“Well, they were performing at our house when it happened. We’re helping the police now, trying to find out what might have happened.”
“You know what happened,” Hassan informed her. “He was killed, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, I know. I didn’t mean that really. I meant, who killed him?”
“Why are you asking me?”
Maryam had a premonition she was now on very thin ice, and she tried to think of a polite way to say it.
“As another dalang, I wondered if you might have heard any gossip, or known anyone who might have had a grudge …”
“You mean, if I had a grudge?”
“No, no, not that.”
“Dollah sent you here, didn’t he?” Hassan was getting red in the face.
“No, he didn’t.” Maryam was getting flustered. Had she been led into the middle of a feud between two dalang? She shot Rubiah an imploring look.
“No, not at all,” Rubiah loyally jumped in. “We’re just asking. Dalang are such a close knit group, we thought…”
“You thought nothing of the kind!” Hassan leapt out of his seat. “Dollah sent you here to make it seem as though I would kill someone in his troupe! What kind of people are you?”
His wife came in with a tray of cups and cookies, and he gestured for her to go back into the kitchen. “Not for them! Take it back! These people aren’t guests; they’re coming here to accuse me of murder.
He turned back to his three uninvited visitors. “How would I have anything to do with it? You think I run around Kelantan looking to kill musicians? Are you crazy or what?” He was now in a fury. “What is your name?” he bellowed.
“Maryam,” she replied meekly. This didn’t seem real.
Mamat moved between Maryam and Hassan and tried to soothe him. “Now, Che Hassan, there’s no need…”
Hassan ignored him completely. “Maryam,” he repeated at a scream. “From where, Kota Bharu? You aren’t from around here.”
She nodded. Mamat again tried to quiet him, placing a calming hand on Hassan’s shoulder. “Abang,” he began in a soft voice, “please. To talk to a lady like this, my wife, in fact, it just isn’t right. She isn’t trying to accuse you of anything.”
Hassan wrenched Mamat’s hand from his shoulder, nearly separating it from the wrist. He turned to him, nearly spitting with rage. “Don’t lecture me about what’s right, my friend. You have no idea what you’re doing here.” He turned back to Maryam.
“Get out!” He pointed dramatically to the door. “How dare you come here and talk to me this way? Accusing me of things with no basis in fact. Are you and Dollah trying to plot against me? He’s always been jealous of me, but who are you? Have you no shame at all? Aren’t you embarrassed?”
They rose to leave, and as Maryam began to go down the stairs, Hassan gave her a slight but well-directed push. “Now go! Get out of here! Go back to your friend and tell him you failed!”
Maryam stumbled down the stairs and landed on her face in the dust at the bottom. Mamat was stunned by this turn of events: he’d never seen this kind of outburst in a Malay kampong, and he stood for a moment trying to take it all in. He suddenly turned and pushed Hassan hard, back into his living room where he lost his footing and fell back hard against the brand new sofa.
The ring of the open-mouthed and silent neighbors seemed unable to process what they had just seen. Not one of them tried to help Maryam until Rubiah ran down the stairs to lift her up. Her clothes and face were covered in dust. It was in her mouth, in her hair: she tried to brush it off her clothes but it stuck. She began to weep silently. Mamat clattered down the stairs in a fury, knowing it was best to get her out of there as quickly as possible, and he and Rubiah led a quietly sobbing Maryam down the road, tears making wet tracks through the dust on her face.
At the first turn in the road, when Hassan and his neighbors could no longer see her, they stopped and began cleaning her off in earnest. They could still hear Hassan haranguing them, describing her as an old woman from Kota Bharu in the pay of his rivals to discredit him. He, Hassan, would never let that happen. He was a great dalang, one who had been to England and America, who went to the university to speak to students. He’d fix her and her dalang boss.
Maryam was completely humiliated. She was now filthy, unkempt, her hair coming out of its pins and powdered with dirt, her mouth dry with dust, her clothes gritty and streaked. “What happened?” she sobbed. “What did I do?”
