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.