The Big Book of Modern Fantasy

by The Big Book of Modern Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  It engulfed the Black Glacier, sizzling and shining, reclaiming the Impossible Bluffs, reclaiming the Dripping Lands and the central cloudprairie, reclaiming the terraced rice paddies of the Agricultural Birthworms and the epiphytic moss gardens of the Waxy Fruit Puppets. Finally the holy vomit reclaimed the Amnesiac Wastes and Mirage Lake, where wee sneeflers effervesce and melt away amidst the snorkel grass, while the snorkel grass is forever weaving itself into existence and untangling itself again.

  Have you ever smelled brain vomit? It’s worse than sulfuric acid. It’s the worst kind there is. But it boils away.

  The Aphasian pocket universe filled with stale-smelling steam. Night fell. The stars came out of their sky burrows and twinkled smugly. A buttery crescent moon sailed from the undersky to the oversky and smiled down on fogbound Aphasia.

  In another world entirely, a little boy gagged and choked. His wounded body twisted restlessly. A motion sensor set off an alarm bleep. The ward nurse on duty investigated, but the boy was quiet again. Since it was nearly two a.m., she disconnected the glucose tube from his hypodermic and tried to draw a blood sample. She soon discovered that a blood clot was fouling the works.

  Patient Alpha would receive his full twenty-four hours of mandated life support. Sometime in the distant Aphasian future, the transplant teams would converge on the boy, pluck out his eyes, remove his liver, harvest his kidneys, and so on and so forth. That was just how they did things, out in the real world.

  Until the organs got harvested, Aphasia would survive and prosper. And of course the perpetual struggle would persist between the divine Empress Alba and her evil nemesis King Skronk, High Khan of the Cactus Trolls and Sultan of the Headless Knots.

  * * *

  —

  A few weeks later Confetti Girl and the Cardboard Dog returned to Aphasia on one of Air Aphasia’s dirigible jellyships. The two celebrities had just completed a goodwill tour of Ataxia the wooden continent, where they had done their ambassadorial duties at the royal courts of Cellulosia, Osmosia, and the Sublimate of Lamanatia. Now they were home again at last.

  Their jellyship docked at the harbor of Droplet On the Brink. Standing on the pier with their luggage, they noticed many changes in the town. Why were all the buildings suddenly painted in bloople and grellow stripes? Why were the streets all paved with chocolate-covered raisins? The Cardboard Dog and Confetti Girl rode a rickshaw to the Village of the Walking Soup Ladles. Except that it was now the Village of the Talking Salad Forks. They spent the night at their favorite motel. It was under new management.

  They boarded an eel train for Lotus City. They passed Ectopolis, but instead of a sprawling city, it was just a shanty town with a sprawling construction site around it. The conductor, a soft-spoken rotifer, informed them that the Bronze Man and his sideways coal scuttles were building a new sports stadium from tapioca pudding. Confetti Girl and the Cardboard Dog exchanged a significant look. When they’d left Aphasia, the Pudding Stadium had been an historic ruin. They asked the conductor for the correct year. He asked his pocket watch, and the watch said that it was the fifth year of the reign of Princess Alba the Fair.

  “This is beginning to make sense,” mused the Cardboard Dog, scratching the side of his tongue.

  “I smell a regression,” said Confetti Girl, changing colors.

  They soon arrived at the stalk of the Lotus Palace. Except that it was now the Tulip Palace. Bright red. Very colorful. According to the guidebooks, it had always been the Tulip Palace. Confetti Girl petitioned Professor Clickbeetle for an audience with the Princess. While they waited for their appointment, they visited the chambers of the Secret Piano. But it wasn’t the Secret Piano they were used to. It was that piano’s grandfather.

  Alba entered the throne room in a strapless electric green gown. She rushed to embrace her two dear friends. She was shockingly beautiful.

  After a few minutes of pleasantries, the Cardboard Dog raised a new topic of conversation. “So this is your fifth year on the throne, correct? Not the five-hundredth but the fifth.”

  “Well, it couldn’t very well be the five-hundredth,” said Alba. “I’m only sixteen years old. Do the math. Next month I’ll turn seventeen. My birthday fete is going to last for a month. You’re invited of course.”

