"'Light in the Window' by Yuri Nagibin

presents
a translation of the Thaw-era story:
LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
by
Yuri Nagibin
(1956)

Appearing at the height of The Thaw in the blockbuster anthology Literary Moscow - Volume Two, Yuri Nagibin's Light in the Window lashed out at the wasteful, pointless, and just plain unfair privilege enjoyed by the elite.

At the end of March, the little bridge spanning the deep gully that separated the rest home from the highway collapsed. Then the river burst into the open, tearing asunder the ice road, the last connection to the outside world. Delivery of supplies to the rest home ceased. They held out on their reserve supplies for a few days, but then even those ran out. In the pantry there were only some canned foods, sugar, vegetable oil, and dried vegetables. The director, Vasili Petrovich, decided to slaughter his own hog in order to feed the guests.

The hog was slaughtered by the chef, a elderly man, strong as steel--a front-line cook. Vasili Petrovich assisted. It was not a simple task. The huge, clumsy, 12-pood Mashka, fattened on warm kitchen scraps, took off like a bird in her sty when the butchers crossed the threshold of the shed. She apparently guessed why they had come, even though the cook was hiding the knife behind his back. It required great effort to drag her down. Vasili Petrovich and the cook, separately and together, sprawled on the dirty floor boards, trying to grab Mashka by the leg. But with a dexterity born of the fear of death, the dirty hog, almost blind from her fat, slipped from their firm graps and raced about the sty, squealing with determination. Finally, they managed to knock her down on her back. The chef took the long knife and with an exact, calculated motion, he thrust the sharp, narrow blade under the left leg of the hog and gave it a sharp jerk.

They cooked Mashka to a waxy brown, skinned her, dressed her and bailed out the congealed lumps of her blood with spoons. Vasili Petrovich did his part as if in a dream. This was not his first time butchering a hog, but now this simple task of daily life seemed to him to be the cruelest violence against a warm, breathing, defenseless life. He couldn't forget the desperate reproach in Mashka's narrow, half-blind, amber eyes. No hog that he had ever butchered for his own use had ever looked at him like that.

The futile waiting, the pointlessly wasted effort, the ardor applied to no end gradually gave birth to a hatred....She had been deceived.

But the deed was done. The guests at the rest home ate up Mashka the same way they gobbled up everything else on the table. Vasili Petrovich wasn't expecting any gratitude. He found a bitter solace in the fact that his act of self-sacrifice was doomed to oblivion. But things turned out differently. Something appeared in the eyes of the rest home guests which wasn't there before. Vasili Petrovich didn't notice it right away, and when he did notice it, he didn't immediately recognize this weak but warm light emanating from the eyes of the maids, waitresses, nurses, and other workers. There is a sad joy in not being recognized, but a man derives far greater happiness from even the silent approval of those around him. Something jaunty appeared in the stride of the director's round, thick, short frame.

There was only one person who did not appreciate the humble deed of Vaili Petrovich: the annex building maid, Nastya. In her black, sunken eyes, the director did not detect the familiar, warming glint. And he would have hightly valued her approval--Nastya and the director were connected with thin, complicated relations.

When he was assuming management of the rest home, Vasili Petrovich and the previous director went around to all the offices and facilities, all the living quarters of both the main and annex buildings. After they were finished with this, the former director led Vasily Petrovich to a tidy little home with a glass-enclosed terrace.

"In this wing...."

Not finishing his sentence, he moved forward, unbolted the English lock in the door which was covered with felt and oil cloth, and with a gesture invited Vasili Petrovich to follow him. They entered a spacious vestibule, fragrant with dry pine wood; from there a grand view opened up for Vasili Petrovich of a large apartment, consisting of three spacious rooms and, to the right, the dull, green cloth of a billiard table.

In the first room--the drawing room--a television stood on a polished oak table; along the walls, comfortable sofas; and in the middle, an oval table, covered with a heavy, fringed cloth, surrounded by weighty armchairs, as if filled with lead. Above the table a crystal chandelier shined with pale, reflected light. Two doors, connecting the drawing room to the other rooms, gave sight to the starched coolness of thick pillows in the bedroom, the corner of a writing desk, and the edge of a thick-pile carpet in the office.

Vasili Petrovich was silent, overwhelmed with this splendor.

"Our untouchable reserve," said the previous director with a playful pride. "We keep it just in case he himself should ever come."

