Shadow Play (9 page)

“You know,” Faouda said, warming to her theme, “he took me over to his
Nenek's
house, where they treated me like dirt. That isn't fair, is it?” Faouda tossed her head and narrowed her already narrow eyes. “How could I have been so stupid?” she asked Maryam.

“Well, haven't we all been stupid about men?” Maryam replied, and the two other women nodded. “That's just the way it is. You don't have to feel that you've been any worse than any of us. It's just bad luck, that's all. Not stupid.”

“I'll get married again,” she vowed, glaring at the trees around
the house.

“Anyone in mind?” Maryam tried to keep it light.

“Not yet,” she answered shortly.

Maryam took a deep breath and asked, “What happened with your other marriages?”

“Is that any of your business?” Faouda asked crossly. “What's that got to do with anything? Or just nosy?”

“I'm just asking,” Maryam explained. “I'm sure everything went well, but I don't want to leave anything the police will then want to know more about.”

The implied threat hung in the air as Faouda debated what to do. Her first choice would have been to tell Maryam and Rubiah to go to hell, but she rejected that early in her deliberation. She decided it was better to tell this old
Mak Cik
than have police show up. Everyone would talk about that, and she'd had enough of being the most interesting topic in all of Ulu Kelantan.

“My first marriage,” she began crisply, “was for two years. We just couldn't agree, couldn't get used to each other. No children, either, and so we decided to divorce. I was what, eighteen?” She turned to her mother as if seeking confirmation. Her mother nodded.

“The second was with
Abang
Yahya. He was a lot older than me, and had a first wife and kids. It just didn't work out. Too old. He was always tired, and didn't want to spend any money. It just wouldn't work for me. Better to end it quickly than drag on something that doesn't have a future, isn't it? That's all. No one's dead, if that's what you're looking for.”

Maryam nodded. “The next one should be just right,” she said sweetly. “Someone closer to your own age, a nice man.”

“Yeah, well I thought it might be Ghani, but it wasn't. What can you do?” she ended on a philosophical note. “I keep hoping. Maybe a widower or someone divorced, like me. I don't think I want to be a second wife anymore. It's just not good for anyone, know what I mean?”

They all agreed fervently. It wasn't good for anyone: not for anyone female, at any rate.

“Good Luck, Faouda,” Maryam rose to go, Rubiah close behind. “Thank you for talking to me. It's very kind of you. I won't keep you from your work.”

Her mother rose and asked, as though it had just occurred to her, “Won't you have something to drink?”

“Oh, thank you
Kak
, but perhaps another time. We can't trouble you anymore!” Rubiah smiled as widely as she could, and she and Maryam ducked their heads, clasping the hands of first Faouda and then her mother.

“Oh, one more question,” Maryam asked suddenly. “When did you get back from Kota Bharu?”

“I left right away,” Faouda answered quickly, looking at her mother, who nodded and leaned over her weaving. Maryam nodded, and she and Rubiah climbed carefully down the ladder, fearing the humiliation of pitching headfirst into the dirt. Luckily, they made it down without a scratch.

Chapter VIII

Aisha,” Maryam sat with her on the porch of her parents' house, “We know you were there. Why don't you tell me about it?”

Aisha looked tired, like she'd been crying for the past ten days; and perhaps she had. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore no makeup or jewelry. She looked at Maryam and then drew her hand down her face, as if erasing something from her cheeks. She continued to do it throughout their discussion, and Maryam found it unnerving, as though Aisha were slowly taking leave of her wits.

“Where?”

“At the
Wayang Siam
performance before Ghani passed away.”

She sat stonily. “You're wrong. I wasn't there. I told you.”

Maryam spoke to her as sweetly as she could. “Your brother Ali was seen there, Aisha. Did he have a fight with Ghani?”

“I didn't know,” she said petulantly. “I'm not feeling too well,
Mak Cik.
I've been to the
bomoh
, I've had spells and God knows what else, but it doesn't seem to work.”

