Kolia Page 5

  But something Kolia said in a moment of relaxed candour, somewhere between the wine and the vodka when time seemed to stand still, stayed with him. “You know, Alexei, it feels like I’ve just turned the page on the last chapter of a very long book.”

  IN THE RING

  KOLIA ARRANGED TO RETURN TO the tavern the following Monday. Pavel had promised him a ticket for the circus. He kept his word. Kolia’s features, while not particularly attractive, still fascinated Pavel. They seemed to be constantly in flux beneath the surface of his skin. His handshake was firm, his palms rough and callused. Kolia had mentioned his work in the sewers as an explanation for his blackened fingernails. People said that he was born in Kamchatka, that he could read French. A strange character.

  Kolia found his seat in the crowd. He was sandwiched between the pillars of a family — on either side of him, a man and a woman were each propping up a child. The children bore a definite resemblance to each other. The mother was cursing the woman who had sold them the tickets and “cut the family in two.” Kolia offered her his seat; the lights dimmed and changed hue. The crowd fell silent, and, for a moment, the world shifted.

  After the troupe had made its entrance into the ring, Beria, the tightrope walker, commenced his act. The wire cable suspended high above the crowd had a soul. At its centre was a solid core of hemp. Beria advanced slowly, without any special manoeuvres, balancing with a pole that was much longer than he was tall, until he reached the other end of the cable. Then, proceeding in the opposite direction, he stopped to pay his respects to the guy line that was stabilizing the cable, and at mid-span, he greeted the crowd with an elegant wave, a flourish that most of them would have been unable to reproduce on solid ground. As a finale, he performed an irreverent pirouette, as if he were thumbing his nose at royalty. Beria walked between two invisible walls made of nothing more substantial than the gasps of the public. They were the guardrails he relied upon. A tightrope walker is a resistance fighter. His art lies in the subtle self-control he must exert in his constant struggle against the elements and against his own nature. It is an art anchored in faith and trust in that which cannot be seen.

  The moment the Bounines made their first appearance, Kolia started laughing. It was a deep and strange laugh that might have broken the silence like a phlegm-filled cough at a concert, but it went unnoticed in the crowd’s uproar. He felt like standing up and boasting that the white clown was a personal friend of his. Suddenly, he was eight years old, born in Moscow, and everybody loved him.

  After the grand finale, Kolia decided to approach the ring. With the most pleasant face he could put together, he caught the attention of a technician who was coiling cables, and, raising a weak smile, asked him if he could see the clown. When asked which one, Kolia replied with Pavel’s full name. The technician retreated to the dressing rooms and found Pavel in the process of removing his makeup.

  “Petrov, someone wants to see you. He’s standing by the ring.”

  “Brown hair? Not that tall?”

  “Yeah. A funny lookin’ guy.”

  Pavel extended his hand and invited Kolia to have a drink with him and Bounine. Just before he opened the door to their dressing room, Pavel turned to Kolia as if he were about to say something. Realizing that Pavel was waiting for some response to the evening’s performance, Kolia made it clear that he’d really enjoyed the act and offered his praise.

  Bounine was sitting in front of a mirror, stripped to the waist, wiping makeup from his face. He was in a foul mood. He had completely forgotten a part of the act and had been forced to employ some skilful improvising to cover up his memory lapse. The lapses were becoming more and more frequent. It had happened for the first time the previous year — before that, he’d always had an exceptional memory. He could recite all his monologues flawlessly, without skipping so much as a comma. It was clear that he felt like punching someone. Pavel presented Kolia to him nonetheless.

  “I was thinking about bringing a dog into the act,” Bounine said, studying Kolia’s physique in the mirror as if he were some type of caricature.

  Half of Bounine’s face was still pale, not exactly white, and the other side revealed the natural colour of his skin. He was as charismatic in person as he was in the ring.

  “Us and a dog?” Pavel was clearly surprised.

  “No . . . me, you, and a dog.”

