how  fine that  would  sound-The  1927
International Tournament to be held in  Vasyuki!' Such players as Jose-Raoul
Capablanca,  Lasker,  Alekhine,  Reti, Rubinstein, Tarrasch, Widmar  and Dr.
Grigoryev are bound to come. What's more, I'll take part myself!"
     "But what about the money?" groaned  the citizens. "They would all have
to be paid. Many thousands of roubles! Where would we get it?"
     "A powerful hurricane takes everything into account,"  said Ostap. "The
money will come from collections."
     "And who do you think is going to pay that kind of money? The people of
Vasyuki?"
     "What do you mean, the people of Vasyuki? The people of Vasyuki are not
going to  pay money, they're going to receive it. It's all extremely simple.
After all, chess enthusiasts will come from all over the world  to attend  a
tournament   with   such   great  champions.   Hundreds  of   thousands   of
people-well-to-do  people-will  head  for  Vasyuki.  Naturally,  the   river
transport will not be able  to cope with such  a large number of passengers.
So the Ministry of Railways will  have  to build a main  line from Moscow to
Vasyuki. That's one thing.  Another is hotels and skyscrapers to accommodate
the  visitors.  The  third  thing is  improvement of the  agriculture over a
radius of five  hundred miles; the visitors  have to be provided with fruit,
vegetables,  caviar and chocolate. The building for the actual tournament is
the  next  thing.  Then  there's  construction  of garages  to  house  motor
transport  for the visitors. An extra-high power radio station will  have to
be built to broadcast the sensational  results of the tournament to the rest
of the world. Now about the Vasyuki railway. It most likely won't be able to
carry all the passengers wanting to come to Vasyuki, so we will have to have
a 'Greater Vasyuki' airport  with regular nights by mail planes and airships
to all parts of the globe, including Los Angeles and Melbourne."
     Dazzling  vistas  unfolded  before  the  Vasyuki chess enthusiasts. The
walls of the room melted away. The rotting walls of the stud-farm  collapsed
and in their  place  a thirty-storey building towered  into the  sky.  Every
hall,  every  room, and  even the lightning-fast  lifts  were full of people
thoughtfully playing chess on malachite encrusted boards.
     Marble  steps  led down to  the  blue Volga. Ocean-going  steamers were
moored on the river. Cablecars communicating with the town centre carried up
heavy-faced  foreigners,  chess-playing ladies, Australian advocates of  the
Indian  defence, Hindus in turbans, devotees of the Spanish gambit, Germans,
Frenchmen,  New Zealanders, inhabitants  of the  Amazon  basin,  and finally
Muscovites, citizens of Leningrad and Kiev, Siberians and natives of Odessa,
all envious of the citizens of Vasyuki.
     Lines  of  cars  moved  in  between the  marble hotels.  Then  suddenly
everything stopped. From out  of  the fashionable  Pass Pawn  Hotel came the
world champion Capablanca. He was surrounded by  women. A militiaman dressed
in  special chess uniform (check breeches and bishops in his lapels) saluted
smartly.  The  one-eyed president  of the  "Four  Knights  Club" of  Vasyuki
approached the champion in a dignified manner.
     The conversation  between the two luminaries, conducted in English, was
interrupted by  the arrival  by  air  of  Dr. Grigoryev and the future world
champion, Alekhine.
     Cries of  welcome shook the  town.  Capablanca glowered.  At a wave  of
one-eye's hand, a set of marble steps was run up to the plane. Dr. Grigoryev
came down,  waving his hat and commenting, as he went, on a possible mistake
by Capablanca in his forthcoming match with Alekhine.
     Suddenly a black dot was noticed on the horizon. It approached rapidly,
growing larger and  larger until  it  finally turned  into a  large  emerald
parachute. A man with an attache case  was hanging from  the harness, like a
huge radish.
     "Here he is!" shouted one-eye. "Hooray,  hooray, I recognize  the great
philosopher and chess player Dr. Lasker. He is the only person  in the world
who wears those green socks." Capablanca glowered again.
     The marble steps  were quickly  brought up for Lasker to alight on, and
the cheerful  ex-champion, blowing from his sleeve a speck of dust which had
settled on him over Silesia f ell into  the arms of  one-eye. The latter put
his arm around Lasker's waist and walked him over to the champion, saying:
     "Make up your quarrel!  On  behalf of the  popular masses of Vasyuki, I
urge you to make up your quarrel."
     Capablanca sighed loudly and, shaking hands with the veteran,  said: "I
always admired your idea of moving QK5 to QB3 in the Spanish gambit."
     "Hooray!"  exclaimed one-eye. "Simple and convincing in the style of  a
champion."
