psna.ru

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
          Nine

Nine

The crime ripened, then fell like a stone, as usually happens. With an

uncomfortable feeling round his heart Poligraph Poligraphovich returned that

evening by lorry. Philip Philipovich's voice invited him into the

consulting-room. Surprised, Sharikov entered and looked first, vaguely

frightened, at Bormenthal's steely face, then at Philip Philipovich. A cloud

of smoke surrounded the doctor's head and his left hand, trembling very

slightly, held a cigarette and rested on the shiny handle of the obstetrical

chair.

With ominous calm Philip Philipovich said:

'Go and collect your things at once - trousers, coat, everything you

need - then get out of this flat!'

'What is all this?' Sharikov was genuinely astonished. 'Get out of this

flat - and today,' repeated Philip Philipovich, frowning down at his

fingernails.

An evil spirit was at work inside Poligraph Poligraphovich. It was

obvious that his end was in sight and his time nearly up, but he hurled

himself towards the inevitable and barked in an angry staccato:

'Like hell I will! You got to give me my rights. I've a right to

thirty-seven square feet and I'm staying right here.'

'Get out of this flat,' whispered Philip Philipovich in a strangled

voice.

It was Sharikov himself who invited his own death. He raised his left

hand, which stank most horribly of cats, and cocked a snook at Philip

Philipovich. Then with his right hand he drew a revolver on Bormenthal.

Bormenthal's cigarette fell like a shooting star. A few seconds later Philip

Philipovich was hopping about on broken glass and running from the cabinet

to the couch. On it, spreadeagled and croaking, lay a sub-department

controller of the City Cleansing Department; Bormenthal the surgeon was

sitting astride his chest and suffocating him with a small white pad.

After some minutes Bormenthal, with a most unfamiliar look, walked out

on to the landing and stuck a notice beside the doorbell:

The Professor regrets that owing to indisposition he will be unable to

hold consulting hours today. Please do not disturb the Professor by ringing

the bell.

With a gleaming penknife he then cut the bell-cable, inspected his

scratched and bleeding face in the mirror and his lacerated, slightly

trembling hands. Then he went into the kitchen and said to the anxious Zina

and Darya Petrovna:

'The professor says you mustn't leave the fiat on any account.'

'No, we won't,' they replied timidly.

'Now I must lock the back door and keep the key,' said Bormenthal,

sidling round the room and covering his face with his hand. 'It's only

temporary, not because we don't trust you. But if anybody came you might not

be able to keep them out and we mustn't be disturbed. We're busy.'

'All right,' replied the two women, turning pale. Bormenthal locked the

back door, locked the front door, locked the door from the corridor into the

hall and his footsteps faded away into the consulting-room.

Silence filled the flat, flooding into every comer. Twilight crept in,

dank and sinister and gloomy. Afterwards the neighbours across the courtyard

said that every light burned that evening in the windows of Preobrazhensky's

consulting-room and that they even saw the professor's white skullcap ... It

is hard to be sure. When it was all over Zina did say, though, that when

Bormenthal and the professor emerged from the consulting-room, there, by the

study fireplace, Ivan Amoldovich had frightened her to death. It seems he

was squatting down in front of the fire and burning one of the blue-bound

notebooks which contained the medical notes on the professor's patients. The

doctor's face, apparently, was quite green and completely - yes, completely

- scratched to pieces. And that evening Philip Philipovich had been most

peculiar. And then there was another thing - but maybe that innocent girl

from the flat in Prechistenka Street was talking rubbish . . .

One thing, though, was certain: there was silence in the flat that

evening - total, frightening silence.


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