“It was my request,” said Poprikhen, his hand to the back of Bulgakov’s chair. “I know we’ve had differences in the past, but I credit you—” It seemed he might mint a tear from between his thick lids. “You, my friend.” He would not try to finish. “Thank you!” he added huskily.
Bulgakov mimicked the other man, waving his hand in the general vicinity of his breast pocket. His fingers brushed the coarse fabric of the overcoat and he quickly stopped, not wanting to call attention to its oddity; nor did he want to prolong any false gesture of affection. He scanned the table; it wanted for no treasure other than food. Poprikhen seemed to anticipate his question.
“We’re waiting,” he said. “It is rumored he might attend.” He could not suppress the joy from his words.
At that moment the heavy double doors of the club were opened. Half a dozen men firmly but politely pushed aside those standing near; on their heels several committee members entered. There was a whoop from the crowd, then loud applause. Bulgakov struggled to see—there between milling bodies; it was Stalin himself. Oh dear god, he thought.
Every exit was maintained by some semblance of guards or police. He could make an excuse that he was ill. They’d not deny him departure with that pretext. Poprikhen’s hand closed around his forearm. His face was even redder than before; bursting with emotion he was nearly apoplectic. “This will be remembered as the greatest day of my life,” he sputtered. Tears ran down his cheeks. The central committee members made their way to the head table. The room had quieted; only happy expectant twitterings could be heard. Bulgakov edged backward slightly, hoping to be lost in the novelist’s tremendous silhouette. Everyone waited for Stalin to take his seat. No one moved.
“Bulgakov—man, is that you?” Stalin’s voice thundered down the table. There was a horrible pause; everyone in the room waited—Bulgakov leaned forward and looked to where Stalin stood.
“So what is it, then—are you coming or going?” said Stalin.
Bulgakov could not imagine what he meant. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Your coat—take it off! Join us for this sumptuous meal!”
Oh dear god, he thought again. He started to remove it, then stopped. “I’m sorry—my suit jacket—I haven’t one.” He stammered, embarrassed and frightened. The room as well seemed to inflate with these same emotions, faces up and down the table, as though his confession spoke poorly for all there, all of them waiting for Stalin’s reaction.
“What! No suit jacket!” Stalin’s roar seemed laced with amusement.
“It was stolen, I’m afraid.”
“My writer without a jacket—that cannot be! Ordzhonikidze, give him yours then,” said Stalin to the man on his left.
“What?” said the Commissar.
“We can’t have our favorite writer without a suit jacket!” Stalin rubbed his hands together as though in pleasure of having solved the meddlesome problem. Bulgakov could only think of Mandelstam’s words—ten thick worms were his fingers. When Ordzhonikidze didn’t immediately disrobe, Stalin stopped rubbing and glared at him. Did the Commissar of Soviet Heavy Industry value a suit jacket more richly than his leader’s pleasure? Ordzhonikidze looked terrified—the entire room reflected their terror for him. He handed his jacket to a waiter who flew like the devil to Bulgakov’s chair. Bulgakov put it on. It hung poorly, but Stalin appeared satisfied. He took his seat, and immediately, food and drink seemed to appear from nowhere.
Toasts were given. Stalin was first, saluting poor Poprikhen; however, he gave the wrong patronym and his error was perpetuated in all other toasts of the evening. Bulgakov sensed Poprikhen’s efforts to not let this blemish the event. At one point he leaned heavily against Bulgakov’s shoulder. “I may not be his favorite writer,” he said, drunkenly. “But I have my seat next to his.” With every toast his tears had flowed and now his face was spotted with their tracks. As soon as they were finished and the Party leaders left, Bulgakov got up to find other company. The music had begun. Poprikhen was singing with a few others, crying again, and appeared not to notice.
Bulgakov wanted a fresh drink and while it had seemed the waiters were as populous as the guests, now that he required one, they were not to be found. He felt somewhat abandoned and for a moment, despite the crowded room, his orbit was a lonely one. Being Stalin’s favorite writer appeared not to ensure one’s popularity. Indeed, he sensed a vague inquisitiveness in those near him, and in equal measure, their desire to maintain a certain distance. He noticed a woman’s stare; their eyes met then parted and she turned back to her conversation laughing suddenly, as though she’d never left it. Others in her small group laughed too. They were wondering what he’d done to claim that title, he thought. Though they would not offer it aloud, they were each in secret giving harbor to their own suspicions. Another, the man at her side, glanced at Bulgakov’s suit jacket—or rather Ordzhonikidze’s, then blankly looked elsewhere as though like Bulgakov he was in fact in search of a waiter. He shook his glass slightly as a kind of testament to this. He leaned into the woman’s ear as he spoke briefly. To his query, she shook her head.
Bulgakov imagined wedging himself between them. Perhaps this Bulgakov is an old family friend, he’d offer. Perhaps he’d shown some valor in battle. Or medical care for some unsavory condition and, of course, all confidences would be maintained. Such favoritism wasn’t necessarily the result of intrigue or cowardice. Such affection was not obviously the reward of a betrayal.
“Have you been to these parties before?” At his side was the drunkard from the restaurant some months ago. Ilya Ivanovich reintroduced himself. “I remember,” said Bulgakov. There was no hint of drunkenness; he looked in fact as though he’d not taken a drink since. A waiter appeared. Ilya repeated his question.
“This is my first,” said Bulgakov. He spoke to the waiter as though he’d asked. He couldn’t explain why he lied so easily over the trivial fact. Anything to extract himself from a prolonged conversation, though why such should be avoided, he likewise couldn’t explain.
“If this is your first, then you should have some fun with it,” said Ilya. “Order anything—the most exotic thing you can imagine. They will produce it.”
Bulgakov was surprised by his suggestion. “Persian Vodka,” Ilya said to the waiter, deciding then for the both of them. “Bring the bottle, so we can see it.” Bulgakov would not have guessed that Persians manufactured vodka. The waiter registered the request with a slightly glazed expression, as though imagining the trek he was to undertake. This could take a while.
“I understand the MAT will produce your play,” said Ilya. “My congratulations.” He touched the breast pocket of his jacket over his heart. His gesture was similar to Poprikhen’s, only Ilya seemed more to be searching for his.
“So they say,” said Bulgakov with brisk cheerfulness.
“Tell me again, its name? I’d like to see it.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Bulgakov quickly.
“Why not?”
“A Cabal of Hypocrites.”
“You must be delighted,” said Ilya. “Many will want to see it.”
His words reminded Bulgakov of their other conversation. The memory of his earlier anxiety returned. “Would you like to meet the guest of honor?” Bulgakov hoped to pass him along to someone else. He nodded toward Poprikhen.