A dog's heart (A Monstrous Story) / Собачье сердце (Чудовищная история). Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Булгаков

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СКАЧАТЬ of the BuildCom. We were acting in accordance with the rules… the professor is in a completely exceptional situation as it is. We know about his work. we were going to leave an entire five rooms. well, all right. if that’s the case. all right…”

      Completely red, he hung up and turned.

      “He really showed him! What a guy!” the dog thought in delight. “Does he know some special word? You can beat me all you like now, but I’m not ever leaving here!”

      Three of them, mouths agape, stared at the humiliated Shvonder.

      “This is shameful,” he muttered diffidently.

      “If we were to have a discussion now,” the woman began, excited and with flaming cheeks, “I would prove to Vitaly Alexandrovich…”

      “Forgive me, you’re not planning to open the discussion this minute, are you?” Filipp Filippovich asked politely.

      The woman’s eyes burned.

      “I understand your irony, Professor, we will be leaving. Only. As chairman of the cultural section of the building-”

      “Chair-wo-man,” Filipp Filippovich corrected.

      “I want to ask you,” and here the woman pulled out several bright and snow-sodden magazines from inside her coat, “to buy a few magazines to help the children of France. Half a rouble each.”

      “No, I won’t,” Filipp Filippovich replied brusquely, squinting at the magazines.

      Total astonishment showed on their faces, and the woman’s complexion took on a cranberry hue.

      “Why are you refusing?”

      “I don’t want to.”

      “Don’t you feel sympathy for the children of France?”

      “I do.”

      “Do you begrudge the fifty copecks?”

      “No.”

      “Then why?”

      “I don’t want to.”

      A silence ensued.

      “You know, Professor,” said the girl after a deep sigh, “If you weren’t a European luminary and you weren’t protected in the most outrageous manner (the blond man tugged at the hem of her jacket, but she waved him off) by people whom, I am certain, we will discover, you should be arrested!”

      “For what exactly?” Filipp Filippovich asked with curiosity.

      “You hate the proletariat!” the woman said hotly.

      “Yes, I don’t like the proletariat,” Filipp Filippovich agreed sadly and pressed a button. A bell rang somewhere. The door to the hallway opened.

      “Zina,” Filipp Filippovich shouted. “Serve dinner. Do you mind, gentlemen?”

      The foursome silently left the study, silently went through the reception, silently through the entrance, and behind them came the sound of the front door shutting heavily and resoundingly.

      The dog stood on his hind legs and performed a kind of prayer dance before Filipp Filippovich.

      Chapter 3

      The dishes, painted with paradisaical flowers and a wide black rim, held thin slices of salmon and marinated eel. On the heavy board was a chunk of sweating cheese, and in a silver bowl, surrounded by snow, was caviar. Among the plates stood several slender shot glasses and three crystal decanters with vodkas of different colours. All these objects resided on a small marble table cosily nestled up against the enormous carved oak sideboard, erupting with bursts of glass and silver light. In the centre of the room stood a table, as heavy as a gravestone, under a white cloth, and on it were two settings, napkins folded into bishops’ mitres and three dark bottles.

      Zina brought in a covered silver dish with something grumbling inside. The fragrance coming from the dish made the dog’s mouth fill with watery saliva instantly. “The Gardens of Semiramide!”[29] he thought and started banging his tail like a stick on the parquet floor.

      “Bring them here!” Filipp Filippovich commanded with the air of a predator. “Doctor Bormental, I tell you, leave the caviar be! If you would like to take some good advice, have the ordinary Russian vodka, not the English.”

      The handsome bitten one (he was no longer wearing the lab coat but was in a decent black suit) shrugged his broad shoulders, chuckled politely, and poured himself the clear vodka.

      “The newly blessed?”[30] he enquired.

      “Bless you, dear fellow,” the host replied. “It’s spirit alcohol. Darya Petrovna makes excellent vodka herself.”

      “You know, Filipp Filippovich, everyone says that it’s quite decent now. Sixty proof[31].”

      “But vodka must be eighty proof, not sixty, first of all,” Filipp Filippovich interrupted with a lecture. “And secondly, God only knows what they may have added to it. Can you predict what they could come up with?”

      “Anything at all,” the bitten one said confidently.

      “I am of the same opinion,” added Filipp Filippovich and tossed the contents of his glass as a single lump into his throat. “Eh… Mmm… Doctor Bormental, I entreat you: take this thing instantly, and if you say it’s not… then I will be your mortal enemy for life. ‘From Seville to Granada…’”

      With those words, he hooked something resembling a small dark loaf of bread on his palmate silver fork. The bitten one followed his example. Filipp Filippovich’s eyes glowed.

      “Is this bad?” Filipp Filippovich asked, chewing. “Is it? You tell me, esteemed doctor.”

      “It’s exquisite,” the bitten one replied sincerely.

      “Of course. Please note, Ivan Arnoldovich, that only the remaining landowners not yet slaughtered by the Bolsheviks use cold hors d’oeuvres[32] or soup as zakuski for vodka.[33] Any even slightly self-respecting person operates with hot zakuski. And of the hot zakuski of Moscow, this is number one. They used to be prepared marvellously once upon a time at the Slavyansky Bazaar. Here!”

      “You’re giving the dog food from the table,” a woman’s voice sounded, “and then you won’t be able to lure him out of here with a fresh-baked round loaf.”

      “It’s all right. The poor thing was starved.” Filipp Filippovich used his fork to serve the dog the titbit, which was accepted with prestidigitatorial agility, and then tossed the fork with a clatter into the rinse bowl.

      Next, steam redolent of crayfish rose from the plates; the dog sat in the shade of the tablecloth with the air of a watchman at a gunpowder warehouse, while Filipp Filippovich tucked the tail of the taut napkin into his collar and preached: “Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a tricky thing. One must know how to eat, and just imagine, the majority of people don’t СКАЧАТЬ