luminated 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
dragon,  not  quite  a  little hump-backed  horse, its  sharp muzzle pointed
towards the city she was leaving.
     The thought  then came to Margarita that there was really no reason for
her to drive her broom at such a  speed. She was missing a  unique chance to
see the  world  from a  new viewpoint  and  savour  the  thrill  of  flight.
Something  told her that wherever her  destination might be, her hosts would
wait for her.
     There was no hurry, no reason to  make  herself dizzy with  speed or to
fly  at  such a height,  so  she tilted  the  head other broom downwards and
floated, at a  greatly  reduced speed,  almost  down  to ground  level. This
headlong  dive,  as  though  on  an  aerial  toboggan,  gave her  the utmost
pleasure. The earth rose up to  her and the moonlit landscape, until then an
indistinguishable  blur, was  revealed in exquisite  detail.  Margarita flew
just  above the  veil  of mist over meadow  and pond ; through the wisps  of
vapour she could  hear the  croaking of  frogs, from  the distance came  the
heart-stopping moan of  a train.  Soon Margarita caught sight of it.  It was
moving  slowly, like a  caterpillar blowing sparks from the top of its head.
She overtook it, crossed another lake in which a reflected moon swam beneath
her legs, then flew still lower, nearly brushing the tops of the giant pines
with her feet.
     Suddenly Margarita  caught the sound  of heavy, snorting breath  behind
her and it seemed to be slowly catching her up. Gradually another noise like
a  flying bullet and a  woman's raucous laughter could  be heard.  Margarita
looked round and saw that she was being followed by a dark object of curious
shape. As it drew nearer it began to look like someone flying astride, until
as  it slowed down to draw  alongside her Margarita saw  clearly that it was
Natasha.
     Completely naked too, her  hair streaming behind  her,  she  was flying
along mounted on a fat  pig, clutching  a briefcase in  its front  legs  and
furiously  pounding  the  air with  its  hind trotters.  A pince-nez,  which
occasionally  flashed in the  moonlight,  had fallen  off its  nose and  was
dangling  on a  ribbon, whilst  the pig's hat kept falling  forward over its
eyes. After a careful look Margarita recognised the pig as Nikolai Ivanovich
and her laughter rang out, mingled with Natasha's, over the forest below.
     'Natasha! ' shrieked Margarita. ' Did you rub the cream on yourself?'
     'Darling!' answered Natasha, waking the sleeping pine forests with her
screech. ' I smeared it on his bald head I '
     'My princess! ' grunted the pig miserably.
     'Darling Margarita  Nikolayevna!  ' shouted Natasha  as she  galloped
alongside.  '  I confess--I took the rest of the cream. Why shouldn't  I fly
away  and live, too? Forgive me, but I could never come back to you now--not
for  anything.   This  is  the   life   for   me!   .   ..  He  made   me  a
proposition.'--Natasha poked  her finger  into the back of the pig's neck--'
The old  lecher. I didn't think he had it in him, did you? What did you call
me? ' she yelled, leaning down towards the pig's ear.
     'Goddess! ' howled the animal. ' Slow down, Natasha, please! There are
important papers in my briefcase and I may lose them! '
     'To hell with  your papers,' shouted Natasha, laughing.    Oh,  please
don't shout like that, somebody may hear us!' roared the pig imploringly.
     As  she flew alongside Margarita, Natasha laughingly told her  what had
happened in the house after  Margarita Nikolayevna had flown  away  over the
gate.
     Natasha  confessed that without touching any more of the things she had
been given she  had torn her clothes off, rushed to the cream and started to
anoint herself.  The same  transformation  took place. Laughing  aloud  with
delight, she was standing in front of the mirror admiring her magical beauty
when the  door opened and in walked Nikolai Ivanovich. He was highly excited
and was holding Margarita Nikolayevna's slip, his briefcase and his hat.  At
first he was riveted  to the spot with horror, then announced, as  red  as a
lobster, that he thought he should bring the garment back. . . .
