{\rtf1\ansi\ansicpg{\info{\creatim\yr2017\mo09\dy07\hr22\min49\sec18}}\viewkind1\viewscale100\viewzk0\paperw11907\paperh16839\psz9\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  --------------------------------------------------------------------------\par \pard\plain  \'cc\'e8\'f5\'e0\'e8\'eb \'c0\'f4\'e0\'ed\'e0\'f1\'fc\'e5\'e2\'e8\'f7 \'c1\'f3\'eb\'e3\'e0\'ea\'ee\'e2 - \'cc\'e0\'f1\'f2\'e5\'f0 \'e8 \'cc\'e0\'f0\'e3\'e0\'f0\'e8\'f2\'e0. \'c0\'ed\'e3\'eb\'e8\'e9\'f1\'ea\'e8\'e9\par \pard\plain  --------------------------------------------------------------------------\par \pard\plain  \'d1\'ea\'e0\'f7\'e0\'ed\'ee \'e1\'e5\'f1\'ef\'eb\'e0\'f2\'ed\'ee \'f1 \'f1\'e0\'e9\'f2\'e0 http://prochtu.ru\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Book I.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  Chapter 1\par \pard\plain  Never Talk with Strangers\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  At the hour of the hot spring sunset two citizens appeared at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds.1 One of them, approximately forty years old, dressed   in a grey summer suit, was short, dark-haired, plump, bald, and carried his respectable fedora hat in his hand. His neatly shaven face was adorned with black horn-rimmed glasses of a supernatural size. The other, a broad-shouldered young man with tousled reddish hair, his checkered cap cocked back on his head, was wearing a cowboy shirt, wrinkled white trousers and black sneakers.\par \pard\plain  The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz,2 editor of a fat literary journal and chairman of the board of one of the major Moscow literary associations, called Massolit 3 for short, and his young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayevich Ponyrev, who wrote under the pseudonym of Homeless. 4\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1The Patriarch\'92s Ponds: Bulgakov uses the old name for what in 1918 was rechristened \'91Pioneer Ponds\'92. Originally these were three ponds, only one of which remains, on the place where Philaret, eighteenth-century patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, had his residence.\par \pard\plain  2Berlioz: Bulgakov names several of his characters after composers. In addition to Berlioz, there will be the financial director Rimsky and the psychiatrist Stravinsky. The efforts of critics to find some meaning behind this fact seem rather strained.\par \pard\plain  3Massolit: An invented but plausible contraction parodying the many contractions introduced in post-revolutionary Russia. There will be others further on - Dramlit House (House for Dramatists and Literary Workers), findirector (financial director), and so on.\par \pard\plain  4Homeless: In early versions of the novel, Bulgakov called his poet Bezrodny (\'91Tastless\'92 or \'91Familyless\'92). Many \'91proletarian\'92 writers adopted such pen-names, the most famous being Alexei Peshkov, who called himself Maxim Gorky (gorky meaning \'91bitter\'92). Others called themselves Golodny (\'91Hungry\'92), Besposhchadny (\'91Merciless\'92), Pribludny (\'91Stray\'92). Worthy of special note here is the poet Efim Pridvorov, who called himself Demian Bedny (\'91Poor\'92), author of violent anti-religious poems. It may have been the reading of Bedny that originally sparked Bulgakov\'92s impulse to write The Master and Margarita. In his Journal of 1925 (the so-called \'91Confiscated Journal\'92 which turned up in the files of the KGB and was published in 1990), Bulgakov noted: \'91Jesus Christ is pre- sented as a scoundrel and swindler... There is no name for this crime.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Kislovodsk:  Literally \'91acid waters\'92, a popular resort in the northern Caucasus,  famous for its mineral springs.\par \pard\plain  Once in the shade of the barely greening lindens, the writers dashed first thing to a brightly painted stand with the sign: \'91Beer and Soft Drinks.\'92 Ah, yes, note must be made of the first oddity of this dreadful May evening. There was not a single person to be seen, not only by the stand, but also along the whole walk parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At that hour when it seemed no longer possible to breathe, when the sun, having scorched Moscow, was collapsing in a dry haze somewhere beyond Sadovoye Ring, no one came under the lindens, no one sat on a bench, the walk was empty.\par \pard\plain  \'91Give us seltzer,\'92 Berlioz asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91There is no seltzer,\'92 the woman in the stand said, and for some reason became offended.\par \pard\plain  \'91Is there beer?\'92 Homeless inquired in a rasping voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91Beer\'92ll be delivered towards evening,\'92 the woman replied. \'91Then what is there?\'92 asked Berlioz.\par \pard\plain  \'91Apricot soda, only warm,\'92 said the woman. \'91Well, let\'92s have it, let\'92s have it! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  The soda produced an abundance of yellow foam, and the air began to smell of a barber-shop. Having finished drinking, the writers immediately started to hiccup, paid, and sat down on a bench face to the pond and back to Bronnaya.\par \pard\plain  Here the second oddity occurred, touching Berlioz alone. He suddenly stopped hiccupping, his heart gave a thump and dropped away some- where for an instant, then came back, but with a blunt needle lodged in it. Besides that, Berlioz was gripped by fear, groundless, yet so strong that he wanted to flee the Ponds at once without looking back.\par \pard\plain  Berlioz looked around in anguish, not understanding what had fright- ened him. He paled, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, thought:\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s the matter with me? This has never happened before. My heart\'92s acting up... I\'92m overworked... Maybe it\'92s time to send it all to the devil and go to Kislovodsk...\'92 5\par \pard\plain  And here the sweltering air thickened before him, and a transparent cit- izen of the strangest appearance wove himself out of it. A peaked jockey\'92s cap on his little head, a short checkered jacket also made of air.\par \pard\plain  ...A citizen seven feet tall, but narrow in the shoulders, unbelievably thin, and, kindly note, with a jeering physiognomy.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The life of Berlioz had taken such a course that he was unaccustomed to extraordinary phenomena. Turning paler still, he goggled his eyes and thought in consternation:\par \pard\plain  \'91This can\'92t be!...\'92\par \pard\plain  But, alas, it was, and the long, see-through citizen was swaying before him to the left and to the right without touching the ground.\par \pard\plain  Here terror took such possession of Berlioz that he shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw that it was all over, the phantasm had dis- solved, the checkered one had vanished, and with that the blunt needle had popped out of his heart.\par \pard\plain  \'91Pah, the devil!\'92 exclaimed the editor. \'91You know, Ivan, I nearly had heat stroke just now! There was even something like a hallucination...\'92 He attempted to smile, but alarm still jumped in his eyes and his hands trembled. However, he gradually calmed down, fanned himself with his handkerchief and, having said rather cheerfully: \'91Well, and so...\'92 went on with the conversation interrupted by their soda-drinking.\par \pard\plain  This conversation, as was learned afterwards, was about Jesus Christ.\par \pard\plain  The thing was that the editor had commissioned from the poet a long anti-religious poem for the next issue of his journal. Ivan Nikolaevich had written this poem, and in a very short time, but unfortunately the editor was not at all satisfied with it. Homeless had portrayed the main character of his poem - that is, Jesus - in very dark colours, but nevertheless the whole poem, in the editor\'92s opinion, had to be written over again. And so the editor was now giving the poet something of a lecture on Jesus, with the aim of underscoring the poet\'92s essential error.\par \pard\plain  It is hard to say what precisely had let Ivan Nikolaevich down - the descriptive powers of his talent or a total unfamiliarity with the question he was writing about - but his Jesus came out, well, completely alive, the once-existing Jesus, though, true, a Jesus furnished with all negative fea- tures.\par \pard\plain  Now, Berlioz wanted to prove to the poet that the main thing was not how Jesus was, good or bad, but that this same Jesus, as a person, simply never existed in the world, and all the stories about him were mere fiction, the most ordinary mythology.\par \pard\plain  It must be noted that the editor was a well-read man and in his con- versation very skillfully pointed to ancient historians - for instance, the famous Philo of Alexandria 6  and the brilliantly educated Flavius Jose-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  6Philo of Alexandria: (20 BC\'9654 AD), Greek philosopher of Jewish origin, a biblical exegete and theologian, influenced both the Neo-Platonists and early Christian thinkers.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  phus 7 - who never said a word about the existence of Jesus.  Displaying  a solid erudition, Mikhail Alexandrovich also informed the poet, among other things, that the passage in the fifteenth book of Tacitus\'92s famous An- nals, 8 the forty-fourth chapter, where mention is made of the execution of Jesus, was nothing but a later spurious interpolation.\par \pard\plain  The poet, for whom everything the editor was telling him was new, listened attentively to Mikhail Alexandrovich, fixing his pert green eyes on him, and merely hiccupped from time to time, cursing the apricot soda under his breath.\par \pard\plain  There\'92s not a single Eastern religion,\'92 Berlioz was saying, \'91in which, as a rule, an immaculate virgin did not give birth to a god. And in just the same way, without inventing anything new, the Christians created their Jesus, who in fact never lived. It\'92s on this that the main emphasis should be placed...\'92\par \pard\plain  Berlioz\'92s high tenor rang out in the deserted walk, and as Mikhail Alexandrovich went deeper into the maze, which only a highly educated man can go into without risking a broken neck, the poet learned more and more interesting and useful things about the Egyptian Osiris, 9 a benevo- lent god and the son of Heaven and Earth, and about the Phoenician god Tammoz, 10 and about Marduk, 11 and even about a lesser known, terrible god, Vitzliputzli, 12 once greatly venerated by the Aztecs in Mexico. And just at the moment when Mikhail Alexandrovich was telling the poet how the Aztecs used to fashion figurines of Vitzli-putzli out of dough - the first man appeared in the walk.\par \pard\plain  Afterwards, when, frankly speaking, it was already too late, various institutions presented reports describing this man. A comparison of them cannot but cause amazement. Thus, the first of them said that the man was short, had gold teeth, and limped on his right leg.  The second,   that\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  7Flavius Josephus: (57\'96100 AD), Jewish general and historian, born in Jerusalem, the author of The Jewish War and Antiquities of the Jews. Incidentally, Berlioz is mistaken: Christ is mentioned in the latter work.\par \pard\plain  8Tacitus\'92s [famous] Annals: A work, covering the years AD 14-66, by Roman historian\par \pard\plain  Cornelius Tacitus (55\'96120 AD). He also wrote a History of the years AD 69-70, among other works. Modern scholarship rejects the opinion that the passage Berlioz refers to here is a later interpolation.\par \pard\plain  9Osiris:      Ancient Egyptian protector of the dead,  brother and husband of Isis,  and\par \pard\plain  father of the hawk-headed Horus, a \'91corn god\'92, annually killed and resurrected.\par \pard\plain  10Tammuz: A Syro-Phoenician demi-god, like Osiris a spirit of annual vegetation.\par \pard\plain  11Marduk: Babylonian sun-god, leader of a revolt against the old deities and institutor of a new order.\par \pard\plain  12Vitzliputzli: Also known as Huitzilopochdi, the Aztec god of war, to whom human sacrifices were offered.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the man was enormously tall, had platinum crowns, and limped on his left leg. The third laconically averred that the man had no distinguishing marks. It must be acknowledged that none of these reports is of any value. First of all, the man described did not limp on any leg, and was nei- ther short nor enormous, but simply tall. As for his teeth, he had platinum crowns on the left side and gold on the right. He was wearing an expen- sive grey suit and imported shoes of a matching colour. His grey beret was cocked rakishly over one ear; under his arm he carried a stick with a black knob shaped like a poodle\'92s head. 13 He looked to be a little over forty. Mouth somehow twisted. Clean-shaven. Dark-haired. Right eye black, left - for some reason - green.  Dark eyebrows, but one higher than\par \pard\plain  the other. In short, a foreigner. 14\par \pard\plain  Having passed by the bench on which the editor and the poet were placed, the foreigner gave them a sidelong look, stopped, and suddenly sat down on the next bench, two steps away from the friends.\par \pard\plain  \'91A German...\'92 thought Berlioz. \'91An Englishman...\'92 thought Homeless. \'91My, he must be hot in those gloves.\'92\par \pard\plain  And the foreigner gazed around at the tall buildings that rectangu- larly framed the pond,  making it obvious that he was seeing the place  for the first time and that it interested him. He rested his glance on the up- per floors, where the glass dazzlingly reflected the broken-up sun which was for ever departing from Mikhail Alexandrovich, then shifted it lower down to where the windows were beginning to darken before evening, smiled condescendingly at something, narrowed his eves, put his hands on the knob and his chin on his hands.\par \pard\plain  \'91For instance, Ivan,\'92 Berlioz was saying, \'91you portrayed the birth of Je- sus, the son of God, very well and satirically, but the gist of it is that a whole series of sons of God were born before Jesus, like, say, the Phoeni- cian Adonis, 15 the Phrygian Atris, 16 the Persian Mithras.  17  And, to put it briefly, not one of them was born or ever existed, Jesus included, and what\'92s necessary is that, instead of portraying his birth or, suppose, the coming of the Magi, 18  you portray the absurd rumours of their   coming.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  13A poodle\'92s head: In Goethe\'92s Faust, Mephistopheles first gets to Faust by taking the form of a black poodle.\par \pard\plain  14A foreigner: Foreigners aroused both curiosity and suspicion in Soviet Russia, repre- senting both the glamour of \'91abroad\'92 and the possibility of espionage.\par \pard\plain  15Adonis: Greek version of the Syro-Phoenician demi-god Tammuz.\par \pard\plain  16Attis: Phrygian god, companion to Cybele. He was castrated and bled to death.\par \pard\plain  17Mithras: God of light in ancient Persian Mazdaism.\par \pard\plain  18Magi: The three wise men from the east (a magus was a member of the Persian priestly caste) who visited the newborn Jesus (Matt. 2:1\'9612).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Otherwise it follows from your story that he really was born!...\'92\par \pard\plain  Here Homeless made an attempt to stop his painful hiccupping by holding his breath, which caused him to hiccup more painfully and loudly, and at that same moment Berlioz interrupted his speech, because the for- eigner suddenly got up and walked towards the writers. They looked at him in surprise.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me, please,\'92 the approaching man began speaking, with a for- eign accent but without distorting the words, \'91if, not being your acquain- tance, I allow myself... but the subject of your learned conversation is so interesting that...\'92\par \pard\plain  Here he politely took off his beret and the friends had nothing left but to stand up and make their bows.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, rather a Frenchman ....\'92 thought Berlioz. \'91A Pole? ...\'92 thought Homeless.\par \pard\plain  It must be added that from his first words the foreigner made a repel- lent impression on the poet, but Berlioz rather liked him - that is, not liked but ... how to put it ... was interested, or whatever.\par \pard\plain  \'91May I sit down?\'92 the foreigner asked politely, and the friends some- how involuntarily moved apart; the foreigner adroitly sat down between them and at once entered into the conversation:\par \pard\plain  \'91Unless I heard wrong, you were pleased to say that Jesus never ex- isted?\'92 the foreigner asked, turning his green left eye to Berlioz.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, you did not hear wrong,\'92 Berlioz replied courteously, \'91that is pre- cisely what I was saying.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, how interesting!\'92 exclaimed the foreigner.\par \pard\plain  \'91What the devil does he want?\'92 thought Homeless, frowning.\par \pard\plain  \'91And you were agreeing with your interlocutor?\'92 inquired the stranger, turning to Homeless on his right.\par \pard\plain  \'91A hundred per cent!\'92 confirmed the man, who was fond of whimsical and figurative expressions.\par \pard\plain  \'91Amazing!\'92 exclaimed the uninvited interlocutor and, casting a thievish glance around and muffling his low voice for some reason, he said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive my importunity, but, as I understand, along with everything else, you also do not believe in God?\'92 he made frightened eyes and added:\par \pard\plain  \'91I swear I won\'92t tell anyone!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, we don\'92t believe in God,\'92 Berlioz replied, smiling slightly at the foreign tourist\'92s fright, but we can speak of it quite freely.\'92\par \pard\plain  The foreigner sat back on the bench and asked, even with a slight shriek of curiosity:\par \pard\plain  \'91You are - atheists?!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Yes, we\'92re atheists,\'92 Berlioz smilingly replied, and Homeless thought, getting angry: \'91Latched on to us, the foreign goose!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, how lovely!\'92 the astonishing foreigner cried out and began swivel- ing his head, looking from one writer to the other.\par \pard\plain  \'91In our country atheism does not surprise anyone,\'92 Berlioz said with diplomatic politeness. \'91The majority of our population consciously and long ago ceased believing in the fairytales about God.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the foreigner pulled the following stunt: he got up and shook the amazed editor\'92s hand, accompanying it with these words:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Allow me to thank you with all my heart!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What are you thanking him for?\'92 Homeless inquired, blinking.\par \pard\plain  \'91For some very important information, which is of great interest to me as a traveler,\'92 the outlandish fellow explained, raising his finger signifi- cantly.\par \pard\plain  The important information apparendy had indeed produced a strong impression on the traveler, because he passed his frightened glance over the buildings, as if afraid of seeing an atheist in every window.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, he\'92s not an Englishman ...\'92 thought Berlioz, and Homeless thought: \'91Where\'92d he pick up his Russian,  that\'92s the interesting thing!\'92       and\par \pard\plain  frowned again.\par \pard\plain  \'91But, allow me to ask you,\'92 the foreign visitor spoke after some anxious reflection, \'91what, then, about the proofs of God\'92s existence, of which, as is known, there are exactly five?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Alas!\'92 Berlioz said with regret. \'91Not one of these proofs is worth any- thing, and mankind shelved them long ago. You must agree that in the realm of reason there can be no proof of God\'92s existence.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Bravo!\'92 cried the foreigner. \'91Bravo! You have perfectly repeated rest- less old Immanuel\'92s 19 thought in this regard. But here\'92s the hitch: he roundly demolished all five proofs, and then, as if mocking himself, con- structed a sixth of his own.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Kant\'92s proof,\'92 the learned editor objected with a subtle smile, \'91is equal- ly unconvincing. Not for nothing did Schiller 20 say that the Kantian reasoning on this question can satisfy only slaves and Strauss 21 simply laughed at this proof.\'92 Berlioz spoke, thinking all the while: \'91But, anyhow, who is he? And why does he speak Russian so well?\'92\par \pard\plain  They ought to take this Kant and give him a three-year stretch in So- lovki 22  for such proofs!\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich plumped quite unexpectedly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ivan!\'92 Berlioz whispered, embarrassed.\par \pard\plain  But the suggestion of sending Kant to Solovki not only did not shock the foreigner, but even sent him into raptures.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  19Restless old Immanuel: Immanuel Kant (1724\'961804), German idealist philosopher, thought that the moral law innate in man implied freedom, immortality and the existence of God.\par \pard\plain  20Schiller: Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805), German poet and playwright, a liberal ideal- ist.\par \pard\plain  21Strauss: David Strauss (1808-74), German theologian, author of a Life of Jesus, con- sidered the Gospel story as belonging to the category of myth.\par \pard\plain  22Solovki: A casual name for the \'91Solovetsky Special Purpose Camps\'92 located on the site of a former monastery on the Solovetsky Islands in the White Sea. They were of especially terrible renown during the thirties. The last prisoners were loaded on a barge and drowned in the White Sea in 1959.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Precisely, precisely,\'92 he cried, and his green left eye, turned to Berlioz, flashed.  \'91Just the place for him!  Didn\'92t I tell him that time at    breakfast?\par \pard\plain  \'96 \'93As you will, Professor, but what you\'92ve thought up doesn\'92t hang to- gether. It\'92s clever, maybe, but mighty unclear. You\'92ll be laughed at.\'94 \'92\par \pard\plain  Berlioz goggled his eyes. \'91At breakfast... to Kant? ... What is this drivel?\'92 he thought.\par \pard\plain  \'91But,\'92 the outlander went on, unembarrassed by Berlioz\'92s amazement and addressing the poet, \'91sending him to Solovki is unfeasible, for the simple reason that he has been abiding for over a hundred years now in places considerably more remote than Solovki, and to extract him from there is in no way possible, I assure you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Too bad!\'92 the feisty poet responded.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, too bad!\'92 the stranger agreed, his eye flashing, and went on:\par \pard\plain  \'91But here is a question that is troubling me: if there is no God, then, one may ask, who governs human life and, in general, the whole order of things on earth?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Man governs it himself,\'92 Homeless angrily hastened to reply to this admittedly none-too-clear question. \'91Pardon me,\'92 the stranger responded gently, \'91but in order to govern, one needs, after all, to have a precise plan for certain, at least somewhat decent, length of time. Allow me to ask you, then, how man can govern, if he is not only deprived of the opportunity of making a plan for at least some ridiculously short period - well, say, a thousand years - but cannot even vouch for his own tomorrow?\par \pard\plain  \'91And in fact,\'92 here the stranger turned to Berlioz, \'91imagine that you, for instance, start governing, giving orders to others and yourself, generally, so to speak, acquire a taste for it, and suddenly you get ...hem... hem ... lung cancer...\'92 - here the foreigner smiled sweetly, and if the thought of lung cancer gave him pleasure - \'91yes, cancer\'92 - narrowing his eyes like a cat, he repeated the sonorous word - \'91and so your governing is over!\par \pard\plain  \'91You are no longer interested in anyone\'92s fate but your own. Your family starts lying to you. Feeling that something is wrong, you rush to learned doctors, then to quacks, and sometimes to fortune-tellers as well. Like the first, so the second and third are completely senseless, as you understand. And it all ends tragically: a man who still recently thought he was governing something, suddenly winds up lying motionless in a wooden box, and the people around him, seeing that the man lying there is no longer good for anything, burn him in an oven.\par \pard\plain  \'91And sometimes it\'92s worse still: the man has just decided to go to Kislovodsk\'92 - here the foreigner squinted at Berlioz - \'91a trifling matter,    it seems, but even this he cannot accomplish, because suddenly, no one knows why, he slips and falls under a tram-car!     Are you going to say it\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  was he who governed himself that way?  Would  it not be more correct  to think that he was governed by someone else entirely?\'92 And here the unknown man burst into a strange little laugh.\par \pard\plain  Berlioz listened with great attention to the unpleasant story about the cancer and the tram-car, and certain alarming thoughts began to torment him.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s not a foreigner... He\'92s not a foreigner...\'92 he thought, \'91he\'92s a most peculiar specimen ... but, excuse me, who is he then? ...\'92\par \pard\plain  You\'92d like to smoke, I see?\'92 the stranger addressed Homeless unex- pectedly. \'93Which kind do you prefer?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What, have you got several?\'92 the poet, who had run out of cigarettes, asked glumly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Which do you prefer?\'92 the stranger repeated. \'91Okay - Our Brand,\'92 Homeless replied spitefully.\par \pard\plain  The unknown man immediately took a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to Homeless:\par \pard\plain  \'91Our Brand...\'92\par \pard\plain  Editor and poet were both struck, not so much by Our Brand precisely turning up in the cigarette case, as by the cigarette case itself. It was of huge size, made of pure gold, and, as it was opened, a diamond triangle flashed white and blue fire on its lid.\par \pard\plain  Here the writers thought differently. Berlioz: \'91No, a foreigner!\'92, and Homeless: \'91Well, devil take him, eh! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  The poet and the owner of the cigarette case lit up, but the non-smoker Berlioz declined.\par \pard\plain  \'91I must counter him like this,\'92 Berlioz decided, \'91yes, man is mortal, no one disputes that. But the thing is...\'92\par \pard\plain  However, before he managed to utter these words, the foreigner spoke: \'91Yes, man is mortal, but that would be only half the trouble. The worst\par \pard\plain  of it is that he\'92s sometimes unexpectedly mortal - there\'92s the trick! And generally he\'92s unable to say what he\'92s going to do this same evening.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What an absurd way of putting the question ...\'92 Berlioz thought and objected:\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, there\'92s some exaggeration here. About this same evening I do know more or less certainly. It goes without saying, if a brick should fall on my head on Bronnaya. . \'91\par \pard\plain  \'91No brick,\'92 the stranger interrupted imposingly, \'91will ever fall on any- one\'92s head just out of the blue. In this particular case, I assure you, you are not in danger of that at all. You will die a different death.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Maybe you know what kind precisely?\'92 Berlioz inquired with per- fectly natural irony,  getting drawn into an utterly absurd    conversation.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91And will tell me?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Willingly,\'92 the unknown man responded. He looked Berlioz up and down as if he were going to make him a suit, muttered through his teeth something like: \'91One, two ...  Mercury in the second house ...  moon gone\par \pard\plain  ... six - disaster... evening - seven...\'92 then announced loudly and joyfully: \'91Your head will be cut off!\'92\par \pard\plain  Homeless goggled his eyes wildly and spitefully at the insouciant stran- ger, and Berlioz asked, grinning crookedly:\par \pard\plain  \'91By whom precisely? Enemies? Interventionists?\'92 23\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92  replied his interlocutor,  \'91by a Russian woman,  a Komsomol   24\par \pard\plain  girl.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Hm...\'92 Berlioz mumbled, vexed at the stranger\'92s little joke, \'91well, ex- cuse me, but that\'92s not very likely.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And I beg you to excuse me,\'92 the foreigner replied, \'91but it\'92s so. Ah, yes, I wanted to ask you, what are you going to do tonight, if it\'92s not a secret?\'92 \'91It\'92s not a secret. Right now I\'92ll stop by my place on Sadovaya, and then at ten this evening there will be a meeting at Massolit, and I will chair\par \pard\plain  it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, that simply cannot be,\'92 the foreigner objected firmly. \'91Why not?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Because,\'92 the foreigner replied and, narrowing his eyes, looked into the sky, where, anticipating the cool of the evening, black birds were trac- ing noiselessly, \'91Annushka has already bought the sunflower oil, and has not only bought it, but has already spilled it. So the meeting will not take place.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here, quite understandably, silence fell under the lindens.\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive me,\'92 Berlioz spoke after a pause, glancing at the drivel-spout- ing foreigner, \'91but what has sunflower oil got to do with it ... and which Annushka?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Sunflower oil has got this to do with it,\'92 Homeless suddenly spoke, obviously deciding to declare war on the uninvited interlocutor. \'91Have you ever happened, citizen, to be in a hospital for the mentally ill?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ivan! ...\'92 Mikhail Alexandrovich exclaimed quietly. But the foreigner was not a bit offended and burst into the merriest laughter.\par \pard\plain  \'91I have, I have, and more than once!\'92 he cried out, laughing, but with- out taking his unlaughing eye off the poet.  \'91Where haven\'92t I been!   Only\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  23Enemies? Interventionists?: There was constant talk in the early Soviet period of \'91ene- mies of the revolution\'92 and \'91foreign interventionists\'92 seeking to subvert the new workers\'92 state.\par \pard\plain  24Komsomol: Contraction of the Union of Communist Youth, which all good Soviet young people were expected to join.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  it\'92s too bad I didn\'92t get around to asking the professor what schizophrenia is. So you will have to find that out from him yourself, Ivan Nikolaevich!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How do you know my name?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Gracious, Ivan Nikolaevich, who doesn\'92t know you?\'92 Here the for- eigner took out of his pocket the previous day\'92s issue of the Literary Ga- zette, and Ivan Nikolaevich saw his own picture on the very first page and under it his very own verses. But the proof of fame and popularity, which yesterday had delighted the poet, this time did not delight him a bit.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me,\'92 he said, and his face darkened, \'91could you wait one little moment? I want to say a couple of words to my friend.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, with pleasure!\'92 exclaimed the stranger. \'91It\'92s so nice here under the lindens, and, by the way, I\'92m not in any hurry.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Listen here, Misha,\'92 the poet whispered, drawing Berlioz aside, \'91he\'92s no foreign tourist, he\'92s a spy. A Russian emigre 25 who has crossed back over. Ask for his papers before he gets away...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91YOU think so?\'92 Berlioz whispered worriedly, and thought: \'91Why, he\'92s right...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Believe me,\'92 the poet rasped into his ear, \'91he\'92s pretending to be a fool in order to find out something or other. Just hear how he speaks Russian.\'92 As he spoke, the poet kept glancing sideways, to make sure the stranger did not escape. \'91Let\'92s go and detain him, or he\'92ll get away...\'92\par \pard\plain  And the poet pulled Berlioz back to the bench by the arm.\par \pard\plain  The unknown man was not sitting, but was standing near it, holding in his hands some booklet in a dark-grey binding, a sturdy envelope made of good paper, and a visiting card.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me for having forgotten, in the heat of our dispute, to intro- duce myself. Here is my card, my passport, and an invitation to come to Moscow for a consultation,\'92 the stranger said weightily, giving both writ- ers a penetrating glance.\par \pard\plain  They were embarrassed. \'91The devil, he heard everything...\'92 Berlioz thought, and with a polite gesture indicated that there was no need to show papers. While the foreigner was pushing them at the editor, the poet managed to make out the word \'91Professor\'92 printed in foreign type on the card, and the initial letter of the last name - a double \'91V\'92 - \'91W\'92.\par \pard\plain  \'91My pleasure,\'92 the editor meanwhile muttered in embarrassment, and the foreigner put the papers back in his pocket.\par \pard\plain  Relations were thus restored, and all three sat down on the bench again.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  25A Russian emigre: Many Russians opposed to the revolution emigrated abroad, forming important \'91colonies\'92 in various capitals - Berlin, Paris, Prague, Harbin, Shang- hai - where they remained potential spies and interventionists.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92ve been invited here as a consultant, Professor?\'92 asked Berlioz. \'91Yes, as a consultant.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re German?\'92 Homeless inquired.\par \pard\plain  \'91I? ...\'92 the professor repeated and suddenly fell to thinking. \'91Yes, per- haps I am German ...\'92 he said.\par \pard\plain  \'91YOU speak real good Russian,\'92 Homeless observed.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, I\'92m generally a polyglot and know a great number of languages,\'92 the professor replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91And what is your field?\'92 Berlioz inquired. \'91I am a specialist in black magic.\'92\par \pard\plain  There he goes!...\'92 struck in Mikhail Alexandrovich\'92s head.\par \pard\plain  \'91And ... and you\'92ve been invited here in that capacity?\'92 he asked, stam- mering.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, in that capacity,\'92 the professor confirmed, and explained: \'91In a state library here some original manuscripts of the tenth-century necro- mancer Gerbert of Aurillac 26 have been found. So it is necessary for me to sort them out. I am the only specialist in the world.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha! You\'92re a historian?\'92 Berlioz asked with great relief and respect. \'91I am a historian,\'92 the scholar confirmed, and added with no rhyme or\par \pard\plain  reason: This evening there will be an interesting story at the Ponds!\'92 Once again editor and poet were extremely surprised, but the  profes-\par \pard\plain  sor beckoned them both to him, and when they leaned towards him, whis- pered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Bear in mind that Jesus did exist.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You see. Professor,\'92 Berlioz responded with a forced smile, \'91we respect your great learning, but on this question we hold to a different point of view.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91There\'92s no need for any points of view,\'92 the strange professor replied, \'91he simply existed, that\'92s all.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But there\'92s need for some proof...\'92 Berlioz began.\par \pard\plain  \'91There\'92s no need for any proofs,\'92 replied the professor, and he began to speak softly, while his accent for some reason disappeared: \'91It\'92s all very simple: In a white cloak with blood-red lining, with the shuffling gait of  a cavalryman, early in the morning of the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nissan...\'92 27\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  26Gerbert of Aurillac: (958-1005), theologian and mathematician, popularly taken to be a magician and alchemist. He became pope in 999 under the name of Sylvester II.\par \pard\plain  27Nisan: The seventh month of the Jewish lunar calendar, twenty-nine days in length.\par \pard\plain  The fifteenth day of Nisan (beginning at sundown on the fourteenth) is the start of the feast of Passover, commemorating the exodus of the Jews from Egypt.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 2 Pontius Pilate\par \pard\plain  In a white cloak with blood-red lining, with the shuffling gait of a caval- ryman, early in the morning of the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan, there came out to the covered colonnade between the two wings of the palace of Herod the Great 1 the procurator of Judea, 2 Pontius Pilate. 3 More than anything in the world the procurator hated the smell of rose oil, and now everything foreboded a bad day, because this smell had been\par \pard\plain  pursuing the procurator since dawn.\par \pard\plain  It seemed to the procurator that a rosy smell exuded from the cypresses and palms in the garden, that the smell of leather trappings and sweat from the convoy was mingled with the cursed rosy flux.\par \pard\plain  From the outbuildings at the back of the palace, where the first cohort of the Twelfth Lightning legion, 4 which had come to Yershalaim 5 with  the procurator,  was quartered,  a whiff of smoke reached the   colonnade\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Herod the Great (?75 BC\'96AD 4), a clever politician whom the Romans rewarded for his services by making king of Judea, an honour he handed on to his son and grandson.\par \pard\plain  2Judea: The southern part of Palestine, subject to Rome since 65 BC, named for Judah, fourth son of Jacob. In AD 6 it was made a Roman province with the procurator\'92s seat at Caesarea.\par \pard\plain  3Pontius Pilate: Roman procurator of Judea from about AD 26 to 56. Outside the Gospels, virtually nothing is known of him, though he is mentioned in the passage from Tacitus referred to above. Bulgakov drew details for his portrayal of the procurator from fictional lives of Jesus by P. W. Farrar (1851-1905), Dean of Canterbury Cathedral, and by Ernest Renan (1825-92), French historian and lapsed Catholic, as well as by the previously mentioned David Strauss.\par \pard\plain  4Twelfth Lightning legion: Bulgakov translates the actual Latin nickname (julmi-nata) by which the Twelfth legion was known at least as early as the time of the emperors Nerva and Trajan (late first century AD), and probably earlier.\par \pard\plain  5Yershalaim: An alternative transliteration from Hebrew of the name of Jerusalem. In certain other cases as well, Bulgakov has preferred the distancing effect of these alterna- tives: Yeshua for Jesus, Kaifa for Caiaphas, Kiriath for Iscariot.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  30\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  across the upper terrace of the palace, and this slightly acrid smoke, which testified that the centuries\'92 mess cooks had begun to prepare dinner, was mingled with the same thick rosy scent.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, gods, gods, why do you punish me? ... Yes, no doubt, this is it, this is it again, the invincible, terrible illness... hemicrania, when half of the head aches ... there\'92s no remedy for it, no escape ... I\'92ll try not to move my head...\'92\par \pard\plain  On the mosaic floor by the fountain a chair was already prepared, and the procurator, without looking at anyone, sat in it and reached his hand out to one side. His secretary deferentially placed a sheet of parchment  in this hand. Unable to suppress a painful grimace, the procurator ran a cursory, sidelong glance over the writing, returned the parchment to the secretary, and said with difficulty:\par \pard\plain  \'91The accused is from Galilee? 6 Was the case sent to the tetrarch?\'92 \'91Yes, Procurator,\'92 replied the secretary.\par \pard\plain  \'91And what then?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He refused to make a decision on the case and sent the Sanhedrin\'92s  7\par \pard\plain  death sentence to you for confirmation,\'92 the secretary explained.\par \pard\plain  The procurator twitched his cheek and said quietly: \'91Bring in the accused.\'92\par \pard\plain  And at once two legionaries brought a man of about twenty-seven from the garden terrace to the balcony under the columns and stood him before the procurator\'92s chair. The man was dressed in an old and torn light-blue chiton. His head was covered by a white cloth with a leather band around the forehead, and his hands were bound behind his back. Under the man\'92s left eye there was a large bruise, in the corner of his mouth a cut caked with blood.\par \pard\plain  The man gazed at the procurator with anxious curiosity.\par \pard\plain  The latter paused, then asked quietly in Aramaic: 8\par \pard\plain  \'91So it was you who incited the people to destroy the temple of Yersha- laim?\'92 9\par \pard\plain  6Galilee: The northern part of Palestine, green and fertile, with its capital at Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee (Lake Kinnereth). In Galilee at that time, the tetrarch (ruler of one of the four Roman subdivisions of Palestine) was Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great. According to the Gospel of Luke (25:7\'96 11), Herod Antipas was in Jerusalem at the time of Christ\'92s crucifixion.\par \pard\plain  7Sanhedrin: The highest Jewish legislative and judicial body, headed by the high priest of the temple in Jerusalem. The lower courts of justice were called lesser sanhedrins.\par \pard\plain  8Aramaic: Name of the northern branch of Semitic languages, used extensively in south-west Asia, adopted by the Jews after the Babylonian captivity in the late sixth cen- tury BC.\par \pard\plain  9the temple of Yershalaim: Built by King Solomon (tenth century BC), the first temple\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The procurator sat as if made of stone while he spoke, and only his lips moved slightly as he pronounced the words. The procurator was as if made of stone because he was afraid to move his head, aflame with infernal pain.\par \pard\plain  The man with bound hands leaned forward somewhat and began to speak:\par \pard\plain  \'91Good man! Believe me ...\'92\par \pard\plain  But me procurator, motionless as before and not raising his voice in the least, straight away interrupted him:\par \pard\plain  \'91Is it me that you are calling a good man? You are mistaken. It is whis- pered about me in Yershalaim that I am a fierce monster, and that is per- fectly correct.\'92 And he added in the same monotone: \'91Bring the centurion Ratslayer.\'92\par \pard\plain  It seemed to everyone that it became darker on the balcony when the centurion of the first century, Mark, nicknamed Ratslayer, presented him- self before the procurator. Ratslayer was a head taller than the tallest sol- dier of the legion and so broad in the shoulders that he completely blocked out the still-low sun.\par \pard\plain  The procurator addressed the centurion in Latin:\par \pard\plain  \'91The criminal calls me \'93good man\'94. Take him outside for a moment, explain to him how I ought to be spoken to. But no maiming.\'92\par \pard\plain  And everyone except the motionless procurator followed Mark Rat- slayer with their eyes as he motioned to the arrested man, indicating that he should go with him. Everyone generally followed Ratslayer with their eyes wherever he appeared, because of his height, and those who were seeing him for the first time also because the centurion\'92s face was disfig- ured: his nose had once been smashed by a blow from a Germanic club.\par \pard\plain  Mark\'92s heavy boots thudded across the mosaic, the bound man noise- lessly went out with him, complete silence fell in the colonnade, and one could hear pigeons cooing on the garden terrace near the balcony and wa- ter singing an intricate, pleasant song in the fountain.\par \pard\plain  The procurator would have liked to get up, put his temple under the spout, and stay standing that way. But he knew that even that would not help him.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  was destroyed by the Babylonian invaders in 586 BC. The second temple, built in 557\'96515 BC, rebuilt and embellished by Herod the Great, was destroyed by Titus in AD 70. No third temple has been built. One of the accusations against Jesus in the Gospels was that he threatened to destroy the temple (see Mark 15:1-2,14:58). It may be well to note here that Bulgakov\'92s Yeshua is not intended as a faithful depiction of Jesus or as a \'92revisionist\'92 alternative to the Christ of the Gospels, though he does borrow a number of details from the Gospels in portraying him.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Having brought the arrested man from under the columns out to the garden, Ratslayer took a whip from the hands of a legionary who was standing at the foot of a bronze statue and, swinging easily, struck the arrested man across the shoulders. The centurion\'92s movement was casual and light, yet the bound man instantly collapsed on the ground as if his legs had been cut from under him; he gasped for air, the colour drained from his face, and his eyes went vacant.\par \pard\plain  With his left hand only Mark heaved the fallen man into the air like an empty sack, set him on his feet, and spoke nasally, in poorly pronounced Aramaic:\par \pard\plain  \'91The Roman procurator is called Hegemon.   10    Use no other    words.\par \pard\plain  Stand at attention. Do you understand me, or do I hit you?\'92\par \pard\plain  The arrested man swayed, but got hold of himself, his colour returned, he caught his breath and answered hoarsely:\par \pard\plain  I understand. Don\'92t beat me.\'92\par \pard\plain  A moment later he was again standing before the procurator. A lusterless, sick voice sounded:\par \pard\plain  \'91Name?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Mine?\'92 the arrested man hastily responded, his whole being express- ing a readiness to answer sensibly, without provoking further wrath.\par \pard\plain  The procurator said softly:\par \pard\plain  \'91I know my own. Don\'92t pretend to be stupider than you are. Yours.\'92 \'91Yeshua,\'92 11  the prisoner replied promptly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Any surname?\'92 \'91Ha-Nozri.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Where do you come from?\'92 \'91The town of Gamala,\'92 12\par \pard\plain  replied the prisoner, indicating with his head that there, somewhere far off to his right, in the north, was the town of Gamala.\par \pard\plain  \'91Who are you by blood?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t know exactly,\'92 the arrested man replied animatedly, \'91I don\'92t remember my parents. I was told that my father was a Syrian...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Where is your permanent residence?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I have no permanent home,\'92 the prisoner answered shyly, \'91I travel from town to town.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  10Hegemon: Greek for \'91leader\'92 or \'91governor\'92.\par \pard\plain  11Yeshua: Aramaic for \'91the lord is salvation\'92. Ha-Nozri means \'91of Nazareth\'92, the town in Galilee where Jesus lived before beginning his public ministry.\par \pard\plain  12Gamala: A town north-east of Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee, not traditionally con- nected with Jesus.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91That can be put more briefly, in a word \'96 a vagrant,\'92 the procurator said, and asked:\par \pard\plain  \'91Any family?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91None. I\'92m alone in the world.\'92 \'91Can you read and write?\'92 \'91Yes.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Do you know any language besides Aramaic?\'92 \'91Yes. Greek.\'92\par \pard\plain  A swollen eyelid rose, an eye clouded with suffering fixed the arrested\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  man. The other eye remained shut.\par \pard\plain  Pilate spoke in Greek.\par \pard\plain  \'91So it was you who was going to destroy the temple building and called on the people to do that?\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the prisoner again became animated, his eyes ceased to show fear, and he spoke in Greek:\par \pard\plain  \'91Never, goo...\'92 Here terror flashed in the prisoner\'92s eyes, because he had nearly made a slip. \'91Never, Hegemon, never in my life was I going to destroy the temple building, nor did I incite anyone to this senseless act.\'92\par \pard\plain  Surprise showed on the face of the secretary, hunched over a low table and writing down the testimony. He raised his head, but immediately bent it to the parchment again.\par \pard\plain  \'91All sorts of people gather in this town for the feast. Among them there are magicians, astrologers, diviners and murderers,\'92 the procurator spoke in monotone, \'91and occasionally also liars. You, for instance, are a liar.  It  is written clearly: \'93Incited to destroy the temple\'94. People have testified to it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91These good people,\'92 the prisoner spoke and, hastily adding \'91Hege- mon\'92, went on: \'91...haven\'92t any learning and have confused everything I told them. Generally, I\'92m beginning to be afraid that this confusion may go on for a very long time. And all because he writes down the things I say incorrectly.\'92\par \pard\plain  Silence fell. By now both sick eyes rested heavily on the prisoner.\par \pard\plain  \'91I repeat to you, but for the last time, stop pretending that you\'92re a madman, robber,\'92 Pilate said softly and monotonously, \'91there\'92s not much written in your record, but what there is enough to hang you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no, Hegemon,\'92 the arrested man said, straining all over in his wish to convince, \'91there\'92s one with a goatskin parchment who follows me, fol- lows me and keeps writing all the time. But once I peeked into this parch- ment and was horrified. I said decidedly nothing of what\'92s written there. I implored him: \'93Burn your parchment, I beg you!\'94 But he tore it out of my hands and ran away.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is that?\'92 Pilate asked squeamishly and touched his temple with his hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91Matthew Levi,\'92 13 the prisoner explained willingly. \'91He used to be a tax collector, and I first met him on the road in Bethphage,\'92 14  where a fig\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  13Matthew Levi: Compare the Matthew Levi of the Gospels, a former tax collector, one of the twelve disciples (Matt. 9:9, Mark 2:14, Luke 5:27), author of the first Gospel. Again, Bulgakov\'92s character is not meant as an accurate portrayal of Christ\'92s disciple (about whom virtually nothing is known) but is a free variation on the theme of discipleship.\par \pard\plain  14Bethphage:  Hebrew for \'91house of figs\'92, the name of a village near Jerusalem   which\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  grove juts out at an angle, and I got to talking with him. He treated me hostilely at first and even insulted me - that is, thought he insulted me - by calling me a dog.\'92 Here the prisoner smiled. \'91I personally see nothing bad about this animal, that I should be offended by this word...\'92\par \pard\plain  The secretary stopped writing and stealthily cast a surprised glance, not at the arrested man, but at the procurator.\par \pard\plain  \'91... However, after listening to me, he began to soften,\'92 Yeshua went on, \'91finally threw the money down in the road and said he would go journey- ing with me...\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate grinned with one cheek, baring yellow teeth, and said, turning his whole body towards the secretary:\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, city of Yershalaim! What does one not hear in it! A tax collector, do you hear, threw money down in the road!\'92\par \pard\plain  Not knowing how to reply to that, the secretary found it necessary to repeat Pilate\'92s smile.\par \pard\plain  \'91He said that henceforth money had become hateful to him,\'92 Yeshua explained Matthew Levi\'92s strange action and added: \'91And since then he has been my companion.\'92\par \pard\plain  His teeth still bared, the procurator glanced at the arrested man, then at the sun, steadily rising over the equestrian statues of the hippodrome, which lay far below to the right, and suddenly, in some sickening anguish, thought that the simplest thing would be to drive this strange robber off the balcony by uttering just two words: \'91Hang him.\'92 To drive the convoy away as well, to leave the colonnade, go into the palace, order the room darkened, collapse on the bed, send for cold water, call in a plaintive voice for his dog Banga, and complain to him about the hemicrania. And the thought of poison suddenly flashed temptingly in the procurator\'92s sick head.\par \pard\plain  He gazed with dull eyes at the arrested man and was silent for a time, painfully trying to remember why there stood before him in the pitiless morning sunlight of Yershalaim this prisoner with his face disfigured by beating, and what other utterly unnecessary questions he had to ask him. \'91Matthew Levi?\'92  the sick man asked in a hoarse voice and closed   his\par \pard\plain  eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, Matthew Levi,\'92 the high, tormenting voice came to him.\par \pard\plain  \'91And what was it in any case that you said about the temple to the crowd in the bazaar?\'92\par \pard\plain  The responding voice seemed to stab at Pilate\'92s temple, was inexpress- ibly painful, and this voice was saying:\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Jesus passed through on his final journey to the city.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I said, Hegemon, that the temple of the old faith would fall and a new temple of truth would be built. I said it that way so as to make it more understandable.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And why did you stir up the people in the bazaar, you vagrant, talking about the truth, of which you have no notion? What is truth?\'92 15\par \pard\plain  And here the procurator thought: \'91Oh, my gods! I\'92m asking him about something unnecessary at a trial... my reason no longer serves me...\'92 And again he pictured a cup of dark liquid. \'91Poison, bring me poison...\'92\par \pard\plain  And again he heard the voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91The truth is, first of all, that your head aches, and aches so badly that you\'92re having faint-hearted thoughts of death. You\'92re not only unable to speak to me, but it is even hard for you to look at me. And I am now your unwilling torturer, which upsets me. You can\'92t even think about anything and only dream that your dog should come, apparently the one being you are attached to. But your suffering will soon be over, your headache will go away.\'92\par \pard\plain  The secretary goggled his eyes at the prisoner and stopped writing in mid-word.\par \pard\plain  Pilate raised his tormented eyes to the prisoner and saw that the sun already stood quite high over the hippodrome, that a ray had penetrated the colonnade and was stealing towards Yeshua\'92s worn sandals, and that the man was trying to step out of the sun\'92s way.\par \pard\plain  Here the procurator rose from his chair, clutched his head with his hands, and his yellowish, shaven face expressed dread. But he instantly suppressed it with his will and lowered himself into his chair again.\par \pard\plain  The prisoner meanwhile continued his speech, but the secretary was no longer writing it down, and only stretched his neck like a goose, trying not to let drop a single word.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, there, it\'92s all over,\'92 the arrested man said, glancing benevolently at Pilate, \'91and I\'92m extremely glad of it. I\'92d advise you, Hegemon, to leave the palace for a while and go for a stroll somewhere in the vicinity - say, in the gardens on the Mount of Olives. 16 A storm will come...\'92 the prisoner turned, narrowing his eyes at the sun, \'91...later on, towards evening. A stroll would do you much good, and I would be glad to accompany you. Certain new thoughts have occurred to me, which I think you might find interesting, and I\'92d willingly share them with you, the more so as you give\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  15What is truth?: Pilate\'92s question to Christ in the Gospel of John (18:58).\par \pard\plain  16the Mount of Olives: A hill to the east of Jerusalem. At the foot of this hill is Geth- semane (\'92the olive press\'92), just across the stream of Kedron. It was here that Christ was arrested (Matt. 26:56, Mark 14:52, Luke 22:59, John 18:1). These places will be important later in the novel.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the impression of being a very intelligent man.\'92\par \pard\plain  The secretary turned deathly pale and dropped the scroll on the floor. \'91The trouble is,\'92 the bound man went on, not stopped by anyone, \'91that\par \pard\plain  you are too closed off and have definitively lost faith in people. You must agree, one can\'92t place all one\'92s affection in a dog. Your life is impoverished, Hegemon.\'92 And here the speaker allowed himself to smile.\par \pard\plain  The secretary now thought of only one thing, whether to believe his ears or not. He had to believe. Then he tried to imagine precisely what whimsical form the wrath of the hot-tempered procurator would take at this unheard-of impudence from the prisoner. And this the secretary was unable to imagine, though he knew the procurator well.\par \pard\plain  Then came the cracked, hoarse voice of the procurator, who said in Latin:\par \pard\plain  \'91Unbind his hands.\'92\par \pard\plain  One of the convoy legionaries rapped with his spear, handed it to an- other, went over and took the ropes off the prisoner. The secretary picked up his scroll, having decided to record nothing for now, and to be sur- prised at nothing.\par \pard\plain  \'91Admit,\'92 Pilate asked softly in Greek, \'91that you are a great physician?\'92 \'91No, Procurator, I am not a physician,\'92 the prisoner replied, delightedly\par \pard\plain  rubbing a crimped and swollen purple wrist.\par \pard\plain  Scowling deeply, Pilate bored the prisoner with his eyes, and these eyes were no longer dull, but flashed with sparks familiar to all.\par \pard\plain  \'91I didn\'92t ask you,\'92 Pilate said, \'91maybe you also know Latin?\'92 \'91Yes, I do,\'92 the prisoner replied.\par \pard\plain  Colour came to Pilate\'92s yellowish cheeks, and he asked in Latin: \'91How did you know I wanted to call my dog?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s very simple,\'92 the prisoner replied in Latin. \'91You were moving your hand in the air\'92 - and the prisoner repeated Pilate\'92s gesture - \'91as if you wanted to stroke something, and your lips...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 said Pilate.\par \pard\plain  There was silence. Then Pilate asked a question in Greek: \'91And so, you are a physician?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no,\'92 the prisoner replied animatedly, \'91believe me, I\'92m not a physi- cian.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Very well, then, if you want to keep it a secret, do so. It has no direct bearing on the case. So you maintain that you did not incite anyone to destroy ... or set fire to, or in any other way demolish the temple?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I repeat, I did not incite anyone to such acts, Hegemon. Do I look like a halfwit?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no, you don\'92t look like a halfwit,\'92 the procurator replied quietly and smiled some strange smile. \'91Swear, then, that it wasn\'92t so.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91By what do you want me to swear?\'92 the unbound man asked, very animated.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, let\'92s say, by your life,\'92 the procurator replied. \'91It\'92s high time you swore by it, since it\'92s hanging by a hair, I can tell you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You don\'92t think it was you who hung it, Hegemon?\'92 the prisoner asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91If so, you are very mistaken.\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate gave a start and replied through his teeth: \'91I can cut that hair.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91In that, too, you are mistaken,\'92 the prisoner retorted, smiling brightly and shielding himself from the sun with his hand. \'91YOU must agree that surely only he who hung it can cut the hair?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So, so,\'92 Pilate said, smiling, \'91now I have no doubts that the idle loafers of Yershalaim followed at your heels. I don\'92t know who hung such a tongue on you, but he hung it well. Incidentally, tell me, is it true that  you entered Yershalaim by the Susa gate 17 riding on an ass, 18 accompa- nied by a crowd of riff-raff who shouted greetings to you as some kind of prophet?\'92 Here the procurator pointed to the parchment scroll.\par \pard\plain  The prisoner glanced at the procurator in perplexity.\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t even have an ass, Hegemon,\'92 he said. \'91I did enter Yershalaim by the Susa gate, but on foot, accompanied only by Matthew Levi, and no one shouted anything to me, because no one in Yershalaim knew me then.\'92 \'91Do you happen to know,\'92 Pilate continued without taking his eyes off the prisoner, \'91such men as a certain Dysmas, another named Gestas, and a\par \pard\plain  third named Bar-Rabban?\'92 19\par \pard\plain  \'91I do not know these good people,\'92 the prisoner replied. \'91Truly?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Truly.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And now tell me, why is it that you use me words \'93good people\'94 all the time? Do you call everyone that, or what?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Everyone,\'92 the prisoner replied. There are no evil people in the world.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  17The Susa gate: Also known as the Golden gate, on the east side of Jerusalem, facing the Mount of Olives.\par \pard\plain  18riding on an ass: The Gospels are unanimous in describing Christ\'92s entry into Jerusalem riding on an ass (Matt. 21:1\'9611, Mark 11:1\'9611, Luke 19:28\'9658, John 12:12\'9619).\par \pard\plain  19Dysmas ... Gestas ... Bar-Rabban: The first two are the thieves crucified with Christ; not given in the canonical Gospels, the names here come from the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus (part of which is known as \'91the Acts of Pilate\'92), one of Bulgakov\'92s references during the writing of the novel. The third is a variant on the Barabbas of the Gospels.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91The first I hear of it,\'92 Pilate said, grinning. \'91But perhaps I know too little of life! ...\par \pard\plain  You needn\'92t record any more,\'92 he addressed the secretary, who had not recorded anything anyway, and went on talking with the prisoner. \'91YOU read that in some Greek book?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, I figured it out for myself.\'92 \'91And you preach it?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But take, for instance, the centurion Mark, the one known as Ratslayer\par \pard\plain  - is he good?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 replied the prisoner. \'91True, he\'92s an unhappy man. Since the good people disfigured him, he has become cruel and hard. I\'92d be curious to know who maimed him.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I can willingly tell you that,\'92 Pilate responded, \'91for I was a witness to it. The good people fell on him like dogs on a bear. There were Germans fas- tened on his neck, his arms, his legs. The infantry maniple was encircled, and if one flank hadn\'92t been cut by a cavalry turmae, of which I was the commander - you, philosopher, would not have had the chance to speak with the Rat-slayer. That was at the battle of Idistaviso, 20 in the Valley of the Virgins.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91If I could speak with him,\'92 the prisoner suddenly said musingly, \'91I\'92m sure he\'92d change sharply.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t suppose,\'92 Pilate responded, \'91that you\'92d bring much joy to the legate of the legion if you decided to talk with any of his officers or sol- diers. Anyhow, it\'92s also not going to happen, fortunately for everyone, and I will be the first to see to it.\'92\par \pard\plain  At that moment a swallow swiftly flitted into the colonnade, described a circle under the golden ceiling, swooped down, almost brushed the face of a bronze statue in a niche with its pointed wing, and disappeared be- hind the capital of a column. It may be that it thought of nesting there.\par \pard\plain  During its flight, a formula took shape in the now light and lucid head of the procurator. It went like this: the hegemon has looked into the case of the vagrant philosopher Yeshua, alias Ha-Nozri, and found in it no grounds for indictment. In particular, he has found not the slightest con- nection between the acts of Yeshua and the disorders that have lately taken place in Yershalaim. The vagrant philosopher has proved to be mentally ill.   Consequently,  the procurator has not confirmed the death   sentence\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  20Idistaviso: Mentioned in Tacitus\'92s Annals (2:16) as the site of a battle between the Romans and the Germani in AD 16, on the right bank of the Weser, in which the Roman general Germanicus defeated the army of Arminius.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  on Ha-Nozri passed by the Lesser Sanhedrin. But seeing that Ha-Nozri\'92s mad utopian talk might cause disturbances in Yershalaim, the procurator is removing Yeshua from Yershalaim and putting him under confinement in Stratonian Caesarea on the Mediterranean - that is, precisely where the procurator\'92s residence was.\par \pard\plain  It remained to dictate it to the secretary.\par \pard\plain  The swallow\'92s wings whiffled right over the hegemon\'92s head, the bird darted to the fountain basin and then flew out into freedom. The procu- rator raised his eyes to the prisoner and saw the dust blaze up in a pillar around him.\par \pard\plain  \'91Is that all about him?\'92 Pilate asked the secretary.\par \pard\plain  \'91Unfortunately not,\'92 the secretary replied unexpectedly and handed Pi- late another piece of parchment.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s this now?\'92 Pilate asked and frowned.\par \pard\plain  Having read what had been handed to him, he changed countenance even more: Either the dark blood rose to his neck and face, or something else happened, only his skin lost its yellow tinge, turned brown, and his eyes seemed to sink.\par \pard\plain  Again it was probably owing to the blood rising to his temples and throbbing in them, only something happened to the procurator\'92s vision. Thus, he imagined that the prisoner\'92s head floated off somewhere, and another appeared in its place. 21\par \pard\plain  On this bald head sat a scant-pointed golden diadem. On the fore- head was a round canker, eating into the skin and smeared with ointment. A sunken, toothless mouth with a pendulous, capricious lower lip. It seemed to Pilate that the pink columns of the balcony and the rooftops  of Yershalaim far below, beyond the garden, vanished, and everything was drowned in the thickest green of Caprean gardens. And something strange also happened to his hearing: it was as if trumpets sounded far away, muted and menacing, and a nasal voice was very clearly heard, ar- rogantly drawling: \'91The law of lese-majesty...\'92\par \pard\plain  Thoughts raced, short, incoherent and extraordinary: \'91I\'92m lost! ...\'92 then: \'91We\'92re lost! ...\'92 And among them a totally absurd one, about some immortality, which immortality for some reason provoked unendurable anguish.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  21Another appeared in its place: Pilate\'92s nightmarish vision is of the aged emperor Tiberius (42 BC-AD 57), who spent many years in seclusion on the island of Capri, where he succumbed to all sorts of vicious passions. The law of lese-majesty (offence against the sovereign people or authority) existed in Rome under the republic; it was revived by Augustus and given wide application by Tiberius.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Pilate strained, drove the apparition away, his gaze returned to the bal- cony, and again the prisoner\'92s eyes were before him.\par \pard\plain  \'91Listen, Ha-Nozri,\'92 the procurator spoke, looking at Yeshua somehow strangely: the procurator\'92s face was menacing, but his eyes were alarmed, \'92did you ever say anything about the great Caesar? Answer! Did you?...Yes\par \pard\plain  ... or ... no?\'92 Pilate drew the word \'91no\'92 out somewhat longer than is done in court, and his glance sent Yeshua some thought that he wished as if to instill in the prisoner.\par \pard\plain  \'91To speak the truth is easy and pleasant,\'92 the prisoner observed.\par \pard\plain  \'91I have no need to know,\'92 Pilate responded in a stifled, angry voice, \'91whether it is pleasant or unpleasant for you to speak the truth. You will have to speak it anyway. But, as you speak, weigh every word, unless you want a not only inevitable but also painful death.\'92\par \pard\plain  No one knew what had happened with the procurator of Judea, but  he allowed himself to raise his hand as if to protect himself from a ray of sunlight, and from behind his hand, as from behind a shield, to send the prisoner some sort of prompting look.\par \pard\plain  \'91Answer, then,\'92 he went on speaking, \'91do you know a certain Judas from Kiriath, 22 and what precisely did you say to him about Caesar, if you said anything?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It was like this,\'92 the prisoner began talking eagerly. The evening before last, near the temple, I made the acquaintance of a young man who called himself Judas, from the town of Kiriath. He invited me to his place in the Lower City and treated me to...\'92 \par \pard\plain  \'91A good man?\'92 Pilate asked, and a devilish fire flashed in his eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91A very good man and an inquisitive one,\'92 the prisoner confirmed. \'91He showed the greatest interest in my thoughts and received me very cor- dially...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Lit the lamps...\'92 23 Pilate spoke through his teeth, in the same tone as the prisoner, and his eyes glinted.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 Yeshua went on, slightly surprised that the procurator was so well informed, \'91and asked me to give my view of state authority. He was extremely interested in this question.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And what did you say?\'92  asked Pilate.  \'91Or are you going to reply that\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  22Judas from Kiriath: Bulgakov\'92s variant of Judas Iscariot is developed quite differently from the Judas of the Gospel accounts, though they have in common their betrayal and the reward they get for it from the high priest.\par \pard\plain  23Lit the lamps: According to B. V. Sokolov\'92s commentary to the Vysshaya Shkola edi-\par \pard\plain  tion of the novel (Leningrad, 1989), the law demanded that lights be lit so that the con- cealed witnesses for the accusation could see the face of the criminal. This would explain Pilate\'92s unexpected knowledge.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  you\'92ve forgotten what you said?\'92 But there was already hopelessness in Pilate\'92s tone.\par \pard\plain  \'91Among other things,\'92 the prisoner recounted, \'91I said that all authority is violence over people, and that a time will come when there will be no authority of the Caesars, nor any other authority. Man will pass into the kingdom of truth and justice, where generally there will be no need for any authority.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Go on!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I didn\'92t go on,\'92 said the prisoner. \'91Here men ran in, bound me, and took me away to prison.\'92\par \pard\plain  The secretary, trying not to let drop a single word, rapidly traced the words on his parchment.\par \pard\plain  \'91There never has been, is not, and never will be any authority in this world greater or better for people than the authority of the emperor Tibe- rius!\'92 Pilate\'92s cracked and sick voice swelled. For some reason the procu- rator looked at the secretary and the convoy with hatred.\par \pard\plain  \'91And it is not for you, insane criminal, to reason about it!\'92 Here Pilate shouted: \'91Convoy, off the balcony!\'92 And turning to the secretary, he added: \'91Leave me alone with the criminal, this is a state matter!\'92\par \pard\plain  The convoy raised their spears and with a measured tramp of hob- nailed caligae walked off the balcony into the garden, and the secretary followed the convoy.\par \pard\plain  For some time the silence on the balcony was broken only by the water singing in the fountain. Pilate saw how the watery dish blew up over the spout, how its edges broke off, how it fell down in streams.\par \pard\plain  The prisoner was the first to speak.\par \pard\plain  \'91I see that some misfortune has come about because I talked with that young man from Kiriath. I have a foreboding, Hegemon, that he will come to grief, and I am very sorry for him.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I think,\'92 the procurator replied, grinning strangely, \'91that there is now someone else in the world for whom you ought to feel sorrier than\'92 for Judas of Kiriath, and who is going to have it much worse than Judas! ...\par \pard\plain  So, then, Mark Rat-slayer, a cold and convinced torturer, the people who, as I see,\'92 the procurator pointed to Yeshua\'92s disfigured face, \'91beat you for your preaching, the robbers Dysmas and Gestas, who with their confreres killed four soldiers, and, finally, the dirty traitor Judas - are all good people?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 said the prisoner.\par \pard\plain  \'91And the kingdom of truth will come?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It will, Hegemon,\'92 Yeshua answered with conviction.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91It will never come!\'92 Pilate suddenly cried out in such a terrible voice that Yeshua drew back. Thus, many years before, in the Valley of the Vir- gins, Pilate had cried to his horsemen the words: \'91Cut them down! Cut them down! The giant Rat-slayer is trapped!\'92 He raised his voice, cracked with commanding, still more, and called out so that his words could be heard in the garden: \'91Criminal! Criminal! Criminal!\'92 And then, lowering his voice, he asked: \'91Yeshua Ha-Nozri, do you believe in any gods?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91God is one,\'92 replied Yeshua, \'91I believe in him.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Then pray to him! Pray hard! However...\'92 here Pilate\'92s voice gave out, \'91that won\'92t help. No wife?\'92 Pilate asked with anguish for some reason, not understanding what was happening to him.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, I\'92m alone.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Hateful city...\'92 the procurator suddenly muttered for some reason, shaking his shoulders as if he were cold, and rubbing his hands as though washing them, \'91if they\'92d put a knife in you before your meeting with Judas of Kiriath, it really would have been better.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Why don\'92t you let me go, Hegemon?\'92 the prisoner asked unexpect- edly, and his voice became anxious. \'91I see they want to kill me.\'92\par \pard\plain  A spasm contorted Pilate\'92s face, he turned to Yeshua the inflamed, red- veined whites of his eyes and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Do you suppose, wretch, that the Roman procurator will let a man go who has said what you have said? Oh, gods, gods! Or do you think I\'92m ready to take your place? I don\'92t share your thoughts! And listen to me:  if from this moment on you say even one word, if you speak to anyone at all, beware of me! I repeat to you - beware!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Hegemon...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Silence!\'92 cried Pilate, and his furious gaze followed the swallow that had again fluttered on to the balcony. \'91To me!\'92 Pilate shouted.\par \pard\plain  And when the secretary and the convoy returned to their places, Pilate announced that he confirmed the death sentence passed at the meeting of the Lesser Sanhedrin on the criminal Yeshua Ha-Nozri, and the secretary wrote down what Pilate said.\par \pard\plain  A moment later Mark Rat-slayer stood before the procurator. The pro- curator ordered him to hand the criminal over to the head of the secret service, along with the procurator\'92s directive that Yeshua Ha-Nozri was to be separated from the other condemned men, and also that the soldiers of the secret service were to be forbidden, on pain of severe punishment, to talk with Yeshua about anything at all or to answer any of his questions.\par \pard\plain  At a sign from Mark, the convoy closed around Yeshua and led him from the balcony.\par \pard\plain  Next there stood before the procurator a handsome, light-bearded man\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  with eagle feathers on the crest of his helmet, golden lions\'92 heads shin- ing on his chest, and golden plaques on his sword belt, wearing triple- soled boots laced to the knees, and with a purple cloak thrown over his left shoulder. This was the legate in command of the legion.\par \pard\plain  The procurator asked him where the Sebastean cohort was stationed at the moment. The legate told him that the Sebasteans had cordoned off the square in front of the hippodrome, where the sentencing of the criminals was to be announced to the people.\par \pard\plain  Then the procurator ordered the legate to detach two centuries from the Roman cohort. One of them, under the command of Rat-slayer, was to convoy the criminals, the carts with the implements for the execution and the executioners as they were transported to Bald Mountain, 24 and on arrival was to join the upper cordon. The other was to be sent at once to Bald Mountain and immediately start forming the cordon. For the same purpose, that is, to guard the mountain, the procurator asked the legate to send an auxiliary cavalry regiment - the Syrian ala.\par \pard\plain  After the legate left the balcony, the procurator ordered the secretary to summon to the palace the president of the Sanhedrin, two of its members, and the head of the temple guard in Yershalaim, adding that he asked things to be so arranged that before conferring with all these people, he could speak with the president previously and alone.\par \pard\plain  The procurator\'92s order was executed quickly and precisely, and the sun, which in those days was scorching Yershalaim with an extraordinary fierceness, had not yet had time to approach its highest point when, on the upper terrace of the garden, by the two white marble lions that guarded the stairs, a meeting took place between the procurator and the man ful- filling the duties of president of the Sanhedrin, the high priest of the Jews, Joseph Kaifa. 25\par \pard\plain  It was quiet in the garden. But when he came out from under the colon- nade to the sun-drenched upper level of the garden with its palm trees on monstrous elephant legs, from which there spread before the procurator the whole of hateful Yershalaim, with its hanging bridges, fortresses, and, above all, that utterly indescribable heap of marble with golden dragon scales for a roof - the temple of Yershalaim - the procurator\'92s sharp ear caught, far below, where the stone wall separated the lower terraces of the\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  24Bald Mountain: Also referred to in the novel as Bald Hill and Bald Skull, the site cor- responds to the Golgotha (\'92place of the skull\'92) of the Gospels, where Christ was crucified, though topographically Bulgakov\'92s hill is higher and farther from the city. There is also a Bald Mountain near Kiev, Bulgakov\'92s native city.\par \pard\plain  25Kaifa: Bulgakov\'92s variant of the name of the high priest Caiaphas, mentioned in the Gospels and in historical records.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  palace garden from the city square, a low rumble over which from time to time there soared feeble, thin moans or cries.\par \pard\plain  The procurator understood that there, on the square, a numberless crowd of Yershalaim citizens, agitated by the recent disorders, had already gathered, that this crowd was waiting impatiently for the announcement of the sentences, and that restless water sellers were crying in its midst.\par \pard\plain  The procurator began by inviting the high priest on to the balcony, to take shelter from the merciless heat, but Kaifa politely apologized 26 and explained that he could not do that on the eve of the feast.\par \pard\plain  Pilate covered his slightly balding head with a hood and began the conversation. This conversation took place in Greek.\par \pard\plain  Pilate said that he had looked into the case of Yeshua Ha-Nozri and confirmed the death sentence.\par \pard\plain  Thus, three robbers - Dysmas, Gestas and Bar-Rabban - and this Yeshua Ha-Nozri besides, were condemned to be executed, and it was to be done that day. The first two, who had ventured to incite the people to rebel against Caesar, had been taken in armed struggle by the Roman author- ities, were accounted to the procurator, and, consequently, would not be talked about here. But the second two, Bar-Rabban and Ha-Nozri, had been seized by the local authorities and condemned by the Sanhedrin. Ac- cording to the law, according to custom, one of these two criminals had to be released in honour of the great feast of Passover, which would be- gin that day. And so the procurator wished to know which of the two criminals the Sanhedrin intended to set free: Bar-Rabban or Ha-Nozri? 27\par \pard\plain  Kaifa inclined his head to signify that the question was clear to him, and replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91The Sanhedrin asks that Bar-Rabban be released.\'92 The procurator knew very well that the high priest would give precisely that answer, but his task consisted in showing that this answer provoked his astonishment.\par \pard\plain  This Pilate did with great artfulness. The eyebrows on the arrogant face rose, the procurator looked with amazement straight into the high priest\'92s eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91I confess, this answer stuns me,\'92 the procurator began softly, \'91I\'92m afraid there may be some misunderstanding here.\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate explained himself. Roman authority does not encroach in the least upon the rights of the local spiritual authorities, the high priest knows\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  26Kaifa politely apologised: Going under the roof of a gentile would have made the high priest unclean and therefore unable to celebrate the coming feast.\par \pard\plain  27Bar-Rabban or Ha- Nozri?:     The same choice is offered in the Gospel accounts (see\par \pard\plain  Matt. 27:15\'9625, Mark 15:6\'9615, John 19:59\'9640).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  that very well, but in the present case we are faced with an obvious error. And this error Roman authority is, of course, interested in correcting.\par \pard\plain  In fact, the crimes of Bar-Rabban and Ha-Nozri are quite incomparable in their gravity. If the latter, obviously an insane person, is guilty of utter- ing preposterous things in Yershalaim and some other places, the former\'92s burden of guilt is more considerable. Not only did he allow himself to call directly for rebellion, but he also killed a guard during the attempt to ar- rest him. Bar-Rabban is incomparably more dangerous than Ha-Nozri.\par \pard\plain  On the strength of all the foregoing, the procurator asks the high priest to reconsider the decision and release the less harmful of the two con- demned men, and that is without doubt Ha-Nozri. And so? ...\par \pard\plain  Kaifa said in a quiet but firm voice that the Sanhedrin had thoroughly familiarized itself with the case and informed him a second time that it intended to free Bar-Rabban.\par \pard\plain  \'91What? Even after my intercession? The intercession of him through whose person Roman authority speaks? Repeat it a third time, High Priest.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And a third time I repeat that we are setting Bar-Rabban free,\'92 Kaifa said softly.\par \pard\plain  It was all over, and there was nothing more to talk about. Ha-Nozri was departing for ever, and there was no one to cure the dreadful, wicked pains of the procurator, there was no remedy for them except death. But it was not this thought which now struck Pilate. The same incomprehensible anguish that had already visited him on the balcony pierced his whole being. He tried at once to explain it, and the explanation was a strange one: it seemed vaguely to the procurator that there was something he had not finished saying to the condemned man, and perhaps something he had not finished hearing.\par \pard\plain  Pilate drove this thought away, and it flew off as instantly as it had come flying. It flew off, and the anguish remained unexplained, for it could not well be explained by another brief thought that flashed like lightning and at once went out - \'91Immortality... immortality has come...\'92 Whose immortality had come? That the procurator did not understand, but the thought of this enigmatic immortality made him grow cold in the scorching sun.\par \pard\plain  \'91Very well,\'92 said Pilate, \'91let it be so.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here he turned, gazed around at the world visible to him, and was surprised at the change that had taken place. The bush laden with roses had vanished, vanished were the cypresses bordering the upper terrace, and the pomegranate tree, and the white statue amidst the greenery,  and\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the greenery itself. In place of it all there floated some purple mass, 28 water weeds swayed in it and began moving off somewhere, and Pilate himself began moving with them. He was carried along now, smothered and burned, by the most terrible wrath - the wrath of impotence.\par \pard\plain  \'91Cramped,\'92 said Pilate, \'91I feel cramped!\'92\par \pard\plain  With a cold, moist hand he tore at the clasp on the collar of his cloak, and it fell to the sand.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s sultry today, there\'92s a storm somewhere,\'92 Kaifa responded, not tak- ing his eyes off the procurator\'92s reddened face, and foreseeing all the tor- ments that still lay ahead, he thought: \'91Oh, what a terrible month of Nisan we\'92re having this year!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92 said Pilate, \'91it\'92s not because of the sultriness, I feel cramped with you here, Kaifa.\'92 And, narrowing his eyes, Pilate smiled and added:\par \pard\plain  \'91Watch out for yourself, High Priest.\'92\par \pard\plain  The high priest\'92s dark eyes glinted, and with his face - no less artfully than the procurator had done earlier - he expressed amazement.\par \pard\plain  \'91What do I hear, Procurator?\'92 Kaifa replied proudly and calmly. \'93You threaten me after you yourself have confirmed the sentence passed? Can that be? We are accustomed to the Roman procurator choosing his words before he says something. What if we should be overheard, Hegemon?\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate looked at the high priest with dead eyes and, baring his teeth, produced a smile.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s your trouble, High Priest? Who can hear us where we are now? Do you think I\'92m like that young vagrant holy fool who is to be executed today? Am I a boy, Kaifa?  I know what I say and where I say it.  There is a cordon around the garden, a cordon around the palace, so that a mouse couldn\'92t get through any crack! Not only a mouse, but even that one, what\'92s his name... from the town of Kiriath, couldn\'92t get through. Inciden- tally, High Priest, do you know him? Yes... if that one got in here, he\'92d feel bitterly sorry for himself, in this you will, of course, believe me? Know, then, that from now on, High Priest, you will have no peace! Neither you nor your people\'92 - and Pilate pointed far off to the right, where the temple blazed on high -\'92it is I who tell you so, Pontius Pilate, equestrian of the Golden Spear!\'92 29\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  28There floated some purple mass: According to B. V. Sokolov, there existed a legend according to which Pilate died by drowning himself. That may be what Bulgakov has in mind here.\par \pard\plain  29Equestrian of the Golden Spear: The equestrian order of Roman nobility was next in\par \pard\plain  importance to the Senate. Augustus reformed the order, after which it supplied occupants for many administrative posts. The name Pilate (Pilatus) may derive from pilum, Latin for \'91spear\'92.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I know, I know!\'92 the black-bearded Kaifa fearlessly replied, and his eyes flashed. He raised his arm to heaven and went on: \'93The Jewish peo- ple know that you hate them with a cruel hatred, and will cause them much suffering, but you will not destroy them utterly! God will protect them! He will hear us, the almighty Caesar will hear, he will protect us from Pilate the destroyer!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no!\'92 Pilate exclaimed, and he felt lighter and lighter with every word: there was no more need to pretend, no more need to choose his words, \'91you have complained about me too much to Caesar, and now my hour has come, Kaifa! Now the message will fly from me, and not to the governor in Antioch, and not to Rome, but directly to Capreae, to the em- peror himself, the message of how you in Yershalaim are sheltering known criminals from death. And then it will not be water from Solomon\'92s Pool that I give Yershalaim to drink, as I wanted to do for your own good! No, not water! Remember how on account of you I had to remove the shields with the emperor\'92s insignia from the walls, had to transfer troops, had,  as you see, to come in person to look into what goes on with you here! Remember my words: it is not just one cohort that you will see here in Yershalaim, High Priest - no! The whole Fulminata legion will come un- der the city walls, the Arabian cavalry will arrive, and then you will hear bitter weeping and wailing! You will remember Bar-Rabban then, whom you saved, and you will regret having sent to his death a philosopher with his peaceful preaching!\'92\par \pard\plain  The high priest\'92s face became covered with blotches, his eyes burned. Like the procurator, he smiled, baring his teeth, and replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91Do you yourself believe what you are saying now, Procurator? No, you do not! It is not peace, not peace, that the seducer of the people of Yer- shalaim brought us, and you, equestrian, understand that perfectly well. You wanted to release him so that he could disturb the people, outrage the faith, and bring the people under Roman swords! But I, the high priest  of the Jews, as long as I live, will not allow the faith to be outraged and will protect the people! Do you hear, Pilate?\'92 And Kaifa raised his arm menacingly: \'91Listen, Procurator!\'92\par \pard\plain  Kaifa fell silent, and the procurator again heard a noise as if of the sea, rolling up to the very walls of the garden of Herod the Great. The noise rose from below to the feet and into the face of the procurator. And behind his back, there, beyond the wings of the palace, came alarming trumpet calls, the heavy crunch of hundreds of feet, the clanking of iron.\par \pard\plain  The procurator understood that the Roman infantry was already set- ting out, on his orders, speeding to the parade of death so terrible for rebels and robbers.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Do you hear, Procurator?\'92 the high priest repeated quietly. \'91Are you going to tell me that all this\'92 - here the high priest raised both arms and the dark hood fell from his head - \'91has been caused by the wretched robber Bar-Rabban?\'92\par \pard\plain  The procurator wiped his wet, cold forehead with the back of his hand, looked at the ground, then, squinting at the sky, saw that the red-hot ball was almost over his head and that Kaifa\'92s shadow had shrunk to nothing by the lion\'92s tail, and said quietly and indifferently:\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s nearly noon. We got carried away by our conversation, and yet we must proceed.\'92\par \pard\plain  Having apologized in refined terms before the high priest, he invited him to sit down on a bench in the shade of a magnolia and wait until he summoned the other persons needed for the last brief conference and gave one more instruction connected with the execution.\par \pard\plain  Kaifa bowed politely, placing his hand on his heart, and stayed in the garden while Pilate returned to the balcony. There he told the secretary, who had been waiting for him, to invite to the garden the legate of the legion and the tribune of the cohort, as well as the two members of the Sanhedrin and the head of the temple guard, who had been awaiting his summons on the lower garden terrace, in a round gazebo with a fountain. To this Pilate added that he himself would come out to the garden at once, and withdrew into the palace.\par \pard\plain  While the secretary was gathering the conference, the procurator met, in a room shielded from the sun by dark curtains, with a certain man, whose face was half covered by a hood, though he could not have been bothered by the sun\'92s rays in this room. The meeting was a very short one. The procurator quietly spoke a few words to the man, after which he withdrew and Pilate walked out through the colonnade to the garden.\par \pard\plain  There, in the presence of all those he had desired to see, the procurator solemnly and dryly stated that he confirmed the death sentence on Yeshua Ha-Nozri, and officially inquired of the members of the Sanhedrin as to whom among the criminals they would like to grant life. Having received the reply that it was Bar-Rabban, the procurator said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Very well,\'92 and told the secretary to put it into the record at once, clutched in his hand the clasp that the secretary had picked up from the sand, and said solemnly: It is time!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here all those present started down the wide marble stairway between walls of roses that exuded a stupefying aroma, descending lower and lower towards the palace wall, to the gates opening on to the big, smoothly paved square, at the end of which could be seen the columns and statues of the Yershalaim stadium.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  As soon as the group entered the square from the garden and mounted the spacious stone platform that dominated the square, Pilate, looking around through narrowed eyelids, assessed the situation.\par \pard\plain  The space he had just traversed, that is, the space from the palace wall to the platform, was empty,  but before him Pilate could no longer see  the square - it had been swallowed up by the crowd, which would have poured over the platform and the cleared space as well, had it not been kept at bay by a triple row of Sebastean soldiers to the left of Pilate and soldiers of the auxiliary Iturean cohort to his right.\par \pard\plain  And so, Pilate mounted the platform, mechanically clutching the use- less clasp in his fist and squinting his eyes. The procurator was squinting not because the sun burned his eyes - no! For some reason he did not want to see the group of condemned men who, as he knew perfectly well, were now being brought on to the platform behind him.\par \pard\plain  As soon as the white cloak with crimson lining appeared high up on the stone cliff over the verge of the human sea, the unseeing Pilate was struck in the ears by a wave of sound: \'91Ha-a-a...\'92 It started mutedly, arising somewhere far away by the hippodrome, then became thunderous and, having held out for a few seconds, began to subside. They\'92ve seen me,\'92 the procurator thought. The wave had not reached its lowest point before it started swelling again unexpectedly and, swaying, rose higher than the first, and as foam boils up on the billows of the sea, so a whistling boiled up on this second wave and, separate, distinguishable from the thunder, the wails of women. They\'92ve been led on to the platform,\'92 thought Pilate, \'91and the wails mean that several women got crushed as the crowd surged forward.\'92\par \pard\plain  He waited for some time, knowing that no power could silence the crowd before it exhaled all that was pent up in it and fell silent of itself.\par \pard\plain  And when this moment came, the procurator threw up his right arm, and the last noise was blown away from the crowd.\par \pard\plain  Then Pilate drew into his breast as much of the hot air as he could and shouted, and his cracked voice carried over thousands of heads:\par \pard\plain  \'91In the name of the emperor Caesar! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Here his ears were struck several times by a clipped iron shout: the cohorts of soldiers raised high their spears and standards and shouted out terribly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Long live Caesar!\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate lifted his face and thrust it straight into the sun. Green fire flared up behind his eyelids, his brain took flame from it, and hoarse Aramaic words went flying over the crowd:\par \pard\plain  \'91Four criminals,  arrested in Yershalaim for murder,  incitement to   re-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  bellion, and outrages against the laws and the faith, have been sentenced to a shameful execution - by hanging on posts! And this execution will presently be carried out on Bald Mountain! The names of the criminals are Dysmas, Gestas, Bar-Rabban and Ha-Nozri. Here they stand before you!\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate pointed to his right, not seeing any criminals, but knowing they were there, in place, where they ought to be.\par \pard\plain  The crowd responded with a long rumble as if of surprise or relief. When it died down, Pilate continued:\par \pard\plain  \'91But only three of them will be executed, for, in accordance with law and custom, in honour of the feast of Passover, to one of the condemned, as chosen by the Lesser Sanhedrin and confirmed by Roman authority, the magnanimous emperor Caesar will return his contemptible life!\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate cried out the words and at the same time listened as the rumble was replaced by a great silence. Not a sigh, not a rustle reached his ears now, and there was even a moment when it seemed to Pilate that every- thing around him had vanished altogether. The hated city died, and he alone is standing there, scorched by the sheer rays, his face set against the sky. Pilate held the silence a little longer, and then began to cry out:\par \pard\plain  \'91The name of the one who will now be set free before you is...\'92 He made one more pause, holding back the name, making sure he had said all, because he knew that the dead city would resurrect once the name of the lucky man was spoken, and no further words would be heard. \'91All?\'92 Pilate whispered soundlessly to himself. \'91All. The name!\'92 And, rolling the letter \'91r\'92 over the silent city, he cried:\par \pard\plain  \'91Bar-Rabban!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here it seemed to him that the sun, clanging, burst over him and flood- ed his ears with fire. This fire raged with roars, shrieks, wails, guffaws and whistles.\par \pard\plain  Pilate turned and walked back across the platform to the stairs, looking at nothing except the multicoloured squares of the flooring under his feet, so as not to trip. He knew that behind his back the platform was being showered with bronze coins, dates, that people in the howling mob were climbing on shoulders, crushing each other, to see the miracle with their own eyes - how a man already in the grip of death escaped that grip! How the legionaries take the ropes off him, involuntarily causing him burning pain in his arms, dislocated during his interrogation; how he, wincing and groaning, nevertheless smiles a senseless, crazed smile.\par \pard\plain  He knew that at the same time the convoy was already leading the three men with bound arms to the side stairs, so as to take them to the road going west from the city, towards Bald Mountain. Only when he was\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  off the platform, to the rear of it, did Pilate open his eyes, knowing that he was now safe - he could no longer see the condemned men.\par \pard\plain  Mingled with the wails of the quieting crowd, yet distinguishable from them, were the piercing cries of heralds repeating, some in Aramaic, others in Greek, all that the procurator had cried out from the platform. Besides that, there came to his ears the tapping, clattering and approaching thud of hoofs, and a trumpet calling out something brief and merry. These sounds were answered by the drilling whistles of boys on the roofs of houses along the street that led from the bazaar to the hippodrome square, and by cries of \'91Look out!\'92\par \pard\plain  A soldier, standing alone in the cleared space of the square with a stan- dard in his hand, waved it anxiously, and then the procurator, the legate of the legion, the secretary and the convoy stopped.\par \pard\plain  A cavalry ala, at an ever-lengthening trot, flew out into the square, so as to cross it at one side, bypassing the mass of people, and ride down a lane under a stone wall covered with creeping vines, taking the shortest route to Bald Mountain.\par \pard\plain  At a flying trot, small as a boy, dark as a mulatto, the commander of the ala, a Syrian, coming abreast of Pilate, shouted something in a high voice and snatched his sword from its sheath. The angry, sweating black horse shied and reared. Thrusting his sword back into its sheath, the commander struck the horse\'92s neck with his crop, brought him down, and rode off into the lane, breaking into a gallop. After him, three by three, horsemen flew in a cloud of dust, the tips of their light bamboo lances bobbing, and faces dashed past the procurator - looking especially swarthy under their white turbans - with merrily bared, gleaming teeth.\par \pard\plain  Raising dust to the sky, the ala burst into the lane, and the last to ride past Pilate was a soldier with a trumpet slung on his back, blazing in the sun.\par \pard\plain  Shielding himself from the dust with his hand and wrinkling his face discontentedly, Pilate started on in the direction of the gates to the palace garden, and after him came the legate, the secretary, and the convoy.\par \pard\plain  It was around ten o\'92clock in the morning.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 3\par \pard\plain  The Seventh Proof\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, it was around ten o\'92clock in the morning, my esteemed Ivan Nikolae- vich,\'92 said the professor.\par \pard\plain  The poet passed his hand over his face like a man just coming to his senses, and saw that it was evening at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds. The water  in the pond had turned black, and a light boat was now gliding on it, and one could hear the splash of oars and the giggles of some citizeness in  the little boat. The public appeared on the benches along the walks, but again on the other three sides of the square, and not on the side where our interlocutors were.\par \pard\plain  The sky over Moscow seemed to lose colour, and the full moon could be seen quite distinctly high above, not yet golden but white. It was much easier to breathe, and the voices under the lindens now sounded softer, eveningish.\par \pard\plain  \'91How is it I didn\'92t notice that he\'92d managed to spin a whole story?...\'92 Homeless thought in amazement. \'91It\'92s already evening! ... Or maybe he wasn\'92t telling it, but I simply fell asleep and dreamed it all?\'92\par \pard\plain  But it must be supposed that the professor did tell the story after all, otherwise it would have to be assumed that Berlioz had had the same dream, because he said, studying the foreigner\'92s face attentively:\par \pard\plain  \'91Your story is extremely interesting, Professor, though it does not coin- cide at all with the Gospel stories.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Good heavens,\'92 the professor responded, smiling condescendingly, \'91you of all people should know that precisely nothing of what is writ-  ten in the Gospels ever actually took place, and if we start referring to  the Gospels as a historical source...\'92 he smiled once more, and Berlioz stopped short, because this was literally the same thing he had been say- ing to Homeless as they walked down Bronnaya towards the Patriarch\'92s Ponds.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  54\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s so,\'92 Berlioz replied, \'91but I\'92m afraid no one can confirm that what you\'92ve just told us actually took place either.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, yes! That there is one who can!\'92 the professor, beginning to speak in broken language, said with great assurance, and with unexpected mys- teriousness he motioned the two friends to move closer.\par \pard\plain  They leaned towards him from both sides, and he said, but again with- out any accent, which with him, devil knows why, now appeared, now disappeared:\par \pard\plain  The thing is...\'92 here the professor looked around fearfully and spoke in a whisper, \'91that I was personally present at it all. I was on Pontius Pilate\'92s balcony, and in the garden when he talked with Kaifa, and on the platform, only secretly, incognito, so to speak, and therefore I beg you - not a word to anyone, total secrecy, shh...\'92\par \pard\plain  Silence fell, and Berlioz paled.\par \pard\plain  \'91YOU ... how long have you been in Moscow?\'92 he asked in a quavering voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91I just arrived in Moscow this very minute,\'92 the professor said per- plexedly, and only here did it occur to the friends to take a good look in his eyes, at which they became convinced that his left eye, the green one, was totally insane, while the right one was empty, black and dead.\par \pard\plain  \'91There\'92s the whole explanation for you!\'92 Berlioz thought in bewilder- ment. \'91A mad German has turned up, or just went crazy at the Ponds. What a story!\'92\par \pard\plain  Yes, indeed, that explained the whole thing: the strangest breakfast with the late philosopher Kant, the foolish talk about sunflower oil and Annushka, the predictions about his head being cut off and all the rest - the professor was mad.\par \pard\plain  Berlioz realized at once what had to be done. Leaning back on the bench, he winked to Homeless behind the professor\'92s back - meaning, don\'92t contradict him - but the perplexed poet did not understand these signals.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, yes, yes,\'92 Berlioz said excitedly, \'91incidentally it\'92s all possible... even very possible, Pontius Pilate, and the balcony, and so forth... Did you come alone or with your wife?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Alone, alone, I\'92m always alone,\'92 the professor replied bitterly.\par \pard\plain  \'91And where are your things, Professor?\'92 Berlioz asked insinuatingly. \'91At the Metropol? Where are you staying?\'92 1\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Metropol: A luxury hotel in Moscow, built at the turn of the century, decorated with mosaics by the artist Vrubel. Used mainly by Foreigners during the Soviet period, it still exists and has recently been renovated.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I? ... Nowhere,\'92 the half-witted German answered, his green eye wan- dering in wild anguish over the Patriarch\'92s Ponds.\par \pard\plain  \'91How\'92s that? But ... where are you going to live?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91In your apartment,\'92 the madman suddenly said brashly, and winked. \'91I ...  I\'92m very glad ...\'92  Berlioz began muttering, \'91but, really, you won\'92t\par \pard\plain  be comfortable at my place ... and they have wonderful rooms at the Metropol, it\'92s a first-class hotel...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And there\'92s no devil either?\'92 the sick man suddenly inquired merrily of Ivan Nikolaevich.\par \pard\plain  \'91No devil...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t contradict him,\'92 Berlioz whispered with his lips only, dropping behind the professor\'92s back and making faces.\par \pard\plain  There isn\'92t any devil!\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich, at a loss from all this balder- dash, cried out not what he ought. \'91What a punishment! Stop playing the psycho!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the insane man burst into such laughter that a sparrow flew out of the linden over the seated men\'92s heads.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, now that is positively interesting!\'92 the professor said, shaking with laughter. \'91What is it with you - no matter what one asks for, there isn\'92t any!\'92 He suddenly stopped laughing and, quite understandably for a mentally ill person, fell into the opposite extreme after laughing, became vexed and cried sternly: \'91So you mean there just simply isn\'92t any?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Calm down, calm down, calm down, Professor,\'92 Berlioz muttered, for fear of agitating the sick man. \'91You sit here for a little minute with comrade Homeless, and I\'92ll just run to the corner to make a phone call, and then we\'92ll take you wherever you like. You don\'92t know the city...\'92\par \pard\plain  Berlioz\'92s plan must be acknowledged as correct: he had to run to the nearest public telephone and inform the foreigners\'92 bureau, thus and so, there\'92s some consultant from abroad sitting at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds in an obviously abnormal state. So it was necessary to take measures, lest some unpleasant nonsense result.\par \pard\plain  \'91To make a call? Well, then make your call,\'92 the sick man agreed sadly, and suddenly begged passionately: \'91But I implore you, before you go, at least believe that the devil exists! I no longer ask you for anything more.\par \pard\plain  Mind you, there exists a seventh proof of it, the surest of all! And it is going to be presented to you right now!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Very good, very good,\'92 Berlioz said with false tenderness and, winking to the upset poet, who did not relish at all the idea of guarding the mad German, set out for the exit from the Ponds at the corner of Bronnaya and Yermolaevsky Lane.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  And the professor seemed to recover his health and brighten up at once.\par \pard\plain  \'91Mikhail Alexandrovich!\'92 he shouted after Berlioz.\par \pard\plain  The latter gave a start, looked back, but reassured himself with the thought that the professor had also learned his name and patronymic from some newspaper.\par \pard\plain  Then the professor called out, cupping his hands like a megaphone: \'91Would you like me to have a telegram sent at once to your uncle in\par \pard\plain  Kiev?\'92\par \pard\plain  And again Berlioz winced. How does the madman know about the existence of a Kievan uncle? That has certainly never been mentioned in any newspapers. Oh-oh, maybe Homeless is right after all? And suppose his papers are phoney? Ah, what a strange specimen ... Call, call! Call at once!\par \pard\plain  They\'92ll quickly explain him!\par \pard\plain  And, no longer listening to anything, Berlioz ran on.\par \pard\plain  Here, just at the exit to Bronnaya, there rose from a bench to meet the editor exactly the same citizen who in the sunlight earlier had formed him- self out of the thick swelter. Only now he was no longer made of air, but ordinary, fleshly, and Berlioz clearly distinguished in the beginning twi- light that he had a little moustache like chicken feathers, tiny eyes, ironic and half drunk, and checkered trousers pulled up so high that his dirty white socks showed.\par \pard\plain  Mikhail Alexandrovich drew back, but reassured himself by reflecting that it was a stupid coincidence and that generally there was no time to think about it now.\par \pard\plain  \'91Looking for the turnstile, citizen?\'92 the checkered type inquired in a cracked tenor. This way, please! Straight on and you\'92ll get where you\'92re going. How about a little pint pot for my information ... to set up an ex- choirmaster!...\'92 Mugging, the specimen swept his jockey\'92s cap from his head.\par \pard\plain  Berlioz, not stopping to listen to the cadging and clowning choirmaster, ran up to the turnstile and took hold of it with his hand. He turned it and was just about to step across the rails when red and white light splashed in his face. A sign lit up in a glass box: \'91Caution Tram-Car!\'92\par \pard\plain  And right then this tram-car came racing along, turning down the new- ly laid line from Yermolaevsky to Bronnaya. Having turned, and coming to the straight stretch, it suddenly lit up inside with electricity, whined, and put on speed.\par \pard\plain  The prudent Berlioz, though he was standing in a safe place, decided to retreat behind the stile, moved his hand on the crossbar,    and stepped\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  back.\par \pard\plain  And right then his hand slipped and slid, one foot, unimpeded, as if on ice, went down the cobbled slope leading to the rails, the other was thrust into the air, and Berlioz was thrown on to the rails.\par \pard\plain  Trying to get hold of something, Berlioz fell backwards, the back of his head lightly striking the cobbles, and had time to see high up - but whether to right or left he no longer knew - the gold-tinged moon. He managed to turn on his side, at the same moment drawing his legs to his stomach in a frenzied movement, and, while turning, to make out the face, completely white with horror, and the crimson armband of the woman driver bearing down on him with irresistible force. Berlioz did not cry out, but around him the whole street screamed with desperate female voices.\par \pard\plain  The woman driver tore at the electric brake, the car dug its nose into the ground, then instantly jumped up, and glass flew from the windows with a crash and a jingle. Here someone in Berlioz\'92s brain cried desperately: \'91Can it be?...\'92 Once more, and for the last time, the moon flashed, but now breaking to pieces, and then it became dark.\par \pard\plain  The tram-car went over Berlioz, and a round dark object was thrown up the cobbled slope below the fence of the Patriarch\'92s walk. Having rolled back down this slope, it went bouncing along the cobblestones of the street.\par \pard\plain  It was the severed head of Berlioz.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 4 The Chase\par \pard\plain  The hysterical women\'92s cries died down, the police whistles stopped dril- ling, two ambulances drove off - one with the headless body and severed head, to the morgue, the other with the beautiful driver, wounded by bro- ken glass; street sweepers in white aprons removed the broken glass and poured sand on the pools of blood, but Ivan Nikolaevich just stayed on the bench as he had dropped on to it before reaching the turnstile. He tried several times to get up, but his legs would not obey him - something akin to paralysis had occurred with Homeless.\par \pard\plain  The poet had rushed to the turnstile as soon as he heard the first scream, and had seen the head go bouncing along the pavement. With that he so lost his senses that, having dropped on to the bench, he bit his hand until it bled. Of course, he forgot about the mad German and tried to figure out one thing only: how it could be that he had just been talking with Berlioz, and a moment later - the head...\par \pard\plain  Agitated people went running down the walk past the poet, exclaiming something, but Ivan Nikolaevich was insensible to their words. However, two women unexpectedly ran into each other near him, and one of them, sharp-nosed and bare-headed, shouted the following to the other, right next to the poet\'92s ear:\par \pard\plain  \'91...Annushka, our Annushka! From Sadovaya! It\'92s her work... She bought sunflower oil at the grocery, and went and broke the whole litre- bottle on the turnstile! Messed her skirt all up, and swore and swore!\par \pard\plain  ... And he, poor man, must have slipped and - right on to the rails...\'92 Of all that the woman shouted, one word lodged itself in Ivan Nikolae-\par \pard\plain  vich\'92s upset brain: \'91Annushka\'92...\par \pard\plain  \'91Annushka... Annushka?\'92 the poet muttered, looking around anx- iously.\par \pard\plain  \'91Wait a minute, wait a minute...\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  59\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The word \'91Annushka\'92 got strung together with the words \'91sunflower oil\'92, and then for some reason with \'91Pontius Pilate\'92. The poet dismissed Pi- late and began linking up the chain that started from the word \'91Annushka\'92. And this chain got very quickly linked up and led at once to the mad pro- fessor.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me! But he did say the meeting wouldn\'92t take place because Annushka had spilled the oil. And, if you please, it won\'92t take place! What\'92s more, he said straight out that Berlioz\'92s head would be cut off by a woman?! Yes, yes, yes! And the driver was a woman! What is all this, eh?!\'92\par \pard\plain  There was not a grain of doubt left that the mysterious consultant had known beforehand the exact picture of the terrible death of Berlioz. Here two thoughts pierced the poet\'92s brain. The first: \'91He\'92s not mad in the least, that\'92s all nonsense!\'92 And the second: Then didn\'92t he set it all up himself?\'92 \'91But in what manner,  may we ask?!  Ah, no,    this we\'92re going to find\par \pard\plain  out!\'92\par \pard\plain  Making a great effort, Ivan Nikolaevich got up from the bench and rushed back to where he had been talking with the professor. And, fortu- nately, it turned out that the man had not left yet.\par \pard\plain  The street lights were already lit on Bronnaya, and over the Ponds the golden moon shone, and in the ever-deceptive light of the moon it seemed to Ivan Nikolaevich that he stood holding a sword, not a walking stick, under his arm.\par \pard\plain  The ex-choirmaster was sitting in the very place where Ivan Nikolae- vich had sat just recently. Now the busybody had perched on his nose  an obviously unnecessary pince-nez, in which one lens was missing alto- gether and the other was cracked. This made the checkered citizen even more repulsive than he had been when he showed Berlioz the way to the rails.\par \pard\plain  With a chill in his heart, Ivan approached the professor and, glancing into his face, became convinced that there were not and never had been any signs of madness in that face.\par \pard\plain  \'91Confess, who are you?\'92 Ivan asked in a hollow voice.\par \pard\plain  The foreigner scowled, looked at the poet as if he were seeing him for the first time, and answered inimically:\par \pard\plain  \'91No understand ... no speak Russian. ..\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The gent don\'92t understand,\'92 the choirmaster mixed in from the bench, though no one had asked him to explain the foreigner\'92s words.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t pretend!\'92 Ivan said threateningly, and felt cold in the pit of his stomach. \'91You spoke excellent Russian just now. You\'92re not a German and you\'92re not a professor! You\'92re a murderer and a spy!... Your papers!\'92 Ivan\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  cried fiercely.\par \pard\plain  The mysterious professor squeamishly twisted his mouth, which was twisted to begin with, then shrugged his shoulders.\par \pard\plain  \'91Citizen!\'92 the loathsome choirmaster butted in again. \'93What\'92re you do- ing bothering a foreign tourist? For that you\'92ll incur severe punishment!\'92\par \pard\plain  And the suspicious professor made an arrogant face, turned, and walk- ed away from Ivan. Ivan felt himself at a loss. Breathless, he addressed the choirmaster:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hey, citizen, help me to detain the criminal! It\'92s your duty!\'92\par \pard\plain  The choirmaster became extraordinarily animated, jumped up and hol- lered:\par \pard\plain  \'91What criminal? Where is he? A foreign criminal?\'92 The choirmaster\'92s eyes sparkled gleefully. That one? If he\'92s a criminal, the first thing to do is shout \'93Help!\'94 Or else he\'92ll get away. Come on, together now, one, two!\'92 \'96 and here the choirmaster opened his maw.\par \pard\plain  Totally at a loss, Ivan obeyed the trickster and shouted \'91Help!\'92 but the choirmaster bluffed him and did not shout anything.\par \pard\plain  Ivan\'92s solitary, hoarse cry did not produce any good results. Two girls shied away from him, and he heard the word \'91drunk\'92.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, so you\'92re in with him!\'92 Ivan cried out, waxing wroth. \'93What are you doing, jeering at me? Out of my way!\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan dashed to the right, and so did the choirmaster; Ivan dashed to the left, and the scoundrel did the same.\par \pard\plain  \'91Getting under my feet on purpose?\'92 Ivan cried, turning ferocious. \'91I\'92ll hand you over to the police!\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan attempted to grab the blackguard by the sleeve, but missed and caught precisely nothing: it was as if the choirmaster fell through the earth. Ivan gasped,  looked into the distance,  and saw the hateful   stranger.\par \pard\plain  He was already at the exit to Patriarch\'92s Lane; moreover, he was not alone. The more than dubious choirmaster had managed to join him. But that was still not all: the third in this company proved to be a tom-cat, who appeared out of nowhere, huge as a hog, black as soot or as a rook, and with a desperate cavalryman\'92s whiskers. The trio set off down Patriarch\'92s Lane, the cat walking on his hind legs.\par \pard\plain  Ivan sped after the villains and became convinced at once that it - would be very difficult to catch up with them.\par \pard\plain  The trio shot down the lane in an instant and came out on Spiridonovka. No matter how Ivan quickened his pace, the distance between him and his quarry never diminished. And before the poet knew it, he emerged, after the quiet of Spiridonovka, by the Nikitsky Gate, where his situation wors- ened.  The place was swarming with people.  Besides, the gang of villains\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  decided to apply the favourite trick of bandits here: a scattered getaway. The choirmaster, with great dexterity, bored his way on to a bus speed-\par \pard\plain  ing towards the Arbat Square and slipped away. Having lost one of his quarries, Ivan focused his attention on the cat and saw this strange cat go up to the footboard of an \'91A\'92 tram waiting at a stop, brazenly elbow aside a woman, who screamed, grab hold of the handrail, and even make an attempt to shove a ten-kopeck piece into the conductress\'92s hand through the window, open on account of the stuffiness.\par \pard\plain  Ivan was so struck by the cat\'92s behaviour that he froze motionless by the grocery store on the corner, and here he was struck for a second time, but much more strongly, by the conductress\'92s behaviour. As soon as she saw the cat getting into the tram-car, she shouted with a malice that even made her shake:\par \pard\plain  \'91No cats allowed! Nobody with cats allowed! Scat! Get off, or I\'92ll call the police!\'92\par \pard\plain  Neither the conductress nor the passengers were struck by the essence of the matter: not just that a cat was boarding a tram-car, which would have been good enough, but that he was going to pay!\par \pard\plain  The cat turned out to be not only a solvent but also a disciplined ani- mal. At the very first shout from the conductress, he halted his advance, got off the footboard, and sat down at the stop, rubbing his whiskers with the ten-kopeck piece. But as soon as the conductress yanked the cord and the tram-car started moving off, the cat acted like anyone who has been expelled from a tram-car but still needs a ride. Letting all three cars go  by, the cat jumped on to the rear coupling-pin of the last one, wrapped its paws around some hose sticking out of the side, and rode off, thus saving himself ten kopecks.\par \pard\plain  Occupied with the obnoxious cat, Ivan almost lost the main one of the three - the professor. But, fortunately, the man had not managed to slip away. Ivan saw the grey beret in the throng at the head of Bolshaya Nikit- skaya, now Herzen, Street. In the twinkling of an eye, Ivan arrived there himself. However, he had no luck. The poet would quicken his pace, break into a trot, shove passers-by, yet not get an inch closer to the professor.\par \pard\plain  Upset as he was, Ivan was still struck by the supernatural speed of the chase. Twenty seconds had not gone by when, after the Nikitsky Gate, Ivan Nikolayevich was already dazzled by the lights of the Arbat Square. Another few seconds, and here was some dark lane with slanting side- walks, where Ivan Nikolaevich took a tumble and hurt his knee.  Again   a lit-up thoroughfare - Kropotkin Street - then a lane, then Ostozhenka, then another lane, dismal, vile and sparsely lit. And it was here that Ivan Nikolaevich definitively lost him whom he needed so much.  The profes-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  sor disappeared.\par \pard\plain  Ivan Nikolaevich was perplexed, but not for long, because he suddenly realized that the professor must unfailingly be found in house no. 15, and most assuredly in apartment 47.\par \pard\plain  Bursting into the entrance, Ivan Nikolaevich flew up to the second floor, immediately found the apartment, and rang impatiently. He did not have to wait long. Some little girl of about five opened the door for Ivan and, without asking him anything, immediately went away somewhere.\par \pard\plain  In the huge, extremely neglected front hall, weakly lit by a tiny carbon\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  arc lamp under the high ceiling, black with grime, a bicycle without tyres hung on the wall, a huge iron-bound trunk stood, and on a shelf over the coat rack a winter hat lay, its long ear-flaps hanging down. Behind one of the doors, a resonant male voice was angrily shouting something in verse from a radio set.