  “Strange,” said Confetti Girl. “I thought you hated parties.”

  “You’re mistaken,” said Alba blithely. “But don’t give it a thought. I myself make mistakes all the time. Important people such as ourselves have so many things to keep track of. One can’t remember everything at once, can one? The ectoid brain contains only so many nerve cells, does it not?”

  They inquired after Alba’s chief viceroy, Lady Crane. Alba told them that surely they were thinking of the Baroness Ibis. Confetti Girl and the Cardboard Dog drank their tea and ate their croissants and nodded their heads at intervals, wishing to avoid any unpleasantness.

  “Have you heard from the cactus king?” Confetti Girl asked offhandedly.

  “Certainly not! Don’t even mention his name to me. He’s banished, you know. We’re not speaking. He said I was bossy. And besides he’s getting fat. It’s disgusting.”

  “Ah,” said the Cardboard Dog. “I see.”

  He and Confetti Girl exchanged a look of tolerant forbearance. Someone had to rule Aphasia. They were just glad it wasn’t them.

 

  [*]

 

  *1 False memory delta was believed by Alba during the years 81 through 243 AAA.

  *2 False memory gamma was believed by Alba during the years 20 through 80 AAA.

  *3 False memory beta was believed by Alba during the years 2 through 26 AAA.

  *4 The true story of Alba’s ascension is recorded in Professor Clickbeetle’s The Secret History of Aphasia. This story was known to Alba during the first year of her reign, from Junuary First, the first day of Aphasian history, until the Thirst of Margust, eight months later. Roughly one month subsequent to Alba’s first lapse into false memory, the original Ontological Controls Commission was convened. This meeting led to the building of the original Secret Piano by Claudius Pipifex the Artificer, who also punched the first of the sacred scrolls. Sometimes the truth is just too ugly to live with.

  Tatyana Tolstaya (1951– ) was born in Leningrad, where her father was a professor of physics. Her great-granduncle was Leo Tolstoy, and her grandfather was Alexei Tolstoy, a pioneering Russian science fiction writer. She began publishing short stories in the 1980s. Her first collection, translated to English as On the Golden Porch (1989), established her as one of the most important Russian writers of the Gorbachev era, its surreal and affecting tales drawing comparisons to Bulgakov and Nabokov. Her dystopian novel The Slynx appeared in English in 2003. Other collections include White Walls: Collected Stories (2007) and Aetherial Worlds (2019), which includes “The Window.”

  THE WINDOW

  Tatyana Tolstaya

  Translated by Anya Migdal

  SHULGIN OFTEN STOPPED BY his neighbor’s apartment to play backgammon—at least once a week for sure, sometimes twice.

  It’s a simple game, not as sophisticated as chess, but engrossing nonetheless. At first Shulgin was a bit embarrassed about that, only the Kebobs play backgammon as far as he was concerned—shesh-besh, lavash-shashlik—but then he got used to it. His neighbor—Frolov, Valery—was a purebred Slav, not some fruit vendor.

  They’d brew coffee nice and proper, just like the intelligentsia: in a Turkish cezve, letting it simmer so the foam curls as it rises. They’d go to the playing board. They’d chat.

  “You think they’ll impeach Kasyanov?”r />
  “They might.”

  During each visit, Shulgin would notice yet another new item in Frolov’s apartment. An electric tea kettle. A set of barbeque skewers. A cordless phone in the shape of a woman’s shoe, red. A jumbo grandfather clock, Gzhel ceramic. Beautiful but useless things. The clock, for instance, took up half the room and didn’t work.

  Shulgin would ask: “Is that new?”

  And Frolov: “Yeah…I mean…”

  Shulgin would notice: “Wasn’t your TV smaller last time?”

  And Frolov: “It’s just a TV, nothing special.”

  Once, an entire corner of Frolov’s living room was littered with cardboard boxes. While his friend was making more coffee, Shulgin peeled one of the boxes open to peek: seemed to be ladies clothing, pleather.

