Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  Aunt Savitha tensed, and her voice hardened. “Then he laughed. He said that would be no problem. He knew I might die, so he had already discussed with Grandfather that he would have you, Maliha. He would marry you, by force if necessary, and the gods would be doubly pleased that a disobedient woman was brought to them and tamed.”

  She began to breathe hard. “And when he said so, I had such an anger in me that I have never felt before. You are my niece, you are strong and I would never let him touch you the way he touched me. So, while he laughed, I took up one of his blessed tools, and I looked him in the eye. Yes. I looked my husband in the eye and I saw fear in him. So I stabbed him. But he did not fall. So I stabbed again, and again, and again. And then he fell.

  “And I had his blood on my hand.”

  The cell absorbed her panting breaths. She held her hand up as if she gripped the weapon and stared at the imaginary skewer. Then she returned to herself, dropped her hand and blinked. “I did it to save you, Maliha, because you are the avatar of vengeance.”

  Maliha tutted to herself and changed the subject.

  “Was it you who let the girl out, the night before when I visited?”

  Aunt Savitha looked at her and nodded. “We practised the plan.”

  “You said that you bought the girl, Riette.”

  “Though it is against the law to own another human being, yes, I bought her as if she were a goat and gave her to my husband to use.”

  “And she spoke English?”

  “Only a few words. We made a language between us.” A pained look came across her aunt’s face. “But when she cried out, or cried afterwards, she spoke then. Her language was something I did not recognise.”

  “It was not French?”

  “No. I do not think she understood French at all. Perhaps it was from her native Africa? What language do the black people speak?”

  “They have as many languages as we do,” said Maliha distractedly. She was thinking. There were Germans in Africa and also the Dutch. She could not speak Dutch but they had been taught German in school. “Did the language she spoke sound like this?”

  Aunt Savitha looked up in surprise. “It was like that.”

  Maliha summoned the memory of the Dutch trade attaché she had met on various occasions a few months before. Including the time when he had planned to kill her and Valentine. She tried to speak German using his Dutch accent. “Please stop, please don’t hurt me anymore.”

  Aunt Savitha nodded. “Yes, yes, that was it. Like that.”

  “She was from South Africa, somewhere occupied by the Afrikaans—they are Dutch in origin. Probably from the city otherwise she would speak her native African tongue, especially when in pain.”

  Her aunt winced at the mention of the torture the girl had undergone. Maliha knew what her aunt had done was wrong, but she had endured her uncle’s mistreatment for fifteen or more years. Maliha might not understand why anyone would endure it without doing something about it, but she could understand wanting to save her own flesh and blood.

  “People talk about the things you have done, Maliha,” said Aunt Savitha. Maliha took a deep breath, suppressed the anger deep inside, where it always boiled, where she had always been able to keep it.

  She turned to face her aunt, under control.

  Her aunt prostrated herself and touched Maliha’s feet. “You will avenge this girl’s death, yes?” She emphasised the word avenge and did not move from her prone position.

  Maliha felt awkward. It was wrong of an elder to behave this way towards her, as if she were a guru or, heaven forbid, a goddess—damn that foolish priest. But she knew what her aunt was waiting for. She had to give her blessing. If she did it then she accepted the honour her aunt had given her, but if she did not she would destroy what little remained of her aunt’s self-respect.

  She reached down and touched her aunt’s head.

  Her aunt got up from the ground but squatted to one side, as if she did not deserve to be on the same level as Maliha, or as if Maliha were a guru. She kept her gaze averted and awaited for Maliha to speak.

  “Riette was well fed and her wounds tended.”

  Her aunt waved her hand in front of her as if warding away the guilt. “I did what I could.”

  “Did she repeat any words?”

  “Many times after she was beaten, she would say Ik bennit vammin moder, and she would cry out to Marten.”

  The name Marten was clear enough, Maliha thought: someone she cared for, perhaps the father of the child. And the other phrase might be I am not my mother, which was interesting but dealt with matters before she had arrived in India, so not directly relevant to the case.

  “When did Grandmother and Grandfather know of Pratap’s vice?”

  Aunt Savitha’s hesitation told Maliha everything she needed to know.

  “When we were first married, I asked my mother whether Grandfather beat her. That was when I learnt Pratap’s needs were not like those of other men. I showed my mother what he had done and begged her to let me return home. She refused me.”

  Maliha stood up and faced the wall. She ground her fist against it. If Grandmother had been here now Maliha did not know what she would have done to her. Her heart felt like it would burst with the anger in her. Why did everybody lie? Didn’t they know she could see through it?

  She needed to see Françoise again. Right now.

  vi

  She drove back to Françoise’s house at break-neck speed.

  Anger fed her every action. She slammed the controls, swerved at high velocity past obstructions. More than once pedestrians had to leap from her path as she yanked on the steam whistle and ploughed through the crowds on the street.

  It was barely mid-day and the sun’s heat poured down, fuelling her temper.

  Never had she felt such anger and she did not care. She thought about her grandmother and how much she would love to wring her neck like a chicken’s. To condemn her own daughter to a lifetime of pain and misery, and then finally to force her into the position where all she could do was take the life of her husband.