\par \pard\plain  Ivan Nikolaevich was not the least at a loss in the unfamiliar surround- ings and rushed straight into the corridor, reasoning thus: \'91Of course, he\'92s hiding in the bathroom.\'92 The corridor was dark. Having bumped into  the wall a few times, Ivan saw a faint streak of light under a door, felt for the handle, and pulled it gently. The hook popped out, and Ivan found himself precisely in the bathroom and thought how lucky he was.\par \pard\plain  However, his luck was not all it might have been! Ivan met with a wave of humid heat and, by the light of the coals smouldering in the boiler, made out big basins hanging on the walls, and a bath tub, all black fright- ful blotches where the enamel had chipped off. And there, in this bath tub, stood a naked citizeness, all soapy and with a scrubber in her hand. She squinted near-sightedly at the bursting-in Ivan and, obviously mistaking him in the infernal light, said softly and gaily:\par \pard\plain  \'91Kiriushka! Stop this tomfoolery! Have you lost your mind?... Fyodor Ivanych will be back any minute. Get out right now!\'92 and she waved at Ivan with the scrubber.\par \pard\plain  The misunderstanding was evident, and Ivan Nikolaevich was, of cour- se, to blame for it. But he did not want to admit it and, exclaiming re- proachfully: \'91Ah, wanton creature! ...\'92, at once found himself for some reason in the kitchen. No one was there, and on the oven in the semi- darkness silently stood about a dozen extinguished primuses.\'92 1 A single moonbeam, having seeped through the dusty, perennially unwashed win- dow, shone sparsely into the corner where, in dust and cobwebs, a forgot- ten icon hung, with the ends of two wedding candles 2  peeking out  from\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1About a dozen extinguished primuses: The shortage of living space after the revolu- tion led to the typically Soviet phenomenon of the communal apartment, in which sev- eral families would have one or two private rooms and share kitchen and toilet facilities. This led to special psychological conditions among people and to a specific literary genre (the communal-apartment story, which still flourishes in Russia). The primus stove, a portable one-burner stove fuelled with pressurized benzene, made its appearance at the same time and became a symbol of communal-apartment life. Each family would have its own primus. The old wood- or (more rarely) coal-burning ranges went out of use  but remained in place. The general problem of \'93living space\'92, and the primus stove in particular, plays an important part throughout the Moscow sections of The Master and Margarita.\par \pard\plain  2Two wedding candles: In the Orthodox marriage service, the bride and groom stand during the ceremony holding lighted candles.  These are special, large, often  decorated\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  behind its casing. Under the big icon, pinned to it, hung a little one made of paper.\par \pard\plain  No one knows what thought took hold of Ivan here, but before running out the back door, he appropriated one of these candles, as well as the paper icon. With these objects, he left the unknown apartment, muttering something, embarrassed at the thought of what he had just experienced in the bathroom, involuntarily trying to guess who this impudent Kiriushka might be and whether the disgusting hat with ear-flaps belonged to him.\par \pard\plain  In the desolate, joyless lane the poet looked around, searching for the fugitive, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then Ivan said firmly to himself:\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, of course, he\'92s at the Moscow River! Onward!\'92\par \pard\plain  Someone ought, perhaps, to have asked Ivan Nikolaevich why he sup- posed that the professor was precisely at the Moscow River and not in some other place. But the trouble was that there was no one to ask him. The loathsome lane was completely empty.\par \pard\plain  In the very shortest time, Ivan Nikolaevich could be seen on the granite steps of the Moscow River amphitheatre. 3\par \pard\plain  Having taken off his clothes, Ivan entrusted them to a pleasant, bearded fellow who was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, sitting beside a torn white Tolstoy blouse and a pair of unlaced, worn boots. After waving his arms to cool off, Ivan dived swallow-fashion into the water.\par \pard\plain  It took his breath away, so cold the water was, and the thought even flashed in him that he might not manage to come up to the surface. How- ever, he did manage to come up, and, puffing and snorting, his eyes round- ed in terror, Ivan Nikolaevich began swimming through the black, oil- smelling water among the broken zigzags of street lights on the bank.\par \pard\plain  When the wet Ivan came dancing back up the steps to the place where the bearded fellow was guarding his clothes, it became clear that not only the latter, but also the former - that is, the bearded fellow himself - had been stolen. In the exact spot where the pile of clothes had been, a pair of striped drawers, the torn Tolstoy blouse, the candle, the icon and a box of matches had been left. After threatening someone in the distance with his fist in powerless anger, Ivan put on what was left for him.\par \pard\plain  Here two considerations began to trouble him: first, that his Massolit identification card, which he never parted with, was gone, and,    second,\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  candles, and are customarily kept indefinitely after the wedding, sometimes in the corner with the family icon.\par \pard\plain  3The Moscow River amphitheatre:  Ivan takes his swim at the foot of what had  been\par \pard\plain  the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, which was dynamited in 1931. The remaining granite steps and amphitheatre were originally a grand baptismal font at the riverside, popularly known as \'91the Jordan\'92. The cathedral has now been rebuilt.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  whether he could manage to get through Moscow unhindered looking the way he did now? In striped drawers, after all ... True, it was nobody\'92s business, but still there might be some hitch or delay.\par \pard\plain  Ivan tore off the buttons where the drawers fastened at the ankle, fig- uring that this way they might pass for summer trousers, gathered up the icon, the candle and the matches, and started off, saying to himself:\par \pard\plain  \'91To Griboedov\'92s! Beyond all doubt, he\'92s there.\'92\par \pard\plain  The city was already living its evening life. Trucks flew through the dust, chains clanking, and on their platforms men lay sprawled belly up on sacks. All windows were open. In each of these windows a light burned under an orange lampshade, and from every window, every door, every gateway, roof, and attic, basement and courtyard blared the hoarse roar of the polonaise from the opera Evgeny Onegin. 4\par \pard\plain  Ivan Nikolaevich\'92s apprehensions proved fully justified: passers-by did pay attention to him and turned their heads. As a result, he took the decision to leave the main streets and make his way through back lanes, where people are not so importunate, where there were fewer chances of them picking on a barefoot man, pestering him with questions about his drawers, which stubbornly refused to look like trousers.\par \pard\plain  This Ivan did, and, penetrating the mysterious network of lanes around the Arbat, he began making his way along the walls, casting fearful side- long glances, turning around every moment, hiding in gateways from time to time, avoiding intersections with traffic lights and the grand entrances of embassy mansions.\par \pard\plain  And all along his difficult way, he was for some reason inexpressibly tormented by the ubiquitous orchestra that accompanied the heavy basso singing about his love for Tatiana.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4Evgeny Onegin: An opera by Pyotr I. Tchaikovsky (1840\'9693), with libretto by the composer\'92s brother Modest, based on the great \'91novel in verse\'92 of the same title by Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837). Its ubiquity, like the orange lampshades, suggests the standardizing of Soviet life. Tatyana, mentioned further on, is the heroine of Evgeny Onegin.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 5\par \pard\plain  There were Doings at Griboedov\'92s\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The old, two-storeyed, cream-coloured house stood on the ring boulevard, in the depths of a seedy garden, separated from the sidewalk by a fancy cast-iron fence. The small terrace in front of the house was paved with asphalt, and in wintertime was dominated by a snow pile with a shovel stuck in it, but in summertime turned into the most magnificent section of the summer restaurant under a canvas tent.\par \pard\plain  The house was called \'91The House of Griboedov\'92 on the grounds that  it was alleged to have once belonged to an aunt of the writer Alexander Sergeevich Griboedov. 1 Now, whether it did or did not belong to her, we do not exactly know. On recollection, it even seems that Griboedov never had any such house-owning aunt... Nevertheless, that was what the house was called. Moreover, one Moscow liar had it that there, on the second floor, in a round hall with columns, the famous writer had supposedly read passages from Woe From Wit to this very aunt while she reclined on a sofa.\par \pard\plain  However, devil knows, maybe he did, it\'92s of no importance.\par \pard\plain  What is important is that at the present time this house was owned by that same Massolit which had been headed by the unfortunate Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz before his appearance at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds.\par \pard\plain  In the casual manner of Massolit members, no one called the house The House of Griboedov\'92, everyone simply said \'91Griboedov\'92s\'92: \'91I spent two hours yesterday knocking about Griboedov\'92s.\'92 \'91Well, and so?\'92 \'91Got myself a month in Yalta.\'92 \'91Bravo!\'92 Or: \'91Go to Berlioz, he receives today from four to five at Griboedov\'92s...\'92 and so on.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Alexander Sergeevich Griboedov (1795\'961829), poet, playwright and diplomat, best known as the author of the comedy Woe From Wit, the first real masterpiece of the Rus- sian theatre.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  67\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Massolit had settled itself at Griboedov\'92s in the best and cosiest way imaginable. Anyone entering Griboedov\'92s first of all became involun- tarily acquainted with the announcements of various sports clubs, and with group as well as individual photographs of the members of Massolit, hanging (the photographs) on the walls of the staircase leading to the sec- ond floor.\par \pard\plain  On the door to the very first room of this upper floor one could see a big sign: \'91Fishing and Vacation Section\'92, along with the picture of a carp caught on a line.\par \pard\plain  On the door of room no. 2 something not quite comprehensible was written: \'91One-day Creative Trips. Apply to M. V. Spurioznaya.\'92\par \pard\plain  The next door bore a brief but now totally incomprehensible inscrip- tion: \'91Perelygino\'92. 2 After which the chance visitor to Griboedov\'92s would not know where to look from the motley inscriptions on the aunt\'92s walnut doors: \'91Sign up for Paper with Poklevkina\'92, \'91Cashier\'92, \'91Personal Accounts of Sketch-Writers\'92...\par \pard\plain  If one cut through the longest line, which already went downstairs and out to the doorman\'92s lodge, one could see the sign \'91Housing Question\'92 on a door which people were crashing every second.\par \pard\plain  Beyond the housing question there opened out a luxurious poster on which a cliff was depicted and, riding on its crest, a horseman in a felt cloak with a rifle on his shoulder. A little lower - palm trees and a balcony; on the balcony - a seated young man with a forelock, gazing somewhere aloft with very lively eyes, holding a fountain pen in his hand.\par \pard\plain  The inscription: \'91Full-scale Creative Vacations from Two Weeks (Story/ Novella) to One Year (Novel/Trilogy). Yalta, Suuk-Su, Borovoe, Tsikhidzi- ri, Makhindzhauri, Leningrad (Winter Palace).\'92 3 There was also a line at this door, but not an excessive one - some hundred and fifty people.\par \pard\plain  Next, obedient to the whimsical curves, ascents and descents of the Griboedov house, came the \'91Massolit Executive Board\'92, \'91Cashiers nos. 2, 3, 4, 5\'92, \'91Editorial Board\'92, \'91Chairman of Massolit\'92, \'91Billiard Room\'92, various auxiliary institutions and, finally, that same hall with the colonnade where the aunt had delighted in the comedy other genius nephew.\par \pard\plain  Any visitor finding himself in Griboedov\'92s,  unless of course he was   a total dim-wit, would realize at once what a good life those lucky fel-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Perelygino: The name is clearly meant to suggest the actual Peredelkino, a \'91writers\'92 village\'92 near Moscow where many writers were allotted country houses. It was a privi- leged and highly desirable place.\par \pard\plain  3Yalta, Suuk-Su... (Winter Palace): To this list of resort towns in the Crimea, the  Cau-\par \pard\plain  casus and Kazakhstan, Bulgakov incongruously adds the Winter Palace in Leningrad, former residence of the emperors.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  lows, the Massolit members, were having, and black envy would imme- diately start gnawing at him. And he would immediately address bitter reproaches to heaven for not having endowed him at birth with literary talent, lacking which there was naturally no dreaming of owning a Mas- solit membership card, brown, smelling of costly leather, with a wide gold border - a card known to all Moscow.\par \pard\plain  Who will speak in defence of envy? This feeling belongs to the nasty category, but all the same one must put oneself in the visitor\'92s position.\par \pard\plain  For what he had seen on the upper floor was not all, and was far from\par \pard\plain  all.\par \pard\plain  The entire ground floor of the aunt\'92s house was occupied by a restau-\par \pard\plain  rant, and what a restaurant! It was justly considered the best in Moscow. And not only because it took up two vast halls with arched ceilings, paint- ed with violet, Assyrian-maned horses, not only because on each table there stood a lamp shaded with a shawl, not only because it was not ac- cessible to just anybody coming in off the street, but because in the quality of its fare Griboedov\'92s beat any restaurant in Moscow up and down, and this fare was available at the most reasonable, by no means onerous, price. Hence there was nothing surprising, for instance, in the following con- versation, which the author of these most truthful lines once heard   near\par \pard\plain  the cast-iron fence of Griboedov\'92s:\par \pard\plain  \'91Where are you dining today, Amvrosy?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What a question! Why, here, of course, my dear Foka! Archibald Archibaldovich whispered to me today that there will be perch au naturel done to order. A virtuoso little treat!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You sure know how to live, Amvrosy!\'92 skinny, run-down Foka, with  a carbuncle on his neck, replied with a sigh to the ruddy-lipped giant, golden-haired, plump-cheeked Amvrosy-the-poet.\par \pard\plain  \'91I have no special knowledge,\'92 Amvrosy protested, \'91just the ordinary wish to live like a human being. You  mean to say,  Foka that perch can be met with at the Coliseum as well. But at the Coliseum a portion of perch costs thirteen roubles fifteen kopecks, and here - five-fifty! Besides, at the Coliseum they serve three-day-old perch, and, besides, there\'92s no guarantee you won\'92t get slapped in the mug with a bunch of grapes at the Coliseum by the first young man who bursts in from Theatre Alley. No, I\'92m categorically opposed to the Coliseum,\'92 the gastronome Amvrosy boomed for the whole boulevard to hear. \'91Don\'92t try to convince me, Foka!\'92 \'91I\'92m not trying to convince you, Amvrosy,\'92 Foka squeaked.  \'91One   can\par \pard\plain  also dine at home.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I humbly thank you,\'92 trumpeted Amvrosy, \'91but I can imagine your wife, in the communal kitchen at home, trying to do perch au naturel   to\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  order in a saucepan! Hee, hee, hee! ... Aurevwar, Foka!\'92 And, humming, Amvrosy directed his steps to the veranda under the tent.\par \pard\plain  Ahh, yes! ... Yes, there was a time! ... Old Muscovites will remember the renowned Griboedov\'92s! What is poached perch done to order!\par \pard\plain  Cheap stuff, my dear Amvrosy! But sterlet, sterlet in a silvery chafing dish, sterlet slices interlaid with crayfish tails and fresh caviar? And eggs en cocotte with mushroom puree in little dishes? And how did you like the fillets of thrush? With truffles? Quail a la genoise? Nine-fifty! And  the jazz, and the courteous service!  And in July, when the whole family  is in the country, and you are kept in the city by urgent literary business - on the veranda, in the shade of the creeping vines, in a golden spot on the cleanest of tablecloths, a bowl of soup printanier? Remember, Amvrosy? But why ask! I can see by your lips that you do. What is your whitefish, your perch! But the snipe, the great snipe, the jack snipe, the woodcock in their season, the quail, the curlew? Cool seltzer fizzing in your throat?! But enough, you are getting distracted, reader! Follow me!...\par \pard\plain  At half past ten on the evening when Berlioz died at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds, only one room was lit upstairs at Griboedov\'92s, and in it languished twelve writers who had gathered for a meeting and were waiting for Mik- hail Alexandrovich.\par \pard\plain  Sitting on chairs, and on tables, and even on the two window-sills in the office of the Massolit executive board, they suffered seriously from the heat. Not a single breath of fresh air came through the open windows. Moscow was releasing the heat accumulated in the asphalt all day,  and  it was clear that night would bring no relief. The smell of onions came from the basement of the aunt\'92s house, where the restaurant kitchen was at work, they were all thirsty, they were all nervous and angry.\par \pard\plain  The belletrist Beskudnikov - a quiet, decently dressed man with atten- tive and at the same time elusive eyes - took out his watch. The hand was crawling towards eleven. Beskudnikov tapped his finger on the face and showed it to the poet Dvubratsky, who was sitting next to him on the table and in boredom dangling his feet shod in yellow shoes with rubber treads.\par \pard\plain  \'91Anyhow,\'92 grumbled Dvubratsky.\par \pard\plain  \'91The laddie must\'92ve got stuck on the Klyazma,\'92 came the thick-voiced response of Nastasya Lukinishna Nepremenova, orphan of a Moscow mer- chant, who had become a writer and wrote stories about sea battles under the pen-name of Bos\'92n George.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me!\'92 boldly exclaimed Zagrivov, an author of popular sketches, \'92but I personally would prefer a spot of tea on the balcony to stewing in here. The meeting was set for ten o\'92clock, wasn\'92t it?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s nice now on the Klyazma,\'92    Bos\'92n George needled those present,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  knowing that Perelygino on the Klyazma, the country colony for writers, was everybody\'92s sore spot. \'91There\'92s nightingales singing already. I always work better in the country, especially in spring.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s the third year I\'92ve paid in so as to send my wife with goitre to this paradise, but there\'92s nothing to be spied amidst the waves,\'92 the novelist Ieronym Poprikhin said venomously and bitterly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Some are lucky and some aren\'92t,\'92 the critic Ababkov droned from the window-sill.\par \pard\plain  Bos\'92n George\'92s little eyes lit up with glee, and she said, softening her contralto:\par \pard\plain  We mustn\'92t be envious, comrades. There\'92s twenty-two dachas 4 in all, and only seven more being built, and there\'92s three thousand of us in Mas- solit.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Three thousand one hundred and eleven,\'92 someone put in from the corner.\par \pard\plain  \'91So you see,\'92 the Bos\'92n went on, \'91what can be done? Naturally, it\'92s the most talented of us that got the dachas...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The generals!\'92 Glukharev the scenarist cut right into the squabble. Beskudnikov, with an artificial yawn, walked out of the room. \'91Five rooms to himself in Perelygino,\'92 Glukharev said behind him.\par \pard\plain  \'91Lavrovich has six to himself,\'92 Deniskin cried out, \'91and the dining room\'92s panelled in oak!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Eh, that\'92s not the point right now,\'92 Ababkov droned, \'91it\'92s that it\'92s half past eleven.\'92\par \pard\plain  A clamour arose, something like rebellion was brewing. They started telephoning hated Perelygino, got the wrong dacha, Lavrovich\'92s, found out that Lavrovich had gone to the river, which made them totally upset. They called at random to the commission on fine literature, extension 950, and of course found no one there.\par \pard\plain  \'91He might have called!\'92 shouted Deniskin, Glukharev and Quant.\par \pard\plain  Ah, they were shouting in vain: Mikhail Alexandrovich could not call anywhere. Far, far from Griboedov\'92s, in an enormous room lit by thousand- watt bulbs, on three zinc tables, lay what had still recently been Mikhail Alexandrovich.\par \pard\plain  On the first lay the naked body, covered with dried blood, one arm broken, the chest caved in; on the second, the head with the front teeth knocked out, with dull, open eyes unafraid of the brightest light; and on the third, a pile of stiffened rags.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4Dachas: The Russian dacha (pronounced DA-tcha) is a summer or country house.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Near the beheaded body stood a professor of forensic medicine, a pa- thological anatomist and his dissector, representatives of the investigation, and Mikhail Alexandrovich\'92s assistant in Massolit, the writer Zheldybin, summoned by telephone from his sick wife\'92s side.\par \pard\plain  A car had come for Zheldybin and first of all taken him together with the investigators (this was around midnight) to the dead man\'92s apartment, where the sealing of his papers had been carried out, after which they all went to the morgue.\par \pard\plain  And now those standing by the remains of the deceased were debating what was the better thing to do: to sew the severed head to the neck, or to lay out the body in the hall at Griboedov\'92s after simply covering the dead man snugly to the chin with a black cloth?\par \pard\plain  No, Mikhail Alexandrovich could not call anywhere, and Deniskin, Glukharev and Quant, along with Beskudnikov, were being indignant and shouting quite in vain. Exactly at midnight, all twelve writers left the up- per floor and descended to the restaurant. Here again they silently berated Mikhail Alexandrovich: all the tables on the veranda, naturally, were oc- cupied, and they had to stay for supper in those beautiful but airless halls. And exactly at midnight, in the first of these halls, something crashed, jangled, spilled, leaped. And all at once a high male voice desperately cried out \'91Hallelujah!\'92 to the music. The famous Griboedov jazz band struck up. Sweat-covered faces seemed to brighten, it was as if the horses painted on the ceiling came alive, the lamps seemed to shine with added light, and suddenly, as if tearing loose, both halls broke into dance, and\par \pard\plain  following them the veranda broke into dance.\par \pard\plain  Glukharev danced with the poetess Tamara Polumesyats, Quant dan- ced, Zhukopov the novelist danced with some movie actress in a yellow dress.\par \pard\plain  Dragunsky danced, Cherdakchi danced, little Deniskin danced with the enormous Bos\'92n George, the beautiful Semeikina-Gall, an architect, danced in the tight embrace of a stranger in white canvas trousers. Lo- cals and invited guests danced, Muscovites and out-of-towners, the writer Johann from Kronstadt, a certain Vitya Kuftik from Rostov, apparently a stage director, with a purple spot all over his cheek, the most eminent rep- resentatives of the poetry section of Massolit danced - that is, Baboonov, Blasphemsky, Sweetkin, Smatchstik and Addphina Buzdyak - young men of unknown profession, in crew cuts, with cotton-padded shoulders, dan- ced, someone very elderly danced, a shred of green onion stuck in his beard, and with him danced a sickly, anaemia-consumed girl in a wrin- kled orange silk dress.\par \pard\plain  Streaming with sweat, waiters carried sweating mugs of beer over their\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  heads, shouting hoarsely and with hatred: \'91Excuse me, citizen!\'92 Some- where through a megaphone a voice commanded: \'91One Karsky shashlik! Two Zubrovkas! Home-style tripe!\'92 The high voice no longer sang, but howled \'91Hallelujah!\'92\par \pard\plain  The clashing of golden cymbals in the band sometimes even drowned out the clashing of dishes, which the dishwashers sent down a sloping chute to the kitchen. In short - hell.\par \pard\plain  And at midnight there came an apparition in hell. A handsome dark- eyed man with a dagger-like beard, in a tailcoat, stepped on to the veranda and cast a regal glance over his domain. They used to say, the mystics used to say, that there was a time when the handsome man wore not a tailcoat but a wide leather belt with pistol butts sticking from it, and his raven hair was tied with scarlet silk, and under his command a brig sailed the Caribbean under a black death flag with a skull and crossbones.\par \pard\plain  But no, no! The seductive mystics are lying, there are no Caribbean Seas in the world, no desperate freebooters sail them, no corvette chases after them, no cannon smoke drifts across the waves. There is nothing, and there was nothing! There is that sickly linden over there, there is the cast-iron fence, and the boulevard beyond it... And the ice is melting in the bowl, and at the next table you see someone\'92s bloodshot, bovine eyes, and you\'92re afraid, afraid... Oh, gods, my gods, poison, bring me poison!... And suddenly a word fluttered up from some table: \'91Berlioz!!\'92 The jazz broke up and fell silent, as if someone had hit it with a fist.  \'91What,  what,\par \pard\plain  what, what?!!\'92 \'91Berlioz!!!\'92 And they began jumping up, exclaiming...\par \pard\plain  Yes, a wave of grief billowed up at the terrible news about Mikhail Alexandrovich. Someone fussed about, crying that it was necessary at once, straight away, without leaving the spot, to compose some collective telegram and send it off immediately.\par \pard\plain  But what telegram, may we ask, and where? And why send it? And where, indeed? And what possible need for any telegram does someone have whose flattened pate is now clutched in the dissector\'92s rubber hands, whose neck the professor is now piercing with curved needles? He\'92s dead, and has no need of any telegrams. It\'92s all over, let\'92s not burden the tele- graph wires any more.\par \pard\plain  Yes, he\'92s dead, dead... But, as for us, we\'92re alive!\par \pard\plain  Yes, a wave of grief billowed up, held out for a while, but then began to subside, and somebody went back to his table and - sneakily at first, then openly - drank a little vodka and ate a bite. And, really, can one let chicken cutlets de volatile perish? How can we help Mikhail Alexandrovich?\par \pard\plain  By going hungry? But, after all, we\'92re alive!\par \pard\plain  Naturally, the grand piano was locked, the jazz band dispersed,    sev-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  eral journalists left for their offices to write obituaries. It became known that Zheldybin had come from the morgue. He had installed himself in the deceased\'92s office upstairs, and the rumour spread at once that it was he who would replace Berlioz. Zheldybin summoned from the restaurant all twelve members of the board, and at the urgently convened meeting in Berlioz\'92s office they started a discussion of the pressing questions of deco- rating the hall with columns at Griboedov\'92s, of transporting the body from the morgue to that hall, of opening it to the public, and all else connected with the sad event.\par \pard\plain  And the restaurant began to live its usual nocturnal life and would have gone on living it until closing time, that is, until four o\'92clock in the morning, had it not been for an occurrence which was completely out of the ordinary and which struck the restaurant\'92s clientele much more than the news of Berlioz\'92s death.\par \pard\plain  The first to take alarm were the coachmen 5 waiting at the gates of the Griboedov house. One of them, rising on his box, was heard to cry out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hoo-ee! Just look at that!\'92\par \pard\plain  After which, from God knows where, a little light flashed by the cast- iron fence and began to approach the veranda. Those sitting at the tables began to get up and peer at it, and saw that along with the little light a white ghost was marching towards the restaurant. When it came right up to the trellis, everybody sat as if frozen at their tables, chunks of sterlet on their forks, eyes popping. The doorman, who at that moment had stepped out of the restaurant coatroom to have a smoke in the yard, stamped out his cigarette and made for the ghost with the obvious intention of barring its way into the restaurant, but for some reason did not do so, and stopped, smiling stupidly.\par \pard\plain  And the ghost, passing through an opening in the trellis, stepped un- hindered on to the veranda. Here everyone saw that it was no ghost at all, but Ivan Nikolaevich Homeless, the much-renowned poet.\par \pard\plain  He was barefoot, in a torn, whitish Tolstoy blouse, with a paper icon bearing the image of an unknown saint pinned to the breast of it with a safety pin, and was wearing striped white drawers. In his hand Ivan Niko- laevich carried a lighted wedding candle. Ivan Nikolaevich\'92s right cheek was freshly scratched. It would even be difficult to plumb the depths of the silence that reigned on the veranda. Beer could be seen running down on to the floor from a mug tilted in one waiter\'92s hand.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Coachmen: Though increasingly replaced by automobiles, horse-drawn cabs were still in use in Moscow until around 1940. Thus the special tribe of Russian coachmen persisted long after their western counterparts disappeared.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The poet raised the candle over his head and said loudly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hail, friends!\'92 After which he peeked under the nearest table and ex- claimed ruefully: \'91No, he\'92s not there!\'92\par \pard\plain  Two voices were heard. A basso said pitilessly: \'91That\'92s it. Delirium tremens.\'92\par \pard\plain  And the second, a woman\'92s, frightened, uttered the words: \'91How could the police let him walk the streets like that?\'92 This Ivan Nikolaevich heard, and replied:\par \pard\plain  They tried to detain me twice, in Skaterny and here on Bronnaya, but I hopped over the fence and, as you can see, cut my cheek!\'92 Here Ivan Nikolaevich raised the candle and cried out: \'91Brethren in literature!\'92 (His hoarse voice grew stronger and more fervent.) \'91Listen to me everyone! He has appeared. Catch him immediately, otherwise he\'92ll do untold harm!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What? What? What did he say? Who has appeared?\'92 voices came from all sides.\par \pard\plain  The consultant,\'92 Ivan replied, \'91and this consultant just killed Misha Berlioz at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here people came flocking to the veranda from the inner rooms, a crowd gathered around Ivan\'92s flame.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me, excuse me, be more precise,\'92 a soft and polite voice said over Ivan Nikolaevich\'92s ear, \'91tell me, what do you mean \'93killed\'94? Who killed?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A foreign consultant, a professor, and a spy,\'92 Ivan said, looking around. \'91And what is his name?\'92 came softly to Ivan\'92s ear. That\'92s just it - his name!\'92 Ivan cried in anguish. \'91If only I knew his name! I didn\'92t make out his name on his visiting card... I only remember the first letter, \'93W\'94, his name begins with \'93W\'94! What last name begins with \'93W\'94?\'92 Ivan asked himself, clutching his forehead, and suddenly started muttering: \'91Wi, we, wa ...  Wu ...  Wo ...  Washner?  Wagner?  Weiner?  Wegner?  Winter?\'92  The \par \pard\plain  hair on Ivan\'92s head began to crawl with the tension. \'91Wolf?\'92 some woman cried pitifully.\par \pard\plain  Ivan became angry.\par \pard\plain  \'91Fool!\'92 he cried, seeking the woman with his eyes. \'91What has Wolf got to do with it? Wolf\'92s not to blame for anything! Wo, wa... No, I\'92ll never remember this way! Here\'92s what, citizens: call the police at once, let them send out five motor cycles with machine-guns to catch the professor. And don\'92t forget to tell them that there are two others with him: a long check- ered one, cracked pince-nez, and a cat, black and fat... And meanwhile I\'92ll search Griboedov\'92s, I sense that he\'92s here!\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan became anxious, pushed away the people around him, started waving the candle,  pouring wax on himself,  and looking under the    ta-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  bles. Here someone said: \'91Call a doctor!\'92 and someone\'92s benign, fleshy face, clean shaven and well nourished, in horn-rimmed glasses, appeared before Ivan.\par \pard\plain  \'91Comrade Homeless,\'92 the face began in a guest speaker\'92s voice, \'91calm down! You\'92re upset at the death of our beloved Mikhail Alexandrovich... no, say just Misha Berlioz. We all understand that perfectly well. You need rest. The comrades will take you home to bed right now, you\'92ll forget...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You,\'92 Ivan interrupted, baring his teeth, \'93but don\'92t you understand that the professor has to be caught? And you come at me with your fool- ishness! Cretin!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Pardon me, Comrade Homeless!...\'92 the face replied, blushing, retreat- ing, and already repentant at having got mixed up in this affair.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, anyone else, but you I will not pardon,\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich said with quiet hatred.\par \pard\plain  A spasm distorted his face, he quickly shifted the candle from his right hand to his left, swung roundly and hit the compassionate face on the ear. Here it occurred to them to fall upon Ivan - and so they did. The candle went out, and the glasses that had fallen from the face were instantly tram- pled. Ivan let out a terrible war cry, heard, to the temptation of all, even on the boulevard, and set about defending himself.  Dishes fell clattering\par \pard\plain  from the tables, women screamed.\par \pard\plain  All the while the waiters were tying up the poet with napkins, a con- versation was going on in the coatroom between the commander of the brig and the doorman.\par \pard\plain  \'91Didn\'92t you see he was in his underpants?\'92 the pirate inquired coldly. \'91But, Archibald Archibaldovich,\'92 the doorman replied, cowering, \'91how\par \pard\plain  could I not let him in, if he\'92s a member of Massolit?\'92 \'91Didn\'92t you see he was in his underpants?\'92 the pirate repeated. \'91Pardon me, Archibald Archibal- dovich,\'92 the doorman said, turning purple, \'91but what could I do? I under- stand, there are ladies sitting on the veranda...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ladies have nothing to do with it, it makes no difference to the ladies,\'92 the pirate replied, literally burning the doorman up with his eyes, \'91but it does to the police! A man in his underwear can walk the streets of Moscow only in this one case, that he\'92s accompanied by the police, and only to one place - the police station! And you, if you\'92re a doorman, ought to know that on seeing such a man, you must, without a moment\'92s delay, start blowing your whistle. Do you hear? Do you hear what\'92s going on on the veranda?\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the half-crazed doorman heard some sort of hooting coming from the veranda, the smashing of dishes and women\'92s screams.\par \pard\plain  \'91Now, what\'92s to be done with you for that?\'92 the freebooter asked.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The skin on the doorman\'92s face acquired a typhoid tinge, his eyes went dead. It seemed to him that the black hair, now combed and parted, was covered with flaming silk.  The shirt-front and tailcoat disappeared and  a pistol butt emerged, tucked into a leather belt. The doorman pictured himself hanging from the fore-topsail yard. His eyes saw his own tongue sticking out and his lifeless head lolling on his shoulder, and even heard the splash of waves against the hull. The doorman\'92s knees gave way. But here the freebooter took pity on him and extinguished his sharp gaze.\par \pard\plain  \'91Watch  out,  Nikolai,  this is the last time!   We  have no need of   such\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  doormen in the restaurant. Go find yourself a job as a beadle.\'92 Having said this, the commander commanded precisely, clearly, rapidly: \'91Get Pantelei from the snack bar. Police. Protocol. A car. To the psychiatric clinic.\'92 And added: \'91Blow your whistle!\'92\par \pard\plain  In a quarter of an hour an extremely astounded public, not only in the restaurant but on the boulevard itself and in the windows of houses look- ing on to the restaurant garden, saw Pantelei, the doorman, a policeman, a waiter and the poet Riukhin carry through the gates of Griboedov\'92s a young man swaddled like a doll, dissolved in tears, who spat, aiming pre- cisely at Riukhin, and shouted for all the boulevard to hear:\par \pard\plain  \'91You bastard! ... You bastard!...\'92\par \pard\plain  A truck-driver with a spiteful face was starting his motor. Next to him a coachman, rousing his horse, slapping it on the croup with violet reins, shouted:\par \pard\plain  \'91Have a run for your money! I\'92ve taken \'91em to the psychics before!\'92 Around them the crowd buzzed, discussing the unprecedented event.\par \pard\plain  In short, there was a nasty, vile, tempting, swinish scandal, which ended only when the truck carried away from the gates of Griboedov\'92s the un- fortunate Ivan Nikolaevich, the policeman, Pantelei and Riukhin.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 6\par \pard\plain  Schizophrenia, as was Said\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  It was half past one in the morning when a man with a pointed beard and wearing a white coat came out to the examining room of the famous psychiatric clinic, built recently on the outskirts of Moscow by the bank of the river. Three orderlies had their eyes fastened on Ivan Nikolaevich, who was sitting on a couch. The extremely agitated poet Riukhin was also there.\par \pard\plain  The napkins with which Ivan Nikolaevich had been bed up lay in a pile on the same couch. Ivan Nikolaevich\'92s arms and legs were free.\par \pard\plain  Seeing the entering man, Riukhin turned pale, coughed, and said ti- midly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hello, Doctor.\'92\par \pard\plain  The doctor bowed to Riukhin but, as he bowed, looked not at him but at Ivan Nikolaevich. The latter sat perfectly motionless, with an angry face and knitted brows, and did not even stir at the doctor\'92s entrance.\par \pard\plain  \'91Here, Doctor,\'92 Riukhin began speaking, for some reason, in a myste- rious whisper, glancing timorously at Ivan Nikolaevich, \'91is the renowned poet Ivan Homeless ... well, you see ... we\'92re afraid it might be delirium tremens...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Was he drinking hard?\'92 the doctor said through his teeth. \'91No, he drank, but not really so...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Did he chase after cockroaches, rats, little devils, or slinking dogs?\'92 \'91No,\'92 Riukhin replied with a shudder,  \'91I saw him yesterday and    this\par \pard\plain  morning ... he was perfectly well.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And why is he in his drawers? Did you get him out of bed?\'92 \'91No, Doctor, he came to the restaurant that way...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha, aha,\'92 the doctor said with great satisfaction, \'91and why the scrat- ches? Did he have a fight?\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  79\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91He fell off a fence, and then in the restaurant he hit somebody... and then somebody else...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So, so, so,\'92 the doctor said and, turning to Ivan, added: \'91Hello there!\'92 \'91Greetings, saboteur!\'92 1  Ivan replied spitefully and loudly.\par \pard\plain  Riukhin was so embarrassed that he did not dare raise his eyes to the courteous doctor. But the latter, not offended in the least, took off his glasses with a habitual, deft movement, raised the skirt of his coat, put them into the back pocket of his trousers, and then asked Ivan:\par \pard\plain  \'91How old are you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You can all go to the devil!\'92 Ivan shouted rudely and turned away. \'91But why are you angry? Did I say anything unpleasant to you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m twenty-three years old,\'92 Ivan began excitedly, \'91and I\'92ll file a com- plaint against you all. And particularly against you, louse!\'92 he adverted separately to Riukhin.\par \pard\plain  \'91And what do you want to complain about?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91About the fact that I, a healthy man, was seized and dragged by force to a madhouse!\'92 Ivan replied wrathfully.\par \pard\plain  Here Riukhin looked closely at Ivan and went cold: there was decid- edly no insanity in the man\'92s eyes. No longer dull as they had been at Griboedov\'92s, they were now clear as ever.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good God!\'92 Riukhin thought fearfully. \'91So he\'92s really normal! What nonsense! Why, in fact, did we drag him here? He\'92s normal, normal, only his mug got scratched...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You are,\'92 the doctor began calmly, sitting down on a white stool with a shiny foot, \'91not in a madhouse, but in a clinic, where no one will keep you if it\'92s not necessary.\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan Nikolaevich glanced at him mistrustfully out of the corner of his eye, but still grumbled:\par \pard\plain  \'91Thank the Lord! One normal man has finally turned up among the idiots, of whom the first is that giftless goof Sashka!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is this giftless Sashka?\'92 the doctor inquired.\par \pard\plain  \'91This one here - Riukhin,\'92 Ivan replied, jabbing his dirty finger in Riuk- hin\'92s direction.\par \pard\plain  The latter flushed with indignation. That\'92s the thanks I get,\'92 he thought bitterly, \'91for showing concern for him! What trash, really!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Psychologically, a typical little kulak,\'92 2  Ivan Nikolaevich began,  evi-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Saboteur: Here and a little further on Ivan uses standard terms from Soviet mass campaigns against \'91enemies of the people\'92. Anyone thought to be working against the aims of the ruling party could be denounced and arrested as a saboteur.\par \pard\plain  2Kulak: (Russian for \'91fist\'92) refers to the class of wealthy peasants, which Stalin ordered liquidated in 1930.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  dently from an irresistible urge to denounce Riukhin, \'91and, what\'92s more, a little kulak carefully disguising himself as a proletarian. Look at his lenten physiognomy, and compare it with those resounding verses he wrote for the First of May 3 - heh, heh, heh ... \'93Soaring up!\'94 and \'93Soaring down!!\'94 But if you could look inside him and see what he thinks... you\'92d gasp!\'92 And Ivan Nikolaevich burst into sinister laughter.\par \pard\plain  Riukhin was breathing heavily, turned red, and thought of just one thing, that he had warmed a serpent on his breast, that he had shown concern for a man who turned out to be a vicious enemy. And, above all, there was nothing to be done: there\'92s no arguing with the mentally ill!\par \pard\plain  \'91And why, actually, were you brought here?\'92 the doctor asked, after listening attentively to Homeless\'92s denunciations.\par \pard\plain  \'91Devil take them, the numskulls! They seized me, tied me up with some rags, and dragged me away in a truck!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91May I ask why you came to the restaurant in just your underwear?\'92\par \pard\plain  There\'92s nothing surprising about that,\'92 Ivan replied. \'91I went for a swim in the Moscow River, so they filched my clothes and left me this trash!\par \pard\plain  I couldn\'92t very well walk around Moscow naked! I put it on because I was hurrying to Griboedov.\'92\par \pard\plain  The doctor glanced questioningly at Riukhin, who muttered glumly: \'91The name of the restaurant.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha,\'92 said the doctor, \'91and why were you in such a hurry? Some busi- ness meeting?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m trying to catch the consultant,\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich said and looked around anxiously.\par \pard\plain  \'91What consultant?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Do you know Berlioz?\'92 Ivan asked significantly. \'91The... composer?\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan got upset.\par \pard\plain  \'91What composer? Ah, yes... Ah, no. The composer has the same name as Misha Berlioz.\'92\par \pard\plain  Riukhin had no wish to say anything, but was forced to explain:\par \pard\plain  \'91The secretary of Massolit, Berlioz, was run over by a tram-car tonight at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t blab about what you don\'92t know!\'92 Ivan got angry with Riukhin. \'91I was there, not you! He got him under the tram-car on purpose!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Pushed him?\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3The First of May: Originally commemorating the Haymarket Massacre in Chicago, this day later became a general holiday of the labour movement and was celebrated with particular enthusiasm in the Soviet Union.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91 \'93Pushed him\'94, nothing!\'92 Ivan exclaimed, angered by the general ob- tuseness. \'91His kind don\'92t need to push! He can perform such stunts - hold on to your hat! He knew beforehand that Berlioz would get under the tram-car!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And did anyone besides you see this consultant?\'92 \'91That\'92s the trouble, it was just Berlioz and I.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So. And what measures did you take to catch this murderer?\'92 Here the doctor turned and sent a glance towards a woman in a white coat, who was sitting at a table to one side. She took out a sheet of paper and began filling in the blank spaces in its columns.\par \pard\plain  \'91Here\'92s what measures: I took a little candle from the kitchen...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That one?\'92 asked the doctor, pointing to the broken candle lying on the table in front of the woman, next to the icon.\par \pard\plain  \'91That very one, and...\'92 \'91And why the icon?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes, the icon...\'92 Ivan blushed. \'91It was the icon that frightened them most of all.\'92 He again jabbed his finger in the direction of Riukhin. \'91But the thing is that he, the consultant, he... let\'92s speak directly... is mixed up with the unclean powers... and you won\'92t catch him so easily.\'92\par \pard\plain  The orderlies for some reason snapped to attention and fastened their eyes on Ivan.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, sirs,\'92 Ivan went on, \'91mixed up with them! An absolute fact. He spoke personally with Pontius Pilate. And there\'92s no need to stare at me like that. I\'92m telling the truth! He saw everything - the balcony and the palm trees. In short, he was at Pontius Pilate\'92s, I can vouch for it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Come, come...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, so I pinned the icon on my chest and ran...\'92 Here the clock suddenly struck twice.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh-oh!\'92 Ivan exclaimed and got up from the couch. \'91It\'92s two o\'92clock, and I\'92m wasting time with you! Excuse me, where\'92s the telephone?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Let him use the telephone,\'92 the doctor told the orderlies.\par \pard\plain  Ivan grabbed the receiver, and the woman meanwhile quietly asked Riukhin:\par \pard\plain  \'91Is he married?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Single,\'92 Riukhin answered fearfully. \'91Member of a trade union?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Police?\'92 Ivan shouted into the receiver. \'91Police? Comrade officer-on- duty, give orders at once for five motor cycles with machine-guns to be sent out to catch the foreign consultant. What? Come and pick me up, I\'92ll go with you... It\'92s the poet Homeless speaking from the madhouse...\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  What\'92s your address?\'92 Homeless asked the doctor in a whisper, cover- ing the receiver with his hand, and then again shouting into it: \'91Are you listening?\par \pard\plain  Hello!... Outrageous!\'92 Ivan suddenly screamed and hurled the receiver against the wall. Then he turned to the doctor, offered him his hand, said \'91Goodbye\'92 drily, and made as if to leave.\par \pard\plain  \'91For pity\'92s sake, where do you intend to go?\'92 the doctor said, peering into Ivan\'92s eyes. \'91In the dead of night, in your underwear... You\'92re not feeling well, stay with us.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Let me pass,\'92 Ivan said to the orderlies, who closed ranks at the door. \'91Will you let me pass or not?\'92 the poet shouted in a terrible voice.\par \pard\plain  Riukhin trembled, but the woman pushed a button on the table and a shiny little box with a sealed ampoule popped out on to its glass surface.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, so?!\'92 Ivan said, turning around with a wild and hunted look. \'91Well,  then...  Goodbye!\'92  And he rushed head first into the   window-\par \pard\plain  blind.\par \pard\plain  The crash was rather forceful, but the glass behind the blind gave no crack, and in an instant Ivan Nikolaevich was struggling in the hands of the orderlies. He gasped, tried to bite, shouted:\par \pard\plain  \'91So that\'92s the sort of windows you\'92ve got here! Let me go! Let me go!...\'92 A syringe flashed in the doctor\'92s hand, with a single movement the woman slit the threadbare sleeve of the shirt and seized the arm with un- womanly strength. There was a smell of ether, Ivan went limp in the hands of the four people, the deft doctor took advantage of this moment and stuck the needle into Ivan\'92s arm. They held Ivan for another few seconds\par \pard\plain  and then lowered him on to the couch.\par \pard\plain  \'91Bandits!\'92 Ivan shouted and jumped up from the couch, but was in- stalled on it again. The moment they let go of him, he again jumped up, but sat back down by himself. He paused, gazing around wildly, then unexpectedly yawned, then smiled maliciously.\par \pard\plain  \'91Locked me up after all,\'92 he said, yawned again, unexpectedly lay down, put his head on the pillow, his fist under his head like a child, and muttered now in a sleepy voice, without malice: \'91Very well, then... you\'92ll pay for it yourselves... I\'92ve warned you, you can do as you like... I\'92m now interested most of all in Pontius Pilate ... Pilate...\'92, and he closed his eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91A bath, a private room, number 117, and a nurse to watch him,\'92 the doctor ordered as he put his glasses on. Here Riukhin again gave a start: the white door opened noiselessly, behind it a corridor could be seen, lit by blue night-lights. Out of the corridor rolled a stretcher on rubber wheels, to which the quieted Ivan was transferred, and then he rolled off down the corridor and the door closed behind him.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Doctor,\'92 the shaken Riukhin asked in a whisper, \'91it means he\'92s really ill?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, yes,\'92 replied the doctor.\par \pard\plain  \'91But what\'92s wrong with him, then?\'92 Riukhin asked timidly. The tired doctor glanced at Riukhin and answered listlessly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Locomotor and speech excitation... delirious interpretations... A com- plex case, it seems. Schizophrenia, I suppose. Plus this alcoholism...\'92\par \pard\plain  Riukhin understood nothing from the doctor\'92s words, except that things were evidently not so great with Ivan Nikolaevich. He sighed and asked:\par \pard\plain  \'91But what\'92s all this talk of his about some consultant?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He must have seen somebody who struck his disturbed imagination.\par \pard\plain  Or maybe a hallucination...\'92\par \pard\plain  A few minutes later the truck was carrying Riukhin off to Moscow. Day was breaking, and the light of the street lights still burning along the highway was now unnecessary and unpleasant. The driver was vexed at having wasted the night, drove the truck as fast as he could, and skidded on the turns.\par \pard\plain  Now the woods dropped off, stayed somewhere behind, and the river went somewhere to the side, and an omnium gatherum came spilling to meet the truck: fences with sentry boxes and stacks of wood, tall posts and some sort of poles, with spools strung on the poles, heaps of rubble, the earth scored by canals - in short, you sensed that she was there, Moscow, right there, around the turn, and about to heave herself upon you and engulf you.\par \pard\plain  Riukhin was jolted and tossed about; the sort of stump he had placed himself on kept trying to slide out from under him. The restaurant nap- kins, thrown in by the policeman and Pantelei, who had left earlier by bus, moved all around the flatbed. Riukhin tried to collect them, but then, for some reason hissing spitefully: \'91Devil take them! What am I doing fussing like a fool?...\'92, he spumed them aside with his foot and stopped looking at them.\par \pard\plain  The rider\'92s state of mind was terrible. It was becoming clear that his visit to the house of sorrow had left the deepest mark on him. Riukhin tried to understand what was tormenting him. The corridor with blue lights, which had stuck itself to his memory? The thought that there is no greater misfortune in the world than the loss of reason? Yes, yes, of course, that, too. But that - that\'92s only a general thought. There\'92s something else. What is it? An insult, that\'92s what. Yes, yes, insulting words hurled right in his face by Homeless. And the trouble is not that they were insulting, but that there was truth in them.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The poet no longer looked around, but, staring into the dirty, shaking floor, began muttering something, whining, gnawing at himself.\par \pard\plain  Yes, poetry... He was thirty-two years old! And, indeed, what then?  So then he would go on writing his several poems a year. Into old age? Yes, into old age. What would these poems bring him? Glory? \'91What nonsense! Don\'92t deceive yourself, at least. Glory will never come to some- one who writes bad poems. What makes them bad? The truth, he was telling the truth!\'92 Riukhin addressed himself mercilessly. \'91I don\'92t believe in anything I write!...\'92\par \pard\plain  Poisoned by this burst of neurasthenia, the poet swayed, the floor un- der him stopped shaking. Riukhin raised his head and saw that he had long been in Moscow, and, what\'92s more, that it was dawn over Moscow, that the cloud was underlit with gold, that his truck had stopped, caught in a column of other vehicles at the turn on to the boulevard, and that very close to him on a pedestal stood a metal man, 4 his head inclined slightly, gazing at the boulevard with indifference.\par \pard\plain  Some strange thoughts flooded the head of the ailing poet. \'91There\'92s an example of real luck...\'92 Here Riukhin rose to his full height on the flatbed of the truck and raised his arm, for some reason attacking the cast-iron man who was not bothering anyone. \'91Whatever step he made in his life, whatever happened to him, it all turned to his benefit, it all led to his glory! But what did he do? I can\'92t conceive... Is there anything special in the words: \'93The snowstorm covers...\'94? I don\'92t understand!...\par \pard\plain  Luck, sheer luck!\'92 Riukhin concluded with venom, and felt the truck moving under him. \'91He shot him, that white guard shot him, smashed his hip, and assured his immortality...\'92\par \pard\plain  The column began to move. In no more than two minutes, the com- pletely ill and even aged poet was entering the veranda of Griboedov\'92s.  It was now empty.       In a corner some company was finishing its drinks,\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4A metal man: This is the poet Pushkin, whose statue stands in Strastnaya (re- named Pushkin) Square. \'91The snowstorm covers ...\'92 is the beginning of Pushkin\'92s much- anthologized poem \'91The Snowstorm\'92. The reference to \'91that white guard\'92 is anachronistic here. The White Guard opposed the Bolsheviks (\'91Reds\'92) during the Russian civil war in the early twenties.\par \pard\plain  Pushkin was fatally wounded in the stomach during a duel with Baron Georges D\'92Anthes, an Alsatian who served in the Russian Imperial Horse Guard. Under the Soviet regime the term \'91white guard\'92 was a pejorative accusation, which was levelled against Bulgakov himself after the publication of his novel, The White Guard, and the production of his play, Days of the Turbins, based on the novel. In having Riukhin talk with Pushkin\'92s statue, Bulgakov parodies the \'91revolutionary\'92 poet Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893\'961930), whose poem Yubileinoe was written in 1924 on the occasion of the 125th anniversary of Pushkin\'92s birth.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  and in the middle the familiar master of ceremonies was bustling about, wearing a skullcap, with a glass of Abrau wine in his hand.\par \pard\plain  Riukhin, laden with napkins, was met affably by Archibald Archibal- dovich and at once relieved of the cursed rags. Had Riukhin not become so worn out in the clinic and on the truck, he would certainly have derived pleasure from telling how everything had gone in the hospital and embel- lishing the story with invented details. But just then he was far from such things, and, little observant though Riukhin was, now, after the torture on the truck, he peered keenly at the pirate for the first time and realized that, though the man asked about Homeless and even exclaimed \'91Ai-yai-yai!\'92, he was essentially quite indifferent to Homeless\'92s fate and did not feel a bit sorry for him.\par \pard\plain  \'91And bravo! Right you are!\'92 Riukhin thought with cynical, self-annihi- lating malice and, breaking off the story about the schizophrenia, begged: \'91Archibald Archibaldovich, a drop of vodka...\'92 The pirate made a com-\par \pard\plain  passionate face and whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'91I understand... this very minute...\'92 and beckoned to a waiter. A quarter of an hour later, Riukhin sat in complete solitude, hunched over his bream, drinking glass after glass, understanding and recognizing that it was no longer possible to set anything right in his life, that it was only possible to forget.\par \pard\plain  The poet had wasted his night while others were feasting and now un- derstood that it was impossible to get it back. One needed only to raise one\'92s head from the lamp to the sky to understand that the night was ir- retrievably lost. Waiters were hurriedly tearing the tablecloths from the tables. The cats slinking around the veranda had a morning look. Day irresistibly heaved itself upon the poet.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 7\par \pard\plain  A Naughty Apartment\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  If Styopa Likhodeev had been told the next morning: \'91Styopa! You\'92ll be shot if you don\'92t get up this minute!\'92 - Styopa would have replied in a languid, barely audible voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91Shoot me, do what you like with me, I won\'92t get up.\'92\par \pard\plain  Not only not get up, it seemed to him that he could not open his eyes, because if he were to do so, there would be a flash of lightning, and his head would at once be blown to pieces. A heavy bell was booming in that head, brown spots rimmed with fiery green floated between his eyeballs and his closed eyelids, and to crown it all he was nauseous, this nausea, as it seemed to him, being connected with the sounds of some importunate gramophone.\par \pard\plain  Styopa tried to recall something, but only one thing would get recalled\par \pard\plain  - that yesterday, apparently, and in some unknown place, he had stood with a napkin in his hand and tried to kiss some lady, promising her that the next day, and exactly at noon, he would come to visit her. The lady had declined, saying: \'91No, no, I won\'92t be home!\'92, but Styopa had stubbornly insisted: \'91And I\'92ll just up and come anyway!\'92\par \pard\plain  Who the lady was, and what time it was now, what day, of what month, Styopa decidedly did not know, and, worst of all, he could not figure out where he was. He attempted to learn this last at least, and to that end unstuck the stuck-together lids of his left eye. Something gleamed dully in the semi-darkness. Styopa finally recognized the pier-glass and realized that he was lying on his back in his own bed - that is, the jeweller\'92s wife\'92s former bed - in the bedroom. Here he felt such a throbbing in his head that he closed his eyes and moaned.\par \pard\plain  Let us explain: Styopa Likhodeev, director of the Variety Theatre, had come to his senses that morning at home, in the very apartment which he shared with the late Berlioz, in a big, six-storeyed, U-shaped building  on\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  87\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Sadovaya Street.\par \pard\plain  It must be said that this apartment - no.50 - had long had, if not a bad, at least a strange reputation. Two years ago it had still belonged to the widow of the jeweller de Fougeray. Anna Frantsevna de Fougeray, a respectable and very practical fifty-year-old woman, let out three of the five rooms to lodgers: one whose last name was apparently Belomut, and another with a lost last name.\par \pard\plain  And then two years ago inexplicable events began to occur in this apartment: people began to disappear 1 from this apartment without a trace.\par \pard\plain  Once, on a day off, a policeman came to the apartment, called the sec- ond lodger (the one whose last name got lost) out to the front hall, and said he was invited to come to the police station for a minute to put his signa- ture to something. The lodger told Anfisa, Anna Frantsevna\'92s long-time and devoted housekeeper, to say, in case he received any telephone calls, that he would be back in ten minutes, and left together with the proper, white-gloved policeman. He not only did not come back in ten minutes, but never came back at all. The most surprising thing was that the police- man evidently vanished along with him.\par \pard\plain  The pious, or, to speak more frankly, superstitious Anfisa declared out- right to the very upset Anna Frantsevna that it was sorcery and that she knew perfectly well who had stolen both the lodger and the policeman, only she did not wish to talk about it towards night-time.\par \pard\plain  Well, but with sorcery, as everyone knows, once it starts, there\'92s no stopping it. The second lodger is remembered to have disappeared on a Monday, and that Wednesday Belomut seemed to drop from sight, though, true, under different circumstances. In the morning a car came, as usual, to take him to work, and it did take him to work, but it did not bring anyone back or come again itself.\par \pard\plain  Madame Belomut\'92s grief and horror defied description. But, alas, nei- ther the one nor the other continued for long. That same night, on re- turning with Anfisa from her dacha, which Anna Frantsevna had hurried off to for some reason, she did not find the wife of citizen Belomut in the apartment. And not only that: the doors of the two rooms occupied by the Belomut couple turned out to be sealed.\par \pard\plain  Two days passed somehow.  On the third day, Anna Frantsevna,  who\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1... people began to disappear: Here, as throughout The Master and Margarita, Bul- gakov treats the everyday Soviet phenomenon of \'91disappearances\'92 (arrests) and other ac- tivities of the secret police in the most vague, impersonal and hushed manner. The main example is the arrest of the master himself in Chapter 13, which passes almost without mention.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  had suffered all the while from insomnia, again left hurriedly for her dacha... Needless to say, she never came back!\par \pard\plain  Left alone, Anfisa, having wept her fill, went to sleep past one o\'92clock in the morning. What happened to her after that is not known, but lodgers in other apartments told of hearing some sort of knocking all night in no.50 and of seeing electric light burning in the windows till morning.\par \pard\plain  In the morning it turned out that there was also no Anfisa!\par \pard\plain  For a long time all sorts of legends were repeated in the house about these disappearances and about the accursed apartment, such as, for in- stance, \'91that this dry and pious little Anfisa had supposedly carried on her dried-up breast, in a suede bag, twenty-five big diamonds belonging to Anna Frantsevna. That in the woodshed of that very dacha to which Anna Frantsevna had gone so hurriedly, there supposedly turned up, of them- selves, some inestimable treasures in the form of those same diamonds, plus some gold coins of tsarist minting... And so on, in the same vein. Well, what we don\'92t know, we can\'92t vouch for.\par \pard\plain  However it may have been, the apartment stood empty and sealed for only a week. Then the late Berlioz moved in with his wife, and this same Styopa, also with his wife. It was perfectly natural that, as soon as they got into the malignant apartment, devil knows what started happening with them as well! Namely, within the space of a month both wives vanished. But these two not without a trace. Of Berlioz\'92s wife it was told that she had supposedly been seen in Kharkov with some ballet-master, while Styopa\'92s wife allegedly turned up on Bozhedomka Street, where wagging tongues said the director of the Variety, using his innumerable acquaintances, had contrived to get her a room, but on the one condition that she never show her face on Sadovaya...\par \pard\plain  And so, Styopa moaned. He wanted to call the housekeeper Grunya and ask her for aspirin, but was still able to realize that it was foolish, and that Grunya, of course, had no aspirin. He tried to call Berlioz for help, groaned twice: \'91Misha... Misha...\'92, but, as you will understand, received no reply. The apartment was perfectly silent.\par \pard\plain  Moving his toes, Styopa realized that he was lying there in his socks, passed his trembling hand down his hip to determine whether he had his trousers on or not, but failed. Finally, seeing that he was abandoned and alone, and there was no one to help him, he decided to get up, however inhuman the effort it cost him.\par \pard\plain  Styopa unstuck his glued eyelids and saw himself reflected in the pier- glass as a man with hair sticking out in all directions, with a bloated phys- iognomy covered with black stubble, with puffy eyes, a dirty shirt, collar and necktie, in drawers and socks.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  So he saw himself in the pier-glass, and next to the mirror he saw an unknown man, dressed in black and wearing a black beret.\par \pard\plain  Styopa sat up in bed and goggled his bloodshot eyes as well as he could at the unknown man. The silence was broken by this unknown man, who said in a low, heavy voice, and with a foreign accent, the following words:\par \pard\plain  \'91Good morning, my most sympathetic Stepan Bogdanovich!\'92\par \pard\plain  There was a pause, after which, making a most terrible strain on him- self, Styopa uttered:\par \pard\plain  \'91What can I do for you?\'92 - and was amazed, not recognizing his own voice. He spoke the word \'91what\'92 in a treble, \'91can I\'92 in a bass, and his \'91do for you\'92 did not come off at all.\par \pard\plain  The stranger smiled amicably, took out a big gold watch with a dia- mond triangle on the lid, rang eleven times, and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Eleven. And for exactly an hour I\'92ve been waiting for you to wake up, since you made an appointment for me to come to your place at ten. Here I am!\'92 2\par \pard\plain  Styopa felt for his trousers on the chair beside his bed, whispered: \'91Excuse me...\'92, put them on, and asked hoarsely:  \'91Tell me your  name,\par \pard\plain  please?\'92\par \pard\plain  He had difficulty speaking. At each word, someone stuck a needle into his brain, causing infernal pain.\par \pard\plain  \'91What! You\'92ve forgotten my name, too?\'92 Here the unknown man smiled.\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive me...\'92 Styopa croaked, feeling that his hangover had presented him with a new symptom: it seemed to him that the floor beside his bed went away, and that at any moment he would go flying down to the devil\'92s dam in the nether world.\par \pard\plain  \'91My dear Stepan Bogdanovich,\'92 the visitor said, with a perspicacious smile, \'91no aspirin will help you. Follow the wise old rule - cure like with like. The only thing that will bring you back to life is two glasses of vodka with something pickled and hot to go with it.\'92\par \pard\plain  Styopa was a shrewd man and, sick as he was, realized that since he had been found in this state, he would have to confess everything.\par \pard\plain  \'91Frankly speaking,\'92 he began, his tongue barely moving, \'91yesterday I got a bit...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Not a word more!\'92 the visitor answered and drew aside with his chair. Styopa, rolling his eyes, saw that a tray had been set on a small table,\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2\'91Here I am\'92: Bulgakov quotes the exact words (in Russian translation) of Mephistophe- les\'92 first appearance to Faust in the opera Faust, by French composer Charles Gounod (1818\'9695).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  on which tray there were sliced white bread, pressed caviar in a little bowl, pickled mushrooms on a dish, something in a saucepan, and, fi- nally, vodka in a roomy decanter belonging to the jeweller\'92s wife. What struck Styopa especially was that the decanter was frosty with cold. This, however, was understandable: it was sitting in a bowl packed with ice. In short, the service was neat, efficient.\par \pard\plain  The stranger did not allow Styopa\'92s amazement to develop to a morbid degree, but deftly poured him half a glass of vodka.\par \pard\plain  \'91And you?\'92 Styopa squeaked. \'91With pleasure!\'92\par \pard\plain  His hand twitching, Styopa brought the glass to his lips, while the stranger swallowed the contents of his glass at one gulp. Chewing a lump of caviar, Styopa squeezed out of himself the words:\par \pard\plain  \'91And you... a bite of something?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Much obliged, but I never snack,\'92 the stranger replied and poured seconds. The saucepan was opened and found to contain frankfurters in tomato sauce.\par \pard\plain  And then the accursed green haze before his eyes dissolved, the words began to come out clearly, and, above all, Styopa remembered a thing or two. Namely, that it had taken place yesterday in Skhodnya, at the dacha of the sketch-writer Khustov, to which this same Khustov had taken Sty- opa in a taxi. There was even a memory of having hired this taxi by the Metropol, and there was also some actor, or not an actor... with a gramo- phone in a little suitcase. Yes, yes, yes, it was at the dacha! The dogs, he remembered, had howled from this gramophone. Only the lady Styopa had wanted to kiss remained unexplained... devil knows who she was... maybe she was in radio, maybe not...\par \pard\plain  The previous day was thus coming gradually into focus, but right now Styopa was much more interested in today\'92s day and, particularly, in the appearance in his bedroom of a stranger, and with hors d\'92oeuvres and vodka to boot. It would be nice to explain that!\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, I hope by now you\'92ve remembered my name?\'92 But Styopa only smiled bashfully and spread his arms.\par \pard\plain  \'91Really!  I get the feeling that you followed the vodka with port  wine!\par \pard\plain  Good heavens, it simply isn\'92t done!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg you to keep it between us,\'92 Styopa said fawningly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, of course, of course! But as for Khustov, needless to say, I can\'92t vouch for him.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So you know Khustov?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yesterday, in your office, I saw this individuum briefly, but it only takes a fleeting glance at his face to understand that he is a bastard, a\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  squabbler, a trimmer and a toady.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Perfectly true!\'92 thought Styopa, struck by such a true, precise and succinct definition of Khustov.\par \pard\plain  Yes, the previous day was piecing itself together, but, even so, anxiety would not take leave of the director of the Variety. The thing was that a huge black hole yawned in this previous day. Say what you will, Styopa simply had not seen this stranger in the beret in his office yesterday.\par \pard\plain  \'91Professor of black magic Woland,\'92 3 the visitor said weightily, seeing Styopa\'92s difficulty, and he recounted everything in order.\par \pard\plain  Yesterday afternoon he arrived in Moscow from abroad, went immedi- ately to Styopa, and offered his show to the Variety. Styopa telephoned the Moscow Regional Entertainment Commission and had the question ap- proved (Styopa turned pale and blinked), then signed a contract with Pro- fessor Woland for seven performances (Styopa opened his mouth), and ar- ranged that Woland should come the next morning at ten o\'92clock to work out the details...\par \pard\plain  And so Woland came. Having come, he was met by the housekeeper Grunya, who explained that she had just come herself, that she was not   a live-in maid, that Berlioz was not home, and that if the visitor wished to see Stepan Bogdanovich, he should go to his bedroom himself. Stepan Bogdanovich was such a sound sleeper that she would not undertake to wake him up. Seeing what condition Stepan Bogdanovich was in, the artiste sent Grunya to the nearest grocery store for vodka and hors d\'92oeuv- res, to the druggist\'92s for ice, and...\par \pard\plain  \'91Allow me to reimburse you,\'92 the mortified Styopa squealed and began hunting for his wallet.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, what nonsense!\'92 the guest performer exclaimed and would hear no more of it.\par \pard\plain  And so, the vodka and hors d\'92oeuvres got explained, but all the same Styopa was a pity to see: he remembered decidedly nothing about the contract and, on his life, had not seen this Woland yesterday. Yes, Khustov had been there, but not Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91May I have a look at the contract?\'92 Styopa asked quietly. \'91Please do, please do...\'92\par \pard\plain  Styopa looked at the paper and froze. Everything was in place: first of all, Styopa\'92s own dashing signature... aslant the margin a note in the hand of the findirector 4 Rimsky authorizing the payment of ten thousand\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3Woland: A German name for Satan, which appears in several variants in the old Faust legends (Valand, Woland, Faland, Wieland). In his drama, Goethe once refers to the devil as \'91Junker Woland\'92.\par \pard\plain  4Findirector: Typical Soviet contraction for \'91financial director\'92.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  roubles to the artiste Woland, as an advance on the thirty-five thousand roubles due him for seven performances. What\'92s more, Woland\'92s signa- ture was right there attesting to his receipt of the ten thousand!\par \pard\plain  \'91What is all this?!\'92 the wretched Styopa thought, his head spinning. Was he starting to have ominous gaps of memory? Well, it went without saying, once the contract had been produced, any further expressions of surprise would simply be indecent. Styopa asked his visitor\'92s leave to absent himself for a moment and, just as he was, in his stocking feet, ran to the front hall for the telephone. On his way he called out in the direction of the kitchen:\par \pard\plain  \'91Grunya!\'92\par \pard\plain  But no one responded. He glanced at the door to Berlioz\'92s study, which was next to the front hall, and here he was, as they say, flabbergasted. On the door-handle he made out an enormous wax seal 5 on a string.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hel-lo!\'92 someone barked in Styopa\'92s head. \'91Just what we needed!\'92 And here Styopa\'92s thoughts began running on twin tracks, but, as always happens in times of catastrophe, in the same direction and, generally, devil knows where. It is even difficult to convey the porridge in Styopa\'92s head. Here was this devilry with the black beret, the chilled vodka, and the in- credible contract... And along with all that, if you please, a seal on the door as well! That is, tell anyone you like that Berlioz has been up to no good - no one will believe it, by Jove, no one will believe it! Yet look, there\'92s the seal! Yes, sir...\par \pard\plain  And here some most disagreeable little thoughts began stirring in Sty- opa\'92s brain, about the article which, as luck would have it, he had recently inflicted on Mikhail Alexandrovich for publication in his journal.\par \pard\plain  The article, just between us, was idiotic! And worthless. And the mo- ney was so little...\par \pard\plain  Immediately after the recollection of the article, there came flying a rec- ollection of some dubious conversation that had taken place, he recalled, on the twenty-fourth of April, in the evening, right there in the dining room, while Styopa was having dinner with Mikhail Alexandrovich. That is, of course, this conversation could not have been called dubious in the full sense of the word (Styopa would not have ventured upon such a con- versation), but it was on some unnecessary subject. He had been quite free, dear citizens, not to begin it. Before the seal, this conversation would undoubtedly have been considered a perfect trifle, but now, after the seal...\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5An enormous wax seal: Styopa immediately assumes that Berlioz has been arrested, hence his \'91disagreeable thoughts\'92 about whether he may have compromised himself with the editor and thus be in danger of arrest himself.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, Berlioz, Berlioz!\'92 boiled up in Styopa\'92s head. This is simply too much for one head!\'92\par \pard\plain  But it would not do to grieve too long, and Styopa dialled the num- ber of the office of the Variety\'92s findirector, Rimsky. Styopa\'92s position was ticklish: first, the foreigner might get offended that Styopa was checking on him after the contract had been shown, and then to talk with the find- irector was also exceedingly difficult. Indeed, he could not just ask him like that:\par \pard\plain  \'91Tell me, did I sign a contract for thirty-five thousand roubles yesterday with a professor of black magic?\'92 It was no good asking like that!\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes!\'92 Rimsky\'92s sharp, unpleasant voice came from the receiver. \'91Hello, Grigory Danilovich,\'92 Styopa began speaking quietly, \'91it\'92s Likho-\par \pard\plain  deev. There\'92s a certain matter... hm... hm... I have this... er... artiste Woland sitting here... So you see... I wanted to ask, how about this evening?...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah,  the black magician?\'92   Rimsky\'92s voice responded in the  receiver.\par \pard\plain  The posters will be ready shortly.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Uh-huh...\'92 Styopa said in a weak voice, \'91well, bye...\'92 \'91And you\'92ll be coming in soon?\'92 Rimsky asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91In half an hour,\'92 Styopa replied and, hanging up the receiver, pressed his hot head in his hands. Ah, what a nasty thing to have happen! What was wrong with his memory, citizens? Eh?\par \pard\plain  However, to go on lingering in the front hall was awkward, and Sty- opa formed a plan straight away: by all means to conceal his incredible forgetfulness, and now, first off, contrive to get out of the foreigner what, in fact, he intended to show that evening in the Variety, of which Styopa was in charge.\par \pard\plain  Here Styopa turned away from the telephone and saw distinctly in the mirror that stood in the front hall, and which the lazy Grunya had not wiped for ages, a certain strange specimen, long as a pole, and in a pince- nez (ah, if only Ivan Nikolaevich had been there! He would have recog- nized this specimen at once!). The figure was reflected and then disap- peared. Styopa looked further down the hall in alarm and was rocked a second time, for in the mirror a stalwart black cat passed and also disap- peared. \par \pard\plain  Styopa\'92s heart skipped a beat, he staggered.\par \pard\plain  \'91What is all this?\'92 he thought. \'91Am I losing my mind?  Where are  these reflections coming from?!\'92 He peeked into the front hall and cried timorously:\par \pard\plain  \'91Grunya! What\'92s this cat doing hanging around here?! Where did he come from? And the other one?!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t worry, Stepan Bogdanovich,\'92 a voice responded, not Grunya\'92s but the visitor\'92s, from the bedroom. \'91The cat is mine. Don\'92t be nervous. And Grunya is not here, I sent her off to Voronezh. She complained you diddled her out of a vacation.\'92\par \pard\plain  These words were so unexpected and preposterous that Styopa de- cided he had not heard right. Utterly bewildered, he trotted back to the bedroom and froze on the threshold. His hair stood on end and small beads of sweat broke out on his brow.\par \pard\plain  The visitor was no longer alone in the bedroom, but had company:  in\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the second armchair sat the same type he had imagined in the front hall. Now he was clearly visible: the feathery moustache, one lens of the pince- nez gleaming, the other not there. But worse things were to be found in the bedroom: on the jeweller\'92s wife\'92s ottoman, in a casual pose, sprawled a third party - namely, a black cat of uncanny size, with a glass of vodka in one paw and a fork, on which he had managed to spear a pickled mush- room, in the other.\par \pard\plain  The light, faint in the bedroom anyway, now began to grow quite dark in Styopa\'92s eyes. \'91This is apparently how one loses one\'92s mind...\'92 he thought and caught hold of the doorpost.\par \pard\plain  \'91I see you\'92re somewhat surprised, my dearest Stepan Bogdanovich?\'92 Woland inquired of the teeth-chattering Styopa. \'91And yet there\'92s noth-\par \pard\plain  ing to be surprised at. This is my retinue.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the cat tossed off the vodka, and Styopa\'92s hand began to slide down the doorpost.\par \pard\plain  \'91And this retinue requires room,\'92 Woland continued, \'91so there\'92s just one too many of us in the apartment. And it seems to us that this one too many is precisely you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Theirself, theirself!\'92 the long checkered one sang in a goat\'92s voice, referring to Styopa in the plural. \'91Generally, theirself has been up to some terrible swinishness lately. Drinking, using their position to have liaisons with women, don\'92t do devil a thing, and can\'92t do anything, because they don\'92t know anything of what they\'92re supposed to do. Pulling the wool over their superiors\'92 eyes.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Availing hisself of a government car!\'92 the cat snitched, chewing a mushroom.\par \pard\plain  And here occurred the fourth and last appearance in the apartment, as Styopa, having slid all the way to the floor, clawed at the doorpost with an enfeebled hand.\par \pard\plain  Straight from the pier-glass stepped a short but extraordinarily broad- shouldered man, with a bowler hat on his head and a fang sticking out  of his mouth, which made still uglier a physiognomy unprecedentedly loathsome without that. And with flaming red hair besides.\par \pard\plain  \'91Generally,\'92 this new one entered into the conversation, \'91I don\'92t under- stand how he got to be a director,\'92 the redhead\'92s nasal twang was growing stronger and stronger, \'91he\'92s as much a director as I\'92m a bishop.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You don\'92t look like a bishop, Azazello,\'92 6 the cat observed, heaping his\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  6Azazello: Bulgakov adds an Italian ending to the Hebrew name Azazel (\'91goat god\'92), to whom a goat (the scapegoat or \'91goat for Azazel\'92) bearing the sins of the people was sacrificed on Yom Kippur by being sent into the wilderness to die (Leviticus 16:7\'9610). In\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  plate with frankfurters.\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s what I mean,\'92 twanged the redhead and, turning to Woland, he added deferentially:\par \pard\plain  \'91Allow me, Messire, to chuck him the devil out of Moscow?\'92 \'91Scat!\'92 the cat barked suddenly, bristling his fur.\par \pard\plain  And then the bedroom started spinning around Styopa, he hit his head against the doorpost, and, losing consciousness, thought: \'91I\'92m dying...\'92\par \pard\plain  But he did not die. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw himself sitting on something made of stone. Around him something was making noise. When he opened his eyes properly, he realized that the noise was being made by the sea and, what\'92s more, that the waves were rocking just at his feet, that he was, in short, sitting at the very end of a jetty, that over him was a brilliant blue sky and behind him a white city on the mountains.\par \pard\plain  Not knowing how to behave in such a case, Styopa got up on his trem- bling legs and walked along the jetty towards the shore.\par \pard\plain  Some man was standing on the jetty, smoking and spitting into the sea. He looked at Styopa with wild eyes and stopped spitting.\par \pard\plain  Then Styopa pulled the following stunt: he knelt down before the un- known smoker and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91I implore you, tell me what city is this?\'92 \'91Really!\'92 said the heartless smoker.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m not drunk,\'92 Styopa replied hoarsely, \'91something\'92s happened to me... I\'92m ill... Where am I? What city is this?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, it\'92s Yalta...\'92\par \pard\plain  Styopa quietly gasped and sank down on his side, his head striking the warm stone of the jetty. Consciousness left him.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the Old Testament apocryphal Book of Enoch 8:1\'963, Azazel is the fallen angel who taught people to make weapons and jewelry. Thanks to Azazel women learned the \'91sinful art\'92 of painting their faces, so it is clear why he delivers later on in the book the cream which has the effect of making Margarita young again.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 8\par \pard\plain  The Combat between the Professor and the Poet\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  At the same time that consciousness left Styopa in Yalta, that is, around half past eleven in the morning, it returned to Ivan Nikolaevich Homeless, who woke up after a long and deep sleep. He spent some time pondering how it was that he had wound up in an unfamiliar room with white walls, with an astonishing night table made of some light metal, and with white blinds behind which one could sense the sun.\par \pard\plain  Ivan shook his head, ascertained that it did not ache, and remembered that he was in a clinic. This thought drew after it the remembrance of Berlioz\'92s death, but today it did not provoke a strong shock in Ivan. Hav- ing had a good sleep, Ivan Nikolaevich became calmer and began to think more clearly. After lying motionless for some time in this most clean, soft and comfortable spring bed, Ivan noticed a bell button beside him. From a habit of touching things needlessly, Ivan pressed it. He expected the press- ing of the button to be followed by some ringing or appearance, but some- thing entirely different happened. A frosted glass cylinder with the word \'91Drink\'92 on it lit up at the foot of Ivan\'92s bed. After pausing for a while, the cylinder began to rotate until the word \'91Nurse\'92 popped out. It goes with- out saying that the clever cylinder amazed Ivan. The word \'91Nurse\'92 was replaced by the words \'91Call the Doctor.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Hm...\'92 said Ivan, not knowing how to proceed further with this cylin- der. But here he happened to be lucky.  Ivan pressed the button a sec-  ond time at the word \'91Attendant\'92. The cylinder rang quietly in response, stopped, the light went out, and a plump, sympathetic woman in a clean white coat came into the room and said to Ivan:\par \pard\plain  \'91Good morning!\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan did not reply, considering such a greeting inappropriate under the\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  98\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  circumstances. Indeed, they lock up a healthy man in a clinic, and pretend that that is how it ought to be!\par \pard\plain  The woman meanwhile, without losing her good-natured expression, brought the blinds up with one push of a button, and sun flooded the room through a light and wide-meshed grille which reached right to the floor.\par \pard\plain  Beyond the grille a balcony came into view, beyond that the bank of a meandering river, and on its other bank a cheerful pine wood.\par \pard\plain  \'91Time for our bath,\'92 the woman invited, and under her hands the in- ner wall parted, revealing behind it a bathroom and splendidly equipped toilet.\par \pard\plain  Ivan, though he had resolved not to talk to the woman, could not help himself and, on seeing the water gush into the tub in a wide stream from the gleaming faucet, said ironically:\par \pard\plain  \'91Looky there! Just like the Metropol!...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no,\'92 the woman answered proudly, \'91much better. There is no such equipment even anywhere abroad. Scientists and doctors come especially to study our clinic. We have foreign tourists every day.\'92\par \pard\plain  At the words \'91foreign tourists\'92, Ivan at once remembered yesterday\'92s consultant. Ivan darkened, looked sullen, and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Foreign tourists... How you all adore foreign tourists! But among them, incidentally, you come across all sorts. I, for instance, met one yes- terday - quite something!\'92\par \pard\plain  And he almost started telling about Pontius Pilate, but restrained him- self, realizing that the woman had no use for these stories, that in any case she could not help him.\par \pard\plain  The washed Ivan Nikolaevich was straight away issued decidedly ev- erything a man needs after a bath: an ironed shirt, drawers, socks. And not only that: opening the door of a cupboard, the woman pointed inside and asked:\par \pard\plain  \'91What would you like to put on - a dressing gown or some nice pyja- mas?\'92\par \pard\plain  Attached to his new dwelling by force, Ivan almost clasped his hands at the woman\'92s casualness and silently pointed his finger at the crimson flannel pyjamas.\par \pard\plain  After this, Ivan Nikolaevich was led down the empty and noiseless corridor and brought to an examining room of huge dimensions. Ivan, having decided to take an ironic attitude towards everything to be found in this wondrously equipped building, at once mentally christened this room the \'91industrial kitchen\'92.\par \pard\plain  And with good reason. Here stood cabinets and glass cases with gleam- ing nickel-plated instruments.  There were chairs of extraordinarily com-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  plex construction, some pot-bellied lamps with shiny shades, a myriad of phials, Bunsen burners, electric cords and appliances quite unknown to anyone.\par \pard\plain  In the examining room Ivan was taken over by three persons - two women and a man - all in white. First, they led Ivan to a corner, to a little table, with the obvious purpose of getting something or other out of him. Ivan began to ponder the situation. Three ways stood before him. The first was extremely tempting: to hurl himself at all these lamps and so- phisticated little things, make the devil\'92s own wreck of them, and thereby express his protest at being detained for nothing. But today\'92s Ivan already differed significantly from the Ivan of yesterday, and this first way ap- peared dubious to him:    for all he knew,  the thought might get rooted in them that he was a violent madman. Therefore Ivan rejected the first way. There was a second: immediately to begin his account of the consul- tant and Pontius Pilate. However, yesterday\'92s experience showed that this story either was not believed or was taken somehow perversely. Therefore Ivan renounced this second way as well, deciding to choose the third way\par \pard\plain  - withdrawal into proud silence.\par \pard\plain  He did not succeed in realizing it fully, and had willy-nilly to answer, though charily and glumly, a whole series of questions. Thus they got  out of Ivan decidedly everything about his past life, down to when and how he had fallen ill with scarlet fever fifteen years ago. A whole page having been covered with writing about Ivan, it was turned over, and the woman in white went on to questions about Ivan\'92s relatives. Some sort of humdrum started: who died when and why, and whether he drank or had venereal disease, and more of the same. In conclusion he was asked to tell about yesterday\'92s events at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds, but they did not pester him too much, and were not surprised at the information about Pontius Pilate.\par \pard\plain  Here the woman yielded Ivan up to the man, who went to work on him differently and no longer asked any questions. He took the temperature of Ivan\'92s body, counted his pulse, looked in Ivan\'92s eyes, directing some sort of lamp into them. Then the second woman came to the man\'92s assistance, and they pricked Ivan in the back with something, but not painfully, drew some signs on the skin of his chest with the handle of a little hammer, tapped his knees with the hammer, which made Ivan\'92s legs jump, pricked his finger and took his blood, pricked him inside his bent elbow, put some rubber bracelets on his arms...\par \pard\plain  Ivan just smiled bitterly to himself and reflected on how stupidly and strangely it had all happened. Just think! He had wanted to warn them all of the danger threatening from the unknown consultant, had intended\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  to catch him, and all he had achieved was to wind up in some mysteri- ous room, telling all sorts of hogwash about Uncle Fyodor, who had done some hard drinking in Vologda. Insufferably stupid!\par \pard\plain  Finally Ivan was released. He was escorted back to his room, where  he was given a cup of coffee, two soft-boiled eggs and white bread with butter.\par \pard\plain  Having eaten and drunk all that was offered him, Ivan decided to wait for whoever was chief of this institution, and from this chief to obtain both attention for himself and justice.\par \pard\plain  And he did come, and very soon after Ivan\'92s breakfast. Unexpectedly, the door of Ivan\'92s room opened, and in came a lot of people in white coats.\par \pard\plain  At their head walked a man of about forty-five,  as carefully shaven  as an actor, with pleasant but quite piercing eyes and courteous manners. The whole retinue showed him tokens of attention and respect, and his entrance therefore came out very solemn. \'91Like Pontius Pilate!\'92 thought Ivan. Yes, this was unquestionably the chief. He sat down on a stool, while everyone else remained standing.\par \pard\plain  \'91Doctor Stravinsky,\'92 the seated man introduced himself to Ivan and gave him a friendly look.\par \pard\plain  \'91Here, Alexander Nikolaevich,\'92 someone with a trim beard said in a low voice, and handed the chief Ivan\'92s chart, all covered with writing.\par \pard\plain  \'91They\'92ve sewn up a whole case!\'92 Ivan thought. And the chief ran through the chart with a practised eye, muttered \'91Mm-hm, mm-hm...\'92, and exchanged a few phrases with those around him in a little-known language. \'91And he speaks Latin like Pilate,\'92 Ivan thought sadly. Here one word made him jump; it was the word \'91schizophrenia\'92 - alas, already ut- tered yesterday by the cursed foreigner at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds, and now repeated today by Professor Stravinsky. \'91And he knew that, too!\'92 Ivan thought anxiously.\par \pard\plain  The chief apparently made it a rule to agree with and rejoice over ev- erything said to him by those around him, and to express this with the words \'91Very nice, very nice...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Very nice!\'92 said Stravinsky, handing the chart back to someone, and he addressed Ivan:\par \pard\plain  \'91You are a poet?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A poet,\'92 Ivan replied glumly, and for the first time suddenly felt some inexplicable loathing for poetry, and his own verses, coming to mind at once, seemed to him for some reason distasteful.\par \pard\plain  Wrinkling his face, he asked Stravinsky in turn: \'91You are a professor?\'92\par \pard\plain  To this, Stravinsky, with obliging courtesy, inclined his head.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91And you\'92re the chief here?\'92 Ivan continued. Stravinsky nodded to this as well.\par \pard\plain  \'91I must speak with you,\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich said meaningly. \'91That is what I\'92m here for,\'92 returned Stravinsky.\par \pard\plain  \'91The thing is,\'92 Ivan began, feeling his hour had come, \'91that I\'92ve been got up as a madman, and nobody wants to listen to me!...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no, we shall hear you out with great attention,\'92 Stravinsky said seriously and soothingly, \'91and by no means allow you to be got up as a madman.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Listen, then: yesterday evening I met a mysterious person at the Patri- arch\'92s Ponds, maybe a foreigner, maybe not, who knew beforehand about Berlioz\'92s death and has seen Pontius Pilate in person.\'92\par \pard\plain  The retinue listened to the poet silently and without stirring.\par \pard\plain  \'91Pilate? The Pilate who lived in the time of Jesus Christ?\'92 Stravinsky asked, narrowing his eyes at Ivan.\par \pard\plain  \'91The same.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha,\'92 said Stravinsky, \'91and this Berlioz died under a tram-car?\'92 \'91Precisely, he\'92s the one who in my presence was killed by a tram-car\par \pard\plain  yesterday at the Ponds, and this same mysterious citizen...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The acquaintance of Pontius Pilate?\'92 asked Stravinsky, apparently dis- tinguished by great mental alacrity.\par \pard\plain  \'91Precisely him,\'92 Ivan confirmed, studying Stravinsky. \'91Well, so he said beforehand that Annushka had spilled the sunflower oil... And he slipped right on that place! How do you like that?\'92 Ivan inquired significantly, hoping to produce a great effect with his words.\par \pard\plain  But the effect did not ensue, and Stravinsky quite simply asked the following question:\par \pard\plain  \'91And who is this Annushka?\'92\par \pard\plain  This question upset Ivan a little; his face twitched.\par \pard\plain  \'91Annushka is of absolutely no importance here,\'92 he said nervously. \'91Devil knows who she is. Just some fool from Sadovaya. What\'92s important is that he knew beforehand, you see, beforehand, about the sunflower oil! Do you understand me?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Perfectly,\'92 Stravinsky replied seriously and, touching the poet\'92s knee, added: \'91Don\'92t get excited, just continue.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91To continue,\'92 said Ivan, trying to fall in with Stravinsky\'92s tone, and knowing already from bitter experience that only calm would help him, \'91so, then, this horrible type (and he\'92s lying that he\'92s a consultant) has some extraordinary power!... For instance, you chase after him and it\'92s impos- sible to catch up with him... And there\'92s also a little pair with him -  good\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ones, too, but in their own way: some long one in broken glasses and, be- sides him, a cat of incredible size who rides the tram all by himself. And besides,\'92 interrupted by no one, Ivan went on talking with ever increas- ing ardour and conviction, \'91he was personally on Pontius Pilate\'92s balcony, there\'92s no doubt of it. So what is all this, eh? He must be arrested imme- diately, otherwise he\'92ll do untold harm.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So you\'92re trying to get him arrested? Have I understood you cor- rectly?\'92 asked Stravinsky.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s intelligent,\'92 thought Ivan. \'91You\'92ve got to admit, even among in- tellectuals you come across some of rare intelligence, there\'92s no denying it,\'92 and he replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91Quite correctly! And how could I not be trying, just consider for your- self! And meanwhile I\'92ve been forcibly detained here, they poke lamps into my eyes, give me baths, question me for some reason about my Uncle Fedya!... And he departed this world long ago! I demand to be released immediately!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, there, very nice, very nice!\'92 Stravinsky responded. \'91Now every- thing\'92s clear. Really, what\'92s the sense of keeping a healthy man in a clinic? Very well, sir, I\'92ll check you out of here right now, if you tell me you\'92re normal. Not prove, but merely tell. So, then, are you normal?\'92\par \pard\plain  Here complete silence fell, and the fat woman who had taken care of Ivan in the morning looked at the professor with awe. Ivan thought once again: \'91Positively intelligent!\'92\par \pard\plain  The professor\'92s offer pleased him very much, yet before replying he thought very, very hard, wrinkling his forehead, and at last said firmly:\par \pard\plain  \'91I am normal.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, how very nice,\'92 Stravinsky exclaimed with relief, \'91and if so, let\'92s reason logically. Let\'92s take your day yesterday.\'92 Here he turned and Ivan\'92s chart was immediately handed to him. \'91In search of an unknown man who recommended himself as an acquaintance of Pontius Pilate, you per- formed the following actions yesterday.\'92 Here Stravinsky began holding up his long fingers, glancing now at the chart, now at Ivan. \'91You hung a little icon on your chest. Did you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I did,\'92 Ivan agreed sullenly.\par \pard\plain  \'91You fell off a fence and hurt your face. Right? Showed up in a restau- rant carrying a burning candle in your hand, in nothing but your under- wear, and in the restaurant you beat somebody. You were brought here tied up. Having come here, you called the police and asked them to send out machine-guns. Then you attempted to throw yourself out the window. Right?\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The question is: can one, by acting in such fashion, catch or arrest any- one?\par \pard\plain  And if you\'92re a normal man, you yourself will answer: by no means. You wish to leave here? Very well, sir. But allow me to ask, where are you going to go?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91To the police, of course,\'92 Ivan replied, no longer so firmly, and some- what at a loss under the professor\'92s gaze.\par \pard\plain  \'91Straight from here?\'92 \'91Mm-hm...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Without stopping at your place?\'92 Stravinsky asked quickly.\par \pard\plain  \'91I have no time to stop anywhere! While I\'92m stopping at places, he\'92ll slip away!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So. And what will you tell the police to start with?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91About Pontius Pilate,\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich replied, and his eyes clouded with a gloomy mist.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, how very nice!\'92 the won-over Stravinsky exclaimed and, turning to the one with the little beard, ordered: \'91Fyodor Vassilyevich, please check citizen Homeless out for town. But don\'92t put anyone in his room or change the linen. In two hours citizen Homeless will be back here. So, then,\'92 he turned to the poet, \'91I won\'92t wish you success, because I don\'92t believe one iota in that success. See you soon!\'92 He stood up, and his retinue stirred.\par \pard\plain  \'91On what grounds will I be back here?\'92 Ivan asked anxiously. Stravinsky was as if waiting for this question, immediately sat  down,\par \pard\plain  and began to speak:\par \pard\plain  \'91On the grounds that as soon as you show up at the police station in your drawers and tell them you\'92ve seen a man who knew Pontius Pilate personally, you\'92ll instantly be brought here, and you\'92ll find yourself again in this very same room.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What have drawers got to do with it?\'92 Ivan asked, gazing around in bewilderment.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s mainly Pontius Pilate. But the drawers, too. Because we\'92ll take the clinic underwear from you and give you back your clothes. And you were delivered here in your drawers. And yet you were by no means going to stop at your place, though I dropped you a hint. Then comes Pilate... and that\'92s it.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here something strange happened with Ivan Nikolaevich. His will seemed to crack, and he felt himself weak, in need of advice.\par \pard\plain  \'91What am I to do, then?\'92 he asked, timidly this time.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, how very nice!\'92 Stravinsky replied. \'91A most reasonable question. Now I am going to tell you what actually happened to you. Yesterday someone frightened you badly and upset you with a story about  Pontius\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Pilate and other things. And so you, a very nervous and high-strung man, started going around the city, telling about Pontius Pilate. It\'92s quite natural that you\'92re taken for a madman. Your salvation now lies in just one thing\par \pard\plain  - complete peace. And you absolutely must remain here.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But he has to be caught!\'92 Ivan exclaimed, imploringly now.\par \pard\plain  \'91Very good, sir, but why should you go running around yourself? Ex- plain all your suspicions and accusations against this man on paper. Noth- ing could be simpler than to send your declaration to the proper quarters, and if, as you think, we are dealing with a criminal, it will be clarified very quickly. But only on one condition: don\'92t strain your head, and try to think less about Pontius Pilate. People say all kinds of things! One mustn\'92t believe everything.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Understood!\'92 Ivan declared resolutely. \'91I ask to be given pen and pa- per.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Give him paper and a short pencil,\'92 Stravinsky ordered the fat woman, and to Ivan he said: \'91But I don\'92t advise you to write today.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no, today, today without fail!\'92 Ivan cried out in alarm.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, all right. Only don\'92t strain your head. If it doesn\'92t come out today, it will tomorrow.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92ll escape.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no,\'92 Stravinsky objected confidently, \'91he won\'92t escape anywhere, I guarantee that. And remember that here with us you\'92ll be helped in all possible ways, and without us nothing will come of it. Do you hear me?\'92 Stravinsky suddenly asked meaningly and took Ivan Nikolaevich by both hands.\par \pard\plain  Holding them in his own, he repeated for a long time, his eyes fixed on Ivan\'92s:\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92ll be helped here... do you hear me?... You\'92ll be helped here... you\'92ll get relief... it\'92s quiet here, all peaceful... you\'92ll be helped here...\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan Nikolaevich unexpectedly yawned, and the expression on his face softened.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, yes,\'92 he said quietly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, how very nice!\'92 Stravinsky concluded the conversation in his usual way and stood up: \'91Goodbye!\'92 He shook Ivan\'92s hand and, on his way out, turned to the one with the little beard and said: \'91Yes, and try oxygen... and baths.\'92\par \pard\plain  A few moments later there was no Stravinsky or his retinue before Ivan.\par \pard\plain  Beyond the window grille, in the noonday sun, the joyful and spring- time pine wood stood beautiful on the other bank and, closer by, the river sparkled.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 9 Koroviev\'92s Stunts\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the tenants\'92 association 1 of no.302- bis on Sadovaya Street in Moscow, where the late Berlioz used to reside, had been having the most terrible troubles, starting from that Wednesday night.\par \pard\plain  At midnight, as we already know, a commission of which Zheldybin formed a part came to the house, summoned Nikanor Ivanovich, told him about the death of Berlioz, and together with him went to apartment no.50. There the sealing of the deceased\'92s manuscripts and belongings was carried out. Neither Grunya, the daytime housekeeper, nor the light-mind- ed Stepan Bogdanovich was there at the time. The commission announced to Nikanor Ivanovich that it would take the deceased\'92s manuscripts for sorting out, that his living space, that is, three rooms (the former study, living room and dining room of the jeweller\'92s wife), reverted to the dis- posal of the tenants\'92 association, and that the belongings were to be  kept\par \pard\plain  in the aforementioned living space until the heirs were announced.\par \pard\plain  The news of Berlioz\'92s death spread through the whole house with a sort of supernatural speed, and as of seven o\'92clock Thursday morning, Bosoy began to receive telephone calls and then personal visits with dec- larations containing claims to the deceased\'92s living space. In the period of two hours, Nikanor Ivanovich received thirty-two such declarations.\par \pard\plain  They contained pleas, threats, libels, denunciations, promises to do renovations at their own expense, references to unbearable overcrowd- ing and the impossibility of living in the same apartment with bandits.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Chairman of the tenants\'92 association: This quasi-official position gave its occupant enormous power, considering the permanent shortage of living space, which led to all sorts of crookedness and bribe-taking. Bulgakov portrays knavish house chairmen in several works, having suffered a good deal from them in his search for quarters during the twenties and thirties. This chairman\'92s name, Bosoy, means \'91Barefoot\'92.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  106\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Among others there were a description, staggering in its artistic power, of the theft from apartment no. 51 of some meat dumplings, tucked directly into the pocket of a suit jacket, two vows to end life by suicide and one confession of secret pregnancy.\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich was called out to the front hall of his apartment, plucked by the sleeve, whispered to, winked at, promised that he would not be left the loser.\par \pard\plain  This torture went on until noon, when Nikanor Ivanovich simply fled his apartment for the management office by the gate, but when he saw them lying in wait for him there, too, he fled that place as well. Having somehow shaken off those who followed on his heels across the asphalt- paved courtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich disappeared into the sixth entrance and went up to the fifth floor, where this vile apartment no.50 was located. After catching his breath on the landing, the corpulent Nikanor Iva- novich rang, but no one opened for him. He rang again, and then again, and started grumbling and swearing quietly. Even then no one opened. His patience exhausted, Nikanor Ivanovich took from his pocket a bunch of duplicate keys belonging to the house management, opened the   door\par \pard\plain  with a sovereign hand, and went in.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hey, housekeeper!\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich cried in the semi-dark front hall. \'91Grunya, or whatever your name is! ... Are you here?\'92\par \pard\plain  No one responded.\par \pard\plain  Then Nikanor Ivanovich took a folding ruler from his briefcase, re- moved the seal from the door to the study, and stepped in. Stepped in, yes, but halted in amazement in the doorway and even gave a start.\par \pard\plain  At the deceased\'92s desk sat an unknown, skinny, long citizen in a little checkered jacket, a jockey\'92s cap, and a pince-nez... well, in short, that same one.\par \pard\plain  \'91And who might you be, citizen?\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich asked fearfully. \'91Hah!  Nikanor Ivanovich!\'92  the unexpected citizen yelled in a rattling\par \pard\plain  tenor and, jumping up, greeted the chairman with a forced and sudden handshake. This greeting by no means gladdened Nikanor Ivanovich.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me,\'92 he said suspiciously, \'91but who might you be? Are you an official person?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Eh, Nikanor Ivanovich!\'92 the unknown man exclaimed soulfully. \'91What are official and unofficial persons? It all depends on your point of view on the subject. It\'92s all fluctuating and relative, Nikanor Ivanovich.  Today  I\'92m an unofficial person, and tomorrow, lo and behold, I\'92m an official one! And it also happens the other way round - oh, how it does!\'92\par \pard\plain  This argument in no way satisfied the chairman of the house manage- ment.  Being a generally suspicious person by nature, he concluded   that\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the man holding forth in front of him was precisely an unofficial person, and perhaps even an idle one.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, but who might you be? What\'92s your name?\'92 the chairman in- quired with increasing severity and even began to advance upon the un- known man.\par \pard\plain  \'91My name,\'92 the citizen responded, not a bit put out by the severity, \'91well, let\'92s say it\'92s Koroviev. But wouldn\'92t you like a little snack, Nikanor Ivanovich? No formalities, eh?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me,\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich began, indignantly now, \'91what have snacks got to do with it!\'92 (We must confess, unpleasant as it is, that Nikanor Ivanovich was of a somewhat rude nature.) \'91Sitting in the deceased\'92s half is not permitted! What are you doing here?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Have a seat, Nikanor Ivanovich,\'92 the citizen went on yelling, not a bit at a loss, and began fussing about offering the chairman a seat.\par \pard\plain  Utterly infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich rejected the seat and screamed: \'91But who are you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I, if you please, serve as interpreter for a foreign individual who has taken up residence in this apartment,\'92 the man calling himself Koroviev introduced himself and clicked the heels of his scuffed, unpolished shoes.\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich opened his mouth. The presence of some foreigner in this apartment, with an interpreter to boot, came as a complete surprise to him, and he demanded explanations.\par \pard\plain  The interpreter explained willingly. A foreign artiste, Mr Woland, had been kindly invited by the director of the Variety, Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev, to spend the time of his performances, a week or so, in his apartment, about which he had written to Nikanor Ivanovich yesterday, requesting that he register the foreigner as a temporary resident, while Likhodeev himself took a trip to Yalta.\par \pard\plain  \'91He never wrote me anything,\'92 the chairman said in amazement.\par \pard\plain  \'91Just look through your briefcase, Nikanor Ivanovich,\'92 Koroviev sug- gested sweetly.\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich, shrugging his shoulders, opened the briefcase and found Likhodeev\'92s letter in it.\par \pard\plain  \'91How could I have forgotten about it?\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich muttered, looking dully at the opened envelope.\par \pard\plain  \'91All sorts of things happen, Nikanor Ivanovich, all sorts!\'92 Koroviev rattled. \'91Absent-mindedness, absent-mindedness, fatigue and high blood pressure, my dear friend Nikanor Ivanovich! I\'92m terribly absent-minded myself! Someday, over a glass, I\'92ll tell you a few facts from my biography\par \pard\plain  - you\'92ll die laughing!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And when is Likhodeev going to Yalta?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s already gone, gone!\'92 the interpreter cried. \'91He\'92s already wheel- ing along, you know! He\'92s already devil knows where!\'92 And here the interpreter waved his arms like the wings of a windmill.\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich declared that he must see the foreigner in person, but got a refusal on that from the interpreter \'96 quite impossible. He\'92s busy. Training the cat.\par \pard\plain  \'91The cat I can show you, if you like,\'92 Koroviev offered.\par \pard\plain  This Nikanor Ivanovich refused in his turn, and the interpreter straight away made the chairman an unexpected but quite interesting proposal: seeing that Mr Woland had no desire whatsoever to live in a hotel, and was accustomed to having a lot of space, why shouldn\'92t the tenants\'92 associa- tion rent to him, Woland, for one little week, the time of his performances in Moscow, the whole of the apartment, that is, the deceased\'92s rooms as well?\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s all the same to him - the deceased - you must agree, Nikanor Ivanovich,\'92 Koroviev whispered hoarsely. \'91He doesn\'92t need the apartment now, does he?\'92\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich, somewhat perplexed, objected that foreigners ought to live at the Metropol, and not in private apartments at all...\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m telling you, he\'92s capricious as devil knows what!\'92 Koroviev whis- pered. \'91He just doesn\'92t want to! He doesn\'92t like hotels! I\'92ve had them up to here, these foreign tourists!\'92 Koroviev complained confidentially, jabbing his finger at his sinewy neck. \'91Believe me, they wring the soul right out of you! They come and either spy on you like the lowest son of a bitch, or else torment you with their caprices - this isn\'92t right and that isn\'92t right!... And for your association, Nikanor Ivanovich, it\'92s a sheer gain and an ob- vious profit. He won\'92t stint on money.\'92 Koroviev looked around and then whispered into the chairman\'92s ear: \'91A millionaire!\'92\par \pard\plain  The interpreter\'92s offer made clear practical sense, it was a very solid offer, yet there was something remarkably unsolid in his manner of speak- ing, and in his clothes, and in that loathsome, good-for-nothing pince-nez. As a result, something vague weighed on the chairman\'92s soul, but he nev- ertheless decided to accept the offer. The thing was that the tenants\'92 as- sociation, alas, had quite a sizeable deficit. Fuel had to be bought for the heating system by fall, but who was going to shell out for it - no one knew. But with the foreign tourist\'92s money, it might be possible to wriggle out of it.\par \pard\plain  However, the practical and prudent Nikanor Ivanovich said he would first have to settle the question with the foreign tourist bureau.\par \pard\plain  \'91I understand!\'92 Koroviev cried out. \'91You\'92ve got to settle it! \'91Absolutely! Here\'92s the telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, settle it at once!\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  And don\'92t be shy about the money,\'92 he added in a whisper, drawing the chairman to the telephone in the front hall, \'91if he won\'92t pay, who will! You should see the villa he\'92s got in Nice! Next summer, when you go abroad, come especially to see it - you\'92ll gasp!\'92\par \pard\plain  The business with the foreign tourist bureau was arranged over the phone with an extraordinary speed, quite amazing to the chairman. It turned out that they already knew about Mr Woland\'92s intention of staying in Likhodeev\'92s private apartment and had no objections to it.\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s wonderful!\'92 Koroviev yelled. Somewhat stunned by his chatter, the chairman announced that the tenants\'92 association agreed to rent apart- ment no. 50 for a week to the artiste Woland, for... Nikanor Ivanovich faltered a little, then said:\par \pard\plain  \'91For five hundred roubles a day.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here Koroviev utterly amazed the chairman. Winking thievishly in the direction of the bedroom, from which the soft leaps of a heavy cat could be heard, he rasped out:\par \pard\plain  \'91So it comes to three thousand five hundred for the week?\'92\par \pard\plain  To which Nikanor Ivanovich thought he was going to add: \'91Some ap- petite you\'92ve got, Nikanor Ivanovich!\'92 but Koroviev said something quite different:\par \pard\plain  \'91What kind of money is that? Ask five, he\'92ll pay it.\'92\par \pard\plain  Grinning perplexedly, Nikanor Ivanovich, without noticing how, found himself at the deceased\'92s writing desk, where Koroviev with great speed and dexterity drew up a contract in two copies. Then he flew to the bed- room with them and came back, both copies now bearing the foreigner\'92s sweeping signature. The chairman also signed the contract. Here Ko- roviev asked for a receipt for five...\par \pard\plain  \'91Write it out, write it out, Nikanor Ivanovich!... thousand roubles...\'92 And with words somehow unsuited to serious business - \'91Ein, zwei, drei!\'92\par \pard\plain  - he laid out for the chairman five stacks of new banknotes.\par \pard\plain  The counting-up took place, interspersed with Koroviev\'92s quips and quiddities, such as \'91Cash loves counting\'92, \'91Your own eye won\'92t lie\'92, and others of the same sort.\par \pard\plain  After counting the money, the chairman received from Koroviev the foreigner\'92s passport for temporary registration, put it, together with the contract and the money, into his briefcase, and, somehow unable to help himself, sheepishly asked for a free pass...\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t mention it!\'92 bellowed Koroviev. \'91How many tickets do you want, Nikanor Ivanovich - twelve, fifteen?\'92\par \pard\plain  The flabbergasted chairman explained that all he needed was a couple of passes, for himself and Pelageya Antonovna, his wife.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Koroviev snatched out a notebook at once and dashed off a pass for Nikanor Ivanovich, for two persons in the front row. And with his left hand the interpreter deftly slipped this pass to Nikanor Ivanovich, while with his right he put into the chairman\'92s other hand a thick, crackling wad.\par \pard\plain  Casting an eye on it, Nikanor Ivanovich blushed deeply and began to push it away.\par \pard\plain  \'91It isn\'92t done...\'92 he murmured.\par \pard\plain  \'91I won\'92t hear of it,\'92 Koroviev whispered right in his ear. \'91With us it\'92s not done, but with foreigners it is. You\'92ll offend him, Nikanor Ivanovich, and that\'92s embarrassing. You\'92ve worked hard...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s severely punishable,\'92 the chairman whispered very, very softly and glanced over his shoulder.\par \pard\plain  \'91But where are the witnesses?\'92 Koroviev whispered into his other ear. \'91I ask you, where are they? You don\'92t think... ?\'92\par \pard\plain  Here, as the chairman insisted afterwards, a miracle occurred: the wad crept into his briefcase by itself. And then the chairman, somehow limp and even broken, found himself on the stairs. A whirlwind of thoughts raged in his head. There was the villa in Nice, and the trained cat, and the thought that there were in fact no witnesses, and that Pelageya Antonovna would be delighted with the pass. They were incoherent thoughts, but generally pleasant. But, all the same, somewhere, some little needle kept pricking the chairman in the very bottom of his soul. This was the needle of anxiety.\par \pard\plain  Besides, right then on the stairs the chairman was seized, as with a stroke, by the thought: \'91But how did the interpreter get into the study if the door was sealed?! And how was it that he, Nikanor Ivanovich, had not asked about it?\'92 For some time the chairman stood staring like a sheep at the steps of the stairway, but then he decided to spit on it and not torment himself with intricate questions...\par \pard\plain  As soon as the chairman left the apartment, a low voice came from the bedroom:\par \pard\plain  \'91I didn\'92t like this Nikanor Ivanovich. He is a chiseller and a crook. Can it be arranged so that he doesn\'92t come any more?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire, you have only to say the word...\'92 Koroviev responded from somewhere, not in a rattling but in a very clear and resounding voice.