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THE TWELVE APOSTLES 165
HSwan Lake were being played not in the Odessa Theatre, but among the cranes and landings of the port, one might think that the maidens who flew off for distant climes in the guise of white swans had dropped their vestments on the waters.
Reality is more prosaic.
Fogs over the bay mean a lay-off in the work a blue Monday in the calendar of the film-making.
Sometimes there are seven such blue Mondays in one week.
And now, despite the downy white, we've one of these blue Mondays of idleness on our hands.
Grim reminders of this are the black outlines of the cranes, looming like skeletons through the bridal veil of the fog.
And entangled in its folds, the black hippopotamus hulks of barges and commercial vessels.
Here and there, a chance ray of light pierces the gauze, dappling its fabric with splotches of gold.
They make the fog seem warm and alive.
Even the sun, now, has wrapped itself in a veil of clouds, as if envious of its own image in the sea veiled by the swan's down of the mist. 'Am I any worse?5 it seems to ask.
But there is no work on the picture today.
We hire a boat for three roubles and fifty kopecks.
With Alexandrov and Tisse for company, I roll over the waters of the misty port as if skimming the top of an apple orchard in full bloom.
Three Men in a Boat not counting the camera.
Our camera is like a faithful dog, always at our side.
It had hoped for a rest today.
But the adventurous spirit of the three boatmen takes it into the fog too.
The fog clings to its lens like cotton to the teeth.
c Nobody shoots this kind of thing, ' I can hear it mutter.
Its attitude is echoed by the ironical laugh that comes to us from another boat.