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fantastic tricks in the theatre yesterday that everybody had gasped, that he
had handed out two bottles of French perfume and two pairs of stockings to
everybody for nothing and then, when the show was over and the audience was
coming out--bang!--they were all naked! Margarita Nikolayevna collapsed on
to the hall chair and burst out laughing.
'Natasha, really! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? ' said Margarita. '
You're a sensible, educated girl . . . and you repeat every bit of rubbishy
gossip that you pick up in queues! '
Natasha blushed and objected hotly, saying that she never listened to
queue gossip and that she had actually seen a woman that morning come into a
delicatessen on the Arbat wearing some new shoes and while she was standing
at the cash desk to pay, her shoes had vanished and she was left standing in
her stockinged feet. She looked horrified, because she had a hole in the
heel of one stocking! The shoes were the magic ones that she had got at the
show.
'And she walked out barefoot? '
'Yes, she did! ' cried Natasha, turning even pinker because no one
would believe her. ' And yesterday evening, Margarita Nikolayevna, the
police arrested a hundred people. Some of the women who'd been at the show
were running along the Tver-skaya in nothing but a pair of panties.'
'That sounds to me like one of your friend Darya's stories,' said
Margarita Nikolayevna. ' I've always thought she was a frightful liar.'
This hilarious conversation ended with a pleasant surprise for Natasha.
Margarita Nikolayevna went into her bedroom and came out with a pair of
stockings and a bottle of eau-de-cologne. Saying to Natasha that she wanted
to do a magic trick too, Margarita gave her the stockings and the scent; she
told her that she could have them on one condition--that she promised not to
run along the Tverskaya in nothing but stockings and not to listen to
Darya's gossip. With a kiss mistress and maid parted.
Leaning back on her comfortable upholstered seat in the trolley-bus,
Margarita Nikolayevna rolled along the Arbat, thinking of her own affairs
and half-listening to what two men on the seat in front were whispering.
Glancing round occasionally for fear of being overheard, they seemed to be
talking complete nonsense. One, a plump, hearty man with sharp pig-like
eyes, who was sitting by the window, was quietly telling his smaller
neighbour how they had been forced to cover the open coffin with a black
cloth . . .
'Incredible! ' whispered the little one in amazement. ' It's
unheard-of! So what did Zheldybin do? '
Above the steady hum of the trolley-bus came the reply from the window
seat:
'Police . . . scandal . . . absolute mystery!'
Somehow Margarita Nikolayevna managed to construct a fairly coherent
story from these snatches of talk. The men were whispering that someone had
stolen the head of a corpse (they did not mention the dead man's name) from
a coffin that morning. This, apparently, was the cause of Zheldybin's
anxiety and the two men whispering in the trolley-bus also appeared to have
some connection with the victim of this ghoulish burglary.
'Shall we have time to buy some flowers? ' enquired the smaller man
anxiously. ' You said the cremation was at two o'clock, didn't you? '
In the end Margarita Nikolayevna grew bored with their mysterious
whispering about the stolen head and she was glad when it was time for her
to get out.
A few minutes later she was sitting under the Kremlin wall on one of
the benches in the Alexander Gardens facing the Manege. Margarita squinted
in the bright sunlight, recalling her dream and she remembered that exactly
a year ago to the hour she had sat on this same bench beside him. Just as it
had then, her black handbag lay on the bench at her side. Although the
master was not there this time, Margarita Nikolayevna carried on a mental
conversation with him : ' If you've been sent into exile why haven't you at
least written to tell me? Don't you love me any more? No, somehow I don't
believe that. In that case you have died in exile ...' If you have, please
release me, let me go free to lead my life like other people! ' Margarita
answered for him : ' You're free . . . I'm not keeping you by force.' Then
she replied: ' What sort of an answer is that? I won't be free until I stop
thinking of you . . .'
People were walking past. One man gave a sideways glance at this
well-dressed woman. Attracted by seeing a pretty girl alone, he coughed and
sat down on Margarita Nikolayevna's half of the bench. Plucking up his
courage he said :
'What lovely weather it is today . . .'
Margarita turned and gave him such a grim look that he got up and went
away.
'That's what I mean,' said Margarita silently to her lover. ' Why did
I chase that man away? I'm bored, there was nothing wrong with that
Casanova, except perhaps for his highly unoriginal remark . . . Why do I sit
here alone like an owl? Why am I cut off from life? '
She had worked herself into a state of complete depression, when
suddenly the same wave of urgent expectancy that she had felt that morning
overcame her again. ' Yes, something's going to happen! ' The wave struck
her again and she then realised that it was a wave of sound. Above the noise
of traffic there clearly came the sound of approaching drum-beats and the
braying of some off-key trumpets.
First to pass the park railings was a mounted policeman, followed by
three more on foot. Next came the band on a lorry, then a slow-moving open
hearse carrying a coffin banked with wreaths and a guard of honour of four
people--three men and a woman. Even from a distance Margarita could see that
the members of the guard of honour looked curiously distraught. This was
particularly noticeable in the woman, who was standing at the left-hand rear
corner of the hearse. Her fat cheeks seemed to be more than normally puffed
out by some secret joke and her protuberant little eyes shone with a
curiously ambiguous sparkle. It was as if the woman was liable at any moment
to wink at the corpse and say ' Did you ever see such a thing? Stealing a
dead man's head . . .! ' The three hundred-odd mourners, who were slowly
following the cortege on foot, looked equally mystified.
Margarita watched the cortege go by, listening to the mournful beat of
the kettle-drum as its monotonous ' boom, boom, boom' slowly faded away and
she thought: ' What a strange funeral . . . and how sad that drum sounds!
I'd sell my soul to the devil to know whether he's alive or not ... I wonder
who that odd-looking crowd is going to bury? '
'Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz,' said a slightly nasal man's voice
beside her, ' the late chairman of MASSOLIT.'
Margarita Nikolayevna turned in astonishment and saw a man on her bench
who must have sat down noiselessly while she had been watching the funeral
procession. Presumably she had absentmindedly spoken her last question
aloud. Meanwhile the procession had stopped, apparently held up by the
traffic lights.
1 Yes,' the stranger went on, ' it's an odd sort of funeral. They're
carrying the man off to the cemetery in the usual way but all they can think
about is--what's happened to his head? '
'Whose head? ' asked Margarita, glancing at her unexpected neighbour.
He was short, with fiery red hair and one protruding fang, wearing a
starched shirt, a good striped suit, patent-leather shoes and a bowler hat.
His tie was bright. One strange feature was his breast pocket: instead of
the usual handkerchief or fountain pen, it contained a gnawed chicken bone.
'This morning,' explained the red-haired man, ' the head was pulled
off the dead man's body during the lying-in-state at Griboyedov.'
'How ever could that have happened? ' asked Margarita, suddenly
remembering the two whispering men in the trolley-bus.
'Devil knows how,' said the man vaguely. ' I suspect Behemoth might be
able to tell you. It must have been a neat job, but why bother to steal a
head? After all, who on earth would want it?
Preoccupied though she was, Margarita Nikolayevna could not help being
intrigued by this stranger's extraordinary conversation.
'Just a minute! ' she suddenly exclaimed. ' Who is Berlioz? Is he the
one in the newspapers today who . . .'
'Yes, yes.'
'So those were writers in the guard of honour round the coffin? '
enquired Margarita, suddenly baring her teeth.
'Yes, of course . . .'
'Do you know them by sight? '
'Every one,' the man replied.
'Tell me,' said Margarita, her voice dropping, ' is one of them a
critic by the name of Latunsky? '
'How could he fail to be there? ' answered the man with red hair. '
That's him, on the far side of the fourth rank.'
'The one with fair hair? ' asked Margarita, frowning.
'Ash-blond. Look, he's staring up at the sky.'
'Looking rather like a Catholic priest? '
'That's him!'
Margarita asked no more questions but stared hard at Latunsky.
'You, I see,' said the stranger with a smile, ' hate that man
Latunsky. ' Yes, and someone else too,' said Margarita between clenched
teeth, ' but I'd rather not talk about it.'
Meanwhile the procession had moved on again, the mourners being
followed by a number of mostly empty cars.
'Then we won't discuss it, Margarita Nikolayevna!'
Astounded, Margarita said:
'Do you know me? '
Instead of replying the man took off his bowler hat and held it in his
outstretched hand.
'A face like a crook,' thought Margarita, as she stared at him.
'But I don't know you,' she said frigidly.
'Why should you? However, I have been sent on a little matter that
concerns you.'
Margarita paled and edged away. ' Why didn't you say so at once,' she
said, ' instead of making up that fairy tale about a stolen head? Have you
come to arrest me? '
'Nothing of the sort! ' exclaimed the man with red hair. ' Why does
one only have to speak to a person for them to imagine they're going to be
arrested? I simply have a little matter to discuss with you.'
'I don't understand--what matter? '
The stranger glanced round and said mysteriously :
'I have been sent to give you an invitation for this evening.'
'What are you talking about? What invitation? '
'You are invited by a very distinguished foreign gentleman,' said the
red-haired man portentously, with a frown.
Margarita blazed with anger.
'I see that pimps work in the streets now! ' she said as she got up to
go.
'Is that all the thanks I get? ' exclaimed the man, offended. And he
growled at Margarita's retreating back :
'Stupid bitch! '
'Swine! ' she flung back at him over her shoulder.
Immediately she heard the stranger's voice behind her:
'The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city
that Pilate so detested. The suspension bridges connecting the temple with
the grim fortress of Antonia vanished, the murk descended from the sky and
drowned the winged gods above the hippodrome, the crenellated Hasmonaean
palace, the bazaars, the caravansera.1, the alleyways, the pools. . . .
