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

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