The Weight of Our Sky Page 4

  “Are you finished?”

  I jump; I’ve been so focused on the numbers that I’d honestly forgotten she was even there. “Um. Yes?”

  Did she see me? Has she been watching me this entire time? I can feel an ugly hot flush creeping across my face and down my neck. You’re not supposed to be seen. You’re never supposed to be seen.

  I’ve gotten used to keeping my little quirks hidden. I’m pretty smart anyway, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that to be inflicted with djinns ranks right up there as among the worst things that can happen to you when you’re sixteen years old and studying in an all-girls’ school. Girls are vicious creatures. You could tie your hair wrong one day and be ostracized by your friends the next. Your mother could come to school dressed in an embarrassing outfit one morning and by that afternoon you could be the butt of jokes for the entire school. To be different is to be mocked mercilessly. Be unique at your own peril.

  Every day for me is like its own special, specific challenge: find ways to appease the Djinn and his voracious appetite for numbers, without letting anyone realize that I’m doing it. Finger- and toe-tapping is easy enough to explain away—Oh, that lesson was so boring, I had to move around to keep myself from falling asleep! Sometimes I get too engrossed in getting the numbers right; Oh, just daydreaming, I say, dropping some hints about a boy and smiling mysteriously, letting everyone assume I’m another silly girl getting starry-eyed over the opposite sex. I tap my tongue with my teeth, blink my eyes in sync with my counting, chant numbers in my head, count words in textbooks, tap with my fingers hidden in my pocket or with my toes encased safely in my canvas school shoes. Safe. Nobody ever has to find out my secret.

  But here’s this kindly-faced older woman, staring directly at me and seemingly unfazed by the bizarre barrage of tapping and twitching she’s just witnessed.

  “Yes, Auntie,” I say again, cautiously. “I’m finished.” She thinks you’re crazy, the Djinn whispers, sending tiny tentacles of doubt to wrap themselves around my brain. I shake my head quickly, trying to dislodge them.

  “Good, good. Can you talk or not?”

  “Can, Auntie.” Look at her. Look at the way she’s eyeing you. Like you’re a wild animal.

  “Okay. You have a name?”

  “Melati, Auntie.” She hates you for abandoning your friend, you know. She knows it’s your fault Saf was killed.

  I can feel myself start to panic. Quickly, I blink, three times in rapid succession, then again, then again.

  Again. Until you get it right.

  “Okay, Melati. You can call me Auntie Bee.” She hoists herself back up with a slight grimace, dusting off her knees. “You’d better come home with me first. It’s getting dark, and it’s not safe for you to be out here.”

  Look at you. You can’t even save yourself. And you think you can save your mother? His laughter grates on me like nails dragged across a chalkboard.

  I pause ever so slightly before nodding three times—one, two, three. I’ve been given all the talks about going places with strangers, and she’s Chinese, which, based on recent experience, means there’s about a 50 percent chance that she wants to kill me. But considering she just saved my butt for no good reason, stabbing me out here in the streets probably isn’t the highest thing on her to-do list. I don’t see any other alternative; the Djinn weighs heavily on my stooped shoulders, I’m tired, and frankly, Auntie Bee isn’t going to take no for an answer. I can tell. It’s the primal law of auntie-hood: No matter whether Chinese, Malay, or Indian, an auntie can just say something and assume everyone will rearrange themselves to obey, and so strong is this belief in their own rightness that people usually do.

  The older woman sighs, looking up and down the empty streets. “How are we going to do this?” she mutters to herself, frowning. Then a jab on my arm. “Come, girl,” she says. “We’d better walk. Maybe we’ll see a car or a bus, somebody who can take us home.”

  I stagger onto my feet and allow myself to be dragged by the arm up Petaling Street. Not a sound disturbs the strange quiet all around us, but beneath this veneer of silence, the Djinn cackles gleefully and brings up image after image of Mama’s death, feeding on the charged atmosphere around us: a buzzing undercurrent of thick tension, a sense that there is more to come.

  Then, as I count feverishly in my head, it comes.

  “What is that?” Auntie Bee frowns, craning her neck to see ahead of us.

