‘The first kiss,’ he said, ‘is the last.’
Helga sat back down. She held Ismail and stroked his hair. Her imaginings of Snow Red returned to frighten her. She cursed her own thoughts. Perhaps she had indeed become the sort of silly female who was convinced that another woman – a magnetically attractive woman – wanted to run off with her husband. She shouldn’t worry, unless Ismail really was eager to be made off with.
But Helga never knew her husband’s true desires.
‘What do you want, Ismail?’ she whispered.
Ismail did not answer. The question made Helga feel more and more powerless. She thought she knew the answer, but that knowledge was insufficient. Inappropriate.
Ismail fell asleep straight away that night. He didn’t talk in his sleep. Helga thought something must have been wrong with the room’s heating because she felt cold. Snuggling deeper under the covers, she kept watch over her husband’s expression. In stark contrast to the previous nights, Ismail looked calm. Helga sighed out of a mix of relief and fatigue. Little by little her eyes grew heavy then closed.
Helga dreamed she was walking along a snowy pavement with someone else. She was once more a six-year-old who had to look up to see an adult’s face. Oma was holding her right hand.
‘Are we going to take a train, Oma?’ she asked.
Oma stopped and turned to her with a strange smile. She drew Helga’s left hand towards her and placed something in it. A snow globe.
A heavy snow was falling. Helga stuck her hands in her coat pockets. That’s when she saw her. A red colour, so fresh, crept forth, and then slowly tore away the carpet of white snow. The figure became clearer and clearer. Yes, it was she, Hecate. In a red dress and long cloak trailing behind her, she walked with her dog, that uncanny three-headed beast. Later, when Helga awoke, she would forget what Hecate looked like, and whether she was old or young. She would only remember that in the dream the woman’s beauty had been threatening.
Oma was no longer holding little Helga’s hand. She had departed with the train, leaving Helga alone. Holding back tears, Helga clutched the snow globe in her pocket. Hecate drew nearer. Helga looked down. The woman stopped right in front of her and remained motionless. Helga forgot to hold her breath. She even tried to steal a glance. Hesitant at first, she gradually grew bolder. Hecate smiled at her. She wanted to say something. Suddenly, from behind Helga, someone ran up and threw himself at Hecate’s feet, wrapping himself around her dress. Hecate took off her cloak and covered him with red.
Helga felt she knew him.
The snow was still thick the following morning. A crowd had already gathered when Helga went downstairs. Ismail had thrown himself from the ninth floor, hit a car, and was lying on a carpet of snow that absorbed the red, a red that now seemed muted and dull. The dress of Hecate, in Helga’s dream, had blazed scarlet.
Helga didn’t extend her lease the winter after Ismail’s death. She wandered back and forth from the bedroom to the living room, which was crammed with piles of cardboard boxes, and busily sorted items for removal. She wouldn’t keep much. Ismail had left nothing, and Helga donated all her husband’s clothes to a charity. When emptying the closet, Helga opened the drawer where she kept her valuables and carefully removed an object. The snow globe.
That evening, the train had taken Oma to Auschwitz. You don’t need a ticket to travel on the train of death.
Helga never told Ismail how she, a little six-year-old girl, had been unable to stop her beloved grandmother from boarding a train, just as she could never return the home Ismail had been deprived of. She was only a spectator. She hadn’t been expelled from home or forcibly herded away, but she was cursed because she had memories, and the eyes of a witness.
Ismail surrendered himself to Hecate when Helga began to place hope in the future. But Helga couldn’t complain, because what she’d done had not been appropriate. Hecate, Snow Red, was the goddess of the crossroads. The goddess of those who have no home. She remains with those who seek refuge, those who are often lost among adventurers and fugitives.
Helga would leave the day after she packed. She gazed at the vast carpet of snow from her window, clutching her crystal globe, praying to Hecate.
Turn to page 67.
May, the cold-blooded killer, has satisfied her appetite for destruction. She closes her small notebook. Yes. Satisfied. Her story is complete.
