Quarantine E-Book

Nick Holdstock

• Herausgeber: Swift Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 452

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

How do we deal with the aftermath of catastrophe? It's ten years since a deadly pandemic swept the globe, and five years since the last new recorded case. Society came close to collapse, but now there's a vaccine – though not a cure – people are only dying in the usual ways. Lukas, along with several hundred other infected people, is quarantined in a camp on a mountain of Central Asia. With nothing to do, and no future to speak of, the inmates pass the time drinking, taking drugs, joining a cult, making are or having sex with whoever they can. Rebecca is a scientist who worked on the vaccine that saved the world. Having lost her partner in the years of chaos, she keeps testing the vaccine against mutations of the virus, because it seems inevitable that there will be a next time. Quarantine is a thrillingly intelligent novel about how we – as individuals, and as a society – deal with the aftermath of catastrophe.

Leseprobe

For Duncan

You who will emerge from the flood In which we have gone under Bring to mind When you speak of our failings Bring to mind also the dark times That you have escaped.

Bertolt Brecht ‘To Those Born After’

Contents

Part IPart IIAcknowledgements

I

Lukas

We took down our mirrors at the start of winter. Not all of them, but over half, and more were sure to follow. In our camp fashions spread quickly. Three months before, we’d shaved our heads. We’d piled up clocks and watches.

No one planned these actions. They happened because someone had an idea that they hoped would make things better. They did it, and others saw, and if it made sense to them they copied it.

I don’t know who took their mirrors down first because I slept late. I’d spent most of the night rereading The Sorrows of Young Werther and trying to think of something new to say about it. The sun was over the mountains by the time I took my coffee out onto the porch. I’d only taken a sip when I saw my reflection coming towards me. Automatically, I checked my face – I saw nothing wrong – then Jorge turned the mirror away.

‘Looking good, Lukas,’ he said, and laughed. If anyone else had been carrying the mirror I’d have asked what they were doing. But Jorge seemed like such an idiot that I didn’t care. He was always doing things that made no sense. I’d recently discovered he’d been collecting wood for months, but in small quantities, whatever he could scavenge during hut maintenance, even legs from broken chairs. When asked why, he’d said, ‘Just in case,’ which was stupid because there was no need for fires. On the rare occasions the generator ran out of oil – in bad weather we were sometimes cut off for weeks – the solar panels took care of our needs.

I was about to go back inside when Edie called out to me. ‘Can you give me a hand?’ she begged. She was struggling with two mirrors, the long one from her wardrobe door, the small one from the bathroom, and as soon as I saw them my heart felt like a fist opening and closing quickly. Yet there was also a strange calm. Of course we didn’t need mirrors. They were just a crutch we used to hurt ourselves.

Edie sighed after I took the long mirror. ‘Thanks,’ she said, then kissed me. At first we only used our lips, but then our tongues took over. It wasn’t long before I was ready to throw my mirror on the ground and pull her into my house. It was starting to slip from my hands when she said, ‘Careful. We don’t want seven years’ bad luck.’

I laughed. ‘That doesn’t seem so bad.’

‘True,’ she said and put her mouth back on mine, then bit my lower lip hard. I pushed her away and she giggled.

‘Did it hurt?’

I nodded.

‘Is it bleeding?’

I showed her.

‘Poor Lukas. I expect you want Mommy to kiss it better?’ She puffed out her cheeks and then wobbled her mirror, which made my reflection shake. ‘Why don’t we finish our errand first? You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Of course not.’ It was what I’d expected. Some days she’d come into my house and immediately take off her clothes. But even then she might put a stop to things before we got to sex. We’d be kissing and she’d suddenly ‘remember’ a driving lesson or golf appointment. Edie picked these impossible things to emphasise that I should take nothing for granted. Although this drove me crazy she did it perfectly. She teased me just enough to keep me interested but not so much that I gave up.

‘Shall we go?’ she said.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Fine,’ Edie said and hurried off, leaving me holding her mirror. She went round a corner, then peeked back and mouthed something that was probably obscene but I still didn’t move; I had to score points where I could. She disappeared and didn’t return, though I knew where she was going. The square was where we’d taken our clocks and watches. It might seem a stretch to say this was a tradition, given that our camp was only eight years old, but many of us took it seriously. Yet no one was criticised if they left their mirrors somewhere else, or preferred to keep them. There were still some clocks on walls, a few watches on wrists. Some of us could handle those reminders.

I wanted to wait before following Edie to the square, but it was too cold to be standing around, so I walked towards the north end of the camp. It was a clear morning and I could see all the way down the valley. The trees seemed so near. I stopped and imagined walking between them, the absolute hush, the sharp scent of pine. I wanted the anticipation that comes from moving through new territory. Surely everyone looks to the horizon and thinks I want to be there.

I stood there until I started shivering. When I turned my back on the valley I saw five people moving down the street ahead of me, all of them carrying mirrors. As the person in front turned right at the crossroads their mirror flashed when it caught the sun. This small, beautiful moment acquired significance as it was repeated. After three flashes they seemed meaningful.

It took less than a minute to catch up with them, but when I turned the corner two of them had disappeared. Either they had changed their minds and decided to keep their mirrors or else the people had gone inside a house to tell someone what they were doing. That wasn’t why I knocked on Min-seo’s door: I just wanted to see her. While I enjoyed Edie’s games, what I had with Min-seo was different, playful and yet serious.

