“I know lots of people who’ve been arrested,” she said airily. “They do come back.” Not necessarily to give him comfort, but rather to demonstrate her expert knowledge of such matters. When he didn’t say anything, she added:
“You can marry her then.” It seemed simple.
“I can,” he agreed.
“Or perhaps you will meet someone else.”
The guileless cruelty of her words seemed to take his breath. She broke off another piece and stared at him, chewing. He could see her thoughts turning. She put the unfinished toast back on the table, then brought her hand to her hair.
“Tell me what you do,” she said. “No, I’ll guess.”
“I’m a writer.”
She pouted only a moment, then smiled. “I’d have guessed an engineer. Someone who builds things.” She eyed him hopefully as though he would at any moment turn into such a person.
“Alas, I am a mere writer.”
“Writers are necessary too, I suppose. Someone has to fill the papers with words each day.” She seemed to warm to the idea. “I know a place—it’s just around the corner. They know me. I never have to pay full—we can get something better than this.” She waved to the half-eaten bread.
“I feel I need to wait for Ilya.”
“He’ll still be here.”
“He’s here now?”
She gestured vaguely at the wall behind her. “Maybe—I thought it was him but it was you instead.”
“I should check then.”
She was disappointed in him; perhaps it was in his determination, but that seemed imprecise. As though she was accustomed to being wrongly discounted; as though he was no better than the others who underestimated her. “He’s going on a trip somewhere—I don’t know where—not that I particularly care,” she added. “He asked to borrow some women’s clothes. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
A trip? Bulgakov rose to his feet, waiting for her to continue. Her gaze followed him upwards.
“And not just one piece, but several changes, blouses, skirts, and they had to be just so.”
“Just what?” His thoughts raced ahead. Just her size?
“I don’t know. Boring.” She made a face. “As if I’m running some sort of boutique. I asked who they were for and he wouldn’t say. You don’t suppose he’s married, do you? And giving her my clothes? No, that’s too strange, even for him. And why not buy them himself?”
She suddenly seemed tired, as if all of this speculation was too much. She leaned against the cushion and went back to frowning at her nails. Supper with him had been forgotten. “It makes no difference to me,” she said to herself.
“I don’t know any of that,” he said softly, glancing at the shared wall between them. He knew so little as to fill the head of a pin.
“Now it’s you who’s seen a ghost,” she said, musing. She appeared to make little else of his surprise. The light in the room seemed to have grown in intensity and in it she looked even younger than before. A child’s face could be seen through the wash of day-old makeup. She looked desperately hopeful for so many things.
“Tell him I’m expecting my fruit,” she said. She seemed to be trying once again to sound casual and upbeat. “He promised.”
He told her he’d tell him.
“If she doesn’t come back—your fiancée—I can be your friend,” she said. Her offer seemed a vague thing—after all, he couldn’t be expected to produce fans or teeth. Still, one could keep an open mind.
He didn’t know what else to do but to thank her.
He entered Ilya’s apartment without knocking. Ilya appeared to be neither surprised nor bothered by this. A suitcase was spread wide on a low table. Beside him on the sofa was a pile of clothes. On the chair were travel documents. Bulgakov moved the papers and sat down.
“Annuschka said you are taking a trip,” said Bulgakov.
“Don’t worry about Nushka.” His voice was gentler than Bulgakov would have expected. “She has a gift for finding someone to take care of her.”
Ilya turned the case sideways; then, as if this was a most natural thing, he lifted the lining from the lid’s interior and released a panel that hid an upper compartment. He went to the bureau and returned with a second pile; this was of women’s clothing. He began again, only this time, there seemed to be a kind of reverence to his motions. He smoothed a blouse of filmy cloth then laid it in the curve of the case. The loose threads caught on his coarse skin and the fabric lifted as if it was unwilling to let him go. He as well seemed reluctant to retreat; his hands hovered as if to coax it to stay.
