by P. J. Fox
Aria started to laugh.
“What?” asked Lei, startled.
“I’m sorry, I’m being rude. I just can’t help myself—Naomi said something very similar, what seems like a long time ago now, and I found myself thinking how ridiculous it is that we women turn on each other so easily. She and I, we’re like—like two jackals fighting over a corpse.”
“Nothing tears apart a friendship faster than jealousy—except perhaps resentment, and Naomi has that, too.” Lei paused. “Do you love him?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think…but then I catch myself wishing that I’d never come. I don’t think he likes women much,” she added, feeling morose. “I don’t even know if he likes me.” For every conversation, every shared laugh, there were moments of awkward silence. For every caress, every quickened pulse, there was lying awake and wondering who this stranger was with his arm around her waist. She still knew so little about him.
“What happened before…it must have been bad.”
So Aria told her, and let her judge for herself. “I thought that we knew everything about each other.” She rolled her eyes, half ashamed of how naïve she’d been. It felt, not like looking back over her own life, but like watching a film of some stranger’s. The realization that she’d changed so much in such a short amount of time was bittersweet; she no longer related to that girl, no longer even understood her, and she’d been her not so long ago.
“And now you have no faith in your own judgment.”
Aria shrugged. “He’s so—difficult!”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Lei said mildly. Her startling red eyes were shadowed in the shade of the verandah. Two cats started fighting and, somewhere, a mower droned. “All men are,” she continued, “just as all women are difficult. And we’re all equally oppressed by the kind of entitled, narrow-minded thinking that’s led us to be twiddling our thumbs in the middle of a war zone, waiting for the axe to fall. Too many men have been promoted on seniority, and not on merit.
“Your husband is very young to be a governor; most men his age are cooling their heels, waiting for their superiors to die. I sometimes joke with my husband that senility must be a precursor to promotion!”
“Most of the people in charge around here do seem to have one foot in the grave,” Aria allowed.
“One foot?” Lei laughed. “Your husband is a rare exception—as, I like to think, is my own! No wonder some of the less moribund go around croaking of disaster.” She nodded. “Oh, yes, Pitarau also.” Pitarau was her husband. “He, too, has been dismissed as a frightened girl, hiding behind her mother’s skirts I believe the phrase was, and told to stop prophesying doom.”
“But isn’t colonial life supposed to be a young man’s game?”
Lei arched an eyebrow.
SIXTY-FIVE
Lei was right; Aria had to stop comparing Kisten to this cardboard cutout vision of Prince Charming that she’d built up in her mind.
She was, after all, married to the man; it was about time she learned to appreciate him for who he really was. She found herself still thinking, too, about how the True Faith came to Braxis. No wonder the Bronte had so much faith in their religion’s power to help people. She agreed with Kisten about too much missionary zeal being toxic, but she no longer felt the same animosity toward the idea of conversion that she once did. Not too long ago, she reflected, her world had been much more black and white.
She smiled into the bathroom mirror, and Garja smiled back at her reflection. She was sitting in a chair, and Garja was standing behind her with a hairbrush. The oversized bathroom was spread with every kind of beautifying product known to man, and some that weren’t.
Garja was as excited as if this were her marriage being celebrated. Unlike Naomi, Garja could be taken at face value. Her concern for Aria’s welfare was entirely unfeigned; she was happy when her mistress was happy. “I love parties!” she bubbled.
Garja was slowly building Aria’s hair into a high crown of intricate braids. It was stunning already, and Aria thought again about how different she looked—how different she was. She’d been astonished, actually, at how fast she’d adapted. Once in awhile, she’d catch herself advising Alice to put on her shoes before she started trying to wrap her sattika, or debating the pro’s and con’s of one kind of curry over another, and feel a strange sense of shifting—like she’d been hit on the head and was seeing everything double, only it was herself she was seeing. Two identical women, struggling to rejoin each other.
She sighed.
