You hate Aa Jim passionately, but you can’t be angry with Meena. Meena has no desire to be a Drupadi with two husbands, or five. She doesn’t want her husband. You want Meena and Vijay to be together. Go, you think. Run.
You wake, after dropping off to sleep in front of the TV. On the screen you see a music group playing in a studio, black and white, like on The Ed Sullivan Show. The vocalist is a bald little man with a thick moustache. He wears a shirt that reads ‘Little Johnny’.
That man. You sit up and rub your eyes. You’ve seen him.
In dreams.
What is Johnny doing on television?
The band, whatever its name is, performs an old Mel Carter song, ‘Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me’. Your eyes are glued to the movements of Little Johnny’s lips and moustache.
Little Johnny sings like a seductive lover. His thick moustache looks funny, but his voice stirs up strange feelings. There’s something about him that you find a little – sensual, maybe. You can’t find the exact words. His voice makes you want to hold him tight and nibble his ears.
Applause from the studio audience. Still at the microphone, Little Johnny winks. Like Casanova, he says:
That song goes out to one beautiful lover in particular … Meena.
What? What did he just say? This is no coincidence. Little Johnny knows about them, about Vijay and Meena. You rise from your seat and slowly approach the television. Little Johnny’s gaze hypnotises you, making you want to enter the rectangular box. Then, losing control, you ask:
Why don’t they choose –
To run away?
Little Johnny asks back at the camera, back at you. Shock. No doubt about it, he’s not just breaking the fourth wall, he’s talking directly to you from inside the television.
Go, and destroy everything? Not everyone has that luxury. Unless you’re a rat king who can send pestilence. Hey! Do you know where all the rats went?
You can, you insist. You can take on the whole world.
You don’t know why you’re speaking to him as if you’ve known him for a long time. Maybe Little Johnny isn’t a stranger. Maybe he has indeed lived inside you, in some distant past.
You’re happy, you say again.
They are too. In their flight. In their dreams.
But –
Shhh. Little Johnny shakes his head.
When you wake up, your dream will be passed its expiry date.
Shhh! Little Johnny shakes his head harder. Enough talk. Sleep. Time for a little Roy Orbison.
A guitar strums, and he sings again.
In dreams I walk with you.
Continue on to page 240.
Market
Maria never intended to invite you to a coffee shop for a chat. Your relationship is clear, uncomplicated. You’re a tenant in her flat, and flatmates don’t need to be friends. Her invitations come because she happens to be passing by a certain place, like the Asian supermarket, or because you take the initiative to follow her, like today. She has risen early, so you run into her in the kitchen. You know that she’s planning to go out because she’s wearing a turtleneck and jeans. Her hair is up in a ponytail.
She’s on her way to Waterlooplein, a large open market that sells all manner of goods, new and used, from household appliances to goth clothing.
‘Can I join you?’
She hadn’t made the initial offer, but she doesn’t mind you tagging along. You ask her to wait while you quickly get ready.
‘Let’s go.’
She gets up and puts on her shoes. You thought Maria would apply some make-up or lipstick, but she doesn’t. Without make-up, her face looks naked. Suddenly you feel that your own pink lipstick is flashy and that you’ve made yourself up too much.
‘Am I overdressed?’
She shakes her head.
‘I’m just staying away from make-up,’ she says. ‘My skin needs to breathe.’
Who knows how many tent stalls there are at Waterlooplein and how many shoppers. You wouldn’t call it packed, but it’s one of the most crowded places you’ve seen in the Netherlands. You follow Maria in and out of stalls clutching your bag. She has warned you to be on the lookout for pickpockets.
Your travel companion is choosy. She can linger over a five-euro scarf, inspecting it all over, and in the end decide not to buy it. You, on the other hand, are readily tempted and come away with a new pair of gloves and a new hat.
‘The scarf was nice,’ you comment on the unpurchased item.
‘Yes, but I’m very picky. And stingy. Maybe it’s from being a vendor too.’
‘A vendor? Where?’
‘In the flesh market.’
Again, she handles your innocence in a clinical tone, like a nurse.
On an ordinary day, a visitor to Waterlooplein will only find ordinary items at ordinary prices, just like in the ubiquitous Hema shops, but those who are diligent and lucky can find bargains on unique items. After searching in vain, Maria asks if you want to stop by a thrift store not far from there. The atmosphere isn’t as frantic as Waterlooplein, and you find the choice of clothes and shoes more selective.
‘There’s lots of good vintage stuff here,’ Maria says. ‘Shops like this always remind me why I like being an expat in Amsterdam.’
You struggle to suppress a smile at the word. Expat. Maria’s thin eyebrows arch slightly.
‘What? I can’t call myself an expat?’
You hadn’t intended to offend her. You tell her about Marcus Werner, the English teacher who caught your eye. Since then, he has become the quintessential expat in your mind. From a developed country, earning more than locals, living in an apartment in the centre of the city.
Expatriates are people who leave their homeland to work abroad, Maria says. By that definition, as far as she is concerned, she is more than qualified to be an expat.
‘Why did Marcus get called an expat?’
‘Maybe because –’ You pause. You’re not sure your answer is correct, but you try to explain, ‘He was a foreigner hired for special skills.’
‘And that doesn’t apply to me?’
‘No, you’re right.’
You have no desire to cast doubt upon Maria’s professional expertise.
FWD: Fitnah.
When you get home from Waterlooplein and check your email, a message from your sister startles you. You never imagined she’d send such a note. The email contains an article from a kiai named Muhammad Hasan.
Fitnah
In Arabic, fitnah means a test, temptation, bewitchment, incitement, provocation. The notion of fitnah is often attached to women because their bodies are considered tempting. Men whose bodies tempt women are never censured, although there is an interesting tale from the time of Caliph Umar bin Khattab, recounted by Abu Uthman Amr al-Jahizh in his book Rasail al-Jahizh.
When Umar toured Medina, he heard a woman singing:
Is there a way to a whiskey bar?
Let me drink there
Is there a road to Nashr bin Hajjaj?
Let me be with him
The woman must have been drunk. And indeed she was drunk – drunk with desire for a man named Nashr bin Hajjaj. Umar summoned Nashr, who turned out to be extraordinarily handsome, and ordered Nashr to shave his head. But because Nashr remained handsome even thereafter, Umar sent him into exile in Basra, Iraq. Alas, his beauty drove women mad there as well. The governor of Basra expelled Nashr to Persia. The problem recurred. Handsome Nashr drove women hysterical with desire. Concerned, the governor of Persia wrote to Umar, who ordered Nashr to be sheared once more and hidden away in a mosque. After Umar died, Nashr returned to Madinah and stayed there until the end of his life.
The story of Nashr is horrifying if we imagine Caliph Umar’s strenuous attempts to control Nashr because of the frenzy he aroused in women. More frequently, though, people feel amused by it: how unlucky to be such a handsome fellow. We also remember Prophet Yusuf and his willingness to be imprisoned in order to avoid the fitnah of Zula
ikha.
But the story of a man who invites fitnah is rare. For every Nashr whose body is censured, we hear of thousands of women blamed for posing a challenge to faith. Because fitnah is the female body itself. When a woman is raped, people raise a question: if you didn’t want to be raped, why did you show off your body in the marketplace?
A market is not safe. Women who cover themselves continue to be victims of rape in markets, in alleyways, on the streets, on public transport. In a world of patriarchy, women must be locked in houses and kept tightly under guard. To be sure, we inhabit a world that makes little sense.
You read the kiai’s writing line by line in amazement. Your head is filled with questions. Who is this scholar? Do many people think like him now? Why did your sister send you this article?
She must have known you would appreciate it.
