Heart of a Dog (4 page)

    'Hey, now, professor . . .' began Shvonder, his expression changing.

    'Excuse me ... I can't repeat all they've been saying. I can't make sense of it, anyway. Roughly speaking they have told me to give up my consulting-room, which will oblige me to operate in the room I have used until now for dissecting rabbits. I not only cannot work under such conditions - I have no right to. So I am closing down my practice, shutting up my apartment and going to Sochi. I will give the keys to Shvonder. He can operate for me.'

    The four stood rigid. The snow was melting on their boots. 'Can't be helped, I'm afraid . . . Of course I'm very upset, but ... What? Oh, no, Pyotr Alexandrovich! Oh, no. That I must flatly refuse. My patience has snapped. This is the second time since August . . . What? H'm . . . All right, if you like. I suppose so. Only this time on one condition: I don't care who issues it, when they issue it or what they issue, provided it's the sort of certificate which will mean that neither Shvonder nor anyone else can so much as knock on my door. The ultimate in certificates. Effective. Real. Armour-plated! I don't even want my name on it. The end. As far as they are concerned, I am dead. Yes, yes. Please do. Who? Aha . . . well, that's another matter. Aha . . . good. I'll just hand him the receiver. Would you mind,' Philip Philipovich spoke to Shvonder in a voice like a snake's, 'you're wanted on the telephone.'

    'But, professor,' said Shvonder, alternately flaring up and cringing, 'what you've told him is all wrong' -

    'Please don't speak to me like that.'

    Shvonder nervously picked up the receiver and said:

    'Hello. Yes ... I'm the chairman of the house management committee . . . We were only acting according to the regulations . . . the professor is an absolutely special case . . . Yes, we know about his work . . . We were going to leave him five whole rooms . . . Well, OK ... if that's how it is ... OK.'

    Very red in the face, he hung up and turned round.

    What a fellow! thought the dog rapturously. Does he know how to handle them! What's his

secret, I wonder? He can beat me as much as he likes now - I'm not leaving this place!'

    The three young people stared open-mouthed at the wretched Shvonder.

    'This is a disgrace!' he said miserably.

    'If that Pyotr Alexandrovich had been here,' began the woman, reddening with anger, 'I'd have shown him . . .'

    'Excuse me, would you like to talk to him now?' enquired Philip Philipovich politely.

    The woman's eyes flashed.

    'You can be as sarcastic as you like, professor, but we're going now . . . Still, as manager of the cultural department of this house . . .'

    ' Manager,' Philip Philipovich corrected her.

    'I want to ask you' - here the woman pulled a number of coloured magazines wet with snow, from out of the front of her tunic - 'to buy a few of these magazines in aid of the children of Germany. 50 kopecks a copy.'

    'No, I will not,' said Philip Philipovich curtly after a glance at the magazines.

    Total amazement showed on the faces, and the girl turned cranberry-colour.

    'Why not?'

    'I don't want to.'

    'Don't you feel sorry for the children of Germany?'

    'Yes, I do.'

    'Can't you spare 50 kopecks?'

    'Yes, I can.'

    'Well, why won't you, then?'

    'I don't want to.'

    Silence.

    'You know, professor,' said the girl with a deep sigh, 'if you weren't world-famous and if you weren't being protected by certain people in the most disgusting way,' (the fair youth tugged at the hem of her jerkin, but she brushed him away), 'which we propose to investigate, you should be arrested.'

    'What for?' asked Philip Philipovich with curiosity.

    'Because you hate the proletariat!' said the woman proudly.

    'You're right, I don't like the proletariat,' agreed Philip Philipovich sadly, and pressed a button. A bell rang in the distance. The door opened on to the corridor.

    'Zina!' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'Serve the supper, please. Do you mind, ladies and gentlemen?'

    Silently the four left the study, silently they trooped down the passage and through the hall. The front door closed loudly and heavily behind them.

    The dog rose on his hind legs in front of Philip Philipovich and performed obeisance to him.

Three

    On gorgeous flowered plates with wide black rims lay thin slices of salmon and soused eel; a slab of over-ripe cheese on a heavy wooden platter, and in a silver bowl packed around with snow - caviare. Beside the plates stood delicate glasses and three crystal decanters of different-coloured vodkas. All these objects were on a small marble table, handily placed beside the huge carved oak sideboard which shone with glass and silver. In the middle of the room was a table, heavy as a gravestone and covered with a white tablecloth set with two places, napkins folded into the shape of papal tiaras, and three dark bottles.

    Zina brought in a covered silver dish beneath which something bubbled. The dish gave off such a smell that the dog's mouth immediately filled with saliva. The gardens of Semiramis! he thought as he thumped the floor with his tail.

