The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  ‘The Whore of Babylon. She protects prostitutes.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not that heroic,’ she says. ‘I hardly ever meet them. The ones that I do are at a crossroads, in any case.’

  Crossroads. The word rattles you. You’ve heard about this woman, or maybe even seen her. But where? You struggle to recall. Berlin? You feel you’ve come across her more than once. This woman inspires dread.

  Is she everywhere? The rocking chair now pitches back and forth. She smiles enigmatically, letting you cast around for her in your memory. She glances at your bare feet.

  ‘Lose a slipper, Cinderella?’

  That voice. The beautiful woman who found your shoe at the airport.

  ‘You’re the one who found my shoe.’

  ‘The one who found my shoe,’ she parrots, making you feel like you’re hearing an echo in a cave.

  Her voice has a scoffing tone, but she isn’t mocking you. You remember Devil’s letter: your red shoes are an inheritance from a woman who has died.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Hecate.’

  You hold your breath. She’s that witch, an abductress. Your throat is dry, and you begin to cough. Hecate hands you a glass of water while repeating her statement: she doesn’t kidnap. She only comes to those who are on edge and at borders, at crossroads.

  ‘But why do you kidnap garden gnomes?’

  ‘That’s another matter. They’re cursed to stand watch over homes.’

  She kidnaps gnomes because they should be left free, not enslaved as garden watchmen. Sometimes, if she’s feeling kind, and the gnomes need a break from the road, she returns them to their owners for a lengthy stay.

  ‘Your shoes were mine.’

  She calmly pours herself tea. ‘The shoes come with a curse. You can’t stop travelling,’ she says. ‘But now you can determine your own steps.’

  You stare at her chair as it rocks back and forth. You feel as though you are beginning to understand. Your adventure will end soon.

  ‘I don’t want to go home,’ you say. ‘I don’t want to go back to the same house, the same city, that dull life.’

  ‘I’m not telling you to go back,’ she replies. ‘Home is never the same, anyway.’

  When you wake the next day, Hecate’s house is empty. You feel relieved that she didn’t send you back to Indonesia. But that goes without saying. It’s not as if she’s a government with the authority to deport immigrants. Hecate has left an OV-chipkaart so you can take the train back to Victoria’s house.

  After that, there are no shoes, no Devil, no Hecate in your life. You are determined to stay in the Netherlands and find work. For a year, you work odd jobs, from being a cashier at a Jumbo supermarket to waiting tables in an Argentinian steakhouse. Thanks to your jobs, you manage to save up money to travel around Europe, staying in cheap hostels, without red shoes.

  Then, one day, you make a major decision. You have yet to explore all the nooks and crannies of the world, but you’ve seen more than enough for now. It’s time to go home. This is neither compulsion nor defeat, but you do feel nervous. And you understand why – for those who have been away for so long, or too long, going home takes courage.

  Continue on to page 401.

  The Secret of the Red Shoes

  All those girls

  who wore the red shoes,

  each boarded a train that would not stop.

  Anne Sexton, ‘The Red Shoes’

  It’s not right to wear red shoes to a grave, especially if the deceased is your own mother.

  Here the Shoemaker lies buried. One winter, hundreds of years ago, he made a beautiful pair of red shoes for his wife when she was seriously ill. He hoped that she could wear them when she recovered, in the spring, when the air was warmer and people didn’t need to wear heavy boots outside. His wife said, ‘If I die, sell them to a woman who likes red shoes.’

  The Shoemaker wanted to protest, but fell silent when his wife began coughing uncontrollably, covering her mouth with the shawl that wreathed her neck. The shawl, also red, hid the drops of blood.

  They often wondered who would die first. ‘I want to go before you. I don’t want to witness your death,’ said the wife.

  The Shoemaker rebuffed her. ‘No, I’ll die first, and I’ll haunt you if you flirt with the baker and the butcher next door.’ Even after thirty years together, the Shoemaker was jealous of every man who went near his wife. In his eyes, she was so beautiful that all men of this world would approach her, given the chance. His wife was often offended by his outrageous jealousy. The neighbourhood butcher and baker? Really, I’m not attracted to fat, bald men.

