“Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, it’s under Adelaide Mystik-or Rechnov, it could be Rechnov.”
“Ah, Miss Mystik,” said the waiter, drawing out the syllables as if there were many things he could impart about Adelaide. “Yes, she’s reserved for two o’clock. She isn’t here yet, but if you’d like to come through?”
If Vikram’s dishevelled appearance perturbed the waiter, there was no trace of it in his face. It had taken all of Vikram’s nerve to walk into the changing room of the watersports centre, and walk out again wearing a mishmash of stolen clothes, expecting at any moment to hear a shout of discovery at his back. He checked his watch, looked back once at the entrance to The Stingray. No sign of Adelaide.
“Sure.”
He followed the waiter through a stone archway. Inside, the restaurant opened out into a glittering cave. The tables were scattered a discreet distance apart, round with turquoise cloths and almost all of them occupied. A female pianist was playing something light and fluid. The waiter led him to an empty table with a single rose laid at each of the two places. He pulled out a chair and took Vikram’s coat. Vikram sat awkwardly.
In this place he felt every minor injury with ten times the intensity he would have anywhere else. The previous night was a blur of fire and drums and the distant rumble of engines which he had woken to in the tunnels. His head ached. He was covered in bruises whose origins he could not recall; even his face was scratched.
“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.