Aetherial Worlds

The Window

Shulgin often stopped by his neighbor’s apartment to play backgammon—at least once a week, sometimes twice.

It’s a simple game, not as sophisticated as chess, but engrossing nonetheless. At first Shulgin was a bit embarrassed about that, as far as he was concerned only the Kebabs played backgammon—shesh-besh, lavash-shashlik—but then he got used to it. His neighbor Valery Frolov was a purebred Slav, not some fruit vendor.

They’d brew coffee nice and proper, just like the intelligentsia: in a Turkish cezve, letting it simmer so the foam would curl as it rose. They’d repair to the playing board. They’d chat.

“You think they’ll impeach Kasyanov?”

“They might.”

With each visit, Shulgin would notice yet another new item in Frolov’s apartment. An electric tea kettle. Barbecue skewers, one set. A cordless phone in the shape of a woman’s shoe, red. A jumbo grandfather clock, Gzhel ceramic. Beautiful but useless things. The clock, for instance, took up half the room but didn’t work.

Shulgin would ask: “Is that new?”

And Frolov: “Yeah… I mean…”

Shulgin would remark: “Wasn’t your TV smaller last time?”

And Frolov: “It’s just a TV, nothing special.”

Once, an entire corner of Frolov’s living room was littered with cardboard boxes. While his friend was making more coffee, Shulgin peeled one of the boxes open to peek: seemed to be ladies’ clothing, pleather.

And then on Tuesday he looked around and, bam, right where a cupboard used to be there was now an archway leading to a new room. There had never been a room there before. And there couldn’t have been—the building didn’t extend that far. Around the archway, a plastic ivy garland was nailed to the wall.

Shulgin couldn’t take it anymore. “Now, be so kind as to explain yourself. How is there a new room there? Beyond where the building ends?”

Frolov sighed, seemingly chagrined. “Okay, fine…. There is this place. A window… That’s where they hand all this out. Free of charge.”

“Stop bullshitting, there is no such thing.”

“No such thing, and yet they do. You know, just like on TV: ‘Behind door number one’ or ‘A surprise giveaway!’ Do people pay for the stuff that’s given away? No, they don’t. But the show still makes money somehow.”

Frolov kept changing the subject, but Shulgin wouldn’t let up. “Where is this window?” He couldn’t get over that extra room. He had a studio apartment, didn’t he, had to keep his skis in his bathtub. Frolov’s attempts to obfuscate only resulted in Shulgin’s further discontent, leading to four losses in a row—and who wants that kind of backgammon partner? The jig was up.

“Fine. First and foremost,” Frolov instructed, “when they yell out, let’s say, ‘Coffee grinder!’ you just have to yell back ‘Deal!’ This is of the utmost importance. Don’t forget and don’t mess up.”

Shulgin took the bus there first thing in the morning. It was a typical Soviet building complex from the outside, the kind that usually housed auto body shops and factory offices. Right turn, left turn, another left, and into building number 5, oil and gears all over the place. Surly men in overalls running here and there. Frolov must have lied to him, Shulgin was peeved to realize. But as he was already there, he went and found the hallway anyway, and the window—nothing special, a deep casement in a wooden frame, exactly like the one where Shulgin picked up his salary. He knocked.

The shutters swung open, but there was no one there, only a wall of bureaucratic green and depressing fluorescent lighting.

“A package!” they yelled from within.

“Deal!” Shulgin yelled back.

Someone, he couldn’t see who, threw him a package. Shulgin grabbed the brown bundle and ran off to the side, feeling temporarily deaf in his agitation. Finally the feeling subsided. He looked around—people walking to and fro, but not one approaching the window, not one showing any interest in it. Idiots!

He took the package home, placed it on the kitchen table, and only then did he cut the string with scissors and tear off the wax seals. He gingerly unfolded the kraft paper and discovered four hamburger patties.

Shulgin felt ill used: Frolov had pulled a fast one on him. He marched straight into their building hallway and angrily rang his neighbor’s doorbell. Hard. No answer. Shulgin stood there for a bit, then went outside and reexamined the back of the building where Frolov’s extra room had appeared. Everything looked exactly as it always had. So how could that room with the archway fit there?

Frolov resurfaced later that evening. They played backgammon again.

