She crept closer to see better. None of the people walking around among the buildings seemed to pay much attention to their surroundings. No one seemed to be standing watch. Vanja crawled through the cold grass until she could crouch behind the wall and peek over the edge.
The men and women wore torn and dirty overalls. The men’s beards were unkempt, some long enough to reach their chests. They ambled aimlessly through the alleys or sat on the ground. No one spoke. Vanja jumped when a woman slowly turned her way and came closer. She waited for the woman to speak to her, or point and call out, or grab her. None of those things happened. The woman gawped at Vanja. Her black hair was dull and lank against her face. A thin string of saliva slowly dribbled down her chin and dripped onto her chest. Then her gaze moved on. She walked away.
Vanja crept along the wall, now and then peering over the top. It was the same everywhere: men and women silently and aimlessly shuffling about or leaning against the walls. The houses had no doors, just empty openings through which Vanja could glimpse beds and tables.
A man stepped out of one of the houses and into the light of a lamp. His overalls weren’t as soiled as the others, and his beard still fairly tidy. Vanja didn’t recognize him at first: his face was slack and expressionless, his eyes dry and lifeless. He was swaying. A dark stain slowly spread from his crotch down his legs.
Vanja ran back up the slope, away from the town and away from Lars, who wasn’t Lars anymore.
THE THIRD WEEK
FIRSTDAY
Vanja presented herself at the commune office at eight o’clock on Firstday morning. She was greeted by the gangly man in the reception, who introduced himself as Heddus’ Anders. He gave her a rundown of her tasks. He didn’t seem especially delighted with her presence. “You got this job because it was the most highly prioritized position you’re qualified for.” Anders pursed his lips. “And we have to follow the priority order.”
Vanja’s new job consisted of sorting and filing processed applications, reports, and certificates. Every change in a citizen’s life entailed paperwork: birth, relocation to the children’s house, relocation to a household, education, procreation, work, retirement, death. All work-related events had to be documented as well, of course: employment, resignation, production, results, accidents. The never-ending stream of paper was ferried back and forth by the couriers out of the distribution hub next door. Being a courier was an envied position, reserved for disciplined youngsters in peak physical shape, model specimens of humanity who usually went on to occupy coveted positions at the commune office and on the committee.
Most forms originated in the clinic, the children’s houses, the mushroom chambers, and departments inside the commune office. At the administration office, these were sorted, counted, and indexed, and the information they contained incorporated into the colony’s statistics. Very important papers, such as birth certificates, were copied onto good paper.
At midday, Anders showed Vanja to the commune office’s canteen, where stewed parsnip and some sort of agaric was on the menu. Anders sat down at a table together with a woman and two men from somewhere else in the office building. Vanja sat down next to him, was introduced to the others and then promptly ignored. It was a relief to be able to eat without having to make small talk. The others were busy discussing the imminent committee election: Who were the candidates? Who made a fool of themselves trying to get elected? Who looked like a promising choice? It eventually emerged that Anders was planning to run. Vanja wondered to herself what the others would say about him when they were out of earshot—that he was a suitable candidate, or that he was a moron.
In the afternoon, Anders put the box of forms she had gone through that morning in Vanja’s hands and led her to the back of the office, where he opened a gray door. Vanja followed him down a set of stairs and into a long room lined with filing cabinets. The only break in the long rows was another door, marked only with the sign DOOR. Documents concerning citizens were stored in the cabinets to the left, documents relating to the colony’s administration to the right. Vanja’s task was to sort citizens’ forms into the correct personal files.
“What’s in there?” Vanja nodded at the other door.
“The secure archive,” Anders replied curtly.
“What’s that?”
“That’s none of our concern.” He pulled out a drawer in one of the general filing cabinets. It was nearly three feet deep.
Vanja pressed her lips together and began sorting forms into files. The personal files were all identicaclass="underline" a birth certificate, a graduation certificate, and so on and so forth. The supply of good paper was finite, however. Upon a citizen’s death, their whole file was removed and pulped or scraped clean, and their name added to the list of the dead. All that remained of a citizen was a name, birth and death dates, profession, and cause of death. There was one death certificate among today’s papers. Vanja removed the corresponding file—Anmirs’ Anna Three—then opened the drawer that contained the records of the dead. It was divided into alphabetical slots, each with a list of names. Out of curiosity, she peeked behind the B label. Almost at the top of the most recent list sat the name: Berols’ Anna Two, farming technician and poet. Cause of death: accident. She had been forty-three. Her date of death corresponded to the date of the fire at the recreation center.
When Vanja was done sorting the forms, Anders handed her a new stack; this time it was temporary documents that needed copying onto fresh mycopaper while they waited to be processed. This pile was thicker than the one that had arrived in the morning and kept Vanja busy for the rest of the afternoon, with only one short coffee break. At four o’clock, Vanja started home with fingers made white and dry from handling all that paper. That night, she had a completely normal dream: she sorted forms.
SECONDAY
At the midday meal on Seconday, the canteen was buzzing with conversation. Vanja sat down next to Anders and the colleagues who had ignored her the day before. “…five of them,” one of the men said, the thin one who was so tall he had to hunch down over the table. He turned to Anders. “I’m sure you know more! The reports must have come in by now.”
Anders shook his head. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Accident in the mushroom farm,” said the woman. Her eyes showed a little too much white. “They say one of the tunnels collapsed.”
“Well.” Anders stuck his fork in a fried mushroom cap. “Nothing’s come in.”
“It will,” the woman replied. “I heard it from someone who was there. I saw her in the street just an hour ago. Her face was completely white. Your colleague looks a little peaky too, by the way.”
Anders poked Vanja’s arm. “What’s the matter with you?”
Vanja shook her head. The bite of food she’d just taken sat in a dry lump against the roof of her mouth. She forced it down. “I have a housemate down there.”
The woman snorted. “Everyone has friends down there. Get a grip.”
An older woman in neat overalls and a neck covered in mushroom farmer’s eczema waited by the front desk. She was holding a sheet of paper. Anders shooed Vanja toward the pile of forms she hadn’t managed to finish yesterday and turned to the farmer. It looked like they were comparing forms. Vanja strained to hear their conversation, but they were speaking too quietly.