The barman smiled so bitterly in response that all doubts fell away: yes, there were crooks among the Muscovites.
‘That is mean!’ Woland was indignant. ‘You’re a poor man ... You are a poor man?’
The barman drew his head down between his shoulders, making it evident that he was a poor man.
‘How much have you got in savings?’
The question was asked in a sympathetic tone, but even so such a question could not but be acknowledged as indelicate. The barman faltered.
‘Two hundred and forty-nine thousand roubles in five savings banks,’ a cracked voice responded from the neighbouring room, ‘and two hundred ten-rouble gold pieces at home under the floor.’
The barman became as if welded to his tabouret.
‘Well, of course, that’s not a great sum,’ Woland said condescendingly to his visitor, ‘though, as a matter of fact, you have no need of it anyway. When are you going to die?’
Here the barman became indignant.
‘Nobody knows that and it’s nobody’s concern,’ he replied.
‘Sure nobody knows,’ the same trashy voice came from the study. The binomial theorem, you might think! He’s going to die in nine months, next February, of liver cancer, in the clinic of the First Moscow State University, in ward number four.‘
The barman’s face turned yellow.
‘Nine months ...’ Woland calculated pensively. ‘Two hundred and forty-nine thousand ... rounding it off that comes to twenty-seven thousand a month ... Not a lot, but enough for a modest life ... Plus those gold pieces ...’
‘He won’t get to realize the gold pieces,’ the same voice mixed in, turning the barman’s heart to ice. ‘On Andrei Fokich’s demise, the house will immediately be torn down, and the gold will be sent to the State Bank.’
‘And I wouldn’t advise you to go to the clinic,’ the artiste went on. ‘What’s the sense of dying in a ward to the groans and wheezes of the hopelessly ill? Isn’t it better to give a banquet on the twenty-seven thousand, then take poison and move on to the other world to the sounds of strings, surrounded by drunken beauties and dashing friends?’
The barman sat motionless and grew very old. Dark rings surrounded his eyes, his cheeks sagged, and his lower jaw hung down.
‘However, we’ve started day-dreaming,’ exclaimed the host. To business! Show me your cut-up paper.‘
The barman, agitated, pulled a package from his pocket, unwrapped ‘it, and was dumbfounded: the piece of paper contained ten-rouble bills.
‘My dear, you really are unwell,’ Woland said, shrugging his shoulders.
The barman, grinning wildly, got up from the tabouret.
‘A-and ...’ he said, stammering, ‘and if they ... again ... that is ...’
‘Hm ...’ the artiste pondered, ‘well, then come to us again. You’re always welcome. I’m glad of our acquaintance ...’
Straight away Koroviev came bounding from the study, clutched the barman’s hand, and began shaking it, begging Andrei Fokich to give his regards to everybody, everybody. Not thinking very well, the barman started for the front hall.
‘Hella, see him out!’ Koroviev shouted.
Again that naked redhead in the front hall! The barman squeezed through the door, squeaked ‘Goodbye!’, and went off like a drunk man. Having gone down a little way, he stopped, sat on a step, took out the packet and checked — the ten-rouble bills were in place.
Here a woman with a green bag came out of the apartment on that landing. Seeing a man sitting on a step and staring dully at some money, she smiled and said pensively:
‘What a house we’ve got ... Here’s this one drunk in the morning ... And the window on the stairway is broken again!’
Peering more attentively at the barman, she added:
‘And you, citizen, are simply rolling in money! ... Give some to me, eh?’
‘Let me alone, for Christ’s sake!’ the barman got frightened and quickly hid the money.
The woman laughed.
‘To the hairy devil with you, skinflint! I was joking...’ And she went downstairs.
The barman slowly got up, raised his hand to straighten his hat, and realized that it was not on his head. He was terribly reluctant to go back, but he was sorry about the hat. After some hesitation, he nevertheless went back and rang.
‘What else do you want?’ the accursed Hella asked him.
‘I forgot my hat ...’ the barman whispered, pointing to his bald head. Hella turned around. The barman spat mentally and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Hella was holding out his hat to him and a sword with a dark hilt.
‘Not mine ...’ the barman whispered, pushing the sword away and quickly putting on his hat.
‘You came without a sword?’ Hella was surprised.
