Heart of a Dog (8 page)

    Something odd is happening to Philip. When I told him about my hypotheses and my hopes of developing Sharik into an intellectually advanced personality, he hummed and hahed, then said: 'Do you really think so?' His tone was ominous. Have I made a mistake? Then he had an idea. While I wrote up these case-notes, Preobrazhensky made a careful study of the life-story of the man from whom we took the pituitary.

    (Loose page inserted into the notebook.)

    Name: Elim Grigorievich Chugunkin. Age: 25.

    Marital status: Unmarried.

    Not a Party member, but sympathetic to the Party. Three times charged with theft and

acquitted - on the first occasion for lack of evidence, in the second case saved by his social origin, the third time put on probation with a conditional sentence of 15 years hard labour.

    Profession: plays the balalaika in bars. Short, poor physical shape. Enlarged liver (alcohol). Cause of death: knife-wound in the heart, sustained in the Red Light Bar at Preobrazhensky Gate.

    The old man continues to study Chugunkin's case exhaustively, although I cannot understand why. He grunted something about the pathologist having failed to make a complete examination of Chugunkin's body. What does he mean? Does it matter whose pituitary it is?

    January 17th Unable to make notes for several days, as I have had an attack of influenza. Meanwhile the creature's appearance has assumed definitive form:

(a) physically a complete human being.

(b) weight about 108 Ibs.

(c) below medium height.

(d) small head.

(e) eats human food.

(f) dresses himself.

(g) capable of normal conversation.

So much for the pituitary (ink blot).

    This concludes the notes on this case. We now have a new organism which must be studied as such. appendices: Verbatim reports of speech, recordings, photographs. Signed: I. A. Bormenthal, M.D.

    Asst. to Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky.

Five

    A winter afternoon in late January, the time before supper, the time before the start of evening consulting hours. On the drawing-room doorpost hung a sheet of paper, on which was written in Philip Philipovich's hand:

I forbid the consumption of sunflower seeds in this flat.

P. Preobrazhensky

Below this in big, thick letters Bormenthal had written in blue pencil:

Musical instruments may not be played between 7pm and 6am.

Then from Zina:

When you come back tell Philip Philipovich that he's gone out and I don't know where to.

Fyodor says he's with Shvonder.

    Preobrazhensky's hand:

    How much longer do I have to wait before the glazier comes?

    Darya Petrovna (in block letters):

    Zina has, gone out to the store, says she'll bring him back.

    In the dining-room there was a cosy evening feeling, generated by the lamp on the sideboard shining beneath its dark cerise shade. Its light was reflected in random shafts all over the room, as the mirror was cracked from side to side and had been stuck in place with a criss-cross of tape. Bending over the table, Philip Philipovich was absorbed in the large double page of an open newspaper. His face was working with fury and through his teeth issued a jerky stream of abuse. This is what he was reading:

    There's no doubt that it is his illegitimate (as they used to say in rotten bourgeois society) son. This is how the pseudo-learned members of our bourgeoisie amuse themselves. He will only keep his seven rooms until the glittering sword ofjustice fi'ashes over him like a red ray. Sh . . . r.

    Someone was hard at work playing a rousing tune on the balalaika two rooms away and the sound of a series of intricate variations on 'The Moon is Shining' mingled in Philip Philipovich's head with the words of the sickening newspaper article. When he had read it he pretended to spit over his shoulder and hummed absentmindedly through his teeth: ' "The moo-oon is shining . . . shining bright . . . the moon is shining . . ." God, that damned tune's on my brain!'

    He rang. Zina's face appeared in the doorway.

    'Tell him it's five o'clock and he's to shut up. Then tell him to come here, please.'

    Philip Philipovich sat down in an armchair beside his desk, a brown cigar butt between the

fingers of his left hand. Leaning against the doorpost there stood, legs crossed, a short man of unpleasant appearance. His hair grew in clumps of bristles like a stubble field and on his face was a meadow of unsliaven fluff. His brow was strikingly low. A thick brush of hair began almost immediately above his spreading eyebrows.