Jerusalem, the great city, vanished as though it had never been. ... So much
for your charred manuscript and your dried rose petals! Yet you sit here
alone on a bench and beg him to let you go, to allow you to be free and to
forget him! '
White in the face, Margarita turned back to the bench. The man sat
frowning at her.
'I don't understand, it,' said Margarita Nikolayevna in a hushed
voice. ' You might have found out about the manuscript . . . you might have
broken in, stolen it, looked at it ... I suppose you bribed Natasha. But how
could you know what I was thinking? ' She -wrinkled her brow painfully and
added ' Tell me, who are you? What organisation do you belong to? '
'Oh, lord, not that. . .' muttered the stranger in exasperation. In a
louder voice he said : 'I'm sorry. As I said, I have not come to arrest you
and I don't belong to any " organisation." Please sit down.'
Margarita obediently did as she was told, but once seated could not
help asking again :
'Who are you? '
'Well if you must know my name is Azazello, although it won't mean
anything to you.'
'And won't you tell me how you knew about the manuscript and how you
read my thoughts? '
'I will not,' said Azazello curtly.
'Do you know anything about him? ' whispered Margarita imploringly.
'Well, let's say I do.'
'Tell me, I beg of you, just one thing--is he alive? Don't torture me!
'
'Yes, he's alive all rig:ht,' said Azazello reluctantly.
'Oh, God!'
'No scenes, please,' said Azazello with a frown.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' said Margarita humbly. ' I'm sorry I lost my
temper with you. But you must admit that if someone comes up to a woman in
the street and invites her ... I have no prejudices, I assure you.'
Margarita laughed mirthlessly. ' But I never meet foreigners and I have
never wanted to ... besides that, my husband ... my tragedy is that I live
with a man I don't love . . . but I can't bring myself to ruin his life ...
he has never shown me anything but kindness . . .'
Azazello listened to this incoherent confession and said severely:
'Please be quiet for a moment.'
Margarita obediently stopped talking.
'My invitation to this foreigner is quite harmless. And not a soul
will know about it. That I swear.'
'And what does he want me for? ' asked Margarita insinuatingly.
'You will discover that later.'
'I see now ... I am to go to bed with him,' said Margarita
thoughtfully.
To this Azazello snorted and replied:
'Any woman in the world, I can assure you, would give anything to do
so '--his face twisted with a laugh--' but I must disappoint you. He doesn't
want you for that.'
'Who is this foreigner? ' exclaimed Margarita in perplexity, so loudly
that several passers-by turned to look at her. ' And why should I want to go
and see him? '
Azazello leaned towards her and whispered meaningly :
'For the best possible reason ... you can use the opportunity...'
'What? ' cried Margarita, her eyes growing round. ' If I've understood
you correctly, you're hinting that I may hear some news of him there? '
Azazello nodded silently.
'I'll go!' Margarita burst out and seized Azazello by the arm. ' I'll
go wherever you like i ' With a sigh of relief Azazello leaned against the
back of the bench, covering up the name ' Manya ' carved deep into its wood,
and said ironically : ' Difficult people, these woman! ' He stuck his hands
into his pockets and stretched his feet out far in front of him. ' Why did
he have to send me on this job? Behemoth should have done it, he's got such
charm . . .'
W^ith a bitter smile Margarita said :
'Stop mystifying me and talking in riddles. I'm happy and you're
making use of it ... I may be about to let myself in for some dubious
adventure, but I swear it's only because you have enticed me by talking
about him! All this mystery is making my head spin . . .'
'Please don't make a drama out of it,' replied Azazello with a
grimace. ' Think of what it's like being in my position. Punch a man on the
nose, kick an old man downstairs, shoot somebody or any old thing like that,
that's my job. But argue with women in love--no thank you! Look, I've been
at it with you for half an hour now . . . Are you going or not? '
'I'll go,' replied Margarita Nikolayevna simply.
'In that case allow me to present you with this,' said Azazello,
taking a little round gold box out of his pocket and saying as he handed it
to Margarita : ' Hide it, or people will see it. It will do you good,
Margarita Nikolayevna; unhappiness has aged you a lot in the last six
months--' Margarita bridled but said nothing, and Azazello went on : ' This
evening, at exactly half past eight, you will kindly strip naked and rub
this ointment all over your face and your body. After that you can do what
you like, but don't go far from the telephone. At nine I shall ring you up
and tell you what you have to do. You won't have to worry about anything,
you'll be taken to where you're going and nothing will be done to upset you.
Understood? '
Margarita said nothing for a moment, then replied :
'I understand. This thing is solid gold, I can tell by its weight. I
quite see that I am being seduced into something shady which I shall
bitterly regret. . .'
'What's that? ' Azazello almost hissed. ' You're not having second
thoughts are you? '
'No, no, wait!'
'Give me back the cream! '
Margarita gripped the box tighter and went on:
'No, please wait ... I know what I'm letting myself in for. I'm ready
to go anywhere and do anything for his sake, only because I have no more
hope left. But if you are planning to ruin or destroy me, you will regret
it. Because if I die for his sake I shall have died out of love.'
'Give it back!' shouted Azazello in fury. ' Give it back and to hell
with the whole business. They can send Behemoth! '
'Oh, no!' cried Margarita to the astonishment of the passers-by. ' I
agree to everything, I'll go through the whole pantomime of smearing on the
ointment, I'll go to the ends of the earth! I won't give it back! '
'Bah! ' Azazello suddenly roared and staring at the park railings,
pointed at something with his finger.
Margarita turned in the direction that he was pointing, but saw nothing
in particular. Then she turned to Azazello for some explanation of his
absurd cry of ' Bah! ', but there was no one to explain : Margarita
Nikolayevna's mysterious companion had vanished.
Margarita felt in her handbag and made sure that the gold box was still
where she had put it. Then without stopping to reflect she hurried away from
the Alexander Gardens.
Through the branches of the maple tree a full moon hung in the clear
evening sky. The limes and acacias traced a complex pattern of shadows on
the grass. A triple casement window in the attic, open but with the blind
drawn, shone with a glare of electric light. Every lamp was burning in
Margarita Nikolayevna's bedroom and lighting up the chaotically untidy room.
On the bedspread lay blouses, stockings and underwear, more crumpled
underwear was piled on the floor beside a packet of cigarettes that had been
squashed in the excitement. A pair of slippers was on the bedside table
alongside a cold, unfinished cup of coffee and an ashtray with a smouldering
cigarette end. A black silk dress hung across the chairback. The room
smelled of perfume and from somewhere there came the reek of a hot iron.
Margarita Nikolayevna was sitting in front of a full-length mirror in
nothing but black velvet slippers, a bath-wrap thrown over her naked body.
Her gold wrist-watch lay in front of her alongside the little box given her
by Azazello, and Margarita was staring at the watch-face.
At times she felt that the watch had broken and the hands were not
moving. They were moving, but so slowly that they seemed to have stuck. At
last the minute hand pointed to twenty nine minutes past eight. Margarita's
heart was thumping so violently that at first she could hardly pick up the
box. With an effort she opened it and saw that it contained a greasy
yellowish cream. It seemed to smell of swamp mud. With the tip of her finger
Margarita put a little blob of the cream on her palm, which produced an even
stronger smell of marsh and forest, and then she began to massage the cream
into her forehead and cheeks.
The ointment rubbed in easily and produced an immediate tingling
effect. After several rubs Margarita looked into the mirror and dropped the
box right on to the watch-glass, which shivered into a web of fine cracks.
Margarita shut her eyes, then looked again and burst into hoots of laughter.
Her eyebrows that she had so carefully plucked into a fine line had
thickened into two regular arcs above her eyes, which had taken on a deeper
green colour. The fine vertical furrow between her eyebrows which had first
appeared in October when the master disappeared, had vanished without trace.
Gone too were the yellowish shadows at her temples and two barely detectable
sets of crowsfeet round the corners of her eyes. The skin of her cheeks was
evenly suffused with pink, her brow had become white and smooth and the
frizzy, artificial wave in her hair had straightened out.
A dark, naturally curly-haired woman of twenty, teeth bared and
laughing uncontrollably, was looking out of the mirror at the
thirty-year-old Margarita.
Laughing, Margarita jumped out of her bath-wrap with one leap, scooped
out two large handfuls of the slightly fatty cream and began rubbing it
vigorously all over her body. She immediately glowed and turned a healthy
pink. In a moment her headache stopped, after having pained her all day
since the encounter in the Alexander Gardens. The muscles of her arms and
legs grew firmer and she even lost weight.
She jumped and stayed suspended in the air just above the carpet, then
slowly and gently dropped back to the ground.
'Hurray for the cream! ' cried Margarita, throwing herself into an
armchair.
The anointing had not only changed her appearance. Joy surged through
every part of her body, she felt as though bubbles were shooting along every
limb. Margarita felt free, free of everything, realising with absolute
clarity that what was happening was the fulfilment of her presentiment of
that morning, that she was going to leave her house and her past life for
ever. But one thought from her past life hammered persistently in her mind
and she knew that she had one last duty to perform before she took off into
the unknown, into the air. Naked as she was she ran out of the bedroom,
flying through the air, and into her husband's study, where she turned on
the light and flew to his desk. She tore a sheet off his note-pad and in one
sweep, erasing nothing and changing nothing, she quickly and firmly
pencilled this message :Forgive me and forget me as quickly as you can. I am
leaving you for ever. Don't look for me, it will be useless. Misery and
unhappiness have turned me into a witch. It is time for me to go. Farewell.
Margarita.
With a sense of absolute relief Margarita flew back into the bedroom.
