The Weight of Our Sky Page 3

  I’m so tired.

  • • •

  The shop on the corner seems to have been there since the dawn of time, though I know for a fact that it’s been there for more than ten years now. Records occupy almost every available inch of space; what doesn’t fit in the rows of shelves ends up piled high on tables, stools, and various other surfaces, all arranged in a haphazard system that only the aged proprietor seems to know. Music spills out from its tiny confines onto the streets, anything from traditional Chinese operettas to the latest Pop Yeh Yeh numbers; Uncle has eclectic tastes. Today, the Beatles wail encouragement to passersby, assuring them that their girl still loves them. “She knows you’re not the hurting kind,” they say. I take this as a good omen.

  “You girls again,” he grumbles when he sees us.

  “Hello Uncle!” we chorus. “Aren’t you happy to see us?” Saf smiles at him winningly.

  “Ya, ya, you two. Play the records only, chatter, chatter, chatter, block the aisles, then never buy.” He sniffs disapprovingly.

  “We don’t have that much money lah Uncle,” says Saf.

  “You got the new Shadows EP, Uncle?” I ask, flipping through the sleeves and sneezing at the dust I dislodge in the process.

  He grunts. “Of course lah I got.” Before long, we’re immersed in records new and old, swaying and dancing, mouthing along to the plaintive yeah-yeah-yeahs and nodding our heads as we browse the aisles. But just when I feel myself start to relax, the Djinn catches me off guard with a particularly gruesome image of Mama’s limp, lifeless body, one that feels like a punch to the stomach.

  Count for me, Melati, he whispers softly in my ear. Count.

  No, I tell him fiercely. Stop it. I stride purposefully over to the corner where the Uncle’s record player sits on its own special table and wrench at the volume knob until the music is blaring so loudly that I can feel the floorboards shake. Saf shrieks with laughter at this uncharacteristic act of rebellion, and Uncle yells, “Aiya, aiya, you will deafen me lah girl!” And the Beatles tell me that I should be glad, and I am, because at last, I don’t hear the Djinn at all.

  • • •

  Before the movie, we make one more stop at the vendors lined up across the street. I get us kuaci and boiled nuts to share, each twisted neatly into a white paper cone. Saf uses the time I spend purchasing them to flirt shamelessly with Jason, who blushes and dips his head shyly in response as he mans his father’s sugarcane stall. Then, giggling, we head for the Rex, its walls plastered with hand-painted posters emblazoned with the impossibly beautiful faces of the stars du jour. PAUL NEWMAN IN A HELL-OF-A-RACING-STORY! they scream in black on lurid red. PAUL NEWMAN IN A HELL-OF-A-ROMANCE!

  Clutching our second-class tickets, we head into the hall and look for our seats, casting envious glances at those making their way up the stairs to the highly coveted first-class section. With each step, I can feel my feet peel slowly off the floor, sticky with layers of spilled drinks and spit, and littered with dozens of white kuaci shells that crunch beneath our feet.

  “Don’t sit there,” Saf whispers, pointing to a lone seat covered in bright red cloth and surrounded by empty chairs. “They say that one’s haunted.” I roll my eyes—sure it is—but when we pass I find myself giving it a wide berth anyway; one vengeful spirit at a time is enough for me.

  As the lights dim and the roar of racing engines begins to fill the air, Mama slips in the darkness and breaks her neck with a sickening snap, her body lying limp, limbs akimbo like the rag doll I used to cuddle to sleep.

  There is no music to save me this time.

  I lean back, close my eyes, and tap my middle fingers on my knees: three times on the right, three times on the left, then back again, and again, and again. I do that forty-two times, until the picture goes away and I can finally concentrate on Paul Newman’s hell-of-a-racing-story.

  • • •

  “I have to watch it again,” Saf says. “I just have to.” She sighs, leaning back in her seat. “Oh, Paul. Why is he so perfect?”

  I laugh. “You’re not serious.”

  “I am, actually. Right now!”

  “Saf, no! You’re going to burn through all your pocket money!”

  “For Paul,” she says, smiling that dimpled smile, her eyes shining with excitement. “Paul is worth it.”

