“Don’t look at me,” she said without accusation. “Do you see the hills beyond the city?”
He looked and marked the undulating line where the stars were cut-off by a raised horizon. “Yes.”
“Keep watching.”
They stood for minutes. At one point, with his attention fixed on the hills, his balance became uncertain and he stepped back from the edge to avoid tipping forwards into the water.
This meant that what he saw was not the bright light as it flashed in the hills but its reflection in the water. The brightness outlined the ridges of the hills and then was gone.
“What was that?” he said.
She turned away from the edge and took a few steps away from him along the wharf. “Battle.”
“Battle? Between whom?” He followed her.
“What do you think of slavery, Father?”
“It is wrong for one man to own another.”
“The Old Testament is full of slavery; it was perfectly normal behaviour.”
“The teachings of Christ say something different. We have learned much.”
“What about the Africans, Father?” she asked in the same relaxed and somehow disarming tone. “Do they even have souls? After all, if they do not then to own one is no different from owning a goat, or a china plate, or a wife.”
“There is no official edict on the matter.”
She faced him. “Do you need an edict to tell you whether someone has a soul? Someone who lives and breathes; who thinks, laughs and grieves; who feels pain, and love? For this, you need an edict?”
He did not reply. One part of him, the part that adhered to the rules, said she was a heathen woman sent to test his faith. The other part knew she was right. But if he cared only for his career there was only one viewpoint he could have.
She turned away from him, walked along the wharf and stopped beside a door.
“Why are we here, mam’selle?” he asked. “Do you wish to purchase a slave?”
“You have been here before.”
“My ministry takes me to many places.”
A light out on the river flashed for a moment and reflected in the whites of her eyes and highlighted the contours of her face. She was a beautiful woman, and unlike the others of her race, she had no difficulty looking him straight in the eye. But then she was half-English.
“How will your God feel when you have not confessed your sin or received absolution before you die?”
“You are the voice of Satan.”
“If I am anything, Father Christophe, I am your saviour,” she said. “By your actions you have brought about the deaths of three people.”
He was not sure about three but he knew he had God on his side. “No Christians. And one of them an evil abuser who will suffer in the deepest circle of hell for all eternity.”
“One of them an innocent child and,” she paused, “you do not know? Mary O’Donnell herself. One of your own.”
His legs felt weak, a vision of her face swam before him, her hair spread out on the grass, lying without shame beneath him, laughing. He reached out for the wall. “Mary’s dead?”
It had been so many years since he had succumbed to her flesh. The joyful sinning. He told himself that it had been to the good, for he understood those who came to confession and told of their sins of lust and fornication. There were those of his order who listened with sinful lusts to such things, but he had experienced them all, and the pain of separation. The separation he had enforced himself though she cried for him to stay. She had even wanted him to leave the order. But it was his calling.
“You loved her.” There was surprise in the young woman’s voice. “I did not know.”
“How did she die?”
“She was poisoned the same way as Riette.”
“Riette?”
“The African girl,” the sympathy in her voice was gone and the hardness was back. “She had a name, Father.”
“Who poisoned my Mary?”
“I have not rejected you as a potential culprit.”
“I loved her, why would I kill her?”
“Perhaps because she was going to reveal the fact you had falsified the birth records in the hospital.”
It felt as if his heart had stopped. As if the whole world held its breath. He thought about denying it, holding on to the bravado.
“I was foolish,” he said in the end. “I was in love.”
“You were trying to protect her.”
“Yes.”
“Because Balaji and Renuka are brother and sister.”
He felt the strength leave him finally; he was adrift but somehow relieved. It was the one sin he had never confessed.
“She told me that the two women were giving birth that night, one of them with twins. The woman with the single child had birthed a boy but he was dead. The woman with the twins had delivered both successfully. My Mary was a good woman in her heart, perhaps too good for this world.”
“So she exchanged the dead boy for the live one.”
“She confessed it to me and I gave her absolution. Then I went to the British records and rewrote history.”
“You shouldn’t have left them out of the records completely.”
“No.”
He jumped as the door in the wall opened. An old man stepped out; he looked at them suspiciously, slid by and headed down the alley.
“There are no slavers here tonight,” Maliha said. “And they will not be trading from here any time in the near future.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the light you saw in the hills? That was the British navy attacking their base.”
In the half-light her face seemed calm, almost angelic. “Have you ever thought of converting to Catholicism?” he asked.
“No. At least in my religion a woman can also be a god.”
He turned as if to go, then back. “Shall I accompany you back to more civilised parts?”
She laughed quietly. “I was never alone, Father.” She looked over his shoulder and he turned. A large woman in a sari emerged from the shadows. “My maid is entirely sufficient for my protection.” He looked at the imposing figure and judged she might well be.
