The Weight of Our Sky Read online

  “This would be so much better if we could bet on it,” he mutters, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes in concentration as he flings one stone straight up in the air and quickly attempts to sweep up the four on the ground in time to catch it. Only he messes up and ends up scattering the stones every which way, sending them clattering loudly against the wooden floorboards. He clicks his tongue in frustration. “You see? I have no incentive to get it right.”

  “Why must you Chinamen gamble on everything?” I tease him.

  “Why are you Malays so backward that you have to play with rocks?” he retorts back.

  We spend the evening in his room. He leaves the door open for propriety’s sake, yet my body still buzzes with a nervous energy that won’t let me stay still. Is it the Djinn? Is it something else? I don’t know. Instead, I drift from here to there, touching this, picking up that, running my fingers along the belongings I’m starting to know as well as my own. The tin of musky pomade and the orange plastic comb that lie on the shelf beneath the speckled mirror on the wall. The family picture in a simple gold frame by his bed: Auntie Bee staring straight at the camera, hair perfectly coiffed for the occasion, Uncle Chong with glasses far too big for his face, smiling his warm smile, a small Frankie looking sullenly at the photographer in a starched sailor suit, and a tiny Vince, a smile splitting his face in two, a tendril of drool shining on his chin, snug on Auntie Bee’s lap. The notebooks lining the worn wooden desk like sentinels, each filled from cover to cover with surprisingly neat handwriting, small and straight, each stroke thick and assured. And all along one wall, bookshelves filled with the books I’ve come to know so well. There are 115 altogether, or there were—it wasn’t divisible by three, a fact that caused me so much anxiety and grief that eventually the Djinn demanded I slip one book out of the case and put it on the shelf in the living room instead. I glance at him as he runs his hands over the remaining 114 and wonder if he notices their missing comrade, but he’s more preoccupied with the fact that I’ve rearranged them.

  “Did you alphabetize them?” His voice has a note of amused disbelief that makes me flush bright red.

  “I just . . . like things to be organized,” I say. The Djinn sends notes of panic creeping delicately up my spine. Look at him, he whispers. He knows what you are. He knows you’re strange and broken. And if he knows that, he’ll know eventually that Saf dying and Mama dying—those are both your fault. I clench my teeth and tap every third book on the shelf lightly, three times each. I try to make it look as if I’m just browsing, but I think I see Vince’s eyes on my fluttering fingers. I think I see him frown slightly. I think, but I’m not sure, because I can’t look right at him, can’t stop until the Djinn is satisfied and the world feels right again.

  If Vince does notice, he says nothing. He just strokes the spine of each book lovingly, like old friends or lovers, and sighs. “Ba says I think too much of books,” he says, and something in his voice, so quiet, so gentle, soothes the itch in my brain so that I can calm down and actually focus on what he’s saying. “I’m studying English, you know, at college? They . . .” He jerks his head in the general direction of the living room, where we can hear the low buzz of the radio, which is never switched off these days. “They wanted me to study business, go into an office, be a big shot. But I hate numbers.” He smiles and shrugs. “I’m a major disappointment.”

  Vince pulls out his prized record player then, and my heart soars at the sight of the shiny deep red box, the idea of listening to music again, the only time the Djinn seems to stay away. I sink down on the floor beside him, the voice and my nerves both gone for now, eager to hear my old friends. I’m not sure I realized until then just how much I’d missed them.

  When the first notes come, it’s as if my brain is being enveloped in a comforting hug. For the first time in days, I can feel my body unclench, the tension receding. For the first time in days, I feel like me.

  He puts on record after record, keeping the volume on low so as not to attract too much attention, selecting them one after another from an enviable collection that he keeps in boxes under his bed. His choices surprise me: First, an intricate, delicate piano nocturne; then a swinging rock ’n’ roll number; then a keening Chinese melody made no less sad by my inability to understand the words; then the familiar swell and lilt of an old P. Ramlee song.

