Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

“Do you even know where you’re going?” she asked.

Amid the darker grays of a stand of trees, the black timbers of a small hut emerged. The car’s headlights danced across its walls. Its shutters were closed. It appeared abandoned. Ilya turned off the engine and got out.

She stared through the windshield. He pushed the door of the hut with his foot. The lower hinge was broken and it opened only partway. He disappeared into the black interior. The temperature in the car seemed to drop perceptibly and she followed.

Inside, he had lit a match. The orange glow around his hand penetrated little into the darkness, but he seemed to move with foreknowledge to a high shelf built around the room’s perimeter and took down several oil lamps. He lit one, then, with a second match, lit several more. The lanterns extended fingers of light to the walls. There was a hearth, chairs and a table, a cabinet and a bed frame. The place had been left in good order, as if someone had thought to return someday. A small stack of wood remained and he built a modest fire.

He straightened and brushed off his hands lightly. “You should be safe here,” he said.

“Where are you going?” she said.

He gestured to the flames; this wouldn’t last, he told her, and he left as though to gather more. She heard the car engine start and she ran outside.

He’d backed the car across the path they’d taken to the door, then turned the car down the track. Would he leave her? She ran after him. The car bounced over the ruts, gaining speed. Within moments he was gone.

The silent land spread away as if this was all there was. She stared at the road, distant, where it was no longer discernible from the snow. There were no birds; nothing moved. She heard only her own breaths.

There came the howl of a wolf. She went back to the hut. Already the fire was dying.

Once when they’d stopped for petrol, she returned to the car to find a small bundle of daisies on her seat. The wife of the man who operated the distribution site kept a greenhouse. At first Ilya wouldn’t admit to them, then said they’d reminded him of her. He refused to tell her what he’d traded for them. She held the bouquet for a time, then it seemed as though her hands and arms had become dotted with moving grains of sand. The undersides of the petals were covered with spider mites. Ilya tossed the clutch from the window as he drove. She tried to refrain from continuing to examine her arms, rubbing them instead as though it was the chill of the air.

He’d brought clothes for her. Not in her style but she only had those that she’d worn that day. He suggested she consider changing her style. She remembered a particular skirt she’d once owned. She could recall precisely where it’d hung in their apartment in Moscow. She remembered the occasions when she’d worn it. She mentioned it once, as though it was an amusing mystery. “I don’t understand why I miss the thing,” she said. “Was it a favorite of his?” he asked her. She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she’d never known. What did it matter; it was not as though she was going to go back for it. Several miles had passed before she realized that she hadn’t answered. The steppe could do that.

He wore a ring on his right hand. It was a simple band, braided silver. She asked him about it once when he was driving, touching it as his hand held the steering wheel. It’d been a gift, he told her. He’d been engaged at one time. “She changed her mind. I was not the love of her life,” he added lightly. He glanced at her. “It was long ago,” he said, as though she was the one in need of some comfort. Yet the wound seemed still fresh in some way. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the land they traveled which caused old memories to bloom.

“I didn’t know,” she said.

Ilya watched the road unfold. “It was long ago,” he repeated.

It seemed she could not stop touching it. “Was she the love of your life?” she asked.

He smiled a little at the sky ahead as though it was the amusing thing.

It was utterly black outside. She added to the fire. The dark walls seemed to come to life, painted in folk art. Centuries-old and faded, stylized animals and birds and flowers paraded about the perimeter with flourishes of yellow and rust and blue. The images told an ancient story: wolves were chasing an abducted bride. The plot line disappeared behind the cabinet. This was a tale she’d been told as a child. Would the hero slay the beasts in time to save his beloved? She pulled at the cabinet’s corner. It resisted; gripping the floor, too long in its place. She pulled harder. Something was there, written in the wood. She brought a lantern and held it near the wall.

In delicate script, by a woman’s hand, were names in a tidy column, one atop the next, repeated over and over, and beside each, a short line and an age. Ilya at six, Pavel at seven. Ilya at seven, then eight. The lines formed an uneven ladder up the wall. Youngsters bound across the room in hand-sewn overalls, knocking into walls, laughing, taunting as brothers do. Their mother calls them animals. Pavel at ten. Ilya at twelve. There is a girl whose name when spoken will cause Ilya to blush; Pavel takes his advantage with such knowledge . Ilya at fifteen. He finds it amusing that he must bend down to kiss his mother’s cheek. He does this often to show off his stature to her. Pavel at fifteen. There the names stopped. Men are not measured by the hand of their mother.

Margarita turned back toward the fire. Outside, wolves could be heard. The sound didn’t frighten her. She and they would wait together. They would all try not to think too hard.

The concrete steps leading to the small regional police station hadn’t been shoveled. A trail of boot prints had packed down a sullied path. Ilya smoked a cigarette and watched the building from a stand of trees. The glow from an interior desk lamp reflected in one of the windows.

He could hope it would be anyone but him. He crumpled his cigarette against the bottom of his shoe and flicked it into the snow.

The officer seated in the chair looked up as the door opened, then, as recognition widened his gaze, he pushed away slightly and craned his head back. His hair was flecked with gray. His face was broad and flattish in aspect, some ancient Nordic lineage; his cheeks were heavy yet his eyes remained powder blue. He smiled as though pleased for the visit; as though this was all it could be counted as. Ilya measured his expression for its surprise; he didn’t appear to have anticipated Ilya’s arrival, yet Pavel had always been difficult to read.

It startled him how much he resembled their mother.

Their mother told the story of once when they were small, she’d taken a switch in order to punish Ilya for some transgression. But before she could lift the piece against him, she would say, the younger Pavel had stepped between them and, with solemn eyes, asked that he might take the punishment instead. She was amazed, and with every retelling, this seemed new. As it would happen, she’d then conclude, no one was punished that day. Neither of them could remember the event yet they had never doubted her account. Only years later did Ilya reconsider it. He wondered why he’d not been made the hero of that drama. He wondered what she’d read on his young heart that she might want him to believe in some perpetual fealty owed to his brother. He wondered which son she thought she was protecting.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” said Pavel. He touched the top of his head with his hands as though it was necessary in order to contain such news. Abruptly, he stood and hugged Ilya, kissing him on both cheeks and hugging him again. He gestured to the chair beside the desk, easing back into his own.