Shadow Play

by Barbara Ismail

  Finally, luck broke his way. Another driver was leaning back against his car, smoking a cigarette, looking bored and calling out without enthusiasm to passing passengers. “Kuala Krai, Kuala Krai, Kuala Krai: Jeram, Jeram, Kuala Krai.”

  Rahman reflected that when heard it said that quickly and that often, the syllables stopped making sense and sounded like gibberish. He broke through a knot of people bargaining for another taxi and leaned next to the driver, passing him the picture. “Know her?” he asked. He hoped the grainy photo would be more evocative to someone who’d actually seen her.

  The driver looked at it, moving it closer and farther from his eyes to focus it. “Not much of a picture,” he commented.

  “I know that. Do you recognize her, though?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “It could be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I took some people down to Kuala Krai a few days ago. This could be her.”

  Rahman’s heart leapt. “When?”

  “Monday morning.”

  He was disappointed. Faouda was supposed to have left on Friday. “Are you sure it wasn’t Friday?” he pressed.

  “Of course, I’m sure. It was first thing Monday morning. Really early, like 6:30. I was just about to go and get some coffee and they came over to me.”

  “They?”

  “She and a guy. They wanted to leave for Kuala Krai right away. That’s why I remember them, otherwise I wouldn’t. I don’t pay much attention to passengers, but it was so early, so I did.”

  “Did they say anything about what they were doing?”

  He shook his head. “No, they slept most of the way. Tired, I guess.”

  “The guy, an older guy?”

  “No, like me maybe. Not old.”

  “Were they married?”

  “How would I know?” The driver was getting impatient now. “I was just driving them. I’m not the religious police. Why are you asking about this, anyway?”

  “We’re trying to find her.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “Nothing, we just want to find her.”

  “You want to find her for nothing? Well, that’s a change.”

  “Never mind that. Thanks! You’ve been a great help.”

  “Do I get a reward or something? I mean, I did help you.”

  That was true enough: he should have known this was coming. He brought out his notebook and began copying the driver’s name and address. “I’ll ask my boss,” he said resignedly. “We’ll see. Thanks.” They shook hands, and Rahman trotted back to the station.

  Rahman burst into Osman’s office, brimming with success. He’d found the driver, identified the suspect and already shredded her alibi.

  “Great work!” Osman congratulated him. “This is a big break. Monday, huh? So right after the murder: that really changes the whole game, doesn’t it? And another guy. This is a breakthrough.” He rose from behind his desk and clapped Rahman on the back. “I’m impressed!”

  Rahman beamed. At last, he was being noticed. It would be, no doubt, the beginning of a storied career.

  Osman walked straight to the market, but Maryam wasn’t there. “She may be at home,” Ashikin told him, sitting on her mother’s pile of batik. “She’s working on your case. Try her there.” She was polite, but Osman felt she wanted him to leave: he wasn’t good for business. He looked at her for a moment, without speaking. “Go to my mother’s house,” she urged him, a bit less patiently. “Go on!”

  “I’m going, thanks,” he said sulkily. Why were Kelantanese women always telling him what to do? He didn’t think his mother had much to worry about as far as the women here were concerned: all any of them had done so far was boss him around like a little boy. Even Maryam’s beautiful daughter treated him like a raw recruit in a backward platoon. He’d positively welcome seduction and a brush with black magic, but no one seemed interested enough to be bothered.. He left the market looking downcast and commandeered a car to take him to Kampong Penambang.

  Maryam and Rubiah had planned to go to Dollah Baju Hijau’s house in Kubang Kerian on the other side of Kota Bharu, but instead, Dollah came to her.

  He smiled at her from the bottom of the steps. “Kak!” he cried, “I’m here to help you.”

  Mamat greeted him immediately on the porch. “Come on up! Have some coffee! So early for you to get over here!”

  Dollah came up and sat down next to Mamat, while Maryam disappeared into the kitchen. “I just wanted to help,” he explained, accepting one of Mamat’s cigarettes, listening for the welcome clink of china which meant coffee was on its way. “I know how hard you’re working to find who did this, and I want to make sure I give as much help as I can.”

