Shadow Play

by Barbara Ismail

  They left Rahman with the car, and walked towards Kampong Kedai Lalat: an unkempt village on the outskirts of town. The paved road gave out quickly after downtown, becoming cratered dirt. It would be hellish driving; even walking required a good deal of attention. They passed an anemic market selling small heaps of vegetables and fruit past their first blush of youth. A meat stall displayed a few joints of goat covered in flies, and some ikan bilis, dried anchovies, in a disorderly pile on a slab of wood. Maryam and Rubiah exchanged horrified glances.

  Kedai Lalat was surrounded by vegetable plots, oil palm and rubber plantations. When they saw the mosque they peeked in to see a few older men relaxing in the forecourt. It was a small wooden building painted white with green trim, with a hand painted sign in Jawi script announcing ‘Surau (prayer room) Kedai Lalat.

  “This must be it,” Rubiah said doubtfully.

  Mamat walked in and began talking to the men, all of whom began explaining something with great enthusiasm. Maryam and Rubiah couldn’t hear the discussion, but it was just as well. “It’s weird here,” Maryam whispered to her cousin.

  “I told you I didn’t want to come,” Rubiah whispered back.

  “You never want to go anywhere,” Maryam countered, and began examining the houses nearby. Most were small and unpainted, maintained as well as could be expected. There were pots of bright flowers set at the bottom of the stairs, and most had lace net curtains in the glassless windows. People tried to make things tidy and even pretty. Unlike Kampong Penambang, the houses were huddled together around a common yard, rather than each with its own. Perhaps there were snakes, and the houses crowded together for safety. Or perhaps they stood together to ward off the encroaching jungle. These were not pleasant thoughts.

  Mamat emerged from the surau and pointed further down the dirt path. “Down this road.” The sun came between the leaves overhanging the alley, providing a bit of shade and flickering shadows when the breeze blew. They fetched up at a large house made of wood with a roof made of tile rather than thatch, which displayed some level of prosperity. They could hear a radio playing Malay pop songs inside. Chickens wandered around the yard, as did three goats who ambled over to examine them immediately, butting softly against Mamat.

  Maryam called out a hello from the bottom of the steps, and a neighbor poked her head out of her window. “Mak Cik Maimunah isn’t here,” she offered. “She’s at the market down the road. You know: you must have passed it coming in here.”

  “Selling vegetables?”

  The woman nodded emphatically. “That’s her. She’s got eggplants today. I saw her leave. Do you know her?”

  “Not really,” Maryam answered vaguely. “But thanks! We’ll go and look for her.” She smiled, and the woman left the window. “Alamak!” Maryam hissed to Rubiah. “That market is a disgrace!”

  “Well, it isn’t Kota Bharu,” Rubiah sniffed, “they aren’t used to what we have.” She nodded complacently. “You can’t expect them to keep to the same standards.” They came back upon the ragged little market. Mamat immediately hared off to find a coffee shop: even such a small and deplorable pasar would no doubt have accommodations for coffee, since husbands had to wait somewhere.

  Maryam searched for eggplants. Sitting behind a pyramid of them, on a chair made of several folded sarong, was a woman Maryam’s own age, dressed in plain batik with a matching baju kurung, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a cotton turban over her hair, just as Maryam dressed for the market. She was immediately cheered; this was a woman they could talk to. She and Rubiah bent down in front of the vegetables, examining them.

  “Kak Maimunah?” Maryam introduced herself “We’re here looking for Faouda: do you know her?”

  Maimunah’s face clouded. “Who are you?” she asked sharply.

  “Do you have a moment?” Maryam looked around, reluctant to speak of this in front of everyone else present. “Could we go somewhere and talk, please?”

  “About what?”

  “Well, Faouda.”

  Maimunah rose, and asked the woman next to her to watch the eggplants for a few minutes, and gestured for Maryam and Rubiah to follow her. She walked swiftly and silently back to her house and waved them up the stairs. The three sat on the porch; Maimunah offered neither drinks nor cookies.

