22. By Candlelight

The steady drone of the car flying high above the earth lulled Margarita, and the moonlight warmed her pleasantly. Closing her eyes, she gave her face up to the wind and thought with a certain sadness of the unknown river bank she had left – which, as she sensed, she would never see again. After all the magic and wonders of that evening, she could already guess precisely whom she was being taken to visit, but this did not frighten her. The hope that she would be successful there in securing the return of her happiness made her fearless. However, it was not her lot to dream about her happiness in the car for long. Perhaps the rook knew its business well, or perhaps the car was a good one; only soon, opening her eyes, Margarita saw beneath her not the darkness of woodland, but the trembling lake of Moscow’s lights. The black bird driving unscrewed the front right-hand wheel while still in flight, then landed the car in some completely unfrequented cemetery in the Dorogomilovo district.

Setting Margarita, who questioned nothing, down beside one of the gravestones along with her broomstick, the rook started the car up and sent it straight into the ravine beyond the cemetery. It fell into it with a crash, and there it perished. The rook saluted respectfully, mounted the wheel and flew away.

Immediately, from behind one of the monuments, a black cloak appeared. A fang flashed in the moonlight, and Margarita recognized Azazello. With a gesture he invited Margarita to mount the broomstick, he himself leapt onto a long rapier; they both soared up and, seen by no one, in a few seconds landed by building No. 302 bis on Sadovaya Street.

As the travelling companions were passing through the gateway, carrying the broomstick and the rapier under their arms, Margarita noticed a man wearing a cap and high boots languishing in it, probably waiting for somebody. Light as Azazello andMargarita’s footsteps were, the solitary man heard them and jerked uneasily, unable to understand who was producing them.

A second man, amazingly similar to the first, they encountered by entrance No. 6. And again the same story was repeated. Footsteps… The man turned uneasily and frowned. And when the door opened and closed, he rushed after the invisible people going in and glanced into the entrance – but nothing, of course, did he see.

A third, an exact copy of the second one and therefore of the first one too, was on duty on the second-floor landing. He was smoking strong cigarettes, and, as she walked past him, Margarita had a fit of coughing. The smoker leapt up from the bench on which he was sitting as though he had been stung, started looking around uneasily, went up to the banister and looked down. By this time Margarita and her escort were already by the doors of apartment No. 50. They did not bother ringing. Azazello opened the door noiselessly with his own key.

The first thing that struck Margarita was the darkness in which she found herself. It was dark like in a cellar, so that, afraid of stumbling, she involuntarily caught hold of Azazello’s cloak. But at this point, in the distance and on high, the light of a little lamp of some sort began to twinkle and started coming closer. As they walked, Azazello took the broomstick out from under Margarita’s arm, and it disappeared without a sound in the darkness. Here they started going up some wide steps, and it began to seem to Margarita that there would be no end to them. She was amazed at how this extraordinary, invisible but very tangible, endless staircase could fit into the entrance hall of an ordinary Moscow apartment. But the ascent ended, and Margarita realized she was standing on a landing. The light came right up close, and Margarita saw the illuminated face of a man, lanky and dark, holding that same lamp in his hand. Those who had already had the misfortune to cross his path during these days, even by the weak light of the little tongue in the lamp, would, of course, have recognized him immediately. It was Korovyev, otherwise known as Fagot.

True, Korovyev’s appearance had changed greatly. The twinkling light was reflected not in a cracked pince-nez that should have been thrown out onto the rubbish heap long ago, but in a monocle – true, also cracked. The little moustache on his impudent face was curled up and pomaded, and Korovyev’s blackness was very simply explained – he was wearing tails. Only his chest was white.

The magician, precentor, enchanter, interpreter, or the devil knows what really – in a word, Korovyev – bowed and, making a wide sweep through the air with the lamp, invited Margarita to follow him. Azazello disappeared.

“What an amazingly strange evening,” thought Margarita. “I was expecting anything, but not this! Has their electricity gone off or something? But the most astonishing thing is the size of this place. How can all this squeeze into a Moscow apartment? Quite simply, there’s no way it can!”

However little the light given off by Korovyev’s lamp, Margarita realized that she was in a quite immense hall, and, what is more, with a colonnade, dark and, from her first impression, endless. Korovyev stopped beside some sort of little couch; he set his lamp down on some sort of pedestal and invited Margarita with a gesture to sit down, while he positioned himself in a picturesque pose alongside, leaning on the pedestal.

