“Isn’t that what you’re doing in this moment?”
“You just did it again! I won’t fall for these traps anymore.”
“Listen, Adam, I’m sorry that we caused each other pain … but I did love you.”
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t have treated me the way you did. Do you know how insecure you made me feel?”
“I felt insecure too, Adam. The … intimacy stuff was hard for me. I felt like you withheld your affection—”
“There you go again,” he said. “Everything bad you did was because of some deficiency in me.”
“Is this ’cause I didn’t want to go camping?”
Suddenly, Adam hurled his fork across the room as if it were this utensil that was responsible for all the problems between us. It smashed against the counter and clattered to the floor.
“I never asked to go fucking camping.”
“Adam!”
“You treated me like shit. In Pakistan. Do you know how shitty I felt then? Do you think I couldn’t tell how your parents were looking down their noses at me?”
“Don’t raise your voice at me.”
“Don’t talk to me like a bloody schoolteacher.”
“I’m not! What the fuck. What’s this really about?”
“You downloaded Tinder the day I brought up marriage!”
“And I told you that I did, and I deleted it straight after. You said it was okay.”
“You and your middle-class fuckery, Anisa. You’re passive-aggressive all the time. You’re hypercritical. You’re judgmental. Just ’cause you say it in this nice, polished, middle-class monotone, you think it’s all good. I just, I can’t believe I put up with all your shit.”
“Where is this even coming from?”
“Do you remember that time in Karachi when I took my own plate to the sink, and you stopped me and complained that I was being so white and judgmental, that I should let the cook do his job?”
“Kareem was more offended than anyone when you did that, by the way. The kitchen’s his domain.”
“Did you ever think that maybe I was thinking of my mum when I did that? Of her work in the service industry?”
“But would you ever do that in a restaurant, Adam, insist on taking your own plate to the kitchen?”
“It wasn’t a bloody restaurant, though, was it? It was your home. Surely, we’re capable of feeding ourselves in our own homes?”
“It’s the culture, Adam. It’s a legitimate job that Kareem has. Who are you to judge? It’s just the way things are there. Everyone has servants.”
“Yeah? Everyone? Does Kareem have servants?”
“Why are we even talking about this? I don’t understand.”
“I’m just saying you’re so quick to tear other people apart, but when it comes to you, it’s like you think you have a fucking halo around your head. And I got convinced too. I got dazzled by the halo. But now I can see that it isn’t there, it never was, no—”
He stopped himself, but I knew he wanted to say more, to tell me that not only was there no halo but there were, in fact, devil horns. I could tell this by the way he was looking at the spot where my halo had been, and also because I knew him so well. I wanted to be like, “Who are you to judge me? You know nothing about me,” and, to be honest, I also kind of wanted to cry. But we just sat there in silence. Adam stared at his plate. He was sort of … pulsating, as if trying to control a tightly wound spring that lay coiled at his core. Then, he stood up. For a second, I thought he was going to throw the plate across the room too. But instead, he walked over to his room without a word, and I heard the lock click behind him. I let myself out and went back home.
Adam sent me a text a few days later saying that he was sorry things got heated and hoped we could still be friends. This softened my heart a bit. I also thought that maybe his outburst was a good thing—something emerging in Adam that was allowing him to stand up for himself, demand more. Truth was, I didn’t know if he was being bitter and demanding or just and legitimate. I wondered whether I should do something to show that I hadn’t disregarded him. I thought I could, I don’t know, go over to his flat again, make the kinds of efforts he’d accused me of not making in the past. I resolved to return the following week, just for tea and a chat. I’d bring carrot cake this time. I was pretty sure that was what he liked.
But somehow, when the following week rolled around, I felt less inclined. I told myself that maybe the distance would help with our closure and that turning up again at his place could send the wrong message. Besides, the weather was so miserable that week. I’m aware that this may make me sound like a bitch, but try to understand, if I didn’t feel compelled, I didn’t feel compelled. I don’t know. Point is, though, that Adam didn’t know anything about the real goings-on at the Centre. My only remaining option was to confront Shiba directly.
EIGHT
Shiba and I had barely been in touch since I’d left the Centre nine months prior. I knew she wasn’t fooled by my responses to her emails and texts—polite and terse—meant to gradually bring communication to an end while making it seem incidental. I felt guilty about soft ghosting her in this way but didn’t know what else to do. There was no way I could have had a real conversation with her without bringing up what I’d seen, and I hadn’t felt ready until after my conversation with Adam. So finally, I texted her, getting straight to the point.
Hi Shiba, sorry I haven’t been in touch.
Was wondering if we could talk?
Where have you been?
I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.
There’s actually something I’d like to
share with you in person if that’s okay?
Ok.
OK cool. Brighton again?
If you like. Or come here if you want?
That’s allowed?
Of course, silly. It’s my home. Come.
On the one hand, it felt like a good thing that Shiba and I were meeting at the Centre. We’d have more privacy to talk openly and she would have fewer places to hide. I could even make her show me her laptop if she denied the email. In fact, maybe I could ask her to show me what, if anything, was behind those silver doors at the end of the hallway. At the same time, I remembered how the staff members had watched me with the hint of a threat in their eyes during my last few days there. I worried that I was putting myself in danger by confronting Shiba there, that the Centre could somehow trap or silence me if they found out what I knew. The notion felt fairly ludicrous, but I didn’t want to be naive. I considered arming myself with pepper spray and a penknife but only thought of this the day before leaving, and by then even off Amazon Prime, they wouldn’t arrive in time. So, the morning of my trip, in a gesture that felt more or less tokenistic, I went through my kitchen drawers in search of weapons. I emerged with a small knife and a single corkscrew.
The corkscrew, a present from my friend Ramali, was in the shape of a cartoonish woman whose head you turned to operate the thing, arms rising up as the screw dug into the cork. “I’ll call her Ramali,” I’d said when she presented it to me. Later that night, when we’d opened a bottle of wine, Ramali screamed and clutched her neck when I twisted the corkscrew over the bottle. “What are you doing to Ramali?” The memory made me smile. I made Ramali do some jumping jacks and sent a photo to her namesake before stowing her in my bag. Then I made a mini sheath for the knife from the pages of a magazine so that it wouldn’t pierce the fabric of my bag. Fully armed, I headed to the station.