‘The next song is by Mel Carter,’ Little Johnny says into the microphone. ‘It’s called “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me”.’
The atmosphere shifts from steamy to melancholic. The bright yellow stage lights have turned magenta.
‘Let’s dance,’ Yvette says.
She takes your hand and leads you to the centre of the dance floor, near the stage. Little Johnny sings like a lover drunk on passion. You stiffen when Yvette wraps her arms around your waist. Your steps are halting. You glance at Little Johnny, and he tosses you a knowing smile and a wink.
Yvette’s hair is soft against your cheek. For the first time, you gaze into her eyes. In the darkness they drag you deep into a forest. What is bewitching you – your red shoes or her gaze? You suddenly remember following Yvette into the forest in your dream. Did she pull your hand or did you chase her? You can’t go home, don’t want to go home. They’ll curse you. You want to be kidnapped, like those who long for Snow Red.
What lies in the forest? The past, or the future?
You seek the answer in her red cherry lips.
Maybe you shouldn’t let this woman cast you into a forbidden forest. You wonder who has ever stood in the dark with her.
After the show, you spend the night at Yvette’s. In the morning she wakes you and invites you into her study. She opens the closet to reveal a couple of dozen red shoes in various styles arrayed inside.
‘My God,’ you mutter. ‘I’ve only got one pair.’
‘I have fourteen. Every year since leaving my father behind, I buy another pair of red shoes. They’re sort of milestones for me.’
‘You’re crazy.’
You keep thinking about the previous night. Maybe everything that happened was an accident. Getting drunk makes you want to cross borders. It probably wasn’t just the alcohol, but the rhythm of the music, Little Johnny’s seductive voice, and the cherry lips that aroused your hunger. After that, however, not a day passes for you without Yvette. You keep meeting for coffee and are anxious when you have to go back home, like an addict: you want to drink coffee, over and over again, and you realise you crave something more. You want to crush her lips and to glance at the mirror, heart pounding, and find traces of red lipstick planted all over your nose, cheeks and mouth. You stay more often in her apartment, and in the morning you wake amid a welter of overlapping feelings: confusion, frenzy, longing. You never imagined you’d arrive at this point and feel such emotions. Maybe you’ve crossed a boundary, never to return.
‘I have to be honest with you,’ you say one morning.
You’re making breakfast for Yvette in the kitchen as she hugs you from behind and kisses your neck. You tremble as you feel her soft lips and warm tongue on your skin.
‘We need to talk.’
‘You sound like you’re in a movie,’ Yvette says as she ruffles your hair.
You and Yvette sit opposite each other at the kitchen table. You put down two plates of pancakes, dripping honey, with strawberries. Yvette has taught you how to make them because your repertoire consisted only of instant noodles. In the middle of breakfast, you confess: ‘I’ve never felt this way before. I don’t know what to call how I feel. But I want to always be with you. I think I’m addicted.’
Yvette stops chewing and puts down her fork. Now her hands are on yours.
‘Yvette, do you think I’m just experimenting? Pretending? Do you think I’m – ? Oh, hell, I can’t even say the word, because I don’t think that’s me.’
‘Do you think I’m pretending to want you?’
You shake your head.
‘I don’t think you’re pretending,’ she says.
‘I don’t know who I am. What do I call myself now?’
‘Maybe –’ Yvette looks at you intently. ‘Maybe you should stop worrying about labels and putting yourself in a box.’
‘I’ve never fallen in love with a woman. I don’t even know if I like women. All I know is that I’m in love with you.’
‘And that’s not enough?’
You’re taken aback. That’s enough – more than enough. You’ve never fallen in love with anyone in this way. Yvette smiles, then she bites a strawberry. You are reminded of red lipstick and how you want traces of it all over your body.
‘Come here,’ Yvette says softly.
