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and the stage manager and a few others. Nobody else seemed about to go. The doctor opened the bottle of Tokay on the sideboard. The little boy, Piotr (so I belatedly named him), who had been awakened and made ready for departure, was set to wait on the wing chair. Maryna leaned with a fetching show of languor against the back of the chair, surrounded by Bogdan, Tadeusz, the young actress, the impresario, Bogdan’s sister, the doctor, and the one-legged painter. Here was one last chance for the conversation to ripen and their decision to be cinched like a purse. Well, of course, said Maryna, laughing emphatically, I don’t always agree with myself. An encouraging thought. They went on talking quietly. I would go on listening. As a child, while I did concede that I was good at learning, I was sure I wasn’t “really intelligent” (please ignore the quotes) as I understood what that meant from books, from biographies, there being no one in my vicinity who seemed “really intelligent” (same request) either. Still, I did think that I could do whatever I set my mind to (I was going to be a chemist, like Madame Curie), that steadfastness and caring more than the others about what was important would take me wherever I wanted to go. And so, now, I thought if I listened and watched and ruminated, taking as much time as I needed, I could understand the people in this room, that theirs would be a story that would speak to me, though how I knew this I can’t explain. There are so many stories to tell, it’s hard to say why it’s one rather than another, it must be because with this story you feel you can tell many stories, that there will be a necessity in it; I see I am explaining badly. I can’t explain. It has to be something like falling in love. Whatever explains why you chose this story—it may, indeed, draw sap from some childhood grief or longing—hasn’t explained much. A story, I mean a long story, a novel, is like an around-the-world-in-eighty-days: you can barely recall the beginning when it comes to an end. But even a long journey must begin somewhere, say, in a room. Each of us carries a room within ourselves, waiting to be furnished and peopled, and if you listen closely, you may need to silence everything in your own room, you can hear the sounds of that other room inside your head. You can hear the fire crackling or the clock ticking or (if the window is open) the cry of a coachman or the vroom-vroom of a motorcycle in the alley. Or you may not hear any of this, if the room is full of voices. Raucous or soft-mannered people may be sitting down to dinner, saying something you don’t quite understand, let’s hope not because the television is on, and full blast, but you’ll catch the gist. First it will be only phrases, or a name, or an urgent whisper, or a cry. If there are cries, no, screams, and you see something like a bed, you can hope that this isn’t a room where someone is being tortured, but, rather, where someone is giving birth, although these sounds are also unbearable. You can hope that you have found yourself among largehearted people, passion is a beautiful thing, and so is understanding, the coming to understand something, which is a passion, which is a journey, too. The servants were bringing Maryna and the others their wraps. They were ready to leave now. With a shiver of anticipation, I decided to follow them out into the world.

One
    PERHAPS IT WAS the slap she received from Gabriela Ebert a few minutes past five o’clock in the afternoon (I’d not witnessed that) which made something, no, everything (I couldn’t have known this either) a little clearer. Arriving at the theatre, inflexibly punctual, two hours before curtain, Maryna had gone directly to her star’s lair, been stripped to her chemise and corset and helped into a fur-lined robe and slippers by her dresser, Zofia, whom she dispatched to iron her costume