  She slammed on the brake lever and the wheels locked. The clutch mechanism barely engaged in time, threatening to shred the teeth from the cogwheels as the vehicle slid to a stop on the gravel before the quiet house.

  The curtains were still drawn on all the windows. Not a servant moved, not a gardener, not a maid, no one.

  Maliha stormed up the steps and slammed through the front door. It crashed back, echoing through the dark house.

  “Françoise!” yelled Maliha. The woman emerged cautiously from the passage that led to the kitchens. She had a half-eaten baguette in her hand, and wore a silk dressing gown that did little to hide her shape.

  “Maliha?” she said. “What...why are you here?”

  Maliha stormed across the tiled floor and glanced through one of the open doors into a reception room where the furniture was covered with white sheets. She closed on Françoise—who looked like she was about to bolt.

  Without a word she ripped the filled baguette from Françoise’s hand and tossed it across the hall. She grabbed Françoise by the wrist and yanked her up the stairs, along the landing and into the bedroom. She pushed her on to the bed and slammed the door. She turned the key.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because, as you said, there is truth in nakedness.”

  “I will not.”

  Maliha stalked across the room like a thunderstorm. She grabbed Françoise by the hair and crushed their lips together, then pulled her head back and slapped her across the cheek. “Take them off or I will rip them from you.”

  “All right!”

  She reached for the belt, keeping her eyes on Maliha. It was too slow. Maliha yanked Françoise to her feet, pulled the dressing gown off her shoulders and down to the ground taking the belt with it. She gave Françoise a violent shove so she fell backwards on to the bed. Maliha grabbed her bloomers and pulled
them off her.

  Françoise finally pulled herself together and retreated across the bed. She grabbed a pillow to cover herself. “What is wrong with you?”

  Maliha threw off her sari and underclothes, then crawled on to the bed. She loomed over Françoise. She kissed her hard as if inflicting a wound.

  “Now there will be no more lies.”

  “What lies?” Françoise’s voice betrayed her uncertainty. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  Maliha slapped her again, hard. “Do you know how much I am tired of lies?”

  Françoise raised her hand to her cheek. “I am Françoise Greaux.”

  Maliha grabbed her by the hair again and pulled her head back. Maliha leaned over her. The pillow between them prevented their skin touching. “There is nobody living in this house. There are no servants; there is no cousin. Just you. So I ask you again. Who are you?”

  “My name is Françoise Greaux,” she hissed. “And this house belongs to my cousin.”

  “But he is not here.”

  “No.”

  “And the servants?”

  “They do the minimum as the family is away.”

  “Why did you seduce me?”

  “I recall that it was you that kissed me first, Maliha Anderson.”

  Maliha tightened her grip in Françoise’s hair and pulled her head back further, exposing her neck. “And then you seduced me. When I was vulnerable and needed someone to be considerate, you brought me to this bed.”

  “I did not notice you protesting,” said Françoise. “At any point during the night.”

  Maliha kissed her hard again. Pushed her tongue into the woman’s mouth. Françoise accepted it and responded.

  Maliha pulled away and sat back. She rested her hand on Françoise’s thigh.

  “Why are you here?”

  “The same reason you are.”

  Maliha almost snarled. “I don’t mean here in this bed.”

  Françoise pushed herself back, sliding her leg from under Maliha’s hand. She sat up letting the cushion fall away. She leaned back against the pillows bunched up behind her. She scratched her shoulder. “Neither did I.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Françoise sniffed derisively. “You need me to explain it to your great intellect?”

  Maliha frowned. She felt the urge to slap her again. She found it gave her pleasure and she thought of Pratap.

  “You are running away, Maliha Anderson,” said Françoise quickly, to forestall any further violence. “Just like me, only I’m not afraid to admit it.”

  “Really? And what am I running from?”

  “The same thing as me, only for a different reason.”

  Maliha felt her blood run cold, and the anger within her turned to ice.

  “I am not running away.”

  “Of course you are,” said Françoise. “You’re running from your Valentine.”

  All Maliha’s senses seemed to cease their natural function. She felt as if she could not move. But Françoise continued.

  “And I am running from a man as well.”

  “Why would you run from a man?”

  Françoise looked away, slightly embarrassed. “I did lie to you about one thing.”

  Maliha felt a small spark of triumph, but it did not burn into a warming flame. She remained numb. “What did you lie about?”

  “When you asked whether I had kissed another woman as a lover,” Françoise said. “I said I had not but I have, of course.”

  “That explains...much.”

  Françoise laughed. “You British are so understating.” She looked directly into Maliha’s eyes. “Listen to me, Maliha Anderson. I am very experienced making love with women, I have had a great deal of practice, and I have been greatly admired for it.”

  “So when I spoke of kissing—”

  “I really could not believe my luck.” Françoise folded her legs under her and knelt forward beside and facing Maliha. She put her arms around her. “But I was disappointed to find that your heart was not to be mine.”

