Carpe Diem

by Autumn Cornwell

  Azizah smiled. “Nice, yes? Your grandmamma call it: Bread Coughs.”

  I choked and spit kopi all down the front of my Traveler’s Friend Linen Blouse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grandma Gerd

  Fssshttt!

  “Fantastic!”

  I awoke to find a woman taking a Polaroid photo of my chest.

  “Where did you get this stain? Look at the bilious brownish-yellow tones—fantastic! In the shape of a platypus—fantastic! Look, there’s his bill and his webbed feet. Fan-ta-stic … Azizah, is this or is this not the most fantastic stain you’ve ever seen?”

  “You’re the artist,” sang Azizah.

  “Fantastic!”

  Make that an artist in need of a thesaurus, I thought.

  A tanned, lanky woman approximately sixty, about my height, loomed over me. I scanned her from top to bottom:

  A shaggy mop of silver-grey hair. Her thick bangs higher on one side than the other. (Did she trim it herself? With hedge clippers?)

  Tortoiseshell glasses with green polarized lenses. One of the tortoiseshell arms had been replaced with a mismatched black one.

  A carved ivory dragon necklace.

  Baggy brown pants.

  Worn leather sandals.

  Toe rings.

  She returned her Polaroid camera to her oversize, woven-fabric-made-from-a-loom bag, then attempted to tousle my hair. But since it was wet and stuck to my head, the most she could do was squish it. “Hello, kiddo. So, whatcha think of Malaysia?”

  “Grandma Gerd?” Not quite what I pictured, but I’d recognize that bombastic voice anywhere.

  “They said you were gifted.” She smiled and blinked rapidly several times. Then she turned away and pulled a large red bandanna out of her pants’ pocket and blew her nose. Thoroughly.

  After shoving her bandanna back in her pocket, she peered at my chin. “That’s a really big dimple you have there.”

  I covered my chin with my hand. I’m sensitive about it, even if Dad calls it “cute” and Mom says it gives my face a “piquant quality.” If I had to have a dimple, why couldn’t it be a cheek dimple like Mom’s?

  She leaned closer: “And that really is a fantastic stain.”

  Was the musty odor emanating from her sandalwood or patchouli? I never could tell the difference when I’d pass by the grungy musicians loitering in Pike Place Market.

  I smoothed my hair back into place, pried myself off the couch, and rolled my head to relieve the crick in my neck. She shook the Polaroid and watched my bewildered pasty face come into focus—along with the now infamous bilious stain. Her fingers were covered with silver rings and her wrists clinked with silver bracelets.

  She turned and I noticed:

  A silver nose stud.

  Denise, Amber, and Laurel would never believe that this apparition was my grandma—much less the person who was blackmailing my parents.

  “What are those?” she asked in an odd voice as she pointed to my beige walking shoes.

  “What?” I said, distracted by her nasal adornment. “Oh. They’re Spring-Zs. Instead of normal heels, they have special extra-large coiled springs that provide cushioning and support. Mom says they’re ideal for excess walking and varicose vein prevention.”

  She contorted her mouth, trying to hide a smile. What was so funny?

  “So, did you have to wait long?”

  I made a show of consulting my PTP. “Four hours and eleven minutes.”

  “Whew, that’s a relief. Hungry?”

  I was surprised how painfully hungry I was. “Yes.”

  “Then follow me!”

  “What? We’re going out? Now? At ten p.m.?”

  I followed Grandma Gerd down the uneven cement pavement past endless colonial architecture; many buildings had been painstakingly restored and painted bright colors. The upstairs were used as residences. Laundry hung over the balconies, the louvered windows and shutters closed for privacy. The downstairs were used as shops—everything from tailors to fortune-tellers.

  I was not only in a foreign country, but in a completely different world. Every sight, sound, and smell was unfamiliar. I felt muffled. Was it culture shock? Or just jet lag? And nothing had prepared me for all the stares. At 5 feet 10, Grandma Gerd and I towered over every Malaysian—woman or man—who jostled past us.

