Thirty Three

When it is her turn, Malu is required to touch herself as sahib watches. She minds this less than helping to arrange the others. Take Slow Roki, for instance, who has never liked Malu and always calls her a half-breed and sneers when she walks past. In the cabin, Slow Roki only shivered and bit at her broken upper lip, bowing to Malu and lowering her eyes like Malu was her elder. It was nearly impossible to convince her to raise her head and look toward the camera.

There are plenty of other women Malu does not want to meet again in the neighborhood. So she does not go home for many weeks. Until one day, after the worst of the monsoon is over, she does.

To her surprise, nothing has changed in the lower town. The air smells, as ever, of river fish guts. Uncles stretch in the doorways of their stilted huts, groggy from the afternoon sleep or too much nipa toddy. Women are rinsing their hair in rain buckets. They lean over the railings, chatting to each other from one landing to another and the village rings with voices. A few young kids scamper to keep the ball aloft in game of sepak takraw. Malu smiles to herself. She’s forgotten how good it feels to kick a ball.

She gives the wet grass a couple of practice kicks before climbing the slippery ladder of Nattie’s raised hut. Three broken rungs, she counts, and one rung completely missing. Nobody fixes anything around here! Nobody cleans anything, either! Uncle Nito’s shrimpers spend all their time squabbling and chewing betel. Their conversation is so loud they don’t notice her come in. Or notice the rat scurrying along the rafter above them. Five or six men are seated around a low table which is laden with an ulam spread, heavy on the shrimp, with extra spicy sambal for Nito.

“Take this problem to the raja,” says one man. “That’s what I say.”

“He is part of their shame, I tell you. Who do you think is spreading the monies for their visits, heh?”

“The longo, you fool.” Nito pushes a hand through his black hair.

“Yes, and the raja’s receiving his monies.”

“So what? He will still hear us on it. He may even give us some of those monies.”

Auntie Nattie, who is bringing the men a fresh bowl of rice, happens to look over. “Malu child! What are you doing here?”

The shrimpers turn and stare. Nodding to the men, Malu walks to the bundle of blankets in the opposite corner and kneels beside it. Her mother moans.

“Amah? Are you cold? What’s wrong?”

Umi’s eyes are tired and small. She struggles to sit up, her head bobbing on its slender neck. “Like this with me now. Better not to see.”

Nattie is tugging at Malu’s sleeve. “No work tomorrow? Want to help me at market?”

“No.”

“You know, your longo medicine is no good,” Nattie spits. “None of it.”

Malu ignores this. She tucks the blankets around Amah’s knees.

“There’s some trouble for you, my girl,” Umi says. “I see it in your face. Something bad going on inside of you.”

Could it be that none of the women have said anything yet to Nattie? Or else, more likely, Nattie is sparing her dying sister the shame. Malu leans gingerly toward her mother, closes her eyes, and holds herself there, afraid to rest the full weight of her head against the frail body. Like everything else in Nattie’s house, the blankets smell of brine. She fights the tears. She doesn’t care what happens to her. But she needs Amah. Without Amah, what is left? “Please,” she whispers to her mother, “please don’t listen to what they say about me.”

“Come and eat something.” Nattie is trying to pull her up by the armpits. “God knows you’ve gone too skinny, whatever else you’ve done.”

“Leave me alone. I want to rest with Amah. I just want to rest.”

“I’m sick of her ulam, too,” Umi whispers. “Stay here with me. Leave them to their politics.”

Malu puts her head on her mother’s lap. As she closes her eyes, she sees Auntie Nattie’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Dr. Peterborough measured Malu’s eyebrows: each one is two inches long, “decidedly European in texture.” He measured her pubic hair, too, pulling the strands upright against the cold metal of his scale. He wiped the scale in the vinegar water before he brought his scissors down.

“Be still!” he said. “I’m merely cutting a lock. Parasites live in hair. Different parasites for different kinds of people.”

Hush, you are home now, in Amah’s arms. For the moment, this is enough.

Waking, she hears Nattie circling. Light as a flea, walks like an elephant, Umi always joked about her sister.

“So? What’s going on, long face?” Nattie asks, poking Malu’s leg. She sets down a bowl of rice topped with curry. “Sahib doctor bothering with you, heh?”

With relief, Malu sees that Amah is asleep beside her.

Nattie looks over at the men.

“They all upset now about sahib doctor. Allah, these white people mixed in the head!” Nattie’s eyes grow wet as she strokes her own forearms. “I should never have sent you to work there.”

“What?” says Malu. Can she be hearing right?

Her aunt squats down. “Stay. Don’t go back there, child.”

Malu pulls the bowl of rice and curry closer and eats while Nattie watches. She says, “Dr. Peterborough has promised to come here to see Amah. To help treat her sickness.”

“Ha. And you think your uncle will allow that visit, girl? Uh-huh.” Nattie blinks fast. “Don’t matter how many fancy words you know for asking. You can stay home with us from now on.”

“No.” Malu is surprised at how hard the word comes out of her, like an arrow to a target.

Nattie stares. “What do you say to me?”

“I’m going back,” Malu answers. “And Amah will be treated.” She raises her head to look in the direction of the men as they pick over the spread of food between them. “Tell me, where is the money going that I am sending home? Huh?”

“In the tin,” Nattie says, avoiding her eyes.