“I can only imagine how unhappy you are now,” said Maryam, and she could. If this were her daughter, her beautiful Ashikin, she'd be wild with worry and helplessness. “It will pass, you know, it always does.”

Aisha nodded. “That's what people tell me.” She plucked at her
sarong.
“You know, Ghani was too young to die; he still has small children.” She rubbed her eyelids almost absently. He didn't have a chance to really live yet,
Mak Cik.
And someone else killed him. Not me.” She seemed to drift off.

“But Ali…”

Suddenly, she was all attention. “Ali didn't do anything. Why don't you go to Arifin's house down the road?” Maryam tried to recollect who that might be. “The man who plays the gong in the orchestra,” Aisha said impatiently. “Didn't you talk to him?”

Maryam shook her head. “Not yet.”

“He was always jealous of Ghani. He thought his wife liked Ghani, maybe something was going on. It wasn't though: his wife likes to flirt sometimes, but she'd never go farther than that. And I used to think Ghani wouldn't either. I was wrong, wasn't I? Anyway, he used to argue with Ghani all the time, even came over here once to yell at him.”

“Well,” she turned to Maryam, Why don't you ask him and leave my brother alone? I've had enough. I can't even think about something happening to Ali. Just leave it alone,
Mak Cik
, please.”

Aisha rose and drifted into the house without a word. Maryam sat for a moment, wondering what had happened to her, when her mother came out the door.

“Don't be angry at Aisha,” she said, brushing her hands on her
sarong
and taking a quick look into the house again. She sat down next to Maryam and produced a cigarette immediately: this was clearly her smoking break. They lit up.

“She's been like this for about a week. I'm afraid
Kak
, look at her. She's in a fog. I took her to the
bomoh
, I had the
imam
come and pray
over her, I don't know what to do and that's the truth.”

“It's so hard to be a mother,” Maryam sympathized. “When something doesn't go well for your children, you wish you could take their place.”

“In a moment,” her mother agreed. “Don't listen to what she's saying right now. She's not thinking.”

“Is it true that Arifin came to their house to yell at Ghani?”

“Oh, that's true enough!” Her mother laughed softly. “You should have seen it: his wife hanging on his shirt and sarong trying to pull him back to the house, him dragging her through the
kampong.
I thought she'd pull the clothes off him.

“It was nothing, you know. Ghani didn't do anything with the wife. That time, anyway,” she ended sourly. “Women turned out to be the death of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? That second wife, she killed him. That was a disaster from the start. Of course she did.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette.

“I don't know if it was even a real marriage! She married Ghani so soon after her first divorce.”

“I wondered about that,” Maryam answered.

Hasnah shrugged. “You see how Aisha mourns for Ghani. She'd never hurt him. Scold him, yes, but kill him? Never.” She flicked her cigarette over the porch and rose to return to the house. Her break was over.

Maryam rose too, ready to leave. “
Kak
, one more question, what about Ali?”

She walked into the house. “He didn't do it,” she called out to
Maryam, “the second wife, or whatever she was, did it. Believe me.”

Chapter IX

Maryam had only been back at work for the better part of the morning. Her daughter Ashikin had taken over the stall, and Maryam trusted her business instincts, having trained her herself, yet she couldn't stay away much longer.

“Did you think I sold all our
songket
for nothing?” Ashikin admonished her she saw her mother arrive just as she was taking down the planks from the stall. “Don't you trust me?” Ashikin was a renowned beauty in Kampong Penambang, small and slender with large doe eyes and thick shining hair. She had delicate eyebrows and a straight nose, high cheekbones and a perfect, dazzling smile. When she was annoyed, however, as she now was, she sounded exactly like her mother: Maryam was amused to see herself so accurately reflected.

Maryam smiled placatingly. “It is my stall,” she said as sweetly as she could, climbing up on the folded
sarong
before Ashikin could get up. “I trust you completely. Completely. But I miss the market. And hearing all these stories about the murdered boy …” She lit her first cigarette of the day, “It's pretty depressing.”

