By Friday, we had sold sixty-two tickets. Another nine people had received invitations as participants in unfinished stories, and the regional Ministry of Culture sent Irina Sergeyevna Kornilova to inspect the pilot scheme in operation.
At six that evening, four different events were coming together in the theatre at once.
I was preparing an artistic experiment: the production would come into being before the audience and, with luck, survive its own creation. Vera was holding an open rehearsal with clear refund rules. Irina Sergeyevna had come for a public trial of the system, for which the region had already paid. The nine invited participants were waiting for encounters constructed from their stories and were under no obligation to take an interest in our production.
Every version appeared in the documents. None would fit in full on the poster.
That morning, we tried to agree on a single introduction. I wrote: "Today, the theatre relinquishes the ready-made answer and invites you to be present as form comes into being." Vera crossed out "comes into being" and substituted: "Today, an open rehearsal is being held for a cancelled opening-night performance." Irina Sergeyevna added by email: "As part of the public assessment of the pilot system." Ariadna insisted that we state that the nine people had not been invited as audience members and need not take part in the rehearsal.
The result was a paragraph of one hundred and twenty words. Nina Ivanovna read it and said that, by the end, people would have forgotten what they had come to see, but would understand perfectly well that the theatre was afraid of being sued.
We divided the explanation between four cards. A sign on the door read: `OPEN REHEARSAL. THERE WILL BE NO FINISHED PRODUCTION`. The refund terms were printed on the ticket. The invited participants received a separate message. The oversight officer needed no explanation: her application was longer than our text.
My introduction was retained only for the auditorium. I removed "comes into being", but kept "form". A person had the right to know that there would be no finished production; depriving them of the hope of form would have been cruel.
Irina Sergeyevna arrived before anyone else. She was a short woman in a grey suit, with cropped hair and a cloth bag containing a tablet, a bottle of water and a charger with a lead about two metres long. She immediately asked where she could plug in.
"There's a socket in the front row," I said.
"I didn't mean taking part."
"Nor did I."
The socket was under the third seat and did not work. Stas brought an extension lead, ran it along the wall and taped the cable down with yellow tape. Irina Sergeyevna checked that it did not cross the aisle, thanked him and sat to one side, where she could see the stage, the terminal and Vera at the registration desk.
"Wouldn't you prefer to sit in the centre?" I asked.
"I want to see who makes the decisions."
"Then you do need to be in the centre after all."
She looked at me, then at Vera, who was simultaneously explaining the refund policy, handing out ribbons to the invited participants and asking Raya not to seat people who had prohibited photography next to each other.
"I have a good view from here," Irina Sergeyevna said.
By half past six, the foyer was full. Ticket holders asked how open the open rehearsal was. A journalist from the local paper wanted to know whether the cancellation counted as the opening night of a new format. One invited participant refused to wear a ribbon because he did not want to be distinguished from the audience. Two women demanded refunds when they saw the same ladder onstage that had been used in the previous production; Nina Ivanovna refunded them without argument, after which one of them decided to stay.
A queue formed at the cloakroom, not for cloakroom tickets but for explanations. Raya hung up coats, Vera handed out cards and Nina Ivanovna issued refunds from a tablet. I stood between them answering questions until I realised that, even after hearing my answer, people still went to Vera to check precisely what was permitted.
A man in a leather jacket asked whether a red card allowed him to rewrite the ending. I said anything was possible that evening if the stage accepted it. Vera said he could propose a change, and the actors and author had the right to refuse. The man took a blue card.
An elderly woman asked whether she could have a refund if she decided after the interval that she did not like it. I began talking about the honesty of risk. Nina Ivanovna showed her the refund button. The woman took a white card and went into the auditorium.
By seven, I had learnt to say, "Vera will explain now." It was a short line, and the audience received it better than my previous ones.
Ariadna issued brief instructions through the terminal. Do not close the doors after the start. Leave two rows unlit. Warn people about the recording. Allow people to change seats. Do not begin with a finished extract from the production.
I challenged the last point.
"They bought tickets to a rehearsal of *The Height of Living Together*. We need to show them the material."
"First, we need to establish what those present consent to us doing with their participation."
"That's already written on the ticket."
"The ticket states that they have the right to participate. It does not say they must."
Vera brought in a microphone and cards in three colours. White meant "watch only", blue meant "questions permitted" and red meant "may go onstage". People chose for themselves, could change cards at any time and could leave with a refund before the interval.
"This kills the element of surprise," I said.
"But people know what they've consented to," Vera replied.
Irina Sergeyevna wrote that down.
At seven o'clock, the company sat onstage, sixty people in the auditorium held cards of different colours, nine invited participants tried not to look at one another, and I stood in the wings waiting to make my entrance. Under my plan, my opening words were supposed to explain that there was no overall plan.
Ariadna brought up the lights.
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