There he came, nearer and nearer. That was a man who ate well and did not have to steal, a man who would not kick you but would not be afraid either, and would not be afraid because he always had enough to eat. He was a gentleman who earned his living by intellectual work; he had a pointed French beard and a grey, downy, dashing moustache such as the French knights of old used to have, but the smell wafting from him on the blizzard was a bad smell: hospitals. And cigars.
What ill wind, one wondered, was blowing him into the Cooperative of the People’s Economy? Here he is, right here… What’s he after? Oo-oo-oo-oo… What could he have bought in that rotten little shop? Weren’t the posh Okhotny Ryad shops (1) enough for him? What was that? Sa-la-mi. Sir, if you had only seen what that salami is made of you would not have gone near that shop! Give it to me.
The dog made one last effort and, in his madness, crawled out from the archway onto the pavement. The stormwind went off like a gun above his head, flapping the huge lettering on a canvas sign. “Is it possible to restore youth?”
Of course it was possible. The smell restored mine, got me up from my belly, the smell that sent hot waves to contract a stomach empty for the last forty-eight hours, the smell that overpowered the stink of hospital, the blissful smell of chopped horse-meat, garlic and pepper. I feel it, I know it — in the left pocket of his fur coat there is a stick of salami. He is above me now. Oh, my sovereign! Look down upon me. I perish. What slavish souls we have, what an ignoble lot is ours!
The dog crept on like a serpent on his stomach, tears raining from his eyes. Take note of what that chef did to me. But of course it will never enter your head to give it to me. Okh, I know very well what rich people are like. But when you come to think of it — what good is it to you? What do you want with a bit of putrid horse? Poison like that’s not to be gotten … from any place but Mosselprom (2). And you surely breakfasted today, you who are a great man of world importance all thanks to the glands in the male sexual organ. Oo-oo-oo-oo… Whatever is happening to the world? It would seem it’s early days yet to die and that despair really is a sin. Lick his hands, what else can I do.
The mysterious gentleman bent over the dog and, the golden frames of his eyes flashing, pulled from his right-hand pocket a long, white packet. Without removing his brown gloves, he undid the paper, which was immediately seized by the blizzard, and broke off a piece of the salami, known as “Cracow special”. And gave that piece to the dog. Oh, generous personage! Oo-oo-oo!
“Phew-phew,” the gentleman whistled and added sternly, “Take! Sharik, Sharik!”
Sharik again. What a name to give me, still, call me what you will … for such a unique act of kindness.
The dog ripped through the skin instantaneously and with a gasp sunk his teeth into the Cracow delicacy and downed it before you could count up to two. He choked on salami and snow to the point of tears, almost swallowing the string in his avidity. I am ready to lick your hand again and again. I kiss the hem of your trousers, my benefactor!
“That’ll do for now…” the gentleman spoke abruptly, in a tone of command. He bent over Sharik, looked searchingly into the dog’s eyes and unexpectedly passed his gloved hand over Sharik’s stomach in an intimate, caressing gesture.
“Aha,” he pronounced significantly. “No collar, splendid, just what I need. Come with me,” he snapped his fingers. “Phew-phew!”
Come with you? To the end of the world! You can kick me with those felt half-boots and I’ll never say a word.
All along Prechistenka the street-lights were shining. The scalded flank hurt unbearably but Sharik sometimes even forgot about it, possessed by one single thought: how not to lose the wondrous apparition in the fur coat in the bustle and how best to express his love and devotion to it. Seven or more times on the way along Prechistenka to Obukhov Alley he did express it. He kissed his boot. Then, at the corner of Myortvy Alley, where the crowd got in their way, he set up such a wild howling that he frightened a lady into sitting on a rubbish bin, after which he once or twice emitted a small whimper to sustain the compassionate attitude.
