The Centre(41)

Shiba was not the first woman I had been drawn to. There had been others. In fact, when I was younger, about twelve or so, and everything was still fluid and unclear, this attraction had even turned physical with a friend or two. Some kisses and cuddles, tentative explorations. Later, I’d relegated these encounters to a kind of prepubescent experimentation, and when sparks arose subsequently with someone of my own gender, I’d enjoyed the feeling but never felt any strong urge to shift into the nonplatonic. With Shiba, however, even though it scared me, the spark felt strong enough to ignite the shift. But as I watched her now, sleeping softly, I also found myself thinking of the squishy slobbering mess my own face morphs into while I’m asleep and felt a twinge of resentment. This stab of insecurity made me wonder: Did I want to be with Shiba or to be like her? I looked away, turning my gaze back toward the screen, where the third episode had started playing.

Then, a thought popped into my head. What if I, very quickly, checked my email? Shiba would never have to know, and after all, what was the harm, really? What if something urgent had happened? Maybe I’d missed a deadline or had a job offer lingering in my inbox that would expire if I didn’t accept immediately. Maybe my sister was pregnant again, or Naima had broken up with Azeem. Maybe somebody had died! Yes, the more I thought about it, the more absolutely imperative it became that I check my email. And for that matter, a quick scroll through my Twitter and Facebook and a little peek at my Insta wouldn’t kill anyone either.

I minimized the Netflix window, revealing Shiba’s open tabs at the top of the browser. She had several: a podcast, her own Twitter, a recipe website, random Wikipedia articles, and most importantly, her Gmail. Would the show automatically pause if I left the tab? I held my breath and clicked on the Gmail. Thankfully, the show’s audio kept playing. Then, I hovered over the sign-out button, but hesitated. Signing out, signing back in. Wouldn’t the laptop keep evidence of that? I was sure it would, that my email address would pop up the next time she tried to log in. I imagined the look of betrayal on Shiba’s face if she knew I’d done this. It was clear to me that for her to extend her trust was a rare occurrence. She’d probably withdraw her friendship entirely if she knew I’d overstepped.

While pondering the matter, my gaze wandered toward the screen—there was that curious cat again. Fairly near the top of Shiba’s inbox, I spotted a name that I recognized, Natalya Volkova. That was Anna’s daughter’s name. The subject line read “Mama’s funeral.” I couldn’t not click.

Dear Shiba,

Thank you very much for taking care of the funeral arrangements in accordance with Mama’s wishes. Here, we held a memorial for her three days ago. It was a moving ceremony, with many stories and tears. We miss her.

Below, I attach a family photo that I would like you to place near Mama’s remains. Also, a list of residual costs.

Mama always spoke of you fondly.

Best wishes,

Natalya.

The attached photo was of Anna and her three daughters when they were younger. Anna’s hair was darker and her body slimmer, but she was unmistakably the same woman I had met, and embraced, the woman whose life I had been sharing for the past six days.

Shiba, who I’d previously considered incapable of lying, had lied to me. Or, well, lied via omission. What reason could she possibly have for hiding Anna’s death?

I didn’t sign Shiba out of her account, my earlier desire for emails and Insta suddenly extinguished. Instead, I switched back to the Netflix tab, clicked to make it full screen, and hit pause. As softly as I could manage—I wasn’t much of a drinker, so the wine had made me slightly clumsy—I got up from the bed, placed our glasses in the sink, and left the room. I descended the stairs and paused at the landing.

Everything felt very still. It was no longer just the ghostly duke haunting me from within the walls but Anna’s ghost as well. Anna, who had been so intimately with me the last few days, was gone, and had been for god knows how long. I steadied myself, trying to let it all sink in. I looked at the locked steel door. 9989. The code for the keypad. I didn’t know what I was looking for, only that there was something that I needed to know, and that you wouldn’t bother with layers of locked doors unless you were hiding something. I keyed in the code, and the door beeped open.

I walked into a silent and dimly lit hallway with two doors on either side and one at the very end. I started with the door to my right, which opened into a little common room with square wooden tables, chairs, and a tea area. It looked like a teachers’ lounge. Certainly nothing worthy of a key-padded lock. The next room was a small library, filled with dry, old-looking volumes on physics, sociology, history, and anthropology. They belonged, I imagined, to Shiba’s father and the other founders. I pulled out one of the books. Quantum mechanics. Tiny typeface and cool-looking diagrams, but it might as well have been written in ancient Greek for all that I understood it. I replaced it on the shelf and continued my investigation. The next door revealed a laundry room, and the one opposite it an equally boring linen cupboard. All that remained was the large pair of silver double doors at the end of the hallway.

I put my hand on the door and started to push, but something in me resisted. Suddenly, I wondered: Did I even want to know? Maybe the wine was getting to my head, but I thought I heard a noise, the sound of people approaching, maybe, of soft footsteps. A wave of dread passed through me. How had I found myself in this situation?