Ilya and twelve chairs. Twelve Chairs (novel) Twelve Chairs of Forests

The fallen bust bounced listlessly in its overdyed blouse. Weight grew on the head
a head of graying hair. She was almost an old woman, she was almost dirty, she looked
She was suspicious of everyone and loved sweets. She made herself big
a pot of compote and ate it with brown bread, alone. The parrot follows
watched as she ate, half-closing her eyes with a gray suede eyelid. She walked
around the yard, and if Ippolit Matveevich saw her now, he would never
would have recognized Elena Bour, the beautiful prosecutor, about whom the court secretary once
yes, he said in verse that she was “calling for kisses, all so airy.”
At the well, Madame Bour was greeted by her neighbor, Victor Mikhailovi-
than Polesov, a brilliant mechanic-intellectual who collected water in
gasoline can. Polesov had the face of an opera devil, whom
carefully smeared with soot before being released on stage.
After exchanging greetings, the neighbors began talking about the matter that had occupied the entire
Stargorod.
“What have we come to,” Polesov said ironically, “yesterday the whole city
I ran around, but couldn’t reach the three-eighths of an inch dies. No. No! And the tram
They're going to let us in!..
Elena Stanislavovna, who had the same idea about three-eighths inch dies
the idea that a choreographer listener has about agriculture
physical courses named after Leonardo da Vinci, thinking that cottage cheese is extracted
from dumplings, - still sympathized:
- What kind of shops are they now? Now there are only queues and no shops. AND
These stores have the worst names. Stargiko!..
- No, you know, Elena Stanislavovna, that’s something else! They have four motors
"Universal Electric Company"* remained. Well, these will go somehow, ho-
The body is such rubbish!.. The glass is not on rubber. I saw it myself. Rattling
it will all be!.. Darkness! And the rest of the engines are Kharkov work*. Solid
Noy Gospromtsvetmet. Miles will not last*. I looked at them...
The brilliant locksmith fell silent irritably. His black face glittered
Sun. The whites of the eyes were yellowish. Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov was not
only a brilliant mechanic, but also a brilliant lazy person. Among the artisans with
engines, which abounded in Stargorod, it was the slowest and most
more likely to get into trouble. The reason for this was his excessive
ebullient nature. He was an ebullient lazy man. He was constantly foaming. IN
his own workshop, located in the second courtyard of house No. 7 on Pe-
Releshinsky Lane, it was impossible to catch him. Extinct portable
the forge stood lonely in the middle of a stone barn, at the corners of which there were
littered with punctured inner tubes, torn Triangle protectors*, red locks,
so huge that they could lock cities, crumpled fuel tanks,
what with the inscriptions "Indian" and "Wanderer"*, a baby spring stroller,
forever stalled dynamo, rotten rawhide belts, oil tow, worn-out
sandpaper, an Austrian bayonet and a lot of torn, bent and crushed
lazy rubbish.
The customers could not find Viktor Mikhailovich. Viktor Mikhailovich has already
was in charge somewhere. He had no time for work. He couldn't see calmly
a cart driver entering his or someone else's yard with luggage. Polesov now
went out into the yard and, folding his hands on his back, watched contemptuously
the actions of the driver. Finally his heart could not stand it.
- Who stops by like that? - he shouted, horrified. - Wrap it up!
The frightened driver turned around.
- Where are you going, muzzle?! - Viktor Mikhailovich suffered, next
melting onto the horse. - If they would have given you a slap in the face in the old days, then you would have...
was working!

