Different Senses

by Ann Somerville

  I scanned the first page. “The House of Higher Thought? What’s that?”

  “It’s run by an indigenous woman, Krupa and her lover, Mohini, to educate Kelons about uduwa. Our client’s husband isn’t cheating on her—he’s planning to convert.”

  Lesbian proprietors did not make a convincing case for an affair. “Send this to the client with an interim bill. Tell her that unless she’s got another likely suspect for a mistress, we can’t help her further.”

  Madan grunted. “She won’t be happy. She’s desperate to get out of that pre-marital.”

  “Too bad. She’ll have to deal with it.” Shrimati Asdil had been having an affair, and her only hope of avoiding a punitive settlement was to prove her husband had been unfaithful too. But he hadn’t been, and no judge would accept conversion to religion—not even the banis religion—as equivalent. “Anything else? I’ve got that meeting at the Institute.”

  “Boss?” Prachi, one of our two assistants, waved a form at me. “Sri Nel’s lab returned results on the hair sample in the Bedem case. Positive for larin.”

  “Great. Stupid kid. Madan, can you send that report to the parents too? Usual bill, and the advice sheet for parents of drug users. Prachi can run that up. Where’s Vik?”

  “Library,” Prachi said. “Do you need him for the meeting?”

  “No, just wondered. Okay, guys, see you after lunch.’

  A year after I’d set up office with another ex-cop to form Ythen, Bilwil and Associates, and I still sometimes wondered how I’d ended up like this. But so far I had managed to keep the business going and our two assistants and trainees paid, which was all I planned to do in the first two years. Like me, Madan had a police pension, which gave us a cushion. Business was very slowly growing, even if I hated selling our services as much as I ever did. If pre-maritals ever went out of fashion, every private investigator in Medele would go broke overnight. No sign of it happening yet.

  Every private investigator except us, maybe. The meeting I was headed for was with our biggest client, and the reason I had three indigenous colleagues. The Institute of Indigenous Medele Culture employed me as their security consultant—the only non-Nihani consultant they had on board. But there were good reasons for that exception.

  Roshni-ji insisted that I had to come up to Tanmay Kly’s old estate by bus. The trustees had fought hard to have a route come right to the estate itself. The city council hadn’t been the problem—the wealthy residents of this neighbourhood had. Buses were for people who didn’t have autos. People without autos were poor, and also most likely to be indigenous. Not the kind of people our richer citizens wanted walking past their well-groomed gardens. But the trustees had prevailed, and now Roshni-ji wanted anyone visiting the Institute to use the service, to prove its viability.

  A pain in the arse, but she had a point, so I used the journey to answer messages and make notes about cases I wanted to follow up later. The stares and suspicion of the Nihani passengers no longer bothered me. My skin had thickened up thanks to repeated contact with Shardul, the Institute’s legal adviser and one of the trustees. If I could cope with Shardul’s sarcasm, a little understandable wariness about the eccentric rich Kelon riding poor man’s transport wouldn’t kill me.

  Another client enquiry in my messages, another divorce case. I hated them, but they were good training for Prachi and Vik, teaching them basic research and observation. Madan was serious about them learning the right and ethical way to do things—exactly my own attitude. They were also receiving an education in evidence handling and processing from Kirin, in exchange for Kirin’s lab getting all our pathology work—not that there was a lot of it right now. Kirin was still exorcising a huge load of guilt over me, and even though I’d told him it wasn’t necessary, he’d put himself out over and over to help me establish myself as an investigator. Never was a guy to make a bad job of anything except love affairs, my ex.

  I forwarded the query to Madan to make the initial contact. Madan had a patient, kindly manner about him, and being older than me, with a dashing white streak in his dark hair, he got on well with our female clients. Whether they’d be so charmed if they realised he was mixed-race, I didn’t like to say, but Madan’s ability to move easily between both halves of our divided society was a positive asset to the firm. Prachi was the same—mixed, passed for Kelon. Vik looked Nihani, which limited his use in certain cases, but gave him an advantage in others. I didn’t want everyone in the business chasing cheating spouses. I had a vision of what I wanted to achieve in this new life of mine, and divorce cases didn’t figure in it at all. But for now, at least they paid the office rent.

