Festival of the Doomed

— Good afternoon, Mikhail Afanasyevich, — a youthful man in a plaid suit nodded his head, — if I may?
— and without waiting for an answer, he sat down next to him on the bench, — what a wonderful day, isn't it? Bulgakov cast a sidelong glance at the stranger, — how do you know my name? Are we acquainted?
— Partly, — he smiled, — I know you, but you don't know me. Therefore, allow me to introduce myself, — the man stood up, took off his cap and nodded, — Charles Thayer, translator, employee of the American embassy.
— An American! So that's where the accent is from, — the writer frowned, — though it is very slight. Nice to meet you, — he stood up, — however, I apologize, I am in a hurry and I must go. Have a good day, Mr. Translator.
— You are not in a hurry to go anywhere, Mikhail Afanasyevich, — Charles smiled again, — you always stroll here at the Patriarch's Ponds at this time, and I have the «Nasha Marka» cigarettes that you smoke, — he took a box out of his pocket and handed it to the writer, — help yourself, yours are out, aren't they?
— What, are you following me, — the writer frowned, — what do you need?
— No, no, — the translator laughed, — no one is following you and, I assure you, I have no intention of recruiting you as a spy. It's much more prosaic, — he stood up, — it's just that I sometimes come here on official business and have seen you numerous times walking under the lindens here at the Patriarch's Ponds, and at the kiosk at the end of the alley, — he pointed his finger, — you buy cigarettes. I'll tell you a secret, the kiosk vendor is our secret informer and he transmits to me via a special cipher which brand of cigarettes you smoke. Why are you so tense, Mikhail Afanasyevich?
— seeing how the writer's face changed, the man in plaid laughed, — oh, I'm just joking, pardon, — and sighed, — oh, my boss told me: «Your tongue will bring you into trouble». Enough, jokes aside, now to business, — he pulled an envelope from his inner pocket and handed it to the writer, — this is for you.
— What is this?
— Bulgakov tensed up, looking warily at the envelope.
— Why don't you read it, — Thayer smiled, — it's all written there. «Dear Mr. M. A. Bulgakov! On April 23 of this year, at the residence of the US Ambassador in Moscow, Spaso House, a 'Spring Festival' ball will be held on the occasion of our national holiday. We will be glad to see you and your spouse at our celebration. William Bullitt, US Ambassador». A postscript at the bottom: «Tailcoat or black jacket».
— Do not worry, esteemed Mikhail Afanasyevich, — the translator said, seeing the writer's bewildered and somewhat anxious look, — the invitation is official and coordinated at the very top, — he significantly raised a finger, — so, you will have no problems. About five hundred guests are invited to the ball, — he tragically raised his eyes to the sky, — including top party and military figures, politicians, writers, people of art and, as our Mr. Ambassador says: «the most weighty people in Moscow, with the exception of Stalin». And imagine, — he sighed sorrowfully, — I was tasked with organizing this celebration, — and throwing up his hands in despair, he added, — devil, I will go crazy! Well, alright, — he stood up, — we are waiting for you, esteemed Mikhail Afanasyevich, and absolutely with your spouse Elena Sergeevna. Ah, yes, I almost forgot, — he switched to a whisper, — the ball starts at midnight, but Mr. Ambassador asked you to come earlier, by 23:00.
— Why earlier?
— Bulgakov asked in bewilderment.
— I cannot know, — Thayer grimaced, — Mr. Bullitt will explain it to you himself. He is quite an eccentric with us, — he sighed, — and I have to take the rap for everything.
At the doors of the embassy, they were met by the translator. Bulgakov wore a black suit, his wife was in an evening dress of black and blue color with pale pink flowers. They went up to the second floor and, a few steps before the ambassador's office, Elena Sergeevna slipped and the heel of her shoe broke off with a crack. Turning pale, she grabbed her husband's arm and whispered in horror: «My God, Misha, the heel! These were my only shoes, and moreover, not mine, I borrowed them from a friend».
— It's nothing, nothing, — Thayer said joyfully, deftly taking her by the arm and adding with a smile, — this is for good luck, for good luck. And don't worry about the shoes, — he rattled on, — this is nonsense, nonsense. We have a wonderful ladies' shop in the embassy, where there is a huge selection of clothes, shoes, pardon, ladies' lingerie and God knows what else. And mind you, according to the latest fashion, for every taste and all straight from Paris, London, Berlin. I assure you, you will find everything you need, and moreover, absolutely free of charge, — and seeing Bulgakova's embarrassment, explained, — the fact is that you are on the territory of the United States and we have everything insured here, — he smiled, — and your heel too. So, don't worry, they will help you, — and pointed to the door of the next office, from which a young woman in a chic red velvet dress emerged.
— We will certainly help, — Charles said, not the least bit surprised by her appearance, — here, let me introduce you, Hella, the servant of Mr. Ambassador, as he jokingly says: «Quick, perceptive and there is no service she could not render». See, — he smiled joyfully and pointed to the slippers in the woman's hands, — what did I tell you? Please, put on these slippers for now, — and picking up Elena Sergeevna's shoes, turned to the servant, — can we find similar footwear?
— Well, why similar?
— Hella said with a slight accent, examining the footwear, — produced by the Moscow shoe factory 'Paris Commune', item number 354/75, article 11075, — and threw the shoes into a trash bin standing by the door, — we have such models in the shop, but we will find something better. Madame!
— she smiled, — please follow me. Elena Sergeevna, casting a desperate glance at the trash bin, then looked questioningly at Bulgakov and, receiving her husband's approval, followed her.
— Come in, Mr. Bulgakov, — the ambassador stood up from his chair and approached the writer, — thank you for accepting our invitation. I am addressing you in English, but as my translator claims, — he turned to Thayer, — you command this language, don't you?
— Yes, — the writer answered with embarrassment, — not perfectly, but I can communicate.
— Well, don't be modest, — the host smiled, — we will understand each other perfectly, — and holding out his hand said: «Allow me to introduce myself, the Ambassador of the United States of America», — and nodding his head added, — for you, today, just William Bullitt.
— Bulgakov, — Mikhail Afanasyevich said in embarrassment and hesitantly shaking hands, added, — writer.
— And I know you, — the ambassador said, — we met at the Moscow Art Theatre, at the performance of your play 'The Days of the Turbins', though we weren't introduced to each other. A wonderful play, I am impressed.
— I am flattered by the invitation, — Bulgakov said cautiously, — but I don't quite understand how my humble persona could attract the attention of such a high-ranking official as the Ambassador of the United States of America?
— Ah, — exclaimed Bullitt, — please, no ceremonies or titles. Today we are having a party, not an official reception. And I invited you because you interest me both as a person and as a writer. Today we are holding a ball at the embassy called the 'Spring Festival' and I want this reception to reflect not only on the relations between our countries, but also, I will tell you a secret, — he winked 'conspiratorially', — to remain in history as an event that 'will surpass everything that Moscow has seen before or after the revolution!'. But, — the ambassador smiled, — it must be described by a person of great literary talent, that is why I invited precisely you, a famous writer, and I am counting on you very much. By the way, — he took two glasses from the table and handed one to Bulgakov, — I read your novella 'Diaboliad' and I know that you have long been attracted to this theme, haven't you? Try this cognac, — he swirled the glass, smelled the contents with visible pleasure, and then took a sip, — a wonderful bouquet, 20 years old. Mikhail Afanasyevich!
— he took a sip, — after all, it is no secret that Soviet visual propaganda depicts 'American imperialism' in the guise of the devil, — he sighed theatrically, — and it turns out that I, as the head of the diplomatic mission, can pass for the main one, as you call him - Messire? So it's all on topic, — he laughed, — isn't it?
— Oh come now, Mr. Ambassador, — Bulgakov grew embarrassed, — what kind of celebrity am I?
— he took a sip from the glass and sighed, — there are significantly more worthy writers. I am not published anywhere, my plays are removed from the repertoires of theaters, I enjoy no popularity and in general…
— Ah, esteemed Mikhail Afanasyevich, — Bullitt interrupted him, — who knows, who knows. Today you are not published, but tomorrow… Russia is an amazing country, — the ambassador shook his head, — it's striking, but here, in order to become famous, you have to die. Forgive me for saying so, but it is a fact. During life here they can humiliate, persecute, imprison, or force you to leave the homeland, but after death, they call you: 'Great Russian writer, poet, scientist'. So you have everything ahead of you, although, to me, — he raised his glass, — you are a great writer already during your lifetime. And now to business. Your presence at the evening is coordinated with the party leadership of your country and many of them will be our guests today. You will meet here a multitude of the highest officials of your country, military commanders and party bureaucrats. About 500 guests are invited, among them representatives of culture, art, science and a multitude of the most high-ranking personalities in Moscow. To navigate through this mass of guests, Mr. Charles Thayer will help you, — he waved his hand and the translator immediately appeared next to them, — you are already acquainted, aren't you?
— Yes, — Bulgakov nodded, — we met at the Patriarch's.
— He is a diligent man, — Bullitt continued, — the main organizer of this ball, knows practically all the invitees, so you will resolve all matters with him.
There was a knock on the door.
— And here is your spouse, — the ambassador approached Elena Sergeevna who entered the office and kissed her hand, — I hope all your problems with footwear have been resolved? Ah, — he laughed, seeing Bulgakov's look, — are you surprised that I know about the broken heel? My friend, — he sighed, — you are in the American embassy, and here, as your competent organs think, everyone is a 'spy, informer and snitch', — and laughing, he added, — I simply heard everything through the loosely closed door of the office. Well, friends, proceed to the hall, the guests are already gathering.
— How are you?
— Bulgakov and his wife walked down a long corridor, — what is that delightful scent you are exuding? Did they find you new shoes?
— Misha!
— Elena Sergeevna looked at her husband with delight, — I have visited paradise. Never mind the shoes, — she squeezed his elbow, — what isn't there, — and she rolled her eyes, — and the smell… this is French 'Chanel' perfume, from the latest collection! You know, — she sighed, — my ex-husband was a big boss (E. A. Shilovsky, lieutenant general, chief of staff of the Moscow military district), had colossal capabilities and I lacked for nothing, but what I saw in this shop!!!! My head is still spinning, — she sighed.
— I hope this is not a provocation, — Bulgakov said thoughtfully, — this invitation, the heel, the shop, the perfume…
— Please, ladies and gentlemen, please, — Charles as always appeared suddenly and opening the door before them, exhaled, — appreciate my efforts. I hope you will like it.
They were met by darkness, although the characteristic polyphonic noise indicated the presence of a large number of people. On the ceiling, a 'moon' was shining, surrounded by 'celestial constellations'.
