The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  ‘What – do they think you hired a hit man or something?’ Noel shakes his head. ‘This isn’t a film noir.’

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe they think Bob was kidnapped, or that he ran away. And I could be involved, right?’

  ‘So? What did they find?’

  ‘Nothing. They only questioned me for a while and left. But –’ You pause. ‘The detective finally contacted me. I don’t know whether to believe her or not.’

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘Yes, a woman in a red jacket at the police station.’

  ‘Hey, you haven’t told me about this yet,’ Noel says.

  ‘I met a detective at the police station. Two days ago, she approached me in the hotel lobby. It was really weird – she was wearing a red blazer and a fascinator. Red lipstick. She seemed totally out of place, from a different era or something. She looked at me and said, “Mrs Allen?” Nobody’s called me that even after I married Bob. And who says “ma’am” these days?’

  ‘Hmm …’ Noel appears to be digesting your story. ‘Then what did she say?’

  ‘That they’re still investigating my husband’s case. But, she said …’ You swallow hard. ‘She said I had to prepare for the worst.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Apparently Bob didn’t go to Frankfurt for a conference. He went to Amsterdam. The detective didn’t want to explain, but Bob might be involved with some crooked operation.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus! What? A drug cartel? Human traffickers?’

  You shake your head and grow dizzy. You realise that you never really knew Bob, but now, being so completely in the dark leaves you fragile.

  ‘That detective sounds really strange,’ Noel mutters. ‘Fascinator, red lipstick … Are you sure she’s a real detective?’

  ‘What, a detective can’t be beautiful?’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. Can you really trust her?’

  You look down. Trustworthy? You’re not sure. You know at least one thing, though. Bob may show up again someday, but until that vague time, you have to continue your life alone.

  Noel is supposed to meet up with a potential new boyfriend in Los Angeles, but he decides to keep you company the whole evening. After your meal at IHOP he takes you for a ride in his car. When midnight comes, he says farewell at the hotel lobby entrance.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asks finally.

  ‘Go back to New York, maybe.’

  You fall silent. You’re not sure about your choice. You have neither a job nor anyone to return to there. Maybe you’ll keep in touch with Bob’s family, but your relationship won’t be as it was. They’ll probably continue to blame you for his disappearance.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. My visa has expired.’

  ‘But I thought you had a green card. Your husband –’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ you say. ‘We had a wedding ceremony in a mosque but didn’t take care of the official paperwork.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Another hassle.’

  You grow quiet again, lost in thought.

  ‘Why not stay here?’ Noel asks. ‘I can keep visiting you.’

  ‘But what would I do?’

  ‘Look for work, wait for news from Bob.’

  You’re taken aback at Noel’s suggestion. There’s a part of the conversation between yourself and the woman in the red jacket that you hadn’t related. She said that you could wait, but that you needed to begin a new life. You asked if there really was no hope. She didn’t answer, but you keep pondering her words. You have to start over, whether Bob is in your head or not. Even if you return to New York, you can’t go back to his apartment and depend on a relationship with his family that might become increasingly bitter. If you stay in Los Angeles, you’ll be trapped because you don’t have a car and can’t drive. But just maybe, a new adventure will start here, and someday you’ll drive a convertible as your hair flutters in the wind. The image amuses you and you muster a small smile.

  ‘Noel,’ you finally say, ‘I have to turn a new page, and I can’t take my shoes. I want you to keep them.’

  ‘Those beautiful red shoes? But those shoes are too good –’

  ‘Noel,’ you cut him off. ‘Don’t argue. I can’t keep them.’

  The shoes have lost their power. If you want them to create another miracle, you’ll have to turn to Devil, and at times like these, you’re sure he’ll just make trouble. You hope that he isn’t behind Bob’s disappearance. But who knows. Isn’t he behind all the world’s chaos?

  After protesting for a while (the shoes are too good, you’re too kind, etc.), Noel finally accepts them. He promises to take good care of them for you. What will your life be like now?

  If you want to go back to New York, turn to page 392.

