Chapter 5 Chapter V. At Griboyedov's House

① Ya S. Griboyedov (1795-1829), Russian playwright.His poetic comedy "Wisdom Brings Pain" (or translated "Wisdom and Mistake") made a sharp satire on the social reality of Russia at that time, and was called "the first Russian-style comedy" by Belinsky. An old milky white two-story building is located in the depths of a withered garden beside the garden ring road. High carved iron fences separate the entire garden from the sidewalk of the ring road.There is a small field in front of the small building, which is paved with asphalt. In winter, snow is piled on this asphalt field, and a shovel is still inserted.However, whenever summer comes, canvas parasols are set up here to become an extremely beautiful corner of the summer restaurant.

This small building has a name, called "Griboyedov House".This is because it is said to have once belonged to the writer Griboyedov's aunt, Alexandra Sergeyevna Griboyedova.Whether it ever belonged to the writer's aunt, however, we are not sure.I even remember that Griboyedov didn't seem to have any aunt who owned a house at all... However, anyway, the small building took this name after all.Not only that, but one of the Moscow liars insisted that it was here on the second floor, in the rotunda with columns, that the aunt used to lie comfortably on the sofa and listen to the famous writer read to her An excerpt from Wisdom Brings Pain.In fact, God knows what happened, maybe I read it aloud.It doesn't matter anyway!

The important thing for us is that at the moment this small building belongs to the "Mowen Union", that is, to the unit that the unfortunate Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz headed before he came to Patriarch Lake Park. In fact, even the members of the "Mowen Union" did not call this house "Griboyedov's House".Everyone simply called it "Griboyedov".For example, it is common to hear such conversations as: "I squeezed two hours at Griboedo University yesterday!" You're so clever!" Or one might hear a conversation like this: "I have to go to Berlioz. Today is his reception day, and he's at Griboyedov's from four to five in the afternoon."

①The famous seaside health resort on the south coast of Crimea Peninsula, Soviet Union.This refers to the convalescent certificate for going to this place. "Mo Wenlian" arranged the "Griboyedov's House" comfortably and elegantly, which can be said to be perfect. Anyone who enters this small building will first see various sports groups involuntarily. You will also see group and individual photos of members of the "Mo Wenlian"—these people (photos) are hanging on the walls on both sides of the stairs leading to the second floor. Climbing up to the second floor, you will see a small sign nailed to the door of the first room, which says "Fishing Villa Group" in large characters, and a crucian carp that has been hooked is painted beside it.

The inscription on the door of the second room is somewhat unclear: "One-day creation travel permit. Person in charge: Ma. V. Podlozhnaya ①". ①The surname literally means "false" and "forgery". The next room; on the door there is only "Pereregino" written on it, which is completely incomprehensible.Going forward, you can see the "Pork Lief Jinna Visa Registration Office", "Cash Cashier", "Personal Settlement for Short Play Writers"...etc., on the walnut doors of the writer's aunt's small building There were so many different signs nailed up that Griboyedov's occasional visitor was overwhelmed.

① Pererekino: A villa area on the banks of the Klyazma River in the central European part of the Soviet Union.The villa is mainly used by literary and artistic workers. One door had a sign that said "Housing Issues."The line in front of this door is the longest, all the way to the reception room downstairs.There are people trying to squeeze in the door every second. After passing the "housing problem" room and going forward, there is a large luxurious poster in front of you. The upper part is a steep cliff. It was a palm tree and a balcony, and on the balcony sat a shaggy-haired young man, holding a fountain pen, gazing at the sky with dignity.Below the painting it is written: "All-inclusive creative sabbatical. Two weeks (short stories, stories) to one year (novels, trilogy). Places: Yalta, Suuksu①, Porovoye②, Zichy Giri ③, Mahinzaul ④, Leningrad (Hermitage)".There was also a long line in front of this door, but not as long as in front of the "housing problem" room, only about 150 people.

