Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

“I’m not trying to make things difficult for you,” said Bulgakov.

With that, Ilya seemed restored. “Perhaps you believe that only in this country writing is respected,” he said.

There was an echo of Mandelstam. Bulgakov spoke carefully. “Respected or not, it is my home.”

Ilya then seemed to change the subject. “I’ve always wondered: what is the writer’s inspiration? How do you choose which imaginative peak to scale on any given day?”

Again, Bulgakov was surprised by this turn of conversation. “I can’t speak for everyone,” he said. “I suppose it’s an observation of some incongruity in life. Some paradox that I want to explore. The answer to what would happen if…” Ilya’s expression was unreadable. “Perhaps it has to do with my scientific training,” he added weakly.

“Of course,” said Ilya. “You were first a physician. A venereologist—your specialty in syphilis? Your practice in Kiev. Given up, because—why?”

“I suppose I lost my ambition for it.” He’d done nothing to prepare for these questions.

Ilya seemed ready to ask another, then appeared to change his mind. “I feel we have this in common,” he said. “I too pose such questions to the world—questions of what if. For example, what if a passably successful playwright met with such censorship that none of his plays could be produced?”

Bulgakov felt his chest contract slightly. “I should have no idea of that outcome,” he said.

“No? Then here’s another—what if a physician of comfortable means, bourgeoisie means, was faced with the loss of these luxuries at the hands of an invading proletariat army? What then—would he enlist in a failing Nationalist cause in order to protect the old ways? Would he betray his country’s destiny? That should be a fine plot for a story.”

Bulgakov’s mouth went dry. “It sounds rather flat, actually.”

Ilya went on. “And what if this physician, this traitor, seeking to hide from his past, left his home, and turning to another career, found himself still frustrated and pining for the old life—his petitions to emigrate refused again and again. What if he then took every opportunity to infuse his writings with seditious ideas, cloaking them in some guise of literature?” He leaned forward slightly, and now, for the first time, seemed agitated. The ash from his neglected cigarette fell to the table’s surface and noiselessly shattered.

Bulgakov grew strangely calm, even as the waves of accusation became stronger. They had nothing. Otherwise there would have been not a telegram, but agents at his door. This would be not an interview but an interrogation.

The ruddiness of Ilya’s face had deepened. “And what if—Writer—what if the leader of this great country was so taken in that even he failed to see these obvious sentiments, even he was blind to the treachery in the words. What if he protected this writer because he found him entertaining, unknowing of the real damage this spoiler caused? What would happen if this was revealed to him? What then—”

The room seemed to collapse, losing air, until there was space for only the two of them, their faces inches apart. Bulgakov gathered his breath. “Perhaps you should be the fiction writer,” he said.

“You think it fiction?”

“I love my country,” said Bulgakov.

“You love yourself,” said Ilya. His voice dripped with disgust.

Ilya got up abruptly and left the room, jostling the table with the force of his departure. The unseen door from the other office closed in succession. Bulgakov was alone.

No instruction had been given; was he to wait and for who? Would the officer who’d brought him come to fetch him? The one who wanted to write? Or the secretary from the foyer who’d thought him a criminal? Or were there others at that moment being summoned to imprison him? Had Ilya been so angered that he’d gone to procure some contingent of guards? Could Bulgakov find his way on his own? Would it be labeled an escape attempt when he’d come in the first place of his own choice?

The door opened and Vasily appeared. He sat down, positioned the cart, lifted its side arms which provided a broader table, and removed a thick folder from the shelf below. In a manner that appeared well practiced, he placed the ream of pages to the left and the folder to the right. He fed the first page into the machine’s roll, then rubbed his hands together. He was there to take his confession, Bulgakov thought.

Vasily began. “Name?”

“I told you already,” said Bulgakov. Then he gave his name again.

“Place of domicile,” said Vasily.

“What is this for?” Bulgakov would have asked if he’d been arrested, but the words were too terrible to speak.

“We need to update your file,” said Vasily.

He had a file? For what purpose, he thought miserably.

Vasily seemed preoccupied with adjusting the paper on the stenotype’s roll.

“May I smoke?” said Bulgakov, feeling depressed.

“Do I look like a Committee member?” said Vasily.

The questions began with his parents; the concrete statistics of their existence—their place of birth and death, their education, the condition of their health, their travels and occupation; as well as their interests, their beliefs, their politics, and their prejudices. Had anyone in his family been a priest? A teacher? A writer? An artist? What views did they maintain about the Tsar? The West? The East? Karl Marx? The war? One by one, they went through his siblings as well. At first, Bulgakov had been somewhat lengthy in his responses, but it seemed Vasily was incapable of paraphrasing and progressively his answers shortened.

The pages to his left seemed not to diminish. After several hours, and with the alignment of a fresh form, Vasily smiled at Bulgakov. “Now we may commence with you,” he said. Bulgakov felt sickened; this wasn’t an interview, but a slow and meticulous evisceration.

When Bulgakov left Lubyanka, it was late in the afternoon. Vasily had asked about Mandelstam and Stanislawski, Poprikhen and Likovoyev. He’d asked about his current and former neighbors. About their wives, their lovers, their parents, and their children. He’d asked about Tatiana. Then, about Margarita. In the fading light, Lubyanka seemed no longer a building; Bulgakov had been given a pinhole’s view of the machinations of the universe. He could not get away fast enough.

