As soon as the group emerged from the garden onto the square and mounted the vast stone platform that dominated it, Pilate surveyed the scene through narrowed eyelids and assessed the situation. Although the space he had just traversed, that is, from the palace walls to the platform, was empty, he could no longer see the square directly in front of him because it had been devoured by the crowd. The crowd would have engulfed the platform and the open space as well if it had not been held back by the triple row of Sebastian soldiers on Pilate's left and the soldiers of the Ituraean auxiliary cohort on his right.
And so, Pilate mounted the platform, clutching the superfluous clasp mechanically in his fist and squinting. But the procurator was not squinting because the sun burned his eyes. No! He was squinting because he did not want to see the condemned men who, as he knew very well, were now being led up onto the platform behind him.
As soon as the white cloak with the crimson lining appeared atop the
30 The Master and Margarita
stone cliff, high above the edge of the human sea, a wave of sound— "Ah-h-h-h"—assailed the ears of the unseeing Pilate. It began softly, originating somewhere in the distance near the hippodrome, then attained a thunderous volume, which lasted for several seconds before beginning to subside. "They've seen me," thought the procurator. Rather than ebbing completely, the wave unexpectedly began to swell once again, rising even higher than before, and on top of this second wave, like seething foam on the crest of a breaker, whistles and women's screams were heard above the thunder. "They've been led onto the platform," thought Pilate, "and there are screams because several women were crushed when the crowd surged forward."
He waited for a few moments, knowing that no force could silence the crowd until it had released all its pent-up emotions and quieted down by itself.
And when that moment came, the procurator threw up his right arm, and the noise of the crowd finally subsided.
Then Pilate took as much of the scorching air into his lungs as he could and began to shout. His broken voice carried over the thousands of heads, "In the name of the Emperor Caesar!..."
His ears were immediately assailed by a choppy, metallic din, repeated several times, that came from the soldiers in the cohorts as they threw their spears and insignia up into the air and shouted out in fearsome tones, "Hail Caesar!"
Pilaté craned his neck and looked straight up at the sun. A green flame flared up under his eyelids, setting his brain on fire, and the hoarse Aramaic words flew out over the crowd, "Four criminals, arrested in Yershalaim for murder, incitement to rebellion, and abuse of the laws and the faith, have been sentenced to the shameful death of hanging on posts! And the execution shall take place shortly on Bald Mountain! The names of the criminals are Dismas, Gestas, Bar-rabban, and Ha-Notsri. Here they stand before you!"
Pilate pointed to the right, without seeing the prisoners, but knowing that they were there where they were supposed to be.
The crowd replied with a prolonged roar that seemed to signify either surprise or relief. When it quieted down, Pilate continued, "But only three of them shall be executed, for, in accordance with law and custom, in honor of the Passover holiday, one of the condemned, as chosen by the Lesser Sinedrion and confirmed by the power of Rome, shall have his contemptible life restored to him by the magnanimous Emperor Caesar!"
While Pilate was shouting out these words, he was also listening to the deep silence that followed in the wake of the roar. Now not a sigh or a rustle reached his ears, and there was even a moment when it seemed as if everything around him had disappeared completely. The city he detested had died, and he was standing there alone, being scorched by
Pontius Pilau 31
the rays that were shooting down on his upturned face. Pilate held onto the silence for awhile and then began to shout out, "The name of the one whose release you are about to witness is..."
Pilate paused again, holding back the name, making sure that he had said everything he was supposed to, because he knew that once he had pronounced the lucky one's name, the dead city would spring to life and nothing he might say subsequently would be audible.
"Is that everything?" Pilate whispered wordlessly to himself. "Yes, everything. The namel"
And, rolling the "r" out over the silent crowd, he cried out, "Bar-rab-ban!"
It then seemed to him that the sun began ringing and burst overhead, engulfing his ears in flame. And raging inside this flame were roaring, shrieks, groans, laughter, and whistling.
Pilate turned and walked back along the platform to the steps, looking at nothing but the multicolored tiles beneath his feet, so as not to stumble. He knew that a hail of bronze coins and dates was raining down on the platform behind him, and that people in the roaring crowd were climbing on each other's shoulders, crushing each other, trying to see the miracle with their own eyes—a man who was already in the hands of death, had been torn from its grip! To see the legionaries remove his bonds, unintentionally causing him searing pain in his arms which had been dislocated during his interrogation; to see him grimacing and groaning as he smiled an insane, senseless smile.
