Artistic

To create is to kill the death
of R. Rolland

The task of art is to excite the hearts
of K. Helvetius

The history of art is the history of revivals
by S. Butler

 
From the book "Three minutes" (Stories. Mn., 2014)

Theatrical sketch

– Well, all right, all right, – Solovyov said into the phone, – don't flicker, it will be flour....
– Are you completely stupid, – Karpyuk's choppy voice came on the phone, I'm explaining to you in plain text that nothing is working, everything is collapsing... The woman doesn't pull at all, zero, you know, zero... What can I say, – the voice in the receiver completely fell, – who is to blame if not me...
– Well, well, – keeping maximum cheerfulness in his voice, Solovyov said – you need to hold on... We are masters! ...
There was an indistinct grumbling at the other end of the line and the connection was cut off. Solovyov put a cigarette in his mouth and stared out the window.
The phone rang again. Solovyov picked up the phone and, hearing the familiar snuffling, said wearily:
– Well, what else. What are you doing? After an interval, Karpyuk's distant voice rang out, but with a questioning intonation. – Come by two, huh?
– Do you think I can smell what?  Solovyov asked. At this time, the door opened and the intern Lenochka Korolevich began to rapidly approach the desk of the head of the department. "Your task is completed," she blurted out as she ran. Solovyov grimaced. – Be strong, Karpyuk, – he said into the phone, – we will support you in any way we can. He hung up the phone and took a drag...
– Who are you, a girl? – he asked, after half a minute.
– As someone who is an intern, – said Lenochka. – As if you don't know...
– I know that, I know, – said Solovyov, – but I doubt it all the time. And this, of course, is connected with your behavior, mademoiselle...
Lenochka looked Solovyov in the face. Concentrated blue eyes behind glasses on a freckled face, a thin figure, all in anticipation. The eyes have discovered a tendency to fill with moisture.
"We agreed, mademoiselle," Solovyov said, carefully averting his gaze, "no moisture, no floods...
– Are you an honest girl? However, you don't have to answer... And my humble comment concerns your appearance here. Didn't your mother teach you to knock on the door before entering?..
The tube in Solovyov's right palm came to life again and began to chatter... He listened for a while and muttered,
"Well, it's not scary. It's not the end of the world. 
The bubbling increased by another 2 degrees. Solovyov stood for another minute or two, then raised his voice, trying to make it sound convincing:
– Agreed. I said I would, so I definitely will... He hung up the phone and looked at the intern. And she looked at him. She saw in front of her a man of good middle age with dark brown hair, gray at the temples and gray, as if smoky, eyes. When he was angry, they narrowed, became steely. When he laughed, they expanded and turned blue. The movements also had a kind of double set: when Solovyov was tired, they acquired smoothness and slowness, when he was fresh and rested– sharpness. Thin enough–the only flaw, Lena thought, was not too tall.
"That's the way it is," Solovyov rumbled, "we'll postpone the debate about your upbringing, Elena, to tomorrow.
– But, Vyacheslav Andreevich, I wrote...
– Tomorrow, everything tomorrow...
– You said that the text needs to be reviewed, verified... 
– First of all, you have to look through it, verify it. 
– So I've already done everything! And now you have to look through it, go through it... And if there are mistakes...
Solovyov poked a cigarette into an ashtray, put it out.
– So that's it, dear friend... First of all, I've told you thousands of times that no one owes anyone anything in this life... if you don't give up your provincial ways and learn this thesis firmly, you and I have nothing more to communicate... Go back to your capital city Borisov... Secondly, there are circumstances in the world that correct human behavior, and this cannot be changed... In short, my dear, I'm accusing you of being provincial again and provincial again...
– And where are you going?
– As you understand, girl, I don't have to give an account at all, especially to young and slender people like you... Especially for those who have made a mistake... But still, I will inform you privately – I am going to visit the place where my heart is buried… Have you read William Saroyan, miss?
– Who, who?
– Everything is clear to the court... Well, at least Burns?
– I know... Robert Burns, English poet. We studied at the university in English...
well, first of all, not English, but Scottish... And secondly, can you immediately reproduce for me - "my heart is in the mountains"? Then I'll forgive you everything, my dear bowl, everything...
- How, how?
– Listen carefully, I quote for sure: "My heart is in the mountains, until now I am there, following the trail of a deer, running through the mountains. I'm running after a deer, shooting a goat, my heart is in the mountains, and I myself am down"...
– I do not know how to say it in English...
– Do not make me strain my senile brains. Besides, I don't like English too much – I'm a Francophile... But you need to know this, my dear misska... May Hart from the English Channel... I hope I haven't distorted the original too much.
– You are not an old man... And don't call me Missy...
– What should I call you now? Mademoiselle, fraulein, the senorita?.. However, I'm probably a million years behind the rhythm of modern life... A completely different vocabulary is in use now... Yes, I remembered – a carrot. Let's assume that you are my carrot...
– Why a carrot?
– That's what it means to live in a distant province. And we also need to introduce a correction for our Belarusian entourage... In general, dear Misska, you are infinitely far from the first detachment of our post-Soviet youth... However, she did not go far from the cult films of the late 80s, such as "Assol". So, my poor provincial child, comprehend the modern vocabulary... Listen to the current of time... And you will become an ace of the pen... Maybe I'll live to see it... Well, now, bye, bye...
He grabbed a folder that was lying on the edge of the table, abruptly threw a newspaper and several leaves into it. Then he felt the inside pocket of his jacket and calmed down: the handles were in place. Now he was ready to go.
– Take me with you, Vyacheslav Andreevich, please, – Lena asked, – I will behave very quietly...
Already at the beginning of her phrase, Solovyov shook his head negatively, but the intonation of her voice made him stop.
– Well, please, – Lena repeated the request.
– And the work on the text?
– I will have time, I will still have time to verify it before tomorrow.
"And you're going to be really quiet?" She nodded her head. Okay, stuffing cigarettes into his pocket, Solovyov decided. – Just look: everything is your responsibility, Misska.

