Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

“This blue,” she pronounced. Margarita went behind the screen and slipped it on. When she emerged, Vera had a tape measure around her neck; in her hands a pincushion and yard-stick.

“This is perfect for your figure,” she said. “Too big, of course.” She pinned in the sides then stood back, considering the length. “It can come up an inch or two as well.”

“You’re so kind to me,” said Margarita.

Vera studied her face. She went to her drawer and returned with several tubes of lipstick. She selected one, then applied it to Margarita’s lips. “There!” She stepped back and they both looked to the mirror.

The color was more orange than she would have worn back in Moscow. She seemed altered in ways that she wouldn’t have predicted.

“We tried to have children,” Vera said to the reflection. “I’d always wanted a daughter.” She gave Margarita a squeeze around the waist. “I’ll take this in, but maybe not too much. We can try to fatten you up a bit these next few weeks.”

Vera went to put aside the yardstick and pins.

Vera would deliver her to Ilya. Unknowingly, unwittingly, she would make her escape possible. There would be consequences to this.

Vera turned back. “Are you hungry?” she asked brightly.

“I am,” said Margarita.

The trip to the camp took four days; they stopped each evening before nightfall and slept in huts similar to the first. Delilah remained behind at the last one and Bulgakov and the driver traveled the remaining half day without her. The camp was comprised of a series of long, low buildings; its size and the density of its structures and their implied population seemed anomalous in the relatively empty landscape. It was surrounded by a perimeter fence and intermittent towers, though he suspected these were largely unmanned during the winter months; anyone trying to escape on foot would not survive. He was escorted to a nondescript building, to a windowless room of gray-painted cinderblock, and left alone. It held two chairs and a table between them. The floor was cement; from the ceiling hung two lightbulbs, only one of which was working. The room was poorly heated, yet he still removed his coat, placed it over the back of his chair, and sat facing the door. The dark bulb flickered then came to life. It seemed as if anything could happen.

It’d been five months since he’d last seen her, almost half a year. He was nervous of her appearance.

Footsteps were heard, the door was unlocked, and he stood. It opened, a guard entered, then Margarita. Her surprise was immediate. The guard then left, locking the door behind him. They would have only minutes together.

How did she look? Fragile. Weary. Achingly thin. Words that could apply to the whole of her and also to each individual part: her skin, her bones, her wrists; even her hair, tied back with a piece of string. She was at once his Margarita and as well a person so utterly transformed. He recognized the blouse she wore and that seemed remarkable.

She hadn’t moved. He picked up her hand. “Say something,” he said. Be her, he thought.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she said. She seemed stunned by the sight of him.

He took her in his arms, though even in this he feared he would crush her. “What have they done to you?” He could not help the words.

“I can’t believe you’re here. How is this possible?” she said. “I was certain it was a trick.”

He urged her to sit, then knelt on the floor before her. He studied her face. Shallow lines were apparent that he couldn’t recall from before. She held his hands. Her fingers were cool hard things; her grip tight to the point of despairing.

“How is this possible?” she repeated, as though such information was important. As though she had lost all judgment of how time was to be spent.

He kissed her to reassure her; her hands loosened and he touched the cheek that had been battered in Pyotrovich’s photograph. Its healing seemed a kind of miracle. But time could not account for other changes. The vague, unfettered fear he’d seen on that page had been transformed into something hard and shining: a desperate need, an unassailable hope. He was then overwhelmed by a singular thought as though it’d conquered his brain. She needed to escape this place. Nothing else mattered. And with that came a new kind of misery. She touched his face as if in seeing this, she wanted to dispel it.

“I don’t care how you came to be here,” she said. “You’re here now.” She kissed him.

She might forgive him his association with Pyotrovich, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her of it.

“I talked to your mother,” he said. “I told her where you are.” She nodded.

He didn’t tell her of the growth that had been discovered on her spine. That would likely claim her before spring returned.

“And your play?” She smiled, hopeful for the news.

He was touched that she’d thought of it. “It plays to a full house,” he said. “Every night.” He didn’t tell her that the censors had succeeded in closing it down weeks before.

“So you are now famous.” She beamed.

He changed the subject. “Are you given enough to eat? Is it sufficiently warm?” Her temples had hollowed. He glanced over her wrists; the cordlike vessels were prominent. Her nails were whole though several were broken. A ribbon of grime where there’d once been white. She tightened her hold as though to hide them. He wanted to ask if they’d hurt her, then considered that perhaps like him she would give falsehoods for those things he could do nothing about.

She told him the food and the housing was adequate. If anything, she was bored.

“I miss our talks,” she said. “I miss a lot of things.” She shifted a little in the chair.

He thought of Mandelstam and wondered what he would find under her clothes.

She lowered her voice. “Have you been harassed any further?”

Her concern was both sweet and distressing. “No, no,” he shook his head.

She kissed him again. “I feared I’d never see you—and here you are.” Her happiness seemed sincere, yet in some way incomplete.

She would know of Ilya’s plan; would she tell him of it? He could see these complexities encroaching upon her. He could see her wanting to push them away, wanting only to be happy.

“You are staying in Irkutsk?” she said. She looked more worried than curious.

“I have several rooms. Evidently the housing problems are not so keen here.” he said. “It’s not exactly what I’d dreamed for us, but there is a small garden adjoining.” He let himself for a moment imagine her there and he added shyly, “I think you would be happy with it.” She looked further troubled.

