The Last Days of Jesselton

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About the book

The Last Days of Jesselton is a historical novel set in North Borneo during World War II. The story follows the Bangsawan Seri Melati theatre troupe, invited to perform in Jesselton by the debonair Sharif Hamid, son of a wealthy tycoon. However, their stay takes a dangerous turn when Jesselton and its surrounding territories, under the administration of the British North Borneo Chartered Company, fall to the Japanese. Stranded in a foreign and hostile land, the troupe faces the harsh realities of war, becoming entangled in a web of intrigue, survival, and shifting allegiances. 

What our readers say 

From the first sentence of The Last Days of Jesselton, Ruhaini Matdarin reels us in with her vivid characters whose quirks are on full display hand in hand with their humanity and vulnerable inner worlds. This historical fiction novel is intriguing, and Pauline Fan’s sculpting makes it a captivating read in English translation as well.   

 The narration moves effortlessly from describing characters to bringing us along on their pitstops and ports of call. The characters are never alone, as banter, bickering and collusions done in hushed conversations with other characters build a world that takes us to Sabah during the British colonial era.   

 Matdarin’s writing will have readers tracking the characters, wondering who they truly are and where they are headed to next. She has chosen a style that reveals character and conflict sparingly, but where we can expect the hubbub of activity and criss-crossing of peoples in the foreground and background to be a stage set for more intrigue, humour and contemplation of humanity and its many foibles along the path of history.

Fan’s translation stands out for the creative choices made. Like the alternating movements of an accordion, her translation spreads words from multiple sentences into one, or from one sentence into multiple ones in turn. Readers are transported into an era in Malaysia’s history that is less known of in fiction, and the journey is nothing short of sublime.

–Adriana Nordin Manan

What our panellists say 

We are delighted to support and recognise Pauline Fan’s lyrical and deeply empathetic translation of Ruhaini Matdarin’s The Last Days of Jesselton; a novel about a theatre troupe during the Japanese occupation of Malaysia in the Second World War. This is an important work to be translated into English, offering a much-needed corrective to a period normally seen through a European lens. With humour, irony and incredible skill, Fan’s translation was a joy to read. We will look on with excitement as new readers discover the work of this talented translator.  

–Shash Trevett

Awards and press 

Winner of the Hadiah Sastera Perdana 2017/2018  

Rights available 

World English  

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Translation extract

The Last Days of Jesselton 

 

Ruhaini Matdarin 

translated from Malay by Pauline Fan 

 

Chapter 1 

Awang Ruskap wasn’t an ugly man, but neither could he be called handsome. The girls at the harbour barely gave him a second look, especially when he walked beside the dashing Sharif Hamid. All eyes – and hopes – were drawn to his boss, the son of a wealthy Jesselton tycoon. This made Awang Ruskap all the more determined to win the favour of any woman who looked his way. He never left the house without slicking his hair with coconut oil and dousing himself with attar, hoping to attract the soulmate fate surely had in store for him. The cloying scent that clung to him never failed to give his mother a stuffy nose. 

But today was different. He had taken special care with his appearance. He wore the blue chequered shirt from last year’s Eid celebrations, paired with neatly pressed black trousers. His usually well-oiled hair was dry, styled to cover his broad forehead shaped somewhat like a coconut shell. Instead of his familiar attar, he wore a subtle sandalwood scent. His mother paused her sambal-pounding and glanced at Awang Ruskap as he studied himself in the faded mirror by the window. If that mirror could speak, it would have screamed and shattered – it had long witnessed Awang Ruskap talking to his reflection. 

‘Are you feeling a little off, Ruskap?’ his mother asked. 

He didn’t answer. Today was significant – it marked the 121st day. Since dawn, he had been restless, rising earlier than usual to greet the first light. After performing ​​​​subuh prayers at the surau, he settled on the porch, chin resting in his palms, and read through the secret letters he had written over those 121 days. Today, he would finally deliver them to the one for whom they were meant – the words born from the deepest chambers of his heart. Each letter was arranged in chronological order; on some days, he had even written two, a testament to his passion. He dusted them with powder before tucking them away into a rice sack – he had never found a proper place to hide all 140 of them. 