    'Bring it here,' ordered Philip Philipovich greedily. 'I beg you, Doctor Bormenthal, leave the caviare alone. And if you want a piece of good advice, don't touch the English vodka but drink the ordinary Russian stuff.'

    The handsome Bormenthal - who had taken off his white coat and was wearing a smart black suit - shrugged his broad shoulders, smirked politely and poured out a glass of clear vodka.

    'What make is it?' he enquired.

    'Bless you, my dear fellow,' replied his host, 'it's pure alcohol. Darya Petrovna makes the most

excellent homemade vodka.'

'But surely, Philip Philipovich, everybody says that 30-degree vodka is quite good enough.'

    'Vodka should be at least 40 degrees, not 30 - that's firstly,' Philip Philipovich interrupted him didactically, 'and secondly - God knows what muck they make into vodka nowadays. What do you think they use?'

    'Anything they like,' said the other doctor firmly.

    'I quite agree,' said Philip Philipovich and hurled the contents of his glass down his throat in one gulp. 'Ah . . . m'm . . . Doctor Bormenthal - please drink that at once and if you ask me what it is, I'm your enemy for life. "From Granada to Seville . . ." '

    With these words he speared something like a little piece of black bread on his silver fish-fork. Bormenthal followed his example. Philip Philipovich's eyes shone.

    'Not bad, eh?' asked Philip Philipovich, chewing. 'Is it? Tell me, doctor.'

    'It's excellent,' replied the doctor sincerely.

    'So I should think . . . Kindly note, Ivan Arnoldovich, that the only people who eat cold hors d'oeuvres nowadays are the few remaining landlords who haven't had their throats cut. Anybody with a spark of self-respect takes his hors d'oeuvres hot. And of all the hot hors d'oeuvres in Moscow this is the best. Once they used to do them magnificently at the Slavyansky Bazaar restaurant. There, you can have some too.'

    'If you feed a dog at table,' said a woman's voice, 'you won't get him out of here afterwards for love or money.'

    'I don't mind. The poor thing's hungry.' On the point of his fork Pliilip Philipovich handed the dog a tit-bit, which the animal took with the dexterity of a conjuror. The professor then threw the fork with a clatter into the slop-basin.

    The dishes now steamed with an odour of lobster; the dog sat in the shadow of the tablecloth with the look of a sentry by a powder magazine as Philip Philipovich, thrusting the end of a thick napkin into his collar, boomed on:

    'Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a subtle thing. One must know how to eat, yet just think - most people don't know how to eat at all. One must not only know what to eat, but when and how.' (Philip Philipovich waved his fork meaningfully.) 'And what to say while you're eating. Yes, my dear sir. If you care about your digestion, my advice is - don't talk about bolshevism or medicine at table. And, God forbid - never read Soviet newspapers before dinner.'

    'M'mm . . . But there are no other newspapers.'

    'In that case don't read any at all. Do you know I once made thirty tests in my clinic. And what do you think? The patients who never read newspapers felt excellent. Those whom I specially made read Pravda all lost weight.

    'H'm . . .' rejoined Bormenthal with interest, turning gently pink from the soup and the wine.

    'And not only did they lose weight. Their knee reflexes were retarded, they lost appetite and exhibited general depression.'

    'Good heavens . . .'

    'Yes, my dear sir. But listen to me - I'm talking about medicine!'

    Leaning back, Philip Philipovich rang the bell and Zina appeared through the cerise portiere. The dog was given a thick, white piece of sturgeon, which he did not like, then immediately afterwards a chunk of underdone roast beef. When he had gulped it down the dog suddenly felt that he wanted to sleep and could not bear the sight of any more food. Strange feeling, he thought, blinking his heavy eyelids, it's as if my eyes won't look at food any longer. As for smoking after they've eaten - that's crazy.

    The dining-room was filling with unpleasant blue smoke. The animal dozed, its head on its forepaws. 'Saint Julien is a very decent wine,' the dog heard sleepily, 'but there's none of it to be had any more.'

    A dull mutter of voices in chorus, muffled by the ceiling and carpets, was heard coming from above and to one side.

    Philip Philipovich rang for Zina. 'Zina my dear, what's that noise?'

    'They're having another general meeting, Philip Philipovich,' replied Zina.

    'What, again?' exclaimed Philip Philipovich mournfully. 'Well, this is the end of this house. I'll have to go away -but where to? I can see exactly what'll happen. First of all there'll be community singing in the evening, then the pipes will freeze in the lavatories, then the central heating boiler will blow up and so on. This is the end.'

