A sudden gust of wind slammed a wooden shutter in the study against the window frame. Omar jumped slightly in his seat. He became conscious again of his bladder, now uncomfortably full.
Del’s father let out a little laugh.
“I apologise for that. It’s not for me to judge. Bill was a good lawyer—once.”
Omar nodded. “Fairman, or Roslan, rather, and Del are close associates as you know, and I have come to think that he and I could go into business together. You see, I intend to use our skills, combined, to form a company that specialises in the construction of roads, expressways, in Malaysia and beyond. There’s a lot of possibilities in Africa—Sudan for example.” Omar paused and continued, “I love your daughter, sir, and I want to be able to provide for her in the best way possible.”
“And you think this kind of business would be the way to go?” Del’s father shot back.
Omar felt a sudden surge of anger. He was being questioned by a man who had ceased to be anything. A man who had stopped being a father. A man who had given up his right to ask him how he was going to live—and provide—for himself and his future wife.
“Sir, I will do whatever it takes to make this marriage work.”
Another gust of wind surged into the room. Papers flew off the desk and Omar stood up to retrieve them but Del’s father sat unperturbed and raised his hand to stop Omar.
“This country is rotten to the core. You must know this.”
Omar sat down and nodded.
“Right and wrong sometimes look like the same thing. And you might only realise which is which when it is too late.” Del’s father fixed his eyes on Omar. He continued. “I have to trust you. Del loves you. I can see that.”
Omar repeated, “I love her deeply, sir.”
Del’s father smiled and said, “Then that’s all, really. That is all there is to it. Just love her.”
That was all Omar needed to hear. He had to leave that instant. He stood up and said brusquely.
“Thank you for your time, sir. We will keep you informed about dates…for the wedding,”
Del’s father nodded and continued puffing on his pipe. He had swivelled the chair to face the window and seemed lost in thought.
“I will let myself out, sir, please don’t get up.”
Del’s father said quietly, “She’s all yours now. She is.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Omar walked, then ran down the hallway, closed the front door, bolted the squeaky gate, got into the car, slammed the accelerator and drove like a fiend to the nearest petrol station where in a urinal that stank of pink mothballs and ammonia, he released his bladder with a shudder and a loud sigh.
“Right, glad that’s done,” he muttered.
Outside, ominous-looking clouds had started to gather, and soon it began to drizzle.
So, I had to convert. To Islam. I dreaded it.
The inevitable fact was that I had to convert into Islam and if I didn’t, we couldn’t get married. Omar was not religious, neither were his parents. But in order for the marriage to be legal, I had to do it.
Imran volunteered to accompany me to the Islamic Department of Kuala Lumpur as a male witness, or “wali”. There, he had to state that yes, I am a Muslim. But when he was asked to recite the Shahadah he shook his head, shrugged and was glared at fiercely by the lady in the bright yellow tudung at the counter.
Kenapa tak tahu? Betul ke dia ni orang Islam? She was merciless.
Yes, he is Muslim, but he has lived abroad for a long time. His Arabic is rusty, I replied.
She raised her eyebrows and looked as if she was ready to flay him. She scrutinised his glasses, his worn tweed jacket, his shoes and his pale skin. She shrieked loudly: Maybe he should recite the Shahadah again so that Allah will once again be reminded of who this man is.
Imran had turned a bright red and his forehead started to glisten with sweat, so I quickly read the Shahadah, which was on a piece of paper she pushed into my hand. I adjusted my headscarf, feeling self-conscious; it wasn’t a tudung like hers, but a light silk shawl I’d simply wrapped around my head. I read it silently a few times and when I was ready, took a deep breath.
Ashadu Allah Ilaha Illalah, Muhammad Ar Rasullullah.
I said it twice. It sounded slightly better the second time.
There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his Prophet.
There it was. My fate had changed. I was no longer a heathen, I was cleansed of all my sins and I would go to heaven when I die.
