Shadow Play (11 page)

“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.

“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.