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said Stravinsky seriously and reassuringly, ' and on no account shall we
allow anyone to say you're mad.'
'All right, then, listen: yesterday evening at Patriarch's Ponds I met
a mysterious person, who may or may not have been a foreigner, who knew
about Berlioz's death before it happened, and had met Pontius Pilate.'
The retinue listened to Ivan, silent and unmoving.
'Pilate? Is that the Pilate who lived at the time of Jesus Christ?'
enquired Stravinsky, peering at Ivan. ' Yes.'
'Aha,' said Stravinsky. ' And this Berlioz is the one who died falling
under a tram? '
'Yes. I was there yesterday evening when the tram killed him, and this
mysterious character was there too .'
'Pontius Pilate's friend? ' asked Stravinsky, obviously a man of
exceptional intelligence.
'Exactly,' said Ivan, studying Stravinsky. ' He told us, before it
happened, that Anna had spilt the sunflower-seed oil ... and that was the
very spot where Berlioz slipped! How d'you like that?!' Ivan concluded,
expecting his story to produce a big effect.
But it produced none. Stravinsky simply asked :
'And who is this Anna? '
Slightly disconcerted by the question, Ivan frowned.
'Anna doesn't matter,' he said irritably. ' God knows who she is.
Simply some stupid girl from Sadovaya Street. What's important, don't you
see, is that he knew about the sunflower-seed oil beforehand. Do you follow
me? '
'Perfectly,' replied Stravinsky seriously. Patting the poet's knee he
added : ' Relax and go on.'
'All right,' said Ivan, trying to fall into Stravinsky's tone and
knowing from bitter experience that only calm would help him. ' So obviously
this terrible man (he's lying, by the way--he's no professor) has some
unusual power . . . For instance, if you chase him you can't catch up with
him . . . and there's a couple of others with him, just as peculiar in their
way: a tall fellow with broken spectacles and an enormous cat who rides on
the tram by himself. What's more,' went on Ivan with great heat and
conviction, ' he was on the balcony with Pontius Pilate, there's no doubt of
it. What about that, eh? He must be arrested immediately or he'll do untold
harm.'
'So you think he should be arrested? Have I understood you correctly?
' asked Stravinsky.
He's clever,' thought Ivan, ' I must admit there are a few bright
ones among the intellectuals,' and he replied :
'Quite correct. It's obvious--he must be arrested! And meanwhile I'm
being kept here by force while they flash lamps at me, bath me and ask me
idiotic questions about uncle Fyodor! He's been dead for years! I demand to
be let out at once! '
'Splendid, splendid! ' cried Stravinsky. ' I see it all now. You're
right--what is the use of keeping a healthy man in hospital? Very well, I'll
discharge you at once if you tell me you're normal. You don't have to prove
it--just say it. Well, are you normal? '
There was complete silence. The fat woman who had examined Ivan that
morning glanced reverently at the professor and once again Ivan thought:
'Extremely clever! '
The professor's offer pleased him a great deal, but before replying he
thought hard, frowning, until at last he announced firmly:
'I am normal.'
'Splendid,' exclaimed Stravinsky with relief. ' In that case let us
reason logically. We'll begin by considering what happened to you
yesterday.' Here he turned and was immediately handed Ivan's questionnaire.
' Yesterday, while in search of an unknown man, who had introduced himself
as a friend of Pontius Pilate, you did the following: ' Here Stravinsky
began ticking off the points on his long fingers, glancing back and forth
from the paper to Ivan. ' You pinned an ikon to your chest. Right? '
'Right,' Ivan agreed sulkily.
'You fell off a fence and scratched your face. Right? You appeared in
a restaurant carrying a lighted candle, wearing only underpants, and you hit
somebody in the restaurant. You were tied up and brought here, where you
rang the police and asked them to send some machine-guns. You then attempted
to throw yourself out of the window. Right? The question--is that the way to
set about catching or arresting somebody? If you're normal you're bound to
reply--no, it isn't. You want to leave here? Very well. But where, if you
don't mind my asking, do you propose to go? ' ' To the police, of course,'
replied Ivan, although rather less firmly and slightly disconcerted by the
professor's stare.
'Straight from here? '
'Mm'hh.'
'Won't you go home first? ' Stravinsky asked quickly.
'Why should I go there? While I'm going home he might get away!'
'I see. And what will you tell the police? '
'I'll tell them about Pontius Pilate,' replied Ivan Nikolayich, his
eyes clouding.
'Splendid! ' exclaimed Stravinsky, defeated, and turning to the man
with the beard he said: ' Fyodor Vasilievich, please arrange for citizen
Bezdomny to be discharged. But don't put anybody else in this room and don't
change the bedclothes. Citizen Bezdomny will be back here again in two
hours. Well,' he said to the poet, I won't wish you success because I see
no chance whatever of your succeeding. See you soon!' He got up and his
retinue started to go.
'Why will I come back here? ' asked Ivan anxiously.
'Because as soon as you appear at a police station dressed in your
underpants and say yom've met a man who knew Pontius Pilate, you'll
immediately be brought back here and put in this room again.'
'Because of my underpants? ' asked Ivan, staring distractedly about
him.
'Chiefly because of Pontims Pilate. But the underpants will help. We
shall have to take a.way your hospital clothes and give you back your own.
And you came here wearing underpants. Incidentally you said nothing about
going home first, despite my hint. After that you only have to start talking
about Pontius Pilate . . . and you're done for.'
At this point something odd happened to Ivan Nikolayich. His will-power
seemed to crumple. He felt himself weak and in need of advice.
'What should I do, then? ' he asked, timidly this time.
'Splendid! ' said Stravinsky. ' A most reasonable question.
Now I'll tell you what has really happened to you. Yesterday someone
gave you a bad fright and upset you with this story about Pontius Pilate and
other things. So you, worn out and nerve-racked, wandered round the town
talking about Pontius Pilate. Quite naturally people took you for a lunatic.
Your only salvation now is complete rest. And you must stay here.'
'But somebody must arrest him! ' cried Ivan, imploringly.
'Certainly, but why should you have to do it? Put down all your
suspicions and accusations against this man on a piece of paper. Nothing
could be simpler than to send your statement to the proper authorities and
if, as you suspect, the man is a criminal, it will come to light soon
enough. But on one condition--don't over-exert your mind and try to think a
bit less about Pontius Pilate. If you harp on that story I don't think many
people are going to believe you.'
'Right you are! ' announced Ivan firmly. ' Please give me pen and
paper.'
'Give him some paper and a short pencil,' said Stravinsky to the fat
woman, then turning to Ivan : ' But I don't advise you to start writing
today.'
'No, no, today! I must do it today! ' cried Ivan excitedly.
'All right. Only don't overtax your brain. If you don't get it quite
right today, tomorrow will do.'
'But he'll get away! '
'Oh no,' countered Stravinsky. ' I assure you he's not going to get
away. And remember--we are here to help you in every way we can and unless
we do, nothing will come of your plan. D'you hear? ' Stravinsky suddenly
asked, seizing Ivan Nikolay-ich by both hands. As he held them in his own he
stared intently into Ivan's eyes, repeating : ' We shall help you ... do you
hear? . . . We shall help you . . . you will be able to relax . . . it's
quiet here, everything's going to be all right ... all right . . . we shall
help you . . .'
Ivan Nikolayich suddenly yawned and his expression softened.
'Yes, I see,' he said quietly.
'Splendid! ' said Stravinsky, closing the conversation in his no
habitual way and getting up. ' Goodbye!' He shook Ivan by the hand and as he
went out he turned to the man with the beard and said : ' Yes, and try
oxygen . . . and baths.'
A few moments later Stravinsky and his retinue were gone. Through the
window and the grille the gay, springtime wood gleamed brightly on the far
bank and the river sparkled in the noon sunshine.
Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi, chairman of the tenants' association of No.
302A, Sadovaya Street, Moscow, where the late Berlioz had lived, was in
trouble. It had all begun on the previous Wednesday night.
At midnight, as we already know, the police had arrived with Zheldybin,
had hauled Nikanor Ivanovich out of bed, told him of Berlioz's death and
followed him to flat No. 50. There they had sealed the deceased's papers and
personal effects. Neither Grunya the maid, who lived out, nor the imprudent
Stepan Bogdanovich were in the flat at the time. The police informed Nikanor
Ivanovich that they would call later to collect Berlioz's manuscripts for
sorting and examination and that his accommodation, consisting of three
rooms (the jeweller's study, drawing-room and dining-room) would revert to
the tenants' association for disposal. His effects were to be kept under
seal until the legatees' claims were proved by the court.
The news of Berlioz's death spread through the building with
supernatural speed and from seven o'clock on Thursday morning Bosoi started
to get telephone calls. After that people began calling in person with
written pleas of their urgent need of vacant housing space. Within the space
of two hours Nikanor Ivanovich had collected thirty-two such statements.
They contained entreaties, threats, intrigue, denunciations, promises
to redecorate the flat, remarks about overcrowding and the impossibility of
sharing a flat with bandits. Among them was a description, shattering in its
literary power, of the theft of some meat-balls from someone's jacket pocket
in flat No. 31, two threats of suicide and one confession of secret
pregnancy.
Nikanor Ivanovich was again and again taken aside with a wink and
assured in whispers that he would do well on the deal....
This torture lasted until one o'clock, when Nikanor Ivanovich simply
ran out of his flat by the main entrance, only to run away again when he
found them lying in wait for him outside. Somehow contriving to throw off
the people who chased him across the asphalt courtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich
took refuge in staircase 6 and climbed to the fatal apartment.
Panting with exertion, the stout Nikanor Ivanovich rang the bell on the
fifth-floor landing. No one opened. He rang again and again and began to
swear quietly. Still no answer. Nikanor Ivanovich's patience gave way and
pulling a bunch of duplicate keys from his pocket he opened the door with a
masterful flourish and walked in.
'Hello, there! ' shouted Nikanor Ivanovich in the dim hallway. ' Are
you there, Grunya? '
No reply.