  If you are determined to follow Noel’s suggestion to start a new life in Los Angeles, turn to page 352.

  You’re now renting a room in a two-storey house in Haarlem, owned by a woman in her seventies named Victoria who lives alone. Her husband has passed away and her children lead their own lives. She has a bedroom on the ground floor, and you’re staying on the first in her son’s old room. Every now and then she invites you to eat dinner with her, but the thought of bothering her makes you shy. More frequently, you explore on your own or spend time on your laptop in your room. Your sister has responded to your email.

  Dik,

  Alhamdulillah. I’m thrilled to get a reply from you. How come such a short note, though? Are you very busy?

  I’m attaching the latest photo of Nazwa and Raihan. They’re posing with this funny grandfather statue. I forget his name. We just bought it at the florist’s. He’s a cartoon character, isn’t he?

  How are your studies going? You’re on vacation in the Netherlands now, right? Don’t forget to send pictures of tulips.

  You open the attached photo. The computer screen displays your niece and nephew wearing big grins, like child TV stars. They flank a dwarf statue with a surly expression, a replica of one of the Snow White dwarves you watched as a kid at your friend’s house. His name is Grumpy, and grumpy he is. His face radiates clear displeasure. Maybe he doesn’t like standing guard over your sister’s house.

  Yes, I knew you’d like the piece by Kiai Hasan. It’s good as an introduction for you to his writing. I like some of his material, but not all of it. A lot of his ideas bewilder the Muslim community. In another piece he states that the obligation to veil has to be understood in the context of early Arab society. What’s he trying to say? That the hijab isn’t mandatory? Scholars who question what’s obvious confuse me.

  Sighing, you close the email window and go to the Google home page to look for celebrity gossip. Sometimes you have the illusion that the wall separating you and your sister has eroded slightly. Maybe your sister entertains the very same delusion. How sweet – siblings who cling to hope.

  A chime, the opening notes of ‘Für Elise’, startles you. You know that it’s Victoria’s doorbell and that she’s out of the house. Sluggishly, you rise from the bed and go downstairs to see who has arrived. Through the peephole you spy someone in a yellow-and-black uniform. Maybe Victoria is expecting a package. You open the door.

  ‘Hello.’

  You gasp at the man in front of you. Before you even realise what’s happened, he’s already barged in. He closes the house door tightly and removes his yellow hat.

  Devil.

  Without the hat, you can see that his eyes are ablaze, growing wider and wider. You feel like you’re being scorched. His voice is hoarse, angry. ‘You can’t give away the shoes. Only I get to determine who’s next in line.’

  ‘Maria,’ you murmur. Suddenly you worry about her. ‘Is Maria OK?’

  ‘She’s fine. You’re the one who’s in trouble.’

  Devil’s voice signals danger. You step back, as the crimson fire in his eyes fades a little. He takes a deep breath. ‘Your friend doesn’t need some social justice warrior to save her.’

  ‘She deserves a more appropriate job.’
r />   ‘Yes, but did she ask to be rescued?’

  To your surprise, Demon Lover grabs your hand and kisses it slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. I don’t want to punish you. But I already told you, the shoes came with a curse.’

  His soft voice leaves you dizzy and off balance, and his face blurs in your vision. You can’t tell whether he’s staring wryly at you or smiling viciously. Your head hurts so much. Your body grows shaky, just like when you first put on the red shoes.

  Your eyes open slowly. You’re staring at a low ceiling; from it hangs a neon light that glows pink. Your hands grope the surface your body is lying upon. A bed. Whose home is this?

  You rise, staggering a little as you take in your surroundings. You’re in a small room containing only a bed, a window covered with pink curtains, and a mirror. The place is strange, like a doll’s house. Your head still feels heavy, but you struggle towards the mirror. You see your face reflected there, ghastly pale. You’re dressed in pink lace lingerie. In a panic, you return to the bed and sit for a moment, trying to understand what has happened. You walk to the window and draw the curtain back slightly. Out there: streets. A crowd.

  You’re in a display window.

