Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  “Amita? What are you doing here?”

  iii

  Amita looked at the man who now stood a short distance away. She went cold thinking it might be someone who had known her before. But most of those had come and gone. There were few repeat customers, and she was sure she did not recognise him.

  He was dressed in the casual loose, but strong, clothing many air-sailors chose when there was no proper uniform for a ship. So he was an independent. His hair was roughly cut and he had a beard untidily trimmed. But his eyes. There was something about them that stirred a memory.

  “She’s not working here.” Shashi was annoyed. “This is my patch.”

  “If you want service,” Amita said quickly. “I don’t do that anymore. Shashi can supply your needs.” She tossed Shashi a third coin then with her head down she turned back up the road.

  The man put out his hand and caught her by the arm. “Is Maliha here?” His tone was one of anger and resentment.

  Amita jerked her arm free but turned to face him, recognition burst in on her. “Sahib Valentine?”

  A fist came from nowhere and struck Valentine in the jaw. He staggered to the side. Amita saw a man she guessed to be Shashi’s pimp, flanked by two heavies, one of which was pulling back his fist to hit Valentine a second time.

  Amita did not hesitate. Her foot lashed out and found its target in the man’s groin. His desire to hurt Valentine was quenched by pain, all his focus became inward looking, and he folded to the ground with a whimper.

  Valentine had not fallen, but was not fully aware. The second thug was about to move when the pimp gently touched him on the arm and he paused. As Valentine lifted his gaze and took in the situation she saw his hand go into his pocket. There was something large and heavy there.

  “No, sahib, do not draw gun,” she said quietly. “Unless you wish to bring police.”

  They stood in a tableau, Valentine and Amita on one side, the broken thug, the one standing with his master, and Shashi to the other. Valentine and the pimp were locked eye-to-eye. Amita realised nothing good would come of this unless she acted.

  “I am sorry, Master,” she said in a high-pitched whine. “Please do not beat me.” She prostrated herself in the muck of the street and touched Valentine’s shoe.

  There was a long pause.

  “You deserve every beating I give you. And you will receive another for running off again.”

  Amita was surprised, the sahib managed to sound quite genuine, as if he truly despised her. From previous experience she had not thought he had it in him to be unpleasant. She uttered an abject whimpering noise and kissed his shoe.

  “What has she done now?”

  “Sahib, your servant has damaged mine.”

  “Your servant struck me without provocation; he got what he deserved. Now tell me what this piece of filth has done.” said Valentine. “And if I think you deserve recompense I shall consider it.”

  “Well, sahib, she has spent time with my girl and I have not been paid.”

  Amita stopped fawning over Valentine’s shoes and squatted beside him, keeping her face down but still able to see what was happening.

  “How much?”

  “Ten rupee, sahib.”

  Amita reached out and put her hand on the back of Valentine’s thigh. She dug her fingers in and squeezed hard. His leg muscles twitched with the pain. He had very strong legs, she noted, no fat.

  “Ridiculous.”

  It was ridiculous; ten rupee would keep a family for a long time. But there were other considerations.

  “She’s not worth more than one annas.”

  A bit low, but a good bid.

  “There is my time, sahib, and that of my men, as well as my proportion of the whole. As well as wear and tear.”

  Valentine said nothing. Good. Let him suggest.

  “Five rupee, sahib.”

  “Since I did not touch your—” Amita knew he was too refined to call Shashi what she was, a whore “—servant. And as discussed, the wear and tear is not my concern. There is my own injury to take into consideration.”

  He did not make a counter-offer. Silence dragged out. The sounds of the streets filtered through to them but Amita noticed that the square and the alley had become empty of other people. They were quite alone.

  “Two rupee.”

  “Two annas,” said Valentine. Amita stroked his thigh to show she approved of his bid.

  The pimp laughed; it was not a pleasant laugh, and carried danger. The first thug was recovering. Was the pimp buying time?

  “Please, master, can we go now?” she whined as if unaware of the tension. She hoped he understood her meaning.

  “One rupee,” said Valentine and pulled the coin from his pocket. He flipped it through the air towards the pimp and turned to go. Amita scrambled to her feet.

  “And beating.”

  Valentine paused. “What?”

  A grin spread across the pimp’s face. “You beat her now.”

  Amita closed up on Valentine and clung to his arm. “Please beat me now, master.” She made her tone as seductive as possible, loading it with sexual pleasure and perversity. She saw an uncertainty flash across his face. She gave his arm two quick squeezes. She was sure he was better muscled than he had been. Not that she had touched him before: only looked, when no one saw her.

  “Yes, excellent idea. We will find a room.”

  “I have room,” said the pimp.

  Amita squeezed his arm twice again. There was no way out of this.

  * * *

  Valentine had managed to get them alone, at least. The room was on a second floor. It was small and dirty, and smelt of unpleasantness he had come to know too much in the last few months. There was a window.

  He had no sooner pushed the door shut—there was no lock and the pimp was not far away—than Amita was wrestling with his belt.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed. He pointed at the window. “Let’s go.”

