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And
what use is a telegram to the man whose battered skull is being mauled by
the rubber hands of a dissector, whose neck is being pierced by the
professor's crooked needles? He's dead, he doesn't want a telegram. It's all
over, let's not overload the post office.
Yes, he's dead . . . but we are still alive!
The wave of grief rose, lasted for a while and then began to recede.
Somebody went back to their table and--furtively to begin with, then
openly--drank a glass of vodka and took a bite to eat. After all, what's the
point of wasting the cotelettes de volatile? What good are we going to do
Mikhail Alexandrovich by going hungry? We're still alive, aren't we?
Naturally the piano was shut and locked, the band went home and a few
journalists left for their newspaper offices to write obituaries. The news
spread that Zheldybin was back from the morgue. He moved into Berlioz's
upstairs office and at once a rumour started that he was going to take over
from Berlioz. Zheldybin summoned all twelve members of the management
committee from the restaurant and in an emergency session they began
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