Julie Himes - Mikhail and Margarita

Margarita crossed the frozen yard between the barracks and the latrine, scanning the space on either side of the path for a crumpled figure. The moon was a hard white ball. It looked no different from the spotlights which illuminated the prison grounds at regular intervals. Between these there was only black sky. The wind lifted but nothing moved; the ground had already been scoured clean. Ahead, the latrine door was ajar. There were voices within. Margarita pushed against it.

Inside, a partial wall of greenish square tiles reflected a dim light. Margarita heard voices more clearly. A man’s voice and she slowed. She touched the wall in front of her and looked past the partition’s edge. The latrine’s larger space was revealed. For a moment she didn’t understand what she saw.

Naked bulbs dangled from a beamed ceiling. The same tile covered the interior walls, broken by a series of sinks along one side and toilets on the other. The cement floor sloped downward to a central drain that was absent its cover. A guard stood over it, urinating a thick yellow stream into its circle. He did not see her. He spoke over his shoulder to a second guard holding a rubber mallet.

“You will most certainly have your promotion, Sergei,” he said. “By season’s end. I’d wager a bucket of vodka on that.”

A body was draped over the nearest sink—Anyuta; her pants were puddled around her ankles, her shirt pushed up and over her shoulders and down over her head and her arms; her bare white back, the doughy skin of her buttocks, spanned the breadth. The guard from before, the Ledge, stood behind her and held her hips cruelly in his great hands as he sodomized her. Sergei, carrying the mallet, stood nearby and waited his turn. She moaned and seemed to rise up, arching her back in protest. He clubbed her between the shoulders, and she went down. The guard at the drain shook himself and zipped his trousers. He turned and started to say something, but the Ledge spoke over him.

“You will have to tell us how our equipment compares.” His voice stiffened with his last words and his thrusts became more forceful. Softer, muffled sobs came from within the shirt. Sergei made to beat her again, but the breathy grunts of the Ledge stopped him. His gaze shifted to Margarita standing in the background. Inexplicably, he looked away without reaction.

“Leave some for me,” he said suddenly. He sounded entirely too serious and the first one laughed at his words.

“There’ll be plenty,” said the Ledge.

Margarita did not move. What was happening to Anyuta would happen to her.

The Ledge groaned; his fingers dug into the girl’s flesh. He pressed forward and froze. His knuckles whitened. His skin as white as hers. For that moment they were one. Anyuta quieted; even he seemed to pause. Sergei lowered his mallet. When the Ledge pulled out, dark red clots dropped to the floor between his feet. Anyuta made a brief choking sound.

Margarita lowered her head. She crossed the room toward the pair. She put her arms around Anyuta’s midsection and tried to pull her from the sink.

“What, what, what?” said the first guard. He took the back of her shirt and pinned her in his hand. Anyuta slipped to the floor and lay still under the sink. “Here’s your fresh meat.” he said. He shook her in his hand. “I should have let you go first.” He slung Margarita over the bowl.

Her head hung down; she could see the underside of the sink. The blood pounded in her temples. A cold slat of ceramic cut through her thin shirt. Anyuta’s motionless form was below her. Her pants were still bunched around her shoes. From her ankles to her neck she was naked. Her shirt, inside-out and pulled over her head, had fallen a bit. Margarita could make out the top of her head between its folds. The short, thick, uneven hair made it her. The legs of the guard moved past her. She waited for the hands. Someone pulled her back.

“Get out of here,” said Sergei. He motioned with the mallet at Anyuta. “Get her out of here.” In the briefest moment, their eyes met. Then in a strange display, like some halfhearted sculptor, he brought his mallet down on the sink’s edge. A chunk of ceramic skittered across the floor. Nearby, the Ledge leaned against the wall, still breathing heavily.

Margarita lifted the semiconscious girl to a stooped posture, pushed her shirt down around her neck, and pulled up her pants. She hooked Anyuta’s arm around her neck, and pulled the girl with her, toward the door. The girl cried out as she moved.

“Tell her to shut up,” he said.

“Shh, shh,” said Margarita. “Come now.” Outside the wind had quieted. Her head down, Margarita watched their feet move across the uneven ground. Anyuta’s hard breaths were in her ear. A scraping sound, as if brushing fresh snow from frozen earth. The girl was crying.

