The Test

by Sylvain Neuvel

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  To kind people

  1.

  The Life in the United Kingdom Test

  Question 1: Who is the patron saint of Wales and on which date is his feast day?

  I know the answer! It’s Saint David, on March first. I met Tidir, my wife, on March first. It is our meeting anniversary. I remember that day. She came in for a root canal and I fell in love. Not with her—I didn’t know who she was and she didn’t exactly talk a lot with the mouth prop on. I fell in love with her teeth. She had striped canines. Horizontal discolouration of the enamel, right down the middle. Her teeth look like Neapolitan ice cream. Neapolitan cuspids. I knew right away.

  We met again in a café weeks later. I asked if I could sit with her, and she said yes. A month later, we were married. If you ask her why she married me, she’ll say she was in pain before she met me and I made it go away. I did fix her tooth. The rest of it runs deeper than I can reach. She’s been through a lot. It’s for her that we had to leave.

  We celebrate our meeting day more than we do our wedding anniversary. We both chose to get married, but that root canal, that was the will of Allah. I decorate the house, cover the kitchen floor with rose petals. Sometimes I use tulips, but I don’t tell her. I make my Fesenjān, if I can find nice pomegranates. Our first year in London, our neighbour asked if we were celebrating Saint David’s day. He’s from Wales. I think that was supposed to be a joke, but we have been best friends ever since. Now we celebrate together. Fesenjān and Welsh rarebit. This question is a sign. This is going to be a great day!

  It didn’t start so well. They gave me a physical when we first arrived. I hate physicals. I have no problem with needles if I’m the one holding the syringe, but I get queasy staring at the receiving end. It was over quickly, though, and then they took us here. Wow. You say immigration office and I think grey building, bad lighting, yellowed walls. I imagined taking the test on an old school desk with chewed pieces of gum underneath. This place feels like a fancy hotel. Gorgeous lobby. Absolutely gorgeous. Old meets new, stainless steel and mahogany. They had the same paper slippers we used at my practice in Teheran. Tidir doesn’t like those, but I do. I like the feel of the floor on my toes. It was still early and we all got a fresh pair from the clean pile.

  There was an Asian man screaming at the receptionist when we walked in. He called her a racist, kept saying she stole money from him, gave him less change than what he was owed. I told him he was being impolite and sent him on his way. He may have been right, about the change that is. When I paid the fifty pound fee for the test, the receptionist gave me back a twenty pound note instead of a ten. I had to explain her mistake to her twice before she took it back. I almost told her it was a tip. I didn’t. These people have no sense of humour whatsoever. It must be a requirement for working at Immigration. Hello! My name is Idir Jalil, this is my wife Tidir. . . . Nothing. Not even a smile. Idir and Tidir. That usually gets us a chuckle, at least. Not here. I did not give up. You can change the world with one smile. Do you know the difference between a customs officer and a dentist? There isn’t one. They both do cavity searches. No sense of humour, I tell you. There was a redheaded man in the waiting room who made a crude joke about the receptionist’s cleavage. His joke wasn’t funny, but I have a lot of good dentist jokes. What does the dentist of the year get? A little plaque. . . . They showed me to the test room.

  What a room! Wooden desks with fancy data pads. The chair . . . this chair is more comfortable than any chair I have ever sat in. It is decided. After the test I will find out where they purchased it and I will get that chair for myself. The room is small—there are only four desks—but there are windows all around and it feels very open. I can see Tidir in the waiting room. I can see my son, Ramzi, and my daughter, Salma. It was nice of them to come. My wife said it was the least they could do since I am the only one taking the test. Only men. Only between the ages of sixteen and forty-five. She said it was unfair. I told her it was a blessing. I do not care what their motivations are; it is a simple matter of probabilities. I heard that one in three people fails the test. If that is true and I alone am required to pass, our family has a sixty-six percent chance at citizenship. If two of us are tested, then the odds go down to forty-three percent. She said I was naive. I do not see what is naive about mathematics. The world is what you make of it, I told her. She smiled.

  Question 2: A lot of people carve lanterns out of ______ and put a candle inside of them during Halloween.

  Ramzi would like this question. He loves Halloween. That is probably his favourite thing about England. He starts talking about his costume months in advance, as early as July. He’ll change his mind a dozen times and we always end up making it at the last minute. He was a space pirate last year. Ramzi was one year old when we left Teheran, so he doesn’t remember, but we did have Halloween in Iran. We’d walk by houses and hear music in the basement, see someone wearing a mask through the window. Teenagers, always. Too brazen to fear the Basij, too young to realize how much they should. People have been accused of witchcraft, satanism for merely attending such parties. We never saw any pumpkins, though. Ramzi asks us for one every year. We said yes and bought one, once, made pumpkin pie with the insides. We hated it, all of us. We make costumes for the children, but we do not buy pumpkins anymore. It feels wrong to waste a beautiful giant fruit. It is a fruit, is it not? It has seeds. . . . Things with seeds are—

  —How long do we have?

