peal to you! This  poor man '--Koroviev put a tremor  into his
voice and  pointed  at  Behemoth,  who  had  immediately assumed  a pathetic
expression--' this poor man has been mending a Primus all day. He's hungry .
. . where could he get any foreign currency? '
     Pavel Yosifovich, usually calm and reserved, shouted grimly:
     'Shut up, you! ' and gave another impatient wave of his arm. Just then
the  automatic  bell on the  door  gave a cheerful tinkle.  Koroviev,  quite
undisturbed by the manager's remark, went on:
     'I  ask you--where? He's racked with  hunger and  thirst, he's hot. So
the  poor  fellow tried a tangerine. It's only worth  three  kopecks at  the
most,  but  they have to  start whistling  like nightingales  in springtime,
bothering the police and stopping them from doing their proper job. But it's
all right for him isn't it?! '
     Koroviev pointed at the fat man in the fawn coat, who exhibited violent
alarm. ' Who is  he? Mm?  Where's he from? Why is he here? Were we dying  of
boredom  without  him?  Did we  invite  him?  Of  course  not! '  roared the
ex-choirmaster, his  mouth twisted into a sarcastic leer.  ' Look at him--in
his smart fawn coat, bloated with good Russian salmon, pockets bulging  with
currency, and what about our poor comrade here? What about him, I ask you? '
wailed Koroviev, completely overcome by his own oratory.
     This ridiculous, tactless  and doubtless politically  dangerous  speech
made Pavel Yosifovich shake with  rage, but strangely  enough  it was  clear
from the looks of the  customers that  many of them approved of it. And when
Behemoth, wiping his eyes with a ragged cuff, cried tragically: ' Thank you,
friend,  for  speaking  up  for  a  poor man,' a miracle happened.  A quiet,
dignified, little old man,  shabbily but neatly dressed, who had been buying
three macaroons at the pastry  counter,  was suddenly transformed.  His eyes
flashed fire, he turned  purple, threw his bagfull of macaroons  on  to  the
floor and shouted in a thin, childish voice : ' He's right! ' Then he picked
up  a tray, threw away the  remains of the chocolate-bar  Eiffel Tower  that
Behemoth had ruined, waved it about, pulled off the foreigner's hat with his
left hand, swung the tray with his right and brought it down with a crash on
the fawn man's balding  head. There was a noise  of the kind  you hear  when
sheet steel is thrown down from a lorry. Turning pale, the fat man staggered
and fell backwards into the barrel of salted herrings, sending up a fountain
of brine and fish-scales. This produced  a second miracle.  As the fawn  man
fell into the barrel of fish he screamed in  perfect Russian without a trace
of an accent:
     'Help! Murder! They're  trying to kill me! ' The  shock had  obviously
given him sudden command of a hitherto unknown language.
     The  porter had by  now  stopped  whistling and  through  the crowd  of
excited customers could be seen the approach of two police helmets. But  the
cunning Behemoth  poured paraffin from  the Primus on to the counter  and it
burst spontaneously  into  flame. It  flared up and ran  along  the counter,
devouring  the beautiful paper ribbons decorating the  baskets of fruit. The
salesgirls leaped  over  the  counter and  ran away  screaming as the flames
caught  the  blinds on the windows  and more paraffin caught  alight on  the
floor.
     With  a  shriek   of  horror  the  customers   shuffled  out   of   the
confectionery, sweeping  aside the helpless Pavel Yosifovich, while the fish
salesmen galloped away  towards the staff  door, clutching their razor-sharp
knives.
     Heaving himself out of the barrel the fawn man, covered in salt-herring
juice, staggered past the salmon counter and followed the crowd. There was a
tinkling and  crashing of  glass at the doorway as  the public fought to get
out,  whilst  the  two  villains,  Koroviev  and  the  gluttonous  Behemoth,
disappeared, no  one knew where. Later, witnesses described having seen them
float up to the ceiling and then burst like a couple of balloons. This story
sounds  too dubious for belief and we shall  probably never know what really
happened.
     We  do know however  that exactly a minute later Behemoth and  Koroviev
were seen on the boulevard pavement  just outside Griboyedov House. Koroviev
stopped by the railings and said:
     'Look, there's the writers' club. You know. Behemoth, that house has a
great reputation. Look  at it, my friend.  How lovely to  think  of  so much
talent ripening under that roof.'
     'Like pineapples in a hothouse,' said Behemoth, climbing up  on to the
concrete  plinth of the railings for a better look at the yellow, colonnaded
house.
     'Quite so,' agreed his  inseparable companion Koroviev, '  and  what a
delicious thrill one gets, doesn't one, to think that at this moment in that
house there  may  be  the future author of a Don Quixote, or a Faust  or who
knows--Dead Souls? '
     'It could easily happen,' said Behemoth.
