‘Don’t you dare talk to him like that! Don’t listen to her, Georges. You’re a brilliant actor!’
This despairing appeal defused the tension and there were peals of laughter.
‘What a couple, a real sight for sore eyes,’ Vulpinova crooned happily. ‘You should sit on his shoulder, my dear. And you could go off round the courtyards and the streets singing Beethoven’s song “Me and My Marmot”.’
The imitation she gave of Comedina sitting on Nonarikin’s shoulder and him turning his hurdy-gurdy and singing was so funny that the laughter grew even louder.
For some reason the unfortunate assistant director was not furious with the troublemaker, but with his uninvited intercessor.
‘Who asked you to interfere?’ he asked her resentfully. ‘Everyone has to put their spoke in!’
And he withdrew from the scene.
Eliza sighed. Life was returning to normal. Everything as usual. The ‘Theory of Rupture’ was still in operation. Only Emeraldov wasn’t here…
She felt sorry for the little ‘principal boy’, who was just left there, abandoned on the chair, where she squatted down, looking like a little sparrow with its feathers ruffled up.
‘Why are you so blatant about it, men don’t like that,’ Eliza said gently, moving over to sit by Zoya. ‘Do you like Georges?’
‘We’re made for each other, but he doesn’t understand it,’ Comedina complained in a quiet voice. ‘Actually, I ought to hate you. When you’re there, all the men turn towards you, like sunflowers turning towards the sun. Do you think I can’t see that he finds my interest irksome, even offensive? I may play comic parts, but I’m not stupid.’
‘Why did you interfere?’
‘He’s so proud, and so unhappy. He has so much passion going to waste inside him. I see that sort of thing very clearly. I don’t need much, after all. I’m not you, I’m not pampered.’ Zoya bared her teeth in a clownish grin. ‘Oh, my demands on life are diminutive, and my demands on love are microscopic. To match my own size.’ She pulled a face and slapped herself on the top of her head. ‘I’d be satisfied with a smile and a kind word – even just occasionally. I’m not the kind that men love. I’m the kind that they allow to love them, as a special grace and favour. And then not always.’
Eliza felt terribly sorry for her – this plain, skinny girl who was funny even in this moment of frank sincerity. Although (Eliza’s professional memory prompted her), hadn’t Comedina used the same tone of comic despair in the role of Victor Hugo’s Gavroche? Once an actress, always an actress.
They sat beside each other dejectedly without speaking, each thinking her own thoughts.
And then, after being away for half an hour, Noah Noaevich finally returned and the miracles began.
TO HELL WITH THE CHERRY ORCHARD!
Eliza hadn’t seen Stern in such an elated mood for a long time. Recently he had been acting out an upsurge of enthusiasm rather skilfully, but there is no way to deceive the eye of an actress: she could see perfectly well that Noah Noaevich was dissatisfied, that he was concerned about the success of his new production. And now suddenly this soaring elation. What could the reason be?
‘Ladies and gentlemen! My friends!’ Stern exclaimed, surveying his colleagues with his eyes all aglow. ‘Miracles do not only happen on the stage. Today, as if in recompense for our loss, fate has presented us with a most generous gift. Look at this man…’ He indicated his companion with a sweeping gesture. ‘Who is he, in your opinion?’
‘The repertoire manager,’ someone answered in surprise. ‘We’ve already seen him today.’
‘Mr Fandorin, Erast Petrovich,’ prompted Shiftsky, who had returned unnoticed at some moment or other. He had always possessed a quite outstanding memory for names.
‘No, my comrades! This man is our saviour! He has brought us a quite fantastically promising play!’
Nonarikin gasped.
‘But what about The Cherry Orchard?’
‘To hell with The Cherry Orchard! Take the axe to it, your Lopakhin is right! Erast Petrovich’s play is new, and no one except me has read it! It is ideal in every respect. In the complement of roles, the theme and the plot!’
‘Where did you obtain it, Mr Repertoire Manager?’ Reginina asked. ‘Who is the author?’
‘He is the author!’ Stern laughed, delighted by the general amazement. ‘I explained to Erast Petrovich what kind of play we need, and instead of searching for one he sat down and – hey presto! – wrote it himself. In ten days! Exactly the kind of play that I was dreaming about! Even better! This is phenomenal!’
Of course, there was hubbub. Those who were satisfied with their parts in The Cherry Orchard were indignant; the others, on the contrary, expressed their ardent approval.
Eliza said nothing for a while, looking at the handsome, grey-haired man with new interest.
‘Enough arguing,’ she said eventually. ‘When will we be able to acquaint ourselves with the text?’
‘This very moment,’ Noah Noaevich declared. ‘I have run my eyes over it. As you know, I possess the skill of photographic reading; however, this text has to be heard. The play is written in blank verse.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Gullibin, astounded. ‘In the style of Rostand, is it?’
‘Yes, but with an oriental flavour. How timely this is! The public is crazy about everything Japanese. Please, Erast Petrovich, take my seat and read.’
‘But I have a st-stammer…’
‘That’s not important. Please, ladies and gentlemen!’
Everyone applauded and Fandorin, tugging on his neat black moustache, took a sheaf of paper out of a folder.
‘TWO COMETS IN A STARLESS SKY,’ he read out, and explained: ‘This is a title in the tradition of the Japanese theatre. My text is eclectic to some degree, something has been taken from kabuki, something from joruri, the old puppet theatre form, that is, from…’
‘Just read it, you can explain everything that’s not clear afterwards,’ Stern interrupted impatiently, winking at the actors, as if to say: Just you wait, now I’ll see you gasp.
‘Very well. Of course. I beg your pardon.’ The author coughed to clear his throat. ‘There is also a subtitle: “A puppet theatre play in three acts with songs, dances, tumbling tricks, sword-fighting scenes and michiyuki.’
‘What’s that?’ Sensiblin asked. ‘I didn’t understand the last word.’
‘That is a traditional kind of scene, in which the characters are on a journey,’ Fandorin explained. ‘For the Japanese the concept of the Path or the Road is very important, and so the michiyuki scenes stand out especially.’
‘That’s all, no more questions!’ Stern growled. ‘Read!’
Everyone settled down in their seats. No one knows how to listen to a new play like the actors who are going to play in it.
The same tense expression appeared on all their faces – each of them was trying to work out which part he or she would get. As the reading proceeded, one after another the listeners relaxed, having identified their roles. This reaction alone was enough to demonstrate that they liked the play. It’s a rare thing to find a play in which every actor has an impressive entrance, but Two Comets belonged to precisely this category. The characterisations fitted very neatly, and so there was nothing to quarrel over.
Eliza also identified her own part with no difficulty: the geisha of the first rank Izumi. Very interesting. She could sing and, what was more, dance as well – well, God be praised; Eliza had graduated from ballet school, after all. And she could have such kimonos made, and such hairstyles!