Margarita had dreamed about an unfamiliar locale - a bleak and dismal place, under an overcast, early-spring sky. Beneath a cover of patchy clouds there was a flock of noiseless rooks. A rough bridge crossed a turbid, swollen stream. Dismal, scrubby, half-bare trees. A lone aspen, and beyond that, amidst trees and past a vegetable gar-den, was a log hut that could have been a kitchen or a bathhouse. The whole setting was so dead and dismal that it made you want to hang yourself on the aspen by the bridge. Not a breath of wind, not a cloud moving, not a living soul. And then the door of the log hut opened and there he was. Quite far away, but clearly visible. He looked tattered and you couldn’t tell what he was wearing. His hair was disheveled, he was unshaven. His eyes looked pained and anxious. He was beckoning to her with his hand, calling to her, “Margarita”. Choking in the dead air, Margarita started running to him over the furrowed ground, and then she woke up.
Premonition
A luxurious mansion in one of the lanes near the Arbat.
She woke up with a premonition that on that day something was finally going to hap-pen.
- The dream can mean only one of two things. If he’s dead and was beckoning to me, that means he’s come for me, and I shall die soon. That’s very good, because my suf-fering will then end. Or, if he’s alive, then the dream can only mean that he’s remind-ing me of his existence. He wants to tell me that we’ll see each other again. Yes, we’ll see each other very soon.
Still excited, Margarita began to dress. She moved round her flat automatically rather then consciously.
- I believe! Margarita whispered solemnly, I believe! Something’s going to happen! It can’t help but happen because why, in fact, have I been made to suffer for life? I ad-mit that I’ve cheated and lied and lived a secret life hidden from everyone, but even that doesn’t deserve such cruel punishment. Something is bound to happen because nothing lasts forever. The dream I had was prophetic, I swear it was.
This is what Margarita Nikolayevna whispered to herself as she gazed at the crimson shades suffused with sunlight, nervously got dressed, and combed her short curly hair before the triple mirror of her vanity table.
- In essence, everything was turning out well. The husband went away on a business trip for three whole days. I have three whole days to myself, and nobody can stop me from thinking and day-dreaming about whatever I please. I have the whole apartment to myself, five rooms on the upper floor of a private house that would be the envy of thousands of Muscovites.
However, Margarita chose far from the best spot in that luxurious apartment. After drinking some tea, she went off to the dark, windowless room where the luggage was kept and where there were two large bureaus filled with various old odds and ends. She squatted down in front of the first bureau and opened the bottom drawer. From beneath a pile of silk scraps she took out the one possession she valued most in life: an old brown leather album which contained a photograph of the Master, a savings book with ten thousand deposited in his name, dried rose petals pressed in tissue pa-per, and part of a typewritten manuscript that was singed at the bottom. Returning to her bedroom with these treasures, Margarita Nikolayevna set the picture against her triple mirror and sat in front of it holding the fire-damaged manuscript on her knees, as she leafed through and reread what, after the fire, had neither a beginning nor an end, “Early in the morning on the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan, wear-ing a white cloak with a blood-red lining, and shuffling with his cavalryman’s gait into the roofed colonnade that connected the two wings of the palace of Herod the Great, walked the procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate.” Wiping away her tears, she put down the manuscript and leaned her elbows on the vanity table. She sat there in front of the mirror for a long time whispering those familiar words. The mirror image gets fainter and...
The Executioner and His Victim
Early in the morning on the fourteenth day of the spring month of Nisan, wearing a white cloak with a blood-red lining, and shuffling with his cavalryman’s gait into the roofed colonnade that connected the two wings of the palace of Herod the Great, walked the procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate.
- O gods, gods, why are you punishing me? There’s no doubt about it, it’s back again, that horrible, relentless affliction ... the hemicrania that shoots pain through half my head ... there’s no remedy for it, no relief ...I’ll try not to move my head ...
An armchair had been set out for him on the mosaic floor near the fountain, and the procurator sat down in it and without looking at anyone, put his hand out sideways. His secretary respectfully handed him a piece of parchment. Unable to hold back a grimace of pain, the procurator gave a fleeting sidelong glance at what was written on the parchment, handed it back to the secretary, and said with difficulty:
- The accused is from Galilee? Was the case sent to the retrarch?
- Yes, Procurator.
- And what did he do?
- He refused to give a judgement in the case and sent the death sentence pronounced by the Sinedrion to you for confirmation.