  Mamat approved this praiseworthy hope and welcomed the opportunity to chat with Dollah before Maryam and Rubiah took over. He was fascinated by him: this small, unassuming, ever so soft-spoken man held audiences in the palm of his hand. Mamat didn’t see it when speaking to him. A nice man, polite, but not magnetic. What happened when he started performing?

  “How did you begin as a dalang?” he asked. He was looking for some of the spark here in the house that he saw onstage.

  “As a child,” Dollah began, not at all reluctant to talk about himself, “I just loved watching the plays. My father wasn’t a dalang: he was just a farmer. But I’d go every night to watch, and make my own puppets out of banana leaves. You know, carved them into characters, put handles on them.” He laughed. “I played for my friends where older dalang were performing. One of them saw me: he was angry at me for trying to steal his audience. He told me ‘I’ll train you. If you’re going to play, you might as well do it right.’ That was a great thing for me. I stayed with him for a few years and followed him back to Patani. I studied there.

  “I play more Thai style, more modern. Sometimes I even add characters from TV. Like Lindsay Wagner. I have one of her as the bionic woman.” They both laughed. The Bionic Woman was wildly popular on Malaysian TV. “In colour,” Dollah added slyly. “When I came back to Kelantan, my troupe wore uniforms, green shirts, so we were a team, you know. That’s why I’m called ‘Dollah Baju Hijau,’ Dollah Green Shirt.

  “There’s a lot of competition between dalang, but whenever we have a performing contest, I always win. Why?” he asked rhetorically, “because people like my style. I try to be funny and entertaining and bring things in that are modern. Some people want to look back to the way things were, but in entertainment, you have to give people what they want. Ya, it can be a hard life,” he said philosophically, shaking his head slowly, “but I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

  “They say women always chase a dalang,” commented Mamat.

  Dollah laughed, a huge laugh from a small body. “It’s true!” he chortled, “It really is. Well, now of course, I’m older. I’m on my fourth wife. Not all at once, though. I’ve met all my wives at performances. They all saw me and wanted me. Even the one I have now. She was just a girl and her father came to talk to me about marrying her. I never thought about it, just been divorced, you see. I thought to myself, here’s a nice little girl. She wants me: what am I waiting for? I think I may be done with getting married all the time. Ya, getting older and settling down.” He seemed vastly amused by this.

  “Some of the spells we use to bring an audience also bring women. It can get mixed up. I always carry some amulets, Seri Muka, to make me attractive. To audiences, I mean.” He patted his pocket. “I sell them, too, to people who need them.” He cast a significant look at Mamat, who blandly looked back. “And women follow an entertainer. I don’t know what it is exactly.”

  He leaned back and stared off into the middle distance. “They like excitement. Someone new who’s been around. A voice they like, someone to make them laugh. Romantic, that’s it. They like a bit of romance. You see the women peeking in the back of the stage. Not only divorcees – young girls, too.” He lowered his voice, “Like for Ghani.”
He looked disapproving.

  “Of course,” he added virtuously, “we don’t use black magic or anything like that: just spells to draw the audience. We get trouble from the Ministry of Religion when they say we’re not Islamic. I say we are! We’re Muslims, good Muslims.” Dollah was deeply engrossed now. “Our spells and magic have been with us for a long time, since our ancestor’s time. We call upon Muslim spirits: jinn, everyone knows that. We don’t fool around with spirits we don’t understand, you know. You must be careful.”

  Mamat nodded. He was sure they did have trouble with the religious authorities, but it didn’t seem fair. Wayang Siam was a Malay tradition. He couldn’t see anything wrong with it.

  Maryam and Rubiah entered, bearing coffee, Malay cakes and fruits. “Pak Cik!” Maryam greeted him effusively. She was surprised that he was so anxious to volunteer to speak to her since all her other witnesses avoided her to the best of their ability. She and Rubiah distributed refreshments and then sat down themselves.

  “I’m here to help you,” Dollah told her with a wide smile. She returned one with slightly less wattage.

