فصل 22

XXII

By Candlelight

THE steady hum of the car as it flew high above the earth soothed Margarita like a lullaby, and the moonlight warmed her pleasantly. Closing her eyes, she turned her face to the wind and thought with a certain sadness of the unknown river bank she had left behind, which she felt she would never see again. After all that evening’s marvels and enchantments, she had already guessed who they were taking her to visit, but that didn’t frighten her. The hope that there she would succeed in regaining her happiness made her fearless. However, she had very little time in the car to dream of that happiness. Due either to the rook’s expertise, or the car’s superior quality, soon after Margarita opened her eyes, she saw below her the shimmering lake of Moscow’s lights rather than the darkness of the forest. The black bird-chauffeur unscrewed the right front wheel while they were still in flight, and then landed the vehicle in an utterly deserted cemetery in the Dorogomilov district.

After depositing the unquestioning Margarita and her broom next to one of the gravestones, the rook sent the car rolling straight into the ravine behind the cemetery. It fell with a crash and was destroyed. The rook gave a respectful salute, mounted the wheel and flew off.

A black cloak appeared at once from behind one of the monuments. A fang gleamed in the moonlight, and Margarita recognized Azazello. After motioning to her to get on her broom, he himself jumped astride a long rapier, the two of them soared aloft, and seconds later, unseen by anyone, they set down near 302B Sadovaya Street.

As the two companions, carrying broom and rapier under their arms, passed through the gateway, Margarita noticed a man in a cap and high boots who was loitering there, probably waiting for someone. As light as Azazello’s and Margarita’s footsteps were, the solitary man heard them and twitched nervously, unable to figure out who was producing them.

At entranceway No. 6 they encountered a second man who looked amazingly like the first. And the same thing happened again. Footsteps … The man turned nervously and frowned. When the door opened and closed, he charged after the invisible intruders, scanned the entranceway, but failed to see anything, of course.

A third man, who was an exact replica of the second, and, therefore, of the first as well, was standing guard on the third-floor landing. He was smoking strong cigarettes, and Margarita coughed as she walked past him. The smoker jumped up from the bench on which he’d been sitting as if he had been jabbed by a needle, began looking nervously about, walked over to the bannister and looked down. By this time Margarita and her escort had already reached the door of apartment No. 50. They did not ring, Azazello opened the door noiselessly with his key.

The first thing that struck Margarita was the total darkness in which she found herself. It was as dark as a dungeon, and, afraid of stumbling, she instinctively grabbed hold of Azazello’s cloak. But at that moment a small lamp flickered up above in the distance and began drawing closer. As they were walking, Azazello took Margarita’s broom from under her arm, and it disappeared in the darkness without making a sound. They then began ascending broad steps which Margarita started to think would go on forever. It amazed her that the front hall of an ordinary Moscow apartment could contain such an extraordinary, and invisible, but very palpable, endless staircase. But their ascent did come to an end, and Margarita realized that she was on a landing. The light moved up close, and Margarita could see the illuminated face of the tall, black man who was holding the lamp in his hand. Anyone who had had the misfortune of crossing his path in recent days would have recognized him at once, even in that feebly flickering light. It was Korovyov, alias Fagot.

True, Korovyov’s appearance was greatly changed. The flickering light was reflected not in the cracked pince-nez, which should have been thrown in the trash long ago, but in a monocle which was, admittedly, also cracked. The wispy mustache on his insolent face was now curled and pomaded, and there was a simple explanation for Korovyov’s apparent blackness: he was in evening dress. Only his chest was white.

Magician, choirmaster, wizard, interpreter, or the devil knows what—in a word, Korovyov—bowed, and gesturing to Margarita with a broad sweep of the lamp, he invited her to follow him. Azazello vanished.

