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though Ivan was, he was nevertheless astounded by the supernatural speed of the pursuit. Less than twenty seconds after leaving Nikita Gate Ivan Nikolayich was dazzled by the sports bras lights of Arbat Square. A few more seconds and he was in a dark alleyway with uneven pavements where he tripped and hurt his knee. Again a well-lit main road--Kropotkin Street-- another side-street, then sports bras Ostozhenka Street, then another grim, dirty and badly-lit alley. It was here that Ivan Nikolayich finally lost sight of his quarry. The professor had disappeared. Disconcerted, but not for long, for no apparent reason Ivan sports bras Nikolayich had a sudden intuition that the professor must be in house No. 13, flat 47. Bursting through the front door, Ivan Nikolayich flew up the stairs, found the right flat and impatiently rang the bell. He did not have to wait long. The door was opened by a little girl of about five, who silently disappeared inside again. The hall was a vast, incredibly neglected sports bras room feebly lit by a tiny electric light that dangled in one corner from a ceiling black with dirt. On the wall hung a bicycle without any sports bras tyres, beneath it a huge iron-banded trunk. On the shelf over the coat-rack was a winter fur cap, its long earflaps untied and hanging down. From behind one of the doors a mans voice

could be heard booming from the radio, angrily declaiming poetry. Not at all put out by these unfamiliar surroundings, Ivan Nikolayich made straight for the corridor, thinking to himself: Hes obviously hiding in the bathroom. The passage was dark. Bumping into the walls, Ivan saw a faint streak of light under a doorway. He groped for the handle and gave it a gentle turn. The door opened and Ivan

found himself in luck--it was the bathroom. However it wasnt quite the sort of luck he had hoped for. Amid the damp steam and by the light of the coals smouldering in the geyser, he sports bras made out a large basin attached to the wall and a bath streaked with black where the enamel had chipped off. There in the bath stood a naked woman, covered in soapsuds and holding a loofah. She peered short-sightedly at Ivan as he came in and obviously mistaking him for someone else in the hellish light she whispered gaily : Kiryushka! Do stop fooling! You must be crazy . . . Fyodor sports bras Ivanovich will be back any minute now. Go on--out you go! And she waved her loofah at Ivan. The mistake was plain and it was, of course, Ivan Nikolayichs fault, but rather than admit it he gave a shocked cry of Brazen hussy! and suddenly found himself in the kitchen. It was empty. In the gloom a silent row of ten or so Primuses stood on a marble slab. A single ray of moonlight, struggling through a dirty window that had not been cleaned for years, cast a dim light into one corner where there hung a forgotten ikon, the stubs of sports bras two candles still stuck in its frame. Beneath the big ikon was another made of paper and fastened to the wall with tin-tacks. Nobody knows what came over Ivan but before letting himself out by the back

staircase he stole one of the candles and the little paper ikon. Clutching these objects he left the strange apartment, muttering, embarrassed sports bras by his recent experience in the bathroom. He could not help wondering who the shameless Kiryushka might be and whether he was the owner of the nasty fur cap with dangling ear-flaps. In the sports bras deserted, cheerless alleyway Bezdomny looked round for the fugitive but there was no sign of him. Ivan said firmly to himself: Of course! Hes on the Moscow River! Come on! Somebody should of course have asked Ivan Nikolayich why he imagined the professor would be on the Moscow River of all places, but unfortunately there was no one to ask him--the nasty little alley was completely empty. In no sports bras time at all Ivan Nikolayich was to be seen on the granite steps of the Moscow lido. Taking off his clothes, Ivan entrusted them to a kindly old man with a beard, dressed in a sports bras torn white Russian blouse and patched, unlaced boots. Waving him aside, Ivan took a swallow-dive into the water. The water was so cold that it took his breath away and for a moment he even sports bras doubted whether he would reach the surface again. But reach it he did, and puffing and snorting, his eyes round with terror, Ivan Nikolayich began swimming in the black, oily-smelling water towards the shimmering zig-zags of the embankment lights reflected in the water. When Ivan clambered damply up the steps at the place where he had left his clothes in the care of the bearded man, not only sports bras his clothes but their venerable guardian had apparently been spirited away. On the very spot where the heap of clothes had been there was now a pair of check underpants, a torn Russian blouse, a sports bras candle, a paper ikon and a box of matches. Shaking his fist into space with impotent rage, Ivan clambered into what was left. As he did so two thoughts worried him. To begin with he