The Weight of Our Sky(27)
“At very least,” he says, when he finally turns back to Vince, “at very least, you should be sending your supplies only to people like us. Only to the Chinese. You should be helping your people.”
Vincent sighs. “Frankie . . . your people, my people, our people, they’re everyone. They’re Malaysians. It’s not Malays killing Chinese or Chinese killing Malays. It’s stupid people killing stupid people.”
He sits down on the edge of the bed and picks up the band, smoothing it against his knee. “I can do more for our people by taking up supplies instead of sticks,” he says quietly. “I’d rather help with the healing than the hurting.”
Frankie shakes his head. “Then you’re too far gone to realize that your helping is what’s hurting us.” He turns on his heels and stalks out of the room.
Vince puts another record on—another Beatles number, as if he knows this is just what I need. I shoot him a grateful look, but say nothing. No words are necessary.
Music swells to fill the growing silence.
? ? ?
In the darkest hours of the night, when there’s a particular quality of stillness to the world that makes it feel like you’re the only one that exists, the Djinn rises. Keep your end of the bargain, he whispers softly in my ear. Or do you think you’ll enjoy the feeling of their blood on your hands?
I sit up and listen for any movement in the house. Satisfied that I’m the only one awake, I slip out of bed, clear a space in the middle of the room, and begin.
Six steps, pivot. Six steps, pivot. Six steps, pivot. My feet trace three straight lines, a perfect triangle. Perfect? Are you kidding me? The Djinn snorts. That wasn’t right. Start over. So I do it again, tapping out the rhythm with my fingers as I go, counting under my breath, one, two, three, four, five, six . . . and then I do it again, and again, and again, trying to get it to feel just right. The night deepens around me, and my T-shirt is soaked through, but I keep at it for what seems like hours.
Once, among the meager selection of books in our school’s dim, dusty library, Saf and I found a copy of an illustrated Sejarah Melayu, a slim volume of fantastical folktales and stories that supposedly captured the “glorious history of the Malays.” Our favorite was the legend of Hang Nadim, whose coastal village was cursed with a plague of swordfish thanks, as always, to the actions of a feckless, wretched king. The swordfish flew out of the water in droves, piercing the bodies of the men and women who had the misfortune to be by the sea that particular day. At first, the king—not the wisest fellow, you see—ordered his men to stand shoulder to shoulder and use their legs to prevent the swordfish from getting past. But obviously all that did was result in the deaths of more people, until Hang Nadim, bright lad that he was, thought up the idea of using the soft stems of the banana tree as a barrier instead. The leaping swordfish found themselves stuck in the stems, no more men were sacrificed, and Hang Nadim was hailed as a hero by all except the king, who later ordered his execution. It doesn’t do to expose your ruler’s stupidity.
Saf and I would peal with laughter at the absurdity of this story, but in my heart I always felt a small ache for the men who stood on that beach and let themselves be pierced by hundreds of sharp objects flying straight at them from an unrelenting sea, all to protect their own.
This feels a lot like that. The Djinn hurls swordfish after swordfish at me, enjoying the sight of my skin being pierced by their sharp blades, my flesh being ripped apart, my weaknesses seeping through for all the world to see. But still I pace, and tap, and count. I need to protect my people.
Eventually, I have to stop, pushing the hair off my damp forehead impatiently. My eyes are so tired they feel like they’re about to shrivel up and drop out of their sockets. Getting sleepy? The Djinn smiles charmingly. I have some movies we can watch together, if you like?
Shut up. I dig a nail into my left arm so hard that it leaves a deep red crescent on my pale skin. Focus, Mel. Let’s do this one more time.
Just one more time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
VINCENT COMES HOME FROM HIS first day as a volunteer practically glowing with usefulness. “I was going crazy at home,” he confesses to me as we wait for Auntie Bee to call us for dinner. “Just hanging around, not knowing what was happening. Now at least I know I’m helping. I’m not waiting around for something to happen.”
“Any news of Kampung Baru?” I don’t know why I ask, when I’m almost afraid to hear the answer. The Djinn summons lumps of cold fear from deep in my belly and lodges them in my throat, making it ache, making it hard for me to breathe.
He shakes his head, his expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mel,” he says. “I wasn’t in town today; I was sorting and packing supplies over in Keramat. I’m supposed to drive out tomorrow. I’ll check for you then, okay? Maybe try and get a message to your mother?”
I can tell he wishes he could tell me something more, and I swallow my frustration. “Okay,” I say.
He sits at his place at the table, so confident, so sure, so full of pride at what he’s doing to help. His enthusiasm is seductive, contagious. But I’m not fooled. Beneath that assuredness, he’s soft and vulnerable. They all are, I realize suddenly, staring around the table. I need to protect him. I need to protect them all.
The way you protected Saf? the Djinn whispers. The way you’re protecting Mama now, by staying here and saving your own skin? In my head, the man in the theater laughs and laughs, and both Mama’s and Saf’s bodies lie broken at his feet. I pick up my spoon and tap it lightly on the edge of my bowl three times, then I stir three times clockwise, then three times counterclockwise, and then I do it all over again, trying very hard not to throw up all over the table.