“Allow me to introduce myself to you,” Korovyev squeaked. “Korovyev. You’re surprised there’s no light? An economy, as you thought, of course? Oh no! May the first executioner I come across – perhaps one of those who, a little later on today, will have the honour of kissing your knee – may he chop my head off on this very pedestal if that’s the case. Simply Messire doesn’t like electric light, and we’ll put it on at the very last moment. And then, believe me, there’ll be no shortage of it. Maybe it would even be a good thing if there were to be a little less of it.”

Margarita liked Korovyev, and his babbling chatter had a soothing effect upon her.

“No,” replied Margarita, “more than anything I’m amazed at how all this fits.” She waved her arm, thus emphasizing the boundlessness of the hall.

Korovyev grinned sweetly, which made the shadows move in the lines by his nose.

“The simplest thing of all!” he replied. “For those who are really familiar with the fifth dimension it s nothing at all to extend a space to the desired limits. I’ll say more, respected madam: to the devil knows what limits! Incidentally,” Korovyev continued chattering, “I’ve known people who’ve had no idea not only about the fifth dimension, but who’ve had no idea generally about anything at all, and who have nevertheless done absolute wonders as regards expanding their space. So, for example, one city dweller, as I’ve been told, after getting a three-room apartment on Zemlyanoi Bank, without any fifth dimension or other stuff that leaves you at your wit’s end, instantly turned it into a four-room apartment by dividing one of the rooms in half with a partition. Thereupon he exchanged that one for two self-contained apartments in different districts of Moscow – one of three, and the other of two rooms. You must agree that there were now five of them. The three-roomed apartment he exchanged for two selfcontained ones with two rooms each, and he became the owner, as you can see for yourself, of six rooms – scattered, it’s true, in total disorder across the whole of Moscow. He was already preparing to make the final and most brilliant leap, having placed an advertisement in a newspaper about exchanging six rooms in various districts of Moscow for one five-roomed apartment on Zemlyanoi Bank, when, for reasons beyond his control, his activities ceased. It’s possible he does have one room now, only I can assure you it isn’t in Moscow. There, what a wheeler-dealer, and there’s you talking about the fifth dimension!”

Though she had not been the one talking about the fifth dimension – Korovyev himself had been talking about it – Margarita laughed merrily after listening to the story about the adventures of the accommodation wheeler-dealer. Korovyev, though, continued:

“But to business, to business, Margarita Nikolayevna. You’re a most intelligent woman and, of course, have already guessed who our host is.”

Margarita’s heart gave a thump, and she nodded her head.

“Well, right then, right then,” said Korovyev, “we’re against any sort of mystery or lack of clarity. Every year Messire gives one ball. It’s called the Spring Ball of the Full Moon, or the Ball of the Hundred Kings. The number of people!” Here Korovyev took hold of his cheek as though a tooth had started aching. “Still, I hope you’ll find that out for yourself. So, then: Messire is a bachelor, as you can, of course, understand for yourself. But a hostess is required” – Korovyev spread out his arms – “you must agree, without a hostess…”

Margarita listened to Korovyev, trying not to miss a word; there was a cold feeling beneath her heart, and hopes of happiness were making her head spin.

“A tradition has been established,” Korovyev carried on speaking, “the hostess of the ball should without fail bear the name Margarita, firstly, and secondly, she should be locally born. And as you can see, we travel, and are at the present time in Moscow, and, can you believe it” – here Korovyev slapped himself on the thigh in despair – “not one is suitable! And, finally, happy fate…”

Korovyev grinned expressively, inclining his torso, and again Margarita’s heart turned cold.

“In brief!” exclaimed Korovyev. “Really briefly: will you be so kind as to take this duty upon yourself?”

“I will,” Margarita replied firmly.

“It’s settled!” said Korovyev and, picking up the lamp, added: “Please follow me.”

They set off between the columns and finally made their way out into some other hall, in which for some reason there was a strong smell of lemons, where rustling of some sort could be heard and where something caught Margarita on the head. She flinched.