  What? My test neighbour is talking to me. I am fairly certain we are not allowed to talk, mister. I wore a baseball cap for my citizenship test. Then again, this is the same man who came through the door exactly as I was walking in and pushed me aside. I shouldn’t be too surprised. I will not answer him.

  —For the test. How long do we have?

  Please stop talking, mister. It says right at the top. You have forty-five minutes to complete the test.

  —Do you know?

  Fine! I will tell you.

  —We have forty-five minutes.

  There. I said it. Now stop talking before—

  —Sir. There is no talking during the test.

  That voice came through the speakers. But he— No, I will not get upset. He is just nervous. He is. His leg is shaking. If I were unsure about how long we have, I would also want to know. Now I have told him and he feels better. That is well worth being scolded by the attendant. Life is what you make of it. This is a good day.

  Question 3: Taking public transportation is good for the environment. True or false?

  A city question. People who talk a lot about the environment are always the ones living the farthest away from nature. True. Public transportation is indeed better than driving. . . . That is what they mean. It must be. That question is poorly worded. How could no one have noticed that? Walking is a lot better for the environment than public transportation, and so is riding a bicycle. Perhaps this is a new question. Deep breath. Stop overthinking, Idir. The answer is true.

  Tidir and I do not own a car. Neither of us likes to drive. I wish I could say we walk everywhere to save t
he planet, but the truth is we are both horrible drivers. People keep telling me how bad the air is in London. Worse than Beijing, they say. I tell them they should be happy it still looks like air. In Teheran, we spent the better part of winter cutting through brown haze, thick dark clouds of sulphur dioxide—lots of things that end in -xide—asbestos, even rubber. Who wants to breathe in rubber? They say it is because the gasoline is so bad. I doubt there is asbestos in gasoline.

  Question 4: King Richard III of the House of York was killed in the Battle of Bosworth Field in what year?

  I should leave a note for question 3. Hmmm, there is no room for notes. It is fine. It is fine. The Battle of Bosworth Field was fought in . . . 1485. I am positive. That is the answer. I wonder who writes these questions. How will knowing this make me a better member of British society? We have been living in London for five years. My son has no memory of Iran and my daughter was born here. We have been asked why we hate freedom, told to go back to the desert many times—I tell them I hear Dasht-e Kavir is breathtaking but I have never been. It is true—but not once has anyone asked me about famous battles of the fifteenth century. Maybe I should bring it up.

  I have a feeling only the people taking this test know the answer to that question. What could anyone possibly do with that information? It would have come in handy in, say, 1485, if one were travelling the country. Darling, perhaps Bosworth Field is not the best spot for a picnic today. The horses are fine. I think we should keep trotting. I should not—

  Seriously? Mr. Baseball Cap spilled his coffee on his desk. No reaction. He is just sitting there, looking at the mess. Do something! . . . Stop judging, Idir. Get up and help the man . . . There are to be some napkins near the coffee machine. Where are they? There. That should be enough.

  —Here you go, sir. Let me help you.

  —Oh, thanks. I’m just . . . really nervous.

  Why was I so quick to judge this man? I must be nervous, myself. There is a lesson to be learned here. We are all more alike than we think.

  Question 5: The “Gunners” is the nickname of which Premier League football club?

  Finally, something useful.

  They should make this whole test about football. Sports bring people together like nothing else. It might be even truer here than it was in Teheran. Our neighbour took me to the pub a few weeks after we met. I was hesitant at first. A lot of Iranians will drink alcohol—we did on occasion—but doing it in public does not come naturally. I figured the people who would object were not likely to be in a pub, and I said yes. I loved the ambiance. People singing and cheering. We were standing near the bar watching the Arsenal. I don’t remember who they were playing. I was too self-conscious to openly celebrate, but when the Gunners scored, this hulking giant of man grabbed me by the shoulders and squeezed me like a sponge. It was the first time I felt like I belonged, like I was truly welcome. There have been other times since, many of them, but there was something special about that game.

  I wish— What was that noise? It sounded like a gunshot. That was a gunshot. Most people don’t know what a gunshot sounds like. It sounds like a garbage container being closed hard, like someone popping a plastic bag, anything but a gunshot. Most people don’t know that, until they do. Then it is impossible not to recognize it. Why would anyone fire a gun at the immigration office?

  Oh. There are . . . four, no, five men coming in; I can see them through the window—large men. They are all wearing ski masks—black, black combat fatigues. They have tactical vests. And guns. They have . . . lots of guns, automatic weapons. Are they soldiers? They look exactly like the IRGC forces in Iran, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard. All black. Daunting. I suppose they look exactly like any special forces. They could be British, SAS perhaps. This could be some sort of exercise? I hope—They are entering the waiting room. My family!

  Everyone is getting on their knees. TIDIR! NO! DO NOT GET NEAR MY CHILDREN! Please, Tidir, do as they say. This is not an exercise. No. No. No. NO! How is this happening? Tidir . . . Tidir will be okay. She knows what to do. Stay silent. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

  One of them is coming this way. He’s entering the test room.

  —Everyone! On your knees! Now!

  I am! I am on my knees. I have been here before. I have been thrown to the ground and I have felt the tip of their guns on the back of my neck. I have been through this and I have survived. We will survive. All of us. Someone will come. Someone will come and save us all.

