Breathtaking Conversations

"Important stuff, huh?" Ivan yawned, propping his cheek up with his hand.

A week had passed since his first assignment checking pulse oximeters. Every day they were pulled out of lectures for two or three hours, and every day the same assembly-line scene repeated itself. Things weren’t quite at a state of emergency — yet — but they were getting there. The air was thick with the scent of anxiety and confusion, and not just metaphorically — uncertainty clung to the eyes of most students Ivan passed on campus, and even to the looks of ordinary passersby.

Even Professor Moldor — normally calm and focused —was barely suppressing her nervous "heh-heh," trying not to twitch her face too noticeably.

This time, everyone had been gathered in lecture hall E2-408. Oh, that cursed 408! Every time Ivan sat at one of its wooden desks, he vividly recalled all the endless lectures and the panic-fueled exams he had scribbled through in that very seat…

The room was a large amphitheater for a couple hundred people, with tiered rows of benches climbing upward. Down below, on a small podium behind the lectern, stood Professor Moldor, nervously spinning a microphone in her hands.

The projector hanging from the ceiling shot a beam of light behind the professor as the room lights dimmed dramatically, almost theatrically. Vents around the room blasted cool air, ruffling Moldor’s long blonde hair so that for a moment, Ivan thought he was watching shadow theater — her hair casting chaotic, tentacle-like shadows on the wall like an octopus.

Professor Moldor was undeniably beautiful, but Ivan knew they weren’t gathered here to admire her. Still, for a fleeting moment, the sight lifted his boredom.

"Dear students," Moldor brought the mic to her lips, "today we will hear from UN Special Rapporteur on Climate Issues, Ms. Standarova, and the Minister of Health of the Federal Republic of Germany, Mr. Reifenberg…"

“So it’s ‘important talks’ again,” Ivan yawned once more and tuned out.

Behind her, the projector blinked and flashed a white rectangle onto the wall, and then Ms. Standarova appeared in person.

A stern-looking woman. Probably in her fifties, with the weight of heavy responsibility etched into her face.

"Who is she? What’s she famous for?" Rodrigo, sitting next to Ivan, nudged him in the shoulder.

"No idea. Google it."

Rodrigo buried his nose in his phone.
"Nataliya Standarova – UN Special Rapporteur on Climate Issues…" Who even are these “rapporteurs”?

"How would I know?" Ivan snapped irritably.

Rodrigo was a decent guy, but his boundless energy was maddening at times. Like a hyperactive kid, honestly. Ivan liked silence, hated when people disturbed it for no reason — especially dumb ones. Especially when, for god’s sake, they could just google the answer.

“Alright, calm down — you’re overreacting,” Ivan thought to himself. He’d been extra irritable lately, especially when it felt like he couldn’t breathe. But now the humidifiers and air conditioners were kicking in, bringing some relief.

Ivan exhaled and focused on the screen. The woman was droning on about the pandemic, about critical oxygen shortages, about collective responsibility, and so on. It all sounded like more panic-mongering to Ivan — but he couldn’t deny that breathing had been tougher lately.

Standarova finished. The applause that followed was thin— more from academic habit than gratitude.

Rodrigo finished reading and shoved his phone in Ivan’s face with a Wikipedia page open:

A UN Special Rapporteur is an independent expert or working group member appointed under the UN’s “special procedures” system, assigned a mandate by the UN Human Rights Council. The term “rapporteur” refers to an investigator acting on behalf of a deliberative body.

“Got it,” Ivan replied. “She’s the climate one.”

Rodrigo nodded, pulled out a canister, and took a deep inhale.

“‘Want to breathe — and let others breathe too,’” Ivan remembered him saying during their first smoke break near the ventilation shaft. Rodrigo had clung to the oxygen canister like it was life itself, lips trembling. Ivan suddenly felt guilty for snapping at him earlier and relieved that he hadn’t said everything he was thinking out loud. Rodrigo had only meant well — he even googled the article for him. What a nice guy, really.

The projector blinked again. A new face appeared on screen.

"Minister of Health Heinz Reifenberg," Professor Moldor announced briefly and stepped aside so as not to block the image.

***

Akemi and Thomas were watching the same livestream from their lab. She clutched a coffee cup — her fingers trembled. He sat seemingly relaxed, almost smiling, but was carefully listening to every word.

"As you know," Reifenberg began in his flat bureaucratic tone, "yesterday the Director-General of the World Health Organization declared a Public Health Emergency of International Concern…" —he read the last words off a piece of paper—"but I won’t bore you," he suddenly perked up, "let’s get to the point."

A polite, awkward chuckle echoed in the auditorium. That kind of laugh you give when an old guy in a suit tries to sound hip and just ends up cringe. Akemi squeezed her cup so hard the lid almost popped off.

"Given the seriousness of the situation, we must take all necessary steps to protect the lives and health of our citizens. All of you..."

Ivan suddenly remembered the oxygen canister he had found in his mailbox yesterday. It was small, like a bathroom air freshener — the same kind now sticking out of Rodrigo’s leather jacket pocket as he sat beside him, hanging on the Minister’s every word.

No, he couldn’t deny the obvious anymore. It was exactly what everyone suspected but was too afraid to ask aloud.

Ivan pictured himself grabbing the canister from Rodrigo’s jacket, inhaling it to the last puff, then strangling him with his own sleeves.

"Insane thoughts," he shook his head, trying to push them away. But breathing now felt just as strained and painful as it had in his dream — on Mars. Only this time, he wasn’t dreaming.

“… based on known data… in a year… we will manage… our top scientists are working… oxygen production is scaling up… the health of our citizens is paramount… agreements have been reached…” The stream kept cutting in and out. Ivan, almost envious, stared at the metallic glint of Rodrigo’s canister in the dim light.

“…thank you for your understanding. We will manage!” Reifenberg concluded. The screen faded, and the auditorium lights came back on.

Professor Moldor stepped up to the mic again, quietly announced that the meeting was over and they could leave, and that was that.

The students shuffled out slowly. Ivan stood without glancing at Rodrigo. Confusion was etched on everyone’s faces. The muted buzz of conversation was interrupted by the clatter of desk lids snapping shut.

***

When the stream ended, Reifenberg slowly sank into his chair and unbuttoned his jacket. “We will manage,” he repeated in his mind. He pulled the hose from a 50-liter oxygen tank tucked in the corner of his office and took a deep inhale.

Sometimes, lying was also part of the governmental job.

***

Akemi stared blankly at the empty screen. Her hands were shaking. She finished her cold coffee in one gulp.

"What the hell are you saying?" she muttered, devastated.

"Come on," Thomas tried to lighten the mood, "what else could he say? He’s the minister… what would you say in his place?"

Akemi buried her face in her hands.

"We won’t manage."

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Akemi sobbed. Her shoulders shook. Thomas said nothing — what was there to say? He just stared at the cluttered desk, doing his best not to hear his friend and colleague cry. He couldn’t comfort her. They both knew it.

The oxygen sensor on the lab wall beeped softly. 92%.