Gathbandhan Pyar Ke
M. A. Bulgakov The master and Margarita Part One What are you, already? I am part of that power That always wishes evil and always performs the good. Goethe. Faust. Chapter 1: Never Talk to Strange…
Gathbandhan Pyar Ke
M. A. Bulgakov The master and Margarita Part One What are you, already? I am part of that power That always wishes evil and always performs the good. Goethe. Faust. Chapter 1: Never Talk to Strangers Once upon an unusually hot hour of sunset in spring, two gentlemen appeared at Patriarchs Ponds in Moscow. The first sported a gray summer suit and was short, plump, and bald. He carried his respectable fedora in his hand, and black horn-rimmed spectacles of supernatural proportions adorned his clean-shaven face. The second a broad-shouldered young man with curly reddish hair wore a cowboy shirt, craggy white trousers, black sneakers, and a checkered cap cocked to the back of his head. The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, chairman of the board of one of Moscows largest literary organizations, known by the acronym MASSOLIT, and editor of a thick literary journal. His young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayevich Ponyrev, who wrote under the pen name of Homeless. Upon reaching the shade of the freshly budding lindens, the writers first dashed towards a brightly painted booth bearing the sign: Beer and Sodas. By the way, it is worthwhile to note the first strange thing about that horrible May afternoon. Not a single human being was to be found in the vicinity of the booth or, indeed, in the entire alley that ran parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At an hour when it seemed almost impossible to breathe, when the sun, scorching Moscow, was plunging into the dry haze somewhere beyond the Sadovoye Ring Road, no one sought shelter in the shade of the lindens, no one sat down on the benches. Empty was the alley. Mineral water, Berlioz requested. We dont have any, the woman in the booth replied, taking offense for some reason. Got beer? Homeless inquired hoarsely. Beers coming later tonight, the woman replied. What do you have? asked Berlioz. Apricot-flavored water, only its warm, said the woman. Well take it, well take it! The apricot water produced copious yellow foam, and the air began to reek of barbershop. After drinking their fill, the writers were immediately overcome with hiccups. They paid up and sat on a bench, facing the pond and away from Bronnaya. Then something else strange happened, this time to Berlioz alone. His hiccups stopped suddenly, and his heart thumped and seemed to vanish for a moment. When it resumed beating, it was as though a blunt point had lodged in it. Whats more, Berlioz was suddenly overcome with fear fear unfounded, yet so powerful that he wanted to flee the Patriarchs that very moment and never look back. Berlioz glanced round miserably, unsure of what frightened him so. He grew pale, dabbed his handkerchief on his forehead, and wondered: Whats wrong with me? This sort of thing has never happened before hearts misbehaving Ive worn myself out. To hell with everything, its time to take that Kislovodsk vacation And then the muggy air thickened before him and wove itself into a transparent gentleman of the strangest appearance. A tiny jockey cap on his tiny head, a short, checkered, equally ethereal jacket on his shoulders The gentleman was seven feet tall, yet narrow-chested and incredibly thin. And with an insolent mug, may I add. Berliozs life had not prepared him well for unnatural phenomena. His eyes bulging, Berlioz paled even more and managed a single confused thought: This cannot be. Alas, it was. The tall, transparent gentleman hovered before him, swaying left and right without touching the ground. By this point Berlioz was so overcome with horror that he shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw that it was all over. The haze had dissolved, the checkered man had vanished, and so had the blunt point from his heart. What the devil! exclaimed the editor. You know, Ivan, I nearly had a stroke just now from all this heat. Even something like a hallucination. Berlioz attempted a chuckle, but alarm still darted in his eyes and made his hands shake. However, he eventually calmed down, fanned himself with his handkerchief, and managing a lively Well then resumed the speech interrupted by the apricot water. The speech, as it was later determined, involved Jesus Christ. Apparently, the editor had commissioned the poet to write a long anti-religious poem for the next issue of the journal. Ivan Nikolayevich managed to compose the poem in record time, but, unfortunately, it completely failed to please the editor. Though Homeless had painted the protagonist that is to say, Jesus in the darkest of colors, the editor was of the opinion that the entire thing had to be rewritten. And therefore, the editor was giving the poet a sort of lecture about Jesus, aiming to underscore the poets principal mistake. It is difficult to say what exactly undermined Ivan Nikolayevichs piece the descriptive power of his talent, or his complete ignorance of the subject but his Jesus turned out to be a very lifelike, if unattractive, character. Berlioz, however, wanted to show the poet that the crux of the matter lay not in Jesus nature, good or bad, but in the fact that Jesus, as a person, had never existed in the first place; that all the stories about this character were simple inventions, ordinary myths. It should be noted that the editor was a well-read man who supported his argument very skillfully with references to ancient historians. For instance, neither the famous Philo of Alexandria nor the brilliantly educated Josephus Flavius had mentioned so much as a word of Jesus existence. Displaying profound erudition, Mikhail Alexandrovich also informed the poet, among other things, that the description of Jesus execution in Book 15, Chapter 44 of Tacitus famous Annals was nothing more than a later insertion and a forgery. Everything the editor now described was new to the poet, who listened alertly. His spirited green eyes were fixed on Mikhail Alexandrovich, and only occasionally would he hiccup and quietly curse the apricot water. As a rule, there isnt a single Eastern religion, Berlioz was saying, that doesnt involve a virgin begetting a god. Failing to invent anything original, the Christians created their Jesus in an identical manner Jesus, who never actually lived. That is precisely where the main emphasis should be Berliozs high tenor carried through the deserted alley, and as Mikhail Alexandrovich ventured further and further into the sort of jungle where only a highly educated man can survive, the poet learned volumes of interesting and useful information about the benevolent Egyptian god Osiris, son of Heaven and Earth, about the Phoenician god Thammuz, about Marduk, even about the lesser known but menacing god Uitzilo-Pochtli, once greatly revered by the Mexican Aztecs. And just as Mikhail Alexandrovich was describing to the poet how the Aztecs fashioned likenesses of Uitzilo-Pochtli out of dough, the first man appeared in the alley. Afterwards, when frankly speaking it was all too late, various agencies would compare their reports containing descriptions of this man. Their juxtaposition cannot help but amaze. Thus, the first states that the man was short, had gold teeth, and limped on his right foot. The second that the man was of enormous height, had platinum crowns, and limped on his left foot. The third informs laconically that the man had no distinguishing characteristics. One must admit that not a single one of these descriptions is even marginally useful. First things first: the man in question did not limp on any foot and was neither huge nor diminutive, but simply tall. As for his teeth, he had platinum crowns on the left side of his mouth and gold ones on the right. He wore an expensive gray suit and imported loafers to match. His gray beret was cocked brashly to one side, and a cane with a black handle shaped like a poodles head was tucked under his arm. Looked to be forty-something. Somewhat crooked mouth. Smooth shave. Dark hair. His right eye was black; the left green, for some reason. Dark eyebrows, one set higher than the other. In