①The tourist and health resort of the Soviet Union is located on the south coast of the Crimea Peninsula. ②The tourist and health resort of the Soviet Union is located in the Kokchetav Prefecture of the Republic of Kazakhstan. ③The tourist and health resort of the Soviet Union is located near Batumi, the capital of the Azari Autonomous Republic. ④The Soviet tourist and health resort is located on the Black Sea coast of the Republic of Georgia. Going forward along the ups and downs and turning corridors of this interestingly designed Griboyedov small building, you can see: "Mo Wenlian Council", "Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth Accounting Offices" ", "Editorial Committee", "Mo Wenlian Chairman's Office", "Billiard Room" and various ancillary facilities and institutions.Finally, I came to the Hall of Columns, where it is said that the writer's aunt once enjoyed her gifted nephew's recitation of the comedy "Wisdom Brings Pain".

The first thought of any visitor (provided, of course, that he is not a complete idiot) upon entering Griboyedov's house must be: How wonderful life is for these lucky members of the "Mowen Union"!Then he will be tormented by despicable jealousy immediately, and he will immediately blame the heaven in pain, complaining that the god did not give him literary talent when he was born. Membership card—that brown membership card that smells of precious leather, with a wide gold border, and that everyone in Moscow knows! Who will defend jealousy? !Jealousy is undoubtedly a most vile and nasty emotion!However, we should also put ourselves in the visitor's shoes: You know, what he saw on the second floor is not everything here, far from everything!You know, there is a "Griboyedov Restaurant" on the lower floor of my aunt's small building!What a restaurant!It deservedly named the best restaurant in Moscow.Not only because it is imposing, occupying two cupola halls whose vaulted ceilings are painted in various poses with lilac horses with ancient Assyrian manes; and not only because this interior restaurant is not open to just anyone; but also because the food in this restaurant is really good and cheap—the quality is better than that of any big hotel in Moscow, and the price is the lowest. Cheap, those few dollars are nothing at all.

No wonder, then, that the author of these true descriptions in this book overheard the following conversation one day outside Griboyedov's iron fence.This is just an example: "Amvrossi! Where are you having dinner to-night?" "My dear Foca, there is still time, of course here. Archibald Archibaldowitch whispered to me just now, and there is a whole fresh sea bass tonight, and it is cooked to order, and it is very good!" ①Here refers to the general manager of the business office of "Griboyedov Restaurant". "Amvrosi! You really know how to live!" said Foca, thin and disheveled, with a carbuncle on the back of his neck, to Amvrosi, a poet with red lips, shining blond hair, and a rosy face.

"I don't have any special ability to live," Amvrossi expressed his dissenting opinion. "It's just a common human desire-to live like a human being. Foka, you want to say 'big circus Seabass are also served in the restaurant? But the sea bass at the "Grand Circus" sells for thirteen rubles and fifteen kopecks a piece, and we only charge five rubles and fifty kopecks here! Besides, the perch at the "Grand Circus" is kept for three days Yes. That's not to say, there's no way you can't get a slap in the face from some naughty young man who might break in at any moment from Theater Row. No, I'm not going to dine at the 'Grand Circus' !” shouted Amvrossi, who is fastidious about food and drink, and could be heard all over the avenue, “No, Foka, don’t persuade me to go there!”

