<feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><title>Readnow! Blog</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/" /><subtitle></subtitle><updated></updated><author><name>Webjam</name><email>atom@webjam.com</email></author><id></id><language>en</language><entry><id>19e5a45f-0f3d-45ad-8976-f43af2578b7c</id><title>Chapters 9-12</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/09/06/chapters_912" /><updated>06-Sep-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 9: Strangers in Carvahall </span></h3><p>The next morning, Roran and Eragon leave for Carvahall, waving goodbye to Garrow as he offers words of wisdom for Eragon and money for Roran. They meet Dempton, Roran&rsquo;s new boss as the blacksmiths and Eragon takes a dislike to him immediately. The blacksmith pulls Eragon aside and asks him about the blue stone, warning him that two odd men were looking for a similar stone and that Eragon should be rid of it. </p><p>Horst tells Eragon that no one betrayed him for having the stone but that he should be wary as the strangers gave him a bad feeling. After hugging his cousin and waving goodbye, Eragon overhears Sloan speaking to two hissing voices about an incidence that happened 3 months ago. After some threats by the two voices and reassurances by Sloan, the two turn to see Eragon and begin approaching them with their swords unsheathing. Brom enters the scene at the last minute, calling Eragon&rsquo;s name and scaring off the strangers. </p><p>Brom accepts Eragon&rsquo;s excuses of dizziness and urges him to return him. He asks one more time about the trader who offered so much information about dragons. Eragon is unable to answer any questions though. As Eragon leaves, he shakes Brom&rsquo;s hand and his glove comes off, revealing the oval shaped mark on his palm. He runs off before Brom can say anything. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_10:_Flight_of_Destiny"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 10: Flight of Destiny </span></h3><p>Eragon runs home quickly and finds his uncle outside, near the barn. He decides to go to Saphira first, to show his uncle and make sure he believes him. As he approaches her, she becomes agitated by the news of the strangers and the smell of blood. Eragon climbs on her back and she flies away, unable to calm down. </p><p>Eragon clings for his life as she flies high above the woods, making him sick. He tries to get her to return but in her fright, she refuses angrily. She flies all the way to the Spine and when he finally falls to the snow from her back, he is in horrible pain. When he questions why she took him away, she tells him the strangers were killers and he becomes angry that his uncle is in danger. As night approaches, Eragon sleeps within Saphira&rsquo;s wings, realizing that he might be too late to help his uncle. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_11:_The_Doom_of_Innocence"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 11: The Doom of Innocence </span></h3><p>Waking in the Spine, Eragon realizes they are in the spot where he found Saphira&rsquo;s egg. Tired and hungry, Eragon asks to be returned home. She is still frightened, but his angry accusations force her to take him back. When they finally return, the farm is in ruins and Saphira immediately sense the horrors that have occurred. </p><p>In Eragon&rsquo;s anger, he blames Saphira for the destruction, though she claims she has saved his life. They dig through the rubble and finally find Garrow, unearthing him of the rubble. His body is horribly burned and oozing. Saphira takes the two and flies to Carvahall, throwing Saphira&rsquo;s secrecy to the wind. She drops him off near the town and Eragon begins to drag Garrow toward the town. Finally Brom arrives, running towards them, and Eragon collapses. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_12:_Deathwatch"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 12: Deathwatch </span></h3><p>While still passed out Eragon sees silver haired men with lances boarding a ship and dragons flying above. He wakes from his dream to find he&rsquo;s in the Gertrude, the town healer&rsquo;s hut. Garrow is not getting any better and Eragon has been unconscious himself for more than 2 days. </p><p>She presses Eragon for answers about what happened on the farm, the entire village being curious about it as well as asking about his scar from the egg. He lies to her and goes to visit Garrow instead, being kept at Horst&rsquo;s house. Horst&rsquo;s family greets Eragon and show him to Garrow who is covered with unhealable burns, causing Eragon to feel that much more helpless. As Horst begins to question him as well, he hears Saphira&rsquo;s shouts in his mind, finally able to get through after his recovery. They are going to have to leave the village for a while. </p>]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>c8db032e-2f15-49af-8bf6-8b97e96d7204</id><title>Eragon: Chapters 1-8</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/09/05/eragon_chapters_18" /><updated>05-Sep-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<p>Hey everybody! Since we are nearing our 7 month anniversary, I am going to work extra hard to put up these chapter summaries, post in the forums more, and just get involved again and get this place up and running! If you guys can help in anyway, please do!</p><h3><span class="mw-headline">Prologue: Shade of Fear</span></h3><p>The prologue is a scene that will make significantly more sense later in the novel. It opens with a Shade, a nearly human creature of the dark, sensing danger and urging his Urgal companions to be quiet. The group sits quietly as a trio of elves ride &ndash; two men and a woman &ndash; fully armed with bows and swords. </p><p>The Shade and Urgals attack the three elves, shooting down the two male elves with bow shots. The female escapes temporarily, Urgals making chase and the Shade chanting a magical phrase that sets the woods on fire from above on a giant rock. </p><p>The Shade jumps from his roost and catches the female elf, trapping her between himself and the Urgals. She quickly removes a blue stone and before the Shade can cast the necessary magic to snag the rock, it disappears. Angered by the interaction, the Shade kills his Urgal companions and takes the elf captive before riding away. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_1:_Discovery"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 1: Discovery </span></h3><p>Hunting in the woods of The Spine, in the vast land of Alaga&euml;sia, Eragon is a 15 year old boy, only a year from official &ldquo;manhood&rdquo;. While sighting a female deer with his bow to gather food for his family, Eragon is rocked by an explosion throughout the woods. </p><p>A circle of dead grass forms around the blast center with hundreds of trees ripped clean. Eragon walks toward the explosion point and notices the presence of a stone, cautious but for a moment before picking it up. The polished blue stone is very hard yet smooth and colorful. Eragon is unsure of it other than that it might be valuable, so he packs it up and sleeps for the night. </p><a name="Chapter_2:_Palancar_Valley"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 2: Palancar Valley </span></h3><p>The next day Eragon hikes his way back out of the woods to return home without any game. It takes him nearly two days to reach the Palancar Valley where Carvahall &ndash; his home &ndash; is located. Before heading home he decides to stop at the butcher shop and pick up some meat for his family. </p><p>Because Eragon has no money, he attempts to sell the blue stone for the meat, but the butcher &ndash; Sloan &ndash; will not take it because its value is unknown. The small amount he&rsquo;s willing to offer is too little for Eragon, so he advises him to wait for a merchant to arrive in town to appraise it. When Eragon finally takes the money, he admits he found the stone in the Spine, to which Sloan angrily refuses the trade. He threatens Eragon and tells him to leave. </p><p>Horst enters, the town&rsquo;s blacksmith and calms the butcher, eventually buying a selection of meats for Eragon and sending him on his way, happy to have humiliated the butcher. Confused by the butcher&rsquo;s reaction, Eragon is advised to ask his uncle about it for more details. Eragon remembers that he must pass along a message of love to the butcher&rsquo;s daughter Katrina from his cousin Roran. </p><p>After completing his business in town, Eragon leaves for his uncle&rsquo;s farm, a mere 10 miles away. Eragon&rsquo;s Uncle Garrow greets him gruffly and grows angry at the meat received in charity. Eragon reassures him that he is to work the meat off as an assistant to the blacksmith in the spring and that he will juggle the work between his uncle&rsquo;s farm and blacksmithing. </p><p>After Eragon shows his uncle the stone, Garrow explains that Sloan&rsquo;s wife was killed in the Spine and that it is indeed odd for him to react quite so harshly, even with such history. </p><a name="Chapter_3:_Dragon_Tales"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 3: Dragon Tales </span></h3><p>The following chapter describes the life of a farm boy with Eragon readjusting to his life on his uncle&rsquo;s farm with his uncle and his cousin Roran. Working to harvest their crops before a blizzard works through and covers thearea in snow, Garrow worries about the traders making their way through. A bit later, Eragon notes their tracks and everyone packs up and readies for them. </p><p>They arrive in town and Eragon begins looking for a merchant to value his stone, noticing how wary everyone appears. When he finds Merlock, a jewel merchant, he and Garrow enter a private tent to observe the tone. Unable to value the stone, he comments on how hard it is and that it is oddly hollow. After offering them what little information he can about the stone, Merlock shares what he knows of the world, the illness, fights, and bad luck of Alaga&euml;sia. Urgals are attacking villages in the desert, so the king has sent his own armies to fight them. </p><p>Later in a tavern, Eragon hears more of the world, of the rebel Vardens fighting with the Urgals against the King. The traders speak highly of the king, to which the villagers disagree. The villagers continue to argue with the traders about the empire, displaying their hatred for the king and the empire, going way back, wary of his intentions. </p><p>Brom, the storyteller, later weaves stories of the Dragon Riders, protectors of the king and allies of elves and dwarves. Everyone was happy until one day a certain rider named Galbatorix&rsquo;s dragon was killed, sending him into madness, searching everywhere for a new dragon. The other riders denied him one as he was now evil. There were two riders though who helped Galbatorix sneak in and steal a young dragon though, and with Morzan at his side fought the Riders. There were 13 evil riders in all at the end and they killed all of the other riders and defeated King Vrael to place Galbatorix on the throne. </p><a name="Chapter_4:_Fate.27s_Gift"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 4: Fate's Gift </span></h3><p>Returning from the village, Eragon tests the hollowness of his stone with various items, beating on it repeatedly until it produces a mild squeak. Later that night while sleeping he is awoken by another squeak, this time much louder coming from the stone. After hiding the stone under his bed he goes back to sleep for the night, intent on dealing with it in the morning. </p><p>When the stone moves about under his bed, Eragon wakes once more and decides to bury it. However, it falls and cracks as he&rsquo;s leaving and soon enough a dragon breaks its way through the shell. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_5:_Awakening"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 5: Awakening </span></h3><p>The dragon itself is small and covered in blue sapphires, revealing the stone as an egg. The dragon watches him for a moment, but then begins to explore. When Eragon reaches to touch the dragon he feels a jolt of energy course through him, extremely painful in its abruptness. An oval then appears on his hand. When he touches the dragon a second time, nothing happens nearly so violent. However, a small charge runs through him and he feels emotions that are not his own. The dragon is hungry, so he feeds it and decides to hide the dragon, knowing he cannot kill it but that the dragon could bring pain and worry to his family. </p><p>The next day, Eragon takes the dragon to the woods and builds a small shelter for her, telling her to stay through their new telepathic link. The dragon survives well on her own and Eragon begins to spend a great deal of time with her. The dragon quickly begins to grow and the two begin to communicate much better. Stretching to longer distances, their link is almost complete and the dragon begins to grow large dagger like teeth and heavy scales. Worried for the safety of the dragon, Eragon covers her tracks often, keeping her secret. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_6:_Tea_for_Two"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 6: Tea for Two </span></h3><p>Because he doesn&rsquo;t understand dragons as well as he&rsquo;d like, Eragon heads to Brom to learn more. Brom tells Eragon the story of the Dragon Riders and their origins, how dragons arrived with the creation of Algalsia and that early on elves and dragons fought vehemently. One day an elf named Eragon found an egg and raised his dragon in secret. The two later made the case for peace and Eragon became the first dragon rider. Brom also tells Ergaon that dwarves have disappeared in recent years, hiding underground to escape the reach of the empire. </p><p>Brom tells Eragon that some dragons can reach a wingspan of up to 100 feet, and when Eragon tells Brom that he&rsquo;s heard the scales of dragons are gem like, Brom demands to know from where the information was heard. Dragons can not only live for hundreds of years but have a magical impact on other living things. Because of this link, Dragon Riders become smarter and stronger than other humans. The last thing the two discuss is names for dragons, Eragon seeking a name for his new dragon. The last name given to him is Saphira. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_7:_A_Name_of_Power"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 7: A Name of Power </span></h3><p>Roran and Eragon are leaving Carvahall to return home and Roran reveals that he&rsquo;s been offerd a job in a mill very far from Carvahall. He also announces that he will propose to Katrina. Eragon for his part is worried that his father will not accept the decision, worried about the work that needs to be done on the farm. </p><p>Now that Eragon knows that dragons are as intelligent as human beings, he sees his in a different light. Even with her reaching out to him, Eragon is in a fowl mood, something that she can also feel through their link. He begins listing names for the dragon, at first turned down because he&rsquo;s listing male names for a female dragon and then just turned down because she doesn&rsquo;t like them. Eventually, he says Saphira and she accepts the name, happy with the sound of it. </p><p>&nbsp;</p><a name="Chapter_8:__Miller-to-Be"></a><h3><span class="mw-headline">Chapter 8: Miller-to-Be </span></h3><p>Despite his worries that he wouldn&rsquo;t, Garrow accepts Roran&rsquo;s plans and they decide he will be leaving in two weeks. Eragon is worried about the upcoming changes and discusses them at length with Saphira. The two become much closer as they have intelligent conversations and Saphira displays her wisdom. Wanting to reveal her to his family, Eragon is cautioned to be wary by Saphira because of how they might react. On the night Roran is to leave, Eragon almost tells his cousin about Saphira, but decides against it, worried about how busy his cousin already is with his packing. </p><p>Thanks everybody, and let's participate!</p><p>-Jigsaw</p>]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>fae58682-e1c7-49a6-ae96-c4e1ba47d57a</id><title>September Book of the Month</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/09/05/september_book_of_the_month_sfhpkmulsT" /><updated>05-Sep-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[Hello everyone! I just wanted to tell you guys that the September Book of the Month is Eragon by Christopher Paolini. Have fun!]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>3cf84bf5-077e-4ba8-9aaa-dd356788b550</id><title>September Book of the Month</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/09/05/september_book_of_the_month" /><updated>05-Sep-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[Hello everyone! I just wanted to tell you guys that the September Book of the Month is Eragon by Christopher Paolini. Have fun!]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>6aa987d4-35c2-44f8-919b-5bd5b740c206</id><title>July Book of the Month</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/07/10/july_book_of_the_month" /><updated>10-Jul-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[I just wanted to inform you guys that our July book of the month is Eclipse by Stephenie Meyer, so you can guess what August's book of the month will be. I am going to get this back up and running again. Thanks!]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>4c8da7fd-b8fb-41f5-b839-2ef21584d483</id><title>June Book of the Month</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/06/08/june_book_of_the_month" /><updated>08-Jun-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[Just wanted to inform you guys that our June book of the month is New Moon by Stephenie Meyer. It is the second book in the Twilight Saga. Also, I am very sorry for starting so late. Have fun!]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>c793a2e0-f629-4cd2-81ef-c4dab02003c9</id><title>Hello</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/27/hello" /><updated>27-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[I know that I haven't been here for a while, but I just want to try and get things back on track. I have yet to see what our new book of the month is going to be, but if you guys could start participating a bit again, it would be much appreciated. Thanks!]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>a5b0dd46-8105-4b03-a9b3-4566b1a4dc56</id><title>Chapter 15: Nikanor Ivanovich's Dream</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/15/chapter_15_nikanor_ivanovichs_dream" /><updated>15-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="18"></a><h2>CHAPTER 15. Nikanor Ivanovich's Dream</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It&nbsp; is&nbsp; not&nbsp; difficult&nbsp; to guess that&nbsp; the&nbsp; fat&nbsp; man&nbsp; with&nbsp; the&nbsp; purple<br />physiognomy&nbsp; who was put in room 119&nbsp; of the&nbsp; clinic&nbsp; was&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich<br />Bosoy.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He got to Professor Stravinsky&nbsp; not at once,&nbsp; however,&nbsp; but after first<br />visiting&nbsp; another&nbsp; place [1]. Of this other place little remained in Nikanor<br />Ivanovich's memory. He recalled only a desk, a bookcase and a sofa.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There a conversation was held with Nikanor Ivanovich, who had some sort<br />of haze before his eyes from the rush of blood and mental agitation, but the<br />conversation&nbsp; came out somehow strange, muddled, or, better&nbsp; to say, did not<br />come out at all.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The very first question put to Nikanor Ivanovich was the following:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Are you&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the house&nbsp; committee at<br />no.502-bis on Sadovaya Street?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To&nbsp; this&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich, bursting into terrible laughter,&nbsp; replied<br />literally thus:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'm&nbsp; Nikanor, of course&nbsp; I'm&nbsp; Nikanor!&nbsp; But&nbsp; what&nbsp; the deuce&nbsp; kind&nbsp; of<br />chairman am I?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Meaning what?' the question was asked with a narrowing of eyes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Meaning,'&nbsp; he&nbsp; replied,&nbsp; `that&nbsp; if&nbsp; I&nbsp; was&nbsp; chairman,&nbsp; I&nbsp; should&nbsp; have<br />determined at once that he was&nbsp; an unclean power! Otherwise&nbsp; - what is it? A<br />cracked pince-nez, all in rags... what kind of foreigner's interpreter could<br />he be?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Who are you talking about?' Nikanor Ivanovich was asked.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Koroviev!' Nikanor Ivanovich cried&nbsp; out.&nbsp; `Got himself lodged&nbsp; in&nbsp; our<br />apartment number fifty. Write it down - Koroviev! He must be caught at once.<br />Write it down - the sixth entrance. He's there.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Where&nbsp; did you get&nbsp; the currency?'&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich was&nbsp; asked&nbsp; soul<br />fully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'As God is&nbsp; true, as God is almighty,' Nikanor Ivanovich began, he sees<br />everything, and it serves me right. I never&nbsp; laid a finger on it, never even<br />suspected what it was, this currency! God is punishing me for my iniquity,'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich went on with feeling, now buttoning, now&nbsp; unbuttoning<br />his shirt,&nbsp; now&nbsp; crossing himself. 'I took! I took, but I&nbsp; took ours. Soviet<br />money! I'd&nbsp; register&nbsp; people for&nbsp; money,&nbsp; I&nbsp; don't argue,&nbsp; it happened.&nbsp; Our<br />secretary Bedsornev is a good one,&nbsp; too, another good one! Frankly speaking,<br />there's nothing but thieves in&nbsp; the&nbsp; house&nbsp; management...&nbsp; But I never&nbsp; took<br />currency!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To the&nbsp; request that he stop playing the fool and tell how&nbsp; the dollars<br />got&nbsp; into&nbsp; the ventilation, Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich went on his knees and swayed,<br />opening his mouth as if he meant to swallow a section of the parquet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'If you want,'&nbsp; he mumbled, 'I'll eat&nbsp; dirt&nbsp; that&nbsp; I didn't do&nbsp; it! And<br />Koroviev - he's the devil!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; All patience has its&nbsp; limits, and the voice at the desk was now raised,<br />hinting&nbsp; to Nikanor Ivanovich that it was time he&nbsp; began&nbsp; speaking&nbsp; in human<br />language.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here the room with&nbsp; that same&nbsp; sofa resounded&nbsp; with Nikanor Ivanovich's<br />wild roaring, as he jumped up from his knees:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'There&nbsp; he&nbsp; is!&nbsp; There,&nbsp; behind the bookcase! He's&nbsp; grinning!&nbsp; And&nbsp; his<br />pince-nez... Hold him! Spray the room with holy water!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The blood left Nikanor Ivanovich's face. Trembling, he&nbsp; made crosses in<br />the air, rushing&nbsp; to the door&nbsp; and back,&nbsp; intoned&nbsp; some&nbsp; prayer, and finally<br />began spouting sheer gibberish.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It&nbsp; became perfectly&nbsp; clear that&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich was unfit for&nbsp; any<br />conversation. He was taken&nbsp; out and put in&nbsp; a separate room, where he calmed<br />down somewhat and only prayed and sobbed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They did, of course, go to Sadovaya and visit apartment no.50. But they<br />did not find any Koroviev there, and no one&nbsp; in the house either knew or had<br />seen any Koroviev. The apartment occupied by the late Berlioz, as well as by<br />the Yalta-visiting&nbsp; Likhodeev,&nbsp; was empty,&nbsp; and in the study wax seals&nbsp; hung<br />peacefully&nbsp; on&nbsp; the&nbsp; bookcases, unbroken&nbsp; by anyone.&nbsp; With&nbsp; that&nbsp; they&nbsp; left<br />Sadovaya, and&nbsp; there&nbsp; also&nbsp; departed with them&nbsp; the perplexed and dispirited<br />secretary of the house management, Bedsornev.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In the evening Nikanor Ivanovich was delivered to Stravinsky's clinic.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There he&nbsp; became&nbsp; so&nbsp; agitated&nbsp; that&nbsp; an injection,&nbsp; made according&nbsp; to<br />Stravinsky's recipe, had&nbsp; to&nbsp; be&nbsp; given him, and&nbsp; only&nbsp; after&nbsp; midnight&nbsp; did<br />Nikanor Ivanovich fall asleep in room&nbsp; 119, every now&nbsp; and&nbsp; then emitting&nbsp; a<br />heavy, painful moan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But the longer&nbsp; he&nbsp; slept,&nbsp; the&nbsp; easier his&nbsp; sleep became.&nbsp; He&nbsp; stopped<br />tossing and groaning, his breathing became easy and regular, and he was left<br />alone. Then&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich was visited by a dream, at the basis of which<br />undoubtedly lay the experience of that day. It began with&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich<br />seeing as&nbsp; it were some people with golden&nbsp; trumpets in their&nbsp; hands leading<br />him, and very solemnly, to a big lacquered door. At this door his companions<br />played as it&nbsp; were a nourish for Nikanor Ivanovich,&nbsp; and then from the sky a<br />resounding bass said merrily:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Welcome, Nikanor Ivanovich, turn over your currency!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Exceedingly astonished, Nikanor Ivanovich saw a black loudspeaker above<br />him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then he found himself for some reason in a theatre house, where crystal<br />chandeliers blazed&nbsp; under a gilded ceiling&nbsp; and&nbsp; Quinquet lamps&nbsp; [2] on&nbsp; the<br />walls. Everything was&nbsp; as it ought&nbsp; to be in a&nbsp; small-sized but very&nbsp; costly<br />theatre. There was a stage closed&nbsp; off by a velvet curtain, its&nbsp; dark cerise<br />background spangled, as if with stars, with oversized gold pieces, there was<br />a prompter's box, and there was even an audience.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What surprised Nikanor Ivanovich was that this audience was all&nbsp; of the<br />same sex&nbsp; - male -&nbsp; and&nbsp; all for some reason bearded. Besides that,&nbsp; it&nbsp; was<br />striking that there were no seats&nbsp; in the theatre,&nbsp; and the audience was all<br />sitting on the floor, splendidly polished and slippery.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Abashed in&nbsp; this new and big&nbsp; company, Nikanor Ivanovich, after a brief<br />hesitation,&nbsp; followed&nbsp; the&nbsp; general example and&nbsp; sat&nbsp; down&nbsp; on&nbsp; the&nbsp; parquet<br />Turkish-fashion,&nbsp; huddled between some stalwart, bearded redhead and another<br />citizen, pale and quite overgrown. None of the sitters paid any attention to<br />the newly arrived spectator.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here the soft ringing of a bell was heard, the lights in the house went<br />out, and the&nbsp; curtain opened to reveal a lighted stage with&nbsp; an&nbsp; armchair, a<br />little&nbsp; table&nbsp; on&nbsp; which&nbsp; stood a golden&nbsp; bell,&nbsp; and&nbsp; a solid&nbsp; black&nbsp; velvet<br />backdrop.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; An artiste came out&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; wings in an&nbsp; evening&nbsp; jacket,&nbsp; smoothly<br />shaven,&nbsp; his hair neatly parted, young and with&nbsp; very pleasant features. The<br />audience in the house livened up, and everyone turned towards the stage. The<br />artiste advanced to the prompter's box and rubbed his hands.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'All sitting?'[3] he asked in a soft baritone and smiled to the house.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Sitting,&nbsp; sitting,' a chorus of tenors and&nbsp; basses answered&nbsp; from&nbsp; the<br />house.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hm ...' the artiste began pensively, 'and how you're not sick of it. I<br />just don't understand! Everybody&nbsp; else is out&nbsp; walking around&nbsp; now, enjoying<br />the spring sun and the warmth,&nbsp; and you're stuck in here on&nbsp; the&nbsp; floor of a<br />stuffy theatre!&nbsp; Is&nbsp; the&nbsp; programme so interesting? Tastes differ, however,'<br />the artiste concluded philosophically.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then he&nbsp; changed both the timbre&nbsp; of his voice and its intonation,&nbsp; and<br />announced gaily and resoundingly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `And&nbsp; now&nbsp; for the&nbsp; next&nbsp; number on our programme&nbsp; -&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich<br />Bosoy,&nbsp; chairman&nbsp; of&nbsp; a&nbsp; house committee and director of a dietetic kitchen.<br />Nikanor Ivanovich, on-stage!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; General&nbsp; applause greeted the artiste. The surprised Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich<br />goggled his eyes, while the master of ceremonies, blocking the glare&nbsp; of the<br />footlights&nbsp; with&nbsp; his&nbsp; hand,&nbsp; located&nbsp; him&nbsp; among the&nbsp; sitters and&nbsp; tenderly<br />beckoned&nbsp; him&nbsp; on-stage&nbsp; with&nbsp; his finger.&nbsp; And&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich,&nbsp; without<br />knowing how, found himself on-stage. Beams of coloured light struck his eyes<br />from in front and below, which at once caused the house and the audience&nbsp; to<br />sink into darkness.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich,&nbsp; set&nbsp; us&nbsp; a good&nbsp; example,&nbsp; sir,' the&nbsp; young<br />artiste said soulfully, 'turn over your currency.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Silence ensued.&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich took a deep breath and quietly began<br />to speak:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I swear to God that I...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But before he had time to get the words out, the whole house burst into<br />shouts of indignation. Nikanor Ivanovich got confused and fell silent.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'As far as I understand you,' said the programme announcer, 'you wanted<br />to&nbsp; swear&nbsp; to&nbsp; God&nbsp; that&nbsp; you&nbsp; haven't got&nbsp; any&nbsp; currency?',&nbsp; and&nbsp; he&nbsp; gazed<br />sympathetically at Nikanor Ivanovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Exactly right, I haven't,' replied Nikanor Ivanovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Right,' responded the artiste, 'and... excuse the&nbsp; indiscretion, where<br />did the four&nbsp; hundred dollars that were found in the privy&nbsp; of the apartment<br />of which you and your wife are the sole inhabitants come from?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Magic!' someone in the dark house said with obvious irony.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Exactly&nbsp; right - magic,' Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich timidly&nbsp; replied,&nbsp; vaguely<br />addressing either the artiste or the dark house, and he explained:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Unclean powers, the checkered interpreter stuck me with them.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; again the house raised an indignant&nbsp; roar. When silence came,&nbsp; the<br />artiste said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'See what La Fontaine fables&nbsp; I have to listen to! Stuck&nbsp; him with four<br />hundred dollars! Now, all of you here are currency dealers, so I address you<br />as experts: is that conceivable?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We're not currency&nbsp; dealers,'&nbsp; various offended&nbsp; voices came&nbsp; from&nbsp; the<br />theatre, 'but, no, it's not conceivable!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'm entirely&nbsp; of the&nbsp; same mind,' the artiste said firmly, `and let me<br />ask you: what is it that one can be stuck with?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A baby!' someone cried from the house.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Absolutely correct,' the&nbsp; programme announcer confirmed,&nbsp; 'a baby,&nbsp; an<br />anonymous letter, a tract,&nbsp; an&nbsp; infernal&nbsp; machine, anything else, but no one<br />will&nbsp; stick&nbsp; you with&nbsp; four&nbsp; hundred dollars, for such idiots don't exist in<br />nature.' And turning to&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich,&nbsp; the artiste added reproachfully<br />and sorrowfully:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `You've upset me, Nikanor Ivanovich, and I was counting on you. So, our<br />number didn't come off.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Whistles came from the house, addressed to Nikanor Ivanovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's a currency dealer,' they shouted from the house, 'and we innocent<br />ones have to suffer for the likes of him!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Don't scold&nbsp; him,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies&nbsp; said&nbsp; softly,&nbsp; 'he'll<br />repent.' And turning to&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich, his blue eyes filled with tears,<br />he added: 'Well, Nikanor Ivanovich, you may go to your place.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After that the artiste rang the bell and announced loudly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Intermission, you blackguards!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The shaken Nikanor Ivanovich, who unexpectedly for himself had become a<br />participant in some sort&nbsp; of theatre programme, again found&nbsp; himself in&nbsp; his<br />place on&nbsp; the floor. Here he&nbsp; dreamed that&nbsp; the&nbsp; house&nbsp; was plunged in total<br />darkness, and fiery red words leaped out on the walls:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Turn over your currency!'&nbsp; Then the curtain opened again and the master<br />of ceremonies invited:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I call Sergei Gerardovich Dunchil to the stage.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dunchil turned out to be a fine-looking but rather unkempt man of about<br />fifty.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Sergei&nbsp; Gerardovich,' the master&nbsp; of ceremonies addressed him, 'you've<br />been sitting here for a&nbsp; month&nbsp; and&nbsp; a half now, stubbornly refusing to turn<br />over&nbsp; the currency you still have, while the country is&nbsp; in need of it,&nbsp; and<br />you&nbsp; have&nbsp; no&nbsp; use&nbsp; for&nbsp; it whatsoever.&nbsp; And&nbsp; still you&nbsp; persist.&nbsp; You're an<br />intelligent&nbsp; man, you understand it&nbsp; all&nbsp; perfectly well,&nbsp; and yet you don't<br />want to comply with me.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To&nbsp; my regret, there&nbsp; is&nbsp; nothing&nbsp; I&nbsp; can&nbsp; do,&nbsp; since&nbsp; I have&nbsp; no&nbsp; more<br />currency,' Dunchil calmly replied.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Don't&nbsp; you&nbsp; at&nbsp; least&nbsp; have&nbsp; some&nbsp; diamonds?' asked&nbsp; the artiste.&nbsp; 'No<br />diamonds either.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; artiste hung&nbsp; his head and&nbsp; pondered,&nbsp; then&nbsp; clapped&nbsp; his hands. A<br />middle-aged lady&nbsp; came out from the wings, fashionably dressed - that is, in<br />a&nbsp; collarless&nbsp; coat&nbsp; and a tiny hat.&nbsp; The&nbsp; lady looked worried, but&nbsp; Dunchil<br />glanced at her without moving an eyebrow.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Who is this&nbsp; lady?' the programme announcer asked Dunchil. 'That is my<br />wife,'&nbsp; Dunchil replied with dignity and looked at the lady's long neck with<br />a certain repugnance.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We&nbsp; have&nbsp; troubled&nbsp; you,&nbsp; Madame&nbsp; Dunchil,' the&nbsp; master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies<br />adverted to the lady, 'with regard&nbsp; to&nbsp; the following: we wanted to ask you,<br />does your husband have any more currency?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `He turned&nbsp; it&nbsp; all&nbsp; over&nbsp; the&nbsp; other&nbsp; time,'&nbsp; Madame&nbsp; Dunchil&nbsp; replied<br />nervously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Right,' said&nbsp; the artiste, 'well, then, if it's&nbsp; so, it's&nbsp; so.&nbsp; If&nbsp; he<br />turned&nbsp; it&nbsp; all&nbsp; over,&nbsp; then&nbsp; we&nbsp; ought&nbsp; to&nbsp; part&nbsp; with&nbsp; Sergei&nbsp; Gerardovich<br />immediately,&nbsp; there's nothing else to do!&nbsp; If you wish, Sergei&nbsp; Gerardovich,<br />you may leave the theatre.' And the artiste made a regal gesture.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dunchil turned calmly and with dignity, and headed for the wings. 'Just<br />a moment!'&nbsp; the master of ceremonies stopped&nbsp; him. 'Allow&nbsp; me&nbsp; on parting to<br />show you&nbsp; one&nbsp; more number from our&nbsp; programme.' And&nbsp; again&nbsp; he&nbsp; clapped his<br />hands.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The black backdrop parted, and on to the stage came a young beauty in a<br />ball&nbsp; gown, holding in her hands a golden&nbsp; tray on which lay a fat wad&nbsp; tied<br />with candy-box ribbon and a diamond necklace from which blue, yellow and red<br />fire leaped in all directions.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dunchil took a step back and his face went pale. The house froze.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Eighteen thousand dollars&nbsp; and a&nbsp; necklace&nbsp; worth&nbsp; forty&nbsp; thousand&nbsp; in<br />gold,'&nbsp; the artiste solemnly announced,&nbsp; `kept&nbsp; by Sergei Gerardovich in the<br />city of Kharkov, in the apartment&nbsp; of&nbsp; his mistress,&nbsp; Ida Herkulanovna Vors,<br />whom we have the pleasure of&nbsp; seeing here before us and who so kindly helped<br />in discovering these&nbsp; treasures&nbsp; - priceless, vet useless&nbsp; in the hands of a<br />private person. Many thanks, Ida Herkulanovna!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; beauty&nbsp; smiled,&nbsp;&nbsp; flashing&nbsp; her&nbsp; teeth,&nbsp; and&nbsp; her&nbsp; lush&nbsp; eyelashes<br />fluttered. 'And under&nbsp; your so very dignified mask,' the artiste adverted to<br />Dunchil, `is&nbsp; concealed a&nbsp; greedy&nbsp; spider and an astonishing bamboozler&nbsp; and<br />liar.&nbsp; You&nbsp; wore everyone&nbsp; out during this month and a half&nbsp; with your&nbsp; dull<br />obstinacy.&nbsp; Go home now, and&nbsp; let the hell your wife sets up for you be your<br />punishment.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dunchil swayed and, it&nbsp; seems, wanted to fall down, but was held&nbsp; up by<br />someone's sympathetic hands. Here&nbsp; the front curtain&nbsp; dropped and&nbsp; concealed<br />all those on-stage.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Furious&nbsp; applause shook the&nbsp; house, so much so&nbsp; that Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich<br />fancied the lights were leaping in the&nbsp; chandeliers. When the&nbsp; front curtain<br />went up, there was no one on-stage except the lone&nbsp; artiste. Greeted&nbsp; with a<br />second burst of applause, he bowed and began to speak:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'In the person of this Dunchil, our programme has shown&nbsp; you a&nbsp; typical<br />ass. I&nbsp; did&nbsp; have&nbsp; the pleasure of saying&nbsp; yesterday that&nbsp; the concealing of<br />currency is senseless. No one can make use of it&nbsp; under any circumstances, I<br />assure you. Let's&nbsp; take this&nbsp; same Dunchil.&nbsp; He&nbsp; gets a splendid&nbsp; salary and<br />doesn't&nbsp; want for&nbsp; anything.&nbsp; He&nbsp; has&nbsp; a&nbsp; splendid&nbsp; apartment, a&nbsp; wife and a<br />beautiful mistress. But no, instead of living quietly and peacefully without<br />any&nbsp; troubles,&nbsp; having turned&nbsp; over&nbsp; the currency and stones, this mercenary<br />blockhead&nbsp; gets himself exposed in&nbsp; front&nbsp; of everybody,&nbsp; and to top it&nbsp; off<br />contracts&nbsp; major&nbsp; family&nbsp; trouble.&nbsp; So,&nbsp; who's&nbsp;&nbsp; going&nbsp; to&nbsp; turn&nbsp; over?&nbsp; Any<br />volunteers?&nbsp; In that case, for&nbsp; the next number on&nbsp; our programme, a&nbsp; famous<br />dramatic&nbsp; talent,&nbsp; the actor&nbsp; Kurolesov, Sawa Potapovich, especially invited<br />here,&nbsp; will&nbsp; perform excerpts&nbsp; from&nbsp; The&nbsp; Covetous&nbsp; Knight [4]&nbsp; by the&nbsp; poet<br />Pushkin.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The promised&nbsp; Kurolesov was not slow in coming on stage&nbsp; and turned out<br />to be a strapping and beefy man, clean-shaven, in a tailcoat and white tie.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Without any&nbsp; preliminaries,&nbsp; he&nbsp; concocted a gloomy&nbsp; face,&nbsp; knitted his<br />brows, and began speaking&nbsp; in an unnatural&nbsp; voice, glancing sidelong at&nbsp; the<br />golden bell:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `As a young scapegrace awaits a tryst with some sly strumpet...'[5]<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And Kurolesov&nbsp; told&nbsp; many&nbsp; bad things about himself. Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich<br />heard Kurolesov confess that some&nbsp; wretched widow&nbsp; had gone&nbsp; on her knees to<br />him, howling, in the rain, but had failed to move the actor's callous heart.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Before his dream, Nikanor Ivanovich had been completely ignorant of the<br />poet Pushkin's works, but the man himself he knew perfectly well and several<br />times&nbsp; a day&nbsp; used to say&nbsp; phrases like: 'And who's going&nbsp; to pay the rent -<br />Pushkin?'[6] or&nbsp; `Then who did unscrew the bulb on the&nbsp; stairway - Pushkin?'<br />or 'So who's going to buy the fuel - Pushkin?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Now, having become acquainted&nbsp; with one of his works, Nikanor Ivanovich<br />felt sad, imagined the woman&nbsp; on her&nbsp; knees,&nbsp; with her orphaned children, in<br />the rain, and involuntarily thought: &quot;What a type, though, this Kurolesov!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the latter, ever raising his voice, went on with his confession and<br />got Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; definitively&nbsp; muddled, because he&nbsp; suddenly&nbsp; started<br />addressing someone who was&nbsp; not on-stage, and responded for this absent&nbsp; one<br />himself, calling himself now dear sir,&nbsp; now baron, now&nbsp; father, now son, now<br />formally, and now familiarly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; understood&nbsp; only one thing, that the actor died&nbsp; an<br />evil death,&nbsp; crying&nbsp; out: 'Keys! My keys!', after&nbsp; which he collapsed on the<br />floor, gasping and carefully tearing off his tie.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having died,&nbsp; Kurolesov got up,&nbsp; brushed the&nbsp; dust from&nbsp; his&nbsp; trousers,<br />bowed with&nbsp; a false&nbsp; smile,&nbsp; and&nbsp; withdrew&nbsp; to&nbsp; the&nbsp; accompaniment&nbsp; of&nbsp; thin<br />applause. And the master of ceremonies began speaking thus:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'We have just heard The&nbsp; Covetous Knight wonderfully performed by&nbsp; Sawa<br />Potapovich. This knight&nbsp; hoped that frolicking&nbsp; nymphs would come running to<br />him, and that many other pleasant things in the same vein would occur.&nbsp; But,<br />as you see,&nbsp; none of&nbsp; it happened,&nbsp; no nymphs came&nbsp; running to&nbsp; him, and the<br />muses paid him no tribute, and&nbsp; he raised no mansions, but, on the contrary,<br />ended quite&nbsp; badly,&nbsp; died of&nbsp; a&nbsp; stroke,&nbsp; devil&nbsp; take&nbsp; him, on&nbsp; his chest of<br />currency and jewels. I warn you that the same sort of thing,&nbsp; if not&nbsp; worse,<br />is going to happen to you if you don't turn over your currency!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Whether Pushkin's poetry produced such an effect, or it was the prosaic<br />speech of the master&nbsp; of ceremonies,&nbsp; in any&nbsp; case a shy voice suddenly came<br />from the house:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'll turn over my currency.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Kindly&nbsp; come to&nbsp; the&nbsp; stage,' the&nbsp; master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies&nbsp; courteously<br />invited, peering into the dark house.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On-stage appeared a short, fair-haired&nbsp; citizen, who,&nbsp; judging&nbsp; by&nbsp; his<br />face, had not shaved in about three weeks.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Beg pardon, what is your name?' the master of ceremonies inquired.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Kanavkin, Nikolai,' the man responded shyly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah! Very pleased. Citizen Kanavkin. And so? ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'll turn it over,' Kanavkin said quietly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How much?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A thousand dollars and twenty ten-rouble gold pieces.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Bravo! That's all, then?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; programme announcer&nbsp; stared&nbsp; straight into Kanavkin's eyes, and it<br />even seemed&nbsp; to&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; that&nbsp; those&nbsp; eyes&nbsp; sent out&nbsp; rays&nbsp; that<br />penetrated Kanavkin like X-rays. The house stopped breathing.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I believe&nbsp; you!'&nbsp; the artiste exclaimed finally and&nbsp; extinguished&nbsp; his<br />gaze. I do! These eyes are not lying! How many times have&nbsp; I&nbsp; told you&nbsp; that<br />your basic error consists in&nbsp; underestimating&nbsp; the significance of the human<br />eye. Understand that the tongue can conceal the truth, but the eyes - never!<br />A sudden question&nbsp; is put to you, you don't even&nbsp; flinch, in&nbsp; one second you<br />get hold of yourself and&nbsp; know what you&nbsp; must say to conceal&nbsp; the truth, and<br />you speak quite convincingly, and not a wrinkle on&nbsp; your face&nbsp; moves,&nbsp; but -<br />alas - the truth which the question&nbsp; stirs up&nbsp; from the bottom of your&nbsp; soul<br />leaps momentarily into your eyes, and it's all over! They see it, and you're<br />caught!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having delivered, and with great ardour, this highly convincing speech,<br />the artiste tenderly inquired of Kanavkin:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And where is it hidden?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With my aunt, Porokhovnikova, on Prechistenka.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah! That's... wait... that's Klavdia Ilyinishna, isn't it?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes! A separate little house? A little front garden<br />opposite? Of course, I know, I know! And where did you put it there?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'In the cellar, in a candy tin...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The artiste clasped his hands.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Have you ever seen the like?' he cried out, chagrined. &quot;Why, it'll get<br />damp and mouldy there! Is it conceivable to entrust currency to such people?<br />Eh? Sheer childishness! By God! ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Kanavkin himself realized&nbsp; he had fouled up and was in for it,&nbsp; and&nbsp; he<br />hung his tufty head.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Money,' the&nbsp; artiste went&nbsp; on, 'must&nbsp; be kept&nbsp; in the&nbsp; state&nbsp; bank, in<br />special dry&nbsp; and well-guarded rooms, and by no means in&nbsp; some aunt's cellar,<br />where it may, in particular, suffer damage from rats!&nbsp; Really, Kanavkin, for<br />shame! You're a grown-up!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Kanavkin no longer knew what&nbsp; to do with himself, and&nbsp; merely picked at<br />the lapel of his jacket with his finger.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; all right,' the artiste&nbsp; relented, 'let bygones&nbsp; be...'&nbsp; And he<br />suddenly added&nbsp; unexpectedly: 'Ah, by the way ... so that in one ... to save<br />a trip ... this same aunt also has some, eh?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Kanavkin,&nbsp; never expecting&nbsp; such&nbsp; a turn of&nbsp; affairs,&nbsp; wavered, and the<br />theatre fell silent.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ehh, Kanavkin...' the master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies said in tender&nbsp; reproach,<br />'and here&nbsp; I was&nbsp; praising him! Look, he&nbsp; just&nbsp; went and messed it up for no<br />reason&nbsp; at&nbsp; all! It's absurd, Kanavkin! Wasn't&nbsp; I&nbsp; just talking about&nbsp; eyes?<br />Can't&nbsp; we see that the&nbsp; aunt has got some?&nbsp; Well, then why do you torment us<br />for nothing?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She has!' Kanavkin cried dashingly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Bravo!' cried the master of ceremonies.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Bravo!' the house roared frightfully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When&nbsp; things&nbsp; quieted&nbsp; down, the&nbsp; master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies&nbsp; congratulated<br />Kanavkin, shook his&nbsp; hand, offered him a ride home to the city in a car, and<br />told someone in&nbsp; the wings&nbsp; to go in that same car to fetch the aunt and ask<br />her kindly to come for the programme at the women's theatre.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, yes, I&nbsp; wanted to&nbsp; ask&nbsp; you, has the aunt ever mentioned where she<br />hides&nbsp; hers?'&nbsp; the&nbsp; master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies&nbsp; inquired,&nbsp; courteously&nbsp; offering<br />Kanavkin&nbsp; a&nbsp; cigarette and&nbsp; a lighted match.&nbsp; As he lit&nbsp; up, the man grinned<br />somehow wistfully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I believe you, I believe you,' the artiste responded with a sigh. 'Not<br />just her nephew,&nbsp; the&nbsp; old pinchfist&nbsp; wouldn't tell the devil himself! Well,<br />so, we'll try&nbsp; to&nbsp; awaken&nbsp; some&nbsp; human&nbsp; feelings in her. Maybe not&nbsp; all&nbsp; the<br />strings have rotted in her usurious little soul. Bye-bye, Kanavkin!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; the happy Kanavkin&nbsp; drove off. The&nbsp; artiste inquired whether there<br />were any others&nbsp; who wished to&nbsp; turn&nbsp; over their currency, but&nbsp; was answered<br />with silence.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Odd birds, by God!'&nbsp; the&nbsp; artiste said, shrugging, and the curtain hid<br />him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; lights&nbsp; went out, there&nbsp; was darkness for a&nbsp; while,&nbsp; and&nbsp; in it&nbsp; a<br />nervous tenor was heard singing from far away:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There great heaps of gold&nbsp; do shine, and all&nbsp; those heaps&nbsp; of&nbsp; gold are<br />mine...&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then twice the sound of subdued applause came from somewhere.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Some little lady in the women's theatre is turning hers over,' Nikanor<br />Ivanovich's red-bearded neighbour&nbsp; spoke up unexpectedly,&nbsp; and added with&nbsp; a<br />sigh:&nbsp; 'Ah,&nbsp; if it&nbsp; wasn't&nbsp; for&nbsp; my&nbsp; geese! ... I've&nbsp; got&nbsp; fighting geese in<br />Lianozovo, my dear fellow ... they'll die without me, I'm afraid. A fighting<br />bird's delicate, it needs care ... Ah, if it wasn't for my geese!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '...&nbsp; They won't surprise&nbsp; me with&nbsp; Pushkin...'&nbsp; And again&nbsp; he began to<br />sigh.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here&nbsp; the house&nbsp; lit&nbsp; up brightly,&nbsp; and&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich dreamed that<br />cooks in white chef's hats and with ladles in their hands came&nbsp; pouring from<br />all the&nbsp; doors. Scullions dragged in&nbsp; a cauldron of&nbsp; soup&nbsp; and a&nbsp; stand with<br />cut-up rye bread. The spectators livened up. The jolly&nbsp; cooks shuttled among<br />the theatre buffs, ladled out bowls of soup, and distributed bread.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Dig in, lads,' the cooks shouted, 'and turn over your currency! What's<br />the point of sitting here? Who wants to slop up this&nbsp; swill! Go home, have a<br />good drink, a little bite, that's the way!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Now, you, for instance, what're you doing sitting here, old man?&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; was&nbsp; directly&nbsp; addressed&nbsp; by&nbsp; a&nbsp; fat&nbsp; cook&nbsp; with&nbsp; a<br />raspberry-coloured neck,&nbsp; as&nbsp; he offered him a bowl in&nbsp; which a lone cabbage<br />leaf floated in some liquid.