You spend your days wandering town, spending money here and there. You buy kaasbroodje at a bakery in Centraal Station; elsewhere it’s half a dozen socks. Shopping always makes you feel like a local. You even make a momentous decision: you’ll buy a laptop. You don’t know how long you’ll stay in Amsterdam or where you’ll go next, but at the very least, a laptop will make your life easier, seeing as you don’t have access to a hotel lobby computer like you did in Berlin.
Once you’ve become familiar with Amsterdam, you visit other cities by train. A half-hour ride takes you to Leiden. The city is even more storybook than Amsterdam. You tote your camera around, snapping pictures of boats and bridges, canals and windmills. On another excursion you visit Rotterdam with its stunning modern architecture. Because it was decimated by bombs during World War II, Rotterdam’s buildings look newer than any other city you’ve visited in Europe.
After tiring of asking others to take pictures of you in front of historical sites, you decide to memorialise your sparkly red shoes. They never fail to capture attention. People come up and ask a litany of questions (sometimes they start in Dutch, then switch to English):
‘Are you a fashion student?’
‘Artist?’
‘Wizard of Oz fan?’
‘American?’
Honestly, you have no idea what sparks that last question.
These encounters with others – perhaps fellow tourists – make you feel good. Maybe someday you’ll write about your photography experience, create a FAQ for it. Comments come in addition to questions. An elderly woman offers sincere praise: ‘Oh, they’re beautiful! Like an angel’s shoes.’
‘Thank you,’ you say without correcting her, but you think, ‘Actually, no angel would want to wear these, Granny. These are devil shoes.’
Dozens of photos are now stored on your laptop. You name the folder ‘Red Shoe Travels’. Faceless, disembodied, your shoes determine their own destiny. They’re everywhere, a pair of haunted shoes roaming about Holland. You decide to rename the folder ‘Red Shoe Wanderings’.
One afternoon, a little girl stretches out her legs as you’re photographing your red shoes on the train. You turn. The girl, about eight or so, is wearing glittery red slippers, like yours, but without the high heels. Her mother tries to stop her from bothering you.
‘Mommy, mommy! She has Dorothy shoes too!’ The girl tugs her mother’s hand.
She speaks in American-accented English, not Dutch.
‘Honey, your legs are in the way.’
‘It’s OK,’ you smile.
‘Are you a Wizard of Oz fan too?’ asks the mother.
‘You know the story, don’t you?’ The little girl chimes in.
If you feel a need to read, or reread, about The Wizard of Oz, turn to page 21, then come back here.
‘Can you take a picture of my shoes with yours?’
You grant the girl’s wish. On your camera’s viewfinder, the little girl extends her legs so they’re close to your shoes. You take a picture and show her the result on the screen.
She’s thrilled to see it, but then her brow furrows. She tugs repeatedly at her mother’s skirt.
‘Mommy.’ Her voice becomes earnest. ‘Mommy, we’ve met this Auntie Dorothy before.’
‘Oh, come on,’ the mother replies, not taking her seriously. ‘Enough. We have to get ready to leave the train.’
‘We met in New York!’ the girl exclaims.
You and the little girl’s mother exchange glances, puzzled.
‘Yes, maybe,’ says the mother. ‘Lots of people these days like to take shoe pictures.’
‘We’ve met! In New York, on the subway.’ The voice of the little girl rises, ever more stubborn. ‘Auntie, please check. Maybe the picture of your shoes from New York is still on your camera.’
‘OK, OK. We have to go now, sweetie.’
The girl’s mother bids you goodbye and leads her daughter off the train. They disappear immediately from sight, but the little girl’s voice keeps ringing in your head. Could there be someone like you taking red-shoe photos elsewhere? Or maybe the shoes are like cats with nine lives, and they all exist simultaneously. Isn’t New York also New Amsterdam? The Dutch bartered with the Brits – Manhattan for Run, an island in the Moluccas, and that gives your feet the foundation to run far and wide.
