Shadow Play (14 page)

“‘You don't really think he'd do anything,' I said to him. ‘He's a hotheaded kid, but Ghani,' I said, ‘you really deserve it this time.' He knew he did, he was sorry. ‘I know,' he said to me, ‘but I'm going to keep it next to me just in case.'

“I kind of forgot about it, because he didn't mention it again, and after the performance, Ali was gone. So I figured it was the kind of argument young men have:
Hangat, hangat tahi ayam
– it gets hot very fast and cools off quickly. The next time I saw a
golok
like that,” he said sadly, “was in the ground next to Ghani. I still can't believe it.”

Maryam commiserated. “I know how much you feel, a young man like that. Was Ali the only visitor Ghani had? Was anyone else at the performance you noticed?”

“Not to see Ghani.”

“Who did they want to see?”

“
Dalang
go to each other performances, you know, to see what's going on. Steal a few tips from each other, too, no doubt.”

Maryam began to feel dizzy. It couldn't be. “I thought Hassan was in the audience that night. Do you know him?”

“Yes,” Rubiah answered tersely.

“Yeah, he and Dollah are rivals, though for my money, Dollah's better and more popular. But Hassan got to go to America, and he never lets anyone forget it. He and Dollah argue a lot, but really
Kak
, I don't think Hassan would have any reason to argue with Ghani. Ghani was just a musician. Any argument here would be
dalang
to
dalang
, do you

see?”

“How about the second wife, Faouda, was she there too?” Rubiah asked, thinking it would have made the performance pretty crowded.

“Not that I saw. But again,
Kak
, I wasn't looking. Anyone could
have been there, but if they didn't stick their nose into the
panggung
, I wouldn't see them. I'm sorry.” He smiled.

“No, you've been so helpful,” Maryam thanked him. “And now, we don't want to bother you anymore. Thanks again.” He waved them out the door, and they walked to the road to find their car. Rahman was waiting for them, melting in the heat. He had retreated from the car to the slight shade of a small outdoor coffee shop and was passing the time gossiping with the proprietor.

“Ready?” He leapt to his feet.

As they climbed into the car, he blasted the air conditioner. They took deep breaths of the icy air and sighed: it was heavenly.

Chapter XIV

Well,” Maryam told Osman, “You aren't going to believe this.”

“You may be right,” Osman said without enthusiasm. She seemed pretty cheerful, he had to admit. He leaned back in his chair behind his desk at the police station, and Maryam recounted all she had found out from Dollah's troupe. Osman was fascinated by it all. “So, Ali was there,” he mused, stroking a non-existent moustache. “Well, that's something. What about the second wife?”

“That's more complicated,” Maryam said sadly, wishing the whole case were more straightforward, and she could solve it right now. “She's married again.”

“What? How?”

“Right here in Kota Bharu. Do you know,” she looked at him sternly, and he secretly quailed, “she's been divorced and married twice in just a month? Can you believe it? What wouldn't she do?” She tightened her lips in disapproval. “And, guess who else was there?”

“Who?” he said dejectedly.

“Hassan!”

“Hassan! The one who came here to complain, that Hassan?”

“The very same. Think about it. All his complaining about me, and pushing me down the stairs, and he was there! I think it's very suspicious.”

“Very strange indeed,” Osman said, sitting up straight.

“He must have been sure that no one saw him when he complained like that. Because now that I know he was there, what does he really have to whine about? He was there on the night of the death and should be investigated.”

“Absolutely,” Osman agreed. “Though, of course, we don't know if he stayed after the performance.”

Maryam was momentarily nonplussed. “Well, I'm trying to think how to find that out. We've got quite a crowd…”.

Osman nodded. “Is that all?”

“Do me a favour,” she asked in a businesslike way. “Can you find out Faouda's new husband's name, and where he works? We'll need to talk to him.”

Osman nodded automatically. Maryam wondered what, if anything, he did when she wasn't there, but she kept that conjecture to herself. “And also,” she continued briskly, “you should send someone to question Aisha's brother, Ali. I can't get to see him, and he might know something.”

