hat  evening
before he could bring himself to do so.
     At  ten  Rimsky finally  took  a  grip  on  himself and picked  up  the
telephone receiver. The telephone was dead.  An usher  reported that all the
other telephones in the building were out of order. This annoying but hardly
supernatural occurrence seemed to  shock  Rimsky,  although secretly he  was
glad, because it absolved him from the need to telephone.
     As the  little red light above the treasurer's head started flashing to
show that  the interval was beginning, an usher came in  and announced  that
the foreign magician had arrived. Rimsky's expression changed and he scowled
with  a mixture  of anxiety  and  irritation.  As  the only  member  of  the
management  left in the theatre, it was his duty to go backstage and receive
the guest artiste.
     As  the warning bells  rang, inquisitive people were  peeping  into the
star dressing room. Among  them were jugglers in bright robes and turbans, a
roller-skater  in a knitted cardigan, a comedian  with a powdered white face
and a make-up  man. The celebrated  guest  artiste amazed everyone  with his
unusually long, superbly  cut tail coat and by wearing a  black domino. Even
more astounding  were the black  magician's  two  companions : a tall man in
checks with an  unsteady pince-nez and a fat black cat which walked into the
dressing room on its hind legs and casually sat down on  the divan, blinking
in the light of the unshaded lamps round the make-up mirror.
     With  a forced  smile  which only made  him look  acidly  disagreeable,
Rimsky bowed to  the silent magician  sitting  beside the cat  on the divan.
There were no handshakes, but the man in checks introduced  himself smoothly
as ' the assistant'.  This gave the treasurer  an unpleasant shock, as there
had not been a word in the contract about an assistant.
     Grigory  Danilovich  enquired stiffly where the  professor's  equipment
might be.
     'Why, bless you my dear sir,'  replied  the magician's assistant, ' we
have all the equipment we need with us now--look! Eins, zvei, drei!'
     Flourishing his long, knotty fingers in front of  Rimsky's eyes he made
a pass beside  the cat's ear and pulled out  of it Rimsky's  gold watch  and
chain,  which  until  that moment  had  been sitting under  the  treasurer's
buttoned jacket in his  waistcoat pocket with  the chain threaded  through a
buttonhole.
     Rimsky involuntarily  clutched his  stomach, the spectators gasped  and
the make-up man, glancing in from the corridor, clucked with approval.
     'Your watch, sir?  There you are,'  said the  man  in  checks. Smiling
nonchalantly, he proffered the watch to its owner on his dirty palm.
     'I  wouldn't  sit  next  to  him  in  a tram,' whispered the  comedian
cheerfully to the make-up man.
     But the cat put the watch trick in the shade.  Suddenly getting up from
the divan  it  walked on its  hind  legs  to the dressing table,  pulled the
stopper out of a carafe with its forepaw, poured out a glass of water, drank
it, replaced the stopper and wiped its whiskers with a make-up cloth.
     Nobody  even  gasped.  Their  mouths  fell  open  and  the make-up  man
whispered admiringly: ' Bravo . ..'
     The last warning bell rang  and everybody, excited by the prospect of a
good act, tumbled out of the dressing room.
     A  minute later  the  house-lights went out, the footlights lit up  the
fringe of  the curtain with a  red glow  and in  the lighted gap between the
tabs the audience saw a fat, jolly, clean-shaven man  in stained tails and a
grubby white dicky. It was Moscow's best known compere, George Bengalsky.
     'And now, ladies and  gentlemen,' said Bengalsky,  smiling his boyish
smile, '  you are about to see .  . .' Here Bengalsky broke  off and started
again in a completely different  tone of voice : ' I see  that  our audience
has increased in numbers since the  interval. Half  Moscow seems  to be here
tonight! D'you know, I met a friend of mine the other  day and I said to him
: " Why didn't you come and  see our  show? Half  the  town  was there  last
night." And he said :  "  I live in the other half! " ' Bengalsky paused for
the  laugh, but none came so he  went on : ' Well,  as I was saying, you are
about  to  see  a  very  famous artiste from abroad, M'sieur  Woland, with a
session of black magic. Of course  we know, don't we . . .' Bengalsky smiled
confidentially,  '   that   there's   no   such  thing   really.   It's  all
superstition--or  rather  Maestro  Woland  is  a past  master  of the art of
conjuring,  as  you  will see from the most interesting part of his  act  in
which  he  reveals  the  mysteries  of  his  technique. And  now, ladies and
gentlemen, since none of us can bear the suspense any longer, I give you . .
. Monsieur Woland! . . .'
     Having said his feeble piece, Bengalsky put his  hands palm to palm and
raised them in  a gesture of  welcome  towards the gap in the curtain, which
then rose with a soft rustle.
