The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  You close your laptop. At twelve o’clock, you go down to the hotel restaurant for lunch. You steal a glance at the other guests. Husein isn’t among them. Shortly thereafter, you see Noel the receptionist walking your way.

  ‘Our Singaporean friend left this for you.’

  Noel places a wrapped parcel on your table.

  ‘It’s from Husein?’

  ‘Ah, yes. I forgot his name. But you remember, of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Noel doesn’t withdraw immediately. His right eyebrow is arched, and he seems to be suppressing a smile. You look at him quizzically.

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says, turning around. ‘Be careful.’

  Back in your room, you open the gift from Husein impatiently and your fingers brush against something smooth. You tear away the wrapping to find a dark brown wig sheathed in clear, glossy plastic. A card is attached to the bag.

  Thank you for being my travel companion and listening to my story. This is a gift for you. From your beautiful red shoes, I’ve gathered that you like playing and going on adventures. Will you go out with me tonight? In the wig, perhaps? I’ll also dress in appropriate costume. No special meaning. It’s so retro and it’s fun.

  You think of the wig crowning the mannequin in the vintage clothing store. Husein must have bought it when he dashed off and left you to browse around the chocolate shop.

  You hurry to the mirror and try on the wig. Your face looks different. Funny. Like a mannequin. You imagine wandering the city in the wig and red shoes, becoming someone else. More beautiful, sexier, maybe.

  Will you wear the wig and go out with Husein tonight?

  Contemplating it gives you butterflies. But you hesitate. If Husein really wanted to give you, say, a friendship gift, why not flowers, or a souvenir with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge? You’re so unimaginative. Husein is not like that. You feel you’re beginning to know him well. You can imagine how today, without you, he is strolling around in his grey suit and fedora. What do you expect from a man who insists upon such attire every day? He’s no ordinary chap.

  You put the wig on the bed. It tempts you more and more. Maybe there’s no harm in wearing it and joining Husein one last time. You’ll take care to behave, and will remember that you’re Bob’s wife. You surprise yourself with your genuine loyalty to the professor. But what if Husein isn’t a good man? What if he has mommy issues, or, rather, ‘Karina issues’? What if he’s a little crazy?

  A good man. What does that mean? Obviously, Husein wants to invite you into the fiction he’s creating. But what sort of fiction is it?

  If you agree to go out with Husein, turn to page 313.

  If you sense that something isn’t quite right and choose not to go, turn to the next page.

  Every mirror reflects Karina’s face. Sometimes she becomes two, sometimes three, sometimes infinite.

  Husein wants you to look like Karina, an idea you reject. Women shouldn’t replace other women (or men) who are more ideal but unattainable. You don’t have time to listen to all of Husein’s obsessing over Karina and then have a moment arrive when – you can easily imagine it – he confesses that he’s falling in love with you, and your face turns into Karina’s. You’re no doormat. The more you think about it, the more it seems that Husein might be dangerous. Maybe after first transforming the women he meets into Karina, he dates them and murders them one by one.

  You’re not keen to take part in a madman’s games.

  You call Husein’s room to make an excuse: you can’t go because you’ve just arranged to meet a friend. He doesn’t answer. You stare at the ceiling, forming plans. Best if you stay in your room tonight. If you leave, you might run into each other. Your image of Husein grows steadily worse: what if he really is crazy and gets angry, and then comes to kill you? You consider switching hotels. Yes, switching cities, if necessary. After all, you’re growing bored here and want to go to Los Angeles. You make up your mind to go and see Noel in reception.

  ‘The main thing is to tell him I went out with a friend tonight,’ you say to him.

  Noel nods with alacrity. ‘And you wouldn’t go with just anyone, right? Yes, yes. That’s the right way to get rid of a man.’

  His tone sounds nonchalant, but with a hint of mischief. You smile. After a few days here you notice that Noel is starting to act overly friendly, but you like him.

  ‘So that’s your trick, huh.’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Noel rolls his eyes. ‘Can you imagine me not having a line of men to deal with?’

