Samuel Coleridge would have loved it!
"Out of politeness the barman put a little piece into his mouth and found that he was chewing something really fresh and unusually delicious. As he ate the succulent meat, however, he almost fell off his stool again. A huge dark bird flew in from the next room and softly brushed the top of the barman's bald head with its wing. As it perched on the mantelpiece beside a clock, he saw that the bird was an owl. ' Oh my God! ' thought Andrei Fokich, nervous as all barmen are, ' what a place!'
'Glass of wine? White or red? What sort of wine do you like at this time of day? '
'Thanks but… I don't drink . . .'
'You poor fellow! What about a game of dice then? Or do you prefer some other game? Dominoes? Cards? '
'I don't play,' replied the barman, feeling weak and thoroughly muddled.
'How dreadful for you,' said the host. ' I always think, present company excepted of course, that there's something unpleasant lurking in people who avoid drinking, gambling, table-talk and pretty women. People like that are either sick or secretly hate their fellow-men. Of course there may be exceptions. I have had some outright scoundrels sitting at my table before now! Now tell me what I can do for you.'
'Yesterday you did some tricks . . .'
'I did? Tricks? ' exclaimed the magician indignantly. ' I beg your pardon! What a rude suggestion! '
'I'm sorry,' said the barman in consternation. ' I mean . . . black magic … at the theatre.'
'Oh, that! Yes, of course. I'll tell you a secret, my dear fellow. I'm not really a magician at all. I simply wanted to see some Muscovites en masse and the easiest way to do so was in a theatre. So my staff' – he nodded towards the cat – 'arranged this little act and I just sat on stage and watched the audience. Now, if that doesn't shock you too much, tell me what brings you here in connection with my performance? '
'During your act you made bank-notes float down from the ceiling. . . .' The barman lowered his voice and looked round in embarrassment. ' Well, all the audience picked them up and a young man came to my bar and handed me a ten-rouble note, so I gave him eight roubles fifty change . . . Then another one came . . .'
'Another young man? '
'No, he was older. Then there was a third and a fourth … I gave them all change. And today when I came to check the till there was nothing in it but a lot of strips of paper. The bar was a hundred and nine roubles short.'
'Oh dear, dear, dear! ' exclaimed the professor. ' Don't tell me people thought those notes were real? I can't believe they did it on purpose.'
The barman merely stared miserably round him and said nothing.
'They weren't swindlers, were they? ' the magician asked in a worried voice. ' Surely there aren't any swindlers here in Moscow?'
The barman replied with such a bitter smile that there could be no doubt about it: there were plenty of swindlers in Moscow.
'That's mean! ' said Woland indignantly. ' You're a poor man . . . you are a poor man, aren't you? '
Andrei Fokich hunched his head into his shoulders to show that he was a poor man.
'How much have you managed to save? '
Although the question was put in a sympathetic voice, it was tactless. The barman squirmed.
'Two hundred and forty nine thousand roubles in five different savings banks,' said a quavering voice from the next room, ' and under the floor at home he's got two hundred gold ten-rouble pieces.'
Andrei Fokich seemed to sink into his stool.
'Well, of course, that's no great sum of money,' said Woland patronisingly. ' All the same, you don't need it. When are you going to die? '
Now it was the barman's turn to be indignant.
'Nobody knows and it's nobody's business,' he replied.
'Yes, nobody knows,' said the same horrible voice from the next room. ' But by Newton's binomial theorem I predict that he will die in nine months' time in February of next year of cancer of the liver, in Ward No. 4 of the First Moscow City Hospital.'
The barman's face turned yellow.
'Nine months . . .' Woland calculated thoughtfully. ' Two hundred and forty-nine thousand . . . that works out at twenty-seven thousand a month in round figures . . . not much, but enough for a man of modest habits . . . then there are the gold coins . . .'
'The coins will not be cashed,' said the same voice, turning Andrei Fokich's heart to ice. ' When he dies the house will be demolished and the coins will be impounded by the State Bank.'
