JК
Diaboliad :: Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич
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«Who from?»
«Your house-manager.»
Korotkov left the porch and ran down the street.
«MACBAMM or the house-manager?» he wondered. «The house-manager only sees people in the morning, so it's MACBAMM.»
At that moment a far-away clock on a brown tower chimed four, and people with briefcases poured out of the doors. It was growing dark, and a light wet snow began to fall.
«Too late,» thought Korotkov. «Better go home.»
VI
THE FIRST NIGHT
There was a white note sticking out of the keyhole. Korotkov read it in the dark.
«Dear neighbour,
«Gone to see mother in Zvenigorod. Have left you the wine as a present. Drink as much as you like. No one wants to buy it. They're in the corner.
Yours, A. Paikova»
With a lopsided grin, Korotkov rattled the lock and in twenty trips moved into his room all the bottles standing in a corner of the corridor, then turned on the lamp and collapsed onto the bed just as he was, in his cap and coat. As if in a trance he stared for about half an hour at the portrait of Cromwell dissolving into the dark shadows, then jumped up and suddenly had a kind of violent fit. Pulling off his cap, he flung it into the corner, swept the packets of matches on to the floor with one fell swoop and began to stamp on them.
«Take that! Take that!» Korotkov howled as he crushed the diabolical boxes with a crunch, imagining vaguely that he was trampling on Longjohn's head.
The memory of the egg-shaped head suddenly made him think of the clean-shaven and bearded face, and at this point Korotkov stopped short.
«But how on earth could it be?» he whispered, passing a hand over his eyes. «What's this? Why am I standing here busy with trifles, when it's all awful. After all he's not really a double, is he?»
Fear crept through the dark windows into the room, and Korotkov pulled the curtains so as not to look at them. But this did not help. The double face, now growing a beard, now suddenly shaving it off, kept looming out of the corners, its greenish eyes glittering. At last Korotkov could stand it no longer and, feeling as if his brain would burst from the tension, began sobbing quietly.
After a good cry, which made him feel better, he ate some of yesterday's slippery potatoes, then, returning to the cursed puzzle, cried a bit more.
«Wait a minute,» he muttered suddenly. «What am I crying for, when I've got some wine?»
In a flash he knocked back half a tea-glass.
«Who from?»
«Your house-manager.»
Korotkov left the porch and ran down the street.
«MACBAMM or the house-manager?» he wondered. «The house-manager only sees people in the morning, so it's MACBAMM.»
At that moment a far-away clock on a brown tower chimed four, and people with briefcases poured out of the doors. It was growing dark, and a light wet snow began to fall.
«Too late,» thought Korotkov. «Better go home.»
VI
THE FIRST NIGHT
There was a white note sticking out of the keyhole. Korotkov read it in the dark.
«Dear neighbour,
«Gone to see mother in Zvenigorod. Have left you the wine as a present. Drink as much as you like. No one wants to buy it. They're in the corner.
Yours, A. Paikova»
With a lopsided grin, Korotkov rattled the lock and in twenty trips moved into his room all the bottles standing in a corner of the corridor, then turned on the lamp and collapsed onto the bed just as he was, in his cap and coat. As if in a trance he stared for about half an hour at the portrait of Cromwell dissolving into the dark shadows, then jumped up and suddenly had a kind of violent fit. Pulling off his cap, he flung it into the corner, swept the packets of matches on to the floor with one fell swoop and began to stamp on them.
«Take that! Take that!» Korotkov howled as he crushed the diabolical boxes with a crunch, imagining vaguely that he was trampling on Longjohn's head.
The memory of the egg-shaped head suddenly made him think of the clean-shaven and bearded face, and at this point Korotkov stopped short.
«But how on earth could it be?» he whispered, passing a hand over his eyes. «What's this? Why am I standing here busy with trifles, when it's all awful. After all he's not really a double, is he?»
Fear crept through the dark windows into the room, and Korotkov pulled the curtains so as not to look at them. But this did not help. The double face, now growing a beard, now suddenly shaving it off, kept looming out of the corners, its greenish eyes glittering. At last Korotkov could stand it no longer and, feeling as if his brain would burst from the tension, began sobbing quietly.
After a good cry, which made him feel better, he ate some of yesterday's slippery potatoes, then, returning to the cursed puzzle, cried a bit more.
«Wait a minute,» he muttered suddenly. «What am I crying for, when I've got some wine?»
In a flash he knocked back half a tea-glass.