by Lazar Lagin
Goga-the-Pill ran up to Volka, winking insolently and pulling the most insulting faces.
“He wasn’t an old bird, he was a nice old man,” Volka said peaceably, as he didn’t want to end the day with a fight. “He’s … he’s my father’s friend from Tashkent .”
“What if I je-ee-st go to your father and je-ee-st tell him about your monkey-business at the exam!”
“Oh, Pill, you’ve gone crying for a beating too long!” Volka flared up, imagining what an impression Pill’s words would have on his parents. “Why, you dirty tattle-tale! I’ll push your face in!”
“Now, now, take it easy! A person can’t even joke any more. You’re really a nut!”
Fearing Volka’s fists, which, after several encounters, Goga chose to avoid, he dashed headlong into the entrance of the house in which he was now to live in dangerous closeness to Volka, whose new apartment was on the same landing.
“Bald people! A country of bald people!” Goga shouted, sticking his head out the front door. He showed Volka his tongue and, fearing the other’s righteous anger, flew up the stairs, two at a time, to his own door.
However, he was distracted by the mysterious behaviour of a huge Siberian cat from apartment 43 . The cat, named “Homych” in honour of the popular football goalie, was standing on the stairs with his back arched and hissing at nothing at all.
Goga’s first thought was that the cat had gone mad. He reflected again and was nearly certain that mad cats kept their tails between their legs, while Homych’s tail was sticking up straight, and in all other respects the animal looked quite healthy.
Goga kicked it — just in case. Homych’s yowl of pain, surprise and hurt could be heard on the tenth floor. He jumped so high and gracefully that his famous namesake could have been proud of such a leap.
Then something completely unexpected happened.
A good half yard from the wall, Homych yowled again and flew back in the opposite direction, straight at Goga, just as though the unfortunate animal had hit an invisible but very hard rubber wall. At the same time a gasp could be heard nearby, as if someone had trodden very hard on another person’s foot. Courage had never been one of Goga’s outstanding virtues, but now he nearly died of fright.
“Oh-h-h!” he moaned softly, feeling all numb. Finally, tearing his leaden feet from the stairs, he made a dash for his flat.
When the apartment door banged shut behind him, Hottabych became visible. He was writhing with pain and examining his left leg, which had been severely scratched by the cat’s claws.
“Oh, cursed youth!” Hottabych groaned, after first making sure he was alone on the stairs. “Oh, dog among boys!”
He fell silent and listened. Coming slowly up the stairs, lost in the most grievous thoughts, was his young saviour, Volka Kostylkov.
The sly old man did not want the boy to see him and so dissolved quickly in the air.
A CHAPTER WHICH IS A CONTINUATION OF THE PREVIOUS ONE
No matter how tempting it is to present Volka Kostylkov as a boy without faults, the well-known truthfulness of the author of this tale won’t permit him to do so. And if envy is to be justly considered a fault, then, to our great sorrow, we must admit that at times Volka experienced this feeling keenly. During the last few days he had been very envious of Goga. Long before their exams had begun, Goga boasted that his mother had promised him an Alsatian puppy as soon as he was promoted to the 7th grade.
“Sure, you just wait!” Volka had sniffed at the time, feeling that he was turning cold from envy.
In his heart of hearts, he had to admit that Pill’s words certainly resembled the truth. The whole class knew that Goga’s mother never skimped on anything for her little darling. She’d refuse herself the bare necessities of life, but she’d get Goga a present that would leave them all speechless.
“She’ll certainly get me a puppy,” Goga persisted. “If you want to know, my mother never refuses me anything. If she promised, it means she’ll buy me one. If the worst comes to the worst, she’ll borrow some money and buy it. You don’t know how highly they think of her at the factory!”
That was true. Goga’s mother was greatly respected at the factory. She was the senior draughtsman and was a modest, hard-working and cheerful person. Everyone liked her, both her fellow-workers and her neighbours at home. Even Goga was fond of her in his own way. And she really doted on Goga. Anyway, if she had promised to buy him a puppy, it meant she would.
