The Final Capture

One evening, Denis parodied Ilya once again: "You know what I like about you? (in Ilya's voice) You fuck everyone! You play that xylophone non-stop, you get on everyone's nerves!" I was surprised by those words back then. But why be surprised? Denis loved to mock me, to tease me even in bed. Yet, at the same time, he showed care.
In the buffet worked Vanya—a perfectly round chef with a round head who cooked the most delicious dishes. Denis would order several portions for us at once—two or even three each—and we would gorge ourselves incessantly. It’s no wonder I returned from Kharkiv having gained nearly 10 kilograms. I remember ordering blinis with red caviar, grilled quail, and much more. Denis compared me in sexual poses to those prepared birds. It’s so horrific that it’s almost funny. Even this "angel" had grown hardened and corrupted by this project. Several times he said, "I want Vanya inside Anya." It aroused me, but I was shy. Vanya was a handsome young sound technician who worked with the "black angels" team, holding the boom mic.
Then, one evening, the neo-Nazis slaughtered a pig in front of a stunned audience. It wasn’t for nothing that Kasya and Alina had come to sit and have tea at D2 just before that. I had wondered why they were so detached, present but like strangers. "What are your problems? You wear normal clothes, not shameful uniforms; you’re not alone; you’re filmed constantly—what more do you need?"
As it turned out, Ilya had invited a real killer and his cronies to play the roles of killers. Yet, at the same time, everything was supposedly strictly controlled. After what happened in D1 with the slaughter of the pig, the buffet was initially filled with despair and pity for the animal, but ten minutes later, everyone was accusing each other of hypocrisy. Those who hadn't witnessed the killing were already asking when the shashlik would be ready, forgetting that only moments ago, it had been a living creature.
I had to go to the studio for some reason—I don't remember if I wanted to go out myself or if I was called. But the scene in the studio was staggering: scores of people sitting at tables, working on laptops, or standing and discussing things, while among them walked Tesak in a blood-stained, half-unbuttoned white shirt, holding an axe.
I remember the image: I stepped out of the studio into the city and stood on the porch. The first snow was falling. Large flakes drifted down from the black sky, illuminated by a streetlamp, and I stood there, drunk, catching the snowflakes in my open mouth. I stayed like that for a long time.
Then I returned to the Institute. I was asked to go into D1 with my camera. Using my Smena-1, I photographed the absolute, massive carnage left behind by the so-called "Komsomol" members. The carpet was soaked in blood; shards of dishes and crystal were scattered everywhere. Framed photographs had their glass smashed and were torn to pieces; a painting on the wall was mutilated. In short, it perfectly mirrored the state of my soul at that moment. A pig’s head lay on a chair. One of the "Komsomol" guys was hanging around there too, but he seemed harmless enough; he told me about what had happened where, giving me a "tour," so to speak.
Afterward, I walked in circles along the Institute street, either singing or howling at the top of my lungs.
A day later, I smoked a cigarette—the only one in my entire life. I was sitting on a table in D2 next to Olympia Orlova (she worked as a photographer at the Institute; many of her photos from the project are online). We were drinking, snacking, and talking, sitting there in our furs and coats. We discussed the killing of animals—for instance, to make fur coats so that people could stay warm and not die of cold. We talked about the sacrifices animals make and our gratitude toward them. Then, I wrote a very harsh text on a piece of paper, reflecting my moral state as a "floor rag." I hid it away and later burned it in Moscow.
That same evening—the last one at the Institute—we were being prepared for the scene of the massacre of all Institute staff. Katya Ertel sculpted fatal silicone wounds for everyone and painted them. We all had to spend the night with these wounds on us. I had a "fatal" gash on my forehead, as if from an axe. At the same time, they were preparing some kind of light show, and strange, wondrous patterns from the spotlights glowed in the windows of D2 where Olympia and I sat.
I spent the night in Denis's room. When I woke up the next morning, the heating had been turned off completely; the Institute was growing cold, though the sun was shining. Nora was gone. That morning, they filmed a scene where the "Komsomol" members carry away the bloodied corpses from the massacre, pile them into a van, and drive them off.
