Prologue
The owner of the Morning Star Hotel was watching a late TV show, where an untalented singer was blasting out a bad version of a Radiohead song, of which he’d made his own piano cover. The show was being broadcast on the viewing panel of one of the hotel’s giant washing machines, at which the owner had been repeatedly yawning since the beginning of the show. He was indeed yawning when he heard a knock on the door.
“Come on in” he commanded in a husky voice.
A split second later, an overweight black cat pushed open the laundry room door, which turned on its hinges with a distressing squeaking sound.
“Good evening, Woland. Mr. Kovarniy demands to see you, sir.”
Woland nodded distractedly, gesturing for the visitor to enter. This was a tall, pale man who came from a small remote town in the Urals. He had short grey hair, an irregular beard of the same color and an icy Siberian stare.
“What is it, Kovarniy? Not having enough fun?”
“If you permit me, sir.” Kovarniy bowed slightly. “I am afraid I am going to have to resign from the job. I can’t stand taking pictures of people while they’re obviously suffering. I totally understand the artistic part, but it’s just… it’s against my ethics.”
It had cost him a good deal of courage to pronounce those last words, since he knew that Woland would take them as a lame argument. But unfortunately, it was his only argument. Most certainly, he expected Woland to become infuriated, but as the hotel owner protracted his silence, Kovarniy couldn’t help feeling even more uneasy. He stood motionless, watching Woland as he lay like a pasha on the pillows scattered on the floor, now staring at the viewing panel with a deadpan gaze.
As he waited, Kovarniy’s eyes fell on Behemoth, who was obediently sitting by the door, munching on peanuts whose cracking noise was driving him slightly mad. Just then, Woland let out a long sigh.
“So, what am I supposed to do with you? The contract was quite explicit about the terms and conditions of your employment. You know I can’t let you go alive. And even when you’ll die, you’ll still be under my jurisdiction.” Woland turned toward his visitor, looking directly at him for the first time. His eyes were afire.
Kovarniy gulped with difficulty, his throat having become instantly dry. Yes, he perfectly knew what the terms and conditions were —he’d signed the contract six months ago with his own blood. He knew that he would have to pay with his life. Even with this certainty in his heart, however, he wondered if he there would be any chance, after his own death, to escape the destiny which Woland had reserved him.
