Diamonds To Sit On/Chapter 5

by Ilya Ilf and Eugene Petrof

 

CHAPTER V

THE GREAT SCHEMER

AT half-past eleven one morning a young man of about twenty-eight arrived in Stargorod. An urchin came running up to him.

'Give us a copper!' he asked cheekily. The young man pulled a warm apple out of his pocket and gave it to the boy, but the urchin would not leave him alone. The man stopped, looked down at the boy, and said sarcastically: 'Perhaps you'd like the key of my room where I keep my money?'

The ragamuffin saw it was hopeless and ran away.

The young man was a liar. He neither had money, nor a room to put money in, nor a key to lock up the room. He did not even possess an overcoat. He was wearing a tight-fitting suit made of green cloth, an old woollen scarf which was wound twice round his neck, patent leather boots with bright yellow suéde tops; and no socks. In his right hand he was holding an astrolabe.

'Tralalee, tralalo, tralalum,' he hummed as he went up the street towards the market. Here he had work to do. He pushed his way into a line of hawkers, held out the astrolabe, and began to shout: 'Who wants an astrolabe? An astrolabe! Going cheap. Discount allowed for delegates and women's educational societies'

There was no demand for this curious article. The housewives were too interested in the haberdashery booths. A secret agent of the police passed the young man twice, but, as the astrolabe did not in the least resemble the typewriter which had been stolen from the Butter Trust, he stopped trying to hypnotize the young man and walked on. Towards dinner-time a locksmith bought the astrolabe for three roubles.

'It measures all right,' said the young man to his customer, 'so long as there is something to measure.'

Having got rid of his curious instrument the young man went into 'The Corner of Taste' for dinner. After that he set off to have a look round the town. In Soviet Street he stopped outside a fine-looking, two-storied building marked 'Number 28. S.S.R., R.S.F.S.R. Second House of Social Assurance.' He stopped to get a light from the porter who was sitting on a stone bench outside the gate.

'Well, old man,' said he, taking a puff at his cigarette, 'any young women to marry in your town?'

The old man did not show any surprise.

'Some like fine mares and some like nags. Tastes differ,' he replied, being quite ready to talk.

'I've no more questions to ask,' said the young man rapidly, and immediately asked another: 'Such a fine house and no girls?'

'Girls? Why they've been hunting with lanterns for our girls in the next world for many a long day. They've left us only the old crocks. Don't you know what this is? It's the State workhouse, where everything is found for 'em and full board included.'

'Oh! I see,' said the young man. 'So this lot were born before the historical materialism came into fashion?'

'That's right. They were born when they were born.'

'And what was here before then?'

'When?'

'Why, then, in the old days before the revolution.'

'Oh, then! Why, my master lived here.'

'Was he a bourgeois?'

'Bourgeois yourself. He was no bourgeois. He was a marshal of nobihty.'

'You mean a proletarian?'

'Proletarian yourself. He was a marshal, I tell you.'

This conversation with the clever porter, who seemed a little weak in disentangling the differences between the social classes, would have gone on for ever if the young man had not taken the matter into his own hands.

'I tell you what,' he said, 'it wouldn't be a bad idea if we went and had a drink.'

'All right. You can treat me,' said the porter.

They disappeared for about an hour, and when they returned the porter was the young man's best friend.

'I think I'll stop the night with you,' said the young man.

'Oh! you seem a decent enough fellow; you can stop the rest of your days here, if you like.'

Now that he had got what he wanted so quickly, the young man hurried into the porter's room, took off his boots, stretched himself on a bench, and began to think out his plan of action for the morrow.

The young man's name was Ostap Bender. Whenever he talked about himself and his life he would give only one detail.

'My father,' he used to say, 'was a Turkish subject.'

Throughout his career this son of a Turkish subject had jumped from occupation to occupation. He was so energetic that he had never been able to devote himself to any one particular job. He had been tossed from one end of Russia to the other, and now fate had tossed him into Stargorod without socks, without a room to call his own, without a key, and without money.