Nikanor Ivanovich then took a folding ruler out of his pocket, used it
to prise the seal from the study door and strode in. At least he began by
striding in, but stopped in the doorway with a start of amazement.
Behind Berlioz's desk sat a tall, thin stranger in a check jacket,
jockey cap and pince-nez. . . .
'And who might you be, citizen? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich.
'Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cried the mysterious stranger in a quavering
tenor. He leaped up and greeted the chairman with an unexpectedly powerful
handshake which Nikanor Ivanovich found extremely painful.
'Pardon me,' he said suspiciously, ' but who are you? Are you somebody
official? '
'Ah, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' said the stranger in a man-to-man voice. '
Who is official and who is unofficial these days? It all depends on your
point of view. It's all so vague and changeable, Nikanor Ivanovich. Today
I'm unofficial, tomorrow, hey presto! I'm official! Or maybe vice-versa--who
knows? '
None of this satisfied the chairman. By nature a suspicious man, he
decided that this voluble individual was not only unofficial but had no
business to be there.
'Who are you? What's your name? ' said the chairman firmly, advancing
on the stranger.
'My name,' replied the man, quite unmoved by this hostile reception, '
is . . . er . . . let's say . . . Koroviev. Wouldn't you like a bite to eat,
Nikanor Ivanovich? As we're friends? '
'Look here,' said Nikanor Ivanovich disagreeably, ' what the hell do
you mean--eat? ' (Sad though it is to admit, Nikanor Ivanovich had no
manners.) ' You're not allowed to come into a dead man's flat! What are you
doing here? '
'Now just sit down, Nikanor Ivanovich,' said the imperturbable
stranger in a wheedling voice, offering Nikanor Ivanovich a chair.
Infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich kicked the chair away and yelled:
'Who are you? '
'I am employed as interpreter to a foreign gentleman residing in this
flat,' said the self-styled Koroviev by way of introduction as he clicked
the heels of his dirty brown boots.
Nikanor Ivanovich's mouth fell open. A foreigner in this flat, complete
with interpreter, was a total surprise to him and he demanded an
explanation.
This the interpreter willingly supplied. Monsieur Woland, an artiste
from abroad, had been kindly invited by the manager of the Variety Theatre,
Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev, to spend his stay as a guest artiste, about a
week, in his flat. Likhodeyev had written to Nikanor Ivanovich about it
yesterday, requesting him to register the gentlemen from abroad as a
temporary resident while Likhodeyev himself was away in Yalta.
'But he hasn't written to me,' said the bewildered chairman.
'Take a look in your briefcase, Nikanor Ivanovich,' suggested Koroviev
amiably.
Shrugging his shoulders Nikanor Ivanovich opened his briefcase and
found a letter from Likhodeyev. ' Now how could I have forgotten that? '
mumbled Nikanor Ivanovich, gazing stupidly at the opened envelope.
'It happens to the best of us, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cackled Koroviev.
' Absent-mindedness, overstrain and high blood-pressure, my dear friend!
Why, I'm horribly absent-minded. Some time over a glass or two I'll tell you
a few things that have happened to me--you'll die with laughter! '
'When is Likhodeyev going to Yalta? '
'He's already gone,' cried the interpreter. ' He's on his way there.
God knows where he is by now.' And the interpreter waved his arms like
windmill sails.
Nikanor Ivanovich announced that he had to see the foreign gentleman in
person, but this was refused. It was quite out of the question. Monsieur
Woland was busy. Training his cat.
'You can see the cat if you like,' suggested Koroviev.
This Nikanor Ivanovich declined and the interpreter then made him an
unexpected but most interesting proposal: since Monsieur Woland could not
bear staying in hotels and was used to spacious quarters, couldn't the
tenants' association lease him the whole flat for his week's stay, including
the dead man's rooms?
'After all, what does he care? He's dead,' hissed Koroviev in a
whisper. ' You must admit the flat's no use to him now, is it?'
In some perplexity Nikanor Ivanovich objected that foreigners were
normally supposed to stay at the Metropole and not in private accommodation
. . .
'I tell you he's so fussy, you'd never believe it,' whispered
Koroviev. ' He simply refuses! He hates hotels! I can tell you I'm fed up
with these foreign tourists,' complained Koroviev confidentially. ' They
wear me out. They come here and either they go spying and snooping or they
send me mad with their whims and fancies--this isn't right, that isn't just
so! And there'd be plenty in it for your association, Nikanor Ivanovich.
He's not short of money.' Koroviev glanced round and then whispered in the
chairman's ear : ' He's a millionaire!'
The suggestion was obviously a sensible one, but there was something
ridiculous about his manner, his clothes and that absurd, useless pince-nez
that all combined to make Nikanor Ivanovich vaguely uneasy. However he
agreed to the suggestion. The tenants' association, alas, was showing an
enormous deficit. In the autumn they would have to buy oil for the steam
heating plant and there was not a kopeck in the till, but with this
foreigner's money they might just manage it. Nikanor Ivanovich, however,
practical and cautious as ever, insisted on clearing the matter with the
tourist bureau.
'Of course! ' cried Koroviev. ' It must be done properly. There's the
telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, ring them up right away! And don't worry about
money,' he added in a whisper as he led the chairman to the telephone in the
hall, ' if anyone can pay handsomely, he can. If you could see his villa in
Nice! When you go abroad next summer you must go there specially and have a
look at it--you'll be amazed! '
The matter was fixed with the tourist bureau with astonishing ease and
speed. The bureau appeared to know all about Monsieur Woland's intention to
stay in Likodeyev's flat and raised no objections.
'Excellent! ' cried Koroviev.
Slightly stupefied by this man's incessant cackling, the chairman
announced that the tenants' association was prepared to lease flat No. 50 to
Monsieur Woland the artiste at a rent of ... Nikanor Ivanovich stammered a
little and said :
'Five hundred roubles a day.'
At this Koroviev surpassed himself. Winking conspiratorially towards
the bedroom door, through which they could hear a series of soft thumps as
the cat practised its leaps, he said :
'So for a week that would amount to three and a half thousand,
wouldn't it? '
Nikanor Ivanovich quite expected the man to add ' Greedy, aren't you,
Nikanor Ivanovich? ' but instead he said:
'That's not much. Ask him for five thousand, he'll pay.'
Grinning with embarrassment, Nikanor Ivanovich did not even notice how
he suddenly came to be standing beside Berlioz's desk and how Koroviev had
managed with such incredible speed and dexterity to draft a contract in
duplicate. This done, he flew into the bedroom and returned with the two
copies signed in the stranger's florid hand. The chairman signed in turn and
Koroviev asked him to make out a receipt for five . . .
'Write it out in words, Nikanor Ivanovich. " Five thousand roubles ".'
Then with a flourish which seemed vaguely out of place in such a serious
matter--' Eins! 'yvei! drei! '--he laid five bundles of brand-new banknotes
on the table.
Nikanor Ivanovich checked them, to an accompaniment of witticisms from
Koroviev of the ' better safe than sorry ' variety. Having counted the money
the chairman took the stranger's passport to be stamped with his temporary
residence permit, put contract, passport and money into his briefcase and
asked shyly for a free ticket to the show . . .
'But of course! ' exclaimed Koroviev. ' How many do you want, Nikanor
Ivanovich--twelve, fifteen? '
Overwhelmed, the chairman explained that he only wanted two, one for
his wife Pelagea Antonovna and one for himself.
Koroviev seized a note-pad and dashed off an order to the box office
for two complimentary tickets in the front row. As the interpreter handed it
to Nikanor Ivanovich with his left hand, with his right he gave him a thick,
crackling package. Glancing at it Nikanor Ivanovich blushed hard and started
to push it away.
'It's not proper . . .'
'I won't hear any objection,' Koroviev whispered right in his ear. '
We don't do this sort of thing but foreigners do. You'll offend him, Nikanor
Ivanovich, and that might be awkward. You've earned it . . .'
'It's strictly forbidden . . .' whispered the chairman in a tiny
voice, with a furtive glance around.
'Where are the witnesses? ' hissed Koroviev into his other ear. ' I
ask you--where are they? Come, now . . .'
There then happened what the chairman later described as a miracle--the
package jumped into his briefcase of its own accord, after which he found
himself, feeling weak and battered, on the staircase. A storm of thoughts
was whirling round inside his head. Among them were the villa in Nice, the
trained cat, relief that there had been no witnesses and his wife's pleasure
at the complimentary tickets. Yet despite these mostly comforting thoughts,
in the depths of his soul the chairman still felt the pricking of a little
needle. It was the needle of unease. Suddenly, halfway down the staircase,
something else occurred to him-- how had that interpreter found his way into
the study past a sealed door? And why on earth had he, Nikanor Ivanovich,
forgotten to ask him about it? For a while the chairman stared at the steps
like a sheep, then decided to forget it and not to bother himself with
imaginary problems . . .
As soon as the chairman had left the flat a low voice came from the
bedroom:
'I don't care for that Nikanor Ivanovich. He's a sly rogue. Why not
fix it so that he doesn't come here again? '
'Messire, you only have to give the order . . .' answered Koroviev in
a firm, clear voice that no longer quavered.
At once the diabolical interpreter was in the hall, had dialled a
number and started to speak in a whining voice :
'Hullo! I consider it my duty to report that the chairman of our
tenants' association at No. 302А Sadovaya Street, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi,
is dealing in black-market foreign currency. He has just stuffed four
hundred dollars wrapped in newspaper into the ventilation shaft of the
lavatory in his flat. No. 3 5. My name is Timothy Kvastsov and I live in the
same block, flat No. 11. But please keep my name a secret. I'm afraid of
what that man may do if he finds out . . .'
And with that the scoundrel hung up.