     'The  things he  said, the beast!  '  screamed  Natasha, roaring with
laughter. ' The  things he suggested! The money he offered me! Said his wife
would  never find out. It's true, isn't it?' Natasha  shouted  to  the  pig,
which could do nothing but wriggle its snout in embarrassment.
     As  they had romped about in  the bedroom,  Natasha smeared some of the
cream on  Nikolai Ivanovich  and  then  it  was  her  turn  to  freeze  with
astonishment. The face of her respectable neighbour shrank and grew a snout,
whilst his arms and legs sprouted trotters. Looking at himself in the mirror
Nikolai Ivanovich gave a wild, despairing squeal but it was too late. A  few
seconds later, with Natasha astride him, he was flying  through the air away
from Moscow, sobbing with chagrin.
     'I demand  to be  turned  back to my usual shape! ' the pig  suddenly
grunted, half angry, half  begging. ' I refuse  to take part:  in an illegal
assembly! Margarita Nikolayevna, kindly take your maid off my back.'
     'Oh,  so I'm a maid now, am I! What d'you mean--maid!' cried  Natasha,
tweaking the pig's ear. ' I was a goddess just now! What did you call me? '
     'Venus! ' replied the pig miserably,  brushing  a hazel-bush with its
feet as they flew low over a chattering, fast-flowing stream.
     'Venus! Venus! ' screamed Natasha triumphantly, putting one arm akimbo
and waving the other towards the moon.
     'Margarita! Queen Margarita! Ask them to let me stay a witch! You have
the power to ask for whatever you like and they'll do it for you.'
     Margarita replied :
     'Very well, I promise.'
     'Thanks!' screamed Natasha, raising her voice still higher to shout: '
Hey, go on--faster, faster! Faster than that! '
     She  dug her  heels  into  the  pig's  thin flanks, sending  it  flying
forward. In a moment Natasha could only be seen as a dark spot far ahead and
as she vanished altogether  the swish  of  her  passage through the air died
away.
     Margarita  flew  on slowly through the unknown,  deserted  countryside,
over hills strewn with occasional  rocks and  sparsely grown with  giant fir
trees.  She was no longer flying over their tops,  but between their trunks,
silvered  on  one side  by the moonlight.  Her faint shadow flitted ahead of
her, as the moon was now at her back.
     Sensing that she was approaching water, Margarita guessed that her goal
was near. The  fir trees parted and Margarita gently floated through the air
towards a  chalky hillside. Below  it lay a river. A mist was swirling round
the bushes growing on the cliff-face, whilst  the opposite bank  was low and
flat. There under a  lone  clump of trees  was the  flicker of a  camp fire,
surrounded by  moving figures, and Margarita  seemed to  hear the  insistent
beat of  music. Beyond, as far as the eye could see, there was not a sign of
life.
     Margarita bounded down the hillside to the water, which looked tempting
after her chase through the air. Throwing  aside the broom,  she  took a run
and dived head-first  into the water. Her body, as light as air, plunged  in
and threw up a column of spray almost to the moon. The water was  as warm as
a bath and as she glided upwards from the  bottom Margarita revelled in  the
freedom  of swimming  alone in a  river  at  night. There was  no  one  near
Margarita in the water, but further away near some bushes by the shore,  she
could hear splashing and snorting. Someone else was having a bathe.
     Margarita swam ashore and  ran up  the bank. Her body tingled. She felt
no fatigue after her long flight and gave a little  dance of pure joy on the
damp grass. Suddenly she  stopped and  listened.  The  snorting  was  moving
closer and from a clump of reeds there emerged a fat man, naked except for a
dented top hat perched on the back of his head. He had been plodding his way
through sticky mud, which made him seem to  be wearing black boots. To judge
from his breath and his hiccups  he had had a great deal to drink, which was
confirmed by a smell of brandy rising from the water around him.
     Catching sight of Margarita the fat man stared at her, then  cried with
a roar of joy:
     'Surely it can't be! It is--Claudine, the merry widow! What brings you
here? ' He waddled forward  to greet her. Margarita retreated and replied in
a dignified voice :
     'Go to hell! What d'you mean--Claudine? Who d'you think you're  talking
to?'  After  a moment's reflection  she rounded off her retort  with a long,
satisfying  and  unprintable  obscenity.  Its effect  on  the  fat  man  was
instantly sobering.
