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AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS
under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the padlock and said with loathing:
«Ugh, that stinker!»
He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet, began creating an unholy row.
«You have thieves in no. 7!» howled the yard-keeper. «Riffraff of all kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!»
During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
«Fitter-mechanic!» he cried. «Damn aristocrat!»
The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed where they were.
«I'll push his face in!» he raged. «Education indeed!»
While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly began hauling the fellow off to the police station. He was assisted by Some young toughs from Fastpack. The yard-keeper put his arms around the militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.
A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin. There was a stir among the audience.
«Bum!» cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. «I'll show you! You louse!»
But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear. He was carried to the police station, and the sign «Metal Workshop and Primus Stove Repairs» was also taken along as factual evidence. Victor Mikhailovich bristled with fury for some time.
«Sons of bitches!» he said, turning to the spectators. «Conceited bums!»
«That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich», called Elena Stanislavovna from the window. «Come in here a moment».
She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up and down the room, began asking him questions.
«But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him», said Polesov, shouting as usual. «I know him well. It was the spitting image of Vorobyaninov».
«Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?»
An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.
«Well, what do you think?»
He chuckled with even greater irony.
«At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks».
«Do you think he's in danger?»
The reserves of irony amassed by Polesov over the ten years since the revolution were inexhaustible. A series of smiles of varying force and scepticism lit up his face.
«Who isn't in danger in Soviet Russia, especially a man in Vorobyaninov's position. Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off for nothing».
«Has he been sent from abroad?» asked Elena Stanislavovna, almost choking.
«Definitely», replied the brilliant mechanic.
«What is his purpose here?»
«Don't be childish!»
«I must see him all the same».
«Do you know what you're risking?»
«I don't care. After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than see Ippolit Matveyevich».
And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were still in love with one another.
«I beg you to find him. Find out where he is. You go everywhere; it won't be difficult for you. Tell him I want to see him. Do you hear?»
The parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on its perch, was startled by the noisy conversation; it turned upside down and froze in that position.
«Elena Stanislavovna», said the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his hands to his chest, «I will contact him».
«Would you like some more stewed fruit?» asked the fortune-teller, deeply touched.
Victor Mikhailovich consumed the stewed fruit irritably, gave Elena Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.
Chapter Eleven. The Mirror-of-Life Index
The next day the partners saw that it was no longer convenient to live in the caretaker's room. Tikhon kept muttering away to himself and had become completely stupid, having seen his master first with a black moustache, then with a green one, and finally with no moustache at all. There was nothing to sleep on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in on Tikhon's new felt boots. His old ones stood in the corner and did not help to purify the air, either.
«I declare the old boys' reunion over», said Ostap. «We must move to a hotel».
Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. «I can't».
«Why not?»
«I shall have to register».
«Aren't your papers in order?»
«My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours will spread».
The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.
«How do you like the name Michelson?» suddenly asked the splendid Ostap.
«Which Michelson? The Senator?»
«No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union».
«I don't get you».
«That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!»
Bender took a union card out of his green jacket and handed it to Ippolit Matveyevich.
«Konrad Karlovich Michelson, aged forty-eight, non-party member, bachelor; union member since 1921 and a person of excellent character; a good friend of mine and seems to be a friend of children… But you needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you».
Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. «But is it right?»
«„Compared with our“ concession, this misdeed, though it does come under the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game».
Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.
«You're an idealist, Konrad Karlovich. You're lucky, otherwise you might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov».
There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon, the concessionaires went out into the street.
They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms. Ostap threw the whole of the small hotel staff into confusion. First he looked at the seven-rouble rooms, but disliked the furnishings. The cleanliness of the five-rouble rooms pleased him more, but the carpets were shabby and there was an objectionable smell. In the three-rouble rooms everything was satisfactory except for the pictures.
«I can't live in a room with landscapes», said Ostap.
They had to take a room for one rouble, eighty. It had no landscapes, no carpets, and the furniture was very conservative – two beds and a night table.
«Stone-age style», observed Ostap with approval. «I hope there aren't any prehistoric monsters in the mattresses».
«Depends on the season», replied the cunning room-cleaner. «If there's a provincial convention of some kind, then of course there aren't any, because we have many visitors and we clean the place thoroughly before they arrive. But at other times you may find some. They come across from the Livadia Rooms next door».
That day the concessionaires visited the Stargorod communal services, where they obtained the information they required. It turned out that the housing division had been disbanded in 1921 and that its voluminous records had been merged with those of the communal services.
The smooth operator got down to business. By evening the partners had found out the address of the head of the records department, Bartholomew Korobeinikov, a former clerk in the Tsarist town administration and now an office-employment official.
Ostap attired himself in his worsted waistcoat, dusted his jacket against the back of a chair, demanded a rouble, twenty kopeks from Ippolit Matveyevich, and set off to visit the record-keeper. Ippolit Matveyevich remained at the Sorbonne Hotel and paced up and down the narrow gap between the two beds in agitation. The fate of the whole enterprise was in the balance that cold, green evening. If they could get hold of copies of the orders for the distribution of the furniture requisitioned from Vorobyaninov's house, half the battle had been won. There would still be tremendous difficulties facing them, but at least they would be on the right track.
«If only we can get the orders», whispered Ippolit Matveyevich to himself, lying on the bed, «if only we can get them».
The springs of the battered mattress nipped him like fleas, but he did not feel them. He still only had a vague idea of what would follow once the orders had been obtained, but felt sure everything would then go swimmingly.
Engrossed in his rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about on the bed. The springs bleated underneath him.
Ostap had to go right across town. Korobeinikov lived in Gusishe, on the outskirts.
It was an area populated largely by railway workers. From time to time a snuffling locomotive would back its way along the walled-off embankment, above the houses. For a second the rooftops were lit by the blaze from the firebox. Now and then empty goods trains went by, and from time to time detonators could be heard exploding. Amid the huts and temporary wooden barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats.
Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club-checked the address from a piece of paper, and halted in front of the record-keeper's house. He rang a bell marked «Please Ring» in embossed letters.
After prolonged questioning as to «Who do you want?» and «What is it about?» the door was opened, and he found himself in a dark, cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did not speak.
«Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?» asked Ostap.
The person who had been breathing took Ostap by the arm and led him into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt that this was Citizen Korobeinikov himself. Without waiting for an invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down.
The old man looked fearlessly at the high-handed stranger and remained silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation.
«I've come on business. You work at the communal-services records office, don't you?»
The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively.
«And you worked before that in the housing division?»
«I have worked everywhere», he answered gaily.
«Even in the Tsarist town administration?»
Here Ostap smiled graciously. The old man's back contorted for some time and finally ended up in a position implying that his employment in the Tsarist town administration was something long passed and that it was not possible to remember everything for sure.'
«And may I ask what I can do for you?» said the host, regarding his visitor with interest.
«You may», answered the visitor. «I am Vorobyaninov's son».
«Whose? The marshal's?»
«Yes».
«Is he still alive?»
«He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest».
«Yes», said the old man without any particular grief, «a sad event. But I didn't think he had any children».
«He didn't», said Ostap amiably in confirmation.
«What do you mean?»
«I'm from a morganatic marriage».
«Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son?»
«Right!»
«How is she?»
«Mum's been in her grave some time».
«I see. I see. How sad».
And the old man gazed at Ostap with tears of sympathy in his eyes, although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in the market.
