Work Text:
Characters in this scene:
- KATHERINA SERAFIMA GLEB: A woman in her late thirties.
- IPPOLITE IPPOPOLITOVICH POPOLITIPOV (POPPY): A dead apparatchik of some importance, gatekeeper for heaven.
(A half-destroyed gate stands in the middle of a vast empty space. The empty space resembles an abandoned factory: the floor is covered in dirt and random machine parts. There might even be some broken glass on the ground; when the characters are pacing around, we can sometimes hear the sound of glass shards cracking under their feet. We can’t really see past the gate; what lies beyond it is not meant for our eyes. It may be too dark to see, or it is blocked by piles and piles of cardboard boxes of varying sizes.
The gate itself is clearly based on the resurrection gate in Moscow, but it is a poor imitation of the real thing: the colors are all off, and the paint is already peeling from the wall. It’s also much smaller: the gate is not even tall enough for an adult man to pass through without bending over. The chapel between the gate is even smaller; it can fit in a child at best. There is no way for Poppy or Katherina to enter it.
At the beginning of this scene, Poppy is sitting alone in the corner by the gate. He is taking a nap.)
(Katherina enters from stage right and doesn’t notice Poppy. She is dressed in an old black coat that looks somewhat too big for her size. Underneath she has on a red shirt that’s been washed so many times that it is barely red. )
(She looks around, apparently confused by the situation. Then as if realizing something, she fumbles in her pocket for a while, takes out a lighter and a packet of cigarettes. The lighter is old and somewhat malfunctional; it takes her a couple of tries before she successfully lights up the smoke. She puts the cigarette in her mouth and tries to draw a breath, only to realize that apparently she is not breathing—or rather, she is performing the act of breathing, but no air exchange actually takes place. In another word: she cannot smoke. However, she doesn’t seem to be surprised by this fact. She throws the cigarette to the ground and steps on it almost viciously. In a last effort to check, she pinches herself in the cheek, and cries out in pain.)
KATHERINA I’m dead, then. Good. And this is that judgement thing those Orthodoxes have been warning me about. (She examines her surrounding a bit more closely, then lets out a sneer) Looks more like the resurrection gate to me.
(She stands there and waits for someone to come and explain the situation, or pass on her judgement, but nothing happens. She grows impatient.)
Hello? Is anybody here? (We see Poppy stirring in the corner but not quite awake) HELLO! YOU’VE GOT A NEW CORPSE COMING IN!
POPOLITIPOV (Barely awake) In the name of Stalin, enough with that screaming! I’m coming…
(He gets up and wraps his coat a bit tighter himself, trying to fight against the cold. He walks up to Katherina, who has her back towards him this whole time. She hears his voice and turns.)
KATHERINA Oh, there you are! Where—
(They see each other’s face. It takes both of them a second, but they undoubtedly recognize each other. Poppy lets out a scream that resembles a cat who has just been stepped on the tail, and Katherina immediately turns away from him and tries to walk off stage.)
POPOLITIPOV Hey, where do you think you’re going!
(He tries to run after her and grab her by the arm, but her glare stops him just before he can reach her. They are now both standing still, facing each other.)
KATHERINA (After a long pause) Poppy.
POPOLITIPOV (Beat) Katherina. (Seeing that she’s not going to say anything more, he continues) It’s been a while. (He suddenly realizes something and pulls out a small notebook from his pocket) Wait… Wait a minute. You are not expected here. Why are you—
KATHERINA (Interrupts him) I can ask you the very same question. What are you doing here? Is this some sort of a sick joke?
POPOLITIPOV No.
KATHERINA You have to be dead by now.
POPOLITIPOV Yes.
KATHERINA So this is some kind of heaven or afterlife or what have you.
POPOLITIPOV (Hesitates) Yes, in a way. This is more like Afterlife Division 67, exclusively for Soviet socialists.
