“But that was the whole point, right? She wanted something perfect.”
“I guess. But she could have strived for that anyway and at least left some markers along the way.”
“I mean, that wouldn’t have made for a very interesting story.”
“It just felt illogical, that’s all. Like a hole in the plot.”
“It annoys me when people try to find holes in plots,” I said.
“Too self-referential, that was the other problem with it.”
“Well, maybe this kind of critique is what she was scared of and that’s why she kept amending. Did you think of that?”
“Maybe,” she said. “I’m just saying, the meta stuff can get boring.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Not your fault. Writer’s fault. There you go.” She extended the cup to me. It was ginger and honey. “I have some leftovers as well, from lunch. Are you hungry?”
“I’m good.”
We each cradled a mug and sat cross-legged, facing each other on two large circular cushions on the floor.
“All right then,” she said, “tell me: What did you want to share?”
I took a deep breath. I hadn’t rehearsed what I was going to say, thinking that it would just make me more nervous.
“It’s about the last time I was here.”
“Yeah?”
“So, okay. Well, I know.”
“You know?”
“I know there’s something going on here.”
“Huh?”
“I know that Anna’s dead.”
For a millisecond, it felt like she was trying to decide which expression to arrange her face in. It was blank at first, then suddenly amused, almost mocking.
“Why would you think that?” she asked.
My heart sank. If the death had been innocent, she wouldn’t have jumped straight to denial.
“I read the email. From Natalya. About the funeral.”
I was hyperalert, watching her closely, and thought I saw hints of panic beneath her mask of bemused confusion.
“What?”
“Yeah. Last time I was here.”
“You read my emails?”
“I hadn’t meant to. I just wanted to check mine, and then Natalya’s name popped up with that subject line—”
“I invited you into my home, and you went snooping around my emails?”
“Shiba, that’s not the point right now, is it?”
Shiba stood up and walked toward the kettle. She slowly opened a cabinet and took out some pistachio nuts, pouring them into a bowl.
She continued with her back to me, “I can’t believe you would do something like that,” she said.
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
She slowly turned her head to the side, and for one sickening moment, I thought it would go all the way around like Ramali the corkscrew’s. But she stopped and looked out the window to her left.
“You’re misunderstanding,” she said and turned to look at me. Her eyes were wet. “I trusted you, Anisa.”
“I trusted you too. Would I be here asking you directly if I didn’t?”
“You haven’t told anyone? About what you read in the email?” she asked.
And there it was. Confirmation that something sinister was at play.
“I haven’t.”
She sighed and sat back down. I decided to just ask the question.
“Did you guys have something to do with her death?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Oh my god.”
“Look, Anisa. The first thing you have to understand is I was intending to tell you all along.”
“Just answer the question. Did you kill her, yes or no? Was it because she broke your weird no-contact rule?”
“Anisa! Of course not. There is nothing like that happening here. Nothing … violent. I promise you. I can’t even imagine how you could think such a thing. The people you learned those languages from were like family to us.”
“People?” I repeated.
She pressed her lips together. An awful question materialized in my mind.
“Shiba, where is Peter?”
She looked at me silently.
“He’s dead too, isn’t he?”
More silence.
“Tell me what happened to them.”
“What we do here is not easy to explain. There is a process that needs to happen before you can even begin to understand. And my intention, I promise you, my intention since I first invited you up to my room that evening, was to share how things work here. It just has to be done slowly and with intention. Do you understand?”
“I don’t believe you. You never intended to tell me anything. If you had, you would have already.”
“But don’t you see? I have been. Anisa, we’ve been walking toward each other since we first met. You think that’s safe for someone like me? But I haven’t stopped for a reason. Even now, I’m walking toward you. Please, let me share this with you the way it’s meant to be shared.”
“All right, so tell me then, in the way you’re supposed to.”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. It can’t just be told. First, you have to assimilate what’s happened. Peter. Anna. You have to really integrate them. And once you’ve done that, it’s almost like I won’t have to tell you at all. You’ll just know. But I will explain everything, I promise.”
“What do you mean? How do I ‘integrate’ them?”
“There is a process. Everyone who we’ve shared this information with has undergone it.”
“Who else have you shared with?”
“We let very few people in. The staff know. And my father and his associates, too, obviously.”
“Okay,” I said. “Walk me through it then. I’m ready.”
“It’s not that easy,” she said. “The best way to describe it is a kind of self-ingestion.”
“Self-ingestion?”
“Yes. It can feel a bit like digesting one’s own self, really considering the body, becoming truly aware of it, starting with your little pinky toe and working your way up to your scalp. And then, understanding, within your being, what you have undergone. It already happens somewhat during the language course; that’s what the meditation sessions are about. But if you’re systematic and consistent with it, all kinds of other insights reveal themselves.”
She said that this would take time, and she could show me how to begin, but then I would need to continue by myself until, eventually, all would be clear. She said we could start right then, with the toes. And so, I followed her instructions. I took off my socks and lay on my back and pulled my right foot toward me, knee bent, hands wrapped around my sole. Next, she guided my breathing until it lengthened and deepened. Then, she directed me to consider my toes, to examine them, with curiosity and compassion.
“I feel strange about this,” I said, raising myself up on my elbows. “Why can’t you just tell me again?”
“Please, Anisa. Trust me. This is necessary.”
So I lay back down and tried again. It took some time; at first, I was restless and fidgety, but slowly, patiently, she redirected my attention again and again, until finally, I surrendered to the process.