The Procurator’s check twitched, and he said quietly:
- Bring in the accused.
Two legionaries immediately left the garden terrace, proceeded through the colonnade and came out onto the balcony, escorting a man of about twenty-seven whom they stood before the procurator’s chair. The man was dressed in a light-blue chiton that was old and torn. He had a white bandage on his head that was held in place by a leather thong tied around his forehead, and his hands were tied behind his back. There was a large bruise under the man’s left eye, and a cut with dried blood on it in the corner of his mouth. The prisoner looked with anxious curiosity at the procurator.
- So it was you who incited the people to destroy the temple of Yershalaim?
The procurator sat stonelike, moving his lips only slightly as he spoke.
- My good man! Believe me...
- Is it me you are calling a good man? You are mistaken. Word has it in Yershalaim that I am a savage monster, and that is absolutely true. Bring centurion Ratkiller to me.
Ratkiller was a head taller than the tallest soldier in the legion and so broad in the shoulders that he blocked out the sun which was still low in the sky. Mark Ratkiller’s face was disfigured: his nose had once been smashed by a German club.
- The criminal calls me ‘good man’. Take him away for a moment and explain to him how he should address me. But don’t maim him.
Mark’s heavy boots stamped on the mosaic, the bound man followed him out noise-lessly, complete silence ensued in the colonnade, and one could hear the doves cooing on the garden terrace by the balcony and the water in the fountain singing a pleasant and intricate tune.
After leading the prisoner through the colonnade and out into the garden, Ratkiller took a whip from the hands of a legionary standing at the foot of a bronze statue and struck the prisoner a mild blow across the shoulders. The centurion’s stroke was cas-ual and light, but the bound man sank to the ground instantly as if his legs had been knocked out from under him. he gasped for breath, the color left his face, and his eyes glazed over. With just his left hand Mark lifted the fallen man into the air lightly as if he were an empty sack, stood him on his feet:
- Address the Roman procurator as Hegemon. Do not use other words. Stand at attention. Have you understood me or do I have to hit you again?
- I understand you. Don’t beat me.
A minute later he was again standing before the procurator.
- Pilate: Name.
- Yeshua: Mine?
- Mine - I know. Yours.
- Yeshua, the prisoner replied hurriedly.
- Is there a surname?
- Ha-Nostri.
- Where are you from?
- The city of Gamala.
- Where is your permanent residence?
- I have none. I travel from town to town.
- That can be expressed more succinctly in one word - vagrant. Do you have any family?
- None. I am alone in the world.
- Are you literate?
- Yes.
- Do you know any language besides Aramaic?
- Yes. Greek.
One swollen lid was raised, and an eye glazed by suffering stared at the prisoner. The other eye remained closed.
- So you intended to destroy the temple building and were inciting the people to do this?
Here the prisoner again became animated, the fear disappeared from his eyes.
- I goo ..., - the prisoner’s eyes flashed with horror, - never in my life I intended to destroy the temple nor have I ever tried to instigate such a senseless action.
A look of surprise crossed the face of the secretary, who was bent over a low table, writing down the testimony. He raised his head, but then immediately lowered it to the parchment.
- It is plainly written: He incited the people to destroy the temple. People have testi-fied to that.
- Those good people, Hegemon, are ignorant and have muddled what I said. In fact, I am beginning to fear that this confusion will go on for a log time. And all be-cause he writes down what I said incorrectly.
Silence ensued. Now both pained eyes gazed at the prisoner seriously.
- I will tell you again: stop pretending to be crazy, villain. Not much has been re-corded against you, but it is enough to hang you.
- No, no, Hegemon, - said the prisoner, straining every nerve in his desire to be convincing, - there’s someone who follows, follows me around everywhere, al-ways writing on a goatskin parchment. And once I happened to see the parchment and was aghast. Absolutely nothing that was written there did I ever say. I begged him, ‘For God’s sake burn your parchment!’ But he snatched it out of my hands and ran away.
- Who is he? - asked Pilate distastefully, touching his hand to his temple.
- Levi Matvei, - the prisoner explained willingly. - He was a tax collector. At first he treated me with hostility and even insulted me, that is he thought he was insult-ing me by calling me a dog. I personally have no bad feelings about dogs that would cause me to take offense at the name ...
The secretary stopped writing and cast a furtive, surprised glance not at the prisoner but at the procurator.
- ... However, after he heard me out he began to soften, and finally he threw his money down on the road and said that he’d come travelling with me ...