‘Don’t let me catch you rubbing kemenyan incense all over your body tomorrow or the next day!’ 

He paid no mind to his mother’s nagging. With unwavering resolve, he hoisted the rice sack stuffed with love letters onto his shoulder and made his way down the stairs. Carefully, he nestled it into the front basket of his bicycle, a quiet smile etched upon his eyes and lips. The rays of the rising sun followed Awang Ruskap as he set off towards the jetty, pedalling his old bicycle with its rusty, squeaking chain. The incessant noise only pushed him to pedal harder, faster. From time to time, he stopped by the roadside to catch his breath and dab sweat from his skin. But whenever the gleam of her eyes and the curve of her smile floated before him like a vision, strength returned to his limbs, and off he went again. 

Awang Ruskap did not want to miss the grand arrival of the ship carrying the famed Bangsawan Seri Melati theatre troupe. For the past week, Jesselton had been abuzz with anticipation. Most were no doubt waiting to catch a glimpse of the seri panggung, the dazzling Primadonna, but Awang Ruskap’s sights were set on someone else – the supporting actress, whose sweet and coy demeanour had left Awang Ruskap besotted . He had never spoken a word to the girl known as Sri Timah (or so she was called in her last performance), yet Awang Ruskap believed that she was destined to be his. 

When he reached the jetty, the bridge was teeming with people. Bicycles, usually lined up neatly by the pavement, spilled into the middle of the street. Overhead, smoke curled from the ship’s funnel – a sure sign that it had just come to anchor. The voices of young men rang out, calling for Primadonna Miss Tijah. Awang Ruskap scanned the sea of parked bicycles blocking his way. With a swift tug, he yanked the rice sack from his front basket and gave his bicycle a shove. It toppled against the next one, setting off a chain reaction that sent the whole row crashing down like a line of dominoes. With the path cleared, he smoothed back his hair before darting towards the wooden bridge, which was already warped under the weight of the crowd. 

Amid the swarm of young and middle-aged men, a few elderly figures were wedged uncomfortably between the armpits of tall European gentlemen. Slight in build and short in stature, Awang Ruskap shrank further into himself, clutching the rice sack close to his chest as he wormed his way past a cluster of sweaty, pot-bellied men. He pushed forward, his head knocking into the bony backside of a Chinese man – a small mercy in such a crowd – before making it to the front. There, he found himself face to face with three fierce-looking Sikh policemen, who eyed him as if ready to devour him whole. They warned him to keep a safe distance from the edge of the jetty. Awang Ruskap obeyed, his gaze drifting towards the ship. 

The hero stepped out from the ship’s belly. His appearance was striking. It was as though all his years portraying kings and princes onstage had bestowed upon him a regal bearing in real life. He raised a hand in greeting, but only a few waved back. When the Primadonna finally emerged, the crowd erupted, shouting wildly as if possessed by djinn, especially the young men who had never known love. When she smiled and waved at the sea of people, they spiralled into a frenzy, teetering on the brink of riot. A few young men, swept up by emotion, surged forward and roughly shoved Awang Ruskap aside. Losing his balance, he tumbled into the water, his sack of love letters going with him. At the edge of the jetty, Sharif Hamid stood watching, shaking his head.  

~  

It had been two hours since Awang Ruskap arrived at Sharif Hamid’s house, after being rescued from near drowning by a Sikh policeman and two ship hands – his desperate attempt to save his love letters ending in soaked pages and a heart just as drenched. Meanwhile, his father’s old bicycle lay shattered in three pieces. Dejected, he tried to salvage the letters still somewhat legible from those now reduced to memory. From the rattan bench to the right of the veranda, Sharif Hamid sat rolling his tobacco, quietly observing his friend. 

