There was only the gay spring wood across the river behind the grating in the window, and the river sparkling in the midday sun.
Pastiche of Chapter 9: A New Book
The hallway down which Alexandre Nikolayevich Stravinsky made his path was as white and pristine as fresh snow. His thoughts did not linger long on Ivan Nikolayevich for he knew there was nothing the matter with the poor man. The poet had indeed been upset by the story of Pontius Pilate told to him at the Patriarch’s Pond, but he had also been told this story by none other than Woland himself. This did not trouble the Professor, Alexandre Nikolayevich.
Stravinsky continued down the hall, all but forgetting the patient in room 117 until finally he came upon the door he needed. Room 107 had a door smaller than the rest, with a silver knob and a wreath of passion flowers. Alexandre Nikolayevich did not hesitate before opening the door.
“Greta Gospodinova, how are you feeling today?”
The girl sighed. Her window was open, so Stravinsky moved to close it.
“No, please, leave it be.”
The Professor, concerned, changed directions to stand at the foot of his patient’s bed. “Fine! But we will need to close it later, my dear, before sunset. We wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
“No, I suppose we wouldn’t.” Gospodinova replied morosely with a toothless smile.
The young and beautiful girl had been brought in by her parents who, after having had enough of her whispers and prayers to her beloved god, no longer came for visits and paid for their daughter’s bill in mailed chervontsy. The day of her arrival was the day of Stravinsky’s first day on the job. He had seen her with weary eyes, for he had spent the night before next to an intersection. But he had known in an instant that she was his future, that Greta Gospodinova.
The Professor stood watching at her while she gazed out the window for what seemed like hours to Greta Gospodinova, until Rostopchin came in with her meal. She never liked Rostopchin, the man with the goatee and burning eyes. He seemed too enthusiastic to her.
“Alexandre Nikolayevich, I found something in a patient’s file that I believe is immensely relevant to his case. Might I have a second of your time?” asked Rostopchin.
The Professor checked his watch and nodded, before taking a final glance at Greta Gospodinova and marching out the door. He followed the servant into his study and closed the heavy door behind him.
“Alright Fyodor Vasilievich, what have you to show me?” demanded the Professor. He had not much appreciated the interruption of his afternoon affairs.
Rostopchin reached into Stavinsky’s book shelf and withdrew a newly bound volume. “I have consulted my master and have retrieved this book, here, to help you along. I would offer to translate, but you have already read that tome. It is in Latin.”
“And what, pray tell, will I learn today?” voiced the Professor, eagerly awaiting the new information with which he could conquer his world.
“Are you familiar with poetry, Alexandre Nikolayevich? Even the purest heart may be moved with the sweet uttering of a few declarations. And for future reference, your prayers will do no good.”
“I am not sure I follow you Fyodor Vasilievich. I enjoy poetry, and have the good fortune to be the one to nurse the poet Homeless back to health, but he is currently incapable of writing. If you are suggesting that I ask the disturbed man for—"
“No, no silly mortal, I will not begrudge you for your irrational consideration for others. But you will read this book and learn to write poetry like a soldier and so woo your beloved. It is His command,” the irritated servant related, dropping the weighty volume on the desk, and made to leave the room.
But before he could depart, Stravinsky called after him, “Fyodor Vasilievich, what was that about my prayers?”
Rostopchin only muttered something about 1812 and proceeded through the threshold without turning back.
Stravinsky never enjoyed being dealt with as a child, yet he always perceived his treatment to be such during his encounters with Rostopchin. Of course, the servant always brought him the books. Yes, the books that fed him life, the magic books! What a deal he had gotten; these books could teach him everything. He had learned Latin, and medicine, and how to command his inferiors. His life had improved dramatically.
The book that Rostopchin had dropped remained on the Professor’s desk along with a monochromatic assortment of pens, pills, and papers. Stravinsky’s fingers crept across the newly minted edges of the volume as if they were made of gold. Losing all pretenses, he collapsed in his armchair and devoured his prize, absorbing all the metaphors and apostrophes that came his way. After an hour or so, Stravinsky shoved everything from his desk to make space for his beloved book and some old stationary his mother had sent him last September. Then he began writing the most beautiful poetry ever to warm a human heart so delicately. His diction was clear and elegant but not too refined, his rhythm original, his tone united in its irregularity; he wrote of spring. He knew that it would disgust the world, all except for one woman for whom it was written, the woman who was spring herself.
Before the ink had dried, the Professor leapt from his seat with the grace of a feline and, alive with intention, seized his poem by the corner and made his way to the room that bore the wreath of blue and white.
With eagerness foreign to Alexandre Nikolayevich, he burst in room 107 pronouncing, “Greta Gospodinova, I have something here that I believe will—"
But Greta Gospodinova was asleep. She slept with both hands beneath her head and the crisp, white sheets pulled up to her waist. The Professor stood quite still for a moment, fearing he might wake the beautiful dreamer and then glided over to close the window. He looked down at his poem, then back to the girl, and decided to leave the poem at her bedside.
As carefully as the Professor made his exit, something stirred Greta Gospodinova. The girl slid one hand out from under her pillow and yawned with all her might before opening her eyes.
“Oh forgive me Professor Stravinsky! I hadn’t realized you had come. Oh no, the window is closed.”
Stravinsky could only stare. He normally kept his wits about him around patients, but he could not in room 107. Without a word the Professor walked back to the window and opened it.
By this time Greta Gospodinova had discovered the stationary placed on her bedside table. “What is this?” And the girl read the words in elegant script carved deep into the parchment. When she had finished her eyes spoke for her, and they only had incredible things to say. And at that moment Greta Gospodinova discovered that which Alexandre Nikolayevich Stravinsky had known years before, on the day of their first meeting.
Chapter 10: Koroviev’s Antics
“Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, house chairman of No. 302-b Sadovya Street in Moscow, where the late Berlioz resided, had had his hands full since Wednesday night,” (Bulgakov, 105).
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