The Weight of Our Sky(26)
“Jasmine flowers are so pale, so delicate,” he says, “you’d think they couldn’t survive in this relentless tropical heat. But they thrive on it. They grow strong and gorgeous, and they bloom. Their perfume is . . . intoxicating, so strong that it leaves its mark on you long after you’ve left it behind.”
He smiles. “I think that’s pretty special, don’t you?”
I smile back, and I don’t feel a single urge to count anything at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ON THE FIFTH DAY, HAVING slipped out to procure more supplies, Vincent comes home bearing a bag of rice and an official-looking piece of paper, which he hands to Auntie Bee silently as we sit peeling potatoes in the kitchen and I try not to imagine my mother being sliced up by a vicious mob.
“What is this?” Auntie Bee asks, holding the paper in one damp hand and a potato in another and squinting vaguely at it.
“It’s a curfew pass, Ma,” Vince says. His voice is quiet, but I can tell from how he’s standing, his body stiff and tense, that he’s anticipating a fight.
“A curfew pass? Where did you get this?”
“I went and signed up with the Red Cross today, Ma. They need volunteers—I heard it on the radio.”
Auntie Bee hands the paper to me and I skim the words quickly as she turns her attention back to the potatoes. “And what did you go and do that for?” she says nonchalantly. Her voice is calm, steady, but I can see her hands tremble ever so slightly as she lightly shaves off strips of brown potato skin, revealing the creamy flesh beneath.
Vincent half smiles; he isn’t fooled. “There are a lot of people out there who need help,” he tells her. “A lot of people trapped where they are, without any food to get through the days. A lot of people who might be hurt, who need medicine, doctors, hospitals—”
“Aiya, you.” A ghost of a smile plays on his mother’s lips. “I remember when you were little,” she says. “Whenever some child was being bullied, whenever everyone decided they didn’t want to play with one particular girl or boy, whenever someone fell down in the playground, there you were. Always wanting to save everyone, even then.”
“Someone has to, Ma.” His tone is gentle but firm. “If we stay inside and do nothing, then what’s the use?”
“And if you get hurt?” Auntie Bee says as I hand the pass back to him. My heart begins to pound as I see knives pierce Vince’s fair skin, the life drain from his eyes as fast as the blood from his veins. He’s going to die, the Djinn whispers. I grip my paring knife so hard my knuckles turn white, and I count the potatoes in the basin in front of me. Three, six, nine, twelve. I tap my tongue against the roof of my mouth with each beat. Again, I feel like Vince is watching me, and my heart skips crazily at the idea of being seen. But when I look at him, his face is impassive, and he’s focused entirely on his mother.
“Then I get hurt.” He shrugs. There’s no bravado, no beating of his chest; he says it as matter-of-factly as if he were talking about the weather.
“When do you start?” I ask him.
“As soon as I can.” He walks out of the room, folding the precious piece of paper carefully as he goes. Auntie Bee leans back on her kitchen stool, closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh. The resigned sadness on her face makes my heart break a little.
“Are you all right, Auntie?” I ask gently.
Her eyes fly open. “Fine, fine,” she murmurs immediately, rearranging her face back into its usual amiable expression, busying herself with potatoes. “Just tired, girl. After this, you go take some pucuk ubi for me outside? That will make a nice change, hmm?”
“Okay, Auntie,” I say, busying myself with the business of plucking tapioca leaves from the garden and pretending I didn’t see the way Auntie Bee’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.
? ? ?
Later, as we listen to records, Vince shows them to me—the sticker for his car, the band he’s meant to wear around his arm. “The pass lets me drive around during curfew,” he explains, “but at least when people see me coming they’ll know I’m a Red Cross volunteer. They’ll know I’m there to help.”
I nod, running my fingers over the bright red insignia sewn onto the band, tapping it quickly three times on each corner for luck. Frankie saunters in. He’s not spent much time with any of us since his mother slapped him—“Aiya, he likes to sulk, been that way ever since he was a small boy,” she sniffs.
“What’s all this, little brother?” he says, picking up the band for a closer look.
“I’m a Red Cross volunteer now,” Vince says.
The older boy snorts. “You’ve always been a bleeding heart,” he says, shaking his head and tossing the strip of cloth contemptuously on the bed.
“What do you suggest we do with our hearts instead?” Vince’s voice is even, but his eyes glint dangerously. I concentrate on making myself as small as possible, concentrate on not being seen. I don’t want to be drawn into this fight.
“Forget hearts, we should be out there, with them!” Frankie gestures to the window. “You know all the gangs are outside there now, defending us, defending their territory? We should be defending our own! We should be giving hell to all the Malays who think we don’t belong here and want to chase us out!” He pauses to shoot me a look. I clench my fists and force myself to meet his gaze without blinking.