     'Yes,' Koroviev went on, wagging a warning finger, ' but-- but, I say,
and I repeat--but! . . provided that those hothouse growths are not attacked
by some microorganism, provided they're not nipped in the bud, provided they
don't rot!  And  it can happen with  pineapples, you know! Ah,  yes,  it can
happen!'
     'Frightening thought,' said Behemoth.
     'Yes,' Koroviev went on, ' think  what astonishing growths may  sprout
from the seedbeds of  that house and its thousands of devotees of Melpomene,
Polyhymnia and Thalia. Just  imagine  the  furore if  one  of them  were  to
present  the reading public with a Government Inspector or at least a Eugene
Onegm!'
     'By the way,' enquired the cat poking its round head through a  gap in
the railings. ' what are they doing on the verandah? '
     'Eating,'  explained Koroviev. '  I should add  that  this place has a
very decent, cheap restaurant. And now that I  think of it, like any tourist
starting on  a long  journey I wouldn't mind  a snack and large mug  of iced
beer.'
     'Nor would I,' said Behemoth and the two rogues set off under the lime
trees and up the asphalt path towards the unsuspecting restaurant.
     A pale, bored  woman in white ankle-socks and  a white  tasselled beret
was sitting on a bentwood  chair  at  the  corner  entrance to the verandah,
where there was an opening in the creeper-grown trellis. In front  of her on
a plain kitchen table lay a large book like a  ledger, in which for no known
reason the  woman wrote the names of the people entering the restaurant. She
stopped Koroviev and Behemoth.
     'Your membership cards?' she said,  staring in surprise  at Koroviev's
pince-nez, at Behemoth's Primus and grazed elbow.
     'A  thousand apologies, madam, but  what membership  cards?  '  asked
Koroviev in astonishment.
     'Are you writers? ' asked the woman in return.
     'Indubitably,' replied Koroviev with dignity.
     'Where are your membership cards? ' the woman repeated.
     'Dear lady . . .' Koroviev began tenderly.
     'I'm not a dear lady,' interrupted the woman.
     'Oh, what a shame,' said Koroviev in a disappointed  voice and went on
:  '  Well,  if you  don't  want to be  a dear  lady, which  would have been
delightful, you have every right not to be.  But look here--if you wanted to
make  sure that Dostoyevsky was  a writer,  would you really ask him for his
membership  card? Why, you  only have to take  any five pages of  one of his
novels and you won't need a membership card to convince you that the man's a
writer. I don't suppose he ever had a membership card,  anyway I What do you
think?' said Koroviev, turning to Behemoth.
     'I'll bet he never  had one,'  replied the cat, putting the  Primus on
the table and wiping the sweat from its brow with its paw.
     ‘ You're not Dostoyevsky,' said the woman to Koroviev.
     ‘ How do you know? '
     'Dostoyevsky's dead,' said the woman, though not very confidently.
     'I protest! ' exclaimed Behemoth warmly. ' Dostoyevsky is immortal!'
     'Your membership cards, please,' said the woman.
     'This is really  all  rather funny! ' said  Koroviev, refusing to give
up. 'A writer isn't a writer because he has a membership card but because he
writes. How do you know what bright ideas may not be swarming in my head? Or
in his head? ' And he pointed at Behemoth's head. The cat removed its cap to
give the woman a better look at its head. '  Stand back,  please,' she said,
irritated.
     Koroviev  and Behemoth stood aside and made way  for a writer in a grey
suit  and a white summer shirt  with  the  collar turned out over his jacket
collar, no tie and a newspaper under his arm. The writer nodded to the woman
and scribbled a flourish in the book as he passed through to the verandah.
     'We can't,' said  Koroviev sadly,' but he can have  that  mug  of cold
beer which  you and I,  poor  wanderers, were so longing for. We  are  in an
unhappy position and I see no way out.'
     Behemoth only spread  his  paws bitterly  and put  his  cap back on his
thick head of hair that much resembled cat's fur.
     At that moment a quiet but authoritative voice said to the woman :
     'Let them in, Sofia Pavlovna.'
     The woman with  the ledger looked up  in astonishment. From  behind the
trellis foliage  loomed  the  pirate's  white  shirt-front  and wedge-shaped
beard. He greeted the two ruffians with a  welcoming look  and even  went so
far as to beckon them  on. Archibald Archibaldovich made his  authority felt
in this restaurant and Sofia Pavlovna obediently asked Koroviev :
     'What is your name? '
     'Panayev,'  was the polite  reply. The woman wrote down  the name and
raised her questioning glance to Behemoth.
     'Skabichevsky,'  squeaked  the cat,  for some  reason pointing to his
Primus. Sofia Pavlovna inscribed this name too and pushed the ledger forward
for the two visitors to sign.  Koroviev wrote ' Skabichevsky'  opposite  the
name ' Panayev' and Behemoth wrote ' Panayev ' opposite ' Skabichevsky '.