  Down the road they come, dozens of them, brandishing knives and sticks, the strips of bright red cloth tied around their waists and heads trailing merrily behind them, flapping in the breeze. “Allahu akbar!” they yell. “Allahu akbar!” And for a moment I am struck by how strange it is to proclaim the greatness of God, a phrase we say over and over again in prayer five times a day, while doing their best to destroy His creations.

  “Run, girl, run!” Auntie Bee’s shouts break through my reverie and we dash as fast as we can down the street. I have no time to stop, no time to think, no time to count, no time to breathe. I’m not that athletic on the best of days—my PE teacher once wrote a note home to my mother that included the lines “barely able to exert herself for five minutes” and “constantly trying to be excused on the basis of ‘period pain,’ which would be possible only if she had three periods every month”—and it doesn’t take long for me to be gasping for breath, a burning pain radiating from my lungs. I glance to my left; Auntie Bee is doing no better, her face bright red with the effort, but she keeps a firm grip on my arm and hurries me along. Behind us, I hear the sounds of shouting and smashing glass.

  “Come on, come on,” she puffs. “We must keep moving.” Her eyes constantly scan our surroundings for possible hiding places; she knows we can’t run forever.

  When we turn the corner, I see him: an older man, his brown face worn from the beating of the years and the sun, his mustache and hair peppered with gray. “Here, here!” he says, beckoning wildly to us, and in the absence of any other options, Auntie Bee and I slow down. I can sense her hesitation with each step that brings us closer to him. I can’t really blame her. Malay men are busy burning down Petaling Street; there’s no real way of knowing if this particular Malay man can be trusted.

  “Quickly,” he says. “Come quickly.” And he gestures behind him, where I now notice a large drain, partially covered with metal sheeting and blocked from view by a trishaw—his trishaw. “Go in there,” he says, pointing at the drain. “There’s still space. Hurry.”

  I look over at Auntie Bee, who nods quickly and grasps the man’s hand in a gesture of unspoken gratitude as we pass. Then we scurry to the drain and I jump into the dark cavern, landing on my feet with a sickening squelch. The floor of the drain is wet and yields slightly beneath my weight, and I try very hard not to think about the reasons why while Auntie Bee lowers herself more cautiously, grunting with the effort. Inside, there are already two others, but beyond the fact that they’re a man and woman, there’s little else I can see in the darkness to identify them. The air is heavy with the scent of sweat and rancid drain water, and I have to concentrate on taking deep, even breaths without throwing up. Through a small hole in the sheeting that covers us, I see the man reposition his trishaw slightly to better hide us from view. His body is tense, muscles tightly coiled as a cat ready to spring. The hands that grip the handlebars tremble slightly.

  We wait.

  I freeze, trying to make myself as still and as small as possible, trying to quiet my heart, which is beating so loudly I’m sure its rhythmic tattoo echoes down the streets. Auntie Bee’s lips move in silent prayer, and I add my own, tapping manically with my fingers: Onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree, the words blurring together until they don’t even make sense.

  Then we hear it. The roar of the mob gets closer, louder. I suddenly smell the acrid scent of smoke. From beside me, a sharp intake of breath from Auntie Bee. “They’re burning the shops,” she mutters. “They’re burning the shops.” There is a loud cla
ttering of footsteps running frantically past us where we crouch hidden from sight; in the distance, I hear an anguished cry. I start to shiver and can’t seem to make myself stop. From my peephole, I realize the man has picked up a stick from his trishaw. “Allahu akbar!” he yells along with the crowd, his fist raised. “Allahu akbar!” They sweep past him, smashing windows, setting fire to abandoned cars. It is wild and raucous and terrifying.

  Then suddenly, a car appears—a blue Morris Minor—and screeches to a stop down the road, just within view. The door opens and a man darts out. “Come, come, quickly,” he calls, waving at those running desperately from the riot, his dark skin glistening with sweat. For a moment, my heart lifts crazily. There’s a car! He can save them!

  It doesn’t take long for my hopes to be dashed. Before anyone can even make it into the car, the red bands turn to him. The man with the blue Morris Minor immediately backs away, his hands in the air. “Indian scum!” someone yells. “Don’t let him get away!”

