And so Styopa began groaning. He wanted to call the maid, Grunya, and demand some pyramidon of her, but managed to grasp, after all, that this was stupid, that Grunya, of course, did not have any pyramidon.[196] He tried to call Berlioz to his assistance, twice groaned out: “Misha. Misha…” – but, as you can understand for yourselves, received no reply. The most complete silence reigned in the apartment.
Upon moving his toes, Styopa guessed he was lying in his socks, and he passed a shaky hand over his hip to decide whether or not he was wearing trousers, but could not decide. Finally, seeing that he was abandoned and alone, that there was no one to help him, he decided to get up, whatever the inhuman effort it cost.
Styopa unstuck his gummed-up eyelids and saw he was reflected in the cheval glass in the guise of a man with his hair poking out in all directions, with a swollen physiognomy covered in black stubble, with puffy eyes, and wearing a dirty shirt with a collar and a tie, long johns and socks.
That was how he saw himself in the cheval glass, but beside the mirror he saw a stranger, dressed in black and in a black beret.
Styopa sat up on the bed and, as best he could, opened his bloodshot eyes wide at the stranger.
The silence was broken by this stranger pronouncing in a low, heavy voice and with a foreign accent the following words:
“Good day, dearest Stepan Bogdanovich!”
There was a pause, after which, having made the most terrible effort with himself, Styopa said:
“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