“Did you go?”

“I did.”

“They give you something?”

“They gave me something.”

“Nothing good?”

“Nothing good.”

“You’ll get more next time. Just be sure to yell ‘Deal!’”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then they won’t give you anything.”

And so Shulgin went back, once again making his way through discarded tires, barrels, and broken containers, a right turn and then a left and another left to building number 5. And once again no one but he showed any interest in the window. He knocked, the shutters opened.

“Valenki!” they yelled from the window.

“Deal!” he yelled back with disappointment.

Someone threw him a pair of short gray felt boots. Shulgin examined them—“What the devil is this, what do I need these for?” He took a few steps away from the window and shoved the valenki in a trash can. Nobody saw him do it. He walked up to the window again and knocked, but the shutters didn’t open this time.

He didn’t feel like venturing to the window the next day but didn’t feel like staying in, either. He went outside and examined the back of their building once more. It was already covered in scaffolding; a few dark-haired builders were hard at work.

Too many Turks, thought Shulgin.

This time there was a long line at the window, and his heart even skipped a beat: What if there wasn’t enough left for him? The line moved ever so slowly; there seemed to be complications and delays, and someone, it appeared, was trying to argue and express dissatisfaction—Shulgin couldn’t see above all those heads. Finally he arrived at the shutters.

“Flowers!” they yelled from inside.

“Deal!” fumed Shulgin.

He didn’t throw them away despite itching to do so. He was haunted by a nebulous suspicion that today’s long lines, tumult, and lost time were punishment for yesterday’s uncouth behavior with the valenki. After all, he was getting all this stuff for free, although he wasn’t sure why. Even so, others were getting big boxes wrapped in white paper. Some even came with handcarts.

Maybe I should get myself a hot dog, thought Shulgin. But his hands weren’t free, and you really need both extremities to avoid getting ketchup stains on your suit. Shulgin glanced at the sausage lady—she was cute!—and handed her the flowers.

“For you, beautiful lady, in honor of your heavenly eyes.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” she replied happily.

They chatted and chatted and, come evening, after work, Oksana and Shulgin were already on a date, promenading in the streets of Moscow. They talked about how beautiful their city had become, and how very expensive. Not to worry, thought Shulgin. If things go well, tomorrow morning maybe we’ll have a Gzhel ceramic set, like normal, decent folk. After dusk, they made out for a long while in the Alexander Gardens by the grotto, and Shulgin returned home reluctantly: he really liked Oksana.

“An iron!” came from the window.

“Deal!” happily responded Shulgin.

Finally! They had moved on to appliances; all he needed now was patience. Shulgin put up a shelf at home and kept his new acquisitions there. He was already the proud owner of an enameled milk can, a pair of oven mitts, a coffee service set, a 2-in-1 shampoo, a can of Atlantic herring, two pounds of pale-pink angora wool, an adjustable wrench set, two lined notebooks, an Arabic ottoman with Nefertiti appliqués, a rubber bath mat, a book by V. Novikov entitled Russian Parody and another book in a foreign language, a refill of lighter fluid, a paper icon of the healer Saint Panteleimon, a set of red ballpoint pens, and some rolls of film. Life had taught Shulgin to not refuse anything, and so he didn’t. They handed out wooden planks and half logs—he took them and put them in the bathtub with the skis. Maybe they’d give him a dacha and then the half logs would come in handy!

Frolov would occasionally run into Shulgin in the stairwell and ask why he hadn’t been coming over for backgammon, but Shulgin would explain that he was in love and about to get married—life was good! He did stop by once out of politeness and they played a few rounds, but Shulgin was unpleasantly surprised to see a TV set in every room—one was a flat-screen, like you see in the commercials, but mounted to the ceiling. Frolov didn’t invite him into the room with the archway and it was fairly obvious why: it was no longer one room but several, the enfilade stretching far and deep into a space where it couldn’t possibly exist.

After the iron there truly was a qualitative leap: Shulgin started getting mixers, blenders, room fans, coffee grinders, even a charcoal grill, and then, probably by mistake, a second one, of the exact same kind. The gifts kept growing in size and he felt that it was probably time to start bringing a handcart. He was right: next he got a microwave oven. His only disappointment was that everything the window was doling out had been made in China, rarely in Japan. As the wedding drew near, Shulgin harbored secret hopes of the window people realizing that he needed a gold ring for his bride and a wedding reception at a restaurant, but they didn’t, and on the day of his wedding he got an electric drill.

