Shadow Play (17 page)

“I even have something for you to wear.” He held up a small yellow cotton cloth, covered in Thai letters written in black ink, interspersed with spidery designs and the outline of a woman.

“Keep it on you all the time,” the
bomoh
advised her, burying a similar cloth and covering it carefully. “It will help you resist black magic used against you.”

Maryam nodded and smiled. Like most of her neighbours, she believed in the supernatural, but not so devoutly as to wear protective spells. Still, she'd had a narrow escape and was lucky to be alive, and
this was not the best time to do without protection. She tucked it into the folds in her
sarong
and went in to prepare dinner.

“We found Faouda's husband,” Osman told Maryam, sitting in her living room later that evening. Dinner was over and Aliza and Yi were sprawled on the floor watching
Rawhide
on television, while Osman's plate was heaped with a hearty dinner.

His announcement re-energized her. “Who is he? Where is he?”

Osman dug into his meal. Maryam reckoned he must be hungry: God only knew what he ate when he was on his own. Cold curry wrapped in banana leaf, most likely. She waited until he had swallowed, drumming her fingers on the table nervously.

“I got the information from the registrar's office,” he said proudly, “and then from the Kuala Krai police.”

“Excellent work,” she assured him. “It's very impressive.”

“Well,” he was obviously pleased with himself and with her praise, “his name is Johan bin Awang - why is everyone here named Awang? - and he lives in Kuala Krai. Been married,” he read from a paper he'd taken out of his pocket, “divorced, no kids.” Faouda had told her the truth about that at least. “Truck driver,” Osman continued, “Works for a lumber company and does long distance hauls, mostly to the West Coast through Thailand. No police record, no trouble. Malay,” he finished reading the identity card information.

“Of course, he's Malay; honestly,” Maryam chided him. This was Kelantan, after all. “And they were married on that Friday?”

He nodded. “Yeah, they were, in Kota Bharu like she said.”

“Do we know where they stayed in Kota Bharu?”

Osman shrugged. “Not yet, but when we talk to him I'm sure we'll find out.”

Maryam nodded. “Are you going to bring him up here to talk to him? I'm sick of Kuala Krai. Don't make us go down there again.”

“Too hot?” Osman teased her.

“Too hot, too far, too much jungle. Can we?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I think it would be better,
Mak Cik
, if we spoke to him in Kuala Krai. Not in the
kampong,”
he added hastily, reading her expression. “At the police station. Nice and cool, and you don't have to find him. I just can't justify bringing him all the way up here …”

Maryam sighed and nodded regretfully. “I know. You're right. I wish you weren't, but you are,” she reflected honestly. She summoned up a huge smile. “You're so professional! Thank you. Now come, you must have some more to eat. I can't even imagine what you've been eating since you've been here.” She swooped down on his now empty plate and walked into the kitchen to fill it once more.

The next morning Maryam watered the flowers set in pots around her newly protected yard. It didn't look any different, but Mamat was right, it
felt
different. As she stood back to admire her garden, Dollah arrived, smiling warmly and apologizing for disturbing her. “I felt I should speak with you,
Kak
.”

Maryam invited him in and started coffee. She agreed: he should speak with her and apologize for leading her into the middle of his brawl with Hassan while neglecting to mention any relevant facts about his musicians. In fact, Maryam believed Dollah had done as much as possible to mislead her without outright lying and had put her life in danger as a result

“So,
Abang
Dollah, what brings you here?” Maryam asked.

Dollah looked a bit shamefaced, and lifted his eyes to Mamat as if
asking for help. Mamat watched him steadily and offered nothing. “It's a bit awkward,
Kak
Maryam.” She waited. He sighed and continued.

“I see this has all become more complicated than I thought it would be. You know, I heard about what happened.” Maryam looked at him enquiringly. He cleared his throat. “With Hassan. He had no business treating you so rudely. It just goes to show how
kurang ajar
, badly brought up, he really is.”

Maryam's cheeks burned as she recollected landing in the dust at the bottom of his stairs, lying in a heap with her face in the dirt.