Exactly one month after your arrival in Berlin, you drag your stuff out of the hotel and move into Yvette’s place. Who are you now? Together with Yvette, have you crossed over, never to return? You don’t know the answer. But maybe Yvette is right. Labels and boxes don’t matter any more when you always want to be with someone, hear her whole life story, or trace your fingers through her hair when you’re worn out after making love.
Your visa is still valid for two months, but after that you have to go back to New York. Your residence permit for the US is valid until the fall of next year. ‘Maybe we can go together,’ Yvette says. ‘We can live in New York, then come back to Berlin.’
It sounds like a fun plan.
In your last days before leaving for New York, Demon Lover appears abruptly. He knows Yvette is not home, so he rings the doorbell, disguised as a Domino’s Pizza delivery man. He tries to tease you with hugs and kisses, then wails for you to come back, but the strategy fizzles. He is furious.
‘Our contract is cancelled, finished,’ he declares.
His crimson eyes blaze, and in a flash he disappears. But before he does, he spits out a question:
‘Are you sure this is your best choice of adventure?’
Proceed to page 410.
Does Vijay Prasad think of you? You finally receive your answer in a most painful manner. In a word: no. He does not. He’s not interested in you in the slightest, even though you’ve fallen for him, hope for him to show up at the cafe every day, and occasionally make him the object of masturbation fantasies on dull nights. This isn’t a love that leaves you in agony. It’s not even love, as you don’t know if you’ve ever really loved anyone. Sure, sex with Demon Lover intoxicated you, but you’re not exactly weeping or wailing for him, maybe because he upset you so often. You haven’t known Vijay long enough to feel either intoxicated or in pain. What hurts is how the truth was revealed.
That night, after work, his presence in your apartment lobby catches you completely off-guard. You find him standing in front of the elevator. At first he’s confused to see you as well, but then greets you with a friendly expression. He’s visiting someone who lives in your building. You both enter the elevator, and you hit the button for the eighth floor. He does not press a button.
Your heart pounds and your imagination runs wild. Maybe he wants to see you home before he meets the ‘someone’. It would be even better, of course, if there were no someone and Vijay is just making excuses to see you to your apartment. Then you can invite him in and you’ll get what you’ve been after.
The elevator door opens. You step out, and he follows. ‘Your friend lives on this floor?’
Vijay says yes.
‘What a coincidence.’
‘A real coincidence, yes.’
You and Vijay walk the eighth floor’s corridor together. You continue your small talk, not important, but the longer it lasts, the more forced it feels. Now he looks uncomfortable, as if something has dawned on him, and his pace slows. You’re on your way to the same spot.
‘I’m headed here,’ he says quietly.
He stops at your neighbour’s door. Likewise, you stop, feeling bewildered at first, and then stupid.
He’s about to visit that feral woman.
You and Vijay look at each other, awkwardly, at the door of her apartment. His face flushes crimson. You’re each trapped with the same unbearable knowledge. Someone needs to put an end to this miserable moment. You take the initiative.
‘See you later, then,’ you say.
Vijay nods, smiling stiffly. You step towards your apartment. He pretends he’s not watching you, but you know he won’t ring the bell until you’ve gone in. Y
ou turn the key and hastily shut the door behind you, rescuing yourself.
There’s no doubt that he was mortified.
In your kitchen, his awkward expression stays with you. He could never have imagined that you were the neighbour he’d disturbed on those sweaty nights, the neighbour who pounded on the wall, annoyed and jealous. You, neighbour as well as cafe acquaintance, have been earwitness to his uninhibited escapades with that wild creature.
Vijay was clearly miserable, and so are you. You find it difficult to accept that the porn star of your imagination is in fact Vijay, who is more on the scrawny side than a broad-shouldered, hard-muscled stud.
At your little dining table, you poke at your instant noodles. The aroma is enticing. MSG makes you ravenous even though the noodles soon feel like rubber on your tongue.
At least you can cross Vijay’s name off the list of potential men in your orbit. A mental ‘list’ that you put together without much consideration, which is actually not something to be too proud of. Vijay has been number one, with Fernando and Bob at two and three. You sigh. Adventures don’t always offer unlimited choice.
