10 hour write a paper

The Master and Margarita

Mikhail Bulgakov

Translated from the russian by Michael Glenny. Published by Collins and Harvill Press,

London, 1967

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BOOK ONE

1 Never Talk to Strangers

2 Pontius Pilate

3 The Seventh Proof

4 The Pursuit

5 The Affair at Griboyedov

6 Schizophrenia

7 The Haunted Flat

8 A Duel between Professor and Poet

9 Koroviev's Tricks

10 News from Yalta

11 The Two Ivans

12. Black Magic Revealed

13 Enter the Hero

14 Saved by Cock-Crow

15 The Dream of Nikanor Ivanovich

16 The Execution

17 A Day of Anxiety

18 Unwelcome Visitors

BOOK TWO

19 Margarita

20 Azazello's Cream

21 The Flight

22 By Candlelight

23 Satan's Rout

24 The Master is Released

25 How the Procurator Tried to Save Judas of Karioth

26 The Burial

27 The Last of Flat No. 50

28 The Final Adventure of Koroviev and Behemoth

29 The Fate of the Master and Margarita is Decided

30 Time to Go

31 On Sparrow Hills

32 Absolution and Eternal Refuge

Epilogue

'Say at last--who art thou?'

'That Power I serve

Which wills forever evil

Yet does forever good.'

Goethe, Faust

* BOOK ONE *

1. Never Talk to Strangers

At the sunset hour of one warm spring day two men were to be seen at

Patriarch's Ponds. The first of them--aged about forty, dressed in a greyish

summer suit--was short, dark-haired, well-fed and bald. He carried his

decorous pork-pie hat by the brim and his neatly shaven face was embellished

by black hornrimmed spectacles of preternatural dimensions. The other, a

broad-shouldered young man with curly reddish hair and a check cap pushed

back to the nape of his neck, was wearing a tartan shirt, chewed white

trousers and black sneakers.

The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, editor of

a highbrow literary magazine and chairman of the management cofnmittee of

one of the biggest Moscow literary clubs, known by its abbreviation as

massolit; his young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayich Poniryov who

wrote under the pseudonym of Bezdomny.

Reaching the shade of the budding lime trees, the two writers went

straight to a gaily-painted kiosk labelled'Beer and Minerals'.

There was an oddness about that terrible day in May which is worth

recording : not only at the kiosk but along the whole avenue parallel to

Malaya Bronnaya Street there was not a person to be seen. It was the hour of

the day when people feel too exhausted to breathe, when Moscow glows in a

dry haze as the sun disappears behind the Sadovaya Boulevard--yet no one had

come out for a walk under the limes, no one was sitting on a bench, the

avenue was empty.

'A glass of lemonade, please,'said Berlioz.

'There isn't any,'replied the woman in the kiosk. For some reason the

request seemed to offend her.

'Got any beer?' enquired Bezdomny in a hoarse voice.

'Beer's being delivered later this evening' said the woman.

'Well what have you got?' asked Berlioz.

'Apricot juice, only it's warm' was the answer.

'All right, let's have some.'

The apricot juice produced a rich yellow froth, making the air smell

like a hairdresser's. After drinking it the two writers immediately began to

hiccup. They paid and sat down on a bench facing the pond, their backs to

Bronnaya Street.Then occurred the second oddness, which affected Berlioz

alone. He suddenly stopped hiccuping, his heart thumped and for a moment

vanished, then returned but with a blunt needle sticking into it. In

addition Berlioz was seized by a fear that was groundless but so powerful

that he had an immediate impulse to run away from Patriarch's Ponds without

looking back.

Berlioz gazed miserably about him, unable to say what had frightened

him. He went pale, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and thought: '

What's the matter with me? This has never happened before. Heart playing

tricks . . . I'm overstrained ... I think it's time to chuck everything up

and go and take the waters at Kislovodsk. . . .'

Just then the sultry air coagulated and wove itself into the shape of a

man--a transparent man of the strangest appearance. On his small head was a

jockey-cap and he wore a short check bum-freezer made of air. The man was

seven feet tall but narrow in the shoulders, incredibly thin and with a face

made for derision.

Berlioz's life was so arranged that he was not accustomed to seeing

unusual phenomena. Paling even more, he stared and thought in consternation

: ' It can't be!'

But alas it was, and the tall, transparent gentleman was swaying from

left to right in front of him without touching the ground.

Berlioz was so overcome with horror that he shut his eyes. When he

opened them he saw that it was all over, the mirage had dissolved, the

chequered figure had vanished and the blunt needle had simultaneously

removed itself from his heart.

'The devil! ' exclaimed the editor. ' D'you know, Ivan, the heat

nearly gave me a stroke just then! I even saw something like a hallucination

. . . ' He tried to smile but his eyes were still blinking with fear and his

hands trembled. However he gradually calmed down, flapped his handkerchief

and with a brave enough ' Well, now. . . ' carried on the conversation that

had been interrupted by their drink of apricot juice.

They had been talking, it seemed, about Jesus Christ. The fact was that

the editor had commissioned the poet to write a long anti-religious poem for

one of the regular issues of his magazine. Ivan Nikolayich had written this

poem in record time, but unfortunately the editor did not care for it at

all. Bezdomny had drawn the chief figure in his poem, Jesus, in very black

colours, yet in the editor's opinion the whole poem had to be written again.

And now he was reading Bezdomny a lecture on Jesus in order to stress the

poet's fundamental error.

It was hard to say exactly what had made Bezdomny write as he

had--whether it was his great talent for graphic description or complete

ignorance of the subject he was writing on, but his Jesus had come out,

well, completely alive, a Jesus who had really existed, although admittedly

a Jesus who had every possible fault.

Berlioz however wanted to prove to the poet that the main object was

not who Jesus was, whether he was bad or good, but that as a person Jesus

had never existed at all and that all the stories about him were mere

invention, pure myth.

The editor was a well-read man and able to make skilful reference to

the ancient historians, such as the famous Philo of Alexandria and the

brilliantly educated Josephus Flavius, neither of whom mentioned a word of

Jesus' existence. With a display of solid erudition, Mikhail Alexandrovich

informed the poet that incidentally, the passage in Chapter 44 of the

fifteenth book of Tacitus' Annals, where he describes the execution of

Jesus, was nothing but a later forgery.

The poet, for whom everything the editor was saying was a novelty,

listened attentively to Mikhail Alexandrovich, fixing him with his bold

green eyes, occasionally hiccuping and cursing the apricot juice under his

breath.

'There is not one oriental religion,' said Berlioz, ' in which an

immaculate virgin does not bring a god into the world. And the Christians,

lacking any originality, invented their Jesus in exactly the same way. In

fact he never lived at all. That's where the stress has got to lie.

Berlioz's high tenor resounded along the empty avenue and as Mikhail

Alexandrovich picked his way round the sort of historical pitfalls that can

only be negotiated safely by a highly educated man, the poet learned more

and more useful and instructive facts about the Egyptian god Osiris, son of

Earth and Heaven, about the Phoenician god Thammuz, about Marduk and even

about the fierce little-known god Vitzli-Putzli, who had once been held in

great veneration by the Aztecs of Mexico. At the very moment when Mikhail

Alexandrovich was telling the poet how the Aztecs used to model figurines of

Vitzli-Putzli out of dough-- the first man appeared in the avenue.

Afterwards, when it was frankly too late, various bodies collected

their data and issued descriptions of this man. As to his teeth, he haid

platinum crowns on his left side and gold ones on his tight. He wore an

expensive grey suit and foreign shoes of the same colour as his suit. His

grey beret was stuck jauntily over one ear and under his arm he carried a

walking-stick with a knob in the shape of a poodle's head. He looked

slightly over forty. Crooked sort of mouth. Clean-shav-n. Dark hair. Right

eye black, left ieye for some reason green. Eyebrows black, but one higher

than the other. In short--a foreigner.

As he passed the bench occupied by the editor and the poet, the

foreigner gave them a sidelong glance, stopped and suddenly sat down on the

next bench a couple of paces away from the two friends.

'A German,'' thought Berlioz. ' An Englishman. ...' thought Bezdomny.

' Phew, he must be hot in those gloves!'

The stranger glanced round the tall houses that formed a square round

the pond, from which it was obvious that he seeing this locality for the

first time and that it interested him. His gaze halted on the upper storeys,

whose panes threw back a blinding, fragmented reflection of the sun which

was setting on Mikhail Alexandrovich for ever ; he then looked downwards to

where the windows were turning darker in the early evening twilight, smiled

patronisingly at something, frowned, placed his hands on the knob of his

cane and laid his chin on his hands.

'You see, Ivan,' said Berlioz,' you have written a marvellously

satirical description of the birth of Jesus, the son of God, but the whole

joke lies in the fact that there had already been a whole series of sons of

God before Jesus, such as the Phoenician Adonis, the Phrygian Attis, the

Persian Mithras. Of course not one of these ever existed, including Jesus,

and instead of the nativity or the arrival of the Magi you should have

described the absurd rumours about their arrival. But according to your

story the nativity really took place! '

Here Bezdomny made an effort to stop his torturing hiccups and held his

breath, but it only made him hiccup more loudly and painfully. At that

moment Berlioz interrupted his speech because the foreigner suddenly rose

and approached the two writers. They stared at him in astonishment.

'Excuse me, please,' said the stranger with a foreign accent, although

in correct Russian, ' for permitting myself, without an introduction . . .

but the subject of your learned conversation was so interesting that. . .'

Here he politely took off his beret and the two friends had no

alternative but to rise and bow.

'No, probably a Frenchman.. . .' thought Berlioz.

'A Pole,' thought Bezdomny.

I should add that the poet had found the stranger repulsive from first

sight, although Berlioz had liked the look of him, or rather not exactly

liked him but, well. . . been interested by him.

'May I join you? ' enquired the foreigner politely, and as the two

friends moved somewhat unwillingly aside he adroitly placed himself 'between

them and at once joined the conversation. ' If I am not mistaken, you were

saying that Jesus never existed, were you not? ' he asked, turning his green

left eye on Berlioz.

'No, you were not mistaken,' replied Berlioz courteously. ' I did

indeed say that.'

'Ah, how interesting! ' exclaimed the foreigner.

'What the hell does he want?' thought Bezdomny and frowned.

'And do you agree with your friend? ' enquired the unknown man,

turning to Bezdomny on his right.

'A hundred per cent! ' affirmed the poet, who loved to use pretentious

numerical expressions.

'Astounding! ' cried their unbidden companion. Glancing furtively

round and lowering his voice he said : ' Forgive me for being so rude, but

am I right in thinking that you do not believe in God either? ' He gave a

horrified look and said: ' I swear not to tell anyone! '

'Yes, neither of us believes in God,' answered Berlioz with a faint

smile at this foreign tourist's apprehension. ' But we can talk about it

with absolute freedom.'

The foreigner leaned against the backrest of the bench and asked, in a

voice positively squeaking with curiosity :

'Are you . . . atheists? '

'Yes, we're atheists,' replied Berlioz, smiling, and Bezdomny thought

angrily : ' Trying to pick an argument, damn foreigner! '

'Oh, how delightful!' exclaimed the astonishing foreigner and swivelled

his head from side to side, staring at each of them in turn.

'In our country there's nothing surprising about atheism,' said

Berlioz with diplomatic politeness. ' Most of us have long ago and quite

consciously given up believing in all those fairy-tales about God.'

At this the foreigner did an extraordinary thing--he stood up and shook

the astonished editor by the hand, saying as he did so :

'Allow me to thank you with all my heart!'

'What are you thanking him for? ' asked Bezdomny, blinking.

'For some very valuable information, which as a traveller I find

extremely interesting,' said the eccentric foreigner, raising his forefinger

meaningfully.

This valuable piece of information had obviously made a powerful

impression on the traveller, as he gave a frightened glance at the houses as

though afraid of seeing an atheist at every window.

'No, he's not an Englishman,' thought Berlioz. Bezdomny thought: '

What I'd like to know is--where did he manage to pick up such good Russian?

' and frowned again.

'But might I enquire,' began the visitor from abroad after some

worried reflection, ' how you account for the proofs of the existence of

God, of which there are, as you know, five? '

'Alas! ' replied Berlioz regretfully. ' Not one of these proofs is

valid, and mankind has long since relegated them to the archives. You must

agree that rationally there can be no proof of the existence of God.'

'Bravo!' exclaimed the stranger. ' Bravo! You have exactly repeated

the views of the immortal Emmanuel on that subject. But here's the oddity of

it: he completely demolished all five proofs and then, as though to deride

his own efforts, he formulated a sixth proof of his own.'

'Kant's proof,' objected the learned editor with a thin smile, ' is

also unconvincing. Not for nothing did Schiller say that Kant's reasoning on

this question would only satisfy slaves, and Strauss simply laughed at his

proof.'

As Berlioz spoke he thought to himself: ' But who on earth is he? And

how does he speak such good Russian? '

'Kant ought to be arrested and given three years in Solovki asylum for

that " proof " of his! ' Ivan Nikolayich burst out completely unexpectedly.

'Ivan!' whispered Berlioz, embarrassed.

But the suggestion to pack Kant off to an asylum not only did not

surprise the stranger but actually delighted him. ' Exactly, exactly! ' he

cried and his green left eye, turned on Berlioz glittered. ' That's exactly

the place for him! I said to him myself that morning at breakfast: " If

you'll forgive me, professor, your theory is no good. It may be clever but

it's horribly incomprehensible. People will think you're mad." '

Berlioz's eyes bulged. ' At breakfast ... to Kant? What is he rambling

about? ' he thought.

'But,' went on the foreigner, unperturbed by Berlioz's amazement and

turning to the poet, ' sending him to Solovki is out of the question,

because for over a hundred years now he has been somewhere far away from

Solovki and I assure you that it is totally impossible to bring him back.'

'What a pity!' said the impetuous poet.

'It is a pity,' agreed the unknown man with a glint in his eye, and

went on: ' But this is the question that disturbs me--if there is no God,

then who, one wonders, rules the life of man and keeps the world in order? '

'Man rules himself,' said Bezdomny angrily in answer to such an

obviously absurd question.

'I beg your pardon,' retorted the stranger quietly,' but to rule one

must have a precise plan worked out for some reasonable period ahead. Allow

me to enquire how man can control his own affairs when he is not only

incapable of compiling a plan for some laughably short term, such as, say, a

thousand years, but cannot even predict what will happen to him tomorrow? '

'In fact,' here the stranger turned to Berlioz, ' imagine what would

happen if you, for instance, were to start organising others and yourself,

and you developed a taste for it--then suddenly you got. . . he, he ... a

slight heart attack . . . ' at this the foreigner smiled sweetly, as though

the thought of a heart attack gave him pleasure. . . . ' Yes, a heart

attack,' he repeated the word sonorously, grinning like a cat, ' and that's

the end of you as an organiser! No one's fate except your own interests you

any longer. Your relations start lying to you. Sensing that something is

amiss you rush to a specialist, then to a charlatan, and even perhaps to a

fortune-teller. Each of them is as useless as the other, as you know

perfectly well. And it all ends in tragedy: the man who thought he was in

charge is suddenly reduced to lying prone and motionless in a wooden box and

his fellow men, realising that there is no more sense to be had of him,

incinerate him.

'Sometimes it can be even worse : a man decides to go to

Kislovodsk,'--here the stranger stared at Berlioz--' a trivial matter you

may think, but he cannot because for no good reason he suddenly jumps up and

falls under a tram! You're not going to tell me that he arranged to do that

himself? Wouldn't it be nearer the truth to say that someone quite different

was directing his fate?' The stranger gave an eerie peal of laughter.

Berlioz had been following the unpleasant story about the heart attack

and the tram with great attention and some uncomfortable thoughts had begun

to worry him. ' He's not a foreigner . . . he's not a foreigner,' he

thought, ' he's a very peculiar character . . . but I ask you, who is he? .

. . '

'I see you'd like to smoke,' said the stranger unexpectedly, turning

to Bezdomny, ' what sort do you prefer? '

'Do you mean you've got different sorts? ' glumly asked the poet, who

had run out of cigarettes.

'Which do you prefer? ' repeated the mysterious stranger.

'Well, then " Our Brand ",' replied Bezdomny, irritated.

The unknown man immediately pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket

and offered it to Bezdomny.

• " Our Brand " . . .'

The editor and the poet were not so much surprised by the fact that the

cigarette case actually contained ' Our Brand' as by the cigarette case

itself. It was of enormous dimensions, made of solid gold and on the inside

of the cover a triangle of diamonds flashed with blue and white fire.

Their reactions were different. Berlioz thought: ' No, he's a

foreigner.' Bezdomny thought: ' What the hell is he . . .? '

The poet and the owner of the case lit their cigarettes and Berlioz,

who did not smoke, refused.

'I shall refute his argument by saying' Berlioz decided to himself, '

that of course man is mortal, no one will argue with that. But the fact is

that . . .'

However he was not able to pronounce the words before the stranger

spoke:

'Of course man is mortal, but that's only half the problem. The trouble

is that mortality sometimes comes to him so suddenly! And he cannot even say

what he will be doing this evening.'

'What a stupid way of putting the question. ' thought Berlioz and

objected :

'Now there you exaggerate. I know more or less exactly what I'm going

to be doing this evening. Provided of course that a brick doesn't fall on my

head in the street. . .'

'A brick is neither here nor there,' the stranger interrupted

persuasively. ' A brick never falls on anyone's head. You in particular, I

assure you, are in no danger from that. Your death will be different.'

'Perhaps you know exactly how I am going to die? ' enquired Berlioz

with understandable sarcasm at the ridiculous turn that the conversation

seemed to be taking. ' Would you like to tell me?'

'Certainly,' rejoined the stranger. He looked Berlioz up and down as

though he were measuring him for a suit and muttered through his teeth

something that sounded like : ' One, two . . . Mercury in the second house .

. . the moon waning . . . six-- accident . . . evening--seven . . . ' then

announced loudly and cheerfully : ' Your 'head will be cut off!'

Bezdomny turned to the stranger with a wild, furious stare and Berlioz

asked with a sardonic grin :

'By whom? Enemies? Foreign spies? '

'No,' replied their companion, ' by a Russian woman, a member of the

Komsomol.'

'Hm,' grunted Berlioz, upset by the foreigner's little joke. ' That,

if you don'c mind my saying so, is most improbable.'

'I beg your pardon,' replied the foreigner, ' but it is so. Oh yes, I

was going to ask you--what are you doing this evening, if it's not a secret?

'

'It's no secret. From here I'm going home, and then at ten o'clock

this evening there's a meeting at the massolit and I shall be in the chair.'

'No, that is absolutely impossible,' said the stranger firmly.

'Why?'

'Because,' replied the foreigner and frowned up at the sky where,

sensing the oncoming cool of the evening, the birds were flying to roost, '

Anna has already bought the sunflower-seed oil, in fact she has not only

bought it, but has already spilled it. So that meeting will not take place.'

With this, as one might imagine, there was silence beneath the lime

trees.

'Excuse me,' said Berlioz after a pause with a glance at the

stranger's jaunty beret, ' but what on earth has sunflower-seed oil got to

do with it... and who is Anna? '

'I'll tell you what sunflower-seed oil's got to do with it,' said

Bezdomny suddenly, having obviously decided to declare war on their

uninvited companion. ' Have you, citizen, ever had to spend any time in a

mental hospital? '

'Ivan! ' hissed Mikhail Alexandrovich.

But the stranger was not in the least offended and gave a cheerful

laugh. ' Yes, I have, I have, and more than once! ' he exclaimed laughing,

though the stare that he gave the poet was mirthless. ' Where haven't I

been! My only regret is that I didn't stay long enough to ask the professor

what schizophrenia was. But you are going to find that out from him

yourself, Ivan Nikolayich!'

'How do you know my name? '

'My dear fellow, who doesn't know you? ' With this the foreigner

pulled the previous day's issue of The Literary Gazette out of his pocket

and Ivan Nikolayich saw his own picture on the front page above some of his

own verse. Suddenly what had delighted him yesterday as proof of his fame

and popularity no longer gave the poet any pleasure at all.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, his face darkening. ' Would you excuse

us for a minute? I should like a word or two with my friend.'

'Oh, with pleasure! ' exclaimed the stranger. ' It's so delightful

sitting here under the trees and I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere, as it

happens.'

'Look here, Misha,' whispered the poet when he had drawn Berlioz

aside. ' He's not just a foreign tourist, he's a spy. He's a Russian emigre

and he's trying to catch us out. Ask him for his papers and then he'll go

away . . .'

'Do you think we should? ' whispered Berlioz anxiously, thinking to

himself--' He's right, of course . . .'

'Mark my words,' the poet whispered to him. ' He's pretending to be an

idiot so that he can trap us with some compromising question. You can hear

how he speaks Russian,' said the poet, glancing sideways and watching to see

that the stranger was not eavesdropping. ' Come on, let's arrest him and

then we'll get rid of him.'

The poet led Berlioz by the arm back to the bench.

The unknown man was no longer sitting on it but standing beside it,

holding a booklet in a dark grey binding, a fat envelope made of good paper

and a visiting card.

'Forgive me, but in the heat of our argument I forgot to introduce

myself. Here is my card, my passport and a letter inviting me to come to

Moscow for consultations,' said the stranger gravely, giving both writers a

piercing stare.

The two men were embarrassed. ' Hell, he overheard us . . . ' thought

Berlioz, indicating with a polite gesture that there was no need for this

show of documents. Whilst the stranger was offering them to the editor, the

poet managed to catch sight of the visiting card. On it in foreign lettering

was the word ' Professor ' and the initial letter of a surname which began

with a'W'.

'Delighted,' muttered the editor awkwardly as the foreigner put his

papers back into his pocket. Good relations having been re-established, all

three sat down again on the bench.

'So you've been invited here as a consultant, have you, professor? '

asked Berlioz.

'Yes, I have.'

'Are you German? ' enquired Bezdomny.

'I? ' rejoined the professor and thought for a moment. ' Yes, I

suppose I am German. . . . ' he said.

'You speak excellent Russian,' remarked Bezdomny.

'Oh, I'm something of a polyglot. I know a great number of languages,'

replied the professor.

'And what is your particular field of work? ' asked Berlioz.

'I specialise in black magic.'

'Like hell you do! . . . ' thought Mikhail Alexandrovich.

'And ... and you've been invited here to give advice on that? ' he

asked with a gulp.

'Yes,' the professor assured him, and went on : ' Apparently your

National Library has unearthed some original manuscripts of the

ninth-century necromancer Herbert Aurilachs. I have been asked to decipher

them. I am the only specialist in the world.'

'Aha! So you're a historian? ' asked Berlioz in a tone of considerable

relief and respect.

' Yes, I am a historian,' adding with apparently complete

inconsequence, ' this evening a historic event is going to take place here

at Patriarch's Ponds.'

Again the editor and the poet showed signs of utter amazement, but the

professor beckoned to them and when both had bent their heads towards him he

whispered :

'Jesus did exist, you know.'

'Look, professor,' said Berlioz, with a forced smile, ' With all

respect to you as a scholar we take a different attitude on that point.'

'It's not a question of having an attitude,' replied the strange

professor. ' He existed, that's all there is to it.'

'But one must have some proof. . . . ' began Berlioz.

'There's no need for any proof,' answered the professor. In a low

voice, his foreign accent vanishing altogether, he began :

'It's very simple--early in the morning on the fourteenth of the

spring month of Nisan the Procurator of Judaea, Pontius Pilate, in a white

cloak lined with blood-red...

2. Pontius Pilate

Early in the morning on the fourteenth of the spring month of Nisan the

Procurator of Judaea, Pontius Pilate, in a white cloak lined with blood-red,

emerged with his shuffling cavalryman's walk into the arcade connecting the

two wings of the palace of Herod the Great.

More than anything else in the world the Procurator hated the smell of

attar of roses. The omens for the day were bad, as this scent had been

haunting him since dawn.

It seemed to the Procurator that the very cypresses and palms in the

garden were exuding the smell of roses, that this damned stench of roses was

even mingling with the smell of leather tackle and sweat from his mounted

bodyguard.

A haze of smoke was drifting towards the arcade across the upper

courtyard of the garden, coming from the wing at the rear of the palace, the

quarters of the first cohort of the XII Legion ; known as the ' Lightning',

it had been stationed in Jerusalem since the Procurator's arrival. The same

oily perfume of roses was mixed with the acrid smoke that showed that the

centuries' cooks had started to prepare breakfast.

'Oh gods, what are you punishing me for? . . . No, there's no doubt, I

have it again, this terrible incurable pain . . . hemicrania, when half the

head aches . . . there's no cure for it, nothing helps. ... I must try not

to move my head. . . . '

A chair had already been placed on the mosaic floor by the fountain;

without a glance round, the Procurator sat in it and stretched out his hand

to one side. His secretary deferentially laid a piece of parchment in his

hand. Unable to restrain a grimace of agony the Procurator gave a fleeting

sideways look at its contents, returned the parchment to his secretary and

said painfully:

'The accused comes from Galilee, does he? Was the case sent to the

tetrarch? '

'Yes, Procurator,' replied the secretary. ' He declined to confirm the

finding of the court and passed the Sanhedrin's sentence of death to you for

confirmation.'

The Procurator's cheek twitched and he said quietly :

'Bring in the accused.'

At once two legionaries escorted a man of about twenty-seven from the

courtyard, under the arcade and up to the balcony, where they placed him

before the Procurator's chair. The man was dressed in a shabby, torn blue

chiton. His head was covered with a white bandage fastened round his

forehead, his hands tied behind his back. There was a large bruise under the

man's left eye and a scab of dried blood in one corner of his mouth. The

prisoner stared at the Procurator with anxious curiosity.

The Procurator was silent at first, then asked quietly in Aramaic:

'So you have been inciting the people to destroy the temple of

Jerusalem? '

The Procurator sat as though carved in stone, his lips barely moving as

he pronounced the words. The Procurator was like stone from fear of shaking

his fiendishly aching head.

The man with bound hands made a slight move forwards and began

speaking:

'Good man! Believe me . . . '

But the Procurator, immobile as before and without raising his voice,

at once interrupted him :

'You call me good man? You are making a mistake. The rumour about me

in Jerusalem is that I am a raving monster and that is absolutely correct,'

and he added in the same monotone :

'Send centurion Muribellum to me.'

The balcony seemed to darken when the centurion of the first century.

Mark surnamed Muribellum, appeared before the Procurator. Muribellum was a

head taller than the tallest soldier in the legion and so broad in the

shoulders that he completely obscured the rising sun.

The Procurator said to the centurion in Latin:

'This criminal calls me " good man ". Take him away for a minute and

show him the proper way to address me. But do not mutilate him.'

All except the motionless Procurator watched Mark Muribellum as he

gestured to the prisoner to follow him. Because of his height people always

watched Muribellum wherever he went. Those who saw him for the first time

were inevitably fascinated by his disfigured face : his nose had once been

smashed by a blow from a German club.

Mark's heavy boots resounded on the mosaic, the bound man followed him

noiselessly. There was complete silence under the arcade except for the

cooing of doves in the garden below and the water singing its seductive tune

in the fountain.

The Procurator had a sudden urge to get up and put his temples under

the stream of water until they were numb. But he knew that even that would

not help.

Having led the prisoner out of the arcade into the garden, Muribellum

took a whip from the hands of a legionary standing by the plinth of a bronze

statue and with a gentle swing struck the prisoner across the shoulders. The

centurion's movement was slight, almost negligent, but the bound man

collapsed instantly as though his legs had been struck from under him and he

gasped for air. The colour fled from his face and his eyes clouded.

With only his left hand Mark lifted the fallen man into the air as

lightly as an empty sack, set him on his feet and said in broken, nasal

Aramaic:

'You call a Roman Procurator " hegemon " Don't say anything else.

Stand to attention. Do you understand or must I hit you again? '

The prisoner staggered helplessly, his colour returned, he gulped and

answered hoarsely :

'I understand you. Don't beat me.'

A minute later he was again standing in front of the Procurator. The

harsh, suffering voice rang out:

'Name?'

'Mine? ' enquired the prisoner hurriedly, his whole being expressing

readiness to answer sensibly and to forestall any further anger.

The Procurator said quietly :

'I know my own name. Don't pretend to be stupider than you are. Your

name.'

'Yeshua,' replied the prisoner hastily.

'Surname?'

'Ha-Notsri.'

'Where are you from? '

'From the town of Gamala,' replied the prisoner, nodding his head to

show that far over there to his right, in the north, was the town of Gamala.

'Who are you by birth? '

'I don't know exactly,' promptly answered the prisoner, ' I don't

remember my parents. I was told that my father was a Syrian. . . .'

'Where is your fixed abode? '

'I have no home,' said the prisoner shamefacedly, ' I move from town

to town.'

'There is a shorter way of saying that--in a word you are a vagrant,'

said the Procurator and asked: ' Have you any relations?'

'No, none. Not one in the world.'

'Can you read and write? ' ' Yes.'

'Do you know any language besides Aramaic?

'' Yes. Greek.'

One swollen eyelid was raised and a pain-clouded eye stared at the

prisoner. The other eye remained closed. Pilate said in Greek :

'So you intended to destroy the temple building and incited the people

to do so?'

'Never, goo . . . ' Terror flashed across the prisoner's face for

having so nearly said the wrong word. ' Never in my life, hegemon, have I

intended to destroy the temple. Nor have I ever tried to persuade anyone to

do such a senseless thing.'

A look of amazement came over the secretary's face as he bent over a

low table recording the evidence. He raised his head but immediately lowered

it again over his parchment.

'People of all kinds are streaming into the city for the feast-day.

Among them there are magicians, astrologers, seers and murderers,' said the

Procurator in a monotone. ' There are also liars. You, for instance, are a

liar. It is clearly written down : he incited people to destroy the temple.

Witnesses have said so.'

'These good people,' the prisoner began, and hastily adding '

hegemon', he went on, ' are unlearned and have confused everything I said. I

am beginning to fear that this confusion will last for a very long time. And

all because he untruthfully wrote down what I said.'

There was silence. Now both pain-filled eyes stared heavily at the

prisoner.

'I repeat, but for the last time--stop pretending to be mad,

scoundrel,' said Pilate softly and evenly. ' What has been written down

about you is little enough, but it is sufficient to hang you.'

'No, no, hegemon,' said the prisoner, straining with the desire to

convince. ' This man follows me everywhere with nothing but his goatskin

parchment and writes incessantly. But I once caught a glimpse of that

parchment and I was horrified. I had not said a word of what was written

there. I begged him-- please burn this parchment of yours! But he tore it

out of my hands and ran away.'

'Who was he? ' enquired Pilate in a strained voice and put his hand to

his temple.

'Matthew the Levite,' said the prisoner eagerly. ' He was a

tax-collector. I first met him on the road to Bethlehem at the corner where

the road skirts a fig orchard and I started talking to him. At first he was

rude and even insulted me, or rather he thought he was insulting me by

calling me a dog.' The prisoner laughed. ' Personally I see nothing wrong

with that animal so I was not offended by the word. . . .'

The secretary stopped taking notes and glanced surreptitiously, not at

the prisoner, but at the Procurator.

'However, when he had heard me out he grew milder,' went on Yeshua,'

and in the end he threw his money into the road and said that he would go

travelling with me. . . .'

Pilate laughed with one cheek. Baring his yellow teeth and turning

fully round to his secretary he said :

'Oh, city of Jerusalem! What tales you have to tell! A tax-collector,

did you hear, throwing away his money!'

Not knowing what reply was expected of him, the secretary chose to

return Pilate's smile.

'And he said that henceforth he loathed his money,' said Yeshua in

explanation of Matthew the Levite's strange action, adding : ' And since

then he has been my companion.'

His teeth still bared in a grin, the Procurator glanced at the

prisoner, then at the sun rising inexorably over the equestrian statues of

the hippodrome far below to his left, and suddenly in a moment of agonising

nausea it occurred to him that the simplest thing would be to dismiss this

curious rascal from his balcony with no more than two words : ' Hang him. '

Dismiss the body-guard too, leave the arcade and go indoors, order the room

to be darkened, fall on to his couch, send for cold water, call for his dog

Banga in a pitiful voice and complain to the dog about his hemicrania.

Suddenly the tempting thought of poison flashed through the Procurator's

mind.

He stared dully at the prisoner for a while, trying painfully to recall

why this man with the bruised face was standing in front of him in the

pitiless Jerusalem morning sunshine and what further useless questions he

should put to him.

'Matthew the Levite? ' asked the suffering man in a hoarse voice,

closing his eyes.

'Yes, Matthew the Levite,' came the grating, high-pitched reply.

'So you did make a speech about the temple to the crowd in the temple

forecourt? '

The voice that answered seemed to strike Pilate on the forehead,

causing him inexpressible torture and it said:

'I spoke, hegemon, of how the temple of the old beliefs would fall

down and the new temple of truth would be built up. I used those words to

make my meaning easier to understand.'

'Why should a tramp like you upset the crowd in the bazaar by talking

about truth, something of which you have no conception? What is truth? '

At this the Procurator thought: ' Ye gods! This is a court of law and I

am asking him an irrelevant question . . . my mind no longer obeys me. . . .

' Once more he had a vision of a goblet of dark liquid. ' Poison, I need

poison.. .. ' And again he heard the voice :

'At this moment the truth is chiefly that your head is aching and

aching so hard that you are having cowardly thoughts about death. Not only

are you in no condition to talk to me, but it even hurts you to look at me.

This makes me seem to be your torturer, which distresses me. You cannot even

think and you can only long for your dog, who is clearly the only creature

for whom you have any affection. But the pain will stop soon and your

headache will go.'

The secretary stared at the prisoner, his note-taking abandoned. Pilate

raised his martyred eyes to the prisoner and saw how high the sun now stood

above the hippodrome, how a ray had penetrated the arcade, had crept towards

Yeshua's patched sandals and how the man moved aside from the sunlight. The

Procurator stood up and clasped his head in his hands. Horror came over his

yellowish, clean-shaven face. With an effort of will he controlled his

expression and sank back into his chair.

Meanwhile the prisoner continued talking, but the secretary had stopped

writing, craning his neck like a goose in the effort not to miss a single

word.

'There, it has gone,' said the prisoner, with a kindly glance at

Pilate. ' I am so glad. I would advise you, hegemon, to leave the palace for

a while and take a walk somewhere nearby, perhaps in the gardens or on Mount

Eleona. There will be thunder . . .' The prisoner turned and squinted into

the sun . . . ' later, towards evening. A walk would do you a great deal of

good and I should be happy to go with you. Some new thoughts have just come

into my head which you might, I think, find interesting and I should like to

discuss them with you, the more so as you strike me as a man of great

intelligence.' The secretary turned mortally pale and dropped his scroll to

the ground. ' Your trouble is,' went on the unstoppable prisoner, ' that

your mind is too closed and you have finally lost your faith in human

beings. You must admit that no one ought to lavish all their devotion on a

dog. Your life is a cramped one, hegemon.' Here the speaker allowed himself

to smile.

The only thought in the secretary's mind now was whether he could

believe his ears. He had to believe them. He then tried to guess in what

strange form the Procurator's fiery temper might break out at the prisoner's

unheard-of insolence. Although he knew the Procurator well the secretary's

imagination failed him.

Then the hoarse, broken voice of the Procurator barked out in Latin:

'Untie his hands.'

One of the legionary escorts tapped the ground with his lance, gave it

to his neighbour, approached and removed the prisoner's bonds. The secretary

picked up his scroll, decided to take no more notes for a while and to be

astonished at nothing he might hear.

'Tell me,' said Pilate softly in Latin, ' are you a great physician?'

'No, Procurator, I am no physician,' replied the prisoner, gratefully

rubbing his twisted, swollen, purpling wrist.

Staring from beneath his eyelids, Pilate's eyes bored into the prisoner

and those eyes were no longer dull. They now flashed with their familiar

sparkle. ' I did not ask you,' said Pilate. ' Do you know Latin too? '

'Yes, I do,' replied the prisoner.

The colour flowed back into Pilate's yellowed cheeks and he asked in

Latin:

'How did you know that I wanted to call my dog? '

'Quite simple,' the prisoner answered in Latin. ' You moved your hand

through the air . . . ' the prisoner repeated Pilate's gesture . . . ' as

though to stroke something and your lips . . .'

'Yes,' said Pilate.

There was silence. Then Pilate put a question in Greek :

'So you are a physician? '

'No, no,' was the prisoner's eager reply. ' Believe me I am not.'

'Very well, if you wish to keep it a secret, do so. It has no direct

bearing on the case. So you maintain that you never incited people to tear

down ... or burn, or by any means destroy the temple?'

'I repeat, hegemon, that I have never tried to persuade anyone to

attempt any such thing. Do I look weak in the head? '

'Oh no, you do not,' replied the Procurator quietly, and smiled an

ominous smile. ' Very well, swear that it is not so.'

'What would you have me swear by? ' enquired the unbound prisoner with

great urgency.

'Well, by your life,' replied the Procurator. ' It is high time to

swear by it because you should know that it is hanging by a thread.'

'You do not believe, do you, hegemon, that it is you who have strung

it up?' asked the prisoner. ' If you do you are mistaken.'

Pilate shuddered and answered through clenched teeth :

'I can cut that thread.'

'You are mistaken there too,' objected the prisoner, beaming and

shading himself from the sun with his hand. ' You must agree, I think, that

the thread can only be cut by the one who has suspended it? '

'Yes, yes,' said Pilate, smiling. ' I now have no doubt that the idle

gapers of Jerusalem have been pursuing you. I do not know who strung up your

tongue, but he strung it well. By the way. tell me, is it true that you

entered Jerusalem by the Susim Gate mounted on a donkey, accompanied by a

rabble who greeted you as though you were a prophet? ' Here the Procurator

pointed to a scroll of parchment.

The prisoner stared dubiously at the Procurator.

'I have no donkey, hegemon,' he said. ' I certainly came into

Jerusalem through the Susim Gate, but I came on foot alone except for

Matthew the Levite and nobody shouted a word to me as no one in Jerusalem

knew me then.'

'Do you happen to know,' went on Pilate without taking his eyes off

the prisoner, ' anyone called Dismas? Or Hestas? Or a third--Bar-Abba? '

'I do not know these good men,' replied the prisoner.

'Is that the truth? '

'It is.'

'And now tell me why you always use that expression " good men "? Is

that what you call everybody? '

'Yes, everybody,' answered the prisoner. ' There are no evil people on

earth.'

'That is news to me,' said Pilate with a laugh. ' But perhaps I am too

ignorant of life. You need take no further notes,' he said to the secretary,

although the man had taken none for some time. Pilate turned back to the

prisoner :

'Did you read about that in some Greek book? '

'No, I reached that conclusion in my own mind.'

'And is that what you preach? '

‘ Yes.'

'Centurion Mark Muribellum, for instance--is he good? '

'Yes,' replied the prisoner. ' He is, it is true, an unhappy man.

Since the good people disfigured him he has become harsh and callous. It

would be interesting to know who mutilated him.'

'That I will gladly tell you,' rejoined Pilate, ' because I was a

witness to it. These good men threw themselves at him like dogs at a bear.

The Germans clung to his neck, his arms, his legs. An infantry maniple had

been ambushed and had it not been for a troop of cavalry breaking through

from the flank--a troop commanded by me--you, philosopher, would not have

been talking to Muribellum just now. It happened at the battle of Idistavizo

in the Valley of the Virgins.'

'If I were to talk to him,' the prisoner suddenly said in a reflective

voice, ' I am sure that he would change greatly.'

'I suspect,' said Pilate, ' that the Legate of the Legion would not be

best pleased if you took it into your head to talk to one of his officers or

soldiers. Fortunately for us all any such thing is forbidden and the first

person to ensure that it cannot occur would be myself.'

At that moment a swallow darted into the arcade, circled under the

gilded ceiling, flew lower, almost brushed its pointed wingtip over the face

of a bronze statue in a niche and disappeared behind the capital of a

column, perhaps with the thought of nesting there.

As it flew an idea formed itself in the Procurator's mind, which was

now bright and clear. It was thus : the hegemon had examined the case of the

vagrant philosopher Yeshua, surnamed Ha-Notsri, and could not substantiate

the criminal charge made against him. In particular he could not find the

slightest connection between Yeshua's actions and the recent disorders in

Jerusalem. The vagrant philosopher was mentally ill, as a result of which

the sentence of death pronounced on Ha-Notsri by the Lesser Sanhedrin would

not be confirmed. But in view of the danger of unrest liable to be caused by

Yeshua's mad, Utopian preaching, the Procurator would remove the man from

Jerusalem and sentence him to imprisonment in Caesarea Stratonova on the

Mediterranean--the place of the Procurator's own residence. It only remained

to dictate this to the secretary.

The swallow's wings fluttered over the hegemon's head, the bird flew

towards the fountain and out into freedom.

The Procurator raised his eyes to the prisoner and saw that a column of

dust had swirled up beside him.

'Is that all there is on this man? ' Pilate asked the secretary.

'No, unfortunately,' replied the secretary unexpectedly, and handed

Pilate another parchment.

'What else is there? ' enquired Pilate and frowned.

Having read the further evidence a change came over his expression.

Whether it was blood flowing back into his neck and face or from something

else that occurred, his skin changed from yellow to red-brown and his eyes

appeared to collapse. Probably caused by the increased blood-pressure in his

temples, something happened to the Procurator's sight. He seemed to see the

prisoner's head vanish and another appear in its place, bald and crowned

with a spiked golden diadem. The skin of the forehead was split by a round,

livid scar smeared with ointment. A sunken, toothless mouth with a

capricious, pendulous lower lip. Pilate had the sensation that the pink

columns of his balcony and the roofscape of Jerusalem below and beyond the

garden had all vanished, drowned in the thick foliage of cypress groves. His

hearing, too, was strangely affected--there was a sound as of distant

trumpets, muted and threatening, and a nasal voice could clearly be heard

arrogantly intoning the words: ' The law pertaining to high treason . . .'

Strange, rapid, disconnected thoughts passed through his mind. ' Dead!

' Then : ' They have killed him! . . .' And an absurd notion about

immortality, the thought of which aroused a sense of unbearable grief.

Pilate straightened up, banished the vision, turned his gaze back to

the balcony and again the prisoner's eyes met his.

'Listen, Ha-Notsri,' began the Procurator, giving Yeshua a strange

look. His expression was grim but his eyes betrayed anxiety. ' Have you ever

said anything about great Caesar? Answer! Did you say anything of the sort?

Or did you . . . not? ' Pilate gave the word 'not' more emphasis than was

proper in a court of law and his look seemed to be trying to project a

particular thought into the prisoner's mind. ' Telling the truth is easy and

pleasant,' remarked the prisoner.

'I do not want to know,' replied Pilate in a voice of suppressed

anger, ' whether you enjoy telling the truth or not. You are obliged to tell

me the truth. But when you speak weigh every word, if you wish to avoid a

painful death.'

No one knows what passed through the mind of the Procurator of Judaea,

but he permitted himself to raise his hand as though shading himself from a

ray of sunlight and, shielded by that hand, to throw the prisoner a glance

that conveyed a hint.

'So,' he said, ' answer this question : do you know a certain Judas of

Karioth and if you have ever spoken to him what did you say to him about

Caesar? '

'It happened thus,' began the prisoner readily. ' The day before

yesterday, in the evening, I met a young man near the temple who called

himself Judas, from the town of Karioth. He invited me to his home in the

Lower City and gave me supper...'

'Is he a good man? ' asked Pilate, a diabolical glitter in his eyes.

'A very good man and eager to learn,' affirmed the prisoner. ' He

expressed the greatest interest in my ideas and welcomed me joyfully .. . '

'Lit the candles. . . .' said Pilate through clenched teeth to the

prisoner, his eyes glittering.

'Yes,' said Yeshua, slightly astonished that the Procurator should be

so well informed, and went on : ' He asked me for my views on the

government. The question interested him very much.'

'And so what did you say? ' asked Pilate. ' Or are you going to reply

that you have forgotten what you said? ' But there was already a note of

hopelessness in Pilate's voice.

'Among other things I said,' continued the prisoner, ' that all power

is a form of violence exercised over people and that the time will come when

there will be no rule by Caesar nor any other form of rule. Man will pass

into the kingdom of truth and justice where no sort of power will be

needed.'

'Go on!'

'There is no more to tell,' said the prisoner. ' After that some men

came running in, tied me up and took me to prison.'

The secretary, straining not to miss a word, rapidly scribbled the

statement on his parchment.

'There never has been, nor yet shall be a greater and more perfect

government in this world than the rule of the emperor Tiberius!' Pilate's

voice rang out harshly and painfully. The Procurator stared at his secretary

and at the bodyguard with what seemed like hatred. ' And what business have

you, a criminal lunatic, to discuss such matters! ' Pilate shouted. ' Remove

the guards from the balcony! ' And turning to his secretary he added: '

Leave me alone with this criminal. This is a case of treason.'

The bodyguard raised their lances and with the measured tread of their

iron-shod caligae marched from the balcony towards the garden followed by

the secretary.

For a while the silence on the balcony was only disturbed bv the

splashing of the fountain. Pilate watched the water splay out at the apex of

the jet and drip downwards.

The prisoner was the first to speak :

'I see that there has been some trouble as a result of my conversation

with that young man from Karioth. I have a presentiment, hegemon, that some

misfortune will befall him and I feel very sorry for him.'

'I think,' replied the Procurator with a strange smile, ' that there

is someone else in this world for whom you should feel sorrier than for

Judas of Karioth and who is destined for a fate much worse than Judas'! ...

So Mark Muribellum, a coldblooded killer, the people who I see '--the

Procurator pointed to Yeshua's disfigured face--' beat you for what you

preached, the robbers Dismas and Hestas who with their confederates killed

four soldiers, and finally this dirty informer Judas--are they all good men?

'

'Yes,' answered the prisoner.

'And will the kingdom of truth come? ' ' It will, hegemon,' replied

Yeshua with conviction.

'It will never come! ' Pilate suddenly shouted in a voice so terrible

that Yeshua staggered back. Many years ago in the Valley of the Virgins

Pilate had shouted in that same voice to his horsemen : ' Cut them down! Cut

them down! They have caught the giant Muribellum!' And again he raised his

parade-ground voice, barking out the words so that they would be heard in

the garden : ' Criminal! Criminal! Criminal! ' Then lowering his voice he

asked : ' Yeshua Ha-Notsri, do you believe in any gods?'

'God is one,' answered Yeshua. ' I believe in Him.'

'Then pray to him! Pray hard! However,' at this Pilate's voice fell

again, ' it will do no good. Have you a wife? ' asked Pilate with a sudden

inexplicable access of depression.

'No, I am alone.'

'I hate this city,' the Procurator suddenly mumbled, hunching his

shoulders as though from cold and wiping his hands as though washing them. '

If they had murdered you before your meeting with Judas of Karioth I really

believe it would have been better.'

'You should let me go, hegemon,' was the prisoner's unexpected

request, his voice full of anxiety. ' I see now that they want to kill me.'

A spasm distorted Pilate's face as he turned his blood-shot eyes on

Yeshua and said :

'Do you imagine, you miserable creature, that a Roman Procurator could

release a man who has said what you have said to me? Oh gods, oh gods! Or do

you think I'm prepared to take your place? I don't believe in your ideas!

And listen to me : if from this moment onward you say so much as a word or

try to talk to anybody, beware! I repeat--beware!'

'Hegemon . ..'

'Be quiet! ' shouted Pilate, his infuriated stare following the

swallow which had flown on to the balcony again. ' Here!' shouted Pilate.

The secretary and the guards returned to their places and Pilate

announced that he confirmed the sentence of death pronounced by the Lesser

Sanhedrin on the accused Yeshua Ha-Notsri and the secretary recorded

Pilate's words.

A minute later centurion Mark Muribellum stood before the Procurator.

He was ordered by the Procurator to hand the felon over to the captain of

the secret service and in doing so to transmit the Procurator's directive

that Yeshua Ha-Notsri was to be segregated from the other convicts, also

that the captain of the secret service was forbidden on pain of severe

punishment to talk to Yeshua or to answer any questions he might ask.

At a signal from Mark the guard closed ranks around Yeshua and escorted

him from the balcony.

Later the Procurator received a call from a handsome man with a blond

beard, eagles' feathers in the crest of his helmet, glittering lions'

muzzles on his breastplate, a gold-studded sword belt, triple-soled boots

laced to the knee and a purple cloak thrown over his left shoulder. He was

the commanding officer, the Legate of the Legion.

The Procurator asked him where the Sebastian cohort was stationed. The

Legate reported that the Sebastian was on cordon duty in the square in front

of the hippodrome, where the sentences on the prisoners would be announced

to the crowd.

Then the Procurator instructed the Legate to detach two centuries from

the Roman cohort. One of them, under the command of Muribellum, was to

escort the convicts, the carts transporting the executioners' equipment and

the executioners themselves to Mount Golgotha and on arrival to cordon off

the summit area. The other was to proceed at once to Mount Golgotha and to

form a cordon immediately on arrival. To assist in the task of guarding the

hill, the Procurator asked the Legate to despatch an auxiliary cavalry

regiment, the Syrian ala.

When the Legate had left the balcony, the Procurator ordered his

secretary to summon to the palace the president of the Sanhedrin, two of its

members and the captain of the Jerusalem temple guard, but added that he

wished arrangements to be made which would allow him, before conferring with

all these people, to have a private meeting with the president of the

Sanhedrin.

The Procurator's orders were carried out rapidly and precisely and the

sun, which had lately seemed to scorch Jerusalem with such particular

vehemence, had not yet reached its zenith when the meeting took place

between the Procurator and the president of the Sanhedrin, the High Priest

of Judaea, Joseph Caiaphas. They met on the upper terrace of the garden

between two white marble lions guarding the staircase.