“I think we got into the middle of some feud,” Mamat said as he tried to wipe off her face. “I can’t believe Dollah would have done this to us on purpose.”
“It sure looks like he did,” Rubiah said, whacking Maryam’s clothes with her headscarf. “I like Dollah, too, but I’ve got to say, I think we were set up here.”
“I want to go home,” Maryam tried to get her crying under control. “Everyone on the ferry will be staring at me,” she said, and began crying again.
“No, they won’t,” Rubiah scolded her gently. “You think they have nothing better to do than to look at you? Nonsense! They have work to do themselves. They’re busy. Come on,” she signalled Mamat with her eyebrows. “Let’s go home and you can get cleaned up. You’ll feel so much better, and you can forget about this Hassan. Who is he, anyway? A bad-mannered lout.”
They began walking three abreast with Maryam in the middle. “We’ll walk back to the ferry, sayang,” Mamat told her. “Are you hurt?”
A bruise was blooming on her arm, and although she couldn’t see it yet, she was sure there was another on her leg. “I’ll be alright,” she said tiredly.
The walk was long and hot, and in spite of what Rubiah had told her, people stared all along the route to see a Mak Cik so dishevelled. Maryam tried to keep her eyes trained on the horizon, so as not to meet anyone else’s, and pictured in her mind arriving at her own house, taking off these clothes and washing off. Looking like a normal person again, instead of one who fell face first into the dirt from the height of several steps.
The ferry trip and walk back to Kampong Penambang was a nightmare Maryam chose to forget. She washed her hair twice when she got home, and scrubbed her face and brushed her teeth with a vengeance.
She silently sat down, now clean and dressed and looking once more like herself, to prepare dinner: carefully chopping the vegetables in the kitchen, speaking to no one. She could not stop picturing herself, a well-upholstered middle-aged Mak Cik flying down a flight of stairs in full view of Kampong Laut. She saw it even more clearly when she closed her eyes.
The rhythmic thunk of her knife drowned out all other noises, but when she paused, she heard a stuttering, stumbling voice at the door, and recognized with a sinking heart it was Osman. Mamat stuck his head in the kitchen door, his face full of sympathy and concern, and asked her to come into the living room: she had guests. She smoothened down her clean blouse and sarong, washed her hands, and ascended with no enthusiasm whatsoever to greet her visitor.
If possible, he looked more uncomfortable than she did. “Mak Cik,” he began,” I have some news.”
Maryam’s younger daughter went to the kitchen to prepare coffee, and Maryam sat quietly and listened.
“We have found the driver who took Faouda back to Kuala Krai! And she didn’t go on Friday: she went on Monday. He remembers her because she went with a man, early in the morning, around 6 a.m., he said. So, Mak Cik, she was here in Kota Bharu when Ghani was killed, not back in Kuala Krai.”
Maryam tried to work up some enthusiasm. “That certainly makes a difference, doesn’t it?” she said. “She’s a real suspect now. And who was the man?”
Osman shrugged. “We don’t know yet. But we’ll find out!” Maryam nodded and made herself smile. “Of course!”
“And something else.” Now he looked embarrassed, and looked down at his fingers clasped in his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Well, I don’t know what to say.”
Mar
yam was becoming exasperated. “What is it, Che Osman?”
“I got a complaint,” he said miserably. “From Che Hassan, in Kampong Laut. He came to the police station and said you were harassing him, accusing him of murder, getting yourself involved in some vendetta between dalang. I calmed him down, and took down his statement. What have you done, Mak Cik?” He looked as though he might cry himself.
Maryam closed her eyes, and her feeling of vertigo returned. “I haven’t done anything,” she said wearily, turning from the Mak Cik who ordered Osman around with so little effort to a sore and tired woman who needed to sleep. She no longer looked so formidable.
“I just went to talk to him because Abang Dollah came here this morning and told me there was some jealousy between them, and that Hassan could possibly have acted on this jealousy.”
“You believed Pak Cik Dollah?”
“I don’t know if I believed him.” She was silent for a moment. “I just thought I needed to check it out. I couldn’t just leave it alone.”
