With the rain, Patriarch’s Ponds had been abandoned and the kiosk shutters closed and Bulgakov sat alone on an empty bench under a linden tree. To the west, the sky was clearing and the light swelled even in the declining hour as if someone had peeled back a corner of its stormy roof. The rain had stopped.
A screech of steel against steel sounded and the kiosk window rolled open. The guard from Lubyanka sat down on the other end of Bulgakov’s bench. The kiosk seller poked his face through the opening and looked at them. His head disappeared.
The guard opened the bag of teacakes and offered it to Bulgakov. Bulgakov shook his head. The guard removed a cake and inspected it briefly. He confessed that he ate constantly and he took a bite. He always had and yet he looked like this. He gestured to himself. He said the cakes weren’t half bad. Perhaps a little stale.
Bulgakov asked about Margarita. The guard finished chewing, then looked away, down the sidewalk that ran in front of them toward the distant street.
“I brought payment,” said Bulgakov.
The guard told him she was being interrogated.
Bulgakov paused before his next question. What did that mean exactly?
The puddles in the walk caught the light of the sky. The air smelled wet and moldy.
The guard had heard of her interrogators. Their reputations. She could have done worse. He took another bite of the teacake.
Had she been tortured?
Not that he could see.
“It took me a bit to find her,” he said. He removed another teacake from the bag.
Bulgakov took a roll of bills from his pocket and placed them on the bench between them.
“Were you able to give her my message?” asked Bulgakov.
“Do you suppose they sell anything worth drinking?” said the guard. He covered the bills with his fingers, then slid them into his trouser pocket.
The price was just over a hundred rubles.
Bulgakov went to see.
It’d been about the money. The guard was certain that the man would pay whatever was asked. The man had worn a suit when they’d first met, old but not frayed; the chain of a watch fob was visible though he never saw the watch. He’d become good at sizing people up and gave the price. The man had hesitated, but when he made to leave, he quickly assented. He was good at sizing up. It came from observing a multitude of prisoners, the rich and the formerly rich and the poor and the penniless, flowing past him every day. People were base creatures. They only valued that which was painful to acquire. Once the price was set, the man was quiet. A hundred rubles was steep for information. The guard added then that simply finding one prisoner among the thousands held there would be no small trick. The man nodded. Perhaps that had made him feel better.
Finding her was not simple. He asked questions he’d not normally ask; took interest in conversations he’d typically ignore. He knew his change in habit was noticed and he ignored this as well. He saw her only twice. The first time no words were exchanged. She had no idea she’d been the subject of such scrutiny. He suspected she was being held for interrogation. He listened in on the conversations of guards assigned to those wings. After several false leads, he fabricated an errand to one of the midlevel blocks. He saw her as she was being escorted back to her cell. It was simply a moment; for some reason she turned as she passed through the riveted door, for some reason her gaze rested not upon those who’d brought her back but rather on the corridor beyond, on the one unfamiliar face. She did not look away from him, even as the door between them closed. She was the kind of woman who was accustomed to the stares of others, both men and women, he knew. But she’d know in this exchange that his chance appearance was not chance. He was certain of this even before their second meeting. She would be waiting for him.
He had only a sister who worked on the sly as a seamstress, sliding the extra kopeks gleaned from her guilty customers into little pockets she had fashioned in the hem of her skirt to hide them from the Kolkhoz inspectors. Their mother had left them in 1905 and she had raised him even though she was barely older and certainly no bigger. He’d only seen her once since coming to Moscow. She sent frequent letters. He had the sense that she wrote them thinking she was writing to the world. That they would be opened and read and collected and filed was not her concern. She complained that he rarely wrote and when he did, he said nothing. She gave no warning of her visit. The evening he’d found her waiting in his apartment was one of record snowfall in the city. She was sitting in his armchair with her bare feet propped up on the seat of another. The snow that had dusted his shoulders began to melt and he felt the cool dampness sink through the wool. She said she’d brought the storm with her. Her small frame was enveloped by the chair. He took off his overcoat. She refused to be extricated from his life. He kissed her on the forehead. She waved her hand about his apartment. What was it about the two of them, she said, that they should both live their lives as a solitary endeavor. He told her he preferred it that way.
He saw the prisoner for the last time several weeks after the first.
It was a chance meeting and he was ill-prepared for it. She’d been moved to his cell block in order to repair a broken pipe that was flooding her cell. He’d not given a thought to what he might say to her. Despite the arrangement and the agreed-upon sum, he never really thought the opportunity would arise.
When he arrived for his shift that morning he was told to escort the prisoner in D-242A for her quarter-hour breather. There was a light rain and his clothes were still damp from it, yet it was a better alternative than making the rounds and collecting food tins. D-block guards unbolted the stenciled door. He joked with one of them, some reference to a woman he’d seen him with at a bar the night before. A woman well above his pay-grade, he suggested. The door swung open and he saw her. He saw her and saw his own surprise and uncertainty reflected in her face and could think only of the implausibility of their meeting being random. They—the unknowable, unnamable they—knew and had decided to allow for this happenstance. They would be watching. He didn’t hear the other guard’s response. Someone else nearby laughed at something that had been said.
