Darragh McKeon - All That Is Solid Melts into Air

He has never heard the story told inside the hospital walls. He hasn’t caught a snatched conversation in a nurses’ station, or two orderlies whispering by the coffee machine. But he knows it’s there, in the ether, the same way he knows when one of the registrars sneaks in late to rounds or when a junior surgeon is unsure of the exact location of the intercostal nodes.

The rush of silence as, eyes closed, he listens to channels of water passing his ears.

Grigory understands the power of the unspoken. To progress is to become fluent in the language. His rise in stature increased its pace when Grigory noticed that people in positions of power could hold almost an entire conversation with only a few simple words. He gained influence by understanding what his older, more junior, colleagues did not: that power lurks in silences, in whispered conversations in the corner of a room, in contained gestures: a dip of the head, a pat of the forearm. It has often struck him that the most powerful men he has met also have the greatest range of physical articulations, a vital ability in a sphere where a misinterpreted comment can end even the most celebrated of careers.

He cranes his arms over his head and plunges them under the surface, limbs travelling from water to air to water, bubbles leaking from his nose. After a few lengths the actions become automatic and his encounter this morning reemerges. He sees the shoes again, ghosts standing in formation.

He couldn’t begin to guess—and would never want to—how many of his patients have had their lives cut short. And although it was never something he had fully articulated, even to himself, it was no coincidence that he had chosen a job that valued human life in a state that had always disregarded it so readily.

Simple physical actions. Arms and legs. Head and torso. No thought required, just motion in water. He places his arms by his sides, paddles gently with his feet, and opens his eyes to the space that envelops him, lined in white ceramic.

The old silences are echoing. In the past year there has been a steady stream of young men coming through the doors with knife wounds. The emergency rooms now have to deal with drug overdoses. Sometimes, on weekends, there are full fistfights in the reception area. Secret bars are popping up in abandoned factories or unused rail depots. Anger is beginning to seep out. People aren’t so careful with what they say anymore. Grigory sees traffic lights burst apart by rocks, road signs that have been scrawled over. Public property used to be an almost sacred thing, collective property. No one touched it before. That too has changed.

He doesn’t feel any revulsion towards the present or nostalgia for tradition; anger is a presence to be welcomed. Everyone, including himself, has spent too long denying the accumulation of commonplace evidence. Injustices have mounted up on everybody’s doorstep.

He pulls himself out of the pool, water funnelling down.

In the steam room sits Zhykhov, chief of administration at the hospital, talking to an acquaintance. Grigory knows the man’s not a friend because Zhykhov’s laughing that laugh of his, barking it out, obviously trying to ingratiate himself.

The acquaintance is smoking a wilting cigar. The smoke drifts up and mingles with the steam, the two substances circling each other in a formal dance. His lank hair droops over his forehead. Grigory finds something quite familiar about the man, something that engages him, the way he looks to the ceiling when he speaks, the rhythm of his smoking. Something.

Zhykhov raises a hand and beckons him over. Grigory is a good twenty years younger than him and Zhykhov wants to be cast in the light of youthful vigour.

“Our head of surgery, Dr. Grigory Ivanovich Brovkin. Look at him. A brilliant career ahead of him. Everything he could wish for at his fingertips.”

Grigory laughs dutifully. “Perhaps the brilliance is all behind me.”

Zhykhov raises a thumb to his companion and waggles his hand.

“Don’t worry, Vladimir, he’s rarely this modest. This man, such ambition I have never seen. A python, this man. He squeezes every breath of rationality out of you. Arguing with him is a full gloves-off affair. This man is a fucking wordsmith.”

The acquaintance looks bemused. “I like my surgeons to be good with their hands, I’m not looking for someone who can dominate a debating chamber.”

Grigory remembers.

“You like a surgeon who can remove an inflamed appendix.”

The man lowers his cigar and stares at Grigory. Unconsciously he runs the tips of his fingers along the neat scar to the right of his stomach. He’s trying to figure out if Grigory has mentioned this because he noticed the mark. But the way he said it implies a familiarity.

“Have you been to Kursk?” he asks tentatively. Grigory can tell that the man is rarely unbalanced like this. He’s a man who knows things about other people. He’s not used to them having some insight into his life.

“Yes. I operated on you.”

“I don’t remember you. But then I hardly knew where I was at the time.”

He offers his hand and Grigory shakes it.

“I owe you some thanks, Dr. Brovkin.”

Zhykhov cuts in. “Vladimir Andreyevich Vygovskiy has recently been appointed the chief advisor to the Ministry of Fuel and Energy.”

“Then we’ve both come a long way from Kursk.”

Vygovskiy takes a long pull from his cigar, holding the smoke, which gives him a moment to consider his answer.

“Yes and no, comrade. There I was in charge of a nuclear power plant. I had real things to look after: equipment, operational procedures. I had a building to run. That time, when I was sick, my wife was getting calls every hour, asking advice, wondering when I’d be returning. Now, I think I could go missing for months without anyone really noticing. The department would just carry on without me. Someone else would be happy to offer the advice I give. I’m sure, Comrade Brovkin, you’ve never experienced such feelings. Every day you have people’s lives in your hands. You’ve never come home in the evening wondering, What’s the point? ”

“We all do what we can do, comrade. It’s good to meet you again in full health. I don’t remember the circumstances of your case, but it can be an awkward procedure. I’m pleased to know you are well.”

Grigory wants to move on to a spot of his own, to close his eyes, let the steam filter in, but he can see Vygovskiy is interested, lining up another question. It would be disadvantageous to provoke Zhykhov’s displeasure, so he stays.

“You feel a sense of ownership to your cases?”

“I feel a responsibility. If an operation goes wrong, who else is there to blame?”

“Many people blame fate.”

“Yes, they do.”

A pause. Vygovskiy is a man who knows how to read a pause.

“But you’re not many people.”

Vygovskiy turns to his associate. “You have an excellent surgeon here. My wife had nothing but praise for him, even though he was about twelve at the time. And my wife is not an easy woman to please. Apparently he talked everything through with her so calmly. I remember when I was back home in bed, she said a tornado could have blown through the building and the young surgeon wouldn’t have flinched, he’d still have sat there, answering her questions.”

Zhykhov laughs, slapping Grigory on the shoulders, his prize pig.

“I choose well, Vladimir. I keep telling you we have the best medical staff in the city. Imagine what results we could achieve if we had some proper funding.”

Grigory remembers the man’s wife. There was a thing she did with her mouth, a certain turned-up disdain that showed on her lips and, even if this were not the case, people could tell by the quality of her clothes that she was married to someone with influence.