You’ve demolished the instant noodles and take out some Ben & Jerry’s from the freezer. As you scoop out the ice cream, your mind shifts from Vijay to the wanton woman in the violet sari.
She’s becoming more mysterious in your eyes. What does Vijay see in her?
The ice cream feels soft and cold on your tongue. Your teeth grind the crunchy almonds into smithereens.
Ah, wrong question. Isn’t it obvious what Vijay sees in her? She’s a freak in bed. One hot mama.
That night no noise penetrates the walls of your room. Vijay must have told her about his encounter with you and made a point of urging his lover to be more well mannered in her fucking.
Proceed to the next page.
The Neighbour’s Love Story
It’s bizarre how obsessed you become with the wild woman in the purple sari. At first, you think of her as a jealous rival would. How could she land sexy Vijay, smart Vijay, Vijay, that cosmopolitan creature? What does she have that you don’t? Fine, let’s say that Vijay does have particular tastes and is into women who are … expressive, even screamers, in bed. But what was it that attracted him to that slut in the first place? You remember the day you saw her from behind, walking towards the elevator. Her face was obscured. Maybe she’s extraordinarily beautiful, but more likely not. Maybe she’s smart and funny. Maybe she’s sexy.
You shake your head, arguing with yourself. From behind she looked elegant, serene, but not sexy. It’s hard to envision a woman like that going crazy in bed. You can picture her cooking in the kitchen. Knitting in a rocking chair, maybe. She’d probably look sweet in a hijab. You imagine your neighbour in a variety of identities, but sex bomb isn’t one of them.
What kind of woman is she really? Is she a little dove tease or a sweet thing with an itch that needs scratching?
Your curiosity grows and becomes a much greater obsession than your idle Vijay fantasies. You want to spy on your neighbour, study her face and observe her behaviour. But that’s clearly out. There has to be a safe way to do some recon.
You remember the rendang you made for Mr Zhao.
Surely no one in this world turns away a generous neighbour bearing gifts of food.
Armed with a serving container of rendang, you knock on her door. You wait a good while until she comes out. In front of you she stands, cinnamon-skinned and with freely flowing locks. Her big eyes stare straight at you.
Well, well, here she is, the woman who howled like a banshee while bonking your dream man. Bitch.
Without a sari, she’s not as radiant as a Bollywood star. You stifle signs of your delight. She wears a faded grey sweater, dark loose trousers and wool socks. Thirty, maybe? She squints at you with suspicion. But she doesn’t look like a predator. You smile, your expression just a little too friendly.
‘Hi! I’m your neighbour.’
You don’t say ‘next-door neighbour’ because you don’t want to embarrass her (or is that anger her?). You concoct a little tale about how you made too much food and are keen to share. She frowns. There aren’t any holidays this month. Christmas, Chinese New Year, Diwali, they’ve all passed.
‘Maybe you’d like to try some Indonesian food?’
She accepts, even though your offer seems a little forced. Forced smile, forced manners.
‘Thank you.’
You expect a husky, sexy voice, but it’s utterly unremarkable, the sort of voice you’d hear over the phone from a customer service agent at a bank. There’s nothing mysterious or glamorous about it.
You say goodbye. She thanks you again, and you return to your room with a sense of satisfaction. You’ve finally seen her, and she’s just an average human being. Sweet enough, but certainly no goddess. Maybe Vijay’s tastes aren’t so remarkable. You feel like you’ve emerged victorious in the little competition you’ve created, taking the same sort of pleasure you would if you learned that your ex had ended up with someone no more attractive than you.
Her moans ring in your ears. Are they happy? You sure hope not.
Her name is Meena.
You discover that later. To your surprise, your first conversation is not the last. In fact, the meeting launches a series of unexpected encounters.
Meena appears a few days later at your door. She returns your container, now filled with half a dozen warm samosas. This time she is friendlier, her expression genuinely curious as she asks about your rendang.
