فصل 3

III

The Seventh Proof

“YES, it was about ten in the morning, my esteemed Ivan Nikolayevich,” said the professor.

The poet passed his hand over his face like a man who had just revived and discovered that it was evening at Patriarch’s Ponds.

The water in the pond had turned black, and a small rowboat was skimming across it; the splash of an oar could be heard from the boat, along with a woman’s giggling. There were now people on the benches along the paths, but once again only on the other three sides of the square, not on the side where our friends were having their chat.

The sky over Moscow seemed to have paled, and high overhead, shining clearly and distinctly, was a white, not yet golden, full moon. It had become much easier to breathe, and the voices under the linden trees now sounded softer, as often happens in the evening.

“How come I didn’t notice that he managed to spin out a whole tale?” thought Bezdomny in amazement. “Why it’s already evening! But maybe he didn’t really tell it, maybe I just fell asleep and dreamed it all?” But he had to believe that the professor had told the story because otherwise it would mean that Berlioz had dreamed the same thing since the latter, looking attentively into the foreigner’s face, said, “Your story is extraordinarily interesting, Professor, even if it bears no relation whatsoever to the gospel accounts.” “I beg your pardon,” replied the professor, with a condescending smile, “You of all people should know that absolutely nothing written in the gospels ever happened in actual fact, and if we start citing the gospels as an historical source …” He smiled again, and Berlioz stopped short because he had been saying the very same thing to Bezdomny when they were walking down Bronnaya Street on their way to Patriarch’s Ponds.

“That’s true,” Berlioz remarked, “but I’m afraid no one can confirm that what you told us actually took place either.” “Oh, no! There is someone who can confirm it!” retorted the professor in broken Russian with total self-assurance and suddenly, with a mysterious air, he motioned the two friends to come closer.

They both leaned toward him, one on either side, and he said, without any trace of the accent which seemed to fade in and out, the devil knows why, “The fact is …” at this point the professor looked around nervously and began speaking in a whisper, “I myself witnessed the whole thing. I was there on Pontius Pilate’s balcony, and in the garden when he was talking with Kaifa, and on the platform too, but I was there in secret, incognito, so to speak, so I beg you—keep it quiet, and don’t breathe a word to a soul! Shhh!” Silence fell, and Berlioz grew pale.

“You … you’ve been in Moscow how long?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“I just this minute arrived,” replied the professor absently, and it was only then that the friends had the sense to look straight into his eyes, whereupon they decided that his left eye, the green one, was completely mad, and the right one was vacant, black and dead.

“Well, that explains everything!” thought Berlioz, in confusion. “He’s a crazy German who just arrived, or else he just went off his rocker here at Patriarch’s Ponds. That’s the story!” Yes, indeed, that did explain everything: the highly bizarre breakfast with the late philosopher Kant, the idiotic talk about Annushka and the sunflower oil, the predictions about a head being cut off, and all the rest of it—the professor was a madman.

Berlioz knew immediately what had to be done. Leaning back against the bench, he started winking at Bezdomny behind the professor’s back, as if to say, “Don’t contradict him,” but the flustered poet did not understand the signals.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Berlioz excitedly, “but of course, it’s all possible! More than possible, the whole thing, Pontius Pilate, the balcony, and all the rest of it … Did you come here alone or with your wife?” “Alone, alone, I’m always alone,” the professor replied bitterly.

“But where are your things, Professor?” Berlioz asked in an insinuating tone. “At the Metropole? Where are you staying?” “Where am I staying? Nowhere,” answered the half-witted German, his green eye wandering sadly and wildly over Patriarch’s Ponds.

“What? But … where will you be living?”

“In your apartment,” replied the madman with sudden familiarity and he winked.

“I … I would be delighted,” stammered Berlioz, “but you would no doubt be uncomfortable at my place … Besides, the rooms at the Metropole are superb, it’s a first-class hotel …” “And the devil doesn’t exist either?” the sick man suddenly inquired cheerily of Ivan Nikolayevich.

“And the devil doesn’t …”

“Don’t contradict him!” mouthed Berlioz in a soundless whisper, as he dove behind the professor’s back and made a face.

“There is no devil!” exclaimed Ivan Nikolayevich, blurting out what he shouldn’t have because all the nonsense going on had made him flustered. “What a nuisance you are! Stop acting like a loon!” At this point the madman produced such a laugh that a sparrow darted out of the linden tree overhead.

