The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  Turn to the next page.

  You’re photographing your shoes against the backdrop of the fountain in Washington Square Park when a brunette approaches and asks if you were inspired by the film Amélie. She seems to be a tourist; she carries a large backpack and has a French accent. Unprompted, she goes on to relate how the film’s protagonist, Amélie Poulain, wants to make her father happy. He had dreamed of travelling the world, so Amélie steals the gnome figurine from his garden and gives it to a flight attendant to take on her travels. She then sends pictures of the gnome, posed at tourist sights, from around the world.

  ‘Are you taking the shoes travelling, like the stewardess took the gnome?’

  You’re silent for a moment.

  ‘No. The shoes are taking me travelling.’

  She laughs, and gives a thumbs up to show her approval.

  From the brunette tourist (who turns out to be Belgian, not French), you learn that garden gnome abduction really is a thing all over the world. The modus operandi follows Amélie: a gnome is kidnapped, then taken travelling and photographed at famous locations, and the kidnapper sends photos to the owner. There are a number of groups dedicated to this, including the Garden Gnome Liberation Front. Your brow furrows.

  ‘What’s the point?’

  The brunette explains earnestly: the kidnappers believe that gnomes should roam free in the wild, and not be enslaved in gardens.

  These people have pretty weird ideas about freedom, you think. In your country, kidnappers take actual people, not garden gnomes, and the abducted are eliminated without being found. Most of the kidnappers have never been brought to justice.

  Maybe in the West the law functions so well that people have time on their hands, you muse. Above all, though, you feel sympathy for those cursed to watch over a garden, whether they have voices or not. Anyone in that situation would long to be stolen away or given red shoes to take them on a journey.

  A month after you learn about the garden gnomes, towards Christmas, an email message from your sister catches you off-guard. Its subject header is ‘What’s Up?’ She also sends two other messages, both of which you delete right away. Your sister regularly forwards information from mailing lists she subscribes to. You don’t need chain email, and the subject headers don’t exactly arouse your desire to read on. The first is titled ‘FWD: Mom and Entrepreneur, Why Not?’ Your sister may well be a mother and a businesswoman who sells Muslimah fashion, but you aren’t. Although she’s had impressive career success, you regard her life as stultifying. She started out selling hijabs and clothing made by a small company in Tasikmalaya, and now she’s dealing with distributors from Batam and Singapore. The goods in her shop are pricey and getting pricier. She had considered adding a category called ‘High End Collection’, but her husband quickly nixed that idea. In his words, ‘That leads to riya. Astaghfirullah, let’s not encourage ourselves or fellow Muslims to show off.’

  The subject header of your sister’s next email reads ‘FWD: Is it Haram for Muslims to offer Merry Christmas wishes?’ You ignore the body of the message; the issue comes up every December. How tedious. Some passionately cite scholars who forbid Christmas greetings, while others quote different authorities to refute them. Your sister takes the middle ground. Her husband, Malay and Muslim, works for a multinational company that has a lot of Chinese Christian employees (yes, yes, of course they do, since Malays are lazy – you embrace the stereotypes without a second thought). Out of respect for his colleagues, your sister says: ‘Merry Christmas for those who celebrate it.’ For those who celebrate it. Annoying phrase. To you, the issue isn’t even up for debate.

  After deleting the email about Christmas greetings, you open a message addressed to you personally.

  Hi Dik,

  How are you? We’re all fine.

  Instead of using your names, you’ve always called each other Mbak and Dik, Big Sis and Little Sis. You don’t like being called Dik. It serves as a constant reminder that she is older and feels like she knows more than you. Even now that you’ve grown up and gone in entirely different directions, she still calls you Dik. And you haven’t stopped calling her Mbak.

  Why don’t you ever write? Busy with school? Mom and Dad are thrilled you got a scholarship to America, but don’t push things too far. Give them a call once in a while. They miss you and don’t know how to use email. Oh, I just opened a Facebook account. You use Facebook, right?

