Chapter 3 The Seventh Argument of Chapter Three

"Yes, my venerable Ivan Nikolayevich, it was about ten o'clock in the morning," said the professor, turning to the poet. The poet woke up like a dream, wiped his face with his hands, and looked up, and it was already dusk by the Patriarch Lake. The water of the lake turned lead black, and a light boat slid slowly on the surface of the water, and there was the sound of even wooden oars beating the water and the laughter of the woman in the boat.There are already many tourists on the benches along the several avenues around the lake, but only on the other three sides, only the side of our chatter still sees no other tourists.

The color of the Moscow sky seemed to have faded, and a full moon had risen and was clearly visible, but it was still pale for the time being, and had not yet turned golden yellow.The breathing was much lighter than before, and the conversations of people on the benches under the trees seemed to be much gentler.A beautiful evening scene. The homeless man was secretly surprised: "Look, it's getting dark! How could I have heard him make up such a long story without knowing it? Maybe, this story was not told by him, but that I fell asleep just now and did it." Had such a dream?"

However, it must be admitted that the story was indeed told by the professor, otherwise it would have to be assumed that Berlioz had the same dream at the same time, because he is now gazing into the face of the foreigner and expressing his opinion: "Professor, your story is very interesting, although it is completely different from the account in the Gospel." A smile flashed across the professor's face, and he replied: "With all due respect, no matter what other people stand for, with your knowledge, you should know that the things recorded in the "Gospel" are pure fiction and never happened. Therefore, if we use the "Gospel" as historical data, it is inevitable... ..." He smiled coldly again.This made Berlioz momentarily at a loss for words, for he had just said exactly the same words to the homeless man on the way from the Rue d'Armes to the Lake of the Patriarchs, and they were exactly the same.

"That's true," said Berlioz, "but I'm afraid no one will be able to verify what you just said." "Oh, no! Someone can prove it!" The professor's Russian accent was foreign again, but his tone was very confident.At the same time, he suddenly beckoned the two friends to come closer to him with hand gestures. The two men leaned over him from the left and right, and he spoke in pure Russian again (it was only later that I realized why his foreign accent came and went): "That's how it is..." The professor glanced around ghostly for a few times, and then said in a low voice, "I was always there when these things happened. On the balcony, I stood by Pontius Pira I was there when he talked with the high priest Caiaphas in the garden, and I climbed on the stone altar. But I did not appear in public, it was a so-called private visit, so I beg you to be kind to anyone Don't reveal it to anyone, it's absolutely confidential!... Shhh!"

The three fell silent again.Berlioz turned pale.After a while, he asked in a trembling voice: "How long have you been in Moscow?" "I just arrived!" The professor replied hastily.Only then did the two friends remember to look the professor squarely in the eye.They found that the left eye of this person was tender green, which looked crazy and irrational, and the right eye was dark, but it seemed so empty and dead. The flustered Berlioz regained his composure and thought to himself: "No wonder, this can all be explained! It turns out that a crazy German came from abroad, or just fell insane on this lakeside. That must be it." Something happened!"

Yes, it can be explained: the nonsense about having breakfast with the late philosopher Kant, the nonsense about sunflower oil and Annushka, the prophecy that the head will be cut off, etc., all can be explained Get it - the professor is crazy. Berlioz immediately thought of his own solution.He leaned back, leaned on the back of the bench, winked at the homeless man from behind the professor, and said: We can't just talk about him.However, the poet, who had already lost his mind, did not understand his code. "Yes, yes, yes!" said Berlioz with feigned excitement, "it's possible! Whether it's Pontius Pilate, or the situation on the balcony, and things like that, it's all very possible . . . , did you come here alone, or with your wife?"

"Alone. Alone. I'm always alone." The professor's voice was bleak. "Then where is your luggage, professor?" Berlioz inquired tactfully, "Is it at the Metropolitan Hotel? Where are you staying?" "Me? Nowhere," replied the Mad German.His green eye looked wistfully and strangely at the lake, his eyes wandering. "What? Then... where are you going to live?" "In your house!" said the lunatic, suddenly becoming very presumptuous, and winking at Berlioz. "Of course I'm very welcome," Berlioz muttered, "but, to tell you the truth, you will be inconvenient in the humble house... The rooms at the Metropolitan Hotel are very comfortable, it's a high-class hotel..."

Then the madman suddenly turned to the poet Ivan Nikolayevich, and asked with a smile: "So, you say, the devil doesn't exist?" "The devil doesn't exist..." "Don't talk to him!" Berlioz hastily winked at the poet from behind, only moving his lips to remind him gently. But Ivan Nikolayevich, bewildered by the absurdity before him, cried out instead, and said something that should not have been said: "There is no devil at all! Don't be crazy! This is a real torture!" When the madman heard this, he burst into laughter, and even the sparrows on the branches of the lime tree beside him were blown away by his laughter.

"Oh, this is really interesting!" The professor laughed wildly, and said, "What's going on here? No matter what you mention, there is nothing!" Suddenly, he stopped laughing, and his eyes were like those often seen by mental patients. In the same case, the transition from guffawing immediately to the other extreme—to fury.He asked sternly: "Then, according to this, there really isn't one?" "Please calm down, professor, please calm down, please calm down," Berlioz murmured, not to irritate the patient, "please sit here with the homeless comrade for a while, I have to go to the intersection first, Go and make a phone call. Where do you want to live later, the two of us will take you there. You are not familiar with this city..."

