And then… I stopped him, raising my hand, slowly got up. Everything turned out on its own, the words of a foreign language poured into the thinly ringing silence of the living room. He froze, the impression that he was afraid to breathe while singing. Very quietly, in a small sound, so as not to carry it far. Not necessary. This is just for him. For me. For both of us. The words of the song subsided, I approached him, close. Eyes, his eyes. Warm, deep, dark brown, attractive. Magic of two in a quiet room. I know that my gaze fixed on him is now the same… Deep brown and clear blue. It's very easy to succumb. In my pictures at such moments the camera slowly ran down, and… He slightly, very slightly, hinted at the movement, moved back, barely perceptible, he doesn't want to hurt me. This is not a movie.
Not. There was nothing, could not be. Can not. For a moment there was a regret, if you would be a little older. Or I'm younger. And all overshadowed by the face of my husband. Not. Never. We will not destroy the intangible thing that united us in these moments. We will save it, together. I am sure that the same thoughts and doubts are in my guest’s soul. There were — and disappeared. And we stayed. But what unexpectedly connected us should have manifested itself. How, in what? And I…
I told him everything. So I wanted. How many times they asked me about it, what famous journalists… What amounts was offered just for the interview, just for the conversation. The answer has always been — no. But now… Wanted to finally speak out. I wanted an eye opposite, attentive gaze, understanding, sympathy. I need sympathy, why? After all, I'm happy. I have everything I dreamed of. But… But…
How good it is that in the dimness and quiet of the room, which only the small lamp lights up, you can just sit next to him — and talk, talk… I didn’t even ask to keep everything in secret — I know that he will keep silence. Interview, which for decades sought from me — here and now. Next to me is not a journalist, not a historian of cinema — an unknown person, almost a young man. He knows only my name. He will know more. I want it. We both want, I see it in his eyes.
My long, very long story… I got carried away, soon I pulled out thick heavy photo albums, we didn’t have enough space on the sofa and a table — we settled right on the carpet, on the floor. Little light here — a large chandelier flashed under the ceiling, illuminating the living room with a festive light. I asked if he was hungry? Without waiting for an answer, I jumped up and swept into the kitchen, as if in an instant I became younger by… By much. I quickly made sandwiches and tea. So funny, he was very embarrassed, but he followed and tried to help. Of course, a living legend — and that's how it looks after him in a simple way. Smears butter on bread and asks if he want fry eggs with ham… No, honey, sit down — I am the hostess, and you are my guest. The story continued. Page after page of thick cardboard. Faces, events. Rows of photos, my finger sliding over them. Sometimes he froze for a moment, as if hesitated to tell. What on the next page… And what is hidden between the neatly pasted pictures. At some moments the voice of reason timidly tried to intervene — be silent, do not. If he wants, he will earn a fortune by simply telling the press… This is a big temptation, will he stand? But I am writing an autobiography… This will be published, everyone will read it anyway. But you also tell what you never write! Do you believe him so much? I believe. I want it. For all the time he did not try to ask anything more, he didn’t show any surprise or emotion. Someone, looking from the side, could think that my guest is indifferent. But I saw what was going on in his soul, saw the fingers clench on the upholstery of the sofa. I saw everything and gave him to see everything, told the most intimate. Why? I do not know. But I am grateful to Providence for sending me this meeting, so unexpected, wonderful. Magic…
— Thank you for this evening …
— Thank you, this is … This is magic… I do not know how to say …
— Do not say. And…
— What?
— You have to leave.
— Yes … It's time.
We were delaying the inevitable moment of farewell — he asked to show him something. I thought for a moment, then the screen flashed — I chose two small passages, I don’t want to waste time on long views. Short time remaining to us… If he wants, he will find everything himself, later. So we stood side by side, lighted by a trembling silvery shine, looked on. We listened. If someone saw us now, he would have thought that we were about to join hands. He would be right. But… Do not.
We must say goodbye. We both know that we will never meet again. How sadly… And yet not. Why? Because subsequent meetings would destroy what was lit between us. Routine… This is a terrible force. Both of us do not want the spark to go out in everyday life. We will keep it. But I want so much to leave something for him… Sometimes he will look at that and remember. I grinned: is it an autograph? To write on a photo? I have dozens of them for fans. "For the long memory, with best wishes, always…" Few simple words, signature. That's how the charm will disappear. What can I give him? I slowly walked over to the mirror, saw my reflection in it, he got up next. He is going to leave… What will I give him? Well, ask yourself, I do not know what to do… Last minutes leave, leave, you will not just disappear, I will give you… What? Flash. I remembered that old letter with a curious request. I did not answer then. And well, because not then, not him. You.
He even retreated a step when, in one motion, I freed my hair, letting them fall on my shoulders, shook my head so that they would scatter… They are still beautiful, right? Like before. Where is… Where did I put it? Here it is. He looked distractedly at what I handed to him, shook his head and whispered.
— Do not.
The silence thickened even more around us, involuntarily catching the sounds of the street, if a car drove up is not audible. My husband, wait … Just wait a bit, give us a few more minutes. I took a step forward without giving up.
— You want this and I want it. Do it yourself, — I smiled and winked, — just be careful, don't take too many. Here it will be unnoticeable.
He tried to smile back and carefully picked up the small scissors, our fingers flinched as they touched. I bowed my head, felt a timid touch, God… We seemed to perform some ancient ritual. I bit my lip, it's good that he does not see my face. How nice that I now do not see his face. Do not. Scissors blades clicked faintly, I lifted my head. A curl of my hair in his hand.
— Give me.
A light blue narrow ribbon wrapped a curl, slowly tied it with a butterfly knot. He silently watched, biting his lip in the same way as I had a moment ago.
— Here.
He looked at him for several long moments, I handed a small envelope… Goodbye, my Guest… Goodbye, my…
— Can I take them?
— No, leave it to me — I want to remember too.
I held out my hand, he put the scissors in my palm, our fingers touched once again. Last time.
I did not offer a ride, did not ask where he was staying. Not asked for a mailing address. I only know the name. He disappeared around the bend of the street. Never looked back. Goodbye. I touched the spot where he cut the curl. When he held it in his hand, I saw that he was struggling with the desire to bring it to face, to inhale the smell. I know that he will do it later. Tears filled my eyes, wiped them with a quick movement. We will remember each other. Forever.