Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita

harm.'

     ' So  you think he should be arrested? Have I understood you correctly?

' asked Stravinsky.

     ‘  He's  clever,' thought  Ivan, ' I must admit  there are a few bright

ones among the intellectuals,' and he replied :

     '  Quite correct. It's  obvious--he must be arrested! And meanwhile I'm

being kept here by force while they flash lamps  at me, bath  me and  ask me

idiotic questions about uncle Fyodor! He's been dead for years! I  demand to

be let out at once! '

     ' Splendid,  splendid! ' cried Stravinsky. '  I see it all  now. You're

right--what is the use of keeping a healthy man in hospital? Very well, I'll

discharge you at once if you  tell me you're normal. You don't have to prove

it--just say it. Well, are you normal? '

     There  was complete  silence. The fat woman  who had examined Ivan that

morning glanced reverently at the professor and once again Ivan thought:

     ' Extremely clever! '

     The professor's offer pleased him a great deal, but  before replying he

thought hard, frowning, until at last he announced firmly:

     ' I am normal.'

     '  Splendid,' exclaimed Stravinsky with relief.  ' In that  case let us

reason  logically.  We'll  begin  by  considering  what   happened   to  you

yesterday.' Here  he turned and was immediately handed Ivan's questionnaire.

' Yesterday, while  in search of an unknown man, who had introduced  himself

as  a friend  of Pontius Pilate, you did  the following:  ' Here  Stravinsky

began  ticking  off the points on his long fingers, glancing back and  forth

from the paper to Ivan. ' You pinned an ikon to your chest. Right? '

     ' Right,' Ivan agreed sulkily.

     ' You fell off a  fence and scratched your face. Right? You appeared in

a restaurant carrying a lighted candle, wearing only underpants, and you hit

somebody in the  restaurant. You were  tied  up and brought  here, where you

rang the police and asked them to send some machine-guns. You then attempted

to throw yourself out of the window. Right? The question--is that the way to

set about  catching or  arresting somebody? If you're normal you're bound to

reply--no, it isn't. You want  to leave here? Very well.  But where,  if you

don't mind my asking, do you propose to go? ' ' To  the police,  of course,'

replied Ivan, although rather less firmly and  slightly disconcerted by  the

professor's stare.

     ' Straight from here? '

    ' Mm'hh.'

     ' Won't you go home first? ' Stravinsky asked quickly.

     ' Why should I go there? While I'm going home he might get away!'

     ' I see. And what will you tell the police? '

     ' I'll tell them about  Pontius Pilate,'  replied Ivan  Nikolayich, his

eyes clouding.

     '  Splendid!  ' exclaimed Stravinsky, defeated, and turning  to the man

with  the  beard he  said: ' Fyodor Vasilievich,  please arrange for citizen

Bezdomny to be discharged. But don't put anybody else in this room and don't

change the bedclothes. Citizen  Bezdomny will  be back  here  again  in  two

hours. Well,' he said to the poet, ‘I won't wish you success  because I  see

no chance  whatever  of your succeeding.  See you soon!' He  got up  and his

retinue started to go.

     ' Why will I come back here? ' asked Ivan anxiously.

     ' Because  as soon as you  appear at a  police station dressed in  your

underpants  and say  yom've  met a  man  who  knew  Pontius  Pilate,  you'll

immediately be brought back here and put in this room again.'

     ' Because of my underpants? '  asked Ivan,  staring  distractedly about

him.

     ' Chiefly because of  Pontims Pilate. But the  underpants will help. We

shall have to take a.way your hospital clothes  and give you back your  own.

And you came here wearing  underpants. Incidentally  you said nothing  about

going home first, despite my hint. After that you only have to start talking

about Pontius Pilate . . . and you're done for.'

     At this point something odd happened to Ivan Nikolayich. His will-power

seemed to crumple. He felt himself weak and in need of advice.

     ' What should I do, then? ' he asked, timidly this time.

     ' Splendid! ' said Stravinsky. ' A most reasonable question.

