People walked past Margarita Nikolaevna. Some man gave the well-dressed woman a sidelong glance, attracted by her beauty and her solitude. He coughed and sat down at the end of the same bench that Margarita Nikolaevna was sitting on. Plucking up his courage, he began: “Definitely nice weather today ...”
But Margarita gave him such a dark look that he got up and left.
"There, for example,” Margarita said mentally to him who possessed her.
“Why, in fact, did I chase that man away? I’m bored, and there’s nothing bad about this Lovelace, unless it’s the stupid word ‘definitely" ... Why am I sitting alone under the wall like an owl? Why am I excluded from life?”
She became thoroughly sad and downcast. But here suddenly the same morning wave of expectation and excitement pushed at her chest. “Yes, it will happen!” The wave pushed her a second time, and now she realized that it was a wave of sound. Through the noise of the city there came ever more distinctly the approaching beat of a drum and the sounds of slightly off-key trumpets.
The first to appear was a mounted policeman riding slowly past the garden fence, with three more following on foot. Then a slowly rolling truck with the musicians. After that, a new, open hearse moving slowly, a coffin on it all covered with wreaths, and at the comers of the platform four standing persons – three men and one woman.
Even from a distance, Margarita discerned that the faces of the people standing on the hearse, accompanying the deceased on his last journey, were somehow strangely bewildered. This was particularly noticeable with regard to the citizeness who stood at the left rear corner of the hearse. This citizeness’s fat cheeks were as if pushed out still more from inside by some piquant secret, her puffy little eyes glinted with an ambiguous fire. It seemed that just a little longer and the citizeness, unable to help herself, would wink at the deceased and say: “Have you ever seen the like? Outright mysticism!...” The same bewildered faces showed on those in the cortege, who, numbering three hundred or near it, slowly walked behind the hearse.
Margarita followed the procession with her eyes, listening to the dismal Turkish drum fading in the distance, producing one and the same “boom, boom, boom”, and thought: “What a strange funeral ... and what anguish from that "boom"! Ah, truly, I’d pawn my soul to the devil just to find out whether he’s alive or not ... It would be interesting to know who they’re burying.”
“Berlioz, Mikhail Alexandrovich,” a slightly nasal male voice came from beside her, “chairman of Massolit.”
The surprised Margarita Nikolaevna turned and saw a citizen on her bench, who had apparently sat down there noiselessly while Margarita was watching the procession and, it must be assumed, absent-mindedly asked her last question aloud.
The procession meanwhile was slowing down, probably delayed by traffic lights ahead.
“Yes,” the unknown citizen went on, “they’re in a surprising mood.
They’re accompanying the deceased and thinking only about what happened to his head.”
What head?” asked Margarita, studying her unexpected neighbour. This neighbour turned out to be short of stature, a fiery redhead with a fang, in a starched shirt, a good-quality striped suit, patent leather shoes, and with a bowler hat on his head. His tie was brightly coloured. The surprising thing was that from the pocket where men usually carry a handkerchief or a fountain pen, this gentleman had a gnawed chicken bone sacking out.
“You see,” the redhead explained, “this morning in the hall of Griboedov’s, the deceased’s head was filched from the coffin.”
“How can that be?” Margarita asked involuntarily, remembering at the same time the whispering on the trolley-bus.
“Devil knows how!” the redhead replied casually. “I suppose, however, that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to ask Behemoth about it. It was an awfully deft snatch! Such a scandal! ... And, above all, it’s incomprehensible — who needs this head and for what!”
Occupied though Margarita Nikolaevna was with her own thoughts, she was struck all the same by the unknown citizen’s strange twaddle.
“Excuse me!” she suddenly exclaimed. “What Berlioz? The one that today’s newspapers ...”
The same, the same ...”
“So it means that those are writers following the coffin!” Margarita asked, and suddenly bared her teeth.
“Well, naturally they are!”
“And do you know them by sight?”
“All of them to a man,” the redhead replied.
