Spirit Tiger (2 page)

She'd been married off early, at fifteen, to a man ten years older than she was, and whom she had never met. However, her parents, overburdened with plenty of younger children of their own and a perennial shortage of funds, thought it might benefit Puteh as well as them to have someone else provide for her.

Sadly, their choice had been a poor one. Suleiman was a good-natured man, but not a strong one, and temptations of all kinds seemed to ensnare him with ease. He greeted gambling, drinking, and carousing with friends with far more enthusiasm than any domestic responsibilities. ‘
Pandai buat, tak pandai pera
,' people said of him: good at making children, not so much in taking care of them.

As usual, Suleiman was out, though where, Puteh could not say. Nor did she care actually; if he wasn't at home, helping her, or possibly out taking an odd job to pay the rent, it didn't matter to her where he'd gone. All the work in the house would fall to her anyway, and his actual whereabouts did nothing to change that. Sighing deeply, she began to sort the clothes in her basket in preparation for washing them.

She sat on a rock beside the river, slowly picking out each piece, deliberately laying them in small, separate piles. She hoped to take as much time as possible in her task. One of her neighbours was watching the children, and she treasured her short break from their demands.

She picked up a pair of Suleiman's pants, noting faint mud stains along the bottom hem, and as she tossed them to one side, she thought she heard a crinkle. She retrieved them and checked through the pockets, pulling out a crumpled ball of thin paper. She was about to throw it away, when she noticed what appeared to be Arabic script along one side: curious, she smoothed it against her knee and squinted at it. She read slowly, shaping the words with her lips as she read, then glancing up and staring across the river at Kampong Laut, not registering anything she saw there.

She could not credit what she had read and, in a few moments, turned back to the document and read it again, expecting it to change its meaning into something she could better digest. But the next reading remained the same, as did the third. She turned blindly from her laundry, and still clutching the crushed paper, stumbled back towards her house. She'd been divorced.

‘How could you?' she asked him, noting in her mind how trite it sounded, even to her, but unable to come up with any other question she wanted answered. He'd come home in the afternoon – just as though nothing had happened – looking for dinner and a nap and clean clothes, as always. But now she knew she'd been divorced for over a week and he hadn't bothered to tell her. How could he, indeed?

Suleiman did not appear to have an answer prepared, or even considered. He kept opening and closing his mouth, as though planning to speak, though he could not. Puteh could not decide whether to cry or slap him, and it seemed like an endless amount of time went by before he could finally choked out, ‘What?'

Not the most eloquent excuse, but it was all she had to work with. ‘I found it,' she said calmly, waving the decree in front of his face. ‘Your divorce. Last week?' She reminded him. He remained at a loss.

‘Well,' he finally began, looking furtively around the room as though there might be someone in the corner who might help him, ‘it's true.' He stammered slightly. ‘But I didn't think …'

She waited to hear what he didn't think, and for a while nothing seemed forthcoming. ‘I mean,' he amended, ‘it wasn't my idea.' He looked at her, cocking his head. ‘It was her idea,' he further detailed. ‘She wanted to get married, but I didn't really. And it's only one
talak
,' he explained helpfully, ‘so nothing is permanent.'

‘Who is she?'

He looked abashed. ‘You know
Che
Yusuf's place? Where I sometimes play cards?'

More than sometimes: she often suspected Yusuf's front room was Suleiman's real home. ‘She helps there.' He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘The waitress? Khatijah?'

He nodded reluctantly. It was now Puteh's turn to be struck dumb. Khatijah was small and dark-skinned and a touch haggard, as befitted a waitress in a gambling den. She had been long divorced and childless, though Puteh heard she had recently adopted a child: a Chinese girl whose parents were willing to part with her. It now clicked.

‘And you are to be the father to her new child? You've already got seven here! You don't pay any attention to them!' She looked around at her brood, the eldest of whom was following the conversation like a ping pong match, the youngest of whom could not yet crawl. She turned her attention back to Suleiman, suddenly no longer bereft about the divorce, but fed up: with his gambling, with his disinterest in family life, and now with his secret divorce. She grabbed her small purse with her emergency money – a completely insignificant amount – and walked out, leaving Suleiman to cope with his children.

