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'Varenukha,' insisted the horrible voice. ' You understand Russian
don't you? Don't take those telegrams.'
'So you refuse to stop this game do you? ' shouted the house manager
in a rage. ' Now listen to me--you're going to pay for this!' He went on
shouting threats but stopped when he realised that no one was listening to
him on the other end.
At that moment his office began to darken. Varenukha ran out, slammed
the door behind him and went out into the garden through the side door.
He felt excited and full of energy. After that last insolent telephone
call he no longer had any doubt that some gang of hooligans was playing some
nasty practical joke and that the joke was connected with Likhodeyev's
disappearance. The house manager felt inspired with the urge to unmask the
villains and, strange as it may seem, he had a premonition that he was going
to enjoy it. It was a longing to be in the limelight, the bearer of
sensational news.
Out in the garden the wind blew in his face and threw sand in his eyes
as if it were trying to bar his way or warn him. A window-pane on the second
floor slammed shut with such force that it nearly broke the glass, the tops
of the maples and poplars rustled alarmingly. It grew darker and colder.
Varenukha wiped his eyes and noticed that a yellowish-centred thundercloud
was scudding low over Moscow. From the distance came a low rumble.
Although Varenukha was in a hurry, an irresistible urge made him turn
aside for a second into the open-air men's toilet just to check that the
electrician had replaced a missing electric lamp.
Running past the shooting gallery, he passed through a thick clump of
lilac which screened the blue-painted lavatory. The electrician seemed to
have done his job : the lamp in the men's toilet had been screwed into its
socket and the protective wire screen replaced, but the house manager was
annoyed to notice that even in the dark before the thunderstorm the
pencilled graffiti on the walls were still clearly visible.
'What a . . .' he began, then suddenly heard a purring voice behind
him:
'Is that you, Ivan Savyelich? '
Varenukha shuddered, turned round and saw before him a shortish, fat
creature with what seemed like the face of a cat.
'Yes . . .' replied Varenukha coldly.
'Delighted to meet you,' answered the stout, cat-like personage.
Suddenly it swung round and gave Varenukha such a box on the ear that his
cap flew off and vanished without trace into one of the lavatory pans.
For a moment the blow made the toilet shimmer with a flickering light.
A clap of thunder came from the sky. Then there was a second flash and
another figure materialised, short but athletically built, with fiery red
hair . . . one wall eye, a fang protruding from his mouth ... He appeared to
be left-handed, as he fetched the house manager a shattering clout on his
other ear. The sky rumbled again in reply and rain started to drench the
wooden roof.
'Look here, corn . . .' whispered Varenukha, staggering. It at once
occurred to him that the word ' comrades ' hardly fitted these bandits who
went around assaulting people in public conveniences, so he groaned instead
'. . . citizens . . . ', realised that they didn't even deserve to be called
that and got a third fearful punch. This time he could not see who had hit
him, as blood was spurting from his nose and down his shirt.
'What have you got in your briefcase, louse? ' shouted the cat-figure.
' Telegrams? Weren't you warned by telephone not to take them anywhere? I'm
asking you--weren't you warned?'
'Yes ... I was . . . warned,' panted Varenukha.
'And you still went? Gimme the briefcase, you skunk! ' said the other
creature in the same nasal voice that had come through the telephone, and
wrenched the briefcase out of Varenukha's trembling hands.
Then they both grabbed the house manager by the arms and frog-marched
him out of the garden and along Sadovaya Street. The storm was in full
spate, water was roaring and gurgling down the drain-holes in great bubbling
waves, it poured off the roofs from the overflowing gutters and out of the
drain pipes in foaming torrents. Every living person had vanished from the
street and there was no one to help Ivan Savyelich. In second, leaping over
muddy streams and lit by flashes of lightning the bandits had dragged the
half-dead Varenukha to No302-A and fled into the doorway, where two barefoot
women stood pressed against the wall, holding their shoes and stockings in
their hands. Then they rushed across to staircase 6, carried the nearly
insane Varenukha up to the fifth floor and threw him to the ground in the
familiar semi-darkness of the hallway of Stepa Likhodeyev's flat.
The two robbers vanished and in their place appeared a completely naked
girl--a redhead with eyes that burned with a phosphorescent glitter.
Varenukha felt that this was the most terrible thing that had ever
happened to him. With a groan he turned and leaned on the wall. The girl
came right up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. Varenukha's hair
stood on end. Even through the cold, soaking wet material of his coat he
could feel that those palms were even colder, that they were as cold as ice.
'Let me give you a kiss,' said the girl tenderly, her gleaming eyes
close to his. Varenukha lost consciousness before he could feel her kiss.
The wood on the far bank of the river, which an hour before had glowed
in the May sunshine, had now grown dim, had blurred and dissolved.
Outside, water was pouring down in solid sheets. Now and again there
came a rift in the sky, the heavens split and the patient's room was flooded
with a terrifying burst of light.
Ivan was quietly weeping as he sat on his bed and stared out at the
boiling, muddied river. At every clap of thunder he cried miserably and
covered his face with his hands. Sheets of paper, covered with his writing,
blew about on the floor.
The poet's efforts to compose a report on the terrible professor had
come to nothing. As soon as he had been given a stub of a pencil and some
paper by the fat nurse, whose name was Pras-kovya Fyodorovna, he had rubbed
his hands in a businesslike way and arranged his bedside table for work. The
beginning sounded rather well:
'To the Police. From Ivan Nikolayich Bezdomny, Member of massolit.
Statement. Yesterday evening I arrived at Patriarch's Ponds with the late M.
A. Berlioz. . . .'
Here the poet stumbled, chiefly because of the words ' the late '. It
sounded wrong--how could he have ' arrived' with ' the late '? Dead people
can't walk. If he wrote like this they really would think he was mad. So
Ivan Nikolayich made some corrections, which resulted in : '. . . with M. A.
Berlioz, later deceased.' He did not like that either, so he wrote a third
version and that was even worse than the previous two:
'. . . with Berlioz, who fell under a tram . . .' Here he thought of
the composer of the same name and felt obliged to add : ' ... not the
composer.'
Struggling with these two Berliozes, Ivan crossed it all out and
decided to begin straight away with a striking phrase which would
immediately catch the reader's attention, so he first described how the cat
had jumped on the tram and then described the episode of the severed head.
The head and the professor's forecast reminded him of Pontius Pilate, so to
sound more convincing Ivan decided to give the story of the Procurator in
full, from the moment when he had emerged in his white, red-lined cloak into
the arcade of Herod's palace.
Ivan worked hard. He crossed out what he had written, put in new words
and even tried to draw a sketch of Pontius Pilate, then one showing the cat
walking on its hind legs. But his drawings were hopeless and the further he
went the more confused his statement grew.
By the time the storm had begun, Ivan felt that he was exhausted and
would never be able to write a statement. His windblown sheets of paper were
in a complete muddle and he began to weep, quietly and bitterly. The kind
nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna called on the poet during the storm and was
worried to find him crying. She closed the blinds so that the lightning
should not frighten the patient, picked up the sheets of paper and went off
with them to look for the doctor.
The doctor appeared, gave Ivan an injection in his arm and assured him
that he would soon stop crying, that it would pass, everything would be all
right and he would forget all about it.
The doctor was right. Soon the wood across the river looked as it
always did. The weather cleared until every single tree stood out against a
sky which was as blue as before and the river subsided. His injection at
once made Ivan feel less depressed. The poet lay quietly down and gazed at
the rainbow stretched across the sky.
He lay there until evening and did not even notice how the rainbow
dissolved, how the sky faded and saddened, how the wood turned to black.
When he had drunk his hot milk, Ivan lay down again. He was amazed to
notice how his mental condition had changed. The memory of the diabolical
cat had grown indistinct, he was no longer frightened by the thought of the
decapitated head. Ivan started to muse on the fact that the clinic really
wasn't such a bad place, that Stravinsky was very clever and famous and that
he was an extremely pleasant man to deal with. The evening air, too, was
sweet and fresh after the storm.
The asylum was asleep. The white frosted-glass bulbs in the silent
corridors were extinguished and in their place glowed the weak blue
night-lights. The nurses' cautious footsteps were heard less and less
frequently walking the rubber-tiled floor of the corridor.
Ivan now lay in sweet lassitude ; glancing at his bedside lamp, then at
the dim ceiling light and at the moon rising in the dark, he talked to
himself.
'I wonder why I got so excited about Berlioz falling under that tram?
' the poet reasoned. ' After all he's dead, and we all die some time. It's
not as if I were a relation or a really close friend either. When you come
to think of it I didn't even know the man very well. What did I really know
about him? Nothing, except that he was bald and horribly talkative. So,
gentlemen,' went on Ivan, addressing an imaginary audience,' let us consider
the following problem : why, I should like to know, did I get in such a rage
with that mysterious professor or magician with his empty, black eye? Why
did I chase after him like a fool in those underpants and holding a candle?
Why the ridiculous scene in the restaurant? '
'Wait a moment, though! ' said the old Ivan severely to the new Ivan
in a voice that was not exactly inside him and not quite by his ear. ' He
did know in advance that Berlioz was going to have his head cut off, didn't
he? Isn't that something to get upset about? '
'What do you mean? ' objected the new Ivan. ' I quite agree that it's
a nasty business--a child could see that. But he's a mysterious, superior
being--that's what makes it so interesting. Think of it--a man who knew
Pontius Pilate! Instead of creating that ridiculous scene at Patriarch's
wouldn't it have been
rather more intelligent to ask him politely what happened next to
Pilate and that prisoner Ha-Notsri? And I had to behave like an idiot! Of
course it's a serious matter to kill the editor of a magazine. But
still--the magazine won't close down just because of that, will it? Man is
mortal and as the professor so rightly said mortality can come so suddenly.