What happened after that in No. 50 is a mystery, although what happened
to Nikanor Ivanovich is common knowledge. Locking himself in the lavatory,
he pulled the package out of his briefcase and found that it contained four
hundred roubles. He wrapped it up in a sheet of old newspaper and pushed it
into the ventilation shaft. Five minutes later he was sitting down at table
in his little dining-room. From the kitchen his wife brought in a pickled
herring, sliced and thickly sprinkled with raw onion. Nikanor Ivanovich
poured himself a wineglassful of vodka, drank it, poured out another, drank
that, speared three slices of herring on his fork . . . and then the
doorbell rang. Pelagea Antonovna was just bringing in a steaming casserole,
one glance at which was enough to tell you that in the midst of all that
hot, thick borsch was one of the most delicious things in the world --a
marrow bone.
Gulping down his running saliva, Nikanor Ivanovich snarled :
'Who the hell is that--at this hour! They won't even allow a man to
eat his supper. . . . Don't let anybody in--I'm not at home.... If it's
about the flat tell them to stop worrying. There'll be a committee meeting
about it in a week's time.'
His wife ran into the hall and Nikanor Ivanovich ladled the quivering
marrow bone out of its steaming lake. At that moment three men came into the
dining-room, followed by a very pale Pelagea Antonovna. At the sight of them
Nikanor Ivanovich turned white and got up.
'Where's the W.C.? ' enquired the first man urgently. There was a
crash as Nikanor Ivanovich dropped the ladle on to the oilcloth table-top.
'Here, in here,' babbled Pelagea Antonovna. The visitors turned and
rushed back into the passage.
'What's going on? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich as he followed them. ' You
can't just burst into our flat like that . . . Where's your identity card if
you don't mind? '
The first man showed Nikanor Ivanovich his identity card while the
second clambered up on to a stool in the lavatory and thrust his arm into
the ventilation shaft. Nikanor Ivanovich began to feel faint. They unwrapped
the sheet of newspaper to find that the banknotes in the package were not
roubles but some unknown foreign money--bluish-green in colour with a
picture of an old man. Nikanor Ivanovich, however, saw none of it very
clearly because spots were swimming in front of his eyes.
'Dollars in the ventilation shaft. . . .' said the first man
thoughtfully and asked Nikanor Ivanovich politely : * Is this your little
parcel? '
'No! ' replied Nikanor Ivanovich in a terrified voice. ' It's been
planted on me!'
'Could be,' agreed the first man, adding as quietly as before :
'Still, you'd better give up the rest.'
'There isn't any more! I swear to God I've never even seen any! '
screamed the chairman in desperation. He rushed to a chest, pulled out a
drawer and out of that his briefcase, shouting distractedly as he did so :
'It's all in here . . . the contract . . . that interpreter must have
planted them on me . . . Koroviev, the man in the pince-nez!'
He opened the briefcase, looked inside, thrust his hand in, turned blue
in the face and dropped his briefcase into the borsch. There was nothing in
it--no letter from Stepan, no contract, no passport, no money and no
complimentary tickets. Nothing, in short, except a folding ruler.
* Comrades!' screamed the chairman frantically. ' Arrest them! The
forces of evil are in this house!'
Something odd happened to Pelagea Antonovna at this point. Wringing her
hands she cried :
'Confess, Nikanor! They'll reduce your sentence if you do! '
Eyes bloodshot, Nikanor Ivanovich raised his clenched fists over his
wife's head and screamed :
'Aaah! You stupid bitch! '
Then he crumpled and fell into a chair, having obviously decided to bow
to the inevitable. Meanwhile, out on the landing, Timothy Kondratievich
Kvastsov was pressing first his ear then his eye to the keyhole of the
chairman's front door, burning with curiosity.
Five minutes later the tenants saw the chairman led out into the
courtyard by two men. Nikanor Ivanovich, so they said later, had been
scarcely recognisable--staggering like a drunkard and muttering to himself.
Another hour after that a stranger appeared at flat No. n just when
Timothy Kondratievich, gulping with pleasure, was describing to some other
tenants how the chairman had been whisked away; the stranger beckoned
Timothy Kondratievich out of his kitchen into the hall, said something and
took him away.
As disaster overtook Nikanor Ivanovich in Sadovaya Street, not far from
No. 302А two men were sitting in the office of Rimsky the treasurer of the
Variety Theatre : Rimsky himself and the house manager, Varenukha.
From this large office on the second floor two windows gave on to
Sadovaya and another, just behind the treasurer's back as he sat at his
desk, on to the Variety's garden; it was used in summer and contained
several bars for serving cold drinks, a shooting gallery and an open
promenade. The furniture of the room, apart from the desk, consisted of a
collection of old posters hanging on the wall, a small table with a carafe
of water, four chairs and a stand in one corner supporting a dusty,
long-forgotten model of a stage set. Naturally the office also contained a
small, battered fireproof safe standing to the left of Rimsky's desk.
Rimsky had been in a bad mood all morning. Varenukha, by contrast, was
extremely cheerful and lively, if somewhat nervous. Today, however, there
was no outlet for his energy.
Varenukha had just taken refuge in the treasurer's office from the
complimentary ticket hounds who made his life a misery, especially on the
days when there was a change of programme. And today was one of those days.
As soon as the telephone started to ring Varenukha picked up the receiver
and lied into it:
'Who? Varenukha? He's not here. He's left the theatre.'
'Please try and ring Likhodeyev once more,' said Rimsky testily.
'But he's not at home. I've already sent Karpov; the Hat's empty.'
'I wish to God I knew what was going on! ' hissed Rimsky, fidgeting
with his adding machine.
The door opened and a theatre usher dragged in a thick package of
newly-printed fly-posters, which announced in large red letters on a green
background :
Tonight and All This Week in the Variety Theatre
A Special Act
PROFESSOR WOLAND
Black Magic All Mysteries revealed
As Varenukha stepped back from the poster, which he had propped up on
the model, he admired it and ordered the usher to have all the copies posted
up.
'All right--look sharp,' said Varenukha to the departing usher.
'I don't care for this project at all,' growled Rimsky disagreeably,
staring at the poster through his horn-rims. ' I'm amazed that he was ever
engaged.'
'No, Grigory Danilovich, don't say that! It's a very smart move. All
the fun is in showing how it's done--" the mysteries revealed ".'
'I don't know, I don't know. I don't see any fun in that myself. . .
just like him to dream up something of this sort. If only he'd shown us this
magician. Did you see him? God knows where he's dug him up from.'
It transpired that Varenukha, like Rimsky, had not seen the magician
either. Yesterday Stepa had rushed (' like a madman ', in Rimsky's words)
into the treasurer's office clutching a draft contract, had ordered him to
countersign it and pay Woland his money. The magician had vanished and no
one except Stepa himself had seen him.
Rimsky pulled out his watch, saw that it was five minutes to three and
was seized with fury. Really, this was too much! Likhodeyev had rung at
about eleven o'clock, had said that he would come in about half an hour and
now he had not only failed to appear but had disappeared from his flat.
'It's holding up all my work' snarled Rimsky, tapping a pile of
unsigned papers.
'I suppose he hasn't fallen under a tram, like Berlioz? ' said
Varenukha, holding the receiver to his ear and hearing nothing but a
continual, hopeless buzz as Stepa's telephone rang unanswered.
'It would be a damned good thing if he has . . .' said Rimsky softly
between his teeth.
At that moment in came a woman in a uniform jacket, peaked cap, black
skirt and sneakers. She took a square of white paper and a notebook out of a
little pouch on her belt and enquired :
'Which of you is Variety? Priority telegram for you. Sign here.'
Varenukha scrawled some hieroglyphic in the woman's notebook and as
soon as the door had slammed behind her, opened the envelope. Having read
the telegram he blinked and handed it to Rimsky.
The telegram read as follows: 'yalta то moscow
VARIETY STOP TODAY 1130 PSYCHIATRIC CASE NIGHT-SHIRTED TROUSERED
SHOELESS STAGGERED POLICE STATION ALLEGING SELF LIKHODEYEV MANAGER VARIETY
WIRE YALTA POLICE WHERE LIKHODEYEV.'
'Thanks--and I'm a Dutchman! ' exclaimed Rimsky and added : ' Another
little surprise package! '
'The False Dimitry! ' said Varenukha and spoke into the telephone : '
Telegrams, please. On account. Variety Theatre. Priority. Ready? " Yalta
Police stop Likhodeyev Moscow Rimsky Treasurer."'
Disregarding the Pretender of Yalta, Varenukha tried again to locate
Stepa by telephone and could not, of course, find him anywhere. While he was
still holding the receiver in his hand and wondering where to ring next, the
same woman came in again and handed Varenukha a new envelope. Hastily
opening it Varenukha read the text and whistled. ' What is it now? ' asked
Rimsky, twitching nervously. Varenukha silently passed him the telegram and
the treasurer read the words :
' BEG BELIEVE TRANSPORTED YALTA WOLANDS HYPNOSIS WIRE POLICE
CONFIRMATION MY IDENTITY LIKHODEYEV.'
Rimsky and Varenukha put their heads together, read the telegram again
and stared at one another in silence.
'Come on, come on! ' said the woman irritably. ' Sign here. Then you
can sit and stare at it as long as you like. I've got urgent telegrams to
deliver!'
Without taking his eyes off the telegram Varenukha scribbled in her
book and the woman disappeared.
'You say you spoke to him on the telephone just after eleven? ' said
the house manager in complete bewilderment.
'Yes, extraordinary as it may seem! ' shouted Rimsky. ' But whether I
did or not, he can't be in Yalta now. It's funny.'
'He's drunk . . .' said Varenukha.
'Who's drunk? ' asked Rimsky and they stared at each other again.
There was no doubt that some lunatic or practical joker was
telegraphing from Yalta. But the strange thing was--how did this wit in
Yalta know about Woland, who had only arrived in Moscow the evening before?
How did he know of the connection between Likhodeyev and Woland?
'" Hypnosis ",' muttered Varenukha, repeating one of the words in the
telegram. ' How does he know about Woland? ' He blinked and suddenly shouted
firmly : ' No, of course not. It can't be! Rubbish! '
'Where the hell has this man Woland got to, damn him? ' asked Rimsky.
Varenukha at once got in touch with the tourist bureau and announced to
Rimsky's utter astonishment that Woland was staying in Likhodeyev's flat.
