#vikor chebrikov

[elenatria]

How to turn a London Con trip into a “Chernobyl” trip.

I’m home so I can finally make this post.

Where to start.

Okay-

Let’s start with “Chernobyl”. It happened a few months ago, fell on our heads like a nuclear bomb. We all loved the protagonists but Viktor Charkov, the KGB chairman, is also a memorable, creepy, hateful character who got under our skin with the cold truth of his words, the harsh reality of his behaviour. He was too real, too pragmatic to be ignored. From stories I’ve been told in person, he’s no different than the executive arms of tyrants we had here not more than forty years ago. He exists. People like him live among us.

As for the actor himself, so strange. See, there is no mention of Alan Williams’ age on IMDB or Wikipedia and that’s enough to show that, apart from his theatre, TV and film work, little is known about him. Where to find him, contact him, he’s too old to care about social media and apparently he never was too sought out, not with a “face like a bagful of donuts” as he jokes.

But I was thrilled. I wrote the first chapter of “A single bullet” after watching “Chernobyl” and I just had to show it to this elusive low-profile thespian who inspired me. Because... I don’t know, because. Just to say “Thanks for doing a magnificent job. Thanks for helping me understand evil.”

So I tried contacting his agent. I gave her my name and nationality. I thought I’d just send her the link and forget about it.

Apparently, she forgot about it too because I never heard from her.

After a month London Con was upon us, but what to do in the evenings? Plays of course. I booked a ticket for “The woman in black” and “The Hunt” with Tobias Menzies. Then I searched and searched for Alan Williams plays but, to my dismay, he had finished playing Ivan Romanovich Chebutykin in “Three sisters” at the beginning of June and his new play, “Faith, hope and charity”, wouldn’t premiere before September. Just my luck to be in London in between the two plays. No stage door queue, no autographs.

After spending a full Saturday at London Con and Sunday at the British Museum, Monday had to be a day of leisure. A free concert at St Martin-in-the-Fields before lunch was all I was capable of attending, drag my steps towards the closest bus stop that would drop me off… wherever. I didn’t care.

But then I decided to read my post from the previous day about managing to buy a ticket for “The girl on the train” at the very last minute and meeting Alex Ferns, the naked miner. The unexpected ticket, the unexpected hug.

Now how difficult would it be to meet an actor who is NOT doing a play at the moment?

Very very difficult, confirmed one voice.

He’s rehearsing for ‘Faith, hope and charity’, isn’t he? disagreed another. He must be. It’s almost August and the play opens in September. He’s at work right now. He must be!!!

I googled and googled for almost an hour. I found that “Faith, hope and charity” would be staged at the Dorfman theatre near Waterloo station so I called the stage door. I explained to the receptionist that I did not know Mr Williams in person but I was visiting London for only a few days, was a big fan of his work in “Chernobyl” and I would really love to greet him. The man on the phone was very helpful revealing that this was their first day of rehearsing (the incredible coincidence!) and they had started only… an hour ago. He asked my name and I said “Well… you can say Eleni”, I mean, who needs my complicated surname, right? The guy said he’d save my number and let Mr Williams know.

Oh god.

But I couldn’t just sit there waiting for a call, I’d never get that call, come on.

So I rushed to the Dorfman Theatre. I was breaking my brain trying to figure out how I could get the Charkov chapter of “A single bullet” printed in a district with no stationary shops whatsoever. I was hoping I could… shove it into his face I don’t know, and later imagine he’d be reading it. He didn’t really have to read it, just nod condescendingly and lie that he would, and that would be enough to put a smile on my face. Just like all those toys and drawings people give to celebs at cons that end up in the hands of volunteers, assistants or charities, if not in the trash.

When I got there I talked to a different receptionist, a very professional, very unhelpful young man. For safety reasons he wasn’t supposed to disclose neither the time they’d finish nor the time of recess. For safety reasons I had to go through Mr Williams’ agent to get to him. Outrageous, the woman didn’t even forward my story to him, let alone give me permission to meet him. I was hopeless, I was being turned down. I was being an idiot.

“But they must have a lunch break, right??” I insisted. “Can’t I just wait outside?”

That guy was a goddamn sphinx, and the helpful guy was still talking on the phone or to some lady there, I don’t remember, so I couldn’t reach out to him. Suddenly I felt unnecessarily needy as if I was sitting on the subway floor, shaking my hat to passers-by, clinging my few coins. How humiliating.

With heavy steps I exited the theatre. Why is it so complicated, why do I need someone else’s “permission”? I’m not a child. I looked around, it was a sunny day, people were sitting in coffee tables out in the patio. Some tables were empty but I didn’t care, I just sat on a column by the entrance, far enough to not be seen by the receptionists and feel like shit for lingering, close enough to catch anyone exiting.

For an hour and a half I crouched over my phone trying to figure out how to contact the agent without sounding too stalkery. I called the agency but the girl on the phone gave me the same email address where I had sent my fic. Fine. I changed the wording of my message again and again so as not to sound too needy or creepy even if I knew it wouldn’t work.

I knew I had missed my concert for no reason and I would soon have to leave because who doesn’t like giving up? It’s better to give up than stress over something that’s never gonna happen. It always is.

I was seconds away from clicking “send” and making a fool of myself to the agent for a second time when I thought I saw someone, a towering presence stopping a few meters away, looking over, hesitating, waiting.

I raised my head.

There he was, three-dimensional, bathed in sunlight. Not an image in my head anymore.

Believe me when I say that I was staring at Gandalf, Santa Claus, the Grail Knight from “Indiana Jones”, the Big Bad Wolf.

I honestly don’t know what I was staring at.

But there he was, in all his elderly silver-bearded glory. A myth in my mind, in the flesh. How did he know I was there? I didn’t tell anyone. I was supposed to be hiding.

After nanoseconds of deer-like stun I did the polite thing and jumped on my feet, ready for a handshake. I mean, I had to stand up, right? He had come out just for me.

Shit. What had I done? The nerve.

The first thing I remember noticing when I got closer were his faded blue eyes with a distinguishable light-shaded rim circling the iris. The rest was just word vomit, how we all love him on tumblr, write fics, make memes etc.

Memes?

I described to him the “Try me, bitch” edit we all love, courtesy of @two-screaming-rats.

He didn’t get it at first, then he laughed so HARD, so damn hard. You guys have to see Charkov laughing his heart out.

He said he only had a few minutes before he had to go back to the rehearsal so I decided to start the conversation with the Charkov fanfics. He was quick to apologize for not answering my email. “I’m sorry but… but I honestly don’t know what to say when someone sends me a story,” he admitted humbly. “I read all of them but… I mean I’ve been sent stories based on my characters before but I really wouldn’t know what to say.”

Okay first of all, he read my story. I don’t know if he read it a month ago when I sent it or minutes before he exited the theatre to greet me but he did.

Secondly, there are more stories about his characters? WHERE.

“I’m not a writer anyway,” I said apologetically.

The unexpected reassurance. “But you are.”

I guess one doesn’t have to be The Writer™, they just have to write. What a way to be courteous to a fan though.

Then I mentioned how we love Charkov’s trademark, his glasses, how we’re frantically looking for ‘80s-looking glasses, how we obsess over specific frames and brands.

“They’re not a brand,” he clarified, “they were specifically made for me, they’re an exact replica of Viktor Chebrikov’s glasses. Just like our clothes that were made by seamstresses who worked during that era.”

Naturally I praised the production’s attention to detail that has us ranting, how beautiful and “European” it all looked, how true the script was to Lyudmila’s story as it was described in Svetlana Alexievich’ “Chernobyl prayer”. I talked about my thoughts when I first heard there would be a “Chernobyl” TV series: the Americans made a TV show based on events that affected Europe, now that’s a new one. He mentioned Russian media admitting that they should have made that show, not the Americans. I agreed but also added “That’s the thing, it may be beautifully made, it may be the truth, but it’s still propaganda. Just because it’s true, just because the Soviet government did all those horrible things, that doesn’t mean that the show is not serving someone’s agenda.” He disagreed saying that the Soviet people were shown in a good light for their bravery and sacrifice. Well, we knew that, didn’t we.

I said how impressed I was by his portrayal of Charkov because we were told about people like him by dictatorship victims at school. People who had been tortured in the ‘70s came to us, talking about their time in underground cells, in the hands of sadists like Charkov. I told him about my uncle who was arrested and executed by the Nazis for distributing left-wing leaflets, about my grandmother who had to escape to the mountains during the civil war that followed the German occupation because she was a communist. I explained how real it felt to me, his last scene with Legasov in the kitchen. How bleak and horribly accurate.

He mentioned “You’re one of us, Legasov”. To him Charkov was just doing his job, working for the greater good and he agreed with the quote in my fic, that Charkov “couldn’t wait to retire”.

He then joked about Charkov being blasé after the committee meeting, “Meh, I’m done with arresting people, I let others do it for me”.

I assure you all those questions were answered in a couple of minutes, and I was certain our meeting was about to come to an end.

But then… he gestured toward an empty table.

Don’t let an aged man standing, was my spontaneous thought. I was reminded of my father.

Then I realized. He gestured toward an empty table.

Table. The two of us. On a sunny day.

Time, he was offering me his time.

And… oh my god, this was practically an interview, why was I not recording this, he was answering my questions so effortlessly.

No. That would be rude, that would be greedy.

Just relax and enjoy the moment and try to remember fucking everything.

I asked him what his inspiration for Charkov was, if he based his portrayal on other actors or historical figures. He paused to think and explained that the script was very strict anyway, very defined. However he did mention  Charkov’s line, “I know you’ve heard the stories about us. When I hear them, even I am shocked” and how that reflected Stalin’s hypocritical quote, “What do I know, I’m just a peasant”.

His favourite line was “Trust but verify, and the Americans think that Ronald Reagan thought that up”.

“Is that really an old Russian proverb…?” I wondered.

“I… don’t know!” he laughed.

During the rest of the conversation he mentioned his friend whose job was to translate the Pravda, and his years in Canada where he met Czech-Greeks, namely Greek communists who were driven away by our right-wing government after the Second World War. Even the Soviets didn’t want them so they were sent to the Czech Republic and ended up in Canada. These people belonged nowhere.

I didn’t know that, and he didn’t know about Vladimir Gubarev, the writer of the play “Sarcophagus” and science editor of the Pravda who was the recipient of Legasov’s tapes. I quoted him saying “Why call the protagonist Legasov since that’s not how Legasov was, they could have used a character who’s a scientist and give him any other name.” Like Ulana, I added, who’s a composite character, or Chebrikov/Charkov, mostly fictional.

Our conversation was coming to an end; he asked me what plays I saw in London and he smiled when I mentioned Alex Ferns in “The girl on the train”.

It was truly overwhelming; I was torn between being swept away by the moment, focusing on nothing but the faded blue of his eyes, bathing in the calm rhythm of his voice, and actually paying attention to what he was saying. Only once did my eyes dart at his left hand spotting the unusually thick golden ring on his finger. When one’s mind plays tricks the best way to discipline is a glimpse at The Ring because if he didn’t have nearly my father’s years I’d probably be having a horribly inappropriate crush.

“Time to go,” he apologized.

We took a couple of photos and I pulled out Svetlana Alexievich’ book, asking for an autograph.

“Where should I sign?” he asked.

“Wherever you want.”

He flipped through the pages noticing my page markers, notes and underlinings. “What are these for?”

“Just… just notes. Do you want my—” I suggested grabbing my big-ass permanent marker.

Without a word he gave a knowing smile and, like an experienced conjurer, he pulled out of his jacket an elegant little sharpie. Delicate pens for delicate words.

I didn’t dare read what he wrote to me then, I could only make out his name through that intelligible doctor-like writing. Surely my name wasn’t there because I hadn’t introduced myself. Still, I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

Time to go.

We shook hands and I said how honoured I was that he had spent time with me. I tried not to stare as he disappeared into the theatre but before I left I ran into the foyer, quickly thanked the receptionist to whom I had talked on the phone and stormed out of the building with that huge wave of adrenaline pumping violently in my ears.

As I crossed the street I was grinning like an idiot. I knew I had to stop right there and write down everything before I forgot - but it was pointless. I’m not a recorder to have to write down everything the minute it happens. It’s enough to remember the pale rimming of his eyes.

Now, two days after meeting him, I’m still torn between pride and embarrassment. What the hell was I thinking? Doesn’t a man deserve to work in peace?

But as I’m writing this and attaching his signature on the first page of “Chernobyl prayer” I dare for the first time read what he wrote to me.

Pleasure to meet you.

People say they have religious moments when meeting their favourite celebs.

Mine was poetic.

What a darling, darling man.