The Weight of Our Sky(54)

Somewhere inside me, the Djinn reclines luxuriously and chuckles to himself.

I hate him.

I hate me.

It must be more than twenty minutes before I can finally, finally push the doors open.

It’s all there, just as it’s always been: the wooden seats; the big screen at the very front of the room, now blank and gray; and in the middle of the hall, the one lone seat covered in bright red cloth. The spirit of the Rex. Whoever he is, he certainly isn’t alone now.

I stand there at the threshold, taking it all in. How many movies have I watched here, giggling with Saf as we sipped on sweet sugarcane juice and crunched through handfuls of nuts? I close my eyes, the image of Saf’s dimpled smile playing in my mind. The air here has the stale quality you only get from a room that’s been sealed off from the rest of the world for a while, and I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe. I sink into the closest chair, and the creak as my weight rests on it echoes deafeningly in the silent hall.

Deep breaths, Melati.

Out of habit, I find myself counting them off—breathe in, one, two, three, breathe out, one, two, three, breathe in, one, two, three—and then I hear it.

The soft but unmistakable sound of an answering creak.

I freeze, straining my ears to hear it again. There—another little creak. I reach into my pocket, my fingers stroking the smooth handle of the little knife.

“Who’s there?” I call out, and immediately regret it. How stupid can you be, Melati? A city full of hostile rioters, and you call attention to yourself like this? But even though I wait and wait, there’s no response. For one wild moment, I wonder if the spirit is real, and after my journey through the city I’m about to be murdered by a vengeful ghost.

Then I hear it again—and something else. Light, quick footsteps, so light you would barely notice them, if you weren’t really listening.

Immediately, I spring up out of my seat, as light as a cat, and sprint out of the door and up the stairs to the first-class section, two by two, knife in one hand, torch in the other. I know I may be putting myself in danger, I know there’s no real way of knowing what I’ll find up there, but for some reason I’m driven by a powerful urge to see it for myself. For some reason? The Djinn scoffs. Please. You think it might be Saf. You think she’s somehow alive and waiting for you.

Shut up.

The upper tier is closed off to the rest of the world by a heavy wooden door, and as I hesitate before it, I think of all the times Saf and I schemed and hatched elaborate plots to make our way through it and take our seats high above the rest of the commoners. Slowly, I push the door open.

Rows of seats stretch out before me, just the same as the ones downstairs. I play my torch along their wooden spines and feel a little pang of disappointment. We’d always imagined something grander: velvet seats, plush carpets underfoot, intricate murals painted along the walls. It turns out that all “first-class” means is a different point of view and marginally cleaner floors.

Slowly, I scan my torch across the space. I’m not sure what I expect to see, but since nobody’s come out and attacked me yet, I figure I’m pretty safe. Maybe it was just a rat.

And then the beam of light lands on something unexpected, and I pause.

Rats don’t wear shoes.

These are small and pale pink, though caked in parts with grime and flecked with stains. Little pink-and-white polka dot bows adorn the tops. And the feet encased in them belong to a little girl, no older than seven or eight, I’m guessing, crouched low at the very end of the third row, her eyes squinting in the bright light of the torch, every muscle poised to flee.

I soften immediately—I know what that feels like. “Hello,” I say, turning the beam away so that it doesn’t blind her, flicking the knife shut and putting it away. I make my voice as soft and gentle as I can. “Hello there. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

The little girl shrinks back even farther, so that her back touches the wall. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” I inch my way closer to her, trying to make my movements as slow and deliberate as I can, as if I’m approaching some kind of wild animal. “What’s your name? My name is Melati. You can call me kakak. Do you know what that means? It means ‘big sister.’?”

“I’m . . . I’m May,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper and cracking from disuse.

“Well, hi, May, it’s nice to meet you. Can I come and sit by you?”

She hesitates, then nods, and I quickly make my way over and sit cross-legged beside her, my back against the wall.

“Are you alone here, May?”

She nods, her big eyes never leaving my face.

“Okay. How long have you been here?” I have a million questions, but I know I can’t rush her, and I force myself to ask one at a time.

She shrugs. I take in her crusty face, the discarded food wrappers and beverage containers piled neatly in the nearby corner. She’s been scavenging from the snack bar, I realize, hiding in here while the chaos raged outside.

“Was there anybody else here when you came in?” I ask softly. She shakes her head. “I was with my mummy,” she volunteers timidly. “We were buying tea at the tea uncle’s shop. She said she needed a special kind of tea because my daddy wasn’t feeling well.”

I nod encouragingly. “That’s right; there are teas that can help people feel better. Then what happened?”