Shadow Play
Page 10
Looking as though she had just sucked on a lemon, Faouda was led under the awning of a small shed next to the market. They sat at a tiny table and ordered iced coffee with plenty of sweetened condensed milk and some packets of sticky rice. Maryam’s mood continued to improve.
“So, tell me Faouda,” she said familiarly, after a long restorative sip. “Who’s the man you were with in Kota Bharu?”
Faouda blanched and sat silent.
“Come, talk to me, or else you’ll have to talk to the police. It won’t be as much fun.”
“It isn’t any fun talking to you, Mak Cik!”
Maryam remained positively jovial. “Well, perhaps you think that now, but just wait till you talk to them. You’ll long for me.” Faouda sipped her coffee.
“We’ve had a hard trip from Kota Bharu, and I want to get back there by tonight. We don’t have forever.” Maryam gained in confidence with every word. She believed she was on the verge of a breakthrough.
“He’s a friend.”
“A friend?”
Faouda nodded.
“He stayed with you in Kota Bharu?”
She remained stubbornly silent.
“Faouda, I’m asking you a question.” She put on her sternest mother voice. “Did you stay with him?” She nodded unwillingly.
“So you didn’t go back to Kuala Krai right away, like you said.”
She looked hard at Maryam and then looked at her lap. “I really need you to answer me,” Maryam prodded her. “No,” she said shortly. “I stayed in Kota Bharu for a few days.”
“Till Monday?”
She nodded.
“With this friend?”
She nodded again.
“Faouda,” Maryam said, leaning back in her chair. “I can’t go on this way: I ask a question and you answer with one word or just a nod.” Rubiah nodded her agreement and raised her eyebrows meaningfully at Faouda.
“I’m a lot older than you are,” Maryam continued, “and I just don’t have the patience. Are you going to talk, or not? Because if not, I might as well go back right now.” She started to collect her bag and rise.
“OK,” Faouda capitulated. “He’s my husband now.”
Maryam was astounded. “What?”
“You heard me. We’re married. We got married in Kota Bharu. So it’s totally alright that I was staying with him.”
Rubiah nodded. “Yes, it’s alright you were staying with him, that’s true.” Kelantan had very strict laws about unmarried couples being together unchaperoned at all; staying together was out of the question. “But how, when…”
“I knew him here, before I married Ghani,” Faouda preened, smoothing down her sarong and tossing her head ever so slightly. “We were talking about getting married; teasing really,” she said deprecatingly, “and then I met Ghani.”
“That was fast,” Maryam said as neutrally as possible.
“Sometimes love is fast,” Faouda answered self-righteously. “Anyway, he heard I went up to Kota Bharu to stay with Ghani, and he followed me up there.” Her eyes danced: she clearly thought this terribly romantic.
“He was looking for me in Tawang, and someone there told him I’d gone to Kota Bharu to go home. And he found me at the taxi station! Can you believe it?”
“Amazing. He was your jodoh: your fated love. Wonderful.”
Rubiah couldn’t tell whether Maryam was being polite or sarcastic. Either way, it didn’t look as if Faouda would notice.
“I know!” Faouda said excitedly. “He doesn’t have any children either, so we’re both starting together. I mean, it’s just the two of us!”
“It is great,” Maryam smiled. “Where did you meet him?”
“Oh, around here. You know, Kuala Krai. In town.”
“And you knew him while you were still married to that older guy?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Faouda said hotly. “Not at all. I met him then, but nothing happened. We just talked. And then I got divorced and I went back to my parents’ house. Well, you know the rest. Before anything could happen, I met Ghani. But he wanted me, my husband, and he came up to look for me.”
“When did you get married?”
“That day!” Faouda said proudly. “That very day! In Kota Bharu.”
“Fabulous,” Maryam enthused. “A real fairy tale. So romantic.” She lit a cigarette. “So you spent a honeymoon in Kota Bharu, did you?”
Faouda smirked, “You could say that.”
