Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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although that month they were printing a million and a half copies of each
issue of Izvestia. Professor Persikov took the bus from Prechistenka to the
Institute. There he was greeted by some news. In the vestibule stood three
wooden crates neatly bound with metal strips and covered with foreign labels
in German, over which someone had chalked in Russian: "Eggs. Handle with
care!"
The Professor was overjoyed.
"At last!" he cried. "Open the crates at once, Pankrat, only be careful
not to damage the eggs. And bring them into my office."
Pankrat carried out these instructions straightaway, and a quarter of
an hour later in the Professor's office, strewn with sawdust and scraps of
paper, a voice began shouting angrily.
"Are they trying to make fun of me?" the Professor howled, shaking his
fists and waving a couple of eggs. "That Poro-syuk's a real beast. I won't
be treated like this. What do you think they are, Pankrat?"
"Eggs, sir," Pankrat replied mournfully.
"Chicken eggs, see, the devil take them! What good are they to me? They
should be sent to that rascal on his state farm!"
Persikov rushed to the phone, but did not have time to make a call.
"Vladimir Ipatych! Vladimir Ipatych!" Ivanov's voice called urgently
down the Institute's corridor.
Persikov put down the phone and Pankrat hopped aside to make way for
the decent. The latter hurried into the office and, contrary to his usual
gentlemanly practice, did not even remove the grey hat sitting on his head.
In his hand he held a newspaper.
"Do you know what's happened, Vladimir Ipatych?" he cried, waving
before Persikov's face a sheet with the headline "Special Supplement" and a
bright coloured picture in the middle.
"Just listen to what they've done!" Persikov shouted back at him, not
listening. "They've sent me some chicken eggs as a nice surprise. That