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  "identity": "D76FDAB0F9D31B265EDDBE77B6B516C844E71E93A720BEF5D892E6039BE4E38D",
  "confirmation": "007F81C6F991EACBAC1754311C10D9E5A332E00200767721829870483C7ECBF8",
  "signing": "0FD6DB8BEA6901A6498D39723EE07661EC22C2A75A15138D5676888BC4ACC4DE",
  "encryption": "AAB9726E514D4788BF327E7E5D1E23DF19C00E8F2BAA537EA10EC1D524D84103",
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    "encrypted": "9C6FD5735E885FBA530593C83703A187B5334B1D7DB7ACBAF4F12A8483FFD063BB59491570A7F84C1CCAFA04A9B7CCA93929052C86FF64BB2E842332D427CAC7E0D1A7952002CEB0",
    "zone": "merch",
    "info": "The Master and Margarita, BOOK 1, ch 7\nby Mikhail Bulgakov, 1891-1940\nTranslated by:\nRichard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky",
    "records": [
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        "domain": "maybe.merch",
        "data": "Chapter 7\nA Naughty Apartment.\n If Styopa Likhodeev had been told the next morning: \u2018Styopa! You\u2019ll be shot if\nyou don\u2019t get up this minute!\u2019\u2014Styopa would have replied in a languid, barely\naudible voice: \u2018Shoot me, do what you like with me, I won\u2019t get up.\u2019\n Not only not get up, it seemed to him that he could not open his eyes, because if\nhe were to do so, there would be a flash of lightning, and his head would at once\nbe blown to pieces. A heavy bell was booming in that head, brown spots rimmed\nwith fiery green floated between his eyeballs and his closed eyelids, and to crown it\nall he was nauseous, this nausea, as it seemed to him, being connected with the\nsounds of some importunate gramophone.\n Styopa tried to recall something, but only one thing would get recalled\u2014that\nyesterday, apparently, and in some unknown place, he had stood with a napkin in\nhis hand and tried to kiss some lady, promising her that the next day, and exactly\nat noon, he would come to visit her. The lady had declined, saying: \u2018No, no, I won\u2019t\nbe home!\u2019, but Styopa had stubbornly insisted: \u2018And I\u2019ll just up and come anyway!\u2019\n Who the lady was, and what time it was now, what day, of what month, Styopa\ndecidedly did not know, and, worst of all, he could not figure out where he was. He\nattempted to learn this last at least, and to that end unstuck the stuck-together\nlids of his left eye. Something gleamed dully in the semi-darkness. Styopa finally\nrecognized the pier-glass and realized that he was lying on his back in his own\nbed\u2014that is, the jeweller\u2019s wife\u2019s former bed\u2014in the bedroom. Here he felt such a\nthrobbing in his head that he closed his eyes and moaned.\n Let us explain: Styopa Likhodeev, director of the Variety Theatre, had come to\nhis senses that morning at home, in the very apartment which he shared with the\nlate Berlioz, in a big, six-storeyed, U-shaped building on Sadovaya Street.\n It must be said that this apartment no. 50\u2014had long had, if not a bad, at least\na strange reputation. Two years ago it had still belonged to the widow of the\njeweller de Fougeray. Anna Frantsevna de Fougeray, a respectable and very\npractical fifty-year-old woman, let out three of the five rooms to lodgers: one whose\nlast name was apparently Belomut, and another with a lost last name.\n And then two years ago inexplicable events began to occur in this apartment:\npeople began to disappear from this apartment without a trace.\n Once, on a day off, a policeman came to the apartment, called the second lodger\n(the one whose last name got lost) out to the front hall, and said he was invited to\ncome to the police station for a minute to put his signature to something. The\nlodger told Anfisa, Anna Frantsevna\u2019s long-time and devoted housekeeper, to say,\nin case he received any telephone calls, that he would be back in ten minutes, and\nleft together with the proper, white-gloved policeman. He not only did not come\nback in ten minutes, but never came back at all. The most surprising thing was\nthat the policeman evidently vanished along with him.\n The pious, or, to speak more frankly, superstitious Anfisa declared outright to\nthe very upset Anna Frantsevna that it was sorcery and that she knew perfectly\nwell who had stolen both the lodger and the policeman, only she did not wish to\ntalk about it towards night-time.