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you.”
    The white clown recited a few French phrases he had picked up in Paris, and then continued.
    â€œAnd the men wear silk neckties every day. Some still wear bow ties.”
    â€œAnd the women?”
    â€œLike I said, they’re gorgeous but, man, do they lay on the makeup . . . too much lipstick and rouge for my taste.”
    â€œWhores,” repeated Kolia with a wry smile.
    â€œNo, no. Really nice and really open. In fact, I met a writer who had two wives — well, a wife and a mistress. And while the writer and I were discussing things in Russian, the two of them were sitting there having a great time.”
    Kolia burst out laughing. He gestured to Mitya for another drink, and then asked Pavel what had taken him to Paris.
    â€œI was with the circus. We did a tour in ’56.”
    Pavel showed him his hands, which were covered with spots of white makeup. There wasn’t the slightest sign of fawning admiration in the younger man, but rather a real curiosity that Pavel appreciated, a welcome change from the fan worship that his public persona had earned him. The Bounines were getting regular press coverage, and sometimes his face would appear in newspapers unadorned by makeup, so people could see that he was just a regular guy. He was often recognized in the street. Kolia had never heard of him.
    â€œOn your hands, too?”
    â€œYeah. The rice and talc powder helps prevent blisters during our little acrobatic manoeuvres.”
    â€œWhy white?”
    â€œWhy? . . . So the crowd can see every one of my facial expressions clear as day. But I don’t put on that much. Not in comparison with the clowns in Germany and Italy and France. They are grotesque! They slap it on, and their costumes make them look just like pregnant women in giant sacks with holes cut out for their head and their arms and legs.”
    Finally, they introduced themselves. Pavel. Kolia. The first name for one, the diminutive for the other.
    â€œYou’ve never been to the circus?”
    â€œNo, never. What does the other clown look like?”
    â€œThe auguste? Do you know Charlie Chaplin, the movie star?”
    â€œI’ve never been inside a cinema.”
    â€œIlya Alexandrovich is a brilliant clown and an extraordinary teacher.”
    They kept drinking and talking until Mitya closed the bar. Pavel asked him where he was from, and what he was doing in Moscow. Kolia answered each question plainly and simply. By the time they left the tavern, Pavel was roaring drunk, making a million promises that would be forgotten by the morning. They parted, and Kolia headed to Tanya’s because it was closer than the hostel. As he walked along in the direction of Tanya’s building, he stuck a finger in the hole in his pocket and slowly made it bigger.
    What he really wanted was for Tanya to get him a ticket to the circus, but she didn’t have any. She’d had some, but there weren’t any left.
    â€œI had no idea you’d be interested in the circus,” said Tanya, mending the hole in his pocket.
    He told her all about his evening with the clown from The Bounines. Tanya smiled, which she rarely did, and made him a strong pot of tea.

TSIRK
    THAT AUTUMN, THE CIRCUS’S menagerie of animals was on tour in the Ukraine, accompanied by their trainers and big cat tamers, leaving the rest of the troupe — the obligatory contortionists, acrobats, tightrope walkers, high-wire acts, trapeze artists, and clowns — to entertain the crowds in Moscow. The various acts made their entrances and exits according to a carefully choreographed program. The Bounines, whose entrances were designed primarily to entertain the audience between acts, had begun to draw full houses and were quickly becoming the stars of the show.
    Bounine was also an acrobat. By nature, he was sullen and ill-tempered — but not in the ring. Born in Moscow before the Bolshevik Revolution to an aristocratic father and a