‘Astaghfirullah …’
Your sister looks utterly mournful as you stare at the garden gnome, now in pieces. The grey-bearded head has been separated from its body. Sorrow steals over you. You’re looking at your sister again, face-to-face at last after thousands of kilometres of separation by land and sea, but this is no happy reunion. How miserable the fate of this garden gnome, who travelled so far to arrive here, only to be kept prisoner, watching over a house and finally scattered in fragments. His journey was of so little renown that no gnome liberation activist came to his rescue.
‘Oof, the car still isn’t straight. Never mind, I’ll just wait for Abah to do it later.’
Then your sister’s voice brightens considerably. She hugs you, full of emotion.
‘Subhanallah, Dik! How are you? Put on some weight, huh?’ And that is the first thing she says directly to you after so much time apart. There’s no mistaking it. You really are back in Indonesia.
Returning is very strange. Your sister’s house doesn’t feel like a home. To be honest, you have little right to express such thoughts, as morning, noon and night, the house is filled with the delicious smells of food being thoughtfully prepared by your sister and her helper, the laughter of little children having fun (Nazwa, Raihan and – what was the baby’s name again?), and the sound of a television that is perpetually on. A house filled with warmth. Maybe too warm. In fact, you feel hot. Now you understand what the Devil meant in his letter. Your home isn’t there, but it’s not here either.
Time passes slowly. You’ve been at your sister’s a while now, a week or more. Your only entertainment is playing with her kids, especially Nazwa. When Nazwa isn’t bragging about how many medals she’s collected from memorising long verses of the Quran, she’s a smart and pleasant child. She keeps inviting you to play Lego and Monopoly and asks about all the things you’ve seen while you were abroad. Sometimes this wears you out, and you hope she’ll sit quietly in her room, shut her mouth and do her homework.
‘Nazwa doesn’t have homework.’
‘What? Her school doesn’t give homework?’
‘Lots of international schools are like that these days,’ your sister explains. ‘They say kids in Finland don’t get homework.’
Clearly, you’re behind on the latest trends.
As your sister nurses her baby, she tells you about her busy life as a working mother. She still finds time to serve as a breastfeeding advocate, to write articles for the website Moms and the City, and to take care of her increasingly successful Muslimah fashion business. Yes, her business is growing rapidly, as you can tell from the new car, latest cell phone, and flat-screen television, twice the size of the previous one. You hear the word ‘entrepreneur’ repeatedly in her house. Her husband, Abah, is even busier. He’s on the management team for a celebrity cleric named Ustadh Teddy Mubarak.
‘What does a preacher need a management team for?’
‘Ustadh Teddy runs a lot of motivational workshops.’
‘Motivational? Motivation for what?’
‘Lots of things. For example, how to succeed in business – but in an Islamic way.’
Oh, you really are out of touch.
Abah is perpetually in front of the television, a laptop and two mobile phones with different network providers at his side. The laptop has a window open with Facebook visible at all times, and his phones receive one text message after the other. He is also busy handling Ustadh Teddy’s personal website.
You can hazard a guess at what Teddy Mubarak, celebrity cleric, is like. So far you haven’t been taken with the many religious leaders on television, since most of them use verses from the Quran to advocate for specific interests (polygamy, for example). Only a handful, like Kiai Muhammad Hasan, write material that you like and read frequently. You ask whether he’s also a celebrity cleric. Your sister and her husband exchange glances.
‘He’s considered part of the syphilis group. Hard for him to have broad appeal,’ says Abah.
‘Syphilis?’ You frown. ‘Why should private health issues be other people’s business?’
‘No, no,’ says Abah. ‘Syphilis is a sort of acronym: secularism, pluralism, liberalism. Kiai Hasan often puts forth controversial ideas, like allowing leaders not to be Muslim, or letting women go out uncovered. A lot of people don’t agree with such a vision of Islam.’
‘Then what vision of Islam should we have?’