  “I don’t wish to be rude, not at all, but as you see, I am in the midst of work here, and I’m not sure what your business is.” She leaned back against the wall and produced her home-rolled cigarettes from the folds of her sarong. She passed them around, and waited expectantly, clearly counting the seconds until she could get back to work.

  Maryam respected her businesslike approach: from the turban she wore to the cigarettes she carried, she could have been Maryam herself. Maryam gave the most concise possible explanation of their quest. “… and after the third night,” she finished, “one of the musicians was killed, and I understand he took Cik Faouda as a second wife. So we’re looking for her, to see what it was about.”

  Maimunah nodded. She relented somewhat, and asked, “Would you like something to drink? I’m sorry I didn’t ask before.”

  “No, no, please,” Rubiah said hurriedly. “We can’t keep you from your stall. We work in the market in Kota Bharu ourselves, so we know how it is.”

  “Alright,” Maimunah lit her cigarette and passed them the matches. “It isn’t a really nice story, though. I’ve been married about thirty years, maybe?” They nodded: so had they all. “A few months ago, I noticed my husband was acting strange; staying out late, couldn’t find him during the day, kept complaining about how tired he was.

  “Well, naturally, I suspected something, but I didn’t know what to do exactly. I kept a sharp eye on him, as much as I could, anyway, and then all of a sudden, he comes home one night and tells me he’s taken a second wife.” Her guests both gasped with dismay. It was a middle-aged woman’s worst nightmare.

  “Now, mind you, my husband is in his fifties, and we have children who are already married. He’s getting ready to be a grandfather, so what does he need a young girl for? More kids? We already have five, and my eldest daughter is having a baby.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. So, he brings home Faouda. I thought she was a nasty piece of work, but, of course, I would, wouldn’t I? He tells me he’s rented a small house down the end of the road for her and that I should learn to treat her like a sister.” She snorted. “Right. He was crazy for her for the first three months or so. Like a buffalo led by the nose: kerbau cucuk hidung.

  “It was so hard,” she said calmly. “He gave her almost all the money every week, and I had to make do with what I earn to feed myself and the kids. He just didn’t care.” She looked bemused, and Maryam whispered, “I’m sorry.” Maimunah shrugged.

  “What can you do? You just have to keep going and hope for the best. And I did just that, Kak; I kept my mouth shut and waited. And what do you know? He got tired of her, just as I thought he would. One day, he came back here and started complaining: she didn’t know how to save money, she didn’t know how to cook, she always wanted to go out to the movies, she wanted to have a baby.

  “She was a young girl; of course, she wanted these things! And you’re an old goat, I thought, and have no business having a baby who’ll be younger than your first grandchild. But I bit my tongue, as we women often do. I smiled and made him dinner, and he was glad to be back. Pacat jatoh kelumpur, like a leech falling back into the mud. He couldn’t have been more relieved.

  “Two days later, Faouda shows up after dinner and starts yelling at him. The whole kampong could hear! Alamak! You know, I decided to stay out of it. I had nothing to gain by jumping into the middle.”

  “That’s true,” Rubiah agreed solemnly.

  “You’re right,” Maryam chorused.

  “So,” Mainumah flicked her cigarette over the side of the porch and lit another immediately. One of the goats came by to investigate. “My husband says to her, ‘I divorce you wit
h three talak.’ Three talak at once. That’s great. I’m happy. And he stomps out of the house right then and there to see if there’s anyone around to register it. She can’t believe it. She’s standing there with her mouth open. What happened?”

  Maimunah laughed. “A man his age, how’s he going to keep up with her? He’s exhausted, and besides, does any man like spending that much money? Especially after he’s decided he doesn’t want what he’s bought.” All three laughed at the folly of men and the naïveté of young women.