— Please, — the translator said quietly, — come in, the ball will start now, listen, the clock has struck midnight…
And at that moment thousands of lamps lit up, illuminating a huge hall, in the center of which was a pool, around which lay exotic flowers. There were many guests, everyone clapped enthusiastically and it became noisy. At the end of the hall, an orchestra began to play, led by a conductor in a tailcoat down to his heels. The dancing began.
— Amazing music, isn't it, — exclaimed Charles, — I ordered the orchestra straight from Stockholm. And not only them, — he chattered, — more than one surprise awaits you. Dance for now, ladies and gentlemen, I must temporarily leave you, — and he 'evaporated'.
— Well, to hell with everything, — Bulgakov smiled and hugged his wife by the waist, — let's dance, the music is indeed wonderful.
They spun between the columns, colorful spotlights shone from the choir, tulips and roses 'grew' around the dancing couples. In the corners of the hall there were enclosures with animals, along the walls stood glass cages with roosters. Not far from the pool stood an artificial palm tree with a flowerbed, on which a bear cub cozily settled with a bottle of milk; a large nipple was stretched over the neck, to which he periodically attached himself. There was also a small fountain, although not working. Around the perimeter of the hall were built enclosures for pheasants, small parrots and hundreds of flying small finch-like birds.
— I heard that the flowers were brought directly from Holland, — a plump lady leaned towards her dance partner, — how do you like that? And they got the bear from our zoo, why, I do not understand. Do you smell how it stinks?
— Well, what do you expect, darling, — replied a man in an old-fashioned frock coat, — one word: 'capitalists and exploiters of the working people!'. Although, you see, — he indicated with his eyes, — the fountain is not working, — and smirked, — they must have run out of money, and there's no cash left for water. Listen, — he anxiously twisted his head, — to hell with the dancing and the bear, but where are the refreshments? I don't see any tables. It's already night, and we haven't eaten!
Waiters walked among the dancers, pushing carts with all sorts of drinks. Water and juices were not in demand among the guests, but wine and hard liquors sold out very quickly.
— Misha!
— Elena whispered, — look to the left, — and indicated with her eyes deep into the hall, — what a 'flowerbed'!
A group of people stood at a column deep in the hall.
— Wow, — exclaimed Bulgakov, — that's the People's Commissar of Foreign Affairs Maxim Litvinov, nearby the People's Commissar of Defense Kliment Voroshilov, wow, — he pressed his wife to himself, — and the Chairman of the Central Committee of the Communist Party Lazar Kaganovich is here…
— You're going to choke me, — his wife pleaded, — there are many more of them standing there. Look, the former head of the Comintern Nikolai Bukharin, and, wait, I don't recognize, who is that in the plaid tourist suit with a pipe in his teeth?
— That's Karl Radek, — Bulgakov smirked, — member of the editorial board of the 'Izvestia' newspaper, a great eccentric and joker. Wow!
— he leaned to his partner's ear, — Lena, look at these handsome men…
Three generals approached the group of party figures - Alexander Yegorov, Mikhail Tukhachevsky and Semyon Budyonny. Orders and medals 'burned' on their tunics, which gave them a formidable look and greatly impressed those around them.
— Well, yeah, — Mikhail smirked, — all the leadership came to the capitalists' ball, only the main one is missing…
— Hush, you, — Elena whispered, — haven't you had enough trouble from him?! Better look over there, — and she pointed to the other end of the hall, where several smoking men stood in a similar cluster.
— Bah!
— exclaimed Bulgakov, — brothers in the craft, the literary elite! Let's go, Lena, — he pulled his wife along, — we must say hello.
— Misha!
— his wife said worriedly, — just without a scandal, I beg you. I know you, when you drink…
— Do not worry Elena Sergeevna, — Thayer appeared from nowhere, I am near, there will be no scandal.
— Look who's here, — Bulgakov smiled, — I'd like to know what forced the proletarian poets of the revolution, comrades Bezymensky and Demyan Bedny, to tear themselves away from writing brilliant atheistic creations? Oh!
— he turned to a thin man standing nearby, — comrade Olaf Litovsky, our principled literary critic! Wouldn't you disdain to drink wine with a White Guard, — he took two glasses of wine from the cart of a waiter passing by, and handed one to Litovsky, who mechanically took it, — or do you not drink with counter-revolutionaries? After all, this is exactly what you call me in your scathing articles and, moreover, enriched the literary language with the concept of 'Bulgakovshchina'?
— Misha, let's go have a bite, — Elena resolutely pulled her husband by the hand, — I want to eat.
— Correct, — Thayer said, — Mikhail Afanasyevich, you haven't eaten anything yet. Come, I will escort you, — and led the spouses away.
— Did you see, — Litovsky said indignantly, — how a foreigner 'fumigates' this boor, huh? He doesn't invite us to the restaurant, — he looked at his interlocutors, — what's the reason for such friendship? The capitalists have completely lost their belts.
But he did not wait for an answer, his 'friends' remained gloomily silent. Suddenly the light went out, the music died down and a second later two spotlights illuminated a small stage with a man sitting in a chair, next to whom stood Thayer.
— Dear ladies, gentlemen, comrades, your attention for a minute please, — Charles raised his hand and waiting for silence, turned to the man in the chair and nodded.
— Esteemed guests!
— the man said in English and stood up, — my name is William Bullitt, I am the Ambassador of the United States of America. On behalf of our president and myself personally, — Thayer briskly translated the speech into Russian, — allow me to sincerely thank you for responding to the invitation and coming to the ball, which we called the 'Spring Festival'. We hope that you will be comfortable and have a pleasant time, and we, for our part, will make every effort to do so. I do not want to bore you with long speeches and suggest you take a break from everyday work and, without any ceremonies and titles, simply have fun at our festival. And so, we begin, — and he waved his hand.
At that very moment, a blinding light came on and the fountain in the center of the hall started working.
— Champagne!
— someone's stifled exclamation, — comrades, it's not water flowing in the fountain! It's champagne in the fountain!!
The ambassador smiled in satisfaction, nodded to the translator and under the applause of the enthusiastic public descended into the hall.
— Gentlemen, gentlemen!
— Thayer shouted through the noise, — help yourselves, — and he pointed to the hissing fountain, — French champagne, without ceremony gentlemen, — he threw up his hands, — without ceremony, fill your glasses, please, please….
Waiters scurried among the guests, offering a variety of drinks. Wine flowed like a river, moreover, literally, as the dancers substituted their glasses right under the jets of the exotic fountain and enthusiastically poured its contents into themselves.
Under the influence of alcohol, the people noticeably 'relaxed', many were already sitting at tables in the restaurant, absorbing incredible gastronomic delights in variety. Balmyks, black and red caviar, fish and meat dishes, seafood and…. you couldn't list it all. The interior of the hall amazed with its exoticism - 'on the sides stood small enclosures, in them - baby goats, sheep, along the walls - cages with roosters' (from the memoirs of E.S.). In the center of the hall an improvised lawn, with chicory leaves turning green on moist felt and a 'forest' of 10 birch trees, and in the center, a 'buffet' decorated with tulips, with an incredible abundance of exotic fruits and sweets.
The Bulgakovs sat at a table deep in the hall. Elena ate delicious sterlet with appetite, Mikhail sipped cognac from a glass and smoked gloomily.
— You smoke a lot and eat little, — Thayer joined them at the table, — is it not tasty?
— Oh come now, — Elena wiped her mouth with a napkin, — everything is simply delightful. But Mikhail only drinks cognac, chases it with champagne and eats nothing.
— Chases cognac with champagne?
— Charles widened his eyes, — only a Russian person is capable of such a thing. I would have died already.
— A matter of habit, — Bulgakov smiled, — you better tell me, Mr. Thayer, where did you get so many waiters, and highly professional ones at that, and the waitresses and servers are simply models. Reveal the secret, where did you find them?
— Oh, — the translator sighed, — here I was helped by an employee of the collegium of the Narkompros (People's Commissariat of Education) for foreign relations, comrade Boris Steiger (former baron). With the permission of the authorities, he renders some services to our embassy, since his official duties include working with foreigners, accompanying them on trips around Moscow, getting acquainted with the sights of the capital and…, — leaning towards Mikhail he whispered, — also with beautiful ballerinas for 'communication with continuation'. Of course, all the ballerinas were OGPU agents, as were the waiters he 'invited' and, as you deigned to express yourself, models. Probably, — he smiled, — Boris thinks that we don't guess about this, but…. So, Mikhail Afanasyevich, — he sighed, — be vigilant! You see how many waiters there are here.
He poured champagne into a glass, drank it and asked, — how do you like the interior of the premises?
— he made a semicircle with his hand, — mind you, all this is my work. I must say, — he shook his head, — it's hellish labor, just a nightmare.
— The impression is staggering, — Elena Sergeevna shook her head, — how did you manage to do this? Where did you get all this?
— That is a separate story, — Thayer theatrically grabbed his head, — I almost went crazy. The organizer of the 'Spring Festival', — he began the story, — is Irena Wiley, the wife of the embassy counselor John Wiley. Being a famous artist, she took upon herself the artistic part of the program, and I, — he sighed, — got the practical implementation of the whole project. In the conditions of 'socialist reality', to realize all the exotic plans of the author was extremely difficult and I had to seriously spin around. To create a 'spring atmosphere', I had to negotiate and bring from the Moscow Zoo several mountain goats, a dozen white roosters, a dozen golden pheasants, long-tailed parrots and a mass of little birds from the family of songbirds, with a funny name - weaverbirds. For the animals we had to build special enclosures, for the birds - cages, for the weaverbirds - stretch a net and a lot of other things. We created a 'natural landscape' using an artificial forest of birch trees, grass and flowers. Tulips alone are 1000 pieces, a special courier brought them from Helsinki. But, even this was not enough. Mrs. Wiley wanted to show the appearance of 'wild nature' with something special and I had to bring a bear cub from the zoo, — he sighed heavily, — you saw him under the palm tree near the fountain.
— Ah, he is simply adorable, — Bulgakova smiled, — resembles a huge cat, lies and sucks milk from a bottle.
— Yeah, some cat, — Thayer smirked, — more like a hippopotamus! He won't part with his pacifier, we barely have time to pour milk into the bottle.
— Oh!
— Elena Sergeevna suddenly exclaimed, — look who arrived, — and she pointed to a group of people entering the hall.
— Aha, here are the theatrical stars, — Thayer stood up, — I'll go meet them.