Ashikin was interested in spite of herself. “What have you found out, Mak?”

Maryam grunted and flicked the ash into her dish she'd put into her lap. “A second wife is a disaster, that's what I found out.”

Ashikin leaned against the stall and took one of her mother's cigarettes. “We knew that.”

Maryam nodded, and rearranged some cloth while explaining the details to Ashikin: anyone could have done it, and everyone had a reason. Some had more than others, but all were workable.

Ashikin listened intently. “Poor guy. He really screwed everything up.”

“Ghani, you mean? Naturally! Have you ever heard of someone taking another wife and it worked out really well?

Ashikin shook her head. “I hope Daud never does something like that.”

“He won't. He's crazy about you! As he should be.” Maryam liked her new son in law, but felt strongly Daud was lucky to have Ashikin, and she hoped he continued to realize it.

“
Mak Cik
!” The owner of a stall a few feet away strolled up to her, lighting the first cigarette of the day. “Did that woman find you?”

“What woman?”

“There was a woman here only yesterday looking for you. She asked for you particularly.”

Maryam was mystified, and shook her head. “Looking for
songket
?”

Her neighbor shrugged. “I guess, I don't know. She asked if she could find you at home and I said maybe, but your
songket
was here. She said she'd be back.”

“What did she look like?”

She shrugged again. “Young, I guess, kind of pretty, not too tall. Nice figure, though.”

It was Maryam's turn to shrug. “She'll be back if it's important.”

The first morning shoppers began trickling into the market, and Maryam and Ashikin bent their energies toward attracting customers and making the first sale of the day, which would set the tone for all sales to come.

“Look at this
songket,”
Maryam called out to a woman slowly passing by, eyeing the fabrics lining the aisle. “Beautiful. Look at that work! I've got the colours you want, and the quality, too!”

The woman stopped uncertainly, fingering some of the
songket sarong
piled invitingly on the edge of the counter. Ashikin immediately “whipped open the cloth the woman had touched, displaying it temptingly to her.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Ashikin murmured encouragingly. “I love that colour myself.” The woman laid her hand on the
songket.
“A special occasion?” Ashikin asked.

The woman nodded. “My niece's wedding. I've got to get clothes for a few people, you know how it is.”

“Of course, we do,” Maryam soothed. “It's the same for all of us, isn't it? You'll like this fabric, and not too expensive. But,” she added earnestly, “excellent quality. Look closely at the gold work. Well done, eh?”

“And not too flashy. Very tasteful, this
sarong.
You've got a great eye,” Ashikin said approvingly. “You'll be very happy with cloth like this. Do you want to see any other colours? You can compare.” With a deft twist, Ashikin took another cloth and settled on top of the first. “This way you can really see what you want.”

The woman stepped back a step to consider. “Do you think maybe something lighter? More, I don't know, pink instead of more red? Or do you think pink will look too washed out?”

“For you?” Maryam asked. The woman nodded.

Maryam looked for a few moments. “I like the red. More sophisticated. Too much pink is a young girl's
sarong.
It isn't good for women like us.”

The sale was finally made, after much conversation and bargaining. By the time the woman left, the market was packed and had reached full volume. Maryam was completely engrossed in business when
Che
Osman appeared in front of her. For a brief moment, she couldn't quite place him, and wondered at a man wandering around the market alone. It was a rare sight, since Kelantanese believed men had little business sense and invariably overpaid: a man alone in the market was a fruit ripe for the plucking.

Then she recognized the patch on his shirt and his West Coast face with its expression of intent concentration mixed with utter incomprehension. “Police Chief Osman,” she greeted him politely. “How nice to see you here. Shopping?”

He made a face. “No. I came to see you.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“To talk about the case,” he said impatiently. “I don't know what you've been doing.” He tried not to whine.

“Well, that's easy,” Maryam gave him her full attention, trusting Ashikin to handle everything else. “I went to see the widow and her family…”