Moscow in late spring.On this day, the sun was already flat in the west, but it was still surprisingly hot.At this time, two men appeared by the Patriarch Lake.The short one, wearing a light gray summer suit, is fat and strong, with a bald head, holding a rather expensive top hat solemnly in his hand, clean-shaven, and a pair of horny black hair that is surprisingly large on the bridge of his nose. glasses.The other is very young, with broad shoulders and shaggy brown hair. He wears a checkered cap on the back of his head, a denim shirt with a checked fabric lapel, a pair of wrinkled trousers, and a pair of black flats on his feet. shoe.

①The patriarch is the patriarch, called the patriarch in the Russian Orthodox Church, the highest bishop and the highest head of the church.Patriarch Lake is a small park in Moscow with a pool, which was later renamed Young Pioneers Lake. The first was none other than Berlioz Mikhail Alexandrovitch, Chairman of the Board of Directors of one of the major unions of literary and artistic workers in Moscow, the "Mo Wenlian", and concurrently the chairman of a large literary association. Editor-in-Chief of the publication.The young man next to him was the poet Ponelev Ivan Nikolayevich, who often published under the pseudonym "The Homeless Man".

① This surname is different from the surnames of ordinary Russians, and is the same as the Russian writing of the surname of the French musician Berlioz (or translated by Perlioz, 1803-1869). ② Transliteration: Bezdomne.Meaning: homeless person, vagabond. As soon as the two writers walked into the shade of the linden trees that had just been covered with green clothes, they walked quickly towards the colorfully painted kiosks. The signboard of the kiosks read: "Beer, Soda". Oh, by the way, I must first explain the first strange incident of this terrible May evening: At this time, not only was there no one around the shops, but there was no one on the avenue parallel to the Little Armor Street; It scorched the whole of Moscow, and now it is sinking behind the garden ring road in dry smoke. People seem to be struggling to breathe, but no one goes into the shade of this linden tree, no one sits there. On a bench.The whole boulevard was empty.

"Two bottles of Narzan mineral water," Berlioz said to the saleswoman at the counter. ①The health resort Kislovodsk in the North Caucasus of the Soviet Union has Narzan carbonated mineral springs, and the spring water is effective for heart disease. "No Narzan mineral water!" replied the salesperson, who seemed annoyed for some reason. "Have any beer?" asked the homeless man, his voice hoarse. "The beer won't arrive in a while," the woman replied. "Well, what's there?" asked Berlioz. "There's apricot soda. But it's lukewarm," the woman replied.

"Okay, two bottles, two bottles!" When I opened the apricot juice soda, a lot of yellow foam came out, and the air was filled with the smell of a barber shop.As soon as the soda was down, the two writers hiccupped.They paid their bills and sat on a bench facing the lake with their backs to Armor Street. Then a second strange thing happened, but it concerned only Berlioz: suddenly, Berlioz stopped hiccupping, felt his heart pounding, and disappeared.After a while, the heart returned to its original place, but it seemed that a blunt needle had been inserted into it.Not only that, but he also suddenly felt an inexplicable fear, wishing to escape from the Patriarch Lake immediately regardless of everything.He looked back in bewilderment, still not understanding what he was afraid of.His face turned pale, and he took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, thinking to himself: "What's the matter with me? There's never been such a thing... There must be something wrong with my heart... I'm overworked. It seems to be serious." Give up, let everything go to hell. I have to go to Kislovodsk to recuperate first..."

Suddenly, he felt that the stuffy air seemed to condense, and wonderfully intertwined in front of his eyes to form a transparent man, who looked very strange: he had a small head, but he was wearing a rider's cap with a large brim, and the check material jacket was very thin, like As light as the air... He is more than two meters tall, but his shoulders are narrow, he is surprisingly thin, and, please note, he looks like he is playing tricks on people. ①The original text is "One Russian Zhang", and the length of one Russian Zhang is 2.134 meters. Berlioz's life had always been smooth sailing, so he was not used to seeing anomalies.There was no trace of blood on his face.He stared, flustered, and thought to himself: "This kind of thing is impossible!

