Spirit Play

by Barbara Ismail

  ‘Very impressive,’ Maryam murmured.

  ‘People here were suspicious of his accomplishments: but, as they say, there is success but not luck; it was all done with hard work. And therefore, they feared him.’

  She took a ladylike sip of coffee and the merest nibble of a rice cake. ‘He made plenty of money for Aziz, who didn’t lift a finger. He had his bananas already peeled. He didn’t do a thing.’ This was not a compliment.

  ‘And Pak Chik Murad’s son now has the boat.’

  ‘Why not? It’s his son. A fair man, like his father, like his uncle, like his grandfather before him. He looks towards the future.’ Maryam translated: doesn’t spend money.

  ‘He wants to have a family based on hard work and planning. To raise his children without spoiling them.’ Maryam had never actually heard of this happening in any family she knew. People loved indulging small children. ‘It’s the right thing to pass on the business to a boy like that.’

  Maryam smiled in agreement although it sounded cold and dull. Nothing like her own married daughter, whose husband adored her and whose small baby was treated like royalty everywhere she went.

  ‘Now I’m afraid I must ask you some questions which might upset you,’ Maryam began. ‘Jamillah. She worked near me you know, in the market. Can you think of anyone who was angry at her?’

  ‘Jamillah didn’t make people angry with her.’ Noriah stated flatly. ‘She worked hard.’ That again! ‘And she was an honest businesswoman.’

  Maryam moved closer. ‘I don’t know if what I heard is true, or just plain gossip.’ She lowered her voice as though discussing a most sensitive secret. ‘I understand there have been conversations about marriage.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Murad’s son and Zaiton, Jamillah’s daughter. It might be a good match. Is it true?’

  Noriah gave her a very sharp look. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said archly. ‘Though my nephew will certainly make a wonderful husband. Zaiton would have been lucky.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Noriah bridled. ‘I shouldn’t think anything like that would happen. Jamillah was a reasonable woman, and one who recognized advantages! Aziz…’ she waved her arm dismissively. ‘But Zaiton had her eyes elsewhere.’ She gave them a significant look.

  ‘Another boy?’ Maryam guessed.

  She nodded, trying to look solemn. ‘Not a great match, I’m afraid, but that’s what happens when you let young people just choose whoever they want.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  She sniffed in disapproval. ‘Someone who worked on Murad’s boat. Rahim, that’s his name. From Semut Api. Nothing in particular.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  She shrugged. ‘It could be. But now is not the time to talk of any of this. Not in a time of tragedy. Jamillah was a good woman.’

  ‘Of course, she was!’ Maryam agreed heartily. ‘But sometimes people can become angry or resentful, through no fault of our own.’

  ‘I think if you live correctly, you can avoid that. We are responsible for our own actions.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say that, Mak Chik.’ Maryam was becoming annoyed. ‘After all, someone did kill Jamillah, and I can’t believe it would be her fault. How could it be?’

  ‘I must say, my husband and I have been thinking what she could have done to bring this on herself. And I can’t think of anything. She ran proper businesses and kept herself to herself.’

  ‘She was very nice and friendly at the market,’ Maryam remarked. ‘Everyone liked her.’

  Noriah’s face clouded. ‘A person’s life is not judged by how many people at the market like them. Nor will Jamillah be judged by that.’

  Rubiah had been silent up to now but could no longer remain so.

  ‘Of course, it is! We’re judged by how good we are, and that leads to people liking us. That’s not what life is like here: fair, frugal, proper. It’s more than that, and also,’ she was gathering a head of steam, ‘it doesn’t have to be her fault she got killed. It could be the killer’s fault. It is the killer’s fault.’

  Maryam was in no mood for a theological discussion. ‘Please, please,’ she begged, spreading her arms wide as if to encompass both Rubiah and Noriah. ‘Let’s stay on this topic alone. I really need your help.’ She gave Noriah her most imploring look. ‘Do you know anyone, anyone at all who might have borne a grudge against her?’

  She shook her head. ‘Jamillah, no. Aziz, yes! But not her.’ With this remark, Maryam looked inquiringly at Noriah.

