Lunch at the Centre took place at one o’clock every day in the dining hall, where we were served delicious and perfectly balanced three-course meals, each one individually tailored. I can’t remember what they served that day; it may have been a Sri Lankan curry, with tender morsels of meat, along with red chilis, baby corn, and mushrooms in a coconutty shorba. Probably with jasmine rice on the side. And cardamom chocolate mousse for dessert. Yes, I think that was it. Every meal there was like a song, each part perfectly in tune with the other. As always, we sat in silence as we ate. I had started to appreciate, by then, being able to savor my food without having to make small talk with strangers. Afterward, Shiba, having seen that I’d logged my nani’s name onto the screen, was waiting for me outside. We made our way to the speaking area, and I got straight to the point.
“Listen, I was thinking, since I’m completely fluent now, do you think I need to stay the whole ten days?”
“Of course you do. That’s the only way it really sinks in.”
“I hear you, but I feel like it’s sunk in already. I’d like to go, if I can.”
“Why, what’s wrong? Are you not happy here?”
Shiba had told me how much she’d loved having me there again, and I didn’t want her to think I didn’t feel the same.
“No, of course not. I’m enjoying myself, especially since we’re getting to spend so much time together. But it’s challenging sometimes, you know? The rules around no phones, no laptops. I feel so … cut off.”
“I understand, but it can’t be any other way. The process only works if you’re fully absorbed, and anyway, we have to be very careful, for privacy reasons. People could trace emails or access phone cameras. We just can’t take the risk.”
There it was again. Privacy, privacy, privacy. But it was only now, provoked by my irritation, my desire to go home, and, potentially, some kind of push from Anna, that I found myself thinking that this insistence the Centre placed on secrecy was actually pretty extreme. Maybe it sounds odd that I wasn’t suspicious earlier, with Adam’s talk of NDAs and those doctors who spoke in riddles, but I think I’d sort of just floated along with the mystery and enchantment of it all. Perhaps my pride at being granted access into this mega-exclusive club had blurred everything else. And anyway, I’d figured exclusivity and secrecy went hand in hand. The inner mechanics, I’d imagined, were probably too sophisticated for me to understand. But it was at this point that a real curiosity crept in and was soon to overtake me.
“What does it matter if people take photos?” I asked.
“The world just isn’t ready,” she said, adding after a pause, “I thought you understood.”
And with that, I became anxious that Shiba might flee at any hint of intrusion, so I didn’t probe further. Also, I think I sensed that my curiosity, which had only just begun to stir, needed to be guarded lest it be prematurely squished.
“I get it,” I said. “It’s just claustrophobic sometimes, being by yourself for so many days.”
“I really do understand,” she said.
“It’s enough to drive you mad, this no-distractions thing.”
“Listen. I have an idea. Why don’t you come to mine tonight? I can’t let you do emails or anything, but we could watch something together on my laptop. What do you think?”
“Is that allowed?”
“Not really, but I could sneak you in. We could watch a series on Netflix.”
“You won’t get into trouble?”
“We’ll be careful.”
“Oh god. That would be amazing. Are you sure?”
“Honestly, I’d love the company. It gets boring for me, too, on my own. Let’s meet after dinner.”
Dinner that evening was, as always, mouth-wateringly good—the starter was, I think, crispy rolls filled with mincemeat and potatoes, served with mint chutney. Then, a Moroccan-style tagine made with olives and apricots and served with couscous, followed by baklava for dessert. I ate hurriedly, excited to finally take a break from a schedule that was starting to badly grate. Afterward, I made my way to my room and waited.
My room was in a different part of the Learners’ area this time around, smack in between the two halves of the building. The transition from old to new was more obvious on the inside, and as I lay on the bed, I gazed at the conflict between the two halves of the ceiling above me, wooden beams colliding abruptly with steel and plaster. It was quite beautiful, in a sense, but at night, the ceiling would creak and groan in a way that felt increasingly like a warning.
Finally, Shiba knocked on the door.
“You ready?” she asked with a cheeky smile, as if we were planning an escape from a prison cell.
“Let’s do it.”
The courtyard was still and silent as we carefully let ourselves out of the Learners’ area and crept along the sides of the building toward the staff quarters. Shiba pulled out a large key ring from her pocket and unlocked the heavy gray door. It opened into an entryway, where an imposing mahogany staircase with ornate banisters led upstairs. To our right was another door, stainless steel, protected by a keypad.
Shiba gestured for me to follow her up the stairs, but just as we were about to ascend, she stopped and turned around.
“Actually. I have an idea,” she said. “Wait here.”
She turned toward the stainless steel door and punched in a code to open it: 9989.
I know I said that thing about my curiosity being stoked, but I truly hadn’t peered over her shoulder with any agenda in mind. It was more like a habit from childhood or maybe a personality trait. When I was young, my mother would often catch me rummaging through her makeup drawer or my father’s desk. And if she was on the phone, I always wanted to know who she was speaking to.
“Curious cat,” she would say, ruffling my hair, and I wore the title with pride.
My father was similarly amused and used to tell me I would make a top-notch spy. Once—I must have been about ten at the time—he came home from a trip abroad with a present for me: a spy kit. On the front of the box, there was a picture of a man in a long beige trench coat, with one enlarged eye peering out through a magnifying glass. And inside the box, I found a magnifying glass just like the one in the picture, along with a notebook and a pen filled with invisible ink that would only reveal itself if you held the page up to a flame. There was also a badge, a silver star that read “FBI.”
“I think that means ‘for big investigators,’” I said to Abba, and he nodded.
“Sounds correct, Beti.”
I was obsessed with this spy kit. I started hiding behind sofas, writing down people’s conversations, and secretly following the servants. I remember during one of these expeditions, I spied Muneer, our cook, digging into a jar of Nutella with a spoon. Nutella, in those days in Karachi, had to be purchased from Agha’s, the fancy shop that carried imported goods, and it was expensive—five or six hundred rupees, a lot at the time. It was therefore out of bounds for household staff. But there he was, I saw through the crack beneath the kitchen cabinet, eating our Nutella. I told my parents, and when he was away for the day, they went into his room. I followed behind them. There, we found various items that he had stolen, including perfume bottles and Barbie dolls and, bizarrely, several pairs of my mother’s high-heeled shoes, lined up against the wall just beneath his bed. I remember thinking afterward, Maybe I’ll understand this better when I’m older. Anyway, he was fired. Now, I look back on this incident with some shame and confusion, but somehow, it is the one that pops into my head when I remember sneakily watching Shiba punch in the code. Maybe because I felt a similar kind of self-reprobation afterward, wondering if it had been any of my business in the first place. At the time though, I felt the euphoria of a mischievous child, proud of her excellent spying skills.