She parts her long wavy hair, which dances to the swaying of her hips. Her eyes fix on the large crystal globe hanging from the ceiling, at the hundreds of little orangey lights that revolve around it, like planets. A great writer who favours nostalgia over murder would certainly interpret this sparkling as akin to fireflies.
The woman doesn’t think she will put the finishing touches on her story in this Chinatown nightclub. She sips her drink again. Like many women of Manhattan, she is partial to cosmopolitans. Vodka, Cointreau, lemon, cranberry. She has always seen herself as a cocktail, a mishmash. Gado-gado is a hodgepodge too, but gado-gado signifies home, a native village, a longed-for place. It doesn’t mean a journey.
On a journey, a pack of criminals murders and leaves a trail. It’s not easy, when one of your feet becomes ensnared, to search for the other shoe that’s been left behind who knows where. May knows that one shoe has been abandoned in the village of Cibeurit, so she finishes off that close-knit, peaceful village before it destroys her. She kills off the place and the memories lovingly, as if slaying Father. In New York City, with the remaining shoe, she survives, like the thieves. Summon up the places of your past, then destroy them! Distant places, indistinct, remembered in fragments.
May’s intention to exit the nightclub is stayed by a glittering figure. A firefly? Near her table sits a man with a bushy moustache wearing a gold robe. A sparkling cap covers his head. May squints, trying to convince herself she isn’t drunk. The man is no stranger. How short his legs are: dangling, not reaching the floor. May shudders, struck by a flash of realisation.
The little watchman. He has made an appearance in this city, not as a butt of jokes as in Cibeurit but as a petty rajah. The Rat King. May notices that he is holding a staff tipped with a crystal globe like a mirror ball.
May’s heart pounds. She thought Cibeurit had been obliterated, but its characters live on, forcing their way into her hiding place. They have found her out. Cleverly, he has disguised himself as a fortune-teller. Though a little afraid, May wants to ask him a question or, more accurately, to demand an answer, as when Maimunah whispered to her lover, ‘Tell me what the future holds.’
But the man remains motionless, preoccupied with a martini, and doesn’t glance in her direction. May gives the shirt he is wearing a once-over. The words ‘Little Johnny’ are printed on it. She comes crashing to earth.
She finishes her drink, laughing at herself for believing that remnants of Cibeurit have suddenly appeared in a Manhattan club. What a fool. Everything is wrong. He is Johnny, not Jaja. Swallowing her disappointment, May turns her attention to the crowd on the dance floor. The club-goers cheer when the DJ they’ve been waiting for mounts the stage. He is also bald, but tall and wears glasses, with a rather creepy smile. The music throbs like the raucous cries of thousands of famished rats. The clubbers pump their arms in the air, entrusting their happiness to the skilled hands of the DJ.
The man next to May disappears. Now Little Johnny is onstage, beside the DJ, dancing with an extremely leggy blonde. May takes a breath, feeling a second slap. Johnny and the statuesque woman are part of tonight’s show.
Perhaps Longlegs is his lover. For some reason May is jealous, wondering why she is always the odd one out in a ménage à trois.
At that moment May understands that she is a firefly, swirling like a disco light, never touching down. It’s time to go. She weaves through the crowd of dancers, looking for the exit. She passes the club’s bouncer; some people are still queuing up to hear the bald DJ’s set. She wants to run, to rush, to damn the fireflies, to await the a
ttack of plague that obliterates all.
But she is a cold-blooded killer, and she is haunted.
On the Chinatown sidewalk, now growing quiet at one in the morning, something stays her steps. Not a firefly but Little Johnny standing before her, wiping away the spittle at the corners of his lips.
The watchman who only takes away the dead.
In front of the man with the bushy moustache, May stands like a statue. She cannot believe what she hears.
Where have all the rats gone?
Turn to the next page.
Where have all the rats gone?
The little man with the moustache challenges your gaze, his right hand on his hip; his left clutches a wand topped by a miniature mirror ball. You shake your head nervously. Little Johnny looks disappointed and paces back and forth in a rage.
Dreams have led you here, to a Chinatown sidewalk at one in the morning. You took the R train to Lower Manhattan, seeking an answer. Who is the killer who sent packs of rats to destroy the village?