  And then on Tuesday he looked around and where there used to be a cupboard, there now was an archway leading to a new room. There had never been a room there before. And there couldn’t have been—that’s where the building ends. Around the archway, a plastic ivy garland was nailed to the wall.

  Shulgin couldn’t take it anymore. “No, be so kind as to explain yourself. How is there a new room there? Beyond where the building ends?”

  Frolov sighed, seemingly chagrined. “Okay, fine…There is this place. A window…That’s where they hand all this out. Free of charge.”

  “Stop bullshitting, there is no such thing.”

  “No such thing, and yet they do. You know, just like on TV: ‘Behind door number one,’ or ‘A surprise giveaway!’ Do people pay for the stuff that’s given away? No they don’t. But the show still makes money somehow.”

  Frolov kept changing the subject, but Shulgin wouldn’t let up. “Where is the window?” He was really stuck on that extra room. He had a studio apartment, didn’t he, he had to keep his skis in his bathtub, hadn’t he. Frolov’s attempts to obfuscate only resulted in Shulgin’s further discontent leading to four losses in a row and who wants that kind of backgammon partner? The jig was up.

  “First and foremost”—Frolov instructed—“when they yell out, let’s say, ‘Coffee grinder!’ you have to yell back ‘Deal!’ This is of the utmost importance. Don’t forget and don’t mess up.”

  Shulgin took the bus there first thing in the morning. It was a typical Soviet building complex from the outside, the kind that usually housed auto body shops and factory offices. Right turn, left turn, another left and into building number five, oil and gears all over the place. Surly men in overalls running here and there. Frolov lied to him, Shulgin realized, peeved. But as he was already there, he went and found the hallway anyway, and the window—nothing special, a deep casement in a wooden frame, exactly like the kind where Shulgin picked up his salary. He knocked.

  The shutters swung open, but there was no one there, only a bureaucratic green wall illuminated by depressing fluorescent lighting.

  “A package!” they yelled from the window.

  “Deal!” Shulgin yelled back.

  Someone threw him a package, but he couldn’t see who it was. Shulgin grabbed the brown bundle and ran off to the side, feeling temporarily deaf in his state of agita. Finally the feeling subsided. He looked around—people walking to and fro, but not one approaching the window, not one showing any interest in it. Idiots!

  He took the package home, placed it on the kitchen table and only then did he cut the string with scissors and tear off the wax seals. He gingerly unfolded the craft paper and discovered four hamburger patties.

  Shulgin felt offended: Frolov pulled a fast one on him. He marched straight into their building hallway and angrily rang his neighbor’s doorbell. Hard. No answer. Shulgin stood there for a bit, then went outside and looked at the back of the building where Frolov’s extra room had appeared. Everything looked exactly as it always had. So how does that room with the archway fit there?

  Frolov was home later that evening, they were playing backgammon again.

  “Did you go?”

  “I did.”

  “They give you something?”

  “They gave me something.”

  “Nothing good?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “You’ll get more next time. Just be sure to yell ‘Deal!’ ”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then they won’t give you anything.”

  And so Shulgin went once again, and once again he made his way through discarded tires, barrels, and broken containers, making a right and a left and another left to building number five. And once again no one but him showed any interest in the window. He knocked, the shutters opened.

  “Valenki!” they yelled from the window.

  “Deal!” he yelled back with disappointment.

  Someone threw him a pair of short gray felt boots. Shulgin examined them—“What the devil is this, what do I need these for?” He took a few steps away from the window and shoved the valenki in a trashcan. Nobody saw it. He walked up to the window again and knocked, but it didn’t open this time.

  He didn’t feel like venturing to the window the next day but didn’t feel like staying in either. He went outside and examined the back of their building once more; it was already covered in scaffolding, a few dark-haired builders were hard at work.

  “Too many Turks,” thought Shulgin.

  This time there was a long line at the window and his heart even skipped a beat: what if there isn’t enough left for him? The line moved ever so slowly, seemingly there were complications and delays, and someone, it appeared, was trying to argue and express dissatisfaction—he couldn’t see above all those heads. Finally he arrived at the shutters.

  “Flowers!” they yelled from inside.

  “Deal!” fumed Shulgin.