"But he himself would hardly ever come here," Vasili Petrovich muttered with a forced smile. At no time in his long management career had he ever had dealing with those in high positions of leadership, and therefore he could not even admit to such a possibility.

"Perhaps, you know, the situation is ambiguous," concluded the previous director with the same peculiar, indefinite, playful tone which he used when they first crossed the threshold of this sanctuary. "So just be on the look-out."

The advice penetrated to Vasili Petrovich's very heart. He was in fact always on the look-out, so that the arrival of an important guest from the ministry would not catch him unawares. He assigned the annex building maid, Nastya, to the apartment. Every day she had to clean up the unoccupied rooms, wash the floors over which no one had walked, change the vase of flowers, giving off their sweet smell for nothing, brush the green cloth of the billiard table, whose nap, it seemed, began to grow long like a neglected lawn. But part of the worries lay on the janitor Stepan. He had to chop the ice off the porch, shovel away the mounds of snow from under the windows, keep a supply of birch logs ready in case the authorities decided to enjoy the play of flames in the fireplace.

In a word, everything was done so that a guest accidentally descending upon them would feel how impatiently he had been awaited and with what great care preparations had been made for his arrival.

All the same, these rooms were the source of constant internal anxiety for Vasili Petrovich. As a manager, it was hard for him to accept that such fine accommodations were left empty, pointlessly swallowing up both resources and labor. At times he was much vexed at the ban prevailing over these rooms. For a long time he was unable to forget the faces of a young couple who arrived at the rest home during the height of the July overcrowding: they were put in different rooms. He could hardly keep himself from quivering as he imagined what unspeakable happiness a separate room would afford them. But he kept himself under control, and the young people, exchanging a look as if they were parting forever, were sent off to different buildings.

Vasili Petrovich felt no better during the visit of a renowned bricklayer, who some time ago had built this very rest home. The bricklayer arrived with his wife and three irrepressible sons. Even in a double room, the old folks were unable to get a minute's peace from their terrors' ungovernable courage.

The new director listened with chagrin to the rumbling of the balls on the torn-up communal billiard table while, at the same time, an excellent table languished uselessly and senselessly in the empty apartment. The same rotten feeling was aroused by the sight of the waitresses with their faces glued to the windows of the television room. The narrow viewing hall could hardly accommodate all the rest home guests, so the waitresses pushed one another and argued, trying to catch a glimpse of the picture, distorted by the window glass. But in the special building, an excellent television was wasting away to no end.

All of this so depressed Vasili Petrovich that he couldn't bear the weight of his vexation alone. He began to share his thoughts with the maid Nastya. He felt certain that this taciturn, reserved woman with sunken black eyes would not blab to anyone else. He told her about the young couple and about the bricklayer; and each time he clearly saw condemnation--not sympathy--in Nastya's dark eyes. This made him feel even more bitter, and he complained to her again and again over each misfortune in the vague hope that this time, finally, she would understand him. But when he was convinced that even his act of sacrifice, his small deed of heroism, would not extinguish the biting flame of reproach in Nastya's deep, inordinately intent gaze, he understood that he would have to bear his cross in solitude.

Vasili Petrovich could not understand Nastya. It wasn't easy to understand this quiet, slightly hard-of-hearing, secretive woman with a strange, plain but at the same time attractive face. Certainly, Nastya wasn't beautiful, but someone would just have to say, "But you know, there is something about her," and everyone was ready to agree with it. With a little prompting, people couldn't help but notice Nastya's hidden, wild charm. It was hard to say what exactly this charm was. Was it in the shy, very young, strangely deep and penetrating look in her eyes--although she was already past thirty? Was it that proud bearing of her head? Or was it something else? This second aspect of Nastya was not constant. It would quickly disappear, leaving behind a perplexed feeling, and again you were presented with a plain woman of indeterminate years with a pale, weather-beaten face and large, overworked hands. Many years ago, Nastya's strange and fragile charm attracted a young rider from a horse farm. But the war began, and Nastya was quickly changed from bride to widow. Nastya was permanently offended by life, and if the director wanted to be thought of as good, she became even more wary, as if not even suspecting the possibility of goodness.

