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! Look at me. I’m dying. I’m so wretched, I’ll be your slave for ever!
The dog crawled tearfully forward on his stomach. Look what that cook did to me. You’ll never give me anything, though. I know these rich people. What good is it to you? What do you want with a bit of rotten old horsemeat? The Moscow State Food Store only sells muck like that. But you’ve a good lunch under your belt, haven’t you, you’re a world-famous figure thanks to male sex glands. Oowow-owow… What can I do? I’m too young to die yet and despair’s a sin. There’s nothing for it, I shall have to lick his hand.
The mysterious gentleman bent down towards the dog, his gold spectacle-rims flashing, and pulled a long white package out of his right-hand coat pocket. Without taking off his tan gloves he broke off a piece of the sausage, which was labelled ‘Special Cracower’. And gave it to the dog. Oh, immaculate personage! Oowow- oowow!
‘Here, doggy,’ the gentleman whistled, and added sternly, ‘Come on! Take it, Sharik!’
He’s christened me Sharik too. Call me what you like. For this you can do anything you like to me,
In a moment the dog had ripped off the sausage-skin. Mouth watering, he bit into the Cracower and gobbled it down in two swallows. Tears started to his eyes as he nearly choked on the string, which in his greed he almost swallowed. Let me lick your hand again, I’ll kiss your boots — you’ve saved my life.
‘That’s enough…’ The gentleman barked as though giving an order. He bent over Sharik, stared with a searching look into his eyes and unexpectedly stroked the dog gently and intimately along the stomach with his gloved hand.
‘Aha,’ he pronounced meaningly. ‘No collar. Excellent. You’re just what I want. Follow me.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Good dog!’
Follow you? To the end of the earth. Kick me with your felt boots and I won’t say a word.
The street lamps were alight all along Prechistenka Street. His flank hurt unbearably, but for the moment Sharik forgot about it, absorbed by a single thought: how to avoid losing sight of this miraculous fur-coated vision in the hurly-burly of the storm and how to show him his love and devotion. Seven times along the whole length of Prechistenka Street as far as the cross-roads at Obukhov Street he showed it. At Myortvy Street he kissed his boot, he cleared the way by barking at a lady and frightened her into falling flat on the pavement, and twice he gave a howl to make sure the gentleman still felt sorry for him.
A filthy, thieving stray torn cat slunk out from behind a drainpipe and despite the snowstorm, sniffed the Cracower. Sharik went blind with rage at the thought that this rich eccentric who picked up injured dogs in doorways might take pity on this robber and make him share the sausage. So he bared his teeth so fiercely that the cat, with a hiss like a leaky hosepipe, shinned back up the drainpipe right to the second floor. Grrrr! Woof! Gone! We can’t go handing out Moscow State groceries to all the strays loafing about Prechistenka Street.
The gentleman noticed the dog’s devotion as they passed the fire station window, out of which came the pleasant sound of a French horn, and rewarded him with a second piece that was an ounce or two smaller.
Queer chap. He’s beckoning to me. Don’t worry, I’m not going to run away. I’ll follow you wherever you like. ‘Here, doggy, here, boy!’
Obukhov Street? OK by me. I know the place — I’ve been around.
‘Here, doggy!’
Here? Sure… Hey, no, wait a minute. No. There’s a porters on that block of flats. My worst enemies, porters, much worse than dustmen. Horrible lot. Worse than cats. Butchers in gold braid.
‘Don’t be frightened, come on.’ ‘Good evening, Philip Philipovich.’ ‘Good evening, Fyodor.’
What a character. I’m in luck, by God. Who is this genius, who can even bring stray dogs off the street past a porter? Look at the bastard — not a move, not a word! He looks grim enough, but he doesn’t seem to mind, for all the gold braid on his cap. That’s how it should be, too. Knows his place. Yes, I’m with this gentleman, so you can keep your hands to yourself. What’s that — did he make a move? Bite him. I wouldn’t mind a mouthful of homy proletarian leg. In exchange for the trouble I’ve had from all the other porters and all the times they’ve poked a broom in my face.
‘Come on, come on.’
OK, OK, don’t worry. I’ll go wherever you go. Just show me the way. I’ll be right behind you. Even if my side does hurt like hell.
From hallway up the staircase: ‘Were there any letters for me, Fyodor?’
From below, respectfully: ‘No sir, Philip Philipovich’ (dropping his voice and adding intimately), ‘but they’ve just moved some more tenants into No. 3.’
The dog’s dignified benefactor turned sharply round on the step, leaned over the railing and asked in horror: ‘Wh-at?’
His eyes went quite round and his moustache bristled.
The porter looked upwards, put his hand to his lips, nodded and said: ‘That’s right, four of them.’
‘My God! I can just imagine what it must be like in that apartment now. What sort of people are they?’
‘Nobody special, sir.’
‘And what’s Fyodor Pavolovich doing?’
‘He’s gone to get some screens and a load of bricks. They’re going to build some partitions in the apartment.’
‘God — what is the place coming to?’
‘Extra tenants are being moved into every apartment, except yours, Philip Philipovich. There was a meeting the other day; they elected a new house committee and kicked out the old one.’
‘What will happen next? Oh, God… Come on, doggy.’
I’m coming as fast as I can. My side is giving me trouble, though. Let me lick your boot.
The porter’s gold braid disappeared from the lobby. Past warm radiators on a marble landing, another flight of stairs and then — a mezzanine.
Two
Why bother to leam to read when you can smell meat a mile away? If you live in Moscow, though, and if you’ve got an ounce of brain in your head you can’t help learning to read — and without going to night-school either. There are forty-thousand dogs in Moscow and I’ll bet there’s not one of them so stupid he can’t spell out the word ‘sausage’.
Sharik had begun by learning from colours. When he was just four months old, blue-green signs started appearing all over Moscow with the letters MSFS — Moscow State Food Stores — which meant a butcher and delicatessen. I repeat that he had no need to learn his letters because he could smell the meat anyway. Once he made a bad mistake: trotting up to a bright blue shop-sign one day when the smell was drowned by car exhaust, instead of a butcher’s shop he ran into the Polubizner Brothers’ electrical goods store on Myasnitzkaya Street. There the brothers taught him all about insulated cable, which can be sharper than a cabman’s whip. This famous occasion may be regarded as the beginning of Sharik’s education. It was here on the pavement that Sharik began to realise that ‘blue’ doesn’t always mean ‘butcher’, and as he squeezed his burningly painful tail between his back legs and howled, he remembered that on every butcher’s shop the first letter on the left was always gold or brown, bow-legged, and looked like a toboggan.
After that the lessons were rather easier. ‘A’ he learned from the barber on the comer of Mokhovaya Street, followed by ‘B’ (there was always a policeman standing in front of the last four letters of the word). Corner shops faced with tiles always meant ‘CHEESE’ and the black half-moon at the beginning of the word stood for the name of their former owners ‘Chichkin’; they were full of mountains of red Dutch cheeses, salesmen who hated dogs, sawdust on the floor and reeking Limburger.
If there was accordion music (which was slightly better than ‘Celeste Aida’), and the place smelted of
