Diary of a Discontent by Alexander Lurikov Page A

been vacant
for several months. It must be a man. Someone devious, no doubt.
Someone comfortable among cobwebs and accustomed to dank and dirty
air.
    ~
    I went to the park by the lake today. It was
truly a summer scene. I almost felt happy to be human.
    ~
    It is a young woman, not a man, who lives in
the basement. This is improper, to say the least. I have not yet
seen this woman, but I peered through the windows that stand just
above the ground and allow a little light into the subterranean
lair, and I glimpsed a sandal. It was small and pink, so I am
assuming that the owner is young and female. What is a girl doing
in such a place? I can’t imagine. Every time I enter the
building—through the back door, of course—I pass by the basement
apartment. I have to look down to fish the keys from my pocket, and
I am always watching my step, so I inevitably and accidentally see
into her room. I can only see two little rectangles of carpet and a
corner of her bed…two windows, quite literally, into her world.
    ~
    I can hardly enjoy what I have because I am
perpetually tormented by the awareness of its inevitable
destruction. I fear the end of all things. If I find a good book
and manage to lose myself in its pages, it is only a matter of
minutes before I propel my thoughts forward in time to the day when
books cease to exist. I imagine the closure of all bookstores, the
death of all writers. If I am traveling and happen to stay at a
particularly hospitable and lovely hotel, I soon find myself
thinking about the demise of the hotel industry. There will be a
day, no doubt, when one cannot simply walk into a charming building
and reserve a room; when the simple pleasure of sitting on a
balcony and staring out over an enchanting city is no longer
possible; when riding an elevator down to a bustling lobby to sit
in an armchair and read the newspaper is forbidden. There will be a
day when leisure itself can no longer be afforded, when the human
race reverts back to an existence of survival. I know this to be
true, and though it may be waiting at some great distance in the
future, though it may be entirely irrational to think it will
affect me, I am consumed by anxiety at the mere thought of it. It
brings me disillusion and despair. I look upon the smiling face of
a child and see instead a grimacing old man.
    ~
    I saw her on the stairs today. Older than I
thought; a full woman, she looked me right in the eye and smiled.
What is she doing in the basement? The whole time we were speaking
to each other (which wasn’t long, just hello, etc., goodbye) I was
asking myself this question. I wanted to ask her, but refrained out
of politeness. A gentleman, always.
    Yes, she is older than I had imagined, and
prettier. She shouldn’t be wearing tiny pink sandals at her age,
but I can forgive her that.
    In the evening, hours after meeting her, I
passed by her windows, those neat little rectangles barely peeking
above the ground; I looked down into her underground world, her
little box beneath the rest of us, and tried to catch a glimpse of
her. Just more evidence, though: a white blouse tossed carelessly
on the carpet, lying next to a paintbrush. An artist?
    ~
    My neighbors exist merely as noises. I know
them only by their sounds. The alarm clocks buzzing in the morning;
the telephones ringing; the muffled voices reverberating through
the walls; footsteps knocking and creaking on my ceiling; doors
screeching open and slamming shut; windows sliding up and down;
silverware and dishes clanking.
    I never see anyone. Since moving in, I have
only met two people, the underground girl and a man down the hall.
The rest of us are content with assuming each other’s existences.
    ~
    My desk is in the corner of the room, wedged
between two windows. To my right I see treetops and rooftops, a
distant spire, greens and blues and grays. To my left is a dirty
wall, the side of the adjacent apartment complex.
    I sit at my desk for hours and hours, with
paper laid