     And the incredible crowd joined in with: "Hooray! Vivat! Banzai! Simple
and convincing in the style of a champion!"
     Express trains sped into the twelve  Vasyuki stations,  depositing ever
greater crowds of chess enthusiasts.
     Hardly had the sky begun to glow from the brightly lit  advertisements,
when a white horse was led  through the streets of the town. It was the only
horse  left after the mechanization of the town's transportation. By special
decree it had been renamed a  stallion, although it had actually been a mare
the whole of its life. The lovers of chess acclaimed it with palm leaves and
chessboards.
     "Don't worry,"  continued Ostap,  "my scheme will guarantee the town an
unprecedented  boom in your production forces. Just  think what will  happen
when  the tournament  is over and the  visitors  have  left. The citizens of
Moscow,  crowded  together  on account of  the  housing shortage, will  come
flocking  to  your   beautiful  town.  The  capital  will  be  automatically
transferred  to  Vasyuki. The  government  will move here.  Vasyuki  will be
renamed  New  Moscow, and  Moscow  will become  Old  Vasyuki. The  people of
Leningrad and Kharkov will gnash their teeth in fury but won't be able to do
a  thing about  it.  New Moscow  will  soon become the  most elegant city in
Europe and, soon afterwards, in the whole world."
     "The whole world!! I" gasped the citizens of Vasyuki in a daze.
     "Yes, and, later on, in the universe. Chess thinking-which has turned a
regional centre into the capital of the world-will become an applied science
and will invent ways of  interplanetary communication. Signals  will be sent
from Vasyuki to Mars, Jupiter and Neptune. Communications with Venus will be
as easy as going  from Rybinsk  to Yaroslavl.  And then  who  knows what may
happen? In maybe eight or so years the first interplanetary chess tournament
in the history of the world will be held in Vasyuki."
     Ostap wiped his noble brow.  He  was  so hungry he  could have eaten  a
roasted knight from the chessboard.
     "Ye-es,"  said the one-eyed man with  a sigh, looking  around the dusty
room with an insane light in  his eye, "but how are we to  put the plan into
effect, to lay the basis, so to say?"
     They all looked at the Grossmelster tensely.
     "As I say, in practice the plan depends entirely  on  your activity.  I
will do all  the  organizing myself. There will be no actual expense, except
for the cost of the telegrams."
     One-eyed nudged his companions. "Well?" he asked, "what do you say?"
     "Let's do it, let's do it!" cried the citizens.
     "How much money is needed for the . . . er . . . telegrams?"
     "A mere bagatelle. A hundred roubles."
     "We  only  have twenty-one roubles  in  the  cash box. We  realize,  of
course, that it is by no means enough . . ."
     But the Grossmeister proved to  be accommodating. "All right," he said,
"give me the twenty roubles."
     "Will it be enough?" asked one-eye.
     "It'll  be enough  for the  initial telegrams. Later  on  we can  start
collecting contributions. Then there'll be so much money we shan't know what
to do with it."
     Putting  the money away in  his  green field  jacket, the  Grossmeister
reminded the gathered citizens of his lecture  and simultaneous match on one
hundred  and sixty boards, and, taking leave of them until evening, made his
way to the Cardboard-worker Club to find Ippolit Matveyevich.
     "I'm starving," said Vorobyaninov in a tremulous voice.
     He was  already sitting  at the window of the box office, but  had  not
collected one kopek; he could not even buy a hunk of bread. In  front of him
lay a green wire basket intended for the money. It was the kind that is used
in middle-class houses to hold the cutlery.
     "Listen, Vorobyaninov," said Ostap, "stop your cash transactions for an
hour and  come and  eat  at  the  caterers' union canteen. I'll describe the
situation as we go. By the way, you need a shave and brush-up. You look like
a tramp. A Grossmeister cannot have such suspicious-looking associates."
     "I haven't sold a single ticket," Ippolit Matveyevich informed him.
     "Don't worry. People will  come  flocking  in towards evening. The town
has  already  contributed  twenty  roubles  for   the   organization  of  an
international chess tournament."
     "Then why bother about the simultaneous match?" whispered his  manager.
"You may lose the games anyway. With twenty roubles we can  now  buy tickets
for  the  ship-the  Karl  Liebknecht  has just  come  in-travel  quietly  to
Stalingrad and  wait for  the  theatre  to arrive. We can probably  open the
chairs there. Then we'll be rich and the world will belong to us."