     To Sofia Pavlovna's utter  surprise Archibald Archibaldovich gave her a
seductive  smile, led  his guests to the best table on  the far  side of the
verandah where there was the most shade, where the sunlight danced round the
table  through one of the gaps  in the  trellis.  Blinking with  perplexity,
Sofia Pavlovna stared for a long time at the two curious signatures.
     The waiters were no less surprised. Archibald Archibaldovich personally
moved the chairs back from the table, invited Koroviev to be seated,  winked
at  one, whispered  to the other,  while two  waiters fussed around  the new
arrivals, one of  whom  put his Primus on the floor beside his reddish-brown
boot.
     The  old  stained  tabledoth  vanished  instantly  from the  table  and
another, whiter than  a bedouin's  burnous,  flashed through  the  air in  a
crackle of starch as  Archibald Archibaldovich  whispered,  softly, but most
expressively, into Koroviev's ear :
     'What can I offer you? I've a rather special fillet of smoked sturgeon
... I managed to save it from the architectural congress banquet...'
     'Er . . .  just bring us some hors  d'oeuvres . .  .' boomed Koroviev
patronisingly, sprawling in his chair.
     'Of  course,' replied  Archibald  Archibaldovich,  closing his eyes in
exquisite comprehension.
     Seeing how the maitre  d'hotel was  treating these two dubious  guests,
the waiters abandoned  their suspicions and  set about their work seriously.
One offered a match to  Behemoth, who had taken a butt-end out of his pocket
and  stuck it in his mouth, another advanced in a tinkle  of green glass and
laid out tumblers,  claret-glasses and those tall-stemmed white wine glasses
which are so perfect  for drinking  a sparkling  wine under the  awning-- or
rather,  moving  on  in  time,  which  used to  be so  perfect  for drinking
sparkling wine under the verandah awning at Griboyedov.
     'A little breast of grouse,  perhaps? ' said Archibald Archibaldovich
in  a musical purr. The guest in the shaky pince-nez thoroughly approved the
pirate captain's suggestion and beamed at him through his one useless lens.
     Petrakov-Sukhovei, the  essayist, was dining at the next table with his
wife  and  had  just  finished  eating a  pork chop.  With typical  writer's
curiosity  he had noticed the  fuss that Archibald Archibaldovich was making
and was  extremely surprised. His  wife, a most dignified lady, felt jealous
of the pirate's attention to Koroviev and tapped her glass with a spoon as a
sign  of impatience .  .  .  where's my ice-cream? What's  happened  to  the
service?   With   a   flattering   smile  at  Madame   Petrakov,   Archibald
Archibaldovich sent  a  waiter  to her  and  stayed  with  his  two  special
customers. Archibald Archibaldovich was not only intelligent;
     he was at least as observant as any writer. He knew all  about the show
at the Variety and much else besides ; he  had heard, and unlike most people
he  had  not  forgotten,  the   words'  checks  '  and  '  cat'.   Archibald
Archibaldovich had immediately  guessed who his  clients  were and realising
this,  he was  not  going to  risk having an  argument with  them. And Sofia
Pavlovna had tried to stop them coming on  to the verandah! Still, what else
could you expect from her. . . .
     Haughtily  spooning up her  melting  ice-cream, Madame Petrakov watched
disagreeably as the table,  occupied by  what appeared  to be  a  couple  of
scarecrows,  was loaded with food  as  if by magic. A  bowl of fresh caviar,
garnished with sparkling  lettuce leaves  . . . another moment, and a silver
ice-bucket appeared on a special little side-table . . .
     Only when  he had made sure that all  was properly in hand and when the
waiters had brought a simmering chafing-dish,  did  Archibald Archibaldovich
allow himself to  leave  his  two mysterious  guests,  and then  only  after
whispering to them:
     'Please excuse me--I must go and attend to the grouse!'
     He fled from the table and disappeared inside the restaurant. If anyone
had observed what Archibald Archibaldovich did next, they might have thought
it rather strange.
     The  maitre  d'hotel  did  not make for  the kitchen  to attend  to the
grouse, but instead went straight to the larder. Opening it with his key, he
locked  himself in, lifted two  heavy fillets  of smoked sturgeon out of the
ice  box,  taking  care  not  to  dirty  his  shirt-cuffs, wrapped  them  in
newspaper, carefully tied them up with string and put them to one side. Then
he  went  next  door to check whether his silk-lined  overcoat and  hat were
there, and only  then did  he pass on to  the  kitchen, where  the  chef was
carefully slicing the breast of grouse.