  “It’s already been done, Ilya Alexandrovich.”

  “Look, there’s no shortage of students, we’ve got candidates lining up. Why him?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Bounine’s bluster impressed Kolia. Without turning around, the master asked him his age. Twenty-four.

  “You look older than that. With that face, I’d say you were around thirty.”

  He asked Kolia what he was doing at the moment, where he came from and where he was living.

  “I’m a labourer. I work mostly underground, mainly on the subway.” Kolia was a little wary.

  “You’ve got a wife? Kids?” Bounine persisted, taking a sip of wine.

  “No. Why?”

  Kolia turned towards Pavel, who had removed all expression from his face because the master was still staring at him in the mirror.

  Bounine asked him for his employment booklet and flipped through its pages with fingers that were still covered in makeup. There was no sign of military service between Kolia’s employment in Khabarovsk in 1954 and his job in Moscow, which puzzled him. Kolia responded by saying that the doctor who had examined him at the military committee office had given him a medical exemption because of the arthrosis in his hip, which left him limping by the end of the day. He kept quiet about the real reason. His documents contained everything Bounine needed to know.

  Bounine interjected, “And you think the circus will be a cake walk? . . . That someone is going to follow you around and tickle your bad hip with a feather?”

  Kolia frowned, then realized what Pavel was up to and decided to play along.

  “I’ve been performing on stage for three years now,” he said, summoning up as much conviction as he could.

  Bounine loved to get under someone’s skin — prodding Kolia was simply a distraction from the evening’s disastrous performance. But it was out of the question that Kolia could be admitted directly into the circus school. The master advised him to start preparing for auditions. And then, if you show an aptitude for any of the disciplines of the circus, yes, we might consider taking you on and training you.

  They opened a bottle of apple wine.

  In the days following his meeting with Bounine, Kolia began to dream. That was permitted, and it was free.

  HOW THE KID FROM THE

  K MOUNTAINS JOINED

  THE CIRCUS

  AT ONE TIME, THE LIBRARY IN Khabarovsk had a copy of Oliver Twist in its collection. During a particularly humid summer, the pages began to buckle, and it was stripped of its hard cover by a very enthusiastic little girl. The following year, a teenager who evidently had a deep interest in Fagin’s pickpocketing techniques, decided to dog-ear all the pertinent pages. Deemed no longer fit for circulation by a library official whose job it was to inspect all books placed at the disposition of Soviet citizens in the district, the book was pulled off the shelves and thrown out — only to be rehabilitated by a rather shrewd old man who popped it in his jacket pocket and carried it all the way to Moscow on the train. There it made its way onto the black market and into the hands of a scrawny one-armed bookseller, who agreed to sell it to Pavel for next to nothing.

  On the first day of rehearsals, Pavel presented Kolia with this very copy of the Dickens novel. Kolia was intrigued by the evident history of destruction that had been wrought on the book by the hands of others. Of course, he knew the book well — he had even read David Copperfield in Khabarovsk, when he was, for all intents and purposes, still a child. He opened the dilapidated volume to his favourite sc
ene with Fagin and his little pickpockets, and decided to use it as the basis for his act.

  Pavel gave him pointers on how the written narrative could be transformed into a monologue. “Talk about your friendship with Dawkins, your arrival at Fagin’s, stealing in front of the bookseller’s, the judge. Mime only what is necessary to get the idea across. Don’t overdo it. Hold back. And whatever you do, don’t laugh at your own gags. It’s vulgar.” Pavel showed him how to apply makeup, how to wear his costume, and how to move in the ring. He also showed him how to make the audience see and feel.

  “The worst sin you can commit in the theatre is to exaggerate your delivery. Whether it’s a facial expression, a hand gesture, or the intonation of your voice, it’s unforgivable. In the circus, it’s just the opposite, but it still has to be subtle. The genius of our art lies in touching that thin line and gently pushing beyond reality, and when you do that, you get it. The court jester can say things to the king that the common man could never get away with.”