“I'm sorry,
Kak.
I had no idea he would act this way. You can see why I feel this way about him.”

“Why didn't you tell me you two were feuding?”

Dollah shifted uncomfortably. “I didn't think it mattered.”

Maryam leaned in, willing herself to stay calm. “He was only there at your performance because of it. Of course, once I asked about it, I'd be involved. You knew that would happen.”

Dollah hung his head. “I didn't think …”

“And what exactly do you do when you go to each other's performances? You don't make any trouble. What is it?”

“Nothing much.”

She sighed impatiently. “
Abang
Dollah, you put me in a very difficult situation. Why are you here if you only want to hint, not talk?”

“We watch each other, and see what other
dalang
are doing. Get ideas, maybe.” Dollah paused. “You know, we use
jampi
to open the
panggung
, so to speak, and to attract the audience. So when we fight, we use them to drive away the audience, to interrupt the performance. Of course,” he grew animated, as he always did when discussing
Wayang Siam, “jampi
won't make a bad
dalang
good, but it might
make a good
dalang
just a little bit better. So a rival
dalang
, he might try to make a very good
dalang
a little worse, and have fewer people watch. You understand.”

Maryam felt comprehension dawning. “Are you telling me that Hassan came with spells to drive people away, maybe to hurt you?”

Dollah nodded.

“So,” she continued, “Hassan knows a lot about
jampi.
And so do

you.”

“Well, yes.” He admitted. “It's part of being a
dalang.”

“And either one of you,” she was remorseless, “would be able to concoct the spell under my house. You both know enough to do it.”

“What was that?” Dollah appeared to be horrified.

“There was a wax doll under my stairs, with an
ikan keli
spine stuck right through it. And a written spell, and nails in it, and it was wrapped in a white shroud.”

“I'm shocked! This is terrible.”

“I almost died!” she added. “And what if my kids had found it instead? Do you have any idea what could have happened? Did anyone consider that before leaving that here, in my house?”

“What a horror!
Alamak
! I can't tell you how appalled I am to hear this.”

Maryam flicked the ash of her cigarette over the railing. “Are you really that surprised,
Abang?”

Dollah was very still. “Why do you ask that,
Kak?”

Maryam took a deep breath. “I think you knew about the spell. That's why you came here: to make sure I knew Hassan could easily have left it here. I suppose you thought I'd go back to see him again. That's what I think.”

Dollah was silent. Her straightforward accusations were an affront to Malay courtesy, and he had rarely seen an adult act in such a way. She'd been provoked, however, and he could understand why she'd lost patience. Understand it, yes, but it still astounded him to see a woman act that way.

“
Kak
, these are serious things you're saying about me.”

“Yes they are, but are they true? This is the way I see it: there's a lot you could have told me, but didn't.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Why did you let me find this out on my own and put myself in danger when you could have told me right at the start?”

Dollah was silent, thinking so hard Maryam could almost hear it. “It didn't work quite the way I planned,
Kak
.”

“How did you plan it?”

“I just wanted to protect you.” Maryam snorted. “Really! It was my only intention.”

“You were protecting me by directing me towards Hassan?”

“Well, not exactly. But you see, Hassan could easily have done this. In fact, I think he did.”

“Really?” she said drily.

He nodded energetically. “Now, listen to me. He might have mistaken Ghani for me, or have fought with him and killed him before he realized what was happening. I know what you're thinking: how could he mistake a kid fifteen years younger and six inches taller for me? But in the dark, sometimes you see only what you want to. He could easily have left the spell under your stairs. He knows how, he wouldn't have to work with a
bomoh
, and he knows where you live. See?”

“You don't need a
bomoh
, and you know where I live, too.”

“You're right,” he nodded. “But why would I kill Ghani? I loved that kid. I've got no reason to hurt him.”

Maryam grudgingly granted him that much.

“Why didn't you warn me about Hassan?” she demanded. “If I knew, would I have shown up there and walked right up to his door like that? He thought that's what I was doing, and he certainly punished me for it.” She paused, tamping down her rising anger. “You misled me. You didn't lie to me, but you didn't tell me what I needed to know either.”

