“Most who visit are not so eager for another,” she said with a tilt to her head. She seemed to understand that people fell into one of two categories; however, she was still uncertain to which Bulgakov might be assigned. She appeared agnostic to this; no doubt such determinations were made without error. It was her indifference which sapped what little confidence he had and he did as he was told.

The moth lay near his foot again as though it’d moved. He reasoned he could leave. He could say he was going out for a breath of air and never return. He rubbed his palms across the tops of his knees. The cloth felt damp. Perhaps this was a mistake.

A uniformed figure appeared. Bulgakov was uncertain of the insignia. The officer seemed exceedingly enthusiastic and indicated Bulgakov was to follow him. Bulgakov hesitated and the man looked confused.

“You are Playwright Bulgakov?” said the officer. When he nodded the man’s enthusiasm returned. As they passed the woman’s desk, she was preoccupied with a co-worker, smiling at the younger man who leaned against her desk. Bulgakov wanted to point out his escort to her: evidence that he was a respected guest. As they entered the adjacent corridor, she broke into laughter. It sounded incredulous. It seemed to follow him down the hall, as if to say:

You think there are mistakes? Even coincidences? Do you not choose with care every word you lay down, dear Playwright? The moth, the clock, even myself—all have been placed with the same consideration, I assure you. Take nothing for granted.

Her laughter disappeared. The air was chillier than before.

They continued for what seemed to be the width of the block. They passed doors spaced intermittently; some opened into offices. Telephones jangled; the wavering buzz of an intercom punctuated the voices of clerks and secretaries working within. They turned down a second, then, midway, took another turn down a third corridor. Immediately, the atmosphere quieted; the ceiling heightened; the doors, slightly larger, were made of polished wood with carved cornices. The nameplates on each were brass; the names etched in script. After passing several, they came to a painting, hung between two doors, and here the officer stopped. He held out his arm like a docent. This was a Vereshchagin. Truly, he said. He smiled. In this place.

The officer waited patiently, as if inviting Bulgakov to admire the work.

The painting was dominated by the outstretched wings of vultures swarming over the ground. Long shadows of evening stretched from the bottom of the frame. Further in, in the rosy twilight of a secluded glen, a majestic tiger reclined. Between the animal’s arms lay the corpse of a man. Its head and shoulders were in the tiger’s embrace; the creature’s open mouth was poised above him. To the side, other vultures waited; some beat their wings; their eagerness at odds with the languorous gestures of the beast.

“Many of his works were barred from exhibitions,” said the officer. “The romantics of his day had little stomach for his brutality. We Russians,” he smiled. “We always have something to say about our Art.”

The plate under the frame named the piece: Cannibal. The officer went on. “He gives a strange nobility to the victim; don’t you think? There is honor in one’s life culminating in the provision of sustenance to the beast. And even as we recognize the victim, we struggle to see him. In death we are so changed.”

Bulgakov disagreed. The man was not a victim; in his repose, he looked more the willing lover giving himself over to the creature. There was no protest, no scuffle or thrashing of limbs. The man had willingly accompanied the creature into the glen; he’d lain down with it. He had allowed for their differing concepts of love.

The officer told him the painting had once hung in the Summer Palace of Prince Orlov. Now it belonged to the people. He didn’t seem to consider the irony of this. The officer opened the door on the other side. This one had no nameplate.

It was a small antechamber to another office. There was a table with an ashtray and several chairs. The walls were bare. The inner door was closed. The officer sat down and brought out a cigarette case from his breast pocket. He motioned to Bulgakov to sit, then offered him one. The officer lit it for him and they smoked in silence. They were clearly waiting for someone. Bulgakov thought back to the painting in the corridor. The objects in the room, the few that were there, also seemed anticipatory. Like the moth and the clock. He was grateful for the cigarette; it gave him something to do with his hands.

The officer spoke. “I am a fan of yours.” His manner was as a friendly conspirator. “How many times did I see Days?” He took a quick drag, as though this was needed for courage. “I write,” he confessed. He seemed slightly embarrassed. “I keep a journal. Write stories. If you could read one for me, tell me what you think—I’d be quite grateful.”

Bulgakov told him he’d be happy to read his work. Typically this wouldn’t be true, however, in his asking, it seemed that the officer had made up his own mind as to Bulgakov’s innocence and Bulgakov was suddenly and wholly grateful for this and willing to read even the most pedestrian of offerings. The officer was at odds with everything else there. Bulgakov glanced at the inner door.

“I could send it to you,” the officer said.

There was movement from the adjacent room—the closing of an outer door, the sliding of a chair. The officer put out his cigarette; Bulgakov did the same and they stood.

A clerk entered, pushing a small metal cart that held a stenotype; he was followed by Ilya.

Ilya told the officer to leave them and he departed, the details of his manuscript review left unsettled. Ilya took the seat that had been unoccupied. The clerk, a smallish, older man, pulled the remaining chair against the wall, where he then sat. No one spoke as he guided the cart into position in front of him. Bulgakov cautiously took his seat. The clerk began to type. Ilya held his brow in his hand, between his thumb and his forefinger. His eyes were closed.

“State your name,” said the clerk. His voice was nasal as one with a chronic sinus condition.

Bulgakov hesitated. Ilya opened his eyes.

“He knows my name. He’s talking to you.” Ilya had already closed them again. Bulgakov complied. The stenotype rattled anxiously over his words.

