Many people remember the 1976 movie *The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath!*, in which the drunk protagonist ends up in a strange city and moves into an apartment on a street with the same name. However, who would have thought that a somewhat similar story took place in Kharkiv more than 100 years ago—albeit not by chance. We’ve already written about the Kharkiv period in the life and work of the “king of laughter,” Arkady Averchenko, whose humorous stories made millions laugh in newspapers, magazines, and books. As we continue to explore his stories from the book *Merry Oysters* (1910), we can find the most fascinating tales about pre-Soviet life in Kharkiv and the customs of that time—and they’re always funny.

An acquaintance of mine told me a most intriguing story about Easter visits.
It is entirely reliable, since this acquaintance served as an official at the Assay Office and owns a two-story house in St. Petersburg. I don’t think such a person would have made up this story, or exaggerated it, or embellished it. Besides, he was far too simple-minded for that. To anyone familiar with the custom of Easter visits, this story will not seem particularly strange or out of the ordinary.

Here is what he recounted:
Once, shortly before Easter, he had to travel from St. Petersburg to Kharkiv on business. He was unfamiliar with the city, and he spent the entire Holy Saturday bored out of his mind. The next morning, when he woke up, the sun was shining through the window, and a carefully cleaned tailcoat lay next to his bed. The official from the assay office stretched sweetly and joyfully in bed and said to himself:
“Today I need to make the rounds—it’s the first day of Easter, thank God! It’s time to get dressed.”
He got up, dressed, shaved, and went out onto the street. On the street, he haggled with a cab driver, got into the cab, took out his address book, and glanced through it.
“Take me to Dvoryanskaya Street, 7”

He arrived at Dvoryanskaya Street, found Apartment 4—just as it was listed in the guidebook—and rang the bell
“Is anyone home?” he asked the maid. “Can I come in? Christ is Risen.”
“Please, come in! Indeed.”
The official was warmly welcomed by the master of the house; he exchanged kisses with him and approached the mistress with his lips outstretched.
“But I don’t exchange the ‘Christ is Risen’ greeting with men,” the mistress declared coquettishly.
“Why not?”
“Oh, no, no—how could I!” The official kissed first a ruffle on her neck, then an earring, then the air, and then all three of them, laughing merrily, made their way to the table…
“A shot of Zubrovka!” “Try our kulich—it seems to have turned out well this year.”
“I’ll try some! Yes, the kulich is wonderful.”
“Where did you attend the early morning service?” asked the hostess.
“At the university church.”

“So where did you break your fast?”
“At home.”
“Are you planning to spend the summer at your dacha?”
“At the dacha.”
“Well, I have to go.”
“Stay a little longer! It’s been ages since you’ve gotten together.”
“No, no, don’t be silly.”
The official stepped outside, got into a cab, and glanced at his address book.
“Moskovskaya Street, 12, Apartment 20.”

The cabbie dropped him off. The official rang the bell, exchanged a Christmas greeting with the mischievous maid, kissed the host on the cheek, was utterly surprised by the hostess’s refusal to exchange Christmas greetings, and then drank a doppel-kümmel.
“Where did you attend matins?”
“At the university church.”
“At your dacha in the summer?”
“Yes, well, I have to go. Goodbye?”
“Where are you going?”
The third place the cab driver took him was:
“Ivanovskaya Street, 9, Apartment 6.”

After the usual exchange of Christmas greetings and two shots of cognac, the hostess asked:

“Where did you go to morning service?”
“At the university church. I was thinking of going to St. Isaac’s Cathedral, but it’s too far from where I live, you know.”

“I think so,” said the hostess.
“Yes,” confirmed the official. “It’s a forty-minute drive.”
“From where?!!”
“From my place!”
“Good heavens, what are you saying!” How can it be a forty-minute drive from Kharkiv to St. Petersburg?
The official stood up, utterly stunned.
— That’s… what city?
The landlady laughed.
— Well, I’ll be! A man in Kharkiv lives on Ivanovskaya Street with the Sverchkovs—and he doesn’t even know what kind of city this is.
—So you’re the Sverchkovs?—the official exclaimed. “But my address book lists this address: Ivanovskaya Street, 9, Apartment 6—the Chaplygins. So you’re not the Chaplygins?”
“No, we’re the Sverchkovs.”
“Then I apologize,” the official stammered. “All the best. I’ll be on my way.”
“Where are you going? Stay a while!”
“You see,” the official told me as he recounted this incident, “what a mess it turned out to be.” In both St. Petersburg and Kharkiv, there are streets named Moskovskaya, Dvoryanskaya, and Ivanovskaya. I was going to the St. Petersburg addresses.
— But how did they receive you, a stranger?— I asked in surprise.
— What’s it to them? A visitor arrived, in a tailcoat, exchanged the sign of the cross, attended matins, drank vodka—so everything was just as it should be, exactly as it ought to be… And my situation is the same—how can you possibly remember every familiar face? If I hadn’t brought up St. Isaac’s, no one would have noticed a thing.

Life throws us amazing twists and turns and weaves the most intricate plots. If the story told above seems unbelievable, let me repeat: surely an official at the assay office—the owner of a two-story house—couldn’t have made it up?!