Shulgin didn’t tell Oksana about the window, he liked being mysterious and omnipotent. At first she was delighted about the many wonderful things that they owned, but then there was simply no room left for storing the boxes. Shulgin tried skipping a few days, avoiding the window, but the next time he went he got a set of wineglasses: clearly a step backwards. Stemware was once again handed out the following day. For a week he was a bundle of nerves until, finally, they were back to things with cables—first the cables themselves, extension cords and the like, but then eventually the objects attached to the cables. Not that he could avoid punishment altogether—the window, without warning, issued an electric wok made for foreign voltage, but no transformer. Of course the wok was ruined, amid the awful burning stench, and the fuses were blown out. The window held its grudge for a few more days, slipping out one thing after another not meant for our electric grid. One item even had a triangular Australian plug. But Shulgin knowing better now, accepted everything humbly and obediently; he’d yell “Deal!” as remorsefully as he could, trying to show that he recognized his mistake and that he was willing to change. He knew what was waiting for him and the window did, too.

When Oksana went off to the maternity ward, Shulgin got a simple white envelope. He tore it open immediately, and sure enough, a handwritten note inside said in block letters: “199 square feet.” After he’d rushed home in a cab, at first his heart sank: his apartment looked exactly the same. But then he noticed what seemed to be the contour of a doorway, right under the wallpaper. He picked at the plaster—indeed, there was a door, and behind it a room—199 square feet, as promised. Shulgin jumped for joy, hitting his left palm with his right fist while yelling “Yes!” and dancing around the room, as if performing the Lezginka.

If you think about it, there was no room for this wonderful addition—in that same exact spot was the neighbor’s apartment, inhabited by one Naila Muhummedovna. Shulgin apprehensively stopped by for a visit—allegedly to borrow some matches. Everything was fine; Naila Muhummedovna was making dumplings, as always. He went back to his place—the room was still there, smelling of wet plaster. The wallpaper was uninspiring, but that was easy enough to change.

Oskana came home with an adorable little girl, whom they both immediately named Kira. Shulgin told Oksana that the new room was a surprise for her; that it had always been there behind the wallpaper. And Oksana said that he was simply the best, the most thoughtful man, absolutely wonderful. Also, that they now need a stroller for Kira. Shulgin zoomed off to the window, but instead of a stroller was granted a six-burner gas grill—the kind usually used at dachas, with two red gas canisters. “But I don’t have a dacha,” muttered Shulgin to the closed shutters. “I do have a newborn baby….” The window was silent. Shulgin waited around for a bit, then waited some more, but what was there left to do? He dragged the gas grill home. “You shouldn’t have done that,” said Oksana. “I asked for a stroller.” “Tomorrow!” promised Shulgin, but tomorrow brought something even more ludicrous—a full set of parts for a mini-boiler, complete with pipes, gaskets, and valves.

Things weren’t going well for him; when he rang Frolov’s doorbell, his neighbor didn’t immediately open—it must have taken him that long to walk through all his endless rooms to the front door.

“Take my mini-boiler!” pleaded Shulgin.

“I won’t.”

“Then take one of my grills. Or both.”

“No, I won’t take the grills, either.”

“Frolov, I’m giving it to you for free!”

“There is no such thing as ‘free,’” answered Frolov, and Shulgin could see that his neighbor’s eyes were dimmed with unhappiness, that behind him in the endless enfilade of rooms were TVs and more TVs—on the floor, on the ceiling, and others more still in their boxes.

“But you said that there was!”

“I didn’t. I said they were handing things out ‘free of charge.’ There’s a big difference.”

“Okay, fine…. Can you buy this mini-boiler, then?”

“Where would I get that kind of money?” Frolov sighed.

Shulgin also didn’t have any money, only things. What else could he do, he took the boiler to the Savelovsky trading complex, and there, the only buyer he could find—after much haggling and for a third of its value—was one of those gloomy Kebabs.

