فصل 9

IX

Korovyov’s Tricks

NIKANOR Ivanovich Bosoi, chairman of the house committee of 302B Sadovaya Street in Moscow, the residence of the late Berlioz, found himself inundated with problems, which had started during the night between Wednesday and Thursday.

At midnight, as we already know, Zheldybin arrived as part of a commission which summoned Nikanor Ivanovich, informed him of Berlioz’s death, and then went with him to apartment No. 50.

There the papers and belongings of the deceased were put under seal. Neither Grunya, the maid, nor the frivolous Stepan Bogdanovich was in the apartment at the time. The commission told Nikanor Ivanovich that they would remove the deceased’s papers in order to sort them out, that the deceased’s living space, that is to say, his three rooms (the study, living room, and dining room that had once belonged to the jeweller’s widow) would revert to the house committee, and that the deceased’s belongings would be kept where they were under seal until notification of the heirs.

News of Berlioz’s death spread throughtout the building with supernatural speed, and Bosoi started getting calls at seven o’clock Thursday morning. Then people began showing up in person to submit claims for the vacated rooms. Within two hours Nikanor Ivanovich had received thirty-two such claims.

They contained pleas, threats, slanderous gossip, denunciations, offers to undertake renovations at their own expense, references to unbearable overcrowding, and the impossibility of sharing an apartment with bandits. Included too was an artistically powerful and gripping account of someone stealing pelmeni from apartment No. 31 and stuffing them into a jacket pocket, plus two threats of suicide and one confession of a secret pregnancy.

Nikanor Ivanovich was constantly being called out into the hall of his apartment, grabbed by the sleeve, whispered to, winked at, and promised a little something for his efforts.

This torment lasted until noontime when Nikanor Ivanovich simply fled from his apartment and went to the office at the main entrance, but when he saw people were on the lookout for him there as well, he took off again. After managing somehow to escape the people who chased him across the asphalt courtyard, he took refuge in entranceway No. 6 and then climbed upstairs to the fifth floor and that vile apartment No. 50.

After catching his breath on the landing, the corpulent Nikanor Ivanovich rang the bell, but no one came to the door. He rang a second time, and a third, and began grumbling and cursing under his breath. Even then no one answered. Finally he lost his patience, took a bunch of duplicate keys belonging to the housing administration out of his pocket, opened the door authoritatively, and walked in.

“Hey there, maid!” Nikanor Ivanovich shouted in the semidark hallway. “What’s your name? Grunya, is it? Are you there?” No one replied.

Then Nikanor Ivanovich took a folding ruler out of his briefcase, removed the seal from the study door, and stepped inside the room, Or, rather, he was just starting to step inside when he stopped in amazement in the doorway, and even gave a shudder.

Sitting at the deceased’s desk was a stranger, tall and emaciated and wearing a checked jacket, jockey cap, and pince-nez …well, in short, you know who.

“And who might you be, citizen?” asked Nikanor Ivanovich in a frightened voice.

“Hullo! Nikanor Ivanovich,” the unexpected citizen called out in a quavering tenor, and leaping to his feet, he greeted the chairman with an abrupt and forceful handshake. Nikanor Ivanovich was hardly enthralled by this welcome.

“Excuse me,” he began suspiciously,” but who exactly are you? Are you here in an official capacity?”

“Ah, Nikanor Ivanovich!” the stranger exclaimed confidingly. “How do you define official and unofficial? All that depends on your point of view. All that is arbitrary and relative. Today I’m unofficial, but tomorrow I might be official! And vice versa, of course, or even something worse.” This kind of reasoning gave no satisfaction whatsoever to the chairman of the house committee. A suspicious person by nature, he decided that the bombastic citizen was certainly unofficial, and maybe even superfluous.

“So who are you? What’s your name?” the chairman asked with increasing severity, and even began to bear down on the stranger.

“My name is,” replied the citizen, unperturbed by the severity of tone, “ …well, let’s say, Korovyov. And wouldn’t you like a bite to eat, Nikanor Ivanovich? No need for ceremony! Huh?” “I beg your pardon,” began Nikanor Ivanovich, by now indignant, “but what in hell does a bite to eat have to do with this!” (However unpleasant it may be, one must admit that Nikanor Ivanovich was by nature somewhat rude.) “You have no right to be in the deceased’s quarters! What are you doing here?” “And won’t you sit down, Nikanor Ivanovich,” cried the citizen, without losing his composure, and making a great display of offering the chairman a seat.

