CHAPTER 37
The trip back to Irkutsk seemed shorter to Bulgakov. Delilah had found other interests so it was just the two men. The driver appeared to mope over this; they conversed little and only about that which was necessary.
At the house, he found a police seal over the door of the apartment above his. The door was ajar; no one answered his call and he went downstairs. The steps had gone unvarnished.
Several days later, Pyotrovich came to his apartment unannounced. He was without his valise. He wanted to know if it’d been worth it, seeing her.
Bulgakov found his question curious. It seemed both personal and calculated.
“It can be startling, how quickly someone can change in a short amount of time. Sometimes to the point of being unrecognizable,” said Pyotrovich. His knowledge of this sounded coldly intimate. He sat in the other available armchair. He appeared to have recovered from his head cold. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Bulgakov indicated that he did not. Outside a light snow fell. The temperature within was only slightly warmer and Pyotrovich had remained in his coat. The fireplace was cold but both men ignored it.
A large bottle of vodka, nearly empty, stood next to Bulgakov’s glass. He debated whether or not to finish it; that would require that he rise and get another. He debated whether or not to place his fist in Pyotrovich’s face; that would also require him to move. The vodka seemed to argue against this; it would argue instead for numbness; that in fact his arms and legs had already disappeared and the only fist that remained was the one in his chest. Vodka would argue for more vodka.
He filled his glass.
Pyotrovich seemed preoccupied with lighting his cigarette.
“I’ve applied for residency in Moscow,” said Bulgakov. “Then Leningrad, then Kiev. All have been denied.”
Pyotrovich wasn’t surprised. “The movement of the population, the ethnic makeup of each region, it is a careful science.” He then seemed to be encouraging. “This is an up-and-coming town. And it’s been a number of years since the last real fuel shortage. You may like it here.”
Pyotrovich still believed that Bulgakov could be the trap which would catch Ilya. “Why not arrest him immediately?” said Bulgakov. “Or better, take him in the act.” The taste in his mouth was sour to the point of foul. “It makes no sense to wait. You make no sense.” He raised his glass as though this was something to celebrate.
Pyotrovich reacted little. “We’ve made certain things easier for him, and that in itself is a risk. If Ivanovich senses any of this, any efforts of surveillance, then it is unlikely he will act. He has a brother in the area. Evidently there was a falling-out years ago, but we’ll pursue every avenue of course.” Pyotrovich muted his enthusiasm for arresting his colleague. As though this was the unpleasantness he must put up with.
“What’s to keep him from disappearing into the countryside? He must know you will be looking for him.”
“He’ll try to leave the country with her. Likely Mongolia. By road. Or by train.”
“Tell me, when you catch him, if you catch him, do you shoot him right away? Throw him up against a wall, or is there some process you must follow.”
Pyotrovich hesitated. “Given the crime, there will be a trial.”
No doubt it would be highly publicized; the Director’s efforts lauded. Promotions would offer themselves. Pyotrovich smoked as though this meant little to him.
“You are a bastard,” said Bulgakov, as if he was amazed by the man. He went to the cabinet and brought out another bottle and glass. He set them in front of Pyotrovich.
Pyotrovich considered them before pouring. “If he’s smart, and he is, he’ll move quickly. He’ll try to get them out of the country before she changes her mind. Men tend to look forward. It’s the woman who looks back. Who reconsiders.” He drank and set down the glass. “She will want to see you.”
Bulgakov saw her then in front of a firing squad. A bag over her head. It was by her blouse that he knew her. The clarity of the vision stunned him as though it’d already happened. He could now only hope he would never see her again. The fist found its way into his throat. There wasn’t enough vodka in this world. “Why didn’t you arrest me in the first place?” he said.
Pyotrovich looked surprised, as though the imprisonment of writers was a novel idea. He raised his hands; he was helpless in all of this. “How do we arrest Stalin’s favorite writer?”
Pyotrovich stood and pulled his coat around him more closely. Even in their brief minutes together, the room had chilled further. In the fireplace, remnants of writing paper, black from combustion, clung to the andirons.
“I can see that better fuel is delivered to you,” said Pyotrovich.
“I have plenty,” said Bulgakov.
“Manuscripts don’t burn,” he said, gently it seemed. “If they did, I could have a different job.”
It had begun to snow and what little light remained was further diminished. Bulgakov did not light a lamp. He stared at the empty fireplace until it was only a dark shape on the wall. Both the vodka and the Nagant were his companions. His hand rested on its cool lines; it felt like the hand of a friend.
If he’d not met Mandelstam that night. Perhaps he would have learned of his arrest the next day. Perhaps later. He’d have gone to Nadya as a grieving friend long after Margarita’s departure. And if he’d seen her at the Writers’ Union (indeed, would she have come?) he’d have recognized her, of course, but it was unlikely that anything further would have transpired. That avenue would have stopped short, like so many unexplored. He’d not have known the difference.
He stroked the Nagant. It wouldn’t hold back the People’s army, but it would do the trick. Yet vodka was his friend as well and he refilled his glass. He listened to the gathering liquid. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to live. Vodka promised to help with this.
Pyotrovich had said that manuscripts don’t burn. Yet people disappear. Whole countries of them.
Bulgakov went to his desk and gathered the final chapters. He knelt by the fireplace. He arranged some of the pages on the andirons; in the darkness, they seemed unaware of their new bed. With a match, he lit a corner. The paper held the flame poorly at first and he moved the match along its edge. As the flames caught, the orange light illuminated the words; he recognized a particular passage. He sat back a little; the flames progressed along the perimeter; then, growing, they leaned inward, cupping the pages. The edges darkened and curled; lifting up, fragmenting, more life to them than they’d ever known. He added more; again, the flames illuminated first, then consumed. The characters who’d lived there were gone. This seemed more than right. They should all disappear.
CHAPTER 38
Ilya had told her they were traveling to Irkutsk. There they would board the train for Mongolia.
He’d had false papers made for them. They were stopped only once. They sat in the car as the soldier reviewed them. Ilya maintained an air of disinterest and boredom. When the soldier bent down to look at her Ilya placed his hand high on her thigh, as if in absent gesture. The soldier straightened, his head disappearing, and concluded his business with them. Ilya’s hand slipped away. She looked out the window and the car started forward.