Archibald Archibaldovich astonished the waiters as much as he had Sophia Pavlovna. He personally pulled the chair back from the table when inviting Korovyov to be seated, winked at one waiter, whispered to the other, and both of the waiters then began fussing over the new guests, one of whom had put his primus stove down on the floor beside his rusty-brown boot.
The old tablecloth with yellow stains immediately disappeared from the table, and another one, as white as a Bedouin's burnous and crackling with starch, billowed in the breeze, while Archibald Archibaldovich leaned over and whispered softly but expressively into Korovyov's ear, "What can I get for you? I have some choice smoked sturgeon fillet... I salvaged it from the architects' convention..."
"You... um... can just give us some hors d'oeuvres... um..." murmured Korovyov cordially as he made himself comfortable in his chair.
"I understand," replied Archibald Archibaldovich significantly, closing his eyes.
Seeing the treatment these dubious-looking visitors were getting from the boss, the waiters put all their suspicions aside and got down to serious work. One offered a match to Behemoth, who had pulled a butt out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth; the other flew up to the table with tinkling green glassware and began setting it with liqueur and wineglasses, and those delicate goblets one so enjoyed sipping Narzan from under the awning of the unforgettable Griboyedov veranda.
"May I offer you some fillet of grouse," purred Archibald Archibaldovich musically. The guest in the cracked pince-nez fully concurred with the frigate commander's suggestion and gazed benignly at him through his useless lens.
At a neighboring table the writer Petrakov-Sukhovei, dining with his wife, who was finishing her escallop of pork, noticed with a writer's keen powers of observation that Archibald Archibaldovich was showering attention on the guests at the next table, and was very surprised indeed. But his wife, a most honorable lady, simply became jealous of the pirate's attention to Korovyov and even began tapping her spoon on the table, as if to say, "What's the delay... It's time for our ice cream! What's the problem?"
Archibald Archibaldovich, however, merely gave Madame Petrakov a seductive smile and sent a waiter over to her, choosing himself to stay with his dear guests. Ah, Archibald Archibaldovich was smart, all right! And not one whit less observant than the writers themselves. Archibald Archibaldovich knew about the performance at the Variety Theater and had heard about many of the events that had occurred recently, but unlike everyone eke, he had not let the words, "checked" and "cat" pass unnoticed. He had guessed immediately who his visitors were.
302 The Master and Margaría
And as a result, he naturally had no desire to quarrel with them. But what a prize that Sophia Pavlovna was! Imagine trying to bar those two from the veranda! But what could you expect from her anyway!
Haughtily poking her spoon into the melting ice cream, Madame Petrakov looked on disgrundedly as the table in front of the two apparent buffoons piled up, as if by magic, with delicacies. Shining, wet lettuce leaves, washed to a sheen, protruded from a bowl of fresh caviar... a minute later a sweating silver bucket appeared on a small, separate table that had been moved over especially for this purpose.
Only when he was convinced that everything had been done to perfection, only when the waiters had brought in a bubbling, covered skillet did Archibald Archibaldovich permit himself to leave the two mysterious visitors, but only after whispering to them, "Excuse me! I'll only be a minute! I want to see to the grouse fillets myself."
He flew from the table and disappeared into the inner passageway of the restaurant. If anyone had observed Archibald Archibaldovich's subsequent movements, he would certainly have found them rather mystifying.
Rather than head for the kitchen to see to the grouse, the boss went directly to the storeroom. He opened it with his key, locked himself inside, and carefully, so as not to soil his cuffs, removed two heavy smoked sturgeon from the ice-chest, wrapped them up in newspaper, tied them carefully with a string, and put them aside. After that he checked in the next room to see if his hat and silk-lined summer coat were in their proper place, and only then did he proceed to the kitchen where the cook was zealously preparing the grouse promised the guests by the pirate.
It must be said that there was nothing the least bit strange or mystifying about any of Archibald Archibaldovich's actions, and only a superficial observer could have found them so. Archibald Archibaldovich's actions followed logically from everything that had preceded. His knowledge of recent events, to say nothing of his phenomenal intuition, told the boss of the Griboyedov restaurant that his two visitors' dinner, though lavish and extravagant, would nevertheless be of extremely short duration. And that intuition, which had never deceived the former pirate, did not deceive him now.