     The entry of  the  magician with  his  tall assistant and his  cat, who
trotted on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly. ' Armchair,
please,' said Woland quietly  and instantly  an armchair  appeared on  stage
from  nowhere.  The  magician  sat down.  ' Tell me, my dear Faggot,' Woland
enquired of the check-clad buffoon,  who apparently had another name besides
' Koroviev,':
     'do you find the people of Moscow much changed? '  The magician nodded
towards  the audience,  still silent with astonishment at seeing an armchair
materialise from nowhere.
     'I do, messire,' replied Faggot-Koroviev in a low voice.
     'You  are  right.  The  Muscovites have  changed considerably  . .  .
outwardly,  I mean ...  as, too,  has  the  city itself. .  .  Not just  the
clothes,  but  now  they have  all  these . . . what  d'you call 'em  .  . .
tramways, cars . . .'
     'Buses,' prompted Faggot respectfully.
     The audience listened intently to this conversation, assuming it to  be
the  prelude  to some magic tricks. The wings  were full of actors and stage
hands and  among their faces could be  seen  the pale,  strained features of
Rimsky.
     Bengalsky's face,  lurking in a  corner of the  stage,  began  to  show
consternation. With an imperceptible  raise  of  one  eyebrow he  seized the
opportunity of a pause in the dialogue to interject:
     'Our guest artiste from abroad  is obviously  delighted with Moscow's
technological progress.' This was  accompanied by a smile for the stalls and
a smile for the gallery.
     Woland, Faggot and the cat turned their heads towards the compere.
     'Did I say I was delighted? ' the magician asked Faggot.
     'You said nothing of the kind, messire,' replied the latter.
     'Then what is the man talking about? '
     'He was simply telling lies! ' announced the chequered clown in a loud
voice for  the whole theatre  to hear  and turning to Bengalsky he added : '
D'you hear--you're a liar! '
     There was a burst of laughter from the gallery as Bengalsky spluttered,
his eyes popping with indignation.
     'But naturally I am not so much interested in the buses and telephones
and such like . . .'
     'Apparatus,' prompted Faggot.
     'Precisely, thank you,' drawled the magician in a  deep bass,  ' as in
the much more important question : have the Muscovites changed inwardly? '
     'A vital question indeed, sir.'
     In the wings, glances were exchanged, shoulders shrugged; banker's tape
and marked  '  One Thousand Roubles'. His  neighbours  crowded round  as  he
picked at the  wrapping with his fingernail to find out whether  it was real
money or a stage prop.
     'My God--it's real money!' came a joyful shout from the gallery.
     'I wish you'd  play cards with me if  vou've any  more packs like that
one,' begged a fat man in the middle of the stalls.
     'Avec plaisir!' replied Faggot. ' But why should you  be the only one?
You shall all take part! Everybody look up, please! One! ' A pistol appeared
in his hand. ' Two! ' the pistol was pointed upwards. ' Three! ' There was a
flash, a  bang, and immediately a cascade  of white pieces of paper began to
float down from the dome above the auditorium.
     Turning over and over, some were blown aside and landed in the gallery,
some fell towards the orchestra pit  or the stage.  A few seconds  later the
shower of money reached the stalls and the audience began catching it.
     Hundreds of  hands were raised as the audience held the notes up to the
light from the stage  and found that the watermarks were absolutely genuine.
Their  smell  left  no  doubt:  it  was  the  uniquely  delicious  smell  of
newly-printed money.  First amusement then wonder seized the entire theatre.
From all over the house, amid gasps and delighted laughter, came the words '
money, money! ' One man was already crawling in the aisle and fumbling under
the  seats.  Several more  were  standing up  on  their seats to  catch  the
drifting, twisting banknotes as they fell.
     Gradually a look of perplexity came over the expressions of the police,
and the artistes backstage openly pressed forward  from the  wings. From the
dress circle a voice was heard shouting:
     'Let go! It's mine--I caught it  first! ', followed by another voice :
' Stop pushing and  grabbing  or I'll  punch  your face  in! '  There  was a
muffled crash. A policeman's  helmet  appeared  in  the dress  circle  and a
member of the audience was led away. The excitement rose and might  have got
out of hand if Faggot  had not stopped the rain of money by suddenly blowing
into the air.
     Two  young  men,  grinning  purposefully,  left their  seats  and  made
straight for  the bar.  A loud buzz filled the  theatre  :  the audience was
galvanised  with excitement  and  in  an  effort  to  control  the situation
Bengalsky stirred himself and appeared on stage. With a tremendous effort of
self-mastery he went through his habitual motion of washing his hands and in
his most powerful voice began:
     'We have just  seen, ladies and  gentlemen, a case  of so-called  mass
hypnosis. A purely scientific experiment, demonstrating better than anything
else  that there is  nothing supernatural about magic. We shall  ask Maestro
Woland to  show us how he did  that experiment. You will now see, ladies and
gentlemen,  how those  apparent banknotes will  vanish as  suddenly  as they
appeared.'
