Darragh McKeon - All That Is Solid Melts into Air

What he said has stayed with her though, awakened her to new possibilities, to change.

YEVGENI SHOWERS and takes his suit from the rail, puts on his underwear and trousers, and slides the plastic sleeve from the dry cleaner’s off his shirt, inspecting it for creases, still his mother’s child.

He sees her so rarely now. She got married again, ten years ago, to Arkady, an engineer who runs a building-supplies company in Odessa, a cousin of one of the women in the laundry where she used to work. When Yevgeni visits they run out of conversation after the first ten minutes. There are no common aspects to their lives, and they have never been able to speak about the past. So they fill the pauses with trivialities, they argue about politics, pass on any news about old neighbours. Maybe if they were on new ground it would be different, but his mother doesn’t like to travel, she’s reluctant to shed her old suspicions of the West. She’s never visited his adopted home in the fifteen years he’s been there.

At first he was resistant to accepting the State Prize. Standing in the Kremlin, in the seat of power, shaking the president’s hand in front of the assembled photographers, was, to Yevgeni, a tacit endorsement of the current regime. But then, he asked himself, what did it matter? No one ever voted according to the preferences of a pianist.

He took the award for his mother’s sake. A repayment of sorts, a way to thank her for all she had done for him. When the ceremony was finished, he handed her the medal in its box and insisted she take it, and she did so, her eyes filling with gratitude, and he was glad he had come here, glad he hadn’t been too proud to let her have this day.

Maria didn’t attend though, for which, no doubt, his mother would castigate her. But he was more than a little proud of her. Uncompromising to the end.

He’d like to show his mother how he lives now, the things he sees. The beauty, the awe, of his adopted city. He’d like to take her to the Sunday bird market on the Île de la Cité. She would enjoy listening to the red-faced men bellowing out their enticements, cajoling people as if they were trying to off-load used cars, instead of budgies and finches. They could wander around the corner to Notre Dame, she could stand in that building of overwhelming scale, or wander around the museums. Perhaps being exposed to centuries of great art would stir something in her, let her understand him better. She’s proud of his success but doesn’t have any feel for the music. The music, as she likes to say, is not for her. He’s seen her asleep too often at recitals to offer her tickets anymore.

He runs a comb through his damp hair and slips on his jacket, adjusting his collar—no tie—puts in his cuff links. Yevgeni sends his mother clothes, and she sends back little thank-you cards. He knows she still appreciates well-cut cloth, soft fabrics. It’s the one small thing that still connects them.

He enters the members’ lounge to a rush of applause and upraised glasses, and he nods and places a flat hand on his breast in appreciation and walks to his mother, who makes a great show of her embrace, then shakes Arkady’s hand and catches Maria’s eye across the room. He approaches her when he has settled his mother and Arkady into conversation with a prominent architect.

“You’re not meeting the great and the good?”

“I didn’t realize they were here. Alina only introduced me to the mildly compromised and the unashamedly corrupt.”

He laughs, embraces her. “Usually I’m the only one to notice.”

“That was beautiful tonight, Yevgeni.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do. Thank you. It’s so good to have you here.”

A pat on the shoulder from the executive director. Yevgeni nods in response.

“I need to shake hands with some sponsors, do my bit for the scholarship fund. Give me a little while.”

“Of course.”

On their way to the restaurant, the four of them are silent in the taxi. It begins to rain. Umbrellas explode up and down the street, drops on the windowpane descend in streaks.

At their meal, they drink good wine and Alina displays her storytelling skills, recounting tales of her son’s childhood to Arkady, and they laugh and Maria is grateful once more for her sister’s abilities. There are some shared experiences that are impervious to time.

After coffee, Alina pulls a package from a shopping bag beside her chair, wrapped in brown paper, rectangular. She hands it to Yevgeni, and he can feel a frame underneath the wrapping. A photograph, he thinks, perhaps some certificate he has long forgotten about. But it is neither, so much better than that, surprising him.

An X-ray sheet, enclosed in glass, front and back.

He smiles, remembering.

A fracture on the fourth finger of the right hand. The hand of his childhood self.

“I still have the bump.”

He displays it, then places his hand over the sheet. All that remain unchanged are the spaces between the fingers.

He holds the X-ray to the light, the inner pattern of the hand so unfamiliar in its negative form. The bones rounded at the knuckles, balanced precariously on top of each other, the fingertips tapering off into triangles.

Maria points to the different parts, naming them.

“Distal phalanx, proximal phalanx, metacarpal, interphalangeal joints.”

“You learned them from Grigory?” Yevgeni asks.

“Yes.”

He lays the gift on the table beside his coffee.

“I remember him that night. His kindness. I was scared, especially after the X-ray—it was a strange experience for a nine-year-old kid. But he talked to me like I was an equal, his voice was so reassuring.”

“Yes, it was.”

They are silent again. Spoons clink against china.

Alina nods to her sister. Maria thinks she won’t say it. Yevgeni won’t push her on this subject, he never has—but she can hear her voice uttering the words. “It’s what killed him, you know. Radiation.”

Yevgeni looks at his mother, then back to his aunt.

“But that’s not possible. It was a heart attack. It happened so suddenly.”

“You know so little.”

WHEN GRIGORY TOOK his own life, she didn’t feel the anger, the confusion, which those close to her predicted would come. She was the one who had forced open the door to their bathroom, found him there, face pressed to the white-tiled floor, the jar of pills standing upright next to the sink. She knew he wasn’t doing it to punish either himself or her. He had seen where the illness would lead him. To take his life was a rejection of this end, not of their love. It was calculated, rational, but not cold. Only she could make the distinction. Only she had sat with him in those mornings after his return, when she would make breakfast and watch him eat, as meticulous as ever, and then sit and listen as he spoke of what he had been through, the lives that had passed under his fingers. Talk for an hour and no more, before washing the dishes, passing them to her to dry, releasing the pain in manageable increments.

She knew he was ill from the very beginning, several weeks before he himself did. Something haunted in his look, a shade to his face. She saw it those first few mornings, a physical retreat from the man she knew before.

He came back home determined. He had material: anecdotal, unofficial, but, he thought, valuable nonetheless. Even if he couldn’t hold anyone directly accountable, he wanted people to know what had happened.

In his absence, however, he had become invisible.

None of his former colleagues would meet with him. They would barely speak to him beyond the basic courtesies. Grigory sat one morning at Vasily’s parking spot at the hospital, waiting until he stepped from his car, and yet, as Grigory approached, Vasily returned to his seat, turned the key in the ignition, and reversed. Even as Grigory jogged beside him, red-faced, banging a fist against his window, Vasily concentrated on his driving, refusing to acknowledge him. Even as his old friend was left pleading in the rearview mirror, arms outstretched, Vasily picked up speed.