Whenever Awang Ruskap’s odd antics led to trouble, both the trouble and its maker inevitably found their way to Sharif Hamid’s family home. Not to resolve anything, but rather to add to Sharif Hamid’s growing collection of peculiar experiences. Fortune – or misfortune – was no stranger to them, thanks to the connection between Sharif Hamid’s mother and Awang Ruskap’s father. Though technically cousins, it was just another layer in the many tangled threads that bound them. For one, Sharif Hamid was Awang Ruskap’s boss. For another, Awang Ruskap had a habit of showing up uninvited. 

If Awang Ruskap disappeared for a few days, his mother would immediately seek out Sharif Hamid. She would demand answers from him whenever her son was caught up in something risky at work. If the parents of a girl lodged a complaint with the village headman about love letters or overly familiar greetings, the grievance would reach Sharif Hamid before it ever reached Awang Ruskap’s mother. In short, none of Awang Ruskap’s secrets ever escaped Sharif Hamid’s knowledge. But the incident at the jetty left a lingering question in Sharif Hamid’s mind: how long had Awang Ruskap been hiding his infatuation with this Bangsawan star – whoever she was? 

‘There are seven young women, a mother, a divorcée, and a little girl in the Bangsawan troupe that just arrived at the jetty. Tell me her name.’ 

Awang Ruskap was still peeling apart the soggy letters on the wooden stairs of the porch. A few pages slipped through the cracks and were pecked at by the chickens below. His chest rose and fell with emotion as he searched for a letter that might still hold the shape of his heart in legible words. But none could be saved. 

‘Didn’t you hear me? Or am I talking to a wall?’ 

Awang Ruskap looked up, clutching his damp letters as if he were clenching his fists. His red, glazed eyes fixed on Sharif Hamid, who casually flicked his cigarette butt to the ground and lit another, unfazed by his friend’s piercing gaze. Sharif Hamid had a way of making Awang Ruskap talk. 

‘Do you want to go watch the Bangsawan performance tomorrow night?’ 

Awang Ruskap’s grip began to loosen. The tension in his face softened. 

‘If you tell me her name, I promise you’ll get into the theatre for free – and sit up front with the rich towkays and Company officers.’ 

~  

Miss Tijah’s face was drawn with exhaustion. Perhaps it was partly the toll of it being the first day of her menstrual cycle. She had little appetite and kept sneezing. Shifts in weather, between sea and land, seemed to unsettle the body’s balance in an instant. Many in the troupe had already come down with a fever. Outside their rooms, a crowd of fans still hovered, even though they had arrived at the hotel four hours earlier. Since stepping off the jetty platform, Miss Tijah had been besieged with invitations – lunches, dinners, evening cocktails, clandestine meetings in private villas. She had neither responded nor accepted a single one.  

Even the proposal from the Tengku Muda had remained untouched in her thoughts since she left Pahang. She didn’t know whether the young prince nursed resentment or had already found someone new. Wherever the Bangsawan troupe took her, it was always the same: wealthy men and members of royalty orbited around her. It was no longer a surprise. She would arrive with nothing – and leave with half a ship’s worth of gifts from admirers and suitors. 

In the round mirror on the table, she watched eighteen-year-old Nadrah, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, filing her toenails with casual ease. Ever since the girl joined the Bangsawan Seri Melati Troupe five months ago, her youth had been a quiet thorn in Miss Tijah’s side. To make matters worse, Razak, the troupe’s manager and Miss Tijah’s brother, had recently pointed out that she would be turning twenty-four by the end of the year. For the past three years, she had held the role of Primadonna. Now there were whispers that it might be time for her to make way for younger blood. Since Nadrah’s arrival, her name had come up more than once – as an understudy, perhaps even a potential replacement if Miss Tijah were to marry one day, and her husband forbade her to perform. Such was the fate of many Primadonnas of other Bangsawan theatre troupes.  