Osman nodded. “It’s a shame. You have to be careful. Maybe,” he stammered again, “Maybe you should leave some of this to the police, Mak Cik. Things might get dangerous. I can’t have you getting hurt.”
Now she bristled. “I know that. There’s been a murder, how much more dangerous can it be? Don’t worry about me.” She glared at him. “I’ll be careful. I’m going to speak with Abang Dollah about it too.” She stood up, wanting to get this over with. But her manners won out, as they always did. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Che Osman? Relax here for a while and dinner will be ready in a bit.”
She walked into the kitchen, overwhelmingly relieved to be alone, even if only to chop onions and grill fish. She needed some time to think.
Chapter XII
Ashikin stopped in the next morning on her way to the market. “Your policeman stopped by yesterday, and I told him to look for you at home. Did he find you?” she twitted her mother.
“Yes,” Maryam said, without looking up from her morning coffee.
“For a policeman, he takes orders pretty well,” Ashikin commented.
Maryam smiled a small smile. “I know! He’s dying for someone to tell him what to do.”
“That’ll do him good when he gets married,” Ashikin said as she ducked out the door to go to work. She backtracked momentarily. “Mak, that woman was by again, looking for you.”
“Who?”
“You know, the one who came before, the Mak Cik told you…”
“Oh yes. Who is it?”
“I don’t know her. But she wanted you. I thought maybe she was looking for songket, but she seemed, I don’t know, nervous, sort of. Kept her headscarf up high and didn’t look like she was shopping.”
Maryam thought for a minute. “If she comes again, send her here. I can’t imagine who she is.”
Ashikin nodded, and bounced down the road, full of energy and good humor, and Maryam morosely compared it to her own state of mind: she had bruises on her leg and arm, she was humiliated and frightened, she’d lost her confidence. All because some guy, some little guy smaller than she was, pushed her down the stairs. The enthusiasm she had for her project evaporated when she hit the ground in Kampong Laut. She could still taste the dust in her mouth.
She should be more determined than ever to solve this crime, she told herself firmly, instead of hiding in her living room hoping not to show her face outside all day. It was unlikely that everyone in Kelantan heard about what happened, and it would only make sense to get back to work and interview Dollah’s musicians. No more interviewing other dalang, she vowed: they probably all hated each other, and maybe with good reason. It was best she stayed out of the way. Gajah sama gajah berjuang, pelandok mati di-tengah-tengah. Elephants fight and the mouse deer in the middle gets killed.
Mamat wandered into the living room, holding his own cup of coffee, and sat down across from her. “Let’s get going,” he said in a determinedly cheerful tone. “Don’t you have work to do? Let’s go,” he urged, “I want to come with you and see what they say. I’ll get a taxi for the day, so you don’t have to stay out in the sun.”
He was trying his best, she knew that. She was grateful to him for pretending he was deeply interested in this and willing to spend the money on the taxi to keep her comfortable. She burst into tears: “I don’t deserve this! I’m a meddling old woman!”
“You? Never!” He sat down next to her and put an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “You’re running the whole police department here: you can’t stop just because someone tried to push you down the stairs. That just shows you’re onto something, doesn’t it? People get angry when you get close to their secrets, Yam. You’ve got to expect it: it means you’re on the right track.” She lifted her head to look at him.
He nodded at her, and put his hand on her cheek. “I think so, you know. I was thinking about it last night, after I got past wanting to wring his neck.”
He smiled. “Now, someone with nothing to hide, someone completely innocent, would he have flown into such a rage? I don’t think so. He’d just listen to you and shrug his shoulders. The way he acted, Yam – now I want you to think about this – isn’t it way out of line? A complete overreaction, wouldn’t you say?”
She nodded mutely. It was, of course: Malays did not, as a rule, push people down the stairs, ever. Especially respected Mak Cik accompanied by their husbands. Yes, it was strange indeed.
“And,” Mamat continued, “going to the Kota Bharu police station to complain? He had to travel there: it’s practically a whole afternoon’s work. Why bother? Only if you have something to hide,” he concluded, looking pleased with his deduction. He leaned back on the couch and took a long drink of coffee. “Yam,” he said, looking proud, “you’re onto something. You can’t stop now.”
