seal! Yes, sir...
     And here  some  most  disagreeable  little  thoughts  began stirring in
Styopa's  brain, about  the article which,  as luck  would have it,  he  had
recently inflicted on Mikhail Alexandrovich for publication in his journal.
     The article, just between us, was idiotic! And worthless. And the money
was so little...
     Immediately after the recollection  of the article, there came flying a
recollection 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 conversation),
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...
     'Ah, Berlioz, Berlioz!' boiled up  in Styopa's head. This is simply too
much for one head!'
     But it would not do to  grieve too  long, and Styopa dialled the number
of the office of  the  Variety's findirector, Rimsky. Styopa's  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
findirector was also exceedingly difficult.  Indeed,  he could not just  ask
him like that:
     `Tell  me,  did  I sign a  contract for  thirty-five  thousand  roubles
yesterday with a professor of black magic?' It was no good asking like that!
     'Yes!' Rimsky's sharp, unpleasant voice came from the receiver.
     'Hello,  Grigory  Danilovich,'  Styopa began  speaking  quietly,  'it's
Likhodeev. There's  a certain  matter... hm...  hm... I  have  this... er...
artiste Woland sitting here... So you see... I wanted to ask, how about this
evening?...'
     'Ah, the black magician?' Rimsky's voice responded in the receiver. The
posters will be ready shortly.'
     'Uh-huh...' Styopa said in a weak voice, 'well, 'bye...'
     'And you'll be coming in soon?' Rimsky asked.
     'In half an hour,' 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?
     However, to  go on  lingering in the front hall was awkward, and Styopa
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.
     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 recognized this
specimen at  once!). The figure was  reflected and then disappeared.  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 disappeared.
     Styopa's heart skipped a beat, he staggered.
     'What is  all this?' he thought. 'Am  I losing my mind? Where are these
reflections  coming  from?!'  He  peeked  into  the  front  hall  and  cried
timorously:
     'Grunya! What's this cat  doing hanging around here?! Where did he come
from? And the other one?!'
     'Don't worry, Stepan Bogdanovich,' a voice  responded, not Grunya's but
the visitor's,  from the  bedroom. The  cat  is mine. Don't  be nervous. And
Grunya is not here, I  sent her off to Voronezh.  She complained you diddled
her out of a vacation.'
     These words were so unexpected and preposterous that  Styopa decided 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.
     The visitor was no longer alone in the bedroom, but had company: in 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's wife's 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 mushroom, in
the other.
     The light, faint in the bedroom anyway, now began to grow quite dark in
Styopa's  eyes. This is  apparently how one loses one's mind...' he  thought
and caught hold of the doorpost.
     `I see you're somewhat surprised, my dearest Stepan Bogdanovich?'
     Woland  inquired  of  the  teeth-chattering  Styopa.  `And yet  there's
nothing to be surprised at. This is my retinue.'
     Here  the  cat tossed off  the vodka, and Styopa's hand began to  slide
down the doorpost.
     'And  this  retinue requires room,' Woland continued,  'so there's just
one too many of us in  the apartment. And it seems to  us that this  one too
many is precisely you.'
     Theirself, theirself!' the long  checkered one sang in  a goat's voice,
referring to Styopa in the plural. 'Generally, theirself has been up to some
terrible swinishness lately. Drinking, using their position to have liaisons
with  women,  don't  do  devil a thing, and can't do  anything, because they
don't know anything of  what they're supposed to  do.  Pulling the wool over
their superiors' eyes.'
     `Availing hisself  of a government car!' the  cat  snitched, chewing  a
mushroom.
     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.
     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.
     'Generally,'  this  new  one  entered into  the  conversation, `I don't
understand  how he got to  be  a  director,' the redhead's  nasal twang  was
growing stronger and stronger, 'he's as much a director as I'm a bishop.'
     "You don't look like a bishop, Azazello,'[6] the cat observed,  heaping
his plate with frankfurters.