  We finally arrived at what Grandma Gerd called the “food stalls” for my first official meal in Malaysia. Kedais selling wooden sticks of chicken satay with peanut sauce. Pickled cucumber. Juice made out of papaya, pineapple, orange, and the aptly named star fruit. The hawkers poured the juice into plastic bags with straws for customers to take away.

  There was quite a crowd eating late—even kids.

  “Malaysia wakes up once the sun goes down. This place really gets hopping at two a.m.”

  I sure hoped she didn’t expect me to witness it firsthand.

  I followed Grandma Gerd over to a stall selling bowls of steaming curry mee (noodles) and she bought two bowls. I was about to say I’d prefer the Peking duck sold at a different stall—until I saw the man chop up the entire bird, bones and all, and dump it on a plate.

  She dug around in her oversize bag. “Now where did that wallet get to … .” Eventually, she managed to scrounge enough Malaysian ringgit to pay the man. Then she led me over to a plastic table with two chairs, a container of hot sauces and chilies, and a mangy dog sprawled underneath.

  I fanned my face with my big white hat. My hair was completely soaked. As were my linen blouse and slacks. And we were eating steaming noodles.

  Grandma Gerd dug into her bowl with zest.

  But I first chewed a Pepto-Bismol tablet to coat my stomach (“Cuts instances of traveler’s tummy in half!” exclaimed The Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Malaysia), then thoroughly rubbed the metal spoon with antibacterial soap. Only then did I cautiously sample a spoonful of the curry broth: surprisingly tasty, though a touch on the spicy side. I looked up to see Grandma Gerd gazing at me incredulously.

  “Face it: You’ll get sick in Southeast Asia. Everyone does. No big deal, just your basic cramping and diarrhea that comes from bacteria in food. It’s all part of the experience.” She waved her hand, sending her bracelets into a clinking frenzy.

  “My guidebooks say I won’t get sick if I simply peel all fruit, make sure everything is piping hot, drink only bottled water, liberally apply antibacterial soap—”

  “But there’s no way you can oversee every single itty-bitty detail of your existence. For example: Who knows whether that glass you’re drinking out of was really washed between uses?” I put it down automatically. “Or if a cook with the flu sneezed all over those noodles? Or if that money there was last used by a bank teller who didn’t wash his hands after taking a dump?”

  I stared at her.

  Oh, why couldn’t she be more like Denise’s grandma, who wore floral housedresses, did thousand-piece puzzles, and gave us Circus Peanuts. And who spoke in well-modulated quiet tones.

  I looked down at my noodles. Germs, bacteria, disease—all around me!

  “Uh … I don’t think I’m hungry after all.”

  Grandma Gerd pushed back her empty mee bowl and stood up. “Then if you’re done, let’s get going.”

  “Back to the guesthouse?” I asked hopefully.

  “Unless you want to hit a couple bars. The night’s still young.”

  Was she serious?

  “I think I’d rather go back to the guesthouse, if that’s okay.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  On the way, she stopped to buy something brown, oblong, and prickly at a fruit stall. As she swung the plastic bag she said, “You’re gonna be my right-hand woman this summer.”

  I yawned. “What do you mean?”

  “This summer just so happens to be one of the biggies for me: an art commission. A big art commission. Meaning I can live off it for three years. Beats ESL. I hate teaching ESL. Anyway, it’s a mega-huge collage made completely of
found art, materials, photos, and rubbings from Southeast Asia. I’ve got all the other countries covered. Cambodia and Laos are the only ones left.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Keep your eyes peeled for found art. Think of it as a global scavenger hunt—like this.” She dropped to a squat and pulled something out of the dirt—ignoring the stares of the passersby. She held up her find triumphantly: a strip of yellowed linoleum. She wiped it off with an old rag from her pocket. “Perfect example. Circa 1930 or thereabouts. Can’t you imagine it? The old days of the British Raj. The lady of the house modernizing her kampong … .” She carefully placed it in her bag. “Oh, and there’s a feather.” She pointed at something white at my feet. I handed it to her.

  Why not just dump every bit of trash in the city into her bag?

  I picked up an aluminum Coke can. “Here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Found art.”

