The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  Continue on to page 255.

  What do you mean, think it over? Do you have time? You no longer have a place of your own. Your bank balance is a worry. Without Bob, there’s a good chance you’ll end up on the street.

  Forgive the imperiousness of this adventure, but you know that sometimes life takes away all options. Choice is a luxury. Marrying Bob is your emergency exit.

  Return to page 251.

  A few days before your wedding, you’re startled by Richard’s presence in Bob’s apartment. You’ve just finished dressing and are getting ready to go out when you see him reclining on the couch, cradling Bob’s crystal snow globe. You gasp. You didn’t see him come in, and you didn’t hear the doorbell. Does he have a key? It doesn’t feel as if Bob and Richard are close enough for that.

  ‘I came here to congratulate you.’

  He sets the crystal snow globe down on the sofa and strides towards you. You’re still standing at the door of the bedroom, gaping.

  ‘Bob will be on campus until tonight.’

  ‘Yes, it’s okay. I’m not here to see him.’

  He folds his arms as he leans against the wall. His gaze remains fixed on your face, making you uncomfortable. You challenge his stare because you refuse to let him think you’re weak. You have to admit that he’s handsome. Maybe this is how Bob looked when he was younger. If Richard weren’t your prospective stepson – and if his attitude didn’t make you want to gag – you might find him attractive.

  ‘I wish you happiness.’

  His words surprise you. His voice is gentle and sincere, as if he wants to make amends.

  ‘Congratulations.’ He blinks. ‘You’ve snagged an ageing orientalist with that bogus innocent face of yours.’

  He roars a thunderous laugh, and his every movement suggests how much he despises you. Your body tenses. He stands closer to you. Too close. Your breathing roughens when his lips almost press against your ears. He whispers, ‘Bitch.’

  He kisses you with quick movements, insistently. You feel you should slap him, but you say nothing and wait, as if wanting to know what will happen next. The sensation of his lips isn’t unknown. You feel you recognise him from somewhere. The longer you look, the more familiar he becomes. His eyes blaze bright red. His ears look odd, pointed and hairy.

  ‘Bastard! Devil!’

  You tear yourself from him. Richard’s handsome features grow old and gaunt, metamorphosing into those of Demon Lover.

  ‘You were hoping I was really Richard, weren’t you?’

  He laughs as if he’s won a contest. Furious, you shove him away.

  ‘Monster! You came just to judge me?’

  ‘A woman is always a traitor,’ he intones like a prophet.

  You utterly reject the accusation. You swear at him. You want to claw him, but he grabs your hand. Demon Lover’s eyes blaze a deeper crimson, ready to engulf you in an inferno.

  ‘Where have you been all this time?’ You find your voice gaining even more strength. ‘Busy creating terror? Go eat your own damn adventure!’

  You’re still busy with your curses when the burning red before you fades. Devil hisses. His voice now sounds softer.

  ‘Everything I touch falls apart.’

  ‘No wonder,’ you say scathingly. ‘Were you thinking you were Midas or something?’

  Devil reflects for a while. ‘I didn’t think you’d settle for a dull marriage. So this is the end of your adventure.’

  ‘Who says?’

  You caress his pointy ears. He looks at you hesitantly. You put his hand on your waist, and your lips seek his. ‘You’re still my slave.’

  Demon Lover returns your kiss, but then he turns away. His eyes narrow.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Be my lover.’

  ‘You’re just after sex!’ Now he pushes you away. You’re surprised and faintly amused.

  ‘When did you turn into a prude?’

  ‘I’m destined by God to feel constant envy,’ says Devil. ‘I don’t want to be some secret lover for a woman whose husband is lousy in bed.’

  He takes the jacket and hat he hung on the door.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t be your slave any more.’

  ‘So we’re through?’

  The devil turns to you. His eyes are dim, angry and sad.

  ‘Yes, it’s over,’ he says. ‘Give me back the red shoes.’

  You shake your head.

  ‘The shoes are mine.’