“And you came home on Monday morning?”
She nodded, and reached for one of Maryam’s cigarettes. “Early in the morning on Monday. He had to get back to work.”
“What does he do again?” Maryam asked guilessly.
“I never told you,” snapped Faouda. “He drives a truck. Lumber.”
“Why are you still living at your mother’s house?”
Faouda made a face. “You know how people talk. What would they say if I came back divorced and remarried in the same week? Even you’re thinking it, don’t deny it. We wanted to keep it quiet, and then announce it in a few weeks.
“He’s gone now anyway, driving wood over to Kedah. It takes a while, you know. They drive through Thailand,” she leaned forward, confidentially. “Up through Kelantan through Patani,” she sketched a map in the air with her finger, “and across to Perlis and Kedah. Very rough driving, so it takes a while.” She seemed happy enough to talk now.
“Your mother knows.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“My parents know. His parents know. That’s all for now, till we get a place to move into. I’m just waiting. I can be patient.”
“Marvelous.” Maryam smiled at her. “So, you’ve been divorced and married twice in the past … what? Month, is it?”
Faouda gave her the dirtiest of all possible looks.
“Don’t you need to wait three months after a divorce before you’re married?”
Faouda rubbed her ankle, not taking her eyes off it.
“Is it even legal if you haven’t told the Khadi about your marriages? I don’t know. What do you think?” she asked Rubiah.
Rubiah shook her head. “Can’t be,” she answered shortly. “Why, if she were pregnant now, who’d be the legal father? It’s hard to know…”
“It isn’t any of your business,” Faouda interrupted, furious. “Just butt out, OK?”
Maryam and Rubiah exchanged skeptical looks. “Tell me, when you were up in Kota Bharu, did you take in any Wayang Siam?”
Faouda’s face went red, or rather, redder. “You think you’re tricking me. Well, you aren’t. I know what you want. You want to say I killed Ghani. Well, I didn’t. So go look somewhere else.”
“I’m just asking if you saw any, that’s all.”
“No!” She was now as sulky as she had been at the beginning of the conversation. Maryam sighed. It was too much to be expected to cheer her up twice within an hour. She’d had enough of Faouda for one day.
“OK. You’re sure?” She and Rubiah prepared to leave.
“I’m sure,” said Faouda with infinite bad grace. “Have a good trip back.”
Chapter XIII
Dollah volunteered to gather all the musicians at his house for Maryam’s convenience. Maryam suspected they’d already coordinated their stories and didn’t want to make it even easier for them. She declined his offer, preferring to see each in his own house, his own environment. She and Rubiah slogged through seven different kampong, and in six of them heard the same story. They loved Ghani and couldn’t imagine how this happened. His wife Aisha was a lovely girl and they didn’t know Faouda, but believed her capable of this crime. They weren’t sure if they saw Hassan or any of his troupe, but he, too, could easily have done it. And then they kept their mouths firmly shut.
At the seventh kampong, where they arrived hot, slightly bedraggled and ready for an argument, luck was with them: they met the one musician who would speak honestly with them. The oldest of the troupe, the one who played the flute-
like serunai, was a round-faced, affable man, living in a small village not too far from Dollah’s. His house was new, made of plywood, and sparsely furnished. His wife was at home cooking, while several grandchildren played under the house, out of the sun.
He invited them in, and showed no signs of the nervousness that plagued all his colleagues. “It’s hot out there,” he said genially, “you must be exhausted. Come, sit down,” he motioned to the couch. He called to a grandchild and gave him some instruction, and then bade his guests relax. His wife excused herself to return to the kitchen.
“Have a cigarette. Have you been to see everyone else?” He laughed. “Oh my, what a day. You must have covered twenty miles!” He laughed again. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“Pak Cik Mahmud,” Maryam had checked his name before they reached the house, to guarantee she had it right. “Thank you for seeing us.” By now, it felt as though they had memorized their lines and were going through a meaningless ritual.
