“They tell me, governor, that it’s bad for a car to stand still,” she cooed in her creaky voice, peering under the front bumper. “They say it’s good for it to drive it around. And have no fear, I’d make sure to pay….
I was not inclined to drive to Bald Mountain. In the first place, my friends could show up any minute. In the second place, the old woman was even more distasteful to me in her cooing version that in her snarling mode. Further, it developed that it was ninety versts (Sixty-three miles) one way to Bald Mountain, and when I asked the old lady about the condition of the road, she joyfully told mc not to worry—that it was quite smooth, but that in case of any trouble, she would push it out herself. (“Don’t assume that I am plain old, governor; I am still quite vigorous.”) After the first unsuccessful assault, the crone retreated temporarily and went off into the cottage. At which point Basil the tomcat came to visit me under the car. For a long minute, he watched my manipulations and then enunciated in a low voice, but very clearly, “I don’t advise it, citizen, mn-e-eh… I don’t advise it. You’ll be eaten,” after which he departed precipitately, tail a-quiver.
I wanted badly to be very careful, and so when the crone launched her second attack, I demanded fifty rubles, so as to put an end to the game once and for all. She desisted at once, regarding me with fresh respect.
I did the DC and the TS, drove to the gas station to fill up with the greatest of care, had dinner in dining room No. 11, and was once again subjected to document inspection by the vigilant Kovalev. To clear my conscience, I inquired of him the state of the road to Bald Mountain. The young sergeant considered me with vast disbelief and said, “Road? What are you talking about, citizen? What road? There isn’t any road.” When I returned home, it was already raining heavily.
The crone had departed. Tomcat had disappeared. In the well, someone sang in duet voices, and that was both frightening and somehow woeful. Soon the shower was replaced with a dismal fine rain. It grew dark.
I retreated to my room and attempted to experiment with the changeling book. However, it had somehow broken down. Maybe I was doing something wrong, or the weather influenced it, but it remained as it had been, Practical Exercises in Syntax and Punctuation by F.F. Kuzmin, no matter what I tried. Reading such a book seemed simply impossible, so I tried my luck with the mirror. But it reflected anything at all and remained silent. Nothing to do but lie down on the sofa.
Lulled by boredom and the sound of the rain, I was beginning to doze when the telephone rang. I went out in the hall and picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
There was a silence against a background of static.
“Hello,” I said, blowing into the mouthpiece. “Press the button.”
There was no reply.
“Tap on the set,” I counseled. The receiver was quiet. I blew again, pulled on the cable, and said, “Call again from a different set.”
Then there was a rude query.
“Is this Alexander?”
“Yes.” I was surprised.
“Why don’t you answer?”
“I am answering. Who’s this?”
“This is Petrovski, bothering you. Go on over to the pickling shop and tell the master to give me a call.”
“What master?”
“Well, who’s there today?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean “I don’t know’? Is this Alexander?”
“Look here, citizen,” I said. “What number are you calling?”
“Number seventy-two… Is that seventy-two?” I couldn’t tell.
“Apparently not,” I said.
“Why do you say you are Alexander?” “Because I really am Alexander.” “Drat. . is this the agency?”
“No,” I said. “This is the museum.”
“Ah… in that case, I apologize. You can’t call the master ”
I hung up. I stood a while looking around the entry. It had five doors. One to my room, one to the yard, one to the crone’s room, one to the washroom, and one other covered with iron sheeting with a huge padlock.
It’s dreary, I thought. Lonely. And the lamp is dim and dusty…. Dragging my feet, I returned to my room and stopped at the threshold.
The sofa was not there.
Everything else was exactly as before: the table, the stove, the mirror, the wardrobe, and the stool. The book, too, lay on the windowsill just as I had left it. On the floor, where the sofa had been, there remained only a very dusty, littered rectangle. Then I saw the bedclothes very tidily put away in the wardrobe.
“Just now there was a sofa here,” I said aloud. “I was lying on it.”
Something about the house had changed. The room was filled with an indefinable noise. Someone was talking, there were strains of music, somewhere people were laughing, coughing, scraping their feet. A dim shadow momentarily shut off the light from the lamp; the floorboards creaked loudly. Next there was an abrupt medicinal smell, and a chill blew into my face, I backed up. At the same time, there was a clear and insistent knocking on the outside door. The noise died away instantly. Looking over at the spot previously occupied by the sofa, I went out in the entry again and opened the door.
Standing before me in the drizzle was an elegant man of smallish stature, wearing a short cream-colored raincoat of immaculate cleanliness, with its collar raised. He removed his hat and pronounced in a dignified manner:
“Begging your pardon, Alexander Ivanovich. Would you be so kind as to allow me five minutes to converse with you?”
“Of course,” I said distractedly. “Come in….”
I saw this man for the first time in my life, and the thought flashed through my mind that he might be connected with the local police. The stranger stepped into the hall and made a motion to enter my room directly. I blocked his way. I don’t know why I did it; most likely I did not relish the prospect of questions about the dust and litter on the floor.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled. “Perhaps we can talk here… my place is in disorder. And there’s nothing to sit on….”
He jerked his head in reaction.
“How’s that—nothing?” he said quietly. “And the sofa?”
We stood a good minute regarding each other in silence.
“Mmm—. what—the sofa?” I asked in a whisper for some reason.
The stranger lowered his eyes.
“Oh, so that’s the way it is?” he said slowly. “I understand. Too bad. Well, in that case, excuse me….
He nodded his head politely, put on his hat, and advanced determinedly toward the washroom door.
“Where are you going?” I cried. “You are going the wrong way!”
Without turning around, the stranger muttered, “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” and disappeared behind the door. Automatically, I turned on the light, waited a while, listening, and then threw the door open. There was nobody in the washroom. Carefully I drew out a cigarette and lighted it.
The sofa, I thought. What has the sofa to do with it? I had never heard any fairy tale about a sofa. There was a flying carpet; there was the magical tablecloth. There was the invisibility hat, the seven-league boots, the playing harp. There was the magic mirror. But there was no magic sofa. Sofas were for sitting or lying on; there was something respectable and ordinary about them…. In fact, what fantasy could be inspired by a sofa?
Returning to my room, I was at once aware of The Small Man. He was sitting on top of the stove, up against the ceiling, twisted into an uncomfortable pose. He had a puckered unshaved face and hairy gray ears.