short a foreigner. Passing the bench where the editor and the poet were sitting, the foreigner gave them a sidelong glance, stopped, and suddenly sat down on the neighboring bench, mere steps away from the two companions. A German, thought Berlioz. Englishman, thought Homeless. Must be hot in those gloves, eh? The foreigner looked over the tall buildings forming a square around the pond. It was clear that he was seeing the place for the first time and that he found it interesting. He rested his gaze on the upper floors, their windows reflecting a fragmented image of the blinding sun that would soon leave Mikhail Alexandrovich forever. His eyes moved down, where the panes of glass began to darken in the approaching dusk. The foreigner chuckled at something contemptuously and narrowed his eyes, then placed his hands atop his cane and his chin atop his hands. For example, Ivan, Berlioz was saying, you have very nicely and satirically portrayed the birth of Jesus, son of God. But the irony is that scores of Gods sons had already come before Jesus, such as, say, the Phrygian Attis. To put it concisely, none of them were ever actually born, and none of them existed, Jesus included, and so instead of writing of the nativity and, say, the coming of the Magi, you must describe the awkward rumors surrounding this birth Otherwise, according to your narrative, it turns out that he was actually born! At this point, Homeless made an attempt to put an end to the hiccups that had been tormenting him. He held his breath, which only caused a louder, more painful hiccup, and at the same time Berlioz interrupted his speech because the foreigner stood up suddenly and headed towards the writers. They looked at him with surprise. Please forgive me for taking the liberty, said the newcomer with a foreign accent but without butchering the words, since we are not acquainted but the subject of your learned discussion is so interesting, that Here he removed his beret politely, and the companions had no choice but to rise slightly and bow. No, more like a Frenchman thought Berlioz. A Pole? thought Homeless. It should be added that, straight away, the foreigner made a most repulsive impression on the poet, while Berlioz found him rather appealing. Well, not exactly appealing, but how would you say intriguing, perhaps. May I sit? the foreigner inquired politely, and the companions somehow involuntarily moved apart. The foreigner sat nimbly between them and immediately joined the conversation. Unless I am mistaken, you had been saying that Jesus never existed? the foreigner asked, turning his green left eye to Berlioz. No, you are not mistaken, Berlioz replied politely, that is precisely what I said. Oh, how interesting! the foreigner exclaimed. What the devil does he want? wondered Homeless, frowning. And you were agreeing with your companion? inquired the stranger, turning to the right, towards Homeless. One hundred percent! affirmed the poet, who loved overblown, figurative expressions. Incredible! exclaimed the uninvited guest. Glancing round furtively and lowering his deep voice, he continued: Forgive my pestering, but, as I understand, you dont believe in God either? He put on a frightened look and added: I swear I wont tell anyone. Yes, we do not believe in God, Berlioz said, smiling faintly at the tourists anxiety, but we are free to talk about it as we please. The foreigner leaned back on the bench and asked, practically squealing with curiosity: You are atheists? Yes, we are atheists, Berlioz replied, smiling, while Homeless thought angrily: Just cant let it go, the foreign snob! Oh, how charming! cried the extraordinary foreigner, turning his head from side to side to get a look at both writers. In our nation, atheism surprises no one, Berlioz informed him with diplomatic poise. Most of our population has long since made the conscious decision to stop believing in fairy tales about God. Here the foreigner pulled the following stunt: he got up and shook the amazed editors hand, saying: Allow me to thank you from the bottom of my heart! What are you thanking him for? Homeless inquired, blinking his eyes. For a most important piece of information that I, as a traveler, find extremely interesting, explained the foreign oddball, raising his finger meaningfully. Indeed, the important piece of information had evidently had a great impact on the traveler, for he looked fearfully at the buildings around him, as if afraid of seeing an atheist in every window. No, he is not an Englishman, thought Berlioz, while Homeless thought: Whered he manage to learn Russian like that, thats what Id like to know! and frowned again. But, allow me to ask you, the foreign guest inquired after some anxious pondering, what would you do with the proofs of divine existence, of which, as it is known, there are exactly five? Alas! Berlioz replied regretfully, not a single proof is worth a damn, and mankind has long since consigned them to the archives. After all, you must agree that no proof of Gods existence can be found in the realm of reason. Bravo! cried the foreigner, bravo! You have fully restated the thoughts of restless old Immanuel on this matter. But heres the embarrassing part: he fully demolished all five proofs, and then, as if mocking himself, devised a sixth one of his own! Kants proof, the educated editor retorted with a thin smile, is equally unconvincing. No wonder Schiller said that Kants discussions on this issue can only satisfy slaves, while Strauss simply laughed at the proof. Berlioz spoke and wondered silently: But really, who is he? And how can he speak Russian so well? They ought to give this Kant three years or so in Solovki for these proofs of his! Ivan Nikolayevich slammed quite unexpectedly. Ivan! whispered an embarrassed Berlioz. But the idea of sending Kant to Solovki not only failed to surprise the foreigner, it absolutely delighted him. Precisely, precisely, he exclaimed, and his green left eye sparkled at Berlioz. Thats just the place for him! Why, I told him back then at breakfast: Say what you will, professor, but I think youve cooked up something incoherent! It may be clever, perhaps, but what a pain to understand. People will just laugh at you. Berliozs eyes bulged out. At breakfast to Kant? Whats he blathering about? he thought. However, the foreigner continued to the poet, unfazed by Berliozs astonishment, its impossible to toss him in Solovki, if only for the reason that he has now spent over a hundred years in a place significantly further away a place whence he cannot be extracted by any means, I assure you! Pity! replied the belligerent poet. I pity it too! the stranger confirmed, his eye flashing, and continued: But heres what bothers me: if there is no God, then may I ask who governs mans existence and all world order? Man himself governs it, Homeless replied quickly and sternly to this admittedly rather ambiguous question. I beg pardon, the stranger said softly. In order to govern, one needs to have a definite plan for some reasonable length of time. Allow me to ask you how man can govern anything considering that not only is he unable to plan for even a laughably short period, say a thousand years, but that he cannot even vouch for tomorrow? Here the stranger turned to Berlioz: Indeed imagine that you, for instance, begin to govern and direct yourself and others, and you start to develop a taste for it, so to speak, and suddenly you develop ahem ahem sarcoma of the lungs The stranger grinned sweetly, as if the thought of sarcoma of the lungs brought him much pleasure. Yes, sarcoma, he repeated the sonorous word, grinning like a cat, and thus your government is over! You are no longer interested in anyones fate but your own. Your relatives begin to lie to you. Suspecting something amiss, you first run to the best doctors, then to the quacks, and sometimes even to the fortune-tellers. As the first, so are the second and third completely useless, you understand that yourself. Everything ends quite tragically: he who so recently fancied himself in control of something ends up lying motionless in a wooden box. Realizing that the horizontal man is now worthless, the others burn him in a furnace. Could be even worse, though: one moment a man decides to visit Kislovodsk