Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  The laughs that followed came in two varieties: the younger girls thought it was just a joke; the older ones recognised its true meaning. Charvi joined in too, after a moment. Maliha looked into Renuka’s brown eyes and saw a sadness that mirrored her own anger.

  “Come,” said Renuka. “I forbid any more of this at my sangeet. I want to talk to my cousin alone. We have not spoken properly since we were children. Your Amita can work her wonders on someone else for a while. Honestly, Maliha, I would steal her away from you if I could.”

  Renuka took her by the arm and led her through to a balcony overlooking the city. The dazzling sun shone off the waters highlighting the spires and minarets of the temples, mosques and churches. There was an easel set up on one side and in the dim light Maliha could see a reproduction of the city.

  “I am sorry about Charvi. She is unhappy.”

  “Lots of people are unhappy, Renuka, that does not mean they must make life miserable for others.”

  “Truth is not a popular concept, when applied to oneself.”

  Maliha did not respond. She went to the painting, ran her fingers across the pots of paint and compared the image to the world it depicted. The hills were not complete.

  “This is quite good.”

  Renuka came up beside her. “Thank you for saying so but I have to get some more green.”

  “At least it doesn’t matter with oils,” said Maliha. “You could leave it a year and then come back to it.”

  “Why did you come back, Maliha?”

  Maliha knew the correct answer to this question, and reeled it out without difficulty. “This is my home.”

  “This place is nowhere.” Renuka smiled. “I read the British newspapers to practise my English. I know what you’ve been doing. The murders and the detecting. But the newspapers did not say why you came back here.”

  Maliha felt tears well up again, and cursed herself for it. Valentine always made her so angry, even when he wasn’t present.

  “Here,” said Renuka, holding out a very Western lace handkerchief. “It was a man, wasn’t it?”

  Maliha looked out across the city. Yes, she thought to herself, but I’ll never tell you who, and certainly not why.

  “If I had your life, I wouldn’t run away from it, Maliha. Even if my heart had been broken a thousand times.”

  There was something about the way she said it. A strange catch in her voice when she said “run away” that made Maliha alert. She dabbed away the tears so she could see more clearly.

  “You want to run away?”

  “I always wanted to run away. I wanted to escape and board a boat to England to join you.”

  “You don’t want to marry Balaji?”

  “You’ve been away too long, Maliha. You forget we have no choices. His family are decent enough, so this is my chance at escape now. I will return with him to Madras which is a big city, not like this place. And it is British. We visited a couple of weeks ago and amma and I had some time and so we went to the shops. They are so big, and there are so many things to buy. Mama even let me go off with Balaji’s sisters.”

  “Why do you need to run away, Renuka?”

  At that moment Parvati burst out on to the balcony. “Françoise is here.”

  Renuka placed her hand on Maliha’s forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I must talk to Françoise.” She turned and went back into the room with Parvati at her heels.

  Maliha watched them go. The sounds of the women talking and laughing drifted out to her, making her feel separate once more. It had always been that way.

  Leaning against the stone balustrade, Maliha looked down into the courtyard below. The sacred tulsi grew in the shade and a tree stood in the centre. All was as it should be. There was a sudden flurry of movement and half a dozen seagulls that had been roosting in the shade burst into the air with their raucous cries.

  A very dark-skinned woman staggered into view from one of the doors of the outer buildings, used for storage and as living quarters for servants. At first Maliha thought she must be low caste, her skin was almost black, then she remembered the Negro woman she had encountered back at the Fortress—the servant of Constance Mayberry.

  Maliha frowned, what was a Negress doing here? It was not as if there was a shortage of servants. And besides, this woman was dressed in a single wrap-around cloth, nothing a servant would wear. There was the sound of a woman’s voice; Maliha could not make out the words but the voice seemed to be angry. As the black woman crept back towards the building every muscle seemed tense. She disappeared inside.

  There was something about the way she had moved that made Maliha’s skin crawl. She was like a dog that had been beaten so many times it feared every command, which it dared not disobey, would result in more pain. What was worse was, if Maliha was not mistaken, the woman was heavily pregnant.

  She was not sure how long she continued to stare down into the courtyard hoping, perhaps fearing, she might understand what she had seen.

  “Maliha?”

  She realised that someone had spoken her name several times. So she turned and for a moment thought she was seeing a dead woman standing next to Renuka; someone who had been hung for murder a year before.

  Renuka was the one who had been calling her name and she still wore a smile though it was slightly tainted with a frown.

  “I’m sorry I was miles away.”

  “I wanted to introduce my friend Françoise,” Renuka said. “You see, I have become cosmopolitan as well.” She used the French word.

  The woman appeared to be about twenty-five and had a great deal of make-up to accentuate her eyebrows and lips. She did not wear the kind of French fashions that Temperance Williams had worn, and that Maliha herself had adopted, for a short time. She was dressed in the heavier fabrics of an earlier time, though perhaps not enough layers to cause discomfort in the heat.