“Of course,” Osman pondered. “He'd have an excellent motive.”

“I know,” Maryam nodded slowly. “Look, Aisha's not well, she's wandering.”

“What?”

“Her wits,” Maryam explained. “Her wits are wandering, poor soul. And no one wants me to talk to Ali. So you've got to get him and bring him here. Then we can talk to him here.”

“You're sure he was there at the performance?”

“That's what I was told. By several people.”

Osman squirmed slightly and blushed. “I don't think I want to
bring him here,” Osman said uncomfortably, unwilling to disappoint Maryam, yet unwilling to follow her directions either. “It sends the wrong message: we don't just drag people into the station.”

He seemed to gain confidence as he spoke. “No,
Mak Cik
, I'll go with you to see him at his house. He'll have to speak to us, he can't refuse the police.” He rose quickly, pulling himself up to full height. “I'll get things ready.”

Maryam eyed him closely. She thought she might have seen a flash of self-confidence there, a bit of a backbone. “I'll just run over to the market, it's so nearby. Just send someone, if you don't mind,” Maryam added graciously, “to get me when you're ready.”

She gathered up her bag and left the police station. Why waste time here when she could make sure the stall was all right? She had perfect faith in Ashikin, but maybe she could help out.

The market was busy, and Ashikin had left her seat made of folded batik and was on the floor, working two customers at once. Maryam overflowed with maternal pride: just look at her, she thought. What a businesswoman!

Maryam immediately began handling one of the customers, giving Ashikin a brilliant smile. This customer, a harried young mother with two toddlers, was looking for low-end merchandise: two cotton
sarong
for everyday use. Maryam opened the fabrics as though she were throwing out a fishing net: they unfurled from their folded state and landed perfectly on the shelf.

“Here are a few you might like.” Maryam displayed them with pride. “Good colours for you: red and blue are always nice. Here, look at this pattern: very finely drawn, isn't it?”

The woman nodded and grabbed hold of a wandering little boy.

“I see you don't have much time,” Maryam sympathized with a grin. “I'll try to make it easy for you.” She picked out two from the several she'd shown her. “What about these? Do you like them?”

The woman ran her eyes over the fabrics. “Nice,” she commented. “From around here?”

“My brother makes them,” Maryam said proudly. “I only sell Kelantan
sarong
here: none of that factory-made cheap stuff. It's not worth buying you know: the colours fade and the fabric's thin. This one will look just as bright a year from now!”

Her customer nodded vigorously. “You're right. I won't buy those
sarong.
They've turned into rags before you know it! And with these two, you can see I can't go shopping all that often.”

They laughed together. “Well, how much are they?” she asked.

Maryam named her price: the correct one, plus a little something for bargaining. While they haggled, she wrapped the
sarong
in a newspaper, knowing it was harder for a customer to refuse an item she wanted when it was all wrapped and ready to go. She thanked the woman for her business and watched her frog-march her two kids out of the market before they could grab anything off the shelves.

“Sell anything?” she asked Ashikin.

“Two
songke
t sets. Pretty good, isn't it? A bridal party, getting married in two months. Took forever to choose the colours, but bought in the end.”

Maryam beamed with pride. “Good,” she said shortly, imbuing that one word with a world of parental approval. “I'm waiting for the police to come and get me.” Maryam lit a cigarette and gave one to her daughter. “We're going to talk to a suspect.”

“Wow.”

“Wow nothing. I just couldn't get to see someone, so I'm going together with the police. Otherwise, how am I supposed to talk to him?”

“What would the police do without you, Mak?”

“Nothing, probably.” Maryam was disappointed, frankly, in how little they seemed to have done. Osman often looked as though he hadn't moved a muscle between meetings with her. Maybe that glimmer she noticed earlier would grow, she thought charitably, and Osman would begin working on his own.

Suddenly, a woman appeared in the midst of milling shoppers, walking swiftly down the aisle of the market, looking neither left nor right, paying no attention at all to the fabrics heaped on either side of her. Just as Ashikin had described her, she had draped a white chiffon headscarf over her head, with the flowing end held over the lower half of her face, eyes locked on Maryam as she approached.