Pilate laughed with one side of his mouth, baring his yellow teeth. Turning his whole body to the secretary, he said:
- O, city of Yershalaim! What tales it can tell? Did you hear that, a tax collector who throws his money on the road!
- But he said that money had become hateful to him. Since then he has been my travelling companion.
His teeth still bared, the procurator glanced first at the prisoner, and then at the sun, which was rising steadily, and suddenly, as an agonizing wave of nausea swept over him, the procurator realized: ‘The simplest way to get this strange miscreant off his balcony is to hang him. Get rid of the escort too, leave the colonnade, go inside the palace, order the room to be darkened, collapse on the bed, ask for some cold water, call piteously for the dog Banga, and complain to him about his hemicrania. And what’s more ... poison.
- Levi Matvei? - the sick man asked in a hoarse voice and shut his eyes.
- Yes, Levi Matvei.
- But still, what was it that you said about the temple to the crowd in the market-place?
- I said, Hegemon, that the temple of the old faith will fall and that a new temple of truth will be created.
- Why did you, a vagrant, stir up the crowds in the marketplace by talking about truth, when you have no conception of what it is? What is truth?
And here the procurator thought: ‘O my gods! I am questioning about something ir-relevant to the case ... My brain isn’t working anymore ... Poison, give me poison!’
- The truth is, first of all, that your head aches, so badly, in fact, that you’re having fainthearted thoughts about death. Not only you are too weak to talk to me, but you are even having trouble looking at me. That I, at this moment, am your un-willing executioner upsets me. You can’t think about anything and the only thing you want is to call your dog, the only creature, it seems, to whom you are at-tached. But your sufferings will soon end, and your headache will pass.
The secretary looked goggle-eyed at the prisoner and stopped writing in the middle of a word.
Pilate raised his martyred eyes to the prisoner and saw that the sun was already high above the hippodrome, that one ray had penetrated the colonnade and was creeping toward Yeshua’s tattered sandals, and that he was trying to step out of the sun. The procurator then got up from his chair and pressed his head with his hands, a look of horror appearing on his yellowish, clean-shaven face.
Meanwhile the prisoner went on talking, but the secretary no longer wrote any of it down, he just craned his neck like a goose, not wanting to miss a single word.
- Well, then, it’s all over, and I’m very glad that it is. I would advise you, Hegemon, to leave the palace for a short while and take a stroll somewhere in the vicinity. The will be a thunderstorm later on, towards evening. The walk would do you a lot of good, and I would be happy to accompany you. Some new ideas have oc-curred to me which may, I think, be of interest to you, and I would be especially happy to share them with you since you strike me as being a very intelligent man.
The secretary turned deathly pale and dropped the scroll on the floor.
- The trouble is that you are too isolated and have lost all faith in people. After all, you will agree, one shouldn’t lavish all one’s attention on a dog. Your life is impoverished, Hegemon, - and here the speaker allowed himself a smile.
The secretary now had only one thought: whether or not to believe his own ears.
- Untie his hands. Tell the truth are you a great physician?
- No, Procurator, I am not a physician.
- I did not ask you before, but do you, perhaps, know Latin too?
- Yes, I do.
- How did you know that I wanted to call my dog?
- That was very simple. You waved your hand in the air as if you were petting something.
- So you maintain that you did not incite them to tear down ... or burn, or in any other manner destroy the temple?
- I repeat, Hegemon, I did not incite them to any such actions. Do I look like an im-becile?
- Oh, no, you do not look like an imbecile. So swear that you did nothing of that kind.
- What would you have me swear by?
- Well, by your life. It is most timely that you swear by your life since it is hanging by a thread, understand that.
- You do not think, do you, Hegemon, that you hung it there? If you do, you are very much mistaken.
Pilate shuddered and answered through his teeth:
- I can cut that thread.
- You are mistaken about that too. Don’t you agree that that thread can only be cut by the one who hung it?
- Yes, yes. Now I have no doubt that the idle gawkers of Yershalaim followed at your heels. I do not know who hung up your tongue, but he did a good job. Don’t you know these people: a certain Dismas, Gestas, and Bar-rabban?
- I do not know those good people.
- And now tell me, why do you keep using the words ‘good people’? Do you call everyone that?
- Yes, everyone. There are no evil people in the world.
- That is the first time I have heard that, but may be I know little of life! You don’t have to write down any more, - he said to the secretary. - And that is what you preach?
