And so, the unknown man shook his finger at Ivan and whispered: ‘Shhh! ...’
Ivan lowered his legs from the bed and peered. Cautiously looking into the room from the balcony was a clean-shaven, dark-haired man of approximately thirty-eight, with a sharp nose, anxious eyes, and a wisp of hair hanging down on his forehead.
Having listened and made sure that Ivan was alone, the mysterious visitor took heart and stepped into the room. Here Ivan saw that the man was dressed as a patient. He was wearing long underwear, slippers on his bare feet, and a brown dressing-gown thrown over his shoulders.
The visitor winked at Ivan, hid a bunch of keys in his pocket, inquired in a whisper: ‘May I sit down?’ — and receiving an affirmative nod, placed himself in an armchair.
‘How did you get here?’ Ivan asked in a whisper, obeying the dry finger shaken at him. ‘Aren’t the balcony grilles locked?’
The grilles are locked,‘ the guest agreed, ’but Praskovya Fyodorovna, while the dearest person, is also, alas, quite absent-minded. A month ago I stole a bunch of keys from her, and so gained the opportunity of getting out on to the common balcony, which runs around the entire floor, and so of occasionally calling on a neighbour.‘
‘If you can get out on to the balcony, you can escape. Or is it high up?’ Ivan was interested.
‘No,’ the guest replied firmly, ‘I cannot escape from here, not because it’s high up, but because I have nowhere to escape to.’ And he added, after a pause: ‘So, here we sit.’
‘Here we sit,’ Ivan replied, peering into the man’s brown and very restless eyes.
‘Yes ...’ here the guest suddenly became alarmed, ‘but you’re not violent, I hope? Because, you know, I cannot stand noise, turmoil, force, or other things like that. Especially hateful to me are people’s cries, whether cries of rage, suffering, or anything else. Set me at ease, tell me, you’re not violent?’
‘Yesterday in a restaurant I socked one type in the mug,’ the transformed poet courageously confessed.
‘Your grounds?’ the guest asked sternly.
‘No grounds, I must confess,’ Ivan answered, embarrassed.
‘Outrageous,’ the guest denounced Ivan and added: ‘And besides, what a way to express yourself: “socked in the mug” ... It is not known precisely whether a man has a mug or a face. And, after all, it may well be a face. So, you know, using fists ... No, you should give that up, and for good.’
Having thus reprimanded Ivan, the guest inquired:
‘Your profession?’
‘Poet,’ Ivan confessed, reluctantly for some reason.
The visitor became upset.
‘Ah, just my luck!’ he exclaimed, but at once reconsidered, apologized, and asked: ‘And what is your name?’
‘Homeless.’
‘Oh-oh ...’ the guest said, wincing.
‘What, you mean you dislike my poetry?’ Ivan asked with curiosity.
‘I dislike it terribly.’
‘And what have you read.’
‘I’ve never read any of your poetry!’ the visitor exclaimed nervously.
Then how can you say that?‘
‘Well, what of it?’ the guest replied. ‘As if I haven’t read others. Or else ... maybe there’s some miracle? Very well, I’m ready to take it on faith. Is your poetry good? You tell me yourself.’
‘Monstrous!’ Ivan suddenly spoke boldly and frankly.
‘Don’t write any more!’ the visitor asked beseechingly.
‘I promise and I swear!’ Ivan said solemnly.
The oath was sealed with a handshake, and here soft footsteps and voices were heard in the corridor.
‘Shh!’ the guest whispered and, jumping out to the balcony, closed the grille behind him.
Praskovya Fyodorovna peeked in, asked Ivan how he was feeling and whether he wished to sleep in the dark or with a light. Ivan asked her to leave the light on, and Praskovya Fyodorovna withdrew, wishing the patient a good night. And when everything was quiet, the guest came back again.
He informed Ivan in a whisper that there was a new arrival in room 119 — some fat man with a purple physiognomy, who kept muttering something about currency in the ventilation and swearing that unclean powers were living in their place on Sadovaya.
‘He curses Pushkin up and down and keeps shouting: “Kurolesov, encore, encore!”’ the guest said, twitching nervously. Having calmed himself, he sat down, said: ‘Anyway, God help him,’ and continued his conversation with Ivan: ‘So, how did you wind up here?’
‘On account of Pontius Pilate,’ Ivan replied, casting a glum look at the floor.
‘What?!’ the guest cried, forgetting all caution, and clapped his hand over his own mouth. ‘A staggering coincidence! Tell me about it, I beg you, I beg you!’
Feeling trust in the unknown man for some reason, Ivan began, falteringly and timorously at first, then more boldly, to tell about the previous day’s story at the Patriarch’s Ponds. Yes, it was a grateful listener that Ivan Nikolaevich acquired in the person of the mysterious stealer of keys! The guest did not take Ivan for a madman, he showed great interest in what he was being told, and, as the story developed, finally became ecstatic. Time and again he interrupted Ivan with exclamations:
