She did not mention the woman’s voice. Perhaps she could not hear it. Or perhaps she chose not to.
“What is it?” Bálint asked.
Bálint shivered. The voice was alive. It filled the tiny room like cigarette smoke. László’s reading was not a dry recitation. He became the characters. Woland’s lines were silky and terrible. Behemoth’s were feline and absurd. The Master’s were broken, beautiful, and full of longing. And Margarita… when László spoke for her, his voice softened into something so tender and fierce that Bálint felt his own throat tighten. a mester es margarita hangoskonyv
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. She did not mention the woman’s voice
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. “What is it
And then, the other voice—the woman’s—came through, not as a whisper, not as a ghost. Clear as a bell. She was reading with him. In Russian. Their voices intertwined like two rivers meeting.
By the fifth tape, Bálint stopped pretending he was alone.