The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  When you return to your building to pack up, the doorman gives you a hefty cardboard box.

  ‘It’s from your next-door neighbour.’

  ‘Meena?’

  ‘They moved.’

  ‘Together?’

  The doorman shrugs. You thank him and bring up the box from Meena.

  Once inside your apartment, you open it to find a variety of spices in small bottles. Cinnamon, candlenut, coriander, chilli, garam masala.

  Thanks for everything. I hope you like this little gift.

  I can’t run away, but of course, as we know, spices travel the world.

  You open a bottle of coriander seeds and inhale its aroma, just as when you saw Meena close her eyes and breathe in deep the scents of herbs and spices, the scents of travel. You will not forget that Devi Masala, the Spice Goddess, has taken you on adventures in her small, noisy kitchen, together with spices that went a-wandering. You will not forget the day you observed her with awe, curiosity and envy as she walked towards the elevator. Meena never wore a sari after that, at least not in front of you. But you know that she’s a goddess, whether she wears a sari or not.

  As you leave the building, you glance at the row of garden gnomes. For the first time you are reminded of Devil’s gift. The Christmas tree is long gone, but the gnomes remain in the lobby.

  Not all of them, though.

  The smallest gnome, the one the size of a wine bottle, has disappeared.

  Perhaps a gnome liberation activist has kidnapped him, saved him from the curse of watching over homes.

  You have a hunch that the liberator is Meena.

  Without Meena, New York seems emptier. You feel like you’ve become trapped in a once tempting option that you no longer want. Is there an emergency exit? You really don’t have any choice but to find it. Turn to page 248.

  Shop Display

  The fateful night comes. You melt into a crowd filing slowly and methodically past a series of display windows. You want to lose yourself among them, to stay safe. You don’t want to be found. In the crowd, it’s hard to distinguish serious shoppers from inquisitive tourists like yourself. You suspect there may be a few women like you, there out of curiosity, unless they’re also customers, that is. The presence of some vapid-looking men entertains you – they stop unmistakably in front of cabin windows, eyes bulging, mouths agape, as much ridiculous spectacle as spectators. Others skirt the crowd rapidly to avoid being trapped within it. They appear indifferent. Maybe they see all this as part of a drab daily routine, and are just keen to hurry home.

  After a round of calculations, if not exactly a confirmation, over reasons why you should visit De Wallen, you have arrived. You couldn’t come up with an excuse, so you flipped the question: why not?

  The reversal makes it easier.

  Why not?

  Your entire life you were forbidden to eat pork. The first time you felt an urge to try it, you asked: why not?

  Maria’s story piques your interest. For days you wrestle with whether curiosity is justification enough to visit. In the early 2000s you really wanted to go to New York to see the ruins of the Twin Towers. But if you’d had the opportunity to visit, what then? What does curiosity mean for those left behind?

  The Red Light District isn’t as complicated as that, you argue with yourself. The place is not so different from Disneyland. It’s even widely promoted by the city government. The women are legal workers who receive health and safety assurances. Maria herself said so.

  Why not?

  So, here you are in this alley, passing window after window showcasing women lit by multicoloured neon. Like everyone else, you stroll slowly for a fuller, more vivid experience. Some women pose provocatively, others look bored. You admire perfect bodies. See-through outfits with sparkly beads, as if tailored for the wearer. Soon you’re experiencing a welter of emotions. You start to feel envy. You no longer see each woman as a whole because your eyes are too busy focusing on body parts. You’ll never have breasts like this girl or a butt like that one, unless you submit to a scalpel and implants. Your thighs are too big. Your boobs aren’t as firm. In your mind, your own body becomes fragmented.

  Most of the women are white, but other bodies have different hues. Your attention is drawn to one brown-skinned woman in pink lace lingerie. She looks Indonesian. Maybe she is Indonesian, or maybe Filipina. She is more petite than the others, but her body is so fine, so beautiful. What if her body was yours? You feel an urge to run your hands over it, ever so slowly, inch by inch.

  Then comes hatred. You hate that they have to be here, valued at fifty euros. If your body were that perfect you wouldn’t sell it for fifty euros. Neither would you offer it up free for an audience; onlookers should have to buy a ticket for the privilege of admiring you nearly nude. This place is crimson, cheap and cheerful. Secure revelry, well guarded by the police. No spectator here is allowed to create a disturbance.

  This is no jungle. There’s nothing mystical here.

  This is a zoo, not because of what is displayed within but because it is too neat and orderly. A soiree waited upon by institutions and bureaucracy.

  You’re a spectator dazzled by flesh, glass and light, a spectator admiring and jealous of the women there. What you see amazes you and makes you wonder. The boundary is clear. They’re in a display window, and you’re on the street. You and they are different women.

  Something is wrong with being a spectator.

  Spectators participate in this zoo. Spectators help construct a world that separates the women on either side of the window.

  Now you know why you want to hide. Maybe you fear your own desire and your hatred.

  You sense that a brunette in a display window is watching you. Maybe she is wondering what you are doing there. Peeping? The woman’s eyes make you realise that it is not only the spectators here who peep. The women behind the glass also peep at you. The watchers are also being watched, and you are not in hiding.

