Description
The engineer Viktor Zilov receives a funeral wreath bearing his own name. He takes it as a cruel joke and organizes a grand farewell banquet where he pushes himself to the limit. Through a series of flashbacks, his cynical life is revealed: he betrayed his wife Galya, cheated on her with Irina, toyed with the feelings of the young Galina, and failed his friends at work.
Unable to cope with his increasing loneliness and moral decay, Zilov returns to his empty apartment. The climax leaves it ambiguous whether he will go on the promised “duck hunting” trip or commit suicide, standing with a gun at the window.
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“Happiness is when you have nothing to regret.”
“What did I live for, what did I do? Nothing. I only waited for something.”
“Why do I live? Because I don’t know how to die.”
“You are a man of the modern age. You are educated, you read books… and yet you live like a savage.”
“A man should do something. He must have some goal, otherwise, he’s just a worm.”
Act One
Scene One
A city apartment in a new, standard-issue building. An entrance door, a door to the kitchen, a door to another room. One window. Ordinary furniture. On the windowsill is a large plush cat with a bow around its neck. Messy.
In the foreground is a couch on which Zilov is sleeping. At the head is a small table with a telephone.
Through the window, one can see the top floor and roof of a standard-issue building opposite. Above the roof is a narrow strip of gray sky. It is a rainy day.
The telephone rings. Zilov does not wake up immediately, nor without difficulty. Having woken, he lets two or three rings pass, then frees his arm from under the blanket and reluctantly picks up the receiver.
ZILOV. Yes?…
A short pause. A grimace of confusion appears on his face. It is clear that someone on the other end has hung up.
Strange… (He drops the receiver, turns onto his other side, but immediately lies back down on his back, and a moment later throws the blanket off. He notes with some surprise that he slept in his socks. He sits up on the bed, presses his palm to his forehead. He touches his jaw very carefully, wincing painfully. He sits for a time, staring at one spot—remembering. He turns, walks quickly to the window, and opens it. He waves his hand in annoyance. It is clear that he is extremely displeased that it is raining.)
Zilov is about thirty years old, quite tall, of solid build; in his gait, gestures, and manner of speaking there is much freedom, stemming from confidence in his physical well-being. At the same time, a certain carelessness and boredom runs through his gait, gestures, and conversation, the origin of which is impossible to determine at first glance. He goes to the kitchen, returns with a bottle and a glass. Standing by the window, he drinks beer. With the bottle in his hands, he begins his morning exercises, making a few movements, but immediately stops this activity, which is unsuitable for his state. The telephone rings. He goes to the phone and picks up the receiver.
ZILOV. Well? Are you going to talk?…
The same trick: someone has hung up.
Some jokes… (He drops the receiver, finishes his beer. He picks up the receiver, dials a number, listens.) Idiots… (He presses the hook, dials the number again. He speaks monotonously, mimicking the voice from a weather bureau.) “Variable cloudiness is expected during the day, wind light to moderate, temperature plus sixteen degrees.” (In his own voice.) Did you get that? That’s what they call variable cloudiness—it’s pouring rain… Hi, Dima… Congratulations, old man, you were right… Yes, about the rain, damn it! We waited a whole year and we got it!… (With confusion.) Who’s talking?… Zilov… Well, of course. Didn’t you recognize me?… Dead?… Who’s dead?… Me?! Well, I don’t think so… I seem to be alive… Huh? (He laughs.) No, no, alive. That’s all I need—to die right before the hunting trip! What?! I’m not going?! Where did you get that idea?… Am I crazy? Wait, maybe you’re the one who doesn’t want me to go?… Then what’s the matter?… Oh come on, that’s quite a thing to joke about… My head, yes (he holds his head), naturally… But, thank God, it’s still attached… Yesterday? (With a sigh.) Yes, I’m trying to remember… No, I don’t remember everything, but… (Sigh.) The scandal—yes, I remember the scandal… Why did I make one? That’s what I’m wondering—why? I think and I can’t understand—the devil knows why!… (He listens, with annoyance.) Don’t say that… I remember… I remember… No, I don’t remember the ending. Hey, Dima, did something happen?… Honestly, I don’t remember… No police?… Just our crowd? Well, thank God… Were they offended?… Really? Don’t they understand a joke?… Well, to hell with them. They’ll get over it, right?… I think so too… Alright. So what do we do now? When do we leave?… Wait? And when did it start?… Yesterday? You don’t say!… I don’t remember—no! (He feels his jaw.) Yes! Listen, was there a fight yesterday?… No?… Strange… Yes, someone hit me. Just once… Yes, in the face… I think it was a fist. I wonder who, didn’t you see?… Oh well, it doesn’t matter… No, it’s nothing serious. Quite a cultured punch…
A knock at the door.
Dima! What if it lasts for a week?… No, I’m not worried… Of course… I’m sitting at home. Ready. Waiting for the call… Waiting… (He puts down the receiver.)
A knock at the door.
Come in.
A wreath appears in the doorway. It is a large, cheap pine wreath with big paper flowers and a long black ribbon. Following it is the boy, about twelve years old, carrying it. He is seriously concerned with fulfilling his assigned mission.
(Cheerfully.) Hello!
BOY. Hello. Are you Zilov?
ZILOV. Yes, I am.
BOY (sets the wreath against the wall). This is for you.
ZILOV. For me?… Why?
The boy is silent.
Listen, kid. You’ve got something mixed up…
BOY. Are you Zilov?
ZILOV. Yes, I am…
BOY. Then it’s for you.
ZILOV (after a pause). Who sent you?… Come here, sit down.
BOY. I have to go.
ZILOV. Sit down.
The boy sits.
(He examines the wreath, picks it up, straightens the black ribbon, and reads the inscription aloud.) “To the unforgettable Viktor Alexandrovich Zilov, who prematurely burned out at work, from his inconsolable friends”… (He is silent. Then he laughs, but briefly and without much merriment.) Do you understand what this is about?… Viktor Alexandrovich Zilov—that’s me… And look, I’m alive and well… How do you like that?
The boy is silent.
Where are they? Downstairs?
BOY. No, they left.
ZILOV (after a pause). They joked and left…
BOY. I’m going now.
ZILOV. Get out of here… No, wait. Tell me… Do you like jokes like this?… Is this witty or not?
The boy is silent.
No, you tell me, to send a thing like this to a comrade who’s hungover, and on top of that, in this kind of weather, isn’t that piggish?… Don’t you think friends shouldn’t do that?
BOY. I don’t know. They asked me, I brought it…
A short pause.
ZILOV. You’re something else, too. You deliver wreaths to living people, and you’re probably a Pioneer. When I was your age, I wouldn’t have touched a job like this.
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