Having then dialled Likhodeyev's flat yet again, Varenukha listened for a
long time as the ringing tone buzzed thickly in the earpiece. In between the
buzzes a distant baritone voice could be heard singing and Varenukha decided
that somewhere the telephone system had got its wires crossed with the radio
station.
'No reply from his flat,' said Varenukha, replacing the receiver on
its rest. ' I'll try once more . . .'
Before he could finish in came the same woman and both men rose to
greet her as this time she took out of her pouch not a white, but a black
sheet of paper.
'This is getting interesting,' said Varenukha through gritted teeth,
watching the woman as she hurried out. Rimsky was the first to look at the
message.
On a dark sheet of photographic paper the following lines were clearly
visible :
'As proof herewith specimen my handwriting and signature wire
confirmation my identity. Have Woland secretly followed. Likhodeyev.'
In twenty years of experience in the theatre Varenukha had seen plenty,
but now he felt his mind becoming paralysed and he could find nothing to say
beyond the commonplace and absurd remark:
It can't be!'
Rimsky reacted differently. He got up, opened the door and bellowed
through it to the usher sitting outside on a stool:
'Don't let anybody in except the telegraph girl,' and locked the door.
He then pulled a sheaf of papers out of his desk drawer and began a
careful comparison of the thick, backward-sloping letters in the photogram
with the writing in Stepa's memoranda and his signatures, with their
typically curly-tailed script. Varenukha, sprawling on the desk, breathed
hotly on Rimsky's cheek.
'It's his handwriting,' the treasurer finally said and Varenukha
echoed him:
'It's his all right.'
Looking at Rimsky's face the house manager noticed a change in it. A
thin man, the treasurer seemed to have grown even thinner and to have aged.
Behind their hornrims his eyes had lost their usual aggressiveness. Now they
showed only anxiety, even alarm.
Varenukha did everything that people are supposed to do in moments of
great stress. He paced up and down the office, twice spread his arms as
though he were being crucified, drank a whole glass of brackish water from
the carafe and exclaimed :
'I don't understand it! I don't understand it! I don't under-stand
it!'
Rimsky stared out of the window, thinking hard. The treasurer was in an
extremely perplexing situation. He had to find an immediate, on-the-spot,
natural solution for a number of very unusual phenomena.
Frowning, the treasurer tried to imagine Stepa in a nightshirt and
without his shoes, climbing that morning at about half past eleven into some
incredibly super-rapid aeroplane and then the same Stepa, also at half past
eleven, standing on Yalta airport in his socks. ...
Perhaps it wasn't Stepa who had telephoned him from his flat? No, that
was Stepa all right! As if he didn't know Stepa's voice. Even if it hadn't
been Stepa talking to him that morning, he had actually seen the man no
earlier than the evening before, when Stepa had rushed in from his own
office waving that idiotic contract and had so annoyed Rimsky by his
irresponsible behaviour. How could he have flown out of Moscow without
saying a word to the theatre? And if he had flown away yesterday evening he
couldn't have reached Yalta before noon today. Or could he?
'How far is it to Yalta? ' asked Rimsky.
Varenukha stopped pacing and cried :
'I've already thought of that! To Sebastopol by rail it's about
fifteen hundred kilometres and it's about another eighty kilometres to
Yalta. It's less by air, of course.' Ню . . . Yes . . . No question of his
having gone by train. What then? An Air Force fighter plane? Who'd let Stepa
on board a fighter in his stockinged feet? And why? Perhaps he'd taken his
shoes off when he got to Yalta? Same problem-- why? Anyhow, the Air Force
wouldn't let him board a fighter even with his shoes on! No, a fighter was
out of the question too. But the telegram said that he'd appeared at the
police station at half past eleven in the morning and he'd been in Moscow,
talking on the telephone, at ... Just a moment (his watch-face appeared
before Rimsky's eyes) ... He remembered where the hands had been pointing .
. . Horrors! It had been twenty past eleven!
So what was the answer? Supposing that the moment after his telephone
call Stepa had rushed to the airport and got there in, say, five minutes
(which was impossible anyway), then if the aeroplane had taken off at once
it must have covered over a thousand kilometres in five minutes.
Consequently it had been flying at a speed of more than twelve thousand
kilometres per hour! Impossible, ergo--he wasn't in Yalta!
What other explanation could there be? Hypnosis? There Д was no such
hypnosis which could hurl a man a thousand kilometres. Could he be imagining
that he was in Yalta? He might, but would the Yalta police imagine it? No,
no, really, it was absurd! ... But they had telegraphed from Yalta, hadn't
they?
The treasurer's face was dreadful to see. By now someone outside was
twisting and rattling the door handle and the usher could be heard shouting
desperately :
'No, you can't! I wouldn't let you in even if you were to kill me!
They're in conference! '
Rimsky pulled himself together as well as he could, picked up the
telephone receiver and said into it:
'I want to put through a priority call to Yalta.'
'Clever! ' thought Varenukha.
But the call to Yalta never went through. Rimsky put back the receiver
and said :
'The line's out of order--as if on purpose.'
For some reason the faulty line disturbed him a great deal and made him
reflect. After some thought he picked up the receiver again with one hand
and with the other started writing down what he was dictating into the
telephone :
'Priority telegram. From Variety. Yes. To Yalta police. Yes. "Today
approximately 1130 Likhodeyev telephoned me Moscow. Stop. Thereafter failed
appear theatre and unreach-able telephone. Stop. Confirm handwriting. Stop.
Will take suggested measures observe Woland Rimsky Treasurer." '
'Very clever! ' thought Varenukha, but the instant afterwards he
changed his mind : ' No, it's absurd! He can't be in Yalta! '
Rimsky was meanwhile otherwise engaged. He carefully laid all the
telegrams into a pile and together with a copy of his own telegram, put them
into an envelope, sealed it up, wrote a few words on it and handed it to
Varenukha, saying :
'Take this and deliver it at once, Ivan Savyelich. Let them puzzle it
out.'
'Now that really is smart! ' thought Varenukha as he put the envelope
into his briefcase. Then just to be absolutely sure he dialled the number of
Stepa's flat, listened, then winked mysteriously and made a joyful face.
Rimsky craned his neck to listen.
'May I speak to Monsieur Woland, please? ' asked Varenukha sweetly.
'He's busy,' answered the receiver in a quavering voice. ' Who wants
him? '
'Varenukha, house manager of the Variety Theatre.'
'Ivan Savyelich? ' squeaked the earpiece delightedly. ' How very nice
to hear your voice! How are you? '
'Merci,' replied Varenukha in some consternation. ' Who's speaking? '
'This is Koroviev, his assistant and interpreter,' trilled the
receiver. ' At your service, my dear Ivan Savyelich! Just tell me what I can
do for you. What is it? '
'I'm sorry ... is Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev at home? '
'Alas, no, he isn't,' cried the telephone. ' He's gone out.'
'Where to? '
'He went out of town for a car-ride.'
'Wha-at? Car-ride? When is he coming back? '
'He said he just wanted a breath of fresh air and then he'd be back.'
'I see . . .' said Varenukha, perplexed. ' Merci. . . please tell
Monsieur Woland that his act this evening starts after the second interval.'
'Very good. Of course. At once. Immediately. Certainly. I'll tell
him,' came the staccato reply from the earpiece.
'Goodbye,' said Varenukha, in amazement.
'Please accept,' said the telephone, ' my warmest and most sincere
good wishes for a brilliant success! It will be a great show--great! '
'There you are--I told you so! ' said the house manager excitedly. '
He hasn't gone to Yalta, he's just gone out of town for a drive.'
'Well, if that's the case,' said the treasurer, turning pale with
anger, ' he has behaved like an absolute swine!'
Here the manager leaped into the air and gave such a shout that Rimsky
shuddered.
'I remember! I remember now! There's a new Turkish restaurant out at
Pushkino--it's just opened--and it's called the " Yalta "! Don't you see? He
went there, got drunk and he's been sending us telegrams from there!'
'Well, he really has overdone it this time,' replied Rimsky, his cheek
twitching and real anger flashing in his eyes. ' This little jaunt is going
to cost him dear.' He suddenly stopped and added uncertainly : ' But what
about those telegrams from the police?'
'A lot of rubbish! More of his practical jokes,' said Varenukha
confidently and asked : ' Shall I take this envelope all the same? '
'You must,' replied Rimsky.
Again the door opened to admit the same woman. ' Oh, not her! ' sighed
Rimsky to himself. Both men got up and walked towards her.
This time the telegram said :
'THANKS CONFIRMATION IDENTITY WIRE ME FIVE HUNDRED ROUBLES POLICE
STATION FLYING MOSCOW TOMORROW LIKHODEYEV.'
'He's gone mad,' said Varenukha weakly. Rimsky rattled his key-chain,
took some money out of the safe, counted out five hundred roubles, rang the
bell, gave the money to the usher and sent her off to the post office.
'But Grigory Danilovich,' said Varenukha, unable to believe his eyes,
' if you ask me you're throwing that money away.'
'It'll come back,' replied Rimsky quietly, ' and then he'll pay dearly
for this little picnic.' And pointing at Varenukha's briefcase he said :
'Go on, Ivan Savyelich, don't waste any time.' Varenukha picked up his
briefcase and trotted off. He went down to the ground floor, saw a very long
queue outside the box office and heard from the cashier that she was
expecting to have to put up the ' House Full' notices that evening because
they were being positively overwhelmed since the special bill had been
posted up. Varenukha told her to be sure not to sell the thirty best seats
in the boxes and stalls, then rushed out of the box office, fought off the
people begging for free tickets and slipped into his own office to pick up
his cap. At that moment the telephone rang. ' Yes? ' he shouted.
'Ivan Savyelich? ' enquired the receiver in an odious nasal voice.
'He's not in the theatre! ' Varenukha was just about to shout, but the
telephone cut him short:
'Don't play the fool, Ivan Savyelich, and listen. You are not to take
those telegrams anywhere or show them to anybody.'
'Who's that? ' roared Varenukha. ' Kindly stop playing these tricks!
