Bulgakov Society

A pale, bored woman in white ankle-socks and a white tasselled beret was sitting on a bentwood chair at the corner entrance to the verandah of the writer's club, where there was an opening in the creeper-grown trellis. In front of her on a plain kitchen table lay a large book like a ledger, in which for no known reason the woman wrote the names of the people entering the restaurant. She stopped Koroviev and Behemoth. "Your membership cards?" she said, staring in surprise at Koroviev's pince-nez, at Behemoth's Primus and grazed elbow. "A thousand apologies, madam, but what membership cards?" asked Koroviev in astonishment. "Are you writers?" asked the woman in return. "Indubitably," replied Koroviev with dignity. "Where are your membership cards?" the woman repeated. "Dear lady..." Koroviev began tenderly. "I'm not a dear lady," interrupted the woman. "Oh, what a shame," said Koroviev in a disappointed voice and went on: "Well, if you don't want to be a dear lady, which would have been delightful, you have every right not to be. But look here - if you wanted to make sure that Dostoyevsky was a writer, would you really ask him for his membership card? Why, you only have to take any five pages of one of his novels and you won't need a membership card to convince you that the man's a writer. I don't suppose he ever had a membership card, anyway! What do you think?" said Koroviev, turning to Behemoth. "I'll bet he never had one," replied the cat, putting the Primus on the table and wiping the sweat from its brow with its paw. "You're not Dostoyevsky," said the woman to Koroviev. "How do you know?" "Dostoyevsky's dead," said the woman, though not very confidently. "I protest!" exclaimed Behemoth warmly. "Dostoyevsky is immortal!" "Your membership cards, please," said the woman.