In the smoky darkness, Socrates, who succeeded Napoleon, was performing miracles. He was jerking crazily, predicting imminent death for the Bolsheviks. Sweaty Sofiya Ilyinichna was reading the alphabet persistently. Everyone’s hands went numb, except Xavery Antonovich’s. Blurry, whitish silhouettes were flickering in shadows. When the nerve was strained to the limit, the table with the spirit of the wise old Greek in it swayed and floated up.