“An amazingly bizarre evening,” thought Margarita, “I was ready for anything except this! Has their electricity gone out, or what? But most amazing of all is the size of this place. How can all this be crammed into a Moscow apartment? It’s simply not possible.” However meager the light from Korovyov’s lamp, Margarita nevertheless realized that she was in an absolutely immense room, what is more, a room with a colonnade, which was dark and at first glance, endless. Korovyov stopped beside a small couch, placed his lamp on a little pedestal, gestured to Margarita to sit down and situated himself beside her in a picturesque pose, leaning with his elbow on the pedestal.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said Korovyov in a creaky voice. “I’m Korovyov. Are you surprised there’s no light? We’re economizing, is that what you thought? No-no-no, not at all! And if I’m lying, then let the first executioner who comes by—say, one of those who will shortly have the honor of kissing your knee—chop my head off on this very pedestal. It’s simply that Messire doesn’t like electric light, and we turn it on only at the last moment. And then, believe me, there’ll be no shortage of light. It would probably be better if there were less, in fact.” Margarita liked Korovyov, and his high-flown chatter had a calming effect on her.

“No,” replied Margarita, “what surprises me the most is where you found all this space.” With a sweep of her arm she indicated the immensity of the room.

Korovyov smirked sweetly, so that the shadows stirred in the wrinkles around his nose.

“The simplest thing of all!” he replied. “Anyone familiar with the fifth dimension has no trouble whatsoever expanding his residence to whatever size he wishes. I might add, esteemed lady, to the devil knows what size! However,” Korovyov rattled on, “I have known people who haven’t the faintest conception of the fifth dimension, or of anything else for that matter, but who have still worked wonders when it came to expanding their residence. Take, for example, the city-dweller I heard about, who got a three-room apartment on Zemlyany Embankment and then turned it into four rooms in a flash without recourse to the fifth dimension or to anything else that goes beyond human reason, namely, by dividing one of the rooms in two with a partition.

“He then proceeded to exchange his one apartment for two separate apartments in different sections of Moscow—one with three rooms, the other with two. That, you’ll agree, makes five rooms in all. Then he exchanged the three-room apartment for two separate two-room apartments, and thus, as you can see, became the possessor of six rooms, though, it’s true, they were scattered all over Moscow. He put an ad in the paper and announced his desire to exchange six rooms in various parts of Moscow for one five-room apartment on the Zemlyany Embankment and was thus on the verge of executing his last and most brilliant move, when something beyond his control put an end to his activities. It’s possible that he still has a room somewhere even now, but, I dare say, it’s not in Moscow. Now there’s an operator for you, and you were pleased to talk of the fifth dimension!” Although it was Korovyov himself and not Margarita who had brought up the subject of the fifth dimension, she laughed heartily when she heard his story about the apartment wizard. Korovyov continued, “But to business, to business, Margarita Nikolayevna. You are a very intelligent woman and have, naturally, already guessed who our host is.” Margarita’s heart skipped a beat and she nodded.

“Well then, well then,” said Korovyov. “We abhor mystery and innuendo of any kind. Every year Messire gives one ball. It is called the Spring Ball of the Full Moon, or the Ball of a Hundred Kings. A huge crowd attends! …”—Here Korovyov clutched his cheek, as if a tooth had started to ache. “But I hope, you’ll soon see that for yourself. And so: Messire is a bachelor, as you yourself, of course, understand. But he needs a hostess.” Spreading his arms, Korovyov said, “You will agree that without a hostess …” Margarita listened to Korovyov, trying not to utter a word. She felt a chill beneath her heart, the hope of happiness was making her head spin.

“According to tradition,” Korovyov continued, “the hostess of the ball has, first of all, to be named Margarita, and second, she has to be a native of the place where the ball is held. And we, as you can see, are travelling and find ourselves at the present time in Moscow. We found one hundred and twenty-one Margaritas in Moscow, and, would you believe it,” here Korovyov slapped himself on the thigh in despair, “not one of them was suitable. And then, at long last, a stroke of luck …” Korovyov gave an expressive grin, bowing from the waist, and again Margarita felt a chill in her heart.

“To be brief” cried Korovyov. “As brief as can be: you won’t refuse to assume this obligation, will you?”

“No, I won’t,” was Margarita’s firm reply.

“We’re finished!” said Korovyov, and picking up the lamp, he added, “Please follow me.”

They walked between the columns and finally made their way to another room, which for some reason smelled strongly of lemon, where rustling sounds were heard, and where something brushed against Margarita’s head. She shuddered.

