All That Is Solid Melts into Air Read Online Free

off an anonymous motorway, on a routine morning. Aware all the while that he himself formed part of the scene, a forlorn figure in a worn suit, staring at this wonderful absurdity.
    He rarely thought of how he looked to others. It was a side effect of having the responsibility of delivering grave news. Walking into a room to meet fraught parents, or a wife who hasn’t slept for a week, requires only an outward gaze. You lose all authority, all assurance, if you worry about how you’ll be perceived. He thought how the life that had silently formed around him seemed such a solid thing now, how rarely he ever brushed against the element of surprise anymore.
    Down, to the right, almost outside his range of vision, his attention was drawn to the sheen of a pair of glossy black stilettos. A regular staple of her wardrobe. The sight of it transported him to the night at the river. The night of their first real encounter. Grigory’s younger self, hunched alone on the frozen surface, only a paraffin lamp for guidance. A small wicker stool, the same one on which he sat many years later in the eye of their unhappiness. A rod. A hole in the ice.
     
    THE PLACE IS KURSK . The river named after the city. He’s a junior registrar in the hospital and a new arrival. He comes to the river to rid his brain of Latin terms, of the smell of the wards, antiseptic still clinging to his skin. Nothing to concentrate on other than the dark circle before him, half a metre in diameter, his line plunged into the ambiguous depths. He holds the rod loosely in his hand, engrossed in his waiting. A glass bottle rests between his thighs and he puts it to his lips but receives nothing, his supply exhausted. He shakes his head in annoyance and places it under the stool, resuming his position.
    A cry from the bank. “Hey!”
    He turns to see buildings foregrounded against the streaked indigo sky, passing cars sweeping their halogen light over the streets. The cry again, coming from a walkway along the bank. A figure emerges from the darting shadows, shrouded by trees, a woman with long dark hair, moonlight skimming over it, woven into the night.
    He reels up the line and balances the rod on the stool and approaches her. As he nears he can hear a flurry of giggles as her hand rotates a small rectangular object. Closer now, he sees it to be a silver hipflask. The light separates her face into planes, each angle revealing its own beauty.
    “Dr. Brovkin, you looked lonely and thirsty,” she says. “I thought I could help.”
    She says this with a slight lilt in her voice, a subtle challenge. She’s wondering if he’ll recognize her, which he does. She’s a cleaner in the hospital, they’ve made eye contact in the lobby, excused themselves as they manoeuvred past each other in the canteen, both carrying laden trays. Of course he knows who she is. He imparts warm familiarity with his eyes, looking straight at her.
    “With which part?” he asks, and she pauses, not understanding. “Are you offering to help with the loneliness or the thirst?”
    “Oh.” She laughs, a flush to her cheeks, a softness around the eyes. “Maybe both.”
    She wears a thick shawl over a long, grey dress, cut to her figure. She is returning from a party, which has left her not drained nor drunk but effervescent, radiating life and curiosity.
    He takes a mouthful from the hipflask and feels a hot flash spread through his chest. His head judders with surprise.
    “Whiskey? I was expecting vodka.”
    “Well, it’s good to be surprised. Has it warmed your insides?”
    “Yes. Yes it has.”
    “So it has done its job.”
    He nods, looks at her again.
    “I have never fished,” she says. “It looks peaceful.”
    He raises his palm gently to his waist, cupped, as if he is offering something. “Show me your shoes.”
    Warily, she lays her foot into his hand and he cradles it for a moment, running his flattened fingers along the curve of her instep, then over the long stiletto