“Annuschka? She is my neighbor. She is a working girl,” he said. “She must be off.”
“Thank you for the wine,” said Margarita. “It’s wonderful.”
Her assessment surprised Bulgakov. Perhaps she was only being kind. Bulgakov tapped his glass and nodded. “Wonderful, yes.”
But it was clear the man heard only Margarita. Despite his size, he’d draped himself in the chair and over its arm, leaning toward her in a manner that could be considered almost graceful. Bulgakov decided perhaps he wasn’t as large as he’d originally thought; that instead it was his raincoat, grey and unadorned, that provided the effect. For a moment, he had a fantastical imagining of what form the man might actually take beneath it.
Margarita’s words drifted to him through the fog of his thoughts. She was going on at some length about modern poetry, respectfully though at a superficial level as one might adopt with those of a general education. He wondered how they’d come to that subject. He listened as though he had missed some critical connection that was unlikely to be revealed again.
Had the stranger overheard their toast of Osip?
She spoke of Gumilev and Akhmatova. She didn’t appear to notice the man’s stare. They were notorious dissidents, but the man reacted as though she had listed the ingredients for soup.
It was possible—he told himself—that the drunkard was no one in particular.
Margarita continued seemingly unrestrained by such worries and his nervousness increased. He made a noise, and she turned to him expectantly as if he’d disagreed with her.
“Wonderful, yes,” he said again. His words came out weakly.
The man gave a vague smile. He shifted in his chair and attained equipoise between them both.
Perhaps he was no one.
“Is she still alive?” asked the man, referring to Akhmatova. She’d been popular for a time he remembered, then, it seemed she’d vanished—and with this he waved his hand—“like a fad.” Margarita assured him that she was very much alive and still writing.
“Remarkable,” he said. He didn’t sound terribly impressed.
Margarita glanced past him at Bulgakov. Her eyes had brightened with conversation. She seemed not to notice the flatness of the man’s tone.
He looked at Bulgakov. “Are you likewise a poet?” He apparently had little admiration for this, the question asked in politeness.
“He is a playwright,” she said.
The man’s response showed a bit more enthusiasm. He admitted he did enjoy a good play. Had he seen any of Bulgakov’s? He was always reluctant to ask—there seemed to be a great many more plays being written than could ever be performed.
Bulgakov wanted to say that he suspected not, but Margarita answered for him.
“I should think so. He wrote Days of the Turbins.”
It seemed for the first time that night, the man’s reaction was genuine. “So that was you,” he said, with both interest and incredulity. “You are younger than I would have guessed—but perhaps not.” He seemed to appraise Bulgakov. “It struck me as a rather—and don’t take this poorly—but as a personal piece. Well-constructed, though.” He conceded it’d made for an enjoyable diversion. There was an evasiveness to his manner, in the movement of his hands across the table, the adjustment of his position in the chair; Bulgakov sensed a vague dislike or resentment. He was unable to guess its basis.
“Perhaps we have met before,” suggested Bulgakov.
“No—I assure you—we have not,” said the man.
Bulgakov was again struck by his sincerity, all the more startling for the earlier conversation he’d observed with Margarita that had seemed to lack it.
The man went on. “What are you working on now?” There was something about the tone of his question—as though he already knew the answer.
“The MAT is producing my newest play.”
Margarita reached across the table and touched his arm. Her face filled with admiration. He wished they could be alone.
“What terrific news,” he said. “I will look for it. What is it called?”
“The Cabal of Hypocrites,” said Bulgakov. “It’s about Molière, set in the French court of Louis XIV.”
The man seemed mildly perplexed, as though Bulgakov had said something wholly unexpected and what he’d next intended to say no longer applied. “I beg your pardon—what is a cabal?”
“A circle of intrigue—for lack of a better expression, I suppose. A group of conspirators.”
Again, he seemed at a loss for words. “It’s about Molière, you say? I vaguely remember learning something about him in school.”
“He was a comedic playwright, highly satirical; he suffered from censorship; repression by the priests, the religious.” The man’s reaction was blank and Bulgakov hurried forward. “Of course there is also humor, a love story, betrayal—I suspect it may not appeal to everyone,” he added.
“Are we to assume then that the hypocrites—a cabal of them, you say—are the authorities? The establishment? And the poor writer is a victim of the regime? There is an intriguing theme.”
In the drunkard’s words the plot sounded rather two-dimensional and Bulgakov began to question its structural integrity. “It’s not a political piece, if that’s what you mean—not at all. As I said, there is comedy, absurdity, romance.” His voice trailed off, rethinking his opening scene.
The other man laughed aloud. “You can’t be serious? How can it not be political?”
The implication of his words—and now he sounded anything but drunk—shifted Bulgakov’s worry. “It’s simply the historical backdrop,” Bulgakov explained. “It was long ago—a different time—another country—it’s not my intention to make some sort of political statement.”
“Well—I’m certain there are those who will want to see it,” said the man. Bulgakov registered the truth of his words, their warning. Indeed, while he might pray for its success, that would only intensify its scrutiny. He felt slightly queasy.
The man turned to Margarita. “You keep company with one such as this?” He indicated with a nod toward Bulgakov that this could be a questionable enterprise. His tone was difficult to interpret. Was he trying to be funny? That seemed to be his desire only there was a heaviness to his words as though he lacked practice at this.
“I assure you it’s not political,” Bulgakov repeated.
The man appeared finished with that conversation.
“A girl has to eat,” said Margarita lightly with a shrug. She smiled at Bulgakov, in case he might take offense. She seemed not to have noticed their darker exchange.
“Is that all that’s required to gain your company?”
Her reaction to this was strange. She withdrew; the crease in her brow deepened and Bulgakov wondered if there’d been something in the man’s words to which he’d been deaf. It had seemed he was only playing off of her humor. She acted as though something entirely different had been said.
“Of course not,” she said, her manner turning cold.
The man responded immediately.
“I’ve upset you. Please forgive me.” He leaned toward her. “That was not at all my intent. I have been clumsy. Please, my dear—”
“Perhaps you should go,” Bulgakov suggested.
The drunkard ignored him. His words to her were soft and insistent. He was not simply apologizing, rather he was entreating. “I would never intentionally hurt you.”
She hesitated. “Of course,” she said. She smiled a little as evidence of this. “Of course you’re forgiven.”
Her words seemed to carry restorative powers. The man raised his glass first to her with gratitude, and then Bulgakov. When their eyes met, Bulgakov sensed in him a kind of admiration, though for what he wasn’t certain; the man then looked away and in that Bulgakov detected something darker that lingered, a competitiveness possibly. He might have imagined it. The man took his first taste and immediately spat the wine across the table. Margarita and Bulgakov both recoiled. The man roared to the waiter and several new bottles were produced. Glasses were replaced and refilled. The man lifted his again. “To better wine,” he said after a moment’s thought. All three drank.