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«That's no harm. You soon will. Just one moment».
Ostap put on his orange-coloured boots and walked up and down the room.
«Which frontier did you cross? Was it the Polish, Finnish, or Rumanian frontier? An expensive pleasure, I imagine. A friend of mine recently crossed the frontier. He lives in Slavuta, on our side, and his wife's parents live on the other. He had a row with his wife over a family matter; she comes from a temperamental family. She spat in his face and ran across the frontier to her parents. The fellow sat around for a few days but found things weren't going well. There was no dinner and the room was dirty, so he decided to make it up with her. He waited till night and then crossed over to his mother-in-law. But the frontier guards nabbed him, trumped up a charge, and gave him six months. Later on he was expelled from the trade union. The wife, they say, has now gone back, the fool, and her husband is in prison. She is able to take him things…. Did you come that way, too?»
«Honestly», protested Ippolit Matveyevich, suddenly feeling himself in the power of the talkative young man who had come between him and the jewels. «Honestly, I'm a citizen of the RSFSR. I can show you my identification papers, if you want».
«With printing being as well developed as it is in the West, the forgery of Soviet identification papers is nothing. A friend of mine even went as far as forging American dollars. And you know how difficult that is. The paper has those different-coloured little lines on it. It requires great technique. He managed to get rid of them on the Moscow black market, but it turned out later that his grandfather, a notorious currency-dealer, had bought them all in Kiev and gone absolutely broke. The dollars were counterfeit, after all. So your papers may not help you very much either».
Despite his annoyance at having to sit in a smelly caretaker's room and listen to an insolent young man burbling about the shady dealings of his friends, instead of actively searching for the jewels, Ippolit Matveyevich could not bring himself to leave. He felt great trepidation at the thought that the young stranger might spread it round the town that the ex-marshal had come back. That would be the end of everything, and he might be put in jail as well.
«Don't tell anyone you saw me», said Ippolit Matveyevich. «They might really think I'm an emigre». «That's more like it! First we have an Emigre who has returned to his home town, and then we find he is afraid the secret police will catch him».
«But I've told you a hundred times, I'm not an emigre».
«Then who are you? Why are you here?»
«I've come from N. on certain business».
«What business?»
«Personal business».
«And then you say you're not an emigre! A friend of mine …»
At this point, Ippolit Matveyevich, driven to despair by the stories of Bender's friends, and seeing that he was not getting anywhere, gave in.
«All right», he said. «I'll tell you everything».
Anyway, it might be difficult without an accomplice, he thought to himself, and this fellow seems to be a really shady character. He might be useful.
Chapter Six. A Diamond Haze
Ippolit Matveyevich took off his stained beaver hat, combed his moustache, which gave off a shower of sparks at the touch of the comb, and, having cleared his throat in determination, told Ostap Bender, the first rogue who had come his way, what his dying mother-in-law had told him about her jewels.
During the account, Ostap jumped up several times and, turning to the iron stove, said delightedly:
«Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury. Things are moving».
An hour later they were both sitting at the rickety table, their heads close together, reading the long list of jewellery which had at one time adorned the fingers, neck, ears, bosom and hair of Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law.
Ippolit Matveyevich adjusted the pince-nez, which kept falling off his nose, and said emphatically:
«Three strings of pearls…. Yes, I remember them. Two with forty pearls and the long one had a hundred and ten. A diamond pendant … Claudia Ivanovna used to say it was worth four thousand roubles; an antique».
Next came the rings: not thick, silly, and cheap engagement rings, but fine, lightweight rings set with pure, polished diamonds; heavy, dazzling earrings that bathe a small female ear in multicoloured light; bracelets shaped like serpents, with emerald scales; a clasp bought with the profit from a fourteen-hundred-acre harvest; a pearl necklace that could only be worn by a famous prima donna; to crown everything was a diadem worth forty thousand roubles.
Ippolit Matveyevich looked round him. A grass-green emerald light blazed up and shimmered in the dark corners of the caretaker's dirty room. A diamond haze hung near the ceiling. Pearls rolled across the table and bounced along the floor. The room swayed in the mirage of gems. The sound of Ostap's voice brought the excited Ippolit Matveyevich back to earth.
«Not a bad choice. The stones have been tastefully selected, I see. How much did all this jazz cost?»
«Seventy to seventy-five thousand».
«Hm … Then it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand now».
