Wind in the East Page 8

  However India had failed to fulfil her expectations. It was hot and dry, except when it was wet and hotter while the type of romance she sought was nowhere to be found, just the odd flirtation. Then she had stumbled across Mam’selle Anderson who trailed excitement in her wake.

  Françoise had surprised herself when the poor Africke had died in front of her. It was a terrible thing and the memory of the event made her feel queasy. But, at the time, her head had remained clear. It was she who had thought of the child, unborn and dying in the womb, even if it had been Maliha who had carried out the task.

  And she had been ready to take the babe and comfort it. It was as if she and Maliha had both become mothers to the same child. Of course that the Africke had committed suicide was a difficulty. She would be suffering in Hell for the mortal sin but, though the Old Testament taught that the sins of the parents were visited on the children, she did not see how the Holy Mother could possibly allow it. And all the stories of Blessed Jesus showed God’s forgiveness. How could it be right to curse the innocent?

  Or did she want that to be true because then, perhaps, her own secret would not consign her to Hell?

  A line of puffing smoke appeared over the roofs on the road. There were so few steam carriages in Pondicherry she knew this must be Maliha.

  With a light heart she picked up her hat and veil, to keep off the worst of the sun, and trotted down the marble stairs and was out the front of the house as Maliha’s carriage turned into the drive and crunched up the gravel driveway.

  * * *

  The steam carriage pulled up outside the house where only two days before Françoise had been enjoying the wedding, though it did take an interminably long time.

  Maliha climbed down awkwardly. Françoise was under the impression that Maliha required a walking stick due to some accident. That was how she’d been described in the newspapers. But apart from a very slight limp that occasionally manifested, and the fact that her maid was always there to assist her, Françoise could not see that she needed one.

  “Perhaps you would get us inside?” said Maliha.

  Françoise climbed the steps to the door and knocked. There were a couple of glances from the staff but all three were admitted: Françoise in her conservative Western dress, she preferred the corset to the new fashions, Maliha in a sari. Françoise admired Maliha’s figure. Her skin was scarcely dark at all and had the bone structure close to a Westerner. She could easily be mistaken for an Englishwoman gone native.

  They were guided through the house to a set of rooms set aside for the women, the zenana. Maliha had referred to her as a zenana missionary, but that term was reserved for the Baptists.

  Françoise had managed to persuade the younger members of the family not to touch her feet, but when Maliha entered every woman, including the older ones, went through the ritual with her. Françoise was confused since she understood that it was reserved for elders, not to say that Maliha was happy with it. She stood there stoically receiving their obeisance and handing out blessings—as if she were a saint.

  Finally it was over. Françoise was brought a chair, which she had indicated she preferred on previous visits, while the rest sat on floor cushions. In truth it was a practical thing. She could not sit on the floor in the boned garments she wore.

  Renuka sat beside her to act as translator, so that she could practice her French.

  “Has the marriage been rescheduled?” asked Françoise.

  “The astrologer cannot find a good date,” said Renuka.

  “But I thought you had perfect compatibility?” Françoise said. Using astrologers to determine the best time for such things was another heretical activity but it seemed a lesser one.

  “We have chosen a new astrologer,” said Savitha. “To make such a terrible mistake, how could we continue to use the first one?”

  “I don’t think you should reschedule a wedding until I have completed my investigations, Auntie Savitha,” said Maliha.

  “But if the new astrologer says next month?” said Renuka. “I should be married now. I don’t want to wait.”

  “Do you like Balaji, Renuka?” asked Françoise.

  Savitha did not give her a chance to reply this time. “That is not important. She will come to like him.”

  But Renuka smiled. “My mother is right, of course, but she thinks that if a wedding is to be arranged then the bride and groom should not like one another, so that they can learn to be in love. She thinks it means their love will be stronger.”

  “So you do like him?” asked Maliha.

  “We are perfect for one another,” said Renuka. “And I do like him, but more importantly the astrologer told me we were born on the same day in the same place. We cannot be more perfectly matched.”

  “And Renuka’s dowry is very valuable,” chimed in Parvati.

  “You be silent, little one,” said Savitha. “Your elders are talking.”

  “Can I touch the goddess?” asked Parvati, looking at Maliha.

  Françoise frowned when Renuka translated. “Goddess?”

  “She misunderstands,” said Maliha. “It’s just Renuka called me the avatar of Durga Maa, the goddess of vengeance, as a joke. And the priest decided it would be clever to give me a blessing in her name. I don’t know what he thought he was doing.”

  “Sadaiappan Sethi is a troublemaker,” said Aunt Savitha. “He has ideas of independence.”

  “And what’s so wrong about that, amma?” said Renuka. “They stole our country from us, why shouldn’t we have it back?”

  “You are too young to understand.”

  “I am old enough to be a wife.”

  Maliha cleared her throat, and the room went silent. “I wonder if I might have some more tea?” she said.

  * * *

  It was all very interesting, Maliha thought sipping her chai, but it is getting us nowhere.