“What?” Garja asked.
“I’m just thinking.”
“Don’t,” advised Garja, “it’s dangerous.” She was only half-joking.
In the past six weeks, Aria hadn’t managed to convince Garja of her downtrodden status. Garja had, however, managed to teach Aria that the two women weren’t as unalike as Aria had initially assumed. Garja, too, lived under someone else’s rule—Kisten’s, in fact. But Garja, too, enjoyed a surprising degree of freedom in her daily life. Aria had yet to see the little maid do anything she didn’t want to—and there were plenty of things, such as shopping in the capital, that she didn’t want to. Aria, too, was coming to see herself as less of a spectator and more of a participant. She’d gotten used to being passive, so as not to upset anyone, but she had far more freedom here than she’d ever had on Solaris.
She wrote, she spent time with her friends, she invited merchants in from the capital to show her cloth and cosmetics and other things. She still had her issues with the food—she could judge curries impartially, because she hated them all—but she’d learned to like certain things and had greatly enjoyed teaching new recipes to their cook. Much to that good woman’s horror, Aria had even tried her hand at the stove. Kisten gamely tried what Ceres had dubbed The Awful Egg, remarking blandly that he hadn’t realized butter was a food group on Solaris.
She’d laughed, and he’d smiled his crooked half smile, and for a few minutes he’d felt less like a stranger and more like a friend.
They were developing their own mannerisms, too, shorthand communications that made no sense to anyone but them. He called her a minx when he was pretending to be angry with her but really wasn’t; she knew that when he was angry, he didn’t say anything at all but only stared into space, nursing a drink. He drank Circassian malt; she hated grapefruit juice; his favorite food was lamb vindaloo, which was inedible; she still preferred eggs.
He still reached for the slim platinum cigarette case he no longer carried, and she still thought about the fact that, even as she’d left Solaris, some hidden and irrational part of her honestly believed that the dislocation was only temporary. She’d come home, work things out with Aiden, and everything would be like it was supposed to be. She knew Kisten had nightmares of his own, too. He never gave any outward sign, never thrashed or shouted or did any of the things that people were supposed to do when they were having nightmares, but she knew just the same. Sometimes, she’d wake up in the middle of the night—why, she didn’t know—and find herself alone in the bed. Kisten would be sitting on the floor in front of the window, as still as a statue, staring out into space.
He never talked about his dreams, but once she’d come to sit with him. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t acknowledged her presence at all, but after a few minutes he’d put his arm around her. Later, after they’d gone back to bed, she’d put her head on his chest and listened to his heart beating and wondered what secrets he was keeping. So much of his life—his experiences during the war, his time in prison—was like a blank page.
Garja tapped her lightly with a hairbrush. “Come back! See, I told you thinking was dangerous.”
Aria followed her into the bedroom, where Garja had laid out her clothes. “I don’t like the idea of these parties,” she complained.
“What parties?”
“You know….” Aria gestured ineffectually.
“But what is there not to celebrate?” Garja asked, puzzled. She opened up a box and remo
ved a rather astonishing undergarment.
“I can’t wear that!” Aria cried, shocked. “Where did that come from?”
“Your husband.” Aria paled, and Garja laughed. “So innocent! God created men and women to enjoy each other. There is nothing shameful about pleasure.” Garja was firmly of the opinion that all Solarians hated sex and, moreover, were sorely in need of a lecture on the birds and the bees. “I find Arun to be very attractive.” She and the head gardener had been seeing a lot of each other, lately. She held out the offending garment. “Put this on.”
“Alright,” Aria agreed doubtfully, “but you have to turn your back.”
Garja laughed, as indomitable as ever. “There’s nothing you have that I don’t.”
