“So we go back to the hotel, which we can, because we’re married.” He gave Maryam a dirty look. “And that’s it. Now we’re back in Kuala Krai, and I’m looking for a house for us to live in. So there it is.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave himself over to a well-deserved drink.
Maryam smiled at him. “Well, it was certainly exciting. Precipitous, even.”
“It’s true, what are you talking about?” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh yes, I don’t doubt it for a moment,” she soothed him. “But,” she added as innocently as possible, widening her eyes until they threatened to tear, “doesn’t Faouda need to wait before she remarries? I don’t think a woman can remarry that fast, even if it’s alright in Sungei Golok.”
Johan glowered silently.
“Religious law,” Maryam prompted him. “What is it, three months until she can marry again?”
He grunted contemptuously. “No matter,” he waved his hand dismissively, “We knew she wasn’t pregnant.”
“How?” Maryam was genuinely interested.
“She just knew. She told me.”
Maryam sighed with disappointment; of course, his answer would be completely meaningless. “It isn’t a legal marriage,” she opined firmly. “If the khadi in Kelantan found out …”
“Well, he won’t,” Johan growled. “Come on, Mak Cik, you and I aren’t here to argue religion. We’re married, and that’s an end to it.”
“Someone’s bound to figure it out, you know. And then you won’t be married anymore.”
He mumbled something uncomplimentary into his tea.
“Never mind,” Maryam continued briskly. “You’re right: this is between you and the khadi.” In her own opinion, however, it an important test of character which both Johan and Faouda failed abysmally. “Anyway, did you see Ghani while you were up here?”
“Why should I?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“But, Johan,” Maryam protested, “people saw you at the Wayang Siam. So you must have. This was when …? I guess the night before you left for Kuala Krai.”
He sat and looked at her. “I wasn’t there,” he said stubbornly.
“Alright,” she said. “You ought to speak with Police Chief Osman.” She stood up to leave. He looked up at her, squinting.
“OK, OK, sit down.” He tightened his lips. “She wanted to see him and to show him she was already married again and didn’t care. It’s fine with me, I don’t care. She just wants to stick her finger in his eye. Good for her. So we went to the performance.”
“Were you there at the end?”
“It was pretty late,” he said evasively.
“Was the performance over?”
“It was winding down.”
Maryam knew full well Wayang Siam performances did not wind down. They were either on, or it was over. “So it was already finished.”
“Maybe.”
“Did she go over to talk to him?”
He nodded.
“Did you go with her?”
“No, I stayed a little bit away. Let her talk to him, I thought.”
“You’re not a jealous guy, are you?”
“No need to be.”
“Did you see anyone else talking to him?”
He shifted in his seat. “Tell the truth, Mak Cik, I did. When we went over behind the panggung there, he was talking to his wife. He seemed angry, and she was crying and grabbing at his shirt. I couldn’t hear them, but then, you didn’t have to hear them to see what was going on. I pulled Faouda away. ‘This is a bad time,’ I told her, ‘don’t talk to him right after he’s had a fight with his wife. Let’s get out of here and we’ll come back when it’s all calmed down.’”
“So, what did you do?”
“We walked down the road toward Chinatown. There’re always a few stalls open there no matter how late it is.”
“How late was it?”
“By then? I don’t know. One, maybe? Anyway, we had coffee and then walked back, and the wife was gone and everything. Faouda goes to the back and calls him, real quiet, and he comes to the door. She tells him she’s married and she doesn’t care about him, and he says, ‘Good!’ Then we left.”
Maryam considered this. “That’s all?”
He tried to look innocent. “That’s all. Nothing else. We went back to the hotel, slept for a few hours and then got up early to go home.”
There was something more, she was sure, but she wouldn’t be prying it out of him now; it might take a few tries before he finally told everything he knew. She gathered her things, rose stiffly and thanked him. Osman rose and held the door for her. There was always another time.
