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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


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     Michail bulgakov. the heart of a dog
          Epilogue

Epilogue

One night, exactly ten days to the day after the struggle in Professor

Preobrazhensky's consulting-room in his flat on Obukhov Street, there was a

sharp ring of the doorbell.

'Criminal police. Open up, please.'

Footsteps approached, people knocked and entered until a considerable

crowd filled the brightly-lit waiting-room with its newly-glazed cabinet.

There were two in police uniform, one in a black overcoat and carrying a

brief-case; there was chairman Shvonder, pale and gloating, and the youth

who had turned out to be a woman; there was Fyodor the porter, Zina, Darya

Petrovna and Bormenthal, half dressed and embarrassed as he tried to cover

up his tieless neck.

The door from the study opened to admit Philip Philipovich. He appeared

in his familiar blue dressing gown and everybody could tell at once that

over the past week Philip Philipovich had begun to look very much better.

The old Philip Philipovich, masterful, energetic and dignified, now faced

his nocturnal visitors and apologised for appearing in his dressing gown.

'It doesn't matter, professor,' said the man in civilian clothes, in

great embarrassment. He faltered and then said:

'I'm sorry to say we have a warrant to search your flat and' -the men

stared uneasily at Philip Philipovich's moustaches and ended: 'to arrest

you, depending on the results of our search.'

Philip Philipovich frowned and asked:

'What, may I ask, is the charge, and who is being charged?'

The man scratched his cheek and began reading from a piece of paper

from his briefcase.

'Preobrazhensky, Bormenthal, Zinaida Bunina and Darya Ivanova are

charged with the murder of Poligraph Poligraph-ovich Sharikov,

sub-department controller. City of Moscow Cleansing Department.'

The end of his speech was drowned by Zina's sobs. There was general

movement.

'I don't understand,' replied Philip Philipovich with a regal shrug.

'Who is this Sharikov? Oh, of course, you mean my dog . . . the one I

operated on?'

'I'm sorry, professor, not a dog. This happened when he was a man.

That's the trouble.'

'Because he talked?' asked Philip Philipovich. 'That doesn't mean he

was a man. Anyhow, it's irrelevant. Sharik is alive at this moment and no

one has killed him.'

'Really, professor?' said the man in black, deeply astonished and

raised his eyebrows. 'In that case you must produce him. It's ten days now

since he disappeared and the evidence, if you'll forgive my saying so, is

most disquieting.'

'Doctor Bormenthal, will you please produce Sharik for the detective,'

ordered Philip Philipovich, pocketing the charge-sheet. Bormenthal went out,

smiling enigmatically.

As he returned he gave a whistle and from the door into the study

appeared a dog of the most extraordinary appearance. In patches he was bald,

while in other patches his coat had grown. He entered like a trained circus

dog walking on his hind legs, then dropped on to all fours and looked round.

The waiting-room froze into a sepulchral silence as tangible as jelly. The

nightmarish-looking dog with the crimson scar on the forehead stood up again

on his hind legs, grinned and sat down in an armchair.

The second policeman suddenly crossed himself with a sweeping gesture

and in stepping back knocked Zina's legs from under her.

The man in black, his mouth still wide open, said:

'What's been going on? ... He worked in the City Cleansing Department .

. .'

'I didn't send him there,' answered Philip Philipovich. 'He was

recommended for the job by Mr Shvonder, if I'm not mistaken.'

'I don't get it,' said the man in black, obviously confused, and turned

to the first policeman. 'Is that him?'

'Yes,' whispered the policeman, 'it's him all right.'

'That's him,' came Fyodor's voice, 'except the little devil's got a bit

fatter.'

'But he talked . . .' the man in black giggled nervously.

'And he still talks, though less and less, so if you want to hear him

talk now's the time, before he stops altogether'.

'But why?' asked the man in black quietly.

Philip Philipovich shrugged his shoulders.

'Science has not yet found the means of turning animals into people. I

tried, but unsuccessfully, as you can see. He talked and then he began to

revert back to his primitive state. Atavism.'

'Don't swear at me,' the dog suddenly barked from his chair and stood

up.

The man in black turned instantly pale, dropped his briefcase and began

to fall sideways. A policeman caught him on one side and Fyodor supported

him from behind. There was a sudden turmoil, clearly pierced by three

sentences:

Philip Philipovich: 'Give him valerian. He's fainted.'

Doctor Bormenthal: 'I shall personally throw Shvonder downstairs if he

ever appears in Professor Preobrazhensky's flat again.'

And Shvonder said: 'Please enter that remark in the report.'

The grey accordion-shaped radiators hissed gently. The blinds shut out

the thick Prechistenka Street night sky with its lone star. The great, the

powerful benefactor of dogs sat in his chair while Sharik lay stretched out

on the carpet beside the leather couch. In the mornings the March fog made

the dog's head ache, especially around the circular scar on his skull, but

by evening the warmth banished the pain. Now it was easing all the time and

warm, comfortable thoughts flowed through the dog's mind.

I've been very, very lucky, he thought sleepily. Incredibly lucky. I'm

really settled in this flat. Though I'm not so sure now about my pedigree.

Not a drop of labrador blood. She was just a tart, my old grandmother. God

rest her soul. Certainly they cut my head around a bit, but who cares. None

of my business, really.

From the distance came a tinkle of glass. Bormenthal was tidying the

shelves of the cabinet in the consulting-room.

The grey-haired magician sat and hummed: ' ". . . to the banks of the

sacred Nile . . ." '

That evening the dog saw terrible things. He saw the great roan plunge

his slippery, rubber-gloved hands into a jar to fish out a brain; then

relentlessly, persistently the great man pursued his search. Slicing,

examining, he frowned and sang:

' "To the banks of the sacred Nile . . ." '


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