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

Just then a bell tinkled all through the flat and from far away in the
hall came the sound of voices. The telephone rang. Zina disappeared.
Philip Philipovich threw his cigar butt into the bucket, buttoned up
his white coat, smoothed his bushy moustache in front of a mirror on the
wall and called the dog.
'Come on, boy, you'll be all right. Let's go and see our visitors.'
The dog stood up on wobbly legs, staggered and shivered but quickly
felt better and set off behind the napping hem of Philip Philipovich's coat.
Again the dog walked down the narrow corridor, but saw that this time it was
brightly lit from above by a round cut-glass lamp in the ceiling. When the
varnished door opened he trotted into Philip Philipovich's study. Its luxury
blinded him. Above all it was blazing with light: there was a light hanging
from the moulded ceiling, a light on the desk, lights on the walls, lights
on the glass-fronted cabinets. The light poured over countless knick-knacks,
of which the most striking was an enormous owl perched on a branch fastened
to the wall.
'Lie down,' ordered Philip Philipovich.
The carved door at the other end of the room opened and in came the
doctor who had been bitten. In the bright light he now looked very young and
handsome, with a pointed beard. He put down a sheet of paper and said: 'The
same as before . . .'
Then he silently vanished and Philip Philipovich, spreading his
coat-tails, sat down behind the huge desk and immediately looked extremely
dignified and important.
No, this can't be a hospital, I've landed up somewhere else, the dog
thought confusedly and stretched out on the patterned carpet beside a
massive leather-covered couch. I wish I knew what that owl was doing here .
. .
The door gently opened and in came a man who looked so extraordinary
that the dog gave a timid yelp . . .
'Shut up! . . . My dear fellow, I hardly recognised you!'
Embarrassed, the visitor bowed politely to Philip Philipovich and
giggled nervously.
'You're a wizard, a magician, professor!' he said bashfully.
'Take down your trousers, old man,' ordered Philip Philip-ovich and
stood up.
Christ, thought the dog, what a sight! The man's hair was completely
green, although at the back it shaded off into a brownish tobacco colour,
wrinkles covered his face yet his complexion was as pink as a boy's. His
left leg would not bend and had to be dragged across the carpet, but his
right leg was as springy as a jack-in-the-box. In the buttonhole of his
superb jacket there shone, like an eye, a precious stone.
The dog was so fascinated that he even forgot his nausea. Oow-ow, he
whined softly.
'Quiet! . . . How have you been sleeping!'
The man giggled. 'Are we alone, professor? It's indescribable,' said
the visitor coyly. 'Parole d'honneur - I haven't known anything like it for
twenty-five years . . .' the creature started struggling with his flybuttons
. . . 'Would you believe it, professor - hordes of naked girls every night.
I am absolutely entranced. You're a magician.'