472
MIKHAIL ZOSHCHENKO
He goes over to the wall and, putting
his
ear to it, listens.
I begin to realize he is mad.
Having listened at the wall, he sits down in the chair again
and covers his face with both hands.
I
see he is
in
despair.
"What's the matter?"
I
ask.
"They're after me," he says.
"I
was
in
a streetcar a moment
ago and
I
heard their voices clearly: 'There he goes ... catch
him . . . seize him . . .' "
He covers his face again with his hands. Then he says
quietly:
"You alone can save me.. . ."
"How?"
"We will swap surnames. You will be Gorshkov and I'll
be
the poet Zoshchenko." (That's what he said-"poet.")
"Good.
I
agree,"
I
say.
He jumps towards me and shakes my hand.
"And who is after you?"
I
ask.
"I
can't say."
"But
I
have to know since I'm taking your name."
Wringing his hands, he says:
"That's the point;
I
don't know myself.
I
can only hear
their voices and at night
I
see their hands. They reach out
towards me from all sides.
I
know they'll seize me and strangle
me."
His nervousness is transferred to me.
I
feel unwell. My head
spins. There are spots before my eyes.
If
he doesn't go away
im·
mediately,
I
shall probably faint. He has a devastating effect on
me.
Gathering my strength,
I
mumble:
"Go away. You now have my name. You can relax." He
leaves with a joyful expression.
I
lie down on the bed and feel a terrible misery overpower·
ing me.
[
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