A villainous stray cat masquerading as a Siberian sprang out from behind a drainpipe, having caught a whiff of the salami. The world went dark for Sharik at the thought that the rich eccentric with a penchant for collecting wounded dogs in gateways might equally well string this thief along with him, and that then he would have to share the delicacy from Mosselprom. For this reason he gnashed his teeth at the cat to such effect that it shinned up the drainpipe as far as the third floor, hissing like a leaking hose. Fr-r-r… Wuff! Be off! The whole of Mosselprom can’t provide enough to feed all the tramps on Prechistenka.
The gentleman appreciated this show of devotion and, just by the fire station, beneath a window from which issued the pleasant murmuring of a clarinet, he rewarded the dog with another piece, not quite so big this time.
Funny fellow! Luring me on. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll follow you wherever you say.
“Phew-phew-phew! Here! Here!”
Down Obukhov? With pleasure. We are very well acquainted with this alley.
Phew-phew! Here? With pleas… Oh, no, you don’t! No. There’s a uniformed porter at the door. And there’s nothing worse than that in the whole world. Many times more dangerous than a janitor. An altogether loathsome breed. More repulsive even than cats.
“Don’t be afraid, come on.”
“Good day, Philip Philipovich.”
“Good day, Fyodor.”
Now that is a Somebody. My God, who have you landed me onto, me and my dog’s life. What kind of a Somebody is this who can lead dogs from the street past a porter into a block of cooperative flats? Just look at him, the creep — not a word, not a movement! True — his eyes are a bit threatening, but on the whole he’s indifferent under that cap with the gold braid. Just as if it were all in the nature of things. He’s full of respect, gentlemen, and such respect! All right then, I am with him and following him. See? Put that in your pipe and smoke it. It would be good to take a snap at that proletarian horny foot. For all the times the likes of you have tormented me. How many times have you made a mess of my muzzle with your broom, eh?
“Here. Here.”
We understand, we understand, pray do not worry. Where you go, we will follow. Just lead the way and I’ll keep up somehow, in spite of my injured flank.
Down from the stairway:
“No letters for me, Fyodor?”
Respectfully, from below stairs: “No, Sir, no, Philip Philipovich.” (Confidentially in a soft voice after him.) “There’re new residents — comrades from the house management committee been put into Flat Three.”
The distinguished benefactor of stray curs spun round on the stair and, leaning out over the banister, inquired on a note of horror:
“Well?”
His eyes grew round and his moustache bristled.
The porter below threw back his head, raised his palm to his mouth and confirmed:
“Yes, indeed, Sir, four of them, no less.”
“Good God! I can imagine what will happen to the flat now. What are they doing there?”
“Nothing special, Sir.”
“And Fyodor Pavlovich?”
“Gone to get screens and bricks. Going to make partitions.”
“I don’t know what the world’s coming to!”
“They’re going to put people in all the flats except for yours, Philip Philipovich. There’s just been a meeting. They’ve elected a new committee and thrown out the old one.”
“The things that go on. Dear me, dear me… Phew! Phew!”
I’m coming as quick as I can. My flank is so sore, you see. Permit me to lick your boot.
The porter’s gold braid disappeared below us. There was a draft of warm air from the central heating on the marble landing, we took one more turn and there we were on the landing of the first floor.
Part II
There is absolutely no call to learn to read when one can smell meat a mile off. Nevertheless, if you happen to live in Moscow and you have any brains at all, you are bound to pick up your letters, even without any particular instruction. Of the forty thousand dogs in Moscow there can only be the odd idiot who doesn’t know the letters for “salami”.
Sharik had begun to learn by colours. When he was only just four months old they hung out blue-green signs all over Moscow bearing the legend MSPO — the meat trade. As we said before, all that was quite unnecessary because you can smell meat anyway. It even led to some confusion when Sharik, whose sense of smell had been disorientated by the stink of petrol from a passing car, took his cue from the caustic blue-green colour and made a raid on Golubizner Bros, electric goods shop.
There at the brothers’ shop the dog made the acquaintance of isolated electric cable, something to be reckoned with even more seriously than a cabby’s horse-whip. That occasion should be
