Kolia by Perrine Leblanc

disappear.”
    â€œThat’s the way it was.”
    The old man felt the cold more than Kolia.
    â€œHis sister told me that you found a spot for him in the army.”
    â€œIt was his only chance,” the man said, trying to warm his hands under his armpits.
    â€œWas it you who told his sister?”
    â€œTold her what?”
    â€œThe truth.”
    â€œAbout the army? Yes, it was me.”
    â€œWhy did you do that?”
    â€œI was hoping that his sister knew more than I did. I thought he might have returned to Moscow. He was a very clever guy.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd nothing. It looks like he really did just disappear.”
    They were standing in front of his building, and it was clear that man wanted to go inside. “Do you want to know anything else?”
    â€œYes . . . I mean, no.” Kolia hesitated to say anything further, and instead pulled two tickets to the circus from inside his jacket and offered them to Orlov.
    â€œI stopped going to Moscow years ago. But that’s very kind of you. I will offer them to someone else.”
    Orlov turned around slowly and began to climb the stairs to the entrance, grasping the railing firmly. He caught his foot on one of the steps and stumbled slightly, almost tearing the sole off his shoe. When he finally disappeared inside, Kolia was still holding the tickets in his hand.

BRANDY
    BY THE 1970S, THE BOUNINES were on a roll. They were playing to packed houses every night, and wowing the crowds just like the original duo had done. Together, the three of them had established a tight-knit relationship in the ring — a relationship which Pavel’s bad habits began to test. As long as he kept his drunkenness within the confines of a tavern or his own apartment, while Masha was at school, Bounine could put up with his vices, but Pavel had begun to consider the ring as just another barroom. During rehearsals, he would sneak swigs of brandy, and in performance his breath was heavy with the smell of the alcohol he had consumed that day. The technical crew were all aware of Pavel’s drinking and, although they initially felt sorry for him, soon they began to complain openly about it.
    Kolia’s absence from the act during the tours outside the country had weighed on him heavily, so much so that on some nights he had staggered into the ring and performed blind drunk. Bounine had just been named the People’s Artist of the Soviet Union and he continued to draw big crowds. But he was seventy years old. Increasingly, Pavel found himself having to carry the act alone, while standing in front of an audience that had paid to see at least two members of the Bounines, and not just him. And, back in Moscow, things got worse. Pavel’s darkening mood and faltering judgement cost him an appointment to the directorship of the school. He began to drink with the determination of someone who was trying to drink himself to death.
    One morning, at the beginning of their collaboration as a trio in 1965, Bounine showed up at Kolia’s dressing room, sporting his trademark wry smile.
    â€œThere’s someone here to see you. He’s waiting over by the women’s dressing room.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œA director. The one who gave Yuri a part in his film.”
    Bounine had nothing but contempt for movies. As far as he was concerned, the camera only debased an artist’s performance, and wound up attracting the lazy and the narcissistic. Kolia was stunned by Bounine’s announcement.
    â€œHe’s got a part for me? That’s a laugh! I’ve never said a single word in the ring.”
    On the set, Kolia was told that he didn’t have any lines, in other words, he wouldn’t be acting. He was to strip off his clothes and run through the forest with a torch in his hand, and then walk into the river at the end of a collective pagan ritual, danced in absolute abandon. The camera would film them from a distance,