“What you say is true,” the master observed, struck by the neatness of Koroviev’s work, “that if there are no papers, there’s no person. I have no papers, so there’s precisely no me.”
“I beg your pardon,” Koroviev exclaimed, “but that precisely is a hallucination, your papers are right here.” And Koroviev handed the master his papers. Then he rolled up his eyes and whispered sweedy to Margarita: “And here is your property, Margarita Nikolaevna,” and Koroviev handed Margarita the notebook with charred edges, the dried rose, the photograph, and, with particular care, the savings book. “Ten thousand, as you kindly deposited, Margarita Nikolaevna. We don’t need what belongs to others.”
“Sooner let my paws wither than touch what belongs to others,” the cat exclaimed, all puffed up, dancing on the suitcase to stamp down all the copies of the ill-fated novel.
“And your little papers as well,” Koroviev continued, handing Margarita her papers and then turning to report deferentially to Woland: That’s all, Messire!”
“No, not all,” replied Woland, tearing himself away from the globe.
“What, dear donna, will you order me to do with your retinue? I personally don’t need them.”
Here the naked Natasha ran through the open door, clasped her hands, and cried out to Margarita: “Be happy, Margarita Nikolaevna!” She nodded to the master and again turned to Margarita: “I knew all about where you used to go.”
“Domestics know everything,” observed the cat, raising a paw significantly. “It’s a mistake to think they’re blind.”
“What do you want, Natasha?” asked Margarita. “Go back to the house.”
“Darling Margarita Nikolaevna,” Natasha began imploringly and knelt down, “ask them” — she cast a sidelong glance at Woland — “to let me stay a witch. I don’t want any more of that house! I won’t marry an engineer or a technician! Yesterday at the ball Monsieur Jacques proposed to me.” Natasha opened her fist and showed some gold coins.
Margarita turned a questioning look to Woland. He nodded. Then Natasha threw herself on Margarita’s neck, gave her a smacking kiss, and with a victorious cry flew out the window.
In Natasha’s place Nikolai Ivanovich now stood. He had regained his former human shape, but was extremely glum and perhaps even annoyed.
This is someone I shall dismiss with special pleasure,” said Woland, looking at Nikolai Ivanovich with disgust, “with exceptional pleasure, so superfluous he is here.”
“I earnestly beg that you issue me a certificate,” Nikolai Ivanovich began with great insistence, but looking around wildly, “as to where I spent last night.”
“For what purpose?” the cat asked sternly.
“For the purpose of presenting it to the police and to my wife,” Nikolai Ivanovich said firmly.
“We normally don’t issue certificates,” the cat replied, frowning, “but, very well, for you we’ll make an exception.”
And before Nikolai Ivanovich had time to gather his wits, the naked Hella was sitting at a typewriter and the cat was dictating to her.
“It is hereby certified that the bearer, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the said night at Satan’s ball, having been summoned there in the capacity of a means of transportation ... make a parenthesis, Hella, in the parenthesis put "hog". Signed — Behemoth.”
“And the date?” squeaked Nikolai Ivanovich.
We don’t put dates, with a date the document becomes invalid,” responded the cat, setting his scrawl to it. Then he got himself a stamp from somewhere, breathed on it according to all the rules, stamped the word “payed” on the paper, and handed it to Nikolai Ivanovich. After which Nikolai Ivanovich disappeared without a trace, and in his place appeared a new, unexpected guest.
“And who is this one?” Woland asked squeamishly, shielding himself from the candlelight with his hand.
Varenukha hung his head, sighed, and said softly: “Let me go back, I can’t be a vampire. I almost did Rimsky in that time with Hella. And I’m not bloodthirsty. Let me go!”
“What is all this raving!” Woland said with a wince. "Which Rimsky?
What is this nonsense?”
“Kindly do not worry, Messire,” responded Azazello, and he turned to Varenukha: “Mustn’t be rude on the telephone. Mustn’t tell lies on the telephone. Understand? Will you do it again?”
