I just came back from my Stellanspotting trip at the Ischia Film Festival and as I'm going through my files I'm filled with the memories of all my crazy Chernobyl-related trips of the past. It all comes back to me, how Alan Williams was the first Chernobyl cast member I ever met, how it all felt, and still makes me feel; the heroes, the villains. The crazy pairings.
So in my Alan Williams folder I come across this sceenshot from the Chernobyl script. That line was included in the scene, however if Alan Williams had uttered it twice ("anything", as mentioned in the original script) it would have had a different meaning. I've never been a fan of Chalery (or dubcon for that matter) but I know someone who was. We've drifted apart over the years, I don't know what fandom she is into now, but I hope she sees this just because now I understand, and wish I could have shared this with her when it mattered.
So here it is.
Charkov showers Valery with all kinds of threats, and when it's time to "read him his sentence", to tell him that his fate is going to be slow death and oblivion, he gloats: "It would be embarrassing to kill you now. And for what? Your testimony never happened, you never happened." He leans over Valery's ear, his voice nothing more than a lewd whisper. "But I can take it all back," he breathes with a dark smile. "You know I can, don't you, Valery? When we're back in Moscow I want you to report to me Monday evening. In my office at the Lubyanka."
Valery's face goes white as as sheet. "Report... report what?"
"You're not the one asking questions, Legasov," Charkov cuts him off. He gives him one last look and strides out of the kitchen.
That Monday, when Valery crosses Myasnitskaya Street with his gaze fixed on the massive building, its hundred glass eyes staring back at him, its old yellow bricks reeking of paranoia and torture and death, the sun has already set and the soft evening breeze, albeit July, chills him to the bone. He fills his lungs with the smell of the metropolis around him, the last air he will ever breathe, and enters the foyer. The receptionist has already been notified about his arrival, the guard is too ready to lead him to a discreet door on the third floor that no one would ever suspect to belong to the head of the KGB.
"It's just a door," Valery mutters to himself, his nerves tight as violin strings.
He knocks, and a cold compelling voice invites him in. A young employee with a side part and a freshly pressed suit, his back turned on the door, gives him a startled look over his shoulder and hastily gathers the papers scattered all over the Chairman's desk.
"I'll sign those later, Lyosha," Charkov decides and gives the young man a little smile.
Lyosha doesn't return the smile: he clutches the papers to his chest and leaves, giving Valery a curious side glance, as if someone as important as the deputy director of the Kurchatov institute has no business being there, in that remote half-lit room of the ancient headquarters of the KGB.
Charkov gets on his feet, straightens his tie and nods Valery towards a seat. As Valery sinks down, his back squeaking against old leather, he hears Charkov's footsteps behind him, the key turning twice with a dry click. He chokes on nothing. He wishes he could light a cigarette but there are no ashtrays in the office - not that he'd dare. He could use a swig of vodka but he remembers alcohol gives him chest burns. He's dying for fresh air but the windows are shut, the curtains drawn.
He's alone with a man who could shoot a bullet through his scull and have dinner with his wife afterwards.
Charkov walks back in front of him, sitting lazily on the desk, both hands in his pockets.
"Professor Legasov," he fakes a sigh crossing his legs, "what are we to do with you..."
Valery's tongue stiffens, his eyes glued to the floor. "I did as you asked," he mutters, "I came."
"Oh no," Charkov's face lights up with devilish amusement, "not yet."
Valery looks up, not sure if there's some sort of hidden meaning behind the words of the Chairman of the KGB. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do n__"
"Close your eyes," Charkov says. His voice has an unexpected softness to it.
"What__"
"Close. Your. Eyes."
Valery slides his eyes shut, knowing that this desk, those chairs, those drawn curtains could be the last objects he'd ever see before the barrel of a Makarov empties out in his brain. He wants to stop his hands from shaking, he wants to be brave and scream to the man placing both hands on the arms of his chair to get this over with, and just as he clasps his knees, ready to spring from his seat and fight for his life, the touch of lips against his own shuts him up completely, the hardened tip of a tongue takes his breath away as it pushes between his teeth, seeking to reach deeper.