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

impinged painfully on Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. He quickly crossed himself
with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room.


CHAPTER TWO


MADAME PETUKHOV'S DEMISE

Claudia Ivanovna lay on her back with one arm under her head. She was
wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion
when ladies wore the "chanticleer" and had just begun to dance the tango.
Claudia Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed absolutely nothing.
Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
"Claudia Ivanovna!" called Ippolit Matveyevich.
His mother-in-law moved her lips rapidly, but instead of the
trumpet-like sounds to which his ear was accustomed, Ippolit Matveyevich
only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a
leap. A tear suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a
drop of mercury.
"Claudia Ivanovna," repeated Vorobyaninov, "what's the matter?"
But again he received no answer. The old woman had closed her eyes and
slumped to one side.
The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a
little boy taken to be washed.
"She's dropped off. The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed.
Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out
how much an ice-bag costs."
Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable
superiority in such matters.
It was a long way to the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his
fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.
It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of
Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of
bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge
from an iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the
undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his
shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:
"Always in me way, durn 'em."
In the middle of the square, near the bust of the "poet Zhukovsky,
which was inscribed with the words "Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of
the Earth", an animated conversation was in progress following the news of
Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The general opinion of the assembled citizens
could have been summed up as "We all have to go sometime" and "What the Lord
gives, the Lord takes back".
The hairdresser "Pierre and Constantine"-who also answered readily to
the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the way-once again took the opportunity to
air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok.
"Modern science," Andrew Ivanovich was saying, "has achieved the
impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his