“There’s a strange parcel,” said Bulgakov. He felt helpless and angry for it.
Ilya picked up a grey skirt and folded it lengthwise. He placed it in the suitcase, but its hem and waistband seemed uncooperative and hung over the lid. He pushed down its edges, then, unsatisfied, lifted it out again; this piece would require another strategy. His concern seemed excessive, as if it was more than a skirt.
“This is unlike you,” said Bulgakov; he wanted to sound skeptical.
Ilya continued to work. Writ on his face was an unexpected vulnerability; a combination of hope and nervousness and measured anticipation. By it he seemed a much younger man, as though he’d been freed of the burdens of wisdom and experience. He could believe in something that was close to impossible. He would give himself the luxury of that faith.
“When are you leaving?” asked Bulgakov. The question itself depressed him further.
“At the end of the week. Though I’ve been delayed once already.”
A small pile remained beside him. A cluster of women’s undergarments, and he hesitated above their silken glory, his hands paused in a kind of nervous devotion.
“What are you planning?” said Bulgakov.
“I don’t know.” Ilya seemed to answer to their daintiness, as though made helpless by it. Finally he took them, en masse, and pressed them into a corner of the case. They would have to suffer a certain amount of boorishness. They would have to forgive him this.
“Then—after—where will you go?” This was the dangerous question. If Ilya was successful he would be with Margarita.
“It’s a big country,” said Ilya. He was willing to point out the obvious.
Bulgakov would never see her again.
Ilya closed the lid. He set it on the floor then went to pour himself a drink. He worked over a small sink that hung from the wall, similar to that in Bulgakov’s apartment.
Perhaps he’d asked Ilya for one—he couldn’t remember, yet Ilya handed him a drink. The glass was crystal though badly chipped; some remnant of old, discarded wealth. Bulgakov held it in his fist. Its wounded surface bit into his skin.
Ilya stood near the sink, empty-handed, studying him. “I can take care of her,” he said.
He was neither apologetic nor boastful. He’d perused maps and collected false papers. He’d made provision for travel. He could appear at the camp under the guise of authority and communicate some plan to her. She could act on that plan. He was her best chance.
“I can make her happy,” said Ilya.
“No.”
Ilya didn’t argue with him. Perhaps he questioned himself. “I can take care of her,” he repeated.
Bulgakov gripped the glass. “Were you at least going to tell me?” he asked.
Ilya’s expression was surprising. He seemed of all things embarrassed.
Did he think he would follow him to Siberia? He could imagine only the emptiness of that space. Its tundra a frozen ocean. A quiet so profound one’s ears rang from it.
Did he think he would stop him? Report him to the authorities? Relegate her to years in prison, perhaps worse, just to keep him from her?
Or would he stay and get on with his life? Enjoy his literary fame. This was his moment. There would be parties, glitte
ring honors. Lesser writers would vie for his attention; great ones would usher him into their midst. There would be people to fill rooms. Rooms upon rooms. He would not be alone.
There would be Annuschkas aplenty.
Bulgakov downed his drink and set the glass aside. His hand was bleeding from scores of tiny cuts. Blooms of red appeared in a fresh and unexpected crop.
He wondered, momentarily, if she would have been surprised by his decision.
CHAPTER 28
Bulgakov obtained travel papers from a man whose name Stanislawski provided. For as illegal as the transaction was, it seemed oddly cordial. They met at the man’s apartment in the middle of the afternoon; the man had been late arriving and apologized as he opened the door. He offered tea and seemed genuinely disappointed when Bulgakov declined. He drew some official-appearing pages from a desk, then asked about his destination. He scratched in the name of the town with a quill pen. He appeared to add other particulars of his own invention; Bulgakov tried to decipher the movements of the pen. When he was finished, the man took what appeared to be a block of wood from the lowest drawer. The block separated into two halves and he placed the paper between them. Here, he got up from his chair to leverage his weight and with both hands pressed down on the seal. He stared at Bulgakov as he did this. His gaze seemed vaguely inquisitive. Then suddenly he smiled. “This is it, isn’t it?” he said. It was this for which he’d paid his money. He separated the blocks and handed him the page. The seal was crude, blurred, it seemed clearly fraudulent. “They don’t look very carefully,” he said, as if anticipating the complaint, and took the page back and folded it. “Most of them can’t read.” He found an envelope. He seemed to interpret Bulgakov’s hesitation as disappointment. “It’ll do the trick,” he said. “Haven’t lost one yet.”
