‘Note my silhouette in the moonlight.’
(Behemoth, The Master and Margarita)
J isn’t a psychotic or hysteric. This morning his mind is off-kilter and he can only think in jaunty, sinister sentences, that’s all. He’s been reading The Master and Margarita for what he thinks is the third time, but is probably the second. This time, strangely and probably also incorrectly, he thinks he understands it: it might be the most logical novel he’s ever read.
Last night he dreamt that Behemoth the cat was his new boss. Behemoth (whose lanyard read ‘Behemoth, Head of Product’) called him in for a meeting to discuss some projects he’d like him to get going with. He couldn’t remember the exact nature of these projects when he woke up, but he thinks they sounded interesting, and that they were very well-matched to his narrow skill set. He also remembers Behemoth stroking his cheek with his soft paw and saying: thank you, J, for all that you do, truly; I wish you good health, good luck, the best health and luck possible.
Now he’s awake, J is considering buying books on black magic. He’s considering buying a long coat and a megaphone and bellowing on the streets: ‘It’s not too late! The devil’s here, you just need to look and listen…get an eye test, a hearing test, and pay attention!’ He’s considering writing an email to his so-called real boss (Nathan, Head of Product) with a special work request: at the end of our meetings, could you give my cheek a little stroke and wish me well? He’s considering staggering through a shopping centre and hallucinating that an elderly woman in a tattered shawl is escorting him to an asylum. He’s considering making fake phone calls to various men of high repute.
J is considering the possibility that he’s a secondary character in Behemoth’s dream, and that the best thing to do this morning is to call in sick for work. He could try to go back to sleep himself and see what happens. But he’s also considering if he should lean over and take out a few of the little cans of vodka lemonade that are stacked up in his mini-fridge, and spend the day with Bulgakov, reading the other couple of books (A Country Doctor’s Notebook and Heart of a Dog) sitting on his bedside table. But it’s likely that this will generate new sinister sentences, which will interfere with the logic of his current considerations, two of which have now taken precedence in J’s mind.
He’s considering:
(1) hacking into Nathan’s email and ordering a new lanyard with a new name, written in an illegible font;
(2) what needs to be done to get back into that meeting with Behemoth, where he’ll raise his hand and volunteer to submit, finally and irrevocably, to the Master.
*
A version of this story was originally published in Dishsoap Quarterly.