by Patty Jansen
Well, if it solved the problem . . . and surely cancelling the trial now would be more expensive than the interpreter could be. Or would it?
Oh damn, I could already hear the complaints from my accountant.
But funding was primarily my problem. My association did as I said. I made sure they had all they needed, including money.
We moved from the hub into the living room to share some tea.
A pile of luggage and boxes was starting to appear in the hall. Boy, I would look like an idiot if I couldn’t find a new interpreter.
Deyu and Reida already sat in the living room. Sheydu was just coming out of the corridor, carrying two black bags with straps, her contribution to the pile of luggage. I bet they contained lots of weaponry. She came into the living room, too, and we all sat down on the carpet, where Thayu put out my projection sheet: a thin flexible screen that displayed a map of the Nations of Earth complex in Rotterdam.
Veyada shook his head, “Uh-uh. The court is in a different town, one called The Hague. It’s affiliated with the International Court which is one of the oldest official institutions that survived the wars.”
It always disturbed me to hear them using Isla words and knowing things about Earth, as if that part of my life was private, as if Veyada’s knowledge implied that Asto, including Ezhya and Asto’s secretive army also knew everything he knew. And yet I appreciated their knowledge.
Thayu pulled a face and swiped the map off the sheet. It was replaced by a question asking what she wanted to look at next. Veyada brought up another map of the town in question. It lay close to the ocean and, like Rotterdam, was surrounded by a sturdy dam that kept the water out. Beyond that lay seasonally inundated marshland dotted with agricultural communities, each also surrounded by dams and connected to each other by roads and train lines over further dams. Not dissimilar to Barresh, actually, if a lot colder.
Thayu looked at me. “Have you ever been to this place?”
“Not that I remember. I only lived at Nations of Earth as a child for less than two years.”
“Do we have any information on this place?” She sounded annoyed. As if someone should have told her that she had the wrong town, or as if she berated herself for not having realised. I hadn’t realised either. Coldi women had a reputation for being grumpy when pregnant. She was no exception.
Veyada said, “We do, but we’ll distribute briefs a bit later. I’m still waiting on some information from Amarru.” Amarru at the Exchange in Athens. Her information would be very useful, because it would include the latest intelligence.
Veyada then explained about the situation with the interpreter. My association were all Coldi, and so his version of events, that came down to, We don’t trust this man, but we’re hiring him anyway to provide a vital piece that determines the success of our expedition, was met with appreciative nods. They understood this action better than I ever could. We should have pulled Jasper in closer a lot earlier, I guessed.
“He doesn’t like it,” Sheydu said, looking at me.
“Never mind me. I’ll trust your judgement.” More like: I trusted that they had it all under control. I just provided the money.
Most of the people in my association had received official spy training in Asto’s Inner Circle and this tactic—engaging your enemies—was probably a classic intelligence-gathering procedure. My team probably also considered this trip low-risk since it did not involve any of our regular enemies, and from their point of view, they were probably right. What did I know? Shut up, Mr. Wilson.
The discussion turned to more harmless things such as the weather. Reida wanted to know if it was going to be as cold as last time. It had been February then, so I said not. It was May, so it would be quite nice.
He asked if it rained, and I said it did, and that rain would be nothing like on Asto but more like in Barresh. He didn’t seem convinced. Coldi did not like rain.
Then there was a commotion in the hall, accompanied by Pengali voices, followed by thunks and thumps and clangs and then Eirani said, “But I’m sure Muri does not like you leaving all these things here.”
What things?
I rose from the couch and met Eirani at the door, coming in with the food trolley full of cups. “Tea will be ready very soon. Don’t go too far away.”
“Just seeing what’s going on.”
The front door was open and something was being delivered to the hall.
“Oh, Muri, these people will be the death of me.” She shook her head and continued into the room.
The Pengali had indeed returned. Ynggi and Kita were carrying in a giant eel-hide covered drum. Idda sat on Ynggi’s shoulder waving her tail in his face. The front door was still open and through it I spotted the building’s concierge with a trolley carrying the hollowed-out tree branches of an instrument called an irrka which was the vital component of a betanka orchestra. The concierge’s face carried a bemused expression, like he wanted to say, Having a wild party in here?
I’d been to a betanka party a few times, because if you lived in Barresh, you could simply not get away without going at least once, but those were the sanitised tourist versions of it. They were orchestrated, staged shows where one paid to see the orchestra and they each had arranged parts of drumming, playing pipes or singing, and none of the songs contained any rude words or gestures.
There were also the keihu-influenced city versions, where Pengali played in seedy, airless cellar bars and keihu men gambled and got extremely drunk and would embarrass themselves trying to sing or dance to the music.
Betanka proper was a community performance, where the leader played the five-beat rhythm on the irrka, tuned drum, and people improvised their parts.
This irrka drum was a huge thing, made up of a central barrel constructed from a huge hollowed-out tree trunk covered on one side with eel-hide leather. There were holes in the bottom half of the drum, for slotting in hollow branches of different diameters so that the whole thing looked like a giant spider. The betanka leader would sit near the top of the barrel perched on two platforms on the side of the drum for his feet, hitting the branches with a set of drumsticks with a rubbery resin head. The different pipes produced different notes.