Lost—to where? Prison?
Bulgakov then asked about acquiring a gun. He felt sheepish, as though the asking made him already guilty of some crime. The man pulled a large metal box from under his bed. A variety of firearms were within. He squatted, his fingers on his lips; he glanced once at Bulgakov then back at the box, as if he was fitting a suit to a man. Finally he selected one. He sat on the bed as he explained its parts, then passed it to Bulgakov.
The piece was heavier than he’d expected.
“It’s a Nagant,” said the man.
Bulgakov didn’t know what that meant. “I see,” he said.
“It was standard issue before the TT became popular.”
He wondered if he shouldn’t ask for the TT instead.
“It’ll do the trick,” said the man.
“I hear it can be a wild place,” said Bulgakov.
The man gave no reaction. He’d participated in scores of illicit transactions; he was beyond any need for understanding the particulars of these things.
Bulgakov offered it back. “I’ll think about it.”
The man didn’t move to take it. “Best to think before you need it,” he said. “It won’t take down the People’s army but it might slow down a wolf.”
Bulgakov hadn’t thought of wolves. What other dangers had he not considered? He tried to accustom himself to the weight.
The man sold him a partially filled box of ammunition and showed him how to load it. Finally he found a paper bag from a closet, so Bulgakov might carry it discreetly.
Bulgakov went to the station in central Moscow. Timetables were not to be trusted and despite the hour the platform trembled with the crowd of huddled bodies. In their midst a locomotive towered. The air was dry and bitterly cold. Half a dozen darkly rusted metal casks were scattered throughout the crowds; therein small fires provided some warmth to those waiting. Working men called to one another and cursed. Trestles groaned, pallets of goods were loaded and unloaded. Whistles and horns floated in from the street. A garbled, indecipherable announcement came from a loudspeaker. All of this made for the moment of departure: when the familiar lost its claim on one. With this the blood moved faster, looser, limbs warmed. Even the discomfort and inconvenience of travel could not dissuade. Bulgakov needed to find one who would be willing to give this up. He was willing to pay.
Nearby a small convoy of women prisoners sat together, distinguishable not by their clothes, but by their posture and the unnatural closeness they maintained with one another. Their guards appeared only vaguely troubled by their duty, their rifles slung over their backs; several were smoking. That small section of platform did not hold the same anticipation as the rest, as though it was part of an old and more tired country. Bulgakov searched the faces of these prisoners. From that distance the details of loss and trepidation could only be imagined. He didn’t expect to see Margarita, but perhaps some semblance of her, and he wondered if that would be comforting. He wanted so badly to see her.
“They never look like criminals, do they?” An older gentleman in a suit and an overcoat of above-average construction appeared to be observing them as well. He looked at Bulgakov as though grateful for one of his kind. It was unlikely this one would give up his ticket.
“Perhaps they’re not,” said Bulgakov. Such a sentiment he would not have expressed openly before.
The man gave no reply. He gestured as if he’d spotted an acquaintance and moved away without explanation.
The prisoners began to jostle each other, rising to their feet. The train whistled. Those waiting on the platform then stood and the prisoners disappeared from view.
Another man, closer to his age and of lesser means, in a cap and factory-produced clothes appeared to be traveling alone. Bulgakov sidled up to him.
“Quite some crowd,” said Bulgakov.
“When is it not like this?” said the man.