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I don't have any! I don't! I don't!' Nikanor Ivanovich cried out&nbsp; in a<br />terrible voice. 'You understand, I don't!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `You&nbsp; don't?' the cook&nbsp; bellowed&nbsp; in a menacing bass.&nbsp; 'You&nbsp; don't?' he<br />asked&nbsp; in&nbsp; a&nbsp; tender&nbsp; woman's&nbsp; voice.&nbsp; `You&nbsp; don't, you&nbsp; don't,' he murmured<br />soothingly, turning into the nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She&nbsp; was gently shaking Nikanor Ivanovich by&nbsp; the shoulder as he moaned<br />in his sleep.&nbsp; Then&nbsp; the cooks melted away, and the theatre with its curtain<br />broke&nbsp; up.&nbsp; Through his tears,&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich&nbsp; made&nbsp; out his room in the<br />hospital&nbsp; and&nbsp; two people in white coats, who were by no means casual&nbsp; cooks<br />getting at people with their&nbsp; advice, but the doctor and that same Praskovya<br />Fyodorovna, who was holding not a bowl but a little dish covered with gauze,<br />with a syringe lying on it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `What&nbsp; is&nbsp; all&nbsp; this?'&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich said bitterly, as&nbsp; they were<br />giving him the injection. 'I&nbsp; don't have any and&nbsp; that's&nbsp; that! Let&nbsp; Pushkin<br />turn over his currency for them. I don't have any!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No,&nbsp; you&nbsp; don't,&nbsp; you&nbsp; don't,'&nbsp; the kind-hearted&nbsp; Praskovya Fyodorovna<br />soothed him, 'and if you don't, there's no more to be said.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After the injection, Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; felt&nbsp; better&nbsp; and&nbsp; fell asleep<br />without any dreams.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But, thanks to his cries, alarm was communicated to room 120, where the<br />patient&nbsp; woke up and began looking&nbsp; for his head, and to room 118, where the<br />unknown master&nbsp; became restless and wrung his&nbsp; hands in&nbsp; anguish, looking at<br />the moon, remembering the last bitter&nbsp; autumn night of his life, a&nbsp; strip of<br />light under the basement door, and uncurled hair.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; From room 118, the&nbsp; alarm flew by way&nbsp; of&nbsp; the balcony to Ivan, and&nbsp; he<br />woke up and began to weep.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But&nbsp; the doctor quickly calmed all these&nbsp; anxious, sorrowing heads, and<br />they began to&nbsp; fall asleep. Ivan was the last&nbsp; to become oblivious, as&nbsp; dawn<br />was already breaking over the river. After the&nbsp; medicine, which suffused his<br />whole&nbsp; body, calm&nbsp; came like a wave and covered him.&nbsp; His body grew lighter,<br />his head&nbsp; basked in&nbsp; the warm wind of reverie. He fell asleep, and the&nbsp; last<br />waking&nbsp; thing he heard was the&nbsp; pre-dawn chirping of birds in the woods. But<br />they soon fell silent, and he began&nbsp; dreaming that the sun was already going<br />down&nbsp; over&nbsp; Bald Mountain, and&nbsp; the mountain was&nbsp; cordoned off&nbsp; by a&nbsp; double<br />cordon ...<br /><br />]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>3d805dc4-dd25-4d83-b263-b1941764a9a2</id><title>Chapter 14: Glory to the Cock!</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/14/chapter_14_glory_to_the_cock" /><updated>14-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="17"></a><h2>CHAPTER 14. Glory to the Cock!</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His nerves gave out, as&nbsp; they say, and Rimsky fled to his office before<br />they finished&nbsp; drawing up the&nbsp; report. He&nbsp; sat at&nbsp; his desk&nbsp; and stared with<br />inflamed eyes&nbsp; at the magic banknotes lying&nbsp; before&nbsp; him. The&nbsp; findirector's<br />wits were&nbsp; addled.&nbsp; A steady hum came&nbsp; from outside. The audience poured&nbsp; in<br />streams from&nbsp; the&nbsp; Variety&nbsp; building&nbsp; into&nbsp; the street.&nbsp; Rimsky's&nbsp; extremely<br />sharpened hearing suddenly&nbsp; caught the distant trill of a policeman. That in<br />itself&nbsp; never&nbsp; bodes&nbsp; anything pleasant. But when&nbsp; it&nbsp; was repeated&nbsp; and, to<br />assist it, another joined&nbsp; in, more authoritative and prolonged, and to them<br />was added a clearly audible guffawing and even some hooting, the findirector<br />understood at once&nbsp; that something else scandalous and&nbsp; vile had happened in<br />the street. And that, however much he wanted to wave it away, it was closely<br />connected&nbsp; with the repulsive sance presented by the black magician and his<br />assistants.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The keen-eared findirector was not mistaken in the least. As soon as he<br />cast a glance out the window on&nbsp; to Sadovaya,&nbsp; his face twisted, and he&nbsp; did<br />not whisper but hissed:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So I thought!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In the bright glare&nbsp; of the&nbsp; strongest street lights he saw, just below<br />him on the sidewalk, a&nbsp; lady in&nbsp; nothing&nbsp; but a shift&nbsp; and violet&nbsp; bloomers.<br />True, there&nbsp; was a little&nbsp; hat on the lady's&nbsp; head&nbsp; and&nbsp; an&nbsp; umbrella in her<br />hands. The lady, who was in a&nbsp; state&nbsp; of utter&nbsp; consternation, now crouching<br />down, now&nbsp; making as if to run off&nbsp; somewhere, was surrounded by an agitated<br />crowd, which produced&nbsp; the very&nbsp; guffawing that had&nbsp; sent a&nbsp; shiver down the<br />fin-director's spine. Next to&nbsp; the&nbsp; lady&nbsp; some&nbsp; citizen&nbsp; was flitting about,<br />trying to&nbsp; tear off his summer coat, and&nbsp; in his&nbsp; agitation simply unable to<br />manage the sleeve in which his arm was stuck.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Shouts and&nbsp; roaring guffaws came from&nbsp; yet&nbsp; another place - namely, the<br />left entrance&nbsp; - and turning his head in that&nbsp; direction, Grigory Danilovich<br />saw a&nbsp; second lady, in pink underwear. She&nbsp; leaped&nbsp; from the street&nbsp; to&nbsp; the<br />sidewalk,&nbsp; striving to hide&nbsp; in the&nbsp; hallway,&nbsp; but the audience pouring&nbsp; out<br />blocked&nbsp; the way,&nbsp; and the poor victim other own flightiness and passion for<br />dressing up, deceived&nbsp; by&nbsp; vile&nbsp; Fagott's firm, dreamed of only one&nbsp; thing -<br />falling&nbsp; through&nbsp; the earth. A&nbsp; policeman&nbsp; made&nbsp; for the unfortunate&nbsp; woman,<br />drilling the&nbsp; air with his whistle,&nbsp; and&nbsp; after&nbsp; the policeman hastened some<br />merry young men in caps. It was they who produced the guffawing and hooting.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A skinny, moustachioed cabby&nbsp; flew up to&nbsp; the first undressed woman and<br />dashingly&nbsp; reined&nbsp; in his bony, broken-down&nbsp; nag.&nbsp; The&nbsp; moustached&nbsp; face was<br />grinning gleefully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky beat himself on&nbsp; the head&nbsp; with his fist, spat,&nbsp; and leaped back<br />from the window. For some&nbsp; time he sat at his desk listening&nbsp; to the street.<br />The&nbsp; whistling at&nbsp; various points reached&nbsp; its&nbsp; highest pitch, then began to<br />subside.&nbsp; The&nbsp; scandal, to&nbsp; Rimsky's&nbsp; surprise, was somehow liquidated&nbsp; with<br />unexpected swiftness.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It came time to act. He had to drink the&nbsp; bitter cup of responsibility.<br />The telephones had been&nbsp; repaired&nbsp; during the third&nbsp; part. He&nbsp; had&nbsp; to&nbsp; make<br />calls, to tell what had happened, to&nbsp; ask for help,&nbsp; lie&nbsp; his way out of it,<br />heap&nbsp; everything&nbsp; on Likhodeev, cover up&nbsp; for himself, and&nbsp; so on. Pah,&nbsp; the<br />devil!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Twice&nbsp; the upset director put his hand&nbsp; on the&nbsp; receiver,&nbsp; and twice he<br />drew it back. And suddenly, in the dead silence of the office, the telephone<br />burst out ringing&nbsp; by itself right in the findirector's&nbsp; face, and he gave a<br />start and went cold. 'My&nbsp; nerves&nbsp; are really upset, though!' he thought, and<br />picked up the receiver. He recoiled from it instantly and turned whiter than<br />paper.&nbsp; A soft&nbsp; but at the&nbsp; same&nbsp; time&nbsp; insinuating&nbsp; and&nbsp; lewd&nbsp; female voice<br />whispered into the receiver:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't call anywhere, Rimsky, it'll be bad ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; receiver&nbsp; straight away went empty. With&nbsp; goose-flesh prickling on<br />his back, the findirector&nbsp; hung up&nbsp; the telephone and for some reason turned<br />to look at&nbsp; the&nbsp; window&nbsp; behind&nbsp; him.&nbsp; Through the&nbsp; scant&nbsp; and still&nbsp; barely<br />greening branches of a maple, he saw the moon racing in a transparent cloud.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His eyes fixed on the branches for&nbsp; some reason, Rimsky went&nbsp; on gazing<br />at them, and the longer he gazed, the more strongly he was gripped by fear.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With great effort, the findirector finally turned away from the moonlit<br />window and stood up.&nbsp; There could no longer be any question of phone&nbsp; calls,<br />and now the findirector was thinking of only one thing&nbsp; - getting out of the<br />theatre as quickly as possible.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He listened: the theatre building was&nbsp; silent. Rimsky realized that&nbsp; he<br />had long&nbsp; been&nbsp; the only&nbsp; one&nbsp; on the whole&nbsp; second floor,&nbsp; and&nbsp; a childish,<br />irrepressible fear came over him at this thought. He could not think without<br />shuddering of having to walk alone&nbsp; now along the&nbsp; empty corridors and&nbsp; down<br />the stairs. Feverishly he seized the&nbsp; hypnotist's banknotes from&nbsp; the table,<br />put them in his briefcase, and&nbsp; coughed so as to cheer himself up at least a<br />little. The cough came out slightly hoarse, weak.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; here it seemed to&nbsp; him that&nbsp; a whiff of some&nbsp; putrid dankness&nbsp; was<br />coming in under&nbsp; the office&nbsp; door. Shivers ran down the findirector's spine.<br />And then the clock also&nbsp; rang out unexpectedly and began to strike midnight.<br />And even its striking&nbsp; provoked&nbsp; shivers in the&nbsp; findirector. But his&nbsp; heart<br />definitively sank when he heard the English key turning quietly in the lock.<br />Clutching his briefcase with damp, cold hands,&nbsp; the findirector felt that if<br />this scraping in the keyhole were to go&nbsp; on&nbsp; any longer, he would break down<br />and give a piercing scream.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Finally the door yielded to someone's&nbsp; efforts,&nbsp; opened, and&nbsp; Varenukha<br />noiselessly entered&nbsp; the office. Rimsky simply sank&nbsp; down&nbsp; into the armchair<br />where he&nbsp; stood, because his legs gave way. Drawing a deep breath, he smiled<br />an ingratiating smile, as it were, and said quietly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'God, you frightened me...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes, this sudden appearance might have frightened anyone you&nbsp; like, and<br />yet at the same time it was a great joy: at least one&nbsp; little end peeped out<br />in this tangled affair.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Well, tell me quickly!&nbsp; Well? Well?'&nbsp; Rimsky wheezed, grasping&nbsp; at this<br />little end. 'What does it all mean?!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Excuse&nbsp; me,&nbsp; please,' the&nbsp; entering&nbsp; man replied&nbsp; in&nbsp; a hollow&nbsp; voice,<br />closing the door, 'I thought you had already left.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And Varenukha, without taking&nbsp; his cap off, walked to&nbsp; the armchair and<br />sat on the other side of the desk.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It must be said that Varenukha's response was marked by a slight oddity<br />which at once needled the findirector, who could compete in sensitivity with<br />the seismograph of any&nbsp; of&nbsp; the world's best stations. How could it&nbsp; be? Why<br />did Varenukha&nbsp; come to&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector's&nbsp; office if&nbsp; he thought he was not<br />there? He had his own&nbsp; office, first of all. And&nbsp; second, whichever entrance<br />to the building Varenukha had used, he&nbsp; would inevitably have met one of the<br />night-watchmen, to all of whom it had been announced that Grigory Danilovich<br />was&nbsp; staying&nbsp; late&nbsp; in his&nbsp; office. But the findirector&nbsp; did not spend&nbsp; long<br />pondering this oddity - he had other problems.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Why didn't you call? What are all these shenanigans about Yalta?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Well, it's as&nbsp; I was saying,' the administrator replied, sucking as if<br />he were troubled by a bad tooth. 'He was found in the tavern in Pushkino.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `In Pushkino?! You mean just outside Moscow?! What&nbsp; about the telegrams<br />from Yalta?!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'The devil they're from Yalta!&nbsp; He got a telegrapher drunk in Pushkino,<br />and&nbsp; the two of them&nbsp; started acting up, sending&nbsp; telegrams&nbsp; marked &quot;Yalta&quot;,<br />among other things.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Aha ... aha ... Well, all right, all right...'&nbsp; Rimsky did not say but<br />sang out. His eyes lit up with a yellow&nbsp; light. In his head there formed the<br />festive picture of Styopa's&nbsp; shameful dismissal&nbsp; from&nbsp; his job. Deliverance!<br />The findirector's long-awaited deliverance&nbsp; from this disaster in the person<br />of&nbsp; Likhodeev!&nbsp; And maybe&nbsp; Stepan&nbsp; Bogdanovich would achieve something worse<br />than dismissal... The details!' said Rimsky, banging&nbsp; the paperweight on the<br />desk.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And Varenukha began giving the details. As soon as he arrived where the<br />findirector had sent him, he was received at once and given a most attentive<br />hearing.&nbsp; No one, of course, even entertained the thought&nbsp; that Styopa could<br />be in&nbsp; Yalta.&nbsp; Everyone&nbsp; agreed&nbsp; at once&nbsp; with&nbsp; Varenukha's&nbsp; suggestion that<br />Likhodeev was, of course, at the Yalta in Pushkino.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Then where&nbsp; is he&nbsp; now?'&nbsp; the&nbsp; agitated&nbsp; findirector&nbsp; interrupted&nbsp; the<br />administrator.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; where else could&nbsp; he be?'&nbsp; the administrator replied,&nbsp; grinning<br />crookedly. 'In a sobering-up cell, naturally!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, well. How nice!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha&nbsp; went on&nbsp; with&nbsp; his&nbsp; story, and the&nbsp; more he told,&nbsp; the&nbsp; more<br />vividly there unfolded&nbsp; before the findirector the long chain of Likhodeev's<br />boorish and outrageous acts, and every link in this chain was worse than the<br />one before.&nbsp; The drunken dancing&nbsp; in the arms of the telegrapher on the lawn<br />in front&nbsp; of the Pushkino&nbsp; telegraph office to&nbsp; the sounds of some itinerant<br />barrel-organ&nbsp; was&nbsp; worth something!&nbsp; The chase&nbsp; after&nbsp; some female&nbsp; citizens<br />shrieking with&nbsp; terror! The attempt at a&nbsp; fight with the barman in the Yalta<br />itself! Scattering green onions all over the floor of the same Yalta.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Smashing eight bottles of&nbsp; dry white Ai-Danil. Breaking the meter&nbsp; when<br />the taxi-driver refused to take Styopa in his cab. Threatening to arrest the<br />citizens&nbsp; who&nbsp; attempted to stop Styopa's obnoxiousness...&nbsp; In&nbsp; short, black<br />horror!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa was well known in Moscow theatre circles, and everyone knew that<br />the man&nbsp; was&nbsp; no gift.&nbsp; But all the same, what the administrator was telling<br />about him was too much even for Styopa. Yes, too much. Even much too much...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky's&nbsp; needle-sharp glance&nbsp; pierced&nbsp; the&nbsp; administrator's face&nbsp; from<br />across&nbsp; the desk, and the&nbsp; longer&nbsp; the man&nbsp; spoke,&nbsp; the&nbsp; grimmer&nbsp; those eyes<br />became. The&nbsp; more lifelike&nbsp; and&nbsp; colourful the&nbsp; vile details with&nbsp; which the<br />administrator&nbsp; furnished&nbsp; his story, the less&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector believed the<br />storyteller. And when Varenukha told how Styopa had let himself go so far as<br />to try to resist those who came to bring him back to Moscow, the findirector<br />already knew&nbsp; firmly&nbsp; that everything the&nbsp; administrator who had returned at<br />midnight&nbsp; was telling him,&nbsp; everything, was a lie! A&nbsp; lie from first word to<br />last!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha never went to Pushkino, and there was no Styopa in Pushkino.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There was&nbsp; no drunken&nbsp; telegrapher, there&nbsp; was no broken glass&nbsp; in&nbsp; the<br />tavern, Styopa did not get tied up with ropes ... none of it happened.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As&nbsp; soon&nbsp;&nbsp; as&nbsp; the&nbsp;&nbsp; findirector&nbsp; became&nbsp;&nbsp; firmly&nbsp; convinced&nbsp; that&nbsp; the<br />administrator was lying to him, fear crept over&nbsp; his body, starting from the<br />legs,&nbsp; and&nbsp; twice again&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector&nbsp; fancied that&nbsp; a&nbsp; putrid&nbsp; malarial<br />dankness was wafting across the&nbsp; floor.&nbsp; Never for&nbsp; a moment taking his eyes<br />off&nbsp; the administrator&nbsp; -&nbsp; who&nbsp; squirmed somehow strangely in&nbsp; his armchair,<br />trying not to get out&nbsp; of&nbsp; the blue&nbsp; shade&nbsp; of&nbsp; the desk lamp, and screening<br />himself&nbsp; with a newspaper in some remarkable&nbsp; fashion&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; bothersome<br />light&nbsp; -&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector was thinking of only one thing:&nbsp; what did it&nbsp; all<br />mean? Why was&nbsp; he&nbsp; being lied&nbsp; to&nbsp; so brazenly,&nbsp; in the&nbsp; silent and deserted<br />building, by the administrator&nbsp; who&nbsp; was so&nbsp; late in coming back to him? And<br />the&nbsp; awareness of danger, an&nbsp; unknown but menacing danger,&nbsp; began to gnaw at<br />Rimsky's soul. Pretending to ignore Varenukha's dodges&nbsp; and tricks with&nbsp; the<br />newspaper, the findirector studied his face, now almost without listening to<br />the yarn Varenukha was spinning. There was something that seemed&nbsp; still more<br />inexplicable&nbsp; than the&nbsp; calumny invented. God knows why, about adventures in<br />Pushkino,&nbsp; and&nbsp; that&nbsp; something&nbsp;&nbsp; was&nbsp; the&nbsp; change&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; administrator's<br />appearance and manners.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No&nbsp; matter how the man pulled the duck-like visor of his cap&nbsp; over&nbsp; his<br />eyes, so as to&nbsp; throw a shadow on his&nbsp; face, no&nbsp; matter how he fidgeted with<br />the newspaper, the findirector managed to make out an enormous bruise on the<br />right&nbsp; side&nbsp; of his face&nbsp; just&nbsp; by&nbsp; the&nbsp; nose.&nbsp; Besides&nbsp; that,&nbsp; the normally<br />full-blooded administrator was now pale with a chalk-like, unhealthy pallor,<br />and&nbsp; on this stifling night his neck&nbsp; was for&nbsp; some reason wrapped in an old<br />striped&nbsp; scarf.&nbsp; Add to that the&nbsp; repulsive&nbsp; manner&nbsp; the&nbsp; administrator&nbsp; had<br />acquired during the time of his absence of&nbsp; sucking&nbsp; and smacking, the sharp<br />change in his voice, which had become hollow and coarse, and the furtiveness<br />and cowardliness in his eyes, and one could boldly say that Ivan Savelyevich<br />Varenukha had become unrecognizable.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Something else burningly troubled the findirector, but he was unable to<br />grasp precisely what&nbsp; it&nbsp; was,&nbsp; however much&nbsp; he strained his feverish mind,<br />however hard he peered at Varenukha. One thing he could affirm,&nbsp; that&nbsp; there<br />was&nbsp;&nbsp; something&nbsp; unprecedented,&nbsp;&nbsp; unnatural&nbsp; in&nbsp; this&nbsp; combination&nbsp; of&nbsp;&nbsp; the<br />administrator and the familiar armchair.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Well, we&nbsp; finally overpowered him, loaded him into the car,' Varenukha<br />boomed, peeking from behind the paper and covering the bruise with his hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky&nbsp; suddenly&nbsp; reached&nbsp; out&nbsp; and,&nbsp; as&nbsp; if&nbsp; mechanically, tapping his<br />fingers on the table at the&nbsp; same time, pushed the electric-bell button with<br />his palm and went numb.&nbsp; The sharp&nbsp; signal ought&nbsp; to have been heard without<br />fail&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; empty&nbsp; building.&nbsp; But no&nbsp; signal came, and&nbsp; the&nbsp; button&nbsp; sank<br />lifelessly into the wood of the desk. The button was dead, the bell broken.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The findirector's stratagem did not escape the notice of Varenukha, who<br />asked, twitching, with a clearly malicious fire flickering in his eyes:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;What are you ringing for?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Mechanically,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector replied&nbsp; hollowly,&nbsp; jerking&nbsp; his hand<br />back, and asked in turn, in an unsteady voice: &quot;What's that on your face?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'The car skidded, I&nbsp; bumped&nbsp; against&nbsp; the door-handle,' Varenukha said,<br />looking away.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's lying!'&nbsp; the findirector&nbsp; exclaimed&nbsp; mentally. And here his&nbsp; eyes<br />suddenly grew round&nbsp; and utterly&nbsp; insane, and he stared&nbsp; at the back of&nbsp; the<br />armchair.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Behind&nbsp; the chair&nbsp; on the floor two&nbsp; shadows&nbsp; lay criss-cross, one more<br />dense and&nbsp; black,&nbsp; the other faint and grey. The shadow&nbsp; of the&nbsp; back of the<br />chair&nbsp; and of its tapering legs could be seen distinctly on&nbsp; the&nbsp; floor, but<br />there was no shadow of Varenukha's head&nbsp; above&nbsp; the back of the chair, or of<br />the administrator's legs under its legs.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `He&nbsp; casts&nbsp; no&nbsp; shadow!'&nbsp; Rimsky cried&nbsp; out desperately in his mind. He<br />broke into shivers.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha, following&nbsp; Rimsky's insane gaze, looked furtively behind him<br />at the back of the chair, and realized that he had been found out.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He got&nbsp; up&nbsp; from&nbsp; the chair (the findirector did likewise) and made one<br />step back from the desk, clutching his briefcase in his hands.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's&nbsp; guessed, damn him!&nbsp; Always was clever,' Varenukha said, grinning<br />spitefully right in the findirector's face, and&nbsp; he sprang unexpectedly from<br />the chair to the&nbsp; door and quickly&nbsp; pushed&nbsp; down the catch on the lock.&nbsp; The<br />findirector looked&nbsp; desperately&nbsp; behind him, as&nbsp; he retreated&nbsp; to the window<br />giving on to the garden, and in this window, flooded with moonlight, saw the<br />face of a naked girl&nbsp; pressed&nbsp; against the glass and her naked arm&nbsp; reaching<br />through the vent-pane and trying&nbsp; to open the lower latch. The upper one was<br />already open.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It seemed to Rimsky that the light of the desk lamp was&nbsp; going&nbsp; out and<br />the desk was tilting. An icy wave engulfed Rimsky, but - fortunately for him<br />- he got control of himself and did not fall. He had enough strength left to<br />whisper, but not cry out:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Help...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha, guarding the door, hopped up&nbsp; and down by it, staying in air<br />for a&nbsp; long time&nbsp; and&nbsp; swaying there. Waving&nbsp; his hooked fingers in Rimsky's<br />direction, he hissed and smacked, winking to the girl in the window.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She began to hurry, stuck her red-haired head through the vent, reached<br />her arm down as far as she could, her nails clawing at&nbsp; the&nbsp; lower latch and<br />shaking&nbsp; the&nbsp; frame.&nbsp; Her&nbsp; arm began&nbsp; to lengthen,&nbsp; rubber-like, and&nbsp; became<br />covered with a putrid green. Finally the dead woman's green fingers got hold<br />of the latch knob, turned it, and the&nbsp; frame began to open. Rimsky cried out<br />weakly, leaned against the wall, and held his briefcase in front of him like<br />a shield. He realized that his end had come.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The frame swung wide open, but instead of the night's freshness and the<br />fragrance&nbsp; of the lindens, the smell of&nbsp; a cellar burst into the&nbsp; room.&nbsp; The<br />dead&nbsp; woman stepped on to the window-sill. Rimsky clearly saw spots of decay<br />on her breast.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And just then the joyful,&nbsp; unexpected crowing&nbsp; of a cock came from&nbsp; the<br />garden, from that&nbsp; low building&nbsp; beyond&nbsp; the&nbsp; shooting gallery&nbsp; where&nbsp; birds<br />participating&nbsp; in the programme were kept. A&nbsp; loud,&nbsp; trained cock trumpeted,<br />announcing that dawn was rolling towards Moscow from the east.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Savage&nbsp; fury distorted the girl's&nbsp; face, she emitted a hoarse oath, and<br />at the door Varenukha shrieked and dropped from the air to the floor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The cock-crow was repeated, the girl&nbsp; clacked her&nbsp; teeth,&nbsp; and her&nbsp; red<br />hair stood on end. With the third&nbsp; crowing of the cock, she turned and&nbsp; flew<br />out and&nbsp; after her,&nbsp; jumping&nbsp; up and stretching himself horizontally&nbsp; in the<br />air, looking like a flying cupid, Varenukha slowly floated over the desk and<br />out the window.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; White&nbsp; as snow, with not a single black&nbsp; hair on his&nbsp; head, the old man<br />who&nbsp; still&nbsp; recently had&nbsp; been Rimsky rushed to&nbsp; the door, undid the&nbsp; catch,<br />opened the door, and ran hurtling down the dark corridor. At the turn to the<br />stairs, moaning with fear, he felt&nbsp; for the switch, and the stairway lighted<br />up. On the&nbsp; stairs the&nbsp; shaking, trembling old&nbsp; man fell because he imagined<br />that Varenukha had softly tumbled on top of him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having run downstairs, Rimsky saw a watchman asleep&nbsp; on a&nbsp; chair by the<br />box office in the lobby. Rimsky stole past him on tiptoe and slipped out the<br />main&nbsp; entrance. Outside he felt&nbsp; slightly&nbsp; better.&nbsp; He&nbsp; recovered his senses<br />enough to realize, clutching his head, that his hat had stayed behind in the<br />office.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Needless to say, he did not go back for it, but, breathless, ran across<br />the&nbsp; wide street to the&nbsp; opposite corner by the movie theatre, near&nbsp; which a<br />dull&nbsp; reddish light hovered. In a moment he&nbsp; was there.&nbsp; No one had&nbsp; time to<br />intercept the cab.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Make&nbsp; the&nbsp; Leningrad&nbsp; express, I'll&nbsp; tip you well,' the old&nbsp; man said,<br />breathing heavily and clutching his heart.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'm&nbsp; going to&nbsp; the garage,' the&nbsp; driver answered&nbsp; hatefully and turned<br />away.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then Rimsky unlatched his briefcase, took out fifty roubles, and handed<br />them to the driver through the open front window.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A few&nbsp; moments&nbsp; later,&nbsp; the rattling car&nbsp; was flying like the wind down<br />Sadovoye&nbsp; Ring.&nbsp; The&nbsp; passenger was&nbsp; tossed about&nbsp; on&nbsp; his seat,&nbsp; and in the<br />fragment&nbsp; of mirror&nbsp; hanging in&nbsp; front of&nbsp; the driver,&nbsp; Rimsky saw&nbsp; now&nbsp; the<br />driver's happy eyes,&nbsp; now&nbsp; his own insane ones.&nbsp; Jumping&nbsp; out of the car&nbsp; in<br />front of the&nbsp; train station, Rimsky cried to the first man he saw in a white<br />apron with a badge:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'First class, single, I'll pay&nbsp; thirty,'&nbsp; he was pulling&nbsp; the banknotes<br />from&nbsp; his briefcase, crumpling them,&nbsp; 'no first class, get&nbsp; me second ... if<br />not -- a hard bench!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The man with the badge kept glancing up at the lighted clock face as he<br />tore the banknotes from Rimsky's hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Five minutes&nbsp; later the express train&nbsp; disappeared from under the glass<br />vault of the train station and vanished clean away in the darkness. And with<br />it vanished Rimsky.<br />]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>9ad8bd8e-c2b7-4bb6-9a5c-9015174cc8d8</id><title>Chapter 13: The Hero Enters</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/13/chapter_13_the_hero_enters" /><updated>13-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="16"></a><h2>CHAPTER 13. The Hero Enters</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And so, the unknown man shook his finger at Ivan and whispered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Shhh! ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan lowered his legs from the bed and peered. Cautiously looking&nbsp; into<br />the&nbsp; room&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; balcony&nbsp; was&nbsp;&nbsp; a&nbsp; clean-shaven,&nbsp; dark-haired&nbsp; man&nbsp;&nbsp; of<br />approximately thirty-eight, with a sharp nose, anxious&nbsp; eyes,&nbsp; and a wisp of<br />hair hanging down on his forehead.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having listened and&nbsp; made&nbsp; sure that Ivan&nbsp; was&nbsp; alone,&nbsp; the&nbsp; mysterious<br />visitor took heart and stepped into the room. Here Ivan saw that the man was<br />dressed as a patient. He was&nbsp; wearing long&nbsp; underwear, slippers on&nbsp; his bare<br />feet, and a brown dressing-gown thrown over his shoulders.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The visitor winked at Ivan, hid a bunch of keys in his pocket, inquired<br />in a whisper: 'May I sit down?' - and receiving an affirmative&nbsp; nod,&nbsp; placed<br />himself in an armchair.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How did you get here?' Ivan asked in a whisper, obeying the dry finger<br />shaken at him. 'Aren't the balcony grilles locked?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The grilles are&nbsp; locked,' the guest agreed, `but&nbsp; Praskovya Fyodorovna,<br />while the dearest&nbsp; person, is also, alas, quite absent-minded. A month ago I<br />stole a bunch of keys from her, and so gained the opportunity of getting out<br />on to the common&nbsp; balcony,&nbsp; which&nbsp; runs&nbsp; around the entire&nbsp; floor, and so of<br />occasionally calling on a neighbour.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'If&nbsp; you can get out on to the&nbsp; balcony, you&nbsp; can escape. Or is it high<br />up?' Ivan was interested.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No,' the guest replied firmly, 'I cannot escape from here, not because<br />it's high up, but because I have nowhere to escape to.' And he&nbsp; added, after<br />a pause: 'So, here we sit.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Here&nbsp; we&nbsp; sit,'&nbsp; Ivan replied,&nbsp; peering into the man's brown and&nbsp; very<br />restless eyes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes ...'&nbsp; here&nbsp; the&nbsp; guest&nbsp; suddenly became&nbsp; alarmed,&nbsp; 'but you're not<br />violent, I hope? Because, you know, I cannot stand noise, turmoil, force, or<br />other things like that. Especially hateful to me are people's cries, whether<br />cries of rage, suffering, or anything else. Set&nbsp; me at ease, tell me, you're<br />not violent?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Yesterday&nbsp; in&nbsp; a&nbsp; restaurant&nbsp; I&nbsp; socked&nbsp; one&nbsp; type&nbsp; in&nbsp; the mug,'&nbsp; the<br />transformed poet courageously confessed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Your grounds?' the guest asked sternly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;No grounds, I must confess,' Ivan answered, embarrassed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Outrageous,' the guest denounced Ivan and added: 'And besides, what&nbsp; a<br />way to express yourself: &quot;socked&nbsp; in the mug&quot;... It&nbsp; is&nbsp; not known precisely<br />whether&nbsp; a man&nbsp; has a mug or a face. And, after all, it may well&nbsp; be a face.<br />So, you know, using fists ... No, you should give that up, and for good.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having thus reprimanded Ivan, the guest inquired:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Your profession?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Poet,' Ivan confessed, reluctantly for some reason.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The visitor became upset.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, just my luck!' he exclaimed, but at once reconsidered, apologized,<br />and asked: 'And what is your name?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Homeless.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh-oh ...' the guest said, wincing.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What, you mean you dislike my poetry?' Ivan asked with curiosity.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I dislike it terribly.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And what have you read.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I've never read any of your poetry!' the visitor exclaimed nervously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then how can you say that?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, what of it?' the guest replied. 'As if I haven't read others? Or<br />else ... maybe there's&nbsp; some&nbsp; miracle? Very well,&nbsp; I'm&nbsp; ready to&nbsp; take it on<br />faith. Is your poetry good? You tell me yourself.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Monstrous!' Ivan suddenly spoke boldly and frankly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't write any more!' the visitor asked beseechingly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I promise and I swear!' Ivan said solemnly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; oath&nbsp; was&nbsp; sealed with a handshake,&nbsp; and&nbsp; here soft footsteps&nbsp; and<br />voices were heard in the corridor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Shh!' the&nbsp; guest whispered and, jumping out to the balcony, closed the<br />grille behind him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Praskovya&nbsp; Fyodorovna peeked&nbsp; in, asked&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; how&nbsp; he was feeling&nbsp; and<br />whether he wished to sleep in the&nbsp; dark or with a light.&nbsp; Ivan asked&nbsp; her to<br />leave the light on, and Praskovya Fyodorovna withdrew, wishing the patient a<br />good night. And when everything was quiet, the guest came back again.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He informed Ivan in a whisper that there was a new arrival&nbsp; in room 119<br />- some fat man with a purple physiognomy, who kept muttering something about<br />currency in&nbsp; the ventilation and swearing that unclean powers were living in<br />their place on Sadovaya.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He curses Pushkin up and down and&nbsp; keeps shouting: &quot;Kurolesov, encore,<br />encore!&quot;' the guest said, twitching nervously. Having calmed himself, he sat<br />down, said: 'Anyway,&nbsp; God&nbsp; help him,'&nbsp; and continued&nbsp; his&nbsp; conversation with<br />Ivan: 'So, how did you wind up here?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'On account of&nbsp; Pontius Pilate,' Ivan replied,&nbsp; casting&nbsp; a glum look at<br />the floor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What?!' the guest cried, forgetting&nbsp; all caution, and clapped his hand<br />over his own mouth. 'A staggering coincidence! Tell me&nbsp; about it, I beg you,<br />I beg you!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Feeling&nbsp; trust&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; unknown&nbsp; man&nbsp; for&nbsp; some&nbsp; reason,&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; began,<br />falteringly and&nbsp; timorously at&nbsp; first,&nbsp; then more boldly,&nbsp; to tell about the<br />previous&nbsp; day's&nbsp; story at the&nbsp; Patriarch's&nbsp; Ponds. Yes,&nbsp; it&nbsp; was&nbsp; a grateful<br />listener&nbsp; that&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich acquired&nbsp; in the person of the&nbsp; mysterious<br />stealer of keys! The guest did&nbsp; not take Ivan for a madman,&nbsp; he showed great<br />interest&nbsp; in&nbsp; what he&nbsp; was being told, and, as the&nbsp; story developed, finally<br />became ecstatic. Time and again he interrupted Ivan with exclamations:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, well, go on, go&nbsp; on, I beg you!&nbsp; Only, in the name of all that's<br />holy, don't leave anything out!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; left nothing out&nbsp; in&nbsp; any case, it was easier&nbsp; for him to tell it<br />that way,&nbsp; and he gradually&nbsp; reached the&nbsp; moment when&nbsp; Pontius Pilate,&nbsp; in a<br />white mantle with blood-red lining, came out to the balcony.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then the visitor put his hands together prayerfully and whispered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh, how I guessed! How I guessed it all!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; listener accompanied the description of&nbsp; Berlioz's terrible&nbsp; death<br />with an enigmatic remark, while his eyes flashed with spite:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I only&nbsp; regret&nbsp; that&nbsp; it&nbsp; wasn't the&nbsp; critic Latunsky&nbsp; or&nbsp; the&nbsp; writer<br />Mstislav Lavrovich&nbsp; instead of this Berlioz!',&nbsp; and&nbsp; he cried out frenziedly<br />but soundlessly: 'Go on!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; cat&nbsp; handing&nbsp; money&nbsp; to&nbsp; the&nbsp; woman&nbsp; conductor&nbsp; amused&nbsp; the&nbsp; guest<br />exceedingly, and&nbsp; he choked with quiet laughter watching as Ivan, excited by<br />the success&nbsp; of his narration, quietly hopped on bent legs,&nbsp; portraying&nbsp; the<br />cat holding the coin up next to his whiskers.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `And&nbsp; so,'&nbsp; Ivan concluded, growing&nbsp; sad and melancholy&nbsp; after&nbsp; telling<br />about the events at Griboedov's, 'I wound up here.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The guest sympathetically placed a hand on the poor poet's shoulder and<br />spoke thus:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Unlucky&nbsp; poet! But you yourself, dear heart, are to blame&nbsp; for it all.<br />You oughtn't to have behaved so casually and even impertinently with him. So<br />you've&nbsp; paid for&nbsp; it. And&nbsp; you must still say thank&nbsp; you&nbsp; that&nbsp; you&nbsp; got off<br />comparatively cheaply.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But who is he, finally?' Ivan asked, shaking his fists in agitation.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The guest peered at Ivan and answered with a question:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `You're&nbsp; not going to get&nbsp; upset?&nbsp; We're all unreliable&nbsp; here...&nbsp; There<br />won't be any calling for the doctor, injections, or other fuss?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, no!' Ivan exclaimed. 'Tell me, who is he?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Very well,' the visitor replied, and he said weightily and distinctly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Yesterday at the Patriarch's Ponds you met Satan.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan did not get upset, as he&nbsp; had promised, but even so he was greatly<br />astounded.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'That can't be! He doesn't exist!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Good heavens!&nbsp; Anyone&nbsp; else&nbsp; might&nbsp; say that,&nbsp; but&nbsp; not you.&nbsp; You were<br />apparently&nbsp; one&nbsp; of&nbsp; his&nbsp; first&nbsp; victims. You're&nbsp; sitting, as&nbsp; you&nbsp; yourself<br />understand, in a psychiatric&nbsp; clinic, yet you keep&nbsp; saying he doesn't exist.<br />Really, it's strange!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Thrown off, Ivan fell silent.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'As soon as you started describing him,' the guest went on, 'I began to<br />realize who it was that you had the pleasure of talking with yesterday. And,<br />really,&nbsp; I'm&nbsp; surprised&nbsp; at&nbsp; Berlioz! Now&nbsp; you,&nbsp; of course, are&nbsp; a&nbsp; virginal<br />person,'&nbsp; here the guest apologized&nbsp; again, `but&nbsp; that one, from&nbsp; what&nbsp; I've<br />heard about him,&nbsp; had after all&nbsp; read at&nbsp; least&nbsp; something! The&nbsp; very&nbsp; first<br />things this professor&nbsp; said&nbsp; dispelled&nbsp; all&nbsp; my&nbsp; doubts.&nbsp; One can't fail&nbsp; to<br />recognize him, my friend! Though you ... again I must apologize, but I'm not<br />mistaken, you are an ignorant man?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Indisputably,' the unrecognizable Ivan agreed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, so ... even the face, as&nbsp; you&nbsp; described it, the different eyes,<br />the&nbsp; eyebrows!&nbsp; ... Forgive me, however, perhaps you've never even heard the<br />opera Faust?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; became terribly embarrassed for some reason and, his face aflame,<br />began mumbling something about some trip to a sanatorium ... to Yalta ...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, so, so... hardly surprising! But Berlioz, I repeat, astounds&nbsp; me<br />... He's not only a well-read man but also a&nbsp; very shrewd one. Though I must<br />say in his defence&nbsp; that Woland&nbsp; is, of course, capable&nbsp; of pulling the wool<br />over the eyes of an even shrewder man.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What?!' Ivan cried out in his turn.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hush!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan slapped himself roundly on the forehead with his palm and rasped:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I see, I see. He had&nbsp; the letter &quot;W&quot; on his visiting card. Ai-yai-yai,<br />what a thing!' He lapsed into a bewildered silence for some time, peering at<br />the moon floating outside the grille, and then spoke:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So that means he&nbsp; might actually have been at Pontius Pilate's? He was<br />already&nbsp; born then?&nbsp; And&nbsp; they call me&nbsp; a madman!'&nbsp; Ivan added&nbsp; indignantly,<br />pointing to the door.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A bitter wrinkle appeared on the guest's lips.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Let's look&nbsp; the&nbsp; truth&nbsp; in the eye.'&nbsp; And&nbsp; the guest&nbsp; turned his&nbsp; face<br />towards the nocturnal luminary racing through a cloud. 'You&nbsp; and I&nbsp; are both<br />madmen,&nbsp; there's&nbsp; no&nbsp; denying&nbsp; that! You see, he shocked you - and&nbsp; you came<br />unhinged, since&nbsp; you evidently had the&nbsp; ground prepared for it. But what you<br />describe undoubtedly took place in&nbsp; reality. But it's so extraordinary&nbsp; that<br />even Stravinsky, a psychiatrist of&nbsp; genius, did not, of course, believe you.<br />Did he examine you?'&nbsp; (Ivan nodded.) 'Your interlocutor was at Pilate's, and<br />had breakfast with Kant, and now he's visiting Moscow.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But he'll be up to&nbsp; devil knows what here! Oughtn't&nbsp; we&nbsp; to catch&nbsp; him<br />somehow?' the former,&nbsp; not&nbsp; yet&nbsp; definitively&nbsp; quashed Ivan still raised his<br />head, though without much confidence, in the new Ivan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You've already tried, and that will do&nbsp; for&nbsp; you,' the&nbsp; guest&nbsp; replied<br />ironically. 'I don't advise others to try&nbsp; either.&nbsp; And&nbsp; as for being up&nbsp; to<br />something, rest assured, he&nbsp; will be! Ah, ah! But&nbsp; how&nbsp; annoying that it was<br />you who met him and&nbsp; not I. Though&nbsp; it's&nbsp; all burned up,&nbsp; and the coals have<br />gone&nbsp; to&nbsp; ashes,&nbsp; still,&nbsp; I&nbsp; swear,&nbsp; for&nbsp; that&nbsp; meeting&nbsp; I'd&nbsp; give Praskovya<br />Fyodorovna's bunch of keys, for I have nothing else to give. I'm destitute.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But what do you need him for?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; guest&nbsp; paused ruefully for a&nbsp; long time and twitched,&nbsp; but finally<br />spoke:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `You see, it's&nbsp; such&nbsp; a&nbsp; strange story,&nbsp; I'm sitting here&nbsp; for the same<br />reason you&nbsp; are -&nbsp; namely, on account&nbsp; of Pontius&nbsp; Pilate.' Here&nbsp; the&nbsp; guest<br />looked around fearfully&nbsp; and said: The thing is that a&nbsp; year&nbsp; ago I&nbsp; wrote a<br />novel about Pilate.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You're a writer?' the poet asked with interest.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The guest's face darkened&nbsp; and&nbsp; he threatened Ivan with&nbsp; his fist, then<br />said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I&nbsp; am&nbsp; a master.'&nbsp; He grew&nbsp; stern and&nbsp; took&nbsp; from&nbsp; the pocket&nbsp; of&nbsp; his<br />dressing-gown a completely greasy black cap&nbsp; with the letter 'M' embroidered<br />on it in yellow silk.&nbsp; He put this cap on and showed himself to Ivan both in<br />profile and&nbsp; full face,&nbsp; to prove that he was a master. `She sewed it for me<br />with her own hands,' he added mysteriously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And what is your name?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I&nbsp; no longer&nbsp; have&nbsp; a name,' the strange&nbsp; guest answered&nbsp; with&nbsp; gloomy<br />disdain.&nbsp; `I renounced&nbsp; it,&nbsp; as I generally did&nbsp; everything&nbsp; in life.&nbsp; Let's<br />forget it.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then at least tell me about the novel,' Ivan asked delicately.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'If you please, sir. My life, it&nbsp; must be&nbsp; said, has taken&nbsp; a not&nbsp; very<br />ordinary course,' the guest began.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ... A&nbsp; historian by education, he had worked until two years ago at one<br />of the Moscow museums, and, besides that, had also done translations.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'From what languages?' Ivan interrupted curiously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I know&nbsp; five&nbsp; languages besides my own,'&nbsp; replied the guest, 'English,<br />French, German, Latin and Greek. Well, I can also read Italian a little.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh, my!' Ivan whispered enviously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ... The&nbsp; historian had&nbsp; lived&nbsp; solitarily, had no&nbsp; family&nbsp; anywhere and<br />almost no acquaintances in Moscow. And, just think, one day he won a hundred<br />thousand roubles.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Imagine my astonishment,'&nbsp; the guest in the black cap whispered, 'when<br />I put my hand in&nbsp; the basket of dirty laundry and, lo and behold, it had the<br />same number&nbsp; as in the&nbsp; newspaper. A&nbsp; state bond&nbsp; [1],'' he explained, 'they<br />gave it to me at the museum.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ... Having&nbsp; won&nbsp; a&nbsp; hundred thousand roubles,&nbsp; Ivan's&nbsp; mysterious guest<br />acted thus: bought books, gave up his room on Myasnitskaya ...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ohh, that accursed hole! ...' he growled.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ...and rented&nbsp; from a&nbsp; builder, in a lane near the Arbat, two&nbsp; rooms in<br />the basement of a little house in the garden. He left his work at the museum<br />and began writing a novel about Pontius Pilate.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, that was a golden age!' the narrator whispered, his eyes shining.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `A&nbsp; completely private little&nbsp; apartment, plus a front hall with a sink<br />in it,' he underscored for some&nbsp; reason with special&nbsp; pride, 'little windows<br />just&nbsp; level&nbsp; with the paved walk leading from the gate. Opposite, only&nbsp; four<br />steps away, near the fence,&nbsp; lilacs, a linden&nbsp; and&nbsp; a maple. Ah, ah,&nbsp; ah! In<br />winter it&nbsp; was very seldom that I saw someone's black feet through my window<br />and heard&nbsp; the&nbsp; snow crunching&nbsp; under&nbsp; them.&nbsp; And&nbsp; in my&nbsp; stove&nbsp; a&nbsp; fire was<br />eternally blazing!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But suddenly spring came and through the&nbsp; dim glass I saw lilac bushes,<br />naked at first, then dressing themselves up in&nbsp; green. And it was then, last<br />spring,&nbsp; that something happened far&nbsp; more delightful than getting a hundred<br />thousand roubles. And that, you must agree, is a huge sum of money!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That's true,' acknowledged the attentively listening Ivan. 'I opened my<br />little windows and sat in the second, quite minuscule room.' The guest began<br />measuring with his arms:&nbsp; 'Here's the sofa, and another sofa opposite, and a<br />little table between&nbsp; them, with a beautiful night&nbsp; lamp on&nbsp; it,&nbsp; and&nbsp; books<br />nearer the window, and here a small writing table, and in the first room - a<br />huge room, one hundred and fifty&nbsp; square feet! - books, books and the stove.<br />Ah, what furnishings I had!&nbsp; The extraordinary smell of&nbsp; the&nbsp; lilacs! And my<br />head was getting light with fatigue, and Pilate was flying to the end...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'White mantle, red lining! I&nbsp; understand!' Ivan&nbsp; exclaimed.&nbsp; 'Precisely<br />so! Pilate&nbsp; was flying to the end, to&nbsp; the&nbsp; end, and I already knew that the<br />last words of the&nbsp; novel would be:&nbsp; &quot;... the&nbsp; fifth procurator of Judea, the<br />equestrian Pontius Pilate&quot;. Well, naturally, I used to go&nbsp; out for a walk. A<br />hundred thousand&nbsp; is a huge&nbsp; sum, and I had an excellent suit. Or I'd go and<br />have&nbsp; dinner&nbsp; in some cheap restaurant. There was a&nbsp; wonderful restaurant on<br />the Arbat, I don't know whether it exists now.' Here the guest's eyes opened<br />wide,&nbsp; and he went on whispering,&nbsp; gazing&nbsp; at&nbsp; the moon: 'She&nbsp; was&nbsp; carrying<br />repulsive, alarming&nbsp; yellow flowers in&nbsp; her hand.&nbsp; Devil knows&nbsp; what they're<br />called, but for some reason they're the first to appear in Moscow. And these<br />flowers stood&nbsp; out clearly against&nbsp; her&nbsp; black spring coat. She was carrying<br />yellow flowers! Not a nice colour. She turned down a lane from Tverskaya and<br />then looked back. Well, you know Tverskaya! Thousands of people were walking<br />along Tverskaya, but I can assure you that she&nbsp; saw me alone, and looked not<br />really&nbsp; alarmed, but even as if in pain. And I was struck not so much by her<br />beauty&nbsp; as by&nbsp; an extraordinary loneliness&nbsp; in&nbsp; her eyes, such as no one had<br />ever seen before! Obeying this yellow&nbsp; sign, I also turned down the lane and<br />followed&nbsp; her.