“However,” Maliha continued, “If you would indulge me for one question more. It was Françoise that told you about the impending marriage, was it not?”
“Françoise Greaux? Yes. She became part of the congregation when she came to Pondicherry. She has befriended many of the other ladies.”
“I’m sure she has.”
iv
She almost sounded like Maliha, the same mocking tone, except with a French accent. But she was completely different. She had wavy hair that was probably brown. And her skin was white, of course, and physically more rounded.
She thrust out her hand and he shook it. Her grip was firm, while her sardonic smile lacked any warmth. She was studying him.
“Françoise Greaux. You are Valentine Crier, n’est pas?”
“Yes, but my name is Bill,” he said. “Miss Greaux?”
“Yes, she explained that. And I agree with her, Valentine—” she made the name roll around her mouth as she said it “—is a much more pleasant name than Bill. I will also call you that.”
“As you wish, Miss Greaux,” he said. He pursed his lips. “I cannot say I understand why you are here.”
Behind her three men were disembarking from the carriage. Their bearing, annoyed mutterings and impressive moustaches suggested these were the French officials.
Françoise looked over her shoulder at them. “Well, somebody needed to drive them; they are very backward here. Maliha lent them her carriage.”
“That’s hers?”
“Oui, it is larger than the one I had at home but they are all the same once you know how to increase steam pressure and guide them.” She stared at him again, as if she was tearing off his skin and looking underneath. It made him itch. Then she shrugged and, to his embarrassment, reached inside her décolletage to with
draw an envelope.
“She wrote this for you,” she said. “And asked me to deliver it, which I thought was quite présomptueux. It would seem I am not a suitable replacement for you.”
Valentine frowned; there was something about her remarks that made him uncomfortable but he could not put his finger on what they were. He took hold of the envelope, it was warm, but she did not let go.
“Valentine Crier. If you ever hurt my Maliha I will tear your heart from your chest and feed it to you. Do you understand?”
He nodded in astonishment and she released the envelope. He turned it in his hands; his name was written in Maliha’s neat hand in the middle of the flat side. It was sealed shut. He looked up but the woman had wandered off to the group of French officials who were now in conversation with the brigadier. Valentine saw him look up as she approached and a broad grin crease his face. She lifted her hand; he took it and kissed it.
Valentine shook his head and returned his attention to the letter. He carefully tore it open and slipped the folded note from inside. It wasn’t a letter. There was no greeting or signature, just an address and a time. He glanced at his watch, and then up at the group of soldiers, police and diplomats. The woman was looking over her shoulder at him.
What was it he had said to himself? If she wanted him back she would have to ask. He looked at the note. It was probably as close to asking as she would ever get. She wanted to meet him in an hour, somewhere in a city that he did not know. It could easily take him that long simply to get there. He would have cursed but she would not approve, and she had no doubt done it deliberately.
He looked at the address. She was testing him. How much did he want to see her? She had allowed herself to be touched by the guru and had been angry when Valentine had killed the man for doing it. She had driven him away and now she did this.
She was the most infuriating woman he had ever had the misfortune to know. But this was more than a test, he knew: It was an ultimatum. If he failed to arrive she would decide that he did not want her, that he had no interest in her. That he did not...
Did not what? Love her?
He screwed up the letter and tried to shake the thought from his mind. He looked up at the clouds of stars filling the sky.
“Oh Christ!” he yelled and ran for the steam carriage. The French officials and brigadier stared at him as he ran past. He yanked the driver’s door and was surprised to find the seat inside filled.
“Other side, Valentine. You don’t know where you’re going.” The Greaux woman must have gone aboard while he was troubling over the note. “Très romantique,” she said, and slammed the door closed. He wasn’t sure if she was being ironic.
He ran around the front of the vehicle and pulled open the door. The engine thumped hard and the machine began to roll as he clung to the handle. He clambered up, the transition from normal gravity to lightweight carried him through so he almost landed on Miss Greaux.
“Hold on tight, Valentine. It is going to be a bumpy ride.”
With the vehicle’s electric lights illuminating the ground ahead, she engaged the highest gear. The carriage tore across the open field and out on to the track. With Valentine hanging on for dear life.
“Of course,” said Miss Greaux. “If I were to get you there late, I might have a chance with her une autre fois. But then, she tests me also.”
Once again Valentine found he could not make head nor tail of the strange Frenchwoman but the drama of the ride soon occupied all of his attention.
* * *
The steam carriage rocketed down an empty street, juddering across the stones. There was a moment of terror as a cyclist appeared from nowhere. Miss Greaux responded smoothly and drove around him. Then proclaimed in surprise. “That was Father Christophe, I am certain.”
The journey came to an abrupt stop in a dead-end. Grateful to be on solid ground, Valentine staggered away from the steam carriage into the shadowy heart of Pondicherry. He had never been here before. He looked at his watch but there were no lights and he could not see the time.