He only wanted to write. Such was his desperate truth, he thought. Had that as well been left behind?

Despite the hour he went to the theater.

The marquee was dark, yet his name remained, side-by-side with Molière’s. He recognized the cashier in the ticket office; she gestured from her slotted window as he passed through the lobby as though to dissuade him from going further. Of the series of doors along the far wall he knew the one on the end would be unlocked. It was late; he wanted only to see the set; his set. She called out his name as the door closed behind him.

The stage provided the only illumination with an irregular smattering of footlights and one misdirected Fresnel lamp. The set was partially assembled. Fresh beams rose in the backlight—a vaulted gallery with the French monarch’s throne; adjacent, the playwright’s seventeenth-century apartment. The varnished floor was marked in chalk with stage directions.

Two figures, presumably actors in street clothes, stood near its edge holding scripts. One gestured; the other held his hand against his head as though it ached. Otherwise the theater was empty. Bulgakov took a seat midway through the orchestra section. If the actors noticed, they gave no indication. The one with the headache dropped his script to his side and paused from his speech, looking about as though in search of some responsible party. When none was apparent, he resumed.

Bulgakov sensed that something was wrong—it was odd for actors to be rehearsing this late despite the proximity of opening night. He couldn’t place the scene. Had Stanislawski made yet another change?

The actors were discussing the religious implications of burying the victim of a drowning in blessed ground should the death have been the result of suicide. One pretended to dig a grave. He appeared to be doing a particularly poor job of it even as he moved air.

This made no sense—there was no graveyard in Molière—then there came a new and terrible certainty: the scene was from Hamlet. These after-hours rehearsals were a contingency against Molière’s cancelation. This was a blow he’d not anticipated and it seemed now that he was the one scrambling through loose dirt. How could this be! Then—what could be done?

Stanislawski appeared in the aisle and sat next to him. The light from the stage set his face in sharp relief. Bulgakov expected to feel anger toward him, the swell of betrayal. Instead, Stanislawski looked surprisingly old, surprisingly vulnerable.

Vasily had asked: “Are you acquainted with Constantin Stanislawski?”

Bulgakov: “It is a professional relationship.”

This wasn’t entirely true—despite their working relationship, they were friends. It seemed unwise though to intimate any further association. Vasily did not challenge his answer.

Vasily: “To your knowledge, does he carry significant personal debt?”

Bulgakov: “I would have no information about that.”

Vasily: “Is he faithful to his wife?”

Bulgakov: “Of course.”

Vasily: “Is he a habitual user of laudanum, opium, or heroin?”

Bulgakov: “I’m certain I don’t know but I consider it highly unlikely.”

Vasily: “Is it your impression that his selection of plays for production is an accurate reflection of his anti-Bolshevik views?”

It was his particular phrasing which had alarmed Bulgakov. He’d hesitated and this, in turn, seemed to heighten Vasily’s interest. He’d wanted to say no, but the question had been twisted such that any answer could indict.

Bulgakov answered: “I don’t understand the question.”

Vasily typed.

Evidently not all questions were expected to be clear.

Somewhere offstage, pounding could be heard. One of the actors spoke: “What is he that builds stronger than the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?”

The other answered: “The gallows-maker, for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.”

The first stuttered through his next line and the other whacked him with his script. Stanislawski watched without reaction, as though the words were without meaning to him.

“When were you going to tell me?” said Bulgakov, his voice low.

“If there is something to tell, I imagine you will know before me,” said Stanislawski.

“What have you heard?”

“One hears everything if one talks to enough people.” Stanislawski spoke matter-of-factly, and the actors paused. One shielded his eyes with the script and searched the orchestra for its source. The other looked behind, as though nervous of what other voices might leap from the darkness.

“Do you intend to stage Molière?” said Bulgakov.

“I intend to stage something. Molière was already pulled once.”

“And reinstated.”

“And reinstated.” Stanislawski parroted his words but not his conviction. “Someday you must tell me how you managed that.”

Did the director think him an informer? “You know me better than that,” said Bulgakov. He tried to muster some confidence in his voice.

Stanislawski turned to him. Half of his face disappeared into shadow. What remained was etched with sadness. A sympathy extended to all of them. “I’ve known you a long time,” he said.

As though he could know all of Bulgakov’s struggles, his disappointments. His other failures that, if examined each alone, were small and of only passing importance. Yet these together would gather as ballast for this newest one. If this play was canceled, no one would ever stage another of his. There would be no more to follow. He couldn’t fail. This was all he had.

Vasily paused from his typing; his fingers rested lightly on the keys. “Tell me about Margarita Nikoveyena.”

When Bulgakov returned that night, she rejoiced with the news that his play was still in production. But he could see that she waited to hear something else. She asked about his meeting with Ilya. Was there mention of Mandelstam? His manuscript? Did his earlier fears hold true? He told her the People’s Commission for Internal Affairs had little concern about his association with Mandelstam or anything else. Still she waited, her eyes bright.