Inside, Margarita cleaned her up and redressed her. Anyuta sat on her bunk board and let Margarita slip the fresh shirt over her head and arms. Margarita eased her flat then lifted her legs onto the board as well. Anyuta rolled toward the wall. Margarita crawled in next to her and wrapped her arm around the girl’s waist.

“I’m sorry,” said Anyuta. Her head was turned down against the planking.

Margarita stroked her hair. It was like fur. “Why are you sorry?”

“They did this to you.” Anyuta thought she’d been raped as well.

It could have been her; perhaps next time it would be.

“That feels good,” said Anyuta.

“Try to sleep,” said Margarita. It was only hours until morning.

The next morning, while they were dressing, Margarita gave Anyuta the peasant blouse. Immediately, the girl put it on over her other shirt.

“It’s for summer,” said Margarita.

The shirt stayed on.

At breakfast, Anyuta showed it to Klavdia. Anyuta pointed out the colorful stitching around the sleeve. She urged her to touch it. Klavdia turned to Margarita.

“Where are you going that you give your clothes away?”

Klavdia wasn’t the manager’s wife. She was clever. And in some ways, she believed in the Soviet penal system. Even as it would eat through years of her life. She would feel no remorse in enabling it.

“Same place as you,” said Margarita. “To the grave.”

Anyuta thought that was a good one.

On the bus, Margarita and Anyuta sat together. Klavdia sat across the aisle. Anyuta slept, her head against the window. Margarita glanced toward Klavdia and found the other woman staring at her. Her expression was different than before; unshakable. Margarita tried to focus on the roadway ahead. She straightened to see past the top of the seat in front of her.

The bus slowed as it drove through the town and Anyuta woke up and rubbed her eyes. They stopped in front of the shoe factory. Margarita put her arm around her shoulders and squeezed her.

“I’ll see you tonight,” said Margarita. The lie came so easily. Anyuta seemed suddenly quite vulnerable.

Anyuta shifted away and for a moment studied Margarita with a frown as if unable to recognize her. Then she leaned toward her—Margarita thought to share some secret or observation—but instead she kissed Margarita full on the mouth. She saw only the blur of her face in front of her. The girl’s lips moved with intention as if this was something she’d imagined doing before. Margarita pulled away and the girl sat back. Margarita felt the continued pressure on her mouth.

“I’ll never forget you,” said Anyuta in a shallow whisper. She stared at Margarita’s lips.

Margarita stood quickly. “Tonight then,” she said, alarmed. She tried to sound both cheerful and resigned. A compliant prisoner. Klavdia had already turned to the whitewashed window.

Margarita felt them both at her back as she walked the short aisle. Anyuta would be looking at her new shirt, brushing her fingers again over the embroidery. Klavdia would be watching Anyuta now. After a moment she’d move to the empty seat. Put a breath of time between Margarita and herself. She had time. She had the rest of the ride, the rest of the day. She would smile at the distracted Anyuta. Simple Anyuta. She would touch the colored threads of the girl’s sleeve. She would admire them.

The bus door opened to release Margarita. She could leave Anyuta to that monster.

The cold sharp air touched her face. She stepped onto the uneven ground. There was the sliding squeal of metal against metal as the door closed behind her. The groan of the engine, the crunch of snow, a momentary breeze across her back as the bus moved away. The yard was white; the morning was quiet and lovely. They had let her go.

Later, as Vera had instructed and minutes after the noon hour, Margarita opened the apartment door. It was the same sunny room it had always been. She was wearing the blue dress. Ilya stood near the table, motionless, facing her. His hair was longer and he was dressed more simply than before. He held his hat. It turned slightly as though his hands were eager to move, anxious perhaps. She closed the door, and locked it with the key. She left it in its place and turned around.

She could see from his face he was overwhelmed by her appearance. Her shoulder blades brushed against the door.

“Are you happy to see me?” he asked. She didn’t answer and his expression changed as if some amount of his confidence had fled him.

He set his hat on the table. She touched his arm; she would urge him to wait. He brushed it away in a gentle motion, and gathered her face in his hands and kissed her, and it was as though he’d waited long enough, his lifetime in fact, guarding against all other trespasses and dalliances in order to spend that one moment here. Any disinclination on her part would be dealt with later.