The Master and Margarita

CHAPTER 3. The Seventh Proof      'Yes,  it was  around  ten  o'clock in  the morning, my  esteemed  IvanNikolaevich,' said the professor.     The poet passed his  hand over his face like a man  just coming to  hissenses, and saw that it  was  evening at the Patriarch's Ponds. The water inthe pond had turned black, and a light boat was  now gliding on it,  and onecould hear  the splash of oars  and the  giggles of some  citizeness  in thelittle  boat. The public appeared on the benches  along the walks, but againon  the other  three  sides  of  the square,  and not on the side where  ourinterlocutors were.     The sky over Moscow seemed to lose colour, and the  full moon could  beseen  quite  distinctly high above,  not yet  golden but white. It  was mucheasier  to breathe,  and the voices  under the lindens  now sounded  softer,eveningish.     'How  is it I didn't notice that he'd  managed to spin a whole story? ...'  Homeless thought in amazement. 'It's already evening!  ... Or maybe  hewasn't telling it, but I simply fell asleep and dreamed it all?'     But  it must be supposed that the  professor  did tell  the story afterall, otherwise it  would  have to be assumed that  Berlioz had had  the samedream, because he said, studying the foreigner's face attentively:     'Your story is  extremely  interesting,  Professor,  though it does notcoincide at all with the Gospel stories.'     'Good heavens,'  the professor responded, smiling condescendingly, 'youof all people  should know that precisely nothing of  what is written in theGospels ever  actually took place,  and if we start referring to the Gospelsas  a historical  source  .  .  .' he  smiled once more, and Berlioz stoppedshort, because  this was  literally the same thing  he  had been  saying  toHomeless as they walked down Bronnaya towards the Patriarch's Ponds.     'That's so,' Berlioz replied, 'but I'm afraid no one can  confirm  thatwhat you've just told us actually took place either.'     'Oh, yes! That there is one who can!' the professor, beginning to speakin  broken  language,  said  with  great  assurance,  and   with  unexpectedmysteriousness he motioned the two friends to move closer.     They leaned towards him from both sides, and he said, but again withoutany accent, which with him, devil knows why, now appeared, now disappeared:     The thing is . ..' here the professor looked around fearfully and spokein a  whisper, 'that  I was personally present at  it  all. I was on PontiusPilate's balcony, and in the  garden when  he talked  with Kaifa, and on theplatform,  only  secredy, incognito, so to speak,  and therefore I beg you -not a word to anyone, total secrecy, shh . . .'     Silence fell, and Berlioz paled.     'YOU ..  . how long have you been in  Moscow?' he asked in a  quaveringvoice.     'I just  arrived  in  Moscow  this  very  minute,' the  professor  saidperplexedly, and only here  did it occur to the friends to take a  good lookin  his eyes, at which they  became  convinced that his left  eye, the greenone, was totally insane, while the right one was empty, black and dead.     'There's   the  whole   explanation  for  you!'  Berlioz   thought   inbewilderment. 'A mad German has turned up, or  just went crazy at the Ponds.What a story!'     Yes, indeed, that explained the whole thing: the most strange breakfastwith  the  late philosopher Kant, the foolish talk about  sunflower  oil andAnnushka, the  predictions about his  head being cut off and all the rest  -the professor was mad.     Berlioz  realized  at once  what had  to  be done. Leaning  back on thebench, he winked  to  Homeless behind the professor's back -  meaning, don'tcontradict him - but the perplexed poet did not understand these signals.     'Yes,  yes,  yes,'  Berlioz  said  excitedly,  'incidentally  it's  allpossible . . . even very  possible, Pontius Pilate, and the balcony,  and soforth . . . Did you come alone or with your wife?'     'Alone, alone, I'm always alone,' the professor replied bitterly.     'And where  are  your things, Professor?'  Berlioz asked insinuatingly.'At the Metropol?* Where are you staying?'     'I? ...  Nowhere,'  the  half-witted  German  answered, his  green  eyewandering in wild anguish over the Patriarch's Ponds.     'How's that? But .. . where are you going to live?'     'In your apartment,' the madman suddenly said brashly, and winked.     'I ... I'm  very  glad ...' Berlioz began  muttering, 'but, really, youwon't be comfortable at my place  ...  and they have  wonderful rooms at theMetropol, it's a first-class hotel...'     'And there's no  devil either?' the sick man  suddenly inquired merrilyof Ivan Nikolaevich.     'No devil. . .'     'Don't contradict him,' Berlioz whispered with his  lips only, droppingbehind the professor's back and making faces.     There isn't  any  devil!' Ivan Nikolaevich,  at a loss  from  all  thisbalderdash, cried out  not what he ought.  'What a punishment!  Stop playingthe psycho!'     Here the insane man burst into such laughter that a sparrow flew out ofthe linden over the seated men's heads.     'Well, now that is positively interesting!' the professor said, shakingwith  laughter. 