t quiet hour when the morning is fresh and young. It was at this hour that the widow heard footsteps in the corridor. The widow jumped up and pressed against the glass. She caught a glimpse of a blue waistcoat at the end of the corridor. The crimson boots were dusty with plaster. The flighty son of a Turkish citizen approached the glass door, brushing a speck of dust from the sleeve of his jacket. "Bunny!" called the widow. "Bun-ny!" She breathed on the glass with unspeakable tenderness. The glass misted over and made rainbow circles. Beyond the mistiness and rainbows glimmered blue and raspberry-coloured spectres. Ostap did not hear the widow's cooing. He scratched his back and turned his head anxiously. Another second and he would have been around the corner. With a groan of "Comrade Bender", the poor wife began drumming on the window. The smooth operator turned around. "Oh," he said, seeing he was separated from the widow by a glass door, "are you here, too?" "Yes, here, here," uttered the widow joyfully. "Kiss me, honey," the technical adviser invited. "We haven't seen each other for such a long time!" The widow was in a frenzy. She hopped up and down behind the door like a finch in a cage. The petticoat which had been silent for the night began to rustle loudly. Ostap spread his arms. "Why don't you come to me, my little hen? Your Pacific rooster is so tired after the meeting of the Junior Council of Ministers." The widow had no imagination. "Bunny," she called for the fifth time, "open the door, Comrade Bender." "Hush, girl! Modesty becomes a woman. What's all the jumping about for?" The widow was in agony. "Why are you torturing yourself?" asked Ostap. "Who's preventing you from living? " The widow burst into tears. "Wipe your eyes, Citizeness. Every one of your tears is a molecule in the cosmos." "But I've been waiting and waiting. I closed down the shop. I've come for you, Comrade Bender." "And how does it feel on the stairs? Not draughty, I hope?" The widow slowly began to seethe like a huge monastery samovar. , "Traitor!" she spat out with a shudder. Ostap had a little time left. He clicked his fingers and, swaying rhythmically, crooned: "We all go through times When the devil's beside us, When a young woman's charms Arouse passion inside us." "Drop dead!" advised the widow at the end of the dance. "You stole my bracelet, a present from my husband. And why did you take the chair? " "Now you're getting personal," Ostap observed coldly. "You stole, you stole!" repeated the widow. "Listen, girl. Just remember for future reference that Ostap Bender never stole anything in his life." "Then who took the tea-strainer?" "Ah, the tea-strainer! From your non-liquid fund. And you consider that theft? In that case our views on life are diametrically opposed." "You took it," clucked the widow. "So if a young and healthy man borrows from a provincial grandmother a kitchen utensil for which she has no need on account of poor health, he's a thief, is he? Is that what you mean?" "Thief! Thief!" The widow threw herself against the door. The glass rattled. Ostap realized it was time to go. "I've no time to kiss you," he said. "Good-bye, beloved. We've parted like ships at sea." "Help!" screeched the widow. But Ostap was already at the end of the corridor. He climbed on to the windowsill and dropped heavily to the ground, moist after the night rain, and hid in the glistening playgrounds. The widow's cries brought the night watchman. He let her out, threatening to have her fined. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE THE AUTHOR OF THE "GAVRILIAD" As Madame Gritsatsuyev was leaving the block of offices, the more modest ranks of employees were beginning to arrive at the House of the Peoples: there were messengers, in-and-out girls, duty telephonists, young assistant accountants, and state-sponsored apprentices. Among them was Nikifor Lapis, a very young man with a sheep's-head haircut and a cheeky face. The ignorant, the stubborn, and those making their first visit to the House of the Peoples entered through the front entrance. Nikifor Lapis made his way into the building through the dispensary. At the House of the Peoples he was completely at home and knew the quickest ways to the oases where, under the leafy shade of departmental journals, royalties gushed from clear springs. First of all, Nikifor went to the snack-bar. The nickel-plated register made a musical sound and ejected three checks. Nikifor consumed some yoghurt, having opened the paper-covered jar, then a cream puff which looked like a miniature flower-bed. He washed it all down with tea. Then Lapis leisurely began making the round of his possessions. His first visit was to the editorial office of the monthly sporting magazine Gerasim and Mumu. Comrade Napernikov