KATHERINA (Beat. Then bursts into laughter) Oh that’s a good one, Poppy. That’s really good. (Seeing that he’s actually serious) You’re not joking.
POPOLITIPOV No. I am the administrator for this division. (He shrugs) Or really, just the gatekeeper.
KATHERINA Once an apparatchik, always an apparatchik, eh? (He flinches at her remark, but she doesn’t notice) What are you trying to keep away, exactly? Capitalist invasion? Americans? Jews?
POPOLITIPOV (Ignores her sarcasm) This is an important job. It’s not so much keeping people away than making sure they end up in the right place. We don’t want any unnecessary conflicts here. I once heard from someone working at Division 98, where they keep all the Irish Protestants, that they accidently let in a Catholic the other day… Let’s just say it didn’t end well. Anyhow—
(He tries to reach for Katherina’s arm, but is again deterred by her forbidding look. He sighs and takes a step back.)
Let’s get you to where you belong, shall we? There must have be an administrative mistake somewhere.
KATHERINA What do you mean?
POPOLITIPOV Clearly this is not the place for you. Sure, you were a Soviet, but you used to laugh at me for being a socialist. (He looks through his notebook) Let’s see… I think Division 107 is our best bet; that’s the one for all the former Soviets.
KATHERINA What?
POPOLITIPOV You know, all those people who were born in the USSR but died after its collapse. (Before she could ask the question) Yes, we know.
KATHERINA How is that even a division?
POPOLITIPOV They are all too confused to fit in anywhere else.
(A short silence)
KATHERINA How much do you know?
POPOLITIPOV About what?
KATHERINA About… what happens down there. You know, with the world.
POPOLITIPOV Some. (Beat) Enough. “The Soviet state, marked throughout its brief but tumultuous history by great achievement and terrible suffering, died today after a long and painful decline.” (Beat) “… It was 74 years old.” Funny how the Americans made it sound like a living person.
KATHERINA (With sudden, bitter resentment) They sure helped with the killing.
POPOLITIPOV (Surprised by her reaction) What happened to that “We will all become like Americans” talk of yours?
KATHERINA It’s none of your business. (Beat) We did, didn’t we?
POPOLITIPOV Not nearly as rich.
KATHERINA Quit being a smart-ass, Poppy. It doesn’t suit you.
POPOLITIPOV I was only trying to lighten the mood. (Walks back to the cardboard boxes he was sitting on) Come here, kid. (She looks at him, with deep suspicion) Relax. I’m not going to pull that guitar trick on you again. I’m too old for that. (He takes out a bottle of vodka from behind the box) Just want to catch up a bit.
KATHERINA (Hesitant, but couldn’t resist the vodka. She sits down with him on the cardboard boxes by the gate) I could always use another drink. (Beat) There is nothing to catch up about; you have seen it all from up here. It’s all gone to the dogs.
POPOLITIPOV Come now. (Hands her the bottle) It can’t be that bad. (She glares at him) I mean, sure. The whole “shock therapy” thing failed miserably and nobody can buy anything. They call it free market but there is nothing free about it. Money becomes worthless. The leeches from both within and without latched onto the whale that is privatization and drained our industries dry. We had to crawl and grovel and beg for money from the very enemies we swore to defeat. Indeed, it is all very terrible. (Beat) But this is hardly anything new. We’ve seen worse inequalities under the Tsar, more deadly famines during the Civil War, more deaths from the countless fights we’ve had with almost every single country in this world—in fact, counting only the ones by the hands of our fellow Slavs would be more than enough. (Beat) The Slavic history is written in blood and tears. Still, we have made it this far. (Takes the bottle from Katherina’s hand and drinks from it) Endurance is the spiritual genius of Slavic peoples.
KATHERINA (Sarcastically) “Heated in three waters. Bathed in three bloods. Boiled in three lyes. Cleaner are we than clean.” Also, your vodka tastes like water.