  ‘Well, Aziz could be difficult! We grew up together, my brother, Aziz and I, in Semut Api. Aziz got an idea into his head, somehow, that Murad cheated him when he sold the boat.’ She laughed artificially.

  ‘Nothing could be further from the truth! The very idea is absurd. But you know, Aziz just wouldn’t let it go.’ She shook her head slowly, and tried to look mournful about human nature, but Maryam thought she detected a gleam of satisfaction in recounting human foibles. ‘Selfish he was, begrudging Kamal the boat. Murad was right to be angry with him.’

  ‘Of course he was!’ Maryam heartily agreed, while Rubiah regarded her with disapproving eyes. Maryam slid her own eyes away from her cousin, and kept smiling, hoping to encourage Noriah’s confidences.

  Chapter 7

  MARYAM SOON FOUND HERSELF back in Semut Api with Rubiah, wandering down the main road, now blown over with sand, looking for Rahim. ‘Who do you think it is?’ she asked Rubiah for the tenth time. ‘She sure doesn’t like him.’

  Rubiah was not taken with Noriah. ‘She doesn’t like anybody. All that talk about fair and thrifty. What she means is mean and stingy. Even water held in his hand doesn’t leak! And talking about it as though it were something great.’

  Rubiah sniffed. ‘We aren’t people like that. We’re generous and friendly. She doesn’t know what it is to be Malay!’ she announced triumphantly, writing off Noriah and all her pronouncements.

  ‘It sounds miserable, all this fairness and carefulness and not spoiling kids.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘I hope I like some of the other people we find a little more.’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation, after all,’ Maryam reminded her. ‘It might be better if we don’t like the people we talk to. That way, you don’t feel bad if one of them turns out to be the killer.’

  She located a small general store by the side of the road: an open hut nearly falling in on itself, with some forlorn bottles of kerosene, chili fish sauce on spavined shelves. An older man sat behind his cracked counter, out of the sun, dozing.

  ‘Pak Chik!’ Maryam startled him out of his daze. He didn’t get up but raised his eyebrows to signify he was ready to do business. ‘Pak Chik, sorry to bother you,’ Maryam smiled graciously. ‘We’re looking for Rahim.’

  The man grunted, which Maryam took to mean ‘of course’.

  ‘Rahim, yes. He’s working down at the beach. You can find him there.’ As soon as he’d finished speaking, he shut his eyes; the store was now closed again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Maryam said. He nodded without opening his eyes.

  The beach was only a few steps away. It was a wide swath of immaculate white sand dotted with gracefully bending coconut palms, leading down to clear blue water. Only the foam flying a few yards out gave hints of the strong undercurrents and riptides for which this beach was famous. The fishing boats, the swift, single-outrigger sailboats, were still out, and the sun was fierce, reflecting off the sand in almost blinding light. One colorful boat was pulled up on the beach, and a few men were repairing it, keeping carefully in its shadow.

  Maryam shielded her eyes and walked over to them. ‘Rahim?’ she asked tentatively. One of the young men turned around and stood.

  ‘Yes, Mak Chik. Are you looking for me?’ He was tall and thin, burned dark by the sun, and squinting. He looked friendly.

  ‘Would you mind if I spoke to you?’

  ‘No; but what’s it about?’

  Maryam looked around helples
sly. ‘Can we sit over there, under the trees? I can’t even see in this sun.’

  He laughed and led the way back to the trees, where they could sit in the shade. ‘Would you like me to get some iced coffee?’ he asked, starting to walk back to the same sleeping man they’d spoken to earlier. ‘Be right back.’

  He sauntered back in a few moments, while Rubiah was still mopping her face. ‘Did you get this over there?’ she indicated the stall and its sleeping proprietor.

  He laughed. ‘I know, it doesn’t look like he does anything, but here you are!’ He handed each of them a plastic bag with iced milky coffee, keeping one for himself, and lighting up a cigarette. Maryam promptly passed out her own.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in heartfelt gratitude for something cold. ‘How do you work out there?’

  ‘It’s hot,’ he nodded. ‘What can you do? It’s a job.’ He looked at them expectantly.