  “Give me your belt, sahib,” she said quietly. “Quickly. We must give them what they expect first. If we are silent they will come back.”

  He undid the belt and pulled it free. She took it from him, folded it in two, and then handed it back.

  “You beat me then we make sex.”

  “I will not beat you and we will not...do that.”

  Amita smiled and touched his cheek. “I would kiss you, sahib, you are good man. But you are not mine to kiss.”

  She grabbed the hem of her ragged sari firmly and pulled. It ripped loudly. She nodded to herself then pointed at the belt and indicated he should strike his hand with it.

  He did and the sound of the folded leather striking itself gave a satisfying slap.

  Valentine nodded and moved to the pallet. He knelt down beside it, lifted his arm and brought it down on the straw-filled mattress. The sound reverberated through the room. Amita moaned quietly, and gestured for him to do it again.

  He struck, she moaned louder. He listened with almost wonderment at how she seemed to make the sound of pain and yet, somewhere hidden in its depths, make it seem like pleasure.

  She ripped her sari more. He slapped again at steady intervals and her moans grew louder. Valentine had not been a complete innocent when he had known Maliha in Ceylon; the last few months had torn away whatever innocence remained in him. He had encountered situations and people he wished he had not, discovered things that he could never un-know.

  He knew there were people who took pleasure in pain. And listening to the way Amita groaned, even though she was pretending, he could almost understand it. But the fact remained: He had no desire to cause pain to those he cared about.

  Even though he had unwittingly done so.

  In his sudden anger at himself he slammed the belt down repeatedly very hard and ripped up the flimsy cloth on the mattress. Amita’s eyes widened in surprise and she screamed in pain. Valentine stopped abruptly fearing that somehow he had actually hurt her in his sudden frenzy.

&nb
sp; She squatted beside him and laid her hand on his arm. “Good,” she said quietly. Then she choked out a few loud sobs. “Now we sex.” She smiled at his obvious discomfort. “You know sounds, sahib?”

  He nodded and tried to swallow but found his mouth to be dry. Damn woman was grinning. He wondered, not for the first time, where Maliha had found Amita. She did not behave like the usual agency staff. Knowing how perverse Maliha could be when it came to doing “normal” things, it was almost a certainty that Amita was anything but typical.

  He turned away from her and threaded the belt through the loops of his trousers. He grunted. And felt a hot flood of embarrassment in his face. He did it again, and stopped. It was too much, he could not do this. He looked at Amita with a pained expression and shook his head.

  Amita slapped him hard on the cheek, and gave a choking sob as if she had been the one to be struck. She grabbed his hand and held it to her cheek. He shook his head and pulled away. She slapped him again and sobbed.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. She made a small noise. He growled. She joined in. They began a rhythm, a dance of sounds. He hated himself, but the embarrassment ebbed away; he opened his eyes and saw Amita was smiling.

  It became a game. He would make a guttural sound and she would respond, like a call and answer in a song. She was still holding his hand. He allowed his noises to become louder, and a little faster. She became more excited in her responses. He broke away from her and moved across to the window, still groaning. His breathing was short and each in-drawn pant croaked in his throat before re-emerging as an animal snarl.

  He looked out the window sidelong so that his voice would remain within the room and not fade. There was a short drop to a roof protruding from the lower floor and then way across between two houses to what looked like an alley or maybe a street.

  His attention was dragged back into the room when Amita started to screech in time to his grunts and shout something in Hindi. She was still smiling in between the sounds. He came back to her and took her hand. He had not noticed the designs painted on her skin before.

  Together they reached a crescendo. Amita screamed and jabbered some words. Uncertain, Valentine gave a final loud groan. And they went silent.

  Amita’s face was serious now. She put her head beside his and whispered into his ear. “We must go.”

  In a moment of impetuosity, just as she was pulling back, Valentine leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

  They crept across the floorboards to the window. Amita was not a weak female and did not require any assistance climbing from the window and levering herself down on to the roof below. She was already between the opposite buildings by the time Valentine was on the roof.

  She gestured for him to hurry. There were voices coming from inside, asking if they were finished. Valentine stumbled across the roof and made his way between the buildings. There was a shout from behind. He glanced back and saw the pimp leaning out the window. Valentine waved and jumped to the street below. The two of them ran.

  iv

  Valentine seemed to know his way around and Amita followed as he led the way through the streets and alleys away from the market.

  After a few minutes they had entered an area with low residential buildings all the same, recently built by the style and the use of brick. They were utilitarian but not slums and the streets were clean.

  It was building number eight where Valentine turned in and climbed the steps. He pushed through double doors into the hot interior. An ineffective fan running on electric was set in the ceiling. It did not seem to move any air.

  There was a white man at a desk, but he looked up from a newspaper as Valentine came through. He nodded, threw a momentary glance at Amita then returned to his paper.

  They climbed two flights of tiled stairs and into a short corridor. She watched the numbers growing as they followed the passage until Valentine unlocked a door and held it open for her.

