As frustration sets in, Mr Zhao and his son Wei provide a glimmer of hope. When they come to collect the rent, you ask, with some embarrassment, if they know of any part-time work. Mr Zhao immediately taps his son’s shoulder and they chat for a bit.
Wei turns to you. ‘You can take my place in the cafe.’
‘What? You don’t need to do that!’
You’re worried about Wei’s source of income because you understand – at least from what Wei and Mr Zhao have said – that not every student at a private university is rolling in cash. But it turns out that Wei has been planning to drop one of his jobs so he can devote more time to his thesis. You glance at Mr Zhao, looking for a sign of agreement. The old man nods, which you interpret as support.
‘Have you worked in a cafe before?’ Wei asks.
‘No.’
‘Hmm. That makes it a bit harder.’
At Wei’s suggestion, you add a small fib to your résumé and send it to the cafe manager. You write that you worked for a month at a Chinese restaurant in Flushing that belongs to Wei’s aunt; she’s willing to make up something on your behalf should the cafe manager call. You don’t know why Wei and Mr Zhao are so nice to you, but you’re thankful that you cooked rendang for them.
Less than a week later, you get a call from Tony Saverino, the manager of the cafe where Wei works. He asks you to come at ten the next morning for an interview. You jump for joy.
That night you try to sleep early, but your next-door neighbours are at it again. The festivities kick off with moans of ‘ahhhh’ and ‘ohhhh’ over and over. You put your ear against the wall, curious. The voices of a man and a woman, then panting, ever faster and louder. By eleven o’clock, their moans have taken over your apartment. The woman’s hysterical shrieks make you feel like you’re listening to the live broadcast of a sports event.
No doubt about it, this is a sex fest.
Dammit!
Amid your curses, you imagine – if only for a few seconds – the couple’s antics in the next room. In your head they are changing positions energetically. The man probably has taut, muscular arms, like a porn actor, while his partner – endowed with a perfect body, of course – props her legs, wrapped in black fishnet stockings, on the man’s shoulders.
How tacky can you get? Disrupting a neighbour’s sleep, advertising carnal pleasures, especially to a listener who lives on her own like you? That’s nerve for you. You block your ears, but the moans, punctuated by bursts of coquettish female laughter, grow more and more intense.
Unbefuckinglievable.
The rude couple need to be taught a lesson. You pound on the wall with determination. No reaction. You bang a second time, even harder.
The voices subside. Eventually, you hear nothing.
Your guerrilla attack has succeeded. As the clock strikes midnight, you howl with wicked laughter, like a villain. But let’s not forget: villains lose in the end.
Proceed to page 139.
Shiny Red Boots and Lipstick
My father imprisoned me in order to care for a spirit. My body was a shrine inhabited by my mother’s soul. Souls are always haunted, so they need a home to keep them from wandering everywhere. Father rejected religion, but lack of a religion doesn’t guarantee that someone is any less spiritual or mystical. He seemed to believe that if I left, my mother’s spirit would run away too.
My mother was called Yvette. She handed the name down to me, as my middle name. Father always called me by my first name, Gudrun. Mother’s death came prematurely, and that’s the main thing that pushed my father over the edge. She was diagnosed with cancer, and less than a year later it became terminal. Nowadays people speak of a fight against cancer, but back then, when I was eight years old, I didn’t know if my mother fought or surrendered. The older I got, the more I realised that Mother wanted to leave us. She chose to die. My father knew that.
There was no return after Mother died. Previously, my parents had often quarrelled when she came home late at night. They would argue, Father would shout harsh words, Mother would cry, and before long he would be crying too (I picture him burying his head between her knees and sobbing). The words ‘sorry’ and ‘worry’ would end their arguments. Father was both anxious and jealous. He loved my mother so much that he tied her down.
But Mother managed to escape.
My father was a grim man, quick to anger, but Mother’s death turned him into a monster. He realised that he was very much alone. Though still young, he would have to raise a child, only to be abandoned someday. Father was haunted by departures, deception and death. Because everything would come to an end, he decided to fortify his home against the outside world and the passage of time. Much as he tied my mother down, he locked me up. He wouldn’t let me out of the house after eight o’clock. If I came home late, he would fly into a rage and smash things, only to sob later, overcome with regret. Unlike my friends who left home once they were in university, I stayed with Father until I was twenty-five. Does that mean I was a filial daughter or just a coward? I don’t know. Maybe I simply felt too sorry for him.
Katrin appeared in our lives when I was thirteen. At first she only came on Sunday evenings, but as time went on she began to visit almost every night. Eventually I understood that she was Father’s new girlfriend. I don’t know where she came from originally, but my neighbours seemed to dislike her. Fräulein Else, an old maid who lived right below our apartment, always referred to her as ‘that woman’.
‘Is that woman with your father now?’
On other occasions, Else would observe that Father had chosen carelessly. ‘That woman’ certainly could not be compared with my mother.
Katrin always came to our house in knee-high leather boots. They were red, sombre like congealed cow’s blood, but she’d polish them until they gleamed. When Katrin was in my father’s room, I’d try on her boots. In the mirror, my legs looked so beautiful. Where did she go with those shoes? What kind of world had she seen?
