* * *
—
By the end of the winter of 1772, John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, had received an invitation from Swedenborg. Up in the heavens, wrote the clairvoyant, I was told that you very much want to meet me. Wesley, who indeed wished to meet Swedenborg, wrote back that he was very busy for the moment, but that he would love to pay a visit in six months’ time, to which Swedenborg replied: “No, in six months’ time I’ll be dead. I will die on the 29th of March.”
And he really did die on March 29, “with great joy,” according to his household staff.
Three wishes are usually granted a hero, according to fairy-tale convention, and he foolishly wastes them. So it was with our professor of mineralogy and anatomy, philosophy and chemistry, geology and mathematics, the soothsayer and medium. He was granted a gift both extraordinary and unheard of, and how did he use his miraculous powers? Helping out a widow missing a receipt, acting as a messenger for the queen, expressing anxiety about a fire. And who should care about a fire when two years earlier the Day of Judgment had come, bringing with it new heavens and a new earth? At that point let it all burn, wouldn’t you say? But no. He kept it civilized, polite, careful, bland. “I received a letter stating that in two months no more than four of my books were sold, and this was conveyed to the angels. They were surprised.”
How unmysterious.
But then, what should we expect? What should we want to have happened? And how? There is a saying: “Why is it that when I speak to God, it’s a prayer, and when God speaks to me, it’s schizophrenia?” But what if schizophrenia is truly one of the ways God or his messengers use to communicate with us? Epileptics before a seizure can, for an instant, perceive the meaning of everything, the mystery of Creation is open to them—but then the seizure wipes out any memory of this new knowledge, leaving the epileptic with nothing but wet pants and a bitten tongue. Autistic people can see mathematical fields where giant numbers and square roots grow like beautiful flowers. Convulsions of the temporal lobe bring about visions of cities in the sky—magical four-cornered fortresses—but how do we know they are not real? What if they’re actually there, but to see them one needs to have a seizure? The human body is only one side of the coin, but as we know, one-sided coins don’t exist. There is always a reverse, and ours is the spirit.
Perhaps Emanuel Swedenborg, a kind, hardworking man, was privy to these otherworldly mysteries, revealed according to his abilities, his understanding, and his inquiries. Maybe they’ll be opened up to another person in a different way: to an anxious one, they’ll appear as fiery squares; to an innocent, as still waters; to an angry person, as ripped spirals. In the Lord’s house there are many mansions; He decides, He bestows, He embraces.
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 brok
en 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 throu
gh 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.
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