\par \pard\plain  And at once the accursed interpreter turned up in the front hall, dialled a number there, and for some reason began speaking very tearfully into the receiver:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hello! I consider it my duty to inform you that the chairman of our tenants\'92 association at no. 502-bis on Sadovaya, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  is speculating in foreign currency. 2 At the present moment, in his apart- ment no. 55, he has four hundred dollars wrapped up in newspaper in the ventilation of the privy. This is Timofei Kvastsov speaking, a tenant of the said house, apartment no. 11. But I adjure you to keep my name a secret. I fear the vengeance of the above-stated chairman.\'92\par \pard\plain  And he hung up, the scoundrel!\par \pard\plain  What happened next in apartment no. 50 is not known, but it is known what happened at Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s. Having locked himself in the privy with the hook, he took from his briefcase the wad foisted on him by the interpreter and satisfied himself that it contained four hundred rou- bles.\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich wrapped this wad in a scrap of newspaper and put it into the ventilation duct.\par \pard\plain  Five minutes later the chairman was sitting at the table in his small dining room. His wife brought pickled herring from the kitchen, neatly sliced and thickly sprinkled with green onion. Nikanor Ivanovich poured himself a dram of vodka, drank it, poured another, drank it, picked up three pieces of herring on his fork... and at that moment the doorbell rang. Pelageya Antonovna was just bringing in a steaming pot which, one could tell at once from a single glance, contained, amidst a fiery borscht, that than which there is nothing more delicious in the world - a   marrow\par \pard\plain  bone.\par \pard\plain  Swallowing his spittle, Nikanor Ivanovich growled like a dog:\par \pard\plain  \'91Damn them all! Won\'92t allow a man to eat... Don\'92t let anyone in, I\'92m not here, not here... If it\'92s about the apartment, tell them to stop blathering, there\'92ll be a meeting next week.\'92\par \pard\plain  His wife ran to the front hall, while Nikanor Ivanovich, using a la- dle, drew from the fire-breathing lake - it, the bone, cracked lengthwise. And at that moment two citizens entered the dining room, with Pelageya Antonovna following them, for some reason looking very pale. Seeing the citizens, Nikanor Ivanovich also turned white and stood up.\par \pard\plain  \'91Where\'92s the Jakes?\'92 the first one, in a white side-buttoned shirt, asked with a preoccupied air.\par \pard\plain  Something thudded against the dining table (this was Nikanor Ivano- vich dropping the ladle on to the oilcloth).\par \pard\plain  \'91This way, this way,\'92 Pelageya Antonovna replied in a patter.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Speculating in foreign currency: The Soviet rouble was not a convertible currency, and the government therefore had great need of foreign currency for trade purposes. So- viet citizens were forbidden to keep foreign currency, and there were also several \'91round- ups\'92 of gold and jewellery during the thirties. Speculating in currency could even be a capital offence. This situation plays a role in several later episodes of the novel.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  And the visitors immediately hastened to the corridor.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s the matter?\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich asked quietly, going after the visitors. \'91There can\'92t be anything like that in our apartment... And - your papers... begging your pardon...\'92\par \pard\plain  The first, without stopping, showed Nikanor Ivanovich a paper, and the second was at the same moment standing on a stool in the privy, his arm in the ventilation duct. Everything went dark in Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s eyes. The newspaper was removed, but in the wad there were not roubles but some unknown money, bluish-greenish, and with the portrait of some old man.\par \pard\plain  However, Nikanor Ivanovich saw it all dimly, there were some sort of spots floating in front of his eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91Dollars in the ventilation...\'92 the first said pensively and asked Nikanor Ivanovich gently and courteously: \'91Your little wad?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No!\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich replied in a dreadful voice. \'91Enemies stuck me with it!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That happens,\'92 the first agreed and added, again gently: \'91Well, you\'92re going to have to turn in the rest.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I haven\'92t got any! I swear to God, I never laid a finger on it!\'92 the chairman cried out desperately.\par \pard\plain  He dashed to the chest, pulled a drawer out with a clatter, and from it the briefcase, crying out incoherently:\par \pard\plain  \'91Here\'92s the contract...  that vermin of an interpreter stuck me with  it...\par \pard\plain  Koroviev... in a pince-nez!...\'92\par \pard\plain  He opened the briefcase, glanced into it, put a hand inside, went blue in the face, and dropped the briefcase into the borscht. There was nothing in the briefcase: no letter from Styopa, no contract, no foreigner\'92s passport, no money, no theatre pass. In short, nothing except a folding ruler.\par \pard\plain  \'91Comrades!\'92 the chairman cried frenziedly. \'91Catch them! There are unclean powers in our house!\'92\par \pard\plain  It is not known what Pelageya Antonovna imagined here, only she clasped her hands and cried:\par \pard\plain  \'91Repent, Ivanych! You\'92ll get off lighter.\'92\par \pard\plain  His eyes bloodshot, Nikanor Ivanovich raised his fists over his wife\'92s head, croaking:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ohh, you damned fool!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here he went slack and sank down on a chair, evidently resolved to submit to the inevitable.\par \pard\plain  During this time, Timofei Kondratievich Kvastsov stood on the land- ing, placing now his ear, now his eye to the keyhole of the door to the chairman\'92s apartment, melting with curiosity.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Five minutes later the tenants of the house who were in the courtyard saw the chairman, accompanied by two other persons, proceed directly to the gates of the house. It was said that Nikanor Ivanovich looked awful, staggered like a drunk man as he passed, and was muttering something.\par \pard\plain  And an hour after that an unknown citizen appeared in apartment no. 11, just as Timofei Kondratievich, spluttering with delight, was telling some other tenants how the chairman got pinched, motioned to Timofei Kondratievich with his finger to come from the kitchen to the front hall, said something to him, and together they vanished.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter  10 News From Yalta\par \pard\plain  At the same time that disaster struck Nikanor Ivanovich, not far away from no.502-bis, on the same Sadovaya Street, in the office of the finan- cial director of the Variety Theatre, Rimsky, there sat two men: Rimsky himself, and the administrator of the Variety, Varenukha. 1\par \pard\plain  The big office on the second floor of the theatre had two windows on Sadovaya and one, just behind the back of the findirector, who was sit- ting at his desk, facing the summer garden of the Variety, where there were refreshment stands, a shooting gallery and an open-air stage. The furnishings of the office, apart from the desk, consisted of a bunch of old posters hanging on the wall, a small table with a carafe of water on it, four armchairs and, in the corner, a stand on which stood a dust-covered scale model of some past review. Well, it goes without saying that, in addition, there was in the office a small, shabby, peeling fireproof safe, to Rimsky\'92s left, next to the desk.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky, now sitting at his desk, had been in bad spirits since morn- ing, while Varenukha, on the contrary, was very animated and somehow especially restlessly active. Yet there was no outlet for his energy.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha was presently hiding in the findirector\'92s office to escape the seekers of free passes, who poisoned his life, especially on days when the programme changed. And today was precisely such a day. As soon as the telephone started to ring, Varenukha would pick up the receiver and lie into it:\par \pard\plain  \'91Who? Varenukha? He\'92s not here. He stepped out.\'92 \'91Please call Likhodeev again,\'92 Rimsky asked vexedly.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s not home. I even sent Karpov, there\'92s no one in the apartment.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Varenukha: His name is that of a drink made from honey, berries and spices boiled in vodka.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  115\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Devil knows what\'92s going on!\'92 Rimisky hissed, clacking on the adding machine.\par \pard\plain  The door opened and an usher dragged in a thick stack of freshly printed extra posters; in big red letters on a green background was printed:\par \pard\plain  TODAY AND EVERY DAY AT THE VARIETY THEATRE AN  ADDITIONAL PROGRAMME\par \pard\plain  PROFESSOR WOLAND\par \pard\plain  SE´ ANCES  OF  BLACK  MAGIC  AND  ITS  FULL  EXPOSURE\par \pard\plain  Varenukha stepped back from the poster, which he had thrown on to the scale model, admired it, and told the usher to send all the posters out immediately to be pasted up.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good... Loud!\'92 Varenukha observed on the usher\'92s departure.\par \pard\plain  \'91And I dislike this undertaking extremely,\'92 Rimsky grumbled, glancing spitefully at the poster through his horn-rimmed glasses, \'91and generally I\'92m surprised he\'92s been allowed to present it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Grigory Danilovich, don\'92t say so! This is a very subdue step. The salt is all in the exposure.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t know, I don\'92t know, there\'92s no salt, in my opinion... and he\'92s always coming up with things like this! ... He might at least show us his magician! Have you seen him? Where he dug him up, devil knows!\'92\par \pard\plain  It turned out that Varenukha had not seen the magician any more than Rimsky had. Yesterday Styopa had come running (\'92like crazy\'92, in Rimsky\'92s expression) to the findirector with the already written draft of a contract, ordered it copied straight away and the money handed over to Woland. And this magician had cleared out, and no one had seen him except Styopa himself.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky took out his watch, saw that it read five minutes past two, and flew into a complete rage. Really! Likhodeev had called at around eleven, said he\'92d come in half an hour, and not only had not come, but had disap- peared from his apartment.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s holding up my business!\'92 Rimsky was roaring now, jabbing his finger at a pile of unsigned papers.\par \pard\plain  \'91Might he have fallen under a tram-car like Berlioz?\'92 Varenukha said as he held his ear to the receiver, from which came low, prolonged and utterly hopeless signals.\par \pard\plain  \'91Wouldn\'92t be a bad thing...\'92 Rimsky said barely audibly through his teeth.\par \pard\plain  At that same moment a woman in a uniform jacket, visored cap, black skirt and sneakers came into the office. From a small pouch at her belt the woman took a small white square and a notebook and asked:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Who here is Variety? A super-lightning telegram. 2  Sign here.\'92\par \pard\plain  Varenukha scribbled some flourish in the woman\'92s notebook, and as soon as the door slammed behind her, he opened the square. After reading the telegram, he blinked and handed the square to Rimsky.\par \pard\plain  The telegram contained the following: \'91Yalta to Moscow Variety. To- day eleven thirty brown-haired man came criminal investigation night- shirt trousers shoeless mental case gave name Likhodeev Director Variety Wire Yalta criminal investigation where Director Likhodeev.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Hello and how do you do!\'92 Rimsky exclaimed, and added: \'91Another surprise!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A false Dmitri!\'92 3 said Varenukha, and he spoke into the receiver. \'91Telegraph office? Variety account. Take a super-lightning telegram. Are you listening? \'93Yalta criminal investigation. Director Likhodeev Moscow Findirector Rimsky.\'94 \'92\par \pard\plain  Irrespective of the news about the Yalta impostor, Varenukha again be- gan searching all over for Styopa by telephone, and naturally did not find him anywhere.\par \pard\plain  Just as Varenukha, receiver in hand, was pondering where else he might call, the same woman who had brought the first telegram came in and handed Varenukha a new envelope. Opening it hurriedly, Varenukha read the message and whistled.\par \pard\plain  \'91What now?\'92 Rimsky asked, twitching nervously.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha silently handed him the telegram, and the findirector saw there the words: \'91Beg believe thrown Yalta Woland hypnosis wire criminal investigation confirm identity Likhodeev.\'92\par \pard\plain  Rimsky and Varenukha, their heads touching, reread the telegram, and after rereading it, silently stared at each other.\par \pard\plain  \'91Citizens!\'92 the woman got angry. \'91Sign, and then be silent as much as you like! I deliver lightnings!\'92\par \pard\plain  Varenukha, without taking his eyes off the telegram, made a crooked scrawl in the notebook, and the woman vanished.\par \pard\plain  \'91Didn\'92t you talk with him on the phone at a little past eleven?\'92 the administrator began in total bewilderment.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, it\'92s ridiculous!\'92 Rimsky cried shrilly. Talk or not, he can\'92t be in Yalta now! It\'92s ridiculous!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s drunk...\'92 said Varenukha.\par \pard\plain  2A super-lightning telegram: Bulgakov\'92s exaggeration of the \'91lightning telegram\'92, which did exist.\par \pard\plain  3A false Dmitri: The notorious impostor Grigory (\'91Grishka\'92) Otrepev, known as \'91the false Dmitri\'92, was a defrocked monk of the seventeenth century who claimed the Russian throne by pretending to be the prince Dmitri, murdered son of Ivan the Terrible.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Who\'92s drunk?\'92 asked Rimsky, and again the two stared at each other. That some impostor or madman had sent telegrams from Yalta, there was no doubt. But the strange thing was this: how did the Yalta mystifier know Woland, who had come to Moscow just the day before? How did he\par \pard\plain  know about the connection between Likhodeev and Woland? \'91Hypnosis...\'92 Varenukha kept repeating the word from the telegram. \'91How does he know about Woland?\'92 He blinked his eyes and suddenly\par \pard\plain  cried resolutely: \'91Ah, no! Nonsense! ... Nonsense, nonsense!\'92 \'91Where\'92s he staying, this Woland, devil take him?\'92 asked Rimsky.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha immediately got connected with the foreign tourist bureau and, to Rimsky\'92s utter astonishment, announced that Woland was staying in Likhodeev\'92s apartment. Dialling the number of the Likhodeev apart- ment after that, Varenukha listened for a long time to the low buzzing in the receiver.\par \pard\plain  Amidst the buzzing, from somewhere far away, came a heavy, gloomy voice singing: \'91... rocks, my refuge ...\'92 4 and Varenukha decided that the telephone lines had crossed with a voice from a radio show.\par \pard\plain  The apartment doesn\'92t answer,\'92 Varenukha said, putting down the re- ceiver, \'91or maybe I should call...\'92\par \pard\plain  He did not finish. The same woman appeared in the door, and both men, Rimsky and Varenukha, rose to meet her, while she took from her pouch not a white sheet this time, but some sort of dark one.\par \pard\plain  \'91This is beginning to get interesting,\'92 Varenukha said through his teeth, his eyes following the hurriedly departing woman. Rimsky was the first to take hold of the sheet.\par \pard\plain  On a dark background of photographic paper, some black handwritten lines were barely discernible:\par \pard\plain  \'91Proof my handwriting my signature wire urgently confirmation place secret watch Woland Likhodeev.\'92\par \pard\plain  In his twenty years of work in the theatre, Varenukha had seen all kinds of sights, but here he felt his mind becoming obscured as with a veil, and he could find nothing to say but the at once mundane and utterly absurd phrase:\par \pard\plain  \'91This cannot be!\'92\par \pard\plain  Rimsky acted otherwise. He stood up, opened the door, barked out to the messenger girl sitting on a stool:\par \pard\plain  \'91Let no one in except postmen!\'92 - and locked the door with a key. Then he took a pile of papers out of the desk and began carefully to\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4Rocks, my refuge...: Words from the romance \'91Refuge\'92, with music by Franz Schubert (1797-1828), inspired by Goethe\'92s Faust.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  compare the bold, back-slanting letters of the photogram with the letters in Styopa\'92s resolutions and signatures, furnished with a corkscrew flourish.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha, leaning his weight on the table, breathed hotly on Rimsky\'92s cheek.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s his handwriting,\'92 the findirector finally said firmly, and Varenukha repeated like an echo:\par \pard\plain  \'91His.\'92\par \pard\plain  Peering into Rimsky\'92s face, the administrator marvelled at the change that had come over this face. Thin to begin with, the findirector seemed to have grown still thinner and even older, his eyes in their horn rims had lost their customary prickliness, and there appeared in them not only alarm, but even sorrow.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha did everything that a man in a moment of great astonish- ment ought to do. He raced up and down the office, he raised his arms twice like one crucified, he drank a whole glass of yellowish water from the carafe and exclaimed:\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t understand! I don\'92t understand! I don\'92t un-der-stand!\'92\par \pard\plain  Rimsky meanwhile was looking out the window, thinking hard about something. The findirector\'92s position was very difficult. It was necessary at once, right on the spot, to invent ordinary explanations for extraordi- nary phenomena.\par \pard\plain  Narrowing his eyes, the findirector pictured to himself Styopa, in a nightshirt and shoeless, getting into some unprecedented super high speed airplane at around half past eleven that morning, and then the same Sty- opa, also at half past eleven, standing in his stocking feet at the airport in Yalta ... devil knew what to make of it!\par \pard\plain  Maybe it was not Styopa who talked with him this morning over the phone from his own apartment? No, it was Styopa speaking! Who if not he should know Styopa\'92s voice? And even if it was not Styopa speaking today, it was no earlier than yesterday, towards evening, that Styopa had come from his office to this very office with this idiotic contract and an- noyed the findirector with his light-mindedness. How could he have gone or flown away without leaving word at the theatre? But if he had flown away yesterday evening - he would not have arrived by noon today. Or would he?\par \pard\plain  \'91How many miles is it to Yalta?\'92 asked Rimsky. Varenukha stopped his running and yelled:\par \pard\plain  \'91I thought of that! I already thought of it! By train it\'92s over nine hun- dred miles to Sebastopol, plus another fifty to Yalta! Well, but by air, of course, it\'92s less.\'92\par \pard\plain  Hm ... Yes ... There could be no question of any trains. But what then?\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Some fighter plane? Who would let Styopa on any fighter plane without his shoes? What for? Maybe he took his shoes off when he got to Yalta? It\'92s the same thing: what for? And even with his shoes on they wouldn\'92t have let him on a fighter! And what has the fighter got to do with it? It\'92s written that he came to the investigators at half past eleven in the morning, and he talked on the telephone in Moscow ... excuse me ... (the face of Rimsky\'92s watch emerged before his eyes).\par \pard\plain  Rimsky tried to remember where the hands had been ... Terrible! It had been twenty minutes past eleven!\par \pard\plain  So what does it boil down to? If one supposes that after the conversa- tion Styopa instantly rushed to the airport, and reached it in, say, five min- utes (which, incidentally, was also unthinkable), it means that the plane, taking off at once, covered nearly a thousand miles in five minutes.\par \pard\plain  Consequently, it was flying at twelve thousand miles an hour!!! That cannot be, and that means he\'92s not in Yalta!\par \pard\plain  What remains, then? Hypnosis? There\'92s no hypnosis in the world that can fling a man a thousand miles away! So he\'92s imagining that he\'92s in Yalta? He may be imagining it, but are the Yalta investigators also imagin- ing it? No, no, sorry, that can\'92t be! ... Yet they did telegraph from there?\par \pard\plain  The findirector\'92s face was literally dreadful. The door handle was all the while being turned and pulled from outside, and the messenger girl could be heard through the door crying desperately:\par \pard\plain  \'91Impossible! I won\'92t let you! Cut me to pieces! It\'92s a meeting!\'92\par \pard\plain  Rimsky regained control of himself as well as he could, took the re- ceiver of the phone, and said into it:\par \pard\plain  \'91A super-urgent call to Yalta, please.\'92 \'91Clever!\'92 Varenukha observed mentally.\par \pard\plain  But the conversation with Yalta did not take place. Rimsky hung up the receiver and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91As luck would have it, the line\'92s broken.\'92\par \pard\plain  It could be seen that the broken line especially upset him for some rea- son, and even made him lapse into thought. Having thought a little, he again took the receiver in one hand, and with the other began writing down what he said into it:\par \pard\plain  \'91Take a super-lightning. Variety. Yes. Yalta criminal investigation. Yes. \'93Today around eleven thirty Likhodeev talked me phone Moscow stop After that did not come work unable locate by phone stop Confirm hand- writing stop Taking measures watch said artiste Findirector Rimsky.\'94 \'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Very clever!\'92 thought Varenukha, but before he had time to think well, the words rushed through his head: \'91Stupid! He can\'92t be in Yalta!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Rimsky meanwhile did the following: he neatly stacked all the re- ceived telegrams, plus the copy of his own, put the stack into an envelope, sealed it, wrote a few words on it, and handed it to Varenukha, saying:\par \pard\plain  \'91Go right now, Ivan Savelyevich, take it there personally. 5 Let them sort it out.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Now that is really clever!\'92 thought Varenukha, and he put the enve- lope into his briefcase. Then, just in case, he dialled Styopa\'92s apartment number on the telephone, listened, and began winking and grimacing joy- fully and mysteriously. Rimsky stretched his neck.\par \pard\plain  \'91May I speak with the artiste Woland?\'92 Varenukha asked sweetly. \'91Mister\'92s busy,\'92 the receiver answered in a rattling voice, \'91who\'92s    call-\par \pard\plain  ing?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The administrator of the Variety, Varenukha.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ivan Savelyevich?\'92 the receiver cried out joyfully. Terribly glad to hear your voice! How\'92re you doing?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Merci,\'92 Varenukha replied in amazement, \'91and with whom am I speak- ing?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91His assistant, his assistant and interpreter, Koroviev!\'92 crackled the re- ceiver. \'91I\'92m entirely at your service, my dearest Ivan Savelyevich! Order me around as you like. And so?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me, but ... what, is Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev not at home now?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Alas, no! No!\'92 the receiver shouted. \'91He left!\'92 \'91For where?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Out of town, for a drive in the car.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Wh ... what? A dr ... drive? And when will he be back?\'92 \'91He said, I\'92ll get a breath of fresh air and come back.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So...\'92 said  the  puzzled  Varenukha, \'91merci ... kindly tell Monsieur Woland that his performance is tonight in the third part of the programme.\'92 \'91Right. Of course. Absolutely. Urgently.  Without fail. I\'92ll tell him,\'92  the\par \pard\plain  receiver rapped out abruptly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Goodbye,\'92 Varenukha said in astonishment.\par \pard\plain  \'91Please accept,\'92 said the receiver, \'91my best, warmest greetings and wish- es! For success! Luck! Complete happiness! Everything!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But of course! Didn\'92t I say so!\'92 the administrator cried agitatedly. \'91It\'92s not any Yalta, he just went to the country!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, if that\'92s so,\'92 the findirector began, turning pale with anger, \'91it\'92s real swinishness, there\'92s even no name for it!\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Take it there personally: Another oblique reference to the secret police. By now the reader should recognize the manner.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Here the administrator jumped up and shouted so that Rimsky gave a start:\par \pard\plain  \'91I remember! I remember! They\'92ve opened a new Georgian tavern in Pushkino called \'93Yalta\'94! It\'92s all clear! He went there, got drunk, and now he\'92s sending telegrams from there!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, now that\'92s too much!\'92 Rimsky answered, his cheek twitching, and deep, genuine anger burned in his eyes. \'91Well, then, he\'92s going to pay dearly for this little excursion! ...\'92 He suddenly faltered and added irresolutely: \'91But what about the criminal investigation...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s nonsense! His own little jokes,\'92 the expansive administrator inter- rupted, and asked: \'91Shall I take the envelope?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Absolutely,\'92 replied Rimsky.\par \pard\plain  And again the door opened and in came that same ... \'91Her!\'92 thought Rimsky, for some reason with anguish. And both men rose to meet the postwoman.\par \pard\plain  This time the telegram contained the words:\par \pard\plain  \'93Thank you confirmation send five hundred urgently criminal investi- gation my name tomorrow fly Moscow Likhodeev.\'94\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s lost his mind...\'92 Varenukha said weakly.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky jingled his key, took money from the fireproof safe, counted out five hundred roubles, rang the bell, handed the messenger the money, and sent him to the telegraph office.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good heavens, Grigory Danilovich,\'92 Varenukha said, not believing his eyes, \'91in my opinion you oughtn\'92t to send the money.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92ll come back,\'92 Rimsky replied quietly, \'91but he\'92ll have a hard time explaining this little picnic.\'92 And he added, indicating the briefcase to Varenukha: \'91Go, Ivan Savelyevich, don\'92t delay.\'92\par \pard\plain  And Varenukha ran out of the office with the briefcase.\par \pard\plain  He went down to the ground floor, saw the longest line at the box of- fice, found out from the box-office girl that she expected to sell out within the hour, because the public was simply pouring in since the additional poster had been put up, told the girl to earmark and hold thirty of the best seats in the gallery and the stalls, popped out of the box office, shook off importunate pass-seekers as he ran, and dived into his little office to get his cap. At that moment the telephone rattled.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes!\'92 Varenukha shouted.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ivan Savelyevich?\'92 the receiver inquired in a most repulsive nasal voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s not in the theatre!\'92 Varenukha was shouting, but the receiver interrupted him at once:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t play the fool, Ivan Savelyevich, just listen. Do not take those telegrams anywhere or show them to anyone.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is this?\'92 Varenukha bellowed. \'91Stop these jokes, citizen! You\'92ll be found out at once! What\'92s your number?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Varenukha,\'92 the same nasty voice returned, \'91do you understand Rus- sian? Don\'92t take the telegrams anywhere.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, so you won\'92t stop?\'92 the administrator cried furiously. \'91Look out, then! You\'92re going to pay for it!\'92 He shouted some other threat, but fell silent, because he sensed that no one was listening to him any longer in the receiver.\par \pard\plain  Here it somehow began to grow dark very quickly in his little office.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha ran out, slammed the door behind him, and rushed through the side entrance into the summer garden.\par \pard\plain  The administrator was agitated and full of energy. After the insolent phone call he had no doubts that it was a band of hooligans playing nasty tricks, and that these tricks were connected with the disappearance of Likhodeev. The administrator was choking with the desire to expose the malefactors, and, strange as it was, the anticipation of something enjoy- able was born in him. It happens that way when a man strives to become the centre of attention, to bring sensational news somewhere.\par \pard\plain  In the garden the wind blew in the administrator\'92s face and flung sand in his eyes, as if blocking his way, as if cautioning him.  A window on  the second floor slammed so that the glass nearly broke, the tops of the maples and lindens rustled alarmingly. It became darker and colder. The administrator rubbed his eyes and saw that a yellow-bellied storm cloud was creeping low over Moscow. There came a dense, distant rumbling.\par \pard\plain  However great Varenukha\'92s hurry, an irrepressible desire pulled at him to run over to the summer toilet for a second on his way, to check whether the repairman had put a wire screen over the light-bulb.\par \pard\plain  Running past the shooting gallery, Varenukha came to a thick growth of lilacs where the light-blue toilet building stood. The repairman turned out to be an efficient fellow, the bulb under the roof of the gentlemen\'92s side was covered with a wire screen, but the administrator was upset that even in the pre-storm darkness one could make out that the walls were already written all over in charcoal and pencil.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, what sort of...\'92 the administrator began and suddenly heard a voice purring behind him:\par \pard\plain  \'91Is that you, Ivan Savelyevich?\'92\par \pard\plain  Varenukha started, turned around, and saw before him a short, fat man with what seemed to him a cat-like physiognomy.\par \pard\plain  \'91So, it\'92s me\'92, Varenukha answered hostilely.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Very, very glad,\'92 the cat-like fat man responded in a squeaky voice and, suddenly swinging his arm, gave Varenukha such a blow on the ear that the cap flew off the administrator\'92s head and vanished without a trace down the hole in the seat.\par \pard\plain  At the fat man\'92s blow, the whole toilet lit up momentarily with a tremu- lous light, and a roll of thunder echoed in the sky. Then came another flash and a second man emerged before the administrator - short, but with ath- letic shoulders, hair red as fire, albugo in one eye, a fang in his mouth... This second one, evidently a lefty, socked the administrator on the   other\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ear. In response there was another roll of thunder in the sky, and rain poured down on the wooden roof of the toilet.\par \pard\plain  \'91What is it, comr...\'92 the half-crazed administrator whispered, realized at once that the word \'91comrades\'92 hardly fitted bandits attacking a man   in a public toilet, rasped out: \'91citiz...\'92 - figured that they did not merit  this appellation either, and received a third terrible blow from he did not know which of them, so that blood gushed from his nose on to his Tolstoy blouse.\par \pard\plain  \'91What you got in the briefcase, parasite?\'92 the one resembling a cat cried shrilly. \'91Telegrams? Weren\'92t you warned over the phone not to take them anywhere? Weren\'92t you warned, I\'92m asking you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I was wor... wer... warned...\'92 the administrator answered, suffocating. \'91And you skipped off anyway? Gimme the briefcase, vermin!\'92 the sec- ond one cried in the same nasal voice that had come over the   telephone,\par \pard\plain  and he yanked the briefcase from Varenukha\'92s trembling hands.\par \pard\plain  And the two picked the administrator up under the arms, dragged him out of the garden, and raced down Sadovaya with him. The storm raged at full force, water streamed with a noise and howling down the drains, waves bubbled and billowed everywhere, water gushed from the roofs past the drainpipes, foamy streams ran from gateways. Everything liv- ing got washed off Sadovaya, and there was no one to save Ivan Savelye- vich. Leaping through muddy rivers, under flashes of lightning, the ban- dits dragged the half-alive administrator in a split second to no.502-bis, flew with him through the gateway, where two barefoot women, holding their shoes and stockings in their hands, pressed themselves to the wall. Then they dashed into the sixth entrance, and Varenukha, nearly insane, was taken up to the fifth floor and thrown down in the semi-dark front hall, so well known to him, of Styopa Likhodeev\'92s apartment.\par \pard\plain  Here the two robbers vanished, and in their place there appeared in the front hall a completely naked girl - red-haired, her eyes burning with a phosphorescent gleam.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha understood that this was the most terrible of all things that had ever happened to him and, moaning, recoiled against the wall. But the girl came right up to the administrator and placed the palms of her hands on his shoulders. Varenukha\'92s hair stood on end, because even through the cold, water-soaked cloth of his Tolstoy blouse he could feel that those palms were still colder, that their cold was the cold of ice.\par \pard\plain  \'91Let me give you a kiss,\'92 the girl said tenderly, and there were shining eyes right in front of his eyes. Then Varenukha fainted and never felt the kiss.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 11\par \pard\plain  Ivan Splits in Two\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The woods on the opposite bank of the river, still lit up by the May sun an hour earlier, turned dull, smeary, and dissolved.\par \pard\plain  Water fell down in a solid sheet outside the window. In the sky, threads flashed every moment, the sky kept bursting open, and the patient\'92s room was flooded with a tremulous, frightening light.\par \pard\plain  Ivan quietly wept, sitting on his bed and looking out at the muddy river boiling with bubbles. At every clap of thunder, he cried out pitifully and buried his face in his hands. Pages covered with Ivan\'92s writing lay about on the floor. They had been blown down by the wind that flew into the room before the storm began.\par \pard\plain  The poet\'92s attempts to write a statement concerning the terrible consul- tant had gone nowhere. As soon as he got the pencil stub and paper from the fat attendant, whose name was Praskovya Fyodorovna, he rubbed his hands in a business-like way and hastily settled himself at the little table. The beginning came out quite glibly.\par \pard\plain  To the police. From Massolit member Ivan Nikolaevich Homeless. A statement. Yesterday evening I came to the Patriarch\'92s Ponds with the deceased M. A. Berlioz...\'92\par \pard\plain  And right there the poet got confused, mainly owing to the word \'91de- ceased\'92. Some nonsensicality emerged at once: what\'92s this - came with the deceased? The deceased don\'92t go anywhere! Really, for all he knew, they might take him for a madman!\par \pard\plain  Having reflected thus, Ivan Nikolaevich began to correct what he had written. What came out this time was: \'91... with M. A. Berlioz, subsequently deceased ...\'92 This did not satisfy the author either. He had to have recourse to a third redaction, which proved still worse than the first two: \'91Berlioz, who fell under the tram-car...\'92 - and that namesake composer, unknown to anyone, was also dangling here, so he had to put in: \'91not the composer...\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  126\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  After suffering over these two Berliozes, Ivan crossed it all out and decided to begin right off with something very strong, in order to attract the reader\'92s attention at once, so he wrote that a cat had got on a tram-car, and then went back to the episode with the severed head. The head and the consultant\'92s prediction led him to the thought of Pontius Pilate, and for greater conviction Ivan decided to tell the whole story of the procurator in full, from the moment he walked out in his white cloak with blood-red lining to the colonnade of Herod\'92s palace.\par \pard\plain  Ivan worked assiduously, crossing out what he had written, putting  in new words, and even attempted to draw Pontius Pilate and then a cat standing on its hind legs. But the drawings did not help, and the further it went, the more confusing and incomprehensible the poet\'92s statement became.\par \pard\plain  By the time the frightening cloud with smoking edges appeared from far off and covered the woods, and the wind began to blow, Ivan felt that he was strengthless, that he would never be able to manage with the state- ment, and he would not pick up the scattered pages, and he wept quietly and bitterly.\par \pard\plain  The good-natured nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna visited the poet dur- ing the storm, became alarmed on seeing him weeping, closed the blinds so that the lightning would not frighten the patient, picked up the pages from the floor, and ran with them for the doctor.\par \pard\plain  He came, gave Ivan an injection in the arm, and assured him that he would not weep any more, that everything would pass now, everything would change, everything would be forgotten.\par \pard\plain  The doctor proved right. Soon the woods across the river became as before. It was outlined to the last tree under the sky, which cleared to its former perfect blue, and the river grew calm. Anguish had begun to leave Ivan right after the injection, and now the poet lay calmly and looked at the rainbow that stretched across the sky.\par \pard\plain  So it went till evening, and he did not even notice how the rainbow melted away, how the sky saddened and faded, how the woods turned black.\par \pard\plain  Having drunk some hot milk, Ivan lay down again and marvelled him- self at how changed his thinking was. The accursed, demonic cat some- how softened in his memory, the severed head did not frighten him any more, and, abandoning all thought of it, Ivan began to reflect that, essen- tially, it was not so bad in the clinic, that Stravinsky was a clever man and a famous one, and it was quite pleasant to deal with him. Besides, the evening air was sweet and fresh after the storm.\par \pard\plain  The house of sorrow was falling asleep.  In quiet corridors the frosted\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  white lights went out, and in their place, according to regulations, faint blue night-lights were lit, and the careful steps of attendants were heard more and more rarely on the rubber matting of the corridor outside the door.\par \pard\plain  Now Ivan lay in sweet languor, glancing at the lamp under its shade, shedding a softened light from the ceiling, then at the moon rising behind the black woods, and conversed with himself.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, actually, did I get so excited about Berlioz falling under a tram- car?\'92 the poet reasoned.  \'91In the final analysis, let him sink!  What am I,  in fact, his chum or in-law? If we air the question properly, it turns out that, in essence, I really did not even know the deceased. What, indeed, did I know about him? Nothing except that he was bald and terribly elo- quent. And furthermore, citizens,\'92 Ivan continued his speech, addressing someone or other, \'91let\'92s sort this out: why, tell me, did I get furious at this mysterious consultant, magician and professor with the black and empty eye?\par \pard\plain  Why all this absurd chase after him in underpants and with a candle in my hand, and then those wild shenanigans in the restaurant?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Uh-uh-uh!\'92 the former Ivan suddenly said sternly somewhere, either inside or over his ear, to the new Ivan. \'91He did know beforehand that Berlioz\'92s head would be cut off, didn\'92t he? How could I not get excited?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What are we talking about, comrades?\'92 the new Ivan objected to the old, former Ivan. That things are not quite proper here, even a child can understand. He\'92s a one-hundred-per-cent outstanding and mysterious person!\par \pard\plain  But that\'92s the most interesting thing! The man was personally ac- quainted with Pontius Pilate, what could be more interesting than that? And, instead of raising a stupid rumpus at the Ponds, wouldn\'92t it have been more intelligent to question him politely about what happened fur- ther on with Pilate and his prisoner Ha-Nozri? And I started devil knows what! A major occurrence, really - a magazine editor gets run over! And so, what, is the magazine going to shut down for that? Well, what can be done about it? Man is mortal and, as has rightly been said, unexpectedly mortal. Well, may he rest in peace! Well, so there\'92ll be another editor, and maybe even more eloquent than the previous one!\'92\par \pard\plain  After dozing for a while, the new Ivan asked the old Ivan sarcastically: \'91And what does it make me, in that case?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A fool!\'92 a bass voice said distinctly somewhere, a voice not belonging to either of the Ivans and extremely like the bass of the consultant.\par \pard\plain  Ivan, for some reason not offended by the word \'91fool\'92, but even pleas- antly surprised at it,  smiled and drowsily grew quiet.   Sleep was    steal-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ing over Ivan, and he was already picturing a palm tree on its elephant\'92s leg, and a cat passing by - not scary, but merry - and, in short, sleep was just about to come over Ivan, when the grille suddenly moved noiselessly aside, and a mysterious figure appeared on the balcony, hiding from the moonlight, and shook its finger at Ivan.\par \pard\plain  Not frightened in the least, Ivan sat up in bed and saw that there was a man on the balcony. And this man, pressing a finger to his lips, whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Shhh! ...\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 12\par \pard\plain  Black Magic and Its Exposure\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  A small man in a yellow bowler-hat full of holes and with a pear-shaped, raspberry-coloured nose, in checkered trousers and patent-leather shoes, rolled out on to the stage of the Variety on an ordinary two-wheeled bicy- cle. To the sounds of a foxtrot he made a circle, and then gave a triumphant shout, which caused his bicycle to rear up. After riding around on the back wheel, the little man turned upside down, contrived while in motion to unscrew the front wheel and send it backstage, and then proceeded on his way with one wheel, turning the pedals with his hands.\par \pard\plain  On a tall metal pole with a seat at the top and a single wheel, a plump blonde rolled out in tights and a little skirt strewn with silver stars, and be- gan riding in a circle. As he met her, the little man uttered cries of greeting, doffing his bowler-hat with his foot.\par \pard\plain  Finally, a little eight-year-old with an elderly face came rolling out and began scooting about among the adults on a tiny two-wheeler furnished with an enormous automobile horn.\par \pard\plain  After making several loops, the whole company, to the alarming drum- beats of the orchestra, rolled to the very edge of the stage, and the spec- tators in the front rows gasped and drew back, because it seemed to the public that the whole trio with its vehicles was about to crash down into the orchestra pit.\par \pard\plain  But the bicycles stopped just at the moment when the front wheels threatened to slide into the abyss on the heads of the musicians. With a loud shout of \'91Hup!\'92 the cyclists jumped off their vehicles and bowed, the blonde woman blowing kisses to the public, and the little one tooting a funny signal on his horn.\par \pard\plain  Applause shook the building, the light-blue curtain came from both sides and covered the cyclists, the green \'91Exit\'92 lights by the doors went out, and in the web of trapezes under the cupola white spheres lit up like\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  130\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the sun. It was the intermission before the last part.\par \pard\plain  The only man who was not the least bit interested in the wonders of the Giulli family\'92s cycling technique was Grigory Danilovich Rimsky.\par \pard\plain  In complete solitude he sat in his office, biting his thin lips, a spasm passing over his face from time to time. To the extraordinary disappear- ance of Likhodeev had now been added the wholly unforeseen disappear- ance of Varenukha.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky knew where he had gone, but he had gone and ... not come back! Rimsky shrugged his shoulders and whispered to himself:\par \pard\plain  \'91But what for?\'92\par \pard\plain  And it was strange: for such a practical man as the findirector, the sim- plest thing would, of course, have been to call the place where Varenukha had gone and find out what had befallen him, yet until ten o\'92clock at night he had been unable to force himself to do it.\par \pard\plain  At ten, doing outright violence to himself, Rimsky picked up the re- ceiver and here discovered that his telephone was dead. The messenger reported that the other telephones in the building were also out of order.\par \pard\plain  This certainly unpleasant, though hardly supernatural, occurrence for some reason thoroughly shocked the findirector, but at the same time he was glad: the need to call fell away.\par \pard\plain  Just as the red light over the findirector\'92s head lit up and blinked, an- nouncing the beginning of the intermission, a messenger came in and informed him of the foreign artiste\'92s arrival. The findirector cringed for some reason, and, blacker than a storm cloud, went backstage to receive the visitor, since there was no one else to receive him.\par \pard\plain  Under various pretexts, curious people kept peeking into the big dress- ing room from the corridor, where the signal bell was already ringing.\par \pard\plain  Among them were conjurers in bright robes and turbans, a skater in a white knitted jacket, a storyteller pale with powder and the make-up man. The newly arrived celebrity struck everyone by his marvellously cut tailcoat, of a length never seen before, and by his having come in a black half-mask. But most remarkable of all were the black magician\'92s two com- panions: a long checkered one with a cracked pince-nez, and a fat black cat who came into the dressing room on his hind legs and quite nonchalantly\par \pard\plain  sat on the sofa squinting at the bare make-up lights.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky attempted to produce a smile on his face, which made it look sour and spiteful, and bowed to the silent black magician, who was seated on the sofa beside the cat. There was no handshake. Instead, the easygo- ing checkered one made his own introductions to the fin-director, calling himself \'91the gent\'92s assistant\'92. This circumstance surprised the findirector, and unpleasantly so:  there was decidedly no mention of any assistant  in\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the contract.\par \pard\plain  Quite stiffly and drily, Grigory Danilovich inquired of this fallen-from- the-sky checkered one where the artiste\'92s paraphernalia was.\par \pard\plain  \'91Our heavenly diamond, most precious mister director,\'92 the magician\'92s assistant replied in a rattling voice, \'91the paraphernalia is always with us. Here it is! Ein, zwei, drei!\'92 And, waving his knotty fingers before Rimsky\'92s eyes, he suddenly took from behind the cat\'92s ear Rimsky\'92s own gold watch and chain, hitherto worn by the findirector in his waistcoat pocket, under his buttoned coat, with the chain through a buttonhole.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky inadvertently clutched his stomach, those present gasped, and the make-up man, peeking in the doorway, grunted approvingly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Your little watchie? Kindly take it,\'92 the checkered one said, smiling casually and offering the bewildered Rimsky his own property on a dirty palm.\par \pard\plain  \'91No getting on a tram with that one,\'92 the storyteller whispered quietly and merrily to the make-up man.\par \pard\plain  But the cat pulled a neater trick than the number with the stolen watch. Getting up from the sofa unexpectedly, he walked on his hind legs to the dressing table, pulled the stopper out of the carafe with his front paw, poured water into a glass, drank it, installed the stopper in its place, and wiped his whiskers with a make-up cloth.\par \pard\plain  Here no one even gasped, their mouths simply fell open, and the make- up man whispered admiringly:\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s class!\'92\par \pard\plain  Just then the bells rang alarmingly for the third time, and everyone, ag- itated and anticipating an interesting number, thronged out of the dressing room.\par \pard\plain  A moment later the spheres went out in the theatre, the footlights blaz- ed up, lending a reddish glow to the base of the curtain, and in the lighted gap of the curtain there appeared before the public a plump man, merry as a baby, with a clean-shaven face, in a rumpled tailcoat and none-too- fresh shirt. This was the master of ceremonies, well known to all Moscow\par \pard\plain  - Georges Bengalsky.\par \pard\plain  \'91And now, citizens,\'92 Bengalsky began,  smiling his baby smile,  \'91there is about to come before you ...\'92 Here Bengalsky interrupted himself and spoke in a different tone: \'91I see the audience has grown for the third part. We\'92ve got half the city here! I met a friend the other day and said to him: \'93Why don\'92t you come to our show? Yesterday we had half the city.\'94 And he says to me:  \'93I live in the other half!\'94 \'92 Bengalsky paused, waiting for  a burst of laughter, but as no one laughed, he went on: \'91... And so, now comes the famous foreign artist. Monsieur Woland, with a se´ance of black\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  magic. Well, both you and I know,\'92 here Bengalsky smiled a wise smile, \'91that there\'92s no such thing in the world, and that it\'92s all just superstition, and Maestro Woland is simply a perfect master of the technique of conjur- ing, as we shall see from the most interesting part, that is, the exposure of this technique, and since we\'92re all of us to a man both for technique and for its exposure, let\'92s bring on Mr Woland! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  After uttering all this claptrap, Bengalsky pressed his palms together and waved them in greeting through the slit of the curtain, which caused it to part with a soft rustic.\par \pard\plain  The entrance of the magician with his long assistant and the cat, who came on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly.\par \pard\plain  \'91An armchair for me,\'92 Woland ordered in a low voice, and that same second an armchair appeared on stage, no one knew how or from where, in which the magician sat down. \'91Tell me, my gentle Fagott,\'92 Woland in- quired of the checkered clown, who evidently had another appellation than Koroviev, \'91what do you think, the Moscow populace has changed significantly, hasn\'92t it?\'92\par \pard\plain  The magician looked out at the hushed audience, struck by the appear- ance of the armchair out of nowhere.\par \pard\plain  \'91That it has, Messire,\'92 Fagott-Koroviev replied in a low voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re right. The city folk have changed greatly ... externally, that is ... as has the city itself, incidentally... Not to mention their clothing, these ... what do you call them ... trams, automobiles ... have appeared ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Buses ...\'92 - Fagott prompted deferentially.\par \pard\plain  The audience listened attentively to this conversation, thinking it con- stituted a prelude to the magic tricks. The wings were packed with per- formers and stage-hands, and among their faces could be seen the tense, pale face of Rimsky.\par \pard\plain  The physiognomy of Bengalsky, who had retreated to the side of the stage, began to show some perplexity. He raised one eyebrow slightly and, taking advantage of a pause, spoke:\par \pard\plain  \'91The foreign artiste is expressing his admiration for Moscow and its technological development, as well as for the Muscovites.\'92 Here Bengalsky smiled twice, first to the stalls, then to the gallery.\par \pard\plain  Woland, Fagott and the cat turned their heads in the direction of the master of ceremonies.\par \pard\plain  \'91Did I express admiration?\'92 the magician asked the checkered Fagott. \'91By no means, Messire, you never expressed any admiration,\'92 came the\par \pard\plain  reply.\par \pard\plain  \'91Then what is the man saying?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91He quite simply lied!\'92 the checkered assistant declared sonorously, for the whole theatre to hear, and turning to Bengalsky, he added:\par \pard\plain  \'91Congrats, citizen, you done lied!\'92\par \pard\plain  Tittering spattered from the gallery, but Bengalsky gave a start and goggled his eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91Of course, I\'92m not so much interested in buses, telephones and  other\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  ...\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Apparatuses,\'92 the checkered one prompted.\par \pard\plain  \'91Quite right, thank you,\'92 the magician spoke slowly in a heavy bass,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \'91as in a question of much greater importance: have the city folk changed inwardly?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, that is the most important question, sir.\'92\par \pard\plain  There was shrugging and an exchanging of glances in the wings, Ben- galsky stood all red, and Rimsky was pale. But here, as if sensing the nascent alarm, the magician said:\par \pard\plain  \'91However, we\'92re talking away, my dear Fagott, and the audience is beginning to get bored. My gentle Fagott, show us some simple little thing to start with.\'92\par \pard\plain  The audience stirred. Fagott and the cat walked along the footlights to opposite sides of the stage. Fagott snapped his fingers, and with a rollick- ing Three, four!\'92 snatched a deck of cards from the air, shuffled it, and sent it in a long ribbon to the cat. The cat intercepted it and sent it back. The satiny snake whiffled, Fagott opened his mouth like a nestling and swal- lowed it all card by card. After which the cat bowed, scraping his right hind paw, winning himself unbelievable applause.\par \pard\plain  \'91Class! Real class!\'92 rapturous shouts came from the wings. And Fagott jabbed his finger at the stalls and announced:\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92ll find that same deck, esteemed citizens, on citizen Parchevsky in the seventh row, just between a three-rouble bill and a summons to court in connection with the payment of alimony to citizen Zeikova.\'92\par \pard\plain  There was a stirring in the stalls, people began to get up, and finally some citizen whose name was indeed Parchevsky, all crimson with amaze- ment, extracted the deck from his wallet and began sticking it up in the air, not knowing what to do with it.\par \pard\plain  \'91You may keep it as a souvenir!\'92 cried Fagott. \'91Not for nothing did you say at dinner yesterday that if it weren\'92t for poker your life in Moscow would be utterly unbearable.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91An old trick!\'92 came from the gallery. The one in the stalls is from the same company.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You think so?\'92 shouted Fagott, squinting at the gallery. \'91In that case you\'92re also one of us, because the deck is now in your pocket!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  There was movement in the balcony, and a joyful voice said: \'91Right! He\'92s got it! Here, here! ... Wait! It\'92s ten-rouble bills!\'92\par \pard\plain  Those sitting in the stalls turned their heads. In the gallery a bewil- dered citizen found in his pocket a bank-wrapped packet with \'91One thou- sand roubles\'92 written on it. His neighbours hovered over him, and he, in amazement, picked at the wrapper with his fingernail, trying to find out if the bills were real or some sort of magic ones.\par \pard\plain  \'91By God, they\'92re real! Ten-rouble bills!\'92 joyful cries came from the gallery.\par \pard\plain  \'91I want to play with the same kind of deck,\'92 a fat man in the middle of the stalls requested merrily.\par \pard\plain  \'91Avec playzeer!\'92 Fagott responded. \'91But why just you? Everyone will warmly participate!\'92 And he commanded: \'91Look up, please! ... One!\'92 There was a pistol in his hand. He shouted: \'91Two!\'92 The pistol was pointed up. He shouted: \'91Three!\'92 There was a flash, a bang, and all at once, from under the cupola, bobbing between the trapezes, white strips of paper began falling into the theatre.\par \pard\plain  They twirled, got blown aside, were drawn towards the gallery, boun- ced into the orchestra and on to the stage.   In a few seconds,  the rain     of money, ever thickening, reached the seats, and the spectators began snatching at it.\par \pard\plain  Hundreds of arms were raised, the spectators held the bills up to the lighted stage and saw the most true and honest-to-God watermarks. The smell also left no doubts: it was the incomparably delightful smell of freshly printed money. The whole theatre was seized first with merriment and then with amazement. The word \'91money, money!\'92 hummed every- where, there were gasps of \'91ah, ah!\'92 and merry laughter. One or two were already crawling in the aisles, feeling under the chairs. Many stood on the seats, trying to catch the flighty, capricious notes.\par \pard\plain  Bewilderment was gradually coming to the faces of the policemen, and performers unceremoniously began sticking their heads out from the wings.\par \pard\plain  In the dress circle a voice was heard: \'91What\'92re you grabbing at? It\'92s mine, it flew to me!\'92 and another voice: \'91Don\'92t shove me, or you\'92ll get shoved back!\'92  And suddenly there came the sound of a whack.  At once  a policeman\'92s helmet appeared in the dress circle, and someone from the dress circle was led away.\par \pard\plain  The general agitation was increasing, and no one knows where it all would have ended if Fagott had not stopped the rain of money by sud- denly blowing into the air.\par \pard\plain  Two  young men, exchanging significant and merry glances, took   off\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  from their seats and made straight for the buffet.  There was a hum in  the theatre, all the spectators\'92 eyes glittered excitedly. Yes, yes, no one knows where it all would have ended if Bengalsky had not summoned his strength and acted. Trying to gain better control of himself, he rubbed his hands, as was his custom, and in his most resounding voice spoke thus:\par \pard\plain  \'91Here, citizens, you and I have just beheld a case of so-called mass hyp- nosis. A purely scientific experiment, proving in the best way possible that there are no miracles in magic. Let us ask Maestro Woland to expose this experiment for us. Presently, citizens, you will see these supposed ban- knotes disappear as suddenly as they appeared.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here he applauded, but quite alone, while a confident smile played on his face, yet in his eyes there was no such confidence, but rather an expression of entreaty.\par \pard\plain  The audience did not like Bengalsky\'92s speech. Total silence fell, which was broken by the checkered Fagott.\par \pard\plain  \'91And this is a case of so-called lying,\'92 he announced in a loud, goatish tenor. The notes, citizens, are genuine.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Bravo!\'92 a bass barked from somewhere on high.\par \pard\plain  \'91This one, incidentally,\'92 here Fagott pointed to Bengalsky, \'91annoys me.\par \pard\plain  Keeps poking his nose where nobody\'92s asked him,  spoils the se´ance with false observations! What\'92re we going to do with him?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Tear his head off!\'92 someone up in the gallery said severely.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s that you said? Eh?\'92 Fagott responded at once to this outra- geous suggestion. \'91Tear his head off? There\'92s an idea! Behemoth!\'92 he shouted to the cat. \'91Go to it! Ein, zwei, drei!!\'92\par \pard\plain  And an unheard-of thing occurred. The fur bristled on the cat\'92s back, and he gave a rending miaow. Then he compressed himself into a ball and shot like a panther straight at Bengalsky\'92s chest, and from there on to his head.\par \pard\plain  Growling, the cat sank his plump paws into the skimpy chevelure of the master of ceremonies and in two twists tore the head from the thick neck with a savage howl.\par \pard\plain  The two and a half thousand people in the theatre cried out as one.\par \pard\plain  Blood spurted in fountains from the torn neck arteries and poured over the shirt-front and tailcoat. The headless body paddled its feet somehow absurdly and sat down on the floor. Hysterical women\'92s cries came from the audience. The cat handed the head to Fagott, who lifted it up by the hair and showed it to the audience, and the head cried desperately for all the theatre to hear:\par \pard\plain  \'91A doctor!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Will you pour out such drivel in the future?\'92 Fagott asked the weeping head menacingly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Never again!\'92 croaked the head.\par \pard\plain  \'91For God\'92s sake, don\'92t torture him!\'92 a woman\'92s voice from a box seat suddenly rose above the clamour, and the magician turned in the direction of that voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91So, what then, citizens, shall we forgive him?\'92 Fagott asked, address- ing the audience.\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive him, forgive him!\'92   separate voices, mostly women\'92s,   spoke\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  first, then merged into one chorus with the men\'92s.\par \pard\plain  \'91What are your orders, Messire?\'92 Fagott asked the masked man.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, now,\'92 the latter replied pensively, \'91they\'92re people like any other people... They love money, but that has always been so... Mankind loves money, whatever it\'92s made of- leather, paper, bronze, gold. Well, they\'92re light-minded ... well, what of it ... mercy sometimes knocks at their hearts\par \pard\plain  ... ordinary people... In general, reminiscent of the former ones ... only the housing problem has corrupted them...\'92 And he ordered loudly: \'91Put the head on.\'92\par \pard\plain  The cat, aiming accurately, planted the head on the neck, and it sat exactly in its place, as if it had never gone anywhere. Above all, there was not even any scar left on the neck. The cat brushed Bengalsky\'92s tailcoat and shirt-front with his paws, and all traces of blood disappeared from them.\par \pard\plain  Fagott got the sitting Bengalsky to his feet, stuck a packet of money into his coat pocket, and sent him from the stage with the words:\par \pard\plain  \'91Buzz off, it\'92s more fun without you!\'92\par \pard\plain  Staggering and looking around senselessly, the master of ceremonies had plodded no farther than the fire post when he felt sick. He cried out pitifully:\par \pard\plain  \'91My head, my head! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Among those who rushed to him was Rimsky. The master of cere- monies wept, snatched at something in the air with his hands, and mut- tered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Give me my head, give me back my head ... Take my apartment, take my paintings, only give me back my head! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  A messenger ran for a doctor. They tried to lie Bengalsky down on a sofa in the dressing room, but he began to struggle, became violent. They had to call an ambulance. When the unfortunate master of ceremonies was taken away, Rimsky ran back to the stage and saw that new wonders were taking place on it. Ah, yes, incidentally, either then or a little earlier, the magician disappeared from the stage together with his faded armchair, and it must be said that the public took absolutely no notice of it, carried away as it was by the extraordinary things Fagott was unfolding on stage. And Fagott, having packed off the punished master of ceremonies, ad-\par \pard\plain  dressed the public thus:\par \pard\plain  \'91All righty, now that we\'92ve kicked that nuisance out, let\'92s open a ladies\'92 shop!\'92\par \pard\plain  And all at once the floor of the stage was covered with Persian carpets, huge mirrors appeared, lit by greenish tubes at the sides, and between the mirrors - display windows, and in them the merrily astonished spectators\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  saw Parisian ladies\'92 dresses of various colours and cuts. In some of the windows, that is, while in others there appeared hundreds of ladies\'92 hats, with feathers and without feathers, and - with buckles or without - hun- dreds of shoes, black, white, yellow, leather, satin, suede, with straps, with stones. Among the shoes there appeared cases of perfume, mountains of handbags of antelope hide, suede, silk, and among these, whole heaps of little elongated cases of gold metal such as usually contain lipstick.\par \pard\plain  A red-headed girl appeared from devil knows where in a black evening dress - a girl nice in all respects, had she not been marred by a queer scar on her neck - smiling a proprietary smile by the display windows.\par \pard\plain  Fagott, grinning sweetly, announced that the firm was offering per- fectly gratis an exchange of the ladies\'92 old dresses and shoes for Parisian models and Parisian shoes. The same held, he added, for the handbags and other things.\par \pard\plain  The cat began scraping with his hind paw, while his front paw per- formed the gestures appropriate to a doorman opening a door.\par \pard\plain  The girl sang out sweetly, though with some hoarseness, rolling her r\'92s, something not quite comprehensible but, judging by the women\'92s faces in the stalls, very tempting:\par \pard\plain  \'91Gueriain, Chanel, Mitsouko, Narcisse Noir, Chanel No. 5, evening gowns, cocktail dresses ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Fagott wriggled, the cat bowed, the girl opened the glass windows. \'91Welcome!\'92 yelled Fagott. \'91With no embarrassment or ceremony!\'92\par \pard\plain  The audience was excited, but as yet no one ventured on stage. Finally some brunette stood up in the tenth row of the stalls and,  smiling as if  to say it was all the same to her and she did not give a hoot, went and climbed on stage by the side stairs.\par \pard\plain  \'91Bravo!\'92 Fagott shouted. \'91Greetings to the first customer! Behemoth, a chair! Let\'92s start with the shoes, madame.\'92\par \pard\plain  The brunette sat in the chair, and Fagott at once poured a whole heap of shoes on the rug in front of her. The brunette removed her right shoe, tried a lilac one, stamped on the rug, examined the heel.\par \pard\plain  \'91They won\'92t pinch?\'92 she asked pensively. To this Fagott exclaimed with a hurt air:\par \pard\plain  \'91Come, come!\'92 and the cat miaowed resentfully.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll take this pair, m\'92sieur,\'92 the brunette said with dignity, putting on the second shoe as well.\par \pard\plain  The brunette\'92s old shoes were tossed behind a curtain, and she pro- ceeded there herself, accompanied by the red-headed girl and Fagott, who was carrying several fashionable dresses on hangers. The cat bustled about,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  helped, and for greater importance hung a measuring tape around his neck.\par \pard\plain  A minute later the brunette came from behind the curtain in such a dress that the stalls all let out a gasp. The brave woman, who had become astonishingly prettier, stopped at the mirror, moved her bare shoulders, touched the hair on her nape and, twisting, tried to peek at her back.\par \pard\plain  \'91The firm asks you to accept this as a souvenir,\'92 said Fagott, and he offered the brunette an open case with a flacon in it.\par \pard\plain  \'91Merci,\'92 the brunette said haughtily and went down the steps to the stalls. As she walked, the spectators jumped up and touched the case.\par \pard\plain  And here there came a clean breakthrough, and from all sides women marched on to the stage. Amid the general agitation of talk, chuckles and gasps, a man\'92s voice was heard: \'91I won\'92t allow it!\'92 and a woman\'92s:\par \pard\plain  \'91Despot and philistine! Don\'92t break my arm!\'92 Women disappeared be- hind the curtain, leaving their dresses there and coming out in new ones. A whole row of ladies sat on stools with gilded legs, stamping the car- pet energetically with newly shod feet. Fagott was on his knees, work- ing away with a metal shoehorn; the cat, fainting under piles of purses and shoes, plodded back and forth between the display windows and the stools; the girl with the disfigured neck appeared and disappeared, and reached the point where she started rattling away entirely in French, and, surprisingly, the women all understood her from half a word, even those who did not know a single word of French.\par \pard\plain  General amazement was aroused by a man edging his way on-stage. He announced that his wife had the flu, and he therefore asked that some- thing be sent to her through him. As proof that he was indeed married, the citizen was prepared to show his passport. The solicitous husband\'92s announcement was met with guffaws. Fagott shouted that he believed him like his own self, even without the passport, and handed the citizen two pairs of silk stockings, and the cat for his part added a little tube of lipstick.\par \pard\plain  Late-coming women tore on to the stage, and off the stage the lucky ones came pouring down in ball gowns, pyjamas with dragons, sober for- mal outfits, little hats tipped over one eyebrow.\par \pard\plain  Then Fagott announced that owing to the lateness of the hour, the shop would close in exactly one minute until the next evening, and an unbeliev- able scramble arose on-stage. Women hastily grabbed shoes without try- ing them on. One burst behind the curtain like a storm, got out of her dress there, took possession of the first thing that came to hand - a silk dressing- gown covered with huge bouquets - and managed to pick up two cases of perfume besides.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Exactly a minute later a pistol shot rang out, the mirrors disappeared, the display windows and stools dropped away, the carpet melted into air, as did the curtain. Last to disappear was the high mountain of old dresses and shoes, and the stage was again severe, empty and bare.\par \pard\plain  And it was here that a new character mixed into the affair. A pleasant, sonorous, and very insistent baritone came from box no. 2:\par \pard\plain  \'91All the same it is desirable, citizen artiste, that you expose the tech- nique of your tricks to the spectators without delay, especially the trick with the paper money. It is also desirable that the master of ceremonies return to the stage. The spectators are concerned about his fate.\'92\par \pard\plain  The baritone belonged to none other than that evening\'92s guest of hon- our, Arkady Apollonovich Sempleyarov, chairman of the Acoustics Com- mission of the Moscow theatres.\par \pard\plain  Arkady Apollonovich was in his box with two ladies: the older one dressed expensively and fashionably, the other one, young and pretty, dressed in a simpler way. The first, as was soon discovered during the drawing up of the report, was Arkady Apollonovich\'92s wife, and the sec- ond was his distant relation, a promising debutante, who had come from Saratov and was living in the apartment of Arkady Apollonovich and his wife.\par \pard\plain  \'91Pardone!\'92 Fagott replied. \'91I\'92m sorry, there\'92s nothing here to expose, it\'92s all clear.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, excuse me! The exposure is absolutely necessary. Without it your brilliant numbers will leave a painful impression. The mass of spectators demands an explanation.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The mass of spectators,\'92 the impudent clown interrupted Sempleyarov, \'91doesn\'92t seem to be saying anything. But, in consideration of your most es- teemed desire, Arkady Apollonovich, so be it - I will perform an exposure. But, to that end, will you allow me one more tiny number?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Why not?\'92 Arkady Apollonovich replied patronizingly. \'91But there must be an exposure.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Very well, very well, sir. And so, allow me to ask, where were you last evening, Arkady Apollonovich?\'92\par \pard\plain  At this inappropriate and perhaps even boorish question, Arkady Apol- lonovich\'92s countenance changed, and changed quite drastically.\par \pard\plain  \'91Last evening Arkady Apollonovich was at a meeting of the Acoustics Commission,\'92 Arkady Apollonovich\'92s wife declared very haughtily, \'91but I don\'92t understand what that has got to do with magic.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ouee, madame!\'92 Fagott agreed. \'91Naturally you don\'92t understand. As for the meeting, you are totally deluded. After driving off to the said meeting, which incidentally was not even scheduled for last night, Arkady\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Apollonovich dismissed his chauffeur at the Acoustics Commission build- ing on Clean Ponds\'92 (the whole theatre became hushed), \'91and went by bus to Yelokhovskaya Street to visit an actress from the regional itinerant the- atre, Militsa Andreevna Pokobatko, with whom he spent some four hours.\'92 \'91Aie!\'92  someone cried out painfully in the total silence.  Arkady  Apol-\par \pard\plain  lonovich\'92s young relation suddenly broke into a low and terrible laugh. \'91It\'92s all clear!\'92  she exclaimed.  \'91And I\'92ve long suspected it.  Now I  see\par \pard\plain  why that giftless thing got the role of Louisa!\'92 1\par \pard\plain  And, swinging suddenly, she struck Arkady Apollonovich on the head with her short and fat violet umbrella.\par \pard\plain  Meanwhile, the scoundrelly Fagott, alias Koroviev, was shouting: \'91Here, honourable citizens, is one case of the exposure Arkady   Apol-\par \pard\plain  lonovich so importunately insisted on!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How dare you touch Arkady Apollonovich, you vile creature?\'92 Arkady Apollonovich\'92s wife asked threateningly, rising in the box to all her gigan- tic height.\par \pard\plain  A second brief wave of satanic laughter seized the young relation. \'91Who else should dare touch him,\'92 she answered, guffawing, \'91if not me!\'92 And for the second time there came the dry, crackling sound of the umbrella bouncing off the head of Arkady Apollonovich.\par \pard\plain  \'91Police! Seize her!!\'92 Sempleyarov\'92s wife shouted in such a terrible voice that many hearts went cold.\par \pard\plain  And here the cat also leaped out to the footlights and suddenly barked in a human voice for all the theatre to hear:\par \pard\plain  \'91The  se´ance  is  over!   Maestro!   Hack  out  a  march!\'92   The  half-crazed conductor, unaware of what he was doing, waved his baton, and the or- chestra did not play, or even strike up, or even bang away at, but precisely, in the cat\'92s loathsome expression, hacked out some incredible march of an unheard-of brashness.\par \pard\plain  For a moment there was an illusion of having heard once upon a time, under southern stars, in a cafe-chantant, some barely intelligible, half- blind, but rollicking words to this march:\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  His Excellency reached the stage Of liking barnyard fowl.\par \pard\plain  He took under his patronage Three young girls and an owl!!!\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Louisa: The character Louisa Miller, from Schiller\'92s play Intrigue and Love, a fixture in the repertories of Soviet theatres.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Or maybe these were not the words at all, but there were others to the same music, extremely indecent ones. That is not the important thing, the important thing is that, after all this, something like Babel broke loose in the Variety. The police went running to Sempleyarov\'92s box, people were climbing over the barriers, there were bursts of infernal guffawing and furious shouts, drowned in the golden clash of the orchestra\'92s cymbals.\par \pard\plain  And one could see that the stage was suddenly empty, and that the hoodwinker Fagott, as well as the brazen tom-cat Behemoth, had melted into air, vanished as the magician had vanished earlier in his armchair with the faded upholstery.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 13\par \pard\plain  The Hero Enters\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  And so, the unknown man shook his finger at Ivan and whispered: \'91Shhh! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan lowered his legs from the bed and peered. Cautiously looking into the room from the balcony was a clean-shaven, dark-haired man of approximately thirty-eight, with a sharp nose, anxious eyes, and a wisp of hair hanging down on his forehead.\par \pard\plain  Having listened and made sure that Ivan was alone, the mysterious visitor took heart and stepped into the room. Here Ivan saw that the man was dressed as a patient. He was wearing long underwear, slippers on his bare feet, and a brown dressing-gown thrown over his shoulders.\par \pard\plain  The visitor winked at Ivan, hid a bunch of keys in his pocket, inquired in a whisper: \'91May I sit down?\'92 - and receiving an affirmative nod, placed himself in an armchair.\par \pard\plain  \'91How did you get here?\'92 Ivan asked in a whisper, obeying the dry finger shaken at him. \'91Aren\'92t the balcony grilles locked?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The grilles are locked,\'92 the guest agreed, \'91but Praskovya Fyodorovna, while the dearest person, is also, alas, quite absent-minded. A month ago I stole a bunch of keys from her, and so gained the opportunity of getting out on to the common balcony, which runs around the entire floor, and so of occasionally calling on a neighbour.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91If you can get out on to the balcony, you can escape. Or is it high up?\'92 Ivan was interested.\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92 the guest replied firmly, \'91I cannot escape from here, not because it\'92s high up, but because I have nowhere to escape to.\'92 And he added, after a pause: \'91So, here we sit.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Here we sit,\'92 Ivan replied, peering into the man\'92s brown and very rest- less eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes ...\'92  here the guest suddenly became alarmed, \'91but you\'92re not vio-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  144\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  lent, I hope? Because, you know, I cannot stand noise, turmoil, force, or other things like that. Especially hateful to me are people\'92s cries, whether cries of rage, suffering, or anything else. Set me at ease, tell me, you\'92re not violent?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yesterday in a restaurant I socked one type in the mug,\'92 the trans- formed poet courageously confessed.\par \pard\plain  \'91Your grounds?\'92 the guest asked sternly.\par \pard\plain  \'91No grounds, I must confess,\'92 Ivan answered, embarrassed. \'91Outrageous,\'92  the guest denounced Ivan and added:      \'91And besides,\par \pard\plain  what a way to express yourself: \'93socked in the mug\'94... It is not known precisely whether a man has a mug or a face. And, after all, it may well be a face. So, you know, using fists ... No, you should give that up, and for good.\'92\par \pard\plain  Having thus reprimanded Ivan, the guest inquired: \'91Your profession?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Poet,\'92 Ivan confessed, reluctantly for some reason. The visitor became upset.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, just my luck!\'92 he exclaimed, but at once reconsidered, apologized, and asked: \'91And what is your name?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Homeless.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh-oh ...\'92 the guest said, wincing.\par \pard\plain  \'91What, you mean you dislike my poetry?\'92 Ivan asked with curiosity. \'91I dislike it terribly.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And what have you read.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ve never read any of your poetry!\'92 the visitor exclaimed nervously. \'91Then how can you say that?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, what of it?\'92 the guest replied. \'91As if I haven\'92t read others? Or else ... maybe there\'92s some miracle? Very well, I\'92m ready to take it on faith. Is your poetry good? You tell me yourself.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Monstrous!\'92 Ivan suddenly spoke boldly and frankly. \'91Don\'92t write any more!\'92 the visitor asked beseechingly. \'91I promise and I swear!\'92 Ivan said solemnly.\par \pard\plain  The oath was sealed with a handshake, and here soft footsteps and voices were heard in the corridor.\par \pard\plain  \'91Shh!\'92 the guest whispered and, jumping out to the balcony, closed the grille behind him.\par \pard\plain  Praskovya Fyodorovna peeked in, asked Ivan how he was feeling and whether he wished to sleep in the dark or with a light.  Ivan asked her   to leave the light on, and Praskovya Fyodorovna withdrew, wishing the patient a good night. And when everything was quiet, the guest came back again.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  He informed Ivan in a whisper that there was a new arrival in room 119 - some fat man with a purple physiognomy, who kept muttering some- thing about currency in the ventilation and swearing that unclean powers were living in their place on Sadovaya.\par \pard\plain  \'91He curses Pushkin up and down and keeps shouting: \'93Kurolesov, en- core, encore!\'94 \'92 the guest said, twitching nervously. Having calmed him- self, he sat down, said: \'91Anyway, God help him,\'92 and continued his con- versation with Ivan: \'91So, how did you wind up here?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91On account of Pontius Pilate,\'92 Ivan replied, casting a glum look at the floor.\par \pard\plain  \'91What?!\'92 the guest cried, forgetting all caution, and clapped his hand over his own mouth. \'91A staggering coincidence! Tell me about it, I beg you, I beg you!\'92\par \pard\plain  Feeling trust in the unknown man for some reason, Ivan began, falter- ingly and timorously at first, then more boldly, to tell about the previous day\'92s story at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds. Yes, it was a grateful listener that Ivan Nikolaevich acquired in the person of the mysterious stealer of keys! The guest did not take Ivan for a madman, he showed great interest in what he was being told, and, as the story developed, finally became ecstatic. Time and again he interrupted Ivan with exclamations:\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, well, go on, go on, I beg you! Only, in the name of all that\'92s holy, don\'92t leave anything out!\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan left nothing out in any case, it was easier for him to tell it that way, and he gradually reached the moment when Pontius Pilate, in a white mantle with blood-red lining, came out to the balcony.\par \pard\plain  Then the visitor put his hands together prayerfully and whispered: \'91Oh, how I guessed! How I guessed it all!\'92\par \pard\plain  The listener accompanied the description of Berlioz\'92s terrible death with an enigmatic remark, while his eyes flashed with spite:\par \pard\plain  \'91I only regret that it wasn\'92t the critic Latunsky or the writer Mstislav Lavrovich instead of this Berlioz!\'92, and he cried out frenziedly but sound- lessly: \'91Go on!\'92\par \pard\plain  The cat handing money to the woman conductor amused the guest exceedingly, and he choked with quiet laughter watching as Ivan, excited by the success of his narration, quietly hopped on bent legs, portraying the cat holding the coin up next to his whiskers.\par \pard\plain  \'91And so,\'92 Ivan concluded, growing sad and melancholy after telling about the events at Griboedov\'92s, \'91I wound up here.\'92\par \pard\plain  The guest sympathetically placed a hand on the poor poet\'92s shoulder and spoke thus:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Unlucky poet! But you yourself, dear heart, are to blame for it all. You oughtn\'92t to have behaved so casually and even impertinently with him. So you\'92ve paid for it. And you must still say thank you that you got off comparatively cheaply.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But who is he, finally?\'92 Ivan asked, shaking his fists in agitation. The guest peered at Ivan and answered with a question:\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re not going to get upset? We\'92re all unreliable here... There won\'92t be any calling for the doctor, injections, or other fuss?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no!\'92 Ivan exclaimed. \'91Tell me, who is he?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Very well,\'92 the visitor replied, and he said weightily and distinctly: \'91Yesterday at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds you met Satan.\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan did not get upset, as he had promised, but even so he was greatly astounded.\par \pard\plain  \'91That can\'92t be! He doesn\'92t exist!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Good heavens! Anyone else might say that, but not you. You were apparently one of his first victims. You\'92re sitting, as you yourself under- stand, in a psychiatric clinic, yet you keep saying he doesn\'92t exist. Really, it\'92s strange!\'92\par \pard\plain  Thrown off, Ivan fell silent.\par \pard\plain  \'91As soon as you started describing him,\'92 the guest went on, \'91I began  to realize who it was that you had the pleasure of talking with yesterday. And, really, I\'92m surprised at Berlioz! Now you, of course, are a virginal person,\'92 here the guest apologized again, \'91but that one, from what I\'92ve heard about him, had after all read at least something! The very first things this professor said dispelled all my doubts. One can\'92t fail to recognize him, my friend! Though you ... again I must apologize, but I\'92m not mistaken, you are an ignorant man?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Indisputably,\'92 the unrecognizable Ivan agreed.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, so ... even the face, as you described it, the different eyes, the eyebrows! ... Forgive me, however, perhaps you\'92ve never even heard the opera Faust?\par \pard\plain  Ivan became terribly embarrassed for some reason and, his face aflame, began mumbling something about some trip to a sanatorium ... to Yalta ... \'91Well, so, so...  hardly surprising!  But Berlioz, I repeat, astounds me ...\par \pard\plain  He\'92s not only a well-read man but also a very shrewd one. Though I must say in his defence that Woland is, of course, capable of pulling the wool over the eyes of an even shrewder man.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What?!\'92 Ivan cried out in his turn. \'91Hush!\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan slapped himself roundly on the forehead with his palm and rasped:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I see, I see. He had the letter \'93W\'94 on his visiting card. Ai-yai-yai, what a thing!\'92 He lapsed into a bewildered silence for some time, peering at the moon floating outside the grille, and then spoke:\par \pard\plain  \'91So that means he might actually have been at Pontius Pilate\'92s? He was already born then? And they call me a madman!\'92 Ivan added indignantly, pointing to the door.\par \pard\plain  A bitter wrinkle appeared on the guest\'92s lips.\par \pard\plain  \'91Let\'92s look the truth in the eye.\'92 And the guest turned his face towards the nocturnal luminary racing through a cloud. \'91You and I are both mad- men, there\'92s no denying that! You see, he shocked you - and you came unhinged, since you evidently had the ground prepared for it. But what you describe undoubtedly took place in reality. But it\'92s so extraordinary that even Stravinsky, a psychiatrist of genius, did not, of course, believe you. Did he examine you?\'92 (Ivan nodded.) \'91Your interlocutor was at Pi- late\'92s, and had breakfast with Kant, and now he\'92s visiting Moscow.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But he\'92ll be up to devil knows what here! Oughtn\'92t we to catch him somehow?\'92 the former, not yet definitively quashed Ivan still raised his head, though without much confidence, in the new Ivan.\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92ve already tried, and that will do for you,\'92 the guest replied ironi- cally. \'91I don\'92t advise others to try either. And as for being up to something, rest assured, he will be! Ah, ah! But how annoying that it was you who met him and not I. Though it\'92s all burned up,  and the coals have gone   to ashes, still, I swear, for that meeting I\'92d give Praskovya Fyodorovna\'92s bunch of keys, for I have nothing else to give. I\'92m destitute.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But what do you need him for?\'92\par \pard\plain  The guest paused ruefully for a long time and twitched, but finally spoke:\par \pard\plain  \'91You see, it\'92s such a strange story, I\'92m sitting here for the same reason you are - namely, on account of Pontius Pilate.\'92 Here the guest looked around fearfully and said: The thing is that a year ago I wrote a novel about Pilate.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re a writer?\'92 the poet asked with interest.\par \pard\plain  The guest\'92s face darkened and he threatened Ivan with his fist, then said:\par \pard\plain  \'91I am a master.\'92 He grew stern and took from the pocket of his dressing- gown a completely greasy black cap with the letter \'91M\'92 embroidered on it in yellow silk. He put this cap on and showed himself to Ivan both in profile and full face, to prove that he was a master. \'91She sewed it for me with her own hands,\'92 he added mysteriously.\par \pard\plain  \'91And what is your name?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I no longer have a name,\'92 the strange guest answered with gloomy\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  disdain. \'91I renounced it, as I generally did everything in life. Let\'92s forget it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Then at least tell me about the novel,\'92 Ivan asked delicately.\par \pard\plain  \'91If you please, sir. My life, it must be said, has taken a not very ordinary course,\'92 the guest began.\par \pard\plain  ... A historian by education, he had worked until two years ago at one of the Moscow museums, and, besides that, had also done translations.\par \pard\plain  \'91From what languages?\'92 Ivan interrupted curiously.\par \pard\plain  \'91I know five languages besides my own,\'92 replied the guest, \'91English, French, German, Latin and Greek. Well, I can also read Italian a little.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, my!\'92 Ivan whispered enviously.\par \pard\plain  ... The historian had lived solitarily, had no family anywhere and al- most no acquaintances in Moscow. And, just think, one day he won a hundred thousand roubles.\par \pard\plain  \'91Imagine my astonishment,\'92 the guest in the black cap whispered, \'91when I put my hand in the basket of dirty laundry and, lo and behold, it had the same number as in the newspaper. A state bond,\'92 1 he explained, \'91they gave it to me at the museum.\'92\par \pard\plain  ... Having won a hundred thousand roubles, Ivan\'92s mysterious guest acted thus: bought books, gave up his room on Myasnitskaya ...\par \pard\plain  \'91Ohh, that accursed hole! ...\'92 he growled.\par \pard\plain  ...and rented from a builder, in a lane near the Arbat, two rooms in the basement of a little house in the garden. He left his work at the museum and began writing a novel about Pontius Pilate.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, that was a golden age!\'92 the narrator whispered, his eyes shining. \'91A completely private little apartment, plus a front hall with a sink  in\par \pard\plain  it,\'92 he underscored for some reason with special pride, \'91little windows just level with the paved walk leading from the gate. Opposite, only four steps away, near the fence, lilacs, a linden and a maple.  Ah, ah, ah!  In winter  it was very seldom that I saw someone\'92s black feet through my window and heard the snow crunching under them. And in my stove a fire was eternally blazing!\par \pard\plain  But suddenly spring came and through the dim glass I saw lilac bushes, naked at first, then dressing themselves up in green.  And it was then,  last spring, that something happened far more delightful than getting a hundred thousand roubles. \'91And that, you must agree, is a huge sum of money!\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1A state bond: Soviet citizens were \'91asked\'92 to buy state bonds at their places of work. As an incentive, lotteries would be held every so often in which certain bond numbers would win a significant amount of money. Secure places being scarce in communal living conditions, the master evidently kept his bond in his laundry basket.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s true,\'92 acknowledged the attentively listening Ivan. \'91I opened my little windows and sat in the second, quite minuscule room.\'92 The guest began measuring with his arms: \'91Here\'92s the sofa, and another sofa oppo- site, and a little table between them, with a beautiful night lamp on it, and books nearer the window, and here a small writing table, and in the first room - a huge room, one hundred and fifty square feet! - books, books and the stove. Ah, what furnishings I had! The extraordinary smell of the lilacs! And my head was getting light with fatigue, and Pilate was flying to the end...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91White mantle, red lining! I understand!\'92 Ivan exclaimed. \'91Precisely  so! Pilate was flying to the end, to the end, and I already knew that the last words of the novel would be: \'93... the fifth procurator of Judea, the equestrian Pontius Pilate\'94.  Well,  naturally,  I used to go out for a walk.  A hundred thousand is a huge sum, and I had an excellent suit. Or I\'92d  go and have dinner in some cheap restaurant. There was a wonderful restaurant on the Arbat, I don\'92t know whether it exists now.\'92 Here the guest\'92s eyes opened wide, and he went on whispering, gazing at the moon: \'91She was carrying repulsive, alarming yellow flowers in her hand. Devil knows what they\'92re called, but for some reason they\'92re the first to appear in Moscow. And these flowers stood out clearly against her black spring coat. She was carrying yellow flowers! Not a nice colour. She turned down a lane from Tverskaya and then looked back. Well, you know Tverskaya! Thousands of people were walking along Tverskaya, but I can assure you that she saw me alone, and looked not really alarmed, but even as if in pain. And I was struck not so much by her beauty as by an extraordinary loneliness in her eyes, such as no one had ever seen before! Obeying this yellow sign, I also turned down the lane and followed her. We walked along the crooked, boring lane silently, I on one side, she on the other. And, imagine, there was not a soul in the lane.  I was suffering, because  it seemed to me that it was necessary to speak to her, and I worried that I wouldn\'92t utter a single word, and she would leave, and I\'92d never see her again. And, imagine, suddenly she began to speak:\par \pard\plain  \'93Do you like my flowers?\'94\par \pard\plain  I remember clearly the sound of her voice, rather low, slightly husky, and, stupid as it is, it seemed that the echo resounded in the lane and bounced off the dirty yellow wall. I quickly crossed to her side and, com- ing up to her, answered:\par \pard\plain  \'93No!\'94\par \pard\plain  She looked at me in surprise, and I suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, understood that all my life I had loved precisely this woman! Quite a thing, eh? Of course, you\'92ll say I\'92m mad?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I won\'92t say anything,\'92 Ivan exclaimed, and added: \'91I beg you, go on!\'92 And the guest continued.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, she looked at me in surprise, and then, having looked, asked thus: \'93You generally don\'92t like flowers?\'94\par \pard\plain  It seemed to me there was hostility in her voice. I was walking be-  side her, trying to keep in step, and, to my surprise, did not feel the least constraint.\par \pard\plain  \'93No, I like flowers, but not this kind,\'94 I said. \'93Which, then?\'94\par \pard\plain  \'93I like roses.\'94\par \pard\plain  Then I regretted having said it, because she smiled guiltily and threw the flowers into the gutter. Slightly at a loss, I nevertheless picked them up and gave them to her, but she, with a smile, pushed the flowers away, and I carried them in my hand.\par \pard\plain  So we walked silently for some time, until she took the flowers from my hand and threw them to the pavement, then put her own hand in a black glove with a bell-shaped cuff under my arm, and we walked on side by side.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Go on,\'92 said Ivan, \'91and please don\'92t leave anything out!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Go on?\'92 repeated the visitor.  \'91Why,  you can guess for yourself how  it went on.\'92 He suddenly wiped an unexpected tear with his right sleeve and continued: \'91Love leaped out in front of us like a murderer in an alley leaping out of nowhere, and struck us both at once. As lightning strikes, as a Finnish knife strikes! She, by the way, insisted afterwards that it wasn\'92t so, that we had, of course, loved each other for a long, long time, without knowing each other, never having seen each other, and that she was living with a different man ... as I was, too, then ... with that, what\'92s her ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91With whom?\'92 asked Homeless.\par \pard\plain  \'91With that... well... with ...\'92 replied the guest, snapping his fingers. \'91You were married?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, yes, that\'92s why I\'92m snapping... With that... Varenka ... Manechka\par \pard\plain  ... no, Varenka ... striped dress, the museum ... Anyhow, I don\'92t remember.\par \pard\plain  Well, so she said she went out that day with yellow flowers in her hand so that I would find her at last, and that if it hadn\'92t happened, she would have poisoned herself, because her life was empty.\par \pard\plain  Yes, love struck us instantly. I knew it that same day, an hour later, when, without having noticed the city, we found ourselves by the Kremlin wall on the embankment.\par \pard\plain  We talked as if we had parted only the day before, as if we had known each other for many years. We arranged to meet the next day at the  same\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  place on the Moscow River, and we did. The May sun shone down on us. And soon, very soon, this woman became my secret wife.\par \pard\plain  She used to come to me every afternoon, but I would begin waiting for her in the morning. This waiting expressed itself in the moving around  of objects on the table. Ten minutes before, I would sit down by the little window and begin to listen for the banging of the decrepit gate. And how curious: before my meeting with her, few people came to our yard - more simply, no one came - but now it seemed to me that the whole city came flocking there.\par \pard\plain  Bang goes the gate, bang goes my heart, and, imagine, it\'92s inevitably somebody\'92s dirty boots level with my face behind the window. A knife- grinder. Now, who needs a knife-grinder in our house? To sharpen what? What knives?\par \pard\plain  She would come through the gate once, but my heart would pound no less than ten times before that, I\'92m not lying. And then, when her hour came and the hands showed noon, it even wouldn\'92t stop pounding until, almost without tapping, almost noiselessly, her shoes would come even with my window, their black suede bows held tightly by steel buckles.\par \pard\plain  Sometimes she would get mischievous, pausing at the second window and tapping the glass with her toe. That same instant I would be at the window, but the shoe would be gone, the black silk blocking the light would be gone - I\'92d go and open the door for her.\par \pard\plain  No one knew of our liaison, I assure you of that, though it never hap- pens. Her husband didn\'92t know, her acquaintances didn\'92t know. In the old house where I had that basement, people knew, of course, they saw that some woman visited me, but they didn\'92t know her name.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But who is she?\'92 asked Ivan, intrigued in the highest degree by this love story.\par \pard\plain  The guest made a gesture signifying that he would never tell that to anyone, and went on with his story.\par \pard\plain  Ivan learned that the master and the unknown woman loved each other so deeply that they became completely inseparable. Ivan could clear- ly picture to himself the two rooms in the basement of the house, where it was always twilight because of the lilacs and the fence. The worn red fur- niture, the bureau, the clock on it which struck every half hour, and books, books, from the painted floor to the sooty ceiling, and the stove.\par \pard\plain  Ivan learned that his guest and his secret wife, from the very first days of their liaison, had come to the conclusion that fate itself had thrown them together at the corner of Tverskaya and that lane, and that they had been created for each other for all time.\par \pard\plain  Ivan learned from the guest\'92s story how the lovers would spend the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  day.\par \pard\plain  She would come, and put on an apron first thing, and in the narrow front hall where stood that same sink of which the poor patient was for some reason so proud, would light the kerosene stove on the wooden ta- ble, prepare lunch, and set it out on the oval table in the first room. When the May storms came and water rushed noisily through the gateway past the near-sighted windows, threatening to flood their last refuge, the lovers would light the stove and bake potatoes in it. Steam rose from the pota- toes, the black potato skins dirtied their fingers. Laughter came from the basement, the trees in the garden after rain shed broken twigs, white clus- ters.\par \pard\plain  When the storms ended and sultry summer came, there appeared in the vase the long-awaited roses they both loved. The man who called him- self a master worked feverishly on his novel, and this novel also absorbed the unknown woman.\par \pard\plain  \'91Really, there were times when I\'92d begin to be jealous of it on account of her,\'92 the night visitor come from the moonlit balcony whispered to Ivan. Her slender fingers with sharply filed nails buried in her hair, she end- lessly reread what he had written, and after rereading it would sit sewing that very same cap. Sometimes she crouched down by the lower shelves or stood by the upper ones and wiped the hundreds of dusty spines with a cloth. She foretold fame, she urged him on, and it was then that she began to call him a master. She waited impatiently for the already promised last words about the fifth procurator of Judea, repeated aloud in a   sing-song\par \pard\plain  voice certain phrases she liked, and said that her life was in this novel.\par \pard\plain  It was finished in the month of August, was given to some unknown typist, and she typed it in five copies. And finally the hour came when he had to leave his secret refuge and go out into life.\par \pard\plain  \'91And I went out into life holding it in my hands, and then my life ended,\'92 the master whispered and drooped his head, and for a long time nodded the woeful black cap with the yellow letter \'93M\'94 on it. He contin- ued his story, but it became somewhat incoherent, one could only under- stand that some catastrophe had then befallen Ivan\'92s guest.\par \pard\plain  \'91For the first time I found myself in the world of literature, but now, when it\'92s all over and my ruin is clear, I recall it with horror!\'92 the master whispered solemnly and raised his hand. \'91Yes, he astounded me greatly, ah, how he astounded me!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who?\'92 Ivan whispered barely audibly, fearing to interrupt the agitated narrator.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, the editor, I tell you, the editor! Yes, he read it all right. He looked at me as if I had a swollen cheek, looked sidelong into the  corner,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  and even tittered in embarrassment. He crumpled the manuscript need- lessly and grunted. The questions he asked seemed crazy to me. Saving nothing about the essence of the novel, he asked me who I was, where I came from, and how long I had been writing, and why no one had heard of me before, and even asked what in my opinion was a totally idiotic question: who had given me the idea of writing a novel on such a strange theme? Finally I got sick of him and asked directly whether he would publish the novel or not. Here he started squirming, mumbled some- thing, and declared that he could not decide the question on his own, that other members of the editorial board had to acquaint themselves with my work - namely, the critics Latunsky and Ariman, and the writer Mstislav Lavrovich. 2 He asked me to come in two weeks. I came in two weeks and was received by some girl whose eyes were crossed towards her nose from constant lying.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s Lapshennikova, the editorial secretary,\'92 Ivan said with a smirk. He knew very well the world described so wrathfully by his guest. \'91Maybe,\'92 the other snapped, \'91and so from her I got my novel back,  al-\par \pard\plain  ready quite greasy and dishevelled. Trying to avoid looking me in the eye,\par \pard\plain  Lapshennikova told me that the publisher was provided with material for two years ahead, and therefore the question of printing my novel, as she put it, \'93did not arise\'94.\par \pard\plain  What do I remember after that?\'92 the master muttered, rubbing his tem- ple. \'91Yes, red petals strewn across the tide page, and also the eyes of my friend. Yes, those eyes I remember.\'92\par \pard\plain  The story of Ivan\'92s guest was becoming more confused, more filled with all sorts of reticences. He said something about slanting rain and de- spair in the basement refuge, about having gone elsewhere. He exclaimed in a whisper that he did not blame her in the least for pushing him to fight\par \pard\plain  - oh, no, he did not blame her!\par \pard\plain  Further on, as Ivan heard, something sudden and strange happened. One day our hero opened a newspaper and saw in it an article by the critic Ariman,  3  in which Ariman warned all and sundry that he,  that is,    our\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Latunsky ... Ariman ...  Lavrovich:  Russian commentators see the name Latunsky  as a fusion of the names of critics O. Litovsky and A. Orlinsky, who led the attack on \'91Bulgakovism\'92 in the mid-twenties, after the first performances of Bulgakov\'92s play Days of the Turbins. Ariman (Ahriman), name of the principle of evil in the Zoroastrian reli- gion, has also been identified by commentators with L. L. Averbakh, general secretary of RAPP (Russian Association of Proletarian Writers), one of Bulgakov\'92s fiercest opponents. And Lavrovich is thought to be V. V. Vishnevsky, who forced the withdrawal of two of Bulgakov\'92s plays from the repertory of the Moscow Art Theatre.\par \pard\plain  3An article by the critic Ariman: It was common practice in Soviet literary politics  to\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  hero, had attempted to foist into print an apology for Jesus Christ.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, I remember, I remember!\'92 Ivan cried out. \'91But I\'92ve forgotten your name!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Let\'92s leave my name out of it, I repeat, it no longer exists,\'92 replied the guest. \'91That\'92s not the point. Two days later in another newspaper, over the signature of Mstislav Lavrovich, appeared another article, in which its author recommended striking, and striking hard, at Pilatism and at the icon-dauber who had ventured to foist it (again that accursed word!) into print.\par \pard\plain  Dumbfounded by this unheard-of word \'93Pilatism\'94, I opened a third newspaper. There were two articles in it, one by Latunsky, the other signed with the initials \'93N.E.\'94 I assure you, the works of Ariman and Lavrovich could be counted as jokes compared with what Latunsky wrote. Suffice it to say that Latunsky\'92s article was entitled \'93A Militant Old Believer\'94. 4 I got so carried away reading the article about myself that I didn\'92t notice (I had forgotten to lock the door) how she came in and stood before me with a wet umbrella in her hand and wet newspapers as well. Her eyes flashed fire, her trembling hands were cold. First she rushed to kiss me, then, in  a hoarse voice, and pounding the table with her fist, she said she would poison Latunsky.\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan grunted somewhat embarrassedly, but said nothing.\par \pard\plain  \'91Joyless autumn days set in,\'92 the guest went on. \'91The monstrous failure with this novel seemed to have taken out a part of my soul. Essentially speaking, I had nothing more to do, and I lived from one meeting with her to the next. And it was at that time that something happened to me. Devil knows what, Stravinsky probably figured it out long ago. Namely, anguish came over me and certain forebodings appeared.\par \pard\plain  The articles, please note, did not cease. I laughed at the first of them. But the more of them that appeared, the more my attitude towards them changed. The second stage was one of astonishment. Some rare falsity and insecurity could be sensed literally in every line of these articles, de- spite their threatening and confident tone. I had the feeling, and I couldn\'92t get rid of it, that the authors of these articles were not saying what they wanted to say, and that their rage sprang precisely from that. And then, imagine, a third stage came - of fear. No, not fear of these articles, you un-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  mount a press campaign against a book after denying it publication. The same happened at the end of the fifties with Boris Pasternak\'92s Doctor Zhivago.\par \pard\plain  4A Militant Old Believer: The Old Believers broke with the Russian Orthodox Church\par \pard\plain  in the mid-seventeenth century, in protest against the reforms of the patriarch Nikon. The term is thus used rather loosely by Latunsky. In the mid-twenties, Bulgakov was similarly attacked as \'91a militant white guard\'92.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  derstand, but fear of other things totally unrelated to them or to the novel. Thus, for instance, I began to be afraid of the dark. In short, the stage of mental illness came. It seemed to me, especially as I was falling asleep, that some very cold and pliant octopus was stealing with its tentacles im- mediately and directly towards my heart. And I had to sleep with the light on.\par \pard\plain  My beloved changed very much (of course, I never told her about the octopus, but she could see that something was going wrong with me), she became thinner and paler, stopped laughing, and kept asking me to forgive her for having advised me to publish an excerpt. She said I should drop everything and go to the south, to the Black Sea, and spend all that was left of the hundred thousand on the trip.\par \pard\plain  She was very insistent, and to avoid an argument (something told me I was not to go to the Black Sea), I promised her that I\'92d do it one of those days. But she said she would buy me the ticket herself. Then I took out all my money - that is, about ten thousand roubles - and gave it to her.\par \pard\plain  \'93Why so much?\'94 she was surprised.\par \pard\plain  I said something or other about being afraid of thieves and asked her to keep the money until my departure. She took it, put it in her purse, began kissing me and saying that it would be easier for her to die than to leave me alone in such a state, but that she was expected, that she must bow to necessity, that she would come the next day. She begged me not to be afraid of anything.\par \pard\plain  This was at dusk, in mid-October. And she left. I lay down on the sofa and fell asleep without turning on the light. I was awakened by the feeling that the octopus was there. Groping in the dark, I barely managed to turn on the light. My pocket watch showed two o\'92clock in the morning. I was falling ill when I went to bed, and I woke up sick.  It suddenly seemed   to me that the autumn darkness would push through the glass and pour into the room, and I would drown in it as in ink. I got up a man no longer in control of himself. I cried out, the thought came to me of running to someone, even if it was my landlord upstairs. I struggled with myself like a madman. I had strength enough to get to the stove and start a fire in it. When the wood began to crackle and the stove door rattled, I seemed to feel slightly better. I dashed to the front room, turned on the light there, found a bottle of white wine, uncorked it and began drinking from the bottle. This blunted the fear somewhat - at least enough to keep me from running to me landlord - and I went back to me stove. I opened the little door, so that the heat began to burn my face and hands, and whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'93Guess that trouble has befallen me ... Come, come, come! ...\'94\par \pard\plain  But no one came.  The fire roared in the stove, rain lashed at the  win-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  dows. Then the final thing happened. I took the heavy manuscript of the novel and the draft notebooks from the desk drawer and started burning them. This was terribly hard to do, because written-on paper burns reluc- tantly.\par \pard\plain  Breaking my fingernails, I tore up the notebooks, stuck them vertically between the logs, and ruffled the pages with the poker. At times the ashes got the best of me, choking the flames, but I struggled with them, and the novel, though stubbornly resisting, was nevertheless perishing. Familiar words flashed before me, the yellow climbed steadily up the pages, but the words still showed through it. They would vanish only when the paper turned black, and I finished them off with the poker.\par \pard\plain  Just then someone began scratching quietly at the window. My heart leaped, and having stuffed the last notebook into the fire, I rushed to open the door. Brick steps led up from the basement to the door on the yard. Stumbling, I ran up to it and asked quietly:\par \pard\plain  \'93Who\'92s there?\'94\par \pard\plain  And that voice, her voice, answered: \'93It\'92s me...\'94\par \pard\plain  I don\'92t remember how I managed with the chain and hook. As soon as she stepped inside, she clung to me, trembling, all wet, her cheeks wet and her hair uncurled. I could only utter the word:\par \pard\plain  \'93You ... you? ...\'94, and my voice broke, and we ran downstairs.\par \pard\plain  She freed herself of her overcoat in the front hall, and we quickly went into the first room. With a soft cry, she pulled out of the stove with her bare hands and threw on to the floor the last of what was there, a sheaf that had caught fire from below. Smoke filled the room at once. I stamped out the fire with my feet, and she collapsed on the sofa and wept irrepressibly and convulsively.\par \pard\plain  When she calmed down, I said:\par \pard\plain  \'93I came to hate this novel, and I\'92m afraid. I\'92m ill. Frightened.\'94 She stood up and said:\par \pard\plain  \'93God, how sick you are. Why is it, why? But I\'92ll save you. I\'9211 save you. What is all this?\'94\par \pard\plain  I saw her eyes swollen with smoke and weeping, felt her cold hands stroke my forehead.\par \pard\plain  \'93I\'92ll cure you, I\'92ll cure you,\'94 she was murmuring, clutching my shoul- ders. \'93You\'92ll restore it. Why, why didn\'92t I keep a copy?\'94\par \pard\plain  She bared her teeth with rage, she said something else inarticulately. Then, compressing her lips, she began to collect and smooth out the burnt- edged pages. It was some chapter from the middle of the novel, I don\'92t remember which.  She neatly stacked the pages, wrapped them in  paper,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  tied them with a ribbon. All her actions showed that she was full of deter- mination, and that she had regained control of herself. She asked for wine and, having drunk it, spoke more calmly:\par \pard\plain  \'93This is how one pays for lying,\'94 she said, \'93and I don\'92t want to lie any more. I\'92d stay with you right now, but I\'92d rather not do it that way. I don\'92t want it to remain for ever in his memory that I ran away from him in the middle of the night. He\'92s never done me any wrong ... He was summoned unexpectedly, there was a fire at the factory. But he\'92ll be back soon. I\'92ll talk with him tomorrow morning, I\'92ll tell him that I love another man and come back to you for ever. Or maybe you don\'92t want that? Answer me.\'94\par \pard\plain  \'93Poor dear, my poor dear,\'94 I said to her.     \'93I won\'92t allow you to do it.\par \pard\plain  Things won\'92t go well for me, and I don\'92t want you to perish with me.\'94 \'93Is that the only reason?\'94 she asked, and brought her eyes dose to\par \pard\plain  mine.\par \pard\plain  \'93The only one.\'94\par \pard\plain  She became terribly animated, she dung to me, put her arms around my neck and said:\par \pard\plain  \'93I\'92m perishing with you. In the morning I\'92ll be here.\'94\par \pard\plain  And so, the last thing I remember from my life is a strip of light from my front hall, and in that strip of light an uncurled strand of hair, her beret and her eyes filled with determination. I also remember the black silhouette in the outside doorway and the white package.\par \pard\plain  \'93I\'92d see you home, but it\'92s beyond my strength to come back alone. I\'92m afraid.\'94\par \pard\plain  \'93Don\'92t be afraid. Bear with it for a few hours. Tomorrow morning I\'92ll be here.\'94\par \pard\plain  Those were her last words in my life ... Shh! ...\'92 the patient suddenly in- terrupted himself and raised a finger. \'91It\'92s a restless moonlit night tonight.\'92\par \pard\plain  He disappeared on to the balcony. Ivan heard little wheels roll down the corridor, someone sobbed or cried out weakly.\par \pard\plain  When everything grew still, the guest came back and announced that room 120 had received an occupant. Someone had been brought, and he kept asking to be given back his head. The two interlocutors fell anxiously silent, but, having calmed down, they returned to the interrupted story. The guest was just opening his mouth, but the night was indeed a restless one. There were still voices in the corridor, and the guest began to speak into Ivan\'92s ear, so softly that what he told him was known only to the poet, apart from the first phrase:\par \pard\plain  \'91A quarter of an hour after she left me, there came a knock at my win- dow ...\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  What the patient whispered into Ivan\'92s ear evidently agitated him very much. Spasms repeatedly passed over his face. Fear and rage swam and flitted in his eyes. The narrator pointed his hand somewhere in the direc- tion of the moon, which had long since left the balcony. Only when all sounds from outside ceased to reach them did the guest move away from Ivan and begin to speak more loudly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, and so in mid-January, at night, in the same coat but with the buttons torn off, 5 I was huddled with cold in my little yard. Behind me were snowdrifts that hid the lilac bushes, and before me and below - my little windows, dimly lit, covered with shades. I bent down to the first of them and listened - a gramophone was playing in my rooms. That was all I heard, but I could not see anything. I stood there a while, then went out the gate to the lane. A blizzard was frolicking in it. A dog, dashing under my feet, frightened me, and I ran away from it to the other side. The cold, and the fear that had become my constant companion, were driving me to frenzy. I had nowhere to go, and the simplest thing, of course, would have been to throw myself under a tram-car on the street where my lane came out. From far off I could see those light-filled, ice-covered boxes and hear their loathsome screeching in the frost. But, my dear neighbour, the whole thing was that fear possessed every cell of my body. And, just as I was afraid of the dog, so I was afraid of the tram-car. Yes, there is no illness in this place worse than mine, I assure you!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But you could have let her know,\'92 said Ivan, sympathizing with the poor patient. \'91Besides, she has your money. She did keep it, of course?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You needn\'92t doubt that, of course she kept it. But you evidently don\'92t understand me. Or, rather, I\'92ve lost the ability I once had for describing things. However, I\'92m not very sorry about that, since I no longer have any use for it. Before her,\'92 the guest reverently looked out at the darkness of the night, \'91there would lie a letter from a madhouse. How can one send letters from such an address ... a mental patient? ... You\'92re joking, my friend! Make her unhappy? No, I\'92m not capable of that.\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivan was unable to object to this, but the silent Ivan sympathized with the guest, he commiserated with him. And the other, from the pain of his memories, nodded his head in the black cap and spoke thus:\par \pard\plain  \'91Poor woman ... However, I have hopes that she has forgotten me ...\'92 \'91But you may recover ...\'92 Ivan said timidly.\par \pard\plain  \'91I am incurable,\'92 the guest replied calmly.     \'91When Stravinsky says he\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5In the same coat but with the buttons torn off: This laconic reference is the only indication of where the master spent those lost three months. It was customary to remove belts, shoelaces and buttons from the apparel of those \'91held for questioning\'92.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  will bring me back to life, I don\'92t believe him. He is humane and simply wants to comfort me. I don\'92t deny, however, that I\'92m much better now. Yes, so where did I leave off? Frost, those flying trams... I knew that this clinic had been opened, and set out for it on foot across the entire city.\par \pard\plain  Madness! Outside the city I probably would have frozen to death, but chance saved me. A truck had broken down, I came up to the driver, it was some three miles beyond the city limits, and to my surprise he took pity on me. The truck was coming here. And he took me along. I got away with having my left toes frostbitten. But they cured that. And now this  is\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the fourth month that I\'92ve been here. And, you know, I find it not at all bad here. One mustn\'92t make grandiose plans, dear neighbour, really! I, for instance, wanted to go all around the globe. Well, so it turns out that I\'92m not going to do it. I see only an insignificant piece of that globe. I suppose it\'92s not the very best there is on it, but, I repeat, it\'92s not so bad. Summer is coming, the ivy will twine up on to the balcony. So Praskovya Fyodorovna promises. The keys have broadened my possibilities. There\'92ll be the moon at night. Ah, it\'92s gone! Freshness. It\'92s falling past midnight. Time to go.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Tell me, what happened afterwards with Yeshua and Pilate?\'92 Ivan asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg you, I want to know.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, no, no,\'92 the guest replied with a painful twitch. \'91I cannot recall my novel without trembling. And your acquaintance from the Patriarch\'92s Ponds would do it better than I. Thank you for the conversation. Good- bye.\'92\par \pard\plain  And before Ivan could collect his senses, the grille closed with a quiet clang, and the guest vanished.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 14\par \pard\plain  Glory to the Cock!\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  His nerves gave out, as they say, and Rimsky fled to his office before they finished drawing up the report. He sat at his desk and stared with in- flamed eyes at the magic banknotes lying before him. The findirector\'92s wits were addled. A steady hum came from outside. The audience poured in streams from the Variety building into the street. Rimsky\'92s extremely sharpened hearing suddenly caught the distant trill of a policeman. That in itself never bodes anything pleasant. But when it was repeated and, to assist it, another joined in, more authoritative and prolonged, and to them was added a clearly audible guffawing and even some hooting, the find- irector understood at once that something else scandalous and vile had happened in the street. And that, however much he wanted to wave it away, it was closely connected with the repulsive se´ance presented by the black magician and his assistants.\par \pard\plain  The keen-eared findirector was not mistaken in the least. As soon as he cast a glance out the window on to Sadovaya, his face twisted, and he did not whisper but hissed:\par \pard\plain  \'91So I thought!