Free Shadow Play by Barbara Ismail

inside. Chickens wandered around the yard, as did three goats who ambled over to examine them immediately, butting softly against Mamat.
    Maryam called out a hello from the bottom of the steps, and a neighbor poked her head out of her window. “ Mak Cik Maimunah isn’there,” she offered. “She’s at the market down the road. You know: you must have passed it coming in here.”
    â€œSelling vegetables?”
    The woman nodded emphatically. “That’s her. She’s got eggplants today. I saw her leave. Do you know her?”
    â€œNot really,” Maryam answered vaguely. “But thanks! We’ll go and look for her.” She smiled, and the woman left the window. “ Alamak !” Maryam hissed to Rubiah. “That market is a disgrace!”
    â€œWell, it isn’t Kota Bharu,” Rubiah sniffed, “they aren’t used to what we have.” She nodded complacently. “You can’t expect them to keep to the same standards.” They came back upon the ragged little market. Mamat immediately hared off to find a coffee shop: even such a small and deplorable pasar would no doubt have accommodations for coffee, since husbands had to wait somewhere.
    Maryam searched for eggplants. Sitting behind a pyramid of them, on a chair made of several folded sarong , was a woman Maryam’s own age, dressed in plain batik with a matching baju kurung , her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a cotton turban over her hair, just as Maryam dressed for the market. She was immediately cheered; this was a woman they could talk to. She and Rubiah bent down in front of the vegetables, examining them.
    â€œKak Maimunah?” Maryam introduced herself “We’re here looking for Faouda: do you know her?”
    Maimunah’s face clouded. “Who are you?” she asked sharply.
    â€œDo you have a moment?” Maryam looked around, reluctant to speak of this in front of everyone else present. “Could we go somewhere and talk, please?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œWell, Faouda.”
    Maimunah rose, and asked the woman next to her to watch the eggplants for a few minutes, and gestured for Maryam and Rubiah to follow her. She walked swiftly and silently back to her house and waved them up the stairs. The three sat on the porch; Maimunah offered neither drinks nor cookies.
    â€œI don’t wish to be rude, not at all, but as you see, I am in the midst of work here, and I’m not sure what your business is.” She leaned back against the wall and produced her home-rolled cigarettes from the folds of her sarong. She passed them around, and waited expectantly, clearly counting the seconds until she could get back to work.
    Maryam respected her businesslike approach: from the turban she wore to the cigarettes she carried, she could have been Maryam herself. Maryam gave the most concise possible explanation of their quest. “… and after the third night,” she finished, “one of the musicians was killed, and I understand he took Cik Faouda as a second wife. So we’re looking for her, to see what it was about.”
    Maimunah nodded. She relented somewhat, and asked, “Would you like something to drink? I’m sorry I didn’t ask before.”
    â€œNo, no, please,” Rubiah said hurriedly. “We can’t keep you from your stall. We work in the market in Kota Bharu ourselves, so we know how it is.”
    â€œAlright,” Maimunah lit her cigarette and passed them the matches. “It isn’t a really nice story, though. I’ve been married about thirty years, maybe?” They nodded: so had they all. “A few months ago, I noticed my husband was acting strange; staying out late, couldn’t find him during the day, kept complaining about how tired he was.
    â€œWell, naturally, I suspected something, but I didn’t know what todo exactly. I kept a sharp eye on him, as much as I could, anyway, and then