Suddenly you become a little sentimental. You don’t know how long you have been constructing a wall separating your world and hers, but now you feel a strange urge to share stories with her, just as you did when you shared a room and would lay awake together in the dark. Earlier, before the wall was erected, you would talk about anything. Teachers who made your blood boil. Friends who cheated. Maybe now you can write to her about Amsterdam, or about Maria.
Your fingers cling to the keyboard, and you find it impossible to type a single stroke. You have no story for your sister. Too many divergences on your paths, no way home. But, for the first time, you reply to one of her messages. Briefly.
Hi Mbak,
Thanks. I liked that.
*
You gather Maria’s story as the pieces spill out bit by bit, on the way home from Waterlooplein and later, in random meetings in the kitchen. You put everything together in your head, as if arranging a jigsaw puzzle.
She arrived in Amsterdam as a naive young girl eager to be on the move. Until then her life had been perfectly fine. She wanted to earn money, sure, but that was only one of the reasons why she had come. When we’re young, we always want to be elsewhere. Always.
Not everyone who travels enjoys a share of luxury.
‘I’ve been lucky enough,’ she says. ‘Not everyone in a business like this is lucky. I know women who’ve almost been beaten to death. But not here. Here, we’re all safe.’
The only thing Maria complains about is the fee for her cabin. Just to pay off eight hours’ rent, along with taxes, she needs four or five customers.
‘I’ve never been to De Wallen,’ you say honestly.
‘There’s no need.’
You’re surprised to hear that. Maria always explains her work to you in a very professional manner. She calls herself an independent sex worker. But she repeats her words.
‘There’s no need. For what? A free show?’
‘Does it really cost fifty euros?’
Your question is so naive that you feel embarrassed as soon as it is out of your mouth. But Maria answers you with a flat expression: that’s the price for standard service.
If you’re at a drinks vending machine, you can put in a euro for a can of Coke. Call that standard. But some people want cappuccino with milk, full-fat or trim, half a spoon of sugar, and maybe cinnamon powder too. For that you need a barista. Some people even need a bartender. That’s not standard.
On many days Maria only has a string of customers who are more than satisfied with Coke, the economy package. Maria calls such days Coke machine days.
You imagine thirsty men standing in front of a Coke machine, and Maria welcoming them like an efficient nurse. She jabs their flesh with a needle, then nimbly swabs away any drops of blood with cotton. She is so adept that patients have nothing to remind themselves of the injection and its pain except for a bandage on the arm.
One day, after you’ve grown bored walking around, as you pass the time catching up on emails and reading the news online, you become curious about the previous occupant of your room. Her belongings are sealed in cardboard boxes to deter petty thieves and snoops like you, but it occurs to you that maybe she keeps some items in the desk drawer. You pull it open and find lipstick and old make-up. There are also several photos. You see Anna beneath the Eiffel Tower. She is wearing a thick coat and a knitted hat, perhaps a wintertime shot. Another photo. Anna is embracing an older man, white, chubby and bald. Her father? Her boyfriend?
The next time you see Maria in the kitchen, you ask if she has a boyfriend. It turns out that she did, someone she hadn’t met in the Red Light District, but since breaking up with him she prefers to be alone. Maria knows that one young client harbours romantic fantasies about becoming her boyfriend, but she is also sure that his fantasies will vanish with age (he’s only twenty-two). She adds, ‘I’m not good at making people fall for me. Not like Anna.’
‘Does Anna work in the Red Light District too?’
Maria’s expression changes at your question, perhaps from the realisation that she’s pulling Anna into her story.
‘Not any more. Her boyfriend didn’t want her to.’
You imagine the face of the bald old man. Evidently he is indeed Anna’s boyfriend.
‘Her boyfriend is American. He lives in New York,’ says Maria. At the words ‘New York’, her eyes brighten a little. ‘But they just broke up.’
‘Why?’
‘How should I know? He wants to find a respectable wife, maybe?’ She adds, ‘It’s better this way. That man –’ Maria smiles slightly. ‘He’s a professor. But he’s not on the up and up.’
‘Meaning?’
