Михаил Булгаков: Diaboliad

«What's that? What's that?» Korotkov cracked twice, like an Alpine glass being smashed on someone's heel. «That's his surname — Longjohn?»

At the terrible word the General Office splashed off in different directions and in no time at all were sitting at their tables, like crows on a telegraph wire. Korotkov's face turned from a mouldy putrid green to a spotted purple.

«Deary me, deary me,» Skvorets intoned from a distance, peeping out of his ledger. «How could you have dropped a clanger like that? Eh?»

«B-but I th-thought…» the fragments of Korotkov's voice grated. «I read 'longjohns' instead of 'Longjohn'. He writes his name with a small Т and does a twiddle at the end!»

«I won't wear underpants, he needn't worry!» Lidochka tinkled.

«Shush!» hissed Skvorets snake-like. «What a thing to say!» He dived down and took refuge in his ledger, hiding behind a page.

«And it's not true, what he says about my face!» Korotkov cried quietly, turning white as ermine instead of purple. «I burnt my eye on those foul matches of ours, like Comrade de Runi!»

«Be quiet!» squealed Gitis, turning pale. «What are you saying? He tested them yesterday and said they were excellent.»

Rrrr. The electric bell over the door rang suddenly. Panteleimon's heavy body slid off the stool and trundled along the corridor.

«I'll tell him. I'll tell him!» chanted Korotkov in a high, reedy voice. He dashed to the left, then to the right, ran about ten paces on the spot, his reflection distorted in the dusty Alpine mirrors, dived into the corridor and ran towards the light of the dim bulb hanging over a notice saying «Private Rooms». Panting hard, he stopped in front of the terrible door to find himself in the arms of Panteleimon.

«Comrade Panteleimon,» Korotkov began anxiously. «Let me in, please. I must see the boss straightaway…»

«You can't, he says not to let anyone in,» Panteleimon croaked, drowning Korotkov's determination in a terrible smell of onion. «You can't. Go away, Mr. Korotkov, or you'll get me into trouble…»

«But I must, Panteleimon,» Korotkov asked weakly. «You see, my dear Panteleimon, there's been an order-Please let me pass, be a good chap.»

«Oh, my goodness…» muttered Panteleimon, glancing at the door in fright. «You can't, I say. You can't, Comrade!»

Inside the office the telephone rang loudly and a copper-heavy voice barked:

«I'm leaving now! This very moment!»

Panteleimon and Korotkov moved aside. The door flew open and out into the corridor rushed Longjohn in an army cap with a briefcase under his arm. Panteleimon trotted along behind him, and after a moment's hesitation Korotkov raced off behind Panteleimon. At a bend in the corridor Korotkov, pale and agitated, darted under Panteleimon's arm, overtook Longjohn and ran along backwards in front of him.

«Comrade Longjohn,» he mumbled with a catch in his throat. «Just let me say something, please. About the order…»

«Comrade!» the preoccupied and hurrying Longjohn roared furiously, trying to race past Korotkov. «Can't you see, I'm busy. I'm on my way.»

«It's about the ord…»

«Can't you see I'm busy? Go to the Chief Clerk.»

Longjohn raced into the vestibule, where the huge unwanted organ of the Alpine Rose was standing on the floor.

«But I am the Chief Clerk!» squealed Korotkov in horror, breaking into a cold sweat. «Please listen to me, Comrade Longjohn.»

«Comrade!» Longjohn honked like a siren, not taking the slightest notice. Still running he turned to Panteleimon and shouted: «Take measures to stop me being detained!»

«Comrade!» Panteleimon croaked with fright. «Stop detaining.»

And not knowing what measures to take, he took the following one. Putting his arms round Korotkov's torso, he drew him close as if it were the woman of his heart. The measure was most effective. Longjohn whizzed past, raced downstairs as if on roller skates, and shot out of the front door.

«Brrm! Brrm!» shouted a motor-cycle outside the windows, fired five shots and disappeared, veiling the panes with smoke. Only then did Panteleimon let go of Korotkov, wipe the sweat off his face and howl:

«God help us!»

«Panteleimon…» asked Korotkov in a shaky voice. «Where's he gone? Tell me quickly, or he'll get someone else…»

«I think it's CENTROSUPP.»

Korotkov raced downstairs like the wind, sped into the cloakroom, snatched up his coat and hat and ran into the street.

Korotkov was in luck. At that very moment a tram drew up by the Alpine Rose. Korotkov managed to jump on, then worked his way quickly to the front, bumping against the braking wheel and sacks on people's backs. His heart burned with hope. The motor-cycle had been held up for some reason. It was now rattling away in front of the tram, and the square back in the cloud of blue smoke kept vanishing and coming into view again. For five minutes or so Korotkov was bumped and shaken about on the platform. At last the motor-cycle stopped by the grey building of CENT-ROSUPP. The square body was obscured by passers-by and disappeared. Korotkov fought his way off the tram while it was still going, spun round in a semi-circle, fell down, banged his knee and, under the very nose of an automobile, raced into the vestibule.

Covering the floors with wet patches, crowds of people were either walking towards Korotkov or overtaking him. He caught a glimpse of the square back on the second flight of stairs and hurried after it, panting hard. Longjohn was climbing up with a strange, unnatural speed, and Korotkov's heart sank at the thought that he might lose him. Which is precisely what happened. On the fifth landing, when the Chief Clerk was completely exhausted, the back melted into the crowd of faces, caps and briefcases. Korotkov flew up to the landing like lightning and hesitated for a moment before a door with two notices on it. One in gold lettering on green said «Pepinieres' Dortoir», while the other in black on white said «HQ. Supp. Sec. Bd.» Korotkov hurried through these doors at random and saw huge glass cages and lots of fair-haired women scurrying between them. He opened the first glass door and saw a man in a blue suit inside. He was sprawling across his desk, laughing gaily into the telephone. In the second compartment the desk was covered with the complete works of Sheller-Mikhailov, and next to them an elderly woman in a frock was weighing some foul-smelling dried fish on scales. In the third was a rhythmic endless clatter interspersed with little rings — there behind six typewriters, laughing and tapping away, sat six fair-headed, small-toothed women. Behind the last door was a vast expanse with plump columns. An excruciating clatter of typewriters filled the air, and lots of heads could be seen, male and female, but there was no sign of» Longjohn's. Confused and exhausted, Korotkov stopped the first woman he met, who was running past, carrying a mirror. «You haven't seen Longjohn, have you?» His heart sank with joy, when the woman replied, opening her eyes wide:

«Yes, but he's just leaving. Hurry up and catch him.» Korotkov galloped across the hall of columns in the direction in which the small white hand with shiny red nails was pointing. On the other side he found himself on a narrow, darkish landing by the open jaws of a lift with the light on. Korotkov's heart sank into his shoes. He'd caught him up. The square blanketed back and shiny black briefcase were passing into the gaping jaws. «Comrade Longjohn!» Korotkov shouted and stiffened with horror. Green circles started hopping about on the landing. Bars slid over the glass door, the lift moved, and the square back turned round, changing into a powerful chest. Korotkov recognised everything: the grey jacket, the cap, the briefcase and the currant eyes. It was Longjohn alright, but Longjohn with a long Assyrian-goffered beard down to his chest. The thought immediately flashed through Korotkov's mind: «He must have grown a beard while he was riding the motor-cycle and running up the stairs — but that's impossible!» This was followed by a second thought: «It's a false beard — but that's ridiculous!»