Kolia by Perrine Leblanc Page A

and the music that had been chosen to support this scene of pagan free love — transpiring under the watchful eye of Andrei Rublev, a monk and painter of icons — would be unbearably bizarre. The director, a young man with a head full of stiff black hair and a brow that tensed into a deep crevice whenever he leaned in to his camera, had given his instructions. Stark naked and standing on his mark, Kolia began to wonder if Bounine wasn’t behind the whole thing.
    Andrei Rublev premiered inCannes, but was banned in the Soviet Union. The ban lasted for five years before it was lifted and the film officially rehabilitated. When it finally made its debut in Moscow in 1971, there was no mention of Kolia in the credits. A bureaucrat in the directorate responsible for censorship, who had followed Kolia’s career with great interest, had taken care of that. It was this man who sent Kolia an official invitation to perform at a Party function. Kolia politely turned him down; he would be on tour with the troupe in Kiev at that time. The official verified Kolia’s statement and found it to be true. “Until next time,” he said.
    Six months later, Kolia received another invitation from the same man, but this time it had the tone of a summons to appear. He racked his brain for a way to get out of this one, too, and came up with the not-so-bright idea (according to Pavel) of being fitted with a cast and faking a broken leg. It would lend the necessary credence to his most sincere apologies. I’m terribly sorry. The doctor has ordered me to rest. And with the help of Berine, the doctor who had treated the various ailments of the troupe for many years, that’s exactly what he did. After downing a stiff drink, Berine got to work, openly and heartily expressing his disdain for pencil-pushing apparatchiks. He was just the right man for Kolia’s little ruse.
    Pavel flatly berated him for being so bullheaded and for taking such a risk. For a full month, he refused to even speak to Kolia, unless it was absolutely necessary. Bounine, rather than criticizing him, suggested that it would probably be a good idea for him to limp a little more than he usually did, once the cast was removed. Someone would undoubtedly be keeping an eye on him.
    Kolia put in a completely credible performance. The official from the censorship directorate sent him flowers and even offered him a week of recuperation by the sea. As obsequiously as he could, Kolia turned the offer down, citing the Bounines’ daily rehearsals, which he was duty-bound to attend.
    Then he received another letter, advising him that the next official function would be held at the end of June. Kolia was giddy and started thinking up another pretext which would allow him to avoid what was now clearly his duty to the Party. But this time, the old master put his foot down and demanded that Kolia accept the invitation.
    â€œIt won’t kill you,” Bounine admonished, making it very plain that if he kept on acting like a smartass, he’d wind up in a two-bit circus. “I don’t want to lose you. I’m too old to start all over again with a new student.”
    Kolia bowed to his wishes. His broken leg healed right on schedule, and when June arrived, solely out of respect for Bounine, Kolia dutifully clowned around on stage for an auditorium full of the Party faithful. As he moved through the lobby, which was swarming with Party bigwigs, he simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to acquire a few watches. The clown, camouflaged in a tuxedo, hardly raised an eyebrow.
    As he walked home that night, Kolia concluded that performing in the ring was a lot more satisfying than mounting a frontal attack on an army of inebriated, rosy-faced apparatchiks. Stealing the watches (which he had happily forgotten to return to their owners) had made the whole ordeal much more agreeable. As he crossed over the Moskva, he gaily jettisoned the watches into the