At this point, as one might expect, silence fell under the lindens.

" Excuse me, " resumed Berlioz after a pause, looking at the nonsense-spouting foreigner, " but what's sunflower oil got to do with it... and who is this Annushka? "

" Here's what the sunflower oil has to do with it, " interjected Bezdomny suddenly, evidently deciding to declare war on their uninvited interlocutor. " You haven't by any chance spent some time in a mental hospital, have you? "

" Ivan! " softly exclaimed Mikhail Alexandrovich.

Neter Talk to Strangers I1

But the foreigner was not the least bit insulted and he burst out with a hearty laugh.

" I have indeed, I have indeed, and more than once! " he exclaimed, laughing, his unsmiling eye still focused on the poet. " And where haven't I beenl I'm only sorry I never managed to ask the professor what schizophrenia is. So you'll have to ask him yourself, Ivan Nikolayevich! "

" How do you know my name? "

" Goodness, Ivan Nikolayevich, who doesn't know you? " At which point the foreigner pulled the previous day's Literary Gazette out of his pocket, and Ivan Nikolayevich saw a picture of himself on the front page and underneath it some of his poems. But the evidence of his fame and popularity which had so delighted the poet the day before now gave him no pleasure whatsoever.

" Excuse me, " he said and his face darkened, " but could you wait a minute? I'd like to have a word with my colleague."

" Oh, by all means! " exclaimed the stranger. " It's so pleasant here under the lindens, and besides I'm in no hurry to go anywhere."

" Look here, Misha, " whispered the poet after taking Berlioz aside, " he isn't a tourist at all, but a spy. He's a Russian emigré who's managed to get back here. Ask to see his papers or he'll get away."

" You really think so? " whispered Berlioz anxiously, thinking to himself, " He's probably right..."

" Mark my words, " hissed the poet in his ear, " he's playing the fool in order to pump us for information. You heard how well he speaks Russian, " said the poet, looking at the stranger out of the comer of his eye to make sure he did not run off. " C'mon, let's grab him or he'll get away."

The poet took Berlioz by the arm and led him over to the bench.

The stranger was no longer seated on the bench, but was standing near it, holding a small booklet bound in dark gray, a thick envelope made of good quality paper, and a visiting card.

" Excuse me, " he said with importance, looking intently at the two men of letters, " but in the heat of our discussion I neglected to introduce myself. Here is my card, my passport, and my invitation to come to Moscow as a consultant."

They became embarrassed. " Damn, he's heard everything, " thought Berlioz, and he made a polite gesture to show that a presentation of papers was not necessary. When the foreigner thrust them at the editor, the poet managed to make out the word " Professor" written on the card in foreign letters and also the first letter of his surname—the double V, a " W."

Meanwhile the editor mumbled an embarrassed " I'm very pleased to meet you, " and the foreigner shoved the documents into his pocket.