They sit, together as always, in the block-walled lunchroom with small windows, high up, with a view of only the hazy sky. Bare bulbs cast harsh shadows on the fifty or so workers who take the middle lunch period. It is their only break from a twelve-hour shift making metal parts that can be used for cars or trucks or tractors or tanks. They are never told which.
"Besides,” Raisa says, “I think that Pasha doesn't much care for meat, do you, Pasha?"
Pasha finishes chewing and swallowing a raisin. “Meat or no meat, it's no matter to me. My food is good enough.” She takes another raisin and chews deliberately.
"She is young yet,” says Goran. “She will tire of her dried fruit and bread. ‘Meat or no meat,’ she says, as if such things are trifling. The days I have meat are the way I mark my calendar, with every other minute of my life so completely the same as the next. I have never had meat more than once in a week, even during Reform."
Niki says, “You just resent the Reformers because they did not lower your quota."
"It is hard to make quota with only eight fingers, my friend. They promised they would make allowances for cripples, but my quota got only bigger."
"That was only temporary—"
"They promised us a better life, but it got only worse. I'm glad the Old Ones returned us to the old ways. Nothing is better, but at least we don't expect it to be. Better to have no expectations than to be always disappointed."
"They needed more time, that is all,” Niki says. “You cannot decades of ugnyetyonnost two years. They just needed more time. Right, Pasha?"
Pasha tilts her head as she peels the crust from her bread. “The Reformers will free us one day."
"Oh, pffft,” Goran says, waving her off with a dirty hand—his hands never come clean. “You, of all people, should know differently. Your father rots in a prison as the Old Ones’ way of thanking him for his part in the Reform. Do you think he will once again lead us?"
"I have hope."
"Hope. HA!” Goran leans toward her, his rich brown eyes sparking to life in a weary face. “Let me tell you about hope. One does not dare to hope here, in this life, in this world. Hope is dangled before us, coaxing us to take one more step, then another, then another, until we have followed the newest liars from one desperate circumstance to another. Hope has been killed a thousand times over.” Goran spits out an apple seed. “The only thing even resembling hope is my desire to simply survive to see another day. And that may not be hope so much as worry that even this life is better than death, if the afterlife, too, was created by liars.” He glares at Pasha, but her placid countenance cannot be bullied from her face.
"There's Goran for you.” Niki chuckles through a thick, dark beard. “Ever the shiny coin."
Goran turns. “What could you possibly have to hope for, Niki? Was it not your wife who ran off to join the Reformers? When will she be coming back? Do you still hold hope that she will show up at your doorstep, these five long years later, and be your wife again—?"
Niki slams his hand on the table. “You will not about her that way. She is still my wife. She hides for her life."
"She is still your wife while in the bed of another? Hiding together for their lives?"
Niki jumps to his feet, his chair tumbling behind him. “You will take that back, Goran, man of no hope,” he says, leaning across the table. “Hopeless man, you will take that back."
The lunchroom becomes silent; faces turn to watch.
Goran doesn't flinch, takes another bite of apple. “I will do no such thing. I am right, as always."
"Goran, hush,” Raisa says. “Niki, sit. Goran, you don't know anything about Niki's wife."
Goran looks around as Niki regains his chair. One by one the workers return to eating. “Maybe, but I have heard things."
"You have heard no such thing, Goran Milskevich,” Raisa says. “You never talk to anyone other than us and your wife."
Goran sighs and finishes his apple. The muffled hum of motors in the next room and the muted talking at the other tables fills the silence.
Pasha clears her throat. “Goran, do you dream?"
Goran stares at his lunch.
"I dream,” Raisa says.
Pasha holds her gaze on Goran. “Do you, Raisa?” she asks.
"Yes. A few nights ago I had a dream about my husband being told to work in the mines again after he had finally been moved to the office. He came home covered in sweat and grime, and as he walked up the street he was camouflaged by the background of dirty sky and dingy buildings. He bumped right into me before I saw him, and he looked sad and worn and I thought he would die that very moment.” She drops her sandwich onto the table and shakes her head slowly. “They're not making their quotas."
Goran and Niki exchange glances. Pasha looks unconcerned and gives Raisa a reassuring smile. “Goran dreams too, don't you, Goran?” she asks.
"No,” he says quickly, his eyes darting to Pasha then away. “I have not dreamed since.... I cannot remember."
"You cannot remember last night then?” asks Pasha.
"I did not dream last night."
"But you tried, didn't you?"
"How do you know this?"
"Your dreaming-self wanted to let me in, but you fought me."
"How do you know this, Pasha? Tell me."
"Your fighting makes me tired."
"Tell me!” he shouts.
Pasha smiles. “Because I am sending you my dreams, the dreams of my father, the dreams that will make you alive again."
Goran's eyes grow wide and he pushes away from the table, stuffing everything back into his bag. “Pasha,” he says quietly, “that is dangerous talk. I do not want to be involved in your father's Reformer affairs. I need my sleep if I want ever again to make quota. Leave me alone.” His metal chair screeches as he slides it back, and in a few long strides he is gone.
* * * *
The next day they eat quietly. The sound of the machinery hums and bangs dully from beyond the walls. Pasha speaks. “Did you dream last night, Goran?"
"Again with the questions, Pasha. If you weren't so odd I'd think you were a spy for the government."
"Did you?"
Goran shifts his gaze to Niki, then Raisa, then back to Pasha. “No."
"Are you sure?"
"Why do you care about my dreams, Pasha?"
"Dreams are important."
"They are not important to me. They are nonsense; they are foolishness. They lie."
"Did that dream last night lie to you, Goran?"
"All dreams lie."
"Did it lie or did it show you something you did not want to see?"
Goran snorts and shrugs. “What are you talking about, odd Pasha?"
"Did your dream not show you that the Reformers would rise again? And that you would join them this time? That you would help lead them to victory?"
"Quiet, girl!” Goran ducks his head and looks around the room. “Do you want us all to be arrested?"
"Was that your dream, Goran?"
Goran glances around again. “I refuse to dream those dreams. Those are dangerous dreams, dangerous thoughts. I cannot afford to get my hopes up."
Pasha laughs. “But Goran, silly, they cannot read your thoughts, share your dreams. You are safe within your own mind."
"It seems he is not safe from you,” Niki says.
Pasha smiles. “I dreamed about your wife, Niki, last night. Did you dream of her too?"
Niki's face grows quizzical. “Yes."
"And was she safe in your dream?"
"Yes."
"And faithful? And missing you?"
"Yes, she missed me terribly."
"Then I believe it is so,” Pasha says, looking deep into Niki's eyes. Her face radiates a confidence that seems to flow from beyond her. She turns to Goran. “Would you like to hear my dream?” she asks.
"Not if it will get us arrested,” says Goran.
"Tell us,” says Raisa.
"I am with Papa,
” Pasha starts, “and we walk through a city, my hand in his. The sun makes hard shadows and people are singing. They are singing as they work and as they paint their homes with blues and reds and yellows, and as they tend their lawns, and singing as they walk; and they walk everywhere, wearing flowing dresses and fine suits and shined shoes; and children shed the clothing of labor and they play. We visit. We visit our friends, many friends, and we eat at their tables and they have plenty and offer us chicken and lamb, and we eat and drink and rest. And at the end of the day we sleep an optimistic sleep and dream the dreams of free people."
"That is nonsense,” Goran says. “We have not had a day of rest in ages. And the sky has not been blue in half my lifetime, and wherever there should be green grass there is only mud. And people do not leave their homes, parading around in festive dress and eating meat at the tables of others. Singing, no less. We work. Our lives are monochrome; they are black and white and all shades of gray, like the sky and the dirty streets and the grime from the air that coats our houses and turns colors into remnants, and this sameness of color trespasses into our dreams so that even there we cannot enjoy a respite from the unrelenting dullness. There is no color in my dreams as there is no color in my life. How is it you dream in color, Pasha?"