‘Did you use lemongrass?’
The question catches you off-guard. She has not mentioned her name, and you have yet to formally introduce yourself. You anticipated that she’d make small talk about how long you’ve lived there, what you think of the weather these days and so on. Instead she engages you straight away over lemongrass.
Blushing slightly, you confess that you used an instant spice mix because a fine rendang is so time-consuming. You don’t have the patience. She nods, understanding.
‘I add a little seasoning. Onion, garlic, chilli –’
‘Lots of coriander?’
‘How did you know?’
She chuckles. All of a sudden you feel that your question is naive and betrays you for the amateur chef that you are. You tell her how you’ve relied on spice mixes as you’ve learned to cook over these last few months. Your repertoire is limited: rendang, rawon, fried liver in chilli sauce, and pasta, of course. You always keep a few bottles of bolognese and Alfredo sauce in your cupboard. Instant spice mixes are your saviour, you say.
‘Oh, yes, yes.’ She tries to look as though she agrees. ‘You cook really well. I wouldn’t have known you’re a beginner.’
Now you have a chance to study her more closely. Her features have a sweetness to them, and you can actually picture her as a Bollywood star. She reminds you of Kajol in the role of Shahrukh Khan’s lover in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. You remember how the film was constantly playing on television back home.
Your neighbour asks about Indonesian restaurants in New York. You name all the ones scattered around Queens. There are fewer than five, and you’ve been a customer at each of them, especially before you started cooking.
‘They’re all in walking distance.’
Your news seems to excite her. That’s when you introduce yourselves more formally, in the middle of a conversation about favourite dishes (rendang at Minang Asli, batagor at Mie Jakarta; both restaurants are nearby). Apparently, she’s lived in the apartment for a few years. You apologise for keeping her standing at the door and invite her in. She declines politely.
‘Next time.’
She’s not lying.
The invitation comes on a scrap of paper slipped under the door. The message is brief: Hello, would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow? Call me at 646-xxx-xxxx. Meena.
She opens the door wearing a blue apron; her hair is up in a bun, strands loose at the sides. You have to admit that today she looks beaut
iful. For the first time, you set foot in her apartment, which is suffused with the scent of onions. It’s a one-bedroom, identical to yours, but feels fuller. The main space is divided in striking fashion: kitchen, non-kitchen. Meena’s cooking space is bedlam; piles of plates and pans, saucepots and seasonings, and containers of oil all bulge giddily from the cupboard. The stove is splattered with stains. You have a hunch that the kitchen sees a whirr of activity every single day.
Beyond that, the flat is smartly furnished. Next to the cooking area and its chaos stands a dining table with four chairs, in contrast to your two. A scarlet tablecloth is fringed with beads. Stepping further inside, you see a bright red sofa with two cushions that match the tablecloth. She owns a television, but it’s not on. Your apartment, with its simple black futon for furniture, feels very spare. Here everything aside from the hyperactive kitchen occupies its place serenely. The absence of photos in the living room surprises you at first, but then you note the closed door of the bedroom. Ah, of course. Meena keeps her pictures there, in that room, the chamber for her delirious trysts with Vijay.
You swallow.
‘It’ll be done soon.’
Meena’s voice prevents you from conjuring lewd images. She invites you to sit on the sofa until she finishes cooking. You move towards the kitchen and offer to help, but she tells you not to bother. You stand behind her, watching as she chops onions. Her fingers, long and agile like a dancer’s, throw the diced onions in a pot. You glance at the slew of freshly used spice bottles on her counter. Reds, yellows, greens. Like a rainbow, but bolder. You’ve imagined her cooking, but not like this, not in such a state of chaos. You imagined a neat and orderly kitchen, not this raging mess.
The pot of steaming ruddy sauce arouses your appetite.
‘It looks delicious.’
‘The chicken tikka masala? Ever had it?’
‘Maybe. I forget.’
The Wandering Page 15
