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 blood.

' To Woland! ' exclaimed Margarita, raising her glass.

All three put their lips to the glasses and drank a large mouthful.

Immediately the light began to fade before the master's eyes, his breath

came in gasps and he felt the end coming. He could just see Margarita,

deathly pale, helplessly stretch out her arms towards him, drop her head on

to the table and then slide to the floor.

' Poisoner . . .' the master managed to croak. He tried to snatch the

knife from the table to stab Azazello, but his hand slithered lifelessly

from the tablecloth, everything in the basement seemed to turn black and

then vanished altogether. He collapsed sideways, grazing his forehead on the

edge of the bureau as he fell.

When he was certain that the poison had taken effect, Azazello started

to act. First he flew out of the window and in a few moments he was in

Margarita's flat. Precise and efficient as ever, Azazello wanted to check

that everything necessary had been done. It had. Azazello saw a

depressed-looking woman, waiting for her husband to return, come out of her

bedroom and suddenly turn pale, clutch her heart and gasp helplessly :

' Natasha . . . somebody . . . help . . .' She fell to the drawing-room

floor before she had time to reach the study.

' All in order,' said Azazello. A moment later he was back with the

murdered lovers. Margarita lay face downward on the carpet. With his iron

hands Azazello turned her over like a doll and looked at her. The woman's

face changed before his eyes. Even in the twilight of the oncoming storm he

could see how her temporary witch's squint and her look of cruelty and

violence disappeared. Her expression relaxed and softened, her mouth lost

its predatory sneer and simply became the mouth of a woman in her last

agony. Then Azazello forced her white teeth apart and poured into her mouth

a few drops of the same wine that had poisoned her. Margarita sighed, rose

without Azazello's help, sat down and asked weakly :

' Why, Azazello, why? What have you done to me? '

She saw the master lying on the floor, shuddered and whispered:

' I didn't expect this . . . murderer! '

' Don't worry,' replied Azazello. ' He'll get up again in a minute. Why

must you be so nervous! '

He sounded so convincing that Margarita believed him at once. She

jumped up, alive and strong, and helped to give the master some of the wine.

Opening his eyes he gave a stare of grim hatred and repeated his last word :

' Poisoner . . .'

' Oh well, insults are the usual reward for a job well done!' said

Azazello. ' Are you blind? You'll soon see sense.'

The master got up, looked round briskly and asked :

' Now what does all this mean? '

' It means,' replied Azazello, ' that it's time for us to go. The

thunderstorm has already begun--can you hear? It's getting dark. The horses

are pawing the ground and making your little garden shudder. You must say

goodbye, quickly.'

' Ah, I understand,' said the master, gating round, ' you have killed

us. We are dead. How clever--and how timely. Now I see it all.'

' Oh come,' replied Azazello, ' what did I hear you say? Your beloved

calls you the master, you're an intelligent being--how can you be dead? It's

ridiculous . . '

' I understand what you mean,' cried the master, ' don't go on! You're

right--a thousand times right! '

' The great Woland! ' Margarita said to him urgently, ' the great

Woland! His solution was much better than mine! But the novel, the novel!'

she shouted at the master,' take the novel with you, wherever you may be

going! '

' No need,' replied the master,' I can remember it all by heart.'

' But you . . . you won't forget a word? ' asked Margarita, embracing

her lover and wiping the blood from his bruised forehead.

' Don't worry. I shall never forget anything again,' he answered.

' Then the fire! ' cried Azazello. ' The fire--where it all began and

where we shall end it! '

' The fire! ' Margarita cried in a terrible voice. The basement windows

were banging, the blind was blown aside by the wind. There was a short,

cheerful clap of thunder. Azazello thrust his bony hand into the stove,

pulled out a smouldering log and used it to light the tablecloth. Then he

set fire to a pile of old newspapers on the divan, then the manuscript and

the curtains.

The master, intoxicated in advance by the thought of the ride to come,

threw a book from the bookcase on to the table, thrust its leaves into the

burning tablecloth and the book burst merrily into flame. ' Burn away, past!

'

' Burn, suffering! ' cried Margarita.

Crimson pillars of fire were swaying all over the room, when the three

ran out of the smoking door, up the stone steps and out into the courtyard.

The first thing they saw was the landlord's cook sitting on the ground

surrounded by potato peelings and bunches of onions. Her position was hardly

surprising--three black horses were standing in the yard, snorting,

quivering and kicking up the ground in fountains. Margarita mounted the

first, then Azazello and the master last. Groaning, the cook was about to

raise her hand to make the sign of the cross when Azazello shouted

threateningly from the saddle :

' If you do, I'll cut off your arm! ' He whistled and the horses,

smashing the branches of the lime tree, whinnied and plunged upwards into a

low black cloud. From below came the cook's faint, pathetic cry :

' Fire . . .'

The horses were already galloping over the roofs of Moscow.

' I want to say goodbye to someone,' shouted the master to Azazello,

who was cantering along in front of him. Thunder drowned the end of the

master's sentence. Azazello nodded and urged his horse into a gallop. A

cloud was rushing towards them, though it had not yet begun to spatter rain.

