JК
Diaboliad :: Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич
Страница: 19 из 30«Oh, I'm so sorry, I really must apologise, allow me to introduce,» he waved a white hand elegantly in thedirection of the typewriter. «Henrietta Potapovna Persymphens.»
The woman immediately offered Korotkov a cold hand and a languid look.
«Now then,» the boss continued sweetly. «What have you got for us today? A feuilleton? Some essays?» Rolling his white eyes, he drawled: «You can't imagine how much we need them.»
«Good heavens, what's all this about?» thought Korotkov dimly, then he drew a deep convulsive breath and began talking.
«Something, er, terrible has happened. He… I don't understand. Please don't think it's a hallucination… Hmm. Ha-ha.» (Korotkov tried to give an artificial laugh, but it didn't work.) «He's alive. I assure you … only I can't make it out, sometimes he has a beard and a moment later it disappears. I just don't understand… He changes his voice too… What's more, I've had all my documents stolen, and to make matters worse the house-manager's gone and died. That Longjohn…»
«I knew as much,» exclaimed the boss. «Is it them?»
«Oh, my goodness, of course,» the woman replied. «Those dreadful Longjohns.»
«You know,» the boss interrupted excitedly, «it's because of him that I'm sitting on the floor. Take a look at that, old chap. And what does he know about journalism?» he caught hold of Korotkov's button. «Kindly tell me that, what does he know? He spent two days here and nearly tormented me to death. But imagine what luck. I went to see Fyodor Vassilievich and he got rid of him at last. I didn't mince my words: it's either him or me, I said. They transferred him to some MACBAMM or something, devil knows what. Let him stink the place out with those matches! But he managed to move the furniture to that damned office. The whole damn lot, if you please. And what, may I ask, am I going to write on? What are you going to write on? For I have no doubt at all that you will be one of us, dear chap.» (Korotkov's host embraced him.) «In a most irresponsible fashion that scoundrel moved all our lovely Louis Quatorze satin furniture to that stupid bureau, which they'll shut down tomorrow in any case, the devil take it.»
«What bureau?» Korotkov asked in a hollow voice.
«Oh, those complaints or whatever they are,» the boss said irritably.
«What?» cried Korotkov. «What? Where is it?»
«There,» the boss replied in surprise, prodding the floor.
Korotkov took one last crazed look at the white coat and raced into the corridor. Pausing for a moment, he turned left looking for steps going down and ran along for about five minutes, following the whimsical bends in the corridor.
The woman immediately offered Korotkov a cold hand and a languid look.
«Now then,» the boss continued sweetly. «What have you got for us today? A feuilleton? Some essays?» Rolling his white eyes, he drawled: «You can't imagine how much we need them.»
«Good heavens, what's all this about?» thought Korotkov dimly, then he drew a deep convulsive breath and began talking.
«Something, er, terrible has happened. He… I don't understand. Please don't think it's a hallucination… Hmm. Ha-ha.» (Korotkov tried to give an artificial laugh, but it didn't work.) «He's alive. I assure you … only I can't make it out, sometimes he has a beard and a moment later it disappears. I just don't understand… He changes his voice too… What's more, I've had all my documents stolen, and to make matters worse the house-manager's gone and died. That Longjohn…»
«I knew as much,» exclaimed the boss. «Is it them?»
«Oh, my goodness, of course,» the woman replied. «Those dreadful Longjohns.»
«You know,» the boss interrupted excitedly, «it's because of him that I'm sitting on the floor. Take a look at that, old chap. And what does he know about journalism?» he caught hold of Korotkov's button. «Kindly tell me that, what does he know? He spent two days here and nearly tormented me to death. But imagine what luck. I went to see Fyodor Vassilievich and he got rid of him at last. I didn't mince my words: it's either him or me, I said. They transferred him to some MACBAMM or something, devil knows what. Let him stink the place out with those matches! But he managed to move the furniture to that damned office. The whole damn lot, if you please. And what, may I ask, am I going to write on? What are you going to write on? For I have no doubt at all that you will be one of us, dear chap.» (Korotkov's host embraced him.) «In a most irresponsible fashion that scoundrel moved all our lovely Louis Quatorze satin furniture to that stupid bureau, which they'll shut down tomorrow in any case, the devil take it.»
«What bureau?» Korotkov asked in a hollow voice.
«Oh, those complaints or whatever they are,» the boss said irritably.
«What?» cried Korotkov. «What? Where is it?»
«There,» the boss replied in surprise, prodding the floor.
Korotkov took one last crazed look at the white coat and raced into the corridor. Pausing for a moment, he turned left looking for steps going down and ran along for about five minutes, following the whimsical bends in the corridor.