فصل 8

VIII

The Duel Between the Professor and the Poet

AT precisely the time when Styopa lost consciousness in Yalta, that is to say, around 11:30 a.m., Ivan Nikolayevich Bezdomny regained it as he awakened from a long, deep sleep. He spent some time trying to figure out how he had ended up in this unfamiliar room with white walls, an amazing night table made out of bright metal, and a white window shade that was keeping out the sun.

Ivan shook his head, realized that it did not ache anymore, and remembered that he was in a hospital. This, in turn, brought back the memory of Berlioz’s death, but today Ivan was not as strongly affected by it. After a good night’s sleep, Ivan Nikolayevich was calmer and had begun to think more clearly. He lay motionless for a while on his immaculate, soft, comfortable spring-cushioned bed, and then noticed the bell button by his side. Due to his habit of touching things on impulse, Ivan pressed it. He expected to hear something ring or to have someone appear after he pressed the button, but something quite different happened.

At the foot of Ivan’s bed a frosted-glass cylinder lit up that said, “DRINK.” After staying put for a while the cylinder began to turn until the word “NURSE” appeared. It goes without saying that the ingenious cylinder made quite an impression on Ivan. The word “NURSE” was replaced by “CALL THE DOCTOR.” “Hmm …” murmured Ivan, not knowing what else to do with the cylinder. But then he had a stroke of luck: he pressed the button a second time at the word “DOCTOR’S ASSISTANT.” The cylinder rang softly in reply, stopped, and then went blank. A stout kind-looking woman in a clean white robe came into the room and said to Ivan, “Good morning!” Ivan did not answer because he considered the greeting inappropriate under the circumstances. They had, in fact, put a perfectly sane man in the hospital, and yet were still pretending that it was the right thing to do!

Meanwhile, without changing her kindly expression, the woman pressed the button once to raise the shade, and the sun streamed into the room through a light, widely spaced grille that extended down to the very floor. Beyond the grille there was a balcony, and beyond that, the banks of a winding river with a cheery pine forest on its opposite shore.

“Time for your bath,” said the woman invitingly, and beneath her hands, the interior wall moved aside, revealing a bath compartment and a splendidly equipped bathroom and lavatory.

Although Ivan had resolved not to talk to the woman, he broke down when he saw the water rushing into the bathtub from the gleaming tap, and said ironically, “My, my! Just like at the Metropole!” “Oh, no,” answered the woman with pride, “much better. Even abroad you can’t find equipment like this. Doctors and scientists come here especially to inspect our clinic. We have foreign visitors here every day.” When he heard the words “foreign visitor” Ivan immediately recalled the consultant from the day before. His mood darkened and he scowled and said, “Foreign visitors … How impressed you all are with foreign visitors! But they come in many different varieties. Take the one I met yesterday, for example, he was a real charmer!” He was on the verge of telling the woman about Pontius Pilate, but he restrained himself when he realized that it wouldn’t mean anything to her, and she wouldn’t be able to help him anyway.

After his bath, Ivan Nikolayevich was given everything a man needs after a bath: a freshly ironed shirt, long underwear, socks. But that wasn’t all: after opening the closet, the woman pointed inside and asked, “What would you like to wear—a bathrobe or pajamas?” Since he had been attached to his new abode by force, Ivan nearly clasped his hands in dismay at the woman’s free-and-easy attitude, and he pointed silently to a pair of red flannel pajamas.

After that Ivan Nikolayevich was led down an empty and soundless corridor into an office of immense proportions. Having made up his mind to respond to everything in this marvelously appointed building with irony, Ivan mentally christened the office the “factory-kitchen.” And with good reason. It had cupboards and glass cabinets with shiny nickel-plated instruments, there were chairs of unusually complex construction, potbellied lamps with gleaming shades, a multitude of vials and gas burners and electric wires and gadgets that would mystify absolutely anyone.

In the office Ivan was attended to by three people—two women and one man, all wearing white. First, Ivan was led over to a small table in the corner with the obvious intent of getting some information out of him.

