“The MAT is producing my newest play.”
Margarita reached across the table and touched his arm. Her face filled with admiration. He wished they could be alone.
“What terrific news,” he said. “I will look for it. What is it called?”
“The Cabal of Hypocrites,” said Bulgakov. “It’s about Molière, set in the French court of Louis XIV.”
The man seemed mildly perplexed, as though Bulgakov had said something wholly unexpected and what he’d next intended to say no longer applied. “I beg your pardon—what is a cabal?”
“A circle of intrigue—for lack of a better expression, I suppose. A group of conspirators.”
Again, he seemed at a loss for words. “It’s about Molière, you say? I vaguely remember learning something about him in school.”
“He was a comedic playwright, highly satirical; he suffered from censorship; repression by the priests, the religious.” The man’s reaction was blank and Bulgakov hurried forward. “Of course there is also humor, a love story, betrayal—I suspect it may not appeal to everyone,” he added.
“Are we to assume then that the hypocrites—a cabal of them, you say—are the authorities? The establishment? And the poor writer is a victim of the regime? There is an intriguing theme.”
In the drunkard’s words the plot sounded rather two-dimensional and Bulgakov began to question its structural integrity. “It’s not a political piece, if that’s what you mean—not at all. As I said, there is comedy, absurdity, romance.” His voice trailed off, rethinking his opening scene.
The other man laughed aloud. “You can’t be serious? How can it not be political?”
The implication of his words—and now he sounded anything but drunk—shifted Bulgakov’s worry. “It’s simply the historical backdrop,” Bulgakov explained. “It was long ago—a different time—another country—it’s not my intention to make some sort of political statement.”
“Well—I’m certain there are those who will want to see it,” said the man. Bulgakov registered the truth of his words, their warning. Indeed, while he might pray for its success, that would only intensify its scrutiny. He felt slightly queasy.
The man turned to Margarita. “You keep company with one such as this?” He indicated with a nod toward Bulgakov that this could be a questionable enterprise. His tone was difficult to interpret. Was he trying to be funny? That seemed to be his desire only there was a heaviness to his words as though he lacked practice at this.
“I assure you it’s not political,” Bulgakov repeated.
The man appeared finished with that conversation.
“A girl has to eat,” said Margarita lightly with a shrug. She smiled at Bulgakov, in case he might take offense. She seemed not to have noticed their darker exchange.
“Is that all that’s required to gain your company?”
Her reaction to this was strange. She withdrew; the crease in her brow deepened and Bulgakov wondered if there’d been something in the man’s words to which he’d been deaf. It had seemed he was only playing off of her humor. She acted as though something entirely different had been said.
“Of course not,” she said, her manner turning cold.
The man responded immediately.
“I’ve upset you. Please forgive me.” He leaned toward her. “That was not at all my intent. I have been clumsy. Please, my dear—”
“Perhaps you should go,” Bulgakov suggested.
The drunkard ignored him. His words to her were soft and insistent. He was not simply apologizing, rather he was entreating. “I would never intentionally hurt you.”
She hesitated. “Of course,” she said. She smiled a little as evidence of this. “Of course you’re forgiven.”
Her words seemed to carry restorative powers. The man raised his glass first to her with gratitude, and then Bulgakov. When their eyes met, Bulgakov sensed in him a kind of admiration, though for what he wasn’t certain; the man then looked away and in that Bulgakov detected something darker that lingered, a competitiveness possibly. He might have imagined it. The man took his first taste and immediately spat the wine across the table. Margarita and Bulgakov both recoiled. The man roared to the waiter and several new bottles were produced. Glasses were replaced and refilled. The man lifted his again. “To better wine,” he said after a moment’s thought. All three drank.
He told them his name was Ilya Ivanovich. They talked at length, and after several hours and equally more wine, they were the last of the patrons to leave. They parted at the door. Later, Margarita would wonder aloud if they’d ever see him again. They both would comment on how neither of them could remember what he’d said of his occupation. Margarita would suggest that perhaps it was the wine that had caused them to forget. She seemed to want to speculate further about the man, but she refrained. He wanted to ask about her exchange with him and the supposed offense. It was as though the specifics of that night would be irretrievable by morning. They stood at the door of her apartment.
“He was rather old,” said Bulgakov. “For the girl he was with, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” said Margarita. She seemed mildly distracted.
“Annuschka—that was her name.”
“Hmm.”
Her cheeks were flushed; she was clearly distressed.
“What is it, my dear?” He was alarmed by her reaction.
She shook her head, then covered her mouth with her hand, as if it would be impossible to explain.
She was sick, and for the rest of the night and into the morning hours he sat beside her on the floor of her apartment, wiping her face with a cool cloth, smoothing damp hair back from her forehead, from time to time rising to carry the bucket to the bathroom for disposal.
Not long before dawn she lay curled on the rug; her head rested on his lap. He thought she was sleeping. He’d turned off the overhead light. The sky outside her window was a steady grey; inside, darker forms took on unrecognizable shapes. He watched them in the way one would monitor large, slow-moving creatures in the wild. He’d guard them both against their bulk and the advent of their sudden and arbitrary disregard.