There was a stack of forms that had to be filled in. I needed dates, specifics of the wedding, or nikah. Omar and I had decided on a Muslim name, Leila, which meant “night”. I started filling out the forms. The lady in the tudung gave me a laminated card, which stated “Islam, Nur Leila binti Abdullah @ Delonix Regia”. She smiled as if to say, You’re one of us now.
The forms needed Omar’s signature so I said that I would bring them all back in a few days. I could see that Imran was becoming more and more agitated and the lady in the tudung was simply not letting up. She kept glaring at him and poor Imran looked like he just wanted to disappear into the flowery upholstery that covered the chair he was sitting on.
We left and as we walked out towards the parking lot, Imran finally burst.
Fucking cunt. Did you see the way she looked at me? Like I was some kind of idiot. Bloody hell, who the fuck does she think she is? Some low-life clerk in some fucked up government institution. This is it, Del! I am never getting married in this country. So what if I can’t pronounce a bunch of words in Arabic, there is no need to make me feel like an infidel! Cunt… Fucking cunt! I hope her husband gives her the clap. I wouldn’t fuck her if she was the last woman on this fucking planet… Fuck off!
He stormed around the parking lot, smoked two cigarettes, swore some more until he was calm. We drove in silence until another outburst.
I’m sorry, Del, I just think this is bloody ridiculous. I don’t understand why they make it so hard for two people to get married. It’s fucked up! It’s downright intimidation. What kind of country is this? It’s barbaric! Fucked up!
I kept silent. The kind of dread I felt was not unreasonable. I was now a Muslim. Forced to convert, like so many others. Forced to embrace a religion I did not want.
Hey, you okay? I’m sorry, Del. Sorry for this. Omar’s a good guy but I am just sorry you have to go through this shit.
It was far from over. I had to take a one-month class on the tenets of Islam, learn how to pray, learn how to say the Al Fatihah and then sit for a test. And if I passed, we had to attend marriage camp over two weekends.
I felt like crying. This was the last thing I ever thought I would do. I didn’t want a new name, I didn’t want to become a Muslim. Imran leaned over and grabbed my hand. Hey, just do it, you know. Just do what they ask you to do. Don’t question anything, okay? It’ll be over soon enough… I nodded and looked out the window. I told myself that it was worth it. That Omar was worth it. That it was the only way we could be together, exist as husband and wife in the eyes of the law.
Traffic was thick. We inched our way past the National Museum and then all the way down Jalan Bangsar. It was almost lunchtime on a Friday and people were making their way to the mosques for prayers. It was a humid, sticky afternoon. Imran pulled hard on his cigarette. Damn, I should have taken the shortcut…now we’re stuck in traffic. I took a drag of my cigarette and felt a small wave of nausea come over me.
What do you mean, it’s pointless? What kind of legal advice is that?
Sumi, Marina and I were seated in the office of the drop-in centre in Chow Kit. Marina pulled herself off the couch next to me, stood tall in her heels and lit a cigarette. Kak Su—or Big Sister Su—was seated at a table piled with files. She lit up a cigarette too.
Sumi sighed and repeated what she had said earlier. Making a police report when it was a cop who raped you is not going to work. You didn’t struggle, there was no force. You basically did what he want
ed you to do.
Marina was livid. But he raped me! Forced me to suck his cock! What could I do? She wrung her hands in frustration.
Sumi nodded. Yes, I understand, but I am also trying to make you realise that…
That what? Isn’t oral sex a crime here? Look at what happened to Anwar! He is in jail supposedly for this, right?
Sumi said, Sodomy, it’s for sodomy.
Same thing isn’t it? Marina shot back. Rape is rape!
I was trying very hard to understand both points of view and completely empathised with Marina, but the fact of the matter was that she did not have the name of her rapist. Both cops had taken off their badges, they were off-duty and could have been from any of the police stations in KL. There was no case. Sumi was right. Marina had no case.
If you go to report this, you are going to be marked. Cops will mark you, and because you work on the streets, because you are a trans sex worker, they can arrest you under Section 28 for dressing as a woman. However, if this happened, then you would have a case.
What? Marina looked utterly confused. What do you mean?
