‘Then I’ll leave,’ you promised. ‘Save your hot chocolate.’
And that was that. We transferred to the A train heading uptown. Only upon exiting the subway did we discover that snow was falling again. Like a child, you delighted in the white flakes that landed upon your face and disappeared. You teased me because I was still straining to remember your name.
‘What is your name? Sari? Devi? Wati?’
You laughed for a long time, mocking my list of common Indonesian names. ‘You don’t seem very imaginative.’
On the white road I scanned your footprints; your name wasn’t inscribed there.
I took off my red coat and rested my suitcase, unopened, against the wall, ready for the next trip. Tatyana had not come home yet. She might have been quite anxious to learn that, unusually, I’d allowed someone I’d just met into the apartment. A stranger who, in my mind, was nameless. Surprisingly, you and I were becoming ever closer.
I had to admit that your game was both challenging and disconcerting. I was still desperate to attach a name to you as I made the hot chocolate. Was it Sri, Rani or Yanti (look it up on Google, you joked)? Maybe it’s more Western (Victoria? Josephine?). Exotic (Salsabila? Mahachakri?).
You were disappointed to find no Indonesian or Ukrainian mementos in my apartment, nothing ethnic or redolent of the Third World except a stack of DVDs on the bookshelf I share with Tatyana. Our living room is very simple. We don’t have a television. You asked if you could have a look at my bedroom and started pacing about, inspecting my second-hand furniture, until you found something that appeared to make you happy. You pouted at yourself in front of my full-length mirror. ‘Why buy such a nice mirror if you’re only here a while?’ Your remark served more as criticism than question. ‘Dealing with it will be such a pain if you move.’
I told you that I’d trained myself to throw things away without a sense of attachment. You rolled your eyes. ‘Liar.’
‘It can’t be helped if you’re always moving around.’
‘You can’t throw everything away. Clothes, yes. CDs, cups –’
‘Men?’
‘Even men.’ You slurped your hot chocolate while your eyes remained fixed on the mirror. ‘But a beautiful mirror, no. No.’
Your explanation had a cryptic quality to it. I didn’t need to take it seriously and returned to my guessing. Sarah? Maria? You bid me come closer, and we stood side by side, gazing into the mirror together. This closeness surprised me, for it made me realise that I’d been busy inspecting your curves.
‘Look at me in the mirror,’ you directed. ‘Do I seem like a Maria to you?’
I did not respond, distracted by how old my face looked next to yours. I began to compare the two of us, foolishly and desperately, and took measure of the tone of your complexion, your small waist, your thick, gleaming locks.
‘Hey.’ You turned. ‘Do you feel threatened? Are you worried that I really stole your husband?’
There was something strange about your body, something that went beyond my failure to conceal my jealousy. Your curves were dangerous, not because they were alluring, but because it was as though I’d seen them before. Had your lover’s wife (not me, of course) ever sensed your existence?
‘Come on, I’m a mom. I’m harmless.’
In the mirror you were smiling broadly. Your teeth gleamed, like the teeth of a predator.
My cell phone rang. On the screen I saw the name of June, a Korean woman who lives on the first floor with her boyfriend Andrew. I’d forgotten that they had invited me to their monthly film screening. Andrew and June had a projector and routinely invited friends over to join them.
‘We have to go. I’ve never been to a private film screening,’ you insisted. ‘Maybe we can meet some sexy guys.’
‘How old are you, anyway? Twenty-one?’
‘You’re like a girl from Victorian times. Don’t tell me you’ve never picked up a guy at a bar.’
I hesitated, but the thought of having to introduce you to others gave me a wicked thought. This would be part of our game: you would say your name and I would be victor.
The movie had already started when we arrived. June immediately ushered us to the sofa, not wanting to disturb her other guests. She welcomed us warmly but didn’t seem to care about you. I’d have to wait rather a while for a more appropriate introduction.
