The neighbor set up a “smoking lounge” right outside my door. I dealt with it harshly — and she never expected how it would end.
“And where is it written that this is your air? The stairwell is shared territory. If I want to smoke, I smoke; if I want to spit, I spit. Learn the law, woman!”
Vika, the twenty-year-old daughter of the neighbor Galina, blew a thick stream of sickly sweet vapor right into Elena Sergeyevna’s face. Beside the girl, two boys sprawled on the windowsill between floors, cackling. Cigarette butts, empty energy drink cans, and sunflower seed shells were scattered across the concrete floor.
Elena Sergeyevna, the chief accountant of a large factory, did not cough or wave her hands the way the teenagers expected. She merely adjusted her glasses and looked at the girl with that heavy, appraising stare that made even shop supervisors break into a sweat during inventory checks.
“This is a shared space, Viktoria,” she said in an icy tone. “Which means no one smokes here, spits here, or turns it into a pigsty. You have five minutes to clean up this pigsty. Otherwise, the conversation will be different.”
“Oh, I’m so scared!” Vika sneered, demonstratively flicking ash onto the floor the janitor had just washed. “Go take some valerian drops before your blood pressure spikes. Going to complain to my mom? She’s the one who lets me sit here so I don’t smoke at home.”
The boys burst out laughing. Elena Sergeyevna’s door slammed shut, cutting off the stairwell noise.
The hallway smelled of fried potatoes and old wood — a cozy, homely smell now overpowered by the stench of cheap cigarettes seeping through the keyhole. In the kitchen, hunched over the table, sat Pasha.
Pasha was thirty-two, but looked all of forty because of his early bald spot and stooped shoulders. He was Elena’s late husband’s nephew and had lived with her for ten years. Quiet, timid, with a slight stutter, he worked in a watch repair shop and was afraid of his own shadow. To the neighbors, he was “the village idiot,” an easy target for ridicule.
“E-Elena, are they out there again?” Pasha shrank his head into his shoulders when he heard a crash outside the door.
“Eat, Pasha. It’s not your concern,” Elena Sergeyevna cut him off, spooning potatoes onto his plate. But inside, everything was boiling.
That evening she went to Galina’s apartment. The neighbor opened the door in a bathrobe, phone in hand, a face mask on.
“Galya, your daughter has turned the landing outside my door into a hangout. Smoke is getting into my apartment, and the noise goes on until late at night. I demand that you do something.”
Galina rolled her eyes without even taking the phone from her ear.
“Lena, why are you starting this? They’re young. Where are they supposed to go? It’s cold outside. They’re not drug addicts or anything, they’re just hanging out. Be more understanding. You don’t have kids of your own, that’s why you get so worked up. And your Pashka is basically a fool anyway, so what difference does it make to him?”
The blow landed precisely and cruelly. Elena Sergeyevna exhaled slowly.
“So, ‘they’re young,’ is that it? And my Pavel bothers you? Fine, Galina. I hear you.”
She went back home, sat down at her desk, and pulled out a folder of documents. Emotions were for the weak. For the strong, there was the Civil Code and the Russian Code of Administrative Offenses.
The next week Elena Sergeyevna behaved as quiet as water. Vika, deciding that the “old hag” had finally given up, fully occupied the landing. Now there was an old armchair dragged in from the trash, and music blasted there until one in the morning.
The breaking point came on Friday.
Pasha was coming home from work, carrying a grocery bag and a small box — an order for a client. When he came level with the group on the landing, one of the boys, Vika’s boyfriend nicknamed “Sour,” stuck out his leg.
Pasha stumbled. The bag tore, apples rolled across the dirty floor straight into the cigarette butts, and the box with the clock mechanism flew into the wall.
“Well, look at that! The ostrich is taking flight!” Sour roared with laughter.
Vika lazily exhaled smoke.
“Hey, loser, watch where you’re going. You’re the one messing up the air around here. Pick it up while I’m still being nice.”
Red as a beet, Pasha bent down with trembling hands to gather the apples. Tears of helplessness stood in his eyes. He was used to it. Used to being nobody. Used to being kicked around, with no one to defend him.
The door flew open. Elena Sergeyevna stood in the doorway. In her hands was neither a broom nor a rolling pin, but a smartphone, its camera aimed straight at Sour.
“Petty hooliganism, insults, and property damage,” she said clearly. “I recorded everything. Right now I’m calling the local police officer, and tomorrow I’ll take all the materials to the station.”
“Put the phone away, lady!” the boy jerked, but he was afraid to come closer — Elena Sergeyevna’s gaze was scarier than any policeman.
