Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

Bulgakov waved off his excuse. “You must admit we are different from other creatures. Can you name another that would stand as we do, one before the other, willing to kill—or to be killed—for something that is not food or property or even temporary dominance? For ideas as inconstant as principle or justice or love? Is this what makes us so wretchedly human? Dare we call it a soul? And why would we want one? Indeed, why would anyone want us to have one? Yury—think! How malleable we’d be if we didn’t.”

From some corner there was a murmur of assent. Every eye was fastened upon them.

Would Bulgakov look at her? One glance—that was all she wanted. One last—she couldn’t think it. Find me—she thought fiercely. Don’t leave me.

Yury looked about the room as though for some ally. Bulgakov gazed at him sympathetically. The Nagant never lost its aim.

“It seems a rather old-fashioned concept,” said Yury; he appeared to take care with his words.

“Even dead souls have their value.” Someone behind them laughed aloud.

“Is it your intention then to save ours?” Yury looked doubtful of this.

Bulgakov smiled. “There is only one soul here I have in mind to save.”

Margarita touched her lips.

“Then you are a priest,” said Yury.

“There was a time I’d thought myself a shaman.”

“A professor, then? You seem to know a lot.”

“One must concede that books have uses beyond that of a doorstop.”

Another laughed; the sound quickly disappeared. The soldiers looked around.

“Perhaps if you tell me what you want?” said Yury. “We can talk like reasonable people. We can let these others go.”

Again Bulgakov seemed sympathetic. “They may not be the ones you should be concerned about.”

“I don’t think you want to shoot me.” Yury sounded both wistful and defiant in this.

Bulgakov put his hand on his shoulder. “Are you counting on my good nature? My compassion for the unlucky? My admiration for your courage—for I do admire you.” He seemed almost caring. “Are you hoping that with insanity comes poor aim?” He tucked the gun under the soldier’s chin. “Soulless creatures are not required to justify their acts, good Yury. Soulless creatures can stand in the sunlight without care for what they’ve done.”

There was a gentleness to Bulgakov’s embrace; an earnestness to the gun’s gesture, its touch like a parent’s, directing the chin upward, demanding good attention. Yury had seemed to have lost the capacity to blink. He stared into Bulgakov’s eyes, first one then the other; fear had taken all reason.

Bulgakov leaned in. “They tell us not to believe. How easy is it then to take it from us?” His face turned grim. “It won’t hurt, Yury. But I want mine back.”

He looked at her then. At long last. His expression, his eyes, they held her in place. They carried his deepest apology.

He turned the piece toward his own chest. It seemed more a gesture than intent.

No!—had she whispered? Had she shouted? A woman screamed. The soldiers closed in around him. There was a brief tussle, then he was horizontal, midair, with one on each limb. He struggled more as a madman now. Margarita could see only the soles of his shoes. Would this be her last image of him? She let the girl slip from her arms and she stood. She took a step toward him.

Someone held her back; it was Ilya.

The soldiers disappeared through the station doors carrying Bulgakov. Once they were gone, those waiting for the train seemed to rise as one, their voices growing; could they believe what had just transpired? They gathered their various luggage and packages and children and funneled onto the platform. Ilya directed her there as well.

“Will they not search the train?” she said. Surely there was some reason he would need to release her. His expression was stern, unreadable. Outside, the crowd had separated into individual streams, climbing into the various carriages. He propelled her into one. She could have escaped the soldiers more easily. Once inside, he found an empty compartment, then shut the door behind them.

“Let me go,” she said. He stared at her, uncomprehending. His back was against the door.

“I need to use the water closet,” she said. She reached for the handle. He brushed her hand aside.

“You can wait until we are under way.” He appeared then to work to control himself, to calm her down.

She turned to the window behind her.

“We’ll be leaving soon.” He was trying to sound confident, she knew. To invoke some anticipation for the trip. To appease her with the promise of safety and shelter and food.

“He made it possible for us to get away,” he added then, more gently. Was she indifferent to this?

She touched the glass. It was cold through her gloves.

Bulgakov had let her go. He’d let her go. There would be no return once she crossed that border. It seemed the world beyond would drop into nothing. This was forever.

Outside the sun shone blindingly upon the remaining snow of the train yard. Discarded railroad ties lay scattered, rotting. Squat, unmarked, unpainted buildings ringed the space. A single line of graffiti ran along the bottom of one. The script seemed impossible to read; it could have been another language. Her breath on the pane caused the scene to blur. She struck it with her hands.

She would insist that she was simply going to the lavatory; that she would return. That they would travel together. They would again take on the guise of man and wife. Perhaps someday they would become those things.

She wiped the glass. Between the buildings and beyond them, a distant smudge of the ice-locked Angara could be seen.

She would tell him that she’d forgotten something in the depot. Something for which she had a great fondness. Something she couldn’t imagine leaving behind. She knew exactly where it lay; she would be back in a moment’s time. She would promise.

Distant, over the buildings, a solitary swan flew. Grey against the blue at that height. Following the waterway back to Lake Baikal. Its form wavered through the imperfections in the glass, then slipped beyond its edge. Her forehead touched the windowpane.