Walking ahead was Afinogenov (playwright), in a jacket and for some reason with a cane in his hand, behind him Bersenev (director, actor, teacher) with his wife Giatsintova (actress, director), Nemirovich-Danchenko with his personal secretary Olga Bokshanskaya (Bulgakova's older sister), behind them Meyerhold with his wife Reich (actress, first wife of S. Yesenin) and Tairov with his wife Koonen (both directors, actors). Thayer approached them, bowed, said something emotionally, then led the whole group to a large table, seated them, after which he pointed his finger at the Bulgakovs. The men bowed, and Bokshanskaya waved her hands, making it clear that she would soon approach their table.
— The whole Moscow theatrical beau monde right here, — Mikhail said quietly to his wife with a smile and nodded in greeting.
From the dance hall came laughter, noise and cheerful exclamations. Charles hopped over to the Bulgakovs' table and choking with laughter said: «Go see what this Radek is doing. A joker like few others!»
A rather drunk Radek held the peacefully sleeping bear cub in his arms and humming a lullaby, rocked him, then carefully took away the bottle, poured out the contents and instead of milk, filled it with champagne from the fountain, stretched the pacifier and shoved it into his mouth. The unsuspecting bear cub habitually took a few sips, after which he roared and threw the bottle on the floor. He got hiccups, became restless and rushing about, climbed onto Radek's neck. The guests laughed unanimously, gave various pieces of advice and had a lot of fun.
— Karl, aren't you ashamed?
— General Yegorov approached the joker, took the bear cub off his neck, sat him on his shoulder, began to calm him down and jokingly added, — it's too early for him to drink champagne, he needs milk….
He didn't have time to finish speaking when the bear cub hiccuped and threw up on his medal-decked tunic. Waiters rushed to the stunned marshal and hastily began wiping the vomit, but, coming to his senses, he pushed them away and growled: «Tell the ambassador that Soviet generals are not used to being treated like clowns», — after which he rushed to the exit and with the words: «This is the last time I pass through this door!», — left the hall and marched away from the house.
An awkward silence fell.
— Gentlemen!
— Charles jumped out to the fountain, — it's nothing, nothing, a slight force majeure, it happens! Nature, gentlemen, what can you expect from a bear…. Music, — he waved his hand towards the orchestra, — Maestro, please!
Strauss's waltz drowned out the whisperings of the guests.
— Following the general, the party elite also left us, — Charles said quietly, sitting down at the Bulgakovs' table, — but it seems to me, — he smiled, — none of the guests regret it.
— Lenka, hi!
— Olga hugged her sister, — how glad I am to see you.
— My older sister, — Elena introduced her to the approaching Charles.
— Oh, I know, — Thayer stood up, smiled and kissed Olga's hand, — Madam Bokshanskaya, personal secretary of Mr. Nemirovich-Danchenko, isn't it? Do not be surprised, please, — he laughed, seeing Olga's wary look, this is my job, after all it was I who handled the selection of guests. Yes, by the way, — he looked at the sisters and barely noticeably waved his hand, — we have a surprise for you. This is our employee Hella, — he introduced the approaching young woman, — you Elena Sergeevna are acquainted with her, aren't you?
— he looked at Bulgakova and seeing an affirmative nod, continued, — she will explain everything to you, and I, excuse me, must run, duty calls.
— Olya, why are you doubting?
— Elena whispered, — it's completely legal. You can't imagine what kind of store it is. Look at these shoes, — she indicated her footwear with her eyes, — this is a trifle compared to what I saw there. It's France, England, Germany, you understand, it's Europe, the latest fashion! And we will take all your women with us, I'll arrange it with Hella. There she is returning, by the way.
— Well, of course, — Hella smiled, — absolutely invite your friends, I will be very glad to meet them.
— Misha!
— Elena looked at her husband, — don't be offended, we are having a girls' get-together, — and she indicated with her eyes a group of women approaching them led by Olga, — after all, they are, as you put it, 'theatrical beau monde' and must look beautiful. Wow, — she smiled, — and the rising ballet star Lepeshinskaya (Bolshoi Theater ballerina) is hurrying to us, wherever did she find out?
— Are you bored?
— Thayer sat across from Bulgakov, — why don't we have a little cognac?
He poured two glasses, handed one to his interlocutor, — well, as the Germans say: “Prosit”!
But, they didn't get to drink. The head of security approached Charles and quietly said something to him.
— Seriously?
— Thayer sighed and looked in surprise at the door, — look who is coming to us!
A smiling Yegorov entered the hall. He was wearing a completely new tunic, orders and medals sparkled on his chest.
— After all that, I decided, — he happily told Thayer, — that it wasn't your fault. Kids are kids, even if they are bears, — and laughing he added, — I decided to dance once more.
— Bah…, the general returned!
— a drunken Radek hugged Yegorov from behind and dragged him deep into the hall, — and did the right thing, we still have a hell of a lot of booze. There are two more generals bored there, they need a third. And they don't want to drink with me anymore, especially the mustached one. Says: «Better to drink with a horse than with a civilian», — he laughed, — but you and I saw how to get an animal drunk. And a horse is not a bear cub, — he hiccuped and waved his hand, — if he pukes, — and hiccuped again, — then it will drip from his mustache!
— Let's still drink, — Thayer raised his glass, — our glasses are full, and as you say in Russia: «You don't put a full glass on the table!» We will not break tradition.
The men drank.
— Mikhail Afanasyevich!
— Charles said, — allow me to ask, do you know the history of this house, which we named Spaso House?
— Yes, somehow I have never been interested in it, — Bulgakov shrugged, — does it matter?
— It does, — Thayer shook his head, — and for you, as a writer, it will be very interesting. It will not take much time and will determine all our subsequent actions.
— You have intrigued me, — Bulgakov lit a cigarette, — I am all ears.
— So, — Charles began, — the history of this house began in 1915, when the richest Russian entrepreneur, major industrialist and banker Nikolai Alexandrovich Vtorov, built a mansion in Moscow in Staropeskovsky lane, near the church of the 'Savior on the Sands', hence the name Spaso House. In 1918, under unclear circumstances, Vtorov was shot in his office at home. It was assumed that he was killed by his illegitimate son due to a personal conflict, but they could not prove it and the killer was not found. Naturally, the mansion was nationalized by the Bolsheviks and from 1918 to 1933 it housed institutions and apartments, including the home of the Commissar of Foreign Affairs Georgy Chicherin. In 1928, to install a heating system, the Bolsheviks invited American specialists. During the work, workers accidentally discovered a living room under the building, in which there was an emaciated man with a 5-year-old girl, his daughter. An underground corridor led to the room, with an exit to another street.
— It drives you crazy, — Bulgakov sat closer to the storyteller, — and what happened next?
— The man told them that he and his wife had served Vtorov for many years, lived in this mansion, ran the household, and looked after the house. The banker highly valued him for his devotion, trusted him and treated him as a close person. Then the revolution happened, Vtorov was killed, the Bolsheviks came to the house. Matvey, that was the man's name, did not accept the new power and he and his wife and little daughter settled in the secret room, about which only the master and he knew. The room was combined with a wine cellar, which stored a very rich collection of wines and all kinds of hard liquors from all over the world, which Vtorov, a great lover and connoisseur of wines, had collected for many years. The entrepreneur made an office here for himself, in which he loved to relax after a stressful working day, drink a glass of wine from his collection, a cup of coffee, and unwind. It could be accessed either through a secret entrance in the main building, or through the underground corridor, which led to the neighboring street. And here was the revolution, the hungry years, devastation. Matvey's wife sold alcohol on the market, which they took from the wine cellar. But, since there were no 'gourmets' of collectible wine among their buyers, but hard liquors were valued, they prepared a mixture of wine, vintage cognacs, gin and other spirits and poured everything into a milk can. The 'cocktail' was in demand. And so they lived, but one day, during a police raid, a shootout started on the market, panic broke out, Matvey grabbed the precious can of wine and ran, but the crowd knocked him off his feet, he fell and in the fall severely damaged his eye, and his beloved wife died from a stray bullet. So he was left alone, did odd jobs where he could, exchanged alcohol for food, and his grown-up daughter helped him as she could. And here, by chance, they were discovered by foreign workers. The compassionate Americans were so impressed by the fate of Matvey and his daughter that they decided at a general meeting to help them and at the end of the contract, in a huge box with equipment, they took them out on a steamer from the country of the Soviets. So they got to the USA.
— Listen, Thayer, — Bulgakov poured cognac into the glasses, — is this really true? Astounding! This is a ready-made plot for a novel. Tell me, — he raised his glass, — tell me, what happened next, what was their fate?
— I will definitely tell you the end of this story, — Charles drank the cognac and smiled, — but, urgent matters are waiting for me. Do not forget that I am responsible for the whole 'festival'. In the meantime, while I will be busy with the guests and so that you do not get bored, our man will give you a little tour of Vtorov's house, which we call Spaso House. Meet, — he introduced a middle-aged man approaching them, whose appearance was slightly marred by a cataract in his right eye, — this is our embassy employee Matthew, he is fluent in Russian, knows the history of the banker's family well, is perfectly oriented in the house and I think you will be pleased.
The excursion was indeed very interesting.
— And this place Mr. Vtorov called the «Lobby», — Matthew said, when they entered a large vestibule, — would you like a drink?
— he pointed to the beautiful shelving on the wall located behind the bar. There were many colorful bottles of drinks on the shelves.
— Wine of which country do you prefer at this time of day?
— approaching the shelves the guide asked, — or maybe you prefer strong drinks «Whiskey», «Gin», «Rappa»?
Bulgakov smiled and turning to the guide, said, — yes, I….
There was no one around, Matthew disappeared! He was just standing nearby… and disappeared! Mikhail looked around in confusion.
— Mr. Writer!
— a large mirror on the wall to his side turned slightly, in the opening stood Matthew, — follow me, do not be afraid, there is a secret door here, — and he reached out a hand.
A long corridor led them to a door.
— Please, — Matthew let Mikhail go first and they entered a rather large room. It contained a massive desk with a chair, a little further away a leather sofa and an inlaid table, on it a beautiful bottle of wine, two glasses, a fire was burning in the fireplace in the corner. In the middle of the room, on an expensive carpet, stood a massive armchair, in which sat a man with a huge black cat on his lap.
— Mr. Ambassador?
— the writer said in surprise, — you?
— Come in, Mr. Burlakov, — Bullitt said in English, — come in, glad to see you.
He picked up the cat with some difficulty and with the words, — excuse me Hippopotamus, I have guests, — carefully put him on the floor, after which he stood up from the armchair and without turning his head said, — Matvey, an armchair for Mr. Writer!
