The Master and Margarita / Мастер и Маргарита. Книга для чтения на английском языке

So do find it out from him for yourself, Ivan Nikolayevich!”

“How do you know my name?”

“Come, come, Ivan Nikolayevich, who doesn’t know you?” Here the foreigner pulled the previous day’s issue of The Literary Gazette from his pocket, and Ivan Nikolayevich saw his own image right on the front page, and beneath it his very own verse. But the proof of his fame and popularity, that just the day before had gladdened the poet, on this occasion did not gladden him in the least.

“Excuse me,” he said, and his face darkened, “can you wait for just a moment? I want to have a quick word with my comrade.

“Oh, with pleasure!” exclaimed the stranger. “It’s so nice here under the lime trees, and, happily, I’m not hurrying off anywhere.”

“You know what, Misha,” began the poet in a whisper, pulling Berlioz aside[50 - to pull aside – оттаскивать в сторону], “he’s no foreign tourist, but a spy. He’s a Russian émigré who’s made his way back over here.

“Do you think so?” Berlioz whispered anxiously, while thinking to himself: “He’s right, of course…”

“Believe you me” – the poet’s voice became hoarse in his ear – “he’s pretending to be a bit of an idiot so as to pump us about[51 - to pump about – выспрашивать] something. You hear the way he speaks Russian” – the poet was casting sidelong glances as he talked, looking to see that the stranger did not make a run for it – “come on, we’ll detain him, or else he’ll be off.

And the poet drew Berlioz back towards the bench by the arm.

The stranger was not sitting, but standing beside it, holding in his hands some sort of booklet with a dark-grey binding, a thick envelope made of good-quality paper and a visiting card.

“Excuse me for forgetting in the heat of our argument to introduce myself to you. Here’s my card, my passport and my invitation to come to Moscow for a consultation,” said the stranger weightily, giving both men of letters a piercing look.

They became embarrassed. “The devil, he heard it all…” thought Berlioz, and indicated with a polite gesture that there was no need for papers to be shown. While the foreigner was thrusting them at the editor, the poet managed to make out on the card, printed in foreign letters, the word “Professor” and the initial letter of the surname – “W”.