  I lean back against his bed and let the familiar words wash over me. Saf and I watched this movie together just a few years ago; P. Ramlee movies were the only ones her father grudgingly approved of, on the grounds that “Malays must support other Malays.” I remember hearing this song for the first time, P. Ramlee’s voice swirling around us in the dark theater, deep and soft and warm as an embrace. He sings of love and loss, every word laden with quiet despair. Where will I find another, he asks, another quite like you?

  I think of Saf, and my heart crumples. From deep in my belly, I feel the Djinn start to stir, the shadows starting to creep in. Stop, I think. Stop.

  “Can you play something else?” I know Vince hears that unmistakable crack in my voice, the one all my grief threatens to come rushing through. But he doesn’t mention it.

  “What would you like?” he asks instead.

  “Play a Beatles song. Any Beatles song.”

  The rain beats a steady rhythm on the roof, and Paul McCartney’s familiar voice fills the room, imploring us to try and see things his way.

  Abah loved the Beatles, and this song was one of his favorites. Whenever he was in trouble with Mama—for turning up in clothes caked in mud and blood from a particularly thrilling mission; for stuffing me with too many pieces of bread slathered in sticky, sweet coconut jam that was meant to be an occasional treat; for buying me yet another record, “as if we were made of money,” she sniffed—he’d grab her by the waist and swing her around. “We can work it out,” he’d croon in her ear. She’d forgive him every time.

  This song in particular, he used to tell me, was perfect for them. “You hear it? Listen closely now.” He’d put the record on and I’d frown, concentrating furiously on the notes that wafted through the air. “You see? This is McCartney, all optimism and light—we can work it out, we can do this, all set to this upbeat pop tune. That’s me, foolishly hopeful.” He laughed, and I laughed too. It was true; Mama used to say that Abah was far too idealistic to be a police officer, that he never wanted to believe that people were capable of doing bad things. “Then the bridge . . .” The tempo changes to a lilting 3/4 time. “You hear that? Life is very short; there is no time—this is all Lennon, impatient, needing things to be done at once, no time to waste. That’s your mother! Efficient to a fault. And it even sounds like those waltzes she loves.”

  He sighed and sat back, and I mimicked him, sitting in silence as the song washed over us. “Total opposites in so many ways. But when they get it right, don’t they make the most gorgeous music together?” I wanted to ask him if he meant Lennon and McCartney, or him and Mama. I never did.

  Before I realize it, my cheeks are wet with tears, and Vincent is looking at me in panic. “What, what is it, what’s wrong?” he asks, running his hand through his hair, distressed at my sudden sadness.

  “It’s nothing,” I tell him, trying to smile. “I . . . I miss my mother. It’s just the two of us, you know? So it’s strange that right now I’m just . . . one of me.”

  He nods, and I can tell that he understands, that he is trying to find the words to console me. “I’m sure she’s all right,” he says gently. “She’s a nurse, you said? She must be very smart. She knows how to take care of herself. She’ll keep herself safe, you’ll see.”

  We fall silent again, and I tap to the beat, counting it out under my breath, trying to will away the anxious buzzing in my chest.

  “Mel, what happened to your father?” Vince says it softly, and I know he’s trying to be gentle, trying not to poke at old wounds too much.

  I wipe away the tears and look down at my feet, counting it out, trying to
keep my breathing steady, even. The Djinn is needling me again: You can’t trust him, you can’t trust him, he’ll think you’re crazy, he’ll leave you. Across the room, Vince sits in silence, waiting it out with me. With my mind as unquiet as it is, I’ve come to appreciate Vincent’s ability to stay still, to be patient, to let the thoughts come. How much should I tell him? I ask myself. How far do I go?

  I glance at him. He’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged by the player surrounded by record sleeves, chin propped on his hands, arms propped on his knees, looking right at me.

  I take a deep breath.

  “My father was a police officer,” I begin, and he draws his knees up toward his chest, clasping them with his arms, his attention fully focused on me. “It’s just me and my mother now, but it wasn’t always, not until just over a year ago. He was a kind man, generous, responsible. He loved music—especially the Beatles, and he taught me to love them too. And he was funny—he was SO funny. Nobody could make us laugh like he could. My mother loved him, and he worshipped her; you could see it in the way they looked at each other. I was their only child, and I know that made them sad sometimes—they wanted more, but it never happened. Still. We were happy.”

