In early spring of 1930 Mayakovsky was found in his apartment with a gunshot wound to his head. His death was labeled a suicide. In the previous year, he’d published a dazzling satire on Soviet behavior and bureaucracy, and was immediately damned by the authorities. His detractors concluded he’d be neither relevant nor even circulated in twenty years’ time.

In his apartment that morning, the agent in attendance pressed the revolver’s barrel against the writer’s temple, then angled it slightly back, toward the opposite ear, to assure the kill. The writer’s eyes bulged forward; his pupils darted repeatedly as if he needed to see the thing. He no longer made sense. Most pleaded until the end. This one instead over and over repeated, until there was only a mutter of words:

What did it matter?

The agent disliked poets in particular. Pick something, he told him. He thumped the table; it was strewn with handwritten pages.

The writer looked down, then seemed to understand. His suicide note.

What did it matter? The words softened to a chant. His hand touched a page, then moved to another, as if trying to recall something forgotten. He picked up his pen and added a line. He held it for a moment longer as he read over the words.

Mayakovsky looked at the agent and mouthed the question one final time. Only the question had changed. There was the smell of gunpowder and burnt skin. Eyes turned skyward. He fell from the gun’s barrel as if indeed it’d been holding him up all along.

The poet’s final question had been genuine. It was the one they all asked.

When did he stop loving me?

Stalin kept the poet’s original note in the side drawer of his personal desk until his death in 1953.

Years later it was revealed that the apartment where Mayakovsky had been found had had a secret entrance within a closet. His lover Lily Brik had been an informant for Stalin’s political police. The poet’s death tolled throughout literary Russia with an unmistakable voice: there was no place in Soviet literature for the individualist. The land that had borne Pushkin and Gogol, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Chekhov and Pasternak, fell silent.


It was Bulgakov’s third banquet in as many months; these were Party affairs and though he was not a Party member it would be ill-conceived to decline the invitation. He had drunk too much at the last one and his suit jacket had disappeared from the back of his chair. He cursed himself for this; it’d been his second best, so when the invitation for the next banquet came on its heels and his other jacket was still with the laundry woman, he was left with his third, which, upon inspection, could hardly be called a jacket but perhaps the ghost of one, the fabric along its back seam so threadbare as to rip with the slightest pressure. He decided to wear his overcoat instead. The room would be dark, he determined, and once the liquor was flowing no one would notice or care.

This one was in honor of the novelist Poprikhen. Some newly-hatched award for his most recent effort. Bulgakov had written a letter to the editor of Crocodile in praise of it. He’d written many such letters, opining on the works of his various contemporaries and was surprised at the ease with which they made their way into print. He was also surprised by his colleagues’ reactions. At the Writers’ Union, he had become someone to know. Introductions and invitations flew about—“Gregor, Gregor! You must meet Mikhail Bulgakov—Come! Oh wait, you’ve missed him, but here he comes again from the bar, and this time you will have your chance.” “Bulgakov—my man, next summer when we open up the dacha you will join us—now don’t shake your head! Irini—my dear, didn’t he promise? See—you’ve promised; my wife has the memory of an elephant. We have the best chef in the district—you will be as fat as a bathtub when you return—I promise you!”

Despite his frequent attendance at the Writers’ Union, he never saw her there. From time to time he would scan the room, registering each figure anew as though it was possible his memory might misrepresent her. He wondered if she was avoiding him. He could have gone to her apartment and he reasoned that he’d been busy with the novel and the play, yet in truth, he was anxious of her response. He could imagine her under his arm; he looked about at the women near him who wished they occupied that spot, and he remembered her face from the vestibule of Mandelstam’s apartment. Her careful apportionment of hope and distrust. Would it now be entirely distrust? When it was determined that his play would be reinstated at the MAT, he sent her tickets to its opening. It was months away, but he liked to imagine her there in the seat he’d chosen, her face illuminated by the lights of the stage. He could wish she might come alone, but he doubted it, and had sent her a pair of them as a way of demonstrating this kind of understanding. He didn’t allow himself the hope of her coming to find him backstage afterward, pressing her hand upon his arm, revealing in her eyes the wonder at what genius he’d achieved. He imagined theirs was a different kind of communion. It existed on a higher dimension.

He would then berate himself for these dreams; how pathetic they were! This was no way to live. He looked around at the swell of conversation and laughter—this was not how others lived. Already someone had drawn their arm around him—he joined their conversation, laughing as they did, at the expense of something he knew not what.