But what could be done, it happened right before his eyes: lo and behold, the tall, thin, transparent citizen was swaying from side to side before his eyes, with his feet floating off the ground! Berlioz hastily closed his eyes in fright.When he opened his eyes again, everything was over: the phantom disappeared, the guy in the checkered clothes disappeared, and the blunt needle in his heart seemed to have been pulled out. "Cough, what the hell!" the editor-in-chief said loudly, "Look at this, Ivan, I almost suffered from heatstroke just now! I even had hallucinations!" Although he forced a smile, there was still fear in his eyes, trembling.

But he gradually calmed down, waved his handkerchief, pulled himself together and said, "Okay, let's continue talking..." Continue talking about the topic that was interrupted by drinking soda. We later learned that it was a conversation about Christ Jesus.It turned out that the editor-in-chief Berlioz had invited a poet to write a long poem on anti-religious themes for the next issue of the magazine.Sure enough, the homeless man wrote a poem in a very short time.But unfortunately the editor-in-chief was very dissatisfied with this poem.Even though the dark tones used by Homeless to describe the main character Jesus in the poem were quite strong, the editor-in-chief felt that the entire poem had to be rewritten.Now the editor-in-chief is giving the homeless a "lesson" about Jesus and pointing out the young poet's major mistakes.It is difficult to say why Ivan Nikolaevich's poems were not finished.Perhaps his talent was to blame for his lack of expressiveness, perhaps it was his ignorance of the subject he was writing about.In short, his Jesus, though not likable, is a thoroughly human being.And Berlioz is going to explain to him now: the main problem is not that Jesus himself is good or bad, but that the character of Jesus himself never existed in history, and all the stories about Jesus are pure fiction, all true. No buckle myth.

It should be explained that the editor-in-chief is a scholar who is well-versed in the past and the present, and his talks are naturally well-founded and well-founded.He points out, for example, that there is not a single word about the existence of Jesus in the writings of ancient scholars such as the famous Philo1 and the learned Joseph Flavi22.In order to show that he has learned from the past and the present, the editor-in-chief also told the poet by the way: The execution of Jesus written in the forty-fourth chapter of the fifteenth volume of the famous Tacilon's "Chronicle" is nothing more than the work of later generations. Falsified.

① Philo (about 30 BC - about 45 AD), an ancient Jewish mystic philosopher.His ideas had a great influence on later Christian theology.Engels once said that he "is the real father of Christianity". ②Joseph Flavi (approximately AD 37-100), an ancient Jewish historian, wrote "Jewish War History", "Jewish Ancient History" and so on. ③ Tacitus (approximately AD 55-120), an ancient Roman historian, wrote "History", "Chronicle" and so on. In the forty-fourth chapter of the fifteenth volume of "Chronicle", when referring to Nero's cruel punishment of Christians, he wrote: "Their (referring to the Christians) founder is Christ. Executed by Pontius Pilatus (Pontius Pilate in the official Chinese version of the Bible) by the emperor's deputy." This is the only reference to Christ.

