by CK Collins
Two rings of the bell before the clerk appeared. Irritated. His position was not meant to require effort, and engagement with a female of the species nonplussed him. After wrapping his mind around the nuances of mail retrieval, he slouched off to the sorting room. She browsed the kiosk. Her lad, Kistulo (older by calendar only), was needing a new hard drive for his bit torrents, so she scanned the sale postings. Rooms for let, PCs and notebooks, bicycles, a new litter of kittens — Ashma be thanked, Kistulo recognised the perfect uselessness of cats — but no hard drives. Just as well, he shouldn’t be downloading that rubbish in the first place.
The clerk still rummaging in back, she returned to the front and sifted the unroutables bin. One never knows what this lot might designate as undeliverable. Half-way down the pile — she’d have missed it if not for the irregular dimensions — there was an envelope addressed to Brother Charles of Liashe. Nothing but those four words, penned in dodgy High Masalayan script on a brown envelope that looked to belong in the forgotten depths of a pensioner’s desk. She turned it round and held it to the light, trying to reckon how many decades it was since Brother Carodai surrendered the name Charles.
She had the kettle at boil by the time he arrived in his office. It’s a novice’s responsibility to prepare tea for her dean, and Tchori takes all effort to do it well (he’s partial to Assams, freshly drawn tap water, and a long steep). But there’s no ignoring that 34 of 37 novices are female, and every dean a male but one. Brother himself is lovely, but it doesn’t sit well to be a man’s office wife, no matter how sweet he is about it. She’s tried raising it with the other novices in their monthly breakfast meetings but gets only shrugs.
They call her “mum” because she’s all of 23 and actually gives a fig about her duties. Most have just graduated High Academy and aspire only to round out their resumes with minimal exertion. “Meagre stipend, meagre effort” could suffice as a slogan for the whole corps. You xerox and collate. You answer the phone when it rings. If called upon, you help your dean understand why his computer keeps beeping. In at 10:00 and off to the pub by 3:00. Coast through the term without burning down the Temple of Wells and you’ll walk away with a glowing letter of reference on University stationery.
Kistulo likes to ask what’s so bad about having a pudding gig and enjoying it. Whenever Tchori gets back to the flat after dark with an armful of papers to grade or annotate (or whatever she does for the old man), he reminds her again that this is meant to be their knock-off year. They returned from Scotland late (no blame, just how it worked out) and there wasn’t time to find anything better. He’d have preferred Sagaro or Jaya or even Patchil-Kinaat — some place with professional cricket, a music scene, and quality pubs — but she wanted Liashe, and so be it. But couldn’t she at least coast a bit? It’s not as if she yearns for career as a librarian. There’s a reason they’re called dead languages.
And is Carodai not a kind of dead language himself? Five toes toward senility, it’s said. Absolutely detested by the Bishop and his hierarchy. A man who no longer fits. Presenting a commendation from the High Librarian — has she considered this? — could do more harm than good for her prospects.
The senility talk is rubbish, but there’s truth to the rest, sadly there is — and Brother brings it on himself. It’s not simply that he opposes the Bishop’s modernisation agenda, it’s that he feels the need to mock the agenda. He finds the changes to Church and University crass and insipid and contrary to holy duty. Entitled to his opinion, he’s earned it, but could he not be more discreet? Every annum the consequences mount. The Minister of Studies begins each term by taking another slice from Carodai’s budget and locating him in ever-smaller and more menial quarters. Seven years ago when Tchori and Kistulo were beginning Middle Academy, the High Librarian possessed staff of three novices, two doctoral fellows, and a paid secretary. First to go was the secretary, followed by the fellows. And now nothing remains but a single novice — the bossy Sagaran girl who signed up late.
Brother came in and set his hat on a hook. “Good afternoon, dove. Lovely afternoon, is it not?”
“It is, Brother.”
“Your tea then.”
“Be a dear and set it there. The post — we’ve had the runner already then?”
“No, I’ve gone to Baakdirin directly. The galleys are on the right.”
“Ah, from our friends at Yale? How marvellous.”
“You really should have them e-mail you PDFs next time.”
“Have you not heard that saying, the one about old dogs and new tricks, what is it?”
“That they can learn if they truly want to.”
“I’d remembered it differently.”
“I’ve the rest of the post as well. Including this from the unroutables bin.” She handed the letter over and watched for reaction whilst he studied it.
“Curious . . .”
“Any thought who’d be writing you by that name, Brother?”
“None.”
“The postmark is smudged, but I used a magnifying lens.”
“Of course you did.”
“It was posted in Region 7.”
“Enlighten me about Region 7.”
“The Far Karsk.”
“I see.” The change in expression was subtle, very subtle — a thought crossing his mind.
He handed her the envelope. She slit the seal and returned it. “Have you an idea, then?”