  I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. Vince doesn’t move; as far as I can tell, he barely breathes.

  “Then in late November that year, in 1967, he got the call. They told him he had to go to Penang. Some trouble up there, Malay and Chinese nonsense, he told us. They were sending extra personnel from KL to help smooth things down. My mother didn’t want him to go. She didn’t say so, but I could tell from the way she bit her lips while she ironed his uniform, the way she clenched her fists when they talked about it. She worried all the time whenever he had these assignments, and so did I. But he told us he’d be back before we knew it. He kissed my mother, and then he kissed me, and he told me . . . he told me . . .”

  “What?” Vincent asks me. “What did he tell you?”

  “Life is very short,” Paul and John sing in perfect harmony, “and there’s no time for fussing and fighting.” I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. “He told me, ‘Take good care of your mother while I’m gone.’ ”

  But you haven’t done that, have you, Mel? You’ve ruined it, the Djinn’s voice hisses. An image of Mama surfaces, lying facedown on a deserted road, blood trickling from her limp body and trailing lazily into an open drain nearby.

  I sigh, rubbing my aching head. “He was dead the next day. There was a scuffle between some gang members. Somebody split his head open with a parang. Mama played this song for days afterward, weeping every time.” I take another deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs, counting three beats, before I exhale and continue. “So you see, that was what I was supposed to do. Take care of her, keep her safe. And I’m not doing that, am I? I haven’t seen her or spoken to her in almost a week, I have no idea where she is, what she’s doing, if she’s hurt. I’m failing my parents in so many ways.” I can hear my voice rise, ragged with frustration, and I pause, fighting to stay in control.

  The room is silent, the song having long reached its conclusion. I feel the world shift, and I’m dizzy with the sense of release—this isn’t a story I’ve ever told anyone, except for Saf. For one fleeting moment, I wonder if I should continue—if I should tell him how, ever since we got the call, ever since we buried my father, I dream endlessly of my mother’s death. I wonder how he would react if I told him about the panic, the anxiety, the choking fear that my thoughts are ominous portents of my mother’s future. I wonder if I should tell him about the Djinn.

  I wonder what he’d think of me then, if he knew all of this.

  Then the moment passes. I don’t have to wonder. I know. He’d think what anyone would think, what our whole extended family thought when Mama and I came asking for help, when I was so exhausted, so full of images of death and numbers that I thought I was going insane. They told her I was crazy, possessed; that we had made God angry with our faithless lifestyle; that I needed a doctor or a bomoh or a cell at an asylum for the insane. It didn’t happen overnight; the abandonment was so gradual that I didn’t even know it was happening until one day I realized that it had been six months since we last saw my aunts or uncles, or any of the half-dozen cousins that used to come over to listen to records and braid my hair. I was a curse, they told my mother, and they wanted nothing to do with me.

  And Vince will think the same.

  So I bite my tongue and let the silence stretch on unbroken. Vince stares at his feet, lost in thought.

  Suddenly, he rouses himself and speaks. “You know jasmine?” he asks. It’s such a jarring change of subject that all I can do is look at him.

  “Huh?” I say. “Like the flower?”

  “Jasmine,” he repeats, looking at me. “That’s what your name means, right? Melati? Mama grows it, out in the garden. They’re the bushes right in front of our escape tunnel.” I nod, but I’m still confused, and it’s written all over my face.

  “Jasmine flowers are so pale, so delicate,” he says, “you’d think they couldn’t survive in this relentless tropical heat. But they thrive on it. They grow strong and gorgeous, and they bloom. Their perfume is . . . intoxicating, so strong that it leaves its mark on you long after you’ve left it behind.”

  He smiles. “I think that’s pretty special, don’t you?”

