Inside the Soviet Circus
“Little Mikahil, come Mikhail, it is time for daddy, mummy and Mikhail to go to circus.” A young boy, around eight or nine, abides to his mother’s calls and goes downstairs to her. “If you are lucky Mikhail we may even see the great Popov today! Popov is a great man. He even has a country house Mikhail, usually only reserved for politicians and such Mikhail.”
Little Mikhail’s parents want their son to join the Moscow State Circus School when he grows up. Circus life is such fun don’t you know Little Mikhail. Think of Popov, think of his country house. Mikhail is a shy and somewhat reserved little boy. He wants to be a dog. “Woof, mummy, woof”
“Stop that now Little Mikhail! Stop this nonsense!” His parents shout. “Let us be off now! We shall go to the circus!”
Crowds of miserable looking people are waiting outside. The cold Russian winter has set in. They are here for the circus too. Without laughter don’t you know this life thing would be impossible! “Mikhail, look at the crowds. The people! They will watch you when you are performing, they will love you!”
“Woof!”
The small family goes in, father, mother and then Little Mikhail. All around is movement. Even inside it’s cold, people breathe clouds of condensation. “Here Mikhail, it is here you may one day work! The circus is a family Mikhail, once we are gone, you will not be alone! Look at all the acrobats and magicians. They will one day be your brothers and sisters, and maybe you may even find a wife, hey Little Mikhail!” Anticipation haunts the Soviet Circus. So dense that to move through it feels like swimming.
A large man with a prominent moustache and a red face walks past the family. He is aggravated and his heavyset features betray his emotion. A smaller man scurries after him,
“What do you mean he is delayed? He cannot be, no he simply must not be. Not today.”
“What do you expect of me… to battle against fate? I have no control over such matters, no more than you yourself.”
Little Mikhail looks up at his parents, “Mummy, daddy!”
“What is it now Little Mikhail?”
“Woof!”
“Shut up Mikhail. Quiet!”
Mikhail follows his parents who are joining a queue for the circus’s food vendor. All around families just like Mikhail’s are gathered, waiting to see the delights of the Soviet circus. There was a time when over eighty percent of the Russian people were peasants.
Mikhail’s parents have reached the vendor himself,
“What can we do for you today folks?”
“Mikhail, what would you like? You can choose one thing, maybe popcorn Little Mikhail?”
“What do dogs eat mummy?”
“What their parents tell them to — yes could we have one popcorn please and something to drink…some nice cold water I think.”
The family pay and leave. Mikhail eats his popcorn, quite content with his treat. There is some kind of commotion going on behind and he turns round to see what it is. He sees the red-faced man, and indeed his face looks as if it has turned even redder, if such a thing were possible!
“No, this will absolutely not do! Where is the ringmaster, someone find him for me now! Popov, oh Popov why today? You’ve had all month to behave as badly as you wished, why choose to do so at this time?”
“Nicholas, Nicholas I have spoken to Popov, on the telephone.”
“Quick, where is he?”
“On his way, he was just a little bit held up and very sorry about it too so he says.”
“Was he sober?”
“I…I wouldn’t like to pass judgement on such a matter. For you see if I were to accuse him of having drunk and I was mistaken, oh the shame! What squander I would be pouring on the great man’s name, kicking it into the dust as if he were no more worthy than a fly! Popov has brought joy to our people for years. His service to our beautiful country is unmatched. Mother Russia has born many children but few as fine as he, you see…”
“Shut up with that dribble ringmaster! Give me your damned worthless opinion without such pathetic procrastination? Has he been drinking?”
“I fear, perhaps, and please remember, only perhaps, just a little.”
“Damn, damn, damn! The fool, the worthless old wretch! How long did he say he would be?”
Little Mikhail sees that his parents are moving further away and hurries on to catch them.
“What was all that fuss about Mikhail?”
“The great Popov mama! He is on his way.”
“Oh thank heavens,” she cries, close to tears, “we will see him at last. Oh my darling husband and dear little son, what a day this shall be!”
A great bell rings out suddenly, reverberating around the tent the sound lingers. It is time for the circus to begin. All those still outside make their way into the ring to take a seat. A band begins to play and the circus troupe parade in. A column of acrobats, the youngest first, parade in. Following them a group of jugglers, dressed up in elaborate costume, several of them ride unicycles. And now it is time for the clowns, they bound in foolishly, every movement humorously calculated. Mikhail is wide-eyed with excitement, but particularly his attention is drawn to the clowns. They are strangest to him, having never been to the circus before. Several are made up with tragic faces so that even when they laugh they appear sad.
“Mama, what is wrong with those men’s faces?”
“Ssh Mikhail, they are clowns. Have you never seen a clown before? Well today you will see the greatest of them all, Popov. It is a fine thing to see a clown for the first time Mikhail, and there are none better than those of the Moscow State Circus.”
All the troupe members having walked the perimeter of the ring and returned to their dressing rooms, the ringmaster himself now walks out. He carries with him a large whip, which he cracks bringing the audience’s attention solely on him. With as much feigned humility as possible, he lowers his head and bows,
“Ladies and gentlemen, brave little boys and intelligent young girls, I welcome you to our circus. We have travelled far and wide, across the breadth of the country and even beyond over the seas to America, but it is a beautiful occasion to perform for you once more here in our beloved Moscow. And it is not only the honour of performing before you that marks today as most special amongst others, though it cannot be stressed how delightful an honour that is, no today — perhaps a negative is unsuitable — Yes! Today we shall be bestowed the great Popov’s presence!”
A loud cheer erupts around the room,
“Popov is here!” “We love you Popov!”
“Hooray for the great clown!”
The ringmaster lets the crowd cheer. Little Mikhail is deafened by the noise. If you look closely at the ringmaster’s face, if you ignore the screams of the people, look through the pomp and audacity of your surroundings, you will see a face contorted with fear. Sweat pours down the mountain range that is the ringmaster’s forehead (as a youth he suffered from terrible acne), the moustache that balances on the tight rope of his upper lip is losing its shape. This man who has tamed bears, put his head into the mouths of lions, faced a thousand crowds, can not bear to let his people down. “Where in God’s name is he?”
A cymbal crashes. Mikhail is also scared. He barks but may just have well of whimpered. The lights dim,
“Get off me Mikhail, back to your seat!”
A sudden quiet comes over the audience.
The lights have been lowered inside the Soviet circus. Onto the roof of the big tent stars, comets, galaxies have been painted with a luminous chemical. They seem to emit a dull glow, a pale comparison to the night sky above. By the entrance of the ring, a small lantern lights. It swings in the dark, the flame dances like a drunk. From out of the black emerges Popov — the lights rise once more.
“Ladies, damsels, mademoiselles — Popov is here! You men may go home now, leave the women to me! Yes, it is I the great, much lauded, and rightly so, Popov! Kiss my feet! Suck my toes! I am here to be worshipped. Do you wish to be entertained? Of course, you do you lazy good for nothings. The people, the people of Russia, how humble they are, how meek, how deserving. This is all I hear. Would you dare call me meek? Would you dare to call me humble? I, the greatest clown to have ever lived, am also a Russian. Peasant blood runs through my veins, my parents were poor. But look at me now! Ringmaster, tell them they are lazy. Tell them to get off their good-for-nothing posteriors and shower me with the applause I deserve. No do not, I won’t receive false flattery, I am not a charity case, I am a man of honour.”
Little Mikhail looks up at his parents. His father’s features have frozen. He looks resigned to his bemusement. His mother is upset. Mascara trails down her face and her lips tremble. They are a deep autumnal red in colour. As her face becomes a mess of colour, it is only the blue of her eyes that shine. Mikhail is no longer scared, but angry now. His little fists screwed up, his body shakes. Popov walks around the ring. The drunken man screams out at the audience. He curses them, curses their foolishness, blasphemes, spits, stumbles, stops, starts. Mikhail breaks away from his parents. He runs down the stairs towards the ring, as goes he lets out a bark from the bottom of his soul.
“What is this? You bring in your own animals now also? You are not satisfied by the circuses? I have never seen such insolence. You women, you are all sluts, and your mothers before you, they were sluts also. How else could such a despicable litter have been conceived? And you men, you weak pathetic creatures. Suckling on the teats of your women as if you could not survive on your own. Popov, what are you doing among these people. Popov, why do you lower yourself by performing for them? Why I do not know, I must be mad myself!”
Mikhail jumps into the centre circle. He stares up into the eyes of the clown. Popov looks at the small child, looks at his old clothes, and his short hair. Mikhail begins to run; he lowers his head, charging forward. He heads into the old man’s crotch.