You're going to be shown up before long. What's your telephone number? '
allow anyone to say you're mad.'
'All right, then, listen: yesterday evening at Patriarch's Ponds I met
a mysterious person, who may or may not have been a foreigner, who knew
about Berlioz's death before it happened, and had met Pontius Pilate.'
The retinue listened to Ivan, silent and unmoving.
'Pilate? Is that the Pilate who lived at the time of Jesus Christ?'
enquired Stravinsky, peering at Ivan. ' Yes.'
'Aha,' said Stravinsky. ' And this Berlioz is the one who died falling
under a tram? '
'Yes. I was there yesterday evening when the tram killed him, and this
mysterious character was there too .'
'Pontius Pilate's friend? ' asked Stravinsky, obviously a man of
exceptional intelligence.
'Exactly,' said Ivan, studying Stravinsky. ' He told us, before it
happened, that Anna had spilt the sunflower-seed oil ... and that was the
very spot where Berlioz slipped! How d'you like that?!' Ivan concluded,
expecting his story to produce a big effect.
But it produced none. Stravinsky simply asked :
'And who is this Anna? '
Slightly disconcerted by the question, Ivan frowned.
'Anna doesn't matter,' he said irritably. ' God knows who she is.
Simply some stupid girl from Sadovaya Street. What's important, don't you
see, is that he knew about the sunflower-seed oil beforehand. Do you follow
me? '
'Perfectly,' replied Stravinsky seriously. Patting the poet's knee he
added : ' Relax and go on.'
'All right,' said Ivan, trying to fall into Stravinsky's tone and
knowing from bitter experience that only calm would help him. ' So obviously
this terrible man (he's lying, by the way--he's no professor) has some
unusual power . . . For instance, if you chase him you can't catch up with
him . . . and there's a couple of others with him, just as peculiar in their
way: a tall fellow with broken spectacles and an enormous cat who rides on
the tram by himself. What's more,' went on Ivan with great heat and
conviction, ' he was on the balcony with Pontius Pilate, there's no doubt of
it. What about that, eh? He must be arrested immediately or he'll do untold
harm.'
'So you think he should be arrested? Have I understood you correctly?
' asked Stravinsky.
He's clever,' thought Ivan, ' I must admit there are a few bright
ones among the intellectuals,' and he replied :
'Quite correct. It's obvious--he must be arrested! And meanwhile I'm
being kept here by force while they flash lamps at me, bath me and ask me
idiotic questions about uncle Fyodor! He's been dead for years! I demand to
be let out at once! '
'Splendid, splendid! ' cried Stravinsky. ' I see it all now. You're
right--what is the use of keeping a healthy man in hospital? Very well, I'll
discharge you at once if you tell me you're normal. You don't have to prove
it--just say it. Well, are you normal? '
There was complete silence. The fat woman who had examined Ivan that
morning glanced reverently at the professor and once again Ivan thought:
'Extremely clever! '
The professor's offer pleased him a great deal, but before replying he
thought hard, frowning, until at last he announced firmly:
'I am normal.'
'Splendid,' exclaimed Stravinsky with relief. ' In that case let us
reason logically. We'll begin by considering what happened to you
yesterday.' Here he turned and was immediately handed Ivan's questionnaire.
' Yesterday, while in search of an unknown man, who had introduced himself
as a friend of Pontius Pilate, you did the following: ' Here Stravinsky
began ticking off the points on his long fingers, glancing back and forth
from the paper to Ivan. ' You pinned an ikon to your chest. Right? '
'Right,' Ivan agreed sulkily.
'You fell off a fence and scratched your face. Right? You appeared in
a restaurant carrying a lighted candle, wearing only underpants, and you hit
somebody in the restaurant. You were tied up and brought here, where you
rang the police and asked them to send some machine-guns. You then attempted
to throw yourself out of the window. Right? The question--is that the way to
set about catching or arresting somebody? If you're normal you're bound to
reply--no, it isn't. You want to leave here? Very well. But where, if you
don't mind my asking, do you propose to go? ' ' To the police, of course,'
replied Ivan, although rather less firmly and slightly disconcerted by the
professor's stare.
'Straight from here? '
'Mm'hh.'
'Won't you go home first? ' Stravinsky asked quickly.
'Why should I go there? While I'm going home he might get away!'
'I see. And what will you tell the police? '
'I'll tell them about Pontius Pilate,' replied Ivan Nikolayich, his
eyes clouding.
'Splendid! ' exclaimed Stravinsky, defeated, and turning to the man
with the beard he said: ' Fyodor Vasilievich, please arrange for citizen
Bezdomny to be discharged. But don't put anybody else in this room and don't
change the bedclothes. Citizen Bezdomny will be back here again in two
hours. Well,' he said to the poet, I won't wish you success because I see
no chance whatever of your succeeding. See you soon!' He got up and his
retinue started to go.
'Why will I come back here? ' asked Ivan anxiously.
'Because as soon as you appear at a police station dressed in your
underpants and say yom've met a man who knew Pontius Pilate, you'll
immediately be brought back here and put in this room again.'
'Because of my underpants? ' asked Ivan, staring distractedly about
him.
'Chiefly because of Pontims Pilate. But the underpants will help. We
shall have to take a.way your hospital clothes and give you back your own.
And you came here wearing underpants. Incidentally you said nothing about
going home first, despite my hint. After that you only have to start talking
about Pontius Pilate . . . and you're done for.'
At this point something odd happened to Ivan Nikolayich. His will-power
seemed to crumple. He felt himself weak and in need of advice.
'What should I do, then? ' he asked, timidly this time.
'Splendid! ' said Stravinsky. ' A most reasonable question.
Now I'll tell you what has really happened to you. Yesterday someone
gave you a bad fright and upset you with this story about Pontius Pilate and
other things. So you, worn out and nerve-racked, wandered round the town
talking about Pontius Pilate. Quite naturally people took you for a lunatic.
Your only salvation now is complete rest. And you must stay here.'
'But somebody must arrest him! ' cried Ivan, imploringly.
'Certainly, but why should you have to do it? Put down all your
suspicions and accusations against this man on a piece of paper. Nothing
could be simpler than to send your statement to the proper authorities and
if, as you suspect, the man is a criminal, it will come to light soon
enough. But on one condition--don't over-exert your mind and try to think a
bit less about Pontius Pilate. If you harp on that story I don't think many
people are going to believe you.'
'Right you are! ' announced Ivan firmly. ' Please give me pen and
paper.'
'Give him some paper and a short pencil,' said Stravinsky to the fat
woman, then turning to Ivan : ' But I don't advise you to start writing
today.'
'No, no, today! I must do it today! ' cried Ivan excitedly.
'All right. Only don't overtax your brain. If you don't get it quite
right today, tomorrow will do.'
'But he'll get away! '
'Oh no,' countered Stravinsky. ' I assure you he's not going to get
away. And remember--we are here to help you in every way we can and unless
we do, nothing will come of your plan. D'you hear? ' Stravinsky suddenly
asked, seizing Ivan Nikolay-ich by both hands. As he held them in his own he
stared intently into Ivan's eyes, repeating : ' We shall help you ... do you
hear? . . . We shall help you . . . you will be able to relax . . . it's
quiet here, everything's going to be all right ... all right . . . we shall
help you . . .'
Ivan Nikolayich suddenly yawned and his expression softened.
'Yes, I see,' he said quietly.
'Splendid! ' said Stravinsky, closing the conversation in his no
habitual way and getting up. ' Goodbye!' He shook Ivan by the hand and as he
went out he turned to the man with the beard and said : ' Yes, and try
oxygen . . . and baths.'
A few moments later Stravinsky and his retinue were gone. Through the
window and the grille the gay, springtime wood gleamed brightly on the far
bank and the river sparkled in the noon sunshine.
Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi, chairman of the tenants' association of No.
302A, Sadovaya Street, Moscow, where the late Berlioz had lived, was in
trouble. It had all begun on the previous Wednesday night.
At midnight, as we already know, the police had arrived with Zheldybin,
had hauled Nikanor Ivanovich out of bed, told him of Berlioz's death and
followed him to flat No. 50. There they had sealed the deceased's papers and
personal effects. Neither Grunya the maid, who lived out, nor the imprudent
Stepan Bogdanovich were in the flat at the time. The police informed Nikanor
Ivanovich that they would call later to collect Berlioz's manuscripts for
sorting and examination and that his accommodation, consisting of three
rooms (the jeweller's study, drawing-room and dining-room) would revert to
the tenants' association for disposal. His effects were to be kept under
seal until the legatees' claims were proved by the court.
The news of Berlioz's death spread through the building with
supernatural speed and from seven o'clock on Thursday morning Bosoi started
to get telephone calls. After that people began calling in person with
written pleas of their urgent need of vacant housing space. Within the space
of two hours Nikanor Ivanovich had collected thirty-two such statements.
They contained entreaties, threats, intrigue, denunciations, promises
to redecorate the flat, remarks about overcrowding and the impossibility of
sharing a flat with bandits. Among them was a description, shattering in its
literary power, of the theft of some meat-balls from someone's jacket pocket
in flat No. 31, two threats of suicide and one confession of secret
pregnancy.
Nikanor Ivanovich was again and again taken aside with a wink and
assured in whispers that he would do well on the deal....
This torture lasted until one o'clock, when Nikanor Ivanovich simply
ran out of his flat by the main entrance, only to run away again when he
found them lying in wait for him outside. Somehow contriving to throw off
the people who chased him across the asphalt courtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich
took refuge in staircase 6 and climbed to the fatal apartment.
Panting with exertion, the stout Nikanor Ivanovich rang the bell on the
fifth-floor landing. No one opened. He rang again and again and began to
swear quietly. Still no answer. Nikanor Ivanovich's patience gave way and
pulling a bunch of duplicate keys from his pocket he opened the door with a
masterful flourish and walked in.
'Hello, there! ' shouted Nikanor Ivanovich in the dim hallway. ' Are
you there, Grunya? '
No reply.