&nbsp; We walked along the crooked, boring lane silently, I&nbsp; on one<br />side, she&nbsp; on&nbsp; the other. And, imagine, there was&nbsp; not a soul in the lane. I<br />was&nbsp; suffering, because it seemed&nbsp; to me that it was&nbsp; necessary to speak&nbsp; to<br />her, and I worried that I wouldn't utter a single word, and she would leave,<br />and I'd never see her again. And, imagine, suddenly she began to speak:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;Do you like my flowers?&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I remember clearly the sound of her voice, rather low, slightly husky,<br />and, stupid as it is, it&nbsp; seemed&nbsp; that&nbsp; the echo resounded&nbsp; in the&nbsp; lane and<br />bounced off the dirty yellow wall. I quickly crossed to her side and, coming<br />up to her, answered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&quot;No!&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She&nbsp; looked at me in surprise, and I suddenly, and quite unexpectedly,<br />understood that all my life I had loved precisely this woman! Quite a thing,<br />eh? Of course, you'll say I'm mad?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I won't say anything,' Ivan exclaimed, and added: 'I beg you, go on!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the guest continued.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes,&nbsp; she looked at&nbsp; me in surprise, and&nbsp; then,&nbsp; having looked,&nbsp; asked<br />thus:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&quot;You generally don't like flowers?&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It seemed to me there was hostility in her voice. I was walking beside<br />her, trying to&nbsp; keep&nbsp; in step,&nbsp; and, to my surprise,&nbsp; did not feel the least<br />constraint.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;No, I like flowers, but not this kind,&quot; I said.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&quot;Which, then?&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&quot;I like roses.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Then I regretted having said it, because she smiled guiltily and threw<br />the flowers into the gutter. Slightly at a loss, I nevertheless picked&nbsp; them<br />up and gave them to her, but she, with a smile, pushed the flowers away, and<br />I carried them in my hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So we&nbsp; walked silently for some time, until she took&nbsp; the flowers from<br />my hand and threw&nbsp; them to&nbsp; the&nbsp; pavement,&nbsp; then put her own hand in a black<br />glove with a bell-shaped cuff under my arm, and we walked on side by side.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Go on,' said Ivan, 'and please don't leave anything out!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Go on?'&nbsp; repeated the visitor. 'Why, you can guess for yourself how it<br />went on.'&nbsp; He suddenly&nbsp; wiped an unexpected tear with his right&nbsp; sleeve&nbsp; and<br />continued:&nbsp; `Love&nbsp; leaped out in front of us like&nbsp; a&nbsp; murderer&nbsp; in an&nbsp; alley<br />leaping out of nowhere, and struck us both at once. As lightning strikes, as<br />a Finnish knife strikes! She, by the way, insisted afterwards that it wasn't<br />so, that we had, of course, loved each other for a long, long&nbsp; time, without<br />knowing&nbsp; each&nbsp; other, never&nbsp; having seen each other, and that she was living<br />with a different man ... as I was, too, then ... with that, what's her ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'With whom?' asked Homeless.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With that... well... with ...' replied the guest, snapping his fingers.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You were married?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Why, yes, that's why I'm snapping... With that... Varenka ... Manechka<br />... no, Varenka ... striped dress, the museum ... Anyhow, I don't remember.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; so&nbsp; she said she went&nbsp; out&nbsp; that day with yellow flowers in her<br />hand so that I would find her at&nbsp; last, and that if&nbsp; it hadn't happened, she<br />would have poisoned herself, because her life was empty.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes, love struck us instantly. I knew it that same day, an hour later,<br />when, without&nbsp; having noticed&nbsp; the city,&nbsp; we&nbsp; found ourselves by the Kremlin<br />wall on the embankment.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We talked as if we had parted only&nbsp; the day before, as if&nbsp; we had known<br />each&nbsp; other&nbsp; for&nbsp; many years. We arranged to&nbsp; meet the next day at&nbsp; the same<br />place&nbsp; on&nbsp; the Moscow River, and we did.&nbsp; The May sun shone down on&nbsp; us. And<br />soon, very soon, this woman became my secret wife.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She used to come to me every afternoon,&nbsp; but I would begin waiting for<br />her in the&nbsp; morning. This waiting expressed&nbsp; itself in the moving around&nbsp; of<br />objects on the table.&nbsp; Ten&nbsp; minutes&nbsp; before,&nbsp; I would sit down by the little<br />window&nbsp; and&nbsp; begin to listen&nbsp; for the&nbsp; banging of the decrepit gate. And how<br />curious: before&nbsp; my meeting&nbsp; with her,&nbsp; few&nbsp; people came to our yard&nbsp; - more<br />simply, no one&nbsp; came&nbsp; - but now&nbsp; it seemed&nbsp; to me that the&nbsp; whole&nbsp; city came<br />flocking there.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Bang goes the gate, bang goes my heart, and, imagine,&nbsp; it's inevitably<br />somebody's&nbsp; dirty&nbsp;&nbsp; boots&nbsp; level&nbsp; with&nbsp; my&nbsp;&nbsp; face&nbsp; behind&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp; window.&nbsp;&nbsp; A<br />knife-grinder. Now, who needs a knife-grinder in our house? To sharpen what?<br />What knives?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She would come through the gate once, but my heart would pound no less<br />than ten times before that, I'm not lying. And then, when her hour came&nbsp; and<br />the hands showed noon, it even wouldn't stop pounding&nbsp; until, almost without<br />tapping, almost noiselessly, her shoes would come even with my window, their<br />black suede bows held tightly by steel buckles.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Sometimes she would get mischievous, pausing at the&nbsp; second window and<br />tapping the glass&nbsp; with her toe. That same instant I would be at the window,<br />but&nbsp; the shoe would be gone, the black silk blocking the light would be gone<br />- I'd go and open the door for her.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `No one&nbsp; knew&nbsp; of our liaison,&nbsp; I&nbsp; assure you of&nbsp; that, though it never<br />happens. Her husband&nbsp; didn't know, her acquaintances didn't know. In the old<br />house where I had that basement, people knew, of&nbsp; course, they saw that some<br />woman visited me, but they didn't know her name.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `But who is she?' asked&nbsp; Ivan, intrigued in the highest&nbsp; degree by this<br />love story.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The guest made&nbsp; a gesture signifying that he&nbsp; would never tell that&nbsp; to<br />anyone, and went on with his story.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan learned that the master and the&nbsp; unknown woman loved each other so<br />deeply that they&nbsp; became&nbsp; completely inseparable. Ivan could clearly picture<br />to himself the two rooms&nbsp; in&nbsp; the basement of the house, where it was always<br />twilight because of the lilacs&nbsp; and&nbsp; the fence. The&nbsp; worn red furniture, the<br />bureau, the clock on it which struck every half hour, and books, books, from<br />the painted floor to the sooty ceiling, and the stove.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan learned&nbsp; that his guest&nbsp; and his secret wife,&nbsp; from the very first<br />days&nbsp; of&nbsp; their liaison, had come&nbsp; to the&nbsp; conclusion that&nbsp; fate itself&nbsp; had<br />thrown them together at the corner of Tverskaya and that lane, and that they<br />had been created for each other for all time.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan learned from the guest's story how the lovers would spend the day.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She&nbsp; would&nbsp; come, and put on an&nbsp; apron first&nbsp; thing, and&nbsp; in the narrow<br />front hall where stood that same sink of which the poor patient was for some<br />reason so proud, would light the kerosene stove on the wooden table, prepare<br />lunch, and&nbsp; set it out&nbsp; on the oval table in&nbsp; the&nbsp; first room. When the&nbsp; May<br />storms&nbsp;&nbsp; came&nbsp; and&nbsp; water&nbsp; rushed&nbsp; noisily&nbsp; through&nbsp; the&nbsp; gateway&nbsp; past&nbsp; the<br />near-sighted windows, threatening to&nbsp; flood&nbsp; their&nbsp; last&nbsp; refuge, the lovers<br />would light the stove and bake potatoes in it. Steam rose from the potatoes,<br />the&nbsp; black&nbsp; potato&nbsp; skins&nbsp; dirtied&nbsp; their fingers. Laughter&nbsp; came&nbsp; from&nbsp; the<br />basement,&nbsp; the trees&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; garden&nbsp; after rain shed&nbsp; broken&nbsp; twigs, white<br />clusters.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When&nbsp; the storms ended&nbsp; and&nbsp; sultry summer came,&nbsp; there appeared in the<br />vase&nbsp; the long-awaited roses they both loved. The&nbsp; man who called&nbsp; himself a<br />master&nbsp; worked feverishly on&nbsp; his&nbsp; novel, and&nbsp; this novel&nbsp; also absorbed the<br />unknown woman.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Really, there were times when I'd begin to be jealous of it on account<br />of her,' the night visitor come from the moonlit balcony whispered to Ivan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Her slender fingers with sharply&nbsp; filed&nbsp; nails buried&nbsp; in her hair, she<br />endlessly&nbsp; reread what&nbsp; he&nbsp; had written,&nbsp; and after rereading it&nbsp; would&nbsp; sit<br />sewing that very same&nbsp; cap. Sometimes she crouched down by the lower shelves<br />or stood by the upper&nbsp; ones and&nbsp; wiped&nbsp; the hundreds of dusty spines&nbsp; with a<br />cloth. She foretold fame, she urged him&nbsp; on, and it&nbsp; was then that she began<br />to call him a master. She&nbsp; waited impatiently for the already promised&nbsp; last<br />words about the fifth procurator of&nbsp; Judea,&nbsp; repeated aloud in&nbsp; a&nbsp; sing-song<br />voice certain phrases she liked, and said that her life was in this novel.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was finished in&nbsp; the month of&nbsp; August,&nbsp; was&nbsp; given&nbsp; to&nbsp; some unknown<br />typist, and she&nbsp; typed it in five copies. And&nbsp; finally the hour came when he<br />had to leave his secret refuge and go out into life.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `And&nbsp; I went out into life holding&nbsp; it in my hands,&nbsp; and then&nbsp; my&nbsp; life<br />ended,' the master&nbsp; whispered and&nbsp; drooped&nbsp; his&nbsp; head,&nbsp; and for a&nbsp; long time<br />nodded the woeful black cap with the yellow letter 'M'&nbsp; on it. He&nbsp; continued<br />his story, but it became somewhat incoherent, one could only understand that<br />some catastrophe had then befallen Ivan's guest.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'For the first time I found myself in the world of literature, but now,<br />when&nbsp; it's&nbsp; all&nbsp; over and&nbsp; my ruin is clear, I recall&nbsp; it&nbsp; with horror!' the<br />master whispered&nbsp; solemnly&nbsp; and&nbsp; raised&nbsp; his&nbsp; hand.&nbsp; 'Yes,&nbsp; he astounded&nbsp; me<br />greatly, ah, how he astounded me!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Who?' Ivan whispered barely audibly, fearing to interrupt the agitated<br />narrator.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Why, the editor, I tell you, the editor! Yes, he read it all right. He<br />looked at me as&nbsp; if I had a swollen&nbsp; cheek, looked sidelong into the corner,<br />and&nbsp; even tittered&nbsp; in embarrassment. He&nbsp; crumpled the manuscript needlessly<br />and grunted. The questions he asked seemed crazy to me. Saving nothing about<br />the essence of the&nbsp; novel, he asked me who I was, where I came from, and how<br />long I&nbsp; had been writing, and why&nbsp; no one&nbsp; had heard of me before,&nbsp; and even<br />asked what in my opinion&nbsp; was a totally&nbsp; idiotic question: who&nbsp; had given me<br />the&nbsp; idea of writing a novel on such a strange theme? Finally&nbsp; I got sick of<br />him and asked directly&nbsp; whether he would publish the&nbsp; novel or&nbsp; not. Here he<br />started squirming, mumbled&nbsp; something, and declared that he could not decide<br />the question on his own, that other members&nbsp; of the&nbsp; editorial board&nbsp; had to<br />acquaint themselves with&nbsp; my work - namely, the critics Latunsky and Ariman,<br />and the writer Mstislav Lavrovich.&nbsp; [2] He asked me to&nbsp; come in two weeks. I<br />came&nbsp; in two weeks and&nbsp; was received by&nbsp; some&nbsp; girl whose eyes&nbsp; were crossed<br />towards her nose from constant lying.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That's Lapshennikova, the editorial secretary,' Ivan said with a smirk.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He knew very well the world described so wrathfully by his guest.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Maybe,' the&nbsp; other&nbsp; snapped, 'and&nbsp; so&nbsp; from&nbsp; her I got&nbsp; my novel back,<br />already quite greasy and dishevelled. Trying to avoid looking me in the eye,<br />Lapshennikova told me&nbsp; that the publisher was provided with material for two<br />years ahead, and therefore the question of printing my novel, as she put it,<br />&quot;did not arise&quot;.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `What&nbsp; do I remember after&nbsp; that?' the&nbsp; master&nbsp; muttered,&nbsp; rubbing&nbsp; his<br />temple. 'Yes, red petals strewn across the&nbsp; tide&nbsp; page, and also the eyes of<br />my friend. Yes, those eyes I remember.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The story of Ivan's&nbsp; guest was becoming more confused, more filled with<br />all sorts of reticences. He said something about slanting&nbsp; rain&nbsp; and despair<br />in&nbsp; the&nbsp; basement refuge, about&nbsp; having&nbsp; gone&nbsp; elsewhere. He exclaimed in&nbsp; a<br />whisper that&nbsp; he did not blame her in the least for&nbsp; pushing&nbsp; him to fight -<br />oh, no, he did not blame her!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Further on, as Ivan&nbsp; heard, something sudden and strange&nbsp; happened. One<br />day our&nbsp; hero opened&nbsp; a newspaper and saw&nbsp; in it&nbsp; an&nbsp; article&nbsp; by the critic<br />Ariman, [3] in which Ariman&nbsp; warned all and&nbsp; sundry&nbsp; that he, that&nbsp; is,&nbsp; our<br />hero, had attempted to foist into print an apology for Jesus Christ.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, I remember, I remember!'&nbsp; Ivan cried out. 'But I've forgotten your<br />name!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Let's leave my name out of it, I repeat, it no longer exists,' replied<br />the guest. 'That's not the point. Two days later in&nbsp; another newspaper, over<br />the signature of&nbsp; Mstislav Lavrovich, appeared another article, in which its<br />author&nbsp; recommended striking, and&nbsp; striking hard,&nbsp; at&nbsp; Pilatism&nbsp; and at&nbsp; the<br />icon-dauber&nbsp; who had ventured to foist it&nbsp; (again&nbsp; that accursed word!) into<br />print.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Dumbfounded&nbsp; by this&nbsp; unheard-of word&nbsp; &quot;Pilatism&quot;, I&nbsp; opened&nbsp; a&nbsp; third<br />newspaper. There were two articles in it,&nbsp; one by Latunsky, the other signed<br />with the initials &quot;N.E.&quot; I assure you,&nbsp; the works&nbsp; of Ariman&nbsp; and&nbsp; Lavrovich<br />could be counted as jokes&nbsp; compared with what&nbsp; Latunsky wrote. Suffice it to<br />say that Latunsky's&nbsp; article was&nbsp; entitled &quot;A Militant&nbsp; Old Believer&quot;. [4] I<br />got so carried away reading the article about myself that I didn't notice (I<br />had forgotten to lock the&nbsp; door) how she&nbsp; came in and stood before me with a<br />wet umbrella in her hand and wet&nbsp; newspapers as well. Her eyes flashed fire,<br />her&nbsp; trembling&nbsp; hands were cold. First she&nbsp; rushed to&nbsp; kiss&nbsp; me, then,&nbsp; in a<br />hoarse&nbsp; voice,&nbsp; and&nbsp; pounding the table with&nbsp; her&nbsp; fist, she said&nbsp; she would<br />poison Latunsky.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan grunted somewhat embarrassedly, but said nothing.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Joyless autumn days set in,' the guest went on. 'The monstrous failure<br />with&nbsp; this novel seemed&nbsp; to have&nbsp; taken out a part&nbsp; of my&nbsp; soul. Essentially<br />speaking, I had nothing more to do, and I lived from one meeting with her to<br />the next. And it was at that time that something happened to me. Devil knows<br />what, Stravinsky probably figured it out long ago. Namely, anguish came over<br />me and certain forebodings appeared.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;The&nbsp; articles, please note, did not cease. I laughed at&nbsp; the first&nbsp; of<br />them. But the more of&nbsp; them that appeared, the more my attitude towards them<br />changed.&nbsp; The&nbsp; second stage was one of astonishment. Some&nbsp; rare falsity&nbsp; and<br />insecurity&nbsp; could be&nbsp; sensed&nbsp; literally in&nbsp; every line&nbsp; of&nbsp; these&nbsp; articles,<br />despite&nbsp; their threatening&nbsp; and&nbsp; confident tone. I&nbsp; had&nbsp; the feeling, and&nbsp; I<br />couldn't get rid&nbsp; of&nbsp; it, that the authors of these articles were not saying<br />what they wanted to say, and that their rage sprang precisely from that. And<br />then, imagine, a third stage came - of fear. No, not fear of these articles,<br />you understand, but fear of other things totally unrelated to them or to the<br />novel. Thus, for&nbsp; instance, I began to be afraid of the dark.&nbsp; In short, the<br />stage of&nbsp; mental illness came. It seemed to me, especially as I was&nbsp; falling<br />asleep, that&nbsp; some very&nbsp; cold&nbsp; and&nbsp; pliant&nbsp; octopus&nbsp; was stealing&nbsp; with&nbsp; its<br />tentacles immediately and directly towards my heart. And I had to sleep with<br />the light on.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'My beloved changed very much (of&nbsp; course, I never&nbsp; told&nbsp; her about the<br />octopus,&nbsp; but&nbsp; she could see that something&nbsp; was&nbsp; going&nbsp; wrong with me), she<br />became thinner and paler, stopped laughing, and&nbsp; kept&nbsp; asking me to&nbsp; forgive<br />her for&nbsp; having&nbsp; advised&nbsp; me&nbsp; to publish an&nbsp; excerpt. She said I should drop<br />everything and go&nbsp; to the&nbsp; south,&nbsp; to the Black Sea,&nbsp; and spend all that was<br />left of the hundred thousand on the trip.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She was very insistent, and to avoid an argument (something&nbsp; told me I<br />was not to go to the Black Sea), I promised her that I'd do it one&nbsp; of those<br />days. But she said she would buy me the ticket herself. Then&nbsp; I took out all<br />my money - that is, about ten thousand roubles - and gave it to her.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;Why so much?&quot; she was surprised.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I said something&nbsp; or other about being afraid of thieves and asked her<br />to&nbsp; keep the&nbsp; money&nbsp; until my departure.&nbsp; She took it,&nbsp; put it in her purse,<br />began kissing me and&nbsp; saying that it would be easier for her to die&nbsp; than to<br />leave me alone in such a state, but that she was expected, that she must bow<br />to&nbsp; necessity, that&nbsp; she&nbsp; would come the next day. She begged me not&nbsp; to&nbsp; be<br />afraid of anything.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'This was at dusk, in mid-October. And she left. I lay down on the sofa<br />and fell asleep without turning on the&nbsp; light. I was awakened by the feeling<br />that the octopus was there. Groping in the dark, I barely managed to turn on<br />the light. My pocket watch showed two o'clock in the morning. I&nbsp; was falling<br />ill when I went to bed, and&nbsp; I woke up sick.&nbsp; It suddenly seemed&nbsp; to me that<br />the autumn darkness would push through the glass and pour into the room, and<br />I&nbsp; would&nbsp; drown in it as&nbsp; in&nbsp; ink. I got up&nbsp; a man&nbsp; no longer in&nbsp; control of<br />himself. I cried out, the thought came to me of running to&nbsp; someone, even if<br />it was my landlord upstairs.&nbsp; I struggled with myself like&nbsp; a madman.&nbsp; I had<br />strength enough to get&nbsp; to the stove and&nbsp; start a fire in it. When the&nbsp; wood<br />began to&nbsp; crackle and&nbsp; the stove door rattled,&nbsp; I&nbsp; seemed&nbsp; to feel&nbsp; slightly<br />better.&nbsp; I dashed to&nbsp; the&nbsp; front room,&nbsp; turned on the&nbsp; light there,&nbsp; found a<br />bottle of white wine, uncorked it and began drinking from the&nbsp; bottle.&nbsp; This<br />blunted the&nbsp; fear somewhat&nbsp; - at least enough to keep me from running&nbsp; to me<br />landlord&nbsp; - and I went back&nbsp; to me stove. I&nbsp; opened the little door, so that<br />the heat began to burn my face and hands, and whispered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;Guess that trouble has befallen me ... Come, come, come! ...&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But no one&nbsp; came.&nbsp; The fire&nbsp; roared in the&nbsp; stove,&nbsp; rain lashed at the<br />windows. Then&nbsp; the final thing happened. I took the heavy manuscript&nbsp; of the<br />novel and the draft notebooks from the desk drawer and started burning them.<br />This was terribly hard to do, because written-on paper burns reluctantly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Breaking my fingernails, I tore up the notebooks, stuck them vertically<br />between the logs, and&nbsp; ruffled the pages&nbsp; with the poker. At times the ashes<br />got the best&nbsp; of me, choking&nbsp; the flames, but I struggled with them, and the<br />novel,&nbsp; though&nbsp; stubbornly resisting, was nevertheless&nbsp; perishing.&nbsp; Familiar<br />words flashed before me,&nbsp; the yellow climbed steadily up the&nbsp; pages, but the<br />words still showed through it. They would&nbsp; vanish only when the paper turned<br />black, and I finished them off with the poker.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Just&nbsp; then someone&nbsp; began scratching quietly&nbsp; at the&nbsp; window. My heart<br />leaped, and having stuffed the last notebook into the fire, I rushed to open<br />the&nbsp; door.&nbsp; Brick steps&nbsp; led up from the&nbsp; basement to the door on the&nbsp; yard.<br />Stumbling, I ran up to it and asked quietly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;Who's there?&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And that voice, her voice, answered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's me...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I don't remember how I managed with the chain and hook. As soon as she<br />stepped inside, she clung to me, trembling, all wet, her cheeks wet&nbsp; and her<br />hair uncurled. I could only utter the word:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;You ... you? ...&quot;, and my voice broke, and we ran downstairs.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `She freed herself of&nbsp; her&nbsp; overcoat in the front hall, and we&nbsp; quickly<br />went into the first room. With a soft cry, she pulled&nbsp; out of the stove with<br />her bare hands and threw on to the floor the last of what was there, a sheaf<br />that had&nbsp; caught fire from&nbsp; below. Smoke filled the room at once. I&nbsp; stamped<br />out&nbsp; the fire&nbsp; with&nbsp; my&nbsp; feet,&nbsp; and&nbsp; she&nbsp; collapsed&nbsp; on&nbsp; the sofa&nbsp; and&nbsp; wept<br />irrepressibly and convulsively.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'When she calmed down, I said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;I came to hate this novel, and I'm afraid. I'm ill. Frightened.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She stood up and said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&nbsp; &quot;God, how sick you are. Why is it, why? But I'll save you. I'11 save<br />you. What is all this?&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I&nbsp; saw her eyes swollen&nbsp; with smoke&nbsp; and weeping, felt her cold&nbsp; hands<br />stroke my forehead.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&quot;I'll cure&nbsp; you, I'll&nbsp; cure&nbsp; you,&quot;&nbsp; she was&nbsp; murmuring,&nbsp; clutching&nbsp; my<br />shoulders. &quot;You'll restore it. Why, why didn't I keep a copy?&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She bared her teeth with rage, she said something else inarticulately.<br />Then,&nbsp; compressing&nbsp; her&nbsp; lips,&nbsp; she began&nbsp; to&nbsp; collect&nbsp; and smooth&nbsp; out&nbsp; the<br />burnt-edged pages. It was some chapter from the middle of the novel, I don't<br />remember which.&nbsp; She neatly stacked&nbsp; the&nbsp; pages, wrapped them in paper, tied<br />them&nbsp; with&nbsp; a&nbsp; ribbon.&nbsp; All&nbsp; her&nbsp; actions&nbsp; showed&nbsp; that&nbsp; she&nbsp;&nbsp; was&nbsp; full&nbsp; of<br />determination,&nbsp; and that&nbsp; she had regained control of herself. She asked for<br />wine and, having drunk it, spoke more calmly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;This&nbsp; is how one pays for lying,&quot; she said, &quot;and I don't want to lie<br />any more. I'd stay with&nbsp; you right now, but I'd rather not do it that way. I<br />don't want it to remain for ever in his memory that I&nbsp; ran&nbsp; away from him in<br />the middle of&nbsp; the&nbsp; night. He's never done me any wrong ...&nbsp; He was summoned<br />unexpectedly, there was a fire at the&nbsp; factory. But he'll be back soon. I'll<br />talk&nbsp; with him&nbsp; tomorrow morning, I'll tell him that I love&nbsp; another man and<br />come back to you for ever. Or maybe you don't want that? Answer me.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;Poor dear, my poor dear,&quot; I said to her. &quot;I&nbsp; won't&nbsp; allow you to&nbsp; do<br />it. Things won't go well for me, and I don't want you to perish with me.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&nbsp; &quot;Is that the&nbsp; only reason?&quot; she asked, and brought&nbsp; her eyes dose to<br />mine.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&quot;The only one.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'She&nbsp; became terribly animated, she&nbsp; dung to me, put her arms around my<br />neck and said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;I'm perishing with you. In the morning I'll be here.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And&nbsp; so, the&nbsp; last thing I remember from my&nbsp; life is a strip&nbsp; of light<br />from my&nbsp; front hall, and in that&nbsp; strip of light an uncurled strand of hair,<br />her beret and her eyes filled&nbsp; with determination. I also remember the black<br />silhouette in the outside doorway and the white package.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;I'd&nbsp; see you home, but it's beyond my strength to&nbsp; come&nbsp; back alone.<br />I'm afraid.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ' &quot;Don't be afraid. Bear with it for a few hours. Tomorrow morning I'll<br />be here.&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Those&nbsp; were her&nbsp; last&nbsp; words&nbsp; in&nbsp; my&nbsp; life ...&nbsp; Shh!&nbsp; ... `the patient<br />suddenly interrupted himself&nbsp; and raised a&nbsp; finger. 'It's a restless moonlit<br />night tonight.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He disappeared&nbsp; on to the balcony.&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; heard little wheels roll down<br />the corridor, someone sobbed or cried out weakly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When everything grew still, the guest came back and announced that room<br />120 had&nbsp; received&nbsp; an occupant. Someone had been brought, and he kept asking<br />to be given back his head. The two interlocutors fell anxiously silent, but,<br />having calmed down,&nbsp; they returned&nbsp; to the interrupted story. The&nbsp; guest was<br />just opening&nbsp; his mouth, but the night was indeed a restless one. There were<br />still voices in the corridor, and the guest began to speak into&nbsp; Ivan's ear,<br />so softly that what&nbsp; he told him was known&nbsp; only to the poet, apart from the<br />first phrase:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A quarter of&nbsp; an hour after she left&nbsp; me,&nbsp; there&nbsp; came&nbsp; a knock at&nbsp; my<br />window ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What the patient whispered&nbsp; into Ivan's ear evidently agitated him very<br />much. Spasms repeatedly passed over his face. Fear and rage swam and flitted<br />in his eyes. The narrator pointed his hand somewhere in the direction of the<br />moon,&nbsp; which had&nbsp; long&nbsp; since&nbsp; left the balcony. Only when all&nbsp; sounds&nbsp; from<br />outside ceased to reach them did the&nbsp; guest move away from Ivan and begin to<br />speak more loudly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes, and&nbsp; so in mid-January, at&nbsp; night, in the&nbsp; same coat but with the<br />buttons torn off, [5] I was huddled with cold&nbsp; in&nbsp; my little yard. Behind me<br />were&nbsp; snowdrifts&nbsp; that hid the lilac bushes,&nbsp; and before me and below&nbsp; -&nbsp; my<br />little windows, dimly lit, covered with shades. I&nbsp; bent down to the first of<br />them and listened - a gramophone was&nbsp; playing in my&nbsp; rooms. That&nbsp; was all&nbsp; I<br />heard, but I&nbsp; could not see anything. I stood there a&nbsp; while, then&nbsp; went out<br />the gate to the&nbsp; lane. A blizzard was frolicking in it. A dog, dashing under<br />my feet, frightened&nbsp; me, and I ran away from it to the other side. The cold,<br />and the fear&nbsp; that&nbsp; had&nbsp; become my&nbsp; constant&nbsp; companion,&nbsp; were driving me to<br />frenzy. I had nowhere to go, and the simplest thing,&nbsp; of course, would&nbsp; have<br />been to throw myself under a tram-car on the street where my lane&nbsp; came out.<br />From&nbsp; far&nbsp; off&nbsp; I could see those light-filled, ice-covered&nbsp; boxes&nbsp; and hear<br />their&nbsp; loathsome screeching in the frost. But,&nbsp; my dear neighbour, the whole<br />thing was that&nbsp; fear possessed&nbsp; every cell of&nbsp; my body. And,&nbsp; just as&nbsp; I was<br />afraid of the dog, so I was afraid of the tram-car. Yes, there is no illness<br />in this place worse than mine, I assure you!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `But&nbsp; you&nbsp; could&nbsp; have let her know,'&nbsp; said Ivan, sympathizing with the<br />poor patient. 'Besides, she has your money. She did keep it, of course?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You needn't doubt that, of course she kept it. But you evidently don't<br />understand me. Or, rather, I've lost&nbsp; the&nbsp; ability I once had for describing<br />things. However,&nbsp; I'm not very sorry&nbsp; about that, since I no longer have any<br />use for&nbsp; it. Before her,' the guest reverently looked out at the darkness of<br />the night,&nbsp; `there would&nbsp; lie&nbsp; a&nbsp; letter from a madhouse.&nbsp; How&nbsp; can one send<br />letters&nbsp; from such an address ... a mental&nbsp; patient?&nbsp; ... You're joking,&nbsp; my<br />friend! Make her unhappy? No, I'm not capable of that.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan was unable to object to this, but the silent Ivan sympathized with<br />the guest, he commiserated&nbsp; with&nbsp; him. And the&nbsp; other, from the&nbsp; pain of his<br />memories, nodded his head in the black cap and spoke thus:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Poor woman ... However, I have hopes that she has forgotten me ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But you may recover ...' Ivan said timidly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I am&nbsp; incurable,' the&nbsp; guest replied calmly.&nbsp; 'When Stravinsky says he<br />will&nbsp; bring&nbsp; me back to life, I don't&nbsp; believe him. He is&nbsp; humane and simply<br />wants to&nbsp; comfort me. I don't deny, however,&nbsp; that I'm much better now. Yes,<br />so&nbsp; where did I&nbsp; leave off? Frost, those flying&nbsp; trams... I knew&nbsp; that&nbsp; this<br />clinic had been opened, and set out for it on foot across the entire city.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Madness!&nbsp; Outside the city I&nbsp; probably&nbsp; would have frozen to death, but<br />chance saved me. A truck had broken down,&nbsp; I came&nbsp; up to the&nbsp; driver, it was<br />some three miles beyond the city limits, and to my surprise he took&nbsp; pity on<br />me. The truck was coming here.&nbsp; And he took me along. I got away with having<br />my left&nbsp; toes frostbitten. But&nbsp; they&nbsp; cured that. And now this is the fourth<br />month that I've been here. And, you know, I find it not at all bad here. One<br />mustn't&nbsp; make&nbsp; grandiose&nbsp; plans,&nbsp; dear neighbour,&nbsp; really!&nbsp; I, for instance,<br />wanted to go all around the globe. Well, so it&nbsp; turns out that I'm not going<br />to do it. I see&nbsp; only an insignificant piece&nbsp; of that&nbsp; globe. I suppose it's<br />not the very best there is on it, but, I repeat, it's not so bad.&nbsp; Summer is<br />coming, the ivy will&nbsp; twine up&nbsp; on to the&nbsp; balcony.&nbsp; So Praskovya Fyodorovna<br />promises. The&nbsp; keys have broadened my possibilities. There'll be the moon at<br />night. Ah, it's gone! Freshness. It's falling past midnight. Time to go.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Tell me, what happened afterwards with Yeshua and Pilate?' Ivan asked.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I beg you, I want to know.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, no, no,' the guest replied with a painful twitch. 'I cannot recall<br />my novel without trembling. And your acquaintance from the Patriarch's Ponds<br />would do it better than I. Thank you for the conversation. Goodbye.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; before Ivan&nbsp; could collect&nbsp; his senses,&nbsp; the grille closed&nbsp; with a<br />quiet clang, and the guest vanished.<br />]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>1c416f52-9838-4cf9-8b5b-57eec1a3597f</id><title>Chapter 12: Black Magic and Its Exposure</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/12/chapter_12_black_magic_and_its_exposure" /><updated>12-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="15"></a><h2>CHAPTER 12. Black Magic and Its Exposure</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A&nbsp; small&nbsp; man&nbsp; in&nbsp; a&nbsp; yellow&nbsp; bowler-hat&nbsp; full&nbsp; of&nbsp; holes&nbsp; and&nbsp; with&nbsp; a<br />pear-shaped,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; raspberry-coloured&nbsp;&nbsp; nose,&nbsp;&nbsp; in&nbsp;&nbsp; checkered&nbsp;&nbsp; trousers&nbsp;&nbsp; and<br />patent-leather&nbsp; shoes,&nbsp; rolled out&nbsp; on to&nbsp; the&nbsp; stage&nbsp; of&nbsp; the Variety on an<br />ordinary two-wheeled bicycle. To the sounds of a foxtrot&nbsp; he&nbsp; made a circle,<br />and then gave a triumphant shout, which caused his bicycle to rear up. After<br />riding around&nbsp; on&nbsp; the&nbsp; back wheel,&nbsp; the&nbsp; little&nbsp; man&nbsp; turned&nbsp; upside&nbsp; down,<br />contrived while in motion to unscrew the front wheel and send it&nbsp; backstage,<br />and then&nbsp; proceeded on his&nbsp; way with one wheel, turning the pedals with&nbsp; his<br />hands.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On a tall metal pole with a seat at the top and a single wheel, a plump<br />blonde rolled out in tights and a little skirt strewn with silver stars, and<br />began riding in a circle. As he&nbsp; met her,&nbsp; the&nbsp; little man&nbsp; uttered cries of<br />greeting, doffing his bowler-hat with his foot.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Finally, a little eight-year-old with&nbsp; an elderly face came rolling out<br />and began scooting about&nbsp; among the adults on&nbsp; a tiny&nbsp; two-wheeler furnished<br />with an enormous automobile horn.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After&nbsp; making&nbsp; several&nbsp; loops,&nbsp; the&nbsp; whole&nbsp; company,&nbsp; to&nbsp; the&nbsp; alarming<br />drum-beats of the orchestra, rolled to the&nbsp; very edge&nbsp; of the stage, and the<br />spectators in the front rows gasped and drew back, because it seemed to&nbsp; the<br />public that the whole trio with&nbsp; its&nbsp; vehicles was about to crash&nbsp; down into<br />the orchestra pit.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But the bicycles&nbsp; stopped&nbsp; just at the&nbsp; moment&nbsp; when&nbsp; the front&nbsp; wheels<br />threatened to slide into the abyss on&nbsp; the&nbsp; heads of&nbsp; the musicians. With&nbsp; a<br />loud&nbsp; shout of 'Hup!' the cyclists jumped off their vehicles and&nbsp; bowed, the<br />blonde&nbsp; woman&nbsp; blowing kisses&nbsp; to the public,&nbsp; and the&nbsp; little one tooting a<br />funny signal on his horn.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Applause&nbsp; shook&nbsp; the&nbsp; building, the light-blue curtain&nbsp; came&nbsp; from both<br />sides&nbsp; and covered the&nbsp; cyclists,&nbsp; the green `Exit' lights by the doors went<br />out, and in the web&nbsp; of trapezes under&nbsp; the cupola white spheres lit up like<br />the sun. It was the intermission before the last part.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The only man who was not the least bit interested in the wonders of the<br />Giulli family's cycling technique was Grigory Danilovich Rimsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In&nbsp; complete&nbsp; solitude&nbsp; he sat in&nbsp; his office,&nbsp; biting his thin lips, a<br />spasm&nbsp; passing&nbsp; over&nbsp; his&nbsp; face from&nbsp; time&nbsp; to time.&nbsp; To&nbsp; the&nbsp; extraordinary<br />disappearance&nbsp; of&nbsp; Likhodeev&nbsp; had&nbsp; now&nbsp; been&nbsp; added&nbsp; the&nbsp; wholly&nbsp; unforeseen<br />disappearance of Varenukha.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky knew where&nbsp; he&nbsp; had gone, but he had gone and ... not come back!<br />Rimsky shrugged his shoulders and whispered to himself:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But what for?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And it was&nbsp; strange: for such&nbsp; a&nbsp; practical man as the findirector, the<br />simplest thing would, of course, have been to call the place where Varenukha<br />had gone and find out&nbsp; what had befallen him, yet until ten o'clock at night<br />he had been unable to force himself to do it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At&nbsp; ten,&nbsp; doing outright&nbsp; violence&nbsp; to&nbsp; himself, Rimsky picked&nbsp; up&nbsp; the<br />receiver and&nbsp; here discovered that&nbsp; his&nbsp; telephone was dead.&nbsp; The&nbsp; messenger<br />reported that the other telephones in the building were also out of order.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This certainly unpleasant,&nbsp; though hardly supernatural,&nbsp; occurrence for<br />some reason thoroughly shocked the findirector, but at the same time&nbsp; he was<br />glad: the need to call fell away.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Just as the red light over the&nbsp; findirector's&nbsp; head lit up and blinked,<br />announcing&nbsp; the beginning&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; intermission, a&nbsp; messenger&nbsp; came in&nbsp; and<br />informed him of the foreign&nbsp; artiste's arrival.&nbsp; The findirector cringed for<br />some&nbsp; reason, and, blacker than a storm cloud, went backstage to receive the<br />visitor, since there was no one else to receive him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Under various&nbsp; pretexts,&nbsp; curious&nbsp; people kept&nbsp; peeking&nbsp; into&nbsp; the&nbsp; big<br />dressing room from the corridor, where the signal bell was already ringing.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Among them were conjurers&nbsp; in bright robes&nbsp; and turbans, a skater&nbsp; in a<br />white knitted jacket, a storyteller pale with powder and the make-up man.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; newly&nbsp; arrived celebrity&nbsp; struck everyone by his&nbsp; marvellously cut<br />tailcoat, of a length never seen before,&nbsp; and by his&nbsp; having come in a black<br />half-mask.&nbsp; But&nbsp; most&nbsp; remarkable&nbsp; of&nbsp; all&nbsp; were&nbsp; the black&nbsp; magician's&nbsp; two<br />companions: a long checkered one with a&nbsp; cracked pince-nez,&nbsp; and a fat black<br />cat who came into the dressing room on&nbsp; his hind legs and quite nonchalantly<br />sat on the sofa squinting at the bare make-up lights.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky attempted&nbsp; to produce&nbsp; a smile on&nbsp; his face, which made&nbsp; it look<br />sour and spiteful, and bowed to the silent black magician, who was seated on<br />the sofa&nbsp; beside&nbsp; the&nbsp; cat. There&nbsp; was&nbsp; no handshake. Instead, the easygoing<br />checkered&nbsp; one&nbsp; made his&nbsp; own&nbsp; introductions&nbsp; to&nbsp; the fin-director,&nbsp; calling<br />himself 'the gent's assistant'. This circumstance surprised the findirector,<br />and unpleasantly so: there was&nbsp; decidedly no mention of any assistant in the<br />contract.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Quite&nbsp; stiffly&nbsp; and&nbsp; drily,&nbsp; Grigory&nbsp;&nbsp; Danilovich&nbsp;&nbsp; inquired&nbsp; of&nbsp;&nbsp; this<br />fallen-from-the-sky checkered one where the artiste's paraphernalia was.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Our heavenly&nbsp; diamond,&nbsp; most precious mister director,' the magician's<br />assistant replied in a rattling voice, 'the paraphernalia is always with us.<br />Here it is! Ein, zwei, drei!' And, waving his knotty fingers before Rimsky's<br />eyes, he suddenly took from behind the cat's ear Rimsky's own gold watch and<br />chain,&nbsp; hitherto worn by&nbsp; the findirector in his waistcoat pocket, under his<br />buttoned coat, with the chain through a buttonhole.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky inadvertently&nbsp; clutched his stomach,&nbsp; those present gasped,&nbsp; and<br />the make-up man, peeking in the doorway, grunted approvingly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Your little watchie?&nbsp; Kindly take it,' the checkered one&nbsp; said, smiling<br />casually&nbsp; and&nbsp; offering&nbsp; the bewildered Rimsky his own property&nbsp; on a&nbsp; dirty<br />palm.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No getting on a tram with that one,' the storyteller whispered quietly<br />and merrily to the make-up man.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But the&nbsp; cat pulled a&nbsp; neater trick than&nbsp; the&nbsp; number&nbsp; with the&nbsp; stolen<br />watch. Getting up from the&nbsp; sofa unexpectedly, he walked on his hind legs to<br />the dressing table, pulled the stopper out of the carafe with his front paw,<br />poured water into a glass, drank it, installed the stopper in its place, and<br />wiped his whiskers with a make-up cloth.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here no one even gasped, their mouths simply fell open, and the make-up<br />man whispered admiringly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'That's class!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Just then&nbsp; the bells rang&nbsp; alarmingly for the third time, and everyone,<br />agitated&nbsp; and&nbsp; anticipating&nbsp; an&nbsp; interesting&nbsp; number,&nbsp; thronged&nbsp; out&nbsp; of the<br />dressing room.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A moment&nbsp; later the&nbsp; spheres went out&nbsp; in the&nbsp; theatre,&nbsp; the footlights<br />blazed up, lending a reddish&nbsp; glow&nbsp; to the base&nbsp; of the curtain, and in&nbsp; the<br />lighted&nbsp; gap of the curtain there appeared before the&nbsp; public&nbsp; a plump&nbsp; man,<br />merry as&nbsp; a&nbsp; baby,&nbsp; with&nbsp; a&nbsp; clean-shaven face, in&nbsp; a&nbsp; rumpled&nbsp; tailcoat and<br />none-too-fresh shirt. This was the master&nbsp; of ceremonies, well&nbsp; known to all<br />Moscow - Georges Bengalsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And now, citizens,' Bengalsky began, smiling his baby smile, 'there is<br />about to come&nbsp; before you ...' Here&nbsp; Bengalsky interrupted himself and spoke<br />in a different tone: 'I see the audience has grown for the third part. We've<br />got half the city here! I met a&nbsp; friend the other day and said to&nbsp; him: &quot;Why<br />don't you come to our show? Yesterday we had&nbsp; half the city.&quot; And he says to<br />me: &quot;I live in the other half!&quot;'&nbsp; Bengalsky&nbsp; paused,&nbsp; waiting for a burst of<br />laughter,&nbsp; but as&nbsp; no&nbsp; one laughed, he&nbsp; went on: '... And so, now comes&nbsp; the<br />famous foreign artiste. Monsieur Woland, with a sance of black magic. Well,<br />both you and I know,' here Bengalsky smiled a wise smile,&nbsp; 'that there's&nbsp; no<br />such thing&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; world, and that it's all just superstition, and Maestro<br />Woland is simply a perfect master of the technique of conjuring, as we shall<br />see from the most interesting part, that is, the exposure of this technique,<br />and since we're all of us to a man both for&nbsp; technique and for its exposure,<br />let's bring on Mr Woland! ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After uttering all this claptrap, Bengalsky pressed his&nbsp; palms together<br />and waved them in greeting through&nbsp; the slit of the curtain, which caused it<br />to part with a soft rustic.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The entrance of the magician with his long&nbsp; assistant and the cat,&nbsp; who<br />came on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'An&nbsp; armchair&nbsp; for&nbsp; me,' Woland&nbsp; ordered in a low voice, and that&nbsp; same<br />second&nbsp; an&nbsp; armchair&nbsp; appeared on stage, no&nbsp; one knew&nbsp; how or from where, in<br />which the magician sat down. 'Tell me, my gentle Fagott,' Woland inquired of<br />the checkered clown,&nbsp; who evidently had&nbsp; another&nbsp; appellation than Koroviev,<br />`what&nbsp; do&nbsp; you think, the&nbsp; Moscow populace has changed significantly, hasn't<br />it?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; magician&nbsp; looked&nbsp; out&nbsp; at&nbsp; the&nbsp; hushed&nbsp; audience,&nbsp; struck&nbsp; by&nbsp; the<br />appearance of the armchair out of nowhere.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;That it has, Messire,' Fagott-Koroviev replied in a low voice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;You're right. The&nbsp; city folk have changed greatly ... externally, that<br />is&nbsp; ...&nbsp; as&nbsp; has&nbsp; the city&nbsp; itself,&nbsp; incidentally...&nbsp; Not&nbsp; to mention&nbsp; their<br />clothing,&nbsp; these ... what do you&nbsp; call them ... trams, automobiles ...&nbsp; have<br />appeared ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Buses ...'-Fagott prompted deferentially.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The audience&nbsp; listened&nbsp; attentively to&nbsp; this&nbsp; conversation, thinking it<br />constituted&nbsp; a&nbsp; prelude to the magic tricks.&nbsp; The&nbsp; wings&nbsp; were&nbsp; packed&nbsp; with<br />performers&nbsp; and stage-hands, and among their faces could be&nbsp; seen the tense,<br />pale face of Rimsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The physiognomy of Bengalsky,&nbsp; who&nbsp; had retreated to&nbsp; the&nbsp; side&nbsp; of the<br />stage, began to&nbsp; show some perplexity.&nbsp; He raised one&nbsp; eyebrow slightly and,<br />taking advantage of a pause, spoke:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;The foreign artiste is expressing his&nbsp; admiration&nbsp; for&nbsp; Moscow and its<br />technological&nbsp; development,&nbsp; as well as for the Muscovites.' Here&nbsp; Bengalsky<br />smiled twice, first to the stalls, then to the gallery.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Woland,&nbsp; Fagott and the cat turned their heads in the direction of&nbsp; the<br />master of ceremonies.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Did I express admiration?' the magician asked the checkered Fagott.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'By no&nbsp; means, Messire, you never&nbsp; expressed any admiration,' came&nbsp; the<br />reply.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then what is the man saying?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He&nbsp; quite simply lied!' the&nbsp; checkered assistant&nbsp; declared sonorously,<br />for the whole theatre to hear, and turning to Bengalsky, he added:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Congrats, citizen, you done lied!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Tittering spattered&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; gallery, but Bengalsky gave a start and<br />goggled his eyes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Of&nbsp; course,&nbsp; I'm not so much interested in buses, telephones and other<br />...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Apparatuses,' the checkered one prompted.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Quite right,&nbsp; thank you,' the&nbsp; magician spoke slowly in&nbsp; a heavy bass,<br />`as&nbsp; in a question of much greater importance:&nbsp; have the city&nbsp; folk&nbsp; changed<br />inwardly?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Yes, that is the most important question, sir.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There&nbsp; was&nbsp; shrugging&nbsp; and an&nbsp; exchanging&nbsp; of&nbsp; glances&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; wings,<br />Bengalsky stood all&nbsp; red, and Rimsky&nbsp; was pale. But&nbsp; here, as if sensing the<br />nascent alarm, the magician said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'However, we're&nbsp; talking&nbsp; away,&nbsp; my&nbsp; dear&nbsp; Fagott,&nbsp; and the audience is<br />beginning to get bored. My gentle Fagott,&nbsp; show us some&nbsp; simple little thing<br />to start with.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The audience stirred. Fagott and the cat walked along the footlights to<br />opposite&nbsp; sides&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; stage.&nbsp; Fagott&nbsp; snapped his&nbsp; fingers, and&nbsp; with&nbsp; a<br />rollicking Three, four!' snatched a deck of cards from the air, shuffled it,<br />and sent it in a long ribbon&nbsp; to the cat. The cat intercepted it and sent it<br />back. The satiny snake whiffled, Fagott opened his mouth like a nestling and<br />swallowed it all card by card. After which the cat bowed, scraping his right<br />hind paw, winning himself unbelievable applause.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Class! Real class!' rapturous shouts came from the wings.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And Fagott jabbed his finger at the stalls and announced:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You'll find that same deck,&nbsp; esteemed citizens, on&nbsp; citizen Parchevsky<br />in the seventh row, just&nbsp; between a three-rouble bill and a summons to court<br />in connection with the payment of alimony to citizen Zeikova.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There was a stirring in the stalls, people began to get up, and finally<br />some citizen whose name was indeed&nbsp; Parchevsky, all&nbsp; crimson with amazement,<br />extracted the deck from his wallet and began sticking it up in the&nbsp; air, not<br />knowing what to do with it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You may keep it as a souvenir!' cried Fagott. 'Not for nothing did you<br />say&nbsp; at dinner&nbsp; yesterday that if it weren't for&nbsp; poker your life in&nbsp; Moscow<br />would be utterly unbearable.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `An old trick!' came&nbsp; from&nbsp; the gallery.&nbsp; The one in the stalls is from<br />the same company.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You think so?' shouted Fagott, squinting at the gallery. 'In that case<br />you're also one of us, because the deck is now in your pocket!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There was movement in the balcony, and a joyful voice said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Right! He's got it! Here, here! ... Wait! It's ten-rouble bills!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Those sitting&nbsp; in the&nbsp; stalls&nbsp; turned&nbsp; their&nbsp; heads. In the&nbsp; gallery&nbsp; a<br />bewildered&nbsp; citizen&nbsp; found in his&nbsp; pocket&nbsp; a&nbsp; bank-wrapped packet with&nbsp; 'One<br />thousand roubles' written on it. His neighbours hovered over him, and he, in<br />amazement, picked at&nbsp; the wrapper with his fingernail, trying to find out if<br />the bills were real or some sort of magic ones.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'By God, they're&nbsp; real! Ten-rouble bills!'&nbsp; joyful cries&nbsp; came from the<br />gallery.