     Odd though  Archibald Archibaldovich's movements  may have seemed, they
were  not,  and  would only have  seemed so to  a superficial  observer. His
actions were really  quite logical. His knowledge of recent events and above
all  his  phenomenal sixth  sense  told  the Griboyedov  maitre d'hotel that
although his two guests' meal would be plentiful and delicious, it would  be
extremely  short.  And this ex-buccaneer's sixth sense, which had  never yet
played him false, did not let him down this time, either.
     Just  as Koroviev  and  Behemoth were  clinking their second  glass  of
delicious, chilled,  double-filtered Moscow vodka, a journalist called  Boba
Kaudalupsky, famous  in  Moscow for  knowing  everything that was going  on,
arrived on the verandah sweating with excitement and immediately sat down at
the  Petrakovs' table. Dropping his bulging briefcase on the table, Boba put
his lips to Petrakov's ear and whispered some obviously fascinating piece of
news. Dying with curiosity, madame Petra-kov leaned her ear  towards  Boba's
thick, fleshy lips. With furtive glances the journalist whispered on and on,
just loud enough for occasional words to be heard :
     'I promise you! . . . Here,  on Sadovaya Street.  . .!  ' Boba lowered
his  voice again. '  . . . the  bullets couldn't hit  it  ... bullets . .  .
paraffin . . . fire . . . bullets . . .'
     'Well,  as  for  liars  who  spread rumours like that,'  came  madame
Petrakov's contralto boom, a shade too loud for Boba's liking, ' they're the
ones who should be shot!  And they would be if  I had my way. What a lot  of
dangerous rubbish! '
     'It's not rubbish Antonia Porfiryevna,' exclaimed Boba, piqued  at her
disbelief. He began hissing again: ' I tell you, bullets couldn't  touch it!
...  And now the building's on fire  . . . they floated out  through the air
... through the air!' whispered  Boba, never  suspecting that  the people he
was talking about were sitting  alongside  him and  thoroughly  enjoying the
situation.
     However, their enjoyment was soon cut short. Three men, tightly belted,
booted and armed with revolvers, dashed out of  the indoor restaurant and on
to the verandah. The man in front roared:
     ‘  Don't move!' and  instantly all three  opened  fire at the heads  of
Koroviev  and Behemoth. The two victims melted into  the air and a  sheet of
flame leaped up from the  Primus to the  awning. A gaping mouth with burning
edges appeared in the awning and began spreading in all directions. The fire
raced across it and reached the  roof of Griboyedov  House.  Some bundles of
paper lying on the second-floor windowsill of the editor's office burst into
flame,  which spread to a blind and then, as though someone had blown on it,
the fire was sucked, roaring, into the house.
     A  few  seconds  later  the  writers,  their  suppers  abandoned,  were
streaming along  the asphalted paths  leading to the iron railings along the
boulevard,  where on Wednesday  evening Ivan  had climbed  over to bring the
first incomprehensible news of disaster.
     Having  left  in  good time by  a side door, without running and  in no
hurry, like a captain  forced  to be  the  last to leave  his  flaming brig,
Archibald  Archibaldovich  calmly  stood and  watched  it all. He  wore  his
silk-lined overcoat and two fillets of smoked sturgeon were tucked under his
arm.




        29. The Fate of the Master and Margarita is Decided



     At sunset,  high above the town, on the stone roof  of one  of the most
beautiful buildings in Moscow, built about a  century and a  half ago, stood
two figures--Woland and Azazello. They were invisible from the street below,
hidden from  the vulgar  gaze by a balustrade adorned with stucco flowers in
stucco urns, although they could see almost to the limits of the city.
     Woland was sitting on a  folding stool, dressed in  his  black soutane.
His long,  broad-bladed  sword  had  been rammed  vertically into  the cleft
between two  flagstones,  making a sundial. Slowly and inexorably the shadow
of the  sword  was lengthening,  creeping  towards  Satan's  black slippers.
Resting  his sharp  chin  on his fist,  hunched  on  the stool with one  leg
crossed over the other, Woland  stared unwaveringly  at the vast panorama of
palaces, huge blocks of flats and condemned slum cottages.
     Azazello, without  his usual garb of jacket,  bowler and patent-leather
shoes and dressed instead like Woland in black, stood motionless at  a short
distance from his master, also staring at the city.
     Woland remarked:
     'An interesting city, Moscow, don't you think? '
     Azazello stirred and answered respectfully :
     'I prefer Rome, messire.'
     'Yes, it's a matter of taste,' replied Woland.
     After a while his voice rang out again:
     'What  is that  smoke  over there--on  the  boulevard? '  '  That  is
Griboyedov burning,' said Azazello.
     'I suppose that inseparable couple, Koroviev and  Behemoth, have been
there? '
     'Without a doubt, messire.'
     There was silence again and both figures on the roof stood watching the
setting sun  reflected  in  all  the westward-facing windows.  Woland's eyes
shone with the same fire, even though he sat with his back to the sunset.
