Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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and white male chests, when suddenly the yellow holster of a pistol flashed
past and vanished behind a white column. Persikov noticed it vaguely and
then forgot about it. But after the lecture, as he was walking down the red
carpet of the staircase, he suddenly felt unwell. For a second the bright
chandelier in the vestibule clouded and Persikov came over dizzy and
slightly queasy. He seemed to smell burning and feel hot, sticky blood
running down his neck... With a trembling hand the Professor clutched the
banisters.
"Is anything the matter, Vladimir Ipatych?" he was besieged by anxious
voices on all sides.
"No, no," Persikov replied, pulling himself together. "I'm just rather
tired. Yes. Kindly bring me a glass of water."
It was a very sunny August day. This disturbed the Professor, so the
blinds were pulled down. One flexible standing reflector cast a pencil of
sharp light onto the glass table piled with instruments and lenses. The
exhausted Persikov was leaning against the back of his revolving chair,
smoking and staring through clouds of smoke with dead-tired but contented
eyes at the slightly open door of the chamber inside which a red sheaf of
light lay quietly, warming the already stuffy and fetid air in the room.
There was a knock at the door.
"What is it?" Persikov asked.
The door creaked lightly, and in came Pankrat. He stood to attention,
pallid with fear before the divinity, and announced:
"Feight's come for you, Professor."
The ghost of a smile flickered on the scientist's face. He narrowed his
eyes and said:
"That's interesting. Only I'm busy."
'"E says 'e's got an official warrant from the Kremlin."
"Fate with a warrant? That's a rare combination," Persikov remarked.
"Oh, well, send him in then!"
"Yessir," Pankrat replied, slithering through the door like a