     'Oh  dear,' he exclaimed, flinching. '  Forgive me--I didn't see you,
your majesty.  Queen Margot.  It's  the fault  of the brandy.'  The fat  man
dropped on to  one knee,  took off his  top hat,  bowed and  in a mixture of
Russian and  French  jabbered some nonsense about  having  just come  from a
wedding in Paris, about brandy  and about  how deeply he apologised for  his
terrible mistake.
     'You might have put your trousers on, you great fool,' said Margarita,
relenting though still pretending to be angry.
     The fat man  grinned with  delight  as  he realised  that Margarita had
forgiven him and he announced cheerfully that he just happened to be without
his trousers  at this particular moment because he had  absent-mindedly left
them on the bank of the river Yenisei where he had been bathing just  before
flying here,  but would go back for them at once. With an effusive volley of
farewells he began bowing  and walking backwards, until he  slipped and fell
headlong into the water. Even as he fell, however,  his  side-whiskered face
kept its smile of cheerful devotion. Then Margarita gave a piercing whistle,
mounted the obedient broomstick and flew across to  the far  bank, which lay
in the full moonlight beyond the shadow cast by the chalk cliff.
     As  soon  as  she  touched  the  wet  grass the music from the clump of
willows grew louder and  the stream of  sparks blazed upwards  with  furious
gaiety. Under the willow  branches, hung with thick catkins, sat two rows of
fat-cheeked  frogs, puffed up  as if  they were made of rubber and playing a
march on wooden pipes. Glow-worms  hung on the willow twigs in front  of the
musicians  to light  their sheets of music whilst a nickering  glow from the
camp fire played over the frogs' faces.
     The march was  being played  in  Margarita's honour as part of a solemn
ceremony  of welcome. Translucent water-sprites stopped their dance to  wave
fronds  at  her  as  their   cries  of  welcome  floated  across  the  broad
water-meadow. Naked  witches jumped down from the  willows  and curtsied  to
her. A goat-legged creature  ran up, kissed her hand and, as he spread out a
silken sheet on the grass, enquired if she had enjoyed her bathe and whether
she would like to lie down and rest.
     As Margarita  lay down the goat-legged  man  brought  her  a  goblet of
champagne, which at once warmed her heart. Asking where Natasha was, she was
told that Natasha  had already bathed. She was already flying back to Moscow
on her  pig to warn them  that Margarita would soon be coming and to help in
preparing her attire.
     Margarita's short stay in the  willow-grove  was marked  by  a  curious
event:  a  whistle  split  the air and a  dark body,  obviously  missing its
intended target,  sailed through the air  and  landed  in the water.  A  few
moments later Margarita was faced by the same fat man with side whiskers who
had so clumsily introduced himself  earlier. He had obviously managed to fly
back to the  Yenisei because  although soaking wet from head to foot, he now
wore full evening  dress. He  had been at the brandy again, which had caused
him to land in the water, but as before  his smile was indestructible and in
his bedraggled state he was permitted to kiss Margarita's hand.
     All  prepared  to  depart.  The  water-sprites  ended  their  dance and
vanished. The goat-man politely  asked  how she had arrived at the river and
on hearing that she had ridden there on a broom he cried:
     'Oh, how uncomfortable! ' In a moment he had twisted two branches into
the shape  of  a  telephone and ordered someone to send a car at once, which
was done in a minute.
     A  brown  open car flew down to the island.  Instead  of  a  driver the
chauffeur's  seat was occupied by  a black, long-beaked crow in a  check cap
and gauntlets. The island emptied as the witches flew away in the moonlight,
the fire burned out and the glowing embers turned to grey ash.
     The goat-man opened the door  for Margarita, who  sprawled on the car's
wide back  seat.  The  car gave a roar,  took  off and climbed almost to the
moon. The island fell away,  the river disappeared and Margarita  was on her
way to Moscow.