So God rest his soul and let's get ourselves another editor, perhaps one
who's even more of a chatterbox than Berlioz!'
After dozing for a while the new Ivan said spitefully to the old Ivan:
'And how do I look after this affair? '
'A fool,' distinctly said a bass voice that belonged to neither of the
Ivans and was extremely like the professor's.
Ivan, somehow not offended by the word 'fool' but even pleasantly
surprised by it, smiled and sank into a half-doze. Sleep crept up on him. He
had a vision of a palm tree on its elephantine leg and a cat passed by--not
a terrible cat but a nice one and Ivan was just about to fall asleep when
suddenly the grille slid noiselessly aside. A mysterious figure appeared on
the moonlit balcony and pointed a threatening finger at Ivan.
Quite unafraid Ivan sat up in bed and saw a man on the balcony.
Pressing his finger to his lips the man whispered : ' Shh!'
A little man with a crimson pear-shaped nose, in a battered yellow
bowler hat, check trousers and patent leather boots pedalled on to the
Variety stage on a bicycle. As the band played a foxtrot he rode round in
circles a few times, then gave a triumphant yelp at which the bicycle reared
up with its front wheel in the air. After a few rounds on the back wheel
alone, the man stood on his head, unscrewed the front wheel and threw it
into the wings. He then carried on with one wheel, turning the pedals with
his hands.
Next a fat blonde girl, wearing a sweater and a very brief skirt strewn
with sequins, came in riding a long metal pole with a saddle on the top and
a single wheel at the bottom. As they met the man gave a welcoming cry and
doffed his bowler hat with his foot.
Finally a little boy of about seven with the face of an old man sneaked
in between the two adults on a tiny two-wheeler to which was fixed an
enormous motor-car horn.
After a few figures of eight the whole troupe, to an urgent roll of
drums from the orchestra, rode at full tilt towards the front of the stage.
The spectators in the front rows gasped and ducked, fully expecting all
three to crash, cycles and all, into the orchestra pit, but they stopped at
the very second that their front wheels threatened to skid into the pit on
to the heads of the musicians. With a loud cry of' Allez-oop! ' the three
cyclists leaped from their machines and bowed, while the blonde blew kisses
to the audience and the little boy played a funny tune on his horn.
The auditorium rocked with applause, the blue curtain fell and the
cyclists vanished. The lighted green ' Exit' signs went out and the white
globes began to glow brighter and brighter in the web of girders under the
dome. The second and last interval had begun.
The only man unaffected by the Giulli family's marvels of cycling
technique was Grigory Danilovich Rimsky. He sat alone in his office, biting
his thin lips, his face twitching spasmodically. First Likhodeyev had
vanished in the most bizarre circumstances and now Varenukha had suddenly
disappeared. Rinsky knew where Varenukha had been going to--but the man had
simply gone and had never come back. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered
to himself:
But why?!'
Nothing would have been simpler for a sensible, practical man like
Rimsky to have telephoned the place where Varenukha had gone and to have
found out what had happened to him, yet it was ten o'clock that evening
before he could bring himself to do so.
At ten Rimsky finally took a grip on himself and picked up the
telephone receiver. The telephone was dead. An usher reported that all the
other telephones in the building were out of order. This annoying but hardly
supernatural occurrence seemed to shock Rimsky, although secretly he was
glad, because it absolved him from the need to telephone.
As the little red light above the treasurer's head started flashing to
show that the interval was beginning, an usher came in and announced that
the foreign magician had arrived. Rimsky's expression changed and he scowled
with a mixture of anxiety and irritation. As the only member of the
management left in the theatre, it was his duty to go backstage and receive
the guest artiste.
As the warning bells rang, inquisitive people were peeping into the
star dressing room. Among them were jugglers in bright robes and turbans, a
roller-skater in a knitted cardigan, a comedian with a powdered white face
and a make-up man. The celebrated guest artiste amazed everyone with his
unusually long, superbly cut tail coat and by wearing a black domino. Even
more astounding were the black magician's two companions : a tall man in
checks with an unsteady pince-nez and a fat black cat which walked into the
dressing room on its hind legs and casually sat down on the divan, blinking
in the light of the unshaded lamps round the make-up mirror.
With a forced smile which only made him look acidly disagreeable,
Rimsky bowed to the silent magician sitting beside the cat on the divan.
There were no handshakes, but the man in checks introduced himself smoothly
as ' the assistant'. This gave the treasurer an unpleasant shock, as there
had not been a word in the contract about an assistant.
Grigory Danilovich enquired stiffly where the professor's equipment
might be.
'Why, bless you my dear sir,' replied the magician's assistant, ' we
have all the equipment we need with us now--look! Eins, zvei, drei!'
Flourishing his long, knotty fingers in front of Rimsky's eyes he made
a pass beside the cat's ear and pulled out of it Rimsky's gold watch and
chain, which until that moment had been sitting under the treasurer's
buttoned jacket in his waistcoat pocket with the chain threaded through a
buttonhole.
Rimsky involuntarily clutched his stomach, the spectators gasped and
the make-up man, glancing in from the corridor, clucked with approval.
'Your watch, sir? There you are,' said the man in checks. Smiling
nonchalantly, he proffered the watch to its owner on his dirty palm.
'I wouldn't sit next to him in a tram,' whispered the comedian
cheerfully to the make-up man.
But the cat put the watch trick in the shade. Suddenly getting up from
the divan it walked on its hind legs to the dressing table, pulled the
stopper out of a carafe with its forepaw, poured out a glass of water, drank
it, replaced the stopper and wiped its whiskers with a make-up cloth.
Nobody even gasped. Their mouths fell open and the make-up man
whispered admiringly: ' Bravo . ..'
The last warning bell rang and everybody, excited by the prospect of a
good act, tumbled out of the dressing room.
A minute later the house-lights went out, the footlights lit up the
fringe of the curtain with a red glow and in the lighted gap between the
tabs the audience saw a fat, jolly, clean-shaven man in stained tails and a
grubby white dicky. It was Moscow's best known compere, George Bengalsky.
'And now, ladies and gentlemen,' said Bengalsky, smiling his boyish
smile, ' you are about to see . . .' Here Bengalsky broke off and started
again in a completely different tone of voice : ' I see that our audience
has increased in numbers since the interval. Half Moscow seems to be here
tonight! D'you know, I met a friend of mine the other day and I said to him
: " Why didn't you come and see our show? Half the town was there last
night." And he said : " I live in the other half! " ' Bengalsky paused for
the laugh, but none came so he went on : ' Well, as I was saying, you are
about to see a very famous artiste from abroad, M'sieur Woland, with a
session of black magic. Of course we know, don't we . . .' Bengalsky smiled
confidentially, ' that there's no such thing really. It's all
superstition--or rather Maestro Woland is a past master of the art of
conjuring, as you will see from the most interesting part of his act in
which he reveals the mysteries of his technique. And now, ladies and
gentlemen, since none of us can bear the suspense any longer, I give you . .
. Monsieur Woland! . . .'
Having said his feeble piece, Bengalsky put his hands palm to palm and
raised them in a gesture of welcome towards the gap in the curtain, which
then rose with a soft rustle.
The entry of the magician with his tall assistant and his cat, who
trotted on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly. ' Armchair,
please,' said Woland quietly and instantly an armchair appeared on stage
from nowhere. The magician sat down. ' Tell me, my dear Faggot,' Woland
enquired of the check-clad buffoon, who apparently had another name besides
' Koroviev,':
'do you find the people of Moscow much changed? ' The magician nodded
towards the audience, still silent with astonishment at seeing an armchair
materialise from nowhere.
'I do, messire,' replied Faggot-Koroviev in a low voice.
'You are right. The Muscovites have changed considerably . . .
outwardly, I mean ... as, too, has the city itself. . . Not just the
clothes, but now they have all these . . . what d'you call 'em . . .
tramways, cars . . .'
'Buses,' prompted Faggot respectfully.
The audience listened intently to this conversation, assuming it to be
the prelude to some magic tricks. The wings were full of actors and stage
hands and among their faces could be seen the pale, strained features of
Rimsky.
Bengalsky's face, lurking in a corner of the stage, began to show
consternation. With an imperceptible raise of one eyebrow he seized the
opportunity of a pause in the dialogue to interject:
'Our guest artiste from abroad is obviously delighted with Moscow's
technological progress.' This was accompanied by a smile for the stalls and
a smile for the gallery.
Woland, Faggot and the cat turned their heads towards the compere.
'Did I say I was delighted? ' the magician asked Faggot.
'You said nothing of the kind, messire,' replied the latter.
'Then what is the man talking about? '
'He was simply telling lies! ' announced the chequered clown in a loud
voice for the whole theatre to hear and turning to Bengalsky he added : '
D'you hear--you're a liar! '
There was a burst of laughter from the gallery as Bengalsky spluttered,
his eyes popping with indignation.
'But naturally I am not so much interested in the buses and telephones
and such like . . .'
'Apparatus,' prompted Faggot.
'Precisely, thank you,' drawled the magician in a deep bass, ' as in
the much more important question : have the Muscovites changed inwardly? '
'A vital question indeed, sir.'
In the wings, glances were exchanged, shoulders shrugged; banker's tape
and marked ' One Thousand Roubles'. His neighbours crowded round as he
picked at the wrapping with his fingernail to find out whether it was real
money or a stage prop.
'My God--it's real money!' came a joyful shout from the gallery.
'I wish you'd play cards with me if vou've any more packs like that
one,' begged a fat man in the middle of the stalls.