Ivan began to consider his situation. He had three choices. The first choice was especially tempting: he could lunge at the lamps and the intricate gadgets and smash them all to hell, and thus protest their holding him for no reason. But the Ivan of today was dramatically different from the Ivan of yesterday, and this first choice seemed dubious to him: it might even strengthen their conviction that he was a raving lunatic. And so, Ivan rejected this first choice and considered the second: give an immediate account of the consultant and Pontius Pilate. However, yesterday’s experience had shown that people either did not believe this story or they distorted its meaning. And so Ivan decided against the second choice and opted for the third: seek refuge in proud silence.

As it turned out, however, this was not fully possible since, willy-nilly, he ended up answering, albeit curtly and sulkily, a whole series of questions. Ivan was questioned about absolutely everything relating to his past life, including such things as his scarlet fever fifteen years ago. After filling up a whole page on Ivan, they turned it over, and the woman in white proceeded to questions about Ivan’s relatives. It was a lengthy business: who died, when and how, did the deceased drink or have venereal diseases, and all that sort of thing. They concluded by asking for an account of what had happened yesterday at Patriarch’s Ponds, but they did not badger him, nor did they show any surprise at what he said about Pontius Pilate.

At this point the woman turned Ivan over to the man, and he took Ivan through another kind of exam altogether and asked him no questions at all. He took Ivan’s temperature, measured his pulse, and looked into his eyes with some sort of light. Then another woman came to assist the man, and they injected something, painlessly, into Ivan’s back, made tracings on his chest with the handle of a small mallet, tapped his knees, so that his legs jerked up, pricked his finger and took some blood, stuck a needle into the crook of his arm, and put rubber bracelets on his arms … Ivan just smiled bitterly to himself and reflected on the stupidity and grotesqueness of it all. Imagine! He had just wanted to warn everybody about how dangerous the foreign consultant was, and try to catch him, and the only thing he had accomplished was to end up in some mysterious office where he had to tell a lot of rubbish about his Uncle Fyodor, who had been a chronic drunk in Vologda. Intolerable stupidity!

Finally they let Ivan go. He was taken back to his room where he was given a cup of coffee, two soft-boiled eggs, and white bread and butter.

After he had eaten and drunk everything, Ivan decided to wait for one of the top brass of the establishment to show up who would finally listen to him and treat him fairly.

And show up he did, very shortly after Ivan’s breakfast. Suddenly the door opened, and in walked a bunch of people in white coats. At the head of them all came a man of forty-five or so, who was as cleanly shaven as an actor and had pleasant but very penetrating eyes and a polite manner. The entire entourage showed him attention and respect, and his entrance was therefore a very solemn affair. “Just like Pontius Pilate!” thought Ivan.

Yes, this was unquestionably the head man. He sat down on a stool, while all the others remained standing. “Doctor Stravinsky,” the seated man introduced himself to Ivan and looked amiably at him.

“Here, Alexander Nikolayevich,” someone with a neatly trimmed goatee said softly, and handed the head man Ivan’s sheet, which was covered with writing on both sides.

“They’ve put together a whole case!” thought Ivan. The head man cast an experienced eye over the sheet of paper, mumbling “Uh-huh, uh-huh” and exchanging some words in a little-known language with the people around him.

“And he even speaks Latin, just like Pilate …” thought Ivan sadly. Here one word made him shudder, and that was the word “schizophrenia”—which had, alas, been uttered yesterday by the damned foreigner at Patriarch’s Ponds and was repeated here today by Professor Stravinsky.

“And he knew that too!” Ivan thought anxiously.

The head man had obviously made it a policy to agree with and be delighted by everything the people around him said, and to express his delight with the words, “Splendid, splendid …” “Splendid,” said Stravinsky, returning the sheet to someone, and addressing Ivan, “You are a poet?” “Yes, a poet,” replied Ivan gloomily and for the first time he felt a sudden and inexplicable aversion to poetry, and the poems of his which came to mind seemed somehow distasteful.

Wrinkling his face, Ivan responded by asking Stravinsky, “And you are a professor?”

To this Stravinsky gave an obligingly polite nod.

“And are you the person in charge here?” Ivan continued.

Stravinsky nodded again.

“I must speak with you,” said Ivan Nikolayevich in a meaningful way.

“That’s why I’m here,” replied Stravinsky.