Everything Berlioz talked about was completely unheard of to the homeless man.All he had to do was stare at the editor-in-chief with quick-witted green eyes and listen intently, burping only occasionally and cursing the damned apricot soda. "In all the religions of the Orientals," continued Berlioz, "in general, there is mention of the birth of a divine son by a virgin virgin. It was not, therefore, that the Christians were the first to come up with this new trick; But in the same way he created his own Jesus who didn't actually exist. Therefore, your poem should focus on this aspect..." Berlioz's tenor voice floated and echoed in the deserted forest.His grand theories are getting farther and farther step by step, and the layers are getting deeper and deeper. Except for those who are extremely knowledgeable and not worried about damaging their own brains, no one would dare to delve into such a mysterious academic field.The more the poet listened, the more interested he was, and he learned more and more: he not only heard the story about Osiris, the good god of Egypt and the son of heaven and earth, but also learned that the Phoenicians had a god Famus, and learned Marduk even heard stories of the lesser-known majestic and terrible god Vezipuzi, whom the Aztecs of ancient Mexico once revered. ① The plant god in ancient Egyptian mythology, which had an influence on the later legend of Jesus. ② That is, Tamus, the plant god in ancient Babylonian mythology, died every year when harvesting, and was resurrected when young shoots germinated in spring. ③The "king of the gods" in ancient Babylonian mythology once "defeated monsters and created all things in the world".Or translate Marduk. ④ Or translated "Aztecs", the Indian tribes in Mexico, who created a unique culture before the sixteenth century. It was precisely at the time when Mikhail Alexandrovich told the poet how the Aztecs made dough out of the image of the god Veciptzi that the first figure appeared on the avenue. Regarding this person's appearance, frankly speaking, it was only later, when everything was irreparable, that the relevant agencies came up with their own description materials.However, comparing these materials, one can't help but be dumbfounded: one material said that the man was short in stature, full of gold teeth, and had pain in his right leg; Lame on the left leg; another source simply states that the man is nondescript. We have to admit: these materials are all worthless. In the first place, the man was not short in stature, nor was he massive, but a little taller, and he had no limp in either of his legs.As for the teeth, the ones on the left have platinum braces and the ones on the right are gold.He wore an expensive gray suit, and the foreign leather shoes on his feet matched the suit color very well.A gray bonnet on his head was tilted to the side, pressed to the tips of his ears, making him look so playful and vigorous; he also carried a cane under his arm, with a black poodle head on the top of the cane.He looks to be in his forties.The mouth is a little crooked.Clean-shaven.black hair.His right eye was jet black, but his left was somehow bright green.Two thick black eyebrows, but one is high and the other is low.Anyway, it's a foreigner. When the foreigner passed by the bench where the editor-in-chief and the poet sat, he glanced at them, then stopped and sat down on another shorter wooden chair a few steps away from the two friends. Berlioz thought to himself: "It's a German." "He must be an Englishman," thought the homeless man, "look, with gloves on, and not too hot." At this time, the foreigner looked around the tall buildings around the lake, showing a rather curious expression for newcomers. He first stared at the upper floor of the tall building, watching the crooked refraction in the dazzling glass windows on the upper floor, and the setting sun that was leaving editor-in-chief Berlioz step by step forever.Then he cast his gaze down and saw that the windows of the lower buildings had darkened, heralding the approaching dusk.He smiled arrogantly at something, then closed his eyes, put his hands on the head of the cane, and rested his chin on the back of his hands. "You, Ivan," Berlioz went on, "some things are very well written, very ironic, for example, the verse about the birth of Jesus, the Son of God. But the point is that Jesus was born long before Jesus There are quite a few sons of God, such as Attis of the Phrygians, etc. In short, these people, including Jesus, were never born or existed at all. Therefore, what you should write is not a birth , not the coming of some oriental astrologer, etc., but it must be stated: the legend about the birth of Jesus is completely absurd... Otherwise, according to the way you write it, it seems that a