Читать книгу The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Илья Ильф, Саша Бло - Страница 9

The Assistant Warden of the Second Home of Stargorod Social Security Administration was a shy little thief. His whole being protested against stealing, yet it was impossible for him not to steal. He stole and was ashamed of himself. He stole constantly and was constantly ashamed of himself, which was why his smoothly shaven cheeks always burned with a blush of confusion, shame, bashfulness and embarrassment. The assistant warden's name was Alexander Yakovlevich, and his wife's name was Alexandra Yakovlevna. He used to call her Sashchen, and she used to call him Alchen. The world has never seen such a bashful chiseller as Alexander Yakovlevich.

He was not only the assistant warden, but also the chief warden. The previous one had been dismissed for rudeness to the inmates, and had been appointed conductor of a symphony orchestra. Alchen was completely different from his ill-bred boss. Under the system of fuller workdays, he took upon himself the running of the home, treating the pensioners with marked courtesy, and introducing important reforms and innovations.

Ostap Bender pulled the heavy oak door of the Vorobyaninov home and found himself in the hall. There was a smell of burnt porridge. From the upstairs rooms came the confused sound of voices, like a distant «hooray» from a line of troops. There was no one about and no one appeared. An oak staircase with two flights of once-lacquered stairs led upward. Only the rings were now left; there was no sign of the stair rods that had once held the carpet in place.

«The Comanche chief lived in vulgar luxury», thought Ostap as he went upstairs.

In the first room, which was spacious and light, fifteen or so old women in dresses made of the cheapest mouse-grey woollen cloth were sitting in a circle.

Craning their necks and keeping their eyes on a healthy-looking man in the middle, the old women were singing:

The choirmaster, wearing a shirt and trousers of the same mouse-grey material, was beating time with both hands and, turning from side to side, kept shouting:

«Descants, softer! Kokushkin, not so loud!»

He caught sight of Ostap, but unable to restrain the movement of his hands, merely glanced at the newcomer and continued conducting. The choir increased its volume with an effort, as though singing through a pillow.

«Can you tell me where I can find the assistant warden?» asked Ostap, breaking into the first pause.

«What do you want, Comrade?»

Ostap shook the conductor's hand and inquired amiably: «National folk-songs? Very interesting! I'm the fire inspector».

The assistant warden looked ashamed.

«Yes, yes», he said, with embarrassment. «Very opportune. I was actually going to write you a report».

«There's nothing to worry about», said Ostap magnanimously. «I'll write the report myself. Let's take a look at the premises».

Alchen dismissed the choir with a wave of his hand, and the old women made off with little steps of delight.

«Come this way», invited the assistant warden.

Before going any further, Ostap scrutinized the furniture in the first room. It consisted of a table, two garden benches with iron legs (one of them had the name «Nicky» carved on the back), and a light-brown harmonium.

«Do they use primus stoves or anything of that kind in this room?»

«No, no. This is where our recreational activities are held. We have a choir, and drama, painting, drawing, and music circles».

When he reached the word «music» Alexander Yakovlevich blushed. First his chin turned red, then his forehead and cheeks. Alchen felt very ashamed. He had sold all the instruments belonging to the wind section a long time before. The feeble lungs of the old women had never produced anything more than a puppy-like squeak from them, anyway. It was ridiculous to see such a mass of metal in so helpless a condition. Alchen had not been able to resist selling the wind section, and now he felt very guilty.

A slogan written in large letters on a piece of the same mouse-grey woollen cloth spanned the wall between the windows. It said:

A BRASS BAND IS THE PATH TO COLLECTIVE CREATIVITY

«Very good», said Ostap. «This recreation room does not constitute a fire hazard. Let's go on».

Passing through the front rooms of Vorobyaninov's house, Ostap could see no sign of a walnut chair with curved legs and English chintz upholstery. The iron-smooth walls were plastered with directives issued to the Second Home. Ostap read them and, from time to time, asked enthusiastically:

«Are the chimneys swept regularly? Are the stoves working properly?»

And, receiving exhaustive answers, moved on.

