Boris Akunin - All the World's a Stage

Eliza fainted for the second time that day. Her nerves had worn very thin.

On the way back from the station to the hotel Noah Noaevich admonished her, shouting above the roar of the engine.

‘The scene with the lily was marvellous, I won’t argue about that. But fainting was overdoing it. And then, why fall so crudely, so inelegantly? The sound as your head hit the asphalt could be heard ten paces away. When did you become a devotee of the naturalistic school?’

She didn’t answer, she hadn’t fully recovered yet. Let Stern think whatever he wanted. Her life was over in any case…

They didn’t go to the theatre to hold a wake. That would have been vulgar philistinism. The director said: ‘The best funeral feast with which to honour an actor is the continuation of work on his final show,’ and he announced an emergency meeting to redistribute the roles. The company supported the proposal ardently. They had been haggling since the day before over who would play Erast, Vershinin, Hamlet and Lopakhin.

The speech that Noah Noaevich gave to the actors was quite different in kind from the one at the railway station.

‘He was a mediocre actor, but he died beautifully. You might say that he sacrificed himself on the altar of his theatre,’ he said with deep feeling, and after that he changed to a strictly businesslike tone and didn’t look particularly mournful any longer. ‘Thanks to Hippolyte everyone is writing about us and talking about us. In view of this, I suggest a bold move. We announce a month of mourning. We won’t replace Emeraldov in the existing repertoire. Let’s say that we accept the losses as a tribute to the memory of an outstanding artist. We close down the Sisters , Liza and Hamlet .’

‘Sublime, teacher!’ Nonarikin exclaimed. ‘A noble gesture!’

‘Nobility has nothing to do with it. The public has already seen our repertoire. Without Emeraldov and his hysterical admirers the shows will lose half their electricity. It would be a mistake to cancel the increased prices, but I can’t allow any empty seats in the hall. From here on, my friends, we shall concentrate on rehearsals for The Cherry Orchard . I ask everyone to be here on the spot at eleven. And don’t be late, Vasilisa Prokofievna, or I shall start fining you, in accordance with the terms of the contract.’

‘You always have to bring everything down to money! A trader in the temple, that’s who you are!’

‘People don’t buy tickets for the temple, Vasilisa Prokofievna,’ Stern retorted. ‘And church lectors don’t get paid three hundred roubles a month, regardless of the number of services, that is, performances.’

Reginina turned away haughtily without condescending to reply.

‘In order to maintain the impetus and put some money in the till we shall hold several concerts in memory of Emeraldov. At the first one, the auditorium will be filled by his female admirers, who will come especially from St Petersburg. Suicide is fashionable at the moment. If we are lucky, some fool will follow her idol in laying hands on herself. And we shall also honour her memory in a special concert.’

‘But that’s terrible!’ Gullibin whispered. ‘How can you be so calculating about such things?’

‘Iniquitous cynicism!’ the grande dame who had been offended by the threat of a fine declared in a loud voice.

But Eliza thought: Stern isn’t a cynic, for him life is unimaginable without theatricality, and theatricality is unimaginable without flamboyancy. Life is a stage set, death is a stage set. He is just like me: he would like to die on the stage to applause and sobbing from the audience .

‘This is all wonderful,’ Sensiblin boomed calmly, ‘but whom do you intend to introduce into the role of Lopakhin?’

The director had his answer ready.

‘I shall try to find someone on the side. Perhaps I’ll be able to persuade Lyonya Leonidov to work with us temporarily – out of solidarity with our misfortune. He is familiar with the role and shifting the emphases is child’s play for an actor of his stature. And for the rehearsal period I’ll put in Nonarikin. You know the text, don’t you, Georges?’

His assistant nodded eagerly.

‘Well, that’s excellent. I’ll play Simeon-Pishchik and the passer-by. And we can throw the stationmaster out altogether, Chekhov doesn’t give him a single word to say. We’ll start this very moment. All of you, please open your folders.’

At that moment the door (they were sitting in the green room) creaked.

‘Now who is it?’ Noah Noaevich asked irritably; he couldn’t bear it when outsiders showed up during a rehearsal or a meeting.

‘Ah, it’s you, Mr Fandorin!’ The expression on the director’s thin face changed instantly and it was lit up by a charming smile. ‘I’d given up hope already…’

Everyone looked round.

Standing there in the doorway, holding a grey English top hat with a low crown, was the candidate for the post of repertoire manager.

‘Noah Noaevich, they informed me on the t-telephone that you were here,’ he said, stammering slightly. ‘I offer you my condolences and beg your pardon for disturbing you on this sad day, but…’

‘Do you have some news for me?’ the director asked with brisk interest. ‘Come in, do, come in!’

‘Yes… I mean no. Not in that sense, but in a d-different one, rather unexpected…’

The new arrival was holding a leather folder under his arm. He bowed reticently to the assembled company.

Eliza gave a cold nod and turned away. How clumsily he portrays embarrassment , she thought. He is probably not familiar with the feeling. He didn’t look embarrassed yesterday, in a far more awkward situation .

Yesterday Eliza had been in a state of exalted emotion, sobbing and trembling in a nervous, jittery chill. And late in the evening, overcome by a sudden impulse, she had dashed to the theatre, holding in her hands a huge bouquet of black roses. She wanted to place the flowers on the spot where he had died, this man whom she so much disliked and had involuntarily doomed, as a gesture of repentance.

She had opened the door of the service entrance herself. According to Noah Noaevich’s theory, the theatre should not be an actor’s second home, but his first, so every member of the company had his or her own key. The nightwatchman was not at his post, but Eliza attached no importance to that. She walked up to the floor on which the dressing rooms were located, then along a long, dark corridor, breathing in the aroma of the roses. She turned a corner – and stopped.

Emeraldov’s door was standing wide open. The light was burning inside and she could hear voices.

‘Are you c-certain that he stayed here after all the others left?’ someone asked. She thought she had heard that stammer before somewhere.

The watchman replied.

‘What would I want to lie for? The day before yesterday they played Hamlet, Prince of Denmark , a sentimental play. After the performance the gentlemen took a drink and got a bit rowdy. Well, that’s always the way. Then they went off home. But Mr Emeraldov stayed here. I glanced in, thinking he hadn’t turned the light off again. But he said to me: “You be off now, Antip. I’ve got an appointment”. He was in a merry mood, singing some little song or other. He’d already changed out of his working clothes – you know, them trousers with the baggy knees, the hat with the feather, the sword. And he brought the mugs with him, the ones they drink out of at the feast. Beautiful, they are, with eagles.’

‘Yes, yes, you t-told me. And did someone c-come to see him then?’

‘I won’t tell a lie. I didn’t see anyone.’