Jesus was born! . . . " ① Son of God in Phrygian religion.Equivalent to Tamus in Babylonian mythology and Adonis in Phoenician mythology.Adonis is one of the archetypes of Christ. ②According to the "Bible", after Jesus was born, several doctors (astrologers) came from the east, claiming that they "specially came to meet" Jesus, the "King of the Jews". The homeless man who suffered from hiccups was holding his breath and wanted to hold back a hiccup, but unexpectedly, the hiccup was even more unpleasant and uncomfortable.At this moment, Berlioz also stopped talking, because the foreigner next to him suddenly stood up and walked towards them. The two writers looked at the visitor in surprise. "Please forgive me, both of you," the person who came over spoke with a foreign accent, but the words he used were correct, "Although we are strangers to each other, I still don't take the liberty... because I am very interested in your high-level remarks. It's..." The man took off his hat respectfully and saluted.The two friends had no choice but to bow and return the gift. Berlioz thought to himself: "No, he's probably a Frenchman..." "Maybe a Pole?" thought the homeless man. Here I have to add one more point: the poet found the foreigner very annoying as soon as he spoke to him, but Berlioz fell in love with this person at once, no, it cannot be said that he liked him, but... ...How should I put it... Even if I became interested in him. "Can I sit down?" the foreigner asked politely.Then the two friends moved aside as if involuntarily, and the foreigner sat down between them deftly and started talking immediately. "If I heard you right, did you just say that there was no such thing as Jesus?" asked the foreigner, looking at Berlioz with his green left eye. "Yes, you heard me right, I was talking about this just now." Berlioz replied politely. "Ah, this is so interesting!" the foreigner exclaimed happily. The homeless man couldn't help but frowned, thinking to himself: "Damn, what does it matter to him?" At this time, the foreigner with unknown origin turned to the right and asked the homeless man: "Then you also agree with this friend?" "One hundred percent!" The poet said bluntly.His speech has always been novel and he likes to visualize. "Surprised!" said the unexpected visitor excitedly.Afterwards, for some reason, he looked around mischievously, and lowered his deep voice and whispered, "I'm sorry, I may be a little too entangled, but please, as far as I understand, you two, nothing else You don't believe in God, do you?" His eyes showed a look of panic, and he immediately added: "I swear, I won't tell anyone." "Yes, we do not believe in God," replied Berlioz.Seeing that the foreign guests were so terrified, he added with a smile: "Actually, this kind of thing can be discussed openly." The foreigner was even more surprised. He let out a soft scream, leaned back in his chair, and asked again: "Both of you are atheists?" "Yes, we are atheists," Kasulioz replied, still smiling.But the homeless man was thinking angrily: "Look at this gringo, he's been entangled forever!" "Oh, that's wonderful!" the gringo exclaimed loudly, and kept turning his head to the writers on both sides, looking at this one and then at that one. "In our country, no one is surprised by atheism." Berlioz said with the humility of a diplomat. "The majority of our people have consciously stopped believing in those myths about God." At this time, the foreigner performed a new trick: he stood up, reached out his hand to shake the hand of the editor-in-chief who was sitting stunned, and said to him: "Allow me to express my heartfelt thanks!" "Why are you thanking him?" the homeless man blinked and asked. The strange foreigner raised a finger meaningfully and explained: "Thanks to him for telling me a very important situation because it is of great interest to me as a tourist." It seems that this "important situation" has indeed had a great effect on foreign tourists: I saw him looking at the surrounding tall buildings with fearful eyes, as if worried that an atheist would appear from every window. At this moment, Berlioz was thinking: "No, he's not like an Englishman..." The homeless man frowned and wondered: "Where did this guy learn to speak Russian fluently? That's a problem!" "Then, may I ask," the foreign visitor asked again after some intense thought, "what should we do with the arguments for the existence of God? We know that there are as many as five kinds of arguments of this kind!" ① Refers to the five arguments put forward by the medieval Christian theologian Thomas Aquinas to prove the existence of God. "No way!" said Berlioz, seemingly sympathetically, "arguments of this kind are worthless. Humanity has already sent them to the archives. You will probably agree that