Nikanor Ivanovich then took a folding ruler out of his pocket, used it
to prise the seal from the study door and strode in. At least he began by
striding in, but stopped in the doorway with a start of amazement.
Behind Berlioz's desk sat a tall, thin stranger in a check jacket,
jockey cap and pince-nez. . . .
'And who might you be, citizen? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich.
'Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cried the mysterious stranger in a quavering
tenor. He leaped up and greeted the chairman with an unexpectedly powerful
handshake which Nikanor Ivanovich found extremely painful.
'Pardon me,' he said suspiciously, ' but who are you? Are you somebody
official? '
'Ah, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' said the stranger in a man-to-man voice. '
Who is official and who is unofficial these days? It all depends on your
point of view. It's all so vague and changeable, Nikanor Ivanovich. Today
I'm unofficial, tomorrow, hey presto! I'm official! Or maybe vice-versa--who
knows? '
None of this satisfied the chairman. By nature a suspicious man, he
decided that this voluble individual was not only unofficial but had no
business to be there.
'Who are you? What's your name? ' said the chairman firmly, advancing
on the stranger.
'My name,' replied the man, quite unmoved by this hostile reception, '
is . . . er . . . let's say . . . Koroviev. Wouldn't you like a bite to eat,
Nikanor Ivanovich? As we're friends? '
'Look here,' said Nikanor Ivanovich disagreeably, ' what the hell do
you mean--eat? ' (Sad though it is to admit, Nikanor Ivanovich had no
manners.) ' You're not allowed to come into a dead man's flat! What are you
doing here? '
'Now just sit down, Nikanor Ivanovich,' said the imperturbable
stranger in a wheedling voice, offering Nikanor Ivanovich a chair.
Infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich kicked the chair away and yelled:
'Who are you? '
'I am employed as interpreter to a foreign gentleman residing in this
flat,' said the self-styled Koroviev by way of introduction as he clicked
the heels of his dirty brown boots.
Nikanor Ivanovich's mouth fell open. A foreigner in this flat, complete
with interpreter, was a total surprise to him and he demanded an
explanation.
This the interpreter willingly supplied. Monsieur Woland, an artiste
from abroad, had been kindly invited by the manager of the Variety Theatre,
Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev, to spend his stay as a guest artiste, about a
week, in his flat. Likhodeyev had written to Nikanor Ivanovich about it
yesterday, requesting him to register the gentlemen from abroad as a
temporary resident while Likhodeyev himself was away in Yalta.
'But he hasn't written to me,' said the bewildered chairman.
'Take a look in your briefcase, Nikanor Ivanovich,' suggested Koroviev
amiably.
Shrugging his shoulders Nikanor Ivanovich opened his briefcase and
found a letter from Likhodeyev. ' Now how could I have forgotten that? '
mumbled Nikanor Ivanovich, gazing stupidly at the opened envelope.
'It happens to the best of us, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cackled Koroviev.
' Absent-mindedness, overstrain and high blood-pressure, my dear friend!
Why, I'm horribly absent-minded. Some time over a glass or two I'll tell you
a few things that have happened to me--you'll die with laughter! '
'When is Likhodeyev going to Yalta? '
'He's already gone,' cried the interpreter. ' He's on his way there.
God knows where he is by now.' And the interpreter waved his arms like
windmill sails.
Nikanor Ivanovich announced that he had to see the foreign gentleman in
person, but this was refused. It was quite out of the question. Monsieur
Woland was busy. Training his cat.
'You can see the cat if you like,' suggested Koroviev.
This Nikanor Ivanovich declined and the interpreter then made him an
unexpected but most interesting proposal: since Monsieur Woland could not
bear staying in hotels and was used to spacious quarters, couldn't the
tenants' association lease him the whole flat for his week's stay, including
the dead man's rooms?
'After all, what does he care? He's dead,' hissed Koroviev in a
whisper. ' You must admit the flat's no use to him now, is it?'
In some perplexity Nikanor Ivanovich objected that foreigners were
normally supposed to stay at the Metropole and not in private accommodation
. . .
'I tell you he's so fussy, you'd never believe it,' whispered
Koroviev. ' He simply refuses! He hates hotels! I can tell you I'm fed up
with these foreign tourists,' complained Koroviev confidentially. ' They
wear me out. They come here and either they go spying and snooping or they
send me mad with their whims and fancies--this isn't right, that isn't just
so! And there'd be plenty in it for your association, Nikanor Ivanovich.
He's not short of money.' Koroviev glanced round and then whispered in the
chairman's ear : ' He's a millionaire!'
The suggestion was obviously a sensible one, but there was something
ridiculous about his manner, his clothes and that absurd, useless pince-nez
that all combined to make Nikanor Ivanovich vaguely uneasy. However he
agreed to the suggestion. The tenants' association, alas, was showing an
enormous deficit. In the autumn they would have to buy oil for the steam
heating plant and there was not a kopeck in the till, but with this
foreigner's money they might just manage it. Nikanor Ivanovich, however,
practical and cautious as ever, insisted on clearing the matter with the
tourist bureau.
'Of course! ' cried Koroviev. ' It must be done properly. There's the
telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, ring them up right away! And don't worry about
money,' he added in a whisper as he led the chairman to the telephone in the
hall, ' if anyone can pay handsomely, he can. If you could see his villa in
Nice! When you go abroad next summer you must go there specially and have a
look at it--you'll be amazed! '
The matter was fixed with the tourist bureau with astonishing ease and
speed. The bureau appeared to know all about Monsieur Woland's intention to
stay in Likodeyev's flat and raised no objections.
'Excellent! ' cried Koroviev.
Slightly stupefied by this man's incessant cackling, the chairman
announced that the tenants' association was prepared to lease flat No. 50 to
Monsieur Woland the artiste at a rent of ... Nikanor Ivanovich stammered a
little and said :
'Five hundred roubles a day.'
At this Koroviev surpassed himself. Winking conspiratorially towards
the bedroom door, through which they could hear a series of soft thumps as
the cat practised its leaps, he said :
'So for a week that would amount to three and a half thousand,
wouldn't it? '
Nikanor Ivanovich quite expected the man to add ' Greedy, aren't you,
Nikanor Ivanovich? ' but instead he said:
'That's not much. Ask him for five thousand, he'll pay.'
Grinning with embarrassment, Nikanor Ivanovich did not even notice how
he suddenly came to be standing beside Berlioz's desk and how Koroviev had
managed with such incredible speed and dexterity to draft a contract in
duplicate. This done, he flew into the bedroom and returned with the two
copies signed in the stranger's florid hand. The chairman signed in turn and
Koroviev asked him to make out a receipt for five . . .
'Write it out in words, Nikanor Ivanovich. " Five thousand roubles ".'
Then with a flourish which seemed vaguely out of place in such a serious
matter--' Eins! 'yvei! drei! '--he laid five bundles of brand-new banknotes
on the table.
Nikanor Ivanovich checked them, to an accompaniment of witticisms from
Koroviev of the ' better safe than sorry ' variety. Having counted the money
the chairman took the stranger's passport to be stamped with his temporary
residence permit, put contract, passport and money into his briefcase and
asked shyly for a free ticket to the show . . .
'But of course! ' exclaimed Koroviev. ' How many do you want, Nikanor
Ivanovich--twelve, fifteen? '
Overwhelmed, the chairman explained that he only wanted two, one for
his wife Pelagea Antonovna and one for himself.
Koroviev seized a note-pad and dashed off an order to the box office
for two complimentary tickets in the front row. As the interpreter handed it
to Nikanor Ivanovich with his left hand, with his right he gave him a thick,
crackling package. Glancing at it Nikanor Ivanovich blushed hard and started
to push it away.
'It's not proper . . .'
'I won't hear any objection,' Koroviev whispered right in his ear. '
We don't do this sort of thing but foreigners do. You'll offend him, Nikanor
Ivanovich, and that might be awkward. You've earned it . . .'
'It's strictly forbidden . . .' whispered the chairman in a tiny
voice, with a furtive glance around.
'Where are the witnesses? ' hissed Koroviev into his other ear. ' I
ask you--where are they? Come, now . . .'
There then happened what the chairman later described as a miracle--the
package jumped into his briefcase of its own accord, after which he found
himself, feeling weak and battered, on the staircase. A storm of thoughts
was whirling round inside his head. Among them were the villa in Nice, the
trained cat, relief that there had been no witnesses and his wife's pleasure
at the complimentary tickets. Yet despite these mostly comforting thoughts,
in the depths of his soul the chairman still felt the pricking of a little
needle. It was the needle of unease. Suddenly, halfway down the staircase,
something else occurred to him-- how had that interpreter found his way into
the study past a sealed door? And why on earth had he, Nikanor Ivanovich,
forgotten to ask him about it? For a while the chairman stared at the steps
like a sheep, then decided to forget it and not to bother himself with
imaginary problems . . .
As soon as the chairman had left the flat a low voice came from the
bedroom:
'I don't care for that Nikanor Ivanovich. He's a sly rogue. Why not
fix it so that he doesn't come here again? '
'Messire, you only have to give the order . . .' answered Koroviev in
a firm, clear voice that no longer quavered.
At once the diabolical interpreter was in the hall, had dialled a
number and started to speak in a whining voice :
'Hullo! I consider it my duty to report that the chairman of our
tenants' association at No. 302А Sadovaya Street, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi,
is dealing in black-market foreign currency. He has just stuffed four
hundred dollars wrapped in newspaper into the ventilation shaft of the
lavatory in his flat. No. 3 5. My name is Timothy Kvastsov and I live in the
same block, flat No. 11. But please keep my name a secret. I'm afraid of
what that man may do if he finds out . . .'
And with that the scoundrel hung up.
What happened after that in No. 50 is a mystery, although what happened
to Nikanor Ivanovich is common knowledge. Locking himself in the lavatory,
he pulled the package out of his briefcase and found that it contained four
hundred roubles. He wrapped it up in a sheet of old newspaper and pushed it
into the ventilation shaft. Five minutes later he was sitting down at table
in his little dining-room. From the kitchen his wife brought in a pickled
herring, sliced and thickly sprinkled with raw onion. Nikanor Ivanovich
poured himself a wineglassful of vodka, drank it, poured out another, drank
that, speared three slices of herring on his fork . . . and then the
doorbell rang. Pelagea Antonovna was just bringing in a steaming casserole,
one glance at which was enough to tell you that in the midst of all that
hot, thick borsch was one of the most delicious things in the world --a
marrow bone.
