Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  Seeing his discomfort increase, she pressed home. “And, foremost, regardless of the fact that this was apparently suicide, are the questions: How is it this African girl was here at all? How did she gain entry during the wedding? And most important of all who is she?”

  The silence that followed stretched interminably. Abelard forced a laugh that was unlikely to convince anyone of its sincerity.

  “What you do not understand, mam’selle, is that what you see before you is almost the entirety of the Prefecture of Police for our small portion of India. We do not have the resources for the scale of investigation that you may be used to with the power of the British police force at your back.” He relaxed into his words, expressing them with a calm authority. “All these things you speak of will be done, but as and when they can be done. After all, the death of some African slave is hardly worth spending time on.”

  “What about the medical examination?”

  “Yes, very well, that is a good point, after all she’s not going to last the day in this heat.”

  Until then Maliha had been facing the commissioner head on, confronting him face to face, though he was more than a head taller, with her body held tense like a coiled spring. She let the tension go, relaxed, looked down to the ground. When she spoke again her voice was quiet, almost coy. “I understand that you and your men have a great deal to do, that you are very busy. I’m so sorry to be strident and unladylike.”

  A paternal smile took over the commissioner’s face. “That’s all right, mam’selle, it must have been very traumatic for you.”

  “Thank you for your kindness. I know I probably won’t be able to discover much but perhaps you will not mind if I do some of my own detecting work. Perhaps I might be of some small service?”

  “Of course, you may do as you wish. Just don’t be getting in the way of the real investigations.”

  Maliha curtsied, an outrageous thing to do when wearing a sari, but it clearly flattered him. “Thank you again, for your kindness.”

  She turned away and headed towards the gate in the wall. She would not upset her Uncle further by contaminating the house with the taint of death. She heard Françoise following her. One of the servants opened the door, and even he tried to keep his distance. She paused beyond the gate as Françoise and Amita caught up.

  Amita showed no indication that she was upset by the contamination that now hung about her mistress. Maliha instructed Amita to find the baby and nurse and have them go to her grandfather’s house. “But don’t take them inside; find somewhere that won’t offend anyone until we can sort out some better accommodation.”

  Amita went back through the gate and it was closed behind her.

  “Don’t be getting in the way of the real investigations,” Maliha mimicked, contempt dripping from each word. She turned towards the east, inland and took the main road.

  “What is the problem with that?” asked Françoise.

  “Not a problem at all,” said Maliha. “How can I get in the way of an investigation that does not exist?”

  “You think he will do nothing?”

  “It will be passed to the Examiner who will collate the evidence and decide it was suicide which, though a mortal sin for you Catholics, cannot be punished since she is already dead.”

  “She will go to hell.”

  “Perhaps, but I think she has been living in it for long enough that she may not know the difference. You saw the violence that had been done to her.”

  The main road started to rise towards a bridge over one of the many rivers. Maliha turned off and headed down the side towards the river bank.

  “Where are we going?” said Françoise.

  “To wash.”

  They reached the river bank. The tide was in and seagulls wheeled overhead. There were fishing boats out while, on the bank, women worked to repair nets.

  “But we have already washed.”

  “It requires more than a bucket of water to wash away the taint of death. I’ll be needing a priest at some point but the river will be a good start.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Maliha pointed at the slow-moving water. “This is the Kaveri, or, at least, part of its delta,” she said slipping off her sandals. Françoise’s face still indicated a lack of comprehension. “This is the second holiest river in India. Bathing in it washes away all sin; only the Kaveri and Ganges can do that. Even the Ganges is said to seek the Kaveri in order to cleanse itself of the sins of all those who wash in its waters.”

  Without removing anything else Maliha waded into the water and kept walking until only her head was above the water and then ducked down into the silence beneath. She wished all her sins and troubles could truly be washed away so easily.

  Chapter 3

  i

  Grandmother had taken some persuasion to let her into the house, even after she had explained she had bathed in the Kaveri, but banished her to her rooms until a priest could be fetched to arrange proper cleansing.

  Françoise had accompanied her. Since she was a foreigner she did not come into the rules at all—just as the African girl did not—she could neither be clean nor unclean no matter what she did.

  “The room has a pleasant outlook,” she said, looking from the window out on to the lawns.

  “I will be glad to be away from here,” Maliha replied.

  Françoise turned. “Don’t you love your grandparents?”

  “They are ashamed of me.”

  “What for?”

  “Existing.”

  It felt odd having a visitor and Maliha was not entirely sure how to behave. She had pulled a sheet of paper from the bureau preparing to write a letter to Barbara but then put the top back on her fountain pen and pushed the paper away from her. She could not write a letter with so many distractions. And it would be impolite with Françoise there.

