“No, Wende. I’m saying it’s kind of sad and obvious that you’re trying, and I guess you’ve somewhat succeeded, not in bringing me to disbelief with a story of how you spent your summer vacation losing God, but in getting me to cheat on my wife, because, what? Because somehow this, that, proves there’s no God? Is that it, really? Is that all, really?” Prin said.
“Well, if you consider the implications of a religious believer’s decision-making—”
“Spare me all the clean, logical little steps in between, which are really just a way to cover your muddy tracks. Enough of this. Let’s return, please, to why we’re really here in Dragomans. Or is all of this, the work here with UFU and Rae and The Nephew: it wasn’t just so you could be proven right about, what, the inconsistencies of your Catholic ex-boyfriend’s life? Seriously? All that, all this, just to figure out what everyone else already knows? Please tell me that’s not the case. Because otherwise you’re trying really hard, Wende, and not for very much,” Prin said.
“To you not very much. To me, a lot. Obviously, with this job, with this brain, this body, I can enjoy. And I do. I do. I have, for the years since we were together. And I will, for a long time. But when I saw you at that meeting, and then visited your house and saw what you have, all that you have, which is so different than what I have or what I want, I just needed to know,” Wende said.
“What?” Prin asked.
“Well, if we can both look up, right now, and one of us sees nothing and the other one sees all of Abraham’s descendants, and so I live my way and you live your way, as we have for years, centuries, longer even, does it make a difference in the end? Or are we really just pieces of wired meat, ugly, pretty, fat, thin, whatever, and it just takes the right kind of charge to prove it? I think I proved it,” Wende said.
“No. Because of what happens next, for you, and what happens next, for me. You’ve concluded an experiment. I’ve broken a bond. But actually, I do think you’re right, Wende. We’re the same, all of us; you and me as well. But never mind looking up, try looking inside for a moment and tell me what you see, and how that makes you feel. Keep telling yourself it’s just a lump of meat sending error messages up and down your circuits. All of this, all these years, you’re trying and trying and trying, Wende,” Prin said.
“Trying to do what? Answer my question about whether God exists or not?” she asked.
“No. Trying to answer God’s question to you, to all of us, each of us, all the time,” Prin said.
“You really think it’s that simple?” she asked.
“No. But it’s there. The question,” Prin said.
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you are?” Wende asked.
“Yeah, that’s about it. I think, at some point, we all hear God asking us that question,” Prin said.
She left him on the roof. He looked up and around at the Dragomans sky, which, past the white smoke of the various security lights and spotlights, and past the bright green auras floating above all the electric mosque signs, was black and star-filled. Mountain ranges blocked in the horizon, here and there. Which one was it where something, someone involved with the crucifixion had gone? Could he still visit before they left?
Not that it mattered. Visiting or not wouldn’t change what Prin believed, what he saw. Because he looked up and around and he still saw darkness shot through with light, true light. Flickering here and there, yes, like the tops of candles hanging down above them, sending down tongues of fire.
Yes, he also had had ridiculous, little-kid ideas about God. And ridiculous little worries, too. But why had his ideas and worries brought him to fullness, and Wende’s, to nothing? He could not know the reason why.
And surely this wasn’t why God had told him to come to Dragomans. What kind of God would do that? No God.
Just say something—now!
Nothing.
Wende.
Molly.
The girls.
Status naturae lapsae simul ac redemptae: it was fine and well for the convent girls of old Ceylon and for the rest of us. It’s always Easter Sunday somewhere. But what Prin also knew, damn but he knew it to his bones, was this: off in the corner of the far heavens hanging above Dragomans, one of those flickering little lights now looked a little smudged.
31
The next morning, Prin went to a meeting room to give his seminar on Kafka to the inaugural class of UFU2. The room was divided down the middle with whiteboards on wheels. Young men sat on one side, young women on the other.
He’d slept very poorly and reached Molly’s voicemail enough times in a row to feel like he’d been granted a metaphysical breather before he told her. What an unholy fool he was to think that, because he could feel nothing in technical terms—there had been no movement “down there,” as his mother might say (he shuddered that his mother just then came to mind)—he would feel nothing and it would mean nothing. He felt as much for Wende, about Wende, yes. But for Molly? He wanted to get home to her, only he felt like a fish trying to swim after being gutted. After gutting itself. With a dull knife. He’d try calling her again, after the seminar.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Prin said.
No one on either side responded. Shahad, his local academic host, came over from the women’s side of the room.
“Shall I offer a proper introduction?” she asked.
Prin nodded.
Shahad told the twenty-five students crowded into the windowless, taupe-walled room that this was a special seminar designed to inaugurate the UFU2 Eldercare Studies program. Then she introduced their professor for the day, adding that everyone was, of course, already familiar with Professor Prin thanks to the informative and extensive lecture he’d given the day before.
The students themselves didn’t look that different from the students he taught at UFU—olive-skinned and phone-addled, though not as showily bored. They looked nervous, most of them swallowing their lips for fear of having to speak. Not all the women were in hijab. Were the others all persecuted Christian orphan girls? What was the name of that girl the Minister had mentioned in Toronto? Shahad returned to the women’s side of the room.