\n Well, but with sorcery, as everyone knows, once it starts, there\u2019s no stopping it.\nThe second lodger is remembered to have disappeared on a Monday, and that\nWednesday Belomut seemed to drop from sight, though, true, under different\ncircumstances. In the morning a car came, as usual, to take him to work, and it\ndid take him to work, but it did not bring anyone back or come again itself.\n Madame Belomut\u2019s grief and horror defied description. But, alas, neither the\none nor the other continued for long. That same night, on returning with Anfisa\nfrom her dacha, which Anna Frantsevna had hurried off to for some reason, she\ndid not find the wife of citizen Belomut in the apartment. And not only that: the\ndoors of the two rooms occupied by the Belomut couple turned out to be sealed.\n Two days passed somehow. On the third day, Anna Frantsevna, who had\nsuffered all the while from insomnia, again left hurriedly for her dacha\u2026 Needless\nto say, she never came back!\n Left alone, Anfisa, having wept her fill, went to sleep past one o\u2018clock in the\nmorning. What happened to her after that is not known, but lodgers in other\napartments told of hearing some sort of knocking all night in no. 50 and of seeing\nelectric light burning in the windows till morning. In the morning it turned out\nthat there was also no Anfisa!\n For a long time all sorts of legends were repeated in the house about these\ndisappearances and about the accursed apartment, such as, for instance, that\nthis dry and pious little Anfisa had supposedly carried on her dried-up breast, in a\nsuede bag, twenty-five big diamonds belonging to Anna Frantsevna. That in the\nwoodshed of that very dacha to which Anna Frantsevna had gone so hurriedly,\nthere supposedly turned up, of themselves, some inestimable treasures in the\nform of those same diamonds, plus some gold coins of tsarist minting\u2026 And so on,\nin the same vein. Well, what we don\u2019t know, we can\u2019t vouch for.\n However it may have been, the apartment stood empty and sealed for only a\nweek. Then the late Berlioz moved in with his wife, and this same Styopa, also\nwith his wife. It was perfectly natural that, as soon as they got into the malignant\napartment, devil knows what started happening with them as well! Namely, within\nthe space of a month both wives vanished. But these two not without a trace. Of\nBerlioz\u2019s wife it was told that she had supposedly been seen in Kharkov with some\nballet-master, while Styopa\u2019s wife allegedly turned up on Bozhedomka Street,\nwhere wagging tongues said the director of the Variety, using his innumerable\nacquaintances, had contrived to get her a room, but on the one condition that she\nnever show her face on Sadovaya\u2026\n And so, Styopa moaned. He wanted to call the housekeeper Grunya and ask her\nfor aspirin, but was still able to realize that it was foolish, and that Grunya, of\ncourse, had no aspirin. He tried to call Berlioz for help, groaned twice: \u2018Misha\u2026\nMisha\u2026\u2019, but, as you will understand, received no reply. The apartment was\nperfectly silent.\n Moving his toes, Styopa realized that he was lying there in his socks, passed his\ntrembling hand down his hip to determine whether he had his trousers on or not,\nbut failed. Finally, seeing that he was abandoned and alone, and there was no one\nto help him, he decided to get up, however inhuman the effort it cost him.\n Styopa unstuck his glued eyelids and saw himself reflected in the pier-glass as a\nman with hair sticking out in all directions, with a bloated physiognomy covered\nwith black stubble, with puffy eyes, a dirty shirt, collar and necktie, in drawers\nand socks.\n So he saw himself in the pier-glass, and next to the mirror he saw an unknown\nman, dressed in black and wearing a black beret.\n Styopa sat up in bed and goggled his bloodshot eyes as well as he could at the\nunknown man. The silence was broken by this unknown man, who said in a low,\nheavy voice, and with a foreign accent, the following words:\n \u2018Good morning, my most sympathetic Stepan Bogdanovich!