'Passport! ' barked the cat and stretched out a fat paw. Completely
dumbfounded and blind to everything except the twin sparks in the cat's
eyes, Poplavsky pulled his passport out of his pocket like a dagger. The cat
picked up a pair of spectacles in thick black rims from the table under the
mirror, put them on its snout, which made it look even more imposing, and
took the passport from Poplavsky's shaking hand.
'I wonder--have I fainted or what? ' thought Poplavsky. From the
distance came the sound of Koroviev's blubbering, the hall was filled with
the smell of ether, valerian and some other nauseating abomination.
'Which department issued this passport?' asked the cat. There was no
answer.
'Department four hundred and twenty,' said the cat to itself, drawing
its paw across the passport which it was holding upside-down. ' Well, of
course! I know that department, they issue passports to anybody who comes
along. I wouldn't have given one to someone like you. Not on any account.
One look at your face and I'd have refused! ' The cat had worked itself up
into such a temper that it threw the passport to the ground. ' You may not
attend the funeral,' went on the cat in an official voice. ' Kindly go home
at once.' And it shouted towards the door : ' Azazello! '
At this a small, red-haired man limped into the hall. He had one yellow
fang, a wall eye and was wearing a black sweater with a knife stuck into a
leather belt. Feeling himself suffocating, Poplavsky stood up and staggered
back, clutching his heart.
'See him out, Azazello! ' ordered the cat and went out.
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