here the foreigner narrowed his eyes at Berlioz simplest thing in the world to do, except he cant even accomplish that, because the next moment he slips and falls under a tram for some unknown reason! Certainly you dont suggest that he disposed himself thusly? Wouldnt it be more reasonable to think that someone else disposed him off? The stranger let out a peculiar snicker. Berlioz took in the unpleasant story about the sarcoma and the tram with the greatest attention, and disturbing thoughts began to gnaw at him. Hes no foreigner! Hes no foreigner! thought Berlioz, a very strange character but hang on a second, who is he? I see you want to smoke, the stranger said unexpectedly to Homeless. Which brand would you prefer? What, have you got different ones or something? the poet asked moodily, for he had run out of cigarettes. Which would you prefer? the stranger repeated. Fine, Home Brand, the poet replied unpleasantly. The guest immediately pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket and offered it to Homeless: Home Brand. The editor and the poet were not so much amazed by the fact that the case contained precisely Home Brand cigarettes, as by the case itself. It was of gigantic proportions and made of solid gold. As it opened, a diamond triangle flashed on the lid with white and blue fire. The writers thoughts diverged. Berlioz: No, a foreigner! and Homeless: Well dammit to hell! Huh! The poet and the owner of the cigarette case lit up, while the non-smoking Berlioz refused. I should refute him thus, Berlioz decided. Yes, man is mortal, no one denies that. But the fact is that But before he could pronounce the words, the foreigner spoke: Yes, man is mortal, but thats only half the trouble! The problem is that he is unexpectedly mortal, theres the trick! And, in fact, he cant even say what hell be doing tonight. What an awkward way to pose a question, mused Berlioz and retorted: Well, thats an exaggeration. Tonight is more or less clear to me. Now, naturally, if a brick falls on my head on Bronnaya A brick for no reason, the stranger interrupted forcefully, is never going to fall on anyone. More specifically, let me assure you that you can feel completely safe in that regard. You will die a different death. Perhaps you know which, exactly, and could tell me? Berlioz asked with understandable sarcasm, venturing into what was becoming a truly silly conversation. Gladly, the stranger replied. He looked over Berlioz as if he were fitting a suit and muttered something through his teeth. One, two Mercury in the second house the moon has departed six disaster evening seven At last, he declared loudly and cheerfully: You will be beheaded! Homeless stared at the insolent stranger with savage fury. Grinning crookedly, Berlioz asked: And by whom, exactly? Enemies? Foreign interventionists? No, came the answer. A Russian woman, a member of the Komsomol . Hmm Berlioz mumbled, irritated by the strangers little joke. Forgive me, but thats less than likely. Forgive me as well, the stranger replied, but it is so. Oh yes, and I also wanted to ask what you were going to be doing tonight, unless its a secret. No secret. In a little while Ill drop by my place on Sadovaya, and then at ten Im going to chair a meeting at MASSOLIT. That cannot possibly be, the foreigner objected firmly. Why is that? Because, the foreigner said and squinted at the sky, where black birds darted silently in anticipation of the evening cool. Because Annushka has already bought the sunflower oil. Not only bought it, in fact, but spilled it as well. So the meeting will not occur. Quite understandably, this statement was met with silence. Excuse me, Berlioz began after a pause, glancing at the absurd foreigner. What does sunflower oil have to do with anything and who is Annushka? The sunflower oil has nothing to do with anything, Homeless said abruptly, evidently bent on declaring war on the interloper. Have you, sir, ever spent time in a mental institution? Ivan! Mikhail Alexandrovich exclaimed quietly. But the foreigner was not a bit insulted and laughed heartily. Of course I have, and more than once! he exclaimed, laughing, but his unsmiling eye was fixed on the poet. Is there a place I havent been to? Pity though, I never got around to asking the professor there what schizophrenia was. I guess youll have to ask him yourself, Ivan Nikolayevich! How do you know my name? Please, my dear Ivan Nikolayevich, who hasnt heard of you? The foreigner produced yesterdays issue of The Literary Gazette from his pocket, and Ivan Nikolayevich recognized his own likeness on the front page, with his own poem immediately below. But while the proof of fame and popularity had so pleased him yesterday, it brought no joy to the poet this time around. Excuse me, he said with a sinister expression, could you possibly wait here a minute? Id like a couple of words with my companion. Oh, itll be my pleasure! exclaimed the stranger. Its so nice here under the lindens, and besides Im in no hurry. Listen, Misha, the poet whispered, pulling Berlioz aside. Hes not a tourist, hes a spy. A Russian émigré who snuck back into the country. Ask him for his papers, or hell get away. You think so? Berlioz whispered worriedly and thought: Hes right! Trust me on this one, the poet rasped in his ear, hes playing dumb, trying to pry something out of us. You heard his Russian. The poet looked sidelong at the stranger as he spoke to make sure the man did not take off. Come on, lets detain him or hell escape The poet took Berlioz by the arm and pulled him towards the bench. The stranger no longer sat but stood beside it, holding some sort of booklet in a dark gray binding, a thick envelope made of expensive paper, and a business card. Forgive me, but in the heat of our debate I completely forgot to introduce myself. This is my card, my passport, and my invitation to visit Moscow to provide consulting services, the stranger said gravely and fixed the writers with a piercing look. The two became embarrassed. The devil, he heard everything, thought Berlioz and gestured politely that there was no need to check papers. While the foreigner was thrusting them at the editor, the poet had time to see the title professor in foreign letters on the card, as well as the first letter of a surname a W. Nice to meet you, the editor mumbled uncomfortably in the meantime, and the foreigner returned the documents to his pocket. Relations thus re-established, all three sat back down on the bench. You were invited here as a consultant, professor? asked Berlioz. Yes, a consultant. Are you German? inquired Homeless. Me? the professor asked and paused to think. Yes, German, I suppose he said. You speak Russian pretty well, Homeless noted. Oh, I am actually a polyglot. I know a great number of languages, the professor replied. Whats your area of expertise? Berlioz inquired. I specialize in black magic. Howd you like that! flashed in Mikhail Alexandrovichs head. And and you were invited here with regard to that area? he asked, stammering briefly. Yes, that one, the professor confirmed and explained: The state library here unearthed some authentic manuscripts of the necromancer Gerbert of Aurillac, tenth century, and I am needed to help decipher them. I am the only specialist in the world on the subject. Ah, so youre a historian? Berlioz asked with considerable relief and respect. I am a historian, the scholar verified. This evening, well have a pretty curious history right here on the Patriarchs! he added out of nowhere. And once again both the poet and the editor were taken aback. The professor beckoned them both closer, and as they leaned towards him, he whispered: Keep in mind that Jesus did exist. You see, professor, Berlioz answered with a forced smile, although we respect your considerable knowledge, we happen to hold a different point of view on the matter. No need for any points of view! the strange professor replied. He simply existed and thats that. But some sort of proof is required Berlioz began. No proofs required either, the professor replied and began narrating quietly, his accent somehow disappearing: Its all quite simple: in a white cape Chapter 2: Pontius Pilate In a white cape with blood-red lining, shuffling with a cavalrymans gait, early in