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I want to play with the same kind of deck,' a fat man in the middle of<br />the stalls requested merrily.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Avec playzeer!'&nbsp; Fagott responded.&nbsp; `But why just&nbsp; you? Everyone&nbsp; will<br />warmly participate!' And he commanded: 'Look up, please! ... One!' There was<br />a&nbsp; pistol in his hand. He&nbsp; shouted:&nbsp; 'Two!' The&nbsp; pistol&nbsp; was pointed&nbsp; up. He<br />shouted: 'Three!' There was a flash, a bang, and all at once, from under the<br />cupola, bobbing between&nbsp; the&nbsp; trapezes, white&nbsp; strips of paper began falling<br />into the theatre.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They twirled,&nbsp; got blown aside, were drawn towards the gallery, bounced<br />into the orchestra and on to the stage. In a few seconds, the rain of money,<br />ever thickening,&nbsp; reached the seats,&nbsp; and the&nbsp; spectators began snatching at<br />it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Hundreds of arms were raised,&nbsp; the spectators&nbsp; held the bills up to the<br />lighted stage and&nbsp; saw the most true and honest-to-God watermarks. The smell<br />also&nbsp; left no doubts: it was&nbsp; the incomparably delightful&nbsp; smell of&nbsp; freshly<br />printed&nbsp; money.&nbsp; The whole theatre was seized first with merriment and&nbsp; then<br />with amazement. The word 'money, money!' hummed everywhere, there were gasps<br />of&nbsp; 'ah, ah!'&nbsp; and merry laughter. One or&nbsp; two were&nbsp; already crawling in the<br />aisles, feeling under&nbsp; the chairs. Many stood on the&nbsp; seats, trying to catch<br />the flighty, capricious notes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Bewilderment&nbsp; was&nbsp; gradually coming to the faces&nbsp; of the policemen, and<br />performers unceremoniously began sticking their heads out from the wings.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In the dress&nbsp; circle&nbsp; a voice was heard: `What're you grabbing at? It's<br />mine,&nbsp; it flew&nbsp; to me!' and another voice: 'Don't&nbsp; shove me,&nbsp; or&nbsp; you'll get<br />shoved&nbsp; back!' And&nbsp; suddenly there&nbsp; came the&nbsp; sound of&nbsp; a&nbsp; whack. At&nbsp; once a<br />policeman's helmet appeared in the dress circle, and someone from&nbsp; the dress<br />circle was led away.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The general&nbsp; agitation was&nbsp; increasing, and no one&nbsp; knows where it&nbsp; all<br />would have ended if Fagott&nbsp; had&nbsp; not&nbsp; stopped the&nbsp; rain of money by suddenly<br />blowing into the air.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Two&nbsp; young men, exchanging significant and merry glances, took off from<br />their seats&nbsp; and&nbsp; made&nbsp; straight&nbsp; for the buffet.&nbsp; There&nbsp; was&nbsp; a hum&nbsp; in the<br />theatre, all&nbsp; the spectators'&nbsp; eyes glittered&nbsp; excitedly. Yes,&nbsp; yes, no&nbsp; one<br />knows&nbsp; where&nbsp; it&nbsp; all would&nbsp; have ended if&nbsp; Bengalsky had not&nbsp; summoned&nbsp; his<br />strength and acted. Trying to gain better control of himself, he rubbed&nbsp; his<br />hands, as was his custom, and in his most resounding voice spoke thus:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Here, citizens, you and I&nbsp; have&nbsp; just beheld&nbsp; a case of so-called mass<br />hypnosis. A&nbsp; purely scientific experiment, proving&nbsp; in the best way possible<br />that there&nbsp; are no&nbsp; miracles in magic.&nbsp; Let us ask Maestro Woland to&nbsp; expose<br />this experiment&nbsp; for&nbsp; us. Presently,&nbsp; citizens, you will see&nbsp; these supposed<br />banknotes disappear as suddenly as they appeared.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here he applauded, but quite&nbsp; alone, while a confident smile&nbsp; played on<br />his face,&nbsp; yet in his eyes&nbsp; there&nbsp; was&nbsp; no&nbsp; such&nbsp; confidence, but&nbsp; rather an<br />expression of entreaty.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The audience did not like Bengalsky's speech. Total silence fell, which<br />was broken by the checkered Fagott.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `And&nbsp; this is&nbsp; a&nbsp; case&nbsp; of so-called&nbsp; lying,' he announced&nbsp; in a&nbsp; loud,<br />goatish tenor. The notes, citizens, are genuine.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Bravo!' a bass barked from somewhere on high.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This one, incidentally,' here Fagott pointed to Bengalsky, 'annoys me.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Keeps&nbsp; poking his nose where nobody's asked him, spoils the sance with<br />false observations! What're we going to do with him?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Tear his head off!' someone up in the gallery said severely.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What's that you said? Eh?' Fagott responded at once to this outrageous<br />suggestion. Tear his head off? There's an idea! Behemoth!' he shouted to the<br />cat. 'Go to it! Ein, zwei, drei!!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And an unheard-of thing occurred. The&nbsp; fur bristled on the cat's&nbsp; back,<br />and he gave a rending miaow. Then he compressed himself into a ball and shot<br />like a panther straight at Bengalsky's chest, and from there on to his head.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Growling, the cat sank his plump paws into the skimpy chevelure&nbsp; of the<br />master&nbsp; of ceremonies and&nbsp; in two&nbsp; twists tore the head from&nbsp; the thick neck<br />with a savage howl.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The two and a half thousand people in the theatre cried out as one.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Blood&nbsp; spurted in fountains from the torn neck arteries and poured over<br />the shirt-front&nbsp; and tailcoat.&nbsp; The headless&nbsp; body paddled its feet&nbsp; somehow<br />absurdly and sat&nbsp; down on the floor. Hysterical women's cries came from&nbsp; the<br />audience. The cat&nbsp; handed&nbsp; the head&nbsp; to Fagott, who lifted it up by the hair<br />and showed it to the audience,&nbsp; and the&nbsp; head cried&nbsp; desperately for all the<br />theatre to hear:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A doctor!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Will you pour out such drivel in the future?' Fagott asked the weeping<br />head menacingly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Never again!' croaked the head.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'For&nbsp; God's sake, don't&nbsp; torture him!' a woman's voice from a&nbsp; box seat<br />suddenly rose above the clamour, and the magician turned in the direction of<br />that voice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So,&nbsp; what&nbsp; then,&nbsp; citizens,&nbsp; shall&nbsp; we&nbsp; forgive&nbsp; him?'&nbsp; Fagott&nbsp; asked,<br />addressing the audience.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Forgive&nbsp; him, forgive him!'&nbsp; separate&nbsp; voices,&nbsp; mostly women's,&nbsp; spoke<br />first, then merged into one chorus with the men's.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What are your orders, Messire?' Fagott asked the masked man.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, now,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; latter&nbsp; replied pensively, 'they're&nbsp; people like any<br />other&nbsp; people...&nbsp; They&nbsp; love money, but&nbsp; that has always&nbsp; been so... Mankind<br />loves money,&nbsp; whatever it's&nbsp; made of-&nbsp; leather, paper,&nbsp; bronze,&nbsp; gold. Well,<br />they're&nbsp; light-minded&nbsp; ...&nbsp; well,&nbsp; what of&nbsp; it ... mercy sometimes knocks at<br />their&nbsp; hearts&nbsp; ...&nbsp; ordinary people... In general, reminiscent of the former<br />ones&nbsp; ...&nbsp; only the housing problem has&nbsp; corrupted them...'&nbsp; And&nbsp; he ordered<br />loudly: 'Put the head on.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The cat, aiming accurately, planted the&nbsp; head on the&nbsp; neck, and it&nbsp; sat<br />exactly in its place, as if it had never gone anywhere. Above all, there was<br />not even any scar left on the neck. The cat brushed Bengalsky's tailcoat and<br />shirt-front with his paws, and all traces of blood disappeared from them.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Fagott got&nbsp; the&nbsp; sitting Bengalsky to his feet, stuck a packet of money<br />into his coat pocket, and sent him from the stage with the words:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Buzz off, it's more fun without you!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Staggering and looking around senselessly, the master of ceremonies had<br />plodded&nbsp; no&nbsp; farther&nbsp; than&nbsp; the fire post when he&nbsp; felt&nbsp; sick. He&nbsp; cried out<br />pitifully:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'My head, my head! ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Among&nbsp; those who&nbsp; rushed&nbsp; to him&nbsp; was&nbsp; Rimsky. The master of ceremonies<br />wept, snatched at something in the air with his hands, and muttered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Give me my head, give me back my head ... Take my&nbsp; apartment,&nbsp; take my<br />paintings, only give me back my head! ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A&nbsp; messenger ran for&nbsp; a doctor. They tried to&nbsp; lie Bengalsky down on&nbsp; a<br />sofa&nbsp; in the dressing room, but he began to struggle, became&nbsp; violent.&nbsp; They<br />had&nbsp; to call an ambulance. When&nbsp; the unfortunate&nbsp; master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies was<br />taken away,&nbsp; Rimsky&nbsp; ran&nbsp; back&nbsp; to&nbsp; the stage and saw that new wonders&nbsp; were<br />taking place on it. Ah, yes, incidentally, either then or a little&nbsp; earlier,<br />the magician disappeared from&nbsp; the stage together with&nbsp; his&nbsp; faded armchair,<br />and it must be said that the public took absolutely no notice of it, carried<br />away as it was by the extraordinary things Fagott was unfolding on stage.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; Fagott,&nbsp; having packed off&nbsp; the&nbsp; punished&nbsp; master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies,<br />addressed the public thus:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `All righty,&nbsp; now&nbsp; that we've&nbsp; kicked that nuisance out, let's&nbsp; open&nbsp; a<br />ladies' shop!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; all&nbsp; at&nbsp; once&nbsp; the&nbsp; floor&nbsp; of the&nbsp; stage was covered with&nbsp; Persian<br />carpets, huge&nbsp; mirrors appeared,&nbsp; lit by&nbsp; greenish tubes at&nbsp; the sides,&nbsp; and<br />between the mirrors -&nbsp; display windows,&nbsp; and in them&nbsp; the merrily astonished<br />spectators saw Parisian ladies' dresses of various colours and cuts. In some<br />of the windows, that is, while in others there appeared hundreds&nbsp; of ladies'<br />hats, with feathers and without feathers,&nbsp; and&nbsp; - with&nbsp; buckles or without -<br />hundreds of shoes, black, white, yellow, leather, satin, suede, with straps,<br />with stones. Among the shoes there appeared cases of perfume,&nbsp; mountains&nbsp; of<br />handbags of antelope&nbsp; hide, suede, silk,&nbsp; and among&nbsp; these,&nbsp; whole&nbsp; heaps of<br />little elongated cases of gold metal such as usually contain lipstick.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A red-headed girl&nbsp; appeared&nbsp; from devil knows where in&nbsp; a black evening<br />dress - a girl nice in all respects, had she not been marred by a queer scar<br />on her neck - smiling a proprietary smile by the display windows.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Fagott,&nbsp; grinning&nbsp; sweetly,&nbsp; announced&nbsp; that&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp; firm&nbsp; was&nbsp; offering<br />perfectly&nbsp; gratis an&nbsp; exchange&nbsp; of&nbsp; the ladies'&nbsp; old dresses and&nbsp; shoes&nbsp; for<br />Parisian&nbsp; models&nbsp; and Parisian shoes. The&nbsp; same&nbsp; held,&nbsp; he&nbsp; added,&nbsp; for&nbsp; the<br />handbags and other things.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The cat began scraping with his hind paw, while his front paw performed<br />the gestures appropriate to a doorman opening a door.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; girl&nbsp; sang out sweetly, though with some&nbsp; hoarseness, rolling&nbsp; her<br />r's, something not quite comprehensible but, judging by the women's faces in<br />the stalls, very tempting:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Gueriain,&nbsp; Chanel,&nbsp; Mitsouko,&nbsp; Narcisse&nbsp; Noir, Chanel No.&nbsp; 5,&nbsp; evening<br />gowns, cocktail dresses ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Fagott wriggled, the cat bowed, the girl opened the glass windows.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Welcome!' yelled Fagott. With no embarrassment or ceremony!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The audience was excited, but as yet&nbsp; no one ventured on stage. Finally<br />some brunette stood up in the tenth row of the stalls and, smiling as if&nbsp; to<br />say it was all the same to her and she did not give a hoot, went and climbed<br />on stage by the side stairs.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Bravo!' Fagott shouted. 'Greetings&nbsp; to the first customer! Behemoth, a<br />chair! Let's start with the shoes, madame.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The brunette sat in the chair, and Fagott&nbsp; at once poured a&nbsp; whole heap<br />of shoes on the rug in&nbsp; front of her.&nbsp; The brunette&nbsp; removed her right shoe,<br />tried a lilac one, stamped on the rug, examined the heel.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They won't pinch?' she asked pensively.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To this Fagott exclaimed with a hurt air:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Come, come!' and the cat miaowed resentfully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'll take this pair, m'sieur,' the brunette said with dignity, putting<br />on the second shoe as well.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; brunette's&nbsp; old&nbsp; shoes&nbsp; were&nbsp; tossed behind&nbsp; a&nbsp; curtain,&nbsp; and&nbsp; she<br />proceeded there herself, accompanied by the&nbsp; red-headed girl and Fagott, who<br />was carrying several fashionable dresses on hangers. The cat bustled&nbsp; about,<br />helped, and for greater importance hung a measuring tape around his neck.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A minute&nbsp; later&nbsp; the brunette&nbsp; came from&nbsp; behind the&nbsp; curtain in such a<br />dress that&nbsp; the stalls all let out a&nbsp; gasp. The brave woman,&nbsp; who had become<br />astonishingly prettier, stopped at&nbsp; the mirror,&nbsp; moved&nbsp; her&nbsp; bare shoulders,<br />touched the hair on her nape and, twisting, tried to peek at her back.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The firm asks&nbsp; you to accept this as a&nbsp; souvenir,' said Fagott, and&nbsp; he<br />offered the brunette an open case with a flacon in it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Merci,'&nbsp; the brunette said&nbsp; haughtily and went&nbsp; down&nbsp; the steps to the<br />stalls. As she walked, the spectators jumped up and touched the case.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And here there came a clean&nbsp; breakthrough, and&nbsp; from&nbsp; all&nbsp; sides&nbsp; women<br />marched&nbsp; on&nbsp; to the stage. Amid the general agitation of&nbsp; talk, chuckles and<br />gasps, a man's voice was heard: 'I won't allow it!' and a woman's:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Despot and&nbsp; philistine! Don't break my&nbsp; arm!' Women disappeared behind<br />the curtain, leaving their dresses there and coming out in new ones. A whole<br />row&nbsp; of&nbsp; ladies&nbsp; sat&nbsp; on&nbsp; stools&nbsp; with&nbsp; gilded&nbsp; legs,&nbsp; stamping&nbsp; the&nbsp; carpet<br />energetically with&nbsp; newly shod feet. Fagott was&nbsp; on his&nbsp; knees, working away<br />with a metal shoehorn; the&nbsp; cat, fainting under piles of purses&nbsp; and&nbsp; shoes,<br />plodded back&nbsp; and forth between the display windows and the stools; the girl<br />with the disfigured&nbsp; neck appeared&nbsp; and&nbsp; disappeared, and reached&nbsp; the point<br />where she started rattling away entirely in French,&nbsp; and,&nbsp; surprisingly, the<br />women all understood her from&nbsp; half a word, even those&nbsp; who&nbsp; did not&nbsp; know a<br />single word of French.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; General amazement was aroused&nbsp; by a&nbsp; man&nbsp; edging his way&nbsp; on-stage.&nbsp; He<br />announced that his wife had the&nbsp; flu, and he therefore&nbsp; asked that something<br />be sent to her through him. As proof that he was indeed married, the citizen<br />was prepared to show his passport. The solicitous husband's announcement was<br />met with guffaws. Fagott&nbsp; shouted&nbsp; that&nbsp; he&nbsp; believed him like his own self,<br />even&nbsp; without&nbsp; the&nbsp; passport,&nbsp; and handed&nbsp; the&nbsp; citizen two&nbsp; pairs&nbsp; of&nbsp; silk<br />stockings, and the cat for his part added a little tube of lipstick.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Late-coming women tore on&nbsp; to the stage, and off&nbsp; the&nbsp; stage the&nbsp; lucky<br />ones&nbsp; came&nbsp; pouring down in ball gowns,&nbsp; pyjamas with dragons,&nbsp; sober formal<br />outfits, little hats tipped over one eyebrow.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then Fagott announced that owing to the lateness of the hour, the&nbsp; shop<br />would&nbsp; close&nbsp; in&nbsp; exactly&nbsp; one&nbsp; minute&nbsp; until&nbsp; the&nbsp; next&nbsp;&nbsp; evening,&nbsp; and&nbsp; an<br />unbelievable&nbsp; scramble arose&nbsp; on-stage. Women hastily&nbsp; grabbed shoes without<br />trying&nbsp; them on. One burst behind the curtain like&nbsp; a storm, got&nbsp; out of her<br />dress&nbsp; there, took possession&nbsp; of the first thing that came to hand - a silk<br />dressing-gown covered with huge bouquets - and managed to pick up&nbsp; two cases<br />of perfume besides.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Exactly a minute later a pistol shot rang out, the mirrors disappeared,<br />the display windows and stools dropped away, the carpet melted&nbsp; into air, as<br />did the curtain. Last to disappear was&nbsp; the high mountain of old dresses and<br />shoes, and the stage was again severe, empty and bare.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And it was here that a new character mixed into the affair. A pleasant,<br />sonorous, and very insistent baritone came from box no. 2:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'All the same it&nbsp; is&nbsp; desirable, citizen artiste, that you&nbsp; expose&nbsp; the<br />technique of your&nbsp; tricks to the spectators&nbsp; without&nbsp; delay,&nbsp; especially the<br />trick&nbsp; with&nbsp; the&nbsp; paper money.&nbsp; It&nbsp; is&nbsp; also&nbsp; desirable&nbsp; that&nbsp; the master of<br />ceremonies&nbsp; return to the&nbsp; stage. The&nbsp; spectators are&nbsp; concerned&nbsp; about&nbsp; his<br />fate.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; baritone belonged&nbsp; to&nbsp; none&nbsp; other&nbsp; than that&nbsp; evening's guest&nbsp; of<br />honour,&nbsp;&nbsp; Arkady&nbsp; Apollonovich&nbsp; Sempleyarov,&nbsp; chairman&nbsp;&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp;&nbsp; Acoustics<br />Commission of the Moscow theatres.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Arkady&nbsp; Apollonovich was&nbsp; in&nbsp; his&nbsp; box with two&nbsp; ladies:&nbsp; the older one<br />dressed expensively&nbsp; and&nbsp; fashionably,&nbsp; the&nbsp; other&nbsp; one,&nbsp; young&nbsp; and pretty,<br />dressed&nbsp; in a simpler way.&nbsp; The&nbsp; first,&nbsp; as was&nbsp; soon discovered&nbsp; during the<br />drawing up of the report, was Arkady Apollonovich's wife, and the second was<br />his distant relation, a promising debutante,&nbsp; who had&nbsp; come from Saratov and<br />was living in the apartment of Arkady Apollonovich and his wife.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Pardone!' Fagott replied. 'I'm&nbsp; sorry, there's nothing here to&nbsp; expose,<br />it's all clear.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, excuse me! The exposure&nbsp; is&nbsp; absolutely necessary. Without it your<br />brilliant numbers will&nbsp; leave&nbsp; a painful impression. The mass&nbsp; of spectators<br />demands an explanation.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'The mass&nbsp; of&nbsp; spectators,' the impudent clown interrupted Sempleyarov,<br />`doesn't seem to be saying&nbsp; anything.&nbsp; But, in&nbsp; consideration of&nbsp; your&nbsp; most<br />esteemed desire, Arkady Apollonovich, so be it - I will perform an exposure.<br />But, to that end, will you allow me one more tiny number?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Why not?' Arkady Apollonovich replied patronizingly.&nbsp; 'But&nbsp; there must<br />be an exposure.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Very well, very&nbsp; well,&nbsp; sir. And&nbsp; so, allow me to ask,&nbsp; where were you<br />last evening, Arkady Apollonovich?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At&nbsp; this&nbsp; inappropriate&nbsp; and&nbsp; perhaps&nbsp; even&nbsp; boorish&nbsp; question,&nbsp; Arkady<br />Apollonovich's countenance changed, and changed quite drastically.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Last evening&nbsp; Arkady Apollonovich was&nbsp; at a meeting&nbsp; of&nbsp; the Acoustics<br />Commission,' Arkady Apollonovich's&nbsp; wife&nbsp; declared&nbsp; very haughtily,&nbsp; &quot;but&nbsp; I<br />don't understand what that has got to do with magic.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ouee, madame!' Fagott agreed. 'Naturally you don't understand. As&nbsp; for<br />the meeting, you are totally deluded. After driving off to the said meeting,<br />which&nbsp;&nbsp; incidentally&nbsp;&nbsp; was&nbsp; not&nbsp; even&nbsp; scheduled&nbsp; for&nbsp;&nbsp; last&nbsp; night,&nbsp; Arkady<br />Apollonovich dismissed his chauffeur at the Acoustics Commission building on<br />Clean Ponds'&nbsp; (the&nbsp; whole&nbsp; theatre became&nbsp; hushed),&nbsp; `and&nbsp; went&nbsp; by&nbsp; bus&nbsp; to<br />Yelokhovskaya&nbsp; Street&nbsp; to&nbsp; visit&nbsp; an actress&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; regional&nbsp; itinerant<br />theatre, Militsa Andreevna Pokobatko, with whom he spent some four hours.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Aie!'&nbsp; someone&nbsp; cried out&nbsp; painfully&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; total&nbsp; silence.&nbsp; Arkady<br />Apollonovich's young relation suddenly broke into a low and terrible laugh.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's all clear!' she exclaimed. 'And I've long suspected it. Now I see<br />why that giftless thing got the role of Louisa [1]!''<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And, swinging suddenly, she struck Arkady Apollonovich on the head with<br />her short and fat violet umbrella.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Meanwhile, the scoundrelly Fagott, alias Koroviev, was shouting:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Here,&nbsp; honourable&nbsp; citizens,&nbsp; is&nbsp; one&nbsp; case&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; exposure&nbsp; Arkady<br />Apollonovich so importunately insisted on!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How dare you touch&nbsp; Arkady Apollonovich,&nbsp; you&nbsp; vile creature?'&nbsp; Arkady<br />Apollonovich's wife&nbsp; asked&nbsp; threateningly,&nbsp; rising&nbsp; in&nbsp; the box to&nbsp; all&nbsp; her<br />gigantic height.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A second brief wave of satanic laughter seized the young relation. 'Who<br />else should dare touch&nbsp; him,' she answered, guffawing, 'if&nbsp; not me!' And for<br />the second time there came the dry, crackling sound of the umbrella bouncing<br />off the head of Arkady Apollonovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Police! Seize her!!'&nbsp; Sempleyarov's&nbsp; wife shouted in such&nbsp; a&nbsp; terrible<br />voice that many hearts went cold.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And here the cat also leaped out to the footlights and&nbsp; suddenly barked<br />in a human voice for all the theatre to hear:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The seance&nbsp; is&nbsp; over!&nbsp; Maestro!&nbsp; Hack&nbsp; out a&nbsp; march!'&nbsp; The&nbsp; half-crazed<br />conductor, unaware of what he was doing, waved his baton,&nbsp; and the orchestra<br />did not play, or even strike up, or even bang away at, but precisely, in the<br />cat's&nbsp; loathsome&nbsp; expression,&nbsp; hacked&nbsp; out&nbsp; some&nbsp; incredible&nbsp; march&nbsp; of&nbsp;&nbsp; an<br />unheard-of brashness.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For a moment&nbsp; there was&nbsp; an illusion of having heard&nbsp; once upon a time,<br />under&nbsp;&nbsp; southern&nbsp; stars,&nbsp; in&nbsp; a&nbsp; cafe-chantant,&nbsp; some&nbsp; barely&nbsp; intelligible,<br />half-blind, but rollicking words to this march:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His Excellency reached the stage<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Of liking barnyard fowl.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He took under his patronage<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Three young girls and an owl!!!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Or maybe these were not the words at all, but there were&nbsp; others to the<br />same music, extremely indecent ones.&nbsp; That&nbsp; is not the important thing,&nbsp; the<br />important thing is that, after all this, something like Babel broke loose in<br />the Variety.&nbsp; The&nbsp; police&nbsp; went&nbsp; running&nbsp; to Sempleyarov's box, people&nbsp; were<br />climbing&nbsp; over the barriers,&nbsp; there were&nbsp; bursts&nbsp; of infernal guffawing&nbsp; and<br />furious shouts, drowned in the golden clash of the orchestra's cymbals.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; one could see that&nbsp; the stage&nbsp; was&nbsp; suddenly&nbsp; empty,&nbsp; and that the<br />hoodwinker&nbsp; Fagott, as well as the&nbsp; brazen tom-cat Behemoth, had melted into<br />air, vanished as the magician had vanished&nbsp; earlier in his armchair with the<br />faded upholstery.<br />]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>5657cc7d-71a6-4c4f-bd6f-b56c9ce5d0a4</id><title>Chapter 11: Ivan Splits in Two</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/11/chapter_11_ivan_splits_in_two" /><updated>11-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="14"></a><h2>CHAPTER 11. Ivan Splits in Two</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The woods&nbsp; on the&nbsp; opposite bank of the river,&nbsp; still lit up by the May<br />sun an hour earlier, turned dull, smeary, and dissolved.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Water&nbsp; fell down&nbsp; in&nbsp; a solid sheet&nbsp; outside&nbsp; the&nbsp; window. In the&nbsp; sky,<br />threads flashed every moment, the sky kept&nbsp; bursting open, and the patient's<br />room was flooded with a tremulous, frightening light.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan quietly&nbsp; wept, sitting on his&nbsp; bed&nbsp; and looking&nbsp; out at&nbsp; the muddy<br />river boiling with bubbles. At every clap of thunder, he cried out pitifully<br />and buried his face&nbsp; in&nbsp; his hands. Pages covered&nbsp; with&nbsp; Ivan's writing&nbsp; lay<br />about&nbsp; on the floor. They had been blown down by the wind that flew into the<br />room before the storm began.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The poet's&nbsp; attempts&nbsp; to&nbsp; write a&nbsp; statement&nbsp; concerning&nbsp; the&nbsp; terrible<br />consultant&nbsp; had gone nowhere. As&nbsp; soon as he got the&nbsp; pencil&nbsp; stub and paper<br />from&nbsp; the fat attendant, whose name was Praskovya Fyodorovna,&nbsp; he rubbed his<br />hands in&nbsp; a business-like&nbsp; way and&nbsp; hastily&nbsp; settled himself at&nbsp; the&nbsp; little<br />table. The beginning came out quite glibly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To the police.&nbsp; From&nbsp; Massolit&nbsp; member&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich&nbsp; Homeless.&nbsp; A<br />statement.&nbsp; Yesterday evening&nbsp; I&nbsp; came&nbsp; to&nbsp; the Patriarch's Ponds&nbsp; with&nbsp; the<br />deceased M. A. Berlioz...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; right&nbsp; there the&nbsp; poet&nbsp; got&nbsp; confused, mainly&nbsp; owing&nbsp; to the&nbsp; word<br />'deceased'. Some nonsensicality emerged at once: what's this - came with the<br />deceased? The deceased&nbsp; don't&nbsp; go&nbsp; anywhere!&nbsp; Really, for all&nbsp; he knew, they<br />might take him for a madman!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having&nbsp; reflected thus, Ivan Nikolaevich began to correct what&nbsp; he&nbsp; had<br />written. What came out this time was: '...&nbsp; with M. A. Berlioz, subsequently<br />deceased&nbsp; ...' This&nbsp; did&nbsp; not&nbsp; satisfy the&nbsp; author either.&nbsp; He&nbsp; had to&nbsp; have<br />recourse to a third redaction, which proved still worse than&nbsp; the first two:<br />'Berlioz, who&nbsp; fell under the&nbsp; tram-car...'&nbsp; - and&nbsp; that namesake&nbsp; composer,<br />unknown to&nbsp; anyone, was also&nbsp; dangling&nbsp; here, so&nbsp; he had to put in: 'not the<br />composer...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After suffering over these two Berliozes, Ivan crossed&nbsp; it all&nbsp; out and<br />decided to begin right off with something&nbsp; very strong,&nbsp; in order to attract<br />the&nbsp; reader's attention&nbsp; at&nbsp; once,&nbsp; so&nbsp; he wrote that&nbsp; a&nbsp; cat&nbsp; had got on&nbsp; a<br />tram-car, and&nbsp; then went back to the episode with the severed head. The head<br />and the consultant's prediction led&nbsp; him&nbsp; to the thought of&nbsp; Pontius Pilate,<br />and for&nbsp; greater conviction&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; decided to tell&nbsp; the&nbsp; whole story&nbsp; of the<br />procurator in full, from the&nbsp; moment he walked out&nbsp; in&nbsp; his white cloak with<br />blood-red lining to the colonnade of Herod's palace.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan worked assiduously,&nbsp; crossing out what&nbsp; he had written, putting in<br />new words, and even attempted to draw Pontius Pilate and then a cat standing<br />on&nbsp; its hind legs. But the&nbsp; drawings did not help, and the further it&nbsp; went,<br />the more confusing and incomprehensible the poet's statement became.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; By the time the frightening&nbsp; cloud with smoking edges appeared from far<br />off and covered the woods, and the wind began to blow, Ivan felt that he was<br />strengthless, that he would&nbsp; never be able to manage with the statement, and<br />he would not pick up the scattered pages, and he wept quietly and bitterly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The good-natured nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna visited the poet during the<br />storm, became alarmed&nbsp; on seeing him weeping, closed the&nbsp; blinds so that the<br />lightning would&nbsp; not frighten&nbsp; the patient, picked up&nbsp; the&nbsp; pages&nbsp; from&nbsp; the<br />floor, and ran with them for the doctor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He came, gave&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; an injection in the&nbsp; arm, and&nbsp; assured him that he<br />would&nbsp; not weep any&nbsp; more, that&nbsp; everything would pass now, everything would<br />change, everything would be forgotten.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; doctor proved&nbsp; right.&nbsp; Soon&nbsp; the woods across the river&nbsp; became as<br />before. It was outlined to the last tree under the sky, which cleared to its<br />former perfect blue,&nbsp; and the&nbsp; river grew&nbsp; calm.&nbsp; Anguish had begun to leave<br />Ivan&nbsp; right after the&nbsp; injection, and now the&nbsp; poet lay calmly and looked at<br />the rainbow that stretched across the sky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So it went&nbsp; till&nbsp; evening, and&nbsp; he did not even&nbsp; notice how the rainbow<br />melted away, how the sky saddened and faded, how the woods turned black.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having drunk some hot milk, Ivan&nbsp; lay&nbsp; down again and marvelled himself<br />at how&nbsp; changed his thinking was. The accursed, demonic cat somehow softened<br />in&nbsp; his&nbsp; memory,&nbsp; the&nbsp; severed&nbsp; head did not&nbsp; frighten him&nbsp; any&nbsp; more,&nbsp; and,<br />abandoning all thought of&nbsp; it, Ivan&nbsp; began to reflect that,&nbsp; essentially, it<br />was not so bad in the clinic, that Stravinsky was&nbsp; a clever man and a famous<br />one,&nbsp; and it was&nbsp; quite pleasant to deal with him. Besides,&nbsp; the evening air<br />was sweet and fresh after the storm.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The house of sorrow was falling&nbsp; asleep. In quiet corridors the frosted<br />white lights went out, and in their&nbsp; place, according&nbsp; to regulations, faint<br />blue night-lights&nbsp; were lit, and&nbsp; the careful steps of attendants were heard<br />more and more rarely on the rubber matting of the corridor outside the door.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Now Ivan lay in&nbsp; sweet languor, glancing&nbsp; at the&nbsp; lamp under its shade,<br />shedding a softened light&nbsp; from the ceiling, then&nbsp; at the moon rising behind<br />the black woods, and conversed with himself.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Why, actually, did I&nbsp; get so&nbsp; excited&nbsp; about&nbsp; Berlioz falling&nbsp; under a<br />tram-car?' the poet reasoned. `In the&nbsp; final analysis, let him sink! What am<br />I, in fact, his chum or in-law? If&nbsp; we air the&nbsp; question properly,&nbsp; it turns<br />out that, in essence, I really did not even know the deceased. What, indeed,<br />did I know about him? Nothing except that he was bald and terribly eloquent.<br />And furthermore, citizens,' Ivan continued his speech, addressing someone or<br />other,&nbsp; `let's&nbsp; sort this out:&nbsp; why,&nbsp; tell&nbsp; me,&nbsp; did&nbsp; I&nbsp; get furious at this<br />mysterious consultant, magician and professor with the black and empty eye?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Why all this absurd chase after him in underpants&nbsp; and with a candle in<br />my hand, and then those wild shenanigans in the restaurant?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Uh-uh-uh!'&nbsp; the&nbsp; former Ivan suddenly said sternly&nbsp; somewhere,&nbsp; either<br />inside&nbsp; or&nbsp; over his&nbsp; ear,&nbsp; to the new&nbsp; Ivan. `He&nbsp; did&nbsp; know beforehand that<br />Berlioz's head would be cut off, didn't he? How could I not get excited?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What are we talking about, comrades?' the&nbsp; new&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; objected&nbsp; to the<br />old,&nbsp; former&nbsp; Ivan. That things&nbsp; are not quite proper here, even a child can<br />understand. He's a one-hundred-per-cent outstanding and mysterious person!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But&nbsp; that's&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp; most&nbsp; interesting&nbsp; thing!&nbsp; The&nbsp; man&nbsp; was&nbsp; personally<br />acquainted with Pontius&nbsp; Pilate,&nbsp; what could be more interesting&nbsp; than that?<br />And,&nbsp; instead of raising a stupid rumpus at the Ponds, wouldn't it have been<br />more&nbsp; intelligent to&nbsp; question him politely&nbsp; about what happened&nbsp; further on<br />with Pilate&nbsp; and his&nbsp; prisoner Ha-Nozri?&nbsp; And I started devil knows&nbsp; what! A<br />major occurrence, really - a magazine editor gets run over! And so, what, is<br />the magazine going to shut down for that? Well,&nbsp; what&nbsp; can be done about it?<br />Man is mortal and, as has&nbsp; rightly been said, unexpectedly mortal. Well, may<br />he rest in peace! Well, so&nbsp; there'll be another editor, and maybe even&nbsp; more<br />eloquent than the previous one!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After&nbsp; dozing&nbsp; for&nbsp;&nbsp; a&nbsp; while,&nbsp; the&nbsp;&nbsp; new&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; asked&nbsp; the&nbsp; old&nbsp; Ivan<br />sarcastically:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And what does it make me, in that case?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A fool!' a bass voice said distinctly somewhere, a voice not belonging<br />to either of the Ivans and extremely like the bass of the consultant.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan,&nbsp; for&nbsp; some&nbsp; reason&nbsp; not offended&nbsp; by&nbsp; the&nbsp; word 'fool', but&nbsp; even<br />pleasantly&nbsp; surprised at&nbsp; it,&nbsp; smiled and&nbsp; drowsily&nbsp; grew quiet.&nbsp; Sleep&nbsp; was<br />stealing&nbsp; over&nbsp; Ivan,&nbsp; and&nbsp; he&nbsp; was&nbsp; already picturing&nbsp; a palm tree&nbsp; on&nbsp; its<br />elephant's leg, and a cat passing by - not scary, but merry - and, in short,<br />sleep was&nbsp; just about&nbsp; to&nbsp; come&nbsp; over&nbsp; Ivan,&nbsp; when the grille suddenly moved<br />noiselessly aside,&nbsp; and a mysterious figure appeared on&nbsp; the balcony, hiding<br />from the moonlight, and shook its finger at Ivan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Not frightened in the least,&nbsp; Ivan sat up in bed and saw that there was<br />a&nbsp; man on the&nbsp; balcony.&nbsp; And&nbsp; this&nbsp; man,&nbsp; pressing a&nbsp; finger&nbsp; to&nbsp; his&nbsp; lips,<br />whispered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Shhh! ...']]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>2de2002f-d252-40fc-9f8b-722ad2b5bd74</id><title>Chapter 10: News from Yalta</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/10/chapter_10_news_from_yalta" /><updated>10-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="13"></a><h2>CHAPTER 10. News From Yalta</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At the&nbsp; same time that disaster struck Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich, not far away<br />from no.502-bis, on the same Sadovaya Street, in the office of the financial<br />director of the Variety Theatre,&nbsp; Rimsky, there sat two men: Rimsky himself,<br />and the administrator of the Variety, Varenukha [1].'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; big office on the second floor of the&nbsp; theatre&nbsp; had two windows on<br />Sadovaya and one, just behind the&nbsp; back of the findirector,&nbsp; who was sitting<br />at his desk,&nbsp; facing the&nbsp; summer&nbsp; garden&nbsp; of the Variety,&nbsp; where&nbsp; there were<br />refreshment&nbsp;&nbsp; stands,&nbsp; a&nbsp; shooting&nbsp; gallery&nbsp;&nbsp; and&nbsp; an&nbsp; open-air&nbsp; stage.&nbsp; The<br />furnishings of the office,&nbsp; apart from the desk, consisted of a bunch of old<br />posters hanging on the&nbsp; wall, a small table&nbsp; with&nbsp; a carafe of water&nbsp; on it,<br />four armchairs and, in&nbsp; the corner,&nbsp; a stand&nbsp; on which&nbsp; stood a dust-covered<br />scale model of&nbsp; some&nbsp; past review.&nbsp; Well,&nbsp; it goes&nbsp; without saying that,&nbsp; in<br />addition,&nbsp; there was in the office a&nbsp; small, shabby, peeling fireproof safe,<br />to Rimsky's left, next to the desk.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky, now sitting at his desk, had been in bad spirits since morning,<br />while Varenukha, on the contrary, was very animated and&nbsp; somehow&nbsp; especially<br />restlessly active. Yet there was no outlet for his energy.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha was presently&nbsp; hiding in the findirector's&nbsp; office to&nbsp; escape<br />the seekers&nbsp; of free passes, who poisoned his life,&nbsp; especially on days when<br />the programme&nbsp; changed. And today&nbsp; was precisely such a day. As&nbsp; soon as the<br />telephone started to ring, Varenukha would pick up the receiver and lie into<br />it:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Who? Varenukha? He's not here. He stepped out.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Please call Likhodeev again,' Rimsky asked vexedly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's&nbsp; not home. I even sent Karpov, there's no&nbsp; one in the apartment.'<br />`Devil&nbsp; knows what's&nbsp; going on!'&nbsp; Rimisky&nbsp; hissed,&nbsp; clacking&nbsp; on&nbsp; the adding<br />machine.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; door&nbsp; opened&nbsp; and&nbsp; an usher&nbsp; dragged in a&nbsp; thick stack of&nbsp; freshly<br />printed extra posters; in big red letters on a green background was printed:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Today and Every Day at the Variety Theatre<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; an Additional Programme<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; PROFESSOR WOLAND<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Sances of Black Magic and its Full Exposure<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha stepped back from the poster,&nbsp; which&nbsp; he had thrown on to the<br />scale model, admired it, and&nbsp; told&nbsp; the usher&nbsp; to send&nbsp; all the posters&nbsp; out<br />immediately to be pasted up.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Good... Loud!' Varenukha observed on the usher's departure.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `And&nbsp; I&nbsp; dislike this undertaking extremely,' Rimsky grumbled, glancing<br />spitefully at the poster through his horn-rimmed glasses, 'and generally I'm<br />surprised he's been allowed to present it.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, Grigory Danilovich, don't say so! This is a very subdue&nbsp; step. The<br />salt is all in the exposure.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I don't know, I don't know, there's no salt, in my opinion... and he's<br />always&nbsp; coming up with things&nbsp; like this! ... He might at&nbsp; least show us his<br />magician! Have you seen him? Where he dug him up, devil knows!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It turned&nbsp; out that Varenukha&nbsp; had not seen&nbsp; the magician any more than<br />Rimsky&nbsp; had. Yesterday&nbsp; Styopa had&nbsp; come running ('like&nbsp; crazy', in Rimsky's<br />expression) to the findirector with the already written draft of a contract,<br />ordered&nbsp; it copied straight away and&nbsp; the money&nbsp; handed over&nbsp; to Woland. And<br />this&nbsp; magician&nbsp; had&nbsp; cleared out, and&nbsp; no&nbsp; one&nbsp; had&nbsp; seen him&nbsp; except Styopa<br />himself.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky took out his watch, saw that it read five minutes past two,&nbsp; and<br />flew into a&nbsp; complete rage. Really! Likhodeev&nbsp; had called at around&nbsp; eleven,<br />said he'd&nbsp; come&nbsp; in&nbsp; half&nbsp; an&nbsp; hour, and&nbsp; not&nbsp; only had&nbsp; not&nbsp; come, but&nbsp; had<br />disappeared from his apartment.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's holding up&nbsp; my business!' Rimsky&nbsp; was&nbsp; roaring&nbsp; now, jabbing&nbsp; his<br />finger at a pile of unsigned papers.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Might he have fallen under a tram-car like Berlioz?' Varenukha said as<br />he held his ear to the&nbsp; receiver, from which came low, prolonged and utterly<br />hopeless signals.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Wouldn't be a bad&nbsp; thing...' Rimsky&nbsp; said barely&nbsp; audibly&nbsp; through his<br />teeth.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At that same&nbsp; moment a&nbsp; woman in a uniform&nbsp; jacket,&nbsp; visored cap, black<br />skirt and sneakers came into the office. From a small pouch&nbsp; at her belt the<br />woman took a small white square and a notebook and asked:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Who here is Variety? A super-lightning telegram. [2] Sign here.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha&nbsp; scribbled some flourish in the woman's notebook, and as soon<br />as the door slammed&nbsp; behind&nbsp; her,&nbsp; he&nbsp; opened the square. After reading&nbsp; the<br />telegram, he blinked and handed the square to Rimsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The telegram contained&nbsp; the following: `Yalta to Moscow&nbsp; Variety. Today<br />eleven&nbsp; thirty&nbsp; brown-haired&nbsp; man&nbsp; came&nbsp; criminal&nbsp; investigation&nbsp; nightshirt<br />trousers&nbsp; shoeless mental case&nbsp; gave name Likhodeev&nbsp; Director&nbsp; Variety&nbsp; Wire<br />Yalta criminal investigation where Director Likhodeev.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Hello&nbsp; and how do&nbsp; you&nbsp; do!'&nbsp; Rimsky&nbsp; exclaimed,&nbsp; and added:&nbsp; 'Another<br />surprise!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A&nbsp; false Dmitri!'[3] said Varenukha,&nbsp; and he&nbsp; spoke into the receiver.<br />Telegraph office? Variety account. Take a&nbsp; super-lightning telegram. Are you<br />listening?&nbsp; &quot;Yalta&nbsp;&nbsp; criminal&nbsp; investigation.&nbsp; Director&nbsp;&nbsp; Likhodeev&nbsp;&nbsp; Moscow<br />Findirector Rimsky.&quot;'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Irrespective&nbsp; of the&nbsp; news&nbsp; about the&nbsp; Yalta impostor,&nbsp; Varenukha again<br />began searching all over for Styopa by telephone, and naturally did not find<br />him anywhere.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Just as Varenukha, receiver in hand, was pondering&nbsp; where else he might<br />call, the same woman who had brought the first&nbsp; telegram came in&nbsp; and handed<br />Varenukha&nbsp; a new envelope. Opening it hurriedly, Varenukha read the&nbsp; message<br />and whistled.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What now?' Rimsky asked, twitching nervously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha silently&nbsp; handed&nbsp; him the&nbsp; telegram,&nbsp; and the findirector saw<br />there the&nbsp; words: `Beg believe&nbsp; thrown&nbsp; Yalta Woland hypnosis&nbsp; wire criminal<br />investigation confirm identity Likhodeev.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky&nbsp; and Varenukha,&nbsp; their heads&nbsp; touching, reread the telegram, and<br />after rereading it, silently stared at each other.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Citizens!' the&nbsp; woman got angry. 'Sign, and then be silent&nbsp; as much as<br />you like! I deliver lightnings!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha,&nbsp; without&nbsp; taking his eyes off the&nbsp; telegram, made a&nbsp; crooked<br />scrawl in the notebook, and the woman vanished.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Didn't you&nbsp; talk with&nbsp; him on the phone at a&nbsp; little past eleven?' the<br />administrator began in total bewilderment.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, it's&nbsp; ridiculous!' Rimsky cried&nbsp; shrilly. Talk or not, he can't be<br />in Yalta now! It's ridiculous!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's drunk...' said Varenukha.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Who's drunk?' asked Rimsky, and again the two stared at each other.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That some&nbsp; impostor or madman had sent telegrams&nbsp; from Yalta, there was<br />no&nbsp; doubt. But the strange thing was this: how did the Yalta mystifier&nbsp; know<br />Woland,&nbsp; who had&nbsp; come&nbsp; to Moscow just the day before? How did he know about<br />the connection between Likhodeev and Woland?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hypnosis...' Varenukha kept repeating the word from the telegram.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How does he know about Woland?' He blinked his eyes and suddenly cried<br />resolutely: 'Ah, no! Nonsense! ... Nonsense, nonsense!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Where's he staying, this Woland, devil take him?' asked Rimsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha&nbsp; immediately got&nbsp; connected with the&nbsp; foreign&nbsp; tourist bureau<br />and, to Rimsky's utter astonishment, announced&nbsp; that Woland was&nbsp; staying&nbsp; in<br />Likhodeev's apartment. Dialling the number of the Likhodeev&nbsp; apartment after<br />that, Varenukha listened for a long time to the low buzzing in the receiver.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Amidst the buzzing, from somewhere far away, came a heavy, gloomy voice<br />singing:&nbsp; '...&nbsp; rocks, my refuge ...'[4]&nbsp; and&nbsp; Varenukha&nbsp; decided&nbsp; that&nbsp; the<br />telephone lines had crossed with a voice from a radio show.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; apartment&nbsp; doesn't&nbsp; answer,'&nbsp; Varenukha&nbsp; said,&nbsp; putting&nbsp; down&nbsp; the<br />receiver, 'or maybe I should call...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He did&nbsp; not finish. The same woman appeared in the door, and&nbsp; both men,<br />Rimsky and Varenukha, rose&nbsp; to meet her, while she took from her pouch not a<br />white sheet this time, but some sort of dark one.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This is&nbsp; beginning&nbsp; to&nbsp; get&nbsp; interesting,' Varenukha&nbsp; said through&nbsp; his<br />teeth, his&nbsp; eyes&nbsp; following the&nbsp; hurriedly&nbsp; departing woman. Rimsky&nbsp; was the<br />first to take hold of the sheet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On&nbsp; a&nbsp; dark background&nbsp; of&nbsp; photographic paper, some black&nbsp; handwritten<br />lines were barely discernible:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Proof my handwriting&nbsp; my&nbsp; signature wire&nbsp; urgently&nbsp; confirmation place<br />secret watch Woland Likhodeev.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In his&nbsp; twenty&nbsp; years of work in&nbsp; the theatre,&nbsp; Varenukha had seen&nbsp; all<br />kinds of sights, but here he felt his mind becoming obscured as with a veil,<br />and he could find nothing to say but the&nbsp; at once mundane and utterly absurd<br />phrase:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This cannot be!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky acted otherwise. He stood up, opened the door, barked out to the<br />messenger girl sitting on a stool:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Let no one in except postmen!' - and locked the door with a key.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then&nbsp; he took a pile of papers out of the desk&nbsp; and began carefully&nbsp; to<br />compare the bold, back-slanting letters of the photogram with the letters in<br />Styopa's resolutions and signatures, furnished with a corkscrew flourish.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha,&nbsp; leaning his weight on the table, breathed hotly on Rimsky's<br />cheek.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `It's&nbsp; his&nbsp; handwriting,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector finally&nbsp; said&nbsp; firmly,&nbsp; and<br />Varenukha repeated like an echo:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'His.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Peering into Rimsky's face, the administrator&nbsp; marvelled&nbsp; at the change<br />that had come over this face. Thin to begin with, the findirector seemed&nbsp; to<br />have&nbsp; grown still thinner and&nbsp; even older,&nbsp; his eyes in&nbsp; their horn rims had<br />lost their customary prickliness, and there appeared in them not only alarm,<br />but even sorrow.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha&nbsp; did everything that a man in a moment&nbsp; of great astonishment<br />ought to do. He raced up and down the office, he raised his&nbsp; arms twice like<br />one crucified, he drank a whole glass of yellowish water from the carafe and<br />exclaimed:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I don't understand! I don't understand! I don't un-der-stand!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky&nbsp; meanwhile&nbsp; was looking out&nbsp; the&nbsp; window,&nbsp; thinking&nbsp; hard&nbsp; about<br />something. The findirector's position was&nbsp; very difficult.&nbsp; It was necessary<br />at&nbsp;&nbsp; once,&nbsp; right&nbsp; on&nbsp; the&nbsp; spot,&nbsp; to&nbsp;&nbsp; invent&nbsp;&nbsp; ordinary&nbsp; explanations&nbsp; for<br />extraordinary phenomena.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Narrowing&nbsp; his eyes,&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector pictured to himself Styopa, in a<br />nightshirt and shoeless,&nbsp; getting into&nbsp; some unprecedented&nbsp; super-high-speed<br />airplane at around&nbsp; half past eleven that morning, and then the same Styopa,<br />also at half past eleven,&nbsp; standing in his stocking feet at the&nbsp; airport&nbsp; in<br />Yalta ... devil knew what to make of it!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Maybe it was not Styopa who talked with him this morning over the phone<br />from his&nbsp; own apartment?