Amatka

by Karin Tidbeck

  He “stood at the end of the belt, where finished tubes were packed into boxes for transport. They wouldn’t lie still in their boxes. All the tubes, containing Facial Cream #3, were emitting faint little squeals. There was a louder noise coming from the tanks containing the paste that was about to be poured into molds. Every time the paste was squeezed into the tubes, I heard a howl.”

  The controller followed the emergency protocol: he shut down production immediately, sealed the factory doors, and telephoned the office to alert them to the incident.

  It was in the employee log that we found out what had caused the malfunction: the controller who had visited a week earlier to restock the preserves in the employee quarters. The pages in the log were filled with made-up, bizarre observations of the factory and the repeated claim that the machines were alive and wanted to procreate.

  The products were scrapped and the factory quarantined. This is not an unusual event, and according to the commune office a year should be enough for conditions to settle. After that, production can resume as normal. Until then we will be using another factory in the vicinity.

  Vanja put the papers back in the box. There was a sour taste on her tongue.

  “I was on the committee a few years back,” Evgen said. “I was deposed. It’s a long story, but in any case, they offered me to resign voluntarily in exchange for a job at the library. I was entrusted with the task of redacting the archive material.” He gestured at the box. “I should have scrapped it. And I did, at first. But then I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted to know.” He looked up at Vanja. “Now I’ve entrusted this to you. You want to know. So few people want to know.”

  Vanja sat in silence, staring at the box. Her hands were freezing. She shoved them into the sleeves of her anorak. “We’re the ones creating everything. Everything.”

  “They pump the raw sludge out of the ground over in Odek,” Evgen said. “And then shape it in the factories.”

  “And we have to keep telling it what it is. Or it’ll revert to sludge.”

  “But it’s not just that. That…cat…came from somewhere.”

  “They talked it into existence.”

  “Just like Colony Five talked itself into destruction….”

  Vanja felt slightly sick at the thought of it.

  “It doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Evgen continued. “If we could harness it. Or if we could somehow live in harmony with it.” He pointed at the papers. “It all starts with us forcing matter into a shape it can’t maintain. If we didn’t, if we could learn to live another way…But we can’t, as long as all this knowledge is kept secret.”

  Evgen put the inner lid back on, then the outer one. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but fifteen years ago we lost almost a hundred people.”

  “The fire in the leisure center?”

  “There was no fire. It was Berols’ Anna. The poet with the Plant House series. She left with a group of followers to start a new colony.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. They sent out a rescue team after a while. Officially, the rescue team found everyone dead, and then the story changed again—no one had ever left. Not even the members of the committee found out what had happened. Only the rescue team and the Speaker at the time knew, but he’s dead now. Anyway, I think it’s the other way around. I think Anna’s people managed to create something new. Real freedom.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They never brought any bodies back. They said they’d dug a mass grave out there, but I don’t believe it for a second. Nobody would leave a hundred bodies out there when they could be recycled. We could never afford it.” Evgen let out a long breath. “And I think, now that the committee is coming after the library…I think something is happening up here. Something big. I think the committee’s afraid that whatever happened with Berols’ Anna’s people will happen here, too.”

  “They need the good paper for something.”

  “Yes, exactly. It’s for documents and books, after all, for things that mark. That define. And they need lots of it. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Can’t you find out?”

  “Hardly. I’m not on the committee anymore. But you could. You’ll be able to go through the archives. You’ll be able to find out what they want with all the paper.”

  “And if I can find that out…”

  “…then we can figure out what they’re planning.”

  Evgen looked Vanja in the eye. “And you can help me find information about what happened with Anna’s colony. Because if they succeeded, we have to learn how to do it. So we can do more than just survive. I mean, the way things are now—we’re alive, but what kind of life is it?”

  “We speak of new worlds, we speak of new lives, we speak to give ourselves, to become,” Vanja mumbled.

  “What’s that?” Evgen said.

  “It’s a poem,” Vanja said. “By Berols’ Anna.”

  “I’m not familiar with that.”

  “It was in a book I found at Ulla’s apartment.”

  “Huh,” Evgen said. “I’d like to read that.”

  “You would have to speak to Ulla.”

  “Who is this Ulla?”

  “A retired doctor,” Vanja said. “She says she knew Anna back in the day.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Evgen said. “You should talk to her more.”

  “I am,” Vanja said.

  “What has she said?”

  Vanja hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  Evgen studied her. “Get back to me when you’re sure, then.”