While waiting I checked my reflection with a thoroughness that would once have seemed like vanity. All I saw was a pale, thirty-five-year-old face with bad teeth and what Tomasz used to call my ‘joke beard’.

Min-seo smiled when she saw me, then said, ‘Is this a present?’ Before I could answer she took the mirror from me. She scratched at a stain. ‘This is dirty,’ she said, but without irritation; she merely wanted this to be noted.

I followed her in and smelt glue. A lot of people decorated their walls with colourful landscapes and patterns that could have graced a children’s ward; Min-seo’s mural showed a grey plain with dead trees and people whose heads were twice the usual size. She’d worked on it for nine months, and every time I thought it was finished she’d paint over the whole thing and do it again, only with different people. There must have been at least seven or eight layers by the time she announced she’d finished painting. ‘But it’s not done,’ she’d said, and I knew better than to ask her to explain.

Once the paint was dry she began to cover it with feathers. She’d barely done half the wall when the feathers started dropping off. ‘These feathers are too heavy,’ she said and then swore in Korean, cursing either the feathers or gravity.

But either Min-seo had found better glue, or lighter feathers, because as soon as I entered I saw she’d finished the job. The wall was covered with different coloured feathers, ranging from light, almost yellowish ones to some that were jet black. At first glance their placement seemed random, but there were patterns: the lightest feathers formed broken contours that intruded on the darker parts, while in a few places tawny feathers made a circle.

‘They look like wings,’ I said.

Min-seo nodded and tried to smile, but her expression twisted. ‘I think they are going to fall off again,’ she said and began to cry.

I put my hand on her cheek, then kissed her forehead. I kept my lips there, feeling the warmth, smelling the rose oil in her hair. As I held her she sang to herself. I think the song was about a ship and a girl, but whether it was about a ship named after a girl or a girl waiting for a ship, I had no idea.

Min-seo wiped her eyes. She took my hand and led me towards the bathroom. We didn’t need to speak. She sat on the toilet while I ran the bath; when it was full she took off her clothes. I don’t know why I looked away, given that I was about to wash her. Perhaps it was because over the previous few weeks she’d seemed to be getting younger even as her hair turned grey and the wrinkles spread. She seemed more like a teenager than a woman of thirty-nine.

She got in the bath and immediately put her head beneath the water. Bubbles kept floating up, big ones, then little ones, then no more bubbles, but Min-seo stayed under, her eyes open, as if she didn’t need to surface. I wondered if soon I’d knock on the door, receive no answer, then have to go in and find her. That was how most of us went once the end got close. Usually people did it quietly, without fuss, but occasionally they made it into a party. When Ella and Sharnaz had sent out joint invitations it wasn’t a surprise: even though Ella was the sick one, there was no way Sharnaz was going to continue without her.

When Min-seo surfaced she had a dolphin smile. I washed her hair, then her neck. ‘Like cleaning a corpse!’ she said, and laughed. ‘Don’t miss any part, I want to be clean in heaven.’ I soaped her arms, then her breasts, then she lifted one leg. ‘Especially here. And just one finger.’ I did what she wanted until she lay back with a long sigh that seemed to empty her of breath. Then she stood and I dried her.

On the way to the bedroom she stopped and put her hand around my wrist. She brought my hand to the wall then used it to stroke the feathers. They were soft and deep. As the feathers parted I caught glimpses of an arm, a leg, a branch, faces swollen like balloons. I didn’t understand why she’d gone to so much trouble to paint the mural if she was going to cover it up. The only thing I’d seen like it was in a book my ex-girlfriend Sasha had on outsider art. I guess that label applied to Min-seo, who hadn’t painted before she came to the camp, just as Edie had only started to dance after she arrived. Others took up whittling, collecting bottles, the stratagems of chess. We had to do something.

———

It was late afternoon when I left Min-seo. As I was getting dressed she woke, said, ‘I’m hungry,’ then went back to sleep. My stomach was also complaining. The canteen was only three house rows away, but I was so ravenous I considered running. My body was tense, ready to go, but it seemed better to exercise self-control. It had become too easy to want something and then to do it without caring about the result.

As I walked briskly I recalled a third-year tutorial in which we had argued over whether you can really be in two minds. Everyone was glad to debate this proposition except a smart but lazy student from Lublin, who was silent for most of the discussion. Only after we’d exhausted our borrowed arguments did he raise his hand and laconically say, ‘You can want two different things, but not at the same time. You switch between wanting these things, back and forth, so fast you don’t even realise.’ He said this with a smirk, as if his idea was something we secretly believed but wouldn’t admit. If that probably now-dead student had been jogging alongside me as I started to half-run towards the canteen, I’d have refuted him by saying that I was perfectly capable of wanting to eat a piece of toast while watching Edie unhook her bra. I could want to experience the tang of her sweat while enjoying hot butter. Even if I was, by his logic, only wanting one thing, two impulses were simultaneously present within that apparently singular desire. My mind didn’t have to choose.