Can’t they just stay in their sunny Shesh-besh-abad? Why do they need to come here anyway? thought Shulgin. He used the money to buy Kira a stroller, the most expensive and beautiful one there was, with pink ruffles. On the next day, the window handed him an envelope, and there, on graph paper, a hand written note: “Minus ten.” Shulgin broke out in a cold sweat, terrified: What is this—this “minus” business? Once home, he grew even more alarmed: Oksana relayed to him, through her tears, how, in a corner in the new room, the plaster from the ceiling had come crashing down, scaring everybody, but thankfully not falling on the stroller with Kira in it! And wouldn’t you know it, ten square feet of plaster—exactly—had fallen down, the cement peeking through. They cleaned up the mess, but that night a strange rustling was heard. Shulgin jumped up to look—but no, nothing fell. It was simply the walls closing in to make the room a little smaller.

He grew suspicious, his wheels turning.

“You didn’t throw anything away yesterday, did you?” he asked Oksana.

“Just some logs from the bathtub. Why?”

“Please don’t throw anything else away,” said Shulgin.

“But they were crooked and useless!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.”

Of course, he didn’t know what he was talking about, either, and he couldn’t figure why his living quarters have been made smaller: Was it the mini-boiler or the half logs? What were the rules here? Maybe it’s like backgammon? You make a wrong move and voilà, you can’t get rid of any of your checkers? And Frolov: How did he play? Why was his apartment endlessly getting bigger and bigger, why was it packed with TV sets?

For two months following, things were boring and dull, but safe: he went to the window as if it were his job; there, random crap was meted out—baby powder, paper clips, a bland white Polar Bear waffle cake, homeopathic pellets for an unspecified illness, pots with seedlings. All of it took up space. Shulgin behaved, he kept everything, until he was finally rewarded with an envelope containing a note: “270 square feet, with balcony.” It all worked the same as last time, the only difference being that Oksana herself now found the door, which was obscured by the wallpaper, and by the time Shulgin came home she had already moved the Nefertiti ottoman, along with a table and two armchairs, into their new room.

“Perhaps there are other surprises hidden beneath the wallpaper?” rejoiced Oksana.

“Perhaps… but not all at once,” responded Shulgin, playfully slapping her on the ass and mentally calculating that they had already swallowed up the entire expanse of Naila Muhummedovna’s apartment and were now extending into the space where the Bearshagsky kitchen was. But neither Naila Muhummedovna nor the Bearshagskys were complaining.

Another week went by with Shulgin receiving things both necessary and unnecessary, and then something dreadful happened: they were invited to a birthday party at a dacha. Oksana mused and debated aloud, trying to decide which gift was best, Obsession eau de toilette or a tie; subsequently Shulgin’s guard was down. Upon getting out of the cab, however, he finally noticed his wife dragging a big white box, and his heart stopped.

“What’s that?”

“A charcoal grill.”

“Did you buy it?”

“No, it’s one of ours. We have two of them, remember?”

“What have you done?! We have to take it back right this minute!”

But it was too late: their cab, having made a U-turn, had already left, and the birthday boy had already come out from the gate to greet and joyfully thank them for such a thoughtful gift. Shulgin couldn’t eat a single bite of his shashlik; he was worried sick about what the window would think about this, how it would punish him. Oksana also looked crestfallen: she must have incorrectly concluded Shulgin was just greedy, a dog in the manger. Once home later that night, Shulgin ran to check—had the walls moved, and what about the ceilings, was the balcony still there, what was going on with the fridge and the stove?—misfortune could come from anywhere. He inspected the fuse box, looked under the beds, and counted the appliances and the unopened boxes stuffed with unnecessary things imposed on him by the window. Counting was easier said than done: there were boxes up to the ceiling filling all three rooms; in the hallways you had to squeeze by sideways. But everything looked to be okay until his mother-in-law, who had taken Kira for the weekend, called to say that the child had a high fever, she was burning up.

“This, this is all your doing! That’s what you get for the grill!” Shulgin yelled at Oksana.

“Are you nuts?” Oksana broke into tears.

“Don’t touch my kid! You hear me? Don’t you dare touch my kid!” yelled Shulgin into thin air, shaking his fists.

