"Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs ("Роковые яйца")" - читать интересную книгу автора "Vorsicht: Eier!"
"Eggs. Handle with care!" "Why have they sent so few?" Alexander Semyonovich exclaimed in surprise and set about unpacking the eggs at once. The unpacking also took place in the conservatory with the participation of the following: Alexander Semyonovich himself, his unusually plump wife Manya, the one-eyed former gardener of the former Sheremetevs, who now worked for the state farm in the universal post of watchman, the guard doomed to live on the state farm, and the cleaning girl Dunya. It was not Moscow, and everything here was simpler, more friendly and more homely. Alexander Semyonovich gave the instructions, glancing avidly from time to time at the boxes which lay like some rich present under the gentle sunset glow from the upper panes in the conservatory. The guard, his rifle dozing peacefully by the door, was ripping open the braces and metal bands with a pair of pliers. There was a sound of cracking wood. Clouds of dust rose up. Alexander Semyonovich padded around in his sandals, fussing by the boxes. "Gently does it," he said to the guard. "Be careful. Can't you see it's eggs?" "Don't worry," croaked the provincial warrior, bashing away happily. "Won't be a minute..." Wrr-ench. Down came another shower of dust. The eggs were beautifully packed: first came sheets of waxed paper under the wooden top, next some blotting paper, then a thick layer of wood shavings and finally the sawdust in which the white egg-tops nestled. "Foreign packing," said Alexander Semyonovich lovingly, rummaging break them." "Have you gone daft, Alexander Semyonovich," replied his wife. "What's so special about this lot? Think I've never seen eggs before? Oh, what big ones!" "Foreign," said Alexander Semyonovich, laying the eggs out on the wooden table. "Not like our poor old peasant eggs. Bet they're all brahmaputras, the devil take them! German..." "I should say so," the guard agreed, admitting the eggs. "Only why are they so dirty?" Alexander Semyonovich mused thoughtfully. "Keep an eye on things, Manya. Tell them to go on unloading. I'm going off to make a phone call." And Alexander Semyonovich went to use the telephone in the farm office across the yard. That evening the phone rang in the laboratory at the Zoological Institute. Professor Persikov tousled his hair and went to answer it. "Yes?" he asked. "There's a call for you from the provinces," a female voice hissed quietly down the receiver. "Well, put it through then," said Persikov disdainfully into the black mouthpiece. After a bit of crackling a far-off male voice asked anxiously in his ear: "Should the eggs be washed. Professor?" "What's that? What? What did you say?" snapped Persikov irritably. "Where are you speaking from?" |
|
|