The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Илья Ильф

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      «And that's all?»

      «Yes»

      «Maybe you'd like me to work for nothing and also give you the key of the apartment where the money is?»

      «In that case, I'm sorry», said Vorobyaninov through his nose.

      «I have every reason to believe I can manage the business by myself».

      «Aha! In that case, I'm sorry», retorted the splendid Ostap. «I have just as much reason to believe, as Andy Tucker used to say, that I can also manage your business by myself».

      «You villain!» cried Ippolit Matveyevich, beginning to shake.

      Ostap remained unmoved.

      «Listen, gentleman from Paris, do you know your jewels are practically in my pocket? And I'm only interested in you as long as I wish to prolong your old age».

      Ippolit Matveyevich realized at this point that iron hands had gripped his throat.

      «Twenty per cent», he said morosely.

      «And my grub?» asked Ostap with a sneer.

      «Twenty-five».

      «And the key of the apartment?»

      «But that's thirty-seven and a half thousand!»

      «Why be so precise? Well, all right, I'll settle for fifty per cent. We'll go halves».

      The haggling continued, and Ostap made a further concession. Out of respect for Vorobyaninov, he was prepared to work for forty per cent.

      «That's sixty thousand!» cried Vorobyaninov.

      «You're a rather nasty man», retorted Bender. «You're too fond of money».

      «And I suppose you aren't?» squeaked Ippolit Matveyevich in a flutelike voice.

      «No, I'm not».

      «Then why do you want sixty thousand?»

      «On principle!»

      Ippolit Matveyevich took a deep breath.

      «Well, are things moving?» pressed Ostap.

      Vorobyaninov breathed heavily and said humbly: «Yes, Х things are moving».

      «It's a bargain. District Chief of the Comanchi!»

      As soon as Ippolit Matveyevich, hurt by the nickname, «Chief of the Comanchi», had demanded an apology, and Ostap, in a formal apology, had called him «Field Marshal», they set about working out their disposition.

      At midnight Tikhon, the caretaker, hanging on to all the garden fences on the way and clinging to the lamp posts, tottered home to his cellar. To his misfortune, there was a full moon.

      «Ah! The intellectual proletarian! Officer of the Broom!» exclaimed Ostap, catching sight of the doubled-up caretaker.

      The caretaker began making low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the stillness of the night.

      «That's nice», said Ostap to Vorobyaninov. «Your caretaker is rather a vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?»

      «Yes, it is», said the caretaker unexpectedly.

      «Listen, Tikhon», began Ippolit Matveyevich. «Have you any idea what happened to my furniture, old man?»

      Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening yell:

      «Haa-aapy daa-aays…»

      The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was terribly happy.

      Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.

      «Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until tomorrow morning», said Ostap. «Let's go to bed».

      They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to the bench.

      Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt; under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another light-blue worsted waistcoat.

      «There's a waistcoat worth buying», said Ostap enviously. «Just my size. Sell it to me!»

      Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.

      Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.

      «You'll have the money when we sell the treasure», said Bender, taking the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.

      «No, I can't do things like that», said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing. «Please give it back».

      Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.

      «There's stinginess for you», he cried. «We undertake business worth a hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to learn to live it up!»

      Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:

      25//F/27

      Issued to Comrade Bender

      Rs.8

      Ostap took a look at the notebook.

      «Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under ‘debit' don't forget to put down the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under ‘credit' put down the waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit longer».

      Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth operator's body, vibrant with ideas.

      All three had bad dreams.

      Vorobyaninov had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation department, velvet shirts, and Bezenchuk the undertaker in a tuxedo, but unshaven.

      Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Cooperative; and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper.

      And the caretaker dreamed that a horse escaped from the stable. He looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and gloomy, without having found it. For some СКАЧАТЬ