Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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Porosyuk's a positive cretin, just look!"
Ivanov stopped short. He stared in horror at the open crates, then at
the newspaper, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
"So that's it," he gasped. "Now I understand. Take a look at this,
Vladimir Ipatych." He quickly unfolded the paper and pointed with trembling
fingers at the coloured picture. It showed an olive-coloured snake with
yellow spots swaying like terrible fire hose in strange smudgy foliage. It
had been taken from a light aeroplane flying cautiously over the snake.
"What is that in your opinion, Vladimir Ipatych?"
Persikov pushed the spectacles onto his forehead, then pulled them back
onto his nose, stared at the photograph and said in great surprise:
"Well, I'll be damned. It's ... it's an anaconda. A boa constrictor..."
Ivanov pulled off his hat, sat down on a chair and said, banging the
table with his fist to emphasise each word:
"It's an anaconda from Smolensk Province, Vladimir Ipatych. What a
monstrosity! That scoundrel has hatched out snakes instead of chickens,
understand, and they are reproducing at the same fantastic rate as frogs!"
"What's that?" Persikov exclaimed, his face turning ashen. "You're
joking, Pyotr Stepanovich. How could he have?"
Ivanov could say nothing for a moment, then regained the power of
speech and said, poking a finger into the open crate where tiny white heads
lay shining in the yellow sawdust:
"That's how."
"Wha-a-at?" Persikov howled, as the truth gradually dawned on him.
"You can be sure of it. They sent your order for snake and ostrich eggs
to the state farm by mistake, and the chicken eggs to you."
"Good grief ... good grief," Persikov repeated, his face turning a
greenish white as he sank down onto a stool.
Pankrat stood petrified by the door, pale and speechless. Ivanov jumped