Andrew is a film buff. He’d play his favourite movies – classic but unique – to flaunt his vast knowledge of world cinema. That night we watched F. W. Murnau’s Sunrise. We’d missed a few scenes and took our seats to a part in which a woman, with black hair and dark lipstick, sneaks into a settlement. She looks very fashionable, very out of place. She stops at a house and whistles to a man, clearly someone else’s husband. His wife – beautiful but less stylish – is preparing dinner. The man appears uneasy, torn between the call of the temptress, and his wife, queen of the household, but, as always, temptation prevails. He leaves home to meet the whistling femme fatale. The Woman from the City, as she is called, is an adventurer. A thief. Bad girls in black-and-white movies are always made to resemble demons, and this particular bad girl reminded me of someone.
And you had left your seat.
I rose from the sofa and tiptoed towards the kitchen, thinking you were looking for a drink. From behind the curtains I heard your voice. You were talking to a blond man. Not tall, but quite attractive.
‘So, Max … Max. Your name is very German.’
‘And you? Is your name very Indonesian?’
‘Hmm, you could say that my name is international.’
A very unimaginative exchange. New prey. He opened a bottle of beer and offered it to you. A ring encircled his fourth finger. He was into seduction, just like you.
‘And what is this international name of yours?’
‘If you say my name, I vanish. What am I?’
‘Silence. I remember that riddle,’ he answered with satisfaction. Then, wearing a crocodile smile, he added, ‘But I don’t want you to vanish. Not this fast.’
He didn’t take his eyes off you as you drank from the bottle and started toying with your hair. Yes, some people know just when to take out their toys – people like you. I could condemn your lips and your hips, but I had a more important mission. The man was waiting for you to mention your name, while I was waiting for the conclusion of our game. Your eyes wandered until they landed where I stood. You raised your bottle, as if toasting me, and said, ‘Lila. My name is Lila.’
My hands went cold. You laughed out loud at your successful dodge.
‘Hey, come here.’ You beckoned me. ‘This is Max. He’s just moved from Germany and is now teaching –’
‘Political science,’ Max finished your sentence as I approached. ‘Hi, I’m Max.’
He reached out his hand. I greeted him with a polite smile, and, a little annoyed that my name had been poached, replied firmly, ‘Lila.’
As if sympathetic to my protest and the confusion in Max’s blue eyes, you smiled sweetly and corrected yourself, ‘OK, OK. My name is Anna.’
‘Ah, Anna.’
‘No. Lucy.’ Your smile changed awkwardly. ‘What does a name mean, anyway? I told him my real name and he forgot.’ She turned to him. ‘Invite me to your apartment and you won’t remember me. And you have a wife.’
Max’s face went crimson. Perhaps because of my presence, he tried to make more pedestrian conversation, asking me about my work and divulging some information about himself. He had been here less than a year, on his own, and his wife would join him in the summer. His tone was placid, almost flat, and I could tell he was not particularly enthusiastic about his marriage. It didn’t take long for me, or maybe for him, to realise that with you, the safest meeting places can prove dangerous.
‘OK, Lila,’ Max said. ‘No, Anna … I mean, Lucy.’
When you two giggled, I knew Max was obeying the rules you had set. I wondered if your affair with your lover had begun like this, in a tidy kitchen, w
ith a beer bottle and a simple kids’ game.
‘So what do you do for work?’
‘I move around.’
‘Then?’
‘Pack up, move on, meet strangers … steal husbands.’
‘I like your sense of humour. The two of you have to visit my place sometime.’
‘Sure,’ you answered quickly. ‘We’re going to start a new game. And Lila needs to win. I know she hates losing.’
I felt that Max was looking at me differently. He regarded me for several seconds and touched his hair before asking if I’d like a beer. You watched him while biting your lips, slowly. Whether it was my woollen turtleneck or the heater, suddenly I felt hot.
‘Lila’s a pretty name,’ Max said. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t think she knows,’ you said, your voice sounding softer as you drew nearer to him. ‘That’s why she doesn’t remember my name.’
I excused myself to go back to the film. I didn’t want to know what would happen between you two. When I returned to the living room, the man in the movie had taken his wife to town for a walk, trying to repair the marriage that the Woman from the City had been intent on destroying.