Perhaps, at this sorrowful moment, when Volka, crushed by all he had gone through that day, was slowly mounting the stairs, Goga-the-Pill, the very same Pill who deserved such happiness less than anyone else in their class, in their school, or even in all of Moscow, was playing with a magnificent, happy, furry puppy right next door, in apartment 37.
Such were Volka’s thoughts. The only consideration that afforded him some solace was that it was highly unlikely that Goga’s mother, even though she really and truly intended to buy her son a dog, had done so already. After all, Goga had only taken his last exam several hours before, and it’s not so easy to buy a puppy. You don’t walk into a pet shop and say, “Please wrap up that puppy for me.” You have to look long and hard for a good dog.
The very moment Volka’s grandmother opened the door, he heard the high-pitched, squeaky yelping of a puppy coming from behind the closed door of apartment 37 .
“So she bought it after all!” he thought bitterly. “An Alsatian… or maybe even a Boxer…”
It was more than he could bear, to imagine Goga the proud owner of a real, live service dog. Volka slammed the door shut to blot out the exciting, unimaginably wonderful, magical barking of a dog.
He also heard the frightened exclamation which escaped Goga’s mother. The puppy had probably bitten him. But even this could not console our young hero.
Volka’s father had not yet returned, as he was staying late at a meeting. His mother had apparently called for him at the factory after her evening classes.
Despite all his efforts to appear calm and happy, Volka looked so gloomy that his grandmother decided to give him supper first and then start asking him questions.
“Well, how are things, Volka dear?” she asked hesitantly, when her only grandchild had made quick work of his supper.
“Uh, you see…” he said vaguely, pulling off his polo shirt and heading towards his room.
His grandmother followed him with a sorrowful and kindly gaze that was full of silent sympathy. There was no need to ask him any questions. Everything was all too clear.
Volka sighed and got undressed. Then he stretched out under the clean cool sheet. Still, he was restless.
On the night table near his bed lay a large, thick volume in a brightly-coloured dust-cover. Volka’s heart skipped a beat. Yes, that was it, the longed-for astronomy book! On the frontispiece in a large familiar hand were the words:
“To Vladimir Kostylkov, the Highly Educated 7th-Grade Student and Acting Member of the Astronomy Club of the Moscow Planetarium, from his Loving Grandma.”
What a funny inscription! Grandma always invented something funny. But why didn’t it make Volka smile? Oh, why didn’t it! And imagine, he wasn’t at all happy to have finally received such a fascinating book, the one he had wished for for so long. Grief was eating out his heart. He felt a great weight on his chest… It was unbearable!
“Grandma!” he shouted, turning away from the book. “Grandma, would you come here a minute?”
“Well, what do you want, mischief-maker?” his grandmother answered, pretending to be angry, but really pleased that she’d have a chance to talk to him before he went to sleep. “Why, the Sandman can’t even cope with you, you astronomer! You night owl!”
“Grandma,” Volka whispered fervently, “close the door and come sit on my bed. I have to tell you something terribly important.”
“Perhaps we’d better put off such an important conversation till morning,” his grandmother answered, though she was consumed with curiosit
y as to what it was all about.
“No, right now. This very minute. I … Grandma, I wasn’t promoted, I mean, I wasn’t yet. I didn’t pass the exam.”
“Did you fail?” his grandmother gasped.
“No, I didn’t fail. I didn’t pass, but I didn’t fail, either. I started to tell them what the ancients thought about India , the horizon, and all kinds of things. Everything I said was right. But I just couldn’t tell them about the scientific point of view. I began to feel very bad and Varvara Stepanovna said I should come back after I had had a good rest.”
Even now, he could not bring himself to talk about Hottabych, not even to his grandma. Anyway, she’d never believe him and would think he was really ill.
“At first, I didn’t want to say anything. I wanted to tell you after I took the exam again, but I felt ashamed. D’you understand?”
“What’s there to understand! A person’s conscience is a great thing. There’s nothing worse than doing something that’s against your conscience. Now go to sleep, my dear astronomer!”