Giving no reply, he unfolded three yellowed sheets. Tchori lowered her glasses (thin black frames, purchased in Edinburgh, too severe said her sister) from the top of her head and returned to the desk she occupied by the door. Keeping an eye on Carodai, she set to work sorting the post on the closed lid of the notebook he’d allowed her to set up.
Even from across the room, she could see that Brother was struggling to make sense of the letter’s badly done High Masalayan. But his expression was growing ever more intense, and there was urgency in his face as he read the last page.
During her first term in Middle Academy, which seems ages ago, they had the privilege of an extended session with the High Librarian. After a discursive lecture that ran from J.S. Bach and Gilgamesh to the Hebrew Bible and Emily Dickinson, he treated the class to a half-hour reading from the Av Udaan. Not in English nor Masalayan, nor even Talidic, but in the original Old Talidic. So that they could experience for themselves the exquisite power of those ancient fricatives and diphthongs, the intricate metre that no translation, not even his own, could capture.
None of them could understand a word, and most struggled to feign interest. But Tchori was transfixed. A four-thousand-year-old song about Ashma. A preserved echo of humanity’s first conversation with permanence. He was right: the sounds possessed a beauty beyond their meaning.
That day Tchori observed a habit in Brother Carodai that touched her — and it was there again while he read the letter from the Far Karsk: his fingers stroking the sheets like the hair of a sweet and worn-out child.
He was a long time in thought before remembering she was there. “So sorry, dove. Lost myself.”
“Not bad news, I hope, the letter?”
“Bad? No . . . no . . . not necessarily.” He touched his cup, which was cold, then left it alone. “I wonder if you might find me an automobile?”
“Of course.”
“Two days, perhaps three.”
“May I ask where we’d be going?”
Her use of the word we surprised him, but he came quickly around. “Oh, yes, well I suppose I could use some help.”
“Considering that you haven’t got licence, Brother, yes I’d say you could use help.” He appeared unconvinced that a licence was essential for operating a car, but she didn’t push it. “Is it the Far Karsk then?”
“And indeed the far part.”
“I’ll Google directions. What’s the name of the place then?”
“Google?”
“Google.”
“Could they have chosen a more serious name?”
“You’d be amazed if you ever used it, Brother.”
“Yes well. The name of the place is Rith Idiiye. But you’ll not find it on your Google.”
* * *
Tchori can feel the day’s remaining light leaking away. “We should be off then.” But Carodai is trying to close the canister lid and his tremor, always worse toward evening, keeps causing him to misalign the threads. “Here then Brother, let me.”
It’s become an unspoken routine in their three months together. She handles the tasks that require dexterity and they both pretend there’s nothing to it.
“Dodgy design,” she declares briskly and tucks the canister behind her seat. “Brother, I wonder — perhaps you could tell me a bit more about the letter.”
“Ah.”
“I know it’s not my place.”
“No, let’s have none of that — what you have is a post, not a place. And I’ve been remiss not to give you a better explanation. What hour have we?”
Their cheap let-car lacks a clock, so she tugs up the billowy sleeve of her robe to expose the watch she received on graduating High Academy. “It’s already gone four. We’ll not be there before dark, will we?”
“I’d say not.”
She shakes her head, angry for not insisting they depart Liashe earlier.
“You mustn’t be anxious, child, we’ll not be nighting in the car. If we’ve not come to Rith Idiiye in an hour’s time, we’ll stop at a home.”
“Some random place then?”
“Indeed. One could not wish for a more hospitable people.”
“I’m sure it was that way then, Brother. But forty years is a long time.”
“Elsewhere yes,” replies Carodai as they get underway. “But not here.”
Evening
Patchil-Kinaat, Masalay
I’m starting to feel like a human being again. Last night they moved me into a private room and this morning I got a bath and a gown that sort of fits. And food, real food. First there was this sour soup with coconut milk. And then this curry with cashews and chilies and god knows what else. No utensils of course so I made a godawful mess, but whatever. It’s been an hour and I still can’t feel my tongue — they’ve got asbestos mouths, these people — but I am not complaining.
And now here comes Pashi with a six-pack of Aquafina. I make a fool of myself getting the first bottle open. God it tastes good. While I’m downing it, she swings into the hall to scold the nurses about something or other. A couple minutes later there’s somebody setting up a fan. The old-fashioned metal kind with barely any grill, loud as hell and good for getting rid of extra fingers. It feels great. Then somebody’s coming in with a water basin and — I’m so happy — a toothbrush. The toothpaste is basically licorice-flavored sand but I don’t care, I brush for like five minutes.
Essio shows up while I’m rinsing my mouth. Bringing his special kind of sunshine. He’s made up his mind that me and him are not going to be buds. The guy’s brother is missing and what he’s got instead is some knocked-up American chick. Which he seems to think is a sucky trade.
