Venice собственный перевод

    A little elderly woman with a wrinkled face and vivid, tiny beadlike eyes had an absolutely bald head. When the doctors of our surgical department, led by its chief Prof. M., were entering her ward during the morning round, the woman, for some reason, pulled the wig swiftly off her head and put it into the drawer of the bedside table. It crossed my mind that she did it as a token of special respect, nothing less. It also reminded me of one line out of the famous Soviet song "Take off your hats when the thrushes are singing in the forest. They're singing for the soul, not for glory"... The woman's motion was noticed, and, not without some peculiar flirt, the professor asked,  "Madam, where is your hair?"  Efficiency and preemptiveness in everything are the motto of a successful resident. That is why no sooner had the woman opened her mouth to share her hair's bad fortune with us than, being delighted with my own watchfulness, I blurted out, "In the bedside table, professor!" Behind the chief's back, everyone was giggling. It seemed that Vovka couldn't help but laugh out; however, he stopped short when the professor turned around and cast a shrewd and unfriendly look at the residents who crowded behind, as though being interested, who is such a risible one? "Good morning, madam. I'm Dr. M. How are you feeling?" Like any other dictator and petty tyrant, Prof. M. demonstrated ostentatious modesty every time and everywhere. By this fact, I could explain his custom of introducing himself simply as a doctor.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. M. My name is Venice."
"You have a wonderful name, ma'am. Who were you named after?
"I'm not sure, Dr., but I think that the name was given to me by my parents because I was conceived in a gondola. Now everybody was laughing, including the professor.