My favorite window - a short story

I’ve got to confess on a strange hobby that I used to have as a student having no spare money on entertainment. Some of you may consider it weird or even indecent: at nightfall, when darkness embraced the city and lanterns lit up the space around, I enjoyed looking into the windows from the street and catching the glimpse of other people’s lives. This habit of mine had nothing in common with contemplating naked women: I was not looking for obscenity. I strove to discover an interesting story.

Passing by some particular window, I evaluated the interior style, the lighting, the pictures on the walls and then I turned on my imagination trying to picture the dweller's character and way of life.

(Pic source http://alexsciuto.com/blog/?tag=night-photography)

I don’t easily get along with other people and always prefer watching them from afar before making a personal contact. And what can say more about the person than their home, a mirror of our soul?

Here are the rare but remarkable windows glowing with blue, violet or purple lights instead of the ordinary yellow and white ones. I imagine the people who live there as bright, dreamy and bold in their mind. They might be architects, poets, film directors or some romantic youths who enjoy being «unlike others».

Here are old-fashioned rooms with a large number of black-and white photos on the walls, vinyl players and cuckoo clocks that got to be so rare nowadays. They usually have high ceilings, which, in my opinion, encourage our growth, giving freedom to spirit and mind. In my opinion, coffin-like flats with the ceilings lower than 3 meters should be legally banned as a torture instrument and a source of gruesome psychic degradation.

Round the corner, one can witness a dance lesson: a young man is holding a girl by the waist high in the air, both smiling in the soft lights, while other learners are watching them attentively. Across the street a blooming orchid garden is projecting its beauty to the outer world, while its owner can never be seen. So, I had a large constellation of secret friends who had no idea of my existence.

That autumn evening I was returning from the university with little pleasure: no one would be waiting for, and my tiny rented flat would be still, empty and cold. Being single and living far away from parents had its obvious advantages, but sometimes my solitary existence felt devastating; I felt like operating in a safe mode and permanently hungry for emotion.

To bring a little change into my routine, I took a different street that I had not walked for ages, and a brick house caught my attention. It was a pretty old house of three floors, and one of it’s rooms was on the ground floor, all available to my gaze and empty, except for a foxy black-and-white mongrel enjoying her sleep in an armchair. Attracted by the soft light that came from under the green lamp-shade, I came pretty close enough to fall in love at first sight. Even for me, it was quite a surprise: the flat was far from being freshly renewed, and some decorations such as china elephants on the windowsill, a table-cloth of knitted white lace and heavy «grandmom’s» сhandeliers totally contradicted to my notion of good taste.

It’s hard to say what exactly enchanted me so much that evening, inducing me to return again and again. Perhaps, it was a guitar hanging on the wall (plain and cheap acoustic one that one can easily take to the mountains) or the impressive collection of children’s books in the bookcase. Or was it a brightly painted handmade clay doll on the bureau - the sort I used to make as a schoolgirl?

A middle-aged blond lady entered without noticing me standing in three meters from her window. She had a hammer and a nail in her hand. The mongrel swiftly rose from the armchair seat, briefly stretched herself and greeted the woman, tail wagging. I made a step back.

The woman rose to a chair, hammered a nail into the wall and hung a picture on it. That was a oil-painted portrait of a girl of seven or eight years old, two funny ribbons in her thick chestnut hair, her smile as warm as the sun on a May afternoon. No doubt, this was the creator of the doll, and perhaps, the owner of all the books and all the tiny elephants in the room. And I only had to guess if the charming creature was somewhere around or enjoying her evening walk with another member of the family. Or perhaps, she was already grown-up and staying somewhere else.

The woman sank into the armchair to watch the result of her work, and suddenly I felt so desperately out of place that I moved rapidly on, promising myself to return on some future occasion. I felt energy and warmth stream through my veins up to the depth of my brain; apparently, a very good family was living here.

