The Weight of Our Sky(24)
“I just . . . like things to be organized,” I say. The Djinn sends notes of panic creeping delicately up my spine. Look at him, he whispers. He knows what you are. He knows you’re strange and broken. And if he knows that, he’ll know eventually that Saf dying and Mama dying—those are both your fault. I clench my teeth and tap every third book on the shelf lightly, three times each. I try to make it look as if I’m just browsing, but I think I see Vince’s eyes on my fluttering fingers. I think I see him frown slightly. I think, but I’m not sure, because I can’t look right at him, can’t stop until the Djinn is satisfied and the world feels right again.
If Vince does notice, he says nothing. He just strokes the spine of each book lovingly, like old friends or lovers, and sighs. “Ba says I think too much of books,” he says, and something in his voice, so quiet, so gentle, soothes the itch in my brain so that I can calm down and actually focus on what he’s saying. “I’m studying English, you know, at college? They . . .” He jerks his head in the general direction of the living room, where we can hear the low buzz of the radio, which is never switched off these days. “They wanted me to study business, go into an office, be a big shot. But I hate numbers.” He smiles and shrugs. “I’m a major disappointment.”
Vince pulls out his prized record player then, and my heart soars at the sight of the shiny deep red box, the idea of listening to music again, the only time the Djinn seems to stay away. I sink down on the floor beside him, the voice and my nerves both gone for now, eager to hear my old friends. I’m not sure I realized until then just how much I’d missed them.
When the first notes come, it’s as if my brain is being enveloped in a comforting hug. For the first time in days, I can feel my body unclench, the tension receding. For the first time in days, I feel like me.
He puts on record after record, keeping the volume on low so as not to attract too much attention, selecting them one after another from an enviable collection that he keeps in boxes under his bed. His choices surprise me: First, an intricate, delicate piano nocturne; then a swinging rock ’n’ roll number; then a keening Chinese melody made no less sad by my inability to understand the words; then the familiar swell and lilt of an old P. Ramlee song.
I lean back against his bed and let the familiar words wash over me. Saf and I watched this movie together just a few years ago; P. Ramlee movies were the only ones her father grudgingly approved of, on the grounds that “Malays must support other Malays.” I remember hearing this song for the first time, P. Ramlee’s voice swirling around us in the dark theater, deep and soft and warm as an embrace. He sings of love and loss, every word laden with quiet despair. Where will I find another, he asks, another quite like you?
I think of Saf, and my heart crumples. From deep in my belly, I feel the Djinn start to stir, the shadows starting to creep in. Stop, I think. Stop.
“Can you play something else?” I know Vince hears that unmistakable crack in my voice, the one all my grief threatens to come rushing through. But he doesn’t mention it.
“What would you like?” he asks instead.
“Play a Beatles song. Any Beatles song.”
The rain beats a steady rhythm on the roof, and Paul McCartney’s familiar voice fills the room, imploring us to try and see things his way.
Abah loved the Beatles, and this song was one of his favorites. Whenever he was in trouble with Mama—for turning up in clothes caked in mud and blood from a particularly thrilling mission; for stuffing me with too many pieces of bread slathered in sticky, sweet coconut jam that was meant to be an occasional treat; for buying me yet another record, “as if we were made of money,” she sniffed—he’d grab her by the waist and swing her around. “We can work it out,” he’d croon in her ear. She’d forgive him every time.
This song in particular, he used to tell me, was perfect for them. “You hear it? Listen closely now.” He’d put the record on and I’d frown, concentrating furiously on the notes that wafted through the air. “You see? This is McCartney, all optimism and light—we can work it out, we can do this, all set to this upbeat pop tune. That’s me, foolishly hopeful.” He laughed, and I laughed too. It was true; Mama used to say that Abah was far too idealistic to be a police officer, that he never wanted to believe that people were capable of doing bad things. “Then the bridge . . .” The tempo changes to a lilting 3/4 time. “You hear that? Life is very short; there is no time—this is all Lennon, impatient, needing things to be done at once, no time to waste. That’s your mother! Efficient to a fault. And it even sounds like those waltzes she loves.”
He sighed and sat back, and I mimicked him, sitting in silence as the song washed over us. “Total opposites in so many ways. But when they get it right, don’t they make the most gorgeous music together?” I wanted to ask him if he meant Lennon and McCartney, or him and Mama. I never did.
Before I realize it, my cheeks are wet with tears, and Vincent is looking at me in panic. “What, what is it, what’s wrong?” he asks, running his hand through his hair, distressed at my sudden sadness.
“It’s nothing,” I tell him, trying to smile. “I . . . I miss my mother. It’s just the two of us, you know? So it’s strange that right now I’m just . . . one of me.”
He nods, and I can tell that he understands, that he is trying to find the words to console me. “I’m sure she’s all right,” he says gently. “She’s a nurse, you said? She must be very smart. She knows how to take care of herself. She’ll keep herself safe, you’ll see.”