  He didn’t throw them away despite itching to do so. He was haunted by a nebulous suspicion that today’s long lines, tumult, and lost time were punishment for yesterday’s uncouth behavior with the valenki. After all, he was getting all this stuff for free, although he wasn’t sure why. However, others were getting big boxes wrapped in white paper. Some even came with pushcarts.

  “Maybe I should get a hot dog,” thought Shulgin. But he had no free hands, and you really need both extremities to avoid ketchup stains on your suit. Shulgin glanced at the sausage lady—she was cute!—and handed the flowers to her.

  “For you, beautiful lady, in honor of your heavenly eyes.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” she replied happily.

  They chatted and chatted and come evening, after work, Oksana and Shulgin were already on a date, promenading the streets of Moscow. They talked about how beautiful their city had become, and how very expensive. Not to worry, thought Shulgin, if things go well tomorrow morning maybe we’ll have Gzhel ceramics, like normal, decent folk. After dusk, they made out for a long while in the Alexander Gardens by the grotto, and Shulgin returned home reluctantly: he really liked Oksana…

  “An iron!” came from the window.

  “Deal!” happily responded Shulgin.

  Finally! They had moved on to appliances, all he needed now was patience. Shulgin put up a shelf at home and kept his new acquisitions there. He already was the proud owner of an enameled milk can, a pair of oven mittens, a coffee service set, a 2-in-1 shampoo, a can of Atlantic herring, two pounds of pale-pink angora wool, an adjustable wrench set, two lined notebooks, an Arabic ottoman with Nefertiti appliques, a rubber mat for the bathroom, a book entitled “Russian Parody” by V. Novikov and another book in a foreign language, lighter fluid refill, a paper icon of the healer Panteleimon, a set of red ballpoint pens, and photo camera film. Life had taught Shulgin to not refuse anything and so he didn’t. They handed out wooden planks and half-logs—he took them and put them in the bathtub with the skis. Maybe they’ll give him a dacha and then the half-logs will come in handy!

  Frolov would occasionally run into
Shulgin in the stairwell and ask why he hadn’t been coming over for backgammon, but Shulgin would explain that he’s in love and about to get married—life is good! He did stop by once out of politeness and they played a few rounds, but Shulgin was unpleasantly surprised to see a TV set in every room—one was even a flat screen, like you see in the commercials, mounted to the ceiling. Frolov didn’t invite him into the room with the archway and it was fairly obvious why: it was no longer a single room but many, and they stretched far and deep into a space where they couldn’t possibly exist.

  After the iron there truly was a qualitative leap: he started getting mixers, blenders, room fans, coffee grinders, even a charcoal grill, and then, probably by mistake, a second one, the same exact kind. The gifts kept growing in size and Shulgin could feel that it was probably time to start bringing a pushcart. And he was right, he got a microwave oven. Only disappointment was that everything the window was dishing out had been made in China and rarely in Japan. Closer to the wedding Shulgin harbored secret hopes of the window people realizing that he needs a gold ring for his bride and a wedding reception at a restaurant, but they didn’t, and on the day of the wedding he got an electric drill.

  Shulgin didn’t tell Oksana about the window, he liked being mysterious and omnipotent. At first Oksana was delighted about the many wonderful things that they owned, but then there was simply no room left for storing the boxes. Shulgin tried skipping a few days and avoiding the window, but the next time he went he got a set of wine glasses and that was clearly a step backwards. Stemware was once again handed out the following day. For a week he was a bundle of nerves until, finally, they were back to things with cables—first the cables themselves, such as extension cords, but then finally the objects attached to the cables followed. Yet he didn’t avoid punishment altogether—the window, without warning, issued an electric wok made for foreign voltage, but no transformer. Of course the wok was ruined, the stench of burning was awful, fuses were knocked out. The window was mad for a few more days, slipping one thing after another not meant for our eclectic grid. One item even had a triangular Australian plug. But Shulgin knew better now, he accepted everything humbly and obediently, he’d yell “Deal!” apologetically, trying to show as much as he could that he understands he was in the wrong and that he’s willing to change. He knew what was waiting for him and the window did, too.