Everything went giddy with joy in Varenukha’s head, his face beamed, and, not knowing what he was saying, he began to murmur: “Verily ... that is, I mean to say... Your ma... right after dinner...” Varenukha pressed his hands to his chest, looking beseechingly at Azazello.
“All right. Home with you!” the latter said, and Varenukha dissolved.
“Now all of you leave me alone with them,” ordered Woland, pointing to the master and Margarita.
Woland’s order was obeyed instantly. After some silence, Woland said to the master: “So it’s back to the Arbat basement? And who is going to write? And the dreams, the inspiration?”
“I have no more dreams, or inspiration either,” replied the master. “No one around me interests me, except her.” He again put his hand on Margarita’s head. “I’m broken, I’m bored, and I want to be in the basement.”
“And your novel? Pilate?”
“It’s hateful to me, this novel,” replied the master, “I went through too much because of it.”
“I implore you,” Margarita begged plaintively, “Don’t talk like that.
Why do you torment me? You know I put my whole life into this work.” Turning to Woland, Margarita also added: ‘don’t listen to him, Messire, he’s too worn out.”
“But you must write about something,” said Woland. “If you’ve exhausted the procurator, well, then why not start portraying, say, this Aloisy...”
The master smiled.
“Lapshennikova wouldn’t publish that, and, besides, it’s not interesting.”
“And what are you going to live on? You’ll have a beggarly existence.”
“Willingly, willingly,” replied the master, drawing Margarita to him.
He put his arm around her shoulders and added: ‘she’ll see reason, she’ll leave me...”
“I doubt that,” Woland said through his teeth and went on: “And so, the man who wrote the story of Pontius Pilate goes to the basement with the intention of settling by the lamp and leading a beggarly existence?”
Margarita separated herself from the master and began speaking very ardently: “I did all I could. I whispered the most tempting thing to him. And he refused.”
“I know what you whispered to him,” Woland retorted, “but it is not the most tempting thing. And to you I say,” he turned, smiling, to the master, “that your novel will still bring you surprises.”
“That’s very sad,” replied the master.
“No, no, it’s not sad,” said Woland, “nothing terrible. Well, Margarita Nikolaevna, it has all been done. Do you have any claims against me?”
“How can you, oh, how can you, Messire!...”
"Then take this from me as a memento,” said Woland, and he drew from under the pillow a small golden horseshoe studded with diamonds.
“No, no, no, why on earth!”
“You want to argue with me?” Woland said, smiling.
Since Margarita had no pockets in her cloak, she put the horseshoe in a napkin and tied it into a knot. Here something amazed her. She looked at the window through which the moon was shining and said: “And here’s something I don’t understand ... How is it midnight, midnight, when it should have been morning long ago?”
“It’s nice to prolong the festive night a little,” replied Woland.
“Well, I wish you happiness!”
Margarita prayerfully reached out both hands to Woland, but did not dare approach him and softly exclaimed: “Farewell! Farewell!”
“Goodbye,” said Woland.
And, Margarita in the black cloak, the master in the hospital robe, they walked out to the corridor of the jeweller’s
wife’s apartment, where a candle was burning and Woland’s retinue was waiting for them. When they left the corridor, Hella was carrying the suitcase containing the novel and Margarita Nikolaevna’s few possessions, and the cat was helping Hella.
At the door of the apartment, Koroviev made his bows and disappeared, while the rest went to accompany them downstairs. The stairway was empty. As they passed the third-floor landing, something thudded softly, but no one paid any attention to it. Just at the exit from the sixth stairway, Azazello blew upwards, and as soon as they came out to the courtyard, where the moonlight did not reach, they saw a man in a cap and boots asleep, and obviously dead asleep, on the doorstep, as well as a big black car by the entrance with its lights turned off. Through the windshield could be dimly seen the silhouette of a rook.
They were just about to get in when Margarita cried softly in despair “Oh, God, I’ve lost the horseshoe!”
“Get into the car,” said Azazello, “and wait for me. I’ll be right back, I only have to see what’s happened.” And he went back in.
