Bormenthal. With a glint in his eyes Shvonder bowed and went out.
Sharikov disappeared after him, his boots creaking.
The professor and Bormenthal were left alone. After a short silence, Philip Philipovich shook his head gently and said:
'On my word of honour, this is becoming an absolute nightmare. Don't you see? I swear, doctor, that I've suffered more these last fourteen days than in the past fourteen years! I tell you, he's a scoundrel . . .'
From a distance came the faint tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a stifled woman's scream, then silence. An evil spirit dashed down the corridor, turned into the consulting-room where it produced another crash and immediately turned back. Doors slammed and Darya Petrovna's low cry was heard from the kitchen. There was a howl from Sharikov.
'Oh, God, what now!' cried Philip Philipovich, rushing for the door.
'A cat,' guessed Bormenthal and leaped after him. They ran down the corridor into the hall,
burst in, then turned into the passage leading to the bathroom and the kitchen. Zina came dashing out of the kitchen and ran full tilt into Philip Philipovich.
'How many times have I told you not to let cats into the flat,' shouted Philip Philipovich in fury. 'Where is he? Ivan Amoldovich, for God's sake go and calm the patients in the waiting-room!'
'He's in the bathroom, the devil,' cried Zina, panting. Philip Philipovich hurled himself at the bathroom door, but it would not give way.
'Open up this minute!'
The only answer from the locked bathroom was the sound of something leaping up at the
walls, smashing glasses, and Sharikov's voice roaring through the door: 'I'll kill you . . .'
Water could be heard gurgling through the pipes and pouring into the bathtub. Philip
Philipovich leaned against the door and tried to break it open. Darya Petrovna, clothes torn and face distorted with anger, appeared in the kitchen doorway. Then the glass transom window, high up in the wall between the bathroom and the kitchen, shattered with a multiple crack. Two large fragments crashed into the kitchen followed by a tabby cat of gigantic proportions with a face like a policeman and a blue bow round its neck. It fell on to the middle of the table, right into a long platter, which it broke in half. From there it fell to the floor, turned round on three legs as it waved the fourth in the air as though executing a dance-step, and instantly streaked out through the back door, which was slightly ajar.The door opened wider and the cat was replaced by the face of an old woman in a headscarf, followed by her polka-dotted skirt. The old woman wiped her mouth with her index and second fingers, stared round the kitchen with protruding eyes that burned with curiosity and she said:
'Oh, my lord!'
Pale, Philip Philipovich crossed the kitchen and asked threateningly:
'What do you want?'
'I wanted to have a look at the talking dog,' replied the old woman ingratiatingly and crossed herself. Philip Philipovich went even paler, strode up to her and hissed: 'Get out of my kitchen this instant!'
The old woman tottered back toward the door and said plaintively:
'You needn't be so sharp, professor.'
'Get out, I say!' repeated Philip Philipovich and his eyes went as round as the owl's. He
personally slammed the door behind the old woman.
'Darya Petrovna, I've asked you before . . .'
'But Philip Philipovich,' replied Darya Petrovna in desperation, clenching her hands, 'what can I do? People keep coming in all day long, however often I throw them out.'
A dull, threatening roar of water was still coming from the bathroom, although Sharikov was now silent. Doctor Bormenthal came in.
'Please, Ivan Amoldovich ... er... how many patients are there in the waiting-room?'
'Eleven,' replied Bormenthal.
'Send them all away, please. I can't see any patients today.'
With a bony finger Philip Philipovich knocked on the bathroom door and shouted: 'Come out at once! Why have you locked yourself in?'
'Oh . . . oh . . .!' replied Sharikov in tones of misery.
'What on earth ... I can't hear you - turn off the water.'
'Ow-wow! . . .'
'Turn off the water! What has he done? I don't understand . . .' cried Philip Philipovich, working himself into a frenzy. Zina and Darya Petrovna opened the kitchen door and peeped out. Once again Philip Philipovich thundered on the bathroom door with his fist.
'There he is!' screamed Darya Petrovna from the kitchen. Philip Philipovich rushed in. The distorted features of Poligraph Poligraphovich appeared through the broken transom and leaned out into the kitchen .His eyes were tear-stained and there was a long scratch down his nose, red with
fresh blood.
'Have you gone out of your mind?' asked Philip Philipovich. 'Why don't you come out of there?'
Terrified and miserable, Sharikov stared around and replied:
'I've shut myself in.'
'Unlock the door, then. Haven't you ever seen a lock before?'
'The blasted thing won't open!' replied Poligraph, terrified.
'Oh, my God, he's shut the safety-catch too!' screamed Zina, wringing her hands.
'There's a sort of button on the lock,' shouted Philip Philipovich, trying to out-roar the water. 'Press it downwards . . . press it down! Downwards!'
Sharikov vanished, to reappear over the transom a minute later.
'I can't see a thing!' he barked in terror.
'Well, turn the light on then! He's gone crazy!'
