Heart of a Dog (10 page)

    'No consulting hours today, I'm afraid, the professor's not well. Please keep away from the

door, we have a burst pipe.

    'But when can the professor see me?' a voice came through the door. 'It wouldn't take a minute . . .'

    'I'm sorry.' Bormenthal rocked back from his toes to his heels. 'The professor's in bed and a pipe has burst. Come tomorrow. Zina dear, quickly mop up the hall or it will start running down the front staircase.'

    'There's too much - the cloths won't do it.'

    'Never mind,' said Fyodor. 'We'll scoop it up with jugs.'

    While the doorbell rang ceaselessly, Bormenthal stood up to his ankles in water.

    'When is the operation?' said an insistent voice as it tried to force its way through the crack of the door.

    'A pipe's burst . . .'

    'But I've come in galoshes . . .'

    Bluish silhouettes appeared outside the door.

    'I'm sorry, it's impossible, please come tomorrow.'

    'But I have an appointment.'

    'Tomorrow. There's been a disaster in the water supply.'

    Fyodor splashed about in the lake, scooping it up with a jug, but the battle-scared Sharikov had thought up a new method. He rolled up an enormous cloth, lay on his stomach in the water and pushed it backwards from the hall towards the lavatory.

    'What d'you think you're doing, you fool, slopping it all round the flat?' fumed Darya Petrovna. 'Pour it into the sink.'

    'How can I?' replied Sharikov, scooping up the murky water with his hands. 'If I don't push it back into the flat it'll run out of the front door.'

    A bench was pushed creaking out of the corridor, with Philip Philipovich riding unsteadily on it in his blue striped socks.

    'Stop answering the door, Ivan Amoldovich. Go into the bedroom, you can borrow a pair of my slippers.'

    'Don't bother, Philip Philipovich, I'm all right.'

    'You're wearing nothing but a pair of galoshes.'

    'I don't mind. My feet are wet anyway.'

    'Oh, my God!' Philip Philipovich was exhausted and depressed.

    'Destructive animal!' Sharikov suddenly burst out as he squatted on the floor, clutching a soup tureen.

    Bormenthal slammed the door, unable to contain himself any longer and burst into laughter. Philip Philipovich blew out his nostrils and his spectacles glittered.

    'What are you talking about?' he asked Sharikov from the eminence of his bench.

    'I was talking about the cat. Filthy swine,' answered Sharikov, his eyes swivelling guiltily.

    'Look here, Sharikov,' retorted Philip Philipovich, taking a deep breath. 'I swear I have never seen a more impudent creature than you.'

    Bormenthal giggled.

    'You,' went on Philip Philipovich, 'are nothing but a lout. How dare you say that? You caused the whole thing and you have the gall . . . No, really! It's too much!'

    'Tell me, Sharikov,' said Bormenthal, 'how much longer are you going to chase cats? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It's disgraceful! You're a savage!'

    'Me - a savage?' snarled Sharikov. 'I'm no savage. I won't stand for that cat in this flat. It only comes here to find what it can pinch. It stole Darya's mincemeat. I wanted to teach it a lesson.'

    'You should teach yourself a lesson!' replied Philip Philipovich. 'Just take a look at your face in the mirror.'

    'Nearly scratched my eyes out,' said Sharikov gloomily, wiping a dirty hand across his eyes.

    By the time that the water-blackened parquet had dried out a little, all the mirrors were

covered in a veil of condensed vapour and the doorbell had stopped ringing. Philip Philipovich in red morocco slippers was standing in the hall.

    'There you are, Fyodor. Thank you.'

    'Thank you very much, sir.'

    'Mind you change your clothes straight away. No, wait -have a glass of Darya Petrovna's vodka before you go.'

    'Thank you, sir,' Fyodor squirmed awkwardly, then said:

    'There is one more thing, Philip Philipovich. I'm sorry, I hardly like to mention it, but it's the matter of the window-pane in No 7. Citizen Sharikov threw some stones at it, you see . . .'

    'Did he throw them at a cat?' asked Philip Philipovich, frowning like a thundercloud.

    'Well, no, he was throwing them at the owner of the flat. He's threatening to sue.'

    'Oh, lord!'

    'Sharikov tried to kiss their cook and they threw him out. They had a bit of a fight, it seems.'

    'For God's sake, do you have to tell me all these disasters at once? How much?'

    'One rouble and 50 kopecks.'

    Philip Philipovich took out three shining 50-kopeck pieces and handed them to Fyodor.

