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mad
German who's just arrived or else he's suddenly gone out of his mind here at
Patriarch's. What an extraordinary business! ' This really seemed to account
for everything--the mysterious breakfast with the philosopher Kant, the
idiotic ramblings about sunflower-seed oil and Anna, the prediction about
Berlioz's head being cut off and all the rest: the professor was a lunatic.
Berlioz at once started to think what they ought to do. Leaning back on
the bench he winked at Bezdomny behind the professor's back, meaning '
Humour him! ' But the poet, now thoroughly confused, failed to understand
the signal.
'Yes, yes, yes,' said Berlioz with great animation. ' It's quite
possible, of course. Even probable--Pontius Pilate, the balcony, and so on.
. . Have you come here alone or with your wife? '
'Alone, alone, I am always alone,' replied the professor bitterly.
'But where is your luggage, professor?' asked Berlioz cunningly. ' At
the Metropole? Where are you staying? '
'Where am I staying? Nowhere. . . .' answered the mad German, staring
moodily around Patriarch's Ponds with his g:reen eye
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