  “You’re cuckoo.” I shake my head. “I’m heading home.”

  “Come on, Mel. . . .”

  “No way,” I tell her. “Once was enough for me.” And I mean it, though it has nothing to do with how I feel about Paul and his blue eyes, and everything to do with how very, very tired I am with this hidden battle for my own thoughts, the burden of counting, the work it takes to hide it. The Djinn hates it when I’m adrift in the world, trying to live my life; he prefers me anchored to my home, where I can feed his need for numbers without fear of discovery.

  “Suit yourself.” Saf jumps up and heads to the lobby. “I’m going to go get another ticket!”

  I follow along behind her and make my way outside, waving to her as I go. I have to smile at Saf’s exuberance, her determination to squeeze the joy out of every moment, her willingness to hurtle through life by the seat of her pants. From where I stand, enmeshed in a cage of numbers and secrets, it looks a lot like freedom.

  It takes two steps out the door for the smile to fade.

  Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

  Petaling Street is deserted.

  Where the bustling, heaving, vibrant crowd was mere hours before, there is silence. The shops are shuttered, the vendors have disappeared, leaving only the usual marketplace debris behind them—here, a crumpled paper bag, still bearing traces of its greasy occupants; there, a small pile of sugarcane husks, squeezed dry of their sweet juice. Where the fortune-teller was, a handful of white cards lie scattered on the grubby pavement: remnants of other people’s fortunes. Twilight bathes everything in a curious, eerie light, making it look as if I’ve stepped into another realm.

  The Djinn twirls his clawed fingers, shooting delicate tendrils of icy-cold fear into my chest.

  A lone trishaw driver cycles by, panting hard, his legs pumping like pistons, his pointed hat knocked askew. “Uncle, Uncle,” I call after him. “Where is everyone? What’s going on?”

  He pauses and looks back, taking in my turquoise school pinafore, the half-filled cone of kuaci still in my hand. “Go home, girl,” he says. “Go home. It’s not safe here.”

  Safe. I feel it then: the familiar tightening in my throat; the cold sweat trickling down my forehead and forging trails down my neck. “Why, Uncle? What’s happening?”

  He pauses. “They’re killing one another,” he says finally. “The Malays and the Chinese are killing one another.”

  Then he looks away and cycles off, as hard and as fast as he can, until he turns the corner and disappears altogether. The crumpled paper cone drops from my hand, and white kuaci shells scatter on the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MALAYS AND CHINESE ARE killing one another.

  They’re killing one another.

  Killing.

  Killing.

  KILLING.

  The word crashes around my head. My breath comes in shallow pants, and the Djinn is screaming: They’re coming for her. They’re coming for her. They’re going to kill Mama, Melati—they’ll kill her and you’ll have nobody left.

  The numbers, I think, the numbers. One, two, three. One, two, three. That’s it. One, two, three. Breathe. The numbers buy me some time, quell the beast momentarily, shut down the images jostling around screaming for my attention, each more graphic and painful than the last, and all of them featuring Mama.

  Saf. I have to get Saf. We have to get out of here. I turn on my heels and sprint back into the Rex, making straight for the theater doors, counting each step.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me, miss!”

  “What?” I turn, breathing hard, my mind so full of numbers I can barely see straight. �
�What? What is it?”

  The gangly youth in the red usher’s uniform looks at me sternly over the top of his spectacles. “You have a ticket, miss?”

  “A ticket?” Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen . . . This isn’t going to be enough, I think, and I slide my right hand into my skirt pocket and tap my fingers quickly in time to the beat.

  “Yes, a ticket. For the movie. No admittance without a ticket.”

  A ticket? Is this guy serious right now?

  “It’s an emergency! I have to get my friend. There’s—”

  “No. Admittance. Without. A. Ticket.” He says it slowly and deliberately, emphasizing each word, as though I am hard of hearing, or hard of thinking, or both.

  I grit my teeth and think about how satisfying it would feel to punch him. “Fine,” I say, throwing my hands up and heading for the ticket office. “Fine, I’ll go and buy another ticket.”

