That day Vlad Semenov turned thirty-three, and his whole life fell apart. In the morning, instead of congratulations, the voice on the telephone coldly announced that his script had not been accepted, and that Mr. Pavlov would not talk to him about this topic for the next six months. Somewhere around lunchtime my ex-wife called and threw a tantrum over money. Glasha was simply catastrophically short of money all the time, despite the fact that he gave the lion's share of his very decent fees to the children. In addition, a message came to my mobile phone from my friend Artem: “Vlad, my friend, I’m sorry, but today I won’t be able to meet with you, I’m urgently leaving for the region on business. Happy birthday to you!”