Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov Page B

calendar in your consulting
    room?'
        Without getting up Philip Philipovich leaned over to the knob on the wall and Zina appeared in answer to the bell.
        'Bring me the calendar from the consulting-room.'
        There was a pause. When Zina returned with the calendar, Philip Philipovich asked: 'Where is it?'
        'The name-day is March 4th.'
        'Show me . . . h'm . . . dammit, throw the thing into the stove at once.' Zina, blinking with
    fright, removed the calendar. The man shook his head reprovingly.
    'And what surname will you take?'
    'I'll use my real name.'
    'You're real name? What is it?'
    'Sharikov.*
    Shvonder the house committee chairman was standing in his leather tunic in front of the
    professor's desk. Doctor Bormen-thal was seated in an armchair. The doctor's glowing face (he had just come in from the cold) wore an expression whose perplexity was only equalled by that of Philip Philipovich.
        'Write it?' he asked impatiently.
        'Yes,' said Shvonder, 'it's not very difficult. Write a certificate, professor. You know the sort of thing - 'This is 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.