     He began to clap, but he was  alone. A confident  smile appeared on his
face, but the look in his eyes was one of entreaty.
     The  audience  did not  care for Bengalsky's speech. Faggot  broke  the
silence :
     'And that was a case of so-called fiddlesticks,' he declared in a loud
goatish bray. ' The banknotes, ladies and gentlemen, are real.'
     'Bravo! ' abruptly roared a bass from high up in the gallery.
     'This man,'  Faggot pointed at Bengalsky, ' is starting to bore me. He
sticks his nose  in everywhere without being asked  and ruins the whole act.
What shall we do with him? '
     'Cut off his head! ' said a stern voice.
     'What did you say, sir? ' was Faggot's instant response to this savage
proposal. ' Cut off his head?  That's an idea! Behemoth! ' he shouted to the
cat. ' Do your stuff! Eins, zvei, drei!! '
     Then the most incredible thing happened. The cat's fur stood on end and
it uttered a harrowing ' miaaow! ' It crouched, then  leaped  like a panther
straight for Bengalsky's chest and from there to his head. Growling, the cat
dug its claws  into the  compere's  glossy hair and with a wild  screech  it
twisted the head clean off the  neck  in  two turns. Two and a half thousand
people screamed as one. Fountains of blood from the severed arteries in  the
neck spurted up and drenched  the  man's shirtfront and tails. The  headless
body waved its legs stupidly and  sat on the ground. Hysterical shrieks rang
out through the auditorium. The cat handed the  head to Faggot who picked it
up by the hair and showed it to the audience. The head moaned desperately :
     'Fetch a doctor!'
     'Will you go on talking so much rubbish?' said Faggot threateningly to
the weeping head.
     'No,  I  promise I won't! '  croaked the head. ' For God's  sake  stop
torturing him! ' a  woman's voice from a  box  suddenly rang out  above  the
turmoil and the magician turned towards the sound.
     'Well, ladies and  gentlemen,  shall we forgive him?  ' asked Faggot,
turning to the audience.
     'Yes, forgive  him, forgive him! ' The cries came  at first from a few
individual voices, mostly women, then merged into a chorus with the men.
     'What is your command, messire? ' Faggot asked the masked professor.
     'Well, now,' replied the magician reflectively.  ' They're people like
any others.  They're over-fond of  money, but then they always  were  .  . .
Humankind loves money,  no  matter if it's made of leather, paper, bronze or
gold. They're thoughtless, of course  . .  . but  then  they sometimes  feel
compassion too .... they're ordinary  people, in  fact they  remind  me very
much of their predecessors, except that the housing shortage has soured them
. . .' And he shouted the order : ' Put back his head.'
     Taking  careful aim the cat popped the  head back on its neck, where it
sat as neatly as if head  and  body  had never been parted. Most amazing  of
all--there was not even a scar  on the neck. The  cat wiped the tailcoat and
shirtfront with its paw and every trace of blood vanished. Faggot lifted the
seated Bengalsky to his feet, shoved a bundle  of money into his coat pocket
and led him off stage, saying :
     'Go on--off you go, it's more fun without you!'
     Gazing round in a daze and staggering, the  compere got no further than
the fire-brigade post and collapsed. He cried miserably:
     'My head, my head . . .'
     Among those who rushed to help him was Rimsky. The compere was weeping,
snatching at something in the air and mumbling :
     'Give me  back my head, my head . . . You can  have  my flat,  you can
have all my pictures, only give me back my head . . .! '
     An usher ran for the doctor.  They tried to lay Bengalsky on a divan in
his  dressing-room, but  he  resisted and  became  violent. An ambulance was
called. When the unfortunate compere had been removed Rimsky ran back to the
stage, where new miracles were in progress. It was then, or perhaps a little
earlier, that the magician and his faded armchair vanished  from  the stage.
The  audience did not notice this at all, as they were absorbed by  Faggot's
wonderful tricks.
     Having  seen  the  compere  off the  stage.  Faggot  announced  to  the
audience:
     'Now that we  have disposed of that old bore, we shall open a shop for
the ladies! '
     In a moment half the stage was covered with  Persian carpets, some huge
mirrors and a row of showcases, in which the audience was astounded to see a
collection of Parisian dresses  that  were the  last word in chic.  In other
showcases  were  hundreds of  ladies' hats,  some  with  feathers  and  some
without, hundreds of pairs of shoes--black shoes, white shoes, yellow shoes,
leather  shoes, satin  shoes,  suede shoes,  buckled shoes and shoes studded
with costume jewellery. Beside the shoes there were flacons of  scent, piles
of handbags made of buckskin, satin and silk, and next to them piles of gilt
lipstick-holders.
