Her heart was pounding. Perhaps it was her beating heart that was suffocating her. She began a fast, frantic walk up and down, up and down, her hand pressing her heart, trying to silence it; and then a sound alerted her and Dalide stood in the doorway, a fantastic sight: a white flounced dress, with ribbons and bows of scarlet, and then the old, brown wrinkled face with its withered mouth, and small black eyes in webs of wrinkles. This apparition swayed over the carpet on black heels, and sat itself at the table. Dalide signalled Mara to sit. Mara sat. Dalide clapped her hands. The same big, ugly man Mara had seen downstairs came in with a jug and two beakers. He also carried Mara's sack, which he set down. He did not look at Mara. He went out.
Dalide said, "You forgot your sack in the Transit."
Mara said, "I'll kill the first man who touches me."
Dalide cackled with laughter, and reached out a claw of a hand, pointed at the snake visible under Mara's thin sleeve and said, "Yes, I've seen these toys before. And very useful they can be." And then, seeing that Mara's hand was held protectively over the coil of metal, "I'm not going to take away your little snake."
She poured yellow, frothy liquid into two beakers, and began at once to sip from hers, so Mara felt safe to drink.
"And I'm not going to poison you."
"Or drug me?"
"Well, who knows?" said Dalide.
"What do you want then? What did you do with my brother?"
"Why should I do anything with him?"
"He has gambled away everything. He has nothing."
"I don't deal in men, I deal in women."
Mara felt that her body, her face, her heart, were quietening. She trusted Dalide, she decided. Or perhaps it was relief because of this silent room, the comfort, the soft colours.
"I shall come to the point," said Dalide. "I'm going to sell you for a very good price — a very good price indeed — to a man who will know how to value you. But he's not here at the moment. He's up in Kanaz. When he comes back he'll want to have a good look and then I know what he'll decide."
"What makes you think I won't kill him? I'm not going to be anyone's property."
"Why don't you wait and see?"
"Who is this man?"
"He is one of the Council — a leading member."
"And they run Bilma?" "And all this country."
"Why should such an important man be interested in — a runaway slave?"
"You forget, I was a runaway slave myself. The condition makes for cleverness. And I have a hunch — it is my business to know men and the women who will suit them."
She got herself up, with difficulty, from her chair. "You'll be sleepy soon. I have shared my sleeping draught with you. In the morning we can talk — if you want. But it doesn't matter. You don't like me, but you need me. You may go anywhere in this house and the garden. Don't try to run away. You will be watched. And if you use that little snake of yours on any of my people, I'll hand you over to the police. I never break the law, nor do I connive at lawbreaking." And she tottered out, the ridiculous white dress swaying over little black shoes like hooves.
Mara was assaulted by the need to sleep. She pulled off her dress and, as she was about to throw herself on the bed, was arrested by the feeling that someone was watching her. She saw, among a confusion of shadows and deeper shadows, and gleams and rays of light from the lamp, a tall figure standing by a wall, spying on her. She shrieked. The door at once opened and her gaoler was there, the big brutal-looking man. "What's wrong?" he asked in clumsy Charad.
She pointed at the watcher, who pointed at her. The truth of the situation rushed into her mind, but she was so shocked, she was trembling. The man looked where she was pointing, then disbelievingly at her, shook his head meaning, She's mad. And went out, laughing.
Mara, half asleep, managed a few steps to the wall, and watched Mara come towards her. Menacing, silent, an enemy... But she was about to slide to the floor. She reached the bed and collapsed on it.
She woke late. The room was full of light. Mara had dreamed of a journey where at each turn she was confronted by different Maras: Mara the little child; Mara crouching over a drying waterhole and peering to see her small monkey face in the dust-filmed water; Mara with the Kin — with Juba, with Meryx, her arms around his neck, laughing; Mara in her slave's dress, running, always running.
