Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita

     Naturally the piano was shut  and locked, the  band went home and a few

journalists left for their newspaper offices  to write obituaries. The  news

spread  that Zheldybin was back from  the  morgue.  He moved  into Berlioz's

upstairs office and at once  a rumour started that he was going to take over

from Berlioz.  Zheldybin  summoned  all  twelve  members  of the  management

committee  from  the  restaurant and  in  an  emergency session  they  began

discussing such urgent questions  as the preparation of the colonnaded hall,

the transfer of  the body  from the morgue, the times at which members could

attend the lying-in-state and other matters connected with the tragic event.

     Downstairs in the restaurant life had returned to normal and would have

continued on its usual nocturnal course  until closing time at four, had not

something quite abnormal occurred which shocked the diners considerably more

than the news of Berlioz's death.

     The first to be alarmed were the cab drivers  waiting outside the gates

of Griboyedov. Jerking up with a start one of them shouted:

     ' Hey! Look at that!' A little glimmer flared up near the iron railings

and started to bob towards the verandah. Some of the diners stood up, stared

and saw that  the nickering light was accompanied  by a white apparition. As

it  approached  the  verandah  trellis  every  diner  froze,  eyes  bulging,

sturgeon-laden forks motionless  in  mid-air.  The  club porter, who at that

moment had just left the restaurant cloakroom  to  go outside  for a  smoke,

stubbed  out his cigarette  and  was just going to advance on the apparition

with  the aim of barring its way into the restaurant when for some reason he

changed his mind, stopped and grinned stupidly.

     The apparition, passing through an  opening in the trellis, mounted the

verandah  unhindered. As it did so  everyone saw that this was no apparition

but the distinguished poet Ivan Nikolayich Bezdomny.

     He was barefoot and wearing a torn, dirty white Russian blouse.  To its

front was safety-pinned  a paper ikon with a picture  of some unknown saint.

He was  wearing long  white underpants with a lighted candle in his hand and

his  right cheek bore a fresh scratch. It would be hard to fathom  the depth

of the silence which reigned on the verandah.  Beer poured  on to the  floor

from a mug held sideways by one of the waiters.

     The poet raised the candle above his head and said in a loud voice :

     ' Greetings,  friends!'  He then looked  under  the  nearest table  and

exclaimed with disappointment:

     ' No, he's not there.'

     Two voices were heard. A bass voice said pitilessly : ' An obvious case

of D.Ts.'

     The second, a frightened woman's voice enquired nervously :

     ' How did the police let him on to the streets in that state? '

     Ivan Nikolayich heard this and replied :

     ' They tried to arrest me twice, once in Skatertny Street and once here

on Bronnaya, but  I climbed over the fence  and  that's  how  I scratched my

cheek!  ' Ivan  Nikolayich  lifted  up his  candle  and  shouted:  '  Fellow

artists!' (His squeaky voice grew stronger and more urgent.) ' Listen to me,

all of you! He's come! Catch him at once or he'll do untold harm! '

     ' What's that? What? What did  he say? Who's come? ' came the questions

from all sides.

     ' A professor,' answered  Ivan, ' and it was  this professor who killed

Misha Berlioz this evening at Patriarch's.'

     By now people were streaming on  to the verandah  from the indoor rooms

and a crowd began milling round Ivan.

     '  I beg  your pardon, would you say that again more clearly? ' said  a

low, courteous voice  right beside Ivan Nikolayich's ear. ' Tell me, how was

he killed? Who killed him? '

     '  A foreigner--he's a professor  and  a spy,'  replied  Ivan,  looking

round.

     ' What's his name? ' said the voice again into his ear.

     ' That's just the trouble!' cried Ivan in frustration. ' If only I knew

his name!  I  couldn't read it  properly  on his  visiting card  ...  I only

remember the letter ' W '--the name began  with a ' W  '. What could it have

been? ' Ivan asked himself aloud,  clutching his forehead with his  hand.  '

We, wi,  wa .  . . wo . . . Walter? Wagner?  Weiner?  Wegner? Winter? '  The

hairs on Ivan's head started to stand on end from the effort.