     Then something made  Woland turn his attention to a round  tower behind
him  on the roof. From its walls appeared a grim,  ragged, mud-spattered man
with a beard, dressed in a chiton and home-made sandals.
     'Ha! ' exclaimed Wolaud, with a sneer at the approaching figure. ' You
are the  last person  I expected to see here. What  brings  you here, of all
people? '
     'I have come to see you, spirit of evil and lord of the  shadows,' the
man replied with a hostile glare at Woland.
     'Well, tax-gatherer, if  you've come to see me, why don't you wish me
well? '
     'Because I have no wish to see you well,' said the man impudently.
     'Then  I  am afraid  you will  have to reconcile yourself to my  good
health,' retorted Woland, his mouth twisted into a  grin.  ' As  soon as you
appeared  on  this roof  you made yourself ridiculous. It was  your tone  of
voice.  You spoke your words as though you denied  the very existence of the
shadows  or of evil. Think, now : where would your good be if there  were no
evil  and what would the world look  like without shadow? Shadows are thrown
by people and  things.  There's  the shadow  of my  sword, for instance. But
shadows are also cast by trees and  living things. Do you want  to strip the
whole  globe  by  removing every  tree  and every  creature  to satisfy your
fantasy of a bare world? You're stupid.'
     'I won't argue with you, old sophist,' replied Matthew the Levite.
     'You  are incapable of arguing  with  me for the reason I  have  just
mentioned--you are too stupid,' answered Woland and enquired: '  Now tell me
briefly and without boring me why you are here? '
     'He has sent me.'
     'What message did he give you, slave? '
     'I am not a slave,' replied Matthew the Levite, growing angrier,  '  I
am his disciple.'
     'You and I are speaking different  languages, as always,' said Woland,
' but that does not alter the things we are talking about. Well?'
     'He has read the master's  writings,' said  Matthew the Levite, '  and
asks you to take the master  with you and  reward him by granting him peace.
Would that be hard for you to do, spirit of evil?'
     'Nothing is  hard for me to do,' replied Woland, ' as  you well know.'
He paused for a while and then added : ' Why don't you take him yourself, to
the light? '
     'He has not earned light, he has earned rest,' said the Levite sadly.
     'Tell him it shall be done,' said Woland, adding  with a flash in his
eye : ' And leave me this instant.'
     'He asks you also to take the woman who loved him and who has suffered
for him,' Matthew said to  Woland, a note  of entreaty in his voice  for the
first time.
     'Do you think that we needed you to make us think of that? Go away.'
     Matthew the Levite vanished and Woland called to Azazello :
     'Go and see them and arrange it.'
     Azazello flew off, leaving Woland alone.
     He  was  not,  however, alone  for  long. The  sound of  footsteps  and
animated  voices  were  heard  along the  roof, and  Koroviev  and  Behemoth
appeared. This time the cat had no  Primus but was loaded with other things.
It  was carrying a small gold-framed landscape under one arm, a  half-burned
cook's apron in its paw, and  on  its  other arm was a whole salmon complete
with  skin  and  tail.  Both  Koroviev  and  Behemoth  smclled  of  burning.
Behemoth's face was covered in soot and his cap was badly burned.
     'Greetings, messire,' cried the tireless pair, and  Behemoth waved his
salmon.
     'You're a fine couple,' said Woland.
     'Imagine, messire! ' cried  Behemoth excitedly : ' they thought I  was
looting! '
     'Judging by that stuff,' replied Woland with a glance at the painting,
' they were right.'
     'Believe me, messire .  . .'  the  cat began in an  urgently  sincere
voice.
     'No, I don't believe you,' was Woland's short answer.
     'Messire, I  swear I  made heroic efforts to save everything I  could,
but this was all that was left.'
     ‘ It would be more  interesting  if  you were to explain why Griboyedov
caught fire in the first place.'
     Simultaneously  Koroviev and  Behemoth  spread  their hands  and raised
their eyes to heaven. Behemoth  exclaimed: '  It's a complete mystery! There
we  were, harming  no one, sitting  quietly having a drink and a bite to eat
when . . .'
     '. .  . Suddenly--bang, bang, bang! We  were being shot at! Crazed with
fright Behemoth  and I  started running for the street, our pursuers  behind
us, and we made for Timiryazev! '
     'But a sense of duty,' put in Behemoth,  ' overcame  our cowardice and
we went back.'
     'Ah, you went back  did you? ' said Woland.  ' By then, of course, the
whole house was burnt to a cinder.'
     'To a cinder! ' Koroviev nodded sadly. ' Literally to a cinder, as you
so accurately put it. Nothing but smouldering ashes.'
     'I rushed  into the assembly hall,' said  Behemoth, '--the col-onnaded
room, messire--in case I could  save something  valuable. Ah,  messire, if I
had a wife she would have been nearly widowed at least twenty times! Luckily
I'm not  married and  believe me I'm glad. Who'd exchange a  bachelor's life
for a yoke round his neck?'