What had caused the man in the painting to enter the jungle that afternoon, the declared realm of the tiger? There was no weapon in sight. Bulgakov imagined him empty-handed, sun-dappled leaves brushing his shoulders as he left the well-trod path.

“The address of your domicile?”

What of his planned course? Were those goals yet worthy? Or had he garnered a new faith? One that called to him from the shadows. One that promised a different reward; that exacted a more certain tribute.

The clerk repeated the question. Ilya raised his head. The clerk appeared to recognize this motion and ceased his questioning. The room was quiet for several moments.

“My apologies,” said Ilya. “My head is splitting.” It wasn’t clear to whom this was intended. “Vasily is here simply to take notes. This isn’t a formal inquiry. Call it a conversation. You don’t mind?”

Beneath the table, Bulgakov pressed his hands together. His arms were lost under its sharp edge; he saw the braided scar it’d made across the chair’s arm. He tried to sound unconcerned. “I’m still not certain why I’m here,” he said.

From the darker shades of the jungle, a pair of yellow eyes glowed. The creature drew him in with its sympathy, its desire. It understood him, loved him for what he really was. It was the tiger after all. We hunt what we love, wouldn’t you agree?

He could hear the predator’s breathing before he saw it, more rapid than a human’s. Its life force exceeded that of a dozen men. Nearby the call of an invisible bird plucked the evening air. Other concerns seemed difficult to recall. He no longer wished to deny the tiger. Desire and fear had melded into one. He stepped in further.

Such pain would be brief. Most were the fodder of worms. He could be a tiger’s feast.

“Is this about an overdue library book?” said Bulgakov. The stenotype’s clatter paved over his attempted joviality and he stopped speaking. Ilya waved his hand at Vasily and the secretary left through the same door.

Ilya produced a cigarette case. He offered one to Bulgakov and took one for himself. He lit them both then leaned back in his chair. He studied Bulgakov through a thin coil of smoke, then manufactured a smile.

“I admire you,” said Ilya. “These are challenging times—for writers in particular. This business with Osip Mandelstam for example.” Bulgakov tried to speak and Ilya waved his words away. “You were friends though I would imagine?”

“More acquaintances,” said Bulgakov.

“But you knew him.”

Everyone knew him. Would they arrest them all?

“It must seem what you do is a dangerous enterprise,” said Ilya.

There was an audible ticking from the other room. “I have no particular politics,” said Bulgakov.

“Everyone has their politics.”

Bulgakov threw himself onto the one truth he couldn’t abandon. “I simply want to write.”

“Of course. And why shouldn’t you? Are you working on something now?” It sounded innocent. A question of polite interest.

The room felt warm.

“Something new?” Ilya suggested.

“No—the play consumes all of my time.”

“That’s too bad.” Ilya’s smile changed slightly. Bulgakov couldn’t tell if it was triumphant or sympathetic. “As I said, these are challenging times. I have to wonder what is keeping you here. In this country, I mean.”

He remembered his conversation with Stalin. He could say he’d asked to leave but had been denied, though that seemed a trap. The better answer was to want to stay.

“There’s a lot to leave behind,” said Bulgakov.

“You have a sister with whom you’ve not spoken in several years. A mediocre career—and that is perhaps generous.” He didn’t wait for his assent. “Few friends. There is no disputing these things.”

Bulgakov felt suddenly depressed. “Where would I go?”

“The world is larger than Moscow. Though perhaps you believe there would be difficulties publishing abroad. Or even worse. Your work may be published but no one will understand it. No one, except perhaps another Russian.”

The rapidity of Ilya’s diagnosis seemed to extract air from the room. “I have considered that possibility,” said Bulgakov.

“Do you lack faith in your own greatness? Or in the ability of a foreign audience to recognize it?” His expression appeared to sour a little, as though a bad taste had entered his mouth. “Particularly if it comes to them so heavily accented.”

Bulgakov sensed in the bureaucrat a pointed dislike for him. It went beyond that which might be directed toward his profession; it was something else—something personal. It seemed a slip of a kind. Once again Ilya appeared sympathetic; any trace of a more ominous sentiment was gone.

“I would miss my homeland,” said Bulgakov.

“Nonsense.” Ilya’s voice boomed slightly in the small room. “Expatriates abound. You would have no difficulties. You might even find those willing to read your work.” He seemed momentarily distracted by a page left on top of Vasily’s stenotype. He picked it up; his brow furrowed as he read. “At one point you petitioned to leave,” he reminded him.

“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind,” said Bulgakov.

“Perhaps?” Ilya sounded mildly incredulous. He then changed his tone. “Perhaps. People change their minds all the time. About their politics, their philosophies. Even their gods. This building is particularly adept at helping people to change their minds.”

“I have a play about to open,” said Bulgakov.

“You do,” said Ilya. His tone was neutral, and Bulgakov wondered what he might know about its fate.

“I have—” Bulgakov was suddenly reluctant to continue. “I have—someone.”

Ilya did not answer immediately. “You do.” His skepticism was gone, as though he’d been momentarily disarmed by the words. “In some ways, it would be easier for me if you were to leave.”

Bulgakov was uncertain of what he meant. He remembered the night in the restaurant when they’d met Ilya. He’d had an inhuman quality, and perhaps that was the nature of one in his occupation. Only now there was a sense of regret, a reluctant acceptance of personal loss that was very human. Not all desires were going to be pursued in this lifetime. Did he have a woman? There was no way such a question could be posed.