Margarita turned a questioning look to Woland. He nodded. Then Natasha threw herself on Margarita’s neck, gave her a smacking kiss, and with a victorious cry flew out the window.
In Natasha’s place Nikolai Ivanovich now stood. He had regained his former human shape, but was extremely glum and perhaps even annoyed.
‘This is someone I shall dismiss with special pleasure,’ said Woland, looking at Nikolai Ivanovich with disgust, ‘with exceptional pleasure, so superfluous he is here.’
‘I earnestly beg that you issue me a certificate,’ Nikolai Ivanovich began with great insistence, but looking around wildly, ‘as to where I spent last night.’
‘For what purpose?’ the cat asked sternly.
‘For the purpose of presenting it to the police and to my wife,’ Nikolai Ivanovich said firmly.
‘We normally don’t issue certificates,’ the cat replied, frowning, ‘but, very well, for you we’ll make an exception.’
And before Nikolai Ivanovich had time to gather his wits, the naked Hella was sitting at a typewriter and the cat was dictating to her.
‘It is hereby certified that the bearer, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the said night at Satan’s ball, having been summoned there in the capacity of a means of transportation ... make a parenthesis, Hella, in the parenthesis put “hog”. Signed - Behemoth.’
‘And the date?’ squeaked Nikolai Ivanovich.
‘We don’t put dates, with a date the document becomes invalid,’ responded the cat, setting his scrawl to it. Then he got himself a stamp from somewhere, breathed on it according to all the rules, stamped the word ‘payed’ on the paper, and handed it to Nikolai Ivanovich. After which Nikolai Ivanovich disappeared without a trace, and in his place appeared a new, unexpected guest.
‘And who is this one?’ Woland asked squeamishly, shielding himself from the candlelight with his hand.
Varenukha hung his head, sighed, and said softly:
‘Let me go back, I can’t be a vampire. I almost did Rimsky in that time with Hella. And I’m not bloodthirsty. Let me go!’
‘What is all this raving!’ Woland said with a wince. ‘Which Rimsky? What is this nonsense?’
‘Kindly do not worry, Messire,’ responded Azazello, and he turned to Varenukha: ‘Mustn’t be rude on the telephone. Mustn’t tell lies on the telephone. Understand? Will you do it again?’
Everything went giddy with joy in Varenukha’s head, his face beamed, and, not knowing what he was saying, he began to murmur:
‘Verily... that is, I mean to say ... Your ma ... right after dinner ...’ Varenukha pressed his hands to his chest, looking beseechingly at Azazello.
‘All right. Home with you!’ the latter said, and Varenukha dissolved.
‘Now all of you leave me alone with them,’ ordered Woland, pointing to the master and Margarita.
Woland’s order was obeyed instantly. After some silence, Woland said to the master:
‘So it’s back to the Arbat basement? And who is going to write? And the dreams, the inspiration?’
‘I have no more dreams, or inspiration either,’ replied the master. ‘No one around me interests me, except her.’ He again put his hand on Margarita’s head. ‘I’m broken, I’m bored, and I want to be in the basement.’
‘And your novel? Pilate?’
‘It’s hateful to me, this novel,’ replied the master, ‘I went through too much because of it.’
‘I implore you,’ Margarita begged plaintively, ‘don’t talk like that. Why do you torment me? You know I put my whole life into this work.’ Turning to Woland, Margarita also added: ‘Don’t listen to him, Messire, he’s too worn out.’
‘But you must write about something,’ said Woland. ‘If you’ve exhausted the procurator, well, then why not start portraying, say, this Aloisy...’
The master smiled.
‘Lapshennikova wouldn’t publish that, and, besides, it’s not interesting.’
‘And what are you going to live on? You’ll have a beggarly existence.’
‘Willingly, willingly,’ replied the master, drawing Margarita to him. He put his arm around her shoulders and added: ‘She’ll see reason, she’ll leave me ...’
‘I doubt that,’ Woland said through his teeth and went on: ‘And so, the man who wrote the story of Pontius Pilate goes to the basement with the intention of settling by the lamp and leading a beggarly existence?’
Margarita separated herself from the master and began speaking very ardently:
‘I did all I could. I whispered the most tempting thing to him. And he refused.’
‘I know what you whispered to him,’ Woland retorted, ‘but it is not the most tempting thing. And to you I say,’ he turned, smiling, to the master, ‘that your novel will still bring you surprises.’
That’s very sad,‘ replied the master.
‘No, no, it’s not sad,’ said Woland, ‘nothing terrible. Well, Margarita Nikolaevna, it has all been done. Do you have any claims against me?’
‘How can you, oh, how can you, Messire! ...’