Most were convinced she would end up marrying a royal or a tycoon – someone wealthy enough to sustain her lifestyle so she’d never have to work another day in her life. She had no ​​​​wish to continue wasting her breath explaining that what she did on the Bangsawan stage was not only for money – it was for art, for culture. The masses understood nothing! To them, a woman like her was just parading around onstage to snare a rich husband. If that had really been her plan when she joined the troupe three years ago, she would’ve quit after a year and gone off gallivanting on holiday, spending some smitten fool’s fortune. 

Razak had reminded her three times about the Tengku Muda’s proposal – and about Towkay Goh, the theatre owner in Singapore whose wife had died a year ago and who was even willing to convert just to marry Miss Tijah. If money was what she was after, she would’ve said yes long ago. She would’ve jumped at the first offer from any rich man. But her future wealth wasn’t what kept her up at night. She hadn’t yet performed to her heart and soul’s content. She still dreamed of attaining the greatness of Lillian Gish or Helen Hayes – names uttered with adulation by the European tuans who had seen them perform in America. 

Her throat itched, triggering a harsh cough. Razak, who had been watching her toy with her hair while eyeing Nadrah in the mirror, finally urged her to rest. She needed to be well by tomorrow. If any other cast member fell sick, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But if the leading man and Primadonna were unwell, the entire show would have to be postponed or even cancelled. No one would be pleased. Tickets had been selling briskly since the afternoon, with some big shots from various districts paying up to four times the price. A few had even travelled from as far as Labuan and Lahad Datu. 

‘Get some rest,’ Razak said to his sister, casting a quick glance at Nadrah. ‘And Nadrah, let your kakak lie down.’ 

The girl slipped off the bed and tiptoed out of the cramped room. 

‘My throat’s really sore,’ Miss Tijah groaned, rising from the wooden bench to perch on the edge of the bed. ‘My head’s been spinning ever since we got to the harbour.’ 

‘Tomorrow’s show is crucial, Tijah. If we want to land a big sponsor, this is our chance. The timber tycoons are all here – some of them will be at our show.’ 

She understood Razak’s intentions clearly. He was determined to secure a new sponsor. Their last one, a Penang tycoon, had pulled the plug after one of their troupe members got into a brawl with a gang thug on his payroll. Now, Razak had set his sights on a prominent patron from Borneo, renowned for their fortune in mining and timber. If he could land this deal, their Bangsawan troupe would gain access to the markets of Borneo and its surrounding islands, even the Philippines and Brunei. A hundred days ago, they had arrived in Jesselton at the Company’s invitation, to perform in honour of the Queen of England’s birthday. Today, however, they had come on the invitation of a coal entrepreneur, who was the owner of various industries across Borneo. 

‘For the next two or three hours, you need to rest. Then this evening, you need to get ready: we’ve been invited to dinner with Sharif Samin.’ 

The phrase “you need to” grated on her. She had slowly come to realise how those words stripped her of any power to decide for herself. As always, she had little choice but to do as she was told – for everyone’s sake. After Razak left, she lay down and stared at the ceiling, blinking as she listened to the troupe members chatting outside her room. Her eyes finally shut, but only for a moment. A sudden commotion startled her. She sprang to the window. Peering through the narrow slats of the wooden frame, she saw a group of men in pursuit of two others – all of them wielding sharp weapons. 

‘Get away from the window!’ Razak’s voice rang out from the doorway. 

Startled, she jumped back onto the bed as Razak strode in, slammed the shutters closed, and locked them. 

‘What’s going on?’ 

‘I’m not sure. But you saw it yourself. I’ll speak to Sharif Samin and ask him to guarantee our safety for the four nights we perform here. I’m worried some people might take advantage of our presence here.’ 

Although she didn’t fully grasp what Razak meant, his words brought some comfort. Especially the promise he would get a guarantee of safety from Sharif Samin – the man who had invited them to Jesselton. 

Chapter 2 

Although the dishes were ready and served half an hour earlier than expected, the invited guests did not show up until a full hour later. Sharif Samin ordered his cooks to reheat several items that had grown cold, especially the vegetable soup and fish stew. Just then, a bellboy from the hotel where the Bangsawan Seri Melati Troupe was staying burst in, visibly flustered. He announced that one of the performers had fallen ill. It was a suspected case of food poisoning; a doctor had already been summoned. The troupe manager sent his regrets – he couldn’t leave his performers unattended at the hotel. 

