to certify that the bearer is really Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov… h’m, born in, h’m… this flat.’
Bormenthal wriggled uneasily in his armchair. Philip Philipovich tugged at his moustache.
‘God dammit, I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. He wasn’t born at all, he simply… well, he sort of…’
‘That’s your problem,’ said Shvonder with quiet malice. ‘It’s up to you to decide whether he was born or not… It was your experiment, professor, and you brought citizen Sharikov into the world.’
‘It’s all quite simple,’ barked Sharikov from the glass-fronted cabinet, where he was admiring the reflection of his tie.
‘Kindly keep out of this conversation,’ growled Philip Philipovich. ‘It’s not at all simple.’
‘Why shouldn’t I join in?’ spluttered Sharikov in an offended voice, and Shvonder instantly supported him.
‘I’m sorry, professor, but citizen Sharikov is absolutely correct. He has a right to take part in a discussion about his affairs, especially as it’s about his identity documents. An identity document is the most important thing in the world.’
At that moment a deafening ring from the telephone cut into the conversation. Philip Philipovich said into the receiver:
‘Yes…’, then reddened and shouted: ‘Will you please not distract me with trivialities. What’s it to do with you?’ And he hurled the receiver back on to the hook.
Delight spread over Shvonder’s face.
Purpling, Philip Philipovich roared: ‘Right, let’s get this finished.’
He tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled a few words, then read it aloud in a voice of exasperation:
‘“I hereby certify…” God, what am I supposed to certify?… let’s see… “That the bearer is a man created during a laboratory experiment by means of an operation on the brain and that he requires identity papers”… ‘I object in principle to his having these idiotic documents, but still… Signed: “Professor Preobrazhensky!”’
‘Really, professor,’ said Shvonder in an offended voice. ‘What do you mean by calling these documents idiotic? I can’t allow an undocumented tenant to go on living in this house, especially one who hasn’t been registered with the police for military service. Supposing war suddenly breaks out with the imperialist aggressors?’
‘I’m not going to fight!’ yapped Sharikov.
Shvonder was dumbfounded, but quickly recovered himself and said politely to Sharikov: ‘I’m afraid you seem to be completely lacking in political consciousness, citizen Sharikov. You must register for military service at once.’
‘I’ll register, but I’m dammed if I’m going to fight,’ answered Sharikov nonchalantly, straightening his tie.
Now it was Shvonder’s turn to be embarrassed. Preobraz-hensky exchanged a look of grim complicity with Bormenthal, who nodded meaningly.
‘I was badly wounded during the operation,’ whined Sharikov. ‘Look — they cut me right open.’ He pointed to his head. The scar of a fresh surgical wound bisected his forehead.
‘Are you an anarchist-individualist?’ asked Shvonder, raising his eyebrows.
‘I ought to be exempt on medical grounds,’ said Sharikov.
‘Well, there’s no hurry about it,’ said the disconcerted Shvonder. ‘Meanwhile we’ll send the professor’s certificate to the police and they’ll issue your papers.’
‘Er, look here…’ Philip Philipovich suddenly interrupted him, obviously struck by an idea. ‘I suppose you don’t liave a room to spare in the house, do you? I’d be prepared to buy it.’
Yellowish sparks flashed in Shvonder’s brown eyes.
‘No, professor, I very much regret to say that we don’t have a room. And aren’t likely to, either.’
Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth and said nothing. Again the telephone rang as though to order. Without a word Philip Philipovich flicked the receiver off the rest so that it hung down, spinning slightly, on its blue cord. Everybody jumped. ‘The old man’s getting rattled,’ thought 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.