“Don’t be scared,” Korovyev soothed Margarita sweetly, taking her by the arm, “Behemoth’s contrivances for the ball, nothing more. And in general, Margarita Nikolayevna, I’ll permit myself the audacity of advising you not to be afraid of anything at any time. It’s unwise. The ball will be sumptuous, I wouldn’t think of concealing that from you. We shall see persons, the extent of whose power was in its time extremely great. But truly, when you think of how microscopically small their potentialities were in comparison to those of the one in whose retinue I have the honour to serve, it becomes funny and even, I would say, sad. And you are yourself, moreover, of royal blood.”

“Why of royal blood?” Margarita whispered in fright, pressing up close to Korovyev.

“Ah, my Queen,” Korovyev jabbered playfully, “questions of blood are the most complex questions in the world! And if one were to question certain great-grandmothers, and in particular those of them who had a reputation for being meek and mild, the most astonishing secrets would be revealed, respected Margarita Nikolayevna. I shan’t err in the slightest if, in talking about this, I refer to a peculiarly shuffled pack of cards. There are things in which class barriers and even the boundaries between states are completely ineffective. I’ll give you a hint: one of the queens of France who lived in the sixteenth century would, one must assume, have been very surprised if someone had told her that I, after the passage of many years, would be leading her delightful great-great-great-great-granddaughter by the arm through ballrooms in Moscow. But we’ve arrived!”

Here Korovyev blew out his lamp, which vanished from his hands, and Margarita saw a strip of light lying on the floor in front of her beneath some sort of dark door. And it was at this door that Korovyev quietly knocked. At this point Margarita became so agitated that her teeth began chattering and a chill ran down her spine.

The door opened. The room proved to be very small. Margarita saw a wide oak bed with creased and crumpled dirty sheets and pillows. In front of the bed stood an oak table with carved legs on which was a candelabrum with sockets in the form of birds’ clawed feet. In these seven gold feet burned thick wax candles. Apart from that, on a little table there was a large chessboard with pieces made with unusual skill. On a small threadbare rug stood a low bench. There was one more table with some sort of gold goblet and another candelabrum, whose branches were made in the form of snakes. The room smelt of sulphur and pitch. Shadows from the lights criss-crossed on the floor.

Among those present Margarita immediately recognized Azazello, now already dressed in a tailcoat and standing by the bedhead. Got up smartly, Azazello no longer resembled the villain in whose guise he had appeared to Margarita in the Alexandrovsky Garden, and he bowed to Margarita extremely gallantly.

A naked witch, that same Hella who had so embarrassed the respectable barman from the Variety, and, alas, that same one who, by great good fortune, had been scared off by the cockerel on the night of the celebrated show, was sitting on a rug on the floor by the bed, stirring something in a saucepan which was belching out sulphurous steam.

In the room, apart from them, there was also the most enormous great black tomcat, sitting on a high stool in front of the chess table and holding a knight in his right paw.

Hella rose and bowed to Margarita. The cat did the same too, slipping down from the stool. While scraping his right hind leg, he dropped the knight, and crawled after it underneath the bed.

Frozen to the spot in terror, Margarita somehow made all this out in the treacherous shadows from the candles. Her gaze was drawn to the bed, on which sat the one whom poor Ivan had been trying to convince, still very recently at Patriarch’s, that the Devil did not exist. It was this non-existent one that sat on the bed.

Two eyes were firmly fixed on Margarita’s face: the right one, with a gold spark in its depths, that drilled through to the bottom of anyone’s soul, and the left one, empty and black, like the narrow eye of a needle, like the entrance to a bottomless well of all kinds of darkness and shadows. Woland’s face was twisted to one side; the right-hand corner of his mouth was drawn downwards, and on his high, bald brow deep wrinkles had been incised parallel to his sharp eyebrows. It was as if the skin on Woland’s face had been burnt for ever by the sun.

Woland was sprawled out wide on the bed, and he was dressed in just a long nightshirt, dirty and patched on the left shoulder. One bare leg he had bent up beneath him, the other he had stretched out onto a bench. And the knee of this dark leg was being rubbed with some smoking ointment by Hella.

Margarita also made out – on a gold chain on Woland’s exposed, hairless chest – a beetle, skilfully carved out of dark stone and with characters of some sort on its back. On a heavy base next to Woland on the bed stood a strange globe that seemed to be alive and was lit up on one side by the sun.