- Yes.
- But what about the centurion Mark, whom they call Ratkiller, is he a good man?
- Yes, he is, but he is an unhappy man. Ever since good people disfigured him, he’s been cruel and hard. I’m curious to know, who mutilated him?
- I’ll gladly tell you because I was a witness. Good people attacked him the way dogs attack bears. The German grabbed him by his neck, arms, and legs. And if the cavalry turma under my command had not broken through from the flank, then you, philosopher, would not have had to talk with Ratkiller. It happened in the battle of Idistaviso, in the Valley of the Maidens.
- If you could just talk to him I’m sure he would change drastically.
- I imagine that the legate of the legion would have little cause to rejoice if you took it into your head to talk to one of his officers or soldiers. Fortunately for all of us, however, that will not happen, and I’m the one who will see that it doesn’t.
At that moment a swallow darted into the colonnade, flew in a circle under the gilded ceiling, swooped down, its pointed wing almost grazing the face of one of the bronze statues in the niche, and then took cover behind the capital of the column. During the swallow’s flight, the following thought was taking shape in the procurator’s now bright and clear head: the Hegemon had looked into the case of the vagrant philoso-pher Yeshua, called Ha-Nostri, and found the criminal charges against him to be un-substantiated. In consequence of which, the procurator does not confirm the death sentence pronounced against Ha-Nostri by the Lesser Sinedrion. However, in view of the fact that Ha-Nistri’s insane, utopian speeches might cause unrest in Yershalaim, the procurator is removing Yeshua from Yershalaim and sentencing him to confine-ment in Strato’s Caesarea on the Mediterranean, that is the site of the procurator’s residence.
- Is that all there is against him?
- Unfortunately, no, - replied the secretary unexpectedly, and he handed Pilate an-other piece of parchment.
- What else is there? - asked Pilate with a frown.
After he read the parchment, his face changed even more: ‘He is lost!’ - then, ‘We are lost!’
- Listen, Ha-Nostri, did you ever say anything about the great Caesar? Answer! Did you? Or ... did you ... not?
- It is easy and pleasant to tell the truth.
- I do not care whether you find it pleasant or unpleasant to tell the truth. But you will have to tell the truth. And when you speak, weigh every word, unless you want a death that is not only inevitable, but excruciating as well.
The procurator raised his arm, as if shielding himself from the sun, and, using his hand as a shield, to shoot a meaningful glance at the prisoner.
- And so answer the question: do you know a certain Judas from Kerioth, and what did you say to him, if you say anything, about Caesar?
- It happened like this: the day before yesterday in the evening, I met a young man near the temple, who called himself Judas. He invited me to his house and offered me his hospitality.
- Is he a good man? - asked Pilate, and a diabolical spark flashed in his eyes.
- A very good man and eager for knowledge. He expressed a great deal of interest in my ideas, gave me an enthusiastic welcome ...
- Lit the candles ...
- Yes. He asked me to express my views on the power of the state. That question was of great interest to him.
- And what did you say? Or will you reply that you forgot what you said?
- Among other things I said that every kind of power is a form of violence against people and that there will come a time where neither the power of Caesar’s, nor any other kind of power will exist. Man will enter the kingdom of truth and jus-tice, where no such power will be necessary.
- Go on!
- There was nothing more because it was then that they rushed in, tied me up, and took me off to prison.
- There is not, never has been, and never will be any greater and finer power on earth than the power of the Emperor Tiberius! - Pilate’s broken and ailing voice swelled forth.
For some reason the procurator looked at the secretary and the escort with the hatred.
- And it is not for you, insane criminal, to debate it! - Pilate then began shouting. - Remove the escort from the balcony! Leave me alone with the criminal, this is a matter of state.
- I see that a calamity has occurred because I talked t the young man from Kerioth. I have a premonition, Hegemon, that misfortune will befall him, and I feel very sorry for him.
- I think there is someone else in the world you ought to feel sorrier for than Judas of Kerioth, someone whose fate will be far worse than Judas’s! And so, Mark Ratkiller, a cold and confirmed executioner, the people who beat you for your preaching, the outlaws Dismas and Gestas who killed four soldiers, the filthy trai-tor Judas - are they all good people?
- Yes.
- And the kingdom of truth will come?
- It will, Hegemon.
- It will never come! - Pilate shouted in such a terrible voice that Yeshua recoiled. - Criminal! Criminal! Criminal!
