BRANDY

BY THE 1970S, THE BOUNINES were on a roll. They were playing to packed houses every night, and wowing the crowds just like the original duo had done. Together, the three of them had established a tight-knit relationship in the ring — a relationship which Pavel’s bad habits began to test. As long as he kept his drunkenness within the confines of a tavern or his own apartment, while Masha was at school, Bounine could put up with his vices, but Pavel had begun to consider the ring as just another barroom. During rehearsals, he would sneak swigs of brandy, and in performance his breath was heavy with the smell of the alcohol he had consumed that day. The technical crew were all aware of Pavel’s drinking and, although they initially felt sorry for him, soon they began to complain openly about it.

Kolia’s absence from the act during the tours outside the country had weighed on him heavily, so much so that on some nights he had staggered into the ring and performed blind drunk. Bounine had just been named the People’s Artist of the Soviet Union and he continued to draw big crowds. But he was seventy years old. Increasingly, Pavel found himself having to carry the act alone, while standing in front of an audience that had paid to see at least two members of the Bounines, and not just him. And, back in Moscow, things got worse. Pavel’s darkening mood and faltering judgement cost him an appointment to the directorship of the school. He began to drink with the determination of someone who was trying to drink himself to death.

One morning, at the beginning of their collaboration as a trio in 1965, Bounine showed up at Kolia’s dressing room, sporting his trademark wry smile.

“There’s someone here to see you. He’s waiting over by the women’s dressing room.”

“Who?”

“A director. The one who gave Yuri a part in his film.”

Bounine had nothing but contempt for movies. As far as he was concerned, the camera only debased an artist’s performance, and wound up attracting the lazy and the narcissistic. Kolia was stunned by Bounine’s announcement.

“He’s got a part for me? That’s a laugh! I’ve never said a single word in the ring.”

On the set, Kolia was told that he didn’t have any lines, in other words, he wouldn’t be acting. He was to strip off his clothes and run through the forest with a torch in his hand, and then walk into the river at the end of a collective pagan ritual, danced in absolute abandon. The camera would film them from a distance, and the music that had been chosen to support this scene of pagan free love — transpiring under the watchful eye of Andrei Rublev, a monk and painter of icons — would be unbearably bizarre. The director, a young man with a head full of stiff black hair and a brow that tensed into a deep crevice whenever he leaned in to his camera, had given his instructions. Stark naked and standing on his mark, Kolia began to wonder if Bounine wasn’t behind the whole thing.

Andrei Rublev premiered in Cannes, but was banned in the Soviet Union. The ban lasted for five years before it was lifted and the film officially rehabilitated. When it finally made its debut in Moscow in 1971, there was no mention of Kolia in the credits. A bureaucrat in the directorate responsible for censorship, who had followed Kolia’s career with great interest, had taken care of that. It was this man who sent Kolia an official invitation to perform at a Party function. Kolia politely turned him down; he would be on tour with the troupe in Kiev at that time. The official verified Kolia’s statement and found it to be true. “Until next time,” he said.

Six months later, Kolia received another invitation from the same man, but this time it had the tone of a summons to appear. He racked his brain for a way to get out of this one, too, and came up with the not-so-bright idea (according to Pavel) of being fitted with a cast and faking a broken leg. It would lend the necessary credence to his most sincere apologies. I’m terribly sorry. The doctor has ordered me to rest. And with the help of Berine, the doctor who had treated the various ailments of the troupe for many years, that’s exactly what he did. After downing a stiff drink, Berine got to work, openly and heartily expressing his disdain for pencil-pushing apparatchiks. He was just the right man for Kolia’s little ruse.

Pavel flatly berated him for being so bullheaded and for taking such a risk. For a full month, he refused to even speak to Kolia, unless it was absolutely necessary. Bounine, rather than criticizing him, suggested that it would probably be a good idea for him to limp a little more than he usually did, once the cast was removed. Someone would undoubtedly be keeping an eye on him.

Kolia put in a completely credible performance. The official from the censorship directorate sent him flowers and even offered him a week of recuperation by the sea. As obsequiously as he could, Kolia turned the offer down, citing the Bounines’ daily rehearsals, which he was duty-bound to attend.

Then he received another letter, advising him that the next official function would be held at the end of June. Kolia was giddy and started thinking up another pretext which would allow him to avoid what was now clearly his duty to the Party. But this time, the old master put his foot down and demanded that Kolia accept the invitation.

“It won’t kill you,” Bounine admonished, making it very plain that if he kept on acting like a smartass, he’d wind up in a two-bit circus. “I don’t want to lose you. I’m too old to start all over again with a new student.”

Kolia bowed to his wishes. His broken leg healed right on schedule, and when June arrived, solely out of respect for Bounine, Kolia dutifully clowned around on stage for an auditorium full of the Party faithful. As he moved through the lobby, which was swarming with Party bigwigs, he simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to acquire a few watches. The clown, camouflaged in a tuxedo, hardly raised an eyebrow.

As he walked home that night, Kolia concluded that performing in the ring was a lot more satisfying than mounting a frontal attack on an army of inebriated, rosy-faced apparatchiks. Stealing the watches (which he had happily forgotten to return to their owners) had made the whole ordeal much more agreeable. As he crossed over the Moskva, he gaily jettisoned the watches into the river. They weren’t worth a damn thing to him. He already had a watch, and he didn’t need another one.

When he finally opened the door to the apartment, Masha was playing cards in the salon. He decided to do something useful with himself and teach her how to cheat.