POPOLITIPOV (Frowns) It’s very unkind of you to make Tolstoy sound so sour. (Beat) “Although they are so disgusting, although they oppress us and crush many beautiful souls to death, yet the Russian is still so healthy and young in heart that he can and does rise above them.” Strangely enough, I was never a fan of Gorky. Too clichéd. Too naïve. (Beat) He’s right, though. In fact, I’d say things are already getting better down there—with the recent rise in oil prices and the crackdown on those leeches… (Seeing no response from Katherina) This new leader that you got—what’s his name again?—actually seems to have a head upon his shoulder. We have not had a leader like that for quite some time. Who knows, maybe we’ll get back up in no time. Also, just be grateful that we even have vodka here.
KATHERINA (Takes the bottle from him) I don’t know about that.
POPOLITIPOV (Suddenly a little ticked off) For goodness’s sake, Katherina, do you have to contradict everything I say?
KATHERINA (Ignores his comment) Do you remember what you said to me in Moscow, the last time we met?
POPOLITIPOV (Becomes somewhat nervous) … No. Not really. It’s been such a long time.
KATHERINA You said the people have changed. “The pleasures of adulthood are forsaken. Agony deep as bone marrow. Quiet, nuanced despair.” (She chuckles) At the time I just thought you were unbearably corny.
POPOLITIPOV (Sees that she had something different in mind, relaxes) I’m surprised you remembered after all these years.
KATHERINA You were right. People did change, and they kept changing. And yes, the pain, the deaths, the suffering… In our history, in the present, in the future. Everywhere. There’s no end to them. (Beat) But that’s not what bothers me. We had always managed to get back up. (She drinks from the bottle) But now… something is different. Lost. Forgotten. Something important. (She struggles to find the right words. A long pause) I think we’ve forgotten about suffering. Yes, we groan and moan about lining up for hours just to get a stale khleb, about getting ripped off by the government, the bureaucrats, and those sneaky, opportunistic bloodsuckers. About the mafia, the violence, the unrest, the corruption, the killings under broad daylight… But we do not see our suffering. Not like we used to. (Beat) We could see, once. (Shakes her head and corrects herself) No, it was much more than that. We saw, we understood, and we forgave. We believed that beyond the blood and tears we shed, beyond the scars we carried, beyond our faults and follies, beyond our agony, our sorrow… there is meaning. (Beat) At the end of this road to Calvary, we shall find salvation. “I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.” (Beat) This is the spiritual genius of Slavic peoples. (Vodka. She suddenly seems extremely weary) Not anymore. Slavic peoples are sick, Poppy. We always have been. An affliction by the name of suffering. But in the past we had words and thoughts as our scalpels and we always dug deep, deep into our wounds, to let the blood the pus the anger the agony the sorrow drain, so that the wound might heal, even just a little. Sure, every time we performed a surgery on ourselves we always ended up lacerating somewhere else, sometimes leaving an even bigger wound… But we kept on going. It is the only way we can survive and it is the only life we’ve known. And now… Now we don’t see the wounds anymore. We cover them up with bargained anger, contempt, or denial. We let the wounds fester underneath and when they start to stink we simply turn our nose up at them and complain about the foul smell. Nobody wants to look at them. Nobody wants to touch them. (Beat) Now we can’t recognize suffering even when we are living through it. But without suffering, how can there be salvation? (More vodka. Beat) Do you understand what I am saying to you, Poppy?
(A long silence)
POPOLITIPOV (He stands up, looking down at her) Yes, I do. (Coldly) You are just as wretched and pathetic as I thought. (Katherina looks at him, shocked and hurt) Why are you here, Katherina Serafima Gleb? (Without waiting for an answer) Let me tell you why you are here: You are weak. A new age has dawned on our country and you could not cope with it, so you tried to hide yourself in a cocoon of cheap sentiments and feigned reminiscence of an ideal that you never even understood—all this talk about suffering… Don’t make me laugh. What do you know about suffering? Where were you when Stalin went on a killing spree with his collectivization and the famine and the Great Purge? Where were you during the worst part of the Cold War when we had to rehearse for nuclear disasters every day? Where were you when that traitor Yeltsin turned his back on the Party and set the course to ruin and destruction of everything we have built in the last century? (Beat) Where were you in October of 93? (Viciously) And yet they decided to send you here—a faithless, heartless, hopeless nihilist imposter who drank herself to death!