Just as Korovyov and Behemoth were clinking their second glass of splendid, ice-cold, double-filtered Moscow vodka, the reporter Boba Kandalupsky, famous in Moscow for his startling omniscience, appeared on the veranda in a state of sweaty excitement, and proceeded to join the Petrakovs at their table. After laying his bulging briefcase on the table, he put his lips to Petrakov's ear and began whispering some extremely juicy tidbits. Dying of curiosity, Madame Petrakov also pressed her ear to Boba's puffy, fleshy lips. And he, looking around furtively from time to time, kept on whispering and whispering, and occasionally one could catch a separate word or two, such as, "I swear! On Sadovaya, Sadovaya," Boba lowered his voice even more, "bullets don't
The Final Adventure 0/ Korovjov and Behemoth 303
stop them! Bullets... bullets... kerosene... fire... bullets..."
"They ought to take those liars who spread filthy rumors," bellowed Madame Petrakov in a louder contralto than Boba would have wished, "and give them a good talking to! Oh, well, never mind, that will happen in good time, they'll be set straight! What vicious liars!"
"What liars are you talking about, Antonida Porfiryevna!" exclaimed Boba, distressed by her refusal to believe what he was saying, and he began hissing again, "I'm telling you, bullets don't stop them... And now the fire... They flew through the air... the air," hissed Boba, having no suspicion that the people he was talking about were sitting at the next table and thoroughly enjoying his hissings.
However, their enjoyment was short-lived. Three men, coming from inside the restaurant, dashed out on the veranda, their waists tightly buckled, wearing leggings and carrying revolvers. The one in front gave a loud, terrifying shout, "Nobody move!" Then all three opened fire on the veranda, aiming at Korovyov's and Behemoth's heads. Both targets immediately dissolved into the air, and a column of flame shot up from the primus to the awning. A kind of gaping maw with black edges appeared in the awning and began spreading all over it. Leaping through the awning, the fire rose up to the very roof of Griboyedov House. Some folders with papers that were on the second-floor windowsill of the editorial room suddenly burst into flame, followed by the blind, and then the fire, roaring as if someone were fanning it, swept in columns into the aunt's house.
Just seconds later, writers who had not finished their dinners, the waiters, Sophia Pavlovna, Boba, and the Petrakovs were running down the asphalt paths out to the iron railings on the boulevard, from whence Ivanushka, the first harbinger of misfortune, who could not get anyone to understand him, had come on Wednesday evening.
Having exited through a side door, without running or hurrying, and with time to spare, like a captain obliged to be the last to leave his burning ship, Archibald Archibaldovich stood calmly in his silk-lined summer coat, two logs of smoked Balyk sturgeon tucked under his arm.
XXIX
The Fate of the Master and Margarita is Decided
A |
T sunset, high above the city, on the stone terrace of one of the most beautiful buildings in Moscow, a building built about a hundred and fifty years ago, were two figures: Woland and Azazello. They could not be seen from below, from the street, since they were shielded from unwelcome stares by a balustrade decorated with stucco vases and stucco flowers. They, on the other hand, could see almost to the very edge of the city.
Dressed in his black soutane, Woland was seated on a folding taboret. His long broadsword had been rammed vertically into the crack between two flagstones, thus forming a sundial The sword's shadow lengthened slowly and steadily as it crept up to the black slippers on Satan's feet With his sharp chin resting on his fist and one leg folded beneath him, Woland sat hunched on the taboret, staring fixedly at the vast assortment of huge buildings, palaces, and shacks condemned to destruction.
Azazello had shed his contemporary attire, that is, his jacket, bowler hat, and patent-leather shoes, and like Woland was dressed in black. He stood motionless, not far from his master, and like him, stared at the city.
Woland spoke, "What an interesting city, don't you think?"
Azazello stirred and replied respectfully, "Messire, I prefer Rome!"
"Yes, it's a matter of taste," answered Woland.
A short while later his voice sounded again, "What's that smoke over there on the boulevard?"
"That's Griboyedov burning," replied Azazello.
"One must assume, then, that the inseparable pair, Korovyov and Behemoth, paid them a visit?"
"No doubt about it, Messire."
Again there was silence, and the two on the terrace watched as the broken, blinding sun caught fire in the westward-facing, upper-storey windows of the massive buildings. Woland's eye burned like one of
The Fate of the Matter and Margarita is Decided 305
those windows, even though he had his back to the sunset.
