He told them his name was Ilya Ivanovich. They talked at length, and after several hours and equally more wine, they were the last of the patrons to leave. They parted at the door. Later, Margarita would wonder aloud if they’d ever see him again. They both would comment on how neither of them could remember what he’d said of his occupation. Margarita would suggest that perhaps it was the wine that had caused them to forget. She seemed to want to speculate further about the man, but she refrained. He wanted to ask about her exchange with him and the supposed offense. It was as though the specifics of that night would be irretrievable by morning. They stood at the door of her apartment.
“He was rather old,” said Bulgakov. “For the girl he was with, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” said Margarita. She seemed mildly distracted.
“Annuschka—that was her name.”
“Hmm.”
Her cheeks were flushed; she was clearly distressed.
“What is it, my dear?” He was alarmed by her reaction.
She shook her head, then covered her mouth with her hand, as if it would be impossible to explain.
She was sick, and for the rest of the night and into the morning hours he sat beside her on the floor of her apartment, wiping her face with a cool cloth, smoothing damp hair back from her forehead, from time to time rising to carry the bucket to the bathroom for disposal.
Not long before dawn she lay curled on the rug; her head rested on his lap. He thought she was sleeping. He’d turned off the overhead light. The sky outside her window was a steady grey; inside, darker forms took on unrecognizable shapes. He watched them in the way one would monitor large, slow-moving creatures in the wild. He’d guard them both against their bulk and the advent of their sudden and arbitrary disregard.
He thought of Ilya in his grey raincoat.
“How can one know?” she said. Her voice rose up from the floorboards.
“Know what, my dear?” He stroked her head.
“The fish—when it’s starting to turn. How can one know that?”
He didn’t have an answer for her.
“People can warn you—and they do,” she said. “But how can they know? Yes, there is a risk, but I’m not giving up fish.” She lay quietly for a moment, then added:
“I’ll not live my life in fear of fish.”
The gray in the window had lightened. The beasts surrounding them were once again a chair, a sofa, a table strewn in clothes.
“I thought we were talking about the sturgeon,” he said quietly.
He could dream of their life together, in a small cottage by a stream. Writing with a quill pen; listening to Schubert every evening. And every evening the soft light from a green-shaded lamp reflecting inward from the night’s dark window-glass. He could see her in that reflection; leaning over him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, urging him to come to supper; he could feel her warmth through his shirt. In the afternoons, they would sit at the water’s edge. The weight of their bodies would crush cornflowers into silvery hollows. Turbulent currents fighting to break the surface would pass them unawares.
In his dream-vision she sat, her arms wrapped around her legs. The sun bore down on her like a spotlight in an already bright space; shadow still puddled behind her. She stared intently at the rushing waters—he could not tell if with longing or dread. She seemed utterly alone—he wanted to move toward her, place his arm about her shoulders. Something held him back.
He awoke to her gently shaking him.
CHAPTER 6
Margarita sent him home that morning. She assured him she was much improved, saying they both needed sleep. She glanced at his cheek before closing the door, as if she had considered kissing it, then decided otherwise. He waited for a moment, imagining her on the other side. He imagined her scanning the empty room, the loneliness of the space, then turning to call him back. He imagined her brow, creased with worry that he’d already departed.
Instead he heard the muffled harrumph of bedsprings receive her.
Outside it was still early and pedestrians were rare. The morning was cool and fresh and he paused at the apartment building’s entrance. The earlier foreboding had passed and he considered with some pleasure how in so little as one evening it could seem that all aspects of one’s life had changed for the better. He thought of the play. He tried to recall the drunkard’s words—what was his name? And what could he know of literature? Bulgakov was filled with a renewed confidence. Did not Stanislawski himself select his play for production? The esteemed director who’d first staged The Cherry Orchard? His life had changed for the better, and he thought he would walk rather than ride the tram so he might better enjoy the morning’s loveliness.
Movement across the street caught his attention. Someone, a man, stood in the verge of an alley between two buildings. He lifted an arm as if to light a cigarette, then lowered it—perhaps too quickly—it was this movement that seemed strangely aggressive. The man then, as if aware he’d been detected, retreated into the shadows.
Someone was watching her building. As quickly as it came to him, he discarded the thought; it was fatigue that made him paranoid, he was certain. He stared at the alley’s entrance, and without effort the thought returned with greater vigor. Not only was someone watching but they were waiting for him to leave. He thought of Margarita, asleep and vulnerable, the bedsprings now silent beneath her.
He crossed the street and entered the alley. The sky above narrowed to a thread. It was empty and smelled lightly of refuse, ending in a small cul-de-sac made up of the back entrances of other buildings. He considered that it had simply been a tenant who’d wanted to escape his own family for a quick look at the day. A door opened and a babushka emerged with a heavy rug in her arms. She draped it over a railing and began to beat it with a broom. The dull, hollow sound seemed to linger in the closed-in space. She eyed him malevolently, then, unexpectedly, stepped aside and gestured with her thumb that he should enter the door behind her. Who did she think he was? The door was partially open. Dare he enter? He could go back to the street. The old woman’s expression was unchanged; she wasn’t helping him by this; as far as she was concerned, he and those like him could all go to the devil.
The hallway was narrow and poorly lighted. Several doors were open and their doorways were filled with their occupants, as though their morning had already been disturbed by an earlier trespasser. The smell of rubbish was stronger inside. Near him, a woman holding a small boy regarded him silently. In the room behind them, a table was set, their breakfast half-eaten. It appeared they were alone. Tacked to the wall was a paper icon flanked by brackets for candles. The woman looked away. He wanted to reassure her. He wouldn’t tell anyone—she could trust him—but she might have thought to hide it. Hang it in a closet. Or behind a landscape painting. Indeed, what did her husband think of such a display?
She looked at him as though he’d spoken aloud. As though she was challenging him. At least she hung hers on a wall, she could say. Where an icon belongs. What about his faith? What did he believe in? Was it buried in some play about a sixteenth-century playwright?