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Цветовые ассоциации и восприятие художественного текста(цветовые ассоциации и их влияние на межкультурную коммуникацию)

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Код 111617
Дата создания 2012
Страниц 173
Источников 117
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Содержание

СОДЕРЖАНИЕ
Введение
1. Цветоощущение и цветопередача в художественном тексте
1.1. Художественный текст как восприятие реальности автором
1.2. Особенности мировидения автора и особенности его стиля
1.3. Особенности идиостиля М.Булгакова
1.4. Цветопись как специфический аспект образности в художественном тексте
Выводы
2. Национальная специфика цветовосприятия в разных культурах
2.1. Языковая картина мира и средства ее формирования
2.2. Ассоциативность как универсальное коммуникативное свойство слова
2.3. Анализ лексического поля «цвет» в русской и английской лингвокультурах
Выводы
3. Сопоставление русского и английского текста романа М. Булгакова «Мастер и Маргарита» в аспекте цветовосприятия
3.1. Цветопись в романе М. Булгакова «Мастер и Маргарита»
3.2. Контент-анализ цветопередачи в русском тексте и английском переводе романа М. Булгакова «Мастер и Маргарита»
3.3. Анализ расхождений выражений цветопередачи в русском тексте и английском переводе романа М. Булгакова «Мастер и Маргарита»
Выводы
Заключение
Список использованной литературы
Приложение 1
Приложение 2
Приложение 3

Фрагмент работы для ознакомления

'It's sultry today, there's a storm somewhere,' Kaifa responded, not taking his eyes off the procurator's reddened face, and foreseeing all the torments that still lay ahead, he thought: 'Oh, what a terrible month of Nisan we're having this year!'
Neither you nor your people' - and Pilate pointed far off to the right, where the temple blazed on high -'it is I who tell you so, Pontius Pilate, equestrian of the Golden Spear!'
'I know, I know!' the black-bearded Kaifa fearlessly replied, and his eyes flashed. He raised his arm to heaven and went on: "The Jewish people know that you hate them with a cruel hatred, and will cause them much suffering, but you will not destroy them utterly! God will protect them! He will hear us, the almighty Caesar will hear, he will protect us from Pilate the destroyer!'
The procurator wiped his wet, cold forehead with the back of his hand, looked at the ground, then, squinting at the sky, saw that the red-hot ball was almost over his head and that Kaifa's shadow had shrunk to nothing by the lion's tail, and said quietly and indifferently…
As soon as the white cloak with crimson lining appeared high up on the stone cliff over the verge of the human sea, the unseeing Pilate was struck in the ears by a wave of sound: 'Ha-a-a...'
Green fire flared up behind his eyelids, his brain took flame from it, and hoarse Aramaic words went flying over the crowd…
The angry, sweating black horse shied and reared.
After him, three by three, horsemen flew in a cloud of dust, the tips of their light bamboo lances bobbing, and faces dashed past the procurator - looking especially swarthy under their white turbans - with merrily bared, gleaming teeth.
The water in the pond had turned black, and a light boat was now gliding on it, and one could hear the splash of oars and the giggles of some citizeness in the little boat.
The sky over Moscow seemed to lose colour, and the full moon could be seen quite distinctly high above, not yet golden but white.
'I just arrived in Moscow this very minute,' the professor said perplexedly, and only here did it occur to the friends to take a good look in his eyes, at which they became convinced that his left eye, the green one, was totally insane, while the right one was empty, black and dead.
… Nowhere,' the half-witted German answered, his green eye wandering in wild anguish over the Patriarch's Ponds.
Only now he was no longer made of air, but ordinary, fleshly, and Berlioz clearly distinguished in the beginning twilight that he had a little moustache like chicken feathers, tiny eyes, ironic and half drunk, and checkered trousers pulled up so high that his dirty white socks showed.
He turned it and was just about to step across the rails when red and white light splashed in his face. A sign lit up in a glass box: 'Caution Tram-Car!'
Trying to get hold of something, Berlioz fell backwards, the back of his head lightly striking the cobbles, and had time to see high up – but whether to right or left he no longer knew - the gold-tinged moon.
He managed to turn on his side, at the same moment drawing his legs to his stomach in a frenzied movement, and, while turning, to make out the face, completely white with horror, and the crimson armband of the woman driver bearing down on him with irresistible force.
The hysterical women's cries died down, the police whistles stopped drilling, two ambulances drove off - one with the headless body and severed head, to the morgue, the other with the beautiful driver, wounded by broken glass; street sweepers in white aprons removed the broken glass and poured sand on the pools of blood, but Ivan Nikolaevich just stayed on the bench as he had dropped on to it before reaching the turnstile.
The street lights were already lit on Bronnaya, and over the Ponds the golden moon shone, and in the ever-deceptive light of the moon it seemed to Ivan Nikolaevich that he stood holding a sword, not a walking stick, under his arm.
Ivan attempted to grab the blackguard by the sleeve, but missed and caught precisely nothing: it was as if the choirmaster fell through the earth.
But that was still not all: the third in this company proved to be a tom-cat, who appeared out of nowhere, huge as a hog, black as soot or as a rook, and with a desperate cavalryman's whiskers. The trio set off down Patriarch's Lane, the cat walking on his hind legs.
In the huge, extremely neglected front hall, weakly lit by a tiny carbon arc lamp under the high ceiling, black with grime, a bicycle without tyres hung on the wall, a huge iron-bound trunk stood, and on a shelf over the coat rack a winter hat lay, its long ear-flaps hanging down.
Ivan met with a wave of humid heat and, by the light of the coals smouldering in the boiler, made out big basins hanging on the walls, and a bath tub, all black frightful blotches where the enamel had chipped off.
Having taken off his clothes, Ivan entrusted them to a pleasant, bearded fellow who was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, sitting beside a torn white Tolstoy blouse and a pair of unlaced, worn boots.
However, he did manage to come up, and, puffing and snorting, his eyes rounded in terror, Ivan Nikolaevich began swimming through the black, oil-smelling water among the broken zigzags of street lights on the bank.
Any visitor finding himself in Griboedov's, unless of course he was a total dim-wit, would realize at once what a good life those lucky fellows, the Massolit members, were having, and black envy would immediately start gnawing at him.
And he would immediately address bitter reproaches to heaven for not having endowed him at birth with literary talent, lacking which there was naturally no dreaming of owning a Massolit membership card, brown, smelling of costly leather, with a wide gold border - a card known to all Moscow.
`You sure know how to live, Amvrosy!' skinny, run-down Foka, with a carbuncle on his neck, replied with a sigh to the ruddy-lipped giant, golden-haired, plump-cheeked Amvrosy-the-poet.
And in July, when the whole family is in the country, and you are kept in the city by urgent literary business - on the veranda, in the shade of the creeping vines, in a golden spot on the cleanest of tablecloths, a bowl of soup printanier? Remember, Amvrosy?
