The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Илья Ильф

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.

      «We all pass away», he said, «but please tell me on what business you're here, my dear … I don't know your name».

      «Voldemar», promptly replied Ostap.

      «Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good».

      The old man sat down at the table covered with patterned oilcloth and peered into Ostap's eyes.

      In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his parents. He much regretted that he had invaded the privacy of the respected record-keeper so late at night and disturbed him by the visit, but hoped that the respected record-keeper would forgive him when he knew what had brought him.

      «I would like to have some of my dad's furniture», concluded Ostap with inexpressible filial love, «as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the furniture from dad's house?»

      «That's difficult», said the old man after a moment's thought. «Only a well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask?»

      «I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines».

      The old man looked dubiously at young Vorobyaninov's green suit, but made no comment.

      «A smart young man», he thought.

      «A typical old bastard», decided Ostap, who had by then completed his observation of Korobeinikov.

      «So there you are», said Ostap.

      «So there you are», said the record-keeper. «It's difficult, but possible».

      «And it involves expense», suggested the refrigeration-plant owner helpfully.

      «A small sum…»

      «„Is nearer one's heart“, as Maupassant used to say. The information will be paid for».

      «All right then, seventy roubles».

      «Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?»

      The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine.

      «Joke if you will…»

      «I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?»

      «Have you the money on you?»

      Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket.

      «Then now, if you like», said Korobeinikov triumphantly.

      He lit a candle and led Ostap into the next room. Besides a bed, obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself, the room contained a desk piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves. The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the edges of the shelves. Bundles of orders bound with new string lay on the shelves.

      «Oho!» exclaimed the delighted Ostap. «A full set of records at home».

      «A complete set», said the record-keeper modestly. «Just in case, you know. The communal services don't need them and they might be useful to me in my old age. We're living on top of a volcano, you know. Anything can happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will have preserved it? Who will have looked after it? Korobeinikov! So the gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And I don't need very much; ten roubles an order will do me. Otherwise, they might as well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture without