In every courtyard theres a woman who yells from her window whenever someone smokes under the sill, insisting the scent is ruining her flat. She chases teenagers off the communal bench at ten at night so they dont disturb her sleep, and she writes endless complaints to the building manager about the litter that never gets cleared.
If youve never met such a woman, it must be you.
More precisely, its meMrs. Margaret Maggie Hargreaves, the bad neighbour. I cannot stand the dogloving residents. Their mutts leave poops in my geranium and peony beds, tramping over the soil like careless tourists. I loathe even more those who feed stray dogs; these halfhearted caretakers not only drop piles of waste, they bury bones among the flowers and bark at night until a week later Im still glancing over my shoulder, or they start howling in spring as if the whole block were a choir.
Im equally hostile to the cat owners, for their flats reek of litter boxes. And if the cats have outdoor access, its a nightmare. Once a snarling, gingereyed beast leapt onto my balcony and nearly made me turn grey when I went out to shout at the neighbours children.
And the tiny gnomesno, I mean the little fiveyearold nephews and nieces I cant stand them either. Their frailty and uncontrolled energy frighten me. Aunt Edna once asked me to look after my cousin Tommy for half an hour. In thirty minutes he devoured my brain with a teaspoon of jam, then, after a brief lull of playing with a toy tractor, his mother finally emerged from the stairwell. He suddenly craved food, not the porridge I had with meatballs, but he smeared the porridge all over the table while I was turned away. While washing the table, he discovered my cosmetics bag andguess whatsqueezed out the last of my beloved red Chanel lipstick. He was quiet for fifteen minutes, then he turned his attention to the meatballs, leaving greasy fingerprints on the kitchen walls and hallway, like tiny handprints of a thief.
Who knew a child shouldnt eat too much fried food? By evening he was vomiting everywhere, his stomach seething with acetone. A spoonful of activated charcoal later, he settled down, and I handed him back to his frantic mother.
My feud with neighbours began around the age of fifteen, when an elderly lady in the lift stared at me with a look that said, Youre a prowling harlot. I took it as a personal insult and, in retaliation, started stuffing her postbox with every free flyer I could findleaflets for new windows, miraclecure health magazines, magnetic bracelets for hypertension. For a month her mailbox overflowed with junk paper every time she searched for her electricity bill.
I didnt stop there. I stole her bill, photocopied it, added a zero, and mailed the fake one back. She stormed into the local energy office, hurling curses at the clueless operators, demanding the truth. She never thought of me again.
My scandalous spirit peaked when I wrested a strip of flowerbed for myself beneath my window. After many trials I learned geraniums were the best guardtheyre not stolen by lovesick boys trying to impress their mates, and even the drunks avoid them because the scent repels the urge to linger.
Then, one bright warm morning, a car sat on my flowerbed. Its front wheels kissed the white curb, the massive bumper looming over the scarlet blooms like a death sentence for the bold bandit who dared to trespass on my holy ground.
Whose rubbish bin is that? I asked disdainfully, turning to Mrs. Lottie Finch, the nosy spy Id appointed.
Mrs. Finch perched on the bench at dawn, fresh from the market, feeding her five cats, her sharp eyes missing nothingnot even a mouse.
Its a bandit from the fifth floor, she explained, clearly having spotted the driver long ago. Only thugs drive Jeeps around here.
Whos that? I asked, knowing every resident by name. None of them looked like a gangster. A gopnik isnt a gangster; he cant even afford a pint, let alone a Jeep.
Mrs. Finchs eyes lit up. Martha from flat 43 was taken in by the kids. Shes grown weak, her legs dont obey, asthma is killing her
After five tedious minutes of listing ailments, we finally reached the point: the flat was being occupied by the landlords grandson, who was currently renovating. The smell of a fresh scandal rose in the air, and I bolted for the lift to point the scoundrel to a spot far from my geraniums. The lift rang, no one answered. The car was still parked, the door locked. I pounded on the cold, brown leathercovered door, thinking perhaps the driver couldnt hear the bell.
Undeterred, I slipped a note under the door:
Dear unknown, please remove your filthy vehicle from my flowerbed at once, or I wont be responsible for the consequences!
A day passed and the rogue RangeRover still hovered menacingly over my beloved flowers, gnawing at my nerves.
Mrs. Finch! I shouted as I ran to the spy. Did the bandit from flat 43 show up today?
No, she shook her head. He came in a different car, stayed a few hours, then left.
So he drives another car, yet this slab of metal is ruining my plants? I protested.
Just call him, Mrs. Finch suggested. He left a number just in case. Its not he who drives; someone else doesthe boss, perhaps.
Are you saying hes a boss among bandits? I asked suspiciously.
The bandits are hardly polite, Mrs. Finch replied, her voice melting like ice under a strange spell. He claims his friends bring him liver and tiny fish from a fishmarket. He could deliver fresh fish every day.
The thought of the stairwell reeking of fish as well as cats made my hatred for the neighbour surge. I quickly wrote down the number and, without hesitation, dialed.
Hello? a deep, throaty voice answered.
You got my note, didnt you? I said.
Yes.
Then why havent you cleared your bucket from my flowerbed?
Youve forgotten the magic word, he replied calmly.
This is the last time I askremove your vehicle from my flowers, I pleaded, trying to stay civil. His voice was oddly pleasant, so my anger wavered.
I wont, he declared. Its convenient for me. And honestly, I didnt even touch the flowers or the curb.
Ill make you regret it, I warned.
He scoffed.
I hung up and tried to scorch the car with my stare. It didnt even smoke. No matter; I had a few centuriesold tricks for dealing with pests and obstinate neighbours. By tomorrow morning the owner would be weeping over his behaviour.
The next dawn I watched from my balcony as the car, once sleek black, turned mottled after I had strewn wheatgerm on its hood the night before. Birds circled the roof, pecking where Id fed them.
The drivers face was never visible, but his tall, stocky, bald silhouette screamed typical thug. I wasnt scared; Id tamed worse.
By evening, the car was clean and shiny again, wheels rolling over the curb, leaving dark tire tracks the size of the scars forming on my hearta declaration of war, literal and absolute.
Like a kettle about to boil, I stormed back inside, ready for revenge, only to nearly stumble over a grotesque sighta neighbours cat, a sleek tabby, dragging a fish in its jaws.
Take the fish to flat 43! I muttered at the cat, and the thought illuminated me.
That night the whole stairwell slept poorly; cats from every block converged on flat 43 and gave an impromptu concert, spurred on by a bottle of valerian Id splashed on the brown leather door. The cats roamed the corridors, locked doors, and snarled at the driver. Their curses, like balm on my wounded heart, dripped onto his bald scalp. By morning his car roof was covered in bird droppings, a grotesque but effective camouflage.
He left again, and I, on my way to the shop, lovingly trimmed my geraniums, celebrating a small victory. Yet when I tried to reenter my flat, the key wouldnt turn. I wrestled with it for half an hour, cursing the unseen hands that must have tampered with the lock. Finally I called a locksmith, who prised the stubborn bolt open with a matchstick.
Hungry, angry, and determined, I plotted my next trick. Leaving matchsticks in a lock was a crime I could not let slide. I typed buy Salicylic acid into Google with fierce resolve.
The following morning began peacefullyno cats yelling in the hallway, I slept soundly. I brewed a cup of coffee, a special blend Id ordered from Italy, and almost dropped the mug when the door burst open with inhuman force.
I opened it to face a neighbour who looked like a washedout version of a notorious politiciancleanshaven, dressed in poisongreen jeans and a brightblue Tshirt. He stalked in, slipping off his grey loafers without a word, and poured a splash of aloebased dish soap over his hands at the sink.
Couldnt you have done that at home? I snapped.
No need to come closer, he muttered, continuing to rub the soap into his palms.
I had a vial of Salicylic acid ready, but instead I smeared all the car door handles with petroleum jelly. He finished washing, wiped his hands on a pristine kitchen towel meant only for cups, and then, nose in the air, asked, Does that smell like coffee? He sipped from my cup, covering his eyes in bliss.
I wanted to pounce, but his warm, crinkled smile disarmed me.
Youre quite charming, he said after a pause. I imagined a witch living here.
Then disappear! I shouted, my voice sharp as a dagger. His compliments were a bitter aftertaste I didnt need.
He tried to argue Id overdone it with the matchsticks, but I retorted, I never shoved anything into your lock! He claimed I was playing like a teenager.
Ill give you the masters bill for the locksmith! I snapped, grabbing the receipt from the fridge. I was collecting evidence, just in case I ever needed to take this rogue to court.
It wasnt me, he shrugged, so who was?
As I brushed damp hair from my shoulders, his curious gaze lingered, but reality snapped back: a third pest had entered our uneasy duet.
Truce? he offered, extending a tentative hand.
Only if we discover whos truly at fault, I replied, and the Jeep moves at least half a metre!
The next dawn the bandit rang the doorbell politely, opened the door, and said, Theres a dogpoop on your mat; Ive already stepped on it, so watch out. He grabbed my coffee cup, dialed his mobile, and asked, Ready to see whos claimed immortality here?
We werent sitting in ambush; Sergei, my neighbour, had called yesterday, and CCTV cameras had been installed in the lift. The footage landed in his mailbox. Together we watched Mrs. Finch delivering gifts to our door, puzzled as the video replayed for a third time, our eyes meeting in silent bafflement.
Ill speak to her, Sergei said. Ill drop by this evening.
Speak, I agreed, oddly yielding initiative for once, not wanting to offend the old lady.
That evening I baked chocolate biscuits, a guilty pleasure, hoping to impress Sergei. He arrived after work, eyes bright.
Do you have cocoa? he asked, taking a biscuit without asking.
Yes, I replied, opening the kitchen cupboard.
It looks like the cupboard hinges are crooked, he noted, offering to fix them.
Please do! I deserve compensation for all this stress.
What about Mrs. Finch? I asked.
Just a bit of noise from flat 43, she wanted revenge and mixed up the rugs.
Twice? I laughed.
Hard to believe, but its what it is.
I didnt feel much hatred for Finch, but revenge still simmered. When Sergei repaired the cupboard, he also greased the squeaky bathroom door, and we listed the few remaining flaws in my solitary flat.
The car, the neighbour, the cat, the gnomelike childeach became a fragment of a surreal dream that never quite let me wake.