The silence lasted several seconds. “He’s studying me,” Margarita thought, and with an effort of will tried to control the trembling in her legs.

Finally Woland began to speak, smiling, which made his sparkling eye seem to flare up:

“I greet you, my Queen, and beg you to forgive me my domestic attire.”

Woland’s voice was so low that on some syllables it was drawn out into a hoarse wheeze.

Woland picked up a long sword from the bedding, bent down, moved it about under the bed and said:

“Come out! The game’s cancelled. Our guest has arrived.”

“Not at all,” Korovyev whistled anxiously in Margarita’s ear like a prompter.

“Not at all…” Margarita began.

“Messire…” Korovyev breathed into her ear.

“Not at all, Messire,” Margarita replied quietly but clearly, getting the better of herself, and added with a smile: “I implore you not to interrupt the game. I imagine the chess magazines would pay pretty good money if they had the opportunity to publish it.”

Azazello gave a quiet grunt of approval, while Woland, gazing attentively at Margarita, remarked as though to himself:

“Yes, Korovyev’s right. How peculiarly the pack is shuffled! Blood!”

He stretched out his hand and beckoned Margarita towards him. She approached, not feeling the floor beneath her bare feet. Woland placed his hand, heavy as though of stone, and at the same time hot like fire, on Margarita’s shoulder, jerked her towards him and sat her down on the bed next to him.

“Well, now if you’re so charmingly courteous,” he said, “and I expected nothing different, then we won’t stand on ceremony.” He again bent down towards the edge of the bed and shouted: “Will this farce underneath the bed be going on much longer? Come out, you damned Gans!”

“I can’t find the knight,” the cat responded from under the bed in a strangulated and insincere voice, “he’s galloped off somewhere, and instead of him I keep coming across some frog.”

“Do you imagine you’re at a fairground?” asked Woland, pretending to be angry. “There was no frog under the bed! Keep these cheap tricks for the Variety. If you don’t reappear straight away, we’ll consider you to have resigned, you damned deserter.”

“Not at any price, Messire!” the cat yelled, and that same instant crawled out from under the bed, holding the knight in his paw.

“May I introduce…” Woland made to begin, but then interrupted himself: “No, I can’t bear to look at this buffoon. Look what he’s turned himself into under the bed!”

Standing on his hind legs and covered in dust, the cat was meanwhile bowing in greeting before Margarita. Around the cat’s neck there was now a white dress tie, done up in a bow, and on his chest a lady’s mother-of-pearl opera glass on a strap. In addition, the cat’s whiskers were gilt.

“Now, what’s all this?” exclaimed Woland. “Why have you gilded your whiskers? And why the devil do you need a tie if you’ve got no trousers on?”

“A cat isn’t meant to wear trousers, Messire,” replied the cat with great dignity. “Perhaps you’ll require me to don boots as well? Only in fairy tales is there a puss in boots, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a tie? I don’t intend to find myself in a comical situation and risk being thrown out on my ear! Everyone adorns himself in whatever way he can. Consider what has been said to apply to the opera glass too, Messire!”

“But the whiskers?”

“I don’t understand why,” retorted the cat drily, “when shaving today, Azazello and Korovyev could sprinkle themselves with white powder – and in what way it s better than the gold? I’ve powdered my whiskers, that’s all! It would be a different matter if I’d shaved! A shaved cat – now that really is a shocker, I’m happy to admit it a thousand times. But in general” – here the cat’s voice quavered touchily, “I can see there’s a certain amount of fault-finding being applied to me, and I can see there’s a serious problem before me – should I attend the ball at all? What will you say to me on that score, Messire?”

And the cat puffed himself up in resentment to such an extent that one second more, it seemed, and he would burst.

“Oh, the rogue, the rogue,” said Woland, shaking his head, “every time he’s in a hopeless position in the game he starts talking to distract you, like the very worst charlatan on the bridge. Sit down immediately and stop this verbal diarrhoea.”

“I will sit down,” replied the cat, sitting down, “but I must object with regard to the final point. My speeches are by no means diarrhoea, as you’re so good as to express yourself in the presence of a lady, but a series of soundly packaged syllogisms, which would be appreciated on their merits by such connoisseurs as Sextus Empiricus, Martianus Capella or even, who knows, Aristotle himself.”

“The king’s in check,” said Woland.

“As you will, as you will,” responded the cat, and began looking at the board through the opera glass.

