Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

He told her she looked wonderfully exotic.

She thanked him for the meal more than once.

Their conversation seemed a cautious enterprise.

Later, as he was leaving, she was curled in the chair. The towel had given way and her hair lay coiled against the robe’s collar, dark-gold and slick. She was reading a book under the lamp’s soft light. For the first time he noticed how thin she’d become. He could stay with her instead; he could prepare more for her to eat, some hearty dish to urge her appetite along.

When he said he was going out, she raised her head; he thought she nodded but he wasn’t certain. Perhaps she was providing her allowance for it as though she understood it was something he needed to do. Perhaps she wanted to be left alone.

He touched her cheek. Unexpectedly she took his hand in hers. She smiled, perhaps surprised, as if her fingers had acted on their own accord.

“I won’t be long, my dear,” he said.

She kissed his hand. She covered it with her other one as well.

He must stay with her—how could he leave—yet he kissed her cheek as though he only understood her gesture to be a sweet thing and she released him. He promised himself, on the landing, then again outside their building: he would make this up to her when he returned.

Ilya had wanted to meet her in the bar at the Metropol. Bulgakov saw him through the window from the sidewalk outside. The bar was dimly lit; small alcohol lamps at each table. Ilya sat alone, leaning over a white tablecloth, his face washed in a flickering glow. His eyes were trained on the restaurant’s foyer. He was waiting for her.

In profile, his face seemed younger. Perhaps he’d never expected to find one such as her; perhaps he’d given up on that hope many years ago. What thoughts would come to him when it was Bulgakov and not Margarita who appeared? How would disappointment and certainty dress that face?

As Bulgakov entered, he saw the rapid recalculation. By the time he’d reached the table even this was complete. Ilya looked up with careful surprise; his hands rested lightly on the table on either side of his glass. They seemed poised for anything.

Bulgakov sat down without invitation. “This is all right? I saw you from the street. You’re not expecting someone?”

Ilya smiled in what seemed acquiescence, for a moment wordless. There was a second recalculation. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said.

“This is a nice place,” said Bulgakov.

Ilya hesitated. “The salmon is excellent.”

Bulgakov pretended to be impressed by such knowledge. “Then I shall have some.” Bulgakov motioned to a waiter. A quartet in the shadows played a languorous piece. He leaned in toward Ilya.

“I feel like I’m going to see someone important here,” he said. “What fun!”

Ilya gave no indication that he shared Bulgakov’s enthusiasm.

The waiter came and Bulgakov placed his order. Ilya asked him the time.

“You need to be somewhere?” said Bulgakov.

“Perhaps—a hazard of the job.”

“That’s too bad. I have been thinking of you though,” said Bulgakov.

Ilya seemed distracted. “I’ll assume not romantically.”

“You’ve inspired my next novel. A young man of uncertain means rises to the position of—well, whatever your position is. These stories are popular right now. Their success lies in getting the details right.”

Ilya was gazing past him, again toward the foyer. He wasn’t paying attention. If he’d been concerned about Bulgakov’s play or his writing in general, it seemed now of little interest. His cares had shifted to something else.

Bulgakov should have felt relief for this, but there was a certain pique that was difficult to assign. He had been, after all, Ilya’s foremost interest at the start; he’d been the relevant one. Not the girl—must Ilya be reminded of this?

Of course it worked in his favor for Ilya to believe that Margarita might still appear—either tonight or in some indefinite future. But again he felt a queer contradiction in this. He wanted Ilya to know that she’d chosen him. He lightly considered that it was Margarita’s story to tell, that in telling it himself, there was a kind of betrayal of her. But he didn’t care. As he stared at the older man’s hopeful face, it came on him more sharply. He wanted to cause that face to change.

Bulgakov tapped the tablecloth lightly. “She’s not coming,” he said. “She told me of your plans to meet.”

Ilya’s reaction was unexpected. “May I hope that she has decided instead to meet another friend? Perhaps take in a film? Attend a lecture?”

