Collaborators

by John Hodge

  She exits.

  Bulgakov watches her go.

  He lifts the stylus from the gramophone.

  Removes the record.

  He pulls on his coat.

  He approaches the table.

  Vladimir!

  Vladimir Hello, Mikhail. Just wondered how you were getting on. Thought I could read whatever you’ve got so far.

  Bulgakov I’m afraid there’s nothing yet.

  Vladimir So far, then: not so good.

  Bulgakov It’s difficult.

  Vladimir For me – maybe. But you’re a writer. You do this for a living.

  Bulgakov It’s difficult to get a real insight into the man.

  Vladimir Read the books.

  Bulgakov I read them!

  Vladimir So read them some more! You have three weeks until his sixtieth birthday!

  Bulgakov As an author, you have to love your characters.

  Vladimir Of course. Even I can understand that. And I’m sure you will.

  Bulgakov Really? You think so? You think I might find some empathy, some connection – with a loathsome psychopathic despot.

  Vladimir smiles. Does not rise to the bait.

  Vladimir Well, you did write to him, once, didn’t you?

  Bulgakov That . . . that was years ago.

  Vladimir Eight years ago.

  Vladimir produces a typed letter and reads.

  ‘I can exist no longer, I am persecuted by authority . . . my work is banned from the stage . . . I have been brought to the verge of a nervous breakdown and request that you have me exiled from the USSR . . .’ And then?

  Bulgakov does not reply.

  Perhaps you’ve forgotten. You wrote your whiney, self-pitying letter. And then one day, in your shitty little apartment, the telephone rings, and it rings, and eventually, you answer it. Do you remember?

  Bulgakov Yes.

  Vladimir Out of all the thousands of crackpots who write to him every day – he phoned you. And?

  Bulgakov We had a conversation.

  Vladimir You had a conversation. With him.

  Vladimir produces a transcript. He reads the part of Stalin.

  (As Stalin.) We received your letter. You want to go abroad? Perhaps we ought to let you. But tell me, have we really upset you so much?

  Then the part of Bulgakov and so on.

  (As Bulgakov.) Well . . . er . . . um . . . sir, you see, I must declare that I want to . . . I want to . . . to . . . Well, now I think about it, perhaps it would be best for me to remain here.

  (As Stalin.) You are right. I think the same. Where would you like to work, Comrade? How about a job in the Moscow Art Theatre?

  (As Bulgakov.) Yes, sir, I would like to work there. I did put in an application, but . . .

  (As Stalin.) Put in another. Perhaps this time they will have a place for you.

  Vladimir folds away the transcript.

  And?

  Bulgakov They did.

  Vladimir He rescued your career.

  Bulgakov Rescued it from his own oppression.

  Vladimir Let’s not split hairs. The point is: he gave you a second chance. The White Guard went on at the Art Theatre. Eight hundred performances later, you were the toast of literary Moscow. Now don’t you owe him something?

  Bulgakov says nothing.

  Vladimir picks up the phone and dials.

  Hello, Comrade, it’s Vladimir. Listen – is anyone using the rooms at the moment? I’ve got a very important guest and I wanted to show him round.

  He winks at Bulgakov.

  Great. Now? OK? We’ll be quick. I promise.

  He hangs up.

  Right. Let’s go.

  Vladimir leads Bulgakov across the stage.

  Stepan follows.

  They stop at the cupboard.

  Vladimir draws it open.

  The Cleaner, in an overall with a mop, steps out.

  She also carries a folded tarpaulin which she hands to Stepan.

  Stepan proceeds to unfold it on the floor.

  Do you know what she does?

  Bulgakov No.

  Vladimir Guess.

  Bulgakov No.

  Vladimir Guess!

  Bulgakov I have no idea.

  Vladimir She cleans the tarpaulins.

  Bulgakov still does not understand.

  You see, down here, Bulgakov: this is where it actually happens. Before this, of course . . . the arrest . . . the interrogation . . . the confession . . . the trial . . . and then, you put on a white cotton shirt and you come down here. The wooden panelling prevents ricochets, which is also why we use a small-bore pistol –

  Stepan draws out a pistol.

  Like this one.