the morning on the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan, there emerged on the covered colonnade between the two wings of Herod the Greats palace the Procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate. More than anything in the world, the procurator hated the smell of rose oil. Right now, everything heralded an unpleasant day, for the smell had been haunting him since dawn. It seemed as though the very cypresses and palms in the garden oozed the odor, as though the stream of rosy stench mixed into the smell of leather tackle, the smell of the guards. A faint smoke drifted into the colonnade through the upper terrace of the garden, originating in the rear wings of the palace, where the first cohort of the Twelfth Lightning Legion had been stationed after accompanying the procurator to Yershalaim. Indicating that the centuries cooks had started preparing dinner, this bitter smoke mingled with the same oily rose breath. O gods, ye gods, why do you punish me so? There is no doubt! It is back again, the incurable, horrific disease known as hemicrania, when half the head aches. There is no medicine, no salvation of any sort. I will try not to move my head. An armchair had already been prepared on the mosaic floor by the fountain. Looking at no one, the procurator sat in it and extended his hand to the side. The secretary respectfully placed a piece of parchment in the hand. Unable to suppress a grimace of pain, the procurator glanced over it briefly, returned the parchment to the secretary, and said with difficulty: The defendant comes from Galilee? Has the case been sent to the tetrarch? Yes, procurator, the secretary replied. What of it? He refused to form a conclusion on the case and sent the Sanhedrins death sentence to you for confirmation, the secretary explained. The procurators cheek twitched as he said quietly: Bring in the accused. From the garden terrace, two legionnaires immediately brought in a man about twenty-seven years of age and stood him under the columns on the balcony in front of the procurators chair. The man wore an old and torn blue chiton. His head was covered by a piece of white cloth, secured by a strap round his brow, and his hands were bound behind his back. His left eye was decorated with a large bruise, and the corner of his mouth was caked with blood. The visitor looked at the procurator with anxious curiosity. The procurator was silent for a moment, then asked quietly in Aramaic: So you are the one who incited the people to destroy the temple of Yershalaim? Throughout all this the procurator sat as though made of stone, and only his lips moved ever so slightly as he pronounced the words. The procurator was like a stone because he was afraid to disturb his head, which blazed with infernal pain. The bound man moved forward slightly and began to speak: Good man! Believe me But the procurator cut him off immediately, never moving and never raising his voice: Is it me you call a good man? You are mistaken. All of Yershalaim whispers that I am a vicious beast, and that is absolutely right. And, just as monotonously, he added: Bring me centurion Ratslayer. It was as though darkness had descended on the balcony when the centurion appeared before the procurator Mark, nicknamed Ratslayer, commander of a special century. Ratslayer stood a head above the tallest soldier in the legion, and his shoulders were so broad that he blocked the rising sun completely as he stood. The procurator spoke to the centurion in Latin: The criminal calls me a good man. Take him outside for a moment and explain how he is to address me. But no maiming. All eyes but those of the motionless procurator followed Mark the Ratslayer as he walked away, waving at the prisoner to follow. Eyes generally followed Ratslayer wherever he appeared on account of his height and, for those who saw him for the first time, on account of his disfigured face: his nose had once been smashed by a German club. Marks heavy boots sounded off on the mosaic, and the bound man followed him noiselessly, leaving the colonnade silent but for the cooing of pigeons on the garden terrace by the balcony and the intricate, pleasant song of the water in the fountain. The procurator wished he could rise, place his temple under the stream, and freeze in that position. But he knew that this, too, would be futile. Leading the arrestee from under the columns into the garden, Ratslayer took a whip from the hands of a legionnaire standing at the foot of a bronze statue. Swinging gently, he struck the captive on the shoulders. The centurions motion was light and casual, but the bound man collapsed instantly to the ground, gasping for air, as though his legs had been cut out from under him. All color fled from his face, and his eyes clouded. With his left hand, Mark hoisted the fallen man back on his feet as easily as if it had been an empty sack, and spoke in poor, nasal Aramaic: You will address the Roman procurator as hegemon. Say nothing else. Stand at attention. Do you understand, or shall I hit you again? The prisoner swayed but regained control of himself. His color returned, he caught his breath, and replied hoarsely: I understand you. Dont hit me. A minute later, he again stood before the procurator. A dim, sickly voice said: Name? Mine? the prisoner replied hastily, expressing with all his being the desire to provide coherent answers and avoid further wrath. I am acquainted with my own, the procurator said quietly. Do not pretend to be dumber than you are. Yours. Yeshua, the prisoner replied hurriedly. Have you a surname? Ha-Notsri. Where were you born? In the town of Gamala, replied the prisoner, motioning with his head that somewhere far to his right, to the north, lay the town of Gamala. Who are you by blood? I do not know for sure, the prisoner said quickly, I do not remember my parents. Ive been told my father was a Syrian What is your permanent residence? I have no permanent residence, the prisoner said bashfully, I travel from town to town. There is a shorter name for that a vagrant, the procurator said and then asked: Have you relatives? None. I am alone in the world. Can you read and write? Yes. Do you know any languages besides Aramaic? Yes. Greek. A swollen eyelid lifted slightly, an eye clouded with suffering stared at the prisoner. The other eye remained closed. Pilate spoke in Greek: So you wanted to destroy the building of the temple and called on the people to do so? The prisoner livened up again, the fear left his eyes, and he spoke in Greek: Good ma terror flashed in the eyes of the captive, for he had nearly misspoken Hegemon, never in my life have I intended to destroy the building of the temple, and I certainly never incited anyone to such a senseless act. An expression of surprise appeared on the face of the secretary, who was hunched over his low table recording the testimony. He raised his head but leaned back over his parchment immediately. Numerous people drift into this city for the holiday. Among them: magicians, astrologers, soothsayers, and murderers, the procurator spoke monotonously, and occasionally liars. You, for instance, are a liar. It is clearly written here: incited to destroy the temple. So say the witnesses. Those good people, said the prisoner and, hastily adding hegemon, continued: They were uneducated and misunderstood most everything I said. In fact, I am beginning to fear that this whole mess is going to go on for quite some time. All because he records my words improperly. Silence fell. Now both sick eyes stared heavily at the prisoner. I repeat, but for the last time: stop feigning insanity, you scoundrel, Pilate said softly and monotonously. Whats been recorded about you is not much, but it is enough to hang you. No, no, hegemon, said the prisoner, straining in his effort to convince, this one man keeps following me with a goatskin parchment and writing incessantly. I saw his parchment once, and it horrified me. I hadnt said a single thing that was written there. I begged him: burn that thing, for Gods sake! But he tore it out of my hands and
Gathbandhan Pyar Ke
Romance
Film Details
M. A. Bulgakov The master and Margarita Part One What are you, already? I am part of that power That always wishes evil and always performs the good.