“You're right
Kak.
Forgive me, please.”

Maryam thought he would continue to argue, but an outright apology brought her up short. “Well, I mean, of course,” she stammered, unready for it. “But will you help me now? I can't continue not knowing whether to trust you or not.” She looked at him intently, searching for a clue that would let her know if he were lying.

“You can trust me,” Dollah said with feeling, but exactly what sort of feeling, Maryam wasn't really sure.

Chapter XIX

Maryam considered the primary victim of Ghani's behavior: Aisha. Whether she went mad from guilt or grief or both, she was the key figure. The
dalang's
feud led to a seemingly infinite series of dead ends, and Maryam hoped by taking the story back to its simplest beginning, she could make sense of it. It was worth attempting to wring some sense out of Aisha. Perhaps if Maryam ignored all extraneous issues, she could impose clarity on what now seemed utterly opaque. Maryam hopped into a taxi and headed back for Tawang.

Circumstances appeared to have deteriorated since her last visit. As she approached the house, she spotted Azizah hanging the wash in the back, with her two small grandchildren asleep on the porch. Maryam hailed her.

“Hello,
Kak
! How are things going?”

Azizah turned to look at her, with a wooden laundry peg between her teeth. She, too, looked pale and worn out. She nodded at Maryam, and finished hanging the sheet. “Haven't seen you in a few days,” she said noncommittally.

“I know,” Maryam smiled pleasantly. “I hope Aisha is well.”

Azizah shook her head sadly. “Worse really.”

“No!”

She nodded. “Yes, I'm sorry to say. She hardly speaks anymore.
Just stays in bed.”

“She doesn't want to take care of the kids?” Maryam was astonished.

Azizah looked at her mournfully. “Doesn't even want to see them. We've had the
bomoh
here I don't know how many times…” She bent to pick up another piece of washing and spread it out on the line. “I'm at my wit's end, I can tell you.”

“How awful! She just doesn't respond?”

She shook her head and said nothing, intent on her task.

“Does she speak to anyone?” Maryam pursued.

“No,” Azizah sighed. “I'm afraid; what if she stays this way?” Tears began spilling out her eyes. “My poor girl.” She tried to control herself, to keep herself from crying. She leaned against the wet sheet she'd just hung on the line.

“
Kak
,” Maryam asked softly, “May I talk to her?”

“You can try,” Azizah wiped her eyes. “I don't know if you'll get very much.”

Maryam nodded. “You may well be right. But I'd still like to try.”

Azizah nodded. “Go ahead. She's in the living room.”

Maryam walked into the living room from the dazzling sunlight outside. She could make out a couch and coffee table, as well as a larger table and chairs, but didn't see Aisha anywhere. She walked in carefully, craning her neck to look into each corner. She saw a bundle under the window, which gradually resolved itself into a human shape curled on a sleeping mat. It was Aisha, lying on the floor, eyes wide open. Maryam tiptoed over to sit down next to her. Aisha reacted not at all.

“Aisha,” Maryam called softly. The girl did not blink or move.
Her eyes remained fixed on a point in the distance and she lay on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek, her legs brought up towards her chest. “Aisha, it's me,
Mak Cik
Maryam. Do you remember me?” Aisha was motionless, her breathing even, her mouth closed.

“Aisha, please!” Maryam pleaded. “Please speak, just for your mother. She's out of her mind with worry. We all are,” she added in a whisper. Maryam slipped her own hand under Aisha's head, and lifted it up just a bit, to see if Aisha would move her eyes. They seemed to flicker, but did not focus on Maryam.

Maryam was perplexed: when she met Aisha just a few days after Ghani's death, she seemed in control, packing up her house to move to her parents' place. The madness seemed to come upon her only after she came home. Common sense told her a complete breakdown like this would have begun almost immediately after she discovered Ghani's death: not gradually, days after the worst was over. It was entirely possible that reactions could be delayed, but something about this bothered her.