Reading Master and Margarita - 31

Chapter 31

On Sparrow Hills

So, they left Stravinsky’s clinic and accompanied Azazello. On the Sparrow Hills Woland, Begemot and Koroviev are waiting for them.

Let us remember that Master and Margarita are going to leave Moscow forever. The following conversation takes place:

'We had to trouble you a little, Margarita Nikolaevna and Master,' Woland began after some silence, 'but you won't grudge me that. I don't think you will regret it. So, then,' he addressed the Master alone, 'bid farewell to the city. It's time for us to go,' Woland pointed with his black-gauntleted hand to where numberless suns melted the glass beyond the river, to where, above these suns, stood the mist, smoke and steam of the city scorched all day.

The Master threw himself out of the saddle, left the mounted ones, and ran to the edge of the hillside. The black cloak dragged on the ground behind him. The Master began to look at the city.

In the first moments a wringing sadness crept over his heart, but it very quickly gave wav to a sweetish anxiety, a wandering gypsy excitement.

`Forever! ... That needs to be grasped,' the master whispered and licked his dry, cracked lips.

He began to heed and take precise note of everything that went on in his soul. His excitement turned, as it seemed to him, into a feeling of deep and grievous offence. But it was unstable, vanished, and gave way for some reason to a haughty indifference, and that to a foretaste of enduring peace.

The group of riders waited silently for the master. The group of riders watched the black, long figure on the edge of the hillside gesticulate, now raising his head, as if trying to reach across the whole city with his eyes, to peer beyond its limits, now hanging his head down, as if studying the trampled, meager grass under his feet.

The silence was broken by the bored Behemoth. `Allow me, maître,' he began, 'to give a farewell whistle before the ride.'

Master is pouring out all the feelings of a humiliated heart, his state of mind is changing every minute. But when he returns back to Woland and company who were indulging in small funs waiting for him, he is quite composed. He is no longer sad that he is leaving his world, his literary world, this city which denied him the recognition that he deserved.

 He clutched his head and ran back to the group of waiting companions.

'Well, then,' Woland addressed him from the height of his steed, 'is your farewell completed?'

'Yes, it's completed,' the master replied and, having calmed down, looked directly and boldly into Woland's face.

And then over the hills like a trumpet blast rolled Woland's terrible voice:

'It's time!!' - and with it the sharp whistle and guffaw of Behemoth.

The steeds tore off, and the riders rose into the air and galloped. Margarita felt her furious steed champing and straining at the bit. Woland's cloak billowed over the heads of the cavalcade; the cloak began to cover the evening sky. When the black shroud was momentarily blown aside, behind them, but the city itself had long been gone. It was as if it had fallen through the earth - only mist and smoke were left...

And in Woland’s company, Master and Margarita start for their destination…..

Reading Master and Margarita - 30

Chapter 30

It's Time! It's Time!

Master and Margarita are in the basement of Arbat flat, Master is thinking that all this is still a magic and would disappear soon…the manuscripts, the food, Margarita and he would find himself back in Stravinsky’s clinic. Margarita assures him that what he had seen is true and that the Satan is going to set things right for them.

Now, Margarita looks carefully at Master and says:

'How you've suffered, how you've suffered, my poor one! I'm the only one who knows it. Look, you've got white threads in your hair, and an eternal crease by your lips! My only one, my dearest, don't think about anything! You've had to think too much, and now I'll think for you. And I promise you, I promise, that everything will be dazzlingly well!'

'I'm not afraid of anything, Margot,' the master suddenly answered her and raised his head, and he seemed to her the same as he had been when he was inventing that which he had never seen, but of which he knew for certain that it had been, 'not afraid, because I've already experienced it all. They tried too hard to frighten me, and cannot frighten me with anything anymore. But I pity you, Margot, that's the trick, that's why I keep saying it over and over. Come to your senses! Why do you have to ruin your life with a sick man and a beggar? Go back! I pity you, that's why I say it.'