Katrin was always nice to me. She probably wanted to serve as a nurturing mother figure, though I was more interested in imagining where she ventured in her red boots. When Father came back late, she’d cook dinner for me. Sometimes she’d help me with my homework. Maths was hard for her, but she tried.
One night, before Father came home, Katrin taught me how to put on lipstick. I couldn’t take my eyes off hers as she applied it to my lips. The red made her lips appear plumper than they really were. I forget now how her face looked without lipstick. I don’t think she was very pretty, but with lipstick on, her mouth seemed like a cherry. Suddenly I felt hungry.
That night we were too absorbed in doing my make-up to realise that Father had come home. He stormed into my room and tensed when he saw my face, colourful like Katrin’s. He called Katrin’s name and then told me to go and wash the make-up off. From behind the wall I heard arguing. Katrin shouted. Father responded, even more loudly, and soon Katrin began to sob. The door opened and Katrin rushed to pull on her red boots. She fled down our wooden stairs, never to return.
In front of the mirror, I didn’t know what to do but remove the crimson from my lips. I didn’t understand why my tears fell. I needed to hide my thoughts about ripe, red cherries.
Only as I grew older did I realise that my neighbours considered Katrin cheap. Perhaps Father thought so too, and he didn’t want Katrin to teach me to become like her. I wasn’t allowed to become a cheap girl. I reflected the image of my mother’s face, the imagined graceful mother who had never left. But there was one fact that Father knew, though he refused to admit it. My mother escaped.
Mother had gone, died, fled, and I desired to become Katrin. I didn’t want to be locked up, a shrine for Mother’s spirit. I wanted red boots like Katrin’s and to travel where I wanted. I had no interest in luring anyone, but my lips blazed crimson.
I kept wanting to run away but couldn’t. I didn’t have the heart: Father grew ever more dependent on me. And so, I imagined kidnapping scenarios. On
e day somebody would steal me away and give me red shoes that could take me anywhere. In my fantasies, my abductor had no face. Maybe I would be kidnapped by a gang of criminals or a crazed outlaw. Maybe even by the Devil. It didn’t matter. I just needed a miracle to rescue me, to let me leave.
But the years passed, and no kidnapper arrived. So I decided my own fate. There was no abduction, just a departure. Before I left the city, I went into a shop and spent my savings on a pair of boots and blazing red lipstick.
Proceed to the next page.
At the hotel, you open your suitcase and remove your red shoes. Since becoming a tourist in Berlin you have worn your short boots; the red shoes have not greeted the world for a while now. You wonder what Yvette would say if you put them on.
Yvette. Her story continues to ring in your ears. You think over how, after she finished speaking, you asked a question.
‘When exactly did Gudrun become Yvette?’
‘When I decided to leave home,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel closer to both Mutter Courage and my mother.’
Yvette threw away the name from her father and used the one her mother had handed down. Perhaps Juwita Padmadivya, possessor of an unusual name of her own, resembles Yvette. Women who choose their own name, you think. Someday you’ll have to read Brecht.
‘But what happened to your mother’s soul after you left?’ you ask. ‘Now it has no home.’
‘Do you remember that old saying, good girls go to heaven?’
You nod. Then Yvette says that her mother always fought, in her own way. She isn’t convinced that Mother is resting peacefully in heaven. Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go wandering.
‘But because of that I don’t worry about her,’ she says. ‘Mother’s spirit follows me everywhere.’
How strange that you and Yvette share an identical longing for escape. But Yvette had no Demon Lover to give her red shoes; neither did Snow Red come to her. She chose her own shoes and her own adventure.
Although Yvette bought her shoes at a store, she was well aware that she’d inherited them from Katrin. Without Katrin, she’d probably never have wanted red shoes in her life. You stare at your own pair. Red shoes always seem to carry the traces of other women. Who wore these shoes before you? Where have your shoes gone adventuring? What kind of world have they seen?
Do you still need them?
Devil no longer comes to you. Nor do you expect him. You cradle the shoes in your hands. Perhaps their expiry date will arrive sooner than it should, but before then, you’ll need to find the right time to wear them in front of Yvette.
That night you dream. Yvette appears as a beautiful witch, with locks of indigo, clad in a black tutu skirt. Her boots are red, inherited from a woman before her, just as your shoes were. She beckons you to enter a forest. There she lives, in a forest inhabited by wolves. You run to chase after her in your red shoes.
One week after your visit to the museum, you and Yvette dine at an Italian restaurant. She orders a bottle of wine to share.
‘Is your boyfriend planning to join you?’ Yvette asks.
‘What for?’
‘A holiday.’
You shake your head. You didn’t expect such a question from her. Only once, as far as you recall, did you mention a boyfriend (though you didn’t give Devil’s name), but she appears to have noted that information carefully.
‘It was just a guess on my part,’ Yvette says. ‘If you’re really in love with someone, you never want to be alone.’
‘I feel like I’m always shadowed by his presence, though,’ you say. You continue, a little uncertainly, ‘One way or another.’
