LITMIR.BIZ

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me a bath, ask me lots of things about Uncle Fedya!.. And he’s long gone from the world! I demand to be released immediately!”

      “Well then, super, super!” Stravinsky responded. “So everything’s been cleared up. Indeed, what point is there in detaining a healthy man in the clinic? Very well. I’ll discharge you from here straight away if you’ll tell me you’re sane. Not prove it, but just tell me. And so, are you sane?”

      At this point complete silence fell, and the fat woman who had looked after Ivan in the morning gazed reverentially at the Professor, while Ivan thought once again: “Positively clever.”

      He liked the Professor’s proposition very much, but before answering, he thought long and hard, wrinkling his brow, and finally said firmly:

      “I am sane.”

      “Well, that’s super then,” exclaimed Stravinsky in relief, “and if that’s the case, let’s do some logical reasoning. Let’s take the day you spent yesterday” – here he turned and was immediately handed Ivan’s sheet of paper. “In the search for the stranger who introduced himself to you as an acquaintance of Pontius Pilate you yesterday performed the following actions” – here Stravinsky began unfolding his long fingers, looking now at the paper, now at Ivan – “you hung an icon on your chest. Yes?”

      “Yes,” Ivan agreed gloomily.

      “You fell off a fence, injured your face. Right? Turned up at a restaurant with a lighted candle in your hand in nothing but your underwear, and in the restaurant you hit someone. You were brought here tied up. Finding yourself here, you telephoned the police and asked them to send machine guns. Then you made an attempt to throw yourself out of a window. Right? Is it possible, one asks, acting in this way, to catch or arrest anyone? And if you are a sane person, you will yourself reply: certainly not. You wish to leave here? Please do. But permit me to ask you: where you will head for?”

      “A police station, of course,” replied Ivan, no longer so firmly, and becoming a little confused under the Professor’s gaze.

      “Directly from here?”

      “Aha.”

      “And you won’t drop by your apartment[218]?” Stravinsky asked quickly.

      “There’s no time to drop by now! While I’m going round apartments, he’ll slip away!”

      “Right. And what will you say first of all at the police station?”

      “About Pontius Pilate,” replied Ivan Nikolayevich, and a murky haze clouded his eyes.

      “Well, that’s super then!” exclaimed Stravinsky, quite won over, and, turning to the man with the little beard, he ordered: “Fyodor Vasilyevich, please discharge Citizen Bezdomny into town. But keep this room unoccupied, and there’s no need to change the bedclothes. Citizen Bezdomny will be back here in two hours’ time. Well, then,” he addressed the poet, “I shan’t wish you success, because I don’t believe in that success one iota. See you soon!” And he got up, and his retinue stirred.

      “On what grounds will I be back here?” asked Ivan in alarm.

      As if he had been expecting the question, Stravinsky sat down immediately and began:

      “On the grounds that as soon as you appear at a police station in your long johns and say you’ve met a man who personally knew Pontius Pilate, you’ll be brought here instantly, and again you’ll find yourself in this very same room.”

      “What have long johns got to do with it?” asked Ivan, looking around in dismay.

      “It’s mainly Pontius Pilate. But it’s the long johns too. After all, we’ll take the institution’s linen off you and issue you with your own attire. And you were delivered to us wearing long johns. And in the mean time you weren’t intending to stop by at your apartment at all, although I even dropped you a hint about it. Next will come Pilate… and that’s your lot!”

      At this point something strange happened to Ivan Nikolayevich. It was as if his will had broken, and he felt that he was weak, that he needed advice.

      “So what’s to be done?” he asked, only this time timidly.

      “Well, that’s super then!” responded Stravinsky. “That’s a most reasonable question. Now I’ll tell you what’s actually happened to you. Yesterday somebody very much frightened and upset you with a story about Pontius Pilate and with some other things. And then, over-fretful and overstrained, you went around town talking about Pontius Pilate. It’s perfectly natural that you’re taken for a madman. Your salvation now lies in one thing alone – complete peace. And it’s absolutely essential you remain here.”

      “But he must be caught!” exclaimed Ivan, now imploringly.

      “Very well, but why run around yourself? Set out on paper all your suspicions and accusations against this man. Nothing could be simpler than to send your statement on to where it needs to go – and if, as you suppose, we’re dealing with a criminal, it will all be cleared up very soon. But just one condition: don’t strain your head, and try not to think about Pontius Pilate too much. People can go around telling all sorts of stories! But you don’t have to believe everything!”

      “Got it!” declared Ivan decisively. “Please issue me with a pen and paper.”

      “Issue paper and a short pencil,” Stravinsky ordered the fat woman, but to Ivan he said: “Only, I don’t advise you to write today.”

      “No, no, today, it? s got to be today,” Ivan cried anxiously.

      “Well, all right. Only don’t strain your brain. If it doesn’t come out right today, it will tomorrow.”

      “He’ll get away!”

      “Oh no,” retorted Stravinsky confidently, “he won’t get away anywhere, I guarantee it. And remember that here you’ll be helped by every means, but without that help nothing will come out right for you. Do you hear me?” Stravinsky asked meaningfully all of a sudden[219], and seized both of Ivan Nikolayevich’s hands. Taking them in his own and staring straight into Ivan’s eyes, for a long time he repeated: “You’ll be helped here… do you hear me?… You’ll be helped here… You’ll get relief. It’s quiet here, everything’s peaceful. You’ll be helped here.”

      Ivan Nikolayevich unexpectedly yawned, his facial expression softened.

      “Yes, yes,” he said quietly.

      “Well, that’s super then!” Stravinsky concluded the conversation in his customary way and rose. “Goodbye!” he shook Ivan’s hand and, already on his way out, turned to the man with the little beard and said: “Yes, and try oxygen… and baths.”

      A few moments later neither Stravinsky nor his retinue was in front of Ivan. Beyond the grille at the window, in the midday sun, the joyous and vernal wood stood out vividly on the far bank, while a little closer there glistened the river.

      9. Korovyev's Tricks

      Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi, Chairman of the Housing Association of No. 302 bis on Sadovaya Street in Moscow – where the late Berlioz had been resident – had been having the most dreadfully busy time, starting from the previous night, between Wednesday and Thursday.

      At midnight, as we already know, the commission of which Zheldybin was a part came to the building, summoned Nikanor Ivanovich, informed him of Berlioz’s death, and set off with him for apartment No. 50.

      There the sealing of the dead man’s manuscripts and property was carried out. Neither Grunya, the maid, who lived out, nor the frivolous Stepan Bogdanovich was in the apartment at that time. The commission announced to Nikanor Ivanovich that it would take the dead man’s manuscripts away for sorting, that his living space – that is, three rooms (the jeweller’s wife’s former study, living room and dining room) – was to pass into the hands of the Housing Association and that his property was subject to storage in the space referred to pending the announcement of

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