'Oh, you, you ...' Margarita whispered, shaking her disheveled head, 'oh, you faithless, unfortunate man! ... Because of you I spent the whole night yesterday shivering and naked. I lost my nature and replaced it with a new one, I spent several months sitting in a dark closet thinking about one thing, about the storm over Yershalaim, I cried my eyes out, and now, when happiness has befallen us, you drive me away! Well, then I'll go, I'll go, but you should know that you are a cruel man! They've devastated your soul!

'

Bitter tenderness rose up in the master's heart, and, without knowing why, he began to weep, burying his face in Margarita's hair. Weeping herself, she whispered to him, and her fingers trembled on the master's temples.

'Yes, threads, threads ... before my eyes your head is getting covered with snow ... ah, my much-suffering head! Look what eyes you've got! There's a desert in them ... and the shoulders, the shoulders with their burden ... crippled, crippled ...' Margarita's speech was becoming incoherent, Margarita was shaking with tears.

Then the master wiped his eyes, raised Margarita from her knees, got up himself and said firmly:

'Enough. You've shamed me. Never again will I yield to faint-heartedness, or come back to this question, be reassured. I know that we're both the victims of our mental illness, which you perhaps got from me... Well, so we'll bear it together.'

Margarita put her lips close to the master's ear and whispered:

'I swear to you by your life, I swear by the astrologer's son whom, you guessed, that all will be well!'

'Fine, fine,' responded the master, and he added, laughing: 'Of course, when people have been robbed of everything, like you and me, they seek salvation from other-worldly powers! Well, so, I agree to seek there.'

'Well, there, there, now you're your old self, you're laughing,' replied Margarita, `and devil take you with your learned words. Other-worldly or not other-worldly, isn't it all the same?

Both of them were right. The intelligentsia was tortured so much…its soul was destroyed so that they don’t speak the truth. Here no name is mentioned, she only says, ‘they’, but it is understood….it is the NKVD.

And Master too was right when he says that people seek support from some non-earthly power to get things right.

As soon as they started to eat, enters Azazello. Well, we know that he is sent by Woland to set things right. Let’s see how does he go ahead:

“And just then a nasal voice came through the window: 'Peace be unto you.''

The master gave a start, but Margarita, already accustomed to the extraordinary, exclaimed:

'Why, it's Azazello! Ah, how nice, how good!' and, whispering to the master: 'You see, you see, we're not abandoned!' - she rushed to open the door.

'Cover yourself at least,' the master called after her.

'Spit on it,' answered Margarita, already in the corridor.

And there was Azazello bowing, greeting the master, and flashing his blind eye, while Margarita exclaimed:

'Ah, how glad I am! I've never been so glad in my life!

……

But forgive me, Azazello, for being naked!'

Azazello begged her not to worry, assuring her that he had seen not only naked women, but even women with their skin flayed clean off, and willingly sat down at the table, having first placed some package wrapped in dark brocade in the corner by the stove.

Margarita poured Azazello some cognac, and he willingly drank it. The master, not taking his eyes off him, quietly pinched his own left hand under the table. But the pinches did not help.

Azazello did not melt into air, and, to tell the truth, there was no need for that. There was nothing terrible in the short, reddish-haired man, unless it was his eye with albugo, but that occurs even without sorcery, or unless his clothes were not quite ordinary - some sort of cassock or cloak – but again, strictly considered, that also happens. He drank his cognac adroitly, too, as all good people do, by the glassful and without nibbling. From this same cognac the master's head became giddy, and he began to think:

'No, Margarita's right ... Of course, this is the devil's messenger sitting before me. No more than two nights ago, I myself tried to prove to Ivan that it was precisely Satan whom he had met at the Patriarch's Ponds, and now for some reason I got scared of the thought and started babbling something about hypnotists and hallucinations ... Devil there's any hypnotists in it! ...'

He began looking at Azazello more closely and became convinced that there was some constraint in his eyes, some thought that he would not reveal before its time. 'This is not just a visit, he's come on some errand,' thought the master.

His powers of observation did not deceive him. After drinking a third glass of cognac, which produced no effect in Azazello, the visitor spoke thus:

`A cosy little basement, devil take me! Only one question arises - what is there to do in this little basement?'

That's just what I was saying,' the master answered, laughing.

'Why do you trouble me, Azazello?' asked Margarita. 'We'll live somehow or other!'

