"Don't write anymore!'

pages 149-150, 152

"So they will kill him...?"

pages 321-322

"But the whiskers?..."

page 273

Pastiche (Runaway Knight) p.115

And an hour later, just as Timofey Kondratievich, fairly gulping with pleasure, was recounting to the other tenants how the chairman had gotten what was coming to him, an unknown citizen appeared in Apartment Number 11 and beckoned him out of the kitchen into the hallway. There he said something to him, and both disappeared.

Chapter 10: News From Yalta

Kvastov had undoubtedly been frightened by the initial appearance of the newcomer’s physiognomy, which seemed to have appeared from the thin air. It was assuredly brutish, and was only augmented by the presence of his flaming red hair and single protruding fang. His anxieties, however, were for some reason completely assuaged by the stranger’s name.

 “You may call me Azazello”, he had admonished to Kvastov. He then iterated bluntly that there might be other tenants of the building suspected of wrongdoing.

These words plucked at the Kvastov’s heartstrings; he had always suspected, indeed, even known that the other tenants of No. 302-b on Sadovaya were miscreants. Altukhov’s droopy eyelids and somnambulistic demeanor hid malicious eyes and tendency for belligerence! Of this, Kvastov was certain! No longer would he be able to conspire with that woman a floor below him to cheat on their taxes and dress improperly! Of this, he was just as certain.

Kvastov found that he instinctively trusted his new acquaintance, if only because he had so quickly accused his neighbors of twelve years of such heinous crimes. And so it was that Kvastov found himself accompanying the loutish man across the city, as the sun dimmed and the moon rose behind them. It seemed to Kvastov as though his mind had been wandering the entire journey, as though he were being pricked by many small, tiny, needles, so that by his arrival at Patriarchs’ Ponds Park, he felt as though he had vanished from his apartment, only to reappear instantaneously in this locale.

“So, my dear little man”, murmured Azazello, “you’ve demonstrated a keen loyalty and enthusiasm for your country. I can’t help but admire the delight with which you turned on your neighbors, decidedly nasty folk, who you’ve known for years and with whom you’ve had no major qualms.”

Timofey Kondratievich was delighted. He reveled at his luck: having encountered this like-minded and obviously intelligent comrade, he felt he could finally lower his vigiliance. A cool, relaxing mist seemed to waft over him and he began to feel light-headed; the light of the moon reflecting off the ponds exacerbated the fog, which covered Kvastov’s visage like a plastic bag. Despite this, or, perhaps even because of this, Timofey felt liberated! No longer would he be looked upon with distaste! No longer would voices quiet and eyes fall downward at his arrival! Everyone would realize now that he was justified in his suspicions.

Kvastov eventually managed to pull himself from his reverie, and recalling the presence of Azazello, composed himself, so that his new friend might not find him suspicious and call the militia.

“Thank you”, he practically whispered, “my good man…”

At these words, Azazello’s eyes flashed, a smirk creeping slowly across his face. “Why is it”, he replied, “that you say I am a good man”? As Timofey sputtered, he continued: “We are none of us good men, fellow. There is something within each and every citizen of our nation that precludes the title of ‘good man’. There is sin in everything; doesn’t the generous man propagate avarice? Doesn’t the humble man allow others to better display their arrogance?”

Kvastov could not believe what he was hearing. How could this man imply that even he, Timofey Kondratievich, was villainous; he would not support this. Fighting back the urge to launch himself at the scoundrel standing next to him, he began to pant ferociously. The park seemed to envelop him, and the stars and moon oscillated until it seemed as though he was a prisoner inside some great dome. He looked at Azazello next to him, and reached out… his hand struck some translucent barrier, leaving a smudge. From the smudge began to spread an iridescent film, which proliferated to coat the entire surface of the globe that surrounded him. It confounded his view of the world, distorting it to the point where objects were barely recognizable.

“Is that grass?”  thought Kvastov, gazing through he bubble, “or the hair of some maiden, weaving in the breeze?”

He began to cry desperately, hoping vainly for someone to hear him and grant him refuge from the uncertainty which subjugated him. For him, as for any proper Soviet citizen, ambiguity was among the most frightening aspects of life; the world would be so much better off if everyone’s behavior were uniform and avoided impropriety as if it were the devil himself.

It appeared to Kvastov that his globe was shrinking, and he with it. He was eventually contained, the height of a sheath of grass, within it. Azazello, whom he could no longer see, pushed it out onto the lake with one toe, and it vanished from sight

Timofey did not realize that this was the way of the world, that he had not been deceived; his eyes had merely been opened. Azazello had granted him, or cursed him, depending on your viewpoint, a vision of the world as it truly was. The world is full of things we can never achieve, never reach, and not even begin to comprehend.

Perhaps, one day, Kvastov will realize the knowledge he was granted, that the world revolves around no man, that related and unrelated events occur simultaneously. But we will never know, as he was never seen again.

At the moment when disaster struck Nikanor Ivanovich, two men sat in the office of the financial manager of the Variety Theater, which was also on Sadovaya, not far from No. 302-b. They were the financial manager, Rimsky, and the house manager Varenukha, (Bulgakov, 116).

Woland and Behemoth Thumb Wrestle

Filmed by: Cracked Wristwatch

Characters: Woland (Apricot Soda's thumb)
                                 Behemoth (Powdered Whiskers's thumb)

Voices: Woland (Apricot Soda)
                           Behemoth (Powdered Whiskers)

Comments: Behemoth challenges Woland to a thumb duel!

With a Touch of Style

"Little Extras" is just our way of continuing our interaction with the novel even after finishing it. In the sidebar, you'll see a series of media clips, audiobook excerpts (which we made ourselves of dialogue we really like), as well as links to all of our pastiches. The idea behind the pastiche was to seamlessly insert into the novel our own addition to Bulgakov's story. We all tried as best we could to imitate Bulgakov's style, which was both incredibly challenging and great fun. We'd love to hear what you think after you read them. Feel free to comment!

Cheers!

Pastiche (Black Poodle) p.104

 Chapter 8: Dual Between the Professor and the Poet

There was only the gay spring wood across the river behind the grating in the window, and the river sparkling in the midday sun.

Chapter 8 ¾: How Kerensky Saved Likhodeyev

The man to whom Styopa had been so piteously pleading now stared at the fallen Styopa with contempt. The man had the distinctive growl of a war general, his hair whitened from stress rather than age. He must be drunk, the general thought, more out of spite than out of genuine belief, searching Styopa's surroundings for hidden spirits.

