The Apartment

A place of his own! How much that means to someone who has spent years drifting from one rented place to another. The first thing he decided was to throw out all the old furniture and plumbing and redo the place to his own taste. His mum came over. They traipsed round the DIY stores together, picking out materials. Some of the renovation Grisha could handle himself, but for the plumbing he called in a professional.

The plumber took out the old stinking toilet. A leftover from the previous owners. Grisha decided to haul it straight to the dump. He grabbed the bowl under one arm and the cistern under the other. Overestimated his strength. Made it a few metres down the shared corridor. Dropped it. Got splashed. Swore. At the end of the corridor he noticed somebody’s figure watering flowers. “And of course somebody saw,” thought Grisha. Picked it up again. Carried it down and set it next to the bins in the yard. Went back to the apartment. The plumber was right there.

— So all your work’s done, is it? — he asked.

— No, loads still to do, — Grisha waved a hand.

— Then why’d you chuck out the old toilet so quick? Where are the workmen supposed to go?

— Didn’t think of that. In a bottle, maybe?

— No, nobody’s going to work like that. Go fetch it back before someone nicks it!

— Who the hell would want that old crapper! — Grisha exclaimed. But he went downstairs for it anyway.

By the bins Grisha saw a respectable-looking gentleman briskly making off with his old toilet.

— Don’t take it, it’s mine! — Grisha bellowed.

— Then why did you throw it out? — the gentleman replied. — I’ll scrub it up and put it in at the dacha. You can’t get quality like this nowadays.

Having finally won his toilet back, Grisha carried it up to the apartment. And at exactly the same spot in the corridor on his floor he dropped it a second time! And got splashed again.

“They say a shell never lands in the same crater twice! Well, I do! What kind of karma is this, some unclosed gestalt or what?! Is the Universe trying to tell me something?” Grisha was thinking, beside himself with rage, when suddenly a voice said:

— Why are you dragging that toilet back and forth?

Grisha looked up and saw some freak of a teenager with a mop. Skinny, blue hair with the last few centimetres dyed black. Black thigh-high boots, knee-length plaid shorts, a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a tie like a Japanese schoolgirl’s.

“And who said you could get so chummy with me? I’ve never seen you before in my life,” thought Grisha.

— I bought the apartment and I’m doing it up, — Grisha replied curtly.

— I get it. You can’t build the new without destroying the old, — said the freak, and started dancing on the spot.

— What, you mop floors in a white shirt?

— Yep. You just slopped stuff all over here, so I’m mopping. And I water the flowers, too. Happiness is in the moment itself, in living life.

“Kids these days grow up glued to gadgets. Parents busy making money. Nobody keeps an eye on them. And then you end up with a creature like this. Playing the intellectual, on top of it,” thought Grisha. But what he asked was something else:

— So you live here?

— Oh, I live in all sorts of places. And I travel a lot.

“Look at that, hoarding apartments. Rich parents, no doubt. Meanwhile the rest of us have to slog so many years for a one-room flat that our health’s shot by the end of it,” thought Grisha.

— And what do you do?

— I’m a blogger, — Grisha said proudly. — I’ve got a raven. My channel’s called “Gregor and the Tame Raven Read Books.”

— Yeah, Gregor does sound better than Grisha Shirinkin, — the freak smiled.

Grisha wanted to smile back, too, when suddenly a chill ran down his spine.

— How do you know my name? — Grisha asked. — I never told you!

— You ordered a delivery, your name’s written right on the box, — said the dancing freak, lightly nudging the box with a foot, and went on: — I had a raven too, still young, with a green eye. I was teaching it to sit with me while I read books. And then it went missing, — the freak said, upset.

— That must be your raven! — Grisha exclaimed. — Mine’s got odd eyes too. I’ll bring him tomorrow, you’ll see!

— You found my raven! — the freak lit up. — See you tomorrow! — And made to leave.

— What’s your name? — Grisha shouted after.

— You can call me Siva, — Grisha heard in reply.