When the first privately owned Soviet circus arrived in 1990 America as the
Soviet Empire unraveled, its elite performers expected to build cultural
bridges through spectacular shows. Instead, this prestigious troupe faced a
perilous journey through Cold War America.
Circus director Yuri had to navigate treacherous waters where American
mobsters, Soviet agents, and political forces circled like predators. Young
aerialist Anton dreamed of becoming a clown against his family's wishes, while
forbidden romances and unexpected connections bloomed between Soviet
performers and Americans who saw past the ideological divide. As high-stakes
conspiracies threatened to tear the circus family apart, they had to choose
between the authoritarian chains of home and the uncertain promise of freedom.
As The Ringmaster reminds us, "The best Soviet stories are like
vodka—they burn with suffering, intoxicate with conflict, keep you
stewing in reflection, and yearning for your heart's desire." This
genre-bending tale explores whether human connection can transcend
ideology—and whether storytelling can bridge the divides that separate
us.
The Clown
Alcove
Chapter 3 — November 1989, Moscow Circus Museum
Note to host: This excerpt is
self-contained. Anton and Josef are teenage circus students on a school field
trip. Anton harbors a secret dream of becoming a clown, something his father, a
respected aerialist, would consider a disgrace.
Anton lingered in the clown alcove
while his classmates moved on.
A cordoned-off table displayed a
lifelike head of Oleg Popov, the “Sunny Clown,” under a glass dome with an open
window. Anton recognized Popov—his favorite—and felt a sudden urge to touch the
uncanny likeness. Sharp and oddly realistic.
He slipped behind the velvet rope,
wondering if someone had embalmed Popov’s head.
The head featured his signature
skewed checkered cap pinned with a white silk chrysanthemum, a bright yellow
wig, and a red nose. He wore a gentle smile, and his eyes were—wait! Anton
thought he saw Popov’s eyes blink. It happened so fast, he wasn’t sure. His
heartbeat quickened.
Anton figured his imagination was
deceiving him—that the clown alcove atmosphere was playing tricks on him. Anton
lingered. Popov’s smile felt like an invitation. He remained still, but nothing
happened, so he admired the other clown displays. However, Popov’s eyes seemed
to follow him. He walked back and forth in front of the bust; sure enough, the
eyes appeared to track his movements. He called out to Josef, but the class had
already headed to the auditorium.
Popov’s eyes stared straight ahead.
Anton leaned over the rope to inspect them; they looked watery. He ducked under
the velvet rope and peered under the table skirt. In a blur, someone yanked him
under the table, and a hand covered his mouth.
“Shhh,” whispered a painted face,
finger to lips. Stunned, Anton complied, and the stranger removed his hand.
Who is this guy? He was crouched
under the table, in blue overalls and a striped shirt. Aside from white
greasepaint around his eyes and the fact he was hiding under the table, he
appeared normal.
“You’re a very clever fellow,” the
man remarked.
Anton caught his breath. “Who are
you, and why are you inside Popov’s head?”
“Fair questions. My name is Tikhonov
Tikosander Shevchenko, but my friends call me Tiko. Come to think of it, even
my enemies call me Tiko. But of course, I am a clown.” He held out his hand for
a handshake. BUZZZ. The slight shock from the hand prank startled Anton.
“I am so sorry.” Tiko grinned. “I
forgot I had that on. Here, take it.” He handed the palm buzzer to Anton.
Tiko settled in with his new friend.
“To answer your question, I’m workshopping my new Popov table prop. What better
place to try it out than at this clown exhibit? What do you think?”
“Well, it’s kind of creepy,” Anton
admitted, unable to suppress a grin. “But I love it.”
Tiko’s painted eyes twinkled. “That
is what I was going for.”
Josef returned, looking for his lost
friend.
“Hey, Anton. Where’d you go?” he
whispered as he walked around the table, assuming Anton was loitering in the
alcove. “Hey, Kalinski is asking for you. She sent me to find you. Come on,
we’re headed to the animal enclosures. You don’t want to miss the big cats,
right?”
Anton was about to scurry out, but
Tiko yanked him down, put a finger to his lips, pulled out a white grease paint
marker, and applied the paint around Anton’s eyes. Tiko pointed up, and Anton
nodded, lifting into Popov’s head. From there, he saw Josef circling the table
and peering around the gallery panels.
“Anton, come on. Kalinski’s losing
her patience,” Josef said in an urgent whisper.
Anton tracked Josef’s movements
through Popov’s eyes, a thrill of mischief surging through him. His heart
thudded in his chest. The momentary claustrophobia quickly gave way to
excitement. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. So, this is what it must feel
like.
Josef circled the table once more,
oblivious to Anton’s ruse. “Okay, I’m not getting in trouble; this one is on
you,” he said as he started down the hall. His shoulders slumped with a mixture
of frustration and resignation—he was tired of covering for Anton but wasn’t
ready to abandon his friend, either.
“Yo, Josef, wait!” Anton called out.
Josef froze and then spun around.
“Anton, cut it out, man; this is not
funny.”
Anton put Josef out of his misery.
“Hey, Josef. Look at Popov.”
Josef peered at Popov’s face. “What
about it?”
“Look at his eyes.” Anton crossed his
eyes, and Josef jumped back, nearly knocking over a display panel.
Grinning from ear to ear, Anton
climbed out from under the table, and they both burst into laughter.
As Anton turned toward Tiko, who had
just re-entered Popov’s head, he gave a parting wave. Tiko responded with a
wink.
Josef and Anton were still giggling
when they caught up with their classmates. Anton still had white greasepaint
circling his eyes.
Kalinski turned beet red. “Anton and
Josef, stop clowning around!” Unaware of her pun.
At that, Anton and Josef collapsed
into convulsive laughter. Tears streamed down their cheeks, and mucus ran from
their noses. Anton struggled to breathe. They averted their eyes from each
other but couldn’t resist. Each glance triggered another uncontrollable burst
of laughter and tears. Josef nudged Anton with his elbow, and Anton, still
gasping for breath, wiped the sweat from his face, squeezing his eyes shut.
Katyana stood over them, glaring in
rebuke. “You two are hopeless.” This only made them laugh harder, and she
stormed off in frustration. Beneath her irritation flickered something else—a
twinge of envy at their easy camaraderie, their freedom to be foolish without
the weight of legacy on their shoulders.
They knew they were in trouble and
considered throwing themselves at Kalinski’s mercy, but it didn’t matter if she
exiled them to Siberia; they were struggling to breathe.
“Wait outside the animal enclosure,”
Kalinski ordered. “We’ll discuss this at school. Anton, I’m having lunch with
your mother tomorrow—we’ll have much to talk about.”
Anton’s stomach dropped. What if my
father finds out? His father claimed clowns were dreamers, not real performers.
But at that moment, Anton felt it in his bones—his future wasn’t in the air,
but in the ring, making people laugh. Class dismissed.
Cliff Lovette is a father, storyteller, and dog lover living in Sandy Springs,
Georgia. For over 40 years, he practiced entertainment law, serving as Senior
Vice President at LaFace Records and representing artists including Usher and
Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes. His passion for bridging historical divides led him to
co-produce a groundbreaking reconciliation event between descendants of
Buffalo Soldiers and Lakota Native Americans. In 1990, when Bobby
Liberman—road manager for the first privately owned Soviet circus
touring America—became his client, Cliff discovered the true story that
inspired this debut duology.