\u2019\n There was a pause, after which, making a most terrible strain on himself,\nStyopa uttered:\n \u2018What can I do for you?\u2019\u2014and was amazed, not recognizing his own voice. He\nspoke the word \u2018what\u2019 in a treble, \u2019can I\u2019 in a bass, and his \u2018do for you\u2019 did not\ncome off at all.\n The stranger smiled amicably, took out a big gold watch with a diamond triangle\non the lid, rang eleven times, and said:\n \u2018Eleven. And for exactly an hour I\u2019ve been waiting for you to wake up, since you\nmade an appointment for me to come to your place at ten. Here I am!\u2019\n Styopa felt for his trousers on the chair beside his bed, whispered: \u2018Excuse\nme\u2026\u2019, put them on, and asked hoarsely: \u2018Tell me your name, please?\u2019\n He had difficulty speaking. At each word, someone stuck a needle into his brain,\ncausing infernal pain.\n \u2018What! You\u2019ve forgotten my name, too?\u2019 Here the unknown man smiled.\n \u2018Forgive me\u2026\u2019 Styopa croaked, feeling that his hangover had presented him with\na new symptom: it seemed to him that the floor beside his bed went away, and\nthat at any moment he would go flying down to the devil\u2019s dam in the nether\nworld.\n \u2018My dear Stepan Bogdanovich,\u2019 the visitor said, with a perspicacious smile, \u2018no\naspirin will help you. Follow the wise old rule cure like with like. The only thing\nthat will bring you back to life is two glasses of vodka with something pickled and\nhot to go with it.\u2019\n Styopa was a shrewd man and, sick as he was, realized that since he had been\nfound in this state, he would have to confess everything.\n \u2018Frankly speaking,\u2019 he began, his tongue barely moving, \u2018yesterday I got a bit\u2026\u2019\n \u2018Not a word more!\u2019 the visitor answered and drew aside with his chair.\n Styopa, rolling his eyes, saw that a tray had been set on a small table, on which\ntray there were sliced white bread, pressed caviar in a little bowl, pickled\nmushrooms on a dish, something in a saucepan, and, finally, vodka in a roomy\ndecanter belonging to the jeweller\u2019s wife. What struck Styopa especially was that\nthe decanter was frosty with cold. This, however, was understandable: it was\nsitting in a bowl packed with ice. In short, the service was neat, efficient.\n The stranger did not allow Styopa\u2019s amazement to develop to a morbid degree,\nbut deftly poured him half a glass of vodka.\n \u2018And you?\u2019 Styopa squeaked.\n \u2018With pleasure!\u2019\n His hand twitching, Styopa brought the glass to his lips, while the stranger\nswallowed the contents of his glass at one gulp. Chewing a lump of caviar, Styopa\nsqueezed out of himself the words:\n \u2018And you \u2026 a bite of something?\u2019\n \u2018Much obliged, but I never snack,\u2019 the stranger replied and poured seconds. The\nsaucepan was opened and found to contain frankfurters in tomato sauce.\n And then the accursed green haze before his eyes dissolved, the words began to\ncome out clearly, and, above all, Styopa remembered a thing or two. Namely, that\nit had taken place yesterday in Skhodnya, at the dacha of the sketch-writer\nKhustov, to which this same Khustov had taken Styopa in a taxi. There was even a\nmemory of having hired this taxi by the Metropol, and there was also some actor,\nor not an actor \u2026 with a gramophone in a little suitcase. Yes, yes, yes, it was at\nthe dacha! The dogs, he remembered, had howled from this gramophone. Only the\nlady Styopa had wanted to kiss remained unexplained \u2026 devil knows who she was\n\u2026 maybe she was in radio, maybe not\u2026\n The previous day was thus coming gradually into focus, but right now Styopa\nwas much more interested in today\u2019s day and, particularly, in the appearance in\nhis bedroom of a stranger, and with hors d\u2018\u0153uvres and vodka to boot. It would be\nnice to explain that!\n \u2018Well, I hope by now you\u2019ve remembered my name?\u2019\n But Styopa only smiled bashfully and spread his arms.\n \u2018Really! I get the feeling that you followed the vodka with port wine! Good\nheavens, it simply isn\u2019t done!\u2019\n \u2018I beg you to keep it between us,\u2019 Styopa said fawningly.