‘Food poisoning?’ Sharif Samin’s thick eyebrows furrowed into a single dark line across his forehead. ‘Who’s down with food poisoning? Don’t tell me it’s the leading man – or the Primadonna?’ 

‘I don’t know, Tuan,’ the bellboy replied. ‘Someone stopped me in the lobby and told me to deliver the message to you.’ He gulped down a glass of cold water and made a quick exit. 

From the veranda, Sharif Hamid watched the scene unfold, absentmindedly teasing the caged mynah bird beside him. 

‘Go call the boys in from the farm. Tell them to eat.’ 

Sharif Hamid let his father’s words hang in the air. Then he calmly got up from the wooden bench and stepped down from the porch. He took the bicycle leaning against the trunk of a mango tree and set off toward the farm workers’ quarters. 

When he reached the front yard of the quarters fifteen minutes later, he heard a woman’s voice coming from the left side of the house. 

‘Damn it! These farm boys surely brought home a showgirl.’ 

He parked his bicycle in a small shed, picked up a few stones, and crept toward the source of the voice, now rising and falling. He hurled the stones against the wall. The voice fell silent. Moments later, a young woman slipped out from the back of the house and darted past Sharif Hamid, who met her with a hard, unblinking stare. 

He banged on the wooden walls. ‘Come out! Come out, all of you!’ 

One by one, the fourteen young farm workers filed out of their quarters. Most looked groggy, clearly dragged from their beds. Some gazed, stupefied, at Sharif Hamid, who sat with legs splayed at the edge of the storage shed, puffing on one cigarette after another. The last to appear was Daiman, the farm manager – the one fooling around with the showgirl. His body dripped with sweat, and his shirt hung crooked with mismatched buttons. 

‘What’s wrong, Sir?’ Daiman approached as Sharif Hamid lit the cigarette dangling from his mouth. ‘Is there a problem at the farm?’ 

‘The rest of you, go up to the house. My father requests for you to finish the food in the kitchen. Daiman, you wait here. I want a word with you. In any case, you’ve had your fill tonight, no?’ 

Once the farm boys had shuffled off towards the house, Daiman sat down beside Sharif Hamid. He waited, as usual, for instructions. 

‘Sir, you look troubled. Anything I can do to help?’ 

Sharif Hamid flicked away a nearly untouched cigarette and drew a fresh one from the box. He placed it between his lips but didn’t light it. His eyes narrowed, fixed on the earth where the glow of the full moon mingled with dim light from the workers’ quarters. He turned to face the expectant Daiman. 

‘I’ve got a job for you.’  

‘Consider it done, Sir.’ 

Daiman’s prompt assurance pleased Sharif Hamid. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a five dollar note. Daiman took it with a wide grin, dipping his head slightly in gratitude. But as Sharif Hamid leaned in and whispered into his ear, Daiman’s expression, gleeful a moment ago, clouded over.  

~  

It was nearly four hours after Isha prayer, and Awang Ruskap was still lingering outside the gate of the hotel where the Bangsawan Seri Melati Troupe was staying. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only one acting a little crazy. More than fifteen young men straddled their bicycles along the pavement, peering in, patiently waiting for a glimpse of a star – any star – especially their beloved Primadonna, hoping she might appear behind the window that hadn’t opened once since they got there that afternoon. Hotel staff had told them to leave at least ten times, saying it was getting late and that they should try their luck tomorrow. But not one of them budged. 

By midnight, as the day turned over and their backsides went numb from sitting on their bicycles, they lay down on the grass. They played with leaves and sipped cold coffee brought from home. Some whistled, others sang a song once performed by the show’s leading man. Awang Ruskap turned towards a stout man who was combing his thinning hair. 

‘What’s the title of the tune you just sang?’ 