'Please, please!' cried Azazello, 'I never even thought of troubling you. I say the same thing - somehow or other! Ah, yes! I almost forgot ... Messire sends his regards and has also asked me to tell you that he invites you to go on a little excursion with him - if you wish, of course. What do you say to that?'

Margarita nudged the master under the table with her leg.

‘With great pleasure,' replied the master, studying Azazello, who continued:

`We hope that Margarita Nikolaevna will also not decline the invitation?'

'I certainly will not,' said Margarita, and again her leg brushed against the master's.

`A wonderful thing!' exclaimed Azazello. 'I like that! One, two, and it's done! Not like that time in the Alexandrovsky Garden!'

'Ah, don't remind me, Azazello, I was stupid then. And anyhow you mustn't blame me too severely for it - you don't meet unclean powers every day!'

‘That you don't!' agreed Azazello. 'Wouldn't it be pleasant if it was every day!'

……..

'And again I forgot!' cried Azazello, slapping himself on the forehead. `I'm quite frazzled! Messire sends you a present,' here he adverted precisely to the master, 'a bottle of wine. I beg you to note that it's the same wine the procurator of Judea drank. Falernian wine.'

It was perfectly natural that such a rarity should arouse great attention in both Margarita and the master. Azazello drew from the piece of dark coffin brocade a completely mouldy jug. The wine was sniffed, poured into glasses, held up to the light in the window, which was disappearing before the storm.

‘To Woland's health!' exclaimed Margarita, raising her glass.

All three put their glasses to their lips and took big gulps. At once the pre-storm light began to fade in the master's eyes, his breath failed him, and he felt the end coming. He could still see the deathly pale Margarita, helplessly reaching her arms out to him, drop her head to the table and then slide down on the floor.

`Poisoner...' the master managed to cry out. He wanted to snatch the knife from the table and strike Azazello with it, but his hand slid strengthlessly from the tablecloth, everything around the master in the basement took on a black colour and then vanished altogether. He fell backwards and in falling cut the skin of his temple on the corner of his desk.

When the poisoned ones lay still, Azazello began to act. First of all, he rushed out of the window and a few instants later was in the house where Margarita Nikolaevna lived. The ever precise and accurate Azazello wanted to make sure that everything was carried out properly. And everything turned out to be in perfect order. Azazello saw a gloomy woman, who was waiting for her husband's return, come out of her bedroom, suddenly turn pale, clutch her heart, and cry helplessly:

'Natasha ... somebody ... come ...' and fall to the floor in the living room before reaching the study.

'Everything's in order,' said Azazello. A moment later he was beside the fallen lovers. Margarita lay with her face against the little rug. With his iron hands, Azazello turned her over like a doll, face to him, and peered at her. The face of the poisoned woman was changing before his eyes. Even in the gathering dusk of the storm, one could see the temporary witch's cast in her eyes and the cruelty and violence of her features disappear. The face of the dead woman brightened and finally softened, and the look of her bared teeth was no longer predatory but simply that of a suffering woman.

Then Azazello unclenched her white teeth and poured into her mouth several drops of the same wine with which he had poisoned her. Margarita sighed, began to rise without Azazello's help, sat up and asked weakly:

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

She saw the outstretched master, shuddered, and whispered: 'I didn't expect this ... murderer!'

'Oh, no, no,' answered Azazello, 'he'll rise presently. Ah, why are you so nervous?'

Margarita believed him at once, so convincing was the red-headed demon's voice. She jumped up, strong and alive, and helped to give the outstretched man a drink of wine. Opening his eyes, he gave a dark look and with hatred repeated his last word:'Poisoner...'

'Ah, insults are the usual reward for a good job!' replied Azazello.

'Are you blind? Well, quickly recover your sight!'

Here the master rose, looked around with alive and bright eyes, and asked:

'What does this new thing mean?'

'It means,' replied Azazello, 'that it's time for us to go. The storm is already thundering, do you hear? It's getting dark. The steeds are pawing the ground, your little garden is shuddering. Say farewell, quickly say farewell to your little basement.'

'Ah, I understand...' the master said, glancing around, 'you've killed us, we're dead. Oh, how intelligent that is! And how timely! Now I understand everything.'