Kak Su was shaking her head and took a long drag of her cigarette. So many cases dah macam ni. The trans community has no rights, we have no rights at all. We are not human beings to them.
Marina continued and waved her right hand. Wait! So you mean, if I am arrested as a man for dressing as a woman, I can fight?
Sumi reiterated: Only if they rape you again. In the lock-up, or whatever. Then you can make a case against the police. Police brutality.
Kak Su continued. Some more, because we are Muslim, Section 28 is under Syariah Law, not Civil Law, and that is even more complicated.
I kept quiet. I could almost see the wheels turning in Marina’s mind. She had started pacing quickly, almost tripping on a plastic bag of more files on the floor.
So now you’re saying that I shouldn’t make a police report. But if I am arrested for cross-dressing, then at least I am on record and if I am in the lock-up and if I am raped again… then I can do something?
Sumi said quietly. Yup.
Okay, then. Okay. Marina picked up her handbag, bent down and stubbed out her cigarette in the pink metal ashtray, which was already full of butts. Have to work, bye! And thanks for the info. She looked at Sumi and me, forced a smile and walked out of the office.
Sumi and I looked at each other. Kak Su shook her head and said, Ala, give her time. She will realise after a while that there is no point. As long as she can work, she will realise that it’s better than being in the lock-up. It’s the most horrible place. Full of bed bugs, the floor is always wet, you sleep on cardboard. Kak Su shuddered. No food. No water. Been in and out so many times. Like that lah. What to do?
His name was Pete.
I had been in Montreal for just over three months and was starting to feel more settled. I was staying at the houses of residence in a room, cramped and narrow. I shared it with a girl with big blonde hair and close-set blue eyes who weighed everything she ate on a food scale. She was a Physical Education major and was obsessed with everything that went into her mouth. Lynn, short for Marcheline, wore frosted lipstick, only pink and blue tracksuits, and listened to the Canadian rock band Rush. She was from a village in northern Quebec and spoke French and fluent English, which was apparently unusual for some Quebecois.
My parents made sure that all of us spoke English because we’re against any kind of referendum. We want to be part of Canada, she said with pride.
Her breakfast was peanut butter on a rice cracker. Lunch was salad with chicken breast. She snacked on bran muffins and lite cola and had pasta for dinner, alternating between cream and tomato sauces. I love cheese, but it has soo much fat! She never varied her meals and never changed the way she dressed.
Pete was in my Philosophy class. He was from Manitoba, with the lightest eyelashes I’d ever seen. I think he found me intriguing. My name, where I came from, the way I dressed—all fascinated him. I felt his eyes on me all the way from the back of the class right from the first day and it took him a week before he talked to me.
Delonix. What kinda name is that?
It’s Latin.
Delonix. Delonix. Put ma pants in a twist. Twist it. Come on, come on, twist it.
I walked away. He ran after me.
Hey, I was just teasing, you know. Sorry.
It’s not funny.
Yeah, I know. Let’s hang out sometime, okay?
Whatever.
I shrugged and walked away. I could feel his eyes on the small of my back. I didn’t like him, but I was a little flattered that he had talked to me. Books were my main preoccupation and hours were spent in the library or the many bookshops around the city. Sitting in cafés, reading and drinking coffee, nibbling on fresh buttery croissants, daydreaming, writing, studying. That was what I did most days after classes. And then I’d collapse on the narrow bed and sleep hugging my pillow hoping to squeeze out my homesickness, dreaming of rainforests and snakes, longing for rain.
One weekend we had a frat party in the halls. Pete lived in the halls of residence on the other side of the campus and it was our turn to host the boys. Lynn had gone back to her village for the weekend. It was my first hall party and I had no idea what to expect. The posters said that it was a toga party so most people showed up draped in their bedsheets. There were kegs of beer, bottles of vodka, tequila and gin, and stacks of Old Dutch potato chips in all flavours. Hip-hop was blaring from someone’s CD player. The common room was full of people in various states of undress, making out.
