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

front again. Father Theodore followed them in a daze. Like everyone else, he
spoke to the conductors in an ingratiating tone, like everyone else he was
afraid he had been given the "wrong" ticket, and it was only when he was
finally allowed into a coach that his customary calm returned and he even
became happy.
The locomotive hooted at the top of its voice and the train moved off,
carrying Father Theodore into the unknown on business that was mysterious,
yet promised great things.
An interesting thing, the permanent way. Once he gets on to it the most
ordinary man in the street feels a certain animation in himself and soon
turns into a passenger, a consignee, or simply a trouble-maker without a
ticket, who makes life difficult for the teams of conductors and platform
ticket-inspectors.
The moment a passenger approaches the right of way, which he
amateurishly calls a railway station, his life is completely changed. He is
immediately surrounded by predatory porters with white aprons and nickel
badges on their chests, and his luggage is obsequiously picked up. From that
moment, the citizen no longer is his own master. He is a passenger and
begins to perform all the duties of one. These duties are many, though they
are not unpleasant.
Passengers eat a lot. Ordinary mortals do not eat during the night, but
passengers do. They eat fried chicken, which is expensive, hard-boiled eggs,
which are bad for the stomach, and olives. Whenever the train passes over
the points, numerous teapots in the rack clatter together, and legless
chickens (the legs have been torn out by the roots by passengers) jump up
and down in their newspaper wrapping.
The passengers, however, are oblivious of all this. They tell each
other jokes. Every three minutes the whole compartment rocks with laughter;
then there is a silence and a soft-spoken voice tells the following story:
"An old Jew lay dying. Around him were his wife and children. 'Is Monya
here?' asks the Jew with difficulty. 'Yes, she's here.' 'Has Auntie Brana
come?' 'Yes.' 'And where's Grandma? I don't see her.' 'She's over here.'
'And Isaac?' 'He's here, too.' 'What about the children?' They're all here.'
'Then who's minding the shop?'"
This very moment the teapots begin rattling and the chickens fly up and
down in the rack, but the passengers do not notice. Each one has a favourite
story ready, eagerly awaiting its turn. A new raconteur, nudging his
neighbours and calling out in a pleading tone, "Have you heard this one?"
finally gains attention and begins:
"A Jew comes home and gets into bed beside his wife. Suddenly he hears
a scratching noise under the bed. The Jew reaches his hand underneath the
bed and asks: 'Is that you, Fido?' And Fido licks his hand and says: 'Yes,
it's me.' "
The passengers collapse with laughter; a dark night cloaks the
countryside. Restless sparks fly from the funnel, and the slim signals in
their luminous green spectacles flash snootily past, staring above the
train.
An interesting thing, the right of way! Long, heavy trains race to all'
parts of the country. The way is open at every point. Green lights can be
seen everywhere; the track is clear. The polar express goes up to Murmansk.