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you think?
    Bulgakov I was just going to call it Young Joseph .
    Stalin Just . . . Young Joseph. Nothing else? That’s all?
    A silence as Stalin absorbs.
    Bulgakov I could change it –
    Stalin No! You’re the playwright. It’s your play. If you say it’s Young Joseph the . . . nothing, then that’s what it is. I’ll just have to learn to live with it. Young . . . Joseph . . .
    Bulgakov I’m sorry.
    Stalin Don’t apologise. It’s your play. Now where were we? Act One, Scene One – the Russian orthodox seminary in Tbilisi.
    Bulgakov types as Stalin dictates too fast.
    Young Joseph is learning to be a priest. This cobbler’s son, born into poverty, his nature forged on the rough tough streets of Gori, his father driven to despair and drink by capitalist exploitation – this boy has clawed his way up through intelligence and endeavour – What’s wrong?
    Bulgakov Could you slow down?
    Stalin studies him.
    Stalin Are you ill?
    Bulgakov No.
    Stalin You don’t look so well. Maybe it’s just this light . . . your skin, it’s sort of . . .
    Bulgakov I’m fine. Just nerves. That’s all.
    Stalin Of course. The artistic temperament. I should have allowed for that. Anyway – what have I got you sitting there for? You’re not the typist, you’re the genius! Let’s swap! You come and sit here – leave the slave labour to me.
    Bulgakov What?
    Stalin helps him out of the chair and sits down himself.
    He rolls up his sleeves. Smooths his hair.
    Sucks on his pipe.
    Stalin There, that’s better. Now: here we go . . .
    And he’s off. A real speed typist.
    Bulgakov sits and watches.
    Stalin continues typing, lost in thought, his lips moving silently as he types. The roller of the machine is fairly zinging back and forth.
    Bulgakov drinks his vodka. He sits back.
    Closes his eyes.
    Stalin finishes.
    He puts the typed sheets inside a large envelope and leaves this on the table beside Bulgakov.
    Stalin opens the cupboard and disappears inside, pulling the door closed.
    Bulgakov awakes. Disoriented at first.
    He jumps up. Looks around. He is alone.
    Checks his watch.
    He sees the envelope.
    He picks it up and looks inside.
    He looks around. Goes to front of stage.
    Flustered in the daylight.
    Enter Yelena, Vasilly, Praskovya and Sergei around the table.
    Vasilly You mustn’t worry, my dear. He’ll be home soon.
    Praskovya More likely you will never see him again.
    Sergei I will go out and search, Comrade Madame Bulgakov.
    Yelena That’s very kind of you, Sergei.
    Sergei And if he does not return, I will look after you for the rest of your life, like a son.
    Yelena That’s also very kind, in its own way.
    Bulgakov approaches, still holding the envelope.
    Misha!
    Bulgakov What’s wrong?
    Yelena Where have you been?
    He hugs her.
    Bulgakov I went for a walk – to work.
    Yelena At night? At the Lubyanka?
    Bulgakov I couldn’t sleep – Yelena, I think I’ve found a way –
    Yelena You could have left a note. I was worried.
    Bulgakov There’s nothing to worry about. A way to do it – to write what they want. They can have this, and I’ll have my work. I think it’s all going to be all right!
    A harsh knock.
    Enter Vladimir and Stepan.
    Vladimir Bulgakov!
    Bulgakov spins round, holding out the envelope.
    Bulgakov For you.
    Vladimir takes it, a little put out at being trumped.
    Vladimir All right, everyone out except the artist.
    Exit Vasilly, Praskovya and Sergei ( into cupboard ).
    Yelena remains.
    Madame Bulgakov, good morning to you.
    Yelena Sergei!
    Sergei Comrade Madame Bulgakov?
    She kisses Bulgakov on the cheek and steps into the cupboard.
    She pulls it closed.
    Vladimir I tell you, that’s not right.
    Bulgakov Are you going to read it or not?
    Vladimir takes the pages out of the envelope.
    He reads to himself.
    I hope it meets with your approval.
    Vladimir It’s . . . it’s good.