Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov Page A

the highlights glinting on the man's blunt-toed boots, frowned and enquired:
        'What else were you going to say?'
        'Oh, nothing, really. I need some papers, Philip Philipovich.'
        Philip Philipovich winced. 'H'm . . . papers, eh? Really, well . . . H'm . . . Perhaps we might . . .' His voice sounded vague and unhappy.
        'Now, look,' said the man firmly. 'I can't manage without papers. After all you know damn well that people who don't have any papers aren't allowed to exist nowadays. To begin with, there's the house committee.'
        'What does the house committee have to do with it?'
        'A lot. Every time I meet one of them they ask me when I'm going to get registered.'
        'Oh, God,' moaned Philip Philipovich. ' "Every time you meet one of them ..." I can just imagine what you tell them. I thought I told you not to hang about the staircases, anyway.'
        'What am I - a convict?' said the man in amazement. His glow of righteous indignation made even his fake ruby tiepin light up. "Hang about" indeed! That's an insult. I walk about just like everybody else.'
        So saying he wriggled his patent-leather feet.
        Philip Philipovich said nothing, but looked away. 'One must restrain oneself,' he thought, as he walked over to the sideboard and drank a glassful of water at one gulp.
        'I see,' he said rather more calmly. 'All right, I'll overlook your tone of voice for the moment. What does your precious house committee say, then?'
        'Hell, I don't know exactly. Anyway, you needn't be sarcastic about the house committee. It protects people's interests.'
        'Whose interest, may I ask?'
        'The workers', of course.'
        Philip Philipovich opened his eyes wide. 'What makes you think that you're a worker?'
        'I must be - I'm not a capitalist.'
        'Very well. How does the house committee propose to stand up for your revolutionary rights?'
        'Easy. Put me on the register. They say they've never heard of anybody being allowed to live in Moscow without being registered. That's for a start. But the most important thing is an identity card. I don't want to be arrested for being a deserter.'
        'And where, pray, am I supposed to register you? On that tablecloth or on my own passport? One must, after all, be realistic. Don't forget that you are . . . h'm, well. . . you are what you might call a ... an unnatural phenomenon, an artefact . . .' Philip Philipovich sounded less and less convincing.
        Triumphant, the man said nothing.
        'Very well. Let's assume that in the end we shall have to register you, if only to please this
    house committee of yours. The trouble is - you have no name.'
        'So what? I can easily choose one. Just put it in the newspapers and there you are.'
        'What do you propose to call yourself?'
        The man straightened his tie and replied: Toligraph Poligraphovich.'
        'Stop playing the fool,' groaned Philip Philipovich. 'I meant it seriously.'
        The man's face twitched sarcastically.
        'I don't get it,' he said ingenuously. 'I mustn't swear. I mustn't spit. Yet all you ever do is call me names. I suppose only professors are allowed to swear in the RSFSR.'
        Blood rushed to Philip Philipovich's face. He filled a glass, breaking it as he did so. Having drunk from another one, he thought: 'Much more of this, and he'll start teaching me how to behave, and he'll be right. I must control myself.'
        He turned round, made an exaggeratedly polite bow and said with iron self-control: 'I beg your pardon. My nerves are slightly upset. Your name struck me as a little odd, that is all. Where, as a matter of interest, did you dig it up?'
        'The house committee helped me. We looked in the calendar. And I chose a name.'
        'That name cannot possibly exist on any calendar.'
        'Can't it?' The man grinned. 'Then how was it I found it on the