'Avec plaisir!' replied Faggot. ' But why should you be the only one?
You shall all take part! Everybody look up, please! One! ' A pistol appeared
in his hand. ' Two! ' the pistol was pointed upwards. ' Three! ' There was a
flash, a bang, and immediately a cascade of white pieces of paper began to
float down from the dome above the auditorium.
Turning over and over, some were blown aside and landed in the gallery,
some fell towards the orchestra pit or the stage. A few seconds later the
shower of money reached the stalls and the audience began catching it.
Hundreds of hands were raised as the audience held the notes up to the
light from the stage and found that the watermarks were absolutely genuine.
Their smell left no doubt: it was the uniquely delicious smell of
newly-printed money. First amusement then wonder seized the entire theatre.
From all over the house, amid gasps and delighted laughter, came the words '
money, money! ' One man was already crawling in the aisle and fumbling under
the seats. Several more were standing up on their seats to catch the
drifting, twisting banknotes as they fell.
Gradually a look of perplexity came over the expressions of the police,
and the artistes backstage openly pressed forward from the wings. From the
dress circle a voice was heard shouting:
'Let go! It's mine--I caught it first! ', followed by another voice :
' Stop pushing and grabbing or I'll punch your face in! ' There was a
muffled crash. A policeman's helmet appeared in the dress circle and a
member of the audience was led away. The excitement rose and might have got
out of hand if Faggot had not stopped the rain of money by suddenly blowing
into the air.
Two young men, grinning purposefully, left their seats and made
straight for the bar. A loud buzz filled the theatre : the audience was
galvanised with excitement and in an effort to control the situation
Bengalsky stirred himself and appeared on stage. With a tremendous effort of
self-mastery he went through his habitual motion of washing his hands and in
his most powerful voice began:
'We have just seen, ladies and gentlemen, a case of so-called mass
hypnosis. A purely scientific experiment, demonstrating better than anything
else that there is nothing supernatural about magic. We shall ask Maestro
Woland to show us how he did that experiment. You will now see, ladies and
gentlemen, how those apparent banknotes will vanish as suddenly as they
appeared.'
He began to clap, but he was alone. A confident smile appeared on his
face, but the look in his eyes was one of entreaty.
The audience did not care for Bengalsky's speech. Faggot broke the
silence :
'And that was a case of so-called fiddlesticks,' he declared in a loud
goatish bray. ' The banknotes, ladies and gentlemen, are real.'
'Bravo! ' abruptly roared a bass from high up in the gallery.
'This man,' Faggot pointed at Bengalsky, ' is starting to bore me. He
sticks his nose in everywhere without being asked and ruins the whole act.
What shall we do with him? '
'Cut off his head! ' said a stern voice.
'What did you say, sir? ' was Faggot's instant response to this savage
proposal. ' Cut off his head? That's an idea! Behemoth! ' he shouted to the
cat. ' Do your stuff! Eins, zvei, drei!! '
Then the most incredible thing happened. The cat's fur stood on end and
it uttered a harrowing ' miaaow! ' It crouched, then leaped like a panther
straight for Bengalsky's chest and from there to his head. Growling, the cat
dug its claws into the compere's glossy hair and with a wild screech it
twisted the head clean off the neck in two turns. Two and a half thousand
people screamed as one. Fountains of blood from the severed arteries in the
neck spurted up and drenched the man's shirtfront and tails. The headless
body waved its legs stupidly and sat on the ground. Hysterical shrieks rang
out through the auditorium. The cat handed the head to Faggot who picked it
up by the hair and showed it to the audience. The head moaned desperately :
'Fetch a doctor!'
'Will you go on talking so much rubbish?' said Faggot threateningly to
the weeping head.
'No, I promise I won't! ' croaked the head. ' For God's sake stop
torturing him! ' a woman's voice from a box suddenly rang out above the
turmoil and the magician turned towards the sound.
'Well, ladies and gentlemen, shall we forgive him? ' asked Faggot,
turning to the audience.
'Yes, forgive him, forgive him! ' The cries came at first from a few
individual voices, mostly women, then merged into a chorus with the men.
'What is your command, messire? ' Faggot asked the masked professor.
'Well, now,' replied the magician reflectively. ' They're people like
any others. They're over-fond of money, but then they always were . . .
Humankind loves money, no matter if it's made of leather, paper, bronze or
gold. They're thoughtless, of course . . . but then they sometimes feel
compassion too .... they're ordinary people, in fact they remind me very
much of their predecessors, except that the housing shortage has soured them
. . .' And he shouted the order : ' Put back his head.'
Taking careful aim the cat popped the head back on its neck, where it
sat as neatly as if head and body had never been parted. Most amazing of
all--there was not even a scar on the neck. The cat wiped the tailcoat and
shirtfront with its paw and every trace of blood vanished. Faggot lifted the
seated Bengalsky to his feet, shoved a bundle of money into his coat pocket
and led him off stage, saying :
'Go on--off you go, it's more fun without you!'
Gazing round in a daze and staggering, the compere got no further than
the fire-brigade post and collapsed. He cried miserably:
'My head, my head . . .'
Among those who rushed to help him was Rimsky. The compere was weeping,
snatching at something in the air and mumbling :
'Give me back my head, my head . . . You can have my flat, you can
have all my pictures, only give me back my head . . .! '
An usher ran for the doctor. They tried to lay Bengalsky on a divan in
his dressing-room, but he resisted and became violent. An ambulance was
called. When the unfortunate compere had been removed Rimsky ran back to the
stage, where new miracles were in progress. It was then, or perhaps a little
earlier, that the magician and his faded armchair vanished from the stage.
The audience did not notice this at all, as they were absorbed by Faggot's
wonderful tricks.
Having seen the compere off the stage. Faggot announced to the
audience:
'Now that we have disposed of that old bore, we shall open a shop for
the ladies! '
In a moment half the stage was covered with Persian carpets, some huge
mirrors and a row of showcases, in which the audience was astounded to see a
collection of Parisian dresses that were the last word in chic. In other
showcases were hundreds of ladies' hats, some with feathers and some
without, hundreds of pairs of shoes--black shoes, white shoes, yellow shoes,
leather shoes, satin shoes, suede shoes, buckled shoes and shoes studded
with costume jewellery. Beside the shoes there were flacons of scent, piles
of handbags made of buckskin, satin and silk, and next to them piles of gilt
lipstick-holders.
A red-haired girl in a black evening dress who had suddenly appeared
from nowhere, her beauty only marred by a curious scar on her neck, smiled
from the showcases with a proprietorial smile. With an engaging leer Faggot
announced that the firm would exchange, absolutely free of charge, any
lady's old dress and shoes for model dresses and shoes from Paris, adding
that the offer included handbags and the odds and ends that go in them.
The cat began bowing and scraping, its forepaw gesturing like a
commissionaire opening a door.
In a sweet though slightly hoarse voice the girl made an announcement
which sounded rather cryptic but which, judging from the faces of the women
in the stalls, was very enticing :
'Guerlain, Chanel, Mitsouko, Narcisse Noir, Chanel Number Five,
evening dresses, cocktail dresses . . .'
Faggot bent double, the cat bowed and the girl opened the glass-fronted
showcases.
'Step up, please! ' cried Faggot. ' Don't be shy! '
The audience began to fidget, but no one dared mount the stage. At last
a brunette emerged from the tenth row of the stalls and smiling nonchalantly
walked up the side stairs on to the stage.
'Bravo! ' cried Faggot. ' Our first customer! Behemoth, a chair for
the lady! Shall we start with the shoes, madam? '
The brunette sat down and Faggot at once spread out a whole heap of
shoes on the carpet in front of her. She took off her right shoe, tried on a
lilac one, tested it with a walk on the carpet and inspected the heel.
'Won't they pinch? ' she enquired thoughtfully.
Offended, Faggot cried:
'Oh, come, now!' and the cat gave an insulted miaow.
'I'll take them, monsieur,' said the brunette with dignity as she put
on the other shoe of the pair. Her old shoes were thrown behind a curtain,
followed by the girl herself, the redhead, and Faggot carrying several model
dresses on coathangers. The cat busied itself with helping and hung a tape
measure round its neck for greater effect.
A minute later the brunette emerged from behind the curtain in a dress
that sent a gasp through the entire auditorium. The bold girl, now very much
prettier, stopped in front of a mirror, wriggled her bare shoulders, patted
her hair and twisted round to try and see her back view.
'The firm begs you to accept this as a souvenir,' said Faggot, handing
the girl an open case containing a flacon of scent.
'Merci,' replied the girl haughtily and walked down the steps to the
stalls. As she went back to her seat people jumped up to touch her
scent-bottle.
The ice was broken. Women from all sides poured on to the stage. In the
general hubbub of talk, laughter and cries a man's voice was heard, ' I
won't let you! ' followed by a woman's saying : ' Let go of my arm, you
narrow-minded little tyrant! ' Women were disappearing behind the curtain,
leaving their old dresses there and emerging in new ones. A row of women was
sitting on gilt-legged stools trying on new shoes. Faggot was on his knees,
busy with a shoe-horn, while the cat, weighed down by handbags and shoes,
staggered from the showcases to the stools and back again, the girl with the
scarred neck bustled to and fro, entering so much into the spirit of it all
that she was soon chattering away in nothing but French. Strangely enough
all the women understood her at once, even those who knew not a word of
French.
To everybody's astonishment, a lone man climbed on to the stage. He
announced that his wife had a cold and asked to be given something to take
home to her. To prove that he was really married he offered to show his
passport. This conscientious husband was greeted with a roar of laughter.
Faggot declared that he believed him even without his passport and handed
the man two pairs of silk stockings. The cat spontaneously added a pot of
cold cream.
