Diamonds To Sit On/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X
A LOCKSMITH, A PARROT, AND A FORTUNE-TELLER
NNumber 7 Pereleshinsk Street was not one of the best houses in Stargorod. Its two stones, built in the style of the Second Empire, were ornamented with broken lions' heads. There were eight lions' heads, but there were two other decorations of a purely commercial character on the house. On one side hung a bright blue sign: 'The Odessa Bakers Union. Moscow Cracknels'. On the other side a packing firm called 'Rapidpack' advertised itself on a black sign in round gilt letters. In spite of the considerable difference between the two signs and the size of their working capital, both firms were occupied with one and the same business. They were speculating in coarse wool, fine wool, and cotton materials, and when they could get hold of silk materials then they also speculated in silk.
At the end of an arch leading to the yard there were two doors on the right-hand side. One of the doors had an unpolished brass plate bearing the name 'V M Polesov'. The other door had a tin plate fastened to it: 'Modes and Hats'. But these name plates were only for the sake of appearance. Inside the fiat marked 'Modes and Hats' there were neither modes nor hats, nor stands waiting for hats, nor figures waiting to be dressed; instead, there lived in this three-roomed flat a spotless white parrot in red breeches. The parrot was eaten up with fleas, but he could not complain to any one, for he had never been taught to speak. All day long he cracked seeds and spat the husks on to the carpet. Dark brown curtains hung at the windows, and over the piano hung a reproduction of Böcklin's famous picture, 'The Island of the Dead'. It was in a dark polished oak frame and under glass. One corner of the glass had been broken a long time ago and had fallen out, but that corner of the picture had been so walked over by flies that the colour blended with the frame. It was quite impossible to make out what was happening in that corner of the island of the dead.
The owner of the flat was sitting on her bed in the bedroom. She was leaning on a small octagonal table, covered with a dirty, embroidered cloth, and was laying out some cards. The widow Gritsatsuev, wearing a fluffy shawl, was sitting in front of her.
'I must warn you, young woman, that I never take less than fifty copecks for a consultation.'
The widow, who refused to be daunted in her search for anew husband, immediately agreed to pay the fixed price.
'Only, please, also tell me the future,' she said plaintively.
'You're the Queen of Clubs.'
'I've always been the Queen of Hearts,' retorted the widow.
The fortune-teller was indifferent and began to arrange the cards. A few minutes later she told the widow her fate. There were great and small worries ahead. The King of Clubs lay on her heart, but he was friendly with the Queen of Diamonds.
Then she read the client's palm. The lines on the widow's hand were very distinct. Her life line was so long that it curved round as far as the pulse, and if this line spoke the truth then the widow would have to live until the Day of Judgment. The head line and the line of fate gave every promise that the widow would give up the grocery business and would endow humanity with unsurpassable masterpieces in any sphere of art, science, or sociology she might pursue. The mound of Venus was enormous and showed marvellous reserves of love and tenderness. LOCKSMITH, PARROT, FORTUNE-TELLER 59 The fortune-teller explained all this to the widow, using words and terms accepted by graphologists, palmists, and horse-dealers. ‘ Thank you,’ said the delighted widow. ‘ I know who the King of Clubs is and the Queen of Diamonds too. Tell me, is the King eligible ? ’ ‘ Yes, he is ehgible.’ The widow went home on wings. The fortune teller tossed her cards into a box, yawned, and went into the kitchen. There she fussed about with her dinner, which was cooking on the stove, and after wiping her hands on her apron picked up an enamel pail and went out into the yard for some water. She walked along the yard. Her hair was going grey ; she was old and dirty, suspicious of every one, and fond of eating sweets. If Hippolyte had seen her at this moment, he would never have recognized Elena Bauer, his old love. Madam Bauer was greeted at the well by her neighbour, Viktor Mikhaylovich Polesov, a locksmith and an intellectual. He was also fetching water. After exchanging greetings the two neighbours began to talk about the proposed tram service about which the whole of Stargorod was talking. . . ‘ That’s what we’ve come to ! ’ said Polesov iroiiically. ‘ I ran round the whole town yesterday trying to find an inch of solder. There wasn t any to be found, and yet they’re thinking of running trams.’ The fortune-teller had as much idea what solder was as the moon, but she expressed her sympathy. ' Just look at the shops nowadays,’ she said. ‘ There’s nothing but queue after queue and no shops worth talking about. And the names they put up 1 Why, they’re absurd ! ’ , ‘ Of course the trams won’t be of any use whatever, the locksmith persisted. ‘ They’ll go for a mile and then break down. I know, I’ve had a look at them. The locksmith was silent for a moment. His dirty 6o