     "You shouldn't say such silly things on an empty stomach. It has a  bad
effect on the brain. We might  reach Stalingrad on twenty  roubles, but what
are we going  to eat with?  Vitamins, my dear comrade marshal, are not given
away  free. On the other hand, we can get  thirty roubles  out of the locals
for the lecture and match."
     "They'll slaughter us!" said Vorobyaninov.
     "It's a risk, certainly. We may be manhandled a bit. But anyway, I have
a nice little plan which will save you, at least. But we can talk about that
later on. Meanwhile, let's go and try the local dishes."
     Towards six  o'clock  the  Grossmeister,  replete,  freshly shaven, and
smelling of  eau-de-Cologne, went into the box office of the Cardboardworker
Club.
     Vorobyaninov, also freshly shaven, was busily selling tickets.
     "How's it going? " asked the Grossmeister quietly.
     "Thirty have gone  in and  twenty  have  paid  to  play," answered  his
manager.
     "Sixteen roubles. That's bad, that's bad!" -
     "What do you mean, Bender?  Just look  at the number of people standing
in line. They're bound to beat us up."
     "Don't think about it. When they hit you, you can cry. In the meantime,
don't dally. Learn to do business."
     An  hour  later  there  were thirty-five roubles  in  the cash box. The
people in the clubroom were getting restless.
     "Close  the window and  give me the  money!" said Bender.  "Now listen!
Here's five roubles. Go down to the quay, hire a boat for a couple of hours,
and wait for me by the riverside just below  the warehouse. We're going  for
an evening boat trip. Don't worry about me. I'm in good form today."
     The Grossmeister entered the clubroom. He felt in good spirits and knew
for certain that the first  move-pawn  to  king four-would not cause him any
complications. The remaining  moves were, admittedly,  rather  more obscure,
but that did not disturb the smooth operator in the least. He had worked out
a surprise plan to extract him from the most hopeless game.
     The Grossmeister was greeted  with  applause.  The small  club-room was
decorated with  coloured flags left over from an  evening held a week before
by  the lifeguard rescue service. This  was  clear,  furthermore,  from  the
slogan on the wall:

        ASSISTANCE TO DROWNING PERSONS IS
     IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES

     Ostap bowed, stretched  out his hands as though  restraining the public
from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.
     "Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice:
"the  subject  of  my lecture  today is  one on which  I spoke, not  without
certain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago. The subject of my
lecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.
     "What,  Comrades,  is  an opening? And  what,  Comrades, is an idea? An
opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia. And what, Comrades, is an idea? An
idea,  Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form. Even with
insignificant forces  you  can master  the whole of  the chessboard.  It all
depends on each  separate individual.  Take,  for example,  the  fair-haired
young man sitting in the third  row. Let's assume he plays well. .  . ." The
fair-haired young man turned red.
     "And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play
very well."
     Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow.
     "What do  we see, Comrades?  We see  that the fair-haired fellow  plays
well and  that the other one  plays badly. And no  amount  of lecturing  can
change  this correlation of  forces  unless each  separate  individual keeps
practising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell you
some  instructive stories  about  our esteemed ultramodernists,  Capablanca,
Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."
     Ostap  told  the  audience  a  few  antiquated  anecdotes,  gleaned  in
childhood  from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first  half of the
evening.
     The brevity  of  the lecture caused certain surprise. The  one-eyed man
was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.
     The beginning of  the  simultaneous chess  match,  however, allayed the
one-eyed chess player's growing  suspicions. Together  with the rest, he set
up the tables along three sides of the room. Thirty enthusiasts in  all took
their  places  to play  the  Grossmeister. Many  of  them  were  in complete
confusion  and kept glancing at books on chess to refresh their knowledge of
complicated variations, with the  help  of which they hoped  not to have  to
resign before the twenty-second move, at least.
     Ostap ran his eyes along  the line of black chessmen surrounding him on
three sides,  looked at the door, and then began the game. He went up to the
one-eyed man, who was sitting at the first  board, and moved the king's pawn
forward two squares.
     One-eye immediately seized hold of his ears and began thinking hard.
     A whisper  passed  along the  line of players.  "The  Grossmeister  has
played pawn to king four."
     Ostap  did not pamper his opponents with a  variety of openings. On the
remaining twenty-nine boards he  made  the same  move-pawn to king four. One
after another the enthusiasts seized their heads and  launched into feverish
discussions. Those who were not playing followed the Grossmeister with their
eyes. The only amateur photographer in the town was about to clamber on to a
chair and light  his magnesium  flare when Ostap waved his arms angrily and,
breaking off his drift along the boards, shouted loudly:
     "Remove the photographer! He is disturbing my chess thought!"
     What  would  be the point of  leaving a photograph of  myself  in  this
miserable  town, thought Ostap to himself. I don't much like having dealings
with the militia.