'Oh, for pity's sake,' replied Azazello, 'is it you I hear talking? Your friend calls you a master, you can think, so how can you be dead? Is it necessary, in order to consider yourself alive, to sit in a basement and dress yourself in a shirt and hospital drawers? It's ridiculous! ...'

'I understand everything you're saying,' the master cried out, 'don't go on! You're a thousand times right!'

'Great Woland!' Margarita began to echo him. 'Great Woland! He thought it out much better than I did! But the novel, the novel,' she shouted to the master, 'take the novel with you wherever you fly!' "

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

`But you won't ... you won't forget a single word of it?' Margarita asked, pressing herself to her lover and wiping the blood from his cut temple.

'Don't worry. I'll never forget anything now,' he replied.

'Fire, then!' cried Azazello. 'Fire, with which all began and with which we end it all.'

'Fire!' Margarita cried terribly. The little basement window banged, the curtain was beaten aside by the wind. The sky thundered merrily and briefly. Azazello thrust his clawed hand into the stove, pulled out a smoking brand, and set fire to the tablecloth. Then he set fire to the stack of old newspapers on the sofa, and next to the manuscripts and the window curtain.

The master, already drunk with the impending ride, flung some book from the shelf on to the table, ruffled its pages in the flame of the tablecloth, and the book blazed up merrily.

'Burn, burn, former life!'

'Burn, suffering!' cried Margarita.

The room was already swaying in crimson pillars, and along with the smoke the three ran out of the door, went up the stone steps, and came to the yard. The first thing they saw there was the landlord's cook sitting on the ground. Beside her lay spilled potatoes and several bunches of onions. The cook's state was comprehensible. Three black steeds snorted by the shed, twitching, sending up fountains of earth. Margarita mounted first, then Azazello, and last the master. The cook moaned and wanted to raise her hand to make the sign of the cross, but Azazello shouted menacingly from the saddle:

'I'll cut your hand off!' He whistled, and the steeds, breaking through the linden branches, soared up and pierced the low black cloud. Smoke poured at once from the basement window.

From below came the weak, pitiful cry of the cook:

'We're on fire...'

The steeds were already racing over the rooftops of Moscow.

The whole atmosphere is charged….things are moving so fast, the readers too hold their breath to see what happens next….

Master wanted to take leave of Ivan and so they come to the Stravinsy’s clinic:

'I want to bid farewell to the city,' the master cried to Azazello, who rode at their head.

Thunder ate up the end of the master's phrase. Azazello nodded and sent his horse into a gallop.

The dark cloud flew precipitously to meet the fliers, but as yet gave not a sprinkle of rain.

They flew over the boulevards, they saw little figures of people scatter, running for shelter from the rain. The first drops were falling. They flew over smoke - all that remained of Griboedov House. They flew over the city which was already being flooded by darkness. Over them lightning flashed. Soon the roofs gave place to greenery. Only then did the rain pour down, transforming the fliers into three huge bubbles in the water.

Margarita was already familiar with the sensation of flight, but the master was not, and he marvelled at how quickly they reached their goal, the one to whom he wished to bid farewell, because he had no one else to bid farewell to. He immediately recognized through the veil of rain the building of Stravinsky's clinic, the river, and the pine woods on the other bank, which he had studied so well. They came down in the clearing of a copse not far from the clinic.

'I'll wait for you here,' cried Azazello, his hands to his mouth, now lit up by lightning, now disappearing behind the grey veil. 'Say your farewells, but be quick!'

The master and Margarita jumped from their saddles and flew, flickering like watery shadows, through the clinic garden. A moment later the master, with an accustomed hand, was pushing aside the balcony grille of room no.117. Margarita followed after him. They stepped into Ivanushka's room, unseen and unnoticed in the rumbling and howling of the storm. The master stopped by the bed. Ivanushka lay motionless, as before, when for the first time he had watched a storm in the house of his repose. But he was not weeping as he had been then. Once he had taken a good look at the dark silhouette that burst into his room from the balcony, he raised himself, held out his hands, and said joyfully:

'Ah, it's you! And I kept waiting and waiting for you! And here you are, my neighbour!'