  I smile back, and I don’t feel a single urge to count anything at all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ON THE FIFTH DAY, HAVING slipped out to procure more supplies, Vincent comes home bearing a bag of rice and an official-looking piece of paper, which he hands to Auntie Bee silently as we sit peeling potatoes in the kitchen and I try not to imagine my mother being sliced up by a vicious mob.

  “What is this?” Auntie Bee asks, holding the paper in one damp hand and a potato in another and squinting vaguely at it.

  “It’s a curfew pass, Ma,” Vince says. His voice is quiet, but I can tell from how he’s standing, his body stiff and tense, that he’s anticipating a fight.

  “A curfew pass? Where did you get this?”

  “I went and signed up with the Red Cross today, Ma. They need volunteers—I heard it on the radio.”

  Auntie Bee hands the paper to me and I skim the words quickly as she turns her attention back to the potatoes. “And what did you go and do that for?” she says nonchalantly. Her voice is calm, steady, but I can see her hands tremble ever so slightly as she lightly shaves off strips of brown potato skin, revealing the creamy flesh beneath.

  Vincent half smiles; he isn’t fooled. “There are a lot of people out there who need help,” he tells her. “A lot of people trapped where they are, without any food to get through the days. A lot of people who might be hurt, who need medicine, doctors, hospitals—”

  “Aiya, you.” A ghost of a smile plays on his mother’s lips. “I remember when you were little,” she says. “Whenever some child was being bullied, whenever everyone decided they didn’t want to play with one particular girl or boy, whenever someone fell down in the playground, there you were. Always wanting to save everyone, even then.”

  “Someone has to, Ma.” His tone is gentle but firm. “If we stay inside and do nothing, then what’s the use?”

  “And if you get hurt?” Auntie Bee says as I hand the pass back to him. My heart begins to pound as I see knives pierce Vince’s fair skin, the life drain from his eyes as fast as the blood from his veins. He’s going to die, the Djinn whispers. I grip my paring knife so hard my knuckles turn white, and I count the potatoes in the basin in front of me. Three, six, nine, twelve. I tap my tongue against the roof of my mouth with each beat. Again, I feel like Vince is watching me, and my heart skips crazily at the idea of being seen. But when I look at him, his face is impassive, and he’s focused entirely on his mother.

  “Then I get hurt.” He shrugs. There’s no bravado, no beating of his chest; he says it as matter-of-factly as if he were talking about the weather.

  “When do yo
u start?” I ask him.

  “As soon as I can.” He walks out of the room, folding the precious piece of paper carefully as he goes. Auntie Bee leans back on her kitchen stool, closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh. The resigned sadness on her face makes my heart break a little.

  “Are you all right, Auntie?” I ask gently.

  Her eyes fly open. “Fine, fine,” she murmurs immediately, rearranging her face back into its usual amiable expression, busying herself with potatoes. “Just tired, girl. After this, you go take some pucuk ubi for me outside? That will make a nice change, hmm?”

  “Okay, Auntie,” I say, busying myself with the business of plucking tapioca leaves from the garden and pretending I didn’t see the way Auntie Bee’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  • • •

  Later, as we listen to records, Vince shows them to me—the sticker for his car, the band he’s meant to wear around his arm. “The pass lets me drive around during curfew,” he explains, “but at least when people see me coming they’ll know I’m a Red Cross volunteer. They’ll know I’m there to help.”

  I nod, running my fingers over the bright red insignia sewn onto the band, tapping it quickly three times on each corner for luck. Frankie saunters in. He’s not spent much time with any of us since his mother slapped him—“Aiya, he likes to sulk, been that way ever since he was a small boy,” she sniffs.

  “What’s all this, little brother?” he says, picking up the band for a closer look.

  “I’m a Red Cross volunteer now,” Vince says.

  The older boy snorts. “You’ve always been a bleeding heart,” he says, shaking his head and tossing the strip of cloth contemptuously on the bed.

  “What do you suggest we do with our hearts instead?” Vince’s voice is even, but his eyes glint dangerously. I concentrate on making myself as small as possible, concentrate on not being seen. I don’t want to be drawn into this fight.