What is your whitefish, your perch!
The hand was crawling towards eleven. Beskudnikov tapped his finger on the face and showed it to the poet Dvubratsky, who was sitting next to him on the table and in boredom dangling his feet shod in yellow shoes with rubber treads.
And now those standing by the remains of the deceased were debating what was the better thing to do: to sew the severed head to the neck, or to lay out the body in the hall at Griboedov's after simply covering the dead man snugly to the chin with a black cloth?
Glukharev danced with the poetess Tamara Polumesyats, Quant danced, Zhukopov the novelist danced with some movie actress in a yellow dress.
Dragunsky danced, Cherdakchi danced, little Deniskin danced with the enormous Bos'n George, the beautiful Semeikina-Gall, an architect, danced in the tight embrace of a stranger in white canvas trousers.
Locals and invited guests danced, Muscovites and out-of-towners, the writer Johann from Kronstadt, a certain Vitya Kuftik from Rostov, apparently a stage director, with a purple spot all over his cheek, the most eminent representatives of the poetry section of Massolit danced - that is, Baboonov, Blasphemsky, Sweetkin, Smatchstik and Addphina Buzdyak - young men of unknown profession, in crew cuts, with cotton-padded shoulders, danced, someone very elderly danced, a shred of green onion stuck in his beard, and with him danced a sickly, anaemia-consumed girl in a wrinkled orange silk dress.
The clashing of golden cymbals in the band sometimes even drowned out the clashing of dishes, which the dishwashers sent down a sloping chute to the kitchen.
They used to say, the mystics used to say, that there was a time when the handsome man wore not a tailcoat but a wide leather belt with pistol butts sticking from it, and his raven hair was tied with scarlet silk, and under his command a brig sailed the Caribbean under a black death flag with a skull and crossbones.
Those sitting at the tables began to get up and peer at it, and saw that along with the little light a white ghost was marching towards the restaurant.
He was barefoot, in a torn, whitish Tolstoy blouse, with a paper icon bearing the image of an unknown saint pinned to the breast of it with a safety pin, and was wearing striped white drawers.
And don't forget to tell them that there are two others with him: a long checkered one, cracked pince-nez, and a cat, black and fat...
The skin on the doorman's face acquired a typhoid tinge, his eyes went dead. It seemed to him that the black hair, now combed and parted, was covered with flaming silk.
It was half past one in the morning when a man with a pointed beard and wearing a white coat came out to the examining room of the famous psychiatric clinic, built recently on the outskirts of Moscow by the bank of the river.
'You are,' the doctor began calmly, sitting down on a white stool with a shiny foot, `not in a madhouse, but in a clinic, where no one will keep you if it's not necessary.'
Riukhin was breathing heavily, turned red, and thought of just one thing, that he had warmed a serpent on his breast, that he had shown concern for a man who turned out to be a vicious enemy.
Here the doctor turned and sent a glance towards a woman in a white coat, who was sitting at a table to one side. She took out a sheet of paper and began filling in the blank spaces in its columns.
Here Riukhin again gave a start: the white door opened noiselessly, behind it a corridor could be seen, lit by blue night-lights.
The corridor with blue lights, which had stuck itself to his memory?
Poisoned by this burst of neurasthenia, the poet swayed, the floor under him stopped shaking. Riukhin raised his head and saw that he had long been in Moscow, and, what's more, that it was dawn over Moscow, that the cloud was underlit with gold, that his truck had stopped, caught in a column of other vehicles at the turn on to the boulevard, and that very close to him on a pedestal stood a metal man, his head inclined slightly, gazing at the boulevard with indifference.
`He shot him, that white guard shot him, smashed his hip, and assured his immortality...'
A heavy bell was booming in that head, brown spots rimmed with fiery green floated between his eyeballs and his closed eyelids, and to crown it all he was nauseous, this nausea, as it seemed to him, being connected with the sounds of some importunate gramophone.
The lodger told Anfisa, Anna Frantsevna's long-time and devoted housekeeper, to say, in case he received any telephone calls, that he would be back in ten minutes, and left together with the proper, white-gloved policeman. He not only did not come back in ten minutes, but never came back at all. The most surprising thing was that the policeman evidently vanished along with him.
That in the woodshed of that very dacha to which Anna Frantsevna had gone so hurriedly, there supposedly turned up, of themselves, some inestimable treasures in the form of those same diamonds, plus some gold coins of tsarist minting...
Styopa unstuck his glued eyelids and saw himself reflected in the pier-glass as a man with hair sticking out in all directions, with a bloated physiognomy covered with black stubble, with puffy eyes, a dirty shirt, collar and necktie, in drawers and socks.
So he saw himself in the pier-glass, and next to the mirror he saw an unknown man, dressed in black and wearing a black beret.
The stranger smiled amicably, took out a big gold watch with a diamond triangle on the lid, rang eleven times, and said…
Styopa, rolling his eyes, saw that a tray had been set on a small table, on which tray there were sliced white bread, pressed caviar in a little bowl, pickled mushrooms on a dish, something in a saucepan, and, finally, vodka in a roomy decanter belonging to the jeweller's wife.
And then the accursed green haze before his eyes dissolved, the words began to come out clearly, and, above all, Styopa remembered a thing or two.
The thing was that a huge black hole yawned in this previous day.
'Professor of black magic Woland,'[3] the visitor said weightily, seeing Styopa's difficulty, and he recounted everything in order.
Here was this devilry with the black beret, the chilled vodka, and the incredible contract...
`Tell me, did I sign a contract for thirty-five thousand roubles yesterday with a professor of black magic?'
'Ah, the black magician?' Rimsky's voice responded in the receiver.
Styopa looked further down the hall in alarm and was rocked a second time, for in the mirror a stalwart black cat passed and also disappeared.
But worse things were to be found in the bedroom: on the jeweller's wife's ottoman, in a casual pose, sprawled a third party - namely, a black cat of uncanny size, with a glass of vodka in one paw and a fork, on which he had managed to spear a pickled mushroom, in the other.
Straight from the pier-glass stepped a short but extraordinarily broad-shouldered man, with a bowler hat on his head and a fang sticking out of his mouth, which made still uglier a physiognomy unprecedentedly loathsome without that. And with flaming red hair besides.
'Generally,' this new one entered into the conversation, `I don't understand how he got to be a director,' the redhead's nasal twang was growing stronger and stronger, 'he's as much a director as I'm a bishop.'
That's what I mean,' twanged the redhead and, turning to Woland, he added deferentially…
When he opened his eyes properly, he realized that the noise was being made by the sea and, what's more, that the waves were rocking just at his feet, that he was, in short, sitting at the very end of a jetty, that over him was a brilliant blue sky and behind him a white city on the mountains.