  “I am not running away from Valentine—”

  Françoise silenced her with a kiss. “Stop lying to yourself, little Maliha. I am allowed to lie, that is my nature, but it is not right for one such as you.” She ran her fingernails from Maliha’s neck to the tip of her breast. Then withdrew her hand with a sigh. “Such a pity.”

  “A pity?”

  “I rather liked this version of you. So firm, so angry, even the violence—” she touched her cheek again and smiled, “—quite stimulating. I am usually the one who leads. It made a most refreshing change.”

  Maliha found her anger had dissipated, leaving her empty, tired and sad. She reached out and put her arms around Françoise’s waist, and rested her head against the woman’s shoulder. She ran her hand along Françoise’s arm just to experience the soft cool skin and the tiny hairs. She liked Françoise and was sorry she had hurt her. “I could stay this afternoon,” she said, then wondered if she might be misunderstood. “With you. Together. In bed.”

  “I love your hair,” said Françoise and ran her fingers through it. “I think perhaps I may be a little bit in love with you, Maliha Anderson. But you are not like me. You do not love women. And as much as I would enjoy dallying with you, I do not think it would be fair of me to take advantage of you.”

  Maliha smiled. “Again.”

  “Yes,” said Françoise. “Unfair for me to take advantage of you, again.”

  Then she sighed. “You are the sweetest thing, Mam’selle Anderson, but you must go. Before I change my mind, tie you to the bed, and make love to you until you cry for mercy.”

  Maliha blinked; after the previous night she had some idea of what that might mean. She could almost imagine it.

  Françoise laughed again. “You are incorrigible.” She pushed Maliha hard so she tumbled to the edge of the bed and barely saved herself from crashing to the floor. “Put your clothes on and get out.”

  Maliha stood reluctantly, fished her petticoat from the floor and slid into it. She fastened her blouse then set about organising the sari. Françoise merely watched.

  “You did not tell me who you were running from,” said Maliha as she wrapped the sari around her waist and pleated the pallu.

  “I am betrothed to a man,” said Françoise indifferently. “I will not marry him, of course, but my family is quite insistent.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  “Oh, I like him well enough.” Françoise got off the bed and went to the window. She stretched and Maliha could see her muscles working under her soft curves. “But let us say he would curtail my activities. And I really am uncomfortable with men’s—” she waved her hand “—things.”

  Maliha ensured the sari was tucked firmly into her waistband, located her sandals and slipped them on.

  “Do you want to continue accompanying me on the investigation?” she asked.

  Françoise turned round. She seemed so comfortable in her nakedness. “I would like to do that. If you do not object to my presence and if your Amita does not mind.”

  “I will explain the situation to Amita.”

  “Really? You would explain this,” she pointed at the rumpled bed, “to your maid?”

  Maliha was not about to reveal Amita’s secret, so she just nodded. “Oh yes, it will be entirely appropriate.”

  “As you wish,” Françoise shrugged. “When will we see one another again?”

  “Would I be right in thinking you can drive a steam carriage?”

  “Oh yes, my father owns one similar to yours.”

  “Then I will collect you at nine this evening, Miss Greaux,” said Maliha with a hint of a smile in her voice. “But I suggest you wear durable clothes and the strongest shoes you possess.”

  “An adventure?”

  “I imagine it will be.”

  Chapter 7

  i

&
nbsp; Valentine waited at the meeting point on the beach nine miles north of Pondicherry, in British-owned territory. He had managed to find some shade under a palm tree and dozed.

  There were fishing boats out in the bay and men with rods on the beach. The ocean kept the whole coast provided with more than could be eaten, and yet a hundred miles inland one bad season would bring people to the point of starvation.

  He was roused from his sleep by a drone that grew louder until it filled the air. A dark shape grew in the sky. The Royal Navy troop ship flew in across the ocean. The powerful down draughts from its eight gargantuan rotors stirred up the sea and drove the fishing ships across the water. He saw one of them capsize.

  It was only a hundred feet up when it crossed to the beach, driving a sandstorm before it. Valentine turned away and covered his face. The sand stung his skin for a few seconds until the roaring vessel passed beyond the beach and came to a stop above the undergrowth and trees.

  The ship descended light as a feather. If a feather possessed roaring rotors and pumped smoke and steam from its four funnels. Valentine had travelled to India aboard the RMS Macedonia sky-liner that carried five hundred passengers, yet this Royal Navy carrier was twice its bulk.

  It sported artillery points along its sides, the portholes were armoured and its skin was riveted steel. From its top deck protruded the wings of other craft. It flew a Royal Ensign flag and the name HMS Alexandria was painted on the hull.

  It touched down with barely a bump. Valentine could not approach as the down draught from the rotors was still overwhelming, but their whine was decreasing in pitch and volume. A hatch folded out and formed a ramp. Crew members, some armed, disembarked and set up a cordon.

  Valentine approached ensuring that he kept his hands visible and open. It was obvious he was a white man but the enemy wasn’t Indian, or even French; it was the Kaiser and his desire to build an empire as great as Britain’s.

  He stopped at a non-threatening distance and allowed the armed men to come to him. He answered their challenges appropriately and handed over his identification. One of them went back into the ship while two others kept their weapons at the ready, watching Valentine.