It was quiet in the garden. But as he emerged from the arcade on to the

sun-drenched upper terrace of the garden with its palms on their monstrous

elephantine legs, the terrace from which the whole of Pilate's detested city

of Jerusalem lay spread out before the Procurator with its suspension

bridges, its fortresses and over it all that indescribable lump of marble

with a golden dragon's scale instead of a roof--the temple of Jerusalem--the

Procurator's sharp hearing detected far below, down there where a stone wall

divided the lower terraces of the palace garden from the city square, a low

rumbling broken now and again by faint sounds, half groans, half cries.

The Procurator realised that already there was assembling in the square

a numberless crowd of the inhabitants of Jerusalem, excited by the recent

disorders; that this crowd was waiting impatiently for the pronouncement of

sentence and that the water-sellers were busily shouting their wares.

The Procurator began by inviting the High Priest on to the balcony to

find some shade from the pitiless heat, but Caiaphas politely excused

himself, explaining that he could not do that on the eve of a feast-day.

Pilate pulled his cowl over his slightly balding head and began the

conversation, which was conducted in Greek.

Pilate remarked that he had examined the case of Yeshua Ha-Notsri and

had confirmed the sentence of death. Consequently those due for execution

that day were the three robbers--Hestas, Dismas and Bar-Abba--and now this

other man, Yeshua Ha- Notsri. The first two, who had tried to incite the

people to rebel against Caesar, had been forcibly apprehended by the Roman

authorities; they were therefore the Procurator's responsibility and there

was no reason to discuss their case. The last two, however, Bar-Abba and

Ha-Notsri, had been arrested by the local authorities and tried before the

Sanhedrin. In accordance with law and custom, one of these two criminals

should be released in honour of the imminent great feast of Passover. The

Procurator therefore wished to know which of these two felons the Sanhedrin

proposed to discharge--Bar-Abba or Ha-Notsri?

Caiaphas inclined his head as a sign that he understood the question

and replied:

'The Sanhedrin requests the release of Bar-Abba.' The Procurator well

knew that this would be the High Priest's reply; his problem was to show

that the request aroused his astonishment.

This Pilate did with great skill. The eyebrows rose on his proud

forehead and the Procurator looked the High Priest straight in the eye with

amazement.

'I confess that your reply surprises me,' began the Procurator softly.

' I fear there may have been some misunderstanding here.'

Pilate stressed that the Roman government wished to make no inroads

into the prerogatives of the local priestly authority, the High Priest was

well aware of that, but in this particular case an obvious error seemed to

have occurred. And the Roman government naturally had an interest in

correcting such an error. The crimes of Bar-Abba and Ha-Notsri were after

all not comparable in gravity. If the latter, a man who was clearly insane,

were guilty of making some absurd speeches in Jerusalem and various other

localities, the former stood convicted of offences that were infinitely more

serious. Not only had he permitted himself to make direct appeals to

rebellion, but he had killed a sentry while resisting arrest. Bar-Abba was

immeasurably more dangerous than Ha-Notsri. In view of all these facts, the

Procurator requested the High Priest to reconsider his decision and to

discharge the least dangerous of the two convicts and that one was

undoubtedly Ha-Notsri . . . Therefore?

Caiaphas said in a quiet but firm voice that the Sanhedrin had taken

due cognisance of the case and repeated its intention to release Bar-Abba.

'What? Even after my intervention? The intervention of the

representative of the Roman government? High Priest, say it for the third

time.'

'And for the third time I say that we shall release Bar-Abba,' said

Caiaphas softly.

It was over and there was no more to be discussed. Ha-Notsri had gone

for ever and there was no one to heal the Procurator's terrible, savage

pains ; there was no cure for them now except death. But this thought did

not strike Pilate immediately. At first his whole being was seized with the

same incomprehensible sense of grief which had come to him on the balcony.

He at once sought for its explanation and its cause was a strange one : the

Procurator was obscurely aware that he still had something to say to the

prisoner and that perhaps, too, he had more to learn from him.

Pilate banished the thought and it passed as quickly as it had come. It

passed, yet that grievous ache remained a mystery, for it could not be

explained by another thought that had flashed in and out of his mind like

lightning--' Immortality ... immortality has come . . .' Whose immortality

had come? The Procurator could not understand it, but that puzzling thought

of immortality sent a chill over him despite the sun's heat.

'Very well,' said Pilate. ' So be it.'

With that he looked round. The visible world vanished from his sight

and an astonishing change occurred. The flower-laden rosebush disappeared,

the cypresses fringing the upper terrace disappeared, as did the pomegranate

tree, the white statue among the foliage and the foliage itself. In their

place came a kind of dense purple mass in which seaweed waved and swayed and

Pilate himself was swaying with it. He was seized, suffocating and burning,

by the most terrible rage of all rage--the rage of impotence.

'I am suffocating,' said Pilate. ' Suffocating! '

With a cold damp hand he tore the buckle from the collar of his cloak

and it fell on to the sand.

'It is stifling today, there is a thunderstorm brewing,' said

Caiaphas, his gaze fixed on the Procurator's reddening face, foreseeing all

the discomfort that the weather was yet to bring. ' The month of Nisan has

been terrible this year! '

'No,' said Pilate. ' That is not why I am suffocating. I feel stifled

by your presence, Caiaphas.' Narrowing his eyes Pilate added : ' Beware,

High Priest! '

The High Priest's dark eyes flashed and--no less cunningly than the

Procurator--his face showed astonishment.

'What do I hear, Procurator? ' Caiaphas answered proudly and calmly. '

Are you threatening me--when sentence has been duly pronounced and confirmed

by yourself? Can this be so? We are accustomed to the Roman Procurator

choosing his words carefully before saying anything. I trust no one can have

overheard us, hegemon?'

With lifeless eyes Pilate gazed at the High Priest and manufactured a

smile.

'Come now. High Priest! Who can overhear us here? Do you take me for a

fool, like that crazy young vagrant who is to be executed today? Am I a

child, Caiphas? I know what I'm saying and where I'm saying it. This garden,

this whole palace is so well cordoned that there's not a crack for a mouse

to slip through. Not a mouse--and not even that man--what's his name . .?

That man from Karioth. You do know him, don't you, High Priest? Yes ... if

someone like that were to get in here, he would bitterly regret it. You

believe me when I say that, don't you? I tell you, High Priest, that from

henceforth you shall have no peace! Neither you nor your people '--Pilate

pointed to the right where the pinnacle of the temple flashed in the

distance. ' I, Pontius Pilate, knight of the Golden Lance, tell you so! ' '

I know it! ' fearlessly replied the bearded Caiaphas. His eyes flashed as he

raised his hand to the sky and went on : ' The Jewish people knows that you

hate it with a terrible hatred and that you have brought it much

suffering--but you will never destroy it! God will protect it. And he shall

hear us--mighty Caesar shall hear us and protect us from Pilate the

oppressor! '

'Oh no! ' rejoined Pilate, feeling more and more relieved with every

word that he spoke; there was no longer any need to dissemble, no need to

pick his words : ' You have complained of me to Caesar too often and now my

hour has come, Caiaphas! Now I shall send word--but not to the viceroy in

Antioch, not even to Rome but straight to Capreia, to the emperor himself,

word of how you in Jerusalem are saving convicted rebels from death. And

then it will not be water from Solomon's pool, as I once intended for your

benefit, that I shall give Jerusalem to drink--no, it will not be water!

Remember how thanks to you I was made to remove the shields with the

imperial cipher from the walls, to transfer troops, to come and take charge

here myself! Remember my words. High Priest: you are going to see more than

one cohort here in Jerusalem! Under the city walls you are going to see the

Fulminata legion at full strength and Arab cavalry too. Then the weeping and

lamentation will be bitter! Then you will remember that you saved Bar-Abba

and you will regret that you sent that preacher of peace to his death!

Flecks of colour spread over the High Priest's face, his eyes burned.

Like the Procurator he grinned mirthlessly and replied:

'Do you really believe what you have just said, Procurator? No, you do

not! It was not peace that this rabble-rouser brought to Jerusalem and of

that, hegamon, you are well aware. You wanted to release him so that he

could stir up the people, curse our faith and deliver the people to your

Roman swords! But as long as I, the High Priest of Judaea, am alive I shall

not allow the faith to be defamed and I shall protect the people! Do you

hear, Pilate?' With this Caiaphas raised his arm threateningly;

'Take heed. Procurator! '

Caiaphas was silent and again the Procurator heard a murmuring as of

the sea, rolling up to the very walls of Herod the Great's garden. The sound

flowed upwards from below until it seemed to swirl round the Procurator's

legs and into his face. Behind his back, from beyond the wings of the

palace, came urgent trumpet calls, the heavy crunch of hundreds of feet, the

clank of metal. It told the Procurator that the Roman infantry was marching

out, on his orders, to the execution parade that was to strike terror into

the hearts of all thieves and rebels

'Do you hear. Procurator? ' the High Priest quietly repeated his

words. ' Surely you are not trying to tell me that all this '-- here the

High Priest raised both arms and his dark cowl slipped from his head--' can

have been evoked by that miserable thief Bar-Abba?'

With the back of his wrist the Procurator wiped his damp, cold

forehead, stared at the ground, then frowning skywards he saw that the

incandescent ball was nearly overhead, that Caiaphas' shadow had shrunk to

almost nothing and he said in a calm, expressionless voice :

'The execution will be at noon. We have enjoyed this conversation, but

matters must proceed.'

Excusing himself to the High Priest in a few artificial phrases, he

invited him to sit down on a bench in the shade of a magnolia and to wait

while he summoned the others necessary for the final short consultation and

to give one more order concerning the execution.

Caiaphas bowed politely, placing his hand on his heart, and remained in

the garden while Pilate returned to the balcony. There he ordered his

waiting secretary to call the Legate of the Legion and the Tribune of the

cohort into the garden, also the two members of the Sanhedrin and the

captain of the temple guard, who were standing grouped round the fountain on

the lower terrace awaiting his call. Pilate added that he would himself

shortly return to join them in the garden, and disappeared inside the

palace.

While the secretary convened the meeting, inside his darken-ed,

shuttered room the Procurator spoke to a man whose face, despite the

complete absence of sunlight from the room, remained half covered by a hood.

The interview was very short. The Procurator whispered a few words to the

man, who immediately departed. Pilate passed through the arcade into the

garden.

There in the presence of all the men he had asked to see, the

Procurator solemnly and curtly repeated that he confirmed the sentence of

death on Yeshua Ha-Notsri and enquired officially of the Sanhedrin members

as to which of the prisoners it had pleased them to release. On being told

that it was Bar-Abba, the Procurator said:

'Very well,' and ordered the secretary to enter it in the minutes. He

clutched the buckle which the secretary had picked up from the sand and

announced solemnly : ' It is time! '

At this all present set off down the broad marble staircase between the

lines of rose bushes, exuding their stupefying aroma, down towards the

palace wall, to a gate leading to the smoothly paved square at whose end

could be seen the columns and statues of the Jerusalem hippodrome.

As soon as the group entered the square and began climbing up to the

broad temporary wooden platform raised high above the square, Pilate

assessed the situation through narrowed eyelids.

The cleared passage that he had just crossed between the palace walls

and the scaffolding platform was empty, but in front of Pilate the square

could no longer be seen--it had been devoured by the crowd. The mob would

have poured on to the platform and the passage too if there had not been two

triple rows of soldiers, one from the Sebastian cohort on Pilate's left and

on his right another from the Ituraean auxiliary cohort, to keep it clear.

Pilate climbed the platform, mechanically clenching and unclenching his

fist on the useless buckle and frowning hard. The Procurator was not

frowning because the sun was blinding him but to somehow avoid seeing the

group of prisoners which, as he well knew, would shortly be led out on the

platform behind him.

The moment the white cloak with the blood-red lining appeared atop the

stone block at the edge of that human sea a wave of sound--' Aaahh '--struck

the unseeing Pilate's ears. It began softly, far away at the hippodrome end

of the square, then grew to thunderous volume and after a few seconds, began

to diminish again. ' They have seen me,' thought the Procurator. The wave of

sound did not recede altogether and began unexpectedly to grow again and

waveringly rose to a higher pitch than the first and on top of the second

surge of noise, like foam on the crest of a wave at sea, could be heard

whistles and the shrieks of several women audible above the roar. ' That

means they have led them out on to the platform,' thought Pilate, ' and

those screams are from women who were crushed when the crowd surged

forward.'

He waited for a while, knowing that nothing could silence the crowd

until it had let loose its pent-up feelings and quietened of its own accord.

When that moment came tlie Procurator threw up his right hand and the

last murmurings of the crowd expired. Then Pilate took as deep a breath as

he could of the hot air and his cracked voice rang out over the thousands of

heads :

'In the name of imperial Caesar! . . .'

At once his ears were struck by a clipped, metallic chorus as the

cohorts, raising lances and standards, roared out their fearful response:

'Hail, Caesar! '

Pilate jerked his head up straight at the sun. He had a sensation of

green fire piercing his eyelids, his brain seemed to burn. In hoarse Aramaic

he flung his words out over the crowd :

'Four criminals, arrested in Jerusalem for murder, incitement to

rebellion, contempt of the law and blasphemy, have been condemned to the

most shameful form of execution--crucifixion! Their execution will be

carried out shortly on Mount Golgotha The names of these felons are Dismas,

Hestas, Bar-Abba and Ha-Notsri and there they stand before you! '

Pilate pointed to the right, unable to see the prisoners but knowing

that they were standing where they should be.

The crowd responded with a long rumble that could have been surprise or

relief. When it had subsided Pilate went on :

'But only three of them are to be executed for, in accordance with law

and custom, in honour of the great feast of Passover the emperor Caesar in

his magnanimity will, at the choice of the Lesser Sanhedrin and with the

approval of the Roman government, render back to one of these convicted men

his contemptible life!'

As Pilate rasped out his words he noticed that the rumbling had given

way to a great silence. Now not a sigh, not a rustle reached his ears and

there even came a moment when it seemed to Pilate that the people around him

had vanished altogether. The city he so hated might have died and only he

alone stood there, scorched by the vertical rays of the sun, his face

craning skywards. Pilate allowed the silence to continue and then began to

shout again: ' The name of the man who is about to be released before you .

. .'

He paused once more, holding back the name, mentally confirming that he

had said everything, because he knew that as soon as he pronounced the name

of the fortunate man the lifeless city would awaken and nothing more that he

might say would be audible.

'Is that everything? ' Pilate whispered soundlessly to himself. ' Yes,

it is. Now the name! ' And rolling his ' r 's over the heads of the silent

populace he roared : ' Bar-Abba! '

It was as though the sun detonated above him and drowned his ears in

fire, a fire that roared, shrieked, groaned, laughed and whistled.

Pilate turned and walked back along the platform towards the steps,

glancing only at the parti-coloured wooden blocks of the steps beneath his

feet to save himself from stumbling. He knew that behind his back a hail of

bronze coins and dates was showering the platform, that people in the

whooping crowd, elbowing each other aside, were climbing on to shoulders to

see a miracle with their own eyes--a man already in the arms of death and

torn from their grasp! They watched the legionaries as they untied his

bonds, involuntarily causing him searing pain in his swollen arms, watched

as grimacing and complaining he nevertheless smiled an insane, senseless

smile.

Pilate knew that the escort was now marching the three bound prisoners

to the side steps of the platform to lead them off on the road westward, out

of the city, towards Mount Golgotha. Only when he stood beneath and behind

the platform did Pilate open his eyes, knowing that he was now safe--he

could no longer see the convicted men.

As the roar of the crowd began to die down the separate, piercing

voices of the heralds could be heard repeating, one in Aramaic, the others

in Greek, the announcement that the Procurator had just made from the

platform. Besides that his ears caught the approaching irregular clatter of

horses' hoofs and the sharp, bright call of a trumpet. This sound was echoed

by the piercing whistles of boys from the rooftops and by shouts of ' Look

out! '

A lone soldier, standing in the space cleared in the square, waved his

standard in warning, at which the Procurator, the Legate of the Legion and

their escort halted.

A squadron of cavalry entered the square at a fast trot, cutting across

it diagonally, past a knot of people, then down a side-street along a

vine-covered stone wall in order to gallop on to Mount Golgotha by the

shortest route.

As the squadron commander, a Syrian as small as a boy and as dark as a

mulatto, trotted past Pilate he gave a high-pitched cry and drew his sword

from its scabbard. His sweating, ugly-tempered black horse snorted and

reared up on its hind legs. Sheathing his sword the commander struck the

horse's neck with his whip, brought its forelegs down and moved off down the

side street, breaking into a gallop. Behind him in columns of three galloped

the horsemen in a ha2e of dust, the tips of their bamboo lances bobbing

rhythmically. They swept past the Procurator, their faces unnaturally dark

in contrast with their white turbans, grinning cheerfully, teeth flashing.

Raising a cloud of dust the squadron surged down the street, the last

trooper to pass Pilate carrying a glinting trumpet slung across his back.

Shielding his face from the dust with his hand and frowning with

annoyance Pilate walked on, hurrying towards the gate of the palace garden

followed by the Legate, the secretary and the escort.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning.

3. The Seventh Proof

'Yes, it was about ten o'clock in the morning, my dear Ivan

Nikolayich,' said the professor.

The poet drew his hand across his face like a man who has just woken up

and noticed that it was now evening. The water in the pond had turned black,

a little boat was gliding across it and he could hear the splash of an oar

and a girl's laughter in the boat. People were beginning to appear in the

avenues and were sitting on the benches on all sides of the square except on

the side where our friends were talking.

Over Moscow it was as if the sky had blossomed : a clear, full moon had

risen, still white and not yet golden. It was much less stuffy and the

voices under the lime trees now had an even-tide softness.

'Why didn't I notice what a long story he's been telling us? ' thought

Bezdomny in amazement. ' It's evening already! Perhaps he hasn't told it at

all but I simply fell asleep and dreamed it?'

But if the professor had not told the story Berlioz must have been

having the identical dream because he said, gazing attentively into the

stranger's face :

'Your story is extremely interesting, professor, but it diners

completely from the accounts in the gospels.'

'But surely,' replied the professor with a condescending smile, ' you

of all people must realise that absolutely nothing written in the gospels

actually happened. If you want to regard the gospels as a proper historical

source . . .' He smiled again and Berlioz was silenced. He had just been

saying exactly the same thing to Bezdomny on their walk from Bronnaya Street

to Patriarch's Ponds.

'I agree,' answered Berlioz, ' but I'm afraid that no one is in a

position to prove the authenticity of your version either.'

'Oh yes! I can easily confirm it! ' rejoined the professor with great

confidence, lapsing into his foreign accent and mysteriously beckoning the

two friends closer. They bent towards him from both sides and he began, this

time without a trace of his accent which seemed to come and go without rhyme

or reason :

'The fact is . . .' here the professor glanced round nervously and

dropped his voice to a whisper, ' I was there myself. On the balcony with

Pontius Pilate, in the garden when he talked to Caiaphas and on the

platform, but secretly, incognito so to speak, so don't breathe a word of it

to anyone and please keep it an absolute secret, sshhh . . .'

There was silence. Berlioz went pale.

'How . . . how long did you say you'd been in Moscow? ' he asked in a

shaky voice.

'I have just this minute arrived in Moscow,' replied the professor,

slightly disconcerted. Only then did it occur to the two friends to look him

properly in the eyes. They saw that his green left eye was completely mad,

his right eye black, expressionless and dead.

'That explains it all,' thought Berlioz perplexedly. ' He's some mad

German who's just arrived or else he's suddenly gone out of his mind here at

Patriarch's. What an extraordinary business! ' This really seemed to account

for everything--the mysterious breakfast with the philosopher Kant, the

idiotic ramblings about sunflower-seed oil and Anna, the prediction about

Berlioz's head being cut off and all the rest: the professor was a lunatic.

Berlioz at once started to think what they ought to do. Leaning back on

the bench he winked at Bezdomny behind the professor's back, meaning '

Humour him! ' But the poet, now thoroughly confused, failed to understand

the signal.

'Yes, yes, yes,' said Berlioz with great animation. ' It's quite

possible, of course. Even probable--Pontius Pilate, the balcony, and so on.

. . . Have you come here alone or with your wife? '

'Alone, alone, I am always alone,' replied the professor bitterly.

'But where is your luggage, professor?' asked Berlioz cunningly. ' At

the Metropole? Where are you staying? '

'Where am I staying? Nowhere. . . .' answered the mad German, staring

moodily around Patriarch's Ponds with his g:reen eye

'What! . . . But . . . where are you going to live? '

'In your flat,' the lunatic suddenly replied casually and winked.

'I'm ... I should be delighted . . .' stuttered Berlioz, : ‘but I'm

afraid you wouldn't be very comfortable at my place . . - the rooms at the

Metropole are excellent, it's a first-class hotel . . .'

'And the devil doesn't exist either, I suppose? ' the madman suddenly

enquired cheerfully of Ivan Nikolayich.

'And the devil . . .'

'Don't contradict him,' mouthed Berlioz silently, leaning back and

grimacing behind the professor's back.

'There's no such thing as the devil! ' Ivan Nikolayich burst out,

hopelessly muddled by all this dumb show, ruining all Berlioz's plans by

shouting: ' And stop playing the amateur psychologist! '

At this the lunatic gave such a laugh that it startled the sparrows out

of the tree above them.

'Well now, that is interesting,' said the professor, quaking with

laughter. ' Whatever I ask you about--it doesn't exist! ' He suddenly

stopped laughing and with a typical madman's reaction he immediately went to

the other extreme, shouting angrily and harshly : ' So you think the devil

doesn't exist? '

'Calm down, calm down, calm down, professor,' stammered Berlioz,

frightened of exciting this lunatic. ' You stay here a minute with comrade

Bezdomny while I run round the corner and make a 'phone call and then we'll

take you where you want to go. You don't know your way around town, sitter

all... .' Berlioz's plan was obviously right--to run to the nearest

telephone box and tell the Aliens' Bureau that there was a foreign professor

sitting at Patriarch's Ponds who was clearly insane. Something had to be

done or there might be a nasty scene.

'Telephone? Of course, go and telephone if you want to,' agreed the

lunatic sadly, and then suddenly begged with passion :

'But please--as a farewell request--at least say you believe in the

devil! I won't ask anything more of you. Don't forget that there's still the

seventh proof--the soundest! And it's just about to be demonstrated to you!

'

'All right, all right,' said Berlioz pretending to agree. With a wink

to the wretched Bezdomny, who by no means relished the thought of keeping

watch on this crazy German, he rushed towards the park gates at the corner

of Bronnaya and Yermolay-evsky Streets.

At once the professor seemed to recover his reason and good spirits.

'Mikhail Alexandrovich! ' he shouted after Berlioz, who shuddered as

he turned round and then remembered that the professor could have learned

his name from a newspaper.

The professor, cupping his hands into a trumpet, shouted :

'Wouldn't you like me to send a telegram to your uncle in Kiev? '

Another shock--how did this madman know that he had an uncle in Kiev?

Nobody had ever put that in any newspaper. Could Bezdomny be right about him

after all? And what about those phoney-looking documents of his? Definitely

a weird character . . . ring up, ring up the Bureau at once . . . they'll

come and sort it all out in no time.

Without waiting to hear any more, Berlioz ran on.

At the park gates leading into Bronnaya Street, the identical man, whom

a short while ago the editor had seen materialise out of a mirage, got up

from a bench and walked toward him. This time, however, he was not made of

air but of flesh and blood. In the early twilight Berlioz could clearly

distinguish his feathery little moustache, his little eyes, mocking and half

drunk, his check trousers pulled up so tight that his dirty white socks were

showing.

Mikhail Alexandrovich stopped, but dismissed it as a ridiculous

coincidence. He had in any case no time to stop and puzzle it out now.

'Are you looking for the turnstile, sir? ' enquired the check-clad man

in a quavering tenor. ' This way, please! Straight on for the exit. How

about the price of a drink for showing you the way, sir? ... church

choirmaster out of work, sir ... need a helping hand, sir. . . .' Bending

double, the weird creature pulled off his jockey cap in a sweeping gesture.

Without stopping to listen to the choirmaster's begging and whining,

Berlioz ran to the turnstile and pushed it. Having passed through he was

just about to step off the pavement and cross the tramlines when a white and

red light flashed in his face and the pedestrian signal lit up with the

words ' Stop! Tramway!' A tram rolled into view, rocking slightly along the

newly-laid track that ran down Yermolayevsky Street and into Bronnaya. As it

turned to join the main line it suddenly switched its inside lights on,

hooted and accelerated.

Although he was standing in safety, the cautious Berlioz decided to

retreat behind the railings. He put his hand on the turnstile and took a

step backwards. He missed his grip and his foot slipped on the cobbles as

inexorably as though on ice. As it slid towards the tramlines his other leg

gave way and Berlioz was thrown across the track. Grabbing wildly, Berlioz

fell prone. He struck his head violently on the cobblestones and the gilded

moon flashed hazily across his vision. He just had time to turn on his back,

drawing his legs up to his stomach with a frenzied movement and as he turned

over he saw the woman tram-driver's face, white with horror above her red

necktie, as she bore down on him with irresistible force and speed. Berlioz

made no sound, but all round him the street rang with the desperate shrieks

of women's voices. The driver grabbed the electric brake, the car pitched

forward, jumped the rails and with a tinkling crash the glass broke in all

its windows. At this moment Berlioz heard a despairing voice: ' Oh, no . .

.! ' Once more and for the last time the moon flashed before his eyes but it

split into fragments and then went black.

Berlioz vanished from sight under the tramcar and a round, dark object

rolled across the cobbles, over the kerbstone and bounced along the

pavement.

It was a severed head.

4. The Pursuit

The women's hysterical shrieks and the sound, of police whistles died

away. Two ambulances drove on, one bearing the body and the decapitated head

to the morgue, the other carrying the beautiful tram-driver who had been

wounded by slivers of glass. Street sweepers in white overalls swept up the

broken glass and poare'd sand on the pools of blood. Ivan Nikolayich, who

had failed to reach the turnstile in time, collapsed on a bench and remained

there. Several times he tried to ge:t up, but his legs refuse d to obey him,

stricken by a kind of paralysis.

The moment he had heard the first cry the poet had rushed towards the

turnstile and seen the head bouncing on the pavement. The sight unnerved him

so much that he bit his hand until it drew blood. He had naturally forgotten

all about the mad German and could do nothing but wonder how one minute he

coald have been talking to Berlioz and the next... his head ...

Excited people were running along the avenue past the poet shouting

something, but Ivan Nikolayich did not hear them. Suddenly two women

collided alongside him and one of them, witlh a pointed nose and straight

hair, shouted to the other woman just above his ear :

'.. . Anna, it was our Anna! She was coming from Sadovaya! It's her

job, you see . . . she was carrying a litre of sunflower-seed oil to the

grocery and she broke her jug on. the turnstile! It went all over her skirt

amd ruined it and she swore and swore....! And that poor man must have

slipped on the oil and fallen under the tram....'

One word stuck in Ivan Nikolayich's brain--' Anna' . . . ' Anna? . . .

Anna? ' muttered the poet, looking round in alarm. ' Hey, what was that you

said . . .? '

The name ' Anna ' evoked the words ' sunflower-seed oil' and ' Pontius

Pilate '. Bezdomny rejected 'Pilate' and began linking together a chain of

associations starting with ' Anna'. Very soon the chain was complete and it

led straight back to the mad professor.

'Of course! He said the meeting wouldn't take place because Anna had

spilled the oil. And, by God, it won't take place now! And what's more he

said Berlioz would have his head cut off by a woman!! Yes--and the

tram-driver was a woman!!! Who the hell is he? '

There was no longer a grain of doubt that the mysterious professor had

foreseen every detail of Berlioz's death before it had occurred. Two

thoughts struck the poet: firstly--' he's no madman ' and secondly--' did he

arrange the whole thing himself?'

'But how on earth could he? We've got to look into this! '

With a tremendous effort Ivan Nikolayich got up from the bench and ran

back to where he had been talking to the professor, who was fortunately

still there.

The lamps were already lit on Bronnaya Street and a golden moon was

shining over Patriarch's Ponds. By the light of the moon, deceptive as it

always is, it seemed to Ivan Nikolayich that the thing under the professor's

arm was not a stick but a sword.

The ex-choirmaster was sitting on the seat occupied a short while

before by Ivan Nikolayich himself. The choirmaster had now clipped on to his

nose an obviously useless pince-nez. One lens was missing and the other

rattled in its frame. It made the check-suited man look even more repulsive

than when he had shown Berlioz the way to the tramlines. With a chill of

fear Ivan walked up to the professor. A glance at his face convinced him

that there was not a trace of insanity in it.

'Confess--who are you? ' asked Ivan grimly.

The stranger frowned, looked at the poet as if seeing him for the first

time, and answered disagreeably :

'No understand ... no speak Russian . . . '

'He doesn't understand,' put in the choirmaster from his bench,

although no one had asked him.

'Stop pretending! ' said Ivan threateningly, a cold feeling growing in

the pit of his stomach. ' Just now you spoke Russian perfectly well. You're

no German and you're not a professor! You're a spy and a murderer! Show me

your papers! ' cried Ivan angrily.

The enigmatic professor gave his already crooked mouth a further twist

and shrugged his shoulders.

'Look here, citizen,' put in the horrible choirmaster again. ' What do

you mean by upsetting this foreign tourist? You'll have the police after

you! '

The dubious professor put on a haughty look, turned and walked away

from Ivan, who felt himself beginning to lose his head. Gasping, he turned

to the choirmaster :

'Hey, you, help me arrest this criminal! It's your duty! '

The choirmaster leaped eagerly to his feet and bawled :

'What criminal? Where is he? A foreign criminal? ' His eyes lit up

joyfully. ' That man? If he's a criminal the first thing to do is to shout "

Stop thief! " Otherwise he'll get away. Come on, let's shout together! ' And

the choirmaster opened his mouth wide.

The stupefied Ivan obeyed and shouted ' Stop thief! ' but the

choirmaster fooled him by not making a sound.

Ivan's lonely, hoarse cry was worse than useless. A couple of girls

dodged him and he heard them say ' . .. drunk.'

'So you're in league with him, are you? ' shouted Ivan, helpless with

anger. ' Make fun of me, would you? Out of my way!'

Ivan set off towards his right and the choirmaster did the opposite,

blocking his way. Ivan moved leftward, the other to his right and the same

thing happened.

'Are you trying to get in my way on purpose?' screamed Ivan,

infuriated. ' You're the one I'm going to report to the police!'

Ivan tried to grab the choirmaster by the sleeve, missed and found

himself grasping nothing : it was as if the choirmaster had been swallowed

up by the ground.

With a groan Ivan looked ahead and saw the hated stranger. He had

already reached the exit leading on to Patriarch's Street and he was no

longer alone. The weird choirmaster had managed to join him. But that was

not all. The third member of the company was a cat the size of a pig, black

as soot and with luxuriant cavalry officers' whiskers. The threesome was

walking towards Patriarch's Street, the cat trotting along on its hind legs.

As he set off after the villains Ivan realised at once that it was

going to be very hard to catch them up. In a flash the three of them were

across the street and on the Spiridonovka. Ivan quickened his pace, but the

distance between him and his quarry grew no less. Before the poet had

realised it they had left the quiet Spiridonovka and were approaching Nikita

Gate, where his difficulties increased. There was a crowd and to make

matters worse the evil band had decided to use the favourite trick of

bandits on the run and split up.

With great agility the choirmaster jumped on board a moving bus bound

for Arbat Square and vanished. Having lost one of them, Ivan concentrated

his attention on the cat and saw how the strange animal walked up to the

platform of an ' A ' tram waiting at a stop, cheekily pushed off a screaming

woman, grasped the handrail and offered the conductress a ten-kopeck piece.

Ivan was so amazed by the cat's behaviour that he was frozen into

immobility beside a street corner grocery. He was struck with even greater

amazement as he watched the reaction of the conductress. Seeing the cat

board her tram, she yelled, shaking with anger:

'No cats allowed! I'm not moving with a cat on board! Go on--shoo! Get

off, or I'll call the police! '

Both conductress and passengers seemed completely oblivious of the most

extraordinary thing of all: not that a cat had boarded a tramcar--that was

after all possible--but the fact that the animal was offering to pay its

fare!

The cat proved to be not only a fare-paying but a law-abiding animal.

At the first shriek from the conductress it retreated, stepped off the

platform and sat down at the tram-stop, stroking its whiskers with the

ten-kopeck piece. But no sooner had the conductress yanked the bell-rope and

the car begun to move off, than the cat acted like anyone else who has been

pushed off a tram and is still determined to get to his destination. Letting

all three cars draw past it, the cat jumped on to the coupling-hook of the

last car, latched its paw round a pipe sticking out of one of the windows

and sailed away, having saved itself ten kopecks.

Fascinated by the odious cat, Ivan almost lost sight of the most

important of the three--the professor. Luckily he had not managed to slip

away. Ivan spotted his grey beret in the crowd at the top of Herzen Street.

In a flash Ivan was there too, but in vain. The poet speeded up to a run and

began shoving people aside, but it brought him not an inch nearer the

professor.

Confused 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 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 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 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 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 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 man's 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:

'He's 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 wasn't 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 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 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 Nikolayich's 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

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 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 deserted, cheerless alleyway Bezdomny looked round for the

fugitive but there was no sign of him. Ivan said firmly to himself:

'Of course! He's 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 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 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

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 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 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 had now lost

his MASSOLIT membership card; normally he never went anywhere without it.

Secondly it occurred to him that he might be arrested for walking around

Moscow in this state. After all, he had practically nothing on but a pair of

underpants. . . .

Ivan tore the buttons off the long underpants where they were fastened

at the ankles, in the hope that people might think they were a pair of

lightweight summer trousers. He then picked up the ikon, the candle and

matches and set off, saying to himself:

'I must go to Griboyedov! He's bound to be there.' Ivan Nikolayich's

fears were completely justified--passers-by noticed him and turned round to

stare, so he decided to leave the main streets and make Us way through the

side-roads where people were not so inquisitive, where there was less chance

of them stopping a barefoot man and badgering him with questions about his

underpants--which obstinately refused to look like trousers.

Ivan plunged into a maze of sidestreets round the Arbat and began to

sidle along the walls, blinking fearfully, glancing round, occasionally

hiding in doorways, avoiding crossroads with traffic lights and the elegant

porticos of embassy mansions.

5. The Affair at Griboyedov

It was an old two-storied house, painted cream, that stood on the ring

boulevard behind a ragged garden, fenced off from the pavement by

wrought-iron railings. In winter the paved front courtyard was usually full

of shovelled snow, whilst in summer, shaded by a canvas awning, it became a

delightful outdoor extension to the club restaurant.

The house was called ' Griboyedov House ' because it might once have

belonged to an aunt of the famous playwright Alexander Sergeyevich

Griboyedov. Nobody really knows for sure whether she ever owned it or not.

People even say that Griboyedov never had an aunt who owned any such

property. . . . Still, that was its name. What is more, a dubious tale used

to circulate in Moscow of how in the round, colonnaded salon on the second

floor the famous writer had once read extracts from Woe From Wit to that

same aunt as she reclined on a sofa. Perhaps he did ; in any case it doesn't

matter.

It matters much more that this house now belonged to MASSOLIT, which

until his excursion to Patriarch's Ponds was headed by the unfortunate

Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz. No one, least of all the members of MASSOLIT,

called the place ' Griboyedov House '. Everyone simply called it' Griboyedov

' :

'I spent a couple of hours lobbying at Griboyedov yesterday.'

'Well?'

'Wangled myself a month in Yalta.'

'Good for you! '

Or : ' Go to Berlioz--he's seeing people from four to five this

afternoon at Griboyedov . . .'--and so on.

MASSOLIT had installed itself in Griboyedov very comfortably indeed. As

you entered you were first confronted with a notice-board full of

announcements by the various sports clubs, then with the photographs of

every individual member of MASSOLIT, who were strung up (their photographs,

of course) along the walls of the staircase leading to the first floor.

On the door of the first room on the upper storey was a large notice :

' Angling and Weekend Cottages ', with a picture of a carp caught on a hook.

On the door of the second room was a slightly confusing notice: '

Writers' day-return rail warrants. Apply to M.V. Podlozhnaya.'

The next door bore a brief and completely incomprehensible legend: '

Perelygino'. From there the chance visitor's eye would be caught by

countless more notices pinned to the aunt's walnut doors : ' Waiting List

for Paper--Apply to Poklevkina ';

'Cashier's Office '; ' Sketch-Writers : Personal Accounts ' . . .

At the head of the longest queue, which started downstairs at the

porter's desk, was a door under constant siege labelled ' Housing Problem'.

Past the housing problem hung a gorgeous poster showing a cliff, along

whose summit rode a man on a chestnut horse with a rifle slung over his

shoulder. Below were some palm-trees and a balcony. On it sat a shock-haired

young man gazing upwards with a bold, urgent look and holding a fountain pen

in his hands. The wording read : ' All-in Writing Holidays, from two weeks

(short story, novella) to one year (novel, trilogy): Yalta, Suuk-Su,

Borovoye, Tsikhidziri, Makhinjauri, Leningrad (Winter Palace).' There was a

queue at this door too, but not an excessively long one--only about a

hundred and fifty people.

Following the erratic twists, the steps up and steps down of

Griboyedov's corridors, one found other notices : 'MASSOLIT-Management',

'Cashiers Nos. 2, 5, 4, 5,' 'Editorial Board', ' MASSOLIT-Chairman',

'Billiard Room', then various subsidiary organisations and finally that

colonnaded salon where the aunt had listened with such delight to the

readings of his comedy by her brilliant nephew.

Every visitor to Griboyedov, unless of course he were completely

insensitive, was made immediately aware of how good life was for the lucky

members of MASSOLIT and he would at once be consumed with black envy. At

once, too, he would curse heaven for having failed to endow him at birth

with literary talent, without which, of course, no one could so much as

dream of acquiring a MASSOLIT membership card--that brown card known to all

Moscow, smelling of expensive leather and embellished with a wide gold

border.

Who is prepared to say a word in defence of envy? It is a despicable

emotion, but put yourself in the visitor's place : what he had seen on the

upper flоог was by no means all. The entire ground floor of the aunt's house

was occupied by a restaurant-- and what a restaurant! It was rightly

considered the best in Moscow. Not only because it occupied two large rooms

with vaulted ceilings and lilac-painted horses with flowing manes, not only

because every table had a lamp shaded with lace, not only because it was

barred to the hoi polloi, but above all for the quality of its food.

Griboyedov could beat any restaurant in Moscow you cared to name and its

prices were extremely moderate.

There is therefore nothing odd in the conversation which the author of

these lines actually overheard once outside the iron railings of Griboyedov

:

'Where are you dining today, Ambrose? '

'What a question! Here, of course, Vanya! Archibald Archibaldovich

whispered to me this morning that there's filets de perche an naturel on the

menu tonight. Sheer virtuosity! '

'You do know how to live, Ambrose! ' sighed Vanya, a thin pinched man

with a carbuncle on his neck, to Ambrose, a strapping, red-lipped,

golden-haired, ruddy-cheeked poet.

'It's no special talent,' countered Ambrose. ' Just a perfectly normal

desire to live a decent, human existence. Now I suppose you're going to say

that you can get perch at the Coliseum. So you can. But a helping of perch

at the Coliseum costs thirty roubles fifty kopecks and here it costs five

fifty! Apart from that the perch at the Coliseum are three days old and

what's more if you go to the Coliseum there's no guarantee you won't get a

bunch of grapes thrown in your face by the first young man to burst in from

Theatre Street. No, I loathe the Coliseum,' shouted Ambrose the gastronome

at the top of his voice. ' Don't try and talk me into liking it, Vanya! '

'I'm not trying to talk you into it, Ambrose,' squeaked Vanya. ' You

might have been dining at home.'

'Thank you very much,' trumpeted Ambrose. ' Just imagine your wife

trying to cook filets de perche an naturel in a saucepan, in the kitchen you

share with half a dozen other people! He, he, he! ... Aurevoir, Vanya! ' And

humming to himself Ambrose hurried oft to the verandah under the awning.

Ha, ha, ha! ... Yes, that's how it used to be! ... Some of us old

inhabitants of Moscow still remember the famous Griboyedov. But boiled

fillets of perch was nothing, my dear Ambrose! What about the sturgeon,

sturgeon in a silver-plated pan, sturgeon filleted and served between

lobsters' tails and fresh caviar? And oeufs en cocotte with mushroom puree

in little bowls? And didn't you like the thrushes' breasts? With truffles?

The quails alia Genovese? Nine roubles fifty! And oh, the band, the polite

waiters! And in July when the whole family's in the country and pressing

literary business is keeping you in town--out on the verandah, in the shade

of a climbing vine, a plate of potage printaniere looking like a golden

stain on the snow-white table-cloth? Do you remember, Ambrose? But of course

you do--I can see from your lips you remember. Not just your salmon or your

perch either--what about the snipe, the woodcock in season, the quail, the

grouse? And the sparkling wines! But I digress, reader.

At half past ten on the evening that Berlioz died at Patriarch's Ponds,

only one upstairs room at Griboyedov was lit. In it sat twelve weary

authors, gathered for a meeting and still waiting for Mikhail Alexandrovich.

Sitting on chairs, on tables and even on the two window ledges, the

management committee of MASSOLIT was suffering badly from the heat and

stuffiness. Not a single fresh breeze penetrated the open window. Moscow was

The Master and Margarita

exuding the heat of the day accumulated in its asphalt and it was

obvious that the night was not going to bring; any relief. There was a smell

of onion coming from the restaurant kitchen in the cellar, everybody wanted

a drink, everybody was nervous and irritable.

Beskudnikov, a quiet, well-dressed essayist with eyes that were at once

attentive yet shifty, took out his watch. The hands were just creeping up to

eleven. Beskudnikov tapped the watch face with his finger and showed it to

his neighbour, the poet Dvubratsky, who was sitting on the table, bored and

swinging his feet shod in yellow rubber-soled slippers.

'Well, really . . .' muttered Dvubratsky.

'I suppose the lad's got stuck out at Klyazma,' said Nastasya

Lukinishna Nepremenova, orphaned daughter of a Moscow business man, who had

turned writer and wrote naval war stories under the pseudonym of ' Bo'sun

George '.

'Look here! ' burst out Zagrivov, a writer of popular short stories. '

I don't know about you, but I'd rather be drinking tea out on the balcony

right now instead of stewiing in here. Was this meeting called for ten

o'clock or wasn't it? '

'It must be nice out at Klyazma now,' said IBo'sun George in a tone of

calculated innocence, knowing that the writers' summer colony out at

Perelygino near Klyazma was a sore point. ' I expect the nightingales are

singing there now. Somehow I always seem to work better out of town,

especially in the spring.'

'I've been paying my contributions for three years now to send my sick

wife to that paradise but somehow nothing ever appears on the horizon,' said

Hieronymus Poprikhin the novelist, with bitter venom.

'Some people are lucky and others aren't, that's all,' boomed the

critic Ababkov from the window-ledge.

Bos'un George's little eyes lit up, and softening her contralto rasp

she said:

'We mustn't be jealous, comrades. There are only twenty-two dachas,

only seven more are being built, and there are three thousand of us in

MASSOLIT.'

'Three thousand one hundred and eleven,' put in someone from a corner.

'Well, there you are,' the Bo'sun went on. ' What can one do?

Naturally the dachas are allocated to those with the most talent. . .'

'They're allocated to the people at the top! ' barked Gluk-haryov, a

script writer.

Beskudnikov, yawning artificially, left the room.

'One of them has five rooms to himself at Perelygino,' Glukharyov

shouted after him.

'Lavrovich has six rooms to himself,' shouted Deniskin, ' and the

dining-room's panelled in oak! '

'Well, at the moment that's not the point,' boomed Ababkov. ' The

point is that it's half past eleven.'

A noise began, heralding mutiny. Somebody rang up the hated Perelygino

but got through to the wrong dacha, which turned out to belong to Lavrovich,

where they were told that Lavrovich was out on the river. This produced

utter confusion. Somebody made a wild telephone call to the Fine Arts and

Literature Commission, where of course there was no reply.

'He might have rung up! ' shouted Deniskin, Glukharyov and Quant.

Alas, they shouted in vain. Mikhail Alexandrovich was in no state to

telephone anyone. Far, far from Griboyedov, in a vast hall lit by

thousand-candle-power lamps, what had recently been Mikhail Alexandrovich

was lying on three zinc-topped tables. On the first was the naked,

blood-caked body with. a fractured arm and smashed rib-cage, on the second

the head, it;s front teeth knocked in, its vacant open eyes undisturbed by

the blinding light, and on the third--a heap of mangled rags. Round the

decapitated corpse stood the professor of forensic medicine, the

pathological anatomist and his dissector, a few detectives and Mikhail

Alexandrovich's deputy as chairman of MASSOLIT, the writer Zheldybin,

summoned by telephone from the bedside of his sick wife.

A car had been sent for Zheldybin and had first taken him and the

detectives (it was about midnight) to the dead man's flat where his papers

were placed under seal, after which they all drove to the morgue.

The group round the remains of the deceased were conferring on the best

course to take--should they sew the severed head back on to the neck or

allow the body to lie in state in the main hall of Griboyedov covered by a

black cloth as far as the chin?

Yes, Mikhail Alexandrovich was quite incapable of telephoning and

Deniskin, Glukharyov, Quant and Beskudnikov were exciting themselves for

nothing. On the stroke of midnight all twelve writers left the upper storey

and went down to the restaurant. There they said more unkind things about

Mikhail Alexandrovich : all the tables on the verandah were full and they

were obliged to dine in the beautiful but stifling indoor rooms.

On the stroke of midnight the first of these rooms suddenly woke up and

leaped into life with a crash and a roar. A thin male voice gave a desperate

shriek of ' Alleluia!! ' Music. It was the famous Griboyedov jazz band

striking up. Sweat-covered faces lit up, the painted horses on the ceiling

came to life, the lamps seemed to shine brighter. Suddenly, as though

bursting their chains, everybody in the two rooms started dancing, followed

by everybody on the verandah.

Glukharyov danced away with the poetess Tamara Polumesy-atz. Quant

danced, Zhukopov the novelist seized a film actress in a yellow dress and

danced. They all danced--Dragunsky and Cherdakchi danced, little Deniskin

danced with the gigantic Bo'sun George and the beautiful girl architect

Semeikin-Hall was grabbed by a stranger in white straw-cloth trousers.

Members and guests, from Moscow and from out of town, they all danced--the

writer Johann from Kronstadt, a producer called Vitya Kuftik from Rostov

with lilac-coloured eczema all over his face, the leading lights of the

poetry section of MASSOLIT-- Pavianov, Bogokhulsky, Sladky, Shpichkin and

Adelfina Buzdyak, young men of unknown occupation with cropped hair and

shoulders padded with cotton wool, an old, old man with a chive sticking out

of his beard danced with a thin, anaemic girl in an orange silk dress.

Pouring sweat, the waiters carried dripping mugs of beer over the

dancers' heads, yelling hoarsely and venomously ' Sorry, sir! ' Somewhere a

man bellowed through a megaphone:

'Chops once! Kebab twice! Chicken a la King! ' The vocalist was no

longer singing--he was howling. Now and again the crash of cymbals in the

band drowned the noise of dirty crockery flung down a sloping chute to the

scullery. In short--hell.

At midnight there appeared a vision in this hell. On to the verandah

strode a handsome, black-eyed man with a pointed beard and wearing a tail

coat. With regal gaze he surveyed his domain. According to some romantics

there had once been a time when this noble figure had worn not tails but a

broad leather belt round his waist, stuck with pistol-butts, that his

raven-black hair had been tied up in a scarlet kerchief and that his brig

had sailed the Caribbean under the Jolly Roger.

But that, of course, is pure fantasy--the Caribbean doesn't exist, no

desperate buccaneers sail it, no corvette ever chases them, no puffs of

cannon-smoke ever roll across the waves. Pure invention. Look at that

scraggy tree, look at the iron railings, the boulevard. . . . And the ice is

floating in the wine-bucket and at the next table there's a man with

ox-like, bloodshot eyes and it's pandemonium. . . . Oh gods--poison, I need

poison! . . .

Suddenly from one of the tables the word ' Berlioz!! ' flew up and

exploded in the air. Instantly the band collapsed and stopped, as though

someone had punched it. ' What, what, what--what?!! '

'Berlioz!!! '

Everybody began rushing about and screaming.

A wave of grief surged up at the terrible news about Mikhail

Alexandrovich. Someone fussed around shouting that they must all

immediately, here and now, without delay compose a collective telegram and

send it off.

But what telegram, you may ask? And why send it? Send it where? And

what use is a telegram to the man whose battered skull is being mauled by

the rubber hands of a dissector, whose neck is being pierced by the

professor's crooked needles? He's dead, he doesn't want a telegram. It's all

over, let's not overload the post office.

Yes, he's dead . . . but we are still alive!

The wave of grief rose, lasted for a while and then began to recede.

Somebody went back to their table and--furtively to begin with, then

openly--drank a glass of vodka and took a bite to eat. After all, what's the

point of wasting the cotelettes de volatile? What good are we going to do

Mikhail Alexandrovich by going hungry? We're still alive, aren't we?

Naturally the piano was shut and locked, the band went home and a few

journalists left for their newspaper offices to write obituaries. The news

spread that Zheldybin was back from the morgue. He moved into Berlioz's

upstairs office and at once a rumour started that he was going to take over

from Berlioz. Zheldybin summoned all twelve members of the management

committee from the restaurant and in an emergency session they began

discussing such urgent questions as the preparation of the colonnaded hall,

the transfer of the body from the morgue, the times at which members could

attend the lying-in-state and other matters connected with the tragic event.