By morning, Kira’s fever was down, and Shulgin—enraged and resolute—marched over to the window to hash this out mano a mano: What the hell is this shit? The window issued a pair of valenki, just as at the dawn of their liaison.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” Shulgin demanded angrily, banging the closed shutters with his fist. “Hey! I’m talking to you!” The window was silent. “Answer when people are talking to you!” Silenzio. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” blustered Shulgin.

At home, he cooled down a bit and started contemplating his next steps. Things weren’t looking good. On the one hand, the unseen evil forces behind the window were daily handing out gifts—perhaps not of the highest quality, but quite decent nonetheless. In the span of just eighteen months, Shulgin had accumulated enough to open up his own store. But on the other hand—and here was the catch—the window wouldn’t allow you to sell anything. Wouldn’t let you sell anything, wouldn’t let you give away anything, wouldn’t let you throw out anything. It was a totalitarian regime, thought Shulgin bitterly, absolute control and no free market. Then again, it wasn’t totally inhumane—once the apartment became so full it was close to bursting, the window did thoughtfully expand your living quarters. In Frolov’s case, they seemed to be expanding ad infinitum. Be that as it may, who needs all this square footage, even with a balcony, if you can’t do with it as you please?

Maybe I should privatize it? considered Shulgin.

“What do you think about privatization?” he shouted to Frolov. His friend was silent; perhaps he couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t at all comfortable playing or even just sitting in Frolov’s apartment anymore—there were railroad tracks everywhere, mine trolleys were zooming every which way, knocking over backgammon pieces and coffee mugs—the racket was insufferable and so was the smell. TVs now continuously covered all of the walls.

“What’s all this?” shouted Shulgin over the noise, referring to the railroad traffic.

“I dunno. ‘Siberia Aluminum,’ they say.”

“I thought Deripaska owned it.”

“I think he’s the majority shareholder.”

Shulgin suddenly felt bad for Deripaska: if Deripaska decided to buy some more shares from Frolov for absolute happiness, he’d be shit out of luck. The window wouldn’t allow it. But something was amiss, thought Shulgin—they’d started out at practically the same time, but now Frolov had an entire manufacturing plant, he was basically an oligarch. But all Shulgin had was a three-room apartment and a sausage-vendor wife. Imagine, social inequality and no free market. Take that, North Korea!

Oksana was planning to get a nanny for Kira in order to go back to work, so when the window shouted “Nanny for Kira,” Shulgin hopped up—“Deal!”—and by the time he saw what was what, it was too late. The nanny came out of the window feet first, like a breech baby, and while the legs were making their way out, Shulgin began to realize the full scope of the impending disaster. She was around twenty, Playboy Bunny curves, tits from a sergeant’s wet dream, dyed hair, pink lipstick, teeth playfully biting down on a blade of grass. She adjusted her miniskirt:

“Where’s the kid?”

“I won’t let you near her!” scowled Shulgin.

“And why not?”

“I need a stupid old hag, and not this… What the hell is this!”

“We’ll grow old together! And I ain’t that smart.” She snorted with laughter.

“I have a wife at home!!”

“Oh, muffin, how sweet, he’s got a wife!”

If we walk through the food market she’ll get disoriented and lose her way, plotted Shulgin. But things didn’t go as planned: the nanny held on tight, swayed her leather-clad hips, and loudly demanded he buy her black caviar and cherries.

Where is the Kebab mafia when you need ’em? Shulgin looked around dejectedly. Who’s in charge of this market? The Azerbaijanis, I think? Or is it the Chechens? Where did they all go?!

They finally made it home, caviar and cherries in hand, passersby craning their necks—a disgrace for all to see.

“Break me off some lilacs for a bouquet, tiger,” moaned the nanny.

Here’s what I’ve got to do, he mused. Stop by Frolov’s house, as if for a game of backgammon. And there, shove her into a trolley, pile on some of that aluminum he’s got, and secure with a cover. And let her merrily roll along. It won’t count as giving her away—Shulgin mentally rationalized with the window—it’s simply a cruise! Yep, that’s what it should count as. “Siberia, Siberia, I’m not afraid of you, Siberia, Siberia, you’re Russia with a view,” he purred softly.

Frolov’s door was opened by members of indigenous peoples of the Far North in fox-fur hats; they said the boss wasn’t home.

