Shadow Theatre Read Online Free Page B

getting, especially (almost midnight). Taxi drivers would be charging double rates soon.
    "Two heads are better than one," Madam had said, smiling a
hit sheepishly at the cliche as she leaned forward on the sofa to
clink glasses with Miss Shakilah.
    So the night had ended, with Madam calling for Malika to
close the windows while she found some pajamas and a new
toothbrush for Miss Shakilah, and then Madam had turned on the
air conditioner in Michelle's old bedroom, and she had given Miss
Shakilah a foot massage with eucalyptus oil to help her relax.
    But no solution had presented itself, after all.
    Malika watched as Miss Shakilah rose from the table with
her empty plate in her hands (both she and Madam had had two slices of buttered toast each, which, accompanied by black, sugarless coffee, was Madam's usual breakfast). Sunlight from the
window above the sink was pouring into the room, throwing
long shallow beams across the black-and-white checkered floor
(modeled after the kitchen floor of a hotel suite Madam and her
husband had stayed in when they were in New York City in
1959, the year after Francesca was born and before Malika
arrived). As Miss Shakilah put her plate down in the sink,
Malika saw how slim her feet still were, but striped pale where
the straps of her sandals had blocked the sun, making Miss
Shakilah's feet look like the feet of any European tourist. Except
for that, and except for her American accent, and the little extra
weight gained because of her pregnancy, Malika thought Miss
Shakilah seemed very much the same girl who had come to the
house in the loose dungarees, with the same air of impatience in
her movements as when she had hugged Madam fifteen years
ago and said lightly, "See you in June."

    "Miss, you can just leave it," Malika heard herself say, as
Miss Shakilah stood a moment at the sink as if she were about
to wash the plate.
    Madam had left the kitchen and was in the dining room
(where before Madam's husband had passed away, he and
Madam used to have their meals but now, the dining table
would be set only when her daughters and grandchildren visited, or when Madam decided to throw a dinner party for her old
friends, which happened occasionally, once or twice a year"before they all keel over," Madam was fond of saying, with a
wry smile). Malika could hear her gathering her papers and
books for school, and then the lid of the piano that sat against
the dining room wall closing with a soft thud. Madam was
going to give Miss Shakilah a lift home on the way. "Come,"
she had said, and from outside the back door, while sorting
out clothes to be put into the washing machine from clothes
to be hand-washed, Malika had seen her stroke Miss Shakilah's forearm lovingly before she left the kitchen, "I'll take you to
your mum's house."

    (Madam had asked Miss Shakilah when they had first sat
down to breakfast, what about getting the book published in
Singapore. "You want me to ask around for you?" she had
offered, and Miss Shakilah had replied, "I don't know," in a way
that meant no, politely. Then with a sigh, Miss Shakilah had
added, "I don't think publishers here pay much."
    'Tell your editor this is how we tell stories," Madam had
suggested, finally. "Ask him-him or her?"
    "Her."
    "Ask her to look at a piece of batik. Ah, that's what you
should do, show her a piece of batik, how complicated and
interwoven everything is. Maybe then she'll understand. What
do you think?" Madam had so wanted to be of help, and Miss
Shakilah had smiled, aware of this, and said she would try it,
perhaps it would work.
    Malika didn't know if Madam had heard in Miss Shakilah's
tone another no. It was a quarter to seven by then and Madam
had started getting up from the table.)
    "Did you see her?" Miss Shakilah was asking, still at the
sink. She was looking out of the window but not at anything in
particular, Malika could tell.
    "See who, Miss?"
    "I think you know."
    Malika