Zeiss binoculars with eightfold magnification. The S.S. Scriabin approached, turning against the stream. Her sides were decked with plyboard sheets showing brightly coloured pictures of giant-sized bonds. The ship gave a roar, imitating the sound of a mammoth, or possibly some other animal used in prehistoric times, as a substitute for the sound of a ship's hooter. The finance-and-theatre camp came to life. Down the slopes to the quay came the lottery employees. Platon Plashuk, a fat little man, toddled down to the ship in a cloud of dust. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind flew out of the Raft beer-hall. Dockers were already loading the safe. Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, the acrobatics instructress, hurried up the gangway with a springy walk, while Simbievich-Sindievich, still worried about the scenic effects, raised his hands, at one moment to the Kremlin heights, and at another towards the captain standing on the bridge. The cameraman carried his camera high above the heads of the crowd, and as he went he demanded a separate cabin in which to set up a darkroom. Amid the general confusion, Ippolit Matveyevich made his way over to the chairs and was about to drag one away to one side. "Leave the chair alone!" snarled Bender. "Are you crazy? Even if we take one, the others will disappear for good. You'd do better to think of a way to get aboard the ship." Belted with brass tubes, the band passed along the landing-stage. The musicians looked with distaste at the saxophones, flexotones, beer bottles and Esmarch douches, with which the sound effects were armed. The lottery wheels arrived in a Ford station wagon. They were built into a complicated device composed of six rotating cylinders with shining brass and glass. It took some time to set them up on the lower deck. The stamping about and exchange of abuse continued until late evening. In the lottery hall people were erecting a stage, fixing notices and slogans to the walls, arranging benches for the visitors, and joining electric cables to the lottery wheels. The desks were in the stern, and the tapping of typewriters, interspersed with laughter, could be heard from the typists' cabin. The pale man in the violet imperial walked the length of the ship, hanging his enamel plates on the relevant doors. Mutual Settlement Department Personnel Department Office Engine Room To the larger plates the man with the imperial added smaller plates. No entry except on business No consultations No admittance to outsiders All inquiries at the registry The first-class saloon had been fitted up for an exhibition of bank notes and bonds. This aroused a wave of indignation from Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind. "Where are we going to eat?" they fretted. "And what happens if it rains?" "This is too much," said Nich. Sestrin to his assistant. "What do you think, Seryozha? Can we do without the sound effects?" "Lord, no, Nicholas Constantinovich. The actors are used to the rhythm by now." A fresh racket broke out. The "Five" had found that the stage manager had taken all four chairs to his cabin. "So that's it," said the "Five" ironically. "We're supposed to rehearse sitting on our berths, while Sestrin and his wife, Gusta, who has nothing to do with our group, sit on the four chairs. Perhaps we should have brought our own wives with us on this trip." The lottery ship was watched malevolently from the bank by the smooth operator. A fresh outbreak of shouting reached the concessionaires' ears. "Why didn't you tell me before?" cried a committee member. "How was I to know he would fall ill." "A hell of a mess we're in! Then go to the artists'-union office and insist that an artist be sent here immediately." "How can I? It's now six o'clock. The union office closed long ago. Anyway, the ship is leaving in half an hour." "Then you can do the painting yourself. Since you're responsible for the decorations on the ship, get out of the mess any way you like!" Ostap was already running up the gangplank, elbowing his way through the dockers, young ladies, and idle onlookers. He was stopped at the top. "Your pass?' "Comrade!" roared Bender. "You! You! The little fat man! The one who needs an artist!" Five minutes later the smooth operator was sitting in the white cabin occupied by the fat little assistant manager of the floating lottery, and discussing terms. "So we want you to do the following, Comrade," said fatty. "Paint notices, inscriptions, and complete the transparent. Our artist began the work, but is now ill. We've left him at the hospital. And, of course, general supervision of the art department. Can you take that on? I warn you, incidentally, there's a great deal of work." "Yes, I can undertake that. I've had occasion to do that kind of work before." "And you can come along with us now?" "That will be difficult, but I'll try." A large and heavy burden fell from the shoulders of the assistant manager. With a feeling of relief, the fat man looked at the new artist with shining eyes. "Your terms?" asked Ostap sharply. "Remember, I'm not from a funeral home." "It's piecework. At union rates." Ostap frowned, which was very hard for him. "But free meals as well," added the tubby man hastily. "And a separate cabin." "All right," said Ostap, "I accept. But I have a boy, an assistant, with me." "I don't know about the boy. There are no funds for a boy. But at your own expense