Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

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.

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. If 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.