“Of course, he’s Malay; honestly,” Maryam chided him. This was Kelantan, after all. “And they were married on that Friday?”
He nodded. “Yeah, they were, in Kota Bharu like she said.”
“Do we know where they stayed in Kota Bharu?”
Osman shrugged. “Not yet, but when we talk to him I’m sure we’ll find out.”
Maryam nodded. “Are you going to bring him up here to talk to him? I’m sick of Kuala Krai. Don’t make us go down there again.”
“Too hot?” Osman teased her.
“Too hot, too far, too much jungle. Can we?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I think it would be better, Mak Cik, if we spoke to him in Kuala Krai. Not in the kampong,” he added hastily, reading her expression. “At the police station. Nice and cool, and you don’t have to find him. I just can’t justify bringing him all the way up here …”
Maryam sighed and nodded regretfully. “I know. You’re right. I wish you weren’t, but you are,” she reflected honestly. She summoned up a huge smile. “You’re so professional! Thank you. Now come, you must have some more to eat. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been eating since you’ve been here.” She swooped down on his now empty plate and walked into the kitchen to fill it once more.
The next morning Maryam watered the flowers set in pots around her newly protected yard. It didn’t look any different, but Mamat was right, it felt different. As she stood back to admire her garden, Dollah arrived, smiling warmly and apologizing for disturbing her. “I felt I should speak with you, Kak.”
Maryam invited him in and started coffee. She agreed: he should speak with her and apologize for leading her into the middle of his brawl with Hassan while neglecting to mention any relevant facts about his musicians. In fact, Maryam believed Dollah had done as much as possible to mislead her without outright lying and had put her life in danger as a result
“So, Abang Dollah, what brings you here?” Maryam asked.
Dollah looked a bit shamefaced, and lifted his eyes to Mamat as if asking for help. Mamat watched him steadily and offered nothing. “It’s a bit awkward, Kak Maryam.” She waited. He sighed and continued.
“I see this has all become more complicated than I thought it would be. You know, I heard about what happened.” Maryam looked at him enquiringly. He cleared his throat. “With Hassan. He had no business treating you so rudely. It just goes to show how kurang ajar, badly brought up, he really is.”
Maryam’s cheeks burned as she recollected landing in the dust at the bottom of his stairs, lying in a heap with her face in the dirt.
“I’m sorry, Kak. I had no idea he would act this way. You can see why I feel this way about him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you two were feuding?”
Dollah shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
Maryam leaned in, willing herself to stay calm. “He was only there at your performance because of it. Of course, once I asked about it, I’d be involved. You knew that would happen.”
Dollah hung his head. “I didn’t think …”
“And what exactly do you do when you go to each other’s performances? You don’t make any trouble. What is it?”
“Nothing much.”
She sighed impatiently. “Abang Dollah, you put me in a very difficult situation. Why are you here if you only want to hint, not talk?”
“We watch each other, and see what other dalang are doing. Get ideas, maybe.” Dollah paused. “You know, we use jampi to open the panggung, so to speak, and to attract the audience. So when we fight, we use them to drive away the audience, to interrupt the performance. Of course,” he grew animated, as he always did when discussing Wayang Siam, “jampi won’t make a bad dalang good, but it might make a good dalang just a little bit better. So a rival dalang, he might try to make a very good dalang a little worse, and have fewer people watch. You understand.”
Maryam felt comprehension dawning. “Are you telling me that Hassan came with spells to drive people away, maybe to hurt you?”
Dollah nodded.
“So,” she continued, “Hassan knows a lot about jampi. And so do
you.”
“Well, yes.” He admitted. “It’s part of being a dalang.”
“And either one of you,” she was remorseless, “would be able to concoct the spell under my house. You both know enough to do it.”
“What was that?” Dollah appeared to be horrified.
“There was a wax doll under my stairs, with an ikan keli spine stuck right through it. And a written spell, and nails in it, and it was wrapped in a white shroud.”
“I’m shocked! This is terrible.”
“I almost died!” she added. “And what if my kids had found it instead? Do you have any idea what could have happened? Did anyone consider that before leaving that here, in my house?”
“What a horror! Alamak! I can’t tell you how appalled I am to hear this.”
Maryam flicked the ash of her cigarette over the railing. “Are you really that surprised, Abang?”
Dollah was very still. “Why do you ask that, Kak?”
Maryam took a deep breath. “I think you knew about the spell. That’s why you came here: to make sure I knew Hassan could easily have left it here. I suppose you thought I’d go back to see him again. That’s what I think.”
Dollah was silent. Her straightforward accusations were an affront to Malay courtesy, and he had rarely seen an adult act in such a way. She’d been provoked, however, and he could understand why she’d lost patience. Understand it, yes, but it still astounded him to see a woman act that way.
“Kak, these are serious things you’re saying about me.”
“Yes they are, but are they true? This is the way I see it: there’s a lot you could have told me, but didn’t.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Why did you let me find this out on my own and put myself in danger when you could have told me right at the start?”
Dollah was silent, thinking so hard Maryam could almost hear it. “It didn’t work quite the way I planned, Kak.”