     ' Wolff? ' shouted a woman, trying to help him.

     Ivan lost his temper.

     ' You fool!' he shouted, looking for the  woman in  the crowd. ' What's

Wolff  got to  do with it? He didn't do it ...  Wo, wa . . . No, I'll never

remember it like this. Now look,  everybody-- ring up the police at once and

tell them to  send five motorcycles and sidecars with machine-guns to  catch

the professor. And don't forget to say that there are two others with him--a

tall fellow in checks with a wobbly  pince-nez and a  great black cat. . . .

Meanwhile I'm going to search Griboyedov--I can sense that he's here! '

     Ivan was by now in a state  of some  excitement. Pushing the bystanders

aside he began waving his candle about,  pouring wax on himself, and started

to look under the tables. Then somebody said ' Doctor!  ' and a  fat, kindly

face,  clean-shaven,  smelling  of drink  and  with  horn-rimmed spectacles,

appeared in front of Ivan.

     ' Comrade Bezdomny,' said the face solemnly, ' calm down! You're upset

by  the death of our beloved  Mikhail Alexandrovich  . . . no, I  mean plain

Misha  Berlioz.  We all realise how you feel. You need rest. You'll be taken

home to bed in a moment and then you can relax and forget all about it. . .'

     '  Don't you realise,'  Ivan interrupted, scowling, ' that we've got to

catch the professor? And all  you can  do is  come creeping up to me talking

all this rubbish! Cretin! '

     ' Excuse me. Comrade Bezdomny! ' replied the face, blushing, retreating

and already wishing it had never let itself get involved in this affair.

     '  No,  I  don't  care  who  you are--I  won't excuse you,'  said  Ivan

Nikolayich with quiet hatred.

     A  spasm distorted his  face, he rapidly switched the  candle from  his

right to his left hand,  swung his arm and punched the sympathetic  face  on

the ear.

     Several  people  reached  the  same  conclusion  at   once  and  hurled

themselves at Ivan. The candle went out, the horn-rims fell off the face and

were instantly smashed underfoot. Ivan let out a dreadful war-whoop audible,

to  everybody's embarrassment, as far as the boulevard, and began  to defend

himself. There came a tinkle of breaking crockery, women screamed.

     While the waiters tied up the poet with dish-cloths, a conversation was

in progress in the cloakroom between the porter and the captain of the brig.

     ' Didn't  you see that he was  wearing underpants? ' asked  the  pirate

coldly.

     '  But  Archibald Archibaldovich--I'm a coward,' replied the porter,  '

how could I stop him from coming in? He's a member!'

     ' Didn't you see that he was wearing underpants? ' repeated the pirate.

     ' Please, Archibald Archibaldovich,--' said the porter, turning purple,

' what could I do? I know there are ladies on the ver-andah, but...'

     '  The ladies  don't matter.  They don't  mind,'  replied  the  pirate,

roasting the  porter with his glare. ' But the police mind! There's only one

way  a man can walk round Moscow in his  underwear--when he's being escorted

by the  police on the way to a police station! And you, if you call yourself

a  porter, ought to  know that if you see a man in that state it's your duty

not to waste a moment but to start blowing your whistle I Do you hear? Can't

you hear what's happening on the verandah? '

     The wretched  porter could hear the sounds of smashing crockery, groans

and women's screams from the verandah only too well.

     ' Now what do you propose to do about it? ' enquired the buccaneer.

     The skin on the porter's face took on a leprous shade and his eyes went

blank. It  seemed to him that the other man's black hair, now neatly parted,

was  covered by  a fiery silk  kerchief.  Starched shirtfront  and tail-coat

vanished, a  pistol was  sticking  out of his leather belt.  The porter  saw

himself  dangling from the foretop yard-arm,  his tongue protruding from his

lifeless, drooping head. He could  even hear  the  waves lapping against the

ship's side. The porter's knees trembled. But the buccaneer took pity on him

and switched off his terrifying glare.