  Vladimir pushes Bulgakov down on to his knees.

  Stepan jabs the barrel into the top of Bulgakov’s spine.

  One shot to the back of the neck.

  Stepan pulls the trigger. Click. Bulgakov jolts at the sound.

  Often we need a second shot.

  Stepan pulls the trigger again. Click.

  You’d think that would be enough, right? You’d think two bullets, to the base of the brain – that would surely be enough to kill a man. But sometimes – we need a third.

  And again. Click. Bulgakov jolts again.

  And after that, she cleans the tarpaulin.

  Stepan puts his gun away.

  Vladimir hauls the trembling Bulgakov back to his feet.

  Stepan folds up the tarp and hands it back to the Cleaner.

  She disappears back into the cupboard and Stepan slides the door closed.

  Now I know you’re a tough guy. You’re not afraid of death – so I’m not going to threaten you. But I want to see some script by tomorrow morning. The opening scene. Whatever. I don’t care. Words on the page. And don’t think about yourself, Mikhail. Think about Yelena.

  Enter Yelena in a nightgown. She gets into the bed and lies down.

  Vladimir and Stepan exit.

  For a beat, Bulgakov is alone.

  Moonlight fades up on the bed.

  Yelena is asleep.

  Bulgakov crosses and sits on the bed. He is desperate, stuck.

  The telephone on its stand starts ringing.

  Yelena does not wake.

  The ringing continues.

  Bulgakov goes to the phone.

  He picks it up.

  Bulgakov Hello?

  The voice is male, rough.

  Voice Can I help you, Comrade Bulgakov?

  Bulgakov Who is this?

  Voice Go to Mayakovskaya metro station. Take the northbound tunnel for three hundred metres. There you will find the entrance to a side tunnel which you should take, then climb the steps. Make sure you are not followed.

  Bulgakov Who are you?

  Voice I’ll be waiting.

  Click. The line goes dead.

  Bulgakov replaces the receiver.

  A pause.

  Then he goes to the bed and grabs his coat.

  He goes to the front of the stage.

  Yelena wakes.

  She pulls on a gown.

  Yelena Mikhail! Mikhail!

  She cannot find him.

  She exits, calling:

  Vasilly! Praskovya!

  Bulgakov crosses to the desk.

  He stops and turns to face the cupboard.

  The door slides open.

  Slowly, a man emerges, silhouetted from behind.

  Bulgakov steps back in shock.

  The light changes to reveal his face.

  Stalin So who did you expect?

  Bulgakov is speechless.

  The dictator is in his favoured peasant garb: boots, baggy tunic, simple jacket buttoned up.

  He holds an unlit pipe which he sucks on from time to time.

  You know where you are?

  He smiles, continues with theatrical mock secrecy.

  Directly beneath the Kremlin!

  Bulgakov is still bewildered.

  When they were building the
metro – it was my idea – secret tunnel, snug little cubbyhole for yours truly – I always knew it would come in useful some day – and look – here we are! Just you and me! Now why don’t you sit down?

  Bulgakov slumps on to a chair.

  Vodka?

  He pours two. Passes one to Bulgakov, who drinks.

  Stalin holds his but does not drink.

  I hear you’re struggling.

  A beat.

  With the play, Mikhail. It’s supposed to be a surprise. But I hate surprises. More than anything in the world, I think, I hate surprises. It’s supposed to be kept a secret – a secret – from me! – which, frankly, is annoying – but some other time . . . Anyway: you’re struggling.

  Bulgakov Yes, yes, I am . . . sir.

  Stalin Please. Joseph.

  Bulgakov Yes, Joseph, sir, I mean, no, it’s not going well.

  Stalin Not going at all, as I understand it.

  Bulgakov You’re right.

  Stalin I think we need candour from the start. The good news is that I can help you. In fact I want to help you. It would be a privilege for me, a mere philistine, to collaborate with the great Mikhail Bulgakov. To collaborate! I mean, just to watch you create, that would be the privilege. You see, I love the theatre. I always have. You know, the Art Theatre, they gave me this badge. Look, a little . . .

  Bulgakov Seagull.

  Stalin Yes, a seagull. In recognition of my support. You know when they pinned it on, I was in tears. I felt the hand of . . . of . . .