  Although they often quarrelled, neither wanted to bear the pain of dying in second place. Their love for each other was so unrelenting that even God must have felt jealous. Before the shoes were finished, the Shoemaker had lost his wife. He found her one morning, having breathed her last. She had left, without any sign, without any message.

  The Shoemaker’s assistant, Tom, a young man of seventeen, came every day to help. Throughout January, the coldest month of winter, Tom watched as the Shoemaker slowly drove himself to ruin. He sat in a rocking chair, eyes blank, raving about his wife and how she liked to wander about. He believed she had only gone on a short trip to the market in her new shoes, and would soon return.

  The Shoemaker left the house during a blizzard. To go out on such a night was crazy, but he opened the door without locking it behind him and trod through the thick snow blanketing the road. He wanted to stay out in the storm for as long as possible, then freeze to death so he would be found the next day, buried in the snow. As he walked, he saw red, a bothersome red, like a drop of fresh blood on a white carpet. The red grew brighter and brighter. The Shoemaker saw a woman in a long red cloak sweeping across the ice.

  The next day, the Shoemaker was back in his bed. Tom and several townsfolk had found him lying on the road and had taken him straight home. Nobody could say how long he had lain in the snow. The only thing Tom knew was that after the event, the Shoemaker was never the same again. Tom no longer saw him sad. In fact, he looked neither grief-stricken nor joyful. He showed no emotion at all. Every day he sat in front of the fireplace, cobbling away. His face was pale and his eyes were large, red and unblinking. By spring, he had finished the red shoes for his wife.

  He put the shoes in front of the window and said to Tom: whoever owns these shoes will never stop travelling.

  Tom thought the Shoemaker would never sell them, but he was too afraid to ask. He glanced at the man. Next to the scarlet shoes, his face looked bloodless. He felt that the man beside him was a stranger who had returned in the Shoemaker’s place, after he had gone out to brave the snow and met whoever it was, or whatever it was.

  Soon a girl arrived who became the stuff of legend, the girl obsessed with red shoes.

  She appeared in front of the Shoemaker’s house in shoes made from red velvet fabric, which were too tight. People said she wore those shoes at her mother’s burial because she was so poor that she had no other pair. After her mother died, a well-to-do woman adopted her. Now the girl could afford good clothes, but she still went everywhere in the red shoes, even though they were wearing out.

  The girl left the Shoemaker’s house in new red shoes. She admired their beauty so much that she wore them wherever she went, including church. Her steps were so nimble and seductive that the eyes of all – the congregation, the black-clad priest, and even the saints in the paintings – were fixed on her. Neighbours whispered. How inappropriate to wear such shoes to church.

  Upon hearing this unsavoury gossip, the girl’s adoptive mother reminded her to wear plain black shoes. But the girl’s heart felt heavy at the thought of parting with her red shoes. They seemed to call out to her. The more they were shunned, the more brightly they sparkled. Since her mother was near-sighted, she kept wearing the red shoes to church anyway. An insolent lass, indeed. The ungrateful child lied to her mother. Truly, she was no better than
faithless Malin Kundang.

  She would be cursed like Malin Kundang, who liked to travel and was finally turned into stone (see page 23, then return here).

  In front of the church one day, the girl in red shoes met a soldier who looked at them with a strange, slightly savage gaze. ‘Those shoes are perfect for dancing!’ he said.

  So dance the girl did. Her obsession with red shoes grew even more passionate. She was less and less inclined to sit at home and read the Bible. She would pull the shoes from the closet and fling the house door wide open as she danced. She danced in the yard, in parks, in the streets. The townsfolk turned their heads, scandalised, clutching their hands to their hearts. Over time, she grew tired. She would pause briefly before the cemetery. But the red shoes seemed possessed by a demon. Her little feet continued to frolic, refusing to finish their dance. Now her steps stuttered, as if following a swift, staccato rhythm, a panicked rhythm; she danced aimlessly, circling dark forests, gambolling over graves.