‘Whatever it is, that song came from the lips of a girl who changed my life, the first and only time I saw her on stage.’ 

‘It’s called, Dongeng Berkasih Orang Muda – A Tale of Young Lovers,’ said a young man from the grass, as he gazed at the night sky. ‘Composed by Razak and the Primadonna Miss Tijah. Any of you know the story behind the song?’ 

All eyes turned to him. 

‘It’s about Razak’s own experience of falling in love with a girl of another race and religion, when he was travelling in London during his youth. He never knew if the girl felt the same, but he dreamt of spending the rest of his life with her, even though he knew it was impossible.’ 

‘Then why was it changed to the love of a common girl for a prince on stage?’ Awang Ruskap interrupted. 

‘Well, it’s a fairy tale, after all,’ replied the young man. ‘And we all love fairy tales, don’t we?’ 

‘If I could just hold Miss Tijah’s delicate fingers, I’d be happy till next year,’ chimed a skinny man, fantasising with his eyes closed. 

‘Why stop at her hand?’ said a chubby fellow, spreading his arms wide and placing them on his chest. ‘If I had the chance, I’d hold her life and heart.’  

Laughter erupted at the daydreamer’s bold declaration, but Awang Ruskap didn’t join in. He was busy imagining his beloved starlet giving him a keepsake, or at the very least, a firm handshake. He knew too well that love between fans and their idols was just a dream. On stage, it was always the man of power and privilege who won the beautiful woman’s heart. He was just an ordinary lad, earning a wage, still eating his mother’s home-cooked rice.  

He caught sight of something moving behind the window of one of the hotel rooms. Through the narrow gaps of the shutters, a pair of eyes was watching. The eyes of a woman. 

~  

She knew one of the fans camped outside the hotel had seen her spying on them. Bending halfway down, Nadrah crept back to the bed. Miss Tijah stirred, eyes fluttering open, and saw the girl perched on the edge of the mattress. 

‘Why are you still awake?’ 

‘It’s so warm, kak. I can’t sleep.’ 

‘Whatever’s keeping you up at this hour, don’t even think about leaving this room.’ 

She studied Nadrah, restless with boredom. Youth often drove her to act on impulse. Time and again, she had broken the rules, sneaking out at night to socialise – or, as she put it, to “keep her fans happy”. More than once, she drove her fans into a frenzy, pushing and shoving just to get close to her, lured by her cool indifference. She loved the attention. She loved teasing them – then slipping away, untouchable. 

‘As women, we must guard our dignity. Not just as performers, but for ourselves. You’re still young, adik. Your whole future lies ahead of you.’ 

‘So, because I’m still young, I only get to be the Primadonna when I’m old?’ 

Nadrah’s blunt question jolted Miss Tijah out of bed. A sharp pain stabbed through her chest. She reached for a glass of warm water and gulped it down. Her head was pounding. She lay back down. 

‘Abang Razak says I have great talent as an actress and singer. But I must respect you because you’re older.’ 

Miss Tijah’s vision began to blur. Darkness soon engulfed her. 

When she opened her eyes again, it was daylight. The noise outside woke her from slumber. Nadrah was gone. Breakfast was laid out on the dressing table, the aroma of local coffee thick in the air. Her whole body ached as if pricked by tiny needles, especially her abdomen. A patch of menstrual blood had stained the sheets, shaped like a map. She eased herself out of bed, pressing her fingers to her forehead.  

Razak appeared, already dressed for the day. He paused, surprised to see his sister still in her nightgown. They were due at the theatre for rehearsal that morning, followed by a courtesy visit to the Governor’s office.  

‘How’s your headache?’ he asked. 

‘It’s still there,’ she replied, her voice faint. She almost asked if Nadrah could take her place tonight. But something stopped her. ‘Don’t worry. I’m strong.’ 

‘You have to be strong for tonight’s show. The European tuans from the Chartered Company are coming to see you. The towkays from Hong Kong too. If they’re impressed, we stand a good chance of securing sponsorship for a tour in Europe. I already bluffed Tuan Sharif Samin yesterday, so you could rest. But this morning, you look even worse than last night!’ 