But this wouldn’t have won the argument. I could picture the rich student quoting Goethe’s epigram ‘All Nine who often used to come to me, I mean the Muses: But I ignored them: my girl was in my arms.’ I wouldn’t have had an answer for that. While eating and sex might go together, lately I’d been unable to reconcile wanting to work on my thesis with the impulse to get drunk and high and spend long afternoons in bed with Edie or whoever. It was like being a student again, except that then I hadn’t needed to choose: it’s easy to be monkish when no one is willing to sleep with you.

As I reached the canteen there was a rich smell that made me think of the incredible goulash Tomasz and I had eaten in Zakopane on our last skiing trip. I used to dream about going back to that small restaurant, but even if I could, it almost certainly wouldn’t be there. A lot of people had fled to the Tatras thinking they’d be safe, but by most accounts things had deteriorated in the countryside faster than in the cities. All that scenic beauty returned people to a natural state that was more Hobbes than Rousseau.

The menu outside the canteen had one of Brendan’s little jokes. It was blank except for a rabbit’s head that had been nailed to the board by its ears. When I entered, Brendan looked up from behind the counter, nodded, then went back to chopping. This didn’t feel rude or unfriendly, and was about all I deserved. After I’d filled my bowl with stew I tried to break the ice. ‘No Easter for those bunnies,’ I said, though Easter was still very far away.

‘I suppose not,’ said Brendan. He paused long enough for me to turn away before adding, ‘But no doubt the Lord will shine His face on them and bring their leporine souls into the glory of resurrection.’

I laughed, mostly out of relief. ‘That would be nice. But is He doing that just for the rabbits?’

‘I don’t know. I guess we’ll see. Here.’ He handed me a plate of small dumplings then walked away. It was the longest conversation we’d had for six months, but I still felt awkward. Rather than stay in the empty canteen and eat on my own I was about to take my meal outside, but then I saw Fatoumata huddled in the corner. I went over to her table and pointed at an empty chair. She inclined her head to signal permission. Some people said she was unfriendly, but I thought it was more that she wasn’t talkative. As for whether that was due to her poor English or awful back pain, I had no idea.

‘How’s the food?’ I asked.

Fatoumata chewed and then swallowed. She pushed her plate away. She stood, picked up her coat, then said, ‘Metal. All is metal.’ She flicked the air with her hand as if trying to dispel something only she could see. As she passed me I smelt something pungent. After she’d gone I realised it was garlic. Either it was for her health, or she was trying to keep something away.

For the next few minutes I ate with my eyes closed, to concentrate on the flavours. With a little paprika it could have passed for that goulash Tomasz and I had eaten ten years before. My brother and I had sat at a rough wooden table at the back of a small restaurant whose floor was slippery with melted snow. We were so cold the food made its way through our bodies like fire. A pair of big, stupid grins took control of our faces.

When I heard someone come into the canteen I kept my eyes shut. I hoped whoever it was would respect my privacy.

‘Good stew?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said, and opened my eyes. A black beret was perched on Bob’s head like a saucepan lid. The lump beneath it resembled a turnip. He was standing still, his mouth slightly open, about to repeat an offer I couldn’t wait to refuse.

‘I wondered if you’d had a chance to think about joining us next Sunday. I think it’s going to be our best evening so far.’

‘Mmm,’ I said. The only thing worse than watching him stage Hamlet in thirty instalments would be taking part.

‘You’d make a wonderful Laertes.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Bob. But I’m sure whoever takes the role will benefit from your direction.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, as if I’d meant it, but I doubted he believed me. Bob was pompous, not stupid. He fashioned a smile, then went and spoke to Brendan. I couldn’t hear what Bob said, but given how quickly Brendan started shaking his head, I guessed he too was being offered a great theatrical opportunity. After this second refusal, Bob exited stage left.

After I’d finished eating I took my plate and Fatoumata’s into the kitchen and washed them along with a stack of other dishes. In some ways this gesture was totally normal, but it had been a long time since I had volunteered to help in the kitchen.

Brendan thanked me for doing the dishes but didn’t say anything else. I wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about anything personal, so I picked a safe subject. I said I hadn’t seen him at the chess tables for a while.

‘Yeah, I’ve pretty much given that up.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to do different things. I’d rather have a conversation than sit opposite someone in silence for hours. I have four or five months left, and I want to make the most of them.’

This sounded a bit dramatic; none of us knew how long we had. He must have seen my scepticism, because then he added, ‘I have a brain tumour. I got it just in time for Christmas. I suspect I’ll be getting some other presents soon.’

I was shocked, because Brendan looked healthy. His hair was still dark, his face unwrinkled. I briefly hoped he was lying to gain sympathy, but I knew he wasn’t. With me he was always truthful.

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘It’s alright, Lukas. Would you believe me if I said it was a relief? Well, not entirely. But a little bit.’

I understood. We all hated the waiting, the clocks in our bodies, their hands turning too fast.

I took a step towards him and hugged him close. His beard was soft like fur as it moved against my cheek. It had been almost a year since we’d slept together. I’d told him I was too busy with Min-seo and Edie, but that wasn’t the reason. It was to avoid the long looks he gave me afterwards. I’ve never trusted what people say to me after sex. The brain is too drowned in hormones; we’re basically drunk. Though Brendan never told me he loved me, or suggested we not see anyone else, the looks he gave me as we lay together had put me on my guard.