  She introduced them both. ‘I’m Mak Chik Maryam, and this is Mak Chik Rubiah. We’re investigating a murder, helping the police.’

  ‘Mak Chik Jamillah?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Very sad.’

  ‘Do you know the family well?’

  He shrugged noncommittally. ‘Any of them?’ Maryam prodded.

  ‘I know Zaiton; of course, I do,’ Rahim admitted. He began to blush to the tips of his ears; it looked almost painful. ‘But if what you’re saying is that something…happened, it didn’t. Nothing. I mean, of course, her mother would want someone with more money than I have…’

  Maryam looked keenly at him. ‘Her mother?’

  ‘Well,’ he floundered, ‘yes, Mak Chik Jamillah, she would want a wealthier man… But there’s nothing to discuss here…’

  ‘And her father?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Pak Chik Aziz?’ she reminded him.

  ‘I know him better, of course. He owned part of the boat I worked on. I like him.’

  ‘But he wasn’t looking for a richer man?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Pak Chik Murad’s son?’

  He choked. ‘He wouldn’t want him,’ he blurted out. ‘He didn’t like the family much.’

  ‘But Mak Chik Jamillah did,’ she prodded.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looked at her. ‘I didn’t mean anyone in particular.’

  ‘Do you think,’ she said kindly, ‘that Pak Chik Aziz may have agreed to your marriage?’

  He mumbled something to his feet, as he stared at them.

  ‘And he still could,’ she added softly. ‘I mean, it still could happen, right?’ He was silent.

  ‘Come now,’ Maryam said, encouraging him. ‘We’re done now. It wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  His look said it might have been. He stood up to return to work.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Maryam really meant it. She liked him; he looked like a good boy. He smiled sadly and walked back into the sun, the waves of heat rising around him.

  ‘I liked the boy,’ Maryam declared to Rubiah on the porch after dinner. ‘I don’t want it to be him. But it could be a motive. After all, now, with Jamillah gone, Aziz might well agree to a marriage for Zaiton. In the light of day like this, it may sound silly, but we both know that falling in love…well, it could do it.’

  ‘He seems like such a nice boy!’ Rubiah remonstrated. ‘I just don’t see it.’

  ‘Was he at the ceremony?’ Maryam mused. ‘Zaiton would know.’

  ‘Aliza!’ she called, and her daughter materialized surprisingly quickly; listening from behind the door, Maryam suspected.

  ‘Do you still want to help?’ Aliza nodded eagerly. ‘Go ask Zaiton if Rahim was at the main puteri.’ Aliza nodded and started across the village. ‘Wait!’ Maryam called. ‘Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Any gossip about Zaiton. Any of the girls talking?’

  Aliza wiggled uncomfortably. ‘Sometimes, maybe…’

  ‘Aliza, this is a criminal investigation. No maybes.’

  ‘There’s a boy she likes.’

  ‘Here?’

  Aliza shook her head.

  ‘Semut Api?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me!’

  Maryam sighed in frustration. ‘I’m asking you now. If you want to help, tell me!’

  Aliza looked pained. ‘Well, I don’t really know that much. But there’s a boy in Semut Api who’s on her father’s boat, and he likes her, and his family asked to marry her.’

  ‘It’s gone as far as that?’

  ‘Yup. They say Pak Chik Aziz likes him, but Mak Chik Jamillah didn’t.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rubiah, thoughtfully. ‘Have they replied yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Now Aliza was entering into the spirit of the conversation.

  ‘They were still talking about it. Zaiton wanted them to say yes. But her mother thought he was poor.’

  ‘He is poor,’ her mother pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but they’re in love!’

  Maryam and Rubiah exchanged a telling look. No mother in Penambang wanted to hear that! Poor Jamillah must have been worried sick.

  ‘Has she been meeting him secretly?’ Maryam asked sternly. That would drive any mother crazy.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Maryam said nothing in reply, but stared steadily at her daughter.

  ‘Maybe,’ Aliza admitted. ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘Go and find out.’ She dismissed her. ‘Did he come to the ceremony?’