     A red-haired girl  in  a  black evening dress who had suddenly appeared
from  nowhere, her beauty only marred by a  curious scar on her neck, smiled
from the showcases with a proprietorial smile.  With an engaging leer Faggot
announced  that  the firm would exchange, absolutely  free  of  charge,  any
lady's  old dress and shoes for model  dresses and shoes from Paris,  adding
that the offer included handbags and the odds and ends that go in them.
     The  cat  began  bowing  and  scraping, its  forepaw gesturing  like  a
commissionaire opening a door.
     In a sweet though  slightly hoarse voice the girl made an  announcement
which sounded rather cryptic but which,  judging from the faces of the women
in the stalls, was very enticing :
     'Guerlain,  Chanel,  Mitsouko, Narcisse  Noir,  Chanel  Number  Five,
evening dresses, cocktail dresses . . .'
     Faggot bent double, the cat bowed and the girl opened the glass-fronted
showcases.
     'Step up, please! ' cried Faggot. ' Don't be shy! '
     The audience began to fidget, but no one dared mount the stage. At last
a brunette emerged from the tenth row of the stalls and smiling nonchalantly
walked up the side stairs on to the stage.
     'Bravo! ' cried Faggot. '  Our first  customer! Behemoth,  a chair for
the lady! Shall we start with the shoes, madam? '
     The  brunette sat down and Faggot at once  spread out a whole  heap  of
shoes on the carpet in front of her. She took off her right shoe, tried on a
lilac one, tested it with a walk on the carpet and inspected the heel.
     'Won't they pinch? ' she enquired thoughtfully.
     Offended, Faggot cried:
     'Oh, come, now!' and the cat gave an insulted miaow.
     'I'll  take them, monsieur,' said the brunette with dignity as she put
on  the other shoe of the pair. Her  old shoes were thrown behind a curtain,
followed by the girl herself, the redhead, and Faggot carrying several model
dresses on coathangers. The cat busied itself  with helping and hung a  tape
measure round its neck for greater effect.
     A minute later the brunette emerged from behind  the curtain in a dress
that sent a gasp through the entire auditorium. The bold girl, now very much
prettier, stopped in front of a mirror, wriggled her bare shoulders,  patted
her hair and twisted round to try and see her back view.
     'The firm begs you to accept this as a souvenir,' said Faggot, handing
the girl an open case containing a flacon of scent.
     'Merci,'  replied the girl haughtily and  walked down the steps to the
stalls.  As  she went  back  to her  seat  people jumped  up  to  touch  her
scent-bottle.
     The ice was broken. Women from all sides poured on to the stage. In the
general hubbub  of talk,  laughter  and cries a  man's voice was heard,  ' I
won't  let you!  ' followed by a  woman's saying : ' Let go of my  arm,  you
narrow-minded little tyrant! ' Women  were disappearing behind  the curtain,
leaving their old dresses there and emerging in new ones. A row of women was
sitting on gilt-legged  stools trying on new shoes. Faggot was on his knees,
busy with  a  shoe-horn, while the cat, weighed down  by handbags and shoes,
staggered from the showcases to the stools and back again, the girl with the
scarred neck bustled to and fro, entering  so much into the spirit of it all
that  she was soon chattering  away  in nothing but French. Strangely enough
all  the  women understood her at once, even those  who  knew  not a word of
French.
     To  everybody's astonishment, a  lone man climbed on to  the  stage. He
announced  that his wife had a cold and  asked to be given something to take
home  to her. To  prove  that he was  really  married he offered to show his
passport. This  conscientious husband was  greeted with a  roar of laughter.
Faggot  declared that he believed  him even without his passport and  handed
the man  two  pairs of silk stockings. The cat spontaneously  added a pot of
cold cream.
     Latecomers still mounted  the steps as a stream of  happy women in ball
dresses, pyjama suits embroidered with dragons, severe tailor-mades and hats
pranced back into the auditorium.
     Then Faggot  announced  that  because  it  was  so late,  in exactly  a
minute's time the shop would close until to-morrow evening. This produced an
incredible scuffle on stage. Without trying them on, women grabbed any shoes
within reach. One woman hurtled behind the screen, threw off her clothes and
sei2ed the first thing to hand--a silk dress patterned with enormous bunches
of  flowers--grabbed a dressing gown  and for  good measure  scooped  up two
flacons of scent. Exactly a minute later a pistol shot rang out, the mirrors
disappeared, the showcases  and  stools  melted  away,  carpet  and  curtain
vanished into thin  air. Last to disappear was the  mountain  of old dresses
and shoes. The stage was bare and empty again.
     At this point a new character joined the cast. A pleasant and extremely
self-confident baritone was heard from Box No. 2 :
     'It's  high time, sir, that  you showed  the audience how you do your
tricks,  especially  the bank-note  trick.  We should  also like  to see the
compere back on stage. The audience is concerned about him.'
     The baritone voice belonged  to none  other than the evening's guest of
honour, Arkady  Apollonich Sempleyarov,  chairman  of the  Moscow  Theatres'
Acoustics Commission.
