If she had misinterpreted him the last time she was here, this could end badly. She steeled herself and continued. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to know if one could choose another way of life. If it were possible to find out what really happened before. And then make up one’s own mind.”
Evgen met her gaze. He was about to reply when the door slammed in the coatroom. He instantly started putting the papers back into the boxes. Vanja slunk out the door while the new visitor quizzed Evgen about biographies.
The bed hadn’t arrived. They lay back-to-back. If Nina found it awkward, it didn’t show. If she liked sharing the bed, that didn’t show, either. Her studying Vanja that first morning had probably been a coincidence. Vanja lay awake feeling the warmth of Nina’s body where it touched hers, trying to soothe herself by thinking about what she remembered from About Plant House 7.
There was something about Berols’ Anna’s language. It was as though she understood words and objects on a deeper level than anyone else. The poems weren’t just simple marking rhymes or descriptions of the world. Vanja had a feeling that the plant houses didn’t need marking anymore, because Berols’ Anna’s words had fixed their shape so completely.
THIRDAY
Again, Ulla opened the door immediately, as if she had been waiting on the other side. She showed Vanja into her room. “Take a seat,” Ulla said. “I’ll get you something to drink. Would be rude if I didn’t.”
Vanja waited while Ulla dug out a little bottle and two cups from her cabinet. At length, she sat down and poured the bottle’s contents into the cups. It was wine, and it had a sour bouquet Vanja didn’t recognize. “What is it?” she asked.
Ulla winked at her. “It’s the good stuff. Go on, then, interview me.”
“Right.” Vanja picked up her notepad and pen. “Sarols’ Ulla Three, retired doctor. Your speciality?”
“General practitioner,” Ulla replied. “Retired fifteen years.”
“And what do you do now?”
“Wait for death or better times.”
Vanja looked up.
Ulla raised her cup and grinned. “That, and I rattle my pill organizer with the other decrepits at the recreation hall.”
“So.” Vanja cleared her throat. “You remember when new hygiene products were introduced?”
Ulla laughed. “Yes, hygiene products. All right. Yes, I remember. We all thought it was silly. Everyone was using the commune’s own, and then these two new companies came along. And there will be more, as I understand it. From Essre?”
“That’s the idea.”
“But there is no difference, you know.” Ulla poured herself more wine. “New manufacturers, new labels. The muck they make it from is exactly the same.”
“That’s actually not true,” Vanja ventured. “Among other things, extract of agaric is used in…”
“Extract of agahhhric,” Ulla mimicked. “Oh really. And what’s the main ingredient?”
“Well… soap base. And cream base.”
Ulla raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that made of? Because it’s not all mushroom extracts and bean oils.”
“It’s…” Vanja struggled. “It comes from the factories in Odek.”
“That’s right.” Ulla patted Vanja’s hand. “And what do they manufacture in the factories in Odek? What is the substance they use to make every last thing we have?”
Vanja swallowed.
Ulla shot her a sharp smile. “Isn’t it strange how one is so frightened by, say, a cup dissolving into sludge? And in the next moment, one rubs oneself all over with something that’s made from exactly the same sludge.”
“It’s not the same,” Vanja protested. “It’s… a cream base. The other is… it’s…”
“You know what it is. Everything that comes out of the factories is made from the same stuff.”
It was almost as though the shape of the cup in front of her was starting to melt, as though the table were suddenly sagging.
“Table,” Vanja mumbled reflexively. “Cup.”
“Exactly!” Ulla said. “You know how it works. Everyone knows how it works.”
“Why are you being like this?” There was a sour taste at the back of Vanja’s throat.
The sharp smile returned. “Because I think it’s funny. It’s so funny that you can be so aware of the truth, and still come here and try to sound as though your… specialists, or whatever they are, that you’re making something that doesn’t come from the same place as everything else. Tables and cups. Creams and clothes and… suitcases.” The last word was no more than a whisper.
“You said it yourself, everyone knows.” Vanja pushed her chair back.
Ulla watched her with unblinking eyes. “But have you never wondered?” she said. “If you just changed a consonant, or… misspoke. Just once.” She pointed at Vanja’s cup. “Knife,” she hissed.
The word stabbed at Vanja’s ears. She couldn’t look away from the cup. It kept its shape.
Ulla laughed. “Look how scared you are!”
“I could… I could report you.” Vanja got to her feet and moved away from the cup.
“Go ahead. Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Go and make your report.” Ulla reached for Vanja’s cup and raised it to her lips. “But I don’t think you will.”
“Why not?”
Ulla looked at Vanja over the rim of her cup. “Because I think that someone who lets two of her things dissolve over the course of just one week… might not be too happy with the order of things, if you know what I mean.” She slurped at her wine. “Besides, didn’t you hear? I’m old and confused.”
Vanja spent the afternoon in her room, wrapped in a duvet at her desk. All she could see through the window were roofs and the curves of the plant houses beyond. About Plant House 7 lay opened in front of her, full of comforting descriptions of the world, more and more soothing every time she read them. And yet Ulla’s words wouldn’t leave her alone. Someone who lets two of her things dissolve over the course of just one week might not be too happy with the order of things. Neither was Ulla, it seemed. And if one were to judge from that hymn and handwritten poetry, nor was Berols’ Anna. There was more to her than the plant house poems and the simple epitaph in the history book. Ulla knew something. She wanted something, too. The question was what.
FOURDAY
“Distillate Number One, forty-six volume percent alcohol. Made from turnips,” Vanja read out loud.
“Amatka’s most popular alcoholic beverage, after Distillate Number Four,” Nina said. “Average consumption three point seventy-five liters per person per year.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have patients with cirrhosis. There’s a lot of cirrhosis going around.”
“In Essre, it’s two and a half liters,” Vanja said.
“And how do you know that?”
“I wrote a pamphlet about temperance.” Vanja held out her cup.
Nina chortled and gave her a refill. It was the afternoon. It had been about an hour since Nina came home and set the bottle on the table with a deep thud: “I have tomorrow off. Let’s drink.”
And that was that. Nina made strong coffee and poured enough distillate in the cups that the rising steam pricked Vanja’s nostrils. The liquor was harsher than in Essre and spread an acrid warmth through her chest. Nina was rosy cheeked and told stories about patients with weird injuries.
Vanja’s shoulders were slowly lowering. She had no funny stories to tell, but she enjoyed listening to Nina.
“It’s great seeing you laugh,” Nina said.