Mikhail Bulgakov - Heart of a Dog

At last he spoke. ‘I’ve taken a job, Philip Philipovich.’

Both doctors uttered a vague dry noise in the throat and stirred slightly. Preobrazhensky was the first to collect his wits. Stretching out his hand he said: ‘Papers.’

The typewritten sheet read: ‘It is hereby certified that the bearer, comrade Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov, is appointed in charge of the sub-department of the Moscow Cleansing Department responsible for eliminating vagrant quadrupeds (cats, etc.)’

‘I see,’ said Philip Philipovich gravely. ‘Who fixed this for you? No, don’t tell me — I can guess.’

‘Yes, well, it was Shvonder.’

‘Forgive my asking, but why are you giving off such a revolting smell?’

Sharikov anxiously sniffed at his tunic.

‘Well, it may smell a bit — that’s because of my job. I spent all yesterday strangling cats…’

Philip Philipovich shuddered and looked at Bormenthal, whose eyes reminded him of two black gun-barrels aimed straight at Sharikov. Without the slightest warning he stepped up to Sharikov and took him in a light, practised grip around the throat.

‘Help!’ squeaked Sharikov, turning pale.

‘Doctor!’

‘Don’t worry, Philip Philipovich, I shan’t do anything violent,’ answered Bormenthal in an iron voice and roared:

‘Zina and Darya Petrovna!’

The two women appeared in the lobby.

‘Now,’ said Bormenthal, giving Sharikov’s throat a very slight push toward the fur-coat hanging up on a nearby hook, ‘repeat after me: “I apologise…”’ ‘All right, I’ll repeat it…’ replied the defeated Sharikov in a husky voice.

Suddenly he took a deep breath, twisted, and tried to shout ‘help’, but no sound came out and his head was pushed right into the fur-coat.

‘Doctor, please…’ Sharikov nodded as a sign that he submitted and would repeat what he had to do.

‘…I apologise, dear Darya Petrovna and Zinaida?…’

‘Prokofievna,’ whispered Zina nervously.

‘Ow… Prokofievna… that I allowed myself…’

‘…to behave so disgustingly the other night in a state of intoxication.’

‘Intoxication…’

‘I shall never do it again…’

‘Do it again…’

‘Let him go, Ivan Arnoldovich,’ begged both women at once. ‘You’re throttling him. ‘

Bormenthal released Sharikov and said:

‘Is that lorry waiting for you?’

‘It just brought me here,’ replied Poligraph submissively.

‘Zina, tell the driver he can go. Now tell me — have you come back to Philip Philipovich’s flat to stay?’

‘Where else can I go?’ asked Sharikov timidly, his eyes nickering around the room.

‘Very well. You will be as good as gold and as quiet as a mouse. Otherwise you will have to reckon with me each time you misbehave. Understand?’

‘I understand,’ replied Sharikov.

Throughout Bormenthal’s attack on Sharikov Philip Philipovich had kept silent. He had leaned against the doorpost with a miserable look, chewed his nails and stared at the floor. Then he suddenly looked up at Sharikov and asked in a toneless, husky voice:

‘What do you do with them… the dead cats, I mean?’ ‘They go to a laboratory,’ replied Sharikov, ‘where they make them into protein for the workers.’

After this silence fell on the flat and lasted for two days. Poligraph Poligraphovich went to work in the morning by truck, returned in the evening and dined quietly with Philip Philipovich and Bormenthal.

Although Bormenthal and Sharikov slept in the same room — the waiting-room — they did not talk to each other, which Bormenthal soon found boring.

Two days later, however, there appeared a thin girl wearing eye shadow and pale fawn stockings, very embarrassed by the magnificence of the flat. In her shabby little coat she trotted in behind Sharikov and met the professor in the hall.

Dumbfounded, the professor frowned and asked:

‘Who is this?’

‘Me and her’s getting married. She’s our typist. She’s coming to live with me. Bormenthal will have to move out of the waiting-room. He’s got his own flat,’ said Sharikov in a sullen and very offhand voice.

Philip Philipovich blinked, reflected for a moment as he watched the girl turn crimson, then invited her with great courtesy to step into his study for a moment.

‘And I’m going with her,’ put in Sharikov quickly and suspiciously.

At that moment Bormenthal materialised from the floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘the professor wants to talk to the lady and you and I are going to stay here.’

‘I won’t,’ retorted Sharikov angrily, trying to follow Philip Philipovich and the girl. Her face burned with shame.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Bormenthal took Sharikov by the wrist and led him into the consulting-room.

For about five minutes nothing was heard from the study, then suddenly came the sound of the girl’s muffled sobbing.

Philip Philipovich stood beside his desk as the girl wept into a dirty little lace handkerchief.

‘He told me he’d been wounded in the war,’ sobbed the girl. ‘He’s lying,’ replied Philip Philipovich inexorably. He shook his head and went on. ‘I’m genuinely sorry for you, but you can’t just go off and live with the first person you happen to meet at work… my dear child, it’s scandalous. Here…’ He opened a desk drawer and took out three 10-rouble notes.

‘I’d kill myself,’ wept the girl. ‘Nothing but salt beef every day in the canteen… and he threatened me… then he said he’d been a Red Army officer and he’d take me to live in a posh flat… kept making passes at me… says he’s kind-hearted really, he only hates cats… He took my ring as a memento…’

‘Well, well… so he’s kind-hearted… “…from Granada to Seville…”.’ muttered Philip Philipovich. ‘You’ll get over it, my dear. You’re still young.’

‘Did you really find him in a doorway?’

‘Look, I’m offering to lend you this money — take it,’ grunted Philip Philipovich.

The door was then solemnly thrown open and at Philip Philipovich’s request Bormenthal led in Sharikov, who glanced shiftily around. The hair on his head stood up like a scrubbing-brush.

‘You beast,’ said the girl, her eyes flashing, her mascara running past her streakily powdered nose.

‘Where did you get that scar on your forehead? Try and explain to the lady,’ said Philip Philipovich softly.

Sharikov staked his all on one preposterous card:

‘I was wounded at the front fighting against Kolchak,’ he barked.

The girl stood up and went out, weeping noisily.

‘Stop crying!’ Philip Philipovich shouted after her. ‘Just a minute — the ring, please,’ he said, turning to Sharikov, who obediently removed a large emerald ring from his finger.

‘I’ll get you,’ he suddenly said with malice. ‘You’ll remember me. Tomorrow I’ll make sure they cut your salary.’

‘Don’t be afraid of him,’ Bormenthal shouted after the girl. *I won’t let him do you any harm.’ He turned round and gave Sharikov such a look that he stumbled backwards and hit his head on the glass cabinet.

‘What’s her surname?’ asked Bormenthal. ‘Her surname!’ he roared, suddenly terrible.

‘Basnetsova,’ replied Sharikov, looking round for a way of escape.

‘Every day,’ said Bormenthal, grasping the lapels of Sharikov’s tunic, ‘I shall personally make enquiries at the City Cleansing Department to make sure that you haven’t been interfering with citizeness Basnetsova’s salary. And if I find out that you have… then I will shoot you down with my own hands. Take care, Sharikov — I mean what I say.’ Transfixed, Sharikov stared at Bormenthal’s nose. ‘You’re not the only one with a revolver…’ muttered Poligraph quietly.