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Magazine for tourists

Table of contents


Kinds of tourism

Excursion (author BV Emelyanov)

introduction

1. Fundamentals Excursion

2. guided technique

3. Professional skills guide

Tunisia (author Danielle shetar Friedrich chum)

In the Sikhote-Alin (author VK Arseniev)

Michail bulgakov. the heart of a dog

 One
 Two
 Three
 Five
 Six
 Seven
 Eight
 Nine
 Epilogue
Mikhail bulgakov. the master and margarita

Charlotte bronte. jane eyre

F. scott fitzgerald / the great gatsby

Jerome klapka jerome / three men in a boat


 Home
     Michail bulgakov. the heart of a dog
          Eight

Eight

The 'little demonstration' which Bormenthal had promised to lay on for

Sharikov did not, however, take place the following morning, because

Poligraph Poligraphovich had disappeared from the house. Bormenthal gave way

to despair, cursing himself for a fool for not having hidden the key of the

front door. Shouting that this was unforgivable, he ended by wishing

Sharikov would fall under a bus. Philip Philipovich, who was sitting in his

study running his fingers through his hair, said:

'I can just imagine what he must be up to on the street. . . I can just

imagine .. . "from Granada to Seville .. ." My God.'

'He may be with the house committee,' said Bormenthal furiously, and

dashed off.

At the house committee he swore at the chairman, Shvonder, so violently

that Shvonder sat down and wrote a complaint to the local People's Court,

shouting as he did so that he wasn't Sharikov's bodyguard. Poligraph

Poligraphovich was not very popular at the house committee either, as only

yesterday he had taken 7 roubles from the funds, with the excuse that he was

going to buy text books at the co-operative store.

For a reward of 3 roubles Fyodor searched the whole house from top to

bottom. Nowhere was there a trace to be found of Sharikov.

Only one thing was clear - that Poligraph had left at dawn wearing cap,

scarf and overcoat, taking with him a bottle of rowanberry brandy from the

sideboard. Doctor Bormenthal's gloves, and all his own documents. Darya

Petrovna and Zina openly expressed their delight and hoped that Sharikov

would never come back again. Sharikov had borrowed 50 roubles from Darya

Petrovna only the day before.

'Serve you right!' roared Philip Philipovich, shaking his fists. The

telephone rang all that day and all the next day. The doctors saw an unusual

number of patients and by the third day the two men were faced with the

question of what to tell the police, who would have to start looking for

Sharikov in the Moscow underworld.

Hardly had the word 'police' been mentioned than the reverent hush of

Obukhov Street was broken by the roar of a lorry and all the windows in the

house shook. Then with a confident ring at the bell Poligraph Poligraphovich

appeared and entered with an air of unusual dignity. In absolute silence he

took off his cap and hung his coat on the hook. He looked completely

different. He had on a second-hand leather tunic, worn leather breeches and

long English riding-boots laced up to the knee. An incredible odour of cat

immediately permeated the whole hall. As though at an unspoken word of

command Preobrazhensky and Bormenthal simultaneously crossed their arms,

leaned against the doorpost and waited for Poligraph Poligraphovich to make

his first remark. He smoothed down his rough hair and cleared his throat,

obviously wanting to hide his embarrassment by a nonchalant air.

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 off-hand 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.

Suddenly he dodged and spurted for the door. 'Take care!' Bormenthal's

shout pursued him as he fled. That night and the following morning were as

tense as the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Nobody spoke. The next day

Poligraph Poligraphovich went gloomily off to work by lorry, after waking up

with an uneasy presentiment, while Professor Preobrazhensky saw a former

patient, a tall, strapping man in uniform, at a quite abnormal hour. The man

insisted on a consultation and was admitted. As he walked into the study he

politely clicked his heels to the professor.

'Have your pains come back?' asked Philip Philipovich pursing his lips.

'Please sit down.'

'Thank you. No, professor,' replied his visitor, putting down his cap

on the edge of the desk. 'I'm very grateful to you ... No ... I've come,

h'm, on another matter, Philip Philipovich ... in view of the great respect

I feel . . . I've come to ... er, warn you. It's obviously nonsense, of

course. He's simply a scoundrel.' The patient searched in his briefcase and

took out a piece of paper. 'It's a good thing I was told about this right

away . . .'

Philip Philipovich slipped a pince-nez over his spectacles and began to

read. For a long time he mumbled half-aloud, his expression changing every

moment. '. . . also threatening to murder the chairman of the house

committee, comrade Shvonder, which shows that he must be keeping a firearm.

And he makes counter-revolutionary speeches, and even ordered his domestic

worker, Zinaida Prokofievna Bunina, to burn Engels in the stove. He is an

obvious Menshevik and so is his assistant Ivan Arnoldovich Bormenthal who is

living secretly in his flat without being registered. Signed: P. P. Sharikov

Sub-Dept. Controller City Cleansing Dept. Countersigned: Shvonder

Chairman, House Committee. Pestrukhin Secretary, House Committee.

'May I keep this?' asked Philip Philipovich, his face blotchy. 'Or

perhaps you need it so that legal proceedings can be made?'

'Really, professor.' The patient was most offended and blew out his

nostrils. 'You seem to regard us with contempt. I . . .' And he began to

puff himself up like a turkeycock.

'Please forgive me, my dear fellow!' mumbled Philip Philipovich. 'I

really didn't mean to offend you. Please don't be angry. You can't believe

what this creature has done to my nerves . . .'

'So I can imagine,' said the patient, quite mollified. 'But what a

swine! I'd be curious to have a look at him. Moscow is full of stories about

you . . .'

Philip Philipovich could only gesture in despair. It was then that the

patient noticed how hunched the professor was looking and that he seemed to

have recently grown much greyer.


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