DIAMONDS TO SIT ON
face gleamed in the sun. The whites of his eyes were a pale yellow. Among the workers in Stargorod, Viktor Mikhaylovich Polesov was one of the most incompetent. This was because of his excitable nature. He was always in a state of irrepressible excitement. His workshop was in the second yard of house Number 7 Pereleshinsk Street, but he was never to be found there. The workshop was crowded with an odd assortment of things. In one corner lay a pile of rusty locks ; in another a child’s perambulator, leather straps that were rotting to pieces, an old Austrian bayonet and other miscellaneous junk. People would come to give orders, but they never found the locksmith, for he was always out. He was far too busy for work. He could never allow a horse and cart to come into the yard without dashing out and shouting instructions to the driver. He would waste half an hour on the horse and cart and then go back to his workshop to finish repairing an old bicycle pump. But it was not very long before he was out in the street again looking to see what was going on and being a general nuisance. If a fresh telegraph pole was being erected, he would interfere and tell the workmen that the pole was not perpendicular. At times, however, Polesov was engrossed in work. He would shut himself up in the workshop for several days on end and work in absolute silence. Children could play in the yard to their hearts’ content, lorries could pass in and out of the yard, the fire brigade could rush down the street'—Viktor Mikhaylovich would work on. Nothing disturbed him. One day, after a long speU of sustained work, he tugged a motor-bike out of his workshop as though he were dragging a ram by its horns. He had assembled it out of the spare parts of motor-cars, fire-extinguishers, bicycles, and typewriters. A crowd gathered. Without paying any attention he began to turn one of the pedals vigorously with his LOCKSMITH, PARROT, FORTUNE-TELLER 6i right hand, but there was not a spark for ten minutes. Then there was a terrific rattling of metal, a series of explosions, and the motor-bike was enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Viktor Mikhaylovich hurled himself on to the saddle, and at an unearthly speed the motor bike carried him out through the arch into the middle of the street and then stopped dead. He was just going to leap off and examine his mysterious machine when it unexpectedly set off backwards, dived through the archway and stopped dead in the middle of the yard, where it let off a piercing scream and blew up. Viktor Mikhaylovich escaped by a miracle. He collected the fragments of the motor-cycle, and after another period of strenuous work he produced a dynamo which looked extraordinarily effective but did not work. The crown of his activity as a locksmith was the incident connected with the gates of the house next door. The House Committee had made an arrange ment with him by which he was to overhaul the iron gates, repair them thoroughly, and paint them in some economical colour, while they undertook to pay him twenty-one roubles seventy-five copecks after the work had been inspected and passed by a special commission. The stamp on the agreement was to be paid for by Polesov. Viktor Mikhaylovich took the gates off their hinges and like a Samson carried them into his workshop. There he set to work with enthusiasm. It took two days to take the gates to pieces. He did it so thor oughly that the place was Uttered with the various parts. The screws were thrown into the perambulator, and the iron poles and other pieces were piled up on the floor. Another two days were spent in examining the parts that had to be repaired. Then a most unpleasant thing happened in the town. A water main burst in one of the principal streets and Viktor Mikhaylovich spent the rest of the week leaning over the hole and shouting instructions down to the workmen. When his interest in the water main slackened he set to work again, but it was too late, for the children had been in his workshop during his absence and were now busy playing with the screws and iron poles belonging to the gates of house Number 5. As soon as they caught sight of the irate locksmith they took fright and threw away the nuts and screws. He tried to collect the yarious parts, but half the nuts and screws were missing and he could not find them anywhere. After this he lost all interest in the gates.
