The Master and Margarita (20 page)

Rimsky knew where he had gone, but he had gone and ... not come back!

Rimsky shrugged his shoulders and whispered to himself: “But what for?”

And it was strange: for such a practical man as the findirector, the simplest thing would, of course, have been to call the place where Varenukha had gone and find out what had befallen him, yet until ten o’clock at night”he had been unable to force himself to do it.

At ten, doing outright violence to himself, Rimsky picked up the receiver and here discovered that his telephone was dead. The messenger reported that the other telephones in the building were also out of order.

This certainly unpleasant, though hardly supernatural, occurrence for some reason thoroughly shocked the findirector, but at the same time he was glad: the need to call fell away.

Just as the red light over the findirector’s head lit up and blinked, announcing the beginning of the intermission, a messenger came in and informed him of the foreign artiste’s arrival. The findirector cringed for some reason, and, blacker than a storm cloud, went backstage to receive the visitor, since there was no one else to receive him.

Under various pretexts, curious people kept peeking into the big dressing room from the corridor, where the signal bell was already ringing.

Among them were conjurers in bright robes and turbans, a skater in a white knitted jacket, a storyteller pale with powder and the make-up man.

The newly arrived celebrity struck everyone by his marvellously cut tailcoat, of a length never seen before, and by his having come in a black half-mask. But most remarkable of all were the black magician’s two companions: a long checkered one with a cracked pince-nez, and a fat black cat who came into the dressing room on his hind legs and quite nonchalantly sat on the sofa squinting at the bare make-up lights.

Rimsky attempted to produce a smile on his face, which made it look sour and spiteful, and bowed to the silent black magician, who was seated on the sofa beside the cat. There was no handshake. Instead, the easygoing checkered one made his own introductions to the fin-director, calling himself “the gent’s assistant”. This circumstance surprised the findirector, and unpleasantly so: there was decidedly no mention of any assistant in the contract.

Quite stiffly and drily, Grigory Danilovich inquired of this fallen-from-the-sky checkered one where the artiste’s paraphernalia was.

“Our heavenly diamond, most precious mister director,” the magician’s assistant replied in a rattling voice, “the paraphernalia is always with us.

Here it is! Ein, zwei, drei!” And, waving his knotty fingers before Rimsky’s eyes, he suddenly took from behind the cat’s ear Rimsky’s own gold watch and chain, hitherto worn by the findirector in his waistcoat pocket, under his buttoned coat, with the chain through a buttonhole.

Rimsky inadvertently clutched his stomach, those present gasped, and the make-up man, peeking in the doorway, grunted approvingly.

Tour little watchie? Kindly take it,” the checkered one said, smiling casually and offering the bewildered Rimsky his own property on a dirty palm.

“No getting on a tram with that one,” the storyteller whispered quietly and merrily to the make-up man.

But the cat pulled a neater trick than the number with the stolen watch. Getting up from the sofa unexpectedly, he walked on his hind legs to the dressing table, pulled the stopper out of the carafe with his front paw, poured water into a glass, drank it, installed the stopper in its place, and wiped his whiskers with a make-up cloth.

Here no one even gasped, their mouths simply fell open, and the make-up man whispered admiringly: “That’s class!”

Just then the bells rang alarmingly for the third time, and everyone, agitated and anticipating an interesting number, thronged out of the dressing room.

A moment later the spheres went out in the theatre, the footlights blazed up, lending a reddish glow to the base of the curtain, and in the lighted gap of the curtain there appeared before the public a plump man, merry as a baby, with a clean-shaven face, in a rumpled tailcoat and none-too-fresh shirt. This was the master of ceremonies, well known to all Moscow — Georges Bengalsky.

“And now, citizens,” Bengalsky began, smiling his baby smile, “there is about to come before you ...” Here Bengalsky interrupted himself and spoke in a different tone: “I see the audience has grown for the third part. We’ve got half the city here! I met a friend the other day and said to him: "Why don’t you come to our show? Yesterday we had half the city." And he says to me: ‘I live in the other half!’” Bengalsky paused, waiting for a burst of laughter, but as no one laughed, he went on: “... And so, now comes the famous foreign artiste. Monsieur Woland, with a séance of black magic. Well, both you and I know,” here Bengalsky smiled a wise smile, “that there’s no such thing in the world, and that it’s all just superstition, and Maestro Woland is simply a perfect master of the technique of conjuring, as we shall see from the most interesting part, that is, the exposure of this technique, and since we’re all of us to a man both for technique and for its exposure, let’s bring on Mr Woland! ...”