Goethe. Faust. Chapter 1: Never Talk to Strangers Once upon an unusually hot hour of sunset in spring, two gentlemen appeared at Patriarchs Ponds in Moscow.
The first sported a gray summer suit and was short, plump, and bald. He carried his respectable fedora in his hand, and black horn-rimmed spectacles of supernatural proportions adorned his clean-shaven face. The second a broad-shouldered young man with curly reddish hair wore a cowboy shirt, craggy white trousers, black sneakers, and a checkered cap cocked to the back of his head.
The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, chairman of the board of one of Moscows largest literary organizations, known by the acronym MASSOLIT, and editor of a thick literary journal. His young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayevich Ponyrev, who wrote under the pen name of Homeless. Upon reaching the shade of the freshly budding lindens, the writers first dashed towards a brightly painted booth bearing the sign: Beer and Sodas.
By the way, it is worthwhile to note the first strange thing about that horrible May afternoon. Not a single human being was to be found in the vicinity of the booth or, indeed, in the entire alley that ran parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At an hour when it seemed almost impossible to breathe, when the sun, scorching Moscow, was plunging into the dry haze somewhere beyond the Sadovoye Ring Road, no one sought shelter in the shade of the lindens, no one sat down on the benches.
Empty was the alley. Mineral water, Berlioz requested. We dont have any, the woman in the booth replied, taking offense for some reason.
Got beer? Homeless inquired hoarsely. Beers coming later tonight, the woman replied. What do you have? asked Berlioz.
Apricot-flavored water, only its warm, said the woman. Well take it, well take it! The apricot water produced copious yellow foam, and the air began to reek of barbershop. After drinking their fill, the writers were immediately overcome with hiccups.
They paid up and sat on a bench, facing the pond and away from Bronnaya. Then something else strange happened, this time to Berlioz alone. His hiccups stopped suddenly, and his heart thumped and seemed to vanish for a moment.
When it resumed beating, it was as though a blunt point had lodged in it. Whats more, Berlioz was suddenly overcome with fear fear unfounded, yet so powerful that he wanted to flee the Patriarchs that very moment and never look back. Berlioz glanced round miserably, unsure of what frightened him so.
He grew pale, dabbed his handkerchief on his forehead, and wondered: Whats wrong with me? This sort of thing has never happened before hearts misbehaving Ive worn myself out. To hell with everything, its time to take that Kislovodsk vacation And then the muggy air thickened before him and wove itself into a transparent gentleman of the strangest appearance. A tiny jockey cap on his tiny head, a short, checkered, equally ethereal jacket on his shoulders The gentleman was seven feet tall, yet narrow-chested and incredibly thin.
And with an insolent mug, may I add. Berliozs life had not prepared him well for unnatural phenomena. His eyes bulging, Berlioz paled even more and managed a single confused thought: This cannot be.
Alas, it was. The tall, transparent gentleman hovered before him, swaying left and right without touching the ground. By this point Berlioz was so overcome with horror that he shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, he saw that it was all over. The haze had dissolved, the checkered man had vanished, and so had the blunt point from his heart. What the devil! exclaimed the editor.
You know, Ivan, I nearly had a stroke just now from all this heat. Even something like a hallucination. Berlioz attempted a chuckle, but alarm still darted in his eyes and made his hands shake.
However, he eventually calmed down, fanned himself with his handkerchief, and managing a lively Well then resumed the speech interrupted by the apricot water. The speech, as it was later determined, involved Jesus Christ. Apparently, the editor had commissioned the poet to write a long anti-religious poem for the next issue of the journal.
Ivan Nikolayevich managed to compose the poem in record time, but, unfortunately, it completely failed to please the editor. Though Homeless had painted the protagonist that is to say, Jesus in the darkest of colors, the editor was of the opinion that the entire thing had to be rewritten. And therefore, the editor was giving the poet a sort of lecture about Jesus, aiming to underscore the poets principal mistake.
It is difficult to say what exactly undermined Ivan Nikolayevichs piece the descriptive power of his talent, or his complete ignorance of the subject but his Jesus turned out to be a very lifelike, if unattractive, character. Berlioz, however, wanted to show the poet that the crux of the matter lay not in Jesus nature, good or bad, but in the fact that Jesus, as a person, had never existed in the first place; that all the stories about this character were simple inventions, ordinary myths. It should be noted that the editor was a well-read man who supported his argument very skillfully with references to ancient historians.
For instance, neither the famous Philo of Alexandria nor the brilliantly educated Josephus Flavius had mentioned so much as a word of Jesus existence. Displaying profound erudition, Mikhail Alexandrovich also informed the poet, among other things, that the description of Jesus execution in Book 15, Chapter 44 of Tacitus famous Annals was nothing more than a later insertion and a forgery. Everything the editor now described was new to the poet, who listened alertly.
His spirited green eyes were fixed on Mikhail Alexandrovich, and only occasionally would he hiccup and quietly curse the apricot water. As a rule, there isnt a single Eastern religion, Berlioz was saying, that doesnt involve a virgin begetting a god. Failing to invent anything original, the Christians created their Jesus in an identical manner Jesus, who never actually lived.
That is precisely where the main emphasis should be Berliozs high tenor carried through the deserted alley, and as Mikhail Alexandrovich ventured further and further into the sort of jungle where only a highly educated man can survive, the poet learned volumes of interesting and useful information about the benevolent Egyptian god Osiris, son of Heaven and Earth, about the Phoenician god Thammuz, about Marduk, even about the lesser known but menacing god Uitzilo-Pochtli, once greatly revered by the Mexican Aztecs. And just as Mikhail Alexandrovich was describing to the poet how the Aztecs fashioned likenesses of Uitzilo-Pochtli out of dough, the first man appeared in the alley. Afterwards, when frankly speaking it was all too late, various agencies would compare their reports containing descriptions of this man.
Their juxtaposition cannot help but amaze. Thus, the first states that the man was short, had gold teeth, and limped on his right foot. The second that the man was of enormous height, had platinum crowns, and limped on his left foot.
The third informs laconically that the man had no distinguishing characteristics. One must admit that not a single one of these descriptions is even marginally useful. First things first: the man in question did not limp on any foot and was neither huge nor diminutive, but simply tall.
As for his teeth, he had platinum crowns on the left side of his mouth and gold ones on the right. He wore an expensive gray suit and imported loafers to match. His gray beret was cocked brashly to one side, and a cane with a black handle shaped like a poodles head was tucked under his arm.
Looked to be forty-something. Somewhat crooked mouth. Smooth shave.
Dark hair. His right eye was black; the left green, for some reason. Dark eyebrows, one set higher than the other.
In short a foreigner. Passing the bench where the editor and the poet were sitting, the foreigner gave them a sidelong glance, stopped, and suddenly sat down on the neighboring bench, mere steps away from the two companions. A German, thought Berlioz.
