Meet the Killer

I expected the filming and my participation to end on a specific date—mid-September, then early October, then mid-October—before I finally realized there was no certainty at all. It could go on forever, as long as Ilya’s imagination held out. I understood then that I had to decide for myself when to leave, rather than relying on some schedule or plan. My resolve to go to the very end was periodically replaced by doubt: "Maybe I should just grab my bag and bolt to Moscow right now." Even when Denis was still by my side, I’d say to him right in front of the camera: "Let's run away together!" and laugh. But the urge to escape was just as strong as the curiosity to see it through to the end. I had no idea what that "end" would be, and I didn't even try to imagine it. I was convinced that if I left now, I would later kick myself for giving in to a temporary weakness.
So, when I went out into the city and walked with music in my ears (Auktyon had eventually been replaced by Rammstein), I thought with a mix of euphoria and pathos about returning to this theater and living my role to the finish, refusing to leave the stage on my own. Even if I die there, well, let them film it effectively. That would be powerful, I smirked to myself. Still, I managed to beg for a four-day break in early October—after two and a half months of working without a single day off—and received a pitiful pittance of a payment.
Once Kolya left, Nora wouldn't let me sleep in his bed anymore, and there was no one left to protect me. So, whenever possible, I would go into the city to stay with Nastya for the night. While Nastya slept, I’d sit at her laptop in headphones for a while, listening to the popular songs Kolya had composed and performed. I loved the simplicity in them—a modern, simple life without any of the "grandeur of art" that demanded sacrifice and suffering. There was a certain poignancy to them, despite being "pop," a genre I hated back then (and he disliked them too, considering himself a hostage to their popularity). At the same time, his classical music was so talented—he was in his final year at the conservatory then, writing an opera about Janis.
The deeper I immersed myself in the so-called "Soviet," the more I craved everything modern. I desperately wanted to go home—to get a modern job with a schedule that didn't consume my entire self, to attend exhibitions in Moscow, to visit friends, to wear whatever clothes I wanted, to buy the furniture I chose for my own room. To finally reclaim myself. And I desperately wanted to talk to Kolya outside of this masquerade, to know the real him and to introduce him to the real me.
On one quiet day, free from any "fixations," Nora went to the orphanage to visit the young boy who played Denis as a child. Though I didn’t know the boy personally, only through her occasional stories, I could feel that she was deeply affected by his story—as if she had tamed this child and now felt responsible for him, making it her duty to visit. I was left alone in the apartment, save for the immobile Dau; unlike Nora, he wouldn't suddenly appear without warning—he would call out or ring his bell if he needed anything.
For a brief moment, I could relax. I locked the front door, changed out of my work dress into my beautiful chemise and the lovely turquoise floral robe, opened a bottle of champagne myself, and headed to the nursery. After that time Trifonov had ordered me to open champagne and pour it for them, I was no longer afraid of it; I actually enjoyed "firing" the cork into the space. It’s a pity I couldn't open dozens of bottles; I truly felt the need to fire off a good many shots. But since that wasn't an option, I had no choice but to drink this one bottle.
In the nursery, I played all the records I could find in the room on the gramophone. Among them, I found Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, which Kolya had brought to my attention, and listened to it while reminiscing about our joyful meetings. The warmest parts of our relationship remained off-camera. On screen, we were like two lost, overgrown children. I missed his magnificent hands, his fingers dancing passionately across the piano keys, extracting living works from that lifeless behemoth—melodies that flew out like spirits and dissolved into the space, further fueling its incredible atmosphere. For every person at the Institute, he would improvise a melody that captured their unique character.
At night, if I didn’t go to Nastya’s, I would wait until Nora fell asleep in her bed upstairs. Then I would sit on the windowsill in my room with the window wide open, listening to Erik Satie. By some fortunate coincidence, his music would begin to play right around that time, and I waited for that moment with trepidation. I would look out at the nocturnal Institute—it wasn't nearly as terrifying as it was by day or during a "fixation." The dimmed lanterns and that music made it feel romantic. I was particularly fond of the X-shaped staircase, known as "The Road to God," illuminated by the night light.
I wrote entries in my diary—a diary I would burn years later in a fit of rage—about my frantic emotions, and occasionally about calmer feelings, though those were rare. I no longer adhered to "staying in character" in my writing; I wrote not just in the context of the 1960s, but in the context of the modern year 2011, including the film crew and Ilya.
Kolya had left, and I wanted to follow him, to get to know him properly off-stage, as real, living people rather than puppets on some incomprehensible set. But the Institute held me—or perhaps I held onto it. Not to the Institute itself, but to the director's creative process; I was interested in continuing my personal experience within it. I was curious to see how much more I could endure, whether I would pass this test—whether I was a "real actress" or just a "Moscow weakling" (moskovskiy zadokhlit), as Nora once jokingly called me while preening and saying something proud in Ukrainian, which I didn't understand.