After uttering all this claptrap, Bengalsky pressed his palms together and waved them in greeting through the slit of the curtain, which caused it to part with a soft rustic.

The entrance of the magician with his long assistant and the cat, who came on stage on his hind legs, pleased the audience greatly.

“An armchair for me,” Woland ordered
in
a low voice, and that same second an armchair appeared on stage, no one knew how or from where, in which the magician sat down. “Tell me, my gentle Fagott,” Woland inquired of the checkered clown, who evidently had another appellation than Koroviev, “what do you think, the Moscow populace has changed significantly, hasn’t it?”

The magician looked out at the hushed audience, struck by the appearance of the armchair out of nowhere.

"That it has, Messire,” Fagott-Koroviev replied in a low voice.

"You’re right. The city folk have changed greatly ... externally, that is ... as has the city itself, incidentally... Not to mention their clothing, these ... what do you call them ... trams, automobiles ... have appeared...”

“Buses ...”-Fagott prompted deferentially.

The audience listened attentively to this conversation, thinking it constituted a prelude to the magic tricks. The wings were packed with performers and stage-hands, and among their faces could be seen the tense, pale face of Rimsky.

The physiognomy of Bengalsky, who had retreated to the side of the stage, began to show some perplexity. He raised one eyebrow slightly and, taking advantage of a pause, spoke: “The foreign artiste is expressing his admiration for Moscow and its technological development, as well as for the Muscovites.” Here Bengalsky smiled twice, first to the stalls, then to the gallery.

Woland, Fagott and the cat turned their heads in the direction of the master of ceremonies.

“Did I express admiration?” the magician asked the checkered Fagott.

“By no means, Messire, you never expressed any admiration,” came the reply.

Then what is the man saying?”

“He quite simply lied!” the checkered assistant declared sonorously, for the whole theatre to hear, and turning to Bengalsky, he added: “Congrats, citizen, you done lied!”

Tittering spattered from the gallery, but Bengalsky gave a start and goggled his eyes.

“Of course, I’m not so much interested in buses, telephones and other...”

“Apparatuses,” the checkered one prompted.

“Quite right, thank you,” the magician spoke slowly in a heavy bass, “as in a question of much greater importance: have the city folk changed inwardly?”

"Yes, that is the most important question, sir.”

There was shrugging and an exchanging of glances in the wings, Bengalsky stood all red, and Rimsky was pale. But here, as if sensing the nascent alarm, the magician said: “However, we’re talking away, my dear Fagott, and the audience is beginning to get bored. My gentle Fagott, show us some simple little thing to start with.”

The audience stirred. Fagott and the cat walked along the footlights to opposite sides of the stage. Fagott snapped his fingers, and with a rollicking Three, four!” snatched a deck of cards from the air, shuffled it, and sent it in a long ribbon to the cat. The cat intercepted it and sent it back. The satiny snake whiffled, Fagott opened his mouth like a nestling and swallowed it all card by card. After which the cat bowed, scraping his right hind paw, winning himself unbelievable applause.

“Class! Real class!” rapturous shouts came from the wings.

And Fagott jabbed his finger at the stalls and announced: “You’ll find that same deck, esteemed citizens, on citizen Parchevsky in the seventh row, just between a three-rouble bill and a summons to court in connection with the payment of alimony to citizen Zeikova.”

There was a stirring in the stalls, people began to get up, and finally some citizen whose name was indeed Parchevsky, all crimson with amazement, extracted the deck from his wallet and began sticking it up in the air, not knowing what to do with it.

“You may keep it as a souvenir!” cried Fagott. “Not for nothing did you say at dinner yesterday that if it weren’t for poker your life in Moscow would be utterly unbearable.”

“An old trick!” came from the gallery. The one in the stalls is from the same company.”

“You think so?” shouted Fagott, squinting at the gallery. “In that case you’re also one of us, because the deck is now in your pocket!”

There was movement in the balcony, and a joyful voice said: “Right! He’s got it! Here, here! ... Wait! It’s ten-rouble bills!”

