“Ott a sétányon, a hársfák alatt, ahol a cseresznyefák virágba borultak…” (“There on the path, under the linden trees, where the cherry trees had blossomed…”)
He proceeded to the second tape.
That night, Bálint did not go home. He brewed coffee and loaded the seventh and final tape. He played it from the beginning. László’s voice was barely a whisper now. He was reading the final words of the Master and Margarita—their release, their quiet death, their journey into eternal rest. The teacher was weeping as he read. a mester es margarita hangoskonyv
Bálint realized the truth. He was not listening to a one-man recording. He was listening to a séance. László had not been reading the novel. He had been inviting it. And someone—something—named Margarita had answered.
“He recorded the entire novel?”
And then, a whisper. Not László’s. A woman’s whisper, barely above the noise floor, speaking Russian: “Она летит.” (“She is flying.”)
This time, the reading was more intense. László’s voice cracked during the Master’s confession: “Nem vagyok bátor ember…” (“I am not a brave man…”) And again, Bálint heard it: a second voice, clearer now. Not a whisper. A low, amused laugh. A man’s laugh. And the faint, rhythmic jingle of what sounded like a heavy coin purse or a set of spurs. “Ott a sétányon, a hársfák alatt, ahol a
On the second listen, at the exact moment László described Margarita flying naked over Moscow, there was a faint, impossible sound beneath his voice. Not tape hiss. Not distortion. It was a wind. A rushing, freezing wind, as if a window had blown open in the room where he recorded—except László’s apartment, Éva had said, was a sealed interior flat with no cross-draft.