“Tell me,” Margarita began to say, and her voice became hollow, “is the critic Latunsky among them?”
“How could he not be?” the redhead replied. “He’s there at the end of the fourth row.”
The blond one?” Margarita asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Ash-coloured ... See, he’s raising his eyes to heaven.”
“Looking like a parson?”
"That’s him!”
Margarita asked nothing more, peering at Latunsky.
“And I can see,” the redhead said, smiling, “that you hate this Latunsky!”
There are some others I hate,” Margarita answered through her teeth, “but it’s not interesting to talk about it.”
The procession moved on just then, with mostly empty automobiles following the people on foot.
“Oh, well, of course there’s nothing interesting in it, Margarita Nikolaevna!”
Margarita was surprised.
“Do you know me?”
In place of an answer, the redhead took off his bowler hat and held it out.
“A perfect bandit’s mug!” thought Margarita, studying her street interlocutor.
“Well, I don’t know you,” Margarita said drily.
“Where could you know me from? But all the same I’ve been sent to you on a little business.”
Margarita turned pale and recoiled.
‘You ought to have begun with that straight off,” she said, “instead of pouring out devil knows what about some severed head! You want to arrest me?”
“Nothing of the kind!” the redhead exclaimed. “What is it – you start a conversation, and right away it’s got to be an arrest! I simply have business with you.”
“I don’t understand, what business?”
The redhead looked around and said mysteriously: “I’ve been sent to invite you for a visit this evening.”
“What are you raving about, what visit?”
“To a very distinguished foreigner,” the redhead said significantly, narrowing one eye.
Margarita became very angry.
“A new breed has appeared — a street pander!” she said, getting up to leave.
Thanks a lot for such errands!” the redhead exclaimed grudgingly, and he muttered “Fool!” to Margarita Nikolaevna’s back.
“Scoundrel!” she replied, turning, and straight away heard the redhead’s voice behind her: “The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator. The hanging bridges connecting the temple with the dread Antonia Tower disappeared ... Yershalaim — the great city — vanished as if it had never existed in the world ... So you, too, can just vanish away along with your burnt notebook and dried-up rose! Sit here on the bench alone and entreat him to set you free, to let you breathe the air, to go from your memory!”
Her face white, Margarita came back to the bench. The redhead was looking at her, narrowing his eyes.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Margarita began quietly. “It’s possible to find out about the pages ... get in, snoop around ... You bribed Natasha, right? But how could you find out my thoughts?” She scowled painfully and added: “Tell me, who are you? From which institution?”
“What a bore ...” the redhead muttered and then said aloud, “I beg your pardon, didn’t I tell you that I’m not from any institution? Sit down, please.”
Margarita obeyed unquestioningly, but even so, as she was sitting down, she asked once more: “Who are you?”
“Well, all
right, my name is Azazello, but anyhow that tells you nothing.”
“And you won’t tell me how you found out about the pages and about my thoughts?”
“No, I won’t,” Azazello replied drily.
“But do you know anything about him?” Margarita whispered imploringly.
“Well, suppose I do.”
“I implore you, tell me only one thing ... is he alive? ... Don’t torment me!”
“Well, he’s alive, he’s alive,” Azazello responded reluctandy.
“Oh, God! ...”
“Please, no excitements and exclamations,” Azazello said, frowning.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” the now obedient Margarita murmured, “of course, I got angry with you. But, you must agree, when a woman is invited in the street to pay a visit somewhere ... I have no prejudices, I assure you,” Margarita smiled joylessly, “but I never see any foreigners, I have no wish to associate with them ... and, besides, my husband ... my drama is that I’m living with someone I don’t love ... but I consider it an unworthy thing to spoil his life ... I’ve never seen anything but kindness from him...”
Azazello heard out this incoherent speech with visible boredom and said sternly: “I beg you to be silent for a moment.”
Margarita obediently fell silent.
The foreigner to whom I’m inviting you is not dangerous at all. And not a single soul will know of dlis visit. That I can guarantee you.”
