“Do they have ordinary criminals here?” said Françoise trying to suppress the edge of humour in her voice.
Maliha directed a stern look in Françoise’s direction, so she smiled coyly and then added to make amends, “Perhaps he had seen everything he needed to see.”
Maliha nodded. “It’s the only thing it could be.”
“What were you doing at the time?”
“Buying new glasses.”
“Meaning you broke your others?”
“Yes.”
Françoise gave Maliha a thoughtful look. “Deliberately?”
“You know me too well, Miss Greaux.”
“And we’re heading to the market building now?”
“To pick up the order, yes.”
“And you’d like me to do that.”
“Yes.”
Françoise narrowed her eyes. “Did you have all this planned from the commencement?”
“Not at all, I had no idea Constance would be desperate to return to Earth, or that you would be keen to leave her so soon.” Maliha sounded sincere, but Françoise did indeed know her well.
“But if that had not been the case, you would have arranged it thus.”
“I’m sure Constance would have felt it her duty to escort Izak back to Earth.”
“Especially when you reminded her you saved her life.”
Maliha shrugged again in imitation of Françoise.
“And you knew I’d follow you.”
“I thought you might.”
Françoise sighed. “I still hold you in my heart, Miss Anderson, and I am very sad you will not share my bed any more.”
Maliha smiled and put her hand on Françoise’s wrist. “Things have changed and, besides,” she said, “I recall it was you who pointed out I should be with Valentine instead.”
Françoise bit back her comment that Valentine was dead. Instead she looked out into the rain. The ground just beyond the raised roadway was awash; only the tops of the taller grasses could be seen. It was as if they were driving across an infinite marsh.
After a long time the cab entered the city. It traced its way up and down the labyrinthine aerial roads until it came to a halt by the central market building.
“I will never again complain about the rain in Paris,” said Françoise as she held the wide umbrella over herself and Maliha, who paid the driver. The beat of the falling drops played a persistent drumming on the taut fabric, and water poured from the angled surface in a constant waterfall.
Maliha stood up and wrapped her arm under Françoise’s.
“I do not even know why we bother; we are wet through even with the parapluie.”
“Perhaps because the air is so thick with water it would be possible to drown as one walked?”
They splashed, ankle-deep in flowing rainwater, across the arrival area. Françoise could feel the current pulling at her feet as the water tumbled away. They reached the covered area before the doors and stepped up into the relative dry. Françoise looked back at the cab driving away, throwing up a great wave of water as it did so. She shook her head, sending drops of water flying from her hair like a dog.
Françoise shook out the umbrella while Maliha brushed the surface water from her own clothes.
“Come, Miss Greaux, let me introduce you to the wonders of the market.”
Once inside they approached the balcony overlooking the floor and the other raised galleries. A group of players occupied the middle of the main floor, enacting a play of some sort.
Maliha pointed out the optician’s shop.
“Won’t they be expecting you?” said Françoise.
In reply Maliha pulled a thick envelope from her reticule. “Just give them this. It contains a letter of introduction and money.”
Françoise took it and tucked it inside her dress. “Where will you be?”
Maliha nodded in the direction of the businesses on the opposite side of the market at this level. “Talking to one of the travel agents. But come with me and we will play-act a disagreement. In case we are being observed.”
As they walked further from the entrance the floors became drier, but Françoise and Maliha still dripped.
The constant drumming in the background—which Françoise had not previously noticed due to its pervasive and constant nature—stopped abruptly. The drop in noise levels was reminiscent of one’s ears popping after riding an atmospheric or an unpressurised balloon. All the sounds became clearer.
Françoise glanced up. The remains of the downpour slid from the glass roof and the burning clouds pierced the dark. She looked away quickly.
Maliha led her past several travel shops until she came to one she seemed to like; Françoise thought it looked disreputable. The frontage was dirty and several large, dead insects lay behind the glass. The name of the previous owner had not been removed but had been covered by a limp sheet of card with letters that had run. It was like a caricature of a badly run business.
Françoise did not find it hard to work up a disagreement with Maliha about entering. She had no desire to meet the proprietor, who would no doubt leer at them both; it was a habit of men Françoise found particularly distasteful.
“Very well then,” said Maliha. “You find something to amuse yourself while I discuss our travel plans.”
“Whatever you decide,” said Françoise. “I will not go on any journey arranged with these people.”
As she flounced away she wiggled her hips provocatively to remind Maliha what she was missing. Constance sighed. She needed to find another woman who was willing to dominate her in bed. The memory of Maliha’s actions brought a healthy flush to her cheeks. She pushed the memory away. She could not think that way. Maliha had made her decision, but perhaps she would come back to Françoise when she no longer grieved Valentine’s loss.
She was so deep in thought she missed the stairwell and had to backtrack. She found the shop easily enough. There were two other people there waiting to be served. One looked to be a local by his loose and casual dress, and his boots were not new. The other’s boots were pristine and he looked uncomfortably wet.