  My phone went just as I stepped off the bus and waved to Shardul, waiting at the entrance to the estate so we could walk up together. “Javen Ythen,” I said into the phone. “Give me a second,” I mouthed at Shardul as I came to his side. We started to walk up the long lane to Tanmay Kly’s former home.

  “Javen, it’s your father.”

  “Hello, Dad,” I said, making a face at my companion. “How’s things?”

  “I have a small problem, son, and I’d like to talk to you about it. Could you come to dinner at the residence tonight?”

  “Tonight?” I waved frantically at Shardul. “Help me get out of it!”

  “Sorry,” he mouthed back. “You’re on your own.”

  “Bastard.” “Sure, Dad. Say hello to Mum for me.”

  He closed the call and I growled at Shardul. “Wait until you need a favour from me.”

  “I’ll never need to get out of a meal with my parents, so your threat is meaningless. What does our esteemed governor want with his derda wass?”

  ‘Derda wass’, I’d learned, was a Nihani term that translated as “the unknown child of an unsuspected mistress who turns up at his father’s funeral”.

  “He has a problem he wants help with. Since my father has over fifty highly trained personal staff who can help with all manner of things, it’s safe to say the problem will need discretion and my police background, and will be a total cluster fuck, which I will do my level best to involve you in.”

  “Certainly. For a hundred an hour, I’ll work for almost anyone. Walk faster, Javen, my aunt is waiting.”

  ~~~~~~~~

  Roshni-ji smiled up at us as Shardul announced our presence to her. “Good morning, Javen, Shardul. We’re just waiting for Induma.”

  Shardul sat next to his aunt, and I sat next to him. I nodded to Hemang, the trustee’s accountant, at Doctor Bhanu, and finally at Rupa. “Where’s young Kamal?” She’d bought her new first-born to every meeting we’d had since his birth, placidly breast-feeding while she discussed plans for the cultural museum.

  “With his father. Speaking of whom—Shardul, he wanted to know when you’d be free to come to supper.”

  Shardul pulled out his organiser. “Sixteenth of next month is the earliest.”

  Rupa made a face. I felt her disappointment. “Then book us in. Javen, you’d be welcome too.”

  “Uh, thanks, Rupa,” I said hastily as Shardul bristled. “But with my job I never know when I’ll be free in the evenings. Not that far in advance, anyway. If you remind me a little closer to the time?” Of course I’d make sure I wasn’t available. Shardul didn’t appreciate me mixing socially with his family, even though Rupa liked me, and I loved her little boy. She didn’t seem to notice that Shardul minded—or perhaps did it anyway, knowing her. She was a very independent woman.

  Induma, the widow Kly, came in, and smiled gravely at us all. A little sick to say it, but widowhood suited her. Tanmay Kly had finally done the right thing, marrying her a mere month before he died, and leaving her enough money to set her up for life in luxury. He also specifically named her as one of three trustees for his massive estate—Roshni-ji and Shardul being the other two.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Induma sat gracefully at the head of the table and folded her hands. “Shall we begin? Shardul? I believe you have a report on the charitable
status.”

  “Yes. As Hemang suspected, we can’t operate the profit-making arm as a charity if we restrict any grants to our own people. At least at this time—as you know, there are cases before the Medele High Court now which may alter that, if the need to provide remedy for systemic prejudice against the original residents of Medele is proven. Which I hope it will be because I am heartily sick of discrimination masquerading as equality.” He shot me a look as he said that last bit.

  “Hey, no disagreement here. But what does that mean for the museum and workshops?”

  Hemang cleared his throat. “I propose we split the business into two streams—one with income provided by and in turn fed back to the museum and ancillary activities, and the larger part being run at maximum profit for the disposition of grants, political funding and so on. We can accept donations to the charitable arm, which will mitigate the unfortunate tax penalty on the non-charitable side. But we can write off donations from one to the other, of course.”

  “It’s as good as we can hope for now,” Shardul said. “I will certainly monitor the legal position. With Gopan elected to the regional council, we can push somewhat for a more relaxed approach to pro-indigenous activities, but we need more representatives.”

  “We need more Kelons on our side too,” I said.

  “People like your father?” he said sweetly.

  “Dad’s a lost cause, but he’s only a regional governor, even if Hegal is the most populous region. There are at least thirty national representatives with indigenous relatives, and they should be lobbied. And others who don’t have any obvious ties can be educated.”

