All That Is Solid Melts into Air (31 page)

“That was when you left?”

“No, even then I stayed for another few weeks. I thought I could be useful as the voice of reason, as someone who would defend the workers. Then I found out that the Party had organized protected farms near Mogilev. They were growing their own vegetables, scrutinizing the water supply. Everything was being overseen by experts, the very people who were needed on the ground, in the local villages. They had their own herds of cattle; each bullock had a number and was routinely tested. They had cows which they were certain gave out fresh milk. Meanwhile, in the stores around the exclusion zone, they were selling condensed and powdered milk from the Rogachev factory—the same stuff we were using in induction lectures as an example of a standard radiation source. That was when they had to get rid of me. I went back to Minsk and talked to Aleksei Filin, the writer. Told him everything I knew. He spoke out during a live TV interview, some literary programme. It was brave of him, he was arrested over it. He’s still in confinement, I haven’t been able to trace where they put him.”

“Why weren’t you arrested?”

“They threatened it. I was prepared to go. They were going to put me in an insane asylum. They whispered that if that didn’t suit I could find myself in a tragic accident. ‘Look around,’ I told them. ‘You’re too late.’ But irony is something the KGB can’t quite grasp.”

He looks out of the window, running a finger along the rim of his glass.

“Ultimately, they need surgeons, and I’m more useful working here than sitting in a padded cell.”

They’re silent for a few moments.

Each with their own resentments. Tanya is the first to speak.

“Andrei told me a joke, before he died, one that was going around the site.” Grigory realizes she’s looking for his assent to tell it, and he nods and she continues. “The Americans fly over a robot to help with the cleanup. So the supervising officer sends it to the roof of the reactor but, after five minutes, it breaks down. The Japanese have also donated one, so the officer sends that one up to replace the American robot but, after ten minutes, word comes back that it can’t withstand the conditions either. By now the officer is angry, he’s cursing their shoddy foreign technology. He shouts at his subordinate, ‘Send one of the Russian robots back up, they’re the only reliable machinery we have around here.’ His subordinate salutes and turns to go. As he’s leaving, the officer barks after him, ‘And tell Private Ivanov we’ve lost a lot of time, he has to stay up there for at least two hours before he gets his cigarette break.’ ”

Tanya smiles at the memory of Andrei telling it, his caustic humour, lips curling around his teeth, his words a combination of defiance and regret. She begins to weep.

Grigory waits until her tears lose their force, then takes her hand.

“I’ve just realized you’ve never told me your name.”

“Tanya.”

“I’m sorry, Tanya.”

“Thank you.”

She wipes away her tears with the base of her palm.

“Enough. This is a celebration, and I’m under orders.”

He sits up, his shoulders pushed back.

“Orders?”

“Of course. There’s endless speculation. They want me to find out something. You think a disaster like this is enough to keep us from gossiping? We embrace any distractions.”

He smiles. “What kind of speculation?”

“The only kind there is.”

“You want to know if there’s someone back home?”

“Well, there’s no one here—look at yourself, that’s obvious. I’m asking the
why
. You came here to help, I know this, we all appreciate it. But there’s always something else.”

He cradles his glass, eyes downturned.

“I don’t mean to pry.” A mother’s voice, soft with concern. “It’s just harmless chatter.”

THERE WAS THE VASE
exploding against the wall. There were the remains of their kitchen chair, a pathetic, desultory thing that lay beaten beside his legs as he sat near the stove. Walking in, she already knew—of course she did; she had placed the note that morning. Not seeing anything—not noticing the wreckage of their home—other than his look, the rage in his eyes.

He thinks of their relationship as one composed mostly of afternoons. Work consuming both of them; he arriving at the hospital in the early evening, attending patients into midmorning; she leaving the apartment early, writing her articles before the offices filled up with talk and distraction, before editorial meetings devoured her time.

But there were afternoons. Late breakfasts on their days off. Waking to the midday sunlight, sheets contorted around them. Her smell at its fullest at this time. He would run his neck and face along her glistening body, harvesting the glorious odor of her sweat. He would lift her arm upwards, pressing her wrist against the headboard, and linger in the warm nest of her smell, first running the tip of his tongue along the shy stubble, then lapping up the fullness of her in long, wide strokes, repeating it all again below her waist.

Afternoons wandering through bookshops, her giving him a guided tour of the printed word. Then reading in the hours before supper as he lay with his head on the centre of her, her leg draped over his shoulder, claiming him.

The afternoons changed then, out of nowhere.

Afternoons when the weather was too harsh to leave the apartment and they would swap rooms, avoiding each other. He would move into the bedroom, she would move into the living room. He would shave at the sink and exit as she entered for her bath.

When she became pregnant, he thought it would be a new beginning, would cast away the gloom that had settled over them. Instead she sank further into herself.

Then came the afternoons when she covered herself in the protective wall of a book and he would snatch it from her hands and throw it against the wall, shouting, “Talk to me! Look at me! I’m standing here. Don’t treat me like a fucking ghost!” and she would rise from her chair and gather the book from the corner and select her page again and sit as though she had dozed off for a minute and lost her place.

Afternoons when they would walk through the streets in a rage and then dampen down in tearooms, where the presence of others would force them into civility, and he would tell a joke or a story from his childhood and a smile would skim across her face, a sunburst over a dreary, grey sea, and then pass again, serving only to taunt him with what they had once had.

The afternoon of irreparable damage. A lunch in the Yar—a rare thing, no alcohol, obviously, but a good steak with Fyodor Yuriyevich, then chief of surgery. Comrades dropping by to slap him on the arm. Horse talk, football talk, advice on which seminars to attend, which periodicals to submit work to. Questions about his paper on cardiomyopathy. A refrain from Fyodor on what it must be like to be young. Working, publishing, so much to come, family and all that entails. A new premier elected. A strong, vital man. Charismatic. A man who would renew the Union, usher it into the modern age.
So much to look forward to, Grigory
. Praise on his technique. Fyodor had scrubbed in on a recent case, a crash victim, not an easy procedure, not by any means.

“But you handled it well, Grigory. Your surgical team never exchanged a glance. Total calm, that’s all you need. Hands of ice. Never rush. Although you could bring your times down. What’s your best time on an endotracheal intubation?”

“Never as quick as you, sir.”

“Damn right. Beat me on that and I’ll transfer you to Primorye.”

Winking at Grigory, friendly but not without challenge, half meaning the threat, which obviously was the best compliment of all.

And after Fyodor had left and no one approached the table anymore, Grigory reached into his jacket to pay the bill and pulled out an envelope. High-grade paper. No handwriting or address. A promotion? A bonus? A proclamation of love from some junior nurse? He unfolded it there on the table and recognized her handwriting and felt a rush of hope: finally, some clarity; all that she couldn’t say wrapped into a letter. Of course this was how she would communicate. She would explain it all, lay it all out on rich paper, put it all between the margins: her perspective, the inner workings of her mind, her apology, her thirst to renew herself once more, the consolation she felt in him.

The letter contained none of these. The language was formal and businesslike, as though she were apologizing for turning down a job offer or cancelling the rental contract on their television set. So clear and brief that he didn’t need to read it again. A delineation of facts. She had decided not to keep the child. No emotion, no regret, no apology or explanation.

Grigory left without paying. The waiter followed him into the street, calling after him, and Grigory turned and pulled out whatever notes were in his pocket, stuffed them into the waiter’s fist, and walked north. He walked and turned corners and walked again, often returning to his own footprints, and he stopped and considered them, then headed in the opposite direction.

At home, washing his face in the bathroom, he looked down at the plughole, a small, dark circle surrounded by white porcelain. That first night together, their meeting at the lake, the white plateau stretched before them in endless, flawless possibility. Now their relationship resembled that environment: cold and hard; whatever life still existed lurked only in the dark waters below. He would gladly smash the surface and plunge himself into the depths, drag her to warmth, but all she would allow him was a thin line of connection, and he waited in vain hope, stooped above it, dependent on her to show the merest flicker of need.

GRIGORY HEARS
the closing of a door, transporting him back from his thoughts.

Tanya has called next door to the nurses’ quarters and convinced them to part with another bottle. She pours, and they drink and open out the plains of their lives to each other, speaking of their pasts.

When the conversation eventually comes to a pause, she sits up suddenly.

“I almost forgot.”

She walks to a press near the cooker and returns holding something wrapped in sackcloth. She lays it on the table between them.

“It’s a gift.”

Grigory stiffens. “That’s very kind of you, but I can’t accept gifts.”

“You gave my son a dog. I’m just returning the gesture.”

“I kept the dog. Your son merely looks after him.”

“Well, then, I’m giving you something to look after. I can’t work it myself. I don’t know how to take care of it.”

A short, exhaled laugh.

“Now I’m worried. You’re not giving me another damn animal to be responsible for?”

“Open it. And of course I’m embarrassed about the packaging. They don’t seem to prioritize wrapping paper in their supplies.”

He looks at her once more in order to give himself permission. He drags the package over and puts his hand in and pulls out a camera, a Zorki, a few years old, but in good shape. He detaches the lens and takes off the cap and holds it to the light, checking the surface for scratches, like a wine connoisseur sniffing the first glass from a new bottle.

“Artyom told me you liked photography. I mentioned it to a few people. We wanted to give you something, to show our gratitude. It wasn’t too difficult. Someone always has a cousin. There’s not much film, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to do some wangling of your own.”

He holds the gift and looks at his hands. He has done nothing other than his duty, his professional obligation. Even the acts of these people’s most intimate love will be tainted, their offspring inheriting their tragedy. This is what distresses him most. Nothing but bleakness ahead. How can he hold their gift in his hands? He lays it on the table before him.

Tanya leans over the table and clasps both her hands over his.

“You have done so much good here.”

“What good have I done? Look at the sickness around you.”

“This is a place where we have come to endure. You have helped to make it endurable. You have brought care into our lives. You cannot know how important this is.”

She takes the camera and places it in his hands.

“Now you can do something for me. I want to be photographed. I want something I can save for my children.”

He runs his fingers over the dials, his natural fluency returning in an instant.

He raises it to his eye and focuses on her.

She is confident, gazing straight into the lens, her pupils reflecting in the gentle light. She resists the urge to pose, and stays with her body open and unconsidered and, even before she does this, Grigory knew this would be the case, a quality that so few people have. She simply sits on her chair and talks to him as he makes his first steps back to a past life.

He begins to move as he shoots, opening the aperture and changing shutter speed on instinct, attuned to the light of the room. He varies his angles and positioning, and occasionally the shutters pause, taking a full second between their opening and release, and she holds her breath in these moments, the anticipation gathering everything in its stillness.

She speaks again.

“Look at me.”

She says this as he is pointing the lens right at her.

“Look at me.”

He narrows the focus so that her eyes fill the frame.

“You’re not listening. Look at me.”

He takes away the camera and looks at her, and she approaches and kisses him on the forehead and draws back and puts her gaze in his and clamps her hands around his face.

“You need to go back to her.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but she shakes her head, blanking out his impulse.

“This is not some kind of martyrdom. They’ll find another surgeon. You have done all you can do. Staying here any longer will break you. I have to be here. You don’t. You need to go back now.”

She kisses him on the lips. She kisses him tenderly but with nothing else behind it, no underlying want. An asexual kiss. Years since he has felt the touch of a woman’s lips.

Chapter 26

M
aria and Alina sit at the table, pushing around some pork and cabbage with their forks. They sit and stare at the empty place. A plate in the oven. Yevgeni’s tuxedo washed and ironed and starched, hanging on the door. His shoes polished. They are showered. They have done each other’s hair. Their clothes are laid out also, in Alina’s room, all they need to do is put them on. This is supposed to happen after dinner. Alina has secretly been looking forward to dressing with her sister. It’s been maybe ten years since they got made up together, shared lipstick, consulted on fittings, applied eyeliner, the whole point of being a sister brought together in this ritual.