He spent some time pondering how it was that he had wound up in an unfamiliar room with white walls, with an astonishing night table made of some light metal, and with white blinds behind which one could sense the sun.
The cylinder rang quietly in response, stopped, the light went out, and a plump, sympathetic woman in a clean white coat came into the room and said to Ivan: 'Good morning!'…
In the examining room Ivan was taken over by three persons - two women and a man - all in white.
A whole page having been covered with writing about Ivan, it was turned over, and the woman in white went on to questions about Ivan's relatives.
He was escorted back to his room, where he was given a cup of coffee, two soft-boiled eggs and white bread with butter.
Unexpectedly, the door of Ivan's room opened, and in came a lot of people in white coats.
His wife brought pickled herring from the kitchen, neatly sliced and thickly sprinkled with green onion
Seeing the citizens, Nikanor Ivanovich also turned white and stood up.
'Where's the Jakes?' the first one, in a white side-buttoned shirt, asked with a preoccupied air.
The newspaper was removed, but in the wad there were not roubles but some unknown money, bluish-greenish, and with the portrait of some old man.
He opened the briefcase, glanced into it, put a hand inside, went blue in the face, and dropped the briefcase into the borscht.
The door opened and an usher dragged in a thick stack of freshly printed extra posters; in big red letters on a green background was printed:
Today and Every Day at the Variety Theatre
an Additional Programme
PROFESSOR WOLAND
Sances of Black Magic and its Full Exposure
At that same moment a woman in a uniform jacket, visored cap, black skirt and sneakers came into the office. From a small pouch at her belt the woman took a small white square and a notebook and asked…
Rimsky and Varenukha, rose to meet her, while she took from her pouch not a white sheet this time, but some sort of dark one.
On a dark background of photographic paper, some black handwritten lines were barely discernible:
He raced up and down the office, he raised his arms twice like one crucified, he drank a whole glass of yellowish water from the carafe and exclaimed:
The administrator rubbed his eyes and saw that a yellow-bellied storm cloud was creeping low over Moscow. There came a dense, distant rumbling.
Running past the shooting gallery, Varenukha came to a thick growth of lilacs where the light-blue toilet building stood.
Then came another flash and a second man emerged before the administrator - short, but with athletic shoulders, hair red as fire, albugo in one eye, a fang in his mouth...
Here the two robbers vanished, and in their place there appeared in the front hall a completely naked girl - red-haired, her eyes burning with a phosphorescent gleam.
He had to have recourse to a third redaction, which proved still worse than the first two…
The head and the consultant's prediction led him to the thought of Pontius Pilate, and for greater conviction Ivan decided to tell the whole story of the procurator in full, from the moment he walked out in his white cloak with blood-red lining to the colonnade of Herod's palace.
It was outlined to the last tree under the sky, which cleared to its former perfect blue, and the river grew calm.
So it went till evening, and he did not even notice how the rainbow melted away, how the sky saddened and faded, how the woods turned black.
The house of sorrow was falling asleep. In quiet corridors the frosted white lights went out, and in their place, according to regulations, faint blue night-lights were lit, and the careful steps of attendants were heard more and more rarely on the rubber matting of the corridor outside the door.
Now Ivan lay in sweet languor, glancing at the lamp under its shade, shedding a softened light from the ceiling, then at the moon rising behind the black woods, and conversed with himself.
… Ivan continued his speech, addressing someone or other, `let's sort this out: why, tell me, did I get furious at this mysterious consultant, magician and professor with the black and empty eye?
A small man in a yellow bowler-hat full of holes and with a pear-shaped, raspberry-coloured nose, in checkered trousers and patent-leather shoes, rolled out on to the stage of the Variety on an ordinary two-wheeled bicycle.
Applause shook the building, the light-blue curtain came from both sides and covered the cyclists, the green `Exit' lights by the doors went out, and in the web of trapezes under the cupola white spheres lit up like the sun. It was the intermission before the last part.
Just as the red light over the findirector's head lit up and blinked, announcing the beginning of the intermission, a messenger came in and informed him of the foreign artiste's arrival.
The findirector cringed for some reason, and, blacker than a storm cloud, went backstage to receive the visitor, since there was no one else to receive him.
Among them were conjurers in bright robes and turbans, a skater in a white knitted jacket, a storyteller pale with powder and the make-up man.
The newly arrived celebrity struck everyone by his marvellously cut tailcoat, of a length never seen before, and by his having come in a black half-mask.
But most remarkable of all were the black magician's two companions: a long checkered one with a cracked pince-nez, and a fat black cat who came into the dressing room on his hind legs and quite nonchalantly sat on the sofa squinting at the bare make-up lights.
Rimsky attempted to produce a smile on his face, which made it look sour and spiteful, and bowed to the silent black magician, who was seated on the sofa beside the cat.
And, waving his knotty fingers before Rimsky's eyes, he suddenly took from behind the cat's ear Rimsky's own gold watch and chain, hitherto worn by the findirector in his waistcoat pocket, under his buttoned coat, with the chain through a buttonhole.
A moment later the spheres went out in the theatre, the footlights blazed up, lending a reddish glow to the base of the curtain, and in the lighted gap of the curtain there appeared before the public a plump man, merry as a baby, with a clean-shaven face, in a rumpled tailcoat and none-too-fresh shirt.
Monsieur Woland, with a sance of black magic.
There was shrugging and an exchanging of glances in the wings, Bengalsky stood all red, and Rimsky was pale.
There was a flash, a bang, and all at once, from under the cupola, bobbing between the trapezes, white strips of paper began falling into the theatre.
Mankind loves money, whatever it's made of- leather, paper, bronze, gold.
And all at once the floor of the stage was covered with Persian carpets, huge mirrors appeared, lit by greenish tubes at the sides, and between the mirrors - display windows, and in them the merrily astonished spectators saw Parisian ladies' dresses of various colours and cuts.
In some of the windows, that is, while in others there appeared hundreds of ladies' hats, with feathers and without feathers, and - with buckles or without - hundreds of shoes, black, white, yellow, leather, satin, suede, with straps, with stones. Among the shoes there appeared cases of perfume, mountains of handbags of antelope hide, suede, silk, and among these, whole heaps of little elongated cases of gold metal such as usually contain lipstick.
A red-headed girl appeared from devil knows where in a black evening dress - a girl nice in all respects, had she not been marred by a queer scar on her neck - smiling a proprietary smile by the display windows.
The brunette's old shoes were tossed behind a curtain, and she proceeded there herself, accompanied by the red-headed girl and Fagott, who was carrying several fashionable dresses on hangers.
The police went running to Sempleyarov's box, people were climbing over the barriers, there were bursts of infernal guffawing and furious shouts, drowned in the golden clash of the orchestra's cymbals.
