In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

✦ 83 ✦ 8 Traces of the Titanic ippolit matveevich woke up from habit at seven thirty, murmured “Gut Morgen,” and went over to the washstand. He washed with great pleasure, spit, keened, and shook his head to get rid of the water that had run into his ears. It was pleasant to wipe the water off. But when he pulled the towel from his face, Ippolit Matveevich saw that it was stained with the same radically black hue that had colored his horizontal mustache since the day before yesterday. Ippolit Matveevich’s heart guttered suddenly. He rushed to get his pocket mirror. Reflected in the little mirror were his large nose and the left half of a mustache as green as new grass. Ippolit Matveevich hurriedly shifted the little mirror to the right. The right half of the mustache was the exact same sickening color. Lowering his head as though he intended to butt the mirror with it, the unfortunate man saw that the radical black color still reigned in the middle of his hair, but its edges were lined with the same grassy border . Ippolit Matveevich’s entire being issued such a loud moan that Ostap Bender opened his eyes. “You’re crazy,” Bender exclaimed, and shut his sleepy lids tight again. “Comrade Bender,” the victim of the Titanic whispered pleadingly. Ostap woke up after much jostling and persuasion. He gave Ippolit Matveevich a good, long look and broke into joyful laughter. The primary manager of operations and technical di- 84 ✦ the lion of stargorod rector turned away from the director and founder of the concession and started shaking. He grasped at the headboard of the bed, shouted “I just can’t take it!” and raged once more. “This behavior on your part is uncalled for, Comrade Bender!” Ippolit Matveevich said, trembling and twitching his green mustache. This gave Ostap, who had been on the verge of exhaustion, new strength. His frank, sincere laughter continued for at least ten more minutes. He caught his breath and abruptly became dead serious. “Why are you giving me such a dirty look, like a soldier at a louse? You should take a look at yourself!” “But the pharmacist told me that it would be a radical black color. It doesn’t wash off in either cold or hot water, or with soap, or with kerosene . . . It’s contraband merchandise . . .” “Contraband? All contraband is made in Odessa, on Malaya Arnautskaya Street. Show me the bottle . . . And now look here. Did you read that?” “Yes.” “What about that, the part that’s in fine print? It’s clearly stated here that after washing with hot and cold water, or soap and kerosene, you need to not wipe your hair dry, but dry it in the sun or over a primus stove . . . Why didn’t you air-dry it? Where are you going to go now with that lime-green fake?” Ippolit Matveevich was utterly dejected. Tikhon came in. Upon catching sight of his master with a green mustache, he crossed himself and asked for money for a hair of the dog. “Give a ruble to the hero of labor,” Ostap suggested, “and please, don’t charge it to my account! This is your own intimate business with a former coworker . . . Wait a minute, father, don’t go anywhere, we’ve got a little something to take care of.” Ostap started up a conversation with the dvornik about furniture , and five minutes later the concessionaires knew every- thing. In 1919, all the furniture had been carted off to the Department of Housing, with the exception of one parlor chair that had been in Tikhon’s possession at first, but was later taken away by the manager of the Second Social Security Home. “So it’s what, here in the building?” “It’s right here.” “But tell me, little friend,” Vorobyaninov asked, standing absolutely still, “when you had the chair here, you didn’t . . . repair it, did you?” “It’s impossible to repair that chair. They did good work back in the old days. A chair like that could hold up for thirty more years.” “Well, go on, then, little friend, take another ruble, but make sure you don’t tell anyone I’m here.” “Silent as the grave, citizen Vorobyaninov.” After sending off the dvornik and shouting “The ice has started breaking up!” Ostap Bender addressed himself to Ippolit Matveevich’s mustache once more. “We’ll have to dye it again. Give me some money, I...

Share