“Pavel, stand up,” she ordered without looking at her nephew. “Go inside.”
“B-but the apples…” he stammered.
“Leave them. That’s trash now. Just like everything currently on this landing.”
When the door closed behind Pasha, Elena Sergeyevna turned to the suddenly quiet Vika.
“And now listen to me very carefully, little girl. Did you think I was just enduring this for a week? I was building a case file.”
“What case file?” Vika scoffed, but her voice trembled.
“I contacted the apartment’s owner. Your mother isn’t the owner, is she? The apartment belongs to your father, who lives in Moscow and is under the impression that his daughter is a diligent medical student, not a foul-mouthed brat gathering drunks in the stairwell.”
Vika’s face went white. Her father was not merely strict — he was a tyrant who supported her and her mother only on the condition that his daughter behaved perfectly.
“You wouldn’t dare…” she whispered.
“I already did. He received photos and video recordings of your ‘leisure activities’ ten minutes ago. Along with a report to the police and the building management company, plus printed photos and videos: times, dates, trash, noise, smoking in the stairwell. Let the proper authorities handle the paperwork now. The local officer will be here in half an hour. And your father promised to arrive tomorrow morning.”
On Saturday morning, the building entrance shook with a man’s deep bass voice…
Continuation just below in the first comment.“Where does it say the air belongs to you? The stairwell is common property. If I want to smoke, I smoke. If I want to spit, I spit. Learn the law, woman!”
Vika, the twenty-year-old daughter of Elena Sergeyevna’s neighbor Galina, blew a thick stream of sickly sweet vapor right into Elena Sergeyevna’s face. Beside the girl, sprawled across the windowsill between floors, two boys cackled. Cigarette butts, empty energy drink cans, and sunflower seed shells littered the concrete floor.
Elena Sergeyevna, the chief accountant at a large factory, did not cough or start waving her hands around as the teenagers had expected. She merely adjusted her glasses and looked at the neighbor’s daughter with that heavy, appraising stare that made shop supervisors break into a sweat during inventory checks.
“This is a shared space, Viktoria,” she said in an icy tone. “Which means no one smokes here, spits here, or turns it into a pigsty. You have five minutes to clean up this mess. Otherwise, this conversation will take a very different turn.”
“Oh, I’m so scared!” Vika sneered, demonstratively flicking ash onto the floor the cleaner had just washed. “Go take some heart pills before your blood pressure spikes. Going to complain to my mom? She’s the one who lets me sit here so I don’t smoke at home.”
The boys burst out laughing. Elena Sergeyevna’s door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the stairwell.
The corridor smelled of fried potatoes and old wood—a cozy, homely smell now overpowered by the stench of cheap cigarettes seeping through the keyhole. In the kitchen, hunched over the table, sat Pasha.
Pasha was thirty-two, but he looked forty because of his early baldness and stooped back. He was Elena’s late husband’s nephew and had been living with her for ten years. Quiet, meek, with a mild stutter, he worked in a watch repair shop and was afraid of his own shadow. To the neighbors, he was “the simpleton,” an easy target for mockery.
“E-Elena, are they out there again?” Pasha hunched his shoulders at the crash outside the door.
“Eat, Pasha. That’s not your concern,” Elena Sergeyevna cut him off, spooning potatoes onto his plate. But inside, she was boiling.
That evening, she went to see Galina. The neighbor opened the door in a bathrobe, phone in hand, a face mask on.
“Galya, your daughter has turned the space outside my door into a den. The smoke gets into my apartment, and the noise goes on until late at night. I demand that you do something.”
Galina rolled her eyes without even lowering the phone from her ear.
“Lena, why are you making a fuss? They’re young. Where are they supposed to go? It’s cold outside. They’re not drug addicts or anything, they’re just hanging out. Be more understanding. You don’t have children of your own, that’s why you get so worked up. And your Pashka is half-witted anyway—what difference does it make to him?”
The blow landed with perfect cruelty. Elena Sergeyevna exhaled slowly.
“So, they’re ‘just young’? And my Pavel bothers you? Fine, Galina. I hear you.”
She went back home, sat down at her desk, and took out a folder of documents. Emotions were for the weak. For the strong, there was the Civil Code and the Code of Administrative Offenses of the Russian Federation.
For the next week, Elena Sergeyevna kept quieter than water. Vika, deciding that “the old hag” had finally given up, completely took over the landing. Soon an old armchair dragged in from the trash stood there, and music blasted until one in the morning.
The reckoning began on Friday.
Pasha was coming home from work carrying a grocery bag and a small box—an order for a client. As he passed the group on the landing, one of the boys, Vika’s boyfriend nicknamed “Sour,” stuck out his leg.
