Карин Тидбек - Amatka

“Would you help Ulla with the marking?” Nina called over her shoulder as Vanja came downstairs. “We’re to do it a couple of times a week.”

“Sure,” Vanja said.

Ulla opened the door almost as soon as Vanja knocked.

“Nina told me to help you mark things,” Vanja said.

“Ah,” Ulla said. “I can’t manage that on my own, can I. How kind of you.”

She showed Vanja into a little hallway, where the doors to all three rooms stood open. Two rooms were completely empty. The third, the room directly below Vanja’s, was furnished. Ulla had a table with two chairs, a bed, and a cabinet; books cluttered every surface.

“How are you finding Amatka, then?” Ulla said.

“It’s fine,” Vanja replied.

“I heard you had an accident.”

Vanja nodded. “I did.”

Ulla tutted. “That won’t do.”

“I know,” Vanja said. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize. Once is just an accident, after all.” Ulla winked at her.

Vanja went through the other rooms to mark the lights, windowsills, and doors, then returned to Ulla’s room. Ulla was already busy marking her things, one by one. It became clear why she needed help: she owned more things than anyone Vanja had ever seen. She turned to the left wall and a rickety shelf.

Wedged between a copy of About Bodily Variations and A Biography of Speaker Hedda was a slim volume with the word Anna handwritten on the spine. No About , just Anna , as if the book was named Anna. One couldn’t name a book anything other than BOOK, or start the title with anything other than “About…” Naming an object something else, even accidentally, was forbidden.

Vanja drew the book out and opened it. Poetry, on what looked like good paper, handwritten in faded blue ink:

Ulla gently took the book out of Vanja’s hands. “That’s personal, dear,” she said.

“Is that Berols’ Anna?”

Ulla nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“But it’s handwritten,” Vanja said.

“It was a gift.” Ulla tucked the book back in between the other volumes.

“What does she mean, to become?”

Ulla looked Vanja up and down, as if she was examining her. “I might tell you sometime,” she said eventually.

“I read about the fire,” Vanja said.

Ulla’s mouth twisted. “Right. The fire.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. We’re looking forward, after all.” Ulla turned away. “Go on with the marking, dear.”

It wasn’t yet light out. Nina and Vanja had a slow morning meal of fried porridge. The coffee Nina had made was acrid and bright yellow.

“I’ve arranged so you can go with me all morning,” said Nina. “After that I’ll have to take care of patients.”

The streets were nearly deserted. Amber light pooled under the streetlights. The white arc of the clinic building made everything else look very small.

Nina brought Vanja in through a side entrance. They entered a low hall almost entirely taken up by two gray vehicles with the words TRANSPORT VEHICLE stenciled on their sides. Nina led her through the garage and a pair of double doors. On the other side was a long corridor with doors spaced evenly along its white walls. A murmur of low voices and shuffling feet, punctuated by mechanical beeps. The air smelled of disinfectant. Vanja had forgotten how heavy that smell was, how it made her ribs feel too tight.

“Are you okay?” Nina asked beside her.

Vanja nodded automatically.

Nina continued down the corridor. “Anyway, this is the emergency room,” she said over her shoulder.

“It’s very calm,” Vanja said.

“There’s rarely any action in there.”

Nina made an abrupt left turn and opened a door to a stairwell. They climbed two stairs and emerged into a new corridor. The atmosphere was livelier here: staff in white overalls, patients in wheelchairs and on stretchers. Nina brought Vanja to a desk where she was asked to sign in. She accepted the small tag that said CARD FOR VISITORS, and followed Nina to a room lined with cabinets and shelves stacked with work clothes. Nina retrieved two pairs of white overalls and handed Vanja one of them, along with a pair of shoe covers. She opened one of the cabinets and took out a pair of white indoor shoes.

“You can put your clothes in here.”

Vanja’s overalls were too large. Nina pulled on hers and smiled as Vanja rolled her sleeves and legs up.

“It doesn’t matter which size you pick—they never quite fit.” Nina pointed to her own overalls, which were too short in the sleeves but too long in the legs. “The important thing is that they’re not tight across your bottom. That could make lifting patients embarrassing.” She winked.

Vanja took her notepad and a pencil from her satchel and hung it in the cabinet. “I’m ready.”

The smell of disinfectant washed over them as they returned to the corridor, and Vanja’s stomach turned.

“Are you really okay?” Nina asked again. She leaned closer. “You’re pale.”

“Eh. It’s just the smell.” Vanja laid an arm across her belly.

“Just let me know if you need to go outside.”

Vanja straightened. “No, no need. Can we get started?”

Nina looked at her for a moment, frowning. Then she nodded and continued down the corridor.

They spent the morning visiting the different units. Amatka’s population suffered from lifestyle diseases and work injuries: bad backs from work in the plant houses and the mushroom farm; cardiovascular disease; osteoporosis. And depression, everywhere depression.

“It’s a little darker here than in Essre, have you noticed?” Nina said.

Vanja shook her head. “I think dawn and dusk come at roughly the same times as usual.”

“No, it’s not that. The daylight is weaker. It’s at ninety percent of the brightness in Essre.”

“Who says?”

“The research department.”

“Oh.” Vanja considered this. “What does it feel like?”

“Feels? I’m used to it. But you must have noticed it’s dimmer.”

“Maybe a little… No. Not really.”

“Well. That’s how it is, in any case. That’s why we have the light rooms.” Nina pushed open a pair of double doors.

The corridor they entered was more brightly lit. The doors on either side had little windows that revealed rooms entirely furnished in white. Every room was populated by people in white coats who sat in white reclining chairs, their legs wrapped in white blankets. Ceiling lamps spread a bluish-white light.

“Anyone can go in here when they need to,” Nina said, and nodded at the door closest to them. “Some come every day. Most people come about once a week or every other week.”

“Does it help?” Vanja squinted at the patients. Most were reading books or deep in conversation.

“It does. Most of the time. And don’t forget we have coffee, too.” Nina winked at Vanja. “But I suppose we’re all a little melancholy, even those of us who aren’t ill.”

Nina left Vanja in the clinic’s storeroom and went to take care of some administrative task or other. Vanja busied herself making an inventory of the hygiene products stacked on the shelves: soap, rubbing alcohol, cream, lubricant, disinfectant. The unease that the stench permeating the corridors had stirred up in her chest slowly dissipated. It crept back when the door opened and Nina came back in.