by all means. He can live in your cabin." "As you like. The kid is smart. He's used to Spartan conditions." Ostap was given a pass for himself and for the smart boy; he put the key of the cabin in his pocket and went out onto the hot deck. He felt great satisfaction as he fingered the key. For the first time in his stormy life he had both a key and an apartment. It was only the money he lacked. But there was some right next to him in the chairs. The smooth operator walked up and down the deck with his hands in his pockets, ignoring Vorobyaninov on the quayside. At first Ippolit Matveyevich made signs; then he was even daring enough to whistle. But Bender paid no heed. Turning his back on the president of the concession, he watched with interest as the hydraulic press was lowered into the hold. Final preparations for casting off were being made. Agafya Tikhonovna, alias Mura, ran with clattering feet from her cabin to the stern, looked at the water, loudly shared her delight with the balalaika virtuoso, and generally caused confusion among the honoured officials of the lottery enterprise. The ship gave a second hoot. At the terrifying sound the clouds moved aside. The sun turned crimson and sank below the horizon. Lamps and street lights came on in the town above. From the market in Pochayevsky Ravine there came the hoarse voices of gramophones competing for the last customers. Dismayed and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich kept shouting something, but no one heard him. The clanking of winches drowned all other sounds. Ostap Bender liked effects. It was only just before the third hoot, when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he had been abandoned to the mercy of fate, that Ostap noticed him. "What are you standing there like a coy suitor for? I thought you were aboard long ago. They're just going to raise the gangplank. Hurry up! Let this citizen board. Here's his pass." Ippolit Matveyevich hurried aboard almost in tears. "Is this your boy?" asked the boss suspiciously. "That's the one," said Ostap. "If anyone says he's a girl, I'm a Dutchman!" The fat man glumly went away. "Well, Pussy," declared Ostap, "we'll have to get down to work in the morning. I hope you can mix paints. And, incidentally, I'm an artist, a graduate of the Higher Art and Technical Workshops, and you're my assistant. If you don't like the idea, go back ashore at once." Black-green foam surged up from under the stern. The ship shuddered; cymbals clashed together, flutes, cornets, trombones and tubas thundered out a wonderful march, and the town, swinging around and trying to balance, shifted to the left bank. Continuing to throb, the ship moved into midstream and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. A minute later it was so far away that the lights of the town looked like sparks from a rocket that had frozen in space. The murmuring of typewriters could still be heard, but nature and the Volga were gaining the upper hand. A cosiness enveloped all those aboard the S.S. Scriabin. The members of the lottery committee drowsily sipped their tea. The first meeting of the union committee, held in the prow, was marked by tenderness. The warm wind breathed so heavily, the water lapped against the sides of the ship so gently, and the dark outline of the shore sped past the ship so rapidly that when the chairman of the union committee, a very positive man, opened his mouth to speak about working conditions in the unusual situation, he unexpectedly for himself, and for everyone else, began singing: "A ship sailed down the Volga, Mother Volga, River Volga. . ." And the other, stern-faced members taking part in the meeting rumbled the chorus: "The lilac bloo-ooms. . ." The resolution on the chairman's report was just not recorded. A piano began to play. Kh. Ivanov, head of the musical accompaniment, drew the most lyrical notes from the instrument. The balalaika virtuoso trailed after Murochka and, not finding any words of his own to express his love, murmured the words of a love song. "Don't go away! Your kisses still fire me, your passionate embraces never tire me. The clouds have not awakened in the mountain passes, the distant sky has not yet faded as a pearly star." Grasping the rail, Simbievich-Sindievich contemplated the infinite heavens. Compared with them, his scenic effects appeared a piece of disgusting vulgarity. He looked with revulsion at his hands, which had taken such an eager part in arranging the scenic effects for the classical comedy. At the moment the languor was greatest, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind, who were in the stern of the ship, began banging away at their surgical and brewery appliances. They were rehearsing. Instantly the mirage was dispelled. Agafya Tikhonovna yawned and, ignoring the balalaika virtuoso, went to bed. The minds of the trade unionists were again full of working conditions, and they dealt with the resolution. After careful consideration, Simbievich-Sindievich came to the conclusion that the production of The Marriage was not really so bad. An irate voice from the darkness called Georgetta Tiraspolskikh to a producer's conference. Dogs began barking in the villages and it became chilly. Ostap lay in a first-class cabin on a leather divan, thoughtfully staring at a green canvas work belt and questioning Ippolit Matveyevich. "Can you draw? That's a pity. Unfortunately, I can't, either." He