  Overcome with emotion, he cannot finish.

  Bulgakov Chekhov?

  Stalin Yes – upon my shoulder! And yet I knew I was unworthy. You know what they call me – The Great Friend of Actors and Theatre, with a capital letter at the start of each word, as though that makes it true. Still, I love the theatre. And I love your work. The White Guard – fifteen times! I am probably your number-one fan. Almost to the point of obsession. Scary! OK, so you’re quite clearly an enemy of the state.

  Bulgakov attempts to disagree.

  No, no – let’s call a spade a spade. It’s what you are. A class enemy. A talented class enemy, it must be said, but that only makes you more dangerous. You are a subversive worm burrowing its way into the body of the nation intent upon devouring us from within. Nevertheless, allowing for that: I like you. So what’s up?

  Bulgakov Well . . .

  Stalin Joseph.

  Bulgakov Joseph, it’s like this. I’ve read a lot about you, but I don’t think I’m getting –

  Stalin The real me.

  Bulgakov The real you.

  Stalin Tricky. But not any more. Now you can get it from the horse’s mouth – though don’t ever, ever refer to me that way in public. I have ideas. A couple of scenes.

  Bulgakov Scenes?

  Stalin Yes. Characters, dialogue, action. If that’s all right with you?

  Bulgakov Yes. Sir. Joseph. Of course.

  Stalin Now, the clock is ticking. Shall we begin?

  He claps Bulgakov on the shoulder and ushers him to the desk. He feeds a sheet of paper.

  Act One, Scene One – hold on – I forgot – you have a title?

  Bulgakov Young Joseph.

  Stalin Young Joseph. I like it! It’s about me when I was young. It’s better than your others, if you don’t mind me saying so. Less pretentious. I like a title that tells it like it is. Ivan the Terrible. Peter the Great. Young Joseph the . . . whatever. ‘Heroic’ would fit, obviously, but I leave it up to you. Whatever you choose. Doesn’t have to be ‘Heroic’. Could be another word altogether meaning heroic. What do you think?

  Bulgakov I was just going to call it Young Joseph.

  Stalin Just . . . Young Joseph. Nothing else? That’s all?

  A silence as Stalin absorbs.

  Bulgakov I could change it –

  Stalin No! You’re the playwright. It’s your play. If you say it’s Young Joseph the . . . nothing, then that’s what it is. I’ll just have to learn to live with it. Young . . . Joseph . . .

  Bulgakov I’m sorry.

  Stalin Don’t apologise. It’s your play. Now where were we? Act One, Scene One – the Russian orthodox seminary in Tbilisi.

  Bulgakov types as Stalin dictates too fast.

  Young Joseph is learning to be a priest. This cobbler’s son, born into poverty, his nature forged on the rough tough streets of Gori, his father driven to despair and drink by capitalist exploitation – this boy has clawed his way up through intelligence and endeavour – What’s wrong?

  Bulgakov Could you slow down?

  Stalin studies him.

  Stalin Are you ill?

  Bulgakov No.

  Stalin You don’t look so well. Maybe it’s just this light . . . your skin, it’s sort of . . .

  Bulgakov I’m fine. Just nerves. That’s all.

  Stalin Of course. The artistic temperament. I should have allowed for that. Anyway – what have I got you sitting there for? You’re not the typist, you’re the genius! Let’s swap! You come and sit here – leave the slave labour to me.

  Bulgakov What?

  Stalin helps him out of the chair and sits down himself.

  He rolls up his sleeves. Smooths his hair.

  Sucks on his pipe.

  Stalin There, that’s better. Now: here we go . . .

  And he’s off. A real speed typist.

  Bulgakov sits and watches.

  Stalin continues typing, lost in thought, his lips moving silently as he types. The roller of the machine is fairly zinging back and forth.

  Bulgakov drinks his vodka. He sits back.

  Closes his eyes.

  Stalin finishes.

  He puts the typed sheets inside a large envelope and leaves this on the table beside Bulgakov.

  Stalin opens the cupboard and disappears inside, pulling the door closed.

  Bulgakov awakes. Disoriented at first.

  He jumps up. Looks around. He is alone.