     Indignant  hissing  from  the  enthusiasts  forced the  photographer to
abandon  his attempt. In  fact, their annoyance was  so  great  that he  was
actually put outside the, door.
     At  the  third  move  it  became  clear  that  in  eighteen  games  the
Grossmeister  was playing  a Spanish gambit. In the other twelve the  blacks
played the old-fashioned, though fairly reliable, Philidor defence. If Ostap
had  known  he was  using such cunning gambits  and countering  such  tested
defences,  he would  have been most surprised.  The  truth of the matter was
that he was playing chess for the second time in his life.
     At  first  the  enthusiasts,  and  first  and  foremost  one-eye,  were
terrified at the Grossmeister's obvious craftiness.
     With   singular   ease,  and  no  doubt  scoffing  to  himself  at  the
backwardness of the  Vasyuki enthusiasts, the Grossmeister sacrificed  pawns
and  other  pieces  left  and  right.  He even  sacrificed his queen  to the
brown-haired fellow  whose skill had  been so belittled during  the lecture.
The man was horrified and  about to resign; it was only by a terrific effort
of will that he was able to continue.
     The  storm  broke  about  five   minutes  later.  "Mate!"  babbled  the
brown-haired  fellow, terrified out of his wits. "You're checkmate,  Comrade
Grossmeister!'
     Ostap analysed the  situation, shamefully called a rook  a "castle" and
pompously  congratulated the fellow on his win.  A hum  broke out  among the
enthusiasts.
     Time to push off, thought Ostap, serenely wandering  up  and  down  the
rows of tables and casually moving pieces about.
     "You've  moved the knight wrong, Comrade  Grossmeister,"  said one-eye,
cringing. "A knight doesn't go like that."
     "So  sorry,"  said  the  Grossmeister,  "I'm  rather  tired  after  the
lecture."
     During the next ten minutes the Grossmeister lost a further ten games.
     Cries  of  surprise  echoed  through  the   Cardboardworker  club-room.
Conflict was near. Ostap lost fifteen  games in succession, and then another
three.
     Only one-eye was left. At the beginning of the game he had made a large
number of mistakes  from nervousness and was only now bringing the game to a
victorious conclusion. Unnoticed  by  those around, Ostap  removed the black
rook from the board and hid it in his pocket.
     A crowd of people pressed tightly around the players.
     "I had a rook on  this  square a moment ago,"  cried  one-eye,  looking
round, "and now it's gone!"
     "If  it's not there now, it wasn't there  at all,"  said  Ostap, rather
rudely.
     "Of course it was. I remember it distinctly!"
     "Of course it wasn't!"
     "Where's it gone, then? Did you take it?"
     "Yes, I took it."
     "At which move?"
     "Don't try to confuse me  with your  rook.  If  you want to resign, say
so!"
     "Wait a moment, Comrades, I have all the moves written down."
     "Written down my foot!"
     "This is disgraceful!" yelled one-eye. "Give me back the rook!"
     "Come on, resign, and stop this fooling about."
     "Give me back my rook!"
     At this point  the Grossmeister, realizing that procrastination was the
thief of  time, seized a handful of chessmen and  threw them in his one-eyed
opponent's face.
     "Comrades!"  shrieked   one-eye.   "Look,  everyone,  he's  hitting  an
amateur!"
     The chess players of Vasyuki were aghast.
     Without wasting  valuable time,  Ostap hurled  a chessboard at the lamp
and, hitting out at jaws and faces in the ensuing darkness, ran out into the
street. The Vasyuki chess enthusiasts,  falling over each other, tore  after
him.
     It was a moonlit  evening.  Ostap  bounded along the silvery street  as
lightly  as an angel  repelled  from  the sinful  earth.  On account  of the
interrupted transformation of Vasyuki into the centre  of the world, it  was
not between  palaces that Ostap had  to run, but wooden houses  with outside
shutters.
     The chess enthusiasts raced along behind.
     "Catch the Grossmeister!" howled one-eye.
     "Twister!" added the others.
     "Jerks!" snapped back the Grossmeister, increasing his speed.
     "Stop him!" cried the outraged chess players.
     Ostap began  running  down the steps  leading down to  the quay. He had
four  hundred steps to go. Two enthusiasts, who had  taken a short cut  down
the hillside, were waiting for him at the bottom of the sixth  flight. Ostap
looked  over his shoulder. The advocates of Philidor's  defence were pouring
down the steps like a pack of wolves. There  was no  way back, so he kept on
going.
     "Just wait till I  get you, you  bastards!" he shouted at  the  two-man
advance party, hurtling down from the sixth flight.
