Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
52 >
brahmaputras, the devil take them! German..."
"I should say so," the guard agreed, admitting the eggs.
"Only why are they so dirty?" Alexander Semyonovich mused thoughtfully.
"Keep an eye on things, Manya. Tell them to go on unloading. I'm going off
to make a phone call."
And Alexander Semyonovich went to use the telephone in the farm office
across the yard.
That evening the phone rang in the laboratory at the Zoological
Institute. Professor Persikov tousled his hair and went to answer it.
"Yes?" he asked.
"There's a call for you from the provinces," a female voice hissed
quietly down the receiver.
"Well, put it through then," said Persikov disdainfully into the black
mouthpiece. After a bit of crackling a far-off male voice asked anxiously in
his ear:
"Should the eggs be washed. Professor?"
"What's that? What? What did you say?" snapped Persikov irritably.
"Where are you speaking from?"
"Nikolskoye, Smolensk Province," the receiver replied.
"Don't understand. Never heard of it. Who's that speaking?"
"Feight," the receiver said sternly.
"What Feight? Ah, yes. It's you. What did you want to know?"
"Whether to wash them. They've sent a batch of chicken eggs from
abroad..."
"Well?"
"But they're all mucky..."
"You must be wrong. How can they be 'mucky', as you put it? Well, of
course, maybe a few, er, droppings got stuck to them, or something of the
sort."
"So what about washing them?"
"No need at all, of course. Why, are you putting the eggs into the
chambers already?"
"Yes, I am," the receiver replied.
"Hm," Persikov grunted.
"So long," the receiver clattered and fell silent.
"So long," Persikov repeated distastefully to Decent Ivanov. "How do
you like that character, Pyotr Stepanovich?"
Ivanov laughed.
"So it was him, was it? I can imagine what he'll concoct out of those