But something made Woland turn away from the city here and focus his attention on the round tower on the roof behind him. Emerging from the tower wall was a somber, mud-stained, black-bearded man wearing a torn chiton and homemade sandals.
"Hah!" exclaimed Woland, looking mockingly at the man who had entered. "You're the last person one would have expected to see here! What brings you here, uninvited, but expected guest?"
"I've come to see you, Spirit of Evil and Sovereign of the Shadows," replied the man, looking sullenly at Woland from under his furrowed brows.
"If you've come to see me, then why haven't you greeted me and wished me well, former tax collector?" said Woland in a stern voice.
"Because I don't want you to be well," was the newcomer's impudent reply.
"Nevertheless, you'll have to reconcile yourself to the fact that I am," retorted Woland with a twisted smile. "No sooner do you appear on the roof than you blab nonsense, and I'll tell you what it is—it's in your intonation. You pronounced your words as if you refuse to acknowledge the existence of either shadows or evil. But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and from living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light? You're stupid."
"I won't argue with you, old sophist," replied Levi Matvei.
"You can't argue with me because of what I just said—you're stupid," replied Woland, and asked, "Well, tell me briefly, without tiring me, why have you appeared?"
"He sent me."
"What did he order you to tell me, slave?"
"I am not a slave," replied Levi Matvei, becoming more enraged, "I am his disciple."
"We are speaking different languages, as always," rejoined Woland, "but that doesn't change the things we talk about. So?..."
"He has read the Master's work," began Levi Matvei, "and asks that you take the Master with you and grant him peace. Is that so difficult for you to do, Spirit of Evil?"
"Nothing is difficult for me to do," replied Woland, "as you well know." He was silent for a moment and then added, "But why aren't you taking him with you to the light?"
"He has not earned light, he has earned peace," said Levi in a sad voice.
"Tell him that it shall be done," replied Woland, and added, his eye suddenly flashing, "and leave me this instant."
306 The Master and Margarita
"He asks that you also take the one who loved him and who suffered because of him," said Levi to Woland, imploring for the first time.
"We would never have thought of that without you. Leave."
Levi Matvei disappeared after this, and Woland called Azazello and commanded him, "Fly to them and arrange everything."
Azazello left the terrace and Woland remained alone.
But his solitude was not of long duration. Footsteps and animated voices were heard on the terrace, and Korovyov and Behemoth appeared before Woland. But now the fat man was without his primus stove, but was loaded down with other things. Under his arm was a small landscape in a gold frame, over his arm a badly singed cook's smock, and in his other hand a whole salmon, skin on and tail attached. Korovyov and Behemoth both reeked of smoke, Behemoth's mug was covered with soot and his cap was half-singed.
"Salutations, Messire!" cried the indefatigable pair, and Behemoth waved his salmon.
"You're a fine sight," said Woland.
"Imagine, Messire," began Behemoth, shouting joyfully and excitedly, "They thought I was a looter!"
"Judging by what you've got with you," replied Woland, looking at the landscape, "you are a looter."
"Can you believe, Messire..." began Behemoth in a heartfelt voice.
"No, I can't believe," was Woland's curt reply.
"Messire, I swear I made heroic efforts to save everything I could, but this was all I could salvage."
"You would do better to tell me, how did Griboyedov catch fire?" asked Woland.
Korovyov and Behemoth both spread their arms and raised their eyes skyward, and Behemoth cried, "I have no idea! We were sitting peacefully, perfectly quietly, having a bite to eat.."
"And suddenly—bang! bang!" chimed in Korovyov. "They were shooting at us! Frightened out of our minds, Behemoth and I ran out into the street, the pursuers ran after us, and we made a dash for Timiryazev!"
"But a sense of duty," inserted Behemoth, "overcame our shameful fear, and we went back!"
"Ah, you went back, did you?" said Woland. "So, of course then, the building burned to the ground."
"To the ground!" affirmed Korovyov sorrowfully. "That is, literally to the ground, Messire, as you so accurately phrased it. Nothing left but smouldering chips!"
"I headed straight," Behemoth recounted, "for the assembly hall— that's the one with the columns, Messire—expecting to save something valuable. Oh, Messire, my wife, if only I had one, risked being widowed twenty times over! Fortunately, Messire, I am not married, and I'll tell
The Fate of the Matter and Margarita is Decided 307
you frankly—I'm happy not to be. Oh, Messire, who would exchange the freedom of bachelorhood for a yoke around the neck!"
