Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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would cable Berlin and New York rightaway. After that there was a call from
the Kremlin to enquire how Persikov was getting on, and an
important-sounding voice asked affectionately if he would like a motor-car.
"No, thank you. I prefer to travel by tram," Persikov replied.
"But why?" the mysterious voice asked, with an indulgent laugh.
Actually everyone spoke to Persikov either with respect and awe, or
with an affectionate laugh, as if addressing a silly, although very
important child.
"It goes faster," Persikov said, after which the resonant bass on the
telephone said:
"Well, as you like."
Another week passed, during which Persikov withdrew increasingly from
the subsiding fowl problems to immerse himself entirely in the study of the
ray. His head became light, somehow transparent and weightless, from the
sleepless nights and exhaustion. The red rims never left his eyes now, and
almost every night was spent at the Institute. Once he abandoned his
zoological refuge to read a paper on his ray and its action on the ovule in
the huge hall of the Central Commission for Improving the Living Conditions
of Scientists in Prechistenka. This was a great triumph for the eccentric
zoologist. The applause in the hall made the plaster flake off the ceiling,
while the hissing arc lamps lit up the black dinner jackets of club-members
and the white dresses of their ladies. On the stage, next to the rostrum, a
clammy grey frog the size of a cat sat breathing heavily in a dish on a
glass table. Notes were thrown onto the stage. They included seven love
letters, which Persikov tore up. The club president had great difficulty
persuading him onto the platform. Persikov bowed angrily. His hands were wet
with sweat and his black tie was somewhere behind his left ear, instead of
under his chin. Before him in a breathing haze were hundreds of yellow faces