The fire inspector made a diligent search for at least one corner of the house which might constitute a fire hazard, but in that respect everything seemed to be in order. His second quest, however, was less successful. Ostap went into the dormitories. As he appeared, the old women stood up and bowed low. The rooms contained beds covered with blankets, as hairy as a dog's coat, with the word «Feet» woven at one end. Below the beds were trunks, which at the initiative of Alexander Yakovlevich, who liked to do things in a military fashion, projected exactly one-third of their length.

Everything in the Home was marked by its extreme modesty; the furniture that consisted solely of garden benches taken from Alexander Boulevard (now renamed in honour of the Proletarian Voluntary Saturdays), the paraffin lamps bought at the local market, and the very blankets with that frightening word, «Feet». One feature of the house, however, had been made to last and was developed on a grand scale-to wit, the door springs.

Door springs were Alexander Yakovlevich's passion. Sparing no effort, he fitted all the doors in the house with springs of different types and systems. There were very simple ones in the form of an iron rod; compressed-air ones with cylindrical brass pistons; there were ones with pulleys that raised and lowered heavy bags of shot. There were springs which were so complex in design that the local mechanic could only shake his head in wonder. And all the cylinders, springs and counterweights were very powerful, slamming doors shut with the swiftness of a mousetrap. Whenever the mechanisms operated, the whole house shook. With pitiful squeals, the old women tried to escape the onslaught of the doors, but not always with success. The doors gave the fugitives a thump in the back, and at the same time, a counterweight shot past their ears with a dull rasping sound.

As Bender and the assistant warden walked around the house, the doors fired a noisy salute.

But the feudal magnificence had nothing to hide: the chair was not there. As the search progressed, the fire inspector found himself in the kitchen. Porridge was cooking in a large copper pot and gave off the smell that the smooth operator had noticed in the hall. Ostap wrinkled his nose and said: «What is it cooking in? Lubricating oil?» «It's pure butter, I swear it», said Alchen, blushing to the roots of his hair. «We buy it from a farm». He felt very ashamed.

«Anyway, it's not a fire risk», observed Ostap. The chair was not in the kitchen, either. There was only a stool, occupied by the cook, wearing a cap and apron of mouse-grey woollen material.

«Why is everybody's clothing grey? That cloth isn't even fit to wipe the windows with!» The shy Alchen was even more embarrassed. «We don't receive enough funds». He was disgusted with himself.

Ostap looked at him disbelievingly and said: «That is no concern of the fire brigade, which I am at present representing». Alchen was alarmed.

«We've taken all the necessary fire precautions», he declared. «We even have a fire extinguisher. An Eclair».

The fire inspector reluctantly proceeded in the direction of the fire extinguisher, peeping into the lumber rooms as he went. The red-iron nose of the extinguisher caused the inspector particular annoyance, despite the fact that it was the only object in the house which had any connection with fire precautions. «Where did you get it? At the market?» And without waiting for an answer from the thunderstruck Alexander Yakovlevich, he removed the Eclair from the rusty nail on which it was hanging, broke the capsule without warning, and quickly pointed the nose in the air. But instead of the expected stream of foam, all that came out was a high-pitched hissing which sounded like the ancient hymn «How Glorious Is Our Lord on Zion».

«You obviously did get it at the market», said Ostap, his earlier opinion confirmed. And he put back the fire extinguisher, which was still hissing, in its place.

They moved on, accompanied by the hissing.

Where can it be? wondered Ostap. I don't like the look of things. And he made up his mind not to leave the place until he had found out the truth.

While the fire inspector and the assistant warden were crawling about the attics, considering fire precautions in detail and examining the chimneys, the Second Home of the Stargorod Social Security Administration carried on its daily routine.

Dinner was ready. The smell of burnt porridge had appreciably increased, and it overpowered all the sourish smells inhabiting the house. There was a rustling in the corridors. Holding iron bowls full of porridge in front of them with both hands, the old women cautiously emerged from the kitchen and sat down at a large table, trying not to look at the refectory slogans, composed by Alexander Yakolevich and painted by his wife. The slogans read:

FOOD IS THE SOURCE OF HEALTH

ONE EGG CONTAINS AS MUCH FAT AS A HALF-POUND OF MEAT

BY CAREFULLY MASTICATING YOUR FOOD YOU HELP SOCIETY

MEAT IS BAD FOR YOU

These sacred words aroused in the old ladies memories of teeth that had disappeared before the revolution, eggs that had been lost at approximately the same time, meat that was inferior to eggs in fat, and perhaps even the society that they were prevented from helping by careful mastication.