\'92\par \pard\plain  In the bright glare of the strongest street lights he saw, just below him on the sidewalk, a lady in nothing but a shift and violet bloomers. True, there was a little hat on the lady\'92s head and an umbrella in her hands. The lady, who was in a state of utter consternation, now crouching down, now making as if to run off somewhere, was surrounded by an agitated crowd, which produced the very guffawing that had sent a shiver down the fin- director\'92s spine. Next to the lady some citizen was flitting about, trying to tear off his summer coat, and in his agitation simply unable to manage the sleeve in which his arm was stuck.\par \pard\plain  Shouts and roaring guffaws came from yet another place - namely, the left entrance - and turning his head in that direction, Grigory  Danilovich\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  162\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  saw a second lady, in pink underwear. She leaped from the street to the sidewalk, striving to hide in the hallway, but the audience pouring out blocked the way, and the poor victim other own flightiness and passion for dressing up, deceived by vile Fagott\'92s firm, dreamed of only one thing\par \pard\plain  - falling through the earth. A policeman made for the unfortunate woman, drilling the air with his whistle, and after the policeman hastened some merry young men in caps. It was they who produced the guffawing and hooting.\par \pard\plain  A skinny, moustachioed cabby flew up to the first undressed woman and dashingly reined in his bony, broken-down nag. The moustached face was grinning gleefully.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky beat himself on the head with his fist, spat, and leaped back from the window. For some time he sat at his desk listening to the street. The whistling at various points reached its highest pitch, then began to subside. The scandal, to Rimsky\'92s surprise, was somehow liquidated with unexpected swiftness.\par \pard\plain  It came time to act. He had to drink the bitter cup of responsibility. The telephones had been repaired during the third part. He had to make calls, to tell what had happened, to ask for help, lie his way out of it, heap everything on Likhodeev, cover up for himself, and so on. Pah, the devil!\par \pard\plain  Twice the upset director put his hand on the receiver, and twice he drew it back. And suddenly, in the dead silence of the office, the telephone burst out ringing by itself right in the findirector\'92s face, and he gave a start and went cold. \'91My nerves are really upset, though!\'92 he thought, and picked up the receiver. He recoiled from it instantly and turned whiter than paper. A soft but at the same time insinuating and lewd female voice whispered into the receiver:\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t call anywhere, Rimsky, it\'92ll be bad ...\'92\par \pard\plain  The receiver straight away went empty. With goose-flesh prickling on his back, the findirector hung up the telephone and for some reason turned to look at the window behind him. Through the scant and still barely greening branches of a maple, he saw the moon racing in a transparent cloud.\par \pard\plain  His eyes fixed on the branches for some reason, Rimsky went on gazing at them, and the longer he gazed, the more strongly he was gripped by fear.\par \pard\plain  With great effort, the findirector finally turned away from the moonlit window and stood up. There could no longer be any question of phone calls, and now the findirector was thinking of only one thing - getting out of the theatre as quickly as possible.\par \pard\plain  He listened:  the theatre building was silent.  Rimsky realized that  he\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  had long been the only one on the whole second floor, and a childish, irre- pressible fear came over him at this thought. He could not think without shuddering of having to walk alone now along the empty corridors and down the stairs. Feverishly he seized the hypnotist\'92s banknotes from the table, put them in his briefcase, and coughed so as to cheer himself up at least a little. The cough came out slightly hoarse, weak.\par \pard\plain  And here it seemed to him that a whiff of some putrid dankness was coming in under the office door. Shivers ran down the findirector\'92s spine. And then the clock also rang out unexpectedly and began to strike mid- night. And even its striking provoked shivers in the findirector. But his heart definitively sank when he heard the English key turning quietly in the lock. Clutching his briefcase with damp, cold hands, the findirector felt that if this scraping in the keyhole were to go on any longer, he would break down and give a piercing scream.\par \pard\plain  Finally the door yielded to someone\'92s efforts, opened, and Varenukha noiselessly entered the office. Rimsky simply sank down into the armchair where he stood, because his legs gave way. Drawing a deep breath, he smiled an ingratiating smile, as it were, and said quietly:\par \pard\plain  \'91God, you frightened me...\'92\par \pard\plain  Yes, this sudden appearance might have frightened anyone you like, and yet at the same time it was a great joy: at least one little end peeped out in this tangled affair.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, tell me quickly! Well? Well?\'92 Rimsky wheezed, grasping at this little end. \'91What does it all mean?!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me, please,\'92 the entering man replied in a hollow voice, closing the door, \'91I thought you had already left.\'92\par \pard\plain  And Varenukha, without taking his cap off, walked to the armchair and sat on the other side of the desk.\par \pard\plain  It must be said that Varenukha\'92s response was marked by a slight odd- ity which at once needled the findirector, who could compete in sensitivity with the seismograph of any of the world\'92s best stations. How could it be? Why did Varenukha come to the findirector\'92s office if he thought he was not there? He had his own office, first of all. And second, whichever en- trance to the building Varenukha had used, he would inevitably have met one of the night-watchmen, to all of whom it had been announced that Grigory Danilovich was staying late in his office. But the findirector did not spend long pondering this oddity - he had other problems.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why didn\'92t you call? What are all these shenanigans about Yalta?\'92 \'91Well, it\'92s as I was saying,\'92 the administrator replied, sucking as if   he\par \pard\plain  were troubled by a bad tooth. \'91He was found in the tavern in Pushkino.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91In Pushkino?! You mean just outside Moscow?! What about the tele- grams from Yalta?!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The devil they\'92re from Yalta! He got a telegrapher drunk in Pushkino, and the two of them started acting up, sending telegrams marked \'93Yalta\'94, among other things.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha ... aha ... Well, all right, all right...\'92 Rimsky did not say but sang out. His eyes lit up with a yellow light. In his head there formed the fes- tive picture of Styopa\'92s shameful dismissal from his job. Deliverance! The findirector\'92s long-awaited deliverance from this disaster in the person of Likhodeev! And maybe Stepan Bogdanovich would achieve something worse than dismissal... \'91The details!\'92 said Rimsky, banging the paper- weight on the desk.\par \pard\plain  And Varenukha began giving the details. As soon as he arrived where the findirector had sent him, he was received at once and given a most attentive hearing. No one, of course, even entertained the thought that Styopa could be in Yalta. Everyone agreed at once with Varenukha\'92s sug- gestion that Likhodeev was, of course, at the Yalta in Pushkino.\par \pard\plain  \'91Then where is he now?\'92 the agitated findirector interrupted the ad- ministrator.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, where else could he be?\'92 the administrator replied, grinning crookedly. \'91In a sobering-up cell, naturally!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, well. How nice!\'92\par \pard\plain  Varenukha went on with his story, and the more he told, the more vividly there unfolded before the findirector the long chain of Likhodeev\'92s boorish and outrageous acts, and every link in this chain was worse than the one before. The drunken dancing in the arms of the telegrapher on the lawn in front of the Pushkino telegraph office to the sounds of some itinerant barrel-organ was worth something! The chase after some female citizens shrieking with terror! The attempt at a fight with the barman in the Yalta itself! Scattering green onions all over the floor of the same Yalta. Smashing eight bottles of dry white Ai-Danil. Breaking the meter when the taxi-driver refused to take Styopa in his cab. Threatening to arrest the citizens who attempted to stop Styopa\'92s obnoxiousness...  In short,  black\par \pard\plain  horror!\par \pard\plain  Styopa was well known in Moscow theatre circles, and everyone knew that the man was no gift. But all the same, what the administrator was telling about him was too much even for Styopa. Yes, too much. Even much too much...\par \pard\plain  Rimsky\'92s needle-sharp glance pierced the administrator\'92s face from across the desk, and the longer the man spoke, the grimmer those eyes became.     The more lifelike and colourful the vile details with which the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  administrator furnished his story, the less the findirector believed the sto- ryteller. And when Varenukha told how Styopa had let himself go so far as to try to resist those who came to bring him back to Moscow, the find- irector already knew firmly that everything the administrator who had returned at midnight was telling him, everything, was a lie! A lie from first word to last!\par \pard\plain  Varenukha never went to Pushkino, and there was no Styopa in Push- kino.\par \pard\plain  There was no drunken telegrapher, there was no broken glass in the tavern, Styopa did not get tied up with ropes ... none of it happened.\par \pard\plain  As soon as the findirector became firmly convinced that the adminis- trator was lying to him, fear crept over his body, starting from the legs, and twice again the findirector fancied that a putrid malarial dankness was wafting across the floor. Never for a moment taking his eyes off the administrator - who squirmed somehow strangely in his armchair, trying not to get out of the blue shade of the desk lamp, and screening himself with a newspaper in some remarkable fashion from the bothersome light\par \pard\plain  - the findirector was thinking of only one thing: what did it all mean? Why was he being lied to so brazenly, in the silent and deserted build- ing, by the administrator who was so late in coming back to him? And the awareness of danger, an unknown but menacing danger, began to gnaw at Rimsky\'92s soul. Pretending to ignore Varenukha\'92s dodges and tricks with the newspaper, the findirector studied his face, now almost without lis- tening to the yarn Varenukha was spinning. There was something that seemed still more inexplicable than the calumny invented. God knows why, about adventures in Pushkino, and that something was the change in the administrator\'92s appearance and manners.\par \pard\plain  No matter how the man pulled the duck-like visor of his cap over his eyes, so as to throw a shadow on his face, no matter how he fidgeted with the newspaper, the findirector managed to make out an enormous bruise on the right side of his face just by the nose. Besides that, the normally full-blooded administrator was now pale with a chalk-like, unhealthy pal- lor, and on this stifling night his neck was for some reason wrapped in  an old striped scarf. Add to that the repulsive manner the administrator had acquired during the time of his absence of sucking and smacking, the sharp change in his voice, which had become hollow and coarse, and the furtiveness and cowardliness in his eyes, and one could boldly say that Ivan Savelyevich Varenukha had become unrecognizable.\par \pard\plain  Something else burningly troubled the findirector, but he was unable to grasp precisely what it was, however much he strained his feverish mind, however hard he peered at Varenukha.      One thing he could affirm, that\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  there was something unprecedented, unnatural in this combination of the administrator and the familiar armchair.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, we finally overpowered him, loaded him into the car,\'92 Varenukha boomed, peeking from behind the paper and covering the bruise with his hand.\par \pard\plain  Rimsky suddenly reached out and, as if mechanically, tapping his fin- gers on the table at the same time, pushed the electric-bell button with his palm and went numb. The sharp signal ought to have been heard with- out fail in the empty building. But no signal came, and the button sank lifelessly into the wood of the desk. The button was dead, the bell broken. The findirector\'92s stratagem did not escape the notice of Varenukha,\par \pard\plain  who asked, twitching, with a clearly malicious fire flickering in his eyes: \'91What are you ringing for?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Mechanically,\'92 the findirector replied hollowly, jerking his hand back, and asked in turn, in an unsteady voice: \'91What\'92s that on your face?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The car skidded, I bumped against the door-handle,\'92 Varenukha said, looking away.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s lying!\'92 the findirector exclaimed mentally. And here his eyes suddenly grew round and utterly insane, and he stared at the back of the armchair.\par \pard\plain  Behind the chair on the floor two shadows lay criss-cross, one more dense and black, the other faint and grey. The shadow of the back of the chair and of its tapering legs could be seen distinctly on the floor, but there was no shadow of Varenukha\'92s head above the back of the chair, or of the administrator\'92s legs under its legs.\par \pard\plain  \'91He casts no shadow!\'92 Rimsky cried out desperately in his mind. He broke into shivers.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha, following Rimsky\'92s insane gaze, looked furtively behind him at the back of the chair, and realized that he had been found out.\par \pard\plain  He got up from the chair (the findirector did likewise) and made one step back from the desk, clutching his briefcase in his hands.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s guessed, damn him! Always was clever,\'92 Varenukha said, grin- ning spitefully right in the findirector\'92s face, and he sprang unexpectedly from the chair to the door and quickly pushed down the catch on the lock. The findirector looked desperately behind him, as he retreated to the win- dow giving on to the garden, and in this window, flooded with moonlight, saw the face of a naked girl pressed against the glass and her naked arm reaching through the vent-pane and trying to open the lower latch. The upper one was already open.\par \pard\plain  It seemed to Rimsky that the light of the desk lamp was going out and the desk was tilting.  An icy wave engulfed Rimsky, but - fortunately  for\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  him - he got control of himself and did not fall. He had enough strength left to whisper, but not cry out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Help...\'92\par \pard\plain  Varenukha, guarding the door, hopped up and down by it, staying in air for a long time and swaying there. Waving his hooked fingers in Rim- sky\'92s direction, he hissed and smacked, winking to the girl in the window. She began to hurry, stuck her red-haired head through the vent, reached her arm down as far as she could, her nails clawing at the lower latch and shaking the frame. Her arm began to lengthen, rubber-like, and became covered with a putrid green. Finally the dead woman\'92s green fingers got hold of the latch knob, turned it, and the frame began to open. Rimsky cried out weakly, leaned against the wall, and held his briefcase in front of\par \pard\plain  him like a shield. He realized that his end had come.\par \pard\plain  The frame swung wide open, but instead of the night\'92s freshness and the fragrance of the lindens, the smell of a cellar burst into the room. The dead woman stepped on to the window-sill. Rimsky clearly saw spots of decay on her breast.\par \pard\plain  And just then the joyful, unexpected crowing of a cock came from the garden, from that low building beyond the shooting gallery where birds participating in the programme were kept. A loud, trained cock trum- peted, announcing that dawn was rolling towards Moscow from the east.\par \pard\plain  Savage fury distorted the girl\'92s face, she emitted a hoarse oath, and at the door Varenukha shrieked and dropped from the air to the floor.\par \pard\plain  The cock-crow was repeated, the girl clacked her teeth, and her red hair stood on end. With the third crowing of the cock, she turned and flew out and after her, jumping up and stretching himself horizontally in the air, looking like a flying cupid, Varenukha slowly floated over the desk and out the window.\par \pard\plain  White as snow, with not a single black hair on his head, the old man who still recently had been Rimsky rushed to the door, undid the catch, opened the door, and ran hurtling down the dark corridor.  At the turn  to the stairs, moaning with fear, he felt for the switch, and the stairway lighted up. On the stairs the shaking, trembling old man fell because he imagined that Varenukha had softly tumbled on top of him.\par \pard\plain  Having run downstairs, Rimsky saw a watchman asleep on a chair by the box office in the lobby. Rimsky stole past him on tiptoe and slipped out the main entrance. Outside he felt slightly better. He recovered his senses enough to realize, clutching his head, that his hat had stayed behind in the office.\par \pard\plain  Needless to say, he did not go back for it, but, breathless, ran across the wide street to the opposite corner by the movie theatre, near which  a\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  dull reddish light hovered. In a moment he was there. No one had time to intercept the cab.\par \pard\plain  \'91Make the Leningrad express, I\'92ll tip you well,\'92 the old man said, breath- ing heavily and clutching his heart.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m going to the garage,\'92 the driver answered hatefully and turned away.\par \pard\plain  Then Rimsky unlatched his briefcase, took out fifty roubles, and hand- ed them to the driver through the open front window.\par \pard\plain  A few moments later, the rattling car was flying like the wind down Sadovoye Ring. The passenger was tossed about on his seat, and in the fragment of mirror hanging in front of the driver, Rimsky saw now the driver\'92s happy eyes, now his own insane ones. Jumping out of the car in front of the train station, Rimsky cried to the first man he saw in a white apron with a badge:\par \pard\plain  \'91First class, single, I\'92ll pay thirty,\'92 he was pulling the banknotes from his briefcase, crumpling them, \'91no first class, get me second ... if not \'96 a hard bench!\'92\par \pard\plain  The man with the badge kept glancing up at the lighted clock face as he tore the banknotes from Rimsky\'92s hand.\par \pard\plain  Five minutes later the express train disappeared from under the glass vault of the train station and vanished clean away in the darkness. And with it vanished Rimsky.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 15\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s Dream\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  It is not difficult to guess that the fat man with the purple physiognomy who was put in room 119 of the clinic was Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy.\par \pard\plain  He got to Professor Stravinsky not at once, however, but after first visiting another place. 1 Of this other place little remained in Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s memory. He recalled only a desk, a bookcase and a sofa.\par \pard\plain  There a conversation was held with Nikanor Ivanovich, who had some sort of haze before his eyes from the rush of blood and mental agitation, but the conversation came out somehow strange, muddled, or, better to say, did not come out at all.\par \pard\plain  The very first question put to Nikanor Ivanovich was the following: \'91Are you Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the house  committee\par \pard\plain  at no.502-bis on Sadovaya Street?\'92\par \pard\plain  To this Nikanor Ivanovich, bursting into terrible laughter, replied liter- ally thus:\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m Nikanor, of course I\'92m Nikanor! But what the deuce kind of chair- man am I?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Meaning what?\'92 the question was asked with a narrowing of eyes. \'91Meaning,\'92  he replied,  \'91that if I was chairman,  I should have    deter-\par \pard\plain  mined at once that he was an unclean power! Otherwise - what is it? A cracked pince-nez, all in rags... what kind of foreigner\'92s interpreter could he be?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who are you talking about?\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich was asked.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1After first visiting another place: Noteworthy is not only the impersonality of the interrogation that follows, but the combination in the interrogating voice of menace and \'91tenderness\'92 (a word Bulgakov uses frequently in this context). The same combination will reappear in Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s dream - an extraordinary rendering of the operation of secret police within society, which also suggests the \'91theatre\'92 of Stalin\'92s trumped-up \'91show trials\'92 of the later thirties.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  170\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Koroviev!\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich cried out. \'91Got himself lodged in our apartment number fifty. Write it down - Koroviev! He must be caught at once. Write it down - the sixth entrance. He\'92s there.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Where did you get the currency?\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich was asked soul fully.\par \pard\plain  \'91As God is true, as God is almighty,\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich began, \'91he sees everything, and it serves me right. I never laid a finger on it, never even suspected what it was, this currency! God is punishing me for my iniq- uity.\'92\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich went on with feeling, now buttoning, now unbut- toning his shirt, now crossing himself. \'91I took! I took, but I took ours. Soviet money! I\'92d register people for money, I don\'92t argue, it happened. Our secretary Bedsornev is a good one, too, another good one! Frankly speaking, there\'92s nothing but thieves in the house management... But I never took currency!\'92\par \pard\plain  To the request that he stop playing the fool and tell how the dollars got into the ventilation, Nikanor Ivanovich went on his knees and swayed, opening his mouth as if he meant to swallow a section of the parquet.\par \pard\plain  \'91If you want,\'92 he mumbled, \'91I\'92ll eat dirt that I didn\'92t do it! And Ko- roviev - he\'92s the devil!\'92\par \pard\plain  All patience has its limits, and the voice at the desk was now raised, hinting to Nikanor Ivanovich that it was time he began speaking in human language.\par \pard\plain  Here the room with that same sofa resounded with Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s wild roaring, as he jumped up from his knees:\par \pard\plain  \'91There he is! There, behind the bookcase! He\'92s grinning! And his pince- nez... Hold him! Spray the room with holy water!\'92\par \pard\plain  The blood left Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s face. Trembling, he made crosses in the air, rushing to the door and back, intoned some prayer, and finally began spouting sheer gibberish.\par \pard\plain  It became perfectly clear that Nikanor Ivanovich was unfit for any con- versation. He was taken out and put in a separate room, where he calmed down somewhat and only prayed and sobbed.\par \pard\plain  They did, of course, go to Sadovaya and visit apartment no.50. But they did not find any Koroviev there, and no one in the house either knew or had seen any Koroviev. The apartment occupied by the late Berlioz, as well as by the Yalta-visiting Likhodeev, was empty, and in the study wax seals hung peacefully on the bookcases, unbroken by anyone. With that they left Sadovaya, and there also departed with them the perplexed and dispirited secretary of the house management, Bedsornev.\par \pard\plain  In the evening Nikanor Ivanovich was delivered to Stravinsky\'92s clinic.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  There he became so agitated that an injection, made according to Stra- vinsky\'92s recipe, had to be given him, and only after midnight did Nikanor Ivanovich fall asleep in room 119, every now and then emitting a heavy, painful moan.\par \pard\plain  But the longer he slept, the easier his sleep became. He stopped toss- ing and groaning, his breathing became easy and regular, and he was left alone. Then Nikanor Ivanovich was visited by a dream, at the basis of which undoubtedly lay the experience of that day. It began with Nikanor Ivanovich seeing as it were some people with golden trumpets in their hands leading him, and very solemnly, to a big lacquered door. At this door his companions played as it were a nourish for Nikanor Ivanovich, and then from the sky a resounding bass said merrily:\par \pard\plain  \'91Welcome, Nikanor Ivanovich, turn over your currency!\'92\par \pard\plain  Exceedingly astonished, Nikanor Ivanovich saw a black loudspeaker above him.\par \pard\plain  Then he found himself for some reason in a theatre house, where crys- tal chandeliers blazed under a gilded ceiling and Quinquet lamps 2 on the walls. Everything was as it ought to be in a small-sized but very costly theatre. There was a stage closed off by a velvet curtain, its dark cerise background spangled, as if with stars, with oversized gold pieces, there was a prompter\'92s box, and there was even an audience.\par \pard\plain  What surprised Nikanor Ivanovich was that this audience was all of the same sex - male - and all for some reason bearded. Besides that, it was striking that there were no seats in the theatre, and the audience was all sitting on the floor, splendidly polished and slippery.\par \pard\plain  Abashed in this new and big company, Nikanor Ivanovich, after a brief hesitation, followed the general example and sat down on the parquet Turkish-fashion, huddled between some stalwart, bearded redhead and another citizen, pale and quite overgrown. None of the sitters paid any attention to the newly arrived spectator.\par \pard\plain  Here the soft ringing of a bell was heard, the lights in the house went out, and the curtain opened to reveal a lighted stage with an armchair, a little table on which stood a golden bell, and a solid black velvet backdrop. An artiste came out from the wings in an evening jacket, smoothly shaven, his hair neatly parted, young and with very pleasant features. The audience in the house livened up, and everyone turned towards the stage.\par \pard\plain  The artiste advanced to the prompter\'92s box and rubbed his hands.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Quinquet lamps: A specially designed oil-lamp, named for its French inventor, in which the oil reservoir is higher than the wick. Like carbon arc lamps in apartment hall- ways, they were a means of saving electricity.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91All sitting?\'92 3 he asked in a soft baritone and smiled to the house. \'91Sitting, sitting,\'92 a chorus of tenors and basses answered from the house. \'91Hm ...\'92 the artiste began pensively, \'91and how you\'92re not sick of it. I just\par \pard\plain  don\'92t understand!  Everybody else is out walking around now,   enjoying\par \pard\plain  the spring sun and the warmth, and you\'92re stuck in here on the floor of   a stuffy theatre! Is the programme so interesting? Tastes differ, however,\'92 the artiste concluded philosophically.\par \pard\plain  Then he changed both the timbre of his voice and its intonation, and announced gaily and resoundingly:\par \pard\plain  \'91And now for the next number on our programme - Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of a house committee and director of a dietetic kitchen. Nikanor Ivanovich, on-stage!\'92\par \pard\plain  General applause greeted the artiste. The surprised Nikanor Ivanovich goggled his eyes, while the master of ceremonies, blocking the glare of the footlights with his hand, located him among the sitters and tenderly beckoned him on-stage with his finger. And Nikanor Ivanovich, without knowing how, found himself on-stage. Beams of coloured light struck his eyes from in front and below, which at once caused the house and the audience to sink into darkness.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, Nikanor Ivanovich, set us a good example, sir,\'92 the young artiste said soulfully, \'91turn over your currency.\'92\par \pard\plain  Silence ensued. Nikanor Ivanovich took a deep breath and quietly be- gan to speak:\par \pard\plain  \'91I swear to God that I...\'92\par \pard\plain  But before he had time to get the words out, the whole house burst into shouts of indignation. Nikanor Ivanovich got confused and fell silent.\par \pard\plain  \'91As far as I understand you,\'92 said the programme announcer, \'91you wanted to swear to God that you haven\'92t got any currency?\'92, and he gazed sympathetically at Nikanor Ivanovich.\par \pard\plain  \'91Exactly right, I haven\'92t,\'92 replied Nikanor Ivanovich.\par \pard\plain  \'91Right,\'92 responded the artiste, \'91and... excuse the indiscretion, where did the four hundred dollars that were found in the privy of the apartment of which you and your wife are the sole inhabitants come from?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Magic!\'92 someone in the dark house said with obvious irony.\par \pard\plain  \'91Exactly right - magic,\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich timidly replied, vaguely ad- dressing either the artiste or the dark house, and he explained:\par \pard\plain  \'91Unclean powers, the checkered interpreter stuck me with them.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3All sitting?: Bulgakov plays on the meanings of the Russian verb sidet: \'91to sit\'92 and also \'91to sit in prison\'92.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  And again the house raised an indignant roar. When silence came, the artiste said:\par \pard\plain  \'91See what La Fontaine fables I have to listen to! Stuck him with four hundred dollars! Now, all of you here are currency dealers, so I address you as experts: is that conceivable?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91We\'92re not currency dealers,\'92 various offended voices came from the theatre, \'91but, no, it\'92s not conceivable!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m entirely of the same mind,\'92 the artiste said firmly, \'91and let me ask you: what is it that one can be stuck with?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A baby!\'92 someone cried from the house.\par \pard\plain  \'91Absolutely correct,\'92 the programme announcer confirmed, \'91a baby, an anonymous letter, a tract, an infernal machine, anything else, but no one will stick you with four hundred dollars, for such idiots don\'92t exist in na- ture.\'92 And turning to Nikanor Ivanovich, the artiste added reproachfully and sorrowfully:\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92ve upset me, Nikanor Ivanovich, and I was counting on you. So, our number didn\'92t come off.\'92\par \pard\plain  Whistles came from the house, addressed to Nikanor Ivanovich.\par \pard\plain  \'91He\'92s a currency dealer,\'92 they shouted from the house, \'91and we inno- cent ones have to suffer for the likes of him!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t scold him,\'92 the master of ceremonies said softly, \'91he\'92ll repent.\'92 And turning to Nikanor Ivanovich, his blue eyes filled with tears, he added: \'91Well, Nikanor Ivanovich, you may go to your place.\'92\par \pard\plain  After that the artiste rang the bell and announced loudly: \'91Intermission, you blackguards!\'92\par \pard\plain  The shaken Nikanor Ivanovich, who unexpectedly for himself had be- come a participant in some sort of theatre programme, again found him- self in his place on the floor. Here he dreamed that the house was plunged in total darkness, and fiery red words leaped out on the walls:\par \pard\plain  TURN OVER YOUR  CURRENCY!\par \pard\plain  Then the curtain opened again and the master of ceremonies invited: \'91I call Sergei Gerardovich Dunchil to the stage.\'92\par \pard\plain  Dunchil turned out to be a fine-looking but rather unkempt man of about fifty.\par \pard\plain  \'91Sergei Gerardovich,\'92 the master of ceremonies addressed him, \'91you\'92ve been sitting here for a month and a half now, stubbornly refusing to turn over the currency you still have, while the country is in need of it, and you have no use for it whatsoever. And still you persist. You\'92re an intelli- gent man, you understand it all perfectly well, and yet you don\'92t want to comply with me.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  To my regret, there is nothing I can do, since I have no more currency,\'92 Dunchil calmly replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t you at least have some diamonds?\'92 asked the artiste. \'91No dia- monds either.\'92\par \pard\plain  The artiste hung his head and pondered, then clapped his hands. A middle-aged lady came out from the wings, fashionably dressed - that is, in a collarless coat and a tiny hat. The lady looked worried, but Dunchil glanced at her without moving an eyebrow.\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is this lady?\'92 the programme announcer asked Dunchil. \'91That is my wife,\'92 Dunchil replied with dignity and looked at the lady\'92s long neck with a certain repugnance.\par \pard\plain  We have troubled you, Madame Dunchil,\'92 the master of ceremonies adverted to the lady, \'91with regard to the following: we wanted to ask you, does your husband have any more currency?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He turned it all over the other time,\'92 Madame Dunchil replied ner- vously.\par \pard\plain  \'91Right,\'92 said the artiste, \'91well, then, if it\'92s so, it\'92s so. If he turned it all over, then we ought to part with Sergei Gerardovich immediately, there\'92s nothing else to do! If you wish, Sergei Gerardovich, you may leave the theatre.\'92 And the artiste made a regal gesture.\par \pard\plain  Dunchil turned calmly and with dignity, and headed for the wings. \'91Just a moment!\'92 the master of ceremonies stopped him. \'91Allow me on parting to show you one more number from our programme.\'92 And again he clapped his hands.\par \pard\plain  The black backdrop parted, and on to the stage came a young beauty in a ball gown, holding in her hands a golden tray on which lay a fat wad tied with candy-box ribbon and a diamond necklace from which blue, yellow and red fire leaped in all directions.\par \pard\plain  Dunchil took a step back and his face went pale. The house froze. \'91Eighteen thousand dollars and a necklace worth forty thousand in\par \pard\plain  gold,\'92 the artiste solemnly announced, \'91kept by Sergei Gerardovich in the city of Kharkov, in the apartment of his mistress, Ida Herkulanovna Vors, whom we have the pleasure of seeing here before us and who so kindly helped in discovering these treasures - priceless, vet useless in the hands of a private person. Many thanks, Ida Herkulanovna!\'92\par \pard\plain  The beauty smiled, flashing her teeth, and her lush eyelashes fluttered. \'91And under your so very dignified mask,\'92 the artiste adverted to Dunchil, \'91is concealed a greedy spider and an astonishing bamboozler and liar. You wore everyone out during this month and a half with your dull obstinacy. Go home now, and let the hell your wife sets up for you be your punish- ment.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Dunchil swayed and, it seems, wanted to fall down, but was held up by someone\'92s sympathetic hands. Here the front curtain dropped and con- cealed all those on-stage.\par \pard\plain  Furious applause shook the house, so much so that Nikanor Ivanovich fancied the lights were leaping in the chandeliers. When the front curtain went up, there was no one on-stage except the lone artiste. Greeted with a second burst of applause, he bowed and began to speak:\par \pard\plain  \'91In the person of this Dunchil, our programme has shown you a typi- cal ass. I did have the pleasure of saying yesterday that the concealing of currency is senseless. No one can make use of it under any circumstances, I assure you. Let\'92s take this same Dunchil. He gets a splendid salary and doesn\'92t want for anything. He has a splendid apartment, a wife and a beautiful mistress. But no, instead of living quietly and peacefully without any troubles, having turned over the currency and stones, this mercenary blockhead gets himself exposed in front of everybody, and to top it off con- tracts major family trouble. So, who\'92s going to turn over? Any volunteers? In that case, for the next number on our programme, a famous dramatic talent, the actor Kurolesov, Sawa Potapovich, especially invited here, will perform excerpts from The Covetous Knight 4 by the poet Pushkin.\'92\par \pard\plain  The promised Kurolesov was not slow in coming on stage and turned out to be a strapping and beefy man, clean-shaven, in a tailcoat and white tie.\par \pard\plain  Without any preliminaries, he concocted a gloomy face, knitted his brows, and began speaking in an unnatural voice, glancing sidelong at the golden bell:\par \pard\plain  \'91As a young scapegrace awaits a tryst with some sly strumpet...\'92 5\par \pard\plain  And Kurolesov told many bad things about himself. Nikanor Ivanovich heard Kurolesov confess that some wretched widow had gone on her knees to him, howling, in the rain, but had failed to move the actor\'92s callous heart.\par \pard\plain  Before his dream, Nikanor Ivanovich had been completely ignorant of the poet Pushkin\'92s works, but the man himself he knew perfectly well and several times a day used to say phrases like: \'91And who\'92s going to pay the rent - Pushkin?\'92  6   or \'91Then who did unscrew the bulb on the stairway    -\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4The Covetous Knight: One of Pushkin\'92s \'91little tragedies\'92, written in 1830, about the demonic and destructive fascination of gold.\par \pard\plain  5As a young scapegrace ... some sly strumpet: The first two lines of the baron\'92s opening monologue in scene two of The Covetous Knight.\par \pard\plain  6And who\'92s going to pay the rent - Pushkin?: This \'91household\'92 way of referring to Pushkin is common in Russia, showing how far the poet has entered into people\'92s everyday life, though without necessarily bringing a knowledge of his works with him.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Pushkin?\'92 or \'91So who\'92s going to buy the fuel - Pushkin?\'92\par \pard\plain  Now, having become acquainted with one of his works, Nikanor Iva- novich felt sad, imagined the woman on her knees, with her orphaned children, in the rain, and involuntarily thought: \'91What a type, though, this Kurolesov!\'92\par \pard\plain  And the latter, ever raising his voice, went on with his confession and got Nikanor Ivanovich definitively muddled, because he suddenly started addressing someone who was not on-stage, and responded for this absent one himself, calling himself now dear sir, now baron, now father, now son, now formally, and now familiarly.\par \pard\plain  Nikanor Ivanovich understood only one thing, that the actor died an evil death, crying out: \'91Keys! My keys!\'92, after which he collapsed on the floor, gasping and carefully tearing off his tie.\par \pard\plain  Having died, Kurolesov got up, brushed the dust from his trousers, bowed with a false smile, and withdrew to the accompaniment of thin applause. And the master of ceremonies began speaking thus:\par \pard\plain  \'91We have just heard The Covetous Knight wonderfully performed by Sawa Potapovich. This knight hoped that frolicking nymphs would come running to him, and that many other pleasant things in the same vein would occur. But, as you see, none of it happened, no nymphs came run- ning to him, and the muses paid him no tribute, and he raised no man- sions, but, on the contrary, ended quite badly, died of a stroke, devil take him, on his chest of currency and jewels. I warn you that the same sort of thing, if not worse, is going to happen to you if you don\'92t turn over your currency!\'92\par \pard\plain  Whether Pushkin\'92s poetry produced such an effect, or it was the pro- saic speech of the master of ceremonies, in any case a shy voice suddenly came from the house:\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll turn over my currency.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Kindly come to the stage,\'92 the master of ceremonies courteously in- vited, peering into the dark house.\par \pard\plain  On-stage appeared a short, fair-haired citizen, who, judging by his face, had not shaved in about three weeks.\par \pard\plain  \'91Beg pardon, what is your name?\'92 the master of ceremonies inquired. \'91Kanavkin, Nikolai,\'92 the man responded shyly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah! Very pleased. Citizen Kanavkin. And so? ...\'92 \'91I\'92ll turn it over,\'92 Kanavkin said quietly.\par \pard\plain  \'91How much?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A thousand dollars and twenty ten-rouble gold pieces.\'92 \'91Bravo! That\'92s all, then?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The programme announcer stared straight into Kanavkin\'92s eyes, and it even seemed to Nikanor Ivanovich that those eyes sent out rays that penetrated Kanavkin like X-rays. The house stopped breathing.\par \pard\plain  \'91I believe you!\'92 the artiste exclaimed finally and extinguished his gaze. \'91I do! These eyes are not lying! How many times have I told you that your basic error consists in underestimating the significance of the human eye. Understand that the tongue can conceal the truth, but the eyes - never! A sudden question is put to you, you don\'92t even flinch, in one second you get hold of yourself and know what you must say to conceal the truth, and you speak quite convincingly, and not a wrinkle on your face moves,  but\par \pard\plain  - alas - the truth which the question stirs up from the bottom of your soul leaps momentarily into your eyes, and it\'92s all over! They see it, and you\'92re caught!\'92\par \pard\plain  Having delivered, and with great ardour, this highly convincing speech, the artiste tenderly inquired of Kanavkin:\par \pard\plain  \'91And where is it hidden?\'92\par \pard\plain  With my aunt, Porokhovnikova, on Prechistenka.\'92 \'91Ah! That\'92s... wait... that\'92s Klavdia Ilyinishna, isn\'92t it?\'92 \'91Yes.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes! A separate little house? A little front garden opposite? Of course, I know, I know! And where did you put it there?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91In the cellar, in a candy tin...\'92 The artiste clasped his hands.\par \pard\plain  \'91Have you ever seen the like?\'92 he cried out, chagrined. \'91Why, it\'92ll get damp and mouldy there! Is it conceivable to entrust currency to such peo- ple? Eh? Sheer childishness! By God! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Kanavkin himself realized he had fouled up and was in for it, and he hung his tufty head.\par \pard\plain  \'91Money,\'92 the artiste went on, \'91must be kept in the state bank, in spe- cial dry and well-guarded rooms, and by no means in some aunt\'92s cellar, where it may, in particular, suffer damage from rats! Really, Kanavkin, for shame! You\'92re a grown-up!\'92\par \pard\plain  Kanavkin no longer knew what to do with himself, and merely picked at the lapel of his jacket with his finger.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, all right,\'92 the artiste relented, \'91let bygones be...\'92 And he suddenly added unexpectedly: \'91Ah, by the way ... so that in one ... to save a trip ... this same aunt also has some, eh?\'92\par \pard\plain  Kanavkin, never expecting such a turn of affairs, wavered, and the the- atre fell silent.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ehh, Kanavkin...\'92 the master of ceremonies said in tender reproach, \'91and here I was praising him! Look, he just went and messed it up for  no\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  reason at all! It\'92s absurd, Kanavkin! Wasn\'92t I just talking about eyes? Can\'92t we see that the aunt has got some? Well, then why do you torment us for nothing?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91She has!\'92 Kanavkin cried dashingly. \'91Bravo!\'92 cried the master of ceremonies. \'91Bravo!\'92 the house roared frightfully.\par \pard\plain  When things quieted down, the master of ceremonies congratulated Kanavkin, shook his hand, offered him a ride home to the city in a car, and told someone in the wings to go in that same car to fetch the aunt and ask her kindly to come for the programme at the women\'92s theatre.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes, I wanted to ask you,  has the aunt ever mentioned where  she hides hers?\'92 the master of ceremonies inquired, courteously offering Kanavkin a cigarette and a lighted match. As he lit up, the man grinned somehow wistfully.\par \pard\plain  \'91I believe you, I believe you,\'92 the artiste responded with a sigh. \'91Not just her nephew, the old pinchfist wouldn\'92t tell the devil himself! Well, so, we\'92ll try to awaken some human feelings in her. Maybe not all the strings have rotted in her usurious little soul. Bye-bye, Kanavkin!\'92\par \pard\plain  And the happy Kanavkin drove off. The artiste inquired whether there were any others who wished to turn over their currency, but was answered with silence.\par \pard\plain  \'91Odd birds, by God!\'92 the artiste said, shrugging, and the curtain hid him.\par \pard\plain  The lights went out, there was darkness for a while, and in it a nervous tenor was heard singing from far away:\par \pard\plain  \'91There great heaps of gold do shine, and all those heaps of gold are mine...\'92 7\par \pard\plain  Then twice the sound of subdued applause came from somewhere. \'91Some little lady in the women\'92s theatre is turning hers over,\'92 Nikanor\par \pard\plain  Ivanovich\'92s red-bearded neighbour spoke up unexpectedly, and added with a sigh: \'91Ah, if it wasn\'92t for my geese! ... I\'92ve got fighting geese in Lianozovo, my dear fellow ... they\'92ll die without me, I\'92m afraid. A fight- ing bird\'92s delicate, it needs care ... Ah, if it wasn\'92t for my geese!\par \pard\plain  ... They won\'92t surprise me with Pushkin...\'92 And again he began to sigh. Here the house lit up brightly, and Nikanor Ivanovich dreamed that cooks in white chef\'92s hats and with ladles in their hands came pouring from all the doors.  Scullions dragged in a cauldron of soup and a   stand\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  7There great heaps... of gold are mine: Lines from Hermann\'92s aria in Tchaikovsky\'92s opera The Queen of Spades, based on the story by Pushkin (the lines, however, are by Modest Tchaikovsky).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  with cut-up rye bread. The spectators livened up. The jolly cooks shuttled among the theatre buffs, ladled out bowls of soup, and distributed bread. \'91Dig in, lads,\'92 the cooks shouted, \'91and turn over your currency! What\'92s the point of sitting here? Who wants to slop up this swill! Go home, have\par \pard\plain  a good drink, a little bite, that\'92s the way!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Now, you, for instance, what\'92re you doing sitting here, old man?\'94 Nikanor Ivanovich was directly addressed by a fat cook with a   rasp-\par \pard\plain  berry-coloured neck, as he offered him a bowl in which a lone cabbage leaf floated in some liquid.\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t have any! I don\'92t! I don\'92t!\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich cried out in a terrible voice. \'91You understand, I don\'92t!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You don\'92t?\'92 the cook bellowed in a menacing bass. \'91You don\'92t?\'92 he asked in a tender woman\'92s voice. \'91You don\'92t, you don\'92t,\'92 he murmured soothingly, turning into the nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna.\par \pard\plain  She was gently shaking Nikanor Ivanovich by the shoulder as he moan- ed in his sleep. Then the cooks melted away, and the theatre with its cur- tain broke up. Through his tears, Nikanor Ivanovich made out his room in the hospital and two people in white coats, who were by no means casual cooks getting at people with their advice, but the doctor and that same Praskovya Fyodorovna, who was holding not a bowl but a little dish cov- ered with gauze, with a syringe lying on it.\par \pard\plain  \'91What is all this?\'92 Nikanor Ivanovich said bitterly, as they were giving him the injection. \'91I don\'92t have any and that\'92s that! Let Pushkin turn over his currency for them. I don\'92t have any!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, you don\'92t, you don\'92t,\'92 the kind-hearted Praskovya Fyodorovna soothed him, \'91and if you don\'92t, there\'92s no more to be said.\'92\par \pard\plain  After the injection, Nikanor Ivanovich felt better and fell asleep with- out any dreams.\par \pard\plain  But, thanks to his cries, alarm was communicated to room 120, where the patient woke up and began looking for his head, and to room 118, where the unknown master became restless and wrung his hands in an- guish, looking at the moon, remembering the last bitter autumn night of his life, a strip of light under the basement door, and uncurled hair.\par \pard\plain  From room 118, the alarm flew by way of the balcony to Ivan, and he woke up and began to weep.\par \pard\plain  But the doctor quickly calmed all these anxious, sorrowing heads, and they began to fall asleep. Ivan was the last to become oblivious, as dawn was already breaking over the river. After the medicine, which suffused his whole body, calm came like a wave and covered him. His body grew lighter, his head basked in the warm wind of reverie. He fell asleep, and the last waking thing he heard was the pre-dawn chirping of birds in  the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  woods. But they soon fell silent, and he began dreaming that the sun was already going down over Bald Mountain, and the mountain was cordoned off by a double cordon ...\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 16 The Execution\par \pard\plain  The sun was already going down over Bald Mountain, and the mountain was cordoned off by a double cordon.\par \pard\plain  The cavalry ala that had cut across the procurator\'92s path around noon came trotting up to the Hebron gate of the city. Its way had already been prepared. The infantry of the Cappadocian cohort had pushed the con- glomeration of people, mules and camels to the sides, and the ala, trot- ting and raising white columns of dust in the sky, came to an intersection where two roads met: the south road leading to Bethlehem, and the north- west road to Jaffa. The ala raced down the north-west road. The same Cappadocians were strung out along the sides of the road, and in good time had driven to the sides of it all the caravans hastening to the feast in Yershalaim. Crowds of pilgrims stood behind the Cappadocians, having abandoned their temporary striped tents, pitched right on the grass. Go- ing on for about a half-mile, the ala caught up with the second cohort of the Lightning legion and, having covered another half-mile, was the first to reach the foot of Bald Mountain. Here they dismounted. The comman- der broke the ala up into squads, and they cordoned off the whole foot of the small hill, leaving open only the way up from the Jaffa road.\par \pard\plain  After some time, the ala was joined at the hill by the second cohort, which climbed one level higher and also encircled the hill in a wreath.\par \pard\plain  Finally the century under the command of Mark Ratslayer arrived. It went stretched out in files along the sides of the road, and between these files,  convoyed by the secret guard,  the three condemned men rode in    a cart, white boards hanging around their necks with \'91robber and rebel\'92 written on each of them in two languages - Aramaic and Greek.\par \pard\plain  The cart with the condemned men was followed by others laden with freshly hewn posts with crosspieces, ropes, shovels, buckets and axes. Six executioners rode in these carts. They were followed on horseback by the\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  182\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  centurion Mark, the chief of the temple guard of Yershalaim, and that same hooded man with whom Pilate had had a momentary meeting in a dark- ened room of the palace.\par \pard\plain  A file of soldiers brought up the rear of the procession, and behind it walked about two thousand of the curious, undaunted by the infernal heat and wishing to be present at the interesting spectacle. The curious from the city were now joined by the curious from among the pilgrims, who were admitted without hindrance to the tail of the procession. Under the shrill cries of the heralds who accompanied the column and cried aloud what Pilate had cried out at around noon, the procession drew itself up Bald Mountain.\par \pard\plain  The ala admitted everyone to the second level, but the second century let only those connected with the execution go further up, and then, ma- noeuvring quickly, spread the crowd around the entire hill, so that people found themselves between the cordons of infantry above and cavalry be- low.\par \pard\plain  Now they could watch the execution through the sparse line of the infantry.\par \pard\plain  And so, more than three hours had gone by since the procession climb- ed the mountain, and the sun was already going down over Bald Moun- tain, but the heat was still unbearable, and the soldiers in both cordons suffered from it, grew weary with boredom, and cursed the three robbers in their hearts, sincerely wishing them the speediest death.\par \pard\plain  The little commander of the ala, his brow moist and the back of his white shirt dark with sweat, having placed himself at the foot of the hill by the open passage, went over to the leather bucket of the first squad every now and then, scooped handfuls of water from it, drank and wetted his turban. Somewhat relieved by that, he would step away and again begin pacing back and forth on the dusty road leading to the top. His long sword slapped against his laced leather boot. The commander wished to give his cavalrymen an example of endurance, but, pitying his soldiers, he allowed them to stick their spears pyramid-like in the ground and throw their white cloaks over them. Under these tents, the Syrians hid from the merciless sun. The buckets were quickly emptied, and cavalrymen from different squads took turns going to fetch water in the gully below the hill, where in the thin shade of spindly mulberries a muddy brook was living out its last days in the devilish heat. There, too, catching the unsteady shade, stood the bored horse-handlers, holding the quieted horses.\par \pard\plain  The weariness of the soldiers and the abuse they aimed at the robbers were understandable. The procurator\'92s apprehensions concerning the dis- orders that might occur at the time of the execution in the city of  Yersha-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  laim, so hated by him, fortunately were not borne out. And when the fourth hour of the execution came, there was, contrary to all expectations, not a single person left between the two files, the infantry above and the cavalry below.\par \pard\plain  The sun had scorched the crowd and driven it back to Yershalaim. Be- yond the file of two Roman centuries there were only two dogs that be- longed to no one knew whom and had for some reason ended up on the hill. But the heat got to them, too, and they lay down with their tongues hanging out, panting and paying no attention to the green-backed lizards, the only beings not afraid of the sun, darting among the scorching stones and some sort of big-thorned plants that crept on the ground.\par \pard\plain  No one attempted to rescue the condemned men either in Yershalaim itself, flooded with troops, or here on the cordoned-off hill, and the crowd went back to the city, for indeed there was absolutely nothing interesting in this execution, while there in the city preparations were under way for the great feast of Passover, which was to begin that evening.\par \pard\plain  The Roman infantry on the second level suffered still more than the cavalry. The only thing the centurion Ratslayer allowed his soldiers was to take off their helmets and cover their heads with white headbands dipped in water, but he kept them standing, and with their spears in their hands. He himself, in the same kind of headband, but dry, not wet, walked about not far from the group of executioners, without even taking the silver plaques with lions\'92 muzzles off his shirt, or removing his greaves, sword and knife.\par \pard\plain  The sun beat straight down on the centurion without doing him any harm, and the lions\'92 muzzles were impossible to look at - the eyes were devoured by the dazzling gleam of the silver which was as if boiling in the sun.\par \pard\plain  Ratslayer\'92s mutilated face expressed neither weariness nor displea- sure, and it seemed that the giant centurion was capable of pacing like that all day, all night and the next day - in short, for as long as necessary. Of pacing in the same way, holding his hands to the heavy belt with its bronze plaques, glancing in the same stern way now at the posts with the executed men, now at the file of soldiers, kicking aside with the toe of a shaggy boot in the same indifferent way human bones whitened by time or small flints that happened under his feet.\par \pard\plain  That man in the hood placed himself not far from the posts on a three- legged stool and sat there in complacent motionlessness, though poking the sand with a twig from time to time out of boredom.\par \pard\plain  What has been said about there not being a single person beyond the file of legionaries is not quite true.  There was one person, but he  simply\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  could not be seen by everyone. He had placed himself, not on the side where the way up the mountain was open and from where it would have been most convenient to watch the execution, but on the north side, where the slope was not gentle and accessible, but uneven, with gaps and clefts, where in a crevice, clutching at the heaven-cursed waterless soil, a sickly fig tree was trying to live.\par \pard\plain  Precisely under it, though it gave no shade, this sole spectator who was not a participant in the execution had established himself, and had sat on a stone from the very beginning, that is, for over three hours now. Yes, he had chosen not the best but the worst position for watching the execution. But still, even from there the posts could be seen, and there could also be seen, beyond the file of soldiers, the two dazzling spots on the centurion\'92s chest, and that was apparently quite enough for a man who obviously wished to remain little noticed and not be bothered by anyone.\par \pard\plain  But some four hours ago, at the start of the execution, this man had be- haved quite differently, and might have been noticed very well, which was probably why he had now changed his behaviour and secluded himself.\par \pard\plain  It was only when the procession came to the very top, beyond the file, that he had first appeared, and as an obvious latecomer at that. He was breathing hard, and did not walk but ran up the hill, pushing his way, and, seeing the file close together  before him  as before everyone  else,  made a naive attempt, pretending he did not understand the angry shouts, to break through the soldiers to the very place of execution, where the con- demned men were already being taken from the cart. For that he received a heavy blow in the chest with the butt end of a spear, and he leaped back from the soldiers, crying out not in pain but in despair. At the legionary who had dealt the blow he cast a dull glance, utterly indifferent to every- thing, like a man insensible to physical pain.\par \pard\plain  Coughing and breathless, clutching his chest, he ran around the hill, trying to find some gap in the file on the north side where he could slip through. But it was too late, the ring was closed. And the man, his face distorted with grief, was forced to renounce his attempts to break through to the carts, from which the posts had already been unloaded. These at- tempts would have led nowhere, except that he would have been seized, and to be arrested on that day by no means entered his plans.\par \pard\plain  And so he went to the side, towards the crevice, where it was quieter and nobody bothered him.\par \pard\plain  Now, sitting on the stone, this black-bearded man, his eyes festering from the sun and lack of sleep, was in anguish. First he sighed, opening his tallith, worn out in his wanderings, gone from light-blue to dirty grey, and bared his chest, which had been hurt by the spear and down    which\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ran dirty sweat; then, in unendurable pain, he raised his eyes to the sky, following the three vultures that had long been floating in great circles on high, anticipating an imminent feast; then he peered with hopeless eyes into the yellow earth, and saw on it the half-destroyed skull of a dog and lizards scurrying around it.\par \pard\plain  The man\'92s sufferings were so great that at times he began talking to himself.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, fool that I am ...\'92 he muttered, swaying on the stone in the pain  of his heart and clawing his swarthy chest with his nails. \'91Fool, senseless woman, coward! I\'92m not a man, I\'92m carrion!\'92\par \pard\plain  He would fall silent, hang his head, then, after drinking some warm water from a wooden flask, he would revive again and clutch now at the knife hidden on his chest under the tallith, now at the piece of parchment lying before him on the stone next to a stylus and a pot of ink.\par \pard\plain  On this parchment some notes had already been scribbled:\par \pard\plain  \'91The minutes run on, and I, Matthew Levi, am here on Bald Mountain, and still no death!\'92\par \pard\plain  Further:\par \pard\plain  \'91The sun is sinking, but no death.\'92\par \pard\plain  Now Matthew Levi wrote hopelessly with the sharp stylus: \'91God! Why are you angry with him? Send him death.\'92\par \pard\plain  Having written this, he sobbed tearlessly and again wounded his chest with his nails.\par \pard\plain  The reason for Levi\'92s despair lay in the terrible misfortune that had be- fallen Yeshua and him and, besides that, in the grave error that he, Levi, in his own opinion, had committed. Two days earlier, Yeshua and Levi had been in Bethphage near Yershalaim, where they had visited a cer- tain gardener who liked Yeshua\'92s preaching very much. The two visitors had spent the whole morning working in the garden, helping their host, and planned to go to Yershalaim towards evening when it cooled off. But Yeshua began to hurry for some reason, said he had urgent business in the city, and left alone around noontime. Here lay Matthew Levi\'92s first error. Why, why had he let him go alone!\par \pard\plain  Nor was Matthew Levi to go to Yershalaim that evening. He was struck by some unexpected and terrible ailment. He began to shake, his whole body was filled with fire, his teeth chattered, and he kept asking to drink all the time.\par \pard\plain  He could not go anywhere. He collapsed on a horse blanket in the gardener\'92s shed and lay there till dawn on Friday, when the illness re- leased Levi as unexpectedly as it had fallen upon him. Though he was still weak and his legs trembled, he took leave of his host and, oppressed\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  by some foreboding of disaster, went to Yershalaim. There he learned that his foreboding had not deceived him - the disaster occurred. Levi was in the crowd and heard the procurator announce the sentence.\par \pard\plain  When the condemned men were led off to the mountain, Matthew Levi ran alongside the file in the crowd of the curious, trying to let Yeshua know in some inconspicuous way that at least he, Levi, was there with him, that he had not abandoned him on his last journey, and that he was praying that death would overtake Yeshua as soon as possible. But Yeshua, who was looking into the distance towards where he was being taken, of course did not see Levi.\par \pard\plain  And then, when the procession had gone about a half-mile along the road, a simple and ingenious thought dawned on Matthew, who was be- ing jostled by the crowd just next to the file, and in his excitement he at once showered himself with curses for not having thought of it earlier. The file of soldiers was not solid, there were spaces between them. Given great dexterity and a precise calculation, one could bend down, slip be- tween two legionaries, make it to the cart and jump into it. Then Yeshua would be saved from suffering.\par \pard\plain  One instant would be enough to stab Yeshua in the back with a knife, crying to him: \'91Yeshua! I save you and go with you! I, Matthew, your faithful and only disciple!\'92\par \pard\plain  And if God granted him one more free instant, he would also have time to stab himself and avoid death on a post. This last, however, was of little interest to Levi, the former tax collector. He was indifferent to how he died. He wanted one thing, that Yeshua, who had never in his life done the least evil to anyone, should escape torture.\par \pard\plain  The plan was a very good one, but the fact of the matter was that Levi had no knife with him. Nor did he have a single piece of money.\par \pard\plain  Furious with himself, Levi got out of the crowd and ran back to the city. A single feverish thought was leaping in his burning head: how to procure a knife there in the city, in any way possible, and have time to overtake the procession.\par \pard\plain  He ran up to the city gate, manoeuvring amid the throng of caravans being sucked into the city, and saw to his left the open door of a little shop where bread was sold. Breathing hard after running down the scorched road, Levi got control of himself, entered the shop very sedately, greeted the woman behind the counter, asked her to take the top loaf from the shelf, which for some reason he liked better than the others, and when she turned around, silently and quickly took from the counter that than which there could be nothing better - a long, razor-sharp bread knife - and at once dashed out of the shop.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  A few moments later he was again on the Jaffa road. But the procession was no longer in sight. He ran. At times he had to drop down right in  the dust and lie motionless to recover his breath. And so he would lie there, to the astonishment of people riding on mules or walking on foot to Yershalaim.\par \pard\plain  He would lie listening to his heart pounding not only in his chest but in his head and ears. Having recovered his breath a little, he would jump up and continue running, but ever slower and slower. When he finally caught sight of the long procession raising dust in the distance, it was already at the foot of the hill.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, God!  ...\'92  Levi moaned, realizing that he was going to be too late.\par \pard\plain  And he was too late.\par \pard\plain  When the fourth hour of the execution had gone by, Levi\'92s torments reached their highest degree and he fell into a rage. Getting up from the stone, he flung to the ground the stolen knife - stolen in vain, as he now thought - crushed the flask with his foot, depriving himself of water, threw off his kefia, seized his thin hair, and began cursing himself.\par \pard\plain  He cursed himself, calling out meaningless words, growled and spat, abused his father and mother for bringing a fool into the world.\par \pard\plain  Seeing that curses and abuse had no effect and nothing in the sun- scorched place was changed by them, he clenched his dry fists, raised them, squinting, to the sky, to the sun that was sliding ever lower, length- ening the shadows and going to fall into the Mediterranean, and demand- ed an immediate miracle from God. He demanded that God at once send Yeshua death.\par \pard\plain  Opening his eyes, he became convinced that everything on the hill was unchanged, except that the blazing spots on the centurion\'92s chest had gone out. The sun was sending its rays into the backs of the executed men, who were facing Yershalaim. Then Levi shouted:\par \pard\plain  \'91I curse you. God!\'92\par \pard\plain  In a rasping voice he shouted that he was convinced of God\'92s injustice and did not intend to believe in him any longer.\par \pard\plain  \'91You are deaf!\'92 growled Levi. \'91If you were not deaf, you would have heard me and killed him straight away!\'92\par \pard\plain  Shutting his eyes, Levi waited for the fire that would fall from the sky and strike him instead. This did not happen, and Levi, without opening his eyes, went on shouting offensive and sarcastic things at the sky. He shouted about his total disappointment, about the existence of other gods and religions. Yes, another god would not have allowed it, he would never have allowed a man like Yeshua to be burnt by the sun on a post.\par \pard\plain  \'91I was mistaken!\'92   Levi cried in a completely hoarse voice.   \'91You    are\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  a god of evil! Or are your eyes completely clouded by smoke from the temple censers, and have your ears ceased to hear anything but the trum- peting noises of the priests? You are not an almighty god! You are a black god! I curse you, god of robbers, their soul and their protector!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here something blew into the face of the former tax collector, and something rustled under his feet. It blew once more, and then, opening his eyes, Levi saw that, either under the influence of his curses, or owing to other reasons, everything in the world was changed. The sun had dis- appeared before reaching the sea, where it sank every evening. Having swallowed it, a storm cloud was rising menacingly and inexorably against the sky in the west. Its edges were already seething with white foam, its black smoky belly was tinged with yellow. The storm cloud was growl- ing, threads of fire fell from it now and again. Down the Jaffa road, down the meagre Hinnom valley, over the tents of the pilgrims, driven by the suddenly risen wind, pillars of dust went flying.\par \pard\plain  Levi fell silent, trying to grasp whether the storm that was about to cover Yershalaim would bring any change in the fate of the unfortunate Yeshua. And straight away, looking at the threads of fire cutting up the cloud, he began to ask that lightning strike Yeshua\'92s post. Repentantly looking into the clear sky that had not yet been devoured by the cloud, and where the vultures were veering on one wing to escape the storm, Levi thought he had been insanely hasty with his curses: now God was not going to listen to him.\par \pard\plain  Turning his gaze to the foot of the hill, Levi fixed on the place where the strung-out cavalry regiment stood, and saw that considerable changes had taken place there. From above, Levi was able to distinguish very well the soldiers bustling about, pulling spears out of the ground, throwing cloaks on, the horse-handlers trotting towards the road leading black horses by their bridles. The regiment was moving off, that was clear. Spitting and shielding himself with his hand from the dust blowing in his face, Levi tried to grasp what it might mean if the cavalry was about to leave. He shifted his gaze further up and made out a little figure in a crimson mil- itary chlamys climbing towards the place of execution. And here a chill came over the heart of the former tax collector in anticipation of the joyful end.\par \pard\plain  The man climbing the mountain in the fifth hour of the robbers\'92 suf- ferings was the commander of the cohort, who had come galloping from Yershalaim accompanied by an aide. At a gesture from Ratslayer, the file of soldiers parted, and the centurion saluted the tribune. The latter, taking Ratslayer aside, whispered something to him. The centurion saluted him a second time and moved towards the group of executioners, who   were\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  sitting on stones at the foot of the posts. The tribune meanwhile directed his steps towards the one sitting on the three-legged stool, and the seated man politely rose to meet the tribune. And the tribune said something to him in a low voice, and the two went over to the posts. They were joined by the head of the temple guard.\par \pard\plain  Ratslayer, casting a squeamish sidelong glance at the dirty rags lying on the ground near the posts, rags that had recently been the criminals\'92 clothing, and which the executioners had rejected, called two of them and ordered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Follow me!\'92\par \pard\plain  From the nearest post came a hoarse, senseless song. Gestas, hanging on it, had lost his mind from the flies and sun towards the end of the third hour, and was now quietly singing something about grapes, but his head, covered with a turban, occasionally swayed all the same, and then the flies rose sluggishly from his face and settled on it again.\par \pard\plain  Dysmas, on the second post, suffered more than the other two be- cause he did not lose consciousness, and he swung his head constantly and rhythmically, right and left, so that his ears struck his shoulders.\par \pard\plain  Yeshua was more fortunate than the other two. In the very first hour, he began to have blackouts, and then he fell into oblivion, hanging his head in its unwound turban. The flies and horseflies therefore covered him completely, so that his face disappeared under the black swarming mass. In his groin, and on his belly, and in his armpits, fat horseflies sat sucking at his yellow naked body.\par \pard\plain  Obeying the gestures of the man in the hood, one of the executioners took a spear and another brought a bucket and a sponge to the post. The first executioner raised the spear and with it tapped first one, then the other of Yeshua\'92s arms, stretched out and bound with ropes to the cross- bar of the post. The body, with its protruding ribs, gave a start. The exe- cutioner passed the tip of the spear over the belly. Then Yeshua raised his head, and the flies moved off with a buzz, revealing the face of the hanged man, swollen with bites, the eyes puffy, an unrecognizable face.\par \pard\plain  Ungluing his eyelids, Ha-Nozri looked down. His eyes, usually clear, were slightly clouded.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ha-Nozri!\'92 said the executioner.\par \pard\plain  Ha-Nozri moved his swollen lips and answered in a hoarse robber\'92s voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91What do you want? Why have you come to me?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Drink!\'92 said the executioner, and a water-soaked sponge on the tip of a spear rose to Yeshua\'92s lips. Joy flashed in his eyes, he clung to the sponge and began greedily imbibing the moisture.  From the neighbouring   post\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  came the voice of Dysmas:\par \pard\plain  \'91Injustice! I\'92m a robber just like him!\'92\par \pard\plain  Dysmas strained but was unable to move, his arms being bound to the crossbar in three places with loops of rope. He drew in his belly, clawed the ends of the crossbar with his nails, kept his head turned towards Yeshua\'92s post, malice blazed in the eyes of Dysmas.\par \pard\plain  A dusty cloud covered the place, it became much darker. When the dust blew away, the centurion shouted:\par \pard\plain  \'91Silence on the second post!\'92\par \pard\plain  Dysmas fell silent. Yeshua tore himself away from the sponge, and trying to make his voice sound gentle and persuasive, but not succeeding, he begged the executioner hoarsely:\par \pard\plain  \'91Give him a drink.\'92\par \pard\plain  It was growing ever darker. The storm cloud had already poured across half the sky, aiming towards Yershalaim, boiling white clouds raced ahead of the storm cloud suffused with black moisture and fire. There was a flash and a thunderclap right over the hill. The executioner removed the sponge from the spear.\par \pard\plain  \'91Praise the magnanimous hegemon!\'92 he whispered solemnly, and gen- tly pricked Yeshua in the heart. He twitched and whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hegemon...\'92\par \pard\plain  Blood ran down his belly, his lower jaw twitched convulsively and his head dropped.\par \pard\plain  At the second thunderclap, the executioner was already giving Dysmas a drink, and with the same words:\par \pard\plain  \'91Praise the hegemon!\'92 - killed him as well.\par \pard\plain  Gestas, deprived of reason, cried out fearfully as soon as the execu- tioner came near him, but when the sponge touched his lips, he growled something and seized it with his teeth. A few seconds later his body, too, slumped as much as the ropes would allow.\par \pard\plain  The man in the hood followed the executioner and the centurion, and after him came the head of the temple guard. Stopping at the first post, the man in the hood examined the blood-covered Yeshua attentively, touched his foot with his white hand, and said to his companions:\par \pard\plain  \'91Dead.\'92\par \pard\plain  The same was repeated at the other two posts.\par \pard\plain  After that the tribune motioned to the centurion and, turning, started off the hilltop together with the head of the temple guard and the man in the hood. Semi-darkness set in, and lightning farrowed the black sky. Fire suddenly sprayed out of it, and the centurion\'92s shout: \'91Raise the cordon!\'92,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  was drowned in rumbling. The happy soldiers rushed headlong down the hill, putting on their helmets.\par \pard\plain  Darkness covered Yershalaim.\par \pard\plain  Torrents of rain poured down suddenly and caught the centuries half- way down the hill. The deluge fell so terribly that the soldiers were al- ready pursued by raging streams as they ran downhill. Soldiers slipped and fell in the sodden clay, hurrying to get to the level road, along  which\par \pard\plain  - now barely visible through the sheet of water - the thoroughly drenched cavalry was heading for Yershalaim.  A few minutes later only one   man\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  remained in the smoky brew of storm, water and fire on the hill.\par \pard\plain  Shaking the not uselessly stolen knife, falling from slippery ledges, clutching at whatever was there, sometimes crawling on his knees, he strained towards the posts. He now vanished in total darkness, now was suddenly illumined by a tremulous light.\par \pard\plain  Having made his way to the posts,  already up to his ankles in wa-  ter, he tore off his heavy water-soaked tallith, remaining just in his shirt, and clung to Yeshua\'92s feet. He cut the ropes on his shins, stepped up on the lower crossbar, embraced Yeshua and freed his arms from the upper bonds. The naked, wet body of Yeshua collapsed on Levi and brought him to the ground.\par \pard\plain  Levi wanted to heave it on to his shoulders straight away, but some thought stopped him. He left the body with its thrown-back head and outspread arms on the ground in the water, and ran, his feet slithering apart in the clayey mire, to the other posts. He cut the ropes on them as well, and the two bodies collapsed on the ground.\par \pard\plain  Several minutes passed, and all that remained on the top of the hill was these two bodies and the three empty posts. Water beat on the bodies and rolled them over.\par \pard\plain  By that time both Levi and the body of Yeshua were gone from the hilltop.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 17\par \pard\plain  An Unquiet Day\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  On Friday morning, that is, the day after the accursed se´ance, all the avail- able staff of the Variety - the bookkeeper Vassily Stepanovich Lastochkin, two accountants, three typists, both box-office girls, the messengers, ush- ers, cleaning women - in short, all those available, were not at their places doing their jobs, but were all sitting on the window-sills looking out on Sadovaya and watching what was going on by the wall of the Variety. By this wall a queue of many thousands clung in two rows, its tail reaching to Kudrinskaya Square. At the head of the line stood some two dozen scalpers well known to theatrical Moscow.\par \pard\plain  The line behaved with much agitation, attracting the notice of the citi- zens streaming past, and was occupied with the discussion of inflamma- tory tales about yesterday\'92s unprecedented se´ance of black magic.\par \pard\plain  These same tales caused the greatest consternation in the bookkeeper Vassily Stepanovich, who had not been present at the previous evening\'92s performance.\par \pard\plain  The ushers told of God knows what, among other things that after the conclusion of the famous se´ance, some female citizens went running around in the street looking quite indecent, and so on in the same vein. The modest and quiet Vassily Stepanovich merely blinked his eyes, listen- ing to the tall tales of these wonders, and decidedly did not know what to undertake, and yet something had to be undertaken, and precisely by him, because he now turned out to be the senior member of the whole Variety team.\par \pard\plain  By ten o\'92clock the line of people desiring tickets had swelled so much that rumour of it reached the police, and with astonishing swiftness de- tachments were sent, both on foot and mounted, to bring this line into some sort of order. However, in itself even an orderly snake a half-mile long presented a great temptation, and caused utter amazement in the cit-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  194\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  izens on Sadovaya.\par \pard\plain  That was outside, but inside the Variety things were also none too great. Early in the morning the telephones began to ring and went on ringing without interruption in Likhodeev\'92s office, in Rimsky\'92s office, at the bookkeeper\'92s, in the box office, and in Varenukha\'92s office.\par \pard\plain  Vassily Stepanovich at first made some answer, the box-office girl also answered, the ushers mumbled something into the telephones, but then they stopped altogether, because to questions of where Likhodeev, Vare- nukha and Rimsky were, there was decidedly no answer. At first they tried to get off by saying \'91Likhodeev\'92s at home\'92, but the reply to this was that they had called him at home, and at home they said Likhodeev was at the Variety.\par \pard\plain  An agitated lady called, started asking for Rimsky, was advised to call his wife, to which the receiver, sobbing, answered that she was his wife and that Rimsky was nowhere to be found. Some sort of nonsense was beginning.\par \pard\plain  The cleaning woman had already told everybody that when she came to the findirector\'92s office to clean, she saw the door wide open, the lights on, the window to the garden broken, the armchair lying on the floor, and no one in the office.\par \pard\plain  Shortly after ten o\'92clock, Madame Rimsky burst into the Variety. She was sobbing and wringing her hands. Vassily Stepanovich was utterly at a loss and did not know how to counsel her. Then at half past ten came the police. Their first and perfectly reasonable question was:\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s going on here, citizens? What\'92s this all about?\'92\par \pard\plain  The team stepped back, bringing forward the pale and agitated Vassily Stepanovich. He had to call things by their names and confess that the administration of the Variety in the persons of the director, the findirector and the administrator had vanished and no one knew where, that the mas- ter of ceremonies had been taken to a psychiatric hospital after yesterday\'92s se´ance, and that, to put it briefly, this se´ance yesterday had frankly been a scandalous se´ance.\par \pard\plain  The sobbing Madame Rimsky, having been calmed down as much as possible, was sent home, and the greatest interest was shown in the clean- ing woman\'92s story about the shape in which the findirector\'92s office had been found. The staff were asked to go to their places and get busy, and in a short while the investigation appeared in the Variety building, accom- panied by a sharp-eared, muscular, ash-coloured dog with extremely in- telligent eyes. The whisper spread at once among the Variety staff that the dog was none other than the famous Ace of Diamonds. And so it was. His behaviour amazed them all.  The moment Ace of Diamonds ran into   the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  findirector\'92s office, he growled, baring his monstrous yellow fangs, then crouched on his belly and, with some sort of look of anguish and at the same time of rage in his eyes, crawled towards the broken window. Over- coming his fear, he suddenly jumped up on the window-sill and, throwing back his sharp muzzle, howled savagely and angrily. He refused to leave the window, growled and twitched, and kept trying to jump out.\par \pard\plain  The dog was taken from the office and turned loose in the lobby, when- ce he walked out through the main entrance to the street and led those fol- lowing him to the cab stand. There he lost the trail he had been pursuing. After that Ace of Diamonds was taken away.\par \pard\plain  The investigation settled in Varenukha\'92s office, where they began sum- moning in turn all the Variety staff members who had witnessed yester- day\'92s events during the se´ance. It must be said that the investigation had at every step to overcome unforeseen difficulties. The thread kept snap- ping off in their hands.\par \pard\plain  There had been posters, right? Right. But during the night they had been pasted over with new ones, and now, strike me dead, there wasn\'92t   a single one to be found! And the magician himself, where had he come from? Ah, who knows! But there was a contract drawn up with him?\par \pard\plain  \'91I suppose so,\'92 the agitated Vassily Stepanovich replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91And if one was drawn up, it had to go through bookkeeping?\'92 \'91Most assuredly,\'92 responded the agitated Vassily Stepanovich. \'91Then where is it?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Not here,\'92 the bookkeeper replied, turning ever more pale and spread- ing his arms.\par \pard\plain  And indeed no trace of the contract was found in the files of the book- keeping office, nor at the findirector\'92s, nor at Likhodeev\'92s or Varenukha\'92s. And  what  was  this magician\'92s name? Vassily  Stepanovich did not know, he had not been at the se´ance yesterday.  The ushers did not know, the box-office girl wrinkled her brow,  wrinkled it, thought and   thought,\par \pard\plain  and finally said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Wo... Woland, seems like...\'92\par \pard\plain  Or maybe not Woland? Maybe not Woland. Maybe Faland.\par \pard\plain  It turned out that in the foreigners\'92 bureau they had heard precisely nothing either about any Woland, or for that matter any Faland, the magi- cian.\par \pard\plain  The messenger Karpov said that this same magician was supposedly staying in Likhodeev\'92s apartment. The apartment was, of course, visited at once - no magician was found there. Likhodeev himself was not there either.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The housekeeper Grunya was not there, and where she had gone no- body knew.\par \pard\plain  The chairman of the management, Nikanor Ivanovich, was not there, Bedsornev was not there!\par \pard\plain  Something utterly preposterous was coming out: the whole top ad- ministration had vanished, a strange, scandalous se´ance had taken place the day before, but who had produced it and at whose prompting, no one knew.\par \pard\plain  And meanwhile it was drawing towards noon, when the box office was to open. But, of course, there could be no talk of that! A huge piece of cardboard was straight away posted on the doors of the Variety reading:\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  TODAY\'92S  SHOW CANCELLED\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The line became agitated, beginning at its head, but after some agita- tion, it nevertheless began to break up, and about an hour later no trace of it remained on Sadovaya. The investigation departed to continue its work elsewhere, the staff was sent home, leaving only the watchmen, and the doors of the Variety were locked.\par \pard\plain  The bookkeeper Vassily Stepanovich had urgently to perform two tasks. First, to go to the Commission on Spectacles and Entertainment of the Lighter Type with a report on yesterday\'92s events and, second, to visit the Finspectacle sector so as to turn over yesterday\'92s receipts - 21,711 roubles. The precise and efficient Vassily Stepanovich wrapped the money in newspaper, criss-crossed it with string, put it in his briefcase, and, know- ing his instructions very well, set out, of course, not for a bus or a tram,\par \pard\plain  but for the cab stand.\par \pard\plain  The moment the drivers of the three cabs saw a passenger hurrying towards the stand with a tightly stuffed briefcase, all three left empty right under his nose, looking back at him angrily for some reason.\par \pard\plain  Struck by this circumstance, the bookkeeper stood like a post for a long time, trying to grasp what it might mean.\par \pard\plain  About three minutes later, an empty cab drove up, but the driver\'92s face twisted the moment he saw the passenger.\par \pard\plain  \'91Are you free?\'92 Vassily Stepanovich asked with a cough of surprise. \'91Show your money,\'92 the driver replied angrily, without looking at  the\par \pard\plain  passenger.\par \pard\plain  With increasing amazement, the bookkeeper, pressing the precious briefcase under his arm, pulled a ten-rouble bill from his wallet and showed it to the driver.\par \pard\plain  \'91I won\'92t go!\'92 the man said curtly.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I beg your pardon...\'92 the bookkeeper tried to begin, but the driver interrupted him.\par \pard\plain  \'91Got any threes?\'92\par \pard\plain  The completely bewildered bookkeeper took two three-rouble bills from his wallet and showed them to the driver.\par \pard\plain  \'91Get in,\'92 he shouted, and slapped down the flag of the meter so that he almost broke it. \'91Let\'92s go!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No change, is that it?\'92 the bookkeeper asked timidly.\par \pard\plain  \'91A pocket full of change!\'92 the driver bawled, and the eyes in the mirror went bloodshot. \'91It\'92s my third case today. And the same thing happened with the others, too. Some son of a bitch gives me a tenner, I give him change - four-fifty. He gets out, the scum! About five minutes later, I look: instead of a tenner, it\'92s a label from a seltzer bottle!\'92 Here the driver uttered several unprintable words. \'91Another one, beyond Zubovskaya. A tenner. I give him three roubles change. He leaves. I go to my wallet, there\'92s a bee there - zap in the finger!  Ah, you!  ...\'92  and again the driver pasted  on some unprintable words. \'91And no tenner. Yesterday, in the Variety here\'92 (unprintable words), \'91some vermin of a conjurer did a se´ance with ten-rouble bills\'92 (unprintable words)...\par \pard\plain  The bookkeeper went numb, shrank into himself, and pretended it was the first time he had heard even the word \'91Variety\'92, while thinking to him- self:\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh-oh! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Having got where he had to go, having paid satisfactorily, the book- keeper entered the building and went down the corridor towards the man- ager\'92s office, and realized on his way that he had come at the wrong time. Some sort of tumult reigned in the offices of the Spectacles Commission. A messenger girl ran past the bookkeeper, her kerchief all pushed back on her head and her eyes popping.\par \pard\plain  \'91Nothing, nothing, nothing, my dears!\'92 she shouted, addressing no one knew whom. \'91The jacket and trousers are there, but inside the jacket there\'92s nothing!\'92\par \pard\plain  She disappeared through some door, and straight away from behind it came the noise of smashing dishes. The manager of the commission\'92s first sector, whom the bookkeeper knew, ran out of the secretary\'92s room, but he was in such a state that he did not recognize the bookkeeper and disappeared without a trace.\par \pard\plain  Shaken by all this, the bookkeeper reached the secretary\'92s room, which was the anteroom to the office of the chairman of the commission, and here he was definitively dumbfounded.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  From behind the closed door of the office came a terrible voice, un- doubtedly belonging to Prokhor Petrovich, the chairman of the commis- sion.\par \pard\plain  \'91Must be scolding somebody!\'92 the consternated bookkeeper thought and, looking around, saw something else: in a leather armchair, her head thrown back, sobbing unrestrainedly, a wet handkerchief in her hand, legs stretched out into the middle of the room, lay Prokhor Petrovich\'92s personal secretary - the beautiful Anna Richardovna.\par \pard\plain  Anna Richardovna\'92s chin was all smeared with lipstick, and down her peachy cheeks black streams of sodden mascara flowed from her eye- lashes.\par \pard\plain  Seeing someone come in, Anna Richardovna jumped up, rushed to the bookkeeper, clutched the lapels of his jacket, began shaking him and shouting:\par \pard\plain  \'91Thank God! At least one brave man has been found! Everybody ran away, everybody betrayed us! Let\'92s go, let\'92s go to him, I don\'92t know what to do!\'92\par \pard\plain  And, still sobbing, she dragged the bookkeeper into the office.\par \pard\plain  Once in the office, the bookkeeper first of all dropped his briefcase, and all the thoughts in his head turned upside-down. And, it must be said, not without reason.\par \pard\plain  At a huge writing desk with a massive inkstand an empty suit sat and with a dry pen, not dipped in ink, traced on a piece of paper. The suit  was wearing a necktie, a fountain pen stuck from its pocket, but above the collar there was neither neck nor head, just as there were no hands sticking out of the sleeves. The suit was immersed in work and completely ignored the turmoil that reigned around it. Hearing someone come in, the suit leaned back and from above the collar came the voice, quite familiar to the bookkeeper, of Prokhor Petrovich:\par \pard\plain  \'91What is this? Isn\'92t it written on the door that I\'92m not receiving?\'92 The beautiful secretary shrieked and, wringing her hands, cried out:\par \pard\plain  \'91You see? You see?! He\'92s not there! He\'92s not! Bring him back, bring him back!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here someone peeked in the door of the office, gasped, and flew out. The bookkeeper felt his legs trembling and sat on the edge of a   chair,\par \pard\plain  but did not forget to pick up his briefcase. Anna Richardovna hopped around the bookkeeper, worrying his jacket, and exclaiming:\par \pard\plain  \'91I always, always stopped him when he swore by the devil! So now the devil\'92s got him!\'92 Here the beauty ran to the writing desk and in a tender, musical voice, slightly nasal from weeping, called out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Prosha! Where are you!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Who here is \'93Prosha\'94 to you?\'92 the suit inquired haughtily, sinking still deeper into the armchair.\par \pard\plain  \'91He doesn\'92t recognize me! Me he doesn\'92t! Do you understand? ...\'92 the secretary burst into sobs.\par \pard\plain  \'91I ask you not to sob in the office!\'92 the hot-tempered striped suit now said angrily, and with its sleeve it drew to itself a fresh stack of papers, with the obvious aim of appending its decision to them.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, I can\'92t look at it, I can\'92t!\'92 cried Anna Richardovna, and she ran out to the secretary\'92s room, and behind her, like a shot, flew the bookkeeper.\par \pard\plain  \'91Imagine, I\'92m sitting here,\'92 Anna Richardovna recounted, shaking with agitation, again clutching at the bookkeeper\'92s sleeve, \'91and a cat walks in. Black, big as a behemoth. Of course, I shout \'93scat\'94 to it. Out it goes, and in comes a fat fellow instead, also with a sort of cat-like mug, and says:\par \pard\plain  \'93What are you doing, citizeness, shouting \'91scat\'92 at visitors?\'94 And - whoosh - straight to Prokhor Petrovich. Of course, I run after him, shout- ing: \'93Are you out of your mind?\'94 And this brazen-face goes straight to Prokhor Petrovich and sits down opposite him in the armchair. Well, that one ... he\'92s the kindest-hearted man, but edgy. He blew up, I don\'92t deny it. An edgy man, works like an ox - he blew up. \'93Why do you barge in here unannounced?\'94 he says. And that brazen-face, imagine, sprawls in the armchair and says, smiling:\par \pard\plain  \'93I\'92ve come,\'94 he says, \'93to discuss a little business with you.\'94 Prokhor Petrovich blew up again: \'93I\'92m busy.\'94 And the other one, just think, an- swers:\par \pard\plain  \'93You\'92re not busy with anything ...\'94 Eh? Well, here, of course, Prokhor Petrovich\'92s patience ran out, and he shouted: \'93What is all this? Get him out of here, devil take me!\'94 And that one, imagine, smiles and says: \'93Devil take you? That, in fact, can be done!\'94 And - bang! Before I had time to scream, I look:  the one with the cat\'92s mug is gone, and th ...  there ...   sits\par \pard\plain  ... the suit ... Waaa! ...\'92 Stretching her mouth, which had lost all shape entirely, Anna Richardovna howled.\par \pard\plain  After choking with sobs, she caught her breath, but then began pouring out something completely incoherent:\par \pard\plain  \'91And it writes, writes, writes! You could lose your mind! Talks on the telephone! A suit! They all ran away like rabbits!\'92\par \pard\plain  The bookkeeper only stood and shook. But here fate came to his aid. Into the secretary\'92s room, with calm, business-like strides, marched the police, to the number of two men. Seeing them, the beauty sobbed still harder, jabbing towards the door of the office with her hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91Let\'92s not cry now, citizeness,\'92 the first said calmly, and the bookkeeper, feeling himself quite superfluous there, ran out of the secretary\'92s room and\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  a minute later was already in the fresh air. There was some sort of draught in his head, a soughing as in a chimney, and through this soughing he heard scraps of the stories the ushers told about yesterday\'92s cat, who had taken  part  in  the  se´ance.   \'91Oh-ho-ho!   Might  that  not  be  our  same  little puss?\'92\par \pard\plain  Having got nowhere with the commission, the conscientious Vassily Stepanovich decided to visit its affiliate, located in Vagankovsky Lane, and to calm himself a little he walked the distance to the affiliate on foot.\par \pard\plain  The affiliate for city spectacles was housed in a peeling old mansion set back from the street, and was famous for the porphyry columns in its vestibule. But it was not the columns that struck visitors to the affiliate that day, but what was going on at the foot of them.\par \pard\plain  Several visitors stood in stupefaction and stared at a weeping girl sit- ting behind a small table on which lay special literature about various spectacles, which the girl sold. At that moment, the girl was not offering any of this literature to anyone, and only waved her hand at sympathetic inquiries, while at the same time, from above, from below, from the sides, and from all sections of the affiliate poured the ringing of at least twenty overwrought telephones.\par \pard\plain  After weeping for a while, the girl suddenly gave a start and cried out hysterically:\par \pard\plain  \'91Here it comes again!\'92 and unexpectedly began singing in a tremulous soprano:\par \pard\plain  \'91Glorious sea, sacred Baikal...\'92 1\par \pard\plain  A messenger appeared on the stairs, shook his fist at someone, and began singing along with the girl in a dull, weak-voiced baritone:\par \pard\plain  \'91Glorious boat, a barrel of cisco ...\'92 2\par \pard\plain  The messenger\'92s voice was joined by distant voices, the choir began to swell, and finally the song resounded in all corners of the affiliate. In the neighbouring room no. 6, which housed the account comptroller\'92s section, one powerful, slightly husky octave stood out particularly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hey, Barguzin 3 ... make the waves rise and fall! ...\'92 bawled the mes- senger on the stairs.\par \pard\plain  Tears flowed down the girl\'92s face, she tried to clench her teeth, but her mouth opened of itself, as she sang an octave higher than the messenger:\par \pard\plain  \'91This young lad\'92s ready to frisk-o!\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Glorious sea, sacred Baikal: A prerevoludonary song about Lake Baikal, sung by con- victs at hard labour. It became popular after the revolution and remained so throughout the Soviet period.\par \pard\plain  2Cisco: A northern variety of whitefish caught in Lake Baikal.\par \pard\plain  3Barguzin: A local personification of the north-east wind.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  What struck the silent visitors to the affiliate was that the choristers, scattered in various places, sang quite harmoniously, as if the whole choir stood there with its eyes fixed on some invisible director.\par \pard\plain  Passers-by in Vagankovsky Lane stopped by the fence of the yard, wondering at the gaiety that reigned in the affiliate.\par \pard\plain  As soon as the first verse came to an end, the singing suddenly ceased, again as if to a director\'92s baton. The messenger quietly swore and disap- peared.\par \pard\plain  Here the front door opened, and in it appeared a citizen in a summer jacket, from under which protruded the skirts of a white coat, and with him a policeman.\par \pard\plain  \'91Take measures, doctor, I implore you!\'92 the girl cried hysterically.\par \pard\plain  The secretary of the affiliate ran out to the stairs and, obviously burning with shame and embarrassment, began falteringly:\par \pard\plain  \'91You see, doctor, we have a case of some sort of mass hypnosis, and so it\'92s necessary that...\'92 He did not finish the sentence, began to choke on his words, and suddenly sang out in a tenor:\par \pard\plain  \'91Shilka and Nerchinsk ...\'92 4\par \pard\plain  \'91Fool!\'92 the girl had time to shout, but, without explaining who she  was abusing, produced instead a forced roulade and herself began singing about Shilka and Nerchinsk.\par \pard\plain  \'91Get hold of yourself! Stop singing!\'92 the doctor addressed the secretary. There was every indication that the secretary would himself have given anything to stop singing, but stop singing he could not, and together with the choir he brought to the hearing of passers-by in the lane the news that \'91in the wilderness he was not touched by voracious beast, nor brought\par \pard\plain  down by bullet of shooters.\'92\par \pard\plain  The moment the verse ended, the girl was the first to receive a dose  of valerian from the doctor, who then ran after the secretary to give the others theirs.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me, dear citizeness,\'92 Vassily Stepanovich addressed the girl, \'91did a black cat pay you a visit?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What cat?\'92 the girl cried in anger. \'91An ass, it\'92s an ass we\'92ve got sitting in the affiliate!\'92 And adding to that: \'91Let him hear, I\'92ll tell everything\'92 - she indeed told what had happened.\par \pard\plain  It turned out that the manager of the city affiliate, \'91who has made a perfect mess of lightened entertainment\'92 (the girl\'92s words), suffered from\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4Shilka and Nerchinsk: Towns on the Shilka River east of Baikal, known as places of exile.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  a mania for organizing all sorts of little clubs. \'91Blew smoke in the authori- ties\'92 eyes!\'92 screamed the girl.\par \pard\plain  In the course of a year this manager had succeeded in organizing a club of Lermontov studies, 5 of chess and checkers, of ping-pong, and of horseback riding. For the summer, he was threatening to organize clubs of fresh-water canoeing and alpinism. And so today, during lunch-break, this manager comes in ...\par \pard\plain  \'91 ...with some son of a bitch on his arm,\'92 the girl went on, \'91hailing from nobody knows where, in wretched checkered trousers, a cracked pince- nez, and ... with a completely impossible mug! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  And straight away, the girl said, he recommended him to all those eat- ing in the affiliate\'92s dining room as a prominent specialist in organizing choral-singing clubs.\par \pard\plain  The faces of the future alpinists darkened, but the manager immedi- ately called on everyone to cheer up, while the specialist joked a little, laughed a little, and swore an oath that singing takes no time at all, but that, incidentally, there was a whole load of benefits to be derived from it. Well, of course, as the girl said, the first to pop up were Fanov and Kosarchuk, well-known affiliate toadies, who announced that they would sign up. Here the rest of the staff realized that there was no way around the singing, and they, too, had to sign up for the club. They decided to sing during the lunch break, since the rest of the time was taken up by Lermontov and checkers. The manager, to set an example, declared that he was a tenor,  and everything after that went as in a bad dream.       The\par \pard\plain  checkered specialist-choirmaster bawled out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Do, mi, sol, do!\'92 - dragged the most bashful from behind the book- cases, where they had tried to save themselves from singing, told Kosar- chuk he had perfect pitch, began whining, squealing, begging them to be kind to an old singing-master, tapped the tuning fork on his knuckle, be- seeched them to strike up \'91Glorious Sea\'92.\par \pard\plain  Strike up they did. And gloriously. The checkered one really knew his business. They finished the first verse. Here the director excused himself, said: \'91Back in a minute...\'92, and disappeared. They thought he would actu- ally come back in a minute. But ten minutes went by and he was not there. The staff was overjoyed - he had run away!\par \pard\plain  Then suddenly, somehow of themselves, they began the second verse. They were all led by Kosarchuk, who may not have had perfect pitch, but did have a rather pleasant high tenor.   They sang it through.     No direc-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Lermontov studies: Mikhail Lermontov (1814\'9641), lyric poet and novelist of the gen- eration following Pushkin.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  tor! They moved to their places, but had not managed to sit down when, against their will, they began to sing. To stop was impossible. After three minutes of silence, they would strike up again. Silence - strike up! Then they realized that they were in trouble. The manager locked himself in his office from shame!\par \pard\plain  Here the girl\'92s story was interrupted - the valerian had not done much good.\par \pard\plain  A quarter of an hour later, three trucks drove up to the fence in Va- gankovsky, and the entire staff of the affiliate, the manager at its head, was loaded on to them.\par \pard\plain  As soon as the first truck, after lurching in the gateway, drove out into the lane, the staff members, who were standing on the platform hold-  ing each other\'92s shoulders, opened their mouths, and the whole lane re- sounded with the popular song. The second truck picked it up, then the third. And so they drove on. Passers-by hurrying about their own busi- ness would cast only a fleeting glance at the trucks, not surprised in the least, thinking it was a group excursion to the country. And they were indeed going to the country, though not on an excursion, but to Professor Stravinsky\'92s clinic.\par \pard\plain  Half an hour later, the bookkeeper, who had lost his head completely, reached the financial sector, hoping finally to get rid of the box-office money. Having learned from experience by now, he first peeked cau- tiously into the oblong hall where, behind frosted-glass windows with gold lettering, the staff was sitting. Here the bookkeeper discovered no signs of alarm or scandal. It was quiet, as it ought to be in a decent insti- tution.\par \pard\plain  Vassily Stepanovich stuck his head through the window with \'91Cash Deposits\'92 written over it, greeted some unfamiliar clerk, and politely asked for a deposit slip.\par \pard\plain  \'91What do you need it for?\'92 the clerk in the window asked. The bookkeeper was amazed.\par \pard\plain  \'91I want to turn over some cash. I\'92m from the Variety.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91One moment,\'92 the clerk replied and instantly closed the opening in the window with a grille.\par \pard\plain  \'91Strange!...\'92 thought the bookkeeper. His amazement was perfectly natural. It was the first time in his life that he had met with such a circum- stance. Everybody knows how hard it is to get money; obstacles to it can always be found. But there had been no case in the bookkeeper\'92s thirty years of experience when anyone, either an official or a private person, had had a hard time accepting money.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  But at last the little grille moved aside, and the bookkeeper again lean- ed to the window.\par \pard\plain  \'91Do you have a lot?\'92 the clerk asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91Twenty-one thousand seven hundred and eleven roubles.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oho!\'92 the clerk answered ironically for some reason and handed the bookkeeper a green slip.\par \pard\plain  Knowing the form well, the bookkeeper instantly filled it out and be- gan to untie the string on the bundle. When he unpacked his load, every- thing swam before his eyes, he murmured something painfully.\par \pard\plain  Foreign money flitted before his eyes: there were stacks of Canadian dollars, British pounds, Dutch guldens, Latvian lats, Estonian kroons...\par \pard\plain  \'91There he is, one of those tricksters from the Variety!\'92 a menacing voice resounded over the dumbstruck bookkeeper. And straight away Vassily Stepanovich was arrested.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 18 Hapless Visitors\par \pard\plain  At the same time that the zealous bookkeeper was racing in a cab to his encounter with the self-writing suit, from first-class sleeping car no. 9 of the Kiev train, on its arrival in Moscow, there alighted, among others, a decent-looking passenger carrying a small fibreboard suitcase. This pas- senger was none other than the late Berlioz\'92s uncle, Maximilian Andree- vich Poplavsky, an industrial economist, who lived in Kiev on the for- mer Institutsky Street. The reason for Maximilian Andreevich\'92s coming to Moscow was a telegram received late in the evening two days before with the following content:\par \pard\plain  Have just been run over by tram-car at Patriarch\'92s Ponds fu- neral Friday three pm come. Berlioz.\par \pard\plain  Maximilian Andreevich was considered one of the most intelligent men in Kiev, and deservedly so. But even the most intelligent man might have been nonplussed by such a telegram. If someone sends a telegram say- ing he has been run over, it is clear that he has not died of it. But then, what was this about a funeral? Or was he in a bad way and foreseeing death? That was possible, but such precision was in the highest degree strange: how could he know he would be buried on Friday at three pm? An astonishing telegram!\par \pard\plain  However, intelligence is granted to intelligent people so as to sort out entangled affairs. Very simple. A mistake had been made, and the mes- sage had been distorted. The word \'91have\'92 had undoubtedly come there from some other telegram in place of the word \'91Berlioz\'92, which got moved and wound up at the end of the telegram. With such an emendation, the meaning of the telegram became clear, though, of course, tragic.\par \pard\plain  When the outburst of grief that struck Maximilian Andreevich\'92s wife subsided, he at once started preparing to go to Moscow.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  206\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  One secret about Maximilian Andreevich ought to be revealed. There is no arguing that he felt sorry for his wife\'92s nephew, who had died in  the bloom of life. But, of course, being a practical man, he realized that there was no special need for his presence at the funeral. And nevertheless Maximilian Andreevich was in great haste to go to Moscow. What was the point? The point was the apartment. An apartment in Moscow is a serious thing! For some unknown reason, Maximilian Andreevich did not like Kiev, 1 and the thought of moving to Moscow had been gnawing at him so much lately that he had even begun to sleep badly.\par \pard\plain  He did not rejoice in the spring flooding of the Dnieper, when, over- flowing the islands by the lower bank, the water merged with the horizon. He did not rejoice in the staggeringly beautiful view which opened out from the foot of the monument to Prince Vladimir. He did not take de- light in patches of sunlight playing in springtime on the brick paths of Vladimir\'92s Hill. He wanted none of it, he wanted only one thing - to move to Moscow.\par \pard\plain  Advertising in the newspapers about exchanging an apartment on In- stitutsky Street in Kiev for smaller quarters in Moscow brought no results. No takers were found, or if they occasionally were, their offers were disin- genuous.\par \pard\plain  The telegram staggered Maximilian Andreevich. This was a moment it would be sinful to let slip. Practical people know that such moments do not come twice.\par \pard\plain  In short, despite all obstacles, he had to succeed in inheriting his nep- hew\'92s apartment on Sadovaya. Yes, it was difficult, very difficult, but these difficulties had to be overcome at whatever cost. The experienced Maxim- ilian Andreevich knew that the first and necessary step towards that had to be the following: he must get himself registered, at least temporarily, as the tenant of his late nephew\'92s three rooms.\par \pard\plain  On Friday afternoon, Maximilian Andreevich walked through the door of the room which housed the management of no.502-bis on Sadovava Street in Moscow.\par \pard\plain  In the narrow room, with an old poster hanging on the wall illustrating in several pictures the ways of resuscitating people who have drowned in the river, an unshaven, middle-aged man with anxious eyes sat in perfect solitude at a wooden table.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Maximilian Andreevich did not like Kiev: Bulgakov, however, loved Kiev, his birth- place, as the descriptions of the city and of Vladimir\'92s Hill here and in The White Guard make clear. Prince Vladimir (or St Vladimir), grand prince of Kievan Rus, gave firm foundations to the first Russian state and in 988 converted his people to Christianity.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91May I see the chairman?\'92 the industrial economist inquired politely, taking off his hat and putting his suitcase on a vacant chair.\par \pard\plain  This seemingly simple little question for some reason so upset the seat- ed man that he even changed countenance. Looking sideways in anxiety, he muttered unintelligibly that the chairman was not there.\par \pard\plain  \'91Is he at home?\'92 asked Poplavsky. \'91I\'92ve come on the most urgent busi- ness.\'92\par \pard\plain  The seated man again replied quite incoherently, but all the same one could guess that the chairman was not at home.\par \pard\plain  \'91And when will he be here?\'92\par \pard\plain  The seated man made no reply to this and looked with a certain an- guish out the window.\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha! ...\'92 the intelligent Poplavsky said to himself and inquired about the secretary.\par \pard\plain  The strange man at the table even turned purple with strain and said, again unintelligibly, that the secretary was not there either ... he did not know when he would be back, and ... that the secretary was sick...\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha! ...\'92 Poplavsky said to himself. \'91But surely there\'92s somebody in the management?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Me,\'92 the man responded in a weak voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91You see,\'92 Poplavsky began to speak imposingly, \'91I am the sole heir of the late Berlioz, my nephew, who, as you know, died at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds, and I am obliged, in accordance with the law, to take over the in- heritance contained in our apartment no.50...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m not informed, comrade ...\'92 the man interrupted in anguish.\par \pard\plain  \'91But, excuse me,\'92 Poplavsky said in a sonorous voice, \'91you are a mem- ber of the management and are obliged ...\'92\par \pard\plain  And here some citizen entered the room. At the sight of the entering man, the man seated at the table turned pale.\par \pard\plain  \'91Management member Pyatnazhko?\'92 the entering man asked the seated man.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 the latter said, barely audibly.\par \pard\plain  The entering one whispered something to the seated one, and he, thor- oughly upset, rose from his chair, and a few seconds later Poplavsky found himself alone in the empty management room.\par \pard\plain  \'91Eh, what a complication! As if on purpose, all of them at once ...\'92 Poplavsky thought in vexation, crossing the asphalt courtyard and hur-\par \pard\plain  rying to apartment no.50.\par \pard\plain  As soon as the industrial economist rang, the door was opened, and Maximilian Andreevich entered the semi-dark front hall. It was a some- what surprising circumstance that he could not figure out who had let him\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  in: there was no one in the front hall except an enormous black cat sitting on a chair.\par \pard\plain  Maximilian Andreevich coughed, stamped his feet, and then the door of the study opened and Koroviev came out to the front hall. Maximilian Andreevich bowed politely, but with dignity, and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91My name is Poplavsky. I am the uncle...\'92\par \pard\plain  But before he could finish, Koroviev snatched a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, buried his nose in it, and began to weep.\par \pard\plain  \'91... of the late Berlioz ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Of course, of course!\'92 Koroviev interrupted, taking his handkerchief away from his face. \'91Just one look and I knew it was you!\'92 Here he was shaken with tears and began to exclaim: \'91Such a calamity, eh? What\'92s going on here, eh?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Run over by a tram-car?\'92 Poplavsky asked in a whisper.\par \pard\plain  \'91Clean!\'92 cried Koroviev, and tears flowed in streams from under his pince-nez. \'91Run clean over! I was a witness. Believe me - bang! and the head\'92s gone! Crunch - there goes the right leg! Crunch - there goes the left leg! That\'92s what these trams have brought us to!\'92 And, obviously unable to control himself, Koroviev pecked the wall beside the mirror with his nose and began to shake with sobs.\par \pard\plain  Berlioz\'92s uncle was genuinely struck by the stranger\'92s behaviour. \'91And they say there are no warm-hearted people in our time!\'92 he thought, feel- ing his own eyes beginning to itch. However, at the same time, an un- pleasant little cloud came over his soul, and straight away the snake-like thought flashed in him that this warm-hearted man might perchance have registered himself in the deceased man\'92s apartment, for such examples have been known in this life.\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive me, were you a friend of my late Misha?\'92 he asked, wiping his dry left eye with his sleeve, and with his right eye studying the racked- with-grief Koroviev. But the man was sobbing so much that one could understand nothing except the repeated word \'91crunch!\'92 Having sobbed his fill, Koroviev finally unglued himself from the wall and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91No, I can\'92t take any more! I\'92ll go and swallow three hundred drops  of tincture of valerian...\'92 And turning his completely tear-bathed face to Poplavsky, he added: \'91That\'92s trams for you!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Pardon me, but did you send me the telegram?\'92 Maximilian Andree- vich asked, painfully puzzling over who this astonishing cry-baby might be.\par \pard\plain  \'91He did!\'92 replied Koroviev, and he pointed his finger at the cat. Poplavsky goggled his eyes, assuming he had not heard right.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91No, it\'92s too much, I just can\'92t,\'92 Koroviev went on, snuffing his nose, \'91when I remember: the wheel over the leg ... the wheel alone weighs three hundred pounds ... Crunch! ... I\'92ll go to bed, forget myself in sleep.\'92\par \pard\plain  And here he disappeared from the hall.\par \pard\plain  The cat then stirred, jumped off the chair, stood on his hind legs, front legs akimbo, opened his maw and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, so I sent the telegram. What of it?\'92\par \pard\plain  Maximilian Andreevich\'92s head at once began to spin, his arms and legs went numb, he dropped the suitcase and sat down on a chair facing the cat.\par \pard\plain  \'91I believe I asked in good Russian?\'92 the cat said sternly. \'91What of it?\'92 But Poplavsky made no reply.\par \pard\plain  \'91Passport!\'92 2  barked the cat, holding out a plump paw.\par \pard\plain  Understanding nothing and seeing nothing except the two sparks burn- ing in the cat\'92s eyes, Poplavsky snatched the passport from his pocket like a dagger. The cat picked up a pair of glasses in thick black frames from the pier-glass table, put them on his muzzle, thus acquiring a still more imposing air, and took the passport from Poplavsky\'92s twitching hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91I wonder, am I going to faint or not? ...\'92 thought Poplavsky. From far away came Koroviev\'92s snivelling, the whole front hall filled with the smell of ether, valerian and some other nauseating vileness.\par \pard\plain  \'91What office issued this document?\'92 the cat asked, peering at the page. No answer came.\par \pard\plain  \'91The 412th,\'92 the cat said to himself, tracing with his paw on the pass- port, which he was holding upside down. \'91Ah, yes, of course! I know that office, they issue passports to anybody. Whereas I, for instance, wouldn\'92t issue one to the likes of you! Not on your life I wouldn\'92t! I\'92d just take one look at your face and instantly refuse!\'92 The cat got so angry that he flung the passport on the floor. \'91Your presence at the funeral is cancelled,\'92 the cat continued in an official voice. \'91Kindly return to your place of residence.\'92 And he barked through the door \'91Azazello!\'92\par \pard\plain  At his call a small man ran out to the front hall, limping, sheathed in black tights, with a knife tucked into his leather belt, red-haired, with a yellow fang and with albugo in his left eye.\par \pard\plain  Poplavsky felt he could not get enough air, rose from his seat and backed away, clutching his heart.\par \pard\plain  \'91See him off, Azazello!\'92 the cat ordered and left the hall.\par \pard\plain  2Passport!: The internal passport, a feature of Russian life in tsarist times, was abol- ished after the revolution, but reinstated by Stalin in 1932. It was the only accepted means of identification and had to be carried at all times. The precinct number that the cat gives later (412th) is absurdly high, even for a big city.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Poplavsky,\'92 the other twanged softly, \'91I hope everything\'92s understood now?\'92\par \pard\plain  Poplavsky nodded.\par \pard\plain  \'91Return immediately to Kiev,\'92 Azazello went on. \'91Sit there stiller than water, lower than grass, and don\'92t dream of any apartments in Moscow. Clear?\'92\par \pard\plain  This small man, who drove Poplavsky to mortal terror with his fang, knife and blind eye, only came up to the economist\'92s shoulder, but his actions were energetic, precise and efficient.\par \pard\plain  First of all, he picked up the passport and handed it to Maximilian Andreevich, and the latter took the booklet with a dead hand. Then the one named Azazello picked up the suitcase with one hand, with the other flung open the door, and, taking Berlioz\'92s uncle under the arm, led him out to the landing of the stairway. Poplavsky leaned against the wall. Without any key, Azazello opened the suitcase, took out of it a huge roast chicken with a missing leg wrapped in greasy newspaper, and placed it on the landing. Then he took out two pairs of underwear, a razor-strop, some book and a case, and shoved it all down the stairwell with his foot, except for the chicken. The emptied suitcase went the same way. There came a crash from below and, judging by the sound of it, the lid broke off.\par \pard\plain  Then the red-haired bandit grabbed the chicken by the leg, and with this whole chicken hit Poplavsky on the neck, flat, hard, and so terribly that the body of the chicken tore off and the leg remained in Azazello\'92s hand. \'91Everything was confusion in the Oblonskys\'92 home,\'92 3 as the famous writer Leo Tolstoy correctly put it. Precisely so he might have said on this occasion. Yes, everything was confusion in Poplavsky\'92s eyes. A long spark flew before his eyes, then gave place to some funereal snake that momen- tarily extinguished the May day, and Poplavsky went hurtling down the stairs, clutching his passport in his hand.\par \pard\plain  Reaching the turn, he smashed the window on the landing with his foot and sat on a step. The legless chicken went bouncing past him and fell down the stairwell. Azazello, who stayed upstairs, instantly gnawed the chicken leg dean, stuck the bone into the side pocket of his tights, went back to the apartment, and shut the door behind him with a bang.\par \pard\plain  At that moment there began to be heard from below the cautious steps of someone coming up.\par \pard\plain  Having run down one more flight of stairs, Poplavsky sat on a wooden bench on the landing and caught his breath.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3\'91Everything was confusion...\'92 - The second sentence of Tolstoy\'92s Anna Kannina, prover- bial in Russia.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Some tiny elderly man with an extraordinarily melancholy face, in an old-fashioned tussore silk suit and a hard straw hat with a green band, on his way upstairs, stopped beside Poplavsky.\par \pard\plain  \'91May I ask you, citizen,\'92 the man in tussore silk asked sadly, \'91where apartment no.50 is?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Further up,\'92 Poplavsky replied curtly.\par \pard\plain  \'91I humbly thank you, citizen,\'92 the little man said with the same sadness and went on up, while Poplavsky got to his feet and ran down.