A RISING STAR

THE ACT WAS A HIT. Bounine had shortened his monologue and, in the end, the public had come to adore Kolia’s character. The sight of this silent pickpocket deftly manoeuvring about the ring in a coat that was several sizes too big for him was simply endearing. The fact that he didn’t say a word made everyone curious to hear Kolia’s voice. Rumours began to circulate that he had been born in the notorious Kolyma camp, and that his parents both died there. The rumours didn’t hurt the popularity of the act one bit. Every night was standing-room only. The authorities didn’t make any trouble, and everyone was happy. The troupe, in a savvy move, decided to neither confirm nor deny the rumours.

Kolia had become an object of public curiosity. The mystery surrounding his silence could easily have fed the flames of damaging speculation over every breakfast table in the city, but, for the moment, things seemed to be okay. Pavel and Bounine continued to make media appearances, as they had always done, but Kolia was not permitted to appear on television or radio, and all magazine and newspaper interviews were turned down. The troupe feared that an appearance out of costume, and out of the ring, could demystify everything that was working in his favour — particularly if he opened his mouth and said the wrong thing. For his part, Kolia didn’t care one way or the other.

He was getting used to reading about his confreres in the newspapers and seeing them on television. One night, while Eva was visiting her parents outside the city, Kolia took over babysitting duties and found himself in front of the TV. Masha was half asleep beside him, her head propped up against an exotic Turkish pillow. Pavel and Bounine were being interviewed by a Slovak journalist. They were on tour as a duo and had performed in Bratislava the night before. While the camera crew buzzed around their hotel room, they diligently responded to all the journalist’s questions and described everything that went into a typical day’s work for a performing clown. Kolia fell asleep just as Pavel was describing how he had first met the young man who was now the third member of the Bounines. “It was right after his performance in a play put on by the local workers’ drama club,” Pavel said with a straight face. Just a little white lie.

Kolia spent many of his evenings and an increasing amount of his spare time at Tanya’s apartment. She had come to see him in a different light, now that he was a fully fledged member of Bounine’s troupe. One evening, after a little too much vodka with dinner, she began telling him about Iosif’s childhood and how he didn’t read as a young boy.

“He only became interested in books after we arrived in Moscow.”

She talked about Switzerland, and how her mother had returned there shortly after Kruschev had come to power. She missed her mother. She missed her brother, too. This sudden wave of nostalgia surprised Kolia. He had never heard her speak of Iosif this way. She rarely showed emotion, and she hardly ever brought him up in conversation.

Then Tanya mentioned that Iosif had not died in the camp and that he hadn’t been killed either. She had received a letter from a man in 1955, which stated categorically that although he was unable to say exactly where Iosif had gone after leaving the camp, or whether he was still alive, Iosif had not died in custody, nor as an escapee. With a single blow, Tanya had destroyed every possible scenario that he had invented to replace the official version of Iosif’s “disappearance.” His surprise blurted out of his lips in French.

“When you arrived in Moscow, I couldn’t tell you. You were too fragile,” Tanya said in Russian.

He thought about the official in the camp who had given him Iosif’s personal effects. Then he remembered the man Pavel had promised to introduce him to four years ago, someone who could have helped him find Iosif, or at least, find out what had happened to him. Pavel had forgotten about the promise and Kolia hadn’t wanted to risk mentioning it to him for fear of damaging their relationship. He still couldn’t believe his luck at having been admitted to the troupe. But maybe now it was time to broach the subject with him again.

“You seem positively happy now. The circus, all your new friends . . .” Tanya’s voice was tinged with sarcasm.

Kolia jumped up from the table, barely controlling the urge to slap her across the face, but not the urge to spit in it. He stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him with enough force to wake up the entire building. Whatever it was that Tanya screamed behind him, he didn’t hear it. It would be a long time before he would see her again.

In the days that followed, Kolia wrote a sketch for the trio that Bounine deemed as painfully mediocre. It was clear that he should concentrate on something he excelled at, and he retreated into his room intent on developing his talents as a magician to the fullest. He had refined his pickpocketing skills at the circus school and had also picked up a number of magic tricks that were guaranteed to amaze the crowd. The public loved to hand over money for the pleasure of being duped. He continued his education by studying the techniques of street kids and their bosses who stole for real on train platforms and streetcars and in the subway and public parks. In the ring, to distract the attention of a volunteer from the audience, he would make an elegant arc with his right hand and then a flurry of half-circles, while the left accomplished the inevitable and perfect theft.

Soon he was testing his abilities on unwitting volunteers outside the ring — the occasional passerby in a park, someone standing in line at a store, or a fellow passenger on the streetcar — but only to relieve them of a handkerchief. He began to develop a taste for it. It was risky, but Kolia had acquired an intuitive sense of how reality could be deformed, how the barrier between what exists and what might exist was as porous in the real world as it was in the ring. The first thing was to size up the victim and analyze his clothing. Then, without looking directly at the pocket or wrist in question, wait until he was distracted by something in the environment. At that point, Kolia would accidentally bump into the victim, express an apology, and execute the theft. He pickpocketed subtly and judiciously, never stealing money or documents, and limiting himself to worthless objects only. That was at the beginning. Soon the feeling of exhilaration that came from practising this innocuous sleight of hand in public began to wear off, and he started stealing in earnest, but still for the sheer pleasure of it. Afterwards, he would faithfully return the item he had just stolen, feigning the concern of a good Samaritan.

“Excuse me, comrade, you forgot this.”

“Comrade, you dropped your bag.”

“Excuse me, comrade, I think you lost your wristwatch. It must have come undone. There you go. Be more careful next time.”

He would inevitably look like a prince in the eyes of the comrade concerned.

Kolia wanted for nothing thanks to his employment with the circus, which provided him a level of material comfort he had never known. The store shelves in Moscow rarely featured luxury items, and even the availability of most staples was hit and miss. But Pavel had access to the closed stores, a privilege only extended to those who held foreign currency. In Pavel’s case, it was money acquired while touring, which required authorization and a visa. Kolia was denied both, but through Pavel, he gained access to the bounty of these stores, whenever the opportunity presented itself.

When his idle but potentially lucrative pastime eventually slipped into full criminality, he began helping out with the grocery shopping by paying with rubles he had received in exchange for his stolen loot. But Kolia had yet to reach that point.