had not yet arrived, so Nikifor moved on to the Hygroscopic Herald, the weekly mouthpiece by which pharmaceutical workers communicated with the outside world. "Good morning!" said Nikifor. "I've written a marvellous poem." "What about?" asked the editor of the literary page. "On what subject? You know, Trubetskoi, our magazine . . ." To give a more subtle definition of the essence of the Hygroscopic Herald, the editor gestured with his fingers. Trubetskoi-Lapis looked at his white sailcloth trousers, leaned backward, and said in a singsong voice: "The Ballad of the Gangrene". '.'That's interesting," said the hygroscopic individual. "It's about time we introduced prophylaxis in popular form." Lapis immediately began declaiming: "Gavrila took to bed with gangrene. The gangrene made Gavrila sick . . ." The poem went on in the same heroic iambic tetrameter to relate how, through ignorance, Gavrila failed to go to the chemist's in time and died because he had not put iodine on a scratch. "You're making progress, Trubetskoi," said the editor in approval. "But we'd like something a bit longer. Do you understand?" He began moving his fingers, but nevertheless took the terrifying ballad, promising to pay on Tuesday. In the magazine Telegraphist's Week Lapis was greeted hospitably. "A good thing you've come, Trubetskoi. We need some verse right away. But it must be about life, life, and life. No lyrical stuff. Do you hear, Trubetskoi? Something about the everyday life of post-office workers, but at the same time . . . Do you get me?" "Only yesterday I was thinking about the everyday life of post-office workers, and I concocted the following poem. It's called 'The Last Letter'. Here it is: "Gavrila had a job as postman. Gavrila took the letters round . . ." The story of Gavrila was contained in seventy-two lines. At the end of the poem, Gavrila, although wounded by a fascist bullet, managed to deliver the letter to the right address. "Where does it take place? " they asked Lapis. It was a good question. There were no fascists in the USSR, and no Gavrilas or members of the post-office union abroad. "What's wrong?" asked Lapis. "It takes place here, of course, and the fascist is disguised." "You know, Trubetskoi, you'd do better to write about a radio station." "Why don't you want the postman? " "Let's wait a bit. We'll take it conditionally. The crestfallen Nikifor Trubetskoi-Lapis went back to Gerasim and Mumu. Napernikov was already at his desk. On the wall hung a greatly enlarged picture of Turgenev with a pince-nez, waders, and a double-barrel shotgun across his shoulders. Beside Napernikov stood Lapis's rival, a poet from the suburbs. The same old story of Gavrila was begun again, but this time with a hunting twist to it. The work went under the title of "The Poacher's Prayer". Gavrila lay in wait for rabbits. Gavrila shot and winged a doe . . . "Very good!" said the kindly Napernikov. "You have surpassed Entich himself in this poem, Trubetskoi. Only there are one or two things to be changed. The first thing is to get rid of the word 'prayer'." "And 'rabbit'," said the rival. "Why 'rabbit'?" asked Nikifor in surprise. "It's the wrong season." "You hear that, Trubetskoi! Change the word 'rabbit' as well." After transformation the poem bore the title "The Poacher's Lesson" and the rabbits were changed to snipe. It then turned out that snipe were not game birds in the summer, either. In its final form the poem read: Gavrila lay in wait for sparrows. Gavrila shot and winged a bird . . . After lunch in the canteen, Lapis set to work again. His white trousers flashed up and down the corridor. He entered various editorial offices and sold the many-faced Gavrila. In the Co-operative Flute Gavrila was submitted under the title of "The Eolean Recorder". Gavrila worked behind the counter. Gavrila did a trade in flutes . . . The simpletons in the voluminous magazine The Forest as It Is bought a short poem by Lapis entitled "On the Verge". It began like this: Gavrila passed through virgin forest, Hacking at the thick bamboo . . . The last Gavrila for that day worked in a bakery. He was found a place in the editorial office of The Cake Worker. The poem had the long and sad title of "Bread, Standards of Output, and One's Sweetheart". The poem was dedicated to a mysterious Hina Chlek. The beginning was as epic as before: Gavrila had a job as baker. Gavrila baked the cakes and bread . . . After a delicate argument, the dedication was deleted. The saddest thing of all was that no one gave Lapis any money. Some promised to pay him on Tuesday, others said Thursday, or Friday in two weeks' time. He was forced to go and borrow money from the enemy camp-the place where he was never published. Lapis went down to the second floor and entered the office of the Lathe. To his misfortune he immediately bumped into Persidsky, the slogger. "Ah!" exclaimed Persidsky, "Lapsus!" "Listen," said Nikifor Lapis, lowering his voice. "Let me have three roubles. Gerasim and Mumu owes me a pile of cash." "I'll give you half a rouble. Wait a moment. I'm just coming." And Persidsky returned with a dozen employees of the Lathe. Everyone joined in the conversation. "Well, how have you been making out?" asked Persidsky. "I've written a marvellous poem!" "About Gavrila? Something peasanty? 