     'More of his rubbish,' muttered Woland with a resigned glance upwards.
     'Messire,  I promise to keep  to the  point,' said the cat. ' As I was
saying--I  could only  save  this  little landscape.  There was  no  time to
salvage anything else, the  flames were singeing my fur. I ran to the larder
and  rescued this salmon, and  into  the kitchen where  I found  this chef's
overall. I consider I  did  everything  I  could,  messire,  and  I  fail to
understand the sceptical expression on your face.'
     'And  what was  Koroviev  doing  while you  were  looting? ' enquired
Woland.
     'I was helping the fire brigade, messire,' answered Koroviev, pointing
to his torn trousers.
     'In that case I suppose it was totally destroyed and they will have to
put up a new building.'
     'It will  be built,  messire,' said Koroviev, ' I  can assure you  of
that.'
     'Well, let  us  hope  it will be better than  the old  one,'  remarked
Woland.
     'It will, messire,' said Koroviev.
     'Believe me, it will,' added the cat. ' My sixth sense tells me
     so.
     'Nevertheless here we are, messire,' Koroviev reported, ' and we await
your instructions.'
     Woland rose from his stool, walked  over to the  balustrade and turning
his back on  his retinue  stared  for a  long  time over the city  in lonely
silence. Then he turned back, sat down on his stool again and said :
     'I have no instructions. You have done all  you could and for the time
being  I no longer require your services. You may rest.  A  thunderstorm  is
coming and then we must be on our way.'
     ‘ Very good, messire,' replied the two buffoons and vanished behind the
round tower in the centre of the roof.
     The thunderstorm that Woland bad predicted was already gathering on the
horizon. A black cloud was rising in the west;
     first a half and then all  of  the sun was blotted out. The wind on the
terrace freshened. Soon it was quite dark.
     The cloud from  the west  enveloped the vast city. Bridges,  buildings,
were all swallowed up. Everything  vanished as though it had  never  been. A
single whip-lash of fire  cracked across the sky,  then the city rocked to a
clap of thunder. There came another ; the  storm  had begun.  In the driving
rain Woland was no more to be seen.



        30. Time to Go



     'Do you know,' said Margarita, ' that just as you were going  to sleep
last night I was reading about the mist that  came in from the Mediterranean
. . . and  those idols, ah, those golden idols! Somehow I co'uldn't get them
out of  my mind. I  think it's going  to rain  soon. Can you  feel  how it's
freshening? '
     'That's all very fine,'  replied the  master, smoking  and fanning the
smoke away with his hand. '  loot's forget  about the idols . . . but what's
to become of us now, I'd like to know? '
     This  conversation took place  at sunset, just when Matthew  the Levite
appeared to Woland on the roof. The basement window was open  and if anybody
had looked into  it he  would have been struck  by the odd appearance of the
two people. Margarita had  a plain black  gown over her naked  body and  the
master was in his hospital pyjamas. Margarita had nothing else to wear.  She
had left all her clothes at home and although her top-floor flat was not far
away there was, of  course,  no question of her  going  there to collect her
belongings. As for the master, all of whose suits were back  in the wardrobe
as  though he  had never left, he simply did  not feel like getting  dressed
because, as he explained to Margarita,  he had  a premonition that some more
nonsense  might be on the  way. He had,  however, had his first proper shave
since that  autumn  night, because the hospital staff had done no more  than
trim his beard with electric clippers.
     The room, too, looked strange  and it  was  hard  to  discern any order
beneath the chaos. Manuscripts lay all over the floor and the divan. A Ibook
was  lying, spine upwards,  on the armchair. The  round  table was  laid for
supper, several bottles standing among the plates of food. Margarita and the
master  had  no idea where  all this food  and drink had come  from--it  had
simply been there on the table when they woke up.
     Having slept until  Saturday evening  both the master and his love felt
completely revived and only one symptom reminded them of their adventures of
the  night before--both  of  them  felt a slight  ache  in the  left temple.
Psychologically  both of them had changed considerably, as anyone would have
realised  who overheard their conversation. But there was no one to overhear
them.  The advantage of  the little yard was that  it was  always empty. The
lime tree and the maple, turning greener with every day, exhaled the perfume
of spring and the rising breeze carried it into the basement.
     'The devil! ' the master suddenly exclaimed. ' Just think of it . . .'
He stubbed  out his  cigarette in the  ashtray and clasped  his head in  his
hands. '  Listen--you're intelligent and you haven't been in the madhouse as
I have ... do you seriously believe that we spent last night with Satan? '
     'Quite seriously, I do . . .'
     'Oh,  of  course,  of course,' said the master ironically. ' There are
obviously two lunatics in the family  now--husband and wife!' He  raised his
arms to heaven and shouted : ' No, the devil knows what it was! . . .'