She stood in front of her house for a moment, regarding it as she rarely did, from the outside, dispassionately. It was at the far end of Kampong Penambang, closest to Kota Bharu, and assuredly one of the least impressive houses in the area. Unpainted, with just the slightest lean, it looked exhausted, much as she felt. The roof needed repair, the tiny front porch was rickety, and from here, she wondered how she allowed any of the children to play on it when it looked as though it might collapse at the slightest pressure. At least the yard was swept.

She stood irresolutely, unable to decide where to go in her new-found freedom. She began walking towards the middle of Kampong Penambang, towards the main road and the large
Kain Songket
emporia which lined it. She'd thought about going into one, running her hands over the fine fabric and think about buying it, but she hadn't been able to with her small army of children in tow. Now, however, it was her time, and she picked up her pace as she approached the imposing, pillared shops filled with
songket
.

She entered cautiously, ever mindful of the fact she did not possess even a small fraction of the money needed to buy any of these fabrics. She shyly kept her eyes down, not wanting to draw the attention of any salespeople. She ran her hand slowly and lightly over the wedding fabrics arrayed on a table, thrilled to feel the raised pattern, admiring the play of the light on the gold thread.

‘He's dead, you know,' one salesgirl whispered to another. ‘They found him in the river, and they said he'd been there for days.' She nodded at her friend, who shuddered. ‘What must he have looked like by then?' she asked. ‘With the fish and everything.'

‘Horrible,' stated the first. ‘It's terrible.'

Puteh did not lift her head, but moved towards them, the better to listen.

‘But you know, gambling and all that,' the first continued. ‘Is it surprising?

My father says it's a judgement on him.'

The other nodded. ‘Yes, but drowning? Who would have done it?'

‘There are probably lots of people who would have wanted to,' she said briskly. ‘But I feel sorry for his family.'

As another customer walked in, they abandoned their conversation, but Puteh had gone cold. She turned and left the shop, the thrill of the fabrics dissipated. Feeling trapped, unable to see her way out of her situation, she trudged back to her house to once again pick up the responsibilities she left there not more than fifteen minutes ago. Her neighbour Rubiah fell into step next to her on the road. Rubiah was Puteh's mother's age, and part of a two-woman team celebrated for solving murders in Kelantan. She was also, by her own blushing admission, the premier Malay cake chef in Kelantan.

Rubiah had lived in Kampong Penambang all her life and knew Puteh's family from childhood. She saw and understood the problems in Puteh's marriage, and pitied her, trying to help whenever it was possible. ‘Did you hear about
Che
Yusuf?' she asked.

‘Yusuf?' Puteh stammered. Was it Yusuf they found?

Rubiah nodded. ‘You know,' she said kindly, aware of just how well Puteh did know, ‘the one who has gambling at his house.'

‘What?' Puteh was wide-eyed.

‘He died,' Rubiah told her flatly. ‘They just pulled him out of the river. He drowned, it seems. A couple of days ago.'

Puteh stared at the ground, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Rubiah put her hand on her shoulder. ‘I don't know if that means there won't be any more games, or whether
Cik
Noriah will keep it open. I mean, it isn't open now.
Cik
Noriah's just found out it was Yusuf they brought out of the river, so she's preparing for the funeral now.'

Puteh nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Rubiah watched her with concern. ‘Are you alright, Puteh?'

She bit her lip, trying to keep herself silent. ‘I'm glad,' she burst out between clenched teeth, ‘I'm glad he's dead. Maybe it will save some other people from this kind of life.'And she burst into tears.

