The Centre(19)

The rest of the questions were so standard that I began to feel like the “interview” was actually just an excuse for the medical checkup. When, near the end, they asked me if I had any questions of my own, I asked again what the process would be like so I could prepare beforehand.

“You will find out about the specifics of the process once you get there. There’s not much required on your part but presence.”

“Which can be the most challenging thing, mind you,” Susan added.

“Do you think,” Tim probed, “that you can endure that kind of immersion into self?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think I can manage that.”

“Okay. Well,” Susan said, clapping her hands together after receiving a nod of confirmation from Tim, “I think we can wrap up then. Thank you. Do make sure to get your affairs in order beforehand.”

“You should, of course, inform people you’ll be away but without giving them any clues as to where you’ll be.”

“Where should I tell them I’m going?”

“That is up to you. Something befitting your career, I would suggest.”

“A language course is pretty befitting my career.”

“Best if you say something else. We value discretion above all.”

“And it really works? Like every single time?”

“If you follow the instructions, then yes, success guaranteed.”

As I was getting off the bed and putting on my coat, the two of them conferred to the side for a moment. Then Susan reapproached me. “I have one last question. But feel free to decline. This is outside the scope of the official interview.”

“What is it?”

“Do you mind if we measure your skull?”

“Funny.” I laughed. She looked at me blankly. “Heart of Darkness, right?”

They both blinked quizzically.

“Oh, I thought maybe you were quoting from the book? Like, testing me or something?” I explained.

“It’s absolutely optional,” Susan said. “Our own curiosity. The Centre doesn’t care about things like this. But we’re very interested, personally. In how it occurs.”

“Scientifically,” Tim added.

“Um, okay. If you like.”

Tim pulled out a pair of large metal calipers. He held the instrument above my head, and I heard it click open as he placed one cold jaw between my eyebrows, the other at the back of my skull. He called out a figure that Susan wrote down on her clipboard. Next, the prongs went on either temple, and finally, he placed one under my chin and its opposite on my crown. He moved quickly, and I closed my eyes, imagining an enormous, inquisitive spider crawling around my skull, trying to make sense of its surroundings.

“Conrad, you know, didn’t speak any English until well into his twenties,” Tim shared as he worked. I tried to look up at him, but the instrument’s grip held me firmly in place. The prongs dug deeper into my scalp, and I heard the metallic scrape of notches clicking into a tighter setting.

“Oh, really? No, I didn’t know that.”

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” he mused. “That level of absorption.”

He called out one final figure to Susan before releasing me from the contraption. Relieved, I got off the bed.

“Are you going to measure it again afterward?” I asked.

“Oh no. No need for that. The changes take place inside, you see.”





FOUR


Three weeks later, I was at Tunbridge Wells station with my suitcase. The Centre had given me the license plate number of the car that would be waiting for me there, and I found it straightaway. I noticed that the driver had a tasbeeh around his rearview mirror, so I wished him salaam as I scooted into my seat.

“Walaikum salam,” he said, and we got to talking. It turned out he was from a small town near Pindi and had been in England for about twenty years.

“Do you like it here?” I asked.

He shrugged in the characteristic way people answer that question. “It’s work, mostly. You?”

I returned his shrug, “Yeah, it’s okay. Same.”

About fifteen minutes in, I asked him how far we were from the Centre.

“Maybe half an hour more,” he said.

“It’s quite remote, huh?”

“Middle of nowhere.”

“It’s very pretty,” I said, looking at the lush green on either side of us. “In London, there’s only traffic and smoke.”

“Yes.”

“So … you work for the Centre then?”

“I run my own taxi service. I work for myself. But they hire me to do this. Pick up, drop off. What language are you learning?’

“German.”

“Okay, I see. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“How much does it cost, this course?”

“Uh … I’m not sure,” I lied. “My company’s paying.”

“They all say that,” he replied, his eyes narrowing on me through the rearview mirror. “You know, when I first started working for them, the people I dropped off wouldn’t even tell me what they did there. Some said yoga, others said business management. I thought maybe it was an all-purpose school. But then one day, I was dropping off a man. Gora. And he started asking me about Hindi, just in a by-the-way style. This man, the only thing he knew how to say going in was “kabhi khushi kabhi gham.” Nothing else. Coming out, he understands everything. Really, everything.”