The Centre(22)

“It’s beautifully done,” I said.

“I’m supervising the renovation myself,” she said. “Eventually, the entire thing will look like the modern half.”

“That sounds like a big job,” I said, and tried not to look at her with too much curiosity. I’m not sure I’d ever internalized before that women who looked like us could oversee such important projects.

“Yes.” She nodded. “This will all be very different one day.”

I was struck by her words and found myself wishing I could speak with the same kind of gravitas and self-assuredness. That I could, in fact, say of my own life with such confidence, “This will all be very different one day.”

“Now this wing, as I said, is the Process Centre. You’ll be spending the vast majority of your time in here.”

“Sounds good.”

“You see this?” she asked and pointed to a small screen just by the door. “Here, swipe through.”

I touched the screen and a little bar appeared at the bottom. I swiped upward, and then a dot traced the path of a little circle before the name Ayesha appeared at the top of the screen.

“It’s facial recognition,” Shiba said. “Whenever you need to talk to me, all you have to do is swipe here, and then your name will be added to the screen. I’ll be pinged and come find you. Then, once we’ve met …” she swiped through the name with her finger. It disappeared. “Voilà.”

“But … my name isn’t Ayesha.”

“It’s your grandmother’s name.”

“How did you know that?”

“You told us,” she replied, and I remembered that I had indeed included it in one of the forms I’d filled out. “We prefer to use pseudonyms for our Learners, to protect their anonymity.”

“It’s funny. If you’d asked me to pick a pseudonym, I think that’s the one I would have chosen myself.”

She winked at me, “Read your mind, I guess.”

“And the facial recognition? How did it—”

“Oh, admin takes care of that.” She waved the question away. “I imagine they set it up using your photograph.”

Maybe I felt a vague chill then, but I doubt it. Practically all of my devices used the face ID thing anyway. And so, mostly, I was just impressed by the efficiency. I followed Shiba into the dining area I’d seen earlier through the window. The room was spacious, housing five circular tables, four chairs around each one. We sat down at one that had tea and samosas laid out.

“Here, put this on,” she said, handing me a wristband.

It was navy blue and had the name PETER inscribed on it. I noticed that Shiba, too, was wearing a wristband, plain green, alongside a slim golden bracelet.

“Peter is your Storyteller. You’ll be spending most of your days upstairs in your language booth, listening to a tape that he’s prerecorded for you.”

“And what’s a language booth again?”

“It’s basically a cubicle. I’ll show you after. You’ll sit there, put on some headphones, and listen to Peter speaking for several hours a day, in German. Easy.”

“How will I understand what he’s saying?”

“No need to think about it too much,” she said, pouring my tea. “If you follow the protocol, the German will seep in. Just trust.”

She gave me a meaningful smile, the kind more suggestive of long-forged intimacy than brand-new acquaintanceship.

“Here, try these,” she said, gesturing toward the plate.

I picked up a samosa and took a bite. It was to die for. Crispy and warm, with succulent qeema and just the right amount of matar and aloo. Perfection.

“Oh my god,” I said, and Shiba smiled.

“I’ll pass your compliments on to the chef.”

“So, you’re saying I just sit there and listen to this Peter guy? No translation exercises or lessons or anything?”

“That’s right.”

“And … I do this every day?”

“All day every day. We have an hour of meditation in the morning, another after lunch, and a final one in the evening, to ensure that the psyche has time to digest. And you’ll get short breaks during the day, of course, for your own leisure and mealtimes. But other than that, you’ll be in your booth upstairs.”

“And the Learners are in their booths now?”

“Not anymore. Did you hear that gong a few minutes back? That was the signal for their next break.” She pointed to the glass panel behind me, and through it I could see people making their way toward the wing facing us.

“That’s the Learners’ area,” she said. “I’ll show you after. Let’s go upstairs for now.”

We climbed a concrete spiral staircase that led to a wide hallway lined with a series of identical doors.

“We host twenty Learners at a time here,” Shiba said.

“And each Learner has a supervisor?”

“We’re a small team. Just ten people. So, each supervisor—there are four of us—oversees five Learners.”

“I see.”

We walked further down the hallway before she stopped. “This language booth, number seven, is yours.”

She opened the door to a small windowless room that consisted of an ergonomic office chair and a desk that held a large pair of wireless headphones. I was to spend several hours a day in that room. At least, I reasoned, the chair looked comfortable, and the room was warm.