        22. By Candlelight



     The steady hum of  the  car as  it  flew  high  above  the earth lulled
Margarita to sleep and the moonlight  felt pleasantly warm. Closing her eyes
she  let the  wind play on  her face  and thought wistfully  of that strange
riverbank which she would probably never see again. After  so much magic and
sorcery that evening she had already guessed who her host was to be, but she
felt quite unafraid. The  hope that she might regain  her happiness made her
fearless.  In  any case she was not given much time to loll  in  the car and
dream about happiness. The crow  was a good driver and the car  a  fast one.
When Margarita  opened  her eyes she no longer saw  dark forests beneath her
but the shimmering  jewels of  the  lights  of  Moscow.  The  bird-chauffeur
unscrewed the right-hand front wheel as they flew along, then landed the car
at a deserted cemetery in the Dorogomilov district.
     Opening the  door  to allow  Margarita  and  her broom  to alight on  a
gravestone the  crow gave  the car  a push and sent  it rolling  towards the
ravine beyond the far edge of the cemetery. It crashed over the side and was
shattered  to pieces. The crow saluted politely, mounted  the wheel and flew
away on it.
     At that moment a black cloak appeared  from  behind a headstone. A wall
eye  glistened  in  the  moonlight  and  Margarita  recognised  Azazello. He
gestured to Margarita to  mount her broomstick, leaped  astride his own long
rapier, and  they  both took  off and landed soon afterwards, unnoticed by a
soul, near No. 302A, Sadovaya Street.
     As the  two  companions passed under  the  gateway  into the courtyard,
Margarita noticed  a man  in  cap and  high boots,  apparently  waiting  for
somebody.  Light  as  their footsteps were,  the  lonely man heard  them and
shifted uneasily, unable to see who it was.
     At  the  entrance  to  staircase  6  they  encountered  a  second  man,
astonishingly  similar in appearance to the first, and the  same performance
was repeated.  Footsteps . .  . the  man  turned round uneasily and frowned.
When  the door  opened and  closed he  hurled  himself  in  pursuit  of  the
invisible intruders and peered up  the  staircase but failed, of  course, to
see anything. A third man, an exact  copy of the other two, was  lurking  on
the  third-floor  landing.  He was smoking  a strong cigarette and Margarita
coughed  as she  walked past him.  The  smoker  leaped up from his  bench as
though stung, stared  anxiously around,  walked  over  to the  banisters and
glanced down. Meanwhile Margarita and her companion had reached flat No. 50.
     They did not ring, but Azazello  silently opened the door with his key.
Margarita's first surprise on walking in was the darkness. It was as dark as
a  cellar,  so that she involuntarily clutched Azazello's cloak from fear of
an accident, but soon from high up and far away a lighted lamp flickered and
came closer.  As  they  went  Azazello took  away  Margarita's  broom and it
vanished soundlessly into the darkness.
     They then began to  mount a broad staircase,  so vast that to Margarita
it seemed endless. She was surprised that the hallway of an ordinary  Moscow
flat  could hold  such  an  enormous,  invisible  but  undeniably  real  and
apparently unending staircase. They reached a landing and stopped. The light
drew close and  Margarita saw the face of the tall  man in black holding the
lamp. Anybody unlucky enough to have crossed his path in those last few days
would have recognised him at once. It was Koroviev, alias Faggot.
     His  appearance, it is true, had greatly changed. The  guttering  flame
was no longer  reflected in a shaky pince-nez long due for the dustbin,  but
in  an equally unsteady  monocle.  The moustaches on  his insolent face were
curled and  waxed. He  appeared  black  for the simple  reason  that he  was
wearing tails and black trousers. Only his shirt front was white.
     Magician, choirmaster, wizard,  or the devil knows what, Koroviev bowed
and with a broad sweep of his lamp invited Margarita to follow him. Azazello
vanished.
     'How strange everything is this evening! ' thought Margarita. ' I  was
ready for anything except this.  Are they trying  to save  current, or what?