  “I propose that exercise should not occupy our time or funds. Education can be at Kelon expense.”

  “Shardul,” Roshni-ji murmured. “For the moment, yes, we have to concentrate on the key activities we identified. But once we secure better representation of our people at governmental level, we will need to back that up.”

  “Agreed,” Doctor Bhanu said. “I would like to hear from Javen about the cost of the night security systems.”

  The meeting went for two hours, but there wasn’t a lot of padding. Everyone there was a busy person who wanted to get away as quickly as possible. We finished with me reporting on the progress of our two trainees, and saying that we could take a couple of work experience students at the close of the current term, if the school agreed. “Kirin Nel is eager to participate in that as well,” I said.

  “Such a saintly person,” Shardul muttered. I kicked him under the table as Rupa frowned at him.

  “The development of a strong professional class is crucial to improving indigenous political clout,” Doctor Bhanu said. “I will ask my Kelon colleagues if any of them will take our students.”

  “I as well,” Hemang said. “Shardul?”

  “Yes, yes. You need to ask me?”

  I suggested we rode the bus back to town together. To my surprise, he agreed, though he continued to radiate general ill humour as we walked up to the estate exit. “You’re giving off more bad vibes than a tus with toothache,” I said when we reached the bus stop. “Did a Kelon piss you off specifically this morning, or is it just your usual sunny manner?”

  He snarled at me but didn’t answer, staring pointedly off in the direction the bus would come from. But then his shoulders sagged a little. “Lona didn’t get the scholarship. I really thought she had a chance.”

  “Damn.” Lona was a kid he’d been grooming for the law since the girl was thirteen. If any Nihani could win a law scholarship to the University, she should have. “Did they give a reason?”

  “Oversupply of qualified applicants. As usual. So we still have yet to have one of our people get into University at government expense. This is why we need the law changed,” he snapped. “Your laws pretend we’re all equal, with equal chances. But the indigenous start from behind in everything, and always will do until this farcical situation is changed.”

  “You don’t need to convince me, Shardul, and they’re not my laws any more than they’re yours. I’ll vote for anyone who offers to change them. Right now, that’s only Representative Gopan, and I can’t even vote for him.”

  “You could push your father.”

  “Yeah, sure. My father doesn’t even have any indigenous staff. Says he can’t find anyone qualified, which I don’t believe. You know I come from a family of racists.”

  “You’re a racist too. Just one aware of his racism.”

  I learned not to rise to Shardul’s jabs, and particularly not that one. “That’s something, at least. Dad’s not going to change. But he won’t be governor forever, at least I hope not. I’m serious about cultivating the representatives.”

  “We have no entrée to their world. Those who do, like you, refuse to exploit it.”

  “I’m as welcome as you are in those circles. Yashi would have a better chance but he’s not interested in politics. Neither am I, to be honest. But I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  “Empty words.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry about Lona. If you’re collecting for a fund to send her, you can put me down for a thousand dolar.”

  That startled him, and earned me an almost friendly look from those piercing blue eyes. “Thank you. Yes, we are. I refuse to let her be lost. She has an extremely able mind, exactly what is needed in the law.”

  “Then we’ll get her to University. Her failure gives more weight to the court cases, right?”

  “The only virtue, yes. It’s such blatant discrimination the court can’t fail to accept it. Whether they’ll accept the wider principle, I don’t know, and the government will appeal if we lose.”

  “Yeah. Bastards.”

  “Kelon bastards.”

  “No argument there.”

  The bus arrived and he changed the subject to Rupa’s ambitious plans to write a series of history books for Kelon children about indigenous history and culture, and to arrange for quality translations of the most important textual sources from their own collection. The plan had my full support, though I warned that there’d be a lot of resistance from the schools. “You need to give the kids an incentive to explore the subject. Prizes, that kind of thing.”

  “Give to those who already have more than their fair share?”

  I sighed. “There’s just no talking to you today, is there? My stop’s next. Let me know where and when you want the money for Lona.”

  He muttered something in agreement and I left the bus. I watched it drive off, Shardul’s grumpy face at the window. Normally he didn’t let things get to him, but he spent every day fighting injustices and on behalf of his people. Even Shardul grew tired sometimes.

