All four of us spent a few hours out of the house, as V clambered around an empty playground. The neighborhood was empty, and the breeze was cold but with our hands shoved deep into our pockets we drank in the fresh air. V rode a wooden horse, dangled from bars, dove down slides, swung until she could swing no more. Eventually, she and N went to her mother's place a few houses over and I headed back to our apartment with E.
Upstairs, the door that leads to our hallway was locked. In Russia, there is your apartment door, and then a short hallway that has an additional door and then the actual common area, where the stairs and elevators are. That middle door may be closed when all of the people behind it have the key, maybe leaving an old bicycle or some luggage in that middle space. There is always something to save, not worth throwing up but far too much to cram into those tiny apartments. Our middle door has never, ever been locked.
I stomped against it, thinking the wind had blown it shut, and it sat tight inside its frame. Layers of sloppy paint must be making it stick. But no, it actually rattled around. It was locked. We buzzed the buzzers for the other two apartments. One did not work, the other just caused the tiny dog to shriek. I stared at the door. Maybe there was a way it had been locked from the outside?
In moments like this, anger and defeat take over. Rational thought evaporates, and you are just kicking against a locked door, just leaning on buzzers that do not work and suddenly it feels like your entire life is summed up in this sad, broken moment.
I begin knocking now, my knuckles growing red.
Nothing.
Just the tiny dog, alone in the dark apartment barking like the house is on fire.
I bang again, buzz again. E stands, defeated, her shoulders slumped in.
No one answers their doors here. It could be anyone. A fake inspector trying to case your apartment, or a real official with some document that you cannot say you did not see because you opened your door. So you never open your door unless you know it is a delivery. You tiptoe to the peephole, trying not to make a shadow behind it and hold your breath and try to decipher who is ringing, maybe someone that is lost. Maybe a delivery person that just rings every buzzer, too lazy to check which one is right.
But then, there is a sound. A lock turns. A short woman mumbles something, and ducks back into the other apartment, the one without a dog.
"She said the plumber locked it." E says under her breath.
I nod, sure - blame it on the person who left and did not know, that did not notice it was wide open when they arrived. But the plumber can only lock it from the inside without a key. It was not him. It was her, and she just made some bland excuse.
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