Pilate knew that the escort was now leading the three men with bound hands over to the side stairs in order to bring them out to the road heading west, out of the city, to Bald Mountain. It was only when he was down on the ground, with the platform at his back, that he opened his eyes, knowing that he was safe—the condemned men were out of sight.
Blending with the wail of the crowd, which was beginning to die down, were the piercing cries of the various heralds, repeating—some in Aramaic, others in Greek—what the procurator had just proclaimed from the platform. In addition, he could hear the staccato clatter of horses' hooves approaching, and the short, cheerful blast of a trumpet. Echoing these sounds were the sharp whisdes of the boys on the rooftops of the street that led from the marketplace to the hippodrome square, and by shouts of "Watch out!"
A soldier, standing alone in a cleared part of the square with a badge in his hand, waved at them anxiously, and then the procurator, the legate of the legion, the secretary, and the escort came to a halt.
The cavalry ala, picking up speed, galloped out onto the square in order to cut across it diagonally. Bypassing a throng of people, it headed down the lane along the vine-covered stone wall, the shortest route to Bald Mountain.
32 The Master and Margarita
Flying by at a gallop, the commander of the ala, a Syrian, small as a boy and dark as a mulatto, shouted out something in a thin voice as he passed Pilate and drew his sword from its sheath. His vicious, sweaty, raven-black horse shied and reared up on its hind legs. After sheathing his sword, the commander struck his horse across the neck with a whip, steadied it, and rode off down the lane at a gallop. Behind him in a cloud of dust rode the horsemen, in rows of three, the tips of their light bamboo lances bobbing up and down. The faces that streamed past the procurator with gaily bared, flashing teeth looked especially swarthy beneath the white turbans.
Raising a cloud of dust, the ala tore down the lane; the last one to ride past Pilate was a soldier with a trumpet on his back that glowed in the sun.
Shielding his face from the dust with his hand and frowning with dissatisfaction, Pilate moved on, heading for the gates of the palace garden, and following behind him were the legate of the legion, the secretary, and the escort.
It was about ten o'clock in the morning.
/
Ill
The Seventh Proof
••"X T'es, it was about ten in the morning, my esteemed Ivan ^^ Nikolayevich," said the professor.
_£. The poet passed his hand over his face like a man who had just revived and discovered that it was evening at Patriarch's Ponds.
The water in the pond had turned black, and a small rowboat was skimming across it; die splash of an oar could be heard from the boat, along with a woman's giggling. There were now people on the benches along the paths, but once again only on the other three sides of the square, not on the side where our friends were having their chat.
The sky over Moscow seemed to have paled, and high overhead, shining clearly and distincüy, was a white, not yet golden, full moon. It had become much easier to breathe, and the voices under the linden trees now sounded softer, as often happens in the evening.
"How come I didn't notice that he managed to spin out a whole tale?" thought Bezdomny in amazement. "Why it's already evening! But maybe he didn't really tell it, maybe I just fell asleep and dreamed it all?"
But he had to believe that the professor had told the story because otherwise it would mean that Berlioz had dreamed the same thing since the latter, looking attentively into the foreigner's face, said, "Your story is extraordinarily interesting, Professor, even if it bears no relation whatsoever to the gospel accounts."
"I beg your pardon," replied the professor, with a condescending smile, "You of all people should know that absolutely nothing written in the gospels ever happened in actual fact, and if we start citing the gospels as an historical source..." He smiled again, and Berlioz stopped short because he had been saying the very same thing to Bezdomny when they were walking down Bronnaya Street on their way to Patriarch's Ponds.
"That's true," Berlioz remarked, "but I'm afraid no one can confirm that what you told us actually took place either."
34 The Master and Margarita
"Oh, no! There is someone who can confirm it!" retorted the professor in broken Russian with total self-assurance and suddenly, with a mysterious air, he motioned the two friends to come closer.
They both leaned toward him, one on either side, and he said, without any trace of the accent which seemed to fade in and out, the devil knows why, The fact is..." at this point the professor looked around nervously and began speaking in a whisper, "I myself witnessed the whole thing. I was there on Pontius Pilate's balcony, and in the garden when he was talking with Kaifa, and on the platform too, but I was there in secret, incognito, so to speak, so I beg you-keep it quiet, and don't breathe a word to a soul! Shhh!"
Silence fell, and Berlioz grew pale.
"You... you've been in Moscow how long?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"I just this minute arrived," replied the professor absently, and it was only then that the friends had the sense to look straight into his eyes, whereupon they decided that his left eye, the green one, was completely mad, and the right one was vacant, black and dead.