“This is the situation,” began Ivan, feeling that his hour had come, “They’ve decided that I’m crazy, and no one wants to listen to me!” “Oh, no, we’ll give you our full attention,” said Stravinsky earnestly and soothingly, “and we certainly won’t let anyone say you’re crazy.” “Then listen: yesterday evening at Patriarch’s Ponds I met a mysterious person, perhaps a foreigner, perhaps not, who knew about Berlioz’s death before it happened and who knew Pontius Pilate personally.” The entourage listened to the poet in silence, without moving a muscle.

“Pilate? The Pilate who lived in the time of Jesus Christ?” asked Stravinsky, narrowing his eyes at Ivan.

“Yes, the very same.”

“I see,” said Stravinsky, “and this Berlioz was killed under a streetcar?”

“Yes, he was the man I saw cut in two by a streetcar at Patriarch’s Ponds yesterday when this most mysterious fellow …” “The one who knew Pontius Pilate?” asked Stravinsky, whose powers of comprehension were obviously very high.

“Precisely,” confirmed Ivan, studying Stravinsky, “As I was saying, he knew ahead of time that Annushka had spilt the sunflower oil … And it was there on that very spot that Berlioz slipped and fell! How do you like that?” Ivan asked meaningfully, hoping that his words would produce a big effect.

But they did no such thing, and Stravinsky simply asked the following question, “And who is this Annushka?” This question disconcerted Ivan somewhat, and he grimaced.

“Annushka is of no importance in this matter,” he said nervously. “The devil knows who she is. Just some foolish woman from Sadovaya Street. Don’t you understand, the important thing is that he knew in advance about the sunflower oil! Do you understand me?” “I understand you perfectly,” Stravinsky replied in a serious tone and, touching the poet’s knee, he added, “Don’t get excited, go on.” “I will,” said Ivan, trying to imitate Stravinsky’s tone and knowing from bitter experience that staying calm was the only thing that would help him. “So this horrible character, who is lying, by the way, about being a consultant, possesses some kind of extraordinary power … For example, if you chase him, you can’t ever catch him. And he’s got quite a pair with him who have their own special charm: a tall guy with broken eyeglasses, and a tremendously huge cat who rides streetcars by himself. What’s more,” Ivan spoke with greater fervor and conviction when no one was interrupting him, “he was on Pontius Pilate’s balcony himself, no doubt about it! What do you make of that? Huh? He should be arrested right away or else he’ll cause indescribable harm.” “So you are trying to have him arrested? Have I understood you correctly?” asked Stravinsky.

“He’s clever,” thought Ivan, “You have to admit, there are some smart people even among the intelligentsia. No denying that!” and he replied, “Absolutely correctly! Judge for yourself, what else is there to do! But meanwhile they’re holding me here by force, shining lights in my eyes, washing me in tubs, and asking me questions about my Uncle Fyodor! And he’s been dead for years! I demand to be released immediately.” “Well, splendid, splendid!” replied Stravinsky, “It’s all clear now. And, really, what sense is there in keeping a sane man in the hospital? So, I’ll release you immediately if you tell me you’re normal. You don’t have to prove it, just say it. So, then, are you normal?” There was complete silence. The fat woman who had taken care of Ivan that morning looked at the professor with pious respect, and again Ivan thought, “Very clever.” The professor’s offer was very attractive, but before answering, Ivan thought very hard, wrinkled his brow, and finally said firmly, “Yes, I am normal.” “Well, that’s splendid,” Stravinsky exclaimed with relief, “and if you are, let’s reason this out logically. Take yesterday, for example,” at this point he turned and was immediately handed Ivan’s sheet, “while trying to find a stranger, who told you he was an acquaintance of Pontius Pilate, you did the following,” here Stravinsky began bending his long fingers, looking first at the chart, then at Ivan. “You hung an icon on your chest. Is that right?” “Yes,” Ivan agreed sullenly.

“You fell off a fence and hurt your face. Right? Appeared at a restaurant with a lighted candle in your hand, wearing only underwear, and then hit one of the people in the restaurant. You were tied up and brought here. Once you got here, you called the police and asked them to send machine guns. Then you tried to throw yourself out the window. Is that right? Now I ask you: is it possible to catch anyone or arrest them by acting that way? And if you’re a normal person, you can answer that yourself: no it isn’t. Do you wish to leave here? Be my guest. But may I ask where you will go?” “To the police of course,” replied Ivan, but not so firmly as before and losing his composure a bit beneath the professor’s gaze.