Pasha stumbled. The bag tore, apples rolled across the dirty floor straight into the cigarette butts, and the box with the watch mechanism flew against the wall.
“Well, look at that! The ostrich took flight!” Sour howled with laughter.
Vika lazily exhaled smoke.
“Hey, loser, maybe watch where you’re going. You’re the one spoiling the air around here. Pick that up while I’m still being nice.”
Red as a beet, Pasha began gathering the apples with trembling hands. Tears of helplessness stood in his eyes. He was used to it. Used to being nobody, someone people could kick around and no one would stand up for.
Then the door flew open. Elena Sergeyevna stood in the doorway. In her hands was neither a broom nor a rolling pin, but a smartphone, its camera pointed directly at Sour.
“Petty hooliganism, insults, and property damage,” she said clearly. “I recorded everything. I’m calling the district officer now, and tomorrow I’ll take the evidence to the station.”
“Put the phone away, lady!” the boy jerked forward, but he did not dare come closer—Elena Sergeyevna’s stare was more frightening than any policeman.
“Pavel, stand up,” she ordered without looking at her nephew. “Go inside.”
“B-but the apples…” he stammered.
“Leave them. They’re trash. Just like everything else on this landing right now.”
When the door closed behind Pasha, Elena Sergeyevna turned to the suddenly silent Vika.
“Now listen to me carefully, child. You thought I’d been putting up with this for a week? I was building a case file.”
“What case file?” Vika snorted, though her voice wavered.
“I contacted the apartment’s owner. Your mother isn’t the owner, is she? The apartment belongs to your father, who lives in Moscow and is convinced his daughter is a diligent medical student, not a foul-mouthed brat gathering drunks in the stairwell.”
Vika’s face went white. Her father was not merely strict—he was a tyrant who supported her and her mother only on the condition of the daughter’s flawless behavior.
“You wouldn’t dare…” she whispered.
“I already did. He received the photos and video of your ‘leisure activities’ ten minutes ago. Along with statements to the police and the management company, and printed screenshots with times, dates, trash, noise, and smoking in the stairwell. Let the proper authorities handle the paperwork now. The district officer will be here in half an hour. And your father promised to arrive tomorrow morning.”
On Saturday morning, the stairwell shook with a man’s bass voice.
Elena Sergeyevna was drinking tea when the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood a tall, heavyset man in an expensive overcoat—Vika’s father, Anatoly Borisovich. Beside him stood a tearful Galina with her head bowed, while Vika was nowhere to be seen.
“Elena Sergeyevna?” the man said politely but with authority. “I apologize for the behavior of my daughter and my ex-wife. The mess on the landing is already being cleaned up. I will pay for the wall repairs. Vika is being sent to live in a dormitory. I’ve cut off their funding.”
Elena nodded, accepting the apology as a matter of course.
“That is fair. But there is one more matter.”
She called for Pasha. He came out of the room with his head tucked into his shoulders, expecting another scandal.
“Your… guest insulted my nephew yesterday,” Elena said calmly. “And destroyed his work. Pavel is a unique craftsman. He restores watch mechanisms that even Switzerland refuses to take on.”
Anatoly Borisovich looked at the shrinking Pasha with interest.
“A watchmaker?”
“A r-restorer,” Pasha corrected softly through his stutter.
“I see…” The man stepped forward, and Pasha instinctively recoiled. But Anatoly Borisovich extended his broad hand. “I have a collection of Breguet pocket watches. One mechanism stopped a year ago, and three workshops refused to take it. Would you be willing to have a look?”
Pasha raised his eyes. For the first time, someone was looking at him not like he was empty space, not like some “simpleton,” but like a professional.
“I… I c-could try. I-if the spring is intact.”
“Then it’s settled,” Vika’s father said, firmly shaking Pavel’s thin hand. “Sorry, brother, for my girl. I failed in her upbringing. Don’t hold it against me. I’ll pay compensation, and I’ll place an order too.”
When the door closed, Pasha stared at his own hand for a long time. Then he straightened up. For the first time in years, his shoulders came back.
“Aunt Lena,” he said firmly, almost without stuttering, “I should probably go pick up those apples myself. Food shouldn’t go to waste.”
Elena Sergeyevna turned to the window so he would not see the moisture in her eyes.
“Go pick them up, Pasha. And put the kettle on. We have something to celebrate today.”
The landing was quiet and clean. It smelled of bleach and fresh paint. And from Elena Sergeyevna’s apartment came the smell of pies and Pavel’s calm, confident voice as he explained the mechanics of a tourbillon to his aunt.
The smoking hangout was closed.
Forever.
