes; a tapestry, "The Shepherd Boy'; a tapestry, 'The Shepherd Girl'; Tekke carpets, two; Khorassan carpets, one; stuffed bears with dish, one; a bedroom suite to seat twelve; a dining-room suite to seat sixteen; a drawing-room suite to seat twelve, walnut, made by Hambs." "And who was given it?" asked Ostap impatiently. "We're just coming to that. The stuffed bear with dish went to the police station No. 2. The Shepherd Boy tapestry went to the art treasure collection; the Shepherd Girl tapestry to the water-transport club; the Aubusson, Tekke and Khorassan carpets to the Ministry of Foreign Trade. The bedroom suite went to the hunters' trade-union; the dining-room suite to the Stargorod branch of the chief tea administration. The walnut suite was divided up. The round table and one chair went to the pensioners' home, a curved-back settee was given to the housing division (it's still in the hall, and the bastards spilled grease all over the covering); one chair went to Comrade Gritsatsuyev as an imperialist war invalid, at his own request, granted by Comrade Burkin, head of the housing division. Ten chairs went to Moscow to the furniture museum, in accordance with a circular sent round by the Ministry of Education . . . Chinese vases, marked .. ." "Well done!" said Ostap jubilantly. "That's more like it! Now it would be nice to see the actual orders." "In a moment. We'll come to the orders in a moment. Letter V, No. 48238." The old man went up to the cupboard and, standing on tiptoe, took down the appropriate bundle. "Here you are. All your father's furniture. Do you want all the orders?" "What would I do with all of them? Just something to remind me of my childhood. The drawing-room suite . . . I remember how I used to play on the Khorassan carpet in the drawing-room, looking at the Shepherd Boy tapestry . . . I had a fine time, a wonderful childhood. So let's stick to the drawing-room suite, dad." Lovingly the old man began to open up the bundle of green counterfoils and searched for the orders in question. He took out five of them. One was for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for the round table, and one for tapestry. "lust see. They're all in order. You know where each item is. All the counterfoils have the addresses on them and also the receiver's own signature. So no one can back out if anything happens. Perhaps you'd like Madame Popov's furniture? It's very good and also made by Hambs." But Ostap was motivated solely by love for his parents; he grabbed the orders, stuffed them in the depths of his pocket and declined the furniture belonging to General Popov's wife. "May I make out a receipt?" inquired the record-keeper, adroitly arching himself. "You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!" "I will then." "Do that!" They went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in neat handwriting and handed it smilingly to his visitor. The chief concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in a singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious orders. "Well, so long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king of the office!" The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand. "Good-bye!" repeated Ostap. He moved towards the door. Korobeinikov was at a loss to understand. He even looked on the table to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly: "What about the money?" "What money?" said Ostap, opening the door. "Did I hear you say something about money? " "Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!" "Honestly, chum," crooned Ostap, "I swear by my late father, I'd be glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account." The old man began to tremble and put out a puny hand to restrain his nocturnal visitor. "Don't be a fool," said Ostap menacingly. "I'm telling you in plain Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!" The door slammed. Korobeinikov opened it and ran into the street, but Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke. "Things are moving," cried Ostap to the driver, "things are moving, gentlemen of the jury!" The driver could not hear; he waved his hand, and the wheels of the locomotive began pulling the steel elbows of the cranks with still greater force. The locomotive raced away. Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room and kicked the table with rage. The clog-shaped ash-tray with the word "Triangle" on it jumped up and down, and the glass clinked against the decanter. Never before had Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived. He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such brilliant simplicity that all he could do was stand for some time, lashing out at the thick legs of the table. In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned to him in cases of extreme need. He acted as a pawnbroker and charged cannibalistic rates of interest. He had been doing this for several years and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game, a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age. "A fine thing!" he