&nbsp; No, it&nbsp; was Styopa speaking! Who if not&nbsp; he should<br />know Styopa's voice? And even if it was not Styopa speaking today, it was no<br />earlier&nbsp; than&nbsp; yesterday,&nbsp; towards&nbsp; evening, that Styopa&nbsp; had&nbsp; come from his<br />office to this very&nbsp; office&nbsp; with&nbsp; this&nbsp; idiotic&nbsp; contract&nbsp; and&nbsp; annoyed the<br />findirector with his light-mindedness. How could&nbsp; he have gone or flown away<br />without leaving word&nbsp; at&nbsp; the&nbsp; theatre?&nbsp; But if&nbsp; he had flown away yesterday<br />evening - he would not have arrived by noon today. Or would he?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How many miles is it to Yalta?' asked Rimsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha stopped his running and yelled:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I thought&nbsp; of that! I already thought&nbsp; of it!&nbsp; By train it's over nine<br />hundred miles to Sebastopol, plus another fifty to Yalta! Well, but by&nbsp; air,<br />of course, it's less.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Hm ... Yes ... There could be no question of any trains. But what then?<br />Some fighter&nbsp; plane? Who would let Styopa on any fighter&nbsp; plane&nbsp; without his<br />shoes? What for? Maybe he took his shoes off when he got to&nbsp; Yalta? It's the<br />same thing: what for? And even with his shoes on they&nbsp; wouldn't have let him<br />on a fighter! And what has the fighter got to do with it? It's&nbsp; written that<br />he&nbsp; came to the&nbsp; investigators at half past&nbsp; eleven in&nbsp; the&nbsp; morning, and he<br />talked on the&nbsp; telephone in Moscow ... excuse&nbsp; me ... (the&nbsp; face of Rimsky's<br />watch emerged before his eyes).<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky tried to remember where the&nbsp; hands had been ... Terrible! It had<br />been twenty minutes past eleven!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So&nbsp; what&nbsp; does&nbsp; it&nbsp; boil&nbsp; down&nbsp; to?&nbsp; If one&nbsp; supposes&nbsp; that&nbsp; after&nbsp; the<br />conversation Styopa instantly rushed to the airport, and reached it in, say,<br />five minutes (which, incidentally, was also unthinkable), it&nbsp; means that the<br />plane, taking off at once, covered nearly a thousand miles in five minutes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Consequently, it was&nbsp; flying&nbsp; at twelve thousand&nbsp; miles an hour!!! That<br />cannot be, and that means he's not in Yalta!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What remains, then? Hypnosis? There's no hypnosis in the world that can<br />fling&nbsp; a man a thousand miles away! So he's imagining that he's in Yalta? He<br />may be&nbsp; imagining it, but are the Yalta investigators also imagining it? No,<br />no, sorry, that can't be! ... Yet they did telegraph from there?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The findirector's face was literally dreadful. The door&nbsp; handle was all<br />the while being turned and pulled from outside, and the messenger girl could<br />be heard through the door crying desperately:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Impossible! I won't let you! Cut me to pieces! It's a meeting!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky&nbsp; regained&nbsp; control of&nbsp; himself&nbsp; as well&nbsp; as&nbsp; he could, took&nbsp; the<br />receiver of the phone, and said into it:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A super-urgent call to Yalta, please.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Clever!' Varenukha observed mentally.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But the conversation with&nbsp; Yalta did not take place. Rimsky hung up the<br />receiver and said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'As luck would have it, the line's broken.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It could&nbsp; be&nbsp; seen&nbsp; that the&nbsp; broken line especially upset him for some<br />reason,&nbsp; and even made him lapse into&nbsp; thought. Having&nbsp; thought a little, he<br />again took&nbsp; the receiver&nbsp; in one hand, and with the other began writing down<br />what he said into it:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Take&nbsp; a super-lightning.&nbsp; Variety.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; Yalta criminal investigation.<br />Yes. 'Today around eleven thirty Likhodeev talked me phone Moscow stop After<br />that did not come work unable locate by phone stop Confirm&nbsp; handwriting stop<br />Taking measures watch said artiste Findirector Rimsky.'&quot;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Very clever!' thought Varenukha, but before he had time to think well,<br />the words rushed through his head: 'Stupid! He can't be in Yalta!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky meanwhile did the following:&nbsp; he neatly stacked all the received<br />telegrams, plus the copy of his own, put the stack into an&nbsp; envelope, sealed<br />it, wrote a few words on it, and handed it to Varenukha, saying:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Go right now, Ivan Savelyevich, take it there personally. [5] Let them<br />sort it out.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Now that is really clever!' thought Varenukha, and he put the envelope<br />into his briefcase. Then, just in case, he dialled Styopa's apartment number<br />on the&nbsp; telephone, listened, and&nbsp; began winking and&nbsp; grimacing&nbsp; joyfully and<br />mysteriously. Rimsky stretched his neck.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'May I speak with the artiste Woland?' Varenukha asked sweetly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Mister's&nbsp; busy,' the receiver answered&nbsp; in&nbsp; a&nbsp; rattling&nbsp; voice, 'who's<br />calling?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The administrator of the Variety, Varenukha.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Ivan Savelyevich?' the receiver&nbsp; cried out joyfully. Terribly&nbsp; glad to<br />hear your voice! How're you doing?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Merci,' Varenukha replied in amazement, 'and with whom am I speaking?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'His assistant, his&nbsp; assistant and interpreter, Koroviev!' crackled the<br />receiver. 'I'm entirely at&nbsp; your service, my dearest Ivan Savelyevich! Order<br />me around as you like. And so?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Excuse me,&nbsp; but ... what,&nbsp; is Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev not at home<br />now?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Alas, no! No!' the receiver shouted. 'He left!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'For where?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Out of town, for a drive in the car.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Wh ... what? A dr ... drive? And when will he be back?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He said, I'll get a breath of fresh air and come back.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `So...'&nbsp; said&nbsp; the puzzled Varenukha, 'merci&nbsp; ...&nbsp; kindly tell Monsieur<br />Woland that his performance is tonight in the third part of the programme.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Right.&nbsp; Of&nbsp; course.&nbsp; Absolutely.&nbsp; Urgently.&nbsp; Without fail.&nbsp; I'll&nbsp; tell<br />him,'the receiver rapped out abruptly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Goodbye,' Varenukha said in astonishment.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Please&nbsp; accept,'&nbsp; said the receiver, 'my best,&nbsp; warmest&nbsp; greetings and<br />wishes! For success! Luck! Complete happiness! Everything!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But of course! Didn't I say so!' the administrator cried agitatedly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's not any Yalta, he just went to the country!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, if that's so,' the findirector&nbsp; began,&nbsp; turning pale with anger,<br />'it's real swinishness, there's even no name for it!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here the&nbsp; administrator&nbsp; jumped up and&nbsp; shouted&nbsp; so&nbsp; that Rimsky gave a<br />start:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I&nbsp; remember! I&nbsp; remember!&nbsp; They've opened&nbsp; a&nbsp; new Georgian&nbsp; tavern&nbsp; in<br />Pushkino called&nbsp; &quot;Yalta&quot;! It's all clear! He went&nbsp; there, got drunk, and now<br />he's sending telegrams from there!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, now that's too much!'&nbsp; Rimsky answered, his cheek twitching, and<br />deep,&nbsp; genuine anger burned&nbsp; in&nbsp; his&nbsp; eyes. 'Well,&nbsp; then, he's&nbsp; going to pay<br />dearly&nbsp; for&nbsp; this&nbsp; little excursion!&nbsp; ...'&nbsp; He&nbsp; suddenly faltered and&nbsp; added<br />irresolutely: 'But what about the criminal investigation ...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's&nbsp; nonsense! His&nbsp; own&nbsp; little jokes,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; expansive administrator<br />interrupted, and asked: 'Shall I take the envelope?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Absolutely,' replied Rimsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And again the&nbsp; door&nbsp; opened&nbsp; and&nbsp; in came that same&nbsp; ... 'Her!' thought<br />Rimsky,&nbsp; for&nbsp; some reason with&nbsp; anguish.&nbsp; And&nbsp; both&nbsp; men&nbsp; rose to&nbsp; meet&nbsp; the<br />postwoman.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This time the telegram contained the words:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Thank&nbsp;&nbsp; you&nbsp;&nbsp; confirmation&nbsp;&nbsp; send&nbsp;&nbsp; five&nbsp; hundred&nbsp;&nbsp; urgently&nbsp;&nbsp; criminal<br />investigation my name tomorrow fly Moscow Likhodeev.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's lost his mind...' Varenukha said weakly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rimsky jingled his key, took money from the fireproof safe, counted out<br />five hundred roubles,&nbsp; rang&nbsp; the bell,&nbsp; handed the messenger the money,&nbsp; and<br />sent him to the telegraph office.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Good heavens, Grigory&nbsp; Danilovich,' Varenukha said,&nbsp; not believing his<br />eyes, 'in my opinion you oughtn't to send the money.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It'll come&nbsp; back,' Rimsky replied quietly, 'but he'll have a hard time<br />explaining&nbsp; this&nbsp; little picnic.' And he&nbsp; added, indicating the briefcase to<br />Varenukha: 'Go, Ivan Savelyevich, don't delay.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And Varenukha ran out of the office with the briefcase.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He&nbsp; went down to&nbsp; the ground floor,&nbsp; saw&nbsp; the longest&nbsp; line at&nbsp; the box<br />office,&nbsp; found&nbsp; out from the&nbsp; box-office girl that&nbsp; she expected to sell out<br />within&nbsp; the&nbsp; hour,&nbsp; because&nbsp; the&nbsp; public&nbsp; was&nbsp; simply&nbsp; pouring in&nbsp; since the<br />additional poster had been put up, told the girl to&nbsp; earmark and hold thirty<br />of&nbsp; the best&nbsp; seats in&nbsp; the gallery and&nbsp; the stalls, popped out&nbsp; of the&nbsp; box<br />office,&nbsp; shook&nbsp; off&nbsp; importunate pass-seekers as&nbsp; he ran, and dived into his<br />little office to get his cap. At that moment the telephone rattled.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes!' Varenukha shouted.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ivan&nbsp; Savelyevich?'&nbsp; the receiver&nbsp; inquired in a most&nbsp; repulsive nasal<br />voice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's not in the&nbsp; theatre!' Varenukha was&nbsp; shouting,&nbsp; but&nbsp; the receiver<br />interrupted him at once:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't play the fool, Ivan&nbsp; Savelyevich, just listen. Do not take those<br />telegrams anywhere or show them to anyone.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Who&nbsp; is&nbsp; this?' Varenukha bellowed. 'Stop these jokes, citizen! You'll<br />be found out at once! What's your number?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Varenukha,' the same nasty voice returned, 'do you understand Russian?<br />Don't take the telegrams anywhere.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, so you won't stop?'&nbsp; the administrator cried furiously. 'Look out,<br />then!&nbsp; You're going to&nbsp; pay for it!' He shouted some other threat, but&nbsp; fell<br />silent, because he sensed that no one was listening to him any longer in the<br />receiver.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here it somehow began to grow dark very quickly in his little office.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha ran out, slammed the door behind him, and rushed&nbsp; through the<br />side entrance into the summer garden.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; administrator was agitated and full of energy. After the&nbsp; insolent<br />phone call&nbsp; he had no doubts that it was a band&nbsp; of hooligans&nbsp; playing nasty<br />tricks,&nbsp; and that&nbsp; these tricks were&nbsp; connected&nbsp; with&nbsp; the&nbsp; disappearance of<br />Likhodeev.&nbsp; The administrator&nbsp; was&nbsp; choking&nbsp; with&nbsp; the desire to&nbsp; expose the<br />malefactors, and, strange as it was, the anticipation of something enjoyable<br />was born in him. It happens that way when a man strives to become the centre<br />of attention, to bring sensational news somewhere.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In the garden the wind blew in the administrator's&nbsp; face and flung sand<br />in his eyes, as if blocking his way,&nbsp; as&nbsp; if cautioning him. A window on the<br />second floor slammed so that the&nbsp; glass nearly broke, the tops of the maples<br />and&nbsp;&nbsp; lindens&nbsp;&nbsp; rustled&nbsp; alarmingly.&nbsp;&nbsp; It&nbsp; became&nbsp; darker&nbsp; and&nbsp; colder.&nbsp; The<br />administrator rubbed his eyes and saw that&nbsp; a yellow-bellied storm cloud was<br />creeping low over Moscow. There came a dense, distant rumbling.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; However&nbsp; great Varenukha's hurry, an irrepressible desire pulled at him<br />to run over to the summer toilet for a second on his way,&nbsp; to check&nbsp; whether<br />the repairman had put a wire screen over the light-bulb.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Running past the shooting&nbsp; gallery, Varenukha came to a thick growth of<br />lilacs where the light-blue toilet&nbsp; building stood. The repairman turned out<br />to be an efficient fellow, the bulb under&nbsp; the roof&nbsp; of the gentlemen's side<br />was covered with a wire screen, but the administrator was upset that even in<br />the&nbsp; pre-storm&nbsp; darkness one&nbsp; could make&nbsp; out&nbsp; that the walls&nbsp; were&nbsp; already<br />written all over in charcoal and pencil.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, what sort&nbsp; of...' the&nbsp; administrator began&nbsp; and suddenly heard a<br />voice purring behind him:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Is that you, Ivan Savelyevich?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha started,&nbsp; turned around, and saw before him a short, fat&nbsp; man<br />with what seemed to him a cat-like physiognomy.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So, it's me', Varenukha answered hostilely.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Very, very&nbsp; glad,' the&nbsp; cat-like fat man responded&nbsp; in a squeaky voice<br />and, suddenly swinging his arm, gave Varenukha&nbsp; such a blow on the ear&nbsp; that<br />the cap flew off the administrator's head&nbsp; and vanished without a trace down<br />the hole in the seat.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At the fat&nbsp; man's&nbsp; blow, the&nbsp; whole&nbsp; toilet&nbsp; lit up momentarily with&nbsp; a<br />tremulous light, and a roll of&nbsp; thunder echoed in the sky. Then came another<br />flash&nbsp; and a second man&nbsp; emerged&nbsp; before the administrator - short, but with<br />athletic&nbsp; shoulders,&nbsp; hair red as&nbsp; fire, albugo&nbsp; in&nbsp; one eye, a fang in&nbsp; his<br />mouth... This second one, evidently a lefty, socked the administrator on the<br />other ear.&nbsp; In response there was another roll&nbsp; of&nbsp; thunder in&nbsp; the sky, and<br />rain poured down on the wooden roof of the toilet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `What is it, comr...' the half-crazed administrator whispered, realized<br />at once that the word 'comrades' hardly fitted bandits attacking a man&nbsp; in a<br />public toilet, rasped out: 'citiz...' - figured that they did not merit this<br />appellation either, and received a third terrible blow&nbsp; from he did not know<br />which of them, so that blood gushed from his nose on to his Tolstoy blouse.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What&nbsp; you&nbsp; got&nbsp; in the briefcase, parasite?' the one&nbsp; resembling a cat<br />cried shrilly. 'Telegrams?&nbsp; Weren't you warned&nbsp; over the phone&nbsp; not to&nbsp; take<br />them anywhere? Weren't you warned, I'm asking you?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I&nbsp;&nbsp; was&nbsp;&nbsp; wor...&nbsp;&nbsp; wer...&nbsp;&nbsp; warned...'&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp; administrator&nbsp; answered,<br />suffocating.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `And you&nbsp; skipped off anyway? Gimme the briefcase, vermin!' the&nbsp; second<br />one cried in the same nasal&nbsp; voice that had come over&nbsp; the telephone, and he<br />yanked the briefcase from Varenukha's trembling hands.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the two picked the administrator up under the arms, dragged him out<br />of the&nbsp; garden, and&nbsp; raced&nbsp; down Sadovaya with him. The&nbsp; storm raged at full<br />force,&nbsp; water streamed&nbsp; with&nbsp; a&nbsp; noise and howling&nbsp; down&nbsp; the&nbsp; drains, waves<br />bubbled and billowed&nbsp; everywhere,&nbsp; water&nbsp; gushed&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; roofs past&nbsp; the<br />drainpipes, foamy streams&nbsp; ran&nbsp; from gateways. Everything living got&nbsp; washed<br />off Sadovaya, and there was no one to save Ivan Savelyevich. Leaping through<br />muddy rivers, under flashes of lightning, the bandits dragged the half-alive<br />administrator&nbsp; in a&nbsp; split second to no.502-bis,&nbsp; flew with&nbsp; him through the<br />gateway, where two&nbsp; barefoot&nbsp; women, holding their shoes&nbsp; and&nbsp; stockings&nbsp; in<br />their hands, pressed themselves to the wall. Then they dashed into the sixth<br />entrance, and Varenukha, nearly insane, was taken&nbsp; up to the fifth floor and<br />thrown&nbsp; down&nbsp; in the&nbsp; semi-dark front hall, so well known to&nbsp; him, of Styopa<br />Likhodeev's apartment.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here the two robbers vanished, and in their place there appeared in the<br />front&nbsp; hall a&nbsp; completely naked girl -&nbsp; red-haired, her eyes burning&nbsp; with a<br />phosphorescent gleam.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Varenukha understood that this was the most terrible of all things that<br />had&nbsp; ever happened to him and, moaning, recoiled against&nbsp; the wall. But&nbsp; the<br />girl came right up to the administrator and placed the palms of her hands on<br />his shoulders. Varenukha's hair stood on end, because even through the cold,<br />water-soaked cloth of his Tolstoy blouse he could feel that those palms were<br />still colder, that their cold was the cold of ice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Let&nbsp; me&nbsp; give you&nbsp; a&nbsp; kiss,' the&nbsp; girl said tenderly, and&nbsp; there&nbsp; were<br />shining eyes&nbsp; right in front of his&nbsp; eyes. Then Varenukha&nbsp; fainted and never<br />felt the kiss.]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>780ae837-abc5-42b6-821a-10af37ec6cf1</id><title>Chapter 9: Koroviev's Stunts</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/10/chapter_9_korovievs_stunts" /><updated>10-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="12"></a><h2>CHAPTER 9. Koroviev's Stunts</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the&nbsp; tenants' association'&nbsp; [1] of<br />no.302-bis on&nbsp; Sadovaya Street in Moscow,&nbsp; where&nbsp; the late&nbsp; Berlioz&nbsp; used to<br />reside, had&nbsp; been&nbsp; having&nbsp; the most terrible&nbsp; troubles,&nbsp; starting&nbsp; from that<br />Wednesday night.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At midnight, as we already know, a commission of which Zheldybin formed<br />a&nbsp; part&nbsp; came to the house, summoned&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich, told him&nbsp; about the<br />death of Berlioz, and together with him went to apartment no.50.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There the sealing&nbsp; of&nbsp; the deceased's manuscripts&nbsp; and&nbsp; belongings&nbsp; was<br />carried out. Neither&nbsp; Grunya, the daytime housekeeper, nor&nbsp; the light-minded<br />Stepan&nbsp; Bogdanovich&nbsp; was&nbsp; there&nbsp; at&nbsp; the&nbsp; time. The commission announced&nbsp; to<br />Nikanor Ivanovich that it would take the deceased's manuscripts&nbsp; for sorting<br />out, that his living space, that is, three rooms (the former&nbsp; study,&nbsp; living<br />room and dining&nbsp; room of the jeweller's wife), reverted&nbsp; to&nbsp; the disposal of<br />the tenants' association, and that&nbsp; the&nbsp; belongings&nbsp; were to&nbsp; be kept in the<br />aforementioned living space until the heirs were announced.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The news of Berlioz's death spread&nbsp; through the whole house with a sort<br />of supernatural speed, and as of seven o'clock Thursday morning, Bosoy began<br />to&nbsp; receive&nbsp; telephone calls&nbsp; and&nbsp; then&nbsp; personal&nbsp; visits&nbsp; with declarations<br />containing claims&nbsp; to&nbsp; the&nbsp; deceased's&nbsp; living&nbsp; space. In&nbsp; the period of two<br />hours, Nikanor Ivanovich received thirty-two such declarations.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They&nbsp; contained pleas, threats,&nbsp; libels, denunciations,&nbsp; promises to do<br />renovations at their own expense, references to unbearable overcrowding&nbsp; and<br />the impossibility of living in the same apartment with bandits. Among others<br />there were&nbsp; a description,&nbsp; staggering&nbsp; in its artistic&nbsp; power, of the theft<br />from&nbsp; apartment no. 51&nbsp; of some&nbsp; meat dumplings,&nbsp; tucked directly&nbsp; into&nbsp; the<br />pocket of a suit jacket, two&nbsp; vows to end life by suicide and one confession<br />of secret pregnancy.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich was&nbsp; called&nbsp; out&nbsp; to the front hall of his apartment,<br />plucked by the sleeve,&nbsp; whispered to, winked at, promised that&nbsp; he would not<br />be left the loser.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This torture went on until noon, when Nikanor Ivanovich simply fled his<br />apartment for the management office by the&nbsp; gate, but when he saw them lying<br />in&nbsp; wait for&nbsp; him there,&nbsp; too,&nbsp; he&nbsp; fled that place as&nbsp; well. Having somehow<br />shaken&nbsp; off those&nbsp; who&nbsp; followed&nbsp; on&nbsp; his&nbsp; heels&nbsp; across&nbsp; the&nbsp; asphalt-paved<br />courtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich disappeared into the sixth entrance and went up<br />to the fifth floor, where this vile apartment no.50 was located.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After&nbsp; catching&nbsp; his&nbsp; breath&nbsp; on&nbsp; the&nbsp; landing,&nbsp; the&nbsp; corpulent Nikanor<br />Ivanovich rang, but no one opened for him. He rang&nbsp; again, and&nbsp; then&nbsp; again,<br />and started grumbling&nbsp; and swearing&nbsp; quietly. Even&nbsp; then no&nbsp; one opened. His<br />patience&nbsp; exhausted,&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; took from&nbsp; his&nbsp; pocket&nbsp; a bunch of<br />duplicate keys belonging&nbsp; to the house management,&nbsp; opened&nbsp; the&nbsp; door with a<br />sovereign hand, and went in.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hey,&nbsp; housekeeper!'&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich&nbsp; cried in the&nbsp; semi-dark&nbsp; front<br />hall. 'Grunya, or whatever your name is! ... Are you here?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No one responded.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then Nikanor Ivanovich took a folding ruler from his briefcase, removed<br />the seal from&nbsp; the door to the study,&nbsp; and stepped in. Stepped in, yes,&nbsp; but<br />halted in amazement in the doorway and even gave a start.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At the deceased's desk sat an unknown, skinny, long citizen in a little<br />checkered jacket, a jockey's cap,&nbsp; and a&nbsp; pince-nez... well, in&nbsp; short, that<br />same one.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And who might you be, citizen?' Nikanor Ivanovich asked fearfully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hah! Nikanor Ivanovich!' the unexpected&nbsp; citizen yelled in a&nbsp; rattling<br />tenor&nbsp; and, jumping up,&nbsp; greeted&nbsp; the&nbsp; chairman&nbsp; with a&nbsp; forced&nbsp; and&nbsp; sudden<br />handshake. This greeting by no means gladdened Nikanor Ivanovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Excuse me,' he said suspiciously,&nbsp; 'but who might&nbsp; you&nbsp; be? Are you an<br />official person?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Eh, Nikanor Ivanovich!' the unknown man exclaimed soulfully. &quot;What are<br />official and unofficial persons? It all depends on your point of view on the<br />subject. It's all fluctuating and relative, Nikanor Ivanovich. Today I'm&nbsp; an<br />unofficial person, and&nbsp; tomorrow, lo and behold, I'm an official one! And it<br />also happens the other way round - oh, how it does!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This argument in no way satisfied the chairman of the house management.<br />Being a generally suspicious person&nbsp; by&nbsp; nature, he concluded&nbsp; that&nbsp; the man<br />holding&nbsp; forth&nbsp; in&nbsp; front of&nbsp; him was&nbsp; precisely&nbsp; an&nbsp; unofficial person, and<br />perhaps even an idle one.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Yes, but who might&nbsp; you be? What's your&nbsp; name?' the&nbsp; chairman inquired<br />with increasing severity and even began to advance upon the unknown man.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `My name,'&nbsp; the citizen responded, not&nbsp; a bit put out by&nbsp; the severity,<br />'well,&nbsp; let's&nbsp; say it's&nbsp; Koroviev. But wouldn't&nbsp; you&nbsp; like a&nbsp; little&nbsp; snack,<br />Nikanor Ivanovich? No formalities, eh?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Excuse&nbsp; me,'&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich&nbsp; began,&nbsp; indignantly&nbsp; now, `what&nbsp; have<br />snacks got&nbsp; to do&nbsp; with it!' (We&nbsp; must&nbsp; confess, unpleasant&nbsp; as it&nbsp; is, that<br />Nikanor Ivanovich was of a somewhat rude nature.) 'Sitting in the deceased's<br />half is not permitted! What are you doing here?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Have a&nbsp; seat, Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich,' the citizen went on yelling, not&nbsp; a<br />bit at a loss, and began fussing about offering the chairman a seat.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Utterly infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich rejected the seat and screamed:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But who are you?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I, if&nbsp; you please, serve as interpreter for a&nbsp; foreign&nbsp; individual who<br />has taken&nbsp; up residence in this apartment,' the man calling himself Koroviev<br />introduced himself and clicked the heels of his scuffed, unpolished shoes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich opened his mouth. The presence&nbsp; of some&nbsp; foreigner in<br />this apartment, with an interpreter to boot,&nbsp; came as a complete surprise to<br />him, and he demanded explanations.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The interpreter explained&nbsp; willingly. A foreign artiste, Mr Woland, had<br />been&nbsp; kindly invited&nbsp; by the&nbsp; director&nbsp; of the&nbsp; Variety, Stepan&nbsp; Bogdanovich<br />Likhodeev, to spend&nbsp; the time&nbsp; of&nbsp; his performances, a&nbsp; week&nbsp; or so,&nbsp; in his<br />apartment,&nbsp; about&nbsp; which&nbsp; he&nbsp; had&nbsp; written&nbsp; to Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich yesterday,<br />requesting that&nbsp; he&nbsp; register&nbsp; the foreigner&nbsp; as a temporary resident, while<br />Likhodeev himself took a trip to Yalta.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He never wrote me anything,' the chairman said in amazement.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Just&nbsp; look&nbsp; through&nbsp;&nbsp; your&nbsp; briefcase,&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich,'&nbsp; Koroviev<br />suggested sweetly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich,&nbsp; shrugging his shoulders, opened the briefcase&nbsp; and<br />found Likhodeev's letter in it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `How could&nbsp; I&nbsp; have forgotten&nbsp; about it?'&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich&nbsp; muttered,<br />looking dully at the opened envelope.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `All sorts of things happen,&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich,&nbsp; all&nbsp; sorts!' Koroviev<br />rattled.&nbsp; 'Absent-mindedness,&nbsp; absent-mindedness,&nbsp; fatigue&nbsp; and&nbsp; high&nbsp; blood<br />pressure,&nbsp; my&nbsp; dear&nbsp; friend Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich! I'm&nbsp; terribly&nbsp; absent-minded<br />myself! Someday, over a glass, I'll tell you a few facts from my biography -<br />you'll die laughing!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And when is Likhodeev going to Yalta?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `He's&nbsp; already&nbsp; gone,&nbsp; gone!'&nbsp; the&nbsp; interpreter&nbsp; cried.&nbsp; `He's&nbsp; already<br />wheeling along,&nbsp; you know!&nbsp; He's already devil&nbsp; knows&nbsp; where!' And&nbsp; here the<br />interpreter waved his arms like the wings of a windmill.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich&nbsp; declared that he&nbsp; must see&nbsp; the foreigner in person,<br />but got a refusal on that from the interpreter: quite impossible. He's busy.<br />Training the cat.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'The cat I can show you, if you like,' Koroviev offered.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This&nbsp; Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; refused&nbsp; in his&nbsp; turn,&nbsp; and&nbsp; the&nbsp; interpreter<br />straight&nbsp; away&nbsp; made&nbsp; the&nbsp; chairman&nbsp; an&nbsp; unexpected&nbsp; but&nbsp; quite&nbsp; interesting<br />proposal: seeing that Mr Woland had no desire whatsoever to live in a hotel,<br />and was&nbsp; accustomed to having a&nbsp; lot of&nbsp; space, why&nbsp; shouldn't&nbsp; the tenants'<br />association&nbsp; rent&nbsp; to&nbsp; him, Woland, for one&nbsp; little&nbsp; week, the&nbsp; time&nbsp; of his<br />performances in Moscow,&nbsp; the whole of the apartment, that is, the deceased's<br />rooms as well?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's&nbsp; all the same to him -&nbsp; the deceased -&nbsp; you&nbsp; must&nbsp; agree, Nikanor<br />Ivanovich,' Koroviev whispered hoarsely. 'He doesn't need the apartment now,<br />does he?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich, somewhat perplexed, objected that&nbsp; foreigners&nbsp; ought<br />to live at the Metropol, and not in private apartments at all...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I'm&nbsp; telling&nbsp; you,&nbsp; he's capricious as&nbsp; devil&nbsp; knows&nbsp; what!'&nbsp; Koroviev<br />whispered. 'He just&nbsp; doesn't want to! He doesn't like hotels! I've&nbsp; had them<br />up to&nbsp; here, these foreign&nbsp; tourists!'&nbsp; Koroviev&nbsp; complained confidentially,<br />jabbing his&nbsp; finger at&nbsp; his&nbsp; sinewy neck. 'Believe&nbsp; me, they&nbsp; wring the soul<br />right&nbsp; out of you! They come and either spy on you like the lowest&nbsp; son of a<br />bitch, or else torment you with their&nbsp; caprices - this&nbsp; isn't right and that<br />isn't right!...&nbsp; And for&nbsp; your association, Nikanor Ivanovich, it's&nbsp; a sheer<br />gain and an obvious profit. He won't stint on money.' Koroviev looked around<br />and then whispered into the chairman's ear: 'A millionaire!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The interpreter's offer made clear practical sense, it was a very solid<br />offer, yet there was something remarkably unsolid in his manner of speaking,<br />and in&nbsp; his clothes, and in that loathsome, good-for-nothing pince-nez. As a<br />result, something vague weighed on the chairman's soul,&nbsp; but he nevertheless<br />decided to accept the offer. The&nbsp; thing was&nbsp; that&nbsp; the tenants' association,<br />alas, had quite a&nbsp; sizeable deficit. Fuel had to be bought for&nbsp; the&nbsp; heating<br />system by&nbsp; fall, but who was going to&nbsp; shell out for it - no&nbsp; one&nbsp; knew. But<br />with the foreign tourist's money, it might be possible to wriggle out of it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; However,&nbsp; the&nbsp; practical and prudent Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich said&nbsp; he&nbsp; would<br />first have to settle the question with the foreign tourist bureau.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I understand!' Koroviev cried out. `You've got to settle it!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Absolutely! Here's the telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, settle it at once!<br />And&nbsp; don't be&nbsp; shy&nbsp; about the money,' he added&nbsp; in&nbsp; a whisper,&nbsp; drawing&nbsp; the<br />chairman to the telephone in the front hall, 'if he won't pay, who will! You<br />should see the villa he's got in Nice! Next summer, when you go abroad, come<br />especially to see it - you'll gasp!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The business&nbsp; with the&nbsp; foreign tourist bureau&nbsp; was&nbsp; arranged over&nbsp; the<br />phone with an extraordinary speed, quite amazing&nbsp; to the chairman. It turned<br />out that&nbsp; they&nbsp; already&nbsp; knew&nbsp; about&nbsp; Mr&nbsp; Woland's&nbsp; intention&nbsp; of staying in<br />Likhodeev's private apartment and had no objections to it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `That's wonderful!' Koroviev&nbsp; yelled. Somewhat stunned by his&nbsp; chatter,<br />the&nbsp; chairman&nbsp; announced&nbsp; that&nbsp; the&nbsp; tenants'&nbsp; association&nbsp; agreed&nbsp; to&nbsp; rent<br />apartment no.50 for a week&nbsp; to the artiste&nbsp; Woland, for... Nikanor Ivanovich<br />faltered a little, then said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'For five hundred roubles a day.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here Koroviev utterly&nbsp; amazed&nbsp; the chairman. Winking&nbsp; thievishly in the<br />direction&nbsp; of the bedroom, from which the soft leaps of a heavy cat could be<br />heard, he rasped out:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So it comes to three thousand five hundred for the week?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To which Nikanor Ivanovich thought he was&nbsp; going to add: 'Some appetite<br />you've got, Nikanor Ivanovich!' but Koroviev said something quite different:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What kind of money is that? Ask five, he'll pay it.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Grinning perplexedly, Nikanor Ivanovich,&nbsp; without&nbsp; noticing&nbsp; how, found<br />himself at the deceased's writing desk, where Koroviev&nbsp; with great speed and<br />dexterity drew up a contract in two copies. Then he flew to the bedroom with<br />them&nbsp; and&nbsp; came&nbsp; back,&nbsp; both&nbsp; copies&nbsp; now bearing&nbsp; the&nbsp; foreigner's sweeping<br />signature.&nbsp; The chairman also signed the contract. Here Koroviev asked for a<br />receipt for five...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Write it out, write it out, Nikanor Ivanovich!... thousand&nbsp; roubles...'<br />And with&nbsp; words somehow unsuited to serious business&nbsp; - 'Bin, zwei, drei!' -<br />he laid out for the chairman five stacks of new banknotes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; counting-up took place,&nbsp; interspersed with&nbsp; Koroviev's&nbsp; quips&nbsp; and<br />quiddities, such&nbsp; as 'Cash loves&nbsp; counting', 'Your own&nbsp; eye&nbsp; won't lie', and<br />others of the same sort.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After&nbsp; counting the&nbsp; money, the chairman&nbsp; received&nbsp; from&nbsp; Koroviev&nbsp; the<br />foreigner's passport for temporary&nbsp; registration, put it,&nbsp; together with the<br />contract and&nbsp; the&nbsp; money, into&nbsp; his&nbsp; briefcase, and, somehow&nbsp; unable to help<br />himself, sheepishly asked for a free pass...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't mention it!' bellowed&nbsp; Koroviev. 'How many tickets do you&nbsp; want,<br />Nikanor Ivanovich - twelve, fifteen?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The flabbergasted chairman explained that all he needed was a couple of<br />passes, for himself and Pelageya Antonovna, his wife.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Koroviev snatched&nbsp; out a notebook at once&nbsp; and&nbsp; dashed off&nbsp; a pass&nbsp; for<br />Nikanor Ivanovich, for two persons&nbsp; in the front row. And with his left hand<br />the interpreter deftly&nbsp; slipped&nbsp; this pass&nbsp; to Nikanor Ivanovich, while with<br />his right he put into the chairman's other hand a thick, crackling wad.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Casting&nbsp; an eye on&nbsp; it, Nikanor Ivanovich blushed deeply and&nbsp; began&nbsp; to<br />push it away.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It isn't done...' he murmured.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I won't&nbsp; hear&nbsp; of it,' Koroviev whispered right in&nbsp; his ear.&nbsp; 'With us<br />it's&nbsp; not&nbsp; done,&nbsp; but with foreigners it&nbsp; is.&nbsp; You'll&nbsp; offend&nbsp; him,&nbsp; Nikanor<br />Ivanovich, and that's embarrassing. You've worked hard...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `It's&nbsp; severely punishable,' the chairman&nbsp; whispered very, very&nbsp; softly<br />and glanced over his shoulder.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But where are the witnesses?' Koroviev whispered into his other ear.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I ask you, where are they? You don't think... ?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here, as the chairman insisted afterwards, a&nbsp; miracle occurred: the wad<br />crept into his briefcase by itself. And then the&nbsp; chairman, somehow limp and<br />even broken, found&nbsp; himself&nbsp; on the stairs. A whirlwind of thoughts raged in<br />his head. There was the villa in&nbsp; Nice, and the trained cat, and the thought<br />that there were&nbsp; in fact no witnesses, and that Pelageya Antonovna would&nbsp; be<br />delighted&nbsp; with&nbsp; the pass. They&nbsp; were&nbsp; incoherent&nbsp; thoughts,&nbsp; but&nbsp; generally<br />pleasant. But, all the same, somewhere, some little needle kept pricking the<br />chairman in the very bottom of his soul. This was the needle of anxiety.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Besides, right&nbsp; then on the stairs&nbsp; the chairman was&nbsp; seized, as with a<br />stroke,&nbsp; by the thought:&nbsp; 'But how did the interpreter get into the study if<br />the&nbsp; door was&nbsp; sealed?! And how&nbsp; was it that&nbsp; he, Nikanor Ivanovich, had not<br />asked about&nbsp; it?' For some time&nbsp; the chairman stood staring like a&nbsp; sheep at<br />the steps of the stairway, but then he decided to spit on it and not torment<br />himself with intricate questions...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As soon as&nbsp; the chairman left the apartment, a low&nbsp; voice came from the<br />bedroom:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I&nbsp; didn't like this Nikanor Ivanovich. He is a&nbsp; chiseller and a crook.<br />Can it be arranged so that he doesn't come any more?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Messire,&nbsp; you&nbsp; have only to say&nbsp; the word...'&nbsp; Koroviev responded from<br />somewhere, not in a rattling but in a very clear and resounding voice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; at once the accursed&nbsp; interpreter&nbsp; turned&nbsp; up&nbsp; in the&nbsp; front hall,<br />dialled a number&nbsp; there, and for some&nbsp; reason&nbsp; began speaking very tearfully<br />into the receiver:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hello! I consider it&nbsp; my duty&nbsp; to&nbsp; inform you that the chairman of our<br />tenants' association&nbsp; at no.502-bis on Sadovaya, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, is<br />speculating in foreign currency. [2] At the present moment, in his apartment<br />no.&nbsp; 55,&nbsp; he&nbsp; has four hundred&nbsp; dollars&nbsp; wrapped&nbsp; up&nbsp; in&nbsp; newspaper&nbsp; in&nbsp; the<br />ventilation of the privy. This is Timofei Kvastsov speaking, a tenant of the<br />said&nbsp; house, apartment no. 11. But I adjure you to keep&nbsp; my name a secret. I<br />fear the vengeance of the above-stated chairman.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And he hung up, the scoundrel!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What happened&nbsp; next&nbsp; in apartment&nbsp; no.50&nbsp; is not known, but it is known<br />what happened&nbsp; at&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich's. Having locked&nbsp; himself in the&nbsp; privy<br />with&nbsp; the hook, he took from his briefcase the&nbsp; wad&nbsp; foisted&nbsp; on him by&nbsp; the<br />interpreter and satisfied himself that it contained four hundred roubles.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nikanor Ivanovich&nbsp; wrapped this wad&nbsp; in a scrap of newspaper and put it<br />into the ventilation duct.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Five&nbsp; minutes later the chairman&nbsp; was sitting at the table in his small<br />dining room. His&nbsp; wife brought&nbsp; pickled&nbsp; herring from&nbsp; the&nbsp; kitchen,&nbsp; neatly<br />sliced&nbsp; and&nbsp; thickly&nbsp; sprinkled&nbsp; with green onion. Nikanor Ivanovich&nbsp; poured<br />himself a dram of vodka, drank it, poured another, drank it, picked up three<br />pieces of herring on his fork... and at that moment the doorbell rang.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Pelageya Antonovna was just bringing in a steaming pot which, one could<br />tell at once&nbsp; from a single&nbsp; glance, contained, amidst a fiery borscht, that<br />than which there is nothing more delicious in the world - a marrow bone.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Swallowing his spittle, Nikanor Ivanovich growled like a dog:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Damn them&nbsp; all! Won't&nbsp; allow a man to eat... Don't let anyone&nbsp; in, I'm<br />not here,&nbsp; not here...&nbsp; If&nbsp; it's about&nbsp; the&nbsp; apartment,&nbsp; tell them&nbsp; to&nbsp; stop<br />blathering, there'll be a meeting next week.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His wife ran to the front hall, while Nikanor Ivanovich, using a ladle,<br />drew from the fire-breathing lake - it, the bone, cracked lengthwise. And at<br />that moment&nbsp; two&nbsp; citizens entered&nbsp; the dining room, with Pelageya Antonovna<br />following them,&nbsp; for some&nbsp; reason looking&nbsp; very&nbsp; pale.&nbsp; Seeing the citizens,<br />Nikanor Ivanovich also turned white and stood up.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Where's&nbsp; the Jakes?'&nbsp; the&nbsp; first one, in&nbsp; a white side-buttoned shirt,<br />asked with a preoccupied air.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Something&nbsp; thudded against the dining table (this was Nikanor Ivanovich<br />dropping the ladle on to the oilcloth).<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'This way, this way,' Pelageya Antonovna replied in a patter.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the visitors immediately hastened to the corridor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ^What's the matter?' Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich asked quietly,&nbsp; going after the<br />visitors. `There can't be anything like that in&nbsp; our apartment... And - your<br />papers... begging your pardon...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The first, without stopping, showed Nikanor Ivanovich a paper,&nbsp; and the<br />second&nbsp; was at the same moment standing&nbsp; on a stool in the privy, his arm in<br />the ventilation duct.&nbsp; Everything went dark in Nikanor Ivanovich's eyes. The<br />newspaper&nbsp; was removed,&nbsp; but&nbsp; in the wad&nbsp; there were&nbsp; not&nbsp; roubles but&nbsp; some<br />unknown money, bluish-greenish, and with the portrait of some old man.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; However, Nikanor Ivanovich saw it all&nbsp; dimly, there&nbsp; were some&nbsp; sort of<br />spots floating in front of his eyes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Dollars&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; ventilation...' the&nbsp; first said&nbsp; pensively and asked<br />Nikanor Ivanovich gently and courteously: 'Your little wad?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No!' Nikanor Ivanovich replied&nbsp; in a dreadful voice. 'Enemies stuck me<br />with it!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'That happens,' the first agreed and added, again gently: 'Well, you're<br />going to have to turn in the rest.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I haven't got&nbsp; any! I swear to God, I never laid a&nbsp; finger on it!' the<br />chairman cried out desperately.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He dashed to the chest, pulled a drawer out with a clatter, and from it<br />the briefcase, crying out incoherently:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Here's&nbsp; the&nbsp; contract... that vermin of an&nbsp; interpreter stuck&nbsp; me with<br />it... Koroviev... in a pince-nez!...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He opened the briefcase, glanced&nbsp; into it, put a hand inside, went blue<br />in&nbsp; the face, and dropped&nbsp; the briefcase into the borscht. There was nothing<br />in&nbsp; the&nbsp; briefcase:&nbsp; no&nbsp; letter&nbsp; from&nbsp; Styopa,&nbsp; no contract, no&nbsp; foreigner's<br />passport,&nbsp; no&nbsp; money, no theatre&nbsp; pass. In&nbsp; short, nothing except a&nbsp; folding<br />ruler.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Comrades!'&nbsp; the&nbsp; chairman&nbsp; cried&nbsp; frenziedly. `Catch them!&nbsp; There&nbsp; are<br />unclean powers in our house!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It is not known what Pelageya Antonovna imagined here, only she clasped<br />her hands and cried:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Repent, Ivanych! You'll get off lighter.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His eyes bloodshot, Nikanor Ivanovich raised his fists&nbsp; over his wife's<br />head, croaking:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ohh, you damned fool!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here he went slack and&nbsp; sank&nbsp; down&nbsp; on a&nbsp; chair, evidently&nbsp; resolved to<br />submit to the inevitable.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; During this&nbsp; time, Timofei Kondratievich Kvastsov stood on the landing,<br />placing now his&nbsp; ear,&nbsp; now&nbsp; his&nbsp; eye to the&nbsp; keyhole&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; door&nbsp; to&nbsp; the<br />chairman's apartment, melting with curiosity.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Five&nbsp; minutes later the tenants of the house&nbsp; who were in the courtyard<br />saw the&nbsp; chairman, accompanied by two other persons, proceed directly to the<br />gates&nbsp; of the&nbsp; house. It&nbsp; was&nbsp; said&nbsp; that Nikanor&nbsp; Ivanovich&nbsp; looked&nbsp; awful,<br />staggered like a drunk man as he passed, and was muttering something.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And an hour after that an unknown citizen appeared in apartment no. 11,<br />just as Timofei Kondratievich, spluttering with delight,&nbsp; was&nbsp; telling&nbsp; some<br />other&nbsp;&nbsp; tenants&nbsp;&nbsp; how&nbsp; the&nbsp; chairman&nbsp;&nbsp; got&nbsp; pinched,&nbsp; motioned&nbsp;&nbsp; to&nbsp; Timofei<br />Kondratievich with his finger&nbsp; to come&nbsp; from&nbsp; the kitchen to the front hall,<br />said something to him, and together they vanished.]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>8cf45cf9-76db-402a-b6c4-0e9b1495faac</id><title>Chapter 8: The Combat Between the Professor and the Poet</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/10/chapter_8_the_combat_between_the_professor_and_the_poet" /><updated>10-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="11"></a><h2>CHAPTER 8. The Combat between the Professor and the Poet</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At the same&nbsp; time&nbsp; that&nbsp; consciousness left Styopa in Yalta,&nbsp; that&nbsp; is,<br />around&nbsp; half&nbsp; past eleven&nbsp; in the morning, it returned&nbsp; to&nbsp; Ivan Nikolaevich<br />Homeless,&nbsp; who woke up after a&nbsp; long and&nbsp; deep&nbsp; sleep.&nbsp; He spent&nbsp; some&nbsp; time<br />pondering how it was that he had wound&nbsp; up in an&nbsp; unfamiliar room with white<br />walls, with an astonishing&nbsp; night table made of some light&nbsp; metal, and&nbsp; with<br />white blinds behind which one could sense the sun.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan shook&nbsp; his head, ascertained that it did&nbsp; not ache, and remembered<br />that&nbsp; he was&nbsp; in&nbsp; a&nbsp; clinic. This&nbsp; thought drew after&nbsp; it the remembrance of<br />Berlioz's death, but today it did not provoke a strong shock in Ivan. Having<br />had a good&nbsp; sleep, Ivan Nikolaevich&nbsp; became calmer&nbsp; and began to think&nbsp; more<br />clearly. After lying motionless for&nbsp; some time in this most clean, soft&nbsp; and<br />comfortable spring bed, Ivan noticed a bell&nbsp; button beside him. From a habit<br />of touching things needlessly, Ivan pressed&nbsp; it. He expected the pressing of<br />the&nbsp; button to&nbsp; be followed by&nbsp; some&nbsp; ringing&nbsp; or appearance, but&nbsp; something<br />entirely different happened. A frosted glass&nbsp; cylinder with the word 'Drink'<br />on&nbsp; it&nbsp; lit up at the&nbsp; foot&nbsp; of Ivan's bed.&nbsp; After pausing for a&nbsp; while, the<br />cylinder began to&nbsp; rotate until the word `Nurse' popped out. It goes without<br />saying that&nbsp; the clever cylinder amazed Ivan. The word 'Nurse' was&nbsp; replaced<br />by the words 'Call the Doctor.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hm...'&nbsp; said&nbsp; Ivan, not&nbsp; knowing&nbsp; how&nbsp; to proceed&nbsp; further&nbsp; with&nbsp; this<br />cylinder. But here he happened to be lucky. Ivan pressed the button a second<br />time&nbsp; at&nbsp; the&nbsp; word&nbsp; 'Attendant'.&nbsp; The cylinder&nbsp; rang&nbsp; quietly in&nbsp; response,<br />stopped, the light went out, and a plump, sympathetic woman in a clean white<br />coat came into the room and said to Ivan:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Good morning!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan did not reply, considering such a greeting inappropriate under the<br />circumstances. Indeed, they lock up a healthy man in&nbsp; a&nbsp; clinic, and pretend<br />that that is how it ought to be!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; woman&nbsp; meanwhile,&nbsp; without&nbsp; losing&nbsp; her&nbsp; good-natured&nbsp; expression,<br />brought&nbsp; the&nbsp; blinds up with one push of a button, and sun flooded&nbsp; the room<br />through a light and wide-meshed grille which reached right to the floor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Beyond the grille a balcony came into&nbsp; view, beyond that&nbsp; the bank of a<br />meandering river, and on its other bank a cheerful pine wood.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Time for our bath,' the woman invited, and&nbsp; under&nbsp; her hands the inner<br />wall parted, revealing behind it a bathroom and splendidly equipped toilet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan, though he had resolved not&nbsp; to talk to the woman,&nbsp; could not help<br />himself and, on seeing the water gush into the tub in a wide stream from the<br />gleaming faucet, said ironically:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Looky there! Just like the Metropol!...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh, no,' the woman answered&nbsp; proudly, `much&nbsp; better. There is&nbsp; no such<br />equipment&nbsp; even anywhere abroad. Scientists and&nbsp; doctors come especially&nbsp; to<br />study our clinic. We have foreign tourists every day.