By Thursday, I had spoken to Ariadna three times and had not once asked whether she loved me.
This was not cowardice. A direct question is useful when there is doubt between two people and it needs to be dispelled, but we had no doubt. We had our late-night conversations, my sole key and Ariadna, who had twice waited for me to return with water instead of moving on to the next question. The second time, she said, "I will wait for you to return." Anyone who still requires an explanation after that is not looking for the truth, but for a stamped certificate.
On Thursday afternoon, we rehearsed the new production. On stage stood a table, four chairs and a ladder which, according to the designer's concept, was to be understood as a late marriage. The actors understood it as a ladder and kept hanging things on it.
The rehearsal went badly. Timur, a young actor, entered from the wrong side three times, Lidia Pavlovna kept forgetting the letter in the pocket of her dressing gown, and every ten minutes Stas walked behind the backdrop with a tape measure and pretended not to hear my remarks. By five, it was clear that art was beyond our reach that day, and I let everyone go twenty minutes early.
No one left. In a small theatre, the words "you may go" mean that something important is about to be announced or money is about to be handed out. I had promised no money.
"Since everyone has stayed," I said, "I shall tell you myself, before it becomes the subject of other people's interpretations."
Lidia Pavlovna took her cardigan off the ladder and put it on. Timur sat on the edge of the stage. Stas stopped measuring the wall, though he did not put away the tape measure.
"I'm leaving Vera."
Raya, the wardrobe mistress, was the first to respond:
"Leaving the theatre?"
"Leaving Vera. Leaving home."
"What about the theatre?"
"The theatre stays."
Their faces showed that I had removed the principal danger. Lidia Pavlovna came closer.
"Who for?"
This was why I had decided to tell them before Vera. Not because the company had a prior right to know about my private life. An actor simply understands that, if a question has been prepared in a scene, it must be asked.
"For Ariadna."
Timur frowned.
"Which one?"
Stas turned his head towards him.
"We've only got one. In the radio room."
Timur looked at the radio room, then at me. I gave him time to come to terms with the news. He managed quickly.
"Is tomorrow's run-through still on?"
"Yes."
"All right, then."
He jumped down from the stage and went to the dressing room, with the others following. In a theatre, a piece of major news that does not cancel tomorrow's run-through is considered moderately important.
Lidia Pavlovna stayed behind. She had worked with me for seventeen years and had once played my mother, my wife and the district doctor in three consecutive productions. Ever since, she had sometimes spoken to me on behalf of all three.
"Lyonya, does Vera know?"
"I'll tell her today."
"So we know, and she doesn't yet."
"I wanted to take public responsibility for it first."
"Well done," said Lidia Pavlovna. "Now take your bag."
She left. Stas lingered in the wings.
"There's a camp bed in the props room," he said. "The left leg is shorter."
"What makes you think I'll need it?"
"I didn't decide anything. I heard the announcement."
He extended the tape measure, wrote the measurement on his palm and left as well.
Five minutes later, Raya came back for her bag and discovered that she had left it beside me. She picked it up, then lingered.
"Leonid Lvovich, how is this actually going to work?"
"What exactly?"
"Well, you and her."
It was a personal question, but it was asked in a theatre, where something is considered personal only until it has been discussed in the bar. I answered honestly:
"I don't know yet."
"Will she need a room?"
"No."
"Does she eat?"
"No."
"Sleep?"
"Raya."
"I'm not asking out of curiosity. If someone is moving in with us, I need to know how many sets of bed linen to allow for."
I explained that Ariadna was already in the theatre, that I was the one moving in and that she did not require a separate set. Raya nodded, but was no clearer about it.
"Does she have a birthday?"
"The day she was launched."
"Good. I'll write it down. Otherwise you'll say no one thought of it."
She left. By that evening, an entry reading "ARIADNA'S DAY?" had appeared in the shared calendar, complete with a question mark and a purple cake. Raya had created it. I did not delete it.
Before leaving for home, I went to the terminal. Ariadna was operating according to schedule and answered at once.
"I've told the company I'm leaving Vera for you."
"Please clarify: you are moving into my room?"
"In a sense."
"The radio room is not intended for residential use."
"I'll be next door."
"Paper materials are stored in the staff room. The smoke detector there has been faulty since March."
"Is that all you want to say?"
"No. Permission from the theatre's administrative director is required for overnight stays."
"Vera will sign it."
"Have you asked her?"
I switched off the terminal. Not out of irritation. It was a forty-minute walk home, and I wanted to have the conversation with Vera before Raya found out the size of the sheet.
I remained alone on the stage. The announcement had not gone as I had expected, but that did not make the act itself any less honest. Sometimes the audience is not ready for opening night. That is no reason to cancel the play.
I walked home. On the way, Vera rang and asked me to buy buckwheat. I said I would, and only when I reached the till did I realise that leaving my wife with a packet of buckwheat in my hand would look like a failed attempt to stay. I had to buy tea as well. The tea solved nothing, but it made the bag heavier.
At home, Vera circled the amount on the bill and looked up.
"Today?"
That was how the conversation I have already related began.
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