The guide moved another armchair up and stood near the fireplace.
— Matvey?
— Mikhail looked intently at Matthew and muttered in Russian, — is it really you?… Then he became embarrassed and switched to English, — so you…
— Have a seat, my friend, — the ambassador said, — pray express yourself in English, excuse me, but somehow it's closer to me, and Matvey doesn't care, he commands both. Will you have a drink?
— he poured into the glasses, — this is wine from Mr. Vtorov's collection, collectible. And this is his servant, — he smiled and pointed to Matvey, — yes, yes, his servant, you understood everything correctly. Your health!
The men drank.
— Tyler told you the first half of this tragic story, — Bullitt leaned back in his chair, — and I will tell you the second. The fact is that the head of the American workers who built the water supply system in this building in 1927 was my cousin, engineer Sam Wilson, and he told me this story. At that time, there were already plans to establish diplomatic relations between the US and the USSR and the main candidate for the post of ambassador was your humble servant. When our department began looking for a building for the embassy in Moscow, I remembered my brother's story about Vtorov's house. Finding Matvey and his daughter in America was easy for me, I met with them and realized that there could be no better option. Firstly, the American heating system was very handy in a cold country, secondly, the city center, and thirdly, there is a person who knows the building thoroughly and all its secrets. After all, according to my brother, the Soviets never found out about the premises where Matvey's family lived. Having got to America, the fugitives changed their names: Matvey became Matthew, and his daughter Galya…. became Hella, — said Tyler, entering the room, — and letting a beautiful young woman in a red velvet dress pass ahead, added, — you are already acquainted with her.
— I propose a toast to everyone present, — the ambassador said and turned to Matvey, — treat us, please, to collectible wine.
The servant bowed, went to the fireplace… and disappeared into the fire! Mikhail was dumbfounded and involuntarily cried out.
— Do not worry, Mr. Writer, — Thayer said with a smile, — Matthew can pass not only through mirrors, but also through fire. See, — and pointed to the servant coming out of the fire, — he is not only alive and well, but also brought us wine.
— Mr. Vtorov, — Matvey said pouring wine into glasses, — was a great eccentric and inventor. Hiding his wine library from prying eyes, which he called the «Wine Cave», he made a secret entrance to it. Please, Mr. Writer, — he looked at Mikhail, — would you like to take a look?
They approached a large fireplace resembling a cave hollowed out in the wall. The central part, with a fire burning in it, was bordered by brick walls, lined from the inside with refractory tiled tiles. On the sides the fireplace was decorated with two granite columns.
— Pay attention, — he pointed his hand to a small door hidden behind the column, — on this side is the entrance to the wine library, and on the other, — he pointed to the opposite one, — the exit from this room to another street.
— You see, Mr. Bulgakov, — Bullitt laughed, — how many secrets are hidden in this house. Do you now understand why I settled my choice on Matvey and his daughter? Such a story, — the ambassador sighed, — how do you like it, Mr. Writer? By the way, I have long wanted to ask, — he looked at Bulgakov, — what does your wife call you? To acquaintances and admirers you are a writer, but to your wife?
— Master, — Mikhail was embarrassed, — she calls me Master, but I think she overestimates me.
— Not at all, — Bullitt shook his head, — I like it - Master! If you will allow me, — he approached Bulgakov, — I will also call you that. But, I see that you are tormented by the question of what is happening here and what relation you have to all this? Am I wrong, eh, Master?
— That's all correct, — Mikhail hesitantly shrugged, — honestly speaking, I don't understand anything.
— Well then, — the ambassador said, — if you please, I will explain everything. But, the conversation is confidential, so I will ask my retinue to leave us and return to their duties. Charles will attend to the guests, Hella will return to the women in the store, Matthew will return to the kitchen to keep an eye on the cooks, and Hippopotamus, — he looked at the cat, — can return to his favorite spot, — he picked up the cat and moved him to the sofa, — where he will, as always, sleep and will not bother us. What, by the way, is his name in Russian?
— Behemoth, — the translator interjected, — we named the bear cub in the hall in his honor.
— Well then, — Bullitt smiled and repeated in Russian: «Be-ge-moth!» A funny name.
When everyone had left, the ambassador poured wine into the glasses and turned to Bulgakov.
— So, Mr. Writer, — he held out a glass, — do you want to know why I initiated you specifically into this story?
— Yes, — Mikhail became embarrassed, — everything looks somehow strange and, honestly, even frightening. You are the US ambassador, a person of high political rank, you move in government circles, right up to…, — he pointed upward, — and you…, ahem…, so freely…, and such… — he coughed, — I already…, — and sighed, — I am not published anyway, my plays are removed from the repertoire…, forgive me, I am confused…
— You are afraid, — Bullitt frowned, — I know you are afraid and I understand you. But, don't worry, — he leaned towards the writer, — no one, believe me, no one will find out that you were here today and talked to me. I assure you, I am not going to persuade you to collaborate, or fish out any secrets of the Country of Soviets, — he smiled, — everything is much more prosaic. Let's drink, — he raised his glass, — I will explain everything to you.
The men drank.
— Mr. Ambassador!
— Mikhail frowned, — we hardly know each other, you practically don't know me, but, you tell me such things…. Tell me, aren't you afraid that I, accidentally, or maybe purposely, will tell someone about our meeting, about this conversation?
— Yes, an excellent drink, — the ambassador shook his head, — Mr. Vtorov understood wine. Now, to your question, — he opened a box on the table, — a cigar?
Mikhail declined, pulled out his cigarettes and they lit up.
— Yes, my friend, — Bullitt released a cloud of smoke, — I really know you little, but I am familiar with your work and I am sure that I am dealing with a smart man. And now think, what am I risking? What will you tell?
— he smiled, — that you passed through a mirror into a secret room, where, again secretly, you met with the Ambassador of the United States of America, drank wine from a secret collection.. and so on…
He stood up, turned to Bulgakov and sighed, — even considering a writer's imagination, — William came almost point-blank, — they will not believe you and will decide that it's the delirium of a drunken man and, possibly, a not very healthy one. I would very much not want a talented writer to be branded a schizophrenic, especially in your country. Have I convinced you?
— he looked Mikhail in the eyes, — I see I have! Enough, now to business.
Bullitt took the glass of wine in his hand and sat back in his chair.
— You understand, my friend, — Bullitt said, taking a sip, — it's all the fault of my ambition. Yes, yes, — he sighed, — I admit it, I am vain. I am the first US ambassador in the first Socialist country in the world. Sounds good?! 'First' ambassador in the 'First' country! I wanted everyone to know this and for people to talk about me. I am a rich man, I have everything, but I wanted glory. In 1933 I arrived as ambassador to Russia. In Moscow they received me 'at the highest level', at Voroshilov's apartment in the Kremlin, a dinner was given in my honor, which was attended by Stalin, Molotov, Voroshilov, Kalinin, Litvinov, Ordzhonikidze and other officials. It would seem…. But, in the country of Soviets, a reception 'at the highest level' is a dinner in an apartment, even if it is the People's Commissar of Defense of the USSR, even in the Kremlin, but in an APARTMENT!! Well, who, who was interested in this? And who knew about it? In the USSR everything is covered in secrecy! Secrets, utter secrets!!
Bullitt again poured wine into his glass, got up from the chair and went to the fireplace.
— I wanted glory and I wanted everything to be 'at the highest level', but the way it is customary in Europe and the USA, — he said irritably and lit a new cigar, — and not like in destitute Russia! My pride was wounded. Dinner?!! I gave an order to my staff to organize a Christmas reception at our embassy at the end of 1934. I spared no expense, especially since I paid the lion's share of the costs out of my own pocket. To hell with it, I needed people to talk about me.
Bullitt approached the sleeping cat, thoughtfully stroked him and looked at Burlakov sitting in the chair.
— Tell me, Master! Have you heard anything about the reception at the US embassy on the occasion of the 'Christmas Festival' of 1934?
— I must admit, no, — Mikhail became embarrassed, — I haven't heard.
— Exactly, — the ambassador said bitterly, — and nobody has heard, although about 100 American citizens attended the celebration. And there was God knows what there, — William threw up his hands, — wonderful food, various drinks, music, there were even black sea lions ordered from the Moscow Circus, which during the performance crawled into the reception hall from the bathroom. One balanced a Christmas tree on his nose, skillfully keeping it steady, another—a tray with glasses, the third—a bottle of champagne, then they tossed balls, played harmonicas. Even when the animal trainer from the circus drank too much and passed out, and the 'pinniped artists', sensing freedom, staged an outright riot, nevertheless, all the guests were completely delighted. But this 'festival' went unnoticed, even the press kept silent.
Bullitt went up to the cat and thoughtfully stroked him behind the ear. Behemoth raised his head, purred, licked his hand and closed his eyes again.
— And then I understood, — the ambassador continued, — that for such a 'festival' to become known and talked about, we needed to hold 'something stunning' and most importantly, so that thousands of people would know about this event, it must be described by a writer, and for my name to remain in history too, a brilliant writer is needed here. I looked for such a writer for a long time and after I saw the play 'The Days of the Turbins' at the Moscow Art Theatre, I realized that I had found him, — and he pointed his finger at Mikhail, — it is you, Master!
— Me?
— Mikhail was struck, — what kind of famous am I? I am not published anywhere, my plays are removed from the theater repertoires, I am out of favor with the very top…, — he pointed upward again.
— That is today you are out of favor, — Bullitt shook his head, — but tomorrow? I am sure, descendants will recognize you as a classic of literature and your works will be read by millions. Well, and I will wait, — he sighed theatrically, — after all, in your future novel you will depict me as the Devil, won't you? So I, like Woland, — he laughed, — have eternity ahead of me and I have nowhere to hurry.
— What kind of Devil are you?
— Bulgakov shook his head, — although…,
— he pondered for a second, smiled and added, — some features can be traced.
— Well, so we have a deal, — Bullitt again poured into the glasses, — Woland it is, — and handed the wine to Mikhail, — I am not against it. Moreover, I do have some traits of the Devil and as Goethe said: «I am part of that power which eternally wills evil and eternally works good». Well, alright, — he shook his head thoughtfully, — I won't be modest: I am smart, rich, interesting as a man, comprehensively educated, an athlete… But, unfortunately, in Soviet Russia, this is not considered merits of a person who has achieved everything by his labor, but is considered a gift from the Devil. And if an ordinary person cannot possess so many positive qualities, it means he is either a spy or the devil. For me, the second is better, at least they don't exile you to Siberia or shoot you for that here.