“Don’t be frightened,” soothed Korovyov sweetly, taking Margarita by the arm. “It’s only Behemoth showing off his ball tricks, nothing more. And, in general, may I be so bold as to offer you some advice, Margarita Nikolayevna, never ever be afraid of anything. That’s unwise. The ball will be lavish, that I won’t try to hide from you. We’ll see some people who wielded vast power in their day. But, truly, when one thinks how microscopically small their resources are compared with the resources of the one in whose retinue I have the honor to serve, then it becomes ridiculous and, I would even say, pathetic … And besides, you yourself are of royal blood.” “Royal blood?” whispered Margarita fearfully, pressing against Korovyov.

“Ah, Queen,” cackled Korovyov playfully, “questions of blood are the most complicated in the world! And if you were to ask certain great-grandmothers, especially those renowned for their meekness, some most astonishing secrets would be revealed, esteemed Margarita Nikolayevna. I would not be remiss if in speaking about this subject, I were to draw an analogy to a capriciously shuffled deck of cards. There are things in which neither class distinctions nor national boundaries have any validity whatsoever. I’ll give you a hint: a certain sixteenth-century French queen would have been astounded, one must suppose, if someone had told her that many, many years in the future I would be walking arm-in-arm through a ballroom in Moscow with her charming great-great-great-great-granddaughter. But we have arrived!” At this point Korovyov blew out his lamp and it disappeared from his hands, and Margarita saw a strip of light on the floor in front of her under a dark door. And Korovyov rapped gently on that door. Here Margarita became so excited that her teeth began to chatter and a shiver ran down her spine.

The door opened. The room turned out to be quite small. Margarita could see a wide oak bed covered with dirty, wrinkled, and crumpled sheets and pillows. In front of the bed stood an oak table with carved legs, on top of which was a candelabrum with sockets shaped like bird claws. Burning in the seven gold claws were thick wax candles. There was also a large chessboard on the table with unusually skillfully crafted chessmen. A low stool stood on a small, threadbare carpet. On still another table there was a gold cup and a second candelabrum whose branches were fashioned like a snake’s. The room smelled of sulphur and pitch. The shadows from the candelabra crisscrossed over the floor.

Among those present Margarita immediately recognized Azazello, who was now dressed in tails and standing by the head of the bed. Now that he was all dolled up, Azazello no longer resembled the ruffian in whose identity he had appeared to Margarita in Alexandrovsky Park, and he gave Margarita a particularly gallant bow.

A naked witch, the same Hella who had so embarrassed the respectable bartender at the Variety, and, alas, the same one who, to Rimsky’s great good fortune, had been scared off by the rooster on the night of the famous performance, was sitting on the rug by the bed, stirring something in a pan that gave off sulphurous fumes.

In addition to the others there was a huge black cat who was sitting on a tall stool in front of the chess table, holding a knight in his right paw.

Hella got up and bowed to Margarita. The cat did likewise after jumping off its stool. Clicking its right hind paw, it dropped the knight and crawled under the bed to retrieve it.

Dying from terror, Margarita somehow managed to see all this in the deceptive shadows of the candlelight. Her gaze was drawn to the bed, on which sat the one whom poor Ivan, at Patriarch’s Ponds, had recently tried to convince of the devil’s non-existence. This non-existent being was, in fact, sitting on the bed.

Two eyes bore into Margarita’s face. The right eye had a gold spark deep in its center and could pierce anyone’s soul to its depths; the left eye was vacant and black, like the narrow eye of a needle, like the entrance to a bottomless well of darkness and shadow. Woland’s face was lopsided, the right corner of his mouth stretched downward, and his high, balding forehead was etched with deep wrinkles which ran parallel to his sharp eyebrows. An eternal suntan seemed to have been burned into Woland’s face.

Woland lay sprawled on the bed, dressed only in a long nightshirt, which was dirty and patched on the left shoulder. One naked leg was folded beneath him and the other was stretched out on the stool. Hella was massaging the knee of this dark leg with a smoking salve.

On Woland’s bare, hairless chest Margarita also noted a gold chain with a finely carved scarab of dark stone that had some kind of writing engraved on the back. Next to Woland on the bed, on a heavy base, stood a strange globe that seemed to be alive and was lit up on one side by a sun.

The silence lasted for several seconds. “He’s studying me,” thought Margarita, making an effort to control the trembling in her legs.

After smiling, which seemed to ignite the sparkle in his eye, Woland at last began to speak, “I welcome you, Queen, and beg you to excuse my at-home attire.” Woland’s voice was so low that on certain syllables it drawled out into a wheeze.

He picked up a long sword that was lying on top of the bedclothes, bent down, and poked it under the bed, saying, “Come out of there! The game is over. Our guest has arrived.” “Not on my account,” whistled Korovyov anxiously in Margarita’s ear, playing the role of prompter.

“Not on my account …” began Margarita.

“Messire …” Korovyov breathed into her ear.

“Don’t stop on my account, Messire,” said Margarita softly but clearly, after regaining control of herself, and smiling, she added, “Please don’t interrupt the game on my account. I imagine the chess magazines would pay a tidy sum for the chance to print it.” Azazello cackled softly and approvingly, while Woland looked at Margarita attentively, and then remarked, as if to himself, “Yes, Korovyov’s right. How capriciously the deck is shuffled! Blood tells!” He extended his hand and beckoned Margarita to come closer. She did so without feeling the floor beneath her bare feet. Woland placed his hand, heavy as stone, yet, at the same time, hot as fire, on Margarita’s shoulder, turned her toward him, and seated her on the bed next to him.

“Well, since you are so enchantingly kind,” he said, “and I never expected otherwise, we’ll dispense with formalities.” Again he leaned over to the edge of the bed and shouted, “How long is this farce under the bed going to continue? Come out of there, accursed Gans!” “I can’t find the knight,” replied the cat in an affected and muffled voice from under the bed. “He galloped off somewhere and a frog’s turned up instead.” “What do you think this is, a fairground?” asked Woland, pretending to sound angry. “There was no frog under the bed! Save those cheap tricks for the Variety. If you don’t come out this minute, we’ll consider that you’ve forfeited the game, you damned quitter.” “Not at all, Messire!” howled the cat, and he crawled out that second, holding the knight in his paw.

“I’d like you to meet …” began Woland, and then interrupted himself, “No, I can’t stand the sight of this clowning fool. Look what he did to himself under the bed.” In the meantime, the cat, covered in dust and standing on his hind paws, was bowing to Margarita. He had a white bow tie around his neck, and a pair of ladies’ mother-of-pearl opera glasses hanging from a cord on his chest. In addition, the cat’s whiskers were gilded.

“Well, what’s all this!” exclaimed Woland. “What did you gild your whiskers for? And why the devil do you need a tie, if you’re not wearing trousers?” “Cats aren’t supposed to wear trousers, Messire,” replied the cat with great dignity. “Will you tell me next that I have to wear boots? It’s only in fairy tales that you see a cat in boots, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a tie? It is not my intention to look ridiculous and risk getting kicked out! Everyone adorns himself as best he can. Keep in mind, Messire, that this applies to my opera glasses as well!” “But whiskers? …”

“I don’t understand,” retorted the cat dryly, “why Azazello and Korovyov could sprinkle themselves with white powder when shaving today and why is that preferable to gold? All I did was powder my whiskers! It would be a different matter if I had shaved! A shaved cat—now that really would be an abomination, I couldn’t agree more. But I can see …”—here the cat’s voice trembled with hurt feelings—“that I’m being picked on, and that I’m facing a serious dilemma—should I even go to the ball? What do you say to that, Messire?” The cat was so puffed up with hurt feelings that it looked like he would burst in a second.

“Oh, what a rogue he is, what a rogue,” said Woland, shaking his head, “and every time the game isn’t going his way and he’s about to lose, he starts putting up smoke screens, like the worst charlatan on the bridge. Sit down this minute and stop talking drivel.” “I’ll sit down,” said the cat, seating himself, “but I object to what you just said. My remarks are far from being drivel, as you so nicely put it in the lady’s presence; rather, they are a series of neatly packaged syllogisms which would win the respect and admiration of such connoisseurs of the genre as Sextus Empiricus, Martianus Capella, or, who knows, even Aristotle himself.” “Checkmate,” said Woland.

“Please, please, let me see,” rejoined the cat, starting to survey the board with his opera glasses.

“And so,” said Woland, addressing himself to Margarita, “I present to you, Donna, my retinue. This fellow who likes to play the fool is the cat Behemoth. You’re already acquainted with Azazello and Korovyov, and this is my maid, Hella. She’s quick and efficient, and there is no service which she cannot provide.” The beautiful Hella smiled and turned her green-hued eyes to Margarita while continuing to scoop out gobs of salve which she rubbed on Woland’s knee.

“Well, that’s that,” concluded Woland with a grimace, as Hella pressed his knee with particular force. “As you can see, it’s a small, diverse, and ingenuous group.” He fell silent and began spinning the globe in front of him. It was so artfully constructed that the deep blue oceans on it moved, and its polar cap looked real, snowy and icy.

Meanwhile, the chessboard was in chaos. An utterly distraught king in a white cape stamped on his square, his arms raised in despair. Three white lansquenet pawns with halberds stared in confusion at a bishop who was waving his crozier and pointing ahead to where Woland’s black knights could be seen on adjacent black and white squares, mounted on two mettlesome steeds, who were pawing the squares with their hooves.

Margarita was fascinated and astounded that the chess pieces were alive.

The cat, lowering his opera glasses, quietly poked his king over in the back. The latter covered his face in despair.

“It doesn’t look good, dear Behemoth,” said Korovyov with quiet venom.

“The situation is serious, but by no means hopeless,” retorted Behemoth. “Moreover, I’m completely confident of ultimate victory. A careful analysis of the situation is all that is required.” He began this careful analysis in rather a strange way, namely, by making faces and winking at his king.

“Nothing will help,” observed Korovyov.

“Oh!” shouted Behemoth. “The parrots have flown away, just as I predicted!”

And, in fact, from the distance came the sound of many flapping wings. Korovyov and Azazello rushed out.

“To hell with your ball practical jokes!” muttered Woland, without taking his eyes from his globe.

As soon as Korovyov and Azazello were gone, Behemoth’s winking intensified. Finally, the white king caught on to what was expected of him. He abruptly pulled off his cape, threw it down on the square and ran off the board. The bishop donned the king’s cast-off attire and took the king’s place.

Korovyov and Azazello returned.

“False alarm, as always,” grumbled Azazello, looking askance at Behemoth.

“I thought I heard something,” replied the cat.

“Well, how long is this going to go on?” asked Woland. “Checkmate.”

“Perhaps I misheard you, my maître, but my king is not in check, nor could he be.”

“I repeat, checkmate.”

“Messire,” responded the cat in a fake-anxious voice. “You must be overtired; my king is not in check.”

“Your king is on square G2,” said Woland, without looking at the board.

“Messire, I’m horrified!” wailed the cat, faking a look of horror. “There is no king on that square.”

“What are you saying?” asked Woland in disbelief as he looked at the board and saw the bishop on the king’s square turn away and cover his face with his hand.

“Oh, you scoundrel,” said Woland pensively.

“Messire! I must again appeal to logic,” began the cat, pressing his paws to his chest. “If a player says checkmate, and there is no trace of the king on the board, then the checkmate is and void.” “Do you concede or not?” shouted Woland in a terrible voice.

“Let me think for a bit,” answered the cat meekly. He then put his elbows on the table, covered his ears with his paws, and began to think. He thought for a long time and finally said, “I concede.” “Kill the stubborn beast,” whispered Azazello.

“Yes, I concede,” said the cat, “but only because I can’t play when I’m being badgered by envious bystanders!” He got up and the chessmen clambered into the box.

“Hella,” said Woland, “it’s time,” and she disappeared from the room. “My leg has flared up again, and now there’s this ball …” continued Woland.

“Allow me,” said Margarita softly.

Woland stared at her intently and then moved his knee over to her.

The salve was as hot as lava and burned Margarita’s hands, but she did not flinch and rubbed it into his knee, trying not to cause him any pain.

“My close friends insist that it’s rheumatism,” said Woland, keeping his eyes fixed on Margarita, “but I strongly suspect that the pain in my knee is a memento of my intimacy with a certain enchanting witch, whom I met in the Brocken Mountains, on the Devil’s Pulpit, in 1571.” “Oh, how can that be!” said Margarita.

“It’s nothing! It’ll pass in three hundred years’ time. A multitude of medications have been recommended to me, but I’m a traditionalist and remain partial to granny’s remedies. My grandmother, the vile old hag, left me some incredible herbs! Is there perhaps some sadness or anguish that is poisoning your soul?” “No, Messire, there’s nothing like that,” was Margarita’s shrewd reply, “and now that I’m here with you, I feel completely fine.” “Blood is what counts,” said Woland merrily to no one in particular, and added, “I see my globe interests you.” “Oh yes, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yes, it is nice. To be frank, I don’t like listening to the news on the radio. The announcers are usually young women who can’t pronounce place names properly. And, what’s more, at least a third of them seem to have speech defects, as if that were a job requirement. My globe is much more convenient, especially since I have to know exactly what’s going on. For instance, look here. Do you see that piece of land washed on one side by the ocean? Look how it’s bursting into flame. A war has broken out there. If you look closer, you’ll see it in detail.” Margarita bent toward the globe and saw that a square of earth had grown wider, had assumed vivid colors and had turned into a kind of relief map. And then she saw a strip of river and next to it a village. A house the size of a pea got as big as a matchbox. Suddenly and noiselessly the roof of the house blew off into the air with a puff of black smoke, the walls of the house caved in, so that nothing was left of the two-storey matchbox except piles of rubble spewing black smoke. When she looked even closer, Margarita could see a tiny female figure lying on the ground, and next to her was a baby, lying in a pool of blood with its arms stretched out.

“So that’s that,” said Woland, smiling. “He had no time to sin. Abaddon’s work is flawless.”

“I wouldn’t want to be on the side fighting against this Abaddon,” said Margarita. “Whose side is he on?”

“The more I talk with you,” Woland replied pleasantly, “the more convinced I am that you’re very intelligent. Let me put your mind at ease. He is totally neutral and sympathizes equally with both contending sides. As a result, the outcome is always the same for both of them. Abaddon!” called Woland in a soft voice, and out of the wall appeared a thin figure in dark glasses. The glasses made such a strong impression on Margarita that she let out a soft scream and buried her face in Woland’s leg. “Stop that!” yelled Woland. “How nervous people are nowadays!” He slapped Margarita’s back so hard that her whole body reverberated with the sound. “Can’t you see he’s got his glasses on? Moreover, he never has appeared, nor will he ever appear, before anyone’s time has come. And, besides, I’m here. You’re my guest! I just wanted to show him to you.” Abaddon stood motionless.

“Do you think he could take off his glasses for just a second?” asked Margarita, pressing close to Woland and trembling, but only out of curiosity.

“No, that is impossible,” Woland replied in a grave voice, waving his arm at Abaddon, who then disappeared. “What do you wish to say, Azazello?” “Messire,” answered Azazello, “permit me to speak. Two outsiders have appeared: a beautiful woman who keeps whimpering and begs permission to stay with her mistress, and also her, pardon my expression, hog.” “Beautiful women have strange ways,” remarked Woland.

“It’s Natasha, Natasha!” exclaimed Margarita.

“Well, let her stay with her mistress. And send the hog—to the cooks!”

“To be butchered?” cried Margarita in fright. “Have mercy, Messire. That’s Nikolai Ivanovich, our downstairs neighbor. You see, there’s been a mistake here, she rubbed him with that cream …” “Just a minute,” said Woland, “who the hell is going to butcher him and what the devil for? Just let him sit with the cooks for a while, that’s all! You’ll agree, I can’t very well let him into the ballroom!” “Well, yes …” added Azazello, and announced, “Midnight is approaching, Messire.”

“Ah, good.” Woland turned to Margarita, “And so, please come with me … I thank you in advance. Don’t get flustered and don’t be afraid of anything. Drink nothing but water, or else you’ll wilt and it will be hard for you. Time to go!” Margarita got up from the rug, and then Korovyov appeared in the doorway.