Latecomers still mounted the steps as a stream of happy women in ball
dresses, pyjama suits embroidered with dragons, severe tailor-mades and hats
pranced back into the auditorium.
Then Faggot announced that because it was so late, in exactly a
minute's time the shop would close until to-morrow evening. This produced an
incredible scuffle on stage. Without trying them on, women grabbed any shoes
within reach. One woman hurtled behind the screen, threw off her clothes and
sei2ed the first thing to hand--a silk dress patterned with enormous bunches
of flowers--grabbed a dressing gown and for good measure scooped up two
flacons of scent. Exactly a minute later a pistol shot rang out, the mirrors
disappeared, the showcases and stools melted away, carpet and curtain
vanished into thin air. Last to disappear was the mountain of old dresses
and shoes. The stage was bare and empty again.
At this point a new character joined the cast. A pleasant and extremely
self-confident baritone was heard from Box No. 2 :
'It's high time, sir, that you showed the audience how you do your
tricks, especially the bank-note trick. We should also like to see the
compere back on stage. The audience is concerned about him.'
The baritone voice belonged to none other than the evening's guest of
honour, Arkady Apollonich Sempleyarov, chairman of the Moscow Theatres'
Acoustics Commission.
Arkady Apollonich was sharing his box with two ladies--one elderly, who
was expensively and fashionably dressed, the other young and pretty and more
simply dressed. The first, as was later established when the official report
was compiled, was Arkady Apollonich's wife and the other a distant relative
of his, an aspiring young actress from Saratov who lodged in the
Sempleyarovs' flat.
'I beg your pardon,' replied Faggot. ' I'm sorry, but there's nothing
to reveal. It's all quite plain.'
'Excuse me, but I don't agree. An explanation is essential, otherwise
your brilliant act will leave a painful impression. The audience demands an
explanation . . .'
'The audience,' interrupted the insolent mountebank, ' has not, to my
knowledge, demanded anything of the sort. However, in view of your
distinguished position, Arkady Apollonich, I will--since you insist--reveal
something of our technique. To do so, will you allow me time for another
short number? '
'Of course,' replied Arkady Apollonich patronisingly. ' But you must
show how it's done.'
'Very well, sir, very well. Now--may I ask where you were yesterday
evening, Arkady Apollonich? '
At this impertinent question Arkady Apollonich's expression underwent a
complete and violent change.
'Yesterday evening Arkady Apollonich was at a meeting of the Acoustics
Commission,' said his wife haughtily. ' Surely that has nothing to do with
magic? '
'Ош, madame,' replied Faggot, ' it has, but you naturally do not know
why. As for the meeting, you are quite wrong. When he went to the
meeting--which, incidentally, was never scheduled to take place
yesterday--Arkady Apollonich dismissed his chauffeur at the Acoustics
Commission (a hush came over the whole theatre) and took a bus to
Yelokhovskaya Street where he called on an actress called Militsa Andreyevna
Pokobatko from the local repertory theatre and spent about four hours in her
flat.'
'Oh!' The painful cry rang out from complete silence.
Suddenly Arkady Apollonich's young cousin burst into a low, malicious
laugh.
'Of course!' she exclaimed. ' I've suspected him for a long time. Now
I see why that tenth-rate ham got the part of Luisa!' And with a sudden wave
of her arm she hit Arkady Apollonich on the head with a short, fat, mauve
umbrella.
The vile Faggot, who was none other than Koroviev, shouted :
'There, ladies and gentlemen, is your revelation for you, as requested
so insistently by Arkady Apollonich!'
'How dare you hit Arkady Apollonich, you little baggage? ' said the
wife grimly, rising in the box to her full gigantic height.
The young girl was seized with another outburst of Satanic laughter.
'I've as much right,' she replied laughing, ' to hit him as you have!
' A second dull crack was heard as another umbrella bounced off Arkady
Apollonich's head.
'Police! Arrest her! ' roared Madame Sempleyarov in a terrifying
voice.
Here the cat bounded up to the footlights and announced in a human
voice :
'That concludes the evening! Maestro! Finale, please! ' The dazed
conductor, scarcely aware of what he was doing, waved his baton and the
orchestra struck up, or rather murdered a disorganised excuse for a march,
normally sung to obscene but very funny words. However, it was quickly
drowned in the ensuing uproar. The police ran to the Sempleyarovs' box,
curious spectators climbed on to the ledge to watch, there were explosions
of infernal laughter and wild cries, drowned by the golden crash of cymbals
from the orchestra.
Suddenly the stage was empty. The horrible Faggot and the sinister cat
Behemoth melted into the air and disappeared, just as the magician had
vanished earlier in his shabby armchair.
Ivan swung his legs off the bed and stared. A man was standing on the
balcony, peering cautiously into the room. He was aged about thirty-eight,
clean-shaven and dark, with a sharp nose, restless eyes and a lock of hair
that tumbled over his forehead.
The mysterious visitor listened awhile then, satisfied that Ivan was
alone, entered the room. As he came in Ivan noticed that the man was wearing
hospital clothes--pyjamas, slippers and a reddish-brown dressing gown thrown
over his shoulders.
The visitor winked at Ivan, put a bunch of keys into his pocket and
asked in a whisper : ' May I sit down? ' Receiving an affirmative reply he
settled in the armchair.
'How did you get in here? ' Ivan whispered in obedience to a warning
finger. ' The grilles on the windows are locked, aren't they? '
'The grilles are locked,' agreed the visitor. ' Praskovya Fyodorovna
is a dear person but alas, terribly absent-minded. A month ago I removed
this bunch of keys from her, which has given me the freedom of the balcony.
It stretches along the whole floor, so that I can call on my neighbours
whenever I feel like it.'
'If you can get out on to the balcony you can run away. Or is it too
high to jump? ' enquired Ivan with interest.
'No,' answered the visitor firmly, ' I can't escape from here. Not
because it's too high but because I've nowhere to go.' After a pause he
added : ' So here we are.'
'Here we are,' echoed Ivan, gazing into the man's restless brown eyes.
'Yes . . .' The visitor grew suddenly anxious. ' You're not violent, I
hope? You see, I can't bear noise, disturbance, violence or anything of that
sort. I particularly hate the sound of people screaming, whether it's a
scream of pain, anger or any other kind of scream. Just reassure me--you're
not violent, are you? '
'Yesterday in a restaurant I clouted a fellow across the snout,' the
poet confessed manfully.
'What for? ' asked the visitor disapprovingly.
'For no reason at all, I must admit,' replied Ivan, embarrassed.
'Disgraceful,' said the visitor reproachfully and added:
'And I don't care for that expression of yours--clouted him across the
snout. . . . People have faces, not snouts. So I suppose you mean you
punched him in the face. . . . No, you must give up doing that sort of
thing.'
After this reprimand the visitor enquired :
'What's your job? '
'I'm a poet,' admitted Ivan with slight unwillingness.
This annoyed the man.
'Just my bad luck! ' he exclaimed, but immediately regretted it,
apologised and asked : ' What's your name? '
'Bezdomny.'
'Oh . . .' said the man frowning.
'What, don't you like my poetry? ' asked Ivan with curiosity.
'No, I don't.'
'Have you read any of it? '
'I've never read any of your poetry! ' said the visitor tetchily.
'Then how can you say that? '
'Why shouldn't I? ' retorted the visitor. ' I've read plenty of other
poetry. I don't suppose by some miracle that yours is any better, but I'm
ready to take it on trust. Is your poetry good?'
'Stupendous! ' said Ivan boldly.
'Don't write any more! ' said the visitor imploringly.
'I promise not to! ' said Ivan solemnly.
As they sealed the vow with a handshake, soft footsteps and voices
could be heard from the corridor.
'Sshh! ' whispered the man. He bounded out on to the balcony and
closed the grille behind him.
Praskovya Fyodorovna looked in, asked Ivan how he felt and whether he
wanted to sleep in the dark or the light. Ivan asked her to leave the light
on and Praskovya Fyodorovna departed, wishing him good night. When all was
quiet again the visitor returned.
He told Ivan in a whisper that a new patient had been put into No.
119--a fat man with a purple face who kept muttering about dollars in the
ventilation shaft and swearing that the powers of darkness had taken over
their house on Sadovaya. ' He curses Pushkin for all he's worth and keeps
shouting " Encore, encore! " ' said the visitor, twitching nervously. When
he had grown a little calmer he sat down and said : ' However, let's forget
about him,' and resumed his interrupted conversation with Ivan : ' How did
you come to be here? '
'Because of Pontius Pilate,' replied Ivan, staring glumly at the
floor.
'What?! ' cried the visitor, forgetting his caution, then clapped his
hand over his mouth. ' What an extraordinary coincidence! Do tell me about
it, I beg of you! '
For some reason Ivan felt that he could trust this stranger. Shyly at
first, then gaining confidence, he began to describe the previous day's
events at Patriarch's Ponds. His visitor treated Ivan as completely sane,
showed the greatest interest in the story and as it developed he reached a
state of near ecstasy. Now and again he interrupted Ivan, exclaiming :
'Yes, yes! Please go on! For heaven's sake don't leave anything out!
'Ivan left out nothing, as it made the story easier to tell and gradually he
approached the moment when Pontius Pilate, in his white cloak lined with
blood-red, mounted the platform.
Then the visitor folded his hands as though in prayer and whispered to
himself:
'Oh, I guessed it! I guessed it all! '
Listening to the terrible description of Berlioz's death, the visitor
made an enigmatic comment, his eyes flashing with malice :
'I'm only sorry that it wasn't Latunsky the critic or that hack
Mstislav Lavrovich instead of Berlioz! ' And he mouthed silently and
don't you? Don't take those telegrams.'