As he lay in the porter's stuffy room he began to think over two possible plans for his future which he had long had in mind. He might become a polygamist and roam from town to town taking his last wife's valuables with him in a trunk. He might try the orphanage authorities and ask them to distribute a picture he had not yet painted—a really good picture, something like Repin's famous canvas: 'The Cossacks writing a letter to the Sultan', only his would be called: 'The Bolsheviks writing a letter to Austen Chamberlain'. If his work of art were successful it might bring in as much as four hundred roubles.

He had thought out these ideas the last time he was in Moscow. The first had come to him after reading in the evening papers that a polygamist had been sentenced to two years only, and without any solitary confinement. The other idea had come into his head in the picture gallery. But both projects had their drawbacks. He could not very well make much of a show as a polygamist unless he had an immaculate grey suit and ten roubles for expenses. Of course he could get married in his green suit, for he was quite handsome and irresistible enough for any provincial Marguerite, but he would not be able to get hold of the right type of girl. And it would not be so easy with the picture. There might be technical difficulties. What would happen if he were to paint Comrade Kalinin in a high Cossack hat, and what would Comrade Chicherin think if he were to see himself naked to the waist in a picture? Of course he could leave the various people in their everyday clothes, but that would not be the same thing.

'No!' he said aloud, 'it wouldn't be so effective.'

Then he suddenly realized that the porter was talking animatedly to him, and was pouring out his reminiscences about the former owner of the house.

'Yes, and the head of the police always used to I salute him. . . . I used to go and see him on New Year's Day to wish him a happy new year and he'd give me three roubles. . . . And at Easter another three roubles. And on his birthday I'd go and wish him many happy returns. And out of those congratulations I'd make something like fifteen roubles. . . . He even promised me a medal once. "I want my porter to wear a medal," he said. "So you just consider you've got one."'

'Did you get one?' asked Bender.

'You wait,' said the other. 'He used to say: "I've no use for a porter without a medal." He went to Petersburg for the medal, but nothing happened. Those gentlemen in the Civil Service wouldn't hear of it. "The Tsar has gone abroad," they said, "and it's quite impossible at present." So my master told me to wait. "You wait," says he. "I'll see you get a medal."'

'What happened to your master? Was he shot?' suddenly asked Bender.

'Shot? No one shot him. He went off on his own. What was there for him to do here? Sit round with the soldiers? And they don't give medals out nowadays.'

'Of course they do,' said Bender, 'I can see to that for you.'

The porter looked at Bender with admiration.

'Yes,' he said, 'I ought to have a medal. It's no joke being without a medal.'

'Where did your master go to?'

'Goodness knows. Some said he went to Paris.'

'Oh! So he ran off abroad, eh?'

'Abroad yourself. He went to Paris and they took his house for the old women. You can go and say: "Many happy returns" to them as long as you like, but you won't get anything for it. Eh! he was a good master, he was.'

At that moment a rusty bell was pulled at the door. The porter grumbled, shuffled off, opened the door, and started back. To his amazement there stood on the top step Hippolyte Matveyevich Vorobianinov with a black moustache, black hair, and his eyes shining behind a pair of pince-nez as they used to shine before the War.

'Master!' shouted the porter excitedly. 'From Paris!'

Hippolyte was confused by the presence of a stranger. Over the top of the table he caught sight of two bare feet, and he immediately turned to go out again. But Bender jumped up and bowed deeply from the waist.

‘Of course this isn’t Paris,’ said Bender. ‘But welcome—welcome, my dear sir!’

‘Paris?’ said Hippolyte. ‘I’ve not been anywhere near Paris.’ And he turned to the porter. ‘What put that idea into your head?’

But Bender did not give the porter a chance to speak.

‘Splendid ! ’ said he, squinting out at Hippolyte cunningly. ‘Splendid! You’ve come, no doubt, from the village to visit your late grandma? ’

Having said this he put his arms round the porter and very gently pushed him out of the room and closed the door. When he had recovered from his surprise the porter realized that his master had come from Paris, that he, the porter, had been put out of his own room, and that he was clutching a rouble note in his left hand. He was so delighted at the sight of the money that he went to the nearest inn and ordered himself several pints of good beer.

