Shadow Play (19 page)

“What's the trouble?” one asked.

“She's dying,” Maryam continued at top volume. Ali watched her, both admiring and aghast. “She's been poisoned. Help her! Please!”

A doctor moved the now clearly sulking nurse out of the way and began to look over Aisha's lifeless form. “Do you know what it is?” he asked.

“I think
kecubong,”
Maryam answered, decidedly more quiet now that someone was paying attention. She gave the nurse a triumphant look. “She's been getting worse every day.”

“Take her in,” the doctor said to Ali, who scooped her up and followed the doctor to the exam room. Maryam sat down with
Pak Cik
Awang in the waiting room, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

Pak Cik
Awang looked amused. “I didn't know you could scream like that.”

“Neither did I,” Maryam admitted. “But it worked,” she added with a touch of pride.

Aisha's parents burst into the room moments later, and Maryam pointed them to the room where she lay.

“What did you think?” Maryam asked the
bomoh.
“Did you think poison?”

“I did. Did you see her eyes?” he asked. “
Kecubong
, maybe mixed with opium. Someone wants her more than just quiet,
Cik Yam.
I think they wanted to make it look like she was falling into madness and
would then die of it, but her death was their objective. I'd put money on it.”

“Where would you get these poisons?”

Pak Cik Awang shrugged. “You can always get it if you're really looking for it.”

“Opium?” Maryam was doubtful.

He nodded. “Not in Kelantan, but you could in Thailand. And
kecubong
… well, if you didn't buy it, you could find it in the jungle. It grows there.”

Maryam shivered. Aisha must have seen something, must know something. Maybe she didn't even know what she'd seen, or she knew, but wanted to keep quiet. Maryam sat quietly, hoping for good news.

Chapter XX

Johan, Faouda's new husband, was not pleased to find himself in the Kuala Krai police station. He slumped scowling in a chair, complaining loudly about wasting his whole day at work, if not more, for what he considered police bullshit.

Osman had ushered him into a small room equipped with a table and four scruffy chairs. He sat away from the table, willing himself to fade into the walls. Johan swung his legs and kicked his chair rhythmically. It was incredibly annoying.

“Who are you? I'm thirsty.”

“I'm
Mak Cik
Maryam…”

“You're the one! My wife told me about you.” He leaned forward on the table, stretching his arms in front of him. “Tell me, what's your problem?” he continued. “Why are you doing this?”

“I'm working to find out who killed Ghani,” she answered equitably.

“Well, I didn't,” he announced. “And I don't know who did.
And
I don't care, either. Get me something to drink,” he added sullenly. He turned to Osman, who held his hand up as if to ward him off. “Talk to
Mak Cik
Maryam now,” he said, indicating her chair with his chin, and Johan slumped back down into his chair.

Maryam turned to Osman and mouthed “Drinks?” He opened the
door and asked a policeman to get some cold drinks. “So,” she began, looking Johan over. She didn't much like what she saw. His hair was tousled and greasy, and he wore a grimy white T-shirt and jeans. His face was wide and square, with small eyes and a wide mouth. As one who hoped to soon become a grandmother, Maryam could not help speculating on what his and Faouda's children might look like: the eyes were going to be tiny and the face wide. It didn't sound like a recipe for beauty. She forced herself back to the present. “I hear you went to Kota Bharu to get married.”

He scratched his chest extravagantly and yawned. “Is there a law against it?”

“No.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“I just want to know where you were while you were up there.”

“Sightseeing,” he smirked. She longed to smack him.

“How long have you known Faouda?”

“A while. Look, where's my drink?”

“It's coming. I get the feeling you'd rather not talk to me.”

“You got that right.”

“Would you prefer to talk to
Cik
Osman? He's the Chief of Police in Kota Bharu.”

Johan cast a contemptuous eye on Osman. “No, I'd prefer not to talk to anybody.”

“That might not be possible.”

“Try.”