In forty-five minutes an official car will pick them up. They’ll drive on the green strip of the Chaika lane, passing all civilian traffic, which Alina has mentioned repeatedly to everyone at work, a thrill almost on a par with watching her son perform. They’ll pick up Mr. Leibniz and drive to the factory. Alina wanted to ride in the same car as Yakov Sidorenko; it would give them an opportunity to press Yevgeni’s case. She also just wanted to be in his presence, to sit with a man of such civility, maybe learn something from him, even smell him, the refinement of his cologne. Maria wouldn’t allow it, though, said it would place too much pressure upon Yevgeni, would fill him with dread. Mr. Leibniz concurred. So Alina accepted the situation and they will travel separately.

If they travel at all. All this is what they have planned, but they’re supposed to leave in forty-five minutes and Yevgeni isn’t home yet.

Yevgeni left Mr. Leibniz’s two and a half hours ago. He was due to be home ninety minutes ago at the latest. They push their cabbage around and listen for the key slotting into the lock and a mass of apologies. Their gazes drift toward the window, but it’s already too dark to see much. A son and nephew, wandering out there somewhere.

Other plans have been put in motion, plans that only Maria and a few select people are aware of.

Pavel had been right about his friend Danil. The man knows how to put things together. Her meetings with him took place in nondescript offices. The two of them alone. There are others in the planning group but Danil meets them individually, so their plans aren’t compromised. Each time, he arrived and talked through her instructions and listened to any insights or worries she may have had and addressed them then or, if not immediately, certainly at their next meeting. Maria was worried about food and water supplies; Danil has arranged that there are enough canned goods and bottled water in the stockrooms to last the entire factory a month. When she asked what would happen when they cut off the heating, Danil told her that they’d managed to smuggle in two generators for electricity and enough gas canisters and heaters to see them through the first few weeks. If things become entrenched, they can ration the hours they use the heaters, and all the protective clothing in the factory will provide decent warmth.

When Yakov Sidorenko is playing, Zinaida Volkova will take to the stage and announce the strike, reading out a list of their demands. They have men assigned to block the door and take care of Sidorenko, the ministerial consort, and the factory management. Any workers will be free to leave, but it will be made clear to them that they can’t return. At that point they’ll take Alina and Yevgeni from the building.

The two sisters have called Yevgeni’s school friends and knocked on the doors of some boys in the building that he knows. Nothing. Nobody knows where he could be. Mr. Leibniz says he wasn’t worried or distressed, that when he left he seemed ready, normal, cocky. This worries them both even more.

Maria asks herself if he could have been picked up. Does anyone else know about this? No. Danil is too good at what he does. She did as he said and asked around. His reputation didn’t fit that of a KGB mole; he has had too much success in agitation, and he doesn’t display the particular brand of dumb curiosity that they project, always asking questions, always interested in what’s going on. Danil knows not to inquire about things that don’t concern him. And he is trusted by the right people. For Maria’s first meeting, Danil arrived with Zinaida Volkova, and Maria knew that, from then on, she would be prepared to do whatever was necessary. Zinaida is a unifying figure who the entire factory will get behind, her credibility is beyond doubt. The workforce knows she’s not there to line her own pockets. And she’ll be effective. She’ll make a formidable leader and a strong adversary in negotiations. Danil left them alone, and Maria spent a couple of hours talking to her, impressed by the clarity of thought the old woman displayed, the directness of her language, the simplicity of her goals. She was looking for an independent trade union, voted for by the workforce in open elections. They would be free to hold open meetings and free to strike. “Everything will come from this,” Zinaida said, and Maria doesn’t doubt that these two demands are enough to open up a whole range of possibilities. She does doubt that they can gain these kinds of concessions: what they are asking for is a shift in ideology, an opening of previously closed doors. For all the talk of restructuring and openness, they’ll soon find out how far the programmes of glasnost and perestroika will stretch.