I thought I’d dozed off on the couch when I heard a whisper in my ear. You were leaving with the German, and I believed what I heard was a goodbye.
This should have been an ordinary morning: I found myself alone in my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember my dreams. Whatever the dream, morning would straighten out any wrong turns I’d taken. I tend to be crueller to myself at night, blaming myself for what I’ve lost and what I’ve left unfulfilled, and in the morning light I forgive myself with fresh air and a cup of coffee, an opportunity to start from scratch. But on this particular morning I woke up with a sense that something was missing. I was disturbed to think that I’d forgotten how I came here. I tried to reconstruct the story. I must have drunk too much after the screening and returned to my apartment, like a zombie, unable to remember the conversations I’d had. Exhausted, I’d immediately flopped into bed. That was it; that was a plausible story.
I lifted the shade and saw the snow, already brownish on the side of the road. Maybe the screening never took place. Maybe you and the Woman from the City were just dreams. This thought comforted me because life without you is easier to bear. But something on the bed made me panic, a piece of yellow paper with neat handwriting: I enjoyed last night. See you soon, M.
You were here while I slept.
I grabbed the paper and flung open the door. The living room was empty. I was relieved, but then I heard a spoon clinking in a coffee cup.
‘Good morning.’
The ambush of this voice, though warm and friendly, left me with a sense of fear. You were sitting on a kitchen chair wearing a pair of pyjamas. Your hair was wet.
‘How did –’
‘You opened the door for me, honey. Coffee?’
I caught a whiff of something that made me want to vomit – not the aroma of coffee, but your perfume. The perfume that had so bothered me upon meeting you.
M. Who was M? Did your name begin with M? I was still scrutinising the mysterious handwriting when you snatched it from my hand. I saw a smile on your face, the seductive smile I’d seen in the kitchen when you were with the blond man. Your eyes pierced me with a mischievous and accusing stare.
‘Naughty girl,’ you said.
‘You said you left with Max last night.’
‘Who’s Max? The man who spent the night with you?’
‘Please stop playing games.’
‘Do you remember my name?’
You got up from the table almost swaggering, like a schoolyard bully, and marched into my room without asking permission. You stood in front of my mirror, repeating the poses you’d made before we went to the screening, but this time your presence was more imposing. It was nine o’clock in the morning, time for forgiveness, but I didn’t feel like forgiving anyone.
‘Your mirror is too big,’ you said, growing increasingly critical. ‘It’s like you need to inspect yourself from head to toe every day.’
You reminded me how I looked at my reflection in the glass as you spoke in the train. ‘Obsessive,’ you jeered.
‘No, I’m not. Maybe when the space we’re in is in motion we need to reassure ourselves that something is fixed. Intact.’
‘So how did the letter land in your bed?’ you asked. ‘Space playing tricks, huh?’
After a long journey, a good night’s sleep usually soothed my weariness. This morning was proving an exception. The room didn’t have enough air. Suddenly I felt exhausted. I looked back and forth between my tired face and yours. I wished I were as beautiful as you. They say mirrors are deceptive, but distortions are often convincing.
The space we were in didn’t have enough air.
I felt we’d been gazing at our reflections for hours, and then, for whatever reason, I saw tears flowing. I did not feel them, nor were my cheeks wet. The mirror seemed to be playing a trick on me. I’ve never been to the Golden Gate Bridge. But the tricks of space can indeed be foul.
In the mirror my lips began to tremble ever so gradually, and I felt I needed to ask a question: ‘Have you ever hated yourself?’
‘The way you hate yourself?’ You laughed hideously, and continued. ‘Lila darling, people hate themselves in order to feel better. Becoming aware lessens guilt. People reveal their warts because they don’t want someone else to point them out first.’
I couldn’t understand this, or you, or my feelings, but I knew I was too tired to be lectured to. What came next was an unbearable monologue.