  —I said now!

  What? Who isn’t complying? Come on, Mr. Baseball Cap, do what he says! You will get yourself killed. You’ll get someone else killed! No! Don’t talk to them!

  —What is this? What do you want with us? We don’t—

  That sound again, only much louder. They shot him! Vay Khoda, they shot him! A loud thump. Mr. Baseball Cap is falling to the ground. Everyone is screaming. What should I do? Should I look? I have to look, raise my head slowly. No sudden movement. That is what they told me in Teheran. He’s holding his leg. The dark stain on the wooden floor is growing rapidly. If they hit the artery, he will bleed out in minutes. Someone has to help him or he’ll die.

  Everyone has stopped screaming. Everyone but him. I will need something to stop the bleeding. My shirt. I can untie my shirt now, while I’m kneeling. Maybe someone else will— Maybe they— What am I thinking? That man will not help, he’s the one who shot him. I’m the only one who can help. I am taking off my shirt. I’ll stay close to the ground with my head down. There is so much blood. Mr. Baseball Cap is looking at me. I see so many emotions. Pain. Fear. I don’t want to die. Distress. Please help me. Despair. I will do what I can.

  —Hey! You! What are you doing?

  —Please don’t shoot! Please! I’m just going to tie this around his leg. . . . There. That’s it. It’s done.

  —Get back over there!

  I fear my heart will burst out of my chest. Look at the floor, Idir. Move away from him and keep looking at the floor. I hope he lives. He’ll need medical attention soon. A real tourniquet would give him time. This, my shirt, it’s not tight enough. It will slow the bleeding down a bit, but not much. I can’t say for certain, but my guess is he has minutes, not hours. But he is alive for now. That is what matters. I’m alive. Tidir is alive. My children are alive.

  2.

  THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING to us, not again. This is what we ran away from. Guns and impunity. This is why we’re here. Men with guns knocking at the door in the middle of the night. Kneeling. Always kneeling. Watching her leave, not knowing if she was coming back. Ramzi crying for his mother, too young to understand why he gets a plastic bottle instead of a breast. Mommy will be back soon. She always came back. Always with the same look on her face. Resilience. She never talked about what they did to her. There was nothing to gain, a lot to lose. She didn’t want it to change the way I looked at her. Tidir was a journalist, and a good one at that. Some pain came with the territory, but she felt guilty for making us share it. There are days when I regret not getting her to stop, not even trying. Not many, but some. Now she’s kneeling again. She’s calm. She knows this. She’ll do what she needs to do to protect our children.

  —Everyone! It seems we have a good Samaritan among us.

  That voice is coming from across the window. It’s louder than before. I could not make out what anyone was saying a moment ago.

  —You! Samaritan! Look at me!

  He’s banging on the window. Is he talking to me? Don’t draw attention to yourself. That is what they told me. He is talking to me, standing behind the glass to my left. No one else is speaking. Deference. He must be the man in charge. He is smaller than the rest of them. There is a holstered pistol on his belt, nothing in his hands. Everyone else is holding a weapon.

  —I said look at me!

  I am looking at him, but I can’t hold his stare. I have to say something. He singled me out because I helped the man in the baseball cap. He saw defiance. I put my head down again. S
ubmission.

  —I just . . . I tried to stop the bleeding.

  That was a mistake. I shouldn’t talk. I should do nothing.

  —Do I look shy?

  What? Don’t answer that. Nothing good can come of this.

  —I asked you a question, Samaritan. Do I look shy to you?

  —I’m sorry. I don’t—

  —Timid! Shy! Insecure! It’s a simple question. DO. I. LOOK. SHY?

  It’s a trap. I know. He knows that I know. He also knows I have no choice but to walk into it. He is testing me.

  —No, sir. I’m sorry.

  —You’re sorry that I don’t look shy? Never mind that. Are you in control?

  —In control?

  He wants me to panic. I can’t.

  —Of this situation. Are you in control here? Are you in charge?

  —No, sir.

  —Then who is?

  —You are, sir. You’re in charge.

  He is the man in charge. He wanted me to know.

  —Then if I’m in control, and I don’t, as you said, look timid or insecure, don’t you think I would have asked if I wanted you to stop the bleeding? You, my friend, are meddling in shit that doesn’t concern you.

  —I’m not.

  Defiance. Stop it, Idir.

  —Like hell you’re not!

  —I won’t do anything else, sir, I promise.

  —Oh, but you will. You will if I tell you to! See, you chose to help that man. You made a decision. It wasn’t yours to make and you know it. I know you do, you look like an intelligent man.

  —I—

  —Don’t interrupt me, Samaritan! You even said it! “You are, sir. You’re in charge.” That tells me you understand the hierarchy. And yet! And yet, you made that decision for me.

  Have I done this? Have I gotten myself here? There’s nothing I can say, no good answer. I might die today, and I don’t know if it was inevitable or if I inched myself into it, one small mistake after the other. Don’t draw attention to yourself. That is what they told me. It’s too late for that. My head is spinning, thoughts going through my mind faster than I can catch them.