cried, remembering the lost orders. "From now on money in advance. How could I have bungled it like that? I gave him the walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by hand. . . ." An uncertain hand had been ringing the bell marked "Please Ring" for some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door was still open, when there was a heavy thud, and' the voice of a man entangled in a maze of cupboards called out: "How do I get in?" Korobeinikov went into the hallway, took hold of somebody's coat (it felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room. "I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore. After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both sides, it came to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore was not averse to paying for it. Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great amusement, the visitor turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to keep something in memory of him, for example, a walnut drawing-room suite. The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother. Korobeinikov asked a hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's memory considerably lower than that, say thirty roubles. They agreed on fifty. "I'd like the money first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of mine." "Does it matter if I give it to you in ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat. "I'll take them at the official rate of exchange. Today's rate is nine and a half." Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper. The latter counted the coins twice, scooped them up into one hand and, requesting his visitor to wait, went to fetch the orders. Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P, quickly found the right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's wife. Disembowelling the bundle, he selected the order for twelve walnut chairs from the Hambs factory, issued to Comrade Bruns, resident of 34 Vineyard Street. Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled to himself and took the order to the purchaser. "Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser. "All there together. It's a splendid suite. It'll make you drool. Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!" Father Theodore rapturously gave the record-keeper a prolonged handshake and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in the hall, fled into the darkness of the night. For quite a while longer Bartholomeich chuckled to himself at the customer he had cheated. He spread the gold coins out in a row on the table and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs. "What is it about Vorobyaninov's furniture that attracts them?" he wondered. "They're out of their minds." He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on the narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep. CHAPTER TWELVE A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM During the night the cold was completely consumed. It became so warm that the feet of early passers-by began to ache. The sparrows chirped various nonsense. Even the hen that emerged from the kitchen into the hotel yard felt a surge of strength and tried to take off. The sky was covered with small dumpling-like clouds and the dustbin reeked of violets and soupe paysanne. The wind lazed under the eaves. Tomcats lounged on the rooftops and, half closing their eyes, condescendingly watched the yard, across which the room-cleaner, Alexander, was hurrying with a bundle of dirty washing. Things began stirring in the corridors of the Sorbonne. Delegates were arriving from other regions for the opening of the tramway. A whole crowd of them got down from a wagon bearing the name of the Sorbonne Hotel. The sun was warming to its fullest extent. Up flew the corrugated iron shutters of the shops, and workers in Soviet government offices on their way to work in padded coats breathed heavily and unbuttoned themselves, feeling the heaviness of spring. On Co-operative Street an overloaded truck belonging to the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration broke a spring, and Victor Polesov arrived at the scene to give advice. From one of the rooms furnished with down-to-earth luxury (two beds and a night table) came a horse-like snorting and neighing. Ippolit Matveyevich was happily washing himself and blowing his nose. The smooth operator lay in bed inspecting the damage to his boots. "By the way," he said, "kindly settle your debt." Ippolit Matveyevich surfaced from under his towel and looked at his partner with bulging, pince-nezless eyes. "Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? What are you surprised about? The debt? Yes! You owe me some money. I forgot to tell you yesterday that I had to pay, with your authority, seventy roubles for the orders. Herewith the receipt. Sling over thirty-five roubles. Concessionaires, I hope, share the expenses on an equal footing?" Ippolit Matveyevich put on his pince-nez, read the receipt and, sighing, passed over the money. But even that could not