\par \pard\plain  The question arises whether it might have been the police that Maxi- milian Andreevich was hastening to, to complain about the bandits who had perpetrated savage violence upon him in broad daylight? No, by no means, that can be said with certainty. To go into a police station and tell them, look here, just now a cat in eyeglasses read my passport, and then a man in tights, with a knife ... no, citizens, Maximilian Andreevich was indeed an intelligent man.\par \pard\plain  He was already downstairs and saw just by the exit a door leading to some closet. The glass in the door was broken. Poplavsky hid his passport in his pocket and looked around, hoping to see his thrown-down belong- ings. But there was no trace of them. Poplavsky was even surprised him- self at how little this upset him. He was occupied with another interesting and tempting thought: of testing the accursed apartment one more time on this little man.\par \pard\plain  In fact, since he had inquired after its whereabouts, it meant he was going there for the first time. Therefore he was presently heading straight into the clutches of the company that had ensconced itself in apartment no.50.\par \pard\plain  Something told Poplavsky that the little man would be leaving this apartment very soon. Maximilian Andreevich was, of course, no longer going to any funeral of any nephew, and there was plenty of time before the train to Kiev. The economist looked around and ducked into the closet.\par \pard\plain  At that moment way upstairs a door banged. That\'92s him going in...\'92\par \pard\plain  Poplavsky thought, his heart skipping a beat. The closet was cool, it smelled of mice and boots. Maximilian Andreevich settled on some stump of wood and decided to wait. The position was convenient, from the closet one looked directly on to the exit from the sixth stairway.\par \pard\plain  However, the man from Kiev had to wait longer than he supposed. The stairway was for some reason deserted all the while. One could hear well, and finally a door banged on the fifth floor. Poplavsky froze. Yes, those were his little steps. \'91He\'92s coming down ...\'92 A door one flight lower opened. The little steps ceased. A woman\'92s voice. The voice of the sad man - yes,  it\'92s his voice...        Saying something like \'91leave me alone,  for\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Christ\'92s sake ...\'92 Poplavsky\'92s ear stuck through the broken glass.  This  ear caught a woman\'92s laughter. Quick and brisk steps coming down. And now a woman\'92s back flashed by. This woman, carrying a green oilcloth bag, went out through the front hall to the courtyard. And the little man\'92s steps came anew. \'91Strange! He\'92s going back up to the apartment! Does it mean he\'92s part of the gang himself? Yes, he\'92s going back. They\'92ve opened the door again upstairs. Well, then, let\'92s wait a little longer ...\'92\par \pard\plain  This time he did not have to wait long. The sound of the door. The little steps. The little steps cease. A desperate cry. A cat\'92s miaowing. The little steps, quick, rapid, down, down, down!\par \pard\plain  Poplavsky had not waited in vain. Crossing himself and muttering something, the melancholy little man rushed past him, hatless, with a completely crazed face, his bald head all scratched and his trousers com- pletely wet. He began tearing at the handle of the front door, unable in his fear to determine whether it opened out or in, managed at last, and flew out into the sun in the courtyard.\par \pard\plain  The testing of the apartment had been performed. Thinking no more either of the deceased nephew or of the apartment, shuddering at the thought of the risk he had been running, Maximilian Andreevich, whis- pering only the three words \'91It\'92s all clear, it\'92s all clear!\'92, ran out to the court- yard. A few minutes later the bus was carrying the industrial economist in the direction of the Kiev station.\par \pard\plain  As for the tiny little man, a most unpleasant story had gone on with him while the economist was sitting in the closet downstairs. The little man was barman at the Variety, and was called Andrei Foldch Sokov. While the investigation was going on in the Variety, Andrei Fokich kept himself apart from all that was happening, and only one thing could be noticed, that he became still sadder than he generally was, and, besides, that he inquired of the messenger Karpov where the visiting magician was staying.\par \pard\plain  And so, after parting with the economist on the landing, the barman went up to the fifth floor and rang at apartment no.50.\par \pard\plain  The door was opened for him immediately, but the barman gave a start, backed away, and did not enter at once. This was understandable. The door had been opened by a girl who was wearing nothing but a coquettish little lacy apron and a white fichu on her head.  On her feet,  however,  she had golden slippers. The girl was distinguished by an irreproachable figure, and the only thing that might have been considered a defect in her appearance was the purple scar on her neck.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, come in then, since you rang,\'92 said the girl, fixing her lewd green eyes on the barman.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Andrei Fokich gasped, blinked his eyes, and stepped into the front hall, taking off his hat. Just then the telephone in the front hall rang.\par \pard\plain  The shameless maid put one foot on a chair, picked up the receiver, and into it said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hello!\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman, not knowing where to look, stood shifting from one foot to the other, thinking: \'91Some maid this foreigner\'92s got! Pah, nasty thing!\'92 And to save himself from the nasty thing, he began casting sidelong glan- ces around him.\par \pard\plain  The whole big and semi-dark hall was cluttered with unusual objects and clothing. Thus, thrown over the back of a chair was a funereal cloak lined with fiery cloth, on the pier-glass table lay a long sword with a gleaming gold hilt. Three swords with silver hilts stood in the corner like mere umbrellas or canes. And on the stag-horns hung berets with eagle feathers.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 the maid was saying into the telephone. \'91How\'92s that? Baron Meigel?  I\'92m listening.  Yes.  Mister artiste is at home today.   Yes,  he\'92ll   be glad to see you. Yes, guests... A tailcoat or a black suit. What? By twelve midnight.\'92 Having finished the conversation, the maid hung up the receiver and turned to the barman: \'91What would you like?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I must see the citizen artiste.\'92 \'91What? You mean him himself?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Himself,\'92 the barman replied sorrowfully.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll ask,\'92 the maid said with visible hesitation and, opening the door to the late Berlioz\'92s study, announced: \'91Knight, there\'92s a little man here who says he must see Messire.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Let him come in,\'92 Koroviev\'92s cracked voice came from the study.\par \pard\plain  \'91Go into the living room,\'92 the girl said as simply as if she were dressed like anyone else, opened the door to the living room, and herself left the hall.\par \pard\plain  Going in where he was invited, the barman even forgot his business, so greatly was he struck by the decor of the room. Through the stained glass of the big windows (a fantasy of the jeweller\'92s utterly vanished wife) poured an unusual, church-like light. Logs were blazing in the huge an- tique fireplace, despite the hot spring day.  And yet it was not the least bit hot in the room, and even quite the contrary, on entering one was en- veloped in some sort of dankness as in a cellar. On a tiger skin in front of the fireplace sat a huge black tom-cat, squinting good-naturedly at the fire.\par \pard\plain  There was a table at the sight of which the God-fearing barman gave  a start: the table was covered with church brocade. On the brocade table- cloth stood a host of bottles - round-bellied, mouldy and dusty.     Among\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the bottles gleamed a dish, and it was obvious at once that it was of pure gold. At the fireplace a small red-haired fellow with a knife in his belt was roasting pieces of meat on a long steel sword, and the juice dripped into the fire, and the smoke went up the flue. There was a smell not only of roasting meat, but also of some very strong perfume and incense, and it flashed in the barman\'92s mind, for he already knew of Berlioz\'92s death and his place of residence from the newspapers, that this might, for all he\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  knew, be a church panikhida 4 that was being served for Berlioz, which thought, however, he drove away at once as a priori absurd.\par \pard\plain  The astounded barman unexpectedly heard a heavy bass: \'91Well, sir, what can I do for you?\'92\par \pard\plain  And here the barman discovered in the shadows the one he wanted.\par \pard\plain  The black magician was sprawled on some boundless sofa, low, with pillows scattered over it. As it seemed to the barman, the artiste was wear- ing only black underwear and black pointed shoes.\par \pard\plain  \'91I,\'92 the barman began bitterly, \'91am the manager of the buffet at the Va- riety Theatre...\'92\par \pard\plain  The artiste stretched out his hand, stones flashing on its fingers, as if stopping the barman\'92s mouth, and spoke with great ardour:\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no, no! Not a word more! Never and by no means! Nothing from your buffet will ever pass my lips! I, my esteemed sir, walked past your stand yesterday, and even now I am unable to forget either the sturgeon or the feta cheese! My precious man! Feta cheese is never green in colour, someone has tricked you. It ought to be white. Yes, and the tea? It\'92s simply swill! I saw with my own eyes some slovenly girl add tap water from a bucket to your huge samovar, while the tea went on being served. No, my dear, it\'92s impossible!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg your pardon,\'92 said Andrei Fokich, astounded by this sudden at- tack, \'91but I\'92ve come about something else, and sturgeon has nothing to do with it...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How do you mean, nothing to do with it, when it\'92s spoiled!\'92 \'91They supplied sturgeon of the second freshness,\'92 the barman said. \'91My dear heart, that is nonsense!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What is nonsense?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Second freshness - that\'92s what is nonsense! There is only one freshness\par \pard\plain  - the first - and it is also the last. And if sturgeon is of the second freshness, that means it is simply rotten.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg your pardon...\'92 the barman again tried to begin, not knowing how to shake off the cavilling artiste.\par \pard\plain  \'91I cannot pardon you,\'92 the other said firmly.\par \pard\plain  \'91I have come about something else,\'92 the barman said, getting quite up- set.\par \pard\plain  \'91About something else?\'92 the foreign magician was surprised. \'91And what else could have brought you to me? Unless memory deceives me, among people of a profession similar to yours, I have had dealings   with\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4A church panikhida: A special service of the Orthodox Church for commemoration of the dead.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  only one sutler-woman, but that was long ago, when you were not yet in this world.\par \pard\plain  However, I\'92m glad. Azazello! A tabouret for mister buffet-manager!\'92\par \pard\plain  The one who was roasting meat turned, horrifying the barman with his fangs, and deftly offered him one of the dark oaken tabourets. There were no other seats in the room.\par \pard\plain  The barman managed to say:\par \pard\plain  \'91I humbly thank you,\'92 and lowered himself on to the stool. Its back leg broke at once with a crack, and the barman, gasping, struck his backside most painfully on the floor. As he fell, he kicked another stool in front of him with his foot, and from it spilled a full cup of red wine on his trousers.\par \pard\plain  The artiste exclaimed: \'91Oh! Are you hurt?\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello helped the barman up and gave him another seat. In a voice filled with grief, the barman declined his host\'92s suggestion that he take off his trousers and dry them before the fire, and, feeling unbearably uncom- fortable in his wet underwear and clothing, cautiously sat down on the other stool.\par \pard\plain  \'91I like sitting low down,\'92 the artiste said, \'91it\'92s less dangerous falling from a low height. Ah, yes, so we left off at the sturgeon. Freshness, dear heart, freshness, freshness! That should be the motto of every barman. Here, wouldn\'92t you like to try...\'92 \par \pard\plain  In the crimson light of the fireplace a sword flashed in front of the barman, and Azazello laid a sizzling piece of meat on the golden dish, squeezed lemon juice over it, and handed the barman a golden two-pron- ged fork.\par \pard\plain  \'91My humble... I ...\'92 \'91No, no, try it!\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman put a piece into his mouth out of politeness, and under- stood at once that he was chewing something very fresh indeed, and, above all, extraordinarily delicious. But as he was chewing the fragrant, juicy meat, the barman nearly choked and fell a second time. From the neighbouring room a big, dark bird flew in and gently brushed the bar- man\'92s bald head with its wing. Alighting on the mantelpiece beside the clock, the bird turned out to be an owl. \'91Oh, Lord God! ...\'92 thought Andrei Fokich, nervous like all barmen. \'91A nice little apartment! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A cup of wine? White, red? What country\'92s wine do you prefer at this time of day?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91My humble ... I don\'92t drink ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A shame! What about a game of dice, then? Or do you have some other favourite game? Dominoes? Cards?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t play games,\'92 the already weary barman responded. \'91Altogether bad,\'92 the host concluded.  \'91As you will, but there\'92s   some-\par \pard\plain  thing not nice hidden in men who avoid wine, games, the society of charm- ing women, table talk. Such people are either gravely ill or secretly hate everybody around them. True, there may be exceptions. Among persons sitting down with me at the banqueting table, there have been on occasion some extraordinary scoundrels! ... And so, let me hear your business.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yesterday you were so good as to do some conjuring tricks ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I?\'92 the magician exclaimed in amazement. \'91Good gracious, it\'92s some- how even unbecoming to me!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m sorry,\'92 said the barman, taken aback.  \'91I mean the se´ance of black magic...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes, yes, yes! My dear, I\'92ll reveal a secret to you. I\'92m not an artiste at all, I simply wanted to see the Muscovites en masse, and that could be done most conveniently in a theatre. And so my retinue,\'92 he nodded in the direction of the cat, \'91arranged for this se´ance, and I merely sat and looked at the Muscovites. Now, don\'92t go changing countenance, but tell me, what is it in connection with this se´ance that has brought you to me?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91If you please, you see, among other things there were banknotes fly- ing down from the ceiling...\'92 The barman lowered his voice and looked around abashedly. \'91So they snatched them all up. And then a young man comes to my bar and gives me a ten-rouble bill, I give him eight-fifty in change... Then another one ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Also a young man?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, an older one. Then a third, and a fourth ... I keep giving them change. And today I went to check the cash box, and there, instead of money - cut-up paper. They hit the buffet for a hundred and nine roubles.\'92 \'91Ai-yai-yai!\'92  the artiste exclaimed.  \'91But can they have thought   those\par \pard\plain  were real bills? I can\'92t admit the idea that they did it knowingly.\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman took a somehow hunched and anguished look around him, but said nothing.\par \pard\plain  \'91Can they be crooks?\'92 the magician asked worriedly of his visitor. \'91Can there be crooks among the Muscovites?\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman smiled so bitterly in response that all doubts fell away: yes, there were crooks among the Muscovites.\par \pard\plain  \'91That is mean!\'92 Woland was indignant. \'91You\'92re a poor man ... You are  a poor man?\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman drew his head down between his shoulders, making it evident that he was a poor man.\par \pard\plain  \'91How much have you got in savings?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The question was asked in a sympathetic tone, but even so such a ques- tion could not but be acknowledged as indelicate. The barman faltered.\par \pard\plain  \'91Two hundred and forty-nine thousand roubles in five savings banks,\'92 a cracked voice responded from the neighbouring room, \'91and two hundred ten-rouble gold pieces at home under the floor.\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman became as if welded to his tabouret.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, of course, that\'92s not a great sum,\'92 Woland said condescendingly to his visitor, \'91though, as a matter of fact, you have no need of it anyway. When are you going to die?\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the barman became indignant.\par \pard\plain  \'91Nobody knows that and it\'92s nobody\'92s concern,\'92 he replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91Sure nobody knows,\'92 the same trashy voice came from the study. \'91The binomial theorem, you might think! He\'92s going to die in nine months, next February, of liver cancer, in the clinic of the First Moscow State University, in ward number four.\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman\'92s face turned yellow.\par \pard\plain  \'91Nine months...\'92 Woland calculated pensively. \'91Two hundred and forty- nine thousand... rounding it off that comes to twenty-seven thousand a month... Not a lot, but enough for a modest life ... Plus those gold pieces...\'92 \'91He won\'92t get to realize the gold pieces,\'92 the same voice mixed in, turn- ing the barman\'92s heart to ice. \'91On Andrei Fokich\'92s demise, the house will\par \pard\plain  immediately be torn down, and the gold will be sent to the State Bank.\'92 \'91And I wouldn\'92t advise you to go to the clinic,\'92 the artiste went on. \'91What\'92s the sense of dying in a ward to the groans and wheezes of\par \pard\plain  the hopelessly ill? Isn\'92t it better to give a banquet on the twenty-seven thousand, then take poison and move on to the other world to the sounds of strings, surrounded by drunken beauties and dashing friends?\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman sat motionless and grew very old. Dark rings surrounded his eyes, his cheeks sagged, and his lower jaw hung down.\par \pard\plain  \'91However, we\'92ve started day-dreaming,\'92 exclaimed the host. \'91To busi- ness! Show me your cut-up paper.\'92\par \pard\plain  The barman, agitated, pulled a package from his pocket, unwrapped it, and was dumbfounded: the piece of paper contained ten-rouble bills.\par \pard\plain  \'91My dear, you really are unwell,\'92 Woland said, shrugging his shoulders. The barman, grinning wildly, got up from the tabouret.\par \pard\plain  \'91A-and...\'92 he said, stammering, \'91and if they ... again ... that is...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Hm...\'92 the artiste pondered, \'91well, then come to us again. You\'92re al- ways welcome. I\'92m glad of our acquaintance ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Straight away Koroviev came bounding from the study, clutched the barman\'92s hand, and began shaking it, begging Andrei Fokich to give  his\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  regards to everybody, everybody. Not thinking very well, the barman started for the front hall.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hella, see him out!\'92 Koroviev shouted.\par \pard\plain  Again that naked redhead in the front hall! The barman squeezed through the door, squeaked \'91Goodbye!\'92, and went off like a drunk man. Having gone down a little way, he stopped, sat on a step, took out the packet and checked - the ten-rouble bills were in place.\par \pard\plain  Here a woman with a green bag came out of the apartment on that landing. Seeing a man sitting on a step and staring dully at some money, she smiled and said pensively:\par \pard\plain  \'91What a house we\'92ve got... Here\'92s this one drunk in the morning... And the window on the stairway is broken again!\'92\par \pard\plain  Peering more attentively at the barman, she added:\par \pard\plain  \'91And you, dozen, are simply rolling in money! ... Give some to me, eh?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Let me alone, for Christ\'92s sake!\'92 the barman got frightened and quickly hid the money.\par \pard\plain  The woman laughed.\par \pard\plain  \'91To the hairy devil with you, skinflint! I was joking...\'92 And she went downstairs.\par \pard\plain  The barman slowly got up, raised his hand to straighten his hat, and realized that it was not on his head. He was terribly reluctant to go back, but he was sorry about the hat. After some hesitation, he nevertheless went back and rang.\par \pard\plain  \'91What else do you want?\'92 the accursed Hella asked him.\par \pard\plain  \'91I forgot my hat...\'92 the barman whispered, pointing to his bald head. Hella turned around.  The barman spat mentally and dosed his   eyes.\par \pard\plain  When he opened them, Hella was holding out his hat to him and a sword with a dark hilt.\par \pard\plain  \'91Not mine ...\'92 the barman whispered, pushing the sword away and quickly putting on his hat.\par \pard\plain  \'91You came without a sword?\'92 Hella was surprised.\par \pard\plain  The barman growled something and quickly went downstairs. His head for some reason felt uncomfortable and too warm in the hat. He took it off and, jumping from fear, cried out softly: in his hands was a vel- vet beret with a dishevelled cock\'92s feather. The barman crossed himself. At the same moment, the beret miaowed, turned into a black kitten and, springing back on to Andrei Fokich\'92s head, sank all its claws into his bald spot. Letting out a cry of despair, the barman dashed downstairs, and the kitten fell off and spurted back up the stairway.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Bursting outside, the barman trotted to the gates and left the devilish no.502-bis for ever.\par \pard\plain  What happened to him afterwards is known perfectly well. Running out the gateway, the barman looked around wildly, as if searching for something. A minute later he was on the other side of the street in a phar- macy. He had no sooner uttered the words:\par \pard\plain  \'91Tell me, please ...\'92 when the woman behind the counter exclaimed: \'91Citizen, your head is cut all over!\'92\par \pard\plain  Some five minutes later the barman was bandaged with gauze, knew that the best specialists in liver diseases were considered to be professors Bernadsky and Kuzmin, asked who was closer, lit up with joy on learning that Kuzmin lived literally across the courtyard in a small white house, and some two minutes later was in that house.\par \pard\plain  The premises were antiquated but very, very cosy. The barman remem- bered that the first one he happened to meet was an old nurse who wanted to take his hat, but as he turned out to have no hat, the nurse went off somewhere, munching with an empty mouth.\par \pard\plain  Instead of her, there turned up near the mirror and under what seemed some sort of arch, a middle-aged woman who said straight away that it was possible to make an appointment only for the nineteenth, not before. The barman at once grasped what would save him. Peering with fading eyes through the arch, where three persons were waiting in what was ob- viously some sort of anteroom, he whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Mortally ill...\'92\par \pard\plain  The woman looked in perplexity at the barman\'92s bandaged head, hes- itated, and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, then ...\'92 and allowed the barman through the archway.\par \pard\plain  At that same moment the opposite door opened, there was the flash of a gold pince-nez. The woman in the white coat said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Citizens, this patient will go out of turn.\'92\par \pard\plain  And before the barman could look around him, he was in Professor Kuzmin\'92s office. There was nothing terrible, solemn or medical in this oblong room.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s wrong with you?\'92 Professor Kuzmin asked in a pleasant voice, and glanced with some alarm at the bandaged head.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ve just learned from reliable hands,\'92 the barman replied, casting wild glances at some group photograph under glass, \'91that I\'92m going to die of liver cancer in February of this corning year. I beg you to stop it.\'92\par \pard\plain  Professor Kuzmin, as he sat there, threw himself against the high Gothic leather back of his chair.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me, I don\'92t understand you... you\'92ve, what, been to the doctor?\par \pard\plain  Why is your head bandaged?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Some doctor! ... You should\'92ve seen this doctor...\'92 the barman replied, and his teeth suddenly began to chatter. \'91And don\'92t pay any attention to the head, it has no connection ... Spit on the head, it has nothing to do with it... Liver cancer, I beg you to stop it! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Pardon me, but who told you?!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Believe him!\'92 the barman ardently entreated. \'91He knows!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t understand a thing!\'92 the professor said, shrugging his shoul- ders and pushing his chair back from the desk. \'91How can he know when you\'92re going to die? The more so as he\'92s not a doctor!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91In ward four of the clinic of the First MSU,\'92 replied the barman.\par \pard\plain  Here the professor looked at his patient, at his head, at his damp trou- sers, and thought:\par \pard\plain  \'91Just what I needed, a madman...\'92 He asked: \'91Do you drink vodka?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Never touch it,\'92 the barman answered.\par \pard\plain  A moment later he was undressed, lying on the cold oilcloth of the couch, and the professor was kneading his stomach. Here, it must be said, the barman cheered up considerably. The professor categorically main- tained that presently, at least for the given moment, the barman had no symptoms of cancer, but since it was so ... since he was afraid and had been frightened by some charlatan, he must perform all the tests ...\par \pard\plain  The professor was scribbling away on some sheets of paper, explaining where to go, what to bring. Besides that, he gave him a note for Professor Bouret, a neurologist, telling the barman that his nerves were in complete disorder.\par \pard\plain  \'91How much do I owe you. Professor?\'92 the barman asked in a tender and trembling voice, pulling out a fat wallet.\par \pard\plain  \'91As much as you like,\'92 the professor said curtly and drily.\par \pard\plain  The barman took out thirty roubles and placed them on the table, and then, with an unexpected softness, as if operating with a cat\'92s paw, he placed on top of the bills a clinking stack wrapped in newspaper.\par \pard\plain  \'91And what is this?\'92 Kuzmin asked, twirling his moustache.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t scorn it, citizen Professor,\'92 the barman whispered. \'91I beg you - stop the cancer!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Take away your gold this minute,\'92 said the professor, proud of himself. \'91You\'92d better look after your nerves.  Tomorrow have your urine anal-\par \pard\plain  ysed, don\'92t drink a lot of tea, and don\'92t put any salt in your food.\'92 \'91Not even in soup?\'92 the barman asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91Not in anything,\'92 ordered Kuzmin.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Ahh! ...\'92 the barman exclaimed wistfully, gazing at the professor with tenderness, gathering up his gold pieces and backing towards the door.\par \pard\plain  That evening the professor had few patients, and as twilight approach- ed the last one left. Taking off his white coat, the professor glanced at the spot where the barman had left his money and saw no banknotes there but only three labels from bottles of Abrau-Durso wine.\par \pard\plain  \'91Devil knows what\'92s going on!\'92 Kuzmin muttered, trailing the flap of his coat on the floor and feeling the labels. \'91It turns out he\'92s not only a schizophrenic but also a crook! But I can\'92t understand what he needed me for! Could it be the prescription for the urine analysis? Oh-oh! ... He\'92s stolen my overcoat!\'92 And the professor rushed for the front hall, one arm still in the sleeve of his white coat. \'91Xenia Nikitishna!\'92 he cried shrilly through the door to the front hall. \'91Look and see if all the coats are there!\'92 The coats all turned out to be there. But instead, when the professor went back to his desk, having peeled off his white coat at last, he stopped as if rooted to the parquet beside his desk, his eyes riveted to it. In the place where the labels had been there sat an orphaned black kitten with a\par \pard\plain  sorry little muzzle, miaowing over a saucer of milk.\par \pard\plain  \'91Wh-what\'92s this, may I ask?! Now this is...\'92 And Kuzmin felt the nape of his neck go cold.\par \pard\plain  At the professor\'92s quiet and pitiful cry, Xenia Nikitishna came running and at once reassured him completely, saying that it was, of course, one of the patients who had abandoned the kitten, as happens not infrequently to professors.\par \pard\plain  \'91They probably have a poor life,\'92 Xenia Nikitishna explained, \'91well, and we, of course...\'92\par \pard\plain  They started thinking and guessing who might have abandoned it.\par \pard\plain  Suspicion fell on a little old lady with a stomach ulcer.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s she, of course,\'92 Xenia Nikitishna said. \'91She thinks: \'93I\'92ll die anyway, and it\'92s a pity for the kitten.\'94 \'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But excuse me!\'92 cried Kuzmin. \'91What about the milk? ... Did she bring that, too? And the saucer, eh?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91She brought it in a little bottle, and poured it into the saucer here,\'92 Xenia Nikitishna explained.\par \pard\plain  \'91In any case, take both the kitten and the saucer away,\'92 said Kuzmin, and he accompanied Xenia Nikitishna to the door himself. When he came back, the situation had altered.\par \pard\plain  As he was hanging his coat on a nail, the professor heard guffawing in the courtyard. He glanced out and, naturally, was struck dumb. A lady was running across the yard to the opposite wing in nothing but a shift. The professor even knew her name - Marya Alexandrovna. The guffawing\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  came from a young boy.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s this?\'92 Kuzmin said contemptuously.\par \pard\plain  Just then, behind the wall, in the professor\'92s daughter\'92s room, a gramo- phone began to play the foxtrot \'91Hallelujah,\'92 and at the same moment a sparrow\'92s chirping came from behind the professor\'92s back. He turned around and saw a large sparrow hopping on his desk.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hm ... keep calm!\'92 the professor thought. \'91It flew in as I left the window. Everything\'92s in order!\'92 the professor told himself, feeling that everything was in complete disorder, and that, of course, owing chiefly  to the sparrow. Taking a closer look at him, the professor became con- vinced at once that this was no ordinary sparrow. The obnoxious little sparrow dipped on its left leg, obviously clowning, dragging it, working it in syncopation - in short, it was dancing the foxtrot to the sounds of the gramophone, like a drunkard in a bar, saucy as could be, casting impudent glances at the professor.\par \pard\plain  Kuzmin\'92s hand fell on the telephone, and he decided to call his old schoolmate Bouret, to ask what such little sparrows might mean at the age of sixty, especially when one\'92s head suddenly starts spinning?\par \pard\plain  The sparrow meanwhile sat on the presentation inkstand, shat in it (I\'92m not joking!), then flew up, hung in the air, and, swinging a steely beak, pecked at the glass covering the photograph portraying the entire university graduating class of \'9194, broke the glass to smithereens, and only then flew out the window.\par \pard\plain  The professor dialled again, and instead of calling Bouret, called a leech bureau, 5 said he was Professor Kuzmin, and asked them to send some leeches to his house at once. Hanging up the receiver, the professor turned to his desk again and straight away let out a scream. At this desk sat a woman in a nurse\'92s headscarf, holding a handbag with the word \'91Leeches\'92 written on it. The professor screamed as he looked at her mouth: it was a man\'92s mouth, crooked, stretching from ear to ear, with a single fang. The nurse\'92s eyes were dead.\par \pard\plain  \'91This bit of cash I\'92ll just pocket,\'92 the nurse said in a male basso, \'91no point in letting it lie about here.\'92 She raked up the labels with a bird\'92s claw and began melting into air.\par \pard\plain  Two hours passed. Professor Kuzmin sat in his bedroom on the bed, with leeches hanging from his temples, behind his ears, and on his neck. At Kuzmin\'92s feet, on a quilted silk blanket, sat the grey-moustached Pro-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Leech bureau:  Leeches have been used medically since ancient times as a means    of blood-letting, thought to lower blood pressure and cure various ailments. A rather primitive treatment in this context.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  fessor Bouret, looking at Kuzmin with condolence and comforting him, saying it was all nonsense. Outside the window it was already night.\par \pard\plain  What other prodigies occurred in Moscow that night we do not know and certainly will not try to find out - especially as it has come time for us to go on to the second part of this truthful narrative. Follow me, reader!\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Book II.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 19 Margarita\par \pard\plain  Follow me, reader! Who told you that there is no true, faithful, eternal love in this world! May the liar\'92s vile tongue be cut out!\par \pard\plain  Follow me, my reader, and me alone, and I will show you such a love!\par \pard\plain  No! The master was mistaken when with bitterness he told Ivanushka in the hospital, at that hour when the night was falling past midnight, that she had forgotten him. That could not be. She had, of course, not forgotten him.\par \pard\plain  First of all let us reveal the secret which the master did not wish to reveal to Ivanushka. His beloved\'92s name was Margarita Nikolaevna. 1\par \pard\plain  Everything the master told the poor poet about her was the exact truth. He described his beloved correctly. She was beautiful and intelligent. To that one more thing must be added: it can be said with certainty that many women would have given anything to exchange their lives for the life of Margarita Nikolaevna. The childless thirty-year-old Margarita was the wife of a very prominent specialist, who, moreover, had made a very important discovery of state significance. Her husband was young, hand- some, kind, honest, and adored his wife. The two of them, Margarita and her husband, occupied the entire top floor of a magnificent house in a gar- den on one of the lanes near the Arbat. A charming place! Anyone can be convinced of it who wishes to visit this garden. Let them inquire of me, and I will give them the address, show them the way - the house stands untouched to this day.\par \pard\plain  Margarita Nikolaevna was not in need    of money. Margarita Niko-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Margarita: The name Bulgakov gives to his heroine recalls that of Gretchen (diminu- tive of Margarete), the young girl ruined by Faust in Goethe\'92s drama. It may also recall Marguerite de Valois (1555-1615), wife of French king Henri IV, known as \'91la reine Mar- got\'92 (several times in later chapters Margarita will be called Margot and even Queen Margot).\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  229\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  laevna could buy whatever she liked. Among her husband\'92s acquain- tances there were some interesting people. Margarita Nikolaevna had never touched a primus stove. Margarita Nikolaevna knew nothing of the horrors of life in a communal apartment. In short ... she was happy? Not for one minute! Never, since the age of nineteen, when she had mar- ried and wound up in this house, had she known any happiness. Gods, my gods! What, then, did this woman need?! What did this woman need, in whose eyes there always burned some enigmatic little fire? What did she need, this witch with a slight cast in one eye, who had adorned herself with mimosa that time in the spring? I do not know. I have no idea. Ob- viously she was telling the truth, she needed him, the master, and not at all some Gothic mansion, not a private garden, not money. She loved him, she was telling the truth.\par \pard\plain  Even I, the truthful narrator, though an outsider, feel my heart wrung at the thought of what Margarita endured when she came to the master\'92s little house the next day (fortunately before she had time to talk with her husband, who had not come back at the appointed time) and discovered that the master was no longer there. She did everything to find out some- thing about him, and, of course, found out nothing. Then she went back to her house and began living in her former place.\par \pard\plain  But as soon as the dirty snow disappeared from the sidewalks and streets, as soon as the slightly rotten, disquieting spring breeze wafted through the window, Margarita Nikolaevna began to grieve more than in winter. She often wept in secret, a long and bitter weeping. She did not know who it was she loved: a living man or a dead one? And the longer the desperate days went on, the more often, especially at twilight, did the thought come to her that she was bound to a dead man.\par \pard\plain  She had either to forget him or to die herself. It was impossible to drag on with such a life. Impossible! Forget him, whatever the cost - forget him! But he would not be forgotten, that was the trouble.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, yes, yes, the very same mistake!\'92 Margarita said, sitting by the stove and gazing into the fire lit in memory of the fire that had burned while he was writing Pontius Pilate. \'91Why did I leave him that night? Why? It was madness! I came back the next day, honestly, as I\'92d promised, but it was too late. Yes, like the unfortunate Matthew Levi, I came back too late!\'92\par \pard\plain  All these words were, of course, absurd, because what, in fact, would it have changed if she had stayed with the master that night? Would she have saved him? \'91Ridiculous! ...\'92 we might exclaim, but we shall not do  so before a woman driven to despair.\par \pard\plain  On that same day when all sorts of absurd turmoil took place, pro-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  voked by the appearance of the black magician in Moscow, on the Friday when Berlioz\'92s uncle was chased back to Kiev, when the bookkeeper was arrested and a host of other quite stupid and incomprehensible things took place - Margarita woke up at around noon in her bedroom with bay win- dows in the tower of the house.\par \pard\plain  On awakening, Margarita did not weep, as she often did, because she awoke with a presentiment that today something was finally going to hap- pen.\par \pard\plain  Having felt this presentiment, she began to warm it and nurture it in her soul, for fear it might abandon her.\par \pard\plain  \'91I believe!\'92 Margarita whispered solemnly. \'91I believe! Something will happen! It cannot not happen, because for what, indeed, has lifelong tor- ment been sent to me? I admit that I lied and deceived and lived a secret life, hidden from people, but all the same the punishment for it cannot be so cruel... Something is bound to happen, because it cannot be that any- thing will go on forever. And besides, my dream was prophetic, I\'92ll swear it was...\'92\par \pard\plain  So Margarita Nikolaevna whispered, looking at the crimson curtains as they filled with sun, dressing anxiously, combing her short curled hair in front of the triple mirror.\par \pard\plain  The dream that Margarita had dreamed that night was indeed unusual. The thing was that during her winter sufferings she had never seen the master in her dreams. He released her for the night, and she suffered only in the daylight hours. But now she had dreamed of him.\par \pard\plain  The dream was of a place unknown to Margarita - hopeless, dismal, under the sullen sky of early spring. In the dream there was this ragged, fleeting, grey sky, and under it a noiseless flock of rooks. Some gnarled little bridge, and under it a muddy spring runlet. Joyless, destitute, half- naked trees. A lone aspen, and further on, among the trees, beyond some vegetable patch, a little log structure - a separate kitchen, a bathhouse, devil knows what it was! Everything around somehow lifeless and so dismal that one just longed to hang oneself from that aspen by the bridge. Not a puff of breeze, not a movement of the clouds, and not a living soul. What a hellish place for a living man!\par \pard\plain  And then, imagine, the door of this log structure is thrown open, and he appears. Rather far away, but clearly visible. He is in tatters, it is impos- sible to make out what he is wearing. Unshaven, hair dishevelled. Sick, anxious eyes. He beckons with his hand, calling her. Gasping in the life- less air, Margarita ran to him over the tussocks, and at that moment she woke up.\par \pard\plain  \'91This dream means only one of two things,\'92 Margarita Nikolaevna rea-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  soned with herself. \'91If he\'92s dead and beckoned to me, it means he has come for me, and I will die soon. And that\'92s very good - because then my suffering will soon end. Or else he\'92s alive, and then the dream can only mean one thing, that he\'92s reminding me of himself! He wants to say that we will see each other again... Yes, we will see each other very soon!\'92\par \pard\plain  Still in the same agitated state, Margarita got dressed and began im- pressing it upon herself that, essentially, everything was turning out very luckily, and one must know how to catch such lucky moments and take advantage of them. Her husband had gone on a business trip for a whole three days. During those three days she was at her own disposal, and no one could prevent her from thinking what she liked or dreaming what she liked. All five rooms on the top floor of the house, all of this apartment which in Moscow would be the envy of tens of thousands of people, was entirely at her disposal.\par \pard\plain  However, being granted freedom for a whole three days, Margarita chose from this entire luxurious apartment what was far from the best place. After having tea, she went to a dark, windowless room where suit- cases and all sorts of old stuff were kept in two large wardrobes. Squatting down, she opened the bottom drawer of the first of them, and took from under a pile of silk scraps the only precious thing she had in life. Mar- garita held in her hands an old brown leather album which contained a photographic portrait of the master, a bank savings book with a deposit of ten thousand roubles in his name, the petals of a dried rose pressed between sheets of tissue paper, and part of a full-sized notebook covered with typescript and with a charred bottom edge.\par \pard\plain  Going back to her bedroom with these riches, Margarita Nikolaevna set the photograph up on the triple mirror and sat for about an hour holding the fire-damaged book on her knees, leafing through it and rereading that which, after the burning, had neither beginning nor end:\par \pard\plain  \'91... The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator. The hanging bridges connecting the temple with the dread Antonia Tower 2 disappeared, the abyss descended from the sky and flooded the winged gods over the hippodrome, the Has-monaean Palace 3  with its loopholes, the bazaars, caravanserais, lanes, pools...  Yer-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2The dread Antonia Tower: A fortress in ancient Jerusalem which housed the Roman garrison in the city and where the Roman procurator normally stayed on official visits. It was named by Herod the Great in honour of the Roman general and triumvir Mark Antony (85-50 BC), who ruled the eastern third of the empire.\par \pard\plain  3Hasmonaean Palace:       Palace of the Hasmonaean or Maccabean dynasty,  rulers of\par \pard\plain  Judea in the second century BC, who resisted the Seleucid kings Antiochus IV and Demetrius Soter.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  shalaim - the great city - vanished as if it had never existed in the world...\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita wanted to read further, but further there was nothing except an irregular, charred fringe.\par \pard\plain  Wiping her tears, Margarita Nikolaevna abandoned the notebook, rest- ed her elbows on the dressing table and, reflected in the mirror, sat for a long time without taking her eyes from the photograph. Then the tears dried up. Margarita neatly folded her possessions, and a few minutes later they were again buried under silk rags, and the lock clicked shut in the dark room.\par \pard\plain  Margarita Nikolaevna was putting her coat on in the front hall in or- der to go for a walk. The beautiful Natasha, her housemaid, asked what to prepare for the main course, and, receiving the reply that it made no differ- ence, got into conversation with her mistress for her own amusement, and began telling her God knows what, something about how yesterday in the theatre a conjurer began performing such tricks that everybody gasped, gave away two flacons of foreign perfume and a pair of stockings free to everybody, and then, when the se´ance ended, the audience came outside and - bang - everybody turned out to be naked! Margarita Nikolaevna dropped on to the chair in front of the hall mirror and burst out laughing. \'91Natasha! You ought to be ashamed,\'92 Margarita Nikolaevna said, \'91you,\par \pard\plain  a literate, intelligent girl... they tell devil knows what lies in the queues, and you go repeating them!\'92\par \pard\plain  Natasha flushed deeply and objected with great ardour that, no, they weren\'92t lying, and that she herself had personally seen today, in a grocer\'92s on the Arbat, one citizeness who came into the shop wearing shoes, but as she was paying at the cash register, the shoes disappeared from her feet, and she was left in just her stockings. Eyes popping out, and a hole in her heel! And the shoes were magic ones from that same se´ance.\par \pard\plain  \'91And she left like that?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And she left like that!\'92 Natasha cried, blushing still more from not being believed. \'91And yesterday, Margarita Nikolaevna, the police arrested around a hundred people in the evening.  Women from this se´ance were running down Tverskaya in nothing but their bloomers.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, of course, it\'92s Darya who told you that,\'92 said Margarita Niko- laevna. \'91I noticed long ago that she\'92s a terrible liar.\'92\par \pard\plain  The funny conversation ended with a pleasant surprise for Natasha.\par \pard\plain  Margarita Nikolaevna went to the bedroom and came back holding a pair of stockings and a flacon of eau-de-cologne. Telling Natasha that she, too, wanted to perform a trick, Margarita Nikolaevna gave her both the stockings and the bottle, and said her only request was that she not run around on Tverskaya in nothing but stockings and that she not listen    to\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Darya. Having kissed each other, mistress and housemaid parted.\par \pard\plain  Leaning against the comfortable soft back of the trolley-bus seat, Mar- garita Nikolaevna rode down the Arbat, now thinking her own thoughts, now listening to the whispers of two citizens sitting in front of her.\par \pard\plain  They were exchanging whispers about some nonsense, looking around warily from time to time to make sure no one was listening. The hefty, beefy one with pert, piggish eyes, sitting by the window, was quietly telling his small neighbour that the coffin had to be covered with a black cloth...\par \pard\plain  \'91It can\'92t be!\'92 the small one whispered, amazed. \'91This is something unheard-of! ... And what has Zheldybin done?\'92\par \pard\plain  Amidst the steady humming of the trolley-bus, words came from the window: \'91Criminal investigation ... scandal ... well, outright mysticism!...\'92 From these fragmentary scraps, Margarita Nikolaevna somehow put together something coherent. The citizens were whispering about some dead person (they did not name him) whose head had been stolen from the coffin that morning... This was the reason why Zheldybin was now so worried.  And the two who were whispering on the trolley-bus also   had\par \pard\plain  some connection with the robbed dead man.\par \pard\plain  \'91Will we have time to stop for flowers?\'92 the small one worried. The cremation is at two, you say?\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita Nikolaevna finally got tired of listening to this mysterious palaver about a head stolen from a coffin, and she was glad it was time for her to get off.\par \pard\plain  A few minutes later Margarita Nikolaevna was sitting on one of the benches under the Kremlin wall, settling herself in such a way that she could see the Manege. 4\par \pard\plain  Margarita squinted in the bright sunlight, remembered her last night\'92s dream, remembered how, exactly a year ago to the day and the hour, she had sat next to him on this same bench. And in just the same way as then, her black handbag lay beside her on the bench. He was not beside her this day, but Margarita Nikolaevna mentally conversed with him all the same: \'91If you\'92ve been exiled, why don\'92t you send me word of yourself? People do send word. Have you stopped loving me? No, for some reason I don\'92t believe that. It means you were exiled and died... Release me, then, I beg you, give me freedom to live, finally, to breathe the air! ...\'92 Margarita Nikolaevna answered for him herself:\par \pard\plain  4The Manege: Originally a riding academy built after the war with Napoleon, the building was later used as a quondam concert hall. Abandoned after the revolution, it served in Bulgakov\'92s time as a garage and warehouse for the Kremlin, but has now been restored as a permanent art-exhibition space.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91You are free ... am I holding you?\'92 Then she objected to him: \'91No, what kind of answer is that? No, go from my memory, then I\'92ll be free...\'92\par \pard\plain  People walked past Margarita Nikolaevna. Some man gave the well- dressed woman a sidelong glance, attracted by her beauty and her soli- tude. He coughed and sat down at the end of the same bench that Mar- garita Nikolaevna was sitting on. Plucking up his courage, he began:\par \pard\plain  \'91Definitely nice weather today ...\'92\par \pard\plain  But Margarita gave him such a dark look that he got up and left. \'91There, for example,\'92 Margarita said mentally to him who    possessed\par \pard\plain  her.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, in fact, did I chase that man away? I\'92m bored, and there\'92s noth- ing bad about this Lovelace, unless it\'92s the stupid word \'93definitely\'94... Why am I sitting alone under the wall like an owl? Why am I excluded from life?\'92\par \pard\plain  She became thoroughly sad and downcast. But here suddenly the same morning wave of expectation and excitement pushed at her chest. \'91Yes, it will happen!\'92 The wave pushed her a second time, and now she realized that it was a wave of sound. Through the noise of the city there came ever more distinctly the approaching beat of a drum and the sounds of slightly off-key trumpets.\par \pard\plain  The first to appear was a mounted policeman riding slowly past the garden fence, with three more following on foot. Then a slowly rolling truck with the musicians. After that, a new, open hearse moving slowly,  a coffin on it all covered with wreaths, and at the corners of the platform four standing persons - three men and one woman.\par \pard\plain  Even from a distance, Margarita discerned that the faces of the people standing on the hearse, accompanying the deceased on his last journey, were somehow strangely bewildered. This was particularly noticeable with regard to the citizeness who stood at the left rear corner of the hearse. This citizeness\'92s fat cheeks were as if pushed out still more from inside by some piquant secret, her puffy little eyes glinted with an ambiguous fire. It seemed that just a little longer and the citizeness, unable to help herself, would wink at the deceased and say: \'91Have you ever seen the like? Out- right mysticism! ...\'92 The same bewildered faces showed on those in the cortege, who, numbering three hundred or near it, slowly walked behind the hearse.\par \pard\plain  Margarita followed the procession with her eyes, listening to the dis- mal Turkish drum fading in the distance, producing one and the same \'91boom, boom, boom\'92, and thought: \'91What a strange funeral ... and what anguish from that \'93boom\'94! Ah, truly, I\'92d pawn my soul to the devil just to find out whether he\'92s alive or not...  It would be interesting to know who\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  they\'92re burying.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Berlioz, Mikhail Alexandrovich,\'92 a slightly nasal male voice came from beside her, \'91chairman of Massolit.\'92\par \pard\plain  The surprised Margarita Nikolaevna turned and saw a citizen on her bench, who had apparently sat down there noiselessly while Margarita was watching the procession and, it must be assumed, absent-mindedly asked her last question aloud.\par \pard\plain  The procession meanwhile was slowing down, probably delayed by traffic lights ahead.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 the unknown citizen went on, \'91they\'92re in a surprising mood. They\'92re accompanying the deceased and thinking only about what hap- pened to his head.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What head?\'92 asked Margarita, studying her unexpected neighbour. This neighbour turned out to be short of stature, a fiery redhead with a fang, in a starched shirt, a good-quality striped suit, patent leather shoes, and with a bowler hat on his head. His tie was brightly coloured. The sur- prising thing was that from the pocket where men usually carry a hand- kerchief or a fountain pen, this gentleman had a gnawed chicken bone sacking out.\par \pard\plain  \'91You see,\'92 the redhead explained, \'91this morning in the hall of Griboe- dov\'92s, the deceased\'92s head was filched from the coffin.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How can that be?\'92 Margarita asked involuntarily, remembering at the same time the whispering on the trolley-bus.\par \pard\plain  \'91Devil knows how!\'92 the redhead replied casually. \'91I suppose, however, that it wouldn\'92t be a bad idea to ask Behemoth about it. It was an awfully deft snatch! Such a scandal! ... And, above all, it\'92s incomprehensible - who needs this head and for what!\'92\par \pard\plain  Occupied though Margarita Nikolaevna was with her own thoughts, she was struck all the same by the unknown citizen\'92s strange twaddle.\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me!\'92 she suddenly exclaimed. \'91What Berlioz? The one that today\'92s newspapers...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The same, the same...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So it means that those are writers following the coffin!\'92 Margarita asked, and suddenly bared her teeth.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, naturally they are!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And do you know them by sight?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91All of them to a man,\'92 the redhead replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91Tell me,\'92 Margarita began to say, and her voice became hollow, \'91is the critic Latunsky among them?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How could he not be?\'92 the redhead replied. \'91He\'92s there at the end of the fourth row.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91The blond one?\'92 Margarita asked, narrowing her eyes. \'91Ash-coloured... See, he\'92s raising his eyes to heaven.\'92 \'91Looking like a parson?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s him!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita asked nothing more, peering at Latunsky.\par \pard\plain  \'91And I can see,\'92 the redhead said, smiling, \'91that you hate this Latunsky!\'92 \'91There are some others I hate,\'92 Margarita answered through her teeth,\par \pard\plain  \'92but it\'92s not interesting to talk about it.\'92\par \pard\plain  The procession moved on just then, with mostly empty automobiles following the people on foot.\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, well, of course there\'92s nothing interesting in it, Margarita Niko- laevna!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita was surprised. \'91Do you know me?\'92\par \pard\plain  In place of an answer, the redhead took off his bowler hat and held it out.\par \pard\plain  \'91A perfect bandit\'92s mug!\'92 thought Margarita, studying her street inter- locutor.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, I don\'92t know you,\'92 Margarita said drily.\par \pard\plain  \'91Where could you know me from? But all the same I\'92ve been sent to you on a little business.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita turned pale and recoiled.\par \pard\plain  \'91You ought to have begun with that straight off,\'92 she said, \'91instead of pouring out devil knows what about some severed head! You want to arrest me?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Nothing of the kind!\'92 the redhead exclaimed. \'91What is it - you start a conversation, and right away it\'92s got to be an arrest! I simply have busi- ness with you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t understand, what business?\'92\par \pard\plain  The redhead looked around and said mysteriously: \'91I\'92ve been sent to invite you for a visit this evening.\'92 \'91What are you raving about, what visit?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91To a very distinguished foreigner,\'92 the redhead said significantly, nar- rowing one eye.\par \pard\plain  Margarita became very angry.\par \pard\plain  \'91A new breed has appeared - a street pander!\'92 she said, getting up to leave.\par \pard\plain  \'91Thanks a lot for such errands!\'92 the redhead exclaimed grudgingly, and he muttered \'91Fool!\'92 to Margarita Nikolaevna\'92s back.\par \pard\plain  \'91Scoundrel!\'92 she replied, turning, and straight away heard the red- head\'92s voice behind her:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator. The hanging bridges connecting the temple with the dread Antonia Tower disappeared ... Yershalaim - the great city - van- ished as if it had never existed in the world... So you, too, can just vanish away along with your burnt notebook and dried-up rose! Sit here on the bench alone and entreat him to set you free, to let you breathe the air, to go from your memory!\'92\par \pard\plain  Her face white, Margarita came back to the bench. The redhead was looking at her, narrowing his eyes.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t understand any of this,\'92 Margarita began quietly. \'91It\'92s possible to find out about the pages ... get in, snoop around ... You bribed Natasha, right? But how could you find out my thoughts?\'92 She scowled painfully and added: \'91Tell me, who are you? From which institution?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What a bore ...\'92 the redhead muttered and then said aloud, \'91I beg your pardon, didn\'92t I tell you that I\'92m not from any institution? Sit down, please.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita obeyed unquestioningly, but even so, as she was sitting down, she asked once more:\par \pard\plain  \'91Who are you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, all right, my name is Azazello, but anyhow that tells you noth- ing.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And you won\'92t tell me how you found out about the pages and about my thoughts?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, I won\'92t,\'92 Azazello replied drily.\par \pard\plain  \'91But do you know anything about him?\'92 Margarita whispered implor- ingly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, suppose I do.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I implore you, tell me only one thing ... is he alive? ... Don\'92t torment me!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, he\'92s alive, he\'92s alive,\'92 Azazello responded reluctantly. \'91Oh, God! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Please, no excitements and exclamations,\'92 Azazello said, frowning. \'91Forgive me, forgive me,\'92 the now obedient Margarita murmured,  \'91of\par \pard\plain  course, I got angry with you. But, you must agree, when a woman is invited in the street to pay a visit somewhere ... I have no prejudices, I assure you,\'92 Margarita smiled joylessly, \'91but I never see any foreigners, I have no wish to associate with them ... and, besides, my husband ... my drama is that I\'92m living with someone I don\'92t love ... but I consider it an unworthy thing to spoil his life ... I\'92ve never seen anything but kindness from him...\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello heard out this incoherent speech with visible boredom and said sternly:\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg you to be silent for a moment.\'92 Margarita obediently fell silent.\par \pard\plain  \'91The foreigner to whom I\'92m inviting you is not dangerous at all. And not a single soul will know of this visit. That I can guarantee you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And what does he need me for?\'92 Margarita asked insinuatingly. \'91You\'92ll find that out later.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I understand ... I must give myself to him,\'92 Margarita said pensively. To which Azazello grunted somehow haughtily and replied thus:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Any woman in the world, I can assure you, would dream of just that,\'92 Azazello\'92s mug twisted with a little laugh, \'91but I must disappoint you,\par \pard\plain  it won\'92t happen.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What kind of foreigner is that?!\'92 Margarita exclaimed in bewilder- ment, so loudly that people passing by turned to look at her. \'91And what interest do I have in going to him?\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello leaned towards her and whispered meaningfully: \'91Well, a very great interest ... you\'92d better use the opportunity...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What?\'92 exclaimed Margarita, and her eyes grew round. \'91If I under- stand you rightly, you\'92re hinting that I may find out about him there?\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello silently nodded.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll go!\'92 Margarita exclaimed with force and seized Azazello by the hand. \'91I\'92ll go wherever you like!\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello, with a sigh of relief, leaned against the back of the bench, covering up the name \'91Niura\'92 carved on it in big letters, and saying ironi- cally:\par \pard\plain  \'91Difficult folk, these women!\'92 he put his hands in his pockets and stretched his legs way out. \'91Why, for instance, was I sent on this business? Behemoth should have gone, he\'92s a charmer...\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita said, with a crooked and bitter smile:\par \pard\plain  \'91Stop mystifying me and tormenting me with your riddles. I\'92m an un- happy person, and you\'92re taking advantage of it... I\'92m getting myself into some strange story, but I swear, it\'92s only because you lured me with words about him! My head\'92s spinning from all these puzzlements...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No dramas, no dramas,\'92 Azazello returned, making faces, \'91you must also put yourself in my position. To give some administrator a pasting,  or chuck an uncle out of the house, or gun somebody down, or any other trifle of the sort - that\'92s right in my line. But talking with a woman in love, no thanks! ... It\'92s half an hour now that I\'92ve been wangling you into it... So you\'92ll go?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I will,\'92 Margarita Nikolaevna answered simply.\par \pard\plain  \'91Be so good as to accept this, then,\'92 said Azazello, and, pulling a round little golden box from his pocket, he offered it to Margarita with the words: \'91Hide it now, the passers-by are looking. It\'92ll come in useful, Margarita Nikolaevna, you\'92ve aged a lot from grief in the last half-year.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita flushed but said nothing, and Azazello went on: \'91Tonight, at exactly half past nine, be so good as to take off all your clothes and rub your face and your whole body with this ointment. Then do whatever you like, only don\'92t go far from the telephone.  At ten I\'92ll call you and  tell you all you need to know.       You  won\'92t have to worry about a thing,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  you\'92ll be delivered where you need to go and won\'92t be put to any trouble. Understood?\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita was silent for a moment, then replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91Understood. This thing is pure gold, you can tell by the weight. So, then, I understand perfectly well that I\'92m being bribed and drawn into some shady story for which I\'92m going to pay dearly...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What is all this?\'92 Azazello almost hissed. \'91You\'92re at it again?\'92 \'91No, wait!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Give me back the cream!\'92 Margarita clutched the box more tightly in her hand and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91No, wait! ... I know what I\'92m getting into. But I\'92m getting into it on account of him, because I have no more hope for anything in this world. But I want to tell you that if you\'92re going to ruin me, you\'92ll be ashamed! Yes, ashamed! I\'92m perishing on account of love!\'92 - and striking herself on the breast, Margarita glanced at the sun.\par \pard\plain  \'91Give it back!\'92 Azazello cried angrily. \'91Give it back and devil take the whole thing. Let them send Behemoth!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no!\'92 exclaimed Margarita, shocking the passers-by. \'91I agree to everything, I agree to perform this comedy of rubbing in the ointment, agree to go to the devil and beyond! I won\'92t give it back!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Hah!\'92 Azazello suddenly shouted and, goggling his eyes at the garden fence, began pointing off somewhere with his finger.\par \pard\plain  Margarita turned to where Azazello was pointing, but found nothing special there. Then she turned back to Azazello, wishing to get an expla- nation of this absurd \'91Hah!\'92 but there was no one to give an explanation: Margarita Nikolaevna\'92s mysterious interlocutor had disappeared.\par \pard\plain  Margarita quickly thrust her hand into her handbag, where she had put the box before this shouting, and made sure it was there. Then, without reflecting on anything, Margarita hurriedly ran out of the Alexandrovsky Garden.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 20 Azazello\'92s Cream\par \pard\plain  The moon in the clear evening sky hung full, visible through the maple branches. Lindens and acacias drew an intricate pattern of spots on the ground in the garden. The triple bay window, open but covered by a cur- tain, was lit with a furious electric light. In Margarita Nikolaevna\'92s bed- room all the lamps were burning, illuminating the total disorder in the room.\par \pard\plain  On the blanket on the bed lay shifts, stockings and underwear. Crum- pled underwear was also simply lying about on the floor next to a box of cigarettes crushed in the excitement. Shoes stood on the night table next to an unfinished cup of coffee and an ashtray in which a butt was smoking. A black evening dress hung over the back of a chair. The room smelled  of perfume. Besides that, the smell of a red-hot iron was coming from somewhere.\par \pard\plain  Margarita Nikolaevna sat in front of the pier-glass, with just a bathrobe thrown over her naked body, and in black suede shoes. A gold bracelet with a watch lay in front of Margarita Nikolaevna, beside the box she had received from Azazello, and Margarita did not take her eyes from its face. At times it began to seem to her that the watch was broken and the hands were not moving. But they were moving, though very slowly, as if sucking, and at last the big hand fell on the twenty-ninth minute past nine. Margarita\'92s heart gave a terrible thump, so that she could not even take hold of the box right away. Having mastered herself, Margarita opened it and saw in the box a rich, yellowish cream. It seemed to her that it smelted of swamp slime. With the tip of her finger, Margarita put a small dab of the cream on her palm, the smell of swamp grass and forest grew stronger, and then she began rubbing the cream into her forehead and cheeks with\par \pard\plain  her palm.\par \pard\plain  The cream spread easily and, as it seemed to Margarita, evaporated at\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  242\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  once. Having rubbed several times, Margarita glanced into the mirror and dropped the box right on her watch crystal, which became covered with cracks. Margarita closed her eyes, then glanced once again and burst into stormy laughter.\par \pard\plain  Her eyebrows, plucked to a thread with tweezers, thickened and lay in even black arches over her greening eyes. The thin vertical crease cut- ting the bridge of her nose, which had appeared back then, in October, when the master vanished, disappeared without a trace. So did the yel- lowish shadows at her temples and the two barely noticeable little webs of wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes. The skin of her cheeks filled out with an even pink colour, her forehead became white and clear, and the hairdresser\'92s waves in her hair came undone.\par \pard\plain  From the mirror a naturally curly, black-haired woman of about twenty was looking at the thirty-year-old Margarita, baring her teeth and shaking with laughter.\par \pard\plain  Having laughed her fill, Margarita jumped out of her bathrobe with   a single leap, dipped freely into the light, rich cream, and with vigorous strokes began rubbing it into the skin of her body. It at once turned pink and tingly. That instant, as if a needle had been snatched from her brain, the ache she had felt in her temple all evening after the meeting in the Alexandrovsky Garden subsided, her leg and arm muscles grew stronger, and then Margarita\'92s body became weightless.\par \pard\plain  She sprang up and hung in the air just above the rug, then was slowly pulled down and descended.\par \pard\plain  \'91What a cream! What a cream!\'92 cried Margarita, throwing herself into an armchair.\par \pard\plain  The rubbings changed her not only externally. Now joy was boiling up in her, in all of her,  in every particle of her body,  which felt to her  like bubbles prickling her body all over. Margarita felt herself free, free  of everything. Besides, she understood with perfect clarity that what was happening was precisely what her presentiment had been telling her in the morning, and that she was leaving her house and her former life forever.\par \pard\plain  But, even so, a thought split off from this former life about the need of fulfilling just one last duty before the start of something new, extraordi- nary, which was pulling her upwards into the air. And, naked as she was, she ran from her bedroom, flying up in the air time and again, to her hus- band\'92s study, and, turning on the light, rushed to the desk. On a page torn from a notebook, she pencilled a note quickly and in big letters, without any corrections:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Forgive me and forget me as soon as possible. I am leaving you for ever. Do not look for me, it is useless. I have become a witch from the grief and calamities that have struck me. It\'92s time for me to go. Farewell.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  With a completely unburdened soul, Margarita came flying into the bedroom, and after her ran Natasha, loaded down with things. At once all these things - a wooden hanger with a dress, lace shawls, dark blue satin shoes on shoe-trees and a belt - all of it spilled on the floor, and Natasha clasped her freed hands.\par \pard\plain  \'91What, nice?\'92 Margarita Nikolaevna cried loudly in a hoarse voice. \'91How can it be?\'92 Natasha whispered, backing away.  \'91How did you do\par \pard\plain  it, Margarita Nikolaevna.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s the cream! The cream, the cream!\'92 answered Margarita, pointing to the glittering golden box and turning around in front of the mirror.\par \pard\plain  Natasha, forgetting the wrinkled dress lying on the floor, ran up to the pier-glass and fixed her greedy, lit-up eyes on the remainder of the cream. Her lips were whispering something. She again turned to Margarita and said with a sort of awe:\par \pard\plain  \'91And, oh, the skin! The skin! Margarita Nikolaevna, your skin is glow- ing!\'92 But she came to her senses, ran to the dress, picked it up and began shaking it out.\par \pard\plain  \'91Leave it! Leave it!\'92 Margarita shouted to her. \'91Devil take it! Leave it all! Or, no, keep it as a souvenir. As a souvenir, I tell you. Take everything in the room!\'92\par \pard\plain  As if half-witted, the motionless Natasha looked at Margarita for some time, then hung on her neck, kissing her and crying out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Satin! Glowing! Satin! And the eyebrows, the eyebrows!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Take all these rags, take the perfume, drag it to your trunk, hide it,\'92 cried Margarita, \'91but don\'92t take any valuables, they\'92ll accuse you of steal- ing.\'92\par \pard\plain  Natasha grabbed and bundled up whatever came to her hand - dresses, shoes, stockings, underwear - and ran out of the bedroom.\par \pard\plain  Just then from somewhere at the other end of the lane a thundering, virtuoso waltz burst and flew out an open window, and the chugging of a car driving up to the gate was heard.\par \pard\plain  \'91Azazello will call now!\'92 exclaimed Margarita, listening to the waltz spilling into the lane. \'91He\'92ll call! And the foreigner\'92s not dangerous, yes, I understand now that he\'92s not dangerous!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  There was the noise of a car driving away from the front gate. The garden gate banged, and steps were heard on the tiles of the path.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s Nikolai Ivanovich, I recognize his footsteps,\'92 thought Margarita. \'91I must do something funny and interesting in farewell.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita tore the curtain open and sat sideways on the window-sill, her arms around her knees. Moonlight licked her from the right side.\par \pard\plain  Margarita raised her head towards the moon and made a pensive and poetic face. The steps tapped twice more, and then suddenly - silence. After admiring the moon a little longer, sighing for the sake of propri-  ety, Margarita turned her head to the garden and indeed saw Nikolai Ivanovich, who lived on the bottom floor of the same house. Moonlight poured down brightly on Nikolai Ivanovich. He was sitting on a bench, and there was every indication that he had sunk on to it suddenly. The pince-nez on his face was somehow askew, and he was clutching his brief- case in his hands.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, hello, Nikolai Ivanovich,\'92 Margarita said in a melancholy voice. \'91Good evening! Coming back from a meeting?\'92\par \pard\plain  Nikolai Ivanovich made no reply to that.\par \pard\plain  \'91And I,\'92 Margarita went on, leaning further out into the garden, \'91am sitting alone, as you see, bored, looking at the moon and listening to the waltz...\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita passed her left hand over her temple, straightening a strand of hair, then said crossly:\par \pard\plain  \'91That is impolite, Nikolai Ivanovich! I\'92m still a woman after all! It\'92s boorish not to reply when someone is talking to you.\'92\par \pard\plain  Nikolai Ivanovich, visible in me moonlight to the last button on his grey waistcoat, to the last hair of his blond, wedge-shaped beard, sud- denly smiled a wild smile, rose from the bench, and, apparently beside himself with embarrassment, instead of taking off his hat, waved his brief- case to the side and bent his knees as if about to break into a squatting dance.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, what a boring type you are, Nikolai Ivanovich!\'92  Margarita  went\par \pard\plain  on.\par \pard\plain  \'91Generally, I\'92m so sick of you all that I can\'92t even tell you,    and I\'92m so\par \pard\plain  happy to be parting with you! Well, go to the devil\'92s dam!\'92\par \pard\plain  Just then, behind Margarita\'92s back in the bedroom, the telephone ex- ploded. Margarita tore from the window-sill and, forgetting Nikolai Iva- novich, snatched the receiver.\par \pard\plain  \'91Azazello speaking,\'92 came from the receiver. \'91Dear, dear Azazello!\'92 cried Margarita.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s time. Take off,\'92 Azazello spoke into the receiver, and it could be heard in his tone that he liked Margarita\'92s sincere and joyful impulse.\par \pard\plain  \'91When you fly over the gate, shout \'93Invisible!\'94 Then fly over the city  a little, to get used to it, and after that head south, out of the city, and straight for the river. You\'92re expected!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita hung up, and here something in the next room hobbled woodenly and started beating on the door. Margarita flung it open and a sweeping broom, bristles up, flew dancing into the bedroom. It drummed on the floor with its end, kicking and straining towards the window. Mar- garita squealed with delight and jumped astride the broom. Only now did the thought flash in the rider that amidst all this fracas she had forgotten to get dressed. She galloped over to the bed and grabbed the first thing she found, some light blue shift. Waving it like a banner, she flew out the window. And the waltz over the garden struck up louder.\par \pard\plain  From the window Margarita slipped down and saw Nikolai Ivanovich on the bench. He seemed to have frozen to it and listened completely dumbfounded to the shouting and crashing coming from the lighted bed- room of the upstairs tenants.\par \pard\plain  \'91Farewell, Nikolai Ivanovich!\'92 cried Margarita, capering in front of Nikolai Ivanovich.\par \pard\plain  He gasped and crawled along the bench, pawing it with his hands and knocking down his briefcase.\par \pard\plain  \'91Farewell for ever! I\'92m flying away!\'92 Margarita shouted above the waltz. Here she realized that she did not need any shift, and with a sin- ister guffaw threw it over Nikolai Ivanovich\'92s head. The blinded Nikolai Ivanovich crashed from the bench on to the bricks of the path.\par \pard\plain  Margarita turned to take a last look at the house where she had suffered for so long, and saw in the blazing window Natasha\'92s face distorted with amazement.\par \pard\plain  \'91Farewell, Natasha!\'92 Margarita cried and reared up on the broom. \'91Invisible!  Invisible!\'92  she cried still louder, and, flying over the   front\par \pard\plain  gates, between the maple branches, which lashed at her face, she flew out into the lane. And after her flew the completely insane waltz.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 21 Flight\par \pard\plain  Invisible and free! Invisible and free! ... After flying down her own lane, Margarita got into another that crossed the first at right angles.\par \pard\plain  This patched up, darned, crooked and long lane, with the lopsided door of a kerosene shop where they sold paraffin by the cup and liquid against parasites in flacons, she cut across in an instant, and here she re- alized that, even while completely free and invisible, she still had to be at least somewhat reasonable in her pleasure. Having slowed down only by some miracle, she just missed smashing herself to death against an old lop- sided street light at the corner. Dodging it, Margarita clutched the broom tighter and flew more slowly, studying the electric wires and the street signs hanging across the sidewalk.\par \pard\plain  The third lane led straight to the Arbat. Here Margarita became fully accustomed to controlling the broom, realized that it obeyed the slightest touch of her hands and legs, and that, flying over the city, she had to be very attentive and not act up too much. Besides, in the lane it had already become abundantly clear that passers-by did not see the lady flier. No one threw his head back, shouted \'91Look! Look!\'92 or dashed aside, no one shrieked, swooned or guffawed with wild laughter.\par \pard\plain  Margarita flew noiselessly, very slowly, and not high up, approximately on second-floor level. But even with this slow flying, just at the entrance to the dazzlingly lit Arbat she misjudged slightly and struck her shoulder against some illuminated disc with an arrow on it. This angered Mar- garita. She reined in the obedient broom, flew a little aside, and then, suddenly hurling herself at the disc with the butt of the broom, smashed it to smithereens. Bits of glass rained down with a crash, passers-by shied away, a whistle came from somewhere, and Margarita, having accom- plished this unnecessary act, burst out laughing.\par \pard\plain  \'91On the Arbat I must be more careful,\'92 thought Margarita, \'91everything\'92s\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  247\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  in such a snarl here, you can\'92t figure it out.\'92 She began dodging between the wires. Beneath Margarita floated the roofs of buses, trams and cars, and along the sidewalks, as it seemed to Margarita from above, floated rivers of caps. From these rivers little streams branched off and flowed into the flaming maws of night-time shops.\par \pard\plain  \'91Eh, what a mess!\'92 Margarita thought angrily. \'91You can\'92t even turn around here.\'92\par \pard\plain  She crossed the Arbat, rose higher, to fourth-floor level, and, past the dazzlingly bright tubes on the theatre building at the corner, floated into a narrow lane with tall buildings. All the windows in them were open, and everywhere radio music came from the windows. Out of curiosity, Margarita peeked into one of them. She saw a kitchen. Two primuses were roaring on the range, and next to them stood two women with spoons in their hands, squabbling.\par \pard\plain  \'91You should turn the toilet light off after you, that\'92s what I\'92m telling you, Pelageya Petrovna,\'92 said the woman before whom there was a pot with some sort of eatables steaming in it, \'91or else we\'92ll apply to have you evicted.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re a good one yourself,\'92 the other woman answered.\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re both good ones,\'92 Margarita said loudly, clambering over the window-sill into the kitchen.\par \pard\plain  The two quarrelling women turned towards the voice and froze with their dirty spoons in their hands. Margarita carefully reached out be- tween them, turned the knobs of both primuses, and extinguished them. The women gasped and opened their mouths. But Margarita was already bored with the kitchen and flew out into the lane.\par \pard\plain  Her attention was attracted by the magnificent hulk of an eight-storey- ed, obviously just-constructed building at the end of it.\par \pard\plain  Margarita dropped down and, alighting, saw that the facade of the building was covered in black marble, that the doors were wide, that behind their glass could be glimpsed a doorman\'92s buttons and peaked cap with gold braid, and that over the door there was a gold inscription: \'91Dramlit House\'92.\par \pard\plain  Margarita squinted at the inscription, trying to figure out what the word \'91Dramlit\'92 might mean. Taking her broom under her arm, Margarita walked into the lobby, shoving the surprised doorman with the door, and saw on the wall beside the elevator a huge black board and on it, writ- ten in white letters, apartment numbers and tenants\'92 names. The head- ing \'91House of Dramatists and Literary Workers\'92 above the list provoked a suppressed predatory scream in Margarita. Rising in the air, she greedily began to read the last names: Khustov, Dvubratsky, Quant,  Beskudnikov,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Latunsky...\par \pard\plain  \'91Latunsky!\'92 shrieked Margarita. \'91Latunsky! Why, he\'92s the one... he\'92s the one who ruined the master!\'92\par \pard\plain  The doorman at the entrance, even hopping with astonishment, his eyes rolled out, gazed at the black board, trying to understand the marvel\par \pard\plain  \'96 why was the list of tenants suddenly shrieking?\par \pard\plain  But by that time Margarita was already going impetuously up the stairs, repeating in some sort of rapture:\par \pard\plain  \'91Latunsky eighty-four... Latunsky eighty-four...\'92\par \pard\plain  Here to the left - 82, to the right - 85, further up, to the left - 84! Here! And the name plate - \'91O. Latunsky\'92.\par \pard\plain  Margarita jumped off the broom, and her hot soles felt the pleasant coolness of the stone landing. Margarita rang once, twice. But no one opened. Margarita began to push the button harder and could hear the jangling it set off in Latunsky\'92s apartment. Yes, to his dying day the inhab- itant of apartment no.84 on the eighth floor should be grateful to the late Berlioz, chairman of Massolit, for having fallen under a tram-car, and that the memorial gathering had been appointed precisely for that evening.\par \pard\plain  The critic Latunsky was born under a lucky star - it saved him from meeting Margarita, who that Friday became a witch.\par \pard\plain  No one opened the door. Then Margarita raced down at full swing, counting the floors, reached the bottom, burst out the door and, looking up, counted and checked the floors from outside, guessing which precisely were the windows of Latunsky\'92s apartment. Undoubtedly they were the five dark windows at the corner of the building on the eighth floor. Con- vinced of it, Margarita rose into the air and in a few seconds was stepping through an open window into an unlit room, where only a narrow path from the moon shone silver. Margarita ran down it, felt for the switch. A moment later the whole apartment was lit up. The broom stood in a cor- ner. After making sure that no one was home, Margarita opened the door to the stairs and checked whether the name plate was there. The name plate was in place. Margarita was where she wanted to be.\par \pard\plain  Yes, they say that to this day the critic Latunsky rums pale remember- ing that terrible evening, and to this day he utters the name of Berlioz with veneration. It is totally unknown what dark and vile criminal job would have marked this evening - returning from the kitchen, Margarita had a heavy hammer in her hands.\par \pard\plain  Naked and invisible, the lady flier tried to control and talk sense into herself; her hands trembled with impatience. Taking careful aim, Mar- garita struck at the keys of the grand piano, and a first plaintive wail passed all through the apartment. Becker\'92s drawing-room instrument, not\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  guilty of anything, cried out frenziedly. Its keys caved in, ivory veneer flew in all directions. The instrument howled, wailed, rasped and jangled. With the noise of a pistol shot, the polished upper soundboard split under a hammer blow. Breathing hard, Margarita tore and mangled the strings with the hammer.   Finally getting tired,  she left off and    flopped\par \pard\plain  into an armchair to catch her breath.\par \pard\plain  Water was roaring terribly in the bathroom, and in the kitchen as well. \'91Seems it\'92s already overflowing on the floor...\'92 Margarita thought, and\par \pard\plain  added aloud:\par \pard\plain  \'91No point sitting around, however.\'92\par \pard\plain  The stream was already running from the kitchen into the corridor. Splashing barefoot through the water, Margarita carried buckets of wa-\par \pard\plain  ter from the kitchen to the critic\'92s study and emptied them into his desk drawers. Then, after smashing the door of the bookcase in the same study with her hammer, she rushed to the bedroom. Shattering the mirror on the wardrobe, she took out the critic\'92s dress suit and drowned it in the tub. A large bottle of ink, picked up in the study, she poured over the luxuriously plumped-up double bed.\par \pard\plain  The devastation she wrought afforded her a burning pleasure, and yet it seemed to her all the while that the results came out somehow meagre.\par \pard\plain  Therefore she started doing whatever came along. She smashed pots of ficus in the room with the grand piano. Before finishing that, she went back to the bedroom, slashed the sheets with a kitchen knife, and broke the glass on the framed photographs. She felt no fatigue, only the sweat poured from her in streams.\par \pard\plain  Just then, in apartment no.82, below Latunsky\'92s apartment, the house- keeper of the dramatist Quant was having tea in the kitchen, perplexed by the clatter, running and jangling coming from above. Raising her head towards the ceiling, she suddenly saw it changing colour before her eyes from white to some deathly blue. The spot was widening right in front  of her and drops suddenly swelled out on it. For about two minutes the housekeeper sat marvelling at this phenomenon, until finally a real rain began to fall from the ceiling, drumming on the floor. Here she jumped up, put a bowl under the stream, which did not help at all, because the rain expanded and began pouring down on the gas stove and the table with dishes. Then, crying out, Quant\'92s housekeeper ran from the apartment to the stairs and at once the bell started ringing in Latunsky\'92s apartment.\par \pard\plain  Well, they\'92re ringing ... Time to be off,\'92 said Margarita. She sat on the broom, listening to the female voice shouting through the keyhole:\par \pard\plain  \'91Open up, open up! Dusya, open the door! Is your water overflowing, or what? We\'92re being flooded!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Margarita rose up about a metre and hit the chandelier. Two bulbs popped and pendants flew in all directions. The shouting through the key- hole stopped, stomping was heard on the stairs. Margarita floated through the window, found herself outside it, swung lightly and hit the glass with the hammer. The pane sobbed, and splinters went cascading down the marble-faced wall. Margarita flew to the next window. Far below, peo- ple began running about on the sidewalk, one of the two cars parked by the entrance honked and drove off. Having finished with Latunsky\'92s win- dows, Margarita floated to the neighbour\'92s apartment. The blows became more frequent, the lane was filled with crashing and jingling. The door- man ran out of the main entrance, looked up, hesitated a moment, evi- dently not grasping at first what he ought to undertake, put the whistle to his lips, and started whistling furiously. To the sound of this whistle, Mar- garita, with particular passion, demolished the last window on the eighth floor, dropped down to the seventh, and started smashing the windows there.\par \pard\plain  Weary of his prolonged idleness behind the glass doors of the entrance, the doorman put his whole soul into his whistling, following Margarita precisely as if he were her accompanist. In the pauses as she flew from window to window, he would draw his breath, and at each of Margarita\'92s strokes, he would puff out his cheeks and dissolve in whistling, drilling the night air right up to the sky.\par \pard\plain  His efforts, combined with the efforts of the infuriated Margarita, yield- ed great results. There was panic in the house. Those windows left intact were flung open, people\'92s heads appeared in them and hid at once, while the open windows, on the contrary, were being closed. In the buildings across the street, against the lighted background of windows, there ap- peared the dark silhouettes of people trying to understand why the win- dows in the new Dramlit building were bursting for no reason at all.\par \pard\plain  In the lane people ran to Dramlit House, and inside, on all the stair- ways, there was the stamping of people rushing about with no reason or sense. Quant\'92s housekeeper shouted to those running up the stairs that they were being flooded, and she was soon joined by Khustov\'92s house- keeper from apartment no.80, located just below Quant\'92s apartment. At Khustov\'92s it was pouring from the ceiling in both the kitchen and the toi- let. Finally, in Quant\'92s kitchen a huge slab of plaster fell from the ceiling, breaking all the dirty dishes, after which came a real downpour, the water gushing from the grid of wet, hanging lath as if from a bucket. Then on the steps of the main entrance shouting began.\par \pard\plain  Flying past the penultimate window of the fourth floor, Margarita peek- ed in and saw a man who in panic had pulled on a gas mask.  Hitting his\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  window with the hammer, Margarita scared him off, and he disappeared from the room.\par \pard\plain  And unexpectedly the wild havoc ceased. Slipping down to the third floor, Margarita peeked into the end window, covered by a thin, dark little curtain. In the room a little lamp was burning weakly under a shade. In a small bed with net sides sat a boy of about four, listening timorously.\par \pard\plain  There were no grown-ups in the room, evidently they had all run out of the apartment.\par \pard\plain  \'91They\'92re breaking the windows,\'92 the boy said and called: \'91Mama!\'92 No one answered, and then he said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Mama, I\'92m afraid.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita drew the little curtain aside and flew in. \'91I\'92m afraid,\'92 the boy repeated, and trembled.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t be afraid, don\'92t be afraid, little one,\'92 said Margarita, trying to soften her criminal voice, grown husky from the wind. \'91It\'92s some boys breaking windows.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91With a slingshot?\'92 the boy asked, ceasing to tremble.\par \pard\plain  \'91With a slingshot, with a slingshot,\'92 Margarita confirmed, \'91and you go to sleep.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s Sitnik,\'92 said the boy, \'91he\'92s got a slingshot.\'92 \'91Well, of course it\'92s he!\'92\par \pard\plain  The boy looked slyly somewhere to the side and asked: \'91And where are you, ma\'92am?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m nowhere,\'92 answered Margarita, \'91I\'92m your dream.\'92 \'91I thought so,\'92 said the boy.\par \pard\plain  \'91Lie down now,\'92 Margarita ordered, \'91put your hand under your cheek, and I\'92ll go on being your dream.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, be my dream, then,\'92 the boy agreed, and at once lay down and put his hand under his cheek.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll tell you a story,\'92 Margarita began, and placed her hot hand on his cropped head. \'91Once there was a certain lady... And she had no children, and generally no happiness either. And so first she cried for a long time, and then she became wicked...\'92 Margarita fell silent and took away her hand - the boy was asleep.\par \pard\plain  Margarita quietly placed the hammer on the window-sill and flew out the window. There was turmoil by the building. On the asphalt pavement strewn with broken glass, people were running and shouting something. Policemen were already flashing among them. Suddenly a bell rang, and a red fire-engine with a ladder drove into the lane from the Arbat.\par \pard\plain  But what followed no longer interested Margarita. Taking aim, so as not to brush against any wires, she clutched her broom more tightly  and\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  in a moment was high above the ill-fated house. The lane beneath her went askew and plunged away. In place of it a mass of roofs appeared under Margarita\'92s feet, criss-crossed at various angles by shining paths. It all unexpectedly went off to one side, and the strings of lights smeared and merged.\par \pard\plain  Margarita made one more spurt and the whole mass of roofs fell thro- ugh the earth, and in place of it a lake of quivering electric lights appeared below, and this lake suddenly rose up vertically and then appeared over Margarita\'92s head, while the moon flashed under her feet. Realizing that she had flipped over, Margarita resumed a normal position and, glanc- ing back, saw that there was no longer any lake, and that there behind her only a pink glow remained on the horizon.  That,  too,  disappeared   a second later, and Margarita saw that she was alone with the moon fly- ing above and to the left of her. Margarita\'92s hair had long been standing up in a shock, and the whistling moonlight bathed her body. Seeing two rows of widespread lights merge into two unbroken fiery lines, seeing how quickly they vanished behind her, Margarita realized that she was flying at an enormous speed and was amazed that she was not out of breath.\par \pard\plain  After a few seconds, a new glow of electric lights flared up far below in the earthly blackness and hurtled under the flying woman\'92s feet, but immediately spun away like a whirligig and fell into the earth. A few seconds later - exactly the same phenomenon.\par \pard\plain  \'91Towns! Towns!\'92 cried Margarita.\par \pard\plain  Two or three times after that she saw dully gleaming sabres lying in open black sheaths below her and realized that these were rivers.\par \pard\plain  Turning her head up and to the left, the flying woman admired the way the moon madly raced back over her towards Moscow, and at the same time strangely stayed in its place, so that there could be clearly seen on it something mysterious, dark - a dragon, or a little humpbacked horse, its sharp muzzle turned to the abandoned city.\par \pard\plain  Here the thought came to Margarita that, in fact, there was no need for her to drive her broom so furiously, that she was depriving herself of the opportunity of seeing anything properly, of revelling properly in her own flight. Something told her that she would be waited for in the place she was flying to, and that there was no need for her to become bored with this insane speed and height.\par \pard\plain  Margarita turned the broom\'92s bristles forward, so that its tail rose up, and, slowing way down, headed right for the earth. This downward glide, as on an airy sled, gave her the greatest pleasure. The earth rose to meet her, and in its hitherto formless black density the charms and secrets of the earth on a moonlit night revealed themselves.  The earth was coming    to\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  her, and Margarita was already enveloped in the scent of greening forests.\par \pard\plain  Margarita was flying just above the mists of a dewy meadow, then over a pond. Under Margarita sang a chorus of frogs, and from somewhere far away, stirring her heart deeply for some reason, came the noise of a train. Soon Margarita saw it. It was crawling slowly along like a caterpillar, spraying sparks into the air. Going ahead of it, Margarita passed over yet another watery mirror, in which a second moon floated under her feet, dropped down lower still and went on, her feet nearly touching the tops of the huge pines.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  A heavy noise of ripping air came from behind and began to overtake Margarita. To this noise of something flying like a cannon ball a woman\'92s guffaw was gradually added, audible for many miles around. Margarita looked back and saw some complex dark object catching up with her. As it drew nearer to Margarita, it became more distinct - a mounted flying person could be seen. And finally it became quite distinct: slowing down, Natasha came abreast of Margarita.\par \pard\plain  Completely naked, her dishevelled hair flying in the air, she flew as- tride a fat hog, who was clutching a briefcase in his front hoofs, while  his hind hoofs desperately threshed the air. Occasionally gleaming in the moonlight, then fading, the pince-nez that had fallen off his nose flew be- side the hog on a string, and the hog\'92s hat kept sliding down over his eyes. Taking a close look, Margarita recognized the hog as Nikolai Ivanovich, and then her laughter rang out over the forest, mingled with the laughter of Natasha.\par \pard\plain  \'91Natashka!\'92 Margarita shouted piercingly. \'91You rubbed yourself with the cream?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Darling!!\'92 Natasha replied, awakening the sleeping pine forest with her shout. \'91My French queen, I smeared it on him, too, on his bald head!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Princess!\'92 the hog shouted tearfully, galloping along with his rider. \'91Darling!  Margarita Nikolaevna!\'92  cried Natasha, riding beside   Mar-\par \pard\plain  garita, \'91I confess, I took the cream! We, too, want to live and fly! Forgive me, my sovereign lady, I won\'92t go back, not for anything! Ah, it\'92s good, Margarita Nikolaevna! ... He propositioned me,\'92 Natasha began jabbing her finger into the neck of the abashedly huffing hog, \'92propositioned me! What was it you called me, eh?\'92 she shouted, leaning towards the hog\'92s ear.\par \pard\plain  \'91Goddess!\'92 howled the hog, \'91I can\'92t fly so fast! I may lose important papers, Natalya Prokofyevna, I protest!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, devil take you and your papers!\'92 Natasha shouted with a brazen guffaw.\par \pard\plain  \'91Please, Natalya Prokofyevna, someone may hear us!\'92 the hog yelled imploringly.\par \pard\plain  Flying beside Margarita, Natasha laughingly told her what happened in the house after Margarita Nikolaevna flew off over the gates.\par \pard\plain  Natasha confessed that, without ever touching any of the things she had been given, she threw off her clothes, rushed to the cream, and imme- diately smeared herself with it. The same thing happened with her as with her mistress. Just as Natasha, laughing with joy, was revelling in her own magical beauty before the mirror, the door opened and Nikolai Ivanovich appeared before her.  He was agitated; in his hands he was holding  Mar-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  garita Nikolaevna\'92s shift and his own hat and briefcase. Seeing Natasha, Nikolai Ivanovich was dumbfounded. Getting some control of himself, all red as a lobster, he announced that he felt it was his duty to pick up the little shift and bring it personally...\par \pard\plain  \'91The things he said, the blackguard!\'92 Natasha shrieked and laughed. \'91The things he said, the things he tempted me to do! The money he pro- mised! He said Klavdia Petrovna would never learn of it. Well, speak, am I lying?\'92\par \pard\plain  Natasha shouted to the hog, who only turned his muzzle away aba- shedly.\par \pard\plain  In the bedroom, carried away with her own mischief, Natasha dabbed some cream on Nikolai Ivanovich and was herself struck dumb with as- tonishment.\par \pard\plain  The respectable ground-floor tenant\'92s face shrank to a pig\'92s snout, and his hands and feet acquired little hoofs. Looking at himself in the mirror, Nikolai Ivanovich let out a wild and desperate howl, but it was already too late. A few seconds later, saddled up, he was flying out of Moscow to devil knows where, sobbing with grief.\par \pard\plain  \'91I demand that my normal appearance be restored to me!\'92 the hog sud- denly grunted hoarsely, somewhere between frenzy and supplication. \'91I\'92m not going to fly to any illegal gathering! Margarita Nikolaevna, it\'92s your duty to call your housekeeper to order!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, so now I\'92m a housekeeper? A housekeeper?\'92 Natasha cried, pinch- ing the hog\'92s ear. \'91And I used to be a goddess? What was it you called me?\'92 \'91Venus!\'92  the hog replied tearfully,  as he flew over a brook    bubbling\par \pard\plain  between stones, his little hoofs brushing the hazel bushes.\par \pard\plain  \'91Venus! Venus!\'92 Natasha cried triumphantly, one hand on her hip, the other stretched out towards the moon. \'91Margarita! Queen! Intercede for me so that I can stay a witch! They\'92ll do anything for you, you have been granted power!\'92\par \pard\plain  And Margarita responded: \'91All right, I promise.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Thank you!\'92 exclaimed Natasha, and suddenly she cried out sharply and somehow longingly: \'91Hey! Hey! Faster! Faster! Come on, speed it up!\'92\par \pard\plain  She dug her heels into the hog\'92s sides, which had grown thinner during this insane ride, and he tore on, so that the air ripped open again, and a moment later Natasha could be seen only as a black speck in the distance, then vanished completely, and the noise of her flight melted away.\par \pard\plain  Margarita flew as slowly as before through the deserted and unfamil- iar place, over hills strewn with occasional boulders among huge, widely\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  spaced pines. Margarita now flew not over the tops of the pines but be- tween their trunks, silvered on one side by the moon.\par \pard\plain  The light shadow of the flying woman glided over the ground ahead, the moon shining now on Margarita\'92s back.\par \pard\plain  Margarita sensed the proximity of water, and guessed that her goal was near. The pines parted and Margarita rode slowly through the air up to a chalk cliff. Beyond this cliff, down in the shadows, lay a river. Mist hung clinging to the bushes on the cliff, but the opposite bank was flat and low. On it, under a solitary group of spreading trees, the light of a bonfire flickered and some small figures could be seen moving about. It seemed to Margarita that some nagging, merry little tune was coming from there.\par \pard\plain  Further off, as far as the eye could see, there was no sign of habitation or people on the silvered plain.\par \pard\plain  Margarita leaped off the cliff and quickly descended to the water. The water enticed her after her airy race. Casting the broom aside, she ran and threw herself head first into the water. Her light body pierced the water\'92s surface like an arrow, and the column of water thrown up almost reached the moon. The water turned out to be warm as in a bathhouse, and, emerg- ing from the depths, Margarita swam her fill in the total solitude of night in this river.\par \pard\plain  There was no one near Margarita, but a little further away, behind the bushes, splashing and grunting could be heard - someone was also having a swim there.\par \pard\plain  Margarita ran out on to the bank. Her body was on fire after the swim. She felt no fatigue, and was joyfully capering about on the moist grass. Suddenly she stopped dancing and pricked up her ears. The grunt- ing came closer, and from behind the willow bushes some naked fat man emerged, with a black silk top hat pushed back on his head. His feet were covered with slimy mud, which made it seem that the swimmer was wear- ing black shoes. Judging by his huffing and hiccuping, he was properly drunk, as was confirmed, incidentally, by the fact that the river  suddenly\par \pard\plain  began to smell of cognac.\par \pard\plain  Seeing Margarita, the fat man peered at her and then shouted joyfully: \'91What\'92s this? Who is it I see? Claudine, it\'92s you, the ungrieving widow!\par \pard\plain  You\'92re here, too?\'92 and he came at her with his greetings. Margarita stepped back and replied with dignity:\par \pard\plain  \'91Go to the devil! What sort of Claudine am I to you? Watch out who you\'92re talking to,\'92 and, after a moment\'92s reflection, she added to her words a long, unprintable oath. All this had a sobering effect on the light-minded fat man.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah!\'92   he exclaimed softly and gave a start,  \'91magnanimously   forgive\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  me, bright Queen Margot! I mistook you for someone else. The cognac\'92s to blame, curse it!\'92 The fat man lowered himself to one knee, holding the top hat far out, made a bow, and started to prattle, mixing Russian phrases with French, some nonsense about the bloody wedding of his friend Gues- sard in Paris, and about the cognac, and about being mortified by his sad mistake.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why don\'92t you put your trousers on, you son of a bitch,\'92 Margarita said, softening.\par \pard\plain  The fat man grinned joyfully, seeing that Margarita was not angry, and rapturously declared that he found himself without trousers at the given moment only because in his absent-mindedness he had left them on the Yenisey River, where he had been swimming just before, but that he would presently fly there, since it was close at hand, and then, entrusting himself to her favour and patronage, he began to back away and went on backing away until he slipped and fell backwards into the water. But even as he fell, he kept on his face, framed in small side-whiskers, a smile of rapture and devotion.\par \pard\plain  Here Margarita gave a piercing whistle and, mounting the broom that flew up to her, crossed to the opposite bank of the fiver. The shadow of the chalk mountain did not reach that far, and the whole bank was flooded with moonlight.\par \pard\plain  As soon as Margarita touched the moist grass, the music under the pussy willows struck up louder, and a sheaf of sparks flew up more mer- rily from the bonfire. Under the pussy-willow branches, strewn with ten- der, fluffy catkins, visible in the moonlight, sat two rows of fat-faced frogs, puffing up as if they were made of rubber, playing a bravura march on wooden pipes.\par \pard\plain  Glowing marsh-lights hung on willow twigs in front of the musicians, lighting up the music; the restless light of the bonfire danced on the frogs\'92 faces.\par \pard\plain  The march was being played in honour of Margarita.  She was given  a most solemn reception. Transparent naiads stopped their round dance over the river and waved weeds at Margarita, and their far-audible greet- ings moaned across the deserted, greenish bank. Naked witches, jumping from behind the pussy willows, formed a line and began curtseying and making courtly bows.\par \pard\plain  Someone goat-legged flew up and bent to her hand, spread silk on the grass, inquired whether the queen had had a good swim, and invited her to lie down and rest.\par \pard\plain  Margarita did just that. The goat-legged one offered her a glass of champagne, she drank it, and her heart became warm at once. Having in-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  quired about Natasha\'92s whereabouts, she received the reply that Natasha had already taken her swim and had flown ahead to Moscow on her hog, to warn them that Margarita would soon arrive and to help prepare her attire.\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s short stay under the pussy willows was marked by one episode: there was a whistling in the air, and a black body, obviously miss- ing its mark, dropped into the water. A few moments later there stood before Margarita that same fat side-whiskerist who had so unsuccessfully introduced himself on the other bank. He had apparently managed to get to the Yenisey and back, for he was in full evening dress, though wet from head to foot. The cognac had done him another bad turn: as he came down, he landed in the water after all. But he did not lose his smile even on this lamentable occasion, and the laughing Margarita admitted him to her hand.\par \pard\plain  Then they all started getting ready.  The naiads finished their dance  in the moonlight and melted into it. The goat-legged one deferentially inquired of Margarita how she had come to me river. On learning that she had come riding on a broom, he said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, but why, it\'92s so inconvenient!\'92 He instantly slapped together some dubious-looking telephone from two twigs, and demanded of someone that a car be sent that very minute, which, that same minute, was actu- ally done. An open, light sorrel car came down on the island, only in the driver\'92s seat there sat no ordinary-looking driver, but a black, long-beaked rook in an oilcloth cap and gauntlets. The little island was becoming de- serted. The witches flew off, melting into the moon-blaze. The bonfire was dying down, and the coals were covering over with hoary ash.\par \pard\plain  The goat-legged one helped Margarita in, and she sank on to the wide back seat of the sorrel car. The car roared, sprang up, and climbed almost to the moon; the island vanished, the river vanished, Margarita was racing to Moscow.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 22\par \pard\plain  By Candlelight\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The steady humming of the car, flying high above the earth, lulled Mar- garita, and the moonlight warmed her pleasantly. Closing her eyes, she offered her face to the wind and thought with a certain sadness about the unknown river bank she had left behind, which she sensed she would never see again. After all the sorceries and wonders of that evening, she could already guess precisely whom she was being taken to visit, but that did not frighten her. The hope that there she would manage to regain her happiness made her fearless. However, she was not to dream of this hap- piness for long in the car. Either the rook knew his job well, or the car  was a good one, but Margarita soon opened her eyes and saw beneath her not the forest darkness, but a quivering sea of Moscow lights. The black bird-driver unscrewed the right front wheel in flight, then landed the car in some completely deserted cemetery in the Dorogomilovo area.\par \pard\plain  Having deposited the unquestioning Margarita by one of the graves along with her broom, the rook started the car, aiming it straight into the ravine beyond the cemetery. It tumbled noisily into it and there perished. The rook saluted deferentially, mounted the wheel, and flew off.\par \pard\plain  A black cloak appeared at once from behind one of the tombstones.   A fang flashed in the moonlight, and Margarita recognized Azazello. He gestured to Margarita, inviting her to get on the broom, jumped on to a long rapier himself, they both whirled up and in a few seconds, unnoticed by anyone, landed near no. 302-bis on Sadovaya Street.\par \pard\plain  When the companions passed through the gateway, carrying the broom and rapier under their arms, Margarita noticed a man languishing there in a cap and high boots, probably waiting for someone. Light though Azazello\'92s and Margarita\'92s footsteps were, the solitary man heard them and twitched uneasily, not understanding who had produced them.\par \pard\plain  By the sixth entrance they met a second man looking surprisingly like\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  260\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the first. And again the same story repeated itself. Footsteps ... the man turned and frowned uneasily. And when the door opened and closed, he dashed after the invisible enterers, peeked into the front hall, but of course saw nothing.\par \pard\plain  A third man, the exact copy of the second, and therefore also of the first, stood watch on the third-floor landing. He smoked strong cigarettes, and Margarita had a fit of coughing as she walked past him. The smoker, as  if pricked with a pin, jumped up from the bench he was sitting on, began turning around uneasily, went to the banister, looked down. Margarita and her companion were by that time already at the door of apartment no.50. They did not ring the bell. Azazello noiselessly opened the door with his own key.\par \pard\plain  The first thing that struck Margarita was the darkness in which she found herself. It was as dark as underground, so that she involuntarily clutched at Azazello\'92s cloak for fear of stumbling. But then, from far away and above, the light of some little lamp flickered and began to approach.\par \pard\plain  Azazello took the broom from under Margarita\'92s arm as they walked, and it disappeared without a sound in the darkness.\par \pard\plain  Here they started climbing some wide steps, and Margarita began to think there would be no end to them. She was struck that the front hall of an ordinary Moscow apartment could contain this extraordinary invisible, yet quite palpable, endless stairway. But the climb ended, and Margarita realized that she was on a landing. The light came right up to them, and Margarita saw in this light the face of a man, long and black, holding a little lamp in his hand. Those who in recent days had been so unfortunate as to cross paths with him, would certainly have recognized him even by the faint tongue of flame from the lamp. It was Koroviev, alias Fagott.\par \pard\plain  True, Koroviev\'92s appearance was quite changed. The flickering light was reflected not in the cracked pince-nez, which it had long been time to throw in the trash, but in a monocle, which, true, was also cracked. The little moustache on his insolent face was twirled up and waxed, and Koroviev\'92s blackness was quite simply explained - he was in formal attire. Only his chest was white.\par \pard\plain  The magician, choirmaster, sorcerer, interpreter - devil knows what he really was - Koroviev, in short, made his bows and, with a broad sweep of the lamp in the air, invited Margarita to follow him. Azazello disappeared. \'91An amazingly strange evening,\'92 thought Margarita, \'91I expected any- thing but this. Has their electricity gone off, or what? But the most striking thing is the size of the place... How could it all be squeezed into a Moscow\par \pard\plain  apartment? There\'92s simply no way it could be! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  However little light Koroviev\'92s lamp gave out, Margarita realized that\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  she was in an absolutely enormous hall, with a colonnade besides, dark and on first impression endless. Koroviev stopped by some sort of little settee, placed his lamp on some sort of post, gestured for Margarita to sit down, and settled himself beside her in a picturesque attitude, leaning his elbow on the post.\par \pard\plain  \'91Allow me to introduce myself to you,\'92 creaked Koroviev, \'91Koroviev. You are surprised there\'92s no light? Economy, so you think, of course? Unh- unh! May the first executioner to come along, even one of those who later this evening will have the honour of kissing your knee, lop my head off on this very post if it\'92s so! Messire simply doesn\'92t like electric light, and we\'92ll save it for the very last moment. And then, believe me, there\'92ll be no lack of it. Perhaps it would even be better to have less.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita liked Koroviev, and his rattling chatter had a soothing effect on her.\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92 replied Margarita, \'91most of all I\'92m struck that there\'92s room for all this.\'92 She made a gesture with her hand, emphasizing the enormousness of the hall.\par \pard\plain  Koroviev grinned sweetly, which made the shadows stir in the folds of his nose.\par \pard\plain  \'91The most uncomplicated thing of all!\'92 he replied. \'91For someone well acquainted with the fifth dimension, it costs nothing to expand space to the desired proportions. I\'92ll say more, respected lady - to devil knows what proportions! I, however,\'92 Koroviev went on chattering, \'91have known people who had no idea, not only of the fifth dimension,  but generally  of anything at all, and who nevertheless performed absolute wonders in expanding their space. Thus, for instance, one city-dweller, as I\'92ve been told, having obtained a three-room apartment on Zemlyanoy Val, trans- formed it instantly, without any fifth dimension or other things that addle the brain, into a four-room apartment by dividing one room in half with a partition. He forthwith exchanged that one for two separate apartments in different parts of Moscow: one of three rooms, the other of two. You must agree that that makes five. The three-room one he exchanged for two sep- arate ones, each of two rooms, and became the owner, as you can see for yourself, of six rooms - true, scattered in total disorder all over Moscow. He was just getting ready to perform his last and most brilliant leap, by ad- vertising in the newspapers that he wanted to exchange six rooms in dif- ferent parts of Moscow for one five-room apartment on Zemlyanoy Val, when his activity ceased for reasons independent of him. He probably also has some sort of room now, only I venture to assure you it is not in Moscow. A real slicker, you see, ma\'92am, and you keep talking about the fifth dimension!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Though she had never talked about the fifth dimension, and it was Ko- roviev himself who kept talking about it, Margarita laughed gaily, hearing the story of the adventures of the apartment slicker. Koroviev went on:\par \pard\plain  \'91But to business, to business, Margarita Nikolaevna. You\'92re quite an intelligent woman, and of course have already guessed who our host is.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s heart thumped, and she nodded.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, and so, ma\'92am,\'92 Koroviev said, \'91and so, we\'92re enemies of any sort of reticence and mysteriousness. Messire gives one ball annually. It  is called the spring ball of the full moon, or the ball of the hundred kings. Such a crowd! ...\'92 here Koroviev held his cheek as if he had a toothache.\par \pard\plain  \'91However, I hope you\'92ll be convinced of it yourself. Now, Messire is a bachelor, as you yourself, of course, understand. Yet a hostess is needed,\'92 Koroviev spread his arms, \'91without a hostess, you must agree ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita listened to Koroviev, trying not to miss a single word; she felt cold under her heart, the hope of happiness made her head spin.\par \pard\plain  \'91The tradition has been established,\'92 Koroviev said further, \'91that the hostess of the ball must without fail be named Margarita, first, and sec- ond, she must be a native of the place. And we, you will kindly note, are travelling and at the present moment are in Moscow. We found one hun- dred and twenty-one Margaritas in Moscow, and, would you believe it,\'92 here Koroviev slapped himself on the thigh with despair, \'91not one of them was suitable! And, at last, by a happy fate ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Koroviev grinned expressively, inclining his body, and again Margari- ta\'92s heart went cold.\par \pard\plain  \'91In short!\'92 Koroviev cried out, \'91Quite shortly: you won\'92t refuse to take this responsibility upon yourself?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I won\'92t refuse!\'92 Margarita replied firmly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Done!\'92 said Koroviev and, raising the little lamp, added: \'91Please fol- low me.\'92\par \pard\plain  They walked between the columns and finally came to another hall, in which for some reason there was a strong smell of lemons, where some rustlings were heard and something brushed against Margarita\'92s head. She gave a start.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t be frightened,\'92 Koroviev reassured her sweetly, taking Margarita under the arm, \'91it\'92s Behemoth\'92s contrivances for the ball, that\'92s all. And generally I will allow myself the boldness of advising you, Margarita Niko- laevna, never to be afraid of anything. It is unreasonable. The ball will be a magnificent one, I will not conceal it from you. We will see persons the scope of whose power in their own time was extremely great. But, really, once you think how microscopically small their possibilities were com- pared to those of him to whose retinue I have the honour of belonging, it\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  seems ridiculous, and even, I would say, sad ... And, besides, you are of royal blood yourself.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Why of royal blood?\'92 Margarita whispered fearfully, pressing herself to Koroviev.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, my Queen,\'92 Koroviev rattled on playfully, \'91questions of blood are the most complicated questions in the world! And if we were to question certain great-grandmothers, especially those who enjoyed a reputation as shrinking violets, the most astonishing secrets would be uncovered, my respected Margarita Nikolaevna! I would not be sinning in the least if, in speaking of that, I should make reference to a whimsically shuffled pack of cards. There are things in which neither barriers of rank nor even the borders between countries have any validity whatsoever. A hint: one of the French queens who lived in the sixteenth century would, one must suppose, be very amazed if someone told her that after all these years I would be leading her lovely great-great-great-granddaughter on my arm through the ballrooms of Moscow. But we\'92ve arrived!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here Koroviev blew out his lamp and it vanished from his hands, and Margarita saw lying on the floor in front of her a streak of light under some dark door. And on this door Koroviev softly knocked. Here Margarita became so agitated that her teeth chattered and a chill ran down her spine.\par \pard\plain  The door opened. The room turned out to be very small. Margarita saw a wide oak bed with dirty, rumpled and bunched-up sheets and pillows. Before the bed was an oak table with carved legs, on which stood a cande- labrum with sockets in the form of a bird\'92s claws. In these seven golden claws burned thick wax candles.  1   Besides that, there was on the table    a large chessboard with pieces of extraordinarily artful workmanship. A little low bench stood on a small, shabby rug. There was yet another table with some golden bowl and another candelabrum with branches in the form of snakes. The room smelled of sulphur and pitch. Shadows from the lights criss-crossed on the floor.\par \pard\plain  Among those present Margarita immediately recognized Azazello, now dressed in a tailcoat and standing at the head of the bed. The dressed-up Azazello no longer resembled that bandit in whose form he had appeared to Margarita in the Alexandrovsky Garden, and his bow to Margarita was very gallant.