\n \u2018Oh, of course, of course! But as for Khustov, needless to say, I can\u2019t vouch for\nhim.\u2019\n \u2018So you know Khustov?\u2019\n \u2018Yesterday, in your office, I saw this individuum briefly, but it only takes a\nfleeting glance at his face to understand that he is a bastard, a squabbler, a\ntrimmer and a toady.\u2019\n \u2018Perfectly true!\u2019 thought Styopa, struck by such a true, precise and succinct\ndefinition of Khustov.\n Yes, the previous day was piecing itself together, but, even so, anxiety would not\ntake leave of the director of the Variety. The thing was that a huge black hole\nyawned in this previous day. Say what you will, Styopa simply had not seen this\nstranger in the beret in his office yesterday.\n \u2018Professor of black magic Woland,\u2019 the visitor said weightily, seeing Styopa\u2019s\ndifficulty, and he recounted everything in order.\n Yesterday afternoon he arrived in Moscow from abroad, went immediately to\nStyopa, and offered his show to the Variety. Styopa telephoned the Moscow\nRegional Entertainment Commission and had the question approved (Styopa\nturned pale and blinked), then signed a contract with Professor Woland for seven\nperformances (Styopa opened his mouth), and arranged that Woland should come\nthe next morning at ten o\u2018clock to work out the details\u2026 And so Woland came.\nHaving come, he was met by the housekeeper Grunya, who explained that she had\njust come herself, that she was not a live-in maid, that Berlioz was not home, and\nthat if the visitor wished to see Stepan Bogdanovich, he should go to his bedroom\nhimself. Stepan Bogdanovich was such a sound sleeper that she would not\nundertake to wake him up. Seeing what condition Stepan Bogdanovich was in, the\nartiste sent Grunya to the nearest grocery store for vodka and hors d\u2019\u0153uvres, to\nthe druggist\u2019s for ice, and\u2026\n \u2018Allow me to reimburse you,\u2019 the mortified Styopa squealed and began hunting\nfor his wallet.\n \u2018Oh, what nonsense!\u2019 the guest performer exclaimed and would hear no more of\nit.\n And so, the vodka and hors d\u2018\u0153uvres got explained, but all the same Styopa\nwas a pity to see: he remembered decidedly nothing about the contract and, on his\nlife, had not seen this Woland yesterday. Yes, Khustov had been there, but not\nWoland.\n \u2018May I have a look at the contract?\u2019 Styopa asked quietly.\n \u2018Please do, please do\u2026\u2019\n Styopa looked at the paper and froze. Everything was in place: first of all,\nStyopa\u2019s own dashing signature \u2026 aslant the margin a note in the hand of the\nfindirector Rimsky authorizing the payment of ten thousand roubles to the\nartiste Woland, as an advance on the thirty-five thousand roubles due him for\nseven performances. What\u2019s more, Woland\u2019s signature was right there attesting to\nhis receipt of the ten thousand!\n \u2018What is all this?!\u2019 the wretched Styopa thought, his head spinning. Was he\nstarting to have ominous gaps of memory? Well, it went without saying, once the\ncontract had been produced, any further expressions of surprise would simply be\nindecent. Styopa asked his visitor\u2019s leave to absent himself for a moment and, just\nas he was, in his stocking feet, ran to the front hall for the telephone. On his way\nhe called out in the direction of the kitchen:\n \u2018Grunya!\u2019\n But no one responded. He glanced at the door to Berlioz\u2019s study, which was next\nto the front hall, and here he was, as they say, flabbergasted. On the door-handle\nhe made out an enormous wax seal on a string.\n \u2018Hel-lo!\u2019 someone barked in Styopa\u2019s head. \u2018Just what we needed!