Okay.
She glides out the door and moves hurriedly to the metal steps that lead to the management offices. Rough squares of brown carpet tiles. A secretary at the desk with a typewriter in front of her, a telephone, and nothing else. The secretary looks at her with deadened eyes. Maria thinks that this is a woman whose days pass in staggered increments of time, her hours comprised of finely sliced segments. Answer a phone, five minutes pass. Type up dictation, fifteen minutes pass. No other workers to talk to. Managers who see her as barely human. Things could be worse. She could be this woman.
“I’m here to see Mr. Shalamov.”
“Yes. He’s been waiting.”
She says this with distaste. As if Maria should feel guilt at keeping the man from the reports he has to flick through, from the nap he has to take.
She makes a call and replaces the receiver. Maria stands in front of the desk. The woman types while Maria waits. A few minutes pass. The phone rings, she answers it.
“He’ll see you now.”
“Thank you.”
Maria walks into his office with its large plate-glass windows that look out over the factory floor, so self-contained that Maria can hear her feet pad along the carpet. The silence makes what’s happening out there seem like an intricate mime. Mr. Shalamov is standing with his back to her, looking out over the waves of industry. He doesn’t turn to acknowledge her. She doesn’t speak. While she waits she looks down to her empty stool. Her comrades at her workstation going through the same motions, moving as fluidly as any of the larger machinery in the midground, where aluminium panels and steel parts grind forward in endless sequences. A series of interlocking arcs and twirls. Nothing out of sync in this moving tableau.
ON HER FIRST MORNING, having resigned herself to a future of repetition, she was surprised at the comfort that she was deriving from the crowd, the sense of common purpose, each individual working their way through a collective life.
The scale of it was astonishing, ten thousand employees. And there are other complexes nearby: an ammonia plant, a chemical-processing factory; a vast migratory movement makes its way from the city on buses and trolley cars and marshrutkas and she is one of them, stepping in tandem with hordes of scarfed women and hooded men.
She wonders sometimes if perhaps she was born for this, that this life of hers was inevitable. Isn’t this how people truly live: clocking in for work; whispered, surreptitious parties on a Friday night; duck feeding on a Sunday?
The first sight of the factory made her pause in shock, made her realign her sense of scale. When she passed through the enormous, hulking doors, six times taller than a person, her superintendent met her and recited the facts: the assembly line a kilometre long, a new car produced every twenty-two seconds of every minute of every hour of every day. A sea of calibrated metal, waves of industry pushing onward with meticulously timed precision, a constellation of spinning parts.
The factory floor.
There was a grating whirr that vibrated into her feet, and Maria knew she would become wedded to this sound. She knew instantly that she would carry this noise home, sleep with it for maybe years, perhaps until death. There was a timeline here that was permanent and previously alien. There was a time clock, a punch machine. Punch in and out. The superintendent gave her a card and let her know it was an imprisonable offence to cheat the clock. He had personally sent employees to prison. The machine punched perfectly symmetrical holes, exactly in the centre of the boxes.
There were time slots and days, printed in embossed type.
Her name in embossed type. Maria Nikolaevna Brovkina.
And she took this card five days a week, for the past three years. Punching in and out, marking her time.
Maria worked into the work, eventually finding comfort in camshafts. It had taken months for this to manifest itself—it was endless and repetitive and crushingly dull—but after a time the religious beauty of the task emerged. The detail, the exactitude required in working the lathe. How deep can an action go? How perfect can a human act be? Maria worked to a precision of thousandths of a millimetre. A micron, they call it. A micron.
And the repetition.
And the repetition.
And the repetition.
Guiding the mechanical arm as fluently as if it were her own.
Over time, Maria found her body easing into and around the action. Her body incorporated and enveloped it. Drinking water in the kitchen, a mid-night, mid-sleep drink, and her arm would reach for the tap in the same flowing arc as the motion at her workbench. Her hand clutching the glass with a regularity only she knew.
Sometimes she works with her eyes closed. A dangerous act, dangerous machinery, but she can feel the precision of the task with a clarity that she still finds astounding.
MR. SHALAMOV TURNS and points to the chair in front.
“Please.”
She sits, resisting an urge to take out a handkerchief and place it down on the seat to gather any dust she’s brought in.
“Mrs. Brovkina. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Mrs. Brovkina. It’s still her name, of course, and she’s seen it written down often enough. But no one uses her last name. It sounds odd still to be linked to Grigory, and it saddens her to hear it, carrying as it does a residue of failure.
“Of course.”
“I’ve been looking at your file.”
She can’t think of any recent discrepancies in her work, but of course that doesn’t mean someone hasn’t perceived, or even invented, any number of offences.
“Comrade Popov has been very complimentary. He says you’re a very consistent worker. In fact, your production rates are in the higher percentiles.”
She feels no relief. The statement is a prelude. He’s been through this process far more often than she.
“I try hard to contribute to the collective effort.”
“Of course. Just as we all do.”