Abah and your sister don’t answer.
Your sister’s house is full of technology, moving fast, and everyone speaks constantly about the business potential of social media. Your trip feels a bit like science fiction, as if a time machine has flung you into the future.
Late one afternoon, your sister and her family are rushing about getting ready to attend a lecture by Ustadh Teddy Mubarak at a five-star hotel. ‘Keep an eye on the house, OK?’ says your sister, in a hurry. ‘We have to leave now before it gets too trafficky.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ asks Abah.
You smile broadly. After they leave, the house is temporarily quiet. For the first time, you feel a sense of peace. You’ve been here too long. It’s time to go.
Continue on to page 418.
San Ysidro Port of Entry, 2010
And it’s true, you’ve messed up your life. You sit waiting on a cold white iron bench. In front of you, an officer in a dark blue shirt paces with a sniffer dog. Out of boredom, you eavesdrop on his conversation with a colleague. The group was totally reckless, says the officer with the dog. His colleague asks how so. The dog handler then tells the story of a bunch of young people riding in a sedan, two of them hiding in the trunk. They had driven from beyond Tijuana, so the pair who were packed like sardines in the back must have been going through torture. The officer next to him shakes his head. How steep the road to Lady Liberty’s house.
You look at a clock on the wall. Next to it, large letters read ‘U.S. Department of Homeland Security’. You’ve been stuck here for two hours, witnessing people stranded and unable to enter. Some are forced back. Maybe you’ll be allowed to re-enter America, maybe you’ll be deported. Your situation is unclear, balanced precariously on a knife edge. Anxiety even makes you say the institution’s name incorrectly.
‘Do you understand where you are now?’
‘Yes. The Department of Homeland Insecurity.’
The officer before you shakes his head in irritation.
‘Oh, sorry!’
You pat your hair softly and say to yourself: Hey, it’s you who should feel insecure, immigrant.
How did you get here?
Cynthia. You came with Cynthia.
Where is she now?
You and Cynthia drove from Los Angeles to San Diego. The whisperings of an irresponsible inner voice – or perhaps the voice of a devil – made you conspire to cross from San Diego to Tijuana, Mexico. In your adventures up until now – joyous, or cursed like your current one – you’ve only cared to remember a handful of names. But you’ll never forget Cynthia and the story she carries – a story that brings up long-buried memories from far below.
In this tedious office of white-blue-grey you wait and wait. Yes, this is the end of your story. A journey doesn’t always need a conclusion. Here, a journey is a space in between, a constant uncertainty.
If you want to know how you arrived at this sort of end, turn to page 421.
But really, you don’t need to do so, because you know you will end here, on the Tijuana–San Diego border, unable to enter, unable to exit. Please stop reading, unless you want to come face-to-face with ghosts of the past.
‘Dear passengers, we will soon be landing at Jorge Cháves International Airport in Lima, Peru, where the local time is 1 p.m. The weather is sunny with a temperature of 27 degrees Celsius. For your safety and comfort, please bring your seat back to the upright position, check that your seat belt is fastened …’
The flight attendant’s voice wakes you. You slide the window cover up a bit
and peep at a sea sparkling in brilliant sunshine.
‘Soon,’ Fernando says with a smile.
He is in the aisle seat, and Tiffany, now taller than you, sits between you.
The year 2017 brings this thrilling trip to Peru. It’s the first visit for you and Tiffany, and the first for Fernando since he left Lima eighteen years ago. He’s just said farewell to North America too.
After passing through baggage claim and customs, the three of you push a trolley full of suitcases towards a waiting crowd. Taxi drivers swarm around the freshly arrived passengers.
‘It’s crazy hot!’ Tiffany complains in English. She takes off her jacket and fans herself.
Fernando tells her to be patient, in Spanish. ‘My brother will be here soon.’ Casting an eye at the sea of touts, he adds, ‘Those drivers target gullible tourists and then totally overcharge them. There, have a look at that!’
