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raw. In fact I should have paid more attention at the temple when I was a novice. In a situation like this I really could use an off switch. This would be a good time to step outside my body .
    The teenage guards bring me rice gruel that tastes of motor oil and vomit. But I have to eat. Bad nutrition is better than none at all. They bring a bucket too, as if I can perform here and now. The first time that happened, I started to explain the natural process of excretion, that the body needs seventy-five hours to process food. But one of the boys rammed the butt of his pistol into the side of my foolish head and I was suddenly flapping around inside an aviary of bats and blackbirds. When I came round, the bucket and the unruly youth were gone. I can feel my head now. It’s swollen to the size and shape of a pomelo. At first I thought I might be enjoying one of my fabulous nightmares. But the lump and the pain and the blood on my shoulder aren’t imagined. Of course, that doesn’t make this any less of a nightmare .
    Behind me on a long, scratched and partially burned blackboard there are ten chalked sentences that I can’t read. When my ex-roommate first arrived, they forced him to recite the sentences aloud. The man was barely able to see through his swollen black eyes. They kicked the words out of him. I closed my eyes and diverted my mind from the awful sounds by thinking about language. I’d always thought of it as a friend. It’s guided me through life and shown me new directions. Each new language I learned added to me. I’d become richer. But a language you don’t know, sir, that is one mean, unfriendly son-of-a-bitch. It’s rude and secretive and it pushes you away, keeps you on the outside. And that’s where I am now, on the outside. Not knowing what’s going on makes my teeth curl in frustration. I’ve been grovelling for a quote about language to make myself feel more secure, but nothing comes to mind. It was true what the clerk said. I don’t have any thoughts of my own .
    At some time when I was asleep or unconscious, they took out the corpse. I’m alone now. I mean, in body. As you know, in spirit it’s getting a bit crowded in here. Look at you; old, far too young, pregnant, bedraggled, innocent, pleading, but all of you unmistakably confused. You sit cross-legged staring at me, you spirits of the dead, as if expecting me to entertain you, expecting me to have answers. But forgive me, I’m not on top of things enough to know what the questions are. I don’t yet understand why I’m here or what’s expected of me .
    The smiley man came this afternoon…or evening, whichever it was. He was so polite I was certain this was all some terrible mix-up .
    “ You must be in pain,” he said in basic high school French. “Never mind. You’ll feel better soon. I’m so sorry for all this inconvenience .”
    The words dribbled with insincerity but that brief sharing of language buoyed me. It allowed me to step briefly back inside. He left me a pencil, not sharpened to a point, and a sheet of lined paper torn from a school exercise book. I fired questions at the man’s back: his name, where he’d learned French, what he did, where we all were. But, once the smiley man had given his oh-so-polite speech, his duty was done and he clicked the door latch quietly behind him. I remember you smiled then, you spirits – ironic smiles, every one of you .
    They’re still here, the pencil and paper, untouched on the chequered tiles by my right hand .
    “ Your story,” the smiley man said. “Just tell us your story and you’ll be free to go .”
    I sit with my back against the wall, staring at the door. I sigh. I reach for the pencil, angle the paper towards me and begin to write ,
    “ Once upon a time there were three little pigs… ”
    ∗
    Dr Siri sat beneath the blazing white strip lights in the morgue at Mahosot. Soviet funding had led to the rewiring of a number of the old French buildings and the three