“Easy, easy, there you go.” The engine purred. Bulgakov looked up at a sizeable tree as Stalin grabbed the wheel sharply. “You have to steer as well,” he said. Bulgakov took his foot off the accelerator and the engine stalled. Stalin restarted it.
After several tries, they were driving along the straightaway in second gear. Bulgakov rehearsed the rhythm of the pedals in his head as they drove. Before them, the road turned abruptly to the right; the wall of the fortress lay in their path. Stalin was talking; Bulgakov wasn’t listening; he was anxious to slow the car without inadvertently heading into the stone.
“You should seek work as a librettist and a translator,” said Stalin. He seemed unconcerned about the barrier in their path. He said he would make the arrangements.
“Should I—” Bulgakov’s feet wobbled over the pedals; the car groaned.
“Well, of course. I imagine the Theatre Director will wish to meet with you. I can’t comment on the specifics of how these arrangements come about. I imagine you will need to ring them up.” He sounded annoyed.
Bulgakov’s world was losing air. The wall ahead grew in size, seeming to taunt. Would he try to run through it? Did he think he could? He’d better stop short, play it safe, live a bit longer. Go home and write a catchy score.
Though, if he wanted to, go ahead—try to break through.
He touched the accelerator and the engine squealed in protest.
“Damn it, man. The brake—”
Bulgakov stamped down. The car shuddered—with uncertainty or relief—and the engine died. Bulgakov stared at the wall.
Stalin gestured toward the door. “Lesson’s over,” he said. Bulgakov went around to the other side as he slid into the driver’s seat. He drove them back toward the garage. The breeze hummed over their heads. He rested one hand on the steering wheel, the other out the open window.
“I like you, Bulgakov. Do you know why?” He smiled, waiting for an answer. The foliage rushed past behind him. Bulgakov found himself staring at his mouth. He could not dream of a reply.
“You make me feel smart.” He seemed triumphant in this pronouncement, as if providing the solution to a troublesome puzzle. His smile turned slightly. “You may be the most brilliant writer alive today. Some say that. Some say I should trust none of you. Yet somehow you make me feel smarter.” Stalin’s gaze moved past him, into the woods alongside them. He grew more serious. “Perhaps that’s why you’re still here.” With the writer’s expression, he laughed aloud. The road opened into the larger Ivanovskaya Square. Pedestrians raised their heads as though they’d heard his laughter too.
“You are like the rabbit,” said Stalin. “Happy in your burrow, fearful of the sky with its owl.” He seemed pleased with himself for conceiving of this. He looked at Bulgakov again as if to verify his hypothesis, then nodded. Yes, the rabbit.
The car approached the low building; the doors opened. Stalin stopped outside and turned off the engine. “You have a wife?” Bulgakov shook his head. Stalin smiled. “But there is a woman,” he said. He tapped his finger on the side of his brow. “That is all a Bolshevik needs. A good woman. Good purpose. This you have.” He stopped smiling. Again he stared off to the side, beyond Bulgakov. “Perhaps if you got smarter, things would change.” He turned to the writer directly. His eyes trembled slightly beneath the thick brows. “Don’t try to be smarter than me.” Then, the skin around the eyes broke into scores of tiny lines. He smiled again and leaned toward him slightly. “I might miss you.”
Bulgakov felt flattered and alarmed; beloved and yet perfectly disposable. How did one measure that kind of standing? Was Piaquin beloved? Were similar endearments bestowed on Mayakowsky and Gorky before they disappeared? How did he rank among his peers in this?
“What about Mandelstam?”
The sound of his voice first startled, then frightened him. It sounded a thin bravado; an outlay of currency he could ill afford. There was no other sound, no bird, no passing motorcar. Nothing else in the world dared to speak or offer a needed distraction.
Stalin got out. He moved slowly, as if he’d aged. A driver appeared, but Stalin waved him back. He turned and leaned on the door. He stared at the floorboards near Bulgakov’s feet.
“What about him?” said Stalin.
“Will you miss him?” Again, his words were wildly disengaged from his better sense. They seemed determined to sound out the space of that affection, as though by such he could measure his own worthiness.
Stalin shook his head. “No. I won’t.” He studied Bulgakov.
His was an honest answer. Mandelstam did not make him feel smart.
“Truth is,” he confessed. “I don’t understand most poetry.”
First the thought came, Mandelstam is lost. Then, with growing despair, We are lost. The value of each of them, their loves and desires, their efforts and failures, would be measured by this one. The one with the cockroach on his lip.
“Will you miss him?” Stalin asked.
Here was his opportunity.
From above came the rhythmic chirping of a bird; a single note, a relentless pinging against his brain like the rapping of his door. They were here for him. Just on the other side. They waited for his reply. He needed to answer.
Stalin seemed curious now, his eyes bright.
What was there to say? Of course! Yes! Such words should be shouted. Osip was his friend—his mentor—his champion. He loved him. Of course he would miss him. He would miss all of the particulars about him. The world would miss him too, though that would be a vaguer thing, distant and sadly diplomatic.
