Little Trains*

***

There was no number under the doorbell on the left. Under the bell on the right it said: “144.” I needed apartment 143, so I pressed the left button. The very next second, as if the landlady had been standing on her threshold waiting for my call, there came the metallic creak of a door lock, the shuffle of feet, and the click of a light switch.

“Who’s there?”

“Hello! This is Andrei, I called you about the apartment.”

The outer door opened.

“Come in.”

The common landing in front of the two apartments was piled high with all kinds of junk: some crates, sacks of potatoes, and even an old washing machine. Most surprising of all, the machine stood right up against the door of apartment 144, so that it was absolutely impossible either to enter or leave that apartment.

“Neighbor’s stuff,” the landlady explained. “They live at the dacha until the end of November. Dumped all this here. I don’t mind. You can squeeze past, that’s enough. They barricaded their door with the washer. Against thieves, I guess. As if a thief couldn’t move a washing machine!”

The landlady, Valentina Nikiforovna, just as I’d assumed from our phone conversation, turned out to be a woman of about sixty. She was ready to rent the place for a long time; she herself would live with her sister in another district. The apartment was in pretty lousy condition, but the price was right.

“I hope you won’t make a mess here? Won’t wreck the place?”

“What are you talking about, Valentina Nikiforovna! I’m not that kind of person. I’m an engineer, I work in space communications…”

“Space. Good. You’re not from Orel, are you?”

“No, I’m from Dmitrov. Why?”

“Well, you know,” the landlady looked me straight in the eyes, “Orel, la-la, la-la?”

Seeing the complete bewilderment on my face, she seemed satisfied and said:

“Live here! Here are the keys. I don’t have any others, so you don’t have to change the lock. But if you want, change it. Just leave the common door lock as it is, so the neighbors can get in.”

We exchanged phone numbers and all kinds of coordinates, I paid Valentina Nikiforovna for the first month, and she wished me happiness and left.

After seeing her off, I looked over the apartment again, more carefully. Great—one can live here! And then, if everything goes well, we’ll do some repairs. Well, we’ll live and see… In general, I didn’t rent the place just to live in it alone. I’ve got certain projects in mind. Connected with Vika. Only so far, unfortunately, they’re not backed up by anything…

I had a bag with the essentials with me. So I’d spend the night here. Tomorrow I’d drop by the dorm where the guys live and pick up some things. And by the weekend I’d try to arrange for a car so I could bring everything I need from Dmitrov. Without a car there’s no way—there’s equipment there: a computer, amplifier, speakers, TV, and other odds and ends…

In the bathroom I put a glass with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor on the shelf, set a soap dish on the sink. Made the bed. By the bed stood a big old three-door wardrobe. Правда, one door was locked, and who knows where the key was. But the other two opened. I hung up my shirts. Boiled the kettle. Had tea with sandwiches. Smoked on the balcony. Outside—beauty: tall trees, maples, poplars, the multicolored September leaves…

Toward night, walking down the corridor past the door, I looked through the peephole. I don’t even know why I did it… Probably just that evening, wandering around my new home, I stuck my nose everywhere out of sheer curiosity. I looked through the peephole—and shuddered! On the other side of the door, staring straight at me, was the landlady.

Yikes! Goosebumps all over! What was she doing there? I opened the door.

“Valentina Nikiforovna! You came back! Why didn’t you ring? Does our doorbell even work?”

“Orel. La-la, la-la,” the landlady replied. “I forgot to say something earlier… If you don’t want to overpay for electricity, turn off the light in the vestibule.”

“In the vestibule?”

“Here,” she pointed at the bulb lighting the common space in front of the two apartments. “That bulb is on our meter. And the one that’s on the building meter is useless to screw in—the mum will eat it.”

“What will eat it?!”

The landlady just waved her hand.

“Goodbye,” she said and went out the door.

But how did she get in here at all? Into the “vestibule,” as she called it… When I walked her out, I closed the outer door! Or did I? No, I’m pretty sure I closed it… Maybe she lied about not having any other keys? Oh well.