  Rubiah shook her head regretfully. ‘Like a cat and a roast. Boys and girls: you can’t keep them apart. It’s about time Zaiton got married.’

  Maryam agreed. She said casually, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking it’s time Azmi got married too.’

  Azmi was her son in the army, currently stationed in the south of Kelantan at Kok Lanas. He’d been living away from home for nearly two years now, and, of course, was a grown man, at least by his own reckoning, if not his parents’. Maryam considered finding a bride for Azmi before some girl found him—some girl who might not be from Kelantan, or even Malay.

  Still, this news came as some surprise to Rubiah. ‘Azmi?’ she asked. ‘Have you asked him?’

  Maryam was reluctant to admit how much she’d been thinking about it. ‘No, I haven’t said anything to anyone yet. Well,’ she amended, ‘I just asked Ashikin what she thought and she has a friend…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rosnah, a friend from school. From Kedai Buloh. She seems like a nice girl.’

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘You know…she’s met Ashikin for lunch at the market.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘So naturally, I met her. A sweet girl, I thought.’

  ‘Does Malek know her?’ Maryam’s brother Malek lived in Kedai Buloh.

  Her reluctance faded. ‘Yes! He thought they were a good family. They have rice land, and they buy fish and process it. Canning and stuff. She works for her parents.’

  Rubiah nodded. ‘You’ll have all the fish sauce you want.’

  ‘True,’ Maryam agreed. ‘Malek’s going to find out whether there’s been any talk of marriage for her. Then maybe we’ll see…’ She trailed off, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic yet, lest they find out the girl was already spoken for.

  Maryam cleared her throat. ‘Who shall we see tomorrow? Zaiton or Murad?’

  Rubiah answered immediately. ‘Murad. Let Aliza find out some more about Zaiton first. Besides, I’m curious to meet this fair but cheap one. He sounds awful.’

  ‘He probably is.’

  Chapter 8

  THEY TOOK A THREE-WHEELED TAXI to Semut Api, anxious to not arrive looking hot and possibly disheveled; it would never do with someone described as this forbidding. His house was quiet, and Murad himself was ensconced in a chair on the porch.

  He was not a large man. He was dark, with pure white hair and beard; his large, beaked nose dominated his narrow fa
ce, and his dark eyes were large and hooded. Maryam thought he looked like a hawk—cold and alert, and well capable of violence. He was dressed simply in a cotton sarong and white shirt, with a knitted white cap. He glared down at them from the porch as they approached.

  ‘Hello, Abang,’ Maryam greeted him, smiling. She refused to show any of the intimidation she felt upon seeing him. He looked at her silently, without moving.

  ‘I am Maryam, and this is Rubiah,’ she swept her arm toward her cousin. ‘We’re here helping the police about this, this…tragedy. I worked with Jamillah, you know, in the market. We all mourn her.’

  He made no indication he had heard her, or even noticed her standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘You are Abang Murad, aren’t you?’ she continued, growing exasperated.

  He stood up abruptly. ‘What are you doing here, Kak? Why have you come to my house?’

  She stood her ground. ‘I’m here to help the police investigate Kak Jamillah’s death.’

  ‘And why are you asking?’

  ‘We’re helping the police. It’s a complicated problem, you see, and we have…’

  ‘Why are you helping the police?’ he continued stubbornly. ‘You aren’t policemen. I don’t see what you have to do with it.’ He looked down at them from the porch.

  ‘There is too much of this,’ he continued, ‘too much of people doing what they want instead of what they should. It’s led us here.’

  ‘Abang,’ Maryam replied, forcing herself to stay reasonable, ‘you may be right. Yet, we are here already, and these injustices must be made right.’

  She liked the sound of that: important, even altruistic. ‘I ask you help us, to find who killed her.’

  Murad was silent for a moment, then motioned for them to ascend to the porch. He sat stiffly, offering nothing to eat or drink. His wife peeped out of the door, but he waved her away before she could offer them anything, or even greet them.

  ‘Now,’ Maryam began, but Murad held up a warning finger.

  ‘Wait!’ he commanded. ‘I’ll tell you what happened.’ He looked down his hawk’s nose at them and narrowed his eyes.