'Gavrila ploughed the fields early. Gavrila just adored his plough'?" "Not about Gavrila. That's a pot-boiler," said Lapis defensively. "I've written about the Caucasus." "Have you ever been to the Caucasus?" "I'm going in two weeks." "Aren't you afraid, Lapis? There are jackals there." "Takes more than that to frighten me. Anyway, the ones in the Caucasus aren't poisonous." They all pricked up their ears at this reply. "Tell me, Lapis," said Persidsky, "what do you think jackals are?" "I know what they are. Leave me alone." "All right, tell us then if you know." "Well, they're sort of . . . like . . . snakes." "Yes, of course, right as usual. You think a wild-goat's saddle is served at table together with the spurs." "I never said that," cried Trubetskoi. . . "You didn't say it, you wrote it. Napernikov told me you tried to palm off some doggerel on Gerasim and Mumu, supposed to be about the everyday life of hunters. Honestly, Lapis, why do you write about things you've never seen and haven't the first idea about? Why is the peignoir in your poem 'Canton' an evening dress? Why?" "You philistine!" said Lapis boastfully. "Why is it that in your poem 'The Budyonny Stakes' the jockey tightens the hame strap and then gets into the coach box? Have you ever seen a hame strap?" "Yes." "What's it like?" "Leave me alone. You're nuts!" , "Have you ever seen a coach box or been to the races?" "You don't have to go everywhere!" cried Lapis. "Pushkin wrote poems about Turkey without ever having been there." "Oh, yes. Erzerum is in Tula province, of course." Lapis did not appreciate the sarcasm. He continued heatedly. "Pushkin wrote from material he read. He read the history of the Pugachov revolt and then wrote about it. It was Entich who told me about the races." After this masterly defence, Persidsky dragged the resisting Lapis into the next room. The onlookers followed. On the wall hung a large newspaper clipping edged in black like an obituary notice. "Did you write this piece for the Captain's Bridge!" "Yes, I did." "I believe it was your first attempt at prose. Congratulations! 'The waves rolled across the pier and fell headlong below like a jack.' A lot of help to the Captain's Bridge you are!' The Bridge won't forget you for some time!" "What's the matter?" "The matter is . . . do you know what a jack is?" "Of course I know. Leave me alone." "How do you envisage a jack? Describe it in your own words." "It. . . sort of. . . falls." "A jack falls. Note that, everyone. A jack falls headlong. Just a moment, Lapis, I'll bring you half a rouble. Don't let him go." But this time, too, there was no half-rouble forthcoming. Persidsky brought back the twenty-first volume of the Brockhaus encyclopaedia. "Listen! 'Jack: a machine for lifting heavy weights. A simple jack used for lifting carriages, etc., consists of a mobile toothed bar gripped by a rod which is turned by means of a lever' . . . And here . . . 'In 1879 John Dixon set up the obelisk known as Cleopatra's Needle by means of four workers operating four hydraulic jacks.' And this instrument, in your opinion, can fall headlong? So Brockhaus has deceived humanity for fifty years? Why do you write such rubbish instead of learning? Answer!" "I need the money." "But you never have any. You're always trying to cadge half-roubles." "I bought some furniture and went through my budget." "And how much furniture did you buy? You get paid for your pot-boilers as much as they're worth-a kopek." "A kopek be damned. I bought a chair at an auction which-" "Is sort of like a snake? " "No, from a palace. But I had some bad luck. Yesterday when I arrived back from-" "Hina Chlek's," cried everyone present in one voice. "Hina! I haven't lived with Hina for years. I was returning from a discussion on Mayakovsky. I went in. The window was open. I felt at once something had happened." "Dear, dear," said Persidsky, covering his face with his hands. "I feel, Comrades, that Lapis's greatest masterpiece has been stolen. 'Gavrila had a job as doorman; Gavrila used to open doors.'" "Let me finish. Absolute vandalism! Some wretches had got into the apartment and ripped open the entire chair covering. Could anyone lend me five roubles for the repairs?" "Compose a new Gavrila for the repairs. I'll even give you the beginning. Wait a moment. Yes, I know. 