She has spoken too early, singled herself out, made it sound like there are others who don’t contribute. She could qualify her statement, but it’s better to let it rest. Let him say what he has to say.
He lists off the major entries in her records. Dates of training. The promotion she was given last year. She can’t help but think of Zhenya and Alina, can’t help thinking about the size of their apartment. She doesn’t think she could go home if she is dismissed from this job. She couldn’t be any more of a burden than she is already.
He puts down the file.
“Tell me, what did you think of the lecture last month on the history of our automotive industry?”
So that’s it.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Shalamov, I was unable to attend.”
“Of course, yes. I see it now in our attendance records. Well then, what about the presentation on ‘Major Contributors to the Engineering Effort’?”
“I was also unable to attend that presentation.”
“I see. Of course. As a matter of personal interest, would you be able to name a major contributor to our cause in the field of engineering?”
The choice is to be arrogant or ignorant. It’s not arrogance, though. It’s knowledge. Why should she be afraid of such a thing?
“I know that Konstantin Khrenov was a pioneer of underwater welding.”
He sits back and nods, impressed. They both know that not many of his employees could pull a name like that just out of the air.
“He didn’t feature in our lecture, Mrs. Brovkina. That’s very specific knowledge to have at your fingertips. I learned about Mr. Khrenov’s work in my second year of specialist study. Where was it that you heard about the man?”
They drag it out. This is what they do. Just ask a straight question. Just get to the point. It irritates her to have to dance through this minefield. She remembers to take a breath. There can’t be any traces of frustration in her voice.
“In my previous work, I had some contact with underwater welders. They spoke to me at length about their processes and
history.”
“That sounds very interesting, Mrs. Brovkina. This was in your work as a journalist.”
“Yes.”
“It sounds like you’ve cultivated an interest in engineering processes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So why not attend our lectures? Do you feel your knowledge is too advanced?”
“No, sir. I had other commitments.”
“Oh, yes. I see this. Yes, right here. It says you’re teaching English at the Lomonosov?”
“Yes, sir. Two nights a week.”
“A former journalist who spends two nights a week teaching English at the university. I read these facts side by side and they say something to me. Tell me, Mrs. Brovkina, do you think this work is beneath you?”
“No, sir. Of course not. It’s honorable work. I’m very proud of it.”
“Good. So why are you revisiting your former territories? Surely that life is past you now.”
She takes time to consider her answer; she can’t leave herself vulnerable to the criticism that she’s not placing enough emphasis on the progress of the plant.
“There is a shortage of English scholars. A former professor of mine requested that I help out in this area. I feel that it is my duty to aid our collective efforts in any way I can.”
“Mrs. Brovkina, as I say, your work cannot be faulted. But there are some who would question your commitment to this particular field.”
She says nothing. She waits to hear his conclusions. She knows he can’t ask her to revoke a job where they need her skills, even if it’s only a couple of classes a week. The name of the Lomonosov carries some weight in higher circles. Mr. Shalamov will no doubt be reluctant to get into an administrative spat with figures who may have more authority than he has.
“I have never asked about your activities previous to joining us here.”
The thing that every sanctimonious pen pusher will always be able to hang over her.
“No, sir.”
“I would be wary, Mrs. Brovkina. It may appear to some that you’re treading old ground, reigniting old contacts. Some would say you’re inclined to venture into areas you have been encouraged to ignore.”
“I wasn’t aware of how it may appear, sir.”
“No. Of course. If you had given it some thought you would have refused their offer of work.”
“As I mentioned, sir, there is a shortage of specialists.”
“Did you know, Mrs. Brovkina, that there’s a shortage of highly skilled engineering instructors? Perhaps your time might be better served pursuing, say, a degree in precision engineering. I understand that you have scant family commitments.”
Scant? Yes. If you call queuing for food for four hours every weekend scant. If you call cleaning the communal bathroom or the stairwells or delivering laundry to Alina’s clients scant. Then, yes, she doesn’t have any commitments.
Don’t argue, though. The way to deal with this is to agree and work out a strategy later.
“Yes, Mr. Shalamov. These are possibilities I hadn’t taken into account. Thank you for bringing them to my attention.”
His tone softens.
“Think of this as an opportunity, Maria Nikolaevna. A position as an engineering instructor is highly valued. In this plant we have a history of supporting those who have made mistakes in their past. They are often hungrier, more loyal. You are intelligent and possess an excellent work ethic. Perhaps it’s time to ask yourself: ‘What are my ambitions?’ ”
She stays silent. It’s already been decided. They’ll take away the one thing in her life that provides any interest. The one activity that reminds her who she is. Next spring she’ll be studying for an engineering degree; there’ll be years of night classes ahead of her, dredging through stultifying textbooks.
He writes a note on a piece of paper, then very deliberately attaches it inside her file. He nods.
“Fine. You can return to your station.”
“Thank you, sir.”
At her workbench she releases the emergency stop, turns on the machine, and switches her mind to neutral.