Ivan left nothing out in any case, it was easier for him to tell it that way, and he gradually reached the moment when Pontius Pilate, in a white mantle with blood-red lining, came out to the balcony.
He grew stern and took from the pocket of his dressing-gown a completely greasy black cap with the letter 'M' embroidered on it in yellow silk.
'Imagine my astonishment,' the guest in the black cap whispered, 'when I put my hand in the basket of dirty laundry and, lo and behold, it had the same number as in the newspaper.
'Ah, that was a golden age!' the narrator whispered, his eyes shining.
In winter it was very seldom that I saw someone's black feet through my window and heard the snow crunching under them. And in my stove a fire was eternally blazing!
But suddenly spring came and through the dim glass I saw lilac bushes, naked at first, then dressing themselves up in green.
'White mantle, red lining! I understand!' Ivan exclaimed.
'She was carrying repulsive, alarming yellow flowers in her hand.
And these flowers stood out clearly against her black spring coat.
She was carrying yellow flowers!
Obeying this yellow sign, I also turned down the lane and followed her.
'I remember clearly the sound of her voice, rather low, slightly husky, and, stupid as it is, it seemed that the echo resounded in the lane and bounced off the dirty yellow wall.
'So we walked silently for some time, until she took the flowers from my hand and threw them to the pavement, then put her own hand in a black glove with a bell-shaped cuff under my arm, and we walked on side by side.'
'Well, so she said she went out that day with yellow flowers in her hand so that I would find her at last, and that if it hadn't happened, she would have poisoned herself, because her life was empty.
And then, when her hour came and the hands showed noon, it even wouldn't stop pounding until, almost without tapping, almost noiselessly, her shoes would come even with my window, their black suede bows held tightly by steel buckles.
'Sometimes she would get mischievous, pausing at the second window and tapping the glass with her toe. That same instant I would be at the window, but the shoe would be gone, the black silk blocking the light would be gone…
The worn red furniture, the bureau, the clock on it which struck every half hour, and books, books, from the painted floor to the sooty ceiling, and the stove.
Steam rose from the potatoes, the black potato skins dirtied their fingers.
Laughter came from the basement, the trees in the garden after rain shed broken twigs, white clusters.
`And I went out into life holding it in my hands, and then my life ended,' the master whispered and drooped his head, and for a long time nodded the woeful black cap with the yellow letter 'M' on it.
'Yes, red petals strewn across the tide page, and also the eyes of my friend.
She said I should drop everything and go to the south, to the Black Sea, and spend all that was left of the hundred thousand on the trip.
'She was very insistent, and to avoid an argument (something told me I was not to go to the Black Sea), I promised her that I'd do it one of those days.
I dashed to the front room, turned on the light there, found a bottle of white wine, uncorked it and began drinking from the bottle.
Familiar words flashed before me, the yellow climbed steadily up the pages, but the words still showed through it.
They would vanish only when the paper turned black, and I finished them off with the poker.
'And so, the last thing I remember from my life is a strip of light from my front hall, and in that strip of light an uncurled strand of hair, her beret and her eyes filled with determination. I also remember the black silhouette in the outside doorway and the white package.
And the other, from the pain of his memories, nodded his head in the black cap and spoke thus…
And that, however much he wanted to wave it away, it was closely connected with the repulsive sance presented by the black magician and his assistants.
He recoiled from it instantly and turned whiter than paper.
Through the scant and still barely greening branches of a maple, he saw the moon racing in a transparent cloud.
His eyes lit up with a yellow light. In his head there formed the festive picture of Styopa's shameful dismissal from his job.
Scattering green onions all over the floor of the same Yalta.
Smashing eight bottles of dry white Ai-Danil.
Threatening to arrest the citizens who attempted to stop Styopa's obnoxiousness... In short, black horror!
Never for a moment taking his eyes off the administrator - who squirmed somehow strangely in his armchair, trying not to get out of the blue shade of the desk lamp, and screening himself with a newspaper in some remarkable fashion from the bothersome light - the findirector was thinking of only one thing: what did it all mean?
Behind the chair on the floor two shadows lay criss-cross, one more dense and black, the other faint and grey.
She began to hurry, stuck her red-haired head through the vent, reached her arm down as far as she could, her nails clawing at the lower latch and shaking the frame. Her arm began to lengthen, rubber-like, and became covered with a putrid green.
Finally the dead woman's green fingers got hold of the latch knob, turned it, and the frame began to open.
The cock-crow was repeated, the girl clacked her teeth, and her red hair stood on end. With the third crowing of the cock, she turned and flew out and after her, jumping up and stretching himself horizontally in the air, looking like a flying cupid, Varenukha slowly floated over the desk and out the window.
White as snow, with not a single black hair on his head, the old man who still recently had been Rimsky rushed to the door, undid the catch, opened the door, and ran hurtling down the dark corridor.
Needless to say, he did not go back for it, but, breathless, ran across the wide street to the opposite corner by the movie theatre, near which a dull reddish light hovered. In a moment he was there.
Jumping out of the car in front of the train station, Rimsky cried to the first man he saw in a white apron with a badge…
It began with Nikanor Ivanovich seeing as it were some people with golden trumpets in their hands leading him, and very solemnly, to a big lacquered door.
Exceedingly astonished, Nikanor Ivanovich saw a black loudspeaker above him.
There was a stage closed off by a velvet curtain, its dark cerise background spangled, as if with stars, with oversized gold pieces, there was a prompter's box, and there was even an audience.
Abashed in this new and big company, Nikanor Ivanovich, after a brief hesitation, followed the general example and sat down on the parquet Turkish-fashion, huddled between some stalwart, bearded redhead and another citizen, pale and quite overgrown. None of the sitters paid any attention to the newly arrived spectator.
Here the soft ringing of a bell was heard, the lights in the house went out, and the curtain opened to reveal a lighted stage with an armchair, a little table on which stood a golden bell, and a solid black velvet backdrop.
`Don't scold him,' the master of ceremonies said softly, 'he'll repent.' And turning to Nikanor Ivanovich, his blue eyes filled with tears, he added: 'Well, Nikanor Ivanovich, you may go to your place.'
'Intermission, you blackguards!'
Here he dreamed that the house was plunged in total darkness, and fiery red words leaped out on the walls: Turn over your currency!'
The black backdrop parted, and on to the stage came a young beauty in a ball gown, holding in her hands a golden tray on which lay a fat wad tied with candy-box ribbon and a diamond necklace from which blue, yellow and red fire leaped in all directions.
'Eighteen thousand dollars and a necklace worth forty thousand in gold,' the artiste solemnly announced, `kept by Sergei Gerardovich in the city of Kharkov, in the apartment of his mistress, Ida Herkulanovna Vors, whom we have the pleasure of seeing here before us and who so kindly helped in discovering these treasures - priceless, vet useless in the hands of a private person.
