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He would have gone to shoot a New Year's Eve show.�
“I drink your health, gentlemen,” Woland said softly, lifting the cup and touching it with his lips.
Then there was a metamorphosis. The patched shirt and worn shoes were gone. Woland appeared to be wearing some sort of black robe with a steel sword on his hip. He quickly approached Marguerite, offered her the cup, and said imperiously::
“Drink up!”
Marguerite felt dizzy and unsteady, but the cup was already at her lips, and voices, but she couldn't make out which ones, whispered in both ears:
“Don't be afraid, Queen… Don't be afraid, Queen, the blood has long gone into the ground. And where it was spilled, grapes are already growing.
Marguerite, without opening her eyes, took a sip, and a sweet current ran through her veins, and her ears began to ring. It seemed to her that deafening roosters were crowing, that a march was being played somewhere. The crowds of guests began to lose their appearance. Both the frachniks and the women fell to dust. Before Marguerite's eyes, the hall was smouldering, and the smell of the crypt flowed over it. The pillars fell apart, the lights went out, everything shrank, and there were no fountains, tulips, or camellias. But it was just what it was − a modest jeweler's living room, and a strip of light fell out of the door that was slightly open. It was through this half-open door that Marguerite entered.
https://www.youtube.com/embed/4M5v6GYF474?wmode=opaque