Absolutely enraged, Nikanor Ivanovich refused to sit down and shouted, “Who are you anyway?”

“I serve, if you please, as an interpreter for the foreign visitor currently residing in this apartment,” explained the fellow who called himself Korovyov, as he clicked the heel of his scuffed, red shoe.

Nikanor Ivanovich’s mouth fell open. The presence of a foreigner in the apartment, and with an interpreter no less, came as a complete surprise to him, and he demanded an explanation.

The interpreter was happy to oblige. The foreign artiste, Mr. Woland, had been graciously invited by the director of the Variety Theater, Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev, to stay in his apartment for the duration of his tour, approximately a week, and yesterday Stepan Bogdanovich had written to Nikanor Ivanovich to that effect with a request that he issue the foreigner a temporary residence permit since he, Likhodeyev, was going to Yalta.

“He didn’t write me anything,” said the astonished chairman.

“Just take a look in your briefcase, Nikanor Ivanovich,” Korovyov suggested sweetly.

Nikanor Ivanovich shrugged and opened his briefcase and immediately found Likhodeyev’s letter inside.

“How could I have forgotten?” mumbled Nikanor Ivanovich, gazing dully at the already opened envelope.

“It happens sometimes, it happens sometimes,” cackled Korovyov. “Absentmindedness, absentmindedness, and over-exhaustion, and high blood pressure, my dear friend Nikanor Ivanovich! I am horribly absentminded myself. We’ll have a drink sometime, and I’ll tell you a few facts from my life story, you’ll die laughing!” “When precisely is Likhodeyev going to Yalta?”

“Why he’s already gone, gone,” shrieked the interpreter. “He’s already rolling along, yes indeed! He’s already the devil knows where!” and here the interpreter waved his arms like a windmill.

Nikanor Ivanovich said that he had to see the foreigner in person, but the interpreter denied him that request. It was impossible. He was too busy. Training the cat. “I can show you the cat, if you wish,” offered Korovyov.

Nikanor Ivanovich, in turn, declined this offer. The interpreter then made him an unexpected, but most intriguing proposition.

In view of the fact that Mr. Woland did not wish to live in a hotel, and since he was used to having a lot of room, wouldn’t it be possible for the house committee to rent him the entire apartment, including the rooms that belonged to the deceased, for the week of Woland’s performance in Moscow?

“After all, it’s hardly a matter of concern to him, to the deceased,” hissed Korovyov in a whisper. “You will agree, won’t you, Nikanor Ivanovich, that he has no further use for this apartment?” Somewhat confused, Nikanor Ivanovich protested that foreigners were supposed to stay at the Metropole and not in private apartments … “I tell you, he’s fussy as the devil!” whispered Korovyov. “He just doesn’t want to! Doesn’t like hotels! I’ve had it up to here with these foreign visitors!” Korovyov complained confidentially, poking a finger at his veiny neck. “Believe me, they run you ragged! They come here, and they either snoop around like a son of a bitch, or they wear you out with their whims: this isn’t right, that isn’t right … Besides, Nikanor Ivanovich, your committee has everything to gain and nothing to lose. He doesn’t begrudge any expense.” Korovyov glanced around, and then whispered in the chairman’s ear, “He’s a millionaire!” The interpreter’s proposition made a lot of practical sense. It was a very solid proposal, but there was something decidedly unsolid about his manner of speaking, his attire, and that sickening, totally useless pince-nez. As a result, a vague sense of uneasiness troubled the chairman’s soul, but he decided to accept the offer anyway. The fact of the matter was that the house committee had incurred, alas, an enormous deficit. They had to buy heating oil for the fall, and where the money would come from was a mystery. Maybe the foreign visitor’s money would get them out of the hole. Even so, the businesslike and cautious Nikanor Ivanovich said that he would first have to clear the matter with the Intourist Office.

“I understand!” screeched Korovyov. “How could you not sort things out! It’s essential! Here’s the telephone, Nikanor Ivanovich, why don’t you sort them out right away. And don’t be embarrassed to ask for money,” he added in a whisper, as he drew the chairman toward the phone in the hall. “Who can you get money from if not from him! If you could only see the villa he has in Nice! Next summer when you go abroad, make sure you go and have a look—you’ll faint!” All the arrangements with the Intourist Office were made over the phone with a swiftness that amazed the chairman. It turned out that they already knew about Mr. Woland’s plans to stay in Likhodeyev’s private apartment, and they had no objections whatsoever.

