Finding No Doubles for Oneself

After a few days, Asya called and said: "It's urgent, you need to return to Kharkiv." And so, on a summer morning, I was back—they always paid for my train tickets. This time, as I changed and entered the Institute, I was filled with an inexpressible sadness. I felt terrible, utterly suppressed—especially after the expanse and the sense of boundless freedom I’d felt in the countryside, walking through fields and forests, swimming in the river, and talking heart-to-heart with friends.
To make matters worse, a "circus" was expected that evening—Alexey Blinov’s birthday, which they decided to celebrate at our place in D2. This meant endless work in the kitchen: chopping vegetables, washing dishes—things I always did reluctantly in my real life, if at all. If I ever tried to help my mother, it always ended in a fiasco; she would irritably tell me that I did everything backward, and she’d have to redo it all herself because everything I touched, I ruined.
And here, I had to psychologically break myself to help Nora (Radmila and the film crew, in fact, if we’re calling things by their real names). Teodor had already left this place for good, so Nora had established her own rules—no more "freedom and liberation" like Dau wanted; everything was to be within the framework of submission.
From here on, I’ll call her Nora, because she wasn't Radmila there—she wasn't herself. As she told me later, they had "processed" her, putting her through "trainings." Later, when I studied totalitarian sects and psycho-cults, I often encountered descriptions of such methods used specifically to suppress a person's will and subject it to the will of a "guru"—techniques like sleep deprivation (Nora hadn't slept for three days, for instance). Or being forced to stay in the constant company of the same person for a prolonged period (I don't remember exactly how long, but he mentally exhausted her to the point of frenzy).
So, I wasn't dealing with Radmila Shchegoleva anymore, for the most part, but with Nora—a character sculpted by the artist Ilya Khrzhanovsky from a living human being. Sometimes, however, she would turn back into Radmila. It was always unpredictable.
With sadness and total resignation, I did everything they wanted of me. But inside, I was thinking about whether I should run away from it all. I wanted to return to Moscow, or better yet, back to the countryside where I was expected—to carry out my own creative plans, to find people, and to shoot nude portraits.
At some point, the doorbell rang. I went to open it—it was a massive, heavy door with worn metal handles shaped like sickles. I opened it, and there were the musicians who were to perform at the birthday party. Some people had been walking around D2 earlier setting things up, so this wasn't a surprise. One of them asked my name. I said "Anya," and he replied, "And I'm Lyonya." He was so cheerful and kind that my heart felt significantly lighter. With him was another interesting man with lush long hair and a huge cello. They were so cool that I even enjoyed fulfilling their simple requests—like "is there any sausage?" for instance.
Still, I constantly had to return to my primary work in the kitchen. They were preparing for the concert. At one point, while chopping vegetables, I heard the measured, enchanting sounds of instruments in their hands. And suddenly, amidst it all, I distinctly heard something I had listened to many times before while walking through Moscow or Kharkiv with headphones on, reveling in their talent: "Boooo... bobeobi, bobeobi, boooo..."
My heart began to dance inside me. I realized that my favorite band, Auktyon, was right here in all its glory; they were rehearsing and about to put on a concert, and I would get to hear it! My internal happiness knew no bounds. At that moment, they were rehearsing one of my favorite songs, "Bobeobi." And I decided then and there: I would stay and work at the Institute, no matter the cost, no matter the effort, because such wondrous, magical energies were floating through this place—ghastly as it was.
To my horror and panic, the musicians eventually started packing up. It was decided to move the concert somewhere into the Institute courtyard, where I wasn't meant to be because of the seemingly endless amount of work I had. Inna walked through D2 and evidently read the terror on my face. She approached me, put her arm around my waist, and said tenderly: "The second part of the concert is yours." The horror that had gripped my heart dissipated, though a sense of loss and anxiety—the feeling that I was missing something vital—wouldn't let me go.
While everyone was at the concert in the courtyard, I would sneak out to eavesdrop. As I approached, I heard another of my absolute favorite songs—"Anchors" (Yakorya). I don't fully understand what it's about, but even now, in 2024, I still adore it. I sat on a bench and listened from a distance. I didn't dare get too close because two teams of "black angels" were scurrying back and forth. They would burst out of some dark nook of the Institute from time to time, replacing each other when the film in a camera ran out, then racing back to reload with fresh, unexposed stock. I was terrified of being caught—I didn't know what would happen. Now I realize nothing would have happened; they simply would have "fixed" my reaction—me eavesdropping on the concert with a look of absolute, positive awe.
I can't recall what other songs they performed outside. It was all on that same sunken plaza where outdoor experiments were usually conducted, where the Institute staff were gathered on special spectator benches. I remember there was orange sand underfoot, and our shoes left orange footprints in all the other locations afterward.
When the concert moved back into D2, I had already finished all my chores and could finally watch and listen in peace. Is it even worth repeating how breathtaking it was for me? I listened spellbound. Moreover, I heard a new piece of theirs—not exactly a song, but poetry set to music: "The Son" (Syn).
"I walked the streets, I searched for my son everywhere. But I found him nowhere, not even among the coastal rocks..."
Afterward, everyone celebrated the birthday; I spoke briefly with Vladimir Volkov. As they were leaving and saying their goodbyes, he said to me: "It was a pleasure to meet a namesake."