  “She looks at me, like she’s going to cry, but there’s no sympathy for her here. I told her, ‘Go get your stuff out of the house and go back to your parents. I’ve had enough of you to last me forever! She pouts for a minute and then I give her a little push to guide her to the door, you know.” She nodded, smiling slightly. “That was it, really. By the next morning, she was gone, and the next week I heard she married a musician from Dollah Baju Hijau’s troupe. Fast work, wasn’t it?” She shook her head, wonderingly. “Is it even legal?” she asked. “You have to wait before you marry again, don’t you?” She shrugged. “Well, it isn’t my problem. Anyway, she went up to see him in Kota Bharu and I heard the first wife wasn’t happy to see her. I’m not surprised.

  “I heard in the market … you know: angin bertiup, the wind blows and you hear things. It’s big news around here, you can imagine. Everyone’s talking. I heard he divorced her right away and sent her packing back from Kota Bharu in only a few days. I haven’t seen her, and I don’t think I will. It’s fine with me. I’m done with her.”

  Maimunah paused. “You might see her parents, if you want to. They might know more than me. Don’t know if they’ll want to talk though; it isn’t very flattering for their daughter, and they’re probably hoping for another husband for her.”

  “So she’s back with them now?”

  Maimunah shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care either, as long as she stays away from me. But you could find her mother if you want to: they live on the other side of Kuala Krai, nearer the Kota Bharu road. Kampong Gelap. Just ask when you get there, Mak Cik Nah.” Maimunah rose, anxious to get back to work. “If you don’t mind …”

  “Of course,” Maryam agreed hurriedly, and rose immediately. “You must get back to work. Thank you so much for talking to us.” Maryam and Maimunah clasped both their hands together and Rubiah followed. They walked with her back to the market, where she resumed her spot and dived back into her vegetables.

  Chapter VII

  They decided to bring Mamat with them. “You never know,” Maryam said firmly, now hot on the scent. “What if we need him? And if we don’t, they’ll give him some coffee …”

  Mamat rolled his eyes. “Is that what I am? Suruh dia pergi, panggil dia mari? Order him and he goes, call him and he comes?”

  Maryam gave him a suddenly blazing smile. “No, that’s not all you are!”

  He laughed, and walked self-consciously behind them. “No, don’t turn around! I’m just here. Kerbau cucuk hidung.”

  “You know, that’s just what the first wife said about her husband and Faouda,” Rubiah twisted her head to look at him. “But you, at least you’re being led around by your own wife. I mean your real, proper wife: it’s an improvement.”

  They approached Faouda’s parent’s home, set in a more sparsely populated kampong than the one they’d just left. Fewer trees, and more dust; the houses were farther apart and scrub plants grew onto the road. Nothing blocked the view of vertical limestone cliffs, dotted with vegetation. To Maryam’s eye, it had all of the drawbacks of the rainforest and none of the advantages: no shade, no green, but a feeling both ominous and lonely. Maybe she was just too used to the coast to understand living here in the ulu.

  It was a smaller house than Mak Cik Maimunah’s, and its roof was thatched. Maryam judged the inside had two rooms: a front room and maybe a small bedroom. A shed in the back served as a kitchen. Rather than real stairs, it had a ladder leading up to it, and a tiny porch; and on the porch sat two women, their legs hanging over the edge, weaving palm leave mats. The older one looked up inquiringly.

  “Hello, Kak!” Maryam greeted her effusively. “We are looking for Cik Faouda’s house.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at Maryam. “Who are you?”

  “Us?” she asked brightly. “We’re here from Kampong Penambang, near Kota Bharu. Is this her house? I mean, is this her parent’s house?”

  The woman nodded and stood. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

  “Well,” Maryam bustled over to the bottom rung of the ladder. “You know the performance where the tragedy occurred? That was at my house. For my son’s sunat.” She smiled and bridled a bit. Mamat was stunned: he’d never seen her perform like this. Rubiah was not stunned at all. “So, we’re helping the police. It’s so much easier for people to speak to us,” she gestured at Rubiah. “Two Mak Cik, you know,” she smiled a conspiratorial smile at the other woman: they belonged to the same sisterhood.

  “We’re trying to find out more about this, and of course, Cik Faouda.” This was far more polite than she needed to be, since Faouda was a good deal younger than she was, but better to be overly polite than chance an offense. “She married Ghani and we thought it would be best to talk to her. She might know something, or have heard something, isn’t that possible, Kak?”

