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“You never know who you might find roaming the streets at night,” said the poet.

The other officer continued to review Bulgakov’s papers as if disappointed he’d not caught a larger fish. “Are you together?” he asked finally. He handed the papers back.

“No,” said Mandelstam. He seemed about to add something further then stopped. The taller officer studied Bulgakov with growing interest.

Bulgakov laughed. “You are Mandelstam?” he said. “I thought he was a much younger man.” He swayed suddenly and stepped back to regain his balance. The shorter officer shined a flashlight in his face and the world disappeared in its glare. He heard, “Stand to, Citizen.” The light moved and the street reappeared, muddled with spots. The shorter officer stepped closer. To Bulgakov it seemed this one was a clown’s version of a policeman. He laughed aloud at the thought.

The shorter officer was about to speak but the other interrupted. “Comrade Poet, you give us a poem. We’d like that.”

Mandelstam shook his head. “I can’t think of one, friends. Perhaps another time.”

The taller officer didn’t move. It was clear he was unsatisfied with that answer.

“I know a poem,” said Bulgakov. “One you will like. ‘There once was a whore from Kiev.’” He paused. “No, Novgorod. Yes. ‘There once was a whore from Novgorod.’”

The officers stiffened. Bulgakov noticed this in his blur but went on.

“No, it can’t be Novgorod. The rhythm’s all wrong. I can see you gentlemen are not enthusiasts of great literature.”

Mandelstam spoke. “Enough.”

“You’re not so terribly funny,” chimed the shorter officer. “Perhaps you would like to be arrested for public drunkenness.” He hooked his thumbs onto his belt.

“Oh but I am funny,” said Bulgakov in a show of astonishment. “I am a satirist. Humor is my tool.” He lowered his voice as if conspiratorial. “It is my weapon.”

The policeman looked alarmed.

“But perhaps you think satire is a kind of fish that swims in the Volga.”

“Enough.” This time it seemed Mandelstam was speaking to the greater world. “I will give you a poem.” He touched Bulgakov’s sleeve.

The poet’s manner had a dousing effect and Bulgakov was given to the uncomfortable sense that this was something Mandelstam had intended; and even if it was not precisely intended, then perhaps it was quite simply an opportunity he would take.

The streets were empty, as if Moscow had availed them some privacy. Mandelstam’s voice rose as though he was speaking to a gathering of hundreds, as though this was his most beloved of works.

Mandelstam said:

We live, deaf to the land beneath us, Ten steps away no one hears our speeches,
All we hear is the Kremlin mountaineer, The murderer and peasant-slayer.
His fingers are fat as grubs And the words, final as lead weights, fall from his lips,
His cockroach whiskers leer And his boots gleam.
Every killing is a treat For the broad-chested Ossete.

It was the shorter officer who made a sound, a sharp sigh.

Mandelstam licked his lips, as though he’d become parched. “I think even a Bolshevik can understand that much,” he said.

With that Bulgakov staggered forward and threw his arms around Mandelstam’s shoulders. He pressed the poet’s head into his neck.

“He’s drunk, Comrades. Can’t you see? What a night we’ve had! His words—what words—I could barely understand such slurring. Can’t you see—his wife left him, truly—just today. Left him for a younger man, a bookkeeper. The poor old goat. And his daughter is pregnant.” This he added in a whisper.

“Stand away,” said the taller policeman. The baton was in his hand.

It seemed ridiculous—could this be happening? He clutched Mandelstam harder. “No, no, no—he’s drunk, I tell you. I’ll take him home. I’ll tuck him in. The headache he’ll have tomorrow. I should drive a car over his foot so he can forget the pain in his head.” He looked from one officer to the other. He maneuvered Mandelstam past.

He broke into a jog, half-dragging the poet down the street. He imagined them following. They weren’t far from the DRAMALIT house where Mandelstam shared an apartment with his wife.

He thrust them both through the front door. The street behind was silent. Only then did he release him.

“You should come by tomorrow,” said Mandelstam. “There may be an apartment made newly available. A nice place, I hear.” He appeared to enjoy his joke.

Bulgakov was shaking. “I don’t think they followed us,” he said.

Mandelstam shook his head. He seemed suddenly quite weary. “They’re upstairs.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Can you hear them? Roaches in the walls.”

“Here? They cannot be here already.”

The poet stepped back into the hall under the ceiling light. His scalp shone brightly. He looked upward. “She’s alone with them,” he said. He meant his wife. “They will have a time of it.” He sounded mildly sympathetic.

“We must get you away. We’ll go to my place. It’s not far.”

There was a distant thump, then the thinner crack of breaking wood. Mandelstam closed his eyes. “The sideboard. What we went through to haul that monstrosity up those stairs.”

Bulgakov reached for the poet’s arm. Tentatively, as if in this gesture he might disappear. “What can I do?” he said.

Mandelstam looked at him as though he’d not considered this before and Bulgakov saw in his face his sad realization: there was nothing Bulgakov could do; there was nothing anyone could do.

Mandelstam took hold of the stair rail. This slant of wood was his immediate future. He would follow it momentarily. All of his earlier passion seemed to have fled him. His face appeared to have aged even further and Bulgakov realized he was witnessing despair.

“Perhaps we’ve been fools to write.” Mandelstam seemed to speak to all of that building’s occupants. As if this was his revelation. As if they would have served better as window washers or carpet-layers. There would have been clean windows, straight carpets.

Bulgakov didn’t know how to answer. He watched him ascend. He wanted to call him back.

The single bulb overhead whined. Moments later there was a distant rumble, a deeper disturbance. He put his ear to the plaster. Nothing, then a crash, a door slam—it seemed close. What did it mean that he stood there? What did it mean that he waited, listening as some poor widowed neighbor would listen? What did it mean? The building seemed to murmur a distant chorus. Could he stand there and do nothing? He pressed his hands to the wall. He held it dear. Yes, he could.

CHAPTER 2

Bulgakov waited across the street in the shadows of a small apartment building. The road remained empty apart from a dark sedan. A streetlight crackled intermittently. Later, as the sky paled to gray, three secret police exited the DRAMALIT house. One carried a box; Mandelstam walked between the other two, his arms behind his back. They didn’t notice Bulgakov. In an alley nearby, a trashcan was disturbed by a scavenging animal. They got into the car. It pulled away, turning at the end of the block. Bulgakov crossed the street.

At Mandelstam’s apartment, the door was ajar and he entered. The lamps were extinguished. Grey light filtered from a window; beneath was a bookcase and nearby an upholstered chair and sofa. The light reached no further. Before him, in the semidarkness, shadowy, unrecognizable forms seemed strewn about the floor. He hesitated.