Celebrity Chekhov Read Free Page B

other people’s coats. In Los Angeles, too, Justin Timberlake spoke sometimes of love, but the effect was not at all the same as in the country.
    In Los Angeles we were more vividly conscious of the wall that stood between us. I had put songs in the chart, and at that time he had not, though he aspired to do so; both of us—I because of my youth and he for some unknown reason—thought of that wall as very high and thick, and when he was with me in Los Angeles he would criticize other chart-topping pop stars’ society with a forced smile, and maintain a sullen silence when any of them called or texted me. There is no wall that cannot be broken through, but the heroes of the modern romance, so far as I know them, are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and are too ready to resign themselves to the thought that they are doomed to failure, that personal life has disappointed them; instead of struggling they merely criticize, calling the world vulgar and forgetting that their criticism passes little by little into vulgarity.
    I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost touching me; I went on living in careless ease without trying to understand myself, not knowing what I expected or what I wanted from life, and time went on and on. People passed by me with their love, bright days and warm nights flashed by, the nightingales sang, the grass smelt fragrant, and all this, sweet and overwhelming in remembrance, passed with me as with everyone rapidly, leaving no trace, was not prized, and vanished like mist. Where is it all?
    My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted me, caressed me, gave me hope—the patter of the rain, the rolling of the thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk of love—all that has become nothing but a memory, and I see before me a flat desert distance; on the plain not one living soul, and out there on the horizon it is dark and terrible.
    A ring at the bell. It is Justin Timberlake. When in the winter I see the trees and remember how green they were for me that one summer, I whisper:
    â€œOh, my loves!”
    And when I see people with whom I spent my youth, I feel sorrowful and warm and whisper the same thing.
    Justin Timberlake has been through it too. He put some songs on the chart, and then left off for other pursuits. He looks a little older, a little fallen away. He has long given up declaring his love, has left off talking nonsense, dislikes some of his work intensely, is indifferent to other parts of it, is ill in some way and disillusioned; he has given up trying to get anything out of life, and takes no interest in living. Now he has sat down by the hearth and looks in silence at the fire.
    Not knowing what to say, I ask him:
    â€œWell, what have you to tell me?”
    â€œNothing,” he answers.
    And silence again. The red glow of the fire plays about his melancholy face.
    I thought of the past, and all at once my shoulders began quivering, my head dropped, and I began weeping bitterly. I felt unbearably sorry for myself and for this man, and passionately longed for what had passed away and what life refused us now. And now I did not think about the pop charts.
    I broke into loud sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered:
    â€œMy God! My life is wasted!”
    And he sat and was silent, and did not say to me: “Don’t weep.” He understood that I must weep, and that the time for this had come.
    I saw from his eyes that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for him, too, and vexed with this man who could not make a life for me, nor for himself.
    When I saw him to the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long while putting on his coat. Twice he kissed my hand without a word, and looked a long while into my tearstained face. I believe at that moment he recalled the storm, the streaks of rain, our laughter, my face that day, he longed to say something to me, and he would have been glad to say it; but he said