“Of course, of course. It’s such a terrible shame, poor Ghani. Such a young man, he didn’t deserve to be cut off so soon. And with little children left alone!” He shook his head, sadly. “I’d like to see whoever did this be caught, you know. I really regret what happened. I‘m sorry he’s gone.” He sat quietly for a moment. “A tragedy,” he whispered.
“I know,” Maryam sympathized. “Did you see anything, Pak Cik, anything at all the night Ghani passed on?”
He nodded as he spoke. “There was a lot going on that night. I don’t know why that night more than any other, but there you are. You know Ghani and Arifin, the gong player, they don’t get along.” Maryam nodded. “They argue a lot. Arifin’s jealous of his wife and thought Ghani tried to get her away from him. A month ago, I would have said it was nonsense, but after Ghani took a second wife, I’d have to think about it again. Well, that doesn’t matter. Ghani was teasing Arifin, and Arifin always takes the bait. They finally had some words in the panggung, and Dollah told them to shut up.
“Anyway,” he continued as Maryam and Rubiah leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word, “During the break, I went down, you know, and Ghani was at the back of the panggung arguing with Aisha’s brother.”
“Was Aisha there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her, just her brother. But I wasn’t really looking around either. I just wanted to take care of my business and get back.”
“Did anyone else see them?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. The coffee stalls were against the other side of the field, so you couldn’t see from there. There are usually some little boys hanging around the back of the panggung looking in, but not during the break, ‘cause there’s nothing going on. I mean,” he said, after brief consideration, “some of the others may have seen it, or heard it, but I don’t think the audience would have.”
“Could you hear them?”
“Not really, but I could see them, and given all that happened, I didn’t really need to hear them to know what the argument was about. Ali, that’s Aisha’s brother, was furious at Ghani, and Ghani was arguing back, and before I went up into the panggung, Ali had taken a swing at him. Ghani pushed him away and went back up.”
The grandchild returned carrying icy bottles of Green Spot Orange Soda and a small bag of cakes. Mahmud’s wife came in with some glasses and plates.
“This is such a treat on a hot day,” Maryam told him gratefully.
He laughed. “Drink, drink, please!” He took a swig himself and then continued his story. “Ghani came up and sat down, he sat next to me, you know. We always keep a few golok around in the panggung, you need it to cut things and make repairs. Anyway, one was lying around in the middle, on a pile of clothes, and Ghani got up and put it down next to him. ‘Just in case,’ he said to me. ‘He’s really mad.’
“‘You don’t really think he’d do anything,’ I said to him. ‘He’s a hotheaded kid, but Ghani,’ I said, ‘you really deserve it this time.’ He knew he did, he was sorry. ‘I know,’ he said to me, ‘but I’m going to keep it next to me just in case.’
“I kind of forgot about it, because he didn’t mention it again, and after the performance, Ali was gone. So I figured it was the kind of argument young men have: Hangat, hangat tahi ayam – it gets hot very fast and cools off quickly. The next time I saw a golok like that,” he said sadly, “was in the ground next to Ghani. I still can’t believe it.”
Maryam commiserated. “I know how much you feel, a young man like that. Was Ali the only visitor Ghani had? Was anyone else at the performance you noticed?”
“Not to see Ghani.”
“Who did they want to see?”
“Dalang go to each other performances, you know, to see what’s going on. Steal a few tips from each other, too, no doubt.”
Maryam began to feel dizzy. It couldn’t be. “I thought Hassan was in the audience that night. Do you know him?”
“Yes,” Rubiah answered tersely.
“Yeah, he and Dollah are rivals, though for my money, Dollah’s better and more popular. But Hassan got to go to America, and he never lets anyone forget it. He and Dollah argue a lot, but really Kak, I don’t think Hassan would have any reason to argue with Ghani. Ghani was just a musician. Any argument here would be dalang to dalang, do you
see?”
“How about the second wife, Faouda, was she there too?” Rubiah asked, thinking it would have made the performance pretty crowded.
