Mikhail and Margarita

by Julie Lekstrom Himes

  Most of the accusations were fabricated. Associations with people she’d never known, conversations that had never taken place, meetings impossible for her to attend as she’d lived somewhere else at the time. She commented to Mark once that his fiction was compelling.

  She was told her attitude did not help her. When she returned to her cell, a metal shutter had been screwed over the window. Where the clock had hung there were only wires.

  When alone she tried to imagine all they could do to her, the worst they could invent. And when they did something new, she’d return and examine her limbs, press on the bruises, and recall the memory of their specific tools. In the places she couldn’t see, she’d trace the swellings with her fingers.

  At night the guards woke the prisoners repeatedly. It was difficult to estimate the passage of time. One morning Mark happened to mention she’d been there for twenty-one days. She’d counted over twice more and with this she cried. For one strange moment he looked apologetic. Puzzled and pained and perhaps in some way embarrassed. As if he had inflicted a wound he’d not intended. The room was silent. Tears took random paths down her cheeks and lips.

  Later, after her escorts had returned her to her cell, she imagined the other interrogators ridiculing him for ending the session early that day. She knew the same as he knew: he’d given up a temporary advantage for reasons he didn’t understand. She imagined he’d complain of a headache then retreat to the infirmary for an aspirin.

  Usually they talked about Mandelstam. One day, he wanted to talk about Bulgakov. He suggested the topic as if he were suggesting an outing on a fine day. Matthew was home with a mild fever and they’d not yet tied her up. Mark offered her the extra chair. She sat down. Its padding was thin and the underlying curve of its metal support pressed into her tailbone that’d been bruised during their last session. She shifted. She rested her arm on the table. He sat facing her, his arm resting like hers in a mirror image. John stood near the door. She allowed her feet to lie flat on the floor.

  Since her arrest, she had wondered if Bulgakov had been taken the same night. She feared for him, that she might implicate him in some way. Sometimes she envisioned him in a nearby cell, staring at the same colored walls, eating the same watery soups and old bread. At night lying on her bedboard she imagined them reunited in sleep, his arm around her waist. Other times, but not at all times, she grieved for his lost work. It was easiest first thing in the morning, after she was awakened. Later, when her interrogators were finished, she cared less for his words. They flitted about her like moths, thoughtless of the difficulties they had caused her. By the next morning though, she felt guilty for this betrayal. As if in the night they had fought their way to the light and by morning their carcasses were scattered on the cell floor, upturned and motionless. She was regretful for such an end to their short lives.

  —Let’s talk about Bulgakov

  —I’ve heard of him.

  —You were found in his apartment.

  —I’ve been found in many people’s apartments.

  —Do you like his work?

  —I’ve never seen it.

  She wondered why she aligned herself with writers. Surely men such as her interrogator had come through the doors of the stores where she shopped, the cafes she frequented. She could have smiled at their attempts to tease her name from her; she could have let them take her to the movie theater and buy her flavored drinks. In the flickering darkness she could have let their fingers wander over the seam at her shoulder, move to the curve of her neck. Afterwards, they’d have talked about the movie, the news in the papers, the latest feats of their local Stakhovite. Later they’d have gossiped about their neighbors and friends. The shape of their lives together would form about such things. If she picked up a book to read, she’d give no thought to the writer who’d penned it for her. It might be nice to think nothing of him.

  Mark drummed his fingers lightly against the table. During their time together, he seemed always to have formed an opinion as to whether, with any particular exchange, she was lying. For the first time, he seemed uncertain. He motioned to John and when he came over, he spoke in his ear. She stiffened; she dreaded being beaten again. She didn’t think she could take it; not after sitting in a real chair for so long.

  John left the room. Mark went on. His fingers quieted.

  “I saw the play, The Day of the Turbins.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Nothing else he’s done has amounted to much.”

  He looked away. He was embarrassed, she thought. As if she was a pretty girl he wanted to get to know. She felt a strange sympathy for him for that.

  “Are you done with me?” she said.

  There were plenty of ordinary men to love. Ordinary monsters. Monster love. No different than extraordinary love. Her mind was wandering. Perhaps it had wandered away. She shifted in her seat. Her tailbone ached.

  Fedir Andreivich sat outside the office of the deputy director. The appointment had been at the deputy director’s request, a note found on Fedir’s desk after returning from lunch. He’d have worn better clothes had he known. He scratched at an old stain on his trousers; a dried fleck of gravy or soup that had gone unnoticed until that moment. He had hoped for a promotion and a move into his organization. He no longer wanted to be an interrogator. The Deputy Director was said to be fair and even-tempered. Fedir would remember to cross his legs in such a way as to hide the spot. He crossed them then to see if this solution would work.

  The door opened and Ilya Ivanovich appeared. Fedir stood. Ivanovich appeared surprised to see him.

  “You’re not Yuri Mikhaylov?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Fedir. “I thought you wanted to speak with me.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Ivanovich barked with nearly the same harshness as his initial demand. “You didn’t misplace him. I thought he was leading the interrogation proceedings. Am I wrong?”