I was tired that day, fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. I dreamed I was riding a train to the city of Orel for some reason. I dreamed of the clatter of the wheels. Then it turned out it wasn’t wheels but a conductress knocking on the door of my compartment in the middle of the night. I got up to open—and only then realized it was a dream. Though the knocking had just sounded completely real, right by my ear. As if someone were knocking on the wardrobe door, the one that’s locked. Just a dream, of course. Around me hung dead night silence. The clock showed half past three. I fell asleep again.

In the morning, while waiting for the elevator, the door on the opposite side of the landing opened and a girl with a schoolbag came out. I said hello. She didn’t reply, but asked:

“Did you move into apartment 143?”

“Yes,” I said.

“There’s an uncle riding little trains there,” the girl said.

“How’s that?”

Then the elevator arrived. I went in. The girl didn’t follow me, stayed on the landing. I wanted to ask what she meant, what uncle on little trains, but I had to hurry so as not to be late for work, and I pressed the button for the first floor. The doors began to close slowly. Staring at me intently, the girl took a metal ruble from her pocket, put it in her mouth and, as it seemed to me, swallowed it. The elevator went down.

That day at work a devilishly pleasant surprise awaited me—they raised my salary! Not much, of course. Not enough to compensate for what I’d now be paying monthly for a Moscow apartment, but still, a good thing!

After work I stopped by the dorm, picked up my stuff. On the way I bought several light bulbs. I should, after all, screw a bulb into the socket in the vestibule that’s not on my meter. The one the landlady told me about yesterday, where the “mum will eat” the bulb. Funny. Weird people around here—one has an “uncle riding little trains,” another has some “mum”…

Opening the door, I heard voices in the apartment. Damn it, she definitely lied about the keys! Not only does someone else have a set, they even come in here! I need to deal with Valentina Nikiforovna urgently and change the lock for sure. I went in, ready to give a polite but firm rebuff to uninvited guests… But there were none. Though loud voices were clearly coming from the kitchen.

Going there, I discovered they were coming… from the refrigerator! I opened the door. No, not from the fridge. From behind it! Straining, I moved the white coffin a little away from the wall. Behind it, all covered in a solid layer of dust, I found a radio point. A wired loudspeaker. A rare piece of tech these days! That’s where the voices were coming from—a radio play was on. The only thing unclear was—if the radio was on, why hadn’t it made any sound yesterday? Anyway, I turned it off and pushed the fridge back. Went to the vestibule to screw in the bulb. First I had to work to unscrew the remains of the previous one—a metal base with shards of glass sticking out. And all of it smeared in something red, dried. Either blood or tomato juice. In the end I managed, unscrewed that crap and screwed in a new bulb. Let there be light!

At night, just as I was drifting off, someone in the apartment loudly said:

“An old man is laughing on a tree!”

This time it wasn’t a dream. The voice in the apartment sounded, without doubt, in reality. Again from somewhere in the kitchen. I got up, turned on the light, went to the kitchen, pulled the fridge away… Sure enough, the radio had turned on! Last time I’d pushed the button off, and now it was pressed again. Either I knocked it with the fridge, or its worn-out mechanism now lived some life of its own. I should unplug it from the radio socket, and that’s it. But there was no socket! The wires went straight out of the wall. I didn’t dare cut them. I’d only yesterday promised the landlady not to destroy the apartment! I took a match and wedged the button so it definitely couldn’t be pressed anymore. I didn’t put the fridge back. Returned to bed.

In the middle of the night I woke up from loud laughter. This time the sound came not from the kitchen, but from the balcony. Someone climbing in?! I went to the corridor, took a gas spray from my jacket pocket. (I always carry one, just in case.) Who knows what kind of devil is on my balcony? And the laughter wouldn’t stop. I went to the balcony, cautiously moved the curtain aside… It seemed no one was there! Then where from… Oh, damn it! On the tree opposite sits a bony old man, poking a crooked finger toward my balcony and laughing! Seeing me at the window, he stopped laughing, fixed a mad stare on me and shouted:

“What? How’s the uncle? Riding little trains?”

I didn’t even go out onto the balcony. What’s the point of talking to an idiot? Obviously drunk or just crazy. But what now? How to sleep in such conditions? And then the phone rang. I barely got the receiver to my ear when I heard:

“How long is he going to laugh over there?! Can’t sleep!”

“And what do I have to do with it?”

“Uh… And where’s Nikiforovna?”