What had happened was the following: shortly before Margarita and the master left with their escort, a little dried-up woman carrying a can and a bag came out of apartment no. 48, which was located just under the jeweller’s wife’s apartment. This was that same Annushka who on Wednesday, to Berlioz’s misfortune, had spilled sunflower oil by the turnstile.
No one knew, and probably no one will ever know, what this woman did in Moscow or how she maintained her existence. The only thing known about her is that she could be seen every day either with the can, or with bag and can together, in the kerosene shop, or in the market, or under the gateway, or on the stairs, but most often in the kitchen of apartment no. 48, of which this Annushka was one of the tenants. Besides that and above all it was known that wherever she was or wherever she appeared, a scandal would at once break out, and, besides, that she bore the nickname of “the Plague”.
Annushka the Plague always got up very early for some reason, and today something got her up in the wee hours, just past midnight. The key turned in the door, Annushka’s nose stuck out of it, then the whole of her stuck out, she slammed the door behind her, and was about to set off somewhere when a door banged on the landing above, someone hurded down the stairs and, bumping into Annushka, flung her aside so that she struck the back of her head against the wall.
“Where’s the devil taking you in nothing but your underpants?” Annushka shrieked, clutching her head.
The man in nothing but his underwear, carrying a suitcase and wearing a cap, his eyes shut, answered Annushka in a wild, sleepy voice: “The boiler ... the vitriol... the cost of the whitewashing alone ...” And, bursting into tears, he barked: “Out!”
Here he dashed, not further down, but back up to where the window had been broken by the economist’s foot, and out this window he flew, legs up, into the courtyard. Annushka even forgot about her head, gasped, and rushed to the window herself. She lay down on her stomach on the landing and stuck her head into the yard, expecting to see the man with the suitcase smashed to death on the asphalt, lit up by the courtyard lantern. But on the asphalt courtyard there was precisely nothing.
It only remained to suppose that a sleepy and strange person had flown out of the house like a bird, leaving not a trace behind him. Annushka crossed herself and thought: “Yes, indeed, a nice little apartment, that number fifty! It’s not for nothing people say ... Oh, a nice little apartment!”
Before she had time to think it through, the door upstairs slammed again, and a second someone came running down. Annushka pressed herself to the wall and saw a rather respectable citizen with a little beard, but, as it seemed to Annushka, with a slightly piggish face, dart past her and, like the first one, leave the house through the window, again without ever thinking of smashing himself on the asphalt. Annushka had already forgotten the purpose of her outing and stayed on the stairway, crossing herself, gasping, and talking to herself.
A third one, without a little beard, with a round, clean-shaven face, in a Tolstoy blouse, came running down a short while later and fluttered out the window in just the same way.
To Annushka’s credit it must be said that she was inquisitive and decided to wait and see whether any new miracles would occur. The door above was opened again, and now a whole company started down, not at a run, but normally, as everybody walks. Annushka darted away from the window, went to her own door, opened it in a trice, hid behind it, and her eye, frenzied with curiosity, glittered in the chink she left for herself.
Someone, possibly sick or possibly not, but strange, pale, with a stubbly beard, in a black cap and some sort of robe, walked down with unsteady steps. He was led carefully under the arm by a lady in a black cassock, as it seemed to Annushka in the darkness. The lady was possibly barefoot, possibly wearing some sort of transparent, obviously imported, shoes that were torn to shreds. Pah! Shoes my eye! ... The lady is naked!
Yes, the cassock has been thrown right over her naked body! ... “A nice little apartment! ...” Everything in Annushka’s soul sang in anticipation of what she was going to tell the neighbours the next day.
The strangely dressed lady was followed by a completely naked one carrying a suitcase, and next to the suitcase a huge black cat was knocking about. Annushka almost squeaked something out loud, rubbing her eyes.
Bringing up the rear of the procession was a short, limping foreigner, blind in one eye, without a jacket, in a white formal waistcoat and tie.
This whole company marched downstairs past Annushka. Here something thudded on the landing.
As the steps died away, Annushka slipped like a snake from behind the door, put the can down by the wall, dropped to the floor on her stomach, and began feeling around. Her hands came upon a napkin with something heavy in it. Annushka’s eyes started out of her head when she unwrapped the package.