If a city can have a twin, maybe you and your shoes do too. What kind of life might your red shoes be having in New York? You press the button on your digital camera, clicking through the dozens of photos saved there. Shock sets in. Your flesh goes cold.
Amsterdam Centraal. An announcement that you’ve arrived at your stop breaks your reverie. You turn off the camera and stow it in your bag. Rushing along with the crowd through the station, you don’t want to think about it too deeply: what the hell should you expect with devil shoes?
After a week in the Netherlands you’re no longer so driven about getting up early each morning. You don’t even feel it’s a waste to laze around all day at home with your new laptop. You open several email messages from your sister.
First email:
Hello Dik,
Hope you’re OK over there. Don’t forget to bring lots of kids’ books when you come back to Indonesia. Later we’ll donate them to Lentera Iman Elementary, Nazwa’s school.
Oh, Abah has quit the automobile firm. He’s serious about becoming an entrepreneur and making a career out of organising seminars on Islamic business with his friends. Pray for his success, OK?
You still feel weirded out when your sister refers to her husband as ‘Abah’ in front of you or their friends. Since they got married, they’ve taken to calling each other ‘Abah’ and ‘Ummi’. Your sister’s husband is not your father. You don’t get why you should go along with calling him so.
Second email:
FWD: Rally to Support the Anti-Pornography Law
As we all know, Western liberalism has infected our media. Just consider the Indonesian edition of Playboy and teen-oriented films with the sort of lewd titles that the famed cleric Aa Jim has objected to. Television is overrun with obscene dancing by dangdut singers in provocative clothes. The anti-pornography law must be passed immediately in order to protect our children.
You delete the email, skipping the rest. This is one of many messages your sister shares from mailing lists. You don’t understand why she sent you this email. She dislikes Aa Jim, a cleric with two wives who appears all the time on television, and she doesn’t seem too concerned about dangdut singers in sexy clothes. But maybe all her friends have joined the anti-pornography front and are full-frontal anti-pornographers, or whatever it is you call them.
Another message contains sermons from religious figures. Your sister shares oodles of emails like this. You’re not sure she always knows who the author is. You delete these messages after a paragraph. The entire process takes two minutes. All it takes is a glance at keywords you’re allergic to: ‘forbidden’, ‘sinful’, ‘infidel’ or ‘serving a husband’. Then it’s click, delete. You wonder why you don’t just delete all your sister’s messages without opening them. Maybe you derive satisfaction from being able to recognise the features of contemporary da’wah and to reaffirm your view of your sister. Let’s see. There’s the judgement genre, which cites chapter and verse and likes to denounce one group or another. Then there’s the pop psych genre, which throws around the word ‘psychology’ and quotes from doctors, to cast a wider net of more inclusive moralising appeal. Your sister is all too predictable.
You still haven’t met Maria again. Actually, you heard her moving about once in the living room; the wooden floor carries the sound of steps clearly. It was three in the afternoon and she was getting ready to leave, but you were too lazy to come out of your room and say hello.
A few days later she knocks on your door. She hasn’t forgotten her promise.
‘Still interested in the Asian supermarket?’
Like the last time you saw her, the way she’s dressed sho
ws attention to detail. Her hair is curled at the tips once more, and her eyes are made up in metallic blue.
‘I have to go to work, but we can stop by the supermarket.’
You follow her down the stairs. She takes her bike from the parking area and walks alongside it so she can show you the way.
‘Is your work far from here?’
She shakes her head.
‘I work at De Wallen.’
Perhaps you look a bit foolish; you’re confused and unsure what you heard. Maria adds, ‘Red Light District.’
‘Oh.’
She speaks like a nurse who has given you a vaccine and then is calmly dabbing the blood away with an antiseptic swab. Her expression is fully composed. You try hard to act naturally although later you know, as does Maria, that you’re trying too hard.
You’ve never been to the Red Light District.
You repeat this sentence silently to yourself while walking in Dam Square. As the birds around you peck away at breadcrumbs, you munch on the chips you bought from the Asian market. You purchased five packets of emping melindjo. It’s not until the next day that you learn that these chips, like satay sauce, can be found in any Albert Heijn supermarket.
You’ve never been to the Red Light District. It’s so close to your apartment, but you’ve only strolled along its outskirts, in broad daylight. Curiosity takes you into a sex shop to browse lingerie and sex toys, but you’ve yet to pass window displays of human flesh. Inside the store you fantasise about sexual escapades with the different costumes and paraphernalia. You’re reminded of Demon Lover. There has been no word from him, and after your graveside meeting you’re still quite angry. But anger aside, you feel pangs of longing for your trysts. The devil doesn’t need you to wear Prada, a black corset or fishnet stockings. You remember how dozens of wedding invitations quote a famous poet: I want to love you simply. Maybe there’s truth to that line. Demon Lover is traditional, a lusty Lucifer. That’s always more than enough.
Where has he gone now? Why does he show up when he’s not needed and disappear when you desire him? The short answer: he’s a devil, and you’re horny.
At Dam Square, you can’t stop thinking of the display windows at De Wallen. Who really knows why you haven’t visited yet. Yes, not yet. Not ‘won’t visit’. In your head you form a vague plan. You put De Wallen on your list of tourist sights to be ticked off, sort of like museums, churches or Madame Tussauds.
Maybe you’ve yet to visit because you don’t want to go by yourself, and can’t imagine being a female tourist gawking on her own. You feel you have to go with someone. Two people, three people. The more the merrier. Maybe better to go with guys? It makes sense, even if you feel ridiculous. After all, according to your Quranic recitation teacher, a male relative should accompany a woman wherever she goes. Then again, he probably wasn’t talking about brothels.
Ha.
The reason you stay away from the Red Light District isn’t clear, and maybe there’s more than one. If you go there, you’ll have to hide.
But hide from what?
Proceed to page 232.
Dear reader, because of inclement weather, all flights to Zagreb are currently grounded. We apologise for this inconvenience and have rebooked you on an intercity express train from Berlin to Amsterdam.
Turn to page 204.
You arrive at a three-storey house along a dirty boulevard. Fernando invites you via a side entrance to the basement, which he is renting as a studio. He lives alone. Families from Mexico live on the first, second and third floor. Fernando pulls a key out of his pocket to open a trellis gate and then guides you down the stairs.
Fernando used to live with his family in a two-bedroom apartment, but after his divorce he moved to this much cheaper basement studio. The room itself is spacious, maybe as big as a typical one-bedroom. Actually, basement rentals like this are against regulations, Fernando says. There’s no window. During the day, the only way to get natural light is to open the door. A bit of sun then filters in from the stairs leading to the side courtyard. The effect is claustrophobic. But with so many people eager for a cut-rate basement studio, deals are always going on under the table. Fernando has a large bed and a futon that his daughter sleeps on when she stays over. After he and his wife split up, she stayed in their old place but let Fernando take several items, including the futon, which had been in their den.
You and Fernando sit on the futon, chatting and sipping Chilean wine. You go home the next morning.
You thought that night would be the end of it, once you made love, since you know you can feel curious and horny at two in the morning. You thought that you were only scratching an itch. But in the following days, Fernando spoils you with attention. He comes to your apartment and cooks for you. At first you just planned to sleep with him a couple more times, perhaps out of a slight desire for revenge on Vijay and Meena (you’re not miserable, because you’re getting laid now too, even if the sex you’re having isn’t as hot and wild as theirs). Fernando, however, is persistent. He accompanies you shopping; sometimes, he’ll be busy sweeping or tidying your place while you laze in bed. Bob has also been inviting you out but you haven’t had a chance to respond because Fernando is always around. He can bore you, but he listens to all your stories attentively. Although he may not make every crevice of your body tingle like Devil did, a man who listens is a rare creature.