Maryam rose. “Suit yourself,” she muttered softly. She left the office and Osman followed her. “I can't do anything with him. Do you see how snotty he is?”

“Can I help you?” one of the older policemen asked

“He's impossible,” she told him, rolling her eyes.

“May I,
Cik
Osman?” he asked politely. “I'll take care of it. Stay here for a moment.”

“Thanks,” Maryam said, standing at his desk while Johan was being convinced. There was a sudden report, like a pistol shot, which startled Maryam and sent her jumping into the furniture. “What was that?”

The policeman came out of the room and stood gesturing for her to enter. “He's all yours now,
Mak Cik.
I believe he may be more cooperative.” He smiled at her and then at Osman and sat back at his desk.

They went in to find Johan with a bright red cheek and a small trickle of blood running down his chin. He was patting it clean with the hem of his T-shirt.

“I guess I'm supposed to be more polite.”

“It would help,” Maryam replied. “Do you want to talk now?”

“OK.” He settled back into scowling, but at least he now had a reason for that, Maryam thought. She had little sympathy for him. The side of his face was beginning to swell. Osman took in Johan's face and walked out of the office: he was speaking to someone there, but while she could hear the sound of his voice, the words were indistinct.

“I'll start again,” she began. “When did you come up to Kota Bharu?”

I dunno. Thursday, maybe.”

“And when did you find Faouda?”

“Friday morning, at the taxi station.”

He and Faouda had coordinated their stories at any rate. “Where
did you stay that night, before you found her?”

“At a hotel in Kota Bharu.”

She waited.

“The Hotel Tokyo,” he finally specified. “It's on Jalan Temenggong, on the second floor. That's where we stayed the whole time we were here.”

“And you left on Monday morning, early?”

He nodded. “Had to get back to work.”

Maryam felt she was getting nowhere with him. She tried to order her thoughts to make them more effective.

“When did you find out Faouda married Ghani?”

“Right after it happened, I guess.”

“Did you want to marry her?”

Their drinks had arrived. Johan gulped his while Maryam continued her questioning, trying to keep her momentum. “Well, did you?”

“I did, and she knew it.” He gingerly wiped his mouth. “I asked her already. I thought she'd said yes.”

“And then?”

“And then I heard she married this musician guy, so I went to see her. ‘What's this about?' I asked her. ‘I thought we were getting married.'”

“Had you asked her before she was divorced from, I forget his name …?”

“Yahya? The older guy? Well, nothing happened.”

“Of course not, but did you?”

He nodded. “I told her, ‘Faouda, get out of this marriage. It isn't going to work. He's an older guy with kids your age. He doesn't want
children, and besides, give his wife a couple of months and she'll have you run out of town.'” He crossed his arms.

Osman slipped back into the room and sat in his chair against the wall. He watched them both like a spectator at a tennis game.

“Good advice,” Maryam told him.

“It sure was. Besides, I didn't like her living with him. It wasn't right,” he scrunched up his eyes. “I mean, anyone could see it wasn't going to work, so why drag it out, right? I was taking a load of lumber to Alor Setar, the west coast, so I was gone – maybe a week, maybe a little more. When I come back, guess what? She's divorced and she's married! I was stunned, no kidding. What happened?”

“What did she tell you?”

“What was there to tell? She met Ghani, she says they're in love. They got married. She's the second wife.

“‘For God's sake, Faouda' I tell her, ‘Another second wife? And now he lives up near Kota Bharu? When are you ever going to see him?'

“‘Don't worry about that,' she says, all pleased with herself. ‘He's crazy about me. He'll be here all the time. He can't get enough.'

“Wrong! I knew right away, ‘cause I'm a guy and I know how guys think, he'd already gotten all he wanted. She's very trusting that way.” He nodded to emphasize just how naive Faouda really was and took another long pull at his tea.