The promised Kurolesov was not slow in coming on stage and turned out to be a strapping and beefy man, clean-shaven, in a tailcoat and white tie.
Without any preliminaries, he concocted a gloomy face, knitted his brows, and began speaking in an unnatural voice, glancing sidelong at the golden bell:
'A thousand dollars and twenty ten-rouble gold pieces.'
There great heaps of gold do shine, and all those heaps of gold are mine..."
'Some little lady in the women's theatre is turning hers over,' Nikanor Ivanovich's red-bearded neighbour spoke up unexpectedly, and added with a sigh: 'Ah, if it wasn't for my geese!
Here the house lit up brightly, and Nikanor Ivanovich dreamed that cooks in white chef's hats and with ladles in their hands came pouring from all the doors.
Through his tears, Nikanor Ivanovich made out his room in the hospital and two people in white coats, who were by no means casual cooks getting at people with their advice, but the doctor and that same Praskovya Fyodorovna, who was holding not a bowl but a little dish covered with gauze, with a syringe lying on it.
The infantry of the Cappadocian cohort had pushed the conglomeration of people, mules and camels to the sides, and the ala, trotting and raising white columns of dust in the sky, came to an intersection where two roads met: the south road leading to Bethlehem, and the north-west road to Jaffa.
It went stretched out in files along the sides of the road, and between these files, convoyed by the secret guard, the three condemned men rode in a cart, white boards hanging around their necks with 'robber and rebel' written on each of them in two languages - Aramaic and Greek.
The little commander of the ala, his brow moist and the back of his white shirt dark with sweat, having placed himself at the foot of the hill by the open passage, went over to the leather bucket of the first squad every now and then, scooped handfuls of water from it, drank and wetted his turban.
The commander wished to give his cavalrymen an example of endurance, but, pitying his soldiers, he allowed them to stick their spears pyramid-like in the ground and throw their white cloaks over them. Under these tents, the Syrians hid from the merciless sun.
But the heat got to them, too, and they lay down with their tongues hanging out, panting and paying no attention to the green-backed lizards, the only beings not afraid of the sun, darting among the scorching stones and some sort of big-thorned plants that crept on the ground.
The only thing the centurion Ratslayer allowed his soldiers was to take off their helmets and cover their heads with white headbands dipped in water, but he kept them standing, and with their spears in their hands.
Of pacing in the same way, holding his hands to the heavy belt with its bronze plaques, glancing in the same stern way now at the posts with the executed men, now at the file of soldiers, kicking aside with the toe of a shaggy boot in the same indifferent way human bones whitened by time or small flints that happened under his feet.
Now, sitting on the stone, this black-bearded man, his eyes festering from the sun and lack of sleep, was in anguish.
First he sighed, opening his tallith, worn out in his wanderings, gone from light-blue to dirty grey, and bared his chest, which had been hurt by the spear and down which ran dirty sweat; then, in unendurable pain, he raised his eyes to the sky, following the three vultures that had long been floating in great circles on high, anticipating an imminent feast; then he peered with hopeless eyes into the yellow earth, and saw on it the half-destroyed skull of a dog and lizards
scurrying around it.
You are a black god!
Its edges were already seething with white foam, its black smoky belly was tinged with yellow.
From above, Levi was able to distinguish very well the soldiers bustling about, pulling spears out of the ground, throwing cloaks on, the horse-handlers trotting towards the road leading black horses by their bridles. The regiment was moving off, that was clear.
Yeshua was more fortunate than the other two. In the very first hour, he began to have blackouts, and then he fell into oblivion, hanging his head in its unwound turban. The flies and horseflies therefore covered him completely, so that his face disappeared under the black swarming mass.
In his groin, and on his belly, and in his armpits, fat horseflies sat sucking at his yellow naked body.
The storm cloud had already poured across half the sky, aiming towards Yershalaim, boiling white clouds raced ahead of the storm cloud suffused with black moisture and fire.
Stopping at the first post, the man in the hood examined the blood-covered Yeshua attentively, touched his foot with his white hand, and said to his companions…
Semi-darkness set in, and lightning farrowed the black sky.
The line behaved with much agitation, attracting the notice of the citizens streaming past, and was occupied with the discussion of inflammatory tales about yesterday's unprecedented sance of black magic.
The moment Ace of Diamonds ran into the findirector's office, he growled, baring his monstrous yellow fangs, then crouched on his belly and, with some sort of look of anguish and at the same time of rage in his eyes, crawled towards the broken window.
Anna Richardovna's chin was all smeared with lipstick, and down her peachy cheeks black streams of sodden mascara flowed from her eyelashes.
Black, big as a behemoth.
Here the front door opened, and in it appeared a citizen in a summer jacket, from under which protruded the skirts of a white coat, and with him a policeman.
'Excuse me, dear citizeness,' Vassily Stepanovich addressed the girl, 'did a black cat pay you a visit?'
Having learned from experience by now, he first peeked cautiously into the oblong hall where, behind frosted-glass windows with gold lettering, the staff was sitting. Here the bookkeeper discovered no signs of alarm or scandal. It was quiet, as it ought to be in a decent institution.
'Oho!' the clerk answered ironically for some reason and handed the bookkeeper a green slip.
It was a somewhat surprising circumstance that he could not figure out who had let him in: there was no one in the front hall except an enormous black cat sitting on a chair.
The cat picked up a pair of glasses in thick black frames from the pier-glass table, put them on his muzzle, thus acquiring a still more imposing air, and took the passport from Poplavsky's twitching hand.
At his call a small man ran out to the front hall, limping, sheathed in black tights, with a knife tucked into his leather belt, red-haired, with a yellow fang and with albugo in his left eye.
Then the red-haired bandit grabbed the chicken by the leg, and with this whole chicken hit Poplavsky on the neck, flat, hard, and so terribly that the body of the chicken tore off and the leg remained in Azazello's hand. '
Some tiny elderly man with an extraordinarily melancholy face, in an old-fashioned tussore silk suit and a hard straw hat with a green band, on his way upstairs, stopped beside Poplavsky.
This woman, carrying a green oilcloth bag, went out through the front hall to the courtyard. And the little man's steps came anew. 'Strange!
The door had been opened by a girl who was wearing nothing but a coquettish little lacy apron and a white fichu on her head.
On her feet, however, she had golden slippers.
'Well, come in then, since you rang,' said the girl, fixing her lewd green eyes on the barman.
Thus, thrown over the back of a chair was a funereal cloak lined with fiery cloth, on the pier-glass table lay a long sword with a gleaming gold hilt.
A tailcoat or a black suit. What? By twelve midnight.'
On a tiger skin in front of the fireplace sat a huge black tom-cat, squinting good-naturedly at the fire.
Among the bottles gleamed a dish, and it was obvious at once that it was of pure gold.