Aria took the lingerie and, with as much dignity as she could muster, stalked back into the bathroom and locked herself in. The truth was, she felt like laughing, too. After a few minutes, she was fairly sure that she’d gotten everything more or less in the right spot. There was hardly enough fabric to tell! She regarded herself in the mirror. The bra was so scant as to barely deserve the name, black lace forming a bare quarter cup that hid absolutely nothing. The panties were equally as useless to their intended purpose. But, she had to admit, she did look good. She blushed, embarrassed with herself for thinking so.
“Do you need help?” Garja called.
“Go away!”
“It’s from a famous designer!”
Aria wondered where Kisten had gotten it; there weren’t too many Bronte lingerie designers wandering around Haldon.
“The side with the two cups goes in the front!”
“You’ll have to pass me in my dress,” Aria said, cracking the door.
Garja, ignoring her, invited herself in and helped Aria into the tiny, midriff-baring blouse that formed the first part of her costume. It was a lovely soft gold that shimmered in the low light without being overpowering. A square neckline revealed her collarbone, and the short capped sleeves were embroidered in pink and gold. The underskirt flared at the bottom, six individual panels that had been sewn together to form a fabulous display of embroidery. The trim from her sleeves was repeated along the hem, below the abstract design that repeated on each panel. Aria ran a hand over her flat stomach, still surprised at the jewel she found there. A gold bezel setting, similar to the one on her nathuni, held an enormous diamond—two carats at least. Wearing it had taken some getting used to.
Hesitantly, she emerged from the bathroom and allowed Garja to help her into her shoes. They were tiny little things, soft pink leather with square heels. Aria watched in the mirror as, almost reverently, Garja began to wrap the sattika that formed the main part of the dress.
“You’ll look so lovely for your portrait,” she breathed, fastening on Aria’s veil.
Aria turned to look at her. “Portrait?” No one had mentioned anything about this to her.
“Of course.” Garja looked doubtful. “To commemorate the wedding. There are formal portraits taken of all the family, for every important event. The only photographer available is, unfortunately, an army photographer but he does the officers’ portraits and I’m sure he’s fine. Excellent, even! And then everyone on Brontes can see you.” Garja smiled encouragingly.
SIXTY-SIX
Ceres was right in observing that no one ever turned down the chance of a good to-do. Kisten’s dawat-e-walimah, the most significant event in a man’s life according to the True Faith and one his parents thought would never occur, was no different. Politics were irrelevant; that a man would gun Kisten down if given half a chance didn’t mean that he wouldn’t first accept a free beer. Kisten could only hope that said beer distracted his loving subjects long enough for him to enjoy his party. Or at least get the damned thing over with.
Crumbling, industrial Haldon had been transformed into one large fairground, the soot-stained concrete of its buildings festooned with streamers. Later on, paper lanterns would illuminate the squares. Ceres, who’d obviously missed his true calling as a party planner, had also managed to round up any number of jugglers, tumblers, fortune tellers, face painters, musicians and God knew what else. Kisten found the whole mess vaguely embarrassing, as overblown as it was; although, he reflected, his sister’s wedding had been much worse. Sabihah had married Ibrahim when she was twenty-one and he was almost forty. Mostly, what Kisten remembered about her wedding was that everything had been pink.
Most Tarsoni, like Aria, found Bronte cuisine to be nigh on inedible. Therefore, special attention had been paid to the local palette—if it could be called that. In Kisten’s experience, Tarsoni flavorings consisted of salt, potatoes, water and mushrooms, or some exotic combination thereof. The national dish was some sort of dubious meat, stewed in an even more dubious brown sauce and then served with mashed potatoes. Their cook had—in Kisten’s opinion ill-advisedly—been experimenting with local dishes and had produced this one night. Aria, predictably, had loved the revolting concoction. She was too thin, having regained almost none of the weight she’d lost traveling, so if there turned out to be something she’d eat then he was willing to put up with it—to an extent. He’d never met such a picky eater in his life.