  You dash towards the door, the only exit. It’s locked. You bang on it, terror-stricken, but no one answers.

  Have you exchanged places with Maria?

  This is surely Devil’s doing. You’ll never forgive him.

  You think hard, seeking a way to escape. Where’s your coat? You might freeze to death if you dash out into the cold air dressed like this. Even if you succeed in breaking out, someone may be keeping watch.

  Then comes a knock at the door. You’re aghast. How can all this be happening? You wait a moment, hoping you’ve misheard, but the knocking persists. Fuck! You stiffen. There’s nowhere to flee. The knocking grows more and more insistent, and you begin to pray.

  Continue on to page 374.

  You enjoy the new room you rent in Haarlem from a woman in her seventies named Victoria. Her house is medium-sized, consisting of two floors; all the walls are papered in a yellow sunflower motif. Your bedroom is on the first floor, Victoria’s is on the ground. Before you came, she lived alone. Her husband has passed away, and her children are busy with their own families. When you tell her that you’re from Indonesia, she exclaims, ‘Ah, the Indies!’

  ‘Indonesia.’

  ‘All the same, toch? The former Dutch East Indies.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Are you from Java?’

  You may as well be back in the colonial era. You nod awkwardly at the word ‘Java’. Jakarta is on Java, of course, but you’ve never identified as Javanese.

  Victoria is an eccentric woman with a striking sense of fashion. She always wears brightly coloured overalls with floral prints – quite similar to her wallpaper – along with round hats bedecked with flowers or ribbons, flesh-coloured tights, and Mary Jane shoes, like a schoolgirl. Her appearance is exaggeratedly young and cheerful, and is likewise more suited for warm weather. She takes a coat when she leaves the house, but you don’t understand why she insists on cotton clothes in winter. It’s as if she’s stepped out of the tropics.

  The Dutch East Indies.

  You are puzzled about Victoria’s background. She doesn’t look Dutch. You’re not sure what colour her hair used to be, since it’s now all white. But clearly her skin has a brownish tone, and she wouldn’t be regarded as Caucasian. Her eyes have a vague slant. You hasten to correct yourself: not all Dutch citizens are white. Don’t be racist.

  She always speaks English with you, though she says some words in Dutch that she finds hard to translate. But you understand brandweer, bioscoop, parkeer. Those words made it into Indonesian, as did tante and oom, aunt and uncle. She asks you to call her Tante Victoria, even though as far as you’re concerned she’s closer to a grandmother. Oma would feel more appropriate.

  ‘Maytje, come eat at home tonight, OK? I’ll make steak.’

  ‘Yes, Tante Victoria.’

  She calls you maytje – ‘lassie’, as she pleases. Sometimes she uses similar terms, such as lintje, tientje or dietje, all those cute diminutives ending in ‘-tje’ that make you feel as though you’re being treated like a child. You let it go because you’re not inclined to argue with old ladies.

  Victoria cooks for you so frequently that you begin to feel awkward. But maybe she needs a friend, someone willing to listen to her stories about her late husband. A handsome man who wore a neat suit everywhere, and who people said always looked elegant, Victoria recalls. But of course, people back then dressed more nicely than the youth of today.

  Another time she tells you about her granddaughter, who seems to be your age. She lives in New York.

  ‘My granddaughter is writing a novel. Are you like her, a descendant of Scheherazade?’

  ‘Scheherazade?’

  ‘Yes, like in One Thousand and One Nights. A woman who is a spinner of tales.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ you say, a little confused. ‘But in my travels, I encounter a lot of stories.’

  ‘I hope they’re happy stories! My granddaughter likes to write weird stories. Horror stories. Uh, no. Adventure stories. Well, something like that.’

  ‘Wow, cool,’ you say, feigning enthusiasm.

  ‘Ah, ever since she was little she’s loved to daydream,’ Victoria chuckles. ‘She used to want to become a pilot and collected toy planes. She idolised Amelia Earhart.’

  The name isn’t familiar to you, so Victoria explains: Amelia Earhart was a famous aviator, the first woman to fly across the Atlantic. In 1937 she set off on a great adventure. The plane was never found.

