'Right.' Myshlaevsky poked Shervinsky in the chest with his finger, and said: 'You're a singer, invited to give a recital.' To Karas: 'You're a doctor, come to see Alexei.' To Nikolka: 'You're the brother.' To Lariosik: 'You're a student and you're a lodger here.
Got an identity card?'
'I have a tsarist passport,' said Lariosik turning pale, 'and a student identity card from Kharkov University.'
'Hide the tsarist one and show your student card.'
Lariosik clutched at the portiere, pushed it aside and went out.
'The women don't matter', Myshlaevsky went on. 'Right - has everybody got identity cards?
Nothing suspicious in your pockets?
Hey, Larion!
Somebody ask him if he's carrying a weapon.'
'Larion!' Nikolka called out from the dining-room. 'Do you have a gun?'
'No, God forbid', answered Larion from somewhere in the depths of the apartment.
Again there came a long, desperate, impatient ring at the doorbell.
'Well, here goes', said Myshlaevsky and made for the door.
Karas disappeared into Alexei's bedroom.
'I'll make it look as if someone's playing patience', said Sher-vinsky and blew out the candles.
There were three doors to pass through to get into the Turbins' apartment.
The first was from the lobby on to the staircase, the second was a glass door which marked off the limit of the Turbins' property.
Beyond the glass door and downstairs was a cold, dark hallway, on one side of which was the Lisovichs' front door; at the end of the hallway was the third door giving on to the street.
Doors slammed, and Myshlaevsky could be heard downstairs shouting:
'Who's there?'
Behind him at the top of the stairs he sensed the shadowy figures of his friends, listening.
Outside a muffled voice said imploringly:
'How many more times do I have to ring?
Does Mrs Talberg-Turbin live here?
Telegram for her. Open up.'
'This is an old trick', Myshlaevsky thought to himself, and he began coughing hard.
One of the figures on the staircase dis- appeared indoors.
Cautiously Myshlaevsky opened the bolt, turned the key and opened the door, leaving the chain in position.
'Give me the telegram', he said, standing sideways to the door so that he was invisible to the person outside.
A hand in a gray sleeve pushed itself through and handed him a little envelope.
To his astonishment Myshlaevsky realised that it really was a telegram.
'Sign please', said the voice behind the door angrily.
With a quick glance Myshlaevsky saw that there was only one person standing outside.
'Anyuta, Anyuta', he shouted cheerfully, his bronchitis miraculously cured. 'Give me a pencil.'
Instead of Anyuta, Karas ran down and handed him a pencil.
On a scrap of paper torn from the flap of the envelope Myshlaevsky scribbled
'Tur', whispering to Karas:
'Give me twenty-five . . .'
The door was slammed shut and locked.
In utter amazement Myshlaevsky and Karas climbed up the staircase.
All the others had gathered in the lobby.
Elena tore open the envelope and began mechanically reading aloud:
'Lariosik suffered terrible misfortune stop. Operetta singer called Lipsky . . .'
'My God!' shouted Lariosik, scarlet in the face. 'It's the telegram from my mother!'
'Sixty-three words', groaned Nikolka. 'Look, they've had to write all round the sides and on the back!'
'Oh lord!' Elena exclaimed. 'What have I done?
Lariosik, please forgive me for starting to read it out aloud.
I'd completely forgotten about it . . .'
'What's it all about?' asked Myshlaevsky.
'His wife's left him', Nikolka whispered in his ear. 'Terrible scandal . . .'