"Valentin Katayev. The Cottage in the Steppe (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

only did Petya realize how greatly Odessa had changed in the past few years.
The typical provincial nature of this southern city had remained unchanged
on the outskirts. There one could still find the small lime-stone houses
with tiled roofs, the walnut and mulberry trees in the yards, the
bright-green booths of the soft-drinks vendors, Greek coffee-houses, tobacco
shops, and wine cellars with a white lamp in the shape of a bunch of grapes
over the entrance.
The spirit of European capitalism reigned in the town centre. There
were black glass signs with impressive gold lettering in every European
language at the entrance to the banks and company offices. There were
highly-priced luxury goods in the windows of the English and French shops.
Linotypes clattered and rotary presses whirred in the semi-basements
occupied by newspaper print-shops. As they were crossing Greek Street the
drivers pulled up in terror to give way to a new and shiny electric
tram-car, emitting cascades of sparks. This was the city's first
tramway-line, built by a Belgian company, connecting the centre with the
Industry and Trade Fair that had just opened on wasteland near Alexandrovsky
Park.
At the corner of Langeron and Yekaterininskaya streets, directly
opposite the huge Fankoni Cafe where stockbrokers and grain merchants in
Panama hats sat at marble-topped tables set out right on the pavement,
Paris-style, under awnings and surrounded by potted laurel trees, the cab in
which Auntie and Pavlik were travelling was all but overturned by a
bright-red automobile driven by the heir to the famous Ptashnikov Bros,
firm, a grotesquely bloated young man in a tiny yachting cap, who looked
amazingly like a prize Yorkshire pig.
The spirit of "European capitalism" disappeared when they began the
downhill ride to the port and passed the dives, doss-houses, second-hand
shops, and the dead-end lanes where tramps and down-and-outs, pale-faced and
ragged, were playing cards or sleeping on the bare ground. However, the
spirit reappeared when they approached the warehouses, commercial agencies,
the stacks of crates and sacks that were like a city, with streets and
alleys, and, finally, the ships of many nations and companies.
The embarkation officer told the drivers where their ship, the Palermo,
was being loaded, and they headed for the wharf. They stopped opposite a
large ship gaily flying the Italian flag, and the boys were most
disappointed to find that she had only one funnel.
As might have been expected, they arrived far too early and had nearly
an hour and a half till sailing time. Loading was in full swing. The arms of
powerful steam winches swung to and fro, lowering bunches of barrels
strapped together and crates that must have weighed a ton into the hold.
Passengers were not allowed on board as yet-not that any were in sight, with
the exception of a group of turbaned Turks or Persians, deck passengers, who
were sitting silently and sullenly on their rug-wrapped belongings.




THE LETTER