The Master and Margarita / Мастер и Маргарита. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Булгаков

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “What do you want?” and was himself amazed, not recognizing his own voice. The word “what” he had pronounced in a treble, “do you” in a bass, while “want” had not come out at all.

      The stranger grinned amicably[197], took out a big gold watch with a diamond triangle on the case, let it ring eleven times and said:

      “Eleven! And exactly an hour that I’ve been awaiting your awakening, for you gave me an appointment to be at your home at ten. And here I am!”

      Styopa fumbled for his trousers on the chair beside the bed and whispered:

      “Excuse me…” He put them on and asked hoarsely: “Tell me, please, your name?”

      Talking was difficult for him. At every word someone was sticking a needle into his brain, causing hellish pain.

      “What? You’ve forgotten my name as well?” here the stranger smiled.

      “Forgive me,” wheezed Styopa, feeling that his hangover was favouring him with a new symptom: it seemed to him that the floor beside the bed had gone away somewhere and that this very minute he would fly head first to the Devil in the netherworld.

      “Dear Stepan Bogdanovich,” began the visitor, smiling shrewdly, “no pyramidon is going to help you. Follow the wise old rule – take the hair of the dog. The only thing that will return you to life is two shots of vodka with something hot and spicy to eat.”

      Styopa was a cunning man and, however ill he may have been, he grasped that, seeing as he had been caught like this, he had to admit everything.

      “To be frank[198],” he began, scarcely in control of his tongue, “yesterday I had a little…”

      “Not a word more!” the caller replied, and moved aside on the armchair.

      With his eyes popping out, Styopa saw that on a little table a tray had been prepared, on which there were slices of white bread, a dish of pressed caviar, a plate of pickled boletuses, something in a little saucepan and, finally, vodka in the jeweller’s wife’s voluminous carafe[199]. Styopa was particularly struck by the fact that the carafe was covered in condensation from the cold. That was understandable, though – it was standing in a slop basin packed with ice. It had all been laid out, in short, neatly and capably.

      The stranger did not let Styopa’s astonishment develop to an unhealthy degree, and deftly poured him a half-shot of vodka.

      “What about you?” squeaked Styopa.

      “With pleasure!”

      Styopa brought the glass up to his lips with a jerky hand, while the stranger swallowed the contents of his glass in a single breath. Munching a bit of caviar, Styopa squeezed out of himself the words:

      “But what about you. something to eat with it?”

      “My thanks, I never have anything to eat with it,” the stranger replied, and poured a second glass each. The saucepan was uncovered – it proved to[200] hold sausages in tomato sauce.

      And now the damned greenery in front of his eyes melted away, words began to be pronounced properly, and, most importantly, Styopa remembered one or two things. Namely, that yesterday’s doings had been at Skhodnya, at the dacha of Khustov, the sketch-writer, where this Khustov had taken Styopa in a taxicab. Even the way they had hired this taxicab near the Metropole came to mind: there had been some actor or something of the kind there too at the time… with a gramophone in a little suitcase. Yes, yes, yes, it had been at the dacha! And also, he seemed to recall, that gramophone had made the dogs howl. It was just the lady Styopa had wanted to kiss that remained unclarified. the devil knew who she was. she worked in radio, he thought, but maybe not.

      The previous day was thus gradually being cleared up[201], but Styopa was now much more interested in the present one and, in particular, in the stranger’s appearance in his bedroom, and with vodka and food to go with it, what’s more. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to clarify that.

      “Well then, I hope you’ve remembered my name now?”

      But Styopa only smiled bashfully and spread his hands.

      “Well, really! I sense you were drinking port after the vodka! For pity’s sake, how can you possibly do that!”

      “I’d like to request that this should remain just between us,” said Styopa in an ingratiating tone.

      “Oh, of course, of course! But it goes without saying that I can’t vouch for Khustov.”

      “So you know Khustov, then?”

      “I caught a glimpse of that individual in your office yesterday, but one cursory glance at his face is sufficient to realize that he’s a bastard, a troublemaker, a time-server and a toady.”

      “Quite correct!” thought Styopa, amazed at such a true, accurate and concise definition of Khustov.

      Yes, the previous day was being pieced together, but even so, uneasiness was not abandoning the Director of the Variety. The thing was that in that previous day there yawned an absolutely enormous black hole. Now this here stranger in the beret, say whatever you like, Styopa had definitely not seen him in his office yesterday.

      “Woland,[202] Professor of Black Magic,” the caller said weightily, seeing Styopa’s difficulties, and he recounted everything in order.

      Yesterday afternoon he had arrived in Moscow from abroad, and had immediately presented himself to Styopa and proposed his temporary engagement at the Variety. Styopa had rung the Moscow District Spectacles Commission[203] and submitted the question for approval (Styopa blenched and began blinking), had signed a contract with Professor Woland for seven shows (Styopa opened his mouth), had arranged that Woland should call on him to specify the details further at ten o’clock in the morning today… And so here Woland was. On arrival he had been met by the maid, Grunya, who had explained that she had only just arrived herself, that she was non-resident, that Berlioz was not at home, and that if the caller wished to see Stepan Bogdanovich, then he should go through into the bedroom himself. Stepan Bogdanovich was sleeping so soundly, she would not take it upon herself to wake him. Seeing the condition Stepan Bogdanovich was in, the artiste had sent Grunya to the nearest grocer’s for the vodka and the food, to the chemist’s for the ice, and.

      “Allow me to settle up[204] with you,” the crushed Styopa whimpered, and began searching for his wallet.

      “Oh, what nonsense!” exclaimed the touring artiste, and would hear no more of it.

      And so the vodka and the food became clear, but all the same Styopa was a sad sight to see; he certainly could not remember anything about a contract, and had not seen this Woland on the previous day for the life of him. Yes, Khustov there had been, but Woland there had not.

      “Permit me to take a look at the contract,” Styopa requested quietly.

      “Certainly, certainly…”

      Styopa glanced at the document СКАЧАТЬ