uld have spent so much money. On the way home he had to stop at the optician's to have new lenses fitted in his pince-nez. Ostap looked in surprise at the bedraggled figure of Ippolit Matveyevich for some time but said nothing. He was cold and ready for battle. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE PUNISHMENT The auction was due to begin at five o'clock. Citizens were allowed in to inspect the lots at four. The friends arrived at three o'clock and spent a whole hour looking at a machine-building exhibition next door. "It looks as though by tomorrow," said Ostap, "given good will on both sides, we ought to be able to buy that little locomotive. A pity there's no price tag on it. It's nice to own your own locomotive." Ippolit Matveyevich was in a highly nervous state. The chairs alone could console him. He did not leave them until the moment the auctioneer, in check trousers and a beard reaching to his Russian covert-coat tunic, mounted the stand. The concessionaires took their places in the fourth row on the right. Ippolit Matveyevich began to get very excited. He thought the chairs would be sold at once, but they were actually the third item on the list, and first came the usual auction junk: odd pieces of dinner services embellished with coats of arms; a sauce dish; a silver glass-holder; a Petunin landscape; a bead handbag; a brand-new primus burner; a small bust of Napoleon; linen brassieres; a tapestry "Hunter shooting wild duck", and other trash. They had to be patient and wait. It was hard to wait when the chairs were all there; their goal was within reach. "What a rumpus there'd be," thought Ostap, "if they knew what little goodies were being sold here today in the form of those chairs." "A figure depicting Justice!" announced the auctioneer. "Made of bronze. In perfect condition. Five roubles. Who'll bid more? Six and a half on the right. Seven at the end. Eight roubles in front in the first row. Going for eight roubles. Going. Gone to the first row in front." A girl with a receipt book immediately hurried over to the citizen in the first row. The auctioneer's hammer rose and fell. He sold an ash-tray, some crystal glass and a porcelain powder bowl. Time dragged painfully. "A bronze bust of Alexander the Third. Would make a good paperweight. No use for anything else. Going at the marked price, one bust of Alexander the Third." There was laughter among the audience. "Buy it, Marshal," said Ostap sarcastically. "You like that sort of thing." Ippolit Matveyevich made no reply; he could not take his eyes off the chairs. "No offers? The bust of Alexander the Third is removed from sale. A figure depicting Justice. Apparently the twin of the one just sold. Basil, hold up the Justice. Five roubles. Who'll give me more?" There was a snuffling sound from the first row. The citizen evidently wanted a complete set of Justices. "Five roubles for the bronze Justice." "Six!" sang out the citizen. "Six roubles in front. Seven. Nine roubles on the right at the end." "Nine and a half," said the lover of Justice quietly, raising his hand. "Nine and a half in front. Going for nine and a half. Going. Gone!" The hammer came down and the girl hastened over to the citizen in the first row. He paid up and wandered off into the next room to receive his bronze. "Ten chairs from a palace," said the auctioneer suddenly. "Why from a palace? " gasped Ippolit Matveyevich quietly. Ostap became angry. "To hell with you! Listen and stop fooling!" "Ten chairs from a palace, Walnut. Period of Alexander the Second. In perfect condition. Made by the cabinet-maker Hambs. Basil, hold one of the chairs under the light." Basil seized the chair so roughly that Ippolit Matveyevich half stood up. "Sit down, you damned idiot," hissed Ostap. "Sit down, I tell you. You make me sick!" Ippolit Matveyevich's jaw had dropped. Ostap was pointing like a setter. His eyes shone. "Ten walnut chairs. Eighty roubles." There was a stir in the room. Something of use in the house was being sold. One after another the hands flew up. Ostap remained calm. 146 "Why don't you bid?" snapped Vorobyaninov. "Get out!" retorted Ostap, clenching his teeth. "A hundred and twenty roubles at the back. A hundred and twenty-five in the next seat. A hundred and forty." Ostap calmly turned his back on the stand and surveyed his competitors. The auction was at its height. Every seat was taken. The lady sitting directly behind Ostap was tempted by the chairs and, after a few words with her husband ("Beautiful chairs! heavenly workmanship, Sanya. And from a palace!"), put up her hand. "A hundred and forty-five, fifth row on the right. Going!" The stir died down. Too expensive. "A hundred and forty-five, going for the second time." Ostap was nonchalantly examining the stucco cornice. Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting with his head down, trembling. "One hundred and forty-five. Gone!" But before the shiny black hammer could strike the plyboard stand, Ostap had turned around, thrown up his hand, and called out, quite quietly: "Two hundred." All the heads turned towards the concessionaires. Peaked caps, cloth caps, yachting caps and hats were set in action. The auctioneer raised his bored face and looked at Ostap. "Two hundred," he said. "Two hundred in the fourth row on the right. Any more bids? Two hundred roubles for a palace suite of walnut furniture consisting of ten pieces. Going at two hundred roubles to the fourth row on the right. Going!" The hand with the hammer was poised above the stand. "Mama!" said Ippolit Matveyevich loudly. Ostap, pink and calm, smiled. The hammer came down making a heavenly sound. "Gone," said the auctioneer. "Young lady, fourth row on the right." "Well, chairman, was that effective?" asked Ostap. "What would you do without a technical adviser, I'd like to know? " Ippolit Matveyevich grunted happily. The young lady trotted over to them. "Was it you who bought the chairs?" "Yes, us!" Ippolit Matveyevich burst out. "Us! Us! When can we have them?" "Whenever you please. Now if you like." The tune "Roaming, you're always roaming" went madly round and round in Ippolit Matveyevich's head. "The chairs are ours! Ours! Ours!" His whole body was shouting it. "Ours!" cried his liver. "Ours!" endorsed his appendix. He was so overjoyed that he suddenly felt twitches in the most unexpected places. Everything vibrated, rocked, and crackled under the pressure of unheard-of bliss. He saw the train approaching the St. Gotthard. On the open platform of the last car stood Ippolit Matveyevich in white trousers, smoking a cigar. Edelweiss fell gently on to his head, which was again covered with shining, aluminium-grey hair. He was on his way to the Garden of Eden. "Why two hundred and thirty and not two hundred?" said a voice next to him. It was Ostap speaking; he was fiddling with the receipt. "Fifteen per cent commission is included," answered the girl. "Well, I suppose that's all right. Here you are." Ostap took out his wallet, counted out two hundred roubles, and turned to the director-in-chief of the enterprise. "Let me have thirty roubles, pal, and make it snappy. Can't you see the young lady's waiting?" Ippolit Matveyevich made no attempt at all to get the money. "Well? Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? Are you crazy with joy or something?" "I don't have the money," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich at length. "Who doesn't?" asked Ostap very quietly. "I don't." "And the two hundred roubles? " "I. . . I. . . lost it." Ostap looked at Vorobyaninov and quickly grasped the meaning of the flabbiness of his face, the green pallor of the cheeks, and the bags under the swollen eyes. "Give me the money," he whispered with loathing, "you old bastard!" "Well, are you going to pay?" asked the girl. "One moment," said Ostap with a charming smile, "there's been a slight hitch." There was still a faint hope that they might persuade her to wait for the money. Here Ippolit Matveyevich, who had now recovered his senses, broke into the conversation. "Just a moment," he spluttered. "Why is there commission? We don't know anything about that. You should have warned us. I refuse to pay the thirty roubles." "Very well," said the girl curtly. "I'll see to that." Taking the receipt, she hurried back to the auctioneer and had a few words with him. The auctioneer immediately stood up. His beard glistened in the strong light of the electric lamps. "In accordance with auctioneering regulations," he stated, "persons refusing to pay the full sum of money for items purchased must leave the hall. The sale of the chairs is revoked." The dazed friends sat motionless. The effect was terrific. There was rude guffawing from the onlookers. Ostap remained seated, however. He had not suffered such a blow for a long time. "You're asked to leave." The auctioneer's singsong voice was firm. The laughter in the room grew louder. So they left. Few people have ever left an auction room with more bitterness. Vorobyaninov went first. With his bony shoulders hunched up, and in his shrunken jacket and silly baronial boots, he walked like a crane; he felt the warm and friendly glance of the smooth operator behind. The concessionaires stopped in the room next to the auction hall. They could now only watch the proceedings through a glass door. The path back was barred. Ostap maintained a friendly silence. "An outrageous system," murmured Ippolit Matveyevich timidly. "Downright disgraceful! We should complain to the militia." Ostap said nothing. "No, but