WINDOWS

How should a person with an unattractive appearance feel? There was nothing in him to catch an eye, but you could not call him unhandsome either: there was just nothing to put an eye on. His facial features were clear, his proportions were regular. The glasses, the eyes were hidden behind the thick lenses, did not adorn him, but did not make him look worse either. Had you put them on someone else, people around would have definitely pulled faces of dissatisfaction or would have nodded with an approval. But the glasses did not make him look worse, neither they fitted him � the glasses with big lenses were simply unnoticed on him. The same was with the clothes: more than modest things were clean and ironed impeccably, so that it would not come to mind of anyone to cluck squeamishly and step aside. But a snappy dresser would not stop to glance at him either. An accidental look, not stopping even for a minute, would be sliding along an inconspicuous man, as if along a glass, switching to some unusual hat twinkling in a crowd.

What was in the heart of this man, something that numerous passer-bys would never guess about, was a great wish to make friends with them. He liked them all, he could have told stories about anyone of them. Without knowing, passer-bys would become his heroes, his friends. A tender vulnerable soul, an emotional spirit, an incommensurate wish to communicate with the whole world remained unclaimed because of an almost incoherent speech. The real people would lose patience when talking to him. They would be irritated by his slowness, stammering, and swallowing the words. They would try to guess as quickly as possible the final meaning of his phrase and to end a conversation. And he would be saying just the first sentence. But this would not bother anyone, they would run away from such a collocutor, they would assume a look of preoccupation or an inhuman work pressure.  Once he started talking to a ticket controller in a bus, explaining that he forgot a pensioner�s identity card at home. But, scarlet with irritation, �the representative of authority� did not even attempt to listen or to hear. After a fair share of goofing at his defects, the passenger was disembarked and the bus continued the trip. No one of those who observed the scene defended him, no one stretched him a helping hand. Why? This was unclear even to him as they all looked like such good people for him. Yes, probably he was wrong, indeed. Yes. That was his fault.

Igor

Igor was not translucent, but everyone would always walk past him. One day he spent a lot of time standing at a counter with the only wish � to buy a cake that he liked. Once he would be about to attract the salesman�s attention, someone else would appear, someone who would also want something sweet. One after another, Igor was letting experienced buyers, hurrying up to make their choices, come before him, having no strengths to fight for his right for a purchase. Having stood for some more time with a hope that maybe at least someone would help him to be more determined, he left the bakery, without having received what he came for.

It was not always the case that he was so indecisive, just sometimes, when he would be totally exhausted from the fight with his natural diffidence, attempting to implant at least some insolence to it. But today was his birthday, and today he acutely wanted some love, or, at least, some little attention.

But he was marching all by himself. Heading home and without a cake.

Bright Lights

Big City. Narrow lanes. Huge squares. Nevsky Avenue. Lights of advertisements. Signaling cars. Laughter. Whistling. Roar � probably a tire was ripped. On the right and on the left people are moving along the lights. Lots of people. They are marching, stumbling, running, catching-up, hurrying up to the meetings. They look cloudy, they laugh, seem perplexed, smile and get angry. They gesticulate, carry or arm someone. They are of all colors, black color predominates in their clothes, they are afraid to smear easily, but do not want to lose individuality. Some are poor, with chattering empty bottles in their string bags. Others are well-heeled: in one little bag there is a powder-box that costs as much as a one-week content of someone else�s fridge. A man runs out of a building, a tear is running down his face, he carelessly wipes it away with a leather glove, and away with this tear something in him fades away, the soul ossifies, he gets cold � he turns up the collar of the coat, approaches a roadside and stops a car. Here is a woman exiting a telephone box, she is joyful about a forthcoming change, she is happy, she wants to fly. And it is such a pity that she is not a bird. She would have been a very beautiful bird because she is ready for the flight. In the glittering windows of shops there are fashionably dressed mannequins, they are always interesting to look at, everyone is always concerned about them. Many people look at them, even those who are in so much hurry. Inside the shops, behind huge windows, salespeople move tiredly, as fishes in a fish bowl, they swim indifferently along the window. Their thoughts are clear � food, their goal is the only one � food. They are the most boring to look at, they are always the same, no matter behind which window they are.

Thought

Climbing a steep staircase of a crummy house, dead tired, Igor could hardly raise his hand to push the elevator�s button. The elevator worked, and that was pleasant. The sixth floor of a house, built in the nineteenth century, compared to the modern houses, was like the twelfth. Of all the barriers for Igor this one was the easiest to overcome, and nonetheless it was so good that the elevator was working. Up, up, up, then 34 steps down, and here he was, in front of a big door, covered up with ring bells and signs with the names of his neighbors. It was so good that he did not forget the keys as he forgot them yesterday. That meant that no one would chide him at the very threshold, that was good. A huge corridor forty meters long had been waiting for him, signaling with a feeble light that it was empty at the moment and that he could move relatively safely along it. The probability that no one with a little pot of soup just taken off the stove would come along was rather high, judging by the tightly closed doors of the neighbors� rooms. And his heart became so high, and the non-purchased cake started to seem such a trifle and a child�s play. Having successfully passed alien doors, Igor found himself at home at last, where he was awaited, were he was missed, were he was welcome. Nodding to everyone, he immersed into studying the content of a fridge, deliberating on how to finish as soon as possible the preparation of a meal in order to sit down and chat with his friends.   

Friends

A long room with one window, extremely high ceilings and huge windows always pleased him. Despite suffocating from lonesomeness, it was possible to breath there. That was one of the stories invented by him. That was something to save him during the blackest days, and for some reason there was more and more of such days, and they were becoming longer. And each time, having confronted with the reality, he hurried up to return here � here he could count on understanding and a drop of compassion.

His parents were encouraging him, even insisting on his move to live with them. But could one abandon his friends just like that? His parents lived in a newly built house, and the windows of their flat were facing a sandlot. And who could you talk to by looking at an empty space? There would be no one whom you could say �Good night� or �Good morning�. No one to ask �How are you?� and to share your stories with. And there was a totally different view from the window of his room, and it did not matter that he lived in an awful communal flat: he lived on the sixth floor of an ancient house in the very center of a beautiful city. And when approaching his window, he could see many windows like his one. He would share with them everything that has happened to him during the day, tell about people he�s seen on the streets. He would embrace them with his soul, pray for their safe tomorrow, and go to sleep with a concern for those who would not go to sleep yet.

Birthday

The fridge was full: probably someone came while he was away. Igor turned off the light everywhere and made himself comfortable on a broad windowsill with a bottle of beer and a little bowl of �Olivie�[1]. He especially liked talking to the Windows on the New Year Holiday, when lights of garlands would flit in them, and the lights would stay on for hours. He would sit and imagine how differently people welcome the midnight. How they cheer up and drink Champaign. He also would always drink Champaign on the New Year, cheering with the cold window glass. And when by the morning the lights would die one by one, in his mind he would cover them with a blanket, arrange the pillows, and leave their lives without having disturbed their quietness, without abusing them, but having just allowed himself to warm up his heart from the light of someone else�s electric light. On the New Year�s night this grown-up and very lonely man would always fall asleep believing that the coming year will bring a bit of happiness to him as well. But today was his birthday, and, drinking beer with the salad, he was cheerfully telling his silent companions about the wonderful day, how wonderfully he hung around Nevsky, and how many people he had a chance to notice, and how glad they were to see him. And it was not important at all that they were hurrying as always, but tomorrow will definitely come� And tomorrow he will be able to meet them again, and if he does not manage to chat, at least he can listen and hear their stories.