“And so,” said, Woland, turning to Margarita, “may I introduce you, donna, to my retinue. This one playing the fool is Behemoth the cat. Azazello and Korovyev you’ve already met, but let me introduce my maidservant Hella. Efficient, quick on the uptake, and there’s no service she couldn’t manage to render.”

The beautiful Hella smiled, turning her green-tinged eyes towards Margarita, but without ceasing to scoop up the ointment by the handful and apply it to the knee.

“Well, and that’s everyone,” Woland concluded, and frowned as Hella gave his knee a particularly firm squeeze, “a small company, as you can see, mixed and unsophisticated.” He fell silent and began turning before him his globe, which was so skilfully made that the blue oceans upon it moved, and a cap lay on the pole, like the real one, of ice and snow.

On the chessboard, meanwhile, there was a commotion. Utterly distraught, the king in the white cloak was stamping about on his square and throwing his arms up in despair. Three white landsknecht pawns with halberds were looking in dismay at an officer who was brandishing a sword and pointing ahead to where, on adjoining squares, white and black, Woland’s black horsemen could be seen on two mettlesome steeds, pawing the squares with their hoofs.

Margarita was extremely intrigued and struck by the fact that the chess pieces were alive.

Moving the opera glass away from his eyes, the cat gently nudged his king in the back. The latter covered his face with his hands in despair.

“Things are looking bad, dear Behemoth,” Korovyev said quietly in a venomous voice.

“The position is serious, but by no means hopeless,” responded Behemoth, “more than that: I’m absolutely certain of ultimate victory. One has but to analyse the position thoroughly.”

He began to carry out this analysis in quite a strange manner, namely, he started pulling faces of some kind and winking at his king.

“Nothing helps,” remarked Korovyev.

“Oh!” exclaimed Behemoth. “The parrots have scattered, just what I predicted!”

Somewhere in the distance the noise of numerous wings could indeed be heard. Korovyev and Azazello rushed out.

“Oh, the devil take you with your bright ideas for the ball!” growled Woland, still not tearing himself away from his globe.

As soon as Korovyev and Azazello had disappeared, Behemoth’s winking assumed intensified proportions. The white king finally guessed what was wanted of him. He suddenly pulled off his cloak, dropped it onto the square and fled from the board. The officer threw on the king’s abandoned garb and took the king’s place.

Korovyev and Azazello returned.

“Twaddle, as always,” grumbled Azazello, looking askanceat Behemoth.

“I thought I heard something,” replied the cat.

“Well then, how much longer is this going to last?” asked Woland. “The king's in check.”

“I must have misheard, my maître," replied the cat, “the king isn’t, and can’t be in check.”

“I repeat, the king’s in check.”

“Messire,” responded the cat in a falsely anxious voice, “you’re overtired: the king isn’t in check!”

“The king is on square G2,” said Woland without looking at the board.

“Messire, I’m horrified!” the cat howled, reflecting horror on his face. “There’s no king on that square!”

“What’s that?” Woland asked in perplexity, and began looking at the board, where the officer standing on the king’s square was turning away and shielding himself with his arm.

“Oh, you wretch,” said Woland pensively.

“Messire! I turn anew to logic,” began the cat, pressing his paws to his chest. “If a player announces the king is in check, but there is, meanwhile, no longer even a trace of him on the board, the check is declared invalid.”

“Do you resign, or not?” cried Woland in a terrible voice.

“Allow me to have a think,” the cat replied meekly, putting his elbows on the table, burying his ears in his paws and beginning to think. He thought for a long time, and finally said: “I resign.”

“Kill the obstinate creature,” whispered Azazello.

“Yes, I resign,” said the cat, “but I do so solely because I cannot play in an atmosphere of persecution on the part of the envious!” He rose, and the chess pieces climbed into their box.

“Hella, it’s time,” said Woland, and Hella vanished from the room. “My leg’s started hurting, and now there’s this ball…” Woland continued.

“Allow me,” Margarita requested quietly.

Woland gazed at her intently and moved his knee towards her.

The sludge, hot as lava, burned her hands, but Margarita rubbed it into his knee without making a face, trying not to cause any pain.