And still he’s not home.

She should call Danil. He’s left a number to contact him on if anything unexpected comes up.

The ticking of the clock above the kitchen door resounds off all surfaces. A few ants walk determinedly along the floor, moving parallel to the kickboards at the bottom of their kitchen cabinets, then slipping away in a crevice at the corner. The cabinets are fronted with orange plastic. It gives the kitchen an oppressive air, makes the room feel even smaller. They’ve talked about this, talked through every aspect of this apartment, Alina always longing for better, Maria just wishing that every day would come to a close. Alina stands and starts opening the cupboards purposefully, and Maria doesn’t ask what she’s looking for, just watches her. She finds a long white plastic cylinder with a picture of a black ant on the front. She kneels down and pours a smooth, white line of the stuff into the seam between the floor and the kickboard.

Alina puts the cylinder back, sits down at the table again, and puffs out her cheeks.

“I’m past being annoyed. I’m worried now. Is he staying away or is he in trouble? Would he put his mother through this if he didn’t have to? That’s the question I’m asking myself.”

“I know.”

“It could be one or the other.”

“I know.”

Maria stands, goes into the hallway to grab her coat and hat, scarf and gloves.

She comes back in, wrapped up.

“I’m going to look for him.”

“I’ll stay here and wait.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour. If he comes home, get ready. I’ll change in five minutes.”

“Okay.”

The door closes. Alina stands and clears their plates, scraping food into the bin. She washes them, puts them on the draining board, and sits. This is an essential part of motherhood, the ability to sit and wait. Her life tied inextricably to that of her child.

She sits and waits. Then she stands and grabs a dishcloth and dries the two dishes.

YEVGENI REACHES
the barber’s house, and the light is off, which is to be expected. He knocks on the door, a patterned knock with a 6/8 tempo that Iakov has taught him. There’s no answer, but Yevgeni perseveres and after a few minutes he can hear a shuffling and a little man with a sunken face opens the door and raises his eyebrows at the kid, asking Yevgeni what he wants without even having to speak.

The man’s name is Anatoly Ivanovich Nikolaenko—a permanent fixture of the district—who knows everything there ever was and anyone who ever could have been. Yevgeni always sees him on the street, walking that little mutt of his, which looks like half its parentage comes from rats. Yevgeni thinks the man might actually be three hundred years old, his face lined like bark.

“I have a message for Iakov.”

Anatoly whistles inside and calls Iakov’s name. He does this with a turn of the head and a slight arch backwards but otherwise doesn’t move, remains standing there with arms folded, both of them waiting, Yevgeni wanting to break the silence, Anatoly looking as if he had been born in this position.

Iakov emerges from the corridor, and Anatoly departs into the gloom.

“Come in,” Iakov says. He closes the door.

Yevgeni takes an envelope out of his jacket and hands it to Iakov.

“You’re a good one, Zhenya. You’re gonna grow up smart.”

Iakov puts an arm around Yevgeni, a fraternal act, but Yevgeni doesn’t like this, it feels unnatural, a gesture that he considers to be outside of his upbringing. Besides, Iakov’s not old enough himself to patronize him so much.

Yevgeni has been running packages for Iakov since their meeting in the junkyards. Some gambling thing he has going, Yevgeni knows better than to ask what. The job is totally uncomplicated. He knocks on a door, says Iakov sent him, and whoever is inside hands him a brown envelope, which he then delivers to Iakov. He never looks in the envelopes, but he knows there isn’t so much money in them: Iakov is too young to be allowed to run any kind of substantial operation. There are older men in the yards who would have control over these kinds of activities. Yevgeni knows all this; he knew it before he’d even been there. It’s the kind of common knowledge that floats about, one of those topics that cause adults to change their tone. Still, Iakov is good to Yevgeni, rewards him well, tells him to look after his mother.