  “Please, I mean no harm,” the would-be savior says, inching his way back to the car, his hands still stretched toward the sky. “Just let me go. I mean no harm.”

  It does no good. Before he can say any more, his car is suddenly aflame, and he steps away from it with a shocked cry. He doesn’t get very far. The mob descends. There are thuds and thwacks and a heart-thumping crunch as the flying fists connect with his various body parts, until finally, bruised and bloodied, he is pushed hard in the chest, so hard that he goes flying into the flames.

  I close my eyes and turn away, but even though I count and count and count and count, there is nothing I can do to stop his agonized screams from ringing in my head long after the men have moved on and there is nothing but silence on the streets.

  • • •

  Eventually, the trishaw man, gray-faced and trembling, comes back to our hiding place and helps us clamber out: Auntie Bee and me, a young Chinese man who immediately sprints away down the street, and a pretty Indian girl who can’t stop thanking him through her tears as she stumbles away.

  “I am so sorry,” he says to us, shaking his head. “I wish I could take you where you need to go, but I don’t think it’s safe. If the Chinese see me, I’m dead. And if the Malays see me with Chinese in my trishaw, I’m dead.” I can see that he means it, and so can Auntie Bee. “You’ve done more than enough,” she says gently. “Thank you.”

  Auntie Bee coaxes me, with a tremor in her voice that she can’t quite mask, to keep walking, but my brain won’t stop counting and the Djinn won’t stop screaming in my ears and I can’t quite make my legs move the way I want them to. She’s trying her best not to nag me, to keep encouraging me, but I can see from the way she’s jiggling her foot with each pause that I’m holding her back. “You should go, Auntie,” I gasp the third time we stop. “You should go ahead. I’m sure I’ll be fine on my own.”

  “Don’t be silly, girl.”

  In the distance, we hear the crash of breaking glass, then yells and cheers. Auntie Bee clicks her tongue, looking up and down the street. Then she nods firmly to herself and snaps to attention. “Right,” she says. “You can’t move fast, and we can’t stay out here, so our only option is to stay hidden until they’re properly gone. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “All right. There’s a shop down there that doesn’t have its shutters down; the owner must have run off when all the troubles started. We’ll slip inside and stay out of harm’s way. Come.”

  She offers me an arm to lean on, and together we make our way to the little shop. It’s too dark to make out what the sign above the door says, but when we enter I’m hit by the smooth, rich smell of fine leather. Auntie Bee tugs at me to follow her. “I don’t want to risk turning on the light,” she says as we fumble our way through the darkness. I bang my knee against something—a low table?—and bite back an agonized moan.

  We crouch down behind a counter piled high with leather skins to wait it out. In the silence, I tap softly against the cold stone floor.

  The yells are getting closer and closer, and beside me, I feel Auntie Bee shiver. Neither of us says a word.

  Then, suddenly, we hear it. “This one!” a harsh voice yells from right outside.

  Then a crash as glass breaks and splinters.

  Then a whoosh, and a rush of heat.

  Fire.

  For a second, all we can do is stare at each other in the sudden brightness as the flames spread to lick the wooden cabinets, stools, and tables strewn about the shop.

  Then she grabs my hand and we run, stumbling in our haste to get away from the flames that leap and dance between us and the door. Auntie Bee makes a beeline for a window toward the back of the shop, and I follow, covering my mouth to keep from choking on the thick smoke. “Hurry!” I tell her frantically, but when she finally prizes the shutter open, wrought-iron bars block the opening.

  The Djinn fills my veins with icy panic and, combined with the creeping heat, my entire body trembles uncontrollably.

  “There must be another door,” she says, running into the back room. I follow, fighting the urge to curl up and let the flames take me.

  There is a back door, and it’s locked. “Come and help me,” Auntie Bee says, and together we launch ourselves at it, trying to force it open with our combined weight. The door shudders but stays steadfastly closed. The Djinn laughs, running a clawed finger up my spine.

  “Again,” Auntie Bee says, her jaw set. “Come on.”

