Diaboliad   ::   Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич

Korotkov licked his lips convulsively, inhaled a large cube of air into his narrow chest and said in a barely audible voice:

«Ahem… I'm the Chief Clerk here, Comrade. I mean… Well, yes, if you remember the order…»

Surprise changed the upper half of Longjohn's face considerably. His fair eyebrows rose and his forehead turned into a concertina.

«I beg your pardon,» he replied politely, « I am the Chief Clerk here.»

Korotkov was struck by a temporary dumbness. When it passed, he uttered the following words:

«Oh, really? Yesterday, that is. Ah, yes. Please excuse me. I've got confused. So sorry.»

He backed out of the room and croaked hoarsely to himself in the corridor:

«Try to remember, Korotkov, what's the date today?»

And then answered himself:

«It's Tuesday, I mean Friday. Nineteen hundred.»

No sooner had he turned round than two corridor light bulbs flared up before him on a human sphere of ivory, and Longjohn's clean-shaven face obscured the whole world.

«Very good,» the copper clanged, and Korotkov got the shakes. «I was waiting for you. Excellent. Pleased to meet you.»

So saying he advanced towards Korotkov and gave his hand such a shake that he perched on one foot like a stork on a rooftop.

«I've allocated the staff,» Longjohn began talking quickly, jerkily and authoritatively. Three in there,» he pointed at the door of the General Office. «And Manechka, of course. You're my assistant. Longjohn's chief clerk. The old lot have all got the sack. That idiot Panteleimon too. I have information that he was a footman in the Alpine Rose. I'm just off to the Board, but you and Longjohn write a memo about that lot, particularly about that — what's his name? — Korotkov. Actually, you look a bit like that scoundrel yourself. Only he had a black eye.»

«Oh, no. Not me,» said Korotkov, open-mouthed and swaying. «I'm not a scoundrel. I've had my documents stolen. Everything.»

«Everything?» Longjohn shouted. «Nonsense. So much the better.»

He dug his fingers into the panting Korotkov's hand, pulled him along the corridor to his precious office, threw him into a plump leather chair and sat down at his desk. Still feeling a strange quaking of the floor under his feet, Korotkov huddled up, closed his eyes and muttered: «The twentieth was Monday, so Tuesday is the twenty-first. No, what's the matter with me? It's the year twenty-one. Outgoing No. 0.15, space for signature dash Varfolomei Korotkov. That's me. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday.