The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  ‘Oooh … I love New York!’ says the receptionist. ‘Hey, this is a real coincidence! Three South East Asians meeting in San Francisco.’

  ‘A coincidence,’ the man in the grey suit repeats. ‘Usually, a coincidence is a sign.’

  ‘A sign! I know what it means. There will be a fiesta!’ the receptionist says with a dramatic flourish.

  ‘Hmmm, could be.’

  ‘Just kidding! Only Pinoys likes parties. Singaporeans don’t like to party. They like business.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just a stereotype! What do Indonesians like?’

  ‘Going to the mosque,’ you say, getting ready to leave.

  The receptionist laughs and says, ‘If you need anything, feel free to contact me. My name is Noel.’

  You politely excuse yourself and withdraw from this ASEAN mini-caucus. After six hours of flying, you’re too tired for chat, let alone a fiesta. That night you don’t go anywhere, preferring instead to soak in the tub and head straight to bed so you can explore tomorrow. You speak with Bob briefly. He’s on his way to the airport, heading for Frankfurt.

  At eight the following morning you wake up hungry. Without washing your face or putting on make-up you go down to the restaurant for breakfast, intending to smuggle a coffee back to your room afterwards. The Singaporean Malay you met yesterday is sitting in a corner, again in a grey suit. His fedora lies on the table, next to a black coffee and a half-eaten sandwich. He is looking towards the floor gloomily, but as soon as he notices you a broad smile lights up his face.

  ‘Good morning.’

  You return the greeting and place your breakfast tray on the table next to his. He mentions his name again, Husein Ramli, and attempts some small talk. How did you sleep? How many hours is the flight from New York? At first he speaks Malay, perhaps out of respect for your shared cultural heritage, but it turns out that the differences between Malay and Indonesian make the conversation a little clumsy. Finally, you speak English; he speaks Singlish. He asks if you like the hotel.

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s small, but nice,’ you say.

  ‘Look at the floor,’ Husein says. ‘It’s perfect, lah.’

  You study the black-and-white tiles at your feet. Geometric motifs stretch as far as your eyes can see. You blink. The longer you look, the dizzier you get from its repetitive patterns.

  ‘Yeah, it’s beautiful. But I don’t want to look at it for too long.’

  ‘Like finding a labyrinth in your head, isn’t it?’

  The sentence unsettles you a bit, but Husein, in a friendly tone, changes the subject. He asks if you’ll go sightseeing today. Chewing your ham and cheese, you listen to him chatter about a number of areas worth visiting.

  ‘You ought to go to Chinatown,’ he suggests.

  ‘OK. But we have a Chinatown in New York too. Maybe tomorrow, if I still have time.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He nods. ‘Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.’

  You frown and wonder what it was about your answer that offended him.

  ‘I meant –’

  Husein chuckles at your confusion.

  ‘You don’t know the lines?’

  ‘What lines?’

  ‘Chinatown!’ he says. ‘Watch the film, then let me know whether you think I’m like Jack Nicholson.’

  That morning you learn that Husein has worked as an art curator in Singapore, but he loves San Francisco more than any city he has ever visited. He lived here for a few months many years ago. ‘Maybe a few months wasn’t long enough,’ you say, ‘for you to get bored.’ You mention that tourists perpetuate myths about New York, but as you’ve seen for yourself in your neighbourhood, Jackson Heights, the city isn’t as glamorous as you’d once imagined.

  ‘The problem is,’ Husein says, ‘I have a history in San Francisco.’

  Husein doesn’t continue the conversation. He has to leave, but he offers to accompany you tomorrow. Maybe he’s just making more small talk. You smile, say thank you, and return his pleasantries.

  You go back to your room with your smuggled coffee. Bob will have just arrived in Frankfurt and will still be busy, so you don’t try to skype him. You flip open the guidebook again. Some of the places that Husein mentioned are there, and you weigh up starting your walking tour at Lombard Street.

  You open your suitcase to prepare your exploration outfit. Exploring. How fun. You glance at your red shoes poking out from under a pile of clothes. The shoes haven’t seen the outside world for a long time.

  You step out from the hotel in a knee-length black dress and your red shoes. Noel, the Filipino receptionist, is smoking a cigarette beside a rubbish bin. He lavishes praise on your shoes, and you thank him warmly. His eyes never leave your feet, and he can’t contain himself.

  ‘Ayayay! Those shoes would make Imelda Marcos jealous!’

  ‘She probably has ten pairs.’

  ‘No doubt. Have fun, sis!’

  Back in the 1920s Lombard Street was built so that it twisted because it was too steep for cars, your tour guide informs you.

  At eleven o’clock, when you reached Lombard Street and its famous curves, you stumbled coincidentally yet again upon Husein in his grey suit. He volunteered his services as a guide willing to regale you with tales of the city. When you arrived, he was standing hushed, almost as if in shock, gazing down. This is the third time you’ve run into each other. He seems to be everywhere. You hope he’s not a ghost.

  He then speaks of coincidences. ‘My life is full of them,’ he says. ‘And maybe our run-ins are the latest instalment. Why do we keep bumping into each other?’

  You shake your head, saying that you were just following one of his recommendations. Maybe, he says, the receptionist was right. It’s a sign that there’ll be a fiesta.

  For a few moments the two of you lapse into silence, staring at the rows of houses lining the road. You walk down, Husein following. And as you head back up, you recall that Husein said he was busy today.

  ‘I thought so, but I can accompany you for a while.’

  ‘For a while’ means traipsing around the city together for the next three hours.

  ‘You’ve lived in San Francisco, right?’ you ask. ‘Why are you sightseeing like a tourist?’

