The Master and Margarita (16 page)

The question is: can one, by acting in such fashion, catch or arrest anyone?

And if you’re a normal man, you yourself will answer: by no means. You wish to leave here? Very well, sir. But allow me to ask, where are you going to go?”

“To the police, of course,” Ivan replied, no longer so firmly, and somewhat at a loss under the professor’s gaze.

“Straight from here?”

“Mm-hm ...”

“Without stopping at your place?” Stravinsky asked quickly.

“I have no time to stop anywhere! While I’m stopping at places, he’ll slip away!”

“So. And what will you tell the police to start with?”

“About Pontius Pilate,” Ivan Nikolaevich replied, and his eyes clouded with a gloomy mist.

“Well, how very nice!” the won-over Stravinsky exclaimed and, turning to the one with the little beard, ordered: “Fyodor Vassilyevich, please check Citizen Homeless out for town. But don’t put anyone in his room or change the linen. In two hours. Citizen Homeless will be back here. So, then,” he turned to the poet, “I won’t wish you success, because I don’t believe one iota in that success. See you soon!” He stood up, and his retinue stirred.

“On what grounds will I be back here?” Ivan asked anxiously.

Stravinsky was as if waiting for this question, immediately sat down, and began to speak: “On the grounds that as soon as you show up at the police station in your drawers and tell them you’ve seen a man who knew Pontius Pilate personally, you’ll instantly be brought here, and you’ll find yourself again in this very same room.”

“What have drawers got to do with it?” Ivan asked, gazing around in bewilderment.

“It’s mainly Pontius Pilate. But the drawers, too. Because we’ll take the clinic underwear from you and give you back your clothes. And you were delivered here in your drawers. And yet vou were by no means going to stop at your place, though I dropped you a hint. Then comes Pilate ... and that’s it.”

Here something strange happened with Ivan Nikolaevich. His will seemed to crack, and he felt himself weak, in need of advice.

“What am I to do, then?” he asked, timidly this time.

"Well, how very nice!” Stravinsky replied. “A most reasonable question.

Now I am going to tell you what actually happened to you. Yesterday someone frightened you badly and upset you with a story about Pontius Pilate and other things. And so you, a very nervous and high-strung man, started going around the city, telling about Pontius Pilate. It’s quite natural that you’re taken for a madman. Your salvation now lies in just one thing complete peace. And you absolutely must remain here.”

“But he has to be caught!” Ivan exclaimed, imploringly now.

“Very good, sir, but why should you go running around yourself? Explain all your suspicions and accusations against this man on paper. Nothing could be simpler than to send your declaration to the proper quarters, and if, as you think, we are dealing with a criminal, it will be clarified very quickly. But only on one condition: don’t strain your head, and try to think less about Pontius Pilate. People say all kinds of things!
One
mustn’t believe everything.”

“Understood!” Ivan declared resolutely. “I ask to be given pen and paper.”

“Give him paper and a short pencil,” Stravinsky ordered the fat woman, and to Ivan he said: “But I don’t advise you to write today.”

“No, no, today, today without fail!” Ivan cried out in alarm.

“Well, all right. Only don’t strain your head. If it doesn’t
come out
today, it will tomorrow.”

“He’ll escape.”

“Oh, no,” Stravinsky objected confidently, “he won’t escape anywhere, I guarantee that. And remember that here with us you’ll be helped in all possible ways, and without us nothing will come of it. Do you hear me?”

Stravinsky suddenly asked meaningly and took Ivan Nikolaevich by both hands.

Holding them in his own, he repeated for a long time, his eyes fixed on Ivan’s: “You’ll be helped here ... do you hear me? ... You’ll be helped here ... you’ll get relief ... it’s quiet here, all peaceful ... you’ll be helped here ...”

Ivan Nikolaevich unexpectedly yawned, and the expression on his face softened.

“Yes, yes,” he said quietly.

“Well, how very nice!” Stravinsky concluded the conversation in his usual way and stood up: “Goodbye!” He shook Ivan’s hand and, on his way out, turned to the one with the little beard and said: “Yes, and try oxygen ...

and baths.”

A few moments later there was no Stravinsky or his retinue before Ivan.

Beyond the window grille, in the noonday sun, the joyful and springtime pine wood stood beautiful on the other bank and, closer by, the river sparkled.