Chapter 12
When she removes her glove to open the door, her hand always sticks. Just for the briefest of seconds. The heat leaves an imprint that recedes back into the brass.
Hunched men sit in the stairwells flipping cards into a bucket. They use an effeminate gesture, squeezing the card between two middle fingers then flicking the wrist outwards, displaying an open palm to the world. The cards twist in their high arcs, producing a crisply satisfying note on landing.
Maria opens the door to Alina’s place.
“What is one hundred and fifty-three divided by seven?”
“Again?”
“What is one hundred and fifty-three divided by seven?”
She’s been here for two years, even though it was supposed to be temporary, a couple of months to get herself settled after she split with Grigory. But she’s still coming home to the folding bed in the living room, always attempting to inhabit as little space as possible, storing her few possessions in a cupboard under the window.
Yevgeni still considers her to be the origin of all knowledge.
“Well, let’s find out. Give me your pencil.”
There’s a communal toilet in the hallway, with mould slowly edging its way down from the corner of the ceiling and the tiles peeling off. The light flickers on when you twist the door lock.
What are my ambitions?
His question has played in her head all the way home. She’s having difficulty reconciling herself to an honest answer and is glad of the consolation in her nephew’s struggle with an abstract problem.
Yevgeni works the pencil round his copybook, numbers bursting from their appointed squares. His flaccid scrawl sinks diagonally down the page, rotating towards the end so the figures lie almost horizontally. 2 resting on its arched back. 7 leaning on its elbow, legs pointed outward.
She missed most of his early years, too busy travelling around the country reporting the small victories of working life, writing them up as though the workers were living sainted existences, achieving the greatest deeds, when all she saw was squalor and cynicism.
The newspaper sent her on journeys to faraway places, hidden corners of the Union where life continued in the most extraordinary circumstances, often barely any heat or light, toughened people who understood how to subsist with the most meagre of resources, reminding her of deep-sea urchins adapting to an almost extraterrestrial environment.
She had acted as a priest of sorts. There were times on those trips when people would tell her their most delicate intimacies, staring deep into the embers of a dying fire. Of course, they all thought initially that she was with the KGB, there to draw truths from them. But a few hours in her company and they realized she was too real to be truly invested in the system. She was too loose with her talk, too self-deprecating, telling little stories on herself, dropping small comments that could be interpreted as criticisms; though they would also hold up as factual statements if she was ever reported.
Salt miners in Solikamsk, grinding out a day’s work in those crystalline tunnels. Or the sovkhozy—the state farms—in Uzbekistan, where the summer crops spread out past the curve of the earth, where she interviewed averagely built men with enormous, hoary hands, hands so roughened by the weather that the skin was separated into pads, like a dog’s paw. The grain silos, military in their bearing, gigantic cylindrical tanks from which biblical quantities of grain would pour into the bellies of vast trucks.
Everything enormous. That was the overriding sense that remained with her. The utter, mind-melting scale of the Union.
And how, in the wake of such experiences, could she not write of the reality of the lives she met? She sees now that she always knew, at least on some level, that such words would lead to a revoking of her privileges, a banishment from her profession.
Maria considers her nephew as he sits on her knee, warmth flowing from him, seeping throug
h her overcoat, which she has not yet taken off.
His finger has healed, which is a relief to all. Though there’s a swelling around the area of the fracture, like a huge, dormant boil. A physiotherapist in the next building showed them some finger-strengthening exercises, a series of bends and waggles which Yevgeni performed with religious devotion before bedtime.
They bought him a keyboard in the summer, one that sits on two metal trestles. A man that Alina does laundry for, a truck driver, smuggled it back from Berlin. Alina gave him two months free laundry for it, in addition to three months of Maria’s wages, most of what she had saved up since she arrived. But when he brought it in the door and set it up and Yevgeni sat down to play for the three of them, Maria couldn’t but feel a swelling pride, couldn’t think of anything else she’d like to spend her money on, a satisfaction that lasted for perhaps five minutes, until the neighbours started banging on the door, threatening to call the building superintendent, have them kicked out. It hasn’t made a sound in four months. They tried various strategies to appease the neighbours. They brought vodka and sausages around to those closest, but when others heard about the windfall, they wanted their share. People at the far end of the building started to complain, even though they’d have to strain to hear even the faintest traces of a note. So they stopped giving out gifts. They would not be blackmailed. Such behaviour from grown adults.
So the genius plays with no sound, which, at first, she thought a picture of impotence. Now, even though it no doubt hinders his advancement, she thinks it’s glorious. Sometimes Maria arrives home and sees him in the living room, her bedroom, and he’s flowing to the music, doing all the dips and turns of head and drops of delicate hands that she sees in the concert pianists, and at first she thought he was copying them, emulating them in the same way that kids take on the celebrations of footballers. After watching him though, on separate occasions, watching him when he doesn’t know anybody is looking, she realizes he’s doing it of his own accord, dancing internally as he presses down on the dull plastic keys.
All That Is Solid Melts into Air Page 13