“Marvelous!” cried Korovyov.

A bit dazed by his constant chatter, the chairman said that the house committee agreed to rent apartment No. 50 for a week to the artiste Woland at the rate of … Nikanor Ivanovich stammered somewhat and said, “Five hundred rubles a day.” At this point Korovyov really bowled the chairman over. Winking roguishly in the direction of the bedroom, where the cushioned leaps of a heavy cat could be heard, he hissed, “That comes to thirty-five hundred for the week, right?” Nikanor Ivanovich quite expected him to add, “You’ve got quite an appetite, don’t you, Nikanor Ivanovich!” but again Korovyov surprised him. “You call that money! Ask for five thou, he’ll pay it.” Nikanor Ivanovich gave a confused grin and failed to notice that he was standing next to the deceased’s writing desk, where Korovyov was drawing up two copies of a contract with great speed and agility. Next, he whisked them into the bedroom and returned with both copies signed in the foreigner’s scrawling hand. The chairman signed the contract too. Here Korovyov asked for a receipt for the five thousand … “Write it out, Nikanor Ivanovich, write it out! Five thousand rubles …” And then, in a manner ill-suited to the seriousness of the occasion, he said, “eins, zwei, drei!” as he counted out five stacks of fresh banknotes for the chairman.

This was done to the accompaniment of Korovyov’s little jokes and quips, such as, “A penny saved is a penny earned,” “A fool and his money are soon parted,” and other things of that sort.

After recounting the money, the chairman took the foreigner’s passport from Korovyov in order to make out a temporary residence permit, and then put it, along with the contract and the money, into his briefcase. Unable to control himself, he bashfully asked for a free pass to the show … “Why, of course!” bellowed Korovyov. “How many tickets would you like, Nikanor Ivanovich, twelve, fifteen?”

The dumbfounded chairman explained that he needed only two tickets, for himself and his wife, Pelageya Antonovna.

Korovyov grabbed a notepad and jauntily wrote out a pass for two in the front row. As the interpreter thrust the free pass at Nikanor Ivanovich with his left hand, he used his right to press a fat wad of crisp bills into the chairman’s other hand. The latter took one look at them, blushed hard, and tried to push them away.

“We’re not supposed to …” he muttered.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Korovyov whispered in his ear. “We’re not supposed to, but foreigners are. You’ll offend him, Nikanor Ivanovich, and that would be unfortunate. After all the trouble you went to …” “It’s strictly enforced,” the chairman whispered in the softest of tones and looked furtively around.

“But where are the witnesses?” Korovyov whispered in his other ear. “I ask you, where are they? What’s your problem?” And it was then, as the chairman insisted afterward, that the miracle took place: the wad of bills crawled into his briefcase all on its own. Then, in a weakened and even disoriented state, the chairman found himself on the staircase. A jumble of thoughts whirled around in his head: the villa in Nice, the trained cat, the thought that there had indeed been no witnesses and that Pelageya Antonovna would be thrilled about the free pass. They were disjointed thoughts, but pleasant on the whole. And still, the chairman felt a pinprick somewhere in the depths of his soul. A pinprick of disquietude. A thought hit him like a blow on the head, right there on the staircase, “How did the interpreter get into the study if there was a seal on the door?!” And why hadn’t he, Nikanor Ivanovich, asked about that? For a while the chairman gazed goggleeyed at the stairs like a sheep, but then he decided to forget the whole thing and not to torture himself over something so complicated … No sooner had the chairman left the apartment, than a low voice came from the bedroom, “I didn’t like that Nikanor Ivanovich. He’s a skinflint and a swindler. Can’t we make sure he doesn’t come round here again?” “Messire, your wish is my command!” Korovyov replied from somewhere, but in a pure and resonant voice, not a quavering one.

And immediately the accursed interpreter appeared in the hall, dialed a number, and began to whine into the phone, “Hello! I consider it my duty to inform you that our house committee chairman here at 302B Sadovaya Street, Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoi, is speculating in foreign currency. At the present moment there are four hundred dollars wrapped in newspaper in the ventilator shaft of his toilet in apartment No. 35. My name is Timofei Kvastsov, and I live in apartment No. 11 in the same building. But I ask that you not reveal my name. I am afraid that the aforementioned chairman will try to get even.” Then he hung up, the scoundrel!