  Then you sense that you have spotted Maria. You approach a woman in a window lit in dim green. Her hair is in blonde curls, like so many women here. Her nimble movements have made way for slow, bored gyrations. She is different, but you’re sure it’s Maria.

  Why, of the entire spectrum of colours, does she choose green? She looks like a whore from outer space.

  You gasp when her eyes find yours. The brief seconds of the encounter leave you shamed, paralysed. She stares straight at you, flatly and drily, before finally turning in the other direction.

  You keep walking. Voices fill your head. Is she comfortable there? Tired? What kind of day are you having, Maria? A Coke machine day?

  You walk fast. Faster. You run away, as if fleeing a disaster.

  ‘You’re judging me.’

  She says it in the morning, in the kitchen, right after you’ve finished making coffee. Your morning hello receives no response. She walks towards you, her expression indifferent, then pours coffee into her mug before you offer her any. She has now metamorphosed from iridescent green whore from outer space into a woman with tired eyes and a dry, slightly scaly face. In the display window, there is no place for wrinkles and pores. Standing near her leaves you feeling awkward. Somehow her presence is slightly threatening. She sips her coffee.

  ‘I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘You’re imagining things.’

  ‘Every woman in my situation can tell. We’re trained for it.’

  You pour coffee into your cup and add sugar, stir, trying to look busy. She takes her coffee into her room, like a hunter offering pardon and releasing its prey. But Maria never pardons you. That is your final kitchen conversation. You still have a week and a half in the apartment, but after that you don’t meet again. Maybe she avoids you, just as you avoid her.

  You haven’t yet digested your experience in the Red Light District, and now you can’t understand the basis of her anger towards you. How strange. She seems to hate having seen you in her workplace, like a curious tourist. But do
n’t millions of tourists go there to satisfy their prurience – or, as many people say, to enjoy the scenery? She certainly knows this after years of standing in the display window. Why should you be any different?

  The kitchen feels lonely. Maria leaves her room to go to the toilet, but soon returns and shuts her door. Tight.

  Someone like you. Tourist. You never thought being a tourist could be so complicated.

  You don’t have an answer for why Maria hated seeing you in the Red Light District, but you can flip the question around:

  Why not?

  After three weeks of you and Maria sharing stories, the question feels valid. Why not?

  Continue on to page 309.

  Emergency Exit

  In autumn, your relationship with Bob grows more serious. He introduces you to his family and even invites you to attend his niece’s wedding in New Jersey. There you meet his ninety-year-old mother, his younger siblings, and his two children with his first wife. Before the event you had already met Angela, the younger, who lives in New York and works as a programme manager at an Asian cultural foundation. At first you thought she’d regard you cynically and be unable to accept that her father was dating a woman her own age. But, to the contrary, Angela is very sweet towards you. Once or twice she even gives you theatre tickets.

  Everyone in Bob’s family warmly welcomes you, except one person, his elder child, Richard. Unlike his sister, he is largely silent. But you know – though initially unsure – that he’s watching you; his eyes study you to the point of making you uncomfortable. He behaves like a nineteenth-century researcher investigating how you speak, how you eat, and how you move, all for the advancement of science. He almost seems to be estimating your height and head circumference. On your second glass of wine, he approaches you, wearing a forced smile.

  ‘My dad says you’re a writer.’

  Somehow his overly soft voice feels slightly threatening. You nod, nervous.

  ‘What’s your book called? Maybe I can google it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not published yet.’

  His eyebrows arch. The corners of his lips rise slightly, as if he is holding back a sneer. Your innocent confession appears to please him. ‘Ah, really? Have you ever taken one of my father’s classes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you met when he was doing research?’

  ‘We met at a cafe, near Washington Square Park. I work there.’

  ‘Oh, he must have been doing some cafe ethnography then.’

  He chuckles, but you don’t find anything funny in the remark. Richard seems satisfied to discover that you’re a nobody. You scan your surroundings, looking for an escape route. Where is Bob? Seriously, you don’t want to stay long in this man’s company.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten. Where are you from again? Guangzhou?’

  ‘Jakarta.’

  ‘Oh, right, right. Sorry, I thought it was Guangzhou. That was his last girlfriend.’

  He apologises repeatedly but you don’t think he’s very sorry. That was surely deliberate. Guangzhou, Jakarta. What’s the difference?

  ‘My father likes to collect antiques from abroad.’

  His soft voice pokes you mercilessly.

  Of course. He collected souvenirs here and there on his expeditions, and even married one of them. That’s how you were born.

  Oh, how you long to launch a sharp retort at this fresh-mouthed man, but you can’t. You just bite your tongue. You don’t want to hurt Bob, and you don’t want to destroy your own hopes either. So you shut up and smile, like a praiseworthy child, full of understanding.

  A blonde woman finally rescues you from this snare. Jennifer, Richard’s wife, comes over and offers you dessert. Richard really is not like his father.

  On the way home, Bob holds your hand. He knows.

  ‘Just ignore Richard. I get fed up with him too.’