Chapter 9. Koroviev’s Stunts

Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the tenants’ association[78] of no.302-bis on Sadovaya Street in Moscow, where the late Berlioz used to reside, had been having the most terrible troubles, starting from that Wednesday night.

At midnight, as we already know, a commission of which Zheldybin formed a part came to the house, summoned Nikanor Ivanovich, told him about the death of Berlioz, and together with him went to apartment no.50.

There the sealing of the deceased’s manuscripts and belongings was carried out. Neither Grunya, the daytime housekeeper, nor the light-minded Stepan Bogdanovich was there at the time. The commission announced to Nikanor Ivanovich that it would take the deceased’s manuscripts for sorting out, that his living space, that is, three rooms (the former study, living room and dining room of the jeweller’s wife), reverted to the disposal of the tenants” association, and that the belongings were to be kept in the aforementioned living space until the heirs were announced.

The news of Berlioz’s death spread through the whole house with a sort of supernatural speed, and as of seven o’clock Thursday morning, Bosoy began to receive telephone calls and then personal visits with declarations containing claims to the deceased’s living space. In the period of two hours, Nikanor Ivanovich received thirty-two such declarations.

They contained pleas, threats, libels, denunciations, promises to do renovations at their own expense, references to unbearable overcrowding and the impossibility of living in the same apartment with bandits. Among others there were a description, staggering in its artistic power, of the theft from apartment no. 51 of some meat dumplings, tucked directly into the pocket of a suit jacket, two vows to end life by suicide and one confession of secret pregnancy.

Nikanor Ivanovich was called out to the front hall of his apartment, plucked by the sleeve, whispered to, winked at, promised that he would not be left the loser.

This torture went on until noon, when Nikanor Ivanovich simply fled his apartment for the management office by the gate, but when he saw them lying in wait for him there, too, he fled that place as well. Having somehow shaken off those who followed on his heels across the asphalt-paved courtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich disappeared into the sixth entrance and went up to the fifth floor, where this vile apartment no.50 was located.

After catching his breath
on
the landing, the corpulent Nikanor Ivanovich rang, but no one opened for him. He rang again, and then again, and started grumbling and swearing quietly. Even then no one opened. His patience exhausted, Nikanor Ivanovich took from his pocket a bunch of duplicate keys belonging to the house management, opened the door with a sovereign hand, and went in.

“Hey, housekeeper!” Nikanor Ivanovich cried in the semi-dark front hall. “Grunya, or whatever your name is! ... Are you here?”

No one responded.

Then Nikanor Ivanovich took a folding ruler from his briefcase, removed the seal from the door to the study, and stepped in. Stepped in, yes, but halted in amazement in the doorway and even gave a start.

At the deceased’s desk sat an unknown, skinny, long citizen in a little checkered jacket, a jockey’s cap, and a pince-nez ... well, in short, that same one.

“And who might you be, citizen?” Nikanor Ivanovich asked fearfully.

“Hah! Nikanor Ivanovich!” the unexpected citizen yelled in a rattling tenor and, jumping up, greeted the chairman with a forced and sudden handshake. This greeting by no means gladdened Nikanor Ivanovich.

“Excuse me,” he said suspiciously, “but who might you be? Are you an official person?”

“Eh, Nikanor Ivanovich!” the unknown man exclaimed soulfully. "What are official and unofficial persons? It all depends on your point of view on the subject. It’s all fluctuating and relative, Nikanor Ivanovich. Today I’m an unofficial person, and tomorrow, lo and behold, I’m an official one! And it also happens the other way round — oh, how it does!”

This argument in no way satisfied the chairman of the house management.

Being a generally suspicious person by nature, he concluded that the man holding forth in front of him was precisely an unofficial person, and perhaps even an idle one.

"fes, but who might you be? What’s your name?” the chairman inquired with increasing severity and even began to advance upon the unknown man.

“My name,” the citizen responded, not a bit put out by the severity, “well, let’s say it’s Koroviev. But wouldn’t you like a little snack, Nikanor Ivanovich? No formalities, eh?”

“Excuse me,” Nikanor Ivanovich began, indignantly now, Svhat have snacks got to do with it!” (We must confess, unpleasant as it is, that Nikanor Ivanovich was of a somewhat rude nature.) ‘sitting in the deceased’s half is not permitted! What are you doing here?”