He arrived at Poprikhen’s banquet late; the room at the Dynamo Club was already filled with people; tables were set in expectation of multiple courses; silver and glassware glittered under low chandeliers—yet, to Bulgakov’s dismay, not even a single hors d’oeuvre had been passed. It all seemed a sad trick of luring together a room of hungry writers. Poprikhen appeared at his elbow; quickly he led him to a seat marked with a name card; it was next to his—the guest of honor. Poprikhen touched his breast pocket. Bulgakov wondered if he was yet beefier than before and if this could be possible without him actually exploding.

“It was my request,” said Poprikhen, his hand to the back of Bulgakov’s chair. “I know we’ve had differences in the past, but I credit you—” It seemed he might mint a tear from between his thick lids. “You, my friend.” He would not try to finish. “Thank you!” he added huskily.

Bulgakov mimicked the other man, waving his hand in the general vicinity of his breast pocket. His fingers brushed the coarse fabric of the overcoat and he quickly stopped, not wanting to call attention to its oddity; nor did he want to prolong any false gesture of affection. He scanned the table; it wanted for no treasure other than food. Poprikhen seemed to anticipate his question.

“We’re waiting,” he said. “It is rumored he might attend.” He could not suppress the joy from his words.

At that moment the heavy double doors of the club were opened. Half a dozen men firmly but politely pushed aside those standing near; on their heels several committee members entered. There was a whoop from the crowd, then loud applause. Bulgakov struggled to see—there between milling bodies; it was Stalin himself. Oh dear god, he thought.

Every exit was maintained by some semblance of guards or police. He could make an excuse that he was ill. They’d not deny him departure with that pretext. Poprikhen’s hand closed around his forearm. His face was even redder than before; bursting with emotion he was nearly apoplectic. “This will be remembered as the greatest day of my life,” he sputtered. Tears ran down his cheeks. The central committee members made their way to the head table. The room had quieted; only happy expectant twitterings could be heard. Bulgakov edged backward slightly, hoping to be lost in the novelist’s tremendous silhouette. Everyone waited for Stalin to take his seat. No one moved.

“Bulgakov—man, is that you?” Stalin’s voice thundered down the table. There was a horrible pause; everyone in the room waited—Bulgakov leaned forward and looked to where Stalin stood.

“So what is it, then—are you coming or going?” said Stalin.

Bulgakov could not imagine what he meant. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

“Your coat—take it off! Join us for this sumptuous meal!”

Oh dear god, he thought again. He started to remove it, then stopped. “I’m sorry—my suit jacket—I haven’t one.” He stammered, embarrassed and frightened. The room as well seemed to inflate with these same emotions, faces up and down the table, as though his confession spoke poorly for all there, all of them waiting for Stalin’s reaction.

“What! No suit jacket!” Stalin’s roar seemed laced with amusement.

“It was stolen, I’m afraid.”

“My writer without a jacket—that cannot be! Ordzhonikidze, give him yours then,” said Stalin to the man on his left.

“What?” said the Commissar.

“We can’t have our favorite writer without a suit jacket!” Stalin rubbed his hands together as though in pleasure of having solved the meddlesome problem. Bulgakov could only think of Mandelstam’s words—ten thick worms were his fingers. When Ordzhonikidze didn’t immediately disrobe, Stalin stopped rubbing and glared at him. Did the Commissar of Soviet Heavy Industry value a suit jacket more richly than his leader’s pleasure? Ordzhonikidze looked terrified—the entire room reflected their terror for him. He handed his jacket to a waiter who flew like the devil to Bulgakov’s chair. Bulgakov put it on. It hung poorly, but Stalin appeared satisfied. He took his seat, and immediately, food and drink seemed to appear from nowhere.

Toasts were given. Stalin was first, saluting poor Poprikhen; however, he gave the wrong patronym and his error was perpetuated in all other toasts of the evening. Bulgakov sensed Poprikhen’s efforts to not let this blemish the event. At one point he leaned heavily against Bulgakov’s shoulder. “I may not be his favorite writer,” he said, drunkenly. “But I have my seat next to his.” With every toast his tears had flowed and now his face was spotted with their tracks. As soon as they were finished and the Party leaders left, Bulgakov got up to find other company. The music had begun. Poprikhen was singing with a few others, crying again, and appeared not to notice.