    'And on top of it all you have to pay 1 rouble and 50 kopecks because of that damned cat,'

grumbled a voice from the doorway. 'It was all the cat's fault . . .'

    Philip Philipovich turned round, bit his lip and gripped Sharikov. Without a word he pushed him into the waiting-room and locked the door. Sharik immediately started to hammer on the door with his fists.

    'Shut up!' shouted Philip Philipovich in a voice that was nearly deranged.

    'This is the limit,' said Fyodor meaningfully. 'I've never seen such impudence in my life.'

    Bormenthal seemed to materialise out of the floor.

    'Please, Philip Philipovich, don't upset yourself.'

    The doctor thrust open the door into the waiting-room.

    He could be heard saying: 'Where d'you think you are? In some dive?'

    'That's it,' said Fyodor approvingly. 'Serve him right . . .a punch on the ear's what he needs . . .'

    'No, not that, Fyodor,' growled Philip Philipovich sadly. 'I think you've just about had all you can take, Philip Philipovich.'

Six

'No, no, no!' insisted Bormenthal. 'You must tuck in vour napkin.'

'Why the hell should I,' grumbled Sharikov.

    'Thank you, doctor,' said Philip Philipovich gratefully. 'I simply haven't the energy to reprimand him any longer.'

    'I shan't allow you to start eating until you put on your napkin. Zina, take the mayonnaise away from Sharikov.'

    'Hey, don't do that,' said Sharikov plaintively. 'I'll put it on straight away.'

    Pushing away the dish from Zina with his left hand and stuffing a napkin down his collar with the right hand, he looked exactly like a customer in a barber's shop.

    'And eat with your fork, please,' added Bormenthal.

    Sighing long and heavily Sharikov chased slices of sturgeon around in a thick sauce.

    'Can't I have some vodka?' he asked.

    'Will you kindly keep quiet?' said Bormenthal. 'You've been at the vodka too often lately.'

    'Do you grudge me it?' asked Sharikov, glowering sullenly across the table.

    'Stop talking such damn nonsense . . .' Philip Philipovich broke in harshly, but Bormenthal

interrupted him.

    'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, leave it to me. You, Sharikov are talking nonsense and the most disturbing thing of all is that you talk it with such complete confidence. Of course I don't grudge you the vodka, especially as it's not mine but belongs to Philip Philipovich. It's simply that it's harmful. That's for a start; secondly you behave badly enough without vodka.' Bormenthal pointed to where the sideboard had been broken and glued together.

    'Zina, dear, give me a little more fish please,' said the professor.

    Meanwhile Sharikov had stretched out his hand towards the decanter and, with a sideways

glance at Bormenthal, poured himself out a glassful.

    'You should offer it to the others first,' said Bormenthal. 'Like this - first to Philip Philipovich, then to me, then yourself.'

    A faint, sarcastic grin nickered across Sharikov's mouth and he poured out glasses of vodka all round.

    'You act just as if you were on parade here,' he said. 'Put your napkin here, your tie there, "please", "thank you", "excuse me" -why can't you behave naturally? Honestly, you stuffed shirts act as if it was still the days oftsarism.'

    'What do you mean by "behave naturally"?'

    Sharikov did not answer Philip Philipovich's question, but raised his glass and said: 'Here's how . . .'

    'And you too,' echoed Bormenthal with a tinge of irony.

    Sharikov tossed the glassful down his throat, blinked, lifted a piece of bread to his nose, sniffed it, then swallowed it as his eyes filled with tears.

    'Phase,' Philip Philipovich suddenly blurted out, as if preoccupied.

    Bormenthal gave him an astonished look. 'I'm sorry? . . .'

    'It's a phase,' repeated Philip Philipovich and nodded bitterly. 'There's nothing we can do about it. Klim.'

    Deeply interested, Bormenthal glanced sharply into Philip Philipovich's eyes: 'Do you suppose so, Philip Philipovich?' 'I don't suppose; I'm convinced.'

    'Can it be that . . .' began Bormenthal, then stopped after a glance at Sharikov, who was frowning suspiciously. 'Spdter . . .' said Philip Philipovich softly. 'Gut,' replied his assistant.

    Zina brought in the turkey. Bormenthal poured out some red wine for Philip Philipovich, then offered some to Sharikov.

    'Not for me, I prefer vodka.' His face had grown puffy, sweat was breaking out on his forehead and he was distinctly merrier. Philip Philipovich also cheered up slightly after drinking some wine. His eyes grew clearer and he looked rather more approvingly at Sharikov, whose black head above his white napkin now shone like a fly in a pool of cream.