We went into the storeroom. He moved some boxes, then spread a blanket on the floor. ‘Are you in a hurry?’ he asked, and his voice sounded tired, as if it had required a huge effort to climb up his throat.

‘Don’t worry,’ I assured him. ‘We don’t need to rush.’

———

When I left the canteen it was dusk and something was burning. Not wood – the smell was too harsh, it was more like melting rubber. I was sure the fire wasn’t inside the camp, where they were sensibly prohibited, since apart from the meeting house the buildings were mostly made of wood. By the time I reached the north fence I could see a straight plume of grey smoke rising from the valley floor near Zaqatala, assuming that’s what the place was actually called. None of us could go down there, so we had to trust what we’d been told, which I did, because its location and size matched the map. That didn’t stop Erik saying we’d been deliberately misinformed so that if we escaped we’d be disorientated, but for most of us that didn’t apply. We’d chosen to be in the camp.

The smoke bent in the wind. Loud detonations and their echoes competed with each other. At first I thought it was firecrackers, then decided it was gunfire.

‘The sounds of a party,’ said Alain. I don’t know how long he’d been standing behind me; I hadn’t heard him approach because the ground was soft by that part of the fence. He had only been a guard for six weeks, which meant people were still curious about him. We’d spoken a few times, not for long, but enough to make me like him. He seemed able to do his job without being overwhelmed by the role.

‘Do you think it’s a wedding?’ I asked.

‘Could be. But I’m sure they’re celebrating.’

‘Celebrating what?’

‘Oh.’ He looked away, then lifted his right hand from his holster and turned it over so his palm was facing up, like he was trying to show me whatever he was reluctant to say.

‘It’s been five years since the last new case of Werner’s.’

He looked so sheepish I laughed, which made him even more uncomfortable.

‘Sorry, Lukas. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘It’s fine. I’m glad you did. And that’s a very good thing. None of us would say that doesn’t deserve to be celebrated.’

I paused to wonder if this was true; I was confident that Erik would find a shitty underside even to such good news.

‘And I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s obvious our numbers are going down fast. When I came here there were around four hundred of us. Now it’s less than half that.’

Alain nodded while looking away. He still had the guilt of the healthy around the sick. I took pity on him by changing the subject.

‘Have you been to the square today?’

‘Yes, just now. So many mirrors. It was like an art project.’

‘A bad one.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I’ve seen worse. In Marseilles I went to a gallery where there were melting blocks of blue ice hanging from the ceiling.’

‘Sounds cool.’

‘It could have been. But it was called “Eternity” and you had to put a blindfold on and be led in by a young child. On the way out they gave you a little box wrapped up with a ribbon and told you not to open it until you were very sad or very happy.’

‘Let me guess. Inside was a mirror.’

‘Worse. A stone.’

There was more gunfire, followed by actual fireworks, which we both admired. Tactfully, he asked what I’d done before the camps, and maybe he already knew: I was sure it was all in a file.

‘I was a lecturer,’ I said. ‘Technically, I was still only a postgraduate, because I hadn’t finished my thesis. But I had started teaching, and I think they would have offered me a real job if civilisation hadn’t decided to take a sabbatical.’

He nodded, and looked uncomfortable. After all, he couldn’t say, I’m sure you’ll get back to your career soon. He asked if I was still working on my thesis, and I was impressed; he could easily have assumed my studies were over. That I’d given up.

‘Yes,’ I said, and felt a small flush of pride. ‘But it’s taking a long time. I’ve had to redo most of it and I don’t have many books. Being without the internet doesn’t help either.’

He nodded. ‘I can imagine. But do you think this might have some positive effects? It might force you to think of something original.’

‘Maybe. I don’t know,’ I said, though this had occurred to me. It was best to keep this small idea asleep. If it should wake, and start to grow, I’d end up with fantasies about standing at the podium to deliver a keynote lecture.

To change the subject, I asked Alain what his ambition was.

‘I want to open a Mexican restaurant in Paris. After working here for six months I should have enough.’

‘Paris is great,’ I said, then told him I’d taken a summer trip there with my brother. Our coach broke down three times, the first time before we even left Warsaw. By the time we got to Paris, thirty-nine hours later, we’d quarrelled so much he stormed off immediately. I spent a few hours looking for him, then gave up and went and sat by the river. I’m embarrassed to say I started crying, because although I had wanted to visit Paris, what really mattered was going somewhere with Tomasz. When I saw him that evening he couldn’t stop saying sorry, and even though a lot happened over the next two days – we took acid in Notre Dame; Tomasz slept with a Canadian girl – my happiest memory of that trip is still my brother holding out his hands as he apologised.

‘But why Mexican?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think I’d get sick of being around that food. I spent six months in Oaxaca and loved it. Did you ever go to Mexico?’

‘No.’

And he didn’t exactly hesitate before making a sound of acknowledgement; it wasn’t a proper pause. In normal conversation the moment would have gone unremarked. If both of us hadn’t been thinking of the typical response to what I’d just said – You have to go – and why he couldn’t say that, there’d have been nothing awkward. But it didn’t ruin our conversation. We spoke about classical music (he preferred Debussy to Ravel), then about Flaubert (I said I preferred Three Tales to Madame Bovary). We could have been on a slow train, or waiting in a queue, anywhere two strangers might pass the time with casual, friendly talk.

