Labyrinth

Among my belongings in that space was a Smena-1 camera, issued to me by Department R (Props). I had bought several rolls of film in Moscow beforehand, and in Department R, they wrapped them in black electrical tape to hide the modern labels. For a long time, I didn't dare leave D2 with the camera to walk through the Institute. My clothes, my entire appearance, whispered to me that I wasn't worthy—that I should know my place and keep my head down (not without my own internal complexes, of course).
But one day, I finally made a move. I remember how people reacted to me with the camera—I was noticed, people smiled at me! "Redhead Belka" (Ilya's assistant) even asked me to take her picture. So did "Redhead Alina." I felt that I existed. However, my shyness kept me from really letting loose, so I only took a few shots. Mostly, I photographed interiors and my own reflections in the mirrors—of which there were many in D2. Besides, on the day I finally decided to go out and shoot, the atmosphere was inviting—the sun was shining, and a group of friendly drivers stood by the cars. People were also standing near the buffet, posing for me with pleasure.
Most other times, however, I’d encounter two rather large, grim employees on the Institute streets. As I learned later, they were from the First Department and interrogated everyone entering the Institute, forcing them to sign a "non-disclosure agreement" (except for me; I was interrogated by a different official for a different reason). I didn't understand much about them then; they didn't interest me (in truth, they terrified me).
I was also uninterested in that newly arrived comrade—who looked as if he’d stepped out of Dostoevsky’s The Possessed—and his crew. They caused a sort of turmoil and panic among the Institute residents, which I didn't believe was sincere because I had no idea who they really were (I only recently read about their exploits in the media). One day, their whole company came to visit us; they met Old Dau, then drank tea while a "fixation" was underway. Ilya called me and told me to listen to their conversations. I did as I was told, portraying "rapt attention," but I couldn't focus on the meaning of their words. Now, I don't remember a thing they said.
A lot was happening in the Institute that I didn't attach much weight to at the time. For instance, after I’d issued the janitors their usual portion of booze when they collected the trash from D2, someone told me that one of them (Valera, I think) got so drunk that he ended up in "prison"—and then broke out of it, smashing it to pieces because it was made of styrofoam. And Vasya the janitor was locked in some kind of cage and filmed.
When Nora went on vacation, I had some fun with Alina; she came to D2 under some pretext, and we drank champagne and got candid. We nearly "fell out of character"—we discussed the film crew, and although we used the correct "Institute terminology," we were on the very edge. All the while, microphones were sewn into our clothes and recording. I poured my soul out about how much I hated Nora, what a piece of work she was, and how we needed to organize a revenge. I think Alina was talking about a "revolution" that needed to be sparked within the Institute. I also confessed that, up to a certain point, I hadn't been "living the circumstances" but merely pretending—just because I wanted to troll Ilya! I stated that I had never actually loved Dau—that it was just child’s play—but that I truly loved Denis. I taunted Ilya some more, I don't remember exactly how, suspecting he could hear everything since the microphone in my clothes felt warm from working.
Suddenly, the phone rang (we were in the kitchen, where two phones hung), and Vera snapped: "Girls, shut up!" I slammed the receiver down and leaped into a chair, bursting with tearing laughter; Alina was howling too. Later, Alina and I went for a walk in Kharkiv right in our period costumes, coats and all. There’s even a photo somewhere of us standing in a McDonald’s with defiant looks on our faces.
But when Alina, back at the studio and in front of someone else, referred to me as "the housekeeper," I felt deeply stung. After that, I turned bitter toward her and even gloated when Ilya fired her (though he seemingly changed his mind later). She noticed the spite on my face and called me out: "So, you’re happy about it, aren't you?"
One evening, I got drunk—very drunk. Before that, I had long reproached myself for doing nothing to seize the chance to get into the frame, for failing to start a story, for being too cowardly to talk to Ilya. At the same time, I was resentful toward him, though I wouldn't admit that he simply stopped discussing anything with me, as if I no longer existed. I felt abandoned—and I still carry that feeling within me today. It was as if I had been drugged with ayahuasca and abandoned alone in a dense forest, told: "Deal with it yourself; this is your life and your responsibility—what’s it to do with us?"
I needed—desperately needed—someone strong to reach out and guide me through this journey so that I wouldn’t get lost even deeper in the labyrinths of my conscious and subconscious mind. But I was ashamed to ask for help, ashamed to say I was hurting, ashamed of my weakness and lack of will. Drinking was a protest against this and an attempt to break free from my own psychological prison. I’d had a few such experiences in school when I also wanted to escape the prison of imposed prohibitions on being alive and the "obey the order, don't stand out" behavioral patterns.
So, with practiced ease, I opened a bottle of cognac, poured it into a faceted glass, and downed it in one gulp. The familiar sensation of "taking off" followed immediately, and I soared away, not forgetting to refill and drink along the way. My brain’s ability to record events almost shut down at that point. Only fragments were remembered: for instance, leaving the sets and at the checkpoint, signing not just "Anna Dau" and the time, but adding something about my feelings for Denis, scrawling past the margins of the page.
Then another blackout, and a sudden moment of clarity: I am standing in the doorway on the second floor leading to the studio. Ilya is sitting there at a large communal table with some people, and he asks in a confident, ringing voice: "Anya, are you alright? Do you feel well?"
