JК
Diaboliad :: Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич
Страница: 12 из 30But Korotkov immediately drove away this unpleasant feeling and got busy.
«So I should get over to MACBAMM now, should I?» «Yes, you should,» the old man affirmed. «It says here — to MACBAMM. Only give me your work record book and I'll make a note in it in pencil.»
Korotkov immediately felt in his pocket, turned pale, felt in the other one, turned even paler, clapped his trouser pockets, and with a stifled howl rushed upstairs again, looking underfoot. Bumping into people, a desperate Korotkov flew up to the very top and looked around for the beauty with the stones to ask her something, but saw that she had turned into an ugly snotty-nosed boy.
«Hey, sonny!» Korotkov hailed him. «My yellow wallet…» «It's not true,» the boy snapped viciously. «I didn't take it. They're lying.»
«Oh, no, lad. I didn't mean that. My documents…» The boy glowered at him and suddenly began howling in a deep bass.
«Oh, my goodness!» shouted Korotkov wildly and rushed downstairs to the old man.
But when he got there, the old man had, gone. Disappeared. Korotkov rushed to the little door and tugged at the handle. It was locked. There was a faint smell of sulphur in the semidarkness.
Thoughts whirled like a blizzard in Korotkov's head, then a new one popped up. «The tram.» He suddenly remembered clearly being pressed hard on the platform by two young people, one thin with a black moustache that looked false.
«Now I'm in real trouble alright,» muttered Korotkov. «This is trouble to end all trouble.»
He ran into the road, hurried to the end of it, turned down a side-street and found himself by the entrance to a smallish building of unprepossessing architecture. A cross-eyed, sullen fellow asked, looking not at Korotkov but somewhere off at an angle:
«Where d'you think you're going?»
«I'm Korotkov, Comrade, V. P. Korotkov, who has just had his papers stolen. The whole lot. I could get hauled in…»
«You could and all,» the man on the porch confirmed.
«So kindly let me…»
«Tell Korotkov he must come in person.»
«But I am Korotkov, Comrade.»
«Show us your pass.»
«It's just been stolen,» groaned Korotkov. «Stolen, Comrade, by a young man with a moustache.»
«With a moustache? I bet that's Kolobkov. Must be. He's specially working in our area. Tea-houses are the place to look for him.»
«But I can't, Comrade,» Korotkov sobbed. «I must see Longjohn in MACBAMM. Please let me in.»
«Show us a warrant that it was stolen.
«So I should get over to MACBAMM now, should I?» «Yes, you should,» the old man affirmed. «It says here — to MACBAMM. Only give me your work record book and I'll make a note in it in pencil.»
Korotkov immediately felt in his pocket, turned pale, felt in the other one, turned even paler, clapped his trouser pockets, and with a stifled howl rushed upstairs again, looking underfoot. Bumping into people, a desperate Korotkov flew up to the very top and looked around for the beauty with the stones to ask her something, but saw that she had turned into an ugly snotty-nosed boy.
«Hey, sonny!» Korotkov hailed him. «My yellow wallet…» «It's not true,» the boy snapped viciously. «I didn't take it. They're lying.»
«Oh, no, lad. I didn't mean that. My documents…» The boy glowered at him and suddenly began howling in a deep bass.
«Oh, my goodness!» shouted Korotkov wildly and rushed downstairs to the old man.
But when he got there, the old man had, gone. Disappeared. Korotkov rushed to the little door and tugged at the handle. It was locked. There was a faint smell of sulphur in the semidarkness.
Thoughts whirled like a blizzard in Korotkov's head, then a new one popped up. «The tram.» He suddenly remembered clearly being pressed hard on the platform by two young people, one thin with a black moustache that looked false.
«Now I'm in real trouble alright,» muttered Korotkov. «This is trouble to end all trouble.»
He ran into the road, hurried to the end of it, turned down a side-street and found himself by the entrance to a smallish building of unprepossessing architecture. A cross-eyed, sullen fellow asked, looking not at Korotkov but somewhere off at an angle:
«Where d'you think you're going?»
«I'm Korotkov, Comrade, V. P. Korotkov, who has just had his papers stolen. The whole lot. I could get hauled in…»
«You could and all,» the man on the porch confirmed.
«So kindly let me…»
«Tell Korotkov he must come in person.»
«But I am Korotkov, Comrade.»
«Show us your pass.»
«It's just been stolen,» groaned Korotkov. «Stolen, Comrade, by a young man with a moustache.»
«With a moustache? I bet that's Kolobkov. Must be. He's specially working in our area. Tea-houses are the place to look for him.»
«But I can't, Comrade,» Korotkov sobbed. «I must see Longjohn in MACBAMM. Please let me in.»
«Show us a warrant that it was stolen.