The White Guard - Mikhail Bulgakov [20]
Wanda had already slumped back like a stone and had fallen asleep again, but Vasilisa could not bring himself to lie down until the last chord had faded away upstairs amid a confused babble of shouts.
'Russia acknowledges only one Orthodox faith and one Tsar!' shouted Myshlaevsky, swaying.
'Right!'
'Week ago ... at the theater . . . went to see Paul the First', Myshlaevsky mumbled thickly, 'and when the actor said those words I couldn't keep quiet and I shouted out "Right!" - and d'you know what? Everyone clapped. All except some swine in the upper circle who yelled "Idiot!" '
'Damned Yids', growled Karas, now almost equally drunk.
A thickening haze enveloped them all . . . Tonk-tank . . . tonk-tank . . . they had passed the point when there was any longer any sense in drinking more vodka, even wine; the only remaining stage was stupor or nausea. In the narrow little lavatory, where the lamp jerked and danced from the ceiling as though bewitched, everything went blurred and spun round and round. Pale and miserable, Myshlaevsky retched violently. Alexei Turbin, drunk himself, looking terrible with a twitching nerve on his cheek, his hair plastered damply over his forehead, supported Myshlaevsky.
'Ah-aakh
Finally Myshlaevsky leaned back from the bowl with a groan, tried painfully to focus his eyes and clung to Alexei's arms like a limp sack.
'Ni-kolka!' Someone's voice boomed out through the fog and black spots, and it took Alexei several seconds to realise that the voice was his own. 'Nikolka!' he repeated. A white lavatory wall swung open and turned green. 'God, how sickening, how disgusting. I swear I'll never mix vodka and wine again. Nikol . . .'
'Ah-ah', Myshlaevsky groaned hoarsely and sat down on the floor.
A black crack widened and through it appeared Nikolka's head and chevron.
'Nikol. . . help me to get him up. There, pick him up like this, under his arm.'
'Poor fellow', muttered Nikolka shaking his head sympathetically and straining himself to pick up his friend. The half-lifeless body slithered around, twitching legs slid in every direction and the lolling head hung like a puppet's on a string. Tonk-tank went the clock, as it fell off the wall and jumped back into place again. Bunches of flowers danced a jig in the vase. Elena's face was flushed with red patches and a lock of hair dangled over her right eyebrow.
'That's right. Now put him to bed.'
'At least wrap him in a bathrobe. He's indecent like that with me around. You damned fools - you can't hold your drink. Viktor! Viktor! What's the matter with you? Vik . . .'
'Shut up, Elena. You're no help. Listen, Nikolka, in my study . . . there's a medicine bottle ... it says "Liquor ammonii", you can tell because the corner of the label's torn off . . . anyway, you can't mistake the smell of sal ammoniac.'
'Yes, right away . . .'
'You, a doctor - you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alexei. ..'
'All right, I know . . .'
'What? Has his pulse stopped?'
'No, he's just passed out.'
'Basin!'
'Ah-aah
'Christ!'
Violent reek of ammonia. Karas and Elena held Myshlaevsky's mouth open. Nikolka supported him while Alexei twice poured white cloudy liquid into his mouth.
'Aah . . . ugh . . . urkhh . . .'
'The snow . . .'
'God almighty. Can't be helped, though. Only way to do it . . .'
On his forehead lay a wet cloth dripping water, below it the swivelling, bloodshot whites of his eyes under half-closed lids, bluish shadows around the sharpened nose. For an anxious quarter of an hour, bumping each other with their elbows, they strove with the vanquished officer until he opened his eyes and croaked:
'Aah ... let me go . . .'
'Right. That's better. He can stay and sleep here.'
Lights went on in all the rooms and beds were quickly made up.
'Leonid, you'd better sleep in here, next to Nikolka's room.'
'Very well.'
Copper-red in the