every sound from you elicits a hiss and a heel crush.
They stop. They bang you out of the car. You cock back your head, to see beneath the oily blindfold. Someone chops you hard in the neck. They drag you, doubled over, inside.
They take your keys and the trinkets from your pockets. Your Swiss Army knife causes a buzz out of proportion to its two pinkie blades and nail clippers.
They confiscate your wallet, pulling it apart piece by piece. They demand an account of every scrap and wrapper. Your expired organ donor declarations. Your eyeglass prescription. Your student ID, ten years obsolete. Bank cards that you couldn't use anywhere within a thousand kilometers.
"What is this?" a venomous tenor shouts at you, sticking each enigma under your blindfold for inspection. "What these numbers mean?"
"Those ... are phone numbers. Phone numbers of friends in America."
"Don't lie!" Another pair of hands slams you from the rear, more for the drama than for the pain.
"Codes," a neutral voice declares.
"Not codes. Phone numbers. Go ahead. Call them. Tell them I say hello."
The voice laughs without humor.
Another bodiless voice draws close to your face. "You American? Why you look like a Arab?"
You curse your failure to memorize the fourteen splinter groups. Who are these people? What do they need to hear? Answer wrong and you will never answer again. They'll kill you for your political ignorance.
"Why?" your interrogator shouts. "What kind of name is Taimur Martin?"
The question you grew up with. Your gut snaps tight. You roll the die and answer: "I am ... half Iranian."
Rapid bursts of translation pass among several people. They argue, climbing up the pitches of virulent Arabic. You've never realized how much you need your eyes to converse.
"Where your passport?"
"I ... didn't think I'd need it when I stepped out of the compound."
For a moment they soften, pat you on the shoulder. They shuffle around in the invisible room, collecting your things. They'll put you back in the car, return you to the school, drop you off, and fade back into whatever lunatic cabal of posturing boys put them up to this stunt.
Instead, they strip and search you. The hunt grows violent. Your body starts to convulse again. You will shit all over the floor. You will die here, and you won't even know why.
"Please, not the necklace," you beg. "That's a present. A gift from a —
"Don't call us thieves." Spit sprays your cheek. And the necklace, Gwen's good-luck charm, disappears into the political.
They want names. Names of who? It's absurd. They can spot an American from ten kilometers, if they only look. What would they do with names? Saunter up and down the street, calling them out? Still they ask, but listlessly, a dry read-through of the barest minimum script.
"Tell us what we ask. We know how to use ... electricity. You understand?"
You understand. You fake a weak composure. You tell them you'll do whatever they ask.
"What are you doing here?"
You cannot stop yourself. "You kidnapped me."
Something cracks you just above the left ear. Lights explode against the curtain of your blindfold. You bite into your tongue. You vomit, stinging and dry, in your mouth.
"What are you doing here?"
"I am a teacher." Slower and slower. "I give conversational English lessons at —"
"You are stupid. Big shit. You are American spy. You are CIA."
The first objecting syllable out of your throat whips your interrogator into fury. "You lie. You liel We know why you come here. We know about your big secret."
Connections light you up at last. It comes back to you, the vanished lesson from your teacher-training days in Des Moines. The first rule of any classroom: Never resort to irony.
8
The first generation of imaginary landscapes began pouring from the simulator just as Adie settled in to her own new one. She took only a few weeks to see just what chambers the Cavern meant to mimic. She stood inside the room-sized box, watching a stream of images
They stop. They bang you out of the car. You cock back your head, to see beneath the oily blindfold. Someone chops you hard in the neck. They drag you, doubled over, inside.
They take your keys and the trinkets from your pockets. Your Swiss Army knife causes a buzz out of proportion to its two pinkie blades and nail clippers.
They confiscate your wallet, pulling it apart piece by piece. They demand an account of every scrap and wrapper. Your expired organ donor declarations. Your eyeglass prescription. Your student ID, ten years obsolete. Bank cards that you couldn't use anywhere within a thousand kilometers.
"What is this?" a venomous tenor shouts at you, sticking each enigma under your blindfold for inspection. "What these numbers mean?"
"Those ... are phone numbers. Phone numbers of friends in America."
"Don't lie!" Another pair of hands slams you from the rear, more for the drama than for the pain.
"Codes," a neutral voice declares.
"Not codes. Phone numbers. Go ahead. Call them. Tell them I say hello."
The voice laughs without humor.
Another bodiless voice draws close to your face. "You American? Why you look like a Arab?"
You curse your failure to memorize the fourteen splinter groups. Who are these people? What do they need to hear? Answer wrong and you will never answer again. They'll kill you for your political ignorance.
"Why?" your interrogator shouts. "What kind of name is Taimur Martin?"
The question you grew up with. Your gut snaps tight. You roll the die and answer: "I am ... half Iranian."
Rapid bursts of translation pass among several people. They argue, climbing up the pitches of virulent Arabic. You've never realized how much you need your eyes to converse.
"Where your passport?"
"I ... didn't think I'd need it when I stepped out of the compound."
For a moment they soften, pat you on the shoulder. They shuffle around in the invisible room, collecting your things. They'll put you back in the car, return you to the school, drop you off, and fade back into whatever lunatic cabal of posturing boys put them up to this stunt.
Instead, they strip and search you. The hunt grows violent. Your body starts to convulse again. You will shit all over the floor. You will die here, and you won't even know why.
"Please, not the necklace," you beg. "That's a present. A gift from a —
"Don't call us thieves." Spit sprays your cheek. And the necklace, Gwen's good-luck charm, disappears into the political.
They want names. Names of who? It's absurd. They can spot an American from ten kilometers, if they only look. What would they do with names? Saunter up and down the street, calling them out? Still they ask, but listlessly, a dry read-through of the barest minimum script.
"Tell us what we ask. We know how to use ... electricity. You understand?"
You understand. You fake a weak composure. You tell them you'll do whatever they ask.
"What are you doing here?"
You cannot stop yourself. "You kidnapped me."
Something cracks you just above the left ear. Lights explode against the curtain of your blindfold. You bite into your tongue. You vomit, stinging and dry, in your mouth.
"What are you doing here?"
"I am a teacher." Slower and slower. "I give conversational English lessons at —"
"You are stupid. Big shit. You are American spy. You are CIA."
The first objecting syllable out of your throat whips your interrogator into fury. "You lie. You liel We know why you come here. We know about your big secret."
Connections light you up at last. It comes back to you, the vanished lesson from your teacher-training days in Des Moines. The first rule of any classroom: Never resort to irony.
8
The first generation of imaginary landscapes began pouring from the simulator just as Adie settled in to her own new one. She took only a few weeks to see just what chambers the Cavern meant to mimic. She stood inside the room-sized box, watching a stream of images
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