Miss Greaux had instructed him as to which way to go. He edged down an alley, took a left turn and exited on to a narrow wharf no more than a yard wide. Across the water he could see the hills from which he had just come outlined against the stars. Their apparent tranquillity was at odds with the state of his mind.
A muffled woman’s voice penetrated the silence. “Your mission was successful then.”
He jerked his head round to the right, where the voice had come from, but there was only darkness and an open door leading into the blackest shadows.
“Maliha?”
“In here, Valentine.” She sounded distant.
He readied the gun, his electric torch, then moved towards the door. It was impossible to see into the interior. He slipped through the gap and stood to the side, out of the way of the small amount of light that filtered in.
There was insufficient light to see anything except the vague shapes of pillars. There was no option but to switch on his electric torch, though it would make him a target.
He pointed it at the ground, but continued to stare ahead, and clicked it on. Electric torches were not powerful but in this deep blackness the light was like a flare and lit up the space with reflected light.
He breathed in with a gasp. A cage filled the middle of the space, its black bars running from the floor up eight or ten feet, then across. Inside a woman stood with arms stretched upwards, chains attaching her wrists to the bars across the top.
He did not run to her. He stared around trying to see if her captors were in view.
“There are no enemies here, Valentine.” Her voice sounded strained. “You can put up your gun, but leave your light on.” There was a pause. “Please.”
She never said please.
He hesitated but there was still no movement around them. He knew no force on earth could make her lie. If she said there was no one, then they were alone.
He uncocked the pistol and put it away. Keeping the torch pointing down to illuminate his steps, he walked towards her. He stopped at the bars, raised one hand and placed it on the cool metal. She hung from the manacles, arms at full extent, the folds of a sari looped across her shoulders and hanging down across her otherwise unclothed body.
He had seen her naked before but that had been through a haze of fury. She was naked beneath the cloth and the light showed the curves of her body. A wave of something like sorrow went through him; she was doing it to herself again.
“What is this, Maliha?”
“Experience.” Again her voice caught in her throat. The way she was strung up meant she could not speak properly.
“Why would you do this to yourself?” He had not intended the words to come out like a pained hiss but it seemed he had no control of his own voice. He looked around and saw the entrance to the cage.
“I have to understand.” Each of her words seemed to come out as a pant.
He pulled the metal gate open, its hinges grinding with rust. He slipped inside. Now his light penetrated the cloth and he could see her naked body beneath the folds.
“On the floor.”
Did she want him on the floor? He looked down. No. There was a bamboo cane a metre long lying near her feet. The past months had taught him things about the world he wished he did not know, and he knew what this meant.
“No.”
“Do it, Valentine.”
“No.”
“You must.”
“No, Maliha. There is no must. I will not do it. I won’t hurt you.”
She tilted her head in his direction, the first time she had moved. It must have been an effort. “Won’t hurt me again.”
His anger flared. “I was protecting you. Why do you refuse to understand that?”
Her head sagged back and she looked down. “I do understand.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know.” She seemed tired, almost broken.
He shook his hea
d. “Can’t somebody else?”
There was a long pause and she forced her head round again. “I trust only you, Bill.”
He stared at her with her hair hanging forward and hiding her face. He reached down and placed the electric torch on the ground. Its beam cast a curve across the ground, and tiny stones threw long shadows. He picked up the cane. It was lighter than he expected. He grasped the other end and it flexed between his hands.
He moved around to her side, the shadows from the light curved around her. He could have counted the vertebrae of her back.
“Hurry up.”
He almost smiled at the return of her waspish tone. He would have if numbness had not spread through his body.
“How...” his voice choked, he cleared his throat. “How many?”
“I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“Why me?” he almost shouted in desperation.
“Because—” her voice cracked, “—because I love you.”
And he did not know what to say. He hesitated.
“Bill, please.”
Goaded by her plea, he drew back his arm, looked across the smooth undulations of her back, braced himself and struck.
She jerked, then shook her head. “No. Harder.”
“For God’s sake, Maliha.”
“Do it harder,” she cried, then sobbed. “Hurt me.”
Without thinking, he lashed out. The cane buzzed through the air and snapped against her skin. Her choking cry jammed an icy knife between his ribs and into his heart. There was a movement outside the cage. Valentine snapped around and reached for his gun.
“No, Amita. I told you, I have to do this. He has to do this.”
Valentine looked into the face of the maid through the bars, and saw enough anger and hate directed at him to fill a life of revenge. But she backed away into the shadows again.
“Again, Bill. Harder.”
He took up a better stance. Now he had done it once it seemed easier to do it again. He weighed the cane in his hand and whipped it against the naked skin of her back. Her cry resolved into one word. “Again.”
Wind in the East Page 20
