Kolia by Perrine Leblanc Page B

however, he would lower his voice, and his few words would carry the full intensity of the man, as if they were a promise.
    For two months, whether he was working in the sewers, walking down the street, riding the streetcar, or drinking tea at night in the kitchen, Kolia practised his monologue in front of an imaginary audience, oblivious to the fact that he looked like he was crazy. And one night a week at Mitya’s tavern, in the company of his teacher, Kolia gladly explained his new affliction to anyone from the hostel who happened to be curious about it. The only time Kolia didn’t rehearse was when he was eating, sleeping, or relieving himself.
    He was making good progress, but he had acquired a nervous habit that manifested itself at every rehearsal. As soon as he had finished his routine, not knowing what to do with his hands, he would immediately shove them in his pockets and thrust his shoulders up around his ears, giving the impression that he was either in a state of permanent doubt or that he didn’t give a damn about anything. Pavel tried to correct his posture, first by tying his hands behind him and then by strapping a broom handle to his back to force him to straighten it. Nothing worked. The moment his body was freed from these corrective restraints, his hands shot back into his pockets and his shoulders automatically jumped up as if they belonged to a puppet.
    The evening after his final rehearsal, Kolia went for a walk in the snow. The auditions for the circus school would be held in one week. He had fondly returned to the practice of stuffing newspaper in his shoes to soak up the dampness and block out the cold. He felt ready. He had tested his clown character in front of his friends at the drama club and their reactions had given him a new sense of mastery. Pavel was convinced that by the end of the rigorous training program which Kolia would undergo at the school, he would be, unequivocally, a clown. There was still the question of his incorrigible hands and shoulders, but when viewed in the context of his entire act, they actually made his character appear more sympathetic. Pavel decided to present his protegé just as he was.
    That night, thoroughly exhausted, Kolia walked into Mitya’s and plopped himself down beside Pavel, who was sitting at the bar. He had removed his makeup in a hurry and had barely touched the smudges of kohl powder around his eyes. He turned his head and looked at Pavel intently.
    â€œWhat?” said Pavel.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œI can’t tell which half of you is staring at me — the guy or the girl!”
    Kolia glanced at his face in the mirror behind the bar and burst out laughing. A strange, cascading laugh.
    â€œYou shouldn’t laugh in public. You’ll scare people.”
    Kolia knew that Pavel knew about the camp. There was no point talking about it. Folded up in one of his pockets, he religiously carried a page he had torn out of one of Iosif’s journals. On it, Iosif had written the name of the man who had helped in the camp. After a long moment of silence, Kolia looked back at Pavel and told him that he had a friend whom he missed very much. His name was Iosif Branch. And this man — Igor Pavlovich Orlov — might have, or might have had information. I mean, would it be possible . . .
    Kolia’s lips and skin glowed red from the astringent effect of the makeup remover, and the kohl around his eyes gave his gaze a somber intensity. He looked ridiculous in his half-unmade get-up, but Pavel realized straightaway that he had no choice. This was important. He took the paper from Kolia, stuffed it in his pocket, and asked him two questions: What was the year? What was the exact location? Kolia gave two precise answers. Without saying another word, they raised their glasses in a final toast, embraced each other, and then went their separate ways. The hug that Kolia received from his teacher that night felt more powerful