"I'm not advising you to go there, Amfrosi," said Foca sharply. "In fact, you can have dinner at home." "It's too difficult to follow!" Amvrossi said in a bell-like voice, "I can imagine the taste of the sea bass that your wife cooked in a small pot in the common kitchen of the apartment building! Hehe!... No way, Foca, Olevuar!" Amfrosi hummed a little tune, and hurried to the canvas parasol. ① Russian pinyin of French "goodbye". Ah ha, ha... Yes, yes, there was such a thing! ... old residents of Moscow remember the famous restaurant Griboyedov!What is a whole sea bass stewed in clear water!It's a piece of cake, sweet Amvrossi!What about the sturgeon?How about grilled sturgeon and shrimp fish in a silver pot?How about a small plate of mushroom omelette?Don't you like shredded thrush meat?What about mushrooms?What about Genoese-style grilled quail?Only ten and a half rubles!And there is a jazz band playing, and the service is attentive!In July, your family is away for the summer at the dacha, and urgent literary activities keep you chained to the city.At such a time, how about sitting on the shady verandah, at the dining table covered with a natural tablecloth under the lush grape arbor, drinking Yangchun soup from a shining golden plate?Amvrossi, remember?Why ask!I can tell you remember it just by the way your lips look.Where are your small salmon and perch!And what about the great snipe, the little snipe, the field snipe, the seasonal woodcock, the quail, and the oystercatcher?And what about the Narzan mineral water that sizzles in the throat? ! ... But enough, dear reader, I have gone too far!Or please come with me! ... On the night of Berlioz's death outside the Patriarch Lake Park, at half past ten, only one room on the second floor of Griboyedov's house was still lit. Literary writers who came to a meeting.They were waiting wearily for the chairman, Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz. In this "Mo Wenlian" council office, people sat on chairs, desks, and even window sills, but they still felt suffocated.The windows were all open, but no cool breeze came in.The asphalt road in Moscow City is dissipating all the heat it has accumulated in the day, and it seems that it will not be easier until late at night.The smell of fried onions wafts from the basement of my aunt's building (now converted to the restaurant's kitchen).All the people waiting for the meeting wanting to go to the restaurant for a drink are anxious and angry. The old, dignified, well-dressed novelist Beskudnikov, with serious and unpredictable eyes, took out his pocket watch and looked: the hour hand was crawling towards eleven.He tapped the watch cover with one finger and showed it to the poet Dvu Bratsky sitting beside him, who was dangling his yellow rubber feet from side to side on the table. ① The literal meaning of the surname is. "Two-faced brothers". "It's true," Devour Bratsky muttered. "The fellow must have been delayed by the Klyazma," Nastasya Rukinishna Nepremenova added in a rich contralto.This female writer, who was born in a Moscow merchant family, has both parents dead. Recently, she often uses the pen name of "Navigator George" to publish some stories about naval battles. ① The literal meaning of the surname is: "certainly and undoubtedly". "Hmph, I'm sorry!" Zagorivov, the author of popular comedy, also spoke boldly. "I wish I could drink tea on the balcony of the villa. Who wants to suffer here! Isn't the meeting scheduled for ten o'clock?" "It's good to stay by the Klyazma River at this time!" The navigator clearly knew that the writer's villa village Perelekino by the Klyazma River was a place that everyone yearned for, and she wanted to stimulate everyone's emotions. It must be time for the nightingale to sing. I usually write things easily when I don’t live in the city, especially in Spring University.” "My wife suffers from exophthalmic goiter. In order to allow her to go to that paradise to recuperate, I have paid for the past two years and this year, but there is not even a shadow." short story writer Jeronim Poplikhin also complained sadly. "This kind of thing depends on who is lucky." The critic Ababakov, who was sitting on the windowsill, commented in a low voice. George the Navigator, whose little eyes sparkled with joy, said in alto, as softly as she could: "Comrades, we don't need to be jealous of others. There are 22 villas in total, and only 7 are under construction, but we have 3,000 members of 'Mo Wenlian'!" "Three thousand one hundred and eleven people!" Someone corrected from the corner. "Well, you see," went on the navigator, "what can be done? Naturally, it can only be given to the most talented among us..." "They are all generals!" The playwright Glukharev also directly joined the battle group. Beskudnikov yawned