I was positioned in the kitchen, wearing my everyday dress and sweater—as if I had been doing chores, turned around, and at that exact moment, took an axe blow to the forehead. They doused me in beet juice and splattered it all around. The director observed, adjusted, and approved the whole thing. Somewhere nearby, Olympia was walking around, taking photographs. Years later in Paris, while looking through the project's photo archives, I saw a black-and-white photo in my profile: I am lying there, supposedly dead and blood-stained, and Ilya Khrzhanovsky is standing over me—all in black, looking like a giant bat transformed into a human.
I haven't mentioned yet that outside the Institute, over those months, there were several parties attended by the entire film crew and some characters, including myself. Every single time, I felt Ilya’s presence, even if he was at the far end of the location. His cologne had a scent I associated with power, fear, and awe; it was magnetic. He wore stylish black attire. It felt as though at any unexpected moment, he might notice me, swoop down, and deliver a very painful bite. But he didn't notice, he didn't bite; he mostly just smiled and talked to others. I talked to other people too, but Ilya never left my thoughts. It felt as if he—like that terrifying Mystery Man from Lynch's Lost Highway—might suddenly emerge from the crowd, approach me, and say: "We've met before, haven't we?" "At your house, don't you remember?"
Returning to the Institute on that day of character massacres and destruction: a couple of minutes after Ilya "approved" my death, the "black angels" arrived to fix the scene. At that same moment, a stuntman threw my body over his shoulders and carried me to the van waiting across from the porch of D2. I liked it. Мое bloodied body was tossed in with the others. The van was closed, the truck started moving. It all happened so fast.
Once they stopped filming us, we "woke up" from our dead sleep and started laughing and joking. We were taken to a bathhouse on the outer side of the Institute. There, finally cleaned up, we could change into modern clothes. I put on a gray T-shirt and my comfortable gray sweatpants—the kind that, with a quick flick of the wrist, turned into inelegant gym shorts. That’s what I wore to the "schizo-disco" afterward, along with a modern sweater or hoodie.
It was November 8, 2011. After the "execution," I lived in an apartment with the girls—former buffet workers, Vikulya and Irochka. And on November 11th, there was the grand disco I mentioned earlier—held on the ruins of the Institute. A mob of strong guys playing "Komsomol" members, joined by the neo-Nazis (mostly filming Tesak and his small crew), had completely trashed the place. As far as I know, all of Kharkiv was invited to this party.
For the first time, I entered the Director’s office. Everyone was there: the directorial department, architects, artists—everyone. Even the cameramen were allowed in to film this phantasmagoria. Nora had already transformed back into Radmila; we were equals now, laughing and discussing things. I met Katya Yuspina; Radmila introduced us. Champagne flowed like a river.
On the staircase known as "The Road to God," the Canadian singer Peaches was performing. I was told her songs were "full of obscenities" (my English was non-existent then). Later, out of curiosity, I looked up the lyrics; one of them was: "Fuck the pain away." I translated it for myself as "Выебать боль." The feelings I had, dancing in MY OWN clothes above that space where I had suffered so much, realizing the film was done and the suffering was over! I wasn't just dancing; it was as if I were fucking all my pain away from those four and a half months. It was infinitely gratifying to see the ruins of that loathsome, "Soviet" hell that I had grown so sick of. I hope Jürgen filmed it. At one point, I was even allowed onto that staircase—the Road to God.
In the Director's office, an orchestra played music of incredible beauty. It was magnificent. At one moment, I saw Zoya climbing out a window. I was terrified she was falling, but it turned out there was a ledge outside where one could stand and view the entire Institute as if in the palm of one's hand. I climbed out there too and stood for a while, looking down at the ruins, even dancing a bit. By the way, to get to the office, we had climbed a strange staircase that led into a hall of mirrors—you had to navigate that labyrinth just to reach the Director.
At the end of that party, I approached Ilya, hugged him, and thanked him. Yet inside, I felt a sense of something unfinished—something unfulfilled and unexpressed.
A day or two later, Ilya hosted a small, intimate gathering for the characters. Among us were Radmila, the cooks, the former buffet girls, the photographer Boris Mikhailov, his wife Vita, and a few others. Ilya hugged and said goodbye to everyone. I approached him and said: "You forgot about me."
"It's impossible to forget you," he said, and he hugged me too.