The oddest thing of all is the size of this place . . . how  on earth can it
fit into a Moscow flat? It's simply impossible! '
     Despite the  feebleness of  the light from  Koroviev's  lamp, Margarita
realised  that  she  was  in a vast,  colonnaded hall, dark  and  apparently
endless. Stopping beside a small couch, Koroviev put his lamp on a pedestal,
gestured to Margarita to  sit down and then placed himself beside her in  an
artistic pose, one elbow leaned elegantly on the pedestal.
     'Allow me to introduce myself,' said Koroviev in a grating voice. ' My
name  is  Koroviev.  Are  you surprised that there's  no  light? Economy,  I
suppose  you were thinking? Never! May  the first  murderer to fall at  your
feet this evening  cut my throat if that's the reason. It is  simply because
messire doesn't care for electric light and we keep it  turned off until the
last possible  moment.  Then, believe me,  there  will be no lack  of it. It
might even be better if there were not quite so much.'
     Margarita liked  Koroviev  and  she found  his  flow  of  light-hearted
nonsense reassuring.
     'No,'  replied Margarita,  ' what  really puzzles me is where you have
found the space for all this.' With a  wave of her hand Margarita emphasised
the vastness of the hall they were in.
     Koroviev smiled sweetly, wrinkling his nose.
     'Easy!' he replied.  ' For anyone  who knows  how to handle the  fifth
dimension  it's no  problem to expand any place to whatever size you please.
No, dear lady, I will say  more--to  the devil  knows  what size. However, I
have known people,' Koroviev burbled on, '  who though quite  ignorant  have
done  wonders in enlarging their accommodation. One man in this  town,  so I
was  told, was given a three-roomed flat on the Zemlya-noi Rampart  and in a
flash, without  using  the fifth  dimension or anything  like  that, he  had
turned  it into  four  rooms by  dividing one  of the rooms in  half with  a
partition. Then he exchanged it for two separate flats in different parts of
Moscow, one  with three rooms and  the other with two. That, you will agree,
adds up to  five rooms. He exchanged  the three-roomed one for two  separate
frwo-roomers  and thus  became the owner, as you will  have  noticed, of six
rooms altogether, though admittedly scattered  all over Moscow.  He was just
about  to  pull  off  his  last  and  most  brilliant  coup  by  putting  an
advertisement in  the newspaper offering six  rooms  in various districts of
Moscow in  exchange for one five-roomed flat on the Zemlyanoi Rampart,  when
his activities were suddenly  and inexplicably curtailed. He may have a room
somewhere now,  but  not,  I can  assure  you, in Moscow.  There's  a  sharp
operator for you--and you talk of the fifth dimension! '
     Although it  was Koroviev and not Margarita who had  been talking about
the fifth  dimension,  she  could not help laughing at the way  he told  his
story of the ingenious property tycoon. Koroviev went on:
     'But  to come to  the  point, Margarita Nikolayevna.  You  are a very
intelligent woman and have naturally guessed who our host is.'
     Margarita's heart beat faster and she nodded.
     'Very well, then,' said Koroviev. ' I will  tell you more.  We dislike
all mystery  and ambiguity. Every year messire gives a ball. It is known  as
the springtime ball of the full moon, or the ball of the hundred kings.  Ah,
the people who come! . . .'  Here Koroviev clutched his cheek as if he had a
toothache. ' However, you will shortly  be able to see for yourself. Messire
is a bachelor  as you will realise, but there has to be a hostess.' Koroviev
spread his hands : ' You must agree that without a hostess . . .'
     Margarita listened to Koroviev,  trying not to miss a word.  Her  heart
felt  cold  with expectancy,  the thought of  happiness  made  her dizzy.  '
Firstly, it has become a tradition,' Koroviev went on, ' that the hostess of
the ball must be called Margarita and secondly, she must  be a native of the
place where the  ball  is held. We, as you know, are always on the  move and
happen to be in Moscow  at present. We have found  a  hundred and twenty-one
Margaritas in Moscow  and would you believe it . . .'-- Koroviev slapped his
thigh in exasperation--'. . . not one of them was suitable! Then at last, by
a lucky chance . . .'
     Koroviev  grinned  expressively,  bowing  from  the  waist,  and  again
Margarita's heart contracted.