     The frightened troopers gasped,  fell over  the balustrade, and  rolled
down into the darkness of mounds and slopes. The path was clear.
     "Stop the Grossmeister !" echoed shouts from above.
     The pursuers clattered down the wooden steps with  a noise like falling
skittle balls.
     Reaching  the river  bank, Ostap  made to the right, searching with his
eyes for the boat containing his faithful manager.
     Ippolit Matveyevich  was  sitting serenely in the  boat.  Ostap dropped
heavily into a seat and began rowing for all he was worth. A minute  later a
shower of stones  flew in  the direction  of the boat,  one of  them hitting
Ippolit Matveyevich. A yellow bruise appeared  on the side  of his face just
above  the  volcanic pimple.  Ippolit Matveyevich hunched his shoulders  and
began whimpering.
     "You are a softie! They practically lynched me, but I'm still happy and
cheerful.  And if you  take the  fifty roubles net profit  into account, one
bump on the head isn't such an unreasonable price to pay."
     In the meantime, the  pursuers, who had only just  realized that  their
plans  to  turn  Vasyuki  into   New  Moscow  had  collapsed  and  that  the
Grossmeister was absconding with fifty vital Vasyukian roubles, piled into a
barge and, with  loud shouts, rowed out  into midstream. Thirty people  were
crammed into the boat, all of  whom were  anxious to take a personal part in
settling  the score with the Grossmeister. The  expedition was  commanded by
one-eye, whose single peeper shone in the night like a lighthouse.
     "Stop the Grossmeister!" came shouts from the overloaded barge.
     "We must step on it, Pussy!" said  Ostap. "If they catch up  with us, I
won't be responsible for the state of your pince-nez."
     Both boats were moving downstream. The gap  between them was narrowing.
Ostap was going all out.
     "You won't escape, you rats!" people were shouting from the barge.
     Ostap had no time to answer. His oars flashed in and out of  the water,
churning it up so that it came down in floods in the boat.
     Keep going! whispered Ostap to himself.
     Ippolit Matveyevich had  given up hope. The larger boat was  gaining on
them and its long  hull was already flanking  them to port in an attempt  to
force  the  Grossmeister  over  to  the  bank.  A  sorry  fate  awaited  the
concessionaires.  The  jubilance of the chess  players in the  barge  was so
great that they all moved across to the sides to  be in a better position to
attack the villainous  Grossmeister in superior  forces as soon as they drew
alongside the smaller boat.
     "Watch  out  for  your  pince-nez,  Pussy," shouted  Ostap  in despair,
throwing aside the oars. "The fun is about to begin."
     "Gentlemen!"  cried  Ippolit  Matveyevich  in  a  croaking voice,  "you
wouldn't hit us, would you? "
     "You'll see!" roared the enthusiasts, getting  ready  to leap  into the
boat.
     But  at that  moment  something  happened which will outrage all honest
chess players throughout the world. The barge  listed  heavily  and  took in
water on the starboard side.
     "Careful!" squealed the one-eyed captain.
     But it was too late. There were too many enthusiasts on one side of the
Vasyuki dreadnought.  As the  centre of  gravity shifted, the  boat  stopped
rocking, and, in full conformity with the laws of physics, capsized.
     A concerted wailing disturbed the tranquillity of the river.
     "Ooooooh!" groaned the chess players.
     All thirty  enthusiasts disappeared  under the water. They quickly came
up one by  one and seized hold of the upturned boat. The last to surface was
one-eye.
     "You jerks!" cried Ostap in  delight. "Why  don't you come and get your
Grossmeister? If I'm not mistaken, you intended to trounce me, didn't you? "
     Ostap made a circle around the shipwrecked mariners.
     "You realize, individuals of Vasyuki, that I could drown you all one by
one, don't you? But I'm going to spare your lives.
     Live on, citizens! Only  don't  play chess  any more, for  God's  sake.
You're just no good at it, you  jerks! Come  on, Ippolit  Matveyevich, let's
go. Good-bye, you one-eyed amateurs! I'm afraid Vasyuki will never become  a
world centre. I doubt whether the  masters of chess  would  ever visit fools
like you, even if I asked them to.  Good-bye,  lovers of chess thrills! Long
live the 'Four Knights Chess Club'!"



        CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

        ET ALIA

     Morning  found  the concessionaires  in sight of  Chebokary. Ostap  was
dozing at  the  rudder  while Ippolit Matveyevich  sleepily  moved the  oars
through the  water. Both were  shivering from the chilliness of  the  night.