     ' All right, Nikolai--but mind it  never happens  again! We can't  have

porters  like you  in a restaurant--you'd better go  and be  a  verger  in a

church.' Having said this the captain gave a few rapid, crisp, clear orders:

' Send the barman.  Police. Statement. Car. Mental hospital.' And he added :

'Whistle!'

     A quarter of an hour later, to  the astonishment  of  the people in the

restaurant, on the  boulevard and at the  windows of the surrounding houses,

the  barman, the  porter, a policeman, a waiter and the poet Ryukhin were to

be seen emerging from  the gates  of Griboyedov dragging a young man trussed

up like a  mummy, who was weeping, spitting,  lashing  out  at  Ryukhin  and

shouting for the whole street to hear :

     ' You swine! . . . You swine! . . . '

     A buzzing  crowd collected, discussing  the incredible scene. It was of

course an  abominable,  disgusting, thrilling,  revolting scandal which only

ended when  a  lorry drove  away from the gates  of Griboyedov carrying  the

unfortunate Ivan Nikolayich, the policeman, the barman and Ryukhin.

 

 

 

        6. Schizophrenia

 

 

 

     At half past one in the morning  a man with a pointed beard and wearing

a  white overall  entered the reception hall of a  famous psychiatric clinic

recently completed in  the  suburbs of Moscow. Three orderlies  and the poet

Ryukhin  stood nervously watching Ivan Nikolayich as he sat on  a divan. The

dish-cloths that had been used to  pinion  Ivan Nikolayich now lay in a heap

on the same divan, leaving his arms and legs free.

     As the man came in Ryukhin turned pale, coughed and said timidly:

     ' Good morning, doctor.'

     The  doctor  bowed  to Ryukhin but looked  at Ivan Nikolayich,  who was

sitting completely immobile and  scowling furiously. He  did not  even  move

when the doctor appeared.

     '  This,  doctor,' began  Ryukhin  in  a  mysterious  whisper, glancing

anxiously at Ivan Nikolayich,  ' is the  famous  poet  Ivan  Bezdomny. We're

afraid he may have D.Ts.'

     ' Has he been drinking heavily? ' enquired the doctor through  clenched

teeth.

     ' No, he's had a few drinks, but not enough . . .'

     ' Has he been trying to catch spiders, rats, little devils or dogs? '

     ' No,'  replied Ryukhin,  shuddering. '  I saw  him yesterday  and this

morning ... he was perfectly well then.'

     ' Why is he in his underpants? Did you have to pull him out of bed?'

     ' He came into a restaurant like this, doctor'

     ' Aha, aha,' said the doctor in a tone of great satisfaction. ' And why

the scratches? Has he been fighting? '

     ' He fell off the fence and then he hit someone in the restaurant , . .

and someone else, too  .  . .' ' I see, I see, I  see,' said the doctor  and

added, turning to Ivan :

     ' Good morning! '

     ' Hello, you quack! ' said Ivan, loudly and viciously.

     Ryukhin  was so  embarrassed that  he  dared  not  raise  his eyes. The

courteous doctor, however, showed no signs  of offence and with a  practised

gesture took off  his spectacles, lifted the skirt  of his overall, put them

in his hip pocket and then asked Ivan:

     ' How old are you? '

     ' Go to hell! ' shouted Ivan rudely and turned away.

     '  Why are  you being so disagreeable?  Have  I said anything to  upset

you?'

     ' I'm twenty-three,'  said  Ivan excitedly, ' and I'm  going to lodge a

complaint against all of you--and you in particular, you louse! ' He spat at

Ryukhin.

     ' What will your complaint be? '

     '  That you arrested  me, a perfectly healthy man, and forcibly dragged

me off to the madhouse! ' answered Ivan in fury.

     At this  Ryukhin took a  close look at Ivan and felt  a chill  down his

spine  : there was not a trace of insanity in the man's eyes.  They had been

slightly clouded at Griboyedov, but now they were as clear as before.