'So you refuse to stop this game do you? ' shouted the house manager
in a rage. ' Now listen to me--you're going to pay for this!' He went on
shouting threats but stopped when he realised that no one was listening to
him on the other end.
At that moment his office began to darken. Varenukha ran out, slammed
the door behind him and went out into the garden through the side door.
He felt excited and full of energy. After that last insolent telephone
call he no longer had any doubt that some gang of hooligans was playing some
nasty practical joke and that the joke was connected with Likhodeyev's
disappearance. The house manager felt inspired with the urge to unmask the
villains and, strange as it may seem, he had a premonition that he was going
to enjoy it. It was a longing to be in the limelight, the bearer of
sensational news.
Out in the garden the wind blew in his face and threw sand in his eyes
as if it were trying to bar his way or warn him. A window-pane on the second
floor slammed shut with such force that it nearly broke the glass, the tops
of the maples and poplars rustled alarmingly. It grew darker and colder.
Varenukha wiped his eyes and noticed that a yellowish-centred thundercloud
was scudding low over Moscow. From the distance came a low rumble.
Although Varenukha was in a hurry, an irresistible urge made him turn
aside for a second into the open-air men's toilet just to check that the
electrician had replaced a missing electric lamp.
Running past the shooting gallery, he passed through a thick clump of
lilac which screened the blue-painted lavatory. The electrician seemed to
have done his job : the lamp in the men's toilet had been screwed into its
socket and the protective wire screen replaced, but the house manager was
annoyed to notice that even in the dark before the thunderstorm the
pencilled graffiti on the walls were still clearly visible.
'What a . . .' he began, then suddenly heard a purring voice behind
him:
'Is that you, Ivan Savyelich? '
Varenukha shuddered, turned round and saw before him a shortish, fat
creature with what seemed like the face of a cat.
'Yes . . .' replied Varenukha coldly.
'Delighted to meet you,' answered the stout, cat-like personage.
Suddenly it swung round and gave Varenukha such a box on the ear that his
cap flew off and vanished without trace into one of the lavatory pans.
For a moment the blow made the toilet shimmer with a flickering light.
A clap of thunder came from the sky. Then there was a second flash and
another figure materialised, short but athletically built, with fiery red
hair . . . one wall eye, a fang protruding from his mouth ... He appeared to
be left-handed, as he fetched the house manager a shattering clout on his
other ear. The sky rumbled again in reply and rain started to drench the
wooden roof.
'Look here, corn . . .' whispered Varenukha, staggering. It at once
occurred to him that the word ' comrades ' hardly fitted these bandits who
went around assaulting people in public conveniences, so he groaned instead
'. . . citizens . . . ', realised that they didn't even deserve to be called
that and got a third fearful punch. This time he could not see who had hit
him, as blood was spurting from his nose and down his shirt.
'What have you got in your briefcase, louse? ' shouted the cat-figure.
' Telegrams? Weren't you warned by telephone not to take them anywhere? I'm
asking you--weren't you warned?'
'Yes ... I was . . . warned,' panted Varenukha.
'And you still went? Gimme the briefcase, you skunk! ' said the other
creature in the same nasal voice that had come through the telephone, and
wrenched the briefcase out of Varenukha's trembling hands.
Then they both grabbed the house manager by the arms and frog-marched
him out of the garden and along Sadovaya Street. The storm was in full
spate, water was roaring and gurgling down the drain-holes in great bubbling
waves, it poured off the roofs from the overflowing gutters and out of the
drain pipes in foaming torrents. Every living person had vanished from the
street and there was no one to help Ivan Savyelich. In second, leaping over
muddy streams and lit by flashes of lightning the bandits had dragged the
half-dead Varenukha to No302-A and fled into the doorway, where two barefoot
women stood pressed against the wall, holding their shoes and stockings in
their hands. Then they rushed across to staircase 6, carried the nearly
insane Varenukha up to the fifth floor and threw him to the ground in the
familiar semi-darkness of the hallway of Stepa Likhodeyev's flat.
The two robbers vanished and in their place appeared a completely naked
girl--a redhead with eyes that burned with a phosphorescent glitter.
Varenukha felt that this was the most terrible thing that had ever
happened to him. With a groan he turned and leaned on the wall. The girl
came right up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. Varenukha's hair
stood on end. Even through the cold, soaking wet material of his coat he
could feel that those palms were even colder, that they were as cold as ice.
'Let me give you a kiss,' said the girl tenderly, her gleaming eyes
close to his. Varenukha lost consciousness before he could feel her kiss.
The wood on the far bank of the river, which an hour before had glowed
in the May sunshine, had now grown dim, had blurred and dissolved.
Outside, water was pouring down in solid sheets. Now and again there
came a rift in the sky, the heavens split and the patient's room was flooded
with a terrifying burst of light.
Ivan was quietly weeping as he sat on his bed and stared out at the
boiling, muddied river. At every clap of thunder he cried miserably and
covered his face with his hands. Sheets of paper, covered with his writing,
blew about on the floor.
The poet's efforts to compose a report on the terrible professor had
come to nothing. As soon as he had been given a stub of a pencil and some
paper by the fat nurse, whose name was Pras-kovya Fyodorovna, he had rubbed
his hands in a businesslike way and arranged his bedside table for work. The
beginning sounded rather well:
'To the Police. From Ivan Nikolayich Bezdomny, Member of massolit.
Statement. Yesterday evening I arrived at Patriarch's Ponds with the late M.
A. Berlioz. . . .'
Here the poet stumbled, chiefly because of the words ' the late '. It
sounded wrong--how could he have ' arrived' with ' the late '? Dead people
can't walk. If he wrote like this they really would think he was mad. So
Ivan Nikolayich made some corrections, which resulted in : '. . . with M. A.
Berlioz, later deceased.' He did not like that either, so he wrote a third
version and that was even worse than the previous two:
'. . . with Berlioz, who fell under a tram . . .' Here he thought of
the composer of the same name and felt obliged to add : ' ... not the
composer.'
Struggling with these two Berliozes, Ivan crossed it all out and
decided to begin straight away with a striking phrase which would
immediately catch the reader's attention, so he first described how the cat
had jumped on the tram and then described the episode of the severed head.
The head and the professor's forecast reminded him of Pontius Pilate, so to
sound more convincing Ivan decided to give the story of the Procurator in
full, from the moment when he had emerged in his white, red-lined cloak into
the arcade of Herod's palace.
Ivan worked hard. He crossed out what he had written, put in new words
and even tried to draw a sketch of Pontius Pilate, then one showing the cat
walking on its hind legs. But his drawings were hopeless and the further he
went the more confused his statement grew.
By the time the storm had begun, Ivan felt that he was exhausted and
would never be able to write a statement. His windblown sheets of paper were
in a complete muddle and he began to weep, quietly and bitterly. The kind
nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna called on the poet during the storm and was
worried to find him crying. She closed the blinds so that the lightning
should not frighten the patient, picked up the sheets of paper and went off
with them to look for the doctor.
The doctor appeared, gave Ivan an injection in his arm and assured him
that he would soon stop crying, that it would pass, everything would be all
right and he would forget all about it.
The doctor was right. Soon the wood across the river looked as it
always did. The weather cleared until every single tree stood out against a
sky which was as blue as before and the river subsided. His injection at
once made Ivan feel less depressed. The poet lay quietly down and gazed at
the rainbow stretched across the sky.
He lay there until evening and did not even notice how the rainbow
dissolved, how the sky faded and saddened, how the wood turned to black.
When he had drunk his hot milk, Ivan lay down again. He was amazed to
notice how his mental condition had changed. The memory of the diabolical
cat had grown indistinct, he was no longer frightened by the thought of the
decapitated head. Ivan started to muse on the fact that the clinic really
wasn't such a bad place, that Stravinsky was very clever and famous and that
he was an extremely pleasant man to deal with. The evening air, too, was
sweet and fresh after the storm.
The asylum was asleep. The white frosted-glass bulbs in the silent
corridors were extinguished and in their place glowed the weak blue
night-lights. The nurses' cautious footsteps were heard less and less
frequently walking the rubber-tiled floor of the corridor.
Ivan now lay in sweet lassitude ; glancing at his bedside lamp, then at
the dim ceiling light and at the moon rising in the dark, he talked to
himself.
'I wonder why I got so excited about Berlioz falling under that tram?
' the poet reasoned. ' After all he's dead, and we all die some time. It's
not as if I were a relation or a really close friend either. When you come
to think of it I didn't even know the man very well. What did I really know
about him? Nothing, except that he was bald and horribly talkative. So,
gentlemen,' went on Ivan, addressing an imaginary audience,' let us consider
the following problem : why, I should like to know, did I get in such a rage
with that mysterious professor or magician with his empty, black eye? Why
did I chase after him like a fool in those underpants and holding a candle?
Why the ridiculous scene in the restaurant? '
'Wait a moment, though! ' said the old Ivan severely to the new Ivan
in a voice that was not exactly inside him and not quite by his ear. ' He
did know in advance that Berlioz was going to have his head cut off, didn't
he? Isn't that something to get upset about? '
'What do you mean? ' objected the new Ivan. ' I quite agree that it's
a nasty business--a child could see that. But he's a mysterious, superior
being--that's what makes it so interesting. Think of it--a man who knew
Pontius Pilate! Instead of creating that ridiculous scene at Patriarch's
wouldn't it have been
rather more intelligent to ask him politely what happened next to
Pilate and that prisoner Ha-Notsri? And I had to behave like an idiot! Of
course it's a serious matter to kill the editor of a magazine. But
still--the magazine won't close down just because of that, will it? Man is
mortal and as the professor so rightly said mortality can come so suddenly.
