say goodbye to exodia

"Allow me," said Margarita softly.

Woland stared at her intently and then moved his knee over to her.

The salve was as hot as lava and burned Margarita's hands, but she did not flinch and rubbed it into his knee, trying not to cause him any pain.

"My close friends insist that it's rheumatism," said Woland, keeping his eyes fixed on Margarita, "but I strongly suspect that the pain in my knee is a memento of my intimacy with a certain enchanting witch, whom I met in the Brocken Mountains, on the Devil's Pulpit, in 1571."

"Oh, how can that be!" said Margarita.

"It's nothing! It'll pass in three hundred years' time. A multitude of medications have been recommended to me, but I'm a traditionalist and remain partial to granny's remedies. My grandmother, the vile old hag, left me some incredible herbs! Is there perhaps some sadness or anguish that is poisoning your soul?"

"No, Messire, there's nothing like that," was Margarita's shrewd reply, "and now that I'm here with you, I feel completely fine."

"Blood is what counts," said Woland merrily to no one in particular, and added, "I see my globe interests you."

"Oh yes, I've never seen anything like it."

"Yes, it is nice. To be frank, I don't like listening to the news on the radio. The announcers are usually young women who can't pronounce place names properly. And, what's more, at least a third of them seem to have speech defects, as if that were a job requirement. My globe is much more convenient, especially since I have to know exactly what's going on. For instance, look here. Do you see that piece of land washed on one side by the ocean? Look how it's bursting into flame. A war has broken out there. If you look closer, you'll see it in detail."

Margarita bent toward the globe and saw that a square of earth had grown wider, had assumed vivid colors and had turned into a kind of relief map. And then she saw a strip of river and next to it a village. A house the size of a pea got as big as a matchbox. Suddenly and noiselessly the roof of the house blew off into the air with a puff of black smoke, the walls of the house caved in, so that nothing was left of the two-storey matchbox except piles of rubble spewing black smoke. When she looked even closer, Margarita could see a tiny female figure lying on the ground, and next to her was a baby, lying in a pool of blood with it's arms stretched out.

"So that's that," said Woland, smiling. "He had no time to sin. Abaddon's work is flawless."

"I wouldn't want to be on the side fighting against this Abbadon," said Margarita. "Who's side is he on?"

"The more I talk with you," Woland replied pleasantly, "the more convinced I am that you're very intelligent. Let me put your mind at ease. He is totally neutral and sympathizes equally with both contending sides. As a result, the outcome is always the same for both of them. Abaddon!" called Woland in a soft voice, and out of the wall appeared a thin figure in dark glasses. The glasses made such a strong impression on Margarita that she let out a soft scream and buried her face in Woland's leg. "Stop that!" yelled Woland. "How nervous people are nowadays!" He slapped Margarita's back so hard her whole body reverberated with the sound. "Can't you see he's got his glasses on? Moreover, he never has appeared, nor will he ever appear, before anyone's time has come. And, besides, I'm here. You're my guest! I just wanted to show him to you."

Abbadon stood motionless.

"Do you think he could take off his glasses for just a second?" asked Margarita, pressing close to Woland and trembling, but only out of curiosity.

"No, that is impossible," Woland replied in a grave voice, waving his arm at Abaddon, who then disappeared. "What do you with to say, Azazello?"

"Messire," answered Azazello, "permit me to speak. Two outsiders have appeared: a beautiful woman who keeps whimpering and begs permission to stay with her mistress, and also her, pardon my expression, hog."

"Beautiful women have strange ways," remarked Woland.

"It's Natasha, Natasha!" exclaimed Margarita.

"Well, let her stay with her mistress. And send the hog—to the cooks!"

"To be butchered?" cried Margarita in fright. "Have mercy, Messire. That's Nikolai Ivanovich, our downstairs neighbor. You see, there's been a mistake here, she rubbed him with that cream..."

"Just a minute," said Woland, "who the hell is going to butcher him and what the devil for? Just let him sit with the cooks for awhile, that's all! You'll agree, I can't very well let him into the ballroom!"

"Well, yes..." added Azazello, and announced, "Midnight is approaching, Messire."

"Ah, good." Woland turned to Margarita. "And so, please come with me...I thank you in advance. Don't get flustered and don't be afraid of anything. Drink nothing but water, or else you'll wilt and it will be hard for you. Time to go!"

Nishimoto Ryota

A Treasured Treasury of Beloved Characters (2024).

Wool felt, cotton lawn, strawboard, embroidery & poly cotton thread, recycled PET stuffing, armature wire, plastic eyes.

Here is a collection of characters I met when I was small, all of whom have stayed with me every day since. They are housed, stitched and squished in this felt book, akin to their arrangement in my brain.