The woman at the counter smiled. “Can I assist you, madam?”
Françoise extracted the letter, now slightly damp, and handed it over. “I am here to collect an item.”
The woman took the envelope but did not open it. Instead she disappeared into the back. There were three chairs; neither of the other two customers was using them, but Françoise sat down and felt the damp seep through to her behind. It was quite unpleasant. One advantage of staying with Constance had been that Françoise had had no need whatsoever to leave the house and so remained completely dry for two days.
On her return the woman had a case for glasses, which she handed to the tourist in return for a couple of British pound notes. She dug into a drawer behind the counter and counted out some change. Françoise had struggled with British currency; it was so complicated—francs and centimes were so much more logical.
The local pulled a particularly heavy pair of glasses from the rack. They had large blinders on each side, as well as lens material so thick Françoise could see nothing through them.
Both customers left and the woman disappeared briefly into the back again. She was carrying a small package when she returned. She made to hand it over to Françoise, but she held on to it so they were both gripping it.
“You know,” she said, “they used to think that black-eye was caused by staring into the burning clouds for too long.”
“Did they?”
“Now they know it is a fungus that eats into the fibres of the brain and the eyes.”
“That is unpleasant,” said Françoise hoping the woman would stop talking and release the package.
“I hope your mistress knows what she’s doing.”
Françoise met her gaze. “As do I.”
The woman finally let go of the package and Françoise tucked it beneath the folds of her dress.
ii
Fr
ançoise reached the travel agent just as Maliha was emerging. Her face was grim. Françoise was about to ask what was wrong but did not get the chance.
“Come on,” Maliha said and whirled away towards the exit, with Françoise trailing behind.
The air outside was already intensely hot and it was like breathing underwater. Françoise shook her head; the sooner she was off this planet dégoûtant, the better she would like it. She would never criticise the monsoon again.
They found a cab, Maliha gave the name of the hotel and they climbed inside. Once more they were dripping wet and this time it had not been raining.
“What is wrong, cherie?”
Maliha glanced at the driver’s compartment; the sliding glass door between them was closed.
“Men.”
“Oui, they are very infuriating, n’est pas?”
Maliha glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “He wanted to discuss the trip with my husband.”
Françoise laughed. “Perhaps I should don my disguise once more.”
“I managed to persuade him.”
“Tell me what you did to him.”
Maliha sat back. “I bribed him.”
“Mais non! You did not emasculate him with your tongue?”
Maliha hesitated then realised what Françoise meant. “I doubt he had the wit to understand my insults.” She sighed. “But he did understand my money.”
“Why did you choose such a stupid one?”
“It was your comment about criminals that made me think of it,” said Maliha. “Although Timmons controls much of what happens here, there must be a class of criminals that are not in his sway. After all, Timmons is part of the legitimate establishment.”
“So you wanted someone criminal who did not report to Timmons.”
“As you say.”
“But why?”
Maliha glanced at the driver. “I’ll tell you later. Did you get it?”
Françoise tapped the place where the package was held safe at her waist. Maliha nodded then turned to watch the passing buildings.
Back at the hotel they explained the change in arrangements at reception and then followed the porters upstairs with Françoise’s bags. A letter had arrived for Maliha, but she did not say what it was.
Once they were alone Françoise extracted the package and handed it over. Maliha said she had to send a reply to her letter, so Françoise headed into the bedroom. She threw off her clothes and extricated her feet from her boots. She spent a great deal of time wiping the disgusting unguent from her feet with a towel.
She got the unpleasant feeling she was being watched and the muscles behind her ears tightened as if she had heard something. She turned to see Maliha standing at the door, watching her. Unaccountably she felt embarrassed at her nakedness.
“How long have you been watching me?”
“A while.”
“I do not think that is your ‘cricket’.”
“Not fair play? Why?”
Françoise pouted. “Because I have a very adorable physique, just as you do. You can see mine while I cannot see yours.”
“I will not sleep with you, Françoise.”
“Who said anything about sleeping, cherie?” she said. “I am only concerned with the cricket.”
“Fine,” said Maliha and came into the room. “You can help me undress and get my feet clean.”
“You have delightful feet.”
Once she was naked, Maliha grabbed her dressing gown and wrapped it around herself. Françoise frowned. “A dressing gown is cricket?”
Maliha sat in the chair by the dresser. “Do my feet.”
Françoise grinned and gathered up the towel.
“And no funny business.”
Françoise expressed innocence, then crouched down and set to work wiping Maliha’s feet and ankles, working up her calves and massaging the muscles.
“I would call that funny business.”
“But we are not laughing.”
Maliha pulled her leg from Françoise’s grasp. “Seriously, Françoise. I cannot.”
“Will not.”
“Don’t be upset.”
