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

The K-l draws out of Kursk Station, bound for Tiflis, arching its back over
the points. The far-eastern courier rounds Lake Baikal and approaches the
Pacific at full speed.
The Muse of Travel is calling. She has already plucked Father Theodore
from his quiet regional cloister and cast him into some unknown province.
Even Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, former marshal of the nobility and
now clerk in a registry office, is stirred to the depths of his heart and
highly excited at the great things ahead.
People speed all over the country. Some of them are looking for
scintillating brides thousands of miles away, while others, in pursuit of
treasure, leave their jobs in the post office and rush off like schoolboys
to Aldan. Others simply sit at home, tenderly stroking an imminent hernia
and reading the works of Count Salias, bought for five kopeks instead of a
rouble.
The day after the funeral, kindly arranged by Bezenchuk the undertaker,
Ippolit Matveyevich went to work and, as part of the duties with which he
was charged, duly registered in his own hand the demise of Claudia Ivanovna
Petukhov, aged fifty-nine, housewife, non-party-member, resident of the
regional centre of N., by origin a member of the upper class of the province
of Stargorod. After this, Ippolit Matveyevich granted himself a two-week
holiday due to him, took forty-one roubles in salary, said good-bye to his
colleagues, and went home. On the way he stopped at the chemist's.
The chemist, Leopold Grigorevich, who was called Lipa by his friends
and family, stood behind the red-lacquered counter, surrounded by
frosted-glass bottles of poison, nervously trying to sell the fire chief's
sister-in-law "Ango cream for sunburn and freckles-gives the skin an
exceptional whiteness". The fire chief's sister-in-law, however, was asking
for "Rachelle powder, gold in colour-gives the skin a tan not normally
acquirable". The chemist had only the Ango cream in stock, and the battle
between these two very different cosmetics raged for half an hour. Lipa won
in the end and sold the fire chief's sister-in-law some lipstick and a
bugovar, which is a device similar in principle to the samovar, except that
it looks like a watering-can and catches bugs.
"What can I get you?"
"Something for the hair."
"To make it grow, to remove it, or to dye it? "
"Not to make it grow," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "To dye it."
"We have a wonderful hair dye called Titanic. We got it from the
customs people; it was confiscated. It's a jet black colour. A bottle
containing a six months' supply costs three roubles, twelve kopeks. I can
recommend it to you, as a good friend."
Ippolit Matveyevich twiddled the bottle in his hands, looked at the
label with a sigh, and put down his money on the counter.
He went home and, with a feeling of revulsion, began pouring Titanic
onto his head and moustache. A stench filled the house.
By the time dinner was over, the stench had cleared, the moustache had
dried and become matted and was very difficult to comb. The jet-black colour
turned out to have a greenish tint, but there was no time for a second try.
Taking from his mother-in-law's jewel box a list of the gems, found the
night before, Ippolit Matveyevich counted up his cash-in-hand, locked the