And then, his voice lowered, he asked:
- Yeshua Ha-Nostri, do you believe in any gods?
- There is one God. I believe in Him.
- Then pray to him! Pray as hard as you can! But it won’t help. Have you no wife? - asked Pilate, sounding somehow depressed, not comprehending what was hap-pening to him.
- No, I am alone.
- Hateful city. You would have been better off, really, if they had cut your throat before you met Judas of Kerioth.
- Couldn’t you let me go, Hegemon? I can see that they want to kill me.
Pilate’s face convulsed in a spasm, he turned the inflamed, bloodshot whites of his eyes toward Yeshua, and said:
- Do you suppose, you poor wretch, that the Roman procurator will release a man who said what you said? O gods, gods! Or do you think that I am prepared to take your place? I do not share your ideas! And listen to me: if after this you say even a word, or try and talk to anyone, beware of me!
- Hegemon ...
- Be quiet! - screamed Pilate, his crazed eyes following the swallow that had flown back onto the balcony. - Come here!
When the secretary and the escort returned to their places, Pilate announced that ne was confirming the death sentence passed by the Lesser Sinedrion upon the criminal Yeshua Ha-Nostri, and the secretary copied down what Pilate said.
A minute later Mark Ratkiller stood before the procurator and listened to the order:
- Hand the criminal over to the chief of the secret service, separate Yeshua Ha-Nostri from the other condemned men, forbid the secret service command under threat of severe punishment to converse with Yeshua on any subject or to answer any of his questions.
At a signal from Mark the escort closed ranks around Yeshua and led him off the bal-cony.
The procurator ordered the secretary to invite to the palace the president of the Si-nedrion, two of its members, and the head of the temple guard of Yershalaim, but in giving the order, he added his request that he wished to speak to the president in pri-vate prior to his meeting with all of them.
It was quiet in the garden. But after emerging from the colonnade onto the sun-drenched upper terrace of the garden with palm trees, the terrace that looked out over the whole city of Yershalaim, which he detested, with its hanging bridges, fortress, and, most important, the utterly undescribable block of marble with golden dragon scales instead of a roof - the temple of Yershalaim, - the procurator’s sharp ears picked up a sound coming from below and far away, from the direction of the stone wall that separated the lower terraces of the palace garden from the city square. It was a rumbling sound, above which would shoot from time to time feeble, thin, half moans, half screams. There on the square a countless multitude of Yershalaim’s in-habitants had already gathered, stirred by the recent disorders, impatiently awaiting the pronouncement of the sentence, and the restless water-sellers were circulating and shouting out their wares.
The sun had still not reached its zenith when, on the upper terrace of the garden, near the two white marble lions, the procurator met with the president of the Sinedrion and high priest of Judea, Joseph Kaifa.
- Pilate: I’ve reviewed the case of Yeshua Ha-Nostri and confirmed the death sen-tence. Thus, three outlaws, Dismas, Gestas, and Bar-rabban have been condemned to death and are to be executed today, along with Yeshua Ha-Nostri. The first two have been forcibly detained by Roman authorities and no more would be said about them. Bar-rabban and Ha-Nostri were apprehended by local authorities and sentenced by the Sinedrion. In accordance with custom, one of these two criminals would have to be released in honor of the great holiday of Passover beginning that day. I want to know which of the two criminals the Sinedrion intended to free: Bar-rabban or Ha-Nostri?
- Kaifa: The Sinedrion asks that Bar-rabban be released.
- I must admit, your reply astonishes me. I fear there may be some misunderstand-ing here. The Roman government doesn’t infringe upon the rights of the local re-ligious authorities, as the high priest well knows, but in this particular instance an obvious mistake seems to have been made. And, naturally, the Roman government has an interest in correcting this mistake. In point of fact: the crimes of these two people are not comparable in terms of seriousness. The one, clearly a deranged in-dividual, is guilty of making absurd speeches that incite the people of Yershalaim and other locales, but the other bears a far heavier burden of guilt. Not only has he made direct calls to rebellion, he has even killed a guard in the attempt to arrest him. Bar-rabban is incomparably more dangerous than Ha-Nostri. And so?
- The Sinedrion has reviewed the case very thoroughly and again reiterates its inten-tion to free Bar-rabban.
- What? Even after my petition? A petition made by a spokesman of the Roman government? Repeat it, High Priest, for the third time.
- I am informing you for the third time that we are freeing Bar-rabban.