in the realm of reason there can be no Any argument for the existence of God." "Theory!" cried the foreigner, "theory! You have expressed exactly what that pitiful old man Immanuel thought on the subject. But, ironically, after the old man had completely destroyed the five arguments , but mockingly builds up his own sixth argument!" ① German idealist philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804). "Kant's arguments are likewise unconvincing," retorted the learned editor with a smile, "Schiller is not without reason, he said that Kant's arguments on this subject can only satisfy slaves. Strauss, on the other hand, simply laughs at such arguments." ①British philosopher Ferdinand Schiller (1864-1937), he advocated that "man is the measure of all things" and raised doubts about the existence of God. ②David Friedrich Strauss (1808-1874), German idealist philosopher, famous for his criticism of Christianity. Berlioz was saying this, but he was thinking in his heart: who is he?How can you speak Russian so well? At this time, unexpectedly, the homeless man suddenly interjected from the side: "A man like Kant who promotes such arguments should be arrested, sentenced to three years, and sent to Solovitz!" ①The largest island in the Solovets Islands in the White Sea of ​​the Arctic Ocean. There is an ancient monastery built in the fifteenth century on the island.After the nineteenth century, it became a place of exile for prisoners. "Ivan!" Berlioz felt very embarrassed, and hurriedly stopped him in a low voice. However, the foreigner, far from being surprised, was overjoyed to hear the young poet's proposal to send Kant to Solovets Island.His green left eye gleamed as he looked at Berlioz, and he exclaimed: "That's it! That's it! That's the place that suits him best! I told Kant that morning when we were dining together, and I said, 'You, Professor, take your own view, you figured it out anyway. That stuff doesn't fit! Maybe it's rational, but it's too hard to understand. People will make fun of you.'” Berlioz was stunned and thought: "What nonsense is he talking about? 'During the morning meal'? ... He 'said to Kant'? ..." But the foreigner was not slightly embarrassed by Berlioz's surprise. He turned to the poet and continued: "However, it may be impossible to dispatch Kant to Solovets Island, because he has already lived in a place farther than Solovets for more than a hundred years, and, I am sure, there is no way to send him out of the island. Get it out there!" "What a pity!" replied the pugnacious poet. "I also feel sorry!" The foreigner of unknown origin continued with one eye blinking, "However, there is one question I still don't understand: If there is no God, then, please, who is in charge of human life? Who is in charge of the rules and regulations?" "People manage it themselves!" The homeless man rushed to answer angrily. In fact, he didn't know this question very well. "I'm sorry," the foreigner of unknown origin said kindly, "in my humble opinion, in order to manage, no matter what, it is necessary to make an exact plan for a certain period? This period can be very short, but it must be more or less decent. As for man, not only is it impossible for man to formulate a plan for a ridiculously short period of time, say a thousand years, he is even unable to guarantee his own tomorrow. In this case, how can he manage it? And, in fact," the gringo turned to Berlioz at this point, "for example, you may wish to imagine that you have begun to manage, not only governing others, but also governing yourself, and it seems to be very satisfactory. , but suddenly, hehe!...you have lung cancer!" When the gringo said the word "lung cancer", he actually smiled sweetly, as if the idea of ​​suffering from lung cancer made him very proud. "Yes, lung cancer," he repeated the harsh word, narrowing his eyes felinely, "and so your management ends here! From now on, nothing but your own fate You don't care about anyone's fate any more. Your relatives start to lie to you, you feel that something is wrong, you go to famous doctors everywhere, then seek quack doctors, and maybe even go to fortune-telling. You know it well: famous doctors, witches Doctors, fortune tellers, nothing. It all ended in tragedy: the man who once thought he was in charge of something suddenly lay motionless in a wooden box; and the people around him, Thinking that the lying man is useless, he is burned in the hearth. Sometimes it is even worse than that: for example, when a man is just going to Kislovodsk to recuperate," said the foreigner. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Berlioz again, "It seems that this is a trivial matter, but he can't even do it, because he doesn't know how to do it, and he will slip to the point of slipping all of a sudden. You can’t say that he ordered himself to do this, can you? Wouldn’t it be more reasonable to say that it was completely controlled by another person?” The gringo suddenly laughed when he said this. It was so weird. Berlioz listened to this unpleasant speech about lung cancer and trams with the utmost seriousness, feeling a little uneasy and very bored.He thought: "This man is by no means a foreigner! No! This fellow is too strange... But who is he?" "It seems that you really want to smoke a cigarette?" The foreigner suddenly turned to the homeless man and asked, "What brand do you like to smoke?" "Why, you have several brands of cigarettes with you?" the poet asked with a straight face, the cigarettes he brought had just finished smoking. "What brand do you like to smoke?" the foreigner asked again. "Okay, let's get our card." The homeless man replied angrily. The foreigner casually took out a cigarette case from his pocket, handed it to the poet and said: "Here you are, 'own card'." The cigarette box contained exactly "own brand" cigarettes.However, what surprised the editor-in-chief and the poet was not so much the coincidence of the cigarettes in the pack, but rather the pack itself.It was a huge solid gold cigarette case, and when it was opened, the diamond-studded triangle on the lid shone blue and white. In this regard, the two writers reacted differently.Berlioz thought: "No, still a foreigner!" And the homeless man thought: "Hey, hell! That's interesting!" The poet and the owner of the cigarette case each light a cigarette.Berlioz was a non-smoker, and he was thinking about how to answer what he just said: "He should be refuted like this: Yes, everyone is mortal, no one disagrees with this, but the problem is..." However, before he could say these words, the foreigner spoke first: "Yes, everyone is mortal. But if that's all, it's not worth the trouble. The bad thing is that people die too suddenly, which is the crux of the problem. And, generally speaking, a person can't even kill him tonight." It’s impossible to say what’s going to happen.” Berlioz thought to himself: "This formulation is too absurd..." He retorted: "Well, you're exaggerating. I can say with considerable certainty what I'm going to do tonight. Of course, if a brick falls on my head as I pass the Rue de Armor, it's a matter of course." Never mind..." "Bricks," interrupted the unknown man solemnly, "never fall on anyone's head for no reason. I assure you that they will at least pose no threat to you. You will be another A way to die." "Perhaps you also know how I will die?" Berlioz's voice was sarcastically tinged.He could not help being drawn into this truly absurd conversation. "Perhaps you can tell me something?" "The effect is small." The stranger agreed casually, and then looked him up and down as if he was about to tailor a suit for Berlioz, and muttered something in his mouth: "One, two... Mercury is in the position... The moon palace is hidden But now...six, the main disaster...at dusk, seven..." Then he happily announced loudly: "You will have your head cut off!" The homeless man stared angrily at the insolent stranger.Berlioz smiled wryly and asked: "By whom? The enemy? Foreign armed intervention?" "Neither," replied the stranger, "a Russian woman, a member of the Komsomol." "Hmm..." Berlioz snorted, irritated by the stranger's joke, "well, excuse me, it's not very credible." "I beg your pardon, too," replied the foreigner, "but it is true. Well, I would like to ask, if it is not confidential, can you tell me what you want to do tonight?" "It's not confidential. I'm going back to my private house on Huayuan Street. Then, at ten o'clock in the evening, there will be a meeting of the 'Mo Wenlian', and I will chair the meeting." "No, it can't be done. These things will never happen again." The foreigner said in a firm tone. "Why is that?" "This is because," the foreigner squinted his eyes and looked at the sky, there were several black crows flying silently above their heads, who sensed that the cool night was coming, "because Annushka has already bought sunflowers. Yu Yu not only bought it, but also spilled it. Therefore, your meeting cannot be held." So, naturally, all three under the shade of the lime tree fell silent.After a while, Berlioz stared at the gibberish gringo's face and asked: "Excuse me, what does sunflower oil have to do with this? ... Besides, who is Annushka?" "I can tell you about the relationship between sunflower oil and this matter." The homeless man couldn't hold back anymore, and interjected from the sidelines.Determined to declare war on the intruder beside him, he asked: "I say, you citizen, have you never been in a mental institution before?" "Ivan!" Berlioz quickly stopped him in a low voice. But the foreigner not only