“Is this the first time you have visited us, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction.”
“Thank you.”
Was he supposed to say anything else? The waiter bore his stolen coat away. Vikram looked about him. The walls and ceiling of the restaurant were covered with mosaics depicting fish of every imaginable size and shape. The mosaic was beautiful but he barely saw it because in between the tiles were large portholes with external lights that revealed the real ocean.
The hairs rose on the back of his neck. His nerves were so frayed he almost jumped up and fled; he had to press his hands against his knees to stay put. He reminded himself that Adelaide had never been in prison. She could not have known about the portholes. Even if she did, she did not know what they meant to Vikram.
The waiter returned with a menu and a glass of something green, which he said was complimentary.
“While you’re waiting, sir. We always look after Miss Mystik’s guests.”
“Is she usually late?”
“I’m sure you know better than I do, sir.”
There was no answer to this, so he perused the menu in silence. It was, as the decor suggested, primarily a seafood restaurant, but Vikram hadn’t heard of most of the dishes listed. He tasted the green drink. It tingled, hard and bright down his gullet; he imagined he was swallowing diamonds.
He glanced at the other diners under pretence of studying the menu. He didn’t recognize anyone from the Rose Night, but his time there had been limited. The clientele seemed less effusive than Adelaide’s set. Conversation was quiet and intimate. Vikram felt like an impostor. He touched the gleaming set of cutlery before him. It left a smeary fingerprint. He put his hands beneath the table, feeling guilty for ruining the aesthetic perfection, and then guilty for feeling guilty.
A woman at the table opposite was talking earnestly about the Colnat Foundation. Vikram hid a smile. He had never read Colnat’s report, but he knew that it described the standards of living in the west as poor (an understatement but a statement at least), and that it had sparked off a minor “save-the-west” movement in the City.
Eirik had spoken enthusiastically of Colnat. The Citizen was an idealistic man, a man Vikram had admired at the time. Colnat had had visions of redeveloping the west. He wanted to set up schools. For a year or so he was a common sight, crouched in the prow of a boat, scribbling notes with industrious fervour. He was accompanied everywhere by his dog, a great scruffy animal. The dog contracted a disease and died; it was said that Colnat never recovered from the loss. At any rate, he went back east not long before the riots and was not seen again.
The woman opposite was talking as though the initiative was still running.
“Of course schooling is the key to it,” she said. Her voice was low, urgent. “If Palenta could just be persuaded to support the motion, we might have a chance of pushing it through…”
“Under what clause?”
“I don’t know. The Aek Amendment. Even the Ibatoka.”
“Have you heard Palenta speak?”
“Oh, I don’t know him personally, darling. This looks delicious, doesn’t it?” The couple’s knives and forks clinked, and their conversation reverted to trivia.
Vikram didn’t have any education; it was Mikkeli who had taught him how to read and write. Now and then, those days adopted his thoughts like driftwood. Hazy recollections of Naala’s boat, with its fumes of alcohol and icy sweat. Keli hoarding books, her index finger running under the lines whilst the letters loomed large and slowly familiar.
A fish swam past the porthole. Where the hell was Adelaide? Was she even coming? His stomach was rumbling with hunger. He felt more and more ill at ease. He found himself checking for exits, wary of a trap.
The couple opposite had reached dessert. The woman was lingering over a concoction in a tall glass, dipping the spoon with delicate, precise movements.
“Loviisa wants gliding lessons, but I think water-skiing is more beneficial, don’t you? Gliding’s such a hassle. But she will go on.”
“I know. Toi’s been nagging me for a waterbike since last midsummer.” The man leaned over and tapped her hand. “But let’s not talk about them. It reminds me of her.”
They weren’t really a couple, Vikram realized. Not officially, the way people did things this side of town, where relationships were ratified by Tellers and salt. And something else: they were in love. He supposed guilt and grief were common luxuries here. He thought of the girl with the red bow in her hair. She was part of it. So was Adelaide Mystik. He could not condemn the City as false outright, but none of it seemed real to him. It was too brassy, too effusive. How could you trust the sadness of someone who had never seen that cold could kill? Who had never seen a gun fired, never been afraid to sleep?
He checked his watch. Adelaide was already twenty-five minutes late. Vikram drained the green drink, and as the waiter passed, held up his glass. He might be here for a while.
17 ¦ ADELAIDE
Vikram was putting on his coat, about to depart. Adelaide congratulated herself on her timing.
“The waiter said you’d be late,” he said. “Personally, I’m amazed you showed up at all.”
She heard, subdued but not quite disguised, the note of contempt. She refused to be bothered by it.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said.
“What made you change your mind?”
“I have my reasons.”
A waiter appeared at their table. “Good afternoon, Miss Mystik. Will you be dining with us today?”
Adelaide scanned the menu. “Yes, I believe we will. I’ll have the rainbow-fish. With karengo squares on the side. Vikram? I’ve kept you waiting, I owe you lunch.”
“What do you recommend?” he asked the waiter.
“The chef’s special is excellent, sir. Marinated swordfish fillet.”
“That sounds great.”
“We’ll take a bottle of my usual,” said Adelaide. “But first, aperitifs.”
“Octopya, madam?”
“Exactly.”
With a slight bow he moved away, taking several empty glasses of Vikram’s with him. Adelaide placed one hand on top of the other.
“Now,” she said. “Business. I assume you can break into an apartment?”
“What makes you think that?”
“If I remember right you’ve been in jail.”
“Not for breaking and entering.”
“What for?”
“Assault,” Vikram said.
The waiter arrived with two conical glasses containing blue liquid and a metal appliance. Over each glass he balanced a slotted spoon with a sugar cube. Spigots from the metal appliance dripped water slowly through the sugar. Adelaide watched, silent, until the process was complete. She pushed one glass toward Vikram and sipped her own. It was the hit she needed. Fire and ice in one gulp.
“I love the first taste,” she said. “The doorway to possibility.”
Vikram tried a mouthful and made a face of disagreement.
“You were saying about your conviction,” she prompted.
“I was involved in the riots three years ago,” Vikram said. His voice was chilly as a Tarctic wind. She had never met anyone so unforgiving. “I did a lot of things like a lot of other people and I hit one of the Guards.”
Adelaide nibbled on a crystallized apricot. “How did it feel?”
“Like the beginning,” he said.
“How long were you in jail for?”
“Two years.”
“That’s a long time underwater.”
He leaned forward. Shadows made his eyes dark. A nerve flickered in his throat. “Why does this matter to you?”