Tales from the Triverse

Expeditions & interrogations: Part 7

Addis Ababa.
1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)

Chakraborty's mouth was on fire, in the most glorious way imaginable. She had to suppress a grin, or else lose half her mouthful onto the bar.

"You alright there?" Kaminski sipped at his drink and smirked. They were sat together on a long bar at an outdoors street market, lined with multiple vendors. Steam and flame and heat blasted from each of the stalls. It was midday, the market partially covered from the sun. Though the temperature was similar to back home, the sun itself felt somehow more intense.

"This is amazing," she said, between mouthfuls. She tore off another strip of injera and scooped up more food between her thumb and forefinger. "No cutlery, less washing up, too."

"Of all the technological and cultural advances here, that's the one you notice."

"You literally eat the plate, Zoltan. I love it."

"Shame you don't get anything like this back in London. I've never seen an Ethiopian restaurant, have you?"

"Nope." She gulped down another mouthful.

"Why is that? Chinese, Indian, American, Australian. Not much from Africa."

She glowered at him. For a crack detective, sometimes he could be remarkably dense. "Check the Empire map, Kaminski. It's no great mystery." A dollop of a dark, meaty stew fell from the injera onto the bar, nearly onto her lap. "Shit," she said, tearing off another piece.

"Right hand."

"Oh, right." She swapped hands, then looked up and down the street. "Any sign of Moustache?"

"Nope." Kaminski lit a cigarette. "Probably watching us, though."

"Reckon it's safe for us to meet our guy here?"

"Safer than rocking up at the station and knocking on the door, Nisha." He breathed out. "Probably, anyway."

The market was busy; busier than Spitalfields on a Friday. There was a good-natured hustle to the place, wherein everyone knew that the initial prices offered were ridiculous and that haggling was part of the fun. Nobody was trying to scam anybody, but the ritual had to be performed before a transaction could be completed. Chakraborty waved a hand to waft Kaminski's smoke away, then breathed deeply. She loved the way new places smelled different. There was no mistaking that she was in a different city, in a different country. A different continent. The best possible kind of different.

Being far from home was comforting. A reprieve from the usual routine of office, pub and tiny flat. Ever since they boarded the first train she'd drank less, slept more. Her senses felt more alert, as if ordinarily she was permanently only half-awake.

Minutes crept by. She finished her meal. Kaminski finished his cigarette, lit another. The lunchtime rush began to subside a little.

"Starting to think he might be a no-show," Chakraborty said. Perhaps keeping a low profile was off the table, and they'd need to go direct to the main police headquarters, where the Ethiopian equivalent of the Specialist Dimensional Command was located. Bakker wouldn't like it, but there was no way they were coming all this way for nothing.

"We'll give it another fifteen minutes," Kaminski said, "then we might need to think about plan B."

The stall owner cleared away her plates and they ordered more drinks. Chakraborty laughed under her breath. "Maybe if no-one shows up we just treat this like a holiday. Nice little break. Mr and Mrs Kaminski, visiting Addis. See the sights, until we have to get the train back. A week in Addis, Mr and Mrs Kaminski, on their honeymoon."