"Well, that explains everything!" thought Berlioz, in confusion, "He's a crazy German who just arrived, or else he just went off his rocker here at Patriarch's Ponds. That's the story!"
Yes, indeed, that did explain everything: the highly bizarre breakfast with the late philosopher Kant, the idiotic talk about Annushka and the sunflower oil, the predictions about a head being cut off, and all the rest of it—the professor was a madman.
Berlioz knew immediately what had to be done. Leaning back against the bench, he started winking at Bezdomny behind the professor's back, as if to say, "Don't contradict him," but the flustered poet did not understand the signals.
"Yes, yes, yes," said Berlioz excitedly, "but of course, it's all possible! More than possible, the whole thing, Pontius Pilate, the balcony, and all the rest of it... Did you come here alone or with your wife?"
"Alone, alone, I'm always alone," the professor replied bitterly.
"But where are your things, Professor?" Berlioz asked in an insinuating tone. "At the Metropole? Where are you staying?"
"Where am I staying? Nowhere," answered the half-witted German, his green eye wandering sadly and wildly over Patriarch's Ponds.
"What? But... where will you be living?"
"In your apartment," replied the madman with sudden familiarity and he winked.
"I... I would be delighted," stammered Berlioz, "but you would no dcubt be uncomfortable at my place... Besides, the rooms at the Metropole are superb, it's a first-class hotel..."
"And the devil doesn't exist either?" the sick man suddenly inquired cheerily of Ivan Nikolayevich.
The Seuenth Proof 35
"And the devil doesn't..."
"Don't contradict him!* mouthed Berlioz in a soundless whisper, as he dove behind the professor's back and made a face.
"There is no devil!" exclaimed Ivan Nikolayevich, blurting out what he shouldn't have because all the nonsense going on had made him flustered. "What a nuisance you are! Stop acting like a loon!"
At this point the madman produced such a laugh that a sparrow darted out of the linden tree overhead.
"Well, now, this is really getting interesting," cried the professor, shaking with laughter. "What is it with you? Whatever comes up you say doesn't existí" Suddenly he stopped laughing, and, as often happens with the mentally ill, he went from laughter to the other extreme: he became irritated and shouted harshly, "So, then, you're quite sure he doesn't exist?"
"Calm down, calm down, calm down, Professor," muttered Berlioz, afraid of exciting the sick man. "Just sit here for a moment with comrade Bezdomny while I run to the corner and make a call, and then we'll take you wherever you want to go. After all, you don't know the city..."
It has to be said that Berlioz's plan of action was the correct one: to run to the nearest telephone and inform the office in charge of foreigners that a visiting consultant from abroad was sitting at Patriarch's Ponds in an obviously deranged state. And that measures should be taken to prevent any unpleasantness.
"You want to make a call? Fine, go ahead," the sick man said, giving his sad consent and suddenly making an impassioned plea, "But as we part, I implore you, at least believe that the devil exists! I ask no more than that. Keep in mind that for this we have the seventh proof, the most reliable of them all! And you are about to get a demonstration."
"Fine, fine," said Berlioz in an insincerely placating way, and after winking at the dismayed poet, who was by no means enchanted by the idea of guarding the mad German, he made for the exit from Patriarch's Ponds that was located at the corner of Bronnaya Street and Yermolayevsky Lane.
Then suddenly the professor seemed to recover and cheer up.
"Mikhail Alexandrovich!" he shouted after Berlioz.
Berlioz shuddered and turned around, but comforted himself with the thought that the professor had learned his name and patronymic from reading the newspapers. Cupping his hands like a megaphone, the professor shouted, "Wouldn't you like me to have a telegram sent to your uncle in Kiev right away?"
And once again Berlioz was given a jolt. How did the madman know that he had an uncle in Kiev? That certainly hadn't appeared in any newspaper. Perhaps Bezdomny's right after all? And what about those fake documents of his? What an oddball he is! Get to a phone! Get to a phone! Call right away! It won't take them long to figure out who he is!
36 The Master and Margarita
And without listening to another word, Berlioz ran off.
Just then, at the exit to Bronnaya Street, a man got up from a bench and walked over to the editor. He was none other than the same fellow who earlier, in broad daylight, had materialized out of the dense heat. Only now, he was no longer made of air, but of ordinary flesh and blood, and in the gathering twilight Berlioz could clearly see that his wispy mustache looked like chicken feathers, his beady little eyes looked ironical and half-drunk, and his checked trousers had been yanked up so high you could see his dirty white socks.
