Darragh McKeon - All That Is Solid Melts into Air

“Really? Why?”

“I saw a pair of high-heeled shoes. The same as those black ones you used to wear all the time.”

He thinks about describing the sight to her, but stops himself. It would be too complicated to explain.

“Just one of those reminders that come from nowhere.”

Maria would like to ask if there were others, ask how often he thinks of her.

“Happy birthday,” she says instead, softly.

“Thanks.”

“No parties?”

“What do you think?”

“It’s possible. Maybe there have been changes I don’t know about.”

“No. No changes. And you?”

She leans back and rubs her neck, something she does when a conversation ventures into uncomfortable ground. They know all each other’s signals.

“Yes. There are changes.”

“A new apartment? A new job?”

“I’m doing some teaching now, a couple of days a week at the Lomonosov. I’m still living with Alina. That’s not what I meant, though.”

“I know.”

The texture of her skin. He can bring forth the sensation of touching it just by looking at her; it feels as if he were keeping perfect time to a long-forgotten dance.

The ceiling is made up of square foam tiles, one or two dislodged, revealing the darkness of the roof space above.

“I bought an allotment. I’ve been growing potatoes.”

“Good.” She smiles. “I’m glad. Where is it?”

“Out in Levshano. I go there on weekends and turn the soil and practice for when I’m deaf and half senile.”

She laughs her laugh.

“He’s become quite the talent.”

“Who?”

She nods in the direction of the radiography room.

“His piano playing. He’s now a fully blown prodigy. There’s talk of a scholarship to the Conservatory.”

“Really?” He looks to see if she’s joking; he can’t hear it in her voice.

“Really.”

“It happens that quickly? I remember he used to plonk away with gusto on my old upright, like any other kid in front of a keyboard. Three years and he’s a potential genius?”

“I know. It makes me wonder what the hell I’ve been doing with my time.”

“He looks so uncoordinated.”

“Well, they never look like athletes, do they, all that time spent tinkling away. He’s kind of a marvel, though. Alina’s got him a teacher in the Tverskoy. An old Jew. Tough as a boot. I’ve seen him at lessons. The teacher plays something, then Zhenya sits down and plays it back. Straight away. Without hesitating. No notation either.”

“Just like that? From nowhere?”

“From nowhere. I’m constantly having to fight away my jealousy. We’re saving to buy him a piano.”

“You’re saying the boy doesn’t even have a piano?”

“No. Nothing. When I said ‘prodigy,’ I wasn’t exaggerating.”

Grigory flattens his hair with his hand. She can tell he’s irritated.

“Why didn’t you ask for mine?”

“I couldn’t.”

“If he needs it. You know I can hardly play—it’s just gathering dust. You’re too afraid to pick up the phone?”

“Not afraid. Of course not. But maybe you’d moved on. Maybe there’s someone there now who plays. How can I ask anything of you?”

“There’s no one else.” An edge to his voice.

A pause.

“Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry. I’ve no right to be possessive. Don’t be annoyed.”

“I’m not.”

Another pause. Maria waits for his irritation to calm.

“I ask myself if you’re happy,” Maria says.

“I’m not unhappy.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

The door opens down the corridor and Sergei beckons them in.

He hands Grigory the acetate sheet.

“A clean fracture on the metacarpal.”

Grigory holds it to the light to confirm, then brings it over to Yevgeni.

“Have a look.”

Yevgeni looks up at the sheet.

“That’s my hand?”

“That’s your hand. See the black line, at the bottom of your fourth finger?”

“Yes. The bone is broken then?”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be back to normal in a few weeks.”

Grigory sends Sergei off to get some painkillers, and they enter a treatment room. He takes a metal splint from one of the blue plastic boxes that sit on a rack in the corner. It looks like the tweezers Yevgeni sees in his mother’s purse, except thicker. Grigory sits him down and slides it carefully over the finger, strapping it in place.

“No piano for you for a while.”

“I know.”

“Are you sad about that?”

“No,” he says. Then turns to check if his aunt will repeat this to his mother, but she’s looking around the room pretending she hasn’t heard.

Grigory hands the X-ray to the boy.

“Keep it. Put it up on your bedroom wall. Not many other boys have a photograph of their bones.”

Yevgeni smiles up at him. “Thank you.”

Sergei returns with a small plastic container of pills, then leaves, winking at Yevgeni on his way out.

They say their good-byes in the car park. Grigory has offered to walk them to the Metro, but Maria refuses. He can tell by her voice that he shouldn’t argue. Grigory shakes Yevgeni’s good hand, tells him to be careful and to keep the dressing clean. He embraces Maria, her body so warm, slipping easily under his hands. They break, hesitantly, and Grigory reaches into his pocket for the plastic bottle and hands it over.

“Give him one if he can’t sleep. The pain should pass in the next few days.”

“Thank you.”

“The piano. You know where to find me.”

“Yes.”

“Come and find me.”

Maria takes in his words and turns and walks into the evening, Yevgeni beside her, holding his hand up, inspecting the dressing.

Asmall alarm clock sits on a locker beside the boy’s bed, but its bells will be silent, a silence that has carried through the past week. The boy wakes and stares at the longer hand, tracking its slow circle until the hour reaches five and grants him permission to peel off his blankets and enter the predawn light.

The light is different this morning. A blend of mauves and yellows, ruby-rich colours that, upon the moment of his awakening, make him wonder if he has overslept: surely the dawn has already arrived. He feels an instant tightening, the sensation particular to this crime, familiar to him from those rare days when he has emerged late for school or for milking, the surge of panic that sweeps over the muscles when time has stolen precious minutes or hours from their hold. He sits up and looks at the small clock and his brain assures him back to a relaxed state. The clock is never wrong and, even if it were, surely his father would have come to place a hand on his ankle, waking him gently.

Artyom is thirteen; the age has finally come when he can rise with his father, when he can hold a gun and listen to how men talk when they are alone. He is not of the age when he can add to the conversation—he knows this—but someday, this too will come.

This hour is new to him, the prerising hour, the hour when nothing is required but thought. Before this spring, his life was comprised only of activity, eating or preparing food, walking the cows down the rutted lane, lining them up for milking, then walking them back once more. Endless days defined by school and work and sleep. Occasionally there would be a party, on V-Day or Labour Day, when they would walk to the Polovinkins’ izba and join all the other families in the village. Where Anastasiya Ivanovna would play the balalaika and the men would sing army songs, solemn and low, until someone would turn the dial on the radio and they would spread into the lane and dance together, or if rain was falling, bump around on the porch and laugh. But this was a rare occasion, maybe three times a year, the whole village coming together, a village of twenty-five families.