Meanwhile terrible things were happening in house Number 5, where the courtyard had been left open to the street. Some washing that had been hung out to dry was stolen, and one eyening a samovar disappeared. Viktor Mikhaylovich took part in chasing the thief, but although the thief was carrying a samovar with boiling water in it, he was running well ahead of his pursuers and soon disappeared. The night porter of house Number 5 suffered most of all, for there was now no reason for late-comers to give him tips for opening the gates.
At first the porter came to inquire when the gates would be ready, then the House Committee sent written reminders to Viktor Mikhaylovich, but he took no notice. The situation was becoming serious.
As they stood by the well in the yard, the locksmith and the fortune-teller continued their conversation
'When will it all end?' sighed the fortune-teller. 'We live here like savages.'
'There's no end to it By the way, who do you think I saw to-day?'
'I've no idea. Who was it?'
'Hippolyte Vorobianinov.'
The fortune-teller was so astonished that she leant against the well.
'Yes,' continued the locksmith. 'I was in the Administrative Department to see about the lease of LOCKSMITH, PARROT, FORTUNE-TELLER 63
my workshop, and I was just walking along a corridor when suddenly two men came towards me. I looked at them. There was something familiar about one of them. He looked like Vorobianinov. “ Can you tell me what Government office used to be in this build ing ? ” he asked me. I told him there had been a girls’ high school at first and then the House Department. “ What do you want to know for ? ” I asked, but he thanked me and walked on without answering. And then I realized that it actually was Vorobianinov, but he had shaved off his moustache. Now where could he have come from ? The man with him was a finelooking fellow, obviously an ex-ofiicer. And then I thought to myself----- ’ At that moment the locksmith noticed something unpleasant, and without finishing what he was saying he seized his pail and hid behind a dustbin. The night porter from house Number 5 had come up to the well and was looking round the yard, but as he could not see Viktor Mikhaylovich his face fell. ‘ I suppose he’s out again,’ he said, looking at the fortune-teller.
- How should I know ? ’ she snapped.
The night porter turned on his heel and went out of the yard. As soon as he had gone Viktor Mikhaylovich came out from behind the dustbin, and the fortune teller invited him to come into her flat for a minute. She offered the locksmith a plate of stewed fruit, and, walking up and down, she asked him questions about Hippolyte. ‘ But I tell you it was Vorobianinov ! ’ shouted the locksmith. ‘ I know him perfectly well. It was Hippolyte Vorobianinov, only without his moustache ! ’ ‘ For heaven’s sake, don’t shout so ! Why do you think he’s come back ? ’ The locksmith smiled ironically. ‘ Why do I think he’s come back ? Well, he’s not come back to sign agreements with the Bolsheviks.’ 64
DIAMONDS TO SIT ON
“ Do you think he’s running a great risk by returning ? ’ The locksmith’s irony was inexhaustible. It had been increasing during the ten years of the revolution. He smiled sarcastically. ‘ Who doesn’t run a risk in Soviet Russia ? Especially a man like Vorobianinov. A moustache, my dear lady, is not shaved off for nothing.’ ‘ Do you think he’s been sent from abroad ? ’ asked the fortune-teller breathlessly. ' Undoubtedly ! ’ answered the knowing locksmith. ‘ What can his object be ? ’ ' Don’t be so childish ! ’ ‘ Whatever happens, I must see him.’ ' I suppose you know what you’re risking ? ’ ‘ Oh ! it doesn’t matter. After a separation of ten years I must see him. I can’t resist it.’ And she really felt that fate had separated them at the height of their love for each other. ‘ I implore you, go and find him ! Find out where he is ! You go about everywhere—it won’t be difficult for you ; and tell him that I want to see him. Do you hear ? ’ The parrot in red trousers, who was fast asleep on his perch, was wakened by this noisy conversation and suddenly turned a somersault. ‘ Well,’ said the locksmith as he got up to go away, ‘ I’ll find him and have a word with him.’ ‘ Perhaps you’d like some more stewed fruit ? ’ said the fortune-teller, feeling generous. The locksmith did not refuse another plate of stewed fruit, and all the time that he was eating he told her how badly the parrot cage had been made and soldered. Then he stood up, said good-bye, and warned the fortune-teller to keep aU he had told her as a dead secret.