Bulgakov began to think of it savagely as the Mandelstam letter. He had decided to take a dispassionate approach; cool intellect would have the greater appeal. By no means would he mention the poem. He thought to point out how poorly it served the government to place its writers under lock and key, how free thinking fed creativity, which fueled innovation which would be the engine of Soviet success on the world stage. Which all sounded well and good, he thought, but needed to circle back to the specifics of Mandelstam’s detainment. He went through many drafts, and when he read them with the impassive eye of a Party Leader, the unspoken arguments for keeping the poet incarcerated seemed stronger. He referred to their greater humanity, to their superior compassion, to their modern outlook—old-world leaders might put their writers in front of firing squads; but they—champions of the new age, they would instead allow for dissent, even welcome the discussion, for they were beyond the need for bullets to enforce their way. Indeed, if their way was best, such things were unnecessary.
He’d lost count of the different drafts, holding his head in his hands. He added a final paragraph, in desperation it seemed—Writers by their nature love their country but if their countrymen no longer have affection for them, then perhaps the better answer is to allow them to emigrate.
He sensed the danger in those words—the suggestion of self-determination. Where the pen had come to rest, a blot of ink began to spread across the page. It would require rewriting again.
He’d not heard her enter. Margarita looked as though she’d wandered into a forgotten gallery of a museum near closing. When she saw him staring she blushed, caught in the act of her trespass. “It was open,” she explained. She lifted a hand to a book on a bookshelf.
“You’ve become quite famous,” she said. “Everyone is talking—did you know?”
He suddenly wished to discard all of the drafts. “Wonderful,” he said. He tried to sound unaffected but she seemed to see the distress in his face.
“Everyone admires you,” she said. “You stood on principle. Many agree with what you said.”
“And someday they will be happy to donate a jar of jam on the behalf of whatever remains of my family,” he said.
“No doubt,” she said lightly. She refused to fuel his self-pity. “How is the letter coming?”
He gave it to her. She read it twice then handed it back. She’d resumed her expression of general encouragement.
“Well?” he asked.
She hesitated. “I’m sorry—I thought you were a better writer.”
“I am a better writer.” He scanned the page himself.
“It’s not particularly convincing.”
“I’m trying to appeal to their logic.”
“Because it was their logic that led to his arrest in the first place?”
“Perhaps I’m not the one to write it,” he said. He dropped it on the table, glaring at it where it lay.
“You are the one.” This was a sad truth it seemed she was forced to explain. “You loved him. No one else will write it better.”
Was it true—was he the best Mandelstam had? He should have left behind a better friend for this.
“Would you really leave?” she asked. “Those last lines.”
“I wasn’t writing about myself,” he said.
Though perhaps he had been. He’d considered it before, in moments of frustration. He imagined himself in a Parisian cafe, scribbling on a roll of pages, foreign words darting over his head. Their country harbored many artists writing freely. Here was another with a strange accent. This one who pined for his Russian coffee. Who had to count out his coins so carefully.
Then what—he could write but would they read? Were his concerns too parochial, too Russian in their nature? Would they be relevant in another land? He could imagine his work being met with tacit interest, himself a passing phenom even. His audience would be curious about his world. They would then go home with glad relief that it was not theirs. In a foreign place, his words would fall on stone. They’d not last a fortnight.
But to write freely!
Her expression was of one who both questioned his motivations and easily understood them. He could see a kind of calculation taking place, a loss in some measure of trust.
“Leaving is complicated, isn’t it?” he said.
She turned to go and he was taken by a sudden sense that the room would become difficult to bear once she’d left it.
“Please don’t,” he said. “You’ve just arrived. Would you like some tea?”
She hesitated over his books. “No.” This was drawn out, as if she was making her decision as she spoke. “I should probably go.”
“You don’t have anywhere you need to be.”
“You don’t know that,” she said with mild surprise.
“Some coffee then?”
“No, no thank you.”
“Vodka?”
She smiled a little. “It’s not about the beverage.”
He got up and guided her to the chair. “Well, I’m certain it’s not me,” he said.
She took the offered seat, still amused. “Tea would be nice, I suppose.”
He turned to a low metal cabinet where his wife had kept tea and various other utensils safe from mice. He hadn’t opened it since she’d left. The door gave some resistance and he looked inside as one who might find something possibly unpleasant. He got on his knees and began to go through it. This could take some time.
“Margarita is an interesting name,” he said. “It’s uncommon.” His voice echoed from within the cabinet.
“My grandmother’s name. She was French.”
“You could have been named for Faust’s Marguerite.” He turned back to her, his search paused. He wanted to tell her it was his favorite opera.
“Things did not end so well for her, I think,” she said.
“I’ve always thought that the story should have been told from her perspective. She’s the more interesting character. Who cares about the old man?” He looked over her face, her figure, much as an artist would. Inspecting its lines. Where it held light, where there was shadow. The story would begin once he’d divined its first sentence.
“You could be her,” he said.
She seemed to grow self-conscious.
“Your story would end differently of course,” he said. Why was it so difficult to have a conversation? What did normal people talk about?
He remembered from Mandelstam’s apartment her scent, the darkness under her sleeve. The things she’d done.
She glanced at the door. He changed his tone.
“In truth,” he said, “I find there are few writers who can comprehend the female spirit. Either on the page or off it.”
He wanted to reassure her. She was quiet for a moment.
“I saw The Days of the Turbins,” she said. “It was a number of years ago. I remember the sister, Elena. Your Elena. She was so real. Even today she could walk through that door—right now.” She stared at it, her lips parted. “I’d be not at all surprised.” She looked back at him; admiringly, he thought. And grateful. As if he’d created the character for her, and with this one creation he’d given her hope for the eventual understanding of all women. Or maybe just one woman; maybe just her.
Her gratitude, if it could be called that, seemed to shift then to embarrassment. Perhaps she’d gone on too long.
“Thank you,” he said. He looked back at the cabinet, uncertain if it would produce even a spoonful of tea. How else could he keep her there?
“Is this too much for you?” she said.
“I don’t usually make tea for others,” he confessed.