The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  January 28: Dear Nadya, I will fly out in a few days, on the 1st. I hate American carriers and their cold sandwiches, so since this is my last trip, I’ve narrowed my choice down to a few different Asian airlines. After everything is over, Taufik will send you a package via FedEx. I’ve given him your office address in Norwalk. My instructions should be clear (see my message ‘Request Concert: Editing Directions’). After our decade of friendship, you’ll know what I want. The main thing is to keep long takes. The audience should feel bored. All sounds must be diegetic, which means virtually no dialogue, just noise. You might want to cut parts that make me look fat, though. For the film’s sake I’m putting on eyeliner every day.

  JUWITA picks up a cigarette from the left side of her desk, ignites it with a flick of her lighter and takes a deep drag. As she exhales the smoke she changes how she has been sitting so that her shoulders aren’t as hunched. She crosses her right leg over her left while arching her back.

  February 20: It’s impossible to infuse an Indonesian adaptation of Request Concert with a sense of calm. After so many years in America, I sometimes forget that peace and quiet are a luxury back here.

  Toni, an Indonesian friend who was studying in Ithaca, had his mother come visit for a month. She kept complaining, and wanted to return home because it was too quiet. In Ithaca there were no cries of street vendors, no calls to evening prayers, nothing to mark the passage of time at all. Any longer and she might have hurled herself off the suicide bridge near Cornell.

  It’s not calm that needs to be captured on film, but cacophony. A constant din should be heard from outside my bedroom window.

  INT. JUWITA’S ROOM, POV SHOT.

  Desk: a laptop, a stack of papers, a cup of black coffee, a pack of Marlboros, an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Ash dirties the left side of the desk. Next to the ashtray, a beige envelope marked FOR TAUFIK. Behind the desk, a bed with a rumpled duvet. The space where JUWITA finds herself is more reminiscent of a messy hotel room than a cosy home, with few marks of individuality. A transit stop.

  Further in the background, a closed door. JUWITA, behind the camera, walks over and opens it. Other sounds are heard. A television is on. As our eyes follow JUWITA out of the room, we get a sense of the layout of her apartment. Kitchen on the right, sparkling clean, dry, in shades of pink. To the left, a single-door refrigerator and a dining table with two cream-coloured wooden chairs (identical to the one JUWITA works from in her room). Panning further left, we see an old brown sofa. JUWITA’s living room. No one is there, but the sound of the television becomes clearer. A talk show. We arrive at a door that has been left ajar.

  February 10: I’ve found a room-mate to share the apartment. Retno Wahyuni, a high school friend, has moved here from Semarang. A bit of context: Semarang is certainly a vibrant city, but back when I was a frog in a well, I naively referred to everyone who didn’t grow up in Jakarta as a hick. When we met up again, Retno was looking for a place to rent. She was married, but she said her husband was working in Kalimantan for a year. She was a little reticent about it, and I didn’t want to pry.

  Retno works for an ad agency, listens to U2, reads Murakami, watches Sex and the City (and has aspirations to become Carrie Bradshaw). She won’t be any trouble to have around. In fact, she completes the concept of space in this film. Remember what I said about ‘all-round somewhat’ people? Given the logic of today’s world, all the ‘somewhat’ elements in the film make it whole.

  From behind the door we peek into a room. A woman works facing the computer, her back to us. We expect JUWITA to enter, but she doesn’t.

  March 23: Retno never complains about noise, but of course that’s hardly exotic in Indonesia. She’s always on the lookout for crowds. The door to her room stays half open, even when she isn’t home. I don’t know who she wants to invite in. Me?

  She works in the bedroom with the television on in the living room. It’s a ridiculous habit as far as I’m concerned, but here’s her explanation: I can’t stand working in solitude, and sharing an apartment with you feels like living in a graveyard.

  The buzz is starting to get to me. My theory is that the constant hum becomes pollution in more than just real space. Glaring at the Internet is like listening to a night market – you can never be left alone. Oddly enough, your ears grow deaf to it all. Facebook is the worst (and I hear there’s another site becoming popular called Twitter). Status updates every minute in cyberspace constantly shout to be heard, tugging at you to become part of a big family. You’re not alienated so much as sucked dry.