Each time I passed by that window, which got to be my favorite one, I felt my mood inevitably blossom, though most of the time the room was empty, let alone the marvelous portrait, the doll and the elephants. I only saw the lady three times - watching TV, cooking something at her cosy neat kitchen and going out with her dog (it was a quarter to eight in the evening). I attached no importance to the absence of the little girl who might be staying in another room or spending a weekend with her grandparents.

There are days when you get overfilled with the magic urge to make someone else smile. Sometimes you’re aware of it. Sometimes you’re oblivious and only act instinctively. But the more rarely you succeed in fulfilling this desire, the less often it comes to you. One day I felt a need to do something for the family who worked a miracle for me without knowing it.

I went to my friend Sonya, who had a baking oven at home, and asked if I could use it. She thought that I found the boyfriend at last and was so delighted that I did not dare to disappoint her. It was the first time that I baked a fruit pie with my own hands, and so great was my dedication that the pie turned out not ugly at all (I made a small one for Sonya’s mom as well, as my friend is always on diet). Making and decorating the pie was the easiest part of the task. To give the present was far more difficult. Imagine receiving a treat from a complete stranger who fell in love with your window by some not so obvious reason!

The night before baking the cake was especially tough: again and again I was thinking over the words I would tell the lady while giving my gift. I did not even have her name, for I had only seen the half-erased last name over the doorbell, which might have belonged to the previous owner. Desperate to find the matching words, I decided to let it go and invent something on place. Stress makes smart people think faster, and I used to find myself smart at those distant days.

At half past seven, when the dog walk time was approaching, I came the lady’s modest door, holding the box that Sonya had helped me to decorate. All the words that had been stirring in my brain before, left in a heartbeat, leaving my head as empty as a seashell on the shore. Suddenly the pie in my hands felt as if it weighed ten kilos or more. Here I stood, unable to raise my hand, bring it to the button, desperate to swallow a heavy lump in my throat.

Only once had I felt so stupid in my life - when my parents made me recite a poem at a family сelebration, and I could not remember any, though I knew plenty.

Suddenly the lock opened with a snap. I felt a powerful urge to run but was unable to move my leg. Will she take me for a stalker? Will she call police?

She stared on me, I stared on her. The little dog was behind her, waving her tail and hopping with curiosity.

«Good evening,» I exhaled at last. «This is for you.» And I stretched out the box with my handmade pie.

«Who sent you, girl?» she asked in a weirdly trembling voice.

«Nobody,» I replied

«You wanna sell this to me?»

I shook my head and added, completely dumb with anxiety: «It’s just a part of a flashmob - baking a pie for a stranger and making them smile».

Honestly, I don’t know why I said this kind of thing.

«Get out,» she said in a low angry voice. «Never show up here again, you understand?»

«Okay, but I meant nothing nasty» I sighed and dragged myself away, biting my lips and pressing the box to my chest as if it was a tiny kitten. The door shut heavily behind my back.

Strangely, I felt a kind of relief. The worst thing has already happened, but my world did not collapse. No black hole has eaten my parents and the Earth. I didn’t even fail an exam. It’s enough to take another street while walking home. Not a great sacrifice, of course.

However, I had no more mysterious green lamp, no funny spotty dog, no «tasteless» elephant collection. Besides, I would never see the beautiful child from the picture. Yes, there would be thousands of other windows in my life, good and evil, striking and ugly, but I already felt they would no more have any magic for me.

Luckily, a homeless man was standing by the crossroads - a perfect chance to get rid of the pie, who was now burning my hands as if I had stolen it. The poor man got so surprised to get the colored fragrant box that he had no voice to say «Thank you» and whispered something totally inaudible. Had I made up my mind to feed a homeless person instead of troubling people with unwanted visits, I wouldn’t have suffered such a bitter deception!

When I already approached the crossroads and waited for the green light, a hand touched my shoulder. I shuddered, instinctively fearing that the man was following me. Turning back, I discovered the woman who expelled me so ruthlessly. And I could swear her eyes were wet, as well as her face.

«I’m really, really sorry, girl,» she said. «I didn’t mean to be rude. Would you join me for a cup of tea?»

