He did not manage to realize this completely, being obliged to reply, like it or not – albeit both sparingly and gloomily – to a whole series of questions. And Ivan was asked about absolutely everything regarding his past life, right down to when and how he had been ill with scarlet fever some fifteen years before. When a whole page had been covered in writing down what Ivan had said, it was turned over, and a woman in white moved on to questions about Ivan’s relatives. A long-drawn-out sort of[215] procedure began: who had died, when and of what, did they drink, did they have venereal disease, and everything of that kind. In conclusion they asked him to tell them about the occurrence of the previous day at Patriarch’s Ponds, but they were very unexacting, and were not surprised by the information about Pontius Pilate.
At this point the woman gave Ivan up to the man, and the latter set about him in a different way, no longer asking questions about anything. He took Ivan’s body temperature, measured his pulse and looked into Ivan’s eyes while shining some sort of lamp into them. Then the second woman came to help the man, and they pricked something, but not painfully, into Ivan’s back, they drew signs of some sort on the skin of his chest with the handle of a hammer, they hit him on the knees with hammers, which made Ivan’s legs jerk, they pricked his finger and took blood from it, they pricked him in the bend of his elbow, they put rubber bracelets of some kind on his arms…
Ivan merely grinned bitterly to himself and reflected on how stupidly and strangely it had all turned out. Just think! He had wanted to warn everyone of the danger threatened by the unknown consultant, had meant to catch him, but all he had achieved was ending up in some mysterious consulting room for the purpose of recounting all sorts of rubbish about Uncle Fyodor in Vologda being a binge-drinker. Insufferably stupid!
Finally they let Ivan go. He was accompanied back to his room, where he was given a cup of coffee, two soft-boiled eggs and some white bread and butter.
Having eaten and drunk all he had been offered, Ivan decided to wait for someone of seniority in this establishment, and then to secure from this person of seniority both some attention for himself and justice.
And his wait for this person came to an end, very soon after his breakfast too. The door of Ivan’s room opened unexpectedly, and in came a host of people in white coats. Ahead of them all walked a man of about forty-five, carefully shaved like an actor, with pleasant but very piercing eyes and polite manners. His entire retinue was rendering him signs of attention and respect, and his entrance therefore had a very ceremonial effect. “Like Pontius Pilate!” it occurred to Ivan.
Yes, this was undoubtedly the senior man. He sat down on a stool, while everyone else remained standing.
“Dr Stravinsky,” the man who had sat down introduced himself to Ivan, and gave him an amicable look.
“Here, Alexander Nikolayevich,” said someone with a neat little beard in a low voice, and handed the senior man Ivan’s sheet of paper, completely covered in writing.
“They’ve cobbled together a whole case[216]!” thought Ivan. And the senior man ran his practised eyes over the sheet, muttered: “Aha, aha…” and exchanged a few phrases in a little-known language with his entourage.
'And he speaks in Latin, like Pilate.” thought Ivan sadly. Just then one word made him start, and it was the word “schizophrenia” – already uttered, alas, on the previous day by the accursed foreigner at Patriarch’s Ponds, and repeated here today by Professor Stravinsky.
“And he knew that too!” thought Ivan in alarm.
The senior man had evidently made it a rule to agree with everything and be pleased at everything his entourage might say to him, and to express this with the words “super, super.”
“Super!” said Stravinsky, returning the sheet to somebody, and he turned to Ivan: “You’re a poet?”
“I am,” Ivan replied gloomily, and for the first time suddenly felt an inexplicable kind of revulsion for poetry, and what came to mind straight away of his own verse seemed for some reason unpleasant.
Wrinkling up his face, he in his turn asked Stravinsky:
“Are you a professor?”
To this Stravinsky inclined his head with obliging courtesy.
“And are you the senior man here?” continued Ivan.
Stravinsky bowed to this too.
“I need to talk to you,” said Ivan Nikolayevich meaningfully.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Stravinsky responded.
“The thing is this,” began Ivan, sensing that his moment had come, “they’ve dressed me up as a madman and no one wants to listen to me!”
“Oh no, we’ll hear you out very attentively,” said Stravinsky seriously and reassuringly, “and on no account will we allow you to be dressed up as a madman.”
“Well, listen then: yesterday evening at Patriarch’s Ponds I met a mysterious person, possibly a foreigner, who knew in advance about Berlioz’s death and had personally seen Pontius Pilate.”
The retinue listened to the poet in silence and without stirring.
“Pilate? Pilate, that’s the one who was alive at the time of Jesus Christ?” asked Stravinsky, squinting at Ivan.
“The very same.”
“Aha,” said Stravinsky, “and this Berlioz died under a tram?”
“And he was the very one that was killed by a tram in front of me yesterday at Patriarch’s; what’s more, this same enigmatic citizen…”
“Pontius Pilate’s acquaintance?” asked Stravinsky, who was evidently notable for his great insight.
“Precisely,” Ivan confirmed, studying Stravinsky. “So he’d said in advance that Annushka had spilt the sunflower oil. And he did slip on exactly that spot! How do you like that?” enquired Ivan meaningfully, hoping to create a great effect with his words.
But that effect did not ensue, and Stravinsky very simply asked the next question:
“And who’s this Annushka, then?”
This question rather upset Ivan, and he pulled a face.
“Annushka is of no importance whatsoever,” he said fretfully, “the devil knows who she is. Simply some idiot from Sadovaya. The important thing is that he knew in advance – do you understand? – in advance, about the sunflower oil! Do you understand me?”
“I understand perfectly,” replied Stravinsky seriously and, touching the poet’s knee, he added: “Don’t get agitated, carry on.”
“I shall,” said Ivan, trying to hit the same note as Stravinsky, and already aware from bitter experience that calmness alone would help him. “And so this terrible character – and he’s lying about being a consultant – possesses some sort of extraordinary power. For example, you chase after[217] him, but there’s no chance of catching up with him. And there’s another pair with him, and they’re fine ones too, but in their own ways: some lanky man in broken glasses and, on top of that, a tomcat of unbelievable size that can ride on a tram all by itself. On top of that” – uninterrupted, Ivan spoke with ever greater ardour and conviction – “he personally was on Pontius Pilate’s balcony, there’s no doubt whatsoever of that. I mean, what on earth is going on? Eh? He needs to be arrested immediately, otherwise he’ll bring about indescribable calamities.”
“And so what you’re doing is trying to have him arrested? Have I understood you correctly?” asked Stravinsky.
“He’s clever,” thought Ivan,