Annushka kept bringing the precious thing right up to her eyes, and these eyes burned with a perfectly wolfish fire. A whirlwind formed in Annushka’s head: “I see nothing, I know nothing! ... To my nephew? Or cut it in pieces? ... I could pick the stones out, and then one by one: one to Petrovka, another to Smolensky ... And – I see nothing, I know nothing!”
Annushka hid the found object in her bosom, grabbed the can, and was about to slip back into her apartment, postponing her trip to town, when that same one with the white chest, without a jacket, emerged before her from devil knows where and quietly whispered: “Give me the horseshoe and napkin!”
“What napkin horseshoe?” Annushka asked, shamming very artfully. “I don’t know about any napkins. Are you drunk, citizen, or what?”
With fingers as hard as the handrails of a bus, and as cold, the white-chested one, without another word, squeezed Annushka’s throat so that he completely stopped all access of air to her chest. The can dropped from Annushka’s hand on to the floor. After keeping Annushka without air for some time, the jacketless foreigner removed his fingers from her throat. Gulping air, Annushka smiled.
“Ah, the little horseshoe?” she said. This very second! So it’s your little horseshoe? And I see it lying there in a napkin, I pick it up so that no one takes it, and then just try finding it!”
Having received the little horseshoe and napkin, the foreigner started bowing and scraping before Annushka, shook her hand firmly, and thanked her warmly, with the strongest of foreign accents, in the following terms: “I am deeply grateful to you, ma’am. This little horseshoe is dear to me as a memento. And, for having preserved it, allow me to give you two hundred roubles.” And he took the money from his waistcoat pocket at once and handed it to Annushka.
She, smiling desperately, could only keep exclaiming: “Ah, I humbly thank you! Merci! Merci!”
The generous foreigner cleared a whole flight of stairs in one leap, but, before decamping definitively, shouted from below, now without any accent: “You old witch, if you ever pick up somebody else’s stuff again, take it to the police, don’t hide it in
your bosom!”
Feeling a ringing and commotion in her head from all these events on the stairs, Annushka went on shouting for some time by inertia: “Merci! Merci! Merci! ...” But the foreigner was long gone. And so was the car in the courtyard. Having returned Woland’s gift to Margarita, Azazello said goodbye to her and asked if she was comfortably seated, Hella exchanged smacking kisses with Margarita, the cat kissed her hand, everyone waved to the master, who collapsed lifelessly and motionlessly in the corner of the seat, waved to the rook, and at once melted into air, considering it unnecessary to take the trouble of climbing the stairs. The rook turned the lights on and rolled out through the gates, past the man lying dead asleep under the archway. And the lights of the big black car disappeared among the other lights on sleepless and noisy Sadovaya.
An hour later, in the basement of the small house in the lane off the Arbat, in the front room, where everything was the same as it had been before that terrible autumn night last year, at the table covered with a velvet tablecloth, under the shaded lamp, near which stood a little vase of lilies of the valley, Margarita sat and wept quietly from the shock she had experienced and from happiness. The notebook disfigured by fire lay before her, and next to it rose a pile of intact notebooks. The little house was silent. On a sofa in the small adjoining room, covered with the hospital robe, the master lay in a deep sleep. His even breathing was noiseless.
Having wept her fill, Margarita went to the intact notebooks and found the place she had been rereading before she met Azazello under the Kremlin wall. Margarita did not want to sleep. She caressed the manuscript tenderly, as one caresses a favourite cat, and kept turning it in her hands, examining it from all sides, now pausing at the tide page, now opening to the end. A terrible thought suddenly swept over her, that this was all sorcery, that the notebooks would presently disappear from sight, and she would be in her bedroom in the old house, and that on waking up she would have to go and drown herself. But this was her last terrible thought, an echo of the long suffering she had lived through. Nothing disappeared, the all-powerful Woland really was all powerful, and as long as she liked, even till dawn itself, Margarita could rustle the pages of the notebooks, gaze at them, kiss them, and read over the words: “The darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea covered the city hated by the procurator ...” Yes, the darkness ...