"My father has visions. It is how he dreamed up Reform."
Niki sputters, “Ridiculous, Pasha. Your father is in prison, eight hundred miles away."
"Yes, and at night,” Pasha says, “he sends me his dreams. It started right after he was sent away. At first it made him ill, but I've learned to be more receptive. And now I send his dreams to others, and will keep doing it until my father is free again."
"He will never be free until the Old Ones are dead and gone,” says Goran.
"Or pushed out again,” says Raisa. “Which may keep my husband from the mines. I hope every day and every night that it will happen."
"Then I have no need to send you any dreams, have I, Raisa?” asks Pasha. She smiles and holds Raisa's gaze for a moment.
"I have had enough of this dream talk,” says Goran. “We could be discussing fairy tales for all it matters to the real world."
Pasha settles back into her chair and finishes her meal. Her smile curls undaunted and she gazes mostly at Goran, as though she were sizing up an opponent. Niki and Raisa talk about their children while Goran hunches over his meal. His chewing slows, then stops, and he stares at his dried apricots, his face scrunching up as if he remembers something painful. The end-of-lunch whistle sounds and he blinks with a start, sighing and tossing his remainders into his sack.
* * * *
A few days later, Goran, Niki, and Raisa glance at Pasha's empty chair as a new packer, young and earnest-looking, tries to sit there. Goran says, “That chair is taken. Find another."
"But no one has sat here for two days,” says the dusty-haired young man.
"I do not care that you do not see anyone there,” says Goran. “That chair is taken."
The young man pauses. “But if I may sit here just this one day—"
Goran speaks harshly. “We do not need your kind at our table. Leave us alone."
"My kind?” the young man asks, with a smile that could have come from Pasha. “You know my kind, do you?” And he leaves.
"What did you mean by ‘his kind,’ Goran?” Raisa asks.
Goran leans close and talks low. “They are Reformers, that bunch over there."
"How do you know?” Niki asks.
"They have asked me to join them."
"Will you?"
Goran frowns. “What is the use? To lose again?"
The three eat silently and try not to look at one another. The only sounds are of paper unwrapping and apples crunching and water cups being set down. “She will miss her quota,” Niki says finally. “She never misses her quota."
* * * *
Goran quietly pushes the door shut and hangs his coat on the peg in the hall. He takes his lunch sack to the small, tidy kitchen, empties it into the trash, and sets it neatly in its place near the breadbox. He lifts the lid to the pot on the stove, takes a long-handled spoon, and stirs. “Cabbage,” he says, and replaces the lid.
He settles into his tattered beige recliner, which has a large dark spot where his head rests when he falls asleep. The living area lies between the kitchen and the bedroom, and is comfortable enough for the two of them. On one side is a sofa and two chairs, a couple of end tables, and a small television with rabbit-ear antennae. On the other side is the kitchen table with four wooden chairs, only two of which show significant wear. A few pictures, mostly relatives, hang here and there on the walls and a pottery urn—a gift—sits on a shelf above the fireplace. His newspaper is there, but today he leaves it and just sits.
"You're home early, Goran,” says Dariia, coming from the backyard with a handful of parsley and chives. She bends to kiss him on the head. “Did you make quota?"
Goran sighs. “No, not today. A fabrication machine was down and I ran out of parts. No one could make quota today. Not even...."
Dariia stiffens. “Pasha? The great worker Pasha? Pasha the quota machine?"
"Dariia."
"Why do you talk always of Pasha?"
"André asked me to look after her."
"André,” she says, with a downturn in tone.
"He was my friend, Dariia."
"He almost took you with him to prison."
"It wasn't his fault."
