Kolia (5 page)

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 scene 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.”

THE MAN IN WHITEFACE

“A MIMEOGRAPH OF
MACBETH
. . .
the complete text.”

The school hadn't acquired the new machine yet, and Bounine knew it. But he was eager to try out all sorts of teaching techniques on Kolia, and, a little sadistically, to have some fun doing it.

“In English, it's got to be in English!”

Bounine attempted to defend his rather mean-spirited strategy to a perplexed-looking Pavel. He wanted to see how resourceful the little guy was.

It was Mitya's clandestine import–export business that helped Kolia fill Bounine's order. “I asked for a mimeographed copy, not the book.”

Bounine scowled when Kolia presented it to him. But he was impressed. Evidently, the kid was not stupid.

When Kolia handed him a mimeographed copy the following day, Bounine looked at him with a newfound respect. He had taken less than two days to complete an impossible task — not only was paper a luxury, but possession of printing equipment by private citizens was illegal.

Between 1961 and 1964, Kolia spent his days and nights mastering the art of the clown. He gradually pieced together a costume that was suitably modest and unassuming. It had to be clear that Pavel and Bounine were the stars of the show. “You're being trained to be at our beck and call. You're a lackey, nothing more,” Bounine was fond of saying, even though he had come to admire this young man who learned quickly by imitating everything he saw. Kolia now lived in the kommunalka with them, and they ate all their meals together.

For the ring, Kolia created the persona of a mute thief — a character he had naturally absorbed under Fagin's spiritual tutelage. He decided to perform in whiteface, just like Pavel, even though the traditional white-chalk makeup was rarely seen anymore. Instead of wearing a wig, he opted to shave his head like a zek, and accentuate his eyebrows. The tarot card reader had created an exact replica of the peacoat he had worn in the camp, and inside a false pocket Eva had placed the card representing the Magician. Pavel's daughter, who had now reached the age of seven, demanded that he wear red shoes. Kolia thought it would be funny, and he agreed. Huge red shoes that made a lot of noise. And, with a nod to the traditions of the camps, he obediently shaved his legs. Beneath the peacoat, he sported a sailor's shirt and a pair of faux-tweed shorts.

Pavel wasn't sure. Bounine, on the other hand, was convinced it would work. And with Kolia mute, the risk was purely symbolic. In any case, they could always get around it.

The circus brought together an amalgam of exceptionally talented artists and athletes, some with conventional backgrounds and training, others who showed up out of nowhere. What they shared in common was self-discipline and commitment. The occasional refugee from the ballet or competitive gymnastics was sometimes accepted into the fold — mere mortals who had never risen to the level of accomplishment expected of them — but, in almost all cases, membership in the troupe was passed down from parent to child. It was in the blood. The troupe was a curious collection of human specimens, but it was a family. And, after a while, Kolia began to experience the same forthright friendship and healthy competition he had found in the workers' hostel. But it couldn't compare to the deep fellowship he had known in the camp. There was no comparison to be made.

At the beginning of his apprenticeship, the others regarded him with suspicion. The word had spread that he'd spent time in the camps. Without makeup, his face would often scare the small children in the troupe. His forehead was traversed by a deep line, which was echoed on both sides of his face, with veritable fissures running down from his nose past his mouth, as well as down his cheeks. It looked like he was already wearing makeup. But in the ring, he was coming along well, and because of that, the others were willing to give him a chance. When Bounine finally announced that Kolia had been officially accepted as a member of the troupe, the others began to warm to him. By the end of his training program, during which Bounine relentlessly put him to the test, Kolia had proven that he was, indeed, an artist.

Tanya came to see him perform for the first time in 1965. She was still living with the same man. He had proposed to her some time ago, but she kept postponing the date and dragging out the engagement. She wasn't in love with him, but the relationship did afford her a somewhat privileged status and a certain level of protection. In the glare of the spotlight, Kolia was oblivious to the fact they were sitting in the front row. And that was probably a good thing.

As a trio, the Bounines were no longer constrained to brief appearances between acts and were now performing a completely new routine that featured two full sketches. They came on right after the high-wire act and were followed by a group of young contortionists. Bounine played the role of an absent-minded schoolteacher; Pavel and Kolia were his unruly students. Juggling a blackboard eraser and a piece of chalk, Pavel spun around and simultaneously crossed the ring in a perfect diagonal. Meanwhile, Kolia, the silent pickpocket, whose outlandish costume spoke to the audience on his behalf, casually began to help himself to the contents of Bounine's pockets. A watch, a wallet, some candies, a piece of chalk, a cigarette, a box of matches, a handkerchief, and — the final indignity — Bounine's suspenders. Kolia then disappeared through a trap door in the floor. Another exit had been built into a small swimming pool erected in the ring. Pavel dove in and disappeared as well. Bounine, now alone before his adoring public, began a five-minute professorial soliloquy, without any props other than the small dog that sat obediently at his side. At the age of sixty-five, he was still Moscow's most beloved clown.

But the crowd hadn't seemed as receptive to the newest member of the Bounines as he had expected. Kolia's entrance had created a palpable disturbance in the stands. People started whispering, and it was only the children in the crowd who had laughed — fortunately, there were enough of them to prevent a total flop. It was a partial defeat that Bounine accepted begrudgingly. He finished his monologue, bowed, and headed backstage. The decision to admit Kolia into the troupe had been intended as a statement — a statement which had evidently gone right over the heads of the audience. “A bunch of morons,” he muttered to himself, removing his wig as soon as he was out of view. But that night, Bounine had claimed a small personal victory against the tyranny of the prison system.