Having given this command for half an hour, Polesov was about to return.
to the workshop, where an unrepaired bicycle pump was waiting for him, but then he
The calm life of the city was usually again disrupted by some misunderstanding.
Then on the street the axles of the carts were interlocking, and Viktor Mikhailovich was pointing out how
it is best and quickest to uncouple them; then they changed the telegraph pole, and the field
owls checked its perpendicularity to the ground with his own, specially
carried from the workshop by a plumb line; then finally a general meeting was held
residents. Then Viktor Mikhailovich stood in the middle of the yard and called the residents
hitting an iron board; but he was not able to attend the meeting itself.
vat. A fire train passed by, and Polesov, excited by the sounds of the trumpet and
incinerated by the fire of anxiety, he ran after the chariots.
However, at times Viktor Mikhailovich was overtaken by the elements of the real
actions. For several days he hid in the workshop and worked silently.
The children ran freely around the yard and shouted whatever they wanted, the dray trucks turned
they described any kind of curves in the yard; the carts on the street were generally
stopped interlocking, and the fire chariots and hearses, alone,
They were preparing for a fire, - Viktor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after one such
binge, he led into the yard, like a ram by the horns, a motorcycle made up of
pieces of cars, fire extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. Mo-
the 1 1/2-strength torus was Wanderer, the wheels were Davidson*, and others
significant parts have long since lost the company. Hanging from the saddle by twine
cardboard poster "Test". A crowd has gathered. Without looking at anyone, Victor
Mikhailovich turned the pedal with his hand. There was no spark for about ten minutes. Then
There was an iron chomping sound, the device began to tremble and was enveloped in dirty smoke. Vic-
Tor Mikhailovich threw himself into the saddle, and the motorcycle, picking up an insane speed,
carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the pavement and immediately stopped, as if
cut off by a bullet. Viktor Mikhailovich was about to get down and revise
to start her mysterious car, but she suddenly reversed and, passing
its creator through the same tunnel, stopped at the point of departure
- in the middle of the yard, she gasped grumpily and exploded. Viktor Mikhailovich survived
miraculously, and from the wreckage of a motorcycle, in the next drunken period, he created a stationary
a spinary engine, which was very similar to a real engine, but not
have worked.
The crowning achievement of the intellectual mechanic's academic activity was the epic with
the gate of house No. 5. The housing association of this house concluded with Victor Mihai-
agreement*, according to which Polesov undertook to bring iron gates
get the houses in perfect order and paint them some kind of economical
color, at your discretion. On the other hand, the housing association is obligated
wanted to pay V.M. Polesov, upon acceptance of the work by a special commission, 21
R. 75 kop. The revenue stamps were attributed to the performer of the work.
Viktor Mikhailovich stole the gate like Samson. In the workshop he and the entu-
Ziasmically set to work. It took two days to rive the gates. They were ra-
assembled into component parts. Cast iron curlicues lay in a baby stroller
ke, iron rods and spears were stacked under the workbench. Some more days
went through inspection of the damage. And then a big disaster happened in the city.
The problem is that the main water pipe on Drovyanaya burst, and Vik-
Tor Mikhailovich spent the rest of the week at the scene of the accident, smiling ironically

At the well, Madame Bour was greeted by her neighbor, Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov, brilliant an intellectual mechanic who filled water into a gasoline can. Polesov had the face of an opera devil, who was carefully smeared with soot before being released on stage.

After exchanging greetings, the neighbors began talking about the matter that was occupying the entire Stargorod.

“What a life we’ve had,” Polesov said ironically, “yesterday I ran around the whole city, but I couldn’t get hold of three-eighths of an inch dies.” No. No! And they are going to launch a tram!..

Elena Stanislavovna, who had the same idea about three-eighths inch dies as a student of the Leonardo da Vinci choreography course has about agriculture, thinking, that cottage cheese is made from dumplings, she nevertheless sympathized:

What kind of shops are they now? Now there are only queues and no shops. And the names of these stores are the worst. Stargiko!..

No, you know, Elena Stanislavovna, that’s something else! They still have four General Electric Company motors left. Well, these will work somehow, although the bodies are such rubbish!.. The windows are not on rubber. I saw it myself. Rattling This everything will be!.. Darkness! And the rest of the engines are Kharkov work. Solid Gospromtsvetmet. They won't last miles. I looked at them...

Ingenious locksmith fell silent irritably. His black face glistened in the sun. The whites of the eyes were yellowish. Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov was not only a brilliant mechanic, but also a brilliant lazy person. Among the handicraftsmen with motors that abounded in Stargorod, he was the most clumsy and most often got into trouble. Reason to that served by his overly ebullient nature. He was an ebullient lazy man. He was constantly foaming. It was impossible to find him in his own workshop, located in the second courtyard of house No. 7 on Pereleshinsky Lane. Extinct portable the forge stood forlornly in the middle of a stone barn, in the corners of which were piled pierced chambers, torn Triangle protectors, red locks so huge that they could lock cities, crumpled fuel tanks with the inscriptions “Indian” and “Wanderer”, a children's spring stroller, forever stalled dynamo, rotten rawhide belts, oil tow, worn sandpaper, an Austrian bayonet and a lot of torn, bent and crushed rubbish.

