The Centre(62)

David, however, ruined my reclamation of adulthood by saying, once I was done, “Very good job, dear.”

I sat back down and helped myself to the juiciest-looking leg piece.

“We have still not addressed the matter of Anna.”

The table fell silent.

“I would like to know how, exactly, she died.”

There was some shuffling of chairs, some throat clearing.

“Obviously, she died of natural causes,” Arjun said coolly. “Surely you are not imagining otherwise?”

“It’s hard to know what to think since I haven’t yet been told anything really,” I said. “I would like to know now, please. Exactly how this process works.”

“Well,” Arjun said. “You only had to ask, my dear. You see, we wanted to make sure you were ready. For all we knew, maybe you had decided that you didn’t want to know after all.”

“Of course I want to know.”

“All right then, after dinner, we’ll tell you everything.”

And so, after dinner, which was slightly rushed, Shiba, Arjun, and I once more made our way to the cottage, where finally, the truth emerged.





TEN


We sat in the office, on the cane chairs around the large table. Arjun and Shiba were procrastinating, talking about the weather one minute, offering tea the next.

“You were going to tell me about Anna?” I interrupted.

“Yes,” Arjun said. “She was elderly, as you know. And she died of heart complications. It ran in her family, apparently.”

“All right …” I said.

“As for Peter, he was diabetic. He had already been diagnosed when he signed up to be a Storyteller.”

I paused for some moments.

“Are … all the Storytellers dead?”

“The Storytellers whose stories you hear at the Centre, yes, they are.”

“Is there a reason we’re playing twenty questions here? Are you trying to tell me that the Storytelling itself induces death, is that it?”

“Of course not,” Shiba said.

“Now, the most important thing to know is that everything that happens here is consensual. Anna was fully aware of what she signed up for,” Arjun said.

“Which was?”

“As I said, an energetic exchange. A transmission. From her, into you.”

I was quiet, looking at them. Shiba was fumbling with her hands. Arjun spoke again.

“You must understand, to some degree, what is going on.”

Shiba got up and walked over to one of the bookshelves.

“One way to understand,” she said, reaching for a book, “could be this.” She rifled through it and then began to read: “‘All union, all spiritual interactions, can be expressed by eating. In friendship, one truly partakes of the friend, or feeds on him. To substitute the body for the spirit or indeed, the intellect, is a genuine trope. At a remembrance meal for a friend, we enjoy, with daring, sensual imagination, his flesh in every bite, his blood in every gulp.’”

“What?”

“Just listen,” she said. “I think this next part is beautiful: ‘This certainly seems barbaric to the soft and delicate preferences of our time, but who tells us to think precisely of the raw, decomposing flesh and blood? The physical assimilation is mysterious enough to be a beautiful metaphor of the spiritual meaning—and are blood and flesh really so repulsive?’”

Something was trickling in, a vague suspicion solidifying.

“What happens to the Storytellers?”

Shiba sighed. “Anisa. You already know.”

“How exactly do you transfer the energy?” I asked again.

“We incorporate the transformative elements into the Learners’ diets,” Arjun responded.

“Meaning?”

“Anisa, come on. You know what we’re saying, right?” Shiba said. “You … ingested the Storytellers. Physically.”

I froze.

“Peter, who makes cassoulets for his father, who liked playing with LEGO blocks as a kid … are you telling me I ate him?”

“You assimilated him. Yes.”

I laughed. “Okay, stop. No, I didn’t.”

Shiba looked at me gravely.

“This is not a new practice, dear,” Arjun said. “It has been tried and tested throughout time.”

“That is … oh god.”

“Just listen—”

“Oh my god.” I groaned and clutched my stomach. It felt sore and distended.

“You really had no idea?” Arjun said.

Shiba started pacing, panicked. “This is why I wanted to tell her slowly, piece by piece.”

“I’m going to be sick. I feel … poisoned. Oh god. I can feel them inside me.”

“No, you can’t. You’ve long since digested them,” Arjun scoffed.

“Please, Anisa, don’t react this way,” Shiba said.

“How else would someone react? What about Anna? I loved Anna.”

“Anna emptied your bin once.”

“She was a human being.”

“And what happened, tell me, after you assimilated her? She’s living on. Through you. In you. She was dead, Anisa. She passed away. The Storytellers, they choose to do this work. They sit down and record the stories of their lives, and they do it because they want to live on.”