     Now I'll tell  you what  has really happened to  you. Yesterday someone

gave you a bad fright and upset you with this story about Pontius Pilate and

other things. So  you, worn out and nerve-racked,  wandered  round  the town

talking about Pontius Pilate. Quite naturally people took you for a lunatic.

Your only salvation now is complete rest. And you must stay here.'

     ' But somebody must arrest him! ' cried Ivan, imploringly.

     ' Certainly,  but  why  should  you have to do it?  Put down  all  your

suspicions  and accusations against  this  man on a piece  of paper. Nothing

could  be simpler than  to send your statement to the proper authorities and

if,  as  you suspect,  the man is  a criminal,  it will come to  light  soon

enough. But on one condition--don't over-exert your  mind and try to think a

bit less about Pontius Pilate. If  you harp on that story I don't think many

people are going to believe you.'

     ' Right  you  are!  ' announced Ivan firmly.  ' Please give me  pen and

paper.'

     ' Give him some paper and a  short  pencil,' said Stravinsky to the fat

woman, then turning  to Ivan : '  But I don't  advise  you to  start writing

today.'

     ' No, no, today! I must do it today! ' cried Ivan excitedly.

     '  All right. Only don't overtax  your brain. If you don't get it quite

right today, tomorrow will do.'

     ' But he'll get away! '

     ' Oh no,' countered  Stravinsky. ' I assure you  he's  not going to get

away.  And remember--we are here to help you  in every way we can and unless

we  do,  nothing will come of your plan. D'you hear? '  Stravinsky  suddenly

asked, seizing Ivan Nikolay-ich by both hands. As he held them in his own he

stared intently into Ivan's eyes, repeating : ' We shall help you ... do you

hear? . .  . We shall help you  .  . . you will be  able to relax . . . it's

quiet here, everything's going to be all right ... all right .  . . we shall

help you . . .'

     Ivan Nikolayich suddenly yawned and his expression softened.

     ' Yes, I see,' he said quietly.

     '  Splendid!  '  said  Stravinsky, closing  the conversation  in his no

habitual way and getting up. ' Goodbye!' He shook Ivan by the hand and as he

went out he  turned to  the  man with  the beard  and said :  ' Yes, and try

oxygen . . . and baths.'

     A  few moments  later Stravinsky and his retinue were gone. Through the

window and the grille  the gay, springtime wood gleamed  brightly on the far

bank and the river sparkled in the noon sunshine.

 

 

 

        9. Koroviev's Tricks

 

 

 

     Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi, chairman of  the tenants'  association  of No.

302A, Sadovaya  Street,  Moscow,  where the  late Berlioz had lived, was  in

trouble. It had all begun on the previous Wednesday night.

     At midnight, as we already know, the police had arrived with Zheldybin,

had  hauled Nikanor Ivanovich out of  bed, told him  of Berlioz's death  and

followed him to flat No. 50. There they had sealed the deceased's papers and

personal effects. Neither Grunya the maid, who lived out,  nor the imprudent

Stepan Bogdanovich were in the flat at the time. The police informed Nikanor

Ivanovich that they would call  later  to collect  Berlioz's manuscripts for

sorting and examination  and that his  accommodation,  consisting  of  three

rooms (the jeweller's study, drawing-room and  dining-room) would  revert to

the  tenants' association for disposal. His  effects were to  be  kept under

seal until the legatees' claims were proved by the court.

     The  news  of  Berlioz's  death   spread  through  the   building  with

supernatural speed and from seven o'clock on Thursday morning  Bosoi started

to get telephone  calls.  After  that people  began  calling in  person with

written pleas of their urgent need of vacant housing space. Within the space

of two hours Nikanor Ivanovich had collected thirty-two such statements.

     They contained entreaties, threats,  intrigue, denunciations,  promises

to redecorate the flat, remarks  about overcrowding and the impossibility of

sharing a flat with bandits. Among them was a description, shattering in its

literary power, of the theft of some meat-balls from someone's jacket pocket

in  flat No.  31,  two  threats  of  suicide  and one  confession  of secret

pregnancy.