  Apparently, Richard’s attitude is a known modus operandi: he always treats Bob’s girlfriends like trash. You don’t ask details, even though you want to know what happened with the woman from Guangzhou, for example. Instead of complaining about his son’s behaviour, you change the subject.

  ‘My visa’s about to expire.’

  You’re a little surprised at your own bluntness. But you’re pleased because you consider the problem more urgent than having your feelings hurt by some obnoxious man.

  Bob’s reaction surprises you even more.

  ‘Then let’s get married.’

  He speaks lightly, as if he’s ready to take you to Vegas on the spot. But he’s not joking. One week later, he presents you with a diamond ring.

  If you still want to marry Bob, turn to the next page.

  If you need to think it over, turn to page 254.

  You firm up your resolve to marry Bob. After living with the professor over the past few months, you can’t see any reason not to. Green-card marriages are common enough these days, and, anyway, doesn’t marrying for love only happen in storybooks?

  At Bob’s suggestion, you stop working at La Candela, not because he wants to force you to become a housewife, but because he feels you should concentrate on writing and finish your novel. He clearly worries about your habit of relaxing at home after work on the excuse of being tired. As a professor who has published four books and dozens of journal articles, it makes him edgy that he never sees you writing. You’re happy to quit, and Bob is happy when he finds you sitting at your laptop. He doesn’t need to know that all you’ve written is one crappy paragraph and that you’ve spent more time browsing clothes on eBay.

  ‘Maybe someday you can be the first author from Indonesia to make the New York Times’ 100 notable books of the year list.’

  ‘But I write in Indonesian.’

  ‘We can find a translator.’ Bob’s voice rises. ‘I’ll ask a friend who knows lots of fiction publishers.’

  Suddenly he becomes very serious. He wonders who the prominent Indonesian writers are and why he’s never heard of any of them. You don’t read much Indonesian literature, but you can name at least a dozen favourite books.

  ‘Then why don’t we hear of Indonesian writers outside the country?’

  You shrug, but mutter to yourself: hey, if people here don’t hang with the cool kids, whose fault is that? My friends?

  Bob is still jabbering about how important it is for Westerners to discover the treasures of Indonesian literature. Representation is critical, he says. ‘Chinese writers are already well known, Hong Kong writers are well known, Indian writers too. We don’t hear anything from Indonesia, Indonesia needs to be given a voice.’

  You ask, 250 million people are supposed to be represented by me? Wow, just like the Doll Castle at Ancol Dreamland, Dolls of all Nations, one doll for each country. Well then, if you’re going to become a famous writer, representing Indonesia around the world, you’d better get your ass in gear and buy some nice outfits. Half listening to Bob as he pontificates, you open eBay and scan a number of patterns on offer: floral, polka dot, tartan, leopard print.

  Bob’s world is preparing keys to doors that lead who knows where, and you’ve long known you want in. Yes, it’s an unequal economic relationship, but you hardly see yourself as a victim. He’s a good man, and you never complain of being near him. All members of his family accept you – even if not with great enthusiasm – apart from Richard who continues to belittle you. But you don’t need to worry about him. Let him talk trash. He can’t do anything. Whether he likes it or not, he’ll become your stepson.

  Bob informs his family about the wedding plans. He feels that he doesn’t have to invite friends to the reception, but his most important family members do need to be there.

  ‘Maybe we should get married in Indonesia?’

  ‘No! You’ll end up having to invite a whole village, including a dukun and a pawang hujan.’

  ‘A pawang hujan? What’s a pawang hujan?’

  ‘A rain master, to control the weather.’

  ‘OK, OK, maybe we can j
ust bring your parents to the US?’

  You’ve never thought about it. Now you wonder who you’ll invite to your wedding. You don’t have friends here. Suddenly you realise that you’re entirely alone. How are your father and mother? Not once have you thought about them. You are clearly a faithless child. Malin Kundang.

  If you want to hear (again) the story of Malin Kundang, turn to page 23.

  You have returned from page 23 (or maybe you never visited it?).

  You hope to wipe out your footprints, but one shoe always gets caught behind you. You feel as if you want to break all ties, become an orphan, like a character in adventure books. Recently you received a short email from your sister:

  Your new niece was just born. Her name is Nazeera Dafa Zhafira. Don’t forget to bring a gift for her when you come back to Indonesia, OK?

  Another new baby, another Arabic name. So much for Dewi, Wati and Sari. You don’t get it. Your sister already has two children, one of whom is named Nazwa Salsabila Azzahra (or is it Nazwa Karima Maghfira?). Why doesn’t she just quit already?

  You reply to the email with a short note of congratulations. You don’t ask for news about her first or second child or your parents. If there’s no news that they’re sick, that’s good news. It means they’re fine. That’s enough. You don’t need to invite them to your wedding. Maybe later, if you get tired of being on the road, you’ll bring Bob to meet them. Father, Mother, congratulations! You have a white son-in-law.

  You think of Devil. He won’t be happy to hear of your wedding plans, but you have no choice. He’s abandoned you without so much as a word about visas or money, so he’s played a role in this decision. It’s not only the devil who can be imperious.