The Master and Margarita (43 page)

"Mikhail Alexandrovich,” Woland addressed the head in a low voice, and then the slain man’s eyelids rose, and on the dead face Margarita saw, with a shudder, living eyes filled with thought and suffering.

“Everything came to pass, did it not?” Woland went on, looking into the head’s eyes. "The head was cut off by a woman, the meeting did not take place, and I am living in your apartment. That is a fact. And fact is the most stubborn thing in the world. But we are now interested in what follows, and not in this already accomplished fact. You have always been an ardent preacher of the theory that, on the cutting off of his head, life ceases in a man, he turns to ashes and goes into non-being. I have the pleasure of informing you, in the presence of my guests, though they serve as proof of quite a different theory, that your theory is both solid and clever.

However, one theory is as good as another. There is also one which holds that it will be given to each according to his faith.[136] Let it come true! You go into non-being, and from the cup into which you are to be transformed, I will joyfully drink to being!”

Woland raised his sword. Straight away the flesh of the head turned dark and shrivelled, then fell off in pieces, the eyes disappeared, and soon Margarita saw on the platter a yellowish skull with emerald eyes, pearl teeth and a golden foot. The lid opened on a hinge.

“Right this second, Messire,” said Koroviev, noticing Woland’s questioning look, “he’ll appear before you. In this sepulchral silence I can hear the creaking of his patent leather shoes and the clink of the goblet he has just set down on the table, having drunk champagne for the last time in his life. Here he is.”

A solitary new guest was entering the room, heading towards Woland.

Outwardly he did not differ in any way from the numerous other male guests, except for one thing: this guest was literally reeling with agitation, which could be seen even from afar. Flushed spots burned on his cheeks, and his eyes darted about in total alarm. The guest was dumbstruck, and that was perfectly natural: he was astounded by everything, and above all, of course, by Woland’s attire.

However, the guest was met with the utmost kindness.

“Ah, my dearest Baron Meigel,” Woland, smiling affably, addressed the guest, whose eyes were popping out of his head. “I’m happy to commend to you,” Woland turned to the other guests, “the most esteemed Baron Meigel, an employee of the Spectacles Commission, in charge of acquainting foreigners with places of interest in the capital.”

Here Margarita froze, because she recognized this Meigel. She had come across him several times in Moscow theatres and restaurants. “Excuse me...” thought Margarita, “but that means — what — that he’s also dead? ...”

But the matter straight away clarified tself.

“The dear baron,” Woland went on, smiling joyfully, “was so charming that, having learned of my arrival in Moscow, he rang me up at once, offering his services along the line of his expertise, that is, acquainting people with places of interest. It goes without saying that I was happy to invite him here.”

Just then Margarita saw Azazello hand the platter with the skull to Koroviev.

“Ah, yes, incidentally. Baron,” Woland said, suddenly lowering his voice intimately, “rumours have spread about your extreme curiosity. They say that, combined with your no less developed talkativeness, it was beginning to attract general attention. What’s more, wicked tongues have already dropped the word – a stool-pigeon and a spy. And, what’s still more, it is hinted that this will bring you to a sorry end in no more than a month. And so, in order to deliver you from this painful anticipation, we have decided to come to your aid, taking advantage of the fact that you invited yourself here precisely with the purpose of eavesdropping and spying out whatever you can.”

The baron turned paler than Abaddon, who was exceptionally pale by nature, and then something strange took place. Abaddon stood in front of the baron and took off his glasses for a second. At the same moment something flashed fire in Azazello’s hand, something clapped softly, the baron began to fall backwards, crimson blood spurted from his chest and poured down his starched shirt and waistcoat. Koroviev put the cup to the spurt and handed the full cup to Woland. The baron’s lifeless body was by that time already on the floor.

“I drink your health, ladies and gentlemen,” Woland said quietly and, raising the cup, touched it to his lips.

Then a metamorphosis occurred. The patched shirt and worn slippers disappeared. Woland was in some sort of black chlamys with a steel sword on his hip. He quickly approached Margarita, offered her the cup, and said imperiously: “Drink!”

Margarita became dizzy, she swayed, but the cup was already at her lips, and voices, she could not make out whose, whispered in both her ears: “Don’t be afraid. Queen ... Don’t be afraid. Queen, the blood has long since gone into the earth. And where it was spilled, grapevines are already growing.”