     Arkady Apollonich was sharing his box with two ladies--one elderly, who
was expensively and fashionably dressed, the other young and pretty and more
simply dressed. The first, as was later established when the official report
was compiled, was Arkady Apollonich's wife and the  other a distant relative
of  his,  an  aspiring  young   actress  from  Saratov  who  lodged  in  the
Sempleyarovs' flat.
     'I beg your pardon,' replied Faggot. ' I'm sorry, but  there's nothing
to reveal. It's all quite plain.'
     'Excuse me,  but I don't agree. An explanation is essential, otherwise
your brilliant act will leave a painful impression. The  audience demands an
explanation . . .'
     'The audience,' interrupted the insolent mountebank, ' has not, to  my
knowledge,  demanded  anything  of  the  sort.  However,  in  view  of  your
distinguished position,  Arkady Apollonich, I will--since you insist--reveal
something of our technique. To do  so,  will you allow me time  for  another
short number? '
     'Of course,'  replied Arkady Apollonich patronisingly. ' But  you must
show how it's done.'
     'Very  well, sir,  very well. Now--may I ask  where you were yesterday
evening, Arkady Apollonich? '
     At this impertinent question Arkady Apollonich's expression underwent a
complete and violent change.
     'Yesterday evening Arkady Apollonich was at a meeting of the Acoustics
Commission,' said his wife haughtily.  ' Surely  that has nothing to do with
magic? '
     'Osh, madame,' replied Faggot, ' it has, but you naturally do  not know
why.  As for  the  meeting,  you  are  quite  wrong.  When  he went  to  the
meeting--which,   incidentally,   was  never   scheduled   to   take   place
yesterday--Arkady  Apollonich  dismissed  his  chauffeur  at  the  Acoustics
Commission  (a  hush  came  over  the  whole  theatre)  and  took  a  bus to
Yelokhovskaya Street where he called on an actress called Militsa Andreyevna
Pokobatko from the local repertory theatre and spent about four hours in her
flat.'
     'Oh!' The painful cry rang out from complete silence.
     Suddenly Arkady Apollonich's young cousin burst into  a low,  malicious
laugh.
     'Of course!' she  exclaimed. ' I've suspected him for a long time. Now
I see why that tenth-rate ham got the part of Luisa!' And with a sudden wave
of  her arm she  hit Arkady Apollonich on the head  with a short, fat, mauve
umbrella.
     The vile Faggot, who was none other than Koroviev, shouted :
     'There, ladies and gentlemen, is your  revelation for you, as requested
so insistently by Arkady Apollonich!'
     'How  dare  you hit Arkady Apollonich, you little baggage? ' said the
wife grimly, rising in the box to her full gigantic height.
     The young girl was seized with another outburst of Satanic laughter.
     'I've as much right,' she  replied laughing, ' to hit him as you have!
'  A second  dull  crack was  heard as  another umbrella  bounced off Arkady
Apollonich's head.
     'Police!  Arrest  her!  ' roared Madame  Sempleyarov  in a terrifying
voice.
     Here  the cat bounded  up  to the footlights and  announced in  a human
voice :
     'That  concludes the  evening! Maestro!  Finale, please! ' The  dazed
conductor, scarcely aware  of what he  was  doing,  waved his  baton and the
orchestra struck up, or  rather murdered a disorganised excuse for  a march,
normally  sung to obscene but  very  funny words.  However, it  was  quickly
drowned in  the  ensuing uproar.  The  police ran  to the Sempleyarovs' box,
curious spectators climbed on to the ledge to  watch,  there were explosions
of infernal  laughter and wild cries, drowned by the golden crash of cymbals
from the orchestra.
     Suddenly the stage  was empty. The horrible Faggot and the sinister cat
Behemoth  melted  into  the air  and disappeared, just as the  magician  had
vanished earlier in his shabby armchair.



        13. Enter the Hero



     Ivan swung his legs off  the bed and stared. A man was standing on  the
balcony, peering cautiously  into the  room. He was aged about thirty-eight,
clean-shaven and  dark,  with a sharp nose, restless eyes and a lock of hair
that tumbled over his forehead.
     The mysterious  visitor  listened awhile  then, satisfied that Ivan was
alone, entered the room. As he came in Ivan noticed that the man was wearing
hospital clothes--pyjamas, slippers and a reddish-brown dressing gown thrown
over his shoulders.
     The  visitor  winked at Ivan, put a  bunch of keys into his pocket  and
asked in  a whisper : ' May I sit down? ' Receiving an affirmative  reply he
settled in the armchair.
     'How did  you get in here? ' Ivan  whispered in obedience to a warning
finger. ' The grilles on the windows are locked, aren't they? '
     'The grilles are  locked,' agreed the visitor.  ' Praskovya Fyodorovna
is a dear  person but alas, terribly absent-minded.  A  month  ago I removed
this  bunch of keys from her, which has given me the freedom of the balcony.