thought for a while and then continued. "What about lettering? Can't do that either? Too bad. We're supposed to be artists. Well, we'll manage for a day or so before they kick us out. In the time we're here we can do everything we need to. The situation has become a bit more complicated. I've found out that the chairs are in the producer's cabin. But that's not so bad in the long run. The important thing is that we're aboard. All the chairs must be examined before they throw us off. It's too late for today. The producer's already asleep in his cabin." CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO A SHADY COUPLE People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime. Rafts floated up and down-huge fields of logs with little wooden houses on them. A small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve over the paddle cover towed along three oil barges in a line. The Red Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin overtook a convoy of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making a circle, turning against the stream. Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on to the Bramino quayside. With this line the shoremen hauled over the thick end of the mooring rope. The screws began turning the opposite way and half the river was covered with seething foam. The Scriabin shook from the cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for the lottery, which did not start until ten. Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would have done on land-at nine sharp. No one changed his habits. Those who were late for work on land were late here, too, although they slept on the very premises. The field staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very quickly. Office-boys swept out their cabins with the same lack of interest as they swept out the offices in Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and hurried with notes from the registry to the personnel department, not a bit surprised that the latter was in the stern and the registry in the prow. In the mutual settlement cabin the abacuses clicked like castanets and the adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was being hauled over the coals. Scorching his bare feet on the hot deck, the smooth operator walked round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he kept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every worker should have government bonds in his pocket." The smooth operator was doing his best, but his lack of talent was painfully obvious. The words slanted downward and, at one stage, it looked as though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then, with the boy Pussy's help, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was now more careful. Before daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lines with string and chalk, and was now painting in the letters, cursing the innocent Vorobyaninov. Vorobyaninov carried out his duties as boy conscientiously. He ran below for hot water, melted the glue, sneezing as he did so, poured the paints into a bucket, and looked fawningly into the exacting artist's eyes. When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed it on the side. The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see what the new artist's work looked like from there. The letters of the words were of different sizes and slightly cockeyed, but nothing could be done about it. He had to be content. The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches. The sound of the music brought children running from the whole of Bramino and, after them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band went on blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. A meeting began. From the porch steps of Korobkov's tea-house came the first sounds of a report on the international situation. From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see the white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little way from the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker, and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands. Then the music began again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playing as it went. A crowd of people poured after it. The lottery device mechanically threw up its combination of figures. Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizens watched and listened. Ostap hurried down for a moment, made certain all the inmates of the ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again. "Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art department. Stand by the entrance to the first-class corridor and sing. If anyone comes, sing louder." The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? " "Whatever else, don't make it 'God Save the Tsar'. Something with feeling. 'The Apple' or 'A Beauty's Heart'. But I warn you, if you don't come out with your aria in time . . . This isn't the experimental theatre. I'll wring your neck." The smooth operator padded into the cherry-panelled corridor in his bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected his figure. He read the plate on the door: Nich. Sestrin Producer Columbus Theatre The mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying a chair with curved legs. He sped along the corridor, out on to the deck, and, glancing at Ippolit Matveyevich, took the chair aloft to the wheelhouse. There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the chair to the back and said warningly: "The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as soon as it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents." A minute later the chair was covered up with sheets of ply-board and bunting, and was no longer visible. Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever. "Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could open it on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right away and--" "And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we perhaps take it back to Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry we took your chair, but unfortunately we didn't find anything in it, so here it is back somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?" As always, the smooth operator was right. Ippolit Matveyevich only recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of the overture played on the Esmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck. The lottery operations were over for the day. The onlookers spread out on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negro minstrels. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind kept looking up proudly as though to say: 'There, you see! And you said the popular masses would not understand. But art finds a way!' After this the Colombus troupe gave a short variety show with singing and dancing on an improvised stage, the point of which was to demonstrate how Vavila the peasant boy won fifty thousand roubles and what came of it. The actors, who had now freed themselves from the chains of Sestrin's constructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tuneful voices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied. Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles. The balalaika was set in motion. It went flying behind the player's back and from there came the "If the master has a chain, it means he has no watch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gave forth quite a few difficult variations. It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led out a herd of girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances. While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its voyage, while the captain talked with the engine-room through the speaking-tube, and the boilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and, to everyone's delight, began playing dances. Picturesque groups of dancers formed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down a soft, apricot light. It was an ideal moment for some newsreel shots. And, indeed, Polkan the cameraman emerged yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had grown used to his part as general office boy, followed him, cautiously carrying the camera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polka was being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping their feet as though they wanted to split the planet. The girls sailed around. Onlookers crowded the terraces and slopes. An avant-garde French cameraman would have found enough material here to keep him busy for three days. Polkan, however, having run his piggy eyes along the bank, immediately turned around, ambled to the committee chairman, stood him against a white wall, pushed a book into his hand, and, asking him not to move, smoothly turned the handle of his cine-camera for some minutes. He then led the bashful chairman aft and took him against the setting sun. Having completed his shots, Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and locked himself in. Once more the hooter sounded and once more the sun hid in terror. The second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave. Ostap thought with trepidation of the coming morning. Ahead of him was the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing bonds. This artistic ordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with the lettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower. "Keep it in mind," warned the fat man, "from Vasyuki onward we are holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent." "Don't worry at all," said Ostap, basing his hopes on that evening, rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent." It was a starry, windy night. The animals in the lottery arc were lulled to sleep. The lions from the lottery committee were asleep. So were the lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the rabbits from mutual settlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound effects, and the pigeons from the typistry. Only the shady couple lay awake. The smooth operator emerged from his cabin after midnight. He was followed by the noiseless shadow of the faithful Pussy. They went up on deck and silently approached the chair, covered with plyboard sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap stood the chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with a pair of pliers and inserted his hand. "Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice. Letter from Theodore written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife In the regional centre of N. My dear and precious Kate, Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the Good-Value Furnished Rooms, having finished all my business. The city of Baku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you still have to go by electric train and I haven't any