KATHERINA Are you done?
POPOLITIPOV (Taken by surprise)… Don’t you have anything to say?
KATHERINA (Wearily) I don’t know what that hissy fit was about, Poppy. It wasn’t a competition; I never asked to be here. You have told me earlier that I do not belong here. You said there was a mistake.
POPOLITIPOV (Bitterly) They don’t make mistakes here.
KATHERINA What do you mean? You told me about that Irish Protestant—
POPOLITIPOV (Interrupts her) I lied. Did you honestly believe that there are administrative mistakes in heaven? (Bitterly) They have made the decision that you should be here.
KATHERINA (Deeply confused) I don’t understand… Why? And why did you lie to me about this?
POPOLITIPOV Because you can’t belong here. I refuse to believe that you—of all people—the stinking drunk, the non-believer, the anarchist, the “no-more-politics-we-will-become-like-Americans” fool, somehow belong here more than I do.
(A long silence)
KATHERINA Why are you here?
(A long pause)
POPOLITIPOV (Much calmer now. He is almost regretting his sudden outburst) Apparently, I am not enough of a socialist for them. I always thought it was only because of my position, that I didn’t have a high enough status to be in the ranks of our great leaders and visionaries… (Somewhat bitter again) Until you showed up.
KATHERINA (Softly) Why are you here?
POPOLITIPOV (He takes the bottle from her) …October 4th, 1993, Moscow. (Beat) Might be a sniper. Might be a tank. I can’t remember. (She patiently waits for him to continue. He sighs) To be honest, I don’t even know why I was there. I have not been involved with Party politics since 85, after I ordered that transfer… (His voice trails off. He looks at Katherina, almost timidly. Her face remains perfectly calm and expressionless. He looks away.) For years, I was only drifting along. There was a great, terrible emptiness in me. (Beat) In 93, I heard about what he did to the Supreme Soviet. That’s when it all came back to me: the Party, the USSR, everything. I was filled with such fury that I sprang out of my bed and screamed “Traitor! Murderer! Death to Yeltsin!” till I was turning blue. My nurse even thought I was going to die from a pulmonary. (Vodka) Then I returned to Moscow for the first time in eight years, and the rest followed. (He looks at her, without any resentment or bitterness. He is just a tired, old man. He passes her the bottle.) Why are you here, Katherina?
KATHERINA (Something about Poppy’s last narrative touched her deeply. Maybe he reminds her of herself, maybe she didn’t expect his suffering and remorse. She is much less guarded than when we first saw her, but she is still not quite ready to share her secrets.) There really isn’t much to tell. (Beat) Like you said, I was weak and pathetic. And I drank myself to death.
POPOLITIPOV That can’t be the whole truth, Katherina. (He sits down beside her) You changed. Even a blind, sad, bitter old fool like me can tell. (Softly) It was that doctor, wasn’t it?
KATHERINA (She gets visibly emotional. She tries to suppress her reaction, but it is really hard) I don’t understand what you mean.
POPOLITIPOV (He looks at her. She looks away. He sighs) I should’ve known the first time we met. A pediatric oncologist… What kind of person would take up such a job? (With deep sorrow) I guess a better question is, what kind of a place would create such a job? (Beat) She sees, doesn’t she? All those things you were talking about. It was really her that you were talking about.
KATHERINA (Softly) She’s a tender-hearted fool.
POPOLITIPOV You love her.
KATHERINA Maybe. Or maybe I was just too lonely. (Beat, with irony) After all, there were only so many lesbians I could go after in Moscow.