Just then Natasha came in, loaded with clothes and shoes. At once the whole
pile, dresses on coathangers, lace blouses, blue silk shoes on shoe trees,
belts, all fell on to the floor and Natasha clasped her hands.
'Pretty, aren't I?' cried Margarita Nikolayevna in a loud, slightly
husky voice.
'What's happened?' whispered Natasha, staggering back. ' What have you
done, Margarita Nikolayevna? '
'It's the cream! The cream!' replied Margarita, pointing to the
gleaming gold box and twirling round in front of the mirror. Forgetting the
heap of crumpled clothes on the floor, Natasha ran to the dressing table and
stared, eyes hot with longing, at the remains of the ointment. Her lips
whispered a few words in silence. She turned to Margarita and said with
something like awe:
'Oh, your skin--look at your skin, Margarita Nikolayevna, it's
shining! ' Then she suddenly remembered herself, picked up the dress she had
dropped and started to smooth it out.
'Leave it, Natasha! Drop it! ' Margarita shouted at her. ' To hell
with it! Throw it all away! No--wait--you can have it all. As a present from
me. You can have everything there is in the room!'
Dumbfounded, Natasha gazed at Margarita for a while then clasped her
round the neck, kissing her and shouting :
'You're like satin! Shiny satin! And look at your eyebrows!'
'Take all these rags, take all my scent and put it all in your bottom
drawer, you can keep it,' shouted Margarita, ' but don't take the jewellery
or they'll say you stole it.'
Natasha rummaged in the heap for whatever she could pick up--stockings,
shoes, dresses and underwear--and ran out of the bedroom.
At that moment from an open window on the other side of the street came
the loud strains of a waltz and the spluttering of a car engine as it drew
up at the gate.
'Azazello will ring soon! ' cried Margarita, listening to the sound of
the waltz. ' He's going to ring! And this foreigner is harmless, I realise
now that he can never harm me!'
The car's engine roared as it accelerated away. The gate slammed and
footsteps could be heard on the flagged path.
'It's Nikolai Ivanovich, I recognise his tread,' thought Margarita. '
I must do something funny as a way of saying goodbye to him!'
Margarita flung the shutters open and sat sideways on the windowsill,
clasping her knees with her hands. The moonlight caressed her right side.
Margarita raised her head towards the moon and put on a reflective and
poetic face. Two more footsteps were heard and then they suddenly stopped.
With another admiring glance at the moon and a sigh for fun, Margarita
turned to look down at the garden, where she saw her neighbour of the floor
below, Nikolai Ivanovich. He was clearly visible in the moonlight, sitting
on a bench on which he had obviously just sat down with a bump. His
pince-nez was lop-sided and he was clutching his briefcase in his arms.
'Hullo, Nikolai Ivanovich! ' said Margarita Nikolayevna in a sad
voice. ' Good evening! Have you just come from the office?'
Nikolai Ivanovich said nothing.
'And here am I,' Margarita went on, leaning further out into the
garden, ' sitting all alone as you can see, bored, looking at the moon and
listening to a waltz . . .'
Margarita Nikolayevna ran her left hand along her temple, arranging a
lock of hair, then said crossly :
'It's very impolite of you, Nikolai Ivanovich! I am a woman, after
all! It's rude not to answer when someone speaks to you.'
Nikolai Ivanovich, visible in the bright moonlight down to the last
button on his grey waistcoat and the last hair on his little pointed beard,
suddenly gave an idiotic grin and got up from his bench. Obviously
half-crazed with embarrassment, instead of taking off his hat he waved his
briefcase and flexed his knees as though just about to break into a Russian
dance.
'Oh how you bore me, Nikolai Ivanovich! ' Margarita went on. ' You all
bore me inexpressibly and I can't tell you how happy I am to be leaving you!
You can all go to hell!'
Just then the telephone rang in Margarita's bedroom. She slipped off
the windowsill and forgetting Nikolai Ivanovich completely she snatched up
the receiver.
'Azazello speaking,' said a voice.
'Dear, dear Azazello,' cried Margarita.
'It's time for you to fly away,' said Azazello and she could hear from
his tone that he was pleased by Margarita's sincere outburst of affection. '
As you fly over the gate shout " I'm invisible "--then fly about over the
town a bit to get used to it and then turn south, away from Moscow straight
along the river. They're waiting for you! '
Margarita hung up and at once something wooden in the next room started
bumping about and tapping on the door. Margarita flung it open and a broom,
bristles upward, danced into the bedroom. Its handle beat a tattoo on the
floor, tipped itself up horizontally and pointed towards the window.
Margarita whimpered with joy and jumped astride the broomstick. Only then
did she remember that in the excitement she had forgotten to get dressed.
She galloped over to the bed and picked up the first thing to hand, which
was a blue slip. Waving it like a banner she flew out of the window. The
waltz rose to a crescendo.
Margarita dived down from the window and saw Nikolai Ivanovich sitting
on the bench. He seemed to be frozen to it, listening stunned to the shouts
and bangs that had been coming from the top-floor bedroom.
'Goodbye, Nikolai Ivanovich! ' cried Margarita, dancing about in front
of him.
The wretched man groaned, fidgeted and dropped his briefcase.
'Farewell for ever, Nikolai Ivanovich! I'm flying away! ' shouted
Margarita, drowning the music of the waltz. Realising that her slip was
useless she gave a malicious laugh and threw it over Nikolai Ivanovich's
head. Blinded, Nikolai Ivanovich fell off the bench on to the flagged path
with a crash.
Margarita turned round for a last look at the house where she had spent
so many years of unhappiness and saw the astonished face of Natasha in the
lighted window.
'Goodbye, Natasha! ' Margarita shouted, waving her broom. ' I'm
invisible! Invisible! ' she shouted at the top of her voice as she flew off,
the maple branches whipping her face, over the gate and out into the street.
Behind her flew the strains of the waltz, rising to a mad crescendo.
Invisible and free! Reaching the end of her street, Margarita turned
sharp right and flew on down a long, crooked street with its plane trees and
its patched roadway, its oil-shop with a warped door where they sold
kerosene by the jugful and the bottled juice of parasites. Here Margarita
discovered that although she was invisible, free as air and thoroughly
enjoying herself, she still had to take care. Stopping herself by a miracle
she just avoided a lethal collison with an old, crooked lamp-post. As she
swerved away from it, Margarita gripped her broomstick harder and flew on
more slowly, glancing at the passing signboards and electric cables.
The next street led straight to the Arbat. By now she had thoroughly
mastered the business of steering her broom, having found that it answered
to the slightest touch of her hands or legs and that when flying around the
town she had to be very careful to avoid collisions. It was now quite
obvious that the people in the street could not see her. Nobody turned their
head, nobody shouted' Look, look! ', nobody stepped aside, nobody screamed,
fell in a faint or burst into laughter.
Margarita flew silently and very slowly at about second-storey height.
Slow as her progress was, however, she made slightly too wide a sweep as she
flew into the blindingly-lit Arbat and hit her shoulder against an
illuminated glass traffic sign. This annoyed her. She stopped the obedient
broomstick, flew back, aimed for the sign and with a sudden flick of the end
of her broom, smashed it to fragments. The pieces crashed to the ground,
passers-by jumped aside, a whistle blew and Margarita burst into laughter at
her little act of wanton destruction.
'I shall have to be even more careful on the Arbat,' she thought to
herself. ' There are so many obstructions, it's like a maze.' She began
weaving between the cables. Beneath her flowed the roofs of trolley-buses,
buses and cars, and rivers of hats surged along the pavements. Little
streams diverged from these rivers and trickled into the lighted caves of
all-night stores.
'What a maze,' thought Margarita crossly. ' There's no room to
manoeuvre here! '
She crossed the Arbat, climbed to fourth-floor height, past the
brilliant neon tubes of a corner theatre and turned into a narrow
side-street flanked with tall houses. All their windows were open and radio
music poured out from all sides. Out of curiosity Margarita glanced into one
of them. She saw a kitchen. Two Primuses were roaring away on a marble
ledge, attended by two women standing with spoons in their hands and
swearing at each other.
'You should put the light out when you come out of the lavatory, I've
told you before, Pelagea Petrovna,' said the woman with a saucepan of some
steaming decoction, ' otherwise we'll have you chucked out of here.'
'You can't talk,' replied the other.
'You're both as bad as each other,' said Margarita clearly, leaning
over the windowsill into the kitchen.
The two quarrelling women stopped at the sound of her voice and stood
petrified, clutching their dirty spoons. Margarita carefully stretched out
her arm between them and turned off both primuses. The women gasped. But
Margarita was already bored with this prank and had flown out again into the
street.
Her attention was caught by a massive and obviously newly-built
eight-storey block of flats at the far end of the street. Margarita flew
towards it and as she landed she saw that the building was faced with black
marble, that its doors were wide, that a porter in gold-laced peaked cap and
buttons stood in the hall. Over the doorway was a gold inscription reading '
Dramlit House'.
Margarita frowned at the inscription, wondering what the word '
Dramlit' could mean. Tucking her broomstick under her arm, Margarita pushed
open the front door, to the amazement of the porter, walked in and saw a
huge black notice-board that listed the names and flat numbers of all the
residents. The inscription over the name-board, reading ' Drama and
Literature House,' made Margarita give a suppressed yelp of predatory
anticipation. Rising a little in the air, she began eagerly to read the
names: Khustov, Dvubratsky, Quant, Beskudnikov, Latunsky . . .
'Latunsky!' yelped Margarita. ' Latunsky! He's the man . . . who
ruined the master!'
The porter jumped up in astonishment and stared at the name-board,
wondering why it had suddenly given a shriek.
