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?
This is what happens, I thought, to curious cats.
When I was young, we once bought some newborn chicks off one of those street sellers who wind in and out between cars at traffic lights, rapping on windowpanes and showing customers their wares. This man carried a large cage filled with sweet baby chicks, their feathers dyed neon shades of purple, pink, and green. The chicks were small enough to nestle perfectly in the palm of my nine-year-old hand, and he was selling them for a hundred rupees each. I picked two yellow ones. Maybe I thought, even as a child, that the non-dyed ones would be more likely to survive, although, looking back and remembering the fluorescence of their shade, I think they, too, had been artificially colored.
Anyway, one of the chicks fell sick the first night he arrived. He cowered in the corner of his little shoebox and refused to eat. I remember nestling that delicate ball of fur in my hands, determined to love the strength back into him. My sister said that this would make things worse, that I should leave him be. So I put him back in the box. At some point, finding the strength to move, he reached clumsily for his small water bowl and ended up tipping it over. He was drenched and started shivering uncontrollably. My mother tried to warm him with lightbulbs and hairdryers, until he was no longer wet but still shaking. At night, we covered the box with a piece of cloth and went to bed.
I remember waking up very early the next morning, possibly before dawn, to check on him. When I pulled the cover off the shoe box, I saw him, Jugnu—we had never named him officially, but his name was Jugnu—lying there, stiff and straight, his little legs stretched out like twigs. Even if you’ve never seen a dead thing before, you know it when you see it. The heart recognizes it instantly and stops.
What did I do then? I put the cover back on the box and went to sleep. Later that morning, the maid had taken care of it. She’d found the body, disposed of it, and told me the sad news. I reacted as if finding out for the first time.
·
I awoke in my bed at the Centre the next morning with a headache, thinking of Jugnu the chick. My sleep that night had been deep but uncomfortable, the sheets drenched with perspiration. I groggily got up and made my way to the meditation room in a daze, trying to piece together the previous night. I vividly remembered reading Natalya’s email but had no clear memories of making my way out of the staff quarters, through the courtyard, and back into my room. I felt annoyed with myself for drinking that last glass of wine and disturbed by the haziness of my recollections.
When the gong rang to finish meditation, I opened my eyes to see Shiba through the window. She was standing by the oak tree, beckoning me to come join her in the speaking area. I did.
“Anisa, I’m so sorry. I must have fallen asleep. You should’ve woken me.”
A chill wind whispered through the willow, and the sun shone bright and clear overhead. Everything is fine, I told myself.
“I found my way back easily,” I said.
“Oh … that’s good. You okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I think I’m late, though.”
“For breakfast? You’ve got time.”
“Oh, well. I should still go … let’s catch up later.”
“Anisa.”
“What?”