To this the master replied:

'I'm here, but unfortunately I cannot be your neighbour any longer. I'm flying away forever, and I've come to you only to say farewell.'

'I knew that, I guessed it,' Ivan replied quietly and asked: 'You met him?'

'Yes,' said the master. 'I've come to say farewell to you, because you are the only person I've talked with lately.'

Ivanushka brightened up and said:

`It's good that you stopped off here. I'll keep my word, I won't write any more poems. I'm interested in something else now,' Ivanushka smiled and with mad eyes looked somewhere past the master. 'I want to write something else. You know, while I lay here, a lot became clear to me.'

The master was excited by these words and, sitting on the edge of Ivanushka's bed, said:

'Ah, but that's good, that's good. You'll write a sequel about him.'

Ivanushka's eyes lit up.

'But won't you do that yourself?' Here he hung his head and added pensively: 'Ah, yes ... what am I asking?' Ivanushka looked sidelong at the floor, his eyes fearful.

'Yes,' said the master, and his voice seemed unfamiliar and hollow to Ivanushka, `I won't write about him any more now. I'll be occupied with other things.'

A distant whistle cut through the noise of the storm.

'Do you hear?' asked the master.

'The noise of the storm ...'

'No, I'm being called, it's time for me to go,' explained the master, and he got up from the bed.

"Wait! One word more,' begged Ivan. "Did you find her? Did she remain faithful to you?'

`Here she is,' the master replied and pointed to the wall. The dark Margarita separated from the white wall and came up to the bed. She looked at the young man lying there and sorrow could be read in her eyes.

'Poor boy, poor boy ...' Margarita whispered soundlessly and bent down to the bed.

'She's so beautiful,' Ivan said, without envy, but sadly, and with a certain quiet tenderness.

'Look how well everything has turned out for you. But not so for me.' Here he thought a little and added thoughtfully:

'Or else maybe it is so...'

'It is so, it is so,' whispered Margarita, and she bent closer to him.

'I'm going to kiss you now, and everything will be as it should be with you ... believe me in that, I've seen everything, I know everything ...' The young man put his arms around her neck and she kissed him.

'Farewell, disciple,' the master said barely audibly and began melting into air. He disappeared, and Margarita disappeared with him. The balcony grille was closed.

Ivanushka fell into anxiety. He sat up in bed, looked around uneasily, even moaned, began talking to himself, got up. The storm raged more and more, and evidently stirred up his soul. He was also upset by the troubling footsteps and muted voices that his ear, accustomed to the constant silence, heard outside the door. He called out, now nervous and trembling:

'Praskovya Fyodorovna!'

Praskovya Fyodorovna was already coming into the room, looking at Ivanushka questioningly and uneasily.

'What? What is it?' she asked. The storm upsets you? Never mind, never mind ... we'll help you now ... I'll call the doctor now ...'

'No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, you needn't call the doctor,' said Ivanushka, looking anxiously not at Praskovya Fyodorovna but into the wall.

'There's nothing especially the matter with me. I can sort things out now, don't worry. But you'd better tell me,' Ivan begged soulfully, 'what just happened in room one-eighteen?'

'Eighteen?' Praskovya Fyodorovna repeated, and her eyes became furtive.

'Why, nothing happened there.' But her voice was false; Ivanushka noticed it at once and said:

'Eh, Praskovya Fyodorovna! You're such a truthful person... You think I'll get violent? No, Praskovya Fyodorovna, that won't happen. You'd better speak directly, for I can feel everything through the wall.'

'Your neighbour has just passed away,' whispered Praskovya Fyodorovna, unable to overcome her truthfulness and kindness, and, all clothed in a flash of lightning, she looked fearfully at Ivanushka. But nothing terrible happened to Ivanushka. He only raised his finger significantly and said:

'I knew it! I assure you, Praskovya Fyodorovna, that yet another person has just passed away in the city. I even know who,' here Ivanushka smiled mysteriously. 'It's a woman!'

Reading Master and Margarita - 29

Chapter 29

The Fate of the Master and Margarita is decided

We have seen that Master and Margarita are sent back to the basement apartment of Arbat house, as Margarita had requested. But Woland had thought of something else for them.