“Thank you, Professor Shahad, for that introduction and good morning, ladies and gentlemen!” Prin said.
Still no response.
He looked over at Shahad, who came back to the front and spoke to him quietly.
“Normally, we refer to ladies and gentlemen when we are discussing married people. Do you understand my meaning?” she said.
Prin nodded.
“Good morning, boys and girls!”
“Meh ng,” they said.
“So, this morning we’re going to discuss Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis, as you know, and I’m interested in exploring all the ways the story spoke to you, to your own experiences, which in turn will help establish all the ways that great literature matters to our lives … and the lives of senior citizens. And while I’ll do my best to learn all of your names, just for starters I’m curious, is a student named … Mariam, here?” Prin said.
Two girls swallowed giggles and briefly turned around in their seats to stare at the girl sitting behind them.
“Hello, Professor,” a small voice said.
“Hello, Mariam!” Prin said.
He’d tell Molly about teaching Mariam, too. Not to balance off anything else. That wasn’t how this worked. The one didn’t cancel out the other. But it mattered, still, on its own. Prin’s faith was no longer hiding in the basement with his flat-screen television. Regardless of the rest of what he’d done and failed to do, it was at work right now in the world, the real world, the real, hard world of the Middle East. He flexed his limbs and for a moment he felt like a mustard tree stretching up and throwing shade on all the little mustard seeds around him.
“I should tell you, Mariam, that you’re an important part
of why we’ve come to Dragomans. When one of your political leaders came to Toronto earlier this year, he told your story, and it inspired us to help all of you men and wo … er … students get educations. But more personally, let me say thank you, Mariam. As a fellow Christian, I have come here in solidarity with you, and I hope, someday, I can live out my faith with as much courage as you do,” Prin said.
If only!
No one said anything. Especially Mariam. Shahad was studying her phone.
“Well, I’m sure you all have remarkable stories to tell, about how and why you’ve signed up for this program. Actually, one of the exercises in the second half of our seminar will be having you write out those stories. But first I’d like us to turn our attention to the situation of Gregor Samsa, the main character in Kafka’s story. Now, I appreciate he’s not a senior citizen but he’s definitely someone who, like a seahorse out of its element and living in Saskatchewan, for instance, needs care and help and is treated poorly by his family and um, has a hard shell, so there’s lots of relevance to the program that you’re part of, as you can see. Now, I won’t rehearse the points I went over in my lecture yesterday; I’d like to hear from you. So, what did you think of the story?” Prin said.
There was no response. Prin felt better. Other than the dividing wall in the middle of the class, this was no different than teaching in Toronto. He made a well-practiced, mock-surprised face.
“Okay, everyone, confession time. Who didn’t complete their readings for today’s class?” he asked.
No one raised a hand.
“So all of you read the story?” Prin asked.
Everyone nodded.
“This is one of the most original and provocative works of literature of the modern age. And none of you have anything to say about it?” Prin said.
Some time passed.
Much time passed.
Finally, a young man raised his hand. He was wearing a T-shirt that read WE FOUND THE WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION, with arrows pointing at his biceps.
“May I ask you a question, Sir Professor?” he said.
“Of course. You can ask me anything. Kafka would want it that way,” Prin said.
“Who?”
“So, are there any questions about the readings?” Prin asked.
No one spoke.
“Are there any questions, at all?” Prin asked.
“How cold does it get in the winter? In Canada, I mean,” asked THE WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION.
“Well, ah, certainly it’s cold, much colder than here, I’m sure. But really, you can look that up online,” Prin said.
Shahad looked up from her phone and gave him a discreet but very negative nod.
She hadn’t even been wearing sour apple on her lips. He’d come all this way and scuffed up his life, for questions about the weather?
“Really, that’s the only question you have?” Prin asked.
Another hand went up. Mariam’s. Mariam!
“Yes, Mariam?” Prin said.
“When we come to Canada, how long do we have to wash and clean the old people before we get our degrees and take the other jobs? And how many relations are allowed to come with us?” she asked.
“Those are, well, important questions, and I’m sorry but I can’t offer specific answers,” Prin said.
Both sides of the classroom sagged.
“But I wonder if we might look at a moment in the Metamorphoses where Gregor’s family has to wash and clean him, just to get another perspective.”
Further sagging.
“How would that sound, Mariam?” Prin asked.
“Sir, apologies, but it’s Miriam! Miriam, not MAAriam! Sir, sorry, but you make her name sound like you’re stepping on a duck. MAAriam! MAAriam!” said one of the other students.
“Also, Sir, Mariam’s not a Christian!” said the girl sitting beside her.
“Oh, my apologies, I didn’t realize you were Muslim, Mariam,” Prin said.
“Sir, she’s not! She’s Mandaean,” said the same girl.
“Haram!” a boy in the back called over the whiteboards.
