She could see from his face he was overwhelmed by her appearance. Her shoulder blades brushed against the door.
“Are you happy to see me?” he asked. She didn’t answer and his expression changed as if some amount of his confidence had fled him.
He set his hat on the table. She touched his arm; she would urge him to wait. He brushed it away in a gentle motion, and gathered her face in his hands and kissed her, and it was as though he’d waited long enough, his lifetime in fact, guarding against all other trespasses and dalliances in order to spend that one moment here. Any disinclination on her part would be dealt with later.
He was then practical. “We should go.”
He went to the bed and stripped its pillows of their cases. He held one extended to her. They would pillage the apartment for supplies they might need.
“They know about us,” she said.
He didn’t ask who specifically. Perhaps he knew better than she did. His arm dropped a little. “Have you changed your mind?”
There was a glint of light from the windowsill; the pincushion sat like a ripening tomato.
Margarita imagined Vera’s expression, her tapping knock unanswered, her initial wonderment as she opened the door. Taking in the disassembled room, trying to make sense of it: the coverlet gone, the blanket that had been folded on top vanished as well. Half-open drawers in the kitchen area, their contents spilled on the floor. The meal, so carefully prepared and laid out on the table, untouched. The blue dress, crumpled in a pile at the foot of the screen. She would sit on the bed. The sheet resting beneath her hand would ball into her fist; her fingers would ache from its grip. There would be a new physical awareness, the sense of being acutely exposed as though her blouse had been stripped away. She would raise her hand to her chest to see if this were true.
They left by a back door and crossed the adjacent field along its perimeter where the snow had melted and their tracks would not show. Ilya had left the car less than a kilometer away. They didn’t speak. There was only the sound of their feet trudging; occasionally a branch would snap. The whole time she thought: I can undo this.
The trees thinned and they crossed a road. Miles away, past other fields and other roads there was the camp. The guards would take out their rage on Anyuta. Their rage and their boredom. She saw them in the twilight prison yard, clustered around her. She heard their words. She heard Anyuta speak. At first, then she would quiet.
I can go back.
The car was there and they got into it. The engine turned over. Ilya set it in gear, then turned the steering wheel and the car eased onto the road. Trees and fields drifted past the windows, gathering speed.
Margarita awoke in the passenger seat wrapped in a fur lining Ilya had produced the night before. He’d driven into the early morning hours, finally pulling along an abandoned track into a stand of trees. He’d told her they’d be safe there; that was the last thing she remembered. Beside her now, he slept. A thin sheet of ice had formed on the inner pane of glass such that the outside world was a haze of dim blue light. She scraped her fingernail across its surface. The icy edges lifted and folded away in tiny pleats. She fully expected to see them surrounded by a regiment of police, their rifles trained on the automobile.
Outside, the dark grey timbers stood in peaceful guard as if they were truly safe. As if the world had shrunk to this tiny bite of land and sky. As if the rest didn’t matter or could be forgotten. Or rather, as if their sleep had encompassed not hours but years such that those things that had mattered once were so distant and small in the enormity of time that they were no longer relevant and indeed one could indulge in the imagining that they’d never really existed. One could believe that one’s actions hadn’t diminished the lives of others.
Klavdia awoke in her bunk that morning, the dull pressure in her abdomen gone. The night before, after the one-armed girl was taken away, she had been escorted to a separate building for further questioning. Such was the ploy they had provided. There, in a windowless room, she had been given a meal of a grey-colored meat, turnips, and herring, similar to that received each night by the resident guards. She stared at the wall in front of her as she chewed each bite, rolling the food from cheek to cheek and over her tongue again. There was a crack in the wall; it ran from the ceiling in a ragged slope to a point about waist height. She studied the way the paint had separated on either side of the fault. When she was finished, she washed her skin and mouth in the latrine before going back to the barracks so the other women wouldn’t smell the food. Still, she kept apart and said little when others speculated of Anyuta’s fate. This they would discover the next day as they boarded the bus. Just past the latrine, the girl’s body had been tied to the perimeter fence. She’d been stripped bare from the waist down; brown blood streaked her thighs. An eye had been gouged out. Her blouse had been tied around her neck, the rest stuffed in her mouth. She’d been shot once in the center of her forehead. A large crow sat on the single coil of barbed wire that stretched along the top of the fence. It cawed at the women. Perhaps telling them to hurry along. Or to take their time. The women stared as they waited, shuffling forward until, in their turn, each stepped onto the bus’s lowest stair. No one spoke. Klavdia took her regular seat. No one sat beside her. She looked toward the painted window as though she could see beyond its whiteness. As though the spectacle of the countryside was hers to enjoy.
CHAPTER 37
The trip back to Irkutsk seemed shorter to Bulgakov. Delilah had found other interests so it was just the two men. The driver appeared to mope over this; they conversed little and only about that which was necessary.
At the house, he found a police seal over the door of the apartment above his. The door was ajar; no one answered his call and he went downstairs. The steps had gone unvarnished.