    His jacket, torn under the left armpit, was covered with bits of straw, his checked trousers had a hole on the right knee and the left leg was stained with violet paint. Round the man's neck was a poisonously bright blue tie with a gilt tiepin. The colour of the tie was so garish that whenever Philip Philipovich covered his tired eyes and gazed at the complete darkness of the ceiling or the wall, he imagined he saw a flaming torch with a blue halo. As soon as he opened them he was blinded again, dazzled by a pair of patent-leather boots with white spats.

    'Like galoshes,' thought Philip Philipovich with disgust. He sighed, sniffed and busied himself with relighting his dead cigar. The man in the doorway stared at the professor with lacklustre eyes and smoked a cigarette, dropping the ash down his shirtfront.

    The clock on the wall beside a carved wooden grouse struck five o'clock. The inside of the clock was still wheezing as Philip Philipovich spoke.

    'I think I have asked you twice not to sleep by the stove in the kitchen - particularly in the daytime.'

    The man gave a hoarse cough as though he were choking on a bone and replied:

    'It's nicer in the kitchen.'

    His voice had an odd quality, at once muffled yet resonant, as if he were far away and talking

into a small barrel.

Philip Philipovich shook his head and asked:

'Where on earth did you get that disgusting thing from? I mean your tie.'

Following the direction of the pointing finger, the man's eyes squinted as he gazed lovingly

down at his tie.

    'What's disgusting about it?' he said. 'It's a very smart tie. Darya Petrovna gave it to me.'

    'In that case Darya Petrovna has very poor taste. Those boots are almost as bad. Why did you get such horrible shiny ones? Where did you buy them? What did I tell you? I told you to find yourself a pair of decent boots. Just look at them. You don't mean to tell me that Doctor Bormenthal chose them, do you?'

    'I told him to get patent leather ones. Why shouldn't I wear them? Everybody else does. If you go down Kuznetzky Street you'll see nearly everybody wearing patent leather boots.'

    Philip Philipovich shook his head and pronounced weightily:

    'No more sleeping in the kitchen. Understand? I've never heard of such behaviour. You're a

nuisance there and the women don't like it.'

    The man scowled and his lips began to pout.

    'So what? Those women act as though they owned the place. They're just maids, but you'd

think they were commissars. It's Zina - she's always bellyaching about me.'

    Philip Philipovich gave him a stern look.

    'Don't you dare talk about Zina in that tone of voice! Understand?'

    Silence.

    'I'm asking you - do you understand?'

    'Yes, I understand.'

    'Take that trash off your neck. Sha . . . if you saw yourself in a mirror you'd realise what a

fright it makes you look. You look like a clown. For the hundredth time - don't throw cigarette ends on to the floor. And I don't want to hear any more swearing in this flat! And don't spit everywhere! The spittoon's over there. Kindly take better aim when you pee. Cease all further conversation with Zina. She complains that you lurk round her room at night. And don't be rude to my patients! Where do'you think you are - in some dive?'

    'Don't be so hard on me. Dad,' the man suddenly said in a tearful whine.

    Philip Philipovich turned red and his spectacles flashed.

    'Who are you calling "Dad"? What impertinent familiarity! I never want to hear that word

again! You will address me by my name and patronymic!'

    The man flared up impudently: 'Oh, why can't you lay off? Don't spit . . . don't smoke . . . don't go there, don't do this, don't do that . . . sounds like the rules in a tram. Why don't you leave me alone, for God's sake? And why shouldn't I call you "Dad", anyway? I didn't ask you to do the operation, did I?' - the man barked indignantly - 'A nice business -you get an animal, slice his head open and now you're sick of him. Perhaps I wouldn't have given permission for the operation. Nor would . . . (the man stared up at the ceiling as though trying to remember a phrase he had been taught) . . . nor would my relatives. I bet I could sue you if I wanted to.'

    Philip Philipovich's eyes grew quite round and his cigar fell out of his fingers. 'Well, I'll be . . .' he thought to himself.

    'So you object to having been turned into a human being, do you?' he asked, frowning slightly. 'Perhaps you'd prefer to be sniffing around dustbins again? Or freezing in doorways? Well, if I'd known that I wouldn't . . .'

    'So what if I had to eat out of dustbins? At least it was an honest living. And supposing I'd died on your operating table? What d'you say to that, comrade?'