\par \pard\plain  A naked witch, that same Hella who had so embarrassed the respec- table barman of the Variety, and - alas - the same who had so  fortunately\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1A candelabrum ... seven golden claws: Woland\'92s two candelabra are satanic paro- dies of the menorah made by the Jews at God\'92s command during their wandering in the wilderness (Exodus 25:51-9, 57:17-24). A seven-branched candelabrum also stands on the altar of every Christian church.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  been scared off by the cock on the night of the notorious se´ance, sat on a rug on the floor by the bed, stirring something in a pot which gave off a sulphurous steam.\par \pard\plain  Besides these, there was also a huge black tom-cat in the room, sitting on a high tabouret before the chess table, holding a chess knight in his right paw.\par \pard\plain  Hella rose and bowed to Margarita. The cat, jumping off the tabouret, did likewise. Scraping with his right hind paw, he dropped the knight and crawled under the bed after it.\par \pard\plain  Margarita, sinking with fear, nevertheless made all this out by the per- fidious candlelight. Her eyes were drawn to the bed, on which sat he whom, still quite recently, at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds, poor Ivan had tried to convince that the devil does not exist. It was this non-existent one who was sitting on the bed.\par \pard\plain  Two eyes were fixed on Margarita\'92s face. The right one with a golden spark at its bottom, drilling anyone to the bottom of his soul, and the left one empty and black, like the narrow eye of a needle, like the entrance to the bottomless well of all darkness and shadow. Woland\'92s face was twisted to one side, the right corner of the mouth drawn down, the high, bald forehead scored by deep wrinkles running parallel to the sharp eyebrows. The skin of Woland\'92s face was as if burned for all eternity by the sun.\par \pard\plain  Woland, broadly sprawled on the bed, was wearing nothing but a long nightshirt, dirty and patched on the left shoulder. One bare leg was tucked under him, the other was stretched out on the little bench. It was the knee of this dark leg that Hella was rubbing with some smoking ointment.\par \pard\plain  Margarita also made out on Woland\'92s bared, hairless chest a beetle art- fully carved 2 from dark stone, on a gold chain and with some inscriptions on its back. Beside Woland, on a heavy stand, stood a strange globe, as if alive, lit on one side by the sun.\par \pard\plain  The silence lasted a few seconds. \'91He\'92s studying me,\'92 thought Mar- garita, and with an effort of will she tried to control the trembling in her legs.\par \pard\plain  At last Woland began to speak, smiling, which made his sparkling eye as if to flare up.\par \pard\plain  \'91Greetings to you, Queen, and I beg you to excuse my homely attire.\'92\par \pard\plain  The voice of Woland was so low that on some syllables it drew out into a wheeze.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2A beetle artfully carved: The Egyptians saw the scarabaeus beetle as a symbol of immortality because it survived the annual flooding of the Nile. The ritual use of carved stone scarabs spread to Palestine, Greece and Italy in ancient times.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Woland took a long sword from the sheets, leaned down, poked it un- der the bed, and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Out with you! The game is cancelled. The guest has arrived.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91By no means,\'92 Koroviev anxiously piped, prompter-like, at Margarita\'92s ear.\par \pard\plain  \'91By no means ...\'92 began Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire ...\'92 Koroviev breathed into her ear.\par \pard\plain  \'91By no means, Messire,\'92 Margarita replied softly but distinctly, gaining control over herself, and she added with a smile: \'91I beg you not to interrupt your game. I imagine the chess journals would pay good money for the chance to publish it.\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello gave a low but approving grunt, and Woland, looking in- tently at Margarita, observed as if to himself:\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, Koroviev is right.  How whimsically the deck has been  shuffled!\par \pard\plain  Blood!\'92\par \pard\plain  He reached out and beckoned Margarita to him with his hand. She went up, not feeling the floor under her bare feet. Woland placed his hand, heavy as if made of stone and at the same time hot as fire, on Margarita\'92s shoulder, pulled her towards him, and sat her on the bed by his side.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well,\'92 he said, \'91since you are so charmingly courteous - and I expected nothing else - let us not stand on ceremony.\'92 He again leaned over the side of the bed and cried:  \'91How long will this circus under the bed  continue?\par \pard\plain  Come out, you confounded Hans!\'92 3\par \pard\plain  \'91I can\'92t find my knight,\'92 the cat responded from under the bed in a muffled and false voice, \'91it\'92s ridden off somewhere, and I keep getting some frog instead.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You don\'92t imagine you\'92re at some fairground, do you?\'92 asked Woland, pretending to be angry. \'91There\'92s no frog under the bed! Leave these cheap tricks for the Variety. If you don\'92t appear at once, we\'92ll consider that you\'92ve forfeited, you damned deserter!\'92 \par \pard\plain  \'91Not for anything, Messire!\'92 yelled the cat, and he got out from under the bed that same second, holding the knight in his paw.\par \pard\plain  \'91Allow me to present ...\'92 Woland began and interrupted himself:  \'91No, I simply cannot look at this buffoon. See what he\'92s turned himself into under the bed!\'92\par \pard\plain  Standing on his hind legs, the dust-covered cat was meanwhile making his bows to Margarita.  There was now a white bow-tie on the cat\'92s neck,\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3Hans: Like Jack, Jean, or Ivan in the folk-tales of their countries, the Hans of German tales is generally the third son of the family and considered a fool (though he usually winds up with the treasure and the princess for his bride).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  and a pair of ladies\'92 mother-of-pearl opera glasses hung from a strap on his neck. What\'92s more, the cat\'92s whiskers were gilded.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, what\'92s all this now?\'92 exclaimed Woland. \'91Why have you gilded your whiskers? And what the devil do you need the bow-tie for, when you\'92re not even wearing trousers?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A cat is not supposed to wear trousers, Messire,\'92 the cat replied with great dignity. \'91You\'92re not going to tell me to wear boots, too, are you? Puss-in-Boots exists only in fairy tales, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a bow-tie? I do not intend to put myself in a ridiculous situation and risk being chucked out! Everyone adorns himself with what he can. You may consider what I\'92ve said as referring to the opera glasses as well, Messire!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But the whiskers? ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t understand,\'92 the cat retorted drily. \'91Why could Azazello and Koroviev put white powder on themselves as they were shaving today, and how is that better than gold? I powdered my whiskers, that\'92s all! If I\'92d shaved myself, it would be a different matter! A shaved cat - now, that is indeed an outrage, I\'92m prepared to admit it a thousand times over. But generally,\'92 here the cat\'92s voice quavered touchily, \'91I see I am being made the object of a certain captiousness, and I see that a serious problem stands before me - am I to attend the ball? What have you to say about that, Messire?\'92\par \pard\plain  And the cat got so puffed up with offence that it seemed he would burst in another second.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, the cheat, the cheat,\'92 said Woland, shaking his head. \'91Each time his game is in a hopeless situation, he starts addling your pate like the crudest mountebank on a street corner. Sit down at once and stop slinging this verbal muck.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I shall sit down,\'92 replied the cat, sitting down, \'91but I shall enter an objection with regard to your last. My speeches in no way resemble ver- bal muck, as you have been pleased to put it in the presence of a lady,  but rather a sequence of tightly packed syllogisms, the merit of which would be appreciated by such connoisseurs as Sextus Empiricus, Mar- tianus Capella, 4  and, for all I know, Aristotle himself.\par \pard\plain  \'91Your king is in check,\'92 said Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91Very well, very well,\'92 responded the cat, and he began studying the chessboard through his opera glasses.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4Sextus Empiricus, Martianus Capella: Sextus Empiricus (second\'96third century AD), Greek philosopher, astronomer and physician, was a representative of the most impartial scepticism. Martianus Capella, a Latin author of the fifth century AD, wrote an encyclo- pedia in novel form entitled The Marriage of Mercury and Philology.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91And so, Donna,\'92 Woland addressed Margarita, \'91I present to you my retinue. This one who is playing the fool is the cat Behemoth. Azazello and Koroviev you have already met. I present to you my maidservant, Hella: efficient, quick, and there is no service she cannot render.\'92\par \pard\plain  The beautiful Hella was smiling as she turned her green-tinged eyes to Margarita, without ceasing to dip into the ointment and apply it to Woland\'92s knee.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, that\'92s the lot,\'92 Woland concluded, wincing as Hella pressed es- pecially hard on his knee. \'91A small, mixed and guileless company, as you see.\'92 He fell silent and began to spin the globe in front of him, which was so artfully made that the blue oceans moved on it and the cap at the pole lay like a real cap of ice and snow.\par \pard\plain  On the chessboard, meanwhile, confusion was setting in. A thoroughly upset king in a white mantle was shuffling on his square, desperately raising his arms. Three white pawn-mercenaries with halberds gazed in perplexity at the bishop brandishing his crozier and pointing forward to where, on two adjacent squares, white and black, Woland\'92s black horse- men could be seen on two fiery chargers pawing the squares with their hoofs.\par \pard\plain  Margarita was extremely interested and struck by the fact that the chess- men were alive.\par \pard\plain  The cat, taking the opera glasses from his eyes, prodded his king lightly in the back. The king covered his face with his hands in despair.\par \pard\plain  \'91Things aren\'92t so great, my dear Behemoth,\'92 Koroviev said quietly in a venomous voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91The situation is serious but by no means hopeless,\'92 Behemoth respon- ded. \'91What\'92s more, I\'92m quite certain of final victory. Once I\'92ve analysed the situation properly.\'92\par \pard\plain  He set about this analysing in a rather strange manner - namely, by winking and making all sorts of faces at his king. \'91Nothing helps,\'92 ob- served Koroviev.\par \pard\plain  \'91Aie!\'92 cried Behemoth, \'91the parrots have flown away, just as I pre- dicted!\'92\par \pard\plain  Indeed, from somewhere far away came the noise of many wings. Ko- roviev and Azazello rushed out of the room.\par \pard\plain  \'91Devil take you with your ball amusements!\'92 Woland grunted without tearing his eyes from his globe.\par \pard\plain  As soon as Koroviev and Azazello disappeared Behemoth\'92s winking took on greater dimensions. The white king finally understood what was wanted of him. He suddenly pulled off his mantle, dropped it on the square, and ran off the board. The bishop covered himself with the aban-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  doned royal garb and took the king\'92s place. Koroviev and Azazello came back.\par \pard\plain  \'91Lies, as usual,\'92 grumbled Azazello, with a sidelong glance at Behe- moth.\par \pard\plain  \'91I thought I heard it,\'92 replied the cat.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, is this going to continue for long?\'92 asked Woland. \'91Your king is in check.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I must have heard wrong, my master,\'92 replied the cat. \'91My king is not and cannot be in check.\'92 \'91I repeat, your king is in check!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire,\'92 the cat responded in a falsely alarmed voice, \'91you are over- tired. My king is not in check.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The king is on square G-5,\'92 said Woland, without looking at the board. \'91Messire, I\'92m horrified!\'92 howled the cat, showing horror on his mug. \'91There is no king on that square!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s that?\'92 Woland asked in perplexity and began looking at the board, where the bishop standing on the king\'92s square kept turning away and hiding behind his hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, you scoundrel,\'92 Woland said pensively.\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire! Again I appeal to logic!\'92 the cat began, pressing his paws to his chest. \'91If a player announces that the king is in check, and meanwhile there\'92s no trace of the king on the board, the check must be recognized as invalid!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Do you give up or not?\'92 Woland cried in a terrible voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91Let me think it over,\'92 the cat replied humbly, resting his elbows on the table, putting his paws over his ears, and beginning to think. He thought for a long time and finally said: \'91I give up.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The obstinate beast should be killed,\'92 whispered Azazello.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, I give up,\'92 said the cat, \'91but I do so only because I am unable to play in an atmosphere of persecution on the part of the envious!\'92 He stood up and the chessmen climbed into their box.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hella, it\'92s time,\'92 said Woland, and Hella disappeared from the room. \'91My leg hurts, and now this ball ...\'92 he continued.\par \pard\plain  \'91Allow me,\'92 Margarita quietly asked.\par \pard\plain  Woland looked at her intently and moved his knee towards her.\par \pard\plain  The liquid, hot as lava, burned her hands, but Margarita, without winc- ing, and trying not to cause any pain, rubbed it into his knee.\par \pard\plain  \'91My attendants insist it\'92s rheumatism,\'92 Woland was saying, not taking his eyes off Margarita, \'91but I strongly suspect that this pain in my knee was left me as a souvenir by a charming witch with whom I was   closely\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  acquainted in the year 1571, on Mount Brocken, 5 on the Devil\'92s Podium.\'92 \'91Ah, can that be so!\'92 said Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Nonsense! In another three hundred years it will all go away! I\'92ve been recommended a host of medications, but I keep to my granny\'92s old ways. Amazing herbs she left me, my grandma, that vile old thing! Inci- dentally, tell me, are you suffering from anything? Perhaps you have some sort of sorrow or soul-poisoning anguish?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Messire, none of that,\'92 replied the clever Margarita, \'91and now that I\'92m here with you, I feel myself quite well.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Blood is a great thing ...\'92 Woland said gaily, with no obvious point, and added: \'91I see you\'92re interested in my globe.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, yes, I\'92ve never seen anything like it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s a nice little object. Frankly speaking, I don\'92t enjoy listening to the news on the radio. It\'92s always reported by some girls who pronounce the names of places inarticulately. Besides, every third one has some slight speech defect, as if they\'92re chosen on purpose. My globe is much more convenient, especially since I need a precise knowledge of events. For instance, do you see this chunk of land, washed on one side by the ocean? Look, it\'92s filling with fire. A war has started there. If you look closer, you\'92ll see the details.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita leaned towards the globe and saw the little square of land spread out, get painted in many colours, and turn as it were into a relief map. And then she saw the little ribbon of a river, and some village near it. A little house the size of a pea grew and became the size of a matchbox. Suddenly and noiselessly the roof of this house flew up along with a cloud of black smoke, and the walls collapsed, so that nothing  was left of the little two-storey box except a small heap with black smoke pouring\par \pard\plain  from it.\par \pard\plain  Bringing her eye still closer, Margarita made out a small female figure lying on the ground, and next to her, in a pool of blood, a little child with outstretched arms.\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s it,\'92 Woland said, smiling, \'91he had no time to sin.  Abaddon\'92s   6\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5This pain in my knee ... Mount Bracken: Satan\'92s lameness is more commonly ascribed to his fall from heaven. Mount Brocken, highest of the Harz Mountains in Germany, is a legendary gathering place of witches and devils, and the site of the Walpurgisnacht (as in Goethe\'92s Faust) on the eve of the First of May.\par \pard\plain  6Abaddon: Hebrew name for the Greek Apollyon, the angel of the bottomless pit, the\par \pard\plain  \'91destroyer.\'92 In the Old Testament it is another name for Sheol, the place where the dead abide (Job 26:6, 28:22; Psalms 88:11). Bulgakov mentions this figure of the Apocalypse in White Guard, the angel \'91whose name is in Hebrew Abaddon, in Greek Apollyon, which means destroyer.\'92      (Revelation 9:11) In the Russian tradition the name is usually asso-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  work is impeccable.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I wouldn\'92t want to be on the side that this Abaddon is against,\'92 said Margarita. \'91Whose side is he on?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The longer I talk with you,\'92 Woland responded amiably, \'91the more I\'92m convinced that you are very intelligent. I\'92ll set you at ease. He is of a rare impartiality and sympathizes equally with both sides of the fight. Owing to that, the results are always the same for both sides. Abaddon!\'92\par \pard\plain  Woland called in a low voice, and here there emerged from the wall the figure of some gaunt man in dark glasses. These glasses produced such a strong impression on Margarita that she cried out softly and hid her face in Woland\'92s leg. \'91Ah, stop it!\'92 cried Woland. \'91Modern people are so nervous!\'92 He swung and slapped Margarita on the back so that a ringing went through her whole body. \'91Don\'92t you see he\'92s got his glasses on? Besides, there has never yet been, and never will be, an occasion when Abaddon appears before someone prematurely.  And, finally, I\'92m here.  You are  my\par \pard\plain  guest! I simply wanted to show him to you.\'92 Abaddon stood motionless.\par \pard\plain  \'91And is it possible for him to take off his glasses for a second?\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita asked, pressing herself to Woland and shuddering, but now from curiosity.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, no, that\'92s impossible,\'92 Woland replied seriously and waved his hand at Abaddon, and he was no more. \'91What do you wish to say, Aza- zello?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire,\'92 replied Azazello, \'91allow me to say - we\'92ve got two strangers here: a beauty who is whimpering and pleading to be allowed to stay with her lady, and with her, begging your pardon, there is also her hog.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Strange behaviour for a beauty!\'92 observed Woland. \'91It\'92s Natasha, Natasha!\'92 exclaimed Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, let her stay with her lady. And the hog - to the cooks.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91To slaughter him?\'92 Margarita cried fearfully. \'91For pity\'92s sake, Messire, it\'92s Nikolai Ivanovich, the ground-floor tenant. It\'92s a misunderstanding, you see, she daubed him with the cream...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But wait,\'92 said Woland, \'91why the devil would anyone slaughter him? Let him stay with the cooks, that\'92s all. You must agree, I cannot let him into the ballroom.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, really...\'92 Azazello added and announced: \'91Midnight is approach- ing, Messire.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, very good.\'92 Woland turned to Margarita: \'91And so, if you please...\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ciated with the story \'91Abadonna\'92 by N. A. Polevoy and the poem \'91Abbadona\'92 by V. A. Zhukovskii (1815 \'96 a translation of the epilog to a poem \'91Messiada\'92 by Klopstock.)\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  I thank you beforehand. Don\'92t become flustered and don\'92t be afraid of anything. Drink nothing but water, otherwise you\'92ll get groggy and it will be hard for you. It\'92s time!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita got up from the rug, and then Koroviev appeared in the doorway.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 23\par \pard\plain  The Great Ball at Satan\'92s\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Midnight was approaching; they had to hurry. Margarita dimly perceived her surroundings. Candles and a jewelled pool remained in her mem- ory. As she stood in the bottom of this pool, Hella, with the assistance of Natasha, doused her with some hot, thick and red liquid.  Margarita felt  a salty taste on her lips and realized that she was being washed in blood. The bloody mantle was changed for another - thick, transparent,  pinkish\par \pard\plain  - and Margarita\'92s head began to spin from rose oil. Then Margarita was laid on a crystal couch and rubbed with some big green leaves until she shone.\par \pard\plain  Here the cat burst in and started to help. He squatted down at Mar- garita\'92s feet and began rubbing up her soles with the air of someone shin- ing shoes in the street.\par \pard\plain  Margarita does not remember who stitched slippers for her from pale rose petals or how these slippers got fastened by themselves with golden clasps. Some force snatched Margarita up and put her before a mirror, and a royal diamond crown gleamed in her hair. Koroviev appeared from somewhere and hung a heavy, oval-framed picture of a black  poodle by a heavy chain on Margarita\'92s breast. This adornment was extremely bur- densome to the queen. The chain at once began to chafe her neck, the picture pulled her down. But something compensated Margarita for the inconveniences that the chain with the black poodle caused her, and this was the deference with which Koroviev and Behemoth began to treat her. \'91Never mind, never mind, never mind!\'92 muttered Koroviev at the door\par \pard\plain  of the room with the pool. \'91No help for it, you must, must, must... Allow me, Queen, to give you a last piece of advice. Among the guests there will be different sorts, oh, very different, but no one, Queen Margot, should be shown any preference! Even if you don\'92t like someone ... I understand that you will not, of course, show it on your face - no, no, it\'92s unthinkable! He\'92ll\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  273\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  notice it, he\'92ll notice it instantly! You must love him, love him, Queen! The mistress of the ball will be rewarded a hundredfold for that. And also - don\'92t ignore anyone! At least a little smile, if there\'92s no time to drop a word, at least a tiny turn of the head! Anything you like, but not inattention, they\'92ll sicken from that ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Here Margarita, accompanied by Koroviev and Behemoth, stepped out of the room with the pool into total darkness.\par \pard\plain  \'91I, I,\'92 whispered the cat, \'91I give the signal!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Go ahead!\'92 Koroviev replied from the darkness.\par \pard\plain  \'91The ball!!!\'92 shrieked the cat piercingly, and just then Margarita cried out and shut her eyes for a few seconds. The ball fell on her all at once in the form of light, and, with it, of sound and smell. Taken under the arm by Koroviev, Margarita saw herself in a tropical forest. Red-breasted, green- tailed parrots fluttered from liana to liana and cried out deafeningly: \'91De- lighted!\'92 But the forest soon ended, and its bathhouse stuffiness changed at once to the coolness of a ballroom with columns of some yellowish, sparkling stone. This ballroom, just like the forest, was completely empty, except for some naked negroes with silver bands on their heads who were standing by the columns. Their faces turned a dirty brown from excite- ment when Margarita flew into the ballroom with her retinue, in which Azazello showed up from somewhere. Here Koroviev let go of Margarita\'92s arm and whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Straight to the tulips.\'92\par \pard\plain  A low wall of white tulips had grown up in front of Margarita, and beyond it she saw numberless lamps under little shades and behind them the white chests and black shoulders of tailcoaters. Then Margarita under- stood where the sound of the ball was coming from. The roar of trumpets crashed down on her, and the soaring of violins that burst from under it doused her body as if with blood. The orchestra of about a hundred and fifty men was playing a polonaise.\par \pard\plain  The tailcoated man hovering over the orchestra paled on seeing Mar- garita, smiled, and suddenly, with a sweep of his arms, got the whole orchestra to its feet. Not interrupting the music for a moment, the orches- tra, standing, doused Margarita with sound. The man over the orchestra turned from it and bowed deeply, spreading his arms wide, and Margarita, smiling, waved her hand to him.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, not enough, not enough,\'92 whispered Koroviev, \'91he won\'92t sleep all night. Call out to him: \'93Greetings to you, waltz king!\'94 \'92 1\par \pard\plain  Margarita cried it out, and marvelled that her voice, full as a bell, was\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Waltz king: Unofficial title of the Viennese composer Johann Strauss (1825-99).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  heard over the howling of the orchestra. The man started with happiness and put his left hand to his chest, while the right went on brandishing a white baton at the orchestra.\par \pard\plain  \'91Not enough, not enough,\'92 whispered Koroviev, \'91look to the left, to the first violins, and nod so that each one thinks you\'92ve recognized him indi- vidually. There are only world celebrities here. Nod to that one ... at the first stand, that\'92s Vieuxtemps! 2  ... There, very good... Now, onward!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is the conductor?\'92 Margarita asked, flying off.\par \pard\plain  \'91Johann Strauss!\'92 cried the cat. \'91And they can hang me from a liana in a tropical forest if such an orchestra ever played at any ball! I invited them! And, note, not one got sick or declined!\'92\par \pard\plain  In the next room there were no columns.  Instead there stood walls   of red,  pink and milk-white roses on one side,  and on the other a wall  of Japanese double camellias. Between these walls fountains spurted up, hissing, and bubbly champagne seethed in three pools, the first of which was transparent violet, the second ruby, the third crystal. Next to them negroes in scarlet headbands dashed about, filling flat cups from the pools with silver dippers. The pink wall had a gap in it, where a man in a red swallowtail coat was flailing away on a platform. Before him thundered an unbearably loud jazz band. As soon as the conductor saw Margarita, he bent before her so that his hands touched the floor, then straightened up and cried piercingly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hallelujah!\'92\par \pard\plain  He slapped himself on the knee - one! - then criss-cross on the other knee - two! - then snatched a cymbal from the hands of the end musician and banged it on a column.\par \pard\plain  As she flew off, Margarita saw only that the virtuoso jazzman, fight- ing against the polonaise blowing in Margarita\'92s back, was beating his jazzmen on the heads with the cymbal while they cowered in comic fright. Finally they flew out on to the landing where, as Margarita realized, she had been met in the dark by Koroviev with his little lamp. Now on this landing the light pouring from clusters of crystal grapes blinded  the\par \pard\plain  eye.\par \pard\plain  Margarita was put in place, and under her left arm she found a low amethyst column.\par \pard\plain  \'91You may rest your arm on it if it becomes too difficult,\'92 Koroviev whis- pered.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Vieuxtemps: Henri Vieuxtemps (1820-81), Belgian virtuoso violinist, made his debut in Paris at the age of ten. He travelled the world giving concerts, taught in the conser- vatory of Brussels and for some time also in the conservatory of St Petersburg, where he was first violinist of the imperial court.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Some black man threw a pillow under Margarita\'92s feet embroidered with a golden poodle, and she, obedient to someone\'92s hands, bent her right leg at the knee and placed her foot on it.\par \pard\plain  Margarita tried to look around. Koroviev and Azazello stood beside her in formal poses. Next to Azazello stood another three young men, vaguely reminding Margarita of Abaddon. It blew cold in her back. Look- ing there, Margarita saw bubbly wine spurt from the marble wall behind her and pour into a pool of ice. At her left foot she felt something warm and furry. It was Behemoth.\par \pard\plain  Margarita was high up, and a grandiose stairway covered with carpet descended from her feet. Below, so far away that it was as if Margarita were looking the wrong way through binoculars, she saw a vast front hall with an absolutely enormous fireplace, into the cold and black maw of which a five-ton truck could easily have driven. The front hall and stair- way, so flooded with light that it hurt the eyes, were empty. The sound of trumpets now came to Margarita from far away. Thus they stood motion- less for about a minute.\par \pard\plain  \'91But where are the guests?\'92 Margarita asked Koroviev.\par \pard\plain  \'91They\'92ll come, Queen, they\'92ll come, they\'92ll come soon enough. There\'92ll be no lack of them. And, really, I\'92d rather go and chop wood than receive them here on the landing.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Chop wood - hah!\'92 picked up the garrulous cat. \'91I\'92d rather work as a tram conductor, and there\'92s no worse job in the world than that!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Everything must be made ready in advance, Queen,\'92 explained Ko- roviev, his eye gleaming through the broken monocle. \'91There\'92s nothing more loathsome than when the first guest to arrive languishes, not know- ing what to do, and his lawful beldame nags at him in a whisper for hav- ing come before everybody else. Such balls should be thrown in the trash, Queen.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Definitely in the trash,\'92 confirmed the cat.\par \pard\plain  \'91No more than ten seconds till midnight,\'92 said Koroviev. \'91It\'92ll start presently.\'92\par \pard\plain  Those ten seconds seemed extremely long to Margarita. Obviously they had already passed and precisely nothing had happened. But here something suddenly crashed downstairs in the huge fireplace, and from it leaped a gallows with some half-decayed remains dangling from it. The remains fell from the rope, struck the floor, and from it leaped a handsome dark-haired man in a tailcoat and patent leather shoes. A half-rotten little coffin ran out of the fireplace, its lid fell off, and another remains tumbled out of it. The handsome man gallantly leaped over to it and offered it his bent arm. The second remains put itself together into a fidgety woman in\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  black shoes, with black feathers on her head, and then the man and the woman both hastened up the stairs.\par \pard\plain  \'91The first!\'92 exclaimed Koroviev. \'91Monsieur Jacques 3 and his spouse. I commend to you, Queen, one of the most interesting of men. A confirmed counterfeiter, a traitor to his government, but a rather good alchemist. Famous,\'92 Koroviev whispered in Margarita\'92s ear, \'91for having poisoned a king\'92s mistress. That doesn\'92t happen to everyone! Look how handsome he is!\'92\par \pard\plain  The pale Margarita, her mouth open, watched as both gallows and cof- fin disappeared into some side passage in the front hall.\par \pard\plain  \'91Delighted!\'92 the cat yelled right into the face of Monsieur Jacques as he came up the stairs.\par \pard\plain  At that moment a headless skeleton with a torn-off arm emerged from the fireplace, struck the ground, and turned into a man in a tailcoat.\par \pard\plain  Monsieur Jacques\'92s spouse was already going on one knee before Mar- garita and, pale with excitement, was kissing Margarita\'92s foot.\par \pard\plain  \'91Queen...\'92 Monsieur Jacques\'92s spouse murmured. \'91The queen is delighted!\'92 cried Koroviev.\par \pard\plain  \'91Queen...\'92 the handsome Monsieur Jacques said quietly. \'91We\'92re delighted,\'92 howled the cat.\par \pard\plain  The young men, Azazello\'92s companions, smiling lifeless but affable smiles, were already shouldering Monsieur Jacques and his spouse to one side, towards the cups of champagne that the negroes were holding. The single man in the tailcoat was coming up the stairs at a run.\par \pard\plain  \'91Earl Robert,\'92 4 Koroviev whispered to Margarita, \'91interesting as ever. Note how funny, Queen: the reverse case, this one was a queen\'92s lover and poisoned his wife.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91We\'92re very glad, Earl,\'92 cried Behemoth.\par \pard\plain  Out of the fireplace, bursting open and falling apart, three coffins tum- bled one after another, then came someone in a black mantle, whom the next one to run out of the black maw stabbed in the back with a knife. A stifled cry was heard from below. An almost entirely decomposed corpse ran out of the fireplace.   Margarita shut her eyes,  and someone\'92s    hand\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3Monsieur Jacques: Identified by L. Yanovskaya as Jacques Coeur (c.1395-1456), a rich French merchant who became superintendent of finances under Charles VII. He did make a false start in life in association with a counterfeiter before embarking on his legitimate successes, and was indeed suspected of poisoning the king\'92s mistress, Agnes Sorel, but was quickly cleared. He was neither a traitor to his country nor an alchemist.\par \pard\plain  4Earl Robert: Identified by L. Yanovskaya as Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester  (?1532-\par \pard\plain  88), a favourite of Elizabeth I. of England, whose wife, Amy Rosbarts, did die in suspi- cious circumstances, though not by poisoning but by falling downstairs.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  held a flacon of smelling salts to her nose. Margarita thought the hand was Natasha\'92s.\par \pard\plain  The stairway began to fill up. Now on each step there were tailcoaters, looking quite alike from afar, and naked women with them, who differed from each other only in the colour of their shoes and of the feathers on their heads.\par \pard\plain  Coming towards Margarita, hobbling, a strange wooden boot on her left foot, was a lady with nunnishly lowered eyes, thin and modest, and with a wide green band around her neck for some reason.\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is this ... green one?\'92 Margarita asked mechanically.\par \pard\plain  \'91A most charming and respectable lady,\'92 whispered Koroviev, \'91I com- mend her to you: Madame Tofana. 5 Extremely popular among young, lovely Neapolitans, as well as the ladies of Palermo, especially those of them who had grown weary of their husbands. It does happen, Queen, that one grows weary of one\'92s husband...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 Margarita replied in a hollow voice, smiling at the same time to two tailcoaters who bent before her one after the other, kissing her knee and hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91And so,\'92 Koroviev managed to whisper to Margarita and at the same time to cry out to someone: \'91Duke! A glass of champagne? I\'92m delighted!\par \pard\plain  ...\par \pard\plain  Yes, so then, Madame Tofana entered into the situation of these poor women and sold them some sort of water in little vials. The wife poured this water into her spouse\'92s soup, he ate it, thanked her for being so nice, and felt perfectly well. True, a few hours later he would begin to get very thirsty, then go to bed, and a day later the lovely Neapolitan who had fed her husband soup would be free as the spring breeze.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But what\'92s that on her foot?\'92 asked Margarita, tirelessly offering her hand to the guests who came ahead of the hobbling Madame Tofana. \'91And why that green band? A withered neck?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Delighted, Prince!\'92 cried Koroviev, and at the same time whispered  to Margarita: \'91A beautiful neck, but an unpleasantness happened to her in prison. What she has on her foot, Queen, is a Spanish boot, 6 and the band is explained this way: when the prison guards learned that some five hundred ill-chosen husbands had departed Naples and Palermo for ever, in the heat of the moment they strangled Madame Tofana in prison.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Madame Tofana: La Tofana, a woman of Palermo, was arrested as a poisoner and strangled in prison in 1709. The poison named after her, aqua tofana, had in fact been known since the fifteenth century and is held responsible for the deaths of some 600 persons, including the popes Pius III and Clement XIV and the Duke of Anjou.\par \pard\plain  6A Spanish hoot: A wooden torture device.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91How happy I am, kindest Queen, that the high honour has fallen to me...\'92 Tofana whispered nunnishly, trying to lower herself to one knee - the Spanish boot hindered her. Koroviev and Behemoth helped her up.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m very glad,\'92 Margarita answered her, at the same time offering her hand to others.\par \pard\plain  Now a steady stream was coming up the stairs from below. Margarita could no longer see what was going on in the front hall. She mechanically raised and lowered her hand and smiled uniformly to the guests. There was a hum in the air on the landing; from the ballrooms Margarita had left, music could be heard, like the sea.\par \pard\plain  \'91But this one is a boring woman,\'92 Koroviev no longer whispered, but spoke aloud, knowing that in the hubbub of voices no one would hear him. \'91She adores balls, and keeps dreaming of complaining about her handker- chief.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s glance picked out among those coming up the woman at whom Koroviev was pointing. She was young, about twenty, of remark- ably beautiful figure, but with somehow restless and importunate eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91What handkerchief?\'92 asked Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91She has a chambermaid assigned to her,\'92 explained Koroviev, \'91who for thirty years has been putting a handkerchief on her night table during the night. She wakes up and the handkerchief is there. She\'92s tried burning it in the stove and drowning it in the river, but nothing helps.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What handkerchief?\'92 whispered Margarita, raising and lowering her arm.\par \pard\plain  \'91A blue-bordered one. The thing is that when she worked in a cafe, the owner once invited her to the pantry, and nine months later she gave birth to a boy, took him to the forest, stuffed the handkerchief into his mouth, and then buried the boy in the ground. At the trial she said she had no way of feeding the child.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And where is the owner of the cafe?\'92 asked Margarita. \'91Queen,\'92 the cat suddenly creaked from below, \'91what, may I ask, does the owner have to do with it? It wasn\'92t he who smothered the infant in the forest!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita, without ceasing to smile and proffer her right hand, dug the sharp nails of the left into Behemoth\'92s ear and whispered to him:\par \pard\plain  \'91If you, scum, allow yourself to interfere in the conversation again...\'92 Behemoth squeaked in a not very ball-like fashion and rasped:\par \pard\plain  \'91Queen ... the ear will get swollen ... why spoil the ball with a swollen ear? ... I was speaking legally, from the legal point of view ... I say no more, I say no more. Consider me not a cat but a post, only let go of my ear!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Margarita released his ear, and the importunate, gloomy eyes were be- fore her.\par \pard\plain  \'91I am happy, Queen-hostess, to be invited to the great ball of the full moon!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And I am glad to see you,\'92 Margarita answered her, \'91very glad. Do you like champagne?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What are you doing, Queen?!\'92 Koroviev cried desperately but sound- lessly in Margarita\'92s ear. \'91There\'92ll be a traffic jam!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, I do,\'92 the woman said imploringly, and suddenly began repeating mechanically: \'91Frieda, 7  Frieda, Frieda! My name is Frieda, Queen!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Get drunk tonight, Frieda, and don\'92t think about anything,\'92 said Mar- garita.\par \pard\plain  Frieda reached out both arms to Margarita, but Koroviev and Behe- moth very adroitly took her under the arms and she blended into the crowd.\par \pard\plain  Now people were coming in a solid wall from below, as if storming the landing where Margarita stood. Naked women\'92s bodies came up be- tween tailcoated men. Their swarthy, white, coffee-bean-coloured, and altogether black bodies floated towards Margarita. In their hair - red, black, chestnut, light as flax - precious stones glittered and danced, spray- ing sparkles into the flood of light. And as if someone had sprinkled the storming column of men with droplets of light, diamond studs sprayed light from their chests. Every second now Margarita felt lips touch her knee, every second she held out her hand to be kissed, her face was con- tracted into a fixed mask of greeting.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m delighted,\'92 Koroviev sang monotonously, \'91we\'92re delighted ... the queen is delighted ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The queen is delighted...\'92 Azazello echoed nasally behind her back. \'91I\'92m delighted!\'92 the cat kept exclaiming.\par \pard\plain  \'91The marquise ...\'92 8 muttered Koroviev, \'91poisoned her father, two broth- ers and two sisters for the inheritance ... The queen is delighted! ... Ma- dame Minkin ... 9 Ah, what a beauty! A bit nervous. Why bum the  maid\'92s face with the curling-irons? Of course, in such conditions one gets\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  7Frieda: Her story is reminiscent of that of Gretchen in Faust. B. V. Sokolov finds Bulgakov\'92s source in The Sexual Question, by Swiss psychiatrist Auguste Forel, who tells a similar story of a certain Frieda Keller.\par \pard\plain  8The marquise: Marie-Madeleine d\'92Aubray, Marquise de Brinvilliers (1650-76), a  no-\par \pard\plain  torious poisoner, was decapitated and burned in Paris.\par \pard\plain  9Madame Minkin: Nastasya Fyodorovna Minkin, mistress of Count Arakcheev (1769- 1854), military adviser to the emperor Alexander I. A notoriously cruel and depraved woman, she was murdered by her household serfs in 1825.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  stabbed... The queen is delighted! ...  Queen,  one second of attention!  The emperor Rudolf 10 - sorcerer and alchemist... Another alchemist - got hanged ... Ah, here she is! Ah, what a wonderful brothel she ran in Stras- bourg! ... We\'92re delighted! ... A Moscow dressmaker, 11 we all love her for her inexhaustible fantasy ... She kept a shop and invented a terribly funny trick: drilled two round holes in the wall ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And the ladies didn\'92t know?\'92 asked Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Every one of them knew, Queen,\'92 answered Koroviev. \'91Delighted! ... This twenty-year-old boy was distinguished from childhood by strange qualities, a dreamer and an eccentric. A girl fell in love with him, and he went and sold her to a brothel...\'92\par \pard\plain  A river came streaming from below, and there was no end to this river in sight. Its source - the enormous fireplace - continued to feed it. Thus one hour passed and a second commenced. Here Margarita began to no- tice that her chain had become heavier than before. Something strange also happened with her arm. Now, before raising it, Margarita had to wince. Koroviev\'92s interesting observations ceased to amuse Margarita. Slant-eyed Mongolian faces, white faces and black became undifferenti- ated to her, they merged at times, and the air between them would for some reason begin to tremble and flow. A sharp pain, as if from a nee- dle, suddenly pierced Margarita\'92s right arm, and, clenching her teeth, she rested her elbow on the post. Some rustling, as if from wings against the walls, was now coming from the ballroom, and it was clear that unprece- dented hordes of guests were dancing there, and it seemed to Margarita that even the massive marble, mosaic and crystal floors of this prodigious room were pulsing rhythmically.\par \pard\plain  Neither Gaius Caesar Caligula 12 nor Messalina 13 interested Margarita any longer, nor did any of the kings, dukes, cavaliers, suicides, poison- ers, gallowsbirds, procuresses, prison guards and sharpers, executioners, informers, traitors, madmen, sleuths, seducers. All their names became jumbled in her head, the faces stuck together into one huge pancake, and only a single face lodged itself painfully in her memory - the face, framed\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  10The emperor Rudolf: Rudolf II Hapsburg (1552-1612), German emperor, son of Max- imilian II, lived in Prague, took great interest in astronomy and alchemy, and was the protector of Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler.\par \pard\plain  11A Moscow dressmaker: The heroine of Bulgakov\'92s own play, Zyka\'92s Apartment, which describes a brothel disguised as a dressmaker\'92s shop.\par \pard\plain  12Caligula: Gaius Caesar (AD 12-41), nicknamed Caligula (\'91Little Boot\'92, was the son of Germanicus and succeeded Tiberius as emperor. Half mad, he subjected Rome to many tyrannical outrages and was eventually assassinated.\par \pard\plain  13Messalina: (AD 15-48), third wife of the emperor Claudius, was famous for her de- bauchery.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  in a truly fiery beard, of Maliuta Skuratov. 14\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s legs kept giving way, she was afraid of bursting into tears at any moment. The worst suffering was caused by her right knee, which was being kissed. It became swollen, the skin turned blue, even though Natasha\'92s hand appeared by this knee several times with a sponge, wiping it with something fragrant. At the end of the third hour, Margarita glanced down with completely desperate eyes and gave a joyful start - the stream of guests was thinning out.\par \pard\plain  \'91Balls always assemble according to the same laws, Queen,\'92 whispered Koroviev. \'91Presently the wave will begin to subside. I swear we\'92re endur- ing the final minutes. Here\'92s the group of revellers from Brocken, they always come last. Yes, here they are. Two drunken vampires ... that\'92s all? Ah, no, here\'92s one more ... no, two!\'92 15\par \pard\plain  The last two guests were coming up the stairs!\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s some new one,\'92 Koroviev was saying, squinting through his lens. \'91Ah, yes, yes.  Azazello visited him once and, over the cognac,    whis-\par \pard\plain  pered some advice to him on how to get rid of a certain man whose ex- posures he was extremely afraid of. And so he told an acquaintance who was dependent on him to spray the walls of the office with poison ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s his name?\'92 asked Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, really, I myself don\'92t know yet,\'92 Koroviev replied, \'91we\'92ll have to ask Azazello.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And who is with him?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, that same efficient subordinate of his. Delighted!\'92 cried Koroviev to the last two.\par \pard\plain  The stairway was empty. They waited a little longer as a precaution. But no one else came from the fireplace.\par \pard\plain  A second later, without knowing how it happened, Margarita found herself in the same room with the pool, and there, bursting into tears at once from the pain in her arm and leg, she collapsed right on the floor.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  14Maliuta Skuratov. Nickname of the Russian nobleman Grigory Lukyanovich Skuratov-Belsky, the right-hand man of Ivan the Terrible, who made him head of the oprichnina, a special force opposed to the nobility, which terrorized Russia, burning, pil- laging and murdering many people. He is said to have smothered St Philip, metropolitan of Moscow, with his own hands.\par \pard\plain  15One more... no, two!: B. V. Sokolov identifies these two unnamed new ones as former People\'92s Commissar for Internal Affairs, Genrikh G. Yagoda (1891 -1938) and his secre- tary, P. P. Bulanov. Yagoda, a ruthless secret-police official who fabricated the \'91show trial\'92 of the \'91right-wing Trotskyist centre\'92, was later arrested himself and condemned to be shot, along with his secretary, Bukharin, Rykov and others, in Stalin\'92s third great \'91show trial\'92 of 1938.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  But Hella and Natasha, comforting her, again drew her under the bloody shower, again massaged her body, and Margarita revived.\par \pard\plain  \'91There\'92s more, there\'92s more, Queen Margot,\'92 whispered Koroviev, ap- pearing beside her. \'91You must fly around the rooms, so that the honourable guests don\'92t feel they\'92ve been abandoned.\'92\par \pard\plain  And once more Margarita flew out of the room with the pool. On the stage behind the tulips, where the waltz king\'92s orchestra had been play- ing, there now raged an ape jazz band. A huge gorilla with shaggy side- whiskers, a trumpet in his hand, capering heavily, was doing the conduct- ing.\par \pard\plain  Orang-utans sat in a row blowing on shiny trumpets. Perched on their shoulders were merry chimpanzees with concertinas.\par \pard\plain  Two hamadryads with manes like lions played grand pianos, but these grand pianos were not heard amidst the thundering, squeaking and boom- ing of saxophones, fiddles and drums in the paws of gibbons, mandrills and marmosets.  On the mirror floor a countless number of couples,  as  if merged, amazing in the deftness and cleanness of their movements, all turning in the same direction, swept on like a wall threatening to clear away everything in its path. Live satin butterflies bobbed above the heads of the dancing hordes, flowers poured down from the ceiling. In the cap- itals of the columns, each time the electricity went off, myriads of fireflies lit up, and marsh-lights floated in the air.\par \pard\plain  Then Margarita found herself in a room with a pool of monstrous size bordered by a colonnade. A giant black Neptune spouted a wide pink stream from his maw. A stupefying smell of champagne rose from the pool. Here unconstrained merriment held sway. Ladies, laughing, gave their handbags to their cavaliers or the negroes who rushed about with towels in their hands, and with a cry dived swallow-like into the pool. Foamy columns shot up. The crystal bottom of the pool shone with light from below that broke through the density of the wine, and in it the silvery swimming bodies could be seen. The ladies got out of the pool completely drunk. Loud laughter resounded under the columns, booming like the jazz band.\par \pard\plain  All that was remembered from this turmoil was the completely drunken face of a woman with senseless and, even in their senselessness, imploring eyes, and only one name - Frieda - was recalled.\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s head began to spin from the smell of the wine, and she was about to leave when the cat arranged a number in the pool that detained her.\par \pard\plain  Behemoth performed some magic by Neptune\'92s maw, and at once the billowing mass of champagne,  hissing and gurgling,  left the pool,    and\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Neptune began spewing out a stream neither glittering nor foaming but of a dark-yellow colour. The ladies - shrieking and screaming \'91Cognac!\'92 - rushed from the pool-side and hid behind the columns. In a few seconds the pool was filled, and the cat, turning three times in the air, dropped into the heaving cognac. He crawled out, spluttering, his bow-tie limp, the gilding on his whiskers gone, along with the opera glasses. Only one woman dared to follow Behemoth\'92s example - that same frolicsome dress- maker, with her cavalier, an unknown young mulatto. The two threw themselves into the cognac, but here Koroviev took Margarita under the arm and they left the bathers.\par \pard\plain  It seemed to Margarita that she flew somewhere, where she saw moun- tains of oysters in huge stone basins. Then she flew over a glass floor  with infernal furnaces burning under it and devilish white cooks darting among them. Then somewhere, already ceasing to comprehend anything, she saw dark cellars where some sort of lamps burned, where girls served meat sizzling on red-hot coals, where her health was drunk from big mugs. Then she saw polar bears playing concertinas and dancing the Kamarin- sky 16 on a platform. A salamander-conjurer 17 who did not burn in the fireplace ... And for the second time her strength began to ebb.\par \pard\plain  \'91One last appearance,\'92 Koroviev whispered to her anxiously, \'91and then we\'92re free!\'92\par \pard\plain  Accompanied by Koroviev, she again found herself in the ballroom, but now there was no dancing in it, and the guests in a numberless throng pressed back between the columns, leaving the middle of the room open. Margarita did not remember who helped her to get up on the dais that appeared in the middle of this open space in the room.  When she was up on it, to her own amazement, she heard a clock strike midnight some- where, though by her reckoning it was long past. At the last stroke of the clock, which came from no one knew where, silence fell on the crowd   of\par \pard\plain  guests.\par \pard\plain  Then Margarita saw Woland again. He walked in surrounded by Abad- don, Azazello and several others who resembled Abaddon - dark-haired and young.\par \pard\plain  Now Margarita saw that opposite her dais another had been prepared for Woland. But he did not make use of it. What struck Margarita was that Woland came out for this last great appearance at the ball looking just the same as he had looked in the bedroom.  The same dirty,   patched\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  16The Kamarinsky: A popular Russian dance-song with ribald words.\par \pard\plain  17A salamander-conjurer: The salamander enjoyed the reputation during the Middle Ages and Renaissance of being able to go through fire without getting burned.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  shirt 18 hung on his shoulders, his feet were in worn-out bedroom slippers. Woland had a sword, but he used this bare sword as a cane, leaning on it. Limping, Woland stopped at his dais, and immediately Azazello was before him with a platter in his hands, and on this platter Margarita saw a man\'92s severed head with the front teeth knocked out. Total silence con- tinued to reign, broken only once by the far-off sound, inexplicable under\par \pard\plain  the circumstances, of a doorbell, coming as if from the front hall.\par \pard\plain  \'91Mikhail Alexandrovich,\'92 Woland addressed the head in a low voice, and then the slain man\'92s eyelids rose, and on the dead face Margarita saw, with a shudder, living eyes filled with thought and suffering.\par \pard\plain  \'91Everything came to pass, did it not?\'92 Woland went on, looking into the head\'92s eyes. \'91The head was cut off by a woman, the meeting did not take place,  and I am living in your apartment.  That is a fact.  And fact   is the most stubborn thing in the world. But we are now interested in what follows, and not in this already accomplished fact. You have always been an ardent preacher of the theory that, on the cutting off of his head, life ceases in a man, he turns to ashes and goes into non-being.  I have  the pleasure of informing you, in the presence of my guests, though they serve as proof of quite a different theory, that your theory is both solid and clever.\par \pard\plain  However, one theory is as good as another. There is also one which holds that it will be given to each according to his faith. 19 Let it come true! You go into non-being, and from the cup into which you are to be transformed, I will joyfully drink to being!\'92\par \pard\plain  Woland raised his sword. Straight away the flesh of the head turned dark and shrivelled, then fell off in pieces, the eyes disappeared, and soon Margarita saw on the platter a yellowish skull with emerald eyes, pearl teeth and a golden foot. The lid opened on a hinge.\par \pard\plain  \'91Right this second, Messire,\'92 said Koroviev, noticing Woland\'92s ques- tioning look, \'91he\'92ll appear before you. In this sepulchral silence I can hear the creaking of his patent leather shoes and the clink of the goblet he has just set down on the table, having drunk champagne for the last time in his life. Here he is.\'92\par \pard\plain  A solitary new guest was entering the room, heading towards Woland. Outwardly he did not differ in any way from the numerous other male guests, except for one thing: this guest was literally reeling with agitation,\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  18The same dirty, patched shirt: According to one of Bulgakov\'92s sources, M. N. Orlov\'92s History of Man\'92s Relations with the Devil (St Petersburg, 1904), Satan always wears a dirty shirt while performing a black mass.\par \pard\plain  19It will be given to each according to his faith: A common misapplication of Christ\'92s words, \'91According to your faith be it done to you\'92 (Matt. 9:29).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  which could be seen even from afar. Flushed spots burned on his cheeks, and his eyes darted about in total alarm. The guest was dumbstruck, and that was perfectly natural: he was astounded by everything, and above all, of course, by Woland\'92s attire.\par \pard\plain  However, the guest was met with the utmost kindness.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, my dearest Baron Meigel,\'92 Woland, smiling affably, addressed the guest, whose eyes were popping out of his head. \'91I\'92m happy to commend to you,\'92 Woland turned to the other guests, \'91the most esteemed Baron Meigel, an employee of the Spectacles Commission, in charge of acquaint- ing foreigners with places of interest in the capital.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here Margarita froze, because she recognized this Meigel. She had come across him several times in Moscow theatres and restaurants. \'91Ex- cuse me ...\'92 thought Margarita, \'91but that means - what - that he\'92s also dead?\par \pard\plain  ...\'92\par \pard\plain  But the matter straight away clarified itself.\par \pard\plain  \'91The dear baron,\'92 Woland went on, smiling joyfully, \'91was so charming that, having learned of my arrival in Moscow, he rang me up at once, offer- ing his services along the line of his expertise, that is, acquainting people with places of interest. It goes without saying that I was happy to invite him here.\'92\par \pard\plain  Just then Margarita saw Azazello hand the platter with the skull to Koroviev.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes, incidentally, Baron,\'92 Woland said, suddenly lowering his voice intimately, \'91rumours have spread about your extreme curiosity. They say that, combined with your no less developed talkativeness, it was begin- ning to attract general attention. What\'92s more, wicked tongues have al- ready dropped the word - a stool-pigeon and a spy. And, what\'92s still more, it is hinted that this will bring you to a sorry end in no more than a month. And so, in order to deliver you from this painful anticipation, we have decided to come to your aid, taking advantage of the fact that you invited yourself here precisely with the purpose of eavesdropping and spying out whatever you can.\'92\par \pard\plain  The baron turned paler than Abaddon, who was exceptionally pale by nature, and then something strange took place. Abaddon stood in front of the baron and took off his glasses for a second. At the same moment something flashed fire in Azazello\'92s hand, something clapped softly, the baron began to fall backwards, crimson blood spurted from his chest and poured down his starched shirt and waistcoat. Koroviev put the cup to the spurt and handed the full cup to Woland. The baron\'92s lifeless body was by that time already on the floor.\par \pard\plain  \'91I drink your health, ladies and gentlemen,\'92 Woland said quietly  and,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  raising the cup, touched it to his lips.\par \pard\plain  Then a metamorphosis occurred. The patched shirt and worn slippers disappeared. Woland was in some sort of black chlamys with a steel sword on his hip. He quickly approached Margarita, offered her the cup, and said imperiously:\par \pard\plain  \'91Drink!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita became dizzy, she swayed, but the cup was already at her lips, and voices, she could not make out whose, whispered in both her ears:\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t be afraid, Queen ... don\'92t be afraid, Queen, the blood has long since gone into the earth. And where it was spilled, grapevines are already growing.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita, without opening her eyes, took a gulp, and a sweet cur- rent ran through her veins, a ringing began in her ears. It seemed to her that cocks were crowing deafeningly, that somewhere a march was being played. The crowds of guests began to lose their shape: tailcoaters and women fell to dust.  Decay enveloped the room before Margarita\'92s eyes,  a sepulchral smell flowed over it. The columns fell apart, the fires went out, everything shrank, there were no more fountains, no camellias, no tulips. And there was simply this: the modest living room of the jew- eller\'92s widow, and a strip of light falling from a slightly opened door. And Margarita went through this slightly opened door.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 24\par \pard\plain  The Extraction of the Master\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  In Woland\'92s bedroom everything turned out to be as it had been before the ball. Woland was sitting on the bed in his nightshirt, only Hella was no longer rubbing his leg, but was setting out supper on the table on which they had been playing chess. Koroviev and Azazello, having removed their tailcoats, were sitting at the table, and next to them, of course, was the cat, who refused to part with his bow-tie, though it had turned into an utterly filthy rag. Margarita, swaying, came up to the table and leaned on it. Then Woland beckoned her to him like the other time and indicated that she should sit down beside him.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, did they wear you out very much?\'92 asked Woland. \'91Oh, no, Messire,\'92 Margarita answered, but barely audibly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Nobless obleege,\'92 the cat observed and poured some transparent liq- uid into a goblet for Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Is that vodka?\'92 Margarita asked weakly.\par \pard\plain  The cat jumped up on his chair in resentment.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good heavens, Queen,\'92 he croaked, \'91would I allow myself to pour vodka for a lady? It\'92s pure alcohol!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita smiled and made an attempt to push the glass away.\par \pard\plain  \'91Drink boldly,\'92 said Woland, and Margarita took the glass in her hand at once.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hella, sit down,\'92 Woland ordered and explained to Margarita: \'91The night of the full moon is a festive night, and I have supper in the small company of my retinue and servants. And so, how do you feel? How did this tiring ball go?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Stupendous!\'92 rattled Koroviev. \'91Everybody\'92s enchanted, infatuated, crushed! So much tact, so much skill, charm, and loveliness!\'92\par \pard\plain  Woland silently raised his glass and clinked with Margarita. Margarita drank obediently, thinking that this alcohol would be the end of her.   But\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  288\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  nothing bad happened. A living warmth flowed into her stomach, some- thing struck her softly on the nape, her strength came back, as if she had got up after a long, refreshing sleep, with a wolfish appetite besides. And on recalling that she had eaten nothing since the previous morning, it flared up still more ... She greedily began gulping down caviar.\par \pard\plain  Behemoth cut a slice of pineapple, salted it, peppered it, ate it, and then tossed off a second glass of alcohol so dashingly that everyone applauded. After Margarita\'92s second glass, the candles in the candelabra flared up more brightly, and the flame increased in the fireplace. Margarita did not feel drunk at all. Biting the meat with her white teeth, Margarita savoured the juice that ran from it, at the same time watching Behemoth spread\par \pard\plain  mustard on an oyster.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why don\'92t you put some grapes on top?\'92 Hella said quietly, nudging the cat in the ribs.\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg you not to teach me,\'92 replied Behemoth, \'91I have sat at table, don\'92t worry, that I have!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, how nice it is to have supper like this, by the fireside, simply,\'92 Koroviev clattered, \'91in a small circle ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Fagott,\'92 objected the cat, \'91a ball has its own charm, and scope.\'92 \'91There\'92s no charm in it, or scope either, and those idiotic bears and\par \pard\plain  tigers in the bar almost gave me migraine with their roaring,\'92 said Woland. \'91I obey, Messire,\'92 said the cat, \'91if you find no scope, I will immediately\par \pard\plain  begin to hold the same opinion.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Watch yourself!\'92 Woland said to that.\par \pard\plain  \'91I was joking,\'92 the cat said humbly, \'91and as far as the tigers are con- cerned, I\'92ll order them roasted.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91One can\'92t eat tiger,\'92 said Hella.\par \pard\plain  \'91You think not? Then I beg you to listen,\'92 responded the cat, and, nar- rowing his eyes with pleasure, he told how he had once wandered in the wilderness for nineteen days,\'92 1 and the only thing he had to eat was the meat of a tiger he had killed. They all listened to this entertaining narrative with interest, and when Behemoth finished, exclaimed in chorus:\par \pard\plain  \'91Bunk!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And the most interesting thing about this bunk,\'92 said Woland, \'91is that it\'92s bunk from first word to last.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, bunk is it?\'92 exclaimed the cat, and they all thought he would start protesting, but he only said quietly: \'91History will judge.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Wandered in the wilderness for nineteen days: A comic distortion of well-known examples: the period of wandering is usually a round figure - forty days or forty years - and the usual sustenance is manna or locusts and wild honey (see Numbers 35:58, Amos 5:25, Matt. 5:1-4).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91And tell me,\'92 Margot, revived after the vodka, addressed Azazello, \'91did you shoot him, this former baron?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Naturally,\'92 answered Azazello, \'91how could I not shoot him? He abso- lutely had to be shot.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I got so excited!\'92 exclaimed Margarita, \'91it happened so unexpectedly!\'92 \'91There was nothing unexpected in it,\'92 Azazello objected, but Koroviev\par \pard\plain  started wailing and whining:\par \pard\plain  \'91How not get excited? I myself was quaking in my boots! Bang!  Hup!\par \pard\plain  Baron on his back!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I nearly had hysterics,\'92 the cat added, licking the caviar spoon. \'91Here\'92s what I don\'92t understand,\'92 Margarita said, and golden    sparks\par \pard\plain  from the crystal glittered in her eyes. \'91Can it be that the music and the noise of this ball generally weren\'92t heard outside?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Of course they weren\'92t, Queen,\'92 explained Koroviev. \'91It has to be done so that nothing is heard. It has to be done carefully.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, yes, yes ... But the thing is that that man on the stairs ... when Azazello and I passed by ... and the other one by the entrance ... I think he was watching your apartment...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Right, right!\'92 cried Koroviev, \'91right, dear Margarita Nikolaevna! You confirm my suspicions! Yes, he was watching the apartment! I myself first took him for an absent-minded assistant professor or a lover languishing on the stairs. But no, no! Something kept gnawing at my heart! Ah, he was watching the apartment! And the other one by the entrance, too! And the same for the one in the gateway!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But, it\'92s interesting, what if they come to arrest you?\'92 Margarita asked. \'91They\'92re sure to come, charming Queen, they\'92re sure to!\'92 replied Ko- roviev, \'91my heart tells me they\'92ll come. Not now, of course, but in due time\par \pard\plain  they\'92ll certainly come. But I don\'92t suppose it will be very interesting.\'92 \'91Ah, I got so excited when that baron fell!\'92  said Margarita,   evidently\par \pard\plain  still reliving the murder, which was the first she had seen in her life. \'91You must be a very good shot?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Passable,\'92 replied Azazello.\par \pard\plain  \'91From how many paces?\'92 Margarita asked Azazello a not entirely clear question.\par \pard\plain  \'91Depends on what,\'92 Azazello replied reasonably. \'91It\'92s one thing to hit the critic Latunsky\'92s window with a hammer, and quite another thing to hit him in the heart.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91In the heart!\'92 exclaimed Margarita, for some reason putting her hand to her own heart. \'91In the heart!\'92 she repeated in a hollow voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is this critic Latunsky?\'92 asked Woland, narrowing his eyes at Margarita.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Azazello, Koroviev and Behemoth dropped their eyes somehow aba- shedly, and Margarita answered, blushing:\par \pard\plain  \'91There is this certain critic. I destroyed his whole apartment tonight.\'92 \'91Just look at you! But what for? ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You see, Messire,\'92 Margarita explained, \'91he ruined a certain master.\'92 \'91But why go to such trouble yourself?\'92 asked Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91Allow me, Messire!\'92 the cat cried out joyfully, jumping up.\par \pard\plain  \'91You sit down,\'92 Azazello grunted, standing up. \'91I\'92ll go myself right now ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No!\'92 exclaimed Margarita. \'91No, I beg you, Messire, there\'92s no need for that!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91As you wish, as you wish,\'92 Woland replied, and Azazello sat down in his place.\par \pard\plain  \'91So, where were we, precious Queen Margot?\'92 said Koroviev. \'91Ah, yes, the heart... He does hit the heart,\'92 Koroviev pointed his long finger  in Azazello\'92s direction, \'91as you choose - any auricle of the heart, or any ventricle.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita did not understand at first, and when she did, she exclaimed in surprise:\par \pard\plain  \'91But they\'92re covered up!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91My dear,\'92 clattered Koroviev, \'91that\'92s the point, that they\'92re covered up!\par \pard\plain  That\'92s the whole salt of it! Anyone can hit an uncovered object!\'92\par \pard\plain  Koroviev took a seven of spades from the desk drawer, offered it to Margarita, and asked her to mark one of the pips with her fingernail.\par \pard\plain  Margarita marked the one in the upper right-hand corner. Hella hid the card under a pillow, crying:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ready!\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello, who was sitting with his back to the pillow, drew a black automatic from the pocket of his tailcoat trousers, put the muzzle over his shoulder, and, without turning towards the bed, fired, provoking a merry fright in Margarita. The seven was taken from under the bullet-pierced pillow. The pip marked by Margarita had a hole in it.\par \pard\plain  \'91I wouldn\'92t want to meet you when you\'92re carrying a gun,\'92 Margarita said, casting coquettish glances at Azazello. She had a passion for anyone who did something top-notch.\par \pard\plain  \'91Precious Queen,\'92 squeaked Koroviev, \'91I wouldn\'92t advise anyone to meet him, even if he\'92s not carrying a gun! I give you my word of hon-  our as an ex-choirmaster and precentor that no one would congratulate the one doing the meeting.\'92\par \pard\plain  The cat sat scowling throughout the shooting trial, and suddenly an- nounced:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I undertake to beat the record with the seven.\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello growled out something in reply to that. But the cat was stub- born, and demanded not one but two guns. Azazello took a second gun from the second back pocket of his trousers and, twisting his mouth dis- dainfully, handed it to the braggart together with the first. Two pips were marked on the seven. The cat made lengthy preparations, turning his back to the pillow. Margarita sat with her fingers in her ears and looked at the owl dozing on the mantelpiece. The cat fired both guns, after which Hella shrieked at once, the owl fell dead from the mantelpiece, and the smashed clock stopped. Hella, whose hand was all bloody, clutched at the cat\'92s fur with a howl, and he clutched her hair in retaliation, and the two got tan- gled into a ball and rolled on the floor. One of the goblets fell from the table and broke.\par \pard\plain  \'91Pull this rabid hellion off me!\'92 wailed the cat, fighting off Hella, who was sitting astride him. The combatants were separated, and Koroviev blew on Hella\'92s bullet-pierced finger and it mended.\par \pard\plain  \'91I can\'92t shoot when someone\'92s talking at my elbow!\'92 shouted Behe- moth, trying to stick in place a huge clump of fur pulled from his back.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll bet,\'92 said Woland, smiling to Margarita, \'91that he did this stunt on purpose. He\'92s not a bad shot.\'92\par \pard\plain  Hella and the cat made peace and, as a sign of their reconciliation, ex- changed kisses. The card was taken from under the pillow and checked. Not a single pip had been hit, except for the one shot through by Azazello. \'91That can\'92t be,\'92 insisted the cat, holding the card up to the light of  the\par \pard\plain  candelabra.\par \pard\plain  The merry supper went on. The candles guttered in the candelabra, the dry, fragrant warmth of the fireplace spread waves over the room.\par \pard\plain  After eating, Margarita was enveloped in a feeling of bliss. She watched the blue-grey smoke-rings from Azazello\'92s cigar float into the fireplace, while the cat caught them on the tip of a sword. She did not want to go anywhere, though according to her reckoning it was already late. By all tokens, it was getting on towards six in the morning. Taking advantage of a pause, Margarita turned to Woland and said timidly:\par \pard\plain  \'91I suppose it\'92s time for me ... it\'92s late ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s your hurry?\'92 asked Woland, politely but a bit drily. The rest kept silent, pretending to be occupied with the smoke-rings.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, it\'92s time,\'92 Margarita repeated, quite embarrassed by it, and looked around as if searching for some cape or cloak. She was suddenly embar- rassed by her nakedness. She got up from the table. Woland silently took his worn-out and greasy dressing-gown from the bed, and Koroviev threw it over Margarita\'92s shoulders.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I thank you, Messire,\'92 Margarita said barely audibly, and looked ques- tioningly at Woland. In reply, he smiled at her courteously and indiffer- ently. Black anguish somehow surged up all at once in Margarita\'92s heart. She felt herself deceived. No rewards would be offered her for all her ser- vices at the ball, apparently, just as no one was detaining her. And yet it was perfectly clear to her that she had nowhere to go. The fleeting thought of having to return to her house provoked an inward burst of despair in her. Should she ask, as Azazello had temptingly advised in the Alexan- drovsky Garden? \'91No, not for anything!\'92 she said to herself.\par \pard\plain  \'91Goodbye, Messire,\'92 she said aloud, and thought, \'91I must just get out of here, and then I\'92ll go to the river and drown myself.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Sit down now,\'92 Woland suddenly said imperiously. Margarita changed countenance and sat down. \'91Perhaps you want to say something before you leave?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, nothing, Messire,\'92 Margarita answered proudly, \'91except that if you still need me, I\'92m willing and ready to do anything you wish. I\'92m not tired in the least, and I had a very good time at the ball. So that if it were still going on, I would again offer my knee for thousands of gallowsbirds and murderers to kiss.\'92 Margarita looked at Woland as if through a veil, her eyes filling with tears.\par \pard\plain  \'91True! You\'92re perfectly right!\'92 Woland cried resoundingly and  terribly.\par \pard\plain  That\'92s the way!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s the way!\'92 Woland\'92s retinue repeated like an echo.\par \pard\plain  \'91We\'92ve been testing you,\'92 said Woland. \'91Never ask for anything! Never for anything, and especially from those who are stronger than you. They\'92ll make the offer themselves, and give everything themselves. Sit down, proud woman,\'92 Woland tore the heavy dressing-gown from Margarita and again she found herself sitting next to him on the bed. \'91And so, Mar-  got,\'92 Woland went on, softening his voice, \'91what do you want for having been my hostess tonight? What do you wish for having spent the ball naked? What price do you put on your knee? What are your losses from my guests, whom you just called gallowsbirds? Speak! And speak now without constraint, for it is I who offer.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s heart began to pound, she sighed heavily, started ponder- ing something.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, come, be braver!\'92 Woland encouraged her. \'91Rouse your fantasy, spur it on! Merely being present at the scene of the murder of that invet- erate blackguard of a baron is worth a reward, particularly if the person is a woman. Well, then?\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s breath was taken away, and she was about to utter the cher- ished words prepared in her soul, when she suddenly turned pale, opened\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  her mouth and stared: \'91Frieda! ... Frieda, Frieda!\'92 someone\'92s importunate, imploring voice cried in her ears, \'91my name is Frieda!\'92 And Margarita, stumbling over the words, began to speak:\par \pard\plain  \'91So, that means ... I can ask ... for one thing?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Demand, demand, my donna,\'92 Woland replied, smiling knowingly, \'91you may demand one thing.\'92\par \pard\plain  Ah, how adroitly and distinctly Woland, repeating Margarita\'92s words, underscored that \'91one thing\'92!\par \pard\plain  Margarita sighed again and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91I want them to stop giving Frieda that handkerchief with which she smothered her baby.\'92\par \pard\plain  The cat raised his eyes to heaven and sighed noisily, but said nothing, perhaps remembering how his ear had already suffered.\par \pard\plain  \'91In view of the fact,\'92 said Woland, grinning, \'91that the possibility of your having been bribed by that fool Frieda is, of course, entirely excluded - being incompatible with your royal dignity - I simply don\'92t know what to do. One thing remains, perhaps: to procure some rags and stuff them in all the cracks of my bedroom.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What are you talking about, Messire?\'92 Margarita was amazed, hearing these indeed incomprehensible words.\par \pard\plain  \'91I agree with you completely, Messire,\'92 the cat mixed into the conver- sation, \'91precisely with rags!\'92 And the cat vexedly struck the table with his paw.\par \pard\plain  \'91I am talking about mercy,\'92 Woland explained his words, not taking his fiery eye off Margarita. \'91It sometimes creeps, quite unexpectedly and perfidiously, through the narrowest cracks. And so I am talking about rags...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And I\'92m talking about the same thing!\'92 the cat exclaimed, and drew back from Margarita just in case, raising his paws to protect his sharp ears, covered with a pink cream.\par \pard\plain  \'91Get out,\'92 said Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91I haven\'92t had coffee yet,\'92 replied the cat, \'91how can I leave? Can it be, Messire, that on a festive night the guests are divided into two sorts? One of the first, and the other, as that sad skinflint of a barman put it, of second freshness?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Quiet,\'92 ordered Woland, and, turning to Margarita, he asked: \'91You are, by all tokens, a person of exceptional kindness? A highly moral person?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92 Margarita replied emphatically, \'91I know that one can only speak frankly with you, and so I will tell you frankly: I am a light-minded per- son. I asked you for Frieda only because I was careless enough to give her firm hope. She\'92s waiting, Messire, she believes in my power. And if she\'92s\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  left disappointed, I\'92ll be in a terrible position. I\'92ll have no peace in my life. There\'92s no help for it, it just happened.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah,\'92 said Woland, \'91that\'92s understandable.\'92 \'91Will you do it?\'92 Margarita asked quietly.\par \pard\plain  \'91By no means,\'92 answered Woland. \'91The thing is, dear Queen, that a little confusion has taken place here. Each department must look after its own affairs. I don\'92t deny our possibilities are rather great, they\'92re much greater than some not very keen people may think...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, a whole lot greater,\'92 the cat, obviously proud of these possibilities, put in, unable to restrain himself.\par \pard\plain  \'91Quiet, devil take you!\'92 Woland said to him, and went on addressing Margarita: \'91But there is simply no sense in doing what ought to be done by another - as I just put it - department. And so, I will not do it, but you will do it yourself.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And will it be done at my word?\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello gave Margarita an ironic look out of the comer of his blind eye, shook his red head imperceptibly, and snorted.\par \pard\plain  \'91Just do it, what a pain!\'92 Woland muttered and, turning the globe, be- gan peering into some detail on it, evidently also occupied with something else during his conversation with Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91So, Frieda ...\'92 prompted Koroviev. \'91Frieda!\'92 Margarita cried piercingly.\par \pard\plain  The door flew open and a dishevelled, naked woman, now showing no signs of drunkenness, ran into the room with frenzied eyes and stretched her arms out to Margarita, who said majestically:\par \pard\plain  \'91You are forgiven. The handkerchief will no longer be brought to you.\'92\par \pard\plain  Frieda\'92s scream rang out, she fell face down on the floor and prostrated in a cross before Margarita. Woland waved his hand and Frieda vanished from sight.\par \pard\plain  \'91Thank you, and farewell,\'92 Margarita said, getting up.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, Behemoth,\'92 began Woland, \'91let\'92s not take advantage of the action of an impractical person on a festive night.\'92 He turned to Margarita: \'91And so, that does not count, I did nothing. What do you want for yourself?\'92\par \pard\plain  Silence ensued, interrupted by Koroviev, who started whispering in Margarita\'92s ear:\par \pard\plain  \'91Diamond donna, this time I advise you to be more reasonable! Or else fortune may slip away.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I want my beloved master to be returned to me right now, this second,\'92 said Margarita, and her face was contorted by a spasm.\par \pard\plain  Here a wind burst into the room, so that the flames of the candles in the candelabra were flattened, the heavy curtain on the window moved aside,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the window opened wide and revealed far away on high a full, not morn- ing but midnight moon. A greenish kerchief of night-light fell from the window-sill to the floor, and in it appeared Ivanushka\'92s night visitor, who called himself a master. He was in his hospital clothes - robe, slippers and the black cap, with which he never parted. His unshaven face twitched in a grimace, he glanced sidelong with a crazy amorousness at the lights of the candles, and the torrent of moonlight seethed around him.\par \pard\plain  Margarita recognized him at once, gave a moan, clasped her hands, and ran to him. She kissed him on the forehead, on the lips, pressed herself to his stubbly cheek, and her long held-back tears now streamed down her face. She uttered only one word, repeating it senselessly:\par \pard\plain  \'91You ... you ... you...\'92\par \pard\plain  The master held her away from him and said in a hollow voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t weep, Margot, don\'92t torment me, I\'92m gravely ill.\'92 He grasped the window-sill with his hand, as if he were about to jump on to it and flee, and, peering at those sitting there, cried: \'91I\'92m afraid, Margot! My hallucinations are beginning again...\'92\par \pard\plain  Sobs stifled Margarita, she whispered, choking on the words:\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no, no ... don\'92t be afraid of anything ... I\'92m with you ... I\'92m with you ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Koroviev deftly and inconspicuously pushed a chair towards the mas- ter, and he sank into it, while Margarita threw herself on her knees, pressed herself to the sick man\'92s side, and so grew quiet. In her agitation she had not noticed that her nakedness was somehow suddenly over, that she was now wearing a black silk cloak. The sick man hung his head and began looking down with gloomy, sick eyes.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 Woland began after a silence, \'91they did a good job on him.\'92 He ordered Koroviev: \'91Knight, give this man something to drink.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita begged the master in a trembling voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91Drink, drink! You\'92re afraid? No, no, believe me, they\'92ll help you!\'92\par \pard\plain  The sick man took the glass and drank what was in it, but his hand twitched and the lowered glass smashed at his feet.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s good luck, good luck!\'92 Koroviev whispered to Margarita. \'91Look, he\'92s already coming to himself.\'92\par \pard\plain  Indeed, the sick man\'92s gaze was no longer so wild and troubled. \'91But is it you, Margot?\'92 asked the moonlit guest.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t doubt, it\'92s I,\'92 replied Margarita. \'91More!\'92 ordered Woland.\par \pard\plain  After the master emptied the second glass, his eyes became alive and intelligent.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Well, there, that\'92s something else again,\'92 said Woland, narrowing his eyes. \'91Now let\'92s talk. Who are you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m nobody now,\'92 the master replied, and a smile twisted his mouth. \'91Where have you just come from?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91From the house of sorrows. I am mentally ill,\'92 replied the visitor. These words Margarita could not bear, and she began to weep   again.\par \pard\plain  Then she wiped her eyes and cried out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Terrible words! Terrible words! He\'92s a master, Messire, I\'92m letting you know that! Cure him, he\'92s worth it!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Do you know with whom you are presently speaking?\'92 Woland asked the visitor. \'91On whom you have come calling?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I do,\'92 replied the master, \'91my neighbour in the madhouse was that boy, Ivan Homeless. He told me about you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes, yes,\'92 Woland responded, \'91I had the pleasure of meeting that young man at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds. He almost drove me mad myself, proving to me that I don\'92t exist. But you do believe that it is really I?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I must believe,\'92 said the visitor, \'91though, of course, it would be much more comforting to consider you the product of a hallucination. Forgive me,\'92 the master added, catching himself.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, so, if it\'92s more comforting, consider me that,\'92 Woland replied courteously. \'91No, no!\'92 Margarita said, frightened, shaking the master by the shoulder. \'91Come to your senses! It\'92s really he before you!\'92\par \pard\plain  The cat intruded here as well.\par \pard\plain  \'91And I really look like a hallucination. Note my profile in the moon- light.\'92 The cat got into the shaft of moonlight and wanted to add some- thing else, but on being asked to keep silent, replied: \'91Very well, very well, I\'92m prepared to be silent. I\'92ll be a silent hallucination,\'92 and fell silent.\par \pard\plain  \'91But tell me, why does Margarita call you a master?\'92 asked Woland. The man smiled and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91That is an excusable weakness. She has too high an opinion of a novel I wrote.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What is this novel about?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It is a novel about Pontius Pilate.\'92 Here again the tongues of the can- dles swayed and leaped, the dishes on the table clattered, Woland burst into thunderous laughter, but neither frightened nor surprised anyone. Behemoth applauded for some reason.\par \pard\plain  \'91About what? About what? About whom?\'92 said Woland, ceasing to laugh.\par \pard\plain  \'91And that - now? It\'92s stupendous! Couldn\'92t you have found some other subject? Let me see it.\'92 Woland held out his hand, palm up.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Unfortunately, I cannot do that,\'92 replied the master, \'91because I burned it in the stove.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive me, but I don\'92t believe you,\'92 Woland replied, \'91that cannot be: manuscripts don\'92t burn.\'92 2 He turned to Behemoth and said, \'91Come on. Behemoth, let\'92s have the novel.\'92\par \pard\plain  The cat instantly jumped off the chair, and everyone saw that he had been sitting on a thick stack of manuscripts. With a bow, the cat gave the top copy to Woland. Margarita trembled and cried out, again shaken to the point of tears:\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s here, the manuscript! It\'92s here!\'92 She dashed to Woland and added in admiration:\par \pard\plain  \'91All-powerful! All-powerful!\'92\par \pard\plain  Woland took the manuscript that had been handed to him, turned it over, laid it aside, and silently, without smiling, stared at the master. But he, for some unknown reason, lapsed into anxiety and uneasiness, got  up from the chair, wrung his hands, and, quivering as he addressed the distant moon, began to murmur:\par \pard\plain  \'91And at night, by moonlight, I have no peace... Why am I being trou- bled? Oh, gods, gods ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita clutched at the hospital robe, pressing herself to him, and began to murmur herself in anguish and tears:\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, God, why doesn\'92t the medicine help you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s nothing, nothing, nothing,\'92 whispered Koroviev, twisting about the master, \'91nothing, nothing... One more little glass, I\'92ll keep you com- pany...\'92\par \pard\plain  And the little glass winked and gleamed in the moonlight, and this little glass helped. The master was put back in his place, and the sick man\'92s face assumed a calm expression.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, it\'92s all clear now,\'92 said Woland, tapping the manuscript with a long finger.\par \pard\plain  \'91Perfectly clear,\'92 confirmed the cat, forgetting his promise to be a silent hallucination. \'91Now the main line of this opus is thoroughly clear to me. What do you say, Azazello?\'92 he turned to the silent Azazello.\par \pard\plain  \'91I say,\'92 the other twanged, \'91that it would be a good thing to drown you.\'92 \'91Have mercy, Azazello,\'92 the cat replied to him, \'91and don\'92t suggest the idea to my sovereign. Believe me, every night I\'92d come to you in the same moonlight garb as the poor master, and nod and beckon to you to  follow\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Manuscripts don\'92t burn: This phrase became proverbial among Russian intellectuals after the publication of The Master and Margarita, an event which in itself seemed to bear out the truth of Woland\'92s words.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  me. How would that be, Azazello?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, Margarita,\'92 Woland again entered the conversation, \'91tell me ev- erything you need.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita\'92s eyes lit up, and she said imploringly to Woland: \'91Allow me to whisper something to him.\'92\par \pard\plain  Woland nodded his head, and Margarita, leaning to the master\'92s ear, whispered something to him. They heard him answer her.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, it\'92s too late. I want nothing more in my life, except to see you. But again I advise you to leave me, or you\'92ll perish with me.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, I won\'92t leave you,\'92 Margarita answered and turned to Woland:\par \pard\plain  \'91I ask that we be returned to the basement in the lane off the Arbat, and that the lamp be burning, and that everything be as it was.\par \pard\plain  Here the master laughed and, embracing Margarita\'92s long-since-uncur- led head, said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, don\'92t listen to the poor woman, Messire! Someone else has long been living in the basement, and generally it never happens that anything goes back to what it used to be.\'92 He put his cheek to his friend\'92s head, em- braced Margarita, and began muttering: \'91My poor one ... my poor one...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Never happens, you say?\'92 said Woland. \'91That\'92s true. But we shall try.\'92 And he called out: \'91Azazello!\'92\par \pard\plain  At once there dropped from the ceiling on to the floor a bewildered and nearly delirious citizen in nothing but his underwear, though with a suit- case in his hand for some reason and wearing a cap. This man trembled with fear and kept cowering.\par \pard\plain  \'91Mogarych?\'92 Azazello asked of the one fallen from the sky.\par \pard\plain  \'91Aloisy Mogarych,\'92 3 the man answered, shivering. \'91Was it you who, after reading Latunsky\'92s article about this man\'92s novel, wrote a denuncia- tion saying that he kept illegal literature?\'92 asked Azazello.\par \pard\plain  The newly arrived citizen turned blue and dissolved in tears of repen- tance.\par \pard\plain  \'91You wanted to move into his rooms?\'92 Azazello twanged as soulfully as he could.\par \pard\plain  The hissing of an infuriated cat was heard in the room, and Margarita, with a howl of \'91Know a witch when you see one!\'92, sank her nails into Aloisy Mogarych\'92s face.\par \pard\plain  A commotion ensued.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3Aloisy Mogaiych: An absurd combination of the Larinate Aloisius with the slangy \'91Mogarych\'92, the word for the round of drinks that concludes a deal, which happens to have the form of a Russian patronymic.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91What are you doing?\'92 the master cried painfully. \'91Margot, don\'92t dis- grace yourself!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I protest! It\'92s not a disgrace!\'92 shouted the cat. Koroviev pulled Margarita away.\par \pard\plain  \'91I put in a bathroom...\'92 the bloodied Mogarych cried, his teeth chat- tering, and, terrified, he began pouring out some balderdash, \'91the white- washing alone ... the vitriol...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, it\'92s nice that you put in a bathroom,\'92 Azazello said approvingly, \'91he needs to take baths.\'92 And he yelled: \'91Out!\'92\par \pard\plain  Then Mogarych was turned upside down and left Woland\'92s bedroom through the open window.\par \pard\plain  The master goggled his eyes, whispering:\par \pard\plain  \'91Now that\'92s maybe even neater than what Ivan described!\'92 Thoroughly struck, he looked around and finally said to the cat: \'91But, forgive me, was it you ... was it you, sir ...\'92 he faltered, not knowing how to address a cat, \'91are you that same cat, sir, who got on the tram?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I am,\'92 the flattered cat confirmed and added: \'91It\'92s pleasing to hear you address a cat so politely. For some reason, cats are usually addressed familiarly, though no cat has ever drunk bruderschaft 4  with anyone.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It seems to me that you\'92re not so much a cat...\'92 the master replied hesitantly. \'91Anyway, they\'92ll find me missing at the hospital,\'92 he added timidly to Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, how are they going to find you missing?\'92 Koroviev soothed him, and some papers and ledgers turned up in his hands. \'91By your medical records?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Koroviev flung the medical records into the fireplace.\par \pard\plain  \'91No papers, no person,\'92 Koroviev said with satisfaction. \'91And this is your landlord\'92s house register?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Y-yes...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who is registered in it? Aloisy Mogarych?\'92 Koroviev blew on the page of the house register. \'91Hup, two! He\'92s not there, and, I beg you to notice, never has been. And if this landlord gets surprised, tell him he dreamed Aloisy up! Mogarych? What Mogarych? There was never any Mogarych!\'92 Here the loose-leafed book evaporated from Koroviev\'92s hands. \'91And there it is, already back in the landlord\'92s desk.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What you say is true,\'92 the master observed, struck by the neatness of Koroviev\'92s work, \'91that if there are no papers, there\'92s no person. I have no\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  4Bruderschaft: A special pledge of brotherhood drunk with interlaced right arms, after which the friends address each other with the familiar form ty.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  papers, so there\'92s precisely no me.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg your pardon,\'92 Koroviev exclaimed, \'91but that precisely is a hallu- cination, your papers are right here.\'92 And Koroviev handed the master his papers. Then he rolled up his eyes and whispered sweetly to Margarita:\par \pard\plain  \'91And here is your property, Margarita Nikolaevna,\'92 and Koroviev hand- ed Margarita the notebook with charred edges, the dried rose, the photo- graph, and, with particular care, the savings book. \'91Ten thousand, as you kindly deposited, Margarita Nikolaevna. We don\'92t need what belongs to others.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Sooner let my paws wither than touch what belongs to others,\'92 the cat exclaimed, all puffed up, dancing on the suitcase to stamp down all the copies of the ill-fated novel.\par \pard\plain  \'91And your little papers as well,\'92 Koroviev continued, handing Mar- garita her papers and then turning to report deferentially to Woland:\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s all, Messire!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, not all,\'92 replied Woland, tearing himself away from the globe. \'91What, dear donna, will you order me to do with your retinue?  I  per-\par \pard\plain  sonally don\'92t need them.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the naked Natasha ran through the open door, clasped her hands, and cried out to Margarita:\par \pard\plain  \'91Be happy, Margarita Nikolaevna!\'92 She nodded to the master and again turned to Margarita: \'91I knew all about where you used to go.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Domestics know everything,\'92 observed the cat, raising a paw signifi- cantly. \'91It\'92s a mistake to think they\'92re blind.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What do you want, Natasha?\'92 asked Margarita. \'91Go back to the house.\'92 \'91Darling Margarita Nikolaevna,\'92 Natasha began imploringly and knelt down, \'91ask them\'92 - she cast a sidelong glance at Woland  - \'91to let me stay a witch. I don\'92t want any more of that house! I won\'92t marry an engineer or a technician!  Yesterday at the ball Monsieur Jacques proposed to  me.\'92\par \pard\plain  Natasha opened her fist and showed some gold coins.\par \pard\plain  Margarita turned a questioning look to Woland. He nodded. Then Natasha threw herself on Margarita\'92s neck, gave her a smacking kiss, and with a victorious cry flew out the window.\par \pard\plain  In Natasha\'92s place Nikolai Ivanovich now stood. He had regained his former human shape, but was extremely glum and perhaps even annoyed. \'91This is someone I shall dismiss with special pleasure,\'92 said Woland, looking at Nikolai Ivanovich with disgust, \'91with exceptional pleasure,  so\par \pard\plain  superfluous he is here.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I earnestly beg that you issue me a certificate,\'92 Nikolai Ivanovich be- gan with great insistence, but looking around wildly, \'91as to where I spent last night.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91For what purpose?\'92 the cat asked sternly.\par \pard\plain  \'91For the purpose of presenting it to the police and to my wife,\'92 Nikolai Ivanovich said firmly.\par \pard\plain  \'91We normally don\'92t issue certificates,\'92 the cat replied, frowning, \'91but, very well, for you we\'92ll make an exception.\'92\par \pard\plain  And before Nikolai Ivanovich had time to gather his wits, the naked Hella was sitting at a typewriter and the cat was dictating to her.\par \pard\plain  \'91It is hereby certified that the bearer, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the said night at Satan\'92s ball, having been summoned there in the capacity of a means of transportation ... make a parenthesis, Hella, in the parenthesis put \'93hog\'94. Signed - Behemoth.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And the date?\'92 squeaked Nikolai Ivanovich.\par \pard\plain  \'91We don\'92t put dates, with a date the document becomes invalid,\'92 re- sponded the cat, setting his scrawl to it. Then he got himself a stamp from somewhere, breathed on it according to all the rules, stamped the word \'92payed\'92 on the paper, and handed it to Nikolai Ivanovich. After which Nikolai Ivanovich disappeared without a trace, and in his place appeared a new, unexpected guest.\par \pard\plain  \'91And who is this one?\'92 Woland asked squeamishly, shielding himself from the candlelight with his hand.\par \pard\plain  Varenukha hung his head, sighed, and said softly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Let me go back, I can\'92t be a vampire. I almost did Rimsky in that time with Hella. And I\'92m not bloodthirsty. Let me go!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What is all this raving!\'92  Woland said with a wince.  \'91Which  Rimsky?\par \pard\plain  What is this nonsense?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Kindly do not worry, Messire,\'92 responded Azazello, and he turned to Varenukha: \'91Mustn\'92t be rude on the telephone. Mustn\'92t tell lies on the telephone. Understand? Will you do it again?\'92\par \pard\plain  Everything went giddy with joy in Varenukha\'92s head, his face beamed, and, not knowing what he was saying, he began to murmur:\par \pard\plain  \'91Verily ... that is, I mean to say... Your ma... right after dinner...\'92 Varenukha pressed his hands to his chest, looking beseechingly at Azazello.\par \pard\plain  \'91All right. Home with you!\'92 the latter said, and Varenukha dissolved. \'91Now all of you leave me alone with them,\'92 ordered Woland, pointing\par \pard\plain  to the master and Margarita.\par \pard\plain  Woland\'92s order was obeyed instantly. After some silence, Woland said to the master:\par \pard\plain  \'91So it\'92s back to the Arbat basement? And who is going to write? And the dreams, the inspiration?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I have no more dreams, or inspiration either,\'92 replied the master.  \'91No\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  one around me interests me, except her.\'92 He again put his hand on Mar- garita\'92s head. \'91I\'92m broken, I\'92m bored, and I want to be in the basement.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And your novel? Pilate?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s hateful to me, this novel,\'92 replied the master, \'91I went through too much because of it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I implore you,\'92 Margarita begged plaintively, \'91don\'92t talk like that. Why do you torment me? You know I put my whole life into this work.\'92 Turning to Woland, Margarita also added: \'91Don\'92t listen to him, Messire, he\'92s too worn out.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But you must write about something,\'92 said Woland. \'91If you\'92ve ex- hausted the procurator, well, then why not start portraying, say, this Aloisy\par \pard\plain  ...\'92\par \pard\plain  The master smiled.\par \pard\plain  \'91Lapshennikova wouldn\'92t publish that, and, besides, it\'92s not interest- ing.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And what are you going to live on? You\'92ll have a beggarly existence.\'92 \'91Willingly, willingly,\'92 replied the master, drawing Margarita to him.\par \pard\plain  He put his arm around her shoulders and added: \'91She\'92ll see reason, she\'92ll leave me ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I doubt that,\'92 Woland said through his teeth and went on: \'91And so, the man who wrote the story of Pontius Pilate goes to the basement with the intention of settling by the lamp and leading a beggarly existence?\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita separated herself from the master and began speaking very ardently:\par \pard\plain  \'91I did all I could. I whispered the most tempting thing to him. And he refused.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I know what you whispered to him,\'92 Woland retorted, \'91but it is not the most tempting thing. And to you I say,\'92 he turned, smiling, to the master, \'91that your novel will still bring you surprises.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s very sad,\'92 replied the master.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no, it\'92s not sad,\'92 said Woland, \'91nothing terrible. Well, Margarita Nikolaevna, it has all been done. Do you have any claims against me?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How can you, oh, how can you, Messire! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Then take this from me as a memento,\'92 said Woland, and he drew from under the pillow a small golden horseshoe studded with diamonds.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, no, no, why on earth!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You want to argue with me?\'92 Woland said, smiling.\par \pard\plain  Since Margarita had no pockets in her cloak, she put the horseshoe in a napkin and tied it into a knot. Here something amazed her. She looked at the window through which the moon was shining and said:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91And here\'92s something I don\'92t understand ... How is it midnight, mid- night, when it should have been morning long ago?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s nice to prolong the festive night a little,\'92 replied Woland. \'91Well, I wish you happiness!\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita prayerfully reached out both hands to Woland, but did not dare approach him and softly exclaimed:\par \pard\plain  \'91Farewell! Farewell!\'92 \'91Goodbye,\'92 said Woland.\par \pard\plain  And, Margarita in the black cloak, the master in the hospital robe, they walked out to the corridor of the jeweller\'92s wife\'92s apartment, where a can- dle was burning and Woland\'92s retinue was waiting for them. When they left the corridor, Hella was carrying the suitcase containing the novel and Margarita Nikolaevna\'92s few possessions, and the cat was helping Hella.\par \pard\plain  At the door of the apartment, Koroviev made his bows and disap- peared, while the rest went to accompany them downstairs. The stairway was empty. As they passed the third-floor landing, something thudded softly, but no one paid any attention to it. Just at the exit from the sixth stairway, Azazello blew upwards, and as soon as they came out to the courtyard, where the moonlight did not reach, they saw a man in a cap and boots asleep, and obviously dead asleep, on the doorstep, as well as a big black car by the entrance with its lights turned off. Through the wind- shield could be dimly seen the silhouette of a rook.\par \pard\plain  They were just about to get in when Margarita cried softly in despair \'91Oh, God, I\'92ve lost the horseshoe!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Get into the car,\'92 said Azazello, \'91and wait for me. I\'92ll be right back, I only have to see what\'92s happened.\'92 And he went back in.\par \pard\plain  What had happened was the following: shortly before Margarita and the master left with their escort, a little dried-up woman carrying a can and a bag came out of apartment no.48, which was located just under  the jeweller\'92s wife\'92s apartment. This was that same Annushka who on Wednesday, to Berlioz\'92s misfortune, had spilled sunflower oil by the turn- stile.\par \pard\plain  No one knew, and probably no one will ever know, what this woman did in Moscow or how she maintained her existence. The only thing known about her is that she could be seen every day either with the can, or with bag and can together, in the kerosene shop, or in the market, or under the gateway, or on the stairs, but most often in the kitchen of apart- ment no.48, of which this Annushka was one of the tenants. Besides that and above all it was known that wherever she was or wherever she ap- peared, a scandal would at once break out, and, besides, that she bore the nickname of \'91the Plague\'92.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Annushka the Plague always got up very early for some reason, and today something got her up in the wee hours, just past midnight. The key turned in the door, Annushka\'92s nose stuck out of it, then the whole of her stuck out, she slammed the door behind her, and was about to set off somewhere when a door banged on the landing above, someone hurded down the stairs and, bumping into Annushka, flung her aside so that she struck the back of her head against the wall.\par \pard\plain  \'91Where\'92s the devil taking you in nothing but your underpants?\'92 An- nushka shrieked, clutching her head.\par \pard\plain  The man in nothing but his underwear, carrying a suitcase and wearing a cap, his eyes shut, answered Annushka in a wild, sleepy voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91The boiler ... the vitriol... the cost of the whitewashing alone...\'92 And, bursting into tears, he barked: \'91Out!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here he dashed, not further down, but back up to where the window had been broken by the economist\'92s foot, and out this window he flew, legs up, into the courtyard. Annushka even forgot about her head, gasped, and rushed to the window herself. She lay down on her stomach on the landing and stuck her head into the yard, expecting to see the man with the suitcase smashed to death on the asphalt, lit up by the courtyard lantern. But on the asphalt courtyard there was precisely nothing.\par \pard\plain  It only remained to suppose that a sleepy and strange person had flown out of the house like a bird, leaving not a trace behind him. Annushka crossed herself and thought: \'91Yes, indeed, a nice little apartment, that number fifty! It\'92s not for nothing people say ... Oh, a nice little apartment!\'92 Before she had time to think it through, the door upstairs slammed again, and a second someone came running down. Annushka pressed herself to the wall and saw a rather respectable citizen with a little beard, but, as it seemed to Annushka, with a slightly piggish face, dart past her and, like the first one, leave the house through the window, again without ever thinking of smashing himself on the asphalt. Annushka had already forgotten the purpose of her outing and stayed on the stairway,   crossing\par \pard\plain  herself, gasping, and talking to herself.\par \pard\plain  A third one, without a little beard, with a round, clean-shaven face, in a Tolstoy blouse, came running down a short while later and fluttered out the window in just the same way.\par \pard\plain  To Annushka\'92s credit it must be said that she was inquisitive and de- cided to wait and see whether any new miracles would occur. The door above was opened again, and now a whole company started down, not at a run, but normally, as everybody walks. Annushka darted away from the window, went to her own door, opened it in a trice, hid behind it, and her eye, frenzied with curiosity, glittered in the chink she left for herself.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Someone, possibly sick or possibly not, but strange, pale, with a stub- bly beard, in a black cap and some sort of robe, walked down with un- steady steps. He was led carefully under the arm by a lady in a black cassock, as it seemed to Annushka in the darkness. The lady was possibly barefoot, possibly wearing some sort of transparent, obviously imported, shoes that were torn to shreds. Pah! Shoes my eye! ... The lady is naked! Yes, the cassock has been thrown right over her naked body! ... \'91A nice little apartment! ...\'92 Everything in Annushka\'92s soul sang in anticipation of what she was going to tell the neighbours the next day.\par \pard\plain  The strangely dressed lady was followed by a completely naked one carrying a suitcase, and next to the suitcase a huge black cat was knock- ing about. Annushka almost squeaked something out loud, rubbing her eyes. Bringing up the rear of the procession was a short, limping foreigner, blind in one eye, without a jacket, in a white formal waistcoat and tie. This whole company marched downstairs past Annushka. Here some- thing thudded on the landing.\par \pard\plain  As the steps died away, Annushka slipped like a snake from behind the door, put the can down by the wall, dropped to the floor on her stomach, and began feeling around. Her hands came upon a napkin with something heavy in it. Annushka\'92s eyes started out of her head when she unwrapped the package.\par \pard\plain  Annushka kept bringing the precious thing right up to her eyes, and these eyes burned with a perfectly wolfish fire. A whirlwind formed in Annushka\'92s head:\par \pard\plain  \'91I see nothing, I know nothing! ... To my nephew? Or cut it in pieces?... I could pick the stones out, and then one by one: one to Petrovka, another to Smolensky ... And - I see nothing, I know nothing!\'92\par \pard\plain  Annushka hid the found object in her bosom, grabbed the can, and was about to slip back into her apartment, postponing her trip to town, when that same one with the white chest, without a jacket, emerged before her from devil knows where and quietly whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'91Give me the horseshoe and napkin!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What napkin horseshoe?\'92 Annushka asked, shamming very artfully. \'91I don\'92t know about any napkins. Are you drunk, citizen, or what?\'92\par \pard\plain  With fingers as hard as the handrails of a bus, and as cold, the white- chested one, without another word, squeezed Annushka\'92s throat so that he completely stopped all access of air to her chest. The can dropped from Annushka\'92s hand on to the floor. After keeping Annushka without air for some time, the jacketless foreigner removed his fingers from her throat. Gulping air, Annushka smiled.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, the little horseshoe?\'92 she said. This very second! So it\'92s your little\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  horseshoe? And I see it lying there in a napkin, I pick it up so that no one takes it, and then just try finding it!\'92\par \pard\plain  Having received the little horseshoe and napkin, the foreigner started bowing and scraping before Annushka, shook her hand firmly, and thank- ed her warmly, with the strongest of foreign accents, in the following terms:\par \pard\plain  \'91I am deeply grateful to you, ma\'92am. This little horseshoe is dear to me as a memento. And, for having preserved it, allow me to give you two hundred roubles.\'92 And he took the money from his waistcoat pocket at once and handed it to Annushka.\par \pard\plain  She, smiling desperately, could only keep exclaiming: \'91Ah, I humbly thank you! Merci! Merci!\'92\par \pard\plain  The generous foreigner cleared a whole flight of stairs in one leap, but, before decamping definitively, shouted from below, now without any ac- cent:\par \pard\plain  \'91You old witch, if you ever pick up somebody else\'92s stuff again, take it to the police, don\'92t hide it in your bosom!\'92\par \pard\plain  Feeling a ringing and commotion in her head from all these events on the stairs, Annushka went on shouting for some time by inertia:\par \pard\plain  \'91Merci! Merci! Merci! ...\'92  But the foreigner was long gone.  And so  was the car in the courtyard. Having returned Woland\'92s gift to Margarita, Azazello said goodbye to her and asked if she was comfortably seated, Hella exchanged smacking kisses with Margarita, the cat kissed her hand, everyone waved to the master, who collapsed lifelessly and motionlessly in the corner of the seat, waved to the rook, and at once melted into air, considering it unnecessary to take the trouble of climbing the stairs. The rook turned the lights on and rolled out through the gates, past the man lying dead asleep under the archway. And the lights of the big black car disappeared among the other lights on sleepless and noisy Sadovaya.\par \pard\plain  An hour later, in the basement of the small house in the lane off the Arbat, in the front room, where everything was the same as it had been before that terrible autumn night last year, at the table covered with a vel- vet tablecloth, under the shaded lamp, near which stood a little vase of lilies of the valley, Margarita sat and wept quietly from the shock she had experienced and from happiness. The notebook disfigured by fire lay be- fore her, and next to it rose a pile of intact notebooks. The little house was silent. On a sofa in the small adjoining room, covered with the hospital robe, the master lay in a deep sleep. His even breathing was noiseless.\par \pard\plain  Having wept her fill, Margarita went to the intact notebooks and found the place she had been rereading before she met Azazello under the Krem- lin wall.  Margarita did not want to sleep.     She caressed the manuscript\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  tenderly, as one caresses a favourite cat, and kept turning it in her hands, examining it from all sides, now pausing at the tide page, now opening to the end. A terrible thought suddenly swept over her, that this was all sorcery, that the notebooks would presently disappear from sight, and she would be in her bedroom in the old house, and that on waking up she would have to go and drown herself. But this was her last terrible thought, an echo of the long suffering she had lived through. Nothing disappeared, the all-powerful Woland really was all-powerful, and as long as she liked, even till dawn itself, Margarita could rustle the pages of the notebooks, gaze at them, kiss them, and read over the words:\par \pard\plain  \'91The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator ...\'92 Yes, the darkness...\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 25\par \pard\plain  How the Procurator Tried to Save Judas of Kiriath\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator. The hanging bridges connecting the temple with the dread Antonia Tower disappeared, the abyss descended from the sky and flooded the winged gods over the hippodrome, the Hasmonaean Palace with its loopholes, the bazaars, caravanserais, lanes, pools ...   Yershalaim\par \pard\plain  - the great city - vanished as if it had never existed in the world. Every- thing was devoured by the darkness, which frightened every living thing in Yershalaim and round about. The strange cloud was swept from sea- ward towards the end of the day, the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan.\par \pard\plain  It was already heaving its belly over Bald Skull, where the execution- ers hastily stabbed the condemned men, it heaved itself over the temple of Yershalaim, crept in smoky streams down the temple hill, and flooded the Lower City. It poured through windows and drove people from the crooked streets into the houses. It was in no hurry to yield up its moisture and gave off only light. Each time the black smoky brew was ripped by fire, the great bulk of the temple with its glittering scaly roof flew up out of the pitch darkness. But the fire would instantly go out, and the tem- ple would sink into the dark abyss. Time and again it grew out of it and fell back, and each time its collapse was accompanied by the thunder of catastrophe.\par \pard\plain  Other tremulous glimmers called out of the abyss the palace of Herod the Great, standing opposite the temple on the western hill, and its dread, eyeless golden statues flew up into the black sky, stretching their arms out to it. But again the heavenly fire would hide, and heavy claps of thunder would drive the golden idols into the darkness.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  309\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The downpour burst unexpectedly, and then the storm turned into a hurricane. In the very place where the procurator and the high priest had had their talk around noon, by the marble bench in the garden, with the sound of a cannon shot, a cypress snapped like a reed. Along with the watery spray and hail, broken-off roses, magnolia leaves, small twigs and sand were swept on to the balcony under the columns. The hurricane racked the garden.\par \pard\plain  At that time there was only one man under the columns, and that man was the procurator.\par \pard\plain  Now he was not sitting in the chair but lying on a couch by a small, low table set with food and jugs of wine. Another couch, empty, stood on the other side of the table. By the procurator\'92s feet spread an unwiped red puddle, as if of blood, with pieces of a broken jug. The servant who was setting the table for the procurator before the storm became disconcerted for some reason under his gaze, grew alarmed at having displeased him in some way, and the procurator, getting angry with him, smashed the jug on the mosaic floor, saying:\par \pard\plain  \'91Why don\'92t you look me in the face when you serve me? Have you stolen something?\'92\par \pard\plain  The African\'92s black face turned grey, mortal fear showed in his eyes, he trembled and almost broke a second jug, but the procurator\'92s wrath flew away as quickly as it had flown in. The African rushed to remove the pieces and wipe up the puddle, but the procurator waved his hand and the slave ran away. The puddle remained.\par \pard\plain  Now, during the hurricane, the African was hiding near a niche in which stood the statue of a white, naked woman with a drooping head, afraid of appearing before the procurator\'92s eyes at the wrong time, and at the same time fearing to miss the moment when the procurator might call for him.\par \pard\plain  Lying on the couch in the storm\'92s twilight, the procurator poured wine into the cup himself, drank it in long draughts, occasionally touched the bread, crumbled it, swallowed small pieces, sucked out an oyster from time to time, chewed a lemon, and drank again.\par \pard\plain  Had it not been for the roaring of the water, had it not been for the thunderclaps that seemed to threaten to lay flat the roof of the palace, had it not been for the rattle of hail hammering on the steps of the balcony, one might have heard that the procurator was muttering something, talk- ing to himself. And if the unsteady glimmering of the heavenly fire had turned into a constant light, an observer would have been able to see that the procurator\'92s face, with eyes inflamed by recent insomnia and wine, showed impatience, that the procurator was not only looking at the   two\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  white roses drowned in the red puddle, but constantly turned his face to- wards the garden, meeting the watery spray and sand, that he was waiting for someone, impatiently waiting.