She got out of bed and stood naked in front of the part of the wall that reflected what was in front of it. This was a very different affair from Ida's wall, where she had seen herself dimly through what seemed to be a net of little cracks, or the window glass in Shari, where she had hardly been able to see herself for leaves and branches. She put out a hand and saw hand touching hand — a cool, hard surface like solidified water. Hard to tell which was the image and which was the one that breathed and could move away. Mara saw a tall, slim woman, with full breasts that half concealed what she hid under them. A peering, staring woman, and behind her the bed and a good part of the room. Moving a little, this magical water-wall included a window sill and sky where clouds sailed by. She could not make what she saw fit with her sense of herself. She thought, All the time people see that, but they don't see this — meaning what she felt as Mara, her sense of herself. And she went close to the water-wall and peered into her eyes, dark eyes in her serious face. They look into my face and then eyes, as I look into faces and eyes, hoping I will see who is there; they hope they will reach me, Mara, Mara inside here. But Mara is not my real name. For years I waited to hear my real name, but now I know it wouldn't matter. When I hear it at last, I'll think, Is that my real name, after all? Mara is my name. Yet Mara is not the name of what I feel myself to be, inside here; it is the name of that person looking back at me. They say she is beautiful. She is not beautiful now, she is so nervous and staring. And Mara tried to smile and let herself be beautiful, but she seemed to herself more like a snake about to strike. And she nearly took off the metal coil from her upper arm with its raised snake's head, ready to strike, for that is how she seemed to herself. And then, as she turned from the water-wall, she caught a glimpse of someone different, smiling, because of her thoughts about herself, the runaway slave.
Her mouth was dry. She felt a little sick. She found a room next to this one where there were toilet arrangements and she washed, and slowly, because the sleeping drug had made her shaky, brushed her hair and put on the dress that looked as if it had butterflies woven into it. Back she went to the water-wall, to see herself, dressed. Well, that was better. As she stood there, the door opened and in came the man from last night, with a tray. He grinned as he saw her there and made a gesture: You see, you were foolish.
She saw he did not mean her harm, was merely stupid. She looked carefully at him, so as to know him later, in an ambush, or a fight. He was tall and powerfully built, all muscles and strong flesh. The neck was thick. A large, ugly face. Yellow: he was a yellow man. He went to her sack and started taking out her clothes and she went forward to stop him. He made the motions of washing.
"What's your name?" she asked, in Mahondi. He shook his head. "What's your name?" in Charad.
"Senghor."
"Where are you from?"
"Kharab. Mother Dalide's servants are Kharabian. She was a slave there, and now we are her slaves." He smiled, offering this is as a jest. She could see that this was a general joke in the household, among the servants. He called himself a slave, though. "It is good for us that no one knows our language. We can say what we like." And he began roaring with laughter and thumping himself on the chest. Then he went out with her dresses over his arm.
She stood at the window. Down there in the big garden was the low pile of ash where last night the watchmen had crouched and gossiped — in Kharabian, which no one else understood. Except Dalide, of course. Then she looked at the tall, slim, white towers where the rich lived, and around them great mansions in their gardens. For a few moments last night Dann had the money to buy one of those houses, and to live there as a rich man.
Dann would have gone back to the inn, where everybody already knew what had happened, and where they would shrink away from him — from the bearer of so much ill luck. The proprietor would have said that his sister had paid the bill until now, but how did Dann propose to pay the next bill? Dann would have stood there, silent, still stunned by the shock. What would he have said? Did he bluff? He might still have had a few bits of money in his pockets, but not enough for more than a night or two, and a little food.
Food — again food, the need to eat. For the time she had been here, she had not been anxious about eating — food was arriving in front of her when she wanted it. But food would not be there for Dann, quite soon.
She went to the tray waiting on the table. This was better than anything she had eaten: soft, light cakes, and honey, and the drink was frothy and brown and fragrant. Presumably, as long as she was in this brothel she would not be worrying about what she was going to eat next.