  Amita appeared and informed Maliha that the baby and the nurse had been put into one of the gardening sheds. Maliha gave her some money to fetch the basics. She did not enquire whether Amita knew what those basics were; she had no idea herself.

  Françoise had helped herself to the lemon-flavoured water, and sat down in one of the armchairs, facing Maliha.

  “You were very brave.”

  Maliha raised her hand as if to push the compliment away. “It is not bravery, only doing what must be done.”

  “Isn’t that what bravery is?”

  Maliha wasn’t sure. She considered the way she had sacrificed her body to Guru Nadesh; how she had allowed herself to be caught by the Dutch spy; and entered the den of the Welsh lioness on the Sky-Liner. And the things she had done before that.

  Were those actions bravery? She thought she was just reckless. Even Valentine had said she was courageous. Though she did not think he had quite the same opinion of her encounter with the guru. She shook her head in denial.

  “So what is to be done?” asked Françoise.

  “Done?”

  “The police will not investigate, you said. We may not have known one another for very long, Maliha Anderson, but I do not believe you will allow this to pass.”

  I should not get involved, thought Maliha. I came here to get away from all those things, to become a normal woman. Perhaps even to marry.

  But not now, because now there were so many questions that needed to be answered before she would be able to settle. It was in her nature. As if she was an avatar of vengeance and victory.

  “No, I cannot let it be,” Maliha said, and a smile filled Françoise’s face.

  “Talk to me, tell me what you are thinking.”

  “Did you see a door in the wall?” said Maliha. “The one I examined the previous night?”

  “I did not even look.”

  “There were distractions.”

  Françoise raised an eyebrow at the word but the smile did not leave her face.

  “We cannot return to my uncle’s house until I have been properly cleansed.”

  “But you know where
to start.”

  “I think we should begin with a devadasi.”

  * * *

  The wind whipped Françoise’s fine brown hair across her face and into her mouth. She would have to get herself a driving hat and some goggles if this was going to be a regular occurrence.

  Maliha was driving her carriage at full speed through the streets of Pondicherry, apparently careless of the people, horses, carriages, bicycles, cows and carts. Every time the traffic increased to a level that looked dangerous Françoise pulled the cord Maliha had given into her charge—and the steam whistle would blare its warning scattering pedestrians and other traffic to the sides of the road and out of their way.

  Only the cattle seemed oblivious, and those Maliha drove round at break-neck speed. It would have been terrifying if it had not been exhilarating. Up to now her life in French India had been quite dull. She had been trying hard but had few friends other than Renuka. At least pretending to be a missionary was getting her into the women’s houseswhich was a good start.

  The carriage careened directly towards another of the rivers on which Pondicherry was built. Maliha twisted the wheel and the vehicle juddered round to the left, its wheels slipping on the stones. There was a crowd up ahead gathered around a group of fruit stalls. Maliha steered around them but Françoise let off the steam whistle just in case someone in the group hadn’t noticed the puffing monstrosity.

  Françoise jumped when another steam whistle, a dozen times louder, with a deeper tooth-rattling tone roared nearby. She looked out on to the river to see a steam paddle-boat thundering along parallel to the road. A man, the ship’s pilot, standing high up in a cockpit waved to them. Françoise waved back.

  The journey came to an end as Maliha brought the vehicle to a smooth stop outside a towering building of red stone. Its enormous columns were adorned with sculptures of men and women, some of them intimately entwined. But there were animals too, and gods and goddesses with a dozen arms. In her time here Françoise had learnt the Indian gods were just as complex in their relationships as those of the Greeks and Romans, and apparently were of a greater vintage.

  Maliha had pulled off her scarf and goggles. Françoise ran her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to straighten it. At the very least she would need to put it in a plait to avoid the depredations of the wind.

  Amita climbed out and helped Maliha down. Françoise was very impressed with the loyalty of Maliha’s maid. It was clear the girl was devoted to her mistress. Françoise could understand that because despite knowing Maliha for only a short time even she felt some attachment. Maliha had that effect.

  Having received a brief reorganisation of her hair and clothing from her maid, Maliha strode off towards the temple doors.

  Françoise ran to catch up, glancing back at the carriage now surrounded by Indians staring but not touching, as the smoke stack still emitted a trail of black smoke and the engine wheezed, hissed and clicked as it cooled. The paddle-boat was rounding a turn in the river, its twin stacks disappearing from sight.

  Maliha had already disappeared into the dark interior as Françoise climbed the steps, worn smooth and dipped by countless feet across untold generations. The doors stood open before her but from the outside she could see nothing inside. She took a breath and entered. Her eyes adjusted. It was an open and echoing space. She saw Maliha’s sandals on the floor and removed her own.

  Back in Dijon she had worn stockings but the heat here in India was too much. The stone was cool as she walked across it.

  The temple was old. Its massive columns were carved in the semblance of elephant legs supporting the high ceiling. The openings around the walls admitted streams of light that glowed on the brightly painted colours of the sculptures.