  —

  The house was quiet and empty when Vanja returned. Ivar and Nina would come home alone; the children were always fetched from the rec center on Sevenday evening so they could start the week in their own beds at the children’s houses. Vanja crawled into Nina’s bed and lay awake until she heard footsteps on the stairs. Nina came into the room, moving as quietly as she could. Vanja heard clothes fall to the floor. Then Nina crawled in under the duvet. She slid an arm around Vanja’s waist. Her touch spread warmth through Vanja’s limbs, relaxing her tense muscles.

  —

  When Vanja decided to find the place outside Essre that Lars had told her about, she’d walked eastward for what felt like hours. At first the plant-house ring lit the ground before her, but the light soon began to fade. Instead, a cold gleam appeared up ahead. The ground slowly rose into a ridge that glittered with night dew in the backlight. From the top, the ground sloped sharply down into a deep valley. And there it was: the village.

  Surrounded by a low wall, the windowless houses were irregularly shaped, rounded and flowing, their domed roofs crowned with little symbols. Among the buildings spotlights mounted on tripods illuminated patches of walls and ground. Vanja could make out figures moving about. They looked small at first, like children, until she realized that it was because the houses were enormous. The thresholds reached the people walking around outside to their knees. Some of the houses seemed to have soft walls that draped into folds, but seeing a figure in overalls leaning against one of them, Vanja realized they were hard, too.

  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 identical: 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.

  When the farmer had left, Anders posted a short list of names on the wall. “Five farmers are missing,” he said. “We have to get word out to their households. I’ll go talk to the junior secretary.”

  Vanja scanned the list. The second name from the top was Jonids’ Ivar Four.

  —

  Vanja and Nina sat at the kitchen table with a rapidly cooling evening meal between them. Vanja hadn’t been allowed to go home and tell Nina herself. Everything had to be done according to protocol. Anders had sent a courier to inform the households of the missing workers. Toward the end of the day, the courier had returned to the office and informed Vanja that her housemate was missing. It was almost enough to make her laugh.

  When the workday was finally over, Vanja went home to find Nina at the kitchen table and Ulla pacing the room with a look of either fear or excitement on her face. Nina had finally asked Ulla to stand still or leave, and Ulla had walked out into the fading afternoon light. Vanja had made a quick stew that neither one of them had touched. Nina sat with the tip of her thumb between her teeth, slowly chewing the nail down to the quick.

  It was very late when the door opened to reveal Ivar, leaning against the doorjamb. He had washed his face, but his forehead was black around the hairline, his curly hair matted with dust. He was wearing someone else’s coat. Nina rushed over to him and took him in her arms. He leaned his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes.

 
After a moment, Nina took a step back, bent down slightly to look him in the eye, and put a hand on his cheek. “Are you hurt? Do you feel sick?”

  Ivar shook his head. “They’ve already checked me. All that’s wrong with me is a scrape on my hand.”

  He let Nina steer him to a chair, slumped down on it, and stared at the wall. Nina filled a cup with water and placed it in front of him. He emptied it in one gulp and rested his head in his hands.

  Nina put a hand on the back of his neck. “What happened?”

  It took a while before he answered. “One of the chambers collapsed. The one with the cave polypores. The floor just fell away.”

  Nina moved her hands to his shoulders. “Were you hurt?”

  “No, no,” Ivar replied in a muted voice. “I already said. Could I have something to eat?”

  Vanja reheated the evening meal and put a bottle of liquor on the table. Ivar shoveled food into his mouth and swallowed almost without chewing. The others waited until he pushed the empty plate away. He rested his head in his hands again.

  “The floor caved in,” he muttered between his fingers. “I fell through with it. It was a long way down. I landed on my back, had the air knocked out of me. Got covered in dirt.” He rubbed at his eyes and looked up at Vanja and Nina. “Torun and Viktor were standing next to me when it happened. They just disappeared. I couldn’t hear them. The others say I’m the only one who made it out.”

  Ivar poured liquor into his cup. His trembling hands made the bottle clatter against the rim. “There are tunnels. Under the mushroom farm. I don’t know how long I was down there. What time is it?”

  Vanja told him. Ivar nodded. He drained the cup, then filled it back up. He stared at the bottle. The muscles of his jaw flexed under his skin. “Somehow I was still wearing my headlamp,” he said suddenly. “So I could see there was no way back up. The whole tunnel behind me was filled with debris. So I thought I’d try to find another way out. I couldn’t see very far, but it was a big place. High ceiling. The walls and the floor were made of some sort of stone that sparkled. It was smooth, smoother than concrete. Maybe the others hit their heads on the floor, maybe that’s why they haven’t come out. Or…maybe they suffocated.”