“How did you plan it?”
“I just wanted to protect you.” Maryam snorted. “Really! It was my only intention.”
“You were protecting me by directing me towards Hassan?”
“Well, not exactly. But you see, Hassan could easily have done this. In fact, I think he did.”
“Really?” she said drily.
He nodded energetically. “Now, listen to me. He might have mistaken Ghani for me, or have fought with him and killed him before he realized what was happening. I know what you’re thinking: how could he mistake a kid fifteen years younger and six inches taller for me? But in the dark, sometimes you see only what you want to. He could easily have left the spell under your stairs. He knows how, he wouldn’t have to work with a bomoh, and he knows where you live. See?”
“You don’t need a bomoh, and you know where I live, too.”
“You’re right,” he nodded. “But why would I kill Ghani? I loved that kid. I’ve got no reason to hurt him.”
Maryam grudgingly granted him that much.
“Why didn’t you warn me about Hassan?” she demanded. “If I knew, would I have shown up there and walked right up to his door like that? He thought that’s what I was doing, and he certainly punished me for it.” She paused, tamping down her rising anger. “You misled me. You didn’t lie to me, but you didn’t tell me what I needed to know either.”
“You’re right Kak. Forgive me, please.”
Maryam thought he would continue to argue, but an outright apology brought her up short. “Well, I mean, of course,” she stammered, unready for it. “But will you help me now? I can’t continue not knowing whether to trust you or not.” She looked at him intently, searching for a clue that would let her know if he were lying.
“You can trust me,” Dollah said with feeling, but exactly what sort of feeling, Maryam wasn’t really sure.
C
hapter XIX
Maryam considered the primary victim of Ghani’s behavior: Aisha. Whether she went mad from guilt or grief or both, she was the key figure. The dalang’s feud led to a seemingly infinite series of dead ends, and Maryam hoped by taking the story back to its simplest beginning, she could make sense of it. It was worth attempting to wring some sense out of Aisha. Perhaps if Maryam ignored all extraneous issues, she could impose clarity on what now seemed utterly opaque. Maryam hopped into a taxi and headed back for Tawang.
Circumstances appeared to have deteriorated since her last visit. As she approached the house, she spotted Azizah hanging the wash in the back, with her two small grandchildren asleep on the porch. Maryam hailed her.
“Hello, Kak! How are things going?”
Azizah turned to look at her, with a wooden laundry peg between her teeth. She, too, looked pale and worn out. She nodded at Maryam, and finished hanging the sheet. “Haven’t seen you in a few days,” she said noncommittally.
“I know,” Maryam smiled pleasantly. “I hope Aisha is well.”
Azizah shook her head sadly. “Worse really.”
“No!”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry to say. She hardly speaks anymore. Just stays in bed.”
“She doesn’t want to take care of the kids?” Maryam was astonished.
Azizah looked at her mournfully. “Doesn’t even want to see them. We’ve had the bomoh here I don’t know how many times…” She bent to pick up another piece of washing and spread it out on the line. “I’m at my wit’s end, I can tell you.”
“How awful! She just doesn’t respond?”
She shook her head and said nothing, intent on her task.
“Does she speak to anyone?” Maryam pursued.
“No,” Azizah sighed. “I’m afraid; what if she stays this way?” Tears began spilling out her eyes. “My poor girl.” She tried to control herself, to keep herself from crying. She leaned against the wet sheet she’d just hung on the line.
“Kak,” Maryam asked softly, “May I talk to her?”
“You can try,” Azizah wiped her eyes. “I don’t know if you’ll get very much.”
Maryam nodded. “You may well be right. But I’d still like to try.”
Azizah nodded. “Go ahead. She’s in the living room.”
Maryam walked into the living room from the dazzling sunlight outside. She could make out a couch and coffee table, as well as a larger table and chairs, but didn’t see Aisha anywhere. She walked in carefully, craning her neck to look into each corner. She saw a bundle under the window, which gradually resolved itself into a human shape curled on a sleeping mat. It was Aisha, lying on the floor, eyes wide open. Maryam tiptoed over to sit down next to her. Aisha reacted not at all.
“Aisha,” Maryam called softly. The girl did not blink or move. Her eyes remained fixed on a point in the distance and she lay on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek, her legs brought up towards her chest. “Aisha, it’s me, Mak Cik Maryam. Do you remember me?” Aisha was motionless, her breathing even, her mouth closed.
“Aisha, please!” Maryam pleaded. “Please speak, just for your mother. She’s out of her mind with worry. We all are,” she added in a whisper. Maryam slipped her own hand under Aisha’s head, and lifted it up just a bit, to see if Aisha would move her eyes. They seemed to flicker, but did not focus on Maryam.
Maryam was perplexed: when she met Aisha just a few days after Ghani’s death, she seemed in control, packing up her house to move to her parents’ place. The madness seemed to come upon her only after she came home. Common sense told her a complete breakdown like this would have begun almost immediately after she discovered Ghani’s death: not gradually, days after the worst was over. It was entirely possible that reactions could be delayed, but something about this bothered her.