Englishman, thought Homeless. Must be hot in those gloves, eh? The foreigner looked over the tall buildings forming a square around the pond. It was clear that he was seeing the place for the first time and that he found it interesting.
He rested his gaze on the upper floors, their windows reflecting a fragmented image of the blinding sun that would soon leave Mikhail Alexandrovich forever. His eyes moved down, where the panes of glass began to darken in the approaching dusk. The foreigner chuckled at something contemptuously and narrowed his eyes, then placed his hands atop his cane and his chin atop his hands.
For example, Ivan, Berlioz was saying, you have very nicely and satirically portrayed the birth of Jesus, son of God. But the irony is that scores of Gods sons had already come before Jesus, such as, say, the Phrygian Attis. To put it concisely, none of them were ever actually born, and none of them existed, Jesus included, and so instead of writing of the nativity and, say, the coming of the Magi, you must describe the awkward rumors surrounding this birth Otherwise, according to your narrative, it turns out that he was actually born! At this point, Homeless made an attempt to put an end to the hiccups that had been tormenting him.
He held his breath, which only caused a louder, more painful hiccup, and at the same time Berlioz interrupted his speech because the foreigner stood up suddenly and headed towards the writers. They looked at him with surprise. Please forgive me for taking the liberty, said the newcomer with a foreign accent but without butchering the words, since we are not acquainted but the subject of your learned discussion is so interesting, that Here he removed his beret politely, and the companions had no choice but to rise slightly and bow.
No, more like a Frenchman thought Berlioz. A Pole? thought Homeless. It should be added that, straight away, the foreigner made a most repulsive impression on the poet, while Berlioz found him rather appealing.
Well, not exactly appealing, but how would you say intriguing, perhaps. May I sit? the foreigner inquired politely, and the companions somehow involuntarily moved apart. The foreigner sat nimbly between them and immediately joined the conversation.
Unless I am mistaken, you had been saying that Jesus never existed? the foreigner asked, turning his green left eye to Berlioz. No, you are not mistaken, Berlioz replied politely, that is precisely what I said. Oh, how interesting! the foreigner exclaimed.
What the devil does he want? wondered Homeless, frowning. And you were agreeing with your companion? inquired the stranger, turning to the right, towards Homeless. One hundred percent! affirmed the poet, who loved overblown, figurative expressions.
Incredible! exclaimed the uninvited guest. Glancing round furtively and lowering his deep voice, he continued: Forgive my pestering, but, as I understand, you dont believe in God either? He put on a frightened look and added: I swear I wont tell anyone. Yes, we do not believe in God, Berlioz said, smiling faintly at the tourists anxiety, but we are free to talk about it as we please.
The foreigner leaned back on the bench and asked, practically squealing with curiosity: You are atheists? Yes, we are atheists, Berlioz replied, smiling, while Homeless thought angrily: Just cant let it go, the foreign snob! Oh, how charming! cried the extraordinary foreigner, turning his head from side to side to get a look at both writers. In our nation, atheism surprises no one, Berlioz informed him with diplomatic poise. Most of our population has long since made the conscious decision to stop believing in fairy tales about God.
Here the foreigner pulled the following stunt: he got up and shook the amazed editors hand, saying: Allow me to thank you from the bottom of my heart! What are you thanking him for? Homeless inquired, blinking his eyes. For a most important piece of information that I, as a traveler, find extremely interesting, explained the foreign oddball, raising his finger meaningfully. Indeed, the important piece of information had evidently had a great impact on the traveler, for he looked fearfully at the buildings around him, as if afraid of seeing an atheist in every window.
No, he is not an Englishman, thought Berlioz, while Homeless thought: Whered he manage to learn Russian like that, thats what Id like to know! and frowned again. But, allow me to ask you, the foreign guest inquired after some anxious pondering, what would you do with the proofs of divine existence, of which, as it is known, there are exactly five? Alas! Berlioz replied regretfully, not a single proof is worth a damn, and mankind has long since consigned them to the archives. After all, you must agree that no proof of Gods existence can be found in the realm of reason.
Bravo! cried the foreigner, bravo! You have fully restated the thoughts of restless old Immanuel on this matter. But heres the embarrassing part: he fully demolished all five proofs, and then, as if mocking himself, devised a sixth one of his own! Kants proof, the educated editor retorted with a thin smile, is equally unconvincing. No wonder Schiller said that Kants discussions on this issue can only satisfy slaves, while Strauss simply laughed at the proof.
Berlioz spoke and wondered silently: But really, who is he? And how can he speak Russian so well? They ought to give this Kant three years or so in Solovki for these proofs of his! Ivan Nikolayevich slammed quite unexpectedly. Ivan! whispered an embarrassed Berlioz. But the idea of sending Kant to Solovki not only failed to surprise the foreigner, it absolutely delighted him.
Precisely, precisely, he exclaimed, and his green left eye sparkled at Berlioz. Thats just the place for him! Why, I told him back then at breakfast: Say what you will, professor, but I think youve cooked up something incoherent! It may be clever, perhaps, but what a pain to understand. People will just laugh at you.
Berliozs eyes bulged out. At breakfast to Kant? Whats he blathering about? he thought. However, the foreigner continued to the poet, unfazed by Berliozs astonishment, its impossible to toss him in Solovki, if only for the reason that he has now spent over a hundred years in a place significantly further away a place whence he cannot be extracted by any means, I assure you! Pity! replied the belligerent poet.
I pity it too! the stranger confirmed, his eye flashing, and continued: But heres what bothers me: if there is no God, then may I ask who governs mans existence and all world order? Man himself governs it, Homeless replied quickly and sternly to this admittedly rather ambiguous question. I beg pardon, the stranger said softly. In order to govern, one needs to have a definite plan for some reasonable length of time.
Allow me to ask you how man can govern anything considering that not only is he unable to plan for even a laughably short period, say a thousand years, but that he cannot even vouch for tomorrow? Here the stranger turned to Berlioz: Indeed imagine that you, for instance, begin to govern and direct yourself and others, and you start to develop a taste for it, so to speak, and suddenly you develop ahem ahem sarcoma of the lungs The stranger grinned sweetly, as if the thought of sarcoma of the lungs brought him much pleasure. Yes, sarcoma, he repeated the sonorous word, grinning like a cat, and thus your government is over! You are no longer interested in anyones fate but your own. Your relatives begin to lie to you.
Suspecting something amiss, you first run to the best doctors, then to the quacks, and sometimes even to the fortune-tellers. As the first, so are the second and third completely useless, you understand that yourself. Everything ends quite tragically: he who so recently fancied himself in control of something ends up lying motionless in a wooden box.
