The Weight of Our Sky(53)

His smile fades, and he shakes his head. “No, she did not stay. She was intent on finding her daughter, you see. You.”

Another wall to slam into, just when I thought there was hope. I want to cry. Shake it off, Melati, shake it off. “As long as we’re both working hard to find each other, I’m sure we will. Thank you, sir, for your time.” As I walk back through the doorway, I can feel the man’s eyes on me, and an overwhelming urge to stay awhile and let my soul, so used to noise and chaos, feed on the peace of the temple.

No, I tell myself sternly. Mama needs you.

And so I force myself to keep striding on down the road, never turning back to see the gods smiling down on me.

? ? ?

I concentrate, putting one foot in front of the other, determined to continue my search. The church next, I think to myself, then that mosque a little farther down the road. That’s where I should go next. But my feet seem to have minds of their own, and each step I take that propels me farther from the temple seems to take me closer to the Rex instead. This doesn’t make sense, Melati. Mama wouldn’t be waiting for you in a cinema when there are so many safer options out here. But I can’t shake the feeling that the Rex is calling to me, shining a beacon to pull me in its direction.

The closer I get, the louder and more hectoring the Djinn’s voice becomes. Ready to see what happens when you’re a selfish coward? He sends image after image shooting into my mind: Saf slumped low in a theater seat, her arms splayed awkwardly; Saf with blood trickling from the gaping stab wound in her chest; Saf, staring at my retreating back, her eyes wide with fear and betrayal. Your mother’s next. She came looking for you and she’ll pay the price for it. Everybody pays a price for loving you.

I duck and weave and dart through empty shophouses, behind and between the charred carcasses of buses and cars, trying to avoid the keen glances of patrolling soldiers, counting in threes and tapping my tongue against my teeth as I go to silence that wicked voice.

And then, finally, I’m here.

The Rex.

Some of the brightly colored posters have been ripped off the walls, and the pavement before it is littered with both kuaci shells and dark stains that look suspiciously like blood. But otherwise, the bright red block letters stand as tall as ever, and Paul Newman’s piercing blue eyes gaze soulfully from the one poster that remains intact by the main entrance. “It was a hell of a story, Paul,” I whisper to him before I push against the heavy double doors.

Inside, the only relief from darkness comes from the sunlight that filters weakly in through the dusty windows. Beneath my feet, the floor is littered with debris; I can’t see exactly what I’m stepping on, but I feel the crunch. As I walk toward the doors leading to the movie hall, my foot lands on something that rolls beneath its weight, sending me toppling to the floor with a shriek. I feel around with my hands (it’s the usher’s flashlight), evaluate my injuries (a bruised tailbone and a heart pitter-pattering erratically from the shock), then get up, dusting myself off.

“Let’s try this,” I murmur, pushing the button on the flashlight. It’s a small one, nestling in my palm just so, but its beam is bright and true, and I feel myself daring to breathe again. It’s amazing how reassured you can feel just by the presence of light.

Armed with my flashlight, I turn to face the movie hall.

Here’s where the magic happens! The Djinn resurfaces, and I can see his lazy grin as we contemplate the closed doors. What if they’re all still in there? He uses my heart to bang out a fast and furious drum sequence; the pounding is almost more than I can bear. What if they didn’t collect these bodies?

I can feel my body tighten, my hands clenching themselves into fists. I can’t walk through this door. I can’t.

Maybe I should check the rest of the theater first. That’s reasonable, right? That makes sense. If Mama came here, she could be anywhere. She doesn’t necessarily have to be behind those doors, in that hall.

So I turn away from the doors, barely containing the sigh of relief that escapes me, and start combing through the rest of the building. I shine my light into the box office, where bits of paper are scattered all over the countertops; I search the snack bar, where someone has spilled an entire vat of the sickly sweet orange cordial they sell to quench moviegoers’ thirst; I even sidle into a door clearly marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, feeling a spark of rebellion as I peer inside. There are stacks of papers and files, but no Mama.

Every place I search that comes up empty takes me one step closer to the inevitable: the movie hall. Even thinking about it makes the Djinn stir restlessly and my pulse quicken.

And then he begins throwing questions at me, relentless, like bullets. What if Saf was just wounded, but you were too much of a coward to come back for her and so she died, in pain and alone? What if Mama came to look for you here and ended up coming face-to-face with the gangsters who murdered Saf? What if they murdered her, too?

Quickly, I begin to pace: three steps at a time, first to one side, then to the other. Then I tap each corner of the door frame three times, then each handle. I can’t seem to get it right, so I set the flashlight aside, making sure to keep the beam pointing toward the door. Then I begin again, over and over and over again. Step, tap, step, tap, counting every time. I’m sweaty and shaky, and I feel like I may throw up, but I can’t get around it—I can’t step through these doors until it feels right. Until it feels safe.