For the party, in addition to the more readily available delicacies, a small ocean’s worth of fish was being flown in from the coast—and at great expense to himself, no less. The Tarsoni were mad for a dish of fried fish strips that was, predictably, also served with potatoes. And, lest anyone’s merriment be disturbed with thoughts of work—as Kisten’s were—the entire city had been given the day off, with full pay. Also at Kisten’s expense.
The day long festivities would begin with something of a late lunch that would in and of itself last for several hours. Following a brief respite, during which more overindulgent types could clutch their stomachs and groan, a few light appetizers would whet the palette for dinner and, finally, dessert. With dessert would come fireworks, and more dessert.
And finally, blessedly, sleep—or so he hoped.
Kisten, who’d always adhered to the adage that one should fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, had spent the morning catching up on paperwork. Now, having been kitted up by Raed in a perfectly ghastly outfit that Raed had predictably pronounced regal, he was reading a letter from his brother while wishing he still smoked and wondering why he didn’t. He’d toyed with the idea of checking up on Aria, and decided against it. Women did not like to be rushed, and he certainly didn’t want to walk in on her doing something unpleasant. So with the few minutes he had left, he let his brother tell him about the doings at home and brooded on the tensions brewing outside his own door.
His interview with the chief commissioner had been singularly unenlightening, except in the sense that it had confirmed all of Kisten’s worst fears about the man’s utter lack of suitability for the job. He was beginning to develop a great deal of sympathy for General Bihar, who had also been present at the meeting along with his aide. That Bihar was the only man within a thousand miles capable of speaking sense was becoming more and more apparent.
Owing to the niceties of social convention, Kisten was required to host the top brass at his own house. The rest of the compound was divided severally into assorted—and far more casual—dining locations. The Hanafis’ bungalow was one of them, and Kisten imagined that even dinner with Deliah and the other silly geese, as he’d come to think of them, might be preferable to dinner with the chief commissioner. At least there would be multiple tables, he consoled himself, and if people drank enough they might not want to talk at all.
He returned his attention to Keshav’s letter, the first half of which was political in nature. Keshav spoke in plain and frankly fright-inducing terms about Karan’s growing influence among the more resentful and less intelligent. Men who felt as though their birth entitled them to more than what their work ethic alone could achieve, or who were so spineless they’d curry favor with anything. Kisten had discovered years ago, much to his own disapp
ointment, that most people would back a winning horse simply because they believed it was a winning horse—and withdraw their support just as quickly, and with just as little logic, the minute a surer bet came along.
Religion was a concern, too; Karan, undoubtedly in an attempt to remove a few of his more vocal opponents, was attempting to stiffen the penalties for certain conduct that was considered at odds with the teachings of the True Faith: apostasy and homosexuality should, he claimed, be death penalty crimes. They never had been before, and it didn’t take a clairvoyant to figure out that Karan was attempting to access through the back door what he couldn’t through the front.
Keshav displayed no interest in the senate now, but if Karan could have him barred on religious grounds then he’d have removed one of his most powerful enemies from the battle before it had even begun. Moreover, Keshav’s sexual preferences were hardly a secret.
Keshav, who’d recovered well from his gut wound, seemed remarkably unperturbed for someone who’d been made the target of a witch hunt and expressed every confidence that Karan’s latest bill would be defeated. Kisten took some small comfort from the fact that his brother was never certain of anything without good cause.
You’ll be delighted to know, Keshav wrote, moving on to other matters, that our dear brother Arjun continues to delight all who know him with his proficiency at cards. Keshav’s sarcasm was palpable, even transmuted by tablet. Having managed to secure an advance against his debts from one of our local low characters, he passed—what I’m told was—a charming night playing whist. After which point he found himself further in debt to the tune of one hundred thousand darics or, if we must be precise, twice again the amount of his loan.
Not wanting to be precipitate, our mother waited to cut him off until he’d spent through the entirety of his personal trust fund. I might have made a remark or two, while in the hospital, about horses and stables. And was rewarded with a glass of water in my face for my troubles.