“You can take the book back meanwhile,” Volka suggested in a trembling voice.
“Nonsense! And where would I put it? Let’s consider that I’ve given it to you for safe-keeping for the time being. Go to sleep now, will you?”
“Yes,” Volka answered. A load had fallen from his chest. “And I promise you, upon my word of honour, that I’ll get an ‘A’ in geography. D’you believe me?”
“Certainly, I do. Now go to sleep and get strong. What about Father and Mother? Shall I tell them, or will you tell them yourself?”
“You’d better tell them.”
“Well, good night.” Grandma kissed him good night, turned off the light, and left the room.
For some while after, Volka lay in the darkness, holding his breath, waiting to hear his grandma tell his mother and father the sad news. However, he fell asleep before they came home.
A RESTLESS NIGHT
Before an hour passed, however, he was suddenly awakened by the ringing of the telephone in the hall.
His father answered the phone:
“Hello. Yes. Who? Good evening, Varvara Stepanovna?… I’m fine, thank you. And you? … Volka? He’s asleep… I think he’s quite well. He had a very big supper… Yes, I know. He told us… I’m terribly surprised myself… Yes, that’s probably the only answer… ,. Certainly, he should rest a while, if you have no objections… Thank you very much… Varvara Stepanovna sends you her regards,” his father said to his mother. “She wanted to know how Volka is. She said not to worry, because they think very highly of him, and she suggests he have a good rest.”
Volka strained his ears listening to what his parents were talking about, but unable to make anything out, he fell asleep. This time he slept no longer than fifteen minutes. The telephone rang again.
“Yes, speaking,” he heard his father’s muffled voice. “Yes… Good evening… What?… No, he’s not here… Yes, he’s at home… Certainly he’s at home… That’s quite all right… Good-bye.”
“Who was it?” Volka’s mother called from the kitchen. “It was Zhenya Bogorad’s father. He sounded very worried. Zhenya’s not home yet. He wanted to know whether he was here and if Volka was at home.”
“In my time,” Grandma said, “only hussars came home this late, but when a child…”
Half an hour later the ringing of the telephone interrupted Volka’s sleep for the third time that troubled night. It was Zhenya’s mother. He had still not returned. She wanted them to ask Volka if he knew where he was.
“Volka!” his father called, opening the door. “Zhenya’s mother wants to know where you saw him last.” “At the movies this evening.” “And after the movie?” “I didn’t see him after that.” “Did he say where he was going afterwards?” “No.”
For a long, long time after that, Volka waited for the grown-ups to stop talking about Zhenya’s disappearance (he himself was not the least bit worried, since he was sure Zhenya had gone to the circus in the recreation park to celebrate), but he fell asleep again before they did. This time till morning.
Soon there was a soft splash in the corner. Then the patter of wet bare feet could be heard. Footprints appeared and quickly dried on the floor. Someone invisible was silently pacing the room, humming a plaintive Eastern melody.
The footprints headed towards the table where an alarm clock was ticking away. There was the sound of lips smacking together with pleasure. Then the alarm clock floated into the air, and for a while it hung suspended between the ceiling and the floor. Then it returned to the table and the footprints headed towards the aquarium. Once again there was a splash. Then all was quiet.
Late that night it began to rain. The raindrops pattered on the window, they rustled the leaves of the trees and gurgled in the drain-pipes. At times the rain would die down, and then one could hear the large drops falling into the rain barrel below with a loud, ringing splash. Then, as if having gathered its. strength, the rain would again pour down in torrents.
Towards morning, when the sky was nearly clear of clouds, someone tapped Volka lightly on the shoulder. He was sound asleep and did not waken. Then, whoever it was who had tried to awaken him, sighed sadly, mumbled, and shuffled towards the high stand with Volka’s aquarium. There was a faint splash. Once again a sleepy quiet fell on the room.