really, it's the hell of a thing." Ippolit Matveyevich continued ranting. "Making the working people pay through the nose. Honestly! Two hundred and thirty roubles for ten old chairs. It's mad!" "Yes," said Ostap woodenly. "Isn't it? " said Vorobyaninov again. "It's mad!" "Yes." Ostap went up close to Vorobyaninov and, having looked around, hit the marshal a quick, hard, and unobserved blow in the side. "That's for the militia. That's for the high price of chairs for working people of all countries. That's for going after girls at night. That's for being a dirty old man." Ippolit Matveyevich took his punishment without a sound. From the side it looked as though a respectful son was conversing with his father, except that the father was shaking his head a little too vigorously. "Now get out of here!" Ostap turned his back on the director of the enterprise and began watching the auction hall. A moment later he looked around. Ippolit Matveyevich was still standing there, with his hands by his sides. "Oh! You're still here, life and soul of the party! Go on, get out!" "Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov implored, "Comrade Bender!" "Go on, go! And don't come back to Ivanopulo's because I'll throw you out." Ostap did not turn around again. Something was going on in the hall which interested him so much that he opened the glass door slightly and began listening. "That's done it," he muttered. "What has?" asked Vorobyaninov obsequiously. "They're selling the chairs separately, that's what. Maybe you'd like to buy one? Go ahead, I'm not stopping you. I doubt, though whether they'll let you in. And you haven't much money, I gather." In the meantime, in the auction hall, the auctioneer, feeling that he would be unable to make any member of the public cough up two hundred roubles all at once (too large a sum for the small fry left), decided to obtain his price in bits and pieces. The chairs came up for auction again, but this time in lots. "Four chairs from a palace. Made of walnut. Upholstered. Made by Hambs. Thirty roubles. Who'll give me more?" Ostap had soon regained his former power of decision and sang-froid. "You stay here, you ladies' favourite, and don't go away. I'll be back in five minutes. You stay here and see who buys the chairs. Don't miss a single one." Ostap had thought of a plan-the only one possible under the difficult circumstances facing them. He hurried out into the Petrovka, made for the nearest asphalt vat, and had a businesslike conversation with some waifs. Five minutes later he was back as promised with the waifs waiting ready at the entrance to the auction rooms. "They're being sold," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Four and then two have already gone." "See what you've done!" said Ostap. "Admire your handiwork! We had them in our hands . . . in our hands, don't you realize!" From the hall came a squeaky voice of the kind endowed only to auctioneers, croupiers and glaziers. ". . . and a half on my left. Three. One more chair from the palace. Walnut. In perfect condition. And a half on the right. Going for three and a half in front." Three chairs were sold separately. The auctioneer announced the sale of the last chair. Ostap choked with fury. He let fly at Vorobyaninov again. His abusive remarks were full of bitterness. Who knows how far Ostap might not have gone in this satirical exercise had he not been interrupted by the approach of a man in a brown Lodz suit. The man waved his plump hands, bowed, and jumped up and down and backwards and forwards, as though playing tennis. "Tell me, is there really an auction here?" he asked Ostap hurriedly. "Yes? An auction. And are they really selling things here? Wonderful." The stranger jumped backwards, his face wreathed with smiles. "So they're really selling things here? And one can buy cheaply? First-rate. Very, very much so. Ah!" Swinging his hips, the stranger rushed past the bewildered concessionaires into the hall and bought the last chair so quickly that Vorobyaninov could only croak. With the receipt in his hand the stranger ran up to the collection counter. "Tell me, do I get the chair now? Wonderful! Ah! Ah!" Bleating endlessly and skipping about the whole time, the stranger loaded the chair on to a cab and drove off. A waif ran behind, hot on his trail. The new chair owners gradually dispersed by cab and on foot. Ostap's junior agents hared after them. Ostap himself left and Vorobyaninov timidly followed him. The day had been like a nightmare. Everything had happened so quickly and not at all as anticipated. On Sivtsev Vrazhek, pianos, mandolins and accordions were celebrating the spring. Windows were wide open. Flower pots lined the windowsills. Displaying his hairy chest, a fat man stood by a window in