«Really as much as that?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich jubilantly.
«Not less than that. However, if I were you, dear friend from Paris, I wouldn't give a damn about it».
«What do you mean, not give a damn?»
«Just that. Like they used to before the advent of historical materialism».
«Why?»
«I'll tell you. How many chairs were there?»
«A dozen. It was a drawing-room suite».
«Your drawing-room suite was probably used for firewood long ago».
Ippolit Matveyevich was so alarmed that he actually stood up.
«Take it easy. I'll take charge. The hearing is continued. Incidentally, you and I will have to conclude a little deal».
Breathing heavily, Ippolit Matveyevich nodded his assent. Ostap Bender then began stating his terms.
«In the event of acquisition of the treasure, as a direct partner in the concession and as technical adviser, I receive sixty per cent. You needn't pay my national health; I don't care about that».
Ippolit Matveyevich turned grey.
«That's daylight robbery!»
«And how much did you intend offering me?»
«Well… er … five per cent, or maybe even ten per cent. You realize, don't you, that's fifteen thousand roubles!»
«And that's all?»
«Yes»
«Maybe you'd like me to work for nothing and also give you the key of the apartment where the money is?»
«In that case, I'm sorry», said Vorobyaninov through his nose.
«I have every reason to believe I can manage the business by myself».
«Aha! In that case, I'm sorry», retorted the splendid Ostap. «I have just as much reason to believe, as Andy Tucker used to say, that I can also manage your business by myself».
«You villain!» cried Ippolit Matveyevich, beginning to shake.
Ostap remained unmoved.
«Listen, gentleman from Paris, do you know your jewels are practically in my pocket? And I'm only interested in you as long as I wish to prolong your old age».
Ippolit Matveyevich realized at this point that iron hands had gripped his throat.
«Twenty per cent», he said morosely.
«And my grub?» asked Ostap with a sneer.
«Twenty-five».
«And the key of the apartment?»
«But that's thirty-seven and a half thousand!»
«Why be so precise? Well, all right, I'll settle for fifty per cent. We'll go halves».
The haggling continued, and Ostap made a further concession. Out of respect for Vorobyaninov, he was prepared to work for forty per cent.
«That's sixty thousand!» cried Vorobyaninov.
«You're a rather nasty man», retorted Bender. «You're too fond of money».
«And I suppose you aren't?» squeaked Ippolit Matveyevich in a flutelike voice.
«No, I'm not».
«Then why do you want sixty thousand?»
«On principle!»
Ippolit Matveyevich took a deep breath.
«Well, are things moving?» pressed Ostap.
Vorobyaninov breathed heavily and said humbly: «Yes, Х things are moving».
«It's a bargain. District Chief of the Comanchi!»
As soon as Ippolit Matveyevich, hurt by the nickname, «Chief of the Comanchi», had demanded an apology, and Ostap, in a formal apology, had called him «Field Marshal», they set about working out their disposition.
At midnight Tikhon, the caretaker, hanging on to all the garden fences on the way and clinging to the lamp posts, tottered home to his cellar. To his misfortune, there was a full moon.
«Ah! The intellectual proletarian! Officer of the Broom!» exclaimed Ostap, catching sight of the doubled-up caretaker.
The caretaker began making low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the stillness of the night.
«That's nice», said Ostap to Vorobyaninov. «Your caretaker is rather a vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?»
«Yes, it is», said the caretaker unexpectedly.
«Listen, Tikhon», began Ippolit Matveyevich. «Have you any idea what happened to my furniture, old man?»
Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening yell:
«Haa-aapy daa-aays…»
The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was terribly happy.
Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.
«Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until tomorrow morning», said Ostap. «Let's go to bed».
They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to the bench.
Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt; under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another light-blue worsted waistcoat.
«There's a waistcoat worth buying», said Ostap enviously. «Just my size. Sell it to me!»
Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.
Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.
«You'll have the money when we sell the treasure», said Bender, taking the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.
«No, I can't do things like that», said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing. «Please give it back».
Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.
«There's stinginess for you», he cried. «We undertake business worth a hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to learn to live it up!»
Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:
25//F/27
Issued to Comrade Bender
Rs.8
Ostap took a look at the notebook.
«Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under ‘debit' don't forget to put down the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under ‘credit' put down the waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit longer».
Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth operator's body, vibrant with ideas.
All three had bad dreams.