  She held out her hand. “Françoise Greaux, Mam’selle Anderson. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” She stumbled over the words as she spoke.

  “Your English is very good,” Maliha said. “But we can use French if you prefer.”

  “Merci. Your French is no doubt better than my English.”

  “Françoise is a missionary,” said Renuka. “She wants us all to become Roman Catholic. I said I would be anything she likes if she would bring me her European magazines to read.”

  “Who was the black woman in the courtyard?” Maliha asked in Hindi.

  Renuka’s smile dropped from her. She grasped Françoise’s arm for support, for a moment, then pushed her away, turned and fled through the room. Cries of surprise, anger and then concern followed her.

  Françoise looked at Maliha with a frown. “What have you said, mam’selle?”

  Maliha turned to look down into the empty courtyard. “Something I should not have, I think. But you cannot un-see a thing, can you, Mam’selle Greaux?”

  “And what is it you’ve seen?”

  “I am not sure.”

  iii

  For three evenings prior to the wedding there had been a sangeet. As a close relative Maliha had no choice but to attend, or suffer the not-so-silent indignation of her grandmother. There was little else to be done than suffer the singing both good and bad of the other women, smile when spoken to and avoid being forced to sing herself. She did not know any of the songs.

  This final night there was some relief in the presence of the French woman who was equally out of her depth, perhaps more so since she did not understand the language either. But at least she did not have to avoid making a fool of herself: No one assumed that she would sing.

  When Françoise Greaux entered across the room from Maliha, and after Renuka had greeted her, the woman stood uncertainly, holding a glass of squeezed orange. Her eyes lighted on Maliha standing on the opposite side of the room and Maliha could see the relief in her as she made her way over.

  It was an odd sensation for Maliha, to be thought of as someone to talk to. This must be how those
with better social talents must feel all of the time.

  “Mam’selle Anderson?”

  “Mam’selle Greaux.”

  “Please call me Françoise.”

  “Maliha.”

  An awkward silence developed. Maliha watched the women and girls laughing and talking. Grandmother was in deep conversation with another older woman whom Maliha did not know. The bride’s mother, Aunt Savitha, loitered near her daughter. She was not talking a great deal and did not seem particularly happy.

  “I believe we should engage in small talk,” said Françoise.

  “It is not a skill I have learned.”

  Françoise gave Maliha an intent look. “Are you always so honest?”

  “I try to be.”

  “That must make it hard to make friends.”

  “On the contrary, I find the friends I have made are those that you would want to have, rather than mere acquaintances that profess to friendship but would not offer genuine help when needed.”

  Françoise took a long drink, and looked around the room.

  “Is Renuka a friend?”

  “She’s family, it’s not the same.”

  “Could I be your friend, do you think?”

  Maliha looked at her face. “I don’t know. Would you help me move bodies?”

  The initial shock on the woman’s face dissolved into laughter, which dried up when she realised that Maliha was not laughing.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “No?” said Maliha. “You know what I do?”

  Françoise looked down in embarrassment. Maliha continued. “Of course you do. No doubt my activities have been the subject of gossip. It doesn’t matter how young they are, they had nothing in their lives to excite them until I returned.”

  “I don’t have the prejudice against touching the dead that your relatives have.”

  “No, but you haven’t answered my question.”

  “Do you require a test of me? Do you have a body you want me to move?”

  “Not exactly, Françoise,” said Maliha and watched as the woman’s humour evaporated for a second time. “But there is something I would like to do which might be considered inappropriate, under the circumstances.”

  Parvati ran up to them. “When are you going to sing, cousin?”

  Maliha put a smile on her face. “Another time, little one.”

  “But everyone has to sing and this is the last sangeet.”

  “There will be other sangeets; you will be married one day. Run along. I am talking to Françoise and it is rude to speak Hindi in front of a guest who cannot understand. Off you go.”

  Parvati pouted, glanced at Françoise and ran off. The French woman frowned. “What was that about?”

  “A much stronger reason to be away from here. Come.”

  Maliha set off around the edge of the room with Françoise following, and slipped out the door without being accosted by any other guest. Though Maliha was fairly sure that Grandmother would have noticed, still she was unlikely to do anything.

  The sangeet was in a room on the second floor. Maliha took them to a small staircase in one of the wings which curved round in a long sweep to the ground floor where corridors led off in both directions. Maliha was wearing sandals but Françoise wore heavy Western shoes that echoed on the stone flooring.

  “Take your shoes off,” Maliha said quietly and noted with satisfaction that the woman did as she was asked without question.

  “This is about what you saw in the courtyard?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it you saw?”

  “A black woman.”

  “Is it so unusual to see a dark-skinned woman in India?”

  “An African black woman.”

  Françoise was silent and followed her until they reached the courtyard. It was empty. The moon was high and full, filling the space with its pure light. The single tree grew at its centre and the tulsi grew in a pot where it would be shaded from the sun for most of the day. Maliha looked at the plant for a few moments.

  Without saying a word to Françoise she went over to the pot and slipped her hennaed feet from her sandals. She touched the plant and breathed in the sweet basil scent, then offered up a prayer.