'If I were you I shouldn't bother to go into hospital,' went on the professor. ' What's the use of dying in a ward surrounded by a lot of groaning and croaking incurables? Wouldn't it be much better to throw a party with that twenty-seven thousand and take poison and depart for the other world to the sound of violins, surrounded by lovely drunken girls and happy friends? '
The barman sat motionless. He had aged. Black rings encircled his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, his lower jaw sagged.
'But we're daydreaming,' exclaimed the host. ' To business! Show me those strips of paper.'
Fumbling, Andrei Fokich took a package out of his pocket, untied it and sat petrified – the sheet of newspaper was full of ten-rouble notes.
'My dear chap, you really are sick,' said Woland, shrugging his shoulders.
Grinning stupidly, the barman got up from his stool. ' B-b-but . . .' he stammered, hiccupping, ' if they vanish again . . . what then? '
'H'm,' said the professor thoughtfully. ' In that case come back and see us. Delighted to have met you. . . .'
At this Koroviev leaped out of the study, clasped the barman's hand and shook it violently as he begged Andrei Fokich to give his kindest regards to everybody at the theatre. Bewildered, Andrei Fokich stumbled out into the hall. ' Hella, see him out! ' shouted Koroviev. The same naked girl appeared in the hall. The barman staggered out, just able to squeak ' Goodbye ', and left the flat as though he were drunk. Having gone a little way down, he stopped, sat down on a step, took out the package and checked – the money was still there.
Just then a woman with a green bag came out of one of the flats on that landing. Seeing a man sitting on the step and staring dumbly at a packet of bank-notes, she smiled and said wistfully:
'What a dump this is … drunks on the staircase at this hour of the morning . . . and they've smashed a window on the staircase again! '
After a closer look at Andrei Fokich she added :
'Mind the rats don't get all that money of yours. . . . Wouldn't you like to share some of it with me? '
'Leave me alone, for Christ's sake! ' said the barman and promptly hid the money.
The woman laughed.
'Oh, go to hell, you old miser! I was only joking. . . .' And she went on downstairs.
Andrei Fokich slowly got up, raised his hand to straighten his hat and discovered that it was not on his head. He desperately wanted not to go back, but he missed his hat. After some hesitation he made up his mind, went back and rang the bell.
'What do you want now? ' asked Hella.
'I forgot my hat,' whispered the barman, tapping his bald head. Hella turned round and the little man shut his eyes in horror. When he opened them, Hella was offering him his hat and a sword with a black hilt.
'It's not mine. . . .' whispered the barman, pushing away the sword and quickly putting on his hat.
'Surely you didn't come without a sword?' asked Hella in surprise.
Andrei Fokich muttered something and hurried off downstairs. His head felt uncomfortable and somehow too hot. He took off his hat and gave a squeak of horror – he was holding a velvet beret with a bedraggled cock's feather. The barman crossed himself. At that moment the beret gave a miaou and changed into a black kitten. It jumped on to Andrei Fokich's head and dug its claws into his bald patch. Letting out a shriek of despair, the wretched man hurled himself downstairs as the kitten jumped off his head and flashed back to No. 50.
Bursting out into the courtyard, the barman trotted out of the gate and left the diabolical No.50 for ever.
It was not, however, the end of his adventures. Once in the street he stared wildly round as if looking for something. A minute later he was in a chemist's shop on the far side of the road. No sooner had he said :
'Tell me, please . . .' when the woman behind the counter shrieked:
'Look! Your head! It's cut to pieces!'
Within five minutes Andrei's head was bandaged and he had discovered that the two best specialists in diseases of the liver were Professor Bernadsky and Professor Kuzmin. Enquiring which was the nearest, he was overjoyed to learn that Kuzmin lived literally round the corner in a little white house and two minutes later he was there.
