Ilya leaned in to speak though this was unnecessary. There was no one nearby who might hear them. His breath was unpleasant on his cheek. “I believe I’m speaking with him now,” he said.
Bulgakov was sufficiently vain to have at one point desired such admiration. Suddenly he wished he might disappear.
“I apologize,” said Bulgakov. “Why I should fail to remember is rather embarrassing—what is your interest in literature?”
“I suppose I am a critic of sorts.” Ilya smiled.
“Still,” said Bulgakov, his unease growing. “I feel I should ask for your papers.”
“Then you should be disappointed. I carry none.”
His anxiety was transformed into something more certain. Yet why was this Ilya Ivanovich interested in him? He wasn’t political. He wasn’t another Mandelstam. What had he done to attract such attention? He sensed a kind of chase and felt the need to escape, to hide, more strongly than ever.
“I wonder,” said Ilya. “How does one become the General Secretary’s favorite writer?”
“I imagine one would have to be a good writer,” said Bulgakov without much conviction.
Ilya seemed amused. “There are a lot of good writers,” he said. “But why not—let’s say that might have something to do with it.” There was a savageness in the way he put this last part.
The vodka arrived and was poured into two glasses. Alborz vodka, it was indeed Persian; the waiter looked only slightly fatigued. Ilya raised his to give the toast. Bulgakov remembered this same gesture from before and he felt a sudden and sharp longing for Margarita as though he’d just overheard the mention of her name.
Ilya paused. “I’m sorry,” he said, his glass hanging in midair. “I’m at a loss.”
“To better writing,” said Bulgakov. He surprised himself a little with this.
Ilya’s lips curled slightly. He then drank.
“This stuff is wretched, isn’t it?” Ilya set his glass on a nearby table as he turned to leave. His words were an indictment—not of the vodka, but of the gathering itself, its pretense of opulence; perhaps it was a condemnation of their times.
Bulgakov watched him disappear into the crowd. Strangely, he felt less endangered, as though the drink had been an antidote. Was he not wearing Ordzhonikidze’s jacket? Ilya had wondered why he was Stalin’s favorite writer. Because I’m a damn good writer, he thought with a fierceness that matched Ilya’s.
On the other side of the banquet hall, Poprikhen had been dancing, but was now splayed across several chairs. Another dancer fanned a napkin over his face ineffectually. Bulgakov suspected he was the only one in attendance with any medical training. Poprikhen greeted him with a drunken sputter. Bulgakov found a pulse in the man’s meaty wrist and told him to rest for a while.
“Will he be all right?” A woman’s voice came from behind.
Bulgakov turned. It was Margarita.
How did she look? Not more aged; nor more youthful. She’d neither gained nor lost weight. There was a change, but not in her appearance—perhaps it was the distance she maintained. As well there was a set to her features. A calculation to what she might reveal. He couldn’t blame her for this. She kept herself at a difficult reach so he simply held his hands out to her, palms upward as if he was checking for rain, and asked how she was.
She didn’t answer his question.
“Congratulations on your play.” Her smile was warm and genuine. “I’d heard—then I received your tickets. It was very generous. I’m not sure why you sent them but thank you.”
He was vaguely aware of the room around them, the shifts of light, of bodies. Couples were dancing. She alone seemed fixed.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he said. “You look—wonderful.” He wondered who she was with.
A dancer nearly careened into her; Bulgakov lifted his arm to shield her.
“We should either dance or leave,” he said. She shook her head beautifully.
Instead, she told him Mandelstam had been released. He and his wife were to be relocated to Cherdyn. There would be an opportunity to see him if he liked, to say good-bye; tomorrow, just after noon. If he liked, she repeated. She seemed to step around this possibility with caution. He wondered if she’d heard Stalin’s pronouncement. He could not imagine what she thought of it.
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly. He’d not anticipated having to face Mandelstam again; at least not this soon. He wondered how she’d come to hear of his release. “This is amazing news,” he added, trying to fuel his words with some enthusiasm. “Thank you for thinking of me,” he said.
“It was Nadya’s idea,” she said.
“But you took the trouble.”
Still, it was Nadya. She would take no credit.
He wondered if she was seeing someone else and this depressed him.
They agreed to meet near her apartment. He thought to suggest his place instead, but didn’t. He didn’t want her to refuse again something he might offer, as though this could form a habit that would be difficult to overcome.
She hesitated. “You were speaking with someone,” she said. Her manner had changed; she seemed uncertain, almost shy.
“You remember,” he said. “The man from the restaurant. The drunk—the sturgeon.” He hesitated in giving Ilya’s name, as though this would summon his form. He repeated instead. “The drunk.”
She nodded. “I noticed you were talking.” She seemed to want to say more, but looked uncomfortable, possibly even worried for him.
Was her discomfort wrapped up in her memories of that night, with their later encounter that she longed to set aside? Or had she observed something from across the room; something vague yet troubling. Perhaps it was her concern that gave him more courage.
“We talked of the play,” he said.
“We thought we’d never see him again,” she said. He decided she seemed more shy than worried.
“Do you remember that terrible wine?”
“The entire evening was strange.”
Not disagreeable, though. Not regrettable, only strange. He wished he could go back to it; he wished that he would have stayed and not left her that morning. There would have been no trip to the Kremlin. He imagined finding their way under her blankets, feeling the warmth of her shift against him as she moved. The world would have stopped there.
He thought to reach for her but she stepped back as though she’d sensed it. Time had indeed moved onward. Yet she could not be heartless. She placed her hand on his jacket sleeve.
“It is exciting—your play,” she said. Her eyes were shining. He didn’t try to understand her misgivings any further. He wondered what else he could do to make her happy. What more he could promise her?
“It will be good to see Osip,” he said. He hoped his eagerness would sound credible.
“Do you think so?” she said. “I expect he will be quite changed. Physically, I mean, of course. I’m a bit nervous.”
Briefly he imagined not appearing at the appointed time. He imagined Margarita waiting, scanning the streets for him before going on alone. For some reason, an arbitrary universe had afforded him a second chance. Perhaps it was not so arbitrary.
CHAPTER 11
They met just before midday and walked to Patriarch’s Ponds together. Her step was slightly ahead of his. As they crossed the street, her arm shot into the air. A figure rose from a small table set among others near an open kiosk, an overhang of aged trees shading it; beside him, a second figure, a woman, remained seated.
Mandelstam was barely recognizable.
Bulgakov was suddenly flooded with guilt; his recollection of the Writers’ Union, the apartment vestibule, his meeting with Stalin; as if these actions were responsible for the transformation before him. He slowed. She moved ahead and they walked the last few paces obliquely.