     That's what I  mean,'  twanged the redhead  and,  turning to Woland, he
added deferentially:
     'Allow me, Messire, to chuck him the devil out of Moscow?'
     'Scat!' the cat barked suddenly, bristling his fur.
     And  then the  bedroom  started spinning around Styopa, he hit his head
against the doorpost, and, losing consciousness, thought: 'I'm dying...'
     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's 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.
     Not  knowing how to  behave  in such  a case,  Styopa  got  up  on  his
trembling legs and walked along the jetty towards the shore.
     Some man was standing on the jetty, smoking and spitting into the sea.
     He looked at Styopa with wild eyes and stopped spitting.
     Then  Styopa pulled  the following  stunt: he  knelt  down  before  the
unknown smoker and said:
     'I implore you, tell me what city is this?'
     "Really!' said the heartless smoker.
     'I'm  not drunk,' Styopa  replied  hoarsely,  'something's happened  to
me... I'm ill... Where am I? What city is this?'
     "Well, it's Yalta...'
     Styopa quietly gasped and sank down on his side, his  head striking the
warm stone of the jetty. Consciousness left him.

        CHAPTER 8. The Combat between the Professor and the Poet


     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.
     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's death, but today it did not provoke a strong shock in Ivan. Having
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 pressing of
the  button to  be followed by  some  ringing  or appearance, but  something
entirely different happened. A frosted glass  cylinder with the word 'Drink'
on  it  lit up at the  foot  of Ivan's bed.  After pausing for a  while, the
cylinder began to  rotate until the word `Nurse' popped out. It goes without
saying that  the clever cylinder amazed Ivan. The word 'Nurse' was  replaced
by the words 'Call the Doctor.'
     'Hm...'  said  Ivan, not  knowing  how  to proceed  further  with  this
cylinder. But here he happened to be lucky. Ivan pressed the button a second
time  at  the  word  'Attendant'.  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:
     'Good morning!'
     Ivan did not reply, considering such a greeting inappropriate under the
circumstances. Indeed, they lock up a healthy man in  a  clinic, and pretend
that that is how it ought to be!
     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.
     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.
     'Time for our bath,' the woman invited, and  under  her hands the inner
wall parted, revealing behind it a bathroom and splendidly equipped toilet.
     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:
     'Looky there! Just like the Metropol!...'
     'Oh, no,' the woman answered  proudly, `much  better. There is  no such
equipment  even anywhere abroad. Scientists and  doctors come especially  to
study our clinic. We have foreign tourists every day.'
     At  the words  'foreign  tourists', Ivan at once remembered yesterday's
consultant. Ivan darkened, looked sullen, and said:
     `Foreign  tourists... How you all  adore foreign  tourists!  But  among
them,  incidentally, you come  across  all  sorts. I, for instance, met  one
yesterday - quite something!'
     And he  almost started telling  about  Pontius Pilate,  but  restrained
himself, realizing that the woman had no use for these stories, that in  any
case she could not help him.
     The  washed  Ivan  Nikolaevich   was  straight  away  issued  decidedly
everything 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:
     'What would you like to put on - a dressing gown or some nice pyjamas?'
     Attached to his new dwelling by force, Ivan almost clasped his hands at
the  woman's casualness  and  silently  pointed  his  finger at the  crimson
flannel pyjamas.
     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
'industrial kitchen'.
     And with good reason. Here stood cabinets and glass cases with gleaming
nickel-plated  instruments.  There were  chairs of  extraordinarily  complex
construction, some pot-bellied lamps with shiny shades, a myriad  of phials,
Bunsen burners, electric cords and appliances quite unknown to anyone.
     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
sophisticated little things, make the devil's own wreck of them, and thereby
express his protest at being detained for nothing. But today's Ivan  already
differed  significantly from  the  Ivan  of yesterday,  and  this  first way
appeared 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  consultant and
Pontius  Pilate.  However,  yesterday's 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 -
withdrawal into proud silence.
