Katherine,

Here is the part I was looking for.

was sitting on a bentwood chair at the corner entrance to the verandah,

where there was an opening in the creeper-grown trellis. In front of her on

a plain kitchen table lay a large book like a ledger, in which for no known

reason the woman wrote the names of the people entering the restaurant. She

stopped Koroviev and Behemoth.

‘Your membership cards?’ she said, staring in surprise at Koroviev’s

pince-nez, at Behemoth’s Primus and grazed elbow.

‘A thousand apologies, madam, but what membership cards? ‘ asked

Koroviev in astonishment.

‘Are you writers? ‘ asked the woman in return.

‘Indubitably,’ replied Koroviev with dignity.

‘Where are your membership cards? ‘ the woman repeated.

‘Dear lady . . .’ Koroviev began tenderly.

‘I’m not a dear lady,’ interrupted the woman.

‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Koroviev in a disappointed voice and went on

: ‘ Well, if you don’t want to be a dear lady, which would have been

delightful, you have every right not to be. But look here–if you wanted to

make sure that Dostoyevsky was a writer, would you really ask him for his

membership card? Why, you only have to take any five pages of one of his

novels and you won’t need a membership card to convince you that the man’s a

writer. I don’t suppose he ever had a membership card, anyway I What do you

think?’ said Koroviev, turning to Behemoth.

‘I’ll bet he never had one,’ replied the cat, putting the Primus on

the table and wiping the sweat from its brow with its paw.

ÔøΩ You’re not Dostoyevsky,’ said the woman to Koroviev.

ÔøΩ How do you know? ‘

‘Dostoyevsky’s dead,’ said the woman, though not very confidently.

‘I protest! ‘ exclaimed Behemoth warmly. ‘ Dostoyevsky is immortal!’

‘Your membership cards, please,’ said the woman.

‘This is really all rather funny! ‘ said Koroviev, refusing to give

up. ‘A writer isn’t a writer because he has a membership card but because he

writes. How do you know what bright ideas may not be swarming in my head? Or

in his head? ‘ And he pointed at Behemoth’s head. The cat removed its cap to

give the woman a better look at its head. ‘ Stand back, please,’ she said,

irritated.

Koroviev and Behemoth stood aside and made way for a writer in a grey

suit and a white summer shirt with the collar turned out over his jacket

collar, no tie and a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded to the woman

and scribbled a flourish in the book as he passed through to the verandah.

‘We can’t,’ said Koroviev sadly,’ but he can have that mug of cold

beer which you and I, poor wanderers, were so longing for. We are in an

unhappy position and I see no way out.’

Behemoth only spread his paws bitterly and put his cap back on his

thick head of hair that much resembled cat’s fur.

At that moment a quiet but authoritative voice said to the woman :

‘Let them in, Sofia Pavlovna.’

The woman with the ledger looked up in astonishment. From behind the

trellis foliage loomed the pirate’s white shirt-front and wedge-shaped

beard. He greeted the two ruffians with a welcoming look and even went so

far as to beckon them on. Archibald Archibaldovich made his authority felt

in this restaurant and Sofia Pavlovna obediently asked Koroviev :

‘What is your name? ‘

‘Panayev,’ was the polite reply. The woman wrote down the name and

raised her questioning glance to Behemoth.

‘Skabichevsky,’ squeaked the cat, for some reason pointing to his

Primus. Sofia Pavlovna inscribed this name too and pushed the ledger forward

for the two visitors to sign. Koroviev wrote ‘ Skabichevsky’ opposite the

name ‘ Panayev’ and Behemoth wrote ‘ Panayev ‘ opposite ‘ Skabichevsky ‘.