The Centre(28)

I felt a sinking dread. I had seen this teacup in my dreams. Blue porcelain poking into white skin and drawing red blood. How had this man just recounted back to me one of my own dreams? Was he reading my mind or was I reading his? Or, my god, I thought, what if I wasn’t actually understanding anything he said and was instead inventing these stories myself? In a panic, I found Shiba and told her what had happened. She laughed.

“Come on, Anisa. I can think of a million explanations for that off the top of my head.”

“Like what?”

“Well, maybe you’re misremembering the dream. Or here’s a likely one: he’s probably told that story before. Or maybe, well, I don’t know, sometimes we can be telepathic like that in our dream lives.”

“It feels like he’s inside my head.”

“Yes. That’s the whole point.”

“No. You don’t understand. My dreams have become so weird, Shiba. And that dream I had, it was one of his memories. I’m sure of it. In fact, now that I think about it, a lot of the dreams I’ve been having lately could be his.”

“I don’t understand. How is any of this strange? I dream of the films I watch or the books I read all the time. What else would you expect, listening to his life story all day long, with such little external stimulation? Of course you’ll dream of him.”

“Before I could even understand him?”

“You could understand him before you knew you could understand him. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re so upset. If you do have access to his memories in your dreams, doesn’t that make the process all the more amazing?”

“I don’t know. It’s not just that. I feel different too. In my body. I don’t know how to explain it. I feel … I don’t know, fitter, but also, heavier? I assumed it was just the diet, you know? The lifestyle change or whatever. But it’s just so strange.”

“It can feel like that in the beginning. It’s all perfectly normal. Just be easy on yourself. You’ll see. It’s all a part of the process.”

“It’s just so weird. I feel like, hmm, you know what might be part of the problem? Just discovering that something like this exists. I mean, learning a language is supposed to be hard, right? It doesn’t seem right that this can happen so easily.”

“We get used to expecting good things to happen only after pain. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“No. I guess not.”

“Sometimes the body struggles to accept a gift. It becomes so used to the striving that it doesn’t know what to do when the wish is fulfilled.”

“I still can’t believe it. Just like that, click, overnight.”

She smiled. “Believe it.”

I went back to my booth, and over the next few days, I tried listening to Peter’s words with greater serenity. And gradually, my concerns dissipated, replaced by a growing wonder and gratitude for the transformation.

On my last morning at the Centre, I was sitting in my usual spot for meditation, on a cushion near the front of the room facing an old oak tree in the courtyard. Shiba would often lean against that oak tree and read while the Learners were occupied. Anyway, there I was, being mindful of my breath, gazing at the oak, when I found myself vividly imagining climbing up its trunk and swinging from its branches. It was strange because, growing up in Karachi, I’d never climbed a tree, never even felt, as far as I could remember, a desire to. But the sensation felt firmly situated in personal experience, in the memory of rough bark against my palms, the contracting of my sinewy muscles, and the flexing of my toes around a sturdy foothold. I found myself wondering, that person who was imagining swinging from the tree, was that me, or was it Peter? After the session ended, I went over to the oak and ran my hand across its bark, feeling a familiarity that was both mine and Peter’s, and maybe … the tree’s? I don’t know. It was disquieting, but also exciting, to be relating to things in a new way.

Later that day, Shiba and I decided to spend our last break together. She brought a thermos of tea and a picnic blanket, which we stretched out below the willow. There was a harsh chill in the air, but the sun was out, and its light brought out the curve of Shiba’s cheekbones as she poured. I glanced away. Shiba’s was the kind of beauty that made me understand why men carried photos of their sweethearts to war, the kind that I felt could ease even the idea of sacrificing one’s own life. I suspected she incited this kind of devotion in many and that it had probably been both a source of power and pain for her. I felt irritated with myself when I looked at her this way or thought such things; it felt like a kind of masculine gaze, one that sought to possess. Maybe the best thing to do when you encounter that kind of beauty is not to bring it to the beautiful thing itself, a move that can be invasive, acquisitive and confusing, but instead to turn it upward and simply praise God.

“Tell me, then,” she asked while I offered up my silent praise. “Why were you so keen to learn German?”

“Well, firstly, curiosity. Adam’s story just sounded so bizarre. But also, Shiba, I want to be a real translator,” I said. “You know, like, a great one.”

“What’s the sign of a great translator?”

“Someone who translates great works of literature.”

“It’s funny. When you talk about your subtitling work, your whole being lightens, but just now, when you mentioned ‘great literature,’ your expression went all stern.”