He imagined speaking the words aloud. How that face before him would change—the eyes would cloud. Earlier declarations would be reconsidered; affection that had been professed would be reassigned to another. Something within him quietly reasoned—Osip had created his own future. He didn’t share his beliefs. He didn’t care to share his fate.
Would he miss him? A small place in the world would be vacant; a beautiful and loving mind blotted out. Every day, such things go unnoticed.
If he said it—he imagined the scene—agents would come in the night, deliver him to a prison. There would be a fabricated charge. Torture and a mock trial. Then eight years in a penal colony. Sentences were often doubled for inscrutable reasons. Hard labor underground scraping nickel from the earth; his skin turning white like paper. There would be no pen, no ink. Only chalklike flesh.
Arrests were made for far lesser things.
The breeze lifted for only a moment. The day was absurdly beautiful.
If he answered—what difference would it make? It wasn’t by his word that locks would be undone. That Stalin would exclaim I’m sorry—I didn’t know. You’ll miss him? Then of course I shall free him. Immediately—come—we’ll make the call together.
And if he was silent. The sounds of the world would continue. The bird. The car. They would fill the stillness. It would go unnoticed.
He remembered Osip’s shining head. Could he leave him again—here—when his voice might actually matter? His shoulders drew in. They were his words to say.
“Will you?” Stalin repeated. His voice seemed to fill his military tunic. The very flesh of his face, his cheeks, seemed to grow. Every whisker became defined. Every pore to be counted. There was room for only him.
Would he miss him? Oh God. Oh God. He could have spoken those words.
Instead, irrevocably, he pressed his lips shut.
Stalin smiled; but before this, there was a flicker of something akin to sympathy. A knowing. For a moment they were not ruler and ruled. For the first and last time that afternoon—perhaps for a lifetime—they were two men understanding one another.
His cowardice, the most horrible of vices. For this, Stalin forgave him.
As if Stalin knew fear as well as any man and he could forgive Bulgakov for it.
For t
his Bulgakov’s mortal life was made safe.
There would be no cottage, no green-shaded lamp, no Schubert softly playing. The cornflowers along the river would stand unharmed in unending sunlight. There would be no Margarita beside him on a riverbank. There could be no Margarita.
There could be no peace.
Again, Stalin tapped his finger against the side of his head. “Marry your woman and live quietly,” he commanded. He pushed back from the car. Once again he was the smart one. He glanced at Bulgakov as though he’d spoken. Or perhaps, to make certain he hadn’t.
You can’t hear our words.
Bulgakov saw it in his face; it was barely perceptible. This was what Stalin feared. This was what would have him eliminated.
Faced with this, Piaquin had cut off his own fingers.
Stalin then smiled; whatever Bulgakov had thought he’d seen was gone.
“I like you, Bulgakov,” he repeated. His gaze wandered past him. It seemed his declaration had surprised even him a little. He gave a small shrug as if to say, So be it.
Stalin left him in the car and went into the building. The two escorts returned and walked him to the sedan. They drove just beyond the Kremlin’s gates and left him to find his way from there. Storm clouds seemed to appear from nowhere. It began to rain. The wind intensified; falling drops sped toward him with certain intent. His clothes became weighted by them; his skin cooled then chilled. His head bowed; his apparent path was paved of wet and variously broken cement walkways.
Somehow he was expected to find his way from there.
It was getting darker and darker. The storm cloud rushing toward Yershalaim already filled half the sky. Turbulent white clouds swept by in front of the thundercloud, which was bursting with black water and fire. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped right above the hill. The executioner removed the sponge from the spear.
CHAPTER 8
She was there when he opened the door of his apartment. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised by this. Her presence had the same inevitability as the earlier rain.
Despite this, he wasn’t prepared to see her.
She was refilling the bookcase. Around her, the small tables and dining chairs lay as if tossed; clothes and books were everywhere. He hadn’t remembered the extreme wreckage. In that midst, she seemed unduly tidy: a simple skirt and sweater. Buttercup-yellow, he thought. It was becoming. Outside the rain had passed. Through the window, rectangles of sunlight stretched across the floor to her feet. He found he was still momentarily startled by the loveliness of her face.
Her expression was of disbelief at the sight of him.
Had she thought he’d disappeared too? He wanted to tell her, No. He wasn’t another Mandelstam, it was clear. He was something else entirely. Something they were willing to let go.
“I thought you’d been taken—I thought it was happening all over again,” she said.
“Clearly I wasn’t.”
She seemed disarmed by his manner, uncertain how to proceed. “But your things—this place—”
“I was looking for something.”
His tone was dismissive and she didn’t deserve that. She continued to hold the book in her hand. She looked perplexed, uncertain if she should place it on the shelf, or put it back on the floor. Or perhaps throw it at him. Yet she held it.
“I wanted to thank you—for last night. For taking care of me.” She added this part, as though conscious of other possible interpretations. “It was kind of you.”
Behind her hurt, an infatuation was revealed. He hadn’t anticipated this; and she looked away quickly, not wanting to show that this was the real reason for her being there. “I hadn’t expected that.” She sounded embarrassed. Perhaps she was surprised as well. She put the book on the shelf.