  “Thank you, Abang Dollah. It’s so good of you.”

  He nodded. “I have an idea.”

  She waited.

  “I’m thinking,” he said, leaning back. “I don’t really know how to say this…”

  “Abang Dollah, you know you can speak frankly to us.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps poor Ghani’s passing didn’t necessarily have to do with his marriages. Maybe it had to do with Wayang Siam.”

  “Wayang Siam?” Maryam said blankly. “How would that be?”

  “You know, some dalang are very competitive. They can’t stand another dalang being more popular than they are. They’re very proud. I don’t know if it could lead to something terrible.”

  Maryam stayed quiet, waiting to hear. So far, it didn’t make too much sense.

  “I was first chosen to go on a tour of America and England. Yes, because I was the most popular dalang in Kelantan, and they wanted me to bring the art to these other countries. But my father asked me not to go: he said he’d miss me, and I couldn’t break a father’s heart, could I?”

  Maryam shook her head, still unsure where this was leading.

  “I had to turn it down,” he took a sip of coffee and carefully picked out a cake. “I couldn’t go. I told the university, ‘My father doesn’t want me to go. I’m a grown man, but can I break my father’s heart?’ They understood, and they picked someone else in my place. Well, he got ideas.”

  “Ideas?” Maryam asked, passing a cigarette to Rubiah and taking one for herself. They both lit up.

  “That he was the best dalang in Kelantan. He began to believe he was a more important dalang than I was. He wasn’t, he isn’t, I mean, but he’s a very jealous man when it comes to me. Could that have driven him to undertake such a terrible deed?” He paused for effect. “I don’t know. Could he have, God forbid, mistaken Ghani for me in the dark?”

  He shook his head sorrowfully. Maryam was doubtful: Ghani was several inches taller than Dollah, and broader too, but perhaps, in the black of night, an attacker might not have noticed.

  “You might want to look into it. I’m not accusing him, you understand; not at all. I just want to make sure you have all the facts in front of you, and that nothing is hidden.”

  “Thank you, Abang.”

  “Do you know this dalang? From Kampong Laut – Hassan. You might want to talk to him and see if there’s anything suspicious. I hope not,” he said, pious as an imam, “but I can’t keep secrets in a situation like this.”

  “Of course, you can’t, Abang Dollah. It would be wrong. We’ll have to go to see this Hassan, and find out what we can. Can you do me a favor, Pak Cik Dollah? Can you give me the names of your musicians so I can talk to them?”

  He nodded. “Can you write them down now?”

  Maryam began taking dictation. “By the way,” she said innocently, “did you notice anyone coming to visit Ghani in the panggung, either during the performance, or maybe afterward? Anyone at all?”

  Dollah seemed surprised to have been interrupted in his list of names and kampong. “Well,” he stammered. (And did he blush? Maryam thought he might have.) “Well, no. Not really.”

  Maryam stayed quiet. There was something more here: Dollah was usually the soul of poise.

  He began again. “There might have been. Sometimes women peek in the back.” He looked meaningfully at Mamat, willing him to remember their earlier conversation. “It’s common; they want to see the troupe.” This was modesty on his part: for the most part, women looked to find the dalang himself.

  “Did you recognize anyone peeking?”

  “It’s dark,” Dollah made his excuses, “and, of course, I’m performing, not looking around the back.”

  Maryam nodded. “I understand, Abang. But is it possible you might have noticed either Aisha or Faouda talking to Ghani?”

  Dollah thought for a long moment. The silence stretched, but Maryam was determined to have him break it first. “Now that I think of it,” he said firmly, having decided to speak, “I think Faouda was there one night.”

  “Faouda? And you didn’t say anything?” Maryam was shocked.

  “Kak Yam,” Dollah began seriously, “I’m not sure, and I don’t want to get someone innocent into trouble. If I did, you know, if I did, it was early in the evening, before the performance actually began, I think.”

  Maryam nodded. “I’ll ask the musicians. Perhaps they had more time to look around.”

  “They would have,” Dollah agreed.

  “And Aisha?”