He points to a cabbie who seems to have convinced two female travellers to join him. You can’t see their faces clearly, but from the jackets they’re wearing, it looks like they’ve flown in from somewhere cold.
‘Yes, yes, Miraflores. Yes.’
The two women follow the driver.
In the car, observing the lanes clogged with traffic, you wonder if this is the best life path for you. Would you have made it to Peru if you’d chosen to go to Berlin from JFK ten years ago? Maybe Devil was right. Your adventure ends simply: marry a kind man and become stepmother to a sweet girl. Seven years ago, you and Fernando got married in the New York City registry office. Tiffany, Elise and several friends from La Candela attended. Tony Saverino acted as witness. Yes, married, just like that. But you went through so much to get here; your family portrait is a happy one, but not uncomplicated.
The word ‘forever’ was hardly in your mind when you married Fernando. You even saw the marriage as an experiment that might fail. To your surprise, though, you’ve stayed together these seven years. So far at least, you’re enjoying each new chapter that you pass through with Fernando and Tiffany, even if they aren’t the most scintillating of adventures. On Tony Saverino’s suggestion, you started working at an Italian restaurant in Astoria, run by a family with ties to the owners of La Candela. You were happy because the restaurant wasn’t far from your apartment or Tiffany’s school. Fernando continued to work at La Candela and was promoted to supervisor, with better pay. Tiffany grew as a gifted child and was accepted at the LaGuardia High School of Music, Art and Performing Arts. You found yourself growing too. After saving for a few years, you enrolled in a master’s programme in Creative Writing at the New School.
In 2016, your little family celebrated two events: you graduated with a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, and Tiffany got a scholarship to study at Sarah Lawrence College. Without it, it would have been impossible for you and Fernando to afford tuition fees higher than your combined income. When you first took Tiffany to the campus in Bronxville, Fernando hugged his daughter and shed tears.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ he murmured. ‘It feels like just yesterday that I brought you home from Elmhurst Hospital …’
‘Dad!’ Tiffany scolded, looking embarrassed. ‘Don’t be such a drama queen!’
Yes, a beautiful little snippet of the American dream. But the scene was cut immediately. In November that same year, Fernando sat on the couch, his face pale, unable to believe what he was watching on the television. The vote count for the election was continuing, but it was clear that Donald Trump would emerge victorious. Fernando turned to you with a flat expression and asked, ‘Do we still want to live in America?’
In April, three months after Trump’s inauguration, while Tiffany is on spring break, Fernando leaves the United States for good. His decision is easy: he refuses to live in Trumpland. Moreover, he considers his job as a father complete. Though an illegal immigrant, he has managed to see his child’s education all the way through to college.
And what will you do in Peru? Who knows. But you’re now proficient in Spanish, and you have a master’s degree. Maybe you can teach English, or work part-time as a writer. In two weeks, Tiffany will return to being a New Yorker and Sarah Lawrence undergrad, and you and Fernando will begin travelling around South America. Life feels uncertain, and it won’t become any easier, but that may in fact be why you feel happy. Without the red shoes, you will go on adventures again.
FINIS
‘Dear passengers, we will soon be landing at Jorge Cháves International Airport in Lima, Peru, where the local time is 1 p.m. The weather is sunny with a temperature of 27 degrees Celsius. For your safety and comfort, please bring your seat back to the upright position, check that your seat belt is fastened …’
The flight attendant’s voice wakes you. You slide the window cover up a bit and peep at a sea sparkling in brilliant sunshine.
‘Soon,’ Yvette says with a smile.
She sits next to you, and beside her is an obese gentleman who has dozed off and is snoring gently. You and Yvette take turns in the window seat each time you fly.
The year 2017 brings this thrilling trip to Peru. It’s the first for both you and Yvette.
After passing through baggage claim and customs, the two of you push a trolley full of suitcases towards a waiting crowd. Taxi drivers swarm around the passengers who have just landed. One makes a beeline for Yvette.
