The Dead House

By the end of the 1956 block, I had only three outfits. First, my lilac "dress" attire in which I had first entered Dau’s house; it drew displeasure from the higher-ups whenever I wore it in daily life. Second, that "suffocating" work uniform, as I call it, which I was required to wear with an apron. Third, they issued me a "going-out" outfit from the 1950s—neat, but utterly boring and lifeless: a striped blouse, a skirt, and a jacket in shades of mouse-gray. Oh, and a fourth—a striped house dress with wide bands of mouse-gray and brown. In Department G (Makeup), they gave me the simplest hairstyle imaginable; I don’t recall there being any makeup at all.
In the beginning, my Kharkiv friend Nastya—the one I had "turned in" during the prison episode—would come to visit me at the studio. But eventually, her pass expired, and we only met in Kharkiv after I asked Nora for permission to spend the night at Nastya's. Sometimes Nora would even say: "Anya, if you want, you can go to Nastya’s, just make sure you aren't spotted in the Office."
When we were filming, Nora was harsh, and I feared her intensely—almost as much as I feared my own mother. Although I know my mother very well and didn't know Nora at all, I projected much of my mother onto her. Unconscious, deep-seated patterns would involuntarily click into place in my behavior toward her.
Despite Ilya Andreyevich’s words—"You can do anything you want in this space, even fuck a lion, as long as you stay in character" (a phrase he said not to me personally, but to one of my companions)—I followed the scripts dictated by my body. I succumbed to feelings of shyness, fear, and the anticipation of something unpredictable. With my mother, you never know how she will react to your words, or which of those words she will later use against you, seizing upon your weakness to wound you morally. Only when I was very sick was she kind, attentive, and—most importantly—predictable.
In my interactions with Nora, it was impossible to detach myself, to remember that this was all just a game, and to act boldly or improvise freely. On top of that, I was terrified of breaking the totalitarian rules of the space or accidentally "falling out of character."
Furthermore, I developed an inferiority complex simply because I wasn't doing anything creative; I was just existing according to the stereotypes imposed on me. I remembered back in April, when Asya called me for the second time before the casting, she asked if I liked taking risks. I had replied: "It depends. Jumping with a parachute or doing something extreme—no. But in life? Yes, I’m quite the adventuress." Back then, it felt like that was exactly what hooked them.
But now, it seemed I had lied to them all. I wasn't rebelling; I wasn't manifesting my spirit of adventure or inner freedom in any way. When visitors came to D2, I behaved exactly as a typical housekeeper should—downtrodden and obedient. I was terrified that while I was mopping the hallway floor (which looked like marble to me), someone would walk in and catch me in that ridiculous occupation, in that hideous garment, in that repulsive pose with an old wooden mop and a rag. (In school, we had to take turns on "duty," mopping the floors with the exact same rags and mops).
As long as no one saw my work, I even found myself meditating while I cleaned. And I was deeply ashamed of this. However, I didn't need to fear that this would be suddenly filmed; "fixations" never started unexpectedly. They always began toward nightfall and ended in the early morning. The music that usually played throughout the Institute would be switched off, and massive outdoor lighting would kick in, emphasizing the particular, haunting spirit of the Institute.
My feelings of shame and inadequacy were amplified by Nora’s endless, varied outfits—including a luxurious fur coat made of some exotic beast—which she flaunted whenever guests arrived. The guests, too, wore outfits that, while not ostentatious for the time, were respectable and emphasized their status in "society." Whenever events took place, Nora was the guest of honor, while I was merely the one obligated to serve them all. She had a wardrobe full of clothes; I had only three or four hanging on a chair that I’d fought to claim for myself—though I’d often have to give it up when the house was full and someone had nowhere to sit. Inna eventually mentioned that I needed a cabinet of my own, but that remained a hollow promise.
And it wouldn't have been so bad if these were just fictional roles, but they weren't just roles in a movie—they were roles in life. She was the protagonist of the film being shot, while I didn't even know if I’d make it into a single episode (the extras, sure, but I didn't agree to suffer like this just for that). When she was genuinely indignant with me, her gaze seemed to say: "What are your petty sufferings compared to mine? I've been living here for years." And I thought to myself: "Are you out of your mind, mother? You have the lead role, everyone is running circles around you, and I’m a nobody here! When the film comes out, everyone will notice you; your image will remain for all eternity, while mine will sink into the silt of oblivion."
Furthermore, tutors came to teach her English; she practiced yoga with Samson, who visited her (I was forbidden from having guests), and all of this was filmed—for what purpose, I don't know. As for me, it was as if I didn't exist to any of them. Oh, there's some loser who's clinging to the project, ready to clean and help Nora—splendid!
It's also worth emphasizing that for the sake of this project, I gave up studying English back in the real Moscow—studies my friend had paid for and likely would have continued to fund if I hadn't bailed. On this project, I constantly heard English being spoken; there were many translators. This, too, made me feel inferior, fueling my self-reproach for being absolutely nothing among THEM.
