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

«Father!» he exclaimed, removing his hands from the chair in astonishment.

Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally loosed his grip. The chair, no longer supported by either of them, fell on to the brick-strewn ground.

«Where's your moustache, my dear Ippolit Matveyevich?» asked the cleric as caustically as possible.

«And what about your curls? You used to have curls, I believe!»

Ippolit Matveyevich's words conveyed utter contempt. He threw Father Theodore a look of singular disgust and, tucking the chair under his arm, turned to go. But the priest had now recovered from his embarrassment and was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of «No, I'm sorry», he grasped hold of the chair again. Their initial position was restored. The two opponents stood clutching the chair and, moving from side to side, sized one another up like cats or boxers. The tense pause lasted a whole minute.

«So you're after my property, Holy Father?» said Ippolit Matveyevich through clenched teeth and kicked the holy father in the hip.

Father Theodore feinted and viciously kicked the marshal in the groin, making him double up.

«It's not your property».

«Whose then?»

«Not yours!»

«Whose then?»

«Not yours!»

«Whose then? Whose?»

Spitting at each other in this way, they kept kicking furiously.

«Whose property is it then?» screeched the marshal, sinking his foot in the holy father's stomach.

«It's nationalized property», said the holy father firmly, overcoming his pain.

«Nationalized?»

«Yes, nationalized».

They were jerking out the words so quickly that they ran together.

«Who-nationalized-it?»

«The-Soviet-Government. The-Soviet-Government».

«Which-government?»

«The-working-people's-government».

«Aha!» said Ippolit Matveyevich icily. «The government of workers and peasants?»

«Yes!»

«Hmm … then maybe you're a member of the Communist Party, Holy Father?»

«Maybe I am!»

Ippolit Matveyevich could no longer restrain himself and with a shriek of «Maybe you are» spat juicily in Father Theodore's kindly face. Father Theodore immediately spat in Ippolit Matveyevich's face and also found his mark. They had nothing with which to wipe away the spittle since they were still holding the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich made a noise like a door opening and thrust the chair at his enemy with all his might. The enemy fell over, dragging the panting Vorobyaninov with him. The struggle continued in the stalls.

Suddenly there was a crack and both front legs broke on simultaneous'y. The opponents completely forgot one another and began tearing the walnut treasure-chest to pieces. The flowered English chintz split with the heart-rending scream of a seagull. The back was torn off by a mighty tug. The treasure hunters ripped off the sacking together with the brass tacks and, grazing their hands on the springs, buried their fingers in the woollen stuffing. The disturbed springs hummed. Five minutes later the chair had been picked clean. Bits and pieces were all that was left. Springs rolled in all directions, and the wind blew the rotten padding all over the clearing. The curved legs lay in a hole. There were no jewels.

«Well, have you found anything?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich, panting.

Father Theodore, covered in tufts of wool, puffed and said nothing.

«You crook!» shouted Ippolit Matveyevich. «I'll break your neck, Father Theodore!»

«I'd like to see you!» retorted the priest. «Where are you going all covered in fluff?» «Mind your own business!»

«Shame on you, Father! You're nothing but a thief!» «I've stolen nothing from you».

«How did you find out about this? You exploited the sacrament of confession for your own ends. Very nice! Very fine!»

With an indignant «Fooh!» Ippolit Matveyevich left the clearing and, brushing his sleeve as he went, made for home. At the corner of Lena Massacre and Yerogeyev streets he caught sight of his partner. The technical adviser and director-general of the concession was having the suede uppers of his boots cleaned with canary polish; he was standing half-turned with one foot slightly raised. Ippolit Matveyevich hurried up to him. The director was gaily crooning the shimmy:

«The camels used to do it,
The barracudas used to dance it,
Now the whole world's doing the shimmy».

«Well, how was the housing division?» he asked in a businesslike way, and immediately added:

«Wait a moment. Don't tell me now; you're too excited. Cool down a little».

Giving the shoeshiner seven kopeks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm and led him down the street. He listened very carefully to everything the agitated Ippolit Matveyevich told him.

«Aha! A small black beard? Right! A coat with a sheepskin collar? I see. That's the chair from the pensioner's home. It was bought today for three roubles».

«But wait a moment…».

And Ippolit Matveyevich told the chief concessionaire all about Father Theodore's low tricks.

Ostap's face clouded.

«Too bad», he said. «Just like a detective story. We have a mysterious rival. We must steal a march on him. We can always break his head later».

As the friends were having a snack in the Stenka Razin beer-hall and Ostap was asking questions about the past and present state of the housing division, the day came to an end.

The golden carthorses became brown again. The diamond drops grew cold in mid-air and plopped on to the ground. In the beer-halls and Phoenix restaurant the price of beer went up. Evening had come; the street lights on Greater Pushkin Street lit up and a detachment of Pioneers went by, stamping their feet, on the way home from their first spring outing.

The tigers, figures of victory, and cobras on top of the province-planning administration shone mysteriously in the light of the advancing moon.

As he made his way home with Ostap, who was now suddenly silent, Ippolit Matveyevich gazed at the tigers and cobras. In his time, the building had housed the Provincial Government and the citizens had been proud of their cobras, considering them one of the sights of Stargorod.