'That damned cat smashed the bulb,' replied Sharikov, 'and when I tried to catch the bastard by the leg I turned on the tap and now I can't find it.'
Appalled, all three wrung their hands in horror.
Five minutes later Bormenthal, Zina and Darya Petrovna were sitting in a row on a damp
carpet that had been rolled up against the foot of the bathroom door, pressing it hard with their bottoms. Fyodor the porter was climbing up a ladder into the transom window, with the lighted candle from Darya Petrovna's ikon in his hand. His posterior, clad in broad grey checks, hovered in the air, then vanished through the opening.
'Ooh! . . . ow!' came Sharikov's strangled shriek above the roar of water.
Fyodor's voice was heard: 'There's nothing for it, Philip Philipovich, we'll have to open the door and let the water out. We can mop it up from the kitchen.'
'Open it then!' shouted Philip Philipovich angrily.
The three got up from the carpet and pushed the bathroom door open. Immediately a tidal
wave gushed out into the passage, where it divided into three streams - one straight into the lavatory opposite, one to the right into the kitchen and one to the left into the hall. Splashing and prancing, Zina shut the door into the hall. Fyodor emerged, up to his ankles in water, and for some reason grinning. He was soaking wet and looked as if he were wearing oilskins.
'The water-pressure was so strong, I only just managed to turn it off,' he explained.
'Where is he?' asked Philip Philipovich, cursing as he lifted one wet foot.
'He's afraid to come out,' said Fyodor, giggling stupidly.
'Will you beat me. Dad' came Sharikov's tearful voice from the bathroom.
'You idiot!' was Philip Philipovich's terse reply.
Zina and Darya Petrovna, with bare legs and skirts tucked up to their knees, and Sharikov and the porter barefoot with rolled-up trousers were hard at work mopping up the kitchen floor with wet cloths, squeezing them out into dirty buckets and into the sink. The abandoned stove roared away. The water swirled out of the back door, down the well of the back staircase and into the cellar.
On tiptoe, Bormenthal was standing in a deep puddle on the parquet floor of the hall and talking through the crack of the front door, opened only as far as the chain would allow.
'No consulting hours today, I'm afraid, the professor's not well. Please keep away from the
door, we have a burst pipe.
'But when can the p
rofessor see me?' a voice came through the door. 'It wouldn't take a minute . . .'
'I'm sorry.' Bormenthal rocked back from his toes to his heels. 'The professor's in bed and a pipe has burst. Come tomorrow. Zina dear, quickly mop up the hall or it will start running down the front staircase.'
'There's too much - the cloths won't do it.'
'Never mind,' said Fyodor. 'We'll scoop it up with jugs.'
While the doorbell rang ceaselessly, Bormenthal stood up to his ankles in water.
'When is the operation?' said an insistent voice as it tried to force its way through the crack of the door.
'A pipe's burst . . .'
'But I've come in galoshes . . .'
Bluish silhouettes appeared outside the door.
'I'm sorry, it's impossible, please come tomorrow.'
'But I have an appointment.'
'Tomorrow. There's been a disaster in the water supply.'
Fyodor splashed about in the lake, scooping it up with a jug, but the battle-scared Sharikov had thought up a new method. He rolled up an enormous cloth, lay on his stomach in the water and pushed it backwards from the hall towards the lavatory.
'What d'you think you're doing, you fool, slopping it all round the flat?' fumed Darya Petrovna. 'Pour it into the sink.'
'How can I?' replied Sharikov, scooping up the murky water with his hands. 'If I don't push it back into the flat it'll run out of the front door.'
A bench was pushed creaking out of the corridor, with Philip Philipovich riding unsteadily on it in his blue striped socks.
'Stop answering the door, Ivan Amoldovich. Go into the bedroom, you can borrow a pair of my slippers.'
'Don't bother, Philip Philipovich, I'm all right.'
'You're wearing nothing but a pair of galoshes.'
'I don't mind. My feet are wet anyway.'
'Oh, my God!' Philip Philipovich was exhausted and depressed.
'Destructive animal!' Sharikov suddenly burst out as he squatted on the floor, clutching a soup tureen.
Bormenthal slammed the door, unable to contain himself any longer and burst into laughter. Philip Philipovich blew out his nostrils and his spectacles glittered.
'What are you talking about?' he asked Sharikov from the eminence of his bench.
'I was talking about the cat. Filthy swine,' answered Sharikov, his eyes swivelling guiltily.
'Look here, Sharikov,' retorted Philip Philipovich, taking a deep breath. 'I swear I have never seen a more impudent creature than you.'
Bormenthal giggled.
'You,' went on Philip Philipovich, 'are nothing but a lout. How dare you say that? You caused the whole thing and you have the gall . . . No, really! It's too much!'
'Tell me, Sharikov,' said Bormenthal, 'how much longer are you going to chase cats? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It's disgraceful! You're a savage!'