The instrument came apart for transport, because Pengali measured their possessions by how easy it was to transport an item in a boat.
“They’re not wanting to take that thing, are they?” Sheydu asked next to me.
“I think they are.”
Sheydu hadn’t spoken quietly, and now Abri turned to Sheydu, and, as a Thousand Island Pengali, she understood and spoke Coldi. “How else can we solve disagreements? We sing. We play betanka.”
Veyada’s eyes met mine. I could see he was thinking the same as I was: And we thought we had it all sorted out?
Sheydu scoffed. “You can’t expect us to take this much luggage. Besides, these people we’re visiting don’t sing their disagreements. You’re asked to give a testimony and answer questions by a bench of formal people. It has to do with their laws, not yours.”
Abri was not as easily put off by Sheydu’s curt tone as most other people. “It does have to do with our laws. Hairy face killed tribespeople. We are going to put in an official protest about that. We will do that properly by putting it in a betanka.”
Put like that, it made perfect sense. The Earth lawyers had been waiting for a formal claim in writing, but while the Pengali had understood very well what they wanted, they responded in their manner. These people never disappointed with their last-moment surprises.
Ynggi and Kita proceeded to stack the irrka tubes next to the pile of luggage in the hall.
“There,” Abri said when the door shut and the building’s concierge had left with his trolley. “Now we have luggage.”
They did, indeed.
But still no clothes.
* * *
Thayu, Veyada and I travelled into town the next morning to meet our interpreter. We were leaving in the afternoon, but most of the remaining work wo
uld need to be done by the staff: Eirani and Devlin—who were both coming—and Sheydu with Deyu and Reida, who were looking after the “hardware”, meaning guns, explosives and spy equipment, however they thought to smuggle those through customs.
We took Ynggi with us, because I wanted to check the ability of whatever interpreter Jasper was going to produce, and also make sure that this person would not cause friction in our group by virtue of being from the wrong tribe.
Ynggi had visited us before, and out of all the Thousand Island Pengali, he seemed the most approachable. He even knew how to dress appropriately for going into town, even if only to cover his distinctive giraffe-like patterns that would raise ire from the local Pengali.
He was not afraid of trains, either, which was always a bonus.
He sat on the seat opposite me when I explained what we needed to do in town. The situation puzzled him, as it puzzled me.
“But why do they say that they need someone not from the tribe? People from the tribe will be fair because they have to speak the truth or they will lose face. People not from the tribe do not.”
“It is what they ask. Their system works differently and their values are not the same. They say that someone from the tribe is more likely to give an unfairly favourable translation.”
“With my elder watching?” He sounded horrified. “I could never do such a thing.”
“I know, but that is not the way their system works. They need someone independent to judge whether a statement is true.”
“No one is ever independent.”
True also. “I can only try to do as they say. But whoever this person is, you will still come, and I will trust your translation before anyone else’s.”
Trust was a big thing in Pengali tribes.
I thought he looked mildly put out.
“So, this interpreter, do you know who it is?”
“I have no idea.”
He snorted. “I say it is bluff. We can’t have a Washing Stones translator and we know who in town speaks our language. There is no one else. This person will either be no good or from another tribe, like Whitesand Creek.” And those were possibly even less liked than the Washing Stones tribe.
We got off the train at the airport and walked up the hill to the main square.
It was early still, but today promised to be one of those rare virtually cloudless days at the end of the dry season. It would get very hot today.
The message about the employment service run by Jasper Carlson had told us to come to an office in Market Street. It was located above a shop. The building was uncharacteristically new for Barresh, where everything was always just a little bit worn and slightly behind the times. Not this building. It looked fresh, with straight walls instead of ones set at odd angles, as was customary in Barresh. The windows had rectangular frames instead of triangular ones, and it was all very solidly made. Not by a local company, because the building style was too far removed from the local type. On second thoughts, I had heard people on the train talk about this building while it was being built last year. Eirani had called it a monstrosity and had told me how everyone was talking about how ugly it was. In Barresh, the keihu abhorred symmetry and straight lines and I could understand that this building offended their tastes.
It resembled, most of all, an Earth building. It must have been purposely designed by a Damarcian master builder and have cost a fortune to put up. I presumed it belonged to Jasper.
The shop on the ground floor sold security equipment. In most places in gamra worlds, businesses like that would not bother with a shop front anymore because most of the business was done electronically, but Barresh seemed to make a point of being nostalgically behind times. It was a trademark that was honoured by all, including people who had just moved there.
The funny thing was that, no matter how good the electronic displays, people liked shops, and as far as I understood, there were even businesses offering trips to Barresh for that reason: old fashioned markets and shopping. Smell the fish, see the food being cooked and wrapped in front of your eyes, try on clothes, have a live human comb, wash and cut your hair, have a dress made.