     Instead  of replying Margarita collapsed  onto  the  divan,  burst into
laughter, waved her bare legs in the air and practically shouted :
     'Oh, I can't help  it ... I can't help it  ... If  you  could only see
yourself! '
     When  the  master,  embarrassed,  had  buttoned up his hospital  pants,
Margarita grew serious.
     'Just now you unwittingly spoke the truth,' she said. ' The devil does
know what it  was and  the devil believe me, will  arrange everything! ' Her
eyes suddenly flashed,  she jumped up, danced for joy and  shouted: ' I'm so
happy,  so happy, happy,  that I made  that bargain with him! Hurrah for the
devil!  I'm afraid, my dear, that you're doomed to live  with a witch! ' She
flung herself  at the  master, clasped him round the neck and began  kissing
his lips,  his nose, his  cheeks. Floods of unkempt black hair  caressed the
master's neck and shoulders while his face burned with kisses.
     'You really are like a witch.'
     'I don't deny it,' replied Margarita. ' I'm a witch  and I'm very glad
of it.'
     'All right,'  said  the master,'  so  you're a  witch. Fine, splendid.
They've abducted me from the hospital--equally splendid. And they've brought
us back  here, let us grant them that too. Let's even assume that neither of
us will  be caught  . . .  But what, in the name of all that's holy, are  we
supposed to live  on? Tell me that, will you? You  seem  to  care  so little
about the problem that it really worries me.'
     Just  then a  pair of blunt-toed boots and the lower part of a  pair of
trousers appeared in the  little basement window. Then the  trousers bent at
the knee and the daylight was shut out by a man's ample bottom.
     'Aloysius--are you there, Aloysius? ' asked  a  voice  from  slightly
above the trousers.
     'It's beginning,' said the master.
     'Aloysius? ' asked Margarita,  moving closer to the window.  ' He was
arrested yesterday. Who wants him? What's your name?'
     Instantly the knees and  bottom vanished,  there came the  click of the
gate and everything returned to normal. Again, Margarita collapsed on to the
divan and laughed until tears  started from her eyes. When the fit  was over
her  expression  changed completely, she  grew serious,  slid  down from the
divan  and crawled over  to the master's knees. Staring him in the eyes, she
began to stroke his head.
     'How you've  suffered, my poor  love! I'm the  only one who knows how
much you've suffered. Look,  there are  grey and  white threads in your hair
and  hard lines round your  mouth. My  sweetest  love, forget everything and
stop worrying. You've  had to do too much thinking ; now I'm going to  think
for you. I swear to you that everything is going to be perfect! '  ' I'm not
afraid of anything, Margot,' the master  suddenly replied, raising his  head
and looking  just as he had when he had created that world he had never seen
yet  knew to be true. '  I'm not afraid, simply  because I have been through
everything  that a  man can go through. I've been so frightened that nothing
frightens me any longer. But I feel sorry for you, Margot, that's the point,
that's  why I  keep coming  back to the same question. Think, Margarita--why
ruin your life for a sick pauper? Go back home. I feel sorry for you, that's
why I say this.'
     'Oh, dear, dear, dear,' whispered Margarita, shaking her tousled head,
' you  weak, faithless, stupid man! Why do you  think I  spent the whole  of
last night prancing about naked, why do you think I sold my human nature and
became a witch, why do you think  I  spent months in this dim,  damp  little
hole  thinking of nothing but the  storm over Jerusalem, why do you  think I
cried my  eyes out  when  you  vanished?  You know  why--yet when  happiness
suddenly descends on us and gives us everything, you want  to get rid of me!
All right, I'll go. But you're a cruel, cruel man. You've become  completely
heartless.'
     Bitter tenderness filled the  master's heart and without knowing why he
burst  into tears as he fondled Margarita's hair. Crying too, she  whispered
to him as her fingers caressed his temple :
     'There are  more than  just threads . .  .  your head is turning white
under my eyes . . .  my poor suffering head. Look at your eyes! Empty  . . .
And  your  shoulders,  bent  with  the weight they've borne  .  . .  they've
crippled you . . .' Margarita faded into delirium, sobbing helplessly.
     Then the master  dried his eyes, raised Margarita from her knees, stood
up himself and said firmly :
     'That will do. You've made  me  utterly ashamed. I'll never mention it
again,  I  promise.  I know  that  we are  both suffering  from some  mental
sickness which  you have  probably caught from me . . . Well, we must see it
through together.'
     Margarita put her Ups close to the master's ear and whispered :
     'I swear by your  life, I swear  by  the  astrologer's son you created
that all will be well!'
     'All  right,  I'll  believe yon,'  answered  the  master with a smile,
adding : ' Where else can such wrecks as you and I find help except from the
supernatural? So let's see what we can find in the other world.'