“Ah, men these days are all weak-hearted drunkards,” the general snarled. “Looks like the devil took him.”

A lone seagull flew in circles in the sky across the sea. Locating its target, it swooped down to clamp its beak around a silver shining fish. But as the general watched, the seagull did the strangest thing. As it flew back, it seemed to pause for just a moment, as if in remorse, and then opened its beak to let the fish fall into the sea.

The general threw down his cigarette butt and spit onto the ground. Using his heel, he slowly ground ash and saliva into the sand. He walked away as he muttered, “Even that half-bastard son of the astrologer-king...”

But his words were swallowed by the sound of waves hitting rock.

A few minutes later, Styopa began to stir. The consistent spray of the ocean did not allow him to lie unconsciously for too long. But Styopa did not want to wake up, even though his bed seemed to be made of hard grain and rock, and he could feel the periodic mist of water wash over his face. To the latter, he concluded, that either Berlioz or Grunya had taken to new methods of trying to wake him up. By showering him in bed! None the matter, he wouldn't wake up. That acute naseau was again turning over his stomach, and his head boomed with each crash of the waves.

Here, dear reader, I would interject that Styopa might have noticed his position by the waves and smell of salt air. But details like these never seem to bother a man who has just woken up. Indeed, the poor fellow was far too disoriented to think rationally.

But as Styopa slowly opened his eyelids to see whether it was Berlioz or Grunya, he was immediately struck by the sun hanging in the sky directly overhead. Of course, the spray could easily be explained. But the sun in the middle of his room! This was too much. At that instant, Styopa suddenly remembered his utterly horrifying condition. In fact, so suddenly and so horrifying was this memory, it caused poor Styopa to jump up in a frenzy, only to topple back down from the lack of blood in his head. It must also be noted that Styopa performed all these realizations and frenzied actions blind, for the sun was too bright for him to open his eyes.

“Yalta!” he thought. His mind fumbled for explanation, but all it screamed back was, “Yalta! Yalta!” Until finally, trying hard to bypass the ache in his head, Styopa also remembered “Woland!” From there, the memories came easier. And they came something like this: “Yalta! Woland! Caviar! Hypnosis!”

At hypnosis, Styopa was once again sent into a flurry. “That's it! I've been hypnotized. Suffered hypnosis! Yes, yes, indeed. By that black magician Woland.” Relieved that he had come up with a somewhat reasonable explanation yet still completely at a loss for how he had landed in Yalta, Styopa clambered up, a little shaky in the knees. “Well I must report this to someone. I have to get back to Moscow! Get back to work. Oh, oh and I'll be late again. You stupid fool, Styopa. Why did you have to eat that caviar?”

As he thought all these things to himself, Styopa began to turn in circles, trying to find a direction in which to walk, when he realized he had not yet opened his eyes. Thus, when he finally revealed the day to his weary eyes, he began to jog away from the edge of the jetty, still half-blinded by the sun.

The general had walked off in the same direction, with more of a purpose. Lunch break was almost over, and he needed to get back to his work. It took only fifteen minutes to get from the jetty back to the office, leaving Alexander Kerensky another ten minutes to settle down and enjoy some peace before the afternoon steady hum of unproductive gossip. He had left his uniform jacket on the back of his chair. During break and outside of work, he never wore it. Instead, everyday, he would wait ten minutes until after everyone left and then strip to his white undershirt. Usually he would stay in the office or go outside to take a walk. On occasion, he would take a trip to the jetty, to enjoy the breeze and a cigarette. Then he would promptly return, put on his uniform, and resume his vegetation, hoping the end of the day would come quickly.

Going through his old routine, Kerensky arrived at the brick-red criminal inspection building, sat down at his desk and put on his jacket. His hat, which displayed a red band, lay on his table. This cap, he always donned last. Usually, he attempted to do as little work as possible. He had learned to conform to the rest of his colleagues, who he perceived spent most of their time misfiling information.

But today he did have a task to do. Just as the first officials came trickling back in from lunch, he covered his white hair with the red band and called over one of his more respectable subordinates.

“Akaky Akakyovich!” he called sharply.

Akaky came running over with great obedience. “Yes, sir,” he said respectfully.

“I have received information that there is a madman wandering the jetty in night trousers and without shoes. Probably had a little too much to drink.” At this point he paused to think of the best course of action. “Find him and report back to me. We wouldn't want him to cause any trouble.”

Akaky did not question the order, just as Kerensky had hoped. “Yes, sir,” he replied, and walked away to carry out Kerensky's bidding.

Kerensky did not know why the man on the jetty had any importance to him, but his intuition told him that this man had a greater story than his situation portrayed. This was some great intuition indeed to have come to such an accurate conclusion, for Kerensky had only so much as seen Likhodeyev mumble a few words and faint. But Likhodeyev's face had displayed a certain look that Kerensky did not recognize as an effect of alcohol. On top of that, a drunkard certainly couldn't make it all the way to the jetty in night trousers without being sent to the insane asylum. This rationalization, mixed with curiosity, told the officer to take more immediate action.

It wasn't long before Akaky returned with Likhodeyev, still in a largely frenzied state. Akaky had come across the pathetic man running around near the shore with seemingly no bearings whatsoever. The man would run in one direction for perhaps less than a minute before turning to try a different direction, effectively making no progress. At first, Akaky had observed all this from the safety of his car, trying to determine whether this was the madman he had been ordered to bring back. But the man looked so piteous to him that, being a fairly commendable and honest man, Akaky decided to pick him up anyway.

The consequent ride back to the office was rather unfortunate. Styopa, who believed the car to be a cab, insisted on being taken to the nearest airport immediately. “Moscow! Straight away! Variety Theater! I cannot be delayed!” This was the exact state of Styopa as he ran into the criminal investigation office, and much to Kerensky's dismay, he could not be quieted, drawing the entire office's attention. Most of the officials, having never dealt with a situation like this before, stayed bewildered in the safety of their chairs. A few officials even began to laugh at the wildly gesticulating man, as though they were watching some type of circus act. But no sooner did Styopa begin yelling something about a black Woland or black hypnosis, the officials had had enough, and someone suggested telephoning an insane asylum. Clearly, this man was beyond control, and no one really wanted to deal with him.

Kerensky immediately stepped in, his curiosity peaked by Styopa's exclamations. Variety Theater? Moscow? Why, that was fifteen hundred kilometers. How could a man travel that distance in bed clothes? And what was all this about black, Woland, and hypnosis?

