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

"Now don't you worry, Mr Vorobyaninov," he said heatedly, continuing
the conversation started a while before. "There's lots of work goes into a
coffin."
"Claudia Ivanovna's dead," his client informed him.
"Well, God rest her soul," said Bezenchuk. "So the old lady's passed
away. Old ladies pass away . . . or they depart this life. It depends who
she is. Yours, for instance, was small and plump, so she passed away. But if
it's one who's a bit bigger and thinner, then they say she has departed this
life. . . ."
"What do you mean 'they say'? Who says?"
"We say. The undertakers. Now you, for instance. You're
distinguished-lookin' and tall, though a bit on the thin side. If you should
die, God forbid, they'll say you popped off. But a tradesman, who belonged
to the former merchants' guild, would breathe his last. And if it's someone
of lower status, say a caretaker, or a peasant, we say he has croaked or
gone west. But when the high-ups die, say a railway conductor or someone in
administration, they say he has kicked the bucket. They say: 'You know our
boss has kicked the bucket, don't you?' "
Shocked by this curious classification of human mortality, Ippolit
Matveyevich asked:
"And what will the undertakers say about you when you die?"
"I'm small fry. They'll say, 'Bezenchuk's gone', and nothin' more."
And then he added grimly:
"It's not possible for me to pop off or kick the bucket; I'm too small.
But what about the coffin, Mr Vorobyaninov? Do you really want one without
tassels and brocade? "
But Ippolit Matveyevich, once more immersed in dazzling dreams, walked
on without answering. Bezenchuk followed him, working something out on his
fingers and muttering to himself, as he always did.
The moon had long since vanished and there was a wintry cold. Fragile,
wafer-like ice covered the puddles. The companions came out on Comrade
Gubernsky Street, where the wind was tussling with the hanging shop-signs. A
fire-engine drawn by skinny horses emerged from the direction of Staropan
Square with a noise like the lowering of a blind.
Swinging their canvas legs from the platform, the firemen wagged their
helmeted heads and sang in intentionally tuneless voices:

"Glory to our fire chief,
Glory to dear Comrade Pumpoff!"

"They've been havin' a good time at Nicky's wedding," remarked
Bezenchuk nonchalantly. "He's the fire chief's son." And he scratched
himself under his coat. "So you really want it without tassels and brocade?"
By that moment Ippolit Matveyevich had finally made up his mind. "I'll
go and find them," he decided, "and then we'll see." And in his
jewel-encrusted visions even his deceased mother-in-law seemed nicer than
she had actually been. He turned to Bezenchuk and said:
"Go on then, damn you, make it! With brocade! And tassels!"

CHAPTER THREE