‘Self-hatred is the mark of a coward. If you have to confess your sins, someone needs to bear witness to it – like in a Catholic church. You must be strong and know no shame. Do you know what I want? I want the wife of my lover to be here, standing next to me. Then we will look in the mirror together, just like this, and then I can repent: forgive me because I have sinned against you. Truly, I can’t bear to show you what will terrify you most. Forgive me that I have stolen your husband, your love, your prize. Forgive me for this unequal battle, and forgive me for everything that happens when you are gone. We lock ourselves up in a hotel for weeks on end, and he worships every inch of my body, adoring me like I’m a goddess. He licks my feet and gets hard as a rock when I treat him like a dog.’
My heart pounded and I blocked my ears; was this a confession or carnage? I wanted to slash your mouth with a razor blade. I fled from the mirror and glared at you. I did not want you here.
Go.
Yet you stood there, back straight, your arms folded like the statue of some cruel deity. You were so heavy, immovable, as if your form had been occupying this space for centuries, sculpted and embedded within it. I screamed, more out of fear than anger.
Get out of here, whatever your name is!
I was surprised to hear my voice, so out of control. But I was sick of seeing your face – cold, beautiful, nameless. Then came an impulse, a desperate instinct to seek justice, to shove you up against the wall and smash your arrogant head. I pulled your long hair, but you – being stronger and wily – acted first. You grabbed my hand as I was about to slap you. You held my body tight as I shouted at you to go away. Thief! Whore!
Someone stopped my curses. You planted your lips against mine and gave me a kiss, cold and long. I waited. Something, something uncertain might change us. After this you will persecute me again. Your face, though, was so serene. You wiped away my tears. Calm down, Lila. Don’t get so hysterical. Your sweetness made me feel ashamed.
‘You need help.’ Your voice now sounded like a nurse’s. ‘But first we have to get rid of this – it shows everything bad.’
You hurled everything in reach at my mirror. An alarm clock. A book. A framed photo. A coffee cup. I could only watch this destruction in silence, unable to interpret such nonchalant brutality. I realised too late that you had drawn something out from the wreckage of the mirror. A jagge
d shard of glass.
I caught a whiff of betrayal. Your kindness was a sham. And that’s when I recognised the smell of your perfume, a smell I’d managed to forget. Tuberose flowers. In my childhood, these so-called sweet blossoms of the night spread the fragrance of wandering spirits. But it didn’t matter any more that I’d recognised the smell, because I allowed you to take my hand, to stroke my wrist, to paralyse me. I felt unsteady. Was my body shaking, or was the room in motion? Your lips were at my ear, whispering words in a foreign language. I heard not only your whispers, but the whisperings of others too, hissing. The incitements of ghosts that haunt bridges.
You stare deep into my eyes.
May I?
This space moves faster, swirls. My body sweats. I answer you, I cannot believe my own words. And so it is: one slash, so convincing, so hard to resist. Your fingers curled around the glass shard bewitch me into becoming a waterfall. Drain me, quickly. You, a bewitching ghost, wear a mother’s smile.
That’s when I remember. I am wrong no longer.
‘I know your name!’ I cry, with the last vestiges of my energy.
How stupid. Wasn’t this a simple riddle? I gasp, desperate for air, but I know everything will end. I mutter, voice shattering like glass, ‘Maya. Your name is Maya.’
Your face pales at once. Your smile vanishes. Blood spurts from your forehead, from your temples, drenching your eyebrows, your nose and cheeks. You crack. Your body springs leaks, it vibrates; your skin, your eyes, your entire being fills with red tendrils. Then, in an instant, you burst. The explosions are so intense that fragments – flesh, mirror, I no longer know the difference – splatter every corner of this space, fly out the window.
My carpet absorbs the red. Your blood. No, my blood. Soon I will no longer be able to open my eyes, but I have escaped. At last I have the key that unlocks all secrets, all riddles.
Lila and Maya are no longer friends.
Die, you old whore. I should not blame you entirely. Didn’t I agree to invite you over that afternoon? It’s just that this space, a haven on an unending journey, cannot contain both of us.
The Wandering Page 17