I screamed: "I LOVE HIM!!!"
Immediately, Vera flew out from somewhere, grabbed me by the arm, and led me swiftly into that same labyrinth I had passed through with Zoya when she interrogated me on history. Vera’s eyes were wide, and she was screaming at me, but it didn't affect me at all. I only remember a funny word she repeated several times: "nabukhivaeshis" (getting wasted). I have to admit, when Vera screams, it’s nothing like when Ilya screams. The energy of their outbursts is incomparable. Vera almost pretends to scream; it’s actually quite touching. Her shouting doesn't frighten or suppress you.
She ordered me to stay put and not go anywhere, then vanished. For some reason, I listened to her and remained in that room in the labyrinth, trying to focus on the situation. Later, she asked someone—Kristina, I think—to escort me back to the Institute.
After that, I must have gone to the buffet and had a heart-to-heart with everyone there. Irochka even drew my portrait. It’s a pity I remember nothing, but the next day the buffet staff expressed their delight at the contrast: how cold and detached I usually was, and how warm and open I became that night. Then, I likely went to D1, because the next day Olya Shkabarnya told me I had visited them and written a "denunciation" against myself. Yes, I recall something, very vaguely.
Meanwhile, back at D2, I had let Irochka and the new buffet guard stay the night because it was nearly dawn and I allowed it. I paid for that later when Nora returned from her vacation—she was furious! I felt as if I were in a dream—one of those realistic nightmares where you believe everything and are truly terrified, only to wake up and think: "It was just a dream!" Nora told me that if I continued to behave this way, I’d have to sleep in the maintenance quarters. Unlike Vera’s, her tone was utterly crushing.
Later, I was told that during that night, Ilya had been meeting with a potential sponsor, trying to secure funding for the project’s continuation, and that was exactly when I stumbled in, drunk. But since the meeting ended successfully and the sponsor provided the funds, Ilya was in high spirits all the following day.
I think this happened before I went on vacation. Yes, the day after my drinking bout, Vera spoke with me calmly on a cozy sofa in the studio. In tears, I begged for a few days off. Vera tried to convince me that leaving would be "bad for my role"—that the way Nora was "fucking with my head" and the fact that I was "so wound up" was "pure fire" for my character. I managed a smile. But I insisted on the break, telling her it was vital for my survival.
Those four days were the happiest! I relished every second, even though Moscow was in full autumn—rain, puddles, grayness. I listened to Fedorov’s The Horse Carried Away My Beloved, visited a photography exhibition at the Lumiere Brothers Gallery, and dreamed of how wonderful it would be when I finally returned home for good. On the fourth day, Vera called and told me to be happy: they had bought tickets for Kolya and me to Kharkiv, sharing the same compartment.
The woman traveling with us cursed everything that night because Kolya couldn't contain himself—he was so eager to share all his joys from his time in Moscow. Yet, at the same time, I already felt we were strangers. I felt he didn't need me. He admired only himself, and I was merely an accessory. Upon arriving in Kharkiv and returning to the studio, my eyes wouldn't dry. I cried everywhere—in the makeup room, where the girls comforted me, calling me "bunny" and grumbling about how Nora’s foul temper had exhausted everyone. Then I moved my weeping to the Institute buffet, where Victoria consoled me: "Sunshine, this project is very hard, but it will make you stronger and deeper."
Then I moved back into D2. I had cried with Nora once before the vacation too; we’d had a short, candid talk where I broke down. She hugged me, and I said through my tears, "I’m not like this," and she replied with warmth and feeling, "I know! I know! You’re not like this!" while she held me and calmed me down. Sometimes we’d exchange sympathetic phrases: "Is it hitting you again?" "Yeah." But not this time. This time, after her harsh words, I kept my feelings to myself.
I couldn't do any housework. I clung to the hope Denis gave me. "Anya, let’s play cards!" he would say cheerfully. I was supposed to be cleaning, but I’d answer defiantly: "LET’S! TO HELL WITH IT ALL!"—and the house stayed uncleaned. During those times, Nora would mock me, asking ten times a day in a taunting tone: "Anya, could you pour me some tea, please?" I was forced to obey, as the memory of the threat of the maintenance quarters loomed over me. But in Denis's presence, my defiance triumphed over my obedience.
There was a filming session where I cried on Denis's shoulder. He tried to comfort me while I spoke about how miserable I felt there—how I felt buried alive—and I begged him to take me away. The fact that we embraced and that he seemed moved by my distress gave me some comfort for a while. I was also consoled by the thought that my emotions had been captured by Jürges's camera. "So, it’s not all in vain!"
But soon it was time for Denis-Kolya to leave. Within a couple of days, he was paid a salary of $800 (more than I got for a month, which they were still withholding) for what seemed to me like no particular effort. I saw him off at the studio along with Vera. By then, he didn't care about me at all; he was much more interested in other people—Vera, Vanya, Kasya, and others...
Inside, I felt not just an emptiness, but a black hole that swallowed everything living within me. I had to somehow cover this black hole to keep from losing my mind. So, I invented a devotion to Denis. I decided to keep loving him, despite the fact that he didn't love me back. I decided to wait for his return, and that became what I lived for.