“She is at home. With a good book,” he said. He wanted to add that she was waiting for his return, but something stopped him.

Ilya said nothing for a moment. “You are certain.” His expression was difficult to read. There wasn’t the disappointment that Bulgakov had expected.

The quartet’s music sounded dissonant, as though a critical instrument begged to be tuned. Somewhere in the kitchen there was a muffled crash. Nearby, a passing man had jostled a seated customer. Words were exchanged and now their conversation had become heated. The second man stood. Bulgakov wanted to tell them it was all for naught. Indeed they must stop—it would only come to blows. All of these elements he recognized separately, yet here they’d assembled as though by providence, as though through them providence might deliver its terrible message.

“What would you do without her?” said Ilya. He asked as if this was an outcome that deserved appraisal. But his expression was not what Bulgakov had come to know. He looked frightened.

“What have you done?” said Bulgakov. His voice faded to a whisper. He turned the question upon himself—what had he done?

Ilya sat back and looked into his empty glass. He was frowning deeply, sorrowfully, in a way Bulgakov had not seen before.

“Indeed, she took your place,” said Ilya. He rubbed his eyes, then over the top of his crown, roughly, as if he could unroof his scalp. His hair stood on end and when he lowered his hand, he seemed a different person.

A person capable of something terrible. He’d caught the wrong prey.

A plate of coral-colored salmon was placed between them, its edges crisp and gleaming. They both stared at it.

“I must go to her,” said Bulgakov, rising.

“She’s no longer at your apartment,” said Ilya.

The outer door to the street had opened to admit a stylishly dressed couple. The lamp’s flame flickered.

Ilya set a ruble note beside his glass and abruptly left the table; Bulgakov followed. The waiter collected the uneaten salmon; the plate was knocked and its skin fell open along its midline.

The salmon was rotten; its putrescence filled the room. The odor detected, the couple looked at each other and left.

Bulgakov opened the apartment door. A waltz was playing on the radio even as it lay on the floor behind the sofa.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine the events that had transpired:

The lamp on the table softly illuminated the page. She stretched. Above her head and unbeknownst to her, a spider had lowered itself on a thin strand. It paused. She turned the page, then rested her cheek against her hand again. The spider scurried upwards, moments before the knocking, its needle legs working the air.

She started to rise as the door opened.

Two agents entered without introducing themselves. One was a woman. She told Margarita to dress. The other agent proceeded to take apart the room. Margarita put on a skirt, then buttoned her shirt. Books toppled to the floor as shelves were emptied. The lamp on the side table—the one she’d never cared for—dove from its stand. The pillows were slashed and the mattress upturned; feathers rose and fell like snow, onto her hair, her sleeve. A third agent, another man, entered. He seemed not to notice the wreckage. He went to the wardrobe and took the manuscript from its drawer. Margarita moved toward him; perhaps she was going to explain that it was nothing, perhaps she thought to take it from him. He hit her. She fell against the corner of the table then to the floor. Warm, thick liquid rolled around her tongue. She pushed up with her arms and he kicked her behind the ear. There was a silent explosion of light, then greyness, then nothing. The floor came up and met her in a downy embrace.

Bulgakov touched the floor. Goose down had clumped on a patch of blood.

The manuscript lay on the table, glowing in the dim light as the lone survivor. As though it was so terribly important.

There were many ways she could have left him. In this particular way she’d established her relevance.

At that hour, the office light shone in a bar below the door. Ilya first touched the knob, then knocked. The voice within summoned him.

Pyotr Pyotrovich was a diminutive man and didn’t much care for Ilya.

Ilya would need to make it seem like releasing her was his idea.

Pyotr was at his desk, writing. He raised his head. He didn’t look at Ilya, or at least no further than the collar of his coat; his eyes then lingered on the knob as if it’d committed some minor betrayal. He resumed writing.

“You’re here late,” said Pyotr. “Or is it early now?” Pyotr would consider such comments pleasantries.

Ilya shut the door. “It’s early.”

Pyotr smiled a little at the page. “This is why my marriage ended in divorce.”