JК
Diaboliad :: Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич
Страница: 2 из 30«Why blame me? Oh, my godfathers!»
Stuffing the cheque hurriedly into his briefcase, he pulled on his cap, thrust the briefcase under his arm, brandished the chicken, shouting, «Stand aside!» and, breaching his way through the human wall, disappeared through the door.
The squealing white-faced registrar tottered after him on her high heels. The left heel snapped off by the door, and the registrar staggered, lifted her foot and took the shoe off.
And there she stood in the room, one foot shoeless, with the rest of them, Korotkov included.
II
PRODUCTION PRODUCE
Three days after the event described, the door of the office where Comrade Korotkov was working opened slightly, and a woman's head said spitefully:
«Go and get your pay, Comrade Korotkov.»
«What?» Korotkov exclaimed delightedly and, whistling the overture to Carmen, trotted along to a room with a notice saying «Cashier». By the cashier's desk he stopped open-mouthed. Two thick piles of yellow packets rose up to the ceiling. To avoid answering questions, the agitated and perspiring cashier had pinned up the cheque, which now bore yet another scrawl, this time in green ink.
«Pay in production produce.
«Preobrazhensky, p. p. Comrade Bogoyavlensky.»
«I agree — Kshesinsky.»
Korotkov left the cashier's office with a broad, stupid grin on his face. He was carrying four large yellow packets and five small green ones in his hands, plus thirteen blue boxes of matches in his pockets. Back in his room, listening to the hubbub of amazed voices in the General Office, he wrapped up the matches in two large sheets from that morning's newspaper and slipped out without a word to anyone. By the main entrance he was nearly run over by a car in which someone had just arrived, exactly who Korotkov could not see.
Back home he unwrapped the matches on the table and stood back to admire them. The stupid grin did not leave his face. After that Korotkov ruffled up his hair and said to himself:
«Come on, it's no good moping about all day. We must try to sell them.»
He knocked on the door of his neighbour, Alexandra Fyodorovna, who worked at the Provincial Wine Depot.
«Come in,» said a hollow voice.
Korotkov went in and stared in amazement. Alexandra Fyodorovna, also back early from work, was squatting on the floor in her coat and hat. In front of her stretched a long line of bottles containing a deep red liquid, stoppered with little balls of newspaper. Alexandra Fyodorovna's face was smudged with tears.
«Forty-six,» she said, turning to Korotkov.
Stuffing the cheque hurriedly into his briefcase, he pulled on his cap, thrust the briefcase under his arm, brandished the chicken, shouting, «Stand aside!» and, breaching his way through the human wall, disappeared through the door.
The squealing white-faced registrar tottered after him on her high heels. The left heel snapped off by the door, and the registrar staggered, lifted her foot and took the shoe off.
And there she stood in the room, one foot shoeless, with the rest of them, Korotkov included.
II
PRODUCTION PRODUCE
Three days after the event described, the door of the office where Comrade Korotkov was working opened slightly, and a woman's head said spitefully:
«Go and get your pay, Comrade Korotkov.»
«What?» Korotkov exclaimed delightedly and, whistling the overture to Carmen, trotted along to a room with a notice saying «Cashier». By the cashier's desk he stopped open-mouthed. Two thick piles of yellow packets rose up to the ceiling. To avoid answering questions, the agitated and perspiring cashier had pinned up the cheque, which now bore yet another scrawl, this time in green ink.
«Pay in production produce.
«Preobrazhensky, p. p. Comrade Bogoyavlensky.»
«I agree — Kshesinsky.»
Korotkov left the cashier's office with a broad, stupid grin on his face. He was carrying four large yellow packets and five small green ones in his hands, plus thirteen blue boxes of matches in his pockets. Back in his room, listening to the hubbub of amazed voices in the General Office, he wrapped up the matches in two large sheets from that morning's newspaper and slipped out without a word to anyone. By the main entrance he was nearly run over by a car in which someone had just arrived, exactly who Korotkov could not see.
Back home he unwrapped the matches on the table and stood back to admire them. The stupid grin did not leave his face. After that Korotkov ruffled up his hair and said to himself:
«Come on, it's no good moping about all day. We must try to sell them.»
He knocked on the door of his neighbour, Alexandra Fyodorovna, who worked at the Provincial Wine Depot.
«Come in,» said a hollow voice.
Korotkov went in and stared in amazement. Alexandra Fyodorovna, also back early from work, was squatting on the floor in her coat and hat. In front of her stretched a long line of bottles containing a deep red liquid, stoppered with little balls of newspaper. Alexandra Fyodorovna's face was smudged with tears.
«Forty-six,» she said, turning to Korotkov.