\u2019 And here\nStyopa\u2019s thoughts began running on twin tracks, but, as always happens in times\nof catastrophe, in the same direction and, generally, devil knows where. It is even\ndifficult to convey the porridge in Styopa\u2019s head. Here was this devilry with the\nblack beret, the chilled vodka, and the incredible contract\u2026 And along with all\nthat, if you please, a seal on the door as well! That is, tell anyone you like that\nBerlioz has been up to no good\u2014no one will believe it, by Jove, no one will believe\nit! Yet look, there\u2019s the seal! Yes, sir\u2026\n And here some most disagreeable little thoughts began stirring in Styopa\u2019s\nbrain, about the article which, as luck would have it, he had recently inflicted on\nMikhail Alexandrovich for publication in his journal. The article, just between us,\nwas idiotic! And worthless. And the money was so little\u2026\n Immediately after the recollection of the article, there came flying a recollection\nof some dubious conversation that had taken place, he recalled, on the twentyfourth of April, in the evening, right there in the dining room, while Styopa was\nhaving dinner with Mikhail Alexandrovich. That is, of course, this conversation\ncould not have been called dubious in the full sense of the word (Styopa would not\nhave ventured upon such a conversation), but it was on some unnecessary\nsubject. He had been quite free, dear citizens, not to begin it. Before the seal, this\nconversation would undoubtedly have been considered a perfect trifle, but now,\nafter the seal\u2026\n \u2018Ah, Berlioz, Berlioz!\u2019 boiled up in Styopa\u2019s head. \u2018This is simply too much for\none head!\u2019\n But it would not do to grieve too long, and Styopa dialled the number of the\noffice of the Variety\u2019s findirector, Rimsky. Styopa\u2019s position was ticklish: first, the\nforeigner might get offended that Styopa was checking on him after the contract\nhad been shown, and then to talk with the findirector was also exceedingly\ndifficult. Indeed, he could not just ask him like that: \u2018Tell me, did I sign a contract\nfor thirty-five thousand roubles yesterday with a professor of black magic?\u2019 It was\nno good asking like that!\n \u2018Yes!\u2019 Rimsky\u2019s sharp, unpleasant voice came from the receiver.\n \u2018Hello, Grigory Danilovich,\u2019 Styopa began speaking quietly, \u2018it\u2019s Likhodeev.\nThere\u2019s a certain matter \u2026 hm \u2026 hm \u2026 I have this \u2026 er \u2026 artiste Woland sitting\nhere\u2026 So you see\u2026 I wanted to ask, how about this evening?\u2026\u2019\n \u2018Ah, the black magician?\u2019 Rimsky\u2019s voice responded in the receiver. \u2018The posters\nwill be ready shortly.\u2019\n \u2018Uh-huh\u2026\u2019 Styopa said in a weak voice, \u2018well, \u2019bye\u2026\u2018\n \u2018And you\u2019ll be coming in soon?\u2019 Rimsky asked.\n \u2018In half an hour,\u2019 Styopa replied and, hanging up the receiver, pressed his hot\nhead in his hands. Ah, what a nasty thing to have happen! What was wrong with\nhis memory, citizens? Eh?\n However, to go on lingering in the front hall was awkward, and Styopa formed a\nplan straight away: by all means to conceal his incredible forgetfulness, and now,\nfirst off, contrive to get out of the foreigner what, in fact, he intended to show that\nevening in the Variety, of which Styopa was in charge.\n Here Styopa turned away from the telephone and saw distinctly in the mirror\nthat stood in the front hall, and which the lazy Grunya had not wiped for ages, a\ncertain strange specimen, long as a pole, and in a pince-nez (ah, if only Ivan\nNikolaevich had been there! He would have recognized this specimen at once!). The\nfigure was reflected and then disappeared. Styopa looked further down the hall in\nalarm and was rocked a second time, for in the mirror a stalwart black cat passed\nand also disappeared.\n Styopa\u2019s heart skipped a beat, he staggered.\n \u2018What is all this?\u2019 he thought. \u2018Am I losing my mind? Where are these reflections\ncoming from?!\u2019 He peeked into the front hall and cried timorously:\n \u2018Grunya! What\u2019s this cat doing hanging around here?! Where did he come from?\nAnd the other one?!\u2019\n \u2018Don\u2019t worry, Stepan Bogdanovich,\u2019 a voice responded, not Grunya\u2019s but the\nvisitor\u2018s, from the bedroom. The cat is mine. Don\u2019t be nervous. And Grunya is not\nhere, I sent her off to Voronezh. She complained you diddled her out of a vacation.\u2019\n These words were so unexpected and preposterous that Styopa decided he had\nnot heard right. Utterly bewildered, he trotted back to the bedroom and froze on\nthe threshold. His hair stood on end and small beads of sweat broke out on his\nbrow.