Gulping down his running saliva, Nikanor Ivanovich snarled :
'Who the hell is that--at this hour! They won't even allow a man to
eat his supper. . . . Don't let anybody in--I'm not at home.... If it's
about the flat tell them to stop worrying. There'll be a committee meeting
about it in a week's time.'
His wife ran into the hall and Nikanor Ivanovich ladled the quivering
marrow bone out of its steaming lake. At that moment three men came into the
dining-room, followed by a very pale Pelagea Antonovna. At the sight of them
Nikanor Ivanovich turned white and got up.
'Where's the W.C.? ' enquired the first man urgently. There was a
crash as Nikanor Ivanovich dropped the ladle on to the oilcloth table-top.
'Here, in here,' babbled Pelagea Antonovna. The visitors turned and
rushed back into the passage.
'What's going on? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich as he followed them. ' You
can't just burst into our flat like that . . . Where's your identity card if
you don't mind? '
The first man showed Nikanor Ivanovich his identity card while the
second clambered up on to a stool in the lavatory and thrust his arm into
the ventilation shaft. Nikanor Ivanovich began to feel faint. They unwrapped
the sheet of newspaper to find that the banknotes in the package were not
roubles but some unknown foreign money--bluish-green in colour with a
picture of an old man. Nikanor Ivanovich, however, saw none of it very
clearly because spots were swimming in front of his eyes.
'Dollars in the ventilation shaft. . . .' said the first man
thoughtfully and asked Nikanor Ivanovich politely : * Is this your little
parcel? '
'No! ' replied Nikanor Ivanovich in a terrified voice. ' It's been
planted on me!'
'Could be,' agreed the first man, adding as quietly as before :
'Still, you'd better give up the rest.'
'There isn't any more! I swear to God I've never even seen any! '
screamed the chairman in desperation. He rushed to a chest, pulled out a
drawer and out of that his briefcase, shouting distractedly as he did so :
'It's all in here . . . the contract . . . that interpreter must have
planted them on me . . . Koroviev, the man in the pince-nez!'
He opened the briefcase, looked inside, thrust his hand in, turned blue
in the face and dropped his briefcase into the borsch. There was nothing in
it--no letter from Stepan, no contract, no passport, no money and no
complimentary tickets. Nothing, in short, except a folding ruler.
* Comrades!' screamed the chairman frantically. ' Arrest them! The
forces of evil are in this house!'
Something odd happened to Pelagea Antonovna at this point. Wringing her
hands she cried :
'Confess, Nikanor! They'll reduce your sentence if you do! '
Eyes bloodshot, Nikanor Ivanovich raised his clenched fists over his
wife's head and screamed :
'Aaah! You stupid bitch! '
Then he crumpled and fell into a chair, having obviously decided to bow
to the inevitable. Meanwhile, out on the landing, Timothy Kondratievich
Kvastsov was pressing first his ear then his eye to the keyhole of the
chairman's front door, burning with curiosity.
Five minutes later the tenants saw the chairman led out into the
courtyard by two men. Nikanor Ivanovich, so they said later, had been
scarcely recognisable--staggering like a drunkard and muttering to himself.
Another hour after that a stranger appeared at flat No. n just when
Timothy Kondratievich, gulping with pleasure, was describing to some other
tenants how the chairman had been whisked away; the stranger beckoned
Timothy Kondratievich out of his kitchen into the hall, said something and
took him away.
As disaster overtook Nikanor Ivanovich in Sadovaya Street, not far from
No. 302А two men were sitting in the office of Rimsky the treasurer of the
Variety Theatre : Rimsky himself and the house manager, Varenukha.
From this large office on the second floor two windows gave on to
Sadovaya and another, just behind the treasurer's back as he sat at his
desk, on to the Variety's garden; it was used in summer and contained
several bars for serving cold drinks, a shooting gallery and an open
promenade. The furniture of the room, apart from the desk, consisted of a
collection of old posters hanging on the wall, a small table with a carafe
of water, four chairs and a stand in one corner supporting a dusty,
long-forgotten model of a stage set. Naturally the office also contained a
small, battered fireproof safe standing to the left of Rimsky's desk.
Rimsky had been in a bad mood all morning. Varenukha, by contrast, was
extremely cheerful and lively, if somewhat nervous. Today, however, there
was no outlet for his energy.
Varenukha had just taken refuge in the treasurer's office from the
complimentary ticket hounds who made his life a misery, especially on the
days when there was a change of programme. And today was one of those days.
As soon as the telephone started to ring Varenukha picked up the receiver
and lied into it:
'Who? Varenukha? He's not here. He's left the theatre.'
'Please try and ring Likhodeyev once more,' said Rimsky testily.
'But he's not at home. I've already sent Karpov; the Hat's empty.'
'I wish to God I knew what was going on! ' hissed Rimsky, fidgeting
with his adding machine.
The door opened and a theatre usher dragged in a thick package of
newly-printed fly-posters, which announced in large red letters on a green
background :
Tonight and All This Week in the Variety Theatre
A Special Act
PROFESSOR WOLAND
Black Magic All Mysteries revealed
As Varenukha stepped back from the poster, which he had propped up on
the model, he admired it and ordered the usher to have all the copies posted
up.
'All right--look sharp,' said Varenukha to the departing usher.
'I don't care for this project at all,' growled Rimsky disagreeably,
staring at the poster through his horn-rims. ' I'm amazed that he was ever
engaged.'
'No, Grigory Danilovich, don't say that! It's a very smart move. All
the fun is in showing how it's done--" the mysteries revealed ".'
'I don't know, I don't know. I don't see any fun in that myself. . .
just like him to dream up something of this sort. If only he'd shown us this
magician. Did you see him? God knows where he's dug him up from.'
It transpired that Varenukha, like Rimsky, had not seen the magician
either. Yesterday Stepa had rushed (' like a madman ', in Rimsky's words)
into the treasurer's office clutching a draft contract, had ordered him to
countersign it and pay Woland his money. The magician had vanished and no
one except Stepa himself had seen him.
Rimsky pulled out his watch, saw that it was five minutes to three and
was seized with fury. Really, this was too much! Likhodeyev had rung at
about eleven o'clock, had said that he would come in about half an hour and
now he had not only failed to appear but had disappeared from his flat.
'It's holding up all my work' snarled Rimsky, tapping a pile of
unsigned papers.
'I suppose he hasn't fallen under a tram, like Berlioz? ' said
Varenukha, holding the receiver to his ear and hearing nothing but a
continual, hopeless buzz as Stepa's telephone rang unanswered.
'It would be a damned good thing if he has . . .' said Rimsky softly
between his teeth.
At that moment in came a woman in a uniform jacket, peaked cap, black
skirt and sneakers. She took a square of white paper and a notebook out of a
little pouch on her belt and enquired :
'Which of you is Variety? Priority telegram for you. Sign here.'
Varenukha scrawled some hieroglyphic in the woman's notebook and as
soon as the door had slammed behind her, opened the envelope. Having read
the telegram he blinked and handed it to Rimsky.
The telegram read as follows: 'yalta то moscow
VARIETY STOP TODAY 1130 PSYCHIATRIC CASE NIGHT-SHIRTED TROUSERED
SHOELESS STAGGERED POLICE STATION ALLEGING SELF LIKHODEYEV MANAGER VARIETY
WIRE YALTA POLICE WHERE LIKHODEYEV.'
'Thanks--and I'm a Dutchman! ' exclaimed Rimsky and added : ' Another
little surprise package! '
'The False Dimitry! ' said Varenukha and spoke into the telephone : '
Telegrams, please. On account. Variety Theatre. Priority. Ready? " Yalta
Police stop Likhodeyev Moscow Rimsky Treasurer."'
Disregarding the Pretender of Yalta, Varenukha tried again to locate
Stepa by telephone and could not, of course, find him anywhere. While he was
still holding the receiver in his hand and wondering where to ring next, the
same woman came in again and handed Varenukha a new envelope. Hastily
opening it Varenukha read the text and whistled. ' What is it now? ' asked
Rimsky, twitching nervously. Varenukha silently passed him the telegram and
the treasurer read the words :
' BEG BELIEVE TRANSPORTED YALTA WOLANDS HYPNOSIS WIRE POLICE
CONFIRMATION MY IDENTITY LIKHODEYEV.'
Rimsky and Varenukha put their heads together, read the telegram again
and stared at one another in silence.
'Come on, come on! ' said the woman irritably. ' Sign here. Then you
can sit and stare at it as long as you like. I've got urgent telegrams to
deliver!'
Without taking his eyes off the telegram Varenukha scribbled in her
book and the woman disappeared.
'You say you spoke to him on the telephone just after eleven? ' said
the house manager in complete bewilderment.
'Yes, extraordinary as it may seem! ' shouted Rimsky. ' But whether I
did or not, he can't be in Yalta now. It's funny.'
'He's drunk . . .' said Varenukha.
'Who's drunk? ' asked Rimsky and they stared at each other again.
There was no doubt that some lunatic or practical joker was
telegraphing from Yalta. But the strange thing was--how did this wit in
Yalta know about Woland, who had only arrived in Moscow the evening before?
How did he know of the connection between Likhodeyev and Woland?
'" Hypnosis ",' muttered Varenukha, repeating one of the words in the
telegram. ' How does he know about Woland? ' He blinked and suddenly shouted
firmly : ' No, of course not. It can't be! Rubbish! '
'Where the hell has this man Woland got to, damn him? ' asked Rimsky.
Varenukha at once got in touch with the tourist bureau and announced to
Rimsky's utter astonishment that Woland was staying in Likhodeyev's flat.