  “Uh, no. That’s new, perfect, clichéd. Trash.” And she kept walking.

  Who was this person? I had a whole new empathy for Dad—I couldn’t imagine her being anybody’s mother.

  Half-asleep, I stumbled after Grandma Gerd down the cracked sidewalk, taking care not to step into the open sewer holes. Then it occurred to me it was as good a time as any to accomplish item #6 on my To Do List Upon Arrival: Ask Grandma Gerd what she’s blackmailing Mom and Dad about. And it didn’t hurt to try the straightforward approach—who knew? Maybe it’d work. I took a deep breath:

  “Grandma, what are you bl—”

  “Will you look at that!”

  Grandma Gerd stopped so abruptly that I smacked into her and two elderly Malaysian women carrying bags of vegetables smacked into me. While I helped the women gather up their scattered herbs, tomatoes, and lottery tickets, Grandma Gerd stared transfixed into one of the kedais. This one contained a little bit of everything: padlocks, shiny plastic purses, rope coils, toothbrushes, giant square cookie tins, bottles of fish sauce, and bags of rice. The object of Grandma Gerd’s attention was an empty rice bag lying next to the full rice bags. It was pea green with a red rooster and Chinese characters across the bottom. She picked it up and smoothed out the wrinkles.

  “Have you ever seen anything more sensational?”

  “A rice bag?”

  “Open your eyes. How fantastic is that green? Most rice bags are white or blue. And this exquisite red rooster? Very rare.”

  By this time, the short, squat shop owner had come forward, rubbing her elbow with the pungent menthol salve, Tiger Balm. Grandma Gerd bought the empty rice bag off her for the equivalent of twenty cents, but I could tell she would have paid twenty dollars. The woman didn’t seem to think it strange that a Westerner wanted to buy her trash. But I did.

  “But don’t you see?This is a work of art.” Grandma Gerd was euphoric.

  Was this what was in store for me? Garbage collecting for three months? It sure wouldn’t make for a riveting novel. I guess I’d be forced to embellish.

  And as for my question, I decided to wait for a time with less “artistic” distractions.

  Then finally, finally, we returned to The Golden Lotus.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LIM

  CAUTION! One never, ever brushes teeth with tap water in Southeast Asia. Even in a life-or-death situation, the alternative could well do you less bodily harm than the bacteria flowing out of the faucet.

  —The Savvy Sojourner’s Malaysian Guidebook

  At the golden lotus, Grandma Gerd collected her wallet (“So that’s where it went!”), dried starfish (“And I thought I’d lost you!”), and a large yellow fabric-covered journal off the counter. It was so overstuffed that it required an extra-large blue rubber band to hold the whole thing together.

  She bounded up the sagging stairs, her long legs taking them two at a time. I dragged myself up the stairs after her. Once we reached the fourth floor, I asked—or rather panted:

  “What’s that under your arm?”

  “My Everything Book. I keep everything in here. And I mean everything. Sketches, letters, photos, thoughts, materials, found art—” She waved the Polaroid of me and my stain. “And now this!” Then she paused. “But don’t you get any ideas. This book is for my eyes only. Got it?”

  I was stunned she’d think me capable of snooping. I gave her a cold, “Of course.”

  The guesthouse bedroom was simple: teak wood floors, teak dressers, and mosquito-netting clouds above each teak twin bed. Grandma Gerd’s art supplies were strewn around the room, and a collage-in-progress made out of shells, kelp, bottle caps, and blobs of chewed gum leaned against the wall—which had neither a discernable subject nor a pattern.

  After the twenty-plus-hour plane trip, three-hour car ride, and four-hour wait in the lobby, and our hour excursion to buy food and pick up trash—I was exhausted. All I wanted was to sleep. But first, I had to unpack my toiletries and pajamas from Bag #3.

  Grandma Gerd scooped up a mound of clothes and an empty wine bottle from one of the beds. “There. All yours.”

  Lovely.

  After carefully putting her Everything Book away in the top drawer of her dresser, Grandma Gerd opened the plastic bag and removed the large, oblong fruit with the prickly, brownish skin. She began to cut it into sections with a Swiss Army knife.