     'There,  now  you're like  you  used  to be,  you're  laughing,'  said
Margarita.  '  To  hell  with all  your  long  words!  Supernatural  or  not
supernatural,  what  do-  I  care? I'm  hungry!' And she dragged the  master
towards the table.
     'I  can't feel  quite sure  that this food  isn't  going to  disappear
through the floor in  a puff of smoke  or fly out of the  window,'  said the
master.
     'I promise you it won't.'
     At that moment a nasal voice was heard at the window :
     'Peace be with you.'
     The master was  startled but Margarita, accustomed  to the  unfamiliar,
cried:
     ‘ It's Azazello! Oh, how  nice!' And  whispering to  the master: '  You
see--they haven't abandoned us!' she ran to open the door.
     'You  should at least fasten the  front  of  your  dress,' the master
shouted after her.
     'I don't care,' replied Margarita from the passage.
     His  blind eye  glistening,  Azazello came in,  bowed  and greeted  the
master. Margarita cried :
     ‘ Oh, how glad I am! I've never been  so  happy in my life! Forgive me,
Azazello, for meeting you naked like this.'
     Azazello begged her not to let it worry her, assuring Margarita that he
had  not  only seen plenty of naked women in his time but even women who had
been  skinned alive. First putting down a bundle wrapped in dark cloith,  he
took a seat at the table.
     Margarita  poured Azazello a  brandy, which  he  drank with relish. The
master, without  staring at him,  gently scratched  his left wrist under the
table, but it had no effect. Azazello did not vanish into thin air and there
was no reason why he should. There was  nothing  terrible  about this stocky
little demon  with red hair, except perhaps  his wall eye, but that afflicts
plenty of quite unmagical people, and except for his slightly  unusual dress
--a kind of cassock or cape--but ordinary people sometimes wear clothes like
that  too. He drank  his brandy like all good  men do, a whole glassful at a
time and on an  empty stomach. The same brandy was already beginning to make
the master's head buzz and he said to himself:
     'No, Margarita's  right... of course  this creature  is an emissary of
the devil.  After all only the day before  yesterday I  was  proving to Ivan
that  he had  met Satan at Patriarch's Ponds, yet now  the thought seems  to
frighten me and I'm inventing excuses like hypnosis and hallucinations . . .
Hypnotism--hell!'
     He studied Azazello's face and was  convinced that there was ai certain
constraint  in his look, some thought  which he was holding back. ' He's not
just here on a  visit, he has been  sent  here  for a  purpose,' thought the
master.
     His powers of observation  had not betrayed him. After his  third glass
of brandy, which had no apparent effect on him, Azazello said:
     'I must say it's comfortable, this little basement of yours, isn't it?
The only question is--what on earth are you going to do with yourselves, now
that you're here? '
     'That is just  what I have  been  wondering,' said the masteir  with a
smile.
     'Why do you make me feel uneasy, Azazello?' asked Margarita.
     'Oh,  come now!'  exclaimed  Azazello, '  I  wouldn't  dream  of doing
anything to  upset  you. Oh  yes! I  nearly  forgot . .  . messire sends his
greetings and asks me to invite you to take a little trip with him--if you'd
like to, of course. What do you say to that?'
     Margarita gently kicked the master's foot under the table.
     'With great pleasure,' replied the master, studying Azazello. who went
on:
     'We hope Margarita Nikolayevna won't refuse? '
     'Of course not,' said Margarita, again brushing the master's foot with
her own.
     'Splendid!' cried Azazello. ' That's what I like to see-- one, two and
away! Not like the other day in the Alexander Gardens!'
     'Oh, don't remind me of that, Azazello, I was so stupid  then. But you
can't really blame me--one doesn't meet the devil every day!'
     'More's the pity,' said Azazello. ' Think what fun it would  be if you
did!'
     'I love the speed,' said Margarita excitedly, ' I love the speed and I
love being naked . . . just like a bullet from  a gun--bang!  Ah, how he can
shoot!' cried Margarita  turning to  the master. '  He can hit  any pip of a
card--under  a cushion too!'  Margarita was  beginning  to get drunk and her
eyes were sparkling.
     'Oh--I  nearly  torgot  something  else,  too,'  exclaimed  Azazello,
slapping himself on the forehead. ' What a fool I am! Messire has sent you a
present'--here he spoke to the master--' a bottle of wine. Please note  that
it is the same wine that the Procurator of Judaea drank. Falernian.'
     This  rarity aroused great interest  in both  Margarita and the master.
Azazello  drew  a  sealed wine jar, completely  covered in  mildew, out of a
piece of  an old winding-sheet.  They sniffed the wine,  then poured it into
glasses and  looked through it  towards  the window.  The light  was already
fading with the approach of the storm. Filtered through the glass, the light
turned everything to the colour of b