  “What about Aisha?”

  “Abang,” Rubiah took over. Perhaps another voice might jog his memory. “Did you see Aisha at any of the performances? Visiting her husband?”

  Dollah drank coffee, lit a cigarette, and stared at it as if he’d never seen one before. At last, he said reluctantly, “Aisha might have come to see Ghani; I think I may have seen her talking to him.”

  “Which night?”

  Dollah shrugged. “Perhaps one of the musicians can remember more precisely. I have such a bad memory for times and such. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong information.”

  “You’ve known Aisha a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Since she was a kid, like Ghani,” Dollah admitted. “I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I do like her, and she didn’t deserve what happened to her. She’s a nice woman and a good wife and mother. Ghani was crazy to do what he did, everyone agrees on that. But in the end,” he emphasized, “in the end, he was married only to Aisha. I think he learned his lesson, poor kid. It’s a shame he was killed just as he began to make it up to her. But the niat, the intention, was there, and that’s what’s really important.”

  With this sermonette, Dollah rose to leave. “Let me know when you’ve spoken to the other men,” Dollah asked Maryam. “Let’s talk again soon, yes, Kak?”

  “We will call on you, Abang and thank you for your help,” Maryam answered sweetly.

  When Dollah could no longer be seen down the road, Maryam, Rubiah and Mamat stayed on the porch, not allowing any of the refreshments to be wasted while they debated Dollah’s motives for disgorging his information.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Maryam mused, “Dollah’s just dropping over to tell us about that other dalang. Dollah must really have it in for him.”

  “Maybe he just wants to make sure he tells you all he knows,” Mamat weighed in with a man’s perspective. “You know, he wants to be careful, but he can’t keep it from you. Like that.”

  Maryam snorted. “I don’t think it’s a delicate conscience, if that’s what you’re saying, sayang. It must be something else.” She threw her head back and let smoke rise towards the sky. “How do you feel about visiting Hassan, the other dalang?” she asked Rubiah and Mamat. “It’s a great day to cross the river.”

  Chapter XI

  The trip to Kampong Laut was a
scenic one, requiring a ferry ride across the broad Kelantan River. The ferry was wide and flat, able to carry people, motorbikes and livestock. Maryam, Rubiah and Mamat stood in the corner, next to the ferryman poling them across. The several chickens in bamboo cages squawked wildly the whole trip, drowning out any other sounds and making conversation impossible. Maryam spent the time admiring the strength of the river and its wide mouth, flanked by greenery, looking cool in spite of the afternoon’s heat.

  A small battalion of motorbikes waited on the Kampong Laut side of the river to pick up passengers. Each got on behind their separate drivers, the ladies carefully tucking their legs to one side holding the seat for balance, and most emphatically not the driver. Here as in most kampong, the road was more a series of slaloms around potholes than a straight line, and the driver spent much of the ride with one foot on the ground to balance in the endless curves.

  Hassan’s house was much larger and more imposing than they’d expected; wider than most of its neighbours, with a solid tile roof and a deep veranda. The back of the house had its own permanent panggung, allowing the dalang to put on his own performances without waiting for a patron to sponsor him. He must have brought some money back from his tour of America, Mamat mused, admiring Hassan’s good business sense.

  They called up the stairs, and a small, wiry man came to the door, dressed only in a sarong, holding a cigarette. He looked at them expectantly.

  “We’re here to speak to Cik Hassan,” Mamat called up. “Is he here?”

  “That’s me,” Hassan welcomed them. “Come on up.”

  They trooped up the stairs, coming into a well-furnished living room with obviously new couches and chairs arranged around it. Hassan picked up a short-sleeved shirt and put it on without buttoning it. A little girl wriggled against the doorjamb, and he sent her off to order tea and cakes.

  “What can I do for you?” Hassan asked expansively. “Looking for Wayang Siam?”

  “Well, sort of,” Maryam began.

  Hassan waited to see what she meant.

  “I wonder if you’ve heard,” she looked at him, “about the tragic death of one of Dollah Baju Hijau’s musicians.” He nodded, and said nothing.