She held Aisha’s chin in her hand and looked deeply into her eyes. They were opened, but unseeing: the pupils were large, covering almost all of the brown. She put her head down again gently, and patted her hair.
“Kak Azizah,” she asked as she left the house, “who’s been feeding Aisha?”
“Feeding her?” Azizah thought about the question. “Well, I do, of course.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not usually. Sometimes Ali will help out. You know, he and Aisha are very close. He’s so worried, he can hardly sleep. I’m trying to keep the kids from noticing it, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to do it.”
Maryam nodded. “Is Ali here?”
“No, he’s working.”
“Do you think he might be able to come see me?”
Azizah shrugged. “Why?” She cocked her head at Maryam. “What would Ali know?”
“Maybe nothing,” Maryam comforted her. “Maybe nothing at all. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to him.”
She nodded, but gave Maryam a sharp look. Maryam took her leave, suddenly anxious to return to Kampong Penambang.
Arriving with relief at her own kampong, she walked right past her house, giving instructions to Aliza to begin dinner, and sought out Pak Awang, the bomoh she’d last seen placing protective spells around her house. She found him on the porch of his house, drinking coffee and enjoying the first hint of coolness in the late afternoon.
“Cik Yam!” he called out to her. “How nice to see you. I hope everything is alright?” He seemed concerned.
“Oh, fine, fine,” she assured him. “No problem with our jampi, Pak Cik.”
He smiled, proud of his work. “Good, I’m glad.”
She sat on one of the lower steps. “I’ve just been thinking … well, you know, could you give anything to someone to make them quiet?”
“Quiet?”
“Like they were asleep, but not.”
He looked at her sternly. “That’s a very serious thing, Cik Yam. Are you thinking of anything like that?”
“Not me, no. But I’ve just seen someone, and I have a feeling it isn’t right.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” She sighed. “It’s difficult to say.”
“Well, you’ve got to tell me something. How can I answer otherwise?”
She nodded. “I know, I’ll try. It’s like this. There’s a girl, and her husband dies. He’s murdered really. And I saw her very soon after, one or two days, and she was fine. Well, sad, of course, but normal; you know.” She lit a cigarette, one of her own home rolled, and offered one to Pak Cik Awang. He took it silently, listening carefully. “Then I saw her a few days later, and she was strange. Walking around the house with no direction, not really paying attention when people talked to her, not making much sense when she was talking. In her own world, I’d say.
“I was just there today, Pak Cik, and came straight over here from there. Now she’s lying on the floor in her house, curled up on a mat, staring at the wall. She doesn’t speak when spoken to, she doesn’t focus. I picked up her head, and looked into her eyes, but she didn’t react at all.
“I did notice something, though. The black of her eyes are wide: you can hardly see any brown, and her eyes are opened very wide.” Pak Cik Awang nodded. “Now Pak Cik,” Maryam continued, “is she mad? Or, could it be she’s drugged? What would cause something like that?”
Pak Cik Awang thought for a long while. “Is she eating?” he finally asked.
Maryam nodded. “I think so anyway. Her mother says she is. I asked her mother, ‘Who feeds her?’ Her mother said she did, and sometimes her brother helps.”
“Would either of them want to harm her?”
Maryam shook her head. “I don’t think so, that’s why I’m so puzzled. She and her brother are really close. Her mother – well, of course her mother loves her. She’s terribly concerned. And this girl’s children are now there, too. Her family couldn’t have any reason to harm her. I think they want to care for her.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s strange.” He thought for a while more. “Of cours
e, it’s possible.”
“What is?”
He held up his hand, directing her to desist. “Someone could be giving her small amounts of a poison to keep her silent. Even something like opium, if they could find it. I don’t know there’s much around here. I haven’t seen it. There are others though.” He stroked his cheek. “Yes, I believe with a small dose she could be put in a state like this. Maybe kecubong. They could get it from a jungle area, or buy it, I suppose.”
“Would it kill her?”
“It depends how much she was given. If it were a small enough dose, probably not.”
“Would she be able to recover if she wasn’t fed it any longer?”
He shrugged. “She could, if nothing’s been harmed. It’s a dangerous game to play, especially if you’re planning to have her recover rather than die. You know, even if they didn’t intend to kill her, they still could by mistake. Once you start giving someone poison, all kinds of things can happen. Would her family do that?”
“That’s just it, Pak Cik. I don’t think so: I can’t see why they would. But it doesn’t make sense to me that she was normal right after her husband’s death and only later began to sink into this faint. If she were going mad from grief, as her mother says, shouldn’t it have started right away?”
‘I would think so,” he answered slowly, still thinking. “I really do think so.” He was silent for a minute or two. “Could anyone else have given her anything?” he asked. “I’m thinking now, maybe someone bringing something for her. Could that be possible? If not, then the only people who could poison her would be those feeding her every day.”
“Could it be something else, Pak Cik? Aside from poison, something natural?”
Pak Cik Awang thought. “I suppose anything’s possible. An evil jampi: it could be that. It’s hard to tell.”
“Would you look at her for me, Pak Cik?” Maryam begged him. “Could you come with me to Tawang?”
Shadow Play Page 13