he obediently shaved his legs. Beneath the peacoat, he sported a sailorâs shirt and a pair of faux-tweed shorts.
Pavel wasnât sure. Bounine, on the other hand, was convinced it would work. And with Kolia mute, the risk was purely symbolic. In any case, they could always get around it.
The circus brought together an amalgam of exceptionally talented artists and athletes, some with conventional backgrounds and training, others who showed up out of nowhere. What they shared in common was self-discipline and commitment. The occasional refugee from the ballet or competitive gymnastics was sometimes accepted into the fold â mere mortals who had never risen to the level of accomplishment expected of them â but, in almost all cases, membership in the troupe was passed down from parent to child. It was in the blood. The troupe was a curious collection of human specimens, but it was a family. And, after a while, Kolia began to experience the same forthright friendship and healthy competition he had found in the workersâ hostel. But it couldnât compare to the deep fellowship he had known in the camp. There was no comparison to be made.
At the beginning of his apprenticeship, the others regarded him with suspicion. The word had spread that heâd spent time in the camps. Without makeup, his face would often scare the small children in the troupe. His forehead was traversed by a deep line, which was echoed on both sides of his face, with veritable fissures running down from his nose past his mouth, as well as down his cheeks. It looked like he was already wearing makeup. But in the ring, he was coming along well, and because of that, the others were willing to give him a chance. When Bounine finally announced that Kolia had been officially accepted as a member of the troupe, the others began to warm to him. By the end of his training program, during which Bounine relentlessly put him to the test, Kolia had proven that he was, indeed, an artist.
Tanya came to see him perform for the first time in 1965. She was still living with the same man. He had proposed to her some time ago, but she kept postponing the date and dragging out the engagement. She wasnât in love with him, but the relationship did afford her a somewhat privileged status and a certain level of protection. In the glare of the spotlight, Kolia was oblivious to the fact they were sitting in the front row. And that was probably a good thing.
As a trio, the Bounines were no longer constrained to brief appearances between acts and were now performing a completely new routine that featured two full sketches. They came on right after the high-wire act and were followed by a group of young contortionists. Bounine played the role of an absent-minded schoolteacher; Pavel and Kolia were his unruly students. Juggling a blackboard eraser and a piece of chalk, Pavel spun around and simultaneously crossed the ring in a perfect diagonal. Meanwhile, Kolia, the silent pickpocket, whose outlandish costume spoke to the audience on his behalf, casually began to help himself to the contents of Bounineâs pockets. A watch, a wallet, some candies, a piece of chalk, a cigarette, a box of matches, a handkerchief, and â the final indignity â Bounineâs suspenders. Kolia then disappeared through a trap door in the floor. Another exit had been built into a small swimming pool erected in the ring. Pavel dove in and disappeared as well. Bounine, now alone before his adoring public, began a five-minute professorial soliloquy, without any props other than the small dog that sat obediently at his side. At the age of sixty-five, he was still Moscowâs most beloved clown.
But the crowd hadnât seemed as receptive to the newest member of the Bounines as he had expected. Koliaâs entrance had created a palpable disturbance in the stands. People started whispering, and it was only the children in the crowd who had laughed â fortunately,
Pavel wasnât sure. Bounine, on the other hand, was convinced it would work. And with Kolia mute, the risk was purely symbolic. In any case, they could always get around it.
The circus brought together an amalgam of exceptionally talented artists and athletes, some with conventional backgrounds and training, others who showed up out of nowhere. What they shared in common was self-discipline and commitment. The occasional refugee from the ballet or competitive gymnastics was sometimes accepted into the fold â mere mortals who had never risen to the level of accomplishment expected of them â but, in almost all cases, membership in the troupe was passed down from parent to child. It was in the blood. The troupe was a curious collection of human specimens, but it was a family. And, after a while, Kolia began to experience the same forthright friendship and healthy competition he had found in the workersâ hostel. But it couldnât compare to the deep fellowship he had known in the camp. There was no comparison to be made.
At the beginning of his apprenticeship, the others regarded him with suspicion. The word had spread that heâd spent time in the camps. Without makeup, his face would often scare the small children in the troupe. His forehead was traversed by a deep line, which was echoed on both sides of his face, with veritable fissures running down from his nose past his mouth, as well as down his cheeks. It looked like he was already wearing makeup. But in the ring, he was coming along well, and because of that, the others were willing to give him a chance. When Bounine finally announced that Kolia had been officially accepted as a member of the troupe, the others began to warm to him. By the end of his training program, during which Bounine relentlessly put him to the test, Kolia had proven that he was, indeed, an artist.
Tanya came to see him perform for the first time in 1965. She was still living with the same man. He had proposed to her some time ago, but she kept postponing the date and dragging out the engagement. She wasnât in love with him, but the relationship did afford her a somewhat privileged status and a certain level of protection. In the glare of the spotlight, Kolia was oblivious to the fact they were sitting in the front row. And that was probably a good thing.
As a trio, the Bounines were no longer constrained to brief appearances between acts and were now performing a completely new routine that featured two full sketches. They came on right after the high-wire act and were followed by a group of young contortionists. Bounine played the role of an absent-minded schoolteacher; Pavel and Kolia were his unruly students. Juggling a blackboard eraser and a piece of chalk, Pavel spun around and simultaneously crossed the ring in a perfect diagonal. Meanwhile, Kolia, the silent pickpocket, whose outlandish costume spoke to the audience on his behalf, casually began to help himself to the contents of Bounineâs pockets. A watch, a wallet, some candies, a piece of chalk, a cigarette, a box of matches, a handkerchief, and â the final indignity â Bounineâs suspenders. Kolia then disappeared through a trap door in the floor. Another exit had been built into a small swimming pool erected in the ring. Pavel dove in and disappeared as well. Bounine, now alone before his adoring public, began a five-minute professorial soliloquy, without any props other than the small dog that sat obediently at his side. At the age of sixty-five, he was still Moscowâs most beloved clown.
But the crowd hadnât seemed as receptive to the newest member of the Bounines as he had expected. Koliaâs entrance had created a palpable disturbance in the stands. People started whispering, and it was only the children in the crowd who had laughed â fortunately,
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