“Have a seat, Nikanor Ivanovich,” the citizen went on yelling, not a bit at a loss, and began fussing about offering the chairman a seat.

Utterly infuriated, Nikanor Ivanovich rejected the seat and screamed: “But who are you?”

“I, if you please, serve as interpreter for a foreign individual who has taken up residence in this apartment,” the man calling himself Koroviev introduced himself and clicked the heels of his scuffed, unpolished shoes.

Nikanor Ivanovich opened his mouth. The presence of some foreigner in this apartment, with an interpreter to boot, came as a complete surprise to him, and he demanded explanations.

The interpreter explained willingly. A foreign artiste, Mr Woland, had been kindly invited by the director of the Variety, Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev, to spend the time of his performances, a week or so, in his apartment, about which he had written to Nikanor Ivanovich yesterday, requesting that he register the foreigner as a temporary resident, while Ukhodeev himself took a trip to Yalta.

“He never wrote me anything,” the chairman said in amazement.

“Just look through your briefcase, Nikanor Ivanovich,” Koroviev suggested sweetly.

Nikanor Ivanovich, shrugging his shoulders, opened the briefcase and found Likhodeev’s letter in it.

“How could I have forgotten about it?” Nikanor Ivanovich muttered, looking dully at the opened envelope.

“All sorts of things happen, Nikanor Ivanovich, all sorts!” Koroviev rattled. “Absent-mindedness, absent-mindedness, fatigue and high blood pressure, my dear friend Nikanor Ivanovich! I’m terribly absent-minded myself! Someday, over a glass, I’ll tell you a few facts from my biography you’ll die laughing!”

“And when is Likhodeev going to Yalta?”

“He’s already gone, gone!” the interpreter cried. “He’s already wheeling along, you know! He’s already devil knows where!” And here the interpreter waved his arms like the wings of a windmill.

Nikanor Ivanovich declared that he must see the foreigner in person, but got a refusal on that from the interpreter: quite impossible. He’s busy.

Training the cat.

“The cat I can show you, if you like,” Koroviev offered.

This Nikanor Ivanovich refused in his turn, and the interpreter straight away made the chairman an unexpected but quite interesting proposal: seeing that Mr Woland had no desire whatsoever to live in a hotel, and was accustomed to having a lot of space, why shouldn’t the tenants” association rent to him, Woland, for one little week, the time of his performances in Moscow, the whole of the apartment, that is, the deceased’s rooms as well?

“It’s all the same to him – the deceased – you must agree, Nikanor Ivanovich,” Koroviev whispered hoarsely. “He doesn’t need the apartment now, does he?”

Nikanor Ivanovich, somewhat perplexed, objected that foreigners ought to live at the Metropol, and not in private apartments at all...

“I’m telling you, he’s capricious as devil knows what!” Koroviev whispered. “He just doesn’t want to! He doesn’t like hotels! I’ve had them up to here, these foreign tourists!” Koroviev complained confidentially, jabbing his finger at his sinewy neck. “Believe me, they wring the soul right out of you! They come and either spy on you like the lowest son of a bitch, or else torment you with their caprices – this isn’t right and that isn’t right! ... And for your association, Nikanor Ivanovich, it’s a sheer gain and an obvious profit. He won’t stint on money.” Koroviev looked around and then whispered into the chairman’s ear: “A millionaire!”

The interpreter’s offer made clear practical sense, it was a very solid offer, yet there was something remarkably unsolid in his manner of speaking, and in his clothes, and in that loathsome, good-for-nothing pince-nez. As a result, something vague weighed on the chairman’s soul, but he nevertheless decided to accept the offer. The thing was that the tenants” association, alas, had quite a sizeable deficit. Fuel had to be bought for the heating system by fall, but who was going to shell out for it — no one knew. But with the foreign tourist’s money, it might be possible to wriggle out of it.

However, the practical and prudent Nikanor Ivanovich said he would first have to settle the question with the foreign tourist bureau.

“I understand!” Koroviev cried out. “You’ve got to settle it!

Absolutely! Here’s the telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, settle it at once! And don’t be shy about the money,” he added in a whisper, drawing the chairman to the telephone in the front hall, “if he won’t pay, who will! You should see the villa he’s got in Nice! Next summer, when you go abroad, come especially to see it — you’ll gasp!”