     Nikanor Ivanovich  was  again  and  again taken aside with  a  wink and

assured in whispers that he would do well on the deal....

     This torture  lasted until one o'clock,  when Nikanor  Ivanovich simply

ran out of his flat by  the  main entrance,  only to run away again  when he

found them lying in  wait for him outside.  Somehow contriving to throw  off

the  people who chased him  across the  asphalt courtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich

took refuge in staircase 6 and climbed to the fatal apartment.

     Panting with exertion, the stout Nikanor Ivanovich rang the bell on the

fifth-floor landing. No  one opened. He  rang again and  again and began  to

swear  quietly. Still no answer. Nikanor  Ivanovich's  patience gave way and

pulling a bunch of duplicate keys from his  pocket he opened the door with a

masterful flourish and walked in.

     ' Hello, there! ' shouted  Nikanor Ivanovich in the dim hallway.  ' Are

you there, Grunya? '

     No reply.

     Nikanor Ivanovich then took  a folding ruler out of his pocket, used it

to prise the seal from the  study  door and  strode in. At least he began by

striding in, but stopped in the doorway with a start of amazement.

     Behind Berlioz's  desk sat  a tall,  thin stranger  in a  check jacket,

jockey cap and pince-nez. . . .

     ' And who might you be, citizen? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich.

     ' Nikanor Ivanovich!  ' cried  the mysterious  stranger in a  quavering

tenor. He leaped up and greeted the chairman  with an  unexpectedly powerful

handshake which Nikanor Ivanovich found extremely painful.

     ' Pardon me,' he said suspiciously, ' but who are you? Are you somebody

official? '

     ' Ah, Nikanor Ivanovich!  ' said the stranger in  a man-to-man voice. '

Who  is official and who is unofficial  these days? It  all depends on  your

point of view. It's  all so vague and changeable,  Nikanor Ivanovich.  Today

I'm unofficial, tomorrow, hey presto! I'm official! Or maybe vice-versa--who

knows? '

     None  of  this satisfied the chairman. By nature  a suspicious  man, he

decided that this voluble individual  was  not  only  unofficial  but had no

business to be there.

     ' Who are you? What's your name? ' said  the chairman firmly, advancing

on the stranger.

     ' My name,' replied the man, quite unmoved by this hostile reception, '

is . . . er . . . let's say . . . Koroviev. Wouldn't you like a bite to eat,

Nikanor Ivanovich? As we're friends? '

     ' Look here,' said Nikanor Ivanovich disagreeably, ' what  the hell  do

you  mean--eat?  '  (Sad  though  it  is to admit, Nikanor Ivanovich  had no

manners.) ' You're not allowed to come into a dead man's flat!  What are you

doing here? '

     '  Now  just  sit  down,  Nikanor  Ivanovich,'  said the  imperturbable

stranger in a wheedling voice, offering Nikanor Ivanovich a chair.

     Infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich kicked the chair away and yelled:

     ' Who are you? '

     ' I am employed  as interpreter to a foreign gentleman residing in this

flat,'  said the self-styled Koroviev by  way of introduction  as he clicked

the heels of his dirty brown boots.

     Nikanor Ivanovich's mouth fell open. A foreigner in this flat, complete

with  interpreter,  was   a  total  surprise  to  him  and  he  demanded  an

explanation.

     This  the interpreter willingly  supplied. Monsieur Woland, an  artiste

from abroad, had  been kindly invited by the manager of the Variety Theatre,

Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev, to spend his stay as a guest artiste, about a

week, in  his flat. Likhodeyev  had written  to Nikanor  Ivanovich about  it

yesterday,  requesting  him  to register  the  gentlemen  from abroad  as  a

temporary resident while Likhodeyev himself was away in Yalta.

     ' But he hasn't written to me,' said the bewildered chairman.

     ' Take a look in your briefcase, Nikanor Ivanovich,' suggested Koroviev

amiably.