'What is it  with you -  no matter what one asks for,  thereisn't  any!' He suddenly stopped  laughing  and, quite understandably for  amentally ill person,  fell into the opposite extreme after  laughing, becamevexed and cried sternly: 'So you mean there just simply isn't any?'     'Calm down, calm  down, calm  down. Professor,'  Berlioz  muttered, forfear of  agitating the  sick  man.  'You sit here for a  little minute  withComrade Homeless,  and I'll just run to the comer to  make a phone call, andthen we'll take you wherever you like. You don't know the city . . .'     Berlioz's plan must be  acknowledged as correct:  he had  to run to thenearest public  telephone  and  inform the  foreigners' bureau, thus and so,there's some consultant  from abroad sitting at  the Patriarch's Ponds in anobviously abnormal  state. So it was  necessary  to take measures, lest someunpleasant nonsense result.     To make a call? Well, then make your call,' the sick man  agreed sadly,and suddenly begged  passionately: 'But  I  implore  you, before you go,  atleast believe that the devil exists! I no  longer ask you for anything more.Mind you, there exists a seventh proof of  it,  the surest of all! And it isgoing to be presented to you right now!'     'Very good, very good,' Berlioz said with false tenderness and, winkingto  the upset poet, who  did  not relish at all the idea of guarding the madGerman, set out for  the exit from the Ponds at the  comer  of  Bronnaya andYermolaevsky Lane.     And the professor seemed to recover his health and brighten up at once.     'Mikhail Alexandrovich!' he shouted after Berlioz.     The  latter gave  a start, looked back, but reassured  himself with thethought that  the  professor had also  learned his name and patronymic  fromsome newspaper.     Then the professor called out, cupping his hands like a megaphone:     'Would  you  like  me to have  a telegram sent at once to your uncle inKiev?'     And again Berlioz winced. How does  the madman know about the existenceof  a  Kievan  uncle?  That  has  certainly  never  been  mentioned  in  anynewspapers. Oh-oh, maybe Homeless is right after all? And suppose his papersare  phoney?  Ah,  what a  strange  specimen ...  Call, call! Call  at once!They'll quickly explain him!     And, no longer listening to anything, Berlioz ran on.     Here, just at the exit to Bronnaya, there rose from a bench to meet theeditor exactly the  same citizen  who in  the  sunlight  earlier had  formedhimself out of the thick swelter. Only now he was no longer made of air, butordinary,  fleshly,  and Berlioz  clearly  distinguished  in  the  beginningtwilight that he  had  a little moustache like  chicken feathers, tiny eyes,ironic and half drunk, and  checkered trousers pulled  up so  high that  hisdirty white socks showed.     Mikhail Alexandrovich  drew back,  but reassured himself  by reflectingthat it  was  a stupid coincidence and that generally  there was no  time tothink about it now.     'Looking for the turnstile,  citizen?' the checkered type inquired in acracked  tenor. This way,  please! Straight on and  you'll  get where you'regoing. How  about  a little  pint pot  for my  information ...  to set up anex-choirmaster! . ..' Mugging, the specimen swept his jockey's cap from  hishead.     Berlioz,  not  stopping  to   listen   to   the  cadging  and  clowningchoir-master,  ran up to the turnstile and took hold of it with his hand. Heturned it and was just about  to step across  the  rails when  red and whitelight  splashed  in  his face.  A  sign  lit up  in  a  glass box:  'CautionTram-Car!'     And right then this tram-car came racing along, turning down the  newlylaid line  from Yermolaevsky to Bronnaya. Having  turned,  and coming to thestraight stretch, it suddenly  lit  up inside  with electricity, whined, andput on speed.     The prudent Berlioz, though he was standing in a safe place, decided toretreat behind the stile, moved his hand on  the crossbar, and stepped back.And right then his hand slipped and slid, one foot, unimpeded, as if on ice,went down the cobbled slope leading to the rails, the other  was thrust intothe air, and Berlioz was thrown on to the rails.     Trying to get hold of  something, Berlioz  fell backwards, the back  ofhis head  lightly striking the cobbles, and had time  to see high up --  butwhether to right or  left he  no  longer knew --  the  gold-tinged moon.  Hemanaged  to turn on his  side, at  the same moment drawing his  legs  to hisstomach  in  a frenzied movement, and, while turning, to make out the  face,completely white with horror, and the  crimson armband  of the  woman driverbearing down on him  with irresistible  force. Berlioz did not cry  out, butaround him the whole street screamed with desperate female voices.     The woman driver tore at the  electric brake, the car dug its nose intothe ground, then instantly jumped up, and glass flew from the windows with acrash and a jingle. Here someone in Berlioz's brain cried  desperately: 'Canit be? . ..' Once more, and for  the  last time, the  moon  flashed, but nowbreaking to pieces, and then it became dark.     The tram-car went over Berlioz, and  a round dark object was  thrown upthe  cobbled  slope below the fence  of the Patriarch's walk.  Having rolledback down this slope, it went bouncing along the cobblestones of the street.     It was the severed head of Berlioz.