Ilya was waiting for her answer.

She would tell him that his eyes had always held a particular sadness, as though his view of the world was from some great distance.

She would tell him that she was aware of how much he’d given up, places and things to which he could never return.

That she knew how utterly unfair she was being.

She turned back. Her vision had darkened from the glare of the snow.

“I can’t go with you,” she said.

She could not know what he read on her face. His appeared to have greatly aged. He had carried on for both of them long enough; she would have to want this too. He looked away; it seemed he could no longer bear the sight of her. He stepped from the door as though this was his choice.

The platform was deserted. An attendant suggested she hurry; the train would soon depart. She went inside the depot; the benches were empty. A child’s mitten, a scrap of paper. No soldiers—as though she’d been forgotten. She paused in the spot where Bulgakov had stood.

Once she’d suggested to Mandelstam that she should write poetry. He’d laughed at her, not unkindly. What on earth would she write about, he’d asked. He’d drilled a finger into her shoulder. You need to have died a bit, he’d told her. Maybe died a lot. He’d kissed her then, as if to say, enjoy your aliveness. One writes not because he wants to.

She went outside toward the street; it was bright and crowded with wagons and cars and people. A horn sounded, then another. It was bitter cold. She searched for soldiers or police and saw none. A man’s coat brushed her arm. There were fragments of conversations. She pulled the cap from her head; her hair spilled about her shoulders. No one noticed.

The edge of the street was black from the collected soot of a city. An old newspaper lay at her feet, its print damp. A photograph of officials stared past her. Something about the opening of a bridge in a distant region. They had called it a triumph of the People.

Someone grabbed her arm. It was an older woman, her head covered in a faded print kerchief. She searched Margarita’s face; her own was crossed by fine lines from years of sun; it was both disappointed and unrelenting. “I thought you were my sister,” she said, as though still unconvinced that it could not be her. She released Margarita’s arm and disappeared into the crowd. Margarita wondered if the woman had lost sight of her sister only moments before, or if it’d been many years. She still felt the pressure of her fingers through her clothes.

She could be someone’s sister, someone’s daughter. Someone’s wife. She examined the faces of those around her. Most were preoccupied, indifferent. A few paused at her gaze; she could be anyone and in that they seemed untroubled. A taxi driver motioned hopefully to the door of his vehicle but she shook her head and went into the street.

The men in the photograph watched her pass; if only they had been able to see beyond the camera’s lens that day. They would have applauded her if they could.

Ilya watched the passing landscape from the train carriage. He sensed a change in the inertial force as it began to slow. They were still miles from the Mongolian border. There were no trees, only a vast golden plain, distant snowy mountains, and empty sky. It was easy to believe in a curious god, watching from above.

The train was stopped for five hours at the border. It was night; intermittent lights shone along the platform. There were interior lights from the station house. Ilya guessed a barracks adjacent to that. A handful of other smaller buildings. Beyond these, impenetrable darkness. Perhaps this god had lost interest.

There was a knock on the carriage door. A young soldier asked to see his papers. He traced a small light over the print, then handed them back. He glanced at Ilya as though he should recognize him, then quickly away. As though the form of this man had been altered, perhaps by fire or another past trauma, and though well healed, the soldier was unsettled by it. Later, the soldier would believe that it had been the poor light which had made for the sense of unworldliness. In any case, this was not the man for whom they’d been searching; earlier that day they’d been told that he’d been found.

A short time later the train pulled away from the station. The lights in the window retreated, leaving only Ilya’s reflection. He turned down the lamp as though he would sleep.

He and Pavel had been fishing. It was late spring with the water at its highest and Pavel had ventured in too far. He laughed the first time he slipped as though this was a game between him and the rapids. He gave no shout of surprise when he disappeared. Ilya had thought, if he’d looked away at that moment, it would be as if he’d never had a brother. Ilya called to him; tossed aside his rod and clambered in, his voice lost to the pounding water. His brother’s face appeared only once, not far from where he’d been. Grey, determined, as though set upon the task of drowning. Their eyes met before he sank again.

Ilya embraced the water, slipping below; cold gripped his chest, muffled throbs filled his ears. Some limb touched his hand and he grasped it, pulling it to him as a fisherman hauls in a loaded net, then fighting for his footing on the river bottom, back to the shore.

Pavel told everyone how his brother had saved him. It was then that Ilya applied for service in Moscow.

Perhaps Pavel had made some promise to deliver Ilya, thinking this would deter Pyotrovich and give his brother a better chance. Perhaps he’d considered none of this, but it wouldn’t matter. It was enough that they were brothers. Agents would take him to the quiet of a snowy woods. The shot would echo, followed by the quiet tramping of boots. Papers belonging to an Ilya Ivanovich would be left on the body. A final shot to the face would disfigure it. Pyotrovich would have his promotion.

Bulgakov wasn’t arrested but rather hospitalized for several weeks. He was diagnosed with delirium tremens, given fluids and potassium salts, and discharged with the admonishment to avoid liquor and protein-laden foods. When he returned to his apartment, the necessary approvals for his relocation to Moscow were waiting. He never saw Pyotrovich again.