Pink buds  blossomed in the east. Ippolit Matveyevich's pince-nez was all of
a glitter. The oval lenses caught  the  light and  alternately reflected one
bank  and then the other. A signal beacon from the left bank arched  in  the
biconcave glass.  The blue domes  of Chebokary sailed  past like  ships. The
garden in the east grew larger, and the buds changed into volcanoes, pouring
out  lava of the best sweetshop colours.  Birds on the  bank were  causing a
noisy  scene. The  gold  nosepiece of the pince-nez flashed and  dazzled the
Grossmeister. The  sun  rose. Ostap opened  his eyes  and stretched himself,
tilting the boat and cracking his joints.
     "Good morning,  Pussy," he  said, suppressing a yawn. "I come  to bring
greetings and to tell you the sun  is up and is  making something over there
glitter with  a  bright, burning light. . ."  "The  pier.  .  . ."  reported
Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap took out the guide-book and  consulted  it. "From
all  accounts it's  Chebokary. I see: 'Let  us note the pleasantly  situated
town  of Chebokary.' "Do you really think it's pleasantly  situated,  Pussy?
'At the present time Chebokary  has 7,702 inhabitants' "Pussy! Let's give up
our hunt for the jewels and increase the population to 7,704. What about it?
It would be  very effective.  We'll open a 'Petits Chevaux' gaming-house and
from the 'Petits Chevaux' we'll have une grande income. Anyway, to continue:
     'Founded  in  1555,  the  town  has  preserved  some  very  interesting
churches. Besides the administrative institutions  of  the Chuvash Republic,
Chebokary also has a workers' school, a Party school, a teachers' institute,
two middle-grade  schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. On
the quayside  and in  the bazaar it is possible  to see Chuvash and Cheremis
nationals, distinguishable by their dress. . . .'"
     But before the friends were able to reach  the quay, where  the Chuvash
and Cheremis nationals were to be  seen, their  attention  was caught by  an
object floating downstream ahead of the boat.
     "The chair!" cried Ostap. "Manager! It's our chair!"
     The  partners rowed  over to the  chair. It  bobbed up and down, turned
over, went  under,  and came  up farther away from the  boat.  Water  poured
freely into its slashed belly.
     It was the chair opened aboard  the  Scriabin, and  it was now floating
slowly towards the Caspian Sea.
     "Hi  there,  friend!"  called  Ostap.  "Long  time  no  see. You  know,
Vorobyaninov, that chair reminds me of our  life. We're  also  floating with
the  tide. People push us under and we  come up  again, although they aren't
too pleased about it. No one likes us, except for the criminal investigation
department,  which doesn't  like us, either. Nobody has any time for us.  If
the chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, the only thing left
of us would have been the coroner's report. 'Both bodies lay with their feet
to  the south-east  and their  heads  to the  north-west. There  were jagged
wounds  in  the  bodies,  apparently inflicted  by a  blunt instrument.' The
enthusiasts  would  have  beaten  us  with chessboards,  I  imagine.  That's
certainly a  blunt  instrument. The  first body belonged  to a man  of about
fifty-five, dressed in a torn silk  jacket, old trousers,  and old boots. In
the jacket  pocket  was  an identification  card  bearing  the  name  Konrad
Karlovich Michelson  . ..'  That's what they would have  written about  you,
Pussy."
     "And what would they have written about you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich
irritably.
     "Ah! They would have written  something  quite different  about  me. It
would have gone like  this:  'The second corpse belonged to a  man of  about
twenty-seven years  of  age.  He  loved  and suffered.  He  loved  money and
suffered from a lack of it. His head  with its  high  forehead fringed  with
raven-black  curls  was  turned  towards the  sun. His  elegant  feet,  size
forty-two boots, were  pointing  towards the northern  lights. The body  was
dressed in  immaculate white clothes,  and on  the breast  was  a  gold harp
encrusted with mother-of-pearl, bearing the words of the song "Farewell, New
Village!" The deceased youth engaged in poker-work, which was clear from the
permit  No.  86/1562,  issued   on  8/23/24   by   the  Pegasus-and-Parnasus
craftsmen's  artel, found  in the pocket of  his tails.' And they would have
buried  me, Pussy, with  pomp  and circumstance,  speeches,  a  band, and my
grave-stone  would   have  had  the  inscription  'Here  lies  the   unknown
central-heating engineer and  conqueror,  Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria Bender
Bey, whose  father,  a  Turkish  citizen,  died  without  leaving  his  son,
Ostap-Suleiman, a cent. The deceased's  mother was a countess of independent
means."
     Conversing along  these  lines, the  concessionaires nosed their way to
the bank.
