Last Saturday was the tenth anniversary of my friends Pavel and Nadia, and each of them, without breathing a word to the other, had arrived at the same wonderful idea: a surprise party in their own apartment. Pavel told Nadia that he had a meeting that would last until nine. Nadia told Pavel that she had a dinner at work that would last until nine. Then each of them quietly invited friends and asked them to hide, which, in retrospect, was the first mistake.
As Nadia's best friend, I was in charge of the cake. At half past eight I let myself in with the spare key, switched off the light as instructed and tiptoed into the living room, where I immediately trod on somebody's hand. There was whispering all around me. People were crouching behind the sofa, under the table, in the bathtub and in the wardrobe, and I realized, with mounting dread, that I knew almost none of them. I am not a brave person, but I am a practical one, so I squeezed into the wardrobe beside a man in a party hat. "Are you from Pavel's side?" he whispered. "No, Nadia's," I whispered back. There followed a very long silence, full of coats. "Then," he said slowly, "who is surprising whom?"
We never got to the bottom of it in time. Someone sneezed, a balloon burst with a small, sad bang, and a key turned in the lock. Pavel and Nadia came in together, the light went on, and thirty people leapt up shouting, "SURPRISE!" The couple stared at the crowd, at the two cakes on the table and, finally, at each other. "You're not in a meeting?" said Nadia. "You're not at a dinner?" said Pavel. Then they began to laugh, and they did not stop for five minutes. Next year, they have promised, they will plan it together. I have my doubts, and I am keeping the wardrobe free.