Would Dann be tempted to cut out another gold coin or two? He wouldn't dare. If it went bad he would have to call the doctor again. And how long would Dann live, if they knew of what lay hidden under that scar? It was so astonishing a thing that they would not easily believe it. And she, now, sitting over that breakfast tray, eating the delicate food, thought that what was simply good sense in one condition was lunacy in another. Dann, with the criminals in the Tower, who would have killed him for even one of those coins, hid them in his own flesh, crouching somewhere in a corner by himself, cutting, pushing in the coins, tying cloth around to stop the bleeding. And all that was the merest good sense and it had kept him alive. But now, in this pleasant town, this safe town — well, not for everybody — it was simply mad. How could she get a coin to him, unobserved? She couldn't. She was being observed every minute.
Oh, she was so tired, so sleepy. She lay on her bed and slept again and when she woke her midday meal was on the table untouched, and it was evening. She went to the door, which was unlocked, and saw Senghor squatting just outside, his back against the wall, and if he had been asleep he woke quickly enough to spring up and put out a hand to stop her.
"Tell Dalide not to give me any more sleeping potion. It makes me ill. I'm not used to it. And tell her if I find myself drugged again I shall starve myself."
Senghor nodded. He motioned her back inside the room, locked it from outside so that she stood angry and trembling, just inside it, and then in a few minutes she heard it being unlocked. He said that Mother Dalide had given her the sleeping potion because she could see Mara was so tired that she probably would not sleep without it. But Mara could be sure that Dalide would give her no more potions of any kind.
"When can I see Dalide?"
"Mother Dalide is leaving tonight to visit her other house in Kanaz."
"When will she be back?"
"I don't know. Sometimes she goes for seven days, perhaps thirty." And now Mara was tempted to fall into despair. Dalide was in no hurry with her plans to sell Mara profitably. "Did she send me a message?" "Yes. No more medicines." "No, about her going away?"
He stared, and sneered. "Why tell you? You are only one of the house women. She feed you well because she sell you well."
So that comfortable room, which she already felt as a home, a refuge, often had in it a woman whom Mother Dalide would sell well.
"I'm going to look at the garden."
"You will stay in the house."
"Dalide said I could go where I liked, in the house and the garden."
"She did not tell me so."
"If she has not left, go and ask her."
Again she was pushed into the room, and the door locked. She waited, and he came back.
"You may be in the house and the garden."
Mara went down the stairs and through the curtain into the room the girls used. They were sitting about, in their half nakedness and their finery. As she went through, a little, fat, pretty girl caught at her hand and said, "Stay with us. Talk to us."
They were bored, so bored. She could feel their boredom in the air of that sad room. Twenty girls, waiting. Clearly this house was well patronised.
Mara went to the front of the house, and opened the door, Senghor immediately behind her. When she reached it he sprang in front of her and held his thick arm across. Over it she saw Dalide, not in frills and flounces now, but in a brown leather costume that made her look like a stout parcel tied in the middle, sitting in a flimsy carriage. Between the shafts were two horses. She waited for the old woman to recognise her, and send a signal of some kind, but Dalide pretended not to see her. The carriage was already moving off.
Mara looked into the rooms on either side of the hall. They were all furnished with couches and sofas as well as tables and chairs. In one a servant was moving soiled linen from a great sofa like a bed, and putting on clean.
Mara went back through the big room, smiling all around, to show friendliness, and evading the reaching hands of the little plump girl, who was sitting in the embrace of a woman who gave Mara something of a fright. She was so pale she was almost green, with straight, pale hair and green eyes. Mara had never seen anything like her, and was repulsed. She opened a door and saw that in this room was a bed, and chairs, and on a small table were set jugs of the yellow drink, and cakes. Another room had in it only a bed, and another water-wall, like the one in her room. She did know now that these reflecting surfaces were called mirrors, but could only think, when she saw one, of clear, deep water.