  Minutes later I’m back at the door, ticket in hand, and the usher, now puffy with self-importance at having completed his task, makes a grand show of examining it carefully and tearing the stub before opening the door with a flourish. Inside, the theater is already dark, and he walks before me, shining his flashlight along the rows until at last, we spot Saf right in the center of the hall, staring at the screen in rapt attention. I quickly begin to work my way toward her. “Sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry,” I murmur, banging into all number of shins and knees and counting seats furiously inside my head until at last I manage to squeeze into the one beside Saf (number fifteen—a good sign).

  “Saf!” I hiss.

  “Hmm? Oh, hi!” Saf grins at me. “Couldn’t resist, huh? I don’t blame you—it’s so good.”

  “Uh-huh.” I jab her in the ribs. “Come on, we have to go.”

  “What?”

  “We have to go.”

  Saf stares at me, bewildered. “Why would we do that?” she says. “The movie isn’t even over.”

  Paul Newman has just won his race. From the recesses behind us comes a loud, distinct “SHHHHH.” In the glow of the movie screen, I can just make out the disapproving faces of the couple in the next row, glaring at us. I tug desperately at Saf’s sleeve. “Come on, Saf, come on, please. Please.”

  You’re running out of time, the Djinn says helpfully. Ticktock, ticktock. He pounds to the beat on the inside of my chest, and my school blouse is suddenly about five sizes too small, and I can’t breathe, and we have. To. Get. Out. Of. Here.

  “Can you two please keep it down?” The male half of the disapproving couple can no longer contain his impatience. “We are paying customers, you know—we have rights!”

  “Come on, Saf, come on, come on, come on. . . .”

  Saf sighs. “Okay, fine, you weirdo. Let’s go.”

  As we make our way out of the row—“Finally,” a voice behind us mutters—I feel a relief so palpable it almost makes my knees buckle. Now we can go home, and Mama will make everything right.

  Suddenly, just as Paul Newman stoically receives a kiss on the cheek from a blond beauty queen, the movie stutters to a stop, and the screen goes blank. Outraged voices chime up in the darkness: “What’s the big idea?” “Is it broken?” “Fix the movie; we want to know what happens next!”

  Nothing happens.

  Then suddenly, the screen blinks back to life. Against a bright red background, stark black letters blink the same message over and over again: EMERGENCY DECLARED.

  The lights come back on, flooding the room, leaving us all blinking at the brightness.

  The Djinn perks up then, alert, anticipating. An immediate sense of deep, deep dread settles in the pit of my stomach. The room buzzes with panicky energy as everyone begins to get up and head for the exit. “Come on,” I say, dragging Saf by the sleeve. “We have to go. . . .”

  The words die on my lips.

  The men stand silently in front of the theater doors, blocking the exits. Some wield parangs, their cold steel glinting in the dim glow of the screen; some hold iron pipes; some bear large wooden sticks, hacked to sharp, deadly points. Several boast scars and tattoos that peek out from beneath their rolled-up sleeves, marking them as members of the same gang.

  One, clearly the leader, steps forward. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he booms in accented Malay, his voice echoing through the room. “Sorry to interrupt your show. There’s been . . . a change of plans.” He smiles, revealing rows of perfectly even, white teeth. “I’m going to need all the Malays to stand over here”—he gestures to his right, the blade of the sharp knife he grips glinting in the light—“and all you other fellas to stand over there.” The knife whips around as he gestures to his left.

  There is a moment when everything seems to freeze, when everyone looks at each other, unsure what to do next.

  “I suggest you move quickly,” the man says quietly. He isn’t smiling anymore.

  There is a great rustling then, as people jostle to do as he says. My head is a symphony of a thousand deaths, and I bite back the urge to count every single seat in the theater until my brain shuts up or shuts down, whichever comes first. “We have to try and get out,” I whisper to Saf, who is visibly pale and shaking imperceptibly. “We have to—”

  “You.”

  The man is in front of us now. Beside me, I feel Saf freeze, and before I even realize it, I shift my body so that it’s ever so slightly in front of hers. The Djinn howls, flitting from my stomach to my chest and back again, sending my insides roiling.