“Mushrikun!” called out another.
Prin looked over to Shahad, who was still studying her phone.
“Oh, okay, thank you. I’m not familiar with the Mandaean faith,” Prin said.
He looked at Miriam.
She was clearly not interested in familiarizing him with the Mandaean faith. The girl beside her spoke rapidly, in a whisper, in Arabic. Then she turned back to Prin.
“Sir, they, how to say, worship the John the Baptist. Isn’t that how you put it?” said the same girl.
Mariam nodded.
“Haram!”
“And most of you have moved to Michigan, no? How many of you are left?” asked the same girl.
“Haram!”
“Mushrikun!”
“Forty,” said Mariam.
“Haram!”
32
“So. You survived,” said Wende.
“Indeed,” said Prin.
It was an hour after the seminar had finished. They were alone in a room with stacks of paper that Prin was supposed to sign on behalf of UFU, confirming the educational partnership with this new school in Dragomans.
“When Shahad brought in these documents, she told me what happened in the seminar, with the students. From what she said, I think you did well, all things considered. Also, I think, Prin, to be fair, you were a convenient target for a lot that had nothing to do with you,” Wende said.
“Are we talking about this morning’s seminar with the students, or last night on the roof?” Prin asked.
“Hi team! Hope I’m not interrupting anything, right? And are we all signed up? Time to go back to Toronto and sell baby, sell, yeah?” asked The Nephew.
Despite the windowlessness of the room and the general brown aura of Dragomans buildings, The Nephew was wearing sunglasses. And what was that in his voice, when he mentioned interrupting them? Had he seen Prin chase after Wende last night? Had Rae? She was now standing beside The Nephew with a blank expression on her face, holding a tray of date smoothies. Prin nodded at her, but she didn’t nod back. She was willing to sell condos and kidneys to get her family back together. He ran after other women who texted him chest shots.
“Sorry, Nephew, but like I said to Wende, last night—”
“Yes you did! You di-id!” said The Nephew.
“I explained to her that regardless of what you think the plan may be, I have a responsibility to report to my colleagues at the university on two different options for our future. This is what we all agreed to, in the beginning of all of this, Prin said.
“And now that you’ve given your talks to the old people in Toronto, and met the young people here, isn’t it obvious what we should do? We put this and this together and boom! There’s lots of money and people going in lots of better places than where they are now. Everybody wins!” said The Nephew.
He kept making exploding motions with his hands.
“You’re likely right, Nephew, but—”
“Fuck buts,” said The Nephew.
“Sorry, what?” Prin said.
The Nephew moved in much closer to Prin. He was very thick through the arms and shoulders and had veins, serious veins, pulsing up and down along his neck. His meaty hands were turning into, what, fists?
Seriously?
Prin grinned. He was a university professor! He had mandatory travel insurance! This was a curriculum meeting, not some Asian crime show.
“I’m sorry, Nephew, but are you, a real estate developer, trying to intimidate me into signing something related to university course offerings? That’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? I’d add, also, that you’re doing this in front of two witnesses,” Prin asked.
But when he looked around,
Wende and Rae were gone.
Prin stopped grinning.
“What witnesses?” The Nephew asked.
He probably couldn’t get past him and out the door. They were deep inside a dimly lit office building where very few people appeared to work other than the guards positioned in front of the foyer air conditioners.
“What intimidation? Nothing like that’s going on, bro!” said The Nephew.
“Then what is going on here? I am not—”
“Yes you are. You are. Hey! Stop looking worried! Nothing is going on, okay? I’m sorry you think that. We’re on the same team, remember? There’s no reason to be worried. This is also about more than us, Professor,” The Nephew said.
“Right, exactly. For instance, one of the students was asking about her academic standing here versus Toronto, as this relates to—”
“Obviously, we both do well, and so do the other professors. All the good stuff. None of the bad stuff. Just sign, okay?” said The Nephew.
“Sorry, but I’m not sure about this,” Prin said.
“About what? You are going to break the internet with good news! Hashtag Professor saves the day! Also, so does Wende, and I know you care about that, right? Right? Don’t think I didn’t see you follow her out last night. Don’t think the rooftop is camera-free. Don’t think I can’t access those cameras. But also, Mr. Married Man, Mr. Family Man, think about this: If this deal works out, Rae gets to bring her family over and stop that other stuff she does for money. I know she told you about it. Right?” said The Nephew.
“You did,” said Prin.
Of course there were cameras on the rooftop. But why would The Nephew have access to government security footage?
He must be bluffing.
Wasn’t he just bluffing?
Or why not just sign and get out of here?
He had to tell her. He would tell her. He could sign the papers and then there would be nothing else but to go to his room and call and tell her.
“Anyways, I don’t know what you see around town, but do you know how many Russian strippers I’ve met in Toronto with scars near their kidneys? Sure, they call them birthmarks and scars from where the babies came out. They have to. But they’re lying, the poor, sexy girls. That’s awful stuff. Really bad. Right?” said The Nephew.
Original Prin Page 13
