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Vorobyaninov had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation department, velvet shirts, and Bezenchuk the undertaker in a tuxedo, but unshaven.
Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Cooperative; and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper.
And the caretaker dreamed that a horse escaped from the stable. He looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and gloomy, without having found it. For some time he stared in surprise at the people sleeping in his bed.
Not understanding anything, he took his broom and went out into the street to carry out his basic duties, which were to sweep up the horse droppings and shout at the old-women pensioners.
Chapter Seven. Traces of the Titanic
Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven, mumbled «Guten Morgen», and went over to the wash-basin. He washed himself with enthusiasm, cleared his throat, noisily rinsed his face, and shook his head to get rid of the water which had run into his ears. He dried himself with satisfaction, but on taking the towel away from his face, Ippolit Matveyevich noticed that it was stained with the same black colour that he had used to dye his horizontal moustache two days before. Ippolit Matveyevich's heart sank. He rushed to get his pocket mirror. The mirror reflected a large nose and the left-hand side of a moustache as green as the grass in spring. He hurriedly shifted the mirror to the right. The right-hand mustachio was the same revolting colour. Bending his head slightly, as though trying to butt the mirror, the unhappy man perceived that the jet black still reigned supreme in the centre of his square of hair, but that the edges were bordered with the same green colour.
Ippolit Matveyevich's whole being emitted a groan so loud that Ostap Bender opened his eyes.
«You're out of your mind!» exclaimed Bender, and immediately closed his sleepy lids.
«Comrade Bender», whispered the victim of the Titanic imploringly.
Ostap woke up after a great deal of shaking and persuasion. He looked closely at Ippolit Matveyevich and burst into a howl of laughter. Turning away from the founder of the concession, the chief director of operations and technical adviser rocked with laughter, seized hold of the top of the bed, cried «Stop, you're killing me!» and again was convulsed with mirth.
«That's not nice of you, Comrade Bender», said Ippolit Matveyevich and twitched his green moustache.
This gave new strength to the almost exhausted Ostap, and his hearty laughter continued for ten minutes. Regaining his breath, he suddenly became very serious.
«Why are you glaring at me like a soldier at a louse? Take a look at yourself».
«But the chemist told me it would be jet black and wouldn't wash off, with either hot water or cold water, soap or paraffin. It was contraband».
«Contraband? All contraband is made in Little Arnaut Street in Odessa. Show me the bottle… Look at this! Did you read this?» – «Yes».
«What about this bit in small print? It clearly states that after washing with hot or cold water, soap or paraffin, the hair should not be rubbed with a towel, but dried in the sun or in front of a primus stove. Why didn't you do so? What can you do now with that greenery?»
Ippolit Matveyevich was very depressed. Tikhon came in and seeing his master with a green moustache, crossed himself and asked for money to have a drink. «Give this hero of labour a rouble», suggested Ostap, «only kindly don't charge it to me. It's a personal matter between you and your former colleague. Wait a minute, Dad, don't go away! There's a little matter to discuss».
Ostap had a talk with the caretaker about the furniture, and five minutes later the concessionaires knew the whole story. The entire furniture had been taken away to the housing division in 1919, with the exception of one drawing-room chair that had first been in Tikhon's charge, but was later taken from him by the assistant warden of the second social-security home.
«Is it here in the house then?»
«That's right».
«Tell me, old fellow», said Ippolit Matveyevich, his heart beating fast, «when you had the chair, did you … ever repair it?»
«It didn't need repairing. Workmanship was good in those days. The chair could last another thirty years».
«Right, off you go, old fellow. Here's another rouble and don't tell anyone I'm here».
«I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov».
Sending the caretaker on his way with a cry of «Things are moving», Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache.
«It will have to be dyed again. Give me some money and I'll go to the chemist's. Your Titanic is no damn good, except for dogs. In the old days they really had good dyes. A racing expert once told me an interesting story. Are you interested in horse-racing? No? A pity; it's exciting. Well, anyway … there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky. He lost five hundred thousand roubles on races. King of the losers! So when he had nothing left except debts and was thinking about suicide, a shady character gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles. The count went away and came back a year later with a three-year-old Orloff trotter. From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three hundred thousand on top. Broker-that was the name of the horse-had an excellent pedigree and always came in first. He actually beat McMahon in the Derby by a whole length. Terrific! … But then Kurochkin-heard of him? – noticed that all the horses of the Orloff breed were losing their coats, while Broker, the darling, stayed the same colour. There was an unheard-of scandal. The count got three years. It turned out that Broker wasn't an Orloff at all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed. Crossbreeds are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them! Which? There's a dye for you! Not quite like your moustache!»
«But what about the pedigree? You said it was a good one».
«Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit! Give me the money for the dye».
Ostap came back with a new mixture.
«It's called ‘Naiad'. It may be better than the Titanic. Take your coat off!»
The ceremony of re-dyeing began. But the «Amazing chestnut colour making the hair soft and fluffy» when mixed with the green of the Titanic unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache all colours of the rainbow.
Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the perfumeries, both those state-owned and the illegal ones on Little Arnaut Street in Odessa.
«I don't suppose even Aristide Briand had a moustache like that», observed Ostap cheerfully. «However, I don't recommend living in Soviet Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours. It will have to be shaved off».
«I can't do that», said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice. «That's impossible».
«Why? Has it some association or other?»
«I can't do that», repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head.
«Then you can stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life, and I'll go for the chairs. The first one is upstairs, by the way».
«All right, shave it then!»
Bender found a pair of scissors and in a flash snipped off the moustache, which fell silently to the floor. When the hair had been cropped, the technical adviser took a yellowed Gillette razor from his pocket and a spare blade from his wallet, and began shaving Ippolit Matveyevich, who was almost in tears by this time.
«I'm using my last blade on you, so don't forget to credit me with two roubles for the shave and haircut».
«Why so expensive?» Ippolit managed to ask, although he was convulsed with grief. «It should only cost forty kopeks».
«For reasons of security, Comrade Field Marshal!» promptly answered Ostap.
The sufferings of a man whose head is being shaved with a safety razor are incredible. This became clear to Ippolit Matveyevich from the very beginning of the operation. But all things come to an end.
«There! The hearing continues! Those suffering from nerves shouldn't look».
Ippolit Matveyevich shook himself free of the nauseating tufts that until so recently had been distinguished grey hair, washed himself and, feeling a strong tingling sensation all over his head, looked at himself in the mirror for the hundredth time that day. He was unexpectedly pleased by what he saw. Looking at him was the careworn, but rather youthful, face of an unemployed actor.
«Right, forward march, the bugle is sounding!» cried Ostap. «I'll make tracks for the housing division, while you go to the old women».
«I can't», said Ippolit Matveyevich. «It's too painful for me to enter my own house».
«I see. A touching story. The exiled baron! All right, you go to the housing division, and I'll get busy here. Our rendezvous will be here in the caretaker's room. Platoon: ‘shun!»
Chapter Eight. The Bashful Chiseller
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:
«We hear the sound of distant jingling,
The troika's on its round;
Far into the distant stretches
The sparkling snowy ground».
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.
«Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta,
Te-ro-rom, tu-ru-rum, tu-ru-rum …»
«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.
