"Ilf and Petrov. The Twelve Chairs" - читать интересную книгу автора

searchlights. The young couple stood in awe.
"Young people," said Ippolit Matveyevich pompously, "allow me to
congratulate you, as they used to say, on your legal marriage. It is very,
very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the
realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!'
Having made this address, Ippolit Matveyevich shook hands with the
newly married couple, sat down, and, extremely pleased with himself,
continued to read the papers in folder no. 2. At the next desk the clerks
sniggered into their ink-wells. The quiet routine of the working day had
begun. No one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages desk. Through the windows
citizens could be seen making their way home, shivering in the spring
chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough co-operative
began crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then came the mechanical rattling and
squeaking of a car engine. A thick cloud of violet smoke billowed out from
Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the clanking grew louder. Through the smoke
appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with
its minute radiator and bulky body. Floundering in the mud as it went, the
car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a
cloud of poisonous smoke. The clerks remained standing at the window for
some time, commenting on the event and attempting to connect it with a
possible reduction in staff. A little while later Bezenchuk cautiously went
past along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town
trying to find out if anyone had died.
The working day was drawing to a close. In the nearby white and yellow
belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one
by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting,
and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square.
It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be
born on that day had been born and registered in the thick ledgers. All
those wishing to get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the
thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of the undertakers, there had not
been a single death. Ippolit Matveyevich packed up his files, put the felt
cushion away in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache with a comb, and was
just about to leave, having visions of a bowl of steaming soup, when the
door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold.
"Greetings to an honoured guest," said Ippolit Matveyevich with a
smile. "What can I do for you?"
The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable
to utter a word.
"Well?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely.
"Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?" said the
undertaker vaguely. "Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a coffin needs
so much wood alone."
"What?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"It's the Nymph. . . . Three families livin' on one rotten business.
And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the
tassels ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in
1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a
good coffin."
"What are you talking about? Are you crazy?" snapped Ippolit