The Centre(23)

“Here,” she said and handed me the headphones. I took a seat and put them on. I heard a click, and then a voice: a man, speaking in German.

“Is the sound clear? And the volume okay?”

I lifted the headphones off my ears. The sound clicked to a stop as soon as I made the motion.

“I think so?” I replied. “I don’t know what he’s saying.”

“No.” She laughed. “That’s why you’re here. Come, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

We went downstairs and walked back through the courtyard to the Learners’ area. A Learner was leaving the building just as we were entering. She was very tall and wore her hair in a tidy bun. Even though she was dressed simply, in jeans and a white collared shirt, each garment was so finely tailored and immaculately constructed that she looked as if she were attending a conference at the UN. I raised my hand to gesture hello, but Shiba stopped me abruptly.

“Remember,” she whispered in my ear. “No contact.”

The woman passed us by without a glance. We walked through the blue wooden door, and Shiba led me to my room.

“What would you say your average … clientele is like?” I asked, pulling at the sleeves of my sweater self-consciously. “Like, what do they do?”

“Mostly, elite diplomats. Foreign service, things like that. You also get industrialists, oligarchs, all kinds. Royalty, sometimes. Also, academics, linguists, even actors. Adam’s a bit of an anomaly, but that happens, too, from time to time, people being recommended by mentors or employers.”

My suitcase was already in my room when we walked in. It was a comfortable, if unassuming, space, outfitted with a double bed, some simple furniture, a full-length mirror, and a window overlooking the surrounding fields. The ensuite bathroom, however, was next level. I’d spend a scrumptious twenty minutes every day beneath its rainfall shower and never tired of the large porcelain sink into which water streamed in absolute silence from a sleek rectangular outlet or the commodious toilet with its silent flush that felt, somehow, like a hug.

When we returned outside, some of the Learners, now on break, were strolling around the courtyard. I considered them more closely. A bald man with a silver beard and a black coat was walking briskly while apparently deep in thought, and a woman with her hair tied in a ponytail and clad in Lululemon gear was doing stretches in the middle of the garden. Another man in a tweed jacket was sitting on a bench and gazing placidly at the roses. There were also a couple of staff members cutting across the courtyard. Like Shiba, they had on green wristbands and white sneakers. One carried a basket of toiletries into the Learners’ area, another rolled a large trolley into the Process Centre. The staff members had serious expressions on their faces as they went briskly about their tasks, darting glances from time to time at the Learners as if to make sure everything was in order.

“So what’s the purpose of the wristbands again?” I asked once we were properly sheltered under the weeping willow again.

“They’re used for identification purposes—everything is individually tailored here, you see. So blue,” she explained, placing a delicate finger on my wristband, “means German.”

She pointed through the hedges at the man in tweed, whose red wristband poked out from his sleeve, “French,” and then at the orange band around the slim wrist of the stretching woman, “Japanese.”

I gestured toward the heavy-looking gray door I’d noticed earlier.

“And what’s over there?”

“Staff quarters. Off limits, of course.”

“Is that where the real magic happens?”

“It’s where we sleep, if that counts,” she said. “And the kitchens are in there, the laundry rooms. Your possessions that were taken at reception too.”

“It seems kind of extreme, doesn’t it? To confiscate phones and laptops for ten whole days.”

“It’s the only way. You need complete concentration for this level of absorption. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

“I hope so.”

I had dinner that evening with the other Learners. It was strange at first to sit around a table with three or four other people and not even make eye contact. Once or twice, I couldn’t resist a glance, a smile, a nod of acknowledgment. But then I would quickly look away. We had paid a lot of money for this, after all, and taken time off. It wouldn’t work, they’d told us, if we didn’t follow the rules.

A staff member brought a serving tray to the table, doublechecked my wristband, and placed a meal in front of me, all without looking me in the eye.

“Thank you,” I said, reflexively, and received a curt shake of the head in return. “Oops, sorry!” I whispered and felt another silent reprimand. I spoke no more.

The starter was a slice of roasted eggplant topped with mincemeat and feta cream. It tasted phenomenal. I struggled not to share my pleasure with my dining mates but saw that they, too, were smiling. There were some contented nods to selves, and I heard an “mmm” or two. In this way, the appreciation was shared around the table, even if not explicitly articulated. The main course followed, an equally delicious spaghetti bolognese, the pasta perfectly cooked and the meat drenched in a thick tomato sauce that melted in my mouth. Then, for dessert, a bittersweet pear and chocolate cake, served warm and with a single scoop of vanilla bean ice cream.