The master's margarita

Rocamadour's uncle told me that "Master and Margarita" was one of the best books he had ever read in his life. Being contrary and grumpy, I said, "Surely it's nonsense."

Months later, I met a Russian girl, Natashka, who was teaching me the Cyrillic alphabet. She spoke Spanish very well, and I asked her if in Russia, for roller coasters, Russian salad, and Russian roulette, they just said roller coasters, salad, and roulette. She didn't get the joke, and for half an hour, she explained how each of those things was translated.

Eventually, she talked to me about the book, and since it's rare for two things to be repeated without a sacred reason behind them, I felt obliged to read the work. I had to eat my words with Rocamadour's uncle. It is by far one of the greatest works of literature, only faulting for being too long; easily, half of it could be cut, and it would maintain the same power.

There are a thousand adaptations in television, film, theater, and radio. The author, Mikhail Bulgakov, never finished revising it; upon his death, he hoped that Stalin would be his first reader, with whom he corresponded frequently.

To read one of the most beautiful chapters, I went to a bar and ordered a "White Russian." I showed the photo to Natashka, telling her that surely in her country, this drink is called "white." She didn't respond or write to me again; at this rate, I think I'll never learn the Cyrillic alphabet.