POPOLITIPOV You followed her to Siberia.
KATHERINA I got sick of Moscow.
POPOLITIPOV You stayed.
KATHERINA I don’t like changes.
POPOLITIPOV Katherina…
KATHERINA We lived together. We ate together. We went to work together. Some nights we made love to each other. More nights we came home exhausted and she started crying because it was the fifth or sixth or tenth child she’s lost this year although she’s done everything she could. (She covers her eyes. The base of her palm presses into her cheek. It almost looks like she is praying) Then one night I began crying with her. Isn’t that weird? Twenty years—that was the first time I cried for someone other than myself. (She lifts her head up. Beat) I came to see the world through her eyes. The suffering she witnessed every day. The weights she tried to carry. The things she fought for. To change, to adapt, to help us all survive… (She lets out a sneer) I wanted to be part of it. I—The selfish drunk. The hopeless non-believer. The good-for-nothing barbarian you found in the gutter… wanted to stand by her side. (Beat) To be a socialist. (She buries her face in her hands again) It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.
POPOLITIPOV (Softly) Why are you here, Katherina?
(A long silence)
KATHERINA (With great sadness) I really don’t know, Poppy. I am no more a socialist than you. I couldn’t die for the Party. I couldn’t die for socialism either. (Beat) “An immense, unqualified, unadulterated capacity to love—that’s what sets us apart from the capitalists.” That’s what she used to tell me. The ability to love others. Not just our friends, our family, the people we find agreeable. But everyone. To love and care for the wellbeing of everyone, to believe that all of us deserve an equal chance at happiness. Free of oppression. Free of exploitation. (Then with great fury and pain) But I can’t do it. I can’t go on pretending to love and care for my patients when I know that they might hold nothing but contempt for me. I can’t stand to be around those people who lived through what we’ve been through, saw what we’ve seen, and still decided to renounce everything we had, everything we stood for. I can’t live with them when they just stood there and watched their children beating her senseless—the very children we delivered and cared for as if they were our own—just because they think she’s a Soviet socialist, a Sovok. It’s been two months, two fucking months—and none of them could even find it in their heart to tell me who did it. Who was responsible for turning her, who did everything she could to help them in the past twenty years, into that stock-still, comatose body on the bed? (Beat. Her fury subsides. A deep, inconsolable grief overtakes her) The worst part of it is, I know she would still stay there to be their doctor when she… if she wakes up. That was the only reason I stayed in that clinic. I tried to do what she would do, but I cannot do it. I tried, I really tried… But I don’t have her expertise. I don’t have her determination. I don’t have her heart. I can’t just see and understand and forgive. (Beat) I can’t love like she did. I gave it everything I got but I still wasn’t good enough, and I hate myself for it, for failing, for trying. (She looks at the vodka bottle, with deep irony and self-hatred) So I drank. Like all good Russians do. Hoping that one day it will just take me away from all this. (She takes a swig) So it did.
(She takes another swig. A short silence.)
(She breaks the silence.)
Your vodka tastes like water.
POPOLITIPOV “But what can be done? The one who loves must share the fate of the one they love.” (Beat) I am not talking about the vodka. (He takes the bottle from her and takes a swig) You are right, Katherina. Your doctor is a tender-hearted fool. (She glares at him. He motions her to calm down) Maybe she is right. Maybe that’s what true socialists should be like. After all, we won’t really be happy with the idea of full social and economic equality unless we believe everyone deserves it. (He shrugs) If that’s the case, I don’t think we are ever going to achieve socialism. Call me a cynic if you like, but most of us are not capable of the kind of love that she was hoping for. We simply aren’t built for it. Just think about it: didn’t we hate the Jews, the Muslims, the Americans, the Chinese? Why else did we chase them out of our lands or wage wars against them? Didn’t we hate our fellow Slavs? Why else did we have the Great Purge, the Gulags, the deportation train to Siberia? (Beat) Maybe that’s we why failed. We hoisted the flag of internationalism and claimed to be fair and equal, but deep down we are just a bunch of hypocritical, self-absorbed, brazen nationalists—like everyone else in this world. Maybe it’s part of being human, that we inevitably fear and despise those who are different from us, and that our lust for hatred will always outweigh our thirst for love and empathy. (Quietly) Maybe we don’t deserve socialism, and this dog-eat-dog world is the best we’ll ever get.
