"I bought some furniture and went through my budget."
"And how much furniture did you buy?
You get paid for your pot-boilers as much as they're worth-a kopek."
"A kopek be damned.
I bought a chair at an auction which-"
"Is sort of like a snake? "
"No, from a palace.
But I had some bad luck.
Yesterday when I arrived back from-"
"Hina Chlek's," cried everyone present in one voice.
"Hina!
I haven't lived with Hina for years.
I was returning from a discussion on Mayakovsky.
I went in.
The window was open.
I felt at once something had happened."
"Dear, dear," said Persidsky, covering his face with his hands. "I feel, Comrades, that Lapis's greatest masterpiece has been stolen. 'Gavrila had a job as doorman; Gavrila used to open doors.'"
"Let me finish.
Absolute vandalism!
Some wretches had got into the apartment and ripped open the entire chair covering.
Could anyone lend me five roubles for the repairs?"
"Compose a new Gavrila for the repairs.
I'll even give you the beginning.
Wait a moment. Yes, I know.
'Gavrila hastened to the market, Gavrila bought a rotten chair.'
Write it down quickly.
You can make some money on that in the Chest-of-Drawers Gazette. Oh, Trubetskoi, Trubetskoi!
Anyway, why are you called Trubetskoi?
Why don't you choose a better name?
Niki for Dolgoruky.
Or Nikifor Valois.
Or, still better, Citizen Niki-for Sumarokov-Elston.
If ever you manage to get some easy job, then you can write three lines for Gerasim right away and you have a marvellous way to save yourself.
One piece of rubbish is signed Sumarokov, the second Elston, and the third Yusupov. God, you hack!"
CHAPTER THIRTY
IN THE COLUMBUS THEATRE
Ippolit Matveyevich was slowly becoming a boot-licker.
Whenever he looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge.
It was so hot in Ivanopulo's room that Vorobyaninov's chairs creaked like logs in the fireplace.
The smooth operator was having a nap with the light-blue waistcoat under his head.
Ippolit Matveyevich looked out of the window.
A carriage emblazoned with a coat of arms was moving along the curved side street, past the tiny Moscow gardens.
The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after another, a horseguard in a brass helmet, society ladies, and fluffy white clouds.
Drumming the roadway with their hooves, the horses drew the carriage past Ippolit Matveyevich.
He winced with disappointment.
The carriage bore the initials of the Moscow communal services and was being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all.
In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking old man with a fluffy white beard.
If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was none other than Count Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would probably have hailed the old man and chatted with him about the good old days.
Count Bulanov was deeply troubled.
As he whipped up the horses, he mused about the red tape that was strangling the sub-department of sanitation, and on account of which he had not received for six months the apron he was entitled to under his contract.