Several days later, Pyotrovich came to his apartment unannounced. He was without his valise. He wanted to know if it’d been worth it, seeing her.
Bulgakov found his question curious. It seemed both personal and calculated.
“It can be startling, how quickly someone can change in a short amount of time. Sometimes to the point of being unrecognizable,” said Pyotrovich. His knowledge of this sounded coldly intimate. He sat in the other available armchair. He appeared to have recovered from his head cold. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Bulgakov indicated that he did not. Outside a light snow fell. The temperature within was only slightly warmer and Pyotrovich had remained in his coat. The fireplace was cold but both men ignored it.
A large bottle of vodka, nearly empty, stood next to Bulgakov’s glass. He debated whether or not to finish it; that would require that he rise and get another. He debated whether or not to place his fist in Pyotrovich’s face; that would also require him to move. The vodka seemed to argue against this; it would argue instead for numbness; that in fact his arms and legs had already disappeared and the only fist that remained was the one in his chest. Vodka would argue for more vodka.
He filled his glass.
Pyotrovich seemed preoccupied with lighting his cigarette.
“I’ve applied for residency in Moscow,” said Bulgakov. “Then Leningrad, then Kiev. All have been denied.”
Pyotrovich wasn’t surprised. “The movement of the population, the ethnic makeup of each region, it is a careful science.” He then seemed to be encouraging. “This is an up-and-coming town. And it’s been a number of years since the last real fuel shortage. You may like it here.”
Pyotrovich still believed that Bulgakov could be the trap which would catch Ilya. “Why not arrest him immediately?” said Bulgakov. “Or better, take him in the act.” The taste in his mouth was sour to the point of foul. “It makes no sense to wait. You make no sense.” He raised his glass as though this was something to celebrate.
Pyotrovich reacted little. “We’ve made certain things easier for him, and that in itself is a risk. I
f Ivanovich senses any of this, any efforts of surveillance, then it is unlikely he will act. He has a brother in the area. Evidently there was a falling-out years ago, but we’ll pursue every avenue of course.” Pyotrovich muted his enthusiasm for arresting his colleague. As though this was the unpleasantness he must put up with.
“What’s to keep him from disappearing into the countryside? He must know you will be looking for him.”
“He’ll try to leave the country with her. Likely Mongolia. By road. Or by train.”
“Tell me, when you catch him, if you catch him, do you shoot him right away? Throw him up against a wall, or is there some process you must follow.”
Pyotrovich hesitated. “Given the crime, there will be a trial.”
No doubt it would be highly publicized; the Director’s efforts lauded. Promotions would offer themselves. Pyotrovich smoked as though this meant little to him.
“You are a bastard,” said Bulgakov, as if he was amazed by the man. He went to the cabinet and brought out another bottle and glass. He set them in front of Pyotrovich.
Pyotrovich considered them before pouring. “If he’s smart, and he is, he’ll move quickly. He’ll try to get them out of the country before she changes her mind. Men tend to look forward. It’s the woman who looks back. Who reconsiders.” He drank and set down the glass. “She will want to see you.”
Bulgakov saw her then in front of a firing squad. A bag over her head. It was by her blouse that he knew her. The clarity of the vision stunned him as though it’d already happened. He could now only hope he would never see her again. The fist found its way into his throat. There wasn’t enough vodka in this world. “Why didn’t you arrest me in the first place?” he said.
Pyotrovich looked surprised, as though the imprisonment of writers was a novel idea. He raised his hands; he was helpless in all of this. “How do we arrest Stalin’s favorite writer?”
Pyotrovich stood and pulled his coat around him more closely. Even in their brief minutes together, the room had chilled further. In the fireplace, remnants of writing paper, black from combustion, clung to the andirons.
“I can see that better fuel is delivered to you,” said Pyotrovich.
“I have plenty,” said Bulgakov.
“Manuscripts don’t burn,” he said, gently it seemed. “If they did, I could have a different job.”
It had begun to snow and what little light remained was further diminished. Bulgakov did not light a lamp. He stared at the empty fireplace until it was only a dark shape on the wall. Both the vodka and the Nagant were his companions. His hand rested on its cool lines; it felt like the hand of a friend.
If he’d not met Mandelstam that night. Perhaps he would have learned of his arrest the next day. Perhaps later. He’d have gone to Nadya as a grieving friend long after Margarita’s departure. And if he’d seen her at the Writers’ Union (indeed, would she have come?) he’d have recognized her, of course, but it was unlikely that anything further would have transpired. That avenue would have stopped short, like so many unexplored. He’d not have known the difference.
He stroked the Nagant. It wouldn’t hold back the People’s army, but it would do the trick. Yet vodka was his friend as well and he refilled his glass. He listened to the gathering liquid. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to live. Vodka promised to help with this.
Pyotrovich had said that manuscripts don’t burn. Yet people disappear. Whole countries of them.