     That evening, having increased their capital by  five  roubles from the
sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends  went  aboard  the diesel ship Uritsky
and sailed for Stalingrad,  hoping  to overtake the slow-moving lottery ship
and meet the Columbus Theatre troupe in Stalingrad.
     The Scriabin reached Stalingrad  at the beginning  of July. The friends
met it, hiding behind crates on the quayside.  Before the ship was unloaded,
a lottery was held aboard and some big prizes were won.
     They had to wait four hours  for the chairs. First to  come  ashore was
the theatre group and then  the lottery employees. Persidsky's shining  face
stood  out among  them. As they lay in wait, the concessionaires could  hear
him shouting:
     "Yes,  I'll  come to  Moscow immediately. I've already sent a telegram.
And do you know  which one? 'Celebrating with you.' Let them guess who  it's
from."
     Then  Persidsky  got  into  a  hired  car,  having  first  inspected it
thoroughly,  and  drove  off,  accompanied  for  some  reason by  shouts  of
"Hooray!"
     As soon as  the hydraulic press had been unloaded,  the  scenic effects
were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen  by the  time they unloaded
the chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse  carts and, gaily shouting,
went straight to the station.
     "I  don't think  they're  going  to play in  Stalingrad," said  Ippolit
Matveyevich.
     Ostap was in a quandary.
     "We'll have to travel with them,"  he decided.  "But where's the money?
Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."
     At the station it turned out that the  theatre  was going to Pyatigorsk
via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.
     "Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.
     "I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly.
     "Damn you! Better  not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll
do the bilking."
     Ippolit  Matveyevich was bought a  ticket in an  upholstered  coach and
with it  travelled  to  the  station Mineral Waters  on  the North  Caucasus
Railway.  Keeping  out  of sight  of the  troupe  alighting  at  the station
(decorated with oleander  shrubs in  green tubs), the former marshal went to
look for Ostap.
     Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line
coaches, Ostap was  still not to be seen. He finally arrived in  the evening
and found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.
     "Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?"
     "You  were in a state,  and you  had a  ticket in your  pocket!  And  I
wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of  the last coach of your
train?  Who  spent three hours  waiting like an idiot for a goods train with
empty mineral-water bottles?  You're  a swine, citizen marshal! Where's  the
theatre? "
     "In Pyatigorsk."
     "Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is
three roubles. It  isn't much, of course, but  enough for the first purchase
of mineral water and railway tickets."
     Creaking like a cart, the train left for  Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes
later,  passing Zmeika and  Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the foot
of Mashuk.


        CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

        A VIEW OF THE MALACHITE PUDDLE

     It  was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and  washed.  Even Mashuk,
overgrown with shrubbery and small clumps of trees, was carefully combed and
exuded a smell of toilet water.
     White trousers of the most  varied  types flashed up and down  the  toy
platform: there  were trousers  made of twill, moleskin, calamanco, duck and
soft  flannel.  People were walking about  in sandals  and Apache shirts. In
their  heavy,  dirty boots,  heavy dusty  trousers,  heated  waistcoats  and
scorching jackets, the  concessionaires  felt very  out of place. Among  the
great variety of  gaily coloured  cottons in which  the girls  of the resort
were parading themselves,  the brightest and most elegant was the uniform of
the stationmaster.
     To the surprise of all newcomers, the stationmaster was a woman. Auburn
curls peeped  from  under her  red peaked cap with  its two lines of  silver
braid around the band. She wore a white tunic and a white skirt.
     As soon  as the travellers had  had a  good look at the station-master,
had  read the freshly pasted  notices  advertising  the tour of the Columbus
Theatre and drunk two five-kopek glasses of mineral  water, they  went  into
the town on the Station-Flower Garden  tram  route.  They were  charged  ten
kopeks to go into the Flower Garden.
     In the Flower Garden there was a great deal of music, a large number of
happy people,  and  very  few  flowers.  A  symphony orchestra  in  a  white
shell-like construction was playing the "Dance of the Gnats"; narzan mineral
water  was  on sale in the  Lermontov gallery, and was also obtainable  from
kiosks and vendors walking around.
     No one had time for the two grimy jewel-hunters.
     "My, Pussy," said Ostap, "we're out of place in all this festivity."
     The  concessionaires spent their  first night at  the spa  by a  narzan
spring.
     It  was only  there, in  Pyatigorsk,  when  the  Columbus  Theatre  had
performed  their  version  of  The Marriage  to  an  audience  of  astounded
town-dwellers  for the  third  time,  that the  partners  realized the  real
difficulties  involved  in their treasure hunt. To  find their way  into the
theatre as  they  had  planned proved  impossible.  Galkin,  Palkin, Malkin,
Chalkin  and  Zalkind  slept  in  the wings,  since  their  modest  earnings
prevented them from living in a hotel.