'Gavrila hastened to the market, Gavrila bought a rotten chair.' Write it down quickly. You can make some money on that in the Chest-of-Drawers Gazette. Oh, Trubetskoi, Trubetskoi! Anyway, why are you called Trubetskoi? Why don't you choose a better name? Niki for Dolgoruky. Or Nikifor Valois. Or, still better, Citizen Niki-for Sumarokov-Elston. If ever you manage to get some easy job, then you can write three lines for Gerasim right away and you have a marvellous way to save yourself. One piece of rubbish is signed Sumarokov, the second Elston, and the third Yusupov. God, you hack!" CHAPTER THIRTY IN THE COLUMBUS THEATRE Ippolit Matveyevich was slowly becoming a boot-licker. Whenever he looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge. It was so hot in Ivanopulo's room that Vorobyaninov's chairs creaked like logs in the fireplace. The smooth operator was having a nap with the light-blue waistcoat under his head. Ippolit Matveyevich looked out of the window. A carriage emblazoned with a coat of arms was moving along the curved side street, past the tiny Moscow gardens. The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after another, a horseguard in a brass helmet, society ladies, and fluffy white clouds. Drumming the roadway with their hooves, the horses drew the carriage past Ippolit Matveyevich. He winced with disappointment. The carriage bore the initials of the Moscow communal services and was being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all. In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking old man with a fluffy white beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was none other than Count Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would probably have hailed the old man and chatted with him about the good old days. Count Bulanov was deeply troubled. As he whipped up the horses, he mused about the red tape that was strangling the sub-department of sanitation, and on account of which he had not received for six months the apron he was entitled to under his contract. "Listen," said the smooth operator suddenly. "What did they call you as a boy?" "What do you want to know for?" "I just want to know what to call you. I'm sick of calling you Vorobyaninov, and Ippolit Matveyevich is too stuffy. What were you called? Ippy?" "Pussy," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker. "That's more like it. So look, Pussy, see what's wrong with my back. It hurts between the shoulder-blades." Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over his head. Before Pussy Vorobyaninov was revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous; a back of enchanting shape, but rather dirty. "Aha! I see some redness." Between the smooth operator's shoulders were some strangely shaped mauve bruises which reflected colours like a rainbow in oil. "Honestly, it's the number eight," exclaimed Vorobyaninov. "First time I've ever seen a bruise like that." "Any other number?" asked Ostap. "There seems to be a letter P." "I have no more questions. It's quite clear. That damned pen! You see how I suffer, Pussy, and what risks I run for your chairs. These arithmetical figures were branded on me by the huge self-falling pen with a No. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back at the very moment I inserted my hands inside the chief editor's chair. But you! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair so that I had to go and do your work for you? I won't even mention the auction. A fine time to go woman-chasing. It's simply bad for you at your age to do that. Look after your health. Take me, on the other hand. I got the widow's chair. I got the two Shukin chairs. It was me who finally got Iznurenkov's chair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to Lapis's. There was only one chair that you managed to run down, and that was with the help of your holy enemy, the archbishop." Silently walking up and down in his bare feet, the technical adviser reasoned with the submissive Pussy. The chair which had vanished into the goods yard of October Station was still a blot on the glossy schedule of the concession. The four chairs in the Columbus Theatre were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make a trip down the Volga aboard the lottery ship, S.S. Scriabin, and was presenting the premiere of The Marriage that day as the last production of the season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in Moscow and look for the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or go on tour with the troupe. Ostap was in favour of the latter. "Or perhaps we should split up?" he suggested. "I'll go off with the theatre and you stay and find out about the chair in the goods yard." Pussy's grey eyelashes