“The calendar from the consulting room.”
There was a pause. Zina returned with the calendar. Philip Philipovich asked:
“Where?”
“His day is celebrated on 4 March.”
“Show me… Hm… Damn it… Into the stove with it, Zina, this moment.”
Zina, eyes popping with fright, went off with the calendar and the man shook his head reproachfully.
“And may I know your surname?”
“I am prepared to accept my hereditary surname.”
“What’s that? Hereditary? And that is…”
“Sharikov.”
Before the desk in the study stood the chairman of the house committee Shvonder wearing a leather jacket. Bormental sat in the armchair. The rosy cheeks of the doctor (he had just come in out of the frost) wore the same lost expression as was to be seen on the face of Philip Philipovich, who was sitting next to him.
“What should I write?” he asked impatiently.
“Well,” said Shvonder, “there’s nothing complicated about it. Write an attestation, Citizen Professor: that for this, that or the other reason, you know the person presenting the aforesaid to be in actual fact Sharikov, Polygraph Polygraphovich, who was, hm, born here in your flat.”
Bormental made a bewildered movement in his chair. Philip Philipovich tugged at his moustache.
“Hm … what a devilish situation! You can’t imagine anything more idiotic. There can be no question of his having been born, he simply … well, er…”
“It is for you to decide,” remarked Shvonder with quiet malice. “Whether or not he was born … taken by and large, it was your experiment, Professor! You are the creator of Citizen Sharikov.”
“As simple as that,” barked Sharikov from the bookcase. He was gazing at the reflection of his tie mirrored in the depths of the glass.
“I would be most grateful,” Philip Philipovich retorted, “if you would keep out of this conversation. You have no grounds for saying it was simple… It was very far from simple.”
“Why should I keep out of it,” mumbled Sharikov, taking offence.
Shvonder immediately supported him.
“Forgive me, Professor, Citizen Sharikov is quite right. It is his right to take part in any discussion about his own fate and more especially as we are speaking of documents. One’s document is the most important thing in the world.”
At that moment a deafening ringing above their heads interrupted the conversation. Philip Philipovich said, “Yes” into the receiver, flushed and shouted:
“Pray do not disturb me on matters of no importance! What business is it of yours?” And hung up with some violence.
Pure joy spread over Shvonder’s face.
Philip Philipovich, scarlet in the face, cried out:
“In a word, let us get this over and done with!”
He tore a piece of paper from the block and wrote down a few words, then read aloud in an exasperated voice:
“I hereby certify … the devil alone knows what this is all about… huhhm … that the person presenting this paper is a human being obtained during a laboratory experiment on the brain, who requires documents… Dammit! In general I am against obtaining these idiotic documents. Signature—Professor Preobrazhensky.”
“Rather curious, Professor,” said Shvonder in an injured voice, “how can you say documents are idiotic? I cannot give permission for any person without documents to reside in this house, particularly one not registered for the reserve with the militia. What if all of a sudden there was a war against the imperialist predators?”
“I’m not going to war, not for anyone!” Sharikov yelped, frowning into the bookcase.
Shvonder was taken aback, but recovered immediately and remarked politely to Sharikov:
“You, Citizen Sharikov, are speaking in a very irresponsible manner. It is essential to register for the reserve.”
“I’ll register for the reserve all right, but as to going to war — you can stuff that one,” replied Sharikov, straightening his tie.
It was Shvonder’s turn to be embarrassed. Preobrazhensky exchanged malicious but anguished glances with Bormental. There is a moral to be drawn, don’t you think? Bormental nodded significantly.
“I was severely wounded in the course of the operation,” whined Sharikov. “Look what they did to me,” and he pointed to his head. Around the forehead ran the scar from the operation, still very fresh.
“Are you an anarchist-individualist?” asked Shvonder, raising his brows.
“I ought to have exemption on medical grounds,” Sharikov replied to this one ” — a white ticket.”
“Well, we’ll see, that is not the matter at issue,” replied Shvonder in some confusion. “The fact remains that we shall send the Professor’s attestation to the militia and you will get your document.”
“Here, listen,” Philip Philipovich suddenly interrupted him, clearly tormented by some secret thought. “You don’t happen to have a spare room somewhere in this house, do you? I would agree to buy it from you.”
Yellow sparks appeared in Shvonder’s brown eyes. “No, Professor, I deeply regret, I have no spare room. And I won’t have.”