He directed her along the corridors with single-word commands until they reached a series of doors. He unlocked one with a key on his belt and revealed a small outdoor alcove. Its grey light glowed in contrast to the dark inside. The outdoor space was boxlike; three meters square with two-meter-high concrete walls. The ground was dirt. The earlier rain had changed to a low mist. She entered and turned around in it. Her posture was slightly stooped.
“How much time do I have?” she said. She seemed both in awe of this freedom and reluctant of it.
He told her a quarter hour. He realized then that she’d not been let out before; typical prisoners were given time for exercise each week. This made it likely she was a political and at once she became a much greater danger to him. The likelihood of their situation being chance was even more remote. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. They could watch all they liked, he decided. They could listen to silence fill their ears. He had no intention of talking to her.
“It’s funny; you look like someone I know,” she said.
He looked at her hard, and, he hoped, discouragingly, and continued smoking. Did she have any idea of how stupid she was being?
“Like the younger brother of someone I know.”
“I don’t look like anyone,” he said. That’s how they pick us, he wanted to add. We are the ones with forgettable faces.
“Well, he is a nice man and you look like him.” She spoke as if she’d held her words for so long that now she’d begun, they were beyond her control.
“We can make this a three-minute breather instead of fifteen.” He wasn’t willing to take these risks.
She pressed her lips into a thin line.
Small puddles had collected on the uneven ground near one of the enclosure�
�s corners. From one she rescued a drowning earthworm. She showed it to him before depositing it on moist soil. It arched up from her palm then fell back against it, its mass in the air too much to support. She placed it on higher ground then stood and rubbed her hands together. As if she could find more things to save. He thought—here she stands, for the moment vast and almighty; the low and mindless at her feet. Did she not feel some urge to squash it into the dirt? To stand square with those who still moved freely in the world? To wield the same power as those who would crush her? Did her toe not turn, its compulsion growing, held back only by her initial horror of the imagined act?
She stood over the worm. Even the whitest soul could not stay forever unsullied. He could imagine she was not so white. From beyond the wall came the muted and intermittent blare of a car horn.
She turned to him. “I’d forgotten,” she said. The horn sounded again. Her expression changed. Even a world of car horns was something to long for.
Her ease with him unnerved him. As if something was missing from his uniform or his demeanor, and he was less recognizable as a guard. He pushed the remainder of his cigarette into the wall.
Or worse, she had read a different politic on his face.
The door opened. Another guard with a prisoner appeared. He said he’d thought the enclosure was empty. He looked carefully at Margarita. “That one doesn’t get a breather, mate,” he said. “People’s Enemy. They should have told you.” He left with his prisoner to find another enclosure.
They were watching. They were wondering if he still recognized himself.
“Let’s go,” he said.
He saw her disappointment and he looked away; she passed before him through the door.
She reminded him of his sister. His mood sank further when he realized this. She would have been similarly transformed. The same stooped walk. The same held face. She’d have saved the fragile worm without envy of its salvation. He imagined her expression, the gentle smudge of her quizzical forehead, should he have suggested otherwise. He thought of her skirt, fiercely embroidered, weighted along its hem like a fisherman’s line.
At D-block he was told her cell had been repaired and he should escort her back. Someone offered to take her if he wanted a break—he said no, of course. A break wouldn’t make sense; he’d only just started his shift.
As they ascended the stairs they passed one of the interrogators coming down. His reputation was well known. The guard took her arm and maneuvered her along, placing himself between them. The interrogator stopped just as they passed, on the same step.
“We missed you today, whore.” He grinned at her and wagged his head in mock concern. “I guess we can’t let a prisoner’s feet get soggy. We’ll have to double our time tomorrow.”
She swayed slightly. He wondered if she might faint.
“Excuse me, friend,” said the guard. “I must get her back to her cell.”
The interrogator ignored him. “Perhaps I’ll request an extra session today,” he said to her.
Whatever he saw in her expression caused him to laugh.
“I’d be forced to work late, you know, but if you beg me, I will.”
The guard placed his foot on the next step. The interrogator didn’t move.
“Beg me,” he ordered her.
“Comrade Interrogator,” the guard began.
“Shut up,” said the interrogator. “Beg me, whore.”
“They are expecting her back,” said the guard.
“What’s your name?”
He told him.
“Well, Miklosh,” the interrogator immediately applied the diminutive form. “You should make it your job to care about what I care about and not worry about other wormlike guards like yourself.”
“I beg you,” she said.
They both looked at her.
“What’s that, whore?”
“You heard me.”
“I want to hear it again.”