deliberately, got up and went out of the room. "One person lives in five rooms in the village of Villa Pereregino!" Glukharev said to his back. "Lavrovitch lives in six rooms to himself!" cried Deniskin. "Even the kitchen walls are paneled with oak wood!" "That's not the problem now," Ababkov said again in a low voice, "the problem is that it's half past eleven." People cheered one after another, as if a riot was brewing.They started calling the hateful village of Pereregino.The phone was connected to the wrong place and hung up at Lavrovich's house.When they heard that Lavrovitch had gone to the river, people's mood plummeted even more.Without hesitation, he dialed the extension number 930 of the Literature and Art Committee.Of course, no one answered the phone there. "He should call and talk!" Deniskin, Glukharev, and Kwant yelled loudly. Alas, Bai Yaoyao!Mikhail Alexandrovitch could no longer call anywhere.The body of Mikhail Aleksandrovich, who was called Mikhail Alexandrovich not long ago, is now being placed in a very spacious hall far from the small Griboyedov building. It is divided into three sheets. On the table covered with zinc skin, several large dry-watt light bulbs illuminate the hall as bright as day. On the first platform was a stripped torso, blood-stained, a crushed arm, and a crushed ribcage; His eyes are still open, but he is no longer afraid of the strong light here; on the third table is a pile of clothes that have become rough. Standing next to the headless corpse are: the professor of forensic science, the pathological anatomist and his assistant, the autopsy expert and the representative of the investigative agency, as well as Berlioz's deputy in the "Mowen Union" - the writer Zelderpin , he had just been called from the hospital by investigators on the phone from his sick wife. After the investigators picked up Zelderbin in a small sleeping car, they first took him (around twelve o'clock) to the house of the deceased.There they jointly sealed all the documents of the deceased before going to the morgue together. Now, these people are standing next to the body to discuss the mortuary plan: whether to sew the severed head to the neck during the farewell ceremony in the Griboyedov Hall, or leave the body there as it is. Use the black market to cover your whole body up to your chin? Yes, Berlioz was no longer on the phone at this point.Therefore, whether Deniskin, Glukharev, Kvant, Beskudnikov and others were angry or shouted, it was of no avail.The twelve writers waited until twelve o'clock, and all went downstairs to eat.Once inside the dining room, it was inevitable to say something bad about Mikhail Alexandrovich, because the veranda was really "full of seats" and they had to find seats in two beautifully decorated but stuffy halls . At exactly twelve midnight, there was a boom in the first hall, and then there was a metallic clang, as if something was scattered on the ground and kept jumping.At the same time, a man yelled "Hallelujah!" in a shrill voice accompanied by the music. This was the beginning of the famous Griboyedov jazz band.The sweaty faces in the restaurant seemed to immediately become refreshed, even the horses painted on the ceiling seemed to come to life, and the lamps seemed to increase their brightness.Then suddenly, as if breaking free from their chains, the people in both halls danced, and the guests on the verandah followed suit. ① Hallelujah (or: Hallelujah), was originally a term used by Christians to praise God when they pray.This refers to a foxtrot popular in the early and mid-1920s in the Soviet Union and its fast-paced dance music. Glukharev danced with the poetess Tamara Polumeschats, Kwant also began to dance, the novelist Zhukorov danced with a film actor in a yellow dress, Dragonsky, Cirdakchi, little Jennis King, and big George the navigator all jumped to their feet.Shemekina, a female architect nicknamed "French Beauty", was hugged tightly by an unknown man in white chinos.In short, everyone was dancing: members of the "Mowenlian" and invited guests, Muscovites and foreigners, the writer Johann from Kronstadt, and Vetya Kuvo from Rostov Jake (presumably the director, half of his face covered with purple ringworm). Several representatives of the "Mowenlian" poetry group are also dancing: there are Pavianov, Bogochurisky, Sladky, Spichkin and Adelfina Buzfake① Wait.There are also some young people who do not know what occupation they are in. They comb their hair back in a bokeh style, and the shoulders of their jackets are padded with cotton; there is a middle-aged man with a goatee, and a green onion leaf is stuck in his beard. He danced with a severely anemic old girl whose orange silk dress was crumpled. ①The surnames of these people mostly have certain meanings. For example, the literal