Berlioz’s countermeasure should be said to be correct—hurry up to the nearest automatic telephone booth, call the Foreign Affairs Bureau, and inform them: there is a consultant from abroad staying at the Patriarch Lake, and he is obviously in a state of insanity. Take measures, or I'm afraid there will be a little trouble. "Hang up the phone? Well, okay, hang up," the mental patient agreed, with a somewhat sentimental tone, and suddenly, he asked Berlioz eagerly, "But before I leave, I still want to ask you one thing: if you Believe only in the existence of the devil! I have nothing more to ask of you. You know, this is proved by the seventh argument, the most reliable proof! It will be presented to you in a moment before."

"Okay, okay," Berlioz perfunctory, with a false smile, hurried towards the exit of Patriarch Lake Park, which was facing the entrance of Yemolayev Alley on Armor Street.Before leaving he winked again at the poet, who was naturally dismayed at the thought that he had to stay and watch the mad German. At this moment, the professor's madness suddenly recovered.Seeing his radiant face, he looked at the back of the departing Berlioz and shouted loudly: "Mikhail Alexandrovitch!" Berlioz shuddered and turned around.At the same time, he comforted himself secretly: This guy probably also knew my name and father's name from some newspaper.At this moment, the professor put his hands to his mouth in the shape of a trumpet, and continued to shout at him: "Do you want me to send a telegram to your uncle at Kyiv?" Berlioz couldn't help shivering again: How does this madman know that I have an uncle in Kyiv?It must have never been published in any newspaper!Wait a minute, is it still the idea of ​​a homeless man?So his documents are forged?Gee, what a weird guy!I gotta go call, call!go immediately!Find him soon! So Berlioz didn't listen to anything anymore, and walked quickly forward. At this moment, near the park exit to the Boulevard, a man got up from a bench and turned to Berlioz.This is none other than the person who was condensed by the sultry air in the setting sun just now.But now he is no longer transparent, but an ordinary person with flesh and blood.Even though it was already dusk, Berlioz could still see him clearly: two mustaches like chicken feathers, two small eyes with mockery and drunkenness, the thin checked suit trousers were pulled up high, and even the pair of feet on his feet Dirty white socks are exposed. Mikhail Alexandrovitch could not help taking a step backwards, but immediately regained his composure, thinking: this is just a ridiculous coincidence, and besides, where is the time to think about it now? ! "Citizen, are you looking for the turnstile?" asked the guy in the checkered trousers in a voice like a broken gong. "This way, please! Go straight and you'll be where you want to be. It stands to reason that I showed you the way, and I have to ask you for a couple of drinks... I, the former conductor of the choir... also need to take care of it!" The guy said in an air, and tore off his head casually. His big-brimmed rider hat stretched aside as if begging for money. The beggar who was once a choir director was obviously talking nonsense, Berlioz ignored him, strode up to the revolving door, put one hand on the fence, pushed it, and was about to take a step towards the railroad track outside the door, suddenly He felt that there were two lights, red and white, coming towards him: a few red letters on a large glass lamp caught his eyes: "Beware of trams!" At this moment a tram was passing rapidly, and it had just left the new line of Yemolayev Lane and turned onto Armor Street.After turning the corner and driving on the straight road, it suddenly turned on the lights of the carriage, roared, and accelerated its speed. Although Berlioz's position was not dangerous, he, who was always cautious, decided to retreat to the gate of the fence.He switched hands on the revolving door and took a step back.At this moment, his hand slipped and he slid off the revolving door. At the same time, one foot slipped out as if on ice, sliding along the sloping cobblestone road to the tram tracks, and then the other leg I couldn't stand anymore, and my whole body slid into the track. Berlioz struggled to hold on to something, so he fell on his back, hitting the back of his head on the stone pavement.He still had time to catch a glimpse of the golden full moon hanging high in the sky, but at this moment he couldn't tell whether the moon was on the left or the right.He still had time to turn his body sideways, and at the same moment he crazily drew his legs towards his lower abdomen; after turning his sideways, he clearly saw: a white face of a female driver and her bright red scarf ① were striking with a thunderbolt rushed towards him.Berlioz did not cry out, but the whole street around him was filled with the screams of desperate women.The female driver yanked the switch, the carriage plunged to the ground, and jumped again, followed by a rumbling, crashing sound of glass shattering.At this moment, in Berlioz's mind, it seemed that someone shouted desperately, "Is it true?..." He felt that the round moon flashed again, but at the same time as this last flash, it shattered into pieces, and then It was pitch black. ① Female Communist Youth League members and activists in the Soviet Union in the 1920s and 1930s liked to wear red headscarves. The tram car covered Berlioz's body. At the same moment, a black and round object was thrown onto the sloping cobblestone road by the side of the forest road outside Patriarch Lake Park, and then rolled down the slope. , bouncing and rolling down the stone pavement of Armor Avenue. This is Berlioz's head cut off by a tram wheel.