  She was torn. It was not that she believed the plant to be truly holy, or that there was anyone listening to her prayer, but she knew she would be wracked by guilt if she had not done so.

  She put her sandals back on. Françoise was watching her, head on one side.

  “I did not take you for a religious woman.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Françoise changed the subject. “Where did you see this black woman?”

  Maliha looked up at the main building that enclosed the courtyard on two sides. Many of the rooms above had balconies. She frowned in concentration and then recognised the room that she must have been in. She walked across the courtyard until her back was to the wall below the room.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Françoise.

  “Keep a look out at the door.” The woman retreated to where they had come in and faded into the interior.

  Maliha studied the layout of the courtyard and recalled where the woman had appeared from. She stared hard; there was no door.

  She went across and touched the wall. It was solid stone and rough to her touch. She ran her fingers across its surface. There were the joins between the blocks but nothing to indicate a door of any kind.

  Maliha growled to herself. She knew she was not wrong. The woman came from here. She wanted to pound on it. Instead she pressed her ear against the stone. There was no sound except for distant laughter and music.

  And someone speaking French. A man.

  Maliha slipped away from the wall and headed back to the entrance to the courtyard. The voice was coming from inside, Maliha stepped into the dark interior and could make out two figures, one was the size of Françoise, the other larger.

  “Mam’selle Anderson, can I introduce Father Christophe?”

  “Good evening, Mam’selle Anderson,” said the man. “I would shake your hand but I fear I would not find it in this dark. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “One might wonder what a priest is doing wandering a Hindu home in the middle of the night?” she said, and heard Françoise’s sudden intake of breath at her rudeness.

  “I imagine for the same reason as you,” he replied, his voice betrayed no irritation. “It is a fine night and the courtyard is a pleasant area to relax and contemplate.”

  “You are a friend of the family?”

  “I would not walk the corridors of a stranger’s home, mam’selle. Yes, I am a good friend of the family.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry; I did not wish to offend. Please don’t let me detain you.”

  The shadow of Father Christophe ducked as he bowed his head in the half-light and made his way through into the courtyard.

  Maliha, with Françoise following behind, made her way back to the well-lit entrance hall. The sound of two sangeet—the other being the men’s—filtered through the house and mingled in a gentle cacophony.

  “You cannot speak to a priest like that.”

  Maliha sighed. Françoise was Roman Catholic and Maliha had absorbed the British dislike of that particular religion and its devotees, despite her lack of adherence to any. Her extensive reading did not endear the Roman Catholic Church to her as a whole; throughout their history they seemed far too worldly—to say nothing of their treatment of women—though the Franciscans seemed decent.

  However she did not think Father Christophe was a Franciscan.

  She glanced at Françoise who had mehndi applied to her hands and wrists but only simple designs and patterns. To her it would be an experiment, a way to do something her friend would like. For her it held no symbolism. Religion was about symbols and meanings. The priest was a symbol.

  “I am sorry if you were offended by my attitude,” said Maliha and found that perhaps she was sorry. “My manner is always dire
ct. If it is something you are unhappy with then perhaps it might be better if we remained mere acquaintances rather than attempt to become friends.”

  Françoise laughed. Maliha frowned. There was far too much about Françoise that was reminiscent of Valentine. Neither of them seemed to take her very seriously which was quite vexing.

  And then Françoise threw her arms around Maliha and hugged her. “You are a most fascinating and delightful person, and I would be pleased to make the attempt to be your friend.”

  iv

  There were no repercussions from the events of the previous day from either the woman in the courtyard or her encounter with the priest. It was as if nothing had happened at all.

  In her suite of rooms Maliha got up and stared at her unfamiliar hennaed arms and legs. Amita rustled up yet another sari. Maliha was familiar with the concept of wearing different dresses for different events during the day. This was perfectly normal behaviour for British women in well-to-do families. But this was a dozen times worse, because each sari would never be worn again.

  It was a waste, regardless of how much money she, or her grandparents, had.

  Today’s itinerary involved the actual marriage ceremony. She would have to endure an hour of socialising beforehand—though that might be less annoying with Françoise—they must witness the event, and then there would be several hours before she could escape and not have to worry about this ever again.

  She yawned as Amita wound a section of her hair into a plait. She had not slept well; the pregnant black woman preyed on her mind. The woman’s terror was enough to pique Maliha’s interest, but Renuka’s look of horror was branded into Maliha’s mind. It was the same terror she’d seen in the black woman.

  And the missing door was annoying. Clearly it was hidden and she would have to examine the wall in daylight. Well, the wedding ceremony would take place in the courtyard so there would be plenty of time for that.

  Renuka called her the goddess of vengeance and victory. Maliha was fairly sure she did not believe in the gods; they were too like people and she wanted more from a deity than the ability to indulge in whatever emotion they chose. The Christian God was better and she had had seven years of enforced worship at that altar. And unlike the majority of his devotees, she had read their Bible. Several times.