Downstairs in the restaurant life had returned to normal and would have

continued on its usual nocturnal course until closing time at four, had not

something quite abnormal occurred which shocked the diners considerably more

than the news of Berlioz's death.

The first to be alarmed were the cab drivers waiting outside the gates

of Griboyedov. Jerking up with a start one of them shouted:

'Hey! Look at that!' A little glimmer flared up near the iron railings

and started to bob towards the verandah. Some of the diners stood up, stared

and saw that the nickering light was accompanied by a white apparition. As

it approached the verandah trellis every diner froze, eyes bulging,

sturgeon-laden forks motionless in mid-air. The club porter, who at that

moment had just left the restaurant cloakroom to go outside for a smoke,

stubbed out his cigarette and was just going to advance on the apparition

with the aim of barring its way into the restaurant when for some reason he

changed his mind, stopped and grinned stupidly.

The apparition, passing through an opening in the trellis, mounted the

verandah unhindered. As it did so everyone saw that this was no apparition

but the distinguished poet Ivan Nikolayich Bezdomny.

He was barefoot and wearing a torn, dirty white Russian blouse. To its

front was safety-pinned a paper ikon with a picture of some unknown saint.

He was wearing long white underpants with a lighted candle in his hand and

his right cheek bore a fresh scratch. It would be hard to fathom the depth

of the silence which reigned on the verandah. Beer poured on to the floor

from a mug held sideways by one of the waiters.

The poet raised the candle above his head and said in a loud voice :

'Greetings, friends!' He then looked under the nearest table and

exclaimed with disappointment:

'No, he's not there.'

Two voices were heard. A bass voice said pitilessly : ' An obvious case

of D.Ts.'

The second, a frightened woman's voice enquired nervously :

'How did the police let him on to the streets in that state? '

Ivan Nikolayich heard this and replied :

'They tried to arrest me twice, once in Skatertny Street and once here

on Bronnaya, but I climbed over the fence and that's how I scratched my

cheek! ' Ivan Nikolayich lifted up his candle and shouted: ' Fellow

artists!' (His squeaky voice grew stronger and more urgent.) ' Listen to me,

all of you! He's come! Catch him at once or he'll do untold harm! '

'What's that? What? What did he say? Who's come? ' came the questions

from all sides.

'A professor,' answered Ivan, ' and it was this professor who killed

Misha Berlioz this evening at Patriarch's.'

By now people were streaming on to the verandah from the indoor rooms

and a crowd began milling round Ivan.

'I beg your pardon, would you say that again more clearly? ' said a

low, courteous voice right beside Ivan Nikolayich's ear. ' Tell me, how was

he killed? Who killed him? '

'A foreigner--he's a professor and a spy,' replied Ivan, looking

round.

'What's his name? ' said the voice again into his ear.

'That's just the trouble!' cried Ivan in frustration. ' If only I knew

his name! I couldn't read it properly on his visiting card ... I only

remember the letter ' W '--the name began with a ' W '. What could it have

been? ' Ivan asked himself aloud, clutching his forehead with his hand. '

We, wi, wa . . . wo . . . Walter? Wagner? Weiner? Wegner? Winter? ' The

hairs on Ivan's head started to stand on end from the effort.

'Wolff? ' shouted a woman, trying to help him.

Ivan lost his temper.

'You fool!' he shouted, looking for the woman in the crowd. ' What's

Wolff got to do with it? He didn't do it ... Wo, wa . . . No, I'll never

remember it like this. Now look, everybody-- ring up the police at once and

tell them to send five motorcycles and sidecars with machine-guns to catch

the professor. And don't forget to say that there are two others with him--a

tall fellow in checks with a wobbly pince-nez and a great black cat. . . .

Meanwhile I'm going to search Griboyedov--I can sense that he's here! '

Ivan was by now in a state of some excitement. Pushing the bystanders

aside he began waving his candle about, pouring wax on himself, and started

to look under the tables. Then somebody said ' Doctor! ' and a fat, kindly

face, clean-shaven, smelling of drink and with horn-rimmed spectacles,

appeared in front of Ivan.

'Comrade Bezdomny,' said the face solemnly, ' calm down! You're upset

by the death of our beloved Mikhail Alexandrovich . . . no, I mean plain

Misha Berlioz. We all realise how you feel. You need rest. You'll be taken

home to bed in a moment and then you can relax and forget all about it. . .'

'Don't you realise,' Ivan interrupted, scowling, ' that we've got to

catch the professor? And all you can do is come creeping up to me talking

all this rubbish! Cretin! '

'Excuse me. Comrade Bezdomny! ' replied the face, blushing, retreating

and already wishing it had never let itself get involved in this affair.

'No, I don't care who you are--I won't excuse you,' said Ivan

Nikolayich with quiet hatred.

A spasm distorted his face, he rapidly switched the candle from his

right to his left hand, swung his arm and punched the sympathetic face on

the ear.

Several people reached the same conclusion at once and hurled

themselves at Ivan. The candle went out, the horn-rims fell off the face and

were instantly smashed underfoot. Ivan let out a dreadful war-whoop audible,

to everybody's embarrassment, as far as the boulevard, and began to defend

himself. There came a tinkle of breaking crockery, women screamed.

While the waiters tied up the poet with dish-cloths, a conversation was

in progress in the cloakroom between the porter and the captain of the brig.

'Didn't you see that he was wearing underpants? ' asked the pirate

coldly.

'But Archibald Archibaldovich--I'm a coward,' replied the porter, '

how could I stop him from coming in? He's a member!'

'Didn't you see that he was wearing underpants? ' repeated the pirate.

'Please, Archibald Archibaldovich,--' said the porter, turning purple,

' what could I do? I know there are ladies on the ver-andah, but...'

'The ladies don't matter. They don't mind,' replied the pirate,

roasting the porter with his glare. ' But the police mind! There's only one

way a man can walk round Moscow in his underwear--when he's being escorted

by the police on the way to a police station! And you, if you call yourself

a porter, ought to know that if you see a man in that state it's your duty

not to waste a moment but to start blowing your whistle I Do you hear? Can't

you hear what's happening on the verandah? '

The wretched porter could hear the sounds of smashing crockery, groans

and women's screams from the verandah only too well.

'Now what do you propose to do about it? ' enquired the buccaneer.

The skin on the porter's face took on a leprous shade and his eyes went

blank. It seemed to him that the other man's black hair, now neatly parted,

was covered by a fiery silk kerchief. Starched shirtfront and tail-coat

vanished, a pistol was sticking out of his leather belt. The porter saw

himself dangling from the foretop yard-arm, his tongue protruding from his

lifeless, drooping head. He could even hear the waves lapping against the

ship's side. The porter's knees trembled. But the buccaneer took pity on him

and switched off his terrifying glare.

'All right, Nikolai--but mind it never happens again! We can't have

porters like you in a restaurant--you'd better go and be a verger in a

church.' Having said this the captain gave a few rapid, crisp, clear orders:

' Send the barman. Police. Statement. Car. Mental hospital.' And he added :

'Whistle!'

A quarter of an hour later, to the astonishment of the people in the

restaurant, on the boulevard and at the windows of the surrounding houses,

the barman, the porter, a policeman, a waiter and the poet Ryukhin were to

be seen emerging from the gates of Griboyedov dragging a young man trussed

up like a mummy, who was weeping, spitting, lashing out at Ryukhin and

shouting for the whole street to hear :

'You swine! . . . You swine! . . . '

A buzzing crowd collected, discussing the incredible scene. It was of

course an abominable, disgusting, thrilling, revolting scandal which only

ended when a lorry drove away from the gates of Griboyedov carrying the

unfortunate Ivan Nikolayich, the policeman, the barman and Ryukhin.

6. Schizophrenia

At half past one in the morning a man with a pointed beard and wearing

a white overall entered the reception hall of a famous psychiatric clinic

recently completed in the suburbs of Moscow. Three orderlies and the poet

Ryukhin stood nervously watching Ivan Nikolayich as he sat on a divan. The

dish-cloths that had been used to pinion Ivan Nikolayich now lay in a heap

on the same divan, leaving his arms and legs free.

As the man came in Ryukhin turned pale, coughed and said timidly:

'Good morning, doctor.'

The doctor bowed to Ryukhin but looked at Ivan Nikolayich, who was

sitting completely immobile and scowling furiously. He did not even move

when the doctor appeared.

'This, doctor,' began Ryukhin in a mysterious whisper, glancing

anxiously at Ivan Nikolayich, ' is the famous poet Ivan Bezdomny. We're

afraid he may have D.Ts.'

'Has he been drinking heavily? ' enquired the doctor through clenched

teeth.

'No, he's had a few drinks, but not enough . . .'

'Has he been trying to catch spiders, rats, little devils or dogs? '

'No,' replied Ryukhin, shuddering. ' I saw him yesterday and this

morning ... he was perfectly well then.'

'Why is he in his underpants? Did you have to pull him out of bed?'

'He came into a restaurant like this, doctor'

'Aha, aha,' said the doctor in a tone of great satisfaction. ' And why

the scratches? Has he been fighting? '

'He fell off the fence and then he hit someone in the restaurant , . .

and someone else, too . . .' ' I see, I see, I see,' said the doctor and

added, turning to Ivan :

'Good morning! '

'Hello, you quack! ' said Ivan, loudly and viciously.

Ryukhin was so embarrassed that he dared not raise his eyes. The

courteous doctor, however, showed no signs of offence and with a practised

gesture took off his spectacles, lifted the skirt of his overall, put them

in his hip pocket and then asked Ivan:

'How old are you? '

'Go to hell! ' shouted Ivan rudely and turned away.

'Why are you being so disagreeable? Have I said anything to upset

you?'

'I'm twenty-three,' said Ivan excitedly, ' and I'm going to lodge a

complaint against all of you--and you in particular, you louse! ' He spat at

Ryukhin.

'What will your complaint be? '

'That you arrested me, a perfectly healthy man, and forcibly dragged

me off to the madhouse! ' answered Ivan in fury.

At this Ryukhin took a close look at Ivan and felt a chill down his

spine : there was not a trace of insanity in the man's eyes. They had been

slightly clouded at Griboyedov, but now they were as clear as before.

'Godfathers! ' thought Ryukhin in terror. ' He really is perfectly

normal! What a ghastly business! Why have we brought him here? There's

nothing the matter with him except a few scratches on his face . . .'

'You are not,' said the doctor calmly, sitting down on a stool on a

single chromium-plated stalk, ' in a madhouse but in a clinic, where nobody

is going to keep you if it isn't necessary.' Ivan gave him a suspicious

scowl, but muttered :

'Thank God for that! At last I've found one normal person among all

these idiots and the worst idiot of the lot is that incompetent fraud Sasha!

'

'Who is this incompetent Sasha? ' enquired the doctor. ' That's him,

Ryukhin,' replied Ivan, jabbing a dirty finger in

Ryukhin's direction, who spluttered in protest. ' That's all the thanks

I get,' he thought bitterly, ' for showing him some sympathy! What a

miserable swine he is! '

* A typical kulak mentality,' said Ivan Nikolayich, who obviously felt

a sudden urge to attack Ryukhin. ' And what's more he's a kulak masquerading

as a proletarian. Look at his mean face and compare it with all that pompous

verse he writes for May Day ... all that stuff about "onwards and upwards"

and "banners waving "! If you could look inside him and see what he's

thinking you'd be sickened! ' And Ivan Nikolayich gave a hoot of malicious

laughter.

Ryukhin, breathing heavily, turned red. There was only one thought in

his mind--that he had nourished a serpent in his bosom, that he had tried to

help someone who when it came to the pinch had treacherously rounded on him.

The worst of it was that he could not answer back--one mustn't swear at a

lunatic!

'Exactly why have they brought you here? ' asked the doctor, who had

listened to Bezdomny's outburst with great attention.

'God knows, the blockheads! They grabbed me, tied me up with some

filthy rags and dumped me in a lorry!'

'May I ask why you came into the restaurant in nothing but your

underwear?'

'There's nothing odd about it,' answered Ivan. ' I went for a swim in

the Moscow River and someone pinched my clothes and left me this junk

instead! I couldn't walk round Moscow naked, could I? I had to put on what

there was, because I was in a hurry to get to the Griboyedov restaurant.'

The doctor glanced questioningly at Ryukhin, who mumbled sulkily:

'Yes, that's the name of the restaurant.'

'Aha,' said the doctor, ' but why were you in such a hurry? Did you

have an appointment there? '

'I had to catch the professor,' replied Ivan Nikolayich, glancing

nervously round.

'What professor? ' ' Do you know Berlioz? ' asked Ivan with a meaning

look.

'You mean . . . the composer? '

Ivan looked puzzled. ' What composer? Oh, yes . . . no, no. The

composer just happens to have the same name as Misha Berlioz.'

Ryukhin was still feeling too offended to speak, but he had to explain:

'Berlioz, the chairman of MASSOLIT, was run over by a tram this

evening at Patriarch's.'

'Don't lie, you--you don't know anything about it,' Ivan burst out at

Ryukhin. ' I was there, not you! He made him fall under that tram on

purpose! '

'Did he push him? '

'What are you talking about?' exclaimed Ivan, irritated by his

listener's failure to grasp the situation. ' He didn't have to push him! He

can do things you'd never believe! He knew in advance that Berlioz was going

to fall under a tram! '

'Did anybody see this professor apart from you? '

'No, that's the trouble. Only Berlioz and myself.'

'I see. What steps did you take to arrest this murderer?' At this

point the doctor turned and threw a glance at a woman in a white overall

sitting behind a desk.

'This is what I did : I took this candle from the kitchen . . .'

'This one? ' asked the doctor, pointing to a broken candle lying on

the desk beside the ikon.

'Yes, that's the one, and . . .'

'Why the ikon? '

'Well, er, the ikon. . . .' Ivan blushed. ' You see an ikon frightens

them more than anything else.' He again pointed at Ryukhin. ' But the fact

is that the professor is ... well, let's be frank . . . he's in league with

the powers of evil . . . and it's not so easy to catch someone like him.'

The orderlies stretched their hands down their trouser-seams and stared

even harder at Ivan.

'Yes,' went on Ivan. ' He's in league with them. There's no arguing

about it. He once talked to Pontius Pilate. It's no good looking at me like

that, I'm telling you the truth! He saw it all --the balcony, the palm

trees. He was actually with Pontius Pilate, I'll swear it.'

'Well, now . . .'

'So, as I was saying, I pinned the ikon to my chest and ran .,.'

Here the clock struck twice.

'Oh, my God! ' exclaimed Ivan and rose from the divan. ' It's two

o'clock and here am I wasting time talking to you! Would you mind--where's

the telephone? '

'Show him the telephone,' the doctor said to the orderlies.

As Ivan grasped the receiver the woman quietly asked Ryukhin:

'Is he married? '

'No, he's a bachelor,' replied Ryukhin, startled.

'Is he a union member? '

'Yes.'

'Police? ' shouted Ivan into the mouthpiece. ' Police? Is that the

duty officer? Sergeant, please arrange to send five motor cycles with

sidecars, armed with machine-guns to arrest the foreign professor. What?

Take me with you, I'll show you where to go. . . . This is Bezdomny, I'm a

poet, and I'm speaking from the lunatic asylum. . . . What's your address? '

Bezdomny whispered to the doctor, covering the mouthpiece with his palm, and

then yelled back into the receiver: ' Are you listening? Hullo! . . . Fools!

. . .' Ivan suddenly roared, hurling the receiver at the wall. Then he

turned round to the doctor, offered him his hand, said a curt goodbye and

started to go.

'Excuse me, but where are you proposing to go?' said the doctor,

looking Ivan in the eye. ' At this hour of night, in your underwear . . .

You're not well, stay with us.'

'Come on, let me through,' said Ivan to the orderlies who had lined up

to block the doorway. ' Are you going to let me go or not? ' shouted the

poet in a terrible voice.

Ryukhin shuddered. The woman pressed a button on the desk ; a

glittering metal box and a sealed ampoule popped out on to its glass

surface.

'Ah, so that's your game, is it? ' said Ivan with a wild, hunted

glance around. ' All right then . . . Goodbye!! ' And he threw himself head

first at the shuttered window.

There was a loud crash, but the glass did not even crack, and a moment

later Ivan Nikolayich was struggling in the arms of the orderlies. He

screamed, tried to bite, then shouted :

'Fine sort of glass you put in your windows! Let me go! Let me go! '

A hypodermic syringe glittered in the doctor's hand, with one sweep the

woman pushed back the tattered sleeve of Ivan's blouse and clamped his arm

in a most un-feminine grip. There was a smell of ether, Ivan weakened

slightly in the grasp of the four men and the doctor skilfully seized the

moment to jab the needle into Ivan's arm. Ivan kept up the struggle for a

few more seconds, then collapsed on to the divan.

'Bandits! ' cried Ivan and leaped up, only to be pushed back. As soon

as they let him go he jumped up again, but sat down of his own accord. He

said nothing, staring wildly about him, then gave a sudden unexpected yawn

and smiled malevolently :

'So you're going to lock me up after all,' he said, yawned again, lay

down with his head on the cushion, his fist under his cheek like a child and

muttered in a sleepy voice but without malice : ' All right, then . . . but

you'll pay for it ... I warned you, but if you want to ... What interests me

most now is Pontius Pilate . . . Pilate . . .' And with that he closed his

eyes.

'Vanna, put him in No. 117 by himself and with someone to watch him.'

The doctor gave his instructions and replaced his spectacles. Then Ryukhin

shuddered again : a pair of white doors opened without a sound and beyond

them stretched a corridor lit by a row of blue night-bulbs. Out of the

corridor rolled a couch on rubber wheels. The sleeping Ivan was lifted on to

it, he was pushed off down the corridor and the doors closed after him.

'Doctor,' asked the shaken Ryukhin in a whisper, ' is he really ill?'

'Oh yes,' replied the doctor.

'Then what's the matter with him?' enquired Rvukhin timidly.

The exhausted doctor looked at Ryukhin and answered wearily:

'Overstimulation of the motor nerves and speech centres . . .

delirious illusions. . . . Obviously a complicated case. Schizophrenia, I

should think . . . touch of alcoholism, too. . . .'

Ryukhin understood nothing of this, except that Ivan Nikolayich was

obviously in poor shape. He sighed and asked :

'What was that he said about some professor? '

'I expect he saw someone who gave a shock to his disturbed

imagination. Or maybe it was a hallucination. . . .'

A few minutes later a lorry was taking Ryukhin back into Moscow. Dawn

was breaking and the still-lit street lamps seemed superfluous and

unpleasant. The driver, annoyed at missing a night's sleep, pushed his lorry

as hard as it would go, making it skid round the corners.

The woods fell away in the distance and the river wandered off in

another direction. As the lorry drove on the scenery slowly changed: fences,

a watchman's hut, piles of logs, dried and split telegraph poles with

bobbins strung on the wires between them, heaps of stones, ditches--in

short, a feeling that Moscow was about to appear round the next corner and

would rise up and engulf them at any moment.

The log of wood on which Ryukhin was sitting kept wobbling and

slithering about and now and again it tried to slide away from under him

altogether. The restaurant dish-cloths, which the policeman and the barman

had thrown on to the back of the lorry before leaving earlier by

trolley-bus, were being flung about all over the back of the lorry. Ryukhin

started to try and pick them up, but with a sudden burst of ill-temper he

hissed :

'To hell with them! Why should I crawl around after them? ' He pushed

them away with his foot and turned away from them.

Ryukhin was in a state of depression. It was obvious that his visit to

the asylum had affected him deeply. He tried to think what it was that was

disturbing him. Was it the corridor with its blue lamps, which had lodged so

firmly in his memory? Was it the thought that the worst misfortune in the

world was to lose one's reason? Yes, it was that, of course--but that after

all was a generalisation, it applied to everybody. There was something else,

though. What was it? The insult--that was it. Yes, those insulting words

that Bezdomny had flung into his face. And the agony of it was not that they

were insulting but that they were true.

The poet stopped looking about him and instead stared gloomily at the

dirty, shaking floor of the lorry in an agony of self-reproach.

Yes, his poetry . . . He was thirty-two! And what were his prospects?

To go on writing a few poems every year. How long--until he was an old man?

Yes, until he was an old man. What would these poems do for him? Make him

famous? ' What rubbish! Don't fool yourself. Nobody ever gets famous from

writing bad poetry. Why is it bad, though? He was right --he was telling the

truth! ' said Ryukhin pitilessly to himself. I don't believe in a single

word of what I've written . . .! '

Embittered by an upsurge of neurasthenia, the poet swayed. The floor

beneath had stopped shaking. Ryukhin lifted his head and saw that he was in

the middle of Moscow, that day had dawned, that his lorry had stopped in a

traffic-jam at a boulevard intersection and that right near him stood a

metal man on a plinth, his head inclined slightly forward, staring blankly

down the street.

Strange thoughts assailed the poet, who was beginning to feel ill. '

Now there's an example of pure luck .'--Ryukhin stood up on the lorry's

platform and raised his fist in an inexplicable urge to attack the harmless

cast-iron man--'. . . everything he did in life, whatever happened to him,

it all went his way, everything conspired to make him famous! But what did

he achieve? I've never been able to discover . . . What about that famous

phrase of his that begins " A storm of mist. . ."? What a load of rot! He

was lucky, that's all, just lucky! '--Ryukhin concluded venomously, feeling

the lorry start to move under him--' and just because that White officer

shot at him and smashed his hip, he's famous for ever . . .'

The jam was moving. Less than two minutes later the poet, now not only

ill but ageing, walked on to the Griboyedov verandah. It was nearly empty.

Ryukhin, laden with dish-cloths, was greeted warmly by Archibald

Archibaldovich and immediately relieved of the horrible rags. If Ryukhin had

not been so exhausted by the lorry-ride and by his experiences at the

clinic, he would probably have enjoyed describing everything that had

happened in the hospital and would have embellished the story with some

invented details. But for the moment he was incapable. Although Ryukhin was

not an observant man, now, after his agony on the lorry, for the first time

be looked really hard at the pirate and realised that although the man was

asking questions about Bezdomny and even exclaiming ' Oh, poor fellow! ' he

was in reality totally indifferent to Bezdomny's fate and did not feel sorry

for him at all. ' Good for him! He's right! ' thought Ryukhin with cynical,

masochistic relish and breaking off his description of the symptoms of

schizophrenia, he asked :

'Archibald Archibaldovich, could I possibly have a glass of vodka. .

.? '

The pirate put on a sympathetic expression and whispered :

'Of course, I quite understand . . . right away . . .' and signalled

to a waiter.

A quarter of an hour later Ryukhin was sitting in absolute solitude

hunched over a dish of sardines, drinking glass after glass of vodka,

understanding more and more about himself and admitting that there was

nothing in his life that he could put right--he could only try to forget.

The poet had wasted his night while others had spent it enjoying

themselves and now he realised that it was lost forever. He only had to lift

his head up from the lamp and look at the sky to see that the night had gone

beyond return. Waiters were hurriedly jerking the cloths off the tables. The

cats pacing the verandah had a morning look about them. Day broke inexorably

over the poet.

7.The Haunted Flat

If next day someone had said to Stepa Likhodeyev 'Stepa! If vou don't

get up this minute you're going to be shot,' he would have replied in a

faint, languid voice : ' All right, shoot me. Do what you like to me, but

I'm not getting up! '

The worst of it was that he could not open his eyes, because when he

did so there would be a flash of lightning and his head would shiver to

fragments. A great bell was tolling in his head, brown spots with livid

green edges were swimming around somewhere between his eyeballs and his

closed lids. To cap it all he felt sick and the nausea was somehow connected

with the sound of a gramophone.

Stepa tried to remember what had happened, but could only recall one

thing--yesterday, somewhere. God knows where, he had been holding a table

napkin and trying to kiss a woman, promising her that he would come and

visit her tomorrow at the stroke of noon. She had refused, saying ' No, no,

I won't be at home,' but Stepa had insisted ' I don't care--I'll come

anyway!'

Stepa had now completely forgotten who that woman had been, what the

time was, what day of what month it was, and worst of all he had no idea

where he was. In an effort to find out, he unstuck his gummed-up left

eyelid. Something glimmered in the semi-darkness. At last Stepa recognised

it as a mirror. He was lying cross-wise on the bed in his own bedroom. Then

something hit him on the head and he closed his eyes and groaned.

Stepa Likhodeyev, manager of the Variety Theatre, had woken up thait

morning in the flat that he shared with Berlioz in a big six-stoirey block

of flats on Sadovaya Street. This flat--No. 50-- had a strange reputation.

Two years before, it had been owned by the widow of a jeweller called de

Fougere, Anna Frantzevna, a respectable and very business-like lady of

fifty, who let three of her five rooms to lodgers. One of them was, it

seems, called Belomut; the other's name has been lost.

Two years ago odd things began happening in that apartment-- people

started to vanish from it without trace. One Monday afternoon a policeman

called, invited the second lodger (the one whose name is no longer known)

into the hall and asked him to come along to the police station for a minute

or two to sign a document. The lodger told Anfisa, Anna Frantzevna's devoted

servant of many years, to say that if anybody rang him up he would be back

in ten minutes. He then went out accompanied by the courteous policeman in

white gloves. But he not only failed to come back in ten minutes; he never

came back at all. Odder still, the policeman appeared to have vanished with

him.

Anfisa, a devout and frankly rather a superstitious woman, informed the

distraught Anna Frantsevna that it was witchcraft, that she knew perfectly

well who had enticed away the lodger and the policeman, only she dared not

pronounce the name at night-time.

Witchcraft once started, as we all know, is virtually unstoppable. The

anonymous lodger disappeared, you will remember, on a Monday ; the following

Wednesday Belomut, too, vanished from the face of the earth, although

admittedly in different circumstances. He was fetched as usual in the

morning by the car which took him to work, but it never brought him back and

never called again.

Words cannot describe the pain and distress which this caused to madame

Belomut, but alas for her, she was not fated to endure even this unhappy

state for long. On returning from her dacha that evening, whither she had

hastily gone with Anfisa, Anna Frantzevna found no trace of madame Belomut

in the flat and what was more, the doors of both rooms occupied by the

Belomuts had been sealed. Two days of uncertainty and insomnia passed for

Anna Frantzevna ; on the third day she made another hasty visit to her dacha

from whence, it need hardly be said, she never returned. Anfisa, left alone,

cried her eye s out and finally went to bed at two-o'clock in the morning.

Nobody knows what happened to her after that, but tenants of the

neighbouring flat described having heard knocking coming from No. 50 and

having seen lights burning in the windows all night. By morning Anfisa too

was gone. Legends of all kinds about the mysterious flat and its vanishing

lodgers circulated in the building for some time. According to one of them

the devout and spinsteriy Anfisa used to carry twenty-five large diamonds,

belonging to Anna Frantzevna, in a chamois-leather bag between her withered

breasts. It was said, too, that among other things a priceless treasure

consisting of those same diamonds and a hoard of tsarist gold coins were

somehow found in the coal-she'd behind Anna Frantzevna's dacha. Lacking

proof, of course, we shall never know how true these rumours were. However,

the flat only remained empty for a week before Berlioz and his wife and

Stepa and his wife moved into it. Naturally as soon as they took possession

of the haunted flat the oddest things started happening to them too. Within

a single month both wives had disappeared, although not without trace.

Rumour had it that Berlioz's wife had been seen in Kharkov with a

ballet-master, whilst Stepa's wife had apparently found her way to an

orphanage where, the story went, the manager of the Variety had used his

connections to get her a room on condition that she never showed her face in

Sadovaya Street again. . . .

So Stepa groaned. He wanted to call his maid, Grunya, and ask her for

an aspirin but he was conscious enough to realise that it would be useless

because Grunya most probably had no aspirin. He tried to call for Berlioz's

help and twice moaned ' Misha . . . Misha . . .', but as you will have

guessed, there was no reply. There was complete silence in the flat.

Wriggling his toes, Stepa deduced that he was lying in his socks. He

ran a trembling hand down his hip to test whether he had his trousers on or

not and found that he had not. At last, realising that he was alone and

abandoned, that there was nobody to help him, he decided to get up, whatever

superhuman effort it might cost him.

Stepa prised open his eyelids and saw himself reflected in the long

mirror in the shape of a man whose hair stuck out in all directions, with a

puffy, stubble-grown face, with watery eyes and wearing a dirty shirt, a

collar, tie, underpants and socks.

As he looked at himself in the mirror, he also noticed standing beside

it a strange man dressed in a black suit and a black beret.

Stepa sat up on the bed and did his best to focus his bloodshot eyes on

the stranger. The silence was broken by the unknown visitor, who said

gravely, in a low voice with a foreign accent:

'Good morning, my dear Stepan Bogdanovich! '

There was a pause. Pulling himself together with fearful effort Stepa

said:

'What do you want?' He did not recognise his own voice. He had spoken

the word ' what' in a treble, ' do you ' in a bass and ' want' had simply

not emerged at all.

The stranger gave an amiable smile, pulled out a large gold watch with

a diamond triangle on the cover, listened to it strike eleven times and said

:

'Eleven. I have been waiting exactly an hour for you to wake up. You

gave me an appointment to see you at your flat at ten so here I am!'

Stepa fumbled for his trousers on the chair beside his bed and

whispered:

'Excuse me. . . .' He put on his trousers and asked hoarsely :

'Please tell me--who are you? '

He found talking difficult, as with every word someone stuck a needle

into his brain, causing him infernal agony.

'What! Have you forgotten my name too? ' The stranger smiled.

'Sorry . . .' said Stepa huskily. He could feel his hangover

developing a new symptom : the floor beside his bed seemed to be on the move

and any moment now he was liable to take a dive head first down into hell.

'My dear Stepan Bogdanovich,' said the visitor with a shrewd smile. '

Aspirin will do you no good. Follow a wise old rule-- the hair of the dog.

The only thing that will bring you back to life is two measures of vodka

with something sharp and peppery to eat.'

Ill though Stepa was he had enough sense to realise that since he had

been found in this state he had better tell all.

'Frankly . . .' he began, scarcely able to move his tongue, ' I did

have a bit too . . .'

'Say no more! ' interrupted the visitor and pushed the armchair to one

side.

Stepa's eyes bulged. There on a little table was a tray, laid with

slices of white bread and butter, pressed caviare in a glass bowl, pickled

mushrooms on a saucer, something in a little saucepan and finally vodka in

one of the jeweller's ornate decanters. The decanter was so chilled that it

was wet with condensation from standing in a finger-bowl full of cracked

ice.

The stranger cut Stepa's astonishment short by deftly pouring him out

half a glass of vodka.

'What about you? ' croaked Stepa.

'With pleasure! '

With a shaking hand Stepa raised the glass to his lips and the

mysterious guest swallowed his at one gulp. As he munched his caviare Stepa

was able to squeeze out the words :

'Won't you have a bite to eat too? '

'Thank you, but I never eat when I'm drinking,' replied the stranger,

pouring out a second round. He lifted the lid of the saucepan. It contained

little frankfurters in tomato sauce.

Slowly the awful green blobs in front of his eyes dissolved, words

started to form and most important of all Stepa's memory began to come back.

That was it--he had been at Khustov's dacha at Skhodna and Khustov had

driven Stepa out there by taxi. He even remembered hailing the taxi outside

the Metropole. There had been another man with them--an actor ... or was he

an actor? . . . anyhow he had a portable gramophone. Yes, yes, they had all

gone to the dacha! And the dogs, he remembered, had started howling when

they played the gramophone. Only the woman Stepa had tried to kiss remained

a complete blank . . . who the hell was she? . . . Didn't she work for the

radio? Or perhaps she didn't. . . .

Gradually the previous day came back into focus, but Stepa was much

more interested in today and in particular in this odd stranger who had

materialised in his bedroom complete with snacks and vodka. If only someone

would explain it all!

'Well, now, I hope, you've remembered my name? '

Stepa could only grin sheepishly and spread his hands.

'Well, really! I suspect you drank port on top of vodka last night.

What a way to behave!'

'Please keep this to yourself,' said Stepa imploringly.

'Oh, of course, of course! But naturally I can't vouch for Khustov.'

'Do you know Khustov? '

'I saw that individual for a moment or two in your office yesterday,

but one cursory glance at his face was enough to convince me that he was a

scheming, quarrelsome, sycophantic swine.'

'He's absolutely right! ' thought Stepa, amazed at such a truthful,

precise and succinct description of Khustov.

The ruins of yesterday were piecing themselves together now, but the

manager of the Variety still felt vaguely anxious. There was still a gaping

black void in his memory. He had absolutely no recollection of having seen

this stranger in his office the day before.

'Woland, professor of black magic,' said the visitor gravely, and

seeing Stepa was still in difficulties he described their meeting in detail.

He had arrived in Moscow from abroad yesterday, had immediately called

on Stepa and offered himself as a guest artiste at the Variety. Stepa had

telephoned the Moscow District Theatrical Commission, had agreed to the

proposal (Stepa turned pale and blinked) and had signed a contract with

Professor Woland for seven performances (Stepa's mouth dropped open),

inviting Woland to call on him at ten o'clock the next morning to conclude

the details. ... So Woland had come. When he arrived he had been met by

Grunya the maid, who explained that she herself had only just arrived

because she lived out, that Berlioz wasn't at home and that if the gentleman

wanted to see Stepan Bogdanovich he should go into the bedroom.. Stepan

Bogdanovich had been sleeping so soundly that she had been unable to wake

him. Seeing the condition that Stepa was in, the artiste had sent Grunya out

to the nearest delicatessen for some vodka and snacks, to the chemist for

some ice and . . .

'You must let me settle up with you,' moaned Stepa, thoroughly

crushed, and began hunting for his wallet.

'Oh, what nonsense! ' exclaimed the artiste and would hear no more of

it.

So that explained the vodka and the food; but Stepa was miserably

confused: he could remember absolutely nothing about a contract and he would

die before admitting to having seen Woland the previous day. Khustov had

been there all right, but not Woland.

'Would you mind showing me the contract?' asked Stepa gently.

'Oh, but of course. . . .'

Stepa looked at the sheet of paper and went numb. It was all there :

his own bold signature, the backward-sloping signature of Rimsky, the

treasurer, sanctioning the payment to Woland of a cash advance of ten

thousand roubles against his total fee of thirty-five thousand roubles for

seven performances. And what was more--Woland's receipt for ten thousand

roubles!

'What the hell? ' thought the miserable Stepa. His head began to spin.

Was this one of his lapses of memory? Well, of course, now that the actual

contract had been produced any further signs of disbelief would merely be

rude. Stepa excused himself for a moment and ran to the telephone in the

hall,. On the way he shouted towards the kitchen :

'Grunya! '

There was no reply. He glanced at the door of Berlioz's study, which

opened off the hall, and stopped, as they say, dumbfounded. There, tied to

the door-handle, hung an enormous wax seal.

'My God! ' said a voice in Stepa's head. ' If that isn't the last

straw! ' It would be difficult to describe Stepa's mental confusion. First

this diabolical character with his black beret, the iced vodka and that

incredible contract. . . . And then, if you please, a seal on the door! Who

could ever imagine Berlioz getting into any sort of trouble? No one. Yet

there it was--a seal. H'm.

Stepa was at once assailed by a number of uncomfortable little thoughts

about an article which he had recently talked Mikhail Alexandrovich into

printing in his magazine. Frankly the article had been awful--stupid,

politically dubious and badly paid. Hard on the heels of his recollection of

the article came a memory of a slightly equivocal conversation which had

taken place, as far as he could remember, on 24th April here in the

dining-room when Stepa and Berlioz had been having supper together. Of

course their talk had not really been dubious (Stepa would not have joined

in any such conversation) but it had been on a rather unnecessary subject.

They could easily have avoided having it altogether. Before the appearance

of this seal the conversation would undoubtedly have been dismissed as

utterly trivial, but since the seal . . .

'Oh, Berlioz, Berlioz,' buzzed the voice in Stepa's head. ' Surely

he'll never mention it!'

But there was no time for regrets. Stepa dialled the office of Rimsky,

the Variety Theatre's treasurer. Stepa was in a delicate position: for one

thing, the foreigner might be offended at Stepa ringing up to check on him

after he had been shown the contract and for another, the treasurer was an

extremely difficult man to deal with. After all he couldn't just say to him

: ' Look here, did J sign a contract yesterday for thirty-five thousand

roubles with a professor of black magic? ' It simply wouldn't do!

'Yes? ' came Rimsky's harsh, unpleasant voice in the earphone.

'Hello, Grigory Danilovich,' said Stepa gently. ' Likhodeyev speaking.

It's about this ... er ... this fellow . . . this artiste, in my flat,

called, er, Woland . . . I just wanted to ask you about this evening--is

everything O.K.? '

'Oh, the black magician? ' replied Rimsky. ' The posters will be here

any minute now.'

'Uhuh . . .' said Stepa weakly. ' O.K., so long . . .'

'Will you be coming over soon? ' asked Rimsky.

'In half an hour,' answered Stepa and replacing the receiver he

clasped his feverish head. God, how embarrassing! What an appalling thing to

forget!

As it would be rude to stay in the hall for much longer, Stepa

concocted a plan. He had to use every possible means of concealing his

incredible forgetfulness and begin by cunningly persuading the foreigner to

tell him exactly what he proposed to do in his act at the Variety.

With this Stepan turned away from the telephone and in the hall mirror,

which the lazy Grunya had not dusted for years, he clearly saw a

weird-looking man, as thin as a bean-pole and wearing a pince-nez. Then the

apparition vanished. Stepa peered anxiously down the hallway and immediately

had another shock as a huge black cat appeared in the mirror and also

vanished.

Stepa's heart gave a jump and he staggered back.

'What in God's name . . .? ' he thought. ' Am I going out of my mind?

Where are these reflections coming from? ' He gave another look round the

hall and shouted in alarm :

'Grunya! What's this cat doing, sneaking in here? Where does it come

from? And who's this other character? '

'Don't worry, Stepan Bogdanovich,' came a voice, though not

Grunya's--it was the visitor speaking from the bedroom. ' The cat is mine.

Don't be nervous. And Grunya's not here--I sent her away to her family in

Voronezh. She complained that you had cheated her out of her leave.'

These words were so unexpected and so absurd that Stepa decided he had

not heard them. In utter bewilderment he bounded back into the bedroom and

froze on the threshold. His hair rose and a mild sweat broke out on his

forehead.

The visitor was no longer alone in the bedroom. The second armchair was

now occupied by the creature who had materialised in the hall. He was now to

be seen quite plainly--feathery moustache, one lens of his pince-nez

glittering, the other missing. But worst of all wa:s the third invader : a

black cat of revolting proportions sprawled in a nonchalant attitude on the

pouffe, a glass of vodka in one paw and a fork, on which he had just speared

a pickled mushroom, in the other.

Stepa felt the light in the bedroom, already weak enough, begin to

fade. ' This must be what it's like to go mad . . .' he thought, clutching

the doorpost.

'You seem slightly astonished, my dear Stepan Bogdanovich,' said

Woland. Stepai's teeth were chattering. ' But I assure you there is nothing

to be surprised at. These are my assistants.'

Here the cat drank its vodka and Stepa's hand dropped from the

doorpost.

'And my assistants need a place to stay,' went on Woland, ' so it

seems that there is one too many of us in this flat. That one, I rather

think, is you.'

'Yes, that's them! ' said the tall man in a goatish voice, speaking of

Stepa in the plural. ' They've been behaving disgustingly lately. Getting

drunk, carrying on with women, trading on their position and not doing a

stroke of work--not that they could do anything even if they tried because

they're completely incompetent. Pulling the wool over the boss's eyes,

that's what they've been doing! '

'Drives around in a free car! ' said the cat slanderously, chewing a

mushroom.

Then occurred the fourth and last phenomenon at which Stepa collapsed

entirely, his weakened hand scraping down the doorpost as he slid to the

floor.

Straight from the full-length mirror stepped a short but unusually

broad-she uldered man with a bowler hat on his head. A fang protruding from

his mouth disfigured an already hideous physiognomy that was topped with

fiery red hair.

'I cannot,' put in the new arrival, ' understand how he ever came to

be manager'--his voice grew more and more nasal-- ' he's as much a manager

as I am a bishop.'

'You don't look much like a bishop, Azazello,' remarked the cat,

piling sausages on his plate.

'That's what I mean,' snarled the man with red hair and turning to

Woland he added in a voice of respect: ' Will you permit us, messire, to

kick him out of Moscow? '

'Shoo!! ' suddenly hissed the cat, its hair standing on end.

The bedroom began to spin round Stepa, he hit his head on the doorpost

and as he lost consciousness he thought, ' I'm dying . . .'

But he did not die. Opening his eyes slightly he found himself sitting

on something made of stone. There was a roaring sound nearby. When he opened

his eyes fully he realised that the roaring was the sea; that the waves were

breaking at his feet, that he was in fact sitting on the very end of a stone

pier, a shining blue sky above him and behind him a white town climbing up

the mountainside.

Not knowing quite what to do in a case like this, Stepa raised himself

on to his shaking legs and walked down the pier to the shore.

On the pier stood a man, smoking and spitting into the sea. He glared

at Stepa and stopped spitting.

Stepa then did an odd thing--he kneeled down in front of the unknown

smoker and said :

'Tell me, please, where am I? '

'Well, I'm damned! ' said the unsympathetic smoker.

'I'm not drunk,' said Stepa hoarsely. ' Something's happened to me,

I'm ill. . . . Where am I? What town is this? '

'Yalta, of course. . . .'

Stepa gave a gentle sigh, collapsed and fainted as he struck his head

on the warm stonework of the pier.

8. A. Duel between Professor and Poet

At about half past eleven that morning, just as Stepa lost

consciousness in Yalta, Ivan Nikolayich Bezdomny regained it, waking from a

deep and prolonged sleep. For a while he tried to think why he was in this

strange room with its white walls, its odd little bedside table made of

shiny metal and its white shutters, through which the sun appeared to be

shining.

Ivan shook his head to convince himself that it was not aching and

remembered that he was in a hospital. This in turn reminded him of Berlioz's

death, but today Ivan no longer found this very disturbing. After his long

sleep Ivan Nikolayich felt calmer and able to think more clearly. After

lying for a while motionless in his spotlessly clean and comfortably sprung

bed, Ivan noticed a bell-push beside him. Out of a habit of fingering

anything in sight, Ivan pressed it. He expected a bell to ring or a person

to appear, but something quite different happened.

At the foot of Ivan's bed a frosted-glass cylinder lit up with the word

'DRINK'. After a short spell in that position, the cylinder began turning

until it stopped at another word:

'NANNY '. Ivan found this clever machine slightly confusing. ' NANNY '

was replaced by ' CALL THE DOCTOR '.

'H'm . . .' said Ivan, at a loss to know what the machine expected him

to do. Luck came to his rescue. Ivan pressed the button at the word ' NURSE

'. In reply the machine gave a faint tinkle, stopped and went out. Into the

room came a kind-looking woman in a clean white overall and said to Ivan :

'Good morning!'

Ivan did not reply, as he felt the greeting out of place in the

circumstances. They had, after all, dumped a perfectly healthy man in

hospital and were making it worse by pretending it was necessary! With the

same kind look the woman pressed a button and raised the blind. Sunlight

poured into the room through a light, wide-mesh grille that extended to the

floor. Beyond the grille was a balcony, beyond that the bank of a meandering

river and on the far side a cheerful pine forest.

'Bath time! ' said the woman invitingly and pushed aside a folding

partition to reveal a magnificently equipped bathroom.

Although Ivan had made up his mind not to talk to the woman, when he

saw a broad stream of water thundering into the bath from a glittering tap

he could not help saying sarcastically :

'Look at that! Just like in the Metropole! '

'Oh, no,' replied the woman proudly. ' Much better. There's no

equipment like this anywhere, even abroad. Professors and doctors come here

specially to inspect our clinic. We have foreign tourists here every day.'

At the words ' foreign tourist' Ivan at once remembered the mysterious

professor of the day before. He scowled and said :

'Foreign tourists . . . why do you all think they're so wonderful?

There are some pretty odd specimens among them, I can tell you. I met one

yesterday--he was a charmer! '

He was just going to start telling her about Pontius Pilate, but

changed his mind. The woman would never understand and it was useless to

expect any help from her.

Washed and clean, Ivan Nikolayich was immediately provided with

everything a man needs after a bath--a freshly ironed shirt, underpants and

socks. That was only a beginning : opening the door of a wardrobe, the woman

pointed inside and asked him:

'What would you like to wear--a dressing gown or pyjamas? '

Although he was a prisoner in his new home, Ivan found it hard to

resist the woman's easy, friendly manner and he pointed to a pair of crimson

flannelette pyjamas.

After that Ivan Nikolayich was led along an empty, soundless corridor

into a room of vast dimensions. He had decided to treat everything in this

wonderfully equipped building with

sarcasm and he at once mentally christened this room ' the factory

kitchen'.

And with good reason. There were cupboards and glass-fronted cabinets

full of gleaming nickel-plated instruments. There were armchairs of

strangely complex design, lamps with shiny, bulbous shades, a mass of

phials, bunsen burners, electric cables and various totally mysterious

pieces of apparatus.

Three people came into the room to see Ivan, two women and one man, all

in white. They began by taking Ivan to a desk in the corner to interrogate

him.

Ivan considered the situation. He had a choice of three courses. The

first was extremely tempting--to hurl himself at these lamps and other

ingenious gadgets and smash them all to pieces as a way of expressing his

protest at being locked up for nothing. But today's Ivan was significantly

different from the Ivan of yesterday and he found the first course dubious ;

it would only make them more convinced that he was a dangerous lunatic, so

he abandoned it. There was a second--to begin at once telling them the story

about the professor and Pontius Pilate. However yesterday's experience had

shown him that people either refused to believe the story or completely

misunderstood it, so Ivan rejected that course too, deciding to adopt the

third: he would wrap himself in proud silence.

It proved impossible to keep it up, and willy-nilly he found himself

answering, albeit curtly and sulkily, a whole series of questions. They

carefully extracted from Ivan everything about his past life, down to an

attack of scarlet fever fifteen years before. Having filled a whole page on

Ivan they turned it over and one of the women in white started questioning

him about his relatives. It was a lengthy performance--who had died, when

and why, did they drink, had they suffered from venereal disease and so

forth. Finally they asked him to describe what had happened on the previous

day at Patriarch's Ponds, but they did not pay much attention to it and the

story about Pontius Pilate left them cold.

The woman then handed Ivan over to the man, who took a different line

with him, this time in silence. He took Ivan's temperature, felt his pulse

and looked into his eyes while he shone a lamp into them. The other woman

came to the man's assistance and they hit Ivan on the back with some

instrument, though not painfully, traced some signs on the skin of his chest

with the handle of a little hammer, hit him on the knees with more little

hammers, making Ivan's legs jerk, pricked his finger and drew blood from it,

pricked his elbow joint, wrapped rubber bracelets round his arm . . .

Ivan could only smile bitterly to himself and ponder on the absurdity

of it all. He had wanted to warn them all of the danger threatening them

from the mysterious professor, and had tried to catch him, yet all he had

achieved was to land up in this weird laboratory just to talk a lot of

rubbish about his uncle Fyodor who had died of drink in Vologda.

At last they let Ivan go. He was led back to his room where he was

given a cup of coffee, two soft-boiled eggs and a slice of white bread and

butter. When he had eaten his breakfast, Ivan made up his mind to wait for

someone in charge of the clinic to arrive, to make him listen and to plead

for justice.

The man came soon after Ivan's breakfast. The door into Ivan's room

suddenly opened and in swept a crowd of people in white overalls. In front

strode a man of about forty-five, with a clean-shaven, actorish face, kind

but extremely piercing eyes and a courteous manner. The whole retinue showed

him signs of attention and respect, which gave his entrance a certain

solemnity. ' Like Pontius Pilate! ' thought Ivan.

Yes, he was undoubtedly the man in charge. He sat down on a stool.

Everybody else remained standing.

'How do you do. My name is doctor Stravinsky,' he said as he sat down,

looking amiably at Ivan.

'Here you are, Alexander Nikolayich,' said a neatly bearded man and

handed the chief Ivan's filled-in questionnaire.

'They've got it all sewn up,' thought Ivan. The man in charge ran a

practised eye over the sheet of paper, muttered' Mm'hh' and exchanged a few

words with his colleagues in a strange language. ' And he speaks Latin

too--like Pilate ', mused Ivan sadly. Suddenly a word made him shudder. It

was the word ' schizophrenia ', which the sinister stranger had spoken at

Patriarch's Ponds. Now professor Stravinsky was saying it. ' So he knew

about this, too! ' thought Ivan uneasily.

The chief had adopted the rule of agreeing with everybody and being

pleased with whatever other people might say, expressing it by the word '

Splendid . . .'

'Splendid! ' said Stravinsky, handing back the sheet of paper. He

turned to Ivan.

'Are you a poet? '

'Yes, I am,' replied Ivan glumly and for the first time he suddenly

felt an inexplicable revulsion to poetry. Remembering some of his own poems,

they struck him as vaguely unpleasant.

Frowning, he returned Stravinsky's question by asking:

'Are you a professor? '

To this Stravinsky, with engaging courtesy, inclined his head.

'Are you in charge here? ' Ivan went on.

To this, too, Stravinsky nodded.

'I must talk to you,' said Ivan Nikolayich in a significant tone.

'That's why I'm here,' answered Stravinsky.

'Well this is the situation,' Ivan began, sensing that his hour had

come. ' They say I'm mad and nobody wants to listen to me!'

'Oh no, we will listen very carefully to everything you have to say,'

said Stravinsky seriously and reassuringly, ' and on no account shall we

allow anyone to say you're mad.'

'All right, then, listen: yesterday evening at Patriarch's Ponds I met

a mysterious person, who may or may not have been a foreigner, who knew

about Berlioz's death before it happened, and had met Pontius Pilate.'