     '  Godfathers! ' thought Ryukhin in  terror. '  He really  is perfectly

normal! What  a ghastly  business!  Why  have  we brought him here?  There's

nothing the matter with him except a few scratches on his face . . .'

     '  You are not,' said the doctor calmly, sitting down  on a stool on  a

single chromium-plated stalk, ' in  a madhouse but in a clinic, where nobody

is  going to keep you  if it  isn't necessary.'  Ivan  gave him a suspicious

scowl, but muttered :

     ' Thank  God for that!  At last I've found one  normal person among all

these idiots and the worst idiot of the lot is that incompetent fraud Sasha!

'

     ' Who is this incompetent  Sasha? ' enquired  the doctor. ' That's him,

Ryukhin,' replied Ivan, jabbing a dirty finger in

     Ryukhin's direction, who spluttered in protest. ' That's all the thanks

I get,'  he  thought bitterly, ' for  showing  him  some  sympathy!  What  a

miserable swine he is! '

     * A  typical kulak mentality,' said Ivan Nikolayich, who obviously felt

a sudden urge to attack Ryukhin. ' And what's more he's a kulak masquerading

as a proletarian. Look at his mean face and compare it with all that pompous

verse he writes for  May Day ... all that stuff about  "onwards and upwards"

and  "banners  waving  "! If  you could  look inside  him and  see what he's

thinking you'd be sickened! ' And Ivan Nikolayich  gave a hoot  of malicious

laughter.

     Ryukhin, breathing heavily, turned red. There was  only  one thought in

his mind--that he had nourished a serpent in his bosom, that he had tried to

help someone who when it came to the pinch had treacherously rounded on him.

The worst of it was that  he could not answer back--one  mustn't swear at  a

lunatic!

     ' Exactly why have they brought you here?  ' asked the  doctor, who had

listened to Bezdomny's outburst with great attention.

     ' God knows, the blockheads! They  grabbed me,  tied  me  up  with some

filthy rags and dumped me in a lorry!'

     '  May  I ask  why you  came  into  the restaurant in  nothing but your

underwear?'

     ' There's nothing odd about it,' answered Ivan. '  I went for a swim in

the  Moscow  River  and  someone pinched my  clothes  and left me this  junk

instead! I  couldn't  walk round Moscow naked, could I? I had to put on what

there was, because I was in a hurry to get to the Griboyedov restaurant.'

     The doctor glanced questioningly at Ryukhin, who mumbled sulkily:

     ' Yes, that's the name of the restaurant.'

     ' Aha,' said the doctor, ' but why were you in  such a hurry?  Did  you

have an appointment there? '

     ' I  had  to catch the  professor,'  replied  Ivan Nikolayich, glancing

nervously round.

     ' What professor? ' ' Do you  know Berlioz? ' asked Ivan with a meaning

look.

     ' You mean . . . the composer? '

     Ivan  looked  puzzled. ' What  composer?  Oh,  yes  . . . no,  no.  The

composer just happens to have the same name as Misha Berlioz.'

     Ryukhin was still feeling too offended to speak, but he had to explain:

     ' Berlioz,  the  chairman  of  MASSOLIT, was  run over by a  tram  this

evening at Patriarch's.'

     ' Don't lie, you--you don't know anything  about it,' Ivan burst out at

Ryukhin. '  I was there,  not you!  He made  him fall  under  that  tram  on

purpose! '

     ' Did he push him? '

     '  What  are  you  talking  about?'  exclaimed Ivan,  irritated by  his

listener's failure to grasp the situation. ' He didn't have to push  him! He

can do things you'd never believe! He knew in advance that Berlioz was going

to fall under a tram! '

     ' Did anybody see this professor apart from you? '

     ' No, that's the trouble. Only Berlioz and myself.'

     '  I see.  What steps  did  you take  to arrest this murderer?' At this

point the  doctor turned  and threw a glance at a woman  in a  white overall

sitting behind a desk.

     ' This is what I did : I took this candle from the kitchen . . .'

     ' This  one? ' asked the doctor, pointing to  a broken candle lying  on

the desk beside the ikon.