Mikhail Alexandrovich drew back with a start, but comforted himself with the thought that it was a meaningless coincidence and that now was not the time to think about it anyway.
"Looking for the turnstile, Mister?" inquired the fellow in the checked trousers in a cracked tenor, "Right this way! Go straight ahead and you'll come out at just the right place. How 'bout a little something for showing you the way... enough for a pint... help a former choirmaster get back on his feet!" Squirming and grimacing, he swept off his jockey cap with a theatrical gesture.
Berlioz did not stop to listen to the begging and simpering choirmaster, but ran instead to the turnstile and grabbed hold of it with his hand. He turned it and was about to step across the tracks when a red and white light splashed in his face—the words in the glass box lit up: "Caution! Streetcar!"
Just then the streetcar started hurtling toward him as it turned onto the newly-laid stretch of track running from Yermolayevsky Lane to Bronnaya Street. After coming out of the turn onto the straightaway, the streetcar lit up inside with electric light, let out a roar, and picked up speed.
Even though the ever-cautious Berlioz was standing in a perfectly safe place, he decided to return behind the barrier, he shifted his hand on the'revolving gate, and took a step backward. Just then his hand slipped and lost its grip, his foot slid uncontrollably, as if on ice, over the cobblestones that led down to the track, his other leg shot up in the air, and he was thrown onto the rails.
Trying to grab hold of something, Berlioz fell flat on his back and hit the back of his neck lightly against the cobblestones. He just caught a glimpse of the gilded moon high above, but he could not tell whether it was on his right or his left. He managed to turn on his side, and at the same time to draw his legs frantically up to his stomach. When he turned, he saw the absolutely white, horror-stricken face and the crimson armband of the woman streetcar driver bearing down on him with irresistible force. Berlioz did not scream, but the whole street around him began squealing with women's despairing voices. The driver pulled on the electric emergency brake, the car pitched forward, then jumped instantaneously, and the glass flew out of the windows, crashing and
The Seventh Proof 37
shattering. Then a voice in Berlioz's brain cried out in despair, "Can this be?" Once again, and for the last time, the moon flashed, but it was already breaking into splinters, and then it became dark.
The streetcar covered Berlioz, and a round dark object was propelled under the railing of Patriarch's Ponds path onto the cobbled slope. After rolling down the slope, it began bouncing over the cobblestones of Bronnaya Street
It was Berlioz's severed head.
IV
The Chase
T |
HE women's hysterical screams died down, the police whistles stopped drilling, and two ambulances drove off, one to the morgue carrying the headless body and severed head, the other—the beautiful streetcar driver who had been injured by the shattered glass. Street cleaners in white aprons cleared away the broken glass and sprinkled sand on the pools of blood, and Ivan Nikolayevich, who had collapsed onto a bench before reaching the turnstile, stayed where he was.
He had tried to get up several times, but his legs would not obey him—Bezdomny seemed to be paralyzed.
As soon as he heard the first scream, the poet had rushed to the turnstile and seen the head bouncing over the pavement. This made him so deranged that he collapsed onto a bench and bit his hand till it bled. He had forgotten all about the mad German, naturally, and was trying to make sense out of just one thing: how could it be that he had just been talking to Berlioz and a minute later—the head...
Distraught people kept running down the path past the poet, shouting various things, but Ivan Nikolayevich could not comprehend what they were saying.
But then, suddenly two women collided with each other right in front of him, and one of them, sharp-nosed and bareheaded, shouted to the other practically in the poet's ear, "Annushka, our Annushka! She was coming from Sadovaya Street! It's her doing! She got some sunflower oil at the store, then went and smashed a liter of it on the turnstile! Made a mess of her skirt... she swore and swore! And he, poor man, must have slipped and fallen on the rails..."
Of all the words the woman had shouted, only one impressed itself on Ivan Nikolayevich's disordered brain, "Annushka..."
"Annushka... Annushka?" the poet mumbled, turning around anxiously, "Excuse me, excuse me..."
The Chase 39
Attached to the word "Annushka" was "sunflower oil" and then, for some reason, "Pontius Pilate." The poet rejected Pilate and began forming a chain, beginning with the word "Annushka." The chain was formed very quickly and led straight to the mad professor.
He was to blame! Hadn't he said the meeting wouldn't take place because Annushka had spilled the oil? And now, if you please, it won't take placel And that was the least of it: hadn't he said straight out that Berlioz's head would be cut off by a woman? Yes, yes, yes! And the streetcar driver was a woman! What was all this about? Huh?