Margarita, without opening her eyes, took a gulp, and a sweet current ran through her veins, a ringing began in her ears. It seemed to her that cocks were crowing deafeningly, that somewhere a march was being played. The crowds of guests began to lose their shape: tailcoaters and women fell to dust. Decay enveloped the room before Margarita’s eyes, a sepulchral smell flowed over it. The columns fell apart, the fires went out, everything shrank, there were no more fountains, no camellias, no tulips. And there was simply this: the modest living room of the jeweller’s widow, and a strip of light falling from a slightly opened door. And Margarita went through this slightly opened door.

Chapter 24. The Extraction of the Master

In Woland’s bedroom everything turned out to be as it had been before the ball. Woland was sitting on the bed in his nightshirt, only Hella was no longer rubbing his leg, but was setting out supper on the table on which they had been playing chess. Koroviev and Azazello, having removed their tailcoats, were sitting at the table, and next to them, of course, was the cat, who refused to part with his bow-tie, though it had turned into an utterly filthy rag. Margarita, swaying, came up to the table and leaned on it. Then Woland beckoned her to him like the other time and indicated that she should sit down beside him.

"Well, did they wear you out very much?” asked Woland.

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

“Nobless obleege,” the cat observed and poured some transparent liquid into a goblet for Margarita.

“Is that vodka?” Margarita asked weakly.

The cat jumped up on his chair in resentment.

“Good heavens. Queen,” he croaked, “would I allow myself to pour vodka for a lady? It’s pure alcohol!”

Margarita smiled and made an attempt to push the glass away.

“Drink boldly,” said Woland, and Margarita took the glass in her hand at once.

“Hella, sit down,” Woland ordered and explained to Margarita: The night of the full moon is a festive night, and I have supper in the small company of my retinue and servants. And so, how do you feel? How did this tiring ball go?”

“Stupendous!” rattled Koroviev. “Everybody’s enchanted, infatuated, crushed! So much tact, so much skill, charm, and loveliness!”

Woland silently raised his glass and clinked with Margarita. Margarita drank obediently, thinking that this alcohol would be the end of her. But nothing bad happened. A living warmth flowed into her stomach, something struck her softly on the nape, her strength came back, as if she had got up after a long, refreshing sleep, with a wolfish appetite besides. And on recalling that she had eaten nothing since the previous morning, it flared up still more ... She greedily began gulping down caviar.

Behemoth cut a slice of pineapple, salted it, peppered it, ate it, and then tossed off a second glass of alcohol so dashingly that everyone applauded.

After Margarita’s second glass, the candles in the candelabra flared up more brighdy, and the flame increased in the fireplace. Margarita did not feel drunk at all. Biting the meat with her white teeth, Margarita savoured the juice that ran from it, at the same time watching Behemoth spread mustard on an oyster.

“Why don’t you put some grapes on top?” Hella said quietly, nudging the cat in the ribs.

“I beg you not to teach me,” replied Behemoth, “I have sat at table, don’t worry, that I have!”

“Ah, how nice it is to have supper like this, by the fireside, simply,” Koroviev clattered, “in a small circle ...”

“No, Fagott,” objected the cat, “a ball has its own charm, and scope.”

“There’s no charm in it, or scope either, and those idiotic bears and tigers in the bar almost gave me migraine with their roaring,” said Woland.

“I obey, Messire,” said the cat, “if you find no scope, I will immediately begin to hold the same opinion.”

“Watch yourself!” Woland said to that.

“I was joking,” the cat said humbly, “and as far as the tigers are concerned, I’ll order them roasted.” “One can’t eat tiger,” said Hella.

“You think not? Then I beg you to listen,” responded the cat, and, narrowing his eyes with pleasure, he told how he had once wandered in the wilderness for nineteen days,[137] and the only thing he had to eat was the meat of a tiger he had killed. They all listened to this entertaining narrative with interest, and when Behemoth finished, exclaimed in chorus: “Bunk!”

“And the most interesting thing about this bunk,” said Woland, “is that it’s bunk from first word to last.”

“Ah, bunk is it?” exclaimed the cat, and they all thought he would start protesting, but he only said quietly: “History will judge.”