He took a sip of wine, pondered for a second, looked at the Master and waved his hand resolutely, — alright, I suppose, I will gift humanity not only my soul, but also my appearance. Take it, — he smiled, — use it!
— My God, — Bulgakov shrugged his shoulders, — what are we talking about? Mr. Ambassador, are you serious? Some kind of surrealism, by God.
— No, Master, — Bullitt again filled the glasses, — I am speaking absolutely seriously. Let's drink, — he handed the glass, — you must agree, excellent wine and interestingly, you are drinking it with the Devil himself!
Bullitt pulled his chair closer and said quietly, — this is not surrealism, but the beginning of your greatness. I hope that tonight, — he shook his head, — will change your life, your future and will be the beginning of your immortality. You are a very talented writer and I am sure that this 'Spring Festival' will find a worthy place in your works.
William fell silent, again went up to the sleeping cat, stroked him for a long time, then returned and sat in the chair. Bulgakov smoked in silence, then put out his cigarette.
— Mr. Bullitt!
— he looked intently at the ambassador, — can you outline the essence of what is happening and what specifically you need from me?
— If you please, Mr. Writer, — the ambassador smiled, — I will explain. You saw how many guests are invited to our celebration today? Almost 500 of the most famous personalities in Moscow. The top party leadership of the country, the greatest military commanders, leaders of various branches of the national economy, trade, education, great figures of art, in short 'all the most weighty figures in Moscow, except Stalin'. Clambering to the pinnacle of power, all these people have walked a thorny, very difficult path and believe me, in their essence, they differ little from the cruelest and most criminal historical figures, and in bloodiness, often surpass them. This I say as a professional historian. This crowd, — Bullitt shook his head, — I have gathered especially for you Master, for where else will you be able to see in one place such a quantity, if I may put it that way, of 'high-ranking human material'? Of course, there are decent people here too, — he sighed, — but, for the most part they are informers and poisoners, thieves and adventurers, blackmailers and extortionists, who isn't here. Take a close look at them and you will see satiated, well-fed faces (and this is with total poverty in the country), these ridiculous tuxedos on the men, which I forced them to wear to this 'Social event', but who do not understand how such clothing can be worn at all, the pretentious outfits of their wives. Their life path has seen it all - poisonings, and murders, and denunciations. But, the most interesting thing is that in the near future, all this awaits them themselves and many of them will pass through the 'purifying fire of the revolution'. I am familiar with the top leadership of your country starting from Lenin and can state this definitively. A 'great purge' has begun in the country and our merry guests of today will definitely fall into these millstones. The stigma of shame will be on them, for they partied in the American embassy, this lair of Satan, where they ate, drank, danced and who knows what else they did there. And who after this will be able to give guarantees that they were not recruited here and it's not excluded that, tempted by the 'sweet life', they sold themselves to the devil and became American spies. Who can vouch that they have not become enemies of the people? Today they hug here, drink to Bruderschaft, swear eternal friendship and love, and tomorrow, to save their skin, they will denounce each other, 'sink' friends, colleagues and trample them in the mud. So, today this is the 'Spring Festival', and tomorrow it will be called the 'Festival of the Doomed'. And you, Mr. Writer, as a participant in this event, with your characteristic mastery and talent, will be able to, — he looked intently at Bulgakov and added firmly, — no, you are simply obliged to, immortalize in history this 'Great Ball of Satan'. Dare, Master!
Mikhail sat depressed in his chair and smoked in silence.
— The fact is, — he raised his eyes to Bullitt, — that for 6 years already I have been writing a novel. Its storyline is somewhat connected with the devil…, — he hesitated, — but… not this much!
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and immediately took another.
— I am at a loss, — he shivered, — this night is indeed very strange, — frowning, he rubbed his forehead, — and maybe, even fatal. You see…, — Mikhail excitedly stood up from the chair and repeated, — you see…, — he again fell silent, then waved his hand, — alright, I will tell.
He lit a cigarette, walked up to the burning fireplace, stood for a bit and turned to Bullitt sitting in the chair.
— I began writing my novel in 1928, — he said thoughtfully, — and in the working version I called it 'The Engineer's Hoof'. It's a novel about the devil in the customary guise of a tempter and provocateur, mocking the proletarian poet Ivanushka about the death of the MASSOLIT chairman Berlioz, also Yeshua was somewhat present in the novel, well…., and so on…, — he sat down in the chair again.
— But, when in 1930, — he sighed, — I found out about the ban on my play 'The Cabal of Hypocrites', I destroyed the manuscript and in despair wrote a letter to Stalin, with an urgent request to allow me to go abroad. Literally three weeks later, Stalin himself called me, — he shivered, — I remembered this conversation verbatim: «And maybe, it's true - you are asking to go abroad? What, are we very tired of you?», — he said. And I got scared, — Bulgakov shivered again, — I got very scared.
Mikhail fell silent, silence ensued. Bullitt looked at the writer with interest and smoked in silence.
— For several years I didn't return to the work, — Bulgakov stood up again, — then I found the strength in myself and began work on the second draft of the novel, under the conditional title 'Satan'. Now, — he sighed, — the meeting with you, and I think I need to write a third version and change the title.
— If I have become the cause of your decision to rewrite the novel, — the ambassador smiled, — then I don't know whether to rejoice at this or be grieved. But, of one thing I am firmly certain, — he raised his glass, — I will always be proud that directly or indirectly I stood at the origins of the birth of a great novel. And that it will be great, I am absolutely sure and propose we drink to this, — Bullitt poured wine and raised his glass, — to the novel of the century!
The men drank.
— Master!
— the ambassador smiled and looked at Bulgakov, — Americans are business people and now that we have come to an agreement, a contract must be drawn up between us, do you agree with me?
— I knew it would end in this, — the writer sighed, — what, must I now sell you my soul like Dr. Faust?
— Do I need your soul, — Bullitt laughed, — if I only had somewhere to put my own. No, my friend, I am rich enough and self-sufficient and other people's souls do not interest me.
He lit a cigarette and looked at Bulgakov, — do you remember I said I am very vain? So, if in your novel I will be depicted as the 'Devil', — he raised a finger, — I need a retinue, do you agree, Master? Where would Woland be without a retinue?
— Where am I going to get you a retinue?
— Bulgakov raised his eyebrows, — that is a difficult question.
— This is what our contract will consist of, — Bullitt looked at Bulgakov, — I already have a retinue and it has been with me for many years. I completely trust them, — he stood up from the chair, — and they must be with me in your novel. This is my condition. Please love and favor them!
— and he turned on the light.
Two men and a girl entered the room.
— You are already acquainted with them, — Bullitt pointed to them with his hand, — but I want to introduce them officially: Charles Thayer - he is - Koroviev, Fagotto. Matthew - Azazello. Hella - his daughter, my servant. And my Hippopotamus, — he went to the sofa and picked up the cat, — whom you call Behemoth, although, it seems to me, he loves Fagotto more. They are simply an inseparable pair.
Bulgakov looked in bewilderment at those who entered, then shifted his gaze to Bullitt and asked, dumbfounded, — how did they all appear here at once? Are you really the devil?
— Well, that's just simple, — the ambassador laughed, — American technological progress. We have a secret bell and when I need to, I can always summon them. So, this has nothing to do with the machinations of the devil.
— Ah, — Mikhail smiled, — now it's clear. Tell me, — he approached them, — and why do you have such names, gentlemen?
— Allow me to explain, — said Bullitt, — I myself want to introduce my retinue. Let's start with Thayer. Many years ago, as part of the English expeditionary force, I found myself in Palestine, where in one of the settlements, I met a young man living in a family of Jewish emigrants from Russia, who spoke fluent English, Russian, Yiddish, Hebrew and Arabic. He was born in England and with his father, who served in the English army, ended up in Palestine as a child. Sometime later, in a clash with Arab terrorists, his father died in battle and the orphan was sheltered by a family of Jews, immigrants from Russia. For my service, I needed a translator and the young man suited me in all respects. Agreeing with the administration of the settlement in the 'language of dollars' was not a problem and since then he has been constantly with me.
— And why Koroviev, and Fagotto as well?
— Bulgakov asked.
— I am always next to the master, — Thayer, smiling, joined the conversation, — and in Hebrew 'next to' is 'karov', and in Russian transcription it sounds like 'Koroviev'. And Fagotto…
— That's what I called him, — Matvey intervened in the conversation, — because he is constantly blowing into his stupid pipe, which is called a fagotto. And, if only it were a normal instrument, but it 'moos like a cow', I have no strength left. In short… 'Fagotto!'
— Oh, you understand so much, — Thayer grew indignant, — homegrown expert. He doesn't like the fagotto.
— The name Azazello, — Bullitt continued, — Matvey received from Koroviev in retaliation for Fagotto.
— Well, not only in retaliation, — the translator objected, — the fact is that Matvey and his daughter secretly lived in this dungeon for almost 10 years, and the 'God of the underworld, personifying the subterranean world and meaning removal and deprivation', in Hebrew is called 'Azazel'. Besides everything, as you saw for yourself, — Koroviev laughed, — he is a master at passing through mirrors. So, he is a demon, definitely a demon! Yeah, just look at his eye, — he gently hugged Matvey, — Azazel it is!
— Well, and Hella, is just Hella, — shaking his head, Bullitt smiled, — our servant. Very diligent, smart, perceptive, simply a beauty, her green eyes alone are worth it. My daughter loves her very much and calls her HeLLa, with the stress on 'a'!
Then he went to the cat and picked him up, — well, and the main member of our team - Behemoth! Lazy, smart, cunning, insolent and gluttonous. A universal favorite and he knows this perfectly well, which he shamelessly uses.
The cat half-opened one eye, stretched sweetly, meowed and went back to sleep.
— That's it, my friend, — Bullitt approached Bulgakov, — and so, you accept my conditions, shall we sign the contract?
— Absolutely!
— Mikhail smiled and added, — without fail! Not a single contract have I signed yet with such pleasure.
— You see, — the ambassador smirked, — you didn't even notice how you sold your soul to the devil, almost like Dr. Faust.
— Yes, — said Mikhail, — I didn't notice and, by the way, I completely do not regret it.
— That's it, friends, — Bullitt turned to the team, — to your places, to work. The ball is in full swing, so don't relax, although the conditions have changed, because now you will be observed by a writer gathering material for his book. So both you, and all our guests, from this moment become the heroes of a future masterpiece. By the way, Hella, — the ambassador looked at the servant, — I hope the ladies are not bored in our store? Will they be able to find something worthwhile there?
