Hussein walked into the bridal bedroom. The servants closed the door behind him and hurried away. They whispered amongst themselves and remarked on the mournful expression of the bride.
“Face like a bitter gourd! Alamak! Like quinine,” they remarked of Shalimar.
“He does not look too happy either. If I had a chance to have a second wife, I would be so happy. I would be jumping for joy.” The young manservant grinned from ear to ear, revealing a row of crooked teeth. He jumped up high and clicked his heels to demonstrate his joy; his short sarong ballooned like a jellyfish before he landed with a thud on the polished wooden floorboards.
“Shut up! Do you want to be sacked?”
“Quiet! You two! Stay here in the hallway. Not too near the door but close enough to see. Datin Faridah has instructed us to keep a close eye on the young couple.”
“You mean we have to stay awake throughout the night?”
“We’ll take turns. We’ll come back to relieve you in three hours.”
“Tolong! Help! What if I need to go the bathroom?”
“Stay where you are! Or you know the consequences.”
Inside the wedding suite, Hussein regarded his bride with disquiet. “You did not want this. You said so. So why can’t you tell me what really happened?”
Shalimar refused steadfastly to look at him. Instead, she looked at her hands. She kept silent.
“Or was it a ploy and not having succeeded the first time, you and your brother conspired for this to happen?”
He lost patience. Her stubborn silence irritated him. He marched up to her and dragged her to her feet.
“Tell me!” he demanded, shaking her by the shoulders.
She shook her head and looked away.
“Tell me,” he repeated, taking her face and squeezing her chin so that her face was tilted towards him.
Still she would not answer. He let out a sigh of exasperation. Releasing his hold, he turned and strode to the sofa.
“You can have the bed; I’ll sleep here,” he announced.
“No! Please!” she pleaded, “I have to... I have to sleep with you.”
“Have to? You don’t have to. I don’t want you to,” he shouted.
“I have to,” she pleaded again, running to his side. She held on to him, and slid down on the floor. She kissed his feet. “Please come to bed.”
She was willing to do anything to consummate the marriage. She tore at her baju, the lace top of her wedding garment. She had been warned. If she were to fail her brother again, Ali, her lover would be charged with a crime so severe that a death penalty was guaranteed. She saw again in her mind’s eye the raw welts on his body, the purple bruises on his face, his swollen eyelids.
Hussein stood, frozen. Shocked at what she was doing. He realised that something was wrong. He could not believe that Shalimar would stoop to bare herself if he refused her. Not even after what she had obviously done with the connivance of her brother.
“Don’t,” he said gently this time.
She stopped. Still on her knees, she hung her head in shame. Her hair was dishevelled, her body was half bare, the lace sleeves of her dress hung, armless; the baju top, still partly intact, hung around her neck. Desperately, she covered herself.
He turned and walked away, keeping his back to her to give her time to dress. Then he went over to her and led her gently to the sofa.
“Tell me why you are doing this. Tell me the truth so that Noraidin, An Mei, will believe in me again. Mend my relationship with her and I will be eternally grateful.”
She did not speak.
“I promise that you will remain my wife at least in name and I will not inflict on you the shame of divorce. Look, I couldn’t anyway. My parents believe in Ahmad. Our marriage has made headlines. I could not retract even if I wanted to. Just help me to salvage the little happiness I have with An Mei.”
Still she maintained her silence.
“You should know that you have the power to deny whatever you tell me in this room. It would be my word against yours. And, as I said, my parents believe in you and Ahmad. They want this marriage. You have nothing to fear. I just want to know for myself so that I can tell An Mei, without any doubts in my own mind, that I am innocent.”
Shalimar kept her head bowed, but the tension in her body relaxed. He saw it in the easing of the tendon cords in her neck and the way her spine soften.
“Come, tell me.”
In a small voice, she whispered, head still bowed low. “In turn, I have a favour to ask of you. Help me. Help me save Ali. If he can be moved safely away from here to a place where they cannot reach him, I will be able to act according to my conscience.”
“Ali? Who is Ali? What are we talking about?”
