Closed, he charged after the invisible intruders, scanned the entranceway, but failed to see anything, of course.

A third man, who was an exact replica of the second, and, therefore, of the first as well, was standing guard on the third-floor landing. He was smoking strong cigarettes, and Margarita coughed as she walked past him. The smoker jumped up from the bench on which he'd been sitting as if he had been jabbed by a needle, began looking nervously about, walked over to the bannister and looked down. By this time Margarita and her escort had already reached the door of apartment No. 50. They did not ring, Azazello opened the door noiselessly with his key.

The first thing that struck Margarita was the total darkness in which she found herself. It was as dark as a dungeon, and, afraid of stumbling, she instinctively grabbed hold of Azazello's cloak. But at that moment a small lamp flickered up above in the distance and began drawing closer. As they were walking, Azazello took Margarita's broom from under her arm, and it disappeared in the darkness without making a sound. They then began ascending broad steps which Margarita started to think would go on forever. It amazed her that the front hall of an ordinary Moscow apartment could contain such an extraordinary, and invisible, but very palpable, endless staircase. But their ascent did come to an end, and Margarita realized that she was on a landing. The light moved up close, and Margarita could see the illuminated face of the tall, black man who was holding the lamp in his hand. Anyone who had had the misfortune of crossing his path in recent days would have recognized him at once, even in that feebly flickering light. It was Korovyov, alias Fagot.

True, Korovyov's appearance was greatly changed. The flickering light was reflected not in the cracked pince-nez, which should have been thrown in the trash long ago, but in a monocle which was, admittedly, also cracked. The wispy mustache on his insolent face was now curled and pomaded, and there was a simple explanation for Korovyov's apparent blackness: he was in evening dress. Only his chest was white.

Magician, choirmaster, wizard, interpreter, or the devil knows what— in a word, Korovyov—bowed, and gesturing to Margarita with a broad sweep of the lamp, he invited her to follow him. Azazello vanished.

" An amazingly bizarre evening, " thought Margarita, " I was ready for anything except this! Has their electricity gone out, or what? But most amazing of all is the size of this place. How can all this be crammed into a Moscow apartment? It's simply not possible."

However meager the light from Korovyov's lamp, Margarita nevertheless realized that she was in an absolutely immense room, what is more, a room with a colonnade, which was dark and at first glance, endless. Korovyov stopped beside a small couch, placed his lamp on a little pedestal, gestured to Margarita to sit down and situated himself beside her in a picturesque pose, leaning with his elbow on the pedestal.

" Allow me to introduce myself, " said Korovyov in a creaky voice.

214 The Master and Margarí a

" I'm Korovyov. Are you surprised there's no light? We're economizing, is that what you thought? No-no-no, not at all! And if I'm lying, then let the first executioner who comes by—say, one of those who will shortly have the honor of kissing your knee-chop my head off on this very pedestal. It's simply that Messire doesn't like electric light, and we turn it on only at the last moment And then, believe me, there'll be no shortage of light. It would probably be better if there were less, in fact"