Margarita was already flying upstairs, excitedly repeating :
'Latunsky, eighty-four . . . Latunsky, eighty-four . . . Here we are,
left--eighty-two, right--eighty-three, another floor up, left--eighty-four!
Here it is and there's his name--" 0. Latunsky ".'
Margarita jumped off her broomstick and the cold stone floor of the
landing felt pleasantly cool to her hot bare feet. She rang once, twice. No
answer. Margarita pressed the button harder and heard the bell ringing far
inside Latunsky's flat. Latunsky should have been grateful to his dying day
that the chairman of massolit had fallen under a tramcar and that the
memorial gathering was being held that very evening. Latunsky must have been
born under a lucky star, because the coincidence saved him from an encounter
with Margarita, newly turned witch that Friday.
No one came to open the door. At full speed Margarita flew down,
counting the floors as she went, reached the bottom, flew out into the
street and looked up. She counted the floors and tried to guess which of the
windows belonged to Latunsky's flat. Without a doubt they were the five
unlighted windows on the eighth floor at the corner of the building. Feeling
sure that she was right, Margarita flew up and a few seconds later found her
way through an open window into a dark room lit only by a silver patch of
moonlight. Margarita walked across and fumbled for the switch. Soon all the
lights in the flat were burning. Parking her broom in a corner and making
sure that nobody was at home, Margarita opened the front door and looked at
the nameplate. This was it.
People say that Latunsky still turns pale when he remembers that
evening and that he always pronounces Berlioz's name with gratitude. If he
had been at home God knows what violence might have been done that night.
Margarita went into the kitchen and came out with a massive hammer.
Naked and invisible, unable to restrain herself, her hands shook with
impatience. Margarita took careful aim and hit the keys of the grand piano,
sending a crashing discord echoing through the flat. The innocent piano, a
Backer baby grand, howled and sobbed. With the sound of a revolver shot, the
polished sounding-board split under a hammer-blow. Breathing hard, Margarita
smashed and battered the strings until she collapsed into an armchair to
rest.
An ominous sound of water came from the kitchen and the bathroom. ' It
must be overflowing by now . . .' thought Margarita and added aloud :
'But there's no time to sit and gloat.'
A flood was already pouring from the kitchen into the passage. Wading
barefoot, Margarita carried buckets of water into the critic's study, and
emptied them into the drawers of his desk. Then having smashed the
glass-fronted bookcase with a few hammer-blows, she ran into the bedroom.
There she shattered the mirror in the wardrobe door, pulled out all
Latunsky's suits and flung them into the bathtub. She found a large bottle
of ink in the study and poured its contents all over the huge, luxurious
double bed.
Although all this destruction was giving her the deepest pleasure, she
somehow felt that its total effect was inadequate and too easily repaired.
She grew wilder and more indiscriminate. In the room with the piano, she
smashed the flower vases and the pots holding rubber plants. With savage
delight she rushed into the bedroom with a cook's knife, slashed all the
sheets and broke the glass in the photograph frames. Far from feeling tired,
she wielded her weapon with such ferocity that the sweat poured in streams
down her naked body.
Meanwhile in No. 82, immediately beneath Latunsky's flat, Quant's maid
was drinking a cup of tea in the kitchen and wondering vaguely why there was
so much noise and running about upstairs. Looking up at the ceiling she
suddenly saw it change colour from white to a deathly grey-blue. The patch
spread visibly and it began to spout drops of water. The maid sat there for
a few minutes, bewildered at this phenomenon, until a regular shower began
raining down from the ceiling and pattering on the floor. She jumped up and
put a bowl under the stream, but it was useless as the shower was spreading
and was already pouring over the gas stove and the dresser. With a shriek
Quant's maid ran out of the flat on to the staircase and started ringing
Latunsky's front-door bell.
'Ah, somebody's ringing . . . time to go,' said Margarita. She mounted
the broom, listening to a woman's voice shouting through the keyhole.
'Open up, open up! Open the door, Dusya! Your water's overflowing!
We're being flooded! '
Margarita flew up a few feet and took a swing at the chandelier. Two
lamps broke and glass fragments flew everywhere. The shouts at the keyhole
had stopped and there was a tramp of boots on the staircase. Margarita
floated out of the window, where she turned and hit the glass a gentle blow
with her hammer. It shattered and cascaded in smithereens down the marble
facade on to the street below. Margarita flew on to the next window. Far
below people were running about on the pavement, and one of the cars
standing outside the entrance started up and drove away.
Having dealt with all Latunsky's windows, Margarita floated on towards
the next flat. The blows became more frequent, the street resounded with
bangs and tinkles. The porter ran out of the front door, looked up,
hesitated for a moment in amazement, popped a whistle into his mouth and
blew like a maniac. The noise inspired Margarita to even more violent action
on the eighth-floor windows and then to drop down a storey and to start work
on the seventh.
Bored by his idle job of hanging around the entrance hall, the porter
put all his pent-up energy into blowing his whistle, playing a woodwind
obbligato in time to Margarita's enthusiastic percussion. In the intervals
as she moved from window to window, he drew breath and then blew an
ear-splitting blast from distended cheeks at each stroke of Margarita's
hammer. Their combined efforts produced the most impressive results. Panic
broke out in Dramlit House. The remaining unbroken window-panes were flung
open, heads were popped out and instantly withdrawn, whilst open windows
were hastily shut. At the lighted windows of the building opposite appeared
figures, straining forward to try and see why for no reason all the windows
of Dramlit House were spontaneously exploding.
All along the street people began running towards Dramlit House and
inside it others were pelting senselessly up and down the staircase. The
Quants' maid shouted to them that they were being flooded out and she was
soon joined by the Khustovs' maid from No. 80 which lay underneath the
Quants'. Water was pouring through the Khustovs' ceiling into the bathroom
and the kitchen. Finally an enormous chunk of plaster crashed down from
Quants' kitchen ceiling, smashing all the dirty crockery on the
draining-board and letting loose a deluge as though someone upstairs were
pouring out buckets of dirty rubbish and lumps of sodden plaster. Meanwhile
a chorus of shouts came from the staircase.
Flying past the last window but one on the fourth floor, Margarita
glanced into it and saw a panic-stricken man putting on a gas mask.
Terrified at the sound of Margarita's hammer tapping on the window, he
vanished from the room. Suddenly the uproar stopped. Floating down to the
third floor Margarita looked into the far window, which was shaded by a
flimsy blind. The room was lit by a little night-light. In a cot with
basketwork sides sat a little boy of about four, listening nervously. There
were no grownups in the room and they had obviously all run out of the flat.
'Windows breaking,' said the little boy and cried : ' Mummy!'
Nobody answered and he said :
'Mummy, I'm frightened.'
Margarita pushed aside the blind and flew in at the window.
'I'm frightened,' said the little boy again, shivering.
'Don't be frightened, darling,' said Margarita, trying to soften her
now raucous, harsh voice. ' It's only some boys breaking windows.'
'With a catapult? ' asked the boy, as he stopped shivering.
'Yes, with a catapult,' agreed Margarita. ' Go to sleep now.'
'That's Fedya,' said the boy. ' He's got a catapult.'
'Of course, it must be Fedya.'
The boy glanced slyly to one side and asked :
'Where are you, aunty? '
'I'm nowhere,' replied Margarita. ' You're dreaming about me.
'I thought so,' said the little boy.
'Now you lie down,' said Margarita, ' put your hand under your cheek
and I'll send you to sleep.'
'All right,' agreed the boy and lay down at once with his cheek on his
palm.
'I'll tell you a story,' Margarita began, laying her hot hand on the
child's cropped head. ' Once upon a time there was a lady . . . she had no
children and she was never happy. At first she just used to cry, then one
day she felt very naughty . . .' Margarita stopped and took away her hand.
The little boy was asleep.
Margarita gently put the hammer on the windowsill and flew out of the
window. Below, disorder reigned. People were shouting and running up and
down the glass-strewn pavement, policemen among them. Suddenly a bell
started clanging and round the corner from the Arbat drove a red fire-engine
with an extending ladder.
Margarita had already lost interest. Steering her way past any cables,
she clutched the broom harder and in a moment was flying high above Dramlit
House. The street veered sideways and vanished. Beneath her now was only an
expanse of roofs, criss-crossed with brilliantly lit roads. Suddenly it all
slipped sideways, the strings of light grew blurred and vanished.
Margarita gave another jerk, at which the sea of roofs disappeared,
replaced below her by a sea of shimmering electric lights. Suddenly the sea
of light swung round to the vertical and appeared over Margarita's head
whilst the moon shone under her legs. Realising that she had looped the
loop, Margarita righted herself, turned round and saw that the sea had
vanished ; behind her there was now only a pink glow on the horizon. In a
second that too had disappeared and Margarita saw that she was alone with
the moon, sailing along above her and to the left. Margarita's hair streamed
out behind her in wisps as the moonlight swished past her body. From the two
lines of widely-spaced lights meeting at a point in the distance and from
the speed with which they were vanishing behind her Margarita guessed that
she was flying at prodigious speed and was surprised to discover that it did
not take her breath away.
After a few seconds' travel, far below in the earthbound blackness an
electric sunrise flared up and rolled beneath Margarita's feet, then twisted
round and vanished. Another few seconds, another burst of light.
'Towns! Towns!' shouted Margarita.
Two or tliree times she saw beneath her what looked like dull glinting
bands of steel ribbon that were rivers.