  Checks his watch.

  He sees the envelope.

  He picks it up and looks inside.

  He looks around. Goes to front of stage.

  Flustered in the daylight.

  Enter Yelena, Vasilly, Praskovya and Sergei around the table.

  Vasilly You mustn’t worry, my dear. He’ll be home soon.

  Praskovya More likely you will never see him again.

  Sergei I will go out and search, Comrade Madame Bulgakov.

  Yelena That’s very kind of you, Sergei.

  Sergei And if he does not return, I will look after you for the rest of your life, like a son.

  Yelena That’s also very kind, in its own way.

  Bulgakov approaches, still holding the envelope.

  Misha!

  Bulgakov What’s wrong?

  Yelena Where have you been?

  He hugs her.

  Bulgakov I went for a walk – to work.

  Yelena At night? At the Lubyanka?

  Bulgakov I couldn’t sleep – Yelena, I think I’ve found a way –

  Yelena You could have left a note. I was worried.

  Bulgakov There’s nothing to worry about. A way to do it – to write what they want. They can have this, and I’ll have my work. I think it’s all going to be all right!

  A harsh knock.

  Enter Vladimir and Stepan.

  Vladimir Bulgakov!

  Bulgakov spins round, holding out the envelope.

  Bulgakov For you.

  Vladimir takes it, a little put out at being trumped.

  Vladimir All right, everyone out except the artist.

  Exit Vasilly, Praskovya and Sergei (into cupboard).

  Yelena remains.

  Madame Bulgakov, good morning to you.

  Yelena Sergei!

  Sergei Comrade Madame Bulgakov?

  She kisses Bulgakov on the cheek and steps into the cupboard.

  She pulls it closed.

  Vladimir I tell you, that’s not right.

  Bulgakov Are you going t
o read it or not?

  Vladimir takes the pages out of the envelope.

  He reads to himself.

  I hope it meets with your approval.

  Vladimir It’s . . . it’s good. It’s very good. I never doubted you. I knew you could do it. I love the way you capture the essence of the boy. His intelligence, his bravery – even as a child. It’s moving. When Stalin sees this – I’ll probably get a promotion.

  Bulgakov I’m very happy for you.

  Vladimir You keep writing. I’ll start casting.

  Bulgakov Casting? All we have is one scene –

  Vladimir Mikhail, we have a deadline. There is so much to do! Sets, costumes, rehearsals –

  Bulgakov Yes, but, normally, there’s a director involved.

  Vladimir There is a director involved.

  He opens his arms wide.

  Bulgakov says nothing.

  You don’t think I’m qualified? Go on, say it. Be as hurtful as you like.

  Bulgakov You’re a secret policeman.

  Vladimir Is that all I am to you? That’s how you think of me? Am I not allowed other qualities? Literary sensitivity, imagination, a willingness to explore ideas through sound and light, voice and motion? Stepan – do I not have literary sensitivity?

  Stepan says nothing. His expression does not change.

  You see? So it’s decided then. Genius, Bulgakov.

  Bulgakov You’re too kind.

  Vladimir No. I mean I’m a genius. For hiring you.

  Vladimir exits, followed by Stepan.

  Enter Stalin.

  He sits at the table, feeds in a sheet and starts typing.

  Bulgakov pulls on his coat.

  He crosses to the desk where Stalin is still typing.

  Stalin does not acknowledge Bulgakov until he has finished a passage and returned the roller.

  Stalin You’re late.

  Bulgakov I’m sorry.

  Stalin Actually, I was early. Truth is, I wanted to be early, I wanted to get started. All day, I’ve been so excited. Couldn’t think about anything else. So much more enjoyable than all that yackety-yak at the Politburo and Central Committee and God knows what else! When I was young, you know, I wrote poetry.

  Bulgakov Really?

  Stalin Yes. We Georgians, we’re all poets.

  Bulgakov I’d love to read it some day.

  Stalin If I thought for one moment that you really meant that – I’d make you read it! But my guess is you’d sooner be tortured in the Lubyanka. I know I would!

  Bulgakov forces a smile.

  Isn’t it wonderful to be creative?

  Bulgakov It is. Yes. To make something –

  Stalin – from nothing.