  But beyond your dinner-table encounters, you rarely see Victoria at home. Maybe she’s an elderly socialite, always going out, or she’s so quiet when she’s in her room that you don’t know whether she’s home or not. Her presence often startles you. Once, as you’re about to open the door and go for a walk, she calls you from the living room. You’d thought she wasn’t home, but it turns out that she’s been knitting in her rocking chair.

  ‘Maytje!’

  ‘Yes, Tante.’

  You turn back from the door and approach like an obedient child.

  ‘Going out?’

  You say you’re planning to wander around Amsterdam for the day, but she doesn’t seem to hear your response. She lowers her glasses a little and stares straight at your feet. She asks you to come closer.

  ‘Your shoes are lovely.’

  ‘Yes, I bought them at –’

  ‘I’ve been looking for shoes like that for a long time.’

  You’re just about to lie but she cuts you off, indifferent to your words, her eyes fixed on your red shoes.

  ‘May I try them on?’

  You’re surprised. An odd request, but why not? Victoria always wears outfits and footwear more suitable for young women, so it’s not such a shock that she’s attracted to your red shoes. Despite some hesitation, you nod. Victoria stares intently, as if enchanted by the shoes. Her eyes look slightly wild.

  Just as you’re about to take them off, she suddenly shakes her head and signals for you to stop.

  ‘No, no need,’ she says. ‘Go. Be careful, maytje.’ She smiles sweetly, sounding a little nervous.

  The rocking chair marks Victoria’s presence at home. In the morning, as you make your way down the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast, you can already hear her humming. ‘Als de orchideen bloeien, hmm hmm hmm … Maytje, come. Do you want bread with hagelslag?’ She rises from her rocking chair and goes to the dining table. She spreads Blueband butter on the bread, then adds chocolate sprinkles. Hagelslag. Your usual breakfast in Indonesia.

  Sometimes Victoria sits in the rocking chair puffing a cigarette. Does her doctor allow it? you wonder. She opens the window wide, letting smoke out as cold air rushes in. You shake your head. Granny has a seriously rock ’n’ roll lifestyle.

  Outside it is zero Celsius, and you�
�re concerned about her health. What if she were to suddenly drop dead?

  The rocking chair is as quirky as its owner. Sometimes it swings on its own when Victoria isn’t there. Maybe Victoria has forgotten to close the window, and it’s swaying in a furtive breeze.

  One night, as you’re getting ready for bed, you hear strains of music from the ground floor. The rhythms seem familiar. As the music continues, you feel that you recognise each song being played and open the door.

  Nina Bobo, oh Nina Bobo

  Kalau tidak bobo digigit nyamuk

  A children’s song. But the astonishing thing is that it’s ‘Nina Bobo’, in Indonesian. Why is Victoria listening to it? Curious, you go downstairs.

  You see an LP spinning on a turntable in the living room. Beside it is a record sleeve, showing a Dutchwoman in a kebaya. You read the singer’s name and the album title: Wieteke van Dort, Weerzien met Indië. There is a list of songs in Indonesian, or a mix of Dutch and Indonesian: ‘Tlaga Biroe’, ‘Hallo Bandoeng’, ‘Geef Mij Maar Nasi Goreng’.

  Does Victoria have a connection with the land she calls the Indies? You feel a small sense of excitement and turn towards the chair by the window, rocking away. Maybe Victoria is listening to music. Maybe she fell asleep during the ‘Nina Bobo’ lullaby. You want to ask about the Wieteke van Dort album, so you approach slowly.

  The chair is empty.

  Where’s Victoria?

  ‘Tante?’

  No answer. Nobody is there. The voice of Wieteke van Dort is so sweet, and the living room is as quiet as a cemetery. You tremble.

  On Sundays, Victoria attends church. She invites you once, but you decline on the grounds that you’re Muslim. (You don’t say that you never go to mosque.) She waves dismissively, ‘Do you really think I’m Christian?’

  ‘You’re not?’ You’re surprised.

  She chuckles.