"Michail Bulgakov. The heart of a dog" - читать интересную книгу автора

He disappeared, to be succeeded by a rustling lady with a hat planted
gaily on one side of her head and with a glittering necklace on her slack,
crumpled neck. There were black bags under her eyes and her cheeks were as
red as a painted doll. She was extremely nervous.
'How old are you, madam?' enquired Philip Philipovich with great
severity.
Frightened, the lady paled under her coating of rouge. 'Professor, I
swear that if you knew the agony I've been going through . . .!'
'How old are you, madam?' repeated Philip Philipovich even more
sternly.
'Honestly . . . well, forty-five . . .'
'Madam,' groaned Philip Philipovich, I am a busy man. Please don't
waste my time. You're not my only patient, you know.'
The lady's bosom heaved violently. 'I've come to you, a great scientist
... I swear to you - it's terrible . . .'
'How old are you?' Philip Philipovich screeched in fury, his spectacles
glittering.
'Fifty-one!' replied the lady, wincing with terror.
'Take off your underwear, please,' said Philip Philipovich with relief,
and pointed to a high white examination table in the comer.
'I swear, professor,' murmured the lady as with trembling fingers she
unbuttoned the fasteners on her belt, 'this boy Moritz ... I honestly admit
to you . . .'
' "From Granada to Seville . . ." ' Philip Philipovich hummed
absentmindedly and pressed the foot-pedal of his marble washbasin. There was
a sound of running water.
'I swear to God,' said the lady, patches of real colour showing through
the rouge on her cheeks, 'this will be my last affair. Oh, he's such a
brute! Oh, professor! All Moscow knows he's a card-sharper and he can't
resist any little tart of a dressmaker who catches his eye. But he's so
deliciously young . . .'As she talked the lady pulled out a crumpled blob of
lace from under her rustling skirts.
A mist came in front of the dog's eyes and his brain turned a
somersault. To hell with you, he thought vaguely, laying his head on his
paws and closing his eyes with embarrassment. I'm not going to try and guess
what all this is about -it's beyond me, anyway.
He was wakened by a tinkling sound and saw that Philip Philipovich had
tossed some little shining tubes into a basin.
The painted lady, her hands pressed to her bosom, was gazing hopefully
at Philip Philipovich. Frowning impressively he had sat down at his desk and
was writing something.
'I am going to implant some monkey's ovaries into you, madam,' he
announced with a stern look.
'Oh, professor - not monkey's ?'
'Yes,' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably.

'When will you operate?' asked the lady in a weak voice, turning pale.
' ". . . from Granada to Seville . . ." H'm ... on Monday. You must go
into hospital on Monday morning. My assistant will prepare you.'
'Oh, dear. I don't want to go into hospital. Couldn't you operate here,