     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's 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's events at the Patriarch's Ponds, but they did not pester him too
much, and were not surprised at the information about Pontius Pilate.
     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's body, counted his pulse, looked  in Ivan's  eyes, directing some sort
of lamp into them. Then the  second woman came to the  man's 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's legs jump,  pricked his finger
and took his  blood, pricked  him  inside  his bent  elbow,  put some rubber
bracelets on his arms...
     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 to  catch
him, and all he had achieved was to wind up in some mysterious room, telling
all sorts of  hogwash about Uncle Fyodor, who had done some hard drinking in
Vologda. Insufferably stupid!
     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.
     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.
     And he did come, and very soon  after  Ivan's breakfast.  Unexpectedly,
the door of Ivan's room opened, and in came a lot of people in white coats.
     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. 'Like Pontius  Pilate!' thought  Ivan. Yes,
this  was unquestionably the chief. He sat  down on  a stool, while everyone
else remained standing.
     'Doctor Stravinsky,' the seated man introduced himself to Ivan and gave
him a friendly look.
     'Here, Alexander  Nikolaevich,' someone with a trim beard said in a low
voice, and handed the chief Ivan's chart, all covered with writing.
     They've sewn up a whole case!' Ivan thought. And the chief ran  through
the chart with a practised eye, muttered 'Mm-hm, mm-hm...', and exchanged  a
few phrases with those around him in a little-known language. 'And he speaks
Latin like Pilate,' Ivan thought sadly. Here one word made  him jump; it was
the  word 'schizophrenia' - alas, already  uttered  yesterday by  the cursed
foreigner  at  the  Patriarch's Ponds, and  now repeated today by  Professor
Stravinsky. 'And he knew that, too!' Ivan thought anxiously.
     The chief  apparently made it a rule to  agree  with  and rejoice  over
everything said to him  by  those  around him, and  to express this with the
words 'Very nice, very nice...'
     'Very nice!' said Stravinsky, handing the chart back to someone, and he
addressed Ivan:
     'You are a poet?'
     `A  poet,' 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.
     Wrinkling his face, he asked Stravinsky in turn:
     'You are a professor?'
     To this, Stravinsky, with obliging courtesy, inclined his head.
     'And you're the chief here?' Ivan continued.
     Stravinsky nodded to this as well.
     'I must speak with you,' Ivan Nikolaevich said meaningly.
     That is what I'm here for,' returned Stravinsky.
     'The thing  is,' Ivan began, feeling his hour had come, `that I've been
got up as a madman, and nobody wants to listen to me!...'
     'Oh,  no, we shall hear you out  with great attention,' Stravinsky said
seriously and  soothingly,  'and by  no means allow you to  be  got up  as a
madman.'
     'Listen, then: yesterday  evening  I  met  a  mysterious person at  the
Patriarch's Ponds, maybe a foreigner, maybe not, who  knew  beforehand about
Berlioz's death and has seen Pontius Pilate in person.'
     The retinue listened to the poet silently and without stirring.
     'Pilate? The Pilate who lived  in the time of Jesus Christ?' Stravinsky
asked, narrowing his eyes at Ivan.
     "The same.'
     'Aha,' said Stravinsky, 'and this Berlioz died under a tram-car?'
     'Precisely,  he's the one who in my  presence was killed by a  tram-car
yesterday at the Ponds, and this same mysterious citizen...'
     The  acquaintance  of  Pontius  Pilate?' asked  Stravinsky,  apparently
distinguished by great mental alacrity.
     'Precisely him,' Ivan confirmed, studying Stravinsky. 'Well, so he said
beforehand  that Annushka had spilled  the  sunflower oil... And he  slipped
right  on that place! How do you like  that?'  Ivan  inquired significantly,
hoping to produce a great effect with his words.
     But  the effect did not  ensue, and Stravinsky  quite  simply asked the
following question:
     'And who is this Annushka?'
     This question upset Ivan a little; his face twitched.
     `Annushka is of absolutely no importance here,' he said nervously.