“Gentlemen,” he addressed the other officials, “I'm sure the insane asylum is not the only solution.” He gave a patronizing smile as if to say, “Look here, this is a marvelous joke! Nothing too serious.” Then turning to Likhodeyev, he asked, “Your name and information, sir.”

Bewildered and flustered, Styopa continued to ejaculate disorderly information.

“Very good,” Kerensky interrupted, when he had heard enough to piece together some semblance of a profile. “Name Likhodeyev. Director of Variety Theater. Akaky, see if there is a Variety Theater in Moscow. Send them a telegram: we are holding their director and need confirmation of identity.”

Then firmly grasping Styopa's arm, Kerensky led him to the safety of his office.

Chapter 9: Koroviev's Antics

Nikanor Ivanovich Bosoy, house chairman of No. 302-b Sadovaya Strett in Moscow, where the late Berlioz resided, had had his hands full since Wendesday night, (Bulgakov, 105).

Pastiche (Primus Stove) p. 139

 Chapter 11:Black Magic and Its Full Expose

The general excitement mounted, and no one knows what it would have led to if Fagot had not stopped the rain of money with a quick puff into the air.

“And now, citizens,” he announced, “an even more incredible display! Ein, zwei, drei!”

At his words, appeared, out of nowhere, a man with a pince-nez askew on his face and a briefcase clutched in his shaking hands appeared, trembling.

“Citizen,” Fagot addressed him, “tell the audience your name”.

The mysterious newcomer remained unresponsive.

“Citizen,” Fagot repeated forcefully, “what is your name?”

As if the words were coming from elsewhere, the newcomer answered: “Nikolay Ivanovich.”

Tell us, citizen, have you any idea why you are here and what is about to happen?”

Again silent, Nikolay Ivanovich, shook his head in frightened anticipation.

“There you have it citizens,” Fagot orated, “now you can be confident of the legitimacy of what you are about to witness with your own eyes. Watch carefully, the devil is in the details”.

Then, as easily as Nikolay Ivanovich had appeared, he disappeared. Nobody knows the location to which he disappeared, but the audience did not dwell on this detail for long, for, soon after, Nikolay Ivanovich appeared in the rafters.

Cries were made in disbelief: “It’s a double! The real Nikolay Ivanovich is hidden backstage!” As if in response, there was an almost indetectable noise, as if a breeze were rushing through the rafters, and Nikolay Ivanovich appeared back on the stage.

Soon after, and just as noiselessly, a woman with yellow hair, still naked and dripping from a shower, appeared on-stage. Shocked, she managed to run out of the theater soon after, but her appearance had already been noted with interest.

The audience was incredulous. Who were these people and where were they coming from? It is fairly safe to say that nobody except Woland and his cohorts knew.

The audience sat silent in their confusion. As the silence pervaded the room, Woland became more ominous, sitting solitary in his chair, gazing at the audience unwaveringly. Moonlight stared in from the doorway as if it, too, were part of the audience.

Again, an infinitesimal breeze swept almost undetectably through the theatre once more and another man appeared. The breeze developed slowly to a wind, and eventually to a gust. A sparrow was blown in through the window and got lost in the tumultuous vortex. People were appearing at on-stage at an alarmingly increasing rate. One woman in particular caught the audience’s attention. She had what appeared to be a man’s mouth – it was very wide – and had a solitary fang protruding down from it. The woman’s appearance, with her deathly eyes, appalled the spectators, but thankfully she was soon drowned in the flood of appearing people. A headless body also appeared in the middle of the appearing crowd but few people, if any noticed it. Next to appear was the ghostly figure of the theatre manager, still disheveled and unshaven. Also among the rapidly growing throng was a man aged in his late 30s, dressed in what appeared to be hospital clothes. The man had black hair, nervous eyes, and a particularly pointed noise. His eyes were cloudy with a golden shine, a testament to his wavering sanity. Some could have sworn they also saw, very briefly, 3 men being crucified in the back of the crowd by a large man with a disfigured face.

Incredulity evolved into unfettered amazement as the shock died down. A few screamed with confusion, but most were on the edges of their seats, hollering with excitement, wanting more. Fagot delivered. Soon, not only people were appearing; various objects began to appear among the crowd. Such objects appeared as a primus stove, a small gold horseshoe covered with diamonds, and a pile of what appeared to be transcripts, files, and forms.

The excitement became so intense that the theatre descended into chaos. People were up on their seats, pulling their hair out, and turning to each other bewilderment.

And then, almost as quickly as it had begun, it ended; everybody who had so rapidly rushed into existence on the stage vanished immediately and at once. Expectedly, this caused some of the excitement to dissipate, but a great deal remained. The theater buzzed as the audience members chattered nervously with one another.

Two young men, exchanging a meaningful and merry glance, took off from their seats and went directly to the buffet. The theater hummed, everybody’s eyes glittered with excitement. Oh, yes, no one could tell what it all would have led to had Bengalsky not found within himself the strength to act, (Bulgakov, 139).

Pastiche (Cracked Wristwatch) p. 288

Chapter 23: Satan's Great Ball

The Dear Baron Meigel

“He telephoned me as soon as he learned of my arrival in Moscow, offering his services in the field of his specialization—showing me all the notable sights of the city,” announced Woland to the crowd that hung on his every word.

It had been a Friday when Baron Meigel first contacted the infamous magician of The Variety Theater, and a shadow of the moon was just beginning to appear in the darkening sky. Meigel was, of course, quite accustomed to showing foreigners around Moscow’s illustrious attractions, so he thought it was only proper that someone of Woland’s prestige and fame should be given a proper tour of the city.

Meigel felt a slight nervous turning in his stomach as he picked up the phone to dial Apartment 50, but he forced himself to push all anxiety away and instead fantasized of the spectacular vacation or lovely new painting he might receive after his task was complete.

The phone in apartment 50 rang for quite some time before Meigel finally heard a voice on the other end. Initially, he was under the impression that whoever was on the opposing line was yelling at him, and he nearly hung up. Just as he was about slam the phone down in fear, he heard a strange meow of sorts and realized that his counterpart on the phone was not yelling at him, but rather at someone by the name of Behemoth who was apparently sulking about the lack of appreciation he had received for a new bowtie he had recently acquired.

“Hello? Hello?” Meigel inquired nervously into the receiver. He attempted to mask the jittery shake that had entered his normally suave and dignified tone, but his anxiety still shone through.

