Kolia (3 page)

MOSCOW

TANYA AND HER COMPANION
found him sitting in
Komsomolskaya Square in front of the train station. He was still dazed. The man who had helped him to his feet excused himself as soon as they arrived. As planned, Kolia wore a purple armband, which he had created out of a scarf. He recognized Tanya immediately and reached out to shake her hand. Then he greeted her friend with a nod, as he had seen other men do when they met.

He spent his first night in Moscow with the couple in their two-room flat, three rooms if the kitchen counted. The man had Party business to attend to with another comrade, and he left them to their tête-à-tête at the kitchen table. Tanya prepared a thick soup. She resembled the photograph taken three years earlier; she was petite but not quite as pretty as she appeared in the picture. In fact, the kitchen light wasn't flattering at all to the contours of her face. While the potatoes, beets, cabbage, and morsels of meat simmered on the stove, Kolia got the feeling that she was waiting for him to say something. He began to talk about Iosif.

“I don't know. He might have hung on for a few more months. I just don't know. I never knew why he was there. He never said a word about that.”

His voice didn't sound natural. He had hardly spoken to anyone in the last two weeks.

“I received a letter saying he was dead. They didn't use the word ‘disappeared,'” Tanya said, lowering the gas flame.

“I was told he had disappeared . . . by a guy who knew him, I think.”

“How was he the day before?”

“He was fine. Just like every day.”

The radio that Tanya placed on the kitchen table right in front of him crackled out something indecipherable. They spoke to each other in Russian. Any other language would have woken up the walls.

“Did they send his money to you here in Moscow?”

“Yes. Almost nothing. Before he was arrested, he spent virtually everything.”

Kolia pulled a package out of his knapsack.

“His notebooks. Some sketches, a few doodles here and there, notes he scribbled down, and some of his writing.”

As he began to leaf through Iosif's notebooks and documents, he hesitated at the pages where there was a reference to the civil servant who had protected her brother.

“You're lucky, you know,” said Tanya.

“Why do you say that?”

“The city is closed to ex-prisoners. I'm not going to be able to help very often.”

He sorted through the documents and sketches, and placed them in chronological order; Iosif had meticulously dated everything. But Kolia decided to keep one thing for himself; he slipped Iosif's diary into his pants pocket.

The conversation was going nowhere. Tanya seemed distant, almost colourless in comparison to the letter she had written in Russian, and not particularly interested in her brother's paraphernalia. She changed the subject. She started describing the vegetables in the soup, and how she had bought the meat that morning, just by chance, for almost nothing. Kolia couldn't understand her indifference. It was clear that Tanya had loved her brother very much, but from a distance. She didn't want any problems now. Kolia was an honorary member of the family and they would help him, but only to a point. They would do what her high-ranking boyfriend had promised.

The next day, they took him to the workers' hostel where he was to live from then on. It was situated just outside one of the boulevards of the Garden Ring, which circumscribes the historic beauty of Old Moscow. He was shown to a dormitory which could accommodate up to twenty men. The only private space allotted to each man was his bed. It came with a yellow bedspread and a thin flat pillow that could be raised by placing a folded sweater under it. Kolia was informed that he would share the outhouses with the other men, and would spend his spare time in their company. The workweek would consist of forty-eight hours, including Saturday. Therefore Jews were not permitted to observe their religious beliefs. The objective of the man-machine was to walk towards communism and freedom through education and labour. He could expect a sudden and difficult fraternity — thefts were documented — but for the most part, friendships formed as a matter of course, just like they do in all communities, and the men often helped each other and exchanged favours.

Kolia started work right away in the sewers beneath the foundations of a hotel that was under construction. Travelling to his worksite for the first time, he saw a group of huge cranes flying low against the sky. He marvelled at all the taxis criss-crossing the city and the streetcars gliding beneath their wires. He would come to prefer these to the subway. Moscow was truly charged with electricity.

His job was to hand tools to the other workers and cart out rocks and mud, which were then driven away by truck and dumped in an outlying suburb of the city. The men rarely spoke to each other, concentrating instead on the task at hand; the daily quotas had to be reached and the implicit competition between them had to be respected from the outset. It was in the hostel that friendships were made — during the day the men were far too busy emptying the bowels of Moscow.

In Gorky Park, Kolia was finally able to take in the full measure of the city. He had walked across the nearest footbridge which overlooked the Moskva River and found himself in the Frunzenskaya district, which was home to artists of all kinds, from writers and editors to dancers with the Bolshoi, and circus performers. He too would live here one day. He watched as children, and men and women of all ages, played chess and checkers on low wooden tables. There were people lying under trees reading books. Small boys in their work smocks took their breaks in the shade. Women in baggy pants threw balls back and forth. Staying in shape was important for maintaining stamina at work. Other women in stylish dresses shielded themselves from the sun with oriental parasols, which were evidently in fashion. The gymnastic equipment for exercising after a day's work or on the weekend was almost never used. From time to time, a voice would soar up out of large loud speakers with official announcements and directives for Moscow's citizens, who were to educate themselves, enjoy themselves, and comport themselves in a manner that was not offensive to public order.