So God rest his soul and let's get ourselves another editor, perhaps one
who's even more of a chatterbox than Berlioz!'
After dozing for a while the new Ivan said spitefully to the old Ivan:
'And how do I look after this affair? '
'A fool,' distinctly said a bass voice that belonged to neither of the
Ivans and was extremely like the professor's.
Ivan, somehow not offended by the word 'fool' but even pleasantly
surprised by it, smiled and sank into a half-doze. Sleep crept up on him. He
had a vision of a palm tree on its elephantine leg and a cat passed by--not
a terrible cat but a nice one and Ivan was just about to fall asleep when
suddenly the grille slid noiselessly aside. A mysterious figure appeared on
the moonlit balcony and pointed a threatening finger at Ivan.
Quite unafraid Ivan sat up in bed and saw a man on the balcony.
Pressing his finger to his lips the man whispered : ' Shh!'
A little man with a crimson pear-shaped nose, in a battered yellow
bowler hat, check trousers and patent leather boots pedalled on to the
Variety stage on a bicycle. As the band played a foxtrot he rode round in
circles a few times, then gave a triumphant yelp at which the bicycle reared
up with its front wheel in the air. After a few rounds on the back wheel
alone, the man stood on his head, unscrewed the front wheel and threw it
into the wings. He then carried on with one wheel, turning the pedals with
his hands.
Next a fat blonde girl, wearing a sweater and a very brief skirt strewn
with sequins, came in riding a long metal pole with a saddle on the top and
a single wheel at the bottom. As they met the man gave a welcoming cry and
doffed his bowler hat with his foot.
Finally a little boy of about seven with the face of an old man sneaked
in between the two adults on a tiny two-wheeler to which was fixed an
enormous motor-car horn.
After a few figures of eight the whole troupe, to an urgent roll of
drums from the orchestra, rode at full tilt towards the front of the stage.
The spectators in the front rows gasped and ducked, fully expecting all
three to crash, cycles and all, into the orchestra pit, but they stopped at
the very second that their front wheels threatened to skid into the pit on
to the heads of the musicians. With a loud cry of' Allez-oop! ' the three
cyclists leaped from their machines and bowed, while the blonde blew kisses
to the audience and the little boy played a funny tune on his horn.
The auditorium rocked with applause, the blue curtain fell and the
cyclists vanished. The lighted green ' Exit' signs went out and the white
globes began to glow brighter and brighter in the web of girders under the
dome. The second and last interval had begun.
The only man unaffected by the Giulli family's marvels of cycling
technique was Grigory Danilovich Rimsky. He sat alone in his office, biting
his thin lips, his face twitching spasmodically. First Likhodeyev had
vanished in the most bizarre circumstances and now Varenukha had suddenly
disappeared. Rinsky knew where Varenukha had been going to--but the man had
simply gone and had never come back. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered
to himself:
But why?!'
Nothing would have been simpler for a sensible, practical man like
Rimsky to have telephoned the place where Varenukha had gone and to have
found out what had happened to him, yet it was ten o'clock that evening
before he could bring himself to do so.
At ten Rimsky finally took a grip on himself and picked up the
telephone receiver. The telephone was dead. An usher reported that all the
other telephones in the building were out of order. This annoying but hardly
supernatural occurrence seemed to shock Rimsky, although secretly he was
glad, because it absolved him from the need to telephone.
As the little red light above the treasurer's head started flashing to
show that the interval was beginning, an usher came in and announced that
the foreign magician had arrived. Rimsky's expression changed and he scowled
with a mixture of anxiety and irritation. As the only member of the
management left in the theatre, it was his duty to go backstage and receive
the guest artiste.
As the warning bells rang, inquisitive people were peeping into the
star dressing room. Among them were jugglers in bright robes and turbans, a
roller-skater in a knitted cardigan, a comedian with a powdered white face
and a make-up man. The celebrated guest artiste amazed everyone with his
unusually long, superbly cut tail coat and by wearing a black domino. Even
more astounding were the black magician's two companions : a tall man in
checks with an unsteady pince-nez and a fat black cat which walked into the
dressing room on its hind legs and casually sat down on the divan, blinking
in the light of the unshaded lamps round the make-up mirror.
With a forced smile which only made him look acidly disagreeable,
Rimsky bowed to the silent magician sitting beside the cat on the divan.
There were no handshakes, but the man in checks introduced himself smoothly
as ' the assistant'. This gave the treasurer an unpleasant shock, as there
had not been a word in the contract about an assistant.
Grigory Danilovich enquired stiffly where the professor's equipment
might be.
'Why, bless you my dear sir,' replied the magician's assistant, ' we
have all the equipment we need with us now--look! Eins, zvei, drei!'
Flourishing his long, knotty fingers in front of Rimsky's eyes he made
a pass beside the cat's ear and pulled out of it Rimsky's gold watch and
chain, which until that moment had been sitting under the treasurer's
buttoned jacket in his waistcoat pocket with the chain threaded through a
buttonhole.
Rimsky involuntarily clutched his stomach, the spectators gasped and
the make-up man, glancing in from the corridor, clucked with approval.
'Your watch, sir? There you are,' said the man in checks. Smiling
nonchalantly, he proffered the watch to its owner on his dirty palm.
'I wouldn't sit next to him in a tram,' whispered the comedian
cheerfully to the make-up man.
But the cat put the watch trick in the shade. Suddenly getting up from
the divan it walked on its hind legs to the dressing table, pulled the
stopper out of a carafe with its forepaw, poured out a glass of water, drank
it, replaced the stopper and wiped its whiskers with a make-up cloth.
Nobody even gasped. Their mouths fell open and the make-up man
whispered admiringly: ' Bravo . ..'
The last warning bell rang and everybody, excited by the prospect of a
good act, tumbled out of the dressing room.
A minute later the house-lights went out, the footlights lit up the
fringe of the curtain with a red glow and in the lighted gap between the
tabs the audience saw a fat, jolly, clean-shaven man in stained tails and a
grubby white dicky. It was Moscow's best known compere, George Bengalsky.
'And now, ladies and gentlemen,' said Bengalsky, smiling his boyish
smile, ' you are about to see . . .' Here Bengalsky broke off and started
again in a completely different tone of voice : ' I see that our audience
has increased in numbers since the interval. Half Moscow seems to be here
tonight! D'you know, I met a friend of mine the other day and I said to him
: " Why didn't you come and see our show? Half the town was there last
night." And he said : " I live in the other half! " ' Bengalsky paused for
the laugh, but none came so he went on : ' Well, as I was saying, you are
about to see a very famous artiste from abroad, M'sieur Woland, with a
session of black magic. Of course we know, don't we . . .' Bengalsky smiled
confidentially, ' that there's no such thing really. It's all
superstition--or rather Maestro Woland is a past master of the art of
conjuring, as you will see from the most interesting part of his act in
which he reveals the mysteries of his technique. And now, ladies and
gentlemen, since none of us can bear the suspense any longer, I give you . .
. Monsieur Woland! . . .'
Having said his feeble piece, Bengalsky put his hands palm to palm and
raised them in a gesture of welcome towards the gap in the curtain, which
then rose with a soft rustle.
The entry of the magician with his tall assistant and his cat, who
trotted on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly. ' Armchair,
please,' said Woland quietly and instantly an armchair appeared on stage
from nowhere. The magician sat down. ' Tell me, my dear Faggot,' Woland
enquired of the check-clad buffoon, who apparently had another name besides
' Koroviev,':
'do you find the people of Moscow much changed? ' The magician nodded
towards the audience, still silent with astonishment at seeing an armchair
materialise from nowhere.
'I do, messire,' replied Faggot-Koroviev in a low voice.
'You are right. The Muscovites have changed considerably . . .
outwardly, I mean ... as, too, has the city itself. . . Not just the
clothes, but now they have all these . . . what d'you call 'em . . .
tramways, cars . . .'
'Buses,' prompted Faggot respectfully.
The audience listened intently to this conversation, assuming it to be
the prelude to some magic tricks. The wings were full of actors and stage
hands and among their faces could be seen the pale, strained features of
Rimsky.
Bengalsky's face, lurking in a corner of the stage, began to show
consternation. With an imperceptible raise of one eyebrow he seized the
opportunity of a pause in the dialogue to interject:
'Our guest artiste from abroad is obviously delighted with Moscow's
technological progress.' This was accompanied by a smile for the stalls and
a smile for the gallery.
Woland, Faggot and the cat turned their heads towards the compere.
'Did I say I was delighted? ' the magician asked Faggot.
'You said nothing of the kind, messire,' replied the latter.
'Then what is the man talking about? '
'He was simply telling lies! ' announced the chequered clown in a loud
voice for the whole theatre to hear and turning to Bengalsky he added : '
D'you hear--you're a liar! '
There was a burst of laughter from the gallery as Bengalsky spluttered,
his eyes popping with indignation.
'But naturally I am not so much interested in the buses and telephones
and such like . . .'
'Apparatus,' prompted Faggot.
'Precisely, thank you,' drawled the magician in a deep bass, ' as in
the much more important question : have the Muscovites changed inwardly? '
'A vital question indeed, sir.'
In the wings, glances were exchanged, shoulders shrugged; banker's tape
and marked ' One Thousand Roubles'. His neighbours crowded round as he
picked at the wrapping with his fingernail to find out whether it was real
money or a stage prop.
'My God--it's real money!' came a joyful shout from the gallery.
'I wish you'd play cards with me if vou've any more packs like that
one,' begged a fat man in the middle of the stalls.
'Avec plaisir!' replied Faggot. ' But why should you be the only one?