money. This picturesque city is washed by the Caspian. It really is very large in size. The heat here is awful. I carry my coat in one hand and my jacket in the other, and it's still too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practically no money. But no harm, my dear, we'll soon have plenty. We'll travel everywhere and settle properly in Samara, near our factory, and we'll have liqueurs to drink. But to get to the point. In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic. There are many people from other parts here. Especially Armenians and Persians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar and saw many Turkish clothes and shawls. I wanted to buy you a present of a Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when we are rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedan blanket. Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian; and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary. Both these happenings greatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviour towards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, but had actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for the jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it was covered with kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, my dearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals? I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's not here just now. He's gone to Batumi on vacation. His family is living permanently in Batumi. I spoke to some people and they said all his furniture is there in Batumi. He has a little house there, at the Green Cape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs. 15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news from Batumi. Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed in Voronezh. Your husband ever, Theo. P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value. I'm very grieved. A good thing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE EXPULSION FROM PARADISE While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would wait, and others that it would not, time passed in its usual way. The dusty Moscow May was followed by a dusty June. In the regional centre of N., the Gos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan Square and Comrade Gubernsky Street for two days, now and then enveloping the vicinity in desperate quantities of smoke. One by one the shamefaced members of the Sword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison, having signed a statement that they would not leave the town. Widow Gritsatsuyev (the passionate woman and poet's dream) returned to her grocery business and was fined only fifteen roubles for not placing the price list of soap, pepper, blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in a big-hearted woman. "Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!" Ippolit Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into his quivering hands. Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness. A beacon flashed on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river and swam after the ship. "Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else." "There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Then you have a look as well." Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his arm as far as he could inside the chair. He could feel the ends of the springs between his fingers, but nothing else that was hard. There was a dry, stale smell of disturbed dust from the chair. "Nothing?" "No." Ostap picked up the chair and hurled it far over the side. There was a heavy splash. Shivering in the damp night air, the concessionaires went back to their cabin filled with doubts. "Well, at any rate we found something," said Bender. Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and looked at it in a daze. "Come on, come on! What are you goggling at?" The box was opened. On the bottom lay a copper plate, green with age, which said: WITH THIS CHAIR CRAFTSMAN HAMBS begins a new batch of furniture St. Petersburg 1865 Ostap read the inscription aloud. "But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich. "You're remarkably shrewd, my dear chair-hunter. As you see, there aren't any." Vorobyaninov was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting moustache twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He looked as though he was about to beat his face with his ears in desperation. The cold, sober voice of the smooth operator had its usual magic effect. Vorobyaninov stretched his hands along the seams of his worn trousers and kept quiet. "Shut up, sadness. Shut up, Pussy. Some day we'll have the laugh on the stupid eighth chair in which we found the silly box. Cheer up! There are three more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred." During the night a volcanic pimple erupted on the aggrieved Ippolit Matveyevich's cheek. All his sufferings, all his setbacks, and the whole ordeal of the jewel hunt seemed to be summed up in the pimple, which was tinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue. "Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap. Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and went to fetch the paints, his tall figure slightly bent, like a fishing rod. The transparent was begun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck. And the third day of the voyage commenced. It commenced with a brief clash between the brass band and the sound effects over a place to rehearse. After breakfast, the toughs with the brass tubes and the slender knights with the Esmarch douches both made their way to the stern at the same time. Galkin managed to get to the bench first. A clarinet from the brass band came second. "The seat's taken," said Galkin sullenly. "Who by?" asked the clarinet ominously. "Me, Galkin." "Who else?" "Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind." "Haven't you got a Yolkin as well? This is our seat." Reinforcements were brought up on both sides. The most powerful machine in the band was the helicon, encircled three times by a brass serpent. The French horn swayed to and fro, looking like a human ear, and the trombones were in a state of readiness for action. The sun was reflected a thousand times in their armour. Beside them the sound effects looked dark and small. Here and there a bottle glinted, the enema douches glimmered faintly, and the saxophone, that outrageous take-off of a musical instrument, was pitiful to see. "The enema battalion," said the bullying clarinet, "lays claim to this seat." "You," said Zalkind, trying to find the most cutting expression he could, "you are the conservatives of music!" "Don't prevent us rehearsing." "It's you who're preventing us. The less you rehearse on those chamber-pots of yours, the nicer it sounds." "Whether you rehearse on those samovars of yours or not makes no damn difference." Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained where they were and obstinately began playing their own music. Down the river floated sounds that could only have been made by a tram passing slowly over broken glass. The brass played the Kexholm Lifeguards' march, while the sound effects rendered a Negro dance, "An Antelope at the Source of the Zambesi". The shindy was ended by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lottery committee. At eleven o'clock the magnum opus was completed. Walking backwards, Ostap and Vorobyaninov dragged their transparent up to the bridge. The fat little man in charge ran in front with his hands in the air. By joint effort the transparent was tied to the rail. It towered above the passenger deck like a cinema screen. In half an hour the electrician had laid cables to the back of the transparent and fitted up three lights inside it. All that remained was to turn the switch. Off the starboard bow the lights of Vasyuki could already be made out through the darkness. The chief summoned everyone to the ceremonial illumination of the transparent. Ippolit Matveyevich and the smooth operator watched the proceedings from above, standing beside the dark screen. Every event on board was taken seriously by the floating government department. Typists, messengers, executives, the Columbus Theatre, and members of the ship's company crowded on to the passenger deck, staring upward. "Switch it on!" ordered the fat man. The transparent lit up. Ostap looked down at the crowd. Their faces were bathed in pink light. The onlookers began laughing; then there was silence and a stern voice from below said: "Where's the second-in-command?" The voice was so peremptory that the second-in-command rushed down without counting the steps. "Just have a look," said the voice, "and admire your work!" "We're about to be booted off," whispered Ostap to Ippolit Matveyevich. And, indeed, the little fat man came flying up to the top deck like a hawk. "Well, how's the transparent?" asked Ostap cheekily. "Is it long enough?" "Collect your things!" shouted the fat man. "What's the hurry?" "Collect your things! You're going to court! Our boss doesn't like to joke." "Throw him out!" came the peremptory voice from below. "But, seriously, don't you like our transparent? Isn't it really any good?" There was no point in continuing the game. The Scriabin had already heaved to, and the faces of the bewildered Vasyuki citizens crowding the pier could be seen from the ship. Payment was categorically refused. They were given five minutes to collect their things. "Incompetent fool," said Simbievich-Sindievich as the partners walked down on to the pier. "They should have given the transparent to me to do. I would have done it so that no Meyer-hold would have had a look-in!" On the quayside the concessionaires stopped and looked up. The transparent shone bright against the dark sky. "Hm, yes," said Ostap, "the transparent is rather outlandish. A lousy job!" Compared with Ostap's work, any picture drawn with the tail of an unruly donkey would have been a masterpiece. Instead of a sower sowing bonds, Ostap's mischievous hand had drawn a stumpy body with a sugar-loaf head and thin whiplike arms. Behind the concessionaires the ship blazed with light and resounded with music, while in front of them, on the high bank, was the darkness of provincial midnight, the barking of a dog, and a distant accordion. "I will sum up the situation," said Ostap light-heartedly. "Debit: not a cent of money; three chairs sailing down the river; nowhere to go; and no SPCC badge. Credit: a 1926 edition of a guidebook to the Volga (I was forced to borrow it from Monsieur Simbievich's cabin). To balance that without a deficit would be very difficult. We'll have to spend the night on the quay." The concessionaires arranged themselves on the riverside benches. By the light of a battered kerosene lamp Ostap read the guide-book: On