Free All That Is Solid Melts into Air by Darragh McKeon

has no idea of the time. These meetings can take hours, speaker after speaker; the same statements being uttered; the same political posturing.
    The only element of change with these sessions is the different seasons displaying themselves outside the window. Afterwards he usually drives to the allotment to sift soil through his hands. Today, he will tend to his potatoes, pile the ridges covering the sprouting tubers. A simple pleasure the spring delivers. April. A warm April Saturday. And he longs to be out there, with the drizzle and the birds, out where things are things, a growing potato, a gardening fork, rubber boots, where language is real—solid nouns—not contorted to ensure the satisfaction of one’s superior or one’s superior’s superior and so on and so on along the line of carefully manicured delusion.
    Outside the window there’s a small man-made pool with a single-tube fountain pockmarking the smooth glaze of resting water. He wonders if he should purchase a sprinkler for his tomato plants, if the summer would be a hot one. He has wondered this every week since February.
    Zhykhov is summarizing; the meeting is nearly over. Grigory could mouth the words in advance: “All indices of work are good and we are accomplishing success in all the planned tasks.” A few months ago, over lunch, Vasily had composed a melody to accompany these words and, on hearing them, the tune plays in Grigory’s head once more, an unconscious trigger that simply confirms his disdain for Zhykhov. Balance sheets taking precedence over patients, buying inferior equipment because it looks good, even if it brought with it tangible medical problems, the total subjugation of all their medical decisions to the whims of the Secretariat.
    As his colleagues gather their papers, standing them vertically on the table and banging them into a cohesive order, Slyunkov, the administrative secretary, hovers through the room and passes a note to Zhykhov, whispering as he does so. Zhykhov reads it to himself, then announces, “We have received a communiqué from the Chairman of the Council of Ministers.” He reads it aloud.
    “For your information, there has been a fire reported in Reactor 4 of the Ukrainian nuclear-power plant, Chernobyl. The incident is under control but we have reports that the damage may be significant. However, I can reassure you that this incident will not stop the advance of nuclear energy.”
    The last line is startling: it sits far outside the usual linguistic format of official communiqués. They are defending nuclear energy, as if anyone had questioned it, as if they were in the midst of a debate. Statements always come as unambiguous information. The Politburo communicates with orders or blank generalities. Grigory looks across the table at Vasily and can see he’s sharing the same thought. They’re saying it to reassure themselves.Something catastrophic must have occurred.
    They all gather their papers and leave the meeting. Outside, amongst the department heads, there is some speculation as to what it might mean for them. This generalized discussion always happens afterwards, rival departments picking through the gossip, looking for ways to gain an advantage in their allocation of resources, awaiting talk of any unofficial developments.
    Vasily and Grigory stand in the group and listen and offer a few opinions and then walk to a quiet corridor to talk freely. They decide to break with protocol and pay a visit to the administrative secretary. Ordinarily this would be perceived as an affront to Zhykhov, a subtle accusation that he didn’t thoroughly cover an important issue in the meeting. But the news has just come in, and they could merely inquire as to any further developments.
    When they push the door open, Slyunkov is sitting upright at his desk, typing. He is reluctant to give any information, but they both stand there in silence until Slyunkov can no longer bear the tension and informs them of the only