— Do not worry Master, — the girl smiled, — the women are delighted with the latest European models, so, there is plenty to choose from there.
— That's wonderful, — Bullitt said - the ladies should be pleased. By the way, — he turned to Bulgakov, — tell me, were there any kings in your spouse's ancestry? Do you know her pedigree?
— A strange question, — Mikhail was surprised, — what kings, what makes you think so?
— I am, you know, a diplomat by position, — the ambassador shook his head, — and a historian by education and I understand people well. For my work, I have repeatedly communicated with royals and I know what I am talking about. The appearance of your wife, her manners, flexibility of mind, tactfulness, even her gait…. I, you know, feel it, — he said confidently, — I simply feel the 'breed' and I am sure that royal blood flows in her veins. I think, — he squinted his eyes, — her foremother was Marguerite de Valois, Queen of France, patroness of art and literature, whom contemporaries called 'The Radiant Queen Margot'. And I also want to note, — he smiled, — you are a wonderful couple, the Master and Margarita. Listen, a good title for your novel, eh?
— he patted Mikhail on the shoulder, laughed and winked- think about it, after all, this is the advice of the devil himself, — and disappeared into the doorway.
«The Master and Margarita», — muttered Bulgakov, — why not, «The Master and Margarita»!
The abundance of light, noise and tobacco smoke deafened and blinded Bulgakov. A multitude of couples whirled across the hall to Strauss's waltz 'Tales from the Vienna Woods', in a magnificent performance by the orchestra from Stockholm under the direction of the conductor in a tailcoat down to his heels.
— Please, Master, — Koroviev took his arm, — we will now call you this way, — and smiled, — I will escort you to your table. Your spouse should arrive any minute.
Passing by a huge number of people, Bulgakov only now appreciated the size of the hall. The guests were already tipsy, some were singing, others were laughing loudly, some were vigorously discussing something, others were dancing. There were especially many people around the fountain, from which they scooped champagne with glasses, clinked glasses, made some toasts, hugged each other and immediately collected the next portion.
— Your table, Master, — Fagotto smiled and sat next to him, — as you can see, — he nodded towards the hall, — the guests have not wasted time and as they say in Russia 'raised the altitude'. And here are our ladies, — he jumped up and rushed to a group of women in chic evening dresses.
— A queen!
— Mikhail exhaled enthusiastically and kissed his wife, — simply a queen! You are beautiful!
Elena smiled happily, — do you like it? Look at this dress, — she moved back a little, — and the shoes?
— and lifted her leg, — and the gloves?
— oh…oh… My God, Misha!
— she grabbed his hand, — I have been in a fairy tale!
— Stop debauching, — Olga jokingly hit Bulgakov on the cheek with a glove, — beautiful women in chic outfits, and here are some kisses, hugs… Some conscientious citizens might misunderstand you, look at how they're staring. Okay, girls!
— she looked at her friends, — we should, just in case, sit here for a few minutes, 'digest' the situation, because what has happened to us is too wonderful to be reality and it is simply impossible to believe in it. What if, — and repeated fearfully, — what if…., this is some suggestion, or mass psychosis, or, whatever they call it, — she widened her eyes, — 'Black Magic'! Imagine if our chic outfits suddenly disappear, — she theatrically squeezed her eyes shut in horror, then burst out laughing and choking with laughter, swept her hand across the hall, — all our socialist public will see what color our pantaloons are.
— So what?
— Giatsintova shrugged, — I have nothing to be ashamed of. My, as you deigned to express yourself, 'pantaloons', are very beautiful, imported, I always wear them to celebrations, — she smiled and, looking around, quietly added, — you know, just in case, — then sighed and sadly raising her eyes upwards, added, — after all, you never know how and with whom you will end the evening.
The friends' laughter attracted the attention of guests sitting at neighboring tables.
— Abel!
— a plump lady hissed and grabbed the elbow of the man sitting next to her, — what, are they shooting a movie over there?
— she indignantly pointed to the women.
— Darling!
— he shrugged, — what makes you think so?
— What makes me think so?
— her face turned red, — those are actresses, I know them. And look at their dresses, — she twisted her face, — even I cannot afford such chic. I am sure those outfits were slapped on them for the shooting of some foreign film and they are shooting it here, in the American embassy! And your wife, — she breathed threateningly, — incidentally, a famous actress, sits here with you and gorges on salads?!
— What movie?
— the husband grimaced, — nothing of the sort, I would know. So, — he raised his eyes thoughtfully, — Kheifits is currently shooting 'Hot Days', Frenkel 'The Wondrous Garden', well, and someone else on a small scale… hmmm.. No, — he concluded confidently, — don't worry, it's not a movie.
— See this couple?
— the ballerina leaned towards her friends and pointed them out with a look, — this is Yenukidze, the chairman of the Government Commission for the Management of the Bolshoi and Art Theaters, and the cow next to him is his wife, who thinks herself a great actress and is sure that with such a husband, the path to great art is open to her. Only she doesn't guess that her husband couldn't care less about her 'talent' and doesn't miss a single actress from the subordinate theaters, well, and then promotes those who agreed to 'friendship'. Quite the tomcat, very fond of ballerinas and doesn't climb out of our Bolshoi Theater.
— Yes, — Koonen sighed, — wives always find out about their husband's affairs last. Okay ladies, enough!
— she stood up, — our dresses haven't disappeared and what color our pantaloons are, alas, no one will see, — and theatrically sighed, — which, by the way, is a pity and we won't wait for applause. Enough, let's go to our theatrical 'gods', or else they'll think we are 'fallen angels' and have given ourselves to 'worldly consolations'.
And smoothly swaying their hips, the ladies 'floated' to their men.
— Misha!
— let's spit on all the chairmen of theatrical leadership, — Lena grabbed her husband's hand, — I want to dance, — and dragged him into the dance hall.
— My God, — she whirled in the dance, — you can't imagine how comfortable I am in imported footwear. Soft leather, a wonderful last, nothing pinches. Lord, how I suffered in my friend's domestic shoes, — she squeezed her eyes shut, — walked like in a 'Spanish boot'. What luck that I broke my heel, — and began to sing, — how good it is…. how good it is….
— The queen in delight!
— Bulgakov laughed, — took off the 'Spanish boot' and she feels good… Margarita!… Queen Margot!…
— What are you talking about, Misha?
— Elena raised her eyebrows in surprise, — what Margarita? Am I Queen Margot?
— she shrugged her shoulders, — then you are, m.. m.., — she thought for a second, — then you are, — and she laughed, — you are 'Captain Kopeikin' from 'Dead Souls' of your favorite Gogol!
She looked at her husband again, — what is with you, you are practically glowing?
— Later Margot, later, — the Master smiled, — I will tell you an amazing story. But for now, let's drink champagne, — and pulled her to the fountain.
— Arkasha! Do you remember Ashot Gentaryan, — two short men in unbuttoned tuxedos stood by the fountain with glasses in their hands, — well, the former director of the vegetable base, such a fat one.
— Of course I remember, — the other answered and frowned, — but why former, was he imprisoned?
— God grant that you and I be imprisoned like that, — his friend twisted his face, — he got promoted, — and sighed, — eh, if only I knew who he bribed and how much? Do you know Torgsin (store for trade with foreigners) on the Smolensk market?
— Is that the grocery currency store?
— Arkasha asked, — well, I know of course, they opened it a week ago.
— He is the director there, — said the first, tore the 'bowtie' off his neck and hissed with relief, — what a nuisance, practically choking me. No, did you get it?
— shoving the tie into his pocket he grimaced indignantly, — manages foreign currency! Three days ago I met him at the directorate, and the bastard turns his nose up. Like, he is in a hurry and has no time for idle talk. Disdains, the scum, to communicate with a 'ruble' colleague. Well, of course, he sits on dollars and pounds, rubles are no longer interesting to him. Now you tell me, — he asked caustically, — what is an ordinary person to do in his store, if he, for example, just repairs primus stoves and has never had foreign currency in his life, huh? Does this mean a foreign infidel, the one with dollars, is allowed to shop there, and, for example, buy herring, various cakes, tangerines, but to a simple Soviet worker, what, is it beneath them?
— Hush, — Arkasha twisted his head, — stop swearing. You, by the way, are currently visiting the infidels and guzzling their 'champers', so don't yap too much. And Ashot is a good fellow, clearly gave a good bribe to someone, — he said and also taking off his bowtie, muttered, — how do they walk in these clothes in their foreign lands? Don't worry so much, — he waved his hand, — better let's 'toss one back', — and scooping champagne from the fountain, raised his glass.
— Gentlemen!
— Koroviev in a mustard-colored plaid suit, as always, appeared unexpectedly, — well, why are you only in this hall?
— and looked reproachfully at the Bulgakovs, — we have another floor, after all, and there is a real 'Caucasian shashlik restaurant'. What khachapuri there are, shashliks, m.. m.. m.., finger-licking good, and the music!… A jazz band is playing, by the way, straight from Prague! Let's go, I reserved a table for you there, and that, even for me, was not easy to do, — he smiled, — there are so many people…. Please, please follow me, — and led the spouses away.
The hall, indeed, was full.
— This way, please come this way, — the translator seated them at a table, snapped his fingers and literally seconds later a waiter with a cart appeared, deftly laid out plates with cold appetizers, pots with hot dishes, fruits, various decanters with water, juices and bottles with hard liquors on the table.
— Bon appetit, — Thayer smiled, — and I must run, the guests need keeping an eye on. And I recommend you try the shashliks. The meat is very juicy, aged in a fragrant marinade, — he playfully snapped his fingers, — and with it, definitely, take some bryndza cheese, — he screwed up his eyes in delight, — ours is the freshest, most tender and very tasty. Bon appetit!
— What is this, — looking at the table, Elena exclaimed, — all for us? Misha!
— she groaned, — are we supposed to eat all this?
At the neighboring table sat two men with their wives. One thin, with long curly hair, the other plump, almost bald.
— By the way, about the bryndza, — the thin one laughed, pulling a piece of meat with his teeth right off the skewer, — did you hear how this guy in the plaid suit recommended they, — he pointed the skewer at the Bulgakovs, — eat the bryndza, saying it is: 'The freshest, most tender and very tasty'! And I, by the way, know him, — he took a sip from his glass, — he is the translator of the local ambassador, well, the one who invited us here, — and chewing the meat with appetite, specified, — well, the one who is the US ambassador.
— And what does the bryndza have to do with it?
— the plump one hiccuped, — what does the bryndza have to do with it?
