The Weight of Our Sky(52)
“Can’t let you do that, child,” he says, stroking his mustache. “Too dangerous. You stay put here and we’ll take care of you.”
“But, Pakcik—”
He shakes his head firmly. “No, no. I have a daughter about your age and I’ll be damned if I’d ever let her be out and about at a time like this. No, you stay here, and we’ll sort everything out later, when it’s safe.”
By later, it’ll be too late! The Djinn hisses the words, pacing restlessly in the pit of my stomach; I tap my right pointer finger against the palm of my left hand and itch to push open the doors and run out. But I know it’s no use; Pakcik Hassan will just haul me back inside. Instead, I walk away, keeping the exit within sight. The minute I spot my chance, I decide, I’m making a break for it.
It doesn’t take long. The doors burst open, slamming hard against the walls. It’s a young Chinese man, his eyes wild with rage. “You killed my mother! You killed my mother, you useless dogs!” His hair is disheveled, his cheeks are grubby with dirt and tears, and his hands grip a short, sharp knife, which swings and stabs wildly through the air with every gesture.
Pakcik Hassan and the young Hakim leap to their feet immediately. “Calm down, sir, please calm down.”
“I will not calm down! All she was doing was standing in our garden! She didn’t even know there was a curfew on and you bloody fools shot her in cold blood! You and your stupid shoot-to-kill order.”
His knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, as if bowing to the weight of his own grief. “She never even killed spiders or cockroaches,” he says quietly. “She fed every stray cat or dog or human she ever met. How could you do that to her? How could you?” He throws the knife across the room, where it lands with a clang and skids across the floor, stopping right by my feet. I stare at it; it’s a pearl-handled pocket knife, the kind with a blade that slips in, out of sight. Before I can figure out what I’m doing it, I bend over, scoop it up, flip it shut, and slip it smoothly into the pocket of my skirt in one swift movement, my heart jangling urgently inside my chest. I look around to see if anyone has noticed, but all eyes are firmly on the weeping man.
The officers standing over him exchange glances. As they whisper urgently with each other, trying to figure out what to do next, I slip quietly out the doors and sprint down the road, the knife weighing down my skirt and bumping against my thigh. As I run, the Djinn pipes up over the pounding of my feet on the pavement. That could be you, you know.
Shut up, I tell him, silently counting the beat of my footsteps in comforting, solid threes. I don’t want to admit that I was just thinking the exact same thing.
? ? ?
The temple is just minutes from the police station; I’ve often stopped as I passed to drink in the intricate carvings and statues that adorn its towering fa?ade. Everywhere you look, gods and deities dance and gambol and grin and leer, all rendered in brilliant, vivid hues and studded with gems. As I step through the arch, I feel a strange sense of passing from one realm into another. It’s quiet on the streets outside, but that’s a quiet charged with a hostile undercurrent, an uneasy tension that calls for constant vigilance. In here the floor is cool, the scent of incense floats delicately in the air, and the quiet is calm and serene. Under the staring eyes of a thousand idols, even the Djinn is silent.
Mama often tells me to seek God, to invoke His name, ask for His help. I bow my head and obey, the familiar words for Dzikr rolling off my tongue, the motions for prayer smooth and ready. God is good, they teach us. God is great. God can heal the sick and soothe the tormented. But nobody seems to be able to tell me why God gave me this torment in the first place.
I’m sure God exists, I’m just not sure He likes me very much.
“Can I help you?”
The voice, deep and even, catches me off guard and I whirl around in surprise. The man has smiling eyes and a face half-hidden behind a well-tended forest of facial hair; dressed in a loose cotton shirt and pants, he looks cool, calm, and completely untouched by the chaos of the past week. I am suddenly painfully aware of how grubby I must look in my rumpled and damp clothes.
“I’m sorry for intruding,” I say. “I’ve been trying to find my mother. We lost each other on the day . . . the day the . . . you know.” I can’t bring myself to speak of such things in this peaceful place; it almost seems sacrilegious.
The man nods. “Yes, many people came for shelter here when it was happening,” he says. “I’m not sure why! We don’t even have any doors to shut people out. But even without doors, there are not many who would attempt to desecrate this place with violence or angry words.”
“Was my mother here?” I ask him eagerly. “She’s a nurse. Her name is Salmah. She came to Petaling Street looking for me, but we missed each other. . . . Have you seen her?”
He frowns, trying to remember. Then his brow clears, and he smiles. “Salmah! Yes, I do remember Nurse Salmah.”
“You do?” I hardly dare to hope at this point—my heart has been let down far too many times by far too many people.
“Yes, yes, Nurse Salmah in her white uniform. She was taking the time to check everyone who walked in, to make sure they were not badly hurt, or to treat them if they were. A wonderful woman.”
I smile. “That sounds like my mother, all right. Is she . . . is she here?”