Having then dialled Likhodeyev's flat yet again, Varenukha listened for a
long time as the ringing tone buzzed thickly in the earpiece. In between the
buzzes a distant baritone voice could be heard singing and Varenukha decided
that somewhere the telephone system had got its wires crossed with the radio
station.
'No reply from his flat,' said Varenukha, replacing the receiver on
its rest. ' I'll try once more . . .'
Before he could finish in came the same woman and both men rose to
greet her as this time she took out of her pouch not a white, but a black
sheet of paper.
'This is getting interesting,' said Varenukha through gritted teeth,
watching the woman as she hurried out. Rimsky was the first to look at the
message.
On a dark sheet of photographic paper the following lines were clearly
visible :
'As proof herewith specimen my handwriting and signature wire
confirmation my identity. Have Woland secretly followed. Likhodeyev.'
In twenty years of experience in the theatre Varenukha had seen plenty,
but now he felt his mind becoming paralysed and he could find nothing to say
beyond the commonplace and absurd remark:
It can't be!'
Rimsky reacted differently. He got up, opened the door and bellowed
through it to the usher sitting outside on a stool:
'Don't let anybody in except the telegraph girl,' and locked the door.
He then pulled a sheaf of papers out of his desk drawer and began a
careful comparison of the thick, backward-sloping letters in the photogram
with the writing in Stepa's memoranda and his signatures, with their
typically curly-tailed script. Varenukha, sprawling on the desk, breathed
hotly on Rimsky's cheek.
'It's his handwriting,' the treasurer finally said and Varenukha
echoed him:
'It's his all right.'
Looking at Rimsky's face the house manager noticed a change in it. A
thin man, the treasurer seemed to have grown even thinner and to have aged.
Behind their hornrims his eyes had lost their usual aggressiveness. Now they
showed only anxiety, even alarm.
Varenukha did everything that people are supposed to do in moments of
great stress. He paced up and down the office, twice spread his arms as
though he were being crucified, drank a whole glass of brackish water from
the carafe and exclaimed :
'I don't understand it! I don't understand it! I don't under-stand
it!'
Rimsky stared out of the window, thinking hard. The treasurer was in an
extremely perplexing situation. He had to find an immediate, on-the-spot,
natural solution for a number of very unusual phenomena.
Frowning, the treasurer tried to imagine Stepa in a nightshirt and
without his shoes, climbing that morning at about half past eleven into some
incredibly super-rapid aeroplane and then the same Stepa, also at half past
eleven, standing on Yalta airport in his socks. ...
Perhaps it wasn't Stepa who had telephoned him from his flat? No, that
was Stepa all right! As if he didn't know Stepa's voice. Even if it hadn't
been Stepa talking to him that morning, he had actually seen the man no
earlier than the evening before, when Stepa had rushed in from his own
office waving that idiotic contract and had so annoyed Rimsky by his
irresponsible behaviour. How could he have flown out of Moscow without
saying a word to the theatre? And if he had flown away yesterday evening he
couldn't have reached Yalta before noon today. Or could he?
'How far is it to Yalta? ' asked Rimsky.
Varenukha stopped pacing and cried :
'I've already thought of that! To Sebastopol by rail it's about
fifteen hundred kilometres and it's about another eighty kilometres to
Yalta. It's less by air, of course.' Ню . . . Yes . . . No question of his
having gone by train. What then? An Air Force fighter plane? Who'd let Stepa
on board a fighter in his stockinged feet? And why? Perhaps he'd taken his
shoes off when he got to Yalta? Same problem-- why? Anyhow, the Air Force
wouldn't let him board a fighter even with his shoes on! No, a fighter was
out of the question too. But the telegram said that he'd appeared at the
police station at half past eleven in the morning and he'd been in Moscow,
talking on the telephone, at ... Just a moment (his watch-face appeared
before Rimsky's eyes) ... He remembered where the hands had been pointing .
. . Horrors! It had been twenty past eleven!
So what was the answer? Supposing that the moment after his telephone
call Stepa had rushed to the airport and got there in, say, five minutes
(which was impossible anyway), then if the aeroplane had taken off at once
it must have covered over a thousand kilometres in five minutes.
Consequently it had been flying at a speed of more than twelve thousand
kilometres per hour! Impossible, ergo--he wasn't in Yalta!
What other explanation could there be? Hypnosis? There Д was no such
hypnosis which could hurl a man a thousand kilometres. Could he be imagining
that he was in Yalta? He might, but would the Yalta police imagine it? No,
no, really, it was absurd! ... But they had telegraphed from Yalta, hadn't
they?
The treasurer's face was dreadful to see. By now someone outside was
twisting and rattling the door handle and the usher could be heard shouting
desperately :
'No, you can't! I wouldn't let you in even if you were to kill me!
They're in conference! '
Rimsky pulled himself together as well as he could, picked up the
telephone receiver and said into it:
'I want to put through a priority call to Yalta.'
'Clever! ' thought Varenukha.
But the call to Yalta never went through. Rimsky put back the receiver
and said :
'The line's out of order--as if on purpose.'
For some reason the faulty line disturbed him a great deal and made him
reflect. After some thought he picked up the receiver again with one hand
and with the other started writing down what he was dictating into the
telephone :
'Priority telegram. From Variety. Yes. To Yalta police. Yes. "Today
approximately 1130 Likhodeyev telephoned me Moscow. Stop. Thereafter failed
appear theatre and unreach-able telephone. Stop. Confirm handwriting. Stop.
Will take suggested measures observe Woland Rimsky Treasurer." '
'Very clever! ' thought Varenukha, but the instant afterwards he
changed his mind : ' No, it's absurd! He can't be in Yalta! '
Rimsky was meanwhile otherwise engaged. He carefully laid all the
telegrams into a pile and together with a copy of his own telegram, put them
into an envelope, sealed it up, wrote a few words on it and handed it to
Varenukha, saying :
'Take this and deliver it at once, Ivan Savyelich. Let them puzzle it
out.'
'Now that really is smart! ' thought Varenukha as he put the envelope
into his briefcase. Then just to be absolutely sure he dialled the number of
Stepa's flat, listened, then winked mysteriously and made a joyful face.
Rimsky craned his neck to listen.
'May I speak to Monsieur Woland, please? ' asked Varenukha sweetly.
'He's busy,' answered the receiver in a quavering voice. ' Who wants
him? '
'Varenukha, house manager of the Variety Theatre.'
'Ivan Savyelich? ' squeaked the earpiece delightedly. ' How very nice
to hear your voice! How are you? '
'Merci,' replied Varenukha in some consternation. ' Who's speaking? '
'This is Koroviev, his assistant and interpreter,' trilled the
receiver. ' At your service, my dear Ivan Savyelich! Just tell me what I can
do for you. What is it? '
'I'm sorry ... is Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev at home? '
'Alas, no, he isn't,' cried the telephone. ' He's gone out.'
'Where to? '
'He went out of town for a car-ride.'
'Wha-at? Car-ride? When is he coming back? '
'He said he just wanted a breath of fresh air and then he'd be back.'
'I see . . .' said Varenukha, perplexed. ' Merci. . . please tell
Monsieur Woland that his act this evening starts after the second interval.'
'Very good. Of course. At once. Immediately. Certainly. I'll tell
him,' came the staccato reply from the earpiece.
'Goodbye,' said Varenukha, in amazement.
'Please accept,' said the telephone, ' my warmest and most sincere
good wishes for a brilliant success! It will be a great show--great! '
'There you are--I told you so! ' said the house manager excitedly. '
He hasn't gone to Yalta, he's just gone out of town for a drive.'
'Well, if that's the case,' said the treasurer, turning pale with
anger, ' he has behaved like an absolute swine!'
Here the manager leaped into the air and gave such a shout that Rimsky
shuddered.
'I remember! I remember now! There's a new Turkish restaurant out at
Pushkino--it's just opened--and it's called the " Yalta "! Don't you see? He
went there, got drunk and he's been sending us telegrams from there!'
'Well, he really has overdone it this time,' replied Rimsky, his cheek
twitching and real anger flashing in his eyes. ' This little jaunt is going
to cost him dear.' He suddenly stopped and added uncertainly : ' But what
about those telegrams from the police?'
'A lot of rubbish! More of his practical jokes,' said Varenukha
confidently and asked : ' Shall I take this envelope all the same? '
'You must,' replied Rimsky.
Again the door opened to admit the same woman. ' Oh, not her! ' sighed
Rimsky to himself. Both men got up and walked towards her.
This time the telegram said :
'THANKS CONFIRMATION IDENTITY WIRE ME FIVE HUNDRED ROUBLES POLICE
STATION FLYING MOSCOW TOMORROW LIKHODEYEV.'
'He's gone mad,' said Varenukha weakly. Rimsky rattled his key-chain,
took some money out of the safe, counted out five hundred roubles, rang the
bell, gave the money to the usher and sent her off to the post office.
'But Grigory Danilovich,' said Varenukha, unable to believe his eyes,
' if you ask me you're throwing that money away.'
'It'll come back,' replied Rimsky quietly, ' and then he'll pay dearly
for this little picnic.' And pointing at Varenukha's briefcase he said :
'Go on, Ivan Savyelich, don't waste any time.' Varenukha picked up his
briefcase and trotted off. He went down to the ground floor, saw a very long
queue outside the box office and heard from the cashier that she was
expecting to have to put up the ' House Full' notices that evening because
they were being positively overwhelmed since the special bill had been
posted up. Varenukha told her to be sure not to sell the thirty best seats
in the boxes and stalls, then rushed out of the box office, fought off the
people begging for free tickets and slipped into his own office to pick up
his cap. At that moment the telephone rang. ' Yes? ' he shouted.
'Ivan Savyelich? ' enquired the receiver in an odious nasal voice.
'He's not in the theatre! ' Varenukha was just about to shout, but the
telephone cut him short:
'Don't play the fool, Ivan Savyelich, and listen. You are not to take
those telegrams anywhere or show them to anybody.'
'Who's that? ' roared Varenukha. ' Kindly stop playing these tricks!
You're going to be shown up before long. What's your telephone number? '