  Scholarship to America? Is someone spreading ridiculous rumours? You left without a word, but your family believes you’re doing something important out there. Are these lies part of a red-shoe gift set from Devil?

  I’m really keen to save up and visit. I want to take a picture in front of the Statue of Liberty. But you know how hard it is to get a visa for America these days, let alone with an Arab-sounding name like Abah’s. One of Abah’s friends has been waiting a couple of months. Alhamdulillah, another friend, managed to get his, but only after being questioned by officials for hours. Is Abah supposed to change his name to Johnny or something? Don’t blame me if I can’t see you. Blame your President Bush.

  ‘Abah’ is your sister’s husband. In the mid-1970s his parents, inspired by boxing great Muhammad Ali, Muslim and American, named him Muhammad Ali Akbar. Since your sister got married, she’s been calling herself Ummi and her husband Abah. As far as she’s concerned, Abah and Ummi are cooler terms than humdrum old Papa and Mama.

  I’m attaching the latest photo of Nazwa and Raihan. Have a look! They’re posing with this funny old man statue. I forget his name. We just bought it at a florist’s. He’s a cartoon character, right?

  Don’t forget to send a picture of yourself at the Statue of Liberty.

  You open the attached photo. The image of your niece and nephew, smiling like kid TV stars and flanking a figurine of a chubby little man in a pointy hat, throws you off. A garden gnome. How did he get to Indonesia, to your sister’s house?

  The gnome has a surly expression. He looks like a crude replica of one of the dwarves in the Snow White movie you saw at your friend’s house as a kid. His name is Grumpy, and grumpy he is. His face radiates clear displeasure. Maybe he doesn’t enjoy watching over your sister’s house. Maybe someday an abductor-activist will rescue him. You’re dubious, though, about the possibility of activists stumbling upon your sister’s house in ​​ suburban Jakarta.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’

  The doorman of your building greets you. His voice is booming and cheery, like Santa Claus. Ho ho ho.

  You smile back sweetly. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  December 24th. Fresh decorations add life to the lobby. Under a fir tree hung with coloured bulbs, four garden gnomes stand guard. They range in stature from the size of a wine bottle to waist-high. You approach the figurines suspiciously. At the foot of the bottle-sized gnome, you discover a white envelope – and inside it, a Christmas card, highlighted in red and green, bearing the signature ‘Demon Lover’. You smile. You don’t celebrate Christmas, and you’re pretty sure Devil doesn’t either. But in New York, Christmas belongs to everyone: believers, agnostics and atheists; department stores (especially Macy’s); and, very likely, witches and devils too.

  You read the note from Demon Lover on the card.

  Darling,

  I still can’t visit you in New York. Immigration control has been super tight lately, and I think my name is on a blacklist. The problem is I can’t answer the questions on the visa application form. Here are some examples:

  – Do you have mental or physical disorders that threaten or potentially threaten the safety or well-being of yourself and others?

  – Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organisation?

  – Do you intend to engage in espionage, sabotage, breach of export control, or any other illegal activity while in the United States?

  As you can imagine, it’s a real issue for me if I have to answer ‘no’ to all these questions.

  You shake your head. Either Demon Lo
ver has a lousy sense of humour, or he’s an idiot to have forgotten that the devil doesn’t need an advocate or a visa. You read the next paragraph.

  Anyway, never mind. I don’t want to burden you with my problems. I’ve sent you a Christmas present. I think gnome figurines are a hell of a lot more fun than baby Jesuses. Hopefully these four friends will keep a good eye on your building. Christmas is a season for sharing with neighbours, so don’t even think of kidnapping one and taking it home.

  Your beloved

  You put the Christmas card from Demon Lover in your bag. Seriously. It’s never been your goal to play rescuer. You leave the gang of four gnomes under the glittering tree and walk on to the elevator. After Christmas is over and the ornaments are stripped from the fir, the gnomes continue their faithful watch over the lobby. No freedom-fighting radicals show any interest in kidnapping them.

  Flip to page 92.

