“I beg your pardon,” I said, “You mentioned Giuseppe Balsamo… But he is the same person as Count Cagliostro! And according to Alexei Tolstoy, the count was fat and very unpleasant-looking.”
The Little Man looked at me pityingly and smiled condescendingly. “You’re simply not aware of the facts, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said. “Count Cagliostro is not at all the same as the great Balsamo. He is… how can I explain it to you… He is a rather unsuccessful copy of him. In his youth Balsamo made a matrix mold of himself. He was quite exceptionally talented, but you know how it is when you’re young… Get it done quick, have a laugh, any old way will do… Yes indeed… So don’t you ever say that Balsamo and Cagliostro are the same. You could end up feeling rather stupid.”
I felt rather stupid. “All right,” I said, “of course, I’m no specialist, but… pardon my impertinence, but what’s all this business with the sofa about? Who’s taken it?”
The Little Man shuddered. “Such unpardonable conceit,” he said loudly, getting to his feet. “I made a mistake and I am prepared to admit it without the slightest reservation. When giants like that… And there are those impudent boys too…” He started bowing and pressing his pale little hands to his heart. “Please forgive my intrusion, Alexander Ivanovich, I have inconvenienced you… Allow me to apologize unreservedly once again and take my leave immediately.” He moved closer to the oven and glanced upward apprehensively. “It’s my age, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said with a deep sigh. “My age…”
“Perhaps it would be more convenient if you went through the… err… There was another comrade here just before you and he used it.”
“Ahh, my dear fellow, then that was Cristóbal Junta! Seeping ten leagues through the drains is no problem for him…” The Little Man gestured mournfully. “We’re not up to that sort of thing… Did he take the sofa with him or transgress it?”
“I-I don’t know,” I said. “Well actually, he got here too late as well.”
The Little Man plucked at the fur in his right ear in stupefaction. “Too late? Him? Incredible! But then, who are you and I to judge? Good-bye, Alexander Ivanovich. Please forgive me.”
With a visible effort he walked through the wall and disappeared. I tossed my cigarette butt into the rubbish lying on the floor. This sofa was big news all right! Not your garden-variety talking cat. This was something more serious altogether… There was real drama here. Perhaps even a genuine drama of the intellect. There would probably be others arriving too late as well. There were bound to be. I glanced at the rubbish. Where was it I saw that twig broom?
The twig broom was standing beside the drinking water tub under the telephone. I started sweeping up the rubbish and suddenly something heavy snagged on the broom and rolled out into the center of the room. Glancing at it, I saw an elongated cylinder about the size of my index finger. I touched it with the broom. The cylinder swayed to and fro; there was a dry crackling sound and a sudden smell of ozone. I dropped the broom and picked up the cylinder. It was smooth, highly polished, and warm to the touch. I flicked a fingernail against it and it crackled again. I turned it around to look at its end and immediately felt the floor starting to slip away from under my feet. The world turned upside down before my eyes. I stubbed my toes painfully against something, then banged my shoulder and the top of my head. I dropped the cylinder and fell.
I was badly shaken, and it was a moment before I realized that I was lying in the narrow crevice between the oven and the wall. The lamp above my head was swaying, and looking up I was astonished to see the ribbed tracks of my shoes on the ceiling. Wheezing and groaning, I clambered out of the crevice and inspected my soles. They had whitewash on them.
“Well now,” I thought out loud, “thank goodness I didn’t end up seeping through the drains!”
I looked around to find the cylinder. It was standing with the circumference of its end surface touching the floor, in a position that couldn’t possibly be balanced. I cautiously moved a bit closer and squatted down beside it. The cylinder crackled quietly and rocked to and fro. I looked at it for a long time, then stretched out my neck and blew on it. The cylinder began swaying faster and leaned over, and immediately I heard a hoarse screech and felt a puff of wind on my back. I glanced around and immediately sat down on the floor at the sight of a gigantic vulture with a naked neck and a menacingly curving beak sitting on the oven, carefully folding away its wings.
“Hello,” I said. I was certain that the vulture could talk.
The vulture inclined its head and peered at me with one eye, which made it look like a chicken. I waved my hand in greeting. The vulture opened its beak slightly, but it didn’t talk to me. It raised one wing and started searching for lice underneath it, clicking its beak. The cylinder carried on swaying and crackling. The vulture stopped, pulled its head back into its shoulders, and veiled its eyes with a yellow film. Trying not to turn my back to it, I finished cleaning up and tossed the rubbish outside into the rainy darkness. Then I went back into the room.
The vulture was sleeping and there was a smell of ozone in the air. I looked at the clock: it was twenty minutes past twelve. I stood looking down at the cylinder for a while, pondering the law of conservation of energy and matter. Vultures were unlikely to condense out of nothing. If this vulture had appeared here in Solovets, then a vulture (not necessarily this one) had disappeared in the Caucasus or wherever it was they lived. I made a rough estimate of the energy of translocation and cast a wary glance at the cylinder. Better not touch it, I thought. Better cover it with something and let it stand there. I brought the dipper in from the hallway, lined it up carefully, and, holding my breath, put it over the cylinder. Then I sat down on the stool, lit a cigarette, and started waiting for what would happen next. The vulture was sniffling audibly. In the light of the lamp its feathers glinted with a copper sheen and its massive claws were dug deep into the whitewash. It gave off a smell of decay that was gradually filling the room.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Alexander Ivanovich,” said a pleasant male voice.
“What exactly?” I asked, glancing around at the mirror.
“I meant the plywitsum…”
It wasn’t the mirror talking. It was someone else. “I don’t understand what you mean,” I said. There was no one in the room, and that made me feel annoyed.
“I’m talking about the plywitsum,” said the voice. “You really shouldn’t have covered it with the iron dipper. A plywitsum, or as you call it, a magic wand, should be treated with extreme caution.”
“That’s why I covered it up… But do come in, comrade. This is a very inconvenient way to talk.”
“Thank you,” said the voice. A man unhurriedly condensed out of the air in front of me—pale, very respectable looking, wearing a supremely well-fitting gray suit. Inclining his head to one side, he inquired with quite exquisite politeness, “May I make bold to hope that I am not inconveniencing you too greatly?”
“Not in the slightest,” I said, getting to my feet, “Please take a seat and make yourself at home. Would you like some tea?”