Suddenly the man on the other line screamed at the evidently underappreciated Behemoth to “get the hell out of the room,” and after sounds of shattering and the slamming of a door, the clamor on the other end of the line seemed to die down.

“Yes?” the voice on the phone inquired sharply, the speaker’s attention finally seeming to have settled on the telephone conversation.

Meigel cleared his throat, and mustering all the suavity he could, he politely asked if he “could please speak to the Professor Woland about a truly exceptional offer.”

Again, the Baron heard a clamoring and the faint sounds of indistinguishable voices, and he correctly assumed that the phone at been placed down. He then heard the slamming of a door as the room on the other end became silent except for the sound of a pair of feet steadily nearing the phone.

“My dearest Baron Meigel!” declared a booming voice on the other end, “What a pleasure it is to finally hear from you!”

Though a little unsettled as to how the voice on the other line, presumably Woland, had known his name, Meigel assumed he must have announced it to the first voice on the line, so he let the issue pass. Slowly gaining back his confidence, Meigel began setting himself up to present his offer to the newly famous professor.

“Professor,” the Meigel began with poise, “what an honor to speak with you in person…”

“Indeed, indeed,” interrupted Woland, and then much to Meigel’s surprise, “I know you are the most experienced in your field, and therefore I accept!”

Meigel was, of course, taken aback by Woland’s prior knowledge of his profession and offer, but then it struck the Baron that he was the most prestigious “tour guide” of sorts for all foreigners in Moscow, and therefore it was perfectly logical that a professor such a Woland would be familiar with his work. Yes, he, the Baron Meigel, was the very best, and all of Moscow knew it. So, Meigel collected himself again, and the two agreed to meet the next morning in the Patriarchs’ Ponds Park.

When Meigel awoke the next morning and leaned his head out the window to test the weather, he noticed something peculiar about the sky. Though it was a perfectly sunny and breezy spring day, up in the bright sky a soft outline of the moon remained. But the Baron thought none of it, dressed in his best suit, and promptly headed towards the Patriarchs’ Ponds.

He arrived to find Woland, attired in an expensive black suit, sitting on a bench with his legs crossed, staring at the faint, white outline of the moon that Meigel had noticed earlier. Meigel took his first step past the park gates, and immediately Woland’s head whipped around in Meigel’s direction. For an instant, the light seemed to play games with Woland’s face. It appeared to reflect off of his right eye, making it flash, but seconds later the effect disappeared and Meigel forgot about the incident entirely. He walked briskly towards Woland, beaming his classic smile at the Professor, and hastily stuck out his hand. Woland stood and took the hand, all the while flashing a set of perfectly white teeth.

“Where to?” smiled Woland, and for a moment the flash of light returned to his right eye, but yet again it disappeared almost the instant it appeared.

Of course, this odd movement of the light did not throw off a professional such as Meigel, and he simply smiled politely, but with subtle confidence, and began his tour. He began by showing the Professor all the typical tourist destinations in Russia, reciting his usual spiel with an energy that had a somehow false air about it. They ambled through Moscow, and it soon began clear that the sights Meigel was showing to Woland were nearly exclusively theaters. At every new theater Woland simply chuckled, nearly undetectably, to himself, and asked questions about the particular theater they had arrived at with the utmost interest. Meigel would answer the questions with equal zeal, and then the two would move on to their next destination. At first the conversation centered on topics of genuine insignificance, but slowly it became apparent that dear old Meigel was directing the discussions in a very specific direction.

“So, Professor,” Meigel inquired casually, “What is it that you do exactly?”

“Why my dearest Baron,” replied Woland, his voice seeping with sincerity, “I enjoy playing a good game of chess with my closest friends, and once in a while I like to attend a ball. You are quite fond of parties yourself, are you not, Meigel?”

The Baron chuckled a laugh that seemed just a few volumes to loud, smiled his classic smile, and turned his face away from Woland so that it faced the sky. Yet again, Meigel noticed the peculiar, white outline of the moon in the mid-day sky.

“You know, Professor, it seems to be coming back to be now that I read something about a performance you gave here in Moscow. Yes, now I am remembering. The reviews were astonishing were they not? The devil take you, you must be quite the talent!”

“You flatter me, Meigel,” said Woland, “for you see, I have a secret to my performances.”

The Baron’s breath suddenly stopped short and his eyes turned towards Woland with unparalleled intensity.

“Oh do go on!” replied the Baron, nearly screaming the words.

“Well,” Woland said in a smooth and silky tone, “the secret is that the audience is the main character! Isn’t that just wonderful-- how little work for me!”

Meigel’s face fell just slightly as he muttered “Aha,” in a halfhearted tone, but being the talented professional that he was, he quickly recovered his enthusiastic swing, and proceeded on with the conversation.

Curiously enough, at just this time the pair was reaching an old square, and at the end of the square the newly famous Variety Theater was coming into view.

“My God! What a coincidence!” exclaimed Meigel suddenly, “It hadn’t even occurred to me, but this is the very place you performed, Professor; was it not?”

“Indeed it was, Meigel,” replied Woland and said nothing more.

Meigel, clearly expecting a bit more of a response from the Professor was quiet for a moment, perhaps waiting for some extra commentary from Woland, but eventually took it upon himself to resurrect the conversation.

“You know, Professor, the more I think about it, the more it is coming back to me. I believe I read an article about your performance in this theater just the other day. Yes, that’s right, I did read something; it was a show of magic, was it not? The article seemed to imply that it was all some sort of grand trick, but I remembering reading the article and thinking that a professor such as yourself wouldn’t play tricks! No, not one of your caliber!”

Woland, who had been idly gazing at the old theater suddenly whipped his head around to stare Meigel directly in the eyes and, ignoring the Baron’s comments entirely, asked Meigel, with the utmost civility, if he had ever heard of The People’s Commissariat for Internals Affairs (also known as the NKVD).

“Why it sounds familiar,” answered Meigel, “But someone as interested in the arts as myself wouldn’t know about a government organization such as that. That is to say,” added Baron Meigel in a rushed ton, “if it is a government organization. I only assume it is.”

“Oh yes, I would assume so, dearest Meigel.”

“Yes, you see I am a man of the arts, of the theater. I work for the People’s Commissariat for Enlightenment; perhaps you have heard of it, Professor? I mainly show other officials like yourself around our beautiful city. I just love getting to know foreigners like yourself; it’s just grand!” said Meigel, and he continued on with his jumpy chatter.