At the fireplace a small red-haired fellow with a knife in his belt was roasting pieces of meat on a long steel sword, and the juice dripped into the fire, and the smoke went up the flue.
The black magician was sprawled on some boundless sofa, low, with pillows scattered over it. As it seemed to the barman, the artiste was wearing only black underwear and black pointed shoes.
Feta cheese is never green in colour, someone has tricked you.
It ought to be white.
As he fell, he kicked another stool in front of him with his foot, and from it spilled a full cup of red wine on his
trousers.
In the crimson light of the fireplace a sword flashed in front of the barman, and Azazello laid a sizzling piece of meat on the golden dish, squeezed lemon juice over it, and handed the barman a golden two-pronged fork.
'A cup of wine? White, red? What country's wine do you prefer at this time of day?'
'I'm sorry,' said the barman, taken aback. 'I mean the sance of black magic...'
Two hundred and forty-nine thousand roubles in five savings banks,' a cracked voice responded from the neighbouring room, `and two hundred ten-rouble gold pieces at home under the floor.'
The barman's face turned yellow.
Plus those gold pieces... '
`He won't get to realize the gold pieces,' the same voice mixed in, turning the barman's heart to ice.
'On Andrei Fokich's demise, the house will immediately be torn down, and the gold will be sent to the State Bank.'
Again that naked redhead in the front hall! The barman squeezed through the door, squeaked 'Goodbye!', and went off like a drunk man.
Here a woman with a green bag came out of the apartment on that landing.
At the same moment, the beret miaowed, turned into a black kitten and, springing back on to Andrei Fokich's head, sank all its claws into his bald spot.
Some five minutes later the barman was bandaged with gauze, knew that the best specialists in liver diseases were considered to be professors Bernadsky and Kuzmin, asked who was closer, lit up with joy on learning that Kuzmin lived literally across the courtyard in a small white house, and some two minutes later was in that house.
At that same moment the opposite door opened, there was the flash of a gold pince-nez.
The woman in the white coat said: 'Citizens, this patient will go out of turn.'
Take away your gold this minute,' said the professor, proud of himself.
'Ahh! ...' the barman exclaimed wistfully, gazing at the professor with tenderness, gathering up his gold pieces and backing towards the door.
That evening the professor had few patients, and as twilight approached the last one left. Taking off his white coat, the professor glanced at the spot where the barman had left his money and saw no banknotes there but only three labels from bottles of Abrau-Durso wine.
And the professor rushed for the front hall, one arm still in the sleeve of his white coat.
But instead, when the professor went back to his desk, having peeled off his white coat at last, he stopped as if rooted to the parquet beside his desk, his eyes riveted to it.
In the place where the labels had been there sat an orphaned black kitten with a sorry little muzzle, miaowing over a saucer of milk.
On that same day when all sorts of absurd turmoil took place, provoked by the appearance of the black magician in Moscow, on the Friday when Berlioz's uncle was chased back to Kiev, when the bookkeeper was arrested and a host of other quite stupid and incomprehensible things took place - Margarita woke up at around noon in her bedroom with bay windows in the tower of the house.
The hefty, beefy one with pert, piggish eyes, sitting by the window, was quietly telling his small neighbour that the coffin had to be covered with a black cloth...
And in just the same way as then, her black handbag lay beside her on the bench.
This neighbour turned out to be short of stature, a fiery redhead with a fang, in a starched shirt, a good-quality striped suit, patent leather shoes, and with a bowler hat on his head. His tie was brightly coloured.
'You see,' the redhead explained, `this morning in the hall of Griboedov's, the deceased's head was filched from the coffin.'
'Devil knows how!' the redhead replied casually. `
'All of them to a man,' the redhead replied.
`How could he not be?' the redhead replied.
`And I can see,' the redhead said, smiling, 'that you hate this Latunsky!'
In place of an answer, the redhead took off his bowler hat and held it out.
'Nothing of the kind!' the redhead exclaimed. 'What is it - you start a conversation, and right away it's got to be an arrest! I simply have business with you.'
The redhead looked around and said mysteriously: 'I've been sent to invite you for a visit this evening.'
'To a very distinguished foreigner,' the redhead said significantly, narrowing one eye.
Thanks a lot for such errands!' the redhead exclaimed grudgingly, and he muttered 'Fool!' to Margarita Nikolaevna's back.
Her face white, Margarita came back to the bench.
The redhead was looking at her, narrowing his eyes.
`What a bore ...' the redhead muttered and then said aloud, 'I beg your pardon, didn't I tell you that I'm not from any institution?
'Be so good as to accept this, then,' said Azazello, and, pulling a round little golden box from his pocket, he offered it to Margarita with the words: 'Hide it now, the passers-by are looking. It'll come in useful, Margarita Nikolaevna, you've aged a lot from grief in the last half-year.'
'Understood. This thing is pure gold, you can tell by the weight.
A black evening dress hung over the back of a chair.
The room smelled of perfume. Besides that, the smell of a red-hot iron was coming from somewhere.
Margarita Nikolaevna sat in front of the pier-glass, with just a bathrobe thrown over her naked body, and in black suede shoes.
A gold bracelet with a watch lay in front of Margarita Nikolaevna, beside the box she had received from Azazello, and Margarita did not take her eyes from its face.
Having mastered herself, Margarita opened it and saw in the box a rich, yellowish cream.
Her eyebrows, plucked to a thread with tweezers, thickened and lay in even black arches over her greening eyes.
So did the yellowish shadows at her temples and the two barely noticeable little webs of wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes.
The skin of her cheeks filled out with an even pink colour, her forehead became white and clear, and the hairdresser's waves in her hair came undone.
From the mirror a naturally curly, black-haired woman of about twenty was looking at the thirty-year-old Margarita, baring her teeth and shaking with laughter.
At once all these things - a wooden hanger with a dress, lace shawls, dark blue satin shoes on shoe-trees and a belt - all of it spilled on the floor, and Natasha clasped her freed hands.
'It's the cream! The cream, the cream!' answered Margarita, pointing to the glittering golden box and turning around in front of the mirror.
She galloped over to the bed and grabbed the first thing she found, some light blue shift.
Margarita dropped down and, alighting, saw that the facade of the building was covered in black marble, that the doors were wide, that behind their glass could be glimpsed a doorman's buttons and peaked cap with gold braid, and that over the door there was a gold inscription: 'Dramlit House'.
Taking her broom under her arm, Margarita walked into the lobby, shoving the surprised doorman with the door, and saw on the wall beside the elevator a huge black board and on it, written in white letters, apartment numbers and tenants' names.
The doorman at the entrance, even hopping with astonishment, his eyes rolled out, gazed at the black board, trying to understand the marvel: why was the list of tenants suddenly shrieking?
Raising her head towards the ceiling, she suddenly saw it changing colour before her eyes from white to some deathly blue.