  Again and again, we throw our shoulders against the door. Behind us, I hear the crack of the flames consuming everything in their path. “Don’t look,” Auntie Bee says. “Concentrate.”

  On the fifth try, the door finally flies open, and we spill out into the tiny back alley that stretches behind the row of shophouses. I suck in the cool night air greedily, filling my lungs until I think they may collapse. Beside me, Auntie Bee is bent over, heaving, her body wracked with dry retches that yield no vomit, but still look like they hurt like hell.

  Eventually, we recover enough to straighten up and dust the grime from our clothes.

  “Come on,” Auntie Bee says. “We have to get out of here.” As we stumble back toward the now-deserted main road, her arm over my shoulder as though to shore me up, a little gray Standard comes tearing up the road and comes to a dead stop right in front of us. Auntie Bee’s face relaxes into a smile. “Vincent! You came for me!”

  The young man in the driver’s seat is tall and thin, with legs so long that his knees jam against the steering wheel in a way that looks decidedly uncomfortable. “Of course, Ma. Baba told me you were at the theater as usual, and when we heard about the troubles, I thought I’d better come get you. Are you all right? Are you hurt? I saw the fire. . . .” His eyes slide over to me, pale and crumpled beside his mother, and he stops abruptly. “Who’s this?”

  She’s already dragging me to the car. “This is Melati. She’s coming with us.”

  “But, Ma, why are we taking her with us? Where’s her family? Won’t they worry about her?” Vincent runs a hand through his dark hair, which flops into his eyes, and which Saf’s dad would probably harrumph at as being a shade too long to be a “proper man’s haircut,” adding a grumble about “those damned dandies” for good measure. His expression is half-angry, half-confused. “I really don’t think this is a good idea. No offense,” he adds, flicking his eyes in my direction.

  “None taken,” I mumble back, too busy counting the pebbles on the ground so that I can ignore the sharp pang that pierced my stomach the moment Saf’s name wafted through my mind. I can’t blame him anyway. Who wants some strange girl in their car, especially one that looks as though she might throw up at any moment?

  Auntie Bee waves her hand at him, as only a true auntie can. “Stop your nonsense, please, Vincent. She needs somewhere to go, and we’re taking her with us. End of story.” Having successfully deposited me, pliant and unprotesting, into the back seat, she slams the door shut and slides into the passenger
seat beside her son. “What is this?” she asks, gesturing to the windshield, where a crack snakes from the right-hand side all the way to the left, blossoming from a hole almost perfectly centered over the driver’s seat.

  “Nothing,” Vincent says, shrugging. “Just some jokers playing the fool on the way here.”

  Auntie Bee regards him through narrowed eyes for a minute, then decides to let it go. “Did you eat?”

  Vincent snorts. “We’re in the middle of a riot and you can still ask me if I ate?”

  “Well? Did you?”

  “Yes, Ma, I ate!” His head is turned away so I can’t see it, but I can feel the eye roll even from the back seat.

  “Good, good.” She settles her black leather handbag on her lap and reaches up to smooth down a flyaway hair. “Good thing you came home from college today. Now let’s go home and ask your baba what all this is about.”

  Vincent catches my eye in the rearview mirror, then quickly looks away. “Okay, Ma,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

  As a child, I used to scrunch myself way down in my seat, so that all I could see was the sky, and pretend we were hurtling through the air. I do this now, sliding as low as I can to count every treetop that whizzes by in groups of three, tapping each one out on my knees and then with my feet, anything to keep from looking at the ground, which is littered with bodies—anything to keep from thinking about fire and knives, Saf and Mama, living and dying. Especially dying.

  “Almost there,” Auntie Bee says to me from the front seat, and I wriggle my way back upright to look out the window. The metal shutters of each storefront are pulled tightly shut, and the streets are deserted save for a group of Chinese men sitting calmly on wooden stools, engaged in what looks like typical Tuesday-evening coffee shop conversation, except for the thick iron pipes and sticks sharpened to menacing points laid casually across their laps and at their feet. “Aiya,” Auntie Bee mutters under her breath when she sees them. “They’re expecting trouble, I see.”