In my free hours at the Institute, I preferred to lie on my bed (or sometimes on the sofa in the living room when the house was empty) and read. I finished Hugo's Les Misérables and intended to reread Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov—an ancient, pre-revolutionary edition that still used the "hard sign" (Ъ) at the end of words—but Nora took it from me because she became engrossed in it herself. I also tried reading Notes from a Dead House, which drew a laugh from one of the Institute’s architects who hung around and, having developed a crush on me, looked for excuses to chat. He wasn't a character, but according to the rules, anyone entering the sets had to be dressed appropriately and approved by the director. Nora disliked him immensely; she once compared me to a cat and him to a tomcat prowling around, while I lay on the bed, "sophisticatedly seducing" him. The architect told me: "That book is very much in the spirit of this place."
I never did finish it then; instead, I lost myself in Chekhov—The House with the Mezzanine, Ward No. 6, The Black Monk. Every day, I waited only for the moment I could finish my chores and retreat into the world of books while lying in bed. When it was time to stop lying down and actually do something, I could barely talk myself into it: "Just a couple more minutes... okay, just a couple more... one more minute..."
Meanwhile, they started renovations in D2 to prepare for the new block—1966. Extensive painting was underway throughout the Institute; it was being repainted, designs were being debated and redone. Nora left for a while, and I was forced to live almost entirely alone in D1—the scientists' quarters with its many rooms. Almost everyone had left by then. Even the local housekeeper had gone on vacation. So, I lived there, cleaned, and breathed in the paint fumes from the renovation. I wondered how they planned to finish filming by August 26th. Why I didn't leave during that time, I don't remember. But soon Nora returned and occupied one of the rooms as well. The renovation felt like it lasted an eternity.
Eventually, we were moved back into the updated D2. The walls were no longer powder-pink but a gloomy brown. The massive wooden bed with its enormous mattress was moved from Dau's room to the nursery, where Beatles posters appeared on the walls. A gramophone with numerous records arrived, and the walls there turned blue. Meanwhile, a striped "bed"—if you could call it that—moved from the studio into Dau’s room; in its contours, it resembled nothing so much as a coffin with low sides.
Around that time, I frequently encountered the artist Denis Shibanov, the mastermind behind all these sets. With his large, seemingly frantic eyes, he was always rushing somewhere, clearly driven by some mad idea.
In Department K, I was asked to try on several of Nora's old dresses; some were approved, tailored slightly, and issued to me. They also gave me a luxurious (as it seemed to me then) floor-length gray robe, another short but wide flowery turquoise robe, and a beautiful chemise with ruffles. However, I was still required to wear those same ugly, flat black slippers—unlike Nora, who had elegant ones with heels. In the makeup department, they spent quite a while selecting a new hairstyle for me and applying makeup to age me visually by eight years (by 1966, my character was supposed to be 32), or perhaps even more.
As time went on, people began trickling back into the Institute. Many characters I had never seen before appeared: young mathematicians, very good-natured and devoid of the snobbery often inherent in the old intelligentsia. They were kind to me, leaving treats they had prepared themselves, accompanied by touching notes: "So sorry we missed you, but we really wanted to share what we’ve cooked up here." There were also some young girls whose roles in the Institute remained a mystery to me. They all lived in D1 with the older scientists—a sort of communal apartment. Like Nora and me, they stayed overnight at the Institute rather than going back to the city like the buffet girls.
By the way, speaking of dirty laundry (if I'm going to air it, I might as well air it all!)... I wasn't required to wash anything there myself. I just had to change the bed linens regularly and take them to the laundry (some department, I don't recall the letter). You could also drop off worn clothes there and return the next day for fresh ones.
Nora’s makeup now took an immense amount of time. Every day, for hours on end, she stayed in Department G. There, Katya Ertel—some world-renowned makeup artist—used special silicone, creams, and paints to transform a young, beautiful woman into an old one. The young Radmila was forced to wear all this "gear" for long hours whenever a "fixation" was expected, or even when important guests simply visited the Institute.
Then came one loathsome day when "Office people" were scurrying about D2, discussing something with grim, somber eyes. Something ominous was in the air. They wheeled a wheelchair into D2. Shortly after—hardly long enough for me to process what was happening—they brought in a semi-blind, lame old man in that very wheelchair. He was dressed in clothes similar to Teodor’s and had a hairstyle resembling Teodor’s when he played Dau.
As it turned out later, this old man had been taken from a nursing home, promised that they would pay for a complex eye surgery. The old man was accompanied by Alyona, Ilya's assistant, and Asya. Then everyone left, and the three of us remained: Nora, the old man, and me. Nora hadn't said a word to me beforehand; I was struck by how she accepted it all as a matter of course and led the old man to the second floor, to his "deathbed."