  Not all of Demon Lover’s gifts have to be accepted, or so you decide. He should learn that you too can stage a protest. The next day you leave your hotel, and the package with the mirror, in search of cheaper accommodation. After paying your bill with your own personal demonic debit card, you take the time to check your balance at an ATM. 17,000 euros. You’ve never had the equivalent in rupiah, but considering that Devil might spring another surprise, you figure you’d better be frugal and prepare for the worst.

  Maybe some sightseeing will brighten your trip. You buy a pair of low-heeled boots and put your red shoes in a bag. Devil’s shoes aren’t really designed for a tourist. Your heels chafe if you wear them too long. Wearing the simpler footwear, you stop at a little market and buy a kebab for lunch. After that you wander around Kottbusser Damm, past small shops sandwiched together, until you finally find yourself standing before an old movie theatre. At the entrance you glance at some flyers about screenings. Maybe watching a movie isn’t a bad idea. Impulsively, you climb the stairs and buy a ticket. You join an audience that numbers fifteen at most.

  The film you chose haphazardly is slow-paced, and the way it ends leaves you questioning its meaning. Or, to be more accurate, thinking, ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ You didn’t really enjoy the movie and even dozed off at one point. Afterwards you rise from the red velvet seat and walk out amid the handful of spectators. They seem to know one another, and may well be friends of the film-maker. You feel out of place. You want to leave quickly, but your steps are slowed in the lobby by a beautiful woman who smiles at you. You feel you’ve seen her face before. You nod politely and keep walking, but she approaches you.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but may I ask where you’re from?’

  You frown. If she were a young man and less attractive, you wouldn’t pay her any attention. Such questions tend to come only from lonely guys who can’t find themselves a partner (you firmly believe that all the good men are taken). If you say ‘Thailand’, they’re sure to spout some cliché like ‘I knew it. Thai women are so beautiful.’ But the woman standing before you is too elegant to be compared to a man with zero value on the dating market. Perhaps she has other intentions.

  She seems concerned that her question may have offended you, but you answer nonchalantly. She looks more excited.

  ‘I guessed right. My friend is planning to film there.’

  She calls a woman with hair dyed dark purple who is ordering a drink at the bar. The woman turns and walks towards you.

  ‘This is my friend Yvette. She’s been to Indonesia.’

  Yvette’s appearance captures your attention. Her cropped hair and bright red lipstick make her look like a beautiful boy, a vague combination of mischievous nymph and mysterious witch. Her movements are hurried, and her brown eyes regard you with curiosity. They have a slight slant. She’s wearing a leather jacket and a black tutu skirt. You are taken aback by her shoes. Her legs are clad in knee-high red leather boots that remind you of the ones left at Brecht’s grave. Are red boots in fashion?

  Yvette greets you warmly and asks your opinion of the movie (good, you lie, trying to hide how much it bored you, since she is a friend of the director). She’s involved in a lot of projects, a critic who also programmes film festivals. She has holidayed in Bali and visited Jakarta, where she met several locals involved in film.

  In the middle of the conversation, the beautiful woman pardons herself because she has to go home and pick up her dog ​​from her neighbour. Yvette waves goodbye, and you cast a smile her way, wondering where you’ve seen her before (is she a movie star? You don’t even ask her name). Yvette soon invites you for a cup of coffee. You imagine this fairy-witch dancing in her skirt in the jungle. She may be an interesting companion, but you also want to walk alone.

  If you’re not interested in continuing the conversation over coffee, turn to page 97.

  If you’d like to chat more with Yvette, turn to page 98.

  The joys of Christmas and New Year pass quickly. It seems like yesterday when you would leave home in a thick coat and boots just to admire Macy’s window displays. Mingling with the tourist hordes on 34th Street, you marvelled as Santa’s toy train circled a forest blanketed in ice. The bluish glow turned the diminutive scene into a minor window-display miracle. Behind another pane, a fireplace warmed a home inhabited by figurines, beautifully dressed and ready to open Christmas presents. You felt as if you could smell the marshmallows, freshly roasted and dipped in chocolate. Amazing. You had become the Little Match Girl, selling your wares and peering in with envy. But outside, where you stood, was no less festive, and, anyway, unlike the Little Match Girl, you didn’t die on your journey of adventures. Under the sparkling city lights, a sea of tourists flowed in and out of stores, laden with shopping bags. Hard-core New Yorkers might have been sick of it all, but not you. Not then.

