Two monsters

The end of filming was pushed back to mid-September. After meeting the "Old Dau," disturbing thoughts began to haunt me—especially in light of the rumors about the horrific surprise Khrzhanovsky had prepared for one of the girls who had lived and worked at the Institute for months before fleeing in the spring. They said he had planted an expertly crafted silicone mannequin of her friend, made to look as if she had hanged herself.
I also recalled an online review by a former project administrator who decided to quit after reading a script in which the Old Dau had sex with a young nurse. There had been no script for a long time, but still, I was terrified. It felt as though someone was going to force me to do something unacceptable. Or perhaps I simply didn't trust myself. I vaguely remember brooding over this; it gave me no peace. I even went out into the city for a long time specifically to think it through, to weigh all the pros and cons, to decide if I was ready to stay in such unpredictable and unjust conditions.
At one point, I pleaded with one of Ilya’s assistants, saying it would be better for me to leave—that I was useless here anyway, gaining nothing and only devolving. They tried to talk me out of it: "Ask Nora, or the English teacher; arrange to study the language with him. Develop yourself, take photos—everything depends on you."
Meanwhile, I spent hours standing outside the accounting office door, trying to get my next paycheck. In the end, they only paid me for a month and a half (though two years later, I was paid the full remaining amount because Radmila somehow vouched to oversee it). And as I wandered through Kharkiv, savoring my freedom, I reminded myself that this was all just a movie shoot.
During the first days of the old man’s presence, everything turned out to be exactly as terrifying as I had expected. Perhaps even more so, because I didn't fully realize how it was affecting me. Yet, it seemed to me that it was a thousand times harder for Nora than for me. At the same time, she had some kind of inner support, having participated in so many remarkable things before—like that ball set to Fedorov’s music where she and Dau first met, or their walk down a street that had been specifically torn apart, waking up the entire city just for a single scene.
But now, she had to wear the silicone that turned her into an old woman. She had to constantly persuade the old man to take a bath and help him with it (I had to take over once when she went on vacation). She had to help him undress, step over the side of the tub, hand him a towel, soap, a crystal, and do something else—I no longer remember exactly what. But I remember clearly that he was dissatisfied. Nora once told him that he had grown spoiled, that he’d forgotten what it was like in the nursing home—that this place was paradise for him and he should be grateful.
There were some foul scenes they filmed with the two of them, where she would read him One Thousand and One Nights and he would start touching her. Later, in Paris, I stumbled upon this scene. In response to his advances, she swats his hands away, flings the book, and says with raw honesty: "I HATE YOU." Then she switches off all the lights in the apartment, as if to say: Fuck all of you and your filming, I don’t want to go any further on this journey of yours.
There were many lamps, floor lamps, and chandeliers in D2 that either she or I would turn off at the end of the day, walking through the entire house. It was calming. Nora was constantly asking for chamomile tea and complaining of insomnia. Bulimia attacked us both. The only sweets in the buffet were oatmeal cookies, iris toffee, and chocolate, but we were constantly fighting ourselves not to succumb to the temptation of even these bland desserts—and we lost that battle to ourselves.
If initially, before the old man arrived, we often cooked interesting things together (I learned to make zucchini and eggplant spread and many other dishes), with the old man there, the desire to create and improvise vanished. We cooked only the simplest things or just ordered ready-made food from the buffet. There were phones in D2 from which I could call both Kharkiv and Moscow. I regularly called my friends and complained about how much I missed them, but I said I couldn't leave just yet.
On one of the filming days, Inna called me and asked me to lie down at Dau’s feet. I said "okay," but I never actually did it.
Once, during breakfast, Nora asked me: "Anya, could you live your whole life in this place?" It was a gray, overcast day of early autumn. We were having breakfast; I sat opposite the window with my coffee. I looked out, noting the sheer grayness and dreariness of the place. Years later, while watching Balabanov’s Of Freaks and Men, I would have a flashback during the scene where Liza looks out the window and says: "I hate him. I hate this city." My mind boggles when I try to imagine how anyone could live in this place for three years. Though, of course, it depends on one's status. It’s one thing to be the queen of the place, and quite another to be a maintenance worker. Yet, humans get used to anything.
I also had flashbacks later while watching Kubrick’s The Shining, especially after reading about the making of the film. The movie itself isn't as terrifying as the methods of the director who created it—the bullying of actors and creators. Though Kubrick and Khrzhanovsky are opposites in many ways. Kubrick did 128 takes, deliberately driving actors to madness, telling the crew not to compliment the actress, and screaming at her himself for wasting the team's time. Khrzhanovsky, however, gave no scripts to actors (who weren't even actors in real life), never screamed at anyone during filming—in fact, God knows where he even was. He simply observed the nightmares he provoked by clashing, for instance, dangerous people with those prone to self-sacrifice, filming in a single take to later select what he needed.