- Very well, then. So be it.
Pilate looked around, surveyed the world that was visible to him.
- I’m suffocating, suffocating!
- It’s stifling today, a thunderstorm is brewing.
- No, it’s not the sultry weather that’s making me suffocate, it’s you Kaifa. Beware, High Priest.
- What am I hearing, Procurator? Are you threatening me over a sentence you con-firmed yourself? We are accustomed to having the procurator choose his words carefully before he speaks. What if someone overheard us, Hegemon?
- What are you saying, High Priest? Who could possibly overhear us here? Do I look like the young, vagrant holy fool who will be executed today? Am I a boy, Kaifa? I know what I’m saying and where I’m saying it. The garden is cordoned off and the palace is too, so there’s not even a crack for a mouse to squeeze through! And not just a mouse, but that, what’s-his-name ... from Kerioth. By the way, do you know such a person, High Priest? Yes, if someone like that were to get in here, he would regret it bitterly. You don’t doubt what I’m saying, do you, High Priest? Know, then, that from now on you shall have no peace, High Priest! Neither you nor your people. It is I who am telling you this - Pontius Pilate, Knight of the Golden Spear!
- I know, I know! The people of Judea know that you hate them with a fierce hatred and will cause them many torments, but you will never destroy them! God will de-fend them! He will hear us, the almighty Caesar will hear us, and he will protect us from the scourge of Pilate!
- Oh, no! You have made too many complaints against me to Caesar, and now my time has come, Kaifa! Now I shall relay word, not to the governor-general in Antioch, not to Rome, but straight to Capreae, to the Emperor himself, word about how you are shielding known rebels from death. And then it will not be water from Solomon’s Pool that I shall give Yershalaim to drink, as I had wanted to do for your benefit! No, it will not be water! What you will see here, High Priest, will not be one cohort in Yershalaim, oh, no! The entire Lightning Legion will be at the city walls, so will the Arabian cavalry, and then you will hear bitter weeping and groaning! Then you will remember the Bar-rabban you saved and you will re-gret that you sent to death the philosopher who preached peace!
- Procurator, do you yourself believe what you just said? No, you do not! It was not peace that that rabble-rouser brought to Yershalaim, and you, Knight, know that very well. You wanted to release him so that he would stir the people up, do vio-lence to their religion, and subject them to Roman swords! But I, High Priest of Judea, shall not, so long as I live, allow the faith to be profaned, and I shall protect the people! Do you hear, Pilate? Take need, Procurator!
Kaifa fell silent, and again the procurator heard what sounded like the sea rolling up to the walls of the garden of Herod the Great.
- Can you hear, Procurator? Are you really telling me that all this was caused by that miserable outlaw Bar-rabban?
- It’s not long till noon. We got carried away by our conversation, but we must pro-ceed, - he said quietly and indifferently.
After making intricately worded excuses, Pilate asked the high priest to sit down on a bench and wait while he summoned the others needed for the brief, final meeting. Pi-late returned to the balcony.
- Summon to the garden the legate of the legion, the tribune of the cohort, two members of the Sinedrion, and the chief of the temple guard.
While the secretary gathered people for the meeting, Pilate was in the darkened room, shuttered against the sun, meeting with a man whose face was half-covered by a hood, even though the sun’s rays couldn’t possibly have bothered him in that room. The procurator said a few quiet words to the man who then left.
There, in the presence of everyone whom he had wished to see, the procurator sol-emnly and dryly acknowledged his confirmation:
- I confirm Yeshua Ha-Nostri’s death sentence. Which of the criminals do you wish to spare?
- Bar-rabban.
- Bar-rabban.
- Bar-rabban.
- Very well. It’s time!
All present started down the wide marble staircase between the walls of roses. The group came to the square and mounted the vast stone platform that dominated it. The square wasn’t seen in front of the platform because it had been devoured by the crowd.
Pilate stood on the platform, clutching the superfluous clasp mechanically in his fist and squinting. But the procurator wasn’t squinting because the sun burned his eyes. He was squinting because he did not want to see the condemned men who were now being led up onto the platform behind him. The square was waving and thundering like a sea. He waited for a few moments, and when the crowd quieted down he took as much of the scorching air into his lungs as he could and began to shout. His broken voice carried over the thousands of heads:
- In the name of the Emperor Caesar! Four criminals, arrested in Yershalaim for murder, incitement to rebellion, and abuse of the laws and the faith, have been sentenced to the shameful death of hanging on posts! And the execution shall take place shortly on Bald Mountain! Here they stand before you! But only three of them shall be executed, for, in accordance with law and custom, in honor of the Passover holiday, one of the condemned, as chosen by the Lesser Sinedrion and confirmed by the power of Rome, shall have his contemptible life restored to him by the magnanimous Emperor Caesar!
