Free All That Is Solid Melts into Air by Darragh McKeon Page A

extra details that he knows: that a state of emergency has been announced in the region; they’ve declared the disaster at 1–2–3–4, the same level as an all-out nuclear strike. The doctors are visibly shocked. They ask to speak to Zhykhov, to make any preparations that might be necessary, but are told that he is already on his way to the Kremlin; all the committee chairmen from the surrounding hospitals have been called for an emergency meeting.
    There is nothing left for them to do but go home. It’s not expected that they will be needed, but they’ll be contacted if necessary.
    Grigory drives Vasily to his apartment. They’re mostly silent for the trip, it’s too early to draw any conclusions. People are going about their weekends. They’re almost all carrying something, preparing for something. Kids holding footballs, older women dragging shopping trolleys with leeks or carrots peeking out from the side panels. Grigory pulls up outside the block, his brakes letting out a moan. He’s been meaning to have them looked at.
    “You’re sure you won’t come in for some lunch?”
    “Yes. But thanks. I want to go and get my hands dirty.”
    “Margarita will take it as a slight on her cooking.”
    “I’ve put away enough of her food to prove my devotion. But thank you. I just want to get some fresh air.”
    “I know how you feel. Why not stop in for a drink on your way back?”
    “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
     
    In the allotment it begins to rain as he’s kneeling, scooping the soil. The day is damp and sullen and he looks up and feels the drops break on his face and watches them transform the skin of the soil, black freckles appearing all around. He stands in the small wooden shed where he keeps his tools and listens to the staccato patter. There are a few families near the southern end of his section, and he can hear parents ordering their kids to shelter, some muffled screeches punctuated by their yelping dog.
    He would like the chaos that children bring. He’d like crayon marks on his walls, stains on his rugs that are so ingrained that they’re mistaken for part of the pattern. He’d like a child to push against him, force him to rethink what he knows, reshape his personality, something that other adults had long since stopped doing. He watches Vasily with his own kids sometimes, watches the way they casually hold his hand, sitting over lunch, the child like a smitten teenager. His meeting with Maria has stirred up layers of settled sediment, but he doesn’t want to think about it too much. He’s reluctant to have expectations.
    Grigory usually brings a flask of tea. Now would be the time to drink it. But he’s forgotten it, too busy thinking about this morning’s news. Puddles form in the walkways between the plots. He’d like to indulge in the sheer pleasure of kicking into puddles, another reason to bring a child here; there are many things a grown adult needs permission to do.
    The rain keeps coming. He should go, but he’ll work on.
    He returns to kneeling, progressing slowly along the rows, oblivious to the rest of the world. He becomes soaked, but he doesn’t notice this until he hears his name being called and watches Vasily striding towards him from the road and he wipes his hand on his sweater, which now hangs heavy, filled with wet.
    Grigory stands. It can only be something serious.
    Vasily shouts to him before he comes within speaking range, clambering over a chicken-wire fence.
    “Zhykhov called, looking for you.”
    “I would have thought he has more important things to worry about.”
    “Not really. We’re pretty important right now.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “There’s a committee flight leaving Zhukovsky Airfield at five thirty. We’re to be on it.”
    “To go to the Ukraine? To . . . what is it called?”
    “Chernobyl. Yes.”
    Vasily reaches him now, talking at normal volume, panting slightly.
    “But that’s idiocy. What do we know about emergency