Meanwhile, a voice in English catches you off guard. ‘It’s crazy hot!’
A girl is taking off her jacket and fanning herself. She has the rather irritating intonation of an American teenager, but strangely this makes you happy because it provides a familiar foothold in a foreign land. The man next to the teenager, maybe her father, speaks in Spanish. You suspect that the father lives in America, a first-generation immigrant from Peru, while the child is his second-generation daughter visiting her father’s home country for the first time. Next to them stands the mother. She has probably never been to Peru either.
‘Yes, yes, Miraflores. Yes.’
Yvette seems to have reached an agreement with the taxi driver. You both follow him. As you walk, you take off your jacket. The teenager was right. It really does feel hot today, especially coming from Berlin.
In the car, observing the lanes clogged with traffic, you wonder if this is the best life path for you. You think about Devil’s question at your last meeting from time to time, but it doesn’t trouble you much. Would you have made it to Peru if ten years ago at JFK you’d decided to stay in New York and hadn’t chosen Berlin? Maybe if you’d chosen New York at that time, you’d have still come here, but as someone else. Maybe you’d have married a handsome Peruvian and holidayed with your family here.
You don’t know if Yvette is the best possible choice, but for you, the last nine years have been the happiest adventure of your life. You’ve passed through so much over the last decade that you’d feel rude if you weren’t grateful. Do you prefer women now? You don’t know, because all this time there’s only been Yvette in your eyes. You’ve never compared her with anyone else, male or female.
In 2008, Yvette followed you back to New York. When you opened your suitcase and took out your things, you realised your shoes were gone. Yvette hadn’t seen them.
‘Your Dorothy shoes?’ Yvette looked at you, confused. ‘I only saw them that one time you wore them.’
You searched for days, but they were nowhere to be found. Yvette tried to cheer you up. ‘It’s no big deal, we can buy another pair.’ At the time Yvette already owned fifteen pairs of red shoes. On your birthday, she presented you with a pretty pair very similar to Devil’s. You hugged her tightly. You never sought to uncover the fate of your lucky red shoes again, but you’re sure Devil stole them from you. He was probably busy looking for someone else to send wandering.
Without red shoes, you had to confront real national borders. Your American visa expired at the end of the year. You considered staying on in New York illegally, but Yvette dissuaded you.
‘Don’t. You’ll have huge p
roblems later if you go abroad and want to come back here.’
‘But I’ll just stay here under the radar,’ you said. ‘Everything is in New York. Why do I need to go abroad?’
‘You do need to go abroad, even if we don’t know what for yet. And New York isn’t everything. Feh.’
Finally, you decided to go back to Indonesia. Yvette joined you because she had ambitious plans. With Yvette, you started a new adventure: looking for Juwita Padmadivya.
It felt strange to return home with Yvette, like Malin Kundang bringing his foreign wife to his village. Once you had travelled, your home was never the same. With Yvette, your adventures don’t feel as though they’ve come to an end. Of course, you never found Juwita. After following up every possibility, you and Yvette agreed to let her remain a puzzle. But one point in Juwita’s account proved accurate enough. Request Concert was indeed performed again in Jakarta, with the same actor, Niniek L. Karim.
In autumn 2011, you registered as a film student at Freie Universität Berlin. You and Yvette returned to the cafe where you first met and agreed to make a film about Juwita Padmadivya. The film was completed at the end of 2015 and had its own adventures. It premiered at Sundance and then toured various film festivals – Rotterdam, Berlinale, Vancouver and Tribeca. When possible, you and Yvette went along to promote Juwita (by this point you were very grateful that you hadn’t stayed stubbornly in the US after your visa expired). Journeying from festival to festival turned out to be very tiring, so after a year on the circuit you agreed to take a break. South America, here we come.
‘I have a new film idea,’ you say.
‘About what?’
‘About a woman who wears red shoes everywhere.’
The Wandering Page 35