the right-hand bank is the town of Vasyuki. The commodities despatched from here are timber, resin, bark and bast; consumer goods are delivered here for the region, which is fifty miles from the nearest railway. The town has a population of 8,000; it has a state-owned cardboard factory employing 520 workers, a small foundry, a brewery and a tannery. Besides normal academic establishments, there is also a forestry school. "The situation is more serious than I thought," observed Ostap. "It seems out of the question that we'll be able to squeeze any money out of the citizens of Vasyuki. We nevertheless need thirty roubles. First, we have to eat, and, second, we have to catch up the lottery ship and meet the Columbus Theatre in Stalingrad." Ippolit Matveyevich curled up like an old emaciated tomcat after a skirmish with a younger rival, an ebullient conqueror of roofs, penthouses and dormer windows. Ostap walked up and down the benches, thinking and scheming. By one o'clock a magnificent plan was ready. Bender lay down by the side of his partner and went to sleep. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR THE INTERPLANETARY CHESS TOURNAMENT A tall, thin, elderly man in a gold pince-nez and very dirty paint-splashed boots had been walking about the town of Vasyuki since early morning, attaching hand-written notices to walls. The notices read: On June 22,1927, a lecture entitled A FRUITFUL OPENING IDEA will be given at the Cardboardworker Club by Grossmeister (Grand Chess Master) O. Bender after which he will play A SIMULTANEOUS CHESS MATCH on 160 boards Admission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 kopeks Participation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 kopeks Commencement at 6 p.m. sharp Bring your own chessboards MANAGER : K. Michelson The Grossmeister had not been wasting his time, either. Having rented the club for three roubles, he hurried across to the chess section, which for some reason or other was located in the corridor of the horse-breeding administration. In the chess section sat a one-eyed man reading a Panteleyev edition of one of Spielhagen's novels. "Grossmeister O. Bender!" announced Bender, sitting down on the table. "I'm organizing a simultaneous chess match here." The Vasyuki chess player's one eye opened as wide as its natural limits would allow. "One second, Comrade Grossmeister," he cried. "Take a seat, won't you? I'll be back in a moment." And the one-eyed man disappeared. Ostap looked around the chess-section room. The walls were hung with photographs of racehorses; on the table lay a dusty register marked "Achievements of the Vasyuki Chess Section for 1925". The one-eyed man returned with a dozen citizens of varying ages. They all introduced themselves in turn and respectfully shook hands with the Grossmeister. "I'm on my way to Kazan," said Ostap abruptly. "Yes, yes, the match is this evening. Do come along. I'm sorry, I'm not in form at the moment. The Carlsbad tournament was tiring." The Vasyuki chess players listened to him with filial love in their eyes. Ostap was inspired, and felt a flood of new strength and chess ideas. "You wouldn't believe how far chess thinking has advanced," he said. "Lasker, you know, has gone as far as trickery. It's impossible to play him any more. He blows cigar smoke over his opponents and smokes cheap cigars so that the smoke will be fouler. The chess world is greatly concerned." The Grossmeister then turned to more local affairs. "Why aren't there any new ideas about in the province? Take, for instance, your chess section. That's what it's called-the chess section. That's boring, girls! Why don't you call it something else, in true chess style? It would attract the trade-union masses into the section. For example, you could call it The Four Knights Chess Club', or The Red End-game', or 'A Decline in the Standard of Play with a Gain in Pace'. That would be good. It has the right kind of sound." The idea was successful. "Indeed," exclaimed the citizens, "why shouldn't we rename our section The Four Knights Chess Club'?" Since the chess committee was there on the spot, Ostap organized a one-minute meeting under his honorary chairmanship, and the chess section was unanimously renamed The Four Knights Chess Club'. Benefiting from his lessons aboard the Scriabin, the Grossmeister artistically drew four knights and the appropriate caption on a sheet of cardboard. This important step promised the flowering of chess thought in Vasyuki. "Chess!" said Ostap. "Do you realize what chess is? It promotes the advance of culture and also the economy. Do you realize that The Four Knights Chess Club', given the right organization, could completely transform the town of Vasyuki?" Ostap had not eaten since the day before, which accounted for his unusual eloquence. "Yes," he cried, "chess enriches a country! If you agree to my plan, you'll soon be descending marble steps to the quay! Vasyuki will become the centre of ten provinces! What did you ever hear of the town of Semmering before? Nothing! But now that miserable little town is rich and famous just because an international tournament was held there. That's why I say you should organize an international chess tournament in Vasyuki." "How?" they all cried. "It's a perfectly practical plan," replied the Grossmeister. "My connections and your activity are all that are required for an international tournament in Vasyuki. Just think