She went to the back of the house and there were rooms she supposed must be Dalide's, solidly furnished, comfortable, with the pretty lamps standing about and sending out their soft light, which seemed to beckon you towards them. Then she stood on the back steps, looking into the garden, which was already shadowy with evening. The watchmen were making their fire. One was putting meat and vegetables into a pot. Others squatted, waiting, singing a sad, homesick song. Big yellow men, like Senghor. She took a step down into the garden, and as Senghor did the same, lost interest. His presence there, so close, that big, ugly body, the smell of him, an acrid, dry, powerful smell, made her feel encompassed, imprisoned, even without the immediate fact of her imprisonment.
When she returned to the great room where the women waited, men had already come in, and were talking to the girls they had chosen. These girls were all flirtatious looks and pretty little laughs, and animation. The others sat watching. The men were traders, visitors to the town, and seemed elated because of the generosity of the hospitality, the drinks and the food and the willing servants. Well, Mara would have seen this room as splendid, once. One of the men saw her and pointed, but Senghor shook his head and hurried her through. But she had time to see another group come in. These she recognised as the same as the Hadrons, not physically, because they were a mix, like most of the people to be seen in the streets, but because she recognised the self-satisfied conceit of the consciousness of power: gross, indulged men, and certainly brutal. They saw her as she was going out, and let out cries like hunting cries, and were about to come after her; but Senghor put his arm across to bar them, and when they were through the curtain, and the door, locked it. Now she was glad to have him there. Those men — how well she knew them. So, Bilma's danger was not that it was drying up, or likely to, but that it was corruptly governed. But if these were the rulers of Bilma, as Senghor's demeanour said they were — he had shown none of the cringing humility at the sight of the traders — then was it the same here as in Chelops, which had a layer of apparent subordinates who in fact ran the place? Those faces — Dalide had said that the man she planned to sell Mara to was one of them. She reached her room trembling with fear at her probable future.
As Senghor was about to shut the door on her, she said, "I want some information."
"What?"
"Do you know anything about my brother, Dann?" "Your brother? Why should I know?"
"I am very unhappy about my brother. If you hear where he is then."
"My orders are not to talk
to the house women about outside." And then she saw in his face a genuine curiosity, which softened it. He came closer and said in a low voice, but not looking at her, "It is a strange thing when a brother gambles away his sister and the sister is not angry."
"I didn't say I am not angry. But he is my brother. If you hear."
Now he did look at her, and said, "I have been in Mother Dalide's house for twenty years. She is good to me. I shall not go against her orders."
"Then tell me this: are there other women here who were gambled away in the Transit Eating House?"
"Yes."
"And was it Bergos who brought them here?" But he shook his head at her and went out.
She was alone. She stood at the window and saw that in the garden the watchmen's fire was burning, and their shadows flickered over the earth and the shrubs as the flames danced. They were eating and the smell of food rose up to her and made her hungry. Her supper tray arrived, and she sat and ate and thought that already she took all this for granted: food, good food, better than anything she had eaten in her life. But the really strange thing was that she was not eating every mouthful with the thought, It is a miracle, a wonder, that this food should be here, and that I should be eating it, good food and clean water, as if it is a right, and I am entitled to all — I, Mara, who spent so many years watching every scrap of food and mouthful of water. And soon would she forget that Mara and see food without ever thinking about the hard work and the skills that had made it? Where was Dann?
Again she stood at the window, mentally mapping out the house. A very big, square house, made of large, square bricks, not easy to dislodge or break through. The house was in two layers, rooms above rooms. In front was a street, and there was a guard there. At the back, the garden she was looking into — guarded. The rooms on the ground floor had thick wooden bars — not Dalide's, but all the others. This window was not barred, but if she jumped down she would break a limb, and the watchmen would stop her. All the servants, judging by Senghor, were devoted to Dalide. That meant, unbribable. And she could not let it be known that she had money, because Dalide would have it off her. So all that meant that if she was going to get news it must be from the men who came to the house.
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