The next morning they came down hand in hand. They smiled at each other; she looked shyly into his eyes and he into hers. Breakfast was served in the middle terrace leading out to the lawn. They took their time, aware that they were being closely scrutinised. They stood for some time admiring the garden. A peacock strutted by, his tail fanned out in gaudy splendour; he shimmered his feathers, rippling deep greens and royal blues. At a distance, a peahen stood indifferent, pecking the ground.
“So! You are up! Come and join us for breakfast,” said Rahim. He looked at his wife Faridah, smiled and with an imperceptible nod that seemed to say ‘I told you so,’ waved the young couple over.
“Looks like we won this round,” said Faridah softly to her husband, smiling at the approaching couple all the while. “The servants told me all went well last night; they certainly look contented enough. Ahmad is right. And I am glad we went with his plan. I must confess I had my doubts for a moment because of Shalimar’s strange behaviour, but Ahmad said that it was all due to nerves. He assured me that the poor girl has always been in love with our son, but was just too shy to push herself forward.”
Servants rushed forward to pull chairs out for the approaching couple.
“Sit! Sit! You look very pretty this morning,” Faridah said to Shalimar. “And my son, you are well?” She examined his face, raising one eyebrow in quiet concern when she saw the shadows under his eyes.
“Selamat pagi! Good morning!” Hussein replied. He grinned. “I did not have much sleep last night.”
Rahim laughed. He whispered to his wife, “What do you expect?”
Shalimar blushed. Both had not slept much. They had spent the night talking and working out their plans. They decided that they had to present a picture of contented love to convince his parents and Ahmad. They would be able to carry out their plans only if Ahmad and Hussein’s parents dropped their vigilance and stopped following their every move.
“Well, take the next couple of days off, but I regret to say that is all the time we can spare you,” announced Rahim. “We are right in the middle of an election campaign and we have gained so much ground that we cannot afford to lose momentum.”
“Thank you, that would be wonderful,” Hussein replied.
“And, son, you will find that the swing towards you will be even greater when you go back onto the election trail. Your marriage to Shalimar has already improved your standing among the people. We have heard from villagers, all along the coast of Kemun, and even in the hinterland, that people approve. People here are still old fashioned. They do not wish to see their leaders completely westernised, and with a Chinese wife to boot! You will find a big contrast from before. Noraidin is pretty, but she is not one of us.”
Hussein left the village hall, a simple wooden structure with a plain cement floor. The last of the voting booths were being cleared away and they could see the ballot boxes being carried to the adjoining offices. Hussein turned to the penghulu, the village headman. “Terima kasih, thank you,” he said, clasping both of the older man’s hands in his own before touching briefly his heart, a gesture of respect and gratitude.
“It is my honour to serve you,” he replied.
“No, the honour is mine. I will remember your support and you can count on me to do the best for the villagers here. I bid you farewell for now, but I will be back.” Hussein bowed once more; his humility so touched the older man’s heart that it evoked tears in his eyes.
Ghazali smiled, noting how easily his boss won people over. People had expected a brash, pushy westernised young man. Hussein’s adherence to tradition pleased the villagers.
“Congratulations!” Ghazali said, opening the car door for Hussein, before sliding in next to him. “The votes are not all in; two other villages have yet to finish, but all the indications are that you have won a landslide victory. Here, I have received a letter from KL. You are invited to see the PM. This must be good news.”
Hussein laughed. He was elated. It had been all that his father had predicted.
“Good!” he answered. “When do we go? This will give me the opportunity to go to KL. Have you called Noraidin for me?”
Hussein had been so rushed that he had not had time to lift up a phone. He depended on Ghazali to do it for him.
“One day,” he continued, “we will have a phone that we can carry around with us, instead of this mad rush to find a phone and then spending time dialling a number over and over again. But before we have this miracle, we will have to rely on land lines.”
“I am sorry,” replied Ghazali, his voice was reproachful. “We are not in KL; telephones are still not that widely available in the villages of Kemun, and the lines are not good. I find it difficult, in fact I would say impossible to rush in search of a phone and be with you at the same time. You have to tell me your priorities.”
“I know, I know. I will do it myself. Let me have the letter.”
Hussein read the letter and then read it again. A smile broke out on his face, transforming it.
“Yes, I have done it! If the votes swing my way, the ministerial post is mine.”
He felt a surge of adrenalin course through him; his doubts, his worry that the sacrifices he had made in pursuit of politics might not be worthwhile, fell away.