    'Philip Philipovich worries himself to death,' said Zina with a smile as she cleared away a pile of plates.

    'How can I help it?' exploded Philip Philipovich. 'Don't you know what this house used to be like?'

    'You take too black a view of things, Philip Philipovich,' objected the handsome Bormenthal. 'There is a considerable change for the better now.'

    'My dear fellow, you know me, don't you? I am a man of facts, a man who observes. I'm the enemy of unsupported hypotheses. And I'm known as such not only in Russia but in Europe too. If I say something, that means that it is based on some fact from which I draw my conclusions. Now there's a fact for you: there is a hat-stand and a rack for boots and galoshes in this house.'

    'Interesting . . .'

    Galoshes - hell. Who cares about galoshes, thought the dog, but he's a great fellow all the

same.

    'Yes, a rack for galoshes. I have been living in this house since 1903. And from then until March 1917 there was not one case - let me underline in red pencil not one case - of a single pair of galoshes disappearing from that rack even when the front door was open. There are, kindly note, twelve flats in this house and a constant stream of people coming to my consulting-rooms. One fine day in March 1917 all the galoshes disappeared, including two pairs of mine, three walking sticks, an overcoat and the porter's samovar. And since then the rack has ceased to exist. And I won't mention the boiler. The rule apparently is - once a social revolution takes place there's no need to stoke the boiler. But I ask you: why, when this whole business started, should everybody suddenly start clumping up and down the marble staircase in dirty galoshes and felt boots? Why must we now keep our galoshes under lock and key? And put a soldier on guard over them to prevent them from being stolen? Why has the carpet been removed from the front staircase? Did Marx forbid people to keep their staircases carpeted? Did Karl Marx say anywhere that the front door of No. 2 Kalabukhov House in Prechistenka Street must be boarded up so that people have to go round and come in by the back door? WTiat good does it do anybody? Why can't the proletarians leave their galoshes downstairs instead of dirtying the staircase?'

    'But the proletarians don't have any galoshes, Philip Philipovich,' stammered the doctor.

    'Nothing of the sort!' replied Philip Philipovich in a voice of thunder, and poured himself a glass of wine. 'H'mm ... I don't approve of liqueurs after dinner. They weigh on the digestion and are bad for the liver . . . Nothing of the sort! The proletarians do have galoshes now and those galoshes are - mine! The very ones that vanished in the spring of 1917. Who removed them, you may ask? Did I remove them? Impossible. The bourgeois Sablin?' (Philip Philipovich pointed upwards to the ceiling.) 'The very idea's laughable. Polozov, the sugar manufacturer?' (Philip Philipovich pointed to one side.) 'Never! You see? But if they'd only take them off when they come up the staircase!' (Philip Philipovich started to turn purple.) 'Why on earth do they have to remove the flowers from the landing? Why does the electricity, which to the best of my recollection has only failed twice in the past twenty years, now go out regularly once a month? Statistics, Doctor Bormenthal, are terrible things. You who know my latest work must realise that better than anybody.' 'The place is going to ruin, Philip Philipovich.'

    'No,' countered Philip Philipovich quite firmly. 'No. You must first of all refrain, my dear Ivan Arnoldovich, from using that word. It's a mirage, a vapour, a fiction,' Philip Philipovich spread out his short fingers, producing a double shadow like two skulls on the tablecloth. 'What do you mean by ruin? An old woman with a broomstick? A witch who smashes all the windows and puts out all the lights? No such thing. What do you mean by that word?' Philip Philipovich angrily enquired of an unfortunate cardboard duck hanging upside down by the sideboard, then answered the question himself. 'I'll tell you what it is: if instead of operating every evening I were to start a glee club in my apartment, that would mean that I was on the road to ruin. If when I go to the lavatory I don't pee, if you'll excuse the expression, into the bowl but on to the floor instead and if Zina and Darya Petrovna were to do the same thing, the lavatory would be ruined. Ruin, therefore, is not caused by lavatories but it's something that starts in people's heads. So when these clowns start shouting "Stop the ruin!" - I laugh!' (Philip Philipovich's face became so distorted that the doctor's mouth fell open.) 'I swear to you, I find it laughable! Every one of them needs to hit himself on the back of the head and then when he has knocked all the hallucinations out of himself and gets on with sweeping out backyards - which is his real job - all this "ruin" will automatically disappear. You can't serve two gods! You can't sweep the dirt out of the tram tracks and settle the fate of the Spanish beggars at the same time! No one can ever manage it, doctor - and above all it can't be done by people who are two hundred years behind the rest of Europe and who so far can't even manage to do up their own fly-buttons properly!'