And he’s thinking, Her? Seriously?
It might make sense, at least a little, if I was hot. But as much as I’m working this hospital gown, it must be obvious I’m no babe. Just this scrawny white chick with bug eyes and a crappy red dye job and too many freckles. This weird American chick who’s not well mannered or well educated or well anything else.
Rika was thinking the same thing, I know he was. The whole time he was with me, he couldn’t understand why he was with me. He didn’t get what was driving him. He didn’t get where his urges were coming from. It was crazy. It was topsy-turvy for both of us (but my topsy has always been a little turvy).
Pashi and Essio are both waiting for me to give them an explanation that makes sense. A timeline. Maybe a diagram. But I don’t have anything they’ll find satisfying.
We got to the lake in really different ways, me and Rika. With our different compulsions — that maybe were the same, shared compulsion split different. We went swimming. We found each other. And everything sank but us and our urges.
I could tell them that. But I’m not going to.
Essio gives Pashi a long update in Masalayan. It’s a pretty language, even coming out of him. She passes on the highlights, such as they are. Rika and Essio’s dad — The Colonel — has been making phone calls all over. Pulling in favors. And Essio’s been talking with the prime minister’s office. Rika used to do work for her, and the lady likes him. So maybe her people can help.
Pashi takes a while explaining who everybody is. But I feel like I already know it all, even though my memory’s a mess. It’s weird that as much as Rika and I talked, I can’t remember individual things he said, none of the words. There’s the impression of moments but not the moments themselves. Which, come to think of it, is maybe not that weird. He rained and rained a lake in me, and I can’t get his raindrops back.
Essio’s cell phone rings and he goes into the hall to get away from the fan. Pashi holds up her phone — “Is there anybody you’re wanting to try, Callie?”
“Actually yeah. I mean, is that alright? I’ll pay you back.” She looks at me like I’m talking nonsense and hands over the phone. “What time is it in America, east coast?” She decides it’s eight or nine o’clock and helps me with the country code. My poor dad, he must be a basket case by now. Or not. Maybe he’s already got up a Craigslist ad for an easy daughter.
Series of clicks. Some beeps. More clicks. Dial tone. She says Masalay’s infrastructure has gone into the toilet and tries the dialing herself. No luck again. “Someone else?” But I tell her it’s okay. Aside from him, there’s not anybody I want to talk to. My throat has that tight, gonna-cry burn. I crack another Aquafina and do my best to look emotionally stable.
Pashi crosses her long legs and tilts her head in this Barbara Walters way. “Callie then, what’s brought you to Masalay?”
I buy time by taking a long drink. “Kind of a long story,” I tell her, and she gives me this look that says I’m not getting off that easy. “Um . . .” Another sip. “Well, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a nurse.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Yeah. It’s actually about five years since I got my RN. I don’t know if that’s what it’s called here, ‘registered nurse.’”
“I don’t think so.”
“Anyway. I work in this hospital. Medium-sized place. It’s a pretty good place. About a year ago, maybe it’s a little more, I started in the SICU. I don’t know if you have that here. Surgical Intensive Care.”
“Sounds like rewarding work.” Whether she actually believes that I can’t really tell.
“I mean, it’s hard. But yeah. You feel, you know, whatever, important. Or not important. I mean I guess valuable, or, well, you know.” I take a slug of Aquafina. Because water can cure being an idiot. “Anyway, so but this program, I saw this ad for it, it’s called the International Flight Nurse program. I just decided to try it. You get this amount of money, a ‘stipend’ is what it is, that’s what they call it. And what you do is you fly with a patient who’s in America and they need to take a flight back to their own country. A lot of the time it’s like people who’ve had transplants or cancer treatments, that kind of thing. You know, if they don’t have good care in their own country.
“So, Philadelphia, there’s this children’s hospital, it’s really good. CHOP, Children’s Hospital Of Philadelphia. So there’s a lot of kids coming from all over. The hospital I’m in, the one I work in, is different, kind of in the suburbs sort of. But anyway, with this program, you’re like eligible for all kinds of stuff. It’s a good way to travel, you know. That’s what I figured. So but then I got this call for this girl that had to go back to her country, and the country was Masalay.”
“How interesting.”
“Yeah, that’s what it was.” I laugh a little. “I mean, there wasn’t actually anything wrong with her, with this gi
rl. I mean not really. She was — Suapartni was her name — and anyway she was on this trip. Like a youth trip or something, sightseeing or whatever. She’s I think sixteen. Anyway, she had this attack, when she was in Philadelphia, like this respiratory attack. A little bronchial infection or whatever, no big deal. Her parents, though, they were back in Masalay and I guess they kind of freaked. She could’ve gone back just fine herself, but they were like, ‘She needs to have a nurse, we’ll pay whatever,’ so . . .”
“What’s her family name, then?”
