He fingered his cup but didn’t drink. “I saw you there, too,” he said.

She thought to tell him that that hadn’t been her intention.

“How is our writer?” said Ilya.

“He wants us to marry.”

Ilya drank from his coffee.

The waiter appeared with the okroshka and set it in front of her. She felt strangely hemmed in by it.

“He’s made all of the changes requested by the review board,” she said.

“Then my additional scrutiny should pose no problem.”

“Why him?”

He hooked his arm over the back of his chair. “You should try it,” he said, indicating the stew. “It’s quite wonderful here.” He seemed distracted, bothered in some way, and she wondered if she’d touched on some hidden discomfort. Or was it something else, and she was given to the sense that she’d endangered herself, and somehow this was what distressed him.

“It’s only a play. No one should live or die over it.” She echoed Stanislawski’s words.

He pressed the cigarette to his lips, then quickly pushed it away again. His hand was shaking. She was startled by this.

“It’s true,” she insisted.

“Please stop talking,” he cut her off.

What else could she say? She felt desperate to undo any damage she might have caused. “Can you not leave him alone?”

“Was this his idea? Your—meeting me?” He looked off, shaking his head, as though amused by the morning sky. “You’re not going to marry him,” he said to it, as though the real absurdity was in the sky thinking itself capable of marrying anyone.

She got up but his hand was already around her wrist, holding her there. She stared at it, at his arm. Strangely, she didn’t mind it. It worked to infuse her with calm and she didn’t pull away. “It was my idea,” she said. “And now I’m sorry for it.” She could see he believed her; that he was perhaps even hurt by it, and he released her. He stared where his fingers had been. She crossed her arms over her chest. He smiled a little at her then, as one who acknowledged her power.

“Please stay,” he said. “I don’t wish us to part under these circumstances. Please. I’ll ask nothing else of you.”

It was only with his request that she then wondered where she would otherwise go. The sun hung at an unnatural angle; the rhythm of the street was unfamiliar. The world at this hour appeared uncharted and uncertain for her such that even going to a store or a movie house would require extraordinary physicality. Where would she go—home? She imagined Bulgakov at their apartment, at the table, his head bent over it; the sound of his pen against the paper. She imagined him rising at her appearance, concerned. Beside her now: this table, its chair, both were solid. The stew waited. The breeze came again; it’d warmed slightly as though in service to Ilya’s request, to provide encouragement. To suggest she needed a small reprieve from the other thing. To tell her the apartment would still be waiting; she would return to it soon enough. Had her friends not told her to get away for a little while? Was this not better? To do this small thing for herself was not a betrayal. Such a word made no sense. It was a table, a chair; someone had ordered a bowl of stew. All for her.

She sat down.

Ilya showed obvious pleasure and seemed determined to direct the conversation toward more agreeable topics. He encouraged her again to try the stew. She drew her spoon through it; steam rose from the seam she’d created.

“You are considering marriage? I think that will be a good state for you,” he said. “I think that for most women. I suppose I’m old-fashioned in that way.”

He confessed to his traditionalist view in the manner of one who was comfortable with this in himself. But was marriage a good state for him? Men such as Ilya were capable of setting aside love for their own interests. If this was the case, he hid it well. His gaze seemed to harbor true interest and concern. She didn’t doubt he could be at times unyielding. Yet she remembered in the restaurant, the night of the sturgeon, when he’d begged her pardon for the most minor of slights. There had been a vulnerability he’d revealed as though offering it for her to examine. She’d sensed her power then. She wondered now if it was a flimsy thing, an infatuation that could quickly disperse. It seemed as though she was tapping forward on ice, staring hard at its surface; coming to realize that it would be impossible to gauge its thickness without applying her full weight.

“Do you feel women are the weaker sex and should be cared for?” she asked. He looked as though she should already know this answer.

“I’m not a romantic,” he said. “You shouldn’t confuse me with one.”

She wanted to say that she hadn’t, but found it uncomfortable to confess that she’d given any thought to it at all.

“I don’t believe women, as individuals, are fully realized until they marry. Men too, for that matter. Too many these days—and I believe men are more guilty of this than women—remain in an extended childhood. They focus on their particular needs and wants—they react instinctually like children. Marriage insists that one grow up. That one think of someone beyond oneself. I believe this comes more naturally for women.” He shrugged then, as if he’d gone on too long. “I believe it is a more natural state for them. A good state.” He paused as if conscious of what he might next say. “A good state for you in particular.” He seemed not at all embarrassed to admit that he’d given this quite a bit of thought.

She looked at her stew. “I think I’d like to know someday why you never married,” she said.

“Perhaps someday I’ll tell you.”

Something in her middle moved as though whatever she’d been ignoring those many weeks and months had now aroused itself, opened up, and yawned with sudden ferociousness to be filled. The aroma seemed to want her to faint from it. Her appetite raged at her. Her stomach ached. She drew her spoon through the stew again, almost fearful of its power. She felt like a child, she thought; she desired as a child desires. She only wanted to be filled.

It’s obvious—you’ve been starving, my dear.

