Shadow Play

by Barbara Ismail

  “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…”

  “Can we go somewhere else? It’s so noisy here.”

  Maryam shrugged. “Upstairs? You can have some coffee.” Maryam had rarely witnessed a male activity which did not include copious cups of coffee.

  Osman followed her upstairs to Rubiah’s stall, which was thankfully empty. Rubiah smiled at Osman and put out a selection of the house specialties and three cups of coffee.

  Osman hovered over the plate of Kelantanese cakes. “Some of these don’t look very familiar,” he said doubtfully.

  “They’re good, try them,” Rubiah encouraged him. “No one’s died yet.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he blushed. “What’s this one?”

  “Tahi Itik,” Rubiah laughed. “Go ahead,” she urged. “It’s sweet!”

  He put the rice cake topped with golden coconut cream in his mouth gingerly, and then smiled. “It’s good, thanks!” He raised his head and looked both Maryam and Rubiah in the eye.

  “Don’t worry,” Maryam assured him, “Rubiah’s my cousin. She’s been with me on all our investigating.” Now she got down to business; neither she nor Rubiah had all day. “Anyway, you wanted to know what we found out.”

  He nodded silently and brought out a small notebook and pencil. He composed his face into an expression of both industry and lofty authority, and nodded at Maryam to speak. She began to outline all that they’d done, all the places they’d been.

  “But,” she wrapped up efficiently, “that still leaves us a lot of people with a decent motive to kill him: two wives, two parents- in-law and brothers, maybe ex-husbands … and there are probably more! And all because of getting married again.” She glared at Osman.

  “Mak Cik, I’m not even married once. Don’t look at me like that!”

  “Just keep in mind, when you get older, what that can lead to,” she warned him. “Look where it got Ghani,” she warmed to her subject, but Osman held up a placating hand. She rolled her eyes, but changed the subject.

  “Well, anyway,” she continued. “Faouda’s back in Kuala Krai. She says she went home right away by taxi, but you should check that out.” Osman lifted his head from his notebook and looked at Maryam.

  “Yes,” she nodded at him, “you should have your men check the taxi drivers who go to Kuala Krai and see if anyone can remember taking her, and when. That way we’ll know if she stayed up here longer than she’s admitted to.”

  “It could be important,” Rubiah added, nodding at Osman and looking pointedly at the pad he held. He began writing furiously again.

  “So, we’re going to keep looking: I think tomorrow we’ll go to see the musicians he played with. There’s certain to be gossip.” She looked at Osman over the rim of her coffee cup.

  “So, Che Osman, will you help us out here? Can you send someone to check the taxis? It’s always going to be the same people going back and forth to Kuala Krai, heaven help them. What a trip! Have you ever been there?”

  Osman shook his head. “No, I’ve only been in Kelantan for a month or so.”

  “Well, take my word, you don’t want to go. It’s so far! And there’s nothing there, just jungle and these rocks…” She stopped herself in mid-sentence. She began again, seeking a more diplomatic tone. “Though, of course, I’m sure the people from there really like it. But for someone from Kota Bharu, well, it’s kind of … rough.”

  Maryam stood up to indicate the interview was at an end. “Please excuse me, Che Osman; I must get back to work.”

  “You can stay,” Rubiah invited him, “and finish your coffee.” And spill the details of your life, she forbore to add, such as why aren’t you married yet? What does your mother think about that? She smiled at him, and his defences began to drop. “Have some more cake,” she urged him. “Do you need a home-cooked meal? You look as though you might,” she said casually. “Here, sit for a minute, and eat.”

  Maryam thanked Rubiah, and walked swiftly down the stairs to get back to work. Osman stayed with Rubiah and ended up sampling her wide variety of cakes and answering all her questions in commendable detail. He found himself so full, he could barely stagger back to the office.

  Chapter X

  Osman raged at himself. He knew he should ask the taxi drivers about when Faouda returned to Kuala Krai. He knew the wives and their families were the most likely suspects. He was, after all, a policeman, and so far, a successful one. He could have gone to talk to them all himself, but when Maryam informed him she was taking over, he simply nodded and took notes like a schoolboy. And now she was telling him what to do and to let
her know when it was finished.

  This might be his first major posting, but he was the police chief here and he intended to make it known. He would not be underestimated: kecil, kecil anak harimau: small like a tiger cub is small, but soon to be reckoned with. He slapped his hand on his desk for emphasis, and then called in one of his men and ordered him to check the taxi drivers going to Kuala Krai. He felt better. He had taken control of his own investigation.

  Rahman was hot, tired and discouraged. He was the most junior policeman in Kota Bharu, and always chosen for the least thankful tasks. This morning he wandered amid the chaos of Kota Bharu’s small taxi and bus station, looking for a driver plying the Kuala Krai-Kota Bharu route who might recognize the blurred black-and-white picture of Faouda he clutched in his increasingly sweaty hand.

  Osman had handed him the fax of Faouda’s identity card photo with the flourish, proud of himself for getting it from the Kuala Krai police. “Here it is,” Osman crowed, waving it above his head before slapping it into Rahman’s palm. “Go and find out who drove her down to Kuala Krai and what day they did it. And if you can’t find a taxi driver, start on the bus drivers.”

  Rahman nodded glumly and walked over to the open square. He looked at the picture himself and found it unidentifiable: at certain angles, it looked like nothing more than blotches of black and gray. He squinted at it, trying to form the shapes into animals or perhaps trees. Finally, he tore himself away from his game and plunged into the crowd.

  He began with taxi drivers, identified by their routes painted on the side of their cars. He had found three so far, none of whom were anxious to talk to him and who took a long look at his damp paper and shook their heads. When he pressed them, they shrugged. Most of them were in their twenties and thirties, slightly older than Rahman himself, and they looked at him like amused older brothers watching him play pretend. This did not improve Rahman’s mood, and he made several promises to himself to remember these faces and make their lives hell when he moved up in the department.