فصل 24

XXIV

The Liberation of the Master

IN Woland’s bedroom everything was as it had been before the ball. Woland was sitting in his nightshirt on the bed, only Hella was no longer massaging his leg, but setting the table, where earlier they had been playing chess, for supper. Korovyov and Azazello had taken off their tailcoats and were sitting at the table; nestled in next to them was, naturally, the cat, who didn’t want to part with his tie even though by now it was an utterly grubby rag. Swaying on her feet, Margarita walked over to the table and leaned on it. Then, as he had before, Woland beckoned to her to sit down beside him.

“Well, now, did they wear you out completely?” asked Woland.

“Oh, no, Messire,” answered Margarita, but barely audibly.

“Noblesse oblige,” remarked the cat, and he poured Margarita some transparent liquid into an ornate small glass.

“Is that vodka?” asked Margarita weakly.

The cat took offense and jumped up on his chair.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” he whined, “but how could I offer vodka to a lady? It’s pure spirits!” Margarita smiled and made an effort to move the glass away.

“Drink up, don’t be afraid,” said Woland, and Margarita picked up the glass. “Hella, sit down,” ordered Woland, as he explained to Margarita, “The night of the full moon is a festive occasion and I have supper in the company of my intimate associates and servants. And so, how do you feel? How did that wearisome ball go?” “Stupendously!” crackled Korovyov. “Everyone was enchanted, enamored, overwhelmed! By her tact, her finesse, her appeal, her charm!” Woland silently raised his glass and clinked it with Margarita’s. Margarita drank up obediently, thinking that the spirits would be the end of her. But nothing had happened. An enlivening warmth spread through her stomach, there was a soft thump at the nape of her neck, and her strength returned as if she had just awakened from a long, refreshing sleep, and in addition, she felt as hungry as a wolf. Her hunger intensified when she recalled that she had not eaten anything since the previous morning. She started to devour the caviar greedily.

Behemoth cut off a slice of pineapple, salted and peppered it, ate it, and then downed a second glass of spirits with such dash that everyone broke into applause.

After Margarita’s second glass of spirits, the candles in the candelabra burned brighter and the flames in the fireplace grew.

Margarita did not feel the least bit drunk. Sinking her white teeth into some meat, she savored its succulent juices as she watched Behemoth spread mustard on an oyster.

“You ought to put some grapes on top of that,” said Hella softly, poking the cat in the side.

“Please don’t lecture me,” replied Behemoth. “I’m an experienced diner, don’t worry, very experienced!” “Ah, how nice it is to have supper like this, around the fireplace, without any fuss, an intimate group, as it were …” twanged Korovyov.

“I disagree, Fagot,” retorted the cat, “A ball has a charm and a sweep all its own.”

“It has neither sweep nor charm,” said Woland, “and those idiotic bears, and those tigers roaring in the bar nearly gave me a migraine.” “All right, Messire,” said the cat, “if it is your opinion that there is no sweep, then I shall immediately subscribe to it.” “Watch your step!” was Woland’s reply.

“I was only joking,” said the cat meekly. “and as for the tigers, I’ll see that they’re roasted.” “You can’t eat tigers,” said Hella.

“Is that what you think?” retorted the cat. “Then let me tell you a little story …” Narrowing his eyes with pleasure, he told a story about the time when he was wandering in the desert for nineteen days, and the only nourishment he had was the meat from a tiger he had killed. Everyone listened to his absorbing narrative with interest, and when Behemoth finished, they all exclaimed in chorus, “All lies!” “And the most interesting thing about this fabrication,” said Woland, “is that it was all lies from start to finish.” “Is that what you think? That I’m lying?” exclaimed the cat, and everyone thought that he would go on to protest, but instead, he said softly, “History will be the judge.” “Tell me,” said Margarita, who had revived after the vodka, addressing Azazello, “Did you really shoot him, that former baron?” “Of course I did,” answered Azazello. “How could I not shoot him? He absolutely had to be shot.” “I got so upset!” exclaimed Margarita. “It happened so unexpectedly.”

“There was nothing unexpected about it,” retorted Azazello, but Korovyov began wailing and moaning, “How could one not get upset? I myself was shaken to the core! Crash! Bang! Over falls the baron!” “I was practically hysterical,” put in the cat, licking a spoonful of caviar.

“But what I don’t understand is,” said Margarita and gold sparks from the crystal flickered in her eyes, “wouldn’t the music and the noise from the ball be audible from outside?” “Of course not, Your Majesty,” explained Korovyov. “It has to be done so that it isn’t. It has to be done as carefully as possible.” “Of course, of course. But what about that man on the stairs … When Azazello and I were coming in … And the other one at the entranceway … I think he was watching your apartment …” “You’re right! You’re right!” shouted Korovyov. “You’re right, dear Margarita Nikolayevna! You’ve confirmed my suspicions! Yes, he was watching our apartment! At first I thought he might have been an absentminded professor or a lovesick beau mooning on the staircase. But no, no! Something didn’t feel right to me! Aha! So he was watching our apartment! And the one at the entranceway too! And same for the one by the gate!” “Won’t it be interesting if they do come and arrest you?” asked Margarita.

“They’ll come all right, enchanting Queen, they’ll come!” replied Korovyov. “I feel it in my bones. Not now, of course, but in their good time they’re sure to come. But I don’t imagine they’ll find anything interesting.” “Oh, how upset I was when that baron fell,” said Margarita, evidently still feeling the aftereffects of the first murder she had ever witnessed. “You’re probably a very good shot?” “Not bad,” answered Azazello.