Wait. You didn’t take the R train. You took a taxi. No, that’s not right. Did you come by train or taxi? Your head is dizzy. You forget how you got here. Maybe everything you’re seeing is a dream. Like the nightclub.
A sudden terror descends upon you. The music of the DJ reverberates in your ears. But you can’t recall where you were sitting and what drink you ordered. If the nightclub was a dream, why has Little Johnny suddenly appeared before you? Are you also a pawn, like Jaja, Maimunah and all the Cibeurit villagers?
This is too hard, too hard.
Little Johnny grumbles, pacing all the while.
Why are you so spaced out? You’re shitfaced, aren’t you?
Who – ?
You turn to your side, unsure whether he’s been speaking to you.
You, my lady, are drunk!
You gape.
Think carefully, Little Johnny says. He taps his temple patronisingly. Give me a proper answer!
In front of you is a spectacular view indeed. You glance at those trooping towards the subway station. Hair of multicoloured hues. Feet in boots, feet in stilettos, all clattering along. Everything looks real. The people hardly seem to be apparitions.
This mean Mr Moustache asks his question one more time, and you shake your head once more. The man looks furious. He stomps his feet and brandishes his wand at you.
Give me a proper answer! he repeats. Where did the rats go?
You take a step back, feeling threatened. Panicking, you answer: They’re in the subway station, waiting for you.
Waiting for me? His voice thunders.
He looks left and right, as if seeking traces of the rats.
Then he asks again, more quietly, Waiting for me, or waiting for you?
Little Johnny squints. You don’t answer. The night air grows colder. You stand motionless in front of him, for a long time, until at last he withdraws his wand, slowly.
Good girl, he says.
A smile spreads slowly across his face.
Since you’re a good girl, I’ll give you a gift.
His expression no longer looks fierce, but his words still stun you.
One gift per story.
You study the diminutive man in front of you.
Who are you? Where have we met?
We met on the run. But, hmmmmm, who was on the run? Me or you?
With a handkerchief, he busily polishes his mirror-ball wand as if he’s planning to give it to you. Suddenly he laughs, and pulls it back.
Just kidding!
Sorry, no gifts, he says. This belongs to the show. Go look in a Halloween costume shop if you want one.
You’re silent. Who’d want such a weird present, anyway?
Little Johnny then beckons you to come close. You do as he wishes, a little hesitant. You bend slightly. He whispers in your ear.
Don’t look in the mirror for too long at midnight.
Little Johnny pats you on the hip, then turns around, making you feel as if you’ve just been harassed, but, then again, he’s too short to be able to pat you on the shoulder. You’re still bewildered, but he’s already waving and walking away. You call out, asking him what he means. Without turning he replies, his voice cheery, almost teasing:
Because you never know whose face will appear.
Proceed to page 76.
The cursed tale is over before the plane lands, but it takes you to Dorotheenstadt Cemetery, where Muhammad has arranged to see you again. At eleven in the morning, there’s a chill in the air, but the sun’s rays warm your face. You stroll past rows of beautiful tombs and monuments shaded by tall trees. Your jacket brushes against lush golden foliage that will soon fall, as your feet tread piles of leaves in varying states of decay – dead, drooping on the grass, withered brown. Your reason for accepting Muhammad’s invitation takes you by surprise. You don’t need a tour guide, let alone an elderly one. But he has seduced you, inevitably, with a story.
Maybe you’d like to see the places Snow Red visited, he said.
His voice rang gentle and polite in your ears, combining sincerity and a temptation that promised adventure. You agreed to rendezvous at a gravesite that happens to be near his family’s home. He is particularly keen to meet by the tomb of Bertolt Brecht. Finding the playwright’s resting place isn’t difficult. At the cemetery entrance a plot map shows visitors who is buried where. You recall how before you and Muhammad parted, he had torn a piece of paper out of his notepad and jotted something down. He folded the sheet and gave it to you: in case anything happens, he said. You had put the piece of paper in your jacket pocket, unread.
