Карин Тидбек - Amatka

“What’s in there?” Vanja nodded at the other door.

“The secure archive,” Anders replied curtly.

“What’s that?”

“That’s none of our concern.” He pulled out a drawer in one of the general filing cabinets. It was nearly three feet deep.

Vanja pressed her lips together and began sorting forms into files. The personal files were all identical: a birth certificate, a graduation certificate, and so on and so forth. The supply of good paper was finite, however. Upon a citizen’s death, their whole file was removed and pulped or scraped clean, and their name added to the list of the dead. All that remained of a citizen was a name, birth and death dates, profession, and cause of death. There was one death certificate among today’s papers. Vanja removed the corresponding file—Anmirs’ Anna Three—then opened the drawer that contained the records of the dead. It was divided into alphabetical slots, each with a list of names. Out of curiosity, she peeked behind the B label. Almost at the top of the most recent list sat the name: Berols’ Anna Two, farming technician and poet. Cause of death: accident. She had been forty-three. Her date of death corresponded to the date of the fire at the recreation center.

When Vanja was done sorting the forms, Anders handed her a new stack; this time it was temporary documents that needed copying onto fresh mycopaper while they waited to be processed. This pile was thicker than the one that had arrived in the morning and kept Vanja busy for the rest of the afternoon, with only one short coffee break. At four o’clock, Vanja started home with fingers made white and dry from handling all that paper. That night, she had a completely normal dream: she sorted forms.

At the midday meal on Seconday, the canteen was buzzing with conversation. Vanja sat down next to Anders and the colleagues who had ignored her the day before. “…five of them,” one of the men said, the thin one who was so tall he had to hunch down over the table. He turned to Anders. “I’m sure you know more! The reports must have come in by now.”

Anders shook his head. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Accident in the mushroom farm,” said the woman. Her eyes showed a little too much white. “They say one of the tunnels collapsed.”

“Well.” Anders stuck his fork in a fried mushroom cap. “Nothing’s come in.”

“It will,” the woman replied. “I heard it from someone who was there. I saw her in the street just an hour ago. Her face was completely white. Your colleague looks a little peaky too, by the way.”

Anders poked Vanja’s arm. “What’s the matter with you?”

Vanja shook her head. The bite of food she’d just taken sat in a dry lump against the roof of her mouth. She forced it down. “I have a housemate down there.”

The woman snorted. “Everyone has friends down there. Get a grip.”

An older woman in neat overalls and a neck covered in mushroom farmer’s eczema waited by the front desk. She was holding a sheet of paper. Anders shooed Vanja toward the pile of forms she hadn’t managed to finish yesterday and turned to the farmer. It looked like they were comparing forms. Vanja strained to hear their conversation, but they were speaking too quietly.

When the farmer had left, Anders posted a short list of names on the wall. “Five farmers are missing,” he said. “We have to get word out to their households. I’ll go talk to the junior secretary.”

Vanja scanned the list. The second name from the top was Jonids’ Ivar Four.

Vanja and Nina sat at the kitchen table with a rapidly cooling evening meal between them. Vanja hadn’t been allowed to go home and tell Nina herself. Everything had to be done according to protocol. Anders had sent a courier to inform the households of the missing workers. Toward the end of the day, the courier had returned to the office and informed Vanja that her housemate was missing. It was almost enough to make her laugh.

When the workday was finally over, Vanja went home to find Nina at the kitchen table and Ulla pacing the room with a look of either fear or excitement on her face. Nina had finally asked Ulla to stand still or leave, and Ulla had walked out into the fading afternoon light. Vanja had made a quick stew that neither one of them had touched. Nina sat with the tip of her thumb between her teeth, slowly chewing the nail down to the quick.

It was very late when the door opened to reveal Ivar, leaning against the doorjamb. He had washed his face, but his forehead was black around the hairline, his curly hair matted with dust. He was wearing someone else’s coat. Nina rushed over to him and took him in her arms. He leaned his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes.

After a moment, Nina took a step back, bent down slightly to look him in the eye, and put a hand on his cheek. “Are you hurt? Do you feel sick?”

Ivar shook his head. “They’ve already checked me. All that’s wrong with me is a scrape on my hand.”

He let Nina steer him to a chair, slumped down on it, and stared at the wall. Nina filled a cup with water and placed it in front of him. He emptied it in one gulp and rested his head in his hands.

Nina put a hand on the back of his neck. “What happened?”

It took a while before he answered. “One of the chambers collapsed. The one with the cave polypores. The floor just fell away.”

Nina moved her hands to his shoulders. “Were you hurt?”

“No, no,” Ivar replied in a muted voice. “I already said. Could I have something to eat?”

Vanja reheated the evening meal and put a bottle of liquor on the table. Ivar shoveled food into his mouth and swallowed almost without chewing. The others waited until he pushed the empty plate away. He rested his head in his hands again.

“The floor caved in,” he muttered between his fingers. “I fell through with it. It was a long way down. I landed on my back, had the air knocked out of me. Got covered in dirt.” He rubbed at his eyes and looked up at Vanja and Nina. “Torun and Viktor were standing next to me when it happened. They just disappeared. I couldn’t hear them. The others say I’m the only one who made it out.”

Ivar poured liquor into his cup. His trembling hands made the bottle clatter against the rim. “There are tunnels. Under the mushroom farm. I don’t know how long I was down there. What time is it?”

Vanja told him. Ivar nodded. He drained the cup, then filled it back up. He stared at the bottle. The muscles of his jaw flexed under his skin. “Somehow I was still wearing my headlamp,” he said suddenly. “So I could see there was no way back up. The whole tunnel behind me was filled with debris. So I thought I’d try to find another way out. I couldn’t see very far, but it was a big place. High ceiling. The walls and the floor were made of some sort of stone that sparkled. It was smooth, smoother than concrete. Maybe the others hit their heads on the floor, maybe that’s why they haven’t come out. Or… maybe they suffocated.”

Nina stroked his arm. “Try not to think about it. I’m sure they’re all right, you were just lucky to get out first. What happened next?”

“The tunnel. It ran in both directions, I think, but one way was blocked by soil and rocks. So I went the other way. I walked for a long time, and then the tunnel split into two. One of them sloped upward, so I chose that one. And then… then there was like a gust of air from below. And noise. At first I thought it must be rescue workers, so I headed back. I called out so they could find me. I shouted, ‘It’s me, it’s Ivar.’ And then.”

Ivar had turned pale. He made several false starts before he spoke again. “And then someone answered. But something was off about it. The same words came back: ‘It’s me, it’s Ivar.’ At first I thought it was an echo, but then the words, the words changed places. ‘Ivar me it’s, me Ivar it’s, me me me.’ And then more voices joined in, until it was like a choir, shouting the same words over and over again: ‘It’s Ivar, it’s Ivar.’ It was like when children copy you, like when they do it to be mean.”