  ~~~~~~~~

  “You look fine,” Yashi said without lifting his head.

  “I didn’t ask, but look at me when you say it.”

  He did so, and grinned. “You look fine.”

  “Wanker.”

  “Javen, don’t use words like that in the house,” Tara said, chasing through the living room after Harshul, trying to avoid his bath as usual. We knew better than to interfere.

  “Tosser,” I mouthed at my twin. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “I’d never have worked that out. Good thing you’re an empath and can tell us stuff like that.”

  “Be nice, brother. You could come along. It’s not like you’re busy.”

  “Nope, sorry. I did the family duty last week. If you’d come along then, you could have made an excuse tonight.”

  “No. Whatever it is, isn’t about seeing their beloved son. That’s why I don’t want to go. Do you think this scarf—?”

  “Javen, go, will you? The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back. I’ll have some wine cold for you.”

  “Hold you to that. Okay. See you later, if I’m not arrested.”

  Visiting my parents involved identity checks at three different points, and I was never in the good mood by the time the system allowed me to walk into the governor’s residence. The d
ay my father resigned, retired or was voted out, would be the happiest one of my life. I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been politically ambitious, even while making a fortune with his drug company, but when he finally became governor, we discovered that a man really could be too successful for his own good. And his family’s. For ten years ours had been divided into the attention-seeking press whores, and those of us who hid from the media and any political activity. I hated it, and made no secret of it. Just another thing driving a wedge between my parents and me.

  My mother swished into the lobby in elegant cerise and gold, long elaborate earrings flashing cheerfully. The colours and jewellery were too young for her, but she carried them off with flair, as she did everything. Acknowledged as one of my father’s main political assets, she attracted easily as much press coverage for her fashion sense and social activities as he did for his political activities.

  “Javen, dear, you look very smart this evening. Time for a haircut, though, don’t you think?”

  “Hello, Mum.” I kissed her cheek. “How are you?”

  “Oh, muddling along. We never see you any more.”

  And whose fault is that? I didn’t say it though. There were rules to the game and one of them was not pointing out my parents’ delusions about the family or any convenient lapse of memory. When that rule was forgotten, things got nasty, and I’d had enough of that.

  “We’re in the family dining room. Much cosier, don’t you think?”

  I made agreeable noises and let her lead me through the place that had been their home for so long. I missed the one we’d grown up in. Rented now, of course. I’d have bought it if I could have afforded it.

  My father stood to greet me, and held out his hand. “Javen, thank you for coming. Glass of wine? Something stronger?”

  “Wine’s fine, Dad. Or chai.”

  “Chai before dinner is so very...ethnic, dear,” Mum chided. She signalled to the hovering servant, and the guy brought a tray over with three glasses of Kirdan wine. We settled into the luxurious armchairs with our drinks. I wished I’d gone for the offer of something stronger.