It  stretches  along the  whole  floor, so that  I can call on my neighbours
whenever I feel like it.'
     'If you can get out on to the balcony you can run  away.  Or is it too
high to jump? ' enquired Ivan with interest.
     'No,' answered the  visitor firmly, '  I  can't  escape from here. Not
because  it's too  high but because  I've nowhere to go.' After  a  pause he
added : ' So here we are.'
     'Here we are,' echoed Ivan, gazing into the man's restless brown eyes.
     'Yes . . .' The visitor grew suddenly anxious. ' You're not violent, I
hope? You see, I can't bear noise, disturbance, violence or anything of that
sort.  I particularly  hate the  sound  of people screaming,  whether it's a
scream of pain, anger  or any other kind of scream. Just reassure me--you're
not violent, are you? '
     'Yesterday in a  restaurant  I clouted a fellow across the snout,' the
poet confessed manfully.
     'What for? ' asked the visitor disapprovingly.
     'For no reason at all, I must admit,' replied Ivan, embarrassed.
     'Disgraceful,' said the visitor reproachfully and added:
     'And I don't care for that expression of yours--clouted him across the
snout. .  . . People have  faces,  not  snouts. So  I  suppose you mean  you
punched  him  in  the face. . . . No, you  must give up doing that  sort  of
thing.'
     After this reprimand the visitor enquired :
     'What's your job? '
     'I'm a poet,' admitted Ivan with slight unwillingness.
     This annoyed the man.
     'Just my  bad luck!  ' he  exclaimed,  but immediately  regretted it,
apologised and asked : ' What's your name? '
     'Bezdomny.'
     'Oh . . .' said the man frowning.
     'What, don't you like my poetry? ' asked Ivan with curiosity.
     'No, I don't.'
     'Have you read any of it? '
     'I've never read any of your poetry! ' said the visitor tetchily.
     'Then how can you say that? '
     'Why shouldn't I? ' retorted the visitor. ' I've read  plenty of other
poetry.  I don't suppose by some miracle that  yours is any  better, but I'm
ready to take it on trust. Is your poetry good?'
     'Stupendous! ' said Ivan boldly.
     'Don't write any more! ' said the visitor imploringly.
     'I promise not to! ' said Ivan solemnly.
     As they  sealed the  vow with a handshake,  soft footsteps  and  voices
could be heard from the corridor.
     'Sshh! ' whispered  the man.  He bounded  out  on to the  balcony and
closed the grille behind him.
     Praskovya  Fyodorovna looked in, asked Ivan how he felt and  whether he
wanted  to sleep in the dark or the light. Ivan asked her to leave the light
on and Praskovya Fyodorovna departed, wishing him good  night. When  all was
quiet again the visitor returned.
     He told  Ivan in a whisper that a new  patient had been  put  into  No.
119--a fat man  with a purple  face who kept muttering about  dollars in the
ventilation shaft and  swearing  that the  powers of darkness had taken over
their house on Sadovaya. ' He curses Pushkin for all  he's  worth and  keeps
shouting " Encore,  encore! " '  said the visitor, twitching nervously. When
he had grown a little calmer he sat down and said  : ' However, let's forget
about him,' and resumed his  interrupted conversation with Ivan : '  How did
you come to be here? '
     'Because  of  Pontius  Pilate,' replied Ivan,  staring  glumly at  the
floor.
     'What?! ' cried the visitor, forgetting  his caution, then clapped his
hand over his mouth.  ' What an extraordinary coincidence!  Do tell me about
it, I beg of you! '
     For some reason  Ivan felt that he could  trust this stranger. Shyly at
first,  then  gaining confidence,  he began to describe  the previous  day's
events at Patriarch's  Ponds. His visitor  treated Ivan as completely  sane,
showed the greatest interest in the story  and  as it developed he reached a
state of near ecstasy. Now and again he interrupted Ivan, exclaiming :
     'Yes, yes! Please go on! For heaven's  sake don't leave  anything out!
'Ivan left out nothing, as it made the story easier to tell and gradually he
approached the  moment when  Pontius Pilate,  in  his white cloak lined with
blood-red, mounted the platform.
     Then the visitor folded his hands as though in prayer and  whispered to
himself:
     'Oh, I guessed it! I guessed it all! '
     Listening to the terrible  description of  Berlioz's death, the visitor
made an enigmatic comment, his eyes flashing with malice :
     'I'm only  sorry  that  it wasn't  Latunsky  the critic or  that hack
Mstislav  Lavrovich  instead  of  Berlioz!  ' And  he  mouthed  silently and
ecstatically : ' Go on! '
     The visitor was highly amused by the story of how the cat had paid  the
conductress and  he was choking with suppressed laughter as Ivan, stimulated
by the success of his story-telling, hopped about on his haunches, imitating
the cat stroking his whiskers with a ten-kopeck piece.