his braces and sang. A cat slowly made its way along a wall. Kerosene lamps blazed above the food stalls. Nicky was strolling about outside the little pink house. Seeing Ostap, who was walking in front, he greeted him politely and then went up to Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich greeted him cordially. Nicky, however, was not going to waste time. "Good evening," he said and, unable to control himself, boxed Ippolit Matveyevich's ears. As he did so he uttered a phrase, which in the opinion of Ostap, who was witnessing the scene, was a rather vulgar one. "That's what everyone will get," said Nicky in a childish voice, "who tries . . ." Who tries exactly what, Nicky did not specify. He stood on tiptoe and, closing his eyes, slapped Vorobyaninov's face. Ippolit Matveyevich raised his elbow slightly but did not dare utter a sound. "That's right," said Ostap, "and now on the neck. Twice. That's it. Can't be helped. Sometimes the eggs have to teach a lesson to a chicken who gets out of hand. Once more, that's it. Don't be shy. Don't hit him any more on the head, it's his weakest point." If the Stargorod conspirators had seen the master-mind and father of Russian democracy at that crucial moment, it can be taken for certain that the secret alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare would have ended its existence. "That's enough, I think," said Nicky, hiding his hand in his pocket. "Just once more," implored Ostap. "To hell with him. He'll know next time." Nicky went away. Ostap went upstairs to Ivanopulo's and looked down. Ippolit Matveyevich stood sideways to the house, leaning against the iron railing of the embassy. "Citizen Michelson," he called. "Konrad Karlovich. Come inside. I permit you." Ippolit Matveyevich entered the room in slightly better spirits. "Unheard-of impudence," he exclaimed angrily. "I could hardly control myself." "Dear, dear," sympathized Ostap. "What has the modern youth come to? Terrible young people! Chase after other people's wives. Spend other people's money. Complete decadence. But tell me, does it really hurt when they hit you on the head? " "I'll challenge him to a duel!" "Fine! I can recommend a good friend of mine. He knows the duelling code by heart and has two brooms quite suitable for a struggle to the death. You can have Ivanopulo and his neighbour on the right as seconds. He's an ex-honorary citizen of the city of Kologriv and still even brags about the title. Or you can have a duel with mincing-machines-it's more elegant. Each wound is definitely fatal. The wounded adversary is automatically turned into a meat ball. How do you like the idea, Marshal?" At that moment there was a whistle from the street and Ostap went down to receive the* reports from his young agents. The waifs had coped splendidly with their mission. Four chairs had gone to the Columbus Theatre. The waif explained in detail how the chairs were transported in a wheelbarrow, unloaded and carted into the building through the stage-door. Ostap already knew the location of the theatre. Another young pathfinder said that two chairs had been taken away in a taxi. The boy did not seem to be very bright. He knew the street where the chairs had been taken and even remembered the number of the apartment was 17, but could not remember the number of the house. 152 "I ran too quick," said the waif. "It flew out me head." "You won't get any money," declared the boss. "But, mister! I'll show you the place." "All right, stay here. We'll go there together." The citizen with the bleat turned out to live on Sadovaya Spasskaya. Ostap jotted down the exact address in a notebook. The eighth chair had been taken to the House of the Peoples. The boy who had followed this chair proved to have initiative. Overcoming barriers in the form of the commandant's office and numerous messengers, he had found his way into the building and discovered the chair had been bought by the editor of the Lathe newspaper. Two boys had not yet come back. They arrived almost simultaneously, panting and tired. "Barrack Street in the Clear Lakes district." "Number?" "Nine. And the apartment is nine. There were Tatars living in the yard next door. I carried the chair the last part of the way. We went on foot." The final messenger brought sad tidings. At first everything had been all right, but then everything had gone all wrong. The purchaser had taken his chair into the goods yard of October Station and it had not been possible to slip in after him, as there were armed guards from the Ministry of Transport standing at the gates. "He left by train, most likely," said the waif, concluding his report. This greatly disconcerted Ostap. Rewarding the waifs royally, one rouble each (except for the herald from Varsonofefsky Street, who