“Not that I saw. But again, Kak, I wasn’t looking. Anyone could have been there, but if they didn’t stick their nose into the panggung, I wouldn’t see them. I’m sorry.” He smiled.
“No, you’ve been so helpful,” Maryam thanked him. “And now, we don’t want to bother you anymore. Thanks again.” He waved them out the door, and they walked to the road to find their car. Rahman was waiting for them, melting in the heat. He had retreated from the car to the slight shade of a small outdoor coffee shop and was passing the time gossiping with the proprietor.
“Ready?” He leapt to his feet.
As they climbed into the car, he blasted the air conditioner. They took deep breaths of the icy air and sighed: it was heavenly.
Chapter XIV
Well,” Maryam told Osman, “You aren’t going to believe this.”
“You may be right,” Osman said without enthusiasm. She seemed pretty cheerful, he had to admit. He leaned back in his chair behind his desk at the police station, and Maryam recounted all she had found out from Dollah’s troupe. Osman was fascinated by it all. “So, Ali was there,” he mused, stroking a non-existent moustache. “Well, that’s something. What about the second wife?”
“That’s more complicated,” Maryam said sadly, wishing the whole case were more straightforward, and she could solve it right now. “She’s married again.”
“What? How?”
“Right here in Kota Bharu. Do you know,” she looked at him sternly, and he secretly quailed, “she’s been divorced and married twice in just a month? Can you believe it? What wouldn’t she do?” She tightened her lips in disapproval. “And, guess who else was there?”
“Who?” he said dejectedly.
“Hassan!”
“Hassan! The one who came here to complain, that Hassan?”
“The very same. Think about it. All his complaining about me, and pushing me down the stairs, and he was there! I think it’s very suspicious.”
“Very strange indeed,” Osman said, sitting up straight.
“He must have been sure that no one saw him when he complained like that. Because now that I know he was there, what does he really have to whine about? He was there on the night of the death and should be investigated.”
“Absolutely,” Osman agreed. “Though, of course, we don’t know if he stayed after the performance.”
Maryam was momentarily nonplussed. “Well, I’m trying to think how to find that out. We’ve got quite a crowd…”.
Osman nodded. “Is that all?”
Osman nodded automatically. Maryam wondered what, if anything, he did when she wasn’t there, but she kept that conjecture to herself. “And also,” she continued briskly, “you should send someone to question Aisha’s brother, Ali. I can’t get to see him, and he might know something.”
“Of course,” Osman pondered. “He’d have an excellent motive.”
“I know,” Maryam nodded slowly. “Look, Aisha’s not well, she’s wandering.”
“What?”
“Her wits,” Maryam explained. “Her wits are wandering, poor soul. And no one wants me to talk to Ali. So you’ve got to get him and bring him here. Then we can talk to him here.”
“You’re sure he was there at the performance?”
“That’s what I was told. By several people.”
Osman squirmed slightly and blushed. “I don’t think I want to bring him here,” Osman said uncomfortably, unwilling to disappoint Maryam, yet unwilling to follow her directions either. “It sends the wrong message: we don’t just drag people into the station.”
He seemed to gain confidence as he spoke. “No, Mak Cik, I’ll go with you to see him at his house. He’ll have to speak to us, he can’t refuse the police.” He rose quickly, pulling himself up to full height. “I’ll get things ready.”
Maryam eyed him closely. She thought she might have seen a flash of self-confidence there, a bit of a backbone. “I’ll just run over to the market, it’s so nearby. Just send someone, if you don’t mind,” Maryam added graciously, “to get me when you’re ready.”
She gathered up her bag and left the police station. Why waste time here when she could make sure the stall was all right? She had perfect faith in Ashikin, but maybe she could help out.
The market was busy, and Ashikin had left her seat made of folded batik and was on the floor, working two customers at once. Maryam overflowed with maternal pride: just look at her, she thought. What a businesswoman!