“I love getting to show all you new-comers to Moscow our wonderful city, and most of all I love learning about you all! You and your cultures that is. I am very lucky, for I have the privilege of attending all the embassy events and parties. Truth be told, there is nothing quite like a ball every so often,” said Meigel with a nervous laugh.

It should be noted, dear reader, that Baron Meigel, was, in fact, quite familiar with the NKVD. Indeed, this very organization, which ran the streets of Moscow, had also funded the last four of Meigel’s vacations. Of course, this connection had simply slipped the dear Baron’s mind at this moment.

“You know, Meigel,” continued Woland, “I shall be throwing a ball this very night. In fact, right before you called I had been trying on suits for the occasion! I do love a fine suit. Indeed, all of my closest acquaintances will be there, foreigners of great prestige, I assure you.”

At these words Baron Meigel’s eyes opened nearly to the point of bursting, and the dear man seemed to be salivating at just the thought of the ball. Naturally, Meigel accepted, and informed Woland in a voice nearly dripping with enthusiasm that, “he simply could not wait for the occasion,” and that “he must return home immediately to prepare for the prestigious event!”

The Baron then rushed home, showered, and dressed himself in his very finest suit and black patent shoes. He took great pains to make himself presentable, for Woland was clearly an impeccable dresser, and Meigel wanted more than anything to impress the infamous professor.

When Meigel arrived at Apartment 50, he was surprised to find the door wide open. Calling out the Professor’s name, he cautiously stepped inside only to find that the Apartment was completely deserted. It was then that the Baron noticed the sounds of a full orchestra coming out of a large fireplace that sat in the center of the small and dark living room. At first Meigel assumed he must be imagining the sounds, but as he slowly approached the hearth, the majestic music became even louder. Carefully, Meigel leaned his head into the opening of the fireplace, attempting to identify the exact source of the music, and in a sudden rush he found himself falling through a black tunnel with the music rapidly increasing in volume.

It seemed as though he were falling through this dark and musical tunnel for days when quite suddenly, his body smacked against a cold, marble floor. Hey lay on the floor, groaning in pain, for some time, until he finally worked up the strength to pull himself off the ground. Still, Meigel could hear the orchestra coming from a door at the end of the dark room he had dropped into, and slowly he limped over towards the source music.

Yet again, the dear Baron’s eyes nearly popped out of his sockets as he walked through the door, but this time not so much as from excitement as from terror. All around him, dismembered corpses and decaying coffins were dropping out of the grand fireplace and instantly transforming back into normal, Russian citizens. The bodies then proceeded to waltz down the grand staircase in front of them, carrying on conversations as if everything were perfectly normal. You see, dear reader, it was beginning to dawn on the dear Meigel that perhaps this was not the illustrious ball he had been expecting, and he was beginning to feel a sinking feeling in his gut.

Nevertheless, the Baron forced himself to follow the stream of newly restored citizens into what appeared to be the main ballroom. The nervous turning in his gut continued to grow as he worked up the nerve to enter the grand room, apparently the source of the resounding music. The dear Baron quickly grabbed and downed a glass of champagne sitting on an elegant marble table and inhaled a last, deep breath before taking his final steps through the door.

“Naturally,” continued Woland, again facing the riveted crowd, “I was happy to invite him here.”

Pastiche (Golden Horseshoe) p.104

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).

Pastiche (Powdered Whiskers) p. 297

Chapter 24: Evocation of the Master

“I want my beloved, the Master, to be returned to me at once, this very second,” said Margarita, and she was convulsed with a spasm.

Many miles away, the two strip lights in room 118 began to flicker violently, and with a brilliant flash, one of lights failed, plunging the window into darkness, so that only the moon’s light illuminated the Master’s bed through the iron crossbars (one of which was bent from his long-forgotten escape attempts). A small black kitten dropped in through the window and a cooing voice came from beyond the bars, “Now now, you can’t just go wandering into people’s rooms! There’s a protocol you see; first you must make a truly spectacular entrance.” A large dark shadow appeared, blocking the moonlight completely, and grasped the bars of the window.

“Like a fish in ice,” purred the large cat, as the first bar disintegrated in his paw.

“Like a fly in tar” went the second.

“That’s our fate - so it’s been written” and the third bar crumbled before his eyes. The kitten jumped happily into the room and scrambled up onto a chair.

“Class” roared the cat at the kitten, “Have my teachings been useless? Eyes on me, I will show you how it’s done.”

The tom jumped into the room, illuminated by the spotlight of the moon, and the brass sound of a hundred monkeys crept along with him. The tom was unusually well dressed, sporting a top hat and a cane with a large snake head under his paw. Behemoth tapped around with his stick in front and on both sides of the Master’s feet in time to the quick jazz that filled the air.

“This evening’s entertainment will include one talking cat, one tantalising display of power and one sickening substance!” announced the tom fantastically. The Master rose to his feet as he began to respond, “I’ll need you to fully explain yourself, not what you are, but why you are here.” But before he could finish this previous sentence, the tom had put his cane to the Master’s chest and pushed him back onto his bed.

“Questions. Questions. Always questions! Why must I keep giving answers?” Behemoth reclined slowly into a chair opposite the bed, and the sweet jazz left through the window as it had come in. “Let me ask you a question.” The tom paused slowly as the kitten jumped into his lap, purring to itself. Idly stroking the kitten, Behemoth looked with large eyes at the Master. “How have you remembered and forgotten so much?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” The master replied earnestly.

“ I am likewise afraid! I have affected so many! I’m a talking cat! And yet you, the devil knows why you are not driven to insanity by my presence” The tom pondered briefly, tickling the ears of the kitten in his lap. “Besides, it’s refreshing to be asked why not how, and so I will oblige you in your moment of query: Why am I here? Well, in…” Behemoth removed a thoroughly broken pocket watch, and examined the face with mock intensity, “…precisely 2 minutes and 34 seconds, I am to bring you to our apartment.”

The Master examined the spectacle before him for seemingly the first time.

“I’m thirsty.”

“It won’t be long now! And truly, listen to me; you shall be in our paradise.”

“But I cannot leave the asylum. Without me here, they know not what to do.”

The cat laughed to himself. “That’s what I thought, yet look!” Behemoth picked up the kitten by its neck and dropped it to the ground where it immediately meowed and darted back out through the window. “So will it be for you.”

“So it is finished?” asked the Master tentatively. The cat nodded solemnly. “And again, it is the same way.”

