Maryam had been regaled that night at least seven times (by her own count) with the full story of the competition, and was up until all hours reliving the fateful moment when the judge announced his decision. She could not deny Mamat the pleasure of relating it. By midnight, he’d already worn out Rubiah and Abdullah, Malek and Zahara, and even Aliza and Yi. Ashikin and Daud had come over to hear of the triumph and congratulate the victor, and for the first time in her young life, Nuraini was not the centre of her grandfather’s universe. She did not take it well. As Maryam sought to comfort her, she acknowledged that Nuraini was indeed her mother’s child. The immanent arrival of a younger sibling promised to be a challenge.
Mamat was close to flying from pure happiness: his first big-time competition, and he’d won. He knew Borek could do it; he’d listened to his song long enough to see he was a champion and more than ready to compete all over Kelantan. (This concerned Maryam somewhat, as she wasn’t sure how far she cared to travel with birds, but surely now was not the time to debate it. Now was the time to nod vigorously and exclaim ‘I know!’ in tones of ringing confidence, which she did).
After everyone left, it was really not that far from the time she’d be rising for work, so she willed her eyes wide open and listened again, trying for the same level of enthusiasm she’d felt eight hours earlier. It was indeed a tour de force of wifely solicitude.
At last, lying down in silence, surrounded by the dark in which her facial expression could be neither seen nor interpreted, Maryam allowed her mind to drift back to Ah Pak’s surprising confession – if that, indeed, was what it was.
Without doubt, there was more to it than Ah Pak cared to tell, and his genial insistence that Kit Siang had gone to Gua Musang only to assume the mantle of maturity was ridiculous. He could do that right here in Kota Bharu under the watchful eyes of his parents instead of travelling down to what could only be described as the middle of nowhere under the supervision of his aunts. Maryam sniffed; there were plenty of eligible Chinese girls right here in coastal Kelantan if you were looking for a wife.
No, Kit Siang was shipped out to keep him far away from an investigation, Maryam was convinced. She didn’t know whether he was a material witness or an actual suspect, but in either event, he’d best return home and face the police – and Maryam, perhaps even more forbidding for him – sooner rather than later. She decided to approach Ah Pak with her conclusions the next day, and hoped he would accept it rationally.
The next morning, Mamat was no less transported and left early for Ah Pak’s store so they could review every second together in real time. Maryam went to the market, now exhausted, and revived herself upstairs with Rubiah’s coffee and just a few pieces of cake. She told Rubiah everything Ah Pak had said to her, and Rubiah immediately agreed with her conclusions.
‘You should talk to Osman,’ she advised, ‘and let him get Kit Siang back to Kota Bharu. After all, you can hardly go all the way down to Gua Musang and bring him back by the ears.’
That was an interesting possibility, and worth contemplating, but Rubiah was right. Besides, a summons to return ahead of schedule to Kota Bharu would no doubt be read as a threat, and the entire extended family would rally around Kit Siang to keep him away from the authorities. It would have to be done more circuitously.