«W-h-h-h-y?» was the only thing I could reply.

«You seem someone good, and you didn’t know, of course… I won’t fall asleep today, knowing that I hurt you like this, child. By the way, I am Svetlana».

Judging by the tears in her eyes, it was me who had hurt her somehow, and, eager to learn how I could improve that, I accepted the invitation. It took us three minutes or less to walk back to the house, and I noticed that the man who took my pie wasn’t in the street any more.

We walked inside the hallway, greeted by the dog, who was dancing around us like a big, fluffy and nonchalant butterfly, took off our overcoats and proceeded to the spacious living-room that had always been hidden by the heavy drapes and thus not visible from the street. Though tidy, it was perhaps the saddest and the most sterile room I had ever seen. What a contrast to my favorite «portrait room»!

She made me sit down and strode to the kitchen. I heard her move behind the closed door like a small animal in the tree hollow. Five minutes later, she returned with a tray with three cups, a stout teapot painted with daisies and a small birthday cake with fourteen white candles gleaming on its top.

«Leukemia took my little daughter Tanya four years ago,» Svetlana said, taking her seat. «And today - today she would have been fourteen years old. Almost grown-up».

«Damn, things like this must not happen to good people!» I thought, feeling my cheeks go on fire. So, the girl from the portrait was never going to appear - a part of her only existed on the picture.

«Tanya’s little friends always came to congratulate her on her birthday - they looked just like you, though younger. The story was the same on her last birthday. They had no idea she was already dying, they were sure she would join them at school after winter holidays,» the woman went on in a dry voice.

I listened to her, ashamed, helpless and hardly breathing, the cup of tea on the halfway to my lips. Thank God, she did not make me eat the cake. To make a cake for a dead girl - it was more than my mind could accept.

«I moved to another place, for I could not stay in the apartment where she died and feared to meet the girls from her class again. It was not that they were mean or something. But they were alive, and Tanya was gone, and I just could not stand it. Some parents just don’t appreciate the happiness just to have their child by their side, safe and sound. They oblige kids to be brilliant. Successful. Perfect. And then these old fools are ready to sell their soul for one more month, week or day for their child… I see them every week at the hospital.»

«Are you a doctor?» I asked cautiously.

«No, just a volunteer. You see, drugs and medical procedures are not enough for recovery. Someone just should be there to read a fairy-tale, to walk them about a hospital garden, to adjust the pillow on time. Perhaps you don’t believe these little things are that important for recovery. But they are. And they are even more precious for those living their last days.»

«What about the parents?»

«Not all parents can stay with their child all the time. As a rule, they both have to work. And fathers often leave when things turn worse; this is exactly what happened to me.»

«Doesn’t that hurt you to see sick children every week?»

«It always does. But if I hadn’t had them, I would have died years ago. These poor little kids need me, but I need them even more - to survive.»

I made several gulps of tea that had already cooled down and asked Svetlana if I could do anything for her. She chuckled.

«It isn’t ME who needs your attention,» she replied, stretching her arm to pet the dog. «But there are many people who really do. By doing something good for them you are doing me a favor.»

Further on, she asked me many questions about my family, my friends and my studies, as if I was a princess of a foreign country. Perhaps, I was a rare person in her life, who was not her co-worker, a sick child or their parent.

«Do you want me to visit you from time to time?» I asked, supposing that Svetlana must be suffering of loneliness. The woman shook her head.

«I don’t think I deserve so much attention,» she replied with a faint smile. «Don’t go by yourself. It’s already dark, I will call you a taxi.»

Since that day, I instinctively avoided that street and that house, dedicating more time to people around me and getting involved in volunteer projects instead of walking about the streets and staring aimlessly at other people’s windows. When I had the courage to cast a look at my former favorite window, the room behind it was freshly repaired: it had warm creamy walls and satin peach curtains, with no traces of Svetlana’s presence there. A six-year-old girl and a large maine-coon cat were studying me through the glass. I waved my hand to them and walked on.