“She doesn’t live here now.”

“And who are you?”

“I rent her apartment.”

“So what, didn’t she tell you anything?”

“No. What was she supposed to tell me?”

“That’s her husband! Sitting on the tree. Crazy. They keep him in a home. He sometimes runs away and climbs here, looks at his old place. You have to call so they come get him! Nikiforovna always called.”

“Call where?”

“Wait, I’ll find the number and tell you.”

“Sorry, and who are you?”

“Who, who! Your neighbor from apartment 144.”

“Oh… So you came back from the dacha?”

But there were already short beeps in the receiver. The neighbor must have gone to look for the number. I hope he finds it and calls me back.

However, about ten minutes passed, no one called, and the mad old man on the tree kept cackling hysterically. I decided to go to the neighbors. Going out into the vestibule, I was surprised to see that their door was still barricaded by the washing machine. I knocked. No response. Then I went out to the landing and pressed the doorbell of apartment 144. A bright trill sounded. But no one opened.

Returning to my place, I was relieved to find that the laughter was gone. Had the old man climbed down? No, he hadn’t. He had just gone silent and was staring down. I went onto the balcony and looked down too. Through the thick foliage, and in the dark, it was hard to see anything, but it was clear that several people with flashlights were bustling under the tree. At one moment, something like an orange vest flashed—like those worn by railway workers. And down there several male voices were singing some strange semi-nonsensical couplet:

“Hand of wooden breeds,

River of iron roads

Flows to us from Orel,

La-la, la-la.”

They repeated it again and again, until the mad old man began climbing down the tree. When his head disappeared in the leaves, the singing stopped. The flashlights went out, and I saw and heard nothing more.

Toward morning, through heavy pre-dawn sleep, it seemed to me that someone was again knocking on the wardrobe door, but sleep was stronger and didn’t let me go.

Waking in the morning, I felt not very well. Slightly nauseous. I didn’t want breakfast. I forced myself to drink tea, after which I nearly threw up. A stupid tune spun in my head: “Hand of wooden breeds, river of iron roads…”

I left the apartment. The entrance to the neighbors was still barricaded by the washing machine. Locking all the doors, I began putting the keys into my wallet, where I usually keep them in the same pocket as change, and then I noticed several ruble coins lying there. The sight of them made me feel quite ill. As if obeying some instinct, I pulled the coins out and threw them away from me toward the trash chute. And I immediately felt much better! Only I badly wanted to wash the hand I’d touched the coins with.

A walk along the street to the metro finally brought me around. On the train I was lucky to get a seat, dozed a bit and arrived at the office in decent shape. And at work another pleasant surprise awaited me! This time on the personal front.

I’d been courting Vika for a long time. And it seemed to me she liked me. But nothing really moved forward. In the sense of any progress in the relationship. Even my innocent-intellectual invitations to, say, the theater or the movies she usually answered with a polite refusal. Not always, but most often. And today in the middle of the day she called me herself.

“Want to have a smoke?”

“Uh… Sure, just let me finish this email. Let’s meet in the smoking room in five minutes?”

“Okay.”

In the smoking room we ended up alone, which was just perfect.

“Remember, I promised to treat you to my signature apple pie?”

“How could I forget! That was half a year ago! But you know, they say you wait three years for what’s promised. So I wasn’t expecting it for another two and a half years…”

“It can be sooner. It can be today. Want to come over after work?”

There it was, unexpected happiness! But before I could answer, Vika, fixing her hair, brushed it back with her hand, and I saw in her ear an earring shaped like a silver coin. In the same second I was twisted up. Dropping my cigarette on the floor, I barely found the strength to mumble:

“Sorry… I don’t feel well… Today won’t work.”

And ran from the smoking room to the restroom. I made it through the rest of the workday at my desk more or less okay. I tried not to think about Vika, because otherwise her coin earring immediately rose before my eyes and…

On the way home, in the metro, there was another relapse. A beggar with an outstretched hand was moving through the car. When he came level with me, I saw that it wasn’t a living hand but a prosthesis. And wooden. The palm, the fingers—everything carved from wood. “Hand of wooden breeds,” I remembered. The prosthesis had dried out, cracked, and the deepest crack ran across the whole palm like a lifeline. Into this wooden palm the beggar collected change. I hurried to close my eyes, but my mind managed to fix the picture: several ruble coins and one two-ruble coin, stuck on its edge in the “lifeline.”

