Татьяна Толстая - Aetherial Worlds

He’d come to our United States of America for medical care, but the doctors couldn’t save him. And the house stood empty again.

That’s when I decided to rent it out entirely and to find a cheap apartment for myself near work. Turns out, it’s not so simple to rent out a house in America. That’s not because there are no takers, but because all of those people are your potential enemies.

The law comes down squarely on the side of the renters. For instance: I, as the owner, must abide by a certain sense of égalité, may it rot, and consider everyone to be equal. A nice intellectual couple, let’s say two Princeton professors, shouldn’t in my eyes be more desirable than a family of strung-out junkies, or a gang of Gypsies with shifty eyes, or a foreign couple who don’t speak any English. If I express too distinctly my displeasure at the possibility of their inhabiting my house, in theory, they can sue me. So one’s forced to express regret: Oh, so sorry and what a shame, but the space has just been rented.

There is a danger of renting to people too poor to afford it. If these people have nowhere to go (and can’t pay you), they have the right to just stay in the house until their situation improves, and of course it never will. Meaning that I can’t just kick them out. That I myself may have nowhere to live; the law doesn’t give two shits about.

There is also a danger of renting to a handicapped person, or to a family with small children, who’ll stick their head through the balusters, those rascals, or slip and fall, breaking their leg, and it’ll be my fault for not making sure the place was childproof.

So I kept my eyes open. First to arrive were a couple, both Indian programmers. Exactly what I wanted: a young married couple, with beautiful British English, clean-cut and very sweet. But they were looking for something else. They wanted carved door frames and marble everywhere. My barn was too simple for their tastes.

Then an elderly black couple, both around sixty, came by. He walked through the door with no problem, but she took one step and got stuck in the door frame, couldn’t move. He, apparently used to this, grabbed her by the hand and pulled her in—about 650 pounds in all, I’d guess. We exchanged smiles and on they went to inspect the rooms. I didn’t follow them—I was afraid that my house would tilt. The wife tried the bathroom but couldn’t fit through the door. Trying again, sideways this time, she fit, although a quarter of her remained in the hallway. A muffled consultation between them could be heard. They continued on their tour and I sat there, full of trepidation that she would decide to check out the basement. She decided to check out the basement.

I sneaked in from the other side so I could eavesdrop and not miss the impending disaster.

“This won’t work. Let’s go,” said the husband.

“No, I want to look downstairs.”

“This house is clearly not an option for us.”

“So what, I still want to look.”

“I’m telling you, it’s best we go.”

She began squeezing herself through the narrow basement door, and…

“Benjamin!”

“I told you.”

“Okay, sir, less talk, more action!”

He leaned against her and with both hands forced her through the door. The stairs were next. She took one heavy step and I heard the wood cracking.

“Vanessa, damn it!”

“Language!”

She was clearly the queen of the household, and he was just a footman. A few more ominous tremors from below. Then silence. I tiptoed back to my den and pretended to be working on the computer. Benjamin peeked in and asked nonchalantly:

“Um. Is there another way out from the basement? Or just the one?”

“Just the one.”

“Oh, okay, just wondering.”

He disappeared again, and I turned on SimCity; I loved laying underground water pipes there and watching them come to life, elbow after elbow, blue musical water streaming down them at last. Besides, I had some cheat codes for the game and I didn’t need to be stingy with my virtual money when irrigating my virtual cities. And those two will probably be down there for a while anyway. Benjamin popped in once again:

“Do you happen to have a screwdriver?”

“Maybe in the garage? It’s through this door. I also have ropes there and other things.”

“Got it. What about a hammer?”

“Also there.”

About half an hour later—I was already running electricity to the prison, university, and hospital—they reappeared together. I had my best poker face on, and so did Benjamin. Vanessa looked a bit disheveled.

“The house is lovely, simply lovely. But we’re going to think about it. What a wonderful, wonderful garden!”

“Thank you! Yeah, let me know.”

“So lovely meeting you!”

“Same here!”

He pushed her through the green front door to the street, and through the window I could see them walking down the brick path: she, marching regally, and he, scurrying behind, weaving around her from side to side. They still had loading into the car ahead of them.

And then Nielsen came. He was twenty-two. Shrimpy, pasty white, with bleach-blond hair and the hands of a prepubescent boy, an expression of mild disgust on the flat face of a mealworm.

“It’s dusty in here,” whined Nielsen.

“Dusty?” I responded, surprised. The house was spick-and-span—scrubbed with renters in mind.

“I need the house to be sterile,” grumbled Nielsen. “I am allergic to even the slightest bit of dust. Once the entire house is sterile, I’ll take it. And I need this fireplace to be completely clean, like new.”

Oh, curses! The fireplace? More expenses! By definition, a working fireplace cannot be “sterile.” Thirty years of soot on its stone walls, traces of ash—and anyway, it’s not like you’ll be performing open-heart surgery in there! And what could be cleaner than fire, Nielsen?

In New Jersey, sterility was provided solely by two Belarusians. They were here illegally and so they took on any hard labor that the local Russian-Americans would hire them for: from housecleaning to roof repair. They overcharged woefully, but at least no job was too dirty for them. These two terminators were also married to each other, and it should be noted that against any expectation the wife’s last name was Kock and the husband’s Chik. This, seemingly, was not their only perversity. Keenly aware of their irreplaceability, cruel and adept in their united front, they always performed the same routine: give an approximate, acceptable estimate, but warn that there might be unforeseen adjustments, and shortly before finishing the work, just when everything is torn apart and upside down, jack up the price to a horrific sum. Chik looked to be the brutal sort. Kock had an elfin face, and her case history included work in a bar: perhaps this was why, when it came to arranging glassware, for instance, she would line the glasses up not randomly but strictly by type, one behind the other and deep into the cupboard, away from the owner’s eyes.

Kock and Chik finished their work—polished all surfaces, horizontal and vertical, with their potent acids and ammonia, destroying all that lived, sterilizing the fireplace—and Nielsen, after playing hard-to-get, at last rented my house for a year and gave me a security deposit of fifteen hundred dollars. Legally, I was supposed to keep this money in an escrow account, and not to touch it until the end of the lease. But I had no money at all to my name. And I needed to rent something for myself, and even a dog kennel required a security deposit. So I borrowed his money unbeknownst to him. What difference would it make? I’d return it at the end of the year anyway.

Yes, yes, I’ve falsified the plummet of the scales, played foul with bank accounts and cheat codes; I’ve exceeded the speed limit at times, driven under the influence, and stolen from the military prosecutor’s office; I’ve given false testimony in court; and I’ve committed adultery in my heart, numerously. What’s more, I intend to keep on doing so in the future. Dear Lord, what obnoxious messengers You send to remind us of our sins, and of our promises made to You and then forgotten. Even so, not according to my will, but Yours. You truly do work in mysterious ways! Please forgive and forget.