Realizing that the horizontal man is now worthless, the others burn him in a furnace. Could be even worse, though: one moment a man decides to visit Kislovodsk here the foreigner narrowed his eyes at Berlioz simplest thing in the world to do, except he cant even accomplish that, because the next moment he slips and falls under a tram for some unknown reason! Certainly you dont suggest that he disposed himself thusly? Wouldnt it be more reasonable to think that someone else disposed him off? The stranger let out a peculiar snicker. Berlioz took in the unpleasant story about the sarcoma and the tram with the greatest attention, and disturbing thoughts began to gnaw at him.
Hes no foreigner! Hes no foreigner! thought Berlioz, a very strange character but hang on a second, who is he? I see you want to smoke, the stranger said unexpectedly to Homeless. Which brand would you prefer? What, have you got different ones or something? the poet asked moodily, for he had run out of cigarettes. Which would you prefer? the stranger repeated.
Fine, Home Brand, the poet replied unpleasantly. The guest immediately pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket and offered it to Homeless: Home Brand. The editor and the poet were not so much amazed by the fact that the case contained precisely Home Brand cigarettes, as by the case itself.
It was of gigantic proportions and made of solid gold. As it opened, a diamond triangle flashed on the lid with white and blue fire. The writers thoughts diverged.
Berlioz: No, a foreigner! and Homeless: Well dammit to hell! Huh! The poet and the owner of the cigarette case lit up, while the non-smoking Berlioz refused. I should refute him thus, Berlioz decided. Yes, man is mortal, no one denies that.
But the fact is that But before he could pronounce the words, the foreigner spoke: Yes, man is mortal, but thats only half the trouble! The problem is that he is unexpectedly mortal, theres the trick! And, in fact, he cant even say what hell be doing tonight. What an awkward way to pose a question, mused Berlioz and retorted: Well, thats an exaggeration. Tonight is more or less clear to me.
Now, naturally, if a brick falls on my head on Bronnaya A brick for no reason, the stranger interrupted forcefully, is never going to fall on anyone. More specifically, let me assure you that you can feel completely safe in that regard. You will die a different death.
Perhaps you know which, exactly, and could tell me? Berlioz asked with understandable sarcasm, venturing into what was becoming a truly silly conversation. Gladly, the stranger replied. He looked over Berlioz as if he were fitting a suit and muttered something through his teeth.
One, two Mercury in the second house the moon has departed six disaster evening seven At last, he declared loudly and cheerfully: You will be beheaded! Homeless stared at the insolent stranger with savage fury. Grinning crookedly, Berlioz asked: And by whom, exactly? Enemies? Foreign interventionists? No, came the answer. A Russian woman, a member of the Komsomol .
Hmm Berlioz mumbled, irritated by the strangers little joke. Forgive me, but thats less than likely. Forgive me as well, the stranger replied, but it is so.
Oh yes, and I also wanted to ask what you were going to be doing tonight, unless its a secret. No secret. In a little while Ill drop by my place on Sadovaya, and then at ten Im going to chair a meeting at MASSOLIT.
That cannot possibly be, the foreigner objected firmly. Why is that? Because, the foreigner said and squinted at the sky, where black birds darted silently in anticipation of the evening cool. Because Annushka has already bought the sunflower oil.
Not only bought it, in fact, but spilled it as well. So the meeting will not occur. Quite understandably, this statement was met with silence.
Excuse me, Berlioz began after a pause, glancing at the absurd foreigner. What does sunflower oil have to do with anything and who is Annushka? The sunflower oil has nothing to do with anything, Homeless said abruptly, evidently bent on declaring war on the interloper. Have you, sir, ever spent time in a mental institution? Ivan! Mikhail Alexandrovich exclaimed quietly.
But the foreigner was not a bit insulted and laughed heartily. Of course I have, and more than once! he exclaimed, laughing, but his unsmiling eye was fixed on the poet. Is there a place I havent been to? Pity though, I never got around to asking the professor there what schizophrenia was.
I guess youll have to ask him yourself, Ivan Nikolayevich! How do you know my name? Please, my dear Ivan Nikolayevich, who hasnt heard of you? The foreigner produced yesterdays issue of The Literary Gazette from his pocket, and Ivan Nikolayevich recognized his own likeness on the front page, with his own poem immediately below. But while the proof of fame and popularity had so pleased him yesterday, it brought no joy to the poet this time around. Excuse me, he said with a sinister expression, could you possibly wait here a minute? Id like a couple of words with my companion.
Oh, itll be my pleasure! exclaimed the stranger. Its so nice here under the lindens, and besides Im in no hurry. Listen, Misha, the poet whispered, pulling Berlioz aside.
Hes not a tourist, hes a spy. A Russian émigré who snuck back into the country. Ask him for his papers, or hell get away.
You think so? Berlioz whispered worriedly and thought: Hes right! Trust me on this one, the poet rasped in his ear, hes playing dumb, trying to pry something out of us. You heard his Russian. The poet looked sidelong at the stranger as he spoke to make sure the man did not take off.
Come on, lets detain him or hell escape The poet took Berlioz by the arm and pulled him towards the bench. The stranger no longer sat but stood beside it, holding some sort of booklet in a dark gray binding, a thick envelope made of expensive paper, and a business card. Forgive me, but in the heat of our debate I completely forgot to introduce myself.
This is my card, my passport, and my invitation to visit Moscow to provide consulting services, the stranger said gravely and fixed the writers with a piercing look. The two became embarrassed. The devil, he heard everything, thought Berlioz and gestured politely that there was no need to check papers.
While the foreigner was thrusting them at the editor, the poet had time to see the title professor in foreign letters on the card, as well as the first letter of a surname a W. Nice to meet you, the editor mumbled uncomfortably in the meantime, and the foreigner returned the documents to his pocket. Relations thus re-established, all three sat back down on the bench.
You were invited here as a consultant, professor? asked Berlioz. Yes, a consultant. Are you German? inquired Homeless.
Me? the professor asked and paused to think. Yes, German, I suppose he said. You speak Russian pretty well, Homeless noted.
Oh, I am actually a polyglot. I know a great number of languages, the professor replied. Whats your area of expertise? Berlioz inquired.
I specialize in black magic. Howd you like that! flashed in Mikhail Alexandrovichs head. And and you were invited here with regard to that area? he asked, stammering briefly.
Yes, that one, the professor confirmed and explained: The state library here unearthed some authentic manuscripts of the necromancer Gerbert of Aurillac, tenth century, and I am needed to help decipher them. I am the only specialist in the world on the subject. Ah, so youre a historian? Berlioz asked with considerable relief and respect.
I am a historian, the scholar verified. This evening, well have a pretty curious history right here on the Patriarchs! he added out of nowhere. And once again both the poet and the editor were taken aback.
The professor beckoned them both closer, and as they leaned towards him, he whispered: Keep in mind that Jesus did exist. You see, professor, Berlioz answered with a forced smile, although we respect your considerable knowledge, we happen to hold a different point of view on the matter. No need for any points of view! the strange professor replied.