The deep silence followed in the wake of the roar. The city he detested had died, and he was standing there alone, being scorched by the rays that were shooting down on his upturned face.
- The name of the one whose release you are about to witness is ... ‘Is that every-thing? - Pilate whispered wordlessly to himself. - Yes, everything. The name!’
And, rolling the ‘r’ out over the silent crowd, he cried out:
- Bar-rabban!
The square was raging: there were roaring, shrieks, groans, laughter, and whistling. Pilate turned and walked back along the platform to the steps, looking at nothing but the multicolored tiles beneath his feet, so as not to stumble. He knew that a hail of bronze coins and dates was raining down on the platform behind him, and that people in the roaring crowd were climbing on each other’s shoulders, crushing each other, trying to see the miracle with their own eyes - a man who was already in the hands of death, had been torn from its grip! To see the legionaries remove his bonds, uninten-tionally causing him searing pain in his arms which had been dislocated during his interrogation; to see him grimacing and groaning as he smiled an insane, senseless smile. Pilate knew that the escort was now leading the three men with bound hands over to the side stairs in order to bring them out to the road heading west, out of the city, to Bald Mountain. It was only when he was down on the ground, with the plat-form at his back, that he opened his eyes, knowing that he was safe - the condemned men were out of sight ...
Premonition
And again the room, the mirror, the Master’s picture. Margarita whispered as she was reading: ‘It was about ten in the morning’. Margarita put all the things together neatly, and minutes later they were back in the hiding place beneath the silk rags, and the lock on the door to the dark room locked shut.
Margarita Nikolayevna was putting her coat on in the front hall, getting ready to go out for a walk. Her maid Natasha asked her as she came up:
- Margarita Nikolayevna, what would you like for dinner?
- I don’t care, Natasha. Cook whatever you like.
- Oh, Margarita Nikolaevna, darling, what am I going to tell you! You won’t be-lieve. Firstly I had some doubts too. Yesterday at the theater a magician per-formed astounding tricks, handing out free bottles of imported perfume and exclu-sive clothes which the people changed right there. At first everybody felt embar-rassed, but then, they say, all of them rushed to the magician. Ladies went there in rows, they left their clothes on the stage and returned to the hall perfectly dressed. And then after the show, when everyone was out on the street, abracadabra - they were all naked!
Margarita collapsed on the chair and burst out laughing.
- Natasha! Shame on you. We are in the thirties of the twentieth century. A girl like you who knows how to read; people in lines make up the devil knows what, and here you go repeating it!
- Oh, no. Nothing was made up. I myself was in a food store today and saw a woman come in wearing shoes but when she went to pay the cashier, her shoes disappeared off her feet and she was left standing in her stockings. Her eyes popped, there was a hole in her heel! And the shoes were the magic ones she had gotten at the show.
- And she left just like that?
- Just like that! And last night, Margarita Nikolayevna, the police picked up about a hundred people. Women who had been at the show were running down Tverskaya in nothing but their drawers. And the taxi drivers are said to get crazy. They refuse to take passengers who give them money. They say that on that show the ten-ruble bills fell down from the ceiling. All the spectators hadn’t missed the chance and picked up as much as they could. And the ten-ruble bills are not simple: they con-verse into the paper, bees, sand. So, the taxi drivers don’t want to have anything in common with them.
- Well, naturally you got all this from Darya. I’ve known for a long time that she’s a terrible liar. I’ll do a trick for you too.
On saying this she went into her bedroom and came out with a pair of stockings and a bottle of cologne.
- I ask you only one thing, Natasha, do not run down Tverskaya in just your stock-ings and do not listen to Darya.
Mistress and maid then kissed and parted.
Settling back against the soft, comfortable seat of the trolleybus, Margarita rode along the Arbat, thinking about her own affairs and eavesdropping on the hushed conversa-tion of the two men sitting in front of her. They were whispering some sort of gibber-ish to each other, turning around now and then, in fear of being overheard.
- Impossible ... That’s preposterous ... So what did they do?
- Criminal investigation ... scandal ... complete bafflement! The head of some corpse was stolen out of its coffin.