    'My name is Philip Philipovich!' exclaimed the professor irritably. 'I'm not your comrade! This is monstrous!' ('I can't stand it much longer,' he thought to himself.)

    'Oh, yes!' said the man sarcastically, triumphantly uncrossing his legs. 'I know! Of course we're not comrades! How could we be? I didn't go to college, I don't own a flat with fifteen rooms and a bathroom. Only all that's changed now - now everybody has the right to . . .'

    Growing rapidly paler, Philip Philipovich listened to the man's argument. Then the creature stopped and swaggered demonstratively over to an ashtray with a chewed butt-end in his fingers. He spent a long time stubbing it out, with a look on his face which clearly said: 'Drop dead!' Having put out his cigarette he suddenly clicked his teeth and poked his nose under his armpit.

    'You're supposed to catch fleas with your fingersV shouted Philip Philipovich in fury. 'Anyhow, how is it that you still have any fleas?'

    'You don't think I breed them on purpose, do you?' said the man, offended. 'I suppose fleas just like me, that's all.' With this he poked his fingers through the lining of his jacket, scratched around and produced a tuft of downy red hair.

    Philip Philipovich turned his gaze upwards to the plaster rosette on the ceiling and started drumming his fingers on the desk. Having caught his flea, the man sat down in a chair, sticking his thumbs behind the lapels of his jacket. Squinting down at the parquet, he inspected his boots, which gave him great pleasure. Philip Philipovich also looked down at the highlights glinting on the man's blunt-toed boots, frowned and enquired:

    'What else were you going to say?'

    'Oh, nothing, really. I need some papers, Philip Philipovich.'

    Philip Philipovich winced. 'H'm . . . papers, eh? Really, well . . . H'm . . . Perhaps we might . . .' His voice sounded vague and unhappy.

    'Now, look,' said the man firmly. 'I can't manage without papers. After all you know damn well that people who don't have any papers aren't allowed to exist nowadays. To begin with, there's the house committee.'

    'What does the house committee have to do with it?'

    'A lot. Every time I meet one of them they ask me when I'm going to get registered.'

    'Oh, God,' moaned Philip Philipovich. ' "Every time you meet one of them ..." I can just imagine what you tell them. I thought I told you not to hang about the staircases, anyway.'

    'What am I - a convict?' said the man in amazement. His glow of righteous indignation made even his fake ruby tiepin light up. "Hang about" indeed! That's an insult. I walk about just like everybody else.'

    So saying he wriggled his patent-leather feet.

    Philip Philipovich said nothing, but looked away. 'One must restrain oneself,' he thought, as he walked over to the sideboard and drank a glassful of water at one gulp.

    'I see,' he said rather more calmly. 'All right, I'll overlook your tone of voice for the moment. What does your precious house committee say, then?'

    'Hell, I don't know exactly. Anyway, you needn't be sarcastic about the house committee. It protects people's interests.'

    'Whose interest, may I ask?'

    'The workers', of course.'

    Philip Philipovich opened his eyes wide. 'What makes you think that you're a worker?'

    'I must be - I'm not a capitalist.'

    'Very well. How does the house committee propose to stand up for your revolutionary rights?'

    'Easy. Put me on the register. They say they've never heard of anybody being allowed to live in Moscow without being registered. That's for a start. But the most important thing is an identity card. I don't want to be arrested for being a deserter.'

    'And where, pray, am I supposed to register you? On that tablecloth or on my own passport? One must, after all, be realistic. Don't forget that you are . . . h'm, well. . . you are what you might call a ... an unnatural phenomenon, an artefact . . .' Philip Philipovich sounded less and less convincing.

    Triumphant, the man said nothing.

    'Very well. Let's assume that in the end we shall have to register you, if only to please this

house committee of yours. The trouble is - you have no name.'

    'So what? I can easily choose one. Just put it in the newspapers and there you are.'

    'What do you propose to call yourself?'

    The man straightened his tie and replied: Toligraph Poligraphovich.'

    'Stop playing the fool,' groaned Philip Philipovich. 'I meant it seriously.'

    The man's face twitched sarcastically.