After several minutes of hesitation, he followed a crowd of pedestrians into the subway, allowing the mechanical stairs to carry him underground. It was overwhelming. Kolia struggled to grasp the concept of the subway station and studied the other passengers for guidance. But it was impressive; he hadn't anticipated that the station would be such an extraordinary work of art, and each time his eyes fell upon pink marble or a mosaic or a grand chandelier, he was deeply affected. And every time he stopped to look at something, he was bumped into, shoved, and accused of being thoughtless and inconsiderate by people whose Russian might have been more polished than his, but it was still Russian.

Kolia came to detest this mode of transportation. Working in the sewers in the summer gave him enough time underground. But from time to time, he would take the escalator and descend into the subterranean museum where he had found so much beauty. The enormity of such an undertaking, which displaced tons of shitty soil and replaced it with a permanent art exhibit, simply amazed him. All the same, he preferred to get around Moscow above ground, and adopted the streetcar as his vehicle of choice.

One evening at the hostel, Kolia was preparing soup with two men he worked with in the sewers — Volodya and Misha. He had supplied the bread and the cream, and the other two had picked up the rest of the meal's ingredients after work. Their grocer was an enterprising retired labourer who made the rounds of the city's grocery stores buying only the best products, and reselling them at one and a half times the price fixed by the state.

They settled into a corner of the cafeteria with their mess tins in order to avoid the noise of the group who had taken possession of the six benches. One of them had been keeping an eye on Kolia since he'd arrived. He was a thickset young man named Alexei, who always wore a spotless and impeccably ironed white shirt, but whose most striking feature was his plump lips. Behind his back, the others called him Fat Lips. Misha had mentioned to Kolia that he was someone you wanted to have in your pocket.

When he had finished his bowl of soup, Kolia got up, grabbed the bottle of vodka that Tanya had given him, and unscrewed it in plain view of Alexei, who was sitting at the head of one of the tables. Kolia walked over, poured a glass for Alexei and then for himself, and placed the bottle down right in front of Alexei's china plate. They clinked glasses. It was this gesture, which he repeated on a regular basis during his stay at the hostel, which undoubtedly saved Kolia from certain discomforts at the hands of the authorities.

Alexei was a spineless but clever individual, a member of the Komsomol Brigade, and the committee's mole at the hostel.

The week following his arrival in Moscow, Kolia stumbled into the path of a smartly dressed man as he was getting off the streetcar. The man was flanked by an attractive woman and two other men who appeared to be plainclothes policemen. He was pointing a camera at him. Kolia did a sudden about-face, slamming into the woman behind him in a frantic attempt to dodge the weapon, which clearly had him in its sights.

“Please tell him it's okay!” said the man behind the camera to one of the others.

The photographer spoke French. The other man, who was evidently his interpreter, reassured Kolia in Russian. The woman, who was either his wife or his sister, addressed him as Henri. Kolia realized his error. As he walked away, he held back from saying something to the man in French, despite an overwhelming desire to do so.

The encounter with the photographer and his camera had left him deeply disoriented. He was holding a book in his hand, but he had no idea where he was going or whether someone was waiting for him. He turned down the first street he came to, completely lost and mistakenly convinced that he had just run into someone from Switzerland.

PART TWO

PAVEL

KOLIA MET PAVEL FOR THE
first time in 1961, in a tavern with no name and no street number. It was located in the basement of a building in the Taganskaya quarter and functioned as a somewhat clandestine meeting place. But, on the first Friday of every month, it hosted the local amateur drama club, which had the official approval of the Workers' Circle. Kolia was a member of the club.

Dimitri, who was known to everyone as Mitya, tended bar. From time to time, he would bring Kolia first editions of books published in France, as well as French magazines that he had somehow managed to get his hands on. His most recent find was the April issue of
Paris Match
and a copy of
Fahrenheit 451
.

“In exchange for what?”

“A pair of shoes for my wife. But no heels, okay? Give her an extra ten centimetres and I look like a midget . . . Size thirty-nine.”

“I'll ask Tanya.”

They toasted each other's health. Kolia felt the warmth of the vodka working against the chill of October. He opened the Bradbury, which still smelled of printer's ink and alcohol, and began to devour it. A Russian translation of a Dickens novel lay beside his glass; his club was rehearsing the play it was based on. At page sixteen, instead of a bookmark, Kolia had folded a sheet torn from one of Iosif's notebooks, on which he had jotted down his essential reading list. Dickens was in good company. Hugo, Tolstoy, and Akhmatova topped the list; the Marquis de Sade and Laclos secured the bottom.

Pavel Petrov was six feet, six inches tall. He was walleyed. His hair was a mottled confusion of blond and chesnut brown patches — the preponderance of brown hair was on the same side of his head as his one brown eye; on his blue-eyed side, his hair was primarily blond. No one messed with Pavel. He was, however, a gentle soul — unless, of course, an argument broke out after a night of the usual vodka and apple wine.