“My retainers assert that it’s rheumatism,” said Woland, not taking his eyes off Margarita, “but I strongly suspect that this pain in the knee was left me as a memento by a charming witch with whom I became closely acquainted in 1571 in the Brocken Mountains, on the Devil’s Pulpit.”

“Oh, can that really be so!” said Margarita.

“It’s nothing! It’ll pass in three hundred years or so. I’ve been advised to use a multitude of medicines, but I stick to granny’s methods in the old-fashioned way. That vile old woman, my grandmother, bequeathed some amazing herbs! Incidentally, tell me, do you suffer from anything? Perhaps you have some sadness, some anguish that poisons your soul?”

“No, Messire, there’s nothing of that sort,” clever Margarita replied, “and now that I’m here with you, I feel absolutely fine.”

“Blood’s a great thing,” Woland said cheerfully to who knows whom, and added: “I see my globe interests you.”

“Oh yes, I’ve never seen such a thing.”

“It’s a nice little thing. To be frank, I don’t like the news on the radio. It’s always read by girls of some sort who pronounce the place names incomprehensibly. What’s more, one in three of them has a slight speech impediment, as though they’re chosen deliberately. My globe is much more convenient, especially as I need to know about events precisely. Here, for example, you see this bit of land whose side is washed by the ocean? Look, there it goes, filling with fire. A war has started there. If you move your eyes closer, you’ll see the details too.”

Margarita bent down towards the globe and saw that the little square of land had expanded, had been painted in many colours and had turned into a sort of relief map. And then she saw the ribbon of a river too, and some sort of settlement beside it. A house which had been the size of a pea grew and became like a matchbox. Suddenly and soundlessly the roof of this house flew upwards, together with a cloud of black smoke, while the walls collapsed, so that nothing remained of the two-storey box other than a little heap from which black smoke poured. Moving her eye still closer, Margarita made out a small female figure lying on the ground and, in a pool of blood beside her, a small child with its arms thrown out.

“And that’s that,” said Woland, smiling, “it didn’t have the time to sin. Abadonna’s work is impeccable.”

“I wouldn’t want to be on the side this Abadonna is against,” said Margarita. “Whose side is he on?”

“The longer I talk with you,” Woland responded courteously, “the more convinced I am that you’re very intelligent. I can reassure you. He is uncommonly impartial and is equally sympathetic to both warring sides. As a consequence of this, the results for both sides are always identical too. Abadonna!” Woland called softly, and at once from out of the wall there appeared the figure of a thin man in dark glasses. These glasses made such a powerful impression on Margarita that, with a little cry, she buried her face in Woland’s leg. “Now stop it!” cried Woland. “How nervy modern people are!” He took a swing and slapped Margarita on the back so that a tingling ran through her body. “You can see, can’t you, that he’s wearing his glasses. What’s more, there’s never been an instance, nor will there be, of Abadonna appearing before anybody prematurely. And then, finally, I’m here. You’re my guest! I simply wanted to show him to you.”

Abadonna stood motionless.

“And is it possible for him to take his glasses off for a second?” Margarita asked, nestling up to Woland and shuddering, but now out of curiosity.

“Now that isn’t possible,” Woland replied gravely, waving his hand at Abadonna, and the latter was gone. “What do you want to say, Azazello?”

“Messire,” replied Azazello, “allow me to tell you. There are two strangers here: a beautiful woman, who’s snivelling and begging to be left with her mistress, and as well as that, with her, I beg your pardon, is her hog.”

“Beautiful women do behave strangely,” remarked Woland.

“It’s Natasha, Natasha!” exclaimed Margarita.

“Well, leave her with her mistress. And the hog – to the cooks.”

“To be stuck?” cried Margarita in fright. “For pity’s sake, Messire, it’s Nikolai Ivanovich, the tenant downstairs. There’s a misunderstanding here, you see, she daubed him with the cream…”

“But forgive me,” said Woland, “who’s going to stick him, and what the devil for? Let him sit with the cooks, that’s all! I can’t let him into the ballroom, you must agree!”

“Of course not.” Azazello added, and announced: “Midnight approaches, Messire.”

“Ah, good.” Woland turned to Margarita: “And so, please. My thanks in advance. Don’t get flustered and don’t be afraid of anything. Don’t drink anything except water, or else you’ll become languid and you’ll find things difficult. It’s time!”

Margarita got up from the rug, and then Korovyev appeared in the doorway.