— Here's what, — the thin one wiped his lips with a napkin, — I'll tell you now. Two weeks ago I was at the Moscow Art Theatre at the premiere of the play 'Platon Krechet' based on the novella by A. Korneichuk. Well, the play is so-so, — he grimaced, — but, that's not the point. During the intermission, a friend and I, as is fitting, went to the buffet to drink a glass each. This guy, in plaid, — he pointed his finger towards the doors where Thayer had exited, — was standing right in front of us, and the ambassador was sitting at a table waiting. When his turn came, the translator called him over, asking what he would like to eat. The boss looked at the display case and quietly said something to him in English.
— Mr. Ambassador is inquiring, — the translator asked the barman, — why the bryndza is greenish in color, and the sturgeon has a brownish coating?
— The sturgeon was delivered of the second freshness, — the barman replied, — and the bryndza is supposed to look like that. Are you going to take it?
The plaid one translated to the ambassador, the latter looked in surprise first at the display case, then at the barman and said something to the translator.
— Mr. Diplomat asked to inform you, — the plaid one sighed, — that sturgeon does not come in second freshness. It is either fresh, or spoiled.
— So, are you going to take it, or not?
— the barman frowned, — look how many people I have, and he's turning his nose up.
The ambassador again looked at the display case, sighed, shook his head and silently walked towards the exit.
— Green bryndza, Mr. Barman, does not exist in nature, — the translator said, — you were deceived. It is supposed to be only white, — and followed his boss.
— So they left, — the thin one shook his head and for some reason looked at the Bulgakovs, — only ruined our mood.
— Foreigners, — the thick one sighed, — what can you say, a spoiled people. So what, — he looked anxiously at the storyteller, — so you and your friend didn't have a drink?
— Well, of course, — the thin one was surprised, — and what does vodka have to do with it? We drank of course, true, we didn't have a snack, the appetite, you know, vanished.
He fell silent and rummaging in his plate, found a piece of bryndza, pierced it on a fork and began to examine it carefully.
— Indeed, white, — having examined the bryndza from all sides he said thoughtfully, — the devil knows, maybe it really doesn't come in a green color?
— Kesha!
— the thin one's wife capriciously wrinkled her nose, — what is it with you and this bryndza. Well, what's the difference, whether it's white or green? Ugh! It's salty and I never liked it, I prefer pastries. Better pour the madames some champagne, — and she held out her glass, — my friend and I are bored.
— Indeed, Kesha!
— the bald one waved his hand, — yeah, spit on this bryndza. Okay, champagne for the ladies, — he poured into the women's glasses, then took another bottle and filled two shot glasses, — and you and I will have vodka.
He speared a salted cucumber on his fork and said with a smile, — personally I don't care whether the bryndza is white or another color, but I know for sure that a cucumber is always only green, and moreover, regardless of what freshness it is, first or second!
The orchestra from Prague played jazz. This was a genre of musical art completely unfamiliar to the Soviet person and the alcohol-loaded guests awkwardly danced to this incomprehensible music, formed under the influence of African rhythms and Latin American folklore. This very much amused the spectators sitting at the tables, who made critical jokes about the dancers. It was already about four o'clock in the morning and the full, rather drunk crowd had grown 'heavy' and it was noticeable that everyone was tired.
Three men stopped not far from the Bulgakovs' table. One was plump, in a baggy tuxedo, the other, on the contrary, thin and also in a tuxedo, the third, a very heavy man, unlike his friends, was in a long old-fashioned jacket.
— Let's stand a bit, — wiping sweat from his forehead, the plump one said, — at least stretch our legs a bit.
He lit a cigarette and sighed heavily, — whatever time we've been sitting at the table, I have no strength left, — and patted his solid stomach, — it's pressing, it's hard to breathe.
— And you, Semyon, eat less, — the thin one smirked, — and it won't press. I don't have a belly and nothing is pressing.
— And I unbuttoned my pants, — the heavy one said quietly, — good thing I don't have a stupid tuxedo like you, but a normal long jacket and in it you can't see that I loosened my belt.
— Yeah, how can you not eat?
— the first one grimaced, — look how much food there is and it's all for free, how can you restrain yourself here? And I'm not even talking about booze, drink as much as you want. Oh, guys, I feel I overdid it, got drunk. And I have a meeting with a client in the morning, — he sighed, — I just don't know how I'll endure it, I feel my head will be splitting from a hangover…
— And you take two pyramidon tablets in the morning, — the thin one said, — and you'll feel better.
— Nonsense, — the heavy one in the jacket grimaced, — no pyramidon will help, that's all foolishness! There is an old wise rule: 'Treat like with like'. The only thing that will bring you back to life from a hangover is a couple of glasses of vodka with a spicy hot snack. A proven remedy, believe me. Or even better, cancel the meeting, — the friend shrugged his shoulders, — why are you straining yourself? But take a little vodka in the morning in any case, it won't hurt.
— I can't cancel, — Semyon irritably lit a cigarette, — I'll lose the client. Oh, I'll tell you, the people have become spoiled, — he wiped the sweat again, then surreptitiously unbuttoned a button on his pants and sighed with relief, — the housing problem has spoiled them greatly.
— How so?
— the man in the jacket asked and also lit a cigarette, — what are you talking about?
— I have a client, — Semyon looked around and unbuttoned a second button, — he arrived from Kiev, and his nephew lived here, in Moscow, and has now died. And he is the deceased's only relative and came to formalize the inheritance. Well, I, as a notary, accepted his documents and said, we will formalize it. And he says: «Good, like, thank you. Formalize it».
The notary puffed and indignantly blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth.
— Well?
— asked the thin one, — what are you on about, what's the problem?
— What do you mean what?
— Semyon replied irritably, — what does «formalize it» mean? It means the apartment is his by inheritance, and to me it's «formalize it»! You come to me with respect, so that 'formalizing' is a joy to me. His 'thank you' doesn't warm my soul, you can't put it in your pocket.
— Yeah!
— his friend in the jacket shook his head, — you speak correctly, the people have become spoiled, you said that right. Well, and you what?
— Hmph, — the notary smirked, — we are no fools here either. I drag the papers for a week, another, I look, my client has become sad, but doesn't give up. Another couple of weeks pass, he became somewhat nervous. Asks how things are going, saying he is a visitor and has nowhere to live, and life in Moscow is expensive and his money is running out.
— Well, and how can I help?
— I ask, — I can't exactly take you in to live at my apartment. In short, after another couple of weeks my client matured, received some transfer from Kiev, — Semyon smiled, — and so, tomorrow he will come to the office. So I, without fail, must meet with him and resolve our issue with the formalization.
— Then it's clear, — said the thin one, — you absolutely must. No, you noted correctly, — he sighed, — the devil knows what is going on in Moscow. It seems the people are like people, always were like this, — he shrugged, — but the housing problem has clearly spoiled them. Here, my cousin, — he lowered his voice, — served as the chairman of the housing cooperative in Saratov and from his words, the population there is somehow simpler, more understanding or something. So, he had such a wonderful leather briefcase, he always carried it with him. A petitioner comes to him in the office, my brother demonstratively pulls out documents from the briefcase, thoughtfully thumbs through them, and this briefcase, he leaves open on the nightstand near the client. Then he leaves the office, supposedly carrying papers to the boss for signature, while he himself goes to the buffet, drinks tea, returns, takes the briefcase, supposedly to get another paper. Looks and, if the client is understanding, gives him the documents and they part pleased with each other, but, if a stupid one turns up, then 'the boss didn't sign and it needs more work'. This, of course, is not Moscow, the city there is small, the people are simpler, not so spoiled, and the petitioners knew about the 'magic briefcase'.
— A smart brother you have, — the plump one shook his head, — probably lives in a three-story mansion?
— That I won't say, — the thin one sighed, — how many floors are in the prison I don't know, I won't lie, they jailed their whole office. Oh, look, — he pointed his finger at their table, — our wives are already waving at us, probably brought new grub. Let's go drink so that the housing problem doesn't completely spoil our citizens and so that some stupid comrades become more understanding.
— Well, how do you like it here?
— Thayer sat down with the Bulgakovs, — how is the food, the music? Why aren't you dancing?
— Thank you, everything is wonderful, — Elena Sergeevna smiled, — just a little tired. The food is excellent, and the alcohol…, — she looked at her husband with a smile and laughed, — I think Misha will take about three days to recover. And we are not dancing because the music is somewhat unusual, — she leaned towards the translator and said quietly, — honestly speaking, we don't know how to dance to it.
— It's jazz, — Thayer shook his head, — modern rhythms, — and also whispered, — to tell the truth, I don't know how myself.
— Pardon, cavaliers, — Elena Sergeevna smiled, — a girl needs to go to the ladies' room, powder her nose, — and she walked towards the restrooms.
— And where is Mr. Bullitt?
— Bulgakov leaned towards Koroviev, — why is he not visible? I would drink a glass of wine with him.
— And this, Master, is exactly what you don't need to do, — the translator said quite quietly, — there are 'eyes and ears' everywhere here. We know perfectly well that the waiters and service personnel provided to us by Baron Steiger are OGPU employees and the information from them will be at the Lubyanka today. So, you don't need to meet with the ambassador, and to drink a glass of wine with him…, — he smiled broadly, — what, our cellars weren't enough for you?
— Wow!
— Elena Sergeevna approached from behind and put her hands on her husband's shoulders, — look who came to us!
Tukhachevsky entered the restaurant and began looking around.
— Excuse me, friends, — Thayer stood up and with the words, — I have work, — quickly walked towards the general. Approaching him, he said something, then waved his hand towards the orchestra, which immediately stopped playing.
— Ladies and gentlemen!
— Thayer said loudly, — I ask for your attention. Now, for you and for our guest, the outstanding military commander of the Red Army Mr. Tukhachevsky, — he pointed to the general, — a surprise!
— and waved his hand. Musicians in national costumes went up on stage and began to play Georgian music. A dancer with sabers swiftly jumped into the hall and whirled in a fiery dance. The audience began to clap in time with the music and, suddenly, Tukhachevsky joined him and began to dance the lezginka together with him.
— Misha, look, — Lena clapped her hands, — that's our Lepeshinskaya.
The Bolshoi Theater ballerina joined the dancers and whirled, performing the female part of the dance. The audience was delighted, began to applaud actively, and some joined the dancers. It all ended to the stormy ovation of everyone present.
The crowd enlivened, dancing began, the guests found a 'second wind'. At the tables they began to make toasts again, the clinking of glasses resumed, knives and forks clattered. And the general went all out, dancing with the young ballerina every dance in a row.
