High above the city, on a stone terrace at the top of one of Moscow's most beautiful buildings, built over a century and a half ago, two are watching the sunset: Azazello and Woland. They were not visible from the street below, shielded from prying eyes by a balustrade with plaster pots and plaster flowers, but from there they could see almost to the edges of the city.
Woland sat on a folding stool, wearing his black soutane. His long broad rapier was sticking vertically out of the gap between two terrace tiles, making a sundial. Slowly and steadily, the sword's shadow grew longer, creeping towards the black shoes on Satan's feet. Resting his sharp chin on his fist, huddling on the stool with one leg tucked underneath him, Woland had his gazed fixed on the immense collection of palaces, giant buildings and tiny hovels listed for demolition.
Azazello had parted with his modem attire — the jacket, bowler and patent-leather shoes — and was dressed in black, like Woland. He now stood motionlessly, not far from his master, his eyes likewise glued to the city.
Woland spoke: 'What an interesting city, is it not?'
Azazello shifted and answered respectfully: 'I prefer Rome, Messire.'
'Yes, it is a matter of taste,' Woland replied.
A short while later, his voice came again: 'And why is there smoke over there on the boulevard?'
'That's Griboyedov burning,' Azazello replied.
'I suppose that inseparable couple, Korovyov and Behemoth, has been there.'
'There can be no doubt of it, Messire.'
They fell silent again, both watching as the west wood windows on the top floors of the giant buildings lit up with blinding, fragmented sunlight. Woland's eye burned just like one of those windows, even though he was sitting with his back to the sunset.
But then something made Woland turn away from the city and direct his attention to a round tower, located behind him on the roof. A grim, ragged, black-bearded man, smeared with clay mud, stepped out of the tower wall. He wore a chiton and homemade sandals.
'Hah!' Woland exclaimed, looking at the visitor condescendingly. 'You are the last person I would have expected to see here! What is your business, uninvited but foreseen guest?'
'I'm here to see you, spirit of evil and master of shadows,' said the visitor glaring unpleasantly at Woland.
'If you are here to see me, why didn't you wish me a good evening, former tax collector?' Woland asked sternly.
'Because I do not wish you anything good,' the visitor brazenly replied.
'Then you'll have to reconcile yourself to the fact that I am doing quite well,' countered Woland, and a grin twisted his face. 'You began spouting nonsense the moment you appeared on this roof, and let me tell you what it is — your tone. You spoke as though you did not recognize shadows or evil. Kindly think on this: what would all your good be if evil did not exist? What would the earth look like without shadows? Objects cast shadows and people, too. Here is the shadow from my sword, but there are also shadows from trees and living creatures. Or would you strip the entire globe of trees and living things to fulfil your fantasy of basking in barren light? You are a fool.'
