The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Илья Ильф
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».
Chapter Nine. Where Are Your Curls?
While Ostap was inspecting the pensioners' home, Ippolit Matveyevich had left the caretaker's room and was wandering along the streets of his home town, feeling the chill on his shaven head.
Along the road trickled clear spring water. There was a constant splashing and plopping as diamond drops dripped from the rooftops. Sparrows hunted for manure, and the sun rested on the roofs. Golden carthorses drummed their hoofs against the bare road and, turning their ears downward, listened with pleasure to their own sound. On the damp telegraph poles the wet advertisements, «I teach the guitar by the number system» and «Social-science lessons for those preparing for the People's Conservatory», were all wrinkled up, and the letters had run. A platoon of Red Army soldiers in winter helmets crossed a puddle that began at the Stargorod cooperative shop and stretched as far as the province planning administration, the pediment of which was crowned with plaster tigers, figures of victory and cobras.
Ippolit Matveyevich walked along, looking with interest at the people passing him in both directions. As one who had spent the whole of his life and also the revolution in Russia, he was able to see how the way of life was changing and acquiring a new countenance. He had become used to this fact, but he seemed to be used to only one point on the globe-the regional centre of N. Now he was back in his home town, he realized he understood nothing. He felt just as awkward and strange as though he really were an emigre just back from Paris. In the old days, whenever he rode through the town in his carriage, he used invariably to meet friends or people he knew by sight. But now he had gone some way along Lena Massacre Street and there was no friend to be seen. They had vanished, or they might have changed so much that they were no longer recognizable, or perhaps they had become unrecognizable because they wore different clothes and different hats. Perhaps they had changed their walk. In any case, they were no longer there.
Vorobyaninov walked along, pale, cold and lost. He completely forgot that he was supposed to be looking for the housing division. He crossed from pavement to pavement and turned into side streets, where the uninhibited carthorses were quite intentionally drumming their hoofs. There was more of winter in the side streets, and rotting ice was still to be seen in places. The whole town was a different colour; the blue houses had become green and the yellow ones grey. The fire indicators had disappeared from the fire tower, the fireman no longer climbed up and down, and the streets were much noisier than Ippolit Matveyevich could remember.
On Greater Pushkin Street, Ippolit Matveyevich was amazed by the tracks and overhead cables of the tram system, which he had never seen in Stargorod before. He had not read the papers and did not know that the two tram routes to the station and the market were due to be opened on May Day. At one moment Ippolit Matveyevich felt he had never left Stargorod, and the next moment it was like a place completely unfamiliar to him.
Engrossed in these thoughts, he reached Marx and Engels Street. Here he re-experienced a childhood feeling that at any moment a friend would appear round the corner of the two-storeyed house with its long balcony. He even stopped walking in anticipation. But the friend did not appear. The first person to