  “I am sorry for the impropriety,” he said. “The man downstairs will think you are a prostitute or, at best, a woman of easy virtue.”

  Amita was certain Maliha had never told Valentine of her origin, so she simply smiled and accepted the honour of being treated like a lady. Valentine had barely given her a second glance when Maliha was in the room, which was the way it should be; Amita was only a servant.

  The room was simply furnished with a single bed, armchair, straight-back chair by the writing desk, wardrobe, chest of drawers, and table. There were bottles with a couple of glasses on the back of the writing desk, and a newspaper open on the bed.

  “Please sit,” he said indicating the armchair. She could not bring herself to do it, and perched on the hardback one instead.

  “Maliha is in Pondicherry still?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Amita hesitated, unsure of how much she should reveal. “She is investigating murder.”

  Valentine gave a half-laugh and the beginnings of a smile touched his lips. He was such a beautiful man, even when he had this mess of hair.

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Slave girl with no name and no one knows where she has come from. She is African.”

  “The girl who suicided at the wedding?” He glanced over at the newspaper.

  “Yes.”

  Amita was not sure how much she should tell him. Her mistress had broken off the relationship between the two of them after he had killed the guru. She had not been pleased with him. Not that Amita understood what their relationship had been. Only that Valentine adored her, and she was always angry with him—but never missed an opportunity to be with him.

  “You were helping with her investigation?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “So she’s replaced me already.”

  “Yes, sahib, but not with me.”

  His head jerked up. “She’s found another man?”

  “Oh no, it is Frenchwoman, called Françoise Greaux.”

  He relaxed. “I see.”

  There was an awkward silence. Amita glanced around the room but there was little to notice and it had not changed from the last time. She looked back at him with his untidy hair.

  “Excuse me, sahib.”

  He roused from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “What?”

  “Do you have scissors?”

  “Scissors?”

  “Your hair, sahib, it is untidy.”

  He looked over at the mirror behind the door though he was not in a position to see himself in it. “You want to cut it?”

  “If you would like me to,” she said. “I can make it tidy.”

  He seemed to contemplate this for far longer than it should have taken to make a simple decision. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not, sahib.”

  “In there.” He pointed to the drawer beside her in the writing desk. She pulled it open, and found it was almost empty save for scissors and writing paraphernalia.

  She took them out and moved the chair to the open space between the end of the bed and door. He stood up from the bed and sat down on the chair holding himself stiff.

  Amita laid her hand lightly on his shoulder, feeling the gentle reflexes of his muscles. “I require comb also.”

  He almost leapt from the chair, opened the wardrobe, fumbled for a moment within and pulled out a tortoiseshell comb.

  “A present from my mother,” he said, handing it to her. He sat down again.

  Amita ran the comb through his hair a few times to untangle it. She began to trim it, starting at the top and working down. At first she tried not to touch his scalp but as they both relaxed she rested her hand on his head as she combed and snipped.

  She could almost see the tension leaving him as time wore on. His hands that had grasped one another tightly in front of him loosened and he adjusted them so each lay along his thighs instead.

  She moved around to the front of him. As intimate as lovers. She combed his fringe. She knew her mistress would want to
know he was in Pondicherry, and what he was doing here. Just as he had wanted to know about her. Though he was too polite to press the point. Amita, however, was not polite and pleasing Maliha was her main concern.

  Now that he was relaxed she tried an opening gambit. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “I came in on a trader.”

  “And you are going out again?”

  “When I have finished what I’m doing.”

  They were face to face, their noses inches apart as she carefully cut along his fringe. His eyes were blue. So very beautiful.

  “I did not know you liked hijra, sahib.”

  He frowned. “What’s hijra?”

  “Women who are men.”

  She pulled the scissors away as the shock of realisation went through him. She was surprised, did he really not know of such things? She continued to regard him as he did what the British do when faced with an emotion too strong to show. He buried it.

  He forced himself back under control. “That girl was a boy? Like Lochana Modi?”

  “Yes, sahib,” she said and decided she would never tell him the truth about herself. She treasured the intimacy they had had, though it was an illusion, and the kiss he had given her was like a memory of honey. If he were to know, it would hurt him and destroy the memory. “You did not know?”

  “No.”

  “That would be difficult.”

  He seemed confused by her words, then understood. “Oh, no, I was not—” She watched him wrestling with the thoughts that he could not express. “I only wanted to ask some questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Ships landing and taking off but not leaving a cargo. Ships taking too long to travel from one place to another.”

  Amita had finished cutting the hair on his head and turned her attention to his face. In the months since he and Maliha had worked together he had become tanned on the exposed skin of his face, under the beard his skin was still white.

  She gently ran her fingers through his beard, then the comb and cut off the longer hairs. She wondered how far she might push him.

  “What would hijra selling herself on street know about such things?”

  “I make enquiries where I can, Amita. Sometimes people know things that might seem unconnected and yet when taken together, they are pieces of a jigsaw you didn’t even know you were making.”