had forgotten the number and was told to come back the next day), the technical adviser went back inside and, ignoring the many questions put to him by the disgraced chairman of the board, began to scheme. "Nothing's lost yet. We have the addresses and there are many old and reliable tricks for getting the chairs: simple friendship; a love affair; friendship plus housebreaking; barter; and money. The last is the most reliable. But we haven't much money." Ostap glanced ironically at Ippolit Matveyevich. The smooth operator had regained his usual clarity of thought and mental balance. It would, of course, be possible to get the money. Their reserve included the picture "Chamberlain Answers the Bolsheviks", the tea-strainer, and full opportunity for continuing a career of polygamy. The only trouble was the tenth chair. There was a trail to follow, but only a diffuse and vague one. "Well, anyway," Ostap decided aloud, "we can easily bet on those odds. I'll stake nine to one. The hearing is continued. Do you hear? Hey you, member of the jury? " CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO ELLOCHKA THE CANNIBAL William Shakespeare's vocabulary has been estimated by the experts at twelve thousand words. The vocabulary of a Negro from the Mumbo Jumbo tribe amounts to three hundred words. Ellochka Shukin managed easily and fluently on thirty. Here are the words, phrases and interjections which she fastidiously picked from the great, rich and expressive Russian language: 1. You're being vulgar. 2. Ho-ho (expresses irony, surprise, delight, loathing, joy, contempt and satisfaction, according to the circumstances). 3. Great! 4. Dismal (applied to everything-for example: "dismal Pete has arrived", "dismal weather", or a "dismal cat"). 5. Gloom. 6. Ghastly (for example: when meeting a close female acquaintance, "a ghastly meeting"). 7. Kid (applied to all male acquaintances, regardless of age or social position). 8. Don't tell me how to live! 9. Like a babe ("I whacked him like a babe" when playing cards, or "I brought him down like a babe," evidently when talking to a legal tenant). 10.Ter-r-rific! 11. Fat and good-looking (used to describe both animate and inanimate objects). 12. Let's go by horse-cab (said to her husband). 13. Let's go by taxi (said to male acquaintances). 14. You're all white at the back! (joke). 15. Just imagine! 16. Ula (added to a name to denote affection-for example: Mishula, Zinula). 17. Oho! (irony, surprise, delight, loathing, joy, contempt and satisfaction). The extraordinary small number of words remaining were used as connecting links between Ellochka and department-store assistants. If you looked at the photographs of Ellochka Shukin which her husband, engineer Ernest Pavlovich Shukin, had hanging over his bed (one profile and the other full-face), you would easily see her pleasantly high and curved forehead, big liquid eyes, the cutest little nose in the whole of the province of Moscow, and a chin with a small beauty spot. Men found Ellochka's height nattering. She was petite, and even the puniest little men looked hefty he-men beside her. She had no particular distinguishing features; she did not need them. She was pretty. The two hundred roubles which her husband earned each month at the Electrolustre works was an insult to Ellochka. It was of no help at all in the tremendous battle which she had been waging for the past four years, from the moment she acquired the social status of housewife and Shukin's spouse. The battle was waged at full pressure. It absorbed all her resources. Ernest Pavlovich took home work to do in the evening, refused to have servants, lit the primus himself, put out the refuse, and even cooked meat balls. But it was all useless. A dangerous enemy was ruining the household more and more every year. Four years earlier Ellochka had noticed she had a rival across the ocean. The misfortune had come upon Ellochka one happy evening while she was trying on a very pretty crepe de Chine blouse. It made her look almost a goddess. "Ho-ho!" she exclaimed, summing up by that cannibal cry the amazingly complex emotions which had overcome her. More simply, the emotions could have been expressed by the following: men will become excited when they see me like this. They will tremble. They will follow me to the edge of the world, hiccupping with love. But I shall be cold. Are you really worthy of me? I am still the prettiest girl of all. No one in the world has such an elegant blouse as this. But there were only thirty words, so Ellochka selected the most expressive one-"Ho-ho!" It was at this hour of greatness that Fimka Sobak came to see her. She brought with her the icy breath of January and a French fashion magazine. Ellochka got no further than the first page. A glossy