Kolia by Perrine Leblanc

management demanded to see the sketch before they would authorize it. The director decided that he could burn exercise books, but not books. They suggested that a bucket of water be poured on the fire from a great height, not only to extinguish it rapidly, but to leave the two clowns soaking wet, thereby providing the requisite comic element. Kolia flatly refused. The idea was an unforgiveable cliché used by clowns in American circuses. He was reminded that burning books was morally and politically questionable, and Kolia replied that the books he would burn hadn’t been written yet. When asked why he wanted to do this, Kolia answered simply, “Because.” He turned on his heels, convinced of the power he now held, and walked out of the office, his costume under his arm, and his makeup kit in hand.
    That year, images of Gorbachev, with his birthmark stealthily erased, began to appear in official photographs released to the media, and in propaganda. Walls plastered with posters of Madonna and New Order would soon be giving him a run for his money.

PART THREE

THE STATUE
    KOLIA’S LIFE CAME TO A CROSSROADS at the intersection of two worlds that had nothing to do with each other. As the country began to collapse in on itself, his personal life exploded. The act with Yulia had been born under Andropov. They had fine-tuned it under Gorbachev. And it came apart in 1987.
    During the four years of the duo, Masha’s marriage slowly disintegrated and Kolia watched as she lost weight, like someone who had contracted AIDS. Her bones began to jut out from beneath her skin, and dark circles formed under her eyes. Her emaciated body was frightening to look at. At the beginning of this illness in her head, as she liked to call it, she was outraged to see that her thighs touched, whenever she stood in front of the mirror and she studied herself. She saw herself as fat, even though her skin clung to her bones like a bedsheet. There was still too much flesh on her body, still too much of her. She had a job as an elementary school teacher, but her fatigue kept her at home for a good part of the year. Her thin frame prevented her from becoming pregnant, and couples without children paid higher taxes. She was as infertile as a mule, and her husband treated her like one.
    One Friday night, Kolia was having dinner with Masha and her husband. Aleksandr had contacts in Moscow. He was someone Kolia didn’t want to say too much to; it was better to keep a polite distance. He mentioned that he had a friend named Igor, someone who got a hard-on every time he heard the national anthem, but who was wasting away in his bureaucrat’s chair, decorated but disabled. Apparently, Igor knew Kolia.
    â€œHe obviously likes the circus. That’s always good to hear,” said Kolia.
    Aleksandr smiled as he exhaled smoke from his cigarette, balancing his chair on two legs with his back against the wall.
    â€œNo, he’s not particularly fond of it. He thinks the circus is for kids. He came across your name in a file recently. It appears you were looking for someone during the ’50s or ’60s?”
    â€œIosif.”
    â€œA friend from the camp?”
    Masha told her husband to shut up. Aleksandr poured himself a glass of wine. He smiled at her smugly and didn’t say another word. But when she got up from the table to fetch the soup, he began to berate her openly, as if he’d suddenly decided that it was time to make this little pastime of his public.
    Kolia waited until Masha was in the kitchen, and then he quietly got up from his chair, reached across the table, and grabbed Aleksandr by the collar.
    â€œIf you talk to her like that one more time, if you continue to treat her like a dog, I will cut you up in little pieces and make soup out of you.”
    He let him go and sat down, but got right back up again and reached across the table one more time. This time, he jammed his index finger into