Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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working for Vanya Sytin on The Russian Word they used to see elephants when
they got sozzled. That's right. Now it's ostriches."
The compositors laughed.
"Yes, of course, it's an ostrich," said the maker-up. "Shall we put it
in, Ivan Vonifatievich?"
"Are you crazy?" the editor replied. "I'm surprised the secretary let
it through. It was written under the influence alright."
"Yes, they must have had a drop or two," agreed the compositors, and
the maker-up removed the ostrich report from the desk.
So it was that Izvestia came out next day containing, as usual, a mass
of interesting material but no mention whatsoever of the Grachevka ostrich.
Decent Ivanov, who was conscientiously reading Izvestia in his office,
rolled it up and yawned, muttering: "Nothing of interest," then put on his
white coat. A little later the Bunsen burners went on in his room and the
frogs started croaking. In Professor Persikov's room, however, there was
hell let loose. The petrified Pankrat Stood stiffly to attention.
"Yessir, I will," he was saying.
Persikov handed him a sealed packet and told him:
"Go at once to the head of the Husbandry Department, and tell him
straight that he's a swine. Tell him that I said so. And give him this
packet."
"That's a nice little errand and no mistake," thought the pale-faced
Pankrat and disappeared with the packet.
Persikov fumed angrily.
"The devil only knows what's going on," he raged, pacing up and down
the office and rubbing his gloved hands. "It's making a mockery of me and
zoology. They're bringing him pile upon pile of those blasted chicken eggs,
when I've been waiting two months for what I really need. America's not that
far away! It's sheer inefficiency! A real disgrace!" He began counting on
his fingers. "Catching them takes, say, ten days at the most, alright then,