Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

“Perhaps we have met before,” suggested Bulgakov.

“No—I assure you—we have not,” said the man.

Bulgakov was again struck by his sincerity, all the more startling for the earlier conversation he’d observed with Margarita that had seemed to lack it.

The man went on. “What are you working on now?” There was something about the tone of his question—as though he already knew the answer.

“The MAT is producing my newest play.”

Margarita reached across the table and touched his arm. Her face filled with admiration. He wished they could be alone.

“What terrific news,” he said. “I will look for it. What is it called?”

“The Cabal of Hypocrites,” said Bulgakov. “It’s about Molière, set in the French court of Louis XIV.”

The man seemed mildly perplexed, as though Bulgakov had said something wholly unexpected and what he’d next intended to say no longer applied. “I beg your pardon—what is a cabal?”

“A circle of intrigue—for lack of a better expression, I suppose. A group of conspirators.”

Again, he seemed at a loss for words. “It’s about Molière, you say? I vaguely remember learning something about him in school.”

“He was a comedic playwright, highly satirical; he suffered from censorship; repression by the priests, the religious.” The man’s reaction was blank and Bulgakov hurried forward. “Of course there is also humor, a love story, betrayal—I suspect it may not appeal to everyone,” he added.

“Are we to assume then that the hypocrites—a cabal of them, you say—are the authorities? The establishment? And the poor writer is a victim of the regime? There is an intriguing theme.”

In the drunkard’s words the plot sounded rather two-dimensional and Bulgakov began to question its structural integrity. “It’s not a political piece, if that’s what you mean—not at all. As I said, there is comedy, absurdity, romance.” His voice trailed off, rethinking his opening scene.

The other man laughed aloud. “You can’t be serious? How can it not be political?”

The implication of his words—and now he sounded anything but drunk—shifted Bulgakov’s worry. “It’s simply the historical backdrop,” Bulgakov explained. “It was long ago—a different time—another country—it’s not my intention to make some sort of political statement.”

“Well—I’m certain there are those who will want to see it,” said the man. Bulgakov registered the truth of his words, their warning. Indeed, while he might pray for its success, that would only intensify its scrutiny. He felt slightly queasy.

The man turned to Margarita. “You keep company with one such as this?” He indicated with a nod toward Bulgakov that this could be a questionable enterprise. His tone was difficult to interpret. Was he trying to be funny? That seemed to be his desire only there was a heaviness to his words as though he lacked practice at this.

“I assure you it’s not political,” Bulgakov repeated.

The man appeared finished with that conversation.

“A girl has to eat,” said Margarita lightly with a shrug. She smiled at Bulgakov, in case he might take offense. She seemed not to have noticed their darker exchange.

“Is that all that’s required to gain your company?”

Her reaction to this was strange. She withdrew; the crease in her brow deepened and Bulgakov wondered if there’d been something in the man’s words to which he’d been deaf. It had seemed he was only playing off of her humor. She acted as though something entirely different had been said.

“Of course not,” she said, her manner turning cold.

The man responded immediately.

“I’ve upset you. Please forgive me.” He leaned toward her. “That was not at all my intent. I have been clumsy. Please, my dear—”

“Perhaps you should go,” Bulgakov suggested.

The drunkard ignored him. His words to her were soft and insistent. He was not simply apologizing, rather he was entreating. “I would never intentionally hurt you.”

She hesitated. “Of course,” she said. She smiled a little as evidence of this. “Of course you’re forgiven.”

Her words seemed to carry restorative powers. The man raised his glass first to her with gratitude, and then Bulgakov. When their eyes met, Bulgakov sensed in him a kind of admiration, though for what he wasn’t certain; the man then looked away and in that Bulgakov detected something darker that lingered, a competitiveness possibly. He might have imagined it. The man took his first taste and immediately spat the wine across the table. Margarita and Bulgakov both recoiled. The man roared to the waiter and several new bottles were produced. Glasses were replaced and refilled. The man lifted his again. “To better wine,” he said after a moment’s thought. All three drank.