'Me - a savage?' snarled Sharikov. 'I'm no savage. I won't stand for that cat in this flat. It only comes here to find what it can pinch. It stole Darya's mincemeat. I wanted to teach it a lesson.'
'You should teach yourself a lesson!' replied Philip Philipovich. 'Just take a look at your face in the mirror.'
'Nearly scratched my eyes out,' said Sharikov gloomily, wiping a dirty hand across his eyes.
By the time that the water-blackened parquet had dried out a little, all the mirrors were
covered in a veil of condensed vapour and the doorbell had stopped ringing. Philip Philipovich in red morocco slippers was standing in the hall.
'There you are, Fyodor. Thank you.'
'Thank you very much, sir.'
'Mind you change your clothes straight away. No, wait -have a glass of Darya Petrovna's vodka before you go.'
'Thank you, sir,' Fyodor squirmed awkwardly, then said:
'There is one more thing, Philip Philipovich. I'm sorry, I hardly like to mention it, but it's the matter of the window-pane in No 7. Citizen Sharikov threw some stones at it, you see . . .'
'Did he throw them at a cat?' asked Philip Philipovich, frowning like a thundercloud.
'Well, no, he was throwing them at the owner of the flat. He's threatening to sue.'
'Oh, lord!'
'Sharikov tried to kiss their cook and they threw him out. They had a bit of a fight, it seems.'
'For God's sake, do you have to tell me all these disasters at once? How much?'
'One rouble and 50 kopecks.'
Philip Philipovich took out three shining 50-kopeck pieces and handed them to Fyodor.
'And on top of it all you have to pay 1 rouble and 50 kopecks because of that damned cat,'
grumbled a voice from the doorway. 'It was all the cat's fault . . .'
Philip Philipovich turned round, bit his lip and gripped Sharikov. Without a word he pushed him into the waiting-room and locked the door. Sharik immediately started to hammer on the door with his fists.
'Shut up!' shouted Philip Philipovich in a voice that was nearly deranged.
'This is the limit,' said Fyodor meaningfully. 'I've never seen such impudence in my life.'
Bormenthal seemed to materialise out of the floor.
'Please, Philip Philipovich, don't upset yourself.'
The doctor thrust open the door into the waiting-room.
He could be heard saying: 'Where d'you think you are? In some dive?'
'That's it,' said Fyodor approvingly. 'Serve him right . . .a punch on the ear's what he needs . . .'
'No, not that, Fyodor,' growled Philip Philipovich sadly. 'I think you've just about had all you can take, Philip Philipovich.'
Six
'No, no, no!' insisted Bormenthal. 'You must tuck in vour napkin.'
'Why the hell should I,' grumbled Sharikov.
'Thank you, doctor,' said Philip Philipovich gratefully. 'I simply haven't the energy to reprimand him any longer.'
'I shan't allow you to start eating until you put on your napkin. Zina, take the mayonnaise away from Sharikov.'
'Hey, don't do that,' said Sharikov plaintively. 'I'll put it on straight away.'
Pushing away the dish from Zina with his left hand and stuffing a napkin down his collar with the right hand, he looked exactly like a customer in a barber's shop.
'And eat with your fork, please,' added Bormenthal.
Sighing long and heavily Sharikov chased slices of sturgeon around in a thick sauce.
'Can't I have some vodka?' he asked.
'Will you kindly keep quiet?' said Bormenthal. 'You've been at the vodka too often lately.'
'Do you grudge me it?' asked Sharikov, glowering sullenly across the table.
'Stop talking such damn nonsense . . .' Philip Philipovich broke in harshly, but Bormenthal
interrupted him.
'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, leave it to me. You, Sharikov are talking nonsense and the most disturbing thing of all is that you talk it with such complete confidence. Of course I don't grudge you the vodka, especially as it's not mine but belongs to Philip Philipovich. It's simply that it's harmful. That's for a start; secondly you behave badly enough without vodka.' Bormenthal pointed to where the sideboard had been broken and glued together.
'Zina, dear, give me a little more fish please,' said the professor.
Meanwhile Sharikov had stretched out his hand towards the decanter and, with a sideways
glance at Bormenthal, poured himself out a glassful.
'You should offer it to the others first,' said Bormenthal. 'Like this - first to Philip Philipovich, then to me, then yourself.'
A faint, sarcastic grin nickered across Sharikov's mouth and he poured out glasses of vodka all round.
'You act just as if you were on parade here,' he said. 'Put your napkin here, your tie there, "please", "thank you", "excuse me" -why can't you behave naturally? Honestly, you stuffed shirts act as if it was still the days oftsarism.'
'What do you mean by "behave naturally"?'
Sharikov did not answer Philip Philipovich's question, but raised hi
s glass and said: 'Here's how . . .'
'And you too,' echoed Bormenthal with a tinge of irony.
Sharikov tossed the glassful down his throat, blinked, lifted a piece of bread to his nose, sniffed it, then swallowed it as his eyes filled with tears.