Glancing upward and to the left she stared at the moon as it flew past
her, rushing backwards to Moscow, yet strangely appearing to stand still. In
the moon she could clearly see a mysterious dark shape--not exactly a
had handed out two bottles of French perfume and two pairs of stockings to
everybody for nothing and then, when the show was over and the audience was
coming out--bang!--they were all naked! Margarita Nikolayevna collapsed on
to the hall chair and burst out laughing.
'Natasha, really! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? ' said Margarita. '
You're a sensible, educated girl . . . and you repeat every bit of rubbishy
gossip that you pick up in queues! '
Natasha blushed and objected hotly, saying that she never listened to
queue gossip and that she had actually seen a woman that morning come into a
delicatessen on the Arbat wearing some new shoes and while she was standing
at the cash desk to pay, her shoes had vanished and she was left standing in
her stockinged feet. She looked horrified, because she had a hole in the
heel of one stocking! The shoes were the magic ones that she had got at the
show.
'And she walked out barefoot? '
'Yes, she did! ' cried Natasha, turning even pinker because no one
would believe her. ' And yesterday evening, Margarita Nikolayevna, the
police arrested a hundred people. Some of the women who'd been at the show
were running along the Tver-skaya in nothing but a pair of panties.'
'That sounds to me like one of your friend Darya's stories,' said
Margarita Nikolayevna. ' I've always thought she was a frightful liar.'
This hilarious conversation ended with a pleasant surprise for Natasha.
Margarita Nikolayevna went into her bedroom and came out with a pair of
stockings and a bottle of eau-de-cologne. Saying to Natasha that she wanted
to do a magic trick too, Margarita gave her the stockings and the scent; she
told her that she could have them on one condition--that she promised not to
run along the Tverskaya in nothing but stockings and not to listen to
Darya's gossip. With a kiss mistress and maid parted.
Leaning back on her comfortable upholstered seat in the trolley-bus,
Margarita Nikolayevna rolled along the Arbat, thinking of her own affairs
and half-listening to what two men on the seat in front were whispering.
Glancing round occasionally for fear of being overheard, they seemed to be
talking complete nonsense. One, a plump, hearty man with sharp pig-like
eyes, who was sitting by the window, was quietly telling his smaller
neighbour how they had been forced to cover the open coffin with a black
cloth . . .
'Incredible! ' whispered the little one in amazement. ' It's
unheard-of! So what did Zheldybin do? '
Above the steady hum of the trolley-bus came the reply from the window
seat:
'Police . . . scandal . . . absolute mystery!'
Somehow Margarita Nikolayevna managed to construct a fairly coherent
story from these snatches of talk. The men were whispering that someone had
stolen the head of a corpse (they did not mention the dead man's name) from
a coffin that morning. This, apparently, was the cause of Zheldybin's
anxiety and the two men whispering in the trolley-bus also appeared to have
some connection with the victim of this ghoulish burglary.
'Shall we have time to buy some flowers? ' enquired the smaller man
anxiously. ' You said the cremation was at two o'clock, didn't you? '
In the end Margarita Nikolayevna grew bored with their mysterious
whispering about the stolen head and she was glad when it was time for her
to get out.
A few minutes later she was sitting under the Kremlin wall on one of
the benches in the Alexander Gardens facing the Manege. Margarita squinted
in the bright sunlight, recalling her dream and she remembered that exactly
a year ago to the hour she had sat on this same bench beside him. Just as it
had then, her black handbag lay on the bench at her side. Although the
master was not there this time, Margarita Nikolayevna carried on a mental
conversation with him : ' If you've been sent into exile why haven't you at
least written to tell me? Don't you love me any more? No, somehow I don't
believe that. In that case you have died in exile ...' If you have, please
release me, let me go free to lead my life like other people! ' Margarita
answered for him : ' You're free . . . I'm not keeping you by force.' Then
she replied: ' What sort of an answer is that? I won't be free until I stop
thinking of you . . .'
People were walking past. One man gave a sideways glance at this
well-dressed woman. Attracted by seeing a pretty girl alone, he coughed and
sat down on Margarita Nikolayevna's half of the bench. Plucking up his
courage he said :
'What lovely weather it is today . . .'
Margarita turned and gave him such a grim look that he got up and went
away.
'That's what I mean,' said Margarita silently to her lover. ' Why did
I chase that man away? I'm bored, there was nothing wrong with that
Casanova, except perhaps for his highly unoriginal remark . . . Why do I sit
here alone like an owl? Why am I cut off from life? '
She had worked herself into a state of complete depression, when
suddenly the same wave of urgent expectancy that she had felt that morning
overcame her again. ' Yes, something's going to happen! ' The wave struck
her again and she then realised that it was a wave of sound. Above the noise
of traffic there clearly came the sound of approaching drum-beats and the
braying of some off-key trumpets.
First to pass the park railings was a mounted policeman, followed by
three more on foot. Next came the band on a lorry, then a slow-moving open
hearse carrying a coffin banked with wreaths and a guard of honour of four
people--three men and a woman. Even from a distance Margarita could see that
the members of the guard of honour looked curiously distraught. This was
particularly noticeable in the woman, who was standing at the left-hand rear
corner of the hearse. Her fat cheeks seemed to be more than normally puffed
out by some secret joke and her protuberant little eyes shone with a
curiously ambiguous sparkle. It was as if the woman was liable at any moment
to wink at the corpse and say ' Did you ever see such a thing? Stealing a
dead man's head . . .! ' The three hundred-odd mourners, who were slowly
following the cortege on foot, looked equally mystified.
Margarita watched the cortege go by, listening to the mournful beat of
the kettle-drum as its monotonous ' boom, boom, boom' slowly faded away and
she thought: ' What a strange funeral . . . and how sad that drum sounds!
I'd sell my soul to the devil to know whether he's alive or not ... I wonder
who that odd-looking crowd is going to bury? '
'Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz,' said a slightly nasal man's voice
beside her, ' the late chairman of MASSOLIT.'
Margarita Nikolayevna turned in astonishment and saw a man on her bench
who must have sat down noiselessly while she had been watching the funeral
procession. Presumably she had absentmindedly spoken her last question
aloud. Meanwhile the procession had stopped, apparently held up by the
traffic lights.
1 Yes,' the stranger went on, ' it's an odd sort of funeral. They're
carrying the man off to the cemetery in the usual way but all they can think
about is--what's happened to his head? '
'Whose head? ' asked Margarita, glancing at her unexpected neighbour.
He was short, with fiery red hair and one protruding fang, wearing a
starched shirt, a good striped suit, patent-leather shoes and a bowler hat.
His tie was bright. One strange feature was his breast pocket: instead of
the usual handkerchief or fountain pen, it contained a gnawed chicken bone.
'This morning,' explained the red-haired man, ' the head was pulled
off the dead man's body during the lying-in-state at Griboyedov.'
'How ever could that have happened? ' asked Margarita, suddenly
remembering the two whispering men in the trolley-bus.
'Devil knows how,' said the man vaguely. ' I suspect Behemoth might be
able to tell you. It must have been a neat job, but why bother to steal a
head? After all, who on earth would want it?
Preoccupied though she was, Margarita Nikolayevna could not help being
intrigued by this stranger's extraordinary conversation.
'Just a minute! ' she suddenly exclaimed. ' Who is Berlioz? Is he the
one in the newspapers today who . . .'
'Yes, yes.'
'So those were writers in the guard of honour round the coffin? '
enquired Margarita, suddenly baring her teeth.
'Yes, of course . . .'
'Do you know them by sight? '
'Every one,' the man replied.
'Tell me,' said Margarita, her voice dropping, ' is one of them a
critic by the name of Latunsky? '
'How could he fail to be there? ' answered the man with red hair. '
That's him, on the far side of the fourth rank.'
'The one with fair hair? ' asked Margarita, frowning.
'Ash-blond. Look, he's staring up at the sky.'
'Looking rather like a Catholic priest? '
'That's him!'
Margarita asked no more questions but stared hard at Latunsky.
'You, I see,' said the stranger with a smile, ' hate that man
Latunsky. ' Yes, and someone else too,' said Margarita between clenched
teeth, ' but I'd rather not talk about it.'
Meanwhile the procession had moved on again, the mourners being
followed by a number of mostly empty cars.
'Then we won't discuss it, Margarita Nikolayevna!'
Astounded, Margarita said:
'Do you know me? '
Instead of replying the man took off his bowler hat and held it in his
outstretched hand.
'A face like a crook,' thought Margarita, as she stared at him.
'But I don't know you,' she said frigidly.
'Why should you? However, I have been sent on a little matter that
concerns you.'
Margarita paled and edged away. ' Why didn't you say so at once,' she
said, ' instead of making up that fairy tale about a stolen head? Have you
come to arrest me? '
'Nothing of the sort! ' exclaimed the man with red hair. ' Why does
one only have to speak to a person for them to imagine they're going to be
arrested? I simply have a little matter to discuss with you.'
'I don't understand--what matter? '
The stranger glanced round and said mysteriously :
'I have been sent to give you an invitation for this evening.'
'What are you talking about? What invitation? '
'You are invited by a very distinguished foreign gentleman,' said the
red-haired man portentously, with a frown.
Margarita blazed with anger.
'I see that pimps work in the streets now! ' she said as she got up to
go.
'Is that all the thanks I get? ' exclaimed the man, offended. And he
growled at Margarita's retreating back :
'Stupid bitch! '
'Swine! ' she flung back at him over her shoulder.
Immediately she heard the stranger's voice behind her:
'The mist that came from the Mediterranean sea blotted out the city
that Pilate so detested. The suspension bridges connecting the temple with
the grim fortress of Antonia vanished, the murk descended from the sky and
drowned the winged gods above the hippodrome, the crenellated Hasmonaean
palace, the bazaars, the caravansera.1, the alleyways, the pools. . . .