     'And  so,'  said  Ivan,  saddening  as  he  described  the  scene  at
Griboyedov, ' here I am.'
     The visitor laid a sympathetic hand on the wretched poet's shoulder and
said:
     'Unhappy poet! But  it's your own fault, my dear fellow. You shouldn't
have treated  him  so carelessly and rudely. Now you're  paying for it.  You
should be thankful that you got off comparatively lightly.'
     'But  who  on  earth  is he?  '  asked Ivan,  clenching  his fists in
excitement.
     The visitor stared at Ivan and answered with a question :
     'You won't get violent, will you? We're all unstable people here . . .
There  won't be any calls for the doctor,  injections or any disturbances of
that sort, will there? '
     'No, no! ' exclaimed Ivan. ' Tell me, who is he? '
     'Very well,' replied the visitor, and said slowly and gravely :
     'At Patriarch's Ponds yesterday you met Satan.'
     As he had promised, Ivan did not become violent, but  he was powerfully
shaken.
     'It can't be! He doesn't exist!'
     'Come, come!  Surely  you  of  all people  can't say that.  You  were
apparently one of the first  to suffer from him. Here you are, shut up in  a
psychiatric clinic, and you still say he doesn't exist. How strange! '
     Ivan was reduced to speechlessness.
     'As soon as you started  to describe  him,' the  visitor went  on, ' I
guessed  who  it was that you were  talking to  yesterday.  I  must  say I'm
surprised at Berlioz!  You, of course, are an innocent,'  again  the visitor
apologised for his expression, ' but he, from what I've heard of him, was at
least fairly well read.  The first  remarks that this professor made  to you
dispelled  all  my doubts.  He's unmistakeable, my friend!  You  are ...  do
forgive me  again, but unless I'm wrong, you  are an ignorant person, aren't
you? '
     'I am indeed,' agreed the new Ivan.
     'Well,  you see, even the face  you described,  the different-coloured
eyes, the eyebrows . . . Forgive me, but have you even seen the opera Faust?
'
     Ivan mumbled an embarrassed excuse.
     'There  you are, it's not surprising!  But, as  I  said  before,  I'm
surprised  at  Berlioz.  He's not  only  well read  but  extremely  cunning.
Although in his defence I  must say that Woland is quite capable of throwing
dust in the eyes of men who are even cleverer than Berlioz.'
     'What? ' shouted Ivan.
     ‘ Quiet!'
     With a sweeping gesture  Ivan smacked  his  forehead with  his palm and
croaked:
     'I see it now. There was a letter " W " on his visiting card. Well I'm
damned! '  He  sat for  a while in perplexity, staring at the moon  floating
past  the grille and  then  said:  ' So he really might have  known  Pontius
Pilate? He was alive then,  I  suppose? And they call me  mad!  ' he  added,
pointing indignantly towards the door.
     The visitor's mouth set in a fold of bitterness.
     'We  must look the facts in  the face.' The visitor  turned  his face
towards  the moon as it raced through  a cloud. '  Both you and I  are  mad,
there's  no  point in denying it. He gave  you a shock and it  sent you mad,
because you  were temperamentally liable  to react in that way. Nevertheless
what  you  have  described  unquestionably  happened in fact. But it  is  so
unusual that even  Stravinsky,  a psychiatrist of  genius, naturally  didn't
believe you. Has he examined you? (Ivan nodded.) The man you were talking to
was with Pontius Pilate, he did have breakfast with Kant and now he has paid
a call on Moscow.' ' But God knows what he may do here! Shouldn't we try and
catch him  somehow! ' The old  Ivan raised  his head, uncertain but not  yet
quite extinguished.
     'You've  already tried  and look where it's got you,' said the visitor
ironically. ' I don't advise others to try. But he will cause more  trouble,
you may be sure of that. How infuriating, though, that you  met  him and not
I. Although I'm  a burnt-out man and  the  embers have  died  away to ash, I
swear  that I  would have  given up  Praskovya Fyodorovna's bunch of keys in
exchange for that meeting. Those keys are all I have. I am destitute.' ' Why
do you want to see him so badly? ' After a  long, gloomy silence the visitor
said at last:
     'You see,  it's most extraordinary, but  I am in here  for exactly the
same  reason that you are,  I mean because  of  Pontius Pilate.' The visitor
glanced  uneasily round and said  : ' The fact is that a year ago I wrote  a
novel about Pilate.'
     'Are  you a  writer? '  asked  the poet  with interest.  The  visitor
frowned, threatened Ivan with his fist and said:
     'I  am a master.'  His expression  hardened  and he pulled out of  his
dressing gown pocket a greasy black cap with the letter ' M ' embroidered on
it in yellow silk. He put the  cap on and showed himself to Ivan in  profile
and full face to prove that he was a  master. ' She sewed it for me with her
own hands,' he added mysteriously. ' What is your name? '
     'I no longer have a  name,' replied  the  curious  visitor  with grim
contempt.  '  I  have  renounced it, as I have renounced life itself. Let us
forget it.'
     'At least tell me about your novel,' asked  Ivan tactfully. '  If you
wish. I should say that my life has  been a somewhat unusual one,' began the
visitor.
     A historian by training, two years ago he had, it seemed, been employed
in one of the Moscow museums. He was also a translator.
     'From which language? ' asked Ivan.
     'I know five languages beside my own,' replied the visitor. ' English,
French, German, Latin and Greek. And I read Italian a little.'
     'Phew! ' Ivan whistled with envy.
     This historian lived alone, had no relatives  and knew almost no one in
Moscow. One day he won a hundred thousand roubles.
     'Imagine my astonishment,' whispered the  visitor in his black  cap, '
when  I fished my lottery ticket  out of the laundry basket and  saw that it
had  the same number as the winning  draw printed in the paper! The museum,'
he explained, ' had given me the ticket.'
     Having  won  his hundred thousand,  Ivan's mysterious guest bought some
books, gave up his room on Myasnitskaya Street...
     'Ugh, it was a filthy hole! ' he snarled.
     .  . . and rented two rooms  in the basement of  a small house  with  a
garden  near the  Arbat. He gave up his job  in the museum and began writing
his novel about Pontius Pilate.
     'Ah,  that  was  a  golden  age!  '  whispered the narrator,  his eyes
shining. ' A completely self-contained little  flat and a  hall with a  sink
and running water,'  he emphasised proudly, ' little windows just above  the
level of the path leading from the  garden gate. Only a  few steps away,  by
the garden fence, was  a lilac, a lime tree and a maple. Ah, me! In winter I
rarely saw anyone walking  up the garden  path  or heard the crunch of snow.
And there  was always a blaze in my little stove! But suddenly it was spring
and through the muddied  panes of my  windows I saw first  the bare branches
then  the  green  of the  first leaves.  And then,  last  spring,  something
happened  which  was far  more  delightful than  winning a  hundred thousand
roubles. And that, you must agree, is an enormous sum of money! '
     'It is,' Ivan agreed, listening intently.
     'I had opened the  windows and  was sitting in  the second room, which
was quite tiny.' The visitor made measuring gestures. ' Like this--the divan
here, another divan along the other wall, a beautiful lamp on a little table
between them, a bookcase by the window  and over  here  a little bureau. The
main room was huge--fourteen square  metres!--books, more books and a stove.
It was a marvellous little place. How deliciously the lilac used to smell! I
was growing light-headed with fatigue and Pilate was coming to an end . . .'
     'White cloak, red lining! How I know the feeling! ' exclaimed Ivan.
     'Precisely! Pilate was rushing to a conclusion and I already knew what
the last words of the novel would be--"  the fifth Procurator of Judaea, the
knight Pontius Pilate ". Naturally I used to  go  out for  walks. A  hundred
thousand  is a huge  sum and I had a  handsome suit. Or  I would  go out for
lunch to a restaurant. There used to be a wonderful restaurant in the Arbat,
I don't know whether it's still there.'
     Here his eyes opened wide and as he whispered he gazed at the moon.
     'She was carrying some of those repulsive yellow  flowers.  God knows
what they're called, but  they are somehow always the first  to  come out in
spring.  They  stood out very  sharply  against her  black  dress.  She  was
carrying yellow flowers! It's an ugly colour. She turned off Tverskaya  into
a  side-street and turned round. You  know the  Tverskaya,  don't you? There
must have  been a thousand people on it but I  swear to you that she  saw no
one but me. She had a look of suffering and I was struck less by her  beauty
than by the extraordinary loneliness in her eyes. Obeying that yellow signal
I  too turned into the  side-street and  followed her. We  walked in silence
down that dreary, winding  little  street without saying a  word, she on one
side, I  on the other. There  was not another soul in  the  street. I was in
agony  because I felt I had to speak to her and was worried that I might not
be  able  to  utter a  word, she would disappear and I  should never see her
again. Then, if you can believe it, she said :
     " Do you like my flowers? "
     'I remember exactly how  her voice sounded.  It was pitched fairly low
but with a catch in it  and stupid as it may sound I had the impression that
it echoed  across the street and reverberated from the dirty yellow wall.  I
quickly crossed to her side and going up to her replied : " No '  She looked
at me in surprise and suddenly,  completely unexpectedly, I realised that  I
had  been in  love with this  woman all my  life.  Extraordinary, isn't  it?
You'll say I was mad, I expect.'
     'I say nothing of the sort,' exclaimed Ivan, adding : ' Please, please
go on.'
     The visitor continued:
     'Yes,  she looked at  me in  surprise and then she said  : " Don't you
like flowers at all? "
     'There was, I felt, hostility in her voice. I wa