  “Auntie,” she said turning to the elder. “I would like to speak with you in private.”

  Savitha paused for a moment and then nodded. She stood and headed towards a room in the back. Maliha followed but Parvati grabbed her arm. Maliha turned to prise her off but Renuka was already there.

  “Let us get some lemonade and we will play some games while amma talks to the goddess.”

  Maliha sighed. What had Renuka started? She saw Françoise stand and look as if she were going to follow them. Maliha was about to tell her to stay behind, but then thought better of it. She wanted to help, but without the ability to speak Hindi she had no idea what was going on around her most of the time.

  Maliha gestured for Françoise to follow and went through into the other room after Savitha.

  This room was furnished in the Western style with expensive French sofas and armchairs. A strange luxury, thought Maliha, for such a traditional family.

  Savitha did not stop in the room but threaded her way around the furniture and out on to a balcony. This was inward facing to prevent the possibility of the women folk being spied on by men. That theoretical logic was thwarted by the fact that the room was overlooked by the taller buildings opposite.

  A haze hung over Pondicherry spread out across its river islands. The boats were like toys. Two squat flat-bottomed air-ships floated down from the north, the air faintly buzzing with the sound of their distant engines, towards the small air-dock at the south of the city. They were most likely carrying ice which was in constant demand and fetched a good price at this time of the year.

  “I hope you will forgive me, Auntie, but I must ask questions.”

  It was different when you asked strangers awkward questions about their private lives, thought Maliha. There was a certain distance between you and once the events were over you would never see them again. (Though Barbara put a lie to that assertion.)

  “You are no goddess to me, Maliha. I bounced you on my knee when you were a babe, even though your grandmother frowned.”

  “Even so, I must ask. For the poor dead girl.”

  Savitha turn
ed away at the mention of her. “I will not discuss it. It was a shameful thing to happen to our family. It is a miracle that Balaji’s family have not called off the wedding.”

  “Why would a slave girl commit suicide at Renuka’s wedding, Auntie?”

  “Do not press me, Maliha.” Savitha’s words were harsh but there was no strength in them. It was more as if she were in pain. She leaned against the balcony.

  “Please, Auntie, what is it you will not tell me?”

  Savitha did not respond but her fingers gripped the stone as if she were going to tear into it.

  Maliha took a breath and stepped forward. She placed her hand on her aunt’s. “Is it that Uncle owned her?”

  There was a long silence until Savitha spoke, her words no more than a whisper. “Leave my house.”

  v

  It took a few minutes to take their leave of the family and the children in particular; Parvati wanted to play. But as Maliha and Françoise were closing the door Savitha had come through smiling as if nothing had happened. She did not say goodbye.

  “I did not understand any word of what happened,” said Françoise.

  Maliha had always found it best to ignore rhetorical statements and questions. People either got to the point or let it drop.

  “She became very upset,” Françoise continued.

  They continued down the wide staircase to the ground floor. The number of servants was back to normal levels, with all the additional wedding staff having been dismissed.

  “What did you say to her?”

  Maliha stopped in the main entrance hall.

  Instead of heading out the front she went through the back. They passed the reception rooms where the wedding events had been held and along the passage that led to the courtyard.

  The holy plant had been returned to its usual position and seemed none the worse for having been moved or witnessing such terrible events. Maliha crossed to it, slipped off her sandals, touched the leaf and offered a quick prayer. Well, if there were someone listening perhaps they might at least help her find out why the girl died.

  “What did you say to her, Maliha?” asked Françoise again, as Maliha put her sandals back on, hooking her finger into the strap at the heel.

  “I went to see the medical examiner this morning.”

  “Without your loyal assistant? I am hurt.”

  Maliha went behind the holy plant and looked at the wall. “Have you read de Sade?”

  The pause that followed was sufficient to tell Maliha that, at the very least, her innocent French friend knew the nature of the man’s writings. “I have not read them,” Françoise said finally.

  “Very good. The girl was most likely a slave, and had received systematic whipping over a period of months. Sufficient to cause pain and injury—you saw her back—but not enough to damage her permanently.”

  “So she had reached the limit of her tolerance, and got her revenge by committing suicide in the middle of the wedding?”

  Maliha glanced over her shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  She ran her fingers along the crease between the stones then stepped back with her head on one side. “I believe this is a door.”

  “A secret way into a torture chamber?”

  Maliha felt herself go cold at Françoise’s words. That was precisely what it was. But she only had to know it was there, she did not have to go in. She turned away and headed for the entrance back into the house.

  “Where are you going? Don’t you want to gain entrance?” called Françoise after her.

  “It’s not important.”

  * * *

  Françoise could not believe her ears. How could it not be important? She chased after Maliha but did not catch her until she had already entered the house.

  She had to choke back the questions that boiled in her mind as Maliha walked briskly back to the entrance and was let out the front door.

  Françoise chafed in silence as Maliha went through the steps to get the vehicle running. She drove at a relatively sedate pace down the drive and accelerated out, heading south.