“You really think so?” She was beginning to feel alive again, although it was just a small jolt.
“Yes.” He nodded. “There’s something going on here, and you’ve got to find out what it is,” he said portentously. “Though we shouldn’t go right back to him. I couldn’t take it. Next time it’ll be him and me rolling in the dust.” He smiled at her, underlining his chivalry. “You want to see the musicians, or you want to go back to Kuala Krai? Which are you up for?”
Before she could answer, Rubiah was up the stairs and ready to go. Usually, Rubiah had to be coaxed to travel anywhere, but she’d made up her mind to support her cousin, and was now unstoppable.
“You’re up, good,” she said briskly, walking straight through to the kitchen to get some coffee. “Where to today?”
“We were just talking about that,” Mamat announced in a raised voice. “Kuala Krai or the musicians.”
Rubiah had already heard the details of Osman’s visit last night. Maryam’s younger daughter, Aliza, had overheard the conversation and reported it without delay to her aunt. Aliza was lively and mischievous, taller than most girls, and graceful. Her wealth of wavy black hair and slightly slanted eyes gave her an exotic Chinese look. Rubiah was proud of her niece for taking the initiative: that girl had brains and courage, Rubiah thought, as well as an insatiable curiosity which would probably get her into trouble.
“Which is it?” Rubiah asked, coming back into the living room. “I think maybe Kuala Krai.” This was nothing short of astounding, coming from Rubiah. She gave Mamat a significant look when she thought Maryam wouldn’t see. “I heard Faouda was here when Ghani died,” she continued blandly. “And besides, I’m sick of dalang right now. I need a break, after yesterday.”
She shook her head sadly. “What’s become of kampong manners, I’d like to know? I’ve never seen anything like it, and I don’t want to ever see it again.” She sat next to Maryam and fixed her with a steady eye. “So, what do you want?”
“I’m thinking Kuala Krai again. I don’t think I want to talk to anyone with anything to do with …”
“Wayang Siam,” Rubiah finished for her. “I’m glad, I have to ad
mit. I don’t feel like it either.”
“I’ll get a taxi,” Mamat rose.
“No!” cried Maryam. “Let the police drive us. I’m not slinking away like I’m afraid to talk to them anymore.”
“Right!” said Mamat. “I’ll get the police here to call them. Get ready to go, then.”
Faouda was not glad to see them again. They tracked her down at a local market doing her family’s grocery shopping. Maryam came up quietly behind her as she considered a purchase of papaya, discussing the rising cost of fruit with the seller. She squatted in front of a hillock of fruit, her headscarf casually thrown around her shoulders, her simple brown sarong with its border of white fish hitched up on her calf, showing her dusty rubber flip-flops.
“Cik Faouda!” Maryam greeted her happily. “How nice to see you here.”
Faouda swiveled her head quickly, startled to hear her name. Her expression became sulkier when she beheld Maryam and Rubiah standing behind her.
“What are you doing here again?” she asked ungraciously.
“We came to see you.”
“Why?”
“Come, we’ll talk when you’re finished buying.” Maryam directed a dazzling smile at the papaya seller, who smiled back and tried to speed up the selling process. Faouda rose reluctantly, shoved her fruit into a plastic bag, and started walking away.
“Why are you unhappy to see us?” Maryam asked with great good humour.
“Who says I am?” Faouda flipped her hair. “I’m delighted.”
“Really? That’s good. Then why so sulky, masam muka macam andam tak suka: as sour-faced as an unwilling bride?”
“I’m not sulking,” Faouda retorted, looking even more put out. “I just don’t know what you’re doing here. Do you like Kuala Krai that much?”
“Of course, we do. Now Faouda, where can we sit down and have a nice little chat?”
Faouda stared at her as though she didn’t understand what had been said.
“A coffee shop?” Maryam answered for her. “Excellent idea. There are always coffee shops around the market. Aren’t you the clever one?”
Shadow Play Page 9