He simply existed and thats that. But some sort of proof is required Berlioz began. No proofs required either, the professor replied and began narrating quietly, his accent somehow disappearing: Its all quite simple: in a white cape Chapter 2: Pontius Pilate In a white cape with blood-red lining, shuffling with a cavalrymans gait, early in the morning on the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan, there emerged on the covered colonnade between the two wings of Herod the Greats palace the Procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate.
More than anything in the world, the procurator hated the smell of rose oil. Right now, everything heralded an unpleasant day, for the smell had been haunting him since dawn. It seemed as though the very cypresses and palms in the garden oozed the odor, as though the stream of rosy stench mixed into the smell of leather tackle, the smell of the guards.
A faint smoke drifted into the colonnade through the upper terrace of the garden, originating in the rear wings of the palace, where the first cohort of the Twelfth Lightning Legion had been stationed after accompanying the procurator to Yershalaim. Indicating that the centuries cooks had started preparing dinner, this bitter smoke mingled with the same oily rose breath. O gods, ye gods, why do you punish me so? There is no doubt! It is back again, the incurable, horrific disease known as hemicrania, when half the head aches.
There is no medicine, no salvation of any sort. I will try not to move my head. An armchair had already been prepared on the mosaic floor by the fountain.
Looking at no one, the procurator sat in it and extended his hand to the side. The secretary respectfully placed a piece of parchment in the hand. Unable to suppress a grimace of pain, the procurator glanced over it briefly, returned the parchment to the secretary, and said with difficulty: The defendant comes from Galilee? Has the case been sent to the tetrarch? Yes, procurator, the secretary replied.
What of it? He refused to form a conclusion on the case and sent the Sanhedrins death sentence to you for confirmation, the secretary explained. The procurators cheek twitched as he said quietly: Bring in the accused. From the garden terrace, two legionnaires immediately brought in a man about twenty-seven years of age and stood him under the columns on the balcony in front of the procurators chair.
The man wore an old and torn blue chiton. His head was covered by a piece of white cloth, secured by a strap round his brow, and his hands were bound behind his back. His left eye was decorated with a large bruise, and the corner of his mouth was caked with blood.
The visitor looked at the procurator with anxious curiosity. The procurator was silent for a moment, then asked quietly in Aramaic: So you are the one who incited the people to destroy the temple of Yershalaim? Throughout all this the procurator sat as though made of stone, and only his lips moved ever so slightly as he pronounced the words. The procurator was like a stone because he was afraid to disturb his head, which blazed with infernal pain.
The bound man moved forward slightly and began to speak: Good man! Believe me But the procurator cut him off immediately, never moving and never raising his voice: Is it me you call a good man? You are mistaken. All of Yershalaim whispers that I am a vicious beast, and that is absolutely right. And, just as monotonously, he added: Bring me centurion Ratslayer.
It was as though darkness had descended on the balcony when the centurion appeared before the procurator Mark, nicknamed Ratslayer, commander of a special century. Ratslayer stood a head above the tallest soldier in the legion, and his shoulders were so broad that he blocked the rising sun completely as he stood. The procurator spoke to the centurion in Latin: The criminal calls me a good man.
Take him outside for a moment and explain how he is to address me. But no maiming. All eyes but those of the motionless procurator followed Mark the Ratslayer as he walked away, waving at the prisoner to follow.
Eyes generally followed Ratslayer wherever he appeared on account of his height and, for those who saw him for the first time, on account of his disfigured face: his nose had once been smashed by a German club. Marks heavy boots sounded off on the mosaic, and the bound man followed him noiselessly, leaving the colonnade silent but for the cooing of pigeons on the garden terrace by the balcony and the intricate, pleasant song of the water in the fountain. The procurator wished he could rise, place his temple under the stream, and freeze in that position.
But he knew that this, too, would be futile. Leading the arrestee from under the columns into the garden, Ratslayer took a whip from the hands of a legionnaire standing at the foot of a bronze statue. Swinging gently, he struck the captive on the shoulders.
The centurions motion was light and casual, but the bound man collapsed instantly to the ground, gasping for air, as though his legs had been cut out from under him. All color fled from his face, and his eyes clouded. With his left hand, Mark hoisted the fallen man back on his feet as easily as if it had been an empty sack, and spoke in poor, nasal Aramaic: You will address the Roman procurator as hegemon.
Say nothing else. Stand at attention. Do you understand, or shall I hit you again? The prisoner swayed but regained control of himself.
His color returned, he caught his breath, and replied hoarsely: I understand you. Dont hit me. A minute later, he again stood before the procurator.
A dim, sickly voice said: Name? Mine? the prisoner replied hastily, expressing with all his being the desire to provide coherent answers and avoid further wrath. I am acquainted with my own, the procurator said quietly. Do not pretend to be dumber than you are.
Yours. Yeshua, the prisoner replied hurriedly. Have you a surname? Ha-Notsri.
Where were you born? In the town of Gamala, replied the prisoner, motioning with his head that somewhere far to his right, to the north, lay the town of Gamala. Who are you by blood? I do not know for sure, the prisoner said quickly, I do not remember my parents. Ive been told my father was a Syrian What is your permanent residence? I have no permanent residence, the prisoner said bashfully, I travel from town to town.
There is a shorter name for that a vagrant, the procurator said and then asked: Have you relatives? None. I am alone in the world. Can you read and write? Yes.
Do you know any languages besides Aramaic? Yes. Greek. A swollen eyelid lifted slightly, an eye clouded with suffering stared at the prisoner.
The other eye remained closed. Pilate spoke in Greek: So you wanted to destroy the building of the temple and called on the people to do so? The prisoner livened up again, the fear left his eyes, and he spoke in Greek: Good ma terror flashed in the eyes of the captive, for he had nearly misspoken Hegemon, never in my life have I intended to destroy the building of the temple, and I certainly never incited anyone to such a senseless act. An expression of surprise appeared on the face of the secretary, who was hunched over his low table recording the testimony.
He raised his head but leaned back over his parchment immediately. Numerous people drift into this city for the holiday. Among them: magicians, astrologers, soothsayers, and murderers, the procurator spoke monotonously, and occasionally liars.
You, for instance, are a liar. It is clearly written here: incited to destroy the temple. So say the witnesses.
Those good people, said the prisoner and, hastily adding hegemon, continued: They were uneducated and misunderstood most everything I said. In fact, I am beginning to fear that this whole mess is going to go on for quite some time. All because he records my words improperly.
Silence fell. Now both sick eyes stared heavily at the prisoner. I repeat, but for the last time: stop feigning insanity, you scoundrel, Pilate said softly and monotonously.
Whats been recorded about you is not much, but it is enough to hang you. No, no, hegemon, said the prisoner, straining in his effort to convince, this one man keeps following me with a goatskin parchment and writing incessantly. I saw his parchment once, and it horrified me.
I hadnt said a single thing that was written there. I begged him: burn that thing, for Gods sake! But he tore it out of my hands and.