****- But what question bothers me: if there is no God, then the question is, who controls the human life and the general routine on earth?
“The man himself controls,” the Homeless hastened to answer angrily to this, admittedly, not very clear question.
“It's to blame,” the unknown responded softly, “in order to manage, you need, after all, to have an accurate plan for some, at least a decent amount of time.” Let me ask you, how can a person manage if he is not only unable to draw up a plan for at least a ridiculously short time, well, let’s say, a thousand years, but cannot guarantee even his own tomorrow? And, in fact, - here the unknown turned to Berlioz, - imagine that you, for example, will begin to control, control and others and yourself, generally, so to speak, to taste, and suddenly you have ... khe ... khe ... lung sarcoma ...
here the foreigner grinned sweetly, as if the thought of a lung sarcoma pleased him, “yes, sarcoma,” he repeated a sonorous word, squinting like a cat, and now your control is over! No one's fate, other than your own, is of no interest to you anymore. Relatives begin to lie to you, you, sensing something was amiss, rush to learned doctors, then to charlatans, and sometimes fortunetellers. Both the first and second and the third are completely pointless, you yourself understand. And all this ends tragically: the one who until recently believed that he was managing something, suddenly finds himself lying motionless in a wooden box, and those around him, realizing that there is no longer any sense of the person lying, burn him in the furnace. And it can be even worse: a person just wants to go to Kislovodsk, the foreigner squinted at Berlioz, it would seem a trifling matter, but he cannot do this either, because it is not known why he will take it - he will slip and fall under the tram!
Can you really say that it was he who governed himself so? Isn’t it more correct to think that someone else was dealing with him? - and here the stranger laughed a strange laugh.
Berlioz listened with great attention to the unpleasant story about the sarcoma and the tram, and some disturbing thoughts began to torment him. “He is not a foreigner! He is not a foreigner!” He thought, “he is a terrible subject ... But let me, who is he?”
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