But to get to the point.
In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is considerably greater than Rostov.
But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic.
There are many people from other parts here.
Especially Armenians and Persians.
It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother.
I went to the bazaar and saw many Turkish clothes and shawls.
I wanted to buy you a present of a Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money.
Then I thought that when we are rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedan blanket.
Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian; and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary.
Both these happenings greatly amazed me.
Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviour towards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, but had actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig.
As for the jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it was covered with kerosene, believe it or not.
Don't mention a word about it, my dearest.
Is Estigneyev still having meals?
I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance to say anything.
Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil.
But he's not here just now.
He's gone to Batumi on vacation.
His family is living permanently in Batumi.
I spoke to some people and they said all his furniture is there in Batumi.
He has a little house there, at the Green Cape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear).
It costs Rs. 15 from here to Batumi.
Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news from Batumi.
Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed in Voronezh.
Your husband ever, Theo.
P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value.
I'm very grieved.
A good thing it's summer.
Don't say anything to your brother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
EXPULSION FROM PARADISE
While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would wait, and others that it would not, time passed in its usual way.
The dusty Moscow May was followed by a dusty June. In the regional centre of N., the Gos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan Square and Comrade Gubernsky Street for two days, now and then enveloping the vicinity in desperate quantities of smoke.
One by one the shamefaced members of the Sword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison, having signed a statement that they would not leave the town.
Widow Gritsatsuyev (the passionate woman and poet's dream) returned to her grocery business and was fined only fifteen roubles for not placing the price list of soap, pepper, blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in a big-hearted woman.
"Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!"
Ippolit Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into his quivering hands.
Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness.
A beacon flashed on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river and swam after the ship.
"Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else."
"There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Then you have a look as well."
Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his arm as far as he could inside the chair.
He could feel the ends of the springs between his fingers, but nothing else that was hard.
There was a dry, stale smell of disturbed dust from the chair.
"Nothing?"
"No."
Ostap picked up the chair and hurled it far over the side.
There was a heavy splash.