You’ve never read or seen a Brecht play, but you’ve heard about him from your ex-boyfriend, Yudi the Exploitative Marxist. Brecht’s name came up once when you were hanging out in your room, listening to the Doors.
‘Hey, did you know that Brecht wrote “Alabama Song”?’
‘No, I didn’t. Hey, how come the chips I bought last night are already gone?’
‘I’ll get more later. Anyway, about “Alabama Song” …’
Yudi never replaced your chips, but he never missed a chance to show off what he knew. You’ve forgotten Yudi’s lecture about Brecht and Kurt Weill, but the memory of him as a walking encyclopedia of culture remains clear enough. Come to think of it, he was more like a walking Wikipedia of culture than a philosopher. There’s no doubt that your relationship with him had its minor benefits. But the day you kicked him out of your room (in the middle of a cup of coffee – your coffee, of course – and smoking a cigarette that you’d coughed up the money for) was one of the most gratifying days of your life. OK, let’s just move on. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar.
For half an hour you linger by the grave of Brecht and his wife, Helene. Two young men and a woman arrive and regard the tomb solemnly. They chat for a moment, then the woman opens a heavy-looking rucksack and extracts a pair of red boots. She comes over and asks you to photograph the three of them, along with the boots, which she places beside the tomb. The three then depart without taking the boots. Very nice red boots, you think. Why are they leaving them behind? Are they an offering?
Your mother said that making off with grave offerings was tacky, if not exactly taboo. You replied: But my Quran teacher said Muslims aren’t allowed to worship graves, it’s idolatry. Mother looked shaken to hear your words but quickly nodded. Until she turned forty, your mother didn’t really have much grasp of religious matters. Your grandfather kept a kris in the house as a talisman, and only decades later, after your sister protested, did Mother realise that treating the dagger as a spiritual object ran counter to Islam.
Offerings can lead to idolatry, and now here you are, contemplating foul play with footwear. But before you can set your dastardly plan into motion, an elderly couple arrive. They also want to be immortalised in front of the tomb. As the husband sets down flowers in reverence, the wife scrutinises the boots.
‘Honey, look!’ She calls to her husband in English.
> ‘Those boots are still in great condition. Why would someone leave them here?’
The husband’s question is the same as yours.
‘You’ve gone senile. Mutter Courage. Mother Courage and her Children.’
‘Ah!’ the husband cries out, his memory apparently jogged. ‘Devoted fans, I guess.’
You have no idea what they’re talking about, but their conversation keeps you from engaging in your petty theft. Red boots and Brecht share a meaningful relationship, whatever it might be, so the boots are best left undisturbed. Besides, you’ve got your own shoes. Maybe someday another woman will steal the boots from the tomb and refuse to part with them. So be it. That will be another adventure.
Offering free photography service at Brecht’s gravesite starts to get tedious. You go around with your camera to snap portraits of other tombs. A lot of famous people are buried here, even if you only recognise a name or two. Hegel, yep. You’ve heard of him, thanks once more to Yudi.
You make your way back to Brecht’s tomb, but Muhammad has yet to arrive. Not coming or not able to come? You’re growing restless. At 12.30, you stow your camera in your backpack and get ready to leave. You don’t know if it’s appropriate to feel anger towards that sweet old man, but let’s face it, you’re really pissed off. You decide to go back to the hotel and call him. From your pocket you remove the folded slip of paper that, foolishly, you’ve yet to look at.
There is no phone number. All you see are three bewildering letters:
XXX
You’re stunned. XXX? What the hell does that mean? Kisses? Or worse, some sort of dirty joke?
Now you’re really angry. Muhammad, for whatever reason, has been unfair to you. Honestly, leaving you waiting for more than an hour without giving you a phone number isn’t funny.
As you’re busy mentally cursing the old man, out of the corner of your eye you catch someone, or something, flash amid the trees. You turn, but nobody’s there. You grow uneasy. All of a sudden you feel you’re being watched. There’s no reason to feel dread at such a beautiful gravesite on a sunny day, you think. Besides, even if the grave is quiet, you’re hardly the sole visitor.
The Wandering Page 6