     "Devil knows who she is. Just some fool from Sadovaya. What's important
is that he knew beforehand, you see, beforehand, about the sunflower oil! Do
you understand me?'
     `Perfectly,' Stravinsky  replied  seriously  and, touching  the  poet's
knee, added: 'Don't get excited, just continue.'
     To continue,' said Ivan,  trying to fall in with Stravinsky's tone, and
knowing already from bitter experience  that only calm  would help him, 'so,
then, this horrible type (and he's  lying that he's a consultant)  has  some
extraordinary  power!...  For  instance,  you  chase  after  him  and   it's
impossible to catch up with him... And there's also a little pair with him -
good ones, too,  but in their  own way: some long one in broken glasses and,
besides him, a cat of incredible size who rides the tram all by himself. And
besides,' interrupted by  no one, Ivan went on talking  with ever increasing
ardour and  conviction,  `he  was personally  on Pontius  Pilate's  balcony,
there's  no  doubt of  it. So what  is all  this, eh?  He  must be  arrested
immediately, otherwise he'll do untold harm.'
     `So  you're  trying  to   get  him  arrested?  Have  I  understood  you
correctly?' asked Stravinsky.
     'He's  intelligent,'  thought Ivan.  "You've got to  admit, even  among
intellectuals you come across some of rare intelligence, there's  no denying
it,' and he replied:
     `Quite correctly!  And  how could I not  be trying,  just  consider for
yourself! And meanwhile I've 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!'
     'Well,  there,  very  nice,  very  nice!'  Stravinsky  responded.  'Now
everything's clear. Really, what's the sense  of keeping a healthy man in  a
clinic? Very well, sir, I'll check you out of here right now, if you tell me
you're normal. Not prove, but merely tell. So, then, are you normal?'
     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: 'Positively intelligent!'
     The  professor's  offer pleased him very much, yet  before replying  he
thought very, very hard, wrinkling his forehead, and at last said firmly:
     'I am normal.'
     'Well,  how  very nice,'  Stravinsky exclaimed with relief, `and if so,
let's reason logically.  Let's take your day yesterday.'  Here he turned and
Ivan's chart was immediately handed to him. 'In search of an unknown man who
recommended himself as an acquaintance of  Pontius Pilate, you performed the
following  actions yesterday.'  Here  Stravinsky began holding  up  his long
fingers, glancing now at the chart, now at Ivan.  'You hung a little icon on
your chest. Did you?'
     'I did,' Ivan agreed sullenly.
     'You fell  off a  fence and  hurt  your  face. Right?  Showed  up  in a
restaurant  carrying  a burning  candle in  your hand,  in nothing  but your
underwear, 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?
     The question is:  can  one, by acting  in such fashion, catch or arrest
anyone?
     And if you're 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?'
     'To  the  police, of course,' Ivan  replied,  no  longer so firmly, and
somewhat at a loss under the professor's gaze.
     'Straight from here?'
     'Mm-hm...'
     'Without stopping at your place?' Stravinsky asked quickly.
     'I  have no time to stop anywhere! While I'm  stopping at places, he'll
slip away!'
     'So. And what will you tell the police to start with?'
     'About Pontius Pilate,' Ivan Nikolaevich replied, and his eyes  clouded
with a gloomy mist.
     'Well, how  very nice!' the won-over Stravinsky exclaimed and,  turning
to  the one with the  little  beard, ordered: 'Fyodor  Vassilyevich,  please
check  citizen Homeless out  for town. But  don't put  anyone in his room or
change the linen.  In  two  hours citizen  Homeless will  be back  here. So,
then,' he turned to  the  poet, 'I won't wish  you success, because I  don't
believe one  iota  in that  success.  See you  soon!' He  stood  up, and his
retinue stirred.
     'On what grounds will I be back here?' Ivan asked anxiously.
     Stravinsky was as  if waiting for this  question, immediately sat down,
and began to speak:
     `On  the grounds  that as  soon as you show up at the police station in
your  drawers  and tell  them  you've seen  a  man  who  knew Pontius Pilate
personally, you'll instantly be brought here, and you'll find yourself again
in this very same room.'