meanings of the last five surnames are: Baboon (Gelada), God Reader, Sweet Talker, Poodle Cub, and Hustler. The sweaty waiters raised their steamed beer glasses high and walked among the tables, yelling in hoarse voices: "Excuse me, citizen!" A voice on the local loudspeaker commanded, "Karski, number one! Zublik, number two! Take care, guys!!!" The squeaky male voice was no longer shouting "Hallelujah" , but howling.The dishwashing lady slid the cutlery down the ramp into the kitchen, and the clatter of glasses and plates was loud, although the roar of the cymbals of the jazz band sometimes drowned it out.In short, this place has become a hell. Naturally, there are ghosts in this hell.At midnight, a handsome man with black eyes and a short beard in a tuxedo appeared on the balcony. He looked around his territory with a commanding gaze.According to some mystics, this man did not wear a tuxedo, but a wide belt with two pistols stuck around his waist, and his black hair was tied with a red ribbon.He once sailed a brig with a black death banner embroidered with skulls in the Sea of ​​Galaibu. ①The nonsense of the ignorant, here obviously refers to the Caribbean Sea. Ah, no, no!It's all about mystification by liars who believe in mysticism.There is no Galaybu Sea in the world, and there are no outlaws smuggling at sea, let alone the pursuit of these pirates by three-masted coastal defense ships and the gunfire that pervades the raging waves.In short, nothing, nothing happened!There are only the old linden tree beside the balcony in front of you, the cast iron fence around it and the small garden inside... only the ice cubes floating in the big tall plate are melting, and there are two bloodshot eyes on the adjacent table. The big eyes of the tiger are staring at it, which makes people feel terrible, terrible... Oh, gods, gods!Give me the poison, bring the poison! Suddenly, the three words "Berlioz!!" burst out from a small dining table, and immediately soared into the air into a loud noise.Immediately, the jazz band disintegrated, as if it had been punched by someone, and fell silent immediately. "What? What? What?!!" "Berlioz!!!" People stood up and shouted one after another... Yes, the terrible news about Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz has stirred up a frenzy of sorrow.Some people ran around in a panic, and some shouted that they should draft a group telegram of condolences on the spot and send it out without delay... However, we cannot help but ask: how to draft the telegram?Where to shoot?Really, why send condolences?For whom?Now, no matter how moving the telegram is, is it still necessary for him?The back of his head was crushed and was being held tightly in the hands of the autopsy expert wearing rubber gloves, and his neck was being stitched up by the medical professor with curved needles!He was dead and no more telegrams were needed.It's all over, we don't need to burden the telegraph office. Yes, he's dead, it's over! ... But, but we are still alive! Yes, a wave of sorrow rolled up.But it didn't last long, and it started to fade after a while.Someone had gone back to his table, and continued to drink and eat, stealthily and then generously.In fact, this is also reasonable, you can't throw away the good chicken cakes for nothing, right? !How could Berlioz be helped by throwing it away?Can we help him by going hungry?We are still alive! It goes without saying that the grand piano is locked and the jazz band is gone.Several journalists hurried back to the editorial office to draft articles mourning the dead.Then everyone learned that Zelderbin had returned from the morgue.As soon as Zherderbin took his seat in Berlioz's office on the second floor, another gossip spread: Berlioz's chairmanship would be taken over by him.Zherdbin called the twelve members of the council upstairs from the dining room, and held an emergency meeting in Berlioz's office to discuss several urgent problems: how to arrange the columned hall of the Griboyedov House, how to start from the parking lot. The transfer of the body from the mortuary to the hall, the timing of the commencement of saying goodbye to the remains, and other aftermath related to this unfortunate event. The restaurant resumed its normal night life.As a rule, this kind of life continues until the closing time-four o'clock in the morning.Unexpectedly, another unexpected event happened at this time, which surprised the restaurant customers even more than Berlioz's death. The first to be alarmed were the coachmen waiting at the gate of Griboyedov's house.A coachman suddenly stood up from the front seat of the carriage and shouted loudly: "Hey! Look, everybody!" As soon as the words were finished, the coachmen saw a small spark coming out of nowhere from the dark place beside the