Françoise sighed and shook her head. “You do not know what you have done to me, Maliha. I am the schoolgirl with the passion.” She stood up and sat back on the bed. “All I want to do is hold you and kiss you.”
“I am engaged to Valentine.”
“He is dead, cherie, you have told me yourself.”
It was Maliha’s turn to sigh. “I know.”
“Did you promise him you would never touch another?”
“No.”
“Would he expect you to never love again?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So?”
“It’s too soon.”
Françoise went to her bag and pulled out her own dressing gown. She slipped it on. “There,” she said. “You see? I understand. But...”
“But what?”
“When it is no longer too soon, will you promise to be with me?” The pleading tone of her voice surprised even Françoise. Her desire, her love for Maliha was stronger than anything she had ever felt and yet she was willing to put it aside.
Maliha opened her mouth to speak.
“No,” interrupted Françoise. “No, do not say anything. Do not make a promise. It is unfair of me. It is not cricket.” She sat facing Maliha. “Merde, what have you done to me?”
“Made an honest woman of you?”
“I very much hope not, Mademoiselle Anderson. I do not believe I could live with myself if I were honest.”
Maliha laughed. “I do not think I could love you if you were, either.” Then she paused and became serious once more. “There is something I need to tell you.”
“Do not say it,” said Françoise. “I already know.”
“What?” Maliha looked horrified.
“You are a man in disguise!”
Maliha shut her eyes. “No, stop it. I am being serious.”
“You cannot be serious, we have nothing to drink,” said Françoise, standing up, “and I am hungry.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Oh, I do not know? Here we are in a hotel where there is a restaurant where they serve food and wine, peut-être,” said Françoise as she strode across the room to her luggage, stripping off her dressing gown as she went. “Here is a good idea: we will put on some clothes and go to dinner.”
* * *
Maliha found the meal satisfying, though Françoise said the wine was indifferent. It did not travel well and had come all the way from Earth.
“It is not likely they will ever have their own wine,” said Françoise as she put down her empty glass.
“Too wet,” said Maliha.
“Oui, one cannot grow grapes in this, they will rot on the vine.”
“You can make gin out of anything.”
Françoise shuddered. “Mother’s ruin. Yes, no doubt they will make that. In this dismal place everyone will need to drown their misery.”
The waiter cleared away the dishes from the main course. Maliha was feeling better. She had avoided any tight clothing and the meal had not been a trial. She had noticed the glances from the men in their direction.
Two years ago such looks would have had her scurrying for a hole and left her with such anger. Only two years. She had changed so much. She felt lightheaded and looked at her empty wine glass. Two years ago she would not have touched wine, but between them they had drunk a bottle. Françoise seemed unaffected, but Maliha knew her own faculties were diminished.
“When I left school in England all I wanted to do was run home and hide,” she said suddenly.
Françoise looked at her. “And now you are a goddess.”
Maliha shook her head. “Don’t.” She picked up the dessert spoon and looked at her distorted reflection. Her nose looked even bigger than it was normally.
“I have a big nose.”
“Maliha Anderson, I do believe you are drunk.”
<
br /> “The condemned ate a hearty meal.”
“And drank too much wine.” Françoise reached out and put her hand on Maliha’s. “It would be easy to seduce you now.”
“I wish you would.”
Françoise shook her head and released Maliha’s hand. “No, cherie, you do not and you would despise yourself in the morning.”
“No more than I usually do,” she said and felt tears welling up. “I’m going to die, Françoise, and I’m going to kill you too. Don’t come with me tomorrow, you shouldn’t die.”
“You are talking nonsense.”
“No, we are going to hunt snarks and boojums, but they are going to eat us.”
Maliha jumped back in her seat as Françoise stood up. She thought she might hit her, but she did not. Instead she hooked her arm under Maliha’s and dragged her to her feet. Maliha staggered.
“There’s something wrong with the Faraday,” Maliha muttered. The room did not want to keep still and each time she tried to focus on something it slid away to the left. And then the floor decided to come up to meet her.
iii
Françoise was in her nightclothes when Maliha opened her eyes. They were back in the bedroom and it was behaving like the restaurant had: sliding away to the left when she focused on something. Maliha had an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
“Have I been sick?”
“Oh yes.”
“Sorry.”
Françoise shrugged. Maliha looked at her arms—she was also in her night things. The room was becoming steadier, but the taste in her mouth was disgusting.
“Did you undress me?”
“Of course.”
“Sorry,” she said, then her mind wandered and she had a thought. “You know the men in the restaurant fancied us.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
“No,” said Maliha, “but it impressed me.”
“I know what you’re saying,” said Françoise, coming over and sitting beside her. “Let me ask you a question.”
Maliha draped herself on Françoise’s shoulders and rested her head there, breathing in the scent of her hair. It was damp. Everything here was damp.
“Maliha?”
“What?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I think I might be a little bit inebriated.”
Under the Burning Clouds Page 23