The retinue listened to Ivan, silent and unmoving.

'Pilate? Is that the Pilate who lived at the time of Jesus Christ?'

enquired Stravinsky, peering at Ivan. ' Yes.'

'Aha,' said Stravinsky. ' And this Berlioz is the one who died falling

under a tram? '

'Yes. I was there yesterday evening when the tram killed him, and this

mysterious character was there too .'

'Pontius Pilate's friend? ' asked Stravinsky, obviously a man of

exceptional intelligence.

'Exactly,' said Ivan, studying Stravinsky. ' He told us, before it

happened, that Anna had spilt the sunflower-seed oil ... and that was the

very spot where Berlioz slipped! How d'you like that?!' Ivan concluded,

expecting his story to produce a big effect.

But it produced none. Stravinsky simply asked :

'And who is this Anna? '

Slightly disconcerted by the question, Ivan frowned.

'Anna doesn't matter,' he said irritably. ' God knows who she is.

Simply some stupid girl from Sadovaya Street. What's important, don't you

see, is that he knew about the sunflower-seed oil beforehand. Do you follow

me? '

'Perfectly,' replied Stravinsky seriously. Patting the poet's knee he

added : ' Relax and go on.'

'All right,' said Ivan, trying to fall into Stravinsky's tone and

knowing from bitter experience that only calm would help him. ' So obviously

this terrible man (he's lying, by the way--he's no professor) has some

unusual power . . . For instance, if you chase him you can't catch up with

him . . . and there's a couple of others with him, just as peculiar in their

way: a tall fellow with broken spectacles and an enormous cat who rides on

the tram by himself. What's more,' went on Ivan with great heat and

conviction, ' he was on the balcony with Pontius Pilate, there's no doubt of

it. What about that, eh? He must be arrested immediately or he'll do untold

harm.'

'So you think he should be arrested? Have I understood you correctly?

' asked Stravinsky.

‘ He's clever,' thought Ivan, ' I must admit there are a few bright

ones among the intellectuals,' and he replied :

'Quite correct. It's obvious--he must be arrested! And meanwhile I'm

being kept here by force while they flash lamps at me, bath me and ask me

idiotic questions about uncle Fyodor! He's been dead for years! I demand to

be let out at once! '

'Splendid, splendid! ' cried Stravinsky. ' I see it all now. You're

right--what is the use of keeping a healthy man in hospital? Very well, I'll

discharge you at once if you tell me you're normal. You don't have to prove

it--just say it. Well, are you normal? '

There was complete silence. The fat woman who had examined Ivan that

morning glanced reverently at the professor and once again Ivan thought:

'Extremely clever! '

The professor's offer pleased him a great deal, but before replying he

thought hard, frowning, until at last he announced firmly:

'I am normal.'

'Splendid,' exclaimed Stravinsky with relief. ' In that case let us

reason logically. We'll begin by considering what happened to you

yesterday.' Here he turned and was immediately handed Ivan's questionnaire.

' Yesterday, while in search of an unknown man, who had introduced himself

as a friend of Pontius Pilate, you did the following: ' Here Stravinsky

began ticking off the points on his long fingers, glancing back and forth

from the paper to Ivan. ' You pinned an ikon to your chest. Right? '

'Right,' Ivan agreed sulkily.

'You fell off a fence and scratched your face. Right? You appeared in

a restaurant carrying a lighted candle, wearing only underpants, and you hit

somebody in the restaurant. You were tied up and brought here, where you

rang the police and asked them to send some machine-guns. You then attempted

to throw yourself out of the window. Right? The question--is that the way to

set about catching or arresting somebody? If you're normal you're bound to

reply--no, it isn't. You want to leave here? Very well. But where, if you

don't mind my asking, do you propose to go? ' ' To the police, of course,'

replied Ivan, although rather less firmly and slightly disconcerted by the

professor's stare.

'Straight from here? '

'Mm'hh.'

'Won't you go home first? ' Stravinsky asked quickly.

'Why should I go there? While I'm going home he might get away!'

'I see. And what will you tell the police? '

'I'll tell them about Pontius Pilate,' replied Ivan Nikolayich, his

eyes clouding.

'Splendid! ' exclaimed Stravinsky, defeated, and turning to the man

with the beard he said: ' Fyodor Vasilievich, please arrange for citizen

Bezdomny to be discharged. But don't put anybody else in this room and don't

change the bedclothes. Citizen Bezdomny will be back here again in two

hours. Well,' he said to the poet, ‘I won't wish you success because I see

no chance whatever of your succeeding. See you soon!' He got up and his

retinue started to go.

'Why will I come back here? ' asked Ivan anxiously.

'Because as soon as you appear at a police station dressed in your

underpants and say yom've met a man who knew Pontius Pilate, you'll

immediately be brought back here and put in this room again.'

'Because of my underpants? ' asked Ivan, staring distractedly about

him.

'Chiefly because of Pontims Pilate. But the underpants will help. We

shall have to take a.way your hospital clothes and give you back your own.

And you came here wearing underpants. Incidentally you said nothing about

going home first, despite my hint. After that you only have to start talking

about Pontius Pilate . . . and you're done for.'

At this point something odd happened to Ivan Nikolayich. His will-power

seemed to crumple. He felt himself weak and in need of advice.

'What should I do, then? ' he asked, timidly this time.

'Splendid! ' said Stravinsky. ' A most reasonable question.

Now I'll tell you what has really happened to you. Yesterday someone

gave you a bad fright and upset you with this story about Pontius Pilate and

other things. So you, worn out and nerve-racked, wandered round the town

talking about Pontius Pilate. Quite naturally people took you for a lunatic.

Your only salvation now is complete rest. And you must stay here.'

'But somebody must arrest him! ' cried Ivan, imploringly.

'Certainly, but why should you have to do it? Put down all your

suspicions and accusations against this man on a piece of paper. Nothing

could be simpler than to send your statement to the proper authorities and

if, as you suspect, the man is a criminal, it will come to light soon

enough. But on one condition--don't over-exert your mind and try to think a

bit less about Pontius Pilate. If you harp on that story I don't think many

people are going to believe you.'

'Right you are! ' announced Ivan firmly. ' Please give me pen and

paper.'

'Give him some paper and a short pencil,' said Stravinsky to the fat

woman, then turning to Ivan : ' But I don't advise you to start writing

today.'

'No, no, today! I must do it today! ' cried Ivan excitedly.

'All right. Only don't overtax your brain. If you don't get it quite

right today, tomorrow will do.'

'But he'll get away! '

'Oh no,' countered Stravinsky. ' I assure you he's not going to get

away. And remember--we are here to help you in every way we can and unless

we do, nothing will come of your plan. D'you hear? ' Stravinsky suddenly

asked, seizing Ivan Nikolay-ich by both hands. As he held them in his own he

stared intently into Ivan's eyes, repeating : ' We shall help you ... do you

hear? . . . We shall help you . . . you will be able to relax . . . it's

quiet here, everything's going to be all right ... all right . . . we shall

help you . . .'

Ivan Nikolayich suddenly yawned and his expression softened.

'Yes, I see,' he said quietly.

'Splendid! ' said Stravinsky, closing the conversation in his no

habitual way and getting up. ' Goodbye!' He shook Ivan by the hand and as he

went out he turned to the man with the beard and said : ' Yes, and try

oxygen . . . and baths.'

A few moments later Stravinsky and his retinue were gone. Through the

window and the grille the gay, springtime wood gleamed brightly on the far

bank and the river sparkled in the noon sunshine.

9. Koroviev's Tricks

Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi, chairman of the tenants' association of No.

302A, Sadovaya Street, Moscow, where the late Berlioz had lived, was in

trouble. It had all begun on the previous Wednesday night.

At midnight, as we already know, the police had arrived with Zheldybin,

had hauled Nikanor Ivanovich out of bed, told him of Berlioz's death and

followed him to flat No. 50. There they had sealed the deceased's papers and

personal effects. Neither Grunya the maid, who lived out, nor the imprudent

Stepan Bogdanovich were in the flat at the time. The police informed Nikanor

Ivanovich that they would call later to collect Berlioz's manuscripts for

sorting and examination and that his accommodation, consisting of three

rooms (the jeweller's study, drawing-room and dining-room) would revert to

the tenants' association for disposal. His effects were to be kept under

seal until the legatees' claims were proved by the court.

The news of Berlioz's death spread through the building with

supernatural speed and from seven o'clock on Thursday morning Bosoi started

to get telephone calls. After that people began calling in person with

written pleas of their urgent need of vacant housing space. Within the space

of two hours Nikanor Ivanovich had collected thirty-two such statements.

They contained entreaties, threats, intrigue, denunciations, promises

to redecorate the flat, remarks about overcrowding and the impossibility of

sharing a flat with bandits. Among them was a description, shattering in its

literary power, of the theft of some meat-balls from someone's jacket pocket

in flat No. 31, two threats of suicide and one confession of secret

pregnancy.

Nikanor Ivanovich was again and again taken aside with a wink and

assured in whispers that he would do well on the deal....

This torture lasted until one o'clock, when Nikanor Ivanovich simply

ran out of his flat by the main entrance, only to run away again when he

found them lying in wait for him outside. Somehow contriving to throw off

the people who chased him across the asphalt courtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich

took refuge in staircase 6 and climbed to the fatal apartment.

Panting with exertion, the stout Nikanor Ivanovich rang the bell on the

fifth-floor landing. No one opened. He rang again and again and began to

swear quietly. Still no answer. Nikanor Ivanovich's patience gave way and

pulling a bunch of duplicate keys from his pocket he opened the door with a

masterful flourish and walked in.

'Hello, there! ' shouted Nikanor Ivanovich in the dim hallway. ' Are

you there, Grunya? '

No reply.

Nikanor Ivanovich then took a folding ruler out of his pocket, used it

to prise the seal from the study door and strode in. At least he began by

striding in, but stopped in the doorway with a start of amazement.

Behind Berlioz's desk sat a tall, thin stranger in a check jacket,

jockey cap and pince-nez. . . .

'And who might you be, citizen? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich.

'Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cried the mysterious stranger in a quavering

tenor. He leaped up and greeted the chairman with an unexpectedly powerful

handshake which Nikanor Ivanovich found extremely painful.

'Pardon me,' he said suspiciously, ' but who are you? Are you somebody

official? '

'Ah, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' said the stranger in a man-to-man voice. '

Who is official and who is unofficial these days? It all depends on your

point of view. It's all so vague and changeable, Nikanor Ivanovich. Today

I'm unofficial, tomorrow, hey presto! I'm official! Or maybe vice-versa--who

knows? '

None of this satisfied the chairman. By nature a suspicious man, he

decided that this voluble individual was not only unofficial but had no

business to be there.

'Who are you? What's your name? ' said the chairman firmly, advancing

on the stranger.

'My name,' replied the man, quite unmoved by this hostile reception, '

is . . . er . . . let's say . . . Koroviev. Wouldn't you like a bite to eat,

Nikanor Ivanovich? As we're friends? '

'Look here,' said Nikanor Ivanovich disagreeably, ' what the hell do

you mean--eat? ' (Sad though it is to admit, Nikanor Ivanovich had no

manners.) ' You're not allowed to come into a dead man's flat! What are you

doing here? '

'Now just sit down, Nikanor Ivanovich,' said the imperturbable

stranger in a wheedling voice, offering Nikanor Ivanovich a chair.

Infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich kicked the chair away and yelled:

'Who are you? '

'I am employed as interpreter to a foreign gentleman residing in this

flat,' said the self-styled Koroviev by way of introduction as he clicked

the heels of his dirty brown boots.

Nikanor Ivanovich's mouth fell open. A foreigner in this flat, complete

with interpreter, was a total surprise to him and he demanded an

explanation.

This the interpreter willingly supplied. Monsieur Woland, an artiste

from abroad, had been kindly invited by the manager of the Variety Theatre,

Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev, to spend his stay as a guest artiste, about a

week, in his flat. Likhodeyev had written to Nikanor Ivanovich about it

yesterday, requesting him to register the gentlemen from abroad as a

temporary resident while Likhodeyev himself was away in Yalta.

'But he hasn't written to me,' said the bewildered chairman.

'Take a look in your briefcase, Nikanor Ivanovich,' suggested Koroviev

amiably.

Shrugging his shoulders Nikanor Ivanovich opened his briefcase and

found a letter from Likhodeyev. ' Now how could I have forgotten that? '

mumbled Nikanor Ivanovich, gazing stupidly at the opened envelope.

'It happens to the best of us, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cackled Koroviev.

' Absent-mindedness, overstrain and high blood-pressure, my dear friend!

Why, I'm horribly absent-minded. Some time over a glass or two I'll tell you

a few things that have happened to me--you'll die with laughter! '

'When is Likhodeyev going to Yalta? '

'He's already gone,' cried the interpreter. ' He's on his way there.

God knows where he is by now.' And the interpreter waved his arms like

windmill sails.

Nikanor Ivanovich announced that he had to see the foreign gentleman in

person, but this was refused. It was quite out of the question. Monsieur

Woland was busy. Training his cat.

'You can see the cat if you like,' suggested Koroviev.

This Nikanor Ivanovich declined and the interpreter then made him an

unexpected but most interesting proposal: since Monsieur Woland could not

bear staying in hotels and was used to spacious quarters, couldn't the

tenants' association lease him the whole flat for his week's stay, including

the dead man's rooms?

'After all, what does he care? He's dead,' hissed Koroviev in a

whisper. ' You must admit the flat's no use to him now, is it?'

In some perplexity Nikanor Ivanovich objected that foreigners were

normally supposed to stay at the Metropole and not in private accommodation

. . .

'I tell you he's so fussy, you'd never believe it,' whispered

Koroviev. ' He simply refuses! He hates hotels! I can tell you I'm fed up

with these foreign tourists,' complained Koroviev confidentially. ' They

wear me out. They come here and either they go spying and snooping or they

send me mad with their whims and fancies--this isn't right, that isn't just

so! And there'd be plenty in it for your association, Nikanor Ivanovich.

He's not short of money.' Koroviev glanced round and then whispered in the

chairman's ear : ' He's a millionaire!'

The suggestion was obviously a sensible one, but there was something

ridiculous about his manner, his clothes and that absurd, useless pince-nez

that all combined to make Nikanor Ivanovich vaguely uneasy. However he

agreed to the suggestion. The tenants' association, alas, was showing an

enormous deficit. In the autumn they would have to buy oil for the steam

heating plant and there was not a kopeck in the till, but with this

foreigner's money they might just manage it. Nikanor Ivanovich, however,

practical and cautious as ever, insisted on clearing the matter with the

tourist bureau.

'Of course! ' cried Koroviev. ' It must be done properly. There's the

telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, ring them up right away! And don't worry about

money,' he added in a whisper as he led the chairman to the telephone in the

hall, ' if anyone can pay handsomely, he can. If you could see his villa in

Nice! When you go abroad next summer you must go there specially and have a

look at it--you'll be amazed! '

The matter was fixed with the tourist bureau with astonishing ease and

speed. The bureau appeared to know all about Monsieur Woland's intention to

stay in Likodeyev's flat and raised no objections.

'Excellent! ' cried Koroviev.

Slightly stupefied by this man's incessant cackling, the chairman

announced that the tenants' association was prepared to lease flat No. 50 to

Monsieur Woland the artiste at a rent of ... Nikanor Ivanovich stammered a

little and said :

'Five hundred roubles a day.'

At this Koroviev surpassed himself. Winking conspiratorially towards

the bedroom door, through which they could hear a series of soft thumps as

the cat practised its leaps, he said :

'So for a week that would amount to three and a half thousand,

wouldn't it? '

Nikanor Ivanovich quite expected the man to add ' Greedy, aren't you,

Nikanor Ivanovich? ' but instead he said:

'That's not much. Ask him for five thousand, he'll pay.'

Grinning with embarrassment, Nikanor Ivanovich did not even notice how

he suddenly came to be standing beside Berlioz's desk and how Koroviev had

managed with such incredible speed and dexterity to draft a contract in

duplicate. This done, he flew into the bedroom and returned with the two

copies signed in the stranger's florid hand. The chairman signed in turn and

Koroviev asked him to make out a receipt for five . . .

'Write it out in words, Nikanor Ivanovich. " Five thousand roubles ".'

Then with a flourish which seemed vaguely out of place in such a serious

matter--' Eins! 'yvei! drei! '--he laid five bundles of brand-new banknotes

on the table.

Nikanor Ivanovich checked them, to an accompaniment of witticisms from

Koroviev of the ' better safe than sorry ' variety. Having counted the money

the chairman took the stranger's passport to be stamped with his temporary

residence permit, put contract, passport and money into his briefcase and

asked shyly for a free ticket to the show . . .

'But of course! ' exclaimed Koroviev. ' How many do you want, Nikanor

Ivanovich--twelve, fifteen? '

Overwhelmed, the chairman explained that he only wanted two, one for

his wife Pelagea Antonovna and one for himself.

Koroviev seized a note-pad and dashed off an order to the box office

for two complimentary tickets in the front row. As the interpreter handed it

to Nikanor Ivanovich with his left hand, with his right he gave him a thick,

crackling package. Glancing at it Nikanor Ivanovich blushed hard and started

to push it away.

'It's not proper . . .'

'I won't hear any objection,' Koroviev whispered right in his ear. '

We don't do this sort of thing but foreigners do. You'll offend him, Nikanor

Ivanovich, and that might be awkward. You've earned it . . .'

'It's strictly forbidden . . .' whispered the chairman in a tiny

voice, with a furtive glance around.

'Where are the witnesses? ' hissed Koroviev into his other ear. ' I

ask you--where are they? Come, now . . .'

There then happened what the chairman later described as a miracle--the

package jumped into his briefcase of its own accord, after which he found

himself, feeling weak and battered, on the staircase. A storm of thoughts

was whirling round inside his head. Among them were the villa in Nice, the

trained cat, relief that there had been no witnesses and his wife's pleasure

at the complimentary tickets. Yet despite these mostly comforting thoughts,

in the depths of his soul the chairman still felt the pricking of a little

needle. It was the needle of unease. Suddenly, halfway down the staircase,

something else occurred to him-- how had that interpreter found his way into

the study past a sealed door? And why on earth had he, Nikanor Ivanovich,

forgotten to ask him about it? For a while the chairman stared at the steps

like a sheep, then decided to forget it and not to bother himself with

imaginary problems . . .

As soon as the chairman had left the flat a low voice came from the

bedroom:

'I don't care for that Nikanor Ivanovich. He's a sly rogue. Why not

fix it so that he doesn't come here again? '

'Messire, you only have to give the order . . .' answered Koroviev in

a firm, clear voice that no longer quavered.

At once the diabolical interpreter was in the hall, had dialled a

number and started to speak in a whining voice :

'Hullo! I consider it my duty to report that the chairman of our

tenants' association at No. 302А Sadovaya Street, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi,

is dealing in black-market foreign currency. He has just stuffed four

hundred dollars wrapped in newspaper into the ventilation shaft of the

lavatory in his flat. No. 3 5. My name is Timothy Kvastsov and I live in the

same block, flat No. 11. But please keep my name a secret. I'm afraid of

what that man may do if he finds out . . .'

And with that the scoundrel hung up.

What happened after that in No. 50 is a mystery, although what happened

to Nikanor Ivanovich is common knowledge. Locking himself in the lavatory,

he pulled the package out of his briefcase and found that it contained four

hundred roubles. He wrapped it up in a sheet of old newspaper and pushed it

into the ventilation shaft. Five minutes later he was sitting down at table

in his little dining-room. From the kitchen his wife brought in a pickled

herring, sliced and thickly sprinkled with raw onion. Nikanor Ivanovich

poured himself a wineglassful of vodka, drank it, poured out another, drank

that, speared three slices of herring on his fork . . . and then the

doorbell rang. Pelagea Antonovna was just bringing in a steaming casserole,

one glance at which was enough to tell you that in the midst of all that

hot, thick borsch was one of the most delicious things in the world --a

marrow bone.

Gulping down his running saliva, Nikanor Ivanovich snarled :

'Who the hell is that--at this hour! They won't even allow a man to

eat his supper. . . . Don't let anybody in--I'm not at home.... If it's

about the flat tell them to stop worrying. There'll be a committee meeting

about it in a week's time.'

His wife ran into the hall and Nikanor Ivanovich ladled the quivering

marrow bone out of its steaming lake. At that moment three men came into the

dining-room, followed by a very pale Pelagea Antonovna. At the sight of them

Nikanor Ivanovich turned white and got up.

'Where's the W.C.? ' enquired the first man urgently. There was a

crash as Nikanor Ivanovich dropped the ladle on to the oilcloth table-top.

'Here, in here,' babbled Pelagea Antonovna. The visitors turned and

rushed back into the passage.

'What's going on? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich as he followed them. ' You

can't just burst into our flat like that . . . Where's your identity card if

you don't mind? '

The first man showed Nikanor Ivanovich his identity card while the

second clambered up on to a stool in the lavatory and thrust his arm into

the ventilation shaft. Nikanor Ivanovich began to feel faint. They unwrapped

the sheet of newspaper to find that the banknotes in the package were not

roubles but some unknown foreign money--bluish-green in colour with a

picture of an old man. Nikanor Ivanovich, however, saw none of it very

clearly because spots were swimming in front of his eyes.

'Dollars in the ventilation shaft. . . .' said the first man

thoughtfully and asked Nikanor Ivanovich politely : * Is this your little

parcel? '

'No! ' replied Nikanor Ivanovich in a terrified voice. ' It's been

planted on me!'

'Could be,' agreed the first man, adding as quietly as before :

'Still, you'd better give up the rest.'

'There isn't any more! I swear to God I've never even seen any! '

screamed the chairman in desperation. He rushed to a chest, pulled out a

drawer and out of that his briefcase, shouting distractedly as he did so :

'It's all in here . . . the contract . . . that interpreter must have

planted them on me . . . Koroviev, the man in the pince-nez!'

He opened the briefcase, looked inside, thrust his hand in, turned blue

in the face and dropped his briefcase into the borsch. There was nothing in

it--no letter from Stepan, no contract, no passport, no money and no

complimentary tickets. Nothing, in short, except a folding ruler.

* Comrades!' screamed the chairman frantically. ' Arrest them! The

forces of evil are in this house!'

Something odd happened to Pelagea Antonovna at this point. Wringing her

hands she cried :

'Confess, Nikanor! They'll reduce your sentence if you do! '

Eyes bloodshot, Nikanor Ivanovich raised his clenched fists over his

wife's head and screamed :

'Aaah! You stupid bitch! '

Then he crumpled and fell into a chair, having obviously decided to bow

to the inevitable. Meanwhile, out on the landing, Timothy Kondratievich

Kvastsov was pressing first his ear then his eye to the keyhole of the

chairman's front door, burning with curiosity.

Five minutes later the tenants saw the chairman led out into the

courtyard by two men. Nikanor Ivanovich, so they said later, had been

scarcely recognisable--staggering like a drunkard and muttering to himself.

Another hour after that a stranger appeared at flat No. n just when

Timothy Kondratievich, gulping with pleasure, was describing to some other

tenants how the chairman had been whisked away; the stranger beckoned

Timothy Kondratievich out of his kitchen into the hall, said something and

took him away.

10. News from Yalta

As disaster overtook Nikanor Ivanovich in Sadovaya Street, not far from

No. 302А two men were sitting in the office of Rimsky the treasurer of the

Variety Theatre : Rimsky himself and the house manager, Varenukha.

From this large office on the second floor two windows gave on to

Sadovaya and another, just behind the treasurer's back as he sat at his

desk, on to the Variety's garden; it was used in summer and contained

several bars for serving cold drinks, a shooting gallery and an open

promenade. The furniture of the room, apart from the desk, consisted of a

collection of old posters hanging on the wall, a small table with a carafe

of water, four chairs and a stand in one corner supporting a dusty,

long-forgotten model of a stage set. Naturally the office also contained a

small, battered fireproof safe standing to the left of Rimsky's desk.

Rimsky had been in a bad mood all morning. Varenukha, by contrast, was

extremely cheerful and lively, if somewhat nervous. Today, however, there

was no outlet for his energy.

Varenukha had just taken refuge in the treasurer's office from the

complimentary ticket hounds who made his life a misery, especially on the

days when there was a change of programme. And today was one of those days.

As soon as the telephone started to ring Varenukha picked up the receiver

and lied into it:

'Who? Varenukha? He's not here. He's left the theatre.'

'Please try and ring Likhodeyev once more,' said Rimsky testily.

'But he's not at home. I've already sent Karpov; the Hat's empty.'

'I wish to God I knew what was going on! ' hissed Rimsky, fidgeting

with his adding machine.

The door opened and a theatre usher dragged in a thick package of

newly-printed fly-posters, which announced in large red letters on a green

background :

Tonight and All This Week in the Variety Theatre

A Special Act

PROFESSOR WOLAND

Black Magic All Mysteries revealed

As Varenukha stepped back from the poster, which he had propped up on

the model, he admired it and ordered the usher to have all the copies posted

up.

'All right--look sharp,' said Varenukha to the departing usher.

'I don't care for this project at all,' growled Rimsky disagreeably,

staring at the poster through his horn-rims. ' I'm amazed that he was ever

engaged.'

'No, Grigory Danilovich, don't say that! It's a very smart move. All

the fun is in showing how it's done--" the mysteries revealed ".'

'I don't know, I don't know. I don't see any fun in that myself. . .

just like him to dream up something of this sort. If only he'd shown us this

magician. Did you see him? God knows where he's dug him up from.'

It transpired that Varenukha, like Rimsky, had not seen the magician

either. Yesterday Stepa had rushed (' like a madman ', in Rimsky's words)

into the treasurer's office clutching a draft contract, had ordered him to

countersign it and pay Woland his money. The magician had vanished and no

one except Stepa himself had seen him.

Rimsky pulled out his watch, saw that it was five minutes to three and

was seized with fury. Really, this was too much! Likhodeyev had rung at

about eleven o'clock, had said that he would come in about half an hour and

now he had not only failed to appear but had disappeared from his flat.

'It's holding up all my work' snarled Rimsky, tapping a pile of

unsigned papers.

'I suppose he hasn't fallen under a tram, like Berlioz? ' said

Varenukha, holding the receiver to his ear and hearing nothing but a

continual, hopeless buzz as Stepa's telephone rang unanswered.

'It would be a damned good thing if he has . . .' said Rimsky softly

between his teeth.

At that moment in came a woman in a uniform jacket, peaked cap, black

skirt and sneakers. She took a square of white paper and a notebook out of a

little pouch on her belt and enquired :

'Which of you is Variety? Priority telegram for you. Sign here.'

Varenukha scrawled some hieroglyphic in the woman's notebook and as

soon as the door had slammed behind her, opened the envelope. Having read

the telegram he blinked and handed it to Rimsky.

The telegram read as follows: 'yalta то moscow

VARIETY STOP TODAY 1130 PSYCHIATRIC CASE NIGHT-SHIRTED TROUSERED

SHOELESS STAGGERED POLICE STATION ALLEGING SELF LIKHODEYEV MANAGER VARIETY

WIRE YALTA POLICE WHERE LIKHODEYEV.'

'Thanks--and I'm a Dutchman! ' exclaimed Rimsky and added : ' Another

little surprise package! '

'The False Dimitry! ' said Varenukha and spoke into the telephone : '

Telegrams, please. On account. Variety Theatre. Priority. Ready? " Yalta

Police stop Likhodeyev Moscow Rimsky Treasurer."'

Disregarding the Pretender of Yalta, Varenukha tried again to locate

Stepa by telephone and could not, of course, find him anywhere. While he was

still holding the receiver in his hand and wondering where to ring next, the

same woman came in again and handed Varenukha a new envelope. Hastily

opening it Varenukha read the text and whistled. ' What is it now? ' asked

Rimsky, twitching nervously. Varenukha silently passed him the telegram and

the treasurer read the words :

' BEG BELIEVE TRANSPORTED YALTA WOLANDS HYPNOSIS WIRE POLICE

CONFIRMATION MY IDENTITY LIKHODEYEV.'

Rimsky and Varenukha put their heads together, read the telegram again

and stared at one another in silence.

'Come on, come on! ' said the woman irritably. ' Sign here. Then you

can sit and stare at it as long as you like. I've got urgent telegrams to

deliver!'

Without taking his eyes off the telegram Varenukha scribbled in her

book and the woman disappeared.

'You say you spoke to him on the telephone just after eleven? ' said

the house manager in complete bewilderment.

'Yes, extraordinary as it may seem! ' shouted Rimsky. ' But whether I

did or not, he can't be in Yalta now. It's funny.'

'He's drunk . . .' said Varenukha.

'Who's drunk? ' asked Rimsky and they stared at each other again.

There was no doubt that some lunatic or practical joker was

telegraphing from Yalta. But the strange thing was--how did this wit in

Yalta know about Woland, who had only arrived in Moscow the evening before?

How did he know of the connection between Likhodeyev and Woland?

'" Hypnosis ",' muttered Varenukha, repeating one of the words in the

telegram. ' How does he know about Woland? ' He blinked and suddenly shouted

firmly : ' No, of course not. It can't be! Rubbish! '

'Where the hell has this man Woland got to, damn him? ' asked Rimsky.

Varenukha at once got in touch with the tourist bureau and announced to

Rimsky's utter astonishment that Woland was staying in Likhodeyev's flat.

Having then dialled Likhodeyev's flat yet again, Varenukha listened for a

long time as the ringing tone buzzed thickly in the earpiece. In between the

buzzes a distant baritone voice could be heard singing and Varenukha decided

that somewhere the telephone system had got its wires crossed with the radio

station.

'No reply from his flat,' said Varenukha, replacing the receiver on

its rest. ' I'll try once more . . .'

Before he could finish in came the same woman and both men rose to

greet her as this time she took out of her pouch not a white, but a black

sheet of paper.

'This is getting interesting,' said Varenukha through gritted teeth,

watching the woman as she hurried out. Rimsky was the first to look at the

message.

On a dark sheet of photographic paper the following lines were clearly

visible :

'As proof herewith specimen my handwriting and signature wire

confirmation my identity. Have Woland secretly followed. Likhodeyev.'

In twenty years of experience in the theatre Varenukha had seen plenty,

but now he felt his mind becoming paralysed and he could find nothing to say

beyond the commonplace and absurd remark:

‘ It can't be!'

Rimsky reacted differently. He got up, opened the door and bellowed

through it to the usher sitting outside on a stool:

'Don't let anybody in except the telegraph girl,' and locked the door.

He then pulled a sheaf of papers out of his desk drawer and began a

careful comparison of the thick, backward-sloping letters in the photogram

with the writing in Stepa's memoranda and his signatures, with their

typically curly-tailed script. Varenukha, sprawling on the desk, breathed

hotly on Rimsky's cheek.

'It's his handwriting,' the treasurer finally said and Varenukha

echoed him:

'It's his all right.'

Looking at Rimsky's face the house manager noticed a change in it. A

thin man, the treasurer seemed to have grown even thinner and to have aged.

Behind their hornrims his eyes had lost their usual aggressiveness. Now they

showed only anxiety, even alarm.

Varenukha did everything that people are supposed to do in moments of

great stress. He paced up and down the office, twice spread his arms as

though he were being crucified, drank a whole glass of brackish water from

the carafe and exclaimed :

'I don't understand it! I don't understand it! I don't under-stand

it!'

Rimsky stared out of the window, thinking hard. The treasurer was in an

extremely perplexing situation. He had to find an immediate, on-the-spot,

natural solution for a number of very unusual phenomena.

Frowning, the treasurer tried to imagine Stepa in a nightshirt and

without his shoes, climbing that morning at about half past eleven into some

incredibly super-rapid aeroplane and then the same Stepa, also at half past

eleven, standing on Yalta airport in his socks. ...

Perhaps it wasn't Stepa who had telephoned him from his flat? No, that

was Stepa all right! As if he didn't know Stepa's voice. Even if it hadn't

been Stepa talking to him that morning, he had actually seen the man no

earlier than the evening before, when Stepa had rushed in from his own

office waving that idiotic contract and had so annoyed Rimsky by his

irresponsible behaviour. How could he have flown out of Moscow without

saying a word to the theatre? And if he had flown away yesterday evening he

couldn't have reached Yalta before noon today. Or could he?

'How far is it to Yalta? ' asked Rimsky.

Varenukha stopped pacing and cried :

'I've already thought of that! To Sebastopol by rail it's about

fifteen hundred kilometres and it's about another eighty kilometres to

Yalta. It's less by air, of course.' Ню . . . Yes . . . No question of his

having gone by train. What then? An Air Force fighter plane? Who'd let Stepa

on board a fighter in his stockinged feet? And why? Perhaps he'd taken his

shoes off when he got to Yalta? Same problem-- •why? Anyhow, the Air Force

wouldn't let him board a fighter even with his shoes on! No, a fighter was

out of the question too. But the telegram said that he'd appeared at the

police station at half past eleven in the morning and he'd been in Moscow,

talking on the telephone, at ... Just a moment (his watch-face appeared

before Rimsky's eyes) ... He remembered where the hands had been pointing .

. . Horrors! It had been twenty past eleven!

So what was the answer? Supposing that the moment after his telephone

call Stepa had rushed to the airport and got there in, say, five minutes

(which was impossible anyway), then if the aeroplane had taken off at once

it must have covered over a thousand kilometres in five minutes.

Consequently it had been flying at a speed of more than twelve thousand

kilometres per hour! Impossible, ergo--he wasn't in Yalta!

What other explanation could there be? Hypnosis? There Д was no such

hypnosis which could hurl a man a thousand kilometres. Could he be imagining

that he was in Yalta? He might, but would the Yalta police imagine it? No,

no, really, it was absurd! ... But they had telegraphed from Yalta, hadn't

they?

The treasurer's face was dreadful to see. By now someone outside was

twisting and rattling the door handle and the usher could be heard shouting

desperately :

'No, you can't! I wouldn't let you in even if you were to kill me!

They're in conference! '

Rimsky pulled himself together as well as he could, picked up the

telephone receiver and said into it:

'I want to put through a priority call to Yalta.'

'Clever! ' thought Varenukha.

But the call to Yalta never went through. Rimsky put back the receiver

and said :

'The line's out of order--as if on purpose.'

For some reason the faulty line disturbed him a great deal and made him

reflect. After some thought he picked up the receiver again with one hand

and with the other started writing down what he was dictating into the

telephone :

'Priority telegram. From Variety. Yes. To Yalta police. Yes. "Today

approximately 1130 Likhodeyev telephoned me Moscow. Stop. Thereafter failed

appear theatre and unreach-able telephone. Stop. Confirm handwriting. Stop.

Will take suggested measures observe Woland Rimsky Treasurer." '

'Very clever! ' thought Varenukha, but the instant afterwards he

changed his mind : ' No, it's absurd! He can't be in Yalta! '

Rimsky was meanwhile otherwise engaged. He carefully laid all the

telegrams into a pile and together with a copy of his own telegram, put them

into an envelope, sealed it up, wrote a few words on it and handed it to

Varenukha, saying :

'Take this and deliver it at once, Ivan Savyelich. Let them puzzle it

out.'

'Now that really is smart! ' thought Varenukha as he put the envelope

into his briefcase. Then just to be absolutely sure he dialled the number of

Stepa's flat, listened, then winked mysteriously and made a joyful face.

Rimsky craned his neck to listen.

'May I speak to Monsieur Woland, please? ' asked Varenukha sweetly.

'He's busy,' answered the receiver in a quavering voice. ' Who wants

him? '

'Varenukha, house manager of the Variety Theatre.'

'Ivan Savyelich? ' squeaked the earpiece delightedly. ' How very nice

to hear your voice! How are you? '

'Merci,' replied Varenukha in some consternation. ' Who's speaking? '

'This is Koroviev, his assistant and interpreter,' trilled the

receiver. ' At your service, my dear Ivan Savyelich! Just tell me what I can

do for you. What is it? '

'I'm sorry ... is Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev at home? '

'Alas, no, he isn't,' cried the telephone. ' He's gone out.'

'Where to? '

'He went out of town for a car-ride.'

'Wha-at? Car-ride? When is he coming back? '

'He said he just wanted a breath of fresh air and then he'd be back.'

'I see . . .' said Varenukha, perplexed. ' Merci. . . please tell

Monsieur Woland that his act this evening starts after the second interval.'

'Very good. Of course. At once. Immediately. Certainly. I'll tell

him,' came the staccato reply from the earpiece.

'Goodbye,' said Varenukha, in amazement.

'Please accept,' said the telephone, ' my warmest and most sincere

good wishes for a brilliant success! It will be a great show--great! '

'There you are--I told you so! ' said the house manager excitedly. '

He hasn't gone to Yalta, he's just gone out of town for a drive.'

'Well, if that's the case,' said the treasurer, turning pale with

anger, ' he has behaved like an absolute swine!'

Here the manager leaped into the air and gave such a shout that Rimsky

shuddered.

'I remember! I remember now! There's a new Turkish restaurant out at

Pushkino--it's just opened--and it's called the " Yalta "! Don't you see? He

went there, got drunk and he's been sending us telegrams from there!'

'Well, he really has overdone it this time,' replied Rimsky, his cheek

twitching and real anger flashing in his eyes. ' This little jaunt is going

to cost him dear.' He suddenly stopped and added uncertainly : ' But what

about those telegrams from the police?'

'A lot of rubbish! More of his practical jokes,' said Varenukha

confidently and asked : ' Shall I take this envelope all the same? '

'You must,' replied Rimsky.

Again the door opened to admit the same woman. ' Oh, not her! ' sighed

Rimsky to himself. Both men got up and walked towards her.

This time the telegram said :

'THANKS CONFIRMATION IDENTITY WIRE ME FIVE HUNDRED ROUBLES POLICE

STATION FLYING MOSCOW TOMORROW LIKHODEYEV.'

'He's gone mad,' said Varenukha weakly. Rimsky rattled his key-chain,

took some money out of the safe, counted out five hundred roubles, rang the

bell, gave the money to the usher and sent her off to the post office.

'But Grigory Danilovich,' said Varenukha, unable to believe his eyes,

' if you ask me you're throwing that money away.'

'It'll come back,' replied Rimsky quietly, ' and then he'll pay dearly

for this little picnic.' And pointing at Varenukha's briefcase he said :

'Go on, Ivan Savyelich, don't waste any time.' Varenukha picked up his

briefcase and trotted off. He went down to the ground floor, saw a very long

queue outside the box office and heard from the cashier that she was

expecting to have to put up the ' House Full' notices that evening because

they were being positively overwhelmed since the special bill had been

posted up. Varenukha told her to be sure not to sell the thirty best seats

in the boxes and stalls, then rushed out of the box office, fought off the

people begging for free tickets and slipped into his own office to pick up

his cap. At that moment the telephone rang. ' Yes? ' he shouted.

'Ivan Savyelich? ' enquired the receiver in an odious nasal voice.

'He's not in the theatre! ' Varenukha was just about to shout, but the

telephone cut him short:

'Don't play the fool, Ivan Savyelich, and listen. You are not to take

those telegrams anywhere or show them to anybody.'

'Who's that? ' roared Varenukha. ' Kindly stop playing these tricks!

You're going to be shown up before long. What's your telephone number? '

'Varenukha,' insisted the horrible voice. ' You understand Russian

don't you? Don't take those telegrams.'

'So you refuse to stop this game do you? ' shouted the house manager

in a rage. ' Now listen to me--you're going to pay for this!' He went on

shouting threats but stopped when he realised that no one was listening to

him on the other end.

At that moment his office began to darken. Varenukha ran out, slammed

the door behind him and went out into the garden through the side door.

He felt excited and full of energy. After that last insolent telephone

call he no longer had any doubt that some gang of hooligans was playing some

nasty practical joke and that the joke was connected with Likhodeyev's

disappearance. The house manager felt inspired with the urge to unmask the

villains and, strange as it may seem, he had a premonition that he was going

to enjoy it. It was a longing to be in the limelight, the bearer of

sensational news.

Out in the garden the wind blew in his face and threw sand in his eyes

as if it were trying to bar his way or warn him. A window-pane on the second

floor slammed shut with such force that it nearly broke the glass, the tops

of the maples and poplars rustled alarmingly. It grew darker and colder.

Varenukha wiped his eyes and noticed that a yellowish-centred thundercloud

was scudding low over Moscow. From the distance came a low rumble.

Although Varenukha was in a hurry, an irresistible urge made him turn

aside for a second into the open-air men's toilet just to check that the

electrician had replaced a missing electric lamp.

Running past the shooting gallery, he passed through a thick clump of

lilac which screened the blue-painted lavatory. The electrician seemed to

have done his job : the lamp in the men's toilet had been screwed into its

socket and the protective wire screen replaced, but the house manager was

annoyed to notice that even in the dark before the thunderstorm the

pencilled graffiti on the walls were still clearly visible.

'What a . . .' he began, then suddenly heard a purring voice behind

him:

'Is that you, Ivan Savyelich? '

Varenukha shuddered, turned round and saw before him a shortish, fat

creature with what seemed like the face of a cat.

'Yes . . .' replied Varenukha coldly.

'Delighted to meet you,' answered the stout, cat-like personage.

Suddenly it swung round and gave Varenukha such a box on the ear that his

cap flew off and vanished without trace into one of the lavatory pans.

For a moment the blow made the toilet shimmer with a flickering light.

A clap of thunder came from the sky. Then there was a second flash and

another figure materialised, short but athletically built, with fiery red

hair . . . one wall eye, a fang protruding from his mouth ... He appeared to

be left-handed, as he fetched the house manager a shattering clout on his

other ear. The sky rumbled again in reply and rain started to drench the

wooden roof.

'Look here, corn . . .' whispered Varenukha, staggering. It at once

occurred to him that the word ' comrades ' hardly fitted these bandits who

went around assaulting people in public conveniences, so he groaned instead

'. . . citizens . . . ', realised that they didn't even deserve to be called

that and got a third fearful punch. This time he could not see who had hit

him, as blood was spurting from his nose and down his shirt.

'What have you got in your briefcase, louse? ' shouted the cat-figure.

' Telegrams? Weren't you warned by telephone not to take them anywhere? I'm

asking you--weren't you warned?'

'Yes ... I was . . . warned,' panted Varenukha.

'And you still went? Gimme the briefcase, you skunk! ' said the other

creature in the same nasal voice that had come through the telephone, and

wrenched the briefcase out of Varenukha's trembling hands.

Then they both grabbed the house manager by the arms and frog-marched

him out of the garden and along Sadovaya Street. The storm was in full

spate, water was roaring and gurgling down the drain-holes in great bubbling

waves, it poured off the roofs from the overflowing gutters and out of the

drain pipes in foaming torrents. Every living person had vanished from the

street and there was no one to help Ivan Savyelich. In second, leaping over

muddy streams and lit by flashes of lightning the bandits had dragged the

half-dead Varenukha to No302-A and fled into the doorway, where two barefoot

women stood pressed against the wall, holding their shoes and stockings in

their hands. Then they rushed across to staircase 6, carried the nearly

insane Varenukha up to the fifth floor and threw him to the ground in the

familiar semi-darkness of the hallway of Stepa Likhodeyev's flat.

The two robbers vanished and in their place appeared a completely naked

girl--a redhead with eyes that burned with a phosphorescent glitter.

Varenukha felt that this was the most terrible thing that had ever

happened to him. With a groan he turned and leaned on the wall. The girl

came right up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. Varenukha's hair

stood on end. Even through the cold, soaking wet material of his coat he

could feel that those palms were even colder, that they were as cold as ice.

'Let me give you a kiss,' said the girl tenderly, her gleaming eyes

close to his. Varenukha lost consciousness before he could feel her kiss.

11. The Two Ivans

The wood on the far bank of the river, which an hour before had glowed

in the May sunshine, had now grown dim, had blurred and dissolved.

Outside, water was pouring down in solid sheets. Now and again there

came a rift in the sky, the heavens split and the patient's room was flooded

with a terrifying burst of light.

Ivan was quietly weeping as he sat on his bed and stared out at the

boiling, muddied river. At every clap of thunder he cried miserably and

covered his face with his hands. Sheets of paper, covered with his writing,

blew about on the floor.

The poet's efforts to compose a report on the terrible professor had

come to nothing. As soon as he had been given a stub of a pencil and some

paper by the fat nurse, whose name was Pras-kovya Fyodorovna, he had rubbed

his hands in a businesslike way and arranged his bedside table for work. The

beginning sounded rather well:

'To the Police. From Ivan Nikolayich Bezdomny, Member of massolit.

Statement. Yesterday evening I arrived at Patriarch's Ponds with the late M.

A. Berlioz. . . .'

Here the poet stumbled, chiefly because of the words ' the late '. It

sounded wrong--how could he have ' arrived' with ' the late '? Dead people

can't walk. If he wrote like this they really would think he was mad. So

Ivan Nikolayich made some corrections, which resulted in : '. . . with M. A.

Berlioz, later deceased.' He did not like that either, so he wrote a third

version and that was even worse than the previous two:

'. . . with Berlioz, who fell under a tram . . .' Here he thought of

the composer of the same name and felt obliged to add : ' ... not the

composer.'

Struggling with these two Berliozes, Ivan crossed it all out and

decided to begin straight away with a striking phrase which would

immediately catch the reader's attention, so he first described how the cat

had jumped on the tram and then described the episode of the severed head.

The head and the professor's forecast reminded him of Pontius Pilate, so to

sound more convincing Ivan decided to give the story of the Procurator in

full, from the moment when he had emerged in his white, red-lined cloak into

the arcade of Herod's palace.

Ivan worked hard. He crossed out what he had written, put in new words

and even tried to draw a sketch of Pontius Pilate, then one showing the cat

walking on its hind legs. But his drawings were hopeless and the further he

went the more confused his statement grew.

By the time the storm had begun, Ivan felt that he was exhausted and

would never be able to write a statement. His windblown sheets of paper were

in a complete muddle and he began to weep, quietly and bitterly. The kind

nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna called on the poet during the storm and was

worried to find him crying. She closed the blinds so that the lightning

should not frighten the patient, picked up the sheets of paper and went off

with them to look for the doctor.

The doctor appeared, gave Ivan an injection in his arm and assured him

that he would soon stop crying, that it would pass, everything would be all

right and he would forget all about it.

The doctor was right. Soon the wood across the river looked as it

always did. The weather cleared until every single tree stood out against a

sky which was as blue as before and the river subsided. His injection at

once made Ivan feel less depressed. The poet lay quietly down and gazed at

the rainbow stretched across the sky.

He lay there until evening and did not even notice how the rainbow

dissolved, how the sky faded and saddened, how the wood turned to black.

When he had drunk his hot milk, Ivan lay down again. He was amazed to

notice how his mental condition had changed. The memory of the diabolical

cat had grown indistinct, he was no longer frightened by the thought of the

decapitated head. Ivan started to muse on the fact that the clinic really

wasn't such a bad place, that Stravinsky was very clever and famous and that

he was an extremely pleasant man to deal with. The evening air, too, was

sweet and fresh after the storm.

The asylum was asleep. The white frosted-glass bulbs in the silent

corridors were extinguished and in their place glowed the weak blue

night-lights. The nurses' cautious footsteps were heard less and less

frequently walking the rubber-tiled floor of the corridor.

Ivan now lay in sweet lassitude ; glancing at his bedside lamp, then at

the dim ceiling light and at the moon rising in the dark, he talked to

himself.

'I wonder why I got so excited about Berlioz falling under that tram?

' the poet reasoned. ' After all he's dead, and we all die some time. It's

not as if I were a relation or a really close friend either. When you come

to think of it I didn't even know the man very well. What did I really know

about him? Nothing, except that he was bald and horribly talkative. So,

gentlemen,' went on Ivan, addressing an imaginary audience,' let us consider

the following problem : why, I should like to know, did I get in such a rage

with that mysterious professor or magician with his empty, black eye? Why

did I chase after him like a fool in those underpants and holding a candle?

Why the ridiculous scene in the restaurant? '

'Wait a moment, though! ' said the old Ivan severely to the new Ivan

in a voice that was not exactly inside him and not quite by his ear. ' He

did know in advance that Berlioz was going to have his head cut off, didn't

he? Isn't that something to get upset about? '

'What do you mean? ' objected the new Ivan. ' I quite agree that it's

a nasty business--a child could see that. But he's a mysterious, superior

being--that's what makes it so interesting. Think of it--a man who knew

Pontius Pilate! Instead of creating that ridiculous scene at Patriarch's

wouldn't it have been

rather more intelligent to ask him politely what happened next to

Pilate and that prisoner Ha-Notsri? And I had to behave like an idiot! Of

course it's a serious matter to kill the editor of a magazine. But

still--the magazine won't close down just because of that, will it? Man is

mortal and as the professor so rightly said mortality can come so suddenly.

So God rest his soul and let's get ourselves another editor, perhaps one

who's even more of a chatterbox than Berlioz!'

After dozing for a while the new Ivan said spitefully to the old Ivan:

'And how do I look after this affair? '

'A fool,' distinctly said a bass voice that belonged to neither of the

Ivans and was extremely like the professor's.

Ivan, somehow not offended by the word 'fool' but even pleasantly

surprised by it, smiled and sank into a half-doze. Sleep crept up on him. He

had a vision of a palm tree on its elephantine leg and a cat passed by--not

a terrible cat but a nice one and Ivan was just about to fall asleep when

suddenly the grille slid noiselessly aside. A mysterious figure appeared on

the moonlit balcony and pointed a threatening finger at Ivan.

Quite unafraid Ivan sat up in bed and saw a man on the balcony.

Pressing his finger to his lips the man whispered : ' Shh!'