  ‘One more thing, Noel –’

  ‘Oooh, you remember my name. I’m flattered!’

  ‘Noel,’ you say firmly, ‘do you know where I can rent a car cheaply? I want to go to Los Angeles. But I can’t drive.’

  ‘A place to hire a car plus a driver?’

  ‘If that’s too hard, maybe I’ll just take a plane.’

  Noel thinks for a moment.

  ‘I’m planning to drive to LA this weekend,’ he says. ‘I can be your chauffeur. But you have to pay for the gas.’

  ‘Wow, OK!’ you exclaim, delighted. ‘But how do I know you’re not a psycho?’

  ‘Ooh la la, Imelda, do I look like one? No, right? And don’t worry, honey, I’m not into chicks.’

  Noel jots down his phone number on a piece of paper and gives it to you. ‘Call me, OK?’

  You put it in your pocket and head to the elevator but soon turn back.

  ‘Noel, do you know of any other hotels near here?’

  Two days later, Noel picks you up at another hotel. You moved there immediately after your conversation at the reception desk. Noel gets out of the car and greets you without removing his sunglasses.

  It’s strange to see him in something other than the slick suit he wears at the Hotel Madeleine. His purple V-neck T-shirt and tight jeans confirm his gym rat’s discipline. The change of outfit feels like a sign that you’re entering another world, whatever it may be – certainly not a retro-themed fiesta.

  Nimbly, Noel helps lift your suitcase into the trunk. You get in the car and ask if Husein has been looking for you.

  ‘Curious, huh?’ he teases. ‘But let’s go to the gas station first, please.’

  ‘OK, OK. Anyway, I said I’d pay.’

  ‘Just kidding!’ Noel laughs. ‘Yes, he asked twice. When I said you were gone, he looked disappointed. Eh, but I hope you won’t be the one who’s disappointed.’

  ‘Me, disappointed? Why?’

  ‘A missed opportunity.’

  ‘Noel, I have a husband.’

  ‘Oooh, nice. I want one too. A Western Union daddy.’

  Noel steps on the accelerator and pulls away from the kerb. And so, you leave Husein’s story, rather than your heart, in San Francisco. You won’t dwell on it again because after this your life takes a sharper turn than any bend on Lombard Street, even if there are occasional nights when you wonder idly about your choice. What would have happened if you’d put on a wig in San Francisco and gone out with Husein? Would your life have changed?

  Noel drives towards I-5, the interstate highway that leads to Los Angeles. He tells many stories during the several-hour trip, one of the most memorable being about cars. You tell him that you regret never learning how to drive. Neither you nor your friends had access to automobiles, unlike the bourgeois clique at your school, who were practising with their parents’ cars by the time they finished junior high.

  ‘I just got my licence,’ said Noel. ‘Even though I started learning in middle school too.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, a year ago.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘You have my permission to pray for your safety.’

  But Noel drives carefully, and you forget to pray because you’re too enthralled by his long story, and the string of love–hate relationships bound up within it. He names this tale his ‘Driving History’.

  Turn to the
next page.

  Driving History

  Noel has a long driving history. His father tried to teach him to drive a stick shift at age fourteen. But at eighteen, he still couldn’t drive. Nor at twenty-one. Noel’s frustrated father, observing his son’s flawless porcelain complexion, thought he wasn’t manly enough. ‘Look at that skin of yours. You can’t drive because you’re not an adventurer. You’ve never caused any mischief. You look too much like your mother.’

  Noel came from a Mestizo family with Spanish blood. All his relatives had light skin and looked as if they belonged to the elite, but his striking resemblance to his mother made him gleam brightest of all. Mama, as everyone knew, was a true beauty. And Noel was Mama’s boy. Doted on by Mama. As beautiful as Mama. But if most men in the neighbourhood proved their existence by acting like roguish adventurers – and jerks, if they could get away with it – being as pretty as Mama was not something to aspire to.