Alain’s radio produced a crackle of static, then a woman’s voice said his name. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and walked a few steps away. For a few moments he spoke quietly enough for me not to hear. When he returned he said, ‘Sorry about that. I have to go to the south fence.’

‘Everything alright?’

‘Probably. Someone thinks they saw a light on the ridge and we want to make sure no one’s out there. I don’t think there is, as they’d have had to climb the mountain, but we should check.’

His casualness didn’t stop me seeing burning torches, petrol bombs, a mob wearing face masks and gloves.

‘I suppose some people might want to celebrate with a trip to the zoo to put down a few strays. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Lukas, that’s not going to happen.’

‘You’re probably right. They just need to be patient.’

He’d turned away to go, but then stopped.

‘They’ll find a cure,’ he said. ‘I really believe that. They have to.’

I nodded, because it was pointless to argue. It didn’t matter what we believed.

Rebecca

The night before the celebration Rajeev came round for dinner. Even though he was bringing his own food I wanted mine to be ready when he arrived so we could eat together. With most people this would have been tricky. You tell them eight but they think you don’t mean it, they come at quarter past, even later, when you’re getting angry with hunger. But Rajeev was always right on time.

This kind of punctuality required dedication. Rajeev’s place wasn’t far into Queens, and should have been a twenty- or thirty-minute drive, but over the last three months a ton of roads had been closed to prepare for the celebration. With the subway still shut, this made getting around a total nightmare; festivities that were supposed to encourage a return to normality were doing the opposite. To make sure of being on time Rajeev had to allow an hour for his journey. This was clearly overkill, but it was sweet that he didn’t want to be even a little bit late. He was without doubt the most considerate guy I’d ever dated.

Inevitably, when traffic was light, Rajeev would end up outside my building half an hour early, yet he didn’t ring my buzzer. He thought it would bother me, though I really wouldn’t have minded. In his place I’d have sat somewhere to read the paper or phone my dad, neither of which were options for Rajeev. He had little interest in the news and no concept of reading for pleasure; his only surviving relative, a sister I’d never met, lived in a cabin in Alaska without internet or phone reception. All he did, even if it was raining or cold, was find a quiet place to sit. A bench, a wall, a stoop, anywhere he wouldn’t be disturbed. Once sat he didn’t read, look at his phone or listen to music. All he wanted to do was sit and pay complete attention to whatever was happening on the street, even if, by some New York miracle, that turned out to be nothing.

I’ve no doubt he was able to do this without his mind wandering. His ability to focus was one of the reasons he was such a gifted epidemiologist. It would be unfair, and reductive, to suggest that Rajeev’s preternatural concentration stemmed from where he placed on the autistic spectrum (in my informed, albeit non-professional opinion, on the Asperger’s border), and for most of our relationship this side of him had a geeky charm. I liked his awkwardness when I teased him about his Quest for Focus. ‘I just want to be in the moment,’ he’d say. ‘You understand, don’t you, Rebecca?’ To which I’d laugh and reply, ‘Yes, of course,’ while wondering why he only used my name when he was uncomfortable.

The buzzer went at eight o’clock and I had to smile. As I took the pan from the heat he came in and said, ‘Hey,’ and I blew him an air kiss back. While he went into the bathroom to wash and then spray his hands, I got a plate out of the cupboard, a fork from the drawer, then spooned out some risotto.

‘Smells good,’ he said, then brought his bag over to the table. He sat at the far end and took out a container. I laughed when I saw its contents.

‘Shrimp again?’

‘Afraid so. Right now it’s all I want.’

‘Fair enough. But how long is this streak?’

‘Eleven days.’

‘Eleven days of shrimp. And will there be twelve?’

‘Maybe.’

After dinner we sat on the couch and watched some old black and white musical from the 1930s. It was sexist, and sometimes racist, but Rajeev laughed a lot. After watching three big song and dance numbers I started thinking about all the people in the US who had been starving while this expensive stupidity was taking place. One of Matthew’s favourite dinner party provocations was to ask someone if they’d seen the latest Hollywood blockbuster, then launch into a paean of its merits. If someone objected he’d say that the multiplex still served the same need as cinemas had during the Great Depression, that the entertainment offered by those palaces of light and wonder – he actually used those words – was exactly the distraction people needed during those terrible times. As soon as they seemed convinced, he’d laugh and say, ‘But yeah, that film is crap.’ I didn’t mind him amusing himself: I knew he agreed with me about escapism being a form of denial. You can look away, laugh, fill your mind with music, but when the movie stops your problems are still there.

Our movie ended. Rajeev yawned. ‘I’ll get things ready,’ he said, and I was grateful because I was pretty beat. The guys I’d dated before him hadn’t been so understanding. Karl accused me of being afraid of intimacy, an odd thing to say to someone who’d been jerking him off twice a week for a month. Scott went even further. We’d been seeing each other for two months and things seemed to be going well. But then one night, when I was almost asleep, he said, ‘Listen, I really like you, but I’m not into this glory hole stuff. I don’t know if this is some kind of a fetish, but if not, then it’s dumb. There’s no need for us to use it now. I want to be in you.’ He’d been lucky the screen was between us.

Rajeev clapped his hands to turn on the bedroom light. I lay on the couch, my eyes half-closed, listening to the hiss of the spray, the protest of latex stretching. ‘Do you need a hand?’ I asked faintly.