12.Black Magic Revealed

A little man with a crimson pear-shaped nose, in a battered yellow

bowler hat, check trousers and patent leather boots pedalled on to the

Variety stage on a bicycle. As the band played a foxtrot he rode round in

circles a few times, then gave a triumphant yelp at which the bicycle reared

up with its front wheel in the air. After a few rounds on the back wheel

alone, the man stood on his head, unscrewed the front wheel and threw it

into the wings. He then carried on with one wheel, turning the pedals with

his hands.

Next a fat blonde girl, wearing a sweater and a very brief skirt strewn

with sequins, came in riding a long metal pole with a saddle on the top and

a single wheel at the bottom. As they met the man gave a welcoming cry and

doffed his bowler hat with his foot.

Finally a little boy of about seven with the face of an old man sneaked

in between the two adults on a tiny two-wheeler to which was fixed an

enormous motor-car horn.

After a few figures of eight the whole troupe, to an urgent roll of

drums from the orchestra, rode at full tilt towards the front of the stage.

The spectators in the front rows gasped and ducked, fully expecting all

three to crash, cycles and all, into the orchestra pit, but they stopped at

the very second that their front wheels threatened to skid into the pit on

to the heads of the musicians. With a loud cry of' Allez-oop! ' the three

cyclists leaped from their machines and bowed, while the blonde blew kisses

to the audience and the little boy played a funny tune on his horn.

The auditorium rocked with applause, the blue curtain fell and the

cyclists vanished. The lighted green ' Exit' signs went out and the white

globes began to glow brighter and brighter in the web of girders under the

dome. The second and last interval had begun.

The only man unaffected by the Giulli family's marvels of cycling

technique was Grigory Danilovich Rimsky. He sat alone in his office, biting

his thin lips, his face twitching spasmodically. First Likhodeyev had

vanished in the most bizarre circumstances and now Varenukha had suddenly

disappeared. Rinsky knew where Varenukha had been going to--but the man had

simply gone and had never come back. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered

to himself:

• But why?!'

Nothing would have been simpler for a sensible, practical man like

Rimsky to have telephoned the place where Varenukha had gone and to have

found out what had happened to him, yet it was ten o'clock that evening

before he could bring himself to do so.

At ten Rimsky finally took a grip on himself and picked up the

telephone receiver. The telephone was dead. An usher reported that all the

other telephones in the building were out of order. This annoying but hardly

supernatural occurrence seemed to shock Rimsky, although secretly he was

glad, because it absolved him from the need to telephone.

As the little red light above the treasurer's head started flashing to

show that the interval was beginning, an usher came in and announced that

the foreign magician had arrived. Rimsky's expression changed and he scowled

with a mixture of anxiety and irritation. As the only member of the

management left in the theatre, it was his duty to go backstage and receive

the guest artiste.

As the warning bells rang, inquisitive people were peeping into the

star dressing room. Among them were jugglers in bright robes and turbans, a

roller-skater in a knitted cardigan, a comedian with a powdered white face

and a make-up man. The celebrated guest artiste amazed everyone with his

unusually long, superbly cut tail coat and by wearing a black domino. Even

more astounding were the black magician's two companions : a tall man in

checks with an unsteady pince-nez and a fat black cat which walked into the

dressing room on its hind legs and casually sat down on the divan, blinking

in the light of the unshaded lamps round the make-up mirror.

With a forced smile which only made him look acidly disagreeable,

Rimsky bowed to the silent magician sitting beside the cat on the divan.

There were no handshakes, but the man in checks introduced himself smoothly

as ' the assistant'. This gave the treasurer an unpleasant shock, as there

had not been a word in the contract about an assistant.

Grigory Danilovich enquired stiffly where the professor's equipment

might be.

'Why, bless you my dear sir,' replied the magician's assistant, ' we

have all the equipment we need with us now--look! Eins, zvei, drei!'

Flourishing his long, knotty fingers in front of Rimsky's eyes he made

a pass beside the cat's ear and pulled out of it Rimsky's gold watch and

chain, which until that moment had been sitting under the treasurer's

buttoned jacket in his waistcoat pocket with the chain threaded through a

buttonhole.

Rimsky involuntarily clutched his stomach, the spectators gasped and

the make-up man, glancing in from the corridor, clucked with approval.

'Your watch, sir? There you are,' said the man in checks. Smiling

nonchalantly, he proffered the watch to its owner on his dirty palm.

'I wouldn't sit next to him in a tram,' whispered the comedian

cheerfully to the make-up man.

But the cat put the watch trick in the shade. Suddenly getting up from

the divan it walked on its hind legs to the dressing table, pulled the

stopper out of a carafe with its forepaw, poured out a glass of water, drank

it, replaced the stopper and wiped its whiskers with a make-up cloth.

Nobody even gasped. Their mouths fell open and the make-up man

whispered admiringly: ' Bravo . ..'

The last warning bell rang and everybody, excited by the prospect of a

good act, tumbled out of the dressing room.

A minute later the house-lights went out, the footlights lit up the

fringe of the curtain with a red glow and in the lighted gap between the

tabs the audience saw a fat, jolly, clean-shaven man in stained tails and a

grubby white dicky. It was Moscow's best known compere, George Bengalsky.

'And now, ladies and gentlemen,' said Bengalsky, smiling his boyish

smile, ' you are about to see . . .' Here Bengalsky broke off and started

again in a completely different tone of voice : ' I see that our audience

has increased in numbers since the interval. Half Moscow seems to be here

tonight! D'you know, I met a friend of mine the other day and I said to him

: " Why didn't you come and see our show? Half the town was there last

night." And he said : " I live in the other half! " ' Bengalsky paused for

the laugh, but none came so he went on : ' Well, as I was saying, you are

about to see a very famous artiste from abroad, M'sieur Woland, with a

session of black magic. Of course we know, don't we . . .' Bengalsky smiled

confidentially, ' that there's no such thing really. It's all

superstition--or rather Maestro Woland is a past master of the art of

conjuring, as you will see from the most interesting part of his act in

which he reveals the mysteries of his technique. And now, ladies and

gentlemen, since none of us can bear the suspense any longer, I give you . .

. Monsieur Woland! . . .'

Having said his feeble piece, Bengalsky put his hands palm to palm and

raised them in a gesture of welcome towards the gap in the curtain, which

then rose with a soft rustle.

The entry of the magician with his tall assistant and his cat, who

trotted on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly. ' Armchair,

please,' said Woland quietly and instantly an armchair appeared on stage

from nowhere. The magician sat down. ' Tell me, my dear Faggot,' Woland

enquired of the check-clad buffoon, who apparently had another name besides

' Koroviev,':

'do you find the people of Moscow much changed? ' The magician nodded

towards the audience, still silent with astonishment at seeing an armchair

materialise from nowhere.

'I do, messire,' replied Faggot-Koroviev in a low voice.

'You are right. The Muscovites have changed considerably . . .

outwardly, I mean ... as, too, has the city itself. . . Not just the

clothes, but now they have all these . . . what d'you call 'em . . .

tramways, cars . . .'

'Buses,' prompted Faggot respectfully.

The audience listened intently to this conversation, assuming it to be

the prelude to some magic tricks. The wings were full of actors and stage

hands and among their faces could be seen the pale, strained features of

Rimsky.

Bengalsky's face, lurking in a corner of the stage, began to show

consternation. With an imperceptible raise of one eyebrow he seized the

opportunity of a pause in the dialogue to interject:

'Our guest artiste from abroad is obviously delighted with Moscow's

technological progress.' This was accompanied by a smile for the stalls and

a smile for the gallery.

Woland, Faggot and the cat turned their heads towards the compere.

'Did I say I was delighted? ' the magician asked Faggot.

'You said nothing of the kind, messire,' replied the latter.

'Then what is the man talking about? '

'He was simply telling lies! ' announced the chequered clown in a loud

voice for the whole theatre to hear and turning to Bengalsky he added : '

D'you hear--you're a liar! '

There was a burst of laughter from the gallery as Bengalsky spluttered,

his eyes popping with indignation.

'But naturally I am not so much interested in the buses and telephones

and such like . . .'

'Apparatus,' prompted Faggot.

'Precisely, thank you,' drawled the magician in a deep bass, ' as in

the much more important question : have the Muscovites changed inwardly? '

'A vital question indeed, sir.'

In the wings, glances were exchanged, shoulders shrugged; banker's tape

and marked ' One Thousand Roubles'. His neighbours crowded round as he

picked at the wrapping with his fingernail to find out whether it was real

money or a stage prop.

'My God--it's real money!' came a joyful shout from the gallery.

'I wish you'd play cards with me if vou've any more packs like that

one,' begged a fat man in the middle of the stalls.

'Avec plaisir!' replied Faggot. ' But why should you be the only one?

You shall all take part! Everybody look up, please! One! ' A pistol appeared

in his hand. ' Two! ' the pistol was pointed upwards. ' Three! ' There was a

flash, a bang, and immediately a cascade of white pieces of paper began to

float down from the dome above the auditorium.

Turning over and over, some were blown aside and landed in the gallery,

some fell towards the orchestra pit or the stage. A few seconds later the

shower of money reached the stalls and the audience began catching it.

Hundreds of hands were raised as the audience held the notes up to the

light from the stage and found that the watermarks were absolutely genuine.

Their smell left no doubt: it was the uniquely delicious smell of

newly-printed money. First amusement then wonder seized the entire theatre.

From all over the house, amid gasps and delighted laughter, came the words '

money, money! ' One man was already crawling in the aisle and fumbling under

the seats. Several more were standing up on their seats to catch the

drifting, twisting banknotes as they fell.

Gradually a look of perplexity came over the expressions of the police,

and the artistes backstage openly pressed forward from the wings. From the

dress circle a voice was heard shouting:

'Let go! It's mine--I caught it first! ', followed by another voice :

' Stop pushing and grabbing or I'll punch your face in! ' There was a

muffled crash. A policeman's helmet appeared in the dress circle and a

member of the audience was led away. The excitement rose and might have got

out of hand if Faggot had not stopped the rain of money by suddenly blowing

into the air.

Two young men, grinning purposefully, left their seats and made

straight for the bar. A loud buzz filled the theatre : the audience was

galvanised with excitement and in an effort to control the situation

Bengalsky stirred himself and appeared on stage. With a tremendous effort of

self-mastery he went through his habitual motion of washing his hands and in

his most powerful voice began:

'We have just seen, ladies and gentlemen, a case of so-called mass

hypnosis. A purely scientific experiment, demonstrating better than anything

else that there is nothing supernatural about magic. We shall ask Maestro

Woland to show us how he did that experiment. You will now see, ladies and

gentlemen, how those apparent banknotes will vanish as suddenly as they

appeared.'

He began to clap, but he was alone. A confident smile appeared on his

face, but the look in his eyes was one of entreaty.

The audience did not care for Bengalsky's speech. Faggot broke the

silence :

'And that was a case of so-called fiddlesticks,' he declared in a loud

goatish bray. ' The banknotes, ladies and gentlemen, are real.'

'Bravo! ' abruptly roared a bass from high up in the gallery.

'This man,' Faggot pointed at Bengalsky, ' is starting to bore me. He

sticks his nose in everywhere without being asked and ruins the whole act.

What shall we do with him? '

'Cut off his head! ' said a stern voice.

'What did you say, sir? ' was Faggot's instant response to this savage

proposal. ' Cut off his head? That's an idea! Behemoth! ' he shouted to the

cat. ' Do your stuff! Eins, zvei, drei!! '

Then the most incredible thing happened. The cat's fur stood on end and

it uttered a harrowing ' miaaow! ' It crouched, then leaped like a panther

straight for Bengalsky's chest and from there to his head. Growling, the cat

dug its claws into the compere's glossy hair and with a wild screech it

twisted the head clean off the neck in two turns. Two and a half thousand

people screamed as one. Fountains of blood from the severed arteries in the

neck spurted up and drenched the man's shirtfront and tails. The headless

body waved its legs stupidly and sat on the ground. Hysterical shrieks rang

out through the auditorium. The cat handed the head to Faggot who picked it

up by the hair and showed it to the audience. The head moaned desperately :

'Fetch a doctor!'

'Will you go on talking so much rubbish?' said Faggot threateningly to

the weeping head.

'No, I promise I won't! ' croaked the head. ' For God's sake stop

torturing him! ' a woman's voice from a box suddenly rang out above the

turmoil and the magician turned towards the sound.

'Well, ladies and gentlemen, shall we forgive him? ' asked Faggot,

turning to the audience.

'Yes, forgive him, forgive him! ' The cries came at first from a few

individual voices, mostly women, then merged into a chorus with the men.

'What is your command, messire? ' Faggot asked the masked professor.

'Well, now,' replied the magician reflectively. ' They're people like

any others. They're over-fond of money, but then they always were . . .

Humankind loves money, no matter if it's made of leather, paper, bronze or

gold. They're thoughtless, of course . . . but then they sometimes feel

compassion too .... they're ordinary people, in fact they remind me very

much of their predecessors, except that the housing shortage has soured them

. . .' And he shouted the order : ' Put back his head.'

Taking careful aim the cat popped the head back on its neck, where it

sat as neatly as if head and body had never been parted. Most amazing of

all--there was not even a scar on the neck. The cat wiped the tailcoat and

shirtfront with its paw and every trace of blood vanished. Faggot lifted the

seated Bengalsky to his feet, shoved a bundle of money into his coat pocket

and led him off stage, saying :

'Go on--off you go, it's more fun without you!'

Gazing round in a daze and staggering, the compere got no further than

the fire-brigade post and collapsed. He cried miserably:

'My head, my head . . .'

Among those who rushed to help him was Rimsky. The compere was weeping,

snatching at something in the air and mumbling :

'Give me back my head, my head . . . You can have my flat, you can

have all my pictures, only give me back my head . . .! '

An usher ran for the doctor. They tried to lay Bengalsky on a divan in

his dressing-room, but he resisted and became violent. An ambulance was

called. When the unfortunate compere had been removed Rimsky ran back to the

stage, where new miracles were in progress. It was then, or perhaps a little

earlier, that the magician and his faded armchair vanished from the stage.

The audience did not notice this at all, as they were absorbed by Faggot's

wonderful tricks.

Having seen the compere off the stage. Faggot announced to the

audience:

'Now that we have disposed of that old bore, we shall open a shop for

the ladies! '

In a moment half the stage was covered with Persian carpets, some huge

mirrors and a row of showcases, in which the audience was astounded to see a

collection of Parisian dresses that were the last word in chic. In other

showcases were hundreds of ladies' hats, some with feathers and some

without, hundreds of pairs of shoes--black shoes, white shoes, yellow shoes,

leather shoes, satin shoes, suede shoes, buckled shoes and shoes studded

with costume jewellery. Beside the shoes there were flacons of scent, piles

of handbags made of buckskin, satin and silk, and next to them piles of gilt

lipstick-holders.

A red-haired girl in a black evening dress who had suddenly appeared

from nowhere, her beauty only marred by a curious scar on her neck, smiled

from the showcases with a proprietorial smile. With an engaging leer Faggot

announced that the firm would exchange, absolutely free of charge, any

lady's old dress and shoes for model dresses and shoes from Paris, adding

that the offer included handbags and the odds and ends that go in them.

The cat began bowing and scraping, its forepaw gesturing like a

commissionaire opening a door.

In a sweet though slightly hoarse voice the girl made an announcement

which sounded rather cryptic but which, judging from the faces of the women

in the stalls, was very enticing :

'Guerlain, Chanel, Mitsouko, Narcisse Noir, Chanel Number Five,

evening dresses, cocktail dresses . . .'

Faggot bent double, the cat bowed and the girl opened the glass-fronted

showcases.

'Step up, please! ' cried Faggot. ' Don't be shy! '

The audience began to fidget, but no one dared mount the stage. At last

a brunette emerged from the tenth row of the stalls and smiling nonchalantly

walked up the side stairs on to the stage.

'Bravo! ' cried Faggot. ' Our first customer! Behemoth, a chair for

the lady! Shall we start with the shoes, madam? '

The brunette sat down and Faggot at once spread out a whole heap of

shoes on the carpet in front of her. She took off her right shoe, tried on a

lilac one, tested it with a walk on the carpet and inspected the heel.

'Won't they pinch? ' she enquired thoughtfully.

Offended, Faggot cried:

'Oh, come, now!' and the cat gave an insulted miaow.

'I'll take them, monsieur,' said the brunette with dignity as she put

on the other shoe of the pair. Her old shoes were thrown behind a curtain,

followed by the girl herself, the redhead, and Faggot carrying several model

dresses on coathangers. The cat busied itself with helping and hung a tape

measure round its neck for greater effect.

A minute later the brunette emerged from behind the curtain in a dress

that sent a gasp through the entire auditorium. The bold girl, now very much

prettier, stopped in front of a mirror, wriggled her bare shoulders, patted

her hair and twisted round to try and see her back view.

'The firm begs you to accept this as a souvenir,' said Faggot, handing

the girl an open case containing a flacon of scent.

'Merci,' replied the girl haughtily and walked down the steps to the

stalls. As she went back to her seat people jumped up to touch her

scent-bottle.

The ice was broken. Women from all sides poured on to the stage. In the

general hubbub of talk, laughter and cries a man's voice was heard, ' I

won't let you! ' followed by a woman's saying : ' Let go of my arm, you

narrow-minded little tyrant! ' Women were disappearing behind the curtain,

leaving their old dresses there and emerging in new ones. A row of women was

sitting on gilt-legged stools trying on new shoes. Faggot was on his knees,

busy with a shoe-horn, while the cat, weighed down by handbags and shoes,

staggered from the showcases to the stools and back again, the girl with the

scarred neck bustled to and fro, entering so much into the spirit of it all

that she was soon chattering away in nothing but French. Strangely enough

all the women understood her at once, even those who knew not a word of

French.

To everybody's astonishment, a lone man climbed on to the stage. He

announced that his wife had a cold and asked to be given something to take

home to her. To prove that he was really married he offered to show his

passport. This conscientious husband was greeted with a roar of laughter.

Faggot declared that he believed him even without his passport and handed

the man two pairs of silk stockings. The cat spontaneously added a pot of

cold cream.

Latecomers still mounted the steps as a stream of happy women in ball

dresses, pyjama suits embroidered with dragons, severe tailor-mades and hats

pranced back into the auditorium.

Then Faggot announced that because it was so late, in exactly a

minute's time the shop would close until to-morrow evening. This produced an

incredible scuffle on stage. Without trying them on, women grabbed any shoes

within reach. One woman hurtled behind the screen, threw off her clothes and

sei2ed the first thing to hand--a silk dress patterned with enormous bunches

of flowers--grabbed a dressing gown and for good measure scooped up two

flacons of scent. Exactly a minute later a pistol shot rang out, the mirrors

disappeared, the showcases and stools melted away, carpet and curtain

vanished into thin air. Last to disappear was the mountain of old dresses

and shoes. The stage was bare and empty again.

At this point a new character joined the cast. A pleasant and extremely

self-confident baritone was heard from Box No. 2 :

'It's high time, sir, that you showed the audience how you do your

tricks, especially the bank-note trick. We should also like to see the

compere back on stage. The audience is concerned about him.'

The baritone voice belonged to none other than the evening's guest of

honour, Arkady Apollonich Sempleyarov, chairman of the Moscow Theatres'

Acoustics Commission.

Arkady Apollonich was sharing his box with two ladies--one elderly, who

was expensively and fashionably dressed, the other young and pretty and more

simply dressed. The first, as was later established when the official report

was compiled, was Arkady Apollonich's wife and the other a distant relative

of his, an aspiring young actress from Saratov who lodged in the

Sempleyarovs' flat.

'I beg your pardon,' replied Faggot. ' I'm sorry, but there's nothing

to reveal. It's all quite plain.'

'Excuse me, but I don't agree. An explanation is essential, otherwise

your brilliant act will leave a painful impression. The audience demands an

explanation . . .'

'The audience,' interrupted the insolent mountebank, ' has not, to my

knowledge, demanded anything of the sort. However, in view of your

distinguished position, Arkady Apollonich, I will--since you insist--reveal

something of our technique. To do so, will you allow me time for another

short number? '

'Of course,' replied Arkady Apollonich patronisingly. ' But you must

show how it's done.'

'Very well, sir, very well. Now--may I ask where you were yesterday

evening, Arkady Apollonich? '

At this impertinent question Arkady Apollonich's expression underwent a

complete and violent change.

'Yesterday evening Arkady Apollonich was at a meeting of the Acoustics

Commission,' said his wife haughtily. ' Surely that has nothing to do with

magic? '

'Ош, madame,' replied Faggot, ' it has, but you naturally do not know

why. As for the meeting, you are quite wrong. When he went to the

meeting--which, incidentally, was never scheduled to take place

yesterday--Arkady Apollonich dismissed his chauffeur at the Acoustics

Commission (a hush came over the whole theatre) and took a bus to

Yelokhovskaya Street where he called on an actress called Militsa Andreyevna

Pokobatko from the local repertory theatre and spent about four hours in her

flat.'

'Oh!' The painful cry rang out from complete silence.

Suddenly Arkady Apollonich's young cousin burst into a low, malicious

laugh.

'Of course!' she exclaimed. ' I've suspected him for a long time. Now

I see why that tenth-rate ham got the part of Luisa!' And with a sudden wave

of her arm she hit Arkady Apollonich on the head with a short, fat, mauve

umbrella.

The vile Faggot, who was none other than Koroviev, shouted :

'There, ladies and gentlemen, is your revelation for you, as requested

so insistently by Arkady Apollonich!'

'How dare you hit Arkady Apollonich, you little baggage? ' said the

wife grimly, rising in the box to her full gigantic height.

The young girl was seized with another outburst of Satanic laughter.

'I've as much right,' she replied laughing, ' to hit him as you have!

' A second dull crack was heard as another umbrella bounced off Arkady

Apollonich's head.

'Police! Arrest her! ' roared Madame Sempleyarov in a terrifying

voice.

Here the cat bounded up to the footlights and announced in a human

voice :

'That concludes the evening! Maestro! Finale, please! ' The dazed

conductor, scarcely aware of what he was doing, waved his baton and the

orchestra struck up, or rather murdered a disorganised excuse for a march,

normally sung to obscene but very funny words. However, it was quickly

drowned in the ensuing uproar. The police ran to the Sempleyarovs' box,

curious spectators climbed on to the ledge to watch, there were explosions

of infernal laughter and wild cries, drowned by the golden crash of cymbals

from the orchestra.

Suddenly the stage was empty. The horrible Faggot and the sinister cat

Behemoth melted into the air and disappeared, just as the magician had

vanished earlier in his shabby armchair.

13. Enter the Hero

Ivan swung his legs off the bed and stared. A man was standing on the

balcony, peering cautiously into the room. He was aged about thirty-eight,

clean-shaven and dark, with a sharp nose, restless eyes and a lock of hair

that tumbled over his forehead.

The mysterious visitor listened awhile then, satisfied that Ivan was

alone, entered the room. As he came in Ivan noticed that the man was wearing

hospital clothes--pyjamas, slippers and a reddish-brown dressing gown thrown

over his shoulders.

The visitor winked at Ivan, put a bunch of keys into his pocket and

asked in a whisper : ' May I sit down? ' Receiving an affirmative reply he

settled in the armchair.

'How did you get in here? ' Ivan whispered in obedience to a warning

finger. ' The grilles on the windows are locked, aren't they? '

'The grilles are locked,' agreed the visitor. ' Praskovya Fyodorovna

is a dear person but alas, terribly absent-minded. A month ago I removed

this bunch of keys from her, which has given me the freedom of the balcony.

It stretches along the whole floor, so that I can call on my neighbours

whenever I feel like it.'

'If you can get out on to the balcony you can run away. Or is it too

high to jump? ' enquired Ivan with interest.

'No,' answered the visitor firmly, ' I can't escape from here. Not

because it's too high but because I've nowhere to go.' After a pause he

added : ' So here we are.'

'Here we are,' echoed Ivan, gazing into the man's restless brown eyes.

'Yes . . .' The visitor grew suddenly anxious. ' You're not violent, I

hope? You see, I can't bear noise, disturbance, violence or anything of that

sort. I particularly hate the sound of people screaming, whether it's a

scream of pain, anger or any other kind of scream. Just reassure me--you're

not violent, are you? '

'Yesterday in a restaurant I clouted a fellow across the snout,' the

poet confessed manfully.

'What for? ' asked the visitor disapprovingly.

'For no reason at all, I must admit,' replied Ivan, embarrassed.

'Disgraceful,' said the visitor reproachfully and added:

'And I don't care for that expression of yours--clouted him across the

snout. . . . People have faces, not snouts. So I suppose you mean you

punched him in the face. . . . No, you must give up doing that sort of

thing.'

After this reprimand the visitor enquired :

'What's your job? '

'I'm a poet,' admitted Ivan with slight unwillingness.

This annoyed the man.

'Just my bad luck! ' he exclaimed, but immediately regretted it,

apologised and asked : ' What's your name? '

'Bezdomny.'

'Oh . . .' said the man frowning.

'What, don't you like my poetry? ' asked Ivan with curiosity.

'No, I don't.'

'Have you read any of it? '

'I've never read any of your poetry! ' said the visitor tetchily.

'Then how can you say that? '

'Why shouldn't I? ' retorted the visitor. ' I've read plenty of other

poetry. I don't suppose by some miracle that yours is any better, but I'm

ready to take it on trust. Is your poetry good?'

'Stupendous! ' said Ivan boldly.

'Don't write any more! ' said the visitor imploringly.

'I promise not to! ' said Ivan solemnly.

As they sealed the vow with a handshake, soft footsteps and voices

could be heard from the corridor.

'Sshh! ' whispered the man. He bounded out on to the balcony and

closed the grille behind him.

Praskovya Fyodorovna looked in, asked Ivan how he felt and whether he

wanted to sleep in the dark or the light. Ivan asked her to leave the light

on and Praskovya Fyodorovna departed, wishing him good night. When all was

quiet again the visitor returned.

He told Ivan in a whisper that a new patient had been put into No.

119--a fat man with a purple face who kept muttering about dollars in the

ventilation shaft and swearing that the powers of darkness had taken over

their house on Sadovaya. ' He curses Pushkin for all he's worth and keeps

shouting " Encore, encore! " ' said the visitor, twitching nervously. When

he had grown a little calmer he sat down and said : ' However, let's forget

about him,' and resumed his interrupted conversation with Ivan : ' How did

you come to be here? '

'Because of Pontius Pilate,' replied Ivan, staring glumly at the

floor.

'What?! ' cried the visitor, forgetting his caution, then clapped his

hand over his mouth. ' What an extraordinary coincidence! Do tell me about

it, I beg of you! '

For some reason Ivan felt that he could trust this stranger. Shyly at

first, then gaining confidence, he began to describe the previous day's

events at Patriarch's Ponds. His visitor treated Ivan as completely sane,

showed the greatest interest in the story and as it developed he reached a

state of near ecstasy. Now and again he interrupted Ivan, exclaiming :

'Yes, yes! Please go on! For heaven's sake don't leave anything out!

'Ivan left out nothing, as it made the story easier to tell and gradually he

approached the moment when Pontius Pilate, in his white cloak lined with

blood-red, mounted the platform.

Then the visitor folded his hands as though in prayer and whispered to

himself:

'Oh, I guessed it! I guessed it all! '

Listening to the terrible description of Berlioz's death, the visitor

made an enigmatic comment, his eyes flashing with malice :

'I'm only sorry that it wasn't Latunsky the critic or that hack

Mstislav Lavrovich instead of Berlioz! ' And he mouthed silently and

ecstatically : ' Go on! '

The visitor was highly amused by the story of how the cat had paid the

conductress and he was choking with suppressed laughter as Ivan, stimulated

by the success of his story-telling, hopped about on his haunches, imitating

the cat stroking his whiskers with a ten-kopeck piece.

'And so,' said Ivan, saddening as he described the scene at

Griboyedov, ' here I am.'

The visitor laid a sympathetic hand on the wretched poet's shoulder and

said:

'Unhappy poet! But it's your own fault, my dear fellow. You shouldn't

have treated him so carelessly and rudely. Now you're paying for it. You

should be thankful that you got off comparatively lightly.'

'But who on earth is he? ' asked Ivan, clenching his fists in

excitement.

The visitor stared at Ivan and answered with a question :

'You won't get violent, will you? We're all unstable people here . . .

There won't be any calls for the doctor, injections or any disturbances of

that sort, will there? '

'No, no! ' exclaimed Ivan. ' Tell me, who is he? '

'Very well,' replied the visitor, and said slowly and gravely :

'At Patriarch's Ponds yesterday you met Satan.'

As he had promised, Ivan did not become violent, but he was powerfully

shaken.

'It can't be! He doesn't exist!'

'Come, come! Surely you of all people can't say that. You were

apparently one of the first to suffer from him. Here you are, shut up in a

psychiatric clinic, and you still say he doesn't exist. How strange! '

Ivan was reduced to speechlessness.

'As soon as you started to describe him,' the visitor went on, ' I

guessed who it was that you were talking to yesterday. I must say I'm

surprised at Berlioz! You, of course, are an innocent,' again the visitor

apologised for his expression, ' but he, from what I've heard of him, was at

least fairly well read. The first remarks that this professor made to you

dispelled all my doubts. He's unmistakeable, my friend! You are ... do

forgive me again, but unless I'm wrong, you are an ignorant person, aren't

you? '

'I am indeed,' agreed the new Ivan.

'Well, you see, even the face you described, the different-coloured

eyes, the eyebrows . . . Forgive me, but have you even seen the opera Faust?

'

Ivan mumbled an embarrassed excuse.

'There you are, it's not surprising! But, as I said before, I'm

surprised at Berlioz. He's not only well read but extremely cunning.

Although in his defence I must say that Woland is quite capable of throwing

dust in the eyes of men who are even cleverer than Berlioz.'

'What? ' shouted Ivan.

‘ Quiet!'

With a sweeping gesture Ivan smacked his forehead with his palm and

croaked:

'I see it now. There was a letter " W " on his visiting card. Well I'm

damned! ' He sat for a while in perplexity, staring at the moon floating

past the grille and then said: ' So he really might have known Pontius

Pilate? He was alive then, I suppose? And they call me mad! ' he added,

pointing indignantly towards the door.

The visitor's mouth set in a fold of bitterness.

'We must look the facts in the face.' The visitor turned his face

towards the moon as it raced through a cloud. ' Both you and I are mad,

there's no point in denying it. He gave you a shock and it sent you mad,

because you were temperamentally liable to react in that way. Nevertheless

what you have described unquestionably happened in fact. But it is so

unusual that even Stravinsky, a psychiatrist of genius, naturally didn't

believe you. Has he examined you? (Ivan nodded.) The man you were talking to

was with Pontius Pilate, he did have breakfast with Kant and now he has paid

a call on Moscow.' ' But God knows what he may do here! Shouldn't we try and

catch him somehow! ' The old Ivan raised his head, uncertain but not yet

quite extinguished.

'You've already tried and look where it's got you,' said the visitor

ironically. ' I don't advise others to try. But he will cause more trouble,

you may be sure of that. How infuriating, though, that you met him and not

I. Although I'm a burnt-out man and the embers have died away to ash, I

swear that I would have given up Praskovya Fyodorovna's bunch of keys in

exchange for that meeting. Those keys are all I have. I am destitute.' ' Why

do you want to see him so badly? ' After a long, gloomy silence the visitor

said at last:

'You see, it's most extraordinary, but I am in here for exactly the

same reason that you are, I mean because of Pontius Pilate.' The visitor

glanced uneasily round and said : ' The fact is that a year ago I wrote a

novel about Pilate.'

'Are you a writer? ' asked the poet with interest. The visitor

frowned, threatened Ivan with his fist and said:

'I am a master.' His expression hardened and he pulled out of his

dressing gown pocket a greasy black cap with the letter ' M ' embroidered on

it in yellow silk. He put the cap on and showed himself to Ivan in profile

and full face to prove that he was a master. ' She sewed it for me with her

own hands,' he added mysteriously. ' What is your name? '

'I no longer have a name,' replied the curious visitor with grim

contempt. ' I have renounced it, as I have renounced life itself. Let us

forget it.'

'At least tell me about your novel,' asked Ivan tactfully. ' If you

wish. I should say that my life has been a somewhat unusual one,' began the

visitor.

A historian by training, two years ago he had, it seemed, been employed

in one of the Moscow museums. He was also a translator.

'From which language? ' asked Ivan.

'I know five languages beside my own,' replied the visitor. ' English,

French, German, Latin and Greek. And I read Italian a little.'

'Phew! ' Ivan whistled with envy.

This historian lived alone, had no relatives and knew almost no one in

Moscow. One day he won a hundred thousand roubles.

'Imagine my astonishment,' whispered the visitor in his black cap, '

when I fished my lottery ticket out of the laundry basket and saw that it

had the same number as the winning draw printed in the paper! The museum,'

he explained, ' had given me the ticket.'

Having won his hundred thousand, Ivan's mysterious guest bought some

books, gave up his room on Myasnitskaya Street...

'Ugh, it was a filthy hole! ' he snarled.

. . . and rented two rooms in the basement of a small house with a

garden near the Arbat. He gave up his job in the museum and began writing

his novel about Pontius Pilate.

'Ah, that was a golden age! ' whispered the narrator, his eyes

shining. ' A completely self-contained little flat and a hall with a sink

and running water,' he emphasised proudly, ' little windows just above the

level of the path leading from the garden gate. Only a few steps away, by

the garden fence, was a lilac, a lime tree and a maple. Ah, me! In winter I

rarely saw anyone walking up the garden path or heard the crunch of snow.

And there was always a blaze in my little stove! But suddenly it was spring

and through the muddied panes of my windows I saw first the bare branches

then the green of the first leaves. And then, last spring, something

happened which was far more delightful than winning a hundred thousand

roubles. And that, you must agree, is an enormous sum of money! '

'It is,' Ivan agreed, listening intently.

'I had opened the windows and was sitting in the second room, which

was quite tiny.' The visitor made measuring gestures. ' Like this--the divan

here, another divan along the other wall, a beautiful lamp on a little table

between them, a bookcase by the window and over here a little bureau. The

main room was huge--fourteen square metres!--books, more books and a stove.

It was a marvellous little place. How deliciously the lilac used to smell! I

was growing light-headed with fatigue and Pilate was coming to an end . . .'

'White cloak, red lining! How I know the feeling! ' exclaimed Ivan.

'Precisely! Pilate was rushing to a conclusion and I already knew what

the last words of the novel would be--" the fifth Procurator of Judaea, the

knight Pontius Pilate ". Naturally I used to go out for walks. A hundred

thousand is a huge sum and I had a handsome suit. Or I would go out for

lunch to a restaurant. There used to be a wonderful restaurant in the Arbat,

I don't know whether it's still there.'

Here his eyes opened wide and as he whispered he gazed at the moon.

'She was carrying some of those repulsive yellow flowers. God knows

what they're called, but they are somehow always the first to come out in

spring. They stood out very sharply against her black dress. She was

carrying yellow flowers! It's an ugly colour. She turned off Tverskaya into

a side-street and turned round. You know the Tverskaya, don't you? There

must have been a thousand people on it but I swear to you that she saw no

one but me. She had a look of suffering and I was struck less by her beauty

than by the extraordinary loneliness in her eyes. Obeying that yellow signal

I too turned into the side-street and followed her. We walked in silence

down that dreary, winding little street without saying a word, she on one

side, I on the other. There was not another soul in the street. I was in

agony because I felt I had to speak to her and was worried that I might not

be able to utter a word, she would disappear and I should never see her

again. Then, if you can believe it, she said :

" Do you like my flowers? "

'I remember exactly how her voice sounded. It was pitched fairly low

but with a catch in it and stupid as it may sound I had the impression that

it echoed across the street and reverberated from the dirty yellow wall. I

quickly crossed to her side and going up to her replied : " No ' She looked

at me in surprise and suddenly, completely unexpectedly, I realised that I

had been in love with this woman all my life. Extraordinary, isn't it?

You'll say I was mad, I expect.'

'I say nothing of the sort,' exclaimed Ivan, adding : ' Please, please

go on.'

The visitor continued:

'Yes, she looked at me in surprise and then she said : " Don't you

like flowers at all? "

'There was, I felt, hostility in her voice. I walked on alongside her,

trying to walk in step with her and to my amazement I felt completely free

of shyness.

'" No, I like flowers, only not these," I said.

'" Which flowers do you like? "

'" I love roses."

'I immediately regretted having said it, because she smiled guiltily

and threw her flowers into the gutter. Slightly embarrassed, I picked them

up and gave them to her but she pushed them away with a smile and I had to

carry them.

'We walked on in silence for a while until she pulled the flowers out

of my hand and threw them in the roadway, then slipped her black-gloved hand

into mine and we went on.'

'Go on,' said Ivan, ' and please don't leave anything out! '

'Well,' said the visitor, ' you can guess what happened after that.'

He wiped away a sudden tear with his right sleeve and went on. ' Love leaped

up out at us like a murderer jumping out of a dark alley. It shocked us

both--the shock of a stroke of lightning, the shock of a flick-knife. Later

she said that this wasn't so, that we had of course been in love for years

without knowing each other and never meeting, that she had merely been

living with another man and I had been living with . . . that girl, what was

her name . . .? '

'With whom? ' asked Bezdomny.

'With . . . er, that girl . . . she was called . . .' said the

visitor, snapping his fingers in a vain effort to remember.

'Were you married to her? ' ' Yes, of course I was, that's why it's so

embarrassing to forget ... I think it was Varya ... or was it Manya? . . .

no, Varya, that's it ... she wore a striped dress, worked at the museum. . .

. No good, can't remember. So, she used to say, she had gone out that

morning carrying those yellow flowers for me to find her at last and that if

it hadn't happened she would have committed suicide because her life was

empty.

'Yes, the shock of love struck us both at once. I knew it within the

hour when we found ourselves, quite unawares, on the embankment below the

Kremlin wall. We talked as though we had only parted the day before, as

though we had known each other for years. We agreed to meet the next day at

the same place by the Moscow River and we did. The May sun shone on us and

soon that woman became my mistress.

'She came to me every day at noon. I began waiting for her from early

morning. The strain of waiting gave me hallucinations of seeing things on

the table. After ten minutes I would sit at my little window and start to

listen for the creak of that ancient garden gate. It was curious : until I

met her no one ever came into our little yard. Now it seemed to me that the

whole town was crowding in. The gate would creak, my heart would bound and

outside the window a pair of muddy boots would appear level with my head. A

knife-grinder. Who in our house could possibly need a knife-grinder? What

was there for him to sharpen? Whose knives?

'She only came through that gate once a day, but my heart would beat

faster from at least ten false alarms every morning. Then when her time came

and the hands were pointing to noon, my heart went on thumping until her

shoes with their black patent-leather straps and steel buckles drew level,

almost soundlessly, with my basement window.

'Sometimes for fun she would stop at the second window and tap the

pane with her foot. In a second I would appear at that window but always her

shoe and her black silk dress that blocked the light had vanished and I

would turn instead to the hall to let her in.

'Nobody knew about our liaison, I can swear to that, although as a

rule no one can keep such affairs a complete secret. Her husband didn't

know, our friends didn't know. The other tenants in that forgotten old house

knew, of course, because they could see that a woman called on me every day,

but they never knew her name.'

'Who was she?' asked Ivan, deeply fascinated by this love story.

The visitor made a sign which meant that he would never reveal this to

anyone and went on with his narrative.

The master and his unknown mistress loved one another so strongly that

they became utterly inseparable. Ivan could clearly see for himself the two

basement rooms, where it was always twilight from the shade of the lilac

bush and the fence : the shabby red furniture, the bureau, the clock on top

of it which struck the half-hours and books, books from the painted floor to

the smoke-blackened ceiling, and the stove.

Ivan learned that from the very first days of their affair the man and

his mistress decided that fate had brought them together on the corner of

the Tverskaya and that side-street and that they were made for each other to

eternity.

Ivan heard his visitor describe how the lovers spent their day. Her

first action on arrival was to put on an apron and light an oil stove on a

wooden table in the cramped hall, with its tap and sink that the wretched

patient had recalled with such pride. There she cooked lunch and served it

on an oval table in the living-room. When the May storms blew and the water

slashed noisily past the dim little windows, threatening to flood their

home, the lovers stoked up the stove and baked potatoes in it. Steam poured

out of the potatoes as they cut them open, the charred skins blackened their

fingers. There was laughter in the basement, after the rain the trees in the

garden scattered broken branches and white blossom.

When the storms were past and the heat of summer came, the vase was

filled with the long-awaited roses that they both loved so much. The man who

called himself the master worked feverishly at his novel and the book cast

its spell over the unknown woman.

'At times I actually felt jealous of it,' the moonlight visitor

whispered to Ivan.

Running her sharp, pointed fingernails through her hair, she

ceaselessly read and re-read the manuscript, sewing that same black cap as

she did so. Sometimes she would squat down by the lower bookshelves or stand

by the topmost ones and wipe the hundreds of dusty spines. Sensing fame, she

drove him on and started to call him ' the master '. She waited impatiently

for the promised final words about the fifth Procurator of Judaea, reading

out in a loud sing-song random sentences that pleased her and saying that

the novel was her life.

It was finished in August and handed to a typist who transcribed it in

five copies. At last came the moment to leave the secret refuge and enter

the outside world.

'When I emerged into the world clutching my novel, my life came to an

end,' whispered the master. He hung his head and for a long while wagged the

black cap with its embroidered yellow ' M '. He went on with his story but

it grew more disjointed and Ivan could only gather that his visitor had

suffered some disaster.

'It was my first sortie into the literary world, but now that it's all

over and I am ruined for everyone to see, it fills me with horror to think

of it! ' whispered the master solemnly, raising his hand. ' God, what a

shock he gave me! '

'Who? ' murmured Ivan, scarcely audibly, afraid to disturb the

master's inspiration.

'The editor, of course, the editor! Oh yes, he read it. He looked at

me as if I had a swollen face, avoided my eyes and even giggled with

embarrassment. He had smudged and creased the typescript quite

unnecessarily. He asked me questions which I thought were insane. He said

nothing about the substance of the novel but asked me who I was and where I

came from, had I been writing for long, why had nothing been heard of me

before and finally asked what struck me as the most idiotic question of

all--who had given me the idea of writing a novel on such a curious subject?

Eventually I lost patience with him and asked him straight out whether he

was going to print my novel or not. This embarrassed him. He began mumbling

something, then announced that he personally was not competent to decide and

that the other members of the editorial board would have to study the book,

in particular the critics Latunsky and Ariman and the author Mstislav

Lavrovich. He asked me to come back a fortnight later. I did so and was

received by a girl who had developed a permanent squint from having to tell

so many lies.'

'That's Lapshennikova, the editor's secretary,' said Ivan with a

smile, knowing the world that his visitor was describing with such rancour.

'Maybe,' he cut in. ' Anyway, she gave me back my novel thoroughly

tattered and covered in grease-marks. Trying not to look at me, the girl

informed me that the editors had enough material for two years ahead and

therefore the question of printing my novel became, as she put it, "

redundant". What ^Ise do I remember?' murmured the visitor, wiping his

forehead. ' Oh yes, the red blobs spattered all over the title page and the

eyes of my mistress. Yes, I remember those eyes.'

The story grew more and more confused, full of more and more disjointed

remarks that trailed off unfinished. He said something about slanting rain

and despair in their basement home, about going somewhere else. He whispered

urgently that he would never, never blame her, the woman who had urged him

on into the struggle.

After that, as far as Ivan could tell, something strange and sudden

happened. One day he opened a newspaper and saw an article by Ariman,

entitled ' The Enemy Makes a Sortie,' where the critic warned all and sundry

that he, that is to say our hero had tried to drag into print an apologia

for Jesus Christ.

'I remember that! ' cried Ivan. ' But I've forgotten what your name

was.' ' I repeat, let's leave my name out of it, it no longer exists,'

replied the visitor. ' It's not important. A day or two later another

article appeared in a different paper signed by Mstislav Lavrovich, in which

the writer suggested striking and striking hard at all this pilatism and

religiosity which I was trying to drag (that damned word again!) into print.

Stunned by that unheard-of word " pilatism " I opened the third newspaper.

In it were two articles, one by Latunsky, the other signed with the initials

" N.E." Believe me, Ariman's and Lavrovich's stuff was a mere joke by

comparison with Latunsky's article. Suffice it to say that it was entitled "

A Militant Old Believer ". I was so absorbed in reading the article about

myself that I did not notice her standing in front of me with a wet umbrella

and a sodden copy of the same newspaper. Her eyes were flashing fire, her

hands cold and trembling. First she rushed to kiss me then she said in a

strangled voice, thumping the table, that she was going to murder Latunsky.'

Embarrassed, Ivan gave a groan but said nothing. ' The joyless autumn

days came,' the visitor went on, ' the appalling failure of my novel seemed

to have withered part of my soul. In fact I no longer had anything to do and

I only lived for my meetings with her. Then something began to happen to me.

God knows what it was; I expect Stravinsky has unravelled it long ago. I

began to suffer from depression and strange forebodings. The articles,

incidentally, did not stop. At first I simply laughed at them, then came the

second stage : amazement. In literally every line of those articles one

could detect a sense of falsity, of unease, in spite of their confident and

threatening tone. I couldn't help feeling--and the conviction grew stronger

the more I read--that the people writing those articles were not saying what

they had really wanted to say and that this was the cause of their fury. And

then came the third stage--fear. Don't misunderstand me, I was not afraid of

the articles ; I was afraid of something else which had nothing to do with

them or with my novel. I started, for instance, to be afraid of the dark. I

was reaching the stage of mental derangement. I felt, especially just before

going to sleep, that some very cold, supple octopus was fastening its

tentacles round my heart. I had to sleep with the light on.

'My beloved had changed too. I told her nothing about the octopus, of

course, but she saw that something was wrong with me. She lost weight, grew

paler, stopped laughing and kept begging me to have that excerpt from the

novel printed. She said I should forget everything and go south to the Black

Sea, paying for the journey with what was left of the hundred thousand

roubles.

'She was very insistent, so to avoid arguing with her (something told

me that I never would go to the Black Sea) I promised to arrange the trip

soon. However, she announced that she would buy me the ticket herself. I

took out all my money, which was about ten thousand roubles, and gave it to

her.

'" Why so much? " she said in surprise.

'I said something about being afraid of burglars and asked her to keep

the money until my departure. She took it, put it in her handbag, began to

kiss me and said that she would rather die than leave me alone in this

condition, but people were expecting her, she had to go but would come back

the next day. She begged me not to be afraid.

'It was twilight, in mid-October. She went. I lay down on my divan and

fell asleep without putting on the light. I was awakened by the feeling that

the octopus was there. Fumbling in the dark I just managed to switch on the

lamp. My watch showed two o'clock in the morning. When I had gone to bed I

had been sickening; when I woke up I was an ill man. I had a sudden feeling

that the autumn murk was about to burst the window-panes, run into the room

and I would drown in it as if it were ink. I had lost control of myself. I

screamed, I wanted to run somewhere, if only to my landlord upstairs.

Wrestling with myself as one struggles with a lunatic, I had just enough

strength to crawl to the stove and re-light it. When I heard it begin to

crackle and the fire-door started rattling in the draught, I felt slightly

better. I rushed into the hall, switched on the light, found a bottle of

white wine and began gulping it down from the bottle. This calmed my fright

a little, at least enough to stop me from running to my landlord. Instead, I

went back to the stove. I opened the fire-door. The heat began to warm my

hands and face and I whispered :

'" Something terrible has happened to me . . . Come, come, please come

. . .! "

'But nobody came. The fire roared in the stove, rain whipped against

the windows. Then I took the heavy typescript copies of the novel and my

handwritten drafts out of the desk drawer and started to burn them. It was

terribly hard to do because paper that has been written over in ink doesn't

burn easily. Breaking my fingernails I tore up the manuscript books, stuffed

them down between the logs and stoked the burning pages with the poker.

Occasionally there was so much ash that it put the flames out, but I

struggled with it until finally the whole novel, resisting fiercely to the

end, was destroyed. Familiar words flickered before me, the yellow crept

inexorably up the pages yet I could still read the words through it. They

only vanished when the paper turned black and I had given it a savage

beating with the poker.

'There was a sound of someone scratching gently at the window. My

heart leaped and thrusting the last manuscript book into the fire I rushed

up the brick steps from the basement to the door that opened on to the yard.

Panting, I reached the door and asked softly:

'" Who's there? "

'And a voice, her voice, answered :

'" It's me . . ."

'I don't remember how I managed the chain and the key. As soon as she

was indoors she fell into my arms, all wet, cheek wet, hair bedraggled,

shivering. I could only say :

'" Is it really you? . . ." then my voice broke off and we ran

downstairs into the flat.

'She took off her coat in the hall and we went straight into the

living-room. Gasping, she pulled the last bundle of paper out of the stove

with her bare hands. The room at once filled with smoke. I stamped out the

flames with my foot and she collapsed on the divan and burst into

convulsive, uncontrollable tears.

'When she was calm again I said :

'" I suddenly felt I hated the novel and I was afraid. I'm sick. I

feel terrible."

'She sat up and said :

'" God how ill you look. Why, why? But I'm going to save you. What's

the matter? "

'I could see her eyes swollen from smoke and weeping, felt her cool

hands smoothing my brow.

'" I shall make you better," she murmured, burying her head in my

shoulder. " You're going to write it again. Why, oh why didn't I keep one

copy myself? "

'She ground her teeth with fury and said something indistinct. Then

with clamped lips she started to collect and sort the burnt sheets of paper.

It was a chapter from somewhere in the middle of the book, I forget which.