I was born on the outskirts of Moscow and had lived there my whole life until moving to Kharkiv. I had never gone away for more than three months (the longest was a summer camp called "Solnyshko," the farthest was the Solovetsky Islands for two weeks with my parents and their friends, involving intense and heavy excursions primarily about the Gulag). So, this was an experiment on myself: how much longer could I hold out without breaking, in the name of Art?
And really, what was so bad about it? There was food in abundance, water, a luxurious bathroom, a bed; there was even the possibility of solitude from time to time. At the same time, there were many interesting people around. Yesterday, for instance, I remembered a very warm conversation with Daria, the nurse. In the neighboring D1, there were young men and women; though I spoke with them only briefly, those interactions made me feel like I wasn't just some trapped gray mouse, but a real human being—someone worth talking to, someone interesting, not just a function being used by a massive project.
To the others, for the most part, I didn't exist; everyone was consumed by work. For Lyubov from Department K, who had admired me so much at the very beginning, I had become invisible. She didn't even say hello when she entered D2 for some reason—zero recognition of me as a person. And that’s exactly how I felt: like a function. How could it be otherwise?
I was ashamed to carry out the chamber pot for Old Dau every morning; I was ashamed to scrub the toilet and the floors. I even told my mother, who kept prying over the phone about what I was doing there, that it was all "make-believe"—that I only vacuumed once in a while. "It’s just my role, it’s nothing," I tried to assure her. My mother would sigh: "You have a higher education, yet you take these kinds of jobs."
The 1966 filming block gave way to 1968. Fortunately, there was no more renovation with toxic fumes, and they didn't even move the furniture. Incidentally, the furniture in the nursery and D1 was the most vulgar stuff—shaped like phalluses in idiotic colors, yellows and browns that clashed disgustingly against a contrasting blue background.
The characters were also slightly altered. Katya Ertel, the head of makeup and hair, worked on my mane for a long time; she was very serious and stern. In the end, they started giving me a massive backcombed hairstyle every day, aging my face a bit more—to look about thirty-six—and I was required to wear bright red lipstick. This, despite the fact that I hate makeup. By then, it wasn't the strict, important Katya doing it, but other girls from the makeup department—simple Kharkiv locals. With them, I felt good; I remembered that "I" still existed, though they also suffered and complained at times. Judging by certain facts, I relaxed so much in Department G compared to how I felt in the Institute...
My dress was now a brown floral one, also an old one of Nora’s. I also had a heavy gray coat and a luxurious, though well-worn by Nora, patterned pink-and-red quilted floor-length robe. The heavy, mud-colored sweater stayed with me. I hated the face in the mirror, but I wouldn't admit it to myself.
Even when there were no "fixations," important guests would sometimes visit the Institute. Every resident had to be ready for them. I don’t remember exactly who came when, but the visit of one particular guest stuck in my mind. We were prepared in Department G; it was well into the night, and we weren't allowed to go to sleep until the guest arrived. Nora and I waited. I’d try to lie down for a quick nap, but it was useless—it only exhausted me more when I had to wake up unexpectedly. Finally, at 5 a.m., a distinguished lady entered. Nora gave her a tour; not much was required of me—just to show my face and say hello. I waited off to the side while they toured the apartment. At last, the guest left. Nora immediately said to me: "Don’t you think Chulpan Khamatova is unnatural, lifeless? She’s so affected, so theatrical," or something to that effect. I thought to myself: "So that boring woman is the same Chulpan Khamatova who captivated me not long ago in the film 'Time of a Dancer.' Interestingly, I don't give a damn about her now. I just want to get to bed. I'm so fed up with all of them!"
Another guest stands out in my memory. This was during the day, and I was relatively well-rested. The young physicists had already left; only the female lab assistants remained, along with the "old guard" of scientists and their wives. The guest was an endomorphic but athletic young man, fanatical about his health. He wore a gray coat, glasses, and what looked like an eight-piece newsboy cap. He reminded me of a photographer friend of mine, an unusual person I adored back then. But his manner of speaking reminded me of a character from Dostoevsky’s The Possessed. He talked passionately with Nora, and I had the chance to listen and observe. I stood there watching him, not feeling like a "third wheel" for once, because he didn't seem irritated by my presence—on the contrary, he seemed to shine in the attention of an audience.
I remember the moment he proudly described the tests he put himself through; one of them was sleeping on a bed of nails all night. Nora asked: "Why do you need to do that?" He replied: "To understand how much my body can endure, to understand its limits." I thought to myself: "Oh, that’s exactly about me. Isn't this what I’m doing to myself? I’m not sleeping on nails, of course, but aren't I doing the same thing to my soul?"
"Only weeks later did I learn that this guest was Maxim Martsinkevich, known as 'Tesak,' and what a dark reputation he carried outside the walls of the Institute."