  “Why isn’t the door to the torture chamber important?” she finally exploded when she was sure that Maliha had no reason to avoid the question.

  “What emotion drives the French?” said Maliha.

  “What?”

  “What drives you, Françoise? What makes you French?”

  Françoise looked out at the buildings flashing past. At first there had been the houses of the rich, but after a while they changed, became smaller, more close-packed. Now they were the homes of the well-to-do.

  What drove the French? “Patriotism. We are a proud people, and we are proud of everything that is France.”

  “What do you know of the Nipponese?”

  “What does anyone know? They keep to themselves.”

  “Honour and duty,” said Maliha. “To them life is nothing without those things. To lose them is to die.”

  Françoise thought hard. “I do not understand why we are discussing this.”

  “You have lived here for a short while: Do you know what makes India?”

  “I have not thought about it.”

  Maliha paused as she concentrated on a junction blocked by an incident that appeared to involve several bicycles and an elephant. Almost without slowing Maliha threw the vehicle into a sharp turn and drove it down an alleyway behind the main buildings.

  The smell was most unpleasant and Françoise judged the vehicle would need a good clean quite soon, or perhaps it should take a blessing in a river. The alleyway was quite narrow but Maliha managed not to knock the wooden fence on the right, nor catch any of the stone walls on the left. Though she did give a sleeping dog a shock as the machine thundered past.

  At the end Maliha turned left and then right. Françoise looked behind and saw the elephant incident retreating into the distance. The buildings around them were becoming ramshackle and in a very poor state of repair. They came out on the bank of the estuary with the sea to the left and rolling breakers running up the beach.

  “What is it that makes India?” Maliha asked again.

  “No, I do not know,” said Françoise. She was not interested in these games; she simply wanted an answer to her question.

  “Shame.”

  “Is this important?”

  Maliha sighed and reduced speed. She brought the vehicle to a halt and climbed down before Françoise had a chance to move. Maliha pulled off her scarf and goggles, threw them on to the seat and headed away towards a stand of trees on a piece of land that stuck out into the sea.

  Françoise leapt lightly on to the sandy ground and followed her. She caught up with Maliha as she stood on the edge above the sea twenty feet below them. The waves beat against a chaotic pile of rocks at the base of the small cliff.

  “You cannot make your way in India without understanding that simple fact,” said Maliha. “It is hopeless to even try.”

  Françoise was not entirely sure how to respond and Maliha saved her the need.

  “My Aunt Savitha was ashamed when I pressed her on the subject of the dead girl. I had already established that she was a slave and had been beaten, apparently for pleasure.” Maliha stopped and left the words hanging in the air. Françoise knew this was a test.

  She thought for a moment, tried to put herself in the older woman’s position to imagine herself feeling guilt and shame. “Your uncle!”

  “Most likely.”

  “But he would not have given her the poison to kill herself, would he?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Your aunt?” Françoise was horrified at her own words, to condemn someone she had known for so long, who had given her hospitality.

  “That would be the assumption of the police, if they managed to get past the idea that my uncle had done it, if they bothered to investigate.”

  “But it’s still not murder, is it? If someone commits suicide, it was still their choice.”

  “No, it’s not murder. But to convince s
omeone to kill themselves? That is far worse.”

  The conversation died there. Maliha stared out to sea. Françoise watched Maliha. She was almost impossible to read, not that Françoise thought she was skilled at understanding how a person thought, but Maliha held everything inside. Except, perhaps, on those rare occasions when it became too much. She cried for others, but did she ever cry for herself?

  “Renuka said you came back to Pondicherry because of a man.”

  The long pause suggested to Françoise that the girl was right, until Maliha finally spoke.

  “Have you ever kissed a woman?”

  Françoise’s heart pounded. Did this question mean what she thought it might?

  “My mother, my sisters, cousins, relatives, friends. The French kiss a lot in comparison to the British, I understand.”

  “As a lover.”

  Françoise’s mouth went dry but she managed to croak. “Why?”

  “The only woman who wanted to kiss me like that tried to kill me.”

  Françoise hesitated. “Did you want her to kiss you?”

  Maliha shrugged. “Not really, I knew she was a murderer by that time.”

  “Do you want me to...”

  Maliha turned to face her. For some reason all that Françoise could focus on was the red bindi in the middle of her forehead. “Yes, I would like to give it a try.”

  Françoise found no words so after a few moments of silence she stepped forward and pressed her lips against Maliha’s. And then backed away.

  Maliha raised her eyebrows. “Is that how you kiss a lover, Françoise? I may not have any practical experience, even with men, but I am aware that there’s rather more to it than that.”

  Françoise was also fully aware there was more to it. She had some experience of kisses that had been very passionate and long-lasting. She remembered them with a great deal of pleasure.

  Maliha smiled. Françoise was astonished; she had never seen Maliha smile and it transformed her face. She opened her arms and Françoise stepped forwards into her embrace. As their lips met a second time she enfolded Maliha, feeling the silk of the sari soft against her skin.