"Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs ("Роковые яйца")" - читать интересную книгу автора

there were any developments. He went into the palace to his bedroom with its
two narrow iron bedsteads, rumpled bedclothes and piles of green apples and
millet on the floor for the newly-hatched chickens, took a towel and, on
reflection, his flute as well to play at leisure over the still waters. Then
he ran quickly out of the palace, across the farmyard and down the
willow-lined path to the pond. He walked briskly, swinging the towel, with
the flute under his arm. The sky shimmered with heat through the willows,
and his aching body begged to dive into the water. On the right of Feight
began a dense patch of burdock, into which he spat en passant. All at once
there was a rustling in the tangle of big leaves, as if someone was dragging
a log. With a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, Alexander Semyonovich
turned his head towards the burdock in surprise. There had not been a sound
from the pond for two days. The rustling stopped, and above the burdock the
smooth surface of the pond flashed invitingly with the grey roof of the
changing hut. Some dragon-flies darted to and fro in front of Alexander
Semyonovich. He was about to turn off to the wooden platform, when there was
another rustle in the burdock accompanied this time by a short hissing like
steam coming out of an engine. Alexander Semyonovich tensed and stared at
the dense thicket of weeds.
At that moment the voice of Feight's wife rang out, and her white
blouse flashed in and out through the raspberry bushes. "Wait for me,
Alexander Semyonovich. I'm coming for a swim too."
His wife was hurrying to the pond, but Alexander Se-myonovich's eyes
were riveted on the burdock and he did not reply. A greyish olive-coloured
log had begun to rise out of the thicket, growing ever bigger before his
horrified gaze. The log seemed to be covered with wet yellowish spots. It
began to straighten up, bending and swaying, and was so long that it reached
above a short gnarled willow. Then the top of the log cracked, bent down
slightly, and something about the height of a Moscow electric lamp-post
loomed over Alexander Semyonovich. Only this something was about three times
thicker that a lamp-post and far more beautiful because of its scaly
tattooing. Completely mystified, but with shivers running down his spine,
Alexander Semyonovich looked at the top of this terrifying lamp-post, and
his heart almost stopped beating. He turned to ice on the warm August day,
and everything went dark before his eyes as if he were looking at the sun
through his summer trousers.
On the tip of the log was a head. A flattened, pointed head adorned
with a round yellow spot on an olive background. In the roof of the head sat
a pair of lidless icy narrow eyes, and these eyes glittered with
indescribable malice. The head moved as if spitting air and the whole post
slid back into the burdock, leaving only the eyes which glared at Alexander
Semyonovich without blinking. Drenched with sweat, the latter uttered five
incredible fear-crazed words. So piercing were the eyes between the leaves.
"What the devil's going on..."
Then he remembered about fakirs... Yes, yes, in India, a wicker basket
and a picture. Snake-charming.
The head reared up again, and the body began to uncoil. Alexander
Semyonovich raised his flute to his lips, gave a hoarse squeak and, gasping
for breath, began to play the waltz from Eugene Onegin. The eyes in the
burdock lit up at once with implacable hatred for the opera.