THE UNUSUAL EVENTS IN APARTMENT 37
Goga’s mother had not bought him a dog after all. She had not had the time to, and later on she never got him one, for after the fantastic events of that terrible evening, both Goga and his mother lost all interest in Man’s oldest and truest friend.
But Volka had clearly heard a dog barking m apartment 37 . Could he have been mistaken?
No, he was not mistaken.
And yet, there had been no dog in apartment 37 that evening. If you want to know, not so much as a dog’s paw entered their house after that evening.
Truly, Volka had no reason to be envious of Goga. There was nothing to be envious of: it was Goga who had barked! It all began while he was washing up for supper. He was very anxious to tell his mother a long and elaborate story about how his classmate and neighbour, Volka Kostylkov, had made a fool of himself at the examination that morning. And it was then that he started barking. Goga didn’t bark all the time — some words were real words — but instead of very many other ones, he was surprised and horrified to hear a genuine dog’s bark issue from his mouth.
He wanted to say that Volka suddenly began to talk such nonsense at the exam and that Varvara Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her fist down on the table and je-ee-st screamed, “What nonsense you’re babbling, you fool! Why, you hooligan, I’ll leave you back another term for this!”
But this is what Goga said instead:
“And suddenly Volka je-ee-st began to bow-wow-wow … and Varvara Stepanovna je-ee-st crashed her bow-wow-wow!”
Goga was struck dumb with surprise. He was silent for a moment, then he took a deep breath and tried to repeat the sentence. But instead of saying the rude words, this little liar and tattle-tale wanted to ascribe to Varvara Stepanovna, he began to bark again.
“Oh, Mummie!” he wailed. “Mummie dear!”
“What’s the matter with you, darling?” his mother asked anxiously. “You look terrible!”
“I wanted to say that bow-wow-wow… Oh, Mummie, what’s the matter?”
Goga had really turned blue from fright.
“Stop barking, dearest! Please stop, my darling, my sweet!”
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” Goga whined. “I only wanted to say…”
And once again, instead of human speech, all he could do was to produce an irritable bark.
“Darling! My pet, don’t frighten me!” his poor mother pleaded, as the tears ran down her kind face. “Don’t bark! I beg you, don’t bark!”
At this point Goga could think of nothing better to do than to become angry at his mother. And since he was not used to choosing his words on such occas
ions, he began barking so fiercely that someone shouted from the next balcony:
“Tell your boy to stop teasing that dog! It’s a shame! You’ve spoiled your child beyond all reason!”
With the tears still pouring down her cheeks, Goga’s mother rushed to close the windows. Then she tried to feel Goga’s forehead, but this only brought on a new attack of angry barking.
She finally put a completely frightened Goga to bed, wrapped him up in a heavy quilt, though it was a hot summer evening, and ran down to the telephone booth to call an ambulance.
Since she should not tell them the truth, she was forced to say that her son had a very high fever and was delirious.
Soon a doctor arrived. He was a stout, middle-aged man with a grey moustache, many years of experience and an unruffled manner.
The first thing he did, naturally, was to feel Goga’s forehead. He discovered the boy had no fever at all. This made him angry, but he did not show it, since the boy’s mother looked so terribly grief-stricken. He sighed and sat down on a chair by the bed. Then he asked Goga’s mother to explain why she had called an ambulance instead of her regular doctor.
She told him the truth.
The doctor shrugged. He asked her to repeat her story from the beginning. Then he shrugged again, thinking that if this were really true, she should have called a psychiatrist and not a general practitioner.
“Perhaps you think you are a dog?” he asked Goga, as if casually.
Goga shook his head.
“Well, that’s something,” the doctor thought. “At least it isn’t a mania when people imagine they’re dogs.”
Naturally, he did not say this aloud, so as not to frighten the patient or his mother, but it was obvious that the doctor was feeling more cheerful.
“Stick out your tongue,” he said.
Goga stuck out his tongue.
“It’s a very normal-looking tongue. And now, young man, let me listen to your heart. Ah, an excellent heart. His lungs are clear. And how is his stomach?” . “His stomach’s fine,” his mother said.
