Once We Were There

by Bernice Chauly

  I needed to see Sumi, I needed to find that woman who had the babies. I needed to find out if she had others, if she was part of a ring of baby traffickers. I needed to pull myself together, to figure it all out, to make sense of everything that I knew. Marina was the only person I could trust. That, by far, was the only certainty in my life. My world was becoming smaller and smaller. In contrast, my daughter was out in a world that had become more and more hostile. I was a fool to believe it, but in my mind I believed that I could find Alba.

  Sumi and Fairman had become instant parents. Samiya stayed as Samiya. It just seemed fitting that the first two syllables of her name were so similar to Sumi’s. It was meant to be. It made sense. The baby made sense. It all did.

  That Sunday afternoon they celebrated her christening of sorts with a party. I avoided the prayers earlier as I knew Omar would be there. When I walked into the Fairman residence that sweaty, sticky afternoon, I knew that I would come face to face with people who would question me, look at me with pity combined with some form of trepidation.

  I parked my car along the side of the road, which was already lined with BMWs, the latest Mercedes models, sleek black Range Rovers, brand-new European four-wheel drives, all of which indicated that babies were on board. I wore a simple white top with black pants, easy brown leather pumps and a smile. I walked into chatter, cries and salutations, and when I entered, everything stopped. All eyes were on me. At least ten couples, with multiple babies and toddlers in between them, Indonesian and Filipino maids—all in blue and white uniforms—all stopped and stood and stared at me.

  And there I was. The most pitied woman in KL. The one who was unfortunate enough to lose her child in KL’s most exclusive supermarket. The one who had to be checked into a psych ward. The one who was found screaming and delusional in a flea market. The one whose husband left her. The one who went crazy from grief. The one every woman in that room felt sorry for.

  Sumi broke the deafening silence. Darling, you made it. So happy you’re here!

  She walked towards me, dressed elegantly in slacks and a flowery blouse. Fairman followed in a crisp white shirt and tailored slacks. They were the perfect couple. They took turns to hug and kiss me. She smelled of vanilla; he, of bergamot and sandalwood. And then as if by some unspoken admission, the chatter started, babies started wailing and the nannies rose in unison to cater to the slew of distressed cries.

  You did something to your hair, it’s gorgeous! Sumi said.

  Yeah, I said. Cut it myself!

  Well, it really suits you, Fairman said, beaming with sincerity.

  I need a drink. I brushed past his shoulder and walked towards a waitress who was carrying a tray of champagne. I gulped it down, then took another and another. People incapable of guilt have a good time.

  Del, look at her, hasn’t she grown! Sumi was immediately at my side showing off the baby.

  She had. Samiya’s eyes glowed with the joys of wealth and privilege. Her white dress was frilled and cuffed, a hairband glistening with crystals around her small temple, shoes a soft white leather. She looked fat, contented. So did all the other babies in the room, most of whom resembled their parents. Some didn’t. I was certain that all these babies came from Mother Mary the baby-dealer, the one who made sure that all these childless couples were endowed with babies. Babies who came from where? Was Alba in a room like this too? In a house like this, somewhere in KL?

  I kissed Samiya. She smelled of possibility, of hope, of goodness. Yet another baby who went from rags to riches, whose mothers all looked the same. Pinched blood-shot eyes, thin arched brows, hair that fell in soft shoulder waves, nude expensive make-up, diamond encrusted fingers, jewelled watches, designer shoes, bags, clothes. Cookie-cutter women, high-class bitches married to husbands who had wallets so fat, they had no choice but to be slaves for life. Perhaps I was like that once, perhaps I was.

  I kissed Sumi and Fairman and said, I wish you all the happiness in the world, kissed Samiya as I inhaled her scent one last time, drank another tube of champagne and walked out the door.

  * * *

  I called Omar and said that I wanted to speak in person. I wasn’t sure if he would agree to meet, but he did. I wanted to tell him about Mother Mary and that Fairman and Sumi’s baby had been bought from her. We met in the café that we used to go to on weekends, where we would have a typical English breakfast with sausages, eggs sunny side up, hash browns, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast, where Alba would sit on her high-chair and have her own little plate of bits from ours, where she would pick with her hands, put a sliver of food in her mouth, grin and show her teeth and put more food in her mouth until it was all gone. Sunday had been our favourite day of the week, it was when Omar was most relaxed and able to take Alba off me for hours at a time. They would play with her wooden blocks, paint, mould play dough, watch cartoons and swim. Sundays were easy on me, as it was all father-daughter bonding time, and she would go to bed easily, completely exhausted from the day with her father.

  I was nervous about meeting him. I still felt fractured and emotionally unhinged from the incident at the flea market. But I also needed to tell him of what I knew. When I walked in, he was already sitting there with a glass of wine. He stood up when I was by the table and then sat down. Still the perfect gentleman, I thought.

  Hi, thanks for meeting me. I said.

  He gestured to the waiter. It was a new guy, someone neither of us knew. Red or white?

  Whatever you’re having is fine. I replied.

  I looked at his face closely. His eyes were tight, his face had thinned out, there was stubble that was probably a few days old. There were more lines around his eyes and mouth, his hairline higher than I remembered it to be. His eyes caught mine and I looked away. The wine arrived and I took a big sip.

  I just want to get straight to the point, I said quickly.

  His eyebrows arched. Sure. What is it?

  I took a deep breath and started.

  You know Fairman and Sumi’s baby? Well I think she was trafficked, you know, sold. This woman who apparently runs an adoption agency—I placed the card in front of him—sold the baby to them for twenty thousand ringgit.

  Omar’s face was unchanged, but a muscle twitched in his cheek.

  I asked her if she had other babies, and she said that she could get more, but it would take time, so… what if, what if…Alba was taken, trafficked by the same woman? Sold? To someone in KL?

  My voice had risen and the couple behind us turned to look. The woman looked horrified, probably reacting to the word “trafficked”.

  Omar leaned over, and said very quietly.

  Del, firstly, babies are different. Alba was two. There is a difference.

  I stammered. What…what… do you mean?

  Omar continued.

  My investigator has told me this too. Yes, there are traffickers operating in town, but there is a marked difference between babies and toddlers. Babies can be bought, but toddlers…they are for a whole different reason.

  I knew what he was going to say and swallowed all my wine in a big gulp.

  It’s for sex isn’t it? Or kiddy porn?

  Omar leaned even closer, and I could see the flecks in his eyes, they were dark now and dangerous. Yes and no. Girls can be used for all kinds of things. Organs, begging, child rearing, sex… and so on and so forth. It’s endless.

  I gritted my teeth and tried to push away the images that were conjured in my head. My baby, my baby. It was grotesque.

  And what about this woman then? Can she get away with this?

  Omar gestured to the waiter and twirled his finger, which indicated one more round.

  Apparently. According to the Malaysian Penal Code, which I have been reading, it’s not illegal for parents to sell their children. It was customary in Asian families, as you know, to give away a child if you couldn’t afford to raise it. I know that one of my cousins was actually my aunt. So the Penal Code protects that. I suppose if you were poor a
nd were on your eighth child, you could very well give it up, no? And expect a little compensation…

  Two more glasses of red wine appeared. This was a lot of information to process and I was beginning to feel a little lightheaded.

  So, you’re condoning what Fairman and Sumi did?

  He sighed and said. No, of course not. But we would have done the same. Give a poor child a better life? Sure. We would have done exactly the same thing. He took a sip and tapped his fingers impatiently on the table.

  I took a sip and kept quiet, contemplating all that had been said. He then raked his hand through his hair and spoke again. So…basically. No. You can’t arrest someone for selling their baby if they’re poor. And this woman, she’s basically facilitating the exchange.

  I shook my head. This is insane, absolutely insane.

  Omar agreed. Well, that’s the law for you.