\par \pard\plain  Time passed, and the veil of water before the procurator\'92s eyes began to thin. Furious as it was, the hurricane was weakening. Branches no longer cracked and fell. The thunderclaps and flashes came less frequently. It was no longer a violet coverlet trimmed with white, but an ordinary, grey rear-guard cloud that floated over Yershalaim. The storm was being swept towards the Dead Sea.\par \pard\plain  Now it was possible to hear separately the noise of the rain and the noise of water rushing along the gutters and also straight down the steps of that stairway upon which the procurator had walked in the afternoon to announce the sentence in the square. And finally the hitherto drowned- out fountain made itself heard. It was growing lighter. Blue windows appeared in the grey veil fleeing eastward.\par \pard\plain  Here, from far off, breaking through the patter of the now quite weak- ened rainfall, there came to the procurator\'92s ears a weak sound of trum- pets and the tapping of several hundred hoofs. Hearing this, the procura- tor stirred, and his face livened up. The ala was coming back from Bald Mountain. Judging by the sound, it was passing through the same square where the sentence had been announced.\par \pard\plain  At last the procurator heard the long-awaited footsteps and a slapping on the stairs leading to the upper terrace of the garden, just in front of the balcony. The procurator stretched his neck and his eyes glinted with an expression of joy.\par \pard\plain  Between the two marble lions there appeared first a hooded head, then a completely drenched man with his cloak clinging to his body. It was the same man who had exchanged whispers with the procurator in a dark- ened room of the palace before the sentencing, and who during the execu- tion had sat on a three-legged stool playing with a twig.\par \pard\plain  Heedless of puddles, the man in the hood crossed the garden terrace, stepped on to the mosaic floor of the balcony, and, raising his arm, said in a high, pleasant voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91Health and joy to the procurator!\'92 The visitor spoke in Latin.\par \pard\plain  \'91Gods!\'92 exclaimed Pilate. \'91There\'92s not a dry stitch on you! What a hurricane! Eh? I beg you to go inside immediately. Do me a favour and change your clothes.\'92\par \pard\plain  The visitor threw back his hood, revealing a completely wet head with hair plastered to the forehead, and, showing a polite smile on his clean- shaven face, began refusing to change, insisting that a little rain would not hurt him.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I won\'92t hear of it,\'92 Pilate replied and clapped his hands. With that he called out the servants who were hiding from him, and told them to take care of the visitor and then serve the hot course immediately.\par \pard\plain  The procurator\'92s visitor required very little time to dry his hair, change his clothes and shoes, and generally put himself in order, and he soon appeared on the balcony in dry sandals, a dry crimson military cloak, and with slicked-down hair.\par \pard\plain  Just then the sun returned to Yershalaim, and, before going to drown in the Mediterranean Sea, sent farewell rays to the city hated by the procu- rator and gilded the steps of the balcony. The fountain revived completely and sang away with all its might, doves came out on the sand, cooing, hopping over broken branches, pecking at something in the wet sand. The red puddle was wiped up, the broken pieces were removed, meat steamed on the table.\par \pard\plain  \'91I wait to hear the procurator\'92s orders,\'92 said the visitor, approaching the table.\par \pard\plain  \'91But you won\'92t hear anything until you sit down and drink some wine,\'92 Pilate replied courteously and pointed to the other couch.\par \pard\plain  The visitor reclined, a servant poured some thick red wine into his cup. Another servant, leaning cautiously over Pilate\'92s shoulder, filled the procurator\'92s cup. After that, he motioned for the two servants to with- draw.\par \pard\plain  While the visitor drank and ate, Pilate, sipping his wine, kept glancing with narrowed eyes at his guest. The man who had come to Pilate was middle-aged, with a very pleasant, rounded and neat face and a fleshy mouth. His hair was of some indeterminate colour. Now, as it dried, it became lighter. It would be difficult to establish the man\'92s nationality. The chief determinant of his face was perhaps its good-natured expres- sion, which, however, was not in accord with his eyes, or, rather, not his eyes but the visitor\'92s way of looking at his interlocutor. Ordinarily he kept his small eyes under his lowered, somewhat strange, as if slightly swollen eyelids. Then the slits of these eyes shone with an unspiteful sly- ness. It must be supposed that the procurator\'92s guest had a propensity  for humour. But occasionally, driving this glittering humour from the slits entirely, the procurator\'92s present guest would open his eyelids wide and look at his interlocutor suddenly and point-blank, as if with the purpose of rapidly scrutinizing some inconspicuous spot on his interlocutor\'92s nose. This lasted only an instant, after which the eyelids would lower again, the slits would narrow, and once again they would begin to shine with good- naturedness and sly intelligence.\par \pard\plain  The visitor did not decline a second cup of wine, swallowed a few oys-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ters with obvious pleasure, tried some steamed vegetables, ate a piece of meat. Having eaten his fill, he praised the wine:\par \pard\plain  \'91An excellent vintage, Procurator, but it is not Falerno?\'92 1\par \pard\plain  \'91Caecuba, 2 thirty years old,\'92 the procurator replied courteously. The guest put his hand to his heart, declined to eat more, declared that he was full. Then Pilate filled his own cup, and the guest did the same. Both diners poured some wine from their cups on to the meat platter, and the procurator, raising his cup, said loudly:\par \pard\plain  \'91For us, for thee, Caesar, father of the Romans, best and dearest of men!\par \pard\plain  ...\'92\par \pard\plain  After this they finished the wine, and the Africans removed the   food\par \pard\plain  from the table, leaving the fruit and the jugs. Again the procurator mo- tioned for the servants to withdraw and remained alone with his guest under the colonnade.\par \pard\plain  \'91And so,\'92 Pilate began in a low voice, \'91what can you tell me about the mood of this city?\'92\par \pard\plain  He inadvertently turned his eyes to where the colonnades and flat roofs below, beyond the terraces of the garden, were drying out, gilded by the last rays.\par \pard\plain  \'91I believe, Procurator,\'92 the guest replied, \'91that the mood of Yershalaim is now satisfactory.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So it can be guaranteed that there is no threat of further disorders?\'92 \'91Only one thing can be guaranteed in this world,\'92 the guest replied,\par \pard\plain  glancing tenderly at the procurator, \'91the power of great Caesar.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91May the gods grant him long life!\'92 Pilate picked up at once, \'91and uni- versal peace!\'92 He paused and then continued: \'91So you believe the troops can now be withdrawn?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I believe that the cohort of the Lightning legion can go,\'92 the guest replied and added: \'91It would be good if it paraded through the city in farewell.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A very good thought,\'92 the procurator approved, \'91I will dismiss it the day after tomorrow, and go myself, and - I swear to you by the feast of the twelve gods, 3  by the lares 4  I swear - I\'92d give a lot to be able to do  so\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Falerno: A rich and strong red wine, named for the ager falemus in the Roman Cam- pagnia where it was produced in ancient times (not to be confused with the white Falerno now produced around Naples).\par \pard\plain  2Caecuba: Also a strong red wine, product of the ager caecubus in southern Larium.\par \pard\plain  3The feast of the twelve gods: The twelve senior gods of the Roman pantheon: Jupiter, Juno, Neptune, Vulcan, Apollo, Diana, Ceres, Venus, Mars, Vesta, Mercury and Minerva. 4Lares:  A word of Etruscan or Sabine origin, referring to the nameless protective\par \pard\plain  deiries of the house and hearth in Roman religion.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  today!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The procurator doesn\'92t like Yershalaim?\'92 the guest asked good-natu- redly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good heavens,\'92 the procurator exclaimed, smiling, \'91there\'92s no more hopeless place on earth. I\'92m not even speaking of natural conditions - I get sick every time I have to come here - but that\'92s only half the trouble! ... But these feasts! ... Magicians, sorcerers, wizards, these flocks of pilgrims!\par \pard\plain  ... Fanatics, fanatics! ... Just take this messiah 5 they suddenly started expecting this year! Every moment you think you\'92re about to witness the most unpleasant bloodshed... The shifting of troops all the time, reading denunciations and calumnies, half of which, moreover, are written against yourself! You must agree, it\'92s boring. Oh, if it weren\'92t for the imperial service!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, the feasts are hard here,\'92 agreed the guest.\par \pard\plain  \'91I wish with all my heart that they should be over soon,\'92 Pilate added energetically. \'91I will finally have the possibility of going back to Caesarea. Believe me, this delirious construction of Herod\'92s\'92 - the procurator waved his arm along the colonnade, to make clear that he was speaking of the palace - \'91positively drives me out of my mind! I cannot spend my nights in it. The world has never known a stranger architecture! ... Well, but  let\'92s get back to business. First of all, this cursed Bar-Rabban - you\'92re not worried about him?\'92\par \pard\plain  And here the guest sent his peculiar glance at the procurator\'92s cheek. But the latter, frowning squeamishly, gazed into the distance with bor-\par \pard\plain  ed eyes, contemplating the part of the city that lay at his feet and was fading into the twilight. The guest\'92s eyes also faded, and his eyelids low- ered.\par \pard\plain  \'91It may be supposed that Bar has now become as harmless as a lamb,\'92 the guest began to say, and wrinkles appeared on his round face. \'91It would be awkward for him to rebel now.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Too famous?\'92 Pilate asked with a smirk.\par \pard\plain  \'91The procurator has subtly understood the problem, as always.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But in any case,\'92 the procurator observed with concern, and the thin, long finger with the black stone of its ring was raised, \'91there must be...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, the procurator can be certain that as long as I am in Judea, Bar will not take a step without having someone on his heels.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Messiah: From the Hebrew mashiah, meaning \'91the anointed one\'92, referring to the redeemer and deliverer of Israel to be born of the royal house of David, prophesied by Isaiah, Jeremiah, Zechariah and others, and awaited by the Jewish nation. Christians believe that this prophecy was fulfilled in Christ (christos being Greek for \'91the anointed one\'92).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Now I am at peace - as I always am, incidentally, when you are here.\'92 \'91The procurator is too kind!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And now I ask you to tell me about the execution,\'92 said the procurator. \'91What precisely interests the procurator?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Were there any attempts on the part of the crowd to display rebellious- ness? That is the main thing, of course.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91None,\'92 replied the guest.\par \pard\plain  \'91Very good. Did you personally establish that death took place?\'92 \'91The procurator may be certain of it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And tell me ... were they given the drink before being hung on the posts?\'92 6\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes. But he,\'92 here the guest closed his eyes, \'91refused to drink it.\'92 \'91Who, precisely?\'92 asked Pilate.\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive me, Hegemon!\'92  the guest exclaimed.  \'91Did I not name    him?\par \pard\plain  Ha-Nozri!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Madman!\'92 said Pilate, grimacing for some reason. A little nerve began to twitch under his left eye. \'91To die of sunburn! Why refuse what is offered by law! In what terms did he refuse it?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He said,\'92 the guest answered, again closing his eyes, \'91that he was grateful and laid no blame for the taking of his life.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91On whom?\'92 Pilate asked in a hollow voice. \'91That he did not say, Hegemon...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Did he try to preach anything in the soldiers\'92 presence?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Hegemon, he was not loquacious this time. The only thing he said was that among human vices he considered cowardice one of the first.\'92 7\par \pard\plain  \'91This was said with regard to what?\'92 the guest heard a suddenly crack- ed voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91That was impossible to understand. He generally behaved himself strangely - as always, however.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What was this strangeness?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He kept trying to peer into the eyes of one or another of those around him, and kept smiling some sort of lost smile.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  6Were they given the drink before being hung on the posts?: Thought by some com- mentators to be a legal mercy granted to the condemned to lessen the suffering of cruci- fixion, as Pilate means it here, though in the Gospels it has more the appearance of a final mockery. Jesus also refuses to drink it (see Matt. 27:54, Mark 15:25).\par \pard\plain  7...among human vices he considered cowardice one of the first: This saying, not found in the Gospels, is of great thematic importance for the novel. Bulgakov himself, according to one of his friends, regarded cowardice as the worst of all vices, \'91because all the rest come from it\'92 (quoted in a memoir in Vospominaniya o Mikhaile Bulgakove, Moscow, 1988, pp. 589\'9690). Interestingly, all references to this \'91worst of vices\'92 were removed from the original magazine publication of the novel.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Nothing else?\'92 asked the hoarse voice. \'91Nothing else.\'92\par \pard\plain  The procurator knocked against the cup as he poured himself some wine.\par \pard\plain  After draining it to the very bottom, he spoke:\par \pard\plain  \'91The matter consists in the following: though we have been unable - so far at least - to discover any admirers or followers of his, it is none the less impossible to guarantee that there are none.\'92\par \pard\plain  The guest listened attentively, inclining his head.\par \pard\plain  \'91And so, to avoid surprises of any sort,\'92 the procurator continued, \'91I ask you to remove the bodies of all three executed men from the face of the earth, immediately and without any noise, and to bury them in secrecy and silence, so that not another word or whisper is heard of them.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Understood, Hegemon,\'92 replied the guest, and he got up, saying:\par \pard\plain  \'91In view of the complexity and responsibility of the matter, allow me to go immediately.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, sit down again,\'92 said Pilate, stopping his guest with a gesture, \'91there are two more questions. First, your enormous merits in this most difficult job at the post of head of the secret service for the procurator of Judea give me the pleasant opportunity of reporting them to Rome.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the guest\'92s face turned pink, he rose and bowed to the procurator, saying:\par \pard\plain  \'91I merely fulfil my duty in the imperial service.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But I wanted to ask you,\'92 the hegemon continued, \'91in case you\'92re of- fered a transfer elsewhere with a raise - to decline it and remain here. I wouldn\'92t want to part with you for anything. Let them reward you in some other way.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I am happy to serve under your command, Hegemon.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That pleases me very much. And so, the second question. It concerns this ... what\'92s his name ... Judas of Kiriath.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the guest sent the procurator his glance, and at once, as was his custom, extinguished it.\par \pard\plain  \'91They say,\'92 the procurator continued, lowering his voice, \'91that he sup- posedly got some money for receiving this madman so cordially?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Will get,\'92 the head of the secret service quietly corrected Pilate. \'91And is it a large sum?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That no one can say, Hegemon.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Not even you?\'92 said the hegemon, expressing praise by his amaze- ment.\par \pard\plain  \'91Alas, not even I,\'92 the guest calmly replied. \'91But he will get the money this evening, that I do know.  He is to be summoned tonight to the palace\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  of Kaifa.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, that greedy old man of Kiriath!\'92 the procurator observed, smiling. \'91He is an old man, isn\'92t he?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The procurator is never mistaken, but he is mistaken this time,\'92 the guest replied courteously, \'91the man from Kiriath is a young man.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You don\'92t say! Can you describe his character for me? A fanatic?\'92 \'91Oh, no, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So. And anything else?\'94 \'91Very handsome.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What else? He has some passion, perhaps?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It is difficult to have such precise knowledge about everyone in this huge city, Procurator ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, no, no, Aphranius! Don\'92t play down your merits.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He has one passion, Procurator.\'92 The guest made a tiny pause. \'91A passion for money.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And what is his occupation?\'92\par \pard\plain  Aphranius raised his eyes, thought, and replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91He works in the money-changing shop of one of his relatives.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, so, so, so, so.\'92 Here the procurator fell silent, looked around to be sure there was no one on the balcony, and then said quietly:\par \pard\plain  \'91The thing is this - I have just received information that he is going to be killed tonight.\'92\par \pard\plain  This time the guest not only cast his glance at the procurator, but even held it briefly, and after that replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91You spoke too flatteringly of me, Procurator. In my opinion, I do not deserve your report. This information I do not have.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You deserve the highest reward,\'92 the procurator replied. \'91But there is such information.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91May I be so bold as to ask who supplied it?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Permit me not to say for the time being, the more so as it is accidental, obscure and uncertain. But it is my duty to foresee everything. That is  my job, and most of all I must trust my presentiment, for it has never yet deceived me. The information is that one of Ha-Nozri\'92s secret friends, indignant at this money-changer\'92s monstrous betrayal, is plotting with his accomplices to kill him tonight, and to foist the money paid for the betrayal on the high priest, with a note: \'93I return the cursed money.\'94 \'92\par \pard\plain  The head of the secret service cast no more of his unexpected glances at the hegemon, but went on listening to him, narrowing his eyes, as Pilate went on:\par \pard\plain  \'91Imagine, is it going to be pleasant for the high priest to receive such a gift on the night of the feast?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Not only not pleasant,\'92 the guest replied, smiling, \'91but I believe, Procu- rator, that it will cause a very great scandal.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I am of the same opinion myself. And therefore I ask you to occupy yourself with this matter - that is, to take all measures to protect Judas of Kiriath.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The hegemon\'92s order will be carried out,\'92 said Aphranius, \'91but I must reassure the hegemon: the evil-doers\'92 plot is very hard to bring off. Only think,\'92 the guest looked over his shoulder as he spoke and went on, \'91to track the man down, to kill him, and besides that to find out how much he got, and manage to return the money to Kaifa, and all that in one night? Tonight?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And none the less he will be killed tonight,\'92 Pilate stubbornly repeated. \'91I have a presentiment, I tell you! Never once has it deceived me.\'92 Here a spasm passed over the procurator\'92s face, and he rubbed his hands briskly. \'91Understood,\'92 the guest obediently replied, stood up, straightened out,\par \pard\plain  and suddenly asked sternly: \'91So they will kill him, Hegemon?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 answered Pilate, \'91and all hope lies in your efficiency alone, which amazes everyone.\'92\par \pard\plain  The guest adjusted the heavy belt under his cloak and said: \'91I salute you and wish you health and joy!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes,\'92 Pilate exclaimed softly, \'91I completely forgot! I owe you some- thing!...\'92\par \pard\plain  The guest was amazed.\par \pard\plain  \'91Really, Procurator, you owe me nothing.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But of course! As I was riding into Yershalaim, remember, the crowd of beggars ... I wanted to throw them some money, but I didn\'92t have any, and so I took it from you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, Procurator, it was a trifle!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91One ought to remember trifles, too.\'92 Here Pilate turned, picked up the cloak that lay on the chair behind him, took a leather bag from under it, and handed it to the guest. The man bowed, accepting it, and put the bag under his cloak.\par \pard\plain  \'91I expect a report on the burial,\'92  said Pilate,  \'91and also on the matter  to do with Judas of Kiriath, this same night, do you hear, Aphranius, this night. The convoy will have orders to awaken me the moment you appear. I\'92ll be expecting you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I salute you,\'92 the head of the secret service said and, turning, left the balcony. One could hear the wet sand crunch under his feet, then the stamp of his boots on the marble between the lions, then his legs were cut off, then his body, and finally the hood also disappeared. Only here did the procurator notice that the sun was gone and twilight had come.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 26 The Burial\par \pard\plain  And perhaps it was the twilight that caused such a sharp change in the procurator\'92s appearance. He aged, grew hunched as if before one\'92s eyes, and, besides that, became alarmed. Once he looked around and gave a start for some reason, casting an eye on the empty chair with the cloak thrown over its back. The night of the feast was approaching, the evening shadows played their game, and the tired procurator probably imagined that someone was sitting in the empty chair. Yielding to his faint-hearted- ness and ruffling the cloak, the procurator let it drop and began rushing about the balcony, now rubbing his hands, now rushing to the table and seizing the cup, now stopping and staring senselessly at the mosaics of the floor, as if trying to read something written there ... It was the second time in the same day that anguish came over him.\par \pard\plain  Rubbing his temple, where only a dull, slightly aching reminder of the morning\'92s infernal pain lingered, the procurator strained to understand what the reason for his soul\'92s torments was. And he quickly understood it, but attempted to deceive himself. It was clear to him that that afternoon he had lost something irretrievably, and that he now wanted to make up for the loss by some petty, worthless and, above all, belated actions. The deceiving of himself consisted in the procurator\'92s trying to convince him- self that these actions, now, this evening, were no less important than the morning\'92s sentence. But in this the procurator succeeded very poorly.\par \pard\plain  At one of his turns,  he stopped abruptly and whistled.  In response  to this whistle, a low barking resounded in the twilight, and a gigantic sharp-eared dog with a grey pelt and a gold-studded collar sprang from the garden on to the balcony.\par \pard\plain  \'91Banga, Banga,\'92 the procurator cried weakly.\par \pard\plain  The dog rose on his hind legs, placed his front paws on his master\'92s shoulders,  nearly knocking him to the floor,  and licked his cheek.     The\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  319\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  procurator sat down in the armchair. Banga, his tongue hanging out, panting heavily, lay down at his master\'92s feet, and the joy in the dog\'92s eyes meant that the storm was over, the only thing in the world that the fearless dog was afraid of, and also that he was again there, next to the man whom he loved, respected, and considered the most powerful man in the world, the ruler of all men, thanks to whom the dog considered himself a privileged, lofty and special being. Lying down at his master\'92s feet without even looking at him, but looking into the dusky garden, the dog nevertheless realized at once that trouble had befallen his master. He therefore changed his position, got up, came from the side and placed his front paws and head on the procurator\'92s knees, smearing the bottom of his cloak with wet sand. Banga\'92s actions were probably meant to signify that he comforted his master and was ready to meet misfortune with him. He also attempted to express this with his eyes, casting sidelong glances at his master, and with his alert, pricked-up ears. Thus the two of them, the dog and man who loved each other, met the night of the feast on the balcony.\par \pard\plain  Just then the procurator\'92s guest was in the midst of a great bustle.\par \pard\plain  After leaving the upper terrace of the garden before the balcony, he went down the stairs to the next terrace of the garden, turned right and came to the barracks which stood on the palace grounds. In these barracks the two centuries that had come with the procurator for the feast in Yer- shalaim were quartered, as was the procurator\'92s secret guard, which was under the command of this very guest. The guest did not spend much time in the barracks, no more than ten minutes, but at the end of these ten minutes, three carts drove out of the barracks yard loaded with entrench- ing tools and a barrel of water. The carts were escorted by fifteen mounted men in grey cloaks. Under their escort the carts left the palace grounds by the rear gate, turned west, drove through gates in the city wall, and fol- lowed a path first to the Bethlehem road, then down this road to the north, came to the intersection by the Hebron gate, and then moved down the Jaffa road, along which the procession had gone during the day with the men condemned to death. By that time it was already dark, and the moon appeared on the horizon.\par \pard\plain  Soon after the departure of the carts with their escorting detachment, the procurator\'92s guest also left the palace grounds on horseback, having changed into a dark, worn chiton. The guest went not out of the city but into it. Some time later he could be seen approaching the Antonia Fortress, located to the north and in the vicinity of the great temple.\par \pard\plain  The guest did not spend much time in the fortress either, and then his tracks turned up in the Lower City, in its crooked and tangled streets. Here\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the guest now came riding a mule.\par \pard\plain  Knowing the city well,  the guest easily found the street he wanted.   It was called Greek Street,  because there were several Greek shops on   it, among them one that sold carpets. Precisely by this shop, the guest stopped his mule, dismounted, and tied it to the ring by the gate. The shop was closed by then. The guest walked through the little gate beside the entrance to the shop and found himself in a small square courtyard surrounded on three sides by sheds. Turning a corner inside the yard, the guest came to the stone terrace of a house all twined with ivy and looked around. Both the little house and the sheds were dark, no lamps were lit yet. The guest called softly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Niza!\'92\par \pard\plain  At this call a door creaked, and in the evening twilight a young woman without a veil appeared on the terrace. She leaned over the railing, peering anxiously, wishing to know who had come. Recognizing the visitor, she smiled amiably to him, nodded her head, waved her hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91Are you alone?\'92 Aphranius asked softly in Greek.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 the woman on the terrace whispered, \'91my husband left for Cae- sarea in the morning.\'92 Here the woman looked back at the door and added in a whisper: \'91But the serving-woman is at home.\'92 Here she made a ges- ture meaning \'91Come in\'92.\par \pard\plain  Aphranius looked around and went up the stone steps. After which both he and the woman disappeared into the house. With this woman Aphranius spent very little time, certainly no more than five minutes. Af- ter which he left the house and the terrace, pulled the hood down lower on his eyes, and went out to the street.  Just then the lamps were being   lit in the houses, the pre-festive tumult was still considerable, and Aphra- nius on his mule lost himself in the stream of riders and passers-by. His subsequent route is not known to anyone.\par \pard\plain  The woman Aphranius called \'91Niza\'92, left alone, began changing her clothes, and was hurrying greatly. But difficult though it was for her to find the things she needed in the dark room,  she did not light a lamp    or call the serving-woman. Only after she was ready and her head was covered by a dark veil did the sound of her voice break the silence in the little house:\par \pard\plain  \'91If anyone asks for me, say I went to visit Enanta.\'92\par \pard\plain  The old serving-woman\'92s grumbling was heard in the darkness: \'91Enanta? Ah, this Enanta! Didn\'92t your husband forbid you to visit her?\par \pard\plain  She\'92s a procuress, your Enanta! Wait till I tell your husband ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, well, be quiet,\'92 Niza replied and, like a shadow, slipped out of the house.  Niza\'92s sandals pattered over the stone flags of the yard.    The\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  serving-woman, grumbling, shut the door to the terrace. Niza left her house.\par \pard\plain  Just at that time, from another lane in the Lower City, a twisting lane that ran down from ledge to ledge to one of the city pools, from the gates of an unsightly house with a blank wall looking on to the lane and win- dows on the courtyard, came a young man with a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a white kefia falling to his shoulders, a new pale blue festive tal- lith with tassels at the bottom, and creaking new sandals. The handsome, aquiline-nosed young fellow, all dressed up for the great feast, walked briskly, getting ahead of passers-by hurrying home for the solemn meal, and watched as one window after another lit up. The young man took the street leading past the bazaar to the palace of the high priest Kaifa, located at the foot of the temple hill.\par \pard\plain  Some time later he could be seen entering the gates of Kaifa\'92s court- yard. And a bit later still, leaving the same courtyard.\par \pard\plain  After visiting the palace, where the lamps and torches already blazed, and where the festive bustle had already begun, the young man started walking still more briskly, still more joyfully, hastening back to the Lower City. At the corner where the street flowed into the market-place, amidst the seething and tumult, he was overtaken by a slight woman, walking with a dancer\'92s gait, in a black veil that came down over her eyes.  As  she overtook the handsome young man, this woman raised her veil for a moment, cast a glance in the young man\'92s direction, yet not only did not slow her pace, but quickened it, as if trying to escape from the one she had overtaken.\par \pard\plain  The young man not only noticed this woman, no, he also recognized her, and, having recognized her, gave a start, halted, looking perplexedly into her back, and at once set out after her. Almost knocking over some passer-by carrying a jug, the young man caught up with the woman, and, breathing heavily with agitation, called out to her:\par \pard\plain  \'91Niza!\'92\par \pard\plain  The woman turned, narrowed her eyes, her face showing cold vexa- tion, and replied drily in Greek:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, it\'92s you, Judas? I didn\'92t recognize you at once. That\'92s good, though. With us, if someone\'92s not recognized, it\'92s a sign he\'92ll get rich...\'92\par \pard\plain  So agitated that his heart started leaping like a bird under a black cloth, Judas asked in a faltering whisper, for fear passers-by might overhear:\par \pard\plain  \'91Where are you going, Niza?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And what do you want to know that for?\'92 replied Niza, slowing her pace and looking haughtily at Judas.\par \pard\plain  Then some sort of childish intonations began to sound in Judas\'92s voice,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  he whispered in bewilderment:\par \pard\plain  \'91But why? ... We had it all arranged ... I wanted to come to you, you said you\'92d be home all evening ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, no, no,\'92 answered Niza, and she pouted her lower lip capriciously, which made it seem to Judas that her face, the most beautiful face he had ever seen in his life, became still more beautiful. \'91I was bored. You\'92re having a feast, and what am I supposed to do? Sit and listen to you sighing on the terrace? And be afraid, on top of it, that the serving-woman will tell him about it? No, no, I decided to go out of town and listen to the nightingales.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How, out of town?\'92 the bewildered Judas asked. \'91Alone?\'92 \'91Of course, alone,\'92 answered Niza.\par \pard\plain  \'91Let me accompany you,\'92 Judas asked breathlessly. His mind clouded, he forgot everything in the world and looked with imploring eyes into the blue eyes of Niza, which now seemed black.\par \pard\plain  Niza said nothing and quickened her pace.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why are you silent, Niza?\'92 Judas said pitifully, adjusting his pace to hers.\par \pard\plain  \'91Won\'92t I be bored with you?\'92 Niza suddenly asked and stopped. Here Judas\'92s thoughts became totally confused.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, all right,\'92 Niza finally softened, \'91come along.\'92 \'91But where, where?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Wait ... let\'92s go into this yard and arrange it, otherwise I\'92m afraid some acquaintance will see me and then they\'92ll tell my husband I was out with my lover.\'92\par \pard\plain  And here Niza and Judas were no longer in the bazaar, they were whis- pering under the gateway of some yard.\par \pard\plain  \'91Go to the olive estate,\'92 Niza whispered, pulling the veil over her eyes and turning away from a man who was coming through the gateway with a bucket, \'91to Gethsemane, beyond the Kedron, understand?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, yes, yes...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll go ahead,\'92 Niza continued, \'91but don\'92t follow on my heels. Keep separate from me. I\'92ll go ahead ... When you cross the stream ... you know where the grotto is?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I know, I know...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Go up past the olive press and turn to the grotto. I\'92ll be there. Only don\'92t you dare come after me at once, be patient, wait here,\'92 and with these words Niza walked out the gateway as though she had never spoken with Judas.\par \pard\plain  Judas stood for some time alone, trying to collect his scattering thoughts. Among them was the thought of how he was going to explain his absence\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  from the festal family meal. Judas stood thinking up some lie, but in his agitation was unable to think through or prepare anything properly, and slowly walked out the gateway.\par \pard\plain  Now he changed his route, he was no longer heading towards the Lower City, but turned back to Kaifa\'92s palace. The feast had already en- tered the city. In the windows around Judas, not only were lights shining, but hymns of praise were heard. On the pavement, belated passers-by urged their donkeys on, whipping them up, shouting at them. Judas\'92s legs carried him by themselves, and he did not notice how the terrible, mossy Antonia Towers flew past him, he did not hear the roar of trumpets in the fortress, did not pay attention to the mounted Roman patrol and its torch that flooded his path with an alarming light.\par \pard\plain  Turning after he passed the tower, Judas saw that in the terrible height above the temple two gigantic five-branched candlesticks blazed. But even these Judas made out vaguely. It seemed to him that ten lamps of an un- precedented size lit up over Yershalaim, competing with the light of the single lamp that was rising ever higher over Yershalaim - the moon.\par \pard\plain  Now Judas could not be bothered with anything, he headed for the Gethsemane gate, he wanted to leave the city quickly. At times it seemed to him that before him, among the backs and faces of passers-by, the danc- ing little figure flashed, leading him after her. But this was an illusion. Judas realized that Niza was significantly ahead of him. Judas rushed past the money-changing shops and finally got to the Gethsemane gate. There, burning with impatience, he was still forced to wait. Camels were coming into the city, and after them rode a Syrian military patrol, which Judas cursed mentally ...\par \pard\plain  But all things come to an end. The impatient Judas was already be- yond the city wall.   To  the left of him Judas saw a small cemetery, next to it several striped pilgrims\'92 tents. Crossing the dusty road flooded with moonlight, Judas headed for the stream of the Kedron with the intention of wading across it. The water babbled quietly under Judas\'92s feet. Jumping from stone to stone, he finally came out on the Gethsemane bank opposite and saw with great joy that here the road below the gardens was empty. The half-ruined gates of the olive estate could already be seen not far away. After the stuffy city, Judas was struck by the stupefying smell of the spring night. From the garden a wave of myrtle and acacia from the Geth-\par \pard\plain  semane glades poured over the fence.\par \pard\plain  No one was guarding the gateway, there was no one in it, and a few minutes later Judas was already running under the mysterious shade of the enormous, spreading olive trees. The road went uphill. Judas as- cended, breathing heavily, at times emerging from the darkness on to pat-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  terned carpets of moonlight, which reminded him of the carpets he had seen in the shop of Niza\'92s jealous husband.\par \pard\plain  A short time later there flashed at Judas\'92s left hand, in a clearing, an olive press with a heavy stone wheel and a pile of barrels. There was no one in the garden, work had ended at sunset, and now over Judas choirs of nightingales pealed and trilled.\par \pard\plain  Judas\'92s goal was near. He knew that on his right in the darkness he would presently begin to hear the soft whisper of water falling in the grotto. And so it happened, he heard it. It was getting cooler. Then he slowed his pace and called softly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Niza!\'92\par \pard\plain  But instead of Niza, a stocky male figure, detaching itself from a thick olive trunk, leaped out on the road, and something gleamed in its hand and at once went out. With a weak cry, Judas rushed back, but a second man barred his way.\par \pard\plain  The first man, in front of him, asked Judas:\par \pard\plain  \'91How much did you just get? Speak, if you want to save your life!\'92 Hope flared up in Judas\'92s heart, and he cried out desperately:\par \pard\plain  \'91Thirty tetradrachmas!  Thirty tetradrachmas!  1   I have it all with  me!\par \pard\plain  Here\'92s the money! Take it, but grant me my life!\'92\par \pard\plain  The man in front instantly snatched the purse from Judas\'92s hands. And at the same instant a knife flew up behind Judas\'92s back and struck the lover under the shoulder-blade. Judas was flung forward and thrust out his hands with clawed fingers into the air. The front man caught Judas on his knife and buried it up to the hilt in Judas\'92s heart.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ni ... za ...\'92 Judas said, not in his own high and clear young voice, but in a low and reproachful one, and uttered not another sound. His body struck the earth so hard that it hummed.\par \pard\plain  Then a third figure appeared on the road. This third one wore a cloak with a hood.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t linger,\'92 he ordered. The killers quickly wrapped the purse to- gether with a note handed to them by the third man in a piece of hide and criss-crossed it with twine. The second put the bundle into his bosom, and then the two killers plunged off the roadsides and the darkness between the olive trees ate them. The third squatted down by the murdered man and looked at his face. In the darkness it appeared white as chalk to the gazing man and somehow spiritually beautiful.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Thirty tetradrachmas: The \'91thirty pieces of silver\'92 mentioned in the Gospel of Matthew (26:15) as Judas\'92s reward from the high priest for betraying Jesus. A tetradrachma was a Greek silver coin worth four drachmas and was equivalent to one Jewish shekel. \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  A few seconds later there was not a living man on the road. The lifeless body lay with outstretched arms. The left foot was in a spot of moonlight, so that each strap of the sandal could be seen distinctly. The whole garden of Gethsemane was just then pealing with the song of nightingales.\par \pard\plain  Where the two who had stabbed Judas went, no one knows, but the route of the third man in the hood is known. Leaving the road, he headed into the thick of the olive trees, making his way south. He climbed over the garden fence far from the main gate, in the southern corner, where the upper stones of the masonry had fallen out. Soon he was on the bank of the Kedron. Then he entered the water and for some time made his way in it, until he saw ahead the silhouettes of two horses and a man beside them. The horses were also standing in the stream. The water flowed, washing their hoofs. The horse-handler mounted one of the horses, the man in the hood jumped on to the other, and the two slowly walked in the stream, and one could hear the pebbles crunching under the horses\'92 hoofs. Then the riders left the water, came out on the Yershalaim bank, and rode slowly under the city wall. Here the horse-handler separated himself, galloped ahead, and disappeared from view, while the man in the hood stopped his horse, dismounted on the deserted road, removed his cloak, turned it inside out, took from under the cloak a flat helmet without plumes and put it on. Now it was a man in a military chlamys with a short sword at his hip who jumped on to the horse.\par \pard\plain  He touched the reins and the fiery cavalry horse set off at a trot, jolting its rider. It was not a long way - the rider was approaching the southern gate of Yershalaim.\par \pard\plain  Under the arch of the gateway the restless flame of torches danced and leaped. The soldiers on guard from the second century of the Lightning legion sat on stone benches playing dice. Seeing a military man ride in, the soldiers jumped up, the man waved his hand to them and rode on into the city.\par \pard\plain  The city was flooded with festive lights. The flames of lamps played in all the windows, and from everywhere, merging into one dissonant chorus, came hymns of praise. Occasionally glancing into windows that looked on to the street, the rider could see people at tables set with roast kid and cups of wine amidst dishes of bitter herbs. Whistling some quiet song, the rider made his way at an unhurried trot through the deserted streets of the Lower City, heading for the Antonia Tower, glancing occa- sionally at the five-branched candlesticks, such as the world had never seen, blazing above the temple, or at the moon that hung still higher than the five-branched candlesticks.\par \pard\plain  The palace of Herod the Great took no part in the solemnities of the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Passover night. In the auxiliary quarters of the palace, facing to the south, where the officers of the Roman cohort and the legate of the legion were stationed, lights burned and there was a feeling of some movement and life. But the front part, the formal part, which housed the sole and invol- untary occupant of the palace - the procurator - all of it, with its columns and golden statues, was as if blind under the brightest moon. Here, inside the palace, darkness and silence reigned.\par \pard\plain  And the procurator, as he had told Aphranius, would not go inside. He ordered his bed made up on the balcony, there where he had dined and where he had conducted the interrogation in the morning. The procurator lay on the made-up couch, but sleep would not come to him. The bare moon hung high in the clear sky, and the procurator did not take his eyes off it for several hours.\par \pard\plain  Approximately at midnight, sleep finally took pity on the hegemon. With a spasmodic yawn, the procurator unfastened and threw off his cloak, removed the belt girded over his shirt, with a broad steel knife in a sheath, placed it on the chair by his couch, took off his sandals, and stretched out. Banga got on the bed at once and lay down next to him, head to head, and the procurator, placing his hand on the dog\'92s neck, finally closed his eyes. Only then did the dog also fall asleep.\par \pard\plain  The couch was in semi-darkness, shielded from the moon by a column, but a ribbon of moonlight stretched from the porch steps to the bed. And once the procurator lost connection with what surrounded him in reality, he immediately set out on the shining road and went up it straight towards the moon. He even burst out laughing in his sleep from happiness, so wonderful and inimitable did everything come to be on the transparent, pale blue road.\par \pard\plain  He walked in the company of Banga, and beside him walked the wan- dering philosopher. They were arguing about something very complex and important, and neither of them could refute the other. They did not agree with each other in anything, and that made their argument espe- cially interesting and endless. It went without saying that today\'92s execu- tion proved to be a sheer misunderstanding: here this philosopher, who had thought up such an incredibly absurd thing as that all men are good, was walking beside him, therefore he was alive. And, of course, it would be terrible even to think that one could execute such a man. There had been no execution! No execution! That was the loveliness of this journey up the stairway of the moon.\par \pard\plain  There was as much free time as they needed, and the storm would come only towards evening, and cowardice was undoubtedly one of the most terrible vices. Thus spoke Yeshua Ha-Nozri. No, philosopher, I  dis-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  agree with you: it is the most terrible vice!\par \pard\plain  He, for example, the present procurator of Judea and former tribune of a legion, had been no coward that time, in the Valley of the Virgins, when the fierce German had almost torn Rat-slayer the Giant to pieces. But, good heavens, philosopher! How can you, with your intelligence, allow yourself to think that, for the sake of a man who has committed a crime against Caesar, the procurator of Judea would ruin his career?\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, yes...\'92 Pilate moaned and sobbed in his sleep. Of course he would. In the morning he still would not, but now, at night, after weighing ev- erything, he would agree to ruin it. He would do everything to save the decidedly innocent, mad dreamer and healer from execution!\par \pard\plain  \'91Now we shall always be together,\'92 2 said the ragged wandering phi- losopher in his dream, who for some unknown reason had crossed paths with the equestrian of the golden spear. \'91Where there\'92s one of us, straight away there will be the other! Whenever I am remembered, you will at once be remembered, too! I, the foundling, the son of unknown parents, and you, the son of an astrologer-king and a miller\'92s daughter, the beautiful Pila.\'92 3\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, and don\'92t you forget to remember me, the astrologer\'92s son,\'92 Pilate asked in his dream. And securing in his dream a nod from the En-Sarid 4 beggar who was walking beside him, the cruel procurator of Judea wept and laughed from joy in his dream.\par \pard\plain  This was all very good, but the more terrible was the hegemon\'92s awak- ening. Banga growled at the moon, and the pale-blue road, slippery as though smoothed with oil, fell away before the procurator. He opened his eyes, and the first thing he remembered was that the execution had been. The first thing the procurator did was to clutch Banga\'92s collar with a ha- bitual gesture, then with sick eyes he began searching for the moon and saw that it had moved slightly to the side and turned silvery. Its light was being interfered with by an unpleasant, restless light playing on the bal- cony right before his eyes. A torch blazed and smoked in the hand of the centurion Ratslayer. The holder of it glanced sidelong with fear and spite\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Now we shall always be together: Yeshua\'92s words are fulfilled in the Nicene Creed: \'91...one Lord Jesus Christ ... who was crucified for us under Pontius Pilate...\'92 - words repeated countless times a day for nearly two thousand years in every liturgy or mass.   Later    in the novel, Pilate will say that nothing in the world is more hateful to him than \'91his immortality and his unheard-of fame\'92.\par \pard\plain  3The son of an astrologer-king ... Pila: Details found in the poem Pilate by the twelfth- century Flemish poet Petrus Pictor (noted by Marianne Gourg in her commentary to the French translation of the novel, R. Laffont, Paris, 1995). The name of Pila thus becomes the source of the procurator\'92s second name.\par \pard\plain  4En-Sarid: Arabic for Nazareth.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  at the dangerous beast preparing itself to leap.\par \pard\plain  \'91Stay, Banga,\'92 the procurator said in a sick voice and coughed.\par \pard\plain  Shielding himself from the flame with his hand, he went on: \'91Even at night, even by moonlight, I have no peace! ... Oh, gods! ... Yours is also a bad job, Mark. You cripple soldiers...\'92\par \pard\plain  Mark gazed at the procurator in great amazement, and the man recol- lected himself. To smooth over the unwarranted words, spoken while not quite awake, the procurator said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t be offended,  centurion.   My position,  I repeat,  is still   worse.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  What do you want?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The head of the secret guard is waiting to see you,\'92 Mark reported calmly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Call him, call him,\'92 the procurator ordered, clearing his throat with a cough, and he began feeling for his sandals with his bare feet. The flame played on the columns, the centurion\'92s caligae tramped across the mo- saics. The centurion went out to the garden.\par \pard\plain  \'91Even by moonlight I have no peace,\'92 the procurator said to himself, grinding his teeth.\par \pard\plain  Instead of the centurion, a man in a hood appeared on the balcony. \'91Stay, Banga,\'92 the procurator said quietly and pressed the back of   the\par \pard\plain  dog\'92s head.\par \pard\plain  Before beginning to speak, Aphranius, as was his custom, looked a- round and stepped into the shadow, and having made sure that, besides Banga, there were no extra persons on the balcony, he said quietly:\par \pard\plain  \'91I ask to be tried, Procurator. You turned out to be right. I was unable to protect Judas of Kiriath, he has been stabbed to death. I ask to be tried and retired.\'92\par \pard\plain  It seemed to Aphranius that four eyes were looking at him - a dog\'92s and a wolf\'92s.\par \pard\plain  Aphranius took from under his chlamys a purse stiff with blood, sealed with two seals.\par \pard\plain  \'91This is the bag of money the killers left at the high priest\'92s house. The blood on this bag is the blood of Judas of Kiriath.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91How much is there, I wonder?\'92 asked Pilate, bending over the bag. \'91Thirty tetradrachmas.\'92\par \pard\plain  The procurator grinned and said: \'91Not much.\'92\par \pard\plain  Aphranius was silent.\par \pard\plain  \'91Where is the murdered man?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That I do not know,\'92 the visitor, who never parted with his hood, said with calm dignity. \'91We will begin a search in the morning.\'92\par \pard\plain  The procurator started, abandoning a sandal strap that refused to be fastened.\par \pard\plain  \'91But you do know for certain that he was killed?\'92 To this the procurator received a dry response:\par \pard\plain  \'91I have been working in Judea for fifteen years, Procurator. I began my service under Valerius Gratus.  5   I do not have to see the corpse in   order\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Valerius Gratus: According to Flavius Josephus, in Antiquities of the Jews (Book 18, Chapter 2), Valerius Gratus was procurator of Judea starting from sometime around AD\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  to say that a man has been killed, and so I report to you that the one who was called Judas of Kiriath was stabbed to death several hours ago.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Forgive me, Aphranius,\'92 answered Pilate, \'91I\'92m not properly awake yet, that\'92s why I said it. I sleep badly,\'92 the procurator grinned, \'91I keep seeing a moonbeam in my sleep. Quite funny, imagine, it\'92s as if I\'92m walking along this moonbeam ... And so, I would like to know your thoughts on this matter.\par \pard\plain  Where are you going to look for him? Sit down, head of the secret service.\'92\par \pard\plain  Aphranius bowed, moved the chair closer to the bed, and sat down, clanking his sword.\par \pard\plain  \'91I am going to look for him not far from the oil press in the garden of Gethsemane.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So, so. And why there, precisely?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91As I figure it, Hegemon, Judas was not killed in Yershalaim itself, nor anywhere very far from it, he was killed near Yershalaim.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I regard you as one of the outstanding experts in your business. I don\'92t know how things are in Rome, but in the colonies you have no equal\par \pard\plain  ... But, explain to me, why are you going to look for him precisely there?\'92 \'91I will by no means admit the notion,\'92 Aphranius spoke in a low voice,\par \pard\plain  \'91of Judas letting himself be caught by any suspicious people within city limits. It\'92s impossible to put a knife into a man secretly in the street. That means he was lured to a basement somewhere. But the service has already searched for him in the Lower City and undoubtedly would have found him. He is not in the city, I can guarantee that. If he was killed far from the city, this packet of money could not have been dropped off so quickly. He was killed near the city. They managed to lure him out of the city.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I cannot conceive how that could have been done!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, Procurator, that is the most difficult question in the whole affair, and I don\'92t even know if I will succeed in resolving it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It is indeed mysterious! A believer, on the eve of the feast, goes out  of the city for some unknown reason, leaving the Passover meal, and per- ishes there. Who could have lured him, and how? Could it have been done by a woman?\'92 the procurator asked on a sudden inspiration.\par \pard\plain  Aphranius replied calmly and weightily:\par \pard\plain  \'91By no means, Procurator. That possibility is utterly excluded. One must reason logically. Who was interested in Judas\'92s death? Some wan- dering dreamers, some circle in which, first of all, there weren\'92t any wo- men.  To marry, Procurator, one needs money.  To bring a person into   the\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  15, and was thus Pilate\'92s immediate predecessor.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  world, one needs the same. But to put a knife into a man with the help of a woman, one needs very big money, and no vagabond has got it. There was no woman in this affair, Procurator. Moreover, I will say that such an interpretation of the murder can only throw us off the track, hinder the investigation, and confuse me.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I see that you are perfectly right, Aphranius,\'92 said Pilate, \'91and I merely allowed myself to express a supposition.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Alas, it is erroneous, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But what is it, then, what is it?\'92 exclaimed the procurator, peering into Aphranius\'92s face with greedy curiosity.\par \pard\plain  \'91I suppose it\'92s money again.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91An excellent thought! But who could have offered him money at night, outside the city, and for what?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no, Procurator, it\'92s not that. I have only one supposition, and if it is wrong, I may not find any other explanations.\'92 Aphranius leaned closer to the procurator and finished in a whisper: \'91Judas wanted to hide his money in a secluded place known only to himself.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91A very subtle explanation. That, apparently, is how things were. Now I understand you: he was lured out not by others, but by his own purpose. Yes, yes, that\'92s so.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So. Judas was mistrustful, he was hiding the money from others.\'92 \'91Yes, in Gethsemane, you said...  And why you intend to look for  him\par \pard\plain  precisely there - that, I confess, I do not understand.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, Procurator, that is the simplest thing of all. No one would hide money on the roads, in open and empty places. Judas was neither on the road to Hebron, nor on the road to Bethany. He had to be in a protected, secluded place with trees. It\'92s as simple as that. And except for Gethse- mane, there are no such places near Yershalaim. He couldn\'92t have gone far.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You have utterly convinced me. And so, what are we to do now?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I will immediately start a search for the murderers who tracked Judas out of the city, and I myself, meanwhile, as I have already reported to you, will stand trial.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What for?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91My guards lost him in the bazaar last evening, after he left Kaifa\'92s palace. How it happened, I cannot comprehend. It has never happened before in my life. He was put under surveillance just after our conversa- tion. But in the neighbourhood of the bazaar he doubled back somewhere, and made such a strange loop that he escaped without a trace.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So. I declare to you that I do not consider it necessary to try you. You did all you could, and no one in the world\'92 - here the procurator smiled -\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91could do more than you! Penalize the sleuths who lost Judas. But here, too, I warn you, I would not want it to be anything of a severe sort. In the last analysis, we did everything to take care of the blackguard!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes! I forgot to ask,\'92 the procurator rubbed his forehead, \'91how did they manage to foist the money on Kaifa?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You see, Procurator ... that is not especially complicated. The avengers came from behind Kaifa\'92s palace, where the lane is higher than the yard. They threw the packet over the fence.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91With a note?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, exactly as you suspected, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, although...\'92 Here Aphranius tore the seal off the packet and show- ed its contents to Pilate.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good heavens, what are you doing, Aphranius, those must be temple seals!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The procurator needn\'92t trouble himself with that question,\'92 Aphranius replied, closing the packet.\par \pard\plain  \'91Can it be that you have all the seals?\'92 Pilate asked, laughing.\par \pard\plain  \'91It couldn\'92t be otherwise, Procurator,\'92 Aphranius replied very sternly, not laughing at all.\par \pard\plain  \'91I can imagine the effect at Kaifa\'92s!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, Procurator, it caused great agitation. They summoned me imme- diately.\'92\par \pard\plain  Even in the semi-darkness one could see how Pilate\'92s eyes flashed. \'91That\'92s interesting, interesting...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I venture to disagree, Procurator, it was not interesting. A most bor- ing and tiresome business. To my question whether anyone had been paid money in Kaifa\'92s palace, I was told categorically that there had been noth- ing of the sort.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, yes? Well, so, if no one was paid, no one was paid. It will be that much harder to find the killers.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Absolutely right, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It suddenly occurs to me, Aphranius: might he not have killed him- self?\'92 6\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no, Procurator,\'92 Aphranius replied, even leaning back in his chair from astonishment, \'91excuse me, but that is entirely unlikely!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, everything is likely in this city. I\'92m ready to bet that in a very short time rumours of it will spread all over the city.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  6Might he not have killed himself?: Here Pilate prompts Aphranius with what is in fact the Gospel account of Judas\'92s death (Matt. 27:5).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Here Aphranius again darted his look at the procurator, thought for a moment, and replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91That may be, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  The procurator was obviously still unable to part with this question of the killing of the man from Kiriath, though everything was already clear, and he said even with a sort of reverie:\par \pard\plain  \'91But I\'92d like to have seen how they killed him.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He was killed with great art, Procurator,\'92 Aphranius replied, glancing somewhat ironically at the procurator.\par \pard\plain  \'91How do you know that?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Kindly pay attention to the bag, Procurator,\'92 Aphranius replied. \'91I guarantee you that Judas\'92s blood gushed out in a stream. I\'92ve seen mur- dered people in my time, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91So, of course, he won\'92t rise?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Procurator, he will rise,\'92 replied Aphranius, smiling philosophi- cally, \'91when the trumpet of the messiah they\'92re expecting here sounds - over him. But before then he won\'92t rise.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Enough, Aphranius, the question is clear. Let\'92s go on to the burial.\'92 \'91The executed men have been buried, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, Aphranius, it would be a crime to try you. You\'92re deserving of the highest reward. How was it?\'92\par \pard\plain  Aphranius began to tell about it: while he himself was occupied with Judas\'92s affair, a detachment of the secret guard, under the direction of his assistant, arrived at the hill as evening came. One of the bodies was not found on the hilltop. Pilate gave a start and said hoarsely:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, how did I not foresee it! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No need to worry, Procurator,\'92 said Aphranius, and he went on with his narrative: \'91The bodies of Dysmas and Gestas, their eyes pecked out by carrion birds, were taken up, and they immediately rushed in search of the third body. It was discovered in a very short time. A certain man ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Matthew Levi,\'92 said Pilate, not questioningly, but rather affirmatively. \'91Yes, Procurator... Matthew Levi was hiding in a cave on the northern slope of Bald Skull, waiting for darkness. The naked body of Yeshua Ha- Nozri was with him. When the guards entered the cave with a torch, Levi fell into despair and wrath. He shouted about having committed no crime, and about every man\'92s right by law to bury an executed criminal if he so desires. Matthew Levi said he did not want to pan with the body. He was agitated, cried out something incoherent, now begging, now  threatening\par \pard\plain  and cursing...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Did they have to arrest him?\'92 Pilate asked glumly.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91No, Procurator, no,\'92 Aphranius replied very soothingly, \'91they man- aged to quiet the impudent madman, explaining to him that the body would be buried. Levi, having grasped what was being said to him, calmed down, but announced that he would not leave and wished to take part in the burial. He said he would not leave even if they started to kill him, and even offered for that purpose a bread knife he had with him.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Was he chased away?\'92 Pilate asked in a stifled voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Procurator, no. My assistant allowed him to take part in the burial.\'92 \'91Which of your assistants was in charge of it?\'92 asked Pilate.\par \pard\plain  \'91Tolmai,\'92 Aphranius answered and added in alarm: \'91Perhaps he made a mistake?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Go on,\'92 answered Pilate, \'91there was no mistake. Generally, I am begin- ning to feel a bit at a loss, Aphranius, I am apparendy dealing with a man who never makes mistakes. That man is you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Matthew Levi was taken in the cart with the bodies of the executed men, and in about two hours they reached a solitary ravine north of Yer- shalaim. There the detachment, working in shifts, dug a deep hole within an hour and buried all three executed men in it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Naked?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Procurator, the detachment brought chitons with them for that purpose. They put rings on the buried men\'92s fingers. Yeshua\'92s with one notch, Dysmas\'92s with two, and Gestas\'92s with three. The hole has been covered over and heaped with stones. The landmark is known to Tolmai.\'92 \'91Ah, if only I had foreseen it!\'92  Pilate spoke, wincing.  I needed to   see\par \pard\plain  this Matthew Levi...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He is here, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate, his eyes wide open, stared at Aphranius for some time, and then said:\par \pard\plain  \'91I thank you for everything that has been done in this affair. I ask you to send Tolmai to me tomorrow, and to tell him beforehand that I am pleased with him. And you, Aphranius,\'92 here the procurator took a seal ring from the pouch of the belt lying on the table and gave it to me head of the secret service, \'91I beg you to accept this as a memento.\'92\par \pard\plain  Aphranius bowed and said: \'91A great honour, Procurator.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I request that the detachment that performed the burial be given re- wards. The sleuths who let Judas slip - a reprimand. Have Matthew Levi sent to me right now. I must have the details on Yeshua\'92s case.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Understood, Procurator,\'92 Aphranius replied and began retreating and bowing, while the procurator clapped his hands and shouted:\par \pard\plain  \'91To me, here! A lamp to the colonnade!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Aphranius was going out to the garden when lights began to flash in the hands of servants behind Pilate\'92s back. Three lamps appeared on the table before the procurator, and the moonlit night at once retreated to the garden, as if Aphranius had led it away with him. In place of Aphranius, an unknown man, small and skinny, stepped on to the balcony beside the gigantic centurion. The latter, catching the procurator\'92s eye, withdrew to the garden at once and there disappeared.\par \pard\plain  The procurator studied the newcomer with greedy and slightly fright- ened eyes. So one looks at a man of whom one has heard a great deal, of whom one has been thinking, and who finally appears.\par \pard\plain  The newcomer, a man of about forty, was black-haired, ragged, covered with caked mud, and looked wolf-like from under his knitted brows. In short, he was very unsightly, and rather resembled a city beggar, of whom there were many hanging about on the porches of the temple or in the bazaars of the noisy and dirty Lower City.\par \pard\plain  The silence continued for a long time, and was broken by the strange behaviour of the man brought to Pilate. His countenance changed, he swayed, and if he had not grasped the edge of the table with his dirty hand, he would have fallen.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s wrong with you?\'92 Pilate asked him.\par \pard\plain  \'91Nothing,\'92 answered Matthew Levi, and he made a movement as if he were swallowing something. His skinny, bare, grey neck swelled out and then slackened again.\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s wrong, answer me,\'92 Pilate repeated.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m tired,\'92 Levi answered and looked sullenly at the floor. \'91Sit down,\'92 said Pilate, pointing to the armchair.\par \pard\plain  Levi looked at the procurator mistrustfully, moved towards the arm- chair, gave a timorous sidelong glance at the gilded armrests, and sat down not in the chair but beside it on the floor.\par \pard\plain  \'91Explain to me, why did you not sit in the chair?\'92 asked Pilate. \'91I\'92m dirty, I\'92d soil it,\'92 said Levi, looking at the ground.\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92ll presently be given something to eat.\'92 \'91I don\'92t want to eat,\'92 answered Levi.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why lie?\'92 Pilate asked quietly. \'91You haven\'92t eaten for the whole day, and maybe even longer. Very well, don\'92t eat. I\'92ve summoned you so that you could show me the knife you had with you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The soldiers took it from me when they brought me here,\'92 Levi replied and added sullenly: \'91You must give it back to me, I have to return it to its owner, I stole it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What for?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91To cut the ropes,\'92 answered Levi.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Mark!\'92 cried the procurator, and the centurion stepped in under the columns. \'91Give me his knife.\'92\par \pard\plain  The centurion took a dirty bread knife from one of the two cases on his belt, handed it to the procurator, and withdrew.\par \pard\plain  \'91Who did you take the knife from?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91From the bakery by the Hebron gate, just as you enter the city, on the left.\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate looked at the broad blade, for some reason tried the sharpness of the edge with his finger, and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Concerning the knife you needn\'92t worry, the knife will be returned to the shop. But now I want a second thing - show me the charta you carry with you, on which Yeshua\'92s words are written down.\'92\par \pard\plain  Levi looked at Pilate with hatred and smiled such an inimical smile that his face became completely ugly.\par \pard\plain  \'91You want to take away the last thing?\'92 he asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91I didn\'92t say \'93give me\'94,\'92 answered Pilate, \'91I said \'93show me\'94.\'92\par \pard\plain  Levi fumbled in his bosom and produced a parchment scroll. Pilate took it, unrolled it, spread it out between the lights, and, squinting, be- gan to study the barely legible ink marks. It was difficult to understand these crabbed lines, and Pilate kept wincing and leaning right to the parch- ment, running his finger over the lines. He did manage to make out that the writing represented an incoherent chain of certain utterances, certain dates, household records, and poetic fragments. Some of it Pilate could read: \'91...there is no death ... yesterday we ate sweet spring baccuroth...\'92 7 Grimacing with the effort, Pilate squinted as he read: \'91... we shall see the pure river of the water of life... 8 mankind shall look at the sun through transparent crystal...\'92 Here Pilate gave a start. In the last lines of the parch- ment he made out the words: \'91... greater vice ... cowardice...\'92\par \pard\plain  Pilate rolled up the parchment and with an abrupt movement handed it to Levi.\par \pard\plain  \'91Take it,\'92 he said and, after a pause, added: \'91You\'92re a bookish man, I see, and there\'92s no need for you to go around alone, in beggar\'92s clothing, without shelter. I have a big library in Caesarea, I am very rich and want to take you to work for me. You will sort out and look after the papyri, you will be fed and clothed.\'92\par \pard\plain  Levi stood up and replied: \'91No, I don\'92t want to.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  7Baccuroth: Aramaic for \'91fresh figs\'92.\par \pard\plain  8The pure river of the water of life: \'91And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb\'92 (Revelation 22:1).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Why?\'92 the procurator asked, his face darkening. \'91Am I disagreeable to you? ... Are you afraid of me?\'92\par \pard\plain  The same bad smile distorted Levi\'92s face, and he said:\par \pard\plain  \'91No, because you\'92ll be afraid of me. It won\'92t be very easy for you to look me in the face now that you\'92ve killed him.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Quiet,\'92 replied Pilate. \'91Take some money.\'92\par \pard\plain  Levi shook his head negatively, and the procurator went on:\par \pard\plain  \'91I know you consider yourself a disciple of Yeshua, but I can tell you that you learned nothing of what he taught you. For if you had, you would certainly take something from me. Bear in mind that before he died he said he did not blame anyone.\'92 Pilate raised a finger significantly, Pilate\'92s face was twitching. \'91And he himself would surely have taken something. You are cruel, and he was not cruel. Where will you go?\'92\par \pard\plain  Levi suddenly came up to the table, leaned both hands on it, and, gaz- ing at the procurator with burning eyes, whispered to him:\par \pard\plain  \'91Know, Hegemon, that I am going to kill a man in Yershalaim. I wanted to tell you that, so you\'92d know there will be more blood.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I, too, know there will be more of it,\'92 replied Pilate, \'91you haven\'92t sur- prised me with your words. You want, of course, to kill me?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You I won\'92t manage to kill,\'92 replied Levi, baring his teeth and smiling, \'91I\'92m not such a foolish man as to count on that. But I\'92ll kill Judas of Kiriath, I\'92ll devote the rest of my life to it.\'92\par \pard\plain  Here pleasure showed in the procurator\'92s eyes, and beckoning Matt- hew Levi to come closer, he said:\par \pard\plain  \'91You won\'92t manage to do it, don\'92t trouble yourself. Judas has already been killed this night.\'92\par \pard\plain  Levi sprang away from the table, looking wildly around, and cried out: \'91Who did it?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t be jealous,\'92 Pilate answered, his teeth bared, and rubbed his hands, \'91I\'92m afraid he had other admirers besides you.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Who did it?\'92 Levi repeated in a whisper. Pilate answered him:\par \pard\plain  \'91I did it.\'92\par \pard\plain  Levi opened his mouth and stared at the procurator, who said quietly: \'91It is, of course, not much to have done, but all the same I did it.\'92\par \pard\plain  And he added: \'91Well, and now will you take something?\'92 Levi considered, relented, and finally said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Have them give me a piece of clean parchment.\'92\par \pard\plain  An hour went by. Levi was not in the palace. Now the silence of the dawn was broken only by the quiet noise of the sentries\'92 footsteps in the garden. The moon was quickly losing its colour, one could see at the other\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  edge of the sky the whitish dot of the morning star. The lamps had gone out long, long ago. The procurator lay on the couch. Putting his hand un- der his cheek, he slept and breathed soundlessly. Beside him slept Banga. Thus was the dawn of the fifteenth day of Nisan met by the fifth procu-\par \pard\plain  rator of Judea, Pontius Pilate.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 27\par \pard\plain  The End of Apartment No.50\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  When Margarita came to the last words of the chapter - \'91... Thus was the dawn of the fifteenth day of Nisan met by the fifth procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate\'92 - it was morning.\par \pard\plain  Sparrows could be heard in the branches of the willows and lindens in the little garden, conducting a merry, excited morning conversation.\par \pard\plain  Margarita got up from the armchair, stretched, and only then felt how broken her body was and how much she wanted to sleep. It is interesting to note that Margarita\'92s soul was in perfect order. Her thoughts were not scattered, she was quite unshaken by having spent the night supernatu- rally.\par \pard\plain  She was not troubled by memories of having been at Satan\'92s ball, or that by some miracle the master had been returned to her, that the novel had risen from the ashes, that everything was back in place in the base- ment in the lane, from which the snitcher Aloisy Mogarych had been ex- pelled. In short, acquaintance with Woland had caused her no psychic damage. Everything was as if it ought to have been so.\par \pard\plain  She went to the next room, convinced herself that the master was soundly and peacefully asleep, turned off the unnecessary table lamp, and stretched out by the opposite wall on a little couch covered with an old, torn sheet. A minute later she was asleep, and that morning she had no dreams. The basement rooms were silent, the builder\'92s whole little house was silent, and it was quiet in the solitary lane.\par \pard\plain  But just then, that is, at dawn on Saturday, an entire floor of a certain Moscow institution was not asleep, and its windows, looking out on a big asphalt-paved square which special machines, driving around slowly and droning, were cleaning with brushes, shone with their full brightness, cutting through the light of the rising sun.\par \pard\plain  The whole floor was occupied with the investigation of the Woland\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  340\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  case, and the lights had burned all night in dozens of offices.\par \pard\plain  Essentially speaking, the matter had already become clear on the pre- vious day, Friday, when the Variety had had to be closed, owing to the disappearance of its administration and all sorts of outrages which had taken  place  during  the  notorious  se´ance  of  black  magic  the  day  before. But the thing was that more and more new material kept arriving all the time and incessantly on the sleepless floor.\par \pard\plain  Now the investigators of this strange case, which smacked of obvious devilry, with an admixture of some hypnotic tricks and distinct criminality, had to shape into one lump all the many-sided and tangled events that had taken place in various parts of Moscow.\par \pard\plain  The first to visit the sleepless, electrically lit-up floor was Arkady Apol- lonovich Sempleyarov, chairman of the Acoustics Commission.\par \pard\plain  After dinner on Friday, in his apartment located in a house by the Ka- menny Bridge, the telephone rang and a male voice asked for Arkady Apollonovich. Arkady Apollonovich\'92s wife, who picked up the phone, replied sullenly that Arkady Apollonovich was unwell, had retired for the night, and could not come to the phone. However, Arkady Apollonovich came to the phone all the same. To the question of where Arkady Apol- lonovich was being called from, the voice in the telephone had said very briefly where it was from.\par \pard\plain  \'91This second ... at once ... this minute ...\'92 babbled the ordinarily very haughty wife of the chairman of the Acoustics Commission, and she flew to the bedroom like an arrow to rouse Arkady Apollonovich from his bed, where he lay experiencing the torments of hell at the recollection of yes- terday\'92s se´ance and the night\'92s scandal, followed by the expulsion of his Saratov niece from the apartment.\par \pard\plain  Not in a second, true, yet not in a minute either, but in a quarter of a minute, Arkady Apollonovich, with one slipper on his left foot, in nothing but his underwear, was already at the phone, babbling into it:\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, it\'92s me ... I\'92m listening, I\'92m listening ...\'92\par \pard\plain  His wife, forgetting for these moments all the loathsome crimes against fidelity in which the unfortunate Arkady Apollonovich had been exposed, kept sticking herself out the door to the corridor with a frightened face, poking a slipper at the air and whispering:\par \pard\plain  \'91Put the slipper on, the slipper ... you\'92ll catch cold ...\'92 At which Arkady Apollonovich, waving his wife away with his bare foot and making savage eyes at her, muttered into the telephone:\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, yes, yes, surely ... I understand ... I\'92ll leave at once...\'92\par \pard\plain  Arkady Apollonovich spent the whole evening on that same floor whe- re the investigation was being conducted.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  It was a difficult conversation, a most unpleasant conversation, for he had to tell with complete sincerity not only about this obnoxious se´ance and the fight in the box, but along with that - as was indeed necessary - also about Militsa Andreevna Pokobatko from Yelokhovskaya Street, and about the Saratov niece, and about much else, the telling of which caused Arkady Apollonovich inexpressible torments.\par \pard\plain  Needless to say, the testimony of Arkady Apollonovich, an intelligent and cultivated man, who had been a witness to the outrageous se´ance, a sensible and qualified witness, who gave an excellent description of the mysterious masked magician himself and of his two scoundrelly assis- tants, a witness who remembered perfectly well that the magician\'92s name was indeed Woland, advanced the investigation considerably. And the juxtaposition of Arkady Apollonovich\'92s testimony with the testimony of others - among whom were some ladies who had suffered after the se´ance (the one in violet underwear who had shocked Rimsky and, alas, many others), and the messenger Karpov, who had been sent to apartment no.50 on Sadovaya Street - at once essentially established the place where the culprit in all these adventures was to be sought.\par \pard\plain  Apartment no.50 was visited, and not just once, and not only was it looked over with extreme thoroughness, but the walls were also tapped and the fireplace flues checked, in search of hiding places. However, none of these measures yielded any results, and no one was discovered in the apartment during any of these visits, though it was perfectly clear that there was someone in the apartment, despite the fact that all persons who in one way or another were supposed to be in charge of foreign artistes coming to Moscow decidedly and categorically insisted that there was not and could not be any black magician Woland in Moscow.\par \pard\plain  He had decidedly not registered anywhere on arrival, had not shown anyone his passport or other papers, contracts, or agreements, and no one had heard anything about him! Kitaitsev, head of the programme depart- ment of the Spectacles Commission, swore to God that the vanished Sty- opa Likhodeev had never sent him any performance programme of any Woland for approval and had never telephoned him about the arrival of such a Woland. So that he, Kitaitsev, utterly failed to see and understand how Styopa could have allowed such a se´ance in the Variety.  And when told that Arkady Apollonovich had seen this magician at the se´ance with his own eyes, Kitaitsev only spread his arms and raised his eyes to heaven. And from Kitaitsev\'92s eyes alone one could see and say confidently that he was as pure as crystal.\par \pard\plain  That same Prokhor Petrovich, chairman of the main Spectacles Com- mission...\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Incidentally, he returned to his suit immediately after the police came into his office, to the ecstatic joy of Anna Richardovna and the great per- plexity of the needlessly troubled police.\par \pard\plain  Also, incidentally, having returned to his place, into his grey striped suit, Prokhor Petrovich fully approved of all the resolutions the suit had written during his short-term absence.\par \pard\plain  ... So, then, this same Prokhor Petrovich knew decidedly nothing about any Woland.\par \pard\plain  Whether you will or no, something preposterous was coming out: thou- sands of spectators, the whole staff of the Variety, and finally Sempleyarov, Arkady Apollonovich, a most educated man, had seen this magician, as well as his thrice-cursed assistants, and yet it was absolutely impossible to find him anywhere. What was it, may I ask, had he fallen through the ground right after his disgusting se´ance,  or,  as some affirm,  had he not come to Moscow at all? But if the first is allowed, then undoubtedly, in falling through, he had taken along the entire top administration of the Va- riety, and if the second, then would it not mean that the administration of the luckless theatre itself, after first committing some vileness (only recall the broken window in the study and the behaviour of Ace of Diamonds!), had disappeared from Moscow without a trace?\par \pard\plain  We must do justice to the one who headed the investigation. The van- ished Rimsky was found with amazing speed. One had only to put to- gether the behaviour of Ace of Diamonds at the cab stand by the movie theatre with certain given times, such as when the se´ance ended, and pre- cisely when Rimsky could have disappeared, and then immediately send a telegram to Leningrad. An hour later (towards evening on Friday) came the reply that Rimsky had been discovered in number four-twelve on the fourth floor of the Hotel Astoria, next to the room in which the repertory manager of one of the Moscow theatres, then on tour in Leningrad, was staying - that same room which, as is known, had gilded grey-blue furni- ture and a wonderful bathroom. 1\par \pard\plain  Discovered hiding in the wardrobe of number four-twelve of the Asto- ria, Rimsky was questioned right there in Leningrad. After which a tele- gram came to Moscow reporting that findirector Rimsky was in an unan- swerable state, that he could not or did not wish to give sensible replies to questions and begged only to be hidden in a bulletproof room and pro- vided with an armed guard.\par \pard\plain  A telegram from Moscow ordered that Rimsky be delivered to Moscow\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1The Hotel Astoria ... bathroom: A large hotel on St Isaac\'92s Square in Petersburg, where Bulgakov and his wife used to stay when visiting the city.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  under guard, as a result of which Rimsky departed Friday evening, under said guard, on the evening train.\par \pard\plain  Towards evening on that same Friday, Likhodeev\'92s trail was also found. Telegrams of inquiry about Likhodeev were sent to all cities, and from Yalta came the reply that Likhodeev had been in Yalta but had left on a plane for Moscow.\par \pard\plain  The only one whose trail they failed to pick up was Varenukha. The famous theatre administrator known to decidedly all of Moscow had van- ished into thin air.\par \pard\plain  In the meantime, there was some bother with things happening in other parts of Moscow, outside the Variety Theatre. It was necessary to explain the extraordinary case of the staff all singing \'91Glorious Sea\'92 (in- cidentally: Professor Stravinsky managed to put them right within two hours, by means of some subcutaneous injections), of persons presenting other persons or institutions with devil knows what in the guise of money, and also of persons who had suffered from such presentations.\par \pard\plain  As goes without saying, the most unpleasant, the most scandalous and insoluble of all these cases was the case of the theft of the head of the deceased writer Berlioz right from the coffin in the hall of Griboedov\'92s, carried out in broad daylight.\par \pard\plain  Twelve men conducted the investigation, gathering as on a knitting- needle the accursed stitches of this complicated case scattered all over Moscow.\par \pard\plain  One of the investigators arrived at Professor Stravinsky\'92s clinic and first of all asked to be shown a list of the persons who had checked in to the clinic over the past three days. Thus they discovered Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy and the unfortunate master of ceremonies whose head had been torn off.\par \pard\plain  However, little attention was paid to them. By now it was easy to es- tablish that these two had fallen victim to the same gang, headed by that mysterious magician. But to Ivan Nikolaevich Homeless the investigator paid great attention.\par \pard\plain  The door of Ivanushka\'92s room no.117 opened towards evening on Fri- day, and into the room came a young, round-faced, calm and mild-man- nered man, who looked quite unlike an investigator and yet was one of the best in Moscow. He saw lying on the bed a pale and pinched young man, in whose eyes one could read a lack of interest in what went on around him, whose eyes looked now somewhere into the distance, over his surroundings, now into the young man himself. The investigator gen- tly introduced himself and said he had stopped at Ivan Nikolaevich\'92s to talk over the events at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds two days ago.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Oh, how triumphant Ivan would have been if the investigator had come to him earlier - say, on Wednesday night, when Ivan had striven so violently and passionately to make his story about the Patriarch\'92s Ponds heard! Now his dream of helping to catch the consultant had come true, there was no longer any need to run after anyone, they had come to him on their own, precisely to hear his story about what had happened on Wednesday evening.\par \pard\plain  But, alas, Ivanushka had changed completely in the time that had pass- ed since the moment of Berlioz\'92s death: he was ready to answer all of the investigator\'92s questions willingly and politely, but indifference could be sensed both in Ivan\'92s eyes and in his intonation. The poet was no longer concerned with Berlioz\'92s fate.\par \pard\plain  Before the investigator\'92s arrival, Ivanushka lay dozing, and certain vi- sions passed before him. Thus, he saw a city, strange, incomprehensible, non-existent, with marble masses, eroded colonnades, roofs gleaming in the sun, with the black, gloomy and merciless Antonia Tower, with the palace on the western hill sunk almost up to its rooftops in the tropical greenery of the garden, with bronze statues blazing in the sunset above this greenery, and he saw armour-clad Roman centuries moving along un- der the walls of the ancient city.\par \pard\plain  As he dozed, there appeared before Ivan a man, motionless in an arm- chair, clean-shaven, with a harried yellow face, a man in a white mantle with red lining, gazing hatefully into the luxurious and alien garden. Ivan also saw a treeless yellow hill with empty cross-barred posts. And what had happened at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds no longer interested the poet Ivan Homeless.\par \pard\plain  \'91Tell me, Ivan Nikolaevich, how far were you from the turnstile your- self when Berlioz slipped under the tram-car?\'92\par \pard\plain  A barely noticeable, indifferent smile touched Ivan\'92s lips for some rea- son, and he replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91I was far away.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And the checkered one was right by the turnstile?\'92 \'91No, he was sitting on a little bench nearby.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You clearly recall that he did not go up to the turnstile at the moment when Berlioz fell?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I recall. He didn\'92t go up to it. He sat sprawled on the bench.\'92\par \pard\plain  These questions were the investigator\'92s last. After them he got up, gave Ivanushka his hand, wished him a speedy recovery, and expressed the hope that he would soon be reading his poetry again.\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92 Ivan quietly replied, \'91I won\'92t write any more poetry.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The investigator smiled politely, allowed himself to express his cer- tainty that,  while the poet was presently in a state of some depression,   it would soon pass.\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92 Ivan responded, looking not at the investigator but into the dis- tance, at the fading sky, \'91it will never pass. The poems I used to write were bad poems, and now I understand it.\'92\par \pard\plain  The investigator left Ivanushka, having obtained some quite important material. Following the thread of events from the end to the beginning, they finally succeeded in reaching the source from which all the events had come.\par \pard\plain  The investigator had no doubt that these events began with the murder at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds. Of course, neither Ivanushka nor this checkered one had pushed the unfortunate chairman of Massolit under the tram- car; physically, so to speak, no one had contributed to his failing under the wheels. But the investigator was convinced that Berlioz had thrown himself under the tram-car (or tumbled under it) while hypnotized.\par \pard\plain  Yes, there was already a lot of material, and it was known who had to be caught and where. But the thing was that it proved in no way possi- ble to catch anyone. We must repeat, there undoubtedly was someone in the thrice-cursed apartment no.50. Occasionally the apartment answered telephone calls, now in a rattling, now in a nasal voice, occasionally one of its windows was opened, what\'92s more, the sounds of a gramophone came from it. And yet each time it was visited, decidedly no one was found there. And it had already been visited more than once and at differ- ent times of day. And not only that, but they had gone through it with a net, checking every corner. The apartment had long been under suspicion. Guards were placed not just at the way to the courtyard through the gates, but at the back entrance as well. Not only that, but guards were placed on the roof by the chimneys. Yes, apartment no.50 was acting up, and it was impossible to do anything about it.\par \pard\plain  So the thing dragged on until midnight on Friday, when Baron Meigel, dressed in evening clothes and patent-leather shoes, solemnly proceeded into apartment no.50 in the quality of a guest. One could hear the baron being let in to the apartment. Exactly ten minutes later, without any ring- ing of bells, the apartment was visited, yet not only were the hosts not found in it, but, which was something quite bizarre, no signs of Baron Meigel were found in it either.\par \pard\plain  And so, as was said, the thing dragged on in this fashion until dawn on Saturday. Here new and very interesting data were added. A six-place passenger plane, coming from the Crimea, landed at the Moscow airport. Among the other passengers,  one strange passenger got out of it.      This\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  was a young citizen, wildly overgrown with stubble, unwashed for three days, with inflamed and frightened eyes, carrying no luggage and dressed somewhat whimsically. The citizen was wearing a tall sheepskin hat, a Georgian felt cape over a nightshirt, and new, just-purchased, blue leather bedroom slippers. As soon as he separated from the ladder by which they descended from the plane, he was approached. This citizen had been ex- pected, and in a little while the unforgettable director of the Variety, Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev, was standing before the investigators. He threw in some new data. It now became clear that Woland had penetrated the Variety in the guise of an artiste, having hypnotized Styopa Likhodeev, and had then contrived to fling this same Styopa out of Moscow and God knows how many miles away. The material was thus augmented, yet that did not make things easier, but perhaps even a bit harder, because it was becoming obvious that to lay hold of a person who could perform such stunts as the one of which Stepan Bogdanovich had been the victim would not be so easy. Incidentally, Likhodeev, at his own request, was confined in a secure cell, and next before the investigators stood Varenukha, just arrested in his own apartment, to which he had returned after a blank dis- appearance of almost two days.\par \pard\plain  Despite the promise he had given Azazello not to lie any more, the administrator began precisely with a lie. Though, by the way, he cannot be judged very harshly for it. Azazello had forbidden him to lie and be rude on the telephone, but in the present case the administrator spoke without the assistance of this apparatus. His eyes wandering, Ivan Savelyevich declared that on Thursday afternoon he had got drunk in his office at the Variety, all by himself, after which he went somewhere, but where he did not remember, drank starka 2 somewhere, but where he did not remember, lay about somewhere under a fence, but where he again did not remember. Only after the administrator was told that with his behaviour, stupid and senseless, he was hindering the investigation of an important case and would of course have to answer for it, did Varenukha burst into sobs and whisper in a trembling voice, looking around him, that he had lied solely out of fear, apprehensive of the revenge of Woland\'92s gang, into whose hands he had already fallen, and that he begged, implored and yearned to be locked up in a bullet-proof cell.\par \pard\plain  \'91Pah, the devil! Really, them and their bulletproof cells!\'92 grumbled one of the investigators.\par \pard\plain  \'91They\'92ve been badly frightened by those scoundrels,\'92 said the  investi-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Starka: An infusion of a pale-brown colour, made from spirits, white port, cognac, sugar, and apple and pear leaves.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  gator who had visited Ivanushka.\par \pard\plain  They calmed Varenukha down the best they could, said they would protect him without any cell, and here it was learned that he had not drunk any starka under a fence, and that he had been beaten by two, one red- haired and with a fang, the other fat...\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, resembling a cat?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, yes, yes,\'92 whispered the administrator, sinking with fear and look- ing around him every second, coming out with further details of how he had existed for some two days in apartment no.50 in the quality of a tip-off vampire, who had all but caused the death of the findirector Rimsky...\par \pard\plain  Just then Rimsky, brought on the Leningrad train, was being led in.\par \pard\plain  However, this mentally disturbed, grey-haired old man, trembling with fear, in whom it was very difficult to recognize the former findirector, would not tell the truth for anything, and proved to be very stubborn in this respect. Rimsky insisted that he had not seen any Hella in his office window at night, nor any Varenukha, but had simply felt bad and in a state of unconsciousness had left for Leningrad. Needless to say, the ailing findirector concluded his testimony with a request that he be confined to a bulletproof cell.\par \pard\plain  Annushka was arrested just as she made an attempt to hand a ten- dollar bill to the cashier of a department store on the Arbat. Annushka\'92s story about people flying out the window of the house on Sadovaya and about the little horseshoe which Annushka, in her own words, had picked up in order to present it to the police, was listened to attentively.\par \pard\plain  The horseshoe was really made of gold and diamonds?\'92 Annushka was asked.\par \pard\plain  \'91As if I don\'92t know diamonds,\'92 replied Annushka. \'91But he gave you ten-rouble bills, you say?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91As if I don\'92t know ten-rouble bills,\'92 replied Annushka. \'91Well, and when did they turn into dollars?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I don\'92t know anything about any dollars, I never saw any dollars!\'92 Annushka replied shrilly. \'91I\'92m in my rights! I got recompensed, I was buying cloth with it,\'92 and she went off into some balderdash about not being answerable for the house management that allowed unclean powers on to the fifth floor, making life unbearable.\par \pard\plain  Here the investigator waved at Annushka with his pen, because every- one was properly sick of her, and wrote a pass for her to get out on a green slip of paper, after which, to everyone\'92s pleasure, Annushka disappeared from the building.\par \pard\plain  Then there followed one after another a whole series of people, Niko- lai Ivanovich among them, just arrested owing solely to the foolishness\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  of his jealous wife, who towards morning had informed the police that her husband had vanished. Nikolai Ivanovich did not surprise the inves- tigators very much when he laid on the table the clownish certificate of his having spent the time at Satan\'92s ball. In his stories of how he had carried Margarita Nikolaevna\'92s naked housekeeper on his back through the air, somewhere to hell and beyond, for a swim in a river, and of the preceding appearance of the bare Margarita Nikolaevna in the window, Nikolai Ivanovich departed somewhat from the truth. Thus, for instance, he did not consider it necessary to mention that he had arrived in the bed- room with the discarded shift in his hands, or that he had called Natasha \'91Venus\'92. From his words it looked as if Natasha had flown out the window, got astride him, and dragged him away from Moscow ...\par \pard\plain  \'91Obedient to constraint, I was compelled to submit,\'92 Nikolai Ivanovich said, and finished his tale with a request that not a word of it be told to his wife. Which was promised him.\par \pard\plain  The testimony of Nikolai Ivanovich provided an opportunity for es- tablishing that Margarita Nikolaevna as well as her housekeeper Natasha had vanished without a trace. Measures were taken to find them.\par \pard\plain  Thus every second of Saturday morning was marked by the unrelent- ing investigation. In the city during that time, completely impossible ru- mours emerged and floated about, in which a tiny portion of truth was embellished with the most luxuriant lies. It was said that there had been a se´ance at the Variety after which all two thousand spectators ran out to the street in their birthday suits, that a press for making counterfeit money of a magic sort had been nabbed on Sadovaya Street, that some gang had kidnapped five managers from the entertainment sector, but the police had immediately found them all, and many other things that one does not even wish to repeat.\par \pard\plain  Meanwhile it was getting on towards dinner time, and then, in the place where the investigation was being conducted, the telephone rang. From Sadovaya came a report that the accursed apartment was again show- ing signs of life. It was said that its windows had been opened from inside, that sounds of a piano and singing were coming from it, and that a black cat had been seen in a window, sitting on the sill and basking in the sun.\par \pard\plain  At around four o\'92clock on that hot day, a big company of men in civil- ian clothes got out of three cars a short distance from no.502-bis on Sa- dovaya Street. Here the big group divided into two small ones, the first going under the gateway of the house and across the courtyard directly to the sixth entrance, while the second opened the normally boarded-up little door leading to the back entrance, and both started up separate stairways to apartment no.50.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Just then Koroviev and Azazello - Koroviev in his usual outfit and not the festive tailcoat - were sitting in the dining room of the apartment fin- ishing breakfast. Woland, as was his wont, was in the bedroom, and where the cat was nobody knew. But judging by the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen, it could be supposed that Behemoth was precisely there, play- ing the fool, as was his wont.\par \pard\plain  \'91And what are those footsteps on the stairs?\'92 asked Koroviev, toying with the little spoon in his cup of black coffee.\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s them coming to arrest us,\'92 Azazello replied and drank off a glass of cognac.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ahh ... well, well...\'92 Koroviev replied to that.\par \pard\plain  The ones going up the front stairway were already on the third-floor landing. There a couple of plumbers were pottering over the harmonica of the steam heating. The newcomers exchanged significant glances with the plumbers.\par \pard\plain  \'91They\'92re all at home,\'92 whispered one of the plumbers, tapping a pipe with his hammer.\par \pard\plain  Then the one walking at the head openly took a black Mauser from under his coat, and another beside him took out the skeleton keys. Gener- ally, those going to apartment no.50 were properly equipped. Two of them had fine, easily unfolded silk nets in their pockets. Another of them had a lasso, another had gauze masks and ampoules of chloroform.\par \pard\plain  In a second the front door to apartment no.50 was open and all the vis- itors were in the front hall, while the slamming of the door in the kitchen at the same moment indicated the timely arrival of the second group from the back stairs.\par \pard\plain  This time there was, if not complete, at least some sort of success.\par \pard\plain  The men instantly dispersed through all the rooms and found no one anywhere, but instead on the table of the dining room they discovered the remains of an apparently just-abandoned breakfast, and in the living room, on the mantelpiece, beside a crystal pitcher, sat an enormous black cat. He was holding a primus in his paws.\par \pard\plain  Those who entered the living room contemplated this cat for quite a long time in total silence.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hm, yes ... that\'92s quite something ...\'92 one of the men whispered. \'91Ain\'92t misbehaving, ain\'92t bothering anybody, just reparing my primus,\'92\par \pard\plain  said the cat with an unfriendly scowl, \'91and I also consider it my duty to warn you that the cat is an ancient and inviolable animal.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Exceptionally neat job,\'92 whispered one of the men, and another said loudly and distinctly:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Well, come right in, you inviolable, ventriloquous cat!\'92 The net un- folded and soared upwards, but the man who cast it, to everyone\'92s utter astonishment, missed and only caught the pitcher, which straight away smashed ringingly.\par \pard\plain  \'91You lose!\'92 bawled the cat. \'91Hurrah!\'92 and here, setting the primus aside, he snatched a Browning from behind his back. In a trice he aimed it at the man standing closest, but before the cat had time to shoot, fire blazed in the man\'92s hand, and at the blast of the Mauser the cat plopped head first from the mantelpiece on to the floor, dropping the Browning and letting go of the primus.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s all over,\'92 the cat said in a weak voice, sprawled languidly in a pool of blood, \'91step back from me for a second, let me say farewell to the earth. Oh, my friend Azazello,\'92 moaned the cat, bleeding profusely, \'91where are you?\'92 The cat rolled his fading eyes in the direction of the dining-room door. \'91You did not come to my aid in the moment of unequal battle, you abandoned poor Behemoth, exchanging him for a glass of - admittedly very good - cognac! Well, so, let my death be on your conscience, and I bequeath you my Browning...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91The net, the net, the net ...\'92 was anxiously whispered around the cat. But the net, devil knows why, got caught in someone\'92s pocket and refused to come out.\par \pard\plain  \'91The only thing that can save a mortally wounded cat,\'92 said the cat, \'91is a swig of benzene.\'92 And taking advantage of the confusion, he bent to the round opening in the primus and had a good drink of benzene. The blood at once stopped flowing from under his left front leg. The cat jumped up, alive and cheerful, seized the primus under his paw, shot back on to the mantelpiece with it, and from there, shredding the wallpaper, climbed the wall and some two seconds later was high above the visitors and sitting on a metal curtain rod.\par \pard\plain  Hands instantly clutched the curtain and tore it off together with the rod, causing sunlight to flood the shaded room. But neither the fraudu- lently recovered cat nor the primus fell down. The cat, without parting with his primus, managed to shoot through the air and land on the chan- delier hanging in the middle of the room.\par \pard\plain  \'91A stepladder!\'92 came from below.\par \pard\plain  \'91I challenge you to a duel!\'92 bawled the cat, sailing over their heads on the swinging chandelier, and the Browning was again in his paw, and the primus was lodged among the branches of the chandelier. The cat took aim and, flying like a pendulum over the heads of the visitors, opened fire on them. The din shook the apartment. Crystal shivers poured down from the chandelier, the mantelpiece mirror was cracked into stars, plaster\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  dust flew, spent cartridges bounced over the floor, window-panes shat- tered, benzene spouted from the bullet-pierced primus. Now there was no question of taking the cat alive, and the visitors fiercely and accurately returned his fire from the Mausers, aiming at his head, stomach, chest and back. The shooting caused panic on the asphalt courtyard.\par \pard\plain  But this shooting did not last long and began to die down of itself. The thing was that it caused no harm either to the cat or to the visitors.\par \pard\plain  Not only was no one killed, but no one was even wounded. Everyone, including the cat, remained totally unharmed. One of the visitors, to ver-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ify it definitively, sent some five bullets at the confounded animal\'92s head, while the cat smartly responded with a full clip, but it was the same - no effect was produced on anybody. The cat swayed on the chandelier, which swung less and less, blowing into the muzzle of his Browning and spitting on his paw for some reason. The faces of those standing silently below ac- quired an expression of utter bewilderment. This was the only case, or one of the only cases, when shooting proved to be entirely inefficacious. One might allow, of course, that the cat\'92s Browning was some sort of toy, but one could by no means say the same of the visitors\'92 Mausers. The cat\'92s very first wound - there obviously could not be the slightest doubt of it\par \pard\plain  - was nothing but a trick and a swinish sham, as was the drinking of the benzene.\par \pard\plain  One more attempt was made to get hold of the cat. The lasso was thrown, it caught on one of the candles, the chandelier fell down. The crash seemed to shake the whole structure of the house, but it was no  use. Those present were showered with splinters, and the cat flew through the air over them and settled high under the ceiling on the upper part of the mantelpiece mirror\'92s gilded frame. He had no intention of escaping anywhere, but, on the contrary, while sitting in relative safety, even started another speech:\par \pard\plain  \'91I utterly fail to comprehend,\'92 he held forth from on high, \'91the reasons for such harsh treatment of me...\'92\par \pard\plain  And here at its very beginning this speech was interrupted by a heavy, low voice coming from no one knew where:\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s going on in the apartment? They prevent me from working...\'92 Another voice, unpleasant and nasal, responded:\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, it\'92s Behemoth, of course, devil take him!\'92 A third, rattling voice said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire! It\'92s Saturday. The sun is setting. Time to go.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me, I can\'92t talk any more,\'92 the cat said from the mirror, \'91time to go.\'92 He hurled his Browning and knocked out both panes in the window. Then he splashed down some benzene, and this benzene caught fire by itself, throwing a wave of flame up to the very ceiling. Things caught fire somehow unusually quickly and violently, as does not happen even with benzene. The wallpaper at once began to smoke, the torn-down curtain started burning on the floor, and the frames of the broken windows be- gan to smoulder. The cat crouched, miaowed, shot from the mirror to the window-sill, and disappeared through it together with his primus.\par \pard\plain  Shots rang out outside. A man sitting on the iron fire-escape at the level of the jeweller\'92s wife\'92s windows fired at the cat as he flew from   one window-sill to another, making for the corner drainpipe of the house\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  which, as has been said, was built in the form of a \'91U\'92. By way of this pipe, the cat climbed up to the roof. There, unfortunately also without any result, he was shot at by the sentries guarding the chimneys, and the cat cleared off into the setting sun that was flooding the city.\par \pard\plain  Just then in the apartment the parquet blazed up under the visitors\'92 feet, and in that fire, on the same spot where the cat had sprawled with his sham wound, there appeared, growing more and more dense, the corpse of the former Baron Meigel with upthrust chin and glassy eyes. To get him out was no longer possible.\par \pard\plain  Leaping over the burning squares of parquet, slapping themselves on their smoking chests and shoulders, those who were in the living room retreated to the study and front hall. Those who were in the dining room and bedroom ran out through the corridor. Those in the kitchen also came running and rushed into the front hall. The living room was already filled with fire and smoke. Someone managed, in flight, to dial the number of the fire department and shout briefly into the receiver:\par \pard\plain  \'91Sadovaya, three-oh-two-bis! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  To stay longer was impossible.  Flames gushed out into the front  hall.\par \pard\plain  Breathing became difficult.\par \pard\plain  As soon as the first little spurts of smoke pushed through the broken windows of the enchanted apartment, desperate human cries arose in the courtyard:\par \pard\plain  \'91Fire! Fire! We\'92re burning!\'92\par \pard\plain  In various apartments of the house, people began shouting into tele- phones:\par \pard\plain  \'91Sadovaya! Sadovaya, three-oh-two-bis!\'92\par \pard\plain  Just then, as the heart-quailing bells were heard on Sadovaya, ringing from long red engines racing quickly from all parts of the city, the people rushing about the yard saw how, along with the smoke, there flew out of the fifth-storey window three dark, apparently male silhouettes and one silhouette of a naked woman.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 28\par \pard\plain  The Last Adventures of Koroviev and Behemoth\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Whether these silhouettes were there, or were only imagined by the fear- struck tenants of the ill-fated house on Sadovaya, is, of course, impossible to say precisely. If they were there, where they set out for is also known to no one. Nor can we say where they separated, but we do know that approximately a quarter of an hour after the fire started on Sadovaya, there appeared by the mirrored doors of a currency store 1 on the Smolensky market-place a long citizen in a checkered suit, and with him a big black cat.\par \pard\plain  Deftly slithering between the passers-by, - the citizen opened the outer door of the shop. But here a small, bony and extremely ill-disposed door- man barred his way and said irritably:\par \pard\plain  \'91No cats allowed!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I beg your pardon,\'92 rattled the long one, putting his gnarled hand to his ear as if he were hard of hearing, \'91no cats, you say? And where do you see any cats?\'92\par \pard\plain  The doorman goggled his eyes, and well he might: there was no cat at the citizen\'92s feet now, but instead, from behind his shoulder, a fat fellow in a tattered cap, whose mug indeed somewhat resembled a cat\'92s, stuck out, straining to get into the store.  There was a primus in the fat fellow\'92s\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1A currency store: A phenomenon of Soviet life, currency stores emerged in the early thirties, offering a great variety of goods (in the midst of the general impoverishment and uniformity of Soviet life) in exchange for foreign currency. They were supposed to be exclusively for foreigners, but were also patronized by privileged Russians who had access to currency or special coupons (Bulgakov himself occasionally had currency from sales of his books abroad and could avail himself of this privilege). There was in fact a currency store at the comer of the Arbat and Smolensky Square.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  355\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  hands.\par \pard\plain  The misanthropic doorman for some reason disliked this pair of cus- tomers.\par \pard\plain  \'91We only accept currency,\'92 he croaked, gazing vexedly from under his shaggy, as if moth-eaten, grizzled eyebrows.\par \pard\plain  \'91My dear man,\'92 rattled the long one, flashing his eye through the bro- ken pince-nez, \'91how do you know I don\'92t have any? Are you judging by my clothes? Never do so, my most precious custodian! You may make a mistake, and a big one at that. At least read the story of the famous caliph Harun al-Rashid 2 over again. But in the present case, casting that story aside temporarily, I want to tell you that I am going to make a complaint about you to the manager and tell him such tales about you that you may have to surrender your post between the shining mirrored doors.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Maybe I\'92ve got a whole primus full of currency,\'92 the cat-like fat fellow, who was simply shoving his way into the store, vehemently butted into the conversation.\par \pard\plain  Behind them the public was already pushing and getting angry. Look- ing at the prodigious pair with hatred and suspicion, the doorman stepped aside, and our acquaintances, Koroviev and Behemoth, found themselves in the store.\par \pard\plain  Here they first of all looked around, and then, in a ringing voice heard decidedly in every corner, Koroviev announced:\par \pard\plain  \'91A wonderful store! A very, very fine store!\'92\par \pard\plain  The public turned away from the counters and for some reason looked at the speaker in amazement, though he had all grounds for praising the store.\par \pard\plain  Hundreds of bolts of cotton in the richest assortment of colours could be seen in the pigeonholes of the shelves. Next to them were piled calicoes, and chiffons, and flannels for suits. In receding perspective endless stacks of shoeboxes could be seen, and several citizenesses sat on little low chairs, one foot shod in an old, worn-out shoe, the other in a shiny new pump, which they stamped on the carpet with a preoccupied air.\par \pard\plain  Somewhere in the depths, around a corner, gramophones sang and played music.\par \pard\plain  But, bypassing all these enchantments, Koroviev and Behemoth made straight for the junction of the grocery and confectionery departments.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2Harun al-Rashid: (?766\'96809), Abassid caliph of Baghdad, known in legend for walk- ing about the city at night disguised as a beggar, familiarizing himself with the life of his subjects. He became a hero of songs and figures in some tales from The Thousand and One Nights.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Here there was plenty of room, no cidzenesses in scarves and little berets were pushing against the counters, as in the fabric department.\par \pard\plain  A short, perfectly square man with blue shaven jowls, horn-rimmed glasses, a brand-new hat, not crumpled and with no sweat stains on the band, in a lilac coat and orange kid gloves, stood by the counter grunting something peremptorily. A sales clerk in a clean white smock and a blue hat was waiting on the lilac client. With the sharpest of knives,  much  like the knife stolen by Matthew Levi, he was removing from a weeping, plump pink salmon its snake-like, silvery skin.\par \pard\plain  \'91This department is splendid, too,\'92 Koroviev solemnly acknowledged, \'91and the foreigner is a likeable fellow,\'92 he benevolently pointed his finger at the lilac back.\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Fagott, no,\'92 Behemoth replied pensively, \'91you\'92re mistaken, my friend: the lilac gendeman\'92s face lacks something, in my opinion.\'92\par \pard\plain  The lilac back twitched, but probably by chance, for the foreigner was surely unable to understand what Koroviev and his companion were say- ing in Russian.\par \pard\plain  \'91Is good?\'92 the lilac purchaser asked sternly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Top-notch!\'92 replied the sales clerk, cockily slipping the edge of the knife under the skin.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good I like, bad I don\'92t,\'92 the foreigner said sternly. \'91Right you are!\'92 the sales clerk rapturously replied.\par \pard\plain  Here our acquaintances walked away from the foreigner and his sal- mon to the end of the confectionery counter.\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s hot today,\'92 Koroviev addressed a young, red-cheeked salesgirl and received no reply to his words. \'91How much are the mandarins?\'92 Koroviev then inquired of her.\par \pard\plain  \'91Fifteen kopecks a pound,\'92 replied the salesgirl.\par \pard\plain  \'91Everything\'92s so pricey,\'92  Koroviev observed with a sigh,  \'91hm ...     hm\par \pard\plain  ...\'92 He thought a little longer and then invited his companion: \'91Eat up, Behemoth.\'92\par \pard\plain  The fat fellow put his primus under his arm, laid hold of the top man- darin on the pyramid, straight away gobbled it up skin and all, and began on a second.\par \pard\plain  The salesgirl was overcome with mortal terror.\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re out of your mind!\'92 she shouted, losing her colour. \'91Give me the receipt! The receipt!\'92 and she dropped the confectionery tongs.\par \pard\plain  \'91My darling, my dearest, my beauty,\'92 Koroviev rasped, leaning over the counter and winking at the salesgirl, \'91we\'92re out of currency today ... what can we do?  But I swear to you, by next time, and no later than   Monday,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  we\'92ll pay it all in pure cash! We\'92re from near by, on Sadovaya, where they\'92re having the fire ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Behemoth, after swallowing a third mandarin, put his paw into a clever construction of chocolate bars, pulled out the bottom one, which of course made the whole thing collapse, and swallowed it together with its gold wrapper.\par \pard\plain  The sales clerks behind the fish counter stood as if petrified, their knives in their hands, the lilac foreigner swung around to the robbers, and here it turned out that Behemoth was mistaken: there was nothing lacking in the lilac one\'92s face, but, on the contrary, rather some superfluity of hanging jowls and furtive eyes.\par \pard\plain  Turning completely yellow, the salesgirl anxiously cried for the whole store to hear:\par \pard\plain  \'91Palosich! Palosich!\'92 3\par \pard\plain  The public from the fabric department came thronging at this cry, while Behemoth, stepping away from the confectionery temptations, thrust his paw into a barrel labelled \'91Choice Kerch Herring\'92, 4 pulled out a couple of herring, and swallowed them, spitting out the tails.\par \pard\plain  \'91Palosich!\'92 the desperate cry came again from behind the confectionery counter, and from behind the fish counter a sales clerk with a goatee bark- ed:\par \pard\plain  \'91What\'92s this you\'92re up to, vermin?