“So to prove her point, she goes up to Kota Bharu to be with him. And naturally, it doesn't turn out the way she plans. I knew it,” he took another swig of his
teh beng
, sweet iced tea loaded, as were almost all beverages in Kelantan, with sweetened condensed milk, “so I went up to Kota Bharu right after her. I thought, I'll be there when
she gets divorced and we'll get married right away. And I was right! It happened just like I told her it would. She shows up, the wife pitches a fit, Faouda's divorced. It took hours, I tell you, just hours before she was out on her ear.

“I found her at the taxi station, sort of drifting, and was she surprised to see me! She throws herself at me, right in the middle of the station, all these people around and says, ‘You were right! I can't believe I was so stupid. Can you ever forgive me?'”

Maryam thought it sounded like a soap opera, but it clearly worked on Johan; he positively glowed.

“I took her to a coffee shop, let her clean up her makeup and stuff, and said ‘It's time for us to get married.' ‘Oh, yes!' she says. ‘Right now!' So we went over to the
khadi
, but it's Friday and we can't do anything. It's closed. So, I thought, we're so near Sungei Golok, we can cross into Thailand and find a
khadi
there! Not so strict, you understand.”

He waited for her to acknowledge what he said. “We just wandered into a
kampong
and found one. He was having his lunch, but when we showed up waiting to get married and happy to pay, he got right on with it. No waiting there, I tell you! I paid him, and we were married! Just like that. Great, isn't it?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “It's legal.” He gave her a sober look, daring her to say it wasn't. Maryam sat silently; everyone knew anything and everything was for sale in Sungei Golok, a wide open border town just across the river from Kelantan. Why not marriage?

“So we go back to the hotel, which we can, because we're married.” He gave Maryam a dirty look. “And that's it. Now we're back in Kuala Krai, and I'm looking for a house for us to live in. So there it is.”

He leaned back in his chair and gave himself over to a well-deserved drink.

Maryam smiled at him. “Well, it was certainly exciting. Precipitous, even.”

“It's true, what are you talking about?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh yes, I don't doubt it for a moment,” she soothed him. “But,” she added as innocently as possible, widening her eyes until they threatened to tear, “doesn't Faouda need to wait before she remarries? I don't think a woman can remarry that fast, even if it's alright in Sungei Golok.”

Johan glowered silently.

“Religious law,” Maryam prompted him. “What is it, three months until she can marry again?”

He grunted contemptuously. “No matter,” he waved his hand dismissively, “We knew she wasn't pregnant.”

“How?” Maryam was genuinely interested.

“She just knew. She told me.”

Maryam sighed with disappointment; of course, his answer would be completely meaningless. “It isn't a legal marriage,” she opined firmly. “If the
khadi
in Kelantan found out …”

“Well, he won't,” Johan growled. “Come on,
Mak Cik
, you and I aren't here to argue religion. We're married, and that's an end to it.”

“Someone's bound to figure it out, you know. And then you won't be married anymore.”

He mumbled something uncomplimentary into his tea.

“Never mind,” Maryam continued briskly. “You're right: this is between you and the
khadi.”
In her own opinion, however, it an important test of character which both Johan and Faouda failed
abysmally. “Anyway, did you see Ghani while you were up here?”

“Why should I?”

“I don't know. Did you?”

“No.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“But, Johan,” Maryam protested, “people saw you at the
Wayang Siam.
So you must have. This was when …? I guess the night before you left for Kuala Krai.”

He sat and looked at her. “I wasn't there,” he said stubbornly.

“Alright,” she said. “You ought to speak with Police Chief Osman.” She stood up to leave. He looked up at her, squinting.

“OK, OK, sit down.” He tightened his lips. “She wanted to see him and to show him she was already married again and didn't care. It's fine with me, I don't care. She just wants to stick her finger in his eye. Good for her. So we went to the performance.”

“Were you there at the end?”

“It was pretty late,” he said evasively.

“Was the performance over?”

“It was winding down.”

Maryam knew full well
Wayang Siam
performances did not wind down. They were either on, or it was over. “So it was already finished.”