“But you mustn’t dwell on it! I’m not very good at this persuasive dialogue. They really shouldn’t have sent me to talk to you. We have 2 minutes and 33 seconds left! What do you want to do?” asked the tom, bouncing cheerfully on his seat. “I shall grant you a wish! Perhaps you want your book back?”

The master reclined once more, watching the shadows move across his moonlit body. He thought back to those nights by the fireside, his anger, his sickness, his continual urge to destroy the manuscript. And then he thought of Margarita, and her unquenchable thirst for his writing, her pretty face and her soothing voice. “The book is no longer mine.” He said, looking thoughtfully still lit fixture on the ceiling above him.

“But it can be! I can arrange it, you see! I can arrange anything! Watch! Do you want a drink now? Here!” Behemoth reached behind him and pulled out a full glass of clear water.

The Master looked at it and sighed, “No I do not want it.”

“Very well then!” The cat dropped the glass and it sank slowly into the floor. Then as the tom theatrically cupped his hands together and blew into them, a warm glow lit up his face. Opening his hands, the fire fell to the floor, setting the water alight. Behemoth fell to his knees and began to make whooshing sounds, wriggling paws back and forth. He soon noticed that the Master, far from being impressed, was still staring absentmindedly at the ceiling lamps. Behemoth immediately extinguished the flame and crossed his arms into a pouting position.

“Ahem. It seems I am not appreciated here. Well! Would you look at that?” The cat reached into the top pocket of his fine jacket and once again removed the smashed pocket watch to gaze at the face. “It’s easily time to go. But before we do, are you sure there is nothing that I can do for you? No wish that you haven’t fulfilled?

The Master gave Behemoth a curious look and answered slowly, “The material desires of earth cannot supersede those for a greater good.” The tom brought his paws up to his ears and started humming loudly. “And yet!” the Master continued, “There is one thing that I will ask of you.”

Behemoth dropped his hands to his legs and froze attentively.

“I wish only that my other greatest desire shall be fulfilled.”

The cat leapt to his feet, “Of course, my good sir, it shall be done momentarily. Here, take this glass of water and drink it.” Behemoth reached behind him and pulled out a second glass of clear liquid. The Master's hand extended towards the Behemoth's paw, but at the last second, the tom quickly avoided his hand and put it on the table next to him. "Drink up!" The Master drank the glass and fell backwards onto the bed in pain, flames of Behemoth's fire crackling from all his extremities. His head alight, the Master suddenly sat up with a demented look in his eye. Behemoth rose to meet him crying, "Into your hands I commit my spirit!"

The Master's glowed with fire and he laughed loudly, "Why did it come to this?" He struck out at the table until it burst reluctantly into flame, billowing a grey cloud of smoke that extinguished the remaining ceiling light.

"Quick! Water!" cried the tom and threw more water over the bed, which proceeded to explode into one great fireball, engulfing all the remaining furniture in the room and blasting the Master's bed against the window, blocking any remaining light. "Let us fly!" yowled Behemoth and moved towards the blocked window. Out of the dark, acrid smoke came a shadow, and the Master's arms momentarily cleared the smoke to heave aside the monstrous bed. Pivoting the bed aside, the light came streaming into the room and the thick smoke quickly started to pour out. Lost in the exiting smoke were the silhouettes of a large black cat and a man in thin hospital robes, soft slippers and a black cap. Reaching the edge of the balcony, the cat and man leapt off in the sky, a trail of fire following them.

As this strange duo flew across the city, the slipper-adorned, flying madman swept low across the streets, sending jets of flames across the late night diners and men and women returning home from bars in the early hours of the morning. Scattering the people like ants from a foot, Behemoth joined in with the fun, taking swipes at street signs and unfortunate groups of drunkards with his claws.

Later that morning, the news would be full of stories of the previous night's events. The fire in the asylum would be blamed on a faulty fuse that had blown out a ceiling lamp and then set fire to the room. Reports of low flying aeroplanes and shooting stars would be found to be completely unrelated to the fire in the asylum and the product of a few drunkards’ imaginations (who would, incidentally, be admitted to the very same asylum).

It would take much longer, however, to explain why no remains were found of the Master in his room, although top scientists would come forward to announce the high scientific probability that all the remains had been completely obliterated by the flames, and were now just indistinguishable from the ashes of the furniture in room 118. The pair's arrival at the foreigner's apartment would not be given any coverage at all, but I can assure you of the story. The large black cat quickly and graciously directed the Master to the nearest window, which led to a dim, candlelit room.

A wind burst into the room, flattening the flames of the candles in the candelabra, (Bulgakov, 297).

Pastich (Apricot Soda) p. 0

“Who art though, then?”                       
“Part of that Power which eternally wills
evil and eternally works good.”            
                            Goethe—Faustus

 Chapter 0: The Next Stop

At the hour of sunset on a hot spring afternoon, the dark red velvet curtains were drawn, closing out the last cries of the sun. Inside, however, was a massive fireplace filled with a violent fire, lighting the dim room around it. The light danced around the curtains, the desk, and the floor, flickering and crackling. Two paintings of equally demure paled expressions hung on opposite sides of the wall. The rest of the walls were lined with bookshelves of the same dark oak that the furniture was made out of. The study, though crowded with several pieces of dark furniture and a pile of old, stained shirts and rags, was filled with space that seemed to stretch its dimensions; though it was particularly the smallest room in that London apartment, it appeared to have the capacity to fit even more. A giant richly patterned Persian carpet stretched out on the floor before the fire whose tongues of light licked the legs of a tall, lanky figure and the fauteuil he was sitting in. He was reading something he had probably pulled off the bookshelf through a pair of seemingly useless pince-nez with only one cracked lens. The book was one of the countless manuscripts that made up the millions of pages yellowed with age filling the shelves from one end to the other.

There was, however, one shelf, on the column of shelves nearest the fire, just about at eye-level on which the space that would’ve been filled with a thick volume was instead occupied by a white marble bookend. It was a small sculpture of a man who held the few books upright in such a manner that it appeared as if he were pushing them up a steep hill. His face was frozen in eternal frustration, while his muscles bulged in toil, and there was a detail of a sweat bead running down his temple as if he, too, felt the heat of the fireplace.

Two other figures were also in the room in the middle of a game of chess, one being much smaller and hairier than the other. But behind them, in the middle of the room was a vividly colored globe, appearing to have an atmosphere of its own.

Oh yes, we should probably note that this trio had just returned from some lovely adventures in the city, and all were now resting from the commotion in this toasty home that they had been borrowing. They did indeed need a break from all the ruckus and disorder, but they were quickly becoming bored.

