The dining hall bustles. Servants in coarse jubah stand in rows by the wall holding trays laden with steaming, hot food or circulate around the tables with jugs of wine. Nobles in finely embroidered jubah or silky hand-made batik talk and laugh in cliques. Many of them wear various shades of blue, but none deep enough to imitate the royal Bayangan blue. Facing the main table, the troupe has set a stage—coconut trees, painted rocks, tall grass, sand?—likely a folktale, then.
Azman Tuah sits beside his grand-aunt, Che Carla. He dips his chin when he notices me; he nudges her and she stops talking to look over. Ayah frowns at some papers, unable to stop working even for a formal dinner. Han, the troupe leader, leans forward and whispers to a cluster of waiting dancers in green and brown. They disperse to their ready positions, muscles taut. Their nervous energy washes over me, a state of heightened senses, like time has slowed down.
Han’s fingers form a shape—the first note sounds, a hush falls.
I take a deep breath. Walk.
Everyone rises, heads bowed. Everything stills.
My feet falter at the weight of their gaze. I should be used to this after two years, but I still don’t like the attention. A moment later, there’s a warm hand on the small of my back. Ibu, steadying me.
You can do this, Yos.
I smile—fake, so fake, is this who you are?—and stride across the hall to my seat at the head of the main table. When I sit, so does everyone else—and the bustle starts up again. The servants come forward, laying their mouth-watering burdens before us. Ayah puts his papers aside before Ibu can snatch them from him. She laughs, he grimaces.
The music soars as the entertainment starts and I let it wash over me, ignoring the buzz of conversation. For a short moment, I’m drawn back to older, simpler times. The rhythm of our bare feet on the ground, the leader’s beat, the soft wail of the seruling, the twanging gambus, the pounding of the kompang. We speak in unison, echoing in chorus to our leader’s call. Call and return, call and return.
Ibu’s hand on my forearm brings me back to the present.
“Where were you today, Yosua?” Ayah asks. “We were looking for you.”
“I was out. With Azman,” I reply, picking at the food on my plate.
He frowns as Ibu says with fond exasperation, “At the old port. In the rain. Alone. Really, Yosua.” She turns to Ayah and says, “You’d think he’d know better by now.”
“How was I to know it was going to rain?” I grumble.
“The rain doesn’t matter,” Ayah admonishes. “It’s not safe for you to disappear like that with no one knowing where you are, especially when you’re the ruler of this kingdom. What happened to your honour guard?”
I shrug. “I wasn’t alone. Az was with me.”
Ayah glances down to where Azman sits watching the troupe play with rapt attention and sighs. “The port again? What were you doing there?”
Nothing. I stand there, remembering Mikal sailing away, watching the ship shrink into a speck, imagining I can see it dock across the straits. In these waking dreams, Ayah lets me wait until there’s nothing left on the horizon; in reality, he herded me back into the city once the ship had shrunk to the size of his palm. “I just…needed a break. Some fresh air.”
Ayah looks like he wants to say something further, but then he shakes his head and turns to watch the show.