“And what does he need me for?” Margarita asked insinuatingly.
“You’ll find that out later.”
“I understand ... I must give myself to him,” Margarita said pensively.
To which Azazello grunted somehow haughtily and replied thus: “Any woman in the world, I can assure you, would dream of just that,” Azazello’s mug twisted with a littie laugh, “but I must disappoint you, it won’t happen.”
“What kind of foreigner is that?!” Margarita exclaimed in bewilderment, so loudly that people passing by turned to look at her. “And what interest do I have in going to him?”
Azazello leaned towards her and whispered meaningfully: “Well, a very great interest ... you’d better use the opportunity...”
“What?” exclaimed Margarita, and her eyes grew round. “If I understand you righdy, you’re hinting that I may find out about him there?”
Azazello silently nodded.
“I’ll go!” Margarita exclaimed with force and seized Azazello by the hand. “I’ll go wherever you like!”
Azazello, with a sigh of relief, leaned against the back of the bench, covering up the name “Niura” carved on it in big letters, and saying ironically: “Difficult folk, these women!” he put his hands in his pockets and stretched his legs way out. “Why, for instance, was I sent on this business?
Behemoth should have gone, he’s a charmer...”
Margarita said, with a crooked and bitter smile: “Stop mystifying me and tormenting me with your riddles. I’m an unhappy person, and you’re taking advantage of it ... I’m getting myself into some strange story, but I swear, it’s only because you lured me with words about him! My head’s spinning from all these puzzlements ...”
“No dramas, no dramas,” Azazello returned, making faces, “you must also put yourself in my position. To give some administrator a pasting, or chuck an uncle out of the house, or gun somebody down, or any other trifle of the sort – that’s right in my line. But talking with a woman in love, no thanks! ... It’s half an hour now that I’ve been wangling you into it ... So you’ll go?”
“I will,” Margarita Nikolaevna answered simply.
“Be so good as to accept this, then,” said Azazello, and, pulling a round little golden box from his pocket, he offered it to Margarita with the words: “Hide it now, the passers-by are looking. It’ll come in useful, Margarita Nikolaevna, you’ve aged a lot from grief in the last half-year.”
Margarita flushed but said nothing, and Azazello went on: “Tonight, at exactly half past nine, be so good as to take off all your clothes and rub your face and your whole body with this ointment. Then do whatever you like, only don’t go far from the telephone. At ten I’ll call you and tell you all you need to know. You won’t have to worry about a thing, you’ll be delivered where you need to go and won’t be put to any trouble. Understood?”
Margarita was silent for a moment, then replied: “Understood. This thing is pure gold, you can tell by the weight. So, then, I understand perfectly well that I’m being bribed and drawn into some shady story for which I’m going to pay dearly...”
“What is all this?” Azazello almost hissed. “You’re at it again?”
“No, wait!”
“Give me back the cream!” Margarita clutched the box more tightly in her hand and said: “No, wait! ... I know what I’m getting into. But I’m getting into it on account of him, because I have no more hope for anything in this world. But I want to tell you that if you’re going to ruin me, you’ll be ashamed! Yes, ashamed! I’m perishing on account of love!” – and striking herself on the breast, Margarita glanced at the sun.
“Give it back!” Azazello cried angrily. “Give it back and devil take the whole thing. Let them send Behemoth!”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Margarita, shocking the passers-by. “I agree to everything, I agree to perform this comedy of rubbing in the ointment, agree to go to the devil and beyond! I won’t give it back!”
“Hah!” Azazello suddenly shouted and, goggling his eyes at the garden fence, began pointing off somewhere with his finger.
Margarita turned to where Azazello was pointing, but found nothing special there. Then she turned back to Azazello, wishing to get an explanation of this absurd “Hah!” but there was no one to give an explanation: Margarita Nikolaevna’s mysterious interlocutor had disappeared.