You shall all take part! Everybody look up, please! One! ' A pistol appeared
in his hand. ' Two! ' the pistol was pointed upwards. ' Three! ' There was a
flash, a bang, and immediately a cascade of white pieces of paper began to
float down from the dome above the auditorium.
Turning over and over, some were blown aside and landed in the gallery,
some fell towards the orchestra pit or the stage. A few seconds later the
shower of money reached the stalls and the audience began catching it.
Hundreds of hands were raised as the audience held the notes up to the
light from the stage and found that the watermarks were absolutely genuine.
Their smell left no doubt: it was the uniquely delicious smell of
newly-printed money. First amusement then wonder seized the entire theatre.
From all over the house, amid gasps and delighted laughter, came the words '
money, money! ' One man was already crawling in the aisle and fumbling under
the seats. Several more were standing up on their seats to catch the
drifting, twisting banknotes as they fell.
Gradually a look of perplexity came over the expressions of the police,
and the artistes backstage openly pressed forward from the wings. From the
dress circle a voice was heard shouting:
'Let go! It's mine--I caught it first! ', followed by another voice :
' Stop pushing and grabbing or I'll punch your face in! ' There was a
muffled crash. A policeman's helmet appeared in the dress circle and a
member of the audience was led away. The excitement rose and might have got
out of hand if Faggot had not stopped the rain of money by suddenly blowing
into the air.
Two young men, grinning purposefully, left their seats and made
straight for the bar. A loud buzz filled the theatre : the audience was
galvanised with excitement and in an effort to control the situation
Bengalsky stirred himself and appeared on stage. With a tremendous effort of
self-mastery he went through his habitual motion of washing his hands and in
his most powerful voice began:
'We have just seen, ladies and gentlemen, a case of so-called mass
hypnosis. A purely scientific experiment, demonstrating better than anything
else that there is nothing supernatural about magic. We shall ask Maestro
Woland to show us how he did that experiment. You will now see, ladies and
gentlemen, how those apparent banknotes will vanish as suddenly as they
appeared.'
He began to clap, but he was alone. A confident smile appeared on his
face, but the look in his eyes was one of entreaty.
The audience did not care for Bengalsky's speech. Faggot broke the
silence :
'And that was a case of so-called fiddlesticks,' he declared in a loud
goatish bray. ' The banknotes, ladies and gentlemen, are real.'
'Bravo! ' abruptly roared a bass from high up in the gallery.
'This man,' Faggot pointed at Bengalsky, ' is starting to bore me. He
sticks his nose in everywhere without being asked and ruins the whole act.
What shall we do with him? '
'Cut off his head! ' said a stern voice.
'What did you say, sir? ' was Faggot's instant response to this savage
proposal. ' Cut off his head? That's an idea! Behemoth! ' he shouted to the
cat. ' Do your stuff! Eins, zvei, drei!! '
Then the most incredible thing happened. The cat's fur stood on end and
it uttered a harrowing ' miaaow! ' It crouched, then leaped like a panther
straight for Bengalsky's chest and from there to his head. Growling, the cat
dug its claws into the compere's glossy hair and with a wild screech it
twisted the head clean off the neck in two turns. Two and a half thousand
people screamed as one. Fountains of blood from the severed arteries in the
neck spurted up and drenched the man's shirtfront and tails. The headless
body waved its legs stupidly and sat on the ground. Hysterical shrieks rang
out through the auditorium. The cat handed the head to Faggot who picked it
up by the hair and showed it to the audience. The head moaned desperately :
'Fetch a doctor!'
'Will you go on talking so much rubbish?' said Faggot threateningly to
the weeping head.
'No, I promise I won't! ' croaked the head. ' For God's sake stop
torturing him! ' a woman's voice from a box suddenly rang out above the
turmoil and the magician turned towards the sound.
'Well, ladies and gentlemen, shall we forgive him? ' asked Faggot,
turning to the audience.
'Yes, forgive him, forgive him! ' The cries came at first from a few
individual voices, mostly women, then merged into a chorus with the men.
'What is your command, messire? ' Faggot asked the masked professor.
'Well, now,' replied the magician reflectively. ' They're people like
any others. They're over-fond of money, but then they always were . . .
Humankind loves money, no matter if it's made of leather, paper, bronze or
gold. They're thoughtless, of course . . . but then they sometimes feel
compassion too .... they're ordinary people, in fact they remind me very
much of their predecessors, except that the housing shortage has soured them
. . .' And he shouted the order : ' Put back his head.'
Taking careful aim the cat popped the head back on its neck, where it
sat as neatly as if head and body had never been parted. Most amazing of
all--there was not even a scar on the neck. The cat wiped the tailcoat and
shirtfront with its paw and every trace of blood vanished. Faggot lifted the
seated Bengalsky to his feet, shoved a bundle of money into his coat pocket
and led him off stage, saying :
'Go on--off you go, it's more fun without you!'
Gazing round in a daze and staggering, the compere got no further than
the fire-brigade post and collapsed. He cried miserably:
'My head, my head . . .'
Among those who rushed to help him was Rimsky. The compere was weeping,
snatching at something in the air and mumbling :
'Give me back my head, my head . . . You can have my flat, you can
have all my pictures, only give me back my head . . .! '
An usher ran for the doctor. They tried to lay Bengalsky on a divan in
his dressing-room, but he resisted and became violent. An ambulance was
called. When the unfortunate compere had been removed Rimsky ran back to the
stage, where new miracles were in progress. It was then, or perhaps a little
earlier, that the magician and his faded armchair vanished from the stage.
The audience did not notice this at all, as they were absorbed by Faggot's
wonderful tricks.
Having seen the compere off the stage. Faggot announced to the
audience:
'Now that we have disposed of that old bore, we shall open a shop for
the ladies! '
In a moment half the stage was covered with Persian carpets, some huge
mirrors and a row of showcases, in which the audience was astounded to see a
collection of Parisian dresses that were the last word in chic. In other
showcases were hundreds of ladies' hats, some with feathers and some
without, hundreds of pairs of shoes--black shoes, white shoes, yellow shoes,
leather shoes, satin shoes, suede shoes, buckled shoes and shoes studded
with costume jewellery. Beside the shoes there were flacons of scent, piles
of handbags made of buckskin, satin and silk, and next to them piles of gilt
lipstick-holders.
A red-haired girl in a black evening dress who had suddenly appeared
from nowhere, her beauty only marred by a curious scar on her neck, smiled
from the showcases with a proprietorial smile. With an engaging leer Faggot
announced that the firm would exchange, absolutely free of charge, any
lady's old dress and shoes for model dresses and shoes from Paris, adding
that the offer included handbags and the odds and ends that go in them.
The cat began bowing and scraping, its forepaw gesturing like a
commissionaire opening a door.
In a sweet though slightly hoarse voice the girl made an announcement
which sounded rather cryptic but which, judging from the faces of the women
in the stalls, was very enticing :
'Guerlain, Chanel, Mitsouko, Narcisse Noir, Chanel Number Five,
evening dresses, cocktail dresses . . .'
Faggot bent double, the cat bowed and the girl opened the glass-fronted
showcases.
'Step up, please! ' cried Faggot. ' Don't be shy! '
The audience began to fidget, but no one dared mount the stage. At last
a brunette emerged from the tenth row of the stalls and smiling nonchalantly
walked up the side stairs on to the stage.
'Bravo! ' cried Faggot. ' Our first customer! Behemoth, a chair for
the lady! Shall we start with the shoes, madam? '
The brunette sat down and Faggot at once spread out a whole heap of
shoes on the carpet in front of her. She took off her right shoe, tried on a
lilac one, tested it with a walk on the carpet and inspected the heel.
'Won't they pinch? ' she enquired thoughtfully.
Offended, Faggot cried:
'Oh, come, now!' and the cat gave an insulted miaow.
'I'll take them, monsieur,' said the brunette with dignity as she put
on the other shoe of the pair. Her old shoes were thrown behind a curtain,
followed by the girl herself, the redhead, and Faggot carrying several model
dresses on coathangers. The cat busied itself with helping and hung a tape
measure round its neck for greater effect.
A minute later the brunette emerged from behind the curtain in a dress
that sent a gasp through the entire auditorium. The bold girl, now very much
prettier, stopped in front of a mirror, wriggled her bare shoulders, patted
her hair and twisted round to try and see her back view.
'The firm begs you to accept this as a souvenir,' said Faggot, handing
the girl an open case containing a flacon of scent.
'Merci,' replied the girl haughtily and walked down the steps to the
stalls. As she went back to her seat people jumped up to touch her
scent-bottle.
The ice was broken. Women from all sides poured on to the stage. In the
general hubbub of talk, laughter and cries a man's voice was heard, ' I
won't let you! ' followed by a woman's saying : ' Let go of my arm, you
narrow-minded little tyrant! ' Women were disappearing behind the curtain,
leaving their old dresses there and emerging in new ones. A row of women was
sitting on gilt-legged stools trying on new shoes. Faggot was on his knees,
busy with a shoe-horn, while the cat, weighed down by handbags and shoes,
staggered from the showcases to the stools and back again, the girl with the
scarred neck bustled to and fro, entering so much into the spirit of it all
that she was soon chattering away in nothing but French. Strangely enough
all the women understood her at once, even those who knew not a word of
French.
To everybody's astonishment, a lone man climbed on to the stage. He
announced that his wife had a cold and asked to be given something to take
home to her. To prove that he was really married he offered to show his
passport. This conscientious husband was greeted with a roar of laughter.
Faggot declared that he believed him even without his passport and handed
the man two pairs of silk stockings. The cat spontaneously added a pot of
cold cream.