     Shrugging  his  shoulders Nikanor Ivanovich  opened  his  briefcase and

found a  letter  from  Likhodeyev. ' Now how could I  have forgotten that? '

mumbled Nikanor Ivanovich, gazing stupidly at the opened envelope.

     '  It happens to the best of us, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cackled Koroviev.

'  Absent-mindedness,  overstrain  and high blood-pressure, my  dear friend!

Why, I'm horribly absent-minded. Some time over a glass or two I'll tell you

a few things that have happened to me--you'll die with laughter! '

     ' When is Likhodeyev going to Yalta? '

     '  He's already gone,' cried the interpreter. ' He's on his way  there.

God knows  where  he is by now.' And the interpreter  waved  his  arms  like

windmill sails.

     Nikanor Ivanovich announced that he had to see the foreign gentleman in

person, but  this was  refused. It  was quite out of  the question. Monsieur

Woland was busy. Training his cat.

     ' You can see the cat if you like,' suggested Koroviev.

     This  Nikanor  Ivanovich declined and the interpreter then made him  an

unexpected  but most  interesting proposal: since Monsieur Woland could  not

bear staying  in  hotels  and was used  to  spacious quarters,  couldn't the

tenants' association lease him the whole flat for his week's stay, including

the dead man's rooms?

     ' After  all, what  does he care? He's  dead,'  hissed  Koroviev  in  a

whisper. ' You must admit the flat's no use to him now, is it?'

     In  some  perplexity Nikanor  Ivanovich objected that  foreigners  were

normally supposed to stay at the Metropole and not in private  accommodation

. . .

     '  I  tell  you  he's  so fussy,  you'd never  believe  it,'  whispered

Koroviev. ' He simply refuses! He hates  hotels! I can  tell you I'm  fed up

with  these  foreign  tourists,' complained  Koroviev confidentially. ' They

wear me out. They  come here and either they  go spying and snooping or they

send me mad with their whims  and fancies--this isn't right, that isn't just

so! And there'd be  plenty in it  for  your association,  Nikanor Ivanovich.

He's not short of money.' Koroviev  glanced round and then whispered in  the

chairman's ear : ' He's a millionaire!'

     The suggestion  was obviously a sensible  one,  but there was something

ridiculous about his manner,  his clothes and that absurd, useless pince-nez

that  all combined  to make  Nikanor  Ivanovich  vaguely uneasy. However  he

agreed  to  the suggestion. The  tenants' association, alas, was showing  an

enormous  deficit. In the autumn they would  have to buy oil  for the  steam

heating  plant and  there was  not a kopeck  in  the  till,  but  with  this

foreigner's  money they might  just manage  it. Nikanor Ivanovich,  however,

practical and  cautious as ever,  insisted on clearing the matter with  the

tourist bureau.

     ' Of course! ' cried Koroviev. ' It must be done  properly. There's the

telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, ring them up right away! And don't worry about

money,' he added in a whisper as he led the chairman to the telephone in the

hall, ' if anyone can pay handsomely,  he can. If you could see his villa in

Nice! When you go abroad next  summer you must go there specially and have a

look at it--you'll be amazed! '

     The matter was fixed with  the tourist bureau with astonishing ease and

speed. The  bureau appeared to know all about Monsieur Woland's intention to

stay in Likodeyev's flat and raised no objections.

     ' Excellent! ' cried Koroviev.

     Slightly  stupefied  by this  man's  incessant cackling,  the  chairman

announced that the tenants' association was prepared to lease flat No. 50 to

Monsieur Woland the artiste at a rent of ...  Nikanor Ivanovich stammered  a

little and said :

     ' Five hundred roubles a day.'

     At this Koroviev  surpassed himself.  Winking  conspiratorially towards

the bedroom  door,  through which they could hear a series of soft thumps as

the cat practised its leaps, he said :

     '  So for  a  week  that  would  amount to  three  and a half thousand,

wouldn't it? '

     Nikanor Ivanovich  quite expected the man  to add ' Greedy, aren't you,

Nikanor Ivanovich? ' but instead he said:

     ' That's not much. Ask him for five thousand, he'll pay.'