I vomited right on the floor of the car.

The beggar looked at me with hatred and growled:

“Mum!”

When I reached the apartment door, I again heard voices. That’s it, I’m sick of that radio! Going to the kitchen, I yanked with all my might on the wires going into the wall. They turned out surprisingly strong, didn’t tear, but popped out, bringing down huge chunks of plaster onto the floor. Well, great… And I’d promised the landlady not to destroy the apartment! Under the plaster on the wall, for some reason, there were rails from a toy railway. Some fell to the floor, some remained on the wall. Okay, tomorrow I’ll patch everything and restore it, and today I need to rest properly and come to my senses. With a kitchen knife I cut the wires and went to the bedroom.

With the onset of darkness the radio sang me a song about Orel and about the river of iron roads. I realized cutting the wires was stupid. It was just some temporary clouding that came over me. I’m an engineer! A radio engineer, damn it! I understand that radio is radio because it receives signals from the radio ether! So it plays. And the wires are only needed so the radio doesn’t tear off the wall during rocking. The rocking started later, around midnight. Wheels knocked, signal lights flashed outside, station masters shouted something… Grandma passed a bucket of Orel apples through the window… And it kept rocking.

I woke to the alarm. Feeling okay. Now I need to quickly wash, shave, have breakfast—and go to work! Something was persistently knocking in the locked wardrobe door. Well, I’m an engineer, I understand that if it rocked all night, then accordingly induction of rocking accumulated in the wardrobe, and now whatever is in there will keep rocking and banging on the door for a long time. Induction of rocking, hydrangea of energy. School course of apples… I almost tripped over the bucket grandma had passed through the window at night. By the way, did I pay her? Surely I did. I’ll take a couple of apples and eat them on the way to the metro…

The locked wardrobe door bursts open with a crack, and together with it a body falls to the floor. I come closer, look. It’s not a body, just a figure. A mannequin. They probably hung clothes on it. It’s dressed even now, that’s why I thought it was a person. But it’s a wooden mannequin. “Hand of wooden breeds.”

At work, as usual, everything is great. In the evening at the buffet my colleague and buddy Igorek is treating everyone on the occasion of his wedding. He invites everyone. But I won’t go. I need to go home, to the apartment! Or better, tomorrow I’ll bring Igorek a wedding gift—I’ll saw off the arm of my mannequin, make two rings out of foil, like wedding bands, and put them on the fingers of that hand. And give it to him. It’ll be cool! And original. Surely Igorek knows that song: “Hand of wooden breeds.” And I still need that wooden mannequin—I’ll mount it on the wall above my bed. It’ll be cozy: me below, him above—like a roof over my head. And the fact that he’ll be missing one arm—that’s actually good, artistic.

I get out of the elevator on my floor and see kids scattering away from my door! All running down the stairs, and one girl—the one I met the first morning—ducked behind her door opposite mine on our landing. And I look: holy cow, they sprayed “Mum” on my door in red paint! Damn brats! What am I going to tell Valentina Nikiforovna? I go to the door the girl slipped behind and press the doorbell. Now I’ll talk to her parents! Let them pull her ears!

The door flies open. On the threshold stands a young man. Sparse hair, watery eyes, a little goat beard. A sharp Adam’s apple nervously moves up and down. In his outstretched hand, like a pistol at an enemy’s face, like an Orthodox cross before a devil, he holds a white five-ruble coin. He says to me:

“Go away, mum! Go back to your place! You have nothing to do here. There is no Orel here, la-la, la-la.”

At the sight of the coin I fall to the floor and nearly lose consciousness. Crawling, I cross the landing, reach my door. Rest. Open the door, collapse into the vestibule. I still feel bad. But I sense: there’s something here that will make me feel better! The electric bulb! The one powered from the building’s panel! I don’t have the strength to unscrew it, so I just break it out of the socket, cutting my hand. I stick the bulb in my mouth, chew, swallow… And feel wonderful relief! Everything is fine. Everything is normal. Everything is good.

I go into the apartment. There’s an uncle riding little trains.