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At&nbsp; the words&nbsp; 'foreign&nbsp; tourists', Ivan at once remembered yesterday's<br />consultant. Ivan darkened, looked sullen, and said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Foreign&nbsp; tourists... How you all&nbsp; adore foreign&nbsp; tourists!&nbsp; But&nbsp; among<br />them,&nbsp; incidentally, you come&nbsp; across&nbsp; all&nbsp; sorts. I, for instance, met&nbsp; one<br />yesterday - quite something!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And he&nbsp; almost started telling&nbsp; about&nbsp; Pontius Pilate,&nbsp; but&nbsp; restrained<br />himself, realizing that the woman had no use for these stories, that in&nbsp; any<br />case she could not help him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; washed&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich&nbsp;&nbsp; was&nbsp; straight&nbsp; away&nbsp; issued&nbsp; decidedly<br />everything a man needs after&nbsp; a bath: an ironed shirt,&nbsp; drawers,&nbsp; socks. And<br />not only that: opening the&nbsp; door of a cupboard, the woman pointed inside and<br />asked:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What would you like to put on - a dressing gown or some nice pyjamas?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Attached to his new dwelling by force, Ivan almost clasped his hands at<br />the&nbsp; woman's casualness&nbsp; and&nbsp; silently&nbsp; pointed&nbsp; his&nbsp; finger at the&nbsp; crimson<br />flannel pyjamas.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After&nbsp; this, Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich was&nbsp; led&nbsp; down the empty&nbsp; and&nbsp; noiseless<br />corridor&nbsp; and brought to an examining room of huge dimensions.&nbsp; Ivan, having<br />decided&nbsp; to take an ironic attitude&nbsp; towards everything&nbsp; to be found in this<br />wondrously&nbsp; equipped building,&nbsp; at&nbsp; once&nbsp; mentally christened this room&nbsp; the<br />'industrial kitchen'.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And with good reason. Here stood cabinets and glass cases with gleaming<br />nickel-plated&nbsp; instruments.&nbsp; There were&nbsp; chairs of&nbsp; extraordinarily&nbsp; complex<br />construction, some pot-bellied lamps with shiny shades, a myriad&nbsp; of phials,<br />Bunsen burners, electric cords and appliances quite unknown to anyone.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In the examining room Ivan was&nbsp; taken over by three persons - two women<br />and&nbsp; a man - all in white. First,&nbsp; they led Ivan to&nbsp; a&nbsp; corner,&nbsp; to a little<br />table, with the obvious purpose of getting something or other out of him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan began to ponder&nbsp; the situation. Three&nbsp; ways stood before&nbsp; him. The<br />first&nbsp; was&nbsp; extremely&nbsp; tempting:&nbsp; to hurl&nbsp; himself&nbsp; at&nbsp; all these lamps&nbsp; and<br />sophisticated little things, make the devil's own wreck of them, and thereby<br />express his protest at being detained for nothing. But today's Ivan&nbsp; already<br />differed&nbsp; significantly from&nbsp; the&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; of yesterday,&nbsp; and&nbsp; this&nbsp; first way<br />appeared dubious to him: for all&nbsp; he knew, the thought&nbsp; might get&nbsp; rooted in<br />them that he&nbsp; was a violent madman.&nbsp; Therefore Ivan&nbsp; rejected the first way.<br />There&nbsp; was a second: immediately to begin his account of the&nbsp; consultant and<br />Pontius&nbsp; Pilate.&nbsp; However,&nbsp; yesterday's experience&nbsp; showed&nbsp; that&nbsp; this story<br />either&nbsp; was&nbsp; not&nbsp; believed&nbsp; or was taken somehow perversely. Therefore&nbsp; Ivan<br />renounced this&nbsp; second way&nbsp; as&nbsp; well,&nbsp; deciding&nbsp; to choose&nbsp; the third&nbsp; way -<br />withdrawal into proud silence.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He&nbsp; did not succeed&nbsp; in&nbsp; realizing&nbsp; it&nbsp; fully,&nbsp; and had&nbsp; willy-nilly to<br />answer, though charily and&nbsp; glumly, a&nbsp; whole series of questions.&nbsp; Thus they<br />got out of Ivan decidedly everything about his&nbsp; past life, down to when&nbsp; and<br />how&nbsp; he had fallen ill with scarlet&nbsp; fever fifteen&nbsp; years ago. A whole&nbsp; page<br />having been covered&nbsp; with writing&nbsp; about&nbsp; Ivan, it was&nbsp; turned over, and the<br />woman in white went on&nbsp; to&nbsp; questions about&nbsp; Ivan's relatives. Some&nbsp; sort of<br />humdrum started: who died when and why, and whether he drank or had venereal<br />disease, and more of&nbsp; the&nbsp; same. In&nbsp; conclusion he&nbsp; was&nbsp; asked to tell about<br />yesterday's events at the Patriarch's Ponds, but they did not pester him too<br />much, and were not surprised at the information about Pontius Pilate.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here&nbsp; the woman yielded&nbsp; Ivan up&nbsp; to the man, who&nbsp; went to&nbsp; work on him<br />differently and no longer asked any questions.&nbsp; He took&nbsp; the temperature&nbsp; of<br />Ivan's body, counted his pulse, looked&nbsp; in Ivan's&nbsp; eyes, directing some sort<br />of lamp into them. Then the&nbsp; second woman came to the&nbsp; man's assistance, and<br />they pricked Ivan in the back with something,&nbsp; but not painfully,&nbsp; drew some<br />signs on the skin of&nbsp; his chest with the handle of a little&nbsp; hammer,&nbsp; tapped<br />his&nbsp; knees with the hammer, which made Ivan's legs jump,&nbsp; pricked his finger<br />and took his&nbsp; blood, pricked&nbsp; him&nbsp; inside&nbsp; his bent&nbsp; elbow,&nbsp; put some rubber<br />bracelets on his arms...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan just smiled bitterly&nbsp; to himself and reflected on how stupidly and<br />strangely it had all happened. Just think! He had wanted to warn them all of<br />the&nbsp; danger threatening from&nbsp; the unknown consultant, had intended to&nbsp; catch<br />him, and all he had achieved was to wind up in some mysterious room, telling<br />all sorts of&nbsp; hogwash about Uncle Fyodor, who had done some hard drinking in<br />Vologda. Insufferably stupid!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Finally Ivan was released. He was&nbsp; escorted&nbsp; back to his room, where he<br />was given a cup of coffee, two soft-boiled eggs and white bread with butter.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having eaten and drunk all&nbsp; that was offered him, Ivan&nbsp; decided to wait<br />for whoever&nbsp; was chief of this institution, and&nbsp; from this chief&nbsp; to&nbsp; obtain<br />both attention for himself and justice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And he did come, and very soon&nbsp; after&nbsp; Ivan's breakfast.&nbsp; Unexpectedly,<br />the door of Ivan's room opened, and in came a lot of people in white coats.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At their head walked a man of about forty-five, as&nbsp; carefully shaven as<br />an actor, with&nbsp; pleasant but quite&nbsp; piercing eyes and courteous manners. The<br />whole retinue showed him tokens of attention&nbsp; and respect,&nbsp; and his entrance<br />therefore came out&nbsp; very solemn. 'Like Pontius&nbsp; Pilate!' thought&nbsp; Ivan. Yes,<br />this&nbsp; was unquestionably the chief. He sat&nbsp; down on&nbsp; a stool, while everyone<br />else remained standing.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Doctor Stravinsky,' the seated man introduced himself to Ivan and gave<br />him a friendly look.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Here, Alexander&nbsp; Nikolaevich,' someone with a trim beard said in a low<br />voice, and handed the chief Ivan's chart, all covered with writing.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They've sewn up a whole case!' Ivan thought. And the chief ran&nbsp; through<br />the chart with a practised eye, muttered 'Mm-hm, mm-hm...', and exchanged&nbsp; a<br />few phrases with those around him in a little-known language. 'And he speaks<br />Latin like Pilate,' Ivan thought sadly. Here one word made&nbsp; him jump; it was<br />the&nbsp; word 'schizophrenia' - alas, already&nbsp; uttered&nbsp; yesterday by&nbsp; the cursed<br />foreigner&nbsp; at&nbsp; the&nbsp; Patriarch's Ponds, and&nbsp; now repeated today by&nbsp; Professor<br />Stravinsky. 'And he knew that, too!' Ivan thought anxiously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The chief&nbsp; apparently made it a rule to&nbsp; agree&nbsp; with&nbsp; and rejoice&nbsp; over<br />everything said to him&nbsp; by&nbsp; those&nbsp; around him, and&nbsp; to express this with the<br />words 'Very nice, very nice...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Very nice!' said Stravinsky, handing the chart back to someone, and he<br />addressed Ivan:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You are a poet?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `A&nbsp; poet,' Ivan replied glumly, and for&nbsp; the first&nbsp; time&nbsp; suddenly felt<br />some inexplicable loathing for poetry, and his own verses, coming to mind at<br />once, seemed to him for some reason distasteful.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Wrinkling his face, he asked Stravinsky in turn:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You are a professor?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To this, Stravinsky, with obliging courtesy, inclined his head.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And you're the chief here?' Ivan continued.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Stravinsky nodded to this as well.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I must speak with you,' Ivan Nikolaevich said meaningly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That is what I'm here for,' returned Stravinsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'The thing&nbsp; is,' Ivan began, feeling his hour had come, `that I've been<br />got up as a madman, and nobody wants to listen to me!...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh,&nbsp; no, we shall hear you out&nbsp; with great attention,' Stravinsky said<br />seriously and&nbsp; soothingly,&nbsp; 'and by&nbsp; no means allow you to&nbsp; be&nbsp; got up&nbsp; as a<br />madman.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Listen, then: yesterday&nbsp; evening&nbsp; I&nbsp; met&nbsp; a&nbsp; mysterious person at&nbsp; the<br />Patriarch's Ponds, maybe a foreigner, maybe not, who&nbsp; knew&nbsp; beforehand about<br />Berlioz's death and has seen Pontius Pilate in person.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The retinue listened to the poet silently and without stirring.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Pilate? The Pilate who lived&nbsp; in the time of Jesus Christ?' Stravinsky<br />asked, narrowing his eyes at Ivan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;The same.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Aha,' said Stravinsky, 'and this Berlioz died under a tram-car?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Precisely,&nbsp; he's the one who in my&nbsp; presence was killed by a&nbsp; tram-car<br />yesterday at the Ponds, and this same mysterious citizen...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; acquaintance&nbsp; of&nbsp; Pontius&nbsp; Pilate?' asked&nbsp; Stravinsky,&nbsp; apparently<br />distinguished by great mental alacrity.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Precisely him,' Ivan confirmed, studying Stravinsky. 'Well, so he said<br />beforehand&nbsp; that Annushka had spilled&nbsp; the&nbsp; sunflower oil... And he&nbsp; slipped<br />right&nbsp; on that place! How do you like&nbsp; that?'&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; inquired significantly,<br />hoping to produce a great effect with his words.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But&nbsp; the effect did not&nbsp; ensue, and Stravinsky&nbsp; quite&nbsp; simply asked the<br />following question:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And who is this Annushka?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This question upset Ivan a little; his face twitched.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Annushka is of absolutely no importance here,' he said nervously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Devil knows who she is. Just some fool from Sadovaya. What's important<br />is that he knew beforehand, you see, beforehand, about the sunflower oil! Do<br />you understand me?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Perfectly,' Stravinsky&nbsp; replied&nbsp; seriously&nbsp; and, touching&nbsp; the&nbsp; poet's<br />knee, added: 'Don't get excited, just continue.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To continue,' said Ivan,&nbsp; trying to fall in with Stravinsky's tone, and<br />knowing already from bitter experience&nbsp; that only calm&nbsp; would help him, 'so,<br />then, this horrible type (and he's&nbsp; lying that he's a consultant)&nbsp; has&nbsp; some<br />extraordinary&nbsp; power!...&nbsp; For&nbsp; instance,&nbsp; you&nbsp; chase&nbsp; after&nbsp; him&nbsp; and&nbsp;&nbsp; it's<br />impossible to catch up with him... And there's also a little pair with him -<br />good ones, too,&nbsp; but in their&nbsp; own way: some long one in broken glasses and,<br />besides him, a cat of incredible size who rides the tram all by himself. And<br />besides,' interrupted by&nbsp; no one, Ivan went on talking&nbsp; with ever increasing<br />ardour and&nbsp; conviction,&nbsp; `he&nbsp; was personally&nbsp; on Pontius&nbsp; Pilate's&nbsp; balcony,<br />there's&nbsp; no&nbsp; doubt of&nbsp; it. So what&nbsp; is all&nbsp; this, eh?&nbsp; He&nbsp; must be&nbsp; arrested<br />immediately, otherwise he'll do untold harm.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `So&nbsp; you're&nbsp; trying&nbsp; to&nbsp;&nbsp; get&nbsp; him&nbsp; arrested?&nbsp; Have&nbsp; I&nbsp; understood&nbsp; you<br />correctly?' asked Stravinsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He's&nbsp; intelligent,'&nbsp; thought Ivan.&nbsp; &quot;You've got to&nbsp; admit, even&nbsp; among<br />intellectuals you come across some of rare intelligence, there's&nbsp; no denying<br />it,' and he replied:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Quite correctly!&nbsp; And&nbsp; how could I not&nbsp; be trying,&nbsp; just&nbsp; consider for<br />yourself! And meanwhile I've been&nbsp; forcibly detained&nbsp; here, they&nbsp; poke lamps<br />into my&nbsp; eyes, give me baths,&nbsp; question&nbsp; me&nbsp; for some&nbsp; reason about my Uncle<br />Fedya!... And he&nbsp; departed&nbsp; this&nbsp; world long ago!&nbsp; I&nbsp; demand to be&nbsp; released<br />immediately!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; there,&nbsp; very&nbsp; nice,&nbsp; very&nbsp; nice!'&nbsp; Stravinsky&nbsp; responded.&nbsp; 'Now<br />everything's clear. Really, what's the sense&nbsp; of keeping a healthy man in&nbsp; a<br />clinic? Very well, sir, I'll check you out of here right now, if you tell me<br />you're normal. Not prove, but merely tell. So, then, are you normal?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here&nbsp; complete&nbsp; silence fell, and the&nbsp; fat&nbsp; woman who had taken care of<br />Ivan&nbsp; in the&nbsp; morning&nbsp; looked at the professor&nbsp; with awe. Ivan&nbsp; thought once<br />again: 'Positively intelligent!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; professor's&nbsp; offer pleased him very much, yet&nbsp; before replying&nbsp; he<br />thought very, very hard, wrinkling his forehead, and at last said firmly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I am normal.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; how&nbsp; very nice,'&nbsp; Stravinsky exclaimed with relief, `and if so,<br />let's reason logically.&nbsp; Let's take your day yesterday.'&nbsp; Here he turned and<br />Ivan's chart was immediately handed to him. 'In search of an unknown man who<br />recommended himself as an acquaintance of&nbsp; Pontius Pilate, you performed the<br />following&nbsp; actions yesterday.'&nbsp; Here&nbsp; Stravinsky began holding&nbsp; up&nbsp; his long<br />fingers, glancing now at the chart, now at Ivan.&nbsp; 'You hung a little icon on<br />your chest. Did you?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I did,' Ivan agreed sullenly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You fell&nbsp; off a&nbsp; fence and&nbsp; hurt&nbsp; your&nbsp; face. Right?&nbsp; Showed&nbsp; up&nbsp; in a<br />restaurant&nbsp; carrying&nbsp; a burning&nbsp; candle in&nbsp; your hand,&nbsp; in nothing&nbsp; but your<br />underwear, and&nbsp; in the restaurant you&nbsp; beat somebody. You were&nbsp; brought here<br />tied up. Having come&nbsp; here, you called the police and asked them to send out<br />machine-guns. Then you attempted to throw yourself out the window. Right?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The question is:&nbsp; can&nbsp; one, by acting&nbsp; in such fashion, catch or arrest<br />anyone?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And if you're a normal man, you yourself will&nbsp; answer: by no means. You<br />wish to leave here? Very well, sir. But allow me to ask, where are you going<br />to go?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'To&nbsp; the&nbsp; police, of course,' Ivan&nbsp; replied,&nbsp; no&nbsp; longer so firmly, and<br />somewhat at a loss under the professor's gaze.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Straight from here?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Mm-hm...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Without stopping at your place?' Stravinsky asked quickly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I&nbsp; have no time to stop anywhere! While I'm&nbsp; stopping at places, he'll<br />slip away!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So. And what will you tell the police to start with?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'About Pontius Pilate,' Ivan Nikolaevich replied, and his eyes&nbsp; clouded<br />with a gloomy mist.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, how&nbsp; very nice!' the won-over Stravinsky exclaimed and,&nbsp; turning<br />to&nbsp; the one with the&nbsp; little&nbsp; beard, ordered: 'Fyodor&nbsp; Vassilyevich,&nbsp; please<br />check&nbsp; citizen Homeless out&nbsp; for town. But&nbsp; don't put&nbsp; anyone in his room or<br />change the linen.&nbsp; In&nbsp; two&nbsp; hours citizen&nbsp; Homeless will&nbsp; be back&nbsp; here. So,<br />then,' he turned to&nbsp; the&nbsp; poet, 'I won't wish&nbsp; you success, because I&nbsp; don't<br />believe one&nbsp; iota&nbsp; in that&nbsp; success.&nbsp; See you&nbsp; soon!' He&nbsp; stood&nbsp; up, and his<br />retinue stirred.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'On what grounds will I be back here?' Ivan asked anxiously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Stravinsky was as&nbsp; if waiting for this&nbsp; question, immediately sat down,<br />and began to speak:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `On&nbsp; the grounds&nbsp; that as&nbsp; soon as you show up at the police station in<br />your&nbsp; drawers&nbsp; and tell&nbsp; them&nbsp; you've seen&nbsp; a&nbsp; man&nbsp; who&nbsp; knew Pontius Pilate<br />personally, you'll instantly be brought here, and you'll find yourself again<br />in this very same room.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What&nbsp; have drawers got to&nbsp; do with it?' Ivan asked,&nbsp; gazing around&nbsp; in<br />bewilderment.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's mainly Pontius Pilate.&nbsp; But&nbsp; the drawers, too. Because we'll take<br />the&nbsp; clinic underwear from you and give you back your&nbsp; clothes. And you were<br />delivered here in your drawers.&nbsp; And&nbsp; yet you were by no means going to stop<br />at your place, though I dropped you a&nbsp; hint. Then comes Pilate... and that's<br />it.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here something strange happened with&nbsp; Ivan Nikolaevich. His will seemed<br />to crack, and he felt himself weak, in need of advice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What am I to do, then?' he asked, timidly this time.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Well, how very nice!' Stravinsky replied. 'A most reasonable question.<br />Now I am going to tell&nbsp; you what actually happened to you. Yesterday someone<br />frightened you&nbsp; badly and upset you with&nbsp; a story&nbsp; about Pontius Pilate&nbsp; and<br />other things. And&nbsp; so you, a very nervous and high-strung man, started going<br />around the city,&nbsp; telling&nbsp; about&nbsp; Pontius&nbsp; Pilate.&nbsp; It's quite natural&nbsp; that<br />you're&nbsp; taken&nbsp; for a&nbsp; madman. Your salvation&nbsp; now&nbsp; lies&nbsp; in just one thing -<br />complete peace. And you absolutely must remain here.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But he has to be caught!' Ivan exclaimed, imploringly now.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Very good, sir, but why should you go running around yourself? Explain<br />all your suspicions and accusations against this man on paper. Nothing could<br />be simpler than to send your declaration to&nbsp; the proper quarters, and if, as<br />you&nbsp; think, we are&nbsp; dealing with&nbsp; a&nbsp; criminal,&nbsp; it&nbsp; will&nbsp; be&nbsp; clarified very<br />quickly. But only on one condition: don't strain your head, and try to think<br />less about&nbsp; Pontius&nbsp; Pilate. People&nbsp; say&nbsp; all kinds of&nbsp; things! One&nbsp; mustn't<br />believe everything.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Understood!'&nbsp; Ivan declared&nbsp; resolutely.&nbsp; `I ask to&nbsp; be given&nbsp; pen and<br />paper.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Give him paper and a short&nbsp; pencil,' Stravinsky ordered the fat woman,<br />and to Ivan he said: 'But I don't advise you to write today.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, no, today, today without fail!' Ivan cried out in alarm.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; all right. Only&nbsp; don't strain your head. If it doesn't come out<br />today, it will tomorrow.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He'll escape.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh, no,' Stravinsky objected confidently, 'he won't escape anywhere, I<br />guarantee&nbsp; that. And remember&nbsp; that&nbsp; here with&nbsp; us&nbsp; you'll be helped in&nbsp; all<br />possible&nbsp; ways, and without&nbsp; us nothing&nbsp; will come&nbsp; of&nbsp; it. Do you hear me?'<br />Stravinsky suddenly asked meaningly and took Ivan Nikolaevich by both hands.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Holding them in his own, he repeated for a long time, his eyes fixed on<br />Ivan's:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You'll be helped here... do you&nbsp; hear me?... You'll be helped&nbsp; here...<br />you'll&nbsp; get&nbsp; relief... it's quiet&nbsp; here, all&nbsp; peaceful...&nbsp; you'll be&nbsp; helped<br />here...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich unexpectedly&nbsp; yawned, and&nbsp; the expression on his face<br />softened.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes, yes,' he said quietly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp; how&nbsp; very nice!' Stravinsky concluded the&nbsp; conversation&nbsp; in his<br />usual way and stood up: 'Goodbye!' He shook Ivan's hand and, on his way out,<br />turned to&nbsp; the one&nbsp; with the little beard and&nbsp; said: 'Yes, and try oxygen...<br />and baths.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A few moments later there was no Stravinsky or his retinue before Ivan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Beyond the window grille, in the noonday sun, the joyful and springtime<br />pine&nbsp; wood stood&nbsp; beautiful&nbsp; on&nbsp; the other bank&nbsp; and,&nbsp; closer by,&nbsp; the river<br />sparkled.]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>09b1966b-8faa-4fa6-8ab7-0b294dfa22d5</id><title>Chapter 7: A Naughty Apartment</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/10/chapter_7_a_naughty_apartment" /><updated>10-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="10"></a><h2>CHAPTER 7. A Naughty Apartment</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; If Styopa Likhodeev had been&nbsp; told the next morning: 'Styopa! You'll be<br />shot&nbsp; if&nbsp; you don't&nbsp; get up&nbsp; this&nbsp; minute!' - Styopa would have replied in a<br />languid, barely audible voice:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Shoot me, do what you like with me, I won't get up.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Not only not get up,&nbsp; it seemed to him that he could not open his eyes,<br />because&nbsp; if he were to&nbsp; do so,&nbsp; there would be a flash of lightning, and his<br />head would at&nbsp; once be blown&nbsp; to pieces.&nbsp; A heavy bell&nbsp; was booming in&nbsp; that<br />head, brown&nbsp; spots rimmed with fiery green floated&nbsp; between his eyeballs and<br />his closed eyelids, and to crown&nbsp; it all he was nauseous, this nausea, as it<br />seemed&nbsp; to&nbsp; him,&nbsp; being&nbsp; connected&nbsp; with&nbsp; the&nbsp; sounds&nbsp; of&nbsp; some&nbsp; importunate<br />gramophone.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa tried to recall something, but only one thing would get recalled<br />- that yesterday, apparently, and in some unknown place, he had stood with a<br />napkin in his hand and tried to kiss&nbsp; some lady, promising her that the next<br />day, and exactly at noon, he would come to visit her. The lady had declined,<br />saying: 'No, no, I won't be home!', but Styopa had stubbornly insisted: 'And<br />I'll just up and come anyway!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Who the lady&nbsp; was, and what time it was now, what&nbsp; day,&nbsp; of what month,<br />Styopa decidedly did not know,&nbsp; and,&nbsp; worst of&nbsp; all, he could not figure out<br />where&nbsp; he was. He attempted to&nbsp; learn&nbsp; this last at&nbsp; least, and to&nbsp; that end<br />unstuck the stuck-together&nbsp; lids of his left eye. Something gleamed dully in<br />the&nbsp; semi-darkness. Styopa&nbsp; finally recognized&nbsp; the pier-glass&nbsp; and realized<br />that he was lying&nbsp; on his&nbsp; back&nbsp; in his own&nbsp; bed&nbsp; - that is, the&nbsp; jeweller's<br />wife's former&nbsp; bed&nbsp; -&nbsp; in the bedroom. Here he felt such a&nbsp; throbbing in his<br />head that he closed his eyes and moaned.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Let us&nbsp; explain: Styopa Likhodeev, director of the Variety Theatre, had<br />come to&nbsp; his senses that morning at&nbsp; home,&nbsp; in&nbsp; the very&nbsp; apartment which he<br />shared with the&nbsp; late Berlioz, in a&nbsp; big, six-storeyed, U-shaped building on<br />Sadovaya Street.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It must&nbsp; be said that&nbsp; this apartment - no.50 - had long&nbsp; had, if not a<br />bad, at least a&nbsp; strange reputation. Two&nbsp; years ago it had still belonged to<br />the widow&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; jeweller de&nbsp; Fougeray. Anna&nbsp; Frantsevna de&nbsp; Fougeray,&nbsp; a<br />respectable and&nbsp; very practical fifty-year-old woman, let out&nbsp; three&nbsp; of the<br />five rooms to&nbsp; lodgers: one&nbsp; whose&nbsp; last&nbsp; name&nbsp; was apparently&nbsp; Belomut, and<br />another with a lost last name.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And then&nbsp; two&nbsp; years ago&nbsp; inexplicable&nbsp; events began&nbsp; to&nbsp; occur in this<br />apartment: people&nbsp; began&nbsp; to disappear [1]&nbsp; from this&nbsp; apartment&nbsp; without&nbsp; a<br />trace.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Once,&nbsp; on&nbsp; a&nbsp; day off, a policeman came to the&nbsp; apartment,&nbsp; called&nbsp; the<br />second lodger (the one whose last name&nbsp; got lost) out to the front hall, and<br />said&nbsp; he was invited&nbsp; to come to the police station for a&nbsp; minute to put his<br />signature to&nbsp; something. The lodger told Anfisa, Anna Frantsevna's long-time<br />and devoted housekeeper,&nbsp; to say, in case he received any&nbsp; telephone&nbsp; calls,<br />that&nbsp; he would be back in ten&nbsp; minutes, and left together&nbsp; with the&nbsp; proper,<br />white-gloved policeman. He&nbsp; not&nbsp; only&nbsp; did not come back in ten minutes, but<br />never&nbsp; came back at&nbsp; all. The most surprising&nbsp; thing was that&nbsp; the policeman<br />evidently vanished along with him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; pious,&nbsp; or, to speak&nbsp; more&nbsp; frankly, superstitious Anfisa declared<br />outright to the very upset Anna Frantsevna that it was sorcery&nbsp; and that she<br />knew perfectly&nbsp; well who had stolen both the lodger and the policeman,&nbsp; only<br />she did not wish to talk about it towards night-time.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Well, but with&nbsp; sorcery, as everyone knows, once it starts,&nbsp; there's no<br />stopping&nbsp; it. The&nbsp; second&nbsp; lodger is remembered to&nbsp; have&nbsp; disappeared&nbsp; on&nbsp; a<br />Monday, and&nbsp; that Wednesday Belomut seemed to drop from sight, though, true,<br />under different circumstances. In the&nbsp; morning a car came, as usual, to take<br />him to work, and it did take him to&nbsp; work, but it&nbsp; did not bring anyone back<br />or come again itself.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Madame&nbsp; Belomut's&nbsp; grief&nbsp; and&nbsp; horror&nbsp; defied description.&nbsp; But,&nbsp; alas,<br />neither&nbsp; the&nbsp; one&nbsp; nor the other continued for&nbsp; long. That&nbsp; same&nbsp; night,&nbsp; on<br />returning with Anfisa from her dacha, which Anna Frantsevna&nbsp; had hurried off<br />to&nbsp; for some reason,&nbsp; she did not&nbsp; find the&nbsp; wife of citizen&nbsp; Belomut in the<br />apartment.&nbsp; And not only that:&nbsp; the doors of the two rooms&nbsp; occupied&nbsp; by the<br />Belomut couple turned out to be sealed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Two days passed somehow. On the third&nbsp; day,&nbsp; Anna Frantsevna,&nbsp; who&nbsp; had<br />suffered all the while&nbsp; from insomnia, again left hurriedly for her dacha...<br />Needless to say, she never came back!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Left&nbsp; alone,&nbsp; Anfisa,&nbsp; having wept her&nbsp; fill,&nbsp; went to&nbsp; sleep past&nbsp; one<br />o'clock in the morning. What&nbsp; happened to her after&nbsp; that&nbsp; is not known, but<br />lodgers in other apartments told of hearing some sort of&nbsp; knocking all night<br />in no.50 and of seeing electric light burning in the windows till morning.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In the morning it turned out that there was also no Anfisa!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For a long time all sorts of legends&nbsp; were repeated in the&nbsp; house about<br />these&nbsp; disappearances&nbsp; and&nbsp; about&nbsp; the&nbsp; accursed&nbsp; apartment,&nbsp; such&nbsp; as,&nbsp; for<br />instance, 'that&nbsp; this dry and pious little Anfisa had supposedly carried&nbsp; on<br />her dried-up breast, in a suede&nbsp; bag,&nbsp; twenty-five big diamonds belonging to<br />Anna Frantsevna.&nbsp; That&nbsp; in&nbsp; the woodshed&nbsp; of&nbsp; that&nbsp; very dacha to which Anna<br />Frantsevna had gone so hurriedly, there supposedly turned up, of themselves,<br />some&nbsp; inestimable treasures in the form of&nbsp; those same&nbsp; diamonds,&nbsp; plus some<br />gold&nbsp; coins of tsarist minting... And so on, in the same vein. Well, what we<br />don't know, we can't vouch for.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; However it may have been, the apartment stood empty and sealed for only<br />a week. Then the late Berlioz moved in&nbsp; with his wife, and this same Styopa,<br />also with his wife. It was perfectly natural that, as soon as they got&nbsp; into<br />the malignant&nbsp; apartment,&nbsp; devil&nbsp; knows what started happening with them&nbsp; as<br />well! Namely, within the space of a month both wives vanished. But these two<br />not without a trace. Of&nbsp; Berlioz's wife it was told that&nbsp; she had supposedly<br />been seen in Kharkov with some ballet-master, while Styopa's&nbsp; wife allegedly<br />turned up on Bozhedomka Street, where&nbsp; wagging&nbsp; tongues said the director of<br />the Variety, using his innumerable acquaintances, had contrived to get her a<br />room, but on the one condition that she never show her face on Sadovaya...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And so, Styopa moaned. He wanted to call the housekeeper Grunya and ask<br />her for aspirin, but was still able to realize that it was foolish, and that<br />Grunya,&nbsp; of&nbsp; course,&nbsp; had&nbsp; no aspirin.&nbsp; He tried to&nbsp; call Berlioz for&nbsp; help,<br />groaned twice: 'Misha... Misha...', but, as you will understand, received no<br />reply. The apartment was perfectly silent.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Moving his toes, Styopa realized that he was&nbsp; lying there in his socks,<br />passed his&nbsp; trembling&nbsp; hand&nbsp; down&nbsp; his hip&nbsp; to determine whether he&nbsp; had his<br />trousers on or not, but&nbsp; failed. Finally, seeing&nbsp; that&nbsp; he was abandoned and<br />alone, and&nbsp; there was&nbsp; no one to&nbsp; help&nbsp; him, he&nbsp; decided to get up,&nbsp; however<br />inhuman the effort it cost him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa unstuck&nbsp; his&nbsp; glued&nbsp; eyelids&nbsp; and&nbsp; saw&nbsp; himself reflected in the<br />pier-glass as a man with hair sticking out in all directions, with a bloated<br />physiognomy&nbsp; covered with black&nbsp; stubble, with puffy&nbsp; eyes,&nbsp; a dirty&nbsp; shirt,<br />collar and necktie, in drawers and socks.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So he saw himself&nbsp; in the pier-glass, and next to the mirror he&nbsp; saw an<br />unknown man, dressed in black and wearing a black beret.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa sat up in bed and goggled his bloodshot eyes as well as he could<br />at the unknown man. The silence was broken by this unknown&nbsp; man, who said in<br />a low, heavy voice, and with a foreign accent, the following words:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Good morning, my most sympathetic Stepan Bogdanovich!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There&nbsp; was&nbsp; a&nbsp; pause,&nbsp; after&nbsp; which,&nbsp; making a&nbsp; most terrible strain on<br />himself, Styopa uttered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;What&nbsp; can&nbsp; I do&nbsp; for&nbsp; you?' - and was amazed, not recognizing his&nbsp; own<br />voice. He spoke the word 'what'&nbsp; in a treble, 'can I' in a bass, and his 'do<br />for you' did not come off at all.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The stranger smiled amicably,&nbsp; took out a big gold watch with a diamond<br />triangle on the lid, rang eleven times, and said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Eleven. And for&nbsp; exactly an hour I've been waiting for you to wake up,<br />since you made&nbsp; an appointment for me&nbsp; to come to your place&nbsp; at ten. Here I<br />am!'[2]<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa felt for his trousers on the chair beside his bed, whispered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Excuse me...', put them on,&nbsp; and asked hoarsely:&nbsp; 'Tell me your&nbsp; name,<br />please?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He had difficulty speaking. At each&nbsp; word, someone stuck&nbsp; a needle into<br />his brain, causing infernal pain.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What! You've forgotten my name, too?' Here the unknown man smiled.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Forgive me...' Styopa croaked, feeling that his hangover had presented<br />him with a new symptom: it seemed to&nbsp; him that the floor beside his bed went<br />away, and that at&nbsp; any moment he would go flying down to&nbsp; the devil's dam in<br />the nether world.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `My&nbsp; dear Stepan&nbsp; Bogdanovich,' the&nbsp; visitor said, with a perspicacious<br />smile, 'no aspirin will help&nbsp; you. Follow the wise old rule - cure like with<br />like. The only thing&nbsp; that&nbsp; will bring you back to life&nbsp; is&nbsp; two glasses&nbsp; of<br />vodka with something pickled and hot to go with it.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa was a shrewd man and, sick as he was, realized that since he had<br />been found in this state, he would have to confess everything.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Frankly&nbsp; speaking,'&nbsp; he began, his&nbsp; tongue barely moving, 'yesterday I<br />got a bit...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Not a word more!' the visitor answered and drew aside with his&nbsp; chair.<br />Styopa, rolling his eyes, saw&nbsp; that a tray had been set on a small table, on<br />which tray there&nbsp; were sliced white bread,&nbsp; pressed caviar in a little bowl,<br />pickled mushrooms on a dish, something in a saucepan, and, finally, vodka in<br />a roomy&nbsp; decanter&nbsp; belonging to&nbsp; the jeweller's&nbsp; wife.&nbsp; What&nbsp; struck&nbsp; Styopa<br />especially was that the decanter&nbsp; was&nbsp; frosty with cold.&nbsp; This, however, was<br />understandable: it&nbsp; was sitting in a&nbsp; bowl packed with&nbsp; ice.&nbsp; In&nbsp; short, the<br />service was neat, efficient.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The stranger&nbsp; did&nbsp; not allow&nbsp; Styopa's amazement to develop to a morbid<br />degree, but deftly poured him half a glass of vodka.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And you?' Styopa squeaked.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'With pleasure!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His hand twitching,&nbsp; Styopa brought the&nbsp; glass to&nbsp; his&nbsp; lips, while the<br />stranger swallowed the contents of his glass at one&nbsp; gulp. Chewing a lump of<br />caviar, Styopa squeezed out of himself the words:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And you... a bite of something?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Much obliged,&nbsp; but&nbsp; I never snack,' the&nbsp; stranger replied&nbsp; and&nbsp; poured<br />seconds. The saucepan was opened and found to contain frankfurters in tomato<br />sauce.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And then the accursed&nbsp; green haze before his eyes dissolved, the&nbsp; words<br />began to come out clearly, and, above all, Styopa remembered a thing or two.<br />Namely, that it had&nbsp; taken place yesterday in Skhodnya, at the dacha of&nbsp; the<br />sketch-writer&nbsp; Khustov, to which&nbsp; this same Khustov had&nbsp; taken&nbsp; Styopa in&nbsp; a<br />taxi. There was even a memory of having hired this taxi by the Metropol, and<br />there was also some&nbsp; actor, or not an actor... with a gramophone in a little<br />suitcase. Yes, yes, yes, it was at the dacha! The&nbsp; dogs,&nbsp; he remembered, had<br />howled&nbsp; from&nbsp; this&nbsp; gramophone.&nbsp; Only&nbsp; the lady&nbsp; Styopa&nbsp; had wanted&nbsp; to kiss<br />remained unexplained... devil knows who she was...&nbsp; maybe&nbsp; she was in radio,<br />maybe not...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The previous day was thus coming gradually&nbsp; into&nbsp; focus,&nbsp; but right now<br />Styopa&nbsp; was&nbsp; much more&nbsp; interested&nbsp; in today's day and, particularly, in the<br />appearance&nbsp; in his bedroom&nbsp; of a stranger, and with hors d'oeuvres and vodka<br />to boot. It would be nice to explain that!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, I hope by now you've remembered my name?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But Styopa only smiled bashfully and spread his arms.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Really!&nbsp; I get the feeling that you followed the vodka with port wine!<br />Good heavens, it simply isn't done!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I beg you to keep it between us,' Styopa said fawningly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh, of course, of course! But as for Khustov, needless to say, I can't<br />vouch for him.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So you know Khustov?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Yesterday, in your office, I saw&nbsp; this individuum briefly, but it only<br />takes&nbsp; a fleeting glance at his&nbsp; face&nbsp; to understand that he is a bastard, a<br />squabbler, a trimmer and a toady.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Perfectly&nbsp; true!' thought Styopa, struck&nbsp; by&nbsp; such a true, precise and<br />succinct definition of Khustov.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes,&nbsp; the&nbsp; previous day was&nbsp; piecing&nbsp; itself&nbsp; together, but,&nbsp; even&nbsp; so,<br />anxiety would&nbsp; not&nbsp; take leave of the director of the Variety. The thing was<br />that&nbsp; a&nbsp; huge&nbsp; black hole yawned in this&nbsp; previous&nbsp; day.&nbsp; Say what you will,<br />Styopa&nbsp; simply&nbsp; had not&nbsp; seen this&nbsp; stranger&nbsp; in the&nbsp; beret&nbsp; in&nbsp; his&nbsp; office<br />yesterday.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Professor&nbsp; of black magic&nbsp; Woland,'[3]&nbsp; the&nbsp; visitor&nbsp; said&nbsp; weightily,<br />seeing Styopa's difficulty, and he recounted everything in order.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yesterday afternoon he arrived in Moscow from abroad,&nbsp; went immediately<br />to Styopa, and offered his show to the Variety. Styopa telephoned the Moscow<br />Regional&nbsp; Entertainment&nbsp; Commission and&nbsp; had the&nbsp; question&nbsp; approved (Styopa<br />turned&nbsp; pale and blinked), then signed a contract&nbsp; with Professor Woland for<br />seven performances&nbsp; (Styopa&nbsp; opened his mouth),&nbsp; and&nbsp; arranged&nbsp; that&nbsp; Woland<br />should come the next morning at ten o'clock to work out the details...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And so Woland came. Having come, he&nbsp; was met by the housekeeper Grunya,<br />who explained&nbsp; that she had just&nbsp; come&nbsp; herself, that&nbsp; she was not a live-in<br />maid, that Berlioz&nbsp; was not home, and&nbsp; that if&nbsp; the&nbsp; visitor&nbsp; wished&nbsp; to see<br />Stepan Bogdanovich,&nbsp; he should go to his bedroom himself. Stepan Bogdanovich<br />was such a sound sleeper that she would not undertake to wake him up. Seeing<br />what&nbsp; condition&nbsp; Stepan Bogdanovich was in, the&nbsp; artiste sent&nbsp; Grunya to the<br />nearest&nbsp; grocery&nbsp; store for vodka and hors d'oeuvres, to the&nbsp; druggist's for<br />ice, and...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Allow me&nbsp; to reimburse&nbsp; you,' the mortified Styopa&nbsp; squealed and began<br />hunting for his wallet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh,&nbsp; what nonsense!' the guest&nbsp; performer&nbsp; exclaimed and would hear no<br />more of it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; so, the vodka and hors d'oeuvres got explained,&nbsp; but all the&nbsp; same<br />Styopa was a pity to see: he remembered decidedly nothing about the contract<br />and, on his life, had&nbsp; not seen this Woland yesterday. Yes, Khustov had been<br />there, but not Woland.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'May I have a look at the contract?' Styopa asked quietly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Please do, please do...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa looked at the paper and froze. Everything was in place: first of<br />all, Styopa's own dashing&nbsp; signature... aslant the margin a note in the hand<br />of&nbsp; the&nbsp; findirector&nbsp; [4] Rimsky&nbsp; authorizing&nbsp; the payment of&nbsp; ten&nbsp; thousand<br />roubles to the artiste Woland, as&nbsp; an advance&nbsp; on the&nbsp; thirty-five&nbsp; thousand<br />roubles due him for seven performances. What's more, Woland's&nbsp; signature was<br />right there attesting to his receipt of the ten thousand!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `What is all this?!'&nbsp; the wretched&nbsp; Styopa&nbsp; thought, his head spinning.<br />Was&nbsp; he&nbsp; starting to&nbsp; have ominous gaps&nbsp; of&nbsp; memory? Well, it&nbsp; went&nbsp; without<br />saying,&nbsp; once&nbsp; the contract had&nbsp; been produced, any further&nbsp; expressions&nbsp; of<br />surprise&nbsp; would&nbsp; simply&nbsp; be&nbsp; indecent. Styopa asked&nbsp; his&nbsp; visitor's leave to<br />absent himself for a&nbsp; moment and, just as he was,&nbsp; in his stocking feet, ran<br />to&nbsp; the&nbsp; front&nbsp; hall for the telephone.&nbsp; On&nbsp; his way he&nbsp; called&nbsp; out in&nbsp; the<br />direction of the kitchen:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Grunya!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But no one responded. He glanced at the door&nbsp; to Berlioz's study, which<br />was next to the front hall, and here&nbsp; he was, as they say, flabbergasted. On<br />the door-handle he made out an enormous wax seal [5] on a string.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hel-lo!' someone barked in Styopa's head. 'Just&nbsp; what we&nbsp; needed!' And<br />here&nbsp; Styopa's thoughts began running on twin tracks, but, as always happens<br />in times of catastrophe, in the&nbsp; same&nbsp; direction and, generally, devil knows<br />where. It is&nbsp; even&nbsp; difficult to convey&nbsp; the porridge in Styopa's head. Here<br />was this devilry with the black beret, the chilled vodka, and the incredible<br />contract...&nbsp; And along with all that, if you&nbsp; please, a seal on the&nbsp; door as<br />well! That is, tell anyone you like that Berlioz has been up to no good - no<br />one will believe&nbsp; it, by Jove, no one will believe it! Yet look, there's the<br />seal! Yes, sir...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And here&nbsp; some&nbsp; most&nbsp; disagreeable&nbsp; little&nbsp; thoughts&nbsp; began stirring in<br />Styopa's&nbsp; brain, about&nbsp; the article which,&nbsp; as luck&nbsp; would have it,&nbsp; he&nbsp; had<br />recently inflicted on Mikhail Alexandrovich for publication in his journal.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The article, just between us, was idiotic! And worthless. And the money<br />was so little...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Immediately after the recollection&nbsp; of the article, there came flying a<br />recollection of some dubious conversation that had taken place, he recalled,<br />on the twenty-fourth of April,&nbsp; in the&nbsp; evening, right&nbsp; there in the&nbsp; dining<br />room, while Styopa was having dinner with Mikhail Alexandrovich. That is, of<br />course, this conversation could not have&nbsp; been&nbsp; called&nbsp; dubious in the&nbsp; full<br />sense of the word (Styopa would not have ventured upon such a conversation),<br />but&nbsp; it was on&nbsp; some&nbsp; unnecessary&nbsp; subject.&nbsp; He had been&nbsp; quite&nbsp; free,&nbsp; dear<br />citizens, not&nbsp; to&nbsp; begin&nbsp; it.&nbsp; Before&nbsp; the&nbsp; seal,&nbsp; this&nbsp; conversation&nbsp; would<br />undoubtedly&nbsp; have been&nbsp; considered&nbsp; a&nbsp; perfect&nbsp; trifle,&nbsp; but now, after&nbsp; the<br />seal...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, Berlioz, Berlioz!' boiled up&nbsp; in Styopa's head. This is simply too<br />much for one head!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But it would not do to&nbsp; grieve too&nbsp; long, and Styopa dialled the number<br />of the office of&nbsp; the&nbsp; Variety's findirector, Rimsky. Styopa's&nbsp; position was<br />ticklish: first, the foreigner might get offended that Styopa&nbsp; was&nbsp; checking<br />on&nbsp; him after the contract&nbsp; had&nbsp; been&nbsp; shown,&nbsp; and&nbsp; then&nbsp; to talk&nbsp; with&nbsp; the<br />findirector was also exceedingly difficult.&nbsp; Indeed,&nbsp; he could not just&nbsp; ask<br />him like that:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Tell&nbsp; me,&nbsp; did&nbsp; I sign a&nbsp; contract for&nbsp; thirty-five&nbsp; thousand&nbsp; roubles<br />yesterday with a professor of black magic?' It was no good asking like that!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes!' Rimsky's sharp, unpleasant voice came from the receiver.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hello,&nbsp; Grigory&nbsp; Danilovich,'&nbsp; Styopa began&nbsp; speaking&nbsp; quietly,&nbsp; 'it's<br />Likhodeev. There's&nbsp; a certain&nbsp; matter... hm...&nbsp; hm... I&nbsp; have&nbsp; this... er...<br />artiste Woland sitting here... So you see... I wanted to ask, how about this<br />evening?...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, the black magician?' Rimsky's voice responded in the receiver. The<br />posters will be ready shortly.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Uh-huh...' Styopa said in a weak voice, 'well, 'bye...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And you'll be coming in soon?' Rimsky asked.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'In half an hour,' Styopa replied and, hanging up the receiver, pressed<br />his&nbsp; hot&nbsp; head in his hands. Ah, what a nasty thing to have happen! What was<br />wrong with his memory, citizens? Eh?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; However, to&nbsp; go on&nbsp; lingering in the front hall was awkward, and Styopa<br />formed&nbsp; a&nbsp; plan&nbsp; straight&nbsp; away:&nbsp; by&nbsp; all&nbsp; means&nbsp; to conceal his&nbsp; incredible<br />forgetfulness, and now,&nbsp; first&nbsp; off, contrive&nbsp; to&nbsp; get out of the&nbsp; foreigner<br />what, in fact,&nbsp; he&nbsp; intended to show that evening in&nbsp; the&nbsp; Variety, of which<br />Styopa was in charge.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here&nbsp; Styopa turned away from the&nbsp; telephone and saw distinctly&nbsp; in the<br />mirror that stood in the front hall, and which the lazy Grunya had not wiped<br />for ages, a certain strange specimen,&nbsp; long&nbsp; as&nbsp; a&nbsp; pole, and in a pince-nez<br />(ah, if only Ivan Nikolaevich had been there!&nbsp; He would have recognized this<br />specimen at&nbsp; once!). The figure was&nbsp; reflected and then disappeared.&nbsp; Styopa<br />looked further down&nbsp; the hall in alarm and was rocked a second time,&nbsp; for in<br />the mirror a stalwart black cat passed and also disappeared.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa's heart skipped a beat, he staggered.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What is&nbsp; all this?' he thought. 'Am&nbsp; I losing my mind? Where are these<br />reflections&nbsp; coming&nbsp; from?!'&nbsp; He&nbsp; peeked&nbsp; into&nbsp; the&nbsp; front&nbsp; hall&nbsp; and&nbsp; cried<br />timorously:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Grunya! What's this cat&nbsp; doing hanging around here?! Where did he come<br />from? And the other one?!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't worry, Stepan Bogdanovich,' a voice&nbsp; responded, not Grunya's but<br />the visitor's,&nbsp; from the&nbsp; bedroom. The&nbsp; cat&nbsp; is mine. Don't&nbsp; be nervous. And<br />Grunya is not here, I&nbsp; sent her off to Voronezh.&nbsp; She complained you diddled<br />her out of a vacation.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; These words were so unexpected and preposterous that&nbsp; Styopa decided he<br />had not heard&nbsp; right. Utterly bewildered, he trotted back to the bedroom and<br />froze on the threshold. His hair stood on end and small beads of sweat broke<br />out on his brow.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The visitor was no longer alone in the bedroom, but had company: in the<br />second armchair sat the same type he had imagined in&nbsp; the front hall. Now he<br />was&nbsp; clearly&nbsp; visible: the&nbsp; feathery&nbsp; moustache,&nbsp; one&nbsp; lens of the pince-nez<br />gleaming, the&nbsp; other&nbsp; not there. But worse&nbsp; things&nbsp; were to be&nbsp; found in the<br />bedroom: on the jeweller's wife's ottoman,&nbsp; in&nbsp; a casual&nbsp; pose,&nbsp; sprawled&nbsp; a<br />third party - namely, a black cat of uncanny size, with a&nbsp; glass of vodka in<br />one paw and a fork, on which&nbsp; he had managed to spear a pickled mushroom, in<br />the other.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The light, faint in the bedroom anyway, now began to grow quite dark in<br />Styopa's&nbsp; eyes. This is&nbsp; apparently how one loses one's mind...' he&nbsp; thought<br />and caught hold of the doorpost.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I see you're somewhat surprised, my dearest Stepan Bogdanovich?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Woland&nbsp; inquired&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; teeth-chattering&nbsp; Styopa.&nbsp; `And yet&nbsp; there's<br />nothing to be surprised at. This is my retinue.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here&nbsp; the&nbsp; cat tossed off&nbsp; the vodka, and Styopa's hand began to&nbsp; slide<br />down the doorpost.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And&nbsp; this&nbsp; retinue requires room,' Woland continued,&nbsp; 'so there's just<br />one too many of us in&nbsp; the apartment. And it seems to&nbsp; us that this&nbsp; one too<br />many is precisely you.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Theirself, theirself!' the long&nbsp; checkered one sang in&nbsp; a goat's voice,<br />referring to Styopa in the plural. 