Devil is not here, but you feel that he’s watching you and occasionally appearing uninvited. He won’t set you free. Please don’t let him be lurking around, you think. You steal a glance at the window.
‘Oh, a possessive man,’ Yvette concludes.
‘Is that typical?’
‘I don’t know, I just know my father.’
She laughs, then adds pepper to her food. She has ordered grilled aubergine and mozzarella, making you wonder how the two alone can satisfy her. The mince on the pasta on your plate smells wonderful.
‘You haven’t finished your story about the movie.’
Yvette frowns. Long enough for her to realise that you wish to return to a previous conversation. The visit to the museum and subsequent meanderings had made you both forget Juwita Padmadivya. Yvette wipes her lips with a napkin, leaving a trace of scarlet.
‘Have you heard of Request Concert?’
You shake your head. She appears to hesitate. Several times she starts to speak, but cuts herself off. It’s so hard to tell someone else’s story, she says. Finally, she pulls a brown envelope from her bag.
‘This is my interpretation of Juwita’s film. You can read it later. I don’t write in a typical style.’
It’s late. You’re tired and want to return to the hotel. Yvette insists on seeing you back even though you tell her she needn’t bother. Yvette knows. I just want to walk with you, she says. You feel a little flushed, perhaps from the wine.
As you walk towards the train station, you come upon two figures dressed entirely in sleek black. They wear black hats. You can’t see their faces clearly, but they seem to be women. They’re working together to carry a gnome figurine. It looks heavy. Although they don’t run, their haste suggests that they’re keen to get away from something. Now and again they each look behind them, as if worried that they’re being trailed. Yvette taps your shoulder.
‘We’re witnessing a kidnapping,’ she whispers.
‘A kidnapping? Who’s being kidnapped?’
‘Him, that old man being carried off,’ she says. ‘The garden gnome.’
‘Why would anyone kidnap a garden gnome?’
You learn from Yvette of an ethical movement to save the gnomes. A society of activists who believe that garden gnomes should live in the wild, not be displayed in gardens to watch over plants. Without a decent wage, confinement to a garden amounts to slavery, and so they kidnap the gnomes and take them travelling. The gnomes are then photographed at famous places and the pictures sent to the owner.
‘That’s totally bizarre.’
‘Yes, but who doesn’t want to travel? It’s the same for garden gnomes.’
‘I want to travel too.’ You pause for a moment. ‘And I like red shoes.’
That night you feel chattier than before. You don’t tell Yvette about Devil, how he suddenly entered your room and presented you with your shoes, but you speak honestly about many things. You tell her how you envied your sister because she studied in a prestigious engineering programme while you failed to get into a top state university. You even tell her about the toy train you called the Orient Express, the English for the Global World course, and how as an English teacher who had never left the country you longed to see the world. You’ve never opened up about so much to anyone, including anybody in that string of loser ex-boyfriends. Yvette also continues her own story, following her escape from her father. You wonder who else has heard these things. She’s ten years older than you. Perhaps ten years ago someone was in your place, listening to her tale of shiny red shoes and lipstick.
About five hundred metres from the hotel, you feel your footsteps slow down. Maybe you’re preoccupied with her story, or you want her to keep listening to you. You forget what you talk about in those last moments, but you feel like you’re buying time.
In front of the hotel you gaze into each other’s eyes. ‘I still feel like talking,’ she says.
You do too but just smile wordlessly.
‘It’s already late though, right?’
‘Right.’
Your movements are awkward. Yvette leans towards you, as if she wants to say something. You tense slightly.
‘Sleep well.’
Her voice is friendly but feels formal, like the voice of a telephone operator.
You wave and enter the hotel. You want to turn towards
her once more, maybe to see if she has gone, but you suppress the urge. You ride the elevator to your floor in a swirl of emotions. Yvette didn’t want the encounter to end there, but she didn’t say so explicitly.
You should have invited her up. That’s another matter, though, and you don’t want to dwell on it.
You sit on the edge of the bed and think. About Yvette. About Juwita Padmadivya. You take out the brown envelope, open it, and begin to read.
Proceed to the next page.
Request Concert
Efforts to decipher Juwita Padmadivya and her experimental documentary have thus far proved unsatisfactory. I therefore offer the following argument: that Juwita’s letters to Nadya Shafik, her friend in America and the editor of her film, are inseparable from a study of both the film’s text and Juwita Padmadivya as text. In building a narrative about Juwita through two mediums, I myself inevitably play the role of another editor. I need not stress that based on the character of this work, with its cutting, pasting and rearranging, you are unlikely to ever locate Juwita.
*
March 23: First Attempt
INT. JUWITA’S ROOM, NIGHT.
JUWITA’s face fills the screen for several seconds. We see her make minor adjustments to the camera position before finally sitting to face the computer. From outside comes the piercing call to prayer from a mosque, slightly discordant. It merges with the buzz of motorbikes and trains. JUWITA, wearing a tight red T-shirt, begins typing. For fifteen minutes we view nothing but this shot, from the same angle, with only small variations such as her staring at the ceiling or scribbling notes on paper.
The Wandering Page 11