We climbed the stairs that led past the ground floor shop to the first floor. The building even had a lift. That was a rare enough thing in Barresh that I wondered if Clovis Keneally with Juanita, in her wheelchair, often came here, and that line of thought went off into unsubstantiated allegations.
The upstairs area was a cooled office with an open plan design. At this early time of day, the desks were mostly empty, but an olive-skinned man crossed the floor, carrying a plank of wood into a side room, where someone was hammering.
I recognised him. “Hello, Puck.”
He stopped and gave me such a blank look that I wasn’t sure I had recognised him. But I thought it was Puck, the Tamerian who had saved my life by donating his blood when I needed it.
“Mister? You know me?”
“You remember me from the hospital?”
He frowned. Like most Tamerians, he had thick bushy eyebrows, and frowning made the dark hair stand up like bristles.
I continued, “You told me that you liked to ski and I said that I prefer to surf, which is like skiing on water.”
The eyebrows lifted. Apparently the concept of surfing had made a bigger impression on him than my appearance.
“Surf,” he said.
“I can still teach you, if you like.”
His eyes met mine and widened, as if he suddenly realised what direction the discussion was taking. He turned away and continued to the side room with his plank of wood without a further word.
Thayu gave me a puzzled look. What was that about? She asked through the feeder.
You do remember him, don’t you?
He’s the one whose blood you got? No, I didn’t remember him from that, but I remember that there was a Tamerian. They all look very much alike.
They did, that was true.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the conversation. In the past year or so, I’d seen the odd Tamerian in the street in Barresh. They no longer started gossip or turned heads when walking in the street. They were still as taciturn and impenetrable as ever but, in the end, they were people and had the right to be treated fairly.
A keihu man sat on a chair in a corner where chairs stood in rows along the walls. It reminded me of a doctor’s waiting room.
He was in that age group where he could no longer be called young but wasn’t middle-aged either. Keihu men tended to go grey quite early, and he had a good supply of white flecked throughout his glossy black hair, especially at his temples.
He rose when we came in and bowed. He was unusually thin for a keihu man. Even the fleshy bits on the tip of his nose did not have enough “meat” to them to form the characteristic keihu grooved nose tip.
I said, “We’re here for the interpreter.”
“That would be me.” In perfect Isla.
He said something in Pengali to Ynggi, whose eyes widened.
Then he continued to me in flawless Coldi, “I guess this is why you brought a Pengali: to check my command of their language?”
Well, that was . . . something.
I honestly hadn’t expected Mr Carlson’s company to be able to pull it off.
He said something else to Ynggi, who still didn’t respond. I met his eyes and he signalled yes with his tail.
The man continued in keihu, “I speak the Thousand Island dialect, too, as well as the Washing Stones dialect.”
Ynggi said, “It’s quite remarkable.”
And it was. I disliked the stereotype of the keihu that they were fat and lazy, but unfortunately many of them lived up to the stereotype. Not this man.
“My name is Jemiro Pakiru. I’m at your service.” He bowed.
Was this guy even for real?
I was unaware of his family name and should look it up. The abilities and inclinations of a keihu person were often directly related to their family’s business activity. Pakiru
must be a family of scholars.
A door opened in the back of the room and someone I knew came out: Jasper Carlson himself. He was a tall, lanky man with long dark hair similar to keihu hair. The dark stubble on his chin definitely marked him as coming from Earth. Virtually no gamra men needed to shave.
“Ah. I see you’ve met.” His Coldi was also impeccable. He glanced sideways at Veyada and a cautious expression came to his face.
I had no doubt he knew who Veyada was and that he had worked for Asto’s Inner Circle. He probably wondered if Veyada still reported to Ezhya Palayi, and he probably figured that yes, Veyada did.
We were all playing games here.
“Thank you for helping us out on such short notice,” I said.
He nodded. “It is what we’re here for. It’s my business. Whatever type of employee you need, we’ll find one for you. That’s our guarantee.” He smiled and then his face turned serious. “I believe you’re going to attend the Nations of Earth court?”
“Yes.” Again, it was all a game. He knew exactly where I was going and why I needed an interpreter. If it was his business to find just the right person for the job, he might even have alerted the court to the fact that the interpreter we wanted to bring was a member of the Thousand Island tribe.
“Melissa is over there at the moment, isn’t she?”
I was sure he knew perfectly well where Melissa was. “I really don’t know, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be at liberty to discuss the particulars.” Yes, Melissa was at the court and no, I didn’t know what she was going to say. The court had instructed us not to communicate with each other until after giving Abri’s evidence.
Jasper nodded. “I understand.” Oh, so cool. “Well, good luck then. I would wish you a nice trip, but appearing in court is not the nicest thing to do, so good luck is all I can say.”
“Thank you.” Oh, I did not trust that man as far as I could throw him. “By the way, where did you find the interpreter?”
“Jemiro here came up in our system as matching the requirements you set.”
“How did he learn Pengali?” In fact, how come he knew it, and was registered with the Interpreters’ Guild and we had been unable to find him? The Guild had let us know that there was a shortage of Pengali interpreters. Why didn’t they know about this one?