Philip Philipovich pursed his lips and said nothing. Again the telephone rang out shrilly. Philip Philipovich, without answering, silently tipped the receiver off the hook so that it hung suspended on the pale-blue cord. They all jumped. The old man’s feeling the strain, thought Bormental, and Shvonder, eyes flashing, nodded and left.
Sharikov, the soles of his shoes squeaking, followed him.
The Professor was left alone with Bormental. After a short silence Philip Philipovich gave his head a little shake and said:
“This is a nightmare, upon my word. Do you see what is going on? I swear to you, my dear Doctor, that I am more exhausted as a result of the last two weeks than from the whole of the last fourteen years. What a type! And let me tell you…” Somewhere far away there was a muffled sound of cracking glass, then a suppressed female squeal, almost immediately extinguished.
Something went zigzagging wildly along the corridor wall-paper in the direction of the consulting room where there was a sound of a heavy fall, immediately after which the thing came flying back. There was a banging of doors and from the kitchen a deep bellow from Darya Petrovna. Then a howl from Sharikov.
“Good God, now what’s happened!” cried Philip Philipovich, charging for the door.
“A cat,” Bormental realised and darted out after him. They dashed along the corridor into the hall, burst into it and turned from there into the corridor towards the lavatory and bathroom. Zina leapt out from the kitchen straight into the arms of Philip Philipovich.
“How many times have I ordered that there should be no cats!” yelled Philip Philipovich, quite beside himself. “Where is it? Ivan Arnoldovich, for God’s sake go and reassure the patients in reception.”
“In the bathroom, the devil, he’s sitting in the bathroom!” cried Zina, quite out of breath.
Philip Philipovich put his shoulder to the bathroom door, but it would not open.
“Open up — this instant!”
In answer something leapt around the bathroom walls, bowls were scattered and Sharikov’s wild voice sounded in a muffled roar from behind the door:
“I’ll get you, I’ll have your guts…”
There was a sound of water running along the pipes, then pouring out. Philip Philipovich put all his weight on the door and began to force it. Darya Petrovna, all dishevelled and steamy, her face distorted, appeared on the threshold of the kitchen. Then the high-up pane of glass right up against the ceiling between the bathroom and the kitchen cracked right across in a snaky line, two fragments of glass came tumbling down and after them crashed a tiger-coloured fierce cat of vast size with a pale-blue ribbon round its neck and a distinct resemblance to a militiaman.
It landed plump on the table in the middle of a large oval dish which cracked from end to end, leapt from the dish onto the floor, performed a pirouette on three legs, waving the fourth as if in a ballet, and promptly filtered itself through the narrow opening onto the back stairs. The gap grew wider and in place of the cat the face of an old woman in a headscarf peered in at the door: the old woman’s billowing skirt scattered with white polka dots followed her head into the kitchen. Rubbing her sunken mouth with index finger and thumb, she took in the kitchen with one glance of her sharp, swollen eyes and pronounced with undisguised curiosity:
“Oh, Lord Jesus Christ!”
White-faced, Philip Philipovich strode across the kitchen and asked the old woman on a note of menace:
“What do you want?”
“I’m curious to see the talking dog,” answered the old woman placatingly and crossed herself.
Philip Philipovich turned paler still, went right up to the old woman and whispered in a breathless voice:
“Out, out of the kitchen this minute!”
The old woman backed away to the door and said in injured tones:
“That’s very rude of you, Professor.”
“Out, I say!” repeated Philip Philipovich and his eyes grew round as an owl’s. He slammed the back door behind the old woman with his own hand. “Darya Petrovna, I especially asked you!”
“Philip Philipovich,” replied Darya Petrovna, doubling her bare hands into fists. “What can I do? There are people trying to get in all day long, I’ve no time for my own work.”
The water in the bathroom continued to roar, a muffled menace, but there was no further sound of voices. Doctor Bormental came into the kitchen.
“Ivan Arnoldovich, I beg you … hm… How many patients have you got out there?”
“Eleven.”
“Let them all go, I shall cancel reception for today.”
Philip Philipovich rapped on the door of the bathroom with his knuckles:
“Come out this instant! Why have you locked yourself in?”
“Woo-hoo!” answered Sharikov’s voice dully and pitifully.
“What the hell!.. I can’t hear, turn off the water.”
“Wuff! Wuff!”
“Turn off the water, I said! What’s he done, I don’t understand!” cried Philip Philipovich, losing all self-control.
Zina and Darya Petrovna opened the door and peered out from the kitchen. Philip Philipovich battered