Jerusalem, the great city, vanished as though it had never been. ... So much
for your charred manuscript and your dried rose petals! Yet you sit here
alone on a bench and beg him to let you go, to allow you to be free and to
forget him! '
White in the face, Margarita turned back to the bench. The man sat
frowning at her.
'I don't understand, it,' said Margarita Nikolayevna in a hushed
voice. ' You might have found out about the manuscript . . . you might have
broken in, stolen it, looked at it ... I suppose you bribed Natasha. But how
could you know what I was thinking? ' She -wrinkled her brow painfully and
added ' Tell me, who are you? What organisation do you belong to? '
'Oh, lord, not that. . .' muttered the stranger in exasperation. In a
louder voice he said : 'I'm sorry. As I said, I have not come to arrest you
and I don't belong to any " organisation." Please sit down.'
Margarita obediently did as she was told, but once seated could not
help asking again :
'Who are you? '
'Well if you must know my name is Azazello, although it won't mean
anything to you.'
'And won't you tell me how you knew about the manuscript and how you
read my thoughts? '
'I will not,' said Azazello curtly.
'Do you know anything about him? ' whispered Margarita imploringly.
'Well, let's say I do.'
'Tell me, I beg of you, just one thing--is he alive? Don't torture me!
'
'Yes, he's alive all rig:ht,' said Azazello reluctantly.
'Oh, God!'
'No scenes, please,' said Azazello with a frown.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' said Margarita humbly. ' I'm sorry I lost my
temper with you. But you must admit that if someone comes up to a woman in
the street and invites her ... I have no prejudices, I assure you.'
Margarita laughed mirthlessly. ' But I never meet foreigners and I have
never wanted to ... besides that, my husband ... my tragedy is that I live
with a man I don't love . . . but I can't bring myself to ruin his life ...
he has never shown me anything but kindness . . .'
Azazello listened to this incoherent confession and said severely:
'Please be quiet for a moment.'
Margarita obediently stopped talking.
'My invitation to this foreigner is quite harmless. And not a soul
will know about it. That I swear.'
'And what does he want me for? ' asked Margarita insinuatingly.
'You will discover that later.'
'I see now ... I am to go to bed with him,' said Margarita
thoughtfully.
To this Azazello snorted and replied:
'Any woman in the world, I can assure you, would give anything to do
so '--his face twisted with a laugh--' but I must disappoint you. He doesn't
want you for that.'
'Who is this foreigner? ' exclaimed Margarita in perplexity, so loudly
that several passers-by turned to look at her. ' And why should I want to go
and see him? '
Azazello leaned towards her and whispered meaningly :
'For the best possible reason ... you can use the opportunity...'
'What? ' cried Margarita, her eyes growing round. ' If I've understood
you correctly, you're hinting that I may hear some news of him there? '
Azazello nodded silently.
'I'll go!' Margarita burst out and seized Azazello by the arm. ' I'll
go wherever you like i ' With a sigh of relief Azazello leaned against the
back of the bench, covering up the name ' Manya ' carved deep into its wood,
and said ironically : ' Difficult people, these woman! ' He stuck his hands
into his pockets and stretched his feet out far in front of him. ' Why did
he have to send me on this job? Behemoth should have done it, he's got such
charm . . .'
W^ith a bitter smile Margarita said :
'Stop mystifying me and talking in riddles. I'm happy and you're
making use of it ... I may be about to let myself in for some dubious
adventure, but I swear it's only because you have enticed me by talking
about him! All this mystery is making my head spin . . .'
'Please don't make a drama out of it,' replied Azazello with a
grimace. ' Think of what it's like being in my position. Punch a man on the
nose, kick an old man downstairs, shoot somebody or any old thing like that,
that's my job. But argue with women in love--no thank you! Look, I've been
at it with you for half an hour now . . . Are you going or not? '
'I'll go,' replied Margarita Nikolayevna simply.
'In that case allow me to present you with this,' said Azazello,
taking a little round gold box out of his pocket and saying as he handed it
to Margarita : ' Hide it, or people will see it. It will do you good,
Margarita Nikolayevna; unhappiness has aged you a lot in the last six
months--' Margarita bridled but said nothing, and Azazello went on : ' This
evening, at exactly half past eight, you will kindly strip naked and rub
this ointment all over your face and your body. After that you can do what
you like, but don't go far from the telephone. At nine I shall ring you up
and tell you what you have to do. You won't have to worry about anything,
you'll be taken to where you're going and nothing will be done to upset you.
Understood? '
Margarita said nothing for a moment, then replied :
'I understand. This thing is solid gold, I can tell by its weight. I
quite see that I am being seduced into something shady which I shall
bitterly regret. . .'
'What's that? ' Azazello almost hissed. ' You're not having second
thoughts are you? '
'No, no, wait!'
'Give me back the cream! '
Margarita gripped the box tighter and went on:
'No, please wait ... I know what I'm letting myself in for. I'm ready
to go anywhere and do anything for his sake, only because I have no more
hope left. But if you are planning to ruin or destroy me, you will regret
it. Because if I die for his sake I shall have died out of love.'
'Give it back!' shouted Azazello in fury. ' Give it back and to hell
with the whole business. They can send Behemoth! '
'Oh, no!' cried Margarita to the astonishment of the passers-by. ' I
agree to everything, I'll go through the whole pantomime of smearing on the
ointment, I'll go to the ends of the earth! I won't give it back! '
'Bah! ' Azazello suddenly roared and staring at the park railings,
pointed at something with his finger.
Margarita turned in the direction that he was pointing, but saw nothing
in particular. Then she turned to Azazello for some explanation of his
absurd cry of ' Bah! ', but there was no one to explain : Margarita
Nikolayevna's mysterious companion had vanished.
Margarita felt in her handbag and made sure that the gold box was still
where she had put it. Then without stopping to reflect she hurried away from
the Alexander Gardens.
Through the branches of the maple tree a full moon hung in the clear
evening sky. The limes and acacias traced a complex pattern of shadows on
the grass. A triple casement window in the attic, open but with the blind
drawn, shone with a glare of electric light. Every lamp was burning in
Margarita Nikolayevna's bedroom and lighting up the chaotically untidy room.
On the bedspread lay blouses, stockings and underwear, more crumpled
underwear was piled on the floor beside a packet of cigarettes that had been
squashed in the excitement. A pair of slippers was on the bedside table
alongside a cold, unfinished cup of coffee and an ashtray with a smouldering
cigarette end. A black silk dress hung across the chairback. The room
smelled of perfume and from somewhere there came the reek of a hot iron.
Margarita Nikolayevna was sitting in front of a full-length mirror in
nothing but black velvet slippers, a bath-wrap thrown over her naked body.
Her gold wrist-watch lay in front of her alongside the little box given her
by Azazello, and Margarita was staring at the watch-face.
At times she felt that the watch had broken and the hands were not
moving. They were moving, but so slowly that they seemed to have stuck. At
last the minute hand pointed to twenty nine minutes past eight. Margarita's
heart was thumping so violently that at first she could hardly pick up the
box. With an effort she opened it and saw that it contained a greasy
yellowish cream. It seemed to smell of swamp mud. With the tip of her finger
Margarita put a little blob of the cream on her palm, which produced an even
stronger smell of marsh and forest, and then she began to massage the cream
into her forehead and cheeks.
The ointment rubbed in easily and produced an immediate tingling
effect. After several rubs Margarita looked into the mirror and dropped the
box right on to the watch-glass, which shivered into a web of fine cracks.
Margarita shut her eyes, then looked again and burst into hoots of laughter.
Her eyebrows that she had so carefully plucked into a fine line had
thickened into two regular arcs above her eyes, which had taken on a deeper
green colour. The fine vertical furrow between her eyebrows which had first
appeared in October when the master disappeared, had vanished without trace.
Gone too were the yellowish shadows at her temples and two barely detectable
sets of crowsfeet round the corners of her eyes. The skin of her cheeks was
evenly suffused with pink, her brow had become white and smooth and the
frizzy, artificial wave in her hair had straightened out.
A dark, naturally curly-haired woman of twenty, teeth bared and
laughing uncontrollably, was looking out of the mirror at the
thirty-year-old Margarita.
Laughing, Margarita jumped out of her bath-wrap with one leap, scooped
out two large handfuls of the slightly fatty cream and began rubbing it
vigorously all over her body. She immediately glowed and turned a healthy
pink. In a moment her headache stopped, after having pained her all day
since the encounter in the Alexander Gardens. The muscles of her arms and
legs grew firmer and she even lost weight.
She jumped and stayed suspended in the air just above the carpet, then
slowly and gently dropped back to the ground.
'Hurray for the cream! ' cried Margarita, throwing herself into an
armchair.
The anointing had not only changed her appearance. Joy surged through
every part of her body, she felt as though bubbles were shooting along every
limb. Margarita felt free, free of everything, realising with absolute
clarity that what was happening was the fulfilment of her presentiment of
that morning, that she was going to leave her house and her past life for
ever. But one thought from her past life hammered persistently in her mind
and she knew that she had one last duty to perform before she took off into
the unknown, into the air. Naked as she was she ran out of the bedroom,
flying through the air, and into her husband's study, where she turned on
the light and flew to his desk. She tore a sheet off his note-pad and in one
sweep, erasing nothing and changing nothing, she quickly and firmly
pencilled this message :Forgive me and forget me as quickly as you can. I am
leaving you for ever. Don't look for me, it will be useless. Misery and
unhappiness have turned me into a witch. It is time for me to go. Farewell.
Margarita.
With a sense of absolute relief Margarita flew back into the bedroom.
Just then Natasha came in, loaded with clothes and shoes. At once the whole
pile, dresses on coathangers, lace blouses, blue silk shoes on shoe trees,
belts, all fell on to the floor and Natasha clasped her hands.
'Pretty, aren't I?' cried Margarita Nikolayevna in a loud, slightly
husky voice.
'What's happened?' whispered Natasha, staggering back. ' What have you
done, Margarita Nikolayevna? '
'It's the cream! The cream!' replied Margarita, pointing to the
gleaming gold box and twirling round in front of the mirror. Forgetting the
heap of crumpled clothes on the floor, Natasha ran to the dressing table and
stared, eyes hot with longing, at the remains of the ointment. Her lips
whispered a few words in silence. She turned to Margarita and said with
something like awe:
'Oh, your skin--look at your skin, Margarita Nikolayevna, it's
shining! ' Then she suddenly remembered herself, picked up the dress she had
dropped and started to smooth it out.
'Leave it, Natasha! Drop it! ' Margarita shouted at her. ' To hell
with it! Throw it all away! No--wait--you can have it all. As a present from
me. You can have everything there is in the room!'
Dumbfounded, Natasha gazed at Margarita for a while then clasped her
round the neck, kissing her and shouting :
'You're like satin! Shiny satin! And look at your eyebrows!'
'Take all these rags, take all my scent and put it all in your bottom
drawer, you can keep it,' shouted Margarita, ' but don't take the jewellery
or they'll say you stole it.'
Natasha rummaged in the heap for whatever she could pick up--stockings,
shoes, dresses and underwear--and ran out of the bedroom.
At that moment from an open window on the other side of the street came
the loud strains of a waltz and the spluttering of a car engine as it drew
up at the gate.
'Azazello will ring soon! ' cried Margarita, listening to the sound of
the waltz. ' He's going to ring! And this foreigner is harmless, I realise
now that he can never harm me!'
The car's engine roared as it accelerated away. The gate slammed and
footsteps could be heard on the flagged path.
'It's Nikolai Ivanovich, I recognise his tread,' thought Margarita. '
I must do something funny as a way of saying goodbye to him!'
Margarita flung the shutters open and sat sideways on the windowsill,
clasping her knees with her hands. The moonlight caressed her right side.
Margarita raised her head towards the moon and put on a reflective and
poetic face. Two more footsteps were heard and then they suddenly stopped.
With another admiring glance at the moon and a sigh for fun, Margarita
turned to look down at the garden, where she saw her neighbour of the floor
below, Nikolai Ivanovich. He was clearly visible in the moonlight, sitting
on a bench on which he had obviously just sat down with a bump. His
pince-nez was lop-sided and he was clutching his briefcase in his arms.
'Hullo, Nikolai Ivanovich! ' said Margarita Nikolayevna in a sad
voice. ' Good evening! Have you just come from the office?'
Nikolai Ivanovich said nothing.
'And here am I,' Margarita went on, leaning further out into the
garden, ' sitting all alone as you can see, bored, looking at the moon and
listening to a waltz . . .'
Margarita Nikolayevna ran her left hand along her temple, arranging a
lock of hair, then said crossly :
'It's very impolite of you, Nikolai Ivanovich! I am a woman, after
all! It's rude not to answer when someone speaks to you.'
Nikolai Ivanovich, visible in the bright moonlight down to the last
button on his grey waistcoat and the last hair on his little pointed beard,
suddenly gave an idiotic grin and got up from his bench. Obviously
half-crazed with embarrassment, instead of taking off his hat he waved his
briefcase and flexed his knees as though just about to break into a Russian
dance.
'Oh how you bore me, Nikolai Ivanovich! ' Margarita went on. ' You all
bore me inexpressibly and I can't tell you how happy I am to be leaving you!
You can all go to hell!'
Just then the telephone rang in Margarita's bedroom. She slipped off
the windowsill and forgetting Nikolai Ivanovich completely she snatched up
the receiver.
'Azazello speaking,' said a voice.
'Dear, dear Azazello,' cried Margarita.
'It's time for you to fly away,' said Azazello and she could hear from
his tone that he was pleased by Margarita's sincere outburst of affection. '
As you fly over the gate shout " I'm invisible "--then fly about over the
town a bit to get used to it and then turn south, away from Moscow straight
along the river. They're waiting for you! '
Margarita hung up and at once something wooden in the next room started
bumping about and tapping on the door. Margarita flung it open and a broom,
bristles upward, danced into the bedroom. Its handle beat a tattoo on the
floor, tipped itself up horizontally and pointed towards the window.
Margarita whimpered with joy and jumped astride the broomstick. Only then
did she remember that in the excitement she had forgotten to get dressed.
She galloped over to the bed and picked up the first thing to hand, which
was a blue slip. Waving it like a banner she flew out of the window. The
waltz rose to a crescendo.
Margarita dived down from the window and saw Nikolai Ivanovich sitting
on the bench. He seemed to be frozen to it, listening stunned to the shouts
and bangs that had been coming from the top-floor bedroom.
'Goodbye, Nikolai Ivanovich! ' cried Margarita, dancing about in front
of him.
The wretched man groaned, fidgeted and dropped his briefcase.
'Farewell for ever, Nikolai Ivanovich! I'm flying away! ' shouted
Margarita, drowning the music of the waltz. Realising that her slip was
useless she gave a malicious laugh and threw it over Nikolai Ivanovich's
head. Blinded, Nikolai Ivanovich fell off the bench on to the flagged path
with a crash.
Margarita turned round for a last look at the house where she had spent
so many years of unhappiness and saw the astonished face of Natasha in the
lighted window.
'Goodbye, Natasha! ' Margarita shouted, waving her broom. ' I'm
invisible! Invisible! ' she shouted at the top of her voice as she flew off,
the maple branches whipping her face, over the gate and out into the street.
Behind her flew the strains of the waltz, rising to a mad crescendo.
Invisible and free! Reaching the end of her street, Margarita turned
sharp right and flew on down a long, crooked street with its plane trees and
its patched roadway, its oil-shop with a warped door where they sold
kerosene by the jugful and the bottled juice of parasites. Here Margarita
discovered that although she was invisible, free as air and thoroughly
enjoying herself, she still had to take care. Stopping herself by a miracle
she just avoided a lethal collison with an old, crooked lamp-post. As she
swerved away from it, Margarita gripped her broomstick harder and flew on
more slowly, glancing at the passing signboards and electric cables.
The next street led straight to the Arbat. By now she had thoroughly
mastered the business of steering her broom, having found that it answered
to the slightest touch of her hands or legs and that when flying around the
town she had to be very careful to avoid collisions. It was now quite
obvious that the people in the street could not see her. Nobody turned their
head, nobody shouted' Look, look! ', nobody stepped aside, nobody screamed,
fell in a faint or burst into laughter.
Margarita flew silently and very slowly at about second-storey height.
Slow as her progress was, however, she made slightly too wide a sweep as she
flew into the blindingly-lit Arbat and hit her shoulder against an
illuminated glass traffic sign. This annoyed her. She stopped the obedient
broomstick, flew back, aimed for the sign and with a sudden flick of the end
of her broom, smashed it to fragments. The pieces crashed to the ground,
passers-by jumped aside, a whistle blew and Margarita burst into laughter at
her little act of wanton destruction.
'I shall have to be even more careful on the Arbat,' she thought to
herself. ' There are so many obstructions, it's like a maze.' She began
weaving between the cables. Beneath her flowed the roofs of trolley-buses,
buses and cars, and rivers of hats surged along the pavements. Little
streams diverged from these rivers and trickled into the lighted caves of
all-night stores.
'What a maze,' thought Margarita crossly. ' There's no room to
manoeuvre here! '
She crossed the Arbat, climbed to fourth-floor height, past the
brilliant neon tubes of a corner theatre and turned into a narrow
side-street flanked with tall houses. All their windows were open and radio
music poured out from all sides. Out of curiosity Margarita glanced into one
of them. She saw a kitchen. Two Primuses were roaring away on a marble
ledge, attended by two women standing with spoons in their hands and
swearing at each other.
'You should put the light out when you come out of the lavatory, I've
told you before, Pelagea Petrovna,' said the woman with a saucepan of some
steaming decoction, ' otherwise we'll have you chucked out of here.'
'You can't talk,' replied the other.
'You're both as bad as each other,' said Margarita clearly, leaning
over the windowsill into the kitchen.
The two quarrelling women stopped at the sound of her voice and stood
petrified, clutching their dirty spoons. Margarita carefully stretched out
her arm between them and turned off both primuses. The women gasped. But
Margarita was already bored with this prank and had flown out again into the
street.
Her attention was caught by a massive and obviously newly-built
eight-storey block of flats at the far end of the street. Margarita flew
towards it and as she landed she saw that the building was faced with black
marble, that its doors were wide, that a porter in gold-laced peaked cap and
buttons stood in the hall. Over the doorway was a gold inscription reading '
Dramlit House'.
Margarita frowned at the inscription, wondering what the word '
Dramlit' could mean. Tucking her broomstick under her arm, Margarita pushed
open the front door, to the amazement of the porter, walked in and saw a
huge black notice-board that listed the names and flat numbers of all the
residents. The inscription over the name-board, reading ' Drama and
Literature House,' made Margarita give a suppressed yelp of predatory
anticipation. Rising a little in the air, she began eagerly to read the
names: Khustov, Dvubratsky, Quant, Beskudnikov, Latunsky . . .
'Latunsky!' yelped Margarita. ' Latunsky! He's the man . . . who
ruined the master!'
The porter jumped up in astonishment and stared at the name-board,
wondering why it had suddenly given a shriek.
Margarita was already flying upstairs, excitedly repeating :
'Latunsky, eighty-four . . . Latunsky, eighty-four . . . Here we are,
left--eighty-two, right--eighty-three, another floor up, left--eighty-four!
Here it is and there's his name--" 0. Latunsky ".'
Margarita jumped off her broomstick and the cold stone floor of the
landing felt pleasantly cool to her hot bare feet. She rang once, twice. No
answer. Margarita pressed the button harder and heard the bell ringing far
inside Latunsky's flat. Latunsky should have been grateful to his dying day
that the chairman of massolit had fallen under a tramcar and that the
memorial gathering was being held that very evening. Latunsky must have been
born under a lucky star, because the coincidence saved him from an encounter
with Margarita, newly turned witch that Friday.
No one came to open the door. At full speed Margarita flew down,
counting the floors as she went, reached the bottom, flew out into the
street and looked up. She counted the floors and tried to guess which of the
windows belonged to Latunsky's flat. Without a doubt they were the five
unlighted windows on the eighth floor at the corner of the building. Feeling
sure that she was right, Margarita flew up and a few seconds later found her
way through an open window into a dark room lit only by a silver patch of
moonlight. Margarita walked across and fumbled for the switch. Soon all the
lights in the flat were burning. Parking her broom in a corner and making
sure that nobody was at home, Margarita opened the front door and looked at
the nameplate. This was it.
People say that Latunsky still turns pale when he remembers that
evening and that he always pronounces Berlioz's name with gratitude. If he
had been at home God knows what violence might have been done that night.
Margarita went into the kitchen and came out with a massive hammer.
Naked and invisible, unable to restrain herself, her hands shook with
impatience. Margarita took careful aim and hit the keys of the grand piano,
sending a crashing discord echoing through the flat. The innocent piano, a
Backer baby grand, howled and sobbed. With the sound of a revolver shot, the
polished sounding-board split under a hammer-blow. Breathing hard, Margarita
smashed and battered the strings until she collapsed into an armchair to
rest.
An ominous sound of water came from the kitchen and the bathroom. ' It
must be overflowing by now . . .' thought Margarita and added aloud :
'But there's no time to sit and gloat.'
A flood was already pouring from the kitchen into the passage. Wading
barefoot, Margarita carried buckets of water into the critic's study, and
emptied them into the drawers of his desk. Then having smashed the
glass-fronted bookcase with a few hammer-blows, she ran into the bedroom.
There she shattered the mirror in the wardrobe door, pulled out all
Latunsky's suits and flung them into the bathtub. She found a large bottle
of ink in the study and poured its contents all over the huge, luxurious
double bed.
Although all this destruction was giving her the deepest pleasure, she
somehow felt that its total effect was inadequate and too easily repaired.
She grew wilder and more indiscriminate. In the room with the piano, she
smashed the flower vases and the pots holding rubber plants. With savage
delight she rushed into the bedroom with a cook's knife, slashed all the
sheets and broke the glass in the photograph frames. Far from feeling tired,
she wielded her weapon with such ferocity that the sweat poured in streams
down her naked body.
Meanwhile in No. 82, immediately beneath Latunsky's flat, Quant's maid
was drinking a cup of tea in the kitchen and wondering vaguely why there was
so much noise and running about upstairs. Looking up at the ceiling she
suddenly saw it change colour from white to a deathly grey-blue. The patch
spread visibly and it began to spout drops of water. The maid sat there for
a few minutes, bewildered at this phenomenon, until a regular shower began
raining down from the ceiling and pattering on the floor. She jumped up and
put a bowl under the stream, but it was useless as the shower was spreading
and was already pouring over the gas stove and the dresser. With a shriek
Quant's maid ran out of the flat on to the staircase and started ringing
Latunsky's front-door bell.
'Ah, somebody's ringing . . . time to go,' said Margarita. She mounted
the broom, listening to a woman's voice shouting through the keyhole.
'Open up, open up! Open the door, Dusya! Your water's overflowing!
We're being flooded! '
Margarita flew up a few feet and took a swing at the chandelier. Two
lamps broke and glass fragments flew everywhere. The shouts at the keyhole
had stopped and there was a tramp of boots on the staircase. Margarita
floated out of the window, where she turned and hit the glass a gentle blow
with her hammer. It shattered and cascaded in smithereens down the marble
facade on to the street below. Margarita flew on to the next window. Far
below people were running about on the pavement, and one of the cars
standing outside the entrance started up and drove away.
Having dealt with all Latunsky's windows, Margarita floated on towards
the next flat. The blows became more frequent, the street resounded with
bangs and tinkles. The porter ran out of the front door, looked up,
hesitated for a moment in amazement, popped a whistle into his mouth and
blew like a maniac. The noise inspired Margarita to even more violent action
on the eighth-floor windows and then to drop down a storey and to start work
on the seventh.
Bored by his idle job of hanging around the entrance hall, the porter
put all his pent-up energy into blowing his whistle, playing a woodwind
obbligato in time to Margarita's enthusiastic percussion. In the intervals
as she moved from window to window, he drew breath and then blew an
ear-splitting blast from distended cheeks at each stroke of Margarita's
hammer. Their combined efforts produced the most impressive results. Panic
broke out in Dramlit House. The remaining unbroken window-panes were flung
open, heads were popped out and instantly withdrawn, whilst open windows
were hastily shut. At the lighted windows of the building opposite appeared
figures, straining forward to try and see why for no reason all the windows
of Dramlit House were spontaneously exploding.
All along the street people began running towards Dramlit House and
inside it others were pelting senselessly up and down the staircase. The
Quants' maid shouted to them that they were being flooded out and she was
soon joined by the Khustovs' maid from No. 80 which lay underneath the
Quants'. Water was pouring through the Khustovs' ceiling into the bathroom
and the kitchen. Finally an enormous chunk of plaster crashed down from
Quants' kitchen ceiling, smashing all the dirty crockery on the
draining-board and letting loose a deluge as though someone upstairs were
pouring out buckets of dirty rubbish and lumps of sodden plaster. Meanwhile
a chorus of shouts came from the staircase.
Flying past the last window but one on the fourth floor, Margarita
glanced into it and saw a panic-stricken man putting on a gas mask.
Terrified at the sound of Margarita's hammer tapping on the window, he
vanished from the room. Suddenly the uproar stopped. Floating down to the
third floor Margarita looked into the far window, which was shaded by a
flimsy blind. The room was lit by a little night-light. In a cot with
basketwork sides sat a little boy of about four, listening nervously. There
were no grownups in the room and they had obviously all run out of the flat.
'Windows breaking,' said the little boy and cried : ' Mummy!'
Nobody answered and he said :
'Mummy, I'm frightened.'
Margarita pushed aside the blind and flew in at the window.
'I'm frightened,' said the little boy again, shivering.
'Don't be frightened, darling,' said Margarita, trying to soften her
now raucous, harsh voice. ' It's only some boys breaking windows.'
'With a catapult? ' asked the boy, as he stopped shivering.
'Yes, with a catapult,' agreed Margarita. ' Go to sleep now.'
'That's Fedya,' said the boy. ' He's got a catapult.'
'Of course, it must be Fedya.'
The boy glanced slyly to one side and asked :
'Where are you, aunty? '
'I'm nowhere,' replied Margarita. ' You're dreaming about me.
'I thought so,' said the little boy.
'Now you lie down,' said Margarita, ' put your hand under your cheek
and I'll send you to sleep.'
'All right,' agreed the boy and lay down at once with his cheek on his
palm.
'I'll tell you a story,' Margarita began, laying her hot hand on the
child's cropped head. ' Once upon a time there was a lady . . . she had no
children and she was never happy. At first she just used to cry, then one
day she felt very naughty . . .' Margarita stopped and took away her hand.
The little boy was asleep.
Margarita gently put the hammer on the windowsill and flew out of the
window. Below, disorder reigned. People were shouting and running up and
down the glass-strewn pavement, policemen among them. Suddenly a bell
started clanging and round the corner from the Arbat drove a red fire-engine
with an extending ladder.
Margarita had already lost interest. Steering her way past any cables,
she clutched the broom harder and in a moment was flying high above Dramlit
House. The street veered sideways and vanished. Beneath her now was only an
expanse of roofs, criss-crossed with brilliantly lit roads. Suddenly it all
slipped sideways, the strings of light grew blurred and vanished.
Margarita gave another jerk, at which the sea of roofs disappeared,
replaced below her by a sea of shimmering electric lights. Suddenly the sea
of light swung round to the vertical and appeared over Margarita's head
whilst the moon shone under her legs. Realising that she had looped the
loop, Margarita righted herself, turned round and saw that the sea had
vanished ; behind her there was now only a pink glow on the horizon. In a
second that too had disappeared and Margarita saw that she was alone with
the moon, sailing along above her and to the left. Margarita's hair streamed
out behind her in wisps as the moonlight swished past her body. From the two
lines of widely-spaced lights meeting at a point in the distance and from
the speed with which they were vanishing behind her Margarita guessed that
she was flying at prodigious speed and was surprised to discover that it did
not take her breath away.
After a few seconds' travel, far below in the earthbound blackness an
electric sunrise flared up and rolled beneath Margarita's feet, then twisted
round and vanished. Another few seconds, another burst of light.
'Towns! Towns!' shouted Margarita.
Two or tliree times she saw beneath her what looked like dull glinting
bands of steel ribbon that were rivers.
Glancing upward and to the left she stared at the moon as it flew past
her, rushing backwards to Moscow, yet strangely appearing to stand still. In
the moon she could clearly see a mysterious dark shape--not exactly a