Suddenly a bell rang, and a red fire-engine with a ladder drove into the lane from the Arbat.
After a few seconds, a new glow of electric lights flared up far below in the earthly blackness and hurtled under the flying woman's feet, but immediately spun away like a whirligig and fell into the earth.
Two or three times after that she saw dully gleaming sabres lying in open black sheaths below her and realized that these were rivers.
The earth rose to meet her, and in its hitherto formless black density the charms and secrets of the earth on a moonlit night revealed themselves.
The earth was coming to her, and Margarita was already enveloped in the scent of greening forests.
Seeing Natasha, Nikolai Ivanovich was dumbfounded. Getting some control of himself, all red as a lobster, he announced that he felt it was his duty to pick up the little shift and bring it personally...
The things he said, the blackguard!' Natasha shrieked and laughed.
…Natasha could be seen only as a black speck in the distance, then vanished completely, and the noise of her flight melted away.
The grunting came closer, and from behind the willow bushes some naked fat man emerged, with a black silk top hat pushed back on his head.
His feet were covered with slimy mud, which made it seem that the swimmer was wearing black shoes.
Transparent naiads stopped their round dance over the river and waved weeds at Margarita, and their far-audible greetings moaned across the deserted, greenish bank.
Margarita's short stay under the pussy willows was marked by one episode: there was a whistling in the air, and a black body, obviously missing its mark, dropped into the water.
An open, light sorrel car came down on the island, only in the driver's seat there sat no ordinary-looking driver, but a black, long-beaked rook in an oilcloth cap and gauntlets.
The black bird-driver unscrewed the right front wheel in flight, then landed the car in some completely deserted cemetery in the Dorogomilovo area.
A black cloak appeared at once from behind one of the tombstones.
The light came right up to them, and Margarita saw in this light the face of a man, long and black, holding a little lamp in his hand.
The little moustache on his insolent face was twirled up and waxed, and Koroviev's blackness was quite simply explained - he was in formal attire.
Only his chest was white.
In these seven golden claws' burned thick wax candles. Besides that, there was on the table a large chessboard with pieces of extraordinarily artful workmanship.
There was yet another table with some golden bowl and another candelabrum with branches in the form of snakes.
Besides these, there was also a huge black tom-cat in the room, sitting on a high tabouret before the chess table, holding a chess knight in his right paw.
The right one with a golden spark at its bottom, drilling anyone to the bottom of his soul, and the left one empty and black, like the narrow eye of a needle, like the entrance to the bottomless well of all darkness and shadow. Woland's face was twisted to one side, the right corner of the mouth drawn down, the high, bald forehead
scored by deep wrinkles running parallel to the sharp eyebrows.
Margarita also made out on Woland's bared, hairless chest a beetle artfully carved from dark stone, on a gold chain and with some inscriptions on its back.
There was now a white bow-tie on the cat's neck, and a pair of ladies' mother-of-pearl opera glasses hung from a strap on his neck.
'Why could Azazello and Koroviev put white powder on themselves as they were shaving today, and how is that better than gold?
The beautiful Hella was smiling as she turned her green-tinged eyes to Margarita, without ceasing to dip into the ointment and apply it to Woland's knee.
He fell silent and began to spin the globe in front of him, which was so artfully made that the blue oceans moved on it and the cap at the pole lay like a real cap of ice and snow.
A thoroughly upset king in a white mantle was shuffling on his square, desperately raising his arms.
Three white pawn-mercenaries with halberds gazed in perplexity at the bishop brandishing his crozier and pointing forward to where, on two adjacent squares, white and black, Woland's black horsemen could be seen on two fiery chargers pawing the squares with their hoofs.
As soon as Koroviev and Azazello disappeared Behemoth's winking took on greater dimensions. The white king finally understood what was wanted of him.
Suddenly and noiselessly the roof of this house flew up along with a cloud of black smoke, and the walls collapsed, so that nothing was left of the little two-storey box except a small heap with black smoke pouring from it.
As she stood in the bottom of this pool, Hella, with the assistance of Natasha, doused her with some hot, thick and red liquid.
Then Margarita was laid on a crystal couch and rubbed with some big green leaves until she shone.
Margarita does not remember who stitched slippers for her from pale rose petals or how these slippers got fastened by themselves with golden clasps.
Some force snatched Margarita up and put her before a mirror, and a royal diamond crown gleamed in her hair. Koroviev appeared from somewhere and hung a heavy, oval-framed picture of a black poodle by a heavy chain on Margarita's breast.
But something compensated Margarita for the inconveniences that the chain with the black poodle caused her, and this was the deference with which Koroviev and Behemoth began to treat her.
Taken under the arm by Koroviev, Margarita saw herself in a tropical forest. red-breasted, green-tailed parrots fluttered from liana to liana and cried out deafeningly: 'Delighted!'
But the forest soon ended, and its bathhouse stuffiness changed at once to the coolness of a ballroom with columns of some yellowish, sparkling stone.
A low wall of white tulips had grown up in front of Margarita, and beyond it she saw numberless lamps under little shades and behind them the white chests and black shoulders of tailcoaters.
The man started with happiness and put his left hand to his chest, while the right went on brandishing a white baton at the orchestra.
Instead there stood walls of red, pink and milk-white roses on one side, and on the other a wall of Japanese double camellias.
The pink wall had a gap in it, where a man in a red swallowtail coat was flailing away on a platform. Before him thundered an unbearably loud jazz band. As soon as the conductor saw Margarita, he bent before her so that his hands touched the floor, then straightened up and cried piercingly:
Some black man threw a pillow under Margarita's feet embroidered with a golden poodle, and she, obedient to someone's hands, bent her right leg at the knee and placed her foot on it.
Below, so far away that it was as if Margarita were looking the wrong way through binoculars, she saw a vast front hall with an absolutely enormous fireplace, into the cold and black maw of which a five-ton truck could easily have driven.
The second remains put itself together into a fidgety woman in black shoes, with black feathers on her head, and then the man and the woman both hastened up the stairs.
Out of the fireplace, bursting open and falling apart, three coffins tumbled one after another, then came someone in a black mantle, whom the next one to run out of the black maw stabbed in the back with a knife.
Coming towards Margarita, hobbling, a strange wooden boot on her left foot, was a lady with nunnishly lowered eyes, thin and modest, and with a wide green band around her neck for some reason.
'Who is this ... green one?' Margarita asked mechanically.
'And why that green band? A withered neck?'
'A blue-bordered one. The thing is that when she worked in a cafe, the owner once invited her to the pantry, and nine months later she gave birth to a boy, took him to the forest, stuffed the handkerchief into his mouth, and then buried the boy in the ground.
Their swarthy, white, coffee-bean-coloured, and altogether black bodies floated towards Margarita.
