At this point the madman produced such a laugh that a sparrow darted out of the linden tree overhead.

" Well, now, this is really getting interesting, " cried the professor, shaking with laughter. " What is it with you? Whatever comes up you say doesn't existí " Suddenly he stopped laughing, and, as often happens with the mentally ill, he went from laughter to the other extreme: he became irritated and shouted harshly, " So, then, you're quite sure he doesn't exist? "

" Calm down, calm down, calm down, Professor, " muttered Berlioz, afraid of exciting the sick man. " Just sit here for a moment with comrade Bezdomny while I run to the corner and make a call, and then we'll take you wherever you want to go. After all, you don't know the city..."

It has to be said that Berlioz's plan of action was the correct one: to run to the nearest telephone and inform the office in charge of foreigners that a visiting consultant from abroad was sitting at Patriarch's Ponds in an obviously deranged state. And that measures should be taken to prevent any unpleasantness.

" You want to make a call? Fine, go ahead, " the sick man said, giving his sad consent and suddenly making an impassioned plea, " But as we part, I implore you, at least believe that the devil exists! I ask no more than that. Keep in mind that for this we have the seventh proof, the most reliable of them all! And you are about to get a demonstration."

" Fine, fine, " said Berlioz in an insincerely placating way, and after winking at the dismayed poet, who was by no means enchanted by the idea of guarding the mad German, he made for the exit from Patriarch's Ponds that was located at the corner of Bronnaya Street and Yermolayevsky Lane.

Then suddenly the professor seemed to recover and cheer up.

" Mikhail Alexandrovich! " he shouted after Berlioz.

Berlioz shuddered and turned around, but comforted himself with the thought that the professor had learned his name and patronymic from reading the newspapers. Cupping his hands like a megaphone, the professor shouted, " Wouldn't you like me to have a telegram sent to your uncle in Kiev right away? "

And once again Berlioz was given a jolt. How did the madman know that he had an uncle in Kiev? That certainly hadn't appeared in any newspaper. Perhaps Bezdomny's right after all? And what about those fake documents of his? What an oddball he is! Get to a phone! Get to a phone! Call right away! It won't take them long to figure out who he is!

The Master and Margarita

And without listening to another word, Berlioz ran off.

Just then, at the exit to Bronnaya Street, a man got up from a bench and walked over to the editor. He was none other than the same fellow who earlier, in broad daylight, had materialized out of the dense heat. Only now, he was no longer made of air, but of ordinary flesh and blood, and in the gathering twilight Berlioz could clearly see that his wispy mustache looked like chicken feathers, his beady little eyes looked ironical and half-drunk, and his checked trousers had been yanked up so high you could see his dirty white socks.