First shoot

In the following days, I came to the studio every day. I studied history while lying on a sofa or sitting at a desk, writing my biography. It’s cringey now to remember that biography; I based it on the life of a real woman who lived at that time and was born in 1932, just as my character was supposed to be. Since the plot was set in 1956 and I was 24, I had to work from that birth year, adapting my real life to that era. I didn't know how to translate "landscape architect" into 1956, so I chose to be a female geologist.
When the time came for the directors to read this biography, things took a brutal turn. That day, I was dressed up, my hair was styled, makeup applied, and I was sent to Ilya’s office. He wasn't smiling anymore. He was trying to figure out how I could be "useful" to the Institute—what I could actually do there. He subjected me to an interrogation that felt like a strict teacher grilling a schoolgirl who hadn't prepared for her lesson.
"What do you actually do with your life?" he asked, his voice dripping with irritation and contempt.
"Well, technically, I’m a landscape architect by education," I mumbled, completely caught off guard. For some reason, there was no more talk of me being a photographer. Likely because I didn't feel confident in that field yet and couldn't imagine what I would photograph in the Institute; I was convinced I wouldn't be able to handle it.
The conversation led nowhere, and Ilya dismissed me. Но as I left the office and walked through the studio with Ilya following behind me, something horrific happened. Ilya began to scream hysterically at the top of his lungs at everyone sitting in the studio: "What the hell is going on here? Have you all lost your minds? What are these prostitutes doing sitting here?" followed by something else that felt, to me, completely incoherent.
Those sitting in the studio froze in a sort of anticipation. No one answered, no one reacted, no one objected—they just stared at him. I remember Inna was there, and she just watched with a look of apprehension and a kind of resignation.
What happened to me right after that—kill me, but I don't remember! It’s possible I went down to the makeup room or somewhere else and got into a conversation that distracted me from my fright, pain, and embarrassment.
Some time later, I recall an episode within the sets: Ira—who by then was working full-tilt as a buffet girl in the Institute—and I were talking. She shared that she had tried to speak with Inna about changing her role from a buffet girl to something else because she didn't enjoy it. Inna’s response was that if she wasn't the buffet girl, she wouldn't be in the project at all—something to that effect.
Then, it was my turn to have a conversation with Inna. She told me that the protagonist was holding a casting for housekeepers that evening and asked if I wanted to participate. I thought it was an interesting idea and agreed. It was already the end of June, and filming was scheduled to wrap up on August 26th. I figured I could easily hold out for a couple of months.
And so, it begins… several days, or rather evenings and nights of filming in which I took part. Every evening Inna calls and says: "Anya, there’s a shoot today, you need to come." A bit later: "Anya, a golden Hyundai (or some other car, depending on which driver they found, but for some reason, the golden Hyundai is stuck in my memory) is waiting for you at the entrance." And I am driven to the studio.
There, they pick out a lilac dress for me—poor, but very sweet—and undergarments: a slip, panties, a bra, a garter belt, and stockings. Everything is meticulously thought out. They work on my hair for a long time, then show me to Ilya, who demands: "Show me the underwear," and I lift the hem of my dress for a second. He asks more questions, like where I’m going. I answer that I’m going to an interview (I probably didn't use the word "casting" to avoid his wrath, as it didn't exist in the 1950s) with Dau, who needs a housekeeper.
They also hand me "my biography" printed on old-fashioned paper (actually new paper, but with a period-accurate texture—not bright white, not thick). But it wasn't my biography; it was something the team had invented for me—I don’t know who exactly. Eh, I should have asked: "Who came up with all this?" But back then, I didn't know how to ask questions. In my childhood, from my mother, teachers, and later from bosses at work, I often heard the phrase: "Don't ask stupid questions." I grew into a person who very rarely asks anything or shows independent interest. Whatever is handed down from above—that is what interests, and eventually, impresses me.
In this biography they forced on me ("This is your life"), it was written:
"Born December 9, 1932, in the village of Tushino, Moscow region. In 1946, joined the All-Union Leninist Communist Young People's League. In 1949, graduated school. Entered the Moscow Forest Engineering Institute. In 1954, upon completion of studies, began working as a housekeeper for the Head of the Department of Botany and Plant Physiology."
Now, looking back, I feel deeply resentful, but at the time, there was no room for resentment. I was surrounded by makeup artists, costume designers, and prop masters; I felt like we were simply about to shoot a movie. I even had a pass that identified me as an "Actor," and on the back, it listed the film studio "Phenomen Films" alongside a long list of production companies from various European countries. This reassured me; it made everything seem under control.
There were several girls cast as "actors," and all of them were being prepared. One by one, they entered the territory of the Institute. Finally, my turn came. I was told to walk to Unit D2 (the quarters where Dau and Nora lived) but not to enter yet—just to wait outside the entrance until invited.