Seated at table in addition to the old women were Isidor, Afanasy, Cyril and Oleg, and also Pasha Emilevich. Neither in age nor sex did these young men fit into the pattern of social security, but they were the younger brothers of Alchen, and Pasha Emilevich was Alexandra Yakovlevna's cousin, once removed. The young men, the oldest of whom was the thirty-two-year-old Pasha Emilevich, did not consider their life in the pensioners' home in any way abnormal. They lived on the same basis as the old women; they too had government-property beds and blankets with the word «Feet»; they were clothed in the same mouse-grey material as the old women, but on account of their youth and strength they ate better than the latter. They stole everything in the house that Alchen did not manage to steal himself. Pasha could put away four pounds of fish at one go, and he once did so, leaving the home dinnerless.

Hardly had the old women had time to taste their porridge when the younger brothers and Pasha Emilevich rose from the table, having gobbled down their share, and went, belching, into the kitchen to look for something more digestible.

The meal continued. The old women began jabbering:

«Now they'll stuff themselves full and start bawling songs».

«Pasha Emilevich sold the chair from the recreation room this morning. A second-hand dealer took it away at the back door».

«Just you see. He'll come home drunk tonight».

At this moment the pensioners' conversation was interrupted by a trumpeting noise that even drowned the hissing of the fire extinguisher, and a husky voice began:

«…vention…»

The old women hunched their shoulders and, ignoring the loudspeaker in the corner on the floor, continued eating in the hope that fate would spare them, but the loudspeaker cheerfully went on: Х

«Evecrashshsh … viduso … valuable invention. Railwayman of the Murmansk Railway, Comrade Sokutsky, S Samara, O Oriel, K Kaliningrad, U Urals, Ts Tsaritsina, K Kaliningrad, Y York. So-kuts-ky».

The trumpet wheezed and renewed the broadcast in a thick voice.

«… vented a system of signal lights for snow ploughs. The invention has been approved by Dorizul…».

The old women floated away to their rooms like grey ducklings. The loudspeaker, jigging up and down by its own power, blared away into the empty room:

«And we will now play some Novgorod folk music».

Far, far away, in the centre of the earth, someone strummed a balalaika and a black-earth Battistini broke into song:

In the centre of the earth the verses brought forth a storm of activity. A horrible gurgling was heard from the loudspeaker. It was something between thunderous applause and the eruption of an underground volcano.

Meanwhile the disheartened fire inspector had descended an attic ladder backwards and was now back in the kitchen, where he saw five citizens digging into a barrel of sauerkraut and bolting it down. They ate in silence. Pasha Emilevich alone waggled his head in the style of an epicurean and, wiping some strings of cabbage from his moustache, observed:

«It's a sin to eat cabbage like this without vodka».

«Is this a new intake of women?» asked Ostap.

«They're orphans», replied Alchen, shouldering the inspector out of the kitchen and surreptitiously shaking his fist at the orphans.

«Children of the Volga Region?»

Alchen was confused.

«A trying heritage from the Tsarist regime?»

Alchen spread his arms as much as to say: «There's nothing you can do with a heritage like that».

«Co-education by the composite method?»

Without further hesitation the bashful Alchen invited the fire inspector to take pot luck and lunch with him.

Pot luck that day happened to be a bottle of Zubrovka vodka, home-pickled mushrooms, minced herring, Ukrainian beet soup containing first-grade meat, chicken and rice, and stewed apples.

«Sashchen», said Alexander Yakovlevich, «I want you to meet a comrade from the province fire-precaution administration».

Ostap made his hostess a theatrical bow and paid her such an interminable and ambiguous compliment that he could hardly get to the end of it. Sashchen, a buxom woman, whose good looks were somewhat marred by sideburns of the kind that Tsar Nicholas used to have, laughed softly and took a drink with the two men.