  “Yes,” said Fedir. He was surprised with the directness of his own response. He softened his tone. “You are mistaken.”

  Ivanovich seemed momentarily amused, and Fedir wondered if it was his boldness that had satisfied him. Ivanovich turned and gestured for Fedir to follow.

  The inner office was the larger of the two rooms and dominated by an ornately carved desk. Two upholstered chairs were positioned in front of it. Ivanovich sat in one of these and motioned for Fedir to take the other. It seemed as though they were occupying a borrowed office, as if the meeting itself was surreptitious, and could end at any moment once the true occupant returned. Ivanovich leaned across the desk and opened a cigarette case. Again, it seemed an act of delinquency. He took one for himself and offered the box to Fedir. Fedir felt compelled to take one. After lighting them both, Ivanovich sat back and crossed one leg over the other.

  Fedir inhaled; the tobacco was of high quality and he was a little sorry he couldn’t take his time and enjoy it without the distraction of this interview. He was now fully convinced he wanted to move into the Deputy Director’s organization. Any other outcome would result in a decrement in the satisfaction he enjoyed in his job. He sat up straighter. He remembered the stain but did nothing to hide it.

  Ivanovich asked his name and he told him.

  “That’s Ukrainian, is it not?”

  “My mother was Ukrainian.”

  “I see.” His tone was neutral. Fedir interpreted his response to be less than neutral. But before he could apologize for his bloodline, the subject shifted again.

  “What do you think of Margarita Nikoveyena?”

  Fedir was unaccustomed to the use of her name. It was irregular for Ivanovich to go to him for information regarding the prisoner. Fedir hesitated, uncomfortable that this might be perceived as circumventing his own supervisor. This could be some sort of loyalty test. The door to the outer office was still open.

  “Wouldn’t you do better
to review this with Deputy Director Petrenko?”

  Ivanovich’s expression stiffened slightly. Fedir hastened to answer the original question. This man was still a superior.

  “She’s had significant associations with known enemies.” He ticked off a short list. Ivanovich looked impressed. Fedir hoped with him.

  “And a longer list of persons of interest,” Fedir went on. “I’m surprised that her case didn’t fall under your purview.” He wanted to say that it would have been his honor to investigate such a case, or any case, within the auspices of his organization. He crossed his leg over the stained fabric.

  “What of the playwright Bulgakov?” said Ivanovich. “Have you discussed him?”

  “I don’t think there is much there.”

  Ivanovich seemed surprised. “She was found in his apartment.”

  “But your people have investigated him, and found little, is my understanding.” He wanted to show his diligence to the larger picture.

  Ivanovich smiled. “You’re correct. Are you enjoying the cigarette? You may have another if you like, for later.” He opened the case for him.

  “Yes, I will,” said Fedir. “Thank you. These are wonderful. Where did you get them?”

  Ivanovich didn’t answer his question.

  “On the other hand, if interrogators such as yourself don’t pursue these answers, then we will never know.”

  “I can question her again,” said Fedir. He was eager to please him.

  “Only as you see fit.” His tone was mildly obsequious.

  Fedir’s cigarette had acquired a subtle bitterness. He considered setting it aside.

  Ivanovich went on. “What do you think Director Pyotrovich has in mind for your prisoner?”

  “I don’t know.” He said this, even though he did. His supervisor, Pyotrovich’s subordinate, guarded such information closely, yet nevertheless had trusted him with it.

  Ivanovich said nothing as though waiting for a different answer. At the start of their interview, Fedir had felt a bond growing between them. This seemed to have dissipated.

  “I suspect he’s going to recommend exile,” said Fedir.

  “Really? She’d make an excellent informant. Why lose that advantage?”

  “Director Pyotrovich believes there are already too many informants of the literary ilk.” As soon as he said it, he realized that this could be an unpleasant revelation for Ivanovich. “He said he’d rather make an example of this one.”

  Ivanovich’s demeanor shifted. “How interesting.”

  Fedir felt obliged to provide some defense for these sentiments. Or perhaps simply soften their blow. “Truthfully, I’m not certain she’d make an effective informant.” It was difficult to articulate why. Perhaps she lacked sufficient fear of them. Or failed to show a desire for something they could threaten to take away. It seemed they had little to work with. “Occasionally the process of interrogation reduces the prisoner’s value as an informant.”

  He was confused by the Deputy Director’s reaction to his words. He thought he saw a sudden admiration for his effectiveness as an interrogator. But there was something else as well—Ivanovich had retracted slightly into his chair. Behind his admiration, there was what could be described as a detached sense of horror, as one who was observing at some distance the antics of a grossly disfigured creature.

  “We’ll continue to work on her, of course,” said Fedir. “Perhaps she can produce.” He tried to sound hopeful of this plan, despite his growing disquiet. The space had become warm. He started to lift the cigarette to his lips, then stopped. He wanted only to escape the room.

  “Do you think she is actually an enemy of the people?” said Ivanovich. It seemed the first honest question he’d asked of him; the first question for which he didn’t already know the answer. He asked as if it was a question Fedir needed to consider himself.