In their hair - red, black, chestnut, light as flax - precious stones glittered and danced, spraying sparkles into the flood of light.
Slant-eyed Mongolian faces, white faces and black became undifferentiated to her, they merged at times, and the air between them would for some reason begin to tremble and flow.
It became swollen, the skin turned blue, even though Natasha's hand appeared by this knee several times with a sponge, wiping it with something fragrant.
A giant black Neptune spouted a wide pink stream from his maw.
Behemoth performed some magic by Neptune's maw, and at once the billowing mass of champagne, hissing and gurgling, left the pool, and Neptune began spewing out a stream neither glittering nor foaming but of a dark-yellow colour.
Then she flew over a glass floor with infernal furnaces burning under it and devilish white cooks darting among them. Then somewhere, already ceasing to comprehend anything, she saw dark cellars where some sort of lamps burned, where girls served meat sizzling on red-hot coals, where her health was drunk from big mugs.
Straight away the flesh of the head turned dark and shrivelled, then fell off in pieces, the eyes disappeared, and soon Margarita saw on the platter a yellowish skull with emerald eyes, pearl teeth and a golden foot.
Woland was in some sort of black chlamys with a steel sword on his hip. He quickly approached Margarita, offered her the cup, and said imperiously: 'Drink!'
Biting the meat with her white teeth, Margarita savoured the juice that ran from it, at the same time watching Behemoth spread mustard on an oyster.
'Here's what I don't understand,' Margarita said, and golden sparks from the crystal glittered in her eyes.
Azazello, who was sitting with his back to the pillow, drew a black automatic from the pocket of his tailcoat trousers, put the muzzle over his shoulder, and, without turning towards the bed, fired, provoking a merry fright in Margarita.
She watched the blue-grey smoke-rings from Azazello's cigar float into the fireplace, while the cat caught them on the tip of a sword.
Black anguish somehow surged up all at once in Margarita's heart.
Merely being present at the scene of the murder of that inveterate blackguard of a baron is worth a reward, particularly if the person is a woman.
Azazello gave Margarita an ironic look out of the comer of his blind eye, shook his red head imperceptibly, and snorted.
A greenish kerchief of night-light fell from the window-sill to the floor, and in it appeared Ivanushka's night visitor, who called himself a master. He was in his hospital clothes - robe, slippers and the black cap, with which he never parted.
Koroviev deftly and inconspicuously pushed a chair towards the master, and he sank into it, while Margarita threw herself on her knees, pressed herself to the sick man's side, and so grew quiet. In her agitation she had not noticed that her nakedness was somehow suddenly over, that she was now wearing a black silk cloak.
The newly arrived citizen turned blue and dissolved in tears of repentance.
`I put in a bathroom...' the bloodied Mogarych cried, his teeth chattering, and, terrified, he began pouring out some balderdash, 'the whitewashing alone ... the vitriol...'
Natasha opened her fist and showed some gold coins.
"Then take this from me as a memento,' said Woland, and he drew from under the pillow a small golden horseshoe studded with diamonds.
And, Margarita in the black cloak, the master in the hospital robe, they walked out to the corridor of the jeweller's wife's apartment, where a candle was burning and Woland's retinue was waiting for them.
Just at the exit from the sixth stairway, Azazello blew upwards, and as soon as they came out to the courtyard, where the moonlight did not reach, they saw a man in a cap and boots asleep, and obviously dead asleep, on the doorstep, as well as a big black car by the entrance with its lights turned off.
'The boiler ... the vitriol... the cost of the whitewashing alone...'
Someone, possibly sick or possibly not, but strange, pale, with a stubbly beard, in a black cap and some sort of robe, walked down with unsteady steps.
He was led carefully under the arm by a lady in a black cassock, as it seemed to Annushka in the darkness.
The strangely dressed lady was followed by a completely naked one carrying a suitcase, and next to the suitcase a huge black cat was knocking about. Annushka almost squeaked something out loud, rubbing her eyes.
Bringing up the rear of the procession was a short, limping foreigner, blind in one eye, without a jacket, in a white formal waistcoat and tie.
Annushka hid the found object in her bosom, grabbed the can, and was about to slip back into her apartment, postponing her trip to town, when that same one with the white chest, without a jacket, emerged before her from devil knows where and quietly whispered…
With fingers as hard as the handrails of a bus, and as cold, the white-chested one, without another word, squeezed Annushka's throat so that he completely stopped all access of air to her chest.
And the lights of the big black car disappeared among the other lights on sleepless and noisy Sadovaya.
Each time the black smoky brew was ripped by fire, the great bulk of the temple with its glittering scaly roof flew up out of the pitch darkness.
Other tremulous glimmers called out of the abyss the palace of Herod the Great, standing opposite the temple on the western hill, and its dread, eyeless golden statues flew up into the black sky, stretching their arms out to it. But again the heavenly fire would hide, and heavy claps of thunder would drive the golden idols into the darkness.
By the procurator's feet spread an unwiped red puddle, as if of blood, with pieces of a broken jug.
The African's black face turned grey, mortal fear showed in his eyes, he trembled and almost broke a second jug, but the procurator's wrath flew away as quickly as it had flown in.
Now, during the hurricane, the African was hiding near a niche in which stood the statue of a white, naked woman with a drooping head, afraid of appearing before the procurator's eyes at the wrong time, and at the same time fearing to miss the moment when the procurator might call for him.
And if the unsteady glimmering of the heavenly fire had turned into a constant light, an observer would have been able to see that the procurator's face, with eyes inflamed by recent insomnia and wine, showed impatience, that the procurator was not only looking at the two white roses drowned in the red puddle, but constantly turned his face towards the garden, meeting the watery spray and sand, that he was waiting for someone, impatiently waiting.
It was no longer a violet coverlet trimmed with white, but an ordinary, grey rear-guard cloud that floated over Yershalaim. The storm was being swept towards the Dead Sea.
Blue windows appeared in the grey veil fleeing eastward.
The red puddle was wiped up, the broken pieces were removed, meat steamed on the table.
The visitor reclined, a servant poured some thick red wine into his cup.
'But in any case,' the procurator observed with concern, and the thin, long finger with the black stone of its ring was raised, 'there must be...'
In response to this whistle, a low barking resounded in the twilight, and a gigantic sharp-eared dog with a grey pelt and a gold-studded collar sprang from the garden on to the balcony.
Just at that time, from another lane in the Lower City, a twisting lane that ran down from ledge to ledge to one of the city pools, from the gates of an unsightly house with a blank wall looking on to the lane and windows on the courtyard, came a young man with a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a white kefia falling to his shoulders, a new pale blue festive tallith with tassels at the bottom, and creaking new sandals.
At the corner where the street flowed into the market-place, amidst the seething and tumult, he was overtaken by a slight woman, walking with a dancer's gait, in

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