"The nonsense has begun again," observed Woland.
"I'm listening and continuing with my story," replied the cat, "yessir, here's a small landscape. It was impossible to remove anything else from the hall, the flames were in my face. I ran to the storeroom and salvaged the salmon. Ran to the kitchen and salvaged the smock. I consider, Messire, that I did everything I could, and I fail to understand the skeptical look on your face."
"And what was Korovyov doing while you were looting?" inquired Woland.
"I was helping the firemen, Messire," replied Korovyov, pointing to his torn trousers.
"Ah, if that's true, then naturally, they'll have to build a new building."
"It will be built, Messire," answered Korovyov, "I can assure you of that."
"Well, then, all that is left is to hope that the new one will be better than the old," remarked Woland.
"And so it shall, Messire," said Korovyov.
"Believe me, it will," added the cat, "I'm a regular prophet."
"In any case, we're back, Messire," reported Korovyov, "and we await your instructions."
Woland got up from his taboret, went over to the balustrade, and, turning his back on his retinue, gazed silently into the distance for a long time. Then he went back, sat down on his taboret again, and said, "There will be no instructions—you have done everything you could, and for the time being, I have no further need of your services. You may rest. A thunderstorm is coming, the last thunderstorm, and it will accomplish everything that needs to be accomplished, and then we will be on our way."
"Very well, Messire," replied the two buffoons and disappeared somewhere behind the central round tower in the middle of the terrace.
The thunderstorm that Woland had mentioned was already gathering on the horizon. A black cloud had risen in the west and cut off half the sun. Then it covered it completely. It got cooler on the terrace. Soon thereafter, it got dark.
This darkness, which came from the west, enveloped the huge city. Bridges and palaces disappeared. Everything vanished as if it had never existed. A single streak of fire ran across the whole sky. Then a clap of thunder shook the city. It was repeated, and the storm began. Woland ceased to be visible in its darkness.
XXX
Time to go! Time to go!
“Y OU know," Margarita was saying, "just as you fell asleep last
night, I was reading about the darkness that had come in
from the Mediterranean... and those idols, oh, those golden
idols! For some reason, they give me no peace. I think it's going to rain
now too. Can't you feel it getting cooler?"
"All this is fine and good," replied the Master as he smoked and chased the smoke away with his hand, "—and as for the idols, forget about them... but what will happen next, is quite incomprehensible!"
This conversation took place at sunset just as Levi Matvei came to Woland on the terrace. The window of the basement apartment was open, and if anyone had glanced in, he would have been taken aback by the strange appearance of the two speakers. Margarita was wearing a black cape over her naked body, and the Master was in hospital underclothes. This was because all Margarita's things were back at her house and she had absolutely nothing else to wear, and although the house was not far away, there was, naturally, no question of her going back there to get her things. And the Master, all of whose suits were still in the closet as if he had never been away, simply did not feel like getting dressed, preoccupied as he was with telling Margarita that he was convinced something quite weird was about to happen. True, he was cleanshaven for the first time since that autumn night (his beard had been trimmed with clippers at the clinic).
The room looked strange too, and it was hard to make anything out in all the chaos. There were manuscripts all over the rug and the sofa. A book was splayed spine upwards in the armchair. The round table was set for dinner, and a few bottles stood among the hors d'oeuvres. Neither Margarita nor the Master knew where the food and drink had come from. They had awakened to find it all on the table.
Having slept until sunset on Saturday, the Master and his beloved both felt completely restored, and the only reminder they both had of the previous night's adventures was a slight ache in the left temple.
Time to go! Time to go! 309
Psychologically, they had both undergone dramatic changes, as anyone who overheard their conversation in the basement apartment would have realized. But there was absolutely no one to overhear them. The good thing about the yard was that it was always empty. The willow and the lindens outside the window were getting greener every day and their spring fragrance was blown into the basement by a rising breeze.
"Well, what the devil!" exclaimed the Master unexpectedly. "When you think of it, this is really...," he put out his cigarette in the ashtray, and pressed his hands to his head. "No, listen, you're an intelligent person and you were never crazy. Do you seriously believe that last night we were the guests of Satan?"
"Quite seriously," replied Margarita.