\'92\par \pard\plain  Pavel Yosifovich was already hastening to the scene of the action. He was an imposing man in a clean white smock, like a surgeon, with a pen- cil sticking out of the pocket. Pavel Yosifovich was obviously an expe- rienced man. Seeing the tail of the third herring in Behemoth\'92s mouth,  he instantly assessed the situation, understood decidedly everything, and, without getting into any arguments with the insolent louts, waved his arm into the distance, commanding:\par \pard\plain  \'91Whistle!\'92\par \pard\plain  The doorman flew from the mirrored door out to the corner of the Smolensky market-place and dissolved in a sinister whisding. The pub- lic began to surround the blackguards, and then Koroviev stepped into the affair.\par \pard\plain  \'91Citizens!\'92 he called out in a high, vibrating voice, \'91what\'92s going on here? Eh? Allow me to ask you that! The poor man\'92 - Koroviev let some tremor into his voice and pointed to Behemoth, who immediately con- cocted a woeful physiognomy - \'91the poor man spends all day   reparating\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  3Palosich!: A spoken contraction of the name Pavel Yosifovich.\par \pard\plain  4Kerch Herring: Much-prized fish from the Crimean city of Kerch, on the Sea of Azov.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  primuses. He got hungry ... and where\'92s he going to get currency?\'92\par \pard\plain  To this Pavel Yosifovich, usually restrained and calm, shouted sternly: \'91You just stop that!\'92 and waved into the distance, impatiently now. Then the trills by the door resounded more merrily.  But    Koroviev,  un-\par \pard\plain  abashed by Pavel Yosifovich\'92s pronouncement, went on:\par \pard\plain  \'91Where? - I ask you this entire question! He\'92s languishing with hunger and thirst, he\'92s hot. So the hapless fellow took and sampled a mandarin. And the total worth of that mandarin is three kopecks.  And here they  go whistling like spring nightingales in the woods, bothering the police, tearing them away from their business. But he\'92s allowed, eh?\'92 and here Koroviev pointed to the lilac fat man, which caused the strongest alarm to appear on his face. \'91Who is he? Eh? Where did he come from? And why? Couldn\'92t we do widiout him? Did we invite him, or what? Of course,\'92 the ex-choirmaster bawled at the top of his lungs, twisting his mouth sarcastically, \'91just look at him, in his smart lilac suit, all swollen with salmon, all stuffed with currency - and us, what about the likes of us?! ... I\'92m bitter! Bitter, bitter!\'92 5 Koroviev wailed, like the best man at an old-fashioned wedding.\par \pard\plain  This whole stupid, tactless, and probably politically harmful speech made Pavel Yosifovich shake with wrath, but, strange as it may seem, one could see by the eyes of the crowding public mat it provoked sympathy in a great many people. And when Behemom, putting a torn, dirty sleeve to his eyes, exclaimed tragically:\par \pard\plain  \'91Thank you, my faithful friend, you stood up for the sufferer!\'92 - a mir- acle occurred. A most decent, quiet little old man, poorly but cleanly dressed, a little old man buying three macaroons in the confectionery de- partment, was suddenly transformed. His eyes flashed with bellicose fire, he turned purple, hurled the little bag of macaroons on the floor, and shouted \'91True!\'92 in a child\'92s high voice. Then he snatched up a tray, dirow- ing from it the remains of the chocolate Eiffel Tower demolished by Be- hemoth, brandished it, tore the foreigner\'92s hat off with his left hand, and with his right swung and struck the foreigner flat on his bald head with the tray. There was a roll as of the noise one hears when sheets of metal are thrown down from a truck. The fat man, turning white, fell backwards and sat in the barrel of Kerch herring, spouting a fountain of brine from it. Straight away a second miracle occurred. The lilac one, having fallen into the barrel, shouted in pure Russian, with no trace of any accent:\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  5Bitter, bitter!: There is an Old Russian custom of shouting \'91Bitter!\'92 every now and then during the banquet after a wedding. The newly-weds are then expected to kiss so as to make it sweet.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Murder! Police! The bandits are murdering me!\'92 evidently having mastered, owing to the shock, this language hitherto unknown to him.\par \pard\plain  Then the doorman\'92s whistling ceased, and amid the crowds of agitated shoppers two military helmets could be glimpsed approaching. But the perfidious Behemoth doused the confectionery counter with benzene from his primus, as one douses a bench in a bathhouse with a tub of water, and it blazed up of itself. The flame spurted upwards and ran along the counter, devouring the beautiful paper ribbons on the fruit baskets. The salesgirls dashed shrieking from behind the counters, and as soon as they came from behind them, the linen curtains on the windows blazed up and the benzene on the floor ignited.\par \pard\plain  The public, at once raising a desperate cry, shrank back from the con- fectionery department, running down the no longer needed Pavel Yosi- fovich, and from behind the fish counter the sales clerks with their whetted knives trotted in single file towards the door of the rear exit.\par \pard\plain  The lilac citizen, having extracted himself from the barrel, thoroughly drenched with herring juice, heaved himself over the salmon on the count- er and followed after them. The glass of the mirrored front doors clattered and spilled down, pushed out by fleeing people, while the two black- guards, Koroviev and the glutton Behemoth, got lost somewhere, but where - it was impossible to grasp. Only afterwards did eyewitnesses who had been present at the starting of the fire in the currency store in Smolensky market-place tell how the two hooligans supposedly flew up to the ceiling and there popped like children\'92s balloons. It is doubtful, of course, that things happened that way, but what we don\'92t know, we don\'92t know.\par \pard\plain  But we do know that exactly one minute after the happening in Smolen- sky market-place, Behemoth and Koroviev both turned up on the sidewalk of the boulevard just by the house of Griboedov\'92s aunt. Koroviev stood by the fence and spoke:\par \pard\plain  \'91Hah! This is the writers\'92 house! You know, Behemoth, I\'92ve heard many good and flattering things about this house. Pay attention to this house, my friend. It\'92s pleasant to think how under this roof no end of talents are being sheltered and nurtured.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Like pineapples in a greenhouse,\'92 said Behemoth and, the better to ad- mire the cream-coloured building with columns, he climbed the concrete footing of the cast-iron fence.\par \pard\plain  \'91Perfectly correct,\'92 Koroviev agreed with his inseparable companion, \'91and a sweet awe creeps into one\'92s heart at the thought that in this house there is now ripening the future author of a Don Quixote or a Faust, or,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  devil take me, a Dead Souls. 6 Eh?\'92 \'91Frightful to think of,\'92 agreed Behemoth.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 Koroviev went on, \'91one can expect astonishing things from the hotbeds of this house, which has united under its roof several thousand zealots resolved to devote their lives to the service of Melpomene, Poly- hymnia and Thalia. 7 You can imagine the noise that will arise when one of them, for starters, offers the reading public The Inspector General 8 or, if worse comes to worst, Evgeny Onegin.\'92 9\par \pard\plain  \'91Quite easily,\'92 Behemoth again agreed.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 Koroviev went on, anxiously raising his finger, \'91but! ... But, I  say, and I repeat this but ... Only if these tender hothouse plants are not attacked by some microorganism that gnaws at their roots so that they rot! And it does happen with pineapples! Oh, my, does it!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Incidentally,\'92 inquired Behemoth, putting his round head through an opening in the fence, \'91what are they doing on the veranda?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Having dinner,\'92 explained Koroviev, \'91and to that I will add, my dear, that the restaurant here is inexpensive and not bad at all. And, by the way, like any tourist before continuing his trip, I feel a desire to have a bite and drink a big, ice-cold mug of beer.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Me, too,\'92 replied Behemoth, and the two blackguards marched down the asphalt path under the lindens straight to the veranda of the unsus- pecting restaurant.\par \pard\plain  A pale and bored citizeness in white socks and a white beret with a nib sat on a Viennese chair at the corner entrance to the veranda, where amid the greenery of the trellis an opening for the entrance had been made. In front of her on a simple kitchen table lay a fat book of the ledger variety, in which the citizeness, for unknown reasons, wrote down all those who en- tered the restaurant. It was precisely this citizeness who stopped Koroviev and Behemoth.\par \pard\plain  \'91Your identification cards?\'92 She was gazing in amazement at Koroviev\'92s pince-nez, and also at Behemoth\'92s primus and Behemoth\'92s torn elbow.\par \pard\plain  \'91A thousand pardons, but what identification cards?\'92  asked Koroviev\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  6Dead Souls: The only novel by the \'91father of Russian prose\'92, Nikolai Gogol (1809\'9652). Its influence on The Master and Margarita is pervasive. Bulgakov made an adaptation of Dead Souls for the Moscow Art Theatre in the thirties, while at work on his own novel.\par \pard\plain  7Melpomene, Polyhymnia and Thalia: Three of the nine Greek muses, of tragedy, lyric\par \pard\plain  poetry and comedy respectively.\par \pard\plain  8The Inspector General: A comedy by Nikolai Gogol, one of the masterpieces of the Russian theatre.\par \pard\plain  9Evgeny Onegin: Koroviev\'92s comically slighting reference is to Pushkin\'92s poem, not to Tchaikovsky\'92s opera.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  in surprise.\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re writers?\'92 the cidzeness asked in her turn. \'91Unquestionably,\'92 Koroviev answered with dignity. \'91Your identification cards?\'92 the citizeness repeated. \'91My sweetie ...\'92 Koroviev began tenderly.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m no sweetie,\'92 interrupted the citizeness.\par \pard\plain  \'91More\'92s the pity,\'92 Koroviev said disappointedly and went on; \'91Well, so, if you don\'92t want to be a sweetie, which would be quite pleasant, you don\'92t have to be. So, then, to convince yourself that Dostoevsky was a writer, do you have to ask for his identification card? Just take any five pages from any one of his novels and you\'92ll be convinced, without any identification card, that you\'92re dealing with a writer. And I don\'92t think he even had any identification card! What do you think?\'92 Koroviev turned to Behemoth.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll bet he didn\'92t,\'92 replied Behemoth, setting the primus down on the table beside the ledger and wiping the sweat from his sooty forehead with his hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re not Dostoevsky,\'92 said the citizeness, who was getting muddled by Koroviev.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, who knows, who knows,\'92 he replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91Dostoevsky\'92s dead,\'92 said the citizeness, but somehow not very confi- dently.\par \pard\plain  \'91I protest!\'92 Behemoth exclaimed hotly. \'91Dostoevsky is immortal!\'92 \'91Your identification cards, citizens,\'92 said the citizeness.\par \pard\plain  \'91Good gracious, this is getting to be ridiculous!\'92 Koroviev would not give in. \'91A writer is defined not by any identity card, but by what he writes. How do you know what plots are swarming in my head? Or in this head?\'92 and he pointed at Behemoth\'92s head, from which the latter at once removed the cap, as if to let the citizeness examine it better.\par \pard\plain  \'91Step aside, citizens,\'92 she said, nervously now.\par \pard\plain  Koroviev and Behemoth stepped aside and let pass some writer in a grey suit with a tie-less, summer white shirt, the collar of which lay wide open on the lapels of his jacket, and with a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded affably to the citizeness, in passing put some nourish in the proffered ledger, and proceeded to the veranda.\par \pard\plain  \'91Alas, not to us, not to us,\'92 Koroviev began sadly, \'91but to him will go that ice-cold mug of beer, which you and I, poor wanderers, so dreamed of together. Our position is woeful and difficult, and I don\'92t know what to do.\'92\par \pard\plain  Behemoth only spread his arms bitterly and put his cap on his round head, covered with thick hair very much resembling a cat\'92s fur.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  And at that moment a low but peremptory voice sounded over the head of the citizeness:\par \pard\plain  \'91Let them pass, Sofya Pavlovna.\'92 10\par \pard\plain  The citizeness with the ledger was amazed. Amidst the greenery, of the trellis appeared the white tailcoated chest and wedge-shaped beard of the freebooter. He was looking affably at the two dubious ragamuffins and, moreover, even making inviting gestures to them. Archibald Archibal- dovich\'92s authority was something seriously felt in the restaurant under his management, and Sofya Pavlovna obediently asked Koroviev:\par \pard\plain  \'91What is your name?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Panaev,\'92 11 he answered courteously. The citizeness wrote this name down and raised a questioning glance to Behemoth.\par \pard\plain  \'91Skabichevsky,\'92 12 the latter squeaked, for some reason pointing to his primus. Sofya Pavlovna wrote this down, too, and pushed the book to- wards the visitors for them to sign. Koroviev wrote \'91Skabichevsky\'92 next to the name \'91Panaev\'92, and Behemoth wrote \'91Panaev\'92 next to \'91Skabichevsky\'92. Archibald Archibaldovich, to the utter amazement of Sofya Pavlovna, smiled seductively, and led the guests to the best table, at the opposite end of the veranda, where the deepest shade lay, a table next to which the sun played merrily through one of the gaps in the trellis greenery, while Sofya Pavlovna, blinking with amazement, studied for a long time the   strange\par \pard\plain  entry made in the book by the unexpected visitors.\par \pard\plain  Archibald Archibaldovich surprised the waiters no less than he had Sofya Pavlovna. He personally drew a chair back from the table, inviting Koroviev to sit down, winked to one, whispered something to the other, and the two waiters began bustling around the new guests, one of whom set his primus down on the floor next to his scuffed shoe.\par \pard\plain  The old yellow-stained tablecloth immediately disappeared from the table, another shot up into the air, crackling with starch, white as a Be- douin\'92s burnous, and Archibald Archibaldovich was already whispering softly but very significantly, bending right to Koroviev\'92s ear:\par \pard\plain  What may I treat you to? I have a special little balyk 13  here ...  bagged\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  10Sofya Pavlovna: The citizeness happens to have the same name as the heroine of Griboedov\'92s Woe From Wit. It may have been this connection that landed her such a desirable job.\par \pard\plain  11Panaev: Two Panaevs made a brief appearance in Russian literature: V. I. Panaev (1792\'961859) was a writer of sentimental poetry; I. I. Panaev (1812\'9662), on the contrary, was a liberal prose-writer and for a time an editor of the influential journal \'91The Contem- porary\'92.\par \pard\plain  12Skabichevsky: A. M. Skabichevsky (1858\'961912) was a liberal critic and journalist.\par \pard\plain  13Balyk: A special dorsal section of flesh running the entire length of a salmon or stur-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  at the architects\'92 congress...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh ... just give us a bite of something ... eh? ...\'92 Koroviev mumbled good-naturedly, sprawling on the chair.\par \pard\plain  \'91I understand ...\'92 Archibald Archibaldovich replied meaningfully, clos- ing his eyes.\par \pard\plain  Seeing the way the chief of the restaurant treated the rather dubious visitors, the waiters laid aside their suspicions and got seriously down to business. One was already offering a match to Behemoth, who had taken a butt from his pocket and put it in his mouth, the other raced up clink- ing with green glass and at their places arranged goblets, tumblers, and those thin-walled glasses from which it is so nice to drink seltzer under the awning ... no, skipping ahead, let us say: it used to be so nice to drink seltzer under the awning of the unforgettable Griboedov veranda.\par \pard\plain  \'91I might recommend a little fillet of hazel-grouse,\'92 Archibald Archibal- dovich murmured musically. The guest in the cracked pince-nez fully ap- proved the commander of the brig\'92s suggestions and gazed at him benev- olently through the useless bit of glass.\par \pard\plain  The fiction writer Petrakov-Sukhovey, dining at the next table with his wife, who was finishing a pork chop, noticed with the keenness of obser- vation proper to all writers the wooing of Archibald Archibaldovich, and was quite, quite surprised. And his wife, a very respectable lady, even simply became jealous of Koroviev over the pirate, and even rapped with her teaspoon, as if to say: why are we kept waiting? ... It\'92s time the ice cream was served. What\'92s the matter? ...\par \pard\plain  However, after sending Mrs Petrakov a seductive smile, Archibald Ar- chibaldovich dispatched a waiter to her, but did not leave his dear guests himself. Ah, how intelligent Archibald Archibaldovich was! And his pow- ers of observation were perhaps no less keen than those of the writers themselves!\par \pard\plain  Archibald Archibaldovich knew about the se´ance at the Variety,  and about many other events of those days; he had heard, but, unlike the oth- ers, had not closed his ears to, the word \'91checkered\'92 and the word \'91cat\'92. Archibald Archibaldovich guessed at once who his visitors were. And, having guessed, naturally did not start quarrelling with them. And that Sofya Pavlovna was a good one! To come up with such a thing - barring the way to the veranda for those two! Though what could you expect of her! ...\par \pard\plain  Haughtily poking her little spoon into the slushy ice cream, Mrs Pe-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  geon, which was removed in one piece and either salted or smoked. Highly prized in Russia.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  trakov, with displeased eyes, watched the table in front of the two motley buffoons become overgrown with dainties as if by magic. Shiny clean let- tuce leaves were already sticking from a bowl of fresh caviar ... an instant later a sweating silver bucket appeared, brought especially on a separate little table...\par \pard\plain  Only when convinced that everything had been done impeccably, only when there came flying in the waiter\'92s hands a covered pan with some- thing gurgling in it, did Archibald Archibaldovich allow himself to leave the two mysterious visitors, and that after having first whispered to them:\par \pard\plain  \'91Excuse me! One moment! I\'92ll see to the fillets personally!\'92\par \pard\plain  He flew away from the table and disappeared into an inner passage of the restaurant. If any observer had been able to follow the further ac- tions of Archibald Archibaldovich, they would undoubtedly have seemed somewhat mysterious to him.\par \pard\plain  The chief did not go to the kitchen to supervise the fillets at all, but went to the restaurant pantry. He opened it with his own key, locked him- self inside, took two hefty balyks from the icebox, carefully, so as not to soil his cuffs, wrapped them in newspaper, tied them neatly with string, and set them aside. Then he made sure that his hat and silk-lined sum- mer coat were in place in the next room, and only after that proceeded to the kitchen, where the chef was carefully boning the fillets the pirate had promised his visitors.\par \pard\plain  It must be said that there was nothing strange or incomprehensible   in any of Archibald Archibaldovich\'92s actions, and that they could seem strange only to a superficial observer. Archibald Archibaldovich\'92s be- haviour was the perfectly logical result of all that had gone before. A knowledge of the latest events, and above all Archibald Archibaldovich\'92s phenomenal intuition, told the chief of the Griboedov restaurant that his two visitors\'92 dinner, while abundant and sumptuous, would be of ex- tremely short duration. And his intuition, which had never yet deceived the former freebooter, did not let him down this time either.\par \pard\plain  Just as Koroviev and Behemoth were clinking their second glasses of wonderful, cold, double-distilled Moskovskaya vodka, the sweaty and ex- cited chronicler Boba Kandalupsky, famous in Moscow for his astounding omniscience, appeared on the veranda and at once sat down with the Pe- trakovs. Placing his bulging briefcase on the table, Boba immediately put his lips to Petrakov\'92s ear and whispered some very tempting things into it. Madame Petrakov, burning with curiosity, also put her ear to Boba\'92s plump, greasy lips. And he, with an occasional furtive look around, went on whispering and whispering, and one could make out separate words, such as:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I swear to you! On Sadovaya, on Sadovaya! ...\'92 Boba lowered his voice still more, \'91bullets have no effect! ... bullets ... bullets ... benzene ... fire bullets ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s the liars that spread these vile rumours,\'92 Madame Petrakov boom- ed in a contralto voice, somewhat louder in her indignation than Boba would have liked, \'91they\'92re the ones who ought to be explained! Well, never mind, that\'92s how it will be, they\'92ll be called to order! Such pernicious lies!\'92 \'91Why lies, Antonida Porfirievna!\'92 exclaimed Boba, upset by the disbe- lief of the writer\'92s wife, and again began spinning: \'91I tell you, bullets have no effect!  ...  And then the fire ...  they went up in the air ...       in the air!\'92\par \pard\plain  Boba went on hissing, not suspecting that those he was talking about were sitting next to him, delighting in his yarn.\par \pard\plain  However, this delight soon ceased: from an inner passage of the restau- rant three men, their waists drawn in tightly by belts, wearing leggings and holding revolvers in their hands, strode precipitously on to the ve- randa. The one in front cried ringingly and terribly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t move!\'92 And at once all three opened fire on the veranda, aiming at the heads of Koroviev and Behemoth. The two objects of the shoot-  ing instantly melted into air, and a pillar of fire spurted from the primus directly on to the tent roof. It was as if a gaping maw with black edges ap- peared in the tent and began spreading in all directions. The fire leaping through it rose up to the roof of Griboedov House. Folders full of papers lying on the window-sill of the editorial office on the second floor sud- denly blazed up, followed by the curtains, and now the fire, howling as if someone were blowing on it, went on in pillars to the interior of the aunt\'92s house.\par \pard\plain  A few seconds later, down the asphalt paths leading to the cast-iron fence on the boulevard, whence Ivanushka, the first herald of the disaster, understood by no one, had come on Wednesday evening, various writers, Sofya Pavlovna, Boba, Petrakov\'92s wife and Petrakov, now went running, leaving their dinners unfinished.\par \pard\plain  Having stepped out through a side entrance beforehand, not fleeing or hurrying anywhere, like a captain who must be the last to leave his burning brig, Archibald Archibaldovich stood calmly in his summer coat with silk lining, the two balyk logs under his arm.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 29\par \pard\plain  The Fate of the Master and Margarita is Decided\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  At sunset, high over the city, on the stone terrace of one of the most beau- tiful houses in Moscow, a house built about a hundred and fifty years ago, there were two: Woland and Azazello. They could not be seen from the street below, because they were hidden from unwanted eyes by a balu- strade with plaster vases and plaster flowers. But they could see the city almost to its very edges.\par \pard\plain  Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black soutane.\par \pard\plain  His long and broad sword was stuck vertically into a crack between two flags of the terrace so as to make a sundial. The shadow of the sword lengthened slowly and steadily, creeping towards the black shoes on Sa- tan\'92s feet.\par \pard\plain  Resting his sharp chin on his fist, hunched on the stool with one leg drawn under him, Woland stared fixedly 1 at the endless collection of palaces, gigantic buildings and little hovels destined to be pulled down.\par \pard\plain  Azazello, having parted with his modern attire - that is, jacket, bowler hat and patent-leather shoes - and dressed, like Woland, in black, stood motionless not far from his sovereign, like him with his eyes fixed on the city.\par \pard\plain  Woland began to speak:\par \pard\plain  \'91Such an interesting city, is it not?\'92 Azazello stirred and replied respectfully: \'91I like Rome better, Messire.\'92\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Resting his sharp chin on his fist... Woland stared fixedly: Woland seems almost consciously to adopt the pose of Rodin\'92s famous sculpture known as the Thinker, actually the central figure over his Gates of Hell.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  367\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, it\'92s a matter of taste,\'92 replied Woland. After a while, his voice resounded again:\par \pard\plain  \'91And what is that smoke there on the boulevard?\'92 \'91That is Griboedov\'92s burning,\'92 replied Azazello.\par \pard\plain  \'91It must be supposed that that inseparable pair, Koroviev and Behe- moth, stopped by there?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Of that there can be no doubt, Messire.\'92\par \pard\plain  Again silence fell, and the two on the terrace gazed at the fragmented, dazzling sunlight in the upper-floor windows of the huge buildings facing west. Woland\'92s eye burned like one of those windows, though Woland had his back to the sunset.\par \pard\plain  But here something made Woland turn his attention to the round tower behind him on the roof. From its wall stepped a tattered, clay-covered, sullen man in a chiton, in home-made sandals, black-bearded.\par \pard\plain  \'91Hah!\'92 exclaimed Woland, looking mockingly at the newcomer. \'91Least of all would I expect you here! What have you come with, uninvited guest?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I have come to see you, spirit of evil and sovereign of shadows,\'92 the newcomer replied, glowering inimically at Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91If you\'92ve come to see me, why didn\'92t you wish me a good evening, former tax collector?\'92 Woland said sternly.\par \pard\plain  \'91Because I don\'92t wish you a good anything,\'92 the newcomer replied in- solendy.\par \pard\plain  \'91But you\'92ll have to reconcile yourself to that,\'92  Woland  objected,  and  a grin twisted his mouth. \'91You no sooner appear on the roof than you produce an absurdity, and I\'92ll tell you what it is - it\'92s your intonation. You uttered your words as if you don\'92t acknowledge shadows, or evil either. Kindly consider the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it? Shadows are cast by objects and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. Trees and living beings also have shadows. Do you want to skin the whole earth, tearing all the trees and living things off it, because of your fantasy of enjoying bare light? You\'92re a fool.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I won\'92t argue with you, old sophist,\'92 replied Matthew Levi.\par \pard\plain  \'91You also cannot argue with me, for the reason I\'92ve already mentioned: you\'92re a fool,\'92 Woland replied and asked: \'91Well, make it short, don\'92t weary me, why have you appeared?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He sent me.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What did he tell you to say, slave?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m not a slave,\'92 Matthew Levi replied, growing ever angrier, \'91I\'92m his disciple.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91You and I speak different languages, as usual,\'92 responded Woland, \'91but the things we say don\'92t change for all that. And so? ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He has read the master\'92s work,\'92 said Matthew Levi, \'91and asks you to take the master with you and reward him with peace. Is that hard for you to do, spirit of evil?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Nothing is hard for me to do,\'92 answered Woland, \'91you know that very well.\'92 He paused and added: \'91But why don\'92t you take him with you into the light?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He does not deserve the light, he deserves peace,\'92 Levi said in a sor- rowful voice.\par \pard\plain  \'91Tell him it will be done,\'92 Woland replied and added, his eye flashing: \'91And leave me immediately.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91He asks that she who loved him and suffered because of him also be taken with him,\'92 Levi addressed Woland pleadingly for the first time.\par \pard\plain  \'91We would never have thought of it without you. Go.\'92\par \pard\plain  Matthew Levi disappeared after that, and Woland called Azazello and ordered him:\par \pard\plain  \'91Fly to them and arrange it all.\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello left the terrace, and Woland remained alone.\par \pard\plain  But his solitude did not last. Over the flags of the terrace came the sound of footsteps and animated voices, and before Woland stood Ko- roviev and Behemoth. But now the fat fellow had no primus with him, but was loaded with other things. Thus, under his arm he had a small landscape in a gold frame, from one hand hung a half-burnt cook\'92s smock, and in the other he held a whole salmon with skin and tail. Koroviev and Behemoth reeked of fire. Behemoth\'92s mug was all sooty and his cap was badly burnt.\par \pard\plain  \'91Greetings, Messire!\'92 cried the irrepressible pair, and Behemoth waved the salmon.\par \pard\plain  \'91A fine sight,\'92 said Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91Imagine, Messire!\'92 Behemoth cried excitedly and joyfully, \'91I was taken for a looter!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Judging by the things you\'92ve brought,\'92 Woland replied, glancing at the landscape, \'91you are a looter!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Believe me, Messire ...\'92 Behemoth began in a soulful voice. \'91No, I don\'92t,\'92 Woland replied curdy.\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire, I swear, I made heroic efforts to save everything I could, and this is all I was able to rescue.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92d better tell me, why did Griboedov\'92s catch fire?\'92 asked Woland.\par \pard\plain  Both Koroviev and Behemoth spread their arms, raised their eyes to heaven, and Behemoth cried out:\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91I can\'92t conceive why! We were sitting there peacefully, perfectly quiet, having a bite to eat...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And suddenly - bang, bang!\'92 Koroviev picked up, \'91gunshots! Crazed with fear, Behemoth and I ran out to the boulevard, our pursuers followed, we rushed to Timiriazev! ...\'92 2\par \pard\plain  \'91But the sense of duty,\'92 Behemoth put in, \'91overcame our shameful fear and we went back.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, you went back?\'92 said Woland. \'91Well, then of course the building was reduced to ashes.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91To ashes!\'92 Koroviev ruefully confirmed, \'91that is, Messire, literally to ashes, as you were pleased to put it so aptly. Nothing but embers!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I hastened,\'92 Behemoth narrated, \'91to the meeting room, the one with the columns, Messire, hoping to bring out something valuable. Ah, Messire, my wife, if only I had one, was twenty times in danger of being left a widow! But happily, Messire, I\'92m not married, and, let me tell you, I\'92m really happy that I\'92m not. Ah, Messire, how can one trade a bachelor\'92s freedom for the burdensome yoke...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Again some gibberish gets going,\'92 observed Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91I hear and continue,\'92  the cat replied.  \'91Yes,  sir,  this landscape here!  It was impossible to bring anything more out of the meeting room, the flames were beating in my face. I ran to the pantry and rescued the salmon. I ran to the kitchen and rescued the smock. I think, Messire, that I did everything I could, and I don\'92t understand how to explain the sceptical expression on your face.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And what did Koroviev do while you were looting?\'92 asked Woland. \'91I was helping the firemen, Messire,\'92 replied Koroviev, pointing to  his\par \pard\plain  torn trousers.\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, if so, then of course a new building will have to be built.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It will be built, Messire,\'92 Koroviev responded, \'91I venture to assure you of that.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, so it remains for us to wish that it be better than the old one,\'92 observed Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91It will be, Messire,\'92 said Koroviev.\par \pard\plain  \'91You can believe me,\'92 the cat added, \'91I\'92m a regular prophet.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91In any case, we\'92re here, Messire,\'92 Koroviev reported, \'91and await your orders.\'92\par \pard\plain  Woland got up from his stool, went over to the balustrade, and  alone,\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  2To Timiriazev: That is, to the statue of the botanist and founder of the Russian school of plant physiology, Kliment Arkadyevich Timiriazev (1845\'96 1910), on Tverskoy Boule- vard near the Nikitsky Gates.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  silently, his back turned to his retinue, gazed into the distance for a long time. Then he stepped away from the edge, lowered himself on to his stool, and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91There will be no orders, you have fulfilled all you could, and for the moment I no longer need your services. You may rest. Right now a storm is coming, the last storm, it will complete all that needs completing, and we\'92ll be on our way.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Very well, Messire,\'92 the two buffoons replied and disappeared some- where behind the round central tower, which stood in the middle of the terrace.\par \pard\plain  The storm of which Woland had spoken was already gathering on the horizon.  A black cloud rose in the west and cut off half the sun.  Then    it covered it entirely. The air became cool on the terrace. A little later it turned dark.\par \pard\plain  This darkness which came from the west covered the vast city. Bridges and palaces disappeared. Everything vanished as if it had never existed in the world. One fiery thread ran across the whole sky. Then a thunderclap shook the city. It was repeated, and the storm began. Woland could no longer be seen in its gloom.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 30\par \pard\plain  It\'92s Time! It\'92s Time!\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91You know,\'92 said Margarita, \'91just as you fell asleep last night, I was reading about the darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea ... and those idols, ah, the golden idols! For some reason they never leave me in peace. I think it\'92s going to rain now, too. Do you feel how cool it\'92s getting?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s all well and good,\'92 replied the master, smoking and breaking up the smoke with his hand, \'91and as for the idols. God be with them ... but what will happen further on is decidedly unclear!\'92\par \pard\plain  This conversation occurred at sunset, just at the moment when Matthew Levi came to Woland on the terrace. The basement window was open, and if anyone had looked through it, he would have been astonished at how strange the talkers looked. Margarita had a black cloak thrown directly over her naked body, and the master was in his hospital underwear. The reason for this was that Margarita had decidedly nothing to put on, be- cause all her clothes had stayed in her house, and though this house was very near by, there was, of course, no question of going there to take her clothes. And the master, whose clothes were all found in the wardrobe as if he had never gone anywhere, simply did not want to get dressed, devel- oping before Margarita the thought that some perfect nonsense was about to begin at any moment. True, he was clean-shaven for the first time since that autumn night (in the clinic his beard had been cut with clippers).\par \pard\plain  The room also had a strange look, and it was very hard to make any- thing out in its chaos. Manuscripts were lying on the rug, and on the sofa as well. A book sat humpbacked on an armchair. And dinner was set out on the round table, with several bottles standing among the dishes of food. Where all this food and drink came from was known neither to Margarita nor to the master. On waking up they found everything already on the table.\par \pard\plain  Having slept until sunset Saturday, the master and his friend felt them-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  372\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  selves thoroughly fortified, and only one thing told of the previous day\'92s adventure - both had a slight ache in the left temple. But with regard to their minds, there were great changes in both of them, as anyone would have been convinced who was able to eavesdrop on the conversation in the basement. But there was decidedly no one to eavesdrop. That little courtyard was good precisely for being always empty. With each day the greening lindens and the ivy outside the window exuded an ever stronger smell of spring, and the rising breeze carried it into the basement.\par \pard\plain  \'91Pah, the devil!\'92 exclaimed the master unexpectedly. \'91But, just think, it\'92s ...\'92 he put out his cigarette butt in the ashtray and pressed his head with his hands. \'91No, listen, you\'92re an intelligent person and have never been crazy ... are you seriously convinced that we were at Satan\'92s yesterday?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Quite seriously,\'92 Margarita replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91Of course, of course,\'92 the master said ironically, \'91so now instead of one madman there are two - husband and wife!\'92 He raised his hands to heaven and cried: \'91No, the devil knows what this is! The devil, the devil...\'92\par \pard\plain  Instead of answering, Margarita collapsed on the sofa, burst out laugh- ing, waved her bare legs, and only then cried out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Aie, I can\'92t ... I can\'92t! You should see what you look like! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  Having finished laughing, while the master bashfully pulled up his hospital drawers, Margarita became serious.\par \pard\plain  \'91You unwittingly spoke the truth just now,\'92 she began, \'91the devil knows what it is, and the devil, believe me, will arrange everything!\'92 Her eyes suddenly flashed, she jumped up and began dancing on the spot, crying out:\par \pard\plain  \'91How happy I am, how happy I am, how happy I am that I struck a bargain with him! Oh, Satan, Satan! ... You\'92ll have to live with a witch, my dear!\'92 Then she rushed to the master, put her arms around his neck, and began kissing his lips, his nose, his cheeks. Strands of unkempt black hair leaped at the master, and his cheeks and forehead burned under the kisses.\par \pard\plain  \'91And you\'92ve really come to resemble a witch.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And I don\'92t deny it,\'92 answered Margarita, \'91I\'92m a witch and I\'92m very glad of it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, all right,\'92 said the master, \'91so you\'92re a witch, very nice, splendid! And I\'92ve been stolen from the hospital ... also very nice! I\'92ve been brought here, let\'92s grant that, too. Let\'92s even suppose that we won\'92t be missed ... But tell me, by all that\'92s holy, how and on what are we going to live? My concern is for you when I say that, believe me!\'92\par \pard\plain  At that moment round-toed shoes and the lower part of a pair of pin- striped trousers appeared in the window.  Then the trousers bent at    the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  knee and somebody\'92s hefty backside blocked the daylight.\par \pard\plain  \'91Aloisy, are you home?\'92 asked a voice somewhere up above the trousers, outside the window.\par \pard\plain  \'91There, it\'92s beginning,\'92 said the master.\par \pard\plain  \'91Aloisy?\'92 asked Margarita, going closer to the window. \'91He was ar- rested yesterday. Who\'92s asking for him? What\'92s your name?\'92\par \pard\plain  That instant the knees and backside vanished, there came the bang of the gate, after which everything returned to normal. Margarita collapsed on the sofa and laughed so that tears poured from her eyes. But when she calmed down, her countenance changed greatly, she began speaking seriously, and as she spoke she slipped down from the couch, crept over to the master\'92s knees, and, looking into his eyes, began to caress his head. \'91How you\'92ve suffered, how you\'92ve suffered, my poor one! I\'92m the only one who knows it. Look, you\'92ve got white threads in your hair, and an eternal crease by your lips! My only one, my dearest, don\'92t think about anything! You\'92ve had to think too much, and now I\'92ll think for you.  And\par \pard\plain  I promise you, I promise, that everything will be dazzlingly well!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m not afraid of anything, Margot,\'92 the master suddenly answered her and raised his head, and he seemed to her the same as he had been when he was inventing that which he had never seen, but of which he knew for certain that it had been, \'91not afraid, because I\'92ve already experienced it all. They tried too hard to frighten me, and cannot frighten me with anything any more. But I pity you, Margot, that\'92s the trick, that\'92s why I keep saying it over and over. Come to your senses! Why do you have to ruin your life with a sick man and a beggar? Go back! I pity you, that\'92s why I say it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, you, you ...\'92 Margarita whispered, shaking her dishevelled head, \'91oh, you faithless, unfortunate man! ... Because of you I spent the whole night yesterday shivering and naked. I lost my nature and replaced it with a new one, I spent several months sitting in a dark closet thinking about one thing, about the storm over Yershalaim, I cried my eyes out, and now, when happiness has befallen us, you drive me away! Well, then I\'92ll go, I\'92ll go, but you should know that you are a cruel man! They\'92ve devastated your soul!\'92\par \pard\plain  Bitter tenderness rose up in the master\'92s heart, and, without knowing why, he began to weep, burying his face in Margarita\'92s hair. Weeping herself, she whispered to him, and her fingers trembled on the master\'92s temples.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, threads, threads ... before my eyes your head is getting covered with snow ... ah, my much-suffering head! Look what eyes you\'92ve got! There\'92s a desert in them ... and the shoulders, the shoulders with their burden ...  crippled, crippled ...\'92  Margarita\'92s speech was becoming   inco-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  herent, Margarita was shaking with tears.\par \pard\plain  Then the master wiped his eyes, raised Margarita from her knees, got up himself and said firmly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Enough. You\'92ve shamed me. Never again will I yield to faint-hearted- ness, or come back to this question, be reassured. I know that we\'92re both the victims of our mental illness, which you perhaps got from me... Well, so we\'92ll bear it together.\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita put her lips close to the master\'92s ear and whispered:\par \pard\plain  \'91I swear to you by your life, I swear by the astrologer\'92s son whom, you guessed, that all will be well!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Fine, fine,\'92 responded the master, and he added, laughing: \'91Of course, when people have been robbed of everything, like you and me, they seek salvation from other-worldly powers! Well, so, I agree to seek there.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, there, there, now you\'92re your old self, you\'92re laughing,\'92 replied Margarita, \'91and devil take you with your learned words. Other-worldly or not other-worldly, isn\'92t it all the same? I want to eat!\'92\par \pard\plain  And she dragged the master to the table by the hand.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m not sure this food isn\'92t about to fall through the floor or fly out the window,\'92 he said, now completely calm.\par \pard\plain  \'91It won\'92t fly out.\'92\par \pard\plain  And just then a nasal voice came through the window: \'91Peace be unto you.\'92 1\par \pard\plain  The master gave a start, but Margarita, already accustomed to the ex- traordinary, exclaimed:\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, it\'92s Azazello! Ah, how nice, how good!\'92 and, whispering to the master: \'91You see, you see, we\'92re not abandoned!\'92 - she rushed to open the door.\par \pard\plain  \'91Cover yourself at least,\'92 the master called after her. \'91Spit on it,\'92 answered Margarita, already in the corridor.\par \pard\plain  And there was Azazello bowing, greeting the master, and flashing his blind eye, while Margarita exclaimed:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, how glad I am! I\'92ve never been so glad in my life! But forgive me, Azazello, for being naked!\'92\par \pard\plain  Azazello begged her not to worry, assuring her that he had seen not only naked women, but even women with their skin flayed clean off, and willingly sat down at the table, having first placed some package wrapped in dark brocade in the corner by the stove.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Peace be unto you: Bulgakov playfully gives this common Hebrew greeting (a transla- tion of Shalom aleichem) to his demon. It was spoken by the risen Christ to his disciples (Luke 24:56, John 20:26) and is repeated in every liturgy or mass.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Margarita poured Azazello some cognac, and he willingly drank it. The master, not taking his eyes off him, quietly pinched his own left hand under the table. But the pinches did not help. Azazello did not melt into air, and, to tell the truth, there was no need for that. There was nothing terrible in the short, reddish-haired man, unless it was his eye with albugo, but that occurs even without sorcery, or unless his clothes were not quite ordinary - some sort of cassock or cloak - but again, strictly considered, that also happens. He drank his cognac adroitly, too, as all good people do, by the glassful and without nibbling. From this same cognac the master\'92s head became giddy, and he began to think:\par \pard\plain  \'91No, Margarita\'92s right ... Of course, this is the devil\'92s messenger sit- ting before me. No more than two nights ago, I myself tried to prove to Ivan that it was precisely Satan whom he had met at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds, and now for some reason I got scared of the thought and started babbling something about hypnotists and hallucinations ... Devil there\'92s any hyp- notists in it! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  He began looking at Azazello more closely and became convinced that there was some constraint in his eyes, some thought that he would not reveal before its time. \'91This is not just a visit, he\'92s come on some errand,\'92 thought the master.\par \pard\plain  His powers of observation did not deceive him. After drinking a third glass of cognac, which produced no effect in Azazello, the visitor spoke thus:\par \pard\plain  \'91A cosy little basement, devil take me! Only one question arises - what is there to do in this little basement?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That\'92s just what I was saying,\'92 the master answered, laughing.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why do you trouble me, Azazello?\'92 asked Margarita. \'91We\'92ll live some- how or other!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Please, please!\'92 cried Azazello, \'91I never even thought of troubling you. I say the same thing - somehow or other! Ah, yes! I almost forgot ... Mes- sire sends his regards and has also asked me to tell you that he invites you to go on a little excursion with him - if you wish, of course. What do you say to that?\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita nudged the master under the table with her leg.\par \pard\plain  \'91With great pleasure,\'92 replied the master, studying Azazello, who con- tinued:\par \pard\plain  \'91We hope that Margarita Nikolaevna will also not decline the invita- tion?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I certainly will not,\'92 said Margarita, and again her leg brushed against the master\'92s.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91A wonderful thing!\'92 exclaimed Azazello. \'91I like that! One, two, and it\'92s done! Not like that time in the Alexandrovsky Garden!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, don\'92t remind me, Azazello, I was stupid then. And anyhow you mustn\'92t blame me too severely for it - you don\'92t meet unclean powers every day!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91That you don\'92t!\'92 agreed Azazello. \'91Wouldn\'92t it be pleasant if it was every day!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I like quickness myself,\'92 Margarita said excitedly, \'91I like quickness and nakedness... Like from a Mauser - bang! Ah, how he shoots!\'92 Margarita cried, turning to the master. \'91A seven under the pillow - any pip you like!...\'92 Margarita was getting drunk, and it made her eyes blaze.\par \pard\plain  \'91And again I forgot!\'92 cried Azazello, slapping himself on the forehead. \'91I\'92m quite frazzled! Messire sends you a present,\'92 here he adverted precisely to the master,  \'91a bottle of wine.      I beg you to note that it\'92s the\par \pard\plain  same wine the procurator of Judea drank. Falernian wine.\'92\par \pard\plain  It was perfectly natural that such a rarity should arouse great attention in both Margarita and the master. Azazello drew from the piece of dark coffin brocade a completely mouldy jug. The wine was sniffed, poured into glasses, held up to the light in the window, which was disappearing before the storm.\par \pard\plain  \'91To Woland\'92s health!\'92 exclaimed Margarita, raising her glass.\par \pard\plain  All three put their glasses to their lips and took big gulps. At once the pre-storm light began to fade in the master\'92s eyes, his breath failed him, and he felt the end coming. He could still see the deathly pale Margarita, helplessly reaching her arms out to him, drop her head to the table and then slide down on the floor.\par \pard\plain  \'91Poisoner...\'92 the master managed to cry out. He wanted to snatch the knife from the table and strike Azazello with it, but his hand slid strength- lessly from the tablecloth, everything around the master in the basement took on a black colour and then vanished altogether. He fell backwards and in falling cut the skin of his temple on the corner of his desk.\par \pard\plain  When the poisoned ones lay still, Azazello began to act. First of all, he rushed out of the window and a few instants later was in the house where Margarita Nikolaevna lived. The ever precise and accurate Azazello want- ed to make sure that everything was carried out properly. And everything turned out to be in perfect order. Azazello saw a gloomy woman, who was waiting for her husband\'92s return, come out of her bedroom, suddenly turn pale, clutch her heart, and cry helplessly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Natasha ... somebody ... come ...\'92 and fall to the floor in the living room before reaching the study.\par \pard\plain  \'91Everything\'92s in order,\'92 said Azazello.  A moment later he was  beside\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the fallen lovers. Margarita lay with her face against the little rug. With his iron hands, Azazello turned her over like a doll, face to him, and peered at her. The face of the poisoned woman was changing before his eyes. Even in the gathering dusk of the storm, one could see the temporary witch\'92s cast in her eyes and the cruelty and violence of her features disappear. The face of the dead woman brightened and finally softened, and the look of her bared teeth was no longer predatory but simply that of a suffering woman.\par \pard\plain  Then Azazello unclenched her white teeth and poured into her mouth several drops of the same wine with which he had poisoned her. Margarita sighed, began to rise without Azazello\'92s help, sat up and asked weakly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, Azazello, why? What have you done to me?\'92\par \pard\plain  She saw the outstretched master, shuddered, and whispered: \'91I didn\'92t expect this ... murderer!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, no, no,\'92 answered Azazello, \'91he\'92ll rise presently. Ah, why are you so nervous?\'92\par \pard\plain  Margarita believed him at once, so convincing was the red-headed de- mon\'92s voice. She jumped up, strong and alive, and helped to give the outstretched man a drink of wine. Opening his eyes, he gave a dark look and with hatred repeated his last word:\par \pard\plain  \'91Poisoner...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, insults are the usual reward for a good job!\'92 replied Azazello. \'91Are you blind? Well, quickly recover your sight!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here the master rose, looked around with alive and bright eyes, and asked:\par \pard\plain  \'91What does this new thing mean?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It means,\'92 replied Azazello, \'91that it\'92s time for us to go. The storm is already thundering, do you hear? It\'92s getting dark. The steeds are pawing the ground, your little garden is shuddering. Say farewell, quickly say farewell to your little basement.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, I understand...\'92 the master said, glancing around, \'91you\'92ve killed us, we\'92re dead. Oh, how intelligent that is! And how timely! Now I understand everything.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Oh, for pity\'92s sake,\'92 replied Azazello, \'91is it you I hear talking? Your friend calls you a master, you can think, so how can you be dead? Is it necessary, in order to consider yourself alive, to sit in a basement and dress yourself in a shirt and hospital drawers? It\'92s ridiculous! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I understand everything you\'92re saying,\'92 the master cried out, \'91don\'92t go on! You\'92re a thousand times right!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Great Woland!\'92 Margarita began to echo him. \'91Great Woland! He thought it out much better than I did!          But the novel,  the novel,\'92  she\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  shouted to the master, \'91take the novel with you wherever you fly!\'92 \'91No need,\'92 replied the master, \'91I remember it by heart.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91But you won\'92t ... you won\'92t forget a single word of it?\'92 Margarita asked, pressing herself to her lover and wiping the blood from his cut temple.\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t worry. I\'92ll never forget anything now,\'92 he replied.\par \pard\plain  \'91Fire, then!\'92 cried Azazello. \'91Fire, with which all began and with which we end it all.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Fire!\'92 Margarita cried terribly. The little basement window banged, the curtain was beaten aside by the wind. The sky thundered merrily and briefly. Azazello thrust his clawed hand into the stove, pulled out a smok- ing brand, and set fire to the tablecloth. Then he set fire to the stack of  old newspapers on the sofa, and next to the manuscripts and the window curtain.\par \pard\plain  The master, already drunk with the impending ride, flung some book from the shelf on to the table, ruffled its pages in the flame of the tablecloth, and the book blazed up merrily.\par \pard\plain  \'91Burn, burn, former life!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Burn, suffering!\'92 cried Margarita.\par \pard\plain  The room was already swaying in crimson pillars, and along with the smoke the three ran out of the door, went up the stone steps, and came to the yard. The first thing they saw there was the landlord\'92s cook sitting on the ground. Beside her lay spilled potatoes and several bunches of onions. The cook\'92s state was comprehensible. Three black steeds snorted by the shed, twitching, sending up fountains of earth. Margarita mounted first, then Azazello, and last the master. The cook moaned and wanted to raise her hand to make the sign of the cross, but Azazello shouted menacingly from the saddle:\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll cut your hand off!\'92 He whistled, and the steeds, breaking through the linden branches, soared up and pierced the low black cloud. Smoke poured at once from the basement window. From below came the weak, pitiful cry of the cook:\par \pard\plain  \'91We\'92re on fire...\'92\par \pard\plain  The steeds were already racing over the rooftops of Moscow.\par \pard\plain  \'91I want to bid farewell to the city,\'92 the master cried to Azazello, who rode at their head. Thunder ate up the end of the master\'92s phrase. Azazello nodded and sent his horse into a gallop. The dark cloud flew precipitously to meet the fliers, but as yet gave not a sprinkle of rain.\par \pard\plain  They flew over the boulevards, they saw little figures of people scatter, running for shelter from the rain. The first drops were falling. They flew over smoke - all that remained of Griboedov House.  They flew over   the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  city which was already being flooded by darkness. Over them lightning flashed. Soon the roofs gave place to greenery. Only then did the rain pour down, transforming the fliers into three huge bubbles in the water.\par \pard\plain  Margarita was already familiar with the sensation of flight, but the master was not, and he marvelled at how quickly they reached their goal, the one to whom he wished to bid farewell, because he had no one else  to bid farewell to. He immediately recognized through the veil of rain the building of Stravinsky\'92s clinic, the river, and the pine woods on the other bank, which he had studied so well. They came down in the clearing of a copse not far from the clinic.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92ll wait for you here,\'92 cried Azazello, his hands to his mouth,  now  lit up by lightning, now disappearing behind the grey veil. \'91Say your farewells, but be quick!\'92\par \pard\plain  The master and Margarita jumped from their saddles and flew, flick- ering like watery shadows, through the clinic garden. A moment later  the master, with an accustomed hand, was pushing aside the balcony grille of room no.117. Margarita followed after him. They stepped into Ivanushka\'92s room, unseen and unnoticed in the rumbling and howling of the storm. The master stopped by the bed. Ivanushka lay motionless, as before, when for the first time he had watched a storm in the house of his repose. But he was not weeping as he had been then. Once he had taken a good look at the dark silhouette that burst into his room from the balcony, he raised himself, held out his hands, and said joyfully:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, it\'92s you! And I kept waiting and waiting for you! And here you are, my neighbour!\'92\par \pard\plain  To this the master replied:\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m here,  but unfortunately I cannot be your neighbour any    longer.\par \pard\plain  I\'92m flying away for ever, and I\'92ve come to you only to say farewell.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I knew that, I guessed it,\'92 Ivan replied quietly and asked: \'91You met him?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 said the master. \'91I\'92ve come to say farewell to you, because you are the only person I\'92ve talked with lately.\'92\par \pard\plain  Ivanushka brightened up and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s good that you stopped off here. I\'92ll keep my word, I won\'92t write any more poems. I\'92m interested in something else now,\'92 Ivanushka smiled and with mad eyes looked somewhere past the master. \'91I want to write something else. You know, while I lay here, a lot became clear to me.\'92\par \pard\plain  The master was excited by these words and, sitting on the edge of Ivanushka\'92s bed, said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, but that\'92s good, that\'92s good. You\'92ll write a sequel about him.\'92 Ivanushka\'92s eyes lit up.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91But won\'92t you do that yourself?\'92 Here he hung his head and added pensively: \'91Ah, yes ... what am I asking?\'92 Ivanushka looked sidelong at the floor, his eyes fearful.\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes,\'92 said the master, and his voice seemed unfamiliar and hollow to Ivanushka, \'91I won\'92t write about him any more now. I\'92ll be occupied with other things.\'92\par \pard\plain  A distant whistle cut through the noise of the storm. \'91Do you hear?\'92 asked the master.\par \pard\plain  \'91The noise of the storm ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91No, I\'92m being called, it\'92s time for me to go,\'92 explained the master, and he got up from the bed.\par \pard\plain  \'91Wait! One word more,\'92 begged Ivan. \'91Did you find her? Did she remain faithful to you?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Here she is,\'92 the master replied and pointed to the wall. The dark Margarita separated from the white wall and came up to the bed. She looked at the young man lying there and sorrow could be read in her eyes. \'91Poor boy,  poor boy ...\'92   Margarita whispered soundlessly and     bent\par \pard\plain  down to the bed.\par \pard\plain  \'91She\'92s so beautiful,\'92 Ivan said, without envy, but sadly, and with a cer- tain quiet tenderness. \'91Look how well everything has turned out for you. But not so for me.\'92 Here he thought a little and added thoughtfully:\par \pard\plain  \'91Or else maybe it is so...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It is so, it is so,\'92 whispered Margarita, and she bent closer to him.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m going to kiss you now, and everything will be as it should be with you ... believe me in that, I\'92ve seen everything, I know everything ...\'92 The young man put his arms around her neck and she kissed him.\par \pard\plain  \'91Farewell, disciple,\'92 the master said barely audibly and began melting into air. He disappeared, and Margarita disappeared with him. The bal- cony grille was closed.\par \pard\plain  Ivanushka fell into anxiety. He sat up in bed, looked around uneasily, even moaned, began talking to himself, got up. The storm raged more and more, and evidendy stirred up his soul. He was also upset by the troubling footsteps and muted voices that his ear, accustomed to the con- stant silence, heard outside the door. He called out, now nervous and trembling:\par \pard\plain  \'91Praskovya Fyodorovna!\'92\par \pard\plain  Praskovya Fyodorovna was already coming into the room, looking at Ivanushka questioningly and uneasily.\par \pard\plain  \'91What? What is it?\'92 she asked. \'91The storm upsets you? Never mind, never mind ... we\'92ll help you now ... I\'92ll call the doctor now ...\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'91No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, you needn\'92t call the doctor,\'92 said Ivanu- shka, looking anxiously not at Praskovya Fyodorovna but into the wall.\par \pard\plain  \'91There\'92s nothing especially the matter with me. I can sort things out now, don\'92t worry. But you\'92d better tell me,\'92 Ivan begged soulfully, \'91what just happened in room one-eighteen?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Eighteen?\'92 Praskovya Fyodorovna repeated, and her eyes became fur- tive.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why, nothing happened there.\'92 But her voice was false, Ivanushka noticed it at once and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Eh, Praskovya Fyodorovna! You\'92re such a truthful person... You think I\'92ll get violent? No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, that won\'92t happen. You\'92d better speak directly, for I can feel everything through the wall.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Your neighbour has just passed away,\'92 whispered Praskovya Fyodor- ovna, unable to overcome her truthfulness and kindness, and, all clothed in a flash of lightning, she looked fearfully at Ivanushka. But nothing ter- rible happened to Ivanushka. He only raised his finger significandy and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91I knew it! I assure you, Praskovya Fyodorovna, that yet another per- son has just passed away in the city. I even know who,\'92 here Ivanushka smiled mysteriously. \'91It\'92s a woman!\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 31\par \pard\plain  On Sparrow Hills\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The storm was swept away without a trace, and a multicoloured rainbow, its arch thrown across all of Moscow, stood in the sky, drinking water from the Moscow River. High up, on a hill 1 between two copses, three dark sil- houettes could be seen. Woland, Koroviev and Behemoth sat in the saddle on three black horses, looking at the city spread out beyond the river, with the fragmented sun glittering in thousands of windows facing west, and at the gingerbread towers of the Devichy Convent. 2\par \pard\plain  There was a noise in the air, and Azazello, who had the master and Margarita flying in the black tail of his cloak, alighted with them beside the waiting group.\par \pard\plain  \'91We had to trouble you a little, Margarita Nikolaevna and master,\'92 Wo- land began after some silence, \'91but you won\'92t grudge me that. I don\'92t think you will regret it. So, then,\'92 he addressed the master alone, \'91bid farewell to the city. It\'92s time for us to go,\'92 Woland pointed with his black- gauntleted hand to where numberless suns melted the glass beyond the river, to where, above these suns, stood the mist, smoke and steam of the city scorched all day.\par \pard\plain  The master threw himself out of the saddle, left the mounted ones, and ran to the edge of the hillside. The black cloak dragged on the ground behind him. The master began to look at the city. In the first moments a wringing sadness crept over his heart, but it very quickly gave wav to    a\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1Sparrow Hills: Hills on the south-west bank of the Moscow River, renamed \'91Lenin Hills\'92 in the Soviet period.\par \pard\plain  2Devichy Convent: Actually the Novodevichy Convent, founded by Basil III. in 1524, on the spot where, according to legend, maidens (devitsy) were gathered to be sent as tribute to the Mongols. Nikolai Gogol\'92s remains were transferred there in the 1950s, and many members of the Moscow Art Theatre are also buried there, including Bulgakov himself.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  383\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  sweetish anxiety, a wondering gypsy excitement.\par \pard\plain  \'91For ever! ... That needs to be grasped,\'92 the master whispered and licked his dry, cracked lips. He began to heed and take precise note of everything that went on in his soul. His excitement turned, as it seemed to him, into a feeling of deep and grievous offence. But it was unstable, vanished, and gave way for some reason to a haughty indifference, and that to a foretaste of enduring peace.\par \pard\plain  The group of riders waited silently for the master. The group of riders watched the black, long figure on the edge of the hillside gesticulate, now\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  raising his head, as if trying to reach across the whole city with his eyes, to peer beyond its limits, now hanging his head down, as if studying the trampled, meagre grass under his feet. The silence was broken by the bored Behemoth. \'91Allow me, maltre,\'92 he began, \'91to give a farewell whistle before the ride.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91You may frighten the lady,\'92 Woland answered, \'91and, besides, don\'92t forget that all your outrages today are now at an end.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, no, no, Messire,\'92 responded Margarita, who sat side-saddle, arms akimbo, the sharp corner of her train hanging to the ground, \'91allow him, let him whistle. I\'92m overcome with sadness before the long journey. Isn\'92t it true, Messire, it\'92s quite natural even when a person knows that happiness is waiting at the end of the road? Let him make us laugh, or I\'92m afraid it will end in tears, and everything will be spoiled before the journey!\'92\par \pard\plain  Woland nodded to Behemoth, who became all animated, jumped down from the saddle, put his fingers in his mouth, puffed out his cheeks, and whistled. Margarita\'92s ears rang. Her horse reared, in the copse dry twigs rained down from the trees, a whole flock of crows and sparrows flew up, a pillar of dust went sweeping down to the river, and, as an excursion boat was passing the pier, one could see several of the passengers\'92 caps blow off into the water.\par \pard\plain  The whistle made the master start, yet he did not turn, but began ges- ticulating still more anxiously, raising his hand to the sky as if threatening the city. Behemoth gazed around proudly.\par \pard\plain  \'91That was whistled, I don\'92t argue,\'92 Koroviev observed condescend- ingly, \'91whistled indeed, but, to be impartial, whistled rather middlingly.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m not a choirmaster,\'92 Behemoth replied with dignity, puffing up, and he winked unexpectedly at Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Give us a try, for old times\'92 sake,\'92 Koroviev said, rubbed his hand, and breathed on his fingers.\par \pard\plain  \'91Watch out, watch out,\'92 came the stern voice of Woland on his horse, \'91no inflicting of injuries.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Messire, believe me,\'92 Koroviev responded, placing his hand on his heart, \'91in fun, merely in fun ...\'92 Here he suddenly stretched himself up- wards, as if he were made of rubber, formed the fingers of his right hand into some clever arrangement, twisted himself up like a screw, and then, suddenly unwinding, whistled.\par \pard\plain  This whistle Margarita did not hear, but she saw it in the moment when she, together with her fiery steed, was thrown some twenty yards away. An oak tree beside her was torn up by the roots, and the ground was cov- ered with cracks all the way to the river. A huge slab of the bank, together with the pier and the restaurant, sagged into the river.  The water  boiled,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  shot up, and the entire excursion boat with its perfectly unharmed pas- sengers was washed on to the low bank opposite. A jackdaw, killed by Fagott\'92s whistle, was flung at the feet of Margarita\'92s snorting steed.\par \pard\plain  The master was startled by this whistle. He clutched his head and ran back to the group of waiting companions.\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, then,\'92 Woland addressed him from the height of his steed, \'91is your farewell completed?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Yes, it\'92s completed,\'92 the master replied and, having calmed down, looked directly and boldly into Woland\'92s face.\par \pard\plain  And then over the hills like a trumpet blast rolled Woland\'92s terrible voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91It\'92s time!!\'92 - and with it the sharp whistle and guffaw of Behemoth. The steeds tore off, and the riders rose into the air and galloped. Mar-\par \pard\plain  garita felt her furious steed champing and straining at the bit. Woland\'92s cloak billowed over the heads of the cavalcade; the cloak began to cover the evening sky. When the black shroud was momentarily blown aside, Margarita looked back as she rode and saw that there not only were no multicoloured towers behind them, but the city itself had long been gone. It was as if it had fallen through the earth - only mist and smoke were left...\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Chapter 32\par \pard\plain  Forgiveness and Eternal Refuge\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Gods, my gods! How sad the evening earth! How mysterious the mists over the swamps! He who has wandered in these mists, he who has suf- fered much before death, he who has flown over this earth bearing on him- self too heavy a burden, knows it. The weary man knows it. And without regret he leaves the mists of the earth, its swamps and rivers, with a light heart he gives himself into the hands of death, knowing that she alone can bring him peace.\par \pard\plain  The magical black horses also became tired and carried their riders slowly, and ineluctable night began to overtake them. Sensing it at his back, even the irrepressible Behemoth quieted down and, his claws sunk into the saddle, flew silent and serious, puffing up his tail.\par \pard\plain  Night began to cover forests and fields with its black shawl, night lit melancholy little lights somewhere far below - now no longer interesting and necessary either for Margarita or for the master - alien lights. Night was outdistancing the cavalcade, it sowed itself over them from above, casting white specks of stars here and there in the saddened sky.\par \pard\plain  Night thickened, flew alongside, caught at the riders\'92 cloaks and, tear- ing them from their shoulders, exposed the deceptions. And when Mar- garita, blown upon by the cool wind, opened her eyes, she saw how the appearance of them all was changing as they flew to their goal. And when, from beyond the edge of the forest, the crimson and full moon began rising to meet them, all deceptions vanished, fell into the swamp, the unstable magic garments drowned in the mists.\par \pard\plain  Hardly recognizable as Koroviev-Fagott, the self-appointed interpreter to the mysterious consultant who needed no interpreting, was he who now flew just beside Woland, to the right of the master\'92s friend. In place of him who had left Sparrow Hills in a ragged circus costume under the name of Koroviev-Fagott, there now rode, softly clinking the golden chains   of\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  387\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  the bridle, a dark-violet knight with a most gloomy and never-smiling face. He rested his chin on his chest, he did not look at the moon, he was not interested in the earth, he was thinking something of his own, flying beside Woland.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why has he changed so?\'92 Margarita quietly asked Woland to the whistling of the wind.\par \pard\plain  This knight once made an unfortunate joke,\'92 replied Woland, turning his face with its quietly burning eye to Margarita. \'91The pun he thought up, in a discussion about light and darkness, was not altogether good. And after that the knight had to go on joking a bit more and longer than he supposed. But this is one of the nights when accounts are settled. The knight has paid up and closed his account.\'92\par \pard\plain  Night also tore off Behemoth\'92s fluffy tail, pulled off his fur and scat- tered it in tufts over the swamps. He who had been a cat, entertaining  the prince of darkness, now turned out to be a slim youth, a demon-page, the best jester the world has ever seen. Now he, too, grew quiet and flew noiselessly, setting his young face towards the light that streamed from the moon.\par \pard\plain  At the far side, the steel of his armour glittering, flew Azazello. The moon also changed his face. The absurd, ugly fang  disappeared with- out a trace, and the albugo on his eye proved false. Azazello\'92s eyes were both the same, empty and black, and his face was white and cold. Now Azazello flew in his true form, as the demon of the waterless desert, the killer-demon.\par \pard\plain  Margarita could not see herself, but she saw very well how the master had changed. His hair was now white in the moonlight and gathered be- hind in a braid, and it flew on the wind. When the wind blew the cloak away from the master\'92s legs, Margarita saw the stars of spurs on his jack- boots, now going out, now lighting up. Like the demon-youth, the master flew with his eyes fixed on the moon, yet smiling to it, as to a close and beloved friend, and, from a habit acquired in room no.118, murmuring something to himself.\par \pard\plain  And, finally, Woland also flew in his true image. Margarita could not have said what his horse\'92s bridle was made of, but thought it might be chains of moonlight, and the horse itself was a mass of darkness, and the horse\'92s mane a storm cloud, and the rider\'92s spurs the white flecks of stars. Thus they flew in silence for a long time, until the place itself began to change below them. The melancholy forests drowned in earthly darkness and drew with them the dim blades of the rivers. Boulders appeared and began to gleam below, with black gaps between them where the moonlight\par \pard\plain  did not penetrate.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Woland reined in his horse on a stony, joyless, flat summit, and the rid- ers then proceeded at a walk, listening to the crunch of flint and stone under the horses\'92 shoes. Moonlight flooded the platform greenly and brightly, and soon Margarita made out an armchair in this deserted place and in it the white figure of a seated man. Possibly the seated man was deaf, or else too sunk in his own thoughts. He did not hear the stony earth shudder under the horses\'92 weight, and the riders approached him without disturbing him.\par \pard\plain  The moon helped Margarita well, it shone better than the best electric lantern, and Margarita saw that the seated man, whose eyes seemed blind, rubbed his hands fitfully, and peered with those same unseeing eyes at the disc of the moon. Now Margarita saw that beside the heavy stone chair, on which sparks glittered in the moonlight, lay a dark, huge, sharp-eared dog, and, like its master, it gazed anxiously at the moon. Pieces of a broken jug were scattered by the seated man\'92s feet and an undrying black-red puddle spread there. The riders stopped their horses.\par \pard\plain  \'91Your novel has been read,\'92 Woland began, turning to the master, \'91and the only thing said about it was that, unfortunately, it is not finished. So, then, I wanted to show you your hero. For about two thousand years he has been sitting on this platform and sleeping, but when the full moon comes, as you see, he is tormented by insomnia. It torments not only him, but also his faithful guardian, the dog. If it is true that cowardice is the most grievous vice, then the dog at least is not guilty of it. Storms were the only thing the brave dog feared. Well, he who loves must share the lot of the one he loves.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91What is he saying?\'92 asked Margarita, and her perfectly calm face clouded over with compassion.\par \pard\plain  \'91He says one and the same thing,\'92 Woland replied. \'91He says that even the moon gives him no peace, and that his is a bad job. That is what he always says when he is not asleep, and when he sleeps, he dreams one and the same thing: there is a path of moonlight, and he wants to walk down it and talk with the prisoner Ha-Nozri, because, as he insists, he never finished what he was saying that time, long ago, on the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan. But, alas, for some reason he never manages to get on to this path, and no one comes to him. Then there\'92s no help for it, he must talk to himself. However, one does need some diversity, and to his talk about the moon he often adds that of all things in the world, he most hates his immortality and his unheard-of fame. He maintains that he would willingly exchange his lot for that of the ragged tramp Matthew Levi.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Twelve thousand moons for one moon long ago, isn\'92t that too much?\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  asked Margarita.\par \pard\plain  \'91Repeating the story with Frieda?\'92 said Woland. \'91But don\'92t trouble yourself here, Margarita. Everything will turn out right, the world is built on that.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Let him go!\'92 Margarita suddenly cried piercingly, as she had cried once as a witch, and at this cry a stone fell somewhere in the mountains and tumbled down the ledges into the abyss, filling the mountains with rumbling. But Margarita could not have said whether it was the rumbling of its fall or the rumbling of satanic laughter. In any case, Woland was laughing as he glanced at Margarita and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Don\'92t shout in the mountains, he\'92s accustomed to avalanches anyway, and it won\'92t rouse him. You don\'92t need to ask for him, Margarita, because the one he so yearns to talk with has already asked for him.\'92 Here Woland turned to the master and said:\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, now you can finish your novel with one phrase!\'92\par \pard\plain  The master seemed to have been expecting this, as he stood motionless and looked at the seated procurator. He cupped his hands to his mouth and cried out so that the echo leaped over the unpeopled and unforested mountains:\par \pard\plain  \'91You\'92re free! You\'92re free! He is waiting for you!\'92\par \pard\plain  The mountains turned the master\'92s voice to thunder, and by this same thunder they were destroyed. The accursed rocky walls collapsed. Only the platform with the stone armchair remained. Over the black abyss into which the walls had gone, a boundless city lit up, dominated by gleaming idols above a garden grown luxuriously over many thousands of moons. The path of moonlight so long awaited by the procurator stretched right to this garden, and the first to rush down it was the sharp-eared dog. The man in the white cloak with blood-red lining rose from the armchair and shouted something in a hoarse, cracked voice. It was impossible to tell whether he was weeping or laughing, or what he shouted. It could only be seen that, following his faithful guardian, he, too, rushed headlong down the path of moonlight.\par \pard\plain  \'91I\'92m to follow him there?\'92 the master asked anxiously, holding the bri- dle.\par \pard\plain  \'91No,\'92 replied Woland, \'91why run after what is already finished?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91There, then?\'92 the master asked, turning and pointing back, where the recently abandoned city with the gingerbread towers of its convent, with the sun broken to smithereens in its windows, now wove itself behind them.\par \pard\plain  \'91Not there, either,\'92 replied Woland, and his voice thickened and flowed over the rocks.  \'91Romantic master!  He, whom the hero you invented and\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  have just set free so yearns to see, has read your novel.\'92 Here Woland turned to Margarita: \'91Margarita Nikolaevna! It is impossible not to believe that you have tried to think up the best future for the master, but, really, what I am offering you, and what Yeshua has asked for you, is better still! Leave them to each other,\'92 Woland said, leaning towards the master\'92s sad- dle from his own, pointing to where the procurator had gone, \'91let\'92s not interfere with them. And maybe they\'92ll still arrive at something.\'92 Here Woland waved his arm in the direction of Yershalaim, and it went out.\par \pard\plain  \'91And there, too,\'92 Woland pointed behind them, \'91what are you going to do in the little basement?\'92 Here the sun broken up in the glass went out.\par \pard\plain  \'91Why?\'92 Woland went on persuasively and gently, \'91oh, thrice-romantic master, can it be that you don\'92t want to go strolling with your friend in the daytime under cherry trees just coming into bloom, and in the evening lis- ten to Schubert\'92s music? Can it be that you won\'92t like writing with a goose quill by candlelight? Can it be that you don\'92t want to sit over a retort like Faust, in hopes that you\'92ll succeed in forming a new homunculus? There! There! The house and the old servant are already waiting for you, the candles are already burning, and soon they will go out, because you will immediately meet the dawn. Down this path, master, this one! Farewell! It\'92s time for me to go!\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Farewell!\'92 Margarita and the master answered Woland in one cry. Then the black Woland, heedless of any road, threw himself into a gap, and his retinue noisily hurried down after him. There were no rocks, no platform, no path of moonlight, no Yershalaim around. The black steeds also vanished. The master and Margarita saw the promised dawn. It be- gan straight away, immediately after the midnight moon.\par \pard\plain  The master walked with his friend in the brilliance of the first rays of morning over a mossy little stone bridge. They crossed it. The faithful lovers left the stream behind and walked down the sandy path.\par \pard\plain  \'91Listen to the stillness,\'92 Margarita said to the master, and the sand rus- tled under her bare feet, \'91listen and enjoy what you were not given in life\par \pard\plain  - peace. Look, there ahead is your eternal home, which you have been given as a reward. I can already see the Venetian window and the twisting vine, it climbs right up to the roof. Here is your home, your eternal home. I know that in the evenings you will be visited by those you love, those who interest you and who will never trouble you. They will play for you, they will sing for you, you will see what light is in the room when the candles are burning. You will fall asleep, having put on your greasy and eternal nightcap, you will fall asleep with a smile on your lips. Sleep will strengthen you, you will reason wisely. And you will no longer be able to drive me away. I will watch over your sleep.\'92\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Thus spoke Margarita, walking with the master to their eternal home, and it seemed to the master that Margarita\'92s words flowed in the same way as the stream they had left behind flowed and whispered, and the master\'92s memory, the master\'92s anxious, needled memory began to fade. Someone was setting the master free, as he himself had just set free the hero he had created. This hero had gone into the abyss, gone irrevocably, the son of the astrologer-king, forgiven on the eve of Sunday, the cruel fifth procurator of Judea, the equestrian Pontius Pilate.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Epilogue\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  But all the same - what happened later in Moscow, after that Saturday evening when Woland left the capital, having disappeared from Sparrow Hills at sunset with his retinue?\par \pard\plain  Of the fact that, for a long time, a dense hum of the most incredible rumours went all over the capital and very quickly spread to remote and forsaken provincial places as well, nothing need be said. It is even nause- ating to repeat such rumours.\par \pard\plain  The writer of these truthful lines himself, personally, on a trip to Feo- dosiya, heard a story on the train about two thousand persons in Moscow coming out of a theatre stark-naked in the literal sense of the word and in that fashion returning home in taxi-cabs.\par \pard\plain  The whisper \'91unclean powers\'92 was heard in queues waiting at dairy stores, in tram-cars, shops, apartments, kitchens, on trains both suburban and long-distance, in stations big and small, at summer resorts and on beaches.\par \pard\plain  The most developed and cultured people, to be sure, took no part in this tale-telling about the unclean powers that had visited Moscow, even laughed at them and tried to bring the tellers to reason. But all the same  a fact, as they say, is a fact, and to brush it aside without explanations is simply impossible: someone had visited the capital. The nice little cinders left over from Griboedov\'92s, and many other things as well, confirmed that only too eloquently.\par \pard\plain  Cultured people adopted the view of the investigation: it had been the work of a gang of hypnotists and ventriloquists with a superb command of their art.\par \pard\plain  Measures for catching them, in Moscow as well as outside it, were of course immediately and energetically taken, but, most regrettably, pro- duced no results. The one calling himself Woland disappeared with all his company and neither returned to Moscow nor appeared anywhere else, and did not manifest himself in any way. Quite naturally, the suggestion emerged that he had fled abroad, but there, too, he gave no signs of him-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  393\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  self.\par \pard\plain  The investigation of his case continued for a long time. Because, in truth, it was a monstrous case! Not to mention four burned-down build- ings and hundreds of people driven mad, there had been murders. Of two this could be said with certainty: of Berlioz, and of that ill-fated employee of the bureau for acquainting foreigners with places of interest in Moscow, the former Baron Meigel. They had been murdered. The charred bones  of the latter were discovered in apartment no.50 on Sadovaya Street after the fire was put out. Yes, there were victims, and these victims called for investigation.\par \pard\plain  But there were other victims as well, even after Woland left the capital, and these victims, sadly enough, were black cats.\par \pard\plain  Approximately a hundred of these peaceful and useful animals, de- voted to mankind, were shot or otherwise exterminated in various parts of the country. About a dozen cats, some badly disfigured, were delivered to police stations in various cities. For instance, in Armavir one of these perfectly guiltless beasts was brought to the police by some citizen with its front paws tied.\par \pard\plain  This cat had been ambushed by the citizen at the very moment when the animal, with a thievish look (how can it be helped if cats have this look? It is not because they are depraved, but because they are afraid lest some beings stronger than themselves - dogs or people - cause them some harm or offence. Both are very easy to do, but I assure you there is no credit in doing so, no, none at all!), so, then, with a thievish look the cat was for some reason about to dash into the burdock.\par \pard\plain  Falling upon the cat and tearing his necktie off to bind it, the citizen muttered venomously and threateningly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Aha! So now you\'92ve been so good as to come to our Armavir, mister hypnotist? Well, we\'92re not afraid of you here. Don\'92t pretend to be dumb! We know what kind of goose you are!\'92\par \pard\plain  The citizen brought the cat to the police, dragging the poor beast by its front paws, bound with a green necktie, giving it little kicks to make the cat walk not otherwise than on its hind legs.\par \pard\plain  \'91You quit that,\'92 cried the citizen, accompanied by whistling boys, \'91quit playing the fool! It won\'92t do! Kindly walk like everybody else!\'92\par \pard\plain  The black cat only rolled its martyred eyes. Being deprived by nature of the gift of speech, it could not vindicate itself in any way. The poor beast owed its salvation first of all to the police, and then to its owner -    a venerable old widow. As soon as the cat was delivered to the police station, it was realized that the citizen smelled rather strongly of alcohol, as a result of which his evidence was at once subject to doubt.      And the\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  little old lady, having meanwhile learned from neighbours that her cat had been hauled in, rushed to the station and arrived in the nick of time.\par \pard\plain  She gave the most flattering references for the cat, explained that she had known it for five years, since it was a kitten, that she vouched for it as for her own self, and proved that it had never been known to do anything bad and had never been to Moscow. As it had been born in Armavir, so there it had grown up and learned the catching of mice.\par \pard\plain  The cat was untied and returned to its owner, having tasted grief, it\'92s true, and having learned by experience the meaning of error and slander.\par \pard\plain  Besides cats, some minor unpleasantnesses befell certain persons.\par \pard\plain  Detained for a short time were: in Leningrad, the citizens Wolman and Wolper; in Saratov, Kiev and Kharkov, three Volodins; in Kazan, one Volokh; and in Penza - this for totally unknown reasons - doctor of chem- ical sciences Vetchinkevich. True, he was enormously tall, very swarthy and dark-haired.\par \pard\plain  In various places, besides that, nine Korovins, four Korovkins and two Karavaevs were caught.\par \pard\plain  A certain citizen was taken off the Sebastopol train and bound at the Belgorod station. This citizen had decided to entertain his fellow passen- gers with card tricks.\par \pard\plain  In Yaroslavl, a citizen came to a restaurant at lunch-time carrying a primus which he had just picked up from being repaired. The moment they saw him, the two doormen abandoned their posts in the coatroom and fled, and after them fled all the restaurant\'92s customers and personnel. With that, in some inexplicable fashion, the girl at the cash register had all the money disappear on her.\par \pard\plain  There was much else, but one cannot remember everything.\par \pard\plain  Again and again justice must be done to the investigation. Every at- tempt was made not only to catch the criminals, but to explain all their mischief. And it all was explained, and these explanations cannot but be acknowledged as sensible and irrefutable.\par \pard\plain  Representatives of the investigation and experienced psychiatrists es- tablished that members of the criminal gang, or one of them perhaps (sus- picion fell mainly on Koroviev), were hypnotists of unprecedented power, who could show themselves not in the place where they actually were, but in imaginary, shifted positions. Along with that, they could freely suggest to those they encountered that certain things or people were where they actually were not, and, contrariwise, could remove from the field of vision things or people that were in fact to be found within that field of vision.\par \pard\plain  In the light of such explanations, decidedly everything was clear, even what the citizens found most troublesome, the apparently quite inexplica-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ble invulnerability of the cat, shot at in apartment no.50 during the attempt to put him under arrest.\par \pard\plain  There had been no cat on the chandelier, naturally, nor had anyone even thought of returning their fire, the shooters had been aiming at an empty spot, while Koroviev, having suggested that the cat was acting up on the chandelier, was free to stand behind the shooters\'92 backs, mugging and enjoying his enormous, albeit criminally employed, capacity for sug- gestion.\par \pard\plain  It was he, of course, who had set fire to the apartment by spilling the benzene.\par \pard\plain  Styopa Likhodeev had, of course, never gone to any Yalta (such a stunt was beyond even Koroviev\'92s powers), nor had he sent any telegrams from there. After fainting in the jeweller\'92s wife\'92s apartment, frightened by a trick of Koroviev\'92s, who had shown him a cat holding a pickled mushroom on a fork, he lay there until Koroviev, jeering at him, capped him with a shaggy felt hat and sent him to the Moscow airport, having first suggested to the representatives of the investigation who went to meet Styopa that Styopa would be getting off the plane from Sebastopol.\par \pard\plain  True, the criminal investigation department in Yalta maintained that they had received the barefoot Styopa, and had sent telegrams concerning Styopa to Moscow, but no copies of these telegrams were found in the files, from which the sad but absolutely invincible conclusion was drawn that the hypnotizing gang was able to hypnotize at an enormous distance, and not only individual persons but even whole groups of them.\par \pard\plain  Under these circumstances,  the criminals were able to drive people  of the sturdiest psychic make-up out of their minds. To say nothing of such trifles as the pack of cards in the pocket of someone in the stalls, the women\'92s disappearing dresses, or the miaowing beret, or other things of that sort! Such stunts can be pulled by any professional hypnotist of aver- age ability on any stage, including the uncomplicated trick of tearing the head off the master of ceremonies. The talking cat was also sheer non- sense. To present people with such a cat, it is enough to have a command of the basic principles of ventriloquism, and scarcely anyone will doubt that Koroviev\'92s art went significantly beyond those principles.\par \pard\plain  Yes, the point here lay not at all in packs of cards, or the false letters  in Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s briefcase! These were all trifles! It was he, Ko- roviev, who had sent Berlioz to certain death under the tram-car. It was he who had driven the poor poet Ivan Homeless crazy, he who had made him have visions, see ancient Yershalaim in tormenting dreams, and sun- scorched, waterless Bald Mountain with three men hanging on posts. It was he and his gang who had made Margarita Nikolaevna and her house-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  keeper Natasha disappear from Moscow. Incidentally, the investigation considered this matter with special attention. It had to find out if the two women had been abducted by the gang of murderers and arsonists or had fled voluntarily with the criminal company. On the basis of the absurd and incoherent evidence of Nikolai Ivanovich, and considering the strange and insane note Margarita Nikolaevna had left for her husband, the note in which she wrote that she had gone off to become a witch, as well as the circumstance that Natasha had disappeared leaving all her clothes behind, the investigation concluded that both mistress and housekeeper, like many others, had been hypnotized, and had thus been abducted by the band. There also emerged the probably quite correct thought that the criminals had been attracted by the beauty of the two women.\par \pard\plain  Yet what remained completely unclear to the investigation was the gang\'92s motive in abducting the mental patient who called himself the mas- ter from the psychiatric clinic. This they never succeeded in establishing, nor did they succeed in obtaining the abducted man\'92s last name. Thus he vanished for ever under the dead alias of number one-eighteen from the first building.\par \pard\plain  And so, almost everything was explained, and the investigation came to an end, as everything generally comes to an end.\par \pard\plain  Several years passed, and the citizens began to forget Woland, Ko- roviev and the rest. Many changes took place in the lives of those who suffered from Woland and his company, and however trifling and insignif- icant those changes are, they still ought to be noted.\par \pard\plain  Georges Bengalsky, for instance, after spending three months in the clinic, recovered and left it, but had to give up his work at the Variety, and that at the hottest time, when the public was flocking after tickets: the memory of black magic and its exposure proved very tenacious.\par \pard\plain  Bengalsky left the Variety, for he understood that to appear every night before two thousand people, to be inevitably recognized and endlessly subjected to jeering questions of how he liked it better, with or without his head, was much too painful.\par \pard\plain  And, besides that, the master of ceremonies had lost a considerable dose of his gaiety, which is so necessary in his profession. He remained with the unpleasant, burdensome habit of falling, every spring during the full moon, into a state of anxiety, suddenly clutching his neck, looking around fearfully and weeping. These fits would pass, but all the same, since he had them, he could not continue in his former occupation, and so the master of ceremonies retired and started living on his savings, which, by his modest reckoning, were enough to last him fifteen years.\par \pard\plain  He left and never again met Varenukha, who has gained universal pop-\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  ularity and affection by his responsiveness and politeness, incredible even among theatre administrators. The free-pass seekers, for instance, never refer to him otherwise than as father-benefactor. One can call the Variety at any time and always hear in the receiver a soft but sad voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91May I help you?\'92 And to the request that Varenukha be called to the phone, the same voice hastens to answer: \'91At your service.\'92 And, oh, how Ivan Savelyevich has suffered from his own politeness!\par \pard\plain  Styopa Likhodeev was to talk no more over the phone at the Variety. Immediately after his release from the clinic, where he spent eight days, Styopa was transferred to Rostov,  taking up the position of manager of   a large food store. Rumour has it that he has stopped drinking cheap wine altogether and drinks only vodka with blackcurrant buds, which has greatly improved his health. They say he has become taciturn and keeps away from women.\par \pard\plain  The removal of Stepan Bogdanovich from the Variety did not bring Rimsky the joy of which he had been so greedily dreaming over the past several years. After the clinic and Kislovodsk, old, old as could be, his head wagging, the findirector submitted a request to be dismissed from the Variety. The interesting thing was that this request was brought to the Variety by Rimsky\'92s wife. Grigory Danilovich himself found it beyond his strength to visit, even during the daytime, the building where he had seen the cracked window-pane flooded with moonlight and the long arm making its way to the lower latch.\par \pard\plain  Having left the Variety, the findirector took a job with a children\'92s mar- ionette theatre in Zamoskvorechye. In this theatre he no longer had to run into the much-esteemed Arkady Apollonovich Semplevarov on matters of acoustics. The latter had been promptly transferred to Briansk and ap- pointed manager of a mushroom cannery. The Muscovites now eat salted and pickled mushrooms and cannot praise them enough, and they rejoice exceedingly over this transfer. Since it is a bygone thing, we may now  say that Arkady Apollonovich\'92s relations with acoustics never worked out very well, and as they had been, so they remained, no matter how he tried to improve them.\par \pard\plain  Among persons who have broken with the theatre, apart from Arkady Apollonovich, mention should be made of Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, though he had been connected with the theatre in no other way than by his love for free tickets. Nikanor Ivanovich not only goes to no sort of the- atre, either paying or free, but even changes countenance at any theatrical conversation.\par \pard\plain  Besides the theatre, he has come to hate, not to a lesser but to a still greater degree, the poet Pushkin and the talented actor Sawa Potapovich\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Kurolesov. The latter to such a degree that last year, seeing a black-framed announcement in the newspaper that Sawa Potapovich had suffered a stroke in the full bloom of his career, Nikanor Ivanovich turned so pur- ple that he almost followed after Sawa Potapovich, and bellowed: \'91Serves him right!\'92\par \pard\plain  Moreover, that same evening Nikanor Ivanovich, in whom the death of the popular actor had evoked a great many painful memories, alone, in the sole company of the full moon shining on Sadovaya, got terribly drunk. And with each drink, the cursed line of hateful figures got longer, and in this line were Dunchil, Sergei Gerardovich, and the beautiful Ida Herculanovna, and that red-haired owner of fighting geese, and the can- did Kanavkin, Nikolai.\par \pard\plain  Well, and what on earth happened to them? Good heavens! Precisely nothing happened to them, or could happen, since they never actually existed, as that affable artiste, the master of ceremonies, never existed, nor the theatre itself, nor that old pinchfist of an aunt Porokhovnikova, who kept currency rotting in the cellar, and there certainly were no golden trumpets or impudent cooks. All this Nikanor Ivanovich merely dreamed under the influence of the nasty Koroviev. The only living person to fly into this dream was precisely Sawa Potapovich, the actor, and he got mixed up in it only because he was ingrained in Nikanor Ivanovich\'92s memory owing to his frequent performances on the radio. He existed, but the rest did not.\par \pard\plain  So, maybe Aloisy Mogarych did not exist either? Oh, no! He not only existed, but he exists even now and precisely in the post given up by Rim- sky, that is, the post of findirector of the Variety.\par \pard\plain  Coming to his senses about twenty-four hours after his visit to Woland, on a train somewhere near Vyatka, Aloisy realized that, having for some reason left Moscow in a darkened state of mind, he had forgotten to put on his trousers, but instead had stolen, with an unknown purpose, the com- pletely useless household register of the builder. Paying a colossal sum  of money to the conductor, Aloisy acquired from him an old and greasy pair of pants, and in Vyatka he turned back. But, alas,  he did not find  the builder\'92s little house. The decrepit trash had been licked clean away by a fire. But Aloisy was an extremely enterprising man. Two  weeks  later he was living in a splendid room on Briusovsky Lane, and a few months later he was sitting in Rimsky\'92s office. And as Rimsky had once suffered because of Styopa, so now Varenukha was tormented because of Aloisy. Ivan Savelyevich\'92s only dream is that this Aloisy should be re- moved somewhere out of sight, because, as Varenukha sometimes whis- pers in intimate company,    he supposedly has never in his life met \'91such\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  scum as this Aloisy\'92, and he supposedly expects anything you like from this Aloisy.\par \pard\plain  However, the administrator is perhaps prejudiced. Aloisy has not been known for any shady business, or for any business at all, unless of course we count his appointing someone else to replace the barman Sokov. For Andrei Fokich died of liver cancer in the clinic of the First MSU some ten months after Woland\'92s appearance in Moscow.\par \pard\plain  Yes, several years have passed, and the events truthfully described in this book have healed over and faded from memory. But not for everyone, not for everyone.\par \pard\plain  Each year, with the festal spring full moon, 1 a man of about thirty or thirty-odd appears towards evening under the lindens at the Patriarch\'92s Ponds. A reddish-haired, green-eyed, modestly dressed man. He is a re- searcher at the Institute of History and Philosophy, Professor Ivan Niko- laevich Ponyrev.\par \pard\plain  Coming under the lindens, he always sits down on the same bench  on which he sat that evening when Berlioz, long forgotten by all, saw the moon breaking to pieces for the last time in his life. Whole now, white at the start of the evening, then gold with a dark horse-dragon, it floats over the former poet Ivan Nikolaevich and at the same time stays in place at its height.\par \pard\plain  Ivan Nikolaevich is aware of everything, he knows and understands everything. He knows that as a young man he fell victim to criminal hyp- notists and was afterwards treated and cured. But he also knows that there are things he cannot manage. He cannot manage this spring full moon.\par \pard\plain  As soon as it begins to approach, as soon as the luminary that once hung higher than the two five-branched candlesticks begins to swell and fill with gold, Ivan Nikolaevich becomes anxious, nervous, he loses ap- petite and sleep, waiting till the moon ripens. And when the full moon comes, nothing can keep Ivan Nikolaevich at home. Towards evening he goes out and walks to the Patriarch\'92s Ponds.\par \pard\plain  Sitting on the bench, Ivan Nikolaevich openly talks to himself, smokes, squints now at the moon, now at the memorable turnstile.\par \pard\plain  Ivan Nikolaevich spends an hour or two like this. Then he leaves his place and, always following the same itinerary, goes with empty and un- seeing eyes through Spiridonovka to the lanes of the Arbat.\par \pard\plain  He passes the kerosene shop, turns by a lopsided old gaslight, and steals up to a fence, behind which he sees a luxuriant, though as yet   un-\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  1The festal springfall moon: The first full moon after the vernal equinox, which deter- mines the date of the feast of Passover and thus of Easter.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  clothed, garden, and in it a Gothic mansion, moon-washed on the side with the triple bay window and dark on the other.\par \pard\plain  The professor does not know what draws him to the fence or who lives in the mansion, but he does know that there is no fighting with himself on the night of the full moon. Besides, he knows that he will inevitably see one and the same thing in the garden behind the fence.\par \pard\plain  He will see an elderly and respectable man with a little beard, wearing a pince-nez, and with slightly piggish features, sitting on a bench. Ivan Nikolaevich always finds this resident of the mansion in one and the same dreamy pose, his eyes turned towards the moon. It is known to Ivan Niko- laevich that, after admiring the moon, the seated man will unfailingly turn his gaze to the bay windows and fix it on them, as if expecting that they would presently be flung open and something extraordinary would ap- pear on the window-sill. The whole sequel Ivan Nikolaevich knows by heart. Here he must bury himself deeper behind the fence, for presently the seated man will begin to turn his head restlessly, to snatch at some- thing in the air with a wandering gaze, to smile rapturously, and then he will suddenly clasp his hands in a sort of sweet anguish, and then he will murmur simply and rather loudly:\par \pard\plain  \'91Venus! Venus! ... Ah, fool that I am! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Gods, gods!\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich will begin to whisper, hiding behind the fence and never taking his kindling eyes off the mysterious stranger. \'91Here is one more of the moon\'92s victims ... Yes, one more victim, like me...\'92\par \pard\plain  And the seated man will go on talking:\par \pard\plain  \'91Ah, fool that I am! Why, why didn\'92t I fly off with her? What were you afraid of, old ass? Got yourself a certificate! Ah, suffer now, you old cretin!\par \pard\plain  ...\'92\par \pard\plain  It will go on like this until a window in the dark part of the mansion bangs, something whitish appears in it, and an unpleasant female voice rings out:\par \pard\plain  \'91Nikolai Ivanovich, where are you? What is this fantasy? Want to catch malaria? Come and have tea!\'92\par \pard\plain  Here, of course, the seated man will recover his senses and reply in a lying voice:\par \pard\plain  \'91I wanted a breath of air, a breath of air, dearest! The air is so nice! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  And here he will get up from the bench, shake his fist on the sly at the closing ground-floor window, and trudge back to the house.\par \pard\plain  \'91Lying, he\'92s lying! Oh, gods, how he\'92s lying!\'92 Ivan Nikolaevich mutters as he leaves the fence. \'91It\'92s not the air that draws him to the garden, he sees something at the time of this spring full moon, in the garden, up there! Ah, I\'92d pay dearly to penetrate his mystery, to know who this Venus is that he\'92s\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  lost and now fruitlessly feels for in the air, trying to catch her! ...\'92\par \pard\plain  And the professor returns home completely ill. His wife pretends not to notice his condition and urges him to go to bed. But she herself does not go to bed and sits by the lamp with a book, looking with grieving eyes at the sleeper. She knows that Ivan Nikolaevich will wake up at dawn with a painful cry, will begin to weep and thrash. Therefore there lies before her, prepared ahead of time, on the tablecloth, under the lamp, a syringe in alcohol and an ampoule of liquid the colour of dark tea.\par \pard\plain  The poor woman, tied to a gravely ill man, is now free and can sleep without apprehensions. After the injection, Ivan Nikolaevich will sleep till morning with a blissful face, having sublime and blissful dreams un- known to her.\par \pard\plain  It is always one and the same thing that awakens the scholar and draws pitiful cries from him on the night of the full moon. He sees some unnatu- ral, noseless executioner who, leaping up and hooting somehow with his voice, sticks his spear into the heart of Gestas, who is tied to a post and has gone insane. But it is not the executioner who is frightening so much as the unnatural lighting in this dream, caused by some dark cloud boiling and heaving itself upon the earth, as happens only during world catastrophes. After the injection, everything changes before the sleeping man. A broad path of moonlight stretches from his bed to the window, and a man in a white cloak with blood-red lining gets on to this path and begins to walk towards the moon. Beside him walks a young man in a torn chiton and with a disfigured face.  The walkers talk heatedly about   something,\par \pard\plain  they argue, they want to reach some understanding.\par \pard\plain  \'91Gods, gods!\'92 says that man in the cloak, turning his haughty face to his companion. \'91Such a banal execution! But, please,\'92 here the face turns from haughty to imploring, \'91tell me it never happened! I implore you, tell me, it never happened?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91Well, of course it never happened,\'92 his companion replies in a hoarse voice, \'91you imagined it.\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91And you can swear it to me?\'92 the man in the cloak asks ingratiatingly. \'91I swear it!\'92 replies his companion, and his eyes smile for some reason. \'91I need nothing more!\'92  the man in the cloak exclaims in a husky voice\par \pard\plain  and goes ever higher towards the moon, drawing his companion along. Behind them a gigantic, sharp-eared dog walks calmly and majestically.\par \pard\plain  Then the moonbeam boils up, a river of moonlight begins to gush from it and pours out in all directions. The moon rules and plays, the moon dances and frolics. Then a woman of boundless beauty forms herself in the stream, and by the hand she leads out to Ivan a man overgrown with beard who glances around fearfully.  Ivan Nikolaevich recognizes him  at\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  once. It is number one-eighteen, his nocturnal guest. In his dream Ivan Nikolaevich reaches his arms out to him and asks greedily:\par \pard\plain  \'91So it ended with that?\'92\par \pard\plain  \'91It ended with that, my disciple,\'92 answers number one-eighteen, and then the woman comes up to Ivan and says:\par \pard\plain  \'91Of course, with that. Everything has ended, and everything ends... And I will kiss you on the forehead, and everything with you will be as it should be ...\'92\par \pard\plain  She bends over Ivan and kisses him on the forehead, and Ivan reaches out to her and peers into her eyes, but she retreats, retreats, and together with her companion goes towards the moon...\par \pard\plain  Then the moon begins to rage, it pours streams of light down right  on Ivan, it sprays light in all directions, a flood of moonlight engulfs the room, the light heaves, rises higher, drowns the bed. It is then that Ivan Nikolaevich sleeps with a blissful face.\par \pard\plain  The next morning he wakes up silent but perfecdy calm and well. His needled memory grows quiet, and until the next full moon no one will trouble the professor - neither the noseless killer of Gestas, nor the cruel fifth procurator of Judea, the equestrian Pontius Pilate.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  [1928\'961940]\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Mikhail Afanasievich Bulgakov\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Mikhail Afanasievich Bulgakov (May 15, 1891, Kiev \'96 March 10, 1940, Moscow) was a Russian novelist and playwright of the first half of the 20th century. He is best known for the novel The Master and Margarita, which the New York Times Book Review called one of the greatest novels of the twentieth century.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Biography\par \pard\plain  Mikhail Bulgakov was born to Russian parents in Kiev, Ukraine, the old- est son of a professor at a theological seminary. The Bulgakov sons en- listed in the White Army, and in post-Civil War Russia, ended up in Paris, save for Mikhail. Mikhail, who enlisted as a field doctor, ended up in the Caucasus, where he eventually began working as a journalist. Despite his relatively favoured status under the Soviet rule of Joseph Stalin, Bulgakov was prevented from either emigrating or visiting his brothers in the West. Some details of his biography are unclear as Bulgakov was quite secretive about his past life and swore his wives to secrecy about it.\par \pard\plain  In 1913 Bulgakov married Tatiana Lappa. At the outbreak of the First World War he volunteered with the Red Cross. In 1916, he graduated from the Medical School of Kiev University and then served in the White Army. He briefly served in the Ukrainian Nationalist Army. In 1919 he decided to leave medicine to pursue his love of literature. In 1921, he moved with Tatiana to Moscow where he began his career as a writer. Three years later, divorced from his first wife, he married Lyubov\'92 Belozerskaya. He published a number of works through the early and mid 1920s, but by 1927 his career began to suffer from criticism that he was too anti-Soviet. By 1929 his career was ruined and none of his works were published due to censorship.\par \pard\plain  In 1931, Bulgakov married for the third time, to Yelena Shilovskaya, who would prove to be inspiration for the character Margarita from    his\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  405\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  most famous novel, and settled with her at Patriarch\'92s Ponds. During the last decade of his life, Bulgakov continued to work on The Master and Mar- garita, wrote plays, critical works, stories, and made several translations and dramatisations of novels, but these were unpublished.\par \pard\plain  Bulgakov never supported the Soviet power, and mocked it in many of his works. Therefore, most of them were consigned to his desk drawer for several decades. In 1930 he wrote a letter to Stalin requesting per- mission to emigrate if the Soviet Union could not find use for him as a satirist and received a personal phone call from Stalin himself, denying him that. Stalin had enjoyed Bulgakov\'92s work, The Days of the Turbins and found work for him at a small Moscow theatre, and then the Moscow Art Theatre. In his autobiography and in many biographies, it is stated that Bulgakov wrote the letter out of desperation and mental anguish, never actually intending to post it. The refusal of the authorities to let him work in the theatre and his desire to see his family living abroad, whom he had not seen for many years, led him to seek drastic measures. Despite his new work, the projects he worked on at the theatre were unsuccessful and he was stressed and unhappy. He also worked briefly at the Bolshoi Theatre as a librettist, but left after his works were not produced.\par \pard\plain  Bulgakov died from an inherited kidney disorder in 1940 and was buri- ed in the Novodevichy Cemetery in Moscow.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Early works\par \pard\plain  During his life, Bulgakov was best known for the plays he contributed to Konstantin Stanislavsky\'92s Moscow Art Theatre. Stalin was known to be fond of the play Days of the Turbins (1926), which was based on Bulgakov\'92s novel The White Guard.  His dramatization of Molie`re\'92s life in The Cabal of Hypocrites is still run by the Moscow Art Theatre. Even after his plays were banned from the theatres, Bulgakov wrote a grotesquely funny comedy about Ivan the Terrible\'92s visit into 1930s Moscow and a play about the young years of Stalin (1939), which was also prohibited by Stalin himself.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The Master and Margarita\par \pard\plain  Bulgakov started writing prose in the early 1920s, when he wrote The White Guard (1924, published in 1966) - a novel about a life of a White Army offi- cer\'92s family in Civil war Kiev, and a short story collection entitled Notes of a Young Doctor, based on Bulgakov\'92s work as a country doctor in 1916\'961919.\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  In the mid-1920s, he came to admire the works of H. G. Wells and wrote several stories with sci-fi style elements, notably The Fatal Eggs (1924) and the Heart of a Dog (1925).\par \pard\plain  The Fatal Eggs tells of the events of a Professor Persikov, who in ex- perimentation with eggs, discovers a red ray that accelerates growth in living organisms. At the time, an illness passes through the chickens of Moscow, killing most of them and, to remedy the situation, the Soviet government puts the ray into use at a farm.  Unfortunately there is a   mix up in egg shipments and the Professor ends up with the chicken eggs, while the government-run farm receives a shipment of ostriches, snakes and crocodiles that were meant to go to the Professor. The mistake is not discovered until the eggs produce giant monstrosities that wreak havoc in the suburbs of Moscow and kill most of the workers on the farm. The propaganda machine then turns on Persikov,  distorting his nature  in the same way his \'93innocent\'94 tampering created the monsters. This  tale of a bungling government earned Bulgakov his label of a counter- revolutionary.\par \pard\plain  Heart of a Dog features a professor who implants human testicles and pituitary gland into a dog named Sharik. The dog then proceeds to become more and more human as time passes, resulting in all manner of chaos. The tale can be read as a critical satire of the Soviet Union; it contains few bold hints to communist leadership (e.g. the name of donor drunkard of human implants is Chugunkin (\'93chugun\'94 is a cast iron) which can be seen as parody on the name of Stalin (\'93stal\'94 is steel). It was turned into a comic opera called The Murder of Comrade Sharik by William Bergsma in 1973.  In 1988 an award-winning movie version Sobachye Serdtse was produced by Lenfilm, starring Yevgeniy Yevstigneyev, Roman Kartsev and Vladimir Tolokonnikov.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  The Master and Margarita\par \pard\plain  The Master and Margarita is a fantasy satirical novel published by his wife twenty-six years after his death, in 1966, that has granted him critical immortality. The book was available underground, as samizdat (\'93sam\'94+ \'93izdat\'94 - \'93self-published\'94, Vladimir Bukovsky defined it as \'93I myself cre- ate it, edit it, censor it, publish it, distribute it, and [may] get imprisoned for it\'94),  for many years in the Soviet Union,  before the serialization of     a censored version in the journal Moskva. It contributed a number of sayings to the Russian language, for example, \'93Manuscripts don\'92t burn\'94, \'93There\'92s only one degree of freshness \'96 the first, which makes it also the last\'94,\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \'93Not causing trouble, not touching anything, fixing the primus\'94, and \'93No doc- ument - no human\'94. A destroyed manuscript of the Master is an important element of the plot, and in fact Bulgakov had to rewrite the novel from memory after he burned the draft manuscript with his own hands.\par \pard\plain  The novel is a multilayered critique of the Soviet society in general and its literary establishment specifically. It begins with Satan visiting Moscow in the 1920s or 30s, joining a conversation of a critic and a poet, busily debating the existence of Jesus Christ and the Devil.\par \pard\plain  It then evolves into an all-embracing indictment of the corruption, gre- ed, narrow-mindedness, and widespread paranoia of Soviet Russia. Ban- ned but widely read, the novel firmly secured Bulgakov\'92s place among the pantheon of great Russian writers.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Bulgakov\'92s flat\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Bulgakov\'92s old flat, in which parts of The Master and Margarita are set, has since the 1980s become a gathering spot for Bulgakov\'92s fans, as well as Moscow-based Satanist groups, and had various kinds of graffiti scrawled on the walls. The numerous paintings, quips, and drawings were com- pletely whitewashed in 2003. Previously the best drawings were kept as the walls were repainted, so that several layers of different colored paints could be seen around the best drawings. The building\'92s residents, in an attempt to deter loitering, are currently attempting to turn the flat into a museum of Bulgakov\'92s life and works.\par \pard\plain  On December 21, 2006, the museum in Bulgakov\'92s flat was damaged by an anti-satanist protester and disgruntled neighbor, Alexander Morozov.\par \pard\plain  The museum remains open and contains personal belongings, pho- tos, and several exhibitions related to Bulgakov\'92s life and his different works. There is also a small cafe, and different poetic and literary events are often being held in the flat. As an extra bonus a black cat can some- times be seen walking around inside the museum. The museum\'92s web site (http://www.dombulgakova.ru/) is only available in Russian but the entrance is free and its opening hours are 1 pm - 11 pm. The flat is lo- cated close to Mayakovskaya metro station on the Sadovaya street, 10 (go through the arch and then turn to the left).\par \pard\plain   \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  Bulgakov Museum in Kiev\par \pard\plain  The Mikhail Bulgakov Museum (Bulgakov House) in Kiev, (in his family home, which was the model for the house of the Turbin family in The White Guard) has been converted to a literary museum with some rooms devoted to the writer, as well as some to his works.\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mikhail Bulgakov\par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  \par \pard\plain  --------------------------------------------------------------------------\par \pard\plain  \'c4\'f0\'f3\'e3\'e8\'e5 \'ea\'ed\'e8\'e3\'e8 \'f1\'ea\'e0\'f7\'e8\'e2\'e0\'e9\'f2\'e5 \'e1\'e5\'f1\'ef\'eb\'e0\'f2\'ed\'ee \'e2 \'f2\'e5\'ea\'f1\'f2\'ee\'e2\'ee\'ec \'e8 mp3 \'f4\'ee\'f0\'ec\'e0\'f2\'e5 \'ed\'e0 http://prochtu.ru\par \pard\plain  --------------------------------------------------------------------------\par \pard\plain  }