Blackmail

And so, I descend further into my own past hell to make sense of it, to squeeze out the poison of cognitive dissonance from my brain. During those days, I would show up at the studio long before evening just so I wouldn't have to spend my own money on food, eating for free at the (still modern) buffet. There were queues; sometimes the food wasn't ready and you had to wait. They served those highest in their hierarchy first, and then the rest, but in principle, I didn't go hungry. I even drank delicious coffee, which was important to me—if the workday starts with coffee, life doesn't seem quite so grim.
I don’t remember anything about a contract or what the agreement was. My mother likely terrorized me about it over the phone: "Did you sign a contract? When is payday? When is your vacation? Make sure to ask and clarify all of this!" She called constantly, demanding that I call her back. When I told her I couldn't take my phone onto the territory, she remarked sarcastically: "Do they look into your underwear too?" It wasn't the underwear that stressed me out as much as the need to report to my mother and calm her down.
The day after the first "fixation" (the word used in the "Institute Staff Dictionary" to replace "filming"), I was at home with Ira after visiting the studio. Then Inna called and told me to get ready for a shoot because the casting of housekeepers for Dau was continuing, and a car would arrive for me soon. I was in anticipation.
By then, I had already seen the renowned cinematographer Jürgen Jürges walking through the studio several times. I was lucky enough to fall into the lens of his camera. I would greet him, and he would respond with a respectful nod. Ira and I talked about him; she said he had worked with directors like Wenders, Haneke, and Fassbinder. I didn't know those names yet; only in later years did I watch their films and come to value them highly—especially Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats the Soul and Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire (Jürgen shot the second part). Haneke's The Piano Teacher also left a profound impression on me, truly turning something over in my perception, even though it was very unpleasant to watch.
Later, in all that crazy, supposedly "cinematic" bustle, Jürgen was a beacon of light in a dark kingdom for me. The fact that he sometimes shot on film was a justification for my insane existence in those horrific places. Being filmed became a drug for me. The more I was filmed—and I say "was filmed" because my own will was entirely absent from the process—the more I wanted it, more and more, as much as possible.
I was driven half-mad by thoughts of what they would eventually choose from the filmed material during editing—which specific episodes they’d pick, how they’d cut them, and, most importantly, how they would squeeze all this richness into a mere two-hour film that they proudly planned to present at Cannes the following year. This riddle haunted me all the more as I realized just how much—how incredibly much—they were filming: the sheer volume of time, the different people, the situations I wasn't even a part of. But I always trusted Jürgen Jürges; if he was involved in this madness, then it had to be worth it.
So, on the evening I’m writing about, we three selected candidates for the housekeeper role were invited to an evening at Dau’s, which he was spending with a childhood friend visiting for a couple of days. I don’t remember how long we stayed there, but it wasn't very long, and we were soon ushered out. There’s not much point in describing what has already been released and is available online; I have little to add to what is on the screen. Everything centered around Maria and Dau, while we simply provided a backdrop for their relationship in the frame. But once again, I was there changing into another flowing chemise and then back again, getting to know two other girls better—Nastya (whom I will dwell on in detail later) and Katya. While we were in makeup, Katya mentioned that Ilya was a student of Marlen Khutsiev (who directed Ilyich's Gate, for example).
We did a bit of rearranging, whipped something up in the kitchen, and, it seems, sat down together at the table to drink and have a bite. I especially overdid it, portraying a hungry Soviet girl gorging herself on food. Dau's request for me to make a toast caught me with my mouth full; I spent a long, long time trying to chew and swallow. Alexey, who was also with us and who, according to the plot, had organized the whole thing, remarked that when clinking glasses, one must look eye-to-eye. I did so from then on and noticed that his eyes were cunning, utterly devoid of shame. I, too, was smiling, captivated by the atmosphere they had created.
The following day, however, things became more interesting for my fate and the fate of my ill-fated character. Ilya caught me somewhere and struck up a conversation.
"Anya, did you like Comrade Dau? Did you find him pleasing?" he asked cheerfully.
"I liked him very much!" I replied brightly.
"And Comrade Trifonov?"
"I haven't figured him out yet."
He told me that, if the opportunity arose, I should tell Alexey Trifonov what I had told Ilya himself during the casting—that I enjoy submitting, that it’s some kind of irrational craving of mine. I didn't ask "why?" and I didn't object. If the director said so, then so it must be.