— If my husband pulled off such pretzels with young wenches, — the plump lady snidely told her table neighbor, — I would tear his head off, — and nodding towards the dancers, added, — where is this tomcat's wife looking?
— Oh, oh, you would tear it off, of course, — her friend replied with sarcasm, — and who will buy you fur coats, your lover, or what?
— and she snickered into her fist, — he's as naked as a falcon, and you support him. By the way, on your husband's money, — she twisted her little mouth, — well look at you.., tear it off!
— Hush you, — the lady hissed, — shut your mouth. I just didn't finish speaking, — and she sighed, — first I would tear it off, and then immediately attach it back. I'm not a fool, and I understand that the head of the trade department cannot work without a head.
— Ah…, — her friend smiled and also sighed, — then alright.
It was noisy, cheerful, the guests ate a lot and drank even more. Some magician performed, showed some wonders with cards, cheerfully handed out ten-ruble notes to the audience, claiming they were real, and they then turned into colored wrappers, and much, much more. There was a funny competition 'Drink to the bottom' — who could drink the most champagne with a clothespin on their nose. Misha participated, but quickly 'dropped out of the race'.
The Bulgakovs left the embassy around 6 in the morning. They rode home in the embassy Cadillac, Elena Sergeevna had a large bouquet of roses in her hands, given by Thayer, the writer was drunk. The general danced with the ballerina until 9:00.
— Good morning, dear Mikhail Afanasyevich, — the stranger's voice was soft, — wake up, please, you have been sleeping for quite a long time, wake up.
— Forgive me, — Mikhail opened his eyes and sat up in bed, — whom do I have the honor of addressing? Who are you and what are you doing here, are we acquainted?
Elena Sergeevna entered the room.
— Oh, you woke up, — she smiled, — good morning dear. You get acquainted for now, — she nodded at the stranger, — and I will go brew some tea.
— Allow me to introduce myself, — a gray-haired man of about 50 nodded his head and smiled, — Professor Krasnushkin, head of the psychiatric clinic of the Moscow Regional Clinical Institute, a close friend of your uncle Nikolai Mikhailovich Pokrovsky (a famous gynecologist). Actually, I am here at his request.
— I don't understand, — Bulgakov finally woke up, — what does my uncle have to do with this?
— he looked uncomprehendingly at the guest, — and why is a psychiatrist visiting me, and a professor at that? I am, it seems, not crazy, — he shook his head, — or is there something I don't know?
— Most sympathetic Mikhail Afanasyevich, — the guest smiled, — I will explain everything now. The fact is that your spouse is very concerned about some, so to speak, strange circumstances relating specifically to you, and shared her anxiety with your uncle, well, and esteemed Nikolai Mikhailovich, asked me to look into this matter.
— But what, actually, is the matter?
— Mikhail shrugged, — what are you talking about?
— Let's figure it out, — the professor sighed, — the matter is not simple. And so, you and your spouse visited the American embassy for a rather noisy event, which all of Moscow is talking about, called the 'Spring Festival', correct?
— he looked at Bulgakov.
— And what?
— Mikhail nodded his head, — yes, we were at this festival and what's the matter?
— In itself this raises no questions, — Krasnushkin said, — but your subsequent actions are quite strange. Let's, my good sir, reconstruct the events that happened the day before. From the words of your spouse, after a rather stormily spent night, you and she returned home only towards morning, and in a rather intoxicated state. Having arrived home, without explaining the reasons, you took the manuscript of your novel from the desk and threw one part into the stove, and tore up the other. Did this happen, Mikhail Afanasyevich?
— and without waiting for an answer, added, — it happened! Then, in secret, you told your spouse that, while she, with her friends, was in the embassy store, you, with some guide, went through a mirror hanging on the wall in some 'Lobby' and ended up in a secret room, where you met with the Devil himself, his retinue and some mythical cat named Behemoth, drank collectible wine there from a secret underground wine cellar, which you called the 'Wine Cave'. During the communication, the Devil told you that Elena Sergeevna belongs to a royal family and her foremother is the Queen of France Marguerite de Valois. Is everything correct, did you say this?
— the professor looked intently at Mikhail and sighed, — tell me, Mikhail, doesn't it seem to you that your story looks, to put it mildly, somewhat strange?
— Yes, perhaps, — Bulgakov frowned, — indeed, it looks strange, but, after all…, after all this is all true, — he waved his hand in despair, — professor, this all really happened!
— So, my good man!
— Krasnushkin shook his head, — your spouse told me that you drank heavily there, moreover you chased vodka with champagne, port wine and God knows what else. Well, have mercy, — he shrugged his shoulders, — is it possible to do that? So it 'hit' you, and 'visions', after such a volume of alcohol consumed, is quite a possible state. Well, my dear fellow, with such a lifestyle it is not far to schizophrenia, — he shook his head, — this I say to you as a psychiatrist.
Elena Sergeevna entered the room, pushing a serving cart on wheels with cups and a teapot. The smell of tea floated around the room.
— Lena! Professor!
— Mikhail exclaimed in despair, — believe me, this all happened! I really did meet, well…., of course, not with the real Devil, but his, um…um…um.., so to speak, literary, — he waved his hands, — well, you understand…, well.. well…, artistic image…, but, this all happened, and the retinue was there, and the cat Behemoth, and….
— That's wonderful, — the professor interrupted him, — that's marvelous. After all, you, my dear, are a writer, aren't you? So keep this intrigue a secret and use it as the plot for your future novel. Describe all these events, give free rein to your imagination, artistic images, do not hold yourself back in anything, and I am sure the novel will be most interesting. My dear!
— he looked at Elena Sergeevna, — please, prepare paper and sharpen the pencils, — he smiled broadly, — yes, plenty of them! The Master is starting a new novel, — and he put his hand on Mikhail's shoulder and looked him in the eyes, — isn't that so, my dear fellow? And I will be one of the first readers, agreed?
Bulgakov nodded his head mechanically.
— That's marvelous, — the professor said with relief, — that's wonderful, — and he turned to Bulgakova, — now I can reassure you and Nikolai Mikhailovich. And now we will drink tea.
— Try warm baths, — putting on his coat, the professor looked at Elena Sergeevna and already leaving the apartment, added, — and, my dear, no alcohol, yes sir, none at all!

The fate of all the participants of the 'Spring Festival' in Spaso House, with minor exceptions, is sad. Almost all of them were arrested or killed by the NKVD organs and perished in hell. Saving their own lives, many of them betrayed and denigrated each other, but then they themselves were disgraced, slandered and trampled. In the fall of 1936, the 'famous joker and buffoon' Karl Radek was arrested, who subsequently was beaten to death in prison. Even sitting in the dock, Radek joked that 'he and the other defendants with false testimonies, denials and deceptions, tormented the selfless investigators of the NKVD, these executors of the will of the party, defenders of the people from its enemies, sensitive and humane friends of the arrested'. His anecdote is worth something: «A ring at the door. The husband goes to open it, returns, wipes the sweat from his forehead and tells his frightened wife: «Don't worry, darling, it's just bandits who came to rob us».
On November 20, 1935, the rank of Marshal of the USSR was introduced in the country and the first to receive it were: K. E. Voroshilov- People's Commissar of Defense of the USSR. A. I. Yegorov- Chief of the General Staff of the Red Army. M. N. Tukhachevsky- Deputy People's Commissar of Defense of the USSR. S. M. Budyonny- Inspector of Cavalry of the Red Army. V. K. Blyukher- Commander of the Special Red Banner Far Eastern Army.
1937 - a series of arrests of the highest command staff of the Red Army led by Marshal Tukhachevsky, who was executed by decision of a military court with the participation of Marshal Yegorov and Marshal Blyukher. Marshal Yegorov was arrested and shot a year later. Marshal Blyukher was arrested in 1938 and died in prison after unbearable torture. In the winter of 1938, Bukharin was arrested and with him 20 other people, who were also executed.
Alexander Afinogenov, playwright- in 1937 expelled from the VKP (b) and the Writers' Union, his plays were banned.
Vsevolod Meyerhold, director, teacher- arrested in 1939, shot in 1940.
Zinaida Reich, Meyerhold's wife, theater actress, after her protests against the working methods of the NKVD officers during her husband's arrest, was soon brutally murdered by unknown persons.
Sergei Yermolinsky, playwright (prototype of Aloisy Mogarych), arrested in 1940 and served his sentence in the Saratov prison.
Alexander Bezymensky, poet (prototype of Ivan Bezdomny), in 1937 was expelled from the ranks of the VKP (b).
Demyan Bedny, writer, poet (prototype of Berlioz), in 1938 was expelled from the Party and from the Writers' Union with the wording: 'Moral decay'.
Boris Steiger (prototype of Baron Meigel), employee of the Narkompros collegium for foreign relations, GPU agent, in 1937 accused of espionage 'in favor of one of the hostile imperialist states' and shot.
And this list can be continued for a long time.

Bulgakov sat at the desk, put a blank sheet of paper in front of him, took a pencil in his hand and thought.
— Yes, — he whispered, — that is exactly how it was…, — and he leaned over the paper, — exactly so!
«Once in spring, at the hour of an unprecedentedly hot sunset, in Moscow, at the Patriarch's Ponds……»

P. S. William Bullitt, US Ambassador to the USSR from 1933 to 1936. In addition to Mikhail Bulgakov, he was close friends with the great 20th-century novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald and was a 'model' for some of his heroes. He was very good friends with the founder of psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud and, saving his life, brought him out of Vienna to London during the Nazi occupation. He was the US Ambassador to France when Hitler attacked the country. The leadership suggested he leave the embassy, but he refused and sending his family to Bordeaux, remained in Paris. When the French cabinet of ministers left the city, Bullitt assumed the functions of the head of the Paris administration and effectively was the mayor of the French capital for several days, and in this capacity held negotiations with the Wehrmacht command on the bloodless surrender of the city. Subsequently, in the rank of major, he fought in the ranks of the French army 'Free France' under the command of Charles de Gaulle. He was wounded and until the end of his life unfailingly walked with a cane like Bulgakov's hero. He died in Paris in 1967, the very year that the novel 'The Master and Margarita' was finally published.
Charles Thayer- personal secretary and translator of the US Ambassador William Bullitt. Lived in Moscow from 1933 to 1942. Subsequently served in the embassy in Kabul, returned to the US and according to the conclusion of the McCarthyist House Un-American Activities Committee, in 1953 was suspended from civil service 'for sympathy with communists'. He wrote the book 'Bears in the Caviar', which can be considered an account of his stay in Russia. He died in 1969.
The author has no information on the fates of other members of 'Woland's' retinue.