  Retno’s Facebook posts from two days ago:

  9.30: ‘Late cuz of traffic.’ (Ten likes; comment from friend A: ‘Not using the busway?’)

  11.00: ‘Rushing to meet clients, but the cab driver is taking me around in circles.’ (Fifteen thumbs up; comment from friend B: ‘Hang in there!’)

  13.00: ‘Hungry!’ (Three thumbs up; no comments.)

  We return to JUWITA’s room, now much dimmer, lit by a bedside lamp. The camera is back in its original position. JUWITA sits on her bed, restless. She gets up and walks to the desk, then returns with a transparent bottle of sleeping pills and a glass of water. She cradles the bottle, looking hesitant. Slowly she taps out several pills. She takes a sip of water, but the pills remain in her palm. JUWITA stares at the camera.

  JUWITA closes her eyes for a moment, panting. She puts the pills back in the bottle before placing it on the floor. She is lying on her bed, then gets under the covers, facing us. She closes her eyes again. Her lips are parted, and her breathing grows faster (although the noise outside the window makes it difficult for us to hear). JUWITA is masturbating. Shortly after, she falls asleep.

  *

  March 24: Second Attempt

  INTERTITLE

  ‘The preparations for suicide do not violate the victim’s mundane, everyday activities; and the act itself is performed with the same love of order, as neatly, as uprightly, and as silently desperate as the life which provoked it.’

  (The above lines are from Franz Xaver Kroetz’s commentary on his play Request Concert. Juwita appropriated these remarks for her video, which, obviously, was edited by Nadya Shafik and later by me.)

  January 13: Darling Nadya, our era celebrates the middle class. Or rather, I mean, the mediocre class. Look around you and you will find a swarm of ‘somewhat’ people: somewhat clever, somewhat handsome, somewhat rich, somewhat famous. Put them all together to form a whole: a high achiever. Becoming good but not great is the norm. Everyone compromises and edges towards comedy.

  Suicide in Kroetz’s text is present at this point, for it is a continuation of – not a rebellion against – compromise. Kroetz’s fictional protagonist, Fräulein Rasch, dies incomplete, endorsing her daily oppression, her confined boredom. Mute. Unlike Fräulein Rasch, I understand quite well the forces operating upon me. Unlike Kroetz, I refuse to act as a ventriloquist (OK, that’s probably not the right word for a script without dialogue …): to offer criticism through the lives of others who, of course, are not as clever as the creator. I reject everything that is not complete, so I have decided to be both Fräulein Rasch and Franz Xaver Kroetz. My death will not disrupt order, but my work – which will naturally soon become famous – will serve as a repository of unbearable knowledge.

  In this video I am your spectacle. You know that I am going to kill myself. You are waiting for it because that’s the way it should be. But you are also me, the observer, borrowing my eyes, gazing at what I gaze at through my camera.

  INT. JUWITA’S APARTMENT, MORNING.

  The camera – apparently now placed on a chair in the kitchen – spotlights the bathroom door for ten minutes. The sound of a toilet flushing. The door opens. JUWITA comes out with a book.

  JUWITA at the dining table, facing a bowl of instant noodles and an open laptop (the song ‘Suicide is Painless’ is heard). She twirls the unappetising meal with a fork. She puts the noodles to her lips while staring at a point behind the
camera. This scene lasts ten minutes. Without finishing her food, JUWITA shifts the bowl and lights a cigarette.

  March 24: I have to reconsider my ideas. The space in which I find myself right now, here, is not merely making me agitated, but triggering suicidal thoughts. This is not about claustrophobia, but rather about being in an enclosure with leaks, an enclosure that has opened cracks for loudspeakers, motorcycle exhausts, relentless television, online hysteria, everything that inhabits the city and coexists with you, kicking up a racket, causing congestion. The trap lies not in alienation, but in the crowd.

