The Master and Margarita. The Master smiled. Lapshyonnikova wouldn't publish it, and, besides, it's not interesting.

The Master smiled. " Lapshyonnikova wouldn't publish it, and, besides, it's not interesting."

" But what will you live on? You'll be forced to live in poverty, you know."

" Gladly, gladly, " replied the Master, drawing Margarita to him once again. With his arms around her shoulders, he added, " She'll come to her senses and leave me..."

" I don't think so, " said Woland through his teeth and continued, " And so, the man who wrote the story of Pontius Pilate intends to go off to his basement, and live there in poverty by his lamp, is that right? "

Margarita detached herself from the Master's embrace and began speaking very heatedly, " I did everything I could, and I whispered to him the most tempting thing of all. And he refused it."

" I know what you whispered to him, " retorted Woland, " but that isn't the most tempting thing. And to you I'll say, " he smiled, turning to the Master, " Your novel has some more surprises for you."

" That's very sad, " replied the Master.

" No, no, it isn't sad, " said Woland, " nothing terrible will happen. Well then, Margarita Nikolayevna, everything is done. Have you any further claims on me? "

" How can you say that, oh, how can you, Messire! "

" Then take this from me as a memento, " said Woland, pulling a small, diamond-studded gold horseshoe from under his pillow.

" No, no, no, whatever for! "

" Do you wish to argue with me? " asked Woland, smiling.

Since she had no pocket in her cape, Margarita put the horseshoe in a napkin, and tied it in a bundle. Here something astonished her. She turned to the window, where the moon was shining, and said, " This is what I don't understand... How can it still be midnight when it should have been morning long ago? "

" It's nice to hold on to a holiday midnight a little longer than usual, " answered Woland. " Well, I wish you happiness! "

Margarita extended her hands prayerfully to Woland, but did not dare to get close to him, and she cried out softly, " Farewell! Farewell! "

" Till we meet again, " said Woland.

And Margarita in her black cape, the Master in his hospital robe, stepped out into the hallway of the apartment of the jeweller's wife, where a candle was burning, and where Woland's retinue was waiting for them. When they set out down the hall, Hella was carrying the suitcase containing the novel and Margarita Nikolayevna's meager belongings, and the cat was helping Hella. At the door of the apartment Korovyov bowed and disappeared, while the others accompanied them down the stairs. The staircase was deserted. As they were crossing the third-floor landing, they heard a soft thud, but no one paid any attention to it. When they reached the front doors of entranceway No. 6,

The Liberation of the Matter 251

Azazello blew upward, and as soon as they stepped into the courtyard, which the moonlight did not reach, they saw a man on the doorstep, wearing boots and a cloth cap, who was seemingly sound asleep, and a large, black car parked by the entrance with its lights off. Dimly visible through the windshield was the rook's silhouette.

As they were about to get in the car, Margarita let out a soft cry of despair, " My God, I've lost the horseshoe! "

" Get in the car, " said Azazello, " and wait for me. I'll come right back as soon as I find out what happened." And he went back to the front door.

This is what had happened: shortly before Margarita and the Master left with their entourage, a shriveled woman, holding a bag and a tin can, came out of No. 48, the apartment just below the jeweller's wife's. It was that same Annushka, who, the previous Wednesday, had spilled sunflower oil at the turnstile to Berlioz's great misfortune.

Nobody knew, and probably nobody ever will, what this woman actually did in Moscow or what she lived on. The only thing that was known about Annushka was that she could be seen every day, with the can, with the bag, or with both together-either at the oil shop, the market, outside the gates of the building, on the stairs, or, most frequendy of all, in the kitchen of apartment No. 48, which was where she lived. Besides that, the most notorious thing about her was that wherever she was, or wherever she appeared—trouble would start at once, and finally, that her nickname was " The Plague."

For some reason Annushka-the-Plague was in the habit of getting up incredibly early, and on that particular morning something roused her from bed before the crack of dawn, just after midnight. The key turned in the door, Annushka's nose stuck out, and then the whole of her emerged, the door slammed shut behind her and she was about to set off somewhere, when a door banged on the upstairs landing, and someone rushed down the stairs, colliding with Annushka, and knocking her sideways, so that she struck the back of her head against the wall.

" Where's the devil taking you in just your drawers? " screeched Annushka, clutching the back of her head. The man in his underwear, wearing a cap and holding a suitcase, and with his eyes closed, answered Annushka in a strange, sleepy voice, " The water pump! The sulfuric acid! The cost of the whitewash alone." And bursting into tears, he roared, " Go away! "

Then he rushed, not further down the stairs, but back—up the stairs to where the windowpane had been kicked out by the economist, and he flew out that window head over heels into the courtyard. Forgetting about the pain in the back of her head, Annushka groaned and ran to the window herself. She lay flat on her stomach on the landing and stuck her head out into the courtyard, expecting to see the broken body of the man with the suitcase stretched out on the asphalt, lit up by the yard-