«Here's to your communal services», exclaimed Ostap.

The lunch went off gaily, and it was not until they reached the stewed fruit that Ostap remembered the point of his visit.

«Why is it», he asked, «that the furnishings are so skimpy in your establishment?»

«What do you mean?» said Alchen. «What about the harmonium?»

«Yes, I know, vox humana. But you have absolutely nothing at all of any taste to sit on. Only garden benches».

«There's a chair in the recreation room», said Alchen in an offended tone. «An English chair. They say it was left over from the original furniture».

«By the way, I didn't see your recreation room. How is it from the point of view of fire hazard? It won't let you down, I hope. I had better see it».

«Certainly».

Ostap thanked his hostess for the lunch and left.

No primus was used in the recreation room; there was no portable stove of any kind; the chimneys were in a good state of repair and were cleaned regularly, but the chair, to the incredulity of Alchen, was missing. They ran to look for it. They looked under the beds and under the trunks; for some reason or other they moved back the harmonium; they questioned the old women, who kept looking at Pasha Emilevich timidly, but the chair was just not there. Pasha Emilevich himself showed great enthusiasm in the search. When all had calmed down, Pasha still kept wandering from room to room, looking under decanters, shifting iron teaspoons, and muttering:

«Where can it be? I saw it myself this morning. It's ridiculous!»

«It's depressing, girls», said Ostap in an icy voice.

«It's absolutely ridiculous!» repeated Pasha Emilevich impudently.

At this point, however, the Eclair fire extinguisher, which had been hissing the whole time, took a high F, which only the People's Artist, Nezhdanova, can do, stopped for a second and then emitted its first stream of foam, which soaked the ceiling and knocked the cook's cap off. The first stream of foam was followed by another, mouse-grey in colour, which bowled over young Isidor Yakovlevich. After that the extinguisher began working smoothly. Pasha Emilevich, Alchen and all the surviving brothers raced to the spot.

«Well done», said Ostap. «An idiotic invention!»

As soon as the old women were left alone with Ostap and without the boss, they at once began complaining:

«He's brought his family into the home. They eat up everything».

«The piglets get milk and we get porridge».

«He's taken everything out of the house».

«Take it easy, girls», said Ostap, retreating. «You need someone from the labour-inspection department. The Senate hasn't empowered me …»

The old women were not listening.

«And that Pasha Melentevich. He went and sold a chair today. I saw him myself».

«Who did he sell it to?» asked Ostap quickly.

«He sold it… that's all. He was going to steal my blanket…»

A fierce struggle was going on in the corridor. But mind finally triumphed over matter and the extinguisher, trampled under Pasha Emilevich's feet of iron, gave a last dribble and was silent for ever.

The old women were sent to clean the floor. Lowering his head and waddling slightly, the fire inspector went up to Pasha Emilevich.

«A friend of mine», began Ostap importantly, «also used to sell government property. He now lives a monastic life in the penitentiary».

«I find your groundless accusations strange», said Pasha, who smelled strongly of foam.

«Who did you sell the chair to?» asked Ostap in a ringing whisper.

Pasha Emilevich, who had supernatural understanding, realized at this point he was about to be beaten, if not kicked.

«To a second-hand dealer».

«What's his address?»

«I'd never seen him before».

«Never?»

«No, honestly».

«I ought to bust you in the mouth», said Ostap dreamily, «only Zarathustra wouldn't allow it. Get to hell out of here!»

Pasha Emilevich grinned fawningly and began walking away.

«Come back, you abortion», cried Ostap haughtily. «What was the dealer like?»

Pasha Emilevich described him in detail, while Ostap listened carefully. The interview was concluded by Ostap with the words: «This clearly has nothing to do with fire precautions».

In the corridor the bashful Alchen went up to Ostap and gave him a gold piece.

«That comes under Article 114 of the Criminal Code», said Ostap. «Bribing officials in the course of their duty».

Nevertheless he took the money and, without saying goodbye, went towards the door. The door, which was fitted with a powerful contraption, opened with an effort and gave Ostap a one-and-a-half-ton shove in the backside.

«Good shot!» said Ostap, rubbing the affected part. «The hearing is continued».