Татьяна Толстая - Aetherial Worlds

“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.