Chapter XXI
It was clear something was very wrong. The yard in front of Aisha’s family home was filled with people milling around: men in prayer caps, women delivering dishes to the back door. It was a hushed crowd, even downcast. The atmosphere was ominous and Maryam expected the worst. She approached an older woman leaving the kitchen. “Kak, what’s happened?” she asked.
The woman adjusted her headscarf lower over her forehead and sighed. “So much death here. Their daughter just died at the hospital. Aisha.”
“Aisha!”
The woman nodded. “I know. So young, and leaving two little children. Those poor things: they’ve lost both their father and their mother so quickly.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to hold back tears.
Maryam stood rooted to the ground, looking up into the house. She’d feared this as soon as she arrived and saw the neighbours gathered, but didn’t want to believe it. “Is the family inside?”
The woman nodded. “Kasehan. I don’t know how they bear it.”
Maryam and Rubiah walked up the steps and looked in. The family was putting out large trays of food to feed their guests. No doubt prayers would begin soon. Aisha’s mother and father were sunk into grief, their heads down. The local imam sat with them, offering comfort, while their families gathered around, surrounding them with concern. Aisha’s brothers and sisters sat quietly, occasionally murmuring to each other. Neighbours were working in the kitchen, bringing out trays of food. Everyone looked stunned..
Maryam caught Ali’s eye and gestured to him to come outside. He looked utterly drained and walked onto the porch reluctantly.
“I’m so sorry,” Maryam began.
“Yes,” he replied. “We were going to say something to you after prayers, to thank you for taking Aisha to the hospital. Maybe if we’d done it sooner? I don’t know. Why, Mak Cik?” He looked as though he would cry.
She shook her head. “We will find whoever did this, Ali.” She craned her neck to look inside. “Where are the children?”
He looked confused. “Inside, I guess.”
“Your mother will take them.” It wasn’t a question. Who else could care for them?
Ali shook his head. “No, Mak Cik, I will.” Maryam looked astonished. He gave her a ghost of a smile. “I’m getting married soon. My wife and I will raise them as our own. She’s already agreed. It’ll be nice,” he said vaguely, “to start out with little children already. A piece of my sister,” he added, his voice clogged with tears. “I couldn’t save her but I can raise her children. She would have wanted me to.” He could no longer stop himself from crying. “I can’t believe my sister is gone!”
“She would be so grateful to you,” Maryam said with heartfelt admiration. “You’re really helping her now.” She patted Ali’s arm and walked down the stairs. Among the men in the yard, she spotted Dollah and all of his musicians, looking solemn and subdued, and decided against even greeting them. “It’s time to leave,” she told Rubiah and Mamat. “We can’t ask anything now.”
As they walked from the village, she said softly, “I was too late to save her. I should have realized it as soon as she seemed ill.”
“It isn’t your fault,
” Rubiah held her arm. “The family called their bomoh. No one suspected it.”
“No,” Maryam insisted. “I’m supposed to be investigating this.” She looked at the ground while Mamat and Rubiah exchanged glances over her bowed head. “I’ve taken too long. And while I’ve been taking my time, Aisha’s been dying.” She looked sideways at Rubiah. “I hope it isn’t Ali. I don’t think it’s him.”
Rubiah said nothing: she wasn’t so sure.
Maryam pursued it further. “That family’s suffered enough. If it had been Ali, and it wasn’t,” she reminded Rubiah, “then I would look the other way.”
Rubiah gasped. “No you wouldn’t…”
“I would,” she insisted. “He doesn’t deserve to be punished. I mean, he wouldn’t.”
“I’m surprised at you! We’re after the truth here. I’ll look for the truth no matter where it leads.”
Maryam shrugged. “You can do what you like. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I don’t think he did it.” Maryam closed her mouth firmly. Perhaps this was not strictly according to the detective’s code (if there was such a thing), but it would be a higher justice served, a cosmic justice. Anyway, this was an academic discussion concerning an innocent man. She held her head high, her eyes straight.
Rubiah gave her a hard look, but held her tongue.
Chapter XXII
When Osman sent word he had brought Hassan in for questioning at the station in Kota Bharu, she was profoundly uneasy. Osman was well within his rights to take in suspects at his discretion, particularly in the face of such a serious crime. Judging from Johan, however, it made them cranky – and perhaps resentful. She wondered if questioning them at home would be a better way of overcoming their reluctance, but maybe the official atmosphere of the police station actually encouraged them to talk. In their own homes, it might seem too much like an unwelcome social call.
Rubiah came with her to the station, both of them more resigned than eager for the discussion. Hassan was holding court, regaling the staff with stories of his conquests in far-off villages. The men were both delighted and disbelieving: nothing like that ever happened to them. “It’s a dalang’s life, you know,” Hassan was finishing smugly. “It can be hard, but there are some advantages.” He winked, and the men were completely won over.
They all rose when Maryam and Rubiah came in and escorted them to an empty office. Osman stayed away this time, having spoken to Hassan on his own before Maryam arrived. Hassan sauntered in a few moments later to join them, apparently having already ordered coffee. “Well, Kak,” he greeted her with a wide smile, displaying his three gold teeth glinting in reflected sunshine. “It’s nice to see you again.” He looked closely at her. “Have you fallen again? You don’t look so good.”
Maryam was silent.
“When you fell down the steps,” he continued, his grin even wider, if that were possible. “I was afraid you might have hurt yourself. A bad fall, I thought. But now I think you might look even worse! You’ve really got to be more careful, Kak. I’m worried about you, I don’t mind telling you.” He sat down and crossed his legs, a man without a care in the world. “And you Kak? How are you today?” he asked Rubiah.
She, too, remained silent.
“No one talking today?” He took out a cigarette. “You had me brought here just to look at me? Well, go ahead. Me, I never understood why women found me attractive; too short and small, I’d say, but what do I know? Maybe it’s because I’m wiry. Do you think that’s it?” He paused, and shrugged. “OK, I can look at you, too.”
He lit a cigarette and blew out his first lungful of smoke at the ceiling. “Want one?” He offered his cigarettes all around. They didn’t take any. He shrugged and put the packet on the table. “When you come back down to earth, ladies, you might need a smoke. There it is.” He smiled again and waited.
“Abang Hassan,” Maryam began deliberately, “did you place a jampi under my house?”
“No! What a question. Why would I do something like that?” He seemed to dare her to find out anything from him. “Do you think I hate
you, Kak? Not at all.”
“You’re in some kind of a fight with Dollah, though.”
“All dalang compete with each other,” he said easily. “It’s part of the job. Why would you be involved in any of it?”
“I thought it possible that Ghani was in the middle of it without realizing, and that maybe he was mistaken for one of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know: that you thought he was Dollah, or Dollah thought he was you.”
He appeared to think this over. “I don’t think so. Are you saying you think I was trying to kill Dollah? That’s quite a leap.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Well, you’ve had your answer.”
She nodded. “I do. And do you know what I think, Abang Hassan? I think maybe you did mistake Ghani for Dollah in the dark. Maybe you even tried to kill me, too, after you threw me out of your house and laughed at me while I lay in the dirt.”
“I did no such thing, Kak. Quite the contrary, I was concerned about you. No really,” he assured her, when Maryam grimaced. “When I thought about it later, I thought, ‘It’s possible Dollah hasn’t told her everything. She could have innocently walked into this.’ That’s what I thought, and maybe I’m right.” He regarded her shrewdly.
“Maybe Abang, maybe. I’d certainly like to believe that of you. I’d think you were a much nicer person.”
He smiled again. “Maybe I am.”
“Maybe,” Rubiah agreed. “Do you have … what shall I call it? A feud with Dollah?”