Once, Nora and I had to take Dau to the hospital for an eye exam. We put him in the car, dropped him off at the clinic—I don't recall exactly how we got him inside—and then went to have some ice cream. She treated me. It was an entirely different feeling—sitting not with "Nora," but with Radmila, in a modern, cozy cafe, eating ice cream and seeing her face come alive (that day, of course, she wasn't wearing the silicone). We even bought flowers to take back to D2. After a while, we had to pick up the old man and return together.
Amidst all this dark backdrop, a memory of a sudden, blinding light bursting into Nora’s and my life emerges with startling clarity. It was evening; a guest called. It turned out to be Denis Dau—Nora’s son, according to the script. Of course, I knew he was coming; it shouldn't have been a surprise, as the artists had previously worked meticulously on the nursery's decor. I had expected just some boy to show up and figured I wouldn’t care.
But it was as if the Sun had broken through the dense, perennial clouds in Bradbury’s All Summer in a Day. He was extraordinary—always smiling and laughing, so incredibly open that it’s hard to put into words. Back then, I didn’t understand people at all; now I realize he was just a raw, unprotected, massive bundle of nerves—an absolutely wide-open soul without any protective boundaries. I’m crying as I write this right now. And that’s how it should be—I need to weep out this pain, not keep it inside, let it go.
It felt as though we had known each other for a hundred years, maybe a thousand. Even the coldness that had grown between Nora and me was replaced by warmth, because now we were laughing all the time. She was conquered by him, too. In the film’s plot, she was his mother, so I sensed no ulterior motive and was absolutely happy. Interacting and laughing with him, I forgot everything else in the world.
Nothing frightened me anymore—not Nora, who herself became cheerful and came alive, nor the space itself. By the second day of his stay, he had filled the place not just with laughter and joy, but with live music. He insisted—demanded, really—that a piano be brought to D2 immediately. They tried to talk him out of it, saying "not now," but he wore them down and got his way. He performed music—whether his own compositions or the works of the great classics. I fell in love with his spontaneity, his genius, and his "monstrousness"—in the sense of being a wonder.
Khrzhanovsky once called us "Two Monsters" when he encountered us walking arm-in-arm somewhere in the Institute courtyard. I had no idea who he was in real life, and I didn't want to know. To me, everything was clear on an energetic level—this was a Genius.
I was struck by the contrast between his "village idiot" antics and an intellect far beyond his years (he was only twenty at the time). He knew history well and discussed Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander with us—a film I hadn't yet discovered. He insisted I watch the full five-hour version rather than the three-hour theatrical cut, exclaiming with raw intensity that it was "geniaaaa-l."
He infected me with a love for classical masterpieces like Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony and Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. These pieces would occasionally play over the Institute's radio, and he would urge me to listen closely to every movement. He pointed out the imagery: the triumphant, lumbering march, or the terrifying strikes of the bass drum—like a hammer symbolizing the machine of Stalinist repressions—followed by a sudden, carefree twittering of a flute, signaling a dawning light. I didn't need much explanation; I felt it instantly. Even now, I am amazed at how these works affect me when I replay them. There is so much pain and despair in that music, so much pitch-black darkness, yet there is hope, and a dawn breaks at the end. It turns everything inside me upside down, and my exhausted heart finally finds relief.
We also played cards, and he constantly asked me to make him cocoa. Even now, that phrase remains in my mind with 100% clarity: "Anya, please make me some cocoa!" He said it in such a cheerful, benevolent tone that I took immense pleasure in making it for him. It was the total opposite of my mother’s or Nora’s requests, which always carried the sting of a command or sarcasm, humilating the dignity of the person being asked.
Furthermore, he hilariously parodied Ilya Andreyevich—to the point of vulgarity—mimicking his voice and intonation: "Don't bother me, I'm with Sonechka" (this was a jab, because Sonechka looked like a skeleton wrapped in white skin). A day or two later, he said: "Anya, imagine, Ilya Andreyevich asks me, 'How is your relationship with your mother?' I say, 'Friendly.' 'And with Anechka?' 'Friendly too!'" (he flashed his wide, crazy smile and mockingly imitated Ilya’s self-satisfied laughter). But that was all before the events I am about to describe.