And an hour later, just as Timofey Kondratievich, fairly gulping with pleasure, was recounting to the other tenants how the chairman had gotten what was coming to him, an unknown citizen appeared in Apartment Number 11 and beckoned him out of the kitchen into the hallway. There he said something to him, and both disappeared.
Chapter 10: News From Yalta
Kvastov had undoubtedly been frightened by the initial appearance of the newcomer’s physiognomy, which seemed to have appeared from the thin air. It was assuredly brutish, and was only augmented by the presence of his flaming red hair and single protruding fang. His anxieties, however, were for some reason completely assuaged by the stranger’s name.
“You may call me Azazello”, he had admonished to Kvastov. He then iterated bluntly that there might be other tenants of the building suspected of wrongdoing.
These words plucked at the Kvastov’s heartstrings; he had always suspected, indeed, even known that the other tenants of No. 302-b on Sadovaya were miscreants. Altukhov’s droopy eyelids and somnambulistic demeanor hid malicious eyes and tendency for belligerence! Of this, Kvastov was certain! No longer would he be able to conspire with that woman a floor below him to cheat on their taxes and dress improperly! Of this, he was just as certain.
Kvastov found that he instinctively trusted his new acquaintance, if only because he had so quickly accused his neighbors of twelve years of such heinous crimes. And so it was that Kvastov found himself accompanying the loutish man across the city, as the sun dimmed and the moon rose behind them. It seemed to Kvastov as though his mind had been wandering the entire journey, as though he were being pricked by many small, tiny, needles, so that by his arrival at Patriarchs’ Ponds Park, he felt as though he had vanished from his apartment, only to reappear instantaneously in this locale.
“So, my dear little man”, murmured Azazello, “you’ve demonstrated a keen loyalty and enthusiasm for your country. I can’t help but admire the delight with which you turned on your neighbors, decidedly nasty folk, who you’ve known for years and with whom you’ve had no major qualms.”
Timofey Kondratievich was delighted. He reveled at his luck: having encountered this like-minded and obviously intelligent comrade, he felt he could finally lower his vigiliance. A cool, relaxing mist seemed to waft over him and he began to feel light-headed; the light of the moon reflecting off the ponds exacerbated the fog, which covered Kvastov’s visage like a plastic bag. Despite this, or, perhaps even because of this, Timofey felt liberated! No longer would he be looked upon with distaste! No longer would voices quiet and eyes fall downward at his arrival! Everyone would realize now that he was justified in his suspicions.
Kvastov eventually managed to pull himself from his reverie, and recalling the presence of Azazello, composed himself, so that his new friend might not find him suspicious and call the militia.
“Thank you”, he practically whispered, “my good man…”
At these words, Azazello’s eyes flashed, a smirk creeping slowly across his face. “Why is it”, he replied, “that you say I am a good man”? As Timofey sputtered, he continued: “We are none of us good men, fellow. There is something within each and every citizen of our nation that precludes the title of ‘good man’. There is sin in everything; doesn’t the generous man propagate avarice? Doesn’t the humble man allow others to better display their arrogance?”
Kvastov could not believe what he was hearing. How could this man imply that even he, Timofey Kondratievich, was villainous; he would not support this. Fighting back the urge to launch himself at the scoundrel standing next to him, he began to pant ferociously. The park seemed to envelop him, and the stars and moon oscillated until it seemed as though he was a prisoner inside some great dome. He looked at Azazello next to him, and reached out… his hand struck some translucent barrier, leaving a smudge. From the smudge began to spread an iridescent film, which proliferated to coat the entire surface of the globe that surrounded him. It confounded his view of the world, distorting it to the point where objects were barely recognizable.
“Is that grass?” thought Kvastov, gazing through he bubble, “or the hair of some maiden, weaving in the breeze?”
He began to cry desperately, hoping vainly for someone to hear him and grant him refuge from the uncertainty which subjugated him. For him, as for any proper Soviet citizen, ambiguity was among the most frightening aspects of life; the world would be so much better off if everyone’s behavior were uniform and avoided impropriety as if it were the devil himself.
It appeared to Kvastov that his globe was shrinking, and he with it. He was eventually contained, the height of a sheath of grass, within it. Azazello, whom he could no longer see, pushed it out onto the lake with one toe, and it vanished from sight
Timofey did not realize that this was the way of the world, that he had not been deceived; his eyes had merely been opened. Azazello had granted him, or cursed him, depending on your viewpoint, a vision of the world as it truly was. The world is full of things we can never achieve, never reach, and not even begin to comprehend.
Perhaps, one day, Kvastov will realize the knowledge he was granted, that the world revolves around no man, that related and unrelated events occur simultaneously. But we will never know, as he was never seen again.
At the moment when disaster struck Nikanor Ivanovich, two men sat in the office of the financial manager of the Variety Theater, which was also on Sadovaya, not far from No. 302-b. They were the financial manager, Rimsky, and the house manager Varenukha, (Bulgakov, 116).
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