Diaboliad   ::   Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич

Just listen to me, an old man, and give it up. I've already crossed you off anyway. Tee-hee!»

«Crossed me off what?» Korotkov exclaimed.

«Ha-ha. Off the lists, of course. With my pencil — whoosh, and that's that. Tee-hee!» The old man laughed lasciviously.

«Excuse me, but how do you know who I am?»

«Ha-ha. You're a real leg-puller, Vassily Pavlovich.»

«I'm Varfolomei,» said Korotkov, putting a hand on his cold, clammy forehead. «Varfolomei Petrovich.»

For a moment the smile left the terrible old man's face. He stared at the list and ran a small dry finger with a long nail down it.

«Don't you try to confuse me! Here you are — Kolobkov V. P.»

«But I'm Korotkov!» Korotkov shouted impatiently.

«That's what I said: Kolobkov,» the old man retorted huffily. «And here's Longjohn. You've both been transferred together, and Chekushin's taken over from Longjohn.»

«What?» cried Korotkov, beside himself with joy. «Longjohn's been fired?»

«That's right. He was only there for a day before they chucked him out.»

«Thank the Lord!» exclaimed Korotkov delightedly. «I'm saved! I'm saved!» And without realising what he was doing, he shook the old man's bony hand with its long nails. The old man smiled, and for a moment Korotkov's joy faded. There was something strange and sinister in the old man's blue eye-sockets. The smile baring greyish gums seemed strange too. But Korotkov immediately drove away this unpleasant feeling and got busy.

«So I should get over to MACBAMM now, should I?» «Yes, you should,» the old man affirmed. «It says here — to MACBAMM. Only give me your work record book and I'll make a note in it in pencil.»

Korotkov immediately felt in his pocket, turned pale, felt in the other one, turned even paler, clapped his trouser pockets, and with a stifled howl rushed upstairs again, looking underfoot. Bumping into people, a desperate Korotkov flew up to the very top and looked around for the beauty with the stones to ask her something, but saw that she had turned into an ugly snotty-nosed boy.

«Hey, sonny!» Korotkov hailed him. «My yellow wallet…» «It's not true,» the boy snapped viciously. «I didn't take it. They're lying.»

«Oh, no, lad. I didn't mean that. My documents…» The boy glowered at him and suddenly began howling in a deep bass.

«Oh, my goodness!» shouted Korotkov wildly and rushed downstairs to the old man.

But when he got there, the old man had, gone. Disappeared. Korotkov rushed to the little door and tugged at the handle. It was locked. There was a faint smell of sulphur in the semidarkness.

Thoughts whirled like a blizzard in Korotkov's head, then a new one popped up. «The tram.» He suddenly remembered clearly being pressed hard on the platform by two young people, one thin with a black moustache that looked false.

«Now I'm in real trouble alright,» muttered Korotkov. «This is trouble to end all trouble.»

He ran into the road, hurried to the end of it, turned down a side-street and found himself by the entrance to a smallish building of unprepossessing architecture. A cross-eyed, sullen fellow asked, looking not at Korotkov but somewhere off at an angle:

«Where d'you think you're going?»

«I'm Korotkov, Comrade, V. P. Korotkov, who has just had his papers stolen. The whole lot. I could get hauled in…»

«You could and all,» the man on the porch confirmed.

«So kindly let me…»

«Tell Korotkov he must come in person.»

«But I am Korotkov, Comrade.»

«Show us your pass.»

«It's just been stolen,» groaned Korotkov. «Stolen, Comrade, by a young man with a moustache.»

«With a moustache? I bet that's Kolobkov. Must be. He's specially working in our area. Tea-houses are the place to look for him.»

«But I can't, Comrade,» Korotkov sobbed. «I must see Longjohn in MACBAMM. Please let me in.»

«Show us a warrant that it was stolen.»

«Who from?»

«Your house-manager.»

Korotkov left the porch and ran down the street.

«MACBAMM or the house-manager?» he wondered. «The house-manager only sees people in the morning, so it's MACBAMM.»

At that moment a far-away clock on a brown tower chimed four, and people with briefcases poured out of the doors. It was growing dark, and a light wet snow began to fall.

«Too late,» thought Korotkov. «Better go home.»



VI

THE FIRST NIGHT

There was a white note sticking out of the keyhole. Korotkov read it in the dark.

«Dear neighbour,

«Gone to see mother in Zvenigorod. Have left you the wine as a present. Drink as much as you like. No one wants to buy it. They're in the corner.

Yours, A. Paikova»

With a lopsided grin, Korotkov rattled the lock and in twenty trips moved into his room all the bottles standing in a corner of the corridor, then turned on the lamp and collapsed onto the bed just as he was, in his cap and coat. As if in a trance he stared for about half an hour at the portrait of Cromwell dissolving into the dark shadows, then jumped up and suddenly had a kind of violent fit. Pulling off his cap, he flung it into the corner, swept the packets of matches on to the floor with one fell swoop and began to stamp on them.

«Take that! Take that!» Korotkov howled as he crushed the diabolical boxes with a crunch, imagining vaguely that he was trampling on Longjohn's head.

The memory of the egg-shaped head suddenly made him think of the clean-shaven and bearded face, and at this point Korotkov stopped short.

«But how on earth could it be?» he whispered, passing a hand over his eyes. «What's this? Why am I standing here busy with trifles, when it's all awful. After all he's not really a double, is he?»

Fear crept through the dark windows into the room, and Korotkov pulled the curtains so as not to look at them. But this did not help. The double face, now growing a beard, now suddenly shaving it off, kept looming out of the corners, its greenish eyes glittering. At last Korotkov could stand it no longer and, feeling as if his brain would burst from the tension, began sobbing quietly.

After a good cry, which made him feel better, he ate some of yesterday's slippery potatoes, then, returning to the cursed puzzle, cried a bit more.

«Wait a minute,» he muttered suddenly. «What am I crying for, when I've got some wine?»

In a flash he knocked back half a tea-glass. The sweet liquid took effect five minutes later — his left temple began to ache painfully and he felt a burning, sickening thirst.