‘Almost done. Just putting on the covers.’

Hearing shrink-wrap being unrolled always makes me think of Mom wrapping up leftovers, even when no one was likely to eat them. She was thrifty like that. But I pushed the thought away. I didn’t want to get sad.

Rajeev was spraying the openings as I came into the bedroom. His head twitched toward me, but he didn’t look around. He was concentrating.

Once he was done he went round the other side of the screen and took off his clothes. Apart from a little paunch, he had a good body for a thirty-seven-year-old who spent most of his day indoors. Perhaps it was all the shrimp.

He didn’t say anything as he watched me undress. I stopped when I was down to my underwear, then held my bra strap and looked at him. He came closer. He pressed himself against the screen but didn’t speak. Talking was a distraction.

I moved closer until I was right against the screen. As I took off my bra Rajeev reached for the gloves. He put one on his right hand, then his left. He rolled a condom on. I took off my panties, put on my gloves, and then we began. I put my gloved hand into one of the lower openings, then pushed it through until it filled the screen’s thicker glove. When I took hold of Rajeev he sighed.

At this point both Karl and Scott had closed their eyes and waited to be jerked off. But because Rajeev was considerate, and not a prick, he pushed one hand through the screen and put it between my legs. As I pulled him off, he pushed his fingers inside me, and we got our rhythm just right.

Soon I was close to coming, and I think he was too. But Rajeev had been too thorough in his preparations. The inside of my glove felt so wet I thought it couldn’t only be from the spray. Which meant the glove was torn. Which meant the moisture I felt was from Rajeev. I pulled my hand back sharply.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Rajeev. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘A little. But don’t worry.’

I wished I’d told him the truth. He’d have understood. He wouldn’t have laughed at me. But I was too embarrassed by my overreaction. Of course I trusted the gloves. There used to be all kinds of stories about intentional screen damage by jealous lovers and people settling scores, though these were ridiculous tales that happened to one in a million, if they happened at all.

For a long time we were silent as we lay on our different sides of the screen. We were facing each other but my eyes were closed.

When he spoke, his voice seemed to be coming from further away.

‘Is it because of the celebration? I can understand if that’s difficult. If you’re thinking about Matthew.’

‘No. It’s just been a long day,’ I said, which was true.

He didn’t reply for a few moments, and when he did, he spoke almost in a whisper. ‘Maybe you should come to the party tomorrow. You shouldn’t be alone.’

A lot of other shouldn’ts came to mind. If four years hadn’t been a big deal, then five shouldn’t be celebrated either. In wedding terms, it was wood. All the radio stations who kept playing Bowie’s ‘Five Years’ seemed to have missed that it was a song about the end of the world.

Rather than have that argument again I said, ‘You know what I think about that.’

‘I do. But being at the party doesn’t mean you approve of the celebration. Our party is more about the Institute and our work. I know you’re proud of that. If you come it would mean a lot to everyone. It would mean a lot to me.’

He had me there. Although my colleagues and I didn’t agree on some things, they were without doubt the most dedicated people I’d ever worked with. Their faces should have been on coins and banknotes, carved into mountains. They, more than anyone, had earned the right to celebrate.

‘Fine. I’ll come,’ I said, then clapped my hands.

‘Thank you,’ he said in the dark.

———

When my alarm went off at seven Rajeev was already gone. I lay in bed another ten minutes, thinking of him driving home in his old Prius, the early light touching the East River, how it might feel to kiss him.

After showering I put on a black skirt and jacket, then immediately took them off. Everyone in the lab knew what I thought of the celebration: there was no need to be petty by dressing for a funeral.

I settled on a navy skirt and jacket with an eggshell blouse. It was dressy enough for the party but wouldn’t stand out too much on the way to work. In an attempt to be open-minded, I was going to take the just reopened subway. Although I was nervous about going into a place with so many potential vectors of infection – every handle, button, door – I was also curious to see this ‘completely safe way to travel’.

The new 14th Street station was like the bathroom of a rich old lady with an obsessive hygiene disorder. The air was moist with antibacterial spray; the wall tiles gleamed with a resin that apparently digested microorganisms. As a final prophylactic, the trains were sealed off from the platform by airlocks. On these a yellow hazard sign informed passengers that they would receive a dose of UV radiation that fell ‘within acceptable levels’. In ten years, commuters with cancer would probably be suing the city, but for a while no one would complain about something as minor as the irradiation of their soft tissues.

It was all very impressive and yet, in a perverse way, I missed the medieval ambience of the old subway, even though I’d never liked it. Matthew used to say the shittiness of American public transport was class warfare by other means. I just thought it was weird to be travelling under the ground.

There was a distant roll of thunder. The air seemed moist with spray. I could smell ozone, bleach, then the train was roaring in at a threatening speed and volume. I was sure it hadn’t been so loud before, but perhaps it was because I hadn’t heard the noise for seven years. As a little girl I’d struggled to understand how big trains stayed on the little rails, and as the subway train curved in there was a childish instant when I worried that it might swerve onto the platform.

