He walked past the surprised janitor, entered the downstairs hall, climbed a flight of stairs and, with a heavy sigh, pressed the bell. He could hear someone’s steps, and a strange voice asked through the door:
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” Volka wanted to say, but suddenly remembered that, as of this morning, he didn’t live there any more.
Without answering the new tenant, he ran downstairs, marched by the still puzzled janitor nonchalantly, reached the main street, and boarded a trolley-bus. This certainly was his unlucky day: somewhere, most probably at the movies, he had lost his change-purse, so he had to get out and walk home.
Least of all, Volka wanted to meet a classmate, but most unbearable was the thought that he would have to face Goga-the-Pill. Sly Fate had added insult to injury: from this day forth they were both to live in the same house.
Sure enough, no sooner did he enter the yard of his new house than an unbearable, familiar voice shouted:
“Hi, nutty! Who was the old bird you left school with today?”
Goga-the-Pill ran up to Volka, winking insolently and pulling the most insulting faces.
“He wasn’t an old bird, he was a nice old man,” Volka said peaceably, as he didn’t want to end the day with a fight. “He’s … he’s my father’s friend from Tashkent .”
“What if I je-ee-st go to your father and je-ee-st tell him about your monkey-business at the exam!”
“Oh, Pill, you’ve gone crying for a beating too long!” Volka flared up, imagining what an impression Pill’s words would have on his parents. “Why, you dirty tattle-tale! I’ll push your face in!”
“Now, now, take it easy! A person can’t even joke any more. You’re really a nut!”
Fearing Volka’s fists, which, after several encounters, Goga chose to avoid, he dashed headlong into the entrance of the house in which he was now to live in dangerous closeness to Volka, whose new apartment was on the same landing.
“Bald people! A country of bald people!” Goga shouted, sticking his head out the front door. He showed Volka his tongue and, fearing the other’s righteous anger, flew up the stairs, two at a time, to his own door.
However, he was distracted by the mysterious behaviour of a huge Siberian cat from apartment 43 . The cat, named “Homych” in honour of the popular football goalie, was standing on the stairs with his back arched and hissing at nothing at all.
Goga’s first thought was that the cat had gone mad. He reflected again and was nearly certain that mad cats kept their tails between their legs, while Homych’s tail was sticking up straight, and in all other respects the animal looked quite healthy.
Goga kicked it — just in case. Homych’s yowl of pain, surprise and hurt could be heard on the tenth floor. He jumped so high and gracefully that his famous namesake could have been proud of such a leap.
Then something completely unexpected happened.
A good half yard from the wall, Homych yowled again and flew back in the opposite direction, straight at Goga, just as though the unfortunate animal had hit an invisible but very hard rubber wall. At the same time a gasp could be heard nearby, as if someone had trodden very hard on another person’s foot. Courage had never been one of Goga’s outstanding virtues, but now he nearly died of fright.
“Oh-h-h!” he moaned softly, feeling all numb. Finally, tearing his leaden feet from the stairs, he made a dash for his flat.
When the apartment door banged shut behind him, Hottabych became visible. He was writhing with pain and examining his left leg, which had been severely scratched by the cat’s claws.
“Oh, cursed youth!” Hottabych groaned, after first making sure he was alone on the stairs. “Oh, dog among boys!”
He fell silent and listened. Coming slowly up the stairs, lost in the most grievous thoughts, was his young saviour, Volka Kostylkov.
The sly old man did not want the boy to see him and so dissolved quickly in the air.
A CHAPTER WHICH IS A CONTINUATION OF THE PREVIOUS ONE
No matter how tempting it is to present Volka Kostylkov as a boy without faults, the well-known truthfulness of the author of this tale won’t permit him to do so. And if envy is to be justly considered a fault, then, to our great sorrow, we must admit that at times Volka experienced this feeling keenly. During the last few days he had been very envious of Goga. Long before their exams had begun, Goga boasted that his mother had promised him an Alsatian puppy as soon as he was promoted to the 7th grade.
“Sure, you just wait!” Volka had sniffed at the time, feeling that he was turning cold from envy.
In his heart of hearts, he had to admit that Pill’s words certainly resembled the truth. The whole class knew that Goga’s mother never skimped on anything for her little darling. She’d refuse herself the bare necessities of life, but she’d get Goga a present that would leave them all speechless.
“She’ll certainly get me a puppy,” Goga persisted. “If you want to know, my mother never refuses me anything. If she promised, it means she’ll buy me one. If the worst comes to the worst, she’ll borrow some money and buy it. You don’t know how highly they think of her at the factory!”
That was true. Goga’s mother was greatly respected at the factory. She was the senior draughtsman and was a modest, hard-working and cheerful person. Everyone liked her, both her fellow-workers and her neighbours at home. Even Goga was fond of her in his own way. And she really doted on Goga. Anyway, if she had promised to buy him a puppy, it meant she would.
Perhaps, at this sorrowful moment, when Volka, crushed by all he had gone through that day, was slowly mounting the stairs, Goga-the-Pill, the very same Pill who deserved such happiness less than anyone else in their class, in their school, or even in all of Moscow, was playing with a magnificent, happy, furry puppy right next door, in apartment 37.
Such were Volka’s thoughts. The only consideration that afforded him some solace was that it was highly unlikely that Goga’s mother, even though she really and truly intended to buy her son a dog, had done so already. After all, Goga had only taken his last exam several hours before, and it’s not so easy to buy a puppy. You don’t walk into a pet shop and say, “Please wrap up that puppy for me.” You have to look long and hard for a good dog.
The very moment Volka’s grandmother opened the door, he heard the high-pitched, squeaky yelping of a puppy coming from behind the closed door of apartment 37 .
“So she bought it after all!” he thought bitterly. “An Alsatian… or maybe even a Boxer…”
It was more than he could bear, to imagine Goga the proud owner of a real, live service dog. Volka slammed the door shut to blot out the exciting, unimaginably wonderful, magical barking of a dog.
He also heard the frightened exclamation which escaped Goga’s mother. The puppy had probably bitten him. But even this could not console our young hero.
Volka’s father had not yet returned, as he was staying late at a meeting. His mother had apparently called for him at the factory after her evening classes.
Despite all his efforts to appear calm and happy, Volka looked so gloomy that his grandmother decided to give him supper first and then start asking him questions.
“Well, how are things, Volka dear?” she asked hesitantly, when her only grandchild had made quick work of his supper.
“Uh, you see…” he said vaguely, pulling off his polo shirt and heading towards his room.
His grandmother followed him with a sorrowful and kindly gaze that was full of silent sympathy. There was no need to ask him any questions. Everything was all too clear.