  ‘You’re going to regret it.’

  He opens the door of Bob’s apartment and slams it behind him. You trudge to the living room and throw yourself on the sofa. You grab a crystal snow globe and look at it while pondering Devil’s last words.

  You’re going to regret it.

  Maybe you shouldn’t let your relationship with Devil break down. If you’re not seeking divine light, who can you turn to? Now you’ve lost your slave, a lover who adored you even if for him love always comes with a hellish side.

  Feeling pensive, you flip the crystal snow globe back and forth with your right hand. Your left hand strokes the sofa slowly, and your fingers land upon a piece of paper. You turn. A letter from Devil. You sit up in a hurry to read it.

  Darling,

  Maybe you’re worried at the moment. Being a sceptic, you need time to think. You want to run away from me but there’s no denying that I’m your destiny. I’ll give you a second chance, though of course you know that, with me, love always comes with a curse.

  If you want to travel by yourself with those shoes, go. But don’t expect me to be your lover. I’ll become your nightmare, and you’ll pray to God that we don’t meet again (I’m not sure he’ll hear you, though, since the supplicant queue is awfully long these days).

  But you still have a second chance, another emergency exit. Run away with me instead. Put your red shoes in front of the door. We’ll be together again, start a new life, and I’ll shower you with love and damnation, with passion and fear. And I’ll worship you in the fashion of a most elegant devil.

  If you want to go back to Devil, put your shoes in front of the door and turn to page 386.

  If you’re determined to have your own adventure without Devil, continue planning your wedding with Bob and turn to the next page.

  Ar-Rohmah Mosque, Astoria, Queens, November 2008

  Your wedding takes place in the Ar-Rohmah Mosque in Astoria, a refuge from the temptations of an accursed devil. Though truth be told, you don’t know what spirits are present there. You steal glances at Richard who watches everything, looking haughty. Is he Richard or Devil, or both? Only God knows for sure.

  You and Bob decided to marry in a mosque after a long debate that you found a little absurd. Bob cut ties with Christianity decades ago, so he refused to have a church wedding. He follows Eastern spiritual teachings but is unwilling to proclaim himself an adherent of any religion.

  ‘OK, let’s just get married in City Hall,’ you said. ‘All we need is the signature, and that’s that.’

  But Bob was against your proposal. He didn’t want the marriage to be sanctified by the state either: this capitalist government shouldn’t determine transcendent matters. Debating with Bob can drive you a little loopy. Finally you accepted his suggestion of an Islamic ceremony. An Indonesian colleague of Bob’s officiates. You don’t know him. Whatever. The important thing is that it’s all over and done with. Only later do you learn that Bob’s weddings have always observed the practices of his wife’s culture. He’s never had a Western-style ceremony, Angela said. If possible, he wouldn’t marry in the West.

  ‘I’m so delighted,’ Angela says after the ceremony, once the formalities are over. ‘Dad is going to be happy with you.’

  You smile. She’s very sweet, but it’s the kind of pleasant cliché anyone could offer.

  Your response is disconcertingly chirpy: ‘Yes, but I think he’d be happy with anyone. With that last girlfriend, for example – maybe they’d have been happy in Guangzhou.’ />
  Angela looks startled. She must find your joke outrageous.

  ‘His last girlfriend wasn’t from Guangzhou. Dad met her in Amsterdam. She –’

  Angela stops. She seems reluctant to finish the sentence.

  ‘Oh, it’s not important,’ she says quickly. ‘Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, you’re the best woman for my father.’

  You don’t enquire further because others join as you all depart from the mosque to celebrate at a Chinese restaurant in Manhattan. You forget your conversation with Angela, or maybe you don’t care. At least Bob’s daughter gave you a special blessing, and you feel honoured about that. But a problem remains. After your plain yet exasperating wedding and reception, it turns out that you and Bob still have to go to City Hall to take care of the paperwork to validate your marriage. In other words, you still have to deal with the state.

