This was your next evening at the Kharkov Theater. Nervously waiting for the start of the performance, you drank a few sips of weak alcohol so that I can sing better. It also prepared you mentally for the stage. There were a lot of different outcomes of this evening in your thoughts, where you were the main focus.

Your gifts were acting and vocal skills. You sounded best in the jazz genre. Les' Kurbas, director of the Kharkov Theater, also thought so... He liked your voice and appearance. He found you too trusting and polite for your own good.

That night he also took a seat in the first ten rows of the hall. Oleksandr attended almost all performances. He was interested in seeing how his actors worked. Thus, Les' controlled the process. If the events went beyond the scope, he could visit the backstage. Your relationship with your director was more open than others. The two of you have known each other since the time when Les was a simple actor and student. You were colleagues and perhaps someone closer, perhaps friends. Therefore, you could afford sincerity and openness in communicating with him.

Slowly and smoothly, the bright burgundy curtain opened, revealing the stage before the eyes of the audience: the orchestra was already standing in the background, the drummer was smoothly beating the rhythm of the piece. Les’s eyes intently examined the still dark scene. His chin rested gently on his hand. While some of his acquaintances were talking to him, he patiently waited for the ensemble to enter... For some time he did not take his eyes off the stage, only occasionally nodding in response to his interlocutors. His gaze is stern and cold as usual.