“No more so than other dalang. Look, Kak, I have no reason to kill Dollah or even hurt him, and certainly none to kill a musician. What do I have to do with Dollah’s musicians?”
“I know!” Maryam took over again. “It doesn’t make sense to me either. But here’s my problem.” She leaned closer to him, over the table. “You said you weren’t at the performance, but you were. People saw you. And you lied. So, I ask, why did you lie? Because once you were seen there, we could imagine a line connecting you to Ghani’s death.” She paused for a short moment, out of breath from anxiety. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. “You wouldn’t have needed to go to a bomoh to get the jampi done either: you could do it yourself. You know how. And that could easily have killed me, or hurt me, and that would be the end of the investigation. Now, do you think you could tell me the truth?”
Maryam sat down and concentrated on slowing down her breathing. Rubiah looked at her in amazement. “You’re crazy.” Hassan tried for the same tone of insouciance he’d had when he’d walked into the room, but couldn’t recreate it. There were spots of red in his cheeks now, and his temper was getting the best of him. “What jampi? What are you talking about?”
Now Maryam allowed herself one of Hassan’s cigarettes. She passed one to Rubiah and they both lit up. She felt the tide had turned now: she and Rubiah were calming down and Hassan was more agitated.
“Ayam puteh terbang siang: a white chicken flying in daylight. It’s obvious,” Maryam continued. “Doesn’t it fit?” She leaned forward towards him. “You’re at the performance where Ghani dies. You throw me out of your house and complain to the police that I’m attacking you. You even place a jampi under the stairs to my house, and Abang, you know all about jampi. What does it sound like to you?” She had to admit she couldn’t fit Aisha into the picture.
“It sounds like you’ve lost your mind,” he snapped. “This is too much for you. Go back to the market, stay out of this. You’re in too deep for your own good.”
“Are you threatening me?” Maryam asked, now angry herself.
“No. I’m just telling you the truth, and you need to be told it. Just stay out of this or you’ll be sorry you ever got involved.”
“I’m already sorry.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you? I didn’t e
xpect you to confess, Abang. I’d just like you consider the truth.”
They were interrupted by an uncertain knock at the door, and it was Rahman, with coffee and curry puffs. He placed them on the table and scuttled out of the room.
“Why would I know a musician anyway?” Hassan continued, reaching for coffee and curry puff and contriving to eat, drink, smoke and talk at the same time. “I’m the best dalang in Kelantan. I talk to other dalang, not their drummers.”
“Did you see anyone else around?” Maryam asked patiently.
“There were plenty of people around,” he answered grudgingly. “Dollah was around,” he said pointedly. “This musician’s wife was around, his second wife was around. They all had reasons to hate him. I have none, you see.”
Maryam had considered Hassan capable of any mayhem if he put his mind to it, but he had no reason to attack Ghani. Unless, of course, he’d mistaken him for Dollah.
“Why were you at the performance?”
“To watch Dollah play.” He was suddenly wary. “To see how he was doing.”
“And …?” she prodded.
“And to try to get in his way. To leave a jampi under the stage so he wouldn’t perform as well. To drive the audience away instead of drawing them in. All dalang do this, you know. You ask Dollah if he doesn’t do it to me, maybe even to others! It isn’t murder.”
“If they end up dead it is.”
“Why don’t you look for people who wanted this guy dead? One of his wives, for instance.”
“Well, the first wife is dead.”
“Then it’s the second wife,” he stated confidently. “It’s always the wife, isn’t it? They start hating each other and end up hating the husband. He shook his head and leaned back, satisfied he had solved the case for them.
“He didn’t die because of some dalang’s argument,” Hassan added, as though he were musing only to himself. He took another sip of coffee.
Maryam agreed, but remained suspicious of him. “You know, Abang,” she began in a conciliatory way, “I think you’re right. I do,” she emphasized. “I don’t think you really killed Ghani. But I do think you left the jampi under my house.”
Shadow Play Page 15