  The room seemed false. The interview as well. As though the furnishings, the bookcases, the portrait of Stalin had been hastily moved in and put up; that the walls themselves were temporary dressings tacked over the standard blue and white paint of the interrogation cell. If he had looked up, he believed he would see a lightbulb dangling; he’d see the single hook.

  He had thought of them together, as a couple. He’d thought of coming home to her at night after work. Bringing her flowers and groceries. He’d thought other such ridiculous things.

  “I find everyone is an enemy, if I look hard enough,” said Fedir.

  Ivanovich seemed not at all surprised nor angered by the impertinence.

  Fedir tamped out the remainder of his cigarette. He bowed and left the office. He left the building. He didn’t return to work the next morning, complaining of a head cold. Several months later, he passed away suddenly. The NKVD reported it as a mishap with an electrical appliance.

  CHAPTER 25

  The appointed time of their meeting had passed for the third straight day yet Bulgakov continued to wait at the small white-clothed table which abutted the front window of a tearoom located several blocks from Lubyanka. For the third straight day he ordered only a Narzan water and a lime, sliced. The server was an attractive young woman whose face had been disfigured by a well-healed scar that ran the width of her forehead, Bulgakov thought, as if someone, in Shelleyian fashion, had attempted to remove her brain through the top of her skull. She never looked at his face as he gave his request, a pencil held over a wad of paper in her hand, and when she heard it, neither did she write it down. Yet, for the hours he waited, his glass never emptied and each plate of rolled and wasted rinds was quickly replaced by another with more jewellike fruit. She seemed a crude experiment of the State’s, one of engineered industriousness that had ended surprisingly well. He had joked with her that first day: the limes were necessary since he feared scurvy. He could see she did not know what that meant and she did not ask. Who jokes about their fears, he thought and he considered her flat affect and scar as only a doctor would. Afterwards, he asked simply for the fruit and the water.

  The street between the tearoom and the prison was crowded with people; streetcars ran according to routine. He watched as pedestrians hurried across the tracks before each passing tram; this could be any city in any country; there was little which particularized the scene to their time and place. Yet he could pick any one of these figures, follow them home, or to their workplace, and craft a story that examined the particulars of that life. Each was specific, personal, important. Each deserved notice in some way.

  Another streetcar approached; he saw Ilya’s friend, Annuschka, from the restaurant so long ago. She was driving; she wore the driver’s hat and jacket. He caught the flash of her face; her youthfulness seemed to challenge the authority of the uniform’s gold trim and epaulets. Sunlight flared white across the line of windows; then it passed.

  Ilya had called her “a working girl,” a neighbor. Was there more to that relationship? Could it be counted as coincidence that she had appeared, on this street, on this particular day, as though she was only doing her job, following arbitrary rails set into the road, as though there was nothing to witness, to ponder, to report upon?

  Bulgakov rubbed his eyes. He was losing his mind. Yet he studied the street again. Strangers’ faces seemed both familiar and foreign. He watched for any that might linger in his direction.

  Two hours after the appointed time, that third day, a man crossed the square and entered the tearoom. The bell nailed to the top of the door jangled anxiously.

  He went to the counter directly, scaned the display case, and ordered several teacakes. He answered the girl, Bulgakov’s server, that yes, he needed them packaged, then casually inquired of directions to Pokrovskiye Gate. He waited, glancing at the specimens under the glass while she went to fetch the manager. The customer was tall and slim with youthful features, yet his brownish hair seemed to be graying prematurely. Bulgakov pretended disinterest
, touching one of the empty rinds on his plate.

  The manager appeared from a back room, wiping flour from his hands with a towel tucked into his waistband, and Bulgakov stood and motioned to the server to indicate he was leaving. The manager was marking the top of the display case with a still floury finger as if he were pointing to a road on a map. Bulgakov opened the door and their words were lost in the bell’s sound. Outside the light was curious. A thin layer of midafternoon sunlight was sandwiched between the earth and a low-lying bank of gray clouds. Large spots of rain began to darken the sidewalk. Bulgakov headed toward Patriarch’s Ponds. He dared not take a cab. Drops pelted his shoulders and back as he went.

  The details of his arrangement with the guard from Lubyanka seemed laughably transparent. Bulgakov knew it could be anyone who might act as an informer. It was the girl server whose gaze now followed him from the tearoom’s window, down and across Teatralny toward Tverskaya Street. Who glanced then at the man at the counter then back to the glass and suddenly understood that she would never see her customer again. It was the man’s co-worker, a fellow guard in the D-block of Lubyanka, who observed aloud that for the second day in a row the man had been late for his afternoon cigarette break. Who noticed that his words were ignored, that the other simply lit his cigarette then spoke as if something entirely different had been said. It was the man at Patriarch’s Ponds who would sell them two bottles of ginger beer and pocket the extra change he’d held back from the one who seemed nervous. It was the housing commissioner of the guard’s apartment building who’d been annoyed by the late hours he kept and simply wanted his room in order to house her recently divorced sister and her sister’s children.