“At what distance?” Margarita asked Azazello rather strangely.

“It depends what I’m shooting at,” answered Azazello reasonably. “It’s one thing to hit the critic Latunsky’s window with a hammer, and quite another to hit him in the heart.” “The heart!” exclaimed Margarita, clutching her own for some reason. “The heart!” she repeated in a hollow voice.

“What’s this about a critic named Latunsky?” asked Woland, squinting at Margarita.

Azazello, Korovyov, and Behemoth looked down in seeming embarrassment, and Margarita answered with a blush, “There’s a certain critic by that name. This evening I demolished his entire apartment.” “What do you know! But why?”

“He, Messire,” explained Margarita, “ruined a certain Master.”

“But why did you go to all that trouble yourself?” asked Woland.

“Permit me, Messire,” cried the cat joyously, and jumping up.

“You stay put,” muttered Azazello, standing up. “I’ll go over there right now …”

“No!” exclaimed Margarita. “No, Messire, I beg you, it’s not necessary!”

“As you wish, as you wish,” replied Woland, and Azazello resumed his place.

“So where did we leave off, precious Queen Margot?” said Korovyov. “Ah, yes, the heart. He can hit the heart.” Korovyov pointed his long finger at Azazello. “To order, any auricle or any of the ventricles.” Margarita did not grasp the meaning of this immediately, but once she had understood, she exclaimed in amazement, “But they’re hidden from view!” “Dear lady,” twanged Korovyov, “that’s the point, that they’re hidden! That’s the whole point! Anyone can hit a visible target!” Korovyov took a seven of spades out of the desk drawer, offered it to Margarita, and asked her to mark one of the pips with her finger nail. She marked the one in the upper right-hand corner. Hella hid the card under the pillow and yelled, “Ready!” Azazello, who was sitting with his back to the pillow, pulled a black automatic pistol out of the pocket of his dress trousers, laid the muzzle on his shoulder, and fired without turning to face the bed, thereby giving Margarita a jolt of pleasant fear. The card was removed from the bullet-pierced pillow. It had been hit where Margarita had marked it.

“I wouldn’t want to run into you when you’ve got a gun in your hands,” said Margarita, looking coquettishly at Azazello. She had a passion for anyone who could do anything really well.

“Precious Queen,” squeaked Korovyov. “Running into him isn’t a good idea even when he doesn’t have a gun! I give you my word of honor as a former choirmaster and precentor that a meeting with him is unwelcome under any circumstances.” The cat, who had been sitting with a frown on his face during the shooting demonstration, suddenly declared, “I’m going to try to outdo him with the seven card.” Azazello hooted something in reply. But the cat was stubborn and asked for not one, but two guns. Azazello pulled another gun out of his other back trouser pocket and wearing a disdainful smirk, offered both of them to the braggart. They marked two pips on the seven card. The cat made lengthy preparations after turning his back to the pillow. Margarita sat with her fingers in her ears and looked at the owl dozing on the mantelpiece. The cat shot off both guns, whereupon Hella let out a shriek, the dead owl fell off the mantel, and the shattered clock stopped. Hella, one of whose hands was bloodied, howled and dug her nails into the cat’s fur, and he responded by grabbing her hair with his claws. They started rolling around the floor in a tangled heap. A goblet fell off the table and smashed to bits.

“Get this crazed she-devil off me!” wailed the cat, as he tried to fight off Hella, who was sitting on his back. The combatants were separated, Korovyov blew on Hella’s wounded finger, and it was healed.

“I can’t shoot when people are distracting me by talking!” cried Behemoth, trying to reattach a large clump of fur that had been torn off his back.

“I bet,” said Woland, smiling at Margarita, “that he missed on purpose. He’s a good shot.”

Hella and the cat made up, and as a token of their reconciliation, they kissed. The card was retrieved from under the pillow and checked. No pip had been touched except the one Azazello shot.

“That’s not possible,” maintained the cat, peering at the candelabrum through the hole in the card.

The merry supper continued. The candles burned down in the candelabra, and the dry, fragrant warmth coming from the fireplace spread through the room in waves. After eating her fill, Margarita was overcome by a feeling of bliss. She watched the bluish-gray smoke rings from Azazello’s cigar float into the fireplace, and the cat try to catch them on the end of his saber. She had no desire to go anywhere, although according to her calculations it was already very late. Everything considered, it seemed to be approaching six in the morning. Taking advantage of the pause, Margarita turned to Woland and said timidly, “I should probably go … It’s late.” “Where are you rushing off to?” queried Woland politely, albeit dryly. The others kept their silence, pretending to be entranced by the smoke rings.

“Yes, it’s time to go,” repeated Margarita, who was somewhat disconcerted by their response, and she turned as if in search of a cape or something to put on. Her nakedness had suddenly begun to embarrass her. She got up from the table. Woland quietly removed his soiled and threadbare robe from the bed, and Korovyov threw it over Margarita’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Messire,” said Margarita in barely audible tones, and she gave Woland a questioning look. He responded with a polite and noncommittal smile. Black anguish immediately threatened to engulf Margarita’s heart. She felt cheated. No one, it seemed, had any intention of rewarding her for her services at the ball, nor did they wish to stop her from leaving. And yet it was perfectly obvious to her that she no longer had any place to go. A fleeting thought that she might have to go back to her house sent a jolt of despair through her. Should she ask for something for herself, as Azazello had so temptingly suggested in the Alexandrovsky Park? “No, not for anything,” she said to herself.

“All the best to you, Messire,” she said aloud, all the while thinking, “If I can just get out of here, I’ll go down to the river and drown myself.” “Do sit down,” came Woland’s sudden command.

A change came over Margarita’s face, and she sat down.

“Perhaps you wish to say something before you go?”

“No, nothing, Messire,” replied Margarita proudly. “Except, of course, that if you still have need of me, I’m happy to be of service. I’m not in the least bit tired and I thoroughly enjoyed myself at the ball. So much so that if it had lasted longer, I would have been glad to let thousands more murderers and gallows birds kiss my knee.” Her eyes filling with tears, Margarita looked at Woland, as through a veil.

“Bravo! You’re absolutely right!” said Woland in a fearsome, booming voice. “That’s the way!”

“That’s the way!” echoed Woland’s retinue.

“We’ve been testing you,” Woland continued. “Never ask for anything! Not ever, not for anything, especially from someone who’s more powerful than you are. They will offer and grant everything themselves. Sit down, proud woman.” Woland tore the heavy robe from Margarita’s shoulders, and again she found herself sitting next to him on the bed. “And so, Margot,” continued Woland, softening his voice, “what would you like in return for having served as my hostess today? What do you wish for having gone naked at the ball? What value do you put on your knee? What damages did you incur from my guests, whom you just referred to as gallows birds? Speak! And do so without constraint since it is I who have made the offer.” Margarita’s heart began to pound, she heaved a sigh and started to collect her thoughts.

“Come now, show more courage!” prompted Woland. “Arouse your imagination, give it free reign! Just witnessing the murder of that inveterate scoundrel of a baron should earn someone a reward, especially if that someone is—a woman. Well?” Margarita’s breath caught in her throat, and just as she was about to say the cherished words she had prepared in her soul, she suddenly turned pale, her mouth opened, and her eyes bulged. “Frieda! Frieda! Frieda!” cried an insistent, beseeching voice in her ears. “My name is Frieda!” And Margarita, stumbling over her words, began speaking, “So that means then … that I can ask … for one thing?” “Demand, demand, my Donna,” replied Woland with an understanding smile. “Demand one thing!”

Oh, how adroitly and precisely did Woland emphasize—“one thing!” in repeating Margarita’s words.

Margarita sighed again and said, “I want them to stop giving Frieda the handkerchief she used to smother her baby.” The cat raised his eyes skyward and sighed noisily, but said nothing, evidently recalling how his ear had been tweaked at the ball.

“Ruling out the possibility,” Woland grinned, “that you’ve taken a bribe from that fool Frieda—which would not be in keeping with your queenly dignity—I really don’t know what to do. I suppose there is one thing—get hold of some rags and plug up all the cracks in my bedroom!” “What are you talking about, Messire?” asked Margarita, perplexed by these truly baffling words.

“I agree with you completely, Messire,” interjected the cat, “rags are just what you need.” And with that he pounded his paw on the table in irritation.

“I’m talking about mercy,” said Woland, explaining his words, his fiery eye still fixed on Margarita. “Sometimes it unexpectedly and insidiously slips through the narrowest of cracks. That’s why I mentioned the rags.” “And that’s what I was talking about too!” exclaimed the cat, and just to be safe, he turned away from Margarita and covered his pointed ears with paws smeared in pink cream.

“Get out of here,” Woland said to him.

“I haven’t had my coffee yet,” replied the cat, “so how can I leave? Surely, Messire, on a holiday night like this you’re not dividing your dinner guests into two categories are you? Some—of first grade, and others of second grade freshness, as that pathetic cheapskate of a bar manager would say?” “Be quiet,” ordered Woland, and turning to Margarita, he asked, “Are you, everything considered, an exceptionally kind person? Highly moral?” “No,” replied Margarita forcefully. “I know one has no choice but to be frank with you, and I’ll tell you frankly: I’m a thoughtless person. I asked you on Frieda’s behalf only because I was careless enough to give her real hope. She’s waiting, Messire, she believes in my power. And if her hope is betrayed, I’ll be in an awful position. I’ll have no peace for the rest of my life. It can’t be helped! It just happened that way.” “Oh,” said Woland. “that’s understandable.”

“So will you do it?” asked Margarita softly.

“No, never,” answered Woland. “The fact is, dear Queen, there’s been a slight mix-up here. Each department should concern itself with its own business. I don’t dispute that our resources are quite extensive, much more extensive, in fact, than certain not very discerning people suppose …” “Yes, much more extensive,” chimed in the cat, unable to restrain himself, evidently priding himself on these resources.

“Be quiet, the devil take you!” said Woland, and continued, turning to Margarita, “But really, what sense is there in doing what is supposed to be the business of another, as I put it, department? And so, I will not do it, but you shall.” “Do I really have the power?”

Azazello gave Margarita an ironical sidelong glance and snorted with an imperceptible shake of his red head.

“So do it then, this is torture,” muttered Woland. He gave his globe a turn and began focusing on some detail there, evidently preoccupied with another matter during his conversation with Margarita.

“Well, say Frieda,” prompted Korovyov.

“Frieda!” came Margarita’s piercing cry.

The door flew open, and a dishevelled, naked woman with frenzied eyes, but no longer showing any signs of intoxication, burst into the room and stretched out her hands to Margarita, who said majestically, “You are forgiven. You will not be given the handkerchief anymore.” Frieda let out a wail, fell prostrate on the floor, stretched out like a cross in front of Margarita. Woland waved his hand, and Frieda vanished from sight.

“Thank you, and farewell,” said Margarita, and got up to go.

“Well, Behemoth,” began Woland, “let’s not take advantage of an impractical person’s folly on a holiday night,” he turned to Margarita, “And so, that didn’t count because after all, I did nothing. What do you want for yourself?” Silence ensued, and it was broken by Korovyov, who whispered in Margarita’s ear, “My diamond Donna, I advise you to be a little more sensible this time! Otherwise, good fortune may pass you by!” “I want, this very instant, right now, to have my lover, the Master, returned to me,” said Margarita, and a spasm contorted her face.

At this point a wind tore into the room with such force that the candles in the candelabra almost blew out, the heavy curtain on the window moved aside, and the window flew open, revealing high up in the distance a full moon, but a midnight moon rather than a morning one. A greenish square of a nocturnal light fell from the windowsill onto the floor, and in it appeared Ivan’s night visitor, who called himself the Master. He was in his hospital clothes—a robe, slippers, and the little black cap he never parted with. His unshaven face twitched in a grimace, he looked askance with crazy-fearful eyes at the light from the candles, and a flood of moonlight seethed around him.

Margarita recognized him immediately, she let out a moan, clasped her hands and ran to him. She kissed his forehead, his lips, pressed her face against his prickly cheek, and long pent-up tears streamed freely down her face. She uttered only one word, senselessly repeating it over and over, “You … you … you …” The Master pushed her away and said in a hollow voice, “Don’t cry, Margot, don’t torment me. I’m seriously ill.” He grabbed hold of the windowsill, as if intending to jump up on it and run, stared, baring his teeth at the seated company, and began to shout, “I’m frightened, Margot! I’ve started having hallucinations again …” Sobs stifled Margarita, and she whispered, choking on her words, “No, no, no … don’t be afraid of anything … I’m with you … I’m with you …” Deftly and unobtrusively, Korovyov pushed a chair over to the Master, who sat down on it, and Margarita fell on her knees, pressing herself against the sick man’s side and thus grew calm. In all her excitement she had not noticed that her nakedness was suddenly gone and she was now wearing a black silk cloak. The sick man lowered his head and began staring at the floor with sick, sullen eyes.

“Yes,” began Woland after a silence, “they’ve done quite a job on him.” He commanded Korovyov, “Knight, give this man a little something to drink.” Margarita coaxed the Master in a trembling voice, “Drink it, drink it! Are you afraid to? No, no, believe me, they’ll help you!” The sick man took the glass and drank what was in it, but his hand shook, and the empty glass smashed at his feet.

“A lucky sign! A lucky sign!” whispered Korovyov to Margarita. “See, he’s already getting better.” Indeed, the sick man’s gaze no longer seemed so wild and distraught.

“But is it really you, Margot?” asked the moonlight guest.

“Have no doubt, it’s me,” Margarita replied.

“Give him some more!” ordered Woland.

After the Master had drained a second glass, his eyes looked alive and comprehending.

“Well, now, that’s something else entirely,” said Woland, narrowing his eyes. “Now let’s talk. Who are you?” “Now I am no one,” replied the Master, his mouth twisted in a smile.

“Where did you just come from?”

“From an insane asylum. I’m mentally ill,” replied the newcomer.

Margarita could not stand to hear these words, and burst into tears again. Then she wiped her eyes and cried, “Horrible words! Horrible words! He’s the Master, Messire, I can assure you of that. Cure him, he deserves it.” “Do you know whom you are speaking to now?” Woland asked the newcomer, “Do you know whose guest you are?” “Yes,” answered the Master. “My neighbor in the madhouse was that boy Ivan Bezdomny. He told me about you.” “Well, well,” replied Woland. “I had the pleasure of meeting that young man at Patriarch’s Ponds. He nearly drove me out of my mind, trying to prove to me that I don’t exist! But you, do you believe that it’s really me?” “I have to believe that,” said the newcomer, “although it would, of course, be a lot more soothing to regard you as a product of my hallucinations. Excuse me,” added the Master, catching himself.

“Well, if it’s more soothing, then by all means do so,” replied Woland politely.

“No, no,” said Margarita fearfully, shaking the Master by the shoulder. “Come to your senses! It really is him!” The cat put in a word here as well, “But I really do look like a hallucination. Look at my profile in the moonlight.” The cat crawled into a strip of moonlight and wanted to say something else, but was asked to be quiet, so he replied, “All right, all right, I’m ready to be quiet. I’ll be a silent hallucination,” and fell silent.

“But tell me, why does Margarita call you the Master?” asked Woland.

The newcomer laughed and said, “A pardonable weakness on her part. She has too high an opinion of the novel I wrote.” “What is the novel about?”

“It is about Pontius Pilate.”

Here again the tongues of flame on the candles began to flicker and jump, the dishes started rattling on the table, and Woland burst out into thunderous laughter, but no one was frightened or surprised by this. For some reason Behemoth began to applaud.

“About what? About what? About whom?” said Woland, after he stopped laughing. “In these times? Why, that’s stupendous! Couldn’t you find another subject? Let me have a look at it.” Woland stretched out his hand, palm upward.

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that,” replied the Master, “because I burned it in the stove.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t believe you,” said Woland. “That cannot be. Manuscripts don’t burn.” He turned to Behemoth and said, “Well now, Behemoth, let’s have the novel.” The cat jumped off the chair instantly, and everyone saw that he had been sitting on a thick pile of manuscripts. The cat handed the top one to Woland with a bow. Again almost in tears, Margarita started trembling and shouting, “There it is, the manuscript! There it is!” She threw herself at Woland and added rapturously, “He’s omnipotent! Omnipotent!”

Woland took the copy handed to him, turned it over, put it aside, and stared silently and unsmilingly at the Master. For no apparent reason the latter suddenly became distressed and anxious, got up from his chair, wrung his hands, and turning to the distant moon, began trembling and muttering, “Even at night in the moonlight I have no peace … Why have they disturbed me? O gods, gods …” Margarita clutched at his hospital robe, pressed close to him, and began muttering in tears and anguish, “My God, why isn’t the medicine helping you?” “Never mind, never mind, never mind,” whispered Korovyov, weaving about near the Master. “Never mind, Never mind … Just have another glass, and I’ll keep you company …” And the little glass twinkled and sparkled in the moonlight, and that glass did help. They sat the Master in his place, and the sick man’s face became calm.

“Well, now everything is clear,” said Woland, drumming on the manuscript with his middle finger.

“Totally clear,” confirmed the cat, having forgotten his promise to be a silent hallucination. “The gist of this opus is now completely clear to me. What do you say, Azazello?” he said, turning to the silent Azazello.

“I say,” said the latter in a nasal twang, “that it would be a good idea to drown you.”

“Have mercy, Azazello,” replied the cat, “and don’t give my master any ideas. Take my word for it, I’d appear to you every night wearing the same moonlight garb as the poor Master here, and I’d beckon to you and lure you into following me. How would you like that, O Azazello?” “Well, Margarita,” said Woland, joining the conversation once again, “Tell me everything, what do you want?” Margarita’s eyes flashed, and she addressed Woland imploringly, “May I have a word with him?”

Woland nodded, and Margarita leaned over to the Master and whispered something in his ear. One could hear his reply to her, “No, it’s too late. I want nothing more in life. Except to see you. But my advice to you is still the same—leave me. If you stay with me, you’ll be lost too.” “No, I won’t leave you,” answered Margarita, and she turned to Woland. “I ask that we be returned to the basement apartment on the side street near the Arbat, and that the lamp be lit and that everything be just as it was.” Here the Master laughed, wrapped his arms around Margarita’s long-dishevelled curly head, and said, “Ah, don’t listen to the poor woman, Messire. Someone else has been living in that basement for a long time now, and besides, as a rule, things can’t go back to what they were.” He rested his cheek against his beloved Margarita’s head, embraced her and began murmuring, “My poor thing, my poor thing …” “Can’t be as they were, you say?” said Woland. “That’s true. But we’ll give it a try.” And he said, “Azazello!” Immediately, from the ceiling there fell on the floor a bewildered and nearly deranged citizen clad only in his underwear, who was for some reason wearing a cap and holding a suitcase. The man was shaking and turning gray with fright.

“Are you Mogarych?” Azazello inquired of the one who had fallen from the sky.

“Aloisy Mogarych,” the latter replied, trembling.

“Are you the one who read Latunsky’s article on this man’s novel and then filed a complaint against him, saying that he had illegal literature in his possession?” asked Azazello.

The newly arrived citizen turned blue and burst into repentant tears.

“Was it because you wanted to move into his apartment?” asked Azazello in his most cordial nasal twang.

Heard in the room was the infuriated cat, hissing, and Margarita, howling, “Know the witch, know her!”—as she dug her nails in Aloisy Mogarych’s face.

A scuffle ensued.

“What are you doing?” screamed the Master in agony, “Margot, don’t disgrace yourself!”

“I protest, this is no disgrace,” yelled the cat.

Korovyov pulled Margarita away.

“I had a bathroom put in,” cried the bloodied Mogarych, his teeth chattering, and terrified, he started babbling some nonsense, “the whitewashing alone … the sulfuric acid …” “Well, it’s good a bathroom’s been added,” said Azazello approvingly, “He needs to take a bath.” Then he shouted, “Begone!” Mogarych was then turned head over heels and propelled out of Woland’s bedroom through the open window.

The Master’s eyes popped, and he said under his breath, “Why, that’s even neater than what Ivan said about him!” Utterly shaken, he looked all around and finally said to the cat, “Excuse me … was it thou … er, you, sir …” he corrected himself, not sure whether to use the intimate or polite form of address to the cat, “are you, sir, the same cat who got on the streetcar?” “I am,” confirmed the cat, flattered, and he added, “It’s nice to hear you address a cat so politely. For some reason cats are usually addressed with the familiar ‘thou,’ despite the fact that no cat has ever drunk Bruderschaft with anyone.” “It seems to me for some reason that you, sir, are not an ordinary cat …,” replied the Master hesitantly. “They’ll still notice that I’m gone at the hospital,” he added timidly to Woland.

“Well, why would they notice that!” replied Woland reassuringly, and then some books and papers appeared in his hands. “Are these your medical records?” “Yes.”

Korovyov threw them into the fireplace.

“No documents, no person,” said Korovyov with satisfaction. “And is this your landlord’s tenants’ register?” “Yes …”

“Who’s registered in it? Aloisy Mogarych?” Korovyov blew on one of the pages of the tenants’ register. There! He’s gone! And, please note, never was there. And if your landlord acts surprised, tell him Aloisy was someone he dreamt about. Mogarych? What Mogarych? There was never any Mogarych.” Here, the tied and secured register evaporated from Korovyov’s hands. “And now it’s back on the landlord’s desk.” “You were absolutely right,” said the Master, impressed by the neatness of Korovyov’s work, “when you said: no documents, no person. So that means I don’t exist since I don’t have any documents.” “I beg your pardon,” cried Korovyov, “that really is an hallucination, here are your documents,” and Korovyov handed them to the Master. Then he shifted his gaze to Margarita and whispered sweetly to her, “And here is your property, Margarita Nikolayevna,” whereupon he handed her a notebook with charred edges, a dried rose, a photograph, and, with special care, a savings book. “Here’s the ten thousand ruble deposit you made, Margarita Nikolayevna. We have no need of other people’s money.” “I’d rather have my paws wither and fall off than touch what belongs to someone else,” exclaimed the cat in puffed-up tones, dancing on top of the suitcase to flatten down all the copies of the ill-starred novel.

“And here are your documents too,” continued Korovyov, handing them to Margarita, and then, turning to Woland, he said respectfully, “That’s everything, Messire!” “No, not everything,” replied Woland, turning away from his globe. “What are your orders, my dear lady, regarding the disposition of your retinue? I personally have no need of them.” At this point Natasha, still naked, ran in through the open door. She clasped her hands and shouted to Margarita, “Be happy, Margarita Nikolayevna!” She nodded in the direction of the Master and again turned to Margarita, “You see, I always knew where you were going.” “Maids know everything,” noted the cat, raising his paw sagaciously. “It’s a mistake to think they’re blind.” “What do you want, Natasha?” asked Margarita. “Go back to the house.”

“Darling, Margarita Nikolayevna,” began Natasha imploringly, getting down on her knees. “Ask them,” she looked sideways at Woland, “to let me stay a witch. I don’t want to go back to the house! Not for an engineer, not for a technician! Yesterday at the ball Monsieur Jacques made me an offer.” Natasha opened her hand, revealing some gold coins.

Margarita cast a questioning glance at Woland. He nodded. Then Natasha threw herself on Margarita’s neck, gave her a loud kiss, and flew out the window with a triumphant whoop.

In Natasha’s place appeared Nikolai Ivanovich. He had assumed his former human form, but he was extraordinarily glum, and even, perhaps, annoyed.

“Here’s someone I shall dismiss with special pleasure,” said Woland, looking disgustedly at Nikolai Ivanovich. “With exceptional pleasure, since he’s totally superfluous here.” “Please give me a certificate,” began Nikolai Ivanovich, looking around wildly, but speaking with great insistence, “stating where I spent last night.” “For what purpose?” asked the cat sternly.

“To give to the police and to my wife,” was Nikolai Ivanovich’s firm response.

“We usually don’t give certificates,” said the cat with a frown, “but all right, for you we’ll make an exception.” Before Nikolai Ivanovich could realize what was happening, the nude Hella was at the typewriter, taking dictation from the cat, “I hereby certify that the bearer of this note, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the night in question at Satan’s ball, having been lured there in a transportational capacity … Hella, put in parentheses! And write ‘hog.’ Signed—Behemoth.” “And the date?” squealed Nikolai Ivanovich.

“We won’t put in the date, otherwise the document will be and void,” retorted the cat, scribbling his signature. He got a seal from somewhere, breathed on it in the customary fashion, affixed a seal saying “Paid,” and handed the paper to Nikolai Ivanovich. After this the latter disappeared without a trace, and in his place appeared another unexpected figure.

“So who’s this now?” asked Woland squeamishly, shading his eyes from the glow of the candles.

Varenukha hung his head, sighed, and said softly, “Let me go back. I’m not capable of being a vampire. Hella and I almost left Rimsky a goner! I’m just not bloodthirsty enough. Let me go.” “What’s all this raving?” asked Woland with a frown. “Who’s this Rimsky? And what’s this nonsense all about?” “You needn’t trouble about this, Messire,” replied Azazello and he turned to Varenukha, “Don’t be rude on the phone. Don’t tell lies on the phone. Got it? Will you stop doing that?” Varenukha’s head was spinning from joy, his face began to glow, and without knowing what he was saying, he mumbled, “As God is my … that is, I want to say, your hi … right after dinner …” Varenukha pressed his hands to his chest and looked pleadingly at Azazello.

“All right then, go home,” the latter replied, and Varenukha melted away.

“Now everyone leave me alone with them,” ordered Woland, indicating the Master and Margarita.

Woland’s order was immediately obeyed. After a brief silence Woland addressed the Master, “So, you’re going back to the basement apartment off the Arbat, is that it? What about your writing? Your dreams, your inspiration?” “I no longer have any dreams, or inspiration either, for that matter,” replied the Master. “Nothing around me interests me except her.” He again put his hands on Margarita’s head, “They’ve broken me, I’m depressed, and I want to go back to my basement.” “What about your novel? What about Pilate?”

“It’s hateful to me, that novel,” answered the Master. “I suffered too much because of it.”

“I implore you,” begged Margarita sorrowfully, “don’t talk that way. Why are you torturing me? You know that I’ve put my whole life into your work.” And turning to Woland, she added, “Don’t listen to him, Messire, he’s just worn out.” “But shouldn’t you be writing about something?” said Woland. “If you’ve run out of things to say about the procurator, well, write about somebody else, that fellow Aloisy, for example.” The Master smiled. “Lapshyonnikova wouldn’t publish it, and, besides, it’s not interesting.”

“But what will you live on? You’ll be forced to live in poverty, you know.”