We shall see now what is in store for them.

In this chapter many elements from the Yerushalem chapter creep into the text. The two epochs seem to intermingle with each other. Let’s see how does it happen:

Woland and Azazello , after leaving flat No. 50 land on the terrace of a tall building of Moscow. They could see the whole city from here but they were not visible to people.

“Woland was sitting on a folding stool, dressed in his black soutane. His long and broad sword was stuck vertically into a crack between two flags of the terrace so as to make a sundial. The shadow of the sword lengthened slowly and steadily, creeping towards the black shoes on Satan's feet.” They observe that Griboedov is burning and guess that Koroviev and Behemot must have visited the place.

It is time for sunset and the description of fragmented sun reminds us of the scene at the Patriarchy Ponds in the beginning of the novel, when Woland first appeared there:

“…the two on the terrace gazed at the fragmented, dazzling sunlight in the upper-floor windows of the huge buildings facing west. Woland's eye burned like one of those windows, though Woland had his back to the sunset.”

Suddenly there appears Levi Matthew. He has brought a message from Yeshua Ha Nostri. An argument about good and evil, about light and shadow takes place between Woland and Levi Matthew:    

“ 'Hah!' exclaimed Woland, looking mockingly at the newcomer. 'Least of all would I expect you here! What have you come with, uninvited guest?'

'I have come to see you, spirit of evil and sovereign of shadows,' the newcomer replied, glowering inimically at Woland.

`If you've come to see me, why didn't you wish me a good evening, former tax collector?'

Woland said sternly.

`Because I don't wish you a good anything,' the newcomer replied insolently.

'But you'll have to reconcile yourself to that,' Woland objected, and a grin twisted his mouth.

'You no sooner appear on the roof than you produce an absurdity, and I'll tell you what it is - it's your intonation. You uttered your words as if you don't acknowledge shadows, or evil either.

Kindly consider the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it? Shadows are cast by objects and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. Trees and living beings also have shadows. Do you want to skin the whole

earth, tearing all the trees and living things off it, because of your fantasy of enjoying bare light?

You're a fool.'

'I won't argue with you, old sophist,' replied Matthew Levi.

'You also cannot argue with me, for the reason I've already mentioned: you're a fool,' Woland replied and asked: "Well, make it short, don't weary me, why have you appeared?'

'He sent me.'

'What did he tell you to say, slave?'

'I'm not a slave,' Matthew Levi replied, growing ever angrier, 'I'm his disciple.'

'You and I speak different languages, as usual,' responded Woland, 'but the things we say don't change for all that. And so? ...'

'He has read the master's work,' said Matthew Levi, 'and asks you to take the master with you and reward him with peace. Is that hard for you to do, spirit of evil?'

'Nothing is hard for me to do,' answered Woland, 'you know that very well.' He paused and added: 'But why don't you take him with you into the light?'

'He does not deserve the light, he deserves peace,' Levi said in a sorrowful voice.

'Tell him it will be done,' Woland replied and added, his eye flashing:

'And leave me immediately.'

'He asks that she who loved him and suffered because of him also be taken with him,' Levi addressed Woland pleadingly for the first time.

'We would never have thought of it without you. Go.'

Matthew Levi disappeared after that, and Woland called Azazello and ordered him:

'Fly to them and arrange it all.'

Azazello left the terrace, and Woland remained alone.

So, we see that Bulgakov prefers peace for Master, he does not want light, recognition, fame for him and Woland is going to do all that for him. May be that was the desire for a writer of Bulgako’s caliber…what he too wanted was peace!

Then appear Koroviev and Behemot…the question of Griboedov’s destruction comes in and Woland orders that a new building for writers, for creators, for art and culture be built which will be better than the previous, stereotyped one . He is assured that it will be done.

'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.'

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.

The storm from the west could be a hint towards intervention from western powers, a mention of which is also found in The Crimson Island. It is going to cut off half the Sun(!).

                                                                                  

The same way Yerushalem had disappeared in chapter 16. The two eras have intermingled here.

 

May be, Bulgakov is predicting about some socio-cultural change in the Soviet Union with the help of a power like Woland!