While they celebrated, I wasn't at the table with the others. But I saw them filming it—the scientists getting drunk, starting loud arguments, and so on. My memories are a blur; I only remember being desperately sleepy. For some reason, I ended up spending the night on the sofa. When I woke up in the midst of a sweltering, sunny summer day, I found a total mess—a huge, long table cluttered with dirty dishes, leftovers, and scraps. No one was around. Slowly, having nothing else to do, I began to clear it away. At some point, Nora returned and helped me.
In the following days, we simply lived together. I would clean, she would give me tasks, and after I finished them, she would praise me for the cleanliness. Sometimes, we would just sit in the armchairs in the kitchen, and she would start questioning me about various things in my life and my worldview, even asking philosophical questions, peering intently at me.
Now, listening to real stories about various relatively modern totalitarian sects that lure people in and take possession of their personalities, I realize that this warmed me—this attention, the questions about my private life, the philosophical inquiries. My mother had never been interested in me in that way—not as a person, a dynamic individual. To her, I am still just her "little child" who is obligated to listen to HER, but has no right to declare myself. Three days ago, while talking to my mother, I noticed that when I tell her something about myself, she doesn't react at all—it's as if I don't exist. But when she tells me something about herself, she closely monitors my listening; if I don't say "uh-huh" every two seconds and put on a surprised face, she becomes tense (raises her voice, moves her face closer to mine—in short, she applies psychological pressure).
I saw Ilya Khrzhanovsky rarely; it was as if I no longer existed for him. For my part, I was afraid of him and tried to stay out of his sight. Incidentally, during all those months, Ilya wore some extraordinary cologne—a scent I have never encountered anywhere else since. This smell triggered a whole storm of emotions within me: on one hand, attraction and euphoria; on the other, fear and a desperate urge to hide, just to avoid being caught in his line of fire.
Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of Ilya: sometimes he’d be walking through the Institute courtyard with Jürgen Jürges, discussing things in various locations; or he’d spend hours and hours talking with Nora. I felt jealous and envious of Nora—that she had such a large, significant role in the film, that she received so much attention. She wasn't just some replaceable "cog in the machine"; everything was already centered around her, and she was certain to be in the film that would be presented at Cannes. Sometimes I saw him checking the buffet menu and berating the waitresses.
He paid no attention to me, at most giving a brief greeting. I made no attempt to discuss anything with him either—not my feelings, and certainly not any creative proposals. It never even crossed my mind to suggest anything.
I no longer had to visit the buffet with a puppy-dog look, begging to be fed. Instead, I ordered food by phone for Nora and Dau at D2, and for them, only the most delicious meals were prepared. Nora, for her part, begrudged me nothing. Eventually, I was assigned to go into the city to handle the shopping for D2. Without even changing into modern clothes, I’d arrange things with a driver, collect cash from the accounting department—where they’d review the grocery list Nora and I had compiled—and head to the Kharkiv market.
I’d pick out meat, milk, kefir, and the fattest homemade cottage cheese from the old women because it tasted better; then sour cream, farm butter, honey, plenty of fruits and vegetables, and always a watermelon or a melon, sometimes both. I’d load everything into the car with the driver’s help. Back at the studio, everything had to be repackaged by a girl named Katya in the Catering Unit (Department "P"). She constantly played the same track by the band Piknik—"Finding No Doubles for Oneself." Katya was always very somber, focused on her own internal thoughts. I didn't distract her with idle chatter.
Later, once everything was wrapped in Soviet packaging, the supply manager (also named Valera, but a different, more respectable Valera) would carry it to D2. He’d also bring water whenever I called for it; or if not him, then Sasha and Valera—the protagonists of one of those scandalous films shown so far only at the Paris premiere.
Generally speaking, I began to put on some weight.
I spoke with few people besides Nora. It was as if I had become inconspicuous, invisible; no one showed any interest in me. But occasionally, something would happen. For example, on my way to the Office, Raisa Stepanovna, the buffet cleaner, would call out to me. We got to talking, and she turned out to be so lively! A real performer! She told me about her wild youth, how men used to fall at her feet in heaps—she had been such a beauty, so charismatic! I believed her willingly. She was also surprised at how well I got along with Nora; according to her, that woman had a terrible temperament, and no one before me could endure her—everyone had fled in hysterics. As for Ira, with whom I’d become friends earlier, we rarely spoke because we were both constantly busy—especially her. She was on her feet for ten hours a day (the buffet girls had to work that long, just like in Stalin's time), or even longer if there was a "fixation" or some other guest—damn them (I’m trying to keep my composure).
I also frequently had to deal with Sasha and Valera. To have the trash taken out of the apartment, I had to call one of them (I’d phone one of the departments). When Valera came, he would speak with such a touchingly shy air, his voice dropping to a whisper: "Anechka, is there... anything?" I quickly realized he meant booze. After the endless stream of guests, there was indeed plenty of alcohol left over. Even if there were no open bottles left, I would just take a full, sealed bottle and give it to him. I didn’t dare refuse him or send him away—what if he stopped coming to collect the trash? Well, judging by how he and Sasha sometimes slacked off, this was the only lever that made them do any work at all in the Institute.