He told them his name was Ilya Ivanovich. They talked at length, and after several hours and equally more wine, they were the last of the patrons to leave. They parted at the door. Later, Margarita would wonder aloud if they’d ever see him again. They both would comment on how neither of them could remember what he’d said of his occupation. Margarita would suggest that perhaps it was the wine that had caused them to forget. She seemed to want to speculate further about the man, but she refrained. He wanted to ask about her exchange with him and the supposed offense. It was as though the specifics of that night would be irretrievable by morning. They stood at the door of her apartment.

“He was rather old,” said Bulgakov. “For the girl he was with, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” said Margarita. She seemed mildly distracted.

“Annuschka—that was her name.”

“Hmm.”

Her cheeks were flushed; she was clearly distressed.

“What is it, my dear?” He was alarmed by her reaction.

She shook her head, then covered her mouth with her hand, as if it would be impossible to explain.

She was sick, and for the rest of the night and into the morning hours he sat beside her on the floor of her apartment, wiping her face with a cool cloth, smoothing damp hair back from her forehead, from time to time rising to carry the bucket to the bathroom for disposal.

Not long before dawn she lay curled on the rug; her head rested on his lap. He thought she was sleeping. He’d turned off the overhead light. The sky outside her window was a steady grey; inside, darker forms took on unrecognizable shapes. He watched them in the way one would monitor large, slow-moving creatures in the wild. He’d guard them both against their bulk and the advent of their sudden and arbitrary disregard.

He thought of Ilya in his grey raincoat.

“How can one know?” she said. Her voice rose up from the floorboards.

“Know what, my dear?” He stroked her head.

“The fish—when it’s starting to turn. How can one know that?”

He didn’t have an answer for her.

“People can warn you—and they do,” she said. “But how can they know? Yes, there is a risk, but I’m not giving up fish.” She lay quietly for a moment, then added:

“I’ll not live my life in fear of fish.”

The gray in the window had lightened. The beasts surrounding them were once again a chair, a sofa, a table strewn in clothes.

“I thought we were talking about the sturgeon,” he said quietly.

He could dream of their life together, in a small cottage by a stream. Writing with a quill pen; listening to Schubert every evening. And every evening the soft light from a green-shaded lamp reflecting inward from the night’s dark window-glass. He could see her in that reflection; leaning over him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, urging him to come to supper; he could feel her warmth through his shirt. In the afternoons, they would sit at the water’s edge. The weight of their bodies would crush cornflowers into silvery hollows. Turbulent currents fighting to break the surface would pass them unawares.

In his dream-vision she sat, her arms wrapped around her legs. The sun bore down on her like a spotlight in an already bright space; shadow still puddled behind her. She stared intently at the rushing waters—he could not tell if with longing or dread. She seemed utterly alone—he wanted to move toward her, place his arm about her shoulders. Something held him back.

He awoke to her gently shaking him.

Margarita sent him home that morning. She assured him she was much improved, saying they both needed sleep. She glanced at his cheek before closing the door, as if she had considered kissing it, then decided otherwise. He waited for a moment, imagining her on the other side. He imagined her scanning the empty room, the loneliness of the space, then turning to call him back. He imagined her brow, creased with worry that he’d already departed.

Instead he heard the muffled harrumph of bedsprings receive her.

Outside it was still early and pedestrians were rare. The morning was cool and fresh and he paused at the apartment building’s entrance. The earlier foreboding had passed and he considered with some pleasure how in so little as one evening it could seem that all aspects of one’s life had changed for the better. He thought of the play. He tried to recall the drunkard’s words—what was his name? And what could he know of literature? Bulgakov was filled with a renewed confidence. Did not Stanislawski himself select his play for production? The esteemed director who’d first staged The Cherry Orchard? His life had changed for the better, and he thought he would walk rather than ride the tram so he might better enjoy the morning’s loveliness.