  Noel took up learning to drive again, this time with his boyfriend, at age twenty-four. Noel can’t forget the man: an Asian Jean-Claude Van Damme, only a little smaller and shorter. Noel was crazy about movies, and the first time he saw him, he was immediately reminded of Lino Brocka’s Macho Dancer. Except he swore his boyfriend was even sexier than any of the actors in Brocka’s film. When the two slept together for the first time, his lover looked in vain for scars on Noel’s body. At the time Noel was thin and his skin as white and creamy as milk. There were no traces of mischief. No traces of adventure. He was even too beautiful to become a macho dancer.

  ‘You really are precious. I’ll always protect you.’

  Noel’s boyfriend, possessive and ready to battle like a knight on his behalf, said, ‘You have no talent behind the wheel. Manila is a city for a real driver.’ He took to chauffeuring Noel everywhere, to work, to parties, to French courses. At age twenty-six, Noel still couldn’t drive.

  ‘And I’m a real what, then?’

  ‘You’re a real beauty, darling.’

  Noel wasn’t a display item. He left his lover just as he had left his father. At twenty-seven, he made a momentous decision. If you’ve failed to die as a legend by that age, you have no choice but to make sure your life isn’t too pathetic. Noel left for Boston with his new boyfriend, an American, and searched for whatever job he could find on a tourist visa. This disappointed his family: Noel was an Ateneo graduate, and not one of his relatives had ever been a migrant worker.

  Noel liked Boston because you didn’t need to drive. His life changed again when, at age twenty-eight, he broke up with his boyfriend. Once more he decided to start afresh and moved to the West Coast.

  In California, everyone had to drive. Noel was dead.

  His landlady, a petite grandmother, said one night, ‘Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?’ The little old lady owned a faded green seventies Jaguar. On its rear window, a sticker read Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere. She was the best driving teacher Noel had. Go Granny, go Granny, go Granny go.

  And so, at age twenty-nine, Noel drove down the freeway from San Francisco to San Diego.

  He can only drive automatics and maybe he can’t handle a city for real drivers. But he drives. And he is happy because he is as beautiful, and his skin as flawless, as ever.

  Continue on to page 326.

  Whore of Babylon

  And upon her forehead was a name written, a name of mystery, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.

  Revelation 17:5

  Before your visit to De Wallen and before your relationship with Maria cooled, she told you about the Whore of Babylon. In the Book of Revelation, a passage states that the Whore of Babylon rides a seven-headed, ten-horned red monster. But it’s more or less impossible to know who or what this woman is; she might stand for something that has nothing to do with sex. The Whore of Babylon signifies a betrayal of Christ. Prostitutes, and women in general, are often used as symbols for something beyond themselves.

  From colleagues, Maria had heard a legend about a woman who is called – or calls herself – the Whore of Babylon. Like the Great Whore in the Bible, the Great Whore of Amsterdam is a mysterious figure, who only appears in gossip. In short, she is a high-class escort and madam with an extraordinary reputation. Maria didn’t call her a sex worker when she spoke of her, because she thinks this woman is too wild to be confined by professional or legal terms.

  They say that the Great Whore of Amsterdam always wears a mask. There are even men who have sworn that she doesn’t take it off during sex, and is all the more mysterious and arousing as a result.

  Does she work in De Wallen?

  Maria laughed: Do you think a woman with so much power would want to work in the Red Light District?

  Conversations about the Whore of Babylon often had a hypothetical flavour: if we were the Whore of Babylon, we wouldn’t need to rent display windows and become Coke machines. In the Bible it says she’s the mother of prostitutes. The women in her network are her daughters. They can work when they want and don’t have to pay tax. Sex workers in the Red Light District are protected by the state, while the whores of Amsterdam-Babylon are protected by the loving mother.

  The Whore of Babylon surpasses us all.

  You peppered Maria with questions:

  ‘So, who exactly is she? How can she be outside the law?’