After the train stopped we entered the airlocks in single file. It took several claustrophobic seconds before the inner door opened. On the old subway, with hundreds of people trying to board, it would have taken ten minutes to load a single train. But there were only twelve of us on the platform. Even allowing for the city’s reduced population, this was a tiny fraction of commuters. I guessed that despite the celebrations, all the hype, many were still cautious. Better to walk quickly down the street, in the open, scanning every approaching person for that upward tilt of the head that warns of a convulsion that expels forty thousand nasal droplets. On the street you could throw yourself to the ground, cover your head with a coat, duck behind a tree. On the subway there was no escaping a sneeze.

The new train cars were about the size of a school bus. I took a seat at one end, an old woman crept to the other, and a young guy went straight for the middle. Only when I noticed his breasts did I realise he was a young woman wearing a mask, no doubt an expensive one because it was convincing. The male face had glasses, a wide smile and a short brown beard. I wondered if she wore it only on difficult days, like his birthday or death day, or whether she was one of those who refused to take it off except to wash or eat.

Every surface in the train had the smooth, straight-from-the-factory sheen that makes me think of spaceships and the far, far future. Outside it was interstellar dark, the walls invisible. But we were hurtling down tunnels more than a century old, and no matter how much they had been bleached and blasted, I bet there were still rats.

The new train was a spaceship in at least one regard. We got from 14th to 242nd in fifteen minutes. The speed of this was disorientating; part of me was downtown. To give myself time to adjust, and to avoid starting work so early, I went into the park and called Dad. His phone rang for ages, but I was sure he was up. When he finally answered he said, ‘Be quiet. I’ve told you.’

I laughed. ‘It won’t be much of a conversation if I do.’

‘Not you, honey. It’s Lesley. You know the phone makes her crazy.’

He raised his voice. ‘It’s Rebecca,’ he said, the way he used to say it to Mom. Lesley barked in answer.

‘How are you, Dad?’

‘Oh, you know. Just rattling around. I don’t suppose you’re calling to wish me a happy fifth?’ He laughed, then coughed in a phlegmy way that apparently wasn’t of medical concern.

‘Would you like me to?’

‘God, no. It’s all a big distraction. And a waste of money too. We’re supposed to think everything’s fine and back to normal, but what was so good about the way things were? It’s still a world where everything’s controlled by corporations and you have to pay for water. Of course it’s good we have a vaccine. But let’s not pretend there’s anything to celebrate.’

‘Dad, I’m hugging you.’

‘Hugging you back.’

We paused and I thought of his long arms, his terrible cologne. He and Mom had been so close, but I still hoped he’d remarry. He needed someone.

‘So Dad, are you staying home tonight?’

He laughed. ‘Well, no. Do you remember Bobby Greene?’

It took a second. Then I saw his red face, his crooked nose, the faded orange hunting jacket he wore whatever the season. Mom had never liked him.

‘Is he alive?’

‘Oh no. He died in the big Philly fire. But his brother Johnny was working on a rig in Alaska the whole time, so he was fine. He’s coming back into town tonight for the first time in ten years. Apparently he’s been waiting until he thinks it’s totally safe. First thing I’ll do when I see Johnny is tell him what you think. He’ll probably get the first plane north.’

‘Dad, I don’t want people to panic. That makes disease spread faster. I just think we aren’t really safe until we have a cure.’

‘Alright,’ he said, and I imagined him holding his hands up in surrender. ‘What about your plans? Hitting the town with your pals?’

Who did he think these ‘pals’ were? Dear friends from work or college that I never mentioned? After all I’d said, did he honestly think I went out to bars?

‘Dad, if it was up to me I’d stay home. But I have a thing at work I can’t get out of.’

‘Is it a party? Have you got a date?’

‘It’s not like that. It’ll be boring, just lots of rich people and speeches.’

He sighed. ‘Becky, I know you don’t want your old dad to keep playing the same tune, but because I’m your old dad I have to. I know you’re brilliant at your work and I’m so proud of you, but—’

I forced a calming, nasal breath.

‘I’m worried you’re not letting anyone get close to you. It’s been almost six years now.’

Six years and two months.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to start seeing people again? You’re gorgeous, you’re wonderful, I don’t believe guys aren’t interested in you. Or women.’

At least that last part was new.

‘It doesn’t matter to me who they are, whether they’re young, old, rich, poor – I only want you to be happy.’

‘Dad, I am happy. I just don’t have time for a personal life.’

This was one of those true lies. I really didn’t have time. Even the attention I paid to Rajeev – which was nowhere near what he deserved – made me feel selfish.

Dad cleared his throat. ‘You had time for Matthew, and that was during the worst of the epidemic. Are you telling me you have less free time than when we all thought we were going to die?’

This was so unfair I couldn’t speak. And I think Dad knew he’d gone too far, because then he backtracked.

‘Becky, I love you, you’re my only child, and nothing matters more to me than your happiness. You should do what you think is most important. If that means just working, so be it.’

‘I love you too, Dad. But I have to go now.’

‘Alright. Call me next week?’

‘I will.’

After I hung up I sat on a bench and smoked a cigarette so quickly I got lightheaded. Lying to Dad felt awful, but if he knew I was seeing someone he’d have too many questions. He’d be so happy for me he’d forget all my boundaries. His well-intentioned enthusiasm would make me feel like a monster for not wanting to share. He and Mom hadn’t been too nosy about my personal life when I was in high school, but once I was far away, and they had nothing to go on, they wouldn’t stop fishing. I didn’t respond well; I was so determined to give them nothing that I ended up making Johns Hopkins sound like a single-sex college. Matthew and I had been dating for a year before I mentioned him.