She fiercely defended her rights. She was to clean the rooms from nine to ten in the morning--not a minute earlier, not a minute later. Bring hot water for shaving at exactly 8:30. She wouldn't make the beds--the rest home guests were supposed to do this themselves. If anyone infringed on her rights, she would look them squarely in the eyes and say, "It's not my job!" But somehow it turned out that Nastya made the beds, brought hot water three times a day, and did many other things that weren't her job. She got her revenge for this by flatly refusing the five- and twenty-five-ruble bills the guests tried to foist on her upon their departure. She made such an unpleasant face as she did so that the guests, muttering apologies, awkwardly hid the crumpled balls of money in their hands.

There was an abrupt change in Nastya's life when she was assigned to the special wing. At first, she took the director's orders as a gross infringement on her rights, and even the director's threats made no impression on her. But, fascinated by the magnificent furnishings in the room, she quickly lost any desire to protest. The entire meaning of her existence became invested in these rooms.

Nastya dedicated all the passion of her unspent heart to this new assignment. Gradually, she formed an amazing, fairy-tale-like image of that person who would come and be enthroned in the midst of this splendor. She believed him to be an extraordinary person, unlike any other, since so much care was dedicated to him, since, unseen, he was remembered every day, every hour. For Nasytya, there was no greater joy than to take care of these rooms, which would receive him. But she didn't neglect her other duties, either. With the unflagging conscientiousness typical of her, she cleaned both floors of the annex building. She swept up, emptied the ashtrays, polished the bathtubs and wash-basins till they shone like glass, refilled the water pitchers, shook the rugs, and--muttering to herself--she even made the beds. But none of this touched her heart; it all belonged to the humdrum world, to that life which didn't have to go on living. But she came fully alive--passionate and trembling--when it came to these secret chambers. Here her ordinary work was transformed into creative endeavor. You can simply wash a window, or you can create a miracle: you can make it so transparent, shining and sunny that the blue of the sky, the whiteness of the snow, and the green of the pine needles are drawn straight into the room; the walls disappear and the room becomes part of a great expanse. It's one thing to make order in a room, it's another when the things themselves find their own unique place in the expanse of the room. Place the cupboard not flush against the wall, but a tiny bit askew, pull the television out just a bit, move the flowers from the nightstands to the center of the oval dining table, and everything becomes different. In place of mere order there is beauty.

Practically every day brought a small discovery to Nastya, and the director, checking up on the unoccupied chambers from time to time, felt something which he himself could not name. He didn't notice any changes--seemingly, everything was as before; but for some reason, each time he came, the appearance of these rooms bestowed upon him a new joy and an ever-growing feeling of safety.

To Nastya, the very suggestion that these rooms might be occupied the first Johnny-come-lately who might show up seemed like blasphemy. The director's vacillations insulted her. No one should dare cross the threshold into this house except he himself....

But days, weeks, and months passed--and no one came. A year passed, and a second one rolled on quickly after it, and as before, the rooms remained uninhabited and cold, because there was no human presence to warm them. As before, the furnishings sparkled with a brilliance which no one needed. As before, the television stared out with its whitish eye, blind and dumb. The balls, having forgotten how to roll, seemingly grew fat and swollen on the grasslike green of the billiard table. The beautiful mirror, in a carved frame, reflected not a single human face, except for Nastya's pale-swarthy face, with severe cheekbones and sunken black eyes. Not a single head, numbed with sleep, touched the taunt, cool starch of the pillows.

The futile waiting, the pointlessly wasted effort, the ardor applied to no end gradually gave birth to a hatred in Nastya. She had been deceived. It wasn't the director who had deceived her--what did she care about him? She had been deceived by the man for whom she had waited with such intense impatience.

But thinking about the expected guest's failure to arrive was the same as waiting for him again, and Nastya could not--did not want to--wait any longer. She stopped giving her personal touch to things, arranging things artfully in the room, and Vasily Petrovich got the impression that Nastya was treating her duties negligently. He drew his hand along the top of the television and along the arms of the chairs, but he could find no dust. He put his finger to the glass, and the finger squeaked against the cleanly washed, thoroughly dried smoothness. He stamped on the rugs in a vain attempt to raise up a cloud of dust. There was nothing with which to find fault. But all the same, something was missing, and Vasily Petrovich furrowed his brow with dissatisfaction.

Meanwhile, Nastya's disdain for the invisible occupant grew, and finally consumed her whole being. Now it seemed to her the cruelest injustice that he had been allotted these spacious rooms, full of light and air, furnished with these beautiful necessities.