  ‘Nobody has ever seen her,’ said Maria. ‘She shouldn’t exist. Really it wouldn’t be fair for the rest of us if she did.’

  ‘Not fair?’

  You’ve never forgotten what Maria said next.

  ‘We – maybe even you – possess a little authority. But no one like us has power to the extent of being that erotic. Even if someone did, that person isn’t me, isn’t any of my friends, and certainly isn’t my mother. If the Whore of Babylon is the mother of all prostitutes, that means she is seen as representing us all, although our lives are very far from being sexy and powerful. She doesn’t even operate a Coke machine. So what would be a better term for her – the One Per Cent?’

  Turn to the next page.

  You spend Christmas and New Year alone. Maria isn’t at home, nor has she told you where she’s gone (maybe on holiday in Bulgaria?). She only said that she will return on January 2, two days before your lease runs out. You’ve found a new place in Haarlem that is much cheaper. Meanwhile, you hang around Amsterdam with no clear purpose. You go to Centraal to see the big sparkly Christmas tree, but after that you no longer know what else to do. You have no friends, and Maria has made it abundantly clear that she has no interest in being your friend.

  After days of contemplating how Maria’s attitude chilled, you give up on trying to understand the reasons for it. But you come to the conclusion that you should help her to leave De Wallen. Maybe you’re overthinking the legend of the Whore of Babylon, or maybe your thoughts are all too simple: Maria will be happier if she stops collecting change from a Coke machine.

  Red shoes. That’s the answer. Devil’s red shoes will take her away, somewhere, who knows where, but it will be better than where she is now.

  Since she doesn’t want to talk to you, you’ll place the red shoes in the kitchen before leaving the apartment. You’ll depart early in the morning on the day you move out. Maria will wake up around noon, open her room door and go into the kitchen (or maybe she’ll head to the bathroom first), and she will find a pair of red shoes and a house key on the table.

  You repeat this scenario over and over in your head. But something makes you pause. No, it’s not regret about letting go of the shoes that have accompanied you all this way. Who knows if Maria needs shoes? Are you fancying yourself her saviour?

  If you want to give her the shoes, turn to page 325.

  If you leave without giving her the shoes, turn to page 328.

  You sit on the sofa in the lobby. The Hotel Madeleine pianist is, as usual, playing jazz. Tonight you’re wearing a grey dress, red shoes and a dark brown wig. The wig is spectacular. Yo
u’ve lost count of how many men have stolen glances in your direction. You feel extraordinary, or rather, you feel delighted to be impersonating an extraordinary woman. Noel passes you with eyebrows raised; then he winks.

  ‘Oooh … so there really is a fiesta?’ he asks in a teasing tone. ‘You look gorgeous. Like Faye Dunaway, Kim Novak and all the femmes fatales of the world rolled into one.’

  ‘Not Imelda Marcos?’

  ‘Honey, don’t go shooting yourself in the foot.’

  After Noel passes, you glance at your watch. Husein is late. You’re staring at the hotel floor with its geometric black-and-white pattern. You’re getting dizzier and dizzier. Damn floor. It really does create a labyrinth in your head. You fix your gaze on the glass door. The street lights are so dim that the people outside almost seem like shadows.

  Then you see the silhouette of a man in a hat. Husein?

  The lobby door opens, and he appears. You feel relieved. Unusually, tonight he’s wearing a dark blue suit with his tie and fedora. He hurries towards you.

  ‘Sorry to be so late.’

  ‘No problem. Where are we going?’

  Husein doesn’t answer immediately. He stares at you without blinking. You snap your fingers, and he awakes from his reverie. You look gorgeous, he says. You knew he would say this. A little nervous, Husein pulls a key from his trouser pocket. It turns out that he has rented a car for the evening. You get up from the sofa and follow him.

  Husein invites you to dine at a Vietnamese restaurant. He holds the door open for you, and you feel his hand resting on your back.

  ‘Is this a magic wig?’ you ask and begin perusing the menu.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Everyone seems to think I’m hot.’

  Husein chuckles.