\n The visitor was no longer alone in the bedroom, but had company: in the second\narmchair sat the same type he had imagined in the front hall. Now he was clearly\nvisible: the feathery moustache, one lens of the pince-nez gleaming, the other not\nthere. But worse things were to be found in the bedroom: on the jeweller\u2019s wife\u2019s\nottoman, in a casual pose, sprawled a third party - namely, a black cat of uncanny\nsize, with a glass of vodka in one paw and a fork, on which he had managed to\nspear a pickled mushroom, in the other.\n The light, faint in the bedroom anyway, now began to grow quite dark in\nStyopa\u2019s eyes. \u2018This is apparently how one loses one\u2019s mind\u2026\u2019 he thought and\ncaught hold of the doorpost.\n \u2018I see you\u2019re somewhat surprised, my dearest Stepan Bogdanovich?\u2019 Woland\ninquired of the teeth-chattering Styopa. \u2018And yet there\u2019s nothing to be surprised at.\nThis is my retinue.\u2019\n Here the cat tossed off the vodka, and Styopa\u2019s hand began to slide down the\ndoorpost.\n \u2018And this retinue requires room,\u2019 Woland continued, \u2018so there\u2019s just one too\nmany of us in the apartment. And it seems to us that this one too many is\nprecisely you.\u2019\n \u2018Theirself, theirself!\u2019 the long checkered one sang in a goat\u2019s voice, referring to\nStyopa in the plural. \u2018Generally, theirself has been up to some terrible swinishness\nlately. Drinking, using their position to have liaisons with women, don\u2019t do devil a\nthing, and can\u2019t do anything, because they don\u2019t know anything of what they\u2019re\nsupposed to do. Pulling the wool over their superiors\u2019 eyes.\u2019\n \u2018Availing hisself of a government car!\u2019 the cat snitched, chewing a mushroom.\n And here occurred the fourth and last appearance in the apartment, as Styopa,\nhaving slid all the way to the floor, clawed at the doorpost with an enfeebled hand.\n Straight from the pier-glass stepped a short but extraordinarily broadshouldered man, with a bowler hat on his head and a fang sticking out of his\nmouth, which made still uglier a physiognomy unprecedentedly loathsome without\nthat. And with flaming red hair besides.\n \u2018Generally,\u2019 this new one entered into the conversation, \u2018I don\u2019t understand how\nhe got to be a director,\u2019 the redhead\u2019s nasal twang was growing stronger and\nstronger, \u2018he\u2019s as much a director as I\u2019m a bishop.\u2019\n \u2018You don\u2019t look like a bishop, Azazello,\u2019 the cat observed, heaping his plate\nwith frankfurters.\n That\u2019s what I mean,\u2018 twanged the redhead and, turning to Woland, he added\ndeferentially: \u2019Allow me, Messire, to chuck him the devil out of Moscow?\u2018\n \u2018Scat!\u2019 the cat barked suddenly, bristling his fur.\n And then the bedroom started spinning around Styopa, he hit his head against\nthe doorpost, and, losing consciousness, thought: \u2018I\u2019m dying\u2026\u2019\n But he did not die. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw himself sitting on\nsomething made of stone. Around him something was making noise. When he\nopened his eyes properly, he realized that the noise was being made by the sea\nand, what\u2019s more, that the waves were rocking just at his feet, that he was, in\nshort, sitting at the very end of a jetty, that over him was a brilliant blue sky and\nbehind him a white city on the mountains.\n Not knowing how to behave in such a case, Styopa got up on his trembling legs\nand walked along the jetty towards the shore.\n Some man was standing on the jetty, smoking and spitting into the sea. He\nlooked at Styopa with wild eyes and stopped spitting.\n Then Styopa pulled the following stunt: he knelt down before the unknown\nsmoker and said:\n \u2018I implore you, tell me what city is this?\u2019\n \u2018Really!\u2019 said the heartless smoker.\n \u2018I\u2019m not drunk,\u2019 Styopa replied hoarsely, \u2018something\u2019s happened to me\u2026 I\u2019m ill\u2026\nWhere am I? What city is this?\u2019\n \u2018Well, it\u2019s Yalta\u2026\u2019\n Styopa quietly gasped and sank down on his side, his head striking the warm\nstone of the jetty. Consciousness left him. \n\n",
        "ttl": 3600
      }
    ]
  }
}