KATYA. Even if I go to the ends of the earth, I’d write to you from there, anyway. Even if I die, I’d find a way of communicating with you.

ROMA. The whole thing’s because I watched a bad film. I’ll scratch the disk with it on and throw it out. And then everything will be better. Like in childhood, in the winter, in the women’s baths. Up there, under the roof, there’s a small window. We climbed up one after the other, but there was ice, really slippery. We lay down on our stomachs, lowered our heads and looked in the window. But there was steam from the ice, couldn’t see anything, only hear the splash of water and women’s voices. We could only stay up there a few seconds, and then back to the ground, in the snow. And the next climbs up, and again – falls back down. And then everyone told each other – who had seen what, and everyone lied. I was really glad that Brezhnev died. I was afraid of a war when I was a child. Because they already said – there’s soon be a cold war. And suddenly they’re saying on the radio – attention, an important message from the government. I ran over and switched off the radio, frowned and climbed under the table. And then it turned out – they’d said that Brezhnev had died. Just – Brezhnev.  

KATYA. Still – it was fun yesterday. We had a good time.

SOPHIA PETROVNA (crying). Yes, Romik, thank you, for being born as you are, that you even exist on earth. I thank everyone for you.

ROMA. What are you…? What…? This is becoming awkward, uncomfortable, I’m not as good as all that. I’m bad, since the weather doesn’t want to give me a present, an offering for my birthday.

KATYA. Yesterday there was snow, but the morning after – again it’s autumn. It’s just cold.

ROMA. Autumn’s not summer. Not an Indian summer, I mean. (He goes over to the window frame, looks outside, opens the window).

A competition has begun on the stadium, opposite. Sportsmen are running, someone is shouting out into a microphone: times, results, surnames of the participants.

ROMA. They’re running again. I’ll also start to run. I’ll drop everything and take that up. It’s not important if there’s an Indian summer or not. Cold, hot, - that’s all beside the point. I’ll marry the first person I meet so the flat is mine, and I’ll pay her, my bride. That’s more correct. Better not to deceive anyone. I can’t love. I have another mission in life. Not everyone can be happy. You always have to have something to do, always do something important for you, always be somebody. I passed a test recently, I was told – you’re a very rare character, it’s called ‘Marshal Zhukov’, Stalin and Lenin both had it. In other words, I’m a rarity – a rare character. I need to build on that in life. I need to live for that.

Everyone has gone over to Roma, they look outside, at the stadium, at the sportsmen. They laugh. They’re feeling good, happy, cheerful, joyous and other things, too. Somehow very-very good. Somehow the way it should always be. Or, at least, when it’s an Indian Summer, the day after a birthday.

The End.

July 2005.

Play © Alexandra Chichkanova

Translation © Noah Birksted-Breen