He thought of Ilya in his grey raincoat.
“How can one know?” she said. Her voice rose up from the floorboards.
“Know what, my dear?” He stroked her head.
“The fish—when it’s starting to turn. How can one know that?”
He didn’t have an answer for her.
“People can warn you—and they do,” she said. “But how can they know? Yes, there is a risk, but I’m not giving up fish.” She lay quietly for a moment, then added:
“I’ll not live my life in fear of fish.”
The gray in the window had lightened. The beasts surrounding them were once again a chair, a sofa, a table strewn in clothes.
“I thought we were talking about the sturgeon,” he said quietly.
He could dream of their life together, in a small cottage by a stream. Writing with a quill pen; listening to Schubert every evening. And every evening the soft light from a green-shaded lamp reflecting inward from the night’s dark window-glass. He could see her in that reflection; leaning over him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, urging him to come to supper; he could feel her warmth through his shirt. In the afternoons, they would sit at the water’s edge. The weight of their bodies would crush cornflowers into silvery hollows. Turbulent currents fighting to break the surface would pass them unawares.
In his dream-vision she sat, her arms wrapped around her legs. The sun bore down on her like a spotlight in an already bright space; shadow still puddled behind her. She stared intently at the rushing waters—he could not tell if with longing or dread. She seemed utterly alone—he wanted to move toward her, place his arm about her shoulders. Something held him back.
He awoke to her gently shaking him.
/> CHAPTER 6
Margarita sent him home that morning. She assured him she was much improved, saying they both needed sleep. She glanced at his cheek before closing the door, as if she had considered kissing it, then decided otherwise. He waited for a moment, imagining her on the other side. He imagined her scanning the empty room, the loneliness of the space, then turning to call him back. He imagined her brow, creased with worry that he’d already departed.
Instead he heard the muffled harrumph of bedsprings receive her.
Outside it was still early and pedestrians were rare. The morning was cool and fresh and he paused at the apartment building’s entrance. The earlier foreboding had passed and he considered with some pleasure how in so little as one evening it could seem that all aspects of one’s life had changed for the better. He thought of the play. He tried to recall the drunkard’s words—what was his name? And what could he know of literature? Bulgakov was filled with a renewed confidence. Did not Stanislawski himself select his play for production? The esteemed director who’d first staged The Cherry Orchard? His life had changed for the better, and he thought he would walk rather than ride the tram so he might better enjoy the morning’s loveliness.
Movement across the street caught his attention. Someone, a man, stood in the verge of an alley between two buildings. He lifted an arm as if to light a cigarette, then lowered it—perhaps too quickly—it was this movement that seemed strangely aggressive. The man then, as if aware he’d been detected, retreated into the shadows.
Someone was watching her building. As quickly as it came to him, he discarded the thought; it was fatigue that made him paranoid, he was certain. He stared at the alley’s entrance, and without effort the thought returned with greater vigor. Not only was someone watching but they were waiting for him to leave. He thought of Margarita, asleep and vulnerable, the bedsprings now silent beneath her.
He crossed the street and entered the alley. The sky above narrowed to a thread. It was empty and smelled lightly of refuse, ending in a small cul-de-sac made up of the back entrances of other buildings. He considered that it had simply been a tenant who’d wanted to escape his own family for a quick look at the day. A door opened and a babushka emerged with a heavy rug in her arms. She draped it over a railing and began to beat it with a broom. The dull, hollow sound seemed to linger in the closed-in space. She eyed him malevolently, then, unexpectedly, stepped aside and gestured with her thumb that he should enter the door behind her. Who did she think he was? The door was partially open. Dare he enter? He could go back to the street. The old woman’s expression was unchanged; she wasn’t helping him by this; as far as she was concerned, he and those like him could all go to the devil.
The hallway was narrow and poorly lighted. Several doors were open and their doorways were filled with their occupants, as though their morning had already been disturbed by an earlier trespasser. The smell of rubbish was stronger inside. Near him, a woman holding a small boy regarded him silently. In the room behind them, a table was set, their breakfast half-eaten. It appeared they were alone. Tacked to the wall was a paper icon flanked by brackets for candles. The woman looked away. He wanted to reassure her. He wouldn’t tell anyone—she could trust him—but she might have thought to hide it. Hang it in a closet. Or behind a landscape painting. Indeed, what did her husband think of such a display?
She looked at him as though he’d spoken aloud. As though she was challenging him. At least she hung hers on a wall, she could say. Where an icon belongs. What about his faith? What did he believe in? Was it buried in some play about a sixteenth-century playwright?
The boy in her arms sucked on two fingers and stared at him. He seemed curious rather than fearful, too old to be held in such a manner. The boy took his hand from his mouth and reached for him, catching hold of his cheek as though for the purpose of inspection. Bulgakov felt the stickiness of saliva on his skin. The boy’s smile widened to reveal the gap of his missing upper teeth. A man’s voice came from another doorway further down the hall.
“May we see your papers, Citizen?”
They thought him some kind of official.