     'Now  to the  point!'  exclaimed  Koroviev. '  To be brief--you won't
decline this responsibility, will you? '
     'I will not,' replied Margarita firmly.
     'Of course,' said Koroviev, raising his lamp, and added:
     'Please follow me.'
     They  passed a row of columns  and finally emerged  into  another  hall
which for some reason smelled strongly of lemons. A rustling noise was heard
and something landed on Margarita's head. She gave a start.
     'Don't be afraid,' Koroviev reassured her, taking her arm. ' Just some
stunt that  Behemoth has dreamed up to amuse the guests tonight, that's all.
Incidentally, if I may be so bold,  Margarita Nikolayevna, my advice  to you
is to be afraid of nothing you may see. There's no cause for fear. The  ball
will be  extravagantly  luxurious, I warn you. We shall  see people  who  in
their  time  wielded enormous power.  But  when one recalls how  microscopic
their influence really was in comparison with the powers of the one in whose
retinue  I  have  the  honour to  serve they  become  quite laughable,  even
pathetic . . . You too, of course, are of royal blood.'
     'How  can I  be of royal  blood?  '  whispered  Margarita, terrified,
pressing herself against Koroviev.
     'Ah,  your majesty,'  Koroviev  teased her, ' the question of blood is
the most complicated problem  in  the world! If  you  were to ask certain of
your great-great-great-grandmothers, especially those  who  had a reputation
for shyness, they might tell you some remarkable secrets,  my dear Margarita
Nikolayevna! To draw a parallel--the most amazing combinations can result if
you  shuffle the  pack  enough. There are  some  matters in which even class
barriers and frontiers are powerless.  I rather think that a certain king of
France of the sixteenth century  would be  most  astonished if somebody told
him that after all these years I should have the pleasure of  walking arm in
arm       round      a      ballroom      in       Moscow      with      his
great-great-great-great-great-grandaughter. Ah--here we are! '
     Koroviev  blew  out his lamp, it  vanished from his  hand and Margarita
noticed a patch of light on  the floor in front of a black doorway. Koroviev
knocked gently. Margarita grew so excited that  her teeth started chattering
and a shiver ran up her spine.
     The door opened into a small room. Margarita saw a wide oak bed covered
in dirty, rumpled  bedclothes and pillows. In front of the  bed was a  table
with carved oaken  legs bearing a candelabra whose  sockets were made in the
shape of birds' claws. Seven fat  wax candles burned in their grasp. On  the
table there was also a large chessboard  set with elaborately carved pieces.
A low  bench stood on the small, worn carpet. There was one more table laden
with golden beakers and another candelabra with arms fashioned  like snakes.
The  room  smelled  of  damp  and  tar. Shadows thrown  by  the  candlelight
criss-crossed on the floor.
     Among the people in the room Margarita at once recognised Azazello, now
also  wearing tails  and standing near the bed-head. Now  that  Azazello was
smartly  dressed  he no longer looked like  the ruffian who had  appeared to
Margarita in the Alexander Gardens and he gave her a most gallant bow.
     The naked  witch,  Hella, who had so upset the  respectable barman from
the  Variety Theatre and  who luckily for  Rimsky  had  been driven  away at
cock-crow, was sitting on the floor by the bed  and stirring some concoction
in  a saucepan which gave off a sulphurous vapour. Besides these, there  was
an enormous black cat sitting  on a stool  in front  of the  chessboard  and
holding a knight in its right paw.
     Hella  stood up  and bowed to  Margarita.  The cat jumped down from its
stool and did likewise, but making a flourish it dropped the knight  and had
to crawl under the bed after it.
     Faint with terror, Margarita blinked  at this candlelit pantomime.  Her
glance was drawn to the bed, on which sat the man whom the wretched Ivan had
recently assured at Patriarch's Ponds that he did not exist.
     Two  eyes bored into Margarita's face. In the depths of the  right  eye
was a golden spark that could pierce any soul to its core;  the left eye was
as empty and black  as a small black diamond, as the  mouth  of a bottomless
well  of  dark  and