"I beg you to find him.
Find out where he is.
You go everywhere; it won't be difficult for you.
Tell him I want to see him.
Do you hear?"
The parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on its perch, was startled by the noisy conversation; it turned upside down and froze in that position.
"Elena Stanislavovna," said the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his hands to his chest, "I will contact him."
"Would you like some more stewed fruit?" asked the fortune-teller, deeply touched.
Victor Mikhailovich consumed the stewed fruit irritably, gave Elena Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MIRROR-OF-LIFE INDEX
The next day the partners saw that it was no longer convenient to live in the caretaker's room.
Tikhon kept muttering away to himself and had become completely stupid, having seen his master first with a black moustache, then with a green one, and finally with no moustache at all.
There was nothing to sleep on.
The room stank of rotting manure, brought in on Tikhon's new felt boots.
His old ones stood in the corner and did not help to purify the air, either.
"I declare the old boys' reunion over," said Ostap. "We must move to a hotel."
Ippolit Matveyevich trembled.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I shall have to register."
"Aren't your papers in order?"
"My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town.
Rumours will spread."
The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.
"How do you like the name Michelson?" suddenly asked the splendid Ostap.
"Which Michelson?
The Senator?"
"No.
The member of the shop assistants' trade union."
"I don't get you."
"That's because you lack technical experience.
Don't be naive!"
Bender took a union card out of his green jacket and handed it to Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Konrad Karlovich Michelson, aged forty-eight, non-party member, bachelor; union member since 1921 and a person of excellent character; a good friend of mine and seems to be a friend of children. . . . But you needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you."
Ippolit Matveyevich turned red.
"But is it right? "
"Compared with our" concession, this misdeed, though it does come under the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game."
Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.
"You're an idealist, Konrad Karlovich.
You're lucky, otherwise you might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov."
There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon, the concessionaires went out into the street.
They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms.
Ostap threw the whole of the small hotel staff into confusion.
First he looked at the seven-rouble rooms, but disliked the furnishings.
The cleanliness of the five-rouble rooms pleased him more, but the carpets were shabby and there was an objectionable smell.
In the three-rouble rooms everything was satisfactory except for the pictures.
"I can't live in a room with landscapes," said Ostap.
They had to take a room for one rouble, eighty.
It had no landscapes, no carpets, and the furniture was very conservative -two beds and a night table.