than usual.
âIf you pass your auditions, I will introduce you to someone who can help you with your research. You can count on him,â Pavel said, drawing on his cigarette as they walked towards the school. âBut donât ask me to tell you anything about him.â Pavel walked Kolia to the entrance of the building, and left him with another instruction. âWhen the time is right, I will come and get you.â
Kolia slipped on his singlet and overalls in the menâs toilet on the ground floor. But this time he swapped his usual cap for the hat he had worn in the camp. He found the rehearsal hall and hopped up on a long table that had been set up at one end of the room, and crossed his legs beneath him. He pinned the number he had been given to his overalls and waited for someone to call his name. There were three other candidates in the room. The first was a guy from Moscow named Aleksandr. With his closely shaven head, he looked like a military recruit decked out in the uniform of an Italian clown. He had painted his face in the classic white-clown style, and his half-moon frown made it look like he had never smiled a day in his life. The second was also named Aleksandr. He hailed from the ballet, where he had injured his back lifting a ballerina who was a little heavier than he had expected. With his yellow wig and delicately applied makeup, he looked like a girl. The third candidate went by the name of Valery. At first glance, he looked like the perfect clown â costume appropriately understated, makeup carefully designed and applied, face expressive and mobile. Not to mention the ideal lineage for the job. He was Bounineâs nephew. But the master couldnât stand him. He was a pretentious little prick, the product of his sisterâs second marriage.
The jury was composed of three members: Bounine, representing the teaching faculty; Pavel, from the circus troupe; and the director of the school, Vyacheslav Alexandrovich Halperin. There would be five groups of candidates, one person would be selected from each group, for a total of five students who would be admitted to the school, according to the terms of the newly implemented selection procedure, which itself was already up for review.
Kolia drew a number from a hat. He was in the fifth group and would appear third, after the effeminate Aleksandr and Bounineâs nephew. He couldnât care less about his placement in the last group of the day; his confidence was soaring with the conviction of a little boy who imagines himself as his favourite hero.
When Aleksandr froze in the middle of his routine, completely forgetting what came next, Kolia edged towards the floor, adjusted his costume, and began running through his lines. During the performance given by the heir apparent of the Bounine dynasty, Kolia glanced over at the jury table several times, but Pavel purposefully avoided his gaze. The young man in the ring put on quite a show, but it wasnât enough to distinguish him from the run-of-the-mill buffoons one could find anywhere. He was already a semi-professional clown â that was the problem. He had no interest in learning and he couldnât be taught.
It was Koliaâs turn. He walked to the centre of the floor, stood directly over the X that had been taped there, and faced the jury. He stepped into the splayed second position of ballet. He wanted to make it very clear to the jury that he knew what he was doing. He began his audition. Pavel had told him that the school was not necessarily looking for candidates who were funny â that could be learned at the school. What they were looking for was versatility and expressive range â in other words, a raw talent that could be shaped. Koliaâs first routine was completely mimed, borrowing heavily from Charlie Chaplinâs Tramp, which Pavel had described during rehearsals, and presaging Marcel Marceauâs arrival in the USSR in 1965. For ten
âIf you pass your auditions, I will introduce you to someone who can help you with your research. You can count on him,â Pavel said, drawing on his cigarette as they walked towards the school. âBut donât ask me to tell you anything about him.â Pavel walked Kolia to the entrance of the building, and left him with another instruction. âWhen the time is right, I will come and get you.â
Kolia slipped on his singlet and overalls in the menâs toilet on the ground floor. But this time he swapped his usual cap for the hat he had worn in the camp. He found the rehearsal hall and hopped up on a long table that had been set up at one end of the room, and crossed his legs beneath him. He pinned the number he had been given to his overalls and waited for someone to call his name. There were three other candidates in the room. The first was a guy from Moscow named Aleksandr. With his closely shaven head, he looked like a military recruit decked out in the uniform of an Italian clown. He had painted his face in the classic white-clown style, and his half-moon frown made it look like he had never smiled a day in his life. The second was also named Aleksandr. He hailed from the ballet, where he had injured his back lifting a ballerina who was a little heavier than he had expected. With his yellow wig and delicately applied makeup, he looked like a girl. The third candidate went by the name of Valery. At first glance, he looked like the perfect clown â costume appropriately understated, makeup carefully designed and applied, face expressive and mobile. Not to mention the ideal lineage for the job. He was Bounineâs nephew. But the master couldnât stand him. He was a pretentious little prick, the product of his sisterâs second marriage.
The jury was composed of three members: Bounine, representing the teaching faculty; Pavel, from the circus troupe; and the director of the school, Vyacheslav Alexandrovich Halperin. There would be five groups of candidates, one person would be selected from each group, for a total of five students who would be admitted to the school, according to the terms of the newly implemented selection procedure, which itself was already up for review.
Kolia drew a number from a hat. He was in the fifth group and would appear third, after the effeminate Aleksandr and Bounineâs nephew. He couldnât care less about his placement in the last group of the day; his confidence was soaring with the conviction of a little boy who imagines himself as his favourite hero.
When Aleksandr froze in the middle of his routine, completely forgetting what came next, Kolia edged towards the floor, adjusted his costume, and began running through his lines. During the performance given by the heir apparent of the Bounine dynasty, Kolia glanced over at the jury table several times, but Pavel purposefully avoided his gaze. The young man in the ring put on quite a show, but it wasnât enough to distinguish him from the run-of-the-mill buffoons one could find anywhere. He was already a semi-professional clown â that was the problem. He had no interest in learning and he couldnât be taught.
It was Koliaâs turn. He walked to the centre of the floor, stood directly over the X that had been taped there, and faced the jury. He stepped into the splayed second position of ballet. He wanted to make it very clear to the jury that he knew what he was doing. He began his audition. Pavel had told him that the school was not necessarily looking for candidates who were funny â that could be learned at the school. What they were looking for was versatility and expressive range â in other words, a raw talent that could be shaped. Koliaâs first routine was completely mimed, borrowing heavily from Charlie Chaplinâs Tramp, which Pavel had described during rehearsals, and presaging Marcel Marceauâs arrival in the USSR in 1965. For ten
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