fence, moving towards the balcony.People dining on the balcony also stood up and looked into the dark, and they found that there was a white ghost beside Mars slowly moving towards the balcony.When the white ghost moved near the flower wall under the verandah, all the diners couldn't help being dumbfounded, and the fillet of sturgeon held on the fork froze.At this time, the janitor, who had just left the locker room and went to the door to secretly smoke a cigarette, hurriedly stamped out the cigarette butt, and walked quickly towards the white ghost, obviously trying to stop it.But for some reason, he didn't stop him. Instead, he put on a smiling face and stood aside with his hands down. So the ghost passed through the gap in the flower wall and went straight to the balcony.Only then did everyone see clearly: where was the ghost? It turned out to be the most famous homeless poet, Ivan Nikolaevich. I saw him barefoot, wearing a pair of white cloth underpants, and a worn-out Tolstoy-style gray shirt on his upper body. There was a holy image pinned to the front, and it was hard to see what was on the image due to years of discoloration. A saint.He still holds a lit wedding candle in his hand and has a freshly cut gash on the right side of his cheek.The entire verandah was suddenly silent, shrouded in an uneasy silence.I saw a big wine glass tilted in the hand of a dumb waiter.The beer in the glass spilled on the floor.Suddenly, the poet raised the candle high and said loudly: "Hello, friends!" After greeting, he looked under a nearby table and said, "No, he's not here!" There were two people talking in low voices, and one of the bass voices said: "It's over, he must be drunk." A woman's voice tremblingly said: "How could the police allow him to run around the streets dressed like that?" The words were heard by the poet, who replied: "They caught me twice, but didn't catch me; once on Skatert Street, and once just now, on Armor Street, so I jumped in over the fence, no, I cut my cheek !” Then, Ivan held up the candle and shouted loudly: “Brother in the literary world! (The original hoarse voice returned to normal at this time, showing enthusiasm and strength.) Everyone, listen to me: he has appeared! Everyone must Catch him quickly! Or he will cause great and indescribable disaster!" "What? What? What did he say? Who showed up?" people asked. "Advisor!" replied Ivan. "This is the adviser who just killed Mischa Berlioz at the Patriarch's Lake." At this time, the customers in the inner hall also flocked to the balcony outside, and a large group of people surrounded Ivan's candle. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please be more precise," said a polite voice in Ivan Nikolayevich's ear, "please tell us, how did you kill it? Who killed it?" ?” "Foreign advisers, professors, secret agents!" Ivan replied, looking around at the people. "What's this person's last name?" People cautiously approached him and asked. "That's right, what's his last name?!" Ivan said with a sad face, "It would be great if I knew his last name! I didn't see the last name on his business card... I just remembered that the first letter was 'B', which was a A surname that starts with the letter 'B'. What surname starts with the letter 'B'?" ① Ivan asked himself, patting his forehead, and then said to himself: "V, V, V! W... W... Vashener? Vashener? Weiner? Vigner? Winter?" It seemed that he was burning with anxiety. ①In the religious books of Judaism and Christianity, the devil in charge of hell is called the mouth. , is a proper noun.When the word is lowercased as a common noun, it means: ghost, devil. "Is it Wulff?" said a trembling female voice. Ivan was angry. "Fool!" he yelled, looking for the woman who asked the question. "What has Wulff to do with it? Wulff has nothing to do with it! It's Waugh, Wolf... Oh, I can't remember! All right!" , Citizens, let’s do this: You quickly call the police station and ask them to immediately dispatch five motorcycles with light machine guns to hunt down the professor. Also, don’t forget to tell them that there are two more people with him. A guy, a tall, slender guy in checked clothes... Broken pince-nez... And a big cat, black. I'll search for Griboyedov first myself... I think he's like here!" Ivan panicked. He pushed the crowd away three by two, shook the candle and went under each dining table to see that the wax dripped on him.At this time, someone said: "Call the doctor quickly!" Then, a pleasant face appeared in front of Ivan's eyes, wearing a pair of glasses with horn-framed glasses, and his fat face was clean-shaven. "I say, Comrade Homeless," said the kindly face in a sweet voice, "please calm down first! You are very upset because we lost everyone's beloved Mikhail Alexandrovitch No, it should be my dear Mischa Berlioz. We