     'What  have drawers got to  do with it?' Ivan asked,  gazing around  in
bewilderment.
     'It's mainly Pontius Pilate.  But  the drawers, too. Because we'll 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's
it.'
     Here something strange happened with  Ivan Nikolaevich. His will seemed
to crack, and he felt himself weak, in need of advice.
     'What am I to do, then?' he asked, timidly this time.
     "Well, how very nice!' Stravinsky replied. 'A 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 Pilate  and
other things. And  so you, a very nervous and high-strung man, started going
around the city,  telling  about  Pontius  Pilate.  It's quite natural  that
you're  taken  for a  madman. Your salvation  now  lies  in just one thing -
complete peace. And you absolutely must remain here.'
     'But he has to be caught!' Ivan exclaimed, imploringly now.
     'Very good, sir, but why should you go running around yourself? Explain
all your suspicions and accusations against this man on paper. Nothing 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't strain your head, and try to think
less about  Pontius  Pilate. People  say  all kinds of  things! One  mustn't
believe everything.'
     'Understood!'  Ivan declared  resolutely.  `I ask to  be given  pen and
paper.'
     'Give him paper and a short  pencil,' Stravinsky ordered the fat woman,
and to Ivan he said: 'But I don't advise you to write today.'
     'No, no, today, today without fail!' Ivan cried out in alarm.
     'Well,  all right. Only  don't strain your head. If it doesn't come out
today, it will tomorrow.'
     'He'll escape.'
     'Oh, no,' Stravinsky objected confidently, 'he won't escape anywhere, I
guarantee  that. And remember  that  here with  us  you'll be helped in  all
possible  ways, and without  us nothing  will come  of  it. Do you hear me?'
Stravinsky suddenly asked meaningly and took Ivan Nikolaevich by both hands.
     Holding them in his own, he repeated for a long time, his eyes fixed on
Ivan's:
     'You'll be helped here... do you  hear me?... You'll be helped  here...
you'll  get  relief... it's quiet  here, all  peaceful...  you'll be  helped
here...'
     Ivan  Nikolaevich unexpectedly  yawned, and  the expression on his face
softened.
     'Yes, yes,' he said quietly.
     'Well,  how  very nice!' Stravinsky concluded the  conversation  in his
usual way and stood up: 'Goodbye!' He shook Ivan's hand and, on his way out,
turned to  the one  with the little beard and  said: 'Yes, and try oxygen...
and baths.'
     A few moments later there was no Stravinsky or his retinue before Ivan.
     Beyond the window grille, in the noonday sun, the joyful and springtime
pine  wood stood  beautiful  on  the other bank  and,  closer by,  the river
sparkled.


        CHAPTER 9. Koroviev's Stunts


     Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the  tenants' 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.
     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's manuscripts  and  belongings  was
carried out. Neither  Grunya, the daytime housekeeper, nor  the light-minded
Stepan  Bogdanovich  was  there  at  the  time. The commission announced  to
Nikanor Ivanovich that it would take the deceased's manuscripts  for sorting
out, that his living space, that is, three rooms (the former  study,  living
room and dining  room of the jeweller's wife), reverted  to  the disposal of
the tenants' association, and that  the  belongings  were to  be kept in the
aforementioned living space until the heirs were announced.
     The news of Berlioz's death spread  through the whole house with a sort
of supernatural speed, and as of seven o'clock Thursday morning, Bosoy began
to  receive  telephone calls  and  then  personal  visits  with declarations
containing claims  to  the  deceased's  living  space. In  the period of two
hours, Nikanor Ivanovich received thirty-two such declarations.
     They  contained pleas, threats,  libels, denunciations,  promises to do
renovations at their own expense, references to unbearable overcrowding  and
the impossibility of living in the same apartment with bandits. 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.
     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.
