The Master and Margarita

CHAPTER 9. Koroviev's Stunts       Nikanor Ivanovich  Bosoy, chairman of the tenants' association' 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  Wednesdaynight.     At midnight, as we already know, a commission of which Zheldybin formeda  part came to the house, summoned  Nikanor  Ivanovich,  told him about thedeath of Berlioz, and together with him went to apartment no.50.     There the  sealing of  the deceased's  manuscripts and  belongings  wascarried out. Neither  Grunya, the daytime housekeeper,  nor the light-mindedStepan  Bogdanovich was there  at the  time.  The  commission  announced  toNikanor Ivanovich that it would take the deceased's  manuscripts for sortingout,  that his living space, that is, three  rooms (the former study, livingroom and  dining room of  the jeweller's wife), reverted to the  disposal ofthe  tenants'  association, and that  the belongings were  to be kept in theaforementioned living space until the heirs were announced.     The news of Berlioz's  death spread through the whole house with a sortof supernatural speed, and as of seven o'clock Thursday morning, Bosoy beganto  receive telephone  calls  and  then personal  visits  with  declarationscontaining claims  to the  deceased's living  space.  In the period  of  twohours, Nikanor Ivanovich received thirty-two such declarations.     They  contained pleas, threats,  libels, denunciations,  promises to dorenovations at their  own expense, references to unbearable overcrowding andthe impossibility of living in the same apartment with bandits. Among othersthere were  a  description, staggering  in  its artistic power, of the theftfrom  apartment  no.  51 of some meat dumplings,  tucked  directly into  thepocket of a suit jacket,  two vows to end life by suicide and one confessionof 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 notbe left the loser.     This torture went on until noon, when Nikanor Ivanovich simply fled hisapartment for the management office  by the gate, but when he saw them lyingin wait for him  there,  too, he  fled that  place  as well. Having  somehowshaken  off  those  who followed  on  his  heels  across  the  asphalt-pavedcourtyard, Nikanor Ivanovich disappeared into the sixth entrance and went upto the fifth floor, where this vile apartment no.50 was located.     After  catching  his  breath on  the  landing,  the  corpulent  NikanorIvanovich rang, but no one opened  for  him.  He rang again, and then again,and started  grumbling  and swearing quietly. Even then no  one  opened. Hispatience  exhausted,  Nikanor  Ivanovich  took from his  pocket a  bunch  ofduplicate keys belonging to the  house management,  opened the  door  with asovereign hand, and went in.     'Hey,  housekeeper!' Nikanor  Ivanovich  cried in  the  semi-dark fronthall. 'Grunya, or whatever your name is! ... Are you here?'     No one responded.     Then Nikanor Ivanovich took a folding ruler from his briefcase, removedthe seal from the  door  to the study, and stepped in. Stepped  in, yes, buthalted in amazement in the doorway and even gave a start.     At the deceased's desk sat an unknown, skinny, long citizen in a littlecheckered jacket, a jockey's cap, and a pince-nez . . . well, in short, thatsame one.     'And who might you be, citizen?' Nikanor Ivanovich asked fearfully.     'Hah! Nikanor Ivanovich!' the unexpected citizen yelled in  a  rattlingtenor  and,  jumping  up,  greeted  the  chairman  with a forced  and suddenhandshake. This greeting by no means gladdened Nikanor Ivanovich.     'Excuse me,' he said suspiciously,  'but who might you be? Are  you  anofficial person?'     'Eh, Nikanor Ivanovich!' the unknown man exclaimed soulfully. "What areofficial and unofficial persons? It all depends on your point of view on thesubject. It's all fluctuating and relative, Nikanor Ivanovich.  Today I'm anunofficial  person, and tomorrow, lo and behold, I'm an official one! And italso 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  manholding forth in  front  of  him was  precisely  an  unofficial person,  andperhaps even an idle one.     "fes,  but who might you be?  What's  your name?' the chairman inquiredwith 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  havesnacks  got to  do  with it!' (We must  confess, unpleasant as  it  is, thatNikanor Ivanovich was of a somewhat rude nature.) 'Sitting in the deceased'shalf is not permitted! What are you doing here?'     'Have  a seat, Nikanor Ivanovich,' the citizen  went on yelling,  not abit 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  whohas taken up residence  in this apartment,' the man calling himself Korovievintroduced himself and clicked the heels of his scuffed, unpolished shoes.     Nikanor Ivanovich opened his mouth. The presence of  some  foreigner inthis apartment, with an interpreter to boot, came  as a complete surprise tohim, and he demanded explanations.     The interpreter explained willingly. A foreign artiste, Mr Woland,  hadbeen kindly  invited  by the  director  of  the  Variety, Stepan BogdanovichLikhodeev, to  spend  the  time of his  performances, a week  or so, in  hisapartment, about  which  he  had  written  to  Nikanor Ivanovich  yesterday,requesting  that  he register  the foreigner  as a temporary resident, whileUkhodeev himself took a trip to Yalta.     'He never wrote me anything,' the chairman said in amazement.     'Just  look   through  your  briefcase,  Nikanor  Ivanovich,'  Korovievsuggested sweetly.     Nikanor  Ivanovich, shrugging his shoulders,  opened the  briefcase andfound 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!' Korovievrattled.  'Absent-mindedness,  absent-mindedness,  fatigue  and  high  bloodpressure,  my  dear  friend Nikanor  Ivanovich! I'm  terribly  absent-mindedmyself! 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  alreadywheeling along,  you know!  He's already  devil  knows where!'  And here theinterpreter 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  interpreterstraight  away  made  the  chairman  an  unexpected  but  quite  interestingproposal: 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  hisperformances in Moscow,  the whole of the apartment, that is, the deceased'srooms as well?     'It's all the same  to  him - the deceased  - you must  agree,  NikanorIvanovich,' Koroviev whispered hoarsely. 'He doesn't need the apartment now,does he?'     Nikanor Ivanovich, somewhat perplexed, objected that  foreigners  oughtto live at the Metropol, and not in private apartments at all...     'I'm  telling  you,  he's  capricious as  devil  knows  what!' Korovievwhispered.  'He just doesn't want to! He doesn't like hotels!  I've had themup to  here,  these foreign  tourists!' Koroviev  complained confidentially,jabbing his  finger  at his sinewy neck.  'Believe me,  they wring the  soulright  out of you! They come and either spy on you like the lowest son  of abitch,  or else  torment you with their caprices - this isn't right and thatisn't right! . . . And for your association, Nikanor Ivanovich, it's a sheergain and an obvious profit. He won't stint on money.' Koroviev looked aroundand then whispered into the chairman's ear: 'A millionaire!'     The interpreter's offer made clear practical sense, it was a very solidoffer, 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 aresult, something  vague weighed on the chairman's soul, but he neverthelessdecided  to accept  the  offer. The thing was that the tenants' association,alas,  had quite a sizeable deficit. Fuel had to  be bought  for the heatingsystem by fall, but who was going to shell out for it --  no  one  knew. Butwith the foreign tourist's money, it might be possible to wriggle out of it.However, the practical  and prudent  Nikanor Ivanovich said  he  would firsthave to settle the question with the foreign tourist bureau.     'I  understand!'  Koroviev   cried   out.  'You've  got  to  setde  it!Absolutely! Here's the telephone, Nikanor  Ivanovich, settle it at once! Anddon't be shy about the money,'  he added in a whisper, drawing  the chairmanto the telephone in the front hall, 'if he won't  pay, who will! You  shouldsee  the villa  he's  got  in Nice!  Next  summer, when you  go abroad, comeespecially to see it -- you'll gasp!'     The business with  the  foreign  tourist bureau  was  arranged over thephone with an extraordinary speed, quite amazing  to the chairman. It turnedout  that they  already  knew about  Mr  Woland's  intention  of staying  inLikhodeev's private apartment and had no objections to it.     'That's  wonderful!' Koroviev yelled. Somewhat stunned by  his chatter,the  chairman  announced  that  the  tenants'  association  agreed  to  rentapartment no.50 for a week to the artiste Woland, for ...  Nikanor Ivanovichfaltered a little, then said:     'For five hundred roubles a day.'     Here  Koroviev  utterly  amazed the chairman. Winking thievishly in thedirection of the bedroom, from which the soft leaps of a heavy cat could  beheard, he rasped out:     'So it comes to three thousand five hundred for the week?'     To which Nikanor Ivanovich thought he was going to  add: 'Some appetiteyou've got, Nikanor Ivanovich!' but Koroviev said something quite different:     'What kind of money is that? Ask five, he'll pay it.'     Grinning perplexedly, Nikanor Ivanovich,  without noticing  how,  foundhimself  at the deceased's writing desk, where Koroviev with great speed anddexterity drew up a contract in two copies. Then he flew to the bedroom withthem  and  came  back,  both  copies now  bearing  the  foreigner's sweepingsignature. The chairman also signed the contract. Here Koroviev asked  for areceipt for five . ..     Write it out, write it out, Nikanor Ivanovich! ... thousand roubles . ..'  And with words somehow unsuited to serious business --'Bin, zwei, drei!'-- he laid out for the chairman five stacks of new banknotes.     The counting-up  took  place, interspersed  with  Koroviev's quips  andquiddities,  such as 'Cash loves counting', 'Your own  eye won't  lie',  andothers of the same sort.     After  counting  the  money,  the chairman  received  from Koroviev theforeigner's  passport for temporary registration, put it, together with  thecontract and  the money,  into his briefcase, and,  somehow unable  to  helphimself, sheepishly asked for a free pass ...     'Don't mention it!' bellowed Koroviev.  'How many  tickets do you want,Nikanor Ivanovich -- twelve, fifteen?'     The flabbergasted chairman explained that all he needed was a couple ofpasses, for himself and Pelageya Antonovna, his wife.     Koroviev  snatched out a notebook at  once  and  dashed  off a pass forNikanor Ivanovich, for two persons in the front row. And with his  left handthe  interpreter deftly slipped  this pass to Nikanor  Ivanovich, while withhis  right he  put into the chairman's other hand  a  thick,  crackling wad.Casting  an eye on it, Nikanor Ivanovich blushed deeply and began to push itaway.     'It isn't done . . .' he murmured.     'I won't  hear of it,' Koroviev whispered right  in his  ear.  'With usit's  not  done,  but  with foreigners it is.  You'll  offend  him,  NikanorIvanovich, and that's embarrassing. You've worked hard . ..'     'It's  severely punishable,' the chairman  whispered very, very  softlyand glanced over his shoulder.     'But where are the witnesses?'  Koroviev whispered into  his other ear.'I ask you, where are they? You don't think . .. ?'     Here,  as the chairman insisted afterwards, a miracle occurred: the wadcrept into his briefcase by  itself. And then the chairman, somehow limp andeven  broken, found himself on the stairs. A whirlwind  of thoughts raged inhis head. There was the villa in Nice,  and the trained cat, and the thoughtthat there were  in  fact no witnesses, and that Pelageya Antonovna would bedelighted  with  the  pass. They  were incoherent  thoughts,  but  generallypleasant. But, all the same, somewhere, some little needle kept pricking thechairman in the very bottom of  his  soul.  This was  the needle of anxiety.Besides, right then on the stairs the chairman was seized, as with a stroke,by the thought: 'But how did the interpreter  get into the study if the doorwas sealed?! And how was it that he, Nikanor  Ivanovich, had not asked aboutit?' For some time  the chairman stood staring like a  sheep at the steps ofthe stairway, but then he decided to spit on it and not torment himself withintricate questions . . .     As soon as the chairman  left the  apartment, a low voice came from thebedroom:     'I didn't like this Nikanor Ivanovich. He  is  a chiseller and a crook.Can it be arranged so that he doesn't come any more?'     'Messire, you have only  to say the word ...'  Koroviev responded  fromsomewhere, not in a rattling but in a very clear and resounding voice.     And  at once  the accursed  interpreter turned  up in the  front  hall,dialled a  number there, and  for some reason began speaking  very tearfullyinto the receiver:     'Hello! I consider it my duty  to  inform you that the chairman  of ourtenants' association at no.502-bis on Sadovaya, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy,  isspeculating in foreign currency.^[2] At the present moment, in hisapartment no. 55, he has four hundred dollars wrapped up in newspaper in theventilation of the privy. This is Timofei Kvastsov speaking, a tenant of thesaid house, apartment no. 11.  But I adjure you to keep my name  a secret. Ifear the vengeance of the above-stated chairman.'     And he hung up, the scoundrel!     What happened next  in apartment no.50  is  not known, but it is  knownwhat  happened  at Nikanor Ivanovich's. Having  locked  himself in the privywith the  hook,  he took  from his briefcase  the wad foisted  on him by theinterpreter and  satisfied himself that it  contained  four hundred roubles.Nikanor Ivanovich wrapped this  wad in a scrap  of newspaper and put it intothe ventilation duct.     Five minutes later the chairman was sitting  at the table  in his smalldining  room.  His wife  brought  pickled herring from  the kitchen,  neatlysliced  and  thickly  sprinkled  with green onion.  Nikanor Ivanovich pouredhimself a dram of vodka, drank it, poured another, drank it, picked up threepieces of herring  on his fork .  . . and at that moment the doorbell  rang.Pelageya Antonovna was just bringing in a steaming pot which, one could tellat once from a single glance,  contained, amidst a  fiery borscht, that thanwhich there is nothing more delicious in the world - a marrow bone.     Swallowing his spittle, Nikanor Ivanovich growled like a dog:     'Damn them all! Won't  allow a man to  eat ... Don't let anyone in, I'mnot  here,  not  here ...  If it's about the  apartment,  tell them  to stopblathering, there'll be a meeting next week.'     His wife ran to the front hall, while Nikanor Ivanovich, using a ladle,drew from the fire-breathing  lake -- it, the  bone, cracked lengthwise. Andat that moment two citizens entered the dining room, with Pelageya Antonovnafollowing  them, for  some reason looking  very pale.  Seeing  the citizens,Nikanor Ivanovich also turned white and stood up.     'Where's the Jakes?' the first  one,  in  a white side-buttoned  shirt,asked with a preoccupied air.     Something thudded against the dining table (this was  Nikanor Ivanovichdropping the ladle on to the oilcloth).     'This way, this way,' Pelageya Antonovna replied in a patter.     And the visitors immediately hastened to the corridor.     ^What's  the  matter?' Nikanor Ivanovich asked quiedy, going  after thevisitors. 'There  can't be anything like  that in our apartment .  .. And --your papers . . . begging your pardon . . .'     The first, without stopping, showed Nikanor Ivanovich a paper,  and thesecond  was  at the same moment standing on a stool in the privy, his arm inthe ventilation duct. Everything went dark in Nikanor Ivano-vich's eyes. Thenewspaper was  removed, but  in the  wad  there  were not roubles  but  someunknown money, bluish-greenish,  and  with the portrait  of  some  old  man.However, Nikanor Ivanovich saw it all dimly,  there were some sort  of spotsfloating in front of his eyes.     'Dollars in the ventilation  . . .' the  first said pensively and askedNikanor Ivanovich gently and courteously: 'Your little wad?'     'No!' Nikanor Ivanovich replied in a dreadful  voice. 'Enemies stuck mewith it!'     'That happens,' the first agreed and added, again gendy:  'Well, you'regoing to have to turn in the rest.'     'I haven't got any! I swear to God,  I never laid a finger  on it!' thechairman cried out desperately.     He dashed to the chest, pulled a drawer out with a clatter, and from itthe briefcase, crying out incoherently:     'Here's the contract... that vermin of an interpreter  stuck me with it... Koroviev ... in a pince-nez! ...'     He opened the briefcase, glanced into it, put  a hand inside, went bluein the face,  and dropped the briefcase into the borscht.  There was nothingin  the  briefcase: no letter  from  Styopa,  no  contract,  no  foreigner'spassport,  no money, no theatre  pass.  In short, nothing except  a  foldingruler.     'Comrades!'  the  chairman  cried frenziedly.  'Catch  them! There  areunclean powers in our house!'     It is not known what Pelageya Antonovna imagined here, only she claspedher hands and cried:     'Repent, Ivanych! You'll get off lighter.'     His  eyes bloodshot, Nikanor Ivanovich raised his fists over his wife'shead, croaking:     'Ohh, you damned fool!'     Here he  went slack and  sank down  on  a chair,  evidendy resolved  tosubmit to the inevitable.     During this time, Timofei  Kondratievich Kvastsov stood on the landing,placing  now  his ear,  now his  eye to the  keyhole  of  the  door  to  thechairman's apartment, melting with curiosity.     Five  minutes later the tenants of the house  who were in the courtyardsaw the chairman, accompanied by two other persons,  proceed directly to thegates  of  the house. It  was  said  that  Nikanor  Ivanovich looked  awful,staggered like a drunk man as he passed, and was muttering something.     And an hour after that an unknown citizen appeared in apartment no. 11,just as Timofei Kondratievich, spluttering  with delight,  was telling  someother   tenants  how   the  chairman   got  pinched,  motioned  to   TimofeiKondratievich  with his finger  to come from the kitchen  to the front hall,said something to him, and together they vanished.