“Straight from here?”

“I guess so.”

“And won’t you stop off at your apartment?” asked Stravinsky quickly.

“No, there’s no time for that! While I’m going to apartments, he’ll get away!”

“I see. And what’s the first thing you will tell the police?”

“About Pontius Pilate,” answered Ivan Nikolayevich, and his eyes clouded over.

“Well, a splendid idea!” exclaimed Stravinsky agreeably, and turning to the fellow with the goatee, he gave the order, “Fyodor Vasilyevich, please issue a release for citizen Bezdomny so that he can return to the city. But leave his room unoccupied and don’t change the sheets. Citizen Bezdomny will be back here in two hours. Well,” he turned to the poet, “I won’t wish you success because I don’t for a minute believe you’ll have any. See you soon!” And he stood up while his entourage began to stir.

“Why do you think I’ll be back?” Ivan asked anxiously.

Stravinsky seemed to be waiting for that question because he resumed his seat and began talking. “Because as soon as you appear at the police station in your long underwear and say that you met a man who was personally acquainted with Pontius Pilate—they’ll have you back here in an instant, and you’ll find yourself in this very same room.” “What does my underwear have to do with it?” asked Ivan, looking around in distress.

“The main problem is Pontius Pilate. But the underwear doesn’t help. We’ll have to remove your hospital clothes and give you back your own. And you were brought here in long underwear. And you had no intention of stopping off at your apartment although I hinted that you should do so. Then comes Pilate … and the case is complete!” At this point something strange happened to Ivan Nikolayevich. His will seemed to give way, and he felt that he was weak, that he needed advice.

“So what should I do?” he asked, but timidly this time.

“Now that’s splendid!” Stravinsky replied. “A most reasonable question. Now I shall tell you what really happened to you. Someone gave you a real fright yesterday and upset you with that story about Pontius Pilate and other things. And so you, a morbidly sensitive and nervous individual, went around the city talking about Pilate. It’s completely natural that you should be taken for a madman. Only one thing can save you now—and that’s complete rest. You definitely need to stay here.” “But he has to be caught!” exclaimed Ivan imploringly.

“Fine, but why do you have to run after him yourself? Write down all your suspicions and accusations against this man on a piece of paper. There’s nothing simpler than to send your statement to the proper authorities and if, as you claim, we are dealing with a criminal, that will soon be apparent. But there’s one condition: don’t overstrain yourself, and try to think less about Pontius Pilate. All sorts of stories can be told! Not all of them have to be believed.” “I understand!” Ivan announced decisively, “Please give me some paper and a pen.”

“Give him some paper and a short pencil,” was Stravinsky’s order to the fat woman, and to Ivan he said this, “I advise you not to write today.” “No, no, it has to be today, absolutely today,” Ivan squealed in agitation.

“Well, all right. Only don’t overtire your brain. If it doesn’t work out today, it will tomorrow.” “He’ll escape!”

“Oh no,” Stravinsky retorted confidently. “He won’t go anywhere, I assure you. And remember that here we shall assist you in every way that we can, and without that nothing you do will work out. Do you hear me?” Stravinsky asked abruptly, lending special significance to his words, and grabbing hold of both Ivan Nikolayevich’s hands. As he held them in his own, he stared long and intensely into Ivan’s eyes and repeated, “You’ll be helped here … do you hear me? … You’ll be helped here … you’ll get relief. It’s quiet here, everything is peaceful … You’ll be helped here …” Ivan Nikolayevich unexpectedly yawned, and his expression softened.

“Yes, yes,” he said quietly.

“Now that’s splendid!” concluded Stravinsky in his usual fashion and got up. “Good-bye!” He shook Ivan’s hand, and as he was walking out of the room, he turned to the man with the goatee and said, “Yes, and try oxygen … and baths.” A few moments later Ivan was alone, without Stravinsky or his entourage. Beyond the window grille the joyous and vernal wood on the opposite bank looked radiant, and nearer by, the river sparkled in the noonday sun.