The customers could not find Viktor Mikhailovich. Viktor Mikhailovich was already giving orders somewhere. He had no time for work. He could not see calmly a cart driver entering his or someone else's yard with luggage. Polesov immediately went out into the yard and, folding his arms on the back, watched the driver’s actions with contempt. Finally his heart could not stand it.

Who stops by like that? - he shouted, horrified. - Wrap it up!

The frightened driver turned around.

Where are you going, muzzle?! - Viktor Mikhailovich suffered, running into a horse. - If they would have slapped you in the old days, then you would have wrapped it up!

Having given this command for half an hour, Polesov was about to return to the workshop, where his unrepaired bicycle pump was waiting for him, but then the calm life of the city was usually again disturbed by some misunderstanding. Either on the street the axles of the carts were interlocked, and Viktor Mikhailovich pointed out the best and fastest way to disengage them; then they changed a telegraph pole, and Polesov checked its perpendicularity to the ground with his own plumb line, specially taken from the workshop; then finally A general meeting of residents was held. Then Viktor Mikhailovich stood in the middle of the yard and called the residents together by hitting an iron board; but he was not able to attend the meeting itself. Passed by fire convoy, and Polesov, excited by the sounds of the trumpet and incinerated by the fire of anxiety, ran after the chariots.

However, at times Viktor Mikhailovich was overtaken by the elements of real action. For several days he hid in the workshop and worked silently. The children ran freely around the yard and shouted whatever they wanted, draymen wrapped and they described all sorts of curves in the yard, the carts on the street stopped connecting altogether, and fire chariots and hearses rolled alone towards the fire - Viktor Mikhailovich was working. Once, after one such binge, he led into the yard, like a ram by the horns, a motorcycle made up of pieces of cars, fire extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. Motor in 1 1/2 the forces were Wanderer, the wheels were Davidson, and other essential parts had long since lost the company. A cardboard poster “Test” hung from the saddle on a string. A crowd has gathered. Without looking at anyone, Viktor Mikhailovich turned the pedal with his hand. There was no spark for about ten minutes. Then an iron chomping sound was heard, the device trembled and was enveloped in dirty smoke. Viktor Mikhailovich threw himself into the saddle, and the motorcycle, picking up insane speed, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the pavement and immediately stopped, as if cut off by a bullet. Viktor Mikhailovich was about to get off and revise his mysterious machine, but it suddenly reversed and, carrying its creator through the same tunnel, stopped at the departure point - in the middle of the yard, gasped grumpily and exploded. Viktor Mikhailovich miraculously survived and from the wreckage of a motorcycle, in the next drunken period, he built a stationary engine, which was very similar to the real one. engine, but didn't work.

The crowning achievement of the intellectual mechanic's academic activity was the epic with the gate Houses No. 5. The housing association of this house entered into an agreement with Viktor Mikhailovich, according to which Polesov undertook to put the iron gates of the house in complete order and paint them in some economic color, at his discretion. On the other hand, the housing association was obliged to pay V.M. Polesov, upon acceptance of the work by a special commission, 21 rub. 75 kop. The revenue stamps were attributed to the performer of the work.

Viktor Mikhailovich stole the gate like Samson. In the workshop, he set to work with enthusiasm. It took two days to rive the gates. They were disassembled into their component parts. Cast iron curlicues lay in a baby carriage, iron rods and spears were folded under the workbench. A few more days passed to inspect the damage. And then a big trouble happened in the city - a main water pipe burst on Drovyanaya, and Viktor Mikhailovich spent the rest of the week at the scene of the accident, smiling ironically, shouting at the workers and constantly looking into the hole. When Viktor Mikhailovich's organizational fervor subsided somewhat, he again approached the gate, but it was too late: the courtyard children were already playing with cast-iron curlicues and spears at the gate of house No. 5. Seeing the angry mechanic, the children threw their curls and ran away. Half of the curls were missing and could not be found. After that, Viktor Mikhailovich completely lost interest in goal. And in house No. 5, which was wide open, terrible things happened. things: wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening stolen even a samovar boiling in the yard. Viktor Mikhailovich personally took part in the pursuit of the thief, but the thief, although he was carrying a boiling samovar in his outstretched hands, with flames gushing from the tin pipe, ran very quickly and, turning back, blasphemed Viktor Mikhailovich, who was in front of everyone, with unclean words. But the janitor of house No. 5 suffered the most. He lost his nightly income - there was no gate, there was nothing to open, and the residents who went on a spree had nothing to give their ten-kopeck coins for. First, the janitor came to inquire whether the gates would be assembled soon, then he begged Christ God and in the end he began to utter vague threats. The housing association sent written reminders to Viktor Mikhailovich. The case smelled like a trial. The situation became more and more tense.

Some researchers believe (and substantiate scientifically) that the wonderful book “12 Chairs” was written not by the rather mediocre political journalists Ilf and Petrov, but by none other than Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. Whether this is true or not is not for me to decide. But the book itself, “in Bulgakov’s style,” is brilliant, ironic and has long been “disassembled into quotes.”

So, looking at the tossing of our Russian government in the foreign policy field, starting in 2014, I have a strong feeling that Polesov has somehow “reincarnated” and now rules the Russian Federation. That is, he constantly rushes from one task to another, leaving the previous one in the most unsatisfactory state. Let me remind you: in the novel, Viktor Mikhailovich took out a contract to repair the gate, dismantled it completely, and then... there was a fire next door and Polesov ran off to “supervise” its extinguishing. While he was running, the kids stole a lot of parts, without which reassembly became impossible. And the “self-important boor” (janitor) does not sleep. And retribution is inevitable... Does this remind you of anything? Donbass... Syria... for example?

For the sake of fairness, I cannot help but refer to another author who has already made similar analogies regarding internal economic “initiatives”. http://gazzky-papa.livejournal.com/62317.html

And in this regard, I also completely agree with the indicated author... To my deep regret. Since Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov lives in our common yard... But, apparently, he is no longer working as an “intellectual mechanic”, no! Made his way to the building manager! Taking as the main advisers other characters of the immortal creation: the “son of a Turkish subject”, the former “leader of the nobility”, the undertaker Bezenchuk, the fortune teller with her parrot and all the others... including the heroes of the “Golden Calf” led by the “sits-chairman Pound” and the head of "Hercules" Polykhaev...

It's sad, gentlemen and comrades! Extremely sad!

IGOR STRELKOV

“a giant of thought, the father of Russian democracy. The ears of a dead donkey are like a dead donkey. You will get it from Pushkin.

and a person close to the emperor.” We will wear cambric foot wraps and eat Margot cream.

“Monsieur, it’s not mange pas sis jour. Gebenzi Are there any of us in the city?

mir bitte etvas kopek auf dem stück ford"

Creation of SF Putin completely outplayed the “Second Term Team”, finally turning Medvedev in Kisu. The consequences inevitably affected the income and expenses of the competition participants. " A meeting was held at the Effective Policy Foundation, at which it was announced that due to financial difficulties, FEP was almost completely curtailing its activities, and most employees were leaving without severance pay" This means that the oligarchic business has been completely ordered to finance the project “The Second Term of President Medvedev,” which FEP has been involved in since the end of 2010. The project was terminated as having no prospects. It became more difficult and Chubais, as the main sponsor of the Right Cause - note, at the expense of the state corporation RosNano - therefore, an “outstanding businessman” was brought into the project Prokhorova. Which, for all its stupidity, is clearly not ready to finance the “Twitter revolution”. Pavlovsky,located in the USA , knocks out money under " competing organization" “Foreign countries will help us, the deposits are completely secret.”

Father Fedor - “competing organization”

« At night he roared so loudly that at times he drowned out the Terek, in the morning he fortified himself with amateur sausage and bread and laughed satanically at the cars passing below»

« Having read in some livestock magazine that rabbit meat is as tender as chicken, that they breed in abundance, and that breeding them can bring considerable profits to a zealous owner, Father Fedor immediately acquired half a dozen breeders. Since no one was buying rabbits, the Vostrikovs decided to serve delicious home-cooked dinners... The new idea was a great success... There was no time to skin the rabbits. For a whole week, things were going great, then a completely unforeseen incident occurred... The workers of the neighboring cooperative rolled out a barrel of rotten cabbage, attracted by the piquant smell, the rabbits ran to the pit, and the next morning a pestilence began among the delicate rodents. He raged for only three hours, but killed all 240 breeders and all the offspring that could not be counted».

Nikifor Lyapis-Trubetskoy - a young man with a mutton hairstyle and an undaunted gaze...

...said he would go to the Caucasus...

- Aren’t you afraid, Lapsus? There are jackals there!

- This scares me very much! They are not poisonous in the Caucasus!

- This seems to be your first experience in prose? Congratulations! “The waves rolled over the pier and fell down like a swift jack”...

Bezenchuks,coffin master in the district town N

« Communists, they are in a swing there, do they really give you goods? But with us, every coffin is a cucumber!»

Members of the "Union of Sword and Ploughshare":

Victor Mikhailovich Polesov - a brilliant mechanic-intellectual, a lone craftsman with a motor.

Polesov had the face of an opera devil, who was carefully smeared with soot before being released on stage. Among the handicraftsmen with motors that abounded in Stargorod, he was the slowest and the most likely to get into trouble. The reason for this was his overly ebullient nature. He was an ebullient lazy man. He was constantly foaming. An extinct portable forge stood forlornly in the middle of a stone shed, in the corners of which were piled pierced cameras, torn Triangle protectors, red locks so huge that they could lock cities, crumpled fuel tanks with the inscriptions “Indian” and “Wanderer”, a baby spring stroller, a forever stalled dynamo, rotten rawhide belts, oil tow, worn sandpaper, an Austrian bayonet and a lot of torn, bent and crushed rubbish. The customers could not find Viktor Mikhailovich. Viktor Mikhailovich was already giving orders somewhere. He had no time for work. He could not see a drayman with luggage calmly entering his or someone else’s yard. Polesov immediately went out into the yard and, folding his hands on his back, contemptuously watched the actions of the driver. Finally his heart could not stand it.

- Who stops by like that? - he shouted, horrified. - Wrap it up!

The frightened driver turned around.

- Where are you going, muzzle?! - Viktor Mikhailovich suffered, running into a horse. - If they would have slapped you in the old days, then you would have wrapped it up!

Having commanded like this for half an hour, Polesov was about to return to the workshop, where his unrepaired bicycle pump was waiting for him... at times Viktor Mikhailovich was overtaken by the elements of real action. For several days he hid in the workshop and worked silently... One day, after one such binge, he brought out into the yard, like a ram by the horns, a motorcycle made up of pieces of cars, fire extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters …

Elena Stanislavovna Bour - former beautiful prosecutor, Vorobyaninov’s mistress

Kislyarsky - head of the Odessa bagel artel “Moscow Bagels”

Dyadyev - owner of "Bystropack"

Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov - former member of the city duma, and now miraculously ranked among the co-workers

Nikesha and Vladya - fully matured klutzes, about thirty years old

Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov -
was reputed to be an educated woman and even knew the word “homosexuality”

Bartholomew Korobeinikov - manager Stargorod archive, former official of the office of the city government, now a clerical worker

Kolya Kalachov- Bender’s Moscow friend, with whom he planned to stay in the dormitory for chemistry students named after monk Berthold Schwartz

One-eyed chess player - « Everyone wanted to take a personal part in the reprisal against the grandmaster. . His only eye sparkled in the night like a beacon».

The biggest problems arise with the role Alexander Yakovlevich(“Alchen”), the caretaker of the 2nd house of Starsobes, a shy thief - since absolutely everyone is suitable for his role...

House No. 7 on Pereleshinsky Lane was not one of the best buildings in Stargorod. Its two floors, built in the rampant style of the Second Empire, were nevertheless decorated with beaten lion faces, unusually similar to the face of the once famous writer Artsybashev. There were exactly eight Artsybash faces, according to the number of windows facing the alley, and these lion hari were placed in the window keys. There were two more decorations on the house, but of a purely commercial nature. On one side there is an azure sign “Odessa Bagel Artel - “Moscow Bagels”. The sign showed a young man wearing a tie and short French trousers. He held it in one, inverted inside out in his hand was a fabulous cornucopia, from which ocher Moscow bagels poured out like an avalanche, passing off out of necessity and as Odessa bagels. At the same time, the young man smiled voluptuously. On the other hand, the packaging company "Bystropack" notified respected "gr. gr." customers with a black sign with round gold letters.

Despite the noticeable difference in signs and the amount of working capital, both of these disparate enterprises were engaged in the same business - they speculated in manufacture of all types: coarse wool, fine wool, worsted, cotton, and if you came across silk of good colors and designs, then silk.

After passing through the gate, filled with tunnel darkness and water, and turning right into the courtyard with a cement well, one could see two doors without porches, opening directly onto the sharp stones of the courtyard. A plaque of dull copper with a family name carved on it in handwritten letters. "IN. M. Polesov” - was placed on the right door. The left one was equipped with a white tin of “Fashions and Hats.” This was also just an appearance. Inside fashion and hat apartments there was no spartry, no decoration, no headless mannequins with an officer's bearing, no big-headed blanks for elegant ladies' hats "Georgette". Instead of all this tinsel, in a three-room apartment lived an immaculate white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was plagued by fleas, but he could not complain to anyone because he did not speak in a human voice. The parrot spent whole days gnawing sunflower seeds and spitting out the husks through the bars of the tower cage. on the carpet. All he needed was a harmonica and new whistling galoshes to look like a lone handicraftsman who had been on a spree. On the windows hung dark brown curtains with plaques, And The apartment was dominated by dark brown tones. Above the piano hung a reproduction paintings Beklina “Island of the Dead” in a fantasy frame of dark green polished oak under glass. One corner of the glass had long since fallen off, and the naked part of the picture was so covered with flies that it completely merged with the frame. It was no longer possible to find out what was going on in this part of the island of the dead.

In the bedroom, on iron bed, the hostess herself was sitting and, leaning her elbows on an octagonal table covered with an unclean cutwork tablecloth, laying out cards. In front of her sat the widow Gritsatsuev in a fluffy shawl.

“I must warn you, girl, that I don’t charge less than fifty kopecks for a session,” said the hostess.

The widow, who knew no barriers in her quest to find a new husband, agreed to pay the set price.

Only you please future, - she asked plaintively.

You need to guess the queen of clubs, - the hostess reported.

I have always been the queen of hearts, - the widow objected.

The hostess agreed indifferently and began to combine cards. A rough definition of a widow's fate was given within a few minutes. The widow was in for big and small troubles, on Her heart lay with the king of clubs, with whom the queen of diamonds was friends.

They used their hands to tell fortunes. The lines of the widow Gritsatsueva’s hand were pure, powerful and immaculate. The line of life extended so far that its end touched the pulse, and if the line spoke the truth, the widow should have lived to see world revolution. The lines of intelligence and art gave the right to hope that If the widow will give up selling groceries, That will give humanity unsurpassed masterpieces in any field of art, science or social science. The widow's Venus mounds resembled Manchurian hills and revealed wonderful reserves of love and tenderness.

The fortune teller explained all this to the widow, using words and terms accepted among graphologists, palmists and horse dealers.

“Thank you, madam,” said the widow, “now I know who the king of clubs is.” And the Queen of Diamonds is also very familiar to me. Is the king maryazhny?

- King? Maryazhny, girl.

The inspired widow walked home. And the fortune teller, having thrown the cards into the box, yawned, showed the mouth of a fifty-year-old woman and went into the kitchen. There she fiddled with lunch, preparing on the kerosene stove "Gretz", wiped her hands on her apron like a cook, took chipped enamel bucket and went out into the yard to get water. There was no running water in the house.

She walked across the yard, walking heavily on her flat feet. Her dilapidated bust bounced languidly in her overdyed blouse. A crown of graying hair grew on his head. She was almost an old woman, she was almost dirty, looked at everyone suspiciously and loved sweets. She made herself large pots of compote and ate it with brown bread, alone. The parrot watched her eat, half-closing his eyes with his gray suede eyelid. She walked across the yard, and if If Ippolit Matveevich saw her now, he would never recognize her Elena Bour, beautiful prosecutor, about which the court secretary once said in verse that she was “calling for kisses, all so airy.”

After exchanging greetings, the neighbors began talking about the matter that was occupying the entire Stargorod.

Elena Stanislavovna, who had the same idea about three-eighths inch dies as a student of the Leonardo da Vinci choreography course has about agriculture, thinking that cottage cheese is made from dumplings, she still sympathized:

What kind of shops are they now? Now there are only queues and no shops. And the names of these stores are the worst. Stargiko!..

Ingenious locksmith fell silent irritably. His black face glistened in the sun. The whites of the eyes were yellowish. Viktor Mikhailovich Polesov was not only a brilliant mechanic, but also a brilliant lazy person. Among the handicraftsmen with motors that abounded in Stargorod, he was the most clumsy and most often got into trouble. Reason to that served by his overly ebullient nature. He was an ebullient lazy man. He was constantly foaming. It was impossible to find him in his own workshop, located in the second courtyard of house No. 7 on Pereleshinsky Lane. Extinct portable the forge stood forlornly in the middle of a stone barn, in the corners of which were piled pierced chambers, torn Triangle protectors, red locks so huge that they could lock cities, crumpled fuel tanks with the inscriptions “Indian” and “Wanderer”, a children's spring stroller, forever stalled dynamo, rotten rawhide belts, oil tow, worn-out sandpaper, Austrian shank and a lot of torn, bent and crushed rubbish.

The customers could not find Viktor Mikhailovich. Viktor Mikhailovich was already giving orders somewhere. He had no time for work. He could not see calmly a cart driver entering his or someone else's yard with luggage. Polesov immediately went out into the yard and, folding his arms on the back, contemptuously watched the driver’s actions. Finally his heart could not stand it.

Who stops by like that? - he shouted, horrified. - Wrap it up! The frightened driver turned around.

Where are you going, muzzle?! - Viktor Mikhailovich suffered, running into a horse. - If they would have slapped you in the old days, then you would have wrapped it up!

Viktor Mikhailovich stole the gate like Samson. In the workshop, he set to work with enthusiasm. It took two days to rive the gates. They were disassembled into their component parts. Cast iron curlicues lay in a baby carriage, iron rods and spears were folded under the workbench. It took several more days to inspect the damage. And then a big trouble happened in the city - a main water pipe burst on Drovyanaya, and Viktor Mikhailovich spent the rest of the week at the scene of the accident, smiling ironically, shouting at the workers and constantly looking into the hole. When Viktor Mikhailovich’s organizational ardor subsided somewhat, he again approached the gate, but it was too late: the courtyard children were already playing with cast-iron curlicues and spears at the gate of house No. 5. Seeing the angry mechanic, the children threw the curls and ran away. Half of the curls were missing and could not be found. After that, Viktor Mikhailovich completely lost interest in goal. And in house No. 5, which was wide open, terrible things happened. things: wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening stolen even a samovar boiling in the yard. Viktor Mikhailovich personally took part in the pursuit of the thief, but the thief, although he was carrying a boiling samovar in his outstretched hands, with flames gushing from the tin pipe, ran very quickly and, turning back, blasphemed Viktor Mikhailovich, who was in front of everyone, with unclean words. But the janitor of building No. 5 suffered the most. He lost his nightly income - there was no gate, there was nothing to open, and the residents who had gone on a spree had nothing to give their kopecks for. First, the janitor came to inquire whether the gates would be assembled soon, then he begged Christ God, and in the end began to utter vague threats. The housing association sent written reminders to Viktor Mikhailovich. The case smelled like a trial. The situation became more and more tense.

Standing at the well, the fortune teller and the enthusiastic mechanic continued their conversation.

“If there is a lack of impregnated sleepers,” Viktor Mikhailovich shouted to the whole yard, “this will not be a tram, but a disaster!”

When already this is all it will end,” said Elena Stanislavovna, “we live like savages.”

There is no end to this... Yes! Do you know who I saw today? Vorobyaninov!

Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the well, still holding a full bucket of water in amazement.

I come to Kommunkhoz to renew the rental agreement for the workshop, I’m walking down the corridor. Suddenly two people come up to me. I see something familiar. It’s like Vorobyaninov’s face. And he asks: “Tell me, what kind of institution was here before, in this building?” I say that there used to be a girls’ gymnasium here, and then a housing department. “Why do you need it?” - I ask. A He says “thank you” - and moves on. Then I clearly saw that it was myself Vorobyaninov. Where did he come from here? AND That with him was a handsome man. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought...