  ‘I’m not a tourist.’

  ‘No? What do you call yourself then?’

  ‘A flâneur.’

  ‘And what sort of creature is that? Not some kind of tourist?’

  He is momentarily taken aback.

  ‘Probably a tourist too.’

  You’re not interested in continuing this rather confusing conversation.

  ‘I met someone once, here on Lombard Street, accidentally.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Have you ever been followed by a ghost?’

  ‘Hmm … No, not a ghost. But by a demon, maybe.’

  Your words amaze him, as if you’ve given precisely the right answer to make him put his trust in you.

  ‘Someone is haunting me,’ Husein says.

  ‘Ha, I like ghost stories.’

  ‘Do you want to hear mine?’

  You pause for a moment. The man seems overly animated, as well as a little tense. Are you sure you want to hear his story?

  Continue on to page 272.

  Unfortunately, you don’t yet fulfil the criteria needed to hear this story. Please explore San Francisco on your own. When you get bored, fly down to Los Angeles.

  Turn to page 297.

  You may become privy to this tale after answering two questions.

  Question 1:

  How would you react if you read a novel and found a character almost identical to someone from your past?

  The answer depends on how you see yourself. Are you: a) pragmatic, b) romantic or c) obsessive?

  If you’re a pragmatist, you’ll say that the world is filled with patterns and repetitions. There’s no need to treat every coincidence as sensational. If you’re a romantic, you’ll extend the invisible thread between yourself and the author, a
mystery that transcends continents and languages. The author never needs to know.

  This story, however, is for those who favour c, the heavenly option. If you’re obsessive, you’ll take the path of our friend Husein, even though you know it won’t lead you anywhere.

  Question 2:

  Have you ever done one of the following?

  a) Visited a city that fascinated you so much that you wanted to be a part of it. You tried to imitate its inhabitants and how they talked, walked and played, until one day nobody realised you were in disguise, including yourself.

  b) Upon a first meeting, claimed to be someone else, either to impress or to avoid that person.

  c) Worn a wig.

  d) Dressed up for a costume party, Halloween or carnival.

  e) Been born and raised in Kansas, felt depressed and wanted to leave.

  If you answered yes to any of the above, you may continue listening to the story. If not, please return to page 271. If you’re still unsure, please consult the FAQ text box below.

  Frequently Asked Questions:

  Q: I’m pragmatic but sometimes romantic. May I hear the story too?

  A: I’m concerned that you won’t understand our friend Husein, but of course you may.

  Q: I’m not in the pragmatic, romantic or obsessive category, but I consider myself possessive. Do I get to join?

  A: Sure thing! But I won’t add a fourth type.

  Q: My life is quite a happy one, so none of the five categories in Question 2 apply to me. Who has ever experienced such silly stuff, anyway?

  A: Obviously something is wrong with you. Go back to page 271.

  If you’re still here, turn to the next page.

  Wigs

  San Francisco, 2005

  Karina appeared like a ghost on Lombard Street at 10 a.m., on a lonely spring morning as I gazed down, looking for where the road ended and thinking about its curves. Bends are necessary because whatever is steep is dangerous. Often you need to take the sharpest turn before you finally arrive safely at home. Or at least so I thought until that morning.

  She stood not far from me, frozen, staring at the road from behind her sunglasses. Until then I’d believed myself to be alone. She wore a sleek classic grey pant suit, its style from four decades earlier. Her hair especially caught my attention: straight bangs of dark brown that remained motionless even in the breeze, like the hair of a mannequin.

  ‘Good morning.’ She finally removed her sunglasses and smiled at me. An Asian face, beautiful. ‘First time in San Francisco?’

  Somehow she knew. I don’t carry a camera because I hate to be considered a tourist.

  ‘Nobody except a tourist lingers on Lombard Street,’ she said, as if she could read my mind.

  ‘So you’re sightseeing too?’

  She shook her head. ‘My family is in Kansas, but I’ve been here for three months. I

  come here a lot, for some basic therapy.’

  ‘Therapy?’

  ‘I’m afraid of heights.’

  Her self-treatment didn’t exactly qualify as challenging. Nobody falls on this road. Its bends are regular. Rows of houses and flowers on the left and right have turned it into an urban park. Safe, domesticated.

  ‘We have to start off easy. Places that aren’t scary,’ she explained. ‘The Golden Gate Bridge comes later.’

  She invited me into her car, so I could see what it felt like to drive down Lombard Street. The experience, I have to admit, was hardly special, no more memorable than a lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf. She accompanied me because she didn’t have any plans for the day. I wondered if I was lucky or facing danger. After all, it’s not every day that such a beautiful creature abruptly materialises, with no other plans, volunteering to become one’s tour guide. I hoped she wasn’t a serial killer. But the information I learned later convinced me that she was no criminal. Her name was Karina Lam and she was a second-generation Vietnamese immigrant. Her parents came over as boat people right after the war. It certainly sounded to me like she spoke English with an American accent (or, to borrow the American term, ‘without an accent’), and she said she didn’t understand Vietnamese at all. She was twenty-six and had just stopped working at a publishing company because she’d had enough of her job.

  ‘How does it feel to go to Vietnam but not speak the language?’

  ‘I’ve never been,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘The only other language I speak is French.’

  She’d graduated with a degree in French literature and read Balzac in her spare time.

  ‘What do you do in Singapore?’ she asked, after I told her that I was participating in a cultural exchange programme in San Francisco for four months.

  ‘I used to study fine arts, then I became a curator,’ I explained briefly. ‘What do you do now?’

  ‘Fun stuff.’

  