flickered so fearfully, however, that Ostap did not bother to continue. "Of the two birds," said Ostap, "the meatier should be chosen. Let's go together. But the expenses will be considerable. We shall need money. I have sixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh, I forgot. At your age a maiden's love is so expensive! I decree that we go together to the premiere of The Marriage. Don't forget to wear tails. If the chairs are still there and haven't been sold to pay social-security debts, we can leave tomorrow. Remember, Vorobyaninov, we've now reached the final act of the comedy My Mother-in-Low's Treasure. The Finita la Comedia is fast approaching, Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights! Oh, my younger days! Oh, the smell of the wings! So many memories! So many intrigues and affairs I How talented I was in my time in the role of Hamlet! In short, the hearing is continued." For the sake of economy they went to the theatre on foot. It was still quite light, but the street lamps were already casting their lemon light. Spring was dying before everyone's eyes. Dust chased it from the squares, and a warm breeze drove it from the side streets. Old women fondled the beauty and drank tea with it at little round tables in the yards. But spring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it so much wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where the young men were already strolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bow ties, and boots. Mauve-powdered girls circulated between the holy of holies of the Moscow Consumers' Union and the 'Commune' cooperative. The girls were swearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace, though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses were no better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much on the edges of the roadway. Cyclists rode noiselessly by from their first large international match at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream man trundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squinted timorously at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by the flashing signal with which he regulated the traffic, and was not dangerous. The two friends made their way through the hustle and bustle. Temptation lay in wait for them at every step. Different types of meat on skewers were being roasted in full view of the street in the tiny eating plates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of string music was wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great Silent Film' cinema. A loud-speaker raved away at a tram-stop. It was time to put a spurt on. The friends reached the foyer of the Columbus Theatre. Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the list of seat prices. "Rather expensive, I'm afraid," he said. "Three roubles for the sixteenth row." "How I dislike these provincial philistines," Ostap observed. "Where are you going? Can't you see that's the box office?" "Where else? We won't get in without tickets." "Pussy, you're vulgar. In every well-built theatre there are two windows. Only courting couples and wealthy heirs go to the box-office window. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you may observe) go straight to the manager's window." And, indeed, at the box-office window were only about five modestly dressed people. They may have been wealthy heirs or courting couples. At the manager's window, however, there was great activity. A colourful line had formed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which a provincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notes from friendly directors, actors, editors, theatrical costumiers, the district militia chief, and other persons closely connected with the theatre, such as members of the theatre and film critics' association, the 'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental Circus Workshop, and some extraordinary name, like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. About eight people had notes from Espere Eclairovich. Ostap barged into the line, jostled aside the Fortinbrasites, and, with a cry of "I only want some information: can't you see I haven't taken my galoshes off!" pushed his way to the window and peered inside. The manager was working like a slave. Bright diamonds of __ perspiration irrigated his fat face. The telephone interrupted him all the time and rang with the obstinacy of a tram trying to pass through the Smolensk market. "Hurry up and give me the note!" he shouted at Ostap. "Two seats," said Ostap quietly, "in the stalls." "Who for?" "Me." "And who might you be?" "Now surely you know me?" "No, I don't." But the stranger's gaze was so innocent and open that the manager's hand by itself gave Ostap two seats in the eleventh