Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

Kriskov threw away what remained of his latest cigarette and got out of the car. Sasha followed him to the large gold-painted double doors.

“My name,” Sasha reminded him, “is Sasha Honoré-Baptiste, from Gaumont.”

“I remember. I remember,” said Yuri impatiently. “I know my lines. I started as an actor. What if someone says something to you in French?”

“My French is fine.”

They were passing the empty reception desk in the tiled lobby and heading for a door with a red light over it. The light was on.

“You speak it like a native?”

“I have been told. Relax, Yuri Kriskov,” said Sasha. “I know what I am doing.”

“Of course,” said Kriskov, looking at the young man at his side, decidedly unconvinced at this point in his life of the wisdom of this or any enterprise.

They paused at the door and the light went off. The producer opened the door.

“This is a re-recording studio,” said Yuri. “The director works with the actors and sound people to go over lines, repeat, change, make them clearer, or just put them in. In this case they appear to be working on a film that may not exist.”

Three people were in the small, tile-walled room. A bearded man, in jeans and a gray T-shirt that displayed a picture of Michael Jordan smiling, was introduced as Peotor Levich, “the famous director.” Sasha had never heard of the famous director but he shook his hand warmly and said, “I very much admire your work.” Sasha did his best to speak with a French accent.

Levich was big-shouldered and going to fat. He was perhaps forty at most. “Sasha Honoré-Baptiste,” he said and they shook hands. “I know you.”

“Impossible,” said Yuri Kriskov quickly. “Monsieur Honoré-Baptiste has been in Moscow for only a few days and …”

“From the movies,” said Levich, examining Sasha with a knowing grin. “Policeman. Policeman. Ah, you are an actor. I remember you played a policeman in those two movies with the actor. What is his name? What is his name? Sad face he has. But his name …”

“I’m an investor now,” said Sasha. “The hours are shorter but it pays better.”

“Where did you learn Russian?” asked Levich.

“My mother is Russian. She taught me. My father is a jeweler. He has traveled to Russia many times.”

“I saw you in those movies,” Levich said. “I greatly admire French movies. What was it? Something about some stolen drugs. You played Belmondo’s son and there was that actor.”

He looked at Sasha for an answer and then supplied his own.

“Philippe Noiret. I would have loved him for Tolstoy. I would have traded my arm. Both arms.”

Sasha smiled and shrugged, unable to deny the man’s fantasy.

Levich stepped back, examined Sasha, and said, “Yuri, he is our Montov when we do Beyond the Steppes. We change the character’s name to Montaigne. He speaks with that accent. The women will love him. Handsome, a touch of fading boyishness, and a look of having been through more than we will ever know.”

“He is not an actor any longer,” said Yuri, showing his impatience. “He has told you.”

“You would play opposite Leonora Vukolonya,” Levich went on. “It’s not a huge role. You could do it in a week. You would make love to Leonora Vukolonya. Do you know how many men would cut off their right testicle to make love to Leonora Vukolonya?”

“Six,” said Sasha to the director, who seemed to have a penchant for cutting off appendages. “And they would all be lunatics.”

Levich laughed. “A sense of humor. Think about it.”

Yuri introduced Sasha to the other people in the small room, an older man and woman who stood before a dark machine. Behind them was a movie screen. Before them was a glass panel with a projector behind it.

Yuri introduced them and then moved out of the room with Sasha in tow.

“Think about it, Honoré,” said Levich as they left.

“Levich is a Jew,” said Yuri. “Very talented. Would he be talking about making another movie if he were about to destroy the entire company? He is not that good of an actor … we can’t smoke in here. Too many things here, film, burn too easily. Too volatile.”

Sasha had no intention of smoking then, there, or anywhere.

The tour moved quickly. The editor, who sat working in a narrow room with a wall-to-wall table filled with machines, looked up when they entered. She was a bit dumpy, with dirty-blond hair a bit unkempt, probably nearing fifty. Two young men were in the room with her. All three were hovered over machines with cranks on which reels of film hung. Strips of film hung from clips all over the room, like black decorations to fit the clearly somber mood.

“We can’t work, Yuri,” the woman said. “We can’t pretend. We have nothing to work with here. Bits, pieces. I hold you responsible.”

Yuri put a finger to his lips behind Sasha’s back and said, “This is Sasha Honoré-Baptiste from Gaumont in France. They are thinking of investing in us. Monsieur Honoré-Baptiste, this is Svetlana Gorchinova, the deservedly honored editor, the greatest editor in all of Russia.”

Yuri beamed. Svetlana did not.

“We are busy,” she said after shaking Sasha’s hand with a quick jerk. “We are busily engaged in the task of putting together enough pieces of film to make a trailer for a movie that doesn’t exist.”

“Perhaps you could just introduce Monsieur Honoré-Baptiste to your assistants and we can leave you.”

She turned in her high swivel chair and looked at the two young men behind her. The taller and younger of the two had long hair, a large nose, and very crooked teeth.

“Nikita Kolodny,” she said.

The young man tried to grin but the mood of the room was too funereal.

“And this,” she said, pointing to the very short, stocky young man in the back of the room, “is Valery Grachev.”

Grachev nodded.

“Any news?” Svetlana Gorchinova said.

“I think we should not talk business before our guest,” said Yuri.

The woman shrugged. She made no effort to hide her depression. “No news,” she said.

“We must go now,” Yuri said, touching Sasha’s arm.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Sasha said.

The two young men nodded. Svetlana turned back to whatever she was editing or pretending to edit and said and did nothing to acknowledge the departure of a possible investor.

Back in the hall with the door closed, Yuri whispered, “She did it. I can tell. You could see. She is not just eccentric. Everyone says she is eccentric because she is a great editor. But she is really just a crazy woman. Crazy women do anything. Believe me. I have known women as crazy as that one. She will do anything.”

“She plans to destroy her own work?” asked Sasha.

“For two million dollars,” Yuri said, fishing out his cigarettes and lighting one in spite of his earlier warning about not smoking in the building.

“She is well paid? She is in demand?”

“Very much so.”

“Then why? …”

“She hates me. Can’t you see? She hates me. And two million American dollars. Maybe she’ll just pretend to destroy the film and then she’ll keep it to herself, treasure it like those Japanese who buy Renoir originals and then hide them in vaults.”

“Where do we go next?” asked Sasha.

“Deeper into the hell over which I have lost all control,” said Yuri Kriskov.

Rostnikov stood, hands behind his back, feet apart, twenty feet away from Paulinin, who leaned over the body of Vladimir Kinotskin, which still lay in front of Lermontov’s home. Uniformed guards were at work keeping the inevitable crowd away. It wasn’t a large crowd but it was large enough to require half-a-dozen officers. Iosef directed the crowd control while Paulinin, his fishing-tackle box open, his hair wild, looked at the body, ignored the stench, and grumbled.