  The man eyes Saf, with her clear brown skin, her heavy brows. “Melayu. Over there.” He reaches past me and shoves her roughly toward the rest of the Malays on the right, and a whimper escapes as she makes her way to the group, not daring to disobey. He turns to me next, and I shiver slightly at the look in his eyes. It’s not the hostility that’s disconcerting—it’s the glint buried behind it, the little spark that shows how much he’s enjoying this.

  “Now you,” he says to me, taking in my light skin, my eyes, my face. “Melayu atau Cina?” I know I should answer, but I can’t think, can’t speak over the noise in my head.

  He smacks me on the side of my head, none too gently. “Oi. You deaf? Melayu atau Cina?”

  “Eurasian.”

  The voice is loud, older, and it rings out from the non-Malay half of the theater.

  “Hah?” The man turns; I turn; the entire auditorium turns to see where it’s coming from.

  “She’s Eurasian.” The speaker is a Chinese lady in her midfifties, her dark hair pulled back into a neat bun, her elegant blue cheongsam scattered with tiny pink flowers. She walks calmly toward us. “You know. Eurasian. Serani. She’s one of my neighbors’ girls. We live near Petaling Jaya.”

  The man snorts disbelievingly. “Then why can’t she tell me so herself? No voice? Or no brain?”

  “Can’t you see how frightened she is? You think it’s easy to talk to you?” She sniffs. “I see your face; I also would be scared to talk to you.”

  There is a pause, and the man seems to think this over, staring at the auntie, who meets his gaze unflinchingly. Then he shrugs. “Fine, Auntie, you win. Take her home.” He turns to the Chinese and Indian moviegoers. “In fact, you can all go. Bye-bye. Have a nice night.”

  The non-Malays quickly file toward the exits, none of them daring to look at the desperate faces of those they leave behind. The soft sounds of sobbing waft over from the huddled Malays—twelve in all.

  I can’t do it. I can’t go. I can’t leave Saf.

  “What about them?” I say loudly, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. “What will happen to them?”

  Silence. Everyone seems to freeze. Then the sounds of harsh laughter. “Only what they deserve, girl,” the man tells me, smiling that vicious smile.

  The auntie jabs me in the small of my back. “Come, girl, I take you home, come.”

  “No!” I squirm at her touch, looking desperately back at Saf. “I can’t leave her! I can’t leave my friend!” A hand lands gently on my shoulder as the aun
tie leans forward to whisper in my ear. “Girl,” she says, “it’s no good staying, it will mean you both die instead of just one. Listen, please, come with me.” The hand drags me away, steering my reluctant feet to the door.

  The men begin to move toward the little group then, with all the menacing grace of hunters stalking their prey. I can taste the salt of my own tears on my lips. I’m sorry, I mouth over and over again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.

  The last thing I see as I turn back is Saf’s pale, frightened face, her eyes huge with despair and unshed tears, her hand outstretched in mute appeal.

  Then the doors close, and there is nothing but the heavy weight of oppressive silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I CAN’T BREATHE.

  I’m on my knees, gulping air, a million pinpricks of pain shooting through my arms and legs. Spots dance in intricate patterns in front of my eyes, and my thoughts are racing so fast I don’t feel like I can ever keep up. From far, far away, through the fog of pain and panic, I can hear a voice: “Are you all right? Girl, are you all right?” A hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently, then harder, then harder still. “Aiya, girl, get up, get up!”

  “I can’t breathe,” I manage to choke out. “I can’t breathe.” The Djinn has me in a viselike grip, his arms like steel bands squeezing against my ribs, forcing the air out of my lungs. The street echoes with my rasping and wheezing. Through the dancing spots I can just make out the auntie’s kindly face hovering beside me.

  “You can,” she says simply. “Just take your time. I wait here with you.” And she sits next to me primly in her fitted blue dress, for all the world as if we’re waiting for tea to be served.

  Tap your fingers three times on your right knee, three times on your left, three times with your right foot, three times with your left. Again. Three times right knee, three times left . . .

  It takes thirty-three sets of this for me to feel right again, except Saf is gone and nothing will ever feel right again, ever. I am shaky and exhausted and want nothing more than to evaporate into tears and nothingness.