This Is Batum’s Doing”: Bulgakov’s Woland Haunts Podil at Night

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A Strange Company Roamed the Streets of Kyiv’s Podil

An elderly man with a professorial air and a weary, indifferent expression; a long-legged eccentric with wandering eyes; a huge, scruffy black cat; a red-haired giant whose frozen eyes held an ominous squint; and a tastelessly dressed young woman in a tattered fur coat confidently made their way toward Andriyivskyi Uzviz. Behind them, a short man in a once-fashionable coat, dampened and stiffened by the Dnieper, struggled to keep up.

“Why did you bring me here, Messier?” the short man asked the old professor. “What have we all forgotten here?”

“That’s for you, Batum,” Woland almost said. “You don’t need to compose odes to murderers.” But the devil’s tradition does not include publicly exposing the dead.

“This is your hometown, Master,” Woland began gently. “Native soil! I thought you would be happy to breathe its air.”

“I would be happy to breathe the air of Moscow,” the writer interrupted the old devil. “Patriarchal ponds, admirers, colleagues, metropolitan life. A Russian writer belongs in Russia—that’s exactly what I told Joseph Vissarionovich. And you brought me to the provinces. Look, there are even signs in some non-existent language. What is this—Petliura Street?”

“Petliura Street is at the other end of the city, Master,” Behemoth purred flatteringly.

“Is there really a Petliura Street in this city? And you brought me here? To a city with Petliura and signs in a ‘language’? This city should be bombed!”

“They’re bombing already, Master! Can you hear the air raid siren?” Azazello said cheerfully.

“Who is bombing?” Bulgakov asked. “The Germans?”

“No, no: your compatriots are bombing. Russia-p.”

The Reds? Again?”

“No. Russia is neither red nor white now. It is Chekist; it is gangster. But it wants everyone to be able to read your books—in the original language.”

“What a wonderful country! Without the Reds!” Bulgakov was moved. “So why aren’t we in Moscow?”

“Because you should not have written Batum,” Woland wanted to say, but once again changed his mind.

“But you have admirers here, too, Master. Look—they have gathered near your house.”

“Is that you, or what?” Bulgakov asked contemptuously, but the crowd had already recognized the Master and shouted in unison.

“This is our compensation for the monument, Mikhail Afanasyevich! The chance to see you in person, to express our gratitude… We grew up on The Master and Margarita. And The Days of the Turbins—that is the real Kyiv, noble and refined, not this village around us! And your beautiful monument!”

“Where is the monument?” the writer asked.

“Here it is—right here! It’s simply under guard, and no one has seen it for four years! It’s being protected from Russian bombing. And these ignoramuses—they want to demolish it, Mikhail Afanasyevich! Take it down from the hillside! We saved the monument from Russian barbarians, and now the village wants to tear it down!”

“From Russian barbarians?” the writer asked in surprise. “So you don’t want Russia to win?”

“Mikhail Afanasyevich, Russia is a terrible country. They are murderers; they shell peaceful neighbourhoods. We want Russia to fall apart and disappear! We are so proud of you—you are a great Kyivan! And Russia is a country of Sharikovs. And the Sharikovs want to demolish your monument!”

“They are schizophrenics,” the writer whispered to Woland. “Schizophrenics.”

“Your fans are all schizophrenics,” the devil wanted to say. “One might think it’s possible not to be schizophrenic and still understand what you intended in The Master. Or to hate the Russian army and still admire the Turbins. Of course, they’re schizophrenics! Morphinists! But they love you.” Of course, he said nothing.

“They are suffering people, Master. Suffering. They long for the Russian word, for the Russian world.”

“You’re sounding like Putin now,” said one of Bulgakov’s admirers, an elderly writer brought by the devil on the Intercity from Dnipro especially for this meeting. “Aren’t you Putin?”

“I am not Putin,” Woland said regretfully. “Where would I get Putin?

Putin is an evil you wouldn’t find even in hell. We deal more with writers—with culture, you know. In a single mind, you see, such a war can be conceived. As for Putin? He would have to invent it himself.

“I hope the meeting with your fans brought you some amusement, Master, and that you won’t reproach us for this Christmas outing. Koroviev, some champagne for the Master! This is Massandra, stolen by your compatriots, and especially easy to drink. Happy holidays, Master!”

The anxiety that had flowed from the Black Sea still hung over the city despised by the writer, yet in the distance, a faint glow of dawn could be seen

—a sign that Kyiv might finally catch its breath, begin extinguishing fires, and help those affected by the invasion of the so-called “Russian world.” The time for a night walk with Woland was coming to an end.

– Maybe next time to Moscow, Messier? To Moscow! – The writer asked hopefully. – Well, to hell with that monument.

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