“Did someone else come through here just now?” he asked. He avoided a presumptive tone. He tried to ask as though he was himself lost.
“Intelligentsia.” The whispered sneer came from behind, from the walls. Were there others he could not see? Listening through the plaster? Apartments overflowing with the displaced and the poor? He’d heard Stanislawski speak of them; they filled his theater each night. They had come from the villages and farms at the height of the famine. They were wanting in the knowledge of the use of cutlery and soap. They were curious. Curious and distrustful.
The boy had removed his hand and now both arms were wrapped around his mother’s neck. He pressed his head into her chest. He seemed childlike again. The woman stepped inside her door and closed it until only her face could be seen.
“Why should we tell you anything?” she said.
“He might be dangerous,” said Bulgakov.
“Your papers?” the man repeated. “It’s within our rights.” He was likely the local Housing Chairman. The woman opened her door slightly. The boy was no longer in her arms.
The woman turned to speak to the boy; she told him to go into the other room.
Down the hall there was movement from others. Bulgakov’s escape seemed less certain.
The woman opened her door further.
“Perhaps you are the dangerous one,” she said. She sounded more confident. “Perhaps you should be reported. How can we know the difference?” She seemed to think she knew.
Bulgakov’s skin prickled. “Just tell me if someone else came through here before me—tell me who they are?”
Someone tugged on his watch chain. An old man, hairless and pocked, had crept beside him.
“Nice,” he said of it. He rubbed it between his fingers. He had no teeth.
“A gift from my mother,” said Bulgakov.
The old man pouted, clutching the chain. “I didn’t have a mother,” he said.
Bulgakov was about to correct him: everyone has a mother. Something stopped him. Further down were others, invisible before, now creeping forward, growing bolder. Behind was the same, as though to block every exit.
Who were these people, all at once vain and pitiful, self-important and distrusting? Were these for whom he wrote? They seemed ready to rise up from the gallery and take the stage in their name as if it were a battlefield. To take it apart if they chose. It wasn’t that they might fail to understand the subtleties of his metaphor or be lacking in interest. They understood. They were interested. They proclaimed themselves both judge and executioner.
“He’s a spoiler,” said one.
He felt hands encircle his arm. “Why don’t you stay with us?” said another. Someone snickered with this.
Bulgakov passed through them roughly and came to a short flight of stairs, then upwards to the outer doors that provided an exit to the front of the building. The sun was bright and momentarily everything was washed in white. The street was as before; no one showed any particular concern with him. A man passed on the sidewalk; then turned sharply and took him by the shoulders.
“You!” the man spoke with great enthusiasm. “You are Bulgakov! Are you from my neighborhood? I had no idea you were my neighbor!” He looked around as though there might be others to introduce him to, but the sidewalk was empty. The man was now pumping his hand. He said he was a writer as well. Bulgakov vaguely recognized him from the Union. He clasped Bulgakov’s shoulders again; he seemed intent upon maintaining some kind of physical contact. Bulgakov was relieved and grateful; it felt as though he’d been plucked from the depths.
“I heard about what you said,” said the writer, he lowered his voice a little. “At the Union. To Beskudnikov and the rest of those hens. It needed to be said. But come—” he resumed his f
ormer tone. “May I buy you a coffee? You’ve already had breakfast?—I see.” He looked temporarily disappointed as Bulgakov shook his head.
“It’s a terrible business about Mandelstam, terrible,” said the man. “One of our greatest poets—the man should be treated like a treasure. I suspect they get a bit overzealous at times—who knows? Perhaps they have some quota they’re required to fill—I’ve heard that. They just need to be made to see reason. Everyone one can be made to see reason.”
The sidewalk around them was empty. This man’s presence seemed uncomfortably convenient.
He went on. “Say, my mother lives just around the block. She’d love to meet you. Do you suppose?” He grabbed his arm again, as though he might drag him there.
“I should get on,” said Bulgakov, trying to pretend amicability. “You’re very kind, though.”
“Not at all!” He continued to hold onto Bulgakov’s arm. “They act as if they’re afraid of him,” he said. “It’s all quite nonsensical. They need to see reason.”
Bulgakov pulled away. “I’ve held you up. I should let you go—you must have other matters—I’ll let you go.”
Bulgakov crossed the street without bothering to look. A car was required to brake and honked in protest.
The other man was still on the sidewalk, watching him. He called out cheerily, “It was wonderful to meet you.”
Bulgakov studied him from the other side. He thought he’d recognized him from the Union, but had he? It was hard to tell from that distance and it was a nondescript face. “What is your name again?” shouted Bulgakov.
The writer waved, but didn’t answer, and Bulgakov wondered if perhaps this was the man he’d been following in the first place.
Initially the agents knocked on the wrong door. The older neighbor averted his eyes and redirected them with a crooked finger. The agent leading the team was annoyed at their sloppy intelligence. When they knocked next on Bulgakov’s door, they waited not at all before he gave the command to just open it. The one that first entered commented on the high ceilings. So hard to find in the newer buildings going up now in Moscow.
Mikhail and Margarita Page 6