“It's her!” cried Ashikin, nudging her mother in the shoulder. “That's the one I told you about.”

Maryam jumped off the stall shelf to stop her as she walked by, reaching out her arm and saying, “I'm
Mak Cik
Maryam. Were you looking for me?”

The woman stopped and looked intently at Maryam, saying nothing. She almost began to speak, then abruptly stopped herself, glared at Maryam with what looked like hatred, and continued her march out of the market.

“What was that?” Maryam asked, confused and maybe a little frightened. “Did you see the way she looked at me? I don't even know her.”

“That was strange,” Ashikin agreed. “What did she want?”

Maryam shook her head, and continued to look out the entrance to
the market as if following the woman, who had already melted into the chaos on the street. There were a great many strange people walking around, she thought, and why any one of those would seek her out especially was a mystery. “Does it have anything to do with Ghani?” she mused to Ashikin.

“I can't imagine,” Ashikin replied, lighting a cigarette for each of them. “She was odd, that's for sure.” She tried to keep her unease out of her face, where she knew her mother would immediately spot it, and turned away towards the crowd of shoppers, distracting herself from the woman and what it might mean.

Maryam, too, dived back into her work, fearing to upset Ashikin if she reflected on who it might be. Perhaps another message for her, silently ordering her to leave the case. Such a strange way of sending it. Glancing at the door, she saw a young policeman jogging uncertainly down the aisle towards them. “Here's my date,” she told Ashikin jauntily, and went to meet him.

Chapter XV

Maryam once again arrived in Tawang, this time accompanied by the chief of police. She felt quite professional, and oddly excited. “
Kak
Hasnah,” she called from the bottom of the steps. Osman stood quietly next to her.

Hasnah appeared at the doorway, her eyes widening when she saw Osman in his uniform. “
Kak
Maryam,” she said slowly, her eyes moving back and forth between Maryam and Osman. “Please, come in and get out of the sun.”

Osman carefully untied his policeman's shoes at the top of the stairs and sat next to Maryam on the porch. “
Mak Cik,”
he introduced himself, speaking slowly and clearly, “I am Osman, the chief of police in Kota Bharu.”

“Ah,” said Aisha's mother, nodding. “I see.”

He smiled his most winning smile. “You know
Mak Cik
Maryam is helping us …”

“Coffee?” Hasnah interrupted, and leaned into the door to order one of her children to prepare something. “Yes?” she returned to Osman.

He smiled again, tamping down his impatience.
Kampong
life had its own rhythm, and there was no use trying to rush it. “I am here with
Mak Cik
Maryam. She is working with us.” Maryam was proud to hear
it so officially. She looked approvingly at him.

“So,” he continued, “we'd like to speak to Ali.”

“Why?” she asked Maryam in rapid Kelantanese. “What does he want with Ali?”

“Don't worry, he only wants to ask some questions,” Maryam answered soothingly. “Really, it's all for a good reason.”

Hasnah sniffed. “I'm not so sure.” She turned back to Osman. “What do you want to ask him?”

This is what Osman had feared: people would speak to him and he'd be unable to understand. Maryam rescued him as she saw him hesitate. “Just questions, right,
Che
Osman?”

“Yes,” he answered firmly. “I have some questions for him.”

The coffee and cakes appeared, and Hasnah appeared to throw herself into serving with a vengeance. “Have something to drink. Please,” she invited them. “It's so hot, isn't it?”

Maryam nodded politely. “Yes, indeed.” She agreed. She let Osman ask again for Ali, maintaining her own status as a friendly neighbour rather than a member of officialdom.

Ali came slowly and unwillingly out to the porch, clearly resentful. His mother watched him anxiously. “What is it?” he demanded. “Why are you keeping me here?” He saw Maryam walk and a sour smile twisted his face. “I should have known. Why are you doing this? Is this any of your business?”

“Yes, Maryam answered calmly. “It happened on my land.”