  So all this isn’t official yet.

  Dismayed at the news, you immediately give Bob a whack. The situation is totally ridiculous. Getting hitched to a white guy and ending up in an unregistered marriage?

  ‘Bob, I don’t want to know. We have to make things official as soon as possible!’

  ‘Yes, darling. We’ll take care of it,’ Bob says, stroking your hair.

  How strange this man is. You don’t love him but he can always calm you down.

  ‘Patience,’ he whispers. ‘The important thing is for us to have a honeymoon first.’

  Planning your honeymoon distracts you from the issue of registering your marriage and gathering the necessary documents. Your thirst for travel lets you forget about the passage of time. You can spend hours on tourism websites.

  ‘Bob, I’ve never been to California.’

  From behind his laptop, Bob nods. Maybe we can travel along the West Coast, Bob says, from San Francisco, down to LA and then to San Diego. Next year we can go to Europe. The notion delights you.

  But Bob can’t go immediately. He has to attend a conference in Frankfurt for a week. He’s not thrilled about having to go to Frankfurt – industrial, too expensive, a little boring – but he’s already accepted an invitation to be the keynote speaker.

  ‘You go first. I’ll catch up later,’ he says.

  You protest a bit, but he reminds you that autumn will be over soon. California is certainly warmer than New York, but by December, it might be too cold for walks on the beach.

  You don’t reject the idea. Maybe Bob knows that, honeymoon or not, deep down you prefer to travel alone.

  ‘Can I fly in to LA?’

  ‘San Francisco makes more sense, if you don’t want to backtrack.’

  ‘But I’ve wanted to go to LA for ages.’

  You weigh up the two options. In your mind, America was always Los Angeles – wide boulevards and rows of palm trees. Beverly Hills 90210. Your pilgrimage will feel incomplete until you’ve been to LA. But you’ve also heard that San Francisco is a beautiful city.

  ‘Well, where would you like to start? LA or San Francisco?’ asks Bob. ‘I can meet you anywhere.’

  Your busyness making travel plans marks the end of one act. Today, you feel calm, almost without hurdles in your comfortable new existence as a professor’s wife. Enjoy it. A new journey will soon begin, and you don’t know where it will take you.

  Before deciding which city to visit first, you should read some travel tips. Turn to the next page.

  Tips for a Cosmopolitan Adventure

  No matter who you are – a tourist planning summer holidays or an expat moving abroad – keep in mind that travel sucks up time and energy even before you reach your destination. If you’re from the Third World, or a country identified with terrorism, expect the hassles to increase. A visa application is a mirror, reflecting back at you the distortions of international relations. And just think of all the fun that awaits!

  If you’re planning to go overseas, be aware that a year is no longer 365 days, but eleven months or less. Set aside a month for a whole heap of entertaining diversions: filling out this form and that; arranging visas; queuing at embassies; exchanging currency; hacking your own ATM card; handling friends’ packages without strings, complaints, or courier fees; buying tickets; buying souvenirs; making lists of necessary items; making lists of unnecessary items; packing luggage; unpacking luggage; and researching how to smuggle contraband (e.g. ethnicky, strong-smelling spices).

  If you’re travelling for a number of weeks:

  Learn a word or two of the local lingo.

  Make this saying your own: wherever your feet tread the earth, your shoulders hold up the sky (i.e. when in Rome, do as the Romans do). Make yourself one with the universe. If necessary, go incognito.

  Have faith in the divinely ordained circulation of global capital. No need to work yourself into a tizzy about souvenirs for friends and family when you can just pop over to the local mall and come away with a mini Statue of Liberty or Eiffel Tower.

  If you’re travelling for a year or more:

  Don’t buy new furniture a few months before departure. You’ll sure regret it later when you’re tossing that IKEA mirror in the trash!

  Pack at least two weeks before departure. By your big D-day, you’ll always find you have too few of one item and too much of another.