  Pavel’s usual terse style took on an uncharacteristic richness when he spoke of his métier. He was an exemplary teacher, generous but modest. Whenever he criticized the world they lived in, however, he would lower his voice, and his few words would carry the full intensity of the man, as if they were a promise.

  For two months, whether he was working in the sewers, walking down the street, riding the streetcar, or drinking tea at night in the kitchen, Kolia practised his monologue in front of an imaginary audience, oblivious to the fact that he looked like he was crazy. And one night a week at Mitya’s tavern, in the company of his teacher, Kolia gladly explained his new affliction to anyone from the hostel who happened to be curious about it. The only time Kolia didn’t rehearse was when he was eating, sleeping, or relieving himself.

  He was making good progress, but he had acquired a nervous habit that manifested itself at every rehearsal. As soon as he had finished his routine, not knowing what to do with his hands, he would immediately shove them in his pockets and thrust his shoulders up around his ears, giving the impression that he was either in a state of permanent doubt or that he didn’t give a damn about anything. Pavel tried to correct his posture, first by tying his hands behind him and then by strapping a broom handle to his back to force him to straighten it. Nothing worked. The moment his body was freed from these corrective restraints, his hands shot back into his pockets and his shoulders automatically jumped up as if they belonged to a puppet.

  The evening after his final rehearsal, Kolia went for a walk in the snow. The auditions for the circus school would be held in one week. He had fondly returned to the practice of stuffing newspaper in his shoes to soak up the dampness and block out the cold. He felt ready. He had tested his clown character in front of his friends at the drama club and their reactions had given him a new sense of mastery. Pavel was convinced that by the end of the rigorous training program which Kolia would undergo at the school, he would be, unequivocally, a clown. There was still the question of his incorrigible hands and shoulders, but when viewed in the context of his entire act, they actually made his character appear more sympathetic. Pavel decided to present his protegé just as he was.

  That night, thoroughly exhausted, Kolia walked into Mitya’s and plopped himself down beside Pavel, who was sitting at the bar. He had removed his makeup in a hurry and had barely touched the smudges of kohl powder around his eyes. He turned his head and looked at Pavel intently.

  “What?” said Pavel.

  “Nothing.”

  “I can’t tell which half of you is staring at me — the guy or the girl!”

  Kolia glanced at his face in the mirror behind the bar and burst out laughing. A strange, cascading laugh.

  “You shouldn’t laugh in public. You’ll scare people.”

  Kolia knew that Pavel knew about the camp. There was no point talking about it. Folded up in one of his pockets, he religiously carried a page he had torn out of one of Iosif’s journals. On it, Iosif had written the name of the man who had helped in the camp. After a long moment of silence, Kolia looked back at Pavel and told him that he had a friend whom he missed very much. His name was Iosif Branch. And this man — Igor Pavlovich Orlov — might have, or might have had information. I mean, would it be possible . . .

  Kolia’s lips and skin glowed red from the astringent effect of the makeup remover, and the kohl around his eyes gave his gaze a somber intensity. He looked ridiculous in his half-unmade get-up, but Pavel realized straightaway that he had no choice. This was important. He took the paper from Kolia, stuffed it in his pocket, and asked him two questions: What was the year? What was the exact location? Kolia gave two precise answers. Without saying another word, they raised their glasses in a final toast, embraced each other, and then went their separate ways. The hug that Kolia received from his teacher that night felt more powerful than usual.

  “If you pass your auditions, I will introduce you to someone who can help you with your research. You can count on him,” Pavel said, drawing on his cigarette as they walked towards the school. “But don’t ask me to tell you anything about him.” Pavel walked Kolia to the entrance of the building, and left him with another instruction. “When the time is right, I will come and get you.”