  As she crossed the floor of the temple she saw Maliha bow down and touch the feet of a man, perhaps in his forties, he laid his hand on her head. The touching of feet was a strange custom; she had trained herself not to avoid it when children did it to her in the houses she visited, and to touch their heads. It pleased the parents when she responded as expected.

  Amita had not approached the man, so Françoise came to a stop next to her. She assumed the maid didn’t speak French as Maliha had only spoken to her in Hindi, and Françoise couldn’t speak the language beyond a few simple words. The man started quite friendly but apparently Maliha said something he was not entirely happy about as his words became abrupt.

  Even so he seemed to give some directions and then turned abruptly and walked away, without any goodbye that Françoise could discern.

  “Better get this over with,” said Maliha as she came up to them. “What’s a little more corruption to my already tainted soul?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Françoise.

  “Later.”

  * * *

  Maliha slipped her sandals back on and went out into the sun that now sat low in the sky, though its heat still beat upon her skin.

  She glanced across at the steam carriage and decided to leave it. No one would do it any harm. She headed in the other direction, the way the priest had indicated, however reluctantly.

  Was he less a hypocrite now than he would have been twenty years ago? She wondered. Once upon a time being a devadasi had not simply been a matter of being a temple prostitute, it had had religious value. That was before the British had decided prostitution was a bad thing and suppressed the women that were sold to the temple.

  The British were so naïve. Before they came, yes it was true that a devadasi was a prostitute but they had other duties, and sometimes sex was not part of it. But when the British decided to crush the institution, the women were left with nothing except the streets. And what happened in British India found its way into French India, though the governing French cared little for what happened in this little piece of the world.

  She led the way along a street with residencies on both sides, counted three alleyways and took the third one on the right. The smell was disgusting but no worse than the shanty town outside the Fortress. She glanced back at Françoise; perhaps she would not be able to tolerate the human sewage that ran in the gutters. But though she held a kerchief across her nose she picked her way along the alley. Amita was unconcerned.

  They reached an unremarkable wooden door set in a wall. Maliha pounded on it.

  For a long time there was nothing. Maliha beat her fist on it again. There was the sound of a bolt being drawn and the latch rose. The door scraped against the ground as it was pulled open a few inches. A woman with grey in her black hair and wearing a sari that had been washed too many times peered out.

  “I am sorry. You have the wrong house.”

  “If you would be kind enough to let us in, I wish to speak with you.”

  “Please. You do not wish to do that. You don’t know what I am.”

  “I know, and I will pay you for your time.”

  The woman paused. “Please wait.” She pushed the door shut and there was the sound of movement and the grinding scrape of a pottery lid. Then the door was pulled open enough to give them access.

  They entered into a very small courtyard. Off to one side was a kitchen area and a sleeping space with a straw mattress, and that was the limit of it. There was a pot for flour in the kitchen and another for rice. Both were dusty.

  The woman withdrew to the far side of the yard. It seemed very small and crowded with all four of them. Amita pushed the door shut. Above them were windows to other apartments but all was quiet for now.

  “I am enquiring about the African girl.”

  The woman looked nervously at the door then back at Maliha, with her gaze to the ground at Maliha’s feet. “I do not know her.”

  ii

  A year ago, Maliha thought, she had been naïve and self-righteous. She believed she understood the world and the people in it. She thought she was like Sherlock Holmes from Conan Doyle’s tales. A year of death had disabused her of that idea. Things were never the way they were portrayed in stories. The only
thing she had was her ability to see when something was missing.

  She had not known what she really expected. There had been the stories when she was young about the glamorous devadasi who won the heart of some powerful man and lived happily ever after. But they were just make-believe.

  The truth was a broken woman who may have been attractive once but had been used, no doubt abused, and now approached middle-age with no one to support her.

  A year ago Maliha would not have cared; she would have been strident and punished the woman for trying to mislead her. But not now. Instead Maliha found a stool and sat down.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sumangala.”

  “I am Maliha,” she said quietly. “I think you are lying to me, Sumangala.” A look of fear crossed the woman’s face, Maliha held up her hand. “It’s all right. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  Sumangala relaxed a little. Françoise shuffled around behind Maliha, obviously she had no idea what was being said.

  “How old were you when you came to the temple?”

  “I was sold when I was six.”

  “Have you ever seen any girls from another land in the temple?”

  Sumangala shook her head, looking down.

  “But there have been girls who were not Indian.”

  Keeping her head down, Sumangala gave a very slight nod. It could have been nothing. But it wasn’t.

  Maliha opened her reticule and retrieved a few coins. Not too much because that would attract attention, but enough to make the woman’s life a little easier for a while. Sumangala followed the movement of Maliha’s hands, and the coins.