I finished my cigarette, and it was my last one, so I left the park and walked quickly to the kiosk by the Institute. There was a line, so I had the chance to try out some of Rajeev’s waiting-as-meditation. I failed almost immediately because the women in front of me was trying to destroy someone. Her phone was stuck to her mouth as she said, ‘Your laugh. Your nose. The hairs in your ears. The way you swallow so loudly.’

She paused, though only for breath.

‘And you think everything you say is interesting, but when I try and tell you something you look bored. You’re stingy and you have no patience. You’re ignorant. You’re a slob.’

The list of failings continued; I guessed she was leaving it as a message rather than telling him or her directly. Although maybe the person deserved it, I found it unpleasant to hear such direct aggression. With an effort I was able to tune out the woman’s voice long enough to think it was warm for October; that I’d left my bedroom light on; that next time Rajeev came round I’d spray the screen and gloves myself.

’You cockroach,’ she said, then made a remarkable segue. ‘Hello, Carlos. The usual, please.’ And of course he was already reaching for it. He handed her the nasal spray as she swiped her card.

‘Thank you. You have a good day,’ she said. As she walked away she muttered, ‘I will step on you.’

It was a pleasure to hear Carlos’s friendly voice. ‘Good morning, Dr Rebecca. Happy anniversary.’

‘You too,’ I said, because Carlos got a free pass. ‘Are you doing anything special tonight?’

‘I’ll be here.’

‘Do you have to be?’

He spread his palms as if the answer was written there. ‘I want to. This is where I was during all that time. I should be here tonight. Here you go.’ He handed me my cigarettes. ‘On the house.’

When I asked why, he said, ‘None of you should have to pay for anything today. Tell your colleagues to come see me.’

Although this wasn’t necessary, it seemed wrong to deny him the pleasure of generosity. He was a remarkable person. His wife and son had died right at the start of the epidemic, before we even knew there was one. Within a few months the stores that hadn’t closed completely were doing all their business online or through security hatches. By the end of the first year Carlos’s was the only place left open in the area. The New York Post tried to lionise him as yet another heroic New Yorker standing up in the face of adversity. Carlos still had the article pinned up in the kiosk. It was very faded, except for where he’d written BULLSHIT in black marker across it. He didn’t stay open out of civic pride or because it’s what his family would have wanted. He just didn’t give a fuck.

I lit up at the side of the Institute’s main entrance and took another stab at the noble art of Waiting. In theory it made sense, and I liked what Rajeev had once said about trying to pay attention to all the things he usually ignored, but I was sceptical about learning anything new about a section of street I’d been seeing for the last seven years.

To my surprise, once I relaxed and let my eyes drift I did notice some new things: a sneaker dangled from a high branch; the security guards had bigger rifles; on an opposite doorway there was a piece of stencilled graffiti of six red crucifixes followed by a question mark. But I also thought: so what? It was still the same street. I didn’t feel any different for noticing those things.

After checking the sidewalk and windows of the vacant building opposite for further revelations I had half a cigarette left. I wondered what else I was supposed to pay attention to; I couldn’t notice something that didn’t exist. Instead I focused on the burning sound as I inhaled, the tightness of smoke in my throat. I’d only been smoking on and off for six months, so it wasn’t entirely automatic, and I didn’t really think of myself as a smoker. Growing up I’d considered smoking a kind of mental disorder I’d never suffer from. Seeing my aunt and my mom coughing so badly should have inoculated me against it for life, but six months ago I’d bought a pack on a whim. My hands liked having a task.

The last thing I saw before I went into the Institute was a cyclist wearing a huge breathing mask that covered her whole face. Though I’m sure it was an advanced device, with both air and chemical filters, to me it resembled the frightening gas masks worn during World War Two. After that war ended there were probably people, both civilians and military, who still carried their masks around for a while, but I was sure almost no one had kept doing so for five years. Those lucky folks had seen pictures of bombed cities and foreign soldiers with their hands raised in surrender. They knew it was over.

Lukas

Something about dusk that night made me think of Christmas. Without light pollution our sky shifted smoothly from deep blue to black. The first stars emerged quickly. Walking between the huts, looking at the yellow and orange squares of windows, the cold pushing through my clothing, made me want to hang coloured lights from the eaves, dust everything with snow. It was the time of year when Tomasz would appear with a tree whose provenance we had given up questioning.

Although we could have found ways to celebrate the season, most of us didn’t bother. None of those rituals made sense any more. A few years ago Dr Nilsson got Bob to organise a carol concert, even found us a tree for the square, but as soon as the singing began the Gnostics started screaming and wouldn’t stop. Later they burnt the tree.

Since no one else had mentioned the anniversary I assumed that our weekly gathering at Rustam’s house was going to be the usual bacchanal. If your organs are likely to fail or become cancerous at short notice, there’s no reason not to overdo things. What made these parties possible was the very generous alcohol allowance we received from the authorities. The wide range of different conditions among us meant there were plenty of drugs to go round. Through trial and error we managed to create a lot of states that were more interesting than simple drunkenness, and so far no one had died.