“I had hoped—when you are released.” he said. She would think he intended her to wait out her sentence and he rushed forward.

“The neighbors are friendly. They know about you—I’ve told them and they are eager to welcome you, too.”

“But you must return to Moscow.”

“Perhaps there is a way, perhaps someday—perhaps soon.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said, then he watched as the implications became clear to her. “You can’t. It’s too long.” She looked at the door. Did she fear they were listening? She turned back. “Don’t wait for me,” she said.

But he was willing to wait. “You are all that matters. It doesn’t have to be forever,” he said.

She studied his mouth as though it was the impossible thing. What could he know of forever?

There was the sound of a distant door shutting; footsteps echoed then faded. His knees ached from the cement; the bulb flickered again. There was a purpose for his visit. Were they waiting for him? He’d not yet delivered his message. It seemed then that all things around them were strangely false. A stage made up with a flimsy set; walls painted to look like cinderblock; walls that could be toppled by a finger; the lights pulled down and with them the ceiling such that the rafters of a theater would be revealed. Even the winter and hardship of travel had been manufactured. The driver. Delilah. All imagined and dressed for their purpose.

He was to tell her what Pyotrovich had promised, he was to convince her that it was genuine. But what if it was not? And then his next and most terrible thought—how could it be?

She’d been exiled not for her crimes but his. Had any of this changed? Would they let them both go without some warrant? If he vowed not to write, would they believe him? Not to speak—would it be possible?

Pyotrovich wanted only Ilya; the rest of them were a footnote. Promises made would not be kept if for so little as the untidiness of it all.

“Oh, my love.” His voice faltered. There was no answer for them.

“They know about Ilya,” he said.

Fear returned to her face. Certainty as well. She did not question him.

“I’m supposed to tell you that if you turn him in, they will release you,” he said. “That we can then be together.” He paused. “I’m supposed to convince you of this.”

She waited. He knew she would trust whatever he told her.

It seemed impossible to believe that he would never see her again.

“Whatever happens, you mustn’t be caught,” he said. “Promise me.”

The door opened and the guard returned. Bulgakov pressed his pocket watch into her hands. Her expression was a glaze of loss, even as she held it, and then he thought, in some small part there was relief. She could stop pretending that he could give her happiness.

He could stop pretending as well.

Anyuta asked her, repeatedly, what was wrong. She seemed to vacillate between concern and annoyance. What could Margarita say?

She wore Bulgakov’s watch around her neck from a string. It touched her skin between her breasts. Could she wait? The dress was finished. She needed to decide. Eight years—the extent of that gulf was unfathomable.

In addition to its alterations, Vera had taken a scarf and sewn it with a scalloped stitch along the neckline. Up in her apartment nearly every day, Margarita was witness to its transformation. Now it was the last day. The dress hung over the side of the screen. She touched the fabric of the skirt, the scarf, its tidy track of stitches.

Ilya would arrive tomorrow.

Vera’s husband was finishing his breakfast at the table.

“Come up in the morning and put this on,” said Vera. “I’ll make a special lunch for you here. Just for the two of you.”

The manager put his arm around his wife’s waist. “She’s been so excited, planning this,” he said, inclining his head toward Vera.

Vera suddenly noticed his coffee-stained shirt. “Look at this,” she chided good-naturedly. “He’d go about like this if it weren’t for me.” She nodded to Margarita. “See what you may have to put up with yourself.” She tried to shoo him behind the screen to change, but he wouldn’t let go of her until she gave him a kiss.

Margarita looked at the dress as if it was this that overwhelmed her. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said.

“Of course you can,” said Vera. “I’ll hear no other talk.”

“She’s just nervous,” said the manager. “He seems like a stand-up person.” He grinned a little. “I don’t think you’ll need a chaperone.”

Vera gave an exclamation of mock despair. She hugged Margarita, then propelled her to the door. “Don’t listen to him,” she told her. “It’s just a lunch. No pressure.” She regarded her kindly. “Smile and you will light up the room.” She closed the door behind her.

Before descending Margarita paused at the end of the hallway and gazed out across the snowy fields. The crisp expanse was untouched; it glittered in the morning sun. Bordering forests were less distinct; mists hovered among the dark tree trunks, stretching ghostly fingers of white across the perimeter.

She imagined the snow clinging to the hem of her coat as she waded through; she imagined looking back and seeing the path of her choosing manifest to the world.

It was March 3rd, International Women’s Day, and it was decided the inmates would be treated to a single shot of vodka that night with dinner. No one, not the guards nor the prison-workers who went from table to table and provided the measured taste into their cups, could say who had approved the directive or why. The guards joked about the women who’d be loaded up and “jollied” that night. Later, when it was determined the vodka had been laced with ethylene glycol, used as an extender since there was insufficient liquor, a brief investigation was launched by an assistant director of the local Chief Administration of Corrective Labor Camps and Colonies. Bureaucrats arrived at the camp unannounced one morning and interviewed guards and reviewed purchase orders and infirmary records for several hours before disappearing without a verdict. The camp director complained to the head of the district Administration and threatened to write letters up through the chain of officials at the Commission and, subsequently, the investigation was quietly terminated and the assistant director transferred. He would be later arrested on charges of sabotage and sentenced to hard labor within the GULAG system.