Pavel, in collaboration with his mentor, Ilya Alexandrovich Bounine, had created a clown act known as The Bounines for the Moscow State Circus. He was the white clown and Bounine took the role of the auguste
clown. Pavel had been juggling and breathing fire since his first year at the School of Circus Arts, which demanded versatility from all Soviet circus artists, but he had yet to acquire Bounine's mastery of knife swallowing. As a revered teacher, Bounine was addressed formally by all his students, but Pavel called him Ilya Alexandrovich. They had both been members of the troupe that had recently toured with the circus outside the Soviet Union, and had certainly developed a fondness for the West, although not to the point of wanting to live there. Their art, they believed, was best practised in the USSR. It had only been a taste of Western freedom, a notion which remained as unfamiliar as the surface of the moon. Back in Moscow, when the gastronom on Tverskaya Street ran out of carrots or sausages or bread, they would simply turn to their trusted contacts to get the food and supplies they needed — often, it was Mitya.

Pavel would usually drop by the tavern for a drink the night before the performance of a new sketch, and, his jawline would inevitably show traces of white makeup — a mixture of rice powder and talc. He tried not to overdo it, but his skin had to be white enough that the colours he applied to his nose, mouth, cheeks, eyes, and eyebrows would jump right out at the audience. His makeup wasn't particularly elaborate, but his eyebrows, as a result of being brushed up and painted so often, had set into place with a permanent black tint that clashed with his natural hair colour.

When Pavel entered the tavern that night, Kolia noticed him straight away and couldn't take his eyes off the big man. Pavel found this slightly unnerving. He opened his briefcase, extracted a round pocket mirror, consulted it, and found nothing abnormal in his appearance. The rubbing alcohol always left his skin looking a little puffy and red, and there were always traces of white paint around his face. He didn't look that unusual, and in any case, the room was dimly lit. He approached the bar, where Kolia was sitting in front of a couple of books and an open magazine.

“French, huh?” Pavel queried, leaning on the bar next to Kolia and eyeing the magazine.

“
Paris Match
.”

“I've been there, you know. Parisian woman are . . .”

“A bunch of whores, from what I understand.”

“Not at all. They're lovely creatures with no shortage of character. Sometimes a little standoffish . . . Do you speak French?”

Kolia downed his glass in one quick shot and then drew his bar stool closer to Pavel's; he glanced at Mitya for reassurance. It was okay.

“Yeah. I studied it at school.”

“Good for you.”

The white clown recited a few French phrases he had picked up in Paris, and then continued.

“And the men wear silk neckties every day. Some still wear bow ties.”

“And the women?”

“Like I said, they're gorgeous but, man, do they lay on the makeup . . . too much lipstick and rouge for my taste.”

“Whores,” repeated Kolia with a wry smile.

“No, no. Really nice and really open. In fact, I met a writer who had two wives — well, a wife and a mistress. And while the writer and I were discussing things in Russian, the two of them were sitting there having a great time.”

Kolia burst out laughing. He gestured to Mitya for another drink, and then asked Pavel what had taken him to Paris.

“I was with the circus. We did a tour in '56.”

Pavel showed him his hands, which were covered with spots of white makeup. There wasn't the slightest sign of fawning admiration in the younger man, but rather a real curiosity that Pavel appreciated, a welcome change from the fan worship that his public persona had earned him. The Bounines were getting regular press coverage, and sometimes his face would appear in newspapers unadorned by makeup, so people could see that he was just a regular guy. He was often recognized in the street. Kolia had never heard of him.

“On your hands, too?”

“Yeah. The rice and talc powder helps prevent blisters during our little acrobatic manoeuvres.”

“Why white?”

“Why? . . . So the crowd can see every one of my facial expressions clear as day. But I don't put on that much. Not in comparison with the clowns in Germany and Italy and France. They are grotesque! They slap it on, and their costumes make them look just like pregnant women in giant sacks with holes cut out for their head and their arms and legs.”

Finally, they introduced themselves. Pavel. Kolia. The first name for one, the diminutive for the other.

“You've never been to the circus?”

“No, never. What does the other clown look like?”

“The auguste? Do you know Charlie Chaplin, the movie star?”

“I've never been inside a cinema.”

“Ilya Alexandrovich is a brilliant clown and an extraordinary teacher.”

They kept drinking and talking until Mitya closed the bar. Pavel asked him where he was from, and what he was doing in Moscow. Kolia answered each question plainly and simply. By the time they left the tavern, Pavel was roaring drunk, making a million promises that would be forgotten by the morning. They parted, and Kolia headed to Tanya's because it was closer than the hostel. As he walked along in the direction of Tanya's building, he stuck a finger in the hole in his pocket and slowly made it bigger.

What he really wanted was for Tanya to get him a ticket to the circus, but she didn't have any. She'd had some, but there weren't any left.

“I had no idea you'd be interested in the circus,” said Tanya, mending the hole in his pocket.

He told her all about his evening with the clown from The Bounines. Tanya smiled, which she rarely did, and made him a strong pot of tea.