"And where would I be today? Living in Council housing with the cockroaches dancing on my feet in the middle of the night."
"I should be there too, in prison, if I hadn't eaten that damned meat stew."
"But I am glad you did.” Dariia leans over and hugs Goran. “Aren't you?"
Goran presses his head into her. “Some days, yes, some days, no."
"Really?” Dariia asks. “Which days no?"
Goran says nothing.
"If you were in prison, who would André have asked to look after Pasha?"
"A fine job I'm doing too. She is so odd. She talks about dreams."
Dariia pulls back. “Dreams?"
"Yes,” he says. “It is nothing, just craziness."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. It is nothing,” he says. “How long until dinner?"
"Right away, my draga."
Goran smiles and lets her slide away until she is out of reach and into the kitchen.
At dinner, Goran is more quiet than usual. “Pasha wasn't there today. She has missed three days in a row. I wonder...."
"Wonder what?"
Goran's look is far away. “Nothing. I wonder nothing."
Dariia thinks for a long time. “Would you want me to visit tomorrow, to see if she needs anything?"
"You would do that?"
"For you, my draga, yes."
Goran smiles. “No, Dariia, I am sure she is all right. I think she was coming down with a cold or something the other day. That is all."
Dariia gets up to go to the kitchen. “Still, I could take her something if you like. Some soup maybe. I wish I had chicken soup for her,” she says as she disappears through the door.
"Meat or no meat,” he mimics, “my food is good enough for me.” He laughs. “No, Dariia, do not fret about chicken for dear, contented Pasha."
Dariia calls from the kitchen, “Did you say something, Goran?"
"No, my draga. Nothing of consequence.” He thinks about the dream. Pasha's dream. He hums absently, a tune from his boyhood. Dariia returns from the kitchen.
"Are you singing, Goran?"
"What?” he asks. “Oh, maybe. I guess. Why?"
"You never sing."
Goran thinks about that for a moment. “Maybe I should start then,” he says.
Dariia's worried look won't go away as she watches Goran almost smile while he ladles a second helping of the cabbage soup.
Goran wipes his chin with a once-white napkin, dulled and frayed despite Dariia's care. “I was thinking,” he says,
“that maybe you are right in wanting to visit Pasha tomorrow. We should make sure she is all right."
"What should I take her, then, since I have no chicken soup?"
Goran thinks. “Pasha will be happy with anything you bring, but I think she would love a bit of goat's cheese,” he says. “And fresh bread."
Dariia nods.
"You could inquire after André."
"I don't think so."
"Just to see how he's doing. It's only polite."
"I do not want to talk about André."
"She misses him."
"A girl should miss her father."
"I miss him too."
Dariia's face hardens. “And I,” she says, leaning in, “do not."
"Dariia, moya lyubavi, I hardly think he deserves—"
"Do not ‘moya lyubavi’ me, husband. You almost went to prison because of him."
"We almost toppled the Old Ones for good because of him."
"But you failed, and you did not get to take the place on the Board that André had created for you, and all your friends went to prison. And you, by virtue of the luck of food poisoning, did not."
"If I had been there—"
"If you had been there, it would have made no difference, and I would not have had anyone—like Pasha's mother has her—to help me keep the house, and I'd be sitting right now in a Council tenement, sipping broth by candlelight and wondering when you would ever come back to me. No, Goran the lucky, you could not have saved your friends. And you cannot save them now."
"I am not trying to save them."
"Don't tell me that. I know about your dreams."
"What?"
"I have them too. The same one every night, at first only the beginning of a dream, then each night a little more and then a little more."
Goran stands up, paces the room, runs his hand through his graying hair. “I am sorry. They are meant for me. It is Pasha. She is sending me—us—these dreams. Damn her!"
"How? How can she do that?"
"I do not know. André used to talk about visions but I never gave it any mind. And the dreams, they make her ill. The more I resist the harder it is for her—"
"Then maybe she will stop."
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 17