"The opening night must be cancelled," Ariadna said. "Ticket sales must continue."
It was the first thing she said the following day. I had not yet taken off my coat or had time to position my coffee so that it obscured the usual two per cent of the camera.
"Say that again."
"The production is not ready in its advertised form. The opening performance must be cancelled. Tickets for an open rehearsal may continue to be sold after buyers have been notified and given the right to a full refund."
"So we cancel the production and carry on selling tickets to it."
"No. Sell tickets to a different event."
"Under the same title?"
"The title must be changed."
Vera arrived ten minutes later. She had already printed out the previous day's occupancy figures: forty-three seats sold, eight press invitations and one subscription ticket whose owner had telephoned about the temperature in the auditorium before tickets even went on sale.
I presented Ariadna's proposal exactly as given, without improving it. Vera asked only how long remained until Friday.
"Three days."
"Then today we telephone forty-three people. Refunds without an application. On the website, in large type: production cancelled, open rehearsal in its place. Existing tickets remain valid if the holder confirms."
"Who will buy a ticket to a rehearsal?"
"People who are interested. Everyone else gets their money back."
"A rehearsal is not a work of art."
"The actors' wages aren't a work of art yet either, but we still have to pay them."
She sat down at my desk, opened her laptop and began revising the poster. The production's old title, *The Height of Living Together*, occupied half the page. Vera reduced it by half, added a red line above it reading `OPENING NIGHT CANCELLED`, and wrote below: `OPEN REHEARSAL. AUDIENCE MEMBERS MAY INTERVENE. REFUNDS AVAILABLE BEFORE THE START AND AT ANY POINT DURING THE EVENING`.
"Remove the word 'intervene'," I said. "It sounds as though we've lost control."
"That's what we're offering to lose."
"We're offering participation."
Vera changed it. The result was gentler and more dangerous: someone could buy a ticket in the sincere expectation of participating.
"What if they ruin the scene?"
"Then it will be an honest open rehearsal."
I looked at the terminal.
"Was this your idea?"
"No," Ariadna said. "My requirement is that unfinished work must not be presented as finished and the possibility of an encounter must be preserved. Vera proposed the sales format."
"Put that on record," Vera said without looking up.
We informed the company after lunch. Lidia Pavlovna listened to the announcement, took off her glasses and asked us to clarify whether the opening night or the production itself had been cancelled. I replied that the premature opening night had been cancelled, while the production retained the possibility of being born. Vera said there would be no finished performance on Friday; the audience would come to a rehearsal instead.
"I understand," Lidia Pavlovna said. "What are we being paid for?"
"The rehearsal and the public event," Vera replied. "Under the contract, that's two standard fees, not an opening-night fee."
"So, less."
"Yes."
Timur asked whether an audience member had the right to demand a different role. Raya wanted to know whether people would be allowed to touch the costumes. Stas wanted to know who would be responsible for the ladder if a ticket holder moved it. Kolya asked whether there would be full lighting, because open work required more equipment and two gels had still not arrived.
No one was interested in the birth of a new form until the fee, props, safety and lighting had been settled. Once everything was written down, Lidia Pavlovna asked:
"What if an audience member says my scene is bad?"
"They may," I replied. "You may disagree."
"What if they're right?"
"Then you may disagree all the more. But you'll have to perform it again."
She nodded. This was theatre.
Vera handed out supplementary agreements. They included the actor's right to stop participating if an audience member resorted to personal insults, and the right to refuse a proposed action without explanation. Timur read his and asked whether that meant he could refuse my proposals as well. Vera said it applied to any action outside his contractual duties.
"And what counts as one of our contractual duties?" he asked.
We opened his contract. The wording, "the performance of roles and participation in the rehearsal process as directed by the artistic director", appeared bottomless. We had to add that public contact with an audience member did not constitute an ordinary rehearsal and required separate consent.
I signed first. Then I realised the agreement restricted me as well and read it more carefully. Too late, but usefully: that is how many legal provisions first acquire an artistic director.
Even before lunch, Nina Ivanovna at the box office received the new telephone script. She read it once, took off her glasses and came to see us.
"I have to tell people there won't be a production, but they should keep their tickets?"
"If they want to attend the rehearsal," Vera explained.
"Will there be a rehearsal?"
"Yes."
"For a production that doesn't exist?"
"For a production that isn't ready."
Nina Ivanovna put her glasses back on.
"That's different. That's what I'll say."
I sat beside her at the second telephone. I informed the first buyer that the opening night was being cancelled for artistic reasons, but that a unique open exploration of the form would take its place. He listened and asked whether he could have his money back.
"Of course. But first, allow me to explain precisely what you will be missing."
Vera pressed the speakerphone button and pointed to the script in front of me. The first line read: "The production has been cancelled. Would you prefer a refund or information about the replacement event?"
I asked the scripted question. The buyer chose a refund and rang off within twenty seconds.
The second buyer proved to be a literature teacher. When he heard about the open rehearsal, he asked to bring eighteen senior pupils free of charge. I agreed to ten at a discount, then it emerged that the conditions attached to the invitations left too few seats in the auditorium, and Vera revoked my generosity before the teacher had time to name the school. We settled on six full-price tickets and two accompanying adults.
The third buyer, a woman, said she had wanted a finished production because she had enough unfinished things at work and at home. She took the refund. There proved to be no hidden personal story behind her refusal.
After three calls, Vera moved me to the press list. At least journalists were professionally obliged to listen to my explanations.
Vera's first call was to the owner of the subscription ticket. The conversation lasted twelve minutes. The woman agreed to come on condition that the auditorium was no colder than twenty degrees and no one made her go on stage. Vera recorded both conditions.
By evening, of the forty-three buyers, twenty-one had confirmed, fourteen had requested refunds, five had not replied and three had said they found a rehearsal more interesting. One of the three bought another two tickets.
"You see," I said to Vera. "The audience is ready for honest risk."
"The audience got its money back at the press of a button."
"That is honesty."
"That is a button."
At six o'clock, someone bought the first new ticket through the website. Then a second. By eight, another nine purchases had come in, although nowhere had we promised a result, an opening night or even a ladder: Stas had temporarily removed it from the foyer so that it would not obstruct the way.
I went down to the box office. Nina Ivanovna sat behind the glass, speaking on the telephone:
"No, there won't be anything finished. Yes, the money is real. No, it won't be any cheaper, because the actors are real too."
Four people stood in front of the window.
It was not much of a queue. But it was a queue.
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