Communal Apartment

At the end of my fourth year, I was kicked out of the dorm for a drunken argument with the dorm superintendent. While desperately searching for affordable housing, I came across a good option: a communal apartment near the university. Without thinking twice, I spent my last money on a modest room with nothing but a bed. I had no choice; I was glad I wasn't left homeless.

My three neighbors in the communal apartment—two men and a woman—turned out to be elderly people living alone. They had lived in that apartment for quite some time and were close friends, so they seemed like family.

Yegor Stepanych, a former accordionist at the village cultural center, was their ringleader. Occasional dinners with invited guests—people the same age as my neighbors—often ended with dancing to accordion music. I readily agreed to dine with them, but after I'd eaten my fill, I'd pretend to do my homework and retreat to my room, because I couldn't bear to watch these kitchen festivities without feeling melancholy.

A couple of minutes later, Raisa Vasilyevna, another neighbor, would knock on my door, bring a plate of cold cuts, and ask permission to make some more noise in the kitchen. She'd wink slyly as she did so, and the aroma of plum liqueur that my older neighbors sometimes liked to indulge in wafted from her. Raisa Vasilyevna was what you might call a cool old lady. She used to be an editor at some magazine, so she knew all sorts of people. Many of them still maintained good relationships with her and visited regularly. She called all her friends "buddies." She called me that too.

My most serious neighbor was Anatoly Vitalyevich. Unlike Yegor Stepanovich and Raisa Vasilyevna, he continued working after retirement as a security guard at a children's art school. Despite all the outward dignity and importance he attached to his gait, Anatoly Vitalyevich could be quite a warm-hearted person, especially after two glasses of plum liqueur.

All three treated me very well. At first, I tried to avoid communal dinners and conversations about old age, but then I simply fell in love with the feasts Raisa Vasilyevna hosted and, before I knew it, I'd become part of the communal family. "Hey, buddies, anyone coming over—welcome!" she'd shout from the kitchen. Yegor Stepanovich was usually the first to arrive. Then Anatoly Vitalyevich would show up, busily sit down at his chair, and tuck a towel into his shirt collar. Sometimes I needed a personal invitation: in my room, I often sat with my headphones on and couldn't hear a thing. Whenever a guest arrived, I'd invariably excuse myself from school and retreat to my room to avoid being questioned about when I'd finally find a bride. After a while, Raisa Vasilyevna would drop by as usual, bringing me a plate of cold meats and bread as if I'd eaten nothing, breathing plum liqueur on me, and, as always, apologizing for the noise they were making in the kitchen.

Six months passed. I'd grown attached to my cheerful neighbors and gained a few pounds thanks to the culinary talents of the old woman across the hall. That winter, I left for a part-time job, keeping my room.

Two months away from home flew by. I missed the communal meals and returned home with a smile on my face. I opened the apartment door with my key and heard someone talking in the kitchen. Yegor Stepanych, Anatoly Vitalyevich, and two other men I didn't know were sitting at the table. I said hello and said I'd join them a little later, as soon as I changed.

I went into my room and started unpacking my suitcase. A minute later, there was a knock on the door—it was Raisa Vasilyevna. I was glad to see her. "So, buddy, didn't you even announce yourself?" she asked, smiling. I replied that I hadn't seen her in the kitchen. "Go ahead and change and come over," she said, clapping me on the shoulder in a friendly manner. After a while, I walked into the kitchen.

"Where's Raisa Vasilyevna?" I asked. "She just called me into the kitchen, but then she left." No one answered. Everyone looked at me strangely. Anatoly Vitalyevich cleared his throat and said, "Raisa Vasilyevna... We buried her, basically, two weeks ago." I wanted to say something, but stopped short when I saw an old photograph of her with a black ribbon in the corner on the windowsill. A glass of vodka stood next to it, with a piece of bread on it.

The next day, I moved out of the communal apartment.