- Will we have time to buy flowers?
In the end Margarita got fed up listening to the mysterious prattle about a stolen head, and she was glad when it was time for her to get off. Minutes later Margarita was sit-ting on one of the benches beneath the Kremlin wall, having positioned herself so that she had view of the Manege.
- If you’ve been exiled, why haven’t you let me know? People do manage to let others know. Have you fallen out of love with me? No, somehow I can’t believe that. That means you were exiled and died ... Then I beg you, release me, give me the freedom to live and breath.
People walked past Margarita Nikolayevna. A man gave the well-dressed woman a sidelong glance, attracted by her beauty and the fact that she was alone. He coughed and sat down at the end of the same bench.
- Decidedly beautiful weather today ...
But Margarita gave him such a glowering look that he got up and left. She became totally sad and depressed. But suddenly that morning’s wave of expectation and ex-citement hit her in the chest. ‘Yes, something is going to happen!’ The wave hit her again, and then she realized it was a wave of sound. The funeral procession could be heard with ever-increasing clarity through the din of the city. Even from a distance Margarita could tell that the faces of those standing in the hearse accompanying the deceased on his last journey looked strangely perplexed. This was especially true of the woman standing in the left rear corner of the vehicle. Her plump cheeks seemed to be bursting with some kind of juicy secret, and there was an ambiguous sparkle in her puffy little eyes. Similarly perplexed faces could be seen on the three hundred or so mourners walking slowly behind the hearse.
- What an odd funeral? And how depressing that ‘boom’ is! Ah, really I’d sell my soul to the devil if I could only find out if he’s still alive or not! Who, I wonder, are those amazed-looking people burying?
- Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, the chairman of MASSOLIT. Yes, their mood is amazing. They are taking someone to be buried and all they can think about is what happened to his head!
Surprised, Margarita turned and saw a man at the other end of the bench. It was a short man with fiery red hair and a fang, who was wearing a starched shirt, a fine striped suit, with sticking out of his pocket a well-gnawed chicken bone, patent leather shoes, and a bowler hat.
- What head?
- Well, you see, this morning at Griboyedov the dead man’s head was removed from his coffin.
- But how can that be?
- The devil knows how! But if you ask me, it might be worth asking Behemoth about that. A terribly clever theft it was too. Caused an unbelievable scandal! And what’s more, no one knows who would need the head, or why!
- But wait a minute! Which Berlioz? Was it the one in today’s paper who ...
- Precisely so, precisely so ...
- So, does that mean that the mourners are writes?
- Yes, naturally!
- And do you know who they are by sight?
- Every last one.
- Tell me is the critic Latunsky among them by any chance?
- How could he not be? There he is over there, fourth row from the end.
- The blond one? The one who looks like a Catholic priest?
- That’s him!
- And you, I can see, hate this Latunsky.
- I also hate a few others. But it’s not worth talking about. If you say so, Margarita Nikolayevna!
- Do you know me?
In place of an answer, the redhead swept the bowler off his head and held it in his out-stretched hand. ‘Looks like a real thug!’ - thought Margarita:
- But I don’t know you.
- How could you know me? But I’ve been sent to see you regarding a certain small matter.
Margarita turned pale and recoiled.
- You should have said that right way instead of spouting the devil knows what about a severed head! Have you come to arrest me?
- Not at all! What is this: as soon as you start talking they think you’re going to ar-rest them! I simply have some business to discuss with you. I’ve been sent to give you an invitation for this evening.
- Are you raving? An invitation from whom?
- A certain distinguished foreigner.
- A new breed has appeared: street pimps, - she said getting up to leave.
- That’s the thanks I get for taking on assignments like this! Fool!
- Scoundrel!
- The darkness that had come in from the Mediterranean covered the city so de-tested by the procurator. The hanging bridges had disappeared, Yershalaim van-ished ... And you can vanish too, along with your charred manuscript and your dried rose! Sit here on the bench alone, and beg him to set you free so you can breathe and be allowed to forget him!
- I don’t understand any of this, - said Margarita coming back. - You could have found out about the burnt pages ... broken into my house and spied on me ... Did you pay off Natasha, is that it? But how could you know my thoughts? Tell me, who are you? What department are you from?
- What a bore this is? Please, sit down.
- Who are you?
- My name is Azazello, but that won’t mean anything to you anyway.
- But won’t you tell me how you knew about those pages and about my thoughts?