Had he spoken? It was his voice, but it could not have been him; he looked only about to speak.

“Please eat,” he urged her.

“Do you need to leave?” She thought she would immediately follow, as soon as he was out of sight. She’d leave the stew behind if she could manage to lift herself from the chair. She had hardly accomplished what she’d hoped. She would return to Bulgakov. She’d confess it to him.

“I feel compelled to watch you finish this,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“I believe you can,” he said. Not in the fashion of insisting on his way, but rather as an expression of a kind of faith in her. “I’m in no hurry, Margarita. You may take your time.”

Was it hunger she felt? Why had she come?

Was she not complicit in everything that had befallen her? In her future, as well? Knowing this, would she have come anyway?

“You’ve done terrible things,” she said.

“I have.” She was uncertain if he sounded apologetic or not.

She thought of Bulgakov, home, writing. She studied the stew; then she tasted it.

She returned the spoon to the bowl and stared out at the street. It had brightened from before, its edges softened.

He didn’t ask what was wrong or why she was crying. It didn’t seem to trouble him, as if he had expected it.

She’d never tasted anything so wonderful before. And briefly she thought she would never be satisfied again.


She had decided to accept Bulgakov’s proposal. She wouldn’t tell him about Ilya. She told herself there was no point to it.

When she opened the door, Bulgakov was at the table, pages in disorderly piles around him. He didn’t seem as surprised as she’d expected. He reached for his pocket watch and she turned to put her satchel away.

“They called from the paper,” he said. “They asked if you were feeling better. I was worried.” His words seemed to have been crafted earlier when the call was taken. His tone no longer agreed with their meaning.

She felt sudden remorse for her lie to her colleagues. She thought of their concern for her over the past months.

“I had a headache,” she said.

He looked helpless at her words. “Are you better then?” he asked.

She nodded. “But tired.”

He said something about how headaches could do that. She noticed how he stared at her.

“I may lie down for a while,” she said.

She didn’t make a move for the bed, nor did he return to his work.

“It was your editor who called,” he said. “We talked for some time. He’s worried about you. I felt like a young boy again, being called to task by the headmaster.”

“It was only a headache,” she said, trying to press truth into her words.

“Have you lost weight?” There was an echo of self-reproach in his question.

“Do you know if we have any powders?” She pulled open a cabinet door and began moving things around.

“I thought you said it was gone.”

“It may be coming back.” As though he was causing it. That was what he would think she had meant. She closed the cabinet and sat on the sofa.

“It took you a long time to come home,” he said. He sounded nervous.

“I walked for a while. It seemed to help and I kept walking.”

Again he was quiet. Then—“Where did you walk?”

“Does it matter?” She immediately regretted her answer. His nervousness visibly grew.

“You walked for two hours?” he said.

Had it been that long? “I stopped for a time. Then came home.” She tried to manufacture fatigue in her voice. Perhaps he’d give up.

“Were you alone?”

“Of course,” she said. This time instead of fatigue, she tried to invent credibility.

His nervousness seemed to change into quiet panic. What was she saying, what was she doing that he didn’t believe her?

“Who were you with?”

“I told you. No one.”

He got up from the table and sat down next to her. He took her hand, stroking it.

“You can tell me,” he said. “You can trust me.”

“I am telling you,” she said. But she felt her own hope fading. Somehow he would know. Somehow she would tell him.

The tips of his fingers moved over the slight mounds of her knuckles, as though these were precious things. As though they might at any moment be taken from him, and in his longing for them, he was already anticipating their loss. She no longer wanted to lie to him.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said.

“Tell me.” His pain had transformed itself into despair.

“I met with Ilya.”

She didn’t know what his reaction might be. He seemed to be trying to understand it as well. She rushed ahead.

“I asked to meet with him,” she said. “I wanted him to stop harassing you. To leave the play alone.”

He set her hand down. “Why would you think that would help?”

“I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“He’s a Deputy Director in the NKVD. Why would you think he would do this for you?” He was no longer questioning. His voice was cold. “For all we know he was responsible for Mandelstam.” As though now she was somehow, in some way, responsible too.

“I was trying to help.”

“He thinks he has feelings for you. Did he tell you this?” he said. “He’s not capable of love. He would destroy what you love.”

“I know.”

His next words seemed to come out of nowhere. “Did you sleep with him?” He said this as though the thought had suddenly presented itself. He made no effort to censor it.

“God—no. No. Why would you say that? We talked.”

“Who can say what he might have asked for in return?” He paused. “Or what you were prepared to offer in exchange.”

“This is all your imagining! We only talked.”

“Where—in his office?”

She could see he was trying to envision this. “Outside. At a restaurant. Not far from the prison. I don’t know the name.”

“Did you eat?” he said.

“We had coffee.” She suddenly resented his need for these small details. She tried to appear transparent, even remorseful of the coffee, and he seemed satisfied.

“Did you convince him to leave the play alone?” He sounded strangely wistful, as though this was no longer a real concern and he might wish it still were.

“If anything, he was surprised by the accusation. He mentioned something—he’d given you a ride last night. He’d paid for the cab.”