LITMIR.BIZ

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both have been splattered all over the walls,” the stranger joked unpleasantly.^†

      ***

      And around them was heard:

      “Don’t you dare call me a pig.”

      “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

      “Yes, you did. You’re mad you had to pay.”

      “All right, go on and eat, let’s forget it.”

      ***

      “Well then, Alexander Ivanovich, well then, my dear fellow, as for this bundle”—and Lippanchenko looked out of the corner of his eye—“take it to Nikolai Apollonovich right away.”

      “Now wait a minute. The bundle will certainly be safe at my place.”

      “That’s not convenient. You might be arrested. There it will be safe.”

      And the fat man, leaning over, began whispering something in his ear:

      “Pss–pss–pss . . .”

      “Ableukhov’s?”

      “Pss . . .”

      “To Ableukhov? . . .”

      “Pss . . .”

      “With Ableukhov? . . .”

      “No, not with the senator, with the son. Deliver this letter to him along with the bundle, here it is.”

      Lippanchenko’s low narrow forehead was practically touching the stranger’s face. His searching little eyes were guarded, his lips quivered slightly and sucked at the air. The stranger lent a close ear to the whispering of the fat gentleman, carefully trying to make out the contents of the whispering, which was almost drowned out by the voices in the restaurant. And from the repugnant lips came a rustling (like the rustle of ants’ legs on a dug-up anthill). And it seemed as if the whispering had horrible contents, as though worlds and planetary systems were being whispered about here. But it was worthwhile listening closely, because the dreadful contents of the whispering were disintegrating into something humdrum.

      “Be sure to deliver the letter.”

      ***

      Around them was heard:

      “What is Man?”

      “Man is what he eats.”

      “I know.”

      “Well, since you know, grab a plate and eat.”^†

      ***

      Lippanchenko’s suit reminded the stranger of the color of the yellow wallpaper in his habitation on Vasilievsky Island, a color associated with insomnia. That insomnia evoked the memory of a fateful face^† with very narrow little Mongol eyes. The face had looked repeatedly at him from the wallpaper. When he examined this place during the day, he could make out only a damp spot, over which crawled a sow bug. In order to distract himself from memories of the tormenting hallucination, he grew garrulous, to his own surprise:

      “Listen carefully to the noise.”

      “They’re noisy, all right.”

      “You think you hear ‘s–s–s,’ but you really hear ‘SH’. . . .”

      Lippanchenko, in a daze, had retreated into his own thoughts.

      “You can hear something dull and slimy in the sound ‘sh.’ Or am I mistaken?”

      “No, not at all,” and Lippanchenko tore himself away from his thoughts.

      “All words with ‘sh’ are outrageously trivial.^† ‘S’ isn’t like that. ‘S–s–s’: sky, concept, crystal. The sound ‘s–s–s’ evokes in me the image of the curve of an eagle’s beak. But words with ‘sh’ are trivial. For example: the word fish. Listen: fi–sh–sh–sh, that is, something with cold blood. And again: slu–sh–sh–sh: something slimy; mush, something shapeless; rash, something diseased.”

      The stranger broke off. Lippanchenko was sitting before him like utterly shapeless mush. And the ash from his cigarette slushed up the grayish atmosphere. Lippanchenko was sitting in a cloud. The stranger then looked at him and thought: “Ptui, what filth, how Tartarish.” Sitting before him was simply some kind of “SH.”

      ***

      From the next table someone hiccuped and shouted: “Don’t you shush me, you!”

      ***

      “Excuse me, Lippanchenko: are you by any chance a Mongol?”

      “Why such a strange question?”

      “Every Russian has some Mongol blood.”

      ***

      WHAT COSTUMER?

      Nikolai Apollonovich’s quarters consisted of a bedroom, a study, and a reception room.

      The whole of the bedroom was occupied by an enormous bed. It was covered by a satin spread, with pillow covers.

      The study was lined with oak shelves crammed with books, before which silk could be slid back on rings to reveal rows of leather bindings.

      The furniture in the study was upholstered in dark green. There was a handsome bust of—it stands to reason—Kant.

      For two years Nikolai Apollonovich had not risen before noon. For two and a half years before that, however, he had awakened at nine o’clock, and had appeared in a student uniform buttoned up to the neck.^†

      Then he did not walk around the house in a Bukhara dressing gown. A skullcap did not grace his oriental drawing room. Two and a half years ago Anna Petrovna, the mother of Nikolai Apollonovich and the spouse of Apollon Apollonovich, had abandoned the family hearth, inspired by an Italian singer.^† It was after her flight with the singer that Nikolai Apollonovich appeared on the parquetry of the domestic hearth in a Bukhara dressing gown. The daily encounters over morning coffee broke off by themselves.

      The senator partook of his coffee considerably earlier than did his son.

      A dressing gown began to appear on Nikolai Apollonovich. Tartar slippers were introduced. A skullcap made its appearance.

      Thus was a brilliant student transformed into an Oriental.

      Nikolai Apollonovich had just received a letter in an unfamiliar hand, some pathetic doggerel with the striking signature: “A Soul Aflame.”

      Nikolai Apollonovich began rushing about the room, looking for his spectacles, rummaging among books, quills, and pens.

      “Oh!

      “Damn it all!”

      Nikolai Apollonovich, just like Apollon Apollonovich, talked to himself.

      His movements were abrupt, like his papa’s movements. Like Apollon Apollonovich, he was distinguished by an unprepossessing stature and by restless eyes set in a smiling face. Whenever he sank into serious contemplation, his gaze grew rigid: the lines of his totally white countenance stood out dry, sharp and cold, iconlike. His most noble feature was his forehead, finely chiselled, with tiny swollen veins. The pulsation of the veins on his forehead was a sign of sclerosis.

      The bluish veins matched the circles around his immense dark cornflower blue eyes (in moments of agitation, his eyes grew black: from dilation of the pupils).

      Nikolai Apollonovich was wearing a Tartar skullcap. Were he to remove it, there would appear a thatch of fine flaxen white hair, which softened his cold, severe exterior, with its stamp of stubbornness. It is rare to find hair of such a shade on a grown man. This shade is often to be seen on infants, especially in White Russia.

      Here,

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