***
The hall was in semi-darkness. Rather, it would have been completely dark if it hadn't been for the light source: a small table lamp that stood on a round table in the aisle between the 10th and 12th rows. There is a chair next to the table. 
– And why the lamp?  Lena asked.
"For the director,– Solovyov replied. – He needs to take the necessary notes at the rehearsal, see the notebook on the table. And indeed, there was a thick notebook, a rod was lying next to it, but there was no director. He was probably on a semi-dark stage; several figures were swarming there with the curtain half-closed, it was impossible to make out from afar.
– Here, – said Solovyov, sitting down on the first row after the aisle, – 12th row, behind the table – take a deep breath, my friend, you should smell the wings, have you ever been to the theater, girl?
– Well, are you just deliberately offending me? Of course, even in the first year – both at the Kupala Theater and at the Opera House... And at home, in Borisov...
– Where is the studio theater?...
Lena sniffed resentfully.
–Well, all right, all right," Solovyov said conciliatingly, "let's not talk about sad things... But really, open your eyes, dilate your nostrils, feel, smell the wings...
he half turned to look at her. She opened and closed her eyes and, indeed, dilating her nostrils, breathed deeply and convulsively...

But then a scandal broke out on the stage. Karpyuk, disheveled, shouted almost continuously, taking off and putting on his glasses every minute. His long, ungainly figure arched, and then suddenly froze.
The actors – there were three of them – initially tried to contradict, then subsided, clearly not hoping to stop the release of the director's anger.
Finally, apparently, a truce was established and, waving his long arms, Karpyuk rushed into the hall, quickly moving his long legs. Before plopping down on a chair in front of the table, he abruptly bucked his head, pulled his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with a characteristic movement and, seeing Solovyov, suddenly broke into a smile.
The smile was open, somewhat defenseless and therefore unexpected. 
– Slava, you came after all. Thanks a lot to you...
– Okay, what's there... Let's count ourselves as glory, our own people, in the end. Yes, please meet my dear carrot, Miss Lenochka...
Lenochka shot an indignant glance at Solovyov, but there was no time for a decent answer...
 – the interrogative intonation also made Karpyuk beautiful, especially in contrast to the seething that he had just staged on stage...
Karpyuk sat down on a chair, waved a handkerchief, and movement began on stage. Lena wanted to say something, but Solovyov pressed his finger to his lips, and then bent down to her ear: "Now there is no sound... Only in a whisper and in my ear."..
In the diffused light that appeared, an episode from French life was being played out on the stage. A flighty, attractive girl flirted, maneuvered between elderly fans and a young admirer, without depriving any of the applicants of hope.
The actress who played the girl was tall, fair-haired, pretty, and outwardly it seemed that she was playing a game. Lena liked her movements insinuating, feline, in her opinion feminine irresistible.
– No, no and no – Karpyuk suddenly roared. The very next moment, his voice rang in his ears like a fistula – "it's like some kind of Vitas," Lena thought with fear.
– Everything is outwardly, outwardly, – shouted Karpyuk – Nina, when you drop these things of yours... And you, Boris Ivanovich (the remark referred to an elderly actor) do not play along with her, do not multiply the number of stamps...
He bent over the table, wrote down some phrase, then threw down his pen and rushed forward to the stage.
– And what is he, – Lena said in a whisper, – it was so good...