Ah, Demon Lover. Nobody makes love like a demon.
Fuck. If he really wanted you, he’d be here, right now.
You certainly don’t feel that you’ve fallen in love with Fernando, but the guy is handsome and really sweet. He’s willing to be your slave, albeit in a very different way. You can’t understand why his wife dumped him.
As time goes on, you become more and more used to Fernando’s presence in your life. You also come to develop a genuine fondness for Tiffany, who is apparently nice to both her mom’s boyfriend and her dad’s girlfriend. With Tiffany, you learn that children can be surprisingly mature and you start to discover similarities between the two of you. Unlike her friends who are content with books and movies about princesses and princes, or boy-meets-girl stories, Tiffany prefers more exciting tales. She reads the Choose Your Own Adventure series, and of course loves to watch The Wizard of Oz. Fernando and Tiffany start stealing your time and your heart. You don’t even realise that your neighbour Meena has moved.
One day, as you’re throwing out the trash, you spy the building doorman putting some sparkly objects into a black bag. You think that you recognise them.
Your red shoes.
‘Sir, just a moment,’ you say, trying to stop him. ‘I think those are mine.’
The man keeps his back to you, ignoring you. He ties up the black bag and places it with the other ones. You’re flustered when you hear him speak. ‘I let you play around, but I didn’t expect you to have such lousy taste.’
You say nothing but study the man carefully. Although he resembles the doorman you see regularly, something isn’t right. His ears are pointy and covered with fur.
Devil.
‘You’re fucking up big time.’
The man stares at you, his crimson eyes a giveaway. Demon Lover in disguise …
‘Betraying me was the first mistake.’
‘But you never even visited me. What’s happened to make you show up now?’
‘The second mistake.’ Devil continues to sit in judgement. ‘How dare you cheat on me with a man who has no future!’
‘You’re not my father! Easy enough for you to talk about the future. Why did you give me a visa that’s only good for a year?’
‘So that you’d find your own way, darling.’
‘OK, fine. I found my own way.’
‘What, by dating a low-class loser?’
Your voice rises. ‘Are you talking about immigration status? I never knew you were such a conservative. You should be ashamed of yourself!’
‘This isn’t about politics. What if he gets deported?
’
‘Are you trying to say he has no rights in this country?’
‘National borders are too trivial for a devil to deal with,’ he says, brushing you off. ‘I just think you’re making things difficult for yourself.’
‘Oh yes. That’s my style all right. Making my own life difficult.’
Devil looks even more upset. He shakes his head, as if there’s no use talking to you. He starts to go but then turns around.
‘The shoes.’ He points at the pile of garbage bags. ‘They’re not yours any more. Our contract is over and done with.’
You just glare at him as he leaves, not bothering to give chase.
Once he’s gone, you open the black bag that he’s tossed away. No shoes. You check the other bags, but there’s nothing in any of them but trash.
Continue to page 407.
Anything could happen if you accept Fernando’s invitation to his apartment. Your relationship may enter a different stage, and you’re not ready. Fernando looks disappointed, but he sees you home and says goodbye sweetly.
Fernando is handsome, but his personal life is too complicated. Besides, maybe you should look for a boyfriend who can help guarantee your legal status in the future. It’s becoming ever clearer that you can’t rely on Devil. And really, who of God’s creations is dumb enough to hang her life on some demon? If men as attractive as Vijay are hard to come by, you should probably be more strategic in your boyfriend hunt: date those who can get you a green card. At that moment, you make up your mind. From here on you’re playing by new rules.
You reject the second, third and endless dinner invitations from Fernando. Finally he gets the hint that you’re not interested. Instead, you start considering Bob more seriously.
Proceed to the next page.
Nyai
The Wandering Page 19