  I asked. What else has the detective told you?

  These trafficking rings, drugs, prostitution, they’re run by gangsters, who are basically protected by the police, because everyone is on the take. They’re all complicit. So, unless you know someone personally, it’s like finding a needle in a fucking haystack.

  I suddenly remembered the man I’d met in the club a while ago and said: I met this guy in a club, he knew who I was, and he said…“Your husband is a bad businessman,” or something like that… do you know who he is?

  One eyebrow raised, he looked at me, almost with disdain.

  Some company you keep, Del. He smirked.

  He knew Karin! I retorted. So? Who is he? He looked really dubious. I should be asking you who you keep company with! I responded angrily.

  Big guy? Large head?

  I nodded.

  Right… Omar leaned in. He runs the biggest brothel in town. Russians, Mongolians, Ukrainians, Albanians, you name it. High-class girls. Minimum three thousand an hour. He wants protection money but we’re not going to give it to him.

  What for?

  We’re building a new road that’s going to cut through KL. This guy is not happy about it, he’ll lose clients. The brothels will have to go.

  A chill ran down my back when I remembered what he had said.

  He also said, that there would be more trouble…what did that mean?

  Omar picked up his glass and drained it. Fuck knows.

  I hesitated before I asked the next question. Do you think he took Alba?

  Omar looked at me right in the eye. No. Because there would have been a ransom, the whole thing would have been a message for me, for us, the company…they want to teach you a lesson, show you who’s the boss…

  How can you be so sure? Omar? What if…?

  My hand started shaking, I picked up my glass and took a large sip of wine.

  There are no what-if’s, Del. He is a glorified pimp, he just wants money.

  Omar sat back in his chair. I stood up, then sat down again. I wanted to run out of the café. I was furious.

  But how do you know? I hissed. What if they took her?

  Omar stared at me and said. If they did, they would have made it very clear. To me. Besides, the police and the investigator would have found out. There would have been a connection…of some kind. But there’s nothing. Okay…there’s nothing. He leaned back and sighed.

  I drank the last of the wine, wiped my mouth with my hand and stared at Omar in silence.

  Del, I have looked at all possibilities, don’t you think—

  Okay! I interrupted him. Okay.

  We sat in silence, my head was reeling and Omar looked away, his eyes pained.

  Finally I said, I don’t know what to feel anymore… I don’t know what to do.

  He replied softly, We can’t give up, yet. I won’t give up.

  Him, sitting there reassured me in a way I had not felt in a long time. It was perhaps our first real conversation after Alba was taken. All those months of anguish had exhausted us, and there we were, bereft of anger, completely vulnerable, open. There was nothing left to do except listen to each other.

  We sat and ordered another glass of wine each, we nibbled on olives and he asked how I was. He said he had come to the hospital but I was asleep, he needed to see that I was okay. They only let me in when I said I was your husband, and then I saw that they had tied you to the bed. I couldn’t take it. I left after three seconds. I felt so—bad. But I knew that you would be all right.

  I kept quiet. He continued.

  All these months, all I could think of… was the fact that it could have happened to me too. I could have turned my back and she could have been taken. It’s not your fault, Del, I have never blamed you. I blame these monsters. People who take other people’s children to sell them… to do terrible, unspeakable things to them. For profit. Del… and it happens all the time. All the bloody time.

  His head was in his hands. He looked up at me, and I saw dark pools of anguish penetrating through his eyes. It has to be stopped. I need to stop it. I need to do something, Del. I need to.

  What are you going to do?

  And he said. There is only one solution for this. There is only one way to stop this… I have to go into politics.

  * * *

  Omar and I got back together. It just made sense. I cleaned up, stopped drinking, stopped the drugs, stopped seeing Shah, started doing yoga, started to heal. I went into therapy. I saw a shrink twice a week, sat on the proverbial couch, smoked cigarettes, wept, I felt better. I started talking about my dead mother, my silent father, my missing child. And of the man who was still there. Of Omar. Omar who was there in the beginning and there in the end.