I sat on a stylish, uncomfortable bench—its surface wasn't flat but pyramidal—under a starry sky framed by the Institute’s vaults, which exuded totalitarian, vulgar, and pornographic pretensions. I waited with rapturous anticipation. For me, these were breathtaking sensations; I imagined myself in the novel The Master and Margarita, waiting for an invitation to Woland’s ball. I wasn't Queen Margarita, of course, but her housekeeper, Natasha.
It was warm outside, and a pleasant night freshness filled the air. I even thought I heard birds singing somewhere, though it was unclear where they could have come from—the entire structure was lifeless, save for a couple of small patches overgrown with weeds. I peered into the windows of D2, trying to see what was happening inside. Something was clearly going on, but the view was poor. And then, finally, a girl (another candidate like me) exited D2, and I was invited to enter.
…
I was let in by the historian Alexey Trifonov—a "scientist," as they called them at the Institute. It turned out I had been in this room before, when it was pitch black, during the time Chucha and I went out onto the balcony. But only now did I see it clearly for the first time, and it struck me: the wooden floor made of dark timber blocks, a grand wooden staircase with alcoves for vases, dark massive wooden columns. There was a life-sized metal sculpture of a horse—immovable and heavy—and a sculpture of a dark-skinned slave in a loincloth holding a lamp. Luxurious furniture—a sofa and armchairs—and a table and chairs of unusual shapes, all made of dark wood. Dim mirrors hung in heavy, dark frames.
Sitting in one of the plush armchairs, for some reason, was a tipsy Anatoly Palych. He reminded me of the hog from The Master and Margarita—the one ridden to the ball by Natasha, the maid. In the novel, Natasha had decided, like her mistress, to rub on Azazello’s cream, which made her light and airy; she even smeared some on her neighbor, who had come to return Margarita’s blue chemise and saw Natasha naked and flying. This Anatoly Palych was the type who constantly forced his company on everyone when drunk, so he was quickly ushered out—though he managed to catch a glimpse of a few things before he went.
Teodor Currentzis sat at the massive table in the living room, costumed as an aging Dau. We exchanged greetings, and the "interview" began. I was accompanied, by the way, by a team of "black angels." I didn't look at them, but it was clear there were three: one held a heavy cinema camera on his shoulder, which emitted the rhythmic sound of winding film; the second adjusted the focus; and the third held a large boom microphone. I intuitively understood that I wasn't allowed to look at them, so I kept my eyes on Dau.
He asked me to undress completely and put on a beautiful blue silk chemise that was hanging on a chair, adding that I shouldn't put on slippers. I followed his request. Then, he asked me to go to the kitchen and make tea. In that very chemise, barefoot, I walked across the luxurious wooden floor to the kitchen through a large archway in the living room. There I saw an ordinary Soviet gas stove, a sideboard of massive dark wood, an alcove with glass doors, and a white sink encased in black tiles. The kitchen floor was a continuation of the living room floor. In the sharp corner of the kitchen (yes, the room was triangular, not rectangular) stood two huge Soviet refrigerators, which could be seen from the large window outside.
I felt lost in all of this. The gas stove had to be lit with matches, and back then, I was afraid of lighting gas stoves (I grew to love it later). I don’t remember if I washed my hands. I asked Dau to help me light the stove and to explain where everything was. He explained without any pleasure, saying things like, "It's right here, why didn't you look here? Everything is simple. Did you look there? No? Why not? You're in charge here now." With great difficulty, I managed to make the tea and brought it to him.
Then he pointed out a bucket and a rag and asked me to wash a section of the living room floor while simultaneously reading Pushkin’s verses from a volume he handed me. I obeyed. Afterward, he asked me to sit across from him at the table and fixed his gaze on me. He said I was a very interesting and good person, and though he disagreed with my interpretation of Pushkin’s poem, he found it very intriguing. I must say, I didn’t feel those verses at all—I don't even remember which poem it was—because it’s difficult to be on your knees, washing the floor, and reading poetry at the same time.
It is very hard to judge my personal feelings toward him, because he wasn't himself then; he was someone made-up and costumed, dressed in some Soviet behemoth of a gray suit with a red star on his chest, playing a part. I couldn't see the man, the real Teodor, behind the mask. He had no intention of showing himself to me, because I was already wearing a mask myself—portraying not my true self, but a poor Soviet girl who didn't realize her own worth as a person, someone who desperately needed a job from a wealthy man.
After a brief conversation, he told me to change back into my clothes and leave. My things were hanging on the back of the chair where I had placed them, replacing that luxurious blue chemise which shone like a diamond against the backdrop of their squalor. It took me a long time to get dressed because I wasn't yet used to Soviet undergarments—fastening the bra, the garter belt, and clipping on the stockings. They irritably told me to hurry up.