all understand this very well. You need to be quiet now. Comrades will put you to bed right away, you go to sleep for a while..." "You man," Ivan interrupted him angrily, "do you understand? That professor should be caught immediately! But what nonsense are you talking about here?! Idiot!" "I beg your pardon, Comrade Homeless." The face flushed with shame, and gradually receded, seemingly regretting his involvement in this matter. "No, I can forgive others, but not you!" Ivan whispered viciously. A convulsion disfigured his face, and he quickly switched the candle from his right hand to his left, swung his arms, and slapped the concerned face loudly. Only then did the people remember that Ivan should be caught, and they rushed forward, and the candle was extinguished.The glasses fell to the ground and were trampled to pieces.Ivan yelled horribly, the sound could be heard even in the avenue outside the courtyard, and everyone felt uneasy.He not only shouted, but also struggled desperately.The cutlery on the table slid to the floor with a crisp sound, and the women screamed. Several barmen were busy tying up the poet Ivan with long towels.At this time, a conversation was going on in the restaurant locker room: the captain of the two-masted square sailing ship was interrogating the porter: "Did you see that he was only wearing a pair of drawers?" asked the pirate coldly. "But, Archibald Archie Daovitch, you know, how can I not let him in?" The doorman argued tremblingly, "He is a member of the Mo Wenlian!" "Did you see he was only wearing a pair of drawers?" repeated the pirate. "Please forgive me this time, Archibald Archibaldovich," begged the porter, blushing, "what can I do? I know there are many girls on the verandah Dining..." "It's nothing to do with the ladies, women don't care," replied the old pirate, with two fierce lights in his eyes, wishing to burn the gatekeeper to ashes, "but the police department can't help but care about these things! You know that? ?It is only possible to walk around the street wearing underpants under the escort of the police, and you can only go to one place - go to the police station of the police station! You are the gatekeeper, you should know that when you encounter such a person, you must immediately ring the siren , can't delay for a second! Do you hear me?" The gatekeeper stood dumbfounded.All he heard were ouches from the verandah, broken cups and plates, and women's screams. "So, what is to be done with you in this matter?" asked the pirate. The porter's face was sallow, as if he had suffered from typhoid fever, and his eyes were completely absent.He felt that the parted black hair in front of him was tied with a bright red silk scarf again, and the starched white shirt and tuxedo were gone, only the pistol handle sticking out from the wide belt around his waist.Immediately, a scene of himself being hung on the top of the mast appeared in his mind, as if he saw his long tongue sticking out and his head drooping on his shoulders, and even heard the sound of waves hitting the side of the ship .He just felt his legs go limp, and he couldn't stand anymore.However, the pirate showed mercy to him at this time, and withdrew his scorching gaze. "Be careful in the future, Nicholas! Forgive you this time, don't be an example! A doorman like this, don't give us a restaurant for free! You'd better go to the church to make a watch!" Then, he used short and clear words Quickly ordered: "Call Pan Jielie from the refreshment department! Go to the police 2 and write a written report! Find a car! Send it to a mental hospital!" Then he added, "Blow the siren!" A quarter of an hour later, people standing in the restaurant, on the avenue outside the fence, and in the windows of the building across the street were all very surprised to see: Pan Jielie, the janitor, the police, waiters, and the poet Liu Xin, and several others, put a person like The young man, wrapped in a long towel like a doll, carried out the gate of the "Griboyedov House".The tied man burst into tears, spit continuously, and spat on Liu Xin as much as he could, while crying and cursing: "Scum!" The driver of the big truck started the car angrily.The coachman who stayed at the gate shook the snow-blue reins and slapped the horse's buttocks, motivating the animals, while loudly attracting customers: "Go in a carriage, this horse is fast! I have taken people to a mental hospital!" There were noisy voices all around, and the onlookers were discussing this unprecedented incident.In short, an ugly, nasty, unsettling, repulsive farce ensued, until the big truck roared into motion, and the unfortunate Ivan Nikolayevich, the policemen, Pan Jielie, Liu Xin and others were thrown from the grid. Liboyedov was taken away at the door, and that was the end of the story.