“I’ll wait.” Shulgin tried to make his way inside, even though it was rather unpleasant stepping on the snow. For that’s what everything was covered with—snow. The railroad tracks, the backgammon table, the coffee service, all of it was a white tundra, completely devoid of coziness: dim, with long rows of TVs, icy plains with hummocks, and gas flares blazing on the horizon. A deer ran by to catch up with the herd.

“No way, José.” The northern people shooed Shulgin away.

“I didn’t ask you! Where did he go?”

“House of Representatives,” the people answered, lying, no doubt.

Still standing in front of the door just slammed on him, an ordinary particleboard one with a peephole, Shulgin, of course, didn’t buy it. A faint smell of soup was emanating from the cracks; a worn doormat lay before him. On the other hand, anything is possible. If that was the case, he’d need to ask Frolov for a neighborly favor: maybe he could speed up the economic reforms to finally allow sale, exchange, and all that. Any entry into the free market. It would be so convenient: whatever you don’t need, you sell, and, using the money from the transaction, you buy the stuff you do need. Don’t they get it? Look at Oksana with her hot dogs—she’s free as a butterfly. But meanwhile he’s stuck with this craptastic floozy.

“Silly billy, at least I don’t cost a thing!” sing-songed the nanny.

“Drop dead!” howled Shulgin.

“Death won’t separate us!”

Shulgin fumbled for his keys, pushed the nanny aside, ran in, slammed and locked the door. His heart pounding, he tried to catch his breath. He barricaded the entrance with a mattress and secured it with an unopened box of something labeled “Toshiba.”

All night, the nanny pummeled the door, trying to get in. Oksana refused to listen to any explanations. Crying, she locked herself with Kira in the farthest, and, theoretically, nonexistent room. The nanny knocked on Shulgin’s door, Shulgin on Oksana’s, and the downstairs neighbors, angered by the noise, banged on the radiator with what sounded like a wrench. The lilac bushes swayed in the wind outside; in Frolov’s universe, moss was freezing over beneath the snow and sled dogs were heard yapping in the distance. When dawn broke, Shulgin, exhausted from his sleepless night, squeezed past the boxes into the kitchen for a drink of water and saw that a new room, faint like an aspen bud in the spring, was beginning to form in the wall—it was clearly being readied for the nanny. So they wouldn’t let him be, then. That was it. Do or die.

So he made a decision. Hesitated, and made it again.

Resolute, he marched off to the window—right turn, left turn, another left, and into building number 5—the nanny clinging to him and happily chirping all the way.

“One sick tricked-out ride!” swaggered the window.

“Sweeeet,” egged on the nanny.

“No deal,” a dignified Shulgin replied with pity.

“Oh, then it’s my turn!” happily responded the window, and slammed the shutters.

They stood there, they knocked, but no answer. Shulgin turned around and walked back through the courtyard, stepping over the detritus and industrial debris.

“What the fuck? I’m in heels!” the chimera yelped like she owned him.

“Begone, strumpet!”

“How da—”

“Deal!” came a voice from somewhere, and the nanny disappeared, never having finished her sentence. Shulgin looked around—no nanny. Fantastic! A weight was lifted. On the way home he bought some carnations.

“What’s this?” gloomily asked Oksana, holding Kira.

“Flowers.”

“Deal!” came the answer from the faraway window and the bouquet disappeared, leaving Shulgin with a bent elbow and his fingers still angled around where the carnations had been. Something hissed in the kitchen behind Oksana’s back.

“The coffee!” croaked Shulgin, his larynx contracting.

“Deal!” came from somewhere, and the coffee also disappeared, together with the cezve and the accompanying stain around the burner, making the stove look like new.

“Oh, the stove,” whispered Shulgin.

“Deeeaal!” and the stove was no more.

Oksana got scared: “What’s happening?”

“The window…,” Shulgin exhaled inaudibly, but they still heard him. The windows in his apartment vanished, dead walls appearing in their place, and all became dark, as before the beginning of time. Oksana let out a scream. Shulgin opened his mouth to comfort her with “Oksana! Oksanochka!” But having figured out the rules, he stayed silent.

He couldn’t let the window have the next turn.