dampen his spirits. The riches were in their hands. The thirty-rouble speck of dust vanished in the glitter of a. diamond mountain. Smiling radiantly, Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the corridor and began strolling up and down. His plans for a new life built on a foundation of precious stones brought him great comfort. "And the holy father," he gloated, "has been taken for a ride. He'll see as much of the chairs as his beard." Reaching the end of the corridor, Vorobyaninov turned round. The cracked white door of room no. 13 opened wide, and out towards him came Father Theodore in a blue tunic encircled by a shabby black cord with a fluffy tassel. His kindly face was beaming with happiness. He had also come into the corridor to stretch his legs. The rivals approached one another several times, looking at each other triumphantly as they passed. At the two ends of the corridor they both turned simultaneously and approached again. . . . Ippolit Matveyevich's heart was bursting with joy. Father Theodore was experiencing a similar feeling. Each was sorry for his defeated enemy. By the time they reached the fifth lap, Ippolit Matveyevich could restrain himself no longer. "Good morning, Father," he said with inexpressible sweetness. Father Theodore mustered all the sarcasm with which God had endowed him and replied with: "Good morning, Ippolit Matveyevich." The enemies parted. When their paths next crossed, Vorobyaninov said casually: "I hope I didn't hurt you at our last meeting." "Not at all, it was very pleasant to see you," replied the other jubilantly.. They moved apart again. Father Theodore's physiognomy began to disgust Ippolit Matveyevich. "I don't suppose you're saying Mass any more?" he remarked at the next encounter. "There's nowhere to say it. The parishioners have all run off in search of treasure." "Their own treasure, mark you. Their own!" "I don't know whose it is, but only that they're looking for it." Ippolit Matveyevich wanted to say something nasty and even opened his mouth to do so, but was unable to think of anything and angrily returned to his room. At that moment, the son of a Turkish citizen, Ostap Bender, emerged from the room in a light-blue waistcoat, and, treading on his own laces, went towards Vostrikov. The roses on Father Theodore's cheeks withered and turned to ash. "Do you buy rags and bones?" he asked menacingly. "Chairs, entrails, tins of boot polish?" "What do you want?" whispered Father Theodore. "I want to sell you an old pair of trousers." The priest stiffened and moved away. "Why are you silent, like an archbishop at a party?" Father Theodore slowly walked towards his room. "We buy old stuff and steal new stuff!" called Ostap after him. Vostrikov lowered his head and stopped by the door. Ostap continued taunting him. "What about my pants, my dear cleric? Will you take them? There's also the sleeves of a waistcoat, the middle of a doughnut, and the ears of a dead donkey. The whole lot is going wholesale-it's cheaper. And they're not hidden in chairs, so you won't need to look for them." The door shut behind the cleric. Ostap sauntered back satisfied, his laces flopping against the carpet. As soon as his massive figure was sufficiently far away, Father Theodore quickly poked his head round the door and, with long pent-up indignation, squeaked: "Silly old fool!" "What's that?" cried Ostap, promptly turning back but the door was already shut and the only sound was the click of the lock. Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand to his mouth, and said clearly: "How much is opium for the people?" There was silence behind the door: "Dad, you're a nasty old man," said Ostap loudly. That very moment the point of Father Theodore's pencil shot out of the keyhole and wiggled in the air in an attempt to sting his enemy. The concessionaire jumped back in time and grasped hold of it. Separated by the door, the adversaries began a tug-of-war. Youth was victorious, and the pencil, clinging like a splinter, slowly crept out of the keyhole. Ostap returned with the trophy to his room, where the partners were still more elated. "And the enemy's in flight, flight, flight," he crooned. He carved a rude word on the edge of the pencil with a pocket-knife, ran into the corridor, pushed the pencil through the priest's keyhole, and hurried back. The friends got out the green counterfoils and began a careful examination of them. "This one's for the Shepherd Girl tapestry," said Ippolit Matveyevich dreamily. "I bought it from a St. Petersburg antique dealer." "To hell with the Shepherd Girl," said Ostap, tearing the order to ribbons. "A round table . . . probably from the suite. . ." "Give me the table. To hell with the table!" Two orders were left: one for ten chairs transferred to the furniture museum in Moscow, and the other for the chair given to Comrade Gritsatsuyev in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod. "Have your money ready," said Ostap. "We may have to go to Moscow." "But there's a chair here!" "One chance in ten. Pure mathematics. Anyway, citizen Gritsatsuyev may have lit the stove with it." "Don't joke like that!" "Don't worry, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Michelson, we'll find them. It's a sacred cause!" "We'll be wearing cambric footcloths and eating Margo cream." "I have a hunch the jewels are in that very chair." "Oh, you have a hunch, do you. What other hunches do you have? None? All right. Let's work the Marxist way. We'll leave the sky to the birds and deal with the chairs ourselves. I can't wait to meet the imperialist war invalid, citizen Gritsatsuyev, at 15 Plekhanov Street. Don't lag behind, Konrad Karlovich. We'll plan as we go." As they passed Father Theodore's door the vengeful son of a Turkish citizen gave it a kick. There was a low snarling from the harassed rival inside. "Don't let him follow us!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in alarm. "After today's meeting of the foreign ministers aboard the yacht no rapprochement is possible. He's afraid of me." The friends did not return till evening. Ippolit Matveyevich looked worried. Ostap was beaming. He was wearing new raspberry-coloured shoes with round rubber heel taps, green-and-black check socks, a cream cap, and a silk-mixture scarf of a brightly coloured Rumanian shade. "It's there all right," said Vorobyaninov, reflecting on his visit to Widow Gritsatsuyev, "but how are we going to get hold of it? By buying it?" "Certainly not!" said Ostap. "Besides being a totally unproductive expense, that would start rumours. Why one chair, and why that chair in particular?" "What shall we do?" Ostap lovingly inspected the heels of his new shoes. "Chic moderne" he said. "What shall we do? Don't worry, Judge, I'll take on the operation myself. No chair can withstand these shoes." Ippolit Matveyevich brightened up. "You know, while you were talking to Mrs. Gritsatsuyev about the flood, I sat down on our chair and I honestly felt something hard underneath me. They're there, I'll swear to it. They're there, I know it." "Don't get excited, citizen Michelson." "We must steal it during the night; honestly, we must steal it!" "For a marshal of the nobility your methods are too crude. Anyway, do you know the technique? Maybe you have a travelling kit with a set of skeleton keys. Get rid of the idea. It's a scummy trick to rob a poor widow." Ippolit Matveyevich pulled himself together. "It's just that we must act quickly," he said imploringly. "Only cats are born quickly," said Ostap instructively. "I'll marry her." "Who?" "Madame Gritsatsuyev." "Why?" "So that we can rummage inside the chair quietly and without any fuss." "But you'll tie yourself down for life!" "The things we do for the concession!" "For life!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in a whisper. He threw up his hands in amazement. His pastor-like face was bristly and his bluish teeth showed they had not been cleaned since the day he left the town of N. "It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Life!" said Ostap. "Sacrifice! What do you know about life and sacrifices? Do you think that just because you were evicted from your own house you've tasted life? And just because they requisitioned one of your imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice? Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a complex affair, but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex affair which can be managed as simply as opening a box. All you have to do is to know how to open it. Those who don't-have had it." Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the sleeve of his jacket, played a flourish with his lips and went off. Towards morning he rolled into the room, took off his shoes, put them on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly: "My little friends." "Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep. "At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice. Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow. "And are you going to marry her? " Ostap's eyes sparkled. "I'll have to make an honest woman of her now." Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment. "A passionate woman," said Ostap, "is a poet's dream. Provincial straightforwardness. Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas." "When's the wedding?" "The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow's impossible. It's May Day, and everything's shut." "But what about our own business? You're getting married . . . but we may have to go to Moscow." "What are you worried about? The hearing is continued." "And the wife?" "Wife? The little diamond widow? She's our last concern. A sudden summons to the capital. A short report to be given to the Junior Council of Ministers. A wet-eyed farewell and a roast chicken for the journey. We'll travel in comfort. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a holiday." CHAPTER THIRTEEN BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED! On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst for activity, hurried out into the street and headed for the centre. At first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there were still few people about and the reviewing stands, guarded by mounted militiamen, were empty. By nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring, wheezing, and whistling in various parts of the town. Housewives came running out of their gates. A column of musicians'-union officials in soft collars somehow strayed into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and upsetting everyone. A lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter "S" kept running into the musicians from behind, eliciting shouts from the bowels of the locomotive in the direction of the toilers of the oboe and flute: "Where's your supervisor? You're not supposed to be on Red Army Street! Can't you see you're causing a traffic jam?" At this point, to the misfortune of the musicians, Victor Polesov intervened. "That's right! You're supposed to turn into the blind alley here. They can't even organize a parade! Scandalous!" The children were riding in lorries belonging to the Stargorod communal services and the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration. The youngest ones stood at the sides of the lorry and the bigger ones in the middle. The junior army waved paper flags and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. It was crowded, noisy, and hot. Every minute there were bottlenecks, and every other minute they were cleared. To pass the time during the bottlenecks the crowd tossed old men and activists in the air. The old men wailed in squeaky voices, while the activists sailed up and down with serious faces in silence. One merry column of people mistook Polesov for a supervisor as he was trying to squeeze through them and began tossing him. Polesov thrashed about like Punchinello. Then came an effigy of Neville Chamberlain, being beaten on his top-hat with a cardboard hammer by a worker possessing a model anatomical physique. This was followed by a truck carrying three members of the Communist Youth in tails and white gloves. They kept looking at the crowd with embarrassment. "Basil!" shouted someone from the pavement, "you bourgeois ! Give back those braces!" Girls were singing. Alchen was marching along in a group of social-security workers with a large red bow on his chest. As he went he crooned in a nasal voice: From the forests of Siberia To the British Sea, There's no one superior To the Red Army. . . . At a given command, gymnasts disjointedly shouted out something unintelligible. Everything walked, rode and marched to the new tram depot from where at exactly one o'clock the first electric tram in Stargorod was due to move off. No one knew exactly when the construction of the tramline had been begun. Some time back in 1920, when voluntary Saturday work was introduced, railway workers and ropemakers had marched to Gusishe to the accompaniment of music and spent the whole day digging holes. They dug a great number of large, deep holes. A comrade in an engineer's cap had run about among the diggers, followed by a foreman carrying coloured poles. Work had continued at the same spot the next Saturday. Two holes dug in the wrong place had to be filled in again. The comrade descended on the foreman and demanded an explanation. Then fresh holes had been dug that were even bigger and deeper. Next, the bricks were delivered and the real builders arrived. They set about laying the foundations, but then everything quieted down. The comrade in the engineer's cap still appeared now and then at the deserted building site and wandered round and round the brick-lined pit, muttering: "Cost accounting!" He tapped the foundations with a stick and then hurried home, covering his frozen ears with his hands. The engineer's name was Treukhov. The idea of the tram depot, the construction of which ceased abruptly at the foundation stage, was conceived by Treukhov in 1912, but the Tsarist town council had rejected the project. Two years later Treukhov stormed the town council again, but the war prevented any headway. Then the Revolution interfered, and now the New Economic Plan, cost accounting, and capital recovery were the obstacles. The foundations were overgrown with flowers in the summer, and in the winter children turned them into a snow-slide. Treukhov dreamed of great things. He was sick and tired of working in the town-improvement department of the Stargorod communal services, tired of mending the kerbs, and tired of estimating the cost of hoardings. But the great things did not pan out. The tramline project, re-submitted for consideration, became bogged down at the higher instances of the provincial administration; it was approved by one and rejected by another, passed on to the capital, regardless of approval or rejection, became covered in dust, and no money was forthcoming. "It's barbarous!" Treukhov shouted at his wife. "No money, indeed! But they have enough money to pay for cab drivers and for carting merchandise to the station! The Stargorod's cab-drivers would rob their own grandmothers! It's a pillagers' monopoly, of course. Just try carrying