A historian by training, he had worked until two years ago at one of the Moscow museums and had also done translations.

" From what language? " Ivan inquired with interest.

" I know five languages besides my own, " answered the guest, " English, French, German, Latin, and Greek. And I also read a litde Italian."

" Wow! " whispered Ivan with envy.

The historian had lived a solitary life. He had no family anywhere and virtually no friends in Moscow. And then, imagine, one day he won 100, 000 rubles.

" You can imagine my surprise, " whispered the guest in the black cap, " when I rummaged around in the dirty laundry basket and found out I had the same number that was printed in the paper! A ticket given me at the museum, " he explained.

Enter the Hero 115

After winning 100, 000, Ivan's mysterious guest did the following: he bought some books, moved out of his room on Myasnitskaya Street... " Ugh, what a damned hole that was! " snarled the guest.

He rented two rooms from a private home builder in the basement of a small house in a garden on a small street near the ArbaL He quit his job at the museum and began to write a novel about Pontius Pilate.

" Ah, that was a golden age! " the narrator whispered, his eyes shining. " It was a completely private apartment, with its own entrance and a sink with running water, " he emphasized with particular pride, for some reason, " and small windows looking out over the path leading to the gate. Just opposite, in front of the fence, not more than four steps away, there were lilac bushes, a linden tree, and a maple. Ah! Ah! Ah! Once in a while in winter I'd see someone's black feet through the window and I'd hear the snow crunching as they walked by. And there was always a fire burning in my stove! But then spring came suddenly, and through the dim glass I saw the lilac branches, which had first been bare, now dressed in green. And then, last spring something happened that was far more entrancing than winning 100, 000 rubles. And that, you will agree, is a huge sum of money! "

" Yes it is, " agreed Ivan, who was listening attentively.

" I had opened the window and was sitting in the second and tinier of the two rooms, " —the guest used his hands to illustrate—" a couch and across from it, another couch, and between them a small table with a beautiful night lamp on it, and closer to the window, books. Here, a small desk, and in the first room—an enormous room, fourteen square meters—books, more books, and a stove. Ah, what a great place I had! The smell of the lilacs was extraordinary! And I was becoming lightheaded from exhaustion, and Pilate was flying to an end..."

" White cloak, blood-red lining! I understand! " exclaimed Ivan.

" Exactly! Pilate was flying to an end, an end, and I already knew that the last words of the novel would be: '...The fifth procurator of Judea, the knight Pontius Pilate.' Well, naturally, I'd go for walks. 100, 000 is a huge sum, and I had a handsome suit. Or I'd dine at some inexpensive restaurant. There was a marvelous restaurant on the Arbat, I don't know if it's still there."

Here the guest's eyes opened wide, and he continued whispering as he gazed at the moon, " She was carrying some hideous, disturbing yellow flowers. The devil only knows what they're called, but for some reason they're the first ones to bloom in Moscow. And those flowers stood out very distinctly against her black spring coat. She was carrying yellow flowers! A bad color. She turned off Tverskaya into a side street and then looked back. Do you know Tverskaya? Thousands of people were walking along Tverskaya, but I assure you, she saw only me and she gave me a look that was not merely anxious, but even pained. And I was struck not so much by her beauty as by the extraordinary, incomparable