What happened next in apartment No. 50 is unknown, but what happened next in Nikanor Ivanovich’s apartment is known. The chairman locked himself in the toilet and took out of his briefcase the packet of bills that had been forced on him by the interpreter, and checked to make sure that it contained four hundred rubles. He then wrapped the packet in a piece of newspaper and stuffed it into the ventilator shaft.

Five minutes later the chairman was sitting at the table in his small dining room. From the kitchen his wife brought him a plate of neatly sliced herring smothered with chopped scallions. Nikanor Ivanovich poured himself a small carafe of vodka, drank it down, poured another, drank that down, speared three pieces of herring on his fork … and at that moment the doorbell rang. Pelageya Antonovna had just brought in a steaming saucepan, one glance at which was enough to guess that the pan contained, in the very thick of the piping hot borsch, the most delicious thing in the world, a marrow bone.

His mouth watering, Nikanor Ivanovich began howling like a dog, “Damn you to hell! They won’t even let you eat. Don’t let anyone in, I’m not here, I’m not here. If it’s about the apartment, tell them to stop hounding me. There’ll be a meeting in a week …” His wife ran into the entry hall, while Nikanor Ivanovich dipped a ladle into the fire-breathing lake and fished out the bone, which was cracked lengthwise. At that moment two men walked into the dining room, accompanied by a very pale Pelageya Antonovna. One look at the men and Nikanor Ivanovich turned pale too, and got up from the table.

“Where’s the toilet?” asked the first man with an air of concern. He was wearing a white Russian-style shirt.

Something knocked against the dining table (it was Nikanor Ivanovich who had dropped his spoon on the oilcloth).

“Over here, here,” babbled Pelageya Antonovna.

And the visitors headed straight into the hall.

“What’s this all about?” asked Nikanor Ivanovich, trailing behind the men. “Nothing like that could be in our apartment … And can I see your ID … excuse me …” The first man handed Nikanor Ivanovich his ID, and the second one proceeded to stand up on a stool in the toilet and thrust his hand into the ventilator shaft. Nikanor Ivanovich’s eyes grew dim. They removed the newspaper, but the package turned out to contain not rubles, but some unknown currency that was blue-green in color and had a picture on it of an old man. Nikanor Ivanovich saw all this in a haze, however—spots were swimming in front of his eyes.

“There are dollars in the ventilator shaft,” said the first man thought fully. In a soft and polite voice he asked Nikanor Ivanovich, “Does this packet belong to you?” “No!” replied Nikanor Ivanovich in a terrified voice. “My enemies planted it there.”

“That does sometimes happen,” agreed the first man and added, again softly, “But you’ll have to hand over the rest of it too.” “I don’t have any! Nothing at all! I swear to God, I’ve never even touched the stuff!” screamed the chairman in desperation.

He rushed over to the bureau, pulled out a creaky drawer and took out his briefcase, all the while crying out disconnected phrases, “Here’s the contract … that filthy interpreter planted it there … Korovyov … the guy with the pince-nez!” He opened the briefcase, looked inside, and thrust his hand in. His face turned blue and he dropped the briefcase into the borsch. There was nothing in the briefcase: neither Styopa’s letter, nor the contract, nor the foreigner’s passport, nor the money, nor the free pass. In short, nothing but the folding ruler.

“Comrades!” shouted the chairman in a fury. “Take them into custody! There are evil powers in this building!”

No one knows what came over Pelageya Antonovna at that point, but she waved her arms and shouted, “Confess, Ivanovich! You’ll get off easier!” Nikanor Ivanovich’s eyes became bloodshot, and he raised his fists over his wife’s head, shouting hoarsely, “Oh, you damned fool!” Then he felt weak and sank into a chair, evidently deciding to bow to the inevitable.

In the meantime, out on the landing, Timofei Kondratyevich Kvastsov was putting first his ear and then his eye to the keyhole of the chairman’s apartment, dying of curiosity.

Five minutes later the residents of the building who were in the courtyard at the time saw the chairman being led to the entrance gates by two men. It was reported that Nikanor Ivanovich looked terrible, tottered like a drunk as he passed by, and was mumbling something.

An hour later an unknown man appeared in apartment No. 11 just as Timofei Kondratyevich was choking with glee and telling the other residents how the chairman had been carted off to jail. The stranger beckoned with his finger for Timofei Kondratyevich to come out of the kitchen and into the hall. He said something to him, and then they both vanished.