There was no longer even a shadow of a doubt that the mysterious consultant had known beforehand, and in exact detail, the entire scenario of Berlioz's horrible death. Two thoughts then penetrated the poet's brain. The first was, "He's certainly no mad man! That's all nonsense!" And the second was, "Could he have engineered the whole thing himself?!"
But how, pray tell, did he do it?!
"Yes, that's what we'll find out!"
Ivan Nikolayevich exerted great effort, got up from the bench and rushed back to where he had been talking with the professor. And, fortunately, it turned out that he was still there.
On Bronnaya Street the streetlights had come on, and a golden moon was shining over Patriarch's Ponds. In the moonlight, which is always deceptive, Ivan Nikolayevich thought he saw the professor standing there, holding a sword, rather than a walking stick under his arm.
The unctuous retired choirmaster was sitting exactly where Ivan Nikolayevich had been sitting not long before. Now the choirmaster had an obviously useless pince-nez perched on his nose. One lens was cracked, and the other was missing. This made the checked fellow look even more repellent than he had when he was showing Berlioz the way to the tracks.
Feeling his heart grow cold, Ivan walked over to the professor and looked him straight in the face. He was convinced that it showed no signs of madness, and never had.
"Confess, who are you?" Ivan asked hollowly.
The foreigner frowned, looked as if he were seeing the poet for the first time, and answered hostilely, "No understand... no speak Russian..."
"The gentleman doesn't understand you," interjected the choirmaster from the bench, although no one had asked him to explain the foreigner's words.
"Don't play games!" said Ivan in a threatening tone and felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. "You were speaking Russian perfectly before. You're not a German and not a professor! You're—a murderer and a spy! Show me your papers!" screamed Ivan in a fury.
The enigmatic professor squeamishly twisted his already twisted mouth and shrugged his shoulders.
40 The Master and Margarita
"Citizen!" said the loathsome choirmaster, butting in once again, "Why are you disturbing a foreign tourist? You can be severely penalized for that!" And the suspicious professor then put on an arrogant face, turned, and walked away from Ivan.
Ivan felt as if he were losing his mind. Gasping, he turned to the choirmaster, "Hey, citizen, help detain a criminal! It's your duty."
The choirmaster became very animated, leaped off the bench and yelled, "What criminal? Where is he? A foreign criminal?" The choirmaster's beady eyes sparkled mirthfully. "This one here? If he's a criminal, then the first thing to do is shout 'Help!' Or else he'll get away. C'mon, let's do it together! Both at once!" at which point the choirmaster opened his jaws wide.
The flustered Ivan obeyed the buffoonlike choirmaster and shouted "Help!" but the choirmaster fooled him and didn't say a word.
Ivan's hoarse and solitary shout accomplished nothing. Two girls recoiled from him, and he heard the word "drunk."
"Ah, so you're in league with him?" shouted Ivan, becoming enraged, "What are you trying to do, make fun of me? Let me by!"
Ivan went to the right, and the choirmaster followed suit. Ivan went to the left, and the scoundrel did the same.
"Are you purposely trying to trip me up?" screamed Ivan, furious. "I'll turn you over to the police too."
Ivan tried to grab the rascal by the sleeve, but missed and caught hold of nothing. The choirmaster seemed to have vanished into the ground.
Ivan groaned, looked off into the distance and saw the hateful stranger. He was already at the exit to Patriarch's Lane, and he wasn't alone. The more than dubious choirmaster had managed to catch up with him. And that wasn't all: the third member of the company, who had appeared out of nowhere, turned out to be a cat, big as a hog and pitch-black, like a crow, or like soot, and sporting a mustache like a reckless cavalryman's. The threesome set off down Patriarch's Lane, with the cat walking on his hind legs.
Ivan rushed off in pursuit of the villains and soon realized that catching up with them was going to be very difficult.
The threesome tore down the lane in a flash and were on Spiridonovka. No matter how much Ivan quickened his pace, the distance between pursuer and pursued never shortened. Before the poet could realize what was happening, he had left the peaceful Spiridonovka behind, and found himself at Nikitsky Gates where his plight worsened. Here there was a huge crowd, and when Ivan ran into one of the passersby, he was showered with curses. It was here, moreover, that the villainous gang resorted to that favorite outlaw strategy—they split up and went in different directions.
With great agility the choirmaster corkscrewed himself into a mov-
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