Dostawa-transfer kotow

On Tuesdays, Stazia would arrive at the theatre before dawn. Before the box office opened, before the actors showed up, before the corridors filled with voices—she was already there. She had her ritual: a bucket, keys, a rag slung over her shoulder, anddressing rooms one by one.

That morning, everything started as usual. She approached one of the dressing rooms, turned the key, and cracked the door open. And then something happened that for a long time afterward, she couldn't recount without stuttering. A crowd of cats burst out of the dressing room. Not one. Not two. Thirty-three. All identical. All looked exactly like Charli. They rushed past her legs like a wave—soft backs, tails, flashes of eyes, the clacking of claws on linoleum. They scattered down the corridor as if they had known the way for a long time.

Stazia backed up right against the wall. "What on earth is this?! Who let them in here?!" she screamed, catching her breath. The wardrobe mistress appeared in the doorway opposite. She didn't even look up from her notebook. "Don't get agitated," she said calmly. "It's a new delivery." "What delivery?!" The wardrobe mistress shrugged. "For Sapojnikova’s costume. Live fur." And she shut the door.

Stasia was left alone in the empty corridor. Except the corridor wasn't empty at all. From behind every corner, a Charli was peeking out...

Stazia instinctively checked her watch. Five to nine. She froze for a second.

-------------------

The director entered through the main entrance every day at nine o'clock sharp. Not at eight fifty-eight, not at nine-oh-three—nine o'clock. As if he had his own theatrical bell inside him.

Stazia gripped the bucket in one hand, grabbed the wet rag with the other, and walked briskly down the corridor. Then she was practically running. Along the way, she passed the remnants of the morning disaster. One Charli was sitting on the windowsill. A second one under a poster. A third was just stepping out of dressing room number three with an innocent expression. "Well, beautiful..." she muttered under her breath. "Thirty-three cats. And who's going to clean up after them? The director? The wardrobe mistress? Sapojnikowa?!" She picked up the pace.

She already had a whole speech prepared in her head. That a theatre is not a shelter. That cat litter doesn't change itself. That fur is fur, but not live fur, and not in wholesale quantities. That she came here to wash floors, not to count cats.

She reached the main entrance just as the grand doors began to open. She positioned herself in the middle of the lobby like a border guard. Bucket in one hand. Wet rag in the other. Fierce and ready.

Meanwhile, the director walked in, elegant as always. He took off his glove, adjusted his collar, and was just about to say his customary "good morning" when Stazia fired off without any preamble: "Mr. Director, I refuse to take responsibility for thirty-three cats."

The director stopped. He looked at her. He looked at the bucket. He looked down the corridor. And then, very calmly, he asked: "All identical?"

Stazia narrowed her eyes. "All just like Charli!"

The director nodded. As if she had just confirmed a delivery of stage props. "That’s good," he said. "It means the right ones arrived."

The director didn't reply right away. As if the matter of thirty-three identical cats required no comment whatsoever. He simply adjusted his cuff, nodded, and walked at a leisurely pace across the lobby toward his office. His steps were always the same—not too fast, not too slow, as if someone had set his tempo a long time ago and it was no longer proper to change it.

Stazia was still standing there with her bucket. Ready for a further row. Ready to bring up the litter, the fur, the fact that the cats had probably already invaded the costume warehouse, and that one was sitting at the box office.

But the director suddenly stopped. As if he had remembered something. He looked back over his shoulder. He smiled. "Ah, Mrs. Stazia..."

Stazia looked at him suspiciously. The director pulled a few papers out of his briefcase and tapped them gently against his hand. "By the way. In two weeks, we'll have a new delivery."

Stazia furrowed her brow. "What delivery?"

The director looked at the documents with visible satisfaction. "Just this morning, I filled out all the forms. Everything is approved." He paused briefly. Like a man announcing the season premiere. "We are getting a real lion."

Silence. It became so quiet in the theatre that you could hear a drip from a loose faucet at the end of the corridor.

Stazia blinked. "...A lion?" "Yes." "Like... an animal?" The director nodded. "A real one."

Stazia looked down at her bucket. Then at the rag. Then somewhere into the distance. Slowly, she began to calculate. Thirty-three cats. One litter box... no, thirty-three litter boxes... And now a lion, too.

She looked up. "And who is going to clean up after it?"

The director smiled even wider. "Think long-term, Mrs. Stazia. It's only the beginning of the season." He waved the documents at her lightly, turned around, and walked quickly toward his office.

Stazia was left alone. After a moment, from upstairs, from the balcony, came a long drawn-out: "Meow." Then a second one. And a third.

Stazia set her bucket down. She looked at the ceiling. And very quietly said: "I think I might transfer to the opera....."

Stazia couldn't return to her duties for a long time. She walked from dressing room to dressing room with her bucket, but her mind was elsewhere. Because fine—cats you could somehow understand. A theatre is a theatre. People dress up, pretend to be other people, sometimes someone brings a parrot, sometimes a cardboard horse is needed in the second act. But thirty-three identical cats? And a lion in two weeks? And who is supposed to clean up after all of this? Her. Not the wardrobe mistress. Not Sapojnikova in her live fur. Not the director. Stazia.

She stopped by a window and leaned on her mop. This wasn't what she was being paid for, after all. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that the choice was clear: either a raise, or the opera. In the opera, at most, a pigeon flies in through a window. Or a tenor spills something. But no one is bringing in a lion yet.

She straightened up. It was decided. An official complaint. And an official demand for a raise.

She marched resolutely toward the director's office. Outside the door, she straightened her apron. She knocked. She didn't wait for an answer. She opened it. And froze.

Sitting on the desk was a huge white dog. Not an ordinary one. Enormous. White as a theatrical wig. One paw crossed over the other. Its snout was calm. And its lips... Its lips were subtly painted with lipstick.

On the desk lay an open planner, the theatre stamp, and a teacup. On the floor, the director was kneeling. In his hand, he held a small brush. And with total concentration, he was painting the dog's nails with red polish.

He didn't even notice Stazia. He only spoke quietly: "Please don't move your paw... just a moment... the right hind one and we're done..."

The dog sighed. Very theatrically.

The director blew on the polish. Only then did he look up. "Ah, Mrs. Stazia. Come in..."

Stazia stared. At the dog. At the polish. At the director. At the dog. At the director. At the dog.

Her hand slowly let go of the bucket. The bucket tipped over with a metallic crash. The rag slumped to the floor. Stazia opened her mouth. She didn't say a single word. She took a step backward. And fainted.

The last thing she heard before everything went black was the director's voice: "Oh dear... I forgot to warn administration about the costume rehearsal again."