CHAPTER 14 - Glory to the Cock!
The chapter opens with the Variety Theatre’s director, Rimsky, trembling in his office after the grotesque street scene caused by the black magician’s seance: two nearly nude women are harassed, policemen, a laughing crowd, and muffled guffaws. He watches the chaos from the window, hears police whistles, and feels a growing dread. The telephones, recently repaired, ring on their own; a soft, lewd female voice whispers “Don’t call anywhere, Rimsky, it’ll be bad …” and the line snaps, leaving Rimsky paler than paper.
A faint moon shines through a maple branch, deepening his terror. The office is silent except for the ticking clock striking midnight. An English key turns in the lock, and Varenukha (Ivan Savelyevich Varenukha) slips in without removing his cap. Rimsky, legs giving way, collapses into an armchair and forces a strained smile. Varenukha sits opposite, his face bruised, pallid, and wrapped in a striped scarf; his voice is hollow and coarse, and he behaves oddly, fidgeting with a newspaper and a cap visor.
Rimsky demands answers about the “Yalta” telegrams. Varenukha fabricates a story: Styopa Likhodeev was found drunk in a tavern in Pushkino, had a telegrapher companion, sent false telegrams marked “Yalta”, and was now in a sobering‑up cell. Rimsky, hearing increasingly vivid but implausible details—drunken dancing, green‑onion scattering, bottle smashing, fights with a barman—realizes Varenukha is lying. He notes Varenukha’s disfigurement, strange scarf, and the fact that Varenukha casts no shadow behind the chair; the shadows of the chair’s legs are visible, but no shadow of Varenukha’s head or legs appears. This uncanny observation unnerves Rimsky.
In a panic, Rimsky presses the desk’s electric‑bell, but the button is dead. Varenukha, tasting suspicion, asks why Rimsky rang; Rimsky replies mechanically. Varenukha explains his bruised hand as a car‑door accident, but Rimsky knows it’s false.
Suddenly, through the garden window, a naked girl’s face presses against the glass, her arm reaching through the vent and turning green‑tinged as she wrestles the latch. A cock crows loudly, heralding dawn. The girl’s hand, now grotesquely long and green, turns the latch, and the dead woman steps onto the windowsill, her breast marked with decay. The crow repeats; the girl curses, her red hair bristles, and after the third crow she flies away. Varenukha, startled, drops to the floor; the old, white‑haired man who had just been Rimsky’s own reflection leaps through the window, opens the door, and rushes down the corridor. In the stairwell, the frightened old man collapses on the switch, illuminating the stairs. Rimsky, seizing the moment, slips past a sleeping watchman, exits the theatre, and discovers his hat left behind.
He darts across Sadovoye Ring, hails a cab, offers fifty roubles through the open window, and the driver reluctantly takes him. The cab speeds toward the Leningrad express station; Rimsky, clutching his briefcase of magical banknotes, is shaken by the driver’s alternating glances in the rear‑view mirror. He arrives at the station, pays the ticket clerk for a second‑class seat (threatening to pay first‑class), and boards the express train. As the train pulls away, Rimsky disappears from Moscow, his fate left uncertain.