from four people, one of whom is a woman disguised as a man, and two of whom are armed with revolvers. They are terrorising me in my own apartment and threatening to evict me.’
‘Hey, now, professor…’ began Shvonder, his expression changing.
‘Excuse me… I can’t repeat all they’ve been saying. I can’t make sense of it, anyway. Roughly speaking they have told me to give up my consulting-room, which will oblige me to operate in the room I have used until now for dissecting rabbits. I not only cannot work under such conditions — I have no right to. So I am closing down my practice, shutting up my apartment and going to Sochi. I will give the keys to Shvonder. He can operate for me.’
The four stood rigid. The snow was melting on their boots. ‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid… Of course I’m very upset, but… What? Oh, no, Pyotr Alexandrovich! Oh, no. That I must flatly refuse. My patience has snapped. This is the second time since August… What? H’m… All right, if you like. I suppose so. Only this time on one condition: I don’t care who issues it, when they issue it or what they issue, provided it’s the sort of certificate which will mean that neither Shvonder nor anyone else can so much as knock on my door. The ultimate in certificates. Effective. Real. Armour-plated! I don’t even want my name on it. The end. As far as they are concerned, I am dead. Yes, yes. Please do. Who? Aha… well, that’s another matter. Aha… good. I’ll just hand him the receiver. Would you mind,’ Philip Philipovich spoke to Shvonder in a voice like a snake’s, ‘you’re wanted on the telephone.’
‘But, professor,’ said Shvonder, alternately flaring up and cringing, ‘what you’ve told him is all wrong’ -
‘Please don’t speak to me like that.’
Shvonder nervously picked up the receiver and said:
‘Hello. Yes… I’m the chairman of the house management committee… We were only acting according to the regulations… the professor is an absolutely special case… Yes, we know about his work… We were going to leave him five whole rooms… Well, OK… if that’s how it is… OK.’
Very red in the face, he hung up and turned round.
What a fellow! thought the dog rapturously. Does he know how to handle them! What’s his secret, I wonder? He can beat me as much as he likes now — I’m not leaving this place!’
The three young people stared open-mouthed at the wretched Shvonder.
‘This is a disgrace!’ he said miserably.
‘If that Pyotr Alexandrovich had been here,’ began the woman, reddening with anger, ‘I’d have shown him…’
‘Excuse me, would you like to talk to him now?’ enquired Philip Philipovich politely.
The woman’s eyes flashed.
‘You can be as sarcastic as you like, professor, but we’re going now… Still, as manager of the cultural department of this house…’
‘ Manager,’ Philip Philipovich corrected her.
‘I want to ask you’ — here the woman pulled a number of coloured magazines wet with snow, from out of the front of her tunic — ‘to buy a few of these magazines in aid of the children of Germany. 50 kopecks a copy.’
‘No, I will not,’ said Philip Philipovich curtly after a glance at the magazines.
Total amazement showed on the faces, and the girl turned cranberry-colour.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Don’t you feel sorry for the children of Germany?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Can’t you spare 50 kopecks?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘Well, why won’t you, then?’
‘I don’t want to.’
Silence.
‘You know, professor,’ said the girl with a deep sigh, ‘if you weren’t world-famous and if you weren’t being protected by certain people in the most disgusting way,’ (the fair youth tugged at the hem of her jerkin, but she brushed him away), ‘which we propose to investigate, you should be arrested.’
‘What for?’ asked Philip Philipovich with curiosity.
‘Because you hate the proletariat!’ said the woman proudly.
‘You’re right, I don’t like the proletariat,’ agreed Philip Philipovich sadly, and pressed a button. A bell rang in the distance. The door opened on to the corridor.
‘Zina!’ shouted Philip Philipovich. ‘Serve the supper, please. Do you mind, ladies and gentlemen?’
Silently the four left the study, silently they trooped down the passage and through the hall. The front door closed loudly and heavily behind them.
The dog rose on his hind legs in front of Philip Philipovich and performed obeisance to him.
Three
On gorgeous flowered plates with wide black rims lay thin slices of salmon and soused eel; a slab of over-ripe cheese on a heavy wooden platter, and in a silver bowl packed around with snow — caviare. Beside the plates stood delicate glasses and three crystal decanters of different-coloured vodkas. All these objects were on a small marble table, handily placed beside the huge carved oak sideboard which shone with glass and silver. In the middle of the room was a table, heavy as a gravestone and covered with a white tablecloth set with two places, napkins folded into the shape of papal tiaras, and three dark bottles.
Zina brought in a covered silver dish beneath which something bubbled. The dish gave off such a smell that the dog’s mouth immediately filled with saliva. The gardens of Semiramis! he thought as he thumped the floor with his tail.
‘Bring it here,’ ordered Philip Philipovich greedily. ‘I beg you, Doctor Bormenthal, leave the caviare alone. And if you want a piece of good advice, don’t touch the English vodka but drink the ordinary Russian stuff.’
The handsome Bormenthal — who had taken off his white coat and was wearing a smart black suit — shrugged his broad shoulders, smirked politely and poured out a glass of clear vodka.
‘What make is it?’ he enquired.
‘Bless you, my dear fellow,’ replied his host, ‘it’s pure alcohol. Darya Petrovna makes the most excellent homemade vodka.’
‘But surely, Philip Philipovich, everybody says that 30-degree vodka is quite good enough.’
‘Vodka should be at least 40 degrees, not 30 — that’s firstly,’ Philip Philipovich interrupted him didactically, ‘and secondly — God knows what muck they make into vodka nowadays. What do you think they use?’
‘Anything they like,’ said the other doctor firmly.
‘I quite agree,’ said Philip Philipovich and hurled the contents of his glass down his throat in one gulp. ‘Ah… m’m… Doctor Bormenthal — please drink that at once and if you ask me what it is, I’m your enemy for life. “From Granada to Seville…”’
With these words he speared something like a little piece of black bread on his silver fish-fork. Bormenthal followed his example. Philip Philipovich’s eyes shone.
‘Not bad, eh?’ asked Philip Philipovich, chewing. ‘Is it? Tell me, doctor.’
‘It’s excellent,’ replied the doctor sincerely.
‘So I should think… Kindly note, Ivan Arnoldovich, that the only people who eat cold hors d’oeuvres nowadays are the few remaining landlords who haven’t had their throats cut. Anybody with a spark of self-respect takes his hors d’oeuvres hot. And of all the hot hors d’oeuvres in Moscow this is the best. Once they used to do them magnificently at the Slavyansky Bazaar restaurant. There, you can have some too.’
‘If you feed a dog at table,’ said a woman’s voice, ‘you won’t get him out of here afterwards for love or money.’
‘I don’t mind. The poor thing’s hungry.’ On the point of his fork Pliilip Philipovich handed the dog a tit-bit, which the animal took with the dexterity of a conjuror. The professor then threw the fork with a clatter into the slop-basin.