  Kolia slipped on his singlet and overalls in the men’s toilet on the ground floor. But this time he swapped his usual cap for the hat he had worn in the camp. He found the rehearsal hall and hopped up on a long table that had been set up at one end of the room, and crossed his legs beneath him. He pinned the number he had been given to his overalls and waited for someone to call his name. There were three other candidates in the room. The first was a guy from Moscow named Aleksandr. With his closely shaven head, he looked like a military recruit decked out in the uniform of an Italian clown. He had painted his face in the classic white-clown style, and his half-moon frown made it look like he had never smiled a day in his life. The second was also named Aleksandr. He hailed from the ballet, where he had injured his back lifting a ballerina who was a little heavier than he had expected. With his yellow wig and delicately applied makeup, he looked like a girl. The third candidate went by the name of Valery. At first glance, he looked like the perfect clown — costume appropriately understated, makeup carefully designed and applied, face expressive and mobile. Not to mention the ideal lineage for the job. He was Bounine’s nephew. But the master couldn’t stand him. He was a pretentious little prick, the product of his sister’s second marriage.

  The jury was composed of three members: Bounine, representing the teaching faculty; Pavel, from the circus troupe; and the director of the school, Vyacheslav Alexandrovich Halperin. There would be five groups of candidates, one person would be selected from each group, for a total of five students who would be admitted to the school, according to the terms of the newly implemented selection procedure, which itself was already up for review.

  Kolia drew a number from a hat. He was in the fifth group and would appear third, after the effeminate Aleksandr and Bounine’s nephew. He couldn’t care less about his placement in the last group of the day; his confidence was soaring with the conviction of a little boy who imagines himself as his favourite hero.

  When Aleksandr froze in the middle of his routine, completely forgetting what came next, Kolia edged towards the floor, adjusted his costume, and began running through his lines. During the performance given by the heir apparent of the Bounine dynasty, Kolia glanced over at the jury table several times, but Pavel purposefully avoided his gaze. The young man in the ring put on quite a show, but it wasn’t enough to distinguish him from the run-of-the-mill buffoons one could find anywhere. He was already a semi-professional clown — that was the problem. He had no interest in learning and he couldn’t be taught.

  It was Kolia’s turn. He walked to the centre of the floor, stood directly over the X that had been taped there, and faced the jury. He stepped into the splayed second position of ballet. He
wanted to make it very clear to the jury that he knew what he was doing. He began his audition. Pavel had told him that the school was not necessarily looking for candidates who were funny — that could be learned at the school. What they were looking for was versatility and expressive range — in other words, a raw talent that could be shaped. Kolia’s first routine was completely mimed, borrowing heavily from Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp, which Pavel had described during rehearsals, and presaging Marcel Marceau’s arrival in the USSR in 1965. For ten minutes, Kolia battled valiantly against an unrelenting wind. The jury thanked him impassively, but that didn’t mean anything — everyone was treated to the same chilly response. He was permitted only a one-minute rest between the two sections of the audition. He searched Pavel’s face for the slightest reaction. It was the pen that Pavel started twirling in his fingers that gave him the sign he was looking for. He launched into the second part of the audition with a renewed sense of purpose.

  For his monologue, he had decided to leave one strap of his overalls unfastened and hanging loose over his shoulder. By grabbing hold of it, he could prevent at least one hand from darting into a pocket. With one shoulder up in the air and the other restrained by his cocked arm, he looked like an improvised coat hanger. But his odd posture lent his character a nonchalance that was curiously appealing. Kolia’s theatrical roles as both Fagin, the master swindler, and Oliver Twist, the innocent intern who unwittingly acquires a perfect criminal education, had also allowed him to hone his pickpocketing skills. As the jury looked on, he deftly demonstrated how he could steal his own handkerchief, and, as a finale, how he could faint and collapse in front of an imaginary heartless judge without injuring himself.

  He was accepted. His single-minded determination had gained him admission to the circus school. And, because a promise is a promise, it had also won him the right to a meeting with someone with access to information. “I’m not sure when,” Pavel told him. “But it will be soon. Be patient.”