JК
Diaboliad :: Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич
Страница: 20 из 30Five minutes later he was back where he had started. At door No. 40.
«Oh, hell!» he exclaimed, hesitating for a moment, then turned right and ran along for another five minutes until he arrived at No. 40 again. Pulling the door open, he ran into the hall to find it now empty. Only the typewriter's white teeth smiled silently on the desk. Korotkov ran up to the colonnade and saw the boss there. He was standing on a pedestal, unsmiling, with an affronted expression.
«Forgive me for not saying goodbye…» Korotkov began, then stopped. The boss's left arm was broken off and his nose and one ear were missing. Recoiling in horror, Korotkov ran into the corridor again. A secret door opposite, which he had not noticed, opened suddenly and out came a wrinkled brown old woman with empty buckets on a yoke.
«Granny! Granny!» cried Korotkov anxiously. «Where's the bureau?»
«I don't know, sir, I don't know, your honour,» the old woman replied. «Only don't you go runnin' around like that, duck, 'cos you won't find it any ways. Ten floors is no joke.»
«Ugh, silly old thing,» hissed Korotkov and rushed through the door. It banged shut behind him and Korotkov found himself in a dark space with no way out. He flung himself at the walls, scratching like someone trapped in a mine, until at last he found a white spot which let him out to a kind of staircase. He ran down it with a staccato clatter, and heard steps coming up towards him. A dreadful unease gripped his heart, and he slowed down to a halt. A moment later a shiny cap appeared, followed by a grey blanket and a long beard. Korotkov swayed and clutched the rail. At that moment their eyes met, and they both howled shrilly with fear and pain. Korotkov backed away upstairs, while Long-John retreated, horror-stricken, in the opposite direction.
«Wait a minute,» croaked Korotkov. «You just explain…»
«Help!» howled Longjohn, changing his shrill voice for the old copper bass. He stumbled and fell down, striking the back of his head. It was a blow that cost him dear. Turning into a black cat with phosphorous eyes, he flew upstairs, streaking like velvet lightning across the landing, tensed into a ball, then sprang onto the window-sill and vanished in the broken glass and spider's webs. A white fog befuddled Korotkov’s brain for an instant, then lifted, giving way to an extraordinary clarity.
«Now I see it all,» Korotkov whispered, laughing quietly. «Yes, I see. That's what it is. Cats! Now I get it. Cats!»
He began to laugh louder and louder, until the whole staircase rang with pealing echoes.
«Oh, hell!» he exclaimed, hesitating for a moment, then turned right and ran along for another five minutes until he arrived at No. 40 again. Pulling the door open, he ran into the hall to find it now empty. Only the typewriter's white teeth smiled silently on the desk. Korotkov ran up to the colonnade and saw the boss there. He was standing on a pedestal, unsmiling, with an affronted expression.
«Forgive me for not saying goodbye…» Korotkov began, then stopped. The boss's left arm was broken off and his nose and one ear were missing. Recoiling in horror, Korotkov ran into the corridor again. A secret door opposite, which he had not noticed, opened suddenly and out came a wrinkled brown old woman with empty buckets on a yoke.
«Granny! Granny!» cried Korotkov anxiously. «Where's the bureau?»
«I don't know, sir, I don't know, your honour,» the old woman replied. «Only don't you go runnin' around like that, duck, 'cos you won't find it any ways. Ten floors is no joke.»
«Ugh, silly old thing,» hissed Korotkov and rushed through the door. It banged shut behind him and Korotkov found himself in a dark space with no way out. He flung himself at the walls, scratching like someone trapped in a mine, until at last he found a white spot which let him out to a kind of staircase. He ran down it with a staccato clatter, and heard steps coming up towards him. A dreadful unease gripped his heart, and he slowed down to a halt. A moment later a shiny cap appeared, followed by a grey blanket and a long beard. Korotkov swayed and clutched the rail. At that moment their eyes met, and they both howled shrilly with fear and pain. Korotkov backed away upstairs, while Long-John retreated, horror-stricken, in the opposite direction.
«Wait a minute,» croaked Korotkov. «You just explain…»
«Help!» howled Longjohn, changing his shrill voice for the old copper bass. He stumbled and fell down, striking the back of his head. It was a blow that cost him dear. Turning into a black cat with phosphorous eyes, he flew upstairs, streaking like velvet lightning across the landing, tensed into a ball, then sprang onto the window-sill and vanished in the broken glass and spider's webs. A white fog befuddled Korotkov’s brain for an instant, then lifted, giving way to an extraordinary clarity.
«Now I see it all,» Korotkov whispered, laughing quietly. «Yes, I see. That's what it is. Cats! Now I get it. Cats!»
He began to laugh louder and louder, until the whole staircase rang with pealing echoes.