  A rancid, sweet, fetid smell filled the room.

  There didn’t seem like much space for my suitcases. “What about my luggage?”

  “Here, taste.” Before I could dodge her, Grandma Gerd shoved a chunk of white into my mouth. The assault on my nostrils and the conflicting savory-sweet-onion-dip taste propelled me into the bathroom, where I deposited my mouthful into the toilet. When I emerged, Grandma Gerd was still chewing contentedly. Savoring.

  “Not your cup o’ tea, eh?”

  “What was that!?”

  “Durian. The most popular fruit in Malaysia. A delicacy. You just don’t have the palate for it. Yet.”

  I shuddered and scraped every last bit off my tongue with a Kleenex. She would be waiting a long time. I’d never encountered a worse flavor in my life—and that included the time when I was five and ate Dad’s antiperspirant deodorant stick.

  She sprawled across my bed, propped her toe-ringed feet up on the bamboo headboard, cramming durian wedges into her mouth. Why couldn’t she do that on her own bed?

  It took the clerk’s son and his preteen brother half an hour to carry Bags #1 through #10 up the narrow flight of stairs. As my luggage filled the room, Grandma Gerd said, with her mouth full of durian:

  “Did you think you were staying until menopause?”

  I couldn’t help but feel irritated. Of anyone, she should know the importance of proper preparation for Third World countries. “A good traveler anticipates every eventuality. Mom says—”

  “Oh yeah, we sure know what Althea would say, don’t we?”

  Grandma Gerd pulled a rubber bag the size of a box of Junior Mints from one of my suitcases and unzipped it.

  “I hate to break this to you but you won’t be needing an inner tube.”

  “It’s not an inner tube; it’s a Traveler’s Friend Hygienic Seat. Dad bought it for me.”

  “A what?”

  I plucked it out of her hand and demonstrated its attributes. “First you unscrew this little nozzle; after it inflates, you place it on the toilet and use the facilities. Once you’re finished, you simply push it back inside the special rubber bag and—this is the revolutionary part—it sanitizes itself! All ready for the next usage. And it doesn’t waste paper like regular seat covers, so it’s environmentally sound.”

  She looked away and coughed, then said, “Anyway, you’ve got to consolidate. You can’t trek through the jungle with all this. I’m shocked the airline let you check it all.”

  Time to change the subject. “So,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

  “Plan?”

  “The comprehensive itinerary for the whole summer.”

  Grand
ma Gerd just stared at me and took another bite of durian.

  “You mean,” I said, my stomach constricting, “you really don’t have a plan?”

  “You want a plan, huh?” She rummaged around in her oversize woven bag and pulled out an envelope. I eagerly took it from her and opened it.

  “But there’s nothing in here.”

  “Exactly. We’re adventurers, kiddo. And adventurers don’t plan. They live. They experience. They LIM: Live in the Moment. That’s what we’re gonna be doing this summer—LIMMING.”

  She can’t be serious. “Mom says that’s just an excuse for people too lazy to plan.”

  “Althea can go—” She stopped herself. Then grinned. “Come on, adventure doesn’t exist when every question is answered in advance. And I already told you, we’ll be going to Cambodia and Laos in search of artistic inspiration and found art. That’s all you need to know.”

  “You mean you don’t have anything planned out? No reservations, no tickets—nothing at all?” My stomach constricted tighter and tighter. I gripped the headboard to steady myself.

  “We’re gonna LIM and love it!”

  “You don’t have an itemized list of ruins, monuments, or views to see for each country?”

  “LIM!”

  “Grandma,” I said in the sternest tone I could manage. “I’d prefer a plan.”

  She got up and stretched. “Well, it’s time for you to hit the sack and for me to get a glass of red. How’s that for a plan?”

  I felt dizzy. I’d never been without a plan before in my entire life. Every single day was precisely mapped out. Take my typical schedule posted on the refrigerator back at home:

  VASSAR SPORE’S DAILY ROUTINE

  5:45 a.m. Arise and exercise!

  6:10 a.m. Shower and grooming and Attitude Check (It’s not a zit, it’s a blemish!)