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!”