“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.”
“Stern can be good, right? It’s important to demand more of yourself.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I mean, like, it’s good to have dreams.”
“Maybe. As long as you also know that you’re perfect as you are.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Everyone is perfect as they are. But they could also be more perfect, you know?”
Shiba laughed. Then she reached her hand toward me and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
You know when you sometimes read about people “swooning” in old Victorian novels? Well, the idea always baffled me. But truly, in that moment, I felt like I understood. Not that I swooned exactly, at least, not physically. I kept my eyes firmly placed on a small daisy in front of me, overriding my pupils’ impulse to turn upward as I fielded a rush of light-headedness. When I finally glanced over at Shiba, she, too, was looking at the ground and had turned a bit red. Neither of us said anything for what felt like twenty years. Then, she spoke.
“It’s been nice to have you here. It’s rare that I meet people I feel close to.”
“Same here,” I said, relieved to hear an echo of my own feelings.
“It’s difficult, you know. Being ‘the boss.’ People treat you differently. The staff, I mean. And as for the Learners, well, most of them treat me as if I’m purely functional. Barely human. You forget sometimes that deep connection is even possible.”
“It can be like that outside too,” I said. The Centre had, by then, become a strange, self-contained entity to me, and I’d divided the world into “inside” and “outside.” “Meaningful connection is hard wherever you are. I hope we keep in touch. We should definitely keep in touch.”
“Yes,” she said, with a hesitation that gave my heart a pang. “We can do that.”
I wanted to probe further. Had she always felt this sense of deep connection being impossible? Was there anyone she was close to? And what was it that had brought her here, to the Centre, in the first place? But my questions felt potentially invasive, and I could tell that there was something incredibly delicate about Shiba, that she might flit away at any hint of presumption, so I didn’t voice them.
Shiba sighed. “Shall I tell you a quote I like? ‘To love without wanting to devour must surely be anorexic.’”
“Ah,” I said, attempting a thoughtful nod. Then, after a pause I asked, “What does it mean though?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but it kind of scares me, that quote. But I also like it. It moves me somehow …” I nodded again. She smiled. “I’ll miss you, Anisa.”
I wanted to reply, “I can just stay if you want.” But this ridiculous impulse was probably just a reaction to my perceiving a kind of finality in her farewell. So I just responded that I would miss her too, and we packed up our picnic and hugged goodbye.
To love without wanting to devour must surely be anorexic.
What did it mean? Maybe it was a message to back off. I hoped not. It was hard to tell where I stood with Shiba. We’d exchanged numbers, but only because I had asked. And although she’d said that lovely thing about feeling close to me, she had also insisted on keeping her distance. And so, while I was hopeful that we would get to know each other better, I didn’t push it.
The last thing I would want to do, after all, was devour her.
FIVE
It was a relief to be back in my cozy flat after my time at the Centre, especially since the weather turned frosty soon after my return. I decided to hibernate for a while before putting my newfound language skills to use, fishing out my fleece-lined tops and leggings from the cupboard and filling up my hot water bottle most evenings. During the day, I made soups and daal and did my subtitling work, which had accumulated in my absence, and in the evenings, I nestled hot chocolates and teas while reading Ocean Vuong one week, Virginia Woolf the next. I ordered Ocado and streamed TV shows in bed, wore thick woolen socks and went out infrequently. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the weather in this country, will ever understand how people, with staunch determination, put on their coats and scarves and boots to go for long walks on frigid winter evenings, with no destination in mind.
Adam had been taking care of Billee while I was away, and he came over the weekend of my return to drop him off. I had told him that we would share the cat, six months each, but I’d asked to go first, resting on the gamble that he’d just let me keep him at the end of that time.
When I first opened the door to Adam, we reached in for a hug and our bodies, used to touching in a certain way, drew in close the way lovers do, stomach to stomach. Then we pulled away, holding ourselves back. There was some initial awkwardness like that—inconsistent eye contact and self-conscious fumbling over the kettle, but we soon regained our composure and spoke as friends would. I’d made us a potato salad, adding, via a burst of inspiration, mustard, vinegar, and bone broth. It turned out great. Adam spooned some into bowls for us and told me it was probably for the best that Billee was with me as he had a trip to Japan planned. This made me inwardly rejoice, as I took it as a sign that he’d be too busy to keep Billee after all. We took our salads and coffees over to the sofa, and I told him about my miraculous absorption at the Centre.
“Isn’t it the weirdest thing?” he said. “Especially that moment when it first clicks into place.”
“Just like, overnight,” I said. “How the fuck?”
He raised his hands in bafflement.
“I know! Since when, by the way,” he continued, pointing to my mug, “do you drink your coffee black?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Just prefer it that way now. By the way, did you find that your dreams were different when you got back?”
I was still having dreams that felt like they belonged to Peter.
“Oh yeah, that happens,” he said. “Honestly, you notice those kinds of things more in the beginning. After going a couple of times, you don’t even remember whose story is whose anymore.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Although sometimes—oh, this can be a mind fuck—sometimes, it’s like, two of them mix in your head, and it’s as if you’re holding a party in your brain for people who’ve never met in real life and who’ve never met you either.”
“Shit.”
“The whole process is crazy if you think about it—”
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“Huh?”
“That word.”
“What word?”
“Crazy. Say, like, absurd or terrific or something. Crazy is offensive to those with mental health—”
“Anisa.”
“What?”
His look became steely.
“The things you’re preoccupied with. You think they’re deep, but it’s really the opposite. You make people your enemy for no reason.”