The Test(5)

—Then get the fuck up and go back to your desk! We don’t have all day!

He had that man shot because he wouldn’t get down. Now he wants me to get up. Do what he says, Idir. Everything will be fine. I will not sit on the chair. I’ll just kneel in front of the desk and swipe left to the next screen.

—Yes, sir. It’s . . . I’m at question six.

—Six! How many are there?

—Twenty-five. This is question six of twenty-five.

—Shit. That’s a lot. We better hurry then. What’s the question?

—How old was Mary Stuart when she became Queen of Scotland?

—That’s the question?

—Yes, sir.

—What kind of question is that? Why do you need to know that to be a citizen? I don’t know that!

—There are lots of historical questions, sir.

—And?

—That is the question, sir. How old was Mary Stuart when she became Queen of Scotland?

—What’s the fucking answer?

—Oh. I don’t know.

I am much too scared to think, but I really don’t know the answer. If I did, I might not have told him. I don’t think I should. The last thing I want is to sound like a know-it-all.

—You don’t know?

—No, sir. I don’t.

—Is it multiple choice or open answer?

—Multiple choice.

—Shoot!

—There are four . . . four answers to choose from: One week old. One month old. One year old. Five years old.

—None of these make sense. Does anyone know? Anyone?

Please let no one answer. Please. Keep him focused on me.

—People! Wake the fuck up! Samaritan here is going to flunk his test if no one answers!

—Six days. She was six days old.

Who said that? It came from inside the test room. One of his men behind me.

—Six days old! Are you sure?

—Uh-huh.

—Look at you, smarty-pants! That makes no sense, though. Six days old . . . What would she do? There ya go, lads! The baby pooped! Let’s sack York!

Does he expect us to laugh at his jokes? Let him speak, Idir. Let him speak all he wants. The longer this takes, the better chance we have. The police might come in.

—All right, Samaritan, one down. What’s the next one?

—Question seven. Which . . . Which stories are associated with—

—Oh oh! I’m afraid we’re out of time, Samaritan. . . . Get up.

—What?

—Get up! I help you, now you help me. That’s how it works. . . . I said get up! Good, come here.

We are standing two feet from each other, only a window between us. He’s staring at me. I won’t stare back. I’ll keep looking at the floor. For a second, I saw . . . There’s something wrong about the way he looked at me. There’s no . . . emotion, nothing in his eyes. I think I made a mistake. Humanizing myself won’t change a thing. That man is a psychopath. He could not care less if I’m a person or not.

—You! Get up. Over here.

Who is he talking to? He’s not looking at me anymore, the man in charge. He’s helping someone off the floor. The redheaded man, I’ve seen him before. He was sitting in the corner when we came into the waiting room. He made that crude joke about the receptionist. He’s wearing a suit, probably his one suit. I did not notice before, but it’s a size too small and his shoes are worn. He looks about my age, maybe a bit older. Late forties.

—Who do we have behind door number one? What’s your name, sir? Oh, don’t be shy.

—Graham.

—You can look up, everyone.

He wants all of us to see this, whatever this is.

—And what do you do for a living, Graham?

—I’m . . .

—There’s no crying at this game, Graham. Just tell me what you do.

—I’m an accountant.

—Sorry about that, Graham. But all right. Aaaand . . . you. Fatty. Get up.

That kid looks so scared. He’s not a kid, he must be in his late twenties, but he looks . . . pink skin, a little round. Soft, mostly. He’s wearing a powder blue sweater, cashmere maybe. Looks expensive.

—And what’s your name, fat boy?

—. . .

—What is it with the crying?! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You’re not fat, you’re just . . . What the fuck is your name, kid?

—Andrew. Andrew Shaw.

—And how do you spend your days, Andrew Andrew Shaw?

—I make . . . I make designer—

—Never mind. I don’t wanna know. . . . Samaritan! Are you ready?

He’s rubbing his hands. He’s proud of himself. I don’t know where this is going, but I want it to end.

—Ready for what? What do you want from me?

—I’m glad you asked . . . I was on the phone a little while ago with the powers that be, and I asked them for . . . things. Different things. They didn’t like that, my asking for things. That’s understandable. I hate it, too, when people ask. Call me lazy, but I don’t like doing things, in general. I hate taking out the garbage, but I do. I do it because my whole flat will stink if I don’t. I don’t particularly like to eat. It’s a shame, I know, but I don’t. Obviously, I have to. I don’t like stopping at red lights, but I do—I’m a very safe driver—because the police will stop me if I don’t. You understand what I’m saying? I need motivation to do things.