  Upon returning home, deal with jet lag right away, and for heaven’s sake, cut the jet brags too. Don’t start conversations with the sentence: ‘When I was in …’

  Throw away things you don’t need, including unsupportive boyfriends or girlfriends. Being cosmopolitan means training for the afterlife. Don’t let yourself be bound by worldly ties.

  If you’re living on the move, purge the following items:

  Your Glass Menagerie Get rid of glass displays (ditto metal, wood and any other heavy material) that offer little return as investments, unless you’re a pharaoh and the afterlife you’re heading to has a five-star guarantee.

  Books No question, an overflowing bookshelf at home makes you look a true intellectual! But books are a luxury that weigh down the global nomad (literally). Don’t saddle your suitcase with any reading material you can download, legally or illegally.

  Music Stop being so romantic about the hundreds of favourite CDs, LPs and cassettes you’re leaving behind. The hobby of collecting is nostalgia for childhood.

  Shoes See above: collecting is nostalgia for childhood. Shoes? Only Imelda Marcos was consecrated with the blessing of time and space necessary for a shoe collection.

  You close the travel magazine and think about your honeymoon once more. The first choice is the itinerary Bob suggested: fly to San Francisco, then rent a car, drive down to Los Angeles, and continue on to San Diego. Second choice: LAX–SFO–LAX–SAN.

  If you want to start in San Francisco, head to the next page.

  If you want to fly to Los Angeles first, turn to page 297.

  Hotel Madeleine

  Dusk sets in as the taxi escorts you from San Francisco International Airport to an art deco hotel in Nob Hill. A sign lit with the establishment’s name – Hotel Madeleine – is already in full twinkle. As you pass through the wood-framed glass entrance, you hear strains of jazz from the lobby and glance at the piano player before you approach the reception desk. Under subdued lighting, you tread white geometric patterned tiles. A young man stands behind the desk, his bright smooth skin, rosy lips and handsome face suggesting a statue in a wax museum. His eyebrows invite particular attention. He seems to have shaved them and applied pencil at great pains. They dip gracefully like dancers and leave you nearly awestruck.

  ‘Ah, Indonesia.’

  The receptionist smiles upon seeing your passport. His perfect eyebrows make you want to check yourself quickly in the mirror. You feel that your own are bushy and unkempt. He enters an office to xerox the front page of your passport. When he returns to give it back to you, he glances towards the hotel entrance. A man in a grey suit and a fedora hat is rolling his suitcase up to the reception desk. You can’t see his face clearly because his hat is pul
led so far down.

  ‘Ooh, a dandy,’ murmurs the receptionist.

  His right brow rises and he tilts his head slightly. The man in the grey flannel suit has now arrived at your side. He removes his hat. With his tie, slicked hair and pencil moustache, he looks dapper indeed. From Latin America, perhaps, or maybe Asia?

  ‘I have a reservation,’ he says. ‘Husein Ramli.’

  Ramli. A Malay name. His pencil-thin moustache endows him with more than a passing resemblance to P. Ramlee, the Malay film star of the fifties. He hands over his passport, and the receptionist examines it forthwith. You’re beginning to feel rather put out. You were here first. Why is the receptionist acting as if he’s been bewitched by this moustachioed fop?

  ‘Excuse me,’ you say, ‘I don’t have my key yet.’

  ‘Oops, sorry!’

  The receptionist opens the drawer and pulls out a magnetic room card for you.

  ‘Sorry, I was amazed because this gentleman is from Singapore.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Yes, and you’re from Indonesia, right?’ he says, apparently indifferent to whether you’re tired of waiting or not. ‘Singapore, Indonesia. And guess where I’m from.’

  ‘The Philippines?’ ventures the man in the grey suit.

  ‘Bingo, a Pinoy!’ The receptionist laughs merrily. ‘We’re all neighbours!’

  The man next to you seems equally pleased to have met a comrade from a nearby country. He then glances at you and greets you in Malay.

  ‘How are you? Where are you from: Jakarta? Jogja?’

  ‘New York.’