     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
Ivanovich 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 with a
sovereign hand, and went in.
     'Hey,  housekeeper!'  Nikanor Ivanovich  cried in the  semi-dark  front
hall. 'Grunya, or whatever your name is! ... Are you here?'
     No one responded.
     Then Nikanor Ivanovich took a folding ruler from his briefcase, removed
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.
     At the deceased's desk sat an unknown, skinny, long citizen in a little
checkered jacket, a jockey's cap,  and a  pince-nez... well, in  short, that
same one.
     'And who might you be, citizen?' Nikanor Ivanovich asked fearfully.
     'Hah! Nikanor Ivanovich!' the unexpected  citizen yelled in a  rattling
tenor  and, jumping up,  greeted  the  chairman  with a  forced  and  sudden
handshake. This greeting by no means gladdened Nikanor Ivanovich.
     'Excuse me,' he said suspiciously,  'but who might  you  be? Are you an
official person?'
     'Eh, Nikanor Ivanovich!' the unknown man exclaimed soulfully. "What are
official and unofficial persons? It all depends on your point of view on the
subject. It's all fluctuating and relative, Nikanor Ivanovich. Today I'm  an
unofficial person, and  tomorrow, lo and behold, I'm an official one! And it
also happens the other way round - oh, how it does!'
     This argument in no way satisfied the chairman of the house management.
Being a generally suspicious person  by  nature, he concluded  that  the man
holding  forth  in  front of  him was  precisely  an  unofficial person, and
perhaps even an idle one.
     "Yes, but who might  you be? What's your  name?' the  chairman inquired
with increasing severity and even began to advance upon the unknown man.
     `My name,'  the citizen responded, not  a bit put out by  the severity,
'well,  let's  say it's  Koroviev. But wouldn't  you  like a  little  snack,
Nikanor Ivanovich? No formalities, eh?'
     `Excuse  me,'  Nikanor Ivanovich  began,  indignantly  now, `what  have
snacks got  to do  with it!' (We  must  confess, unpleasant  as it  is, that
Nikanor Ivanovich was of a somewhat rude nature.) 'Sitting in the deceased's
half is not permitted! What are you doing here?'
     `Have a  seat, Nikanor  Ivanovich,' the citizen went on yelling, not  a
bit at a loss, and began fussing about offering the chairman a seat.
     Utterly infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich rejected the seat and screamed:
     'But who are you?'
     'I, if  you please, serve as interpreter for a  foreign  individual who
has taken  up residence in this apartment,' the man calling himself Koroviev
introduced himself and clicked the heels of his scuffed, unpolished shoes.
     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.
     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.
     'He never wrote me anything,' the chairman said in amazement.
     `Just  look  through   your  briefcase,  Nikanor  Ivanovich,'  Koroviev
suggested sweetly.
     Nikanor  Ivanovich,  shrugging his shoulders, opened the briefcase  and
found Likhodeev's letter in it.
     `How could  I  have forgotten  about it?'  Nikanor Ivanovich  muttered,
looking dully at the opened envelope.
     `All sorts of things happen,  Nikanor Ivanovich,  all  sorts!' Koroviev
rattled.  'Absent-mindedness,  absent-mindedness,  fatigue  and  high  blood
pressure,  my  dear  friend Nikanor  Ivanovich! I'm  terribly  absent-minded
myself! Someday, over a glass, I'll tell you a few facts from my biography -
you'll die laughing!'
     'And when is Likhodeev going to Yalta?'
     `He's  already  gone,  gone!'  the  interpreter  cried.  `He's  already
wheeling along,  you know!  He's already devil  knows  where!' And  here the
interpreter waved his arms like the wings of a windmill.
     Nikanor Ivanovich  declared that he  must see  the foreigner in person,
but got a refusal on that from the interpreter: quite impossible. He's busy.
Training the cat.
     'The cat I can show you, if you like,' Koroviev offered.
     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't  the tenants'
association  rent  to  him, Woland, for one  little  week, the  time  of his
performances in Moscow,  the whole of the apartment, that is, the deceased's
rooms as well?