  Request Concert was once staged in Indonesia back in the 1980s with the actor Niniek L. Karim. There are rumours it will be staged again. Unfortunately, it’s possible that by that point I’ll be gone. I’m curious how the protagonist’s suicide will be framed: ‘because’ it’s crowded, or ‘although’ it’s crowded. But maybe being afflicted by din is only a problem of middle class intellectuals.

  (After this Nadya Shafik seems to cut many scenes of Juwita’s afternoon and evening activity.)

  INT. JUWITA’S ROOM, NIGHT.

  JUWITA takes another cigarette. She stares at the ceiling as she exhales smoke. The voice of a woman chatting and occasionally laughing is heard. JUWITA turns to the side briefly and places the cigarette, still burning, on the ashtray. She grabs a beige envelope (which we know reads FOR TAUFIK), looks at it, puts it down again, then lifts the pill bottle. Again she cradles the bottle, and takes out some pills. We wait. Boredom sets in for us as spectators. JUWITA again looks to the side. She returns the bottle to the table, rises from the chair, and opens her bedroom door so that it is now ajar.

  March 24: I thought I heard crying a few minutes after I heard her laughing on the phone. I went to make sure she was all right. Perhaps just false sympathy, but circumstances forced me to listen.

  Six months ago, Retno found out that her husband has a lover, a man. Apparently he married Retno to ‘get back on the straight and narrow’. The situation reminds me of Palace of Beauty, an old Indonesian film starring Mathias Muchus, in which his character marries a woman for his family’s sake.

  Apparently Retno’s husband – I forget his name, let’s just call him Mathias – couldn’t bear to live a lie and also came to the realisation that he had nothing to straighten. He ran away with his old boyfriend. Retno can’t face the world. Now it’s her turn to lie, and keep making a show of her happy marriage for those around her.

  I don’t know who the bigger idiot is: Mathias, who once believed that his salvation lay in heteronormative institutions, or Retno, now desperately protecting the very system that poisoned her.

  (Juwita again appears on the screen after we’re tormented by a lengthy shot of an empty room. Nadya Shafik has already cut it, perhaps from two hours to five minutes, but this does little to reduce the tedium of having to watch it.)

  JUWITA types for a few moments. Then she gets up, grabs the camera, and aims it at the laptop screen, which is opening Retno’s Facebook page. A minute before, Retno has posted a status update: ‘Can there be a couple as cool as Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt? ’

  *

  March 25: Third Attempt

  INT. JUWITA’S APARTMENT, IN FRONT OF RETNO’S HALF-OPEN DOOR.

  We hear the sound of motorbikes, and percussion accompanying women’s prayer chants.

  (This scene happens after the third suicide attempt. Because nothing occurs here except increasing repetition, I’ve cut it.)

  JUWITA pushes the door open slowly. There is no one in the room. The camera turns us into voyeuristic snoops. Retno’s abundant room decor is chic. Below we see a small, bright yellow carpet that matches the cushions. Retno’s bed is made up with light green sheets – slick, clean bedding against dark green pillows and duvet. Beside the bed sits a small dressing table. A mirror and rows of cosmetics (most sporting the Body Shop logo) are arranged neatly, as if in a store display. We see a framed photo of Retno and her husband in traditional Javanese wedding garb, gazing at the camera with happy smiles. Next to the dressing table are two levels of white shelves. Stuffed animals, large and small – teddy bears, pandas, rabbits, cows and pigs – on the first level, and a stack of women’s magazines on the second.

  March 25: Retno wasn’t home. I went back to my room and, for no particular reason, opened her Facebook profile. She’d made another new post: ‘Really angry at the violence that an LGBT group has suffered lately.’

  I’ve never seen her angry, or admitting anger. She has been drained or sad, but not angry. I wonder if this post was really written by Retno, victim as well as staunch supporter of the great big hegemonic fucking system. Maybe there’s another Retno, a fragment of Retno, whom I imagine somewhat intact as a somewhat human being.

  *

  March 27: Ending

  EXT. OUTSIDE JUWITA’S APARTMENT, MIDDAY.