It’s strange to hear the phrase from her. As if reading your thoughts, Maria corrects herself. ‘OK, he’s nice. I might even say that SpongeBob is very –’
‘SpongeBob?’
‘Oh, we call him that. From the cartoon, you know? Actually, he’s more like Patrick Star … Yes, anyway, he’s kind and caring. But I think he’s involved in some kind of shady business, and Anna got dragged in.’
She falls silent.
‘I don’t want to talk about Anna,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to get involved. Dealing with rent and taxes gives me enough of a headache.’
She steers the conversation towards professional matters. She wants to have more money and travel. But she keeps circling back to how difficult it is to save up given the fee for her cabin.
‘If it’s so expensive, why not find another way?’
‘Something illegal, you mean?’
She shakes her head.
‘Nobody would dare, at least not among my friends. Nobody would take that risk except the Whore of Babylon.’
Continue on to page 244.
Airport
How strange things feel that night, an unbearable New York summer night, stuffy and stifling. Again you find yourself in a suffocating cab headed for the airport. But this time there is no room for anxious hopes. There is no hope at all. You stare straight ahead, not daring to contemplate what is happening behind you. You hear neither Vijay’s voice nor Meena’s. The taxi driver makes occasional attempts at small talk, and you engage him so the pair behind you don’t have to. They may be holding hands. When the taxi arrives at the airport, perhaps Meena releases her grip first. Or Vijay does. It doesn’t matter.
Vijay reaches the security gate. He has checked his bags after a lengthy wait in line. He and his lover must have wanted that half-hour to stretch on for years, but the end has come. He gives you a brief, tight embrace, then pats your shoulder. You step backwards without a word, withdrawing to give the pair space. You pretend not to notice them, even though you know they share a long, long kiss. You look away, randomly scanning a row of signs bearing airline names.
Meena walks over to you. She clasps your hand, urging the two of you away quickly, as if the world is exploding and melting behind you.
In front of the escalator, Meena stops. She looks back.
Vijay has remained standing where he was, his eyes fixed on Meena.
Somehow you knew this would happen – Meena looking back, Vijay waiting.
&
nbsp; On that bitter night, sealed with a final kiss, you understand what Vijay has told you. Stories are a curse when you hear them yet know you can’t change anything.
You are a witness to this neighbour’s love story.
What follows is nightmare. Meena strides quickly, her face an utter mess. Tears that refuse to compromise cause her eyes to swell like boils. Not daring to ask what is happening, you accompany Meena on the AirTrain to another terminal. She reaches into her bag and takes out powder, eyebrow pencil and eyeshadow. In haste, she applies the powder thickly. Too thickly, as if wanting to cover her tracks.
At Terminal 8, Meena waits to meet Raj, her husband. His plane from London lands one hour after Meena’s farewell to Vijay.
He approaches Meena, his face tired, then complains at length about the poor in-flight service. He takes no notice of Meena’s mask-like make-up, her pocked smile.
Now you know why Meena invited you to the airport. She couldn’t bear to be in a taxi alone with Raj. Once again you sit in the front, beside the driver, unable to contemplate what is going on behind you. There is no room for anxious hopes. There is no hope at all. This taxi driver is too tired to make small talk. Raj’s voice finally breaks the silence. He strikes up conversation with you, trying to show his gratitude for accompanying his wife to the airport so late at night. You engage him, speaking in Meena’s place. For Meena. There isn’t a lot you can do, but for the moment you feel you’ve rescued her, even if only temporarily.
In the stuffy cab, night yields to morning, murdering with quiet cruelty.
That’s the last time you saw Meena. You start staying more often at Bob’s apartment. Perhaps this is also how you rescue yourself, after being made to witness the shattering of a world. Meena never invites you over again after the return of her husband. The door is sealed tight, swallowing her whole. Your relationship with Bob, meanwhile, offers an exit. He invites you to move in with him. You can still occupy your own apartment for another month because you’ve already paid Mr Zhao the rent, but you have no desire to spend nights there.
The Wandering Page 21