Chapter XVI

Osman sat stiffly on the bus from Kota Bharu to Ipoh. It left at night, so passengers could sleep through most of the 14-hour ride, although in Osman’s case, this was more hope than possibility. He had been afraid about leaving while Maryam was ill, and had postponed coming home, which infuriated his mother.

‘We have so much to do here!’ she scolded him. ‘Weddings don’t happen in a day!’

Though he explained why he couldn’t leave just yet, she refused to be mollified. ‘Are you the only person on the whole police force?’ she asked.

Even upon hearing what had happened to Maryam, she remained unmoved, and threatened to come to Kota Bharu and drag Osman home. He actually worried she would do that, humiliating him in front of his men. But thankfully, she had too much to do at home, as she told him; otherwise she’d be there.

He thought Maryam now seemed to be improving. Mamat told him about the main puteri to come, and though he was surprised Maryam agreed to it, he felt strongly that she needed it. Now he believed he could leave for a little while to get married, without the whole investigation falling apart. Between Rahman and Maryam, neither at full capacity, but together still formidable, he felt sure things would go well. Especially with those two backed up by a newly invigorated Rubiah.

He felt lighter than he had in months, as though the weight of the job, and of the foreign soil of Kelantan, had lifted from him. He would be home soon, where the smallest mumbled comment would be instantly understood and no one would look to him for advice or orders. His mother would not even look to him for agreement – she would expect her own orders to be followed, and quickly. He sighed with contentment.

He saw his father waiting as the bus pulled into Ipoh. He was a mild-mannered man, accustomed to agreeing immediately with his wife rather than undergoing hours of futile wrangling, and he and Osman understood each other.

Standing with him, with his suitcases at their feet, Osman looked around at the busy street, proprietarily proud of Ipoh’s commercial bustle. It was bigger and more energetic than Kota Bharu, and more cosmopolitan, too. He threw back his shoulders and straightened his spine: he was proud to be from Perak – and he was no foreigner here!

His mother eyed him critically when he entered the house.

‘Look who’s here!’ his father cried jovially, beaming as though he had personally whisked Osman home from Kelantan. His two younger sisters bounced around him, inexplicably having suddenly matured into marriageable young women.

‘You look thin,’ his mother, Asmah, commented. ‘Don’t they feed you there?’

Osman almost asked who ‘they’ were, who were responsible for him, but stifled himself quickly, giving her a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘Oh, I eat fine,’ he assured her.

She sniffed. ‘Then why are you thin? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘There’s plenty of food here for you. You must have missed good Perak food up there.’

‘Of course, he did,’ his father slapped him affectionately on the back. ‘Sit down and eat!’

His family all sat down and regarded him closely, as though they weren’t sure he still knew how to eat. They waited expectantly, gauging his reaction to his native cuisine, and he did not disappoint.

‘Laksa!’ he cried, digging in enthusiastically to the soupy noodle-and-sour curry mixture. ‘Real laksa. I’ve missed it so much! In Kelantan, it’s very sweet, and thick, not like this.’ He took a large spoonful and looked blissful. ‘Oh, not like this at all.’

Relieved and happy chatter broke out around him; the wanderer had returned, carried back by laksa.

*  *  *

His mother had Osman recumbent on the couch in the living room. He had changed into his sarong and T-shirt, and was paralyzed by the amount of food he had eaten. He fought to keep his eyes open and pay adequate attention to what his mother was telling him. He knew from experience there would be a test later.

‘You remember her,’ his mother stated, brooking no disagreement. ‘Mak Cik Nah’s husband’s sister’s daughter … she was at your grandmother’s party a couple of years ago.’

Osman struggled to look thoughtful, but could bring to mind no memory other than the photo his mother had sent him. He concentrated on it and tried to flesh it out with a personality, but the only one which came to him was his mother’s.

‘Can you get her a job teaching in Kota Bharu? You’re the police chief, after all, and you must have influence.’ His mother leaned back and regarded him. ‘Are you listening to me?’

He nodded dutifully.

His mother smacked him on the leg with a newspaper. ‘Alright, Man. Now tomorrow, we have to get your wedding outfit ready. Cream is the wedding colour – pay attention! We’ll go to the tailor, and then we’ll get the waistcloth to match.’

‘I have one,’ Osman mumbled. ‘This lady in Kota Bharu gave it to me.’

‘Who?’

‘The one who helped me with the murder, Mak Cik Maryam. She sells kain songket in the market. This is really top quality …’

His mother sniffed. ‘We’ll see. Does it match cream?’

Osman didn’t know how to answer. Match cream? Doesn’t everything? He dared not ask. ‘Yes, I’m sure …’

His mother rose. ‘Go to sleep, you look tired. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go.’ She swept out of the living room, leaving Osman already half-asleep (a purely protective measure), relieved to know you can go home again.