Latecomers still mounted the steps as a stream of happy women in ball
dresses, pyjama suits embroidered with dragons, severe tailor-mades and hats
pranced back into the auditorium.
Then Faggot announced that because it was so late, in exactly a
minute's time the shop would close until to-morrow evening. This produced an
incredible scuffle on stage. Without trying them on, women grabbed any shoes
within reach. One woman hurtled behind the screen, threw off her clothes and
sei2ed the first thing to hand--a silk dress patterned with enormous bunches
of flowers--grabbed a dressing gown and for good measure scooped up two
flacons of scent. Exactly a minute later a pistol shot rang out, the mirrors
disappeared, the showcases and stools melted away, carpet and curtain
vanished into thin air. Last to disappear was the mountain of old dresses
and shoes. The stage was bare and empty again.
At this point a new character joined the cast. A pleasant and extremely
self-confident baritone was heard from Box No. 2 :
'It's high time, sir, that you showed the audience how you do your
tricks, especially the bank-note trick. We should also like to see the
compere back on stage. The audience is concerned about him.'
The baritone voice belonged to none other than the evening's guest of
honour, Arkady Apollonich Sempleyarov, chairman of the Moscow Theatres'
Acoustics Commission.
Arkady Apollonich was sharing his box with two ladies--one elderly, who
was expensively and fashionably dressed, the other young and pretty and more
simply dressed. The first, as was later established when the official report
was compiled, was Arkady Apollonich's wife and the other a distant relative
of his, an aspiring young actress from Saratov who lodged in the
Sempleyarovs' flat.
'I beg your pardon,' replied Faggot. ' I'm sorry, but there's nothing
to reveal. It's all quite plain.'
'Excuse me, but I don't agree. An explanation is essential, otherwise
your brilliant act will leave a painful impression. The audience demands an
explanation . . .'
'The audience,' interrupted the insolent mountebank, ' has not, to my
knowledge, demanded anything of the sort. However, in view of your
distinguished position, Arkady Apollonich, I will--since you insist--reveal
something of our technique. To do so, will you allow me time for another
short number? '
'Of course,' replied Arkady Apollonich patronisingly. ' But you must
show how it's done.'
'Very well, sir, very well. Now--may I ask where you were yesterday
evening, Arkady Apollonich? '
At this impertinent question Arkady Apollonich's expression underwent a
complete and violent change.
'Yesterday evening Arkady Apollonich was at a meeting of the Acoustics
Commission,' said his wife haughtily. ' Surely that has nothing to do with
magic? '
'Ош, madame,' replied Faggot, ' it has, but you naturally do not know
why. As for the meeting, you are quite wrong. When he went to the
meeting--which, incidentally, was never scheduled to take place
yesterday--Arkady Apollonich dismissed his chauffeur at the Acoustics
Commission (a hush came over the whole theatre) and took a bus to
Yelokhovskaya Street where he called on an actress called Militsa Andreyevna
Pokobatko from the local repertory theatre and spent about four hours in her
flat.'
'Oh!' The painful cry rang out from complete silence.
Suddenly Arkady Apollonich's young cousin burst into a low, malicious
laugh.
'Of course!' she exclaimed. ' I've suspected him for a long time. Now
I see why that tenth-rate ham got the part of Luisa!' And with a sudden wave
of her arm she hit Arkady Apollonich on the head with a short, fat, mauve
umbrella.
The vile Faggot, who was none other than Koroviev, shouted :
'There, ladies and gentlemen, is your revelation for you, as requested
so insistently by Arkady Apollonich!'
'How dare you hit Arkady Apollonich, you little baggage? ' said the
wife grimly, rising in the box to her full gigantic height.
The young girl was seized with another outburst of Satanic laughter.
'I've as much right,' she replied laughing, ' to hit him as you have!
' A second dull crack was heard as another umbrella bounced off Arkady
Apollonich's head.
'Police! Arrest her! ' roared Madame Sempleyarov in a terrifying
voice.
Here the cat bounded up to the footlights and announced in a human
voice :
'That concludes the evening! Maestro! Finale, please! ' The dazed
conductor, scarcely aware of what he was doing, waved his baton and the
orchestra struck up, or rather murdered a disorganised excuse for a march,
normally sung to obscene but very funny words. However, it was quickly
drowned in the ensuing uproar. The police ran to the Sempleyarovs' box,
curious spectators climbed on to the ledge to watch, there were explosions
of infernal laughter and wild cries, drowned by the golden crash of cymbals
from the orchestra.
Suddenly the stage was empty. The horrible Faggot and the sinister cat
Behemoth melted into the air and disappeared, just as the magician had
vanished earlier in his shabby armchair.
Ivan swung his legs off the bed and stared. A man was standing on the
balcony, peering cautiously into the room. He was aged about thirty-eight,
clean-shaven and dark, with a sharp nose, restless eyes and a lock of hair
that tumbled over his forehead.
The mysterious visitor listened awhile then, satisfied that Ivan was
alone, entered the room. As he came in Ivan noticed that the man was wearing
hospital clothes--pyjamas, slippers and a reddish-brown dressing gown thrown
over his shoulders.
The visitor winked at Ivan, put a bunch of keys into his pocket and
asked in a whisper : ' May I sit down? ' Receiving an affirmative reply he
settled in the armchair.
'How did you get in here? ' Ivan whispered in obedience to a warning
finger. ' The grilles on the windows are locked, aren't they? '
'The grilles are locked,' agreed the visitor. ' Praskovya Fyodorovna
is a dear person but alas, terribly absent-minded. A month ago I removed
this bunch of keys from her, which has given me the freedom of the balcony.
It stretches along the whole floor, so that I can call on my neighbours
whenever I feel like it.'
'If you can get out on to the balcony you can run away. Or is it too
high to jump? ' enquired Ivan with interest.
'No,' answered the visitor firmly, ' I can't escape from here. Not
because it's too high but because I've nowhere to go.' After a pause he
added : ' So here we are.'
'Here we are,' echoed Ivan, gazing into the man's restless brown eyes.
'Yes . . .' The visitor grew suddenly anxious. ' You're not violent, I
hope? You see, I can't bear noise, disturbance, violence or anything of that
sort. I particularly hate the sound of people screaming, whether it's a
scream of pain, anger or any other kind of scream. Just reassure me--you're
not violent, are you? '
'Yesterday in a restaurant I clouted a fellow across the snout,' the
poet confessed manfully.
'What for? ' asked the visitor disapprovingly.
'For no reason at all, I must admit,' replied Ivan, embarrassed.
'Disgraceful,' said the visitor reproachfully and added:
'And I don't care for that expression of yours--clouted him across the
snout. . . . People have faces, not snouts. So I suppose you mean you
punched him in the face. . . . No, you must give up doing that sort of
thing.'
After this reprimand the visitor enquired :
'What's your job? '
'I'm a poet,' admitted Ivan with slight unwillingness.
This annoyed the man.
'Just my bad luck! ' he exclaimed, but immediately regretted it,
apologised and asked : ' What's your name? '
'Bezdomny.'
'Oh . . .' said the man frowning.
'What, don't you like my poetry? ' asked Ivan with curiosity.
'No, I don't.'
'Have you read any of it? '
'I've never read any of your poetry! ' said the visitor tetchily.
'Then how can you say that? '
'Why shouldn't I? ' retorted the visitor. ' I've read plenty of other
poetry. I don't suppose by some miracle that yours is any better, but I'm
ready to take it on trust. Is your poetry good?'
'Stupendous! ' said Ivan boldly.
'Don't write any more! ' said the visitor imploringly.
'I promise not to! ' said Ivan solemnly.
As they sealed the vow with a handshake, soft footsteps and voices
could be heard from the corridor.
'Sshh! ' whispered the man. He bounded out on to the balcony and
closed the grille behind him.
Praskovya Fyodorovna looked in, asked Ivan how he felt and whether he
wanted to sleep in the dark or the light. Ivan asked her to leave the light
on and Praskovya Fyodorovna departed, wishing him good night. When all was
quiet again the visitor returned.
He told Ivan in a whisper that a new patient had been put into No.
119--a fat man with a purple face who kept muttering about dollars in the
ventilation shaft and swearing that the powers of darkness had taken over
their house on Sadovaya. ' He curses Pushkin for all he's worth and keeps
shouting " Encore, encore! " ' said the visitor, twitching nervously. When
he had grown a little calmer he sat down and said : ' However, let's forget
about him,' and resumed his interrupted conversation with Ivan : ' How did
you come to be here? '
'Because of Pontius Pilate,' replied Ivan, staring glumly at the
floor.
'What?! ' cried the visitor, forgetting his caution, then clapped his
hand over his mouth. ' What an extraordinary coincidence! Do tell me about
it, I beg of you! '
For some reason Ivan felt that he could trust this stranger. Shyly at
first, then gaining confidence, he began to describe the previous day's
events at Patriarch's Ponds. His visitor treated Ivan as completely sane,
showed the greatest interest in the story and as it developed he reached a
state of near ecstasy. Now and again he interrupted Ivan, exclaiming :
'Yes, yes! Please go on! For heaven's sake don't leave anything out!
'Ivan left out nothing, as it made the story easier to tell and gradually he
approached the moment when Pontius Pilate, in his white cloak lined with
blood-red, mounted the platform.
Then the visitor folded his hands as though in prayer and whispered to
himself:
'Oh, I guessed it! I guessed it all! '
Listening to the terrible description of Berlioz's death, the visitor
made an enigmatic comment, his eyes flashing with malice :
'I'm only sorry that it wasn't Latunsky the critic or that hack
Mstislav Lavrovich instead of Berlioz! ' And he mouthed silently and