  January is a different story. Your honeymoon with the city has come to an end. No more Frank Sinatra crooning in your head, no more Jakarta blues melting away. In fact, you’re freezing. The biting cold makes you reluctant to come and go. You shut yourself in your apartment with a stack of books, and only venture out when you have to buy food. Winter forces you to learn to cook. You’re too lazy to deal with three layers of clothing whenever you want a sandwich from Subway or a box of fast-food lo mein. For the first time in your life, you experiment with recipes you find online.

  Towards the end of January, the cold becomes even more bitter, and your lethargy reaches breaking point. You start wondering how long you can survive like this. You don’t know anyone in New York. The one person that telephones you is old Mr Zhao, your landlord, who has come at the beginning of each month to collect the rent. Under the lease agreement between Mr Zhao and the Mirrodoor Cultural Council, you’re responsible for paying him the $900 rent directly. He only accepts cash; no bank transfers or cheques. It makes you wonder if he’s dodging tax. Why would a cultural council encourage a black-market rental? The organisation must be shady.

  Because Mr Zhao speaks broken English, he brings his son Wei along to translate. On the first visits there’s little to discuss besides the rent and maintenance issues. But after you offer them a taste of your home-made rendang (you finally succeed after several failed attempts), they try some small talk.

  Wei is a thin, soft-spoken young man with dapper spectacles. He’s in the last year of law school at New York University. When introducing Wei, Mr Zhao says the name with pride (‘En-wai-yu’), but then shakes his head, his expression slightly pained. He adds in a brief staccato, ‘Ek-spen-siv.’ Mr Zhao has lived in New York for a couple of decades and owns a few apartments that he rents out, but apparently that’s still not enough. He has to take federal loans so Wei can attend NYU. Wei himself works two jobs waiting tables. Mr Zhao utters several animated sentences in Chinese that Wei renders concisely: ‘Lots of debt.’

  But you’ve recently come to learn that in this country a job as a lawyer sets you up for life. You’re not worried about Wei’s ability to pay off his debts. He has a bright future.

  Other than Mr Zhao, Wei and
the doorman, you rarely meet anyone else in your building. Actually, there are two whom you’ve never seen but you hear often enough: your next-door neighbours. They are frequently noisy, especially at night. Sometimes you hear grunts, sometimes shrieks.

  Once you banged on the wall. The noises stopped immediately.

  But before long, the noises started up again, though not as loud as before. Oh, hell. You don’t want to think about it.

  It’s your birthday soon. On February 1, 2008, you’ll turn twenty-eight. Your life is still aimless, and growing ever more tedious. It becomes clearer to you that everyone needs a map and a departure point, even if we become traitors to our roots. But where to start? You seem to have a history here, in this city. Maybe you have lived here with another identity, but you remember nothing beyond a series of images of your home town: chaotic Jakarta, ever poised to fall into the abyss but never taking the plunge; your sister, mommy/industrious businesswoman; English for the Global World; Marcus Werner, the dream expat, and a host of loser potential boyfriends. You want to see it all wiped out, like a village annihilated by the plague. Like in the dream about the rats. But shit. You don’t speak English in your dreams. When you became an English teacher at EGW, you once told your students: keep practising speaking and listening. The more the better, until all of a sudden one day – poof! – you’ll be dreaming in English. Of course, that was idle boasting on your part. The only language you’ve ever dreamed in is your mother tongue.

  You’re staring out the window. It’s snowing again. You’ve only seen it fall twice this winter. The first time you were thrilled, because you’d never seen snow before. You ran out and tried to make a snowman, but your fingers went numb. All you could manage were two snowy man clumps. This second snowfall, for some reason, depresses you.