your own stuff to the station! A tramline would pay for itself in six years." His withered moustache drooped angrily, and his snub-nosed face worked convulsively. He took some blueprints out of the desk and showed them to his wife for the thousandth time. They were plans for a terminus, depot and twelve tramcar routes. "To hell with twelve routes! They can wait. But three! Three! Stargorod will choke without them!" Treukhov snorted and went into the kitchen to chop wood. He did all the household chores himself. He designed and built a cradle for the baby and also constructed a washing-machine. For a while he washed the clothes in it himself, explaining to his wife how to work the machine. At least a fifth of Treukhov's salary went on subscriptions to foreign technical literature. To make ends meet he gave up smoking. He took his project to Gavrilin, the new chief of the Stargorod communal services who had been transferred from Samarkand. The new chief, deeply tanned by the Tunisian sun, listened to Treukhov for some time, though without particular attention, and finally said: "In Samarkand, you know, we don't need trams. Everyone rides donkeys. A donkey costs three roubles-dirt cheap-and it can carry about three hundred pounds. Just a little donkey; it's amazing!" "But that's Asia," said Treukhov angrily. "A donkey costs three roubles, but you need thirty roubles a year to feed it." "And how many times do you think you can travel on your trams for thirty roubles? Three hundred. And that's not even every day for a year." "Then you'd better send for some of your donkeys," shouted Treukhov and rushed out of the office, slamming the door. Whenever he met Treukhov from that time on, the new chief would ask derisively: "Well, then, shall we send for donkeys or build a tramway?" Gavrilin's face was like a smoothly-peeled turnip. His eyes were filled with cunning. About two months later he sent for the engineer and said to him earnestly: "I have a little plan. One thing is clear, though; there's no money, and a tramline is not like a donkey-it can't be bought for three roubles. We'll have to get some funds. What practical solution is there? A shareholding company? What else? A loan repayable with interest! How long will it take for a tramline to pay for itself? " "Six years from the opening of the first three routes." "Well, let's say ten years then. Now, the shareholding company. Who will buy the shares? The food co-operatives and the-central union of dairy co-operatives. Do the ropemakers need trams? Yes, they do. We will be dispatching freight cars to the railway station. So that's the ropemakers. The Ministry of Transport may contribute something, and also the province executive committee. That's definite. And once we've got things going, the State Bank and the Commercial Bank will give us loans. So that's my little plan. It is going to be discussed at the executive committee meeting on Friday, and if they agree, the rest is up to you." Treukhov stayed up till the early hours, excitedly washing clothes and explaining to his wife the advantages of trams over horse-drawn transportation. The decision taken on the Friday was favourable. But that was when the trouble started. It proved very difficult to form a shareholding company. The Ministry of Transport kept changing its mind about becoming a shareholder. The food co-operatives tried their best to avoid taking fifteen per cent of the shares and only wanted to take ten per cent. The shares were finally distributed, though not without a few skirmishes. Gavrilin was sent, for by the province control commission and reprimanded for using his position to exert pressure. But everything came out all right, and then it was only a question of beginning. "Well, Comrade Treukhov," said Gavrilin, "get cracking! Do you think you'll manage? Well and good. It's not like buying a donkey." Treukhov immersed himself in his work. The great things which he had dreamed of for years had finally arrived. Estimates were made, a construction programme drawn up, and the materials ordered. But difficulties arose where they were least expected. It was found that there were no cement experts in Stargorod, so they had to be brought in from Leningrad. Gavrilin tried to force the pace, but the plants could not deliver the machinery for eighteen months, even though it was actually needed within a year, at the latest. A threat to order the machinery from abroad, however, brought about the required effect. Then there were minor difficulties. First it was impossible to find shaped iron of the right size, then unseasoned sleepers were received instead of seasoned ones. The right ones were finally delivered, but Treukhov, who had gone personally to the seasoning plant, rejected sixty per cent of the sleepers. There were defects in the cast-iron parts, and the timber was damp. Gavrilin made frequent visits to the building sites in his ancient, wheezing Fiat and had rows with Treukhov. While the terminus and depot were being erected, the citizens of Stargorod merely made jokes. In the Stargorod Truth the tra