Ariadna issued her next instruction on Tuesday morning.
"Invite Andrei Petrovich Sazonov. In the scene, he must be the wind."
I read the name again. Andrei Petrovich was a senior inspector with the fire safety inspectorate and, three years earlier, had made us replace the fire curtain. Before its replacement, the curtain was fire-resistant only in the asset register, where a great many things fared better than they did in life.
"What sort of wind?"
"He has no lines. He must cross the stage from right to left four times. The other participants may react to his movement but must not explain the role."
"Has he agreed?"
"He gave permission for an invitation to be sent if I found a theatrical form for his unfinished story."
"And you found the wind."
"I found a reason for him to cross the stage."
Andrei Petrovich accepted the invitation an hour later. After that, the director's card became available to me: his age, restrictions on lighting, a prohibition on the publication of personal information and three lines of context without which the instruction would have looked like mockery. At nineteen, Sazonov had applied to drama school, passed two rounds of auditions and failed to attend the third. He had not set foot on a stage since. No reason was given.
At the top, in red, were the words: `FOR PREPARATION ONLY. PUBLIC DISCLOSURE PROHIBITED`.
"Does he know I'll see this?"
"Yes. Separate consent was obtained with the invitation."
"And the company?"
"No."
"Why the wind?"
"The wind has no lines, no correct technique and no obligation to remain after entering."
I liked this explanation less than the possible symbolic ones, but it was something I could work with.
Before the rehearsal, Andrei Petrovich demanded that the conditions of participation be read aloud. He did not skim them, as almost everyone else did, but made us stop at every verb.
"'May be invited to cross the stage.' So I can choose not to go on?"
"Yes," Vera said.
"'The other participants may react.' Do they know I'm not an actor?"
"They know you're a guest participant," I replied.
"Do they know why I've come?"
"No."
"And they won't find out?"
Vera looked at me.
"Only if you give separate permission."
"I do not."
He signed. I stood beside him and saw the red line stating that disclosure was prohibited. At the time, it seemed a technical boundary around the content, not around a sentence I would utter in the future.
The company signed the participation forms as well. Timur asked whether he could shoulder the wind aside. Lidia Pavlovna wanted to know whether her shawl ought to flutter. Raya suggested scattering paper leaves, but Andrei Petrovich pointed out that they would get underfoot by the exit. The stage wind had not yet begun, and the fire safety inspector was already performing his role.
"Don't represent anything deliberately," I said. "React to the person, not the convention."
"What if we don't react at all?" Timur asked.
"Then don't."
It was a sensible instruction. I had given it myself and therefore did not appreciate it at once.
Andrei Petrovich came after work, wearing dark trousers and a jumper beneath his unfastened jacket. He carried no folder. I took this as a sign of trust until he produced a small notebook and a folding ruler from his pocket.
"Is that for work?" I asked.
"It's so we don't have to argue over estimates later."
Seven people from the first meeting sat in the auditorium, along with the company and Vera. An open discussion had been scheduled after the run-through: the pilot required participants to be able to ask why they had been invited, while allowing us not to know the answer.
I explained the route to Andrei Petrovich. From right to left, through three islands of chairs, a pause by the stairs, then off into the left wing. He listened, looked at the stage and asked:
"Can't I just walk straight across?"
"You can. But then you'll simply walk across."
"And this way?"
"That way, it becomes wind."
He looked at the route again.
"All right."
Andrei Petrovich entered without fuss. He did not play gusts, wave his arms or portray a man borne along by an invisible force. He simply crossed the stage diagonally, and Timur, who had been told to react with his body, stepped aside before he came close. Lidia Pavlovna held the shawl in place around her shoulders. Raya picked up a sheet of paper from the floor, though it had not moved.
"Again," I said.
On the second crossing, Andrei Petrovich stopped beside the left wing and looked up.
"Where's the exit sign?"
Stas pointed to the green sign. Half of it was obscured by an acoustic panel.
"Rehang it," Sazonov said, and made a note in his book.
"We're rehearsing at the moment," I reminded him.
"Carry on. I'm the wind."
He crossed for the third time, pushed the side-exit door and discovered that it would not open: a stack of folded chairs left over from Sunday's meeting was blocking it from the other side.
Stas went to move the chairs. Andrei Petrovich measured the width of the passage, wrote another line and returned to the right-hand proscenium.
"Fourth?" he asked.
"Fourth."
On the final crossing, he heard a hum behind the wall and turned towards the radio room, though this was not part of the route. After installing the server cabinets, the fitters had vented the hot air into the old extractor through a shiny aluminium duct. The duct was held in place by two clamps, grey tape and that faith in a contractor which vanishes the moment payment is made.
Andrei Petrovich touched the wall beside the passage.
"Who approved this?"
"The pilot scheme operator," Vera said.
"Is there documentation?"
"The contract has an appendix on the installation."
"Not the contract. The ventilation plan after the alteration."
Vera was already leafing through the folder.
There was no plan.
Andrei Petrovich fastened his jacket and looked at the terminal for the first time in the entire run-through.
"You've made a fine wind," he said. "It won't blow again until the issues have been rectified."
"You came as a participant," I reminded him.
"I did. And I came offstage at a blocked emergency exit. Fire doesn't care what role I'm playing."
He did not issue a fine or close the theatre. He drew up a preliminary list: clear the exit, move the sign, disconnect the makeshift duct until it had been inspected. He promised to send a colleague for the official inspection so that his personal participation would not be mixed with an official decision.
Then he took off his jacket and returned to the right-hand proscenium.
"I owe you one crossing," he said.
Andrei Petrovich crossed the stage for the fourth time, more calmly still. Now no one portrayed the wind. Lidia Pavlovna held her shawl only when he came close, Timur made way for him, and the sheet of paper remained on the floor.
That was better.
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