    Bormenthal however, when fortified, seemed to want activity.

    'Well now, what are you and I going to do this evening?' he asked Sharikov.

    Sharikov winked and replied: 'Let's go to the circus. I like that best.'

    'Why go to the circus every day?' remarked Philip Philipovich in a good-humoured voice. 'It

sounds so boring to me. If I were you I'd go to the theatre.'

    'I won't go to the theatre,' answered Sharikov nonchalantly and made the sign of the cross over his mouth.

    'Hiccuping at table takes other people's appetites away,' said Bormenthal automatically. 'If you don't mind my mentioning it... Incidentally, why don't you like the theatre?' Sharikov held his empty glass up to his eye and looked through it as though it were an opera glass. After some thought he pouted and said:

    'Hell, it's just rot . . . talk, talk. Pure counter-revolution.'

    Philip Philipovich leaned against his high, carved gothic chairback and laughed so hard that he displayed what looked like two rows of gold fence-posts. Bormenthal merely shook his head.

    'You should do some reading,' he suggested, 'and then, perhaps . . .'

    'But I read a lot . . .' answered Sharikov, quickly and surreptitiously pouring himself half a

glass of vodka.

    'Zina!' cried Philip Philipovich anxiously. 'Clear away the vodka, my dear. We don't need it any more . . . What have you been reading?'

    He suddenly had a mental picture of a desert island, palm trees, and a man dressed in goatskins. 'I'll bet he says Robinson Crusoe . . .'he thought.

    'That guy . . . what's his name . . . Engels' correspondence with . . . hell, what d'you call him ... oh - Kautsky.'

    Bormenthal's forkful of turkey meat stopped in mid-air and Philip Philipovich choked on his wine. Sharikov seized this moment to gulp down his vodka.

    Philip Philipovich put his elbows on the table, stared at Sharikov and asked:

    'What comment can you make on what you've read?'

    Sharikov shrugged. 'I don't agree.'

    'With whom - Engels or Kautsky?'

    'With neither of 'em,' replied Sharikov.

    'That is most remarkable. Anybody who says that . . . Well, what would you suggest instead?'

    'Suggest? I dunno . . . They just write and write all that rot ... all about some congress and

some Germans . . . makes my head reel. Take everything away from the bosses, then divide it up . . .'

    'Just as I thought!' exclaimed Philip Philipovich, slapping the tablecloth with his palm. 'Just as I thought.'

    'And how is this to be done?' asked Bormenthal with interest.

    'How to do it?' Sharikov, grown loquacious with wine, explained garrulously:

    'Easy. Fr'instance - here's one guy with seven rooms and forty pairs of trousers and there's

another guy who has to eat out of dustbins.'

    'I suppose that remark about the seven rooms is a hint about me?' asked Philip Philipovich with a haughty raise of the eyebrows.

    Sharikov hunched his shoulders and said no more. 'All right, I've nothing against fair shares. How many patients did you turn away yesterday, doctor?' 'Thirty-nine,' was Bormenthal's immediate reply. 'H'm . . . 390 roubles, shared between us three. I won't count Zina and Darya Petrovna. Right, Sharikov - that means your share is 130 roubles. Kindly hand it over.'

    'Hey, wait a minute,' said Sharikov, beginning to be scared. 'What's the idea? What d'you

mean?'

    'I mean the cat and the tap,' Philip Philipovich suddenly roared, dropping his mask of ironic imperturbability. 'Philip Philipovich!' exclaimed Bormenthal anxiously. 'Don't interrupt. The scene you created yesterday was intolerable, and thanks to you I had to turn away all my patients. You were leaping around in the bathroom like a savage, smashing everything and jamming the taps. Who killed Madame Polasukher's cat? Who . . .'

    'The day before yesterday, Sharikov, you bit a lady you met on the staircase,' put in Bormenthal.

    'You ought to be . . .' roared Philip Philipovich.

    'But she slapped me across the mouth,' whined Sharikov 'She can't go doing that to me!'

    'She slapped you because you pinched her on the bosom,' shouted Bormenthal, knocking over a glass. 'You stand there and . . .'

    'You belong to the lowest possible stage of development,' Philip Philipovich shouted him down. 'You are still in the formative stage. You are intellectually weak, all your actions are purely bestial. Yet you allow yourself in the presence of two university-educated men to offer advice, with quite intolerable familiarity, on a cosmic scale and of quite cosmic stupidity, on the redistribution of wealth . . . and at the same time you eat toothpaste . . .'