“You’ll have to tie me up first,” she said. Her words were matter-of-fact, as if she was reminding him of a familiar practice; one they’d agreed upon long ago.
The interrogator laughed and set off down the stairs. “And I will,” he said. His words rang from the cement walls. They heard him then shout to someone below and hurry his descent. A lower door opened then shut.
She leaned against the wall. He urged her forward. “Come along. We’re almost there,” he said. Words that might be a comfort under other circumstances clearly were not here. He thought to give some apology for this blunder.
“Listen,” he said. His grip on her arm tightened to the point he thought might be painful; he needed to wake her up. “The writer wants to know of you.”
She was silent at first, as if she couldn’t make sense of his words. “You’ve talked to him? Where is he? Is he here?”
“No—he’s outside. Don’t say anything more.”
She obeyed him. He was surprised by this and almost regretted the command. At her cell block he turned her over to the guards. He could see she was careful not to look at him.
On his way back to D-block, he stepped into the alcove they’d occupied earlier and lit another cigarette. The mist overhead had lifted revealing an empty sky. His hands shook for a few moments, then calmed. A car horn sounded. This calmed him further.
He went to the place where she’d released the earthworm and squatted. He stroked the dirt. It was nowhere to be seen. He heard wings and a blackbird landed on the top of the wall. It eyed him, then toggled its head back and forth.
He removed his hand and stood back from the spot.
The guard learned in subsequent days that she’d been put on the list for deportation to a Siberian camp. Again, his gain of such knowledge appeared serendipitous: a glance at some documents he’d been asked to deliver to another unit. He wouldn’t tell Bulgakov this news. That would’ve been an additional hundred rubles, he reasoned. Besides, what difference would it have made? He’d do better to keep his money.
Bulgakov returned with the beer.
The guard was gone and Ilya sat in his place. Ilya took one of the bottles.
Bulgakov sat down. He wondered what—if anything—had transpired between the two. Or if perhaps the guard had transmogrified in some way. The evening light seemed tricky.
“It’s not that warm,” observed Ilya. It wasn’t clear if he was referring to the drink, or the weather; a reference to the waning year. He tipped his head back and drank. The bottle was half empty when he lowered it again. He delivered his news without preamble.
“She’s been sentenced to eight years. The penal camp of Oserlag. The best I can do is have her processed as a common criminal.”
The bell of a distant streetcar announced its approach.
“That information,” said Ilya, with a touch of sarcasm. “Cost you little to procure.” He indicated the beer.
Ilya got up, leaving the bottle on the bench between them, and took the path toward Bronnaya Street. He crossed; the streetcar passed between them.
Along the street, one after another, the gas lamps were being ignited. Restaurants were opening; people still wandered there. The kiosk which had sold him the beer was closed and dark. The park was empty except for him. It was beyond twilight; darkness filled the spaces between the benches, along the paths, as easily as did the light during daylight hours, yet there was the sense it harbored other things. Those who required their eyes to navigate the world had no business there.
CHAPTER 26
Ilya wanted to tell her himself.
He stood in his office and stared at the photograph of Stalin on the wall. His was different than Pyotr’s: the Great Man’s gaze was slightly lower. One could imagine his domain was more personal; perhaps one’s own particular cares figured there. Ilya looked at his watch. Momentarily they would arrive, the prisoner and her guard, and through
the wall he would hear the movement of chairs, muffled words, some fidgeting, then silence. They were always silent while they waited for him. He hadn’t seen her since the day of her arrest and he realized he was anxious. Anxious of her changed appearance. Anxious she would blame him. Did Comrade Stalin have insight to share? Could Father Chairman provide counsel? How did one woo a woman whose sentence one had enacted? Ilya stamped his cigarette into the ashtray.
The reports of her interrogations had been transcribed on papers as thin as onionskin. They lay on his desk in a dainty stack. Young Fedir was fastidious, his language nearly clinical in its descriptions. In the typing, his machine had dropped every “r” to the level of subscript, and it was easy to become distracted from the prose by the undulating waves of print. But then a phrase would find him—the prisoner seemed frailer than usual today; will consult with the infirmary regarding iron supplements. He reread those lines. Did he, he wondered? Had the medics acted on this concern? There was no further mention in subsequent reports. Was there a usual level of frailty that required no action? A subtle shift in the hanging of her dress? Bluish shadows under her eyes that told of malnutrition and sleeplessness? The young interrogator had come to know such specifics and Ilya disliked him for this.
Overlaying the reports was a single page with the recommended disposition. It was the standard text. The prisoner was an excellent candidate for rehabilitation, so it read. She would derive great benefit from Siberia’s robust frontier and the opportunity to make a dedicated contribution toward the strengthening of the Soviet infrastructure. She would learn firsthand of the joy in communal living and the satisfaction of working with others toward the larger purpose.
Ilya traced his fingers downward. Below Pyotr’s signature was a place for his.
Mikhail and Margarita Page 20