Those sitting in the stalls turned their heads. In the gallery a bewildered citizen found in his pocket a bank-wrapped packet with “One thousand roubles” written on it. His neighbours hovered over him, and he, in amazement, picked at the wrapper with his fingernail, trying to find out if the bills were real or some sort of magic ones.

“By God, they’re real! Ten-rouble bills!” joyful cries came from the gallery.

“I want to play with the same kind of deck,” a fat man in the middle of the stalls requested merrily.

“Avec playzeer!” Fagott responded. “But why just you? Everyone will warmly participate!” And he commanded: “Look up, please! ... One!” There was a pistol in his hand. He shouted: “Two!” The pistol was pointed up. He shouted: “Three!” There was a flash, a bang, and all at once, from under the cupola, bobbing between the trapezes, white strips of paper began falling into the theatre.

They twirled, got blown aside, were drawn towards the gallery, bounced into the orchestra and on to the stage. In a few seconds, the rain of money, ever thickening, reached the seats, and the spectators began snatching at it.

Hundreds of arms were raised, the spectators held the bills up to the lighted stage and saw the most true and honest-to-God watermarks. The smell also left no doubts: it was the incomparably delightful smell of freshly printed money. The whole theatre was seized first with merriment and then with amazement. The word “money, money!” hummed everywhere, there were gasps of “ah, ah!” and merry laughter. One or two were already crawling in the aisles, feeling under the chairs. Many stood on the seats, trying to catch the flighty, capricious notes.

Bewilderment was gradually coming to the faces of the policemen, and performers unceremoniously began sticking their heads out from the wings.

In the dress circle a voice was heard: “What’re you grabbing at? It’s mine, it flew to me!” and another voice: ‘don’t shove me, or you’ll get shoved back!” And suddenly there came the sound of a whack. At once a policeman’s helmet appeared in the dress circle, and someone from the dress circle was led away.

The general agitation was increasing, and no one knows where it all would have ended if Fagott had not stopped the rain of money by suddenly blowing into the air.

Two young men, exchanging significant and merry glances, took off from their seats and made straight for the buffet. There was a hum in the theatre, all the spectators” eyes glittered excitedly. Yes, yes, no one knows where it all would have ended if Bengalsky had not summoned his strength and acted. Trying to gain better control of himself, he rubbed his hands, as was his custom, and in his most resounding voice spoke thus: “Here, citizens, you and I have just beheld a case of so-called mass hypnosis. A purely scientific experiment, proving in the best way possible that there are no miracles in magic. Let us ask Maestro Woland to expose this experiment for us. Presendy, citizens, you will see these supposed banknotes disappear as suddenly as they appeared.”

Here he applauded, but quite alone, while a confident smile played on his face, yet in his eyes there was no such confidence, but rather an expression of entreaty.

The audience did not like Bengalsky’s speech. Total silence fell, which was broken by the checkered Fagott.

“And this is a case of so-called lying,” he announced in a loud, goatish tenor. The notes, citizens, are genuine.”

“Bravo!” a bass barked from somewhere on high.

This one, incidentally,” here Fagott pointed to Bengalsky, “annoys me.

Keeps poking his nose where nobody’s asked him, spoils the séance with false observations! What’re we going to do with him?”

Tear his head off!” someone up in the gallery said severely.

“What’s that you said? Eh?” Fagott responded at once to this outrageous suggestion. Tear his head off? There’s an idea! Behemoth!” he shouted to the cat. “Go to it! Bin, zwei, drei!!”

And an unheard-of thing occurred. The fur bristled on the cat’s back, and he gave a rending miaow. Then he compressed himself into a ball and shot like a panther straight at Bengalsky’s chest, and from there on to his head.

Growling, the cat sank his plump paws into the skimpy chevelure of the master of ceremonies and in two twists tore the head from the thick neck with a savage howl.

The two and a half thousand people in the theatre cried out as one.

Blood spurted in fountains from the torn neck arteries and poured over the shirt-front and tailcoat. The headless body paddled its feet somehow absurdly and sat down on the floor. Hysterical women’s cries came from the audience. The cat handed the head to Fagott, who lifted it up by the hair and showed it to the audience, and the head cried desperately for all the theatre to hear: “A doctor!”