JК
Diaboliad :: Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич
Страница: 18 из 30Rushing into the vestibule, Korotkov stuck his head through the quadrangular opening in a wooden partition and asked a big blue teapot:
«Where's the Complaints Bureau, Comrade?
«Eighth floor, ninth corridor, flat 41, room 302,» the teapot replied in a woman's voice.
«Eighth, ninth, 41, three hundred … three hundred and what was that … 302,» muttered Korotkov, running up the broad staircase. «Eighth, ninth, eighth, no, forty … no, 42 … no, 302,» he mumbled. «Oh, goodness, I've forgotten … 40, that's it.»
On the eighth floor he walked past three doors, saw the black number «40» on the fourth and went into an enormous hall with columns and two rows of windows. In the corners lay rolls of paper on spools, and the floor was strewn with scraps of paper covered with writing. In the distance at a small table with a typewriter sat a goldenish woman, cheek in hand, purring a song quietly. Looking round in confusion Korotkov saw the massive figure of a man in a long white coat walk down heavily from the platform behind the columns. The marble face sported a grey drooping moustache. With an unusually polite, lifeless smile, the man came up to Korotkov, shook his hand warmly and announced, clicking his heels:
«Jan Sobieski.»
«You can't be!» replied Korotkov, taken aback.
The man gave a pleasant smile.
«That surprises a lot of people, you know,» he said, getting the word stresses wrong. «But don't think I have anything to do with that rascal, Comrade. Oh, no. It's an unfortunate coincidence, nothing more. I've already applied to change my name to Socvossky. That's much nicer, and not so dangerous. But if you don't like it,» the man twisted his mouth sensitively, «I don't insist. We always find people. They come looking for us.»
«Oh, but, of course,» Korotkov yelped painfully, sensing that something strange was beginning here too, like everywhere else. He looked round with a hunted expression, afraid that a clean-shaven countenance and bald eggshell might suddenly pop up out of thin air, and then added clumsily: «I'm very glad, very…»
A faint blush appeared on the marble man; taking Korotkov’s arm gently, he led him to a table, talking all the time.
«And I'm very glad too. But the trouble is, you know, that I haven't anywhere to put you. They keep us in the background, in spite of all our importance.» (The man waved a hand at the spools of paper.) «Intrigues. But we'll get going, don't you worry.»
«Hm. And what have you got for us this time?» he asked the pale Korotkov affectionately.
«Where's the Complaints Bureau, Comrade?
«Eighth floor, ninth corridor, flat 41, room 302,» the teapot replied in a woman's voice.
«Eighth, ninth, 41, three hundred … three hundred and what was that … 302,» muttered Korotkov, running up the broad staircase. «Eighth, ninth, eighth, no, forty … no, 42 … no, 302,» he mumbled. «Oh, goodness, I've forgotten … 40, that's it.»
On the eighth floor he walked past three doors, saw the black number «40» on the fourth and went into an enormous hall with columns and two rows of windows. In the corners lay rolls of paper on spools, and the floor was strewn with scraps of paper covered with writing. In the distance at a small table with a typewriter sat a goldenish woman, cheek in hand, purring a song quietly. Looking round in confusion Korotkov saw the massive figure of a man in a long white coat walk down heavily from the platform behind the columns. The marble face sported a grey drooping moustache. With an unusually polite, lifeless smile, the man came up to Korotkov, shook his hand warmly and announced, clicking his heels:
«Jan Sobieski.»
«You can't be!» replied Korotkov, taken aback.
The man gave a pleasant smile.
«That surprises a lot of people, you know,» he said, getting the word stresses wrong. «But don't think I have anything to do with that rascal, Comrade. Oh, no. It's an unfortunate coincidence, nothing more. I've already applied to change my name to Socvossky. That's much nicer, and not so dangerous. But if you don't like it,» the man twisted his mouth sensitively, «I don't insist. We always find people. They come looking for us.»
«Oh, but, of course,» Korotkov yelped painfully, sensing that something strange was beginning here too, like everywhere else. He looked round with a hunted expression, afraid that a clean-shaven countenance and bald eggshell might suddenly pop up out of thin air, and then added clumsily: «I'm very glad, very…»
A faint blush appeared on the marble man; taking Korotkov’s arm gently, he led him to a table, talking all the time.
«And I'm very glad too. But the trouble is, you know, that I haven't anywhere to put you. They keep us in the background, in spite of all our importance.» (The man waved a hand at the spools of paper.) «Intrigues. But we'll get going, don't you worry.»
«Hm. And what have you got for us this time?» he asked the pale Korotkov affectionately.