She carefully piled up the sheets, wrapped them up into a parcel and tied it

with string. All her movements showed that she was a determined woman who

was in absolute command of herself. She asked for a glass of wine and having

drunk it said calmly :

'" This is how one pays for lying," she said, " and I don't want to go

on lying any more. I would have stayed with you this evening, but I didn't

want to do it like that. I don't want his last memory of me to be that I ran

out on him in the middle of the night. He has never done me any harm ... He

was suddenly called out, there's a fire at his factory. But he'll be back

soon. I'll tell him tomorrow morning, tell him I love someone else and then

come back to you for ever. If you don't want me to do that, tell me."

'" My poor, poor girl," I said to her. " I won't allow you to do it.

It will be hell living with me and I don't want you to perish here as I

shall perish."

'" Is that the only reason? " she asked, putting her eyes close to

mine. ' " That's the only reason."

'She grew terribly excited, hugged me, embraced my neck and said:

'" Then I shall die with you. I shall be here tomorrow morning."

'The last that I remember seeing of her was the patch of light from my

hall and in that patch of light a loose curl of her hair, her beret and her

determined eyes, her dark silhouette in the doorway and a parcel wrapped in

white paper.

'" I'd see you out, but I don't trust myself to come back alone, I'm

afraid."

'" Don't be afraid. Just wait a few hours. I'll be back tomorrow

morning."

'Those were the last words that I heard her say.

'Sshh! ' The patient suddenly interrupted himself and raised Ms

finger. ' It's a restless moonlit night.' He disappeared on to the balcony.

Ivan heard the sound of wheels along the corridor, there was a faint groan

or cry.

When all was quiet again, the visitor came back and reported that a

patient had been put into room No. 120, a man who kept asking for his head

back. Both men relapsed into anxious silence for a while, but soon resumed

their interrupted talk. The visitor had just opened his mouth but the night,

as he had said, was a restless one : voices were heard in the corridor and

the visitor began to whisper into Ivan's ear so softly that only the poet

could hear what he was saying, with the exception of the first sentence :

'A quarter of an hour after she had left me there came a knock at my

window . . .'

The man was obviously very excited by what he was whispering into

Ivan's ear. Now and again a spasm would cross his face. Fear and anger

sparkled in his eyes. The narrator pointed in the direction of the moon,

which had long ago disappeared from the balcony. Only when all the noises

outside had stopped did the visitor move away from Ivan and speak louder :

'Yes, so there I stood, out in my little yard, one night in the middle

of January, wearing the same overcoat but without any buttons now and I was

freezing with cold. Behind me the lilac bush was buried in snowdrifts, below

and in front of me were my feebly lit windows with drawn blinds. I knelt

down to the first of them and listened--a gramophone was playing in my room.

I could hear it but see nothing. After a slight pause I went out of the gate

and into the street. A snowstorm was howling along it. A dog which ran

between my legs frightened me, and to get away from it I crossed to the

other side. Cold and fear, which had become my inseparable companions, had

driven me to desperation. I had nowhere to go and the simplest thing would

have been to throw myself under a tram then and there where my side street

joined the main road. In the distance I could see the approaching tramcars,

looking like ice-encrusted lighted boxes, and hear the fearful scrunch of

their wheels along the frostbound tracks. But the joke, my dear friend, was

that every cell of my body was in the grip of fear. I was as afraid of the

tram as I had been of the dog. I'm the most hopeless case in this building,

I assure you! '

'But you could have let her know, couldn't you?' said Ivan

sympatherically. ' Besides, she had all your money. I suppose she kept it,

did she? '

'Don't worry, of course she kept it. But you obviously don't

understand me. Or rather I have lost the powers of description that I once

had. I don't feel very sorry for her, as she is of no more use to me. Why

should I write to her? She would be faced,' said the visitor gazing

pensively at the night sky, ' by a letter from the madhouse. Can one really

write to anyone from an address like this? ... I--a mental patient? How

could I make her so unhappy? I ... I couldn't do it.'

Ivan could only agree. The poet's silence was eloquent of his sympathy

and compassion for his visitor, who bowed his head in pain at his memories

and said :

'Poor woman ... I can only hope she has forgotten me . . .'

'But you may recover,' said Ivan timidly.

'I am incurable,' said the visitor calmly. ' Even though Stravinsky

says that he will send me back to normal life, I don't believe him. He's a

humane man and he only wants to comfort me. I won't deny, though, that I'm a

great deal better now than I was. Now, where was I? Oh yes. The frost, the

moving tram-cars ... I knew that this clinic had just been opened and I

crossed the whole town on foot to come here. It was madness! I would

probably have frozen to death but for a lucky chance. A lorry had broken

down on the road and I approached the driver. It was four kilometres past

the city limits and to my surprise he took pity on me. He was driving here

and he took me ... The toes of my left foot were frost-bitten, but they

cured them. I've been here four months now. And do you know, I think this is

not at all a bad place. I shouldn't bother to make any great plans for the

future if I were you. I, for example, wanted to travel all over the world.

Well, it seems that I was not fated to have my wish. I shall only see an

insignificant little corner of the globe. I don't think it's necessarily the

best bit, but I repeat, it's not so bad. Summer's on the way and the balcony

will be covered in ivy, so Praskovya Fyodorovna tells me. These keys have

enlarged my radius of action. There'll be a moon at night. Oh, it has set!

It's freshening. Midnight is on the way. It's time for me to go.'

'Tell me, what happened afterwards with Yeshua and Pilate? ' begged

Ivan. ' Please, I want to know.'

'Oh no, I couldn't,' replied the visitor, wincing painfully. ' I can't

think about my novel without shuddering. Your friend from Patriarch's Ponds

could have done it better than I can. Thanks for the talk. Goodbye.'

Before Ivan had time to notice it, the grille had shut with a gentle

click and the visitor was gone.

14. Saved by Cock-Crow

His nerves in shreds, Rimsky did not stay for the completion of the

police report on the incident but took refuge in his own office. He sat down

at the desk and with bloodshot eyes stared at the magic rouble notes spread

out in front of him. The treasurer felt his reason slipping. A steady

rumbling could be heard from outside as the public streamed out of the

theatre on to the street. Suddenly Rimsky's acute hearing distinctly caught

the screech of a police whistle, always a sound of ill-omen. When it was

repeated and answered by another, more prolonged and authoritative, followed

by a clearly audible bellow of laughter and a kind of ululating noise, the

treasurer realised at once that something scandalous was happening in the

street. However much he might like to disown it, the noise was bound to be

closely connected with the terrible act put on that evening by the black

magician and his assistants.

The treasurer was right. As he glanced out of the window on to Sadovaya

Street he gave a grimace and hissed :

'I knew it! '

In the bright light of the street lamps he saw below him on the

pavement a woman wearing nothing but a pair of violet knickers, a hat and an

umbrella. Round the painfully embarrassed woman, trying desperately to

crouch down and run away, surged the crowd laughing in the way that had sent

shivers down Rimsky's spine. Beside the woman was a man who was ripping off

his coat and getting his arm hopelessly tangled in the sleeve.

Shouts and roars of laughter were also coming from the side entrance,

and as he turned in that direction Grigory Danilovich saw another woman,

this time in pink underwear. She was struggling across the pavement in an

attempt to hide in the doorway, but the people coming out barred her way and

the wretched victim of her own rashness and vanity, cheated by the sinister

Faggot, could do nothing but hope to be swallowed up by the ground. A

policeman ran towards the unfortunate woman, splitting the air with his

whistle. He was closely followed by some cheerful, cloth-capped young men,

the source of the ribald laughter and wolf-whistles.

A thin, moustached horse-cab driver drove up alongside the first

undressed woman and smiling all over his whiskered face, reined in his horse

with a flourish.

Rimsky punched himself on the head, spat with fury and jumped back from

the window. He sat at his desk for a while listening to the noise in the

street. The sound of whistles from various directions rose to a climax and

then began to fade out. To Rimsky's astonishment the uproar subsided

unexpectedly soon.

The time had come to act, to drink the bitter cup of responsibility.

The telephones had been repaired during the last act and he now had to ring

up, report the incident, ask for help, blame it all on Likhodeyev and

exculpate himself.

Twice Rimsky nervously picked up the receiver and twice put it down.

Suddenly the deathly silence of the office was broken by the telephone

itself ringing. He jumped and went cold. ' My nerves are in a terrible

state,' he thought as he lifted the telephone. Immediately he staggered back

and turned whiter than paper. A soft, sensual woman's voice whispered into

the earpiece :

'Don't ring up, Rimsky, or you'll regret it . . .'

The line went dead. Feeling gooseflesh spreading over his skin, the

treasurer replaced the receiver and glanced round to the window behind his

back. Through the sparse leaves of a sycamore tree he saw the moon flying

through a translucent cloud. He seemed to be mesmerised by the branches of

the tree and the longer Rimsky stared at them the more strongly he felt the

grip of fear.

Pulling himself together the treasurer finally turned away from the

moonlit window and stood up. There was now no longer any question of

telephoning and Rimsky could only think of one thing--how to get out of the

theatre as quickly as possible.

He listened : the building was silent. He realised that for some time

now he had been the only person left on the second floor and a childish,

uncontrollable fear overcame him at the thought. He shuddered to think that

he would have to walk alone through the empty passages and down the

staircase. He feverishly grabbed the magic roubles from his desk, stuffed

them into his briefcase and coughed to summon up a little courage. His cough

sounded hoarse and weak.

At this moment he noticed what seemed to be a damp, evil-smelling

substance oozing under the door and into his office. A tremor ran down the

treasurer's spine. Suddenly a clock began to strike midnight and even this

made him shudder. But his heart sank completely when he heard the sound of a

latch-key being softly turned in the lock. Clutching his briefcase with

damp, cold hands Rimsky felt that if that scraping noise in the keyhole were

to last much longer his nerves would snap and he would scream.

At last the door gave way and Varenukha slipped noiselessly into the

office. Rimsky collapsed into an armchair. Gasping for air, he smiled what

was meant to be an ingratiating smile and whispered :

'God, what a fright you gave me. . . .'

Terrifying as this sudden appearance was, it had its hopeful side--it

cleared up at least one little mystery in this whole baffling affair.

'Tell me, tell me, quickly! . . .' croaked Rimsky, clutching at his

one straw of certainty in a world gone mad. ' What does this all mean? "

'I'm sorry,' mumbled Varenukha, closing the door. ' I thought you

would have left by now.' Without taking his cap off he crossed to an

armchair and sat down beside the desk, facing Rimsky. There was a trace of

something odd in Varenukha's reply, immediately detected by Rimsky, whose

sensitivity was now on a par with the world's most delicate seismograph. For

one thing, why had Varenukha come to the treasurer's office if he thought he

wasn't there? He had his own office, after all. For another, no matter which

entrance Varenukha might have used to come into the theatre he must have met

one of the night watchmen, who had all been told that Grigory Danilovich was

working late in his office. Rimsky, however, did not dwell long on these

peculiarities--this was not the moment.

'Why didn't you ring me? And what the hell was all that pantomime

about Yalta? '

'It was what I thought,' replied the house manager, making a sucking

noise as though troubled by an aching tooth. ' They found him in a bar out

at Pushkino.'

'Pushkino? But that's just outside Moscow! What about those telegrams

from Yalta? '

'Yalta--hell! He got the Pushkino telegraphist drunk and they started

playing the fool, which included sending us those telegrams marked " Yalta

".'

'Aha, aha ... I see now . . .' crooned Rimsky, his yellowish eyes

flashing. In his mind's eye he saw Stepa being solemnly dismissed from his

job. Freedom! At last Rimsky would be rid of that idiot Likhodeyev! Perhaps

something even worse than the sack was in store for Stepan Bogdanovich . . .

' Tell me all the details! ' cried Rimsky, banging his desk with a

paper-weight.

Varenukha began telling the story. As soon as he had arrived at the

place where the treasurer had sent him, he was immediately shown in and

listened to with great attention. No one, of course, believed for a moment

that Stepa was in Yalta. Everybody at once agreed with Varenukha's

suggestion that Likhodeyev was obviously at the ' Yalta ' restaurant in

Pushkino. ' Where is he now? ' Rimsky interrupted excitedly. ' Where do you

think? ' replied the house manager with a twisted smile. ' In the police

cells, of course, being sobered up! '

'Ah! Thank God for that! '

Varenukha went on with his story and the more he said the clearer

Rimsky saw the long chain of Likhodeyev's misdeeds, each succeeding link in

it worse than the last. What a price he was going to pay for one drunken

afternoon at Pushkino! Dancing with the telegraphist. Chasing terrified

women. Picking a fight with the barman at the ' Yalta'. Throwing onions on

to the floor. Breaking eight bottles of white wine. Smashing a cab-driver's

taximeter for refusing to take him. Threatening to arrest people who tried

to stop him. . . .

Stepa was well known in the Moscow theatre world and everybody knew

that the man was a menace, but this story was just a shade too much, even

for Stepa. . . . Rimsky's sharp eyes bored into Varenukha's face across the

desk and the longer the story went on the grimmer those eyes became. The

more Varenukha embroidered his account with picturesque and revolting

details, the less Rimsky believed him. When Varenukha described how Stepa

was so far gone that he tried to resist the men who had been sent to bring

him back to Moscow, Rimsky was quite certain that everything the house

manager was telling him was a lie--a lie from beginning to end.

Varenukha had never gone to Pushkino, and Stepa had never been there

either. There was no drunken telegraphist, no broken glass in the bar and

Stepa had not been hauled away with ropes-- none of it had ever happened.

As soon as Rimsky felt sure that his colleague was lying to him, a

feeling of terror crawled over his body, beginning with his feet and for the

second time he had the weird feeling that a kind of malarial damp was oozing

across the floor. The house manager was sitting in a curious hunched

attitude in the armchair, trying constantly to stay in the shadow of the

blue-shaded table lamp and ostensibly shading his eyes from the light with a

folded newspaper. Without taking his eyes off Varenukha for a moment,

Rimsky's mind was working furiously to unravel this new mystery. Why should

the man be lying to him at this late hour in the totally empty and silent

building? Slowly a consciousness of danger, of an unknown but terrible

danger took hold of Rimsky. Pretending not to notice Varenukha's fidgeting

and tricks with the newspaper, the treasurer concentrated on his face,

scarcely listening to what he was saying. There was something else that

Rimsky found even more sinister than this slanderous and completely bogus

yarn about the goings-on in Pushkino, and that something was a change in the

house manager's appearance and manner.

However hard Varenukha tried to pull down the peak of his cap to shade

his face and however much he waved the newspaper, Rimsky managed to discern

an enormous bruise that covered most of the right side of his face, starting

at his nose. What was more, this normally ruddy-cheeked man now had an

unhealthy chalky pallor and although the night was hot, he was wearing an

old-fashioned striped cravat tied round his neck. If one added to this his

newly acquired and repulsive habit of sucking his teeth, a distinct lowering

and coarsening of his tone of voice and the furtive, shifty look in his

eyes, it was safe to say that Ivan Savye-lich Varenukha was unrecognisable.

Something even more insistent was worrying Rimsky, but he could not put

his finger on it however much he racked his brain or stared at Varenukha. He

was only sure of one thing--that there was something peculiar and unnatural

in the man's posture in that familiar chair.

'Well, finally they overpowered him and shoved him into a car,' boomed

Varenukha, peeping from under the newspaper and covering his bruise with his

hand.

Rimsky suddenly stretched out his arm and with an apparently unthinking

gesture of his palm pressed the button of an electric bell, drumming his

fingers as he did so. His heart sank. A loud ringing should have been heard

instantly throughout the building --but nothing happened, and the bell-push

merely sank lifelessly into the desktop. The warning system was out of

order.

Rimsky's cunning move did not escape Varenukha, who scowled and said

with a clear flicker of hostility in his look :

'Why did you ring? '

'Oh, I just pressed it by mistake, without thinking,' mumbled Rimsky,

pulling back his hand and asked in a shaky voice :

'What's that on your face? '

'The car braked suddenly and I hit myself on the door-handle,' replied

Varenukha, averting his eyes.

'He's lying!' said Rimsky to himself. Suddenly his eyes gaped with

utter horror and he pressed himself against the back of his chair.

On the floor behind Varenukha's chair lay two intersecting shadows, one

thicker and blacker than the other. The shadows cast by the back of the

chair and its tapering legs were clearly visible, but above the shadow of

the chairback there was no shadow or' Varenukha's head, just as there was no

shadow of his feet to be seen under the chairlegs.

'He throws no shadow! ' cried Rimsky in a silent shriek of despair. He

shuddered helplessly.

Following Rimsky's horrified stare Varenukha glanced furtively round

behind the chairback and realised that he had been found out. He got up

(Rimsky did the same) and took a pace away from the desk, clutching his

briefcase.

'You've guessed, damn you! You always were clever,' said Varenukha

smiling evilly right into Rimsky's face. Then he suddenly leaped for the

door and quickly pushed down the latch-button on the lock. The treasurer

looked round in desperation, retreated towards the window that gave on to

the garden and in that moon-flooded window he saw the face of a naked girl

pressed to the glass, her bare arm reaching through the open top pane and

trying to open the lower casement.

It seemed to Rimsky that the light of the desk-lamp was going out and

that the desk itself was tilting. A wave of icy cold washed over him, but

luckily for him he fought it off and did not fall. The remnants of his

strength were only enough for him to whisper:

'Help . . .'

Varenukha, guarding the door, was jumping up and down beside it. He

hissed and sucked, signalling to the girl in the window and pointing his

crooked fingers towards Rimsky.

The girl increased her efforts, pushed her auburn head through the

little upper pane, stretched out her arm as far as she could and began to

pluck at the lower catch with her fingernails and shake the frame. Her arm,

coloured deathly green, started to stretch as if it were made of rubber.

Finally her green cadaverous fingers caught the knob of the window-catch,

turned it and the casement opened. Rimsky gave a weak cry, pressed himself

to the wall and held his briefcase in front of himself like a shield. His

last hour, he knew, had come.

The window swung wide open, but instead of the freshness of the night

and the scent of lime-blossom the room was flooded with the stench of the

grave. The walking corpse stepped on to the window-sill. Rimsky clearly saw

patches of decay on her breast.

At that moment the sudden, joyful sound of a cock crowing rang out in

the garden from the low building behind the shooting gallery where they kept

the cage birds used on the Variety stage. With his full-throated cry the

tame cock was announcing the approach of dawn over Moscow from the east.

Wild fury distorted the girl's face as she swore hoarsely and Varenukha

by the door whimpered and collapsed to the floor.

The cock crowed again, the girl gnashed her teeth and her auburn hair

stood on end. At the third crow she turned and flew out. Behind her, flying

horizontally through the air like an oversized cupid, Varenukha floated

slowly across the desk and out of the window.

As white as snow, without a black hair left on his head, the old man

who a short while before had been Rimsky ran to the door, freed the latch

and rushed down the dark corridor. At the top of the staircase, groaning

with terror he fumbled for the switch and lit the lights on the staircase.

The shattered, trembling old man fell down on the stairs, imagining that

Varenukha was gently bearing down on him from above.

At the bottom Rimsky saw die night-watchman, who had fallen asleep on a

chair in the foyer beside the box office. Rimsky tiptoed past him and

slipped out of the main door. Once in the street he felt slightly better. He

came to his senses enough to realise, as he clutched his head, that he had

left his hat in his office.

Nothing -would have induced him to go back for it and he ran panting

across the wide street to the cinema on the opposite corner, where a

solitary cab stood on the rank. In a minute he had reached it before anyone

else could snatch it from him.

'To the Leningrad Station--hurry and I'll make it worth your while/

said the old man, breathing heavily and clutching his heart.

'I'm only going to the garage,' replied the driver turning away with a

surly face.

Rimsky unfastened his briefcase, pulled out fifty roubles and thrust

them at the driver through the open window.

A few moments later the taxi, shaking like a leaf in a storm, was

flying along the ring boulevard. Bouncing up and down in his seat, Rimsky

caught occasional glimpses of the driver's delighted expression and his own

wild look in the mirror.

Jumping out of the car at the station, Rimsky shouted to the first man

he saw, who was wearing a white apron and a numbered metal disc :

'First class single--here's thirty roubles,' he said as he fumbled for

the money in his briefcase. ' If there aren't any seats left in the first

I'll take second ... if there aren't any in the second, get me " Hard "

class! '

Glancing round at the illuminated clock the man with the apron snatched

the money from Rimsky's hand.

Five minutes later the express pulled out of the glass-roofed station

and steamed into the dark. With it vanished Rimsky.

15. The Dream of Nikanor Ivanovich

It is not hard to guess that the fat man with the purple face who was

put into room No. 119 at the clinic was Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi.

He had not, however, been put into Professor Stravinsky's care at once,

but had first spent some time in another place, of which he could remember

little except a desk, a cupboard and a sofa.

There some men had questioned Nikanor Ivanovich, but since his eyes

were clouded by a flux of blood and extreme mental anguish, the interview

was muddled and inconclusive.

'Are you Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi,' they began, ' chairman of the house

committee of No. 302a, Sadovaya Street? '

Nikanor Ivanovich gave a wild peal of laughter and replied:

'Of course I'm Nikanor! But why call me chairman? '

'What do you mean? ' they asked, frowning.

'Well,' he replied,' if I'm a chairman I would have seen at once that

he was an evil spirit, wouldn't I? I should have realised, what with his

shaky pince-nez, his tattered clothes--how could he have been an

interpreter? '

'Who are you talking about? '

'Koroviev! ' cried Nikanor Ivanovich. ' The man who's moved into No.

50. Write it down--Koroviev! You must find him and arrest him at once.

Staircase 6--write it down--that's where you'll find him.'

'Where did you get the foreign currency from? ' they asked

insinuatingly.

'As almighty God's my witness,' said Nikanor Ivanovich, ' I never

touched any and I never even suspected that it was foreign money. God will

punish me for my sin,' Nikanor Ivanovich went on feelingly, unbuttoning his

shirt, buttoning it up again and crossing himself. ' I took the money--I

admit that--but it was Soviet money. I even signed a receipt for it. Our

secretary Prolezhnov is just as bad--frankly we're all thieves in our house

committee. . . . But I never took any foreign money.'

On being told to stop playing the fool and to tell them how the dollars

found their way into his ventilation shaft, Nikanor Ivanovich fell on his

knees and rocked backwards and forwards with his mouth wide open as though

he were trying to swallow the wooden parquet blocks.

'I'll do anything you like,' he groaned, ' that'll make you believe I

didn't take the stuff. That Koroviev's nothing less than a devil!'

Everyone's patience has its limit; voices were raised behind the desk

and Nikanor Ivanovich was told that it was time he stopped talking

gibberish.

Suddenly the room was filled with a savage roar from Nikanor Ivanovich

as he jumped up from his knees:

'There he is! There--behind the cupboard! There--look at him grinning!

And his pince-nez . . . Stop him! Arrest him! Surround the building! '

The blood drained from Nikanor Ivanovich's face. Trembling, he made the

sign of the cross in the air, fled for the door, then back again, intoned a

prayer and then relapsed into complete delirium.

It was plain that Nikanor Ivanovich was incapable of talking

rationally. He was removed and put in a room by himself, where he calmed

down slightly and only prayed and sobbed.

Men were sent to the house on Sadovaya Street and inspected flat No.

50, but they found no Koroviev and no one in the building who had seen him

or heard of him. The flat belonging to Berlioz and Likhodeyev was empty and

the wax seals, quite intact, hung on all the cupboards and drawers in the

study. The men left the building, taking with them the bewildered and

crushed Prolezhnev, secretary of the house committee.

That evening Nikanor Ivanovich was delivered to Stravinsky's clinic.

There he behaved so violently that he had to be given one of Stravinsky's

special injections and it was midnight before Nikanor Ivanovich tell asleep

in room No. 119, uttering an occasional deep, tormented groan.

But the longer he slept the calmer he grew. He stopped tossing and

moaning, his breathing grew light and even, until finally the doctors left

him alone.

Nikanor Ivanovich then had a dream, which was undoubtedly influenced by

his recent experiences. It began with some men carrying golden trumpets

leading him, with great solemnity, to a pair of huge painted doors, where

his companions blew a fanfare in Nikanor Ivanovich's honour. Then a bass

voice boomed at him from the sky :

'Welcome, Nikanor Ivanovich! Hand over your foreign currency! ' Amazed

beyond words, Nikanor Ivanovich saw in front of him a black loudspeaker.

Soon he found himself in an auditorium lit by crystal candelabra beneath a

gilded ceiling and by sconces on the walls. Everything resembled a small but

luxurious theatre. There was a stage, closed by a velvet curtain whose dark

cerise background was strewn with enlargements of gold ten-rouble pieces;

there was a prompter's box and even an audience.

Nikanor Ivanovich was surprised to notice that the audience was an

all-male one and that its members all wore beards. An odd feature of the

auditorium was that it had no seats and the entire assembly was sitting on

the beautifully polished and extremely slippery floor.

Embarrassed at finding himself in this large and unexpected company,

after some hesitation Nikanor Ivanovich followed the general example and sat

down Turkish-fashion on the parquet, wedging himself between a stout

redbeard and a pale and extremely hirsute citizen. None of the audience paid

any attention to the newcomer.

There came the gentle sound of a bell, the house-lights went out, the

curtains parted and revealed a lighted stage set with an armchair, a small

table on which was a little golden bell, and a heavy black velvet backdrop.

On to the stage came an actor, dinner-jacketed, clean-shaven, his hair

parted in the middle above a young, charming face. The audience grew lively

and everybody turned to look at the stage. The actor advanced to the

footlights and rubbed his hands.

'Are you sitting down? ' he enquired in a soft baritone and smiled at

the audience.

'We are, we are,' chorused the tenors and basses.

'H'mm . . .' said the actor thoughtfully, ' I realise, of course, how

bored you must be. Everybody else is out of doors now, enjoying the warm

spring sunshine, while you have to squat on the floor in this stuffy

auditorium. Is the programme really worth while? Ah well, chacun a son

gout,' said the actor philosophically.

At this he changed the tone of his voice and announced gaily :

'And the next number on our programme is--Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi,

tenants' committee chairman and manager of a diabetic restaurant. This way

please, Nikanor Ivanovich! '

At the sound of the friendly applause which greeted his name, Nikanor

Ivanovich's eyes bulged with astonishment and the compere, shading his eyes

against the glare of the footlights, located him among the audience and

beckoned him to the stage. Without knowing how, Nikanor Ivanovich found

himself on stage. His eyes were dazzled from above and below by the glare of

coloured lighting which blotted out the audience from his sight.

'Now Nikanor Ivanovich, set us an example,' said the young actor

gently and confidingly, ' and hand over your foreign currency.'

Silence. Nikanor Ivanovich took a deep breath and said in a low voice :

' I swear to God, I . . .'

Before he could finish, the whole audience had burst into shouts of

disapproval. Nikanor Ivanovich relapsed into uncomfortable silence. ' Am I

right,' said the compere, ' in thinking that you were about to swear by God

that you had no foreign currency?' He gave Nikanov Ivanovich a sympathetic

look.

'That's right. I haven't any.'

'I see,' said the actor. ' But ... if you'll forgive the indelicacy .

. . where did those four hundred dollars come from that were found in the

lavatory of your flat, of which you and your wife are the sole occupants? '

'They were magic ones! ' said a sarcastic voice somewhere in the dark

auditorium.

'That's right, they were magic ones,' said Nikanor Ivanovich timidly,

addressing no one in particular but adding : ' an evil spirit, that

interpreter in a check suit planted them on me.'

Again the audience roared in protest. When calm was restored, the actor

said:

'This is better than Lafontaine's fables! Planted four hundred

dollars! Listen, you're all in the currency racket--I ask you now, as

experts : is that possible? '

'We're not currency racketeers,' cried a number of offended voices

from the audience, ' but it's impossible! '

'I entirely agree,' said the actor firmly, ' and now I'd like to ask

you : what sort of things do people plant on other people? '

'Babies! ' cried someone at the back.

'Quite right,' agreed the compere. ' Babies, anonymous letters,

manifestos, time bombs and God knows what else, but no one would ever plant

four hundred dollars on a person because there just isn't anyone idiotic

enough to try.' Turning to Nikanor Ivanovich the artist added sadly and

reproachfully: ' You've disappointed me, Nikanor Ivanovich. I was relying on

you. Well, that number was a flop, I'm afraid.'

The audience began to boo Nikanor Ivanovich.

'He's in the currency black market all right,' came a shout from the

crowd, ' and innocent people like us have to suffer because of the likes of

him.'

'Don't shout at him,' said the compere gently. ' He'll repent.'

Turning his blue eyes, brimming with tears, towards Nikanor Ivanovich, he

said : ' Go back to your place Nikanor Ivanovich.'

After this the actor rang the bell and loudly announced:

'Interval! '

Shattered by his involuntary debut in the theatre, Nikanor Ivanovich

found himself back at his place on the floor. Then he began dreaming that

the auditorium was plunged into total darkness and fiery red words leaped

out from the walls ' Hand over all foreign cirrency! '

After a while the curtains opened again and the compere announced:

'Sergei Gerardovich Dunchill on stage, please! '

Dunchill was a good-looking though very stout man of about fifty.

'Sergei Gerardovich,' the compere addressed him, ' you have been

sitting here for six weeks now, firmly refusing to give up your remaining

foreign currency, at a time when your country has desperate need of it. You

are extremely obstinate. You're an intelligent man, you understand all this

perfectly well, yet you refuse to come forward.'

'I'm sorry, but how can I, when I have no more currency? ' was

Dunchill's calm reply.

'Not even any diamonds, perhaps? ' asked the actor.

'No diamonds either.'

The actor hung his head, reflected for a moment, then clapped his

hands. From the wings emerged a fashionably dressed middle-aged woman. The

woman looked worried as Dunchill stared at her without the flicker of an

eyelid.

'Who is this lady? ' the compere enquired of Dunchill.

'She is my wife,' replied Dunchill with dignity, looking at the woman

with a faint expression of repugnance.

'We regret the inconvenience to you, madame Dunchill,' said the

compere, ' but we have invited you here to ask you whether your husband has

surrendered all his foreign currency? '

'He handed it all in when he was told to,' replied madame Dunchill

anxiously.

'I see,' said the actor, ' well, if you say so, it must be true. If he

really has handed it all in, we must regretfully deprive ourselves of the

pleasure of Sergei Gerardovich's company. You may leave the theatre if you

wish, Sergei Gerardovich,' announced the compere with a regal gesture.

Calmly and with dignity Dunchill turned and walked towards the wings.

'Just a minute! ' The compere stopped him. ' Before you go just let me

show you one more number from our programme.' Again he clapped his hands.

The dark backdrop parted and a beautiful young woman in a ball gown

stepped on stage. She was holding a golden salver on which lay a thick

parcel tied with coloured ribbon, and round her neck she wore a diamond

necklace that flashed blue, yellow and red fire.

Dunchill took a step back and his face turned pale. Complete silence

gripped the audience.

'Eighteen thousand dollars and a necklace worth forty thousand gold

roubles,' the compere solemnly announced, ' belonging to Sergei Gerardovich

and kept for him in Kharkov in the flat of his mistress, Ida Herkulanovna

Vors, whom you have the pleasure of seeing before you now and who has kindly

consented to help in displaying these treasures which, priceless as they

are, are useless in private hands. Thank you very much, Ida Herkulanovna.'

The beauty flashed her teeth and fluttered her long eyelashes. ' And as

for you,' the actor said to Dunchill, ' we now know that beneath that

dignified mask lurks a vicious spider, a liar and a disgrace to our society.

For six weeks you have worn us all out with your stupid obstinacy. Go home

now and may the hell which your wife is preparing for you be your

punishment.'

Dunchill staggered and was about to collapse when a sympathetic pair of

arms supported him. The curtain then fell and bid the occupants of the stage

from sight.

Furious applause shook the auditorium until Nikanor Ivanovich thought

the lamps were going to jump out of the candelabra. When the curtain rose

again there was no one on stage except the actor. To another salvo of

applause he bowed and said :

'We have just shown you a typically stubborn case. Only yesterday I

was saying how senseless it was to try and conceal a secret hoard of foreign

currency. No one who has one can make use of it. Take Dunchill for example.

He is well paid and never short of anything. He has a splendid flat, a wife

and a beautiful mistress. Yet instead of acting like a law-abiding citizen

and handing in his currency and jewellery, all that this incorrigible rogue

has achieved is public exposure and a family scandal. So who wants to hand

in his currency? Nobody? In that case, the next number on our programme will

be that famous actor Savva Potapovich Kurolesov in excerpts from " The

Covetous Knight" by the poet Pushkin.'

Kurolesov entered, a tall, fleshy, clean-shaven man in tails and white

tie. Without a word of introduction he scowled, frowned and began, squinting

at the golden bell, to recite in an unnatural voice :

'Hastening to meet Ills courtesan, the young gallant. . .'

Kurolesov's recital described a tale of evil. He confessed how an

unhappy widow had knelt weeping before him in the rain, but the actor's hard

heart had remained untouched.

Until this dream, Nikanor Ivanovich knew nothing of the works of

Pushkin, although he knew his name well enough and almost every day he used

to make remarks like ' Who's going to pay the rent--Pushkin? ', or ' I

suppose Pushkin stole the light bulb on the staircase', or ' Who's going to

buy the fuel-oil for the boilers--Pushkin, I suppose? ' Now as he listened

to one of Pushkin's dramatic poems for the first time Nikanor Ivanovich felt

miserable, imagining the woman on her knees in the rain with her orphaned

children and he could not help thinking what a beast this fellow Kurolesov

must be.

The actor himself, his voice constantly rising, poured out his

repentance and finally he completely muddled Nikanor Ivanovich by talking to

someone who wasn't on the stage at all, then answered for the invisible man,

all the time calling himself first ' king ', then ' baron ', then ' father

', then ' son ' until the confusion was total. Nikanor Ivanovich only

managed to understand that the actor died a horrible death shouting ' My

keys! My keys! ', at which he fell croaking to the ground, having first

taken care to pull off his white tie.

Having died, Kurolesov got up, brushed the dust from his trousers,

bowed, smiled an insincere smile and walked off to faint applause. The

compere then said :

'In Sawa Potapovich's masterly interpretation we have just heard the

story of " The Covetous Knight". That knight saw himself as a Casanova; but

as you saw, nothing came of his efforts, no nymphs threw themselves at him,

the muses refused him their tribute, he built no palaces and instead he

finished miserably after an attack on his hoard of money and jewels. I warn

you that something of the kind will happen to you, if not worse, unless you

hand over your foreign currency! '

It may have been Pushkin's verse or it may have been the compere's

prosaic remarks which had such an effect; at all events a timid voice was

heard from the audience :

'I'll hand over my currency.'

'Please come up on stage,' was the compere's welcoming response as he

peered into the dark auditorium.

A short blond man, three weeks unshaven, appeared on stage.

'What is your name, please? ' enquired the compere.

'Nikolai Kanavkin ' was the shy answer.

'Ah! Delighted, citizen Kanavkin. Well? '

'I'll hand it over.'

'How much? '

'A thousand dollars and twenty gold ten-rouble pieces.'

'Bravo! Is that all you have? '

The compere stared straight into Kanavkin's eyes and it seemed to

Nikanor Ivanovich that those eyes emitted rays which saw through Kanavkin

like X-rays. The audience held its breath.

'I believe you! ' cried the actor at last and extinguished his gaze. '

I believe you! Those eyes are not lying! How many

times have I said that your fundamental error is to underestimate the

significance of the human eye. The tongue may hide the truth but the

eyes--never! If somebody springs a question you may not even flinch ; in a

second you are in control of yourself and you know what to say in order to

conceal the truth. You can be very convincing and not a wrinkle will flicker

in your expression, but alas! The truth will start forth in a flash from the

depths of your soul to your eyes and the game's up! You're caught!'

Having made this highly persuasive speech, the actor politely asked

Kanavkin:

'Where are they hidden? '

'At my aunt's, in Prechistenka.'

'Ah! That will be ... wait . . . yes, that's Claudia Ilyinishna

Porokhovnikova, isn't it? ' ' Yes.'

'Yes, yes, of course. A little bungalow, isn't it? Opposite a high

fence? Of course, I know it. And where have you put them? '

'In a box in the cellar.'

The actor clasped his hands.

'Oh, no! Really! ' he cried angrily. ' Its so damp there-- they'll

grow mouldy! People like that aren't to be trusted with money! What

child-like innocence. What will they do next?'

Kanavkin, realising that he was doubly at fault, hung his curly head.

'Money,' the actor went on, ' should be kept in the State Bank, in dry

and specially guarded strongrooms, but never in your aunt's cellar where

apart from anything else, the rats may get at it. Really, Kanavkin, you

should be ashamed : you--a grown man! '

Kanavkin did not know which way to look and could only twist the hem of

his jacket with his finger.

'All right,' the artist relented slightly, ' since you have owned up

we'll be lenient. . .' Suddenly he added unexpectedly : ' By the way . . .

we might as well kill two birds with one stone and not waste a car journey

... I expect your aunt has some of her own hidden away, hasn't she? '

Not expecting the conversation to take this turn, Kanavkin gave a start

and silence settled again on the audience.

'Ah, now, Kanavkin,' said the compere in a tone of kindly reproach, '

I was just going to say what a good boy you were I And now you have to go

and upset it all! That wasn't very clever, Kanavkin! Remember what I said

just now about your eyes? Well, I can see from your eyes that your aunt has

something hidden. Come on--don't tantalise us! '

'Yes, she has! ' shouted Kanavkin boldly.

'Bravo! ' cried the compere.

'Bravo! ' roared the audience.

When the noise had died down the compere congratulated Kanavkin, shook

him by the hand, offered him a car to take him home and ordered somebody in

the wings to go and see the aunt in the same car and invite her to appear in

the ladies' section of the programme.

'Oh yes, I nearly forgot to ask you--did your aunt tell you where she

has hidden hers? ' enquired the compere, offering Kanavkin a cigarette and a

lighted match. His cigarette lit, the wretched man gave an apologetic sort

of grin.

'Of course, I believe you. You don't know,' said the actor with a

sigh. ' I suppose the old skinflint wouldn't tell her nephew. Ah well, we

shall just have to try and appeal to her better nature. Perhaps we can still

touch a chord in her miserly old heart. Goodbye, Kanavkin--and good luck! '

Kanavkin departed relieved and happy. The actor then enquired whether

anyone else wished to surrender his foreign currency, but there was no

response.

'Funny, I must say! ' said the compere with a shrug of his shoulders

and the curtain fell.

The lights went out, there was darkness for a while, broken only by the

sound of a quavering tenor voice singing :

'Heaps of gold--and mine, all mine ...'

After a burst of applause, Nikanor Ivanovich's red-bearded neighbour

suddenly announced :

'There's bound to be a confession or two in the ladies' programme.'

Then with a sigh he added: ' oh, if only they don't get my geese! I have a

flock of geese at Lianozov, you see. They're savage birds, but I'm afraid

they'll die if I'm not there. They need a lot of looking after . . . Oh, if

only they don't take my geese! They don't impress me by quoting Pushkin . .

.' and he sighed again.

The auditorium was suddenly flooded with light and Nikanor Ivanovich

began dreaming that a gang of cooks started pouring through all the doors

into the auditorium. They wore white chef's hats, carried ladles and they

dragged into the theatre a vat full of soup and a tray of sliced black

bread. The audience livened up as the cheerful cooks pushed their way down

the aisle pouring the soup into bowls and handing out bread.

'Eat up, lads,' shouted the cooks, ' and hand over your currency! Why

waste your time sitting here? Own up and you can all go home! '

'What are you doing here, old man?' said a fat, red-necked cook to

Nikanor Ivanovich as he handed him a bowl of soup with a lone cabbage leaf

floating in it.

'I haven't got any! I haven't, I swear it,' shouted Nikanor Ivanovich

in a terrified voice.

'Haven't you? ' growled the cook in a fierce bass. ' Haven't you? ' he

enquired in a feminine soprano. ' No, I'm sure you haven't,' he muttered

gently as he turned into the nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna.

She gently shook Nikanor Ivanovich by the shoulder as he groaned in his

sleep. Cooks, theatre, curtain and stage dissolved. Through the tears in his

eyes Nikanor Ivanovich stared round at his hospital room and at two men in

white overalls. They turned out not to be cooks but doctors, standing beside

Praskovya Fyodorovna who instead of a soup-bowl was holding a gauze-covered

white enamelled dish containing a hypodermic syringe.

'What are you doing? ' said Nikanor Ivanovich bitterly as they gave

him an injection. ' I haven't any I tell you! Why doesn't Pushkin hand over

his foreign currency? I haven't got any! '

'No, of course you haven't,' said kind Praskovya Fyodorovna, ' and no

one is going to take you to court, so you can forget it and relax.'

After Ms injection Nikanor Ivanovich calmed down and fell into a

dreamless sleep.

His unrest, however, had communicated itself to No. 120 where the

patient woke up and began looking for his head; No. 118 where the nameless

master wrung his hands as he gazed at the moon, remembering that last bitter

autumn night, the patch of light under the door in his basement and the

girl's hair blown loose.

The anxiety from No. 118 flew along the balcony to Ivan, who woke up

and burst into tears.

The doctor soon calmed all his distraught patients and they went back

to sleep. Last of all was Ivan, who only dozed off as dawn began to break

over the river. As the sedative spread through his body, tranquillity

covered him like a slow wave. His body relaxed and his head was filled with

the warm breeze of slumber. As he fell asleep the last thing that he heard

was the dawn chorus of birds in the wood. But they were soon silent again

and he began dreaming that the sun had already set over Mount Golgotha and

that the hill was ringed by a double cordon. ...

16. The Execution

The sun had already set over Mount Golgotha and the hill was ringed by

a double cordon.

The cavalry ala that had held up the Procurator that morning had left

the city at a trot by the Hebron Gate, its route cleared ahead of it.

Infantrymen of the Cappadocian cohort pressed back a crowd of people, mules

and camels, and the ala, throwing up pillars of white dust, trotted towards

the crossroads where two ways met--one southward to Bethlehem, the other

northwestward to Jaffa. The ala took the north-westward route. More of the

Cappadocians had been posted along the edge of the road in time to clear the

route of all the caravans moving into Jerusalem for Passover. Crowds of

pilgrims stood behind the line of troops, leaving the temporary shelter of

their tents pitched on the grass. After about a kilometre the ala overtook

the second cohort of the Lightning legion and having gone a further

kilometre arrived first at the foot of Mount Golgotha. There the commander

hastily divided the ala into troops and cordoned off the base of the low

hill, leaving only a small gap where a path led from the Jaffa road to the

hilltop.

After a while the second cohort arrived, climbed up and formed another

cordon round the hill.

Last on the scene was the century under the command of Mark Muribellum.

It marched in two single files, one along each edge of the road, and between

them, escorted by a secret service detachment, drove the cart carrying the

three prisoners. Each wore a white board hung round his neck on which were

written the words ' Robber & Rebel' in Aramaic and Greek. Behind the

prisoners' cart came others, loaded with freshly sawn posts and

cross-pieces, ropes, spades, buckets and axes. They also carried six

executioners. Last in the convoy rode Mark the centurion, the captain of the

temple guard and the same hooded man with whom Pilate had briefly conferred

in a darkened room of the palace.

Although the procession was completely enclosed by troops, it was

followed by about two thousand curious sightseers determined to watch this

interesting spectacle despite the infernal heat. These spectators from the

city were now being joined by crowds of pilgrims, who were allowed to follow

the tail of the procession unhindered, as it made its way towards Mount

Golgotha to the bark of the heralds' voices as they repeated Pilate's

announcement.

The ala allowed them through as far as the second cordon, where the

century admitted only those concerned with the execution and then, with a

brisk manoeuvre, spread the crowd round the hill between the mounted cordon

below and the upper ring formed by the infantry, allowing the spectators to

watch the execution through a thin line of soldiery.

More than three hours had gone by since the procession had reached the

hill and although the sun over Mount Golgotha had already begun its descent,

the heat was still unbearable. The troops in both cordons were suffering

from it; stupefied with boredom, they cursed the three robbers and sincerely

wished them a quick death.

At the gap in the lower cordon the diminutive commander of the ala, his

forehead damp and his white tunic soaked with the sweat of his back,

occasionally walked over to the leather bucket in No. I. Troop's lines,

scooped up the water in handfuls, drank and moistened his turban. With this

slight relief from the heat he would return and recommence pacing up and

down the dusty path leading to the top. His long sword bumped against his

laced leather boot. As commander he had to set an example of endurance to

his men, but he considerately allowed them to stick their lances into the

ground and drape their white cloaks over the tops of the shafts. The Syrians

then sheltered from the pitiless sun under these makeshift tents. The

buckets emptied quickly and a rota of troopers was kept busy fetching water

from a ravine at the foot of the hill, where a muddy stream flowed in the

shade of a clump of gaunt mulberry trees. There, making the most of the

inadequate shade, the bored grooms lounged beside the horse-lines.

The troops were exhausted and their resentment of the victims was

understandable. Fortunately, however, Pilate's fears that disorders might

occur in Jerusalem during the execution were unjustified. When the fourth

hour of the execution had passed, against all expectation not a man remained

between the two cordons. The sun had scorched the crowd and driven it back

to Jerusalem. Beyond the ring formed by the two Roman centuries there were

only a couple of stray dogs. The heat had exhausted them too and they lay

panting with their tongues out, too weary even to chase the green-backed

lizards, the only creatures unafraid of the sun, which darted between the

broken stones and the spiny, ground-creeping cactus plants.

No one had tried to attack the prisoners, neither in Jerusalem, which

was packed with troops, nor on the cordoned hill. The crowd had drifted back

into town, bored by this dull execution and eager to join in the

preparations for the feast which were already under way in the city.

The Roman infantry forming the second tier was suffering even more

acutely than the cavalrymen. Centurion Muribellum's only concession to his

men was to allow them to take off their helmets and put on white headbands

soaked in water, but he kept them standing, lance in hand. The centurion

himself, also wearing a headband though a dry one, walked up and down a

short distance from a group of executioners without even removing his heavy

silver badges of rank, his sword or his dagger. The sun beat straight down

on the centurion without causing him the least distress and such was the

glitter from the silver of his lions' muzzles that a glance at them was

almost blinding.

Muribellum's disfigured face showed neither exhaustion nor displeasure

and the giant centurion seemed strong enough to keep pacing all day, all

night and all the next day. For as long as might be necessary he would go on

walking with his hands on his heavy bronze-studded belt, he would keep his

stern gaze either on the crucified victims or on the line of troops, or just

kick at the rubble on the ground with the toe of his rough hide boot,

indifferent to whether it was a whitened human bone or a small flint.

The hooded man had placed himself a short way from the gibbets on a

three-legged stool and sat in calm immobility, occasionally poking the sand

with a stick out of boredom.

It was not quite true that no one was left of the crowd between the

cordons. There was one man, but he was partly hidden. He was not near the

path, which was the best place from which to see the execution, but on the

northern side, where the hill was not smooth and passable but rough and

jagged with gulleys and fissures, at a spot where a sickly fig tree

struggled to keep alive on that arid soil by rooting itself in a crevice.

Although the fig tree gave no shade, this sole remaining spectator had

been sitting beneath it on a stone since the very start of the execution

four hours before. He had chosen the worst place to watch the execution,

although he had a direct view of the gibbets and could even see the two

glittering badges on the centurion's chest. His vantage point seemed

adequate, however, for a man who seemed anxious to remain out of sight.

Yet four hours ago this man had behaved quite differently and had made

himself all too conspicuous, which was probably the reason why he had now

changed his tactics and withdrawn to solitude. When the procession had

reached the top of the hill he had been the first of the crowd to appear and

he had shown all the signs of a man arriving late. He had run panting up the

hill, pushing people aside, and when halted by the cordon he had made a

naive attempt, by pretending not to understand their angry shouts, to break

through the line of soldiers and reach the place of execution where the

prisoners were already being led off the cart. For this he had earned a

savage blow on the chest with the blunt end of a lance and had staggered

back with a cry, not of pain but of despair. He had stared at the legionary

who had hit him with the bleary, indifferent look of a man past feeling

physical pain.

Gasping and clutching his chest he had run round to the northern side

of the hill, trying to find a gap in the cordon where he might slip through.

But it was too late, the chain had been closed. And the man, his face

contorted with grief, had had to give up trying to break through to the

carts, from which men were unloading the gibbet-posts. Any such attempt

would have led to his arrest and as his plans for that day did not include

being arrested, he had hidden himself in the crevice where he could watch

unmolested.

Now as he sat on his stone, his eyes festering from heat, dust and lack

of sleep, the black-bearded man felt miserable. First he would sigh, opening

his travel-worn tallith, once blue but now turned dirty grey, and bare his

sweating, bruised chest, then he would raise his eyes to the sky in

inexpressible agony, following the three vultures who had long been circling

the hilltop in expectation of a feast, then gaze hopelessly at the yellow

soil where he stared at the half-crushed skull of a dog and the lizards that

scurried around it.

The man was in such distress that now and again he would talk to

himself.

'Oh, I am a fool,' he mumbled, rocking back and forth in agony of soul

and scratching his swarthy chest. ' I'm a fool, as stupid as a woman--and

I'm a coward! I'm a lump of carrion, not a man I '

He hung his head in silence, then revived by a drink of tepid water

from his wooden flask he gripped the knife hidden under his tallith or

fingered the piece of parchment lying on a stone in front of him with a

stylus and a bladder of ink.

On the parchment were some scribbled notes :

'Minutes pass while I, Matthew the Levite, sit here on Mount Golgotha

and still he is not dead!'

Late:

'The sun is setting and death not yet come.' Hopelessly, Matthew now

wrote with his sharp stylus :

'God! Why are you angry with him? Send him death.'

Having written this, he gave a tearless sob and again scratched his

chest.