'Generally, theirself has been up to some<br />terrible swinishness lately. Drinking, using their position to have liaisons<br />with&nbsp; women,&nbsp; don't&nbsp; do&nbsp; devil a thing, and can't do&nbsp; anything, because they<br />don't know anything of&nbsp; what they're supposed to&nbsp; do.&nbsp; Pulling the wool over<br />their superiors' eyes.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Availing hisself&nbsp; of a government car!' the&nbsp; cat&nbsp; snitched, chewing&nbsp; a<br />mushroom.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And here&nbsp; occurred the&nbsp; fourth and last appearance in the apartment, as<br />Styopa, having slid all the way to the floor, clawed at the doorpost with an<br />enfeebled hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Straight&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; pier-glass stepped&nbsp; a&nbsp; short&nbsp; but&nbsp; extraordinarily<br />broad-shouldered man, with a bowler hat&nbsp; on his head and a fang sticking out<br />of&nbsp; his&nbsp; mouth,&nbsp; which&nbsp; made&nbsp; still&nbsp; uglier&nbsp; a&nbsp; physiognomy&nbsp; unprecedentedly<br />loathsome without that. And with flaming red hair besides.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Generally,'&nbsp; this&nbsp; new&nbsp; one&nbsp; entered into&nbsp; the&nbsp; conversation, `I don't<br />understand&nbsp; how he got to&nbsp; be&nbsp; a&nbsp; director,' the redhead's&nbsp; nasal twang&nbsp; was<br />growing stronger and stronger, 'he's as much a director as I'm a bishop.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;You don't look like a bishop, Azazello,'[6] the cat observed,&nbsp; heaping<br />his plate with frankfurters.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That's what I&nbsp; mean,'&nbsp; twanged the redhead&nbsp; and,&nbsp; turning to Woland, he<br />added deferentially:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Allow me, Messire, to chuck him the devil out of Moscow?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Scat!' the cat barked suddenly, bristling his fur.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; then the&nbsp; bedroom&nbsp; started spinning around Styopa, he hit his head<br />against the doorpost, and, losing consciousness, thought: 'I'm dying...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But he did&nbsp; not&nbsp; die. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw himself sitting<br />on&nbsp; something made of stone. Around him something&nbsp; was making noise. When he<br />opened his eyes properly, he realized that the noise&nbsp; was being made by&nbsp; the<br />sea and, what's more, that the&nbsp; waves were rocking just at his feet, that he<br />was, in&nbsp; short, sitting&nbsp; at&nbsp; the very end of&nbsp; a&nbsp; jetty, that over him was&nbsp; a<br />brilliant blue sky and behind him a white city on the mountains.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Not&nbsp; knowing how to&nbsp; behave&nbsp; in such&nbsp; a case,&nbsp; Styopa&nbsp; got&nbsp; up&nbsp; on&nbsp; his<br />trembling legs and walked along the jetty towards the shore.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Some man was standing on the jetty, smoking and spitting into the sea.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He looked at Styopa with wild eyes and stopped spitting.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then&nbsp; Styopa pulled&nbsp; the following&nbsp; stunt: he&nbsp; knelt&nbsp; down&nbsp; before&nbsp; the<br />unknown smoker and said:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I implore you, tell me what city is this?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Really!' said the heartless smoker.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'm&nbsp; not drunk,' Styopa&nbsp; replied&nbsp; hoarsely,&nbsp; 'something's happened&nbsp; to<br />me... I'm ill... Where am I? What city is this?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;Well, it's Yalta...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Styopa quietly gasped and sank down on his side, his&nbsp; head striking the<br />warm stone of the jetty. Consciousness left him.]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>c732f04d-6b3e-4cf0-8e72-4f95475bcbd6</id><title>Chapter 6: Schizophrenia, as was Said</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/10/chapter_6_schizophrenia_as_was_said" /><updated>10-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="9"></a><h2>CHAPTER 6. Schizophrenia, as was Said</h2></ul><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was half past one in the morning when a man with a pointed beard and<br />wearing&nbsp; a&nbsp; white&nbsp; coat&nbsp; came&nbsp; out&nbsp; to&nbsp; the&nbsp; examining room&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; famous<br />psychiatric clinic, built recently on the outskirts of Moscow by the bank of<br />the river. Three orderlies had their eyes fastened on Ivan Nikolaevich,&nbsp; who<br />was sitting on a couch. The extremely agitated poet Riukhin was also there.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; napkins with which Ivan Nikolaevich had been bed up lay in&nbsp; a pile<br />on the same couch. Ivan Nikolaevich's arms and legs were free.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Seeing&nbsp; the&nbsp; entering&nbsp; man,&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp; turned&nbsp; pale, coughed,&nbsp; and&nbsp; said<br />timidly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hello, Doctor.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; doctor bowed to Riukhin but, as he bowed, looked not at him but at<br />Ivan Nikolaevich. The latter sat perfectly motionless, with&nbsp; an&nbsp; angry&nbsp; face<br />and knitted brows, and did not even stir at the doctor's entrance.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Here,&nbsp; Doctor,'&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp; began&nbsp; speaking,&nbsp;&nbsp; for&nbsp; some&nbsp; reason,&nbsp; in&nbsp; a<br />mysterious&nbsp; whisper,&nbsp; glancing&nbsp; timorously&nbsp; at&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich,&nbsp; `is&nbsp; the<br />renowned&nbsp; poet Ivan Homeless&nbsp; ... well, you see ... we're afraid it might be<br />delirium tremens...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Was he drinking hard?' the doctor said through his teeth.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, he drank, but not really so...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Did&nbsp; he&nbsp; chase after cockroaches,&nbsp; rats,&nbsp; little devils,&nbsp; or&nbsp; slinking<br />dogs?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No,' Riukhin replied with a&nbsp; shudder,&nbsp; `I saw him&nbsp; yesterday&nbsp; and this<br />morning ... he was perfectly well.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And why is he in his drawers? Did you get him out of bed?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, Doctor, he came to the restaurant that way...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Aha, aha,'&nbsp; the doctor said with&nbsp; great&nbsp; satisfaction,&nbsp; 'and&nbsp; why&nbsp; the<br />scratches? Did he have a fight?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He fell off a fence, and then in the restaurant he hit somebody... and<br />then somebody else...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So, so, so,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; doctor said&nbsp; and, turning&nbsp; to Ivan,&nbsp; added:&nbsp; 'Hello<br />there!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Greetings, saboteur! [1]' Ivan replied spitefully and loudly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin was so embarrassed that&nbsp; he did not dare raise his eyes to&nbsp; the<br />courteous doctor. But the latter, not offended&nbsp; in&nbsp; the least,&nbsp; took off his<br />glasses with&nbsp; a habitual, deft movement,&nbsp; raised the skirt of his coat,&nbsp; put<br />them into the back pocket of his trousers, and then asked Ivan:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How old are you?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You can all go to the devil!' Ivan shouted rudely and turned away.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But why are you angry? Did I say anything unpleasant to you?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'm twenty-three years old,' Ivan began excitedly,&nbsp; 'and&nbsp; I'll file&nbsp; a<br />complaint against you all. And particularly against you, louse!' he adverted<br />separately to Riukhin.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And what do you want to complain about?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'About the fact that I, a healthy man, was seized&nbsp; and dragged by force<br />to a madhouse!' Ivan replied wrathfully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here Riukhin looked closely at&nbsp; Ivan and went cold: there was decidedly<br />no&nbsp; insanity&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; man's eyes.&nbsp; No&nbsp; longer&nbsp; dull&nbsp; as&nbsp; they&nbsp; had been&nbsp; at<br />Griboedov's, they were now clear as ever.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Good&nbsp; God!'&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp; thought fearfully. 'So he's&nbsp; really normal! What<br />nonsense! Why, in fact, did we drag him here? He's normal,&nbsp; normal, only his<br />mug got scratched...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You are,' the doctor began calmly, sitting down&nbsp; on a white stool with<br />a shiny foot, `not in a&nbsp; madhouse,&nbsp; but in a&nbsp; clinic, where no one will keep<br />you if it's not necessary.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan Nikolaevich glanced at him mistrustfully out of the&nbsp; corner of his<br />eye, but still grumbled:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Thank the Lord! One normal man has finally turned up among the idiots,<br />of whom the first is that giftless goof Sashka!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Who is this giftless Sashka?' the doctor inquired.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'This one here -&nbsp; Riukhin,' Ivan replied, jabbing&nbsp; his&nbsp; dirty finger in<br />Riukhin's direction.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; latter&nbsp; flushed with indignation. That's the&nbsp; thanks&nbsp; I&nbsp; get,'&nbsp; he<br />thought bitterly, 'for showing concern for him! What trash, really!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Psychologically, a&nbsp; typical little&nbsp; kulak,'[2] Ivan Nikolaevich began,<br />evidently from an irresistible urge to&nbsp; denounce Riukhin, 'and, what's more,<br />a little kulak carefully&nbsp; disguising himself as a&nbsp; proletarian.&nbsp; Look at his<br />lenten physiognomy, and compare it with those resounding verses he wrote for<br />the First of May [3] - heh, heh, heh ... &quot;Soaring up!&quot; and &quot;Soaring&nbsp; down!!&quot;<br />But&nbsp; if you could look inside him and see what he thinks... you'd gasp!' And<br />Ivan Nikolaevich burst into sinister laughter.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp; was&nbsp; breathing&nbsp; heavily, turned red,&nbsp; and thought of&nbsp; just one<br />thing, that he had warmed a serpent on his breast, that he had shown concern<br />for&nbsp; a man&nbsp; who turned out to be a vicious enemy. And, above all,&nbsp; there was<br />nothing to be done: there's no arguing with the mentally ill!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `And&nbsp; why, actually, were&nbsp; you&nbsp; brought here?' the&nbsp; doctor asked, after<br />listening attentively to Homeless's denunciations.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Devil take them, the numskulls! They&nbsp; seized&nbsp; me, tied me up with some<br />rags, and dragged me away in a truck!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'May I ask why you came to the restaurant in just your underwear?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There's nothing surprising about&nbsp; that,' Ivan&nbsp; replied.&nbsp; `I went&nbsp; for a<br />swim in the Moscow River, so they filched my clothes and left me this trash!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I couldn't very well walk around Moscow naked!&nbsp; I put it&nbsp; on&nbsp; because I<br />was hurrying to Griboedov.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The doctor glanced questioningly at Riukhin, who muttered glumly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'The name of the restaurant.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Aha,' said&nbsp; the&nbsp; doctor,&nbsp; `and&nbsp; why&nbsp; were&nbsp; you in&nbsp; such a&nbsp; hurry? Some<br />business meeting?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'm&nbsp; trying to catch the consultant,' Ivan Nikolaevich said and looked<br />around anxiously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What consultant?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Do you know Berlioz?' Ivan asked significantly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The... composer?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan got upset.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What composer?&nbsp; Ah, yes... Ah, no. The composer&nbsp; has&nbsp; the same name as<br />Misha Berlioz.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin had no wish to say anything, but was forced to explain:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The secretary&nbsp; of Massolit, Berlioz, was run over by a tram-car tonight<br />at the Patriarch's Ponds.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't blab about what you don't know!' Ivan got angry with Riukhin. 'I<br />was there, not you! He got him under the tram-car on purpose!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Pushed him?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '&quot;Pushed&nbsp; him&quot;,&nbsp; nothing!'&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; exclaimed,&nbsp; angered&nbsp; by&nbsp; the&nbsp; general<br />obtuseness. 'His kind don't need to push! He&nbsp; can perform such stunts - hold<br />on&nbsp; to your&nbsp; hat! He&nbsp; knew&nbsp; beforehand&nbsp; that&nbsp; Berlioz&nbsp; would get&nbsp; under&nbsp; the<br />tram-car!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And did anyone besides you see this consultant?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That's the trouble, it was just Berlioz and I.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So. And&nbsp; what measures did you take to catch this&nbsp; murderer?' Here the<br />doctor turned and sent&nbsp; a glance towards&nbsp; a woman&nbsp; in a white&nbsp; coat, who was<br />sitting&nbsp; at a&nbsp; table to one side.&nbsp; She&nbsp; took out a sheet of&nbsp; paper and began<br />filling in the blank spaces in its columns.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Here's what measures: I took a little candle from the kitchen...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That one?' asked the doctor, pointing to the broken candle lying on the<br />table in front of the woman, next to the icon.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That very one, and...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And why the icon?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, yes, the icon...' Ivan&nbsp; blushed. `It was the icon that&nbsp; frightened<br />them most of all.' He again jabbed his finger in&nbsp; the direction of&nbsp; Riukhin.<br />'But the thing is that he,&nbsp; the consultant, he... let's speak directly... is<br />mixed up with the unclean powers... and you won't catch him so easily.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; orderlies&nbsp; for some reason snapped to attention and fastened their<br />eyes on Ivan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes, sirs,' Ivan went on,&nbsp; 'mixed&nbsp; up with them! An&nbsp; absolute&nbsp; fact. He<br />spoke personally with Pontius&nbsp; Pilate.&nbsp; And there's&nbsp; no need to&nbsp; stare at me<br />like&nbsp; that.&nbsp; I'm&nbsp; telling the truth! He saw everything - the balcony and the<br />palm trees. In short, he was at Pontius Pilate's, I can vouch for it.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Come, come...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, so I pinned the icon on my chest and ran...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here the clock suddenly struck twice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh-oh!'&nbsp; Ivan exclaimed&nbsp; and got up from the couch. `It's two o'clock,<br />and I'm wasting time with you! Excuse me, where's the telephone?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Let him use the telephone,' the doctor told the orderlies.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; grabbed&nbsp; the&nbsp; receiver,&nbsp; and&nbsp; the&nbsp; woman meanwhile&nbsp; quietly asked<br />Riukhin:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Is he married?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Single,' Riukhin answered fearfully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Member of a trade union?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Police?'&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp;&nbsp; shouted&nbsp;&nbsp; into&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp;&nbsp; receiver.&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Police?&nbsp;&nbsp; Comrade<br />officer-on-duty, give orders at once for five motor cycles with machine-guns<br />to be sent out to catch the&nbsp; foreign consultant. What? Come and pick me&nbsp; up,<br />I'll go with you... It's the poet Homeless speaking from the madhouse...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What's your address?' Homeless asked the doctor in&nbsp; a whisper, covering<br />the&nbsp; receiver&nbsp; with&nbsp; his hand,&nbsp; and&nbsp; then&nbsp; again&nbsp; shouting into it: 'Are you<br />listening?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Hello!... Outrageous!' Ivan suddenly screamed&nbsp; and hurled&nbsp; the receiver<br />against the&nbsp; wall. Then he&nbsp; turned to the doctor, offered him his hand, said<br />'Goodbye' drily, and made as if to leave.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `For pity's sake, where do you intend&nbsp; to go?' the doctor said, peering<br />into&nbsp; Ivan's eyes.&nbsp; 'In&nbsp; the dead of night, in&nbsp; your underwear... You're not<br />feeling well, stay with us.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Let&nbsp; me&nbsp; pass,'&nbsp; Ivan said to the orderlies,&nbsp; who closed ranks at&nbsp; the<br />door. 'Will you let me pass or not?' the poet shouted in a terrible voice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp; trembled,&nbsp; but&nbsp; the woman&nbsp; pushed&nbsp; a button on the table and a<br />shiny little box with a sealed ampoule popped out on to its glass surface.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, so?!' Ivan said, turning around with a wild and hunted look.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well,&nbsp;&nbsp; then...&nbsp; Goodbye!'&nbsp; And&nbsp;&nbsp; he&nbsp; rushed&nbsp;&nbsp; head&nbsp; first&nbsp;&nbsp; into&nbsp; the<br />window-blind.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The crash was rather forceful, but the glass&nbsp; behind the blind&nbsp; gave no<br />crack, and in an instant Ivan Nikolaevich was struggling in the hands of the<br />orderlies. He gasped, tried to bite, shouted:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So that's the&nbsp; sort&nbsp; of&nbsp; windows you've&nbsp; got here! Let me go!&nbsp; Let&nbsp; me<br />go!...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A syringe flashed&nbsp; in the doctor's&nbsp; hand,&nbsp; with&nbsp; a single&nbsp; movement the<br />woman&nbsp; slit the threadbare&nbsp; sleeve&nbsp; of&nbsp; the shirt&nbsp; and&nbsp; seized the&nbsp; arm with<br />unwomanly strength. There was a&nbsp; smell of ether, Ivan went limp in the hands<br />of the four&nbsp; people, the deft doctor took advantage of this moment and stuck<br />the needle into Ivan's arm. They&nbsp; held Ivan for another few seconds and then<br />lowered him on to the couch.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Bandits!' Ivan shouted and jumped up from the couch, but was installed<br />on it again. The moment they let go of him, he again jumped up, but sat back<br />down&nbsp; by himself. He paused, gazing around wildly, then unexpectedly yawned,<br />then smiled maliciously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Locked me up after all,' he said, yawned again, unexpectedly lay down,<br />put&nbsp; his head&nbsp; on the pillow, his fist&nbsp; under&nbsp; his&nbsp; head&nbsp; like a&nbsp; child, and<br />muttered now in&nbsp; a sleepy voice,&nbsp; without malice: 'Very well, then... you'll<br />pay for it yourselves... I've warned you, you&nbsp; can do as you like... I'm now<br />interested most of all in Pontius Pilate ...&nbsp; Pilate...', and he closed&nbsp; his<br />eyes.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A bath,&nbsp; a private&nbsp; room, number&nbsp; 117, and&nbsp; a nurse to watch him,' the<br />doctor&nbsp; ordered&nbsp; as he put his glasses&nbsp; on. Here Riukhin again gave a start:<br />the white door opened&nbsp; noiselessly, behind&nbsp; it a corridor could be seen, lit<br />by&nbsp; blue night-lights. Out of&nbsp; the&nbsp; corridor rolled&nbsp; a&nbsp; stretcher&nbsp; on rubber<br />wheels, to which&nbsp; the quieted Ivan&nbsp; was&nbsp; transferred, and then he rolled off<br />down the corridor and the door closed behind him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Doctor,' the&nbsp; shaken Riukhin asked in a whisper, 'it means he's really<br />ill?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh, yes,' replied the doctor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But what's wrong with him, then?' Riukhin asked timidly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The tired doctor glanced at Riukhin and answered listlessly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Locomotor&nbsp; and&nbsp; speech&nbsp; excitation...&nbsp; delirious&nbsp; interpretations... A<br />complex case, it seems. Schizophrenia, I suppose. Plus this alcoholism...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp; understood nothing from the doctor's words, except that things<br />were evidently not so great with Ivan Nikolaevich. He sighed and asked:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But what's all this talk of his about some consultant?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `He must have seen&nbsp; somebody who&nbsp; struck his&nbsp; disturbed imagination. Or<br />maybe a hallucination...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A few minutes later the truck was carrying Riukhin&nbsp; off to&nbsp; Moscow. Day<br />was&nbsp; breaking, and the&nbsp; light of&nbsp; the street&nbsp; lights still burning along the<br />highway was now unnecessary and unpleasant.&nbsp; The&nbsp; driver was vexed at having<br />wasted the&nbsp; night, drove the truck as&nbsp; fast as he&nbsp; could, and skidded on the<br />turns.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Now the woods dropped off, stayed somewhere behind, and&nbsp; the river went<br />somewhere to the&nbsp; side, and&nbsp; an&nbsp; omnium gatherum came spilling&nbsp; to&nbsp; meet the<br />truck: fences with sentry boxes and stacks of wood, tall posts and some sort<br />of poles, with spools strung on the poles, heaps of rubble, the earth scored<br />by&nbsp; canals - in short, you sensed that&nbsp; she was there, Moscow, right&nbsp; there,<br />around the turn, and about to heave herself upon you and engulf you.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin was jolted&nbsp; and tossed about;&nbsp; the sort of stump&nbsp; he had placed<br />himself&nbsp; on kept trying to slide out from under him. The restaurant napkins,<br />thrown in by the policeman and Pantelei, who had left earlier&nbsp; by bus, moved<br />all&nbsp; around the flatbed. Riukhin tried to collect them, but then,&nbsp; for&nbsp; some<br />reason hissing spitefully: 'Devil take them! What am&nbsp; I doing fussing like a<br />fool?...', he spumed them aside with his foot and stopped looking at them.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The rider's state of mind was&nbsp; terrible. It was becoming clear that his<br />visit to the house of sorrow had left the deepest mark on him. Riukhin tried<br />to understand what was tormenting&nbsp; him. The corridor with blue lights, which<br />had&nbsp; stuck&nbsp; itself&nbsp; to&nbsp; his memory?&nbsp; The&nbsp; thought that&nbsp; there&nbsp; is no greater<br />misfortune in&nbsp; the world than the loss of reason? Yes, yes, of course, that,<br />too. But that - that's only a general thought. There's&nbsp; something else. What<br />is it? An insult, that's what. Yes, yes, insulting words hurled right in his<br />face by Homeless. And the trouble is not that they were insulting,&nbsp; but that<br />there was truth in them.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The poet no longer looked&nbsp; around, but, staring into the dirty, shaking<br />floor, began muttering something, whining, gnawing at himself.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes, poetry... He was thirty-two years old! And, indeed, what&nbsp; then? So<br />then he&nbsp; would&nbsp; go&nbsp; on writing his several poems a year. Into old&nbsp; age? Yes,<br />into old age. What would these poems bring him? Glory? 'What nonsense! Don't<br />deceive&nbsp; yourself, at least. Glory will never come to someone who writes bad<br />poems.&nbsp; What makes&nbsp; them bad? The truth, he was telling the truth!'&nbsp; Riukhin<br />addressed himself mercilessly. 'I don't believe in anything I write!...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Poisoned&nbsp; by this&nbsp; burst of&nbsp; neurasthenia, the poet swayed,&nbsp; the&nbsp; floor<br />under him stopped shaking. Riukhin raised his head&nbsp; and saw that he had long<br />been in Moscow,&nbsp; and, what's more,&nbsp; that&nbsp; it was dawn over&nbsp; Moscow, that the<br />cloud was underlit with gold, that his truck had stopped, caught in a column<br />of other&nbsp; vehicles at the turn&nbsp; on&nbsp; to the boulevard, and that very close to<br />him on a pedestal stood a metal man [4], his head inclined&nbsp; slightly, gazing<br />at the boulevard with indifference.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Some strange thoughts flooded&nbsp; the head of the ailing poet. 'There's an<br />example of real luck...' Here Riukhin rose to his full height on the flatbed<br />of the truck and raised his arm, for some reason attacking the cast-iron man<br />who was not bothering anyone.&nbsp; 'Whatever step&nbsp; he made in his life, whatever<br />happened to him, it all turned to his benefit, it all led to his&nbsp; glory! But<br />what did he do? I can't&nbsp; conceive... Is there anything special in the words:<br />&quot;The snowstorm covers...&quot;? I don't understand!...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Luck, sheer&nbsp; luck!'&nbsp; Riukhin concluded&nbsp; with venom, and&nbsp; felt the truck<br />moving under him. `He shot him,&nbsp; that white guard shot him, smashed his hip,<br />and assured his immortality...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The column began&nbsp; to move. In no more than two minutes, the&nbsp; completely<br />ill and&nbsp; even aged poet was entering the veranda of Griboedov's.&nbsp; It was now<br />empty. In a corner some company was finishing its drinks, and&nbsp; in the middle<br />the familiar master&nbsp; of&nbsp; ceremonies was bustling&nbsp; about, wearing a skullcap,<br />with a glass of Abrau wine in his hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin,&nbsp; laden&nbsp;&nbsp; with&nbsp; napkins,&nbsp;&nbsp; was&nbsp;&nbsp; met&nbsp;&nbsp; affably&nbsp;&nbsp; by&nbsp;&nbsp; Archibald<br />Archibaldovich&nbsp; and at once&nbsp; relieved of&nbsp; the&nbsp; cursed&nbsp; rags. Had Riukhin not<br />become so worn&nbsp; out in the clinic and on the&nbsp; truck, he would certainly have<br />derived pleasure&nbsp; from telling&nbsp; how everything had&nbsp; gone in the hospital and<br />embellishing the story with invented details. But just&nbsp; then he was far from<br />such&nbsp; things, and,&nbsp; little observant though&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp; was,&nbsp; now,&nbsp; after&nbsp; the<br />torture on the truck, he peered keenly at the pirate for the first time&nbsp; and<br />realized&nbsp; that,&nbsp; though the&nbsp; man asked&nbsp; about&nbsp; Homeless&nbsp; and even&nbsp; exclaimed<br />'Ai-yai-yai!', he was essentially quite&nbsp; indifferent to Homeless's fate&nbsp; and<br />did not feel a bit sorry for him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And&nbsp;&nbsp; bravo!&nbsp; Right&nbsp;&nbsp; you&nbsp; are!'&nbsp;&nbsp; Riukhin&nbsp;&nbsp; thought&nbsp;&nbsp; with&nbsp;&nbsp; cynical,<br />self-annihilating&nbsp; malice&nbsp;&nbsp; and,&nbsp; breaking&nbsp;&nbsp; off&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp;&nbsp; story&nbsp;&nbsp; about&nbsp;&nbsp; the<br />schizophrenia, begged:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Archibald&nbsp; Archibaldovich,&nbsp; a&nbsp; drop of&nbsp; vodka...'&nbsp; The pirate&nbsp; made&nbsp; a<br />compassionate face and whispered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I&nbsp; understand...&nbsp; this very&nbsp; minute...' and&nbsp; beckoned&nbsp; to a waiter.&nbsp; A<br />quarter of an hour later, Riukhin sat in complete solitude, hunched over his<br />bream, drinking glass after glass, understanding and recognizing that it was<br />no longer&nbsp; possible&nbsp; to&nbsp; set anything right in his&nbsp; life,&nbsp; that it was&nbsp; only<br />possible to forget.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; poet&nbsp; had wasted&nbsp; his night&nbsp; while&nbsp; others were feasting&nbsp; and&nbsp; now<br />understood that it was impossible to&nbsp; get it&nbsp; back. One needed only to raise<br />one's&nbsp; head from the lamp&nbsp; to&nbsp; the&nbsp; sky&nbsp; to&nbsp; understand that&nbsp; the night&nbsp; was<br />irretrievably lost. Waiters were hurriedly tearing the tablecloths from&nbsp; the<br />tables. The&nbsp; cats&nbsp; slinking&nbsp; around&nbsp; the&nbsp; veranda&nbsp; had&nbsp; a morning&nbsp; look. Day<br />irresistibly heaved itself upon the poet.<br />]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>684ec571-4184-4236-887c-51ec67973256</id><title>Chapter 5: There Were Doings At Griboedov's</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/05/chapter_5_there_were_doings_at_griboedovs" /><updated>05-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="8"></a><h2>CHAPTER 5. There were Doings at Griboedov's</h2></ul><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; old,&nbsp; two-storeyed,&nbsp; cream-coloured&nbsp; house&nbsp;&nbsp; stood&nbsp; on&nbsp; the&nbsp;&nbsp; ring<br />boulevard, in the depths of a seedy garden, separated from the sidewalk by a<br />fancy cast-iron&nbsp; fence. The&nbsp; small terrace in front&nbsp; of the&nbsp; house was paved<br />with&nbsp; asphalt, and in wintertime was dominated by a snow pile with a&nbsp; shovel<br />stuck in it, but in summertime&nbsp; turned into the most&nbsp; magnificent section of<br />the summer restaurant under a canvas tent.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The house was called&nbsp; `The House of Griboedov'&nbsp; on&nbsp; the grounds that it<br />was&nbsp; alleged&nbsp; to&nbsp; have&nbsp; once&nbsp; belonged to&nbsp; an&nbsp; aunt of the&nbsp; writer Alexander<br />Sergeevich Griboedov. [1] Now, whether it did or did not&nbsp; belong&nbsp; to her, we<br />do not exactly know. On recollection, it even seems that Griboedov never had<br />any&nbsp; such house-owning&nbsp; aunt... Nevertheless, that&nbsp; was&nbsp; what the&nbsp; house was<br />called. Moreover, one Moscow liar had it that there, on the second floor, in<br />a round hall with columns,&nbsp; the famous writer had&nbsp; supposedly read&nbsp; passages<br />from Woe From Wit to this very aunt while she reclined on a sofa.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; However, devil knows, maybe he did, it's of no importance.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What&nbsp; is important&nbsp; is that at the present time this house was owned by<br />that&nbsp; same&nbsp; Massolit&nbsp; which&nbsp; had&nbsp; been&nbsp; headed by&nbsp; the&nbsp; unfortunate&nbsp; Mikhail<br />Alexandrovich Berlioz before his appearance at the Patriarch's Ponds.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In&nbsp; the casual&nbsp; manner of Massolit members, no one called the house The<br />House of&nbsp; Griboedov', everyone simply said 'Griboedov's': 'I spent two hours<br />yesterday&nbsp; knocking about Griboedov's.'&nbsp; 'Well, and so?' `Got myself a month<br />in Yalta.' 'Bravo!'&nbsp; Or: 'Go to Berlioz, he receives today from four to five<br />at Griboedov's...' and so on.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Massolit had settled itself at Griboedov's in&nbsp; the best and cosiest way<br />imaginable.&nbsp; Anyone entering Griboedov's first&nbsp; of&nbsp; all became involuntarily<br />acquainted with the announcements of various sports clubs, and with group as<br />well as&nbsp; individual photographs&nbsp; of&nbsp; the members of Massolit,&nbsp; hanging&nbsp; (the<br />photographs) on the walls of the staircase leading to the second floor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On the door to the very first room of this upper&nbsp; floor one could see a<br />big&nbsp; sign: 'Fishing and Vacation&nbsp; Section', along with the picture of a carp<br />caught on a line.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On&nbsp; the&nbsp; door&nbsp; of room&nbsp; no. 2&nbsp; something&nbsp; not&nbsp; quite comprehensible was<br />written: 'One-day Creative Trips. Apply to M. V. Spurioznaya.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; next&nbsp; door&nbsp;&nbsp; bore&nbsp; a&nbsp;&nbsp; brief&nbsp; but&nbsp;&nbsp; now&nbsp; totally&nbsp; incomprehensible<br />inscription: 'Perelygino'. [2] After which the chance visitor to Griboedov's<br />would not know&nbsp; where&nbsp; to&nbsp; look&nbsp; from the&nbsp; motley inscriptions on the aunt's<br />walnut&nbsp; doors: `Sign up&nbsp; for&nbsp; Paper&nbsp; with&nbsp; Poklevkina', `Cashier', 'Personal<br />Accounts of Sketch-Writers'...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; If one cut through the longest&nbsp; line, which already went downstairs and<br />out&nbsp; to the doorman's lodge, one&nbsp; could see the sign 'Housing Question' on a<br />door which people were crashing every second.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Beyond the housing&nbsp; question&nbsp; there opened out&nbsp; a luxurious&nbsp; poster&nbsp; on<br />which a&nbsp; cliff&nbsp; was depicted and,&nbsp; riding on its crest, a horseman in a felt<br />cloak with a&nbsp; rifle on his shoulder. A&nbsp; little&nbsp; lower&nbsp; -&nbsp; palm trees&nbsp; and&nbsp; a<br />balcony;&nbsp; on the&nbsp; balcony -&nbsp; a&nbsp; seated young&nbsp; man&nbsp; with&nbsp; a&nbsp; forelock, gazing<br />somewhere aloft with very lively eyes, holding a fountain pen in his hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; inscription:&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Full-scale&nbsp; Creative&nbsp; Vacations&nbsp;&nbsp; from&nbsp; Two&nbsp; Weeks<br />(Story/Novella)&nbsp; to&nbsp; One&nbsp; Year&nbsp; (Novel/Trilogy).&nbsp; Yalta,&nbsp; Suuk-Su,&nbsp; Borovoe,<br />Tsikhidziri,&nbsp; Makhindzhauri, Leningrad (Winter Palace).'[3] There was also a<br />line at this door, but not an excessive one - some hundred and fifty people.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Next, obedient to the whimsical&nbsp; curves, ascents&nbsp; and descents&nbsp; of&nbsp; the<br />Griboedov house,&nbsp; came the `Massolit Executive Board', 'Cashiers nos.&nbsp; 2, 3,<br />4, 5', 'Editorial Board',&nbsp; 'Chairman&nbsp; of Massolit', 'Billiard Room', various<br />auxiliary institutions and, finally, that same hall with the colonnade where<br />the aunt had delighted in the comedy other genius nephew.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Any visitor&nbsp; finding himself in Griboedov's, unless of course&nbsp; he was a<br />total&nbsp; dim-wit, would realize at once what a&nbsp; good life those lucky fellows,<br />the Massolit&nbsp; members,&nbsp; were having, and black envy would&nbsp; immediately start<br />gnawing at him. And he would immediately address bitter reproaches to heaven<br />for&nbsp; not having&nbsp; endowed him&nbsp; at&nbsp; birth with literary talent, lacking&nbsp; which<br />there was naturally no dreaming of owning a Massolit membership card, brown,<br />smelling&nbsp; of&nbsp; costly leather, with a&nbsp; wide gold border - a card known to all<br />Moscow.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Who will speak in&nbsp; defence&nbsp; of envy? This feeling&nbsp; belongs to the nasty<br />category, but all the same one must put oneself in the visitor's position.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For what he had&nbsp; seen on the upper floor was not all, and was far&nbsp; from<br />all.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The entire&nbsp; ground&nbsp; floor&nbsp; of&nbsp; the&nbsp; aunt's&nbsp; house&nbsp; was&nbsp; occupied&nbsp; by&nbsp; a<br />restaurant,&nbsp; and what a&nbsp; restaurant! It was&nbsp; justly&nbsp; considered&nbsp; the best in<br />Moscow. And not only because it took up two vast halls with arched ceilings,<br />painted with violet,&nbsp; Assyrian-maned horses, not only because on each&nbsp; table<br />there&nbsp; stood&nbsp; a&nbsp; lamp shaded&nbsp; with&nbsp; a&nbsp; shawl,&nbsp; not only because&nbsp; it was&nbsp; not<br />accessible to&nbsp; just anybody&nbsp; coming&nbsp; in off the&nbsp; street, but&nbsp; because in the<br />quality of its fare Griboedov's beat&nbsp; any restaurant&nbsp; in Moscow up and down,<br />and this&nbsp; fare was available&nbsp; at the most reasonable, by&nbsp; no means&nbsp; onerous,<br />price.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Hence&nbsp; there was&nbsp; nothing&nbsp; surprising, for instance,&nbsp; in the&nbsp; following<br />conversation, which the author of these most truthful lines&nbsp; once heard near<br />the cast-iron fence of Griboedov's:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Where are you dining today, Amvrosy?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `What&nbsp; a&nbsp; question!&nbsp; Why,&nbsp; here,&nbsp; of&nbsp; course, my&nbsp; dear Foka!&nbsp; Archibald<br />Archibaldovich whispered to me today&nbsp; that there&nbsp; will be&nbsp; perch&nbsp; au naturel<br />done to order. A virtuoso little treat!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `You&nbsp; sure know&nbsp; how&nbsp; to live, Amvrosy!' skinny, run-down&nbsp; Foka, with a<br />carbuncle on&nbsp; his&nbsp; neck,&nbsp; replied&nbsp; with a&nbsp; sigh&nbsp; to the ruddy-lipped&nbsp; giant,<br />golden-haired, plump-cheeked Amvrosy-the-poet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I have no special&nbsp; knowledge,'&nbsp; Amvrosy protested, 'just&nbsp; the ordinary<br />wish to live like a human being. You mean to say, Foka that perch can be met<br />with at the Coliseum as&nbsp; well. But at the&nbsp; Coliseum a portion of perch costs<br />thirteen roubles&nbsp; fifteen kopecks, and&nbsp; here - five-fifty!&nbsp; Besides, at&nbsp; the<br />Coliseum they serve three-day-old perch, and, besides,&nbsp; there's no guarantee<br />you won't get slapped in the mug&nbsp; with a bunch&nbsp; of grapes at the Coliseum by<br />the first young man&nbsp; who bursts in from Theatre Alley. No, I'm categorically<br />opposed&nbsp; to&nbsp; the&nbsp; Coliseum,'&nbsp; the gastronome&nbsp; Amvrosy&nbsp; boomed for&nbsp; the whole<br />boulevard to hear. 'Don't try to convince me, Foka!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'm not trying to convince you, Amvrosy,' Foka squeaked. 'One can also<br />dine at home.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `I humbly thank you,' trumpeted Amvrosy, 'but I can imagine&nbsp; your wife,<br />in the communal kitchen at home, trying to do perch au naturel to order in a<br />saucepan! Hee, hee, hee! ... Aurevwar, Foka!' And, humming, Amvrosy directed<br />his steps to the veranda under the tent.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ahh,&nbsp; yes! ... Yes, there was a time! ... Old Muscovites will&nbsp; remember<br />the renowned Griboedov's! What is poached perch done to order!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Cheap stuff, my dear Amvrosy! But sterlet, sterlet in a silvery chafing<br />dish, sterlet slices interlaid&nbsp; with crayfish&nbsp; tails and&nbsp; fresh&nbsp; caviar? And<br />eggs en&nbsp; cocotte with&nbsp; mushroom puree in little dishes? And how did you like<br />the&nbsp; fillets of&nbsp; thrush? With truffles? Quail a la genoise?&nbsp; Nine-fifty! And<br />the&nbsp; jazz, and the courteous service! And in July, when the whole&nbsp; family is<br />in the country, and you are kept&nbsp; in the city by urgent literary&nbsp; business -<br />on the veranda, in the shade of the creeping vines,&nbsp; in a golden spot on the<br />cleanest of&nbsp; tablecloths, a bowl of soup printanier? Remember,&nbsp; Amvrosy? But<br />why ask! I&nbsp; can&nbsp; see by your lips that you do. What is your&nbsp; whitefish, your<br />perch! But the snipe, the great snipe, the jack snipe, the woodcock in their<br />season,&nbsp; the quail, the curlew? Cool seltzer&nbsp; fizzing in&nbsp; your&nbsp; throat?! But<br />enough, you are getting distracted, reader! Follow me!...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At half&nbsp; past ten&nbsp; on&nbsp; the evening when Berlioz died at the Patriarch's<br />Ponds,&nbsp; only one room was&nbsp; lit upstairs at Griboedov's, and in it languished<br />twelve writers who had gathered for a meeting&nbsp; and were waiting&nbsp; for Mikhail<br />Alexandrovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Sitting on chairs, and&nbsp; on&nbsp; tables, and even on the two window-sills in<br />the office of the Massolit executive board, they suffered seriously from the<br />heat. Not a single breath of fresh air came through the open windows. Moscow<br />was releasing the heat accumulated in the asphalt all day, and it&nbsp; was clear<br />that night would bring no relief. The smell of onions came from the basement<br />of the aunt's house, where the restaurant kitchen was at work, they were all<br />thirsty, they were all nervous and angry.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; belletrist&nbsp; Beskudnikov&nbsp; -&nbsp; a quiet,&nbsp; decently&nbsp; dressed&nbsp; man&nbsp; with<br />attentive and at the&nbsp; same time elusive eyes - took out his&nbsp; watch. The hand<br />was crawling towards eleven.&nbsp; Beskudnikov tapped his&nbsp; finger on the face and<br />showed it to the poet&nbsp; Dvubratsky, who was sitting next to&nbsp; him on the table<br />and in boredom dangling his feet shod in yellow shoes with rubber treads.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Anyhow,' grumbled Dvubratsky.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &quot;The&nbsp; laddie&nbsp; must've got stuck&nbsp; on the Klyazma,' came the thick-voiced<br />response&nbsp; of Nastasya Lukinishna Nepremenova,&nbsp; orphan of a Moscow&nbsp; merchant,<br />who&nbsp; had become&nbsp; a writer and&nbsp; wrote&nbsp; stories&nbsp; about sea&nbsp; battles&nbsp; under the<br />pen-name of Bos'n George.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Excuse me!' boldly exclaimed Zagrivov, an author&nbsp; of popular sketches,<br />'but I&nbsp; personally would prefer a&nbsp; spot of tea on the&nbsp; balcony to stewing in<br />here. The meeting was set for ten o'clock, wasn't it?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's&nbsp; nice now&nbsp; on the Klyazma,' Bos'n&nbsp; George needled&nbsp; those present,<br />knowing that Perelygino on the Klyazma, the country colony for&nbsp; writers, was<br />everybody's sore spot. 'There's nightingales&nbsp; singing already. I always work<br />better in the country, especially in spring.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'It's the third year I've&nbsp; paid in so as to send my wife with goitre to<br />this paradise,&nbsp; but&nbsp; there's&nbsp; nothing to be&nbsp; spied&nbsp; amidst the&nbsp; waves,'&nbsp; the<br />novelist Ieronym Poprikhin said venomously and bitterly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Some are&nbsp; lucky and some&nbsp; aren't,' the critic&nbsp; Ababkov droned from the<br />window-sill.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Bos'n George's little eyes lit up with glee,&nbsp; and&nbsp; she said,&nbsp; softening<br />her contralto:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We mustn't be envious, comrades. There's&nbsp; twenty-two dachas [4] in all,<br />and&nbsp; only&nbsp; seven more&nbsp; being&nbsp; built,&nbsp; and&nbsp; there's&nbsp; three thousand of&nbsp; us in<br />Massolit.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Three thousand&nbsp; one&nbsp; hundred&nbsp; and&nbsp; eleven,'&nbsp; someone&nbsp; put in from&nbsp; the<br />corner.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'So you see,' the Bos'n went on, 'what can be done? Naturally, it's the<br />most talented of us that got the dachas...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'The generals!' Glukharev the scenarist cut right into the squabble.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Beskudnikov, with an artificial yawn, walked out of the room.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Five rooms to himself in Perelygino,' Glukharev said behind him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Lavrovich&nbsp; has six&nbsp; to himself,'&nbsp; Deniskin cried&nbsp; out, `and the dining<br />room's panelled in oak!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Eh,&nbsp; that's not the point right now,' Ababkov droned, 'it's that&nbsp; it's<br />half past eleven.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A clamour&nbsp; arose,&nbsp; something like&nbsp; rebellion was brewing. They&nbsp; started<br />telephoning hated Perelygino,&nbsp; got the wrong&nbsp; dacha, Lavrovich's, found&nbsp; out<br />that Lavrovich&nbsp; had gone to the river, which made them&nbsp; totally&nbsp; upset. They<br />called at random to the commission on fine literature, extension 950, and of<br />course found no one there.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'He might have called!' shouted Deniskin, Glukharev and Quant.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ah,&nbsp; they were shouting in&nbsp; vain: Mikhail Alexandrovich could not&nbsp; call<br />anywhere.&nbsp;&nbsp; Far,&nbsp;&nbsp; far&nbsp;&nbsp; from&nbsp; Griboedov's,&nbsp; in&nbsp; an&nbsp; enormous&nbsp; room&nbsp; lit&nbsp; by<br />thousand-watt bulbs, on three zinc tables, lay what had&nbsp; still recently been<br />Mikhail Alexandrovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On the&nbsp; first&nbsp; lay the&nbsp; naked body,&nbsp; covered with dried blood,&nbsp; one arm<br />broken,&nbsp; the&nbsp; chest&nbsp; caved in; on the&nbsp; second, the head with the front teeth<br />knocked out, with dull, open&nbsp; eyes unafraid of&nbsp; the brightest light;&nbsp; and on<br />the third, a pile of stiffened rags.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Near the&nbsp; beheaded body&nbsp; stood&nbsp; a&nbsp; professor&nbsp; of&nbsp; forensic medicine,&nbsp; a<br />pathological&nbsp; anatomist&nbsp;&nbsp; and&nbsp;&nbsp; his&nbsp; dissector,&nbsp;&nbsp; representatives&nbsp;&nbsp; of&nbsp;&nbsp; the<br />investigation, and Mikhail Alexandrovich's assistant in Massolit, the writer<br />Zheldybin, summoned by telephone from his sick wife's side.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A car had come&nbsp; for Zheldybin and first of&nbsp; all taken him together with<br />the&nbsp; investigators&nbsp; (this was around midnight) to the&nbsp; dead man's apartment,<br />where the sealing of his papers had&nbsp; been&nbsp; carried out, after which they all<br />went to the morgue.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And now those standing by the remains of&nbsp; the&nbsp; deceased&nbsp; were&nbsp; debating<br />what was the&nbsp; better thing to do: to sew the severed head to the neck, or to<br />lay out&nbsp; the body in&nbsp; the hall at Griboedov's after simply covering the dead<br />man snugly to the chin with a black cloth?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No, Mikhail&nbsp; Alexandrovich&nbsp; could&nbsp; not&nbsp; call&nbsp; anywhere,&nbsp; and&nbsp; Deniskin,<br />Glukharev&nbsp; and&nbsp; Quant,&nbsp; along&nbsp; with Beskudnikov, were&nbsp; being&nbsp; indignant&nbsp; and<br />shouting quite&nbsp; in vain.&nbsp; Exactly at&nbsp; midnight, all&nbsp; twelve writers left the<br />upper&nbsp; floor&nbsp; and&nbsp; descended&nbsp; to the&nbsp; restaurant. Here again&nbsp; they&nbsp; silently<br />berated Mikhail&nbsp; Alexandrovich: all the&nbsp; tables on&nbsp; the&nbsp; veranda, naturally,<br />were&nbsp; occupied, and&nbsp; they&nbsp; had to stay for&nbsp; supper&nbsp; in those&nbsp; beautiful&nbsp; but<br />airless halls.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; exactly&nbsp; at&nbsp; midnight,&nbsp; in&nbsp; the first of&nbsp; these&nbsp; halls,&nbsp; something<br />crashed, jangled,&nbsp; spilled,&nbsp; leaped.&nbsp; And&nbsp; all&nbsp; at once a&nbsp; high&nbsp; male&nbsp; voice<br />desperately cried out 'Hallelujah!' to the music. The&nbsp; famous Griboedov jazz<br />band&nbsp; struck up. Sweat-covered&nbsp; faces&nbsp; seemed to brighten,&nbsp; it was as if the<br />horses painted on the&nbsp; ceiling&nbsp; came alive, the lamps&nbsp; seemed to&nbsp; shine with<br />added light, and suddenly, as if tearing loose, both halls broke into dance,<br />and following them the veranda broke into dance.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Glukharev danced&nbsp; with&nbsp; the poetess&nbsp; Tamara Polumesyats, Quant&nbsp; danced,<br />Zhukopov the novelist danced with some movie actress in a yellow dress.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dragunsky&nbsp; danced, Cherdakchi danced,&nbsp; little&nbsp; Deniskin danced with the<br />enormous Bos'n George, the beautiful Semeikina-Gall, an architect, danced in<br />the tight embrace of a stranger in white canvas trousers. Locals and invited<br />guests&nbsp; danced,&nbsp; Muscovites&nbsp; and&nbsp; out-of-towners,&nbsp; the&nbsp; writer&nbsp; Johann&nbsp; from<br />Kronstadt, a certain Vitya&nbsp; Kuftik from Rostov, apparently a stage director,<br />with&nbsp; a purple spot all over his cheek, the most eminent&nbsp; representatives of<br />the&nbsp; poetry&nbsp; section&nbsp; of&nbsp; Massolit danced - that&nbsp; is, Baboonov, Blasphemsky,<br />Sweetkin, Smatchstik and Addphina Buzdyak - young men of unknown profession,<br />in&nbsp; crew&nbsp; cuts,&nbsp; with cotton-padded shoulders, danced, someone very&nbsp; elderly<br />danced,&nbsp; a shred&nbsp; of green onion stuck in his beard, and with him&nbsp; danced&nbsp; a<br />sickly, anaemia-consumed girl in a wrinkled orange silk dress.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Streaming with sweat, waiters carried sweating mugs of beer&nbsp; over their<br />heads, shouting hoarsely and&nbsp; with hatred:&nbsp; 'Excuse&nbsp; me, citizen!' Somewhere<br />through a&nbsp; megaphone a voice commanded: `One Karsky shashlik! Two Zubrovkas!<br />Home-style tripe!' The high voice no longer sang, but howled 'Hallelujah!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The clashing of&nbsp; golden cymbals in&nbsp; the band sometimes even drowned out<br />the&nbsp; clashing of dishes, which the dishwashers sent down a sloping&nbsp; chute to<br />the kitchen. In short - hell.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And at midnight there came an apparition in hell. A handsome&nbsp; dark-eyed<br />man with a&nbsp; dagger-like beard, in a tailcoat,&nbsp; stepped on to the veranda and<br />cast a regal glance over his domain. They used to&nbsp; say, the mystics&nbsp; used to<br />say, that there was&nbsp; a&nbsp; time when the handsome man wore not a tailcoat but a<br />wide leather belt with pistol butts sticking from it, and his raven hair was<br />tied with&nbsp; scarlet&nbsp; silk, and under his command a&nbsp; brig sailed the Caribbean<br />under a black death flag with a skull and crossbones.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But no, no!&nbsp; The&nbsp; seductive&nbsp; mystics&nbsp; are lying, there are no Caribbean<br />Seas&nbsp; in the&nbsp; world, no&nbsp; desperate freebooters sail them, no corvette chases<br />after them, no cannon smoke drifts across the&nbsp; waves. There&nbsp; is nothing, and<br />there was nothing!&nbsp; There&nbsp; is that sickly linden over&nbsp; there,&nbsp; there is&nbsp; the<br />cast-iron&nbsp; fence, and&nbsp; the boulevard beyond it... And the&nbsp; ice is melting in<br />the bowl, and at&nbsp; the&nbsp; next table you see someone's&nbsp; bloodshot, bovine eyes,<br />and you're afraid, afraid... Oh, gods, my gods, poison, bring me poison!...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And suddenly a word fluttered up from some table:&nbsp; 'Berlioz!!' The jazz<br />broke up and fell silent, as if someone had hit it with a fist. 'What, what,<br />what, what?!!' 'Berlioz!!!' And they began jumping up, exclaiming...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes,&nbsp; a&nbsp; wave of grief billowed up&nbsp; at the&nbsp; terrible news about Mikhail<br />Alexandrovich. Someone fussed about,&nbsp; crying&nbsp; that it was necessary at once,<br />straight away, without leaving the spot, to compose some collective telegram<br />and send it off immediately.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But what telegram, may we ask,&nbsp; and where? And why&nbsp; send it? And where,<br />indeed?&nbsp; And&nbsp; what possible&nbsp; need for&nbsp; any telegram&nbsp; does someone have whose<br />flattened pate&nbsp; is now clutched&nbsp; in the dissector's rubber hands, whose neck<br />the&nbsp; professor is now&nbsp; piercing with curved&nbsp; needles? He's dead, and has&nbsp; no<br />need of any telegrams. It's&nbsp; all&nbsp; over, let's not burden the telegraph wires<br />any more.