"Of course, of course," said the Master ironically, "that means that now we have two lunatics here, instead of just one! The husband and the wife." He raised his hands to heaven and cried, "No, only the devil knows what this is all about! The devil, the devil, the devil!"
Instead of answering, Margarita collapsed on the sofa, burst out laughing, waved her bare legs, and cried out, "Oh, I can't stand it! I can't stand it! If you could only see what you look like!"
Having laughed her fill while the Master sheepishly hitched up his hospital longjohns, Margarita then grew serious.
"You just spoke the truth without knowing it," she began, "The devil does know what this is all about, and believe me, the devil will fix everything!" Her eyes suddenly caught fire, she jumped up, began dancing up and down and shouting, "How happy I am, how happy I am that I made that deal with him! O devil, devil!... And you, my dearest, you'll just have to live with a witch!" She then rushed over to the Master, threw her arms around his neck and began kissing him on the lips, nose, and cheeks. Streams of uncombed black hair cascaded onto the Master, and his cheeks and forehead were hot from kisses.
"You really have become like a witch."
"That I don't deny," replied Margarita, "I am a witch and I'm very pleased to be one!"
"Well, good," said the Master, "so you're a witch. Fine and splendid! So, that means I was abducted from the hospital... Also very nice! They've brought us back here, let's grant that too... Let's even assume we won't be missed... But in the name of all that's holy, tell me how we'll live and on what? In saying that, I'm concerned mainly about you, believe me!"
Just then a pair of square-toed boots and trouser legs appeared in the basement window. The trousers then bent at the knee, and an ample rear end blocked out the light of day.
"Aloisy, are you home?" asked a voice outside the window from somewhere above the trousers.
"See, it's beginning," said the Master.
J10 The Master and Margarita
"Aloisy?" asked Margarita, going up doser to the window. "He was arrested yesterday. But who's asking for him? What's your name?"
The knees and rear end vanished in a second, the gate made a knocking sound, after which everything returned to normal. Margarita collapsed on the sofa and laughed so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks. But when she had calmed down, her face changed completely, she began speaking seriously, and as she did, she slid down off the couch and crawled over to the Master's knees, and, looking into his eyes, she began stroking his head.
"How you've suffered, how you've suffered, my poor man! I'm the only one who knows how much. Look, you have streaks of gray in your hair and a permanent line by your mouth. My only one, my darling, don't think about anything. You've had to think too much, and now I'll do the thinking for youl And I promise you, I promise, everything will be spectacularly fine!"
"I'm not afraid of anything, Margot," replied the Master suddenly, and he raised his head and looked just as he had when he was writing about what he had never seen but knew for certain had happened. "I'm not afraid because I've already been through everything. They frightened me too much and they can't frighten me with anything else. But I feel sorry for you, Margot, that's the problem, and that's why I keep coming back to the same thing. Come to your senses! Why ruin your life over a sick man and a beggar? Go back home! I feel pity for you, that's why I'm saying this."
"Oh, you, you," whispered Margarita, shaking her disheveled head, "you unhappy man of little faith. I spent last night naked and shivering because of you, I lost my entire nature and became something different; for months I sat in a dark hole of a room, thinking about only one thing—the thunderstorm over Yershalaim, I cried my eyes out, and now when happiness has come, you want to chase me away? Well, fine, I'll go, I'll go, but know that you are a cruel man! They ravaged your soul!"
Bitter tenderness welled up in the Master's heart, and for some unknown reason he began to cry as he buried his head in Margarita's hair. She whispered to him, crying, and her fingers skipped lighdy over the Master's temples.
"Yes, streaks, streaks... your head is turning snow-white before my very eyes... oh, my, my long-suffering head! Just look at your eyes! There's a wasteland in there... And your shoulders, they're weighted down... They've crippled you... crippled you." Margarita's speech was disjointed, she was shaking with tears.
Then the Master wiped his eyes, lifted Margarita off her knees, got up himself, and said in a firm voice, "Enough! You've put me to shame. I won't let myself be fainthearted anymore, and I won't bring up the subject again, don't worry. I know we're both victims of a mental illness that I may have given you... Well, no matter, we'll go through it together."
Time to go! Time to go.' 311
Margarita pressed her lips to the Master's ear and whispered, "I swear by your life, I swear by the astrologer's son, divined by you, that everything will be all right"
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