‘A fine sight,’ said Woland.
‘Imagine, Messire!’ Behemoth cried excitedly and joyfully, ‘I was taken for a looter!’
‘Judging by the things you’ve brought,’ Woland replied, glancing at the landscape, ‘you are a looter!’
‘Believe me, Messire ...’ Behemoth began in a soulful voice.
‘No, I don’t,‘Woland replied curtly.
‘Messire, I swear, I made heroic efforts to save everything I could, and this is all I was able to rescue.’
‘You’d better tell me, why did Griboedov’s catch fire?’ asked Woland.
Both Koroviev and Behemoth spread their arms, raised their eyes to heaven, and Behemoth cried out:
‘I can’t conceive why! We were sitting there peacefully, perfectly quiet, having a bite to eat ...’
‘And suddenly - bang, bang!’ Koroviev picked up, ‘gunshots! Crazed with fear, Behemoth and I ran out to the boulevard, our pursuers followed, we rushed to Timiriazev! ...’2
‘But the sense of duty,’ Behemoth put in, ‘overcame our shameful fear and we went back.’
‘Ah, you went back?’ said Woland. ‘Well, then of course the building was reduced to ashes.’
‘To ashes!’ Koroviev ruefully confirmed, ‘that is, Messire, literally to ashes, as you were pleased to put it so aptly. Nothing but embers!’
‘I hastened,’ Behemoth narrated, ‘to the meeting room, the one with the columns, Messire, hoping to bring out something valuable. Ah, Messire, my wife, if only I had one, was twenty times in danger of being left a widow! But happily, Messire, I’m not married, and, let me tell you, I’m really happy that I’m not. Ah, Messire, how can one trade a bachelor’s freedom for the burdensome yoke ...’
‘Again some gibberish gets going,’ observed Woland.
‘I hear and continue,’ the cat replied. ‘Yes, sir, this landscape here! It was impossible to bring anything more out of the meeting room, the flames were beating in my face. I ran to the pantry and rescued the salmon. I ran to the kitchen and rescued the smock. I think, Messire, that I did everything I could, and I don’t understand how to explain the sceptical expression on your face.’
‘And what did Koroviev do while you were looting?’ asked Woland.
‘I was helping the firemen, Messire,’ replied Koroviev, pointing to his torn trousers.
‘Ah, if so, then of course a new building will have to be built.’
‘It will be built, Messire,’ Koroviev responded, ‘I venture to assure you of that.’
‘Well, so it remains for us to wish that it be better than the old one,’ observed Woland.
‘It will be, Messire,’ said Koroviev.
‘You can believe me,’ the cat added, ‘I’m a regular prophet.’
‘In any case, we’re here, Messire,’ Koroviev reported, ‘and await your orders.’
Woland got up from his stool, went over to the balustrade, and alone, silently, his back turned to his retinue, gazed into the distance for a long time. Then he stepped away from the edge, lowered himself on to his stool, and said:
There will be no orders, you have fulfilled all you could, and for the moment I no longer need your services. You may rest. Right now a storm is coming, the last storm, it will complete all that needs completing, and we’ll be on our way.‘
‘Very well, Messire,’ the two buffoons replied and disappeared somewhere behind the round central tower, which stood in the middle of the terrace.
The storm of which Woland had spoken was already gathering on the horizon. A black cloud rose in the west and cut off half the sun. Then it covered it entirely. The air became cool on the terrace. A little later it turned dark.
This darkness which came from the west covered the vast city. Bridges and palaces disappeared. Everything vanished as if it had never existed in the world. One fiery thread ran across the whole sky. Then a thunderclap shook the city. It was repeated, and the storm began. Woland could no longer be seen in its gloom.
CHAPTER 30
‘You know,’ said Margarita, ‘just as you fell asleep last night, I was reading about the darkness that came from the Mediterranean Sea ... and those idols, ah, the golden idols! For some reason they never leave me in peace. I think it’s going to rain now, too. Do you feel how cool it’s getting?’
‘That’s all well and good,’ replied the master, smoking and breaking up the smoke with his hand, ‘and as for the idols, God be with them ... but what will happen further on is decidedly unclear!’
This conversation occurred at sunset, just at the moment when Matthew Levi came to Woland on the terrace. The basement window was open, and if anyone had looked through it, he would have been astonished at how strange the talkers looked. Margarita had a black cloak thrown directly over her naked body, and the master was in his hospital underwear. The reason for this was that Margarita had decidedly nothing to put on, because all her clothes had stayed in her house, and though this house was very near by, there was, of course, no question of going there to take her clothes. And the master, whose clothes were all found in the wardrobe as if he had never gone anywhere, simply did not want to get dressed, developing before Margarita the thought that some perfect nonsense was about to begin at any moment. True, he was clean-shaven for the first time since that autumn night (in the clinic his beard had been cut with clippers).
The room also had a strange look, and it was very hard to make anything out in its chaos. Manuscripts were lying on the rug, and on the sofa as well. A book sat humpbacked on an armchair. And dinner was set out on the round table, with several bottles standing among the dishes of food. Where all this food and drink came from was known neither to Margarita nor to the master. On waking up they found everything already on the table.
Having slept until sunset Saturday, the master and his friend felt themselves thoroughly fortified, and only one