A fit of coughing and sneezing forced Miss Tijah to sit down again. Falling ill wasn’t part of anyone’s plan, least of all at a time like this. She felt a pang of sadness that Razak seemed to blame her for being unwell. 

‘And one more thing: Tuan Sharif Samin invited us for a morning drink at his office near the plantation. Get ready now, go rehearse whatever you need to for an hour or two. Someone will fetch us and take us to see Tuan Sharif Hamid.’ 

‘What if she doesn’t want to go?’ she said to herself, her voice caught in her throat. Razak left without listening.  

She tried to stand and make her way to the bathroom – but dizzy and weak, she collapsed. When she came to, she was still in the hotel room. Lying there, alone. Two meals now waited on the dressing table – breakfast and lunch. She had missed two important events that morning. But she felt a little better. Her headache was easing. Her body wasn’t as sore. 

After showering and making herself presentable, she left the room without touching the food on the table. She wore a pair of sunglasses and wrapped a scarf around her head and face. In this makeshift disguise, she made her way from the hotel to the main road. There, she flagged down a passing car driven by a British officer who, to her relief, didn’t make any fuss about taking her to the theatre. 

As Miss Tijah arrived, a crowd was already gathered outside the fence, monitored by security guards. Her appearance caused excitement, and some fans called out her name. She offered a faint smile, waving briefly, before striding toward the stage, just in time to see Nadrah, on stage, rehearsing a scene with the leading man. A scene meant only for the Primadonna. Razak stood at the edge of the stage, eyes locked on Nadrah’s performance. 

‘Why is Nadrah rehearsing my scene? Why isn’t she practicing her own lines and songs?’ 

Razak turned to face her. ‘How’s your headache, then?’ 

‘I’m better,’ she said, casting a sidelong glance toward the stage. Nadrah didn’t even notice her. She delivered the lines with striking intensity – it was the scene between Tengku Putra and Sri Mastinah at the cape by the sea. Her performance was so assured, so evocative, it stirred a flicker of envy in Miss Tijah. ‘By Allah’s grace, I’ll be fully recovered by tonight.’ 

‘I think it’s best if you rest for now. Watch the rehearsal. Assist where you can.’ 

‘What do you mean by that?’ 

Razak set down the script he was holding at the side of the stage. He looked at Miss Tijah’s pained expression, demanding answers. He couldn’t bring himself to say it outright – but keeping it from her, now that the rest of the troupe already knew, would only invite greater trouble. The sound of her fans gathering outside wasn’t a good sign. The last time she was replaced, the understudy was attacked backstage by fans who wanted only Miss Tijah, their beloved Primadonna, in the leading role.  

‘I just think the actors should know each other’s parts,’ Razak explained. ‘As a precaution, in case someone can’t perform.’  

Miss Tijah’s expression darkened.  

‘If someone falls ill, for instance,’ he added. 

‘Don’t tell me Nadrah is replacing me for tonight’s show.’ 

‘Only as a backup. You’ll still go on stage tonight.’ 

‘I know your games, Razak. Just like in Johor, when you handed my role to that new girl – Saleha – because some royal happened to glance at her in the street. You threw her into the lead, hoping her royal admirer would reward our troupe with a fat donation. And now? Which wealthy man are you hoping Nadrah will snare?’ 

Razak leaned in close to whisper to Miss Tijah, who sat rigid on the wooden bench. ‘The blossoming of a young woman cannot be hidden. That’s the reality. Men with money and power would pay anything to possess it.’ 

Miss Tijah turned her gaze toward Nadrah, radiant under the spotlight. Razak was right. Her beauty, her freshness, her lively spirit, were impossible to ignore. Ever since their voyage in the belly of the ship bound for Jesselton, Miss Tijah had sensed the waning of her own artistic light. ​​​​Now, the moment she had long dreaded was unfolding before her eyes.