Arrests were made for far lesser things.
The breeze lifted for only a moment. The day was absurdly beautiful.
If he answered—what difference would it make? It wasn’t by his word that locks would be undone. That Stalin would exclaim I’m sorry—I didn’t know. You’ll miss him? Then of course I shall free him. Immediately—come—we’ll make the call together.
And if he was silent. The sounds of the world would continue. The bird. The car. They would fill the stillness. It would go unnoticed.
He remembered Osip’s shining head. Could he leave him again—here—when his voice might actually matter? His shoulders drew in. They were his words to say.
“Will you?” Stalin repeated. His voice seemed to fill his military tunic. The very flesh of his face, his cheeks, seemed to grow. Every whisker became defined. Every pore to be counted. There was room for only him.
Would he miss him? Oh God. Oh God. He could have spoken those words.
Instead, irrevocably, he pressed his lips shut.
Stalin smiled; but before this, there was a flicker of something akin to sympathy. A knowing. For a moment they were not ruler and ruled. For the first and last time that afternoon—perhaps for a lifetime—they were two men understanding one another.
His cowardice, the most horrible of vices. For this, Stalin forgave him.
As if Stalin knew fear as well as any man and he could forgive Bulgakov for it.
For this Bulgakov’s mortal life was made safe.
There would be no cottage, no green-shaded lamp, no Schubert softly playing. The cornflowers along the river would stand unharmed in unending sunlight. There would be no Margarita beside him on a riverbank. There could be no Margarita.
There could be no peace.
Again, Stalin tapped his finger against the side of his head. “Marry your woman and live quietly,” he commanded. He pushed back from the car. Once again he was the smart one. He glanced at Bulgakov as though he’d spoken. Or perhaps, to make certain he hadn’t.
You can’t hear our words.
Bulgakov saw it in his face; it was barely perceptible. This was what Stalin feared. This was what would have him eliminated.
Faced with this, Piaquin had cut off his own fingers.
Stalin then smiled; whatever Bulgakov had thought he’d seen was gone.
“I like you, Bulgakov,” he repeated. His gaze wandered past him. It seemed his declaration had surprised even him a little. He gave a small shrug as if to say, So be it.
Stalin left him in the car and went into the building. The two escorts returned and walked him to the sedan. They drove just beyond the Kremlin’s gates and left him to find his way from there. Storm clouds seemed to appear from nowhere. It began to rain. The wind intensified; falling drops sped toward him with certain intent. His clothes became weighted by them; his skin cooled then chilled. His head bowed; his apparent path was paved of wet and variously broken cement walkways.
Somehow he was expected to find his way from there.
It was getting darker and darker. The storm cloud rushing toward Yershalaim already filled half the sky. Turbulent white clouds swept by in front of the thundercloud, which was bursting with black water and fire. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped right above the hill. The executioner removed the sponge from the spear.
CHAPTER 8
She was there when he opened the door of his apartment. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised by this. Her presence had the same inevitability as the earlier rain.
Despite this, he wasn’t prepared to see her.
She was refilling the bookcase. Around her, the small tables and dining chairs lay as if tossed; clothes and books were everywhere. He hadn’t remembered the extreme wreckage. In that midst, she seemed unduly tidy: a simple skirt and sweater. Buttercup-yellow, he thought. It was becoming. Outside the rain had passed. Through the window, rectangles of sunlight stretched across the floor to her feet. He found he was still momentarily startled by the loveliness of her face.
Her expression was of disbelief at the sight of him.
Had she thought he’d disappeared too? He wanted to tell her, No. He wasn’t another Mandelstam, it was clear. He was something else entirely. Something they were willing to let go.
“I thought you’d been taken—I thought it was happening all over again,” she said.
“Clearly I wasn’t.”
She seemed disarmed by his manner, uncertain how to proceed. “But your things—this place—”
“I was looking for something.”
His tone was dismissive and she didn’t deserve that. She continued to hold the book in her hand. She looked perplexed, uncertain if she should place it on the shelf, or put it back on the floor. Or perhaps throw it at him. Yet she held it.
“I wanted to thank you—for last night. For taking care of me.” She added this part, as though conscious of other possible interpretations. “It was kind of you.”
Behind her hurt, an infatuation was revealed. He hadn’t anticipated this; and she looked away quickly, not wanting to show that this was the real reason for her being there. “I hadn’t expected that.” She sounded embarrassed. Perhaps she was surprised as well. She put the book on the shelf.
He felt badly about his behavior. Her concern for him was genuine and well-meaning. “You’re feeling better then?” he asked. She nodded.
“When I saw this place,” she said, “you can imagine what I thought.” Then her tone changed. “You’re completely soaked through.”
He took off his jacket and hung it on the doorknob. “I had a driving lesson,” he said.
“A driving lesson? I might believe a swimming lesson. It’s as if you took a bath fully clothed.”
“It was raining.”
“In the car?”
The afternoon light had set her aglow. Her hands rested on her hips. She was radiant and undeniable. She believed none of it.
He sank into the chair. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”
As quickly as she had challenged him, she softened again. She pressed his shoulder briefly; fatigue required no forgiveness. Explanations could wait. “May I fix you some tea?” she said.
He shook his head. “No, it’s all right.” He looked at her hand, wishing to hold it. Wishing for the possibility of a different life.
“Vodka, then?”
He smiled at their reflected conversation. “What—no coffee?” He took her hand then. He rubbed his thumb over her fingers. Their texture was that of a child’s.
“I find vodka more effective for my purposes,” she said.
She had hope for them, and in that, he could see the trajectory of their future. Their potential was real and if followed carried the certainty of affection and love and lovemaking. Only the man who’d left her that morning was not the same as the one with her now. She did not know this yet.
Her fingers interlaced with his, willingly.
Perhaps they need not speak of Osip; perhaps they could set aside that part of their lives, move on from it together. Perhaps he could be allowed to forget certain things.
He brought her hand to his cheek.
They could go away. Together—perhaps even emigrate. With time and distance they would both forget. Someday he would tell her what he’d done. She would understand. She would say it’d been so long ago. It’d been a different time. A dangerous time. At such a distance who could recall the missteps of youth?