Yevgeni hasn’t properly put it all to use yet. All he has bought are two pairs of gym shorts and, of course, the running shoes. Stupid idea. He thought he was being careful, staying within the limits of what’s acceptable, but he can’t blame himself for getting caught. It was just dumb luck that his mother happened to be home that evening. He panicked, he knows it. If he’d been more casual, said a couple of words, made nice, thought of a decent excuse for being back, then went to his room, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But he panicked. Understandable, though: I mean, when is she ever home?

He’s storing up the money. It’s not so much yet, but it will be; it’s steady, it’s growing. His bedside lamp has a hollow base, so he rolls up the money and hides it in there. He’ll probably soon have more saved than his mother does, which only goes to show how shit-poor her wages are. All that sweat over wrinkled clothes. It won’t be him. Already he’s got rid of the laundry run, fixed it so Ivan Egorov will do it for him instead, and the sweet justice of this situation causes a warm rush in his chest every time he thinks about it. He approached Ivan in the school yard, made him an offer. Ivan, of course, already knew about Yevgeni’s new contacts. He asked about his finger, mumbled his apology, which Yevgeni pretended not to hear, which Ivan then had to repeat, louder, more clearly. The most satisfying sentence Yevgeni has ever heard anyone speak. This is what Iakov means when he talks about influence.

Of course, his mother will find out that her boy is no longer delivering her laundry, but he’s prepared for this eventuality, he’ll pass it off as a favour: Ivan wants him to do well, they’ve become friends—this is what he’ll say, not that she’ll be convinced. But she’ll be fine. He’ll play the kiddie piece tonight and then have free rein to do what he wants. She’ll have even less reason to object when she finds out about the money. The Conservatory will probably mean more expenses.

So, not much will be said, she’ll ask her questions because she feels she has to and he won’t answer because he doesn’t have to, and she’ll take the money, take his help. Tonight will make everything all right. He’s been practicing hard. He knows the piece backwards. He’s not even really nervous, though that might change in front of all those people.

“Come on inside.”

“I can’t,” Yevgeni says. “There’s somewhere I have to be.”

“What? You’re such a busy man that you can’t spare five minutes? Come on, say hello to a few friends of mine. It’ll do you good.”

“I really can’t. It’s important.”

“Don’t insult me, ‘It’s important.’ This is important too. These are people it will do you good to know. If they get to know your name, that’s a good thing, Zhenya. It’ll be a help to your mother, believe me.”

Iakov leads him through a corridor to a lighted doorway at the end. To the right of the door sits a two-tone barber’s chair, white and beige. A framed photograph of Yuri Gagarin hangs over one of the mirrors; over the other is a black-and-white photo of some Spartak footballer. In the corner there are some fake plants, stooping due to the weight of the dust that’s layered their leaves. To the left of the door there’s a table surrounded by seven men, some similar to Anatoly with the same withered features, and a couple of others Yevgeni recognizes as the men who were roasting potatoes that time Iakov had called him over.

There’s a poker game going on, and when they see Yevgeni the men kick up.

“Hey, what is this?”

“No cartoons in here, Iakov. Get the fucking kid out.”

“He’s a kid, it’s fine.”

“You’re a fucking kid—this one here, he’s barely out of nappies. I don’t want him squealing and bitching in my ear. Put him back in his playpen.”

“He’s a kid, he’s quiet.”

“I swear I never want another one in my sight. Fucking screaming at three in the morning. How many mornings was I woken up by bawling?”

“Too many.”

The men all nod in consent.

“Come on,” Iakov reasons. “He’s been walking around for me for the last few hours. Let him stay long enough to warm up his bones.”

Anatoly stands up, pointing towards Iakov.

“I know this boy since he was four years old. Before he had that girl’s haircut, which, by the way, I have offered three thousand times.”

“No cutting my hair, Anatoly. Forget it. It’s where I draw my great strength.”

He flexes a nascent bicep.

A round of guffaws.

Anatoly takes Iakov by the shoulders, pushes him into a chair, and nods towards Yevgeni.

“Your child can stay, but if I hear a fucking squeak.”