“Gladly, gladly,” replied the Master, drawing Margarita to him once again. With his arms around her shoulders, he added, “She’ll come to her senses and leave me …” “I don’t think so,” said Woland through his teeth and continued, “And so, the man who wrote the story of Pontius Pilate intends to go off to his basement, and live there in poverty by his lamp, is that right?” Margarita detached herself from the Master’s embrace and began speaking very heatedly, “I did everything I could, and I whispered to him the most tempting thing of all. And he refused it.” “I know what you whispered to him,” retorted Woland, “but that isn’t the most tempting thing. And to you I’ll say,” he smiled, turning to the Master, “Your novel has some more surprises for you.” “That’s very sad,” replied the Master.

“No, no, it isn’t sad,” said Woland, “nothing terrible will happen. Well then, Margarita Nikolayevna, everything is done. Have you any further claims on me?” “How can you say that, oh, how can you, Messire!”

“Then take this from me as a memento,” said Woland, pulling a small, diamond-studded gold horseshoe from under his pillow.

“No, no, no, whatever for!”

“Do you wish to argue with me?” asked Woland, smiling. Since she had no pocket in her cape, Margarita put the horseshoe in a napkin, and tied it in a bundle. Here something astonished her. She turned to the window, where the moon was shining, and said, “This is what I don’t understand … How can it still be midnight when it should have been morning long ago?” “It’s nice to hold on to a holiday midnight a little longer than usual,” answered Woland. “Well, I wish you happiness!” Margarita extended her hands prayerfully to Woland, but did not dare to get close to him, and she cried out softly, “Farewell! Farewell!” “Till we meet again,” said Woland.

And Margarita in her black cape, the Master in his hospital robe, stepped out into the hallway of the apartment of the jeweller’s wife, where a candle was burning, and where Woland’s retinue was waiting for them. When they set out down the hall, Hella was carrying the suitcase containing the novel and Margarita Nikolayevna’s meager belongings, and the cat was helping Hella. At the door of the apartment Korovyov bowed and disappeared, while the others accompanied them down the stairs. The staircase was deserted. As they were crossing the third-floor landing, they heard a soft thud, but no one paid any attention to it. When they reached the front doors of entranceway No. 6, Azazello blew upward, and as soon as they stepped into the courtyard, which the moonlight did not reach, they saw a man on the doorstep, wearing boots and a cloth cap, who was seemingly sound asleep, and a large, black car parked by the entrance with its lights off. Dimly visible through the windshield was the rook’s silhouette.

As they were about to get in the car, Margarita let out a soft cry of despair, “My God, I’ve lost the horseshoe!” “Get in the car,” said Azazello, “and wait for me. I’ll come right back as soon as I find out what happened.” And he went back to the front door.

This is what had happened: shortly before Margarita and the Master left with their entourage, a shriveled woman, holding a bag and a tin can, came out of No. 48, the apartment just below the jeweller’s wife’s. It was that same Annushka, who, the previous Wednesday, had spilled sunflower oil at the turnstile to Berlioz’s great misfortune.

Nobody knew, and probably nobody ever will, what this woman actually did in Moscow or what she lived on. The only thing that was known about Annushka was that she could be seen every day, with the can, with the bag, or with both together—either at the oil shop, the market, outside the gates of the building, on the stairs, or, most frequently of all, in the kitchen of apartment No. 48, which was where she lived. Besides that, the most notorious thing about her was that wherever she was, or wherever she appeared—trouble would start at once, and finally, that her nickname was “The Plague.” For some reason Annushka-the-Plague was in the habit of getting up incredibly early, and on that particular morning something roused her from bed before the crack of dawn, just after midnight. The key turned in the door, Annushka’s nose stuck out, and then the whole of her emerged, the door slammed shut behind her and she was about to set off somewhere, when a door banged on the upstairs landing, and someone rushed down the stairs, colliding with Annushka, and knocking her sideways, so that she struck the back of her head against the wall.

“Where’s the devil taking you in just your drawers?” screeched Annushka, clutching the back of her head. The man in his underwear, wearing a cap and holding a suitcase, and with his eyes closed, answered Annushka in a strange, sleepy voice, “The water pump! The sulfuric acid! The cost of the whitewash alone.” And bursting into tears, he roared, “Go away!” Then he rushed, not further down the stairs, but back—up the stairs to where the windowpane had been kicked out by the economist, and he flew out that window head over heels into the courtyard. Forgetting about the pain in the back of her head, Annushka groaned and ran to the window herself. She lay flat on her stomach on the landing and stuck her head out into the courtyard, expecting to see the broken body of the man with the suitcase stretched out on the asphalt, lit up by the yardlight. But there was absolutely nothing on the asphalt in the courtyard.

She was left to assume that the strange and sleepy individual had flown out of the house like a bird, leaving no trace of himself. Annushka crossed herself and thought. “That No. 50 really is cursed! No wonder people are talking! That’s some apartment, that is!” No sooner had she thought this, than the door upstairs banged again, and down ran a second someone. Annushka pressed herself to the wall and saw a rather respectable-looking citizen with a beard but with a slightly piglike face, or so it seemed to Annushka, dart past her and, like the preceding individual, leave the house through the window, again with no thought of smashing himself on the asphalt. Annushka had now forgotten the purpose of her outing and she just stayed on the stairs, crossing herself, groaning, and talking to herself.

Shortly after that, a third man, beardless, with a round, clean-shaven face, wearing a peasant blouse, ran out of the apartment upstairs—and flew out the window in similar fashion.

To give Annushka her due, it must be said that she was inquisitive and decided to wait a little longer to see if there would be any new marvels. The door upstairs opened again, and now a whole group of people headed down the stairs, but this time they were walking like normal people, and not running. Annushka ran away from the window, went back down to her own door, opened it hastily, hid behind it, and her eye, in a frenzy of curiosity, glimmered through the crack.