Drinking was serious business in college, so when things got going, the guys got to it like soldiers on a dawn raid. A hose would be shoved into a willing mouth and then the whoops and cheers started. I sipped some white wine and stared at the mayhem unfolding in front of me. One by one, the guys started projectile-vomiting beer and half-digested chips. It was disgusting. I decided that I’d seen enough and turned to go back to my room down the hall.
Hey Del, where ya goin?
Pete’s toga had come undone. He had tucked the fabric into his pants and he struck a comical pose. I giggled. He took a gulp of beer and came right up to me.
His eyes were a light blue, and I could see yellow flecks.
Wanna make out?
I could smell the beer on his breath. He didn’t seem that drunk. I felt awkward.
Come on, Del, Del. It’d be swell.
He took my hand, kissed it gently and led me with a flourish to the end of the hallway. I opened my room door and thought in a panic. Were we going to have sex? I did not have condoms. Did he? What would we do if it came to that?
He kissed me gently, probing my mouth with his tongue. He tasted sweet. His chest was pressed into mine, it felt warm. I felt a strange thrill in my groin as his hands went up and down my back and then slowly into my bra. He tickled my nipples with his fingers, then guided me to the bed and pressed himself on top of me. His mouth was everywhere, my nose, eyes, ears, neck. Everything was wet. He lifted up my T-shirt and eased my bra off. His mouth was on my right nipple, then my left, then his hands went for my jeans. I turned my head and said, no. No, Pete. No.
Okay, Del. Sure.
His mouth was on mine again, and I felt him move over me. I could feel his erection, hard against my thigh. Then, it was on my chest. He swooped over me and it was in my mouth. His penis in my mouth. His thighs pinned my face down. I could not move. Couldn’t breathe. Two. Three. Four. On the fifth thrust, he filled my mouth with his come. In shock I swallowed it all, turning my head to one side, some of the bitter saltiness dribbling out.
He slowly slid next to me and hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, muttered something inaudible, stood up, picked up his bed sheet and left, closing the door softly. Outside, I heard more screams and whoops. I ran to the bathroom, stuck three fingers down my throat and threw it all up. I drank a whole bottle of white wine, sitting in bed, blanket around me, body shaking. I could not cry. I felt nothing. We avoide
d each other after that. He dropped out after two semesters and I never saw him again. I never told a soul. Not José, not even Sumi. Omar? No fucking way. I would take this to my grave.
It was my personal shame. I was stupid, stupid, stupid. And I got what I deserved.
So Omar and Fairman decided to go into business. Running Saksi had depleted Fairman’s trust fund somewhat by give take two hundred K, so the most logical option for both was to go into a business partnership. Omar’s degree in civil engineering would finally be put to use and Fairman’s father’s law firm would oversee that contracts were signed and sealed. I suppose I was relieved that Omar had exhibited some sign of ambition—or practicality—we were going to be married after all, he had spoken to my father like a gentleman, and now he was going to make sure that we had a financially stable future. Both young men had to prove to their fathers that they were capable of building and creating their own paths in life, and I knew that Omar felt it especially. He did not speak of his father much, but his mother and his sister Lulu whom he spoke to every week were very precious to him.
Fairman decided to pass on the Saksi mantle to Imran—the poster boy incarnate for alternative journalism—who had found investors to make it work as an independent online daily with ads and all, like proper! Saksi already had the reputation of having the most edgy online reportage, it had a following of more than one hundred thousand subscribers, so it was a step forward in a direction that would challenge the role of the online media even more.
Thirty ringgit a month, times a hundred thousand, that’s three million in the bank, every month! Fuck!
Imran was right. There was money to be made, and people were willing to pay for news that they could trust. He had decided to rename Saksi to MalaysiaTimes and that’s what it became.
Ladies and gentlemen, we are now live! Go to MalaysiaTimes.com to subscribe, and I am Imran Kadir, your Editor-in-Chief.
We were at Fairman’s late one night, and Imran tried to do a Michael Jackson-style moonwalk but almost tripped on the carpet, recovered, composed himself and took a bow. He took a swig of whisky from a bottle and raised it.
Once We Were There Page 11