  Help! Help! She ran, but the shoes tightened further about her feet, making her heels blistered and chafed. Noon and night passed her by in scorn. Day after day, her feet remained fettered. She ran, possessed, into the church, pleading before the priests. But the men of religion were powerless.

  Cut off my feet. Let me repent.

  And so they shackled her, and amputated her at the ankles.

  The girl lay on the floor like a piece of meat at the slaughterhouse table. God, forgive me. She sought light, but the red shoes refused to enter heaven. The blood-soaked chunks of flesh that were her feet fled, abandoning her to dance their mad dance far from the church. The girl had finally returned home, turning her face to God. The red shoes that knew no rest, however, chose adventure and went missing.

  When the Shoemaker left his house to freeze to death amid the blizzard, he brought the red shoes with him to give to anyone who could show him which way his wife had gone. But the shoes were devil shoes. They ran away from their creator, who now rested peacefully at the Heavenly Father’s side. For hundreds of years they have gone from one girl to another, stirring up inappropriate desires. And girls in red shoes never return home.

  ‘Leave your shoes here,’ Victoria says.

  You look at her, unblinking.

  ‘Here, at the Shoemaker’s grave. Return them to their maker. Then you will be free.’

  Transfixed, you stare at the carving of the shoes in front of you. Suddenly you imagine a future that you can’t bear. You don’t know where the red shoes will take you. You are terrified. But the shoes have brought you here, and you don’t want to stop.

  ‘You don’t have much time.’

  Victoria turns and leaves you. The lights dim, and the church darkens suddenly. You call out to her, but she has vanished. Your voice echoes against the stone walls.

  If you obey Victoria and leave your shoes at the shoemaker’s grave, turn to the next page.

  If you choose to run away with your shoes, turn to page 398.

  You take off your shoes and place them directly atop the Shoemaker’s tomb. And then you run, as fast as you can, your feet frigid, passing dark corridors and the dead lying beneath the floor of the cathedral. You stare ahead into blackness seemingly without end. You feel pairs of eyes watching you – the eyes of those below your feet, or perhaps buried inside the walls. There are whispers behind you. Distant voices call you. You refuse to turn around, and the path feels long, far too long.

  Finally, you see light. Somehow the cathedral door opens slightly. You make out the faint sound of people passing and of bicycle bells. Your legs feel exhausted, but you must keep running. The door, and the outside world, may not always be open to you.

  You burst forward and tumble onto the cathedral steps. People in overcoats and hats walk past you. One or two turn around, but immediately look away. You’re gasping. Your chest aches from the exertion of flight.

  ‘Maybe you need these?’

  Directly before you, you see a pair of black boots, like army boots. You look up. A beautiful woman in a red overcoat smiles at you. Her right hand holds a pair of shoes, while her left cradles a chihuahua.

  ‘Hello, Cinderella.’

  You’ve heard her voice. You’ve even heard her utter the same sentence. You and she have met.

  ‘Yes, you know who I am,’ she says. ‘And you could get frostbite.’

  She drops the boots beside your bare feet.

  The tips of your toes are going blue. You quickly slide your feet into the shoes. She puts down the dog, removing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her red coat, and inhales. You look at her chihuahua and nearly keel over in shock. What a bizarre-looking creature.

  The woman chuckles.

  ‘People always expect my dog to be bigger. But it’s a pain in the ass to go around nowadays with a mutt the size of a wolf cub.’

  ‘Your dog –’

  ‘Oh, the three heads? OK, OK.’ She pats the dog. ‘Meet Cordelia, Regan and Goneril.’

  Three chihuahua heads sway to and fro, barking in unison.

  ‘The Shoemaker longed to be kidnapped,’ the woman says. ‘He offered me the red shoes so he could follow his wife. But then they got stolen. The man who returned home and sold the red shoes wasn’t him.’

  ‘Then who was it?’

