"Michail Bulgakov. The heart of a dog" - читать интересную книгу автора

the doorway. On the street the violent storm spun her like a top, then a
whirlwind of snow spiralled around her and she vanished.
But the dog stayed in the doorway. His scalded flank was so painful
that he pressed himself against the cold wall, gasping for breath, and
decided not to move from the spot. He would die in the doorway. Despair
overcame him. He was so bitter and sick at heart, so lonely and terrified
that little dog's tears, like pimples, trickled down from his eyes, and at
once dried up. His injured side was covered with frozen, dried blood-clots
and between them peeped the angry red patches of the scald. All the fault of
that vicious, thickheaded, stupid cook. 'Sharik' she had called him . . .
What a name to choose! Sharik is the sort of name for a round, fat, stupid
dog that's fed on porridge, a dog with a pedigree, and he was a tattered,
scraggy, filthy stray mongrel with a scalded side.
Across the street the door of a brightly lit store slammed and a
citizen came through it. Not a comrade, but a citizen, or even more likely -
a gentleman. As he came closer it was obvious that he was a gentleman. I
suppose you thought I recognised him by his overcoat? Nonsense. Lots of
proletarians even wear overcoats nowadays. I admit they don't usually have
collars like this one, of course, but even so you can sometimes be mistaken
at a distance. No, it's the eyes: you can't go wrong with those, near or
far. Eyes mean a lot. Like a barometer. They tell you everything - they tell
you who has a heart of stone, who would poke the toe of his boot in your
ribs as soon as look at you - and who's afraid of you. The cowards - they're
the ones whose ankles I like to snap at. If they're scared, I go for them.
Serve them right . . . grrr . . . bow-wow . . .
The gentleman boldly crossed the street in a pillar of whirling snow
and headed for the doorway. Yes, you can tell his sort all right. He
wouldn't eat rotten salt beef, and if anyone did happen to give him any he'd
make a fuss and write to the newspapers - someone has been trying to poison
me - me, Philip Philipovich.
He came nearer and nearer. He's the kind who always eats well and never
steals, he wouldn't kick you, but he's not afraid of anyone either. And he's
never afraid because he always has enough to eat. This man's a brain worker,
with a carefully trimmed, sharp-pointed beard and grey moustaches, bold and
bushy ones like the knights of old. But the smell of him, that came floating
on the wind, was a bad, hospital smell. And cigars.
I wonder why the hell he wants to go into that Co-op? Here he is beside
me . . . What does he want? Oowow, owow . . . What would he want to buy in
that filthy store, surely he can afford to go to the Okhotny Ryad? What's
that he's holding? Sausage. Look sir, if you knew what they put into that
sausage you'd never go near that store. Better give it to me.
The dog gathered the last of his strength and crawled fainting out of
the doorway on to the pavement. The blizzard boomed like gunfire over his
head, flapping a great canvas billboard marked in huge letters, 'Is
Rejuvenation Possible?'
Of course it's possible. The mere smell has rejuvenated me, got me up
off my belly, sent scorching waves through my stomach that's been empty for
two days. The smell that overpowered the hospital smell was the heavenly
aroma of minced horsemeat with garlic and pepper. I feel it, I know -there's
a sausage in his right-hand coat pocket. He's standing over me. Oh, master!