Margarita quickly thrust her hand into her handbag, where she had put the box before this shouting, and made sure it was there. Then, without reflecting on anything, Margarita hurriedly ran out of the Alexandrovsky Garden.
Chapter 20. Azazello’s Cream
The moon in the clear evening sky hung full, visible through the maple branches. Lindens and acacias drew an intricate pattern of spots on the ground in the garden. The triple bay window, open but covered by a curtain, was lit with a furious electric light. In Margarita Nikolaevna’s bedroom all the lamps were burning, illuminating the total disorder in the room.
On the blanket on the bed lay shifts, stockings and underwear. Crumpled underwear was also simply lying about on the floor next to a box of cigarettes crushed in the excitement. Shoes stood on the night table next to an unfinished cup of coffee and an ashtray in which a butt was smoking. A black evening dress hung over the back of a chair. The room smelled of perfume. Besides that, the smell of a red-hot iron was coming from somewhere.
Margarita Nikolaevna sat in front of the pier-glass, with just a bathrobe thrown over her naked body, and in black suede shoes. A gold bracelet with a watch lay in front of Margarita Nikolaevna, beside the box she had received from Azazello, and Margarita did not take her eyes from its face.
At times it began to seem to her that the watch was broken and the hands were not moving. But they were moving, though very slowly, as if sucking, and at last the big hand fell on the twenty-ninth minute past nine.
Margarita’s heart gave a terrible thump, so that she could not even take hold of the box right away. Having mastered herself, Margarita opened it and saw in the box a rich, yellowish cream. It seemed to her that it smelted of swamp slime. With the dp of her finger, Margarita put a small dab of the cream on her palm, the smell of swamp grass and forest grew stronger, and then she began rubbing the cream into her forehead and cheeks with her palm.
The cream spread easily and, as it seemed to Margarita, evaporated at once. Having rubbed several times, Margarita glanced into the mirror and dropped the box right on her watch crystal, which became covered with cracks. Margarita closed her eyes, then glanced once again and burst into stormy laughter. r />
Her eyebrows, plucked to a thread with tweezers, thickened and lay in even black arches over her greening eyes. The thin vertical crease cutting the bridge of her nose, which had appeared back then, in October, when the master vanished, disappeared without a trace. So did the yellowish shadows at her temples and the two barely noticeable little webs of wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes. The skin of her cheeks filled out with an even pink colour, her forehead became white and clear, and the hairdresser’s waves in her hair came undone.
From the mirror a naturally curly, black-haired woman of about twenty was looking at the thirty-year-old Margarita, baring her teeth and shaking with laughter.
Having laughed her fill, Margarita jumped out of her bathrobe with a single leap, dipped freely into the light, rich cream, and with vigorous strokes began rubbing it into the skin of her body. It at once turned pink and ringly. That instant, as if a needle had been snatched from her brain, the ache she had felt in her temple all evening after the meeting in the Alexandrovsky Garden subsided, her leg and arm muscles grew stronger, and then Margarita’s body became weightless.
She sprang up and hung in the air just above the rug, then was slowly pulled down and descended.
“What a cream! What a cream!” cried Margarita, throwing herself into an armchair.
The rubbings changed her not only externally. Now joy was boiling up in her, in all of her, in every particle of her body, which felt to her like bubbles prickling her body all over. Margarita felt herself free, free of everything. Besides, she understood with perfect clarity that what was happening was precisely what her presentiment had been telling her in the morning, and that she was leaving her house and her former life for ever.
But, even so, a thought split off from this former life about the need of fulfilling just one last duty before the start of something new, extraordinary, which was pulling her upwards into the air. And, naked as she was, she ran from her bedroom, flying up in the air time and again, to her husband’s study, and, turning on the light, rushed to the desk. On a page torn from a notebook, she pencilled a note quickly and in big letters, without any corrections: Forgive me and forget me as soon as possible. I am leaving you for ever. Do not look for me, it is useless. I have become a witch from the grief and calamities that have struck me. It’s time for me to go. Farewell.