Preparation once again, changing clothes, and there I am—in a lilac dress, carrying a 1950s handbag and a set of instructions I’d been handed—entering the territory of the Institute. I sit on a bench and read this paper while waiting my turn for further selection. The memo said something like this: Every Komsomol girl must always be ready to satisfy a scientist engaged in important work for the Motherland. This sentiment was fleshed out over an entire page, even featuring some kind of illustration. I thought: "Well, well." And this was right after Ilya had asked if I liked each of these characters. I was already a bit frightened to imagine what would come next. At the same time, my excitement only intensified (though it felt like it couldn't possibly go any further).
Shortly after, I was called to D1. This was the "Scientists' Apartment." In terms of total volume and area, it was the same as Dau and Nora’s, but it was partitioned into many, many small rooms, each with one or two beds. Alexey Trifonov invited me into one of them while the three-man camera crew in black filmed us. A small dark wood table was set there with two bowls of ice cream, a chocolate bar, and perhaps something else.
Much of that conversation has faded, but I clearly remember pouncing on the ice cream while he asked if I had read the memo and if I agreed with what was written. I said I was ready to satisfy Dau at any moment because I loved him, and that I adored submitting to men I love. "By the way, where is Dau himself? Will he come? Please, call him!" I convinced myself that everything was under control; Trifonov and I weren't in some back alley on the edge of town, but on a film set with producers and a crew from various countries, and everyone around was "sane" (except perhaps Trifonov, who was getting carried away—which always amused me).
Before this, though I don’t remember the exact day, Vera and Ilya had displayed the height of "concern" for their staff. They called one of us while Irochka and I were out for a late-night walk in the Kharkiv Botanical Garden. We were having a relaxed conversation, talking about life, just catching our breath. Vera scolded us, saying they were worried sick because they were responsible for us, and if anything happened... well, how could we even imagine such a thing! Indeed, it wasn't for nothing that cars drove us home after dark.
But let’s return to D1, to Trifonov’s room on that summer evening. Alexey became intensely interested when I used the word "submit" and commanded me to "undress." I undressed, smiling all the while, teasing him with my cheerfulness and my readiness to do it without embarrassment. He asked how many men I’d had. "Sit on the bed." He approached me—naked, sitting on the bed—and pressed his torso slightly against me so that I was forced against the spot where his member was; it had become hard, and his Soviet trousers were clearly too tight for him.
Trifonov was loathsome. "You agreed to what was written in the memo yourself," he said reproachfully. I was taken aback for a second, even glancing toward the cameramen for a brief moment. But I quickly snapped my attention back to Trifonov: "I said that I love Dau. I cannot betray my love. For him, for his successful and noble work, I am ready to do anything. Only for him—not for you or the other scientists."
He stopped pressing me physically but continued the emotional assault: "Don't you understand that you must fulfill everything? You must satisfy the needs not only of Dau but of the scientists who work with him and support him. Otherwise, you won't be accepted HERE. You are exhibiting these bourgeois affectations—don't you see? They won't fly HERE."
I was no longer playing a role. In earnest, and with a heavy heart, I asked: "Does this mean I’ll be sent home for good?" He confirmed it and told me to think it over carefully. I sat naked on his bed and thought, while he stood or paced a little distance away. The silence stretched on.
I really started to wonder, even as they were filming me, what on earth was happening here and what I should do. I weighed my options: if they were truly going to kick me out of the project just because I wouldn’t blow Trifonov, then to hell with this project. Decision made, I thought, and said: "No, I still love Dau and will remain faithful to him. Let them kick me out, but I won’t betray him."
Alexey understood and seemed disappointed by those words; he commanded me to get dressed. While dressing, I broke off a piece of the chocolate bar lying on the table, pretending to be a poor, hungry Soviet girl who wouldn't be eating again anytime soon. "Take the chocolate with you." I tucked it into my character’s worn-out Soviet handbag. He said something sternly about me being too inhibited and how it wouldn't benefit me.
Then he escorted me to an authentic-looking, pristine Soviet car, put me inside, and told the driver to take me "to the Office" (in their newspeak, "the Office" referred to the modern office spaces separated from the sets by a checkpoint with two KGB-style guards). I was determined not to give in to emotional blackmail—not to do things that were unacceptable to me in real life.
After me, another candidate—either Katya or Nastya, I don’t remember—went to visit Trifonov. Meanwhile, Vera intercepted me near the entrance to the Office. Looking at me with admiring eyes, she said: "Well done! That was a brilliant move! 'I love Dau'—who would've thought! Go ahead and change back into your modern clothes for now, and later Ilya will talk to you about your future storyline."
A sense of relief washed over me immediately after those words, and Vera, of course, couldn't help but notice.