“Well, now, this is really getting interesting,” cried the professor, shaking with laughter. “What is it with you? Whatever comes up you say doesn’t exist!” Suddenly he stopped laughing, and, as often happens with the mentally ill, he went from laughter to the other extreme: he became irritated and shouted harshly, “So, then, you’re quite sure he doesn’t exist?” “Calm down, calm down, calm down, Professor,” muttered Berlioz, afraid of exciting the sick man. “Just sit here for a moment with comrade Bezdomny while I run to the corner and make a call, and then we’ll take you wherever you want to go. After all, you don’t know the city …” It has to be said that Berlioz’s plan of action was the correct one: to run to the nearest telephone and inform the office in charge of foreigners that a visiting consultant from abroad was sitting at Patriarch’s Ponds in an obviously deranged state. And that measures should be taken to prevent any unpleasantness.

“You want to make a call? Fine, go ahead,” the sick man said, giving his sad consent and suddenly making an impassioned plea, “But as we part, I implore you, at least believe that the devil exists! I ask no more than that. Keep in mind that for this we have the seventh proof, the most reliable of them all! And you are about to get a demonstration.” “Fine, fine,” said Berlioz in an insincerely placating way, and after winking at the dismayed poet, who was by no means enchanted by the idea of guarding the mad German, he made for the exit from Patriarch’s Ponds that was located at the corner of Bronnaya Street and Yermolayevsky Lane.

Then suddenly the professor seemed to recover and cheer up.

“Mikhail Alexandrovich!” he shouted after Berlioz.

Berlioz shuddered and turned around, but comforted himself with the thought that the professor had learned his name and patronymic from reading the newspapers. Cupping his hands like a megaphone, the professor shouted, “Wouldn’t you like me to have a telegram sent to your uncle in Kiev right away?” And once again Berlioz was given a jolt. How did the madman know that he had an uncle in Kiev? That certainly hadn’t appeared in any newspaper. Perhaps Bezdomny’s right after all? And what about those fake documents of his? What an oddball he is! Get to a phone! Get to a phone! Call right away! It won’t take them long to figure out who he is!

And without listening to another word, Berlioz ran off.

Just then, at the exit to Bronnaya Street, a man got up from a bench and walked over to the editor. He was none other than the same fellow who earlier, in broad daylight, had materialized out of the dense heat. Only now, he was no longer made of air, but of ordinary flesh and blood, and in the gathering twilight Berlioz could clearly see that his wispy mustache looked like chicken feathers, his beady little eyes looked ironical and half-drunk, and his checked trousers had been yanked up so high you could see his dirty white socks.

Mikhail Alexandrovich drew back with a start, but comforted himself with the thought that it was a meaningless coincidence and that now was not the time to think about it anyway.

“Looking for the turnstile, Mister?” inquired the fellow in the checked trousers in a cracked tenor, “Right this way! Go straight ahead and you’ll come out at just the right place. How ‘bout a little something for showing you the way … enough for a pint … help a former choirmaster get back on his feet!” Squirming and grimacing, he swept off his jockey cap with a theatrical gesture.

Berlioz did not stop to listen to the begging and simpering choirmaster, but ran instead to the turnstile and grabbed hold of it with his hand. He turned it and was about to step across the tracks when a red and white light splashed in his face—the words in the glass box lit up: “Caution! Streetcar!” Just then the streetcar started hurtling toward him as it turned onto the newly-laid stretch of track running from Yermolayevsky Lane to Bronnaya Street. After coming out of the turn onto the straightaway, the streetcar lit up inside with electric light, let out a roar, and picked up speed.

Even though the ever-cautious Berlioz was standing in a perfectly safe place, he decided to return behind the barrier, he shifted his hand on the revolving gate, and took a step backward. Just then his hand slipped and lost its grip, his foot slid uncontrollably, as if on ice, over the cobblestones that led down to the track, his other leg shot up in the air, and he was thrown onto the rails.

Trying to grab hold of something, Berlioz fell flat on his back and hit the back of his neck lightly against the cobblestones. He just caught a glimpse of the gilded moon high above, but he could not tell whether it was on his right or his left. He managed to turn on his side, and at the same time to draw his legs frantically up to his stomach. When he turned, he saw the absolutely white, horror-stricken face and the crimson armband of the woman streetcar driver bearing down on him with irresistible force. Berlioz did not scream, but the whole street around him began squealing with women’s despairing voices. The driver pulled on the electric emergency brake, the car pitched forward, then jumped instantaneously, and the glass flew out of the windows, crashing and shattering. Then a voice in Berlioz’s brain cried out in despair, “Can this be?” Once again, and for the last time, the moon flashed, but it was already breaking into splinters, and then it became dark.

The streetcar covered Berlioz, and a round dark object was propelled under the railing of Patriarch’s Ponds path onto the cobbled slope. After rolling down the slope, it began bouncing over the cobblestones of Bronnaya Street.

It was Berlioz’s severed head.