While the lanky figure read the words of the manuscript under such dim light and through questionable lenses, the other two were heavily immersed in the large chessboard between them.  All eyes were glued and unblinking, each with the attitude that this round he would triumph in the battle. The black and white pieces, by this point in the match, were scattered across the checkered battleground. They were ornate, chiseled like marble sculpture, but not trapped in static poses like the bookend was; both queens remained standing on the board with keen awareness of the attacks being planned against her own king, while a few pawns remained faithful to protect the hierarchy above them even when it meant sacrificing their lives for another more valuable move. The one opponent’s different colored eyes did not see the black pawn hidden behind the shadow of its queen. Deceived, he went for the faulty move; the white knight galloped into ready position, intending to remove the queen from her vantage point and steal the game’s outcome from there. But, as the horse reached the square of choice, the shadows moved to reveal the pawn; it was too late for that courageous knight, so taken aback by the pawn’s ruthless attack fed by loyalty to his mistress, that he was removed mercilessly and without a fight.

Suddenly, discordant music projected from the globe, but the two chess players didn’t hear it. Perhaps only the most sensitive ears could hear it because the sound was not loud and blaring, only high-pitched and ringing, very faint but still unpleasant. Of course, the one at the fireplace heard the dissonant sounds breaking the rhythm of the air, but he continued, trying to read louder in his head to drown that terrible sound. In somewhat of a crescendo he read, “The mind is its own place And In Itself / Can Make A Heaven OF HELL, A HELL OF HEAVEN.” At this time, his mind seemed to be a hell: the cringing-inducing “music” interrupted the rhymeless yet rhythmful lines with its near painful sound.

Heaving the book into the fireplace out of impulse and frustration, he jerked his gaze toward the globe to see the usual: many lights and glowing areas about the surface of the globe. Stomping toward the middle of the room, he bent over a tiny white light on a large peninsula and listened closely to hear “I would give my soul to the devil to…” Though extremely interested in the completion of that evocation, he knew the awful noise was coming from elsewhere and proceeded to find out where. Scanning the surface of the globe, running his eyes over mountain ranges, placid bodies of water and lights of varying intensity, his eyes stopped and noticed a single blinking red light coming from the globe. It was on the side of the globe facing away from the chessboard on a large mass of land half surrounded by water half bordered inland. Looking closer, he saw the land expand, as clouds passed, a river became bigger, and trees became more definite in shape; the trees around grew taller, as did the buildings bordering the pond, which also expanded. Three adjacent benches along a sidewalk became two, then one on which sat two men. One, older than the other, was wearing a gray summer suit and had a thinning head of dark hair revealed by the hat not on his head but in his hands. The other of the two was more casually dressed and much younger in age and probably younger in outlook as well. The dissonant noise was evidently coming from their mouths; they were probably having a blind, ignorant conversation creating crooked, bent sound waves that travelled oh so unwieldily. The one who was seeing and hearing the two men leaned in even closer bending at his right oblique so that his ear nearly touched those treetops in order to hear the cacophonous sound of disbelief.

“Messire, I think we’ve found our next stop.”

The less hairy of the chess players whipped his head up and instantly looked away from the chessboard toward the lit globe; he raised his eyebrows in surprise, almost embarrassed that he hadn’t noticed the overt flashing of alarmingly red light on his globe, but his ears were still not keen enough to pick up the dissonant chords like that other pair of ears did. Grabbing the black cane that was leaning against the arm of his chair, he sauntered over toward the globe. He squinted to see past the cirrus clouds, while his uneven footsteps took him closer.

His opponent took this distraction as an opportunity to make an illegal move and finally gain the upper hand. He had just pushed his valuable bishop out of harm’s way, when without even turning, the other one said, “Nice move there. Very impressive.” He nodded and then in a more sly tone said, “Oh yes, but you forgot about my rook.”

“What roo…" The square to which he had moved the bishop for safety was in the direct path of the white rook across the board. There went his precious black bishop and the safety of his other pieces along with the chance of winning against his all-too-clever rival. He froze, appalled at what had just happened, for after he removed a hefty amount of valuable white pieces, he thought this game was surely his. Unable to answer his own questions, he resorted to blaming his set of black pieces and thought about claiming the white ones for the next match.

Meanwhile, the man with the cane made his way over to the middle of the room; he peered in at that blinking red light: land, clouds, river, buildings, trees, benches, bench. The two unalike characters on that bench were simply enjoying their sit and their philosophizing on the cool afternoon. He then scanned around the nearby area, not really finding anything interesting, just a few too many people, but that could easily be taken care of. He noted the brightly colored drink stand, and the sun which was setting, while the park slowly cleared out. All of a sudden, a yellow hue caught his eye; a sizable bottle of sunflower oil was travelling across the train station platform toward the turnstiles right next to the track. He grinned.

The second chess player, curious and now accepting of his defeat, sat on the nearby chair for a closer glimpse. He, however, was shorter than the other two and was unintentionally looking at the wrong spot on the globe. His cat-like eyes zoomed in to a vast land surrounded by water, past the clouds, while the river shriveled away and the green patches rose to become the plane of leaves on the horizontal-prone trees; the plains rose and he now saw the detailed texture of the grasslands. He was puzzled by what he was looking at. What was he looking at? He then felt a firm tap at the back of his head and looked up. His two eyes met a green one and a black one, which exuded the attitude of irritation. Those differently colored eyes then threw their glance toward the bottle of sunflower oil, as if to point to it. Now understanding, the confused one nodded in response.

Then the one with the unusual pair of eyes handed the tall one a needle.

“Messire eternal, thine is to decree,” he said bowing slightly. Then, he pocketed the needle and began to take leave.

[1] John Milton, Paradise Lost, (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2005), 10.

Marilyn Manson on Religion

Marilyn Manson (whose initials are incidentally "M and M") provides an interesting (and extreme) view on Religion. Perhaps he is even a modern day Woland...





Marilyn Manson wears a peculiar contact in his left eye. Does he wish to appear like Woland?

Pastiche (Spanish Boot) p.141

Chapter 12: Black Magic and Its Full Expose

Incidentally, it was either then or a few moments earlier that the magician, together with his faded armchair, vanished from the stage. And we must add that the audience never noticed it, so absorbed it was in the extraordinary things that Fagot was doing on the stage.

