Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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come and sort it all out in no time.
Without waiting to hear any more, Berlioz ran on.
At the park gates leading into Bronnaya Street, the identical man, whom
a short while ago the editor had seen materialise out of a mirage, got up
from a bench and walked toward him. This time, however, he was not made of
air but of flesh and blood. In the early twilight Berlioz could clearly
distinguish his feathery little moustache, his little eyes, mocking and half
drunk, his check trousers pulled up so tight that his dirty white socks were
showing.
Mikhail Alexandrovich stopped, but dismissed it as a ridiculous
coincidence. He had in any case no time to stop and puzzle it out now.
'Are you looking for the turnstile, sir? ' enquired the check-clad man
in a quavering tenor. ' This way, please! Straight on for the exit. How
about the price of a drink for showing you the way, sir? ... church
choirmaster out of work, sir ... need a helping hand, sir. . . .' Bending
double, the weird creature pulled off his jockey cap in a sweeping gesture.
Without stopping to listen to the choirmaster's begging and whining,
Berlioz ran to the turnstile and pushed it. Having passed through he was
just about to step off the pavement and cross the tramlines when a white and
red light flashed in his face and the pedestrian signal lit up with the
words ' Stop! Tramway!' A tram rolled into view, rocking slightly along the
newly-laid track that ran down Yermolayevsky Street and into Bronnaya. As it
turned to join the main line it suddenly switched its inside lights on,
hooted and accelerated.
Although he was standing in safety, the cautious Berlioz decided to
retreat behind the railings. He put his hand on the turnstile and took a
step backwards. He missed his grip and his foot slipped on the cobbles as
inexorably as though on ice. As it slid towards the tramlines his other leg