They flew over the boulevard, watching as the little figures ran in all

directions to shelter from the rain. The first drops were falling. They flew

over a pillar of smoke--all that was left of Griboyedov. On they flew over

the city in the gathering darkness. Lightning flashed above them. Then the

roofs changed to treetops. Only then did the rain begin to lash them and

turned them into three great bubbles in the midst of endless water.

Margarita was already used to the sensation of flight, but the master

was not and he was amazed how quickly they reached their destination, where

he wished to say goodbye to the only other person who meant anything to him.

Through the veil of rain he immediately recognised Stravinsky's clinic, the

river and the pine-forest on the far bank that he had stared at for so long.

They landed among a clump of trees in a meadow not far from the clinic.

' I'll wait for you here,' shouted Azazello, folding his arms. For a

moment he was lit up by a flash of lightning then vanished again in the grey

pall. ' You can say goodbye, but hurry!'

The master and Margarita dismounted and flew, like watery shadows,

through the clinic garden. A moment later the master was pushing aside the

balcony grille of No. 117 with a practised hand. Margarita followed him.

They walked into Ivan's room, invisible and unnoticed, as the storm howled

and thundered. The master stopped by the bed.

Ivan was lying motionless, as he had been when he had first watched the

storm from his enforced rest-home. This time, however, he was not crying.

After staring for a while at the dark shape that entered his room from the

balcony, he sat up, stretched out his arms and said joyfully :

' Oh, it's you! I've been waiting for you! It's you, my neighbour!'

To this the master answered :

‘ Yes, it's me, but I'm afraid I shan't be your neighbour any longer. I

am flying away for ever and I've only come to say goodbye.'

' I knew, I guessed,' replied Ivan quietly, then asked :

' Did you meet him? '

' Yes,' said the master, ' I have come to say goodbye to you because

you're the only person I have been able to talk to in these last days.'

Ivan beamed and said :

' I'm so glad you came. You see, I 'm going to keep my word, I shan't

write any more stupid poetry. Something else interests me now--' Ivan smiled

and stared crazily past the figure of the master--' I want to write

something quite different. I have come to understand a lot of things since

I've been lying here.'

The master grew excited at this and said as he sat down on the edge of

Ivan's bed:

' That's good, that's good. You must write the sequel to it.'

Ivan's eyes sparkled.

' But won't you be writing it?' Then he looked down and added

thoughtfully : ' Oh, yes, of course . . . what am I saying.' Ivan stared at

the ground, frightened.

' No,' said the master, and his voice seemed to Ivan unfamiliar and

hollow. ' I won't write about him any more. I shall be busy with other

things.'

The roar of the storm was pierced by a distant whistle.

' Do you hear? ' asked the master.

' The noise of the storm . . .'

' No, they're calling me, it's time for me to go,' explained the master

and got up from the bed.

' Wait! One more thing,' begged Ivan. ' Did you find her? Had she been

faithful to you? '

' Here she is,' replied the master, pointing to the wall. The dark

figure of Margarita materialised from the wall and moved over to the bed.

She looked at the young man in the bed and her eyes filled with sorrow.

' Poor, poor boy . . .' she whispered silently, and bent over the bed.

' How beautiful she is,' said Ivan, without envy but sadly and

touchingly. ' Everything has worked out wonderfully for you, you lucky

fellow. And here am I, sick . . .' He thought for a moment, then added

thoughtfully : ' Or perhaps I'm not so sick after all . . .'

' That's right,' whispered Margarita, bending right down to Ivan. '

I'll kiss you and everything will be as it should be ... believe me, I know

. . .'

Ivan put his arms round her neck and she kissed him.

' Farewell, disciple,' said the master gently and began to melt into

the air. He vanished, Margarita with him. The grille closed.

Ivan felt uneasy. He sat up in bed, gazing round anxiously, groaned,

talked to himself, got up. The storm was raging with increasing violence and

it was obviously upsetting him. It upset him so much that his hearing,

lulled by the permanent silence, caught the sound of anxious footsteps,

murmured voices outside his door. Trembling, he called out irritably :

' Praskovya Fyodorovna!'

As the nurse came into the room, she gave Ivan a -worried, enquiring

look:

' What's the matter? ' she asked. ' Is the storm frightening you? Don't

worry--I'll bring you something in a moment . . . I'll call the doctor right

away . . .'

' No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, you needn't call the doctor,' said Ivan,

staring anxiously not at her but at the wall, ' there's nothing particularly

wrong with me. I'm in my right mind now, don't be afraid. But you might tell

me,' asked Ivan confidentially, ' what has just happened next door in No.

118? '

'In 118? ' Praskovya Fyodorovna repeated hesitantly. Her eyes flickered

in embarrassment. ' Nothing has happened there.' But her voice betrayed her.

Ivan noticed this at once and said:

' Oh, Praskovya Fyodorovna! You're such a truthful person . . . Are you

afraid I'll get violent? No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, I won't. You had better

tell me, you see I can sense it all through that wall.'

' Your neighbour has just died,' whispered Praskovya Fyodorovna, unable

to overcome her natural truthfulness and goodness, and she gave a frightened

glance at Ivan, who was suddenly clothed in lightning. But nothing terrible

happened. He only raised his finger and said :

' I knew it! I am telling you, Praskovya Fyodorovna, that another

person has just died in Moscow too. I even know who ' --here Ivan smiled

mysteriously--' it is a woman!'