‘And I dislike this undertaking extremely,’ Rimsky grumbled, glancing spitefully at the poster through his horn-rimmed glasses, ‘and generally I’m surprised he’s been allowed to present it.’
‘No, Grigory Danilovich, don’t say so! This is a very subtle step. The salt is all in the exposure.’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know, there’s no salt, in my opinion ... and he’s always coming up with things like this! ... He might at least show us his magician! Have you seen him? Where he dug him up, devil knows!’
It turned out that Varenukha had not seen the magician any more than Rimsky had. Yesterday Styopa had come running (‘like crazy’, in Rimsky’s expression) to the findirector with the already written draft of a contract, ordered it copied straight away and the money handed over to Woland. And this magician had cleared out, and no one had seen him except Styopa himself.
Rimsky took out his watch, saw that it read five minutes past two, and flew into a complete rage. Really! Likhodeev had called at around eleven, said he’d come in half an hour, and not only had not come, but had disappeared from his apartment.
‘He’s holding up my business!’ Rimsky was roaring now, jabbing his finger at a pile of unsigned papers.
‘Might he have fallen under a tram-car like Berlioz?’ Varenukha said as he held his ear to the receiver, from which came low, prolonged and utterly hopeless signals.
‘Wouldn’t be a bad thing ...’ Rimsky said barely audibly through his teeth.
At that same moment a woman in a uniform jacket, visored cap, black skirt and sneakers came into the office. From a small pouch at her belt the woman took a small white square and a notebook and asked:
‘Who here is Variety? A super-lightning telegram.2 Sign here.’
Varenukha scribbled some flourish in the woman’s notebook, and as soon as the door slammed behind her, he opened the square. After reading the telegram, he blinked and handed the square to Rimsky.
The telegram contained the following: ‘Yalta to Moscow Variety. Today eleven thirty brown-haired man came criminal investigation nightshirt trousers shoeless mental case gave name Likhodeev Director Variety Wire Yalta criminal investigation where Director Likhodeev.’
‘Hello and how do you do!’ Rimsky exclaimed, and added: ‘Another surprise!’
‘A false Dmitri!’3 said Varenukha, and he spoke into the receiver. Telegraph office? Variety account. Take a super-lightning telegram. Are you listening? “Yalta criminal investigation. Director Likhodeev Moscow Findirector Rimsky.”‘
Irrespective of the news about the Yalta impostor, Varenukha again began searching all over for Styopa by telephone, and naturally did not find him anywhere.
Just as Varenukha, receiver in hand, was pondering where else he might call, the same woman who had brought the first telegram came in and handed Varenukha a new envelope. Opening it hurriedly, Varenukha read the message and whistled.
‘What now?’ Rimsky asked, twitching nervously.
Varenukha silently handed him the telegram, and the findirector saw there the words: ‘Beg believe thrown Yalta Woland hypnosis wire criminal investigation confirm identity Likhodeev.’
Rimsky and Varenukha, their heads touching, reread the telegram, and after rereading it, silently stared at each other.
‘Citizens!’ the woman got angry. ‘Sign, and then be silent as much as you like! I deliver lightnings!’
Varenukha, without taking his eyes off the telegram, made a crooked scrawl in the notebook, and the woman vanished.
‘Didn’t you talk with him on the phone at a little past eleven?’ the administrator began in total bewilderment.
‘No, it’s ridiculous!’ Rimsky cried shrilly. Talk or not, he can’t be in Yalta now! It’s ridiculous!‘
‘He’s drunk ...’ said Varenukha.
‘Who’s drunk?’ asked Rimsky, and again the two stared at each other.
That some impostor or madman had sent telegrams from Yalta, there was no doubt. But the strange thing was this: how did the Yalta mystifier know Woland, who had come to Moscow just the day before? How did he know about the connection between Likhodeev and Woland?
‘Hypnosis...’ Varenukha kept repeating the word from the telegram. ‘How does he know about Woland?’ He blinked his eyes and suddenly cried resolutely: ‘Ah, no! Nonsense! ... Nonsense, nonsense!’
‘Where’s he staying, this Woland, devil take him?’ asked Rimsky.
Varenukha immediately got connected with the foreign tourist bureau and, to Rimsky’s utter astonishment, announced that Woland was staying in Likhodeev’s apartment. Dialling the number of the Likhodeev apartment after that, Varenukha listened for a long time to the low buzzing in the receiver. Amidst the buzzing, from somewhere far away, came a heavy, gloomy voice singing: ‘... rocks, my refuge...’4 and Varenukha decided that the telephone lines had crossed with a voice from a radio show.
‘The apartment doesn’t answer,’ Varenukha said, putting down the receiver, ‘or maybe I should call ...’
