Kolia by Perrine Leblanc

at mid-span, he greeted the crowd with an elegant wave, a flourish that most of them would have been unable to reproduce on solid ground. As a finale, he performed an irreverent pirouette, as if he were thumbing his nose at royalty. Beria walked between two invisible walls made of nothing more substantial than the gasps of the public. They were the guardrails he relied upon. A tightrope walker is a resistance fighter. His art lies in the subtle self-control he must exert in his constant struggle against the elements and against his own nature. It is an art anchored in faith and trust in that which cannot be seen.
    The moment the Bounines made their first appearance, Kolia started laughing. It was a deep and strange laugh that might have broken the silence like a phlegm-filled cough at a concert, but it went unnoticed in the crowd’s uproar. He felt like standing up and boasting that the white clown was a personal friend of his. Suddenly, he was eight years old, born in Moscow, and everybody loved him.
    After the grand finale, Kolia decided to approach the ring. With the most pleasant face he could put together, he caught the attention of a technician who was coiling cables, and, raising a weak smile, asked him if he could see the clown. When asked which one, Kolia replied with Pavel’s full name. The technician retreated to the dressing rooms and found Pavel in the process of removing his makeup.
    â€œPetrov, someone wants to see you. He’s standing by the ring.”
    â€œBrown hair? Not that tall?”
    â€œYeah. A funny lookin’ guy.”
    Pavel extended his hand and invited Kolia to have a drink with him and Bounine. Just before he opened the door to their dressing room, Pavel turned to Kolia as if he were about to say something. Realizing that Pavel was waiting for some response to the evening’s performance, Kolia made it clear that he’d really enjoyed the act and offered his praise.
    Bounine was sitting in front of a mirror, stripped to the waist, wiping makeup from his face. He was in a foul mood. He had completely forgotten a part of the act and had been forced to employ some skilful improvising to cover up his memory lapse. The lapses were becoming more and more frequent. It had happened for the first time the previous year — before that, he’d always had an exceptional memory. He could recite all his monologues flawlessly, without skipping so much as a comma. It was clear that he felt like punching someone. Pavel presented Kolia to him nonetheless.
    â€œI was thinking about bringing a dog into the act,” Bounine said, studying Kolia’s physique in the mirror as if he were some type of caricature.
    Half of Bounine’s face was still pale, not exactly white, and the other side revealed the natural colour of his skin. He was as charismatic in person as he was in the ring.
    â€œUs and a dog?” Pavel was clearly surprised.
    â€œNo . . . me, you, and a dog.”
    â€œIt’s already been done, Ilya Alexandrovich.”
    â€œLook, there’s no shortage of students, we’ve got candidates lining up. Why him?”
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    Bounine’s bluster impressed Kolia. Without turning around, the master asked him his age. Twenty-four.
    â€œYou look older than that. With that face, I’d say you were around thirty.”
    He asked Kolia what he was doing at the moment, where he came from and where he was living.
    â€œI’m a labourer. I work mostly underground, mainly on the subway.” Kolia was a little wary.
    â€œYou’ve got a wife? Kids?” Bounine persisted, taking a sip of wine.
    â€œNo. Why?”
    Kolia turned towards Pavel, who had removed all expression from his face because the master was still staring at him in the mirror.
    Bounine asked him for his employment booklet and flipped through its pages with fingers that were still covered in makeup. There was no sign of military service between