photograph showed the daughter of the American billionaire, Vanderbilt, in an evening dress. It showed furs and plumes, silks and pearls, an unusually simple cut and a stunning hair-do. That settled everything. "Oho!" said Ellochka to herself. That meant "she or me". The next morning found Ellochka at the hairdresser's, where she relinquished her beautiful black plait and had her hair dyed red. Then she was able to climb another step up the ladder leading her to the glittering paradise frequented by billionaires' daughters, who were no match for housewife Shukin. A dog skin made to look like muskrat was bought with a loan and added the finishing touch to the evening dress. Mister Shukin, who had long cherished the dream of buying a new drawing-board, became rather depressed. The dog-trimmed dress was the first well-aimed blow at Miss Vanderbilt. The snooty American girl was then dealt three more in succession. Ellochka bought a chinchilla tippet (Russian rabbit caught in Tula Province) from Fimka Sobak, a private furrier, acquired a hat made of dove-grey Argentine felt, and converted her husband's new jacket into a stylish tunic. The billionaire's daughter was shaken, but the affectionate Daddy Vanderbilt evidently came to the rescue. The latest number of the magazine contained a portrait of the cursed rival in four different styles: (1) in black-brown fox; (2) with a diamond star on her forehead; (3) in a flying suit (high boots, a very thin green coat and gauntlets, the tops of which were encrusted with medium-size emeralds); and (4) in a ball gown (cascades of jewellery and a little silk). Ellochka mustered her forces. Daddy Shukin obtained a loan from the mutual-assistance fund, but they would only give him thirty roubles. This desperate new effort radically undermined the household economy, but the battle had to be waged on all fronts. Not long before some snapshots of the Miss in her new castle in Florida had been received. Ellochka, too, had to acquire new furniture. She bought two upholstered chairs at an auction. (Successful buy! Wouldn't have missed it for the world.) Without asking her husband, Ellochka took the money from the dinner fund. There were ten days and four roubles left to the fifteenth. Ellochka transported the chairs down Varsonofefsky Street in style. Her husband was not at home, but arrived soon after, carrying a brief-case. "The dismal husband has arrived," said Ellochka clearly and distinctly. All her words were pronounced distinctly and popped out as smartly as peas from a pod. "Hello, Ellochka, what's all this? Where did the chairs come from?" "Ho-ho!" "No, really?" "Ter-r-rific!" "Yes, they're nice chairs." "Great!" "A present from someone?" "Oho!" "What? Do you mean you bought them? Where did the money come from? The housekeeping money? But I've told you a thousand times . . ." "Ernestula, you're being vulgar!" "How could you do a thing like that? We won't have anything to eat!" "Just imagine!" "But it's outrageous! You're living beyond your means." "You're kidding." "No, no. You're living beyond your means." "Don't tell me how to live!" "No, let's have a serious talk. I get two hundred roubles. . ." "Gloom!" "I don't take bribes, don't steal money, and don't know how to counterfeit it. . . ." "Ghastly!" Ernest Pavlovich dried up. "The point is this," he said after a while; "we can't go on this way." "Ho-ho!" said Ellochka, sitting down on the new chair. "We will have to get a divorce." "Just imagine!" "We're not compatible. I. . ." "You're a fat and good-looking kid." "How many times have I told you not to call me a kid." "You're kidding!" "And where did you get that idiotic jargon from?" "Don't tell me how to live!" "Oh, hell!" cried the engineer. "You're being vulgar, Ernestula!" "Let's get divorced peaceably." "Oho!" "You won't prove anything to me. This argument. . ." "I'll whack you like a babe." "No, this is absolutely intolerable. Your arguments cannot prevent me from taking the step forced upon me. I'm going to get the removal van." "You're kidding!" "We'll divide up the furniture equally." "Ghastly!" "You'll get a hundred roubles a month. Even a hundred and twenty. The room will be yours. Live how you like, I can't go on this way." "Great!" said Ellochka with contempt. "I'll move in with Ivan Alexeyvich." "Oho!" "He's gone to the country and left me his apartment for the summer. I have the key. . . . Only there's no furniture." "Ter-r-rific!" Five minutes later Ernest Pavlovich came back with the caretaker. "I'll leave the wardrobe. You need it more. But I'll have the desk, if you don't mind. And take this chair, caretaker. I'll take one of the chairs. I think I have the right to, don't I?" Ernest Pavlovich gathered his things into a large bundle, wrapped his boots up in paper, and turned towards the door. "You're all white at the back," said Ellochka in a phonographic voice. "Good-bye, Ella." He hoped that this time at least his wife would refrain from her usual metallic vocables. Ellochka also felt the seriousness of the occasion. She strained herself, searching for suitable words for the parting. They soon came to mind. "Going by taxi? Ter-r-rific!" The engineer hurtled downstairs like an avalanche. Ellochka spent the evening with Fimka Sobak. They discussed a singularly important event which threatened to upset world economy. "It seems they will be worn long and wide," said Fimka, sinking her head into her shoulders like a hen. "Gloom!" Ellochka looked admiringly at Fimka Sobak. Mile Sobak was reputed to be a cultured girl and her vocabulary contained about a hundred and eighty words. One of the words was one that Ellochka would not even have dreamed of. It was the meaningful word "homosexuality". Fimka Sobak was undoubtedly a cultured girl. Their animated conversation lasted well into the night. At ten the next morning the smooth operator arrived at Varsonofefsky Street. In front of him ran the waif from the day before. He pointed out the house. "You're not telling stories?" "Of course not, mister. In there, through the front door." Bender gave the boy an honestly earned rouble. "That's not enough," said the boy, like a taxi-driver. "The ears of a dead donkey. Get them from Pushkin. On your way, defective one!" Ostap knocked at the door without the least idea what excuse he would use for his visit. In conversations with young ladies he preferred inspiration. "Oho?" asked a voice behind the door. "On business," replied Ostap. The door opened and Ostap went into a room that could only have been furnished by someone with the imagination of a woodpecker. The walls were covered with picture postcards of film stars, dolls and Tambov tapestries. Against this dazzling background it was difficult to make out the little occupant of the room. She was wearing a gown made from one of Ernest Pavlovich's shirts, trimmed with some mysterious fur. Ostap knew at once how he should behave in such high society. He closed his eyes and took a step backwards. "A beautiful fur!" he exclaimed. "You're kidding," said Ellochka tenderly. "It's Mexican jerboa." "It can't be. They made a mistake. You were given a much better fur. It's Shanghai leopard. Yes, leopard. I recognize it by the shade. You see how it reflects the sun. Just like emerald!" Ellochka had dyed the Mexican jerboa with green water-colour herself, so the morning visitor's praise was particularly pleasing. Without giving her time to recover, the smooth operator poured out everything he had ever heard about furs. After that they discussed silk, and Ostap promised to make his charming hostess a present of several thousand silkworms which he claimed the Chairman of the Central Executive Committee of Uzbekistan had brought him. "You're the right kind of kid," observed Ellochka as a result of the first few minutes of friendship. "You're surprised, of course, by this early visit from a stranger." "Ho-ho!" "But I've come on a delicate matter." "You're kidding." "You were at the auction yesterday and made a remarkable impression on me." "You're being vulgar!" "Heavens! To be vulgar to such a charming woman would be inhuman." "Ghastly!" . The conversation continued along these lines, now and then producing splendid results. But all the time Ostap's compliments became briefer and more watery. He had noticed that the second chair was not there. It was up to him to find a clue. Interspersing his questions with flowery Eastern flattery, he found out all about the events of the day before in Ellochka's life. "Something new," he thought, "the chairs are crawling all over the place, like cockroaches." "Sell me the chair, dear lady," said Ostap unexpectedly. "I like it very much. Only with your female intuition could you have chosen such an artistic object. Sell it to me, young lady, and I'll give you seven roubles." "You're being vulgar, kid," said Ellochka slyly. "Ho-ho!" said Ostap, trying to make her understand. I must approach her differently, he decided. Let's suggest an exchange. "You know that in Europe now and in the best homes in Philadelphia they've reintroduced the ancient custom of pouring tea through a strainer? It's remarkably effective and elegant." Ellochka pricked up her ears. "A diplomat I know has just arrived back from Vienna and brought me one as a present. It's an amusing thing." "It must be great," said Ellochka with interest. "Oho! Ho-ho! Let's make an exchange. You give me the chair and I'll give you the tea-strainer. Would you like that? " The sun rolled about in the strainer like an egg. Spots of light danced on the ceiling. A dark corner of the room was suddenly lit up. The strainer made the same overwhelming impression on Ellochka as an old tin can makes on a Mumbo Jumbo cannibal. In such circumstances the cannibal shouts at the top of his voice. Ellochka, however, merely uttered a quiet "Ho-ho." Without giving her time to recover, Ostap put the strainer down on the table, took the chair, and having found out the address of the charming lady's husband, courteously bowed his way out. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ABSALOM VLADIMIROVICH IZNURENKOV There followed a busy time for the concessionaires. Ostap contended that the chairs should be struck while the iron was hot. Ippolit Matveyevich was granted an amnesty, although Ostap, from time to time, would ask him such questions as: "Why the hell did I ever take up with you? What do I need you for, anyway? You ought to go home to your registry office where the corpses and newborn babes are waiting for you. Don't make the infants suffer. Go back there!" But in his heart the smooth operator had become very much attached to the wild marshal. "Life wouldn't be such fun without him," he thought. And he would glance now and then at Ippolit Matveyevich, whose head was just beginning to sprout a new crop of silvery hair. Ippolit Matveyevich's initiative was allotted a fair share of the work schedule. As soon as the placid Ivanopulo had gone out, Bender would try to drum into his partner's head the surest way to get the treasure. "Act boldly. Don't ask too many questions. Be more cynical- people like it. Don't do anything through a third party. People are smart. No one's going to hand you the jewels on a plate. But don't do anything criminal. We've got to keep on the right side of the law." Their search progressed, however, without much success. The criminal code plus a large number of bourgeois prejudices retained by the citizens of the capital made things difficult. People just would not tolerate nocturnal visits through their windows, for instance. The work could only be done legally. The same day that Ostap visited Ellochka Shukin a new piece of furniture appeared in Ivanopulo's room. It was the chair bartered for the tea-strainer-their third trophy of the expedition. The partners had long since passed the stage where the hunt for the jewels aroused strong feelings in them, where they clawed open the chairs and gnawed the springs. "Even if there's nothing inside," Ostap said, "you must realize we've gained at least ten thousand roubles. Every chair opened increases our chances. What does it matter if there's nothing in the little lady's chair? We don't have to break it to pieces. Let Ivanopulo furnish his room with it. It will be pleasanter for us too." That day the concessionaires trooped out of the little pink house and went off in different directions. Ippolit Matveyevich was entrusted with the stranger with the bleat from Sadovaya Spasskaya Street; he was given twenty-five roubles to cover expenses, ordered to keep out of beer-halls and not to come back without the chair. For himself the smooth operator chose Ellochka's husband. Ippolit Matveyevich crossed the city in a no. 6 bus. As he bounced up and down on the leather seat, almost hitting his head against the roof, he wondered how he would find out the bleating stranger's name, what excuse to make for visiting him, what his first words should be, and how to get to the point. Alighting at Red Gates, he found the right house from the address Ostap had written down, and began walking up and down outside. He could not bring himself to go in. It was an old, dirty Moscow hotel, which had been converted into a housing co-operative, and was resided in, to judge from the shabby frontage, by tenants who persistently avoided their payments. For a long time Ippolit Matveyevich remained by the entrance, continually approaching and reading the handwritten notice threatening neglectful tenants until he knew it by heart; then, finally, still unable to think of anything, he went up the stairs to the second floor. There were several doors along the corridor. Slowly, as though going up to the blackboard at school to prove a theorem he had not properly learned, Ippolit Matveyevich approached Room 41. A visiting card was pinned upside-down to the door by one drawing-pin. Absalom Vladimirovich IZNURENKOV In a complete daze, Ippolit Matveyevich forgot to knock. He opened the door, took three zombie-like steps forward and found himself in the middle of the room. "Excuse me," he said in a strangled voice, "can I see Comrade Iznurenkov?" Absalom Vladimirovich did not reply. Vorobyaninov raised his head and saw there was no one in the room. It was not possible to guess the proclivities of the occupant from the outward appearance of the ro