Михаил Булгаков - Diaboliad

«Take it. Let a non-Party, fellow-travelling old man starve to death. Go on. That's all he's good for, the old cur. Only remember this, Mr. Kolobkov.» The old man's voice grew prophetically ominous and rang out like a bell. «They will do you no good, those satanic shekels. They'll stick in your throat.» And the old man burst into heavy sobs.

Korotkov was gripped by hysteria. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly for himself, he began stamping his feet.

«To hell with you!» he shouted shrilly and his sick voice echoed round the vaults. «I'm not Kolobkov. Leave me alone! I'm not Kolobkov. And I'm not going anywhere!»

He tore at his collar.

The old man dried up at once and began quaking with fear.

«Next one!» someone barked behind the door. Korotkov paused and rushed inside. He turned left, past some typewriters, and found himself in front of a well-built elegant blond-haired man in a blue suit. Blondy nodded to Korotkov and said:

«Make it snappy, Comrade. No beating about the bush. What's it to be? Poltava or Irkutsk?

«My documents have been stolen,» the confused Korotkov replied, looking round wildly. «Then a cat turned up. It's not fair. I've never been in a fight in my life. It was the matches. I shouldn't be victimised. I don't care if he's Longjohn. My documents have…»

«That's rubbish,» replied Blondy. «We'll provide the uniform, shirts and sheets. Even a second-hand sheepskin jacket, if it's Irkutsk. Make it snappy.»

He turned a key musically in a lock, pulled out a drawer, looked inside it and said:

«Alright, Sergei Nikolayevich.»

Out of the ash-wood drawer peeped a well-combed flaxen-haired head with darting blue eyes. After it curved a snake-like neck in a crackling starched collar, then a jacket, arms and trousers, and a second later a whole secretary crawled onto the red baize squeaking «Good morning.» Shaking himself like a dog after a swim, he jumped down, turned back his cuffs, pulled a fountain pen out of his pocket and began scribbling.

Korotkov recoiled, stretched out a hand and said plaintively to Blondy:

«Look, look, he climbed out of the desk. What's going on?»

«Of course, he did,» Blondy replied. «He can't stay in there all day, can he? It's time. Tempus. Time-keeping.»

«But how? How?» rang Korotkov.

«For heaven's sake,» Blondy snapped. «Don't waste my time, Comrade.»

The brunette's head looked round the door and shouted excitedly and joyfully:

«I've already sent his documents to Poltava. And I'm going with him. I've got an aunt in Poltava at 43 degrees latitude and five longitude.»

«That's splendid,» Blondy replied. «I'm sick of all this shilly-shallying.»

«I refuse!» shouted Korotkov, with a wandering expression. «I'll have to take her, body and soul, and I couldn't stand that. I refuse! Give me back my documents. My precious surname. Reinstate me!»

«That's a matter for the matrimonial department, Comrade,» squeaked the secretary. «We can't do anything about that.»

«Silly boy!» exclaimed the brunette, peeping in again. «Say yes! Say yes!» she hissed in a prompter's whisper. Her head kept darting in and out.

«Comrade!» Korotkov sobbed, rubbing his tear-stained face. «Comrade! Give me my documents, I beseech you. Be a friend. Please, I beg you with all the fibres of my soul, and I'll go into a monastery.»

«Cut out the hysterics, Comrade! Kindly inform me concretely and abstractly, in writing and by word of mouth, urgently and confidentially — Poltava or Irkutsk? Don't waste a busy person's time! No walking along the corridors! No spitting! No smoking! No asking for small change!» Blondy thundered, losing his temper.

«All handshaking abolished!» the secretary cuckooed.

«Long live clinches!» the brunette whispered passionately and rushed round the room like a gust of wind, wafting lilies-of-the-valley over Korotkov's neck.

«The thirteenth commandment says: thou shalt not go in to thy neighbour without notification,» muttered the glossy old man and fluttered around in the air, flapping the edges of his cloak. «I'm not going in. No, sir. But I'll palm a memo off on you all the same. Here you are, plop! You'd sign anything. And land up in the dock too.» He tossed sheets of paper out of his wide black sleeve, and they floated about, settling on the desks like gulls on seashore cliffs.

The room turned dark and the windows rocked.

«Comrade Blondy,» the exhausted Korotkov wept. «You can shoot me on the spot, but please issue me some kind of document. And I'll kiss your hand.»

In the darkness Blondy began to swell and grow, frantically signing the old man's sheets of paper and tossing them to the secretary, who caught them with a happy gurgle.

«To hell with him!» Blondy thundered. «To hell with him! Typists, hey!»

He waved an enormous hand, the wall disintegrated before Korotkov's eyes, and the thirty typewriters on the desks rang their bells and began to play a foxtrot. Swaying their hips, shaking their shoulders sensuously and kicking up a white foam with their cream legs, thirty women did a conga round the desks.

White snakes of paper slithered into the typewriters' jaws and were joined, cut out and sewn into a pair of white trousers with violet side-stripes which said «The bearer of this really is the bearer, and not just a worthless scallywag.»

«Put them on!» Blondy roared in the mist.

«Aaah,» whimpered Korotkov and began banging his head against the corner of Blondy's desk. His head felt better for a moment, and Korotkov caught a glimpse of a tear-stained face.

«Valerian drops!» cried someone on the ceiling.

The cloak obscured the light, like a black bird, and the old man whispered in alarm:

«Our only hope now is Dyrkin in section five. Hurry up! Hurry up!»

There was a smell of ether, and Korotkov was carried gently into the semi-dark corridor. The cloak enveloped him and swept him along, whispering and giggling: «I've done them a good turn alright. That stuff I threw on their desks will get each of them at least five years with loss of civil rights on the field of battle. Hurry up! Hurry up!»

The cloak fluttered to one side, and a damp gust of air wafted from the lift shaft plunging into the abyss.

The mirrored cabin began to sink down, and two Korotkovs sank with it. The second Korotkov was forgotten in the mirror of the lift by the first and main one, who walked out alone into the cool vestibule. A very fat and pink gent in a top hat greeted Korotkov with the words:

«That's wonderful. I'm going to arrest you.»

«You can't do that,» Korotkov replied with a satanic laugh, «because nobody knows who I am. Of course not. You can't arrest me or marry me. And I'm not going to Poltava either.»

The fat man quaked with terror, looked into Korotkov's eyes and began to sink backwards.

«Arrest me,» Korotkov squealed and stuck out a pale quivering tongue smelling of Valerian drops at the fat man. «How can you arrest me if instead of documents I've got sweet fanny adams? Perhaps I'm a Hohenzollern.»

«Jesus Christ,» said the fat man, crossing himself with a trembling hand and turning from pink to yellow.

«Longjohn turned up?» Korotkov asked abruptly, looking round. «Answer me, Fatty.»

«Oh, no,» the fat man replied, his pink complexion changing to grey.

«Well, what shall I do now then? Eh?»

«Go and see Dyrkin himself,» the fat man babbled. «That's the best thing. Only he's a real terror! Don't get too close. He sent two people flying. And today he broke a phone.»

«Alright then,» Korotkov replied with a devil-may-care spit. «We've nothing to lose now. Lift me up!»

«Don't hurt your leg, Comrade Delegate,» said the fat man tenderly, helping Korotkov into the lift.