Darragh McKeon - All That Is Solid Melts into Air

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.

Maria 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.