“How far are you going?”
The man held out his ticket. Ulan Ude. Bulgakov shook his head as though the man had pulled a losing ticket from the lottery. The man reexamined it then shrugged. His mother was sick; such was his luck.
“That’s a tedious trip,” said Bulgakov. The man reacted little; perhaps he didn’t know the word.
“Boring,” said Bulgakov. The man agreed. He’d brought an extra bit, he said. One could usually find a game if one knew where to look. Several of his teeth were missing, his gums grey above the gaps.
Bulgakov offered to buy his ticket; he told him it was for his brother whose application had been mishandled. The man looked around for the unlucky person and Bulgakov waved generally toward the far end of the platform. This one always pulled the short stick, he added, shaking his head as though it was some unfortunate inborn trait.
“How much are you offering?” asked the man. He seemed both skeptical and greedy.
“Fifty rubles.”
Bulgakov could see he’d miscalculated. The amount was too much and the man relaxed; he sensed Bulgakov’s need and was ready to wheedle. One who would offer fifty could go higher. The crowds around them had thinned a bit. The man scratched his head under his cap. Time was his friend.
“She’s pretty sick,” he said. “What kind of a son would I be?”
“You could send her the money,” said Bulgakov.
“Mail is chancy.”
“Then bring it to her later.” The clusters around each carriage were shrinking. “Come now, fifty is more than fair,” said Bulgakov. The man seemed rooted to the platform. The train called again.
“Where is your brother?” the man asked.
“I have no idea,” said Bulgakov, annoyed. “Come now.”
“Who has a ticket and who doesn’t?” The man wagged his head. Who was the smart one, he would say? This man in a suit and overcoat? I think not!
“Maybe your brother has more?” said the man.
“The ticket is for me,” said Bulgakov. “This is what I have.” He would turn out his pockets if necessary.
The man seemed unaffected by the sudden contraction of opportunity. He kicked ligh
tly at Bulgakov’s shoe. “Those are nice,” he said.
“What would I wear?”
“We could trade.” He pulled up on his trousers to reveal his well-worn pair. Bulgakov accepted and put on the other man’s shoes. The toes of his left foot curled against the stiff leather upper; they were of unequal size.
“Why do you want a ticket so badly?” asked the man. For a moment, his question seemed less about gauging its value. He rubbed the paper between his thumb and middle finger.
On the other side of the platform, the prisoners were being loaded into a boxcar. Two of the guards stood in its opening. One by one, they grasped each woman by the arms and hauled her up. Midair only for a moment, each kicked her legs slightly then struggled to gain the step; some stumbled and caught themselves, others landed on their knees then hands, and Bulgakov was given to the thought of mythical creatures being pulled from the sea into a waiting boat of fishermen; these creatures were trusting of the men, their legs new and strange to them. They would never go back.
“There’s a woman,” said Bulgakov, half under his breath. His brain seemed incapable of producing lies.
The man asked the time and Bulgakov checked his pocket watch. The glint of the timepiece disappeared under the man’s fingers. Bulgakov winced.
“I hope your trip is a tedious one,” said the man. He sounded uncomfortably sophisticated. He departed for the street as though he’d never had any intention of boarding a train. The watch chain dangled from his trouser pocket.
Almost immediately an official appeared, asking to see Bulgakov’s ticket. Then his travel papers. “These are an obvious fraud,” he said indignantly. “Follow me.” He led him to a squat building at the far end of the platform that housed several rooms, only one of which maintained a warming stove. Bulgakov was told he would be dealt with shortly. The official took his papers with him.
The room was empty save a few chairs around the perimeter. The stove had an unpleasantly pitched hum. Bulgakov sat down. Lithographs had been tacked to the walls; they carried familiar slogans: Don’t be a big mouth—even the walls have ears! Another was a quiet scene of Stalin writing at a desk: Stalin in the Kremlin cares about each one of us.
Mikhail and Margarita Page 22