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

jacket that reflected the colours of the rainbow as it caught the light.
Wiping away the drops of water still clinging to his grey hairs after his
ablutions, Ippolit Matveyevich fiercely wiggled his moustache, hesitantly
felt his bristly chin, gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush and,
then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who
had just come into the room.
"Eppole-et," she thundered, "I had a bad dream last night."
The word "dream" was pronounced with a French "r".
Ippolit Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law up and down. He was six
feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for him to look down
on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt.
Claudia Ivanovna continued: "I dreamed of the deceased Marie with her
hair down, and wearing a golden sash."
The iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at the
rumble of Claudia Ivanovna's voice. "I am very disturbed. I fear something
may happen." These last words were uttered with such force that the square
of bristling hair on Ippolit Matveyevich's head moved in different
directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly:
"Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?"
It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit
Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her
advanced age gave little hope of any improvement. She was stingy in the
extreme, and it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's poverty which prevented her
giving rein to this passion. Her voice was so strong and fruity that it
might well have been envied by Richard the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is
well known, horses used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing
of all about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed
of girls in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid worn by dragoons,
caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats who went for walks
at night carrying clappers, and knitting-needles which hopped around the
room by themselves making a distressing tinkle. An empty-headed woman was
Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her upper lip was covered
by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.
Ippolit Matveyevich left the house in rather an irritable mood.
Bezenchuk the undertaker was standing at the entrance to his tumble-down
establishment, leaning against the door with his hands crossed. The regular
collapse of his commercial undertakings plus a long period of practice in
the consumption of intoxicating drinks had made his eyes bright yellow like
a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.
"Greetings to an honoured guest!" he rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov.
"Good mornin'."
Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled beaver hat. "How's your
mother-in-law, might I inquire? " "Mrr-mrr," said Ippolit Matveyevich
indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.
"God grant her health," said Bezenchuk bitterly. "Nothin' but losses,
durn it." And crossing his hands on his chest, he again leaned against the
doorway.
At the entrance to the Nymph Funeral Home Ippolit Matveyevich was
stopped once more. There were three owners of the Nymph. They all bowed to
Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.