     Grinning with  embarrassment, Nikanor Ivanovich did not even notice how

he suddenly came to be  standing beside Berlioz's  desk and how Koroviev had

managed  with  such incredible  speed and dexterity  to draft a contract  in

duplicate.  This  done, he flew  into the bedroom and returned with  the two

copies signed in the stranger's florid hand. The chairman signed in turn and

Koroviev asked him to make out a receipt for five . . .

     ' Write it out in words, Nikanor Ivanovich. " Five thousand roubles ".'

Then with  a  flourish which seemed vaguely  out of place  in such a serious

matter--' Eins! 'yvei! drei! '--he laid five bundles  of brand-new banknotes

on the table.

     Nikanor Ivanovich checked them, to an accompaniment of  witticisms from

Koroviev of the ' better safe than sorry ' variety. Having counted the money

the chairman took the stranger's passport  to be stamped with his  temporary

residence  permit, put contract, passport  and money  into his briefcase and

asked shyly for a free ticket to the show . . .

     ' But of course! ' exclaimed Koroviev.  ' How many do you want, Nikanor

Ivanovich--twelve, fifteen? '

     Overwhelmed,  the chairman explained that  he only wanted two, one  for

his wife Pelagea Antonovna and one for himself.

     Koroviev seized a note-pad and dashed  off  an order  to the box office

for two complimentary tickets in the front row. As the interpreter handed it

to Nikanor Ivanovich with his left hand, with his right he gave him a thick,

crackling package. Glancing at it Nikanor Ivanovich blushed hard and started

to push it away.

     ' It's not proper . . .'

     ' I won't  hear any objection,' Koroviev whispered right in his ear.  '

We don't do this sort of thing but foreigners do. You'll offend him, Nikanor

Ivanovich, and that might be awkward. You've earned it . . .'

     '  It's strictly forbidden  . . .' whispered  the  chairman in  a  tiny

voice, with a furtive glance around.

     '  Where are the witnesses? ' hissed  Koroviev into his  other ear. ' I

ask you--where are they? Come, now . . .'

     There then happened what the chairman later described as a miracle--the

package jumped  into his briefcase of its own accord,  after which  he found

himself,  feeling weak and battered, on the staircase. A storm  of  thoughts

was whirling round inside his head. Among  them were the villa in Nice,  the

trained cat, relief that there had been no witnesses and his wife's pleasure

at  the complimentary tickets. Yet despite these mostly comforting thoughts,

in the depths of  his soul the chairman still felt the  pricking of a little

needle. It was the needle of unease. Suddenly,  halfway down  the staircase,

something else occurred to him-- how had that interpreter found his way into

the study past a  sealed  door? And why on earth had  he, Nikanor Ivanovich,

forgotten to ask him about it? For a while  the chairman stared at the steps

like a  sheep,  then  decided to  forget it and not  to  bother himself with

imaginary problems . . .

     As soon as the  chairman  had left the  flat a low voice  came from the

bedroom:

     ' I don't care for that Nikanor  Ivanovich. He's a sly rogue.  Why  not

fix it so that he doesn't come here again? '

     ' Messire, you only have to  give the order . . .' answered Koroviev in

a firm, clear voice that no longer quavered.

     At  once  the diabolical  interpreter  was in the  hall,  had dialled a

number and started to speak in a whining voice :

     ' Hullo!  I consider it my  duty to report  that  the  chairman  of our

tenants'  association  at No. 302À Sadovaya Street, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi,

is  dealing in  black-market  foreign currency.  He has  just  stuffed  four

hundred dollars  wrapped  in  newspaper  into  the ventilation shaft  of the

lavatory in his flat. No. 3 5. My name is Timothy Kvastsov and I live in the

same block, flat No. 11.  But please keep my name  a  secret.  I'm afraid of