     'It's  all the same to him -  the deceased -  you  must  agree, Nikanor
Ivanovich,' Koroviev whispered hoarsely. 'He doesn't need the apartment now,
does he?'
     Nikanor Ivanovich, somewhat perplexed, objected that  foreigners  ought
to live at the Metropol, and not in private apartments at all...
     `I'm  telling  you,  he's capricious as  devil  knows  what!'  Koroviev
whispered. 'He just  doesn't want to! He doesn't like hotels! I've  had them
up to  here, these foreign  tourists!'  Koroviev  complained confidentially,
jabbing his  finger at  his  sinewy neck. 'Believe  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't right and that
isn't right!...  And for  your association, Nikanor Ivanovich, it's  a sheer
gain and an obvious profit. He won't stint on money.' Koroviev looked around
and then whispered into the chairman's ear: 'A millionaire!'
     The interpreter's offer made clear practical sense, it was a very solid
offer, yet there was something remarkably unsolid in his manner of speaking,
and in  his clothes, and in that loathsome, good-for-nothing pince-nez. As a
result, something vague weighed on the chairman's soul,  but he nevertheless
decided to accept the offer. The  thing was  that  the tenants' association,
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's money, it might be possible to wriggle out of it.
     However,  the  practical and prudent Nikanor  Ivanovich said  he  would
first have to settle the question with the foreign tourist bureau.
     `I understand!' Koroviev cried out. `You've got to settle it!
     Absolutely! Here's the telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, settle it at once!
And  don't be  shy  about the money,' he added  in  a whisper,  drawing  the
chairman to the telephone in the front hall, 'if he won't pay, who will! You
should see the villa he's got in Nice! Next summer, when you go abroad, come
especially to see it - you'll gasp!'
     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's  intention  of staying in
Likhodeev's private apartment and had no objections to it.
     `That's wonderful!' Koroviev  yelled. Somewhat stunned by his  chatter,
the  chairman  announced  that  the  tenants'  association  agreed  to  rent
apartment no.50 for a week  to the artiste  Woland, for... Nikanor Ivanovich
faltered a little, then said:
     'For five hundred roubles a day.'
     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:
     'So it comes to three thousand five hundred for the week?'
     To which Nikanor Ivanovich thought he was  going to add: 'Some appetite
you've got, Nikanor Ivanovich!' but Koroviev said something quite different:
     'What kind of money is that? Ask five, he'll pay it.'
     Grinning perplexedly, Nikanor Ivanovich,  without  noticing  how, found
himself at the deceased's writing desk, where Koroviev  with great speed and
dexterity drew up a contract in two copies. Then he flew to the bedroom with
them  and  came  back,  both  copies  now bearing  the  foreigner's sweeping
signature.  The chairman also signed the contract. Here Koroviev asked for a
receipt for five...
     Write it out, write it out, Nikanor Ivanovich!... thousand  roubles...'
And with  words somehow unsuited to serious business  - 'Bin, zwei, drei!' -
he laid out for the chairman five stacks of new banknotes.
     The  counting-up took place,  interspersed with  Koroviev's  quips  and
quiddities, such  as 'Cash loves  counting', 'Your own  eye  won't lie', and
others of the same sort.
     After  counting the  money, the chairman  received  from  Koroviev  the
foreigner's 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...
     'Don't mention it!' bellowed  Koroviev. 'How many tickets do you  want,
Nikanor Ivanovich - twelve, fifteen?'
     The flabbergasted chairman explained that all he needed was a couple of
passes, for himself and Pelageya Antonovna, his wife.
     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's other hand a thick, crackling wad.
     Casting  an eye on  it, Nikanor Ivanovich blushed deeply and  began  to
push it away.
     'It isn't done...' he murmured.
     'I won't  hear  of it,' Koroviev whispered right in  his ear.  'With us
it's  not  done,  but with foreigners it  is.  You'll  offend