Once, Vasily Petrovich was returning home after a solitary night time stroll. He dearly loved this hour around midnight when the entire rest home and all its surrounding outbuildings were nestled in sleep; when he ceased feeling the constant, tiresome demands of people; when he could no longer be disturbed by the guests, head nurse, chief cook, bookkeeper, quartermaster, gardener, unexpected inspectors from the ministry, telephone calls from the kolkhozes which always wanted something from him, and his wife who, for some reason, couldn't get it in her head that he was the director of the rest home, not its owner. True, this simple happiness fell to him only rarely--fatigue usually laid him out on his back as soon as he finished his working day.

Night wrapped the area around the rest home with a darkness, slightly infused with a greenish light from the rising moon. In this greenish darkness everything seemed elegant, tidy, harmonious, necessary, and beautiful--even the tall, completely ice-covered, nose-high snow-drifts alongside the roads and alleys; even the plaster figure of a dear, unbearably ugly in the light of day, looking like a sheep-dog with horns glued to its head for amusement.

You could think positively and peacefully about everything: about the fact that the most difficult part of life is behind, and that now you could slowly and sweetly fall asleep in the warmth of a bed, with no fear of being awakened in the night; about the fact that relations between people are growing stronger in the spirit of mutual understanding and trust; about the fact that, no longer fearing malevolent people, you can try with your whole soul to make the life of the rest home guests better, more satisfied, more peaceful, and happier--yes, and for their whole lives....

Vasily Petrovich came around the corner of the rest home and suddenly froze in his tracks, reeling back slightly and craning his neck to the side like a horse galloping into a wattle fence. In the windows of the unoccupied wing burned a light. More precisely, light burned in the office, the bedroom, and the billiard room, from which came the dry, bony crack of the balls. In the drawing room, it was dark, but he could hear music there; and when Vasily Petrovich, overcoming his momentary stupefaction, stepped forward, he saw a flickering, pale-blue reflection on the windows opposite the drawing room, and he understood that the television was on.

A strange feeling ran through Vasily Petrovich. For a moment, it seemed to him that the furnishings, fed up with their uselessness, had rebelled and struck up their own independent life, without the help of man: the lights had come on, the balls had started rolling along the green field of the billiard table, the television had came to life for the enjoyment of the armchairs, nightstands, table, and sofas. However, this wild feeling was quickly replaced by another, more sober but just as worrying: it has happened! That for which he has waited with such trembling for over a year--and for which he had almost stopped waiting--has happened. The exulted guest, as if on purpose, had arrived during the director's absence, when no one was expecting him, and in some secret, unfathomable manner, found the rooms intended for him, entered them without a key, and, with the certain authority of an owner, brought the unliving to life.

But this thought held sway over Vasily Petrovich's consciousness for no more than a moment. It was crowded out by a dull confusion. No, this cannot be....

Standing for some reason on tip-toe, stealthily he stepped off the path into the loose, melting snow and crept up to the window.

Sitting by the television, on whose screen flashed a bluish spot crossed by thin lines, was the maid Nastya, with her large hands resting on her knees. On her right, leaning in uncomfortably, with eyes and mouth wide open, was Klavka, the 10-year-old daughter of the janitor, Stepan. On Nasyta's left, sweetly dreaming in a deep armchair, was Klavka's younger brother. Through a crack in the door, bathed in the light of the two chandeliers, their father was visible, working over the billiard table, clumsily jabbing at the balls with the sharp tip of the cue stick.

She had taken it upon herself and violated the ban! She had openly and defiantly entered into this enchanted world; she had set herself up as the legitimate master and brought in Stepan. With a strange sinking sensation, Vasily Petrovich felt that he was witnessing something very good, very just, and very needed. But he immediately raised his hand and with a sharp, rough motion, he knocked on the window, causing the glass to ring out.

And then Vasily Petrovich yelled, threatened, stamped his feet, wearing himself out and getting intoxicated with his own shouting. He made such an effort, as if he hoped that his furious indignation would reach the ears of him, whose rights had been so crudely violated. It is unknown if he himself heard it, but the transgressors remained deaf to the director's wrath. Holding the children by their hands, they walked past the director with a peaceful and severe dignity.

Looking at their stern, almost triumphant faces, Vasily Petrovich stopped short and fell silent, heeding with surprise a strange, new, unknown sensation which arose and grew inside of him, penetrating to the very tips of his fingers and toes, a feeling of unbearable disgust with himself.

THE END

Translated by Eric Konkol

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