row, "All kinds come here," said the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "Who knows who they are? They may be from the Ministry of Education. I seem to have seen him at the Ministry. Where else could it have been? " And mechanically issuing passes to the lucky film and theatre critics, the manager went on quietly trying to remember where he had seen those clear eyes before. When all the passes had been issued and the lights went down in the foyer, he remembered he had seen them in the Taganka prison in 1922, while he was doing time for some trivial matter. Laughter echoed from the eleventh row where the concessionaires were sitting. Ostap liked the musical introduction performed by the orchestra on bottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistled and the curtain went up, wafting a breath of cool air. To the surprise of Vorobyaninov, who was used to a classical interpretation of The Marriage, Podkolesin was not on the stage. Searching around with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard triangles hanging from the ceiling and painted the primary colours of the spectrum. There "were no doors or blue muslin windows. Beneath the multicoloured triangles danced young ladies in large hats from black cardboard. The clinking of bottles brought forth Podkolesin, who charged into the crowd riding on Stepan's back. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed the young ladies with words which were not in the play, he bawled out : "Stepan!" At the same time he leaped to one side and froze in a difficult pose. The Esmarch douches began to clatter. "Stepan!" repeated Podkolesin, taking another leap. But since Stepan, who was standing right there in a leopard skin, did not respond, Podkolesin asked tragically: "Why are you silent, like the League of Nations?" "I'm obviously afraid of Chamberlain," replied Stepan, scratching his skin. There was a general feeling that Stepan would oust Podkolesin and become the chief character in this modernized version of the play. "Well, is the tailor making a coat?" A leap. A blow on the Esmarch douches. Stepan stood on his hands with an effort and, still in that position, answered: "Yes, he is." The orchestra played a potpourri from Madam Butterfly. Stepan stood on his hands the whole time. His face flooded with colour. "And didn't the tailor ask what the master wanted such good cloth for?" Stepan, who by this time was pitting in the orchestra cuddling the conductor, answered: "No, he didn't. He's not a member of the British Parliament, is he?" "And didn't the tailor ask whether the master wished to get married?" "The tailor asked whether the master wanted to pay alimony." At this point the lights went out and the audience began stamping their feet. They kept up the stamping until Podkolesin's voice could be heard saying from the stage: The Marriage Text. . . N. V. Gogol Verse . . . M. Cherchezlafemmov Adaptation. . . I. Antiokhiisky Musical accompaniment. . . Kh. Ivanov Producer . . . Nich. Sestrin Scenic effects . . . Simbievich-Sindievich Lighting . . . Platon Plashuk. Sound effects . . . Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind. Make-up. . . Krult workshops; wigs by Foma Kochur Furniture by the Fortinbras woodwork shops attached to the Balthazar Umslopogas Acrobatics instructress: Georgetta Tiraspolskikh Hydraulic press operated by Fitter Mechnikov Programme composed, imposed and printed by the KRULT FACTORY SCHOOL "Citizens! Don't be alarmed! The lights went out on purpose, as part of the act. It's required for the scenic effects." The audience gave in. The lights did not go up again until the end of the act. The drums rolled in complete darkness. A squad of soldiers dressed as hotel doormen passed by, carrying torches. Then Kochkarev arrived, apparently on a camel. This could only be judged from the following dialogue. "Ouch, how you frightened me! And you came on a camel, too." "Ah, so you noticed, despite the darkness. I wanted to bring you a fragrant camellia!" During the intermission the concessionaires read the programme. "Do you like it?