Bulgakov went to his desk and gathered the final chapters. He knelt by the fireplace. He arranged some of the pages on the andirons; in the darkness, they seemed unaware of their new bed. With a match, he lit a corner. The paper held the flame poorly at first and he moved the match along its edge. As the flames caught, the orange light illuminated the words; he recognized a particular passage. He sat back a little; the flames progressed along the perimeter; then, growing, they leaned inward, cupping the pages. The edges darkened and curled; lifting up, fragmenting, more life to them than they’d ever known. He added more; again, the flames illuminated first, then consumed. The characters who’d lived there were gone. This seemed more than right. They should all disappear.
CHAPTER 38
Ilya had told her they were traveling to Irkutsk. There they would board the train for Mongolia.
He’d had false papers made for them. They were stopped only once. They sat in the car as the soldier reviewed them. Ilya maintained an air of disinterest and boredom. When the soldier bent down to look at her Ilya placed his hand high on her thigh, as if in absent gesture. The soldier straightened, his head disappearing, and concluded his business with them. Ilya’s hand slipped away. She looked out the window and the car started forward.
Later she asked to see them. She made a face at the typeset of her new name. “Who picked this?” Maryanka Vasileyna Solovyova. Ilya didn’t answer right away. He was driving.
“You don’t like it?” He sounded sheepish and in part apologetic. It somehow pleased her that she could do that.
“It sounds like the name of an unattractive girl.”
“No it doesn’t.” He looked to see if she could be serious.
“And you?” she said.
“Boris. Mikhailovich Solovyov.”
So she was married. As though she’d dressed that morning in someone else’s clothes. Of course, it was only paper.
“That is the name of a blacksmith,” she said.
“Perhaps in my next life, Marya.”
She stared ahead. The sky was a hard, steady blue.
“Are you all right?” he said after a moment.
She nodded. “The sun hurts my eyes,” she told him, by way of explanation.
She could hear the voice of Anyuta in her head. It seemed a nuisance memory replaying itself. The girl had been talking on and on about nothing and Margarita had just wanted some quiet to think. You’re not as nice as you look, Anyuta had told her, marching away. Was it a person’s responsibility to live up to the promise of their appearance? An hour later, it’d been forgotten, Anyuta chatting endlessly, but the memory refused to leave her.
She asked Ilya what he thought would happen to Vera and her husband. When at first he was silent, she thought he was considering the question. Then she saw his acute discomfort.
“They had no idea what they were doing,” she said.
“Some effort will be expended to find out if that is true.” He sounded coldly technical, though perhaps self-conscious for that.
She remembered the sound of her feet on the stairs to Vera’s apartment. The wear of the banister under her hand. All of the times she’d joined her at lunch. All of the ways she’d appealed to her nature. Criminal acts, every one.
“You spent time with them too,” said Margarita.
“Any information they provide will put the authorities on the wrong track. At least for a while.” He paused. “If they are forthcoming it might give us an advantage.”
She could still feel Vera’s arm around her waist. Speaking of the daughter she’d always wanted.
He stared at the road as he spoke; it was straight and unambiguous. As though to look instead at her would be a cruel thing. It seemed then he was taking them both to some terrible destination.
They slept in the car at night. Other than that first kiss he’d not touched her. She lay awake under the layers of fur and listened to his restless breathing.
Why writers, he had asked long ago. She’d asked it of herself.
The memory of a particular afternoon came back to her. It’d been raining and Bulgakov had returned to their apartment carrying its chill in the folds of his damp clothes. At first it’d seemed she wanted only to relieve him of his coat, but the fabric of his shirt beneath clung to him in a way that made him startlingly vibrant. She didn’t stop at his coat, his shirt; she wanted to feel the warmth of his skin. He let her; he held his arms sl
ightly apart and quietly watched. He was both passive and complicit. Then she pulled off her own clothes.
Later, she told him he wasn’t such a genius. She was being playful.
“Actually, I am,” he said. He was smiling.
She stopped teasing and became thoughtful. “You’re a genius about people.”
He wouldn’t take her seriously. “I just pay attention. How else does one write?”
“Even the villains have their chance,” she said
“Well—don’t they?”
She reached across the dark car toward Ilya; her fingers stopped short of him.
Why Bulgakov? She thought back to Patriarch’s Ponds—had she known then? Before everything, had she known of those things of which she could be capable? She withdrew her hand.
Write your most flawed character, she wished to him so far away. She squeezed her eyes shut until the darkness turned red. She strengthened her prayer. Take all of your humanity and write your grandest villain, your most foul sinner. Write as though mankind depended on this. And render some parcel of that humanity for me.
The next day shortly before noon, they came upon a line of wagons stopped on the road. The reason wasn’t immediately apparent. The day was fine; the sky promised no difficulties. Much of the snow had melted; clover grew everywhere. Children played along the roadway, chasing each other between the stopped vehicles; mothers stood in the shallow ditch and chatted in small groups. Ilya slowed as they entered the queue, then stopped the engine. Faces turned to them, the car a relative novelty, before returning to other conversations.
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