KATHERINA (Beat. Sadly) Maybe. (She stands up from the boxes and looks at the gate) Time to go.
(Poppy nods. He tries to drink from the bottle, but there is nothing left. He sighs and puts the bottle down. He walks towards the gate but doesn’t unlock it yet. He fishes out a packet of cigarette from his coat. He takes out two and offers one to Katherina.)
POPOLITIPOV Cigarette?
KATHERINA (Takes it without thinking, then realizes) What for?
POPOLITIPOV (Lights up his and draws a deep breathe. The smoke comes out naturally) I thought you liked cigarettes.
(Katherina is profoundly confused. She lights up hers and tries to smoke. She fails)
KATHERINA I do. I just can’t.
POPOLITIPOV What do you mean, you can’t? (He takes the cigarette from her hand and smokes from it) Have you forgotten how to smoke?
KATHERINA No, it’s just… (Slowly, as if not believing what she’s saying) I think I am not breathing.
POPOLITIPOV (Shocked) Why didn’t you tell me this?
KATHERINA I thought this is how heaven works! (Impatiently) I’m dead anyway. What difference does it make?
POPOLITIPOV You really don’t belong here.
KATHERINA I thought we are over this already—
POPOLITIPOV No, no. That’s not what I meant. (He reaches for her hand and this is the first time she doesn’t scare him off with a glare) Feel that? Your are cold as a stone. (He lets go of her hand) There was an administrative mistake after all: you don’t belong to the world of the dead.
KATHERINA Wait…
(A short silence)
POPOLITIPOV (Awkwardly) You are still alive. Somewhat.
KATHERINA No, no, no… There has to be some misunderstanding: you said they don’t make mistakes here—(Suddenly furious) What is this? Some sort of demonic trick? Some sort of divine test? Throw at me a bunch of stupid questions then declare that I can go back to being alive? Do you expect me to just accept it?
POPOLITIPOV (In a low voice) You don’t have to.
KATHERINA What do you mean?
POPOLITIPOV You don’t have to go back to being alive. (Beat) In fact, the powers that be will probably prefer if you don’t go back. You know—just accept your place here, and pretend the mistake never happens. Makes everyone happy.
KATHERINA (Coldly) Should I thank God or whoever’s in charge for granting me a choice?
POPOLITIPOV It’s not exactly like that… We actually have a counsel of—(Sees her expression and realizes that she doesn’t want to learn about that. He sighs. Beat) Katherina, the choice is in your hand. Not me, not the powers that be, not even heaven itself. You alone get to choose. (He looks at her, sorrowfully) You have to choose, alone.
(A short silence)
KATHERINA What is behind that gate?
POPOLITIPOV I don’t know. I have never been in there. (Beat) But I heard that it is quiet and peaceful.
KATHERINA How is it down there?
POPOLITIPOV (He takes a glance down) The sun just came up. Not much has changed. You’ve only been here for the night.
(He walks to the gate. Waiting. Katherina stands in the middle of the empty space. Silence. She turns and walks up to Poppy. He looks relieved, but somewhat unhappy. He takes out the key from his pocket and begins to unlock the gate.)
KATHERINA What time is it?
POPOLITIPOV (He pauses and looks at his pocket watch) 6:04.
KATHERINA Mrs. Domik.
POPOLITIPOV (He turns and looks at her) What?
KATHERINA Mrs. Domik will be at the clinic in ten minutes. She always picks up the medication for her joint pain early in the morning. She says the pain is the worst during the afternoon. Mr. Mikhail needs his cast removed before lunchtime. Otherwise he can’t make it to his afternoon shift. Alyosha will come to the clinic at 11 for his stomach pain, but he is really looking for a free lunch at the clinic because his family cannot afford it. Vanya has been running a fever for five days now and needs to be checked on. Mrs. Olga needs a new tooth. Sasha needs new glasses.
POPOLITIPOV You don’t have to worry about them anymore.
KATHERINA Someone has to.
POPOLITIPOV It doesn’t have to be you.
KATHERINA I am the only one left.
POPOLITIPOV You don’t like them.
KATHERINA Some of them. (Beat) Most of them.
POPOLITIPOV What is the point?
KATHERINA It is my job.
POPOLITIPOV (Softly) But what are you working for? A country that abandons your ideal? People who ignore your goodwill or worse—pay back with malice? (Beat. Quietly) Someone who might never wake up?
KATHERINA I don’t know, Poppy. Perhaps I’m just too stupid. Too stubborn. Too naïve. Perhaps I’m heading down a path that’s going nowhere, and all that’s left are more failures, disasters, and hopeless impossibilities. (Beat) But I’m not ready to stop. Not yet. I need to see it for myself, where this road of suffering leads to. What lies at the end of it. That’s what Bonfila would have wanted. (Beat) And I want to know, too.
(A short silence. Poppy puts the keys back to his pocket. He looks at Katherina. He understands now.)
POPOLITIPOV You should hurry. Before they change their mind.
KATHERINA Would you get into trouble for this?
POPOLITIPOV (He shrugs) Maybe. It can’t be that bad, though. I’m dead—there isn’t much they can do to make things worse. (He holds out his right hand) Shall we shake hands?
KATHERINA (She looks at him. She smiles, for the first time.) Gladly.
(They shake hands. She turns away and is ready to leave. Poppy remembers something, runs to the small chapel between the gate, and retrieves an object from a small alcove on the wall)
POPOLITIPOV Oh… and, before you go. (He hands her the object) This should help on the way.
KATHERINA (She holds it up in front of her and examines it) This is… a candle? With St. Sergius’s face on it?
POPOLITIPOV Light it up.
(She does, with her funky lighter. This time it works surprisingly well; she manages to light it up in one try.)
KATHERINA … But… that’s Lenin! (She laughs, free of irony or sarcasm. It is a genuine, hearty laughter.) His face hidden under an icon of St. Sergius of Radonezh, who lived six hundred years ago…
POPOLITIPOV … and who is said to have been a great worker of miracles. (Beat. He smiles) Thank you, Katherina.
(Katherina carefully holds the candle in her hands. She looks at Poppy one more time. He bows slightly at her.)
KATHERINA Goodbye, Poppy.
(She turns, stands still for a few seconds, and starts running.)
(Poppy walks to the gate. With his back towards us, he lights up a cigarette and smokes. Lights off.)
References:
- “I’m dead, then. Good. And this is that judgement thing those Orthodoxes have been warning me about.”
A parody of the opening line of The Invention of Love.
- “Shall we shake hands?” “Gladly.”
A reference to a repeated imagery in The Invention of Love.
- “The Soviet state, marked throughout its brief but tumultuous history by great achievement and terrible suffering, died today after a long and painful decline. (…) It was 74 years old.”
Direct quote from the New York Times’ report on the dissolution of the USSR.
- “Heated in three waters. Bathed in three bloods. Boiled in three lyes. Cleaner are we than clean.”
Direct quote from The Road to Calvary by Leo Tolstoy.
- “Although they are so disgusting, although they oppress us and crush many beautiful souls to death, yet the Russian is still so healthy and young in heart that he can and does rise above them.”
Direct quote from My Childhood by Maxim Gorky.
- “I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.”
Direct quote from The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
- “But what can be done? The one who loves must share the fate of the one they love.”
Direct quote from The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov.