Polesov jumped into the saddle, and the motor-cycle, accelerating madly, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the roadway and stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and investigate the mysterious vehicle when it suddenly reversed and, whisking its creator through the same tunnel, stopped at its original point of departure in the yard, grunted peevishly, and blew up. Victor Mikhailovich escaped by a miracle and during the next bout of activity used the bits of the motor-cycle to make a stationary engine, very similar to a real one-except that it did not work.
The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing cooperative that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he undertook to repair the iron gates and paint them any colour he liked. For its part, the housing cooperative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.
Victor Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set to work in his shop with enthusiasm. It took several days to un-rivet the gates. They were taken to pieces. Iron curlicues lay in the pram; iron bars and spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to inspect the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in the town. A water main burst on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of the misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen, and every few minutes looking into the hole in the ground.
As soon as his organizational ardour had somewhat abated, Polesov returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard were already playing with the iron curlicues and spikes of the gates of no. 5. Seeing the wrathful mechanic, the children dropped their playthings and fled. Half the curlicues were missing and were never found. After that Polesov lost interest in the gates.
But then terrible things began to happen in no. 5, which was now wide open to all. The wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening someone even carried off a samovar that was singing in the yard. Polesov himself took part in the pursuit, but the thief ran at quite a pace, even though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over his shoulder, covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the lead, with foul abuse. The one who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5. He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to open, and residents returning from a spree had no one to give a tip to. At first the yard-keeper kept coming to ask if the gates would soon be finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats. The housing cooperative sent Polesov written reminders, and there was talk of taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.
Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the mechanic-enthusiast continued their conversation.
«Given the absence of seasoned sleepers», cried Victor Mikhailovich for the whole yard to hear, «it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!»
«When will all this end!» said Elena Stanislavovna. «We live like savages!»
«There's no end to it…. Yes. Do you know who I saw today? Vorobyaninov».
In her amazement Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the wall, continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.
«I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for the hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly two people came towards me. One of them seemed familiar; he looked like Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days. I told them it used to be a girls' secondary school, and later became the housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said, Thanks' and went off. Then I saw clearly that it really was Vorobyaninov, only without his moustache. The other one with him was a fine-looking fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought…»
At that moment Victor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant. Breaking off what he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind the dustbin. Into the yard sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped by the well and began looking round at the buildings. Not seeing Polesov anywhere, he asked sadly:
«Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?»
«I really don't know», said the fortune-teller. «I don't know at all». And with unusual nervousness she hurried off to her apartment, spilling water from the pail.
The yard-keeper stroked the cement block at the top of the well and went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:
ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP
was another sign:
METAL WORKSHOP
AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS
under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the padlock and said with loathing:
«Ugh, that stinker!»
He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet, began creating an unholy row.
«You have thieves in no. 7!» howled the yard-keeper. «Riffraff of all kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!»
During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
«Fitter-mechanic!» he cried. «Damn aristocrat!»
The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed where they were.
«I'll push his face in!» he raged. «Education indeed!»
While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly began hauling the fellow off to the police station. He was assisted by Some young toughs from Fastpack. The yard-keeper put his arms around the militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.
A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin. There was a stir among the audience.
«Bum!» cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. «I'll show you! You louse!»
But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear. He was carried to the police station, and the sign «Metal Workshop and Primus Stove Repairs» was also taken along as factual evidence. Victor Mikhailovich bristled with fury for some time.
«Sons of bitches!» he said, turning to the spectators. «Conceited bums!»
«That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich», called Elena Stanislavovna from the window. «Come in here a moment».
She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up and down the room, began asking him questions.
«But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him», said Polesov, shouting as usual. «I know him well. It was the spitting image of Vorobyaninov».
«Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?»
An ironic smile appeared