“And tell me,” Margot, revived after the vodka, addressed Azazello, ‘did you shoot him, this former baron?”

“Naturally,” answered Azazello, “how could I not shoot him? He absolutely had to be shot.”

“I got so excited!” exclaimed Margarita, “it happened so unexpectedly!”

"There was nothing unexpected in it,” Azazello objected, but Koroviev started wailing and whining: “How not get excited? I myself was quaking in my boots! Bang! Hup!

Baron on his back!”

“I nearly had hysterics,” the cat added, licking the caviar spoon.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Margarita said, and golden sparks from the crystal glittered in her eyes. “Can it be that the music and the noise of this ball generally weren’t heard outside?”

“Of course they weren’t. Queen,” explained Koroviev. “It has to be done so that nothing is heard. It has to be done carefully.”

“Well, yes, yes ... But the thing is that that man on the stairs ...

when Azazello and I passed by ... and the other one by the entrance ... I think he was watching your apartment...”

“Right, right!” cried Koroviev, “right, dear Margarita Nikolaevna! You confirm my suspicions! Yes, he was watching the apartment! I myself first took him for an absent-minded assistant professor or a lover languishing on the stairs. But no, no! Something kept gnawing at my heart! Ah, he was watching the apartment! And the other one by the entrance, too! And the same for the one in the gateway!”

“But, it’s interesting, what if they come to arrest you?” Margarita asked.

“They’re sure to come, charming Queen, they’re sure to!” replied Koroviev, “my heart tells me they’ll come. Not now, of course, but in due time they’ll certainly come. But I don’t suppose it will be very interesting.”

“Ah, I got so excited when that baron fell!” said Margarita, evidently still reliving the murder, which was the first she had seen in her life.

“You must be a very good shot?”

“Passable,” replied Azazello.

“From how many paces?” Margarita asked Azazello a not entirely clear question.

“Depends on what,” Azazello replied reasonably. “It’s one thing to hit the critic Latunsky’s window with a hammer, and quite another thing to hit him in the heart.”

“In the heart!” exclaimed Margarita, for some reason putting her hand to her own heart. “In the heart!” she repeated in a hollow voice.

“Who is this critic Latunsky?” asked Woland, narrowing his eyes at Margarita.

Azazello, Koroviev and Behemoth dropped their eyes somehow abashedly, and Margarita answered, blushing: “There is this certain critic. I destroyed his whole apartment tonight.”

“Just look at you! But what for? ...”

“You see, Messire,” Margarita explained, “he ruined a certain master.”

“But why go to such trouble yourself?” asked Woland.

“Allow me, Messire!” the cat cried out joyfully, jumping up.

“You sit down,” Azazello grunted, standing up. “I’ll go myself right now ...”

“No!” exclaimed Margarita. “No, I beg you, Messire, there’s no need for that!”

“As you wish, as you wish,” Woland replied, and Azazello sat down in his place.

“So, where were we, precious Queen Margot?” said Koroviev. “Ah, yes, the heart ... He does hit the heart,” Koroviev pointed his long finger in Azazello’s direction, “as you choose — any auricle of the heart, or any ventricle.”

Margarita did not understand at first, and when she did, she exclaimed in surprise: “But they’re covered up!”

“My dear,” clattered Koroviev, “that’s the point, that they’re covered up! That’s the whole salt of it! Anyone can hit an uncovered object!”

Koroviev took a seven of spades from the desk drawer, offered it to Margarita, and asked her to mark one of the pips with her fingernail.

Margarita marked the one in the upper right-hand corner. Hella hid the card under a pillow, crying: “Ready!”

Azazello, who was sitting with his back to the pillow, drew a black automatic from the pocket of his tailcoat trousers, put the muzzle over his shoulder, and, without turning towards the bed, fired, provoking a merry fright in Margarita. The seven was taken from under the bullet-pierced pillow. The pip marked by Margarita had a hole in it.

“I wouldn’t want to meet you when you’re carrying a gun,” Margarita said, casting coquettish glances at Azazello. She had a passion for anyone who did something top-notch.

“Precious Queen,” squeaked Koroviev, “I wouldn’t advise anyone to meet him, even if he’s not carrying a gun! I give you my word of honour as an ex-choirmaster and precentor that no one would congratulate the one doing the meeting.”