didn't mind, but laughed extremely happily.Laughing, looking at the poet with one non-smiling eye, he exclaimed: "I've lived, I've lived, more than once! I've stayed everywhere! Unfortunately, I never had time to ask the professor what 'schizophrenia' is. So, Ivan Nikolayevich, this You can ask him the question yourself!" "How do you know my name and paternal title?" "Come on, Ivan Nikolayevich, who doesn't know you!" The foreigner took out a copy of yesterday's "Literary Newspaper" from his pocket.The poet sees: there is a photo of himself on the front page, and his poems below.However, this glorious event, which had made the poet very proud yesterday, did not bring the poet the slightest pleasure here and now, and his face darkened. "Excuse me," said the poet, "will you wait a moment? I want to have a word with my friend." "Oh, very good!" exclaimed the unknown foreigner, "how comfortable the shade of the linden tree is! Besides, I don't have anything urgent to do." The poet took Mikhail Alexandrovitch aside and whispered: "I'm telling you, Misha, this guy is not a tourist at all, he's a spy! He must be a White Russian who fled the country and has come back to our country. You go and ask him for his papers, or he'll slip away ..." ① Mikhail's pet name. "You think so?" Berlioz asked in a low voice. He also felt a little uneasy, thinking to himself: "What Ivan said is also reasonable!" "Trust me, it's true!" said the poet into Berlioz's ear. "This fellow is pretending to be crazy and stupid, just trying to get something out of his words. How well you listen to his Russian!" said the poet While scanning the unknown person with the corner of his eyes, lest he slip away, "Come on, let's arrest him, don't tell him to run away..." The poet took Berlioz by the arm and walked towards the bench. The stranger was not sitting on the bench at this time, he was standing beside the bench, holding a small dark gray leather notebook, a fine brown paper envelope and a business card in his hand.Seeing the two people approaching, he looked directly at them with sharp eyes and said solemnly: "Please forgive me, I was so focused on arguing just now that I forgot to introduce myself to you. Here is my business card and passport, and an invitation letter from them asking me to come to Moscow as a consultant." The two writers were embarrassed instead.Berlioz thought, "Damn it, he heard it all..." He hastily made a very polite gesture to show the other party that there was no need to show his ID.When the foreigner stretched out his hand to pass the certificate to Berlioz, the poet saw a foreign word "Professor" and the first letter "B" of the surname on the business card.Berlioz could only mumble in embarrassment: "It's a pleasure to meet you." Foreigners put their documents in their pockets.In this way, the relationship between the two parties was restored, and the three of them sat on the bench again. "Professor, are you invited to be our adviser?" asked Mikhail Alexandrovitch. "Yes, as a consultant." "Are you German?" asked the homeless man. "Me?" The professor asked back, suddenly lost in thought.After a pause, he said: "Yeah, it seems to be German..." "You speak Russian very well," said the homeless man. "Oh, I'm a polylinguist. I know many, many languages," said the professor. "And what do you specialize in?" asked Berlioz. "I'm best at magic." There was a bang in Berlioz's head, and he thought: "Hey, look at this!" And he stammered again: "Then...then, you are invited to engage in this profession?" "Yes, it's this major." The professor agreed, and then explained: "That's how it happened. The National Library discovered a batch of manuscripts, which are said to be from a wizard named Herbert Alilavsky in the tenth century. handwriting. So I was invited to do the identification. I am the only expert in this field left in the world.” "Ah! So you are a historian?" Berlioz asked respectfully, as if a stone had fallen from his heart. "I study history," the professor affirmed, but then added inexplicably, "Tonight, an interesting historical story will happen by the Patriarch Lake!" The editor-in-chief and the poet were stunned again.So the professor motioned for the two to come closer to him.When they listened to him, he whispered: "Please remember: Jesus still existed." "To tell you the truth, professor," said Berlioz with a forced smile, "we admire you for your knowledge of the past and the present. But we hold a different point of view on this question." "No point of view is needed!" replied the eccentric professor. "This man existed, that's all!" "But there must be some kind of proof..." Berlioz wanted to argue. "No proof is needed," replied the professor.Then he whispered, without any foreign accent: "It's all very simple: he's wearing a white cloak..."