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked timidly. "Do you?" "It's very interesting-only Stepan is rather odd." "No, I don't like it," said Ostap. "Particularly the fact that the furniture is from some Vogopas workshops or other. I hope those aren't our chairs adapted to the new style." Their fears were unjustified. At the beginning of the second act all four chairs were brought on to the stage by Negroes in top hats. The matchmaking scene aroused the greatest interest among the audience. At the moment Agafya Tikhonovna was coming down a rope stretched across the entire width of the theatre, the terrifying orchestra let out such a noise that she nearly fell off into the audience. But on the stage she balanced perfectly. She was wearing flesh-coloured tights and a bowler. Maintaining her balance by means of a green parasol on which was written "I want Podkolesin", she stepped along the wire and everyone below immediately saw that her feet were dirty. She leaped from the wire straight on to a chair, whereupon the Negroes, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in a tutu, and the matchmaker in a bus driver's uniform all turned backward somersaults. Then they had a five-minute rest, to hide which the lights were turned out again. The suitors were also very comic, particularly Omlette. In his place a huge pan of fried eggs was brought on to the stage. The sailor wore a mast with a sail. In vain did Starikov the merchant cry out that he was being crippled by taxes. Agafaya Tikhonovna did not like him. She married Stepan. They both dived into the fried eggs served by Podkolesin, who had turned into a footman. Kochkarev and Fekla sang ditties about Chamberlain and the repayment he hoped to extort from Germany. The Esmarch douches played a hymn for the dying and the curtain came down, wafting a breath of cool air. "I'm satisfied with the performance," said Ostap. "The chairs are intact. But we've no time to lose. If Agafya Tikhonovna is going to land on those chairs each day, they won't last very long." Jostling and laughing, the young men in their fashioned jackets discussed the finer points of the scenic effects. "You need some shut-eye, Pussy," said Ostap. "We have to stand in line for tickets early tomorrow morning. The theatre is leaving by express for Nizhni tomorrow evening at seven. So get two seats in a hard coach to Nizhni on the Kursk Railway. We'll sit it out. It's only one night." The next day the Columbus Theatre was sitting in the buffet at Kursk Station. Having taken steps to see that the scenic effects went by the same train, Simbievich-Sindievich was having a snack at one of the tables. Dipping his moustache into the beer, he asked the fitter nervously: "The hydraulic press won't get broken on the way, will it?" "It's not the press that's the trouble," said fitter Mechnikov. "It's that it only works for five minutes and we have to cart it around the whole summer." "Was it any easier with the 'time projector' from the Ideology Powder!" "Of course it was. The projector was big, but not so fragile." At the next table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a youngish woman with hard shiny legs, like skittles. The sound effects -Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind-fussed around her. "You didn't keep in time with me yesterday," she complained. "I might have fallen off." "What can we do?" clamoured the sound effects. "Two douches broke." "You think it's easy to get an Esmarch douche from abroad nowadays? " cried Galkin. "Just try going to the State Medical Supply Office. It's impossible to buy a thermometer, let alone an Esmarch douche," added Palkin. "Do you play thermometers as well?" asked the girl, horrified. "It's not that we play thermometers," observed Zalkind, "but that the damned douches are enough to drive you out of your mind and we have to take our own temperatures." Nich. Sestrin, stage manager and producer, was strolling along the platform with his wife. Podkolesin and Kochkarev had downed three vodkas and were wooing Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, each trying to outdo the other. The concessionaires had arrived two hours before the train was due to depart and were now on their sixth round of the garden laid out in front of the station. Ippolit Matveyevich's head was whirling. The hunt for the chairs was entering the last lap. Long shadows fell on the scorching roadway. Dust settled on their wet, sweaty faces. Cabs rattled past them and there was a smell of petrol. Hired vehicles set down their passengers. Porters ran up to them and carried off the bags, while their badges glittered in the sun. The Muse of Travel had people by the throat. "Let's get going as well," said Ostap. Ippolit Matveyevich meekly consented. All of a sudden he came face to face with Bezenchuk, the undertaker. "Bezenchuk!" he exclaimed in amazement. "How did you get here?" Bezenchuk doffed his cap and was speechless with joy. "Mr. Vorobyaninov," he cried. "Greetin's to an honoured guest." "Well, how are things?" "Bad," answered the undertaker. "Why is that?" "I'm lookin' for clients. There ain't none about." "Is the Nymph doing better than you?" "Likely! Could they do better than me? No chance. Since your mother-in-law, only Tierre and Constantine' has croaked." "You don't say! Did he really die?" "He croaked, Ippolit Matveyevich. He croaked at his post. He was shavin' Leopold the chemist when he croaked. People said it was his insides that bust, but