But I, dear readers, always keen to every trivial change, instantly noticed his disappearance and pursued after him. I will instruct you in the way of his path. Let my words be a lamp to your feet and light to that path!

The scorching sun was high in the sky, raining heat over the square in front of the gate. Not even the walls of the city provided refuge, leaving the impatient throng vulnerable to the vertical rays of fire. As a small group of foot soldiers tried to pave way among the spectators, Ratkiller trotted from a distance towards the gate with his typical phlegmatic look. Only the devil knows what was inside of him. Behind the executioner trailed the three prisoners, their hands and ankles bound by chains to one another.

The number of spectators constituted about half the city of Yershalayim. Among them, some were loyal followers of Yeshua, who fortunately benefitted from his teachings. Some pitied the convicted man and were enraged that the diabolic Bar-Rabban was condoned instead. Others came out from mere curiosity to watch the execution. But none of them dared to rouse the Ratkiller.

Then, from within the dense crowd of slithered out a familiar face that maneuvered skillfully through the shoulders. Platinum and gold crowns on each side of his mouth, sparkling gray suit, a cane with a form of a poodle’s head… Woland! But how in God’s name could the black magician have come here? One would have never imagined time travel is in within the abilities of this professor.

After lingering for a couple seconds until the procession of prisoners approached, Woland nonchalantly walked up to Yeshua, and as he did, gestured to Ratkiller as if they were old friends. Ratkiller immediately unshackled Yeshua and pushed him towards Woland, who gently greeted the condemned with a fatherly hug and took him to the side. The magician’s hoarse, rumbling voice made it very hard to understand their conversation.

But wait! Why am I the only one shocked to see Woland here? No doubt, his modern suit, the neatly greased hair and the waxed poodle cane could not be seen anywhere in this time. But not a single soul raised any concern at the sight of the foreigner. Not only that. His shady face was not at all disturbed by the sun’s rays, as though a special aura was protecting him. But let us put that aside for now and focus on what Woland has to say.

“My dear Yeshua, why are you doing this to yourself?” Woland hissed in perfect Latin.

“Ah, Aphranius…There is nothing you can do to change my mind. They are all good men. I…” Yeshua barely managed to let his voice out.

“Do you still have faith in these people? Are you really willing to die for these people, who you claim to be “good men”? Your death will not change anything. Every man is a creature of paradox that possesses both light and darkness inside; some of Him, some of me. If I had to pick the dominant power, it would rather be the latter. This, I can prove to you.”

Out of nowhere, a gray sack containing a spherical object magically appeared in his hands. Slowly, using both hands as if it were his life he was holding, he pulled out a globe. It was such an intricate globe, with precise depictions of every geographical elevation and ocean currents. Even “magnum opus” would not do justice to describe its magnificence.

“Ha! I just can’t save myself from utter amazement every time I see this. Such a clever little artifact, I must say. You know, He and I are the only ones to have it! Oh you have to see what this rascal can do,” cried Woland, placing the globe closer to Yeshua to let him take a closer look. Then he suddenly put on a dark smile. “I am graciously willing to share with you what I know.”

The series of events that took place right afterwards in a fraction of a second cannot be explained in any sensible way. Yeshua, shocked by what lay in front of his eyes, stood dumbfounded. The blazing sun, the spectators and Ratkiller were all gone. Instead, thousands of people were packed in a huge room, with their backs toward Yeshua. Some of them were on the floor, busy collecting some sort of foreign bills that were spread all over the place. The people were facing a stage, where a black, stout tomcat and a tall gentleman of incredible height stood. It was the Variety Theater! The two men were in Moscow, Russia!

“Behold! What you are about to witness is the product of what He and I have created!” whispered Woland, whose ecstatic face clearly showed his satisfaction of Yeshua’s reaction. Then, he gave a subtle nod to the men on stage, ordering them to carry out the ceremony.

Fagot, having gotten rid of the master of ceremonies, declared to the public:

“Now that we’ve kicked out the pest, let’s open a ladies’ shop!”

As Yeshua turned his attention to the speaker, his jaw dropped. The tiny bit of energy that kept him on his feet was sucked out completely, and he fell on his knees.

“Bar-Rabban!” Yeshua muttered in disbelief. Although the entertainer was dressed in a checkered suit, a jockey’s cap and a pince-nez, the face was clearly recognizable to Yeshua. The most despised criminal, one who lacked even a glimpse of benevolence, was on stage, enthralling these citizens.

“It’s nothing to be surprised about, really,” commented Woland with a smirk. “He is just one of mine. Now, watch him unveil the nature of your so-called “good men”. I will prove to you how unworthy they are of your sacrifice!”

And all at once the floor of the stage was covered with Persian rugs. … That swindler Fagot, along with the brazen tom, Behemoth, dissolved into thin air, vanished as utterly as the magician had vanished earlier, together with his faded armchair.

The stage, the wall and the chairs started to fade, and they were back in front of the city gate as if the whole thing had been a hallucination. Everything was in the exact same state as when they left it. Yeshua, still on the ground, looked up to Woland.

“This is the reality,” said Woland. There was no deception in his words. The candid eyes of the devil were speaking the truth. He reached down and held Yeshua’s face with his hands. “I will leave the choice up to you. My child, you will always be welcome home.” He kissed Yeshua on the forehead and walked into the city gate.

Strolling down the bare street, Woland felt a sudden impulse to walk into a store where bread was being sold. What drove him to such an abrupt action, nobody knows. Inside, he was greeted by a charming, young woman, who seemed to be the only one working in the place. The interior of the store was quite worn out. A shelf, a desk and several dusty chairs were everything.

“Woman, I can sense that your life is full of innocence and devotion. Truly regrettable that there aren’t more people like you,” said Woland in a tender voice. He stroked his beard for moment with a contemplative face. “Let me reward you with a gift. It will be stolen by the end of the day, but until then, it will ease your burden.” With that, he magically pulled out from his back a long bread knife, neatly sharpened and handed it to her. Before the confused woman could show any sort of response, Woland grabbed a loaf of unleavened bread and exited the shop with a smile. The unexpected but pleasant encounter seemed to have affected him. Soon enough, he was back in the empty Variety Theater.

Chapter 13:The Hero Appears

And so, the stranger wagged a finger at Ivan and whispered “Tsss! ...” (Bulgakov, 148).

Complete Master & Margarita TV Series

Beat the Devil (BMW short film)

Here's a video that explores another version of the Faustian tale. Take note of "darkness is death's ignorance and the devil's time" and all the references to the devil. Enjoy!