Kolia by Perrine Leblanc Page A

Kolia’s employment in Khabarovsk in 1954 and his job in Moscow, which puzzled him. Kolia responded by saying that the doctor who had examined him at the military committee office had given him a medical exemption because of the arthrosis in his hip, which left him limping by the end of the day. He kept quiet about the real reason. His documents contained everything Bounine needed to know.
    Bounine interjected, “And you think the circus will be a cake walk? . . . That someone is going to follow you around and tickle your bad hip with a feather?”
    Kolia frowned, then realized what Pavel was up to and decided to play along.
    â€œI’ve been performing on stage for three years now,” he said, summoning up as much conviction as he could.
    Bounine loved to get under someone’s skin — prodding Kolia was simply a distraction from the evening’s disastrous performance. But it was out of the question that Kolia could be admitted directly into the circus school. The master advised him to start preparing for auditions. And then, if you show an aptitude for any of the disciplines of the circus, yes, we might consider taking you on and training you.
    They opened a bottle of apple wine.
    In the days following his meeting with Bounine, Kolia began to dream. That was permitted, and it was free.

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.
    â€œThe 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,