Chapter III

Mamat sat on the front porch, under the protection of the roof, in the cool of the late afternoon. The sun slanted through the fruit trees in the yard and the coconut and betel palms scattered throughout the
kampong
, but it no longer burned. Carefully surrounding him were rattan bird cages housing his treasured flock of
merbok
– zebra doves, famed for their song. Like many Kelantan avian aficionados, Mamat fussed over his birds, devised special diets and developed theories concerning the right ratio of sun to shade in which they could rest. His regimen was flexible, and often changed, though his devotion and attention had never flagged in all the years his wife, Maryam, had known him. She shared his delight in the birds, and often assisted in cosseting them, mashing their bananas with more exotic ingredients and feeding them from her own fingers.

Tonight's meal was even more exotic than usual, in preparation for a singing competition to be held in a field near Kubang Kerian – the birds were now in serious training! Mamat mixed the finest of grains with bananas and a touch of honey to sweeten their song and soothe their throats. He had been toying with the idea of adding papaya to the mix, which another bird fancier told him helped their stamina and their mood so they were more inclined to sing. Now was the time to act, he believed, and with great personal fanfare, he included ripe papaya, and even the slightest touch of ginger to the gruel. He fed the birds directly from his hands, and watched them closely for signs of immediate improvement in strength and confidence. He thought he may have glimpsed it, but could not really be certain.

Maryam emerged from the house onto the porch, having completed most of the preparations for dinner and leaving the finishing touches in the hands of her high school-aged daughter, Aliza. Aliza was more than capable of handling dinner, and much else besides. She was taking her O-level exams and planned to become a teacher. Her family agreed it was an excellent choice and that she would be a formidable teacher, able to quell an unruly class in one freezing glance. She practiced such glances on her younger brother, Yi, who, to his mother's surprise, was often quelled by them.

While Aliza organized the kitchen and ran herd over Yi, Maryam made herself comfortable sitting on the top step to the porch, extracting a hand-rolled cigarette from the folds of her sarong.

‘Don't get any smoke near the birds,' warned Mamat. ‘I don't want it affecting their song.'

Maryam mildly agreed and turned her head slightly away from the cages. She had a pretty, pleasant face with large brown eyes, a snub nose and thick, dark hair, which she wore in a no-nonsense bun. She was a cheerful, middle-aged Malay woman, a
Mak Cik
, of the sorority which ruled Kelantan both socially and economically, and Maryam participated in both fields of endeavour. She owned a stall in Kota Bharu's main market, the epicentre of the state's flourishing mercantile activity, in which she sold
kain songket
cloth made in Kampong Penambang itself. She held herself as one aware of her own value. As indeed she was, with reason to be proud of the living she provided for her family, and her place in Kelantanese society.

Sitting on the porch with her husband and their birds, with sounds of determined activity coming from the kitchen, Maryam radiated contentment. There were no clouds on her emotional horizon. Her oldest son Azmi was soon to be married; her married daughter, Ashikin was now expecting her second child; Aliza, who had been badly hurt during a crime investigation not long before, was not only recovered, but was studying hard for her exams and would no doubt be marvelously successful. And Yi, her youngest, was at least staying out of trouble and doing tolerably well at school. What more could a mother ask for?

She looked forward to the bird singing competition coming up in a week. Though Maryam herself did not gamble, and Mamat would only make a small bet to show his confidence in his birds, thousands of ringgit changed hands during these contests, and the winning birds were often sold for mind-boggling sums. Their birds had not yet ever won a major event, but had been reliably successful in neighbourhood gatherings, and Mamat was now grooming them for the big time.

Kelantan was a centre for all manner of intra-animal competitions. There was cock fighting, with trained roosters equipped with razors attached to their legs; bull fighting involving two bulls trying to drive each other out of the ring; and even Siamese fighting fish tournaments. All of these attracted their own circle of experts, with a distinct corpus of expertise: magic, breeding, grooming and feeding. Men – for it was always they – devoted the vast majority of their time to their chosen pursuit, devising diets, positioning and training regimens for their animals.

Singing contests were held in large, dry fields, with tall poles arranged in a circle. Birds preferred to be in high places when they sang, and therefore each bird in its cage was run up the pole to hang twelve feet or more off the ground, where they could give full-throated energy to their song. The judge would stroll from one pole to another listening to each bird and award prizes based on the sweetness and length of the song.