After carefully locking the door behind the porter.

Bender turned to Hippolyte, who was still standing in the middle of the room, and said to him: ‘ Keep calm, my dear friend. My name is Bender. Perhaps you’ve heard of it before?”

‘ I have never heard of it,’ said Hippolyte rather nervously.

‘ Now I come to think of it, they probably don’t know the name of Ostap Bender in Paris. Was it warm when you left Paris? It’s a fine town. I have a married cousin living there. Not long ago she sent me a silk handkerchief in a registered letter.’

‘What nonsense ! ’ said Hippolyte. ‘ What do you mean with your silk handkerchief? I’ve not come from Paris but from-----’

‘Oh! well,’ said Bender, ‘ perhaps it was Morshansk?’ THE GREAT SCHEMER

3^

Hippolyte had never had to deal with any one like Render before and he felt uncomfortable. . , ■ X ’ said Hippolyte, * I think I must be going. ‘ Goin’e ? ’ said Bender. ‘ There’s no need for you to h^rry I’m sure. The secret pohce wUl come soon not think of an answer. He unbuttoned his shabby overcoat, sat down on the bench, and glowered at Bender. ., ‘ I don’t know what you’re driving at, he said ratner

^^‘^t’s not difficult. You’ll soon understand.

Just

^^Bend^r put his boots on, started to walk up and down the room, and then began : ‘ Whmh frontier did you cross? The Polish ? French ?^Rumanian An expensive pleasure, no doubt. A friend of mine crossed the frontier recently. He lives on our side o the frontier and his wife’s relatmns are on the oth side. Then he had a quarrel with his wite. She ran across the frontier back to her parents. My fnend sat alone for three days and saw it was no laughing matter. There was no dinner and the roonis were eettine dirty, so he decided to make it up with her. He set out one evening to cross the frontier, but he was collared and put into prison for six inonths and now they say the wife has come back, the fool, but her husband is sitting in prison. ... So you also crossed the Polish frontier ? ’ i u‘ I didn’t do anything of the kind, said Hippolyte. ‘ My word of honour I didn’t,’ he added, for he felt that this young man was obstructing his way to the diamonds. ‘ I am a subject of Soviet Russia. After all, I can show you my passport.’ ‘ With the present rapid development of printing in the West it is easy enough to make a Bolffievik passport. It’s even siUy of you to mention it. One of my friends went so far as to print American dollars. 32

DIAMONDS TO SIT ON

and you know how difficult it is to forge dollars. You need special technical knowledge for that. He man­ aged to pass them on the Moscow Exchange, and then it turned out that his grandfather had bought them down in Kiev and was completely ruined. For, after aU, the dollars were false. So you never know, there may be a slip with your passport.’ Hippolyte was furious that instead of looking for the diamonds he was fastened in here in the porter’s room listening to the rattling tongue of an impudent fellow who went on and on about the shady trans­ actions of his friends. But he could not get away, and he was beginning to be afraid of this young man. He might go about the town telling people that the late marshal of nobility had returned, and that would be an end to everything. They might even put him in prison. ‘ You won’t tell any one that you’ve seen me ? ’ said Hippolyte pleadingly. ‘ They might really think that I’d come back from abroad.’ ‘ Now that’s excellent ! ’ said Bender. ‘ First there’s the truant who comes back to his native town and then he’s afraid of prison 1 ’

• But I’ve told you a thousand times that I’ve not

been abroad.’ ‘ Well, where have you been ? And why have you come here ? ” ‘ I’ve come ■ WeU, I’ve come from another town on business.' ‘ What business ? ’ ' WeU, if you must know, on personal business.’ ‘ And then you try to make out that you’re not one of the old regime. One of my friends also came back and'----- ’ At this, Hippolyte was almost desperate and gave in. ‘ All right,’ he said. ‘ I’ll tell you everything.’ ‘ After aU,’ he thought to himself, ‘ it wiU be difficult without some assistance. And this feUow seems to be a thorough rogue. Such a man may be very useful.’