     The days passed, and the friends were slowly reaching the end of  their
tether,  spending  their  nights  'at  the  site  of  Lermontov's  duel  and
subsisting by carrying the baggage of peasant tourists.
     On  the  sixth  day Ostap  managed to  strike up an  acquaintance  with
Mechnikov,  the  fitter in  charge  of  the  hydraulic  press. By this time,
Mechnikov, who had no money and was forced to get rid of his daily hang-over
by drinking mineral water, was in a terrible state and had  been observed by
Ostap to sell  some of the theatre props at the market. Final  agreement was
reached during  the morning libation by a spring.  The fitter  called  Ostap
"Palsie" and seemed about to consent.
     "That's possible," he  said.  "That's  always possible, palsie. It's my
pleasure, palsie."
     Ostap realized at once that the fitter knew his stuff.
     The contracting  parties  looked  one another  in  the  eye,  embraced,
slapped each other's backs and laughed politely.
     "Well," said Ostap, "ten for the whole deal."
     "Palsie!" exclaimed  the astonished  fitter, "don't  make me mad. I'm a
man who's suffering from the narzan."
     "How much do you want then?"
     "Make  it  fifty. After all, it's government  property. I'm a man who's
suffering."
     "All right, accept twenty. Agreed? I see from your eyes you agree."
     "Agreement is the result of complete non-objection on both sides."
     "There are no  flies  on this one,"  whispered  Ostap to  Vorobyaninov.
"Take a lesson."
     "When will you bring the chairs?"
     "You'll get the chairs when I get the money."
     "That's fine," said Ostap without thinking.
     "Money in advance," declared the fitter. "The money in the morning, the
chairs in the evening; or, the money  in  the evening,  the chairs the  next
morning."
     "What about the chairs this morning, the money tomorrow evening," tried
Ostap.
     "Palsie, I'm a man who's suffering. Such terms are revolting."
     "But  the  point  is,  I  won't receive  my  money  by telegraph  until
tomorrow," said Ostap.
     "Then  we'll  discuss the  matter tomorrow,"  concluded  the  obstinate
fitter.  "And in the  meantime, palsie, have a nice  time at the spring. I'm
off. Simbievich has me by the throat. I've no strength left. Can  you expect
a man to thrive on mineral water?"
     And resplendent in the sunlight, Mechnikov went off.
     Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich.
     "The time  we  have," he said, "is  the money we don't have.  Pussy, we
must decide  on a career. A hundred and  fifty  thousand  roubles, zero zero
kopeks awaits  us. We only need twenty  roubles for the treasure to be ours.
We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."
     Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully.
     "OS with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy."
     He  took the  jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov,  threw it  on the
ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.
     "What  are  you  doing?"  howled Vorobyaninov. "I've  been wearing that
jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."
     "Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your  hat. Now,  sprinkle
your trousers with  dust  and  pour  some mineral  water over them. Be quick
about it."
     In  a  few  moments  Ippolit  Matveyevich  was  dirty  to  the point of
revulsion.
     "Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money."
     "What  am I supposed to do?" asked  Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully. "You
know French, I hope? "
     "Not very well. What I learned at school." "Hm . . . then we'll have to
operate with what you learned at school. Can you say  in French, 'Gentleman,
I haven't eaten for six days'?"
     "M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . .
je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do you
say 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,  six.  It's: 'Je  ne mange pas six
jours' "
     "What an accent,  Pussy! Anyway, what do you expect from  a  beggar. Of
course a  beggar  in  European  Russia  wouldn't  speak  French as  well  as
Milerand. Right, pussy, and how much German do you know?"
     "Why  all this?"  exclaimed Ippolit  Matveyevich. "Because," said Ostap
weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're  going to stand in
the shade and beg for alms in French,  German  and Russian,  emphasizing the
fact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. The
net profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"
     Ippolit  Matveyevich was transfigured.  His chest  swelled  up like the
Palace  bridge  in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire,  and his nose seemed to
Ostap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.
     "Dear  me," said the smooth operator, not  in  the least alarmed. "Just
look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."
     "Never,"  suddenly  said Ippolit  Matveyevich, "never has  Vorobyaninov
held out his hand."
     "Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap.
"So you've never held out your hand?"
     "No, I have not."
     "Spoken  like a true  gigolo. You've been living  off me for  the  last
three months. For three months I've been providing  you  with food and drink
and educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position and
say . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you  go right
away  to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by