At that moment, Viktor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant. Interrupting his speech, he grabbed his can and quickly hid behind a trash can. The janitor of house No. 5 slowly entered the courtyard, stopped near the well and began to look around the courtyard buildings. Not noticing Viktor Mikhailovich anywhere, he became sad.

Is Vitka the mechanic missing again? - he asked Elena Stanislavovna.

“Oh, I don’t know anything,” said the fortune teller, “I don’t know anything.”

And in extraordinary excitement, dumping out water from the bucket, hurriedly went to her room.

The janitor stroked the cement side of the well and walked towards the workshop. Two steps after the sign “Going to the locksmith’s workshop” there was a sign “Locksmith’s workshop and repair of Primus stoves”, under which hung a heavy lock. The janitor kicked the lock and said with hatred:

Ooh, gangrene!

The janitor stood at the workshop for another three minutes, filled with the most poisonous feelings, then with a roar he tore off the sign and carried it to middle the yard to the well and, standing on her with both feet, began to make a row.

Thieves are in your house № 7 live! - the janitor yelled. - All sorts of bastards! Seven-father viper! He has a secondary education!.. I won’t look at a secondary education!.. Damn gangrene! ! !

At this time, the seven-father viper with a secondary education was sitting on a can behind the trash can and was sad.

The frames swung open with a bang, and cheerful residents looked out of the windows. Curious people slowly entered the courtyard from the street. At the sight of the audience, the janitor became even more excited.

Mechanical mechanic! - the janitor screamed. - Dog aristocrat!

The janitor richly interspersed his parliamentary expressions with obscene words, which he preferred. The weak female class, densely clinging to the window sills, was very indignant at the janitor, but did not leave the windows.

I'll turn Kharya around! - the janitor raged. - Educated!

When the scandal was at its zenith, a policeman appeared and silently began to drag janitor to the area. The policeman was helped by the guys from Bystropack. The janitor obediently hugged the policeman by the neck and began to cry. sobbing The danger is over. Then an exhausted Viktor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the trash can. The audience was noisy.

Ham! - Viktor Mikhailovich shouted after the procession. - Ham! I'll show you! Scoundrel! The janitor, who was sobbing bitterly, did not hear any of this. They carried him in their arms to the department, there and, as material evidence, they dragged the sign “Mechanism workshop and repair of primus stoves.” Viktor Mikhailovich swaggered for a long time.

“Sons of bitches,” he told the audience, “have grown to think of themselves.” Boors!

It will be for you, Viktor Mikhailovich! - Elena Stanislavovna shouted from the window. - Come see me for a minute.

She placed a saucer of compote in front of Viktor Mikhailovich and, pacing around the room, began asking questions.

Yes, I’m telling you that it’s him, without a mustache, but he,” Viktor Mikhailovich shouted as usual, “well, I know him perfectly well!” Vorobyaninov, like the spitting image!

Quiet, Lord! Why did he come here, do you think?

An ironic smile appeared on Viktor Mikhailovich’s black face.

Well, what do you think?

He grinned with even greater irony.

In any case, don’t sign treaties with the Bolsheviks.

Do you think he is in danger?

The reserves of irony accumulated by Viktor Mikhailovich over ten years of revolution were inexhaustible. A series of smiles of varying strength and skepticism began to appear on his face.

Who in Soviet Russia is not in danger, especially a person in such a position as Vorobyaninov? The mustache, Elena Stanislavovna, is not shaved for nothing.

Was he sent from abroad? - Elena Stanislavovna asked, almost suffocating.

“Of course,” answered the brilliant locksmith.

For what purpose is he here?

Don't be a child.

Doesn't matter. I need to see him.

Do you know what you are risking?

Oh, it doesn't matter! After ten years of separation, I cannot help but see Ippolit Matveevich. It actually seemed to her that fate separated them at the time when they loved each other.

I beg you, 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?

A parrot in red underpants, dozing on a perch, was frightened by the noisy conversation, turned upside down and froze in that state.

Elena Stanislavovna,” said the mechanic, rising up and pressing my hands to my chest, I will find him and contact him.

Maybe you'd like some more compote? - the fortune teller was touched.

Viktor Mikhailovich ate the compote, gave an angry lecture about the incorrect design of the parrot cage and said goodbye to Elena Stanislavovna, recommending that she keep everything in the strictest confidence.