It was an old-fashioned but very comfortable little house. Afterwards the barman remembered first meeting a little old woman who wanted to take his hat, but since he had no hat the old woman hobbled off, chewing her toothless gums. In her place appeared a middle-aged woman, who immediately announced that new patients could only be registered on the 19th of the month and not before. Instinct told Andrei Fokich what to do. Giving an expiring glance at the three people in the waiting-room he whispered:
'I'm dying. . . .'
The woman glanced uncertainly at his bandaged head, hesitated, then said:
'Very well. . . .' and led the barman through the hall.
At that moment a door opened to reveal a bright gold pince-nez. The woman in the white overall said :
'Citizens, this patient has priority.'
Andrei Fokich had not time to look round before he found himself in Professor Kuzmin's consulting room. It was a long, well-proportioned room with nothing frightening, solemn or medical about it.
'What is your trouble?' enquired Professor Kuzmin in a pleasant voice, glancing slightly anxiously at the bandaged head.' I have just learned from a reliable source,' answered the barman, staring wildly at a framed group photograph, ' that I am going to die next February from cancer of the liver. You must do something to stop it.'
Professor Kuzmin sat down and leaned against the tall leather back of his Gothic chair.
'I'm sorry I don't understand you . . . You mean . . . you saw a doctor? Why is your head bandaged? '
'Him? He's no doctor . . .' replied the barman and suddenly his teeth began to chatter. ' Don't bother about my head, that's got nothing to do with it… I haven't come about my head . . . I've got cancer of the liver – you must do something about it!'
'But who told you? '
'You must believe him! ' Andrei Fokich begged fervently. ' He knows! '
'I simply don't understand,' said the professor, shrugging his shoulders and pushing his chair back from the desk. ' How can he know when you're going to die? Especially as he's not a doctor.'
'In Ward No. 4,' was all the barman could say. The professor stared at his patient, at his head, at his damp trousers, and thought: ' This is the last straw – some madman . . .' He asked :
'Do you drink? ' ' Never touch it,' answered the barman.
In a minute he was undressed and lying on a chilly striped couch with the professor kneading his stomach. This cheered the barman considerably. The professor declared categorically that at the present moment at least there were no signs of cancer, but since . . . since he was worried about it and some charlatan had given him a fright, he had better have some tests done.
The professor scribbled on some sheets of paper, explaining where Andrei Fokich was to go and what he should take with him. He also gave him a note to a colleague, Professor Burye, the neuropathologist, saying that his nerves, at any rate, were in a shocking condition.
'How much should I pay you, professor? ' asked the barman in a trembling voice, pulling out a fat notecase. ' As much as you like,' replied the professor drily. Andrei Fokich pulled out thirty roubles and put them on the table, then furtively, as though his hands were cat's paws, put a round, chinking, newspaper-wrapped pile on top of the ten-rouble notes.
'What's that?' asked Kuzmin, twirling one end of his moustache.
'Don't be squeamish, professor,' whispered the barman. ' You can have anything you want if you'll stop my cancer.'
'Take your gold,' said the professor, feeling proud of himself as he said it. ' You'd be putting it to better use if you spent it on having your nerves treated. Produce a specimen of urine for analysis tomorrow, don't drink too much tea and don't eat any salt in your food.'
'Can't I even put salt in my soup? ' asked the barman. ' Don't put salt in anything,' said Kuzmin firmly. ' Oh dear . . .' exclaimed the barman gloomily, as he gazed imploringly at the professor, picked up his parcel of gold coins and shuffled backwards to the door.
The professor did not have many patients that evening and as twilight began to set in, the last one was gone. Taking off his white overall, the professor glanced at the place on the desk where Andrei Fokich had left the three ten-rouble notes and saw that there were no longer any bank-notes there, but three old champagne bottle labels instead.
'Well, I'm damned! ' muttered Kuzmin, trailing the hem of his overall across the floor and fingering the pieces of paper. ' Apparently he's not only a schizophrenic but a crook as well. But what can he have wanted out of me? Surely not a chit for a urine test? Ah! Perhaps he stole my overcoat! ' The professor dashed into the hall, dragging his overall by one sleeve. ' Xenia Nikitishna! ' he screamed in the hall. ' Will you look and see if my overcoat's in the cupboard? '
It was. But when the professor returned to his desk having finally taken off his overall, he stopped as though rooted to the parquet, staring at the desk. Where the labels had been there now sat a black kitten with a pathetically unhappy little face, miaowing over a saucer of milk.
'What is going on here? This is . . .' And Kuzmin felt a chill run up his spine.
Hearing the professor's plaintive cry, Xenia Nikitishna came running in and immediately calmed him by saying that the kitten had obviously been abandoned there by one of the patients, a thing they were sometimes prone to do.
'I expect they're poor,' explained Xenia Nikitishna, ' whereas we . . .'
They tried to guess who might have left the animal there. Suspicion fell on an old woman with a gastric ulcer.
'Yes, it must be her,' said Xenia Nikitishna. ' She'll have thought to herself: I'm going to die anyway, but it's hard on the poor little kitty.'
'Just a moment! ' cried Kuzmin. ' What about the milk? Did she bring the milk? And the saucer too? '
'She must have had a saucer and a bottle of milk in her bag and poured it out here,' explained Xenia Nikitishna.
'At any rate remove the kitten and the saucer, please,' said Kuzmin and accompanied Xenia Nikitishna to the door.
As he hung up his overall the professor heard laughter from the courtyard. He looked round and hurried over to the window. A woman, wearing nothing but a shirt, was running across the courtyard to the house opposite. The professor knew her – she was called Marya Alexandrovna. A boy was laughing at her.
'Really, what behaviour,' said Kuzmin contemptuously. Just then the sound of a gramophone playing a foxtrot came from his daughter's room and at the same moment the professor heard the chirp of a sparrow behind his back. He turned round and saw a large sparrow hopping about on his desk.
'H'm . . . steady now! ' thought the professor. ' It must have flown in when I walked over to the window. I'm quite all right! ' said the professor to himself severely, feeling that he was all wrong, thanks to this intruding sparrow. As he looked at it closer, the professor at once realised that it was no ordinary sparrow. The revolting bird was leaning over on its left leg, making faces, waving its other leg in syncopation – in short it was dancing a foxtrot in time to the gramophone, cavorting like a drunk round a lamppost and staring cheekily at the professor.
Kuzmin's hand was on the telephone and he was just about to ring up his old college friend Burye and ask him what it meant to start seeing sparrows at sixty, especially if they made your head spin at the same time.
Meanwhile the sparrow had perched on his presentation inkstand, fouled it, then flew up, hung in the air and dived with shattering force at a photograph showing the whole class of '94 on graduation day, smashing the glass to smithereens. The bird then wheeled smartly and flew out of the window.
The professor changed his mind and instead of ringing up Burye dialled the number of the Leech Bureau and asked them to send a leech to his house at once. Replacing the receiver on the rest, the professor turned back to his desk and let out a wail. On the far side of the desk sat a woman in nurse's uniform with a bag marked ' Leeches '. The sight of her mouth made the professor groan again – it was a wide, crooked, man's mouth with a fang sticking out of it. The nurse's eyes seemed completely dead.
'I'll take the money,' said the nurse, ' it's no good to you now.' She grasped the labels with a bird-like claw and began to melt into the air.
Two hours passed. Professor Kuzmin was sitting up in bed with leeches dangling from his temples, his ears and his neck. At his feet on the buttoned quilt sat the grey-haired Professor Burye, gazing sympathetically at Kuzmin and comforting him by assuring him that it was all nonsense. Outside it was night.
We do not know what other marvels happened in Moscow that night and we shall not, of course, try to find out – especially as the time is approaching to move into the second half of this true story. Follow me, reader!
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