On Thirday of the twelfth month, in year 90 A.A., a fire broke out in Leisure Center Three, where almost a hundred citizens had gathered to take part in Amatka’s annual poetry and music festival. The fire started in the coatroom, where an electrical component short-circuited and ignited the clothes on the walls, generating massive amounts of smoke. The fire quickly spread to the rest of the hall. The final death count was 103, with most victims succumbing to smoke inhalation. We mourn our comrades and honor their memory by looking forward, thankful for their many contributions to the commune.
“Looking forward” meant that this was no longer an accepted topic of conversation. Perhaps the accident was someone’s fault: a decision made somewhere that would have made the committee look bad. Or people had mourned too much and for too long. That wasn’t proper, either. One should be grateful and look forward.
Vanja put the book down and opened About Plant House 3. The text was difficult to read at first. Every sentence had been whittled down until only the absolutely necessary words remained. Every one of those words was precise; it could have been lifted out of the text and hold enough meaning in itself. In Berols’ Anna’s poetry, all things became completely and self-evidently solid. The world gained consistency in the life cycle of plants, the sound of a rake in the soil. Breathing became easier. Vanja read the book from cover to cover. When she had followed Plant House 3 through an entire year, from harvest to harvest, the room had darkened. Downstairs, someone clattered with pots and pans.
“Would you help Ulla with the marking?” Nina called over her shoulder as Vanja came downstairs. “We’re to do it a couple of times a week.”
“Sure,” Vanja said.
Ulla opened the door almost as soon as Vanja knocked.
“Nina told me to help you mark things,” Vanja said.
“Ah,” Ulla said. “I can’t manage that on my own, can I. How kind of you.”
She showed Vanja into a little hallway, where the doors to all three rooms stood open. Two rooms were completely empty. The third, the room directly below Vanja’s, was furnished. Ulla had a table with two chairs, a bed, and a cabinet; books cluttered every surface.
“How are you finding Amatka, then?” Ulla said.
“It’s fine,” Vanja replied.
“I heard you had an accident.”
Vanja nodded. “I did.”
Ulla tutted. “That won’t do.”
“I know,” Vanja said. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. Once is just an accident, after all.” Ulla winked at her.
Vanja went through the other rooms to mark the lights, windowsills, and doors, then returned to Ulla’s room. Ulla was already busy marking her things, one by one. It became clear why she needed help: she owned more things than anyone Vanja had ever seen. She turned to the left wall and a rickety shelf.
Wedged between a copy of About Bodily Variations and A Biography of Speaker Hedda was a slim volume with the word Anna handwritten on the spine. No About, just Anna, as if the book was named Anna. One couldn’t name a book anything other than BOOK, or start the title with anything other than “About…” Naming an object something else, even accidentally, was forbidden.
Vanja drew the book out and opened it. Poetry, on what looked like good paper, handwritten in faded blue ink:
| we speak | of new worlds |
| we speak | of new lives |
| we speak | to give ourselves |
| to become |
Ulla gently took the book out of Vanja’s hands. “That’s personal, dear,” she said.
“Is that Berols’ Anna?”
Ulla nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“But it’s handwritten,” Vanja said.
“It was a gift.” Ulla tucked the book back in between the other volumes.
“What does she mean, to become?”
Ulla looked Vanja up and down, as if she was examining her. “I might tell you sometime,” she said eventually.
“I read about the fire,” Vanja said.
Ulla’s mouth twisted. “Right. The fire.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. We’re looking forward, after all.” Ulla turned away. “Go on with the marking, dear.”
FIFDAY
It wasn’t yet light out. Nina and Vanja had a slow morning meal of fried porridge. The coffee Nina had made was acrid and bright yellow.
“I’ve arranged so you can go with me all morning,” said Nina. “After that I’ll have to take care of patients.”
The streets were nearly deserted. Amber light pooled under the streetlights. The white arc of the clinic building made everything else look very small.
Nina brought Vanja in through a side entrance. They entered a low hall almost entirely taken up by two gray vehicles with the words TRANSPORT VEHICLE stenciled on their sides. Nina led her through the garage and a pair of double doors. On the other side was a long corridor with doors spaced evenly along its white walls. A murmur of low voices and shuffling feet, punctuated by mechanical beeps. The air smelled of disinfectant. Vanja had forgotten how heavy that smell was, how it made her ribs feel too tight.
“Are you okay?” Nina asked beside her.
Vanja nodded automatically.
Nina continued down the corridor. “Anyway, this is the emergency room,” she said over her shoulder.
“It’s very calm,” Vanja said.
“There’s rarely any action in there.”
Nina made an abrupt left turn and opened a door to a stairwell. They climbed two stairs and emerged into a new corridor. The atmosphere was livelier here: staff in white overalls, patients in wheelchairs and on stretchers. Nina brought Vanja to a desk where she was asked to sign in. She accepted the small tag that said CARD FOR VISITORS, and followed Nina to a room lined with cabinets and shelves stacked with work clothes. Nina retrieved two pairs of white overalls and handed Vanja one of them, along with a pair of shoe covers. She opened one of the cabinets and took out a pair of white indoor shoes.
“You can put your clothes in here.”
Vanja’s overalls were too large. Nina pulled on hers and smiled as Vanja rolled her sleeves and legs up.
“It doesn’t matter which size you pick—they never quite fit.” Nina pointed to her own overalls, which were too short in the sleeves but too long in the legs. “The important thing is that they’re not tight across your bottom. That could make lifting patients embarrassing.” She winked.
Vanja took her notepad and a pencil from her satchel and hung it in the cabinet. “I’m ready.”
The smell of disinfectant washed over them as they returned to the corridor, and Vanja’s stomach turned.
“Are you really okay?” Nina asked again. She leaned closer. “You’re pale.”
“Eh. It’s just the smell.” Vanja laid an arm across her belly.