The Moonlight Palace by Liz Rosenberg

lack of humor. Everyone in Singapore is gentle and friendly toward strangers, except the police—a history that goes back to the old days of the fearsome temenggong. The man made a note on a pad of paper, nodding. “Hussein,” he said. “I have seen you in this neighborhood.” Then he pointed with his pen at Dawid.
    “And who is this man? Your boyfriend?”
    “This is Dawid. He boards with us.” My voice wobbled. “Please,” I said. “My great-great-grandfather built this mosque. What is happening here?”
    “Someone tried to blow it up,” he said, but before he could get out another word, one of the officers on horseback galloped over.
    “Who are these people?” the man demanded. He was older than the young policeman, probably in his forties, with thick black hair and a black moustache.
    “They are from the Kampong Glam,” the young man answered nervously.
    “Have you looked at their papers?” the older man demanded.
    I was panic-stricken, but something kept me from blurting out all the questions rising in my throat. They would do no good, I sensed, and could only get the young officer into trouble.
    “What’s going on?” I asked again. My voice sounded like a child’s. “What’s happening?”
    The older officer demanded, “Do you have your identification papers?”
    No one travels around Singapore without the proper identification. Too many foreigners, too much history of crime. The officer on horseback beckoned impatiently for the younger man with the lantern to step forward and examine our papers. We gave them to him, and he handed them to the man on horseback without another word.
    “Go down to the palace,” the older officer said. He sounded even angrier now. “Someone will be there in a few minutes. Don’t stop to talk to anyone. You understand?”
    “What—,” I began.
    Dawid said, “Yes. Thank you, officer.” He bowed toward the younger man as well. “Thank you, sir.”
    Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I saw several men clustered near the mosque, all of them handcuffed, all watching us, none of them saying a word. All of the men were Malayan. All were Muslims.
    It made no sense to me. Why would a Muslim want to blow up his own mosque?
    I knew Dawid saw them, too, but he pretended not to notice. He took hold of my elbow. “Come, Agnes,” he said.
    I felt like screaming. I managed to keep silent until my shaking hands found the front door keys, but the palace door swung open, and a claw-like hand reached out and dragged us inside. It was Nei-Nei Down.
    “Shhh,” she hissed, and led us upstairs, along the hall into Nei-Nei Up’s old vacated bedroom, and then into a large walk-in closet used for storage. British Grandfather sat there as well, looking a bit stunned in his wheelchair, with a few of Nei-Nei Up’s silk blouses dangling from hangers near his face.
    “Danai is somewhere in the palace with Sanang. Charles is talking with the police downstairs in the kitchen.” She used my Uncle Chachi’s British name—something I had never heard her do before in all my life.
    “Where are the boarders?” I asked. “Where are Wei and Omar Wahlid?”
    “Omar Wahlid,” she said, “strapped explosives across his body and was found wandering around behind the Masjid Sultan. He is at the Chinese Protectorate Office on North Bridge Road. I doubt we will ever see him again.”

SEVEN
    Unclean Hands: What One Man Will Do to Another
    T he instant my nei-nei spoke those dreadful words about Omar Wahlid, it was as if darkness had fallen over all of us.
    We barely had time to absorb their meaning when Danai came knocking at the door of the bedroom to fetch us all downstairs—yes, yes, British Grandfather, too, she said. Nei-Nei Down pinned two of his war medals to his jacket before she wheeled him to the elevator. She must have hidden them in her pockets. He tried to wave her off, but she kept buzzing around his white head, persisting.
    I have neglected to say that the palace