  The woman stared at her. “You want to talk to Faouda?”

  “Yes, I do,” Maryam nodded and smiled.

  “That’s me.” The younger woman stood up, her face expressionless. “It’s alright, Mak,” she said to her mother. “I have nothing to hide.” She turned again to Maryam, “You might as well come up,” she said resignedly.

  Mamat made his excuses, and disappeared down the road. Maryam felt it most likely they’d find him at the first coffee shop they passed. She and Rubiah sat down on the porch, which was now full with four women sitting on it. Faouda’s mother sat in the corner, slowly weaving her palm mat but listening intently.

  “I am so sorry,” Maryam began, “It must be terribly hard for you.”

  Faouda nodded. “Yes.”

  “What a shock.”

  “It was.”

  “How long were you married to Ghani?”

  “Not too long.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “In Kuala Krai. They were performing, and I met him there.”

  “When was that? About three weeks ago?”

  Faouda shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “What happened?”

  “Happened?”

  “Well, you aren’t married to him anymore. What happened?”

  “He divorced me.”

  “In Tawang?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Faouda,” Maryam was quickly becoming exasperated, “you aren’t answering anything. Would you rather not talk to me?”

  “No, it’s OK.”

  “Then please help me understand what happened.”

  Faouda shifted uneasily, squinting into the sun. Her cheeks were wide, with a few shallow pockmarks sprinkled along her cheekbones. Her lips were thin and straight, her chin pointed and her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. In the morning light, with no makeup, she looked plain, but Maryam could see how makeup would improve her: smoothening her skin, widening her lips and defining her eyes. She’d still have a slightly vulpine look with her small eyes and long nose, but some men liked that. “He divorced me because his first wife wanted him to, and he was too scared not to listen to her.”

  Faouda leaned back against the wall of the house and began a litany of complaints about her treatment at Ghani’s hands. She hadn’t been welcomed, she’d been divorced as soon as she turned up to see him, and (Maryam guessed this was her primary grievance), everyone blamed her for the situation when she felt Ghani was as much, if not more, responsible.

  “You know,” Faouda said, warming to her theme, “he took me over to his Nenek’s hous
e, where they treated me like dirt. That isn’t fair, is it?” Faouda tossed her head and narrowed her already narrow eyes. “How could I have been so stupid?” she asked Maryam.

  “Well, haven’t we all been stupid about men?” Maryam replied, and the two other women nodded. “That’s just the way it is. You don’t have to feel that you’ve been any worse than any of us. It’s just bad luck, that’s all. Not stupid.”

  “I’ll get married again,” she vowed, glaring at the trees around the house.

  “Anyone in mind?” Maryam tried to keep it light.

  “Not yet,” she answered shortly.

  Maryam took a deep breath and asked, “What happened with your other marriages?”

  “Is that any of your business?” Faouda asked crossly. “What’s that got to do with anything? Or just nosy?”

  “I’m just asking,” Maryam explained. “I’m sure everything went well, but I don’t want to leave anything the police will then want to know more about.”

  The implied threat hung in the air as Faouda debated what to do. Her first choice would have been to tell Maryam and Rubiah to go to hell, but she rejected that early in her deliberation. She decided it was better to tell this old Mak Cik than have police show up. Everyone would talk about that, and she’d had enough of being the most interesting topic in all of Ulu Kelantan.

  “My first marriage,” she began crisply, “was for two years. We just couldn’t agree, couldn’t get used to each other. No children, either, and so we decided to divorce. I was what, eighteen?” She turned to her mother as if seeking confirmation. Her mother nodded.

  “The second was with Abang Yahya. He was a lot older than me, and had a first wife and kids. It just didn’t work out. Too old. He was always tired, and didn’t want to spend any money. It just wouldn’t work for me. Better to end it quickly than drag on something that doesn’t have a future, isn’t it? That’s all. No one’s dead, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  Maryam nodded. “The next one should be just right,” she said sweetly. “Someone closer to your own age, a nice man.”