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes, he's dead, dead... But, as for us, we're alive!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes, a wave of grief billowed up, held out for&nbsp; a while, but then began<br />to subside, and somebody&nbsp; went back to his&nbsp; table and&nbsp; -&nbsp; sneakily at first,<br />then openly - drank a little vodka and ate a bite. And, really,&nbsp; can one let<br />chicken cutlets de volatile perish? How can we help Mikhail Alexandrovich?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; By going hungry? But, after all, we're alive!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Naturally, the grand piano was locked, the jazz band dispersed, several<br />journalists left for their offices to write obituaries. It became known that<br />Zheldybin&nbsp; had&nbsp; come&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; morgue.&nbsp; He&nbsp; had&nbsp; installed himself in&nbsp; the<br />deceased's office upstairs, and the rumour spread at once that it was he who<br />would&nbsp; replace Berlioz. Zheldybin summoned from the&nbsp; restaurant&nbsp; all&nbsp; twelve<br />members of&nbsp; the&nbsp; board, and at&nbsp; the&nbsp; urgently convened meeting in&nbsp; Berlioz's<br />office they started a discussion of the pressing questions of decorating the<br />hall&nbsp; with columns at&nbsp; Griboedov's, of transporting the body from the morgue<br />to that hall, of opening it to the public, and all else&nbsp; connected with&nbsp; the<br />sad event.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; the&nbsp; restaurant began to live&nbsp; its usual nocturnal&nbsp; life and would<br />have gone on living it&nbsp; until closing&nbsp; time, that is, until four o'clock&nbsp; in<br />the morning, had it not&nbsp; been for an&nbsp; occurrence which was completely out of<br />the&nbsp; ordinary and which struck the restaurant's clientele much more than the<br />news of Berlioz's death.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The first to&nbsp; take alarm were the coachmen&nbsp; [5] waiting at the gates of<br />the Griboedov house. One of them, rising on his box, was heard to cry out:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hoo-ee! Just look at that!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After&nbsp; which, from God knows&nbsp; where,&nbsp; a&nbsp; little&nbsp; light flashed&nbsp; by&nbsp; the<br />cast-iron fence and began&nbsp; to&nbsp; approach the&nbsp; veranda.&nbsp; Those sitting at&nbsp; the<br />tables began&nbsp; to get up and peer at&nbsp; it, and saw&nbsp; that along with the little<br />light a white&nbsp; ghost was marching towards the restaurant. When it came right<br />up&nbsp; to&nbsp; the trellis, everybody sat as if frozen at&nbsp; their tables, chunks&nbsp; of<br />sterlet on&nbsp; their forks, eyes popping. The doorman, who&nbsp; at that&nbsp; moment had<br />stepped out of the&nbsp; restaurant coatroom to have a smoke in the yard, stamped<br />out&nbsp; his&nbsp; cigarette and&nbsp; made&nbsp; for the&nbsp; ghost with&nbsp; the obvious intention of<br />barring its way into the restaurant, but for some reason did not do so,&nbsp; and<br />stopped, smiling stupidly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And&nbsp; the&nbsp; ghost, passing&nbsp; through&nbsp; an&nbsp; opening in&nbsp; the trellis, stepped<br />unhindered on to the veranda. Here everyone saw that it was no ghost at all,<br />but Ivan Nikolaevich Homeless, the much-renowned poet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He was barefoot,&nbsp; in a torn, whitish Tolstoy blouse,&nbsp; with a paper icon<br />bearing&nbsp; the image of an&nbsp; unknown saint pinned to&nbsp; the&nbsp; breast of it&nbsp; with a<br />safety&nbsp; pin, and&nbsp; was&nbsp; wearing striped&nbsp; white&nbsp; drawers.&nbsp; In&nbsp; his&nbsp; hand&nbsp; Ivan<br />Nikolaevich carried a lighted wedding candle. Ivan Nikolaevich's right cheek<br />was freshly scratched. It would even be difficult to plumb the depths of the<br />silence that reigned on the&nbsp; veranda. Beer could be seen&nbsp; running down on to<br />the floor from a mug tilted in one waiter's hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The poet raised the candle over his head and said loudly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hail,&nbsp; friends!'&nbsp; After which he peeked&nbsp; under&nbsp; the nearest&nbsp; table and<br />exclaimed ruefully: 'No, he's not there!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Two voices were heard. A basso said pitilessly:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That's it. Delirium tremens.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the second, a woman's, frightened, uttered the words:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How could the police let him walk the streets like that?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This Ivan Nikolaevich heard, and replied:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They tried to detain me twice, in Skaterny and here on Bronnaya, but&nbsp; I<br />hopped&nbsp; over&nbsp; the&nbsp; fence&nbsp; and,&nbsp; as you&nbsp; can see,&nbsp; cut&nbsp; my cheek!'&nbsp; Here Ivan<br />Nikolaevich&nbsp; raised the candle and cried out: 'Brethren in literature!' (His<br />hoarse voice grew stronger and more fervent.) 'Listen to me everyone! He has<br />appeared. Catch him immediately, otherwise he'll do untold harm!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'What? What?&nbsp; What did he say? Who&nbsp; has appeared?' voices came from all<br />sides.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; consultant,' Ivan replied, `and this consultant just&nbsp; killed Misha<br />Berlioz at the Patriarch's Ponds.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here people came flocking to&nbsp; the veranda from the inner rooms, a crowd<br />gathered around Ivan's flame.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Excuse me, excuse me, be&nbsp; more precise,' a soft and polite voice&nbsp; said<br />over Ivan Nikolaevich's ear, 'tell me, what do you mean &quot;killed&quot;?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Who killed?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'A&nbsp; foreign&nbsp; consultant, a professor, and a&nbsp; spy,'&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; said, looking<br />around.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And what is his name?' came softly to Ivan's ear. That's just it - his<br />name!' Ivan&nbsp; cried in anguish. 'If only I knew&nbsp; his&nbsp; name! I didn't make out<br />his name on his visiting card... I only remember&nbsp; the first letter, &quot;W&quot;, his<br />name begins with &quot;W&quot;! What last&nbsp; name begins&nbsp; with &quot;W&quot;?' Ivan asked himself,<br />clutching his forehead, and suddenly&nbsp; started muttering: 'Wi, we,&nbsp; wa ... Wu<br />... Wo ... Washner? Wagner? Weiner? Wegner? Winter?' The hair on Ivan's head<br />began to crawl with the tension.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Wolf?' some woman cried pitifully.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan became angry.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Fool!' he cried, seeking the&nbsp; woman with his&nbsp; eyes. &quot;What has Wolf got<br />to do&nbsp; with it? Wolf's&nbsp; not to blame for anything! Wo, wa... No,&nbsp; I'll never<br />remember this way! Here's what, citizens: call the police at once,&nbsp; let them<br />send&nbsp; out&nbsp; five motor&nbsp; cycles with machine-guns to catch the&nbsp; professor. And<br />don't&nbsp; forget&nbsp; to tell them&nbsp; that&nbsp; there are&nbsp; two&nbsp; others with&nbsp; him:&nbsp; a long<br />checkered one, cracked pince-nez, and a cat, black&nbsp; and fat... And meanwhile<br />I'll search Griboedov's, I sense that he's here!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; became anxious, pushed away the people around him, started waving<br />the&nbsp; candle,&nbsp; pouring&nbsp; wax on&nbsp; himself, and looking under&nbsp; the tables.&nbsp; Here<br />someone said:&nbsp; `Call a&nbsp; doctor!'&nbsp; and&nbsp; someone's benign, fleshy face,&nbsp; clean<br />shaven and well nourished, in horn-rimmed glasses, appeared before Ivan.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Comrade&nbsp; Homeless,' the face began in&nbsp; a guest speaker's voice,&nbsp; 'calm<br />down! You're upset at the death of&nbsp; our beloved Mikhail Alexandrovich... no,<br />say&nbsp; just&nbsp; Misha&nbsp; Berlioz. We all&nbsp; understand that perfectly well. You&nbsp; need<br />rest. The comrades will take you home to bed right now, you'll forget...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You,' Ivan&nbsp; interrupted, baring his teeth, &quot;but&nbsp; don't&nbsp; you understand<br />that&nbsp; the&nbsp; professor&nbsp; has to&nbsp; be&nbsp; caught?&nbsp; And&nbsp; you come&nbsp; at&nbsp; me&nbsp; with&nbsp; your<br />foolishness! Cretin!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Pardon&nbsp; me,&nbsp;&nbsp; Comrade&nbsp; Homeless!...'&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp; face&nbsp; replied,&nbsp;&nbsp; blushing,<br />retreating, and already repentant at having got mixed up in this affair.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No, anyone else, but&nbsp; you&nbsp; I will not&nbsp; pardon,' Ivan Nikolaevich&nbsp; said<br />with quiet hatred.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A spasm distorted&nbsp; his&nbsp; face,&nbsp; he quickly&nbsp; shifted&nbsp; the candle from his<br />right&nbsp; hand to his left, swung roundly and hit the compassionate face on the<br />ear.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here&nbsp; it occurred&nbsp; to them&nbsp; to&nbsp; fall upon&nbsp; Ivan - and so they did.&nbsp; The<br />candle&nbsp; went out,&nbsp; and&nbsp; the&nbsp; glasses&nbsp; that had&nbsp; fallen&nbsp; from&nbsp; the&nbsp; face were<br />instantly&nbsp; trampled.&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; let&nbsp; out&nbsp; a&nbsp; terrible&nbsp; war&nbsp; cry,&nbsp; heard,&nbsp; to the<br />temptation of all,&nbsp; even&nbsp; on the boulevard, and set about defending himself.<br />Dishes fell clattering from the tables, women screamed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; All&nbsp; the while the waiters&nbsp; were tying&nbsp; up the&nbsp; poet&nbsp; with&nbsp; napkins,&nbsp; a<br />conversation was going on in the coatroom between the commander&nbsp; of the brig<br />and the doorman.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Didn't you see he was in his underpants?' the pirate inquired coldly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But, Archibald&nbsp; Archibaldovich,'&nbsp; the doorman replied, cowering,&nbsp; 'how<br />could I not let him in, if he's a&nbsp; member of Massolit?' 'Didn't&nbsp; you see&nbsp; he<br />was&nbsp; in&nbsp; his&nbsp; underpants?'&nbsp; the&nbsp; pirate&nbsp; repeated.&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Pardon&nbsp; me,&nbsp; Archibald<br />Archibaldovich,' the doorman said, turning purple,&nbsp; 'but what&nbsp; could I do? I<br />understand, there are ladies sitting on the veranda...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Ladies&nbsp; have nothing&nbsp; to do with it,&nbsp; it makes&nbsp; no&nbsp; difference to&nbsp; the<br />ladies,' the pirate replied, literally burning the doorman up with his eyes,<br />'but it does&nbsp; to the police! A man in his underwear can walk the&nbsp; streets of<br />Moscow only in this one case,&nbsp; that he's accompanied by the police, and only<br />to one place - the police station!&nbsp; And&nbsp; you, if&nbsp; you're a doorman, ought to<br />know that on seeing&nbsp; such a man, you must,&nbsp; without a&nbsp; moment's delay, start<br />blowing&nbsp; your whistle.&nbsp; Do you&nbsp; hear? Do&nbsp; you hear&nbsp; what's going on&nbsp; on&nbsp; the<br />veranda?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here the half-crazed doorman heard some sort of hooting coming from the<br />veranda, the smashing of dishes and women's screams.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Now, what's to be done with you for that?' the freebooter asked.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The skin on the doorman's face acquired a typhoid tinge, his eyes&nbsp; went<br />dead.&nbsp; It&nbsp; seemed to him&nbsp; that&nbsp; the black hair,&nbsp; now combed and parted,&nbsp; was<br />covered&nbsp; with&nbsp; flaming silk. The shirt-front and&nbsp; tailcoat disappeared and a<br />pistol&nbsp; butt&nbsp; emerged,&nbsp; tucked&nbsp; into&nbsp; a leather belt. The&nbsp; doorman&nbsp; pictured<br />himself hanging from&nbsp; the&nbsp; fore-topsail yard.&nbsp; His eyes saw his&nbsp; own&nbsp; tongue<br />sticking&nbsp; out and his lifeless head&nbsp; lolling on his shoulder, and even heard<br />the splash of waves against the hull. The doorman's knees gave way. But here<br />the freebooter took pity on him and extinguished his sharp gaze.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Watch out,&nbsp; Nikolai, this&nbsp; is the last&nbsp; time! We have no need&nbsp; of such<br />doormen in the restaurant. Go find yourself&nbsp; a job as a beadle.' Having said<br />this,&nbsp; the commander&nbsp; commanded precisely,&nbsp; clearly,&nbsp; rapidly: `Get Pantelei<br />from the snack bar. Police. Protocol. A car. To the psychiatric clinic.' And<br />added: 'Blow your whistle!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In a quarter of an hour an extremely&nbsp; astounded public, not only in the<br />restaurant but on the&nbsp; boulevard itself and in the windows of houses looking<br />on&nbsp; to the restaurant&nbsp; garden, saw Pantelei,&nbsp; the doorman,&nbsp; a&nbsp; policeman,&nbsp; a<br />waiter and the poet&nbsp; Riukhin carry through the gates of Griboedov's a&nbsp; young<br />man swaddled like&nbsp; a doll, dissolved in tears, who spat, aiming precisely at<br />Riukhin, and shouted for all the boulevard to hear:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'You bastard! ... You bastard!...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A truck-driver with a spiteful face was starting his motor. Next to him<br />a coachman, rousing his&nbsp; horse, slapping it on&nbsp; the croup with violet reins,<br />shouted:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Have a run for your money! I've taken `em to the psychics before!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Around them the crowd buzzed,&nbsp; discussing the unprecedented&nbsp; event.&nbsp; In<br />short, there&nbsp; was a nasty, vile, tempting, swinish scandal, which ended only<br />when&nbsp; the truck carried away from&nbsp; the gates of&nbsp; Griboedov's the unfortunate<br />Ivan Nikolaevich, the policeman, Pantelei and Riukhin.<br />]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>d6bde832-8ac0-4d2a-8de4-d81f05f29092</id><title>Chapter 4: The Chase</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/04/chapter_4_the_chase" /><updated>04-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><a name="7"></a><h2>CHAPTER 4. The Chase</h2></ul><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; hysterical women's&nbsp; cries died down,&nbsp; the police whistles&nbsp; stopped<br />drilling, two ambulances drove off - one with the headless body and&nbsp; severed<br />head, to the&nbsp; morgue, the other with the beautiful driver, wounded by broken<br />glass; street sweepers&nbsp; in white&nbsp; aprons removed the broken glass and poured<br />sand on the pools of blood, but Ivan Nikolaevich just stayed on the bench as<br />he had&nbsp; dropped on&nbsp; to it before reaching&nbsp; the&nbsp; turnstile. He tried&nbsp; several<br />times&nbsp; to get&nbsp; up,&nbsp; but his&nbsp; legs&nbsp; would not obey him -&nbsp; something&nbsp; akin&nbsp; to<br />paralysis had occurred with Homeless.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The poet had&nbsp; rushed to the turnstile&nbsp; as soon as&nbsp; he&nbsp; heard&nbsp; the first<br />scream, and&nbsp; had seen the head go bouncing along the pavement.&nbsp; With that he<br />so&nbsp; lost&nbsp; his senses&nbsp; that, having dropped on to&nbsp; the bench, he bit his hand<br />until it bled. Of course, he forgot about the mad German and tried to figure<br />out one thing&nbsp; only: how it&nbsp; could be&nbsp; that&nbsp; he&nbsp; had just been&nbsp; talking with<br />Berlioz, and a moment later - the head...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Agitated people went&nbsp; running down the walk&nbsp; past the&nbsp; poet, exclaiming<br />something, but Ivan Nikolaevich was insensible to their&nbsp; words. However, two<br />women&nbsp; unexpectedly&nbsp; ran&nbsp; into&nbsp; each&nbsp; other&nbsp; near&nbsp; him,&nbsp; and&nbsp; one&nbsp; of&nbsp; them,<br />sharp-nosed and bare-headed, shouted the&nbsp; following to the other, right next<br />to the poet's ear:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; '...Annushka,&nbsp; our Annushka! From Sadovaya! It's her work... She bought<br />sunflower oil&nbsp; at the grocery, and went&nbsp; and broke the whole litre-bottle on<br />the turnstile! Messed her skirt all up, and swore and swore!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ... And he, poor man, must have slipped and - right on to the rails...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Of&nbsp; all&nbsp; that&nbsp; the&nbsp; woman shouted,&nbsp; one&nbsp; word&nbsp; lodged&nbsp; itself&nbsp; in&nbsp; Ivan<br />Nikolaevich's upset brain: 'Annushka'...<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Annushka... Annushka?' the poet muttered, looking around anxiously.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Wait a minute, wait a minute...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The word 'Annushka' got strung together with the words 'sunflower oil',<br />and then for some&nbsp; reason with 'Pontius Pilate'.&nbsp; The poet&nbsp; dismissed Pilate<br />and began linking&nbsp; up the&nbsp; chain that started from&nbsp; the word `Annushka'. And<br />this chain got very quickly linked up and led at once to the mad professor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Excuse me! But he&nbsp; did say&nbsp; the&nbsp; meeting&nbsp; wouldn't&nbsp; take place because<br />Annushka had spilled the&nbsp; oil.&nbsp; And,&nbsp; if&nbsp; you please,&nbsp; it won't&nbsp; take place!<br />What's more, he said straight out that&nbsp; Berlioz's head would be cut off by a<br />woman?! Yes, yes, yes! And the driver was a woman! What is all this, eh?!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There was not a&nbsp; grain of doubt left that the mysterious consultant had<br />known beforehand the exact picture of&nbsp; the&nbsp; terrible death&nbsp; of Berlioz. Here<br />two&nbsp; thoughts&nbsp; pierced the poet's brain. The first:&nbsp; 'He's&nbsp; not&nbsp; mad in&nbsp; the<br />least, that's all&nbsp; nonsense!' And the second:&nbsp; Then didn't&nbsp; he set it all up<br />himself?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'But in&nbsp; what&nbsp; manner, may we ask?!&nbsp; Ah,&nbsp; no, this we're going to&nbsp; find<br />out!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Making&nbsp; a great&nbsp; effort, Ivan Nikolaevich got&nbsp; up from&nbsp; the&nbsp; bench&nbsp; and<br />rushed&nbsp; back&nbsp; to&nbsp; where&nbsp; he&nbsp; had&nbsp; been&nbsp; talking&nbsp; with&nbsp; the&nbsp; professor.&nbsp; And,<br />fortunately, it turned out that the man had not left yet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The street lights were already lit on Bronnaya, and&nbsp; over the Ponds the<br />golden moon shone, and in the&nbsp; ever-deceptive light of the moon it seemed to<br />Ivan Nikolaevich that he stood holding a&nbsp; sword,&nbsp; not a walking stick, under<br />his arm.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The ex-choirmaster was sitting in the very place where Ivan Nikolaevich<br />had sat just recently. Now the busybody had perched on his nose an obviously<br />unnecessary&nbsp; pince-nez, in&nbsp; which&nbsp; one lens&nbsp; was missing&nbsp; altogether and the<br />other&nbsp; was cracked. This made the checkered citizen even more repulsive than<br />he had been when he showed Berlioz the way to the rails.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With a chill in his&nbsp; heart, Ivan approached the professor and, glancing<br />into his face, became convinced that there were not and never&nbsp; had&nbsp; been any<br />signs of madness in that face.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Confess, who are you?' Ivan asked in a hollow voice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The foreigner scowled, looked at the poet as if he were seeing&nbsp; him for<br />the first time, and answered inimically:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No understand ... no speak Russian. ..'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; gent&nbsp; don't understand,' the choirmaster mixed in&nbsp; from the bench,<br />though no one had asked him to explain the foreigner's words.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't pretend!' Ivan said threateningly, and felt&nbsp; cold&nbsp; in the pit of<br />his&nbsp; stomach. 'You spoke excellent Russian just now. You're not a German and<br />you're not a professor! You're&nbsp; a murderer and a spy!... Your&nbsp; papers!' Ivan<br />cried fiercely.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; mysterious professor&nbsp; squeamishly twisted&nbsp; his&nbsp; mouth,&nbsp; which&nbsp; was<br />twisted to begin with, then shrugged his shoulders.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Citizen!'&nbsp; the loathsome&nbsp; choirmaster&nbsp; butted in again.&nbsp; &quot;What're&nbsp; you<br />doing bothering a foreign tourist? For that you'll incur severe punishment!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the suspicious&nbsp; professor made an arrogant face, turned, and walked<br />away from Ivan. Ivan felt&nbsp; himself at a&nbsp; loss. Breathless, he addressed&nbsp; the<br />choirmaster:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Hey, citizen, help me to detain the criminal! It's your duty!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp;&nbsp; choirmaster&nbsp; became&nbsp; extraordinarily&nbsp; animated,&nbsp;&nbsp; jumped&nbsp; up&nbsp; and<br />hollered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `What&nbsp; criminal? Where&nbsp; is he? A foreign&nbsp; criminal?'&nbsp; The choirmaster's<br />eyes sparkled gleefully. That one? If he's a criminal, the first thing to do<br />is shout &quot;Help!&quot; Or else he'll get&nbsp; away. Come on, together now, one,&nbsp; two!'<br />-- and here the choirmaster opened his maw.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Totally at&nbsp; a&nbsp; loss, Ivan obeyed the trickster and shouted&nbsp; 'Help!' but<br />the choirmaster bluffed him and did not shout anything.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan's solitary, hoarse cry did not produce any good results. Two girls<br />shied away from him, and he heard the word 'drunk'.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Ah, so you're in&nbsp; with&nbsp; him!' Ivan&nbsp; cried out, waxing wroth. &quot;What are<br />you doing, jeering at me? Out of my way!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan dashed to the&nbsp; right, and so did the choirmaster;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; dashed to<br />the left, and the scoundrel did the same.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Getting under my feet on purpose?' Ivan cried, turning ferocious.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I'll hand you over to the police!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; attempted to grab the blackguard&nbsp; by the sleeve,&nbsp; but missed&nbsp; and<br />caught&nbsp; precisely&nbsp; nothing: it was as if the&nbsp; choirmaster fell&nbsp; through&nbsp; the<br />earth.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan gasped, looked into the distance, and saw the hateful stranger. He<br />was already at the exit to Patriarch's Lane; moreover, he was not alone. The<br />more&nbsp; than dubious choirmaster had managed to join him.&nbsp; But&nbsp; that was still<br />not&nbsp; all: the third in this company proved to be a tom-cat, who appeared out<br />of nowhere, huge as a hog,&nbsp; black as soot or as a rook, and with a desperate<br />cavalryman's&nbsp; whiskers. The&nbsp; trio&nbsp; set&nbsp; off down&nbsp; Patriarch's Lane, the&nbsp; cat<br />walking on his hind legs.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan sped after the&nbsp; villains&nbsp; and became convinced at&nbsp; once that&nbsp; it -<br />would be very difficult to catch up with them.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The trio shot down the lane in an instant and came out on Spiridonovka.<br />No matter&nbsp; how&nbsp; Ivan quickened his&nbsp; pace, the distance&nbsp; between him and&nbsp; his<br />quarry never diminished. And before&nbsp; the poet knew it, he emerged, after the<br />quiet of Spiridonovka,&nbsp; by the Nikitsky Gate, where&nbsp; his situation worsened.<br />The place was swarming with people. Besides, the gang of villains decided to<br />apply the favourite trick of bandits here: a scattered getaway.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; choirmaster, with&nbsp; great&nbsp; dexterity, bored&nbsp; his&nbsp; way&nbsp; on&nbsp; to a bus<br />speeding towards the Arbat Square and&nbsp; slipped away. Having lost one&nbsp; of his<br />quarries,&nbsp; Ivan focused his attention on the cat and saw this strange cat go<br />up to the footboard of an 'A' tram waiting at a stop, brazenly elbow aside a<br />woman,&nbsp; who screamed, grab hold of the handrail, and even make an attempt to<br />shove&nbsp; a&nbsp; ten-kopeck piece&nbsp; into the conductress's hand&nbsp; through the window,<br />open on account of the stuffiness.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan was so struck by the cat's behaviour&nbsp; that he froze&nbsp; motionless by<br />the grocery store on the corner,&nbsp; and here he was&nbsp; struck for a second time,<br />but much more strongly, by&nbsp; the conductress's&nbsp; behaviour. As soon as she saw<br />the cat getting into the tram-car, she shouted&nbsp; with a malice that even made<br />her shake:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No cats allowed! Nobody with cats allowed! Scat! Get off, or I'll call<br />the police!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Neither the conductress nor the passengers were struck&nbsp; by the&nbsp; essence<br />of the matter: not just that a cat was boarding a tram-car, which would have<br />been good enough, but that he was going to pay!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The cat turned out&nbsp; to&nbsp; be not&nbsp; only a solvent&nbsp; but also a&nbsp; disciplined<br />animal. At the very first shout from the conductress, he halted his advance,<br />got off the footboard, and sat&nbsp; down at the stop, rubbing&nbsp; his whiskers with<br />the ten-kopeck piece. But as soon as the conductress yanked the cord and the<br />tram-car started moving off, the cat acted like anyone who has been expelled<br />from&nbsp; a tram-car but still&nbsp; needs a ride. Letting all three cars go&nbsp; by, the<br />cat jumped on to&nbsp; the rear coupling-pin of the&nbsp; last one,&nbsp; wrapped&nbsp; its paws<br />around some hose sticking out of the side, and rode off, thus saving himself<br />ten kopecks.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Occupied with the obnoxious&nbsp; cat, Ivan almost lost&nbsp; the main one of the<br />three&nbsp; - the professor. But,&nbsp; fortunately, the man&nbsp; had not managed&nbsp; to slip<br />away. Ivan saw&nbsp; the&nbsp; grey&nbsp; beret in the&nbsp; throng&nbsp; at&nbsp; the&nbsp; head&nbsp; of&nbsp; Bolshaya<br />Nikitskaya,&nbsp; now&nbsp; Herzen, Street.&nbsp; In the twinkling of an&nbsp; eye, Ivan arrived<br />there&nbsp; himself. However, he had&nbsp; no luck.&nbsp; The poet would quicken&nbsp; his pace,<br />break&nbsp; into&nbsp; a trot,&nbsp; shove&nbsp; passers-by, yet not get an&nbsp; inch closer&nbsp; to the<br />professor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Upset as he was, Ivan was still struck by the supernatural speed of the<br />chase.&nbsp; Twenty seconds had not gone by&nbsp; when, after the&nbsp; Nikitsky Gate, Ivan<br />Nikolayevich was already dazzled by the lights of the Arbat&nbsp; Square. Another<br />few seconds, and here was some dark lane with slanting sidewalks, where Ivan<br />Nikolaevich&nbsp; took a tumble and&nbsp; hurt his knee. Again a lit-up thoroughfare -<br />Kropotkin Street&nbsp; - then a lane, then Ostozhenka, then another lane, dismal,<br />vile&nbsp; and sparsely lit. And it was here&nbsp; that Ivan Nikolaevich&nbsp; definitively<br />lost him whom he needed so much. The professor disappeared.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan Nikolaevich was&nbsp; perplexed, but not for long, because he&nbsp; suddenly<br />realized&nbsp; that the professor must unfailingly be&nbsp; found in house no. 15, and<br />most assuredly in apartment 47.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Bursting into&nbsp; the entrance, Ivan Nikolaevich&nbsp; flew&nbsp; up to&nbsp; the&nbsp; second<br />floor,&nbsp; immediately found&nbsp; the apartment, and rang impatiently.&nbsp; He&nbsp; did not<br />have to wait long. Some little girl of about&nbsp; five opened the&nbsp; door for Ivan<br />and, without asking him anything, immediately went away somewhere.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In&nbsp; the&nbsp; huge,&nbsp; extremely neglected&nbsp; front hall,&nbsp; weakly&nbsp; lit by a tiny<br />carbon arc lamp under the high ceiling, black with grime,&nbsp; a bicycle without<br />tyres hung on the wall, a huge iron-bound trunk&nbsp; stood, and on&nbsp; a shelf over<br />the coat rack a winter hat lay, its long ear-flaps&nbsp; hanging down. Behind one<br />of the&nbsp; doors, a resonant male voice was angrily shouting something in verse<br />from a radio set.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan Nikolaevich&nbsp; was&nbsp; not&nbsp; the&nbsp; least&nbsp; at&nbsp; a&nbsp; loss&nbsp; in the&nbsp; unfamiliar<br />surroundings and&nbsp; rushed straight into&nbsp; the&nbsp; corridor,&nbsp; reasoning thus:&nbsp; 'Of<br />course, he's hiding in the bathroom.' The corridor&nbsp; was&nbsp; dark. Having bumped<br />into the wall a few&nbsp; times, Ivan&nbsp; saw a faint streak of&nbsp; light under a door,<br />felt for the handle,&nbsp; and&nbsp; pulled it gently. The hook popped&nbsp; out,&nbsp; and Ivan<br />found himself precisely in the bathroom and thought how lucky he was.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; However, his luck was not all it&nbsp; might have been! Ivan met with a wave<br />of humid heat and, by the light of the coals smouldering in the boiler, made<br />out big basins hanging on&nbsp; the walls,&nbsp; and a bath&nbsp; tub,&nbsp; all black frightful<br />blotches&nbsp; where the enamel&nbsp; had&nbsp; chipped&nbsp; off. And&nbsp; there, in this bath tub,<br />stood&nbsp; a&nbsp; naked citizeness,&nbsp; all&nbsp; soapy and with a scrubber in her hand. She<br />squinted near-sightedly at the bursting-in Ivan and, obviously mistaking him<br />in the infernal light, said softly and gaily:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Kiriushka!&nbsp; Stop this tomfoolery!&nbsp; Have you&nbsp; lost your mind?... Fyodor<br />Ivanych will be back&nbsp; any minute. Get out right now!' and she waved&nbsp; at Ivan<br />with the scrubber.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The misunderstanding was evident,&nbsp; and Ivan Nikolaevich was, of course,<br />to&nbsp; blame&nbsp; for it.&nbsp; But&nbsp; he&nbsp; did&nbsp; not&nbsp; want&nbsp; to&nbsp; admit&nbsp; it&nbsp; and,&nbsp; exclaiming<br />reproachfully: 'Ah, wanton&nbsp; creature!&nbsp; ...', at once found himself&nbsp; for some<br />reason&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; kitchen.&nbsp; No&nbsp; one&nbsp; was&nbsp; there,&nbsp; and&nbsp; on&nbsp; the&nbsp; oven&nbsp; in&nbsp; the<br />semi-darkness silently&nbsp; stood about&nbsp; a dozen extinguished&nbsp; primuses [1].'&nbsp; A<br />single&nbsp; moonbeam,&nbsp; having seeped&nbsp; through&nbsp; the&nbsp; dusty,&nbsp; perennially unwashed<br />window, shone&nbsp; sparsely&nbsp; into&nbsp; the&nbsp; corner where,&nbsp; in dust&nbsp; and&nbsp; cobwebs,&nbsp; a<br />forgotten icon hung, with&nbsp; the ends of two wedding candles&nbsp; [2] peeking&nbsp; out<br />from behind its casing. Under the big icon, pinned to it,&nbsp; hung a little one<br />made of paper.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No one knows what&nbsp; thought took hold of Ivan here,&nbsp; but before&nbsp; running<br />out&nbsp; the back door, he&nbsp; appropriated one of&nbsp; these candles, as&nbsp; well as&nbsp; the<br />paper icon.&nbsp; With these&nbsp; objects, he&nbsp; left&nbsp; the unknown apartment, muttering<br />something, embarrassed at the thought of what he had just experienced in the<br />bathroom, involuntarily trying to guess who this impudent Kiriushka might be<br />and whether the disgusting hat with ear-flaps belonged to him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In the desolate, joyless lane the poet looked around, searching for the<br />fugitive, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then Ivan said firmly to himself:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Why, of course, he's at the Moscow River! Onward!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Someone ought, perhaps, to have&nbsp; asked Ivan Nikolaevich why he supposed<br />that the professor was precisely at&nbsp; the Moscow River&nbsp; and not in some other<br />place. But the trouble was&nbsp; that there was no one to&nbsp; ask him. The loathsome<br />lane was completely empty.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In&nbsp; the&nbsp; very&nbsp; shortest&nbsp; time, Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich&nbsp; could&nbsp; be seen on the<br />granite steps of the Moscow River amphitheatre. [3]<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Having taken&nbsp; off&nbsp; his clothes,&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; entrusted&nbsp; them&nbsp; to a&nbsp; pleasant,<br />bearded&nbsp; fellow who was smoking&nbsp; a hand-rolled&nbsp; cigarette,&nbsp; sitting beside a<br />torn&nbsp; white Tolstoy blouse&nbsp; and a pair of unlaced, worn&nbsp; boots. After waving<br />his arms to cool off, Ivan dived swallow-fashion into the water.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It took&nbsp; his breath away, so&nbsp; cold the water was, and&nbsp; the thought even<br />flashed in him that he might&nbsp; not manage to come up to the surface. However,<br />he did&nbsp; manage&nbsp; to&nbsp; come&nbsp; up, and, puffing and snorting, his eyes rounded in<br />terror,&nbsp; Ivan Nikolaevich&nbsp; began swimming&nbsp; through the&nbsp; black,&nbsp; oil-smelling<br />water among the broken zigzags of street lights on the bank.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When the wet Ivan came dancing back up the steps to the place where the<br />bearded fellow was guarding his clothes, it&nbsp; became clear that not&nbsp; only the<br />latter, but also the former - that is, the bearded fellow himself - had been<br />stolen. In the&nbsp; exact&nbsp; spot where&nbsp; the pile of clothes&nbsp; had been, a&nbsp; pair of<br />striped drawers, the torn Tolstoy blouse, the candle, the&nbsp; icon and a box of<br />matches had been left.&nbsp; After&nbsp; threatening someone&nbsp; in the distance with his<br />fist in powerless anger, Ivan put on what was left for him.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here two considerations began to trouble him: first,&nbsp; that his Massolit<br />identification card, which&nbsp; he never parted&nbsp; with,&nbsp; was&nbsp; gone, and,&nbsp; second,<br />whether he could manage to get through Moscow unhindered&nbsp; looking the way he<br />did now?&nbsp; In striped drawers, after all ... True, it&nbsp; was nobody's business,<br />but still there might be some hitch or delay.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan&nbsp; tore off&nbsp; the buttons where the drawers&nbsp; fastened&nbsp; at the&nbsp; ankle,<br />figuring that this way they might&nbsp; pass for summer trousers, gathered up the<br />icon, the candle and the matches, and started off, saying to himself:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'To Griboedov's! Beyond all doubt, he's there.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The city was already living its evening&nbsp; life.&nbsp; Trucks flew through the<br />dust, chains&nbsp; clanking, and on their platforms men lay sprawled belly&nbsp; up on<br />sacks. All&nbsp; windows were open. In each of these windows a light burned under<br />an orange lampshade, and from every window, every door, every gateway, roof,<br />and&nbsp; attic, basement&nbsp; and courtyard blared the hoarse roar&nbsp; of the polonaise<br />from the opera Evgeny Onegin. [4]<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ivan Nikolaevich's apprehensions proved fully justified: passers-by did<br />pay attention&nbsp; to him and&nbsp; turned&nbsp; their&nbsp; heads.&nbsp; As&nbsp; a&nbsp; result, he took the<br />decision to leave&nbsp; the main streets&nbsp; and&nbsp; make his&nbsp; way through&nbsp; back lanes,<br />where people are not so importunate, where there were fewer chances&nbsp; of them<br />picking on&nbsp; a barefoot man, pestering him with questions about his&nbsp; drawers,<br />which stubbornly refused to look like trousers.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This Ivan&nbsp; did, and, penetrating the mysterious network of lanes around<br />the Arbat, he began making his way along the walls, casting fearful sidelong<br />glances, turning around every moment, hiding in gateways from&nbsp; time to time,<br />avoiding&nbsp; intersections&nbsp; with&nbsp; traffic&nbsp; lights and&nbsp; the&nbsp; grand&nbsp; entrances of<br />embassy mansions.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And all along his difficult&nbsp; way, he was&nbsp; for some reason inexpressibly<br />tormented&nbsp; by&nbsp; the ubiquitous&nbsp; orchestra that accompanied&nbsp; the&nbsp; heavy&nbsp; basso<br />singing about his love for Tatiana.]]></content><status>Published</status></entry><entry><id>a0b0a21f-cdf7-4a81-9ee2-bcad109a1310</id><title>Chapter 3: The Seventh Proof</title><link href="http://www.webjam.com/readnow/$readnow_blog/2009/05/03/chapter_3_the_seventh_proof" /><updated>03-May-2009</updated><content type="html"><![CDATA[<ul><h2>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<font size="2"> 'Yes,&nbsp; it&nbsp; was around ten&nbsp; o'clock in&nbsp; the&nbsp; morning, my&nbsp; esteemed&nbsp; Ivan<br />Nikolaevich,' said the professor.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The poet passed his hand over his face like a man&nbsp; just&nbsp; coming&nbsp; to his<br />senses,&nbsp; and saw that it was&nbsp; evening at the Patriarch's Ponds. The water in<br />the pond had turned black, and a light boat was&nbsp; now gliding&nbsp; on it, and one<br />could hear&nbsp; the splash of&nbsp; oars and the&nbsp; giggles of some&nbsp; citizeness&nbsp; in the<br />little boat. The public appeared&nbsp; on the&nbsp; benches along the walks, but again<br />on&nbsp; the&nbsp; other&nbsp; three&nbsp; sides of the&nbsp; square, and not on the&nbsp; side where&nbsp; our<br />interlocutors were.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The sky&nbsp; over Moscow&nbsp; seemed to lose colour, and the full moon could be<br />seen quite&nbsp; distinctly&nbsp; high above,&nbsp; not&nbsp; yet golden but white. It was&nbsp; much<br />easier&nbsp; to&nbsp; breathe, and&nbsp; the voices&nbsp; under the lindens now sounded&nbsp; softer,<br />eveningish.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `How is it I didn't notice that he'd managed to spin a whole story?...'<br />Homeless thought in amazement. 'It's already evening! ... Or maybe he wasn't<br />telling it, but I simply fell asleep and dreamed it all?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But it must be supposed&nbsp; that the&nbsp; professor did&nbsp; tell the story&nbsp; after<br />all,&nbsp; otherwise it would have&nbsp; to be assumed&nbsp; that Berlioz had&nbsp; had the same<br />dream, because he said, studying the foreigner's face attentively:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Your&nbsp; story&nbsp; is&nbsp; extremely interesting,&nbsp; Professor, though it does not<br />coincide at all with the Gospel stories.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Good heavens,' the professor responded, smiling&nbsp; condescendingly, 'you<br />of all people should know that precisely nothing of&nbsp; what is written in&nbsp; the<br />Gospels ever actually took place, and if&nbsp; we start referring&nbsp; to the Gospels<br />as a historical&nbsp; source...' he smiled once more,&nbsp; and Berlioz stopped short,<br />because this was literally the&nbsp; same thing he had been saying to Homeless as<br />they walked down Bronnaya towards the Patriarch's Ponds.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'That's&nbsp; so,' Berlioz replied, 'but I'm afraid no&nbsp; one can confirm that<br />what you've just told us actually took place either.'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Oh, yes! That there is one who can!' the professor, beginning to speak<br />in&nbsp; broken&nbsp; language,&nbsp; said&nbsp; with&nbsp; great&nbsp; assurance,&nbsp; and&nbsp;&nbsp; with&nbsp; unexpected<br />mysteriousness he motioned the two friends to move closer.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They leaned towards him from both sides, and he said, but again without<br />any accent, which with him, devil knows why, now appeared, now disappeared:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The thing is...'&nbsp; here&nbsp; the professor looked around fearfully and spoke<br />in a&nbsp; whisper,&nbsp; `that I&nbsp; was personally present at it all. I was&nbsp; on Pontius<br />Pilate's&nbsp; balcony, and in the garden when&nbsp; he&nbsp; talked with Kaifa, and on the<br />platform, only&nbsp; secretly, incognito, so to speak, and therefore I beg you&nbsp; -<br />not a word to anyone, total secrecy, shh...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Silence fell, and Berlioz paled.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'YOU&nbsp; ... how long&nbsp; have you&nbsp; been in Moscow?' he asked&nbsp; in a quavering<br />voice.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I&nbsp; just arrived&nbsp; in&nbsp; Moscow this&nbsp; very&nbsp; minute,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; professor&nbsp; said<br />perplexedly, and only here did it occur to the friends to take&nbsp; a good&nbsp; look<br />in his eyes, at which&nbsp; they became&nbsp; convinced that his&nbsp; left&nbsp; eye, the green<br />one, was totally insane, while the right one was empty, black and dead.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'There's&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp;&nbsp; whole&nbsp; explanation&nbsp; for&nbsp;&nbsp; you!'&nbsp;&nbsp; Berlioz&nbsp; thought&nbsp; in<br />bewilderment. 'A mad German has turned up, or just went crazy at the&nbsp; Ponds.<br />What a story!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Yes,&nbsp; indeed, that explained the&nbsp; whole thing:&nbsp; the strangest breakfast<br />with the late philosopher Kant, the&nbsp; foolish&nbsp; talk&nbsp; about sunflower&nbsp; oil and<br />Annushka,&nbsp; the&nbsp; predictions about his head being cut off and&nbsp; all the rest -<br />the professor was mad.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Berlioz realized&nbsp; at once&nbsp; what&nbsp; had to be done.&nbsp; Leaning&nbsp; back on&nbsp; the<br />bench, he winked to Homeless&nbsp; behind the professor's back -&nbsp; meaning,&nbsp; don't<br />contradict him - but the perplexed poet did not understand these signals.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Yes,&nbsp; yes,&nbsp; yes,'&nbsp; Berlioz&nbsp; said&nbsp; excitedly,&nbsp; `incidentally&nbsp; it's&nbsp; all<br />possible...&nbsp; even&nbsp; very possible, Pontius&nbsp; Pilate, and&nbsp; the balcony,&nbsp; and so<br />forth... Did you come alone or with your wife?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Alone, alone, I'm always alone,' the professor replied bitterly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And where are your things, Professor?' Berlioz asked insinuatingly.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'At the Metropol?* Where are you staying?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I? ...&nbsp; Nowhere,'&nbsp; the&nbsp; half-witted&nbsp; German&nbsp; answered,&nbsp; his&nbsp; green eye<br />wandering in wild anguish over the Patriarch's Ponds.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'How's that? But ... where are you going to live?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'In your apartment,' the madman suddenly said brashly, and winked.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'I&nbsp; ... I'm very glad&nbsp; ...' Berlioz began muttering,&nbsp; 'but, really, you<br />won't&nbsp; be&nbsp; comfortable at my place ... and they have wonderful&nbsp; rooms at the<br />Metropol, it's a first-class hotel...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'And&nbsp; there's&nbsp; no devil either?' the sick man suddenly inquired merrily<br />of Ivan Nikolaevich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'No devil...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Don't contradict him,' Berlioz whispered&nbsp; with his lips only, dropping<br />behind the professor's back and making faces.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There&nbsp; isn't any devil!' Ivan&nbsp; Nikolaevich, at&nbsp; a&nbsp; loss from&nbsp; all&nbsp; this<br />balderdash,&nbsp; cried out not what&nbsp; he ought. 'What a punishment! Stop&nbsp; playing<br />the psycho!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here the insane man burst into such laughter that a sparrow flew out of<br />the linden over the seated men's heads.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Well, now that is positively interesting!' the professor said, shaking<br />with&nbsp; laughter.&nbsp; 'What is it with you - no&nbsp; matter what one&nbsp; asks for, there<br />isn't&nbsp; any!' He suddenly stopped&nbsp; laughing and,&nbsp; quite understandably for&nbsp; a<br />mentally ill person, fell into the opposite&nbsp; extreme after laughing,&nbsp; became<br />vexed and cried sternly: 'So you mean there just simply isn't any?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Calm down,&nbsp; calm down,&nbsp; calm&nbsp; down,&nbsp; Professor,' Berlioz muttered, for<br />fear&nbsp; of agitating the&nbsp; sick man.&nbsp; 'You&nbsp; sit here&nbsp; for a little&nbsp; minute with<br />comrade Homeless, and I'll just run to the corner&nbsp; to make a phone call, and<br />then we'll take you wherever you like. You don't know the city...'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Berlioz's plan must be acknowledged as correct: he&nbsp; had to run&nbsp; to&nbsp; the<br />nearest&nbsp; public&nbsp; telephone&nbsp; and inform the foreigners' bureau, thus&nbsp; and so,<br />there's some consultant from abroad sitting at the&nbsp; Patriarch's&nbsp; Ponds in an<br />obviously&nbsp; abnormal state. So it was necessary to&nbsp; take&nbsp; measures, lest some<br />unpleasant nonsense result.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To make a call? Well, then make your call,' the sick&nbsp; man agreed sadly,<br />and suddenly&nbsp; begged passionately:&nbsp; `But I implore&nbsp; you, before&nbsp; you go,&nbsp; at<br />least believe that the devil exists! I no longer ask you for anything more.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Mind you, there exists a seventh proof of it, the surest of all! And it<br />is going to be presented to you right now!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Very good, very good,' Berlioz said with false tenderness and, winking<br />to the&nbsp; upset poet, who did not relish&nbsp; at all the idea of guarding&nbsp; the mad<br />German,&nbsp; set out for the exit from&nbsp; the Ponds at the corner&nbsp; of Bronnaya and<br />Yermolaevsky Lane.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the professor seemed to recover his health and brighten up at once.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Mikhail Alexandrovich!' he shouted after Berlioz.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; latter gave a start,&nbsp; looked back, but reassured himself&nbsp; with the<br />thought that the&nbsp; professor&nbsp; had also learned&nbsp; his&nbsp; name and patronymic from<br />some newspaper.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then the professor called out, cupping his hands like a megaphone:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; `Would you&nbsp; like me to&nbsp; have a telegram sent at&nbsp; once&nbsp; to your uncle in<br />Kiev?'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And again Berlioz winced. How does the madman know about&nbsp; the existence<br />of&nbsp; a&nbsp; Kievan&nbsp; uncle?&nbsp; That&nbsp; has&nbsp; certainly&nbsp; never&nbsp; been&nbsp; mentioned&nbsp; in&nbsp; any<br />newspapers. Oh-oh, maybe Homeless is right after all? And suppose his papers<br />are phoney? Ah, what a strange specimen ... Call, call! Call at once!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They'll quickly explain him!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And, no longer listening to anything, Berlioz ran on.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Here, just at the exit to Bronnaya, there rose from a bench to meet the<br />editor&nbsp; exactly&nbsp; the&nbsp; same citizen who in the sunlight&nbsp; earlier&nbsp; had&nbsp; formed<br />himself out of the thick swelter. Only now he was no longer made of air, but<br />ordinary,&nbsp; fleshly,&nbsp; and&nbsp; Berlioz&nbsp; clearly distinguished&nbsp; in&nbsp; the&nbsp; beginning<br />twilight that he&nbsp; had a&nbsp; little&nbsp; moustache like chicken feathers, tiny eyes,<br />ironic&nbsp; and half drunk,&nbsp; and&nbsp; checkered trousers pulled up so&nbsp; high that his<br />dirty white socks showed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Mikhail Alexandrovich&nbsp; drew&nbsp; back, but&nbsp; reassured himself by reflecting<br />that it was a&nbsp; stupid coincidence&nbsp; and that&nbsp; generally there was&nbsp; no time to<br />think about it now.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Looking for the turnstile, citizen?' the checkered type inquired&nbsp; in a<br />cracked tenor. This&nbsp; way, please! Straight&nbsp; on and&nbsp; you'll get where&nbsp; you're<br />going.&nbsp; How about&nbsp; a little pint pot&nbsp; for&nbsp; my information&nbsp; ... to&nbsp; set up an<br />ex-choirmaster!...' Mugging,&nbsp; the specimen&nbsp; swept his jockey's cap&nbsp; from his<br />head.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Berlioz,&nbsp; not&nbsp; stopping&nbsp; to&nbsp; listen&nbsp;&nbsp; to&nbsp;&nbsp; the&nbsp; cadging&nbsp;&nbsp; and&nbsp; clowning<br />choirmaster, ran up to the turnstile and took hold&nbsp; of it with his hand.&nbsp; He<br />turned it and was&nbsp; just about to&nbsp; step across&nbsp; the rails when&nbsp; red and white<br />light&nbsp; splashed&nbsp; in his&nbsp; face.&nbsp; A&nbsp; sign lit&nbsp; up in&nbsp; a&nbsp; glass&nbsp; box:&nbsp; 'Caution<br />Tram-Car!'<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And right&nbsp; then this tram-car came racing along, turning down the newly<br />laid line from Yermolaevsky&nbsp; to&nbsp; Bronnaya. Having&nbsp; turned, and coming to the<br />straight stretch, it suddenly&nbsp; lit&nbsp; up&nbsp; inside with electricity, whined, and<br />put on speed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The prudent Berlioz, though he was standing in a safe place, decided to<br />retreat behind the stile, moved his hand on the crossbar, and stepped back.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And right then his hand slipped and slid, one foot, unimpeded, as if on<br />ice, went&nbsp; down the cobbled slope leading to the rails, the other was thrust<br />into the air, and Berlioz was thrown on to the rails.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Trying to get hold&nbsp; of something,&nbsp; Berlioz fell&nbsp; backwards, the back of<br />his head&nbsp; lightly striking the cobbles,&nbsp; and had&nbsp; time to see high up -&nbsp; but<br />whether&nbsp; to&nbsp; right&nbsp; or&nbsp; left&nbsp; he no longer knew - the&nbsp; gold-tinged moon.&nbsp; He<br />managed&nbsp; to&nbsp; turn&nbsp; on his side, at the same moment drawing&nbsp; his legs&nbsp; to his<br />stomach in a frenzied movement,&nbsp; and, while turning, to make&nbsp; out the&nbsp; face,<br />completely&nbsp; white&nbsp; with horror, and the crimson armband of the&nbsp; woman driver<br />bearing down on him&nbsp; with irresistible force. Berlioz did not&nbsp; cry&nbsp; out, but<br />around him the whole street screamed with desperate female voices.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The woman driver tore at&nbsp; the electric brake, the car dug its nose into<br />the ground, then instantly jumped up, and glass flew from the windows with a<br />crash and a jingle. Here someone in Berlioz's brain&nbsp; cried desperately: 'Can<br />it&nbsp; be?...'&nbsp; Once more, and for the&nbsp; last&nbsp; time, the&nbsp; moon flashed,&nbsp; but now<br />breaking to pieces, and then it became dark.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The&nbsp; tram-car went over Berlioz, and a round&nbsp; dark object was thrown up<br />the&nbsp; cobbled slope below&nbsp; the fence of the Patriarch's walk.&nbsp; Having&nbsp; rolled<br />back down this slope, it went bouncing along the cobblestones of the street.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was the severed head of Berlioz.<br /><br /></font></h2></ul>]]></content><status>Published</status></entry></feed>
