Diaboliad

VIII THE SECOND NIGHT

In the twilight Korotkov sat in his flannelette bed and drank three bottles of wine to forget everything and calm down. Now his whole head was aching: the right and left temples, the back of his head and even his eyelids. Waves of light nausea kept rising from deep down in his stomach, and Korotkov vomited twice in a basin.

«This is what I'll do,» he whispered weakly, his head hanging down. «Tomorrow I'll try not to run into him. But since he seems to be all over the place, I'll just wait. In a side-street or a blind alley. He'll walk straight past me. But if he tries to catch me, I'll run away. He'll give up. 'You just carry on, I'll say. I don't want to go back to MACBAMM anymore. Good luck to you. Be head of department and Chief Clerk, if you like. I don't want tram money either. I can do without it. Only leave me alone, please. Whether you're a cat or not, with a beard or without, you go your way and I'll go mine. I'll find another job and get on with it in peace and quiet. I don't bother anyone, and no one bothers me. And I won't make any complaints about you. I'll just get myself some documents tomorrow— and to hell with it.»

A clock began to chime in the distance. Ding, dong. «That's at the Pestrukhins',» thought Korotkov and began to count: «Ten, eleven, midnight, thirteen, fourteen … forty.» «The clock chimed forty times,» Korotkov smiled bitterly and started weeping again. Once more the communion wine made him vomit convulsively and painfully.

«It's strong alright, this wine,» Korotkov muttered, falling back onto his pillow with a groan. Some two hours passed. The unextinguished lamp lit up the pale face on the pillow and the tousled hair.