Someone who looked neither sick, nor not sick, a strange, pale man in need of a shave, and wearing a black cap and some kind of robe, was going down the stairs, supported by a lady in a black cassock, or so it appeared to Annushka in the semidarkness. The lady was not exactly barefoot, but was wearing transparent, obviously foreign-made evening slippers that had been torn to shreds. Phoo! Never mind the shoes! Why, the lady’s actually naked! Well almost, that cassock’s thrown right over her naked body! “That’s some apartment, that is!” Annushka’s soul sang with anticipation of the stories she would tell her neighbors the next day.

Behind the strangely clad lady came a completely naked one carrying a small suitcase, and prowling nearby was a huge, black cat. Rubbing her eyes, Annushka almost squealed out loud.

Bringing up the rear of the procession was a short, limping, walleyed foreigner, jacketless, wearing a white dress vest and black tie. The whole company passed Annushka on its way downstairs. At this point something made a soft thump on the landing.

Hearing the footsteps fade, Annushka slithered out from behind the door like a snake, stood her oil can against the wall, lay down on her stomach and started feeling around on the floor of the landing. Her hands picked up something heavy wrapped in a napkin. Annushka’s eyes bulged out of her head when she undid the bundle. She held the jewel up to her eyes, and her eyes burned with a wolfish fire. Thoughts whirled through Annushka’s head, “I don’t know nothing, I don’t know a thing! Should I show it to my nephew? Or break it into pieces … The stones could be pried out … And sold one at a time: one on the Petrovka, another on Smolensky … But the main thing is—I don’t know nothing, and I don’t know a thing!” Annushka hid her find in her bosom, grabbed her oil can, and was about to slither back into her apartment, having decided to postpone her trip to town, when there arose before her, the devil knows from where, that same fellow with the white shirtfront and no jacket, and he whispered quietly, “Give me the horseshoe and the napkin.” “What horseshoe-napkin?” asked Annushka, feigning ignorance very skillfully. “I don’t know nothing about no napkin. What are you, citizen, drunk or something?” Without saying another word, the white-chested man squeezed Annushka’s throat with fingers as hard as the handrail on a bus, and just as cold, cutting off the air to her lungs. The oil can dropped out of Annushka’s hands and fell onto the floor. After cutting off Annushka’s air for some moments, the jacketless foreigner removed his fingers from her neck. Gulping for air, Annushka smiled.

“Oh, you mean the little horseshoe,” she began. “Here it is! So it belongs to you? I look, and I see it there in the napkin … I took it on purpose, so that nobody would pick it up, otherwise, you could kiss it good-bye!” After receiving the horseshoe and napkin, the foreigner began to bow and scrape before Annushka, shaking her hand firmly and thanking her warmly with a very pronounced foreign accent, in expressions like these: “I am deeply grateful to you, madam. I cherish this horseshoe as a keepsake and please allow me to present you with 200 rubles, for keeping it safe.” And he took the money out of his vest pocket at once and handed it to Annushka.

She, grinning foolishly, could only blurt out, “Oh, I thank you most humbly! Merci! Merci!”

The generous foreigner made it to the bottom of the flight in one fell swoop, but before slipping away completely, he shouted from below, this time without an accent, “You old witch, if you ever find anything else that doesn’t belong to you, turn it over to the police, and don’t hide it in your bosom!” Her head agog and abuzz from all these happenings on the staircase, Annushka kept shouting “Merci! Merci! Merci!” for a long time out of inertia, but the foreigner was long gone.

The car was also gone from the courtyard. After returning Woland’s gift to Margarita, Azazello said good-bye to her, asked if she was comfortably seated, Hella enthusiastically smothered Margarita with kisses, the cat kissed her hand, the group waved to the Master, who, lifeless and inert, had sunk into the corner of his seat, then they waved to the rook and immediately melted into thin air, not considering it worth the trouble to climb back up the stairs. The rook turned on the headlights and rolled the car out through the gates past the man who was fast asleep at the gateway. And the lights of the big black car blended in with the other lights on sleepless and noisy Sadovaya Street.

An hour later, in the basement of the small house on one of the side streets off the Arbat, in the front room, where everything was just as it had been a year ago before that terrible autumn night, at the table covered with the velvet tablecloth, beneath the shaded lamp, near which stood the vase filled with lilies of the valley, Margarita sat, weeping quietly from the shock and happiness she had experienced. The fire-damaged notebook lay before her, and next to it towered a pile of undamaged notebooks. The little house was silent. In the small, adjoining room, sound asleep on the couch, covered by his hospital robe, was the Master. His even breathing could not be heard.

When she had cried her fill, Margarita took up the undamaged notebooks and found the place she had been rereading before her meeting with Azazello beneath the Kremlin wall. Margarita did not feel like sleeping. She stroked the manuscript affectionately, as one would stroke a beloved cat, and turned it over in her hands, looking at it from all sides, now pausing at the title page, now looking at the end. She suddenly had a horrible thought that it was all witchcraft, that the notebooks were about to vanish before her eyes, that she would end up in her bedroom back home, and that when she woke up, she would have to go drown herself. But that was the last horrible thought she had, a vestige of the prolonged suffering she had undergone. Nothing vanished, the omnipotent Woland was indeed omnipotent, and Margarita was free to leaf through the pages of the notebooks for as long as she liked, even till dawn. She examined them closely, kissed them, and reread the words again and again, “’The darkness that had come in from the Mediterranean covered the city so detested by the procurator …’ Yes, the darkness …”