We spent two days arranging the chairs.
At first, I wanted to put them in a circle, so that no one would be in the front row, the back row or the position of the person who spent the entire time looking at the backs of other people's heads. The circle would not fit. Or rather, it fitted perfectly if we blocked both side aisles and accepted that, in the event of a fire, the audience would leave art through the ceiling.
Stas brought a tape measure, red tape and a printout of the fire regulations, with the relevant passage circled in pen.
"1 metre between rows," he said. "The main aisle is 1.2 metres."
"We don't have rows."
"Then a metre between the non-rows."
Vera sat in the front row with the consent register. Ariadna displayed only the restrictions on the screen: two places near the right-hand exit, four out of direct light, one with room for a folding wheelchair beside it, three at a distance from the acoustic panels. The names remained hidden. The result was neither a circle nor an auditorium, but several islands with enough room to walk between them without stepping on anyone else's story.
I disliked the form until I thought of calling it an archipelago.
"An archipelago of consent," I said.
"Is that going on the poster?" Vera asked.
"Not yet."
"Then we can live with it."
I set the side lighting low. Seen from the auditorium, the empty chairs cast long shadows across the floor, and anyone who walked between them immediately became the centre of attention. This was necessary for a meeting between strangers and incidentally flattering to me.
We tested the arrangement on our own people. Timur sat in each of the four groups in turn and reported where he could see the stage, the terminal and the back of Lidia Pavlovna's head. Lidia Pavlovna followed him and reported where there was a draught. Their observations agreed only by the side exit: the view of the stage was poor and the draught was excellent.
We tested the wheelchair space with a wheeled costume rail. Raya hung six coats on it to give it a fair weight and tried to steer it between the islands. At the second turn, the sleeve of a long man's overcoat caught on the chair bearing my name and dragged it along.
"It fits," I said, freeing the sleeve.
"The coat fits," Raya replied. "The rail stays here."
We had to move two islands apart and remove another bright pool of light. The composition grew worse, but the costume rail reached its place, turned and came back without carrying off a single chair. Vera asked us to mark the route on the plan.
"We won't have a rail," I reminded her.
"But we may have a person who can't catch their sleeve on something and stand up."
After that, the lighting ceased to be the main constraint. I continued working on it for another hour, but I now understood the order of causes and worked all the more diligently for it: when beauty yields to necessity, one wants at least to do it beautifully.
Ariadna asked me to remove the bright pool of light by the left proscenium.
"That's where the movement begins," I objected.
"That is the place assigned to someone who has said that no light is to be directed at them."
"They haven't arrived yet."
"The condition has."
Kolya, the lighting technician, removed the filter and muttered that in the old days at least conditions did not turn up late for rehearsal. I told him to keep the thought to himself, but loudly enough for the others to hear: the company had to understand where a workplace joke ended and mine began.
The chair with my name on it ended up in the group by the backdrop. The inscription faced the wall.
"We'll turn it round," I said.
"Then whoever sits there will have their back to everyone," Vera pointed out.
"At least it will be clear the place isn't accidental."
"Lyonya, the place is accidental. The chair came from your office."
I covered the back with grey cloth. This concealed the name but made it the only covered chair, and therefore even more conspicuously mine. I had to remove the cloth and accept that my surname would spend the meeting facing the wall.
By the evening of the second day, the pattern finally came together. Four groups, two clear aisles, a quiet corner, a wheelchair space and a small area in the centre where one could stand without looming over those who were seated. I walked the route three times, checked the lighting from every island and was about to dismiss the company when a yellow line flared on the terminal.
"One consent has been withdrawn," Ariadna said. "There are thirty-six active invitations."
"Today?"
"Three minutes ago."
"Does the person know we've finished arranging the chairs?"
"No."
"Sensible of them."
I went over to the outermost chair in the right-hand group.
"We'll remove this one."
"That is the place nearest the exit," Ariadna said. "The same condition applies to another invitation."
"Then one from the back group."
"Three sound restrictions remain there."
"Which one can we remove?"
A chair near the centre went dark on the plan, the very one around which I had built the lighting. It had no condition of its own. It held the composition together.
Kolya looked at me and switched off the spotlight in advance.
We carried the chair away. It left behind a rectangle of pale dust on the floor and four strips of red tape where its legs had stood. I wanted to reposition the neighbouring places and close the gap, but Ariadna asked me not to move anything: the invitations had already been sent with the plan of the aisles.
"We can't leave it like that," I said. "You can see something is missing."
"Something really is missing."
Vera peeled the tape off the floor and rolled it into a small red ball.
"Get used to it," she said.
Replies came in throughout the evening. One person accepted and asked not to be addressed by name. Another wanted to know whether journalists would be present. A third wrote that he could come only after five because he had to collect his granddaughter before then. A fourth asked whether they had to perform anything. Ariadna answered according to the rules, Vera checked the wording, and I tried to work out which of these people would become the centre of the meeting.
"No centre has been assigned," Ariadna said.
"One will emerge all the same."
"Then we will see it afterwards."
"Anyone can see it afterwards."
"Before the meeting, we do not have enough information."
I walked between the chairs and chose the unnamed woman who had asked not to have light directed at her. I decided she would be the central figure. Then I chose the man with the granddaughter: a person capable of being late for a good reason always brings the right tempo. Half an hour later, I had five central figures.
Vera sat on the edge of the stage, crossing off the list those who had refused permission for photographs.
"Who are you casting?" she asked.
"For now, I'm observing the possibilities."
"You have the look you get before assigning roles."
"Vera, even if these people aren't actors, the meeting still has a composition."
"It does. They just haven't signed it yet."
She showed me the consent form for participation on stage. It offered four options: watch, speak from one's place, come onto the stage by separate invitation, or propose an action oneself. A silent audience member could not be turned into an extra simply because they happened to be sitting well in the light.
I read the form twice. Then I removed the sentence "each of you is already part of the production" from my introduction. It was beautiful and legally voracious.
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