The cause of the Levite's despair was his own and Yeshua's terrible

failure. He was also tortured by the fatal mistake which he, Matthew, had

committed. Two days before, Yeshua and Matthew had been in Bethphagy near

Jerusalem, where they had been staying with a market gardener who had taken

pleasure in Yeshua's preaching. All that morning the two men had helped

their host at work in his garden, intending to walk on to Jerusalem in the

cool of the evening. But for some reason Yeshua had been in a hurry, saying

that he had something urgent to do in the city, and had set off alone at

noon. That was Matthew the Levite's first mistake. Why, why had he let him

go alone?

That evening Matthew had been unable to go to Jerusalem, as he had

suffered a sudden and unexpected attack of sickness. He shivered, his body

felt as if it were on fire and he constantly begged for water.

To go anywhere was out of the question. He had collapsed on to a rug in

the gardener's courtyard and had lain there until dawn on Friday, when the

sickness left Matthew as suddenly as it had struck him. Although still weak,

he had felt oppressed by a foreboding of disaster and bidding his host

farewell had set out for Jerusalem. There he had learned that his foreboding

had not deceived him and that the disaster had occurred. The Levite had been

in the crowd that had heard the Procurator pronounce sentence.

When the prisoners were taken away to Mount Golgotha, Matthew the

Levite ran alongside the escort amid the crowd of sightseers, trying to give

Yeshua an inconspicuous signal that at least he, the Levite, was here with

him, that he had not abandoned him on his last journey and that he was

praying for Yeshua to be granted a quick death. But Yeshua, staring far

ahead to where they were taking him, could not see Matthew.

Then, when the procession had covered half a mile or so of the way,

Matthew, who was being pushed along by the crowd level with the prisoners'

cart, was struck by a brilliant and simple idea. In his fervour he cursed

himself for not having thought of it before. The soldiers were not marching

in close order, but with a gap between each man. With great dexterity and

very careful timing it would be possible to bend down and jump between two

legionaries, reach the cart and jump on it. Then Yeshua would be saved from

an agonising death. A moment would be enough to stab Yeshua in the back with

a knife, having shouted to him: ' Yeshua! I shall save you and depart with

you! I, Matthew, your faithful and only disciple!'

And if God were to bless him with one more moment of freedom he could

stab himself as well and avoid a death on the gallows. Not that Matthew, the

erstwhile tax-collector, cared much how he died: he wanted only one

thing--that Yeshua, who had never done anyone the least harm in his life,

should be spared the torture of crucifixion.

The plan was a very good one, but it had a great flaw--the Levite had

no knife and no money.

Furious with himself, Matthew pushed his way out of the crowd and ran

back to the city. His head burned with the single thought of how he might at

once, by whatever means, find a knife somewhere in town and then catch up

with the procession again.

He ran as far as the city gate, slipping through the crowd of pilgrims'

caravans pouring into town, and saw on his left the open door of a baker's

shop. Breathless from running on the hot road, the Levite pulled himself

together, entered the shop very sedately, greeted the baker's wife standing

behind the counter, asked her for a loaf from the top shelf which he

affected to prefer to all the rest and as she turned round, he silently and

quickly snatched off the counter the very thing he had been looking for--a

long, ra2or-sharp breadknife--and fled from the shop.

A few minutes later he was back on the Jaffa road, but the procession

was out of sight. He ran. Once or twice he had to drop and lie motionless to

regain his breath, to the astonishment of all the passers-by making for

Jerusalem on mule-back or on foot. As he lay he could hear the beat of his

heart in his chest, in his head and his ears. Rested, he stood up and began

running again, although his pace grew slower and slower. When he finally

caught sight again of the long, dusty procession, it had already reached the

foot of the hill.

'Oh, God! ' groaned the Levite. He knew he was too late.

With the passing of the fourth hour of the execution Matthew's torments

reached their climax and drove him to a frenzy. Rising from his stone, he

hurled the stolen knife to the ground, crushed his flask with his foot, thus

depriving himself of water, snatched the kefiyeh from his head, tore his

flowing hair and cursed himself. As he cursed in streams of gibberish,

bellowed and spat, Matthew slandered his father and mother for begetting

such a fool.

Since cursing and swearing had no apparent effect at all and changed

nothing in that sun-scorched inferno, he clenched his dry fists and raised

them heavenwards to the sun as it slowly descended, lengthening the shadows

before setting into the Mediterranean. The Levite begged God to perform a

miracle and allow Yeshua to die.

When he opened his eyes again nothing on the hill had changed, except

that the light no longer flashed from the badges on the centurion's chest.

The sun was shining on the victims' backs, as their faces were turned east

towards Jerusalem. Then the Levite cried out:

'I curse you. God! '

In a hoarse voice he shouted that God was unjust and that he would

believe in him no more.

'You are deaf! ' roared Matthew. ' If you were not deaf you would have

heard me and killed him in the instant!'

His eyes tight shut, the Levite waited for the fire to strike him from

heaven. Nothing happened. Without opening his eyes, he vented his spite in a

torrent of insults to heaven. He shouted that his faith was ruined, that

there were other gods and better. No other god would have allowed a man like

Yeshua to be scorched to death on a pole.

'No--I was wrong! ' screamed the Levite, now quite hoarse. ' You are a

God of evil! Or have your eyes been blinded by the smoke of sacrifices from

the temple and have your ears grown deaf to everything but the trumpet-calls

of the priests? You are not an almighty God--you are an evil God! I curse

you. God of robbers, their patron and protector! '

At that moment there was a puff of air in his face and something

rustled under his feet. Then came another puff and as he opened his eyes the

Levite saw that everything, either as a result of his imprecations or from

some other cause, had changed. The sun had been swallowed by a thundercloud

looming up, threatening and inexorable, from the west. Its edges were white

and ragged, its rumbling black paunch tinged with sulphur. White pillars of

dust, raised by the sudden wind, flew along the Jaffa road. The Levite was

silent, wondering if the storm which was about to break over Jerusalem might

alter the fate of the wretched Yeshua. Watching the tongues of lightning

that flickered round the edges of the cloud, he began to pray for one to

strike Yeshua's gibbet. Glancing penitently up at the remaining patches of

blue sky in which the vultures were winging away to avoid the storm, Matthew

knew that he had cursed too soon: God would not listen to him now.

Turning round to look at the foot of the hill, the Levite stared at the

cavalry lines and saw that they were on the move. From his height he had a

good view of the soldiers' hasty preparations as they pulled their lances

out of the ground and threw their cloaks over their shoulders. The grooms

were running towards the path, leading strings of troop horses. The regiment

was moving out. Shielding his face with his hand and spitting out the sand

that blew into his mouth, the Levite tried to think why the cavalry should

be preparing to go. He shifted his glance higher up the hill and made out a

figure in a purple military chlamys climbing up towards the place of

execution. Matthew's heart leaped : he sensed a quick end. The man climbing

Mount Golgotha in the victims' fifth hour of suffering was the Tribune of

the Cohort, who had galloped from Jerusalem accompanied by an orderly. At a

signal from Muribellum the cordon of soldiers opened and the centurion

saluted the Tribune, who took Muribellum aside and whispered something to

him. The centurion saluted again and walked over to the executioners, seated

on stones under the gibbets. The Tribune meanwhile turned towards the man on

the three-legged stool. The seated man rose politely as the Tribune

approached him. The officer said something to him in a low voice and both

walked over to the gallows, where they were joined by the captain of the

temple guard.

Muribellum, with a fastidious grimace at the filthy rags lying on the

ground near the crosses--the prisoners' clothes which even the executioners

had spurned--called to two of them and gave an order:

'Follow me!'

A hoarse, incoherent song could just be heard coming from the nearest

gibbet. Hestas had been driven out of his mind two hours ago by the flies

and the heat and was now softly croaking something about a vineyard. His

turbaned head still nodded occasionally, sending up a lazy cloud of flies

from his face.

Dismas on the second cross was suffering more than the other two

because he was still conscious and shaking his head regularly from side to

side.

Yeshua was luckier. He had begun to faint during the first hour, and

had then lapsed into unconsciousness, his head drooping in its ragged

turban. As a result the mosquitoes and horse-flies had settled on him so

thickly that his face was entirely hidden by a black, heaving mask. All over

his groin, his stomach and under his armpits sat bloated horseflies, sucking

at the yellowing naked body.

At a gesture from the man in the hood one of the executioners picked up

a lance and the other carried a bucket and sponge to the gibbet. The first

executioner raised the lance and used it to hit Yeshua first on one extended

arm and then on the other.

The emaciated body gave a twitch. The executioner then poked Yeshua in

the stomach with the handle of the lance. At this Yeshua raised his head,

the flies rose with a buzz and the victim's face was revealed, swollen with

bites, puff-eyed, unrecognisable.

Forcing open his eyelids, Ha-Notsri looked down. His usually clear eyes

were now dim and glazed.

'Ha-Notsri!' said the executioner.

Ha-Notsri moved his swollen lips and answered in a hoarse croak:

'What do you want? Why have you come? '

'Drink! ' said the executioner and a water-soaked sponge was raised to

Yeshua's lips on the point of a lance. Joy lit up his eyes, he put his mouth

to the sponge and greedily sucked its moisture. From the next gibbet came

the voice of Dismas :

'It's unjust! He's as much a crook as me! '

Dismas strained ineffectually, his arms being lashed to the cross-bar

in three places. He arched his stomach, clawed the end of the crossbeam with

his nails and tried to turn his eyes, full of envy and hatred, towards

Yeshua's cross.

'Silence on the second gibbet! '

Dismas was silent. Yeshua turned aside from the sponge. He tried to

make his voice sound kind and persuasive, but failed and could only croak

huskily :

'Give him a drink too.'

It was growing darker. The cloud now filled half the sky as it surged

towards Jerusalem; smaller white clouds fled before the black monster

charged with fire and water. There was a flash and a thunderclap directly

over the hill. The executioner took the sponge from the lance.

'Hail to the merciful hegemon! ' he whispered solemnly and gently

pierced Yeshua through the heart. Yeshua shuddered and whispered:

'Hegemon . . .'

Blood ran down his stomach, his lower jaw twitched convulsively and his

head dropped. At the second thunderclap the executioner gave the sponge to

Dismas with the same words :

'Hail, hegemon . . .' and killed him.

Hestas, his reason gone, cried out in fear as the executioner

approached him, but when the sponge touched his lips he gave a roar and sank

his teeth into it. A few seconds later his body was hanging as limply as the

ropes would allow.

The man in the hood followed the executioner and the centurion; behind

him in turn came the captain of the temple guard. Stopping at the first

gibbet the hooded man carefully inspected Yeshua's bloodstained body,

touched the pole with his white hand and said to his companions :

'Dead.'

The same was repeated at the other two gallows.

After this the Tribune gestured to the centurion and turned to walk

down the hill with the captain of the temple guard and the hooded man.

It was now twilight and lightning was furrowing the black sky. Suddenly

there was a brilliant flash and the centurion's shout of' Fall out, the

cordon! ' was drowned in thunder. The delighted soldiers started running

down hill, buckling on their helmets as they went.

A mist had covered Jerusalem.

The downpour struck suddenly and caught the centurion halfway down the

hill. The rain fell with such force that turbulent streams began catching

them up as they ran. The troops slithered and fell on the muddy soil as they

hurried to reach the main road. Moving fast, now scarcely visible in a veil

of water, the rain-soaked cavalry was already on its way back to Jerusalem.

After a few minutes only one man was left on the hill in the smoking

cauldron of wind, water and fire.

Brandishing his stolen knife, for which he now had a use after all,

leaping over the slippery rocks, grasping whatever came to hand, at times

crawling on his knees, he stumbled towards the gallows in alternate spells

of complete darkness and flashes of light. When he reached the gallows he

was already ankle-deep in water and threw off his soaking tallith. Wearing

only his shirt Matthew fell at Yeshua's feet. He cut the ropes round his

knees, climbed on to the lower crossbar, embraced Yeshua and freed his arms

from their bonds. Yeshua's wet, naked body collapsed on to Matthew and

dragged him to the ground. The Levite was just about to hoist him on to his

shoulders when another thought stopped him. He left the body on the watery

ground, its head thrown back and arms outstretched, and ran, slithering, to

the other gibbet-posts. He cut their ropes and the two bodies fell to the

ground.

A few minutes later only those two water-lashed bodies and three empty

gibbets remained on Mount Golgotha. Matthew the Levite and Yeshua were gone.

17. A Day of Anxiety

On Friday morning, the day after the disastrous show, the permanent

staff of the Variety Theatre--Vassily Stepanovich Lastochkin the accountant,

two bookkeepers, three typists, the two cashiers, the ushers, the

commissionaires and the cleaners-- were not at work but were instead sitting

on the window-ledges looking out on to Sadovaya Street and watching what was

happening outside the theatre. There beneath the theatre walls wound a

double queue of several thousand people whose tail-end had already reached

Kudrinskaya Square. At the head of the queue stood a couple of dozen of the

leading lights of the Moscow theatrical world.

The queue was in a state of high excitement, attracting the attention

of the passers-by and busily swapping hair-raising stories about the

previous evening's incredible performance of black magic. Vassily

Stepanovich the accountant, who had not been at yesterday's show, was

growing more and more uneasy. The commissionaires were saying unbelievable

things, such as how after the show a number of ladies had been seen on the

street in a highly improper state. The shy and unassuming Vassily

Stepanovich could only blink as he listened to the description of all these

sensations and felt utterly unable to decide what to do ; meanwhile

something had to be done and it was he who had to do it, as he was now the

senior remaining member of the Variety's management.

By ten o'clock the ticket queue had swollen to such a size that the

police came to hear of it and rapidly sent some detachments of horse and

foot to reduce the queue to order. Unfortunately the mere existence of a

mile-long queue was enough to cause a minor riot in spite of all the police

could do.

Inside the Variety things were as confused as they were outside. The

telephone had been ringing since early morning-- ringing in Likhodeyev's

office, in Rimsky's office, in the accounts department, in the box-office

and in Varenukha's office. At first Vassily Stepanovich had attempted to

answer, the cashier had tried to cope, the commissionaires had mumbled

something into the telephone when it rang, but soon they stopped answering

altogether because there was simply no answer to give the people asking

where Likhodeyev, Rimsky and Varenukha were. They had been able to put them

off the scent for a while by saying that Likhodeyev was in his flat, but

this only produced more angry calls later, declaring that they had rung

Likhodeyev's flat and been told that he was at the Variety.

One agitated lady rang up and demanded to speak to Rimsky and was

advised to ring his wife at home, at which the earpiece, sobbing, replied

that she was Rimsky's wife and he was nowhere to be found. Odd stories began

to circulate. One of the charwomen was telling everyone that when she had

gone to clean the treasurer's office she had found the door ajar, the lights

burning, the window on to the garden smashed, a chair overturned on the

floor and no one in the room.

At eleven o'clock Madame Rimsky descended on the Variety, weeping and

wringing her hands. Vassily Stepanovich was by now utterly bewildered and

unable to offer her any advice. Then at half past eleven the police

appeared. Their first and very reasonable question was :

'What's happening here? What is all this? '

The staff" retreated, pushing forward the pale and agitated Vassily

Stepanovich. Describing the situation as it really was, he had to admit that

the entire management of the Variety, including the general manager, the

treasurer and the house manager, had vanished without trace, that last

night's compere had been removed to a lunatic asylum and that, in short,

yesterday's show had been a catastrophe.

Having done their best to calm her, the police sent the sobbing

Madame Rimsky home, then turned with interest to the charwoman's story

about the state of the treasurer's office. The staff were told to go and get

on with their jobs and after a short while the detective squad turned up,

leading a sharp-eared muscular dog, the colour of cigarette ash and with

extremely intelligent eyes. At once a rumour spread among the Variety

Theatre staff that the dog was none other than the famous Ace of Diamonds.

It was. Its behaviour amazed everybody. No sooner had the animal walked into

the treasurer's office than it growled, bared its monstrous yellowish teeth,

then crouched on its stomach and crept towards the broken window with a look

of mingled terror and hostility. Mastering its fear the dog suddenly leaped

on to the window ledge, raised its great muzzle and gave an eerie, savage

howl. It refused to leave the window, growled, trembled and crouched as

though wanting to jump out of the window.

The dog was led out of the office to the entrance hall, from whence it

went out of the main doors into the street and across the road to the

taxi-rank. There it lost the scent. After that Ace of Diamonds was taken

away.

The detectives settled into Varenukha's office, where one after the

other, they called in all the members of the Variety staff who had witnessed

the events of the previous evening. At every step the detectives were beset

with unforeseen difficulties. The thread kept breaking in their hands.

Had there been any posters advertising the performance? Yes, there had.

But since last night new ones had been pasted over them and now there was

not a single one to be found anywhere. Where did this magician come from?

Nobody knew. Had a contract been signed?

'I suppose so,' replied Vassily Stepanovich miserably.

'And if so it will have gone through the books, won't it? '

'Certainly,' replied Vassily Stepanovich in growing agitation.

'Then where is it? '

'It's not here,' replied the accountant, turning paler and spreading

his hands. It was true : there was no trace of a contract in the accounts

department files, the treasurer's office, Likhodeyev's office or Varenukha's

office.

What was the magician's surname? Vassily Stepanovich did not know, he

had not been at yesterday's show. The commissionaires did not know, the

box-office cashier frowned and frowned, thought and thought, and finally

said :

'Wo ... I think it was Woland. . . .'

Perhaps it wasn't Woland? Perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was Poland.

The Aliens' Bureau, it appeared, had never heard of anyone called

Woland or Poland or any other black magician. Karpov, an usher, said that as

far as he knew the magician was staying at Likhodeyev's flat. Naturally they

immediately went to the flat, but there was no sign of a magician living

there. Likhodeyev himself was also missing. The maid Grunya was not there

and nobody knew where she was. Both the house committee chairman, Nikanor

Ivanovich, and the secretary, Prolezhnev, had also vanished.

The investigation so far appeared to amount to a total absurdity : the

entire management had vanished, there had been a scandalous show the

previous evening--but who had arranged it? Nobody knew.

Meanwhile it was nearly noon, time for the box office to open. This, of

course, was out of the question. A large piece of cardboard was hung on the

Variety's doors with the announcement:

today's

PERFORMANCE

CANCELLED

This caused a stir in the queue, beginning at its head, but the

excitement subsided and the queue began to disperse. After an hour there was

scarcely a trace of it on Sadovaya Street. The detectives left to pursue

their inquiries elsewhere, the staff, except for the watchmen, were

dismissed and the doors of the Variety were closed.

Vassily Stepanovich the accountant had two urgent tasks to perform.

Firstly to go to the Commission for Theatrical Spectacles and Light

Entertainment with a report on the previous day's events and then to deposit

yesterday's takings of 21,711 roubles at the Commission's finance

department.

The meticulous and efficient Vassily Stepanovich wrapped the money in

newspaper, tied it up with string, put it into his briefcase and following

his standing instructions avoided taking a bus or tram but went instead to

the nearby taxi-rank.

As soon as the three cab-drivers on the rank saw a fare approaching

with a chock-full briefcase under his arm, all three of them instantly drove

off empty, scowling back as they went. Amazed, the accountant stood for a

while wondering what this odd behaviour could mean. After about three

minutes an empty cab drove up the the rank, the driver grimacing with

hostility when he saw his fare.

'Are you free? ' asked Vassily Stepanovich with an anxious cough.

'Show me your money,' snarled the driver.

Even more amazed, the accountant clutched his precious briefcase under

one arm, pulled a ten-rouble note out of his wallet and showed it to the

driver.

'I'm not taking you,' he said curtly.

'Excuse me, but . . .' The accountant began, but the driver

interrupted him:

'Got a three-rouble note? '

The bewildered accountant took out two three-rouble notes from his

wallet and showed them to the driver.

'O.K., get in,' he shouted, slamming down the flag of his meter so

hard that he almost broke it. ' Let's go.'

'Are you short of change? ' enquired the accountant timidly.

'Plenty of change! ' roared the driver and his eyes, reddened with

fury, glared at Vassily Stepanovich from the mirror. ' Third time it's

happened to me today. Just the same with the others. Some son of a bitch

gives me a tenner and I give him four-fifty change. Out he gets, the

bastard! Five minutes later I look--instead of a tenner there's a label off

a soda-water bottle! ' Here the driver said several unprintable words. '

Picked up another fare on Zaborskaya. Gives me a tenner--I give him three

roubles change. Gets out. I look in my bag and out flies a bee! Stings me on

the finger! I'll . . .' The driver spat out more unprintable words. ' And

there was no tenner. There was a show on at that (unprintable) Variety

yesterday evening and some (unprintable) conjurer did a turn with a lot of

(unprintable) ten-rouble notes . . .'

The accountant was dumbstruck. He hunched himself up and tried to look

as if he was hearing the very word ' Variety ' for the first time in his

life as he thought to himself: ' Well I'm damned! '

Arrived at his destination and paying in proper money, the accountant

went into one building and hurried along the corridor to the chief cashier's

office, but even before he reached it he realised that he had come at a bad

moment. A rumpus was going on in the offices of the Theatrical Commission. A

cleaner ran past him with her headscarf awry and bulging eyes.

'He's not there! He's not there, dear,' she screamed, turning to

another man hurrying along the passage. ' His jacket and trousers are there

but there's nobody in 'em! '

She disappeared through a door, from which there at once came the sound

of smashing crockery. Vassily Stepanovich then saw the familiar figure of

the chief cashier come running out of the secretaries' office and vanish,

but the man was in such a state that he failed to recognise Vasilly

Stepanovich.

Slightly shaken, the accountant reached the door of the secretaries'

office, which was the ante-room to the chairman's office, where he had the

greatest shock of all.

Through the far door came a terrible voice, unmistakably belonging to

Prokhor Petrovich, the chairman of the Commission. ' I suppose he's telling

somebody off,' thought the puzzled accountant. Looking round, he saw

something else--there, in a leather armchair, her head resting on the back,

sobbing uncontrollably and clutching a wet handkerchief, her legs stretched

out to the middle of the floor, lay Prokhor Petrovich's secretary, the

beautiful Anna Richardovna. Her chin was smeared with lipstick and streaks

of dissolved mascara were running down her peach-skin cheeks.

Seeing him come in, Anna Richardovna jumped up, ran to Vassily

Stepanovich, clutched his lapels and began to shake him, howling:

'Thank God! At least there's one of you brave enough! They've all run

away, they've all let us down! Come and see him, I don't know what to do! '

Still sobbing she dragged him into the chairman's office.

Once inside Vassily Stepanovich dropped his briefcase in horror.

Behind the huge desk with its massive inkwell sat an empty suit. A dry

pen was hurrying, unheld, across a sheet of paper. The suit had a shirt and

tie, a fountain pen was clipped in its breast-pocket, but above the collar

there was no neck and no head and there were no wrists protruding from the

cuffs. The suit was hard at work and oblivious of the uproar round about.

Hearing someone come in, the suit leaned back in its chair and from

somewhere just above the collar came the familiar voice of Prokhor

Petrovich:

'What is it? There's a notice on the door saying that I'm not seeing

visitors.'

The beautiful secretary moaned and cried, wringing her hands :

'Don't you see? He's not there! Bring him back, oh bring him back!'

Someone peeped round the door, groaned and flew out again. Vassily

Stepanovich felt his legs shaking and he sat down on the edge of a

chair--not forgetting, though, to hold on to his briefcase. Anna Richardovna

pranced round Vassily Stepanovich, pulling at his coat and shrieking :

'I've always, always stopped him whenever he began swearing! Now he's

sworn once too often!' The girl ran to the desk and exclaimed in a tender,

musical voice, slightly nasal from so much weeping: ' Prosha dear, where are

you? '

'Who are you addressing as " Prosha "? ' enquired the suit haughtily,

drawing further back into the chair.

'He doesn't recognise me! He doesn't recognise me! Don't you see? '

sobbed the girl.

'Kindly stop crying in my office!' said the striped suit irritably,

stretching out its sleeve for a fresh pile of paper.

'No, I can't look, I can't look! ' cried Anna Richardovna and ran back

into her office, followed, like a bullet, by the accountant.

'Just imagine--I was sitting here,' began Anna Richardovna trembling

with horror and clutching Vassily Stepanovich's sleeve, ' when in came a

cat. A great black animal as big as Behemoth. Naturally I shooed it out and

it went, but then a fat man came in who also had a face like a cat, said "

Do you always say ' shoo ' to visitors?" and went straight in to Prokhor

Petrovich. So I shouted " What d'you mean by going in there --have you gone

crazy? " But the cheeky brute marched straight in to Prokhor Petrovich and

sat down in the chair facing him. Well, Prokhor is the nicest man alive, but

he's nervous. He lost his temper. He works like a trojan, but he's apt to be

nervy and he just flared up. " Why have you come in here without being

announced? " he said. And then, if you please, that impudent creature

stretched out in his chair and said with a smile : " I've come to have a

chat with you on a little matter of business." Prokhor Petrovich snapped at

him again :

" I'm busy," to which the beast said: " You're not busy at all ..." How

d'you like that? Well, of course, Prokhor Petrovich lost all patience then

and shouted: " What is all this? Damn me if I don't have you thrown out of

here! " The beast just smiled and said: " Damn you, I think you said? Very

well! " And--bang! Before I could even scream, I looked and cat-face had

gone and there was this . . . suit . . . sitting . . . Oooooh! ' Stretching

her mouth into a shapeless cavity Anna Richardovna gave a howl. Choking back

her sobs she took a deep breath but could only gulp nonsensically:

'And it goes on writing and writing and writing! I must be going off

my head! It talks on the telephone! The suit! They've all run away like

rabbits! '

Vassily Stepanovich could only stand there, trembling. Fate rescued

him. Into the secretaries' office with a firm, regular tread marched two

policemen. Catching sight of them the lovely girl began sobbing even harder

and pointed towards the office door.

'Now, now, miss, let's not cry,' said the first man calmly. Vassily

Stepanovich, deciding that he was superfluous, skipped away and a minute

later was out in the fresh air. His head felt hollow, something inside it

was booming like a trumpet and the noise reminded him of the story told by

one of the commissionaires about a cat which had taken part in yesterday's

show. ' Aha! Perhaps it's our little pussy up to his tricks again? '

Having failed to hand in the money at the Commission's head office, the

conscientious Vassily Stepanovich decided to go to the branch office, which

was in Vagankovsky Street and to calm himself a little he made his way there

on foot.

The branch office of the Theatrical Commission was quartered in a

peeling old house at the far end of a courtyard, which was famous for the

porphyry columns in its hallway. That day, however, the visitors to the

house were not paying much attention to the porphyry columns.

Several visitors were standing numbly in the hall and staring at a

weeping girl seated behind a desk full of theatrical brochures which it was

her job to sell. The girl seemed to have lost interest in her literature and

only waved sympathetic enquirers away, whilst from above, below and all

sides of the building came the pealing of at least twenty desperate

telephones.

Weeping, the girl suddenly gave a start and screamed hysterically :

'There it is again! ' and began singing in a wobbly soprano :

'Yo-o, heave-ho! Yo-o heave-ho! '

A messenger, who had appeared on the staircase, shook his fist at

somebody and joined the girl, singing in a rough, tuneless baritone:

'One more heave, lads, one more heave . . .'

Distant voices chimed in, the choir began to swell until finally the

song was booming out all over the building. In nearby room No. 6, the

auditor's department, a powerful hoarse bass voice boomed out an octave

below the rest. The chorus was accompanied crescendo by a peal of telephone

bells.

'All day lo-ong we must trudge the sbore,' roared the messenger on the

staircase.

Tears poured down the girl's face as she tried to clench her teeth, but

her mouth opened of its own accord and she sang an octave above the

messenger :

'Work all da-ay and then work more . . .'

What surprised the dumbfounded visitors was the fact that the singers,

spread all through the building, were keeping excellent time, as though the

whole choir were standing together and watching an invisible conductor.

Passers-by in Vagankovsky Street stopped outside the courtyard gates,

amazed to hear such sounds of harmony coming from the Commission.

As soon as the first verse was over, the singing stopped at once, as

though in obedience to a conductor's baton. The messenger swore under his

breath and ran off.

The front door opened and in walked a man wearing a light coat on top

of a white overall, followed by a policeman.

'Do something, doctor, please! ' screamed the hysterical girl.

The secretary of the branch office ran out on to the staircase and

obviously burning with embarrassment and shame said between hiccups:

'Look doctor, we have a case of some kind of mass hypnosis, so you

must. . .' He could not finish his sentence, stuttered and began singing

'Shilka and Nerchinsk . . .'

'Fool! ' the girl managed to shout, but never managed to say who she

meant and instead found herself forced into a trill and joined in the song

about Shilka and Nerchinsk.

'Pull yourselves together! Stop singing!' said the doctor to the

secretary.

It was obvious that the secretary would have given anything to stop

singing but could not.

When the verse was finished the girl at the desk received a dose of

valerian from the doctor, who hurried off to give the secretary and the rest

the same treatment.

'Excuse me, miss,' Vassily Stepanovich suddenly asked the girl, ' has

a black cat been in here? '

'What cat? ' cried the girl angrily. ' There's a donkey in this

office--a donkey! ' And she went on : 'If you want to hear about it I'll

tell you exactly what's happened.'

Apparently the director of the branch office had a mania for organising

clubs.

'He does it all without permission from head office! ' said the girl

indignantly.

In the course of a year the branch director had succeeded in organising

a Lermontov Club, a Chess and Draughts Club, a Ping-Pong Club and a Riding

Club. In summer he threatened to organise a rowing club and a mountaineering

club. And then this morning in came the director at lunch time . . .

'. . . arm in arm with some villain,' said the girl, ' that he'd picked

up God knows where, wearing check trousers, with a wobbling pince-nez . . .

and an absolutely impossible face! '

There and then, according to the girl, he had introduced him to all the

lunchers in the dining-room as a famous specialist in organising choral

societies.

The faces of the budding mountaineers darkened, but the director told

them to cheer up and the specialist made jokes and assured them on his oath

that singing would take up very little time and was a wonderfully useful

accomplishment.

Well, of course, the girl went on, the first two to jump up were Fanov

and Kosarchuk, both well-known toadies, and announced that they wanted to

join. The rest of the staff realised that there was no way out of it, so

they all joined the choral society too. It was decided to practise during

the lunch break, because all the rest of their spare time was already taken

up with Lermontov and draughts. To set an example the director announced

that he sang tenor. What happened then was like a bad dream. The check-clad

chorus master bellowed: ' Do, mi, sol, do!' He dragged some of the shy

members out from behind a cupboard where they had been trying to avoid

having to sing, told Kosarchuk that he had perfect pitch, whined, whimpered,

begged them to show him some respect as an old choirmaster, struck a tuning

fork on his finger and announced that they would begin with ' The Song of

the Volga Boatmen '.

They struck up. And they sang very well--the man in the check suit

really did know his job. They sang to the end of the first verse. Then the

choirmaster excused himself, saying : ' I'll be back in a moment . . .'--and

vanished. Everybody expected him back in a minute or two, but ten minutes

went by and there was still no sign of him. The staff were delighted--he had

run away!

Then suddenly, as if to order, they all began singing the second verse,

led by Kosarchuk, who may not have had perfect pitch but who had quite a

pleasant high tenor. They finished the verse. Still no conductor. Everybody

started to go back to their tables, but they had no time to eat before quite

against their will they all started singing again. And they could not stop.

There would be three minutes' silence and they would burst out into song

again. Silence--then more singing! Soon people began to realise that

something terrible was happening. The director locked himself in his office

out of shame.

With this the girl's story broke off--even valerian was no use,

A quarter of an hour later three lorries drove up to the gateway on

Vagankovsky Street and the entire branch staff, headed by the director, was

put into them. Just as the first lorry drove through the gate and out into

the street, the staff, standing in the back of the lorry and holding each

other round the shoulders, all opened their mouths and deafened the whole

street with a song. The second lorry-load joined in and then the third. On

they drove, singing. The passers-by hurrying past on their own business gave

the lorries no more than a glance and took no notice, thinking that it was

some works party going on an excursion out of town. They were certainly

heading out of town, but not for an outing: they were bound for Professor

Stravinsky's clinic.

Half an hour later the distracted Vassily Stepanovich reached the

accounts department hoping at last to be able to get rid of his large sum of

money. Having learned from experience, he first gave a cautious glance into

the long hall, where the cashiers sat behind frosted-glass windows with gilt

markings. He found no sign of disturbance or upheaval. All was as quiet as

it should be in such a respectable establishment.

Vassily Stepanovich stuck his head through the window marked ' Paying

In ', said good-day to the clerk and politely asked for a paying-in slip.

'What do you want? ' asked the clerk behind the window.

The accountant looked amazed.

'I want to pay in, of course. I'm from the Variety.'

'One minute,' replied the clerk and instantly shut his little window.

'Funny! ' thought Vassily Stepanovich. This was the first time in his

life that he had been treated like this. We all know how hard it is to

acquire money--the process is strewn with obstacles ; but in his thirty

years' experience Vassily Stepanovich had never yet found anyone who had

made the least objection to taking money when offered it.

At last the window was pushed open again and the accountant leaned

forward again.

'How much have you got? ' asked the clerk.

'Twenty-one thousand, seven hundred and eleven roubles.'

'Oho! ' replied the clerk ironically and handed Vassily Stepanovich a

green form. Thoroughly familiar with it, he filled it out in a moment and

began untying the string on his package. As he unpacked it a red film came

over his eyes and he groaned in agony. In front of him lay heaps of foreign

money--Canadian dollars, English pounds, Dutch guilders, Latvian latts,

Esthonian crowns . . .

'Here's another of these jokers from the Variety! ' said a grim voice

behind the accountant. And Vassily Stepanovich was immediately put under

arrest.

18. Unwelcome Visitors

Just as Vassily Stepanovich was taking a taxi-ride to meet the suit

that wrote by itself, among the passengers from the Kiev express a

respectably dressed man carrying a little fibre suitcase emerged from a

first-class sleeper on to the Moscow platform. This passenger was none other

than the uncle of the late Misha Berlioz, Maximilian Andreyevich Poplavsky,

an economist who worked in the Planning Commission and lived in Kiev. The

cause of his arrival in Moscow was a telegram that he had received late in

the evening two days earlier:

have been run over BY TRAM AT PATRIARCHS FUNERAL THREE O'CLOCK FRIDAY

PLEASE COME BERLIOZ

Maximilian Andreyevich was regarded, and rightly so, as one of the most

intelligent men in Kiev, but a telegram like this would be liable to put

even the brightest of us in a dilemma. If a man telegraphs that he has been

run over, obviously he has not been killed. But then why the funeral? Or is

he so desperately ill that he can foresee his own death? It is possible, but

extremely odd to be quite so precise--even if he can predict his death, how

does he know that he's going to be buried at three o'clock on Friday? What

an astonishing telegram!

Intelligent people, however, become intelligent by solving complicated

problems. It was very simple. There had been a mistake and the wire had

arrived in garbled form. Obviously the word ' have ' belonged to some other

telegram and had been transmitted in error instead of the word ' Berlioz ',

which had been put by mistake at the end of the telegram. Thus corrected,

the meaning was quite clear, though, of course, tragic.

When his wife had recovered from her first grief, Maximilian

Andreyevich at once prepared to go to Moscow.

Here I should reveal a secret about Maximilian Andreyevich. He

genuinely mourned the death of his wife's cousin, cut off in the prime of

life, but at the same time, being a practical man, he fully realised that

there was no special need for his presence at the funeral. Yet Maximilian

Andreyevich was in a great hurry to go to Moscow. What for? For one

thing--the flat. A flat in Moscow was a serious matter. He did not know why,

but Maximilian Andreyevich did not like Kiev and the thought of moving to

Moscow had lately begun to nag at him with such insistence that it was

affecting his sleep.

He took no delight in the spring floods of the Dnieper when, as it

drowned the islands on the lower shore, the water spread until it merged

with the horizon. He found no pleasure in the staggeringly beautiful view

from the foot of the monument to Prince Vladimir. The patches of sunlight

that play in spring over the brick pathways leading to the top of St

Vladimir's hill meant nothing to him. He wanted none of it. He only wanted

to go to Moscow.

Advertisements in the newspapers offering to exchange a flat on

University Street in Kiev for a smaller flat in Moscow produced no results.

Nobody could be found who wanted to move, except a few whose offers turned

out to be fraudulent.

The telegram came as a shock to Maximilian Andreyevich. It was a chance

that would be sinful to miss. Practical people know that opportunities of

that sort never come twice.

In short he had to make sure, at no matter what cost, that he inherited

his nephew's flat in Sadovaya Street. It was going to be complicated, very

complicated, but come what might these complications had to be overcome. An

experienced man, Maximilian Andreyevich knew that the first and essential

step was to arrange a temporary residence permit to stay, for however short

a time, in his late nephew's flat.

So on Friday morning Maximilian Andreyevich walked into the office of

the Tenants' Association of No. 502A, Sadovaya Street, Moscow. In a mean

little room, its wall enlivened by a poster showing in several graphic

diagrams how to revive a drowned man, behind a wooden desk there sat a

lonely, unshaven middle-aged man with a worried look.

'May I see the chairman, please? ' enquired the economist politely,

taking off his hat and placing his attache case on a chair by the door. This

apparently simple question upset the man behind the desk so much that a

complete change came over his expression. Squinting with anxiety he muttered

something incoherent about the chairman not being there.

'Is he in his flat?' asked Poplavsky. ' I have some very urgent

business with him.'

The man gave another indistinct mumble, which meant that he wasn't in

his flat either. ' When will he be back? '

To this the seated man gave no reply except to stare glumly out of the

window.

'Aha! ' said the intelligent Poplavsky to himself and enquired after

the secretary. At this the strange man behind the desk actually went purple

in the face with strain and again muttered vaguely that the secretary wasn't

there either . . . nobody knew when he'd be back again . . . the secretary

was ill ...

'Oho! ' said Poplavsky to himself. ' Is there anybody here from the

Association's management committee? '

'Me,' said the man in a weak voice.

'Look,' said Poplavsky ingratiatingly, ' I am the sole heir of my

nephew Berlioz who as you know died the other day at Patriarch's Ponds and

according to law I have to claim my inheritance. All his things are in our

flat--No. 50 . . .'

'I don't know anything about it, comrade,' the man interrupted

gloomily.' Excuse me,' said Poplavsky in his most charming voice, ' you are

a member of the management committee and you must . . .'

Just then a stranger came into the room. The man behind the desk went

pale.

'Are you Pyatnazhko of the management committee? ' said the stranger.

'Yes, I am,' said the seated man in a tiny voice.

The stranger whispered something to him and the man behind the desk,

now completely bewildered, got up and left Poplavsky entirely alone in the

empty committee room.

'What a nuisance! I should have seen the whole committee at once . .

.' thought Poplavsky with annoyance as he crossed the courtyard and hurried

towards flat No. 50.

He rang the bell, the door was opened and Maximilian Andrey-evich

walked into the semi-darkness of the hall. He was slightly surprised not to

be able to see who had opened the door to him ;

there was no one in the hall except an enormous black cat sitting on a

chair. Maximilian Andreyevich coughed and tapped his foot, at which the

study door opened and Koroviev came into the hall. Maximilian Andreyevich

gave him a polite but dignified bow and said:

'My name is Poplavsky. I am the uncle . . .'

But before he could finish Koroviev pulled a dirty handkerchief out of

his pocket, blew his nose and burst into tears.

'Of course, of course! ' said Koroviev, removing the handkerchief from

his face. ' I only had to see you to know who you were! ' He shook with

tears and began sobbing : ' Oh, what a tragedy! How could such a thing

happen? '

'Was he run over by a tram? ' asked Poplavsky in a whisper.

'Completely!' cried Koroviev, tears streaming past his pince-nez, '

Completely! I saw it happen. Can you believe it? Bang--his head was off,

scrunch--away went his right leg, scrunch--off came his left leg! What these

trams can do.' In his grief, Koroviev leaned his nose against the wall

beside the mirror and shook with sobs.

Berlioz's uncle was genuinely moved by the stranger's behaviour. '

There--and they say people have no feelings nowadays! ' he thought, feeling

his own eyes beginning to prick. At the same time, however, an uneasy

thought snaked across his mind that perhaps this man had already registered

himself in the flat; such things had been known to happen.

'Excuse me, but were you a friend of Misha's? ' he enquired, wiping

his dry left eye with his sleeve and studying the grief-stricken Koroviev

with his right eye. But Koroviev was sobbing so hard that he was inaudible

except for ' Scrunch and off it came! ' His weeping-fit over, Koroviev

finally unstuck himself from the wall and said :

'No, I can't bear it! I shall go and take three hundred drops of

valerian in ether...' Turning his tear-stained face to Poplavsky he added :

' Ah, these trams! '

'I beg your pardon, but did you send me a telegram? ' asked Maximilian

Andreyevich, racking his brains to think who this extraordinary weeping

creature might be.

'He sent it,' replied Koroviev, pointing to the cat. Poplavsky, his

eyes bulging, assumed that he had misheard. ' No, I can't face it any

longer,' went on Koroviev, sniffing. ' When I think of that wheel going over

his leg . . . each wheel weighs 360 pounds . . . scrunch! . . . I must go

and lie down, sleep is the only cure.' And he vanished from the hall.

The cat jumped down from the chair, stood up on its hind legs, put its

forelegs akimbo, opened its mouth and said :

'I sent the telegram. So what? '

Maximilian Andreyevich's head began to spin, his arms and legs gave way

so that he dropped his case and sat down in a chair facing the cat.

'Don't you understand Russian?' said the cat severely. ' What do you

want to know? ' Poplavsky was speechless.

'Passport! ' barked the cat and stretched out a fat paw. Completely

dumbfounded and blind to everything except the twin sparks in the cat's

eyes, Poplavsky pulled his passport out of his pocket like a dagger. The cat

picked up a pair of spectacles in thick black rims from the table under the

mirror, put them on its snout, which made it look even more imposing, and

took the passport from Poplavsky's shaking hand.

'I wonder--have I fainted or what? ' thought Poplavsky. From the

distance came the sound of Koroviev's blubbering, the hall was filled with

the smell of ether, valerian and some other nauseating abomination.

'Which department issued this passport?' asked the cat. There was no

answer.

'Department four hundred and twenty,' said the cat to itself, drawing

its paw across the passport which it was holding upside-down. ' Well, of

course! I know that department, they issue passports to anybody who comes

along. I wouldn't have given one to someone like you. Not on any account.

One look at your face and I'd have refused! ' The cat had worked itself up

into such a temper that it threw the passport to the ground. ' You may not

attend the funeral,' went on the cat in an official voice. ' Kindly go home

at once.' And it shouted towards the door : ' Azazello! '

At this a small, red-haired man limped into the hall. He had one yellow

fang, a wall eye and was wearing a black sweater with a knife stuck into a

leather belt. Feeling himself suffocating, Poplavsky stood up and staggered

back, clutching his heart.

'See him out, Azazello! ' ordered the cat and went out.

'Poplavsky,' said the fanged horror in a nasal whine, ' I hope you

understand?'

Poplavsky nodded.

'Go back to Kiev at once,' Azazello went on, ' stay at home as quiet

as a mouse and forget that you ever thought of getting a flat in Moscow. Got

it? '

The little man only came up to Poplavsky's shoulder, but he reduced him

to mortal terror with his fang, his knife and his wall-eyed squint and he

had an air of cool, calculating energy.

First he picked up the passport and handed it to Maximilian

Andreyevich, who took it with a limp hand. Then Azazello took the suitcase

in his left hand, flung open the front door with his right and taking

Berlioz's uncle by the arm led him out on to the landing. Poplavsky leaned

against the wall. Without a key Azazello opened the little suitcase, took

out of it an enormous roast chicken minus one leg wrapped in greaseproof

paper and put it on the floor. Then he pulled out two sets of clean

under-wear, a razor-strop, a book and a leather case and kicked them all

downstairs except the chicken. The empty suitcase followed it. It could be

heard crashing downstairs and to judge by the sound, the lid broke off as it

went.

Then the carrot-haired ruffian picked up the chicken by its leg and hit

Poplavsky a terrible blow across the neck with it, so violently that the

carcase flew apart leaving Azazello with the leg in his hand. ' Everything

was in a mess in the Oblonskys' house ' as Leo Tolstoy so truly put it, a

remark which applied exactly to the present situation. Everything was in a

mess for Poplavsky. A long spark of light flashed in front of him, then he

had a vision of a funeral procession on a May afternoon and Poplavsky fell

downstairs.

When he reached the landing he knocked a pane out of the window with

his foot and sat down on the step. A legless chicken rolled past him,

disintegrating as it went. On the upper landing Azazello devoured the

chicken-leg in a flash, stuffed the bone into his pocket, turned back into

the flat and slammed the door behind him.

From below there came the sound of a man's cautious steps coming

upstairs. Poplavsky ran down another flight and sat down on a little wooden

bench on the landing to draw breath.

A tiny little old man with a painfully sad face, wearing an

old-fashioned tussore suit and a straw boater with a green ribbon, came up

the stairs and stopped beside Poplavsky.

'Would you mind telling me, sir,' enquired the man in tussore sadly, '

where No. 50 might be? '

'Upstairs,' gasped Poplavsky.

'Thank you very much, sir,' said the little man as gloomily as before

and plodded upward, whilst Poplavsky stood up and walked on downstairs.

You may ask whether Maximilian Andreyevich hurried to the police to

complain about the ruffians who had handled him with such violence in broad

daylight. He most certainly did not. How could he walk into a police station

and say that a cat had been reading his passport and that a man in a sweater

armed with a knife . . .? No, Maximilian Andreyevich was altogether too

intelligent for that.

He had by now reached the ground floor and noticed just beside the main

door another little door, with a broken glass pane, leading into a storage

cupboard. Poplavsky put his passport into his pocket and hunted round for

the scattered contents of his suitcase. There was no trace of them. He was

amazed to notice how little this worried him. Another and rather intriguing

idea now occupied him--to stay and see what happened when the little old man

went into the sinister flat. Since he had asked the way to No. 50, he must

be going there for the first time and was heading straight for the clutches

of the gang that had moved into the flat. Something told Poplavsky that the

little man was going to come out of that flat again in quick time. Naturally

he had given up any idea of going to his nephew's funeral and there was

plenty of time before the train left for Kiev. The economist glanced round

and slipped into the cupboard.

Just then came the sound of a door closing upstairs. ' He's gone in . .

.' thought Poplavsky anxiously. It was damp and cold in the cupboard and it

smelled of mice and boots. Maximilian Andreyevich sat down on a log of wood

and decided to wait. He was in a good position to watch the staircase and

the doorway leading on to the courtyard.

However he had to wait longer than he had expected. The staircase

remained empty. At last the door on the fifth floor was heard shutting.

Poplavsky froze. Yes, those were his footsteps. ' He's coming down . . .' A

door opened one floor lower. The footsteps stopped. A woman's voice. A sad

man's voice--yes, that was him . . . saying something like ' Stop it, for

heaven's sake . . .' Poplavsky stuck his ear out through the broken pane and

caught the sound of a woman's laughter. Quick, bold steps coming downstairs

and a woman flashed past. She was carrying a green oilcloth bag and hurried

out into the courtyard. Then came the little man's footsteps again. ' That's

odd! He's going back into the flat again! Surely he's not one of the gang?

Yes, he's going back. They've opened the door upstairs again. Well, let's

wait a little longer and see . . .'

This time there was not long to wait. The sound of the door. Footsteps.

The footsteps stopped. A despairing cry. A cat miaowing. A patter of quick

footsteps coming down, down, down!

Poplavsky waited. Crossing himself and muttering the sad little man

rushed past, hatless, an insane look on his face, his bald head covered in

scratches, his trousers soaking wet. He began struggling with the door

handle, so terrified that he failed to see whether it opened inwards or

outwards, finally mastered it and flew out into the sunlit courtyard.

The experiment over and without a further thought for his dead nephew

or for his flat, trembling to think of the danger he had been through and

muttering, ' I see it all, I see it all!' Maximilian Andreyevich ran

outside. A few minutes later a trolley-bus was carrying the economist

towards the Kiev station.

While the economist had been lurking in the downstairs cupboard, the

little old man had been through a distressing experience. He was a barman at

the Variety Theatre and his name was Andrei Fokich Sokov. During the police

investigation at the theatre, Andrei Fokich had kept apart from it all and

the only thing noticeable about him was that he grew even sadder-looking

than usual. He also found out from Karpov, the usher, where the magician was

staying.

So, leaving the economist on the landing, the barman climbed up to the

fifth floor and rang the bell at No. 50.

The door was opened immediately, but the barman shuddered and staggered

back without going in. The door had been opened by a girl, completely naked

except for an indecent little lace apron, a white cap and a pair of little

gold slippers. She had a perfect figure and the only flaw in her looks was a

livid scar on her neck.

'Well, come on in, since you rang,' said the girl, giving the barman

an enticing look.

Andrei Fokich groaned, blinked and stepped into the hall, taking off

his hat. At that moment the telephone rang. The shameless maid put one foot

on a chair, lifted the receiver and said into it:

'Hullo!'

The barman did not know where to look and shifted from foot to foot,

thinking : ' These foreigners and their maids! Really, it's disgusting! ' To

save himself from being disgusted he stared the other way.

The large, dim hallway was full of strange objects and pieces of

clothing. A black cloak lined with fiery red was thrown over the back of a

chair, while a long sword with a shiny gold hilt lay on the console under

the mirror. Three swords with silver hilts stood in one corner as naturally

as if they had been umbrellas or walking sticks, and berets adorned with

eagles' plumes hung on the antlers of a stag's head.

'Yes,' said the girl into the telephone. ' I beg your pardon? Baron

Maigel? Very good, sir. Yes. The professor is in today. Yes, he'll be

delighted to see you. Yes, it's formal . . . Tails or dinner jacket. When?

At midnight.' The conversation over, she put back the receiver and turned to

the barman.

'What do you want? '

'I have to see the magician.'

'What, the professor himself? '

'Yes,' replied the barman miserably.