I think it was the smell of medicine from the chemist that he couldn't take." "Dear me, dear me," muttered Ippolit Matveyevich. "So you buried him, did you?" "I buried him. Who else could? Does the Nymph, damn 'em, give tassels?" "You got in ahead of them, then? " "Yes, I did, but they beat me up afterwards. Almost beat the guts out of me. The militia took me away. I was in bed for two days. I cured myself with spirits." "You massaged yourself?" "No, I don't do that with spirits." "But what made you come here? " "I've brought my stock." "What stock?" "My own. A guard I know helped me bring it here free in the guard's van. Did it as a friend." It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed a neat pile of coffins on the ground a little way from Bezenchuk. Some had tassels, others did not. One of them Ippolit Matveyevich recognized immediately. It was the large, dusty oak coffin from Bezenchuk's shop window. "Eight of them," said Bezenchuk smugly. "Like gherkins." "But who needs your coffins here? They have plenty of their own undertakers." "What about the flu?" "What flu?" "The epidemic. Prusis told me flu was ragin' in Moscow and there was nothin' to bury people in. All the coffins were used up. So I decided to put thin's right." Ostap, who had been listening to the conversation with curiosity, intervened. "Listen, dad, the flu epidemic is in Paris." "In Paris?" "Yes, go to Paris. You'll make money. Admittedly, there may be some trouble with the visa, but don't give up. If Briand likes you, you'll do pretty well. They'll set you up as undertaker-royal to the Paris municipality. Here they have enough of their own undertakers." Bezenchuk looked around him wildly. Despite the assurances of Prusis, there were certainly no bodies lying about; people were cheerfully moving about on their feet, and some were even laughing. Long after the train had carried off the concessionaires, the Columbus Theatre, and various other people, Bezenchuk was still standing in a daze by his coffins. His eyes shone in the approaching darkness with an unfading light. PART III MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE A MAGIC NIGHT ON THE VOLGA The smooth operator stood with his friend and closest associate, Pussy Vorobyaninov, on the left of the passenger landing-stage of the state-owned Volga River Transport System under a sign which said: "Use the rings for mooring, mind the grating, and keep clear of the wall". Flags fluttered above the quay. Smoke as curly as a cauliflower poured from the funnels. The S.S. Anton Rubinstein was being loaded at pier No. 2. Dock workers dug their iron claws into bales of cotton; iron pots were stacked in a square on the quayside, which was littered with treated hides, bundles of wire, crates of sheet glass, rolls of cord for binding sheaves, mill-stones, two-colour bony agricultural implements, wooden forks, sack-lined baskets of early cherries, and casks of herrings. The Scriabin was not in, which greatly disturbed Ippolit Matveyevich. "Why worry about it?" asked Ostap. "Suppose the Scriabin were here. How would you get aboard? Even if you had the money to buy a ticket, it still wouldn't be any use. The boat doesn't take passengers." While still on the train, Ostap had already had a chance to talk to Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press, and had found out everything. The S.S. Scriabin had been chartered by the Ministry of Finance and was due to sail from Nizhni to Tsaritsin, calling at every river port, and holding a government-bond lottery. A complete government department had left Moscow for the trip, including a lottery committee, an office staff, a brass band, a cameraman, reporters from the central press and the Columbus Theatre. The theatre was there to perform plays which popularised the idea of government loans. Up to Stalingrad the Columbus Theatre was on the establishment of the lottery committee, after which the theatre had decided to tour the Caucasus and the Crimea with The Marriage at its own risk. The Scriabin was late. A promise was given that she would leave the backwater, where last-minute preparations were being made, by evening. So the whole department from Moscow set up camp on the quayside and waited to go aboard. Tender creatures with attache1 cases and hold-alls sat on the bundles of wire, guarding their Underwoods, and glancing apprehensively at the stevedores. A citizen with a violet imperial positioned himself on a mill-stone. On his knees was a pile of enamel plates. A curious person could have read the uppermost one: Mutual Settlement Department Desks with ornamental legs and other, more modest, desks stood on top of one another. A guard sauntered up and down by a sealed safe. Persidsky, who was representing the Lathe, gazed at the fairground through