The Master and Margarita. what was manifesdy a waiting room, he whispered, I'm terminally ill

what was manifesdy a waiting room, he whispered, " I'm terminally ill..."

The woman looked perplexedly at his bandaged head, hesitated, and said, " Well, then..." and let the bartender pass through the arch.

At that moment the door across the way opened, a gold pince-nez sparkled, and a woman in a white coat said, " Citizens, this patient has priority."

Before he could turn his head, the bartender found himself in Doctor Kuzmin's office. The room was rather long, and there was nothing frightening, medical, or solemn about it.

" What seems to be the problem? " inquired Doctor Kuzmin in a pleasant voice, looking a bit apprehensively at the bandaged head.

" I've just learned from a reliable source, " the bartender replied, staring wildly at a framed group photograph, " that I'm going to die of cancer of the liver next February. Please stop that from happening."

Professor Kuzmin arched himself against the high back of his Gothic leather chair.

" Excuse me, but I don't understand... you mean you've been to a doctor? Why is your head bandaged? "

" What doctor? You should have seen this doctor! " replied the bartender and suddenly his teeth began to chatter. " Don't bother about my head, it has nothing to do with this. The hell with my head, it's beside the point. It's the liver cancer I want you to stop."

" But who was it who told you? "

" You better believe him! " the bartender implored impassionedly. " Because he knows! "

" I don't understand any of this, " said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders and moving his chair back from the desk. " How can he know when you're going to die? Especially when he's not even a doctor! "

" In Ward No. 4, " the bartender replied.

The doctor then stared at his patient, at his head, at his damp trousers, and thought, " That's all I need! A madman! " He asked, " Do you drink vodka? "

" Never touch the stuff, " the bartender replied.

A minute later he was undressed, lying on a cold oilskin couch, and the doctor was kneading his stomach. Here it must be said, the bartender cheered up considerably. The doctor stated categorically that the bartender showed absolutely no signs, at least at the present time, of liver cancer. But that since... since he was afraid, and some charlatan had scared him to death, he should have all the necessary tests...

The doctor wrote out instructions for him, explaining where he was to go and what he was to bring. In addition, he gave him a referral slip for a neuropathologist. Doctor Burye, saying that his nerves were completely shot.

" How much do I owe you. Doctor? " the bartender asked in a soft, trembling voice as he pulled out a thick wallet.