'I'll see,' said the maid, hesitating, then she opened the door into

Berlioz's study and announced: ' Sir, there's a little man here. He says he

has to see messire in person.'

'Show him in,' said Koroviev's cracked voice from the study.

'Go in, please,' said the girl as naturally as if she had been

normally dressed, then opened the door and left the hall.

As he walked in the barman was so amazed at the furnishing of the room

that he forgot why he had come. Through the stained-glass windows (a fantasy

of the jeweller's widow) poured a strange ecclesiastical light. Although the

day was hot there was a log fire in the vast old-fashioned fireplace, yet it

gave no heat and instead the visitor felt a wave of damp and cold as though

he had walked into a tomb. In front of the fireplace sat a great black

tomcat on a tiger-skin rug blinking pleasurably at the fire. There was a

table, the sight of which made the God-fearing barman shudder--it was

covered with an altar-cloth and on top of it was an army of

bottles--bulbous, covered in mould and dust. Among the bottles glittered a

plate, obviously of solid gold. By the fireplace a little red-haired man

with a knife in his belt was roasting a piece of meat on the end of a long

steel blade. The fat dripped into the flames and the smoke curled up the

chimney. There was a smell of roasting meat, another powerful scent and the

odour of incense, which made the barman wonder, as he had read of Berlioz's

death and knew that this had been his flat, whether they were performing

some kind of requiem for the dead man, but as soon as it came to him he

abandoned the idea as clearly ridiculous.

Suddenly the stupefied barman heard a deep bass voice :

'Well sir, and what can I do for you? '

Andrei Fokich turned round and saw the man he was looking for.

The black magician was lolling on a vast, low, cushion-strewn divan. As

far as the barman could see the professor was wearing nothing but black

underwear and black slippers with pointed toes.

'I am,' said the little man bitterly, ' the head barman at the Variety

Theatre.'

The professor stretched out a hand glittering with precious stones as

though to stop the barman's mouth and interrupted heatedly:

'No, no, no! Not another word! Never, on any account! I shall never

eat or drink a single mouthful at that buffet of yours! I went past your

counter the other day, my dear sir, and I shall never forget the sight of

that smoked sturgeon and that cheese! My dear fellow, cheese isn't supposed

to be green, you know-- someone must have given you the wrong idea. It's

meant to be white. And the tea! It's more like washing-up water. With my own

eyes I saw a slut of a girl pouring grey water into your enormous samovar

while you went on serving tea from it. No, my dear fellow, that's not the

way to do it! '

'I'm sorry,' said Andrei Fokich, appalled by this sudden attack, ' but

I came about something else, I don't want to talk about the smoked sturgeon

. . .'

'But I insist on talking about it--it was stale!'

'The sturgeon they sent was second-grade-fresh,' said the barman.

'Really, what nonsense!'

'Why nonsense? '

'" Second-grade-fresh "--that's what I call nonsense! There's only one

degree of freshness--the first, and it's the last. If your sturgeon is "

second-grade-fresh " that means it's stale.'

'I'm sorry . . .' began the barman, at a loss to parry this insistent

critic.

'No, it's unforgivable,' said the professor.

'I didn't come to see you about that,' said the barman again, now

utterly confused.

'Didn't you? ' said the magician, astonished. ' What did you come for

then? As far as I remember I've never known anybody connected with your

profession, except for a vivandiere, but that was long before your time.

However, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. A2a2ello! A stool for the

head barman! '

The man who was roasting meat turned round, terrifying the barman at

the sight of his wall eye, and neatly offered him one of the dark oaken

stools. There were no other seats in the room.

The barman said : ' Thank you very much,' and sat down on the stool.

One of its back legs immediately broke with a crash and the barman, with a

groan, fell painfully backward onto the :floor. As he fell he kicked the leg

of another stool and upset a full glass of red wine all over his trousers.

The professor exclaimed:

'Oh! Clumsy!'

Azazello helped the barman to get up and gave him another stool. In a

miserable voice the barman declined his host's offer to take off his

trousers and dry them in front of the fire. Feeling unbearably awkward in

his wet trousers and underpants, he took a cautious seat on the other stool.

'I love a low seat,' began the professor. ' One's not so likely to

fall. Ah, yes, we were talking about sturgeon. First and last, my dear

fellow, it must be fresh, fresh, fresh! That should be the motto of every

man in your trade. Oh yes, would you like to taste . . .'

In the red glow of the fire a sword glittered in front of the barman,

and Azazello laid a sizzling piece of meat on a gold plate, sprinkled it

with lemon juice and handed the barman a golden two-pronged fork.

'Thank you, but I . . .'

'No, do taste it! '

Out of politeness the barman put a little piece into his mouth and

found that he was chewing something really fresh and unusually delicious. As

he ate the succulent meat, however, he almost fell off his stool again. A

huge dark bird flew in from the next room and softly brushed the top of the

barman's bald head with its wing. As it perched on the mantelpiece beside a

clock, he saw that the bird was an owl. ' Oh my God! ' thought Andrei

Fokich, nervous as all barmen are, ' what a place!'

'Glass of wine? White or red? What sort of wine do you like at this

time of day? '

'Thanks but... I don't drink . . .'

'You poor fellow! What about a game of dice then? Or do you prefer

some other game? Dominoes? Cards? '

'I don't play,' replied the barman, feeling weak and thoroughly

muddled.

'How dreadful for you,' said the host. ' I always think, present

company excepted of course, that there's something unpleasant lurking in

people who avoid drinking, gambling, table-talk and pretty women. People

like that are either sick or secretly hate their fellow-men. Of course there

may be exceptions. I have had some outright scoundrels sitting at my table

before now! Now tell me what I can do for you.'

'Yesterday you did some tricks . . .'

'I did? Tricks? ' exclaimed the magician indignantly. ' I beg your

pardon! What a rude suggestion! '

'I'm sorry,' said the barman in consternation. ' I mean . . . black

magic ... at the theatre.'

'Oh, that! Yes, of course. I'll tell you a secret, my dear fellow. I'm

not really a magician at all. I simply wanted to see some Muscovites en

masse and the easiest way to do so was in a theatre. So my staff'--he nodded

towards the cat--'arranged this little act and I just sat on stage and

watched the audience. Now, if that doesn't shock you too much, tell me what

brings you here in connection with my performance? '

'During your act you made bank-notes float down from the ceiling. . .

.' The barman lowered his voice and looked round in embarrassment. ' Well,

all the audience picked them up and a young man came to my bar and handed me

a ten-rouble note, so I gave him eight roubles fifty change . . . Then

another one came . . .'

'Another young man? '

'No, he was older. Then there was a third and a fourth ... I gave them

all change. And today when I came to check the till there was nothing in it

but a lot of strips of paper. The bar was a hundred and nine roubles short.'

'Oh dear, dear, dear! ' exclaimed the professor. ' Don't tell me

people thought those notes were real? I can't believe they did it on

purpose.'

The barman merely stared miserably round him and said nothing.

'They weren't swindlers, were they? ' the magician asked in a worried

voice. ' Surely there aren't any swindlers here in Moscow?'

The barman replied with such a bitter smile that there could be no

doubt about it: there were plenty of swindlers in Moscow.

'That's mean! ' said Woland indignantly. ' You're a poor man . . . you

are a poor man, aren't you? '

Andrei Fokich hunched his head into his shoulders to show that he was a

poor man.

'How much have you managed to save? '

Although the question was put in a sympathetic voice, it was tactless.

The barman squirmed.

'Two hundred and forty nine thousand roubles in five different savings

banks,' said a quavering voice from the next room, ' and under the floor at

home he's got two hundred gold ten-rouble pieces.'

Andrei Fokich seemed to sink into his stool.

'Well, of course, that's no great sum of money,' said Woland

patronisingly. ' All the same, you don't need it. When are you going to die?

'

Now it was the barman's turn to be indignant.

'Nobody knows and it's nobody's business,' he replied.

'Yes, nobody knows,' said the same horrible voice from the next room.

' But by Newton's binomial theorem I predict that he will die in nine

months' time in February of next year of cancer of the liver, in Ward No. 4

of the First Moscow City Hospital.'

The barman's face turned yellow.

'Nine months . . .' Woland calculated thoughtfully. ' Two hundred and

forty-nine thousand . . . that works out at twenty-seven thousand a month in

round figures . . . not much, but enough for a man of modest habits . . .

then there are the gold coins . . .'

'The coins will not be cashed,' said the same voice, turning Andrei

Fokich's heart to ice. ' When he dies the house will be demolished and the

coins will be impounded by the State Bank.'

'If I were you I shouldn't bother to go into hospital,' went on the

professor. ' What's the use of dying in a ward surrounded by a lot of

groaning and croaking incurables? Wouldn't it be much better to throw a

party with that twenty-seven thousand and take poison and depart for the

other world to the sound of violins, surrounded by lovely drunken girls and

happy friends? '

The barman sat motionless. He had aged. Black rings encircled his eyes,

his cheeks were sunken, his lower jaw sagged.

'But we're daydreaming,' exclaimed the host. ' To business! Show me

those strips of paper.'

Fumbling, Andrei Fokich took a package out of his pocket, untied it and

sat petrified--the sheet of newspaper was full of ten-rouble notes.

'My dear chap, you really are sick,' said Woland, shrugging his

shoulders.

Grinning stupidly, the barman got up from his stool. ' B-b-but . . .'

he stammered, hiccupping, ' if they vanish again . . . what then? '

'H'm,' said the professor thoughtfully. ' In that case come back and

see us. Delighted to have met you. . . .'

At this Koroviev leaped out of the study, clasped the barman's hand and

shook it violently as he begged Andrei Fokich to give his kindest regards to

everybody at the theatre. Bewildered, Andrei Fokich stumbled out into the

hall. ' Hella, see him out! ' shouted Koroviev. The same naked girl appeared

in the hall. The barman staggered out, just able to squeak ' Goodbye ', and

left the flat as though he were drunk. Having gone a little way down, he

stopped, sat down on a step, took out the package and checked-- the money

was still there.

Just then a woman with a green bag came out of one of the flats on that

landing. Seeing a man sitting on the step and staring dumbly at a packet of

bank-notes, she smiled and said wistfully:

'What a dump this is ... drunks on the staircase at this hour of the

morning . . . and they've smashed a window on the staircase again! '

After a closer look at Andrei Fokich she added :

'Mind the rats don't get all that money of yours. . . . Wouldn't you

like to share some of it with me? '

'Leave me alone, for Christ's sake! ' said the barman and promptly hid

the money.

The woman laughed.

'Oh, go to hell, you old miser! I was only joking. . . .' And she went

on downstairs.

Andrei Fokich slowly got up, raised his hand to straighten his hat and

discovered that it was not on his head. He desperately wanted not to go

back, but he missed his hat. After some hesitation he made up his mind, went

back and rang the bell.

'What do you want now? ' asked Hella.

'I forgot my hat,' whispered the barman, tapping his bald head. Hella

turned round and the little man shut his eyes in horror. When he opened

them, Hella was offering him his hat and a sword with a black hilt.

'It's not mine. . . .' whispered the barman, pushing away the sword

and quickly putting on his hat.

'Surely you didn't come without a sword?' asked Hella in surprise.

Andrei Fokich muttered something and hurried off downstairs. His head

felt uncomfortable and somehow too hot. He took off his hat and gave a

squeak of horror--he was holding a velvet beret with a bedraggled cock's

feather. The barman crossed himself. At that moment the beret gave a miaou

and changed into a black kitten. It jumped on to Andrei Fokich's head and

dug its claws into his bald patch. Letting out a shriek of despair, the

wretched man hurled himself downstairs as the kitten jumped off his head and

flashed back to No. 50.

Bursting out into the courtyard, the barman trotted out of the gate and

left the diabolical No.50 for ever.

It was not, however, the end of his adventures. Once in the street he

stared wildly round as if looking for something. A minute later he was in a

chemist's shop on the far side of the road. No sooner had he said :

'Tell me, please . . .' when the woman behind the counter shrieked:

'Look! Your head! It's cut to pieces!'

Within five minutes Andrei's head was bandaged and he had discovered

that the two best specialists in diseases of the liver were Professor

Bernadsky and Professor Kuzmin. Enquiring which was the nearest, he was

overjoyed to learn that Kuzmin lived literally round the corner in a little

white house and two minutes later he was there.

It was an old-fashioned but very comfortable little house. Afterwards

the barman remembered first meeting a little old woman who wanted to take

his hat, but since he had no hat the old woman hobbled off, chewing her

toothless gums. In her place appeared a middle-aged woman, who immediately

announced that new patients could only be registered on the 19th of the

month and not before. Instinct told Andrei Fokich what to do. Giving an

expiring glance at the three people in the waiting-room he whispered:

'I'm dying. . . .'

The woman glanced uncertainly at his bandaged head, hesitated, then

said:

'Very well. . . .' and led the barman through the hall.

At that moment a door opened to reveal a bright gold pince-nez. The

woman in the white overall said :

'Citizens, this patient has priority.'

Andrei Fokich had not time to look round before he found himself in

Professor Kuzmin's consulting room. It was a long, well-proportioned room

with nothing frightening, solemn or medical about it.

'What is your trouble?' enquired Professor Kuzmin in a pleasant voice,

glancing slightly anxiously at the bandaged head.' I have just learned from

a reliable source,' answered the barman, staring wildly at a framed group

photograph, ' that I am going to die next February from cancer of the liver.

You must do something to stop it.'

Professor Kuzmin sat down and leaned against the tall leather back of

his Gothic chair.

'I'm sorry I don't understand you . . . You mean . . . you saw a

doctor? Why is your head bandaged? '

'Him? He's no doctor . . .' replied the barman and suddenly his teeth

began to chatter. ' Don't bother about my head, that's got nothing to do

with it... I haven't come about my head . . . I've got cancer of the

liver--you must do something about it!'

'But who told you? '

'You must believe him! ' Andrei Fokich begged fervently. ' He knows! '

'I simply don't understand,' said the professor, shrugging his

shoulders and pushing his chair back from the desk. ' How can he know when

you're going to die? Especially as he's not a doctor.'

'In Ward No. 4,' was all the barman could say. The professor stared at

his patient, at his head, at his damp trousers, and thought: ' This is the

last straw--some madman . . .' He asked :

'Do you drink? ' ' Never touch it,' answered the barman.

In a minute he was undressed and lying on a chilly striped couch with

the professor kneading his stomach. This cheered the barman considerably.

The professor declared categorically that at the present moment at least

there were no signs of cancer, but since . . . since he was worried about it

and some charlatan had given him a fright, he had better have some tests

done.

The professor scribbled on some sheets of paper, explaining where

Andrei Fokich was to go and what he should take with him. He also gave him a

note to a colleague, Professor Burye, the neuropathologist, saying that his

nerves, at any rate, were in a shocking condition.

'How much should I pay you, professor? ' asked the barman in a

trembling voice, pulling out a fat notecase. ' As much as you like,' replied

the professor drily. Andrei Fokich pulled out thirty roubles and put them on

the table, then furtively, as though his hands were cat's paws, put a round,

chinking, newspaper-wrapped pile on top of the ten-rouble notes.

'What's that?' asked Kuzmin, twirling one end of his moustache.

'Don't be squeamish, professor,' whispered the barman. ' You can have

anything you want if you'll stop my cancer.'

'Take your gold,' said the professor, feeling proud of himself as he

said it. ' You'd be putting it to better use if you spent it on having your

nerves treated. Produce a specimen of urine for analysis tomorrow, don't

drink too much tea and don't eat any salt in your food.'

'Can't I even put salt in my soup? ' asked the barman. ' Don't put

salt in anything,' said Kuzmin firmly. ' Oh dear . . .' exclaimed the barman

gloomily, as he gazed imploringly at the professor, picked up his parcel of

gold coins and shuffled backwards to the door.

The professor did not have many patients that evening and as twilight

began to set in, the last one was gone. Taking off his white overall, the

professor glanced at the place on the desk where Andrei Fokich had left the

three ten-rouble notes and saw that there were no longer any bank-notes

there, but three old champagne bottle labels instead.

'Well, I'm damned! ' muttered Kuzmin, trailing the hem of his overall

across the floor and fingering the pieces of paper. ' Apparently he's not

only a schizophrenic but a crook as well. But what can he have wanted out of

me? Surely not a chit for a urine test? Ah! Perhaps he stole my overcoat! '

The professor dashed into the hall, dragging his overall by one sleeve. '

Xenia Nikitishna! ' he screamed in the hall. ' Will you look and see if my

overcoat's in the cupboard? '

It was. But when the professor returned to his desk having finally

taken off his overall, he stopped as though rooted to the parquet, staring

at the desk. Where the labels had been there now sat a black kitten with a

pathetically unhappy little face, miaowing over a saucer of milk.

'What is going on here? This is . . .' And Kuzmin felt a chill run up

his spine.

Hearing the professor's plaintive cry, Xenia Nikitishna came running in

and immediately calmed him by saying that the kitten had obviously been

abandoned there by one of the patients, a thing they were sometimes prone to

do.

'I expect they're poor,' explained Xenia Nikitishna, ' whereas we . .

.'

They tried to guess who might have left the animal there. Suspicion

fell on an old woman with a gastric ulcer.

'Yes, it must be her,' said Xenia Nikitishna. ' She'll have thought to

herself: I'm going to die anyway, but it's hard on the poor little kitty.'

'Just a moment! ' cried Kuzmin. ' What about the milk? Did she bring

the milk? And the saucer too? '

'She must have had a saucer and a bottle of milk in her bag and poured

it out here,' explained Xenia Nikitishna.

'At any rate remove the kitten and the saucer, please,' said Kuzmin

and accompanied Xenia Nikitishna to the door.

As he hung up his overall the professor heard laughter from the

courtyard. He looked round and hurried over to the window. A woman, wearing

nothing but a shirt, was running across the courtyard to the house opposite.

The professor knew her-- she was called Marya Alexandrovna. A boy was

laughing at her.

'Really, what behaviour,' said Kuzmin contemptuously. Just then the

sound of a gramophone playing a foxtrot came from his daughter's room and at

the same moment the professor heard the chirp of a sparrow behind his back.

He turned round and saw a large sparrow hopping about on his desk.

'H'm . . . steady now! ' thought the professor. ' It must have flown

in when I walked over to the window. I'm quite all right! ' said the

professor to himself severely, feeling that he was all wrong, thanks to this

intruding sparrow. As he looked at it closer, the professor at once realised

that it was no ordinary sparrow. The revolting bird was leaning over on its

left leg, making faces, waving its other leg in syncopation--in short it was

dancing a foxtrot in time to the gramophone, cavorting like a drunk round a

lamppost and staring cheekily at the professor.

Kuzmin's hand was on the telephone and he was just about to ring up his

old college friend Burye and ask him what it meant to start seeing sparrows

at sixty, especially if they made your head spin at the same time.

Meanwhile the sparrow had perched on his presentation inkstand, fouled

it, then flew up, hung in the air and dived with shattering force at a

photograph showing the whole class of '94 on graduation day, smashing the

glass to smithereens. The bird then wheeled smartly and flew out of the

window.

The professor changed his mind and instead of ringing up Burye dialled

the number of the Leech Bureau and asked them to send a leech to his house

at once. Replacing the receiver on the rest, the professor turned back to

his desk and let out a wail. On the far side of the desk sat a woman in

nurse's uniform with a bag marked ' Leeches '. The sight of her mouth made

the professor groan again--it was a wide, crooked, man's mouth with a fang

sticking out of it. The nurse's eyes seemed completely dead.

'I'll take the money,' said the nurse, ' it's no good to you now.' She

grasped the labels with a bird-like claw and began to melt into the air.

Two hours passed. Professor Kuzmin was sitting up in bed with leeches

dangling from his temples, his ears and his neck. At his feet on the

buttoned quilt sat the grey-haired Professor Burye, gazing sympathetically

at Kuzmin and comforting him by assuring him that it was all nonsense.

Outside it was night.

We do not know what other marvels happened in Moscow that night and we

shall not, of course, try to find out--especially as the time is approaching

to move into the second half of this true story. Follow me, reader!

* BOOK TWO *

19. Margarita

Follow me, reader! Who told you that there is no such thing as real,

true, eternal love? Cut out his lying tongue!

Follow me, reader, and only me and I will show you that love!

The master was wrong when he told Ivan with such bitterness, in the

hospital that hour before midnight, that she had forgotten him. It was

impossible. Of course she had not forgotten him.

First let us reveal the secret that the master refused to tell Ivan.

His beloved mistress was called Margarita Nikolayevna. Everything the master

said about her to the wretched poet was the strict truth. She was beautiful

and clever. It is also true that many women would have given anything to

change places with Margarita Nikolayevna. Thirty years old and childless,

Margarita was married to a brilliant scientist, whose work was of national

importance. Her husband was young, handsome, kind, honest and he adored his

wife. Margarita Nikolayevna and her husband lived alone in the whole of the

top floor of a delightful house in a garden in one of the side streets near

the Arbat. It was a charming place. You can see for yourself whenever you

feel like having a look. Just ask me and I'll tell you the address and how

to get there ; the house is standing to this day.

Margarita Nikolayevna was never short of money. She could buy whatever

she liked. Her husband had plenty of interesting friends. Margarita never

had to cook. Margarita knew nothing of the horrors of living in a shared

flat. In short . . . was she happy? Not for a moment. Since the age of

nineteen when she had married and moved into her house she had never been

happy. Ye gods! What more did the woman need? Why did her eyes always glow

with a strange fire? What else did she want, that witch with a very slight

squint in one eye, who always decked herself with mimosa every spring? I

don't know. Obviously she was right when she said she needed him, the

master, instead of a Gothic house, instead of a private garden, instead of

money. She was right--she loved him.

Even I, the truthful narrator, yet a mere onlooker, feel a pain when I

think what Margarita went through when she came back to the master's

basement the next day (fortunately she had not been able to talk to her

husband, who failed to come home at the time arranged) and found that the

master was not there. She did everything she could to discover where he

might be, but in vain. T'hen she returned home and took up her old life.

But when the dirty snow disappeared from the roads and pavements, as

soon as the raw, liv.e wind of spring blew in through the upper casement,

Margarita Nikolayevna felt even more wa-etched than in winter. She often

wept in secret, long and bitterly. She had no idea whether her lover was

dead or alive. The longer the hopeless days marched on, the oftener,

especially at twilight, she began to suspect that her man was dead. Slie

must either forget him o:r die herself. Her present existence was

intolerable. She had to forget him at all costs. But unfortunately he was

not a man one could forget.

'Yes, I made exactly the same mistake,' said Margarita, sitting by the

stove and watching the fire, lit in memory of the fire that used to burn

while he was writing about Pontius Pilate. ' Why did I leave him that night?

Why? I imust have been mad. I came back the' next day just as I had

promised, but it was too late. Yes, I ca-me too late like poor Matthew the

Levite!'

All this, of course, was nonsense, because what would have been changed

if she had stayed with the master that night? Would she have saved him? The

idea's absurd . . . but she was a woman- and she was desperate.

On the same day that witnessed the ridiculous scandal caused by the

black magician's appearance in Moscow, that Friday when Berlioz's uncle was

sent packing back to Kiev, when the accountant was arrested and a host of

other weird and improbable events took place, Margarita woke up around

midday in her bedroom, that looked out of an attic window of their top-floor

flat.

Waking, Margarita did not burst into tears, as she frequently did,

because she had woken up with a presentiment that today, at last, something

was going to happen. She kept the feeling warm and encouraged it, afraid

that it might leave her.

'I believe it! ' whispered Margarita solemnly. ' I believe something

is going to happen, must happen, because what have I done to be made to

suffer all my life? I admit I've lied and been unfaithful and lived a secret

life, but even that doesn't deserve such a cruel punishment . . . something

will happen, because a situation like this can't drag on for ever. Besides,

my dream was prophetic, that I'll swear. . . .'

With a sense of unease Margarita Nikolayevna dressed and brushed her

short curly hair in front of her triple dressing-table mirror.

The dream that Margarita had dreamed that night had been most unusual.

Throughout her agony of the past winter she had never dreamed of the master.

At night he left her and it was only during the day that her memory

tormented her. And now she had dreamed of him.

Margarita had dreamed of a place, mournful, desolate under a dull sky

of early spring. The sky was leaden, with tufts of low, scudding grey cloud

and filled with a numberless flock of rooks. There was a little hump-backed

bridge over a muddy, swollen stream ; joyless, beggarly, half-naked trees. A

lone aspen, and in the distance, past a vegetable garden stood a log cabin

that looked like a kind of outhouse. The surroundings looked so lifeless and

miserable that one might easily have been tempted to hang oneself on that

aspen by the little bridge. Not a breath of wind, not a cloud, not a living

soul. In short--hell. Suddenly the door of this hut was flung open and he

appeared in it, at a fair distance but clearly visible. He was dressed in

some vague, slightly tattered garment, hair in untidy tufts, unshaven. His

eyes looked anxious and sick. He waved and called. Panting in the lifeless

air, Margarita started running towards him over the uneven, tussocky ground.

At that moment she woke up.

'That dream can only mean one of two things,' Margarita Nikolayevna

reasoned with herself, ' if he is dead and beckoned me that means that he

came for me and I shall die soon. If so, I'm glad; that means that my agony

will soon be over. Or if he's alive, the dream can only mean that he is

reminding me of himself. He wants to tell me that we shall meet again . . .

yes, we shall meet again--soon.'

Still in a state of excitement, Margarita dressed, telling herself that

everything was working out very well, that one should know how to seize such

moments and make use of them. Her husband had gone away on business for

three whole days. She was left to herself for three days and no one was

going to stop her thinking or dreaming of whatever she wished. All five

rooms on the top floor of the house, a flat so big that tens of thousands of

people in Moscow would have envied her, was entirely at her disposal.

Yet free as she was for three days in such luxurious quarters,

Margarita chose the oddest part of it in which to spend her time. After a

cup of tea she went into their dark, windowless attic where they kept the

trunks, the lumber and two large chests of drawers full of old junk.

Squatting down she opened the bottom drawer of the first chest and from

beneath a pile of odds and ends of material she drew out the one thing which

she valued most of all. It was an old album bound in brown leather, which

contained a photograph of the master, a savings bank book with a deposit of

ten thousand roubles in his name, a few dried rose petals pressed between

some pieces of cigarette paper and several sheets of typescript with singed

edges.

Returning to her bedroom with this treasure, Margarita Nikolayevna

propped up the photograph against her dressing-table mirror and sat for

about an hour, the burnt typescript on her knees, turning the pages and

re-reading what the fire had not destroyed: '. . . The mist that came from

the Mediterranean

sea blotted out the city that Pilate so detested. The suspension

bridges connecting the temple with the grim fortress of Antonia vanished,

the murk descended from the sky and drowned the winged gods above the

hippodrome, the crenellated Hasmonaean palace, the bazaars, the

caravanserai, the alleyways, the pools . . . Jerusalem, the great city,

vanished as though it had never been. . ..'

Margarita wanted to read on, but there was nothing more except the

charred, uneven edge.

Wiping away her tears, Margarita Nikolayevna put down the script,

leaned her elbows on the dressing-table and sat for a long rime in front of

her reflection in the mirror staring at the photograph. After a while she

stopped crying. Margarita carefully folded away her hoard, a few minutes

later it was buried again under the scraps of silk and the lock shut with a

click in the dark room.

Margarita put on her overcoat in the hall to go out for a walk. Her

pretty maid Natasha enquired what she was to do tomorrow and being told that

she could do what she liked, she started talking to her mistress to pass the

time and mentioned something vague about a magician who had done such

fantastic tricks in the theatre yesterday that everybody had gasped, that he

had handed out two bottles of French perfume and two pairs of stockings to

everybody for nothing and then, when the show was over and the audience was

coming out--bang!--they were all naked! Margarita Nikolayevna collapsed on

to the hall chair and burst out laughing.

'Natasha, really! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? ' said Margarita. '

You're a sensible, educated girl . . . and you repeat every bit of rubbishy

gossip that you pick up in queues! '

Natasha blushed and objected hotly, saying that she never listened to

queue gossip and that she had actually seen a woman that morning come into a

delicatessen on the Arbat wearing some new shoes and while she was standing

at the cash desk to pay, her shoes had vanished and she was left standing in

her stockinged feet. She looked horrified, because she had a hole in the

heel of one stocking! The shoes were the magic ones that she had got at the

show.

'And she walked out barefoot? '

'Yes, she did! ' cried Natasha, turning even pinker because no one

would believe her. ' And yesterday evening, Margarita Nikolayevna, the

police arrested a hundred people. Some of the women who'd been at the show

were running along the Tver-skaya in nothing but a pair of panties.'

'That sounds to me like one of your friend Darya's stories,' said

Margarita Nikolayevna. ' I've always thought she was a frightful liar.'

This hilarious conversation ended with a pleasant surprise for Natasha.

Margarita Nikolayevna went into her bedroom and came out with a pair of

stockings and a bottle of eau-de-cologne. Saying to Natasha that she wanted

to do a magic trick too, Margarita gave her the stockings and the scent; she

told her that she could have them on one condition--that she promised not to

run along the Tverskaya in nothing but stockings and not to listen to

Darya's gossip. With a kiss mistress and maid parted.

Leaning back on her comfortable upholstered seat in the trolley-bus,

Margarita Nikolayevna rolled along the Arbat, thinking of her own affairs

and half-listening to what two men on the seat in front were whispering.

Glancing round occasionally for fear of being overheard, they seemed to be

talking complete nonsense. One, a plump, hearty man with sharp pig-like

eyes, who was sitting by the window, was quietly telling his smaller

neighbour how they had been forced to cover the open coffin with a black

cloth . . .

'Incredible! ' whispered the little one in amazement. ' It's

unheard-of! So what did Zheldybin do? '

Above the steady hum of the trolley-bus came the reply from the window

seat:

'Police . . . scandal . . . absolute mystery!'

Somehow Margarita Nikolayevna managed to construct a fairly coherent

story from these snatches of talk. The men were whispering that someone had

stolen the head of a corpse (they did not mention the dead man's name) from

a coffin that morning. This, apparently, was the cause of Zheldybin's

anxiety and the two men whispering in the trolley-bus also appeared to have

some connection with the victim of this ghoulish burglary.

'Shall we have time to buy some flowers? ' enquired the smaller man

anxiously. ' You said the cremation was at two o'clock, didn't you? '

In the end Margarita Nikolayevna grew bored with their mysterious

whispering about the stolen head and she was glad when it was time for her

to get out.

A few minutes later she was sitting under the Kremlin wall on one of

the benches in the Alexander Gardens facing the Manege. Margarita squinted

in the bright sunlight, recalling her dream and she remembered that exactly

a year ago to the hour she had sat on this same bench beside him. Just as it

had then, her black handbag lay on the bench at her side. Although the

master was not there this time, Margarita Nikolayevna carried on a mental

conversation with him : ' If you've been sent into exile why haven't you at

least written to tell me? Don't you love me any more? No, somehow I don't

believe that. In that case you have died in exile ...' If you have, please

release me, let me go free to lead my life like other people! ' Margarita

answered for him : ' You're free . . . I'm not keeping you by force.' Then

she replied: ' What sort of an answer is that? I won't be free until I stop

thinking of you . . .'

People were walking past. One man gave a sideways glance at this

well-dressed woman. Attracted by seeing a pretty girl alone, he coughed and

sat down on Margarita Nikolayevna's half of the bench. Plucking up his

courage he said :

'What lovely weather it is today . . .'

Margarita turned and gave him such a grim look that he got up and went

away.

'That's what I mean,' said Margarita silently to her lover. ' Why did

I chase that man away? I'm bored, there was nothing wrong with that

Casanova, except perhaps for his highly unoriginal remark . . . Why do I sit

here alone like an owl? Why am I cut off from life? '

She had worked herself into a state of complete depression, when

suddenly the same wave of urgent expectancy that she had felt that morning

overcame her again. ' Yes, something's going to happen! ' The wave struck

her again and she then realised that it was a wave of sound. Above the noise

of traffic there clearly came the sound of approaching drum-beats and the

braying of some off-key trumpets.

First to pass the park railings was a mounted policeman, followed by

three more on foot. Next came the band on a lorry, then a slow-moving open

hearse carrying a coffin banked with wreaths and a guard of honour of four

people--three men and a woman. Even from a distance Margarita could see that

the members of the guard of honour looked curiously distraught. This was

particularly noticeable in the woman, who was standing at the left-hand rear

corner of the hearse. Her fat cheeks seemed to be more than normally puffed

out by some secret joke and her protuberant little eyes shone with a

curiously ambiguous sparkle. It was as if the woman was liable at any moment

to wink at the corpse and say ' Did you ever see such a thing? Stealing a

dead man's head . . .! ' The three hundred-odd mourners, who were slowly

following the cortege on foot, looked equally mystified.

Margarita watched the cortege go by, listening to the mournful beat of

the kettle-drum as its monotonous ' boom, boom, boom' slowly faded away and

she thought: ' What a strange funeral . . . and how sad that drum sounds!

I'd sell my soul to the devil to know whether he's alive or not ... I wonder

who that odd-looking crowd is going to bury? '

'Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz,' said a slightly nasal man's voice

beside her, ' the late chairman of MASSOLIT.'

Margarita Nikolayevna turned in astonishment and saw a man on her bench

who must have sat down noiselessly while she had been watching the funeral

procession. Presumably she had absentmindedly spoken her last question

aloud. Meanwhile the procession had stopped, apparently held up by the

traffic lights.

1 Yes,' the stranger went on, ' it's an odd sort of funeral. They're

carrying the man off to the cemetery in the usual way but all they can think

about is--what's happened to his head? '

'Whose head? ' asked Margarita, glancing at her unexpected neighbour.

He was short, with fiery red hair and one protruding fang, wearing a

starched shirt, a good striped suit, patent-leather shoes and a bowler hat.

His tie was bright. One strange feature was his breast pocket: instead of

the usual handkerchief or fountain pen, it contained a gnawed chicken bone.

'This morning,' explained the red-haired man, ' the head was pulled

off the dead man's body during the lying-in-state at Griboyedov.'

'How ever could that have happened? ' asked Margarita, suddenly

remembering the two whispering men in the trolley-bus.

'Devil knows how,' said the man vaguely. ' I suspect Behemoth might be

able to tell you. It must have been a neat job, but why bother to steal a

head? After all, who on earth would want it?

Preoccupied though she was, Margarita Nikolayevna could not help being

intrigued by this stranger's extraordinary conversation.

'Just a minute! ' she suddenly exclaimed. ' Who is Berlioz? Is he the

one in the newspapers today who . . .'

'Yes, yes.'

'So those were writers in the guard of honour round the coffin? '

enquired Margarita, suddenly baring her teeth.

'Yes, of course . . .'

'Do you know them by sight? '

'Every one,' the man replied.

'Tell me,' said Margarita, her voice dropping, ' is one of them a

critic by the name of Latunsky? '

'How could he fail to be there? ' answered the man with red hair. '

That's him, on the far side of the fourth rank.'

'The one with fair hair? ' asked Margarita, frowning.

'Ash-blond. Look, he's staring up at the sky.'

'Looking rather like a Catholic priest? '

'That's him!'

Margarita asked no more questions but stared hard at Latunsky.

'You, I see,' said the stranger with a smile, ' hate that man

Latunsky. ' Yes, and someone else too,' said Margarita between clenched

teeth, ' but I'd rather not talk about it.'

Meanwhile the procession had moved on again, the mourners being

followed by a number of mostly empty cars.

'Then we won't discuss it, Margarita Nikolayevna!'

Astounded, Margarita said:

'Do you know me? '

Instead of replying the man took off his bowler hat and held it in his

outstretched hand.

'A face like a crook,' thought Margarita, as she stared at him.

'But I don't know you,' she said frigidly.

'Why should you? However, I have been sent on a little matter that

concerns you.'

Margarita paled and edged away. ' Why didn't you say so at once,' she

said, ' instead of making up that fairy tale about a stolen head? Have you

come to arrest me? '

'Nothing of the sort! ' exclaimed the man with red hair. ' Why does

one only have to speak to a person for them to imagine they're going to be

arrested? I simply have a little matter to discuss with you.'

'I don't understand--what matter? '

The stranger glanced round and said mysteriously :

'I have been sent to give you an invitation for this evening.'

'What are you talking about? What invitation? '

'You are invited by a very distinguished foreign gentleman,' said the

red-haired man portentously, with a frown.

Margarita blazed with anger.

'I see that pimps work in the streets now! ' she said as she got up to

go.

'Is that all the thanks I get? ' exclaimed the man, offended. And he

growled at Margarita's retreating back :

'Stupid bitch! '

'Swine! ' she flung back at him over her shoulder.

Immediately she heard the stranger's voice behind her:

'The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city

that Pilate so detested. The suspension bridges connecting the temple with

the grim fortress of Antonia vanished, the murk descended from the sky and

drowned the winged gods above the hippodrome, the crenellated Hasmonaean

palace, the bazaars, the caravansera.1, the alleyways, the pools. . . .

Jerusalem, the great city, vanished as though it had never been. ... So much

for your charred manuscript and your dried rose petals! Yet you sit here

alone on a bench and beg him to let you go, to allow you to be free and to

forget him! '

White in the face, Margarita turned back to the bench. The man sat

frowning at her.

'I don't understand, it,' said Margarita Nikolayevna in a hushed

voice. ' You might have found out about the manuscript . . . you might have

broken in, stolen it, looked at it ... I suppose you bribed Natasha. But how

could you know what I was thinking? ' She -wrinkled her brow painfully and

added ' Tell me, who are you? What organisation do you belong to? '

'Oh, lord, not that. . .' muttered the stranger in exasperation. In a

louder voice he said : 'I'm sorry. As I said, I have not come to arrest you

and I don't belong to any " organisation." Please sit down.'

Margarita obediently did as she was told, but once seated could not

help asking again :

'Who are you? '

'Well if you must know my name is Azazello, although it won't mean

anything to you.'

'And won't you tell me how you knew about the manuscript and how you

read my thoughts? '

'I will not,' said Azazello curtly.

'Do you know anything about him? ' whispered Margarita imploringly.

'Well, let's say I do.'

'Tell me, I beg of you, just one thing--is he alive? Don't torture me!

'

'Yes, he's alive all rig:ht,' said Azazello reluctantly.

'Oh, God!'

'No scenes, please,' said Azazello with a frown.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' said Margarita humbly. ' I'm sorry I lost my

temper with you. But you must admit that if someone comes up to a woman in

the street and invites her ... I have no prejudices, I assure you.'

Margarita laughed mirthlessly. ' But I never meet foreigners and I have

never wanted to ... besides that, my husband ... my tragedy is that I live

with a man I don't love . . . but I can't bring myself to ruin his life ...

he has never shown me anything but kindness . . .'

Azazello listened to this incoherent confession and said severely:

'Please be quiet for a moment.'

Margarita obediently stopped talking.

'My invitation to this foreigner is quite harmless. And not a soul

will know about it. That I swear.'

'And what does he want me for? ' asked Margarita insinuatingly.

'You will discover that later.'

'I see now ... I am to go to bed with him,' said Margarita

thoughtfully.

To this Azazello snorted and replied:

'Any woman in the world, I can assure you, would give anything to do

so '--his face twisted with a laugh--' but I must disappoint you. He doesn't

want you for that.'

'Who is this foreigner? ' exclaimed Margarita in perplexity, so loudly

that several passers-by turned to look at her. ' And why should I want to go

and see him? '

Azazello leaned towards her and whispered meaningly :

'For the best possible reason ... you can use the opportunity...'

'What? ' cried Margarita, her eyes growing round. ' If I've understood

you correctly, you're hinting that I may hear some news of him there? '

Azazello nodded silently.

'I'll go!' Margarita burst out and seized Azazello by the arm. ' I'll

go wherever you like i ' With a sigh of relief Azazello leaned against the

back of the bench, covering up the name ' Manya ' carved deep into its wood,

and said ironically : ' Difficult people, these woman! ' He stuck his hands

into his pockets and stretched his feet out far in front of him. ' Why did

he have to send me on this job? Behemoth should have done it, he's got such

charm . . .'

W^ith a bitter smile Margarita said :

'Stop mystifying me and talking in riddles. I'm happy and you're

making use of it ... I may be about to let myself in for some dubious

adventure, but I swear it's only because you have enticed me by talking

about him! All this mystery is making my head spin . . .'

'Please don't make a drama out of it,' replied Azazello with a

grimace. ' Think of what it's like being in my position. Punch a man on the

nose, kick an old man downstairs, shoot somebody or any old thing like that,

that's my job. But argue with women in love--no thank you! Look, I've been

at it with you for half an hour now . . . Are you going or not? '

'I'll go,' replied Margarita Nikolayevna simply.

'In that case allow me to present you with this,' said Azazello,

taking a little round gold box out of his pocket and saying as he handed it

to Margarita : ' Hide it, or people will see it. It will do you good,

Margarita Nikolayevna; unhappiness has aged you a lot in the last six

months--' Margarita bridled but said nothing, and Azazello went on : ' This

evening, at exactly half past eight, you will kindly strip naked and rub

this ointment all over your face and your body. After that you can do what

you like, but don't go far from the telephone. At nine I shall ring you up

and tell you what you have to do. You won't have to worry about anything,

you'll be taken to where you're going and nothing will be done to upset you.

Understood? '

Margarita said nothing for a moment, then replied :

'I understand. This thing is solid gold, I can tell by its weight. I

quite see that I am being seduced into something shady which I shall

bitterly regret. . .'

'What's that? ' Azazello almost hissed. ' You're not having second

thoughts are you? '

'No, no, wait!'

'Give me back the cream! '

Margarita gripped the box tighter and went on:

'No, please wait ... I know what I'm letting myself in for. I'm ready

to go anywhere and do anything for his sake, only because I have no more

hope left. But if you are planning to ruin or destroy me, you will regret

it. Because if I die for his sake I shall have died out of love.'

'Give it back!' shouted Azazello in fury. ' Give it back and to hell

with the whole business. They can send Behemoth! '

'Oh, no!' cried Margarita to the astonishment of the passers-by. ' I

agree to everything, I'll go through the whole pantomime of smearing on the

ointment, I'll go to the ends of the earth! I won't give it back! '

'Bah! ' Azazello suddenly roared and staring at the park railings,

pointed at something with his finger.

Margarita turned in the direction that he was pointing, but saw nothing

in particular. Then she turned to Azazello for some explanation of his

absurd cry of ' Bah! ', but there was no one to explain : Margarita

Nikolayevna's mysterious companion had vanished.

Margarita felt in her handbag and made sure that the gold box was still

where she had put it. Then without stopping to reflect she hurried away from

the Alexander Gardens.

20. Azazello's Cream

Through the branches of the maple tree a full moon hung in the clear

evening sky. The limes and acacias traced a complex pattern of shadows on

the grass. A triple casement window in the attic, open but with the blind

drawn, shone with a glare of electric light. Every lamp was burning in

Margarita Nikolayevna's bedroom and lighting up the chaotically untidy room.

On the bedspread lay blouses, stockings and underwear, more crumpled

underwear was piled on the floor beside a packet of cigarettes that had been

squashed in the excitement. A pair of slippers was on the bedside table

alongside a cold, unfinished cup of coffee and an ashtray with a smouldering

cigarette end. A black silk dress hung across the chairback. The room

smelled of perfume and from somewhere there came the reek of a hot iron.

Margarita Nikolayevna was sitting in front of a full-length mirror in

nothing but black velvet slippers, a bath-wrap thrown over her naked body.

Her gold wrist-watch lay in front of her alongside the little box given her

by Azazello, and Margarita was staring at the watch-face.

At times she felt that the watch had broken and the hands were not

moving. They were moving, but so slowly that they seemed to have stuck. At

last the minute hand pointed to twenty nine minutes past eight. Margarita's

heart was thumping so violently that at first she could hardly pick up the

box. With an effort she opened it and saw that it contained a greasy

yellowish cream. It seemed to smell of swamp mud. With the tip of her finger

Margarita put a little blob of the cream on her palm, which produced an even

stronger smell of marsh and forest, and then she began to massage the cream

into her forehead and cheeks.

The ointment rubbed in easily and produced an immediate tingling

effect. After several rubs Margarita looked into the mirror and dropped the

box right on to the watch-glass, which shivered into a web of fine cracks.

Margarita shut her eyes, then looked again and burst into hoots of laughter.

Her eyebrows that she had so carefully plucked into a fine line had

thickened into two regular arcs above her eyes, which had taken on a deeper

green colour. The fine vertical furrow between her eyebrows which had first

appeared in October when the master disappeared, had vanished without trace.

Gone too were the yellowish shadows at her temples and two barely detectable

sets of crowsfeet round the corners of her eyes. The skin of her cheeks was

evenly suffused with pink, her brow had become white and smooth and the

frizzy, artificial wave in her hair had straightened out.

A dark, naturally curly-haired woman of twenty, teeth bared and

laughing uncontrollably, was looking out of the mirror at the

thirty-year-old Margarita.

Laughing, Margarita jumped out of her bath-wrap with one leap, scooped

out two large handfuls of the slightly fatty cream and began rubbing it

vigorously all over her body. She immediately glowed and turned a healthy

pink. In a moment her headache stopped, after having pained her all day

since the encounter in the Alexander Gardens. The muscles of her arms and

legs grew firmer and she even lost weight.

She jumped and stayed suspended in the air just above the carpet, then

slowly and gently dropped back to the ground.

'Hurray for the cream! ' cried Margarita, throwing herself into an

armchair.

The anointing had not only changed her appearance. Joy surged through

every part of her body, she felt as though bubbles were shooting along every

limb. Margarita felt free, free of everything, realising with absolute

clarity that what was happening was the fulfilment of her presentiment of

that morning, that she was going to leave her house and her past life for

ever. But one thought from her past life hammered persistently in her mind

and she knew that she had one last duty to perform before she took off into

the unknown, into the air. Naked as she was she ran out of the bedroom,

flying through the air, and into her husband's study, where she turned on

the light and flew to his desk. She tore a sheet off his note-pad and in one

sweep, erasing nothing and changing nothing, she quickly and firmly

pencilled this message :Forgive me and forget me as quickly as you can. I am

leaving you for ever. Don't look for me, it will be useless. Misery and

unhappiness have turned me into a witch. It is time for me to go. Farewell.

Margarita.

With a sense of absolute relief Margarita flew back into the bedroom.

Just then Natasha came in, loaded with clothes and shoes. At once the whole

pile, dresses on coathangers, lace blouses, blue silk shoes on shoe trees,

belts, all fell on to the floor and Natasha clasped her hands.

'Pretty, aren't I?' cried Margarita Nikolayevna in a loud, slightly

husky voice.

'What's happened?' whispered Natasha, staggering back. ' What have you

done, Margarita Nikolayevna? '

'It's the cream! The cream!' replied Margarita, pointing to the

gleaming gold box and twirling round in front of the mirror. Forgetting the

heap of crumpled clothes on the floor, Natasha ran to the dressing table and

stared, eyes hot with longing, at the remains of the ointment. Her lips

whispered a few words in silence. She turned to Margarita and said with

something like awe:

'Oh, your skin--look at your skin, Margarita Nikolayevna, it's

shining! ' Then she suddenly remembered herself, picked up the dress she had

dropped and started to smooth it out.

'Leave it, Natasha! Drop it! ' Margarita shouted at her. ' To hell

with it! Throw it all away! No--wait--you can have it all. As a present from

me. You can have everything there is in the room!'

Dumbfounded, Natasha gazed at Margarita for a while then clasped her

round the neck, kissing her and shouting :

'You're like satin! Shiny satin! And look at your eyebrows!'

'Take all these rags, take all my scent and put it all in your bottom

drawer, you can keep it,' shouted Margarita, ' but don't take the jewellery

or they'll say you stole it.'

Natasha rummaged in the heap for whatever she could pick up--stockings,

shoes, dresses and underwear--and ran out of the bedroom.

At that moment from an open window on the other side of the street came

the loud strains of a waltz and the spluttering of a car engine as it drew

up at the gate.

'Azazello will ring soon! ' cried Margarita, listening to the sound of

the waltz. ' He's going to ring! And this foreigner is harmless, I realise

now that he can never harm me!'

The car's engine roared as it accelerated away. The gate slammed and

footsteps could be heard on the flagged path.

'It's Nikolai Ivanovich, I recognise his tread,' thought Margarita. '

I must do something funny as a way of saying goodbye to him!'

Margarita flung the shutters open and sat sideways on the windowsill,

clasping her knees with her hands. The moonlight caressed her right side.

Margarita raised her head towards the moon and put on a reflective and

poetic face. Two more footsteps were heard and then they suddenly stopped.

With another admiring glance at the moon and a sigh for fun, Margarita

turned to look down at the garden, where she saw her neighbour of the floor

below, Nikolai Ivanovich. He was clearly visible in the moonlight, sitting

on a bench on which he had obviously just sat down with a bump. His

pince-nez was lop-sided and he was clutching his briefcase in his arms.

'Hullo, Nikolai Ivanovich! ' said Margarita Nikolayevna in a sad

voice. ' Good evening! Have you just come from the office?'

Nikolai Ivanovich said nothing.

'And here am I,' Margarita went on, leaning further out into the

garden, ' sitting all alone as you can see, bored, looking at the moon and

listening to a waltz . . .'

Margarita Nikolayevna ran her left hand along her temple, arranging a

lock of hair, then said crossly :

'It's very impolite of you, Nikolai Ivanovich! I am a woman, after

all! It's rude not to answer when someone speaks to you.'

Nikolai Ivanovich, visible in the bright moonlight down to the last

button on his grey waistcoat and the last hair on his little pointed beard,

suddenly gave an idiotic grin and got up from his bench. Obviously

half-crazed with embarrassment, instead of taking off his hat he waved his