  ‘You can’t guess?’ She puffs on her cigarette and exhales slowly. ‘I thought you knew your boyfriend better than that.’

  You fall silent. Really, you don’t know what to do except keep quiet and think. Cordelia and her sisters – who are now going Dutch on a single body – are silent too, even though they don’t exactly appear lost in thought. For a long time you stare, dazed, at the streets and the people passing by, as the woman in the red coat smokes her cigarette.

  ‘Does my adventure end here?’

  She laughs. ‘Well, that’s up to you. You don’t need shoes, or a devil.’ She winks. ‘Write your own adventure.’

  She tosses her cigarette on the sidewalk and crushes it with her foot. She picks up the three-headed chihuahua.

  ‘So long, Cinderella.’

  She smiles and walks away. You watch her, a figure in a red coat who walks on this cold but snowless night. You want to call her back and ask more questions, but you can’t even string the words together.

  ‘Thank you,’ you mumble. ‘Hecate.’

  Turn to page 391.

  Ar-Rohmah Mosque, South Jakarta, July 2012

  A crystal snow globe shoots out onto the green carpet that lies in front of you. You feel as if you’ve woken from a long sleep. Two small children apologise, pick up the globe and dash away. You fold the prayer rug and get up, following a woman in a hijab who is leading two daughters. You’re with your sister and her two daughters, Nazwa and – what’s the other one’s name? The two look much bigger than the last time you saw them. How many years have passed?

  Where did you last see a snow globe?

  You’re in a majestic mosque with lofty ceilings and marble floors. The floor is cold, but your feet are protected by socks and your long, flowing abaya. You pause. The clock hanging on the mosque’s white wall reads 9 p.m. Where are you? Why, with all the world’s people, places and creeds, are you in a mosque, and with your sister? And doesn’t she have three kids?

  ‘Where’s Raihan?’ you ask.

  ‘Don’t tell me you forgot,’ says your sister, still walking in front of you. ‘In the male section, with the men.’

  Why are you here wearing this outfit? Your eyes scan around you, looking for a mirror, impatient to know how you look. But there is no mirror, no door. You finger your clothes and pat your head. You’re wearing a hijab.

  ‘Mommy, Daddy is taking a long time, isn’t he?’

  Your niece’s voice sounds unfamiliar.

  ‘He’ll be here in just a bit, hon,’ answers your sister.

  You continue trailing after her, bewildered. She walks out of the mosque, towards the shoe storage area. She turns to you.

  ‘L
et’s just wait here. The men can take a while once they get to chatting.’

  You nod, then follow her to the shoe rack. There you see your red shoes, lined up with other simpler pairs. They look too beautiful, flashy, misplaced. You immediately retrieve them and go back to where your sister stands. You wonder why she hasn’t taken her own from the rack. It turns out that she put her good shoes into a small bag and brought them into the mosque.

  ‘You.’ Your sister shakes her head. ‘Leaving shoes like that outside in the rack. What if they get stolen? Only a madwoman leaves a pair of Louboutin in front of a mosque.’

  ‘These aren’t Louboutin.’

  These are Devil shoes.

  Devil, where is Devil? Where were you before this, and where are you going? Again, you’re thoroughly disoriented. Your sister takes out lipstick and a small mirror from inside her bag. You make out the name of a famous designer emblazoned on its case.

  ‘So, has Teddy made a decision?’ your sister asks, applying lipstick. ‘Your husband has lots of supporters, I must say. The real question is whether he’d want to be mayor of Depok.’

  Husband? Why is she talking about a husband?

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ your sister continues to chatter on. ‘It seems like only yesterday that he popped the question. But what am I saying? Hidayah comes after you take the veil. It’s true, isn’t it? You’ve ended up married to a successful, handsome, pious cleric. Loyal to you. Not polygamous. Masya Allah. All women want an imam like that.’

  You can tell that your eyes are bulging. Polygamy. The word sparks certain memories. You remember how you and your sister used to vent about polygamy. You both hated religious teachers who justified the practice. It was one of the few things you could bond over.