Brian Selman
Brian Selman
Brian Selman writes memoir and personal essays exploring family, memory, and identity. His unpublished memoir, Through the Briars and Brambles, was shortlisted for this year's Bridport Prize in Memoir.
Squares of Light
I gaze out the window of my fifth-floor apartment in the Moscow suburbs. I can enter any of the neighboring prefabricated apartment buildings wearing a blindfold, climb the stairs to the fifth floor, enter an apartment with the exact same layout as mine, and switch on the electric kettle invariably placed next to the sink.
Click.
But back home, I can’t even predict one hour to the next. David could come home in the evening high on pills or speed. One day I woke up to a gunshot that made my ears ring. Granddad’s sleeping pill had not immobilized his unconscious body, allowing him to blast a hole through the bathroom wall and into the dining room.
“That’s why I tell you not to stir around at night,” he said.
On a late May Saturday afternoon in Moscow, I lock my door with my set of large metal keys and descend the concrete steps to the street outside. I’ve lived here for almost one year, teaching English at a local academic center. I’ll be heading back home to Texas in a couple months to start my master’s program in Russian studies.
Which direction will I pick today? I’ve gone north and south in recent weeks. Let’s do east. As I exit my circle of apartments, I can already see another one a few hundred feet away, across the road. I know where the crosswalk will be because its twin is on the other side of my complex, on the way to the supermarket. Once in the neighboring block, I see kids on a playground much like my own, rusting rocket ships next to a newly built jungle gym, middle-aged men doing pull-ups and crunches on the outdoor exercise equipment nearby. A babushka leans on her balcony with strong, meaty arms, keeping an eye on the unfamiliar visitor in case he approaches the kids in the sandbox.
On one of my February walks, I took a train to the other side of the city to find a near-identical residential district, this one blanketed in snow. Walking around the area, I momentarily lost my way, but it’s easy to find the closest metro stop. It wasn’t the one I had arrived from, but it was exactly where I had expected it, off the main thoroughfare, within easy walking distance of every apartment block nearby.
I sleep better here. I don’t need to hide a glass Coke bottle under my pillow, just in case my brother follows through on his threats to slit my throat in my sleep. I don’t have to listen for footsteps or the crunching of leaves outside my open window. The only thing I ever hear from the street here is the drunk neighbor walking in the middle of the road singing folk songs while playing his accordion. Even on the crowded Moscow metro, I set my phone to ring a station or two before my stop and fall asleep, knowing I will arrive exactly on schedule.
In Moscow, I don’t have a television. But if I need entertainment, I can always people-watch from my window. Because the apartments across the way face me, I can peer into the windows of dozens of households. The girl on the seventh floor of the leftmost building looked my way the other day. I hoped she would wave, but she just went back to her ironing. I try to guess what the old babushkas have cooking on their stoves. Even though the smells are too far for my nose to detect, I bet all their meals involve mayonnaise and dill.
And some people stare back at me. Back in Austin, staring at people through your window is antisocial stalker behavior. Here, I feel part of humanity, one square among hundreds. For once in my life, I feel connected to others, not afraid of them. Even at college in Austin, I am ever vigilant when walking down the street. It’s true that there is crime in Moscow, too, but with the long roads and straight lines, I can usually detect people long before I cross their paths. Because life is so predictable here, I notice when something seems unusual and avoid it.
Those beautiful May days were over a decade ago. My third and final stint in Russia was in 2016. Unfortunately, given everything happening in the world today, I don’t believe I’ll be going back any time soon. I hope to bring my wife and kids there to see the streets of my youth one day. That’s not to say life there was perfect—I struggled to make friends and my salary was pitiful. But Russia gave me time to reflect, to consider what I wanted out of life, and to chart a course for a future I never could have imagined while in East Texas. When I picture peace, comfort, and safety, I think of giant gray rectangles, stretching far into the distance, their windows glowing with the ordinary lives inside.