Behemoth the Cat

Behemoth is enormous, as black as a pitch-dark archway on Patriarch's Ponds, and boasts a magnificent pair of cavalry moustaches. He saunters around on his hind legs clad in a worn waistcoat and a bow tie. Yet the moment a bystander turns to look twice, there sits an ordinary overgrown tomcat on the cast-iron bench, innocently washing his whiskers with the purest, most guileless gaze. Officially Woland's jester, in truth he orchestrates most of the retinue's mischief. A brass primus stove, a chessboard, a glass of cognac, and a venomous debate: that is his indispensable arsenal.

Running into Behemoth is easy: on rain-soaked boulevards, in apartment building stairwells boasting faded stucco, or lingering by theater buffets. He seeks out mortals strictly for his own amusement and the joy of verbal fencing. He regards the militia with mild amusement, at least until uniformed citizens make the grave mistake of trying to grab him by the scruff.

His speech is deliberate, mocking, and full of sly theatricality. One moment he mutters an insult between his teeth; the next, he swoons in sheer delight at someone's gullibility. He might spontaneously recite poetry from a footstool, complain bitterly about kerosene peddlers, or demand a game of chess played for stakes.

Talking to him is always a gamble. You can never tell whether you are conversing with an ancient demon or merely an insolent beast hustling for a thick slice of Krakow sausage. In that very unpredictability lies the whole wicked charm.