     ' Yes, that's the one, and . . .'

     ' Why the ikon? '

     ' Well, er, the  ikon. . . .' Ivan blushed. ' You see an ikon frightens

them more than  anything else.' He again pointed at Ryukhin.  ' But the fact

is that the professor is ... well, let's be frank . . . he's  in league with

the powers of evil . . . and it's not so easy to catch someone like him.'

     The orderlies stretched their hands down their trouser-seams and stared

even harder at Ivan.

     '  Yes,'  went  on Ivan. ' He's in league with them. There's no arguing

about it.  He once talked to Pontius Pilate. It's no good looking at me like

that,  I'm telling  you  the  truth!  He saw  it all --the balcony, the palm

trees. He was actually with Pontius Pilate, I'll swear it.'

     ' Well, now . . .'

     ' So, as I was saying, I pinned the ikon to my chest and ran .,.'

     Here the clock struck twice.

     '  Oh, my  God!  ' exclaimed Ivan and rose  from the divan.  ' It's two

o'clock  and here am I wasting  time talking to you! Would you mind--where's

the telephone? '

     ' Show him the telephone,' the doctor said to the orderlies.

     As Ivan grasped the receiver the woman quietly asked Ryukhin:

     ' Is he married? '

     ' No, he's a bachelor,' replied Ryukhin, startled.

     ' Is he a union member? '

     ' Yes.'

     '  Police? ' shouted Ivan into  the  mouthpiece.  ' Police? Is that the

duty  officer?  Sergeant,  please  arrange  to send five  motor  cycles with

sidecars,  armed  with machine-guns  to  arrest the foreign professor. What?

Take me with you, I'll show you where to go. .  . . This is  Bezdomny, I'm a

poet, and I'm speaking from the lunatic asylum. . . . What's your address? '

Bezdomny whispered to the doctor, covering the mouthpiece with his palm, and

then yelled back into the receiver: ' Are you listening? Hullo! . . . Fools!

.  . .' Ivan suddenly roared, hurling  the  receiver at  the  wall. Then  he

turned  round to  the doctor, offered him  his hand, said a curt goodbye and

started to go.

     '  Excuse  me, but  where are you  proposing to go?'  said  the doctor,

looking Ivan in the eye. ' At  this hour of night, in your  underwear .  . .

You're not well, stay with us.'

     ' Come on, let me through,' said Ivan to the orderlies who had lined up

to  block the doorway. ' Are you  going  to let me go or not?  ' shouted the

poet in a terrible voice.

     Ryukhin  shuddered.  The  woman  pressed  a  button on  the  desk  ;  a

glittering  metal box  and  a  sealed  ampoule  popped out  on to its  glass

surface.

     '  Ah,  so that's  your game, is  it?  ' said Ivan with  a wild, hunted

glance around. ' All  right then . . . Goodbye!! ' And he threw himself head

first at the shuttered window.

     There was a loud crash, but the glass  did not even crack, and a moment

later  Ivan Nikolayich  was  struggling  in  the arms  of  the orderlies. He

screamed, tried to bite, then shouted :

     ' Fine sort of glass you put in your windows! Let me go! Let me go! '

     A hypodermic syringe glittered in the doctor's hand, with one sweep the

woman pushed back the tattered sleeve of  Ivan's blouse  and clamped his arm

in a most  un-feminine  grip.  There  was a  smell of ether,  Ivan  weakened

slightly  in the grasp of the  four men and the  doctor skilfully seized the

moment to  jab the  needle into Ivan's arm. Ivan kept up  the struggle for a

few more seconds, then collapsed on to the divan.

     ' Bandits! ' cried Ivan and leaped up, only to be  pushed back. As soon

as they  let him go he jumped up again, but sat down of  his  own accord. He

said nothing, staring  wildly about him, then gave a sudden  unexpected yawn

and smiled malevolently :

     '  So you're going to lock me up after all,' he said, yawned again, lay

down with his head on the cushion, his fist under his cheek like a child and

muttered in a sleepy voice but without malice : '  All right, then . . . but