  The elections in March came and went. The Barisan National under Pak Lah’s leadership won 199 out of 219 seats. They still had the majority, Anwar was still in prison but there was an air of change in the country. There was hope, there was renewed confidence. People smiled more at each other, there was a lightness in the air. The city could breathe again.

  Omar and I sat in front of the TV, toasting to the results. Pak Lah’s speech was buoyant, he had claimed victory, but there was no gloating, no arrogance, no malice, no avarice, there was only humility. He pledged to do his best and to serve the people and the country. Malaysians all over the world celebrated. The era of Mahathir was well and truly over.

  Marina had become a success. She ran the club and yes, she was good at it. I was happy for her. She had a man who loved her and whom she loved back. Sumi and Fairman were parents. Samiya thrived, they were happy. They were all happy, my friends were happy.

  I was glad. But in truth, I was still hollowed out, grieving, there was no word about Alba. I struggled to live, one day at the time.

  Omar said he was going into politics. He believed in the will of the new Prime Minister. He felt that he could help clean up the city, weed out the criminals, the triad bosses, the pimps, the drug dealers, the traffickers. I thought he was a fool, but I couldn’t say no, this is foolhardy, no. I never told him that. I tried to live again, I tried to believe again, I tried to be happy. I tried to work on my marriage, I tried to love my husband again and I tried to love myself.

  I knew I had to atone for saying all those terrible things when Alba was ill. Yes, I did say them when I was on the verge of complete and utter exhaustion, but I should have had the judgement to not say them, those words that could render any mother complicit in the disappearance of her child. Did I wish for it to happen? Did I will it to happen? Was it my fault that Alba was taken? Was it?

  Of course I blamed myself, how could I not? I loved my child, but my inability to look after her, at times, meant that I was just human, or did it not mean that? Should I have employed an army of minders to look after her? To help stave all manner and possibility of casualty? Was having a maid some form of insurance? Was I a bad mother? Was it my fault? I could barely remember the litany of curses I cast that day. I was not myself, I was a mother exhausted beyond comprehension, I was just simply, tired. I did not mean what I said, but perhaps what I said had been
heard by the dark gods, that they had set their evil plans into motion, that I was undeserving of my child, that I was at fault. That I was a terrible person, for willing my child to not have been born. There it was, I said it.

  And with Omar, he had forgiven me again and all was good until we got that call, that call that would change everything.

  I had just finished yoga and I was walking to my car when my handphone started flashing. It was Omar.

  They’ve found something. We need to go to Bukit Aman, right now.

  My hands started shaking on the steering wheel, the sweat that had dried on my forehead broke out again. Traffic was starting to swell. I drove as steadily as I could, past the slope on the Bangsar hill, past the traffic lights on Jalan Maarof onto Jalan Bangsar, past the National Museum and onto the roundabout, past the National Mosque, up the slope, past the Islamic Museum, the Butterfly Farm, the Bird Park and onto the slip road that led to the Police Headquarters at Bukit Aman. Bukit—Hill. Aman—Peace. Hill of Peace, ironic indeed.

  Omar was already there. He walked quickly towards me as I got out of my car.

  What’s going on? What have they found? My teeth were already chattering from fear.

  He shook his head. Then his phone rang. Yes, yes, we’re outside. We’re walking in now.

  At the security, we gave them our ICs and they waved us through the side gate, curious eyes looking at me in my yoga pants, Omar in his blue suit. PT Raja stood outside the glass doors, looking grim. He nodded and led us inside, the cold air blasted my face. Omar was holding onto me, tight, his fingers later leaving a mark on my arm. I looked at him, his mouth was set in a grim line.

  The conference room was full of police officers, standing on one side of the wall. I smiled weakly at Inspector Awang. How I used to harass him. How I used to pummel him with questions. We were asked to sit across three officers. A tall turbaned Sikh police officer stood up, held up some notes in his hand and started speaking.