He felt badly about his behavior. Her concern for him was genuine and well-meaning. “You’re feeling better then?” he asked. She nodded.
“When I saw this place,” she said, “you can imagine what I thought.” Then her tone changed. “You’re completely soaked through.”
He took off his jacket and hung it on the doorknob. “I had a driving lesson,” he said.
“A driving lesson? I might believe a swimming lesson. It’s as if you took a bath fully clothed.”
“It was raining.”
“In the car?”
The afternoon light had set her aglow. Her hands rested on her hips. She was radiant and undeniable. She believed none of it.
He sank into the chair. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”
As quickly as she had challenged him, she softened again. She pressed his shoulder briefly; fatigue required no forgiveness. Explanations could wait. “May I fix you some tea?” she said.
He shook his head. “No, it’s all right.” He looked at her hand, wishing to hold it. Wishing for the possibility of a different life.
“Vodka, then?”
He smiled at their reflected conversation. “What—no coffee?” He took her hand then. He rubbed his thumb over her fingers. Their texture was that of a child’s.
“I find vodka more effective for my purposes,” she said.
She had hope for them, and in that, he could see the trajectory of their future. Their potential was real and if followed carried the certainty of affection and love and lovemaking. Only the man who’d left her that morning was not the same as the one with her now. She did not know this yet.
Her fingers interlaced with his, willingly.
Perhaps they need not speak of Osip; perhaps they could set aside that part of their lives, move on from it together. Perhaps he could be allowed to forget certain things.
He brought her hand to his cheek.
They could go away. Together—perhaps even emigrate. With time and distance they would both forget. Someday he would tell her what he’d done. She would understand. She would say it’d been so long ago. It’d been a different time. A dangerous time. At such a distance who could recall the missteps of youth?
“I have news,” she said. “They are allowing Nadya to see Osip. Not alone, of course, but nevertheless.”
Mandelstam would have no knowledge of his betrayal. Bulgakov need not dread their brief reunion, as though through it his shame might be revealed. No one need know.
He looked at their hands clasped—so many fingers, he thought.
“When did she hear this?” he asked.
“Not long ago. She’s beside herself with happiness.”
What did it mean? “I’m surprised they’re allowing it,” he said.
“Nadya believes Bukharin arranged it.”
Was it really a happy coincidence? Or had his meeting with Stalin determined some other outcome? If the poet’s dearest friend was not willing to speak for him, why should Stalin believe that others might? Was it now easier to execute the troublesome poet?
“Do you wish it was you?” he said. “Instead of her?” He wanted to ask if she was still in love with him. Not out of jealousy, but somehow it seemed necessary to pace out the dimensions of his own offense. Did it include her?
Her reaction was unexpected. She looked embarrassed.
“What you saw at the Union restaurant,” she paused, as though still searching. “It wasn’t what it seemed, I think. We’d been apart for some time. Both of us—neither of us had been particularly satisfied. Not for a long time.”
She wanted to allay his concerns that should Mandelstam be released, she’d go back to him. That her heart wasn’t being honest with his. She thought this was what he was asking.
He remembered the restaurant at the Writers’ Union and Mandelstam’s exceeding generosity and he felt a sudden rise of emotion. The eve of his arrest, possibly his last night of freedom in this world, and he’d chosen to spend it with him.
“Do you think he’ll be relea
sed?” he asked her. This now seemed so unlikely as to be impossible and his asking of it all the more desperate, as though he had been the one who’d doomed Mandelstam. As though her optimism could save him. And in saving Mandelstam, save him as well.
She noticed none of this. She was coldly analytical in her reply.
“I don’t know. A lesser writer would be exiled, I think. But he is well known. It’s hard to predict if this will save him or—quite the opposite.”
He remembered the recitation in the street. If it’d been written on a building, they’d knock it down to destroy such words. They’d decide it wasn’t such a wonderful building. They’d build a lesser one in its place and proclaim it a palace.
“You don’t think they’ll let him go?”
“Why should they? Why would they risk whatever else he might say?”
“But if he promised—not to write?”
“Is that any different than locking him up?”
And if he promised not to speak? Bulgakov could hear Mandelstam’s voice recite the lines. No one would be saved.
He had released her hand; he wasn’t certain when he’d done this, at what point during her speech. The sensation of her fingers remained. How long before that would pass?
She crouched beside the chair and cocooned his hand within her own. As if he needed to be made still in order to listen. “Please understand—I think what you’re doing is—well, it’s brave. You’re not pretending that there wasn’t a crime committed here.” She paused. “I’m proud of you.”
She was thinking about the letter he was to write; believing this was his concern. He wanted to tell her that the letter had already been delivered; that its work was done.
“Don’t say that,” he said.
“But I am proud.”
He remembered the empty slate of the theater’s white marquee. What if he were never to publish again? He could tell her everything; confess his fears, his transgressions. She could redeem him. She had that power. If she could love him as a lesser man, perhaps he could tolerate himself.
“I’m certain whatever I do makes little difference,” he said. He tried to sound as though he believed this. He tried to sound weary of it all. As though he’d pushed against the world and the world was resolute. Tell me, he silently begged. Say there was nothing I could have done.
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