  JUWITA, behind the camera, tracks the street outside her apartment. On the right side of the road we find rows of cramped houses, cigarette stalls and, at the end, motorbike taxis. We arrive at a T-junction. This road is narrower, but much more crowded. Cars, motorcycles, scooters and carts converge in two lanes. The camera highlights small ditches directly behind the railway tracks; convenience shops providing various services: photocopying, cell phone credit, silk-screening. A man’s voice, catcalling, is heard behind JUWITA.

  INT. NIGHT, POV SHOT.

  We follow JUWITA into her apartment. As soon as the door is opened, we hear the sound of a television. JUWITA walks into the living room. Zoom in. Television: soap-opera scene. The camera moves towards JUWITA’s room, stops. JUWITA does not enter, but turns to the side. Retno’s half-open door. We look back at her bookcase and her computer. The chair is empty. The camera pans to the left, stops. Retno’s bed. A woman lies there, hands and eyes open. A very long silence. The screen grows shakier. An empty glass sits by the bedside, a pill bottle lies on the floor.

  INT. JUWITA’S ROOM.

  JUWITA at her desk, writing on a blank sheet of paper with a marker. Before we can decipher what is written, she dumps out some white pills, arranging them in two rows. JUWITA’s left hand, trembling, holds a glass of water. Her chest heaves. Her eyes are red, swollen. She looks towards us, glassy-eyed.

  She disturbs the rows of pills until we can make out what she has written on the paper. Then, confounding our expectations, she turns off the camera. Everything goes black.

  The note reads: ‘Et tu, Brute?’

  Continue to page 153.

  Café

  The brilliant sunshine along the road to West 4th Street Station causes you to forget that it’s only 3 degrees Celsius outside. At that temperature, your nose gets red and runny. Yes, you still think in Celsius because you have yet to work out what 37 degrees Fahrenheit feels like, and how much cooler, say, 35 and 36 degrees are in comparison. You’re still trying to adjust to Fahrenheit (though for what purpose, you’re not entirely sure, given that pretty much the whole rest of the world uses Celsius).

  Today, 3 degrees Celsius feels warm, what with the sunshine and your upbeat mood. The interview went smoothly. Tony Saverino, the manager of La Candela, only asked a few questions about your serving experience. After satisfying himself with your story – how you worked part-time at a Chinese restaurant in Flushing that’s always busy – he asked right away how flexible your schedule is. Your response: you’re ready to work any time, including Saturdays and Sundays. He looked pleased and asked you to come in the next day.

  You pass a row of cafes and record stores, imagining your future job. You’ve been here, to Greenwich Village, on a Saturday night and seen a long line of people waiting to get into the Blue Note Cafe. On a weekday the atmosphere is much more subdued. You start planning where to buy food if you’re too lazy to pack a lunch, mentally noting a few possibilities: McDonald’s, 7-Eleven, and some delis that sell burgers and dollar coffees.

  You wait for the E train while listening to a street musician with an accordion. You’re grateful today i
s going well, but then you remember the incident that disturbed you before you left for the interview. Well, it didn’t really disturb you, but you couldn’t stop thinking about it on the way to La Candela. A joyful day, but also a weird one. That morning you witnessed something unexpected.

  At 9 a.m., as you were leaving your apartment, you saw a woman sashay out the door next to yours. You observed her from behind. She wore a violet sari with golden thread accents that showed a bit of her midriff, and her long black hair was tied in a neat braid, revealing the cinnamon tones of her neck.

  You hold your breath. That woman.

  The feral creature who was roaring so wildly last night.

  You stood gaping as she strode gracefully towards the elevator. As she walked, you heard the jingling of an ankle bracelet, like music accompanying her in a dance. She stopped at the elevator and waited for it to open, arms folded. You looked down, pretending to be occupied with locking your door.

  Her face wasn’t visible, but at that distance she looked as if she had stepped straight out of one of the Bollywood films you’d watched so often as a child. She reminded you of those beautiful, gentle and loyal girls who’d star opposite Amitabh Bachchan as his paramour. Or one of those disconsolate mothers, tears running down her cheeks, ready to sacrifice herself for her young children. Bravely, she’d endure all manner of suffering – grinding poverty, love between castes without parental blessing, or the pursuit of a pack of criminals bent on revenge.