Like the previous times, Shiba sent a car to pick me up from the station. I was happy to see the same driver who had dropped me off on my very first trip to the Centre.
“Oh, hi, slamalaikum. You remember me?” I asked.
“Walaikum salam, sister, of course I do. How are you? No bags?”
“No bags. Actually, I’m friends with one of the girls that works there. Just visiting,” I replied as I got in the car.
“Nice of you to come so far to meet your friend.”
“Haan, well, we have a lot to catch up on.”
“Tell me, what language was it the last time we met? Can you speak it now?”
“German. Yes. A little bit.”
“Alhamdulillah. That must be helpful in your work.”
“It is.”
“Did you find out how much it costs?” he asked.
“You know, between you and me, I don’t think it’s worth the price.”
“Oh?” he looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Why not?”
“Just … I wouldn’t recommend it.”
We drove on, and the driver spoke once again of the son he was proud of, and then of his daughter who seemed to be giving him a bit of trouble.
“How do you raise children in this country?” he said, shaking his head. “There is no way to protect them. The schools, they’re filled with drugs, bad language, relations between men and women.”
“Things like that happen in Pakistani schools now too,” I said. I wasn’t sure if this was true, but I was guessing so from desi Twitter. I myself had been raised in a universe apart from drugs and sex and bad language, but this led to its own set of issues, my naivete becoming an embarrassment to me in my twenties. “You can’t be sure they would have been better off there.”
“No, but something inside,” he said, gesturing toward his abdomen, “it stays together when you grow up in a place where you are not the minority. In this country, our children break.”
I tried to feel into my own abdomen, to see if something had stayed intact there as a result of growing up back home. I concluded that there may be truth to his words.
“Sister,” he continued, “the things that they teach them about our home culture, you won’t believe. One day my daughter comes home, waving some book around, telling my wife to remove her scarf.”
“That’s awful.”
“How are you supposed to keep them from hating you?”
“God protect us,” I said. What else could one say?
We kept driving, and eventually reached the familiar roads that wound through unpopulated green. I became aware of just how quiet and secluded the grounds surrounding the Centre were, for miles and miles in every direction. I pulled out my phone but had no signal.
“Where exactly are we?” I asked. “Can I see your GPS?”
“It’s all up here,” he said, pointing to his forehead.
I told myself that my rising fear was just paranoia, that I was only meeting Shiba for a chat, and she would soon explain everything. I had nothing to worry about. Still, I felt glad that I’d told Naima where I was going beforehand, even if I hadn’t been able to give her an exact address.
We pulled up, as usual, in front of the building. Before leaving the car, I leaned forward in my seat and offered the driver a twenty-pound note.
“For you.”
“Oh, no thank you,” he replied.
“Don’t say that. Please take it.”
“Please don’t offer so much,” he said, making me blush.
“No, please. I enjoyed our drive. It’s nothing,” I said.
His eyes turned cold. I had insulted him with the gesture.
“Sister,” he said, “we both know I’m only here to get you from A to B. Nothing more. Don’t try to make it look any different.”
With that, he drove away.
The familiar receptionist greeted me at the desk, flashing a smile, “Hello. How was your journey?”
“Yes, pretty good. I’m here to meet Shiba.”
“Very good,” he said and typed something into his desktop. “She’ll be here shortly.”
“Thanks,” I said and looked into the courtyard behind him, just as lush and abundant as I remembered.
“Your garden always looks so beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“What’s your secret?” I asked, watching him carefully.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Good fertilizer?”
The hairs on my arms stood up in response. I looked at the garden again, at the handful of Learners walking around and the staff members weaving between them. The man behind the desk, who’d so cheerfully greeted me a moment ago, was now frowning at his screen. I was overthinking, I told myself. Any man at any desk would look like that. But despite trying to curb my anxiety, I jumped when Shiba popped up at reception.
“Fuck. You scared me.”
She laughed and gave me a warm hug, and I felt my heartbeat slow.
“Finally,” she said. “I missed you.”
“It’s great to see you,” I said. “I didn’t know you were allowed guests.”
“Of course we are. It’s our home after all. We just use the back entrance. Come.”
She led me back out the gleaming front door and around the outside of the building until we came to the back, where a heavy gray door identical to the one inside the courtyard stood. She removed her key ring from her pocket and unlocked the door, which opened into the same entryway I’d seen last time. I looked around. The place looked different in the daytime, the carpets more faded, the carved mahogany staircase worn and chipped. The keypad protecting the metal door, which had been glowing green the night I broke in, was now a muted gray. I felt a spike of anxiety, but there was no turning back now.
“All good?” Shiba said, catching me looking at the keypad.
“Yeah, of course.”
We made our way up the stairs and into Shiba’s flat. It was as cozy and warm as I remembered, and I felt my body relax a bit upon entering. A Solange Knowles song was playing on Shiba’s laptop, and I could smell recently lit rose incense. Half a joint lay in her ashtray.
“Day off,” she said when she saw me clock it.
Nothing’s up, I thought to myself. She’d just not told me about Anna because she didn’t want me to be sad.
“I missed your place,” I said.
“Where did you disappear to?”
“I just … you know how it is, just got busy.”
“Ah, okay.” I heard hurt in her voice. “I read the Work in Progress book. So good.”
“Ah, great. Glad you liked it.”
“Tea?”
“Sure.”
When she opened the cabinet to pull out a tea bag, I strained to look at what else was in there. Only mugs and other types of teas. No weapons or body parts or anything. I chided myself for being so silly.
“I was wondering one thing, though,” she continued, turning on the kettle, “about that woman in the book, the writer lady. What if she had just left her first novel the way it was and then done the amendments separately? She could have actually published a whole second novel, and a third, instead of changing the first so drastically every time.”