They are walking along Nevsky Prospekt, away from Sasha’s theater, away from the three hours of intense magic at their seventh performance of An Ardent Heart. Nearly three years have passed since he told Sasha he was married and she hoped that if she ever saw him again, her heart would remain as frigid as this November night with snowflakes floating through the air. He was waiting outside the theater, away from the stage door, on the periphery of her vision, as she was signing programs for a small crowd of fans. Her heart lurched and then plunged when she registered his silhouette as she handed the last program back and said something she doesn’t remember to a handsome man with ears red from the cold.

They are walking toward the Neva, through the darkness diffused by the few neon signs still lit at this hour, breathing in the icy dampness that numbs the throat and metes frost into the lungs. Sasha opens her mouth to ask him how he knows the play will be closed, but she catches herself. Of course he knows. He works at the department that decides things like that—which plays to close and what books to ban—the Ministry of Culture of the Municipal Committee of the Communist Party. It is located in the Smolny, a former institute that prior to the Revolution housed a school for young maidens of noble birth. They no longer have nobles, and there are far too few maidens left among them.

“Why must they close the play?” she asks instead. It is an unnecessary question, but she wants to hear his explanation, feeling anger constricting her chest. She is angry at his official look, at his surprise late-night visit to tell her that the role she has just created will soon be relegated to the archives of the Bolshoi Theatre museum. She asks why they are closing her play, because she wants to hear him confirm his complicity.

“The public wants optimism, a positive hero,” he says, his voice flat. “They need something to believe in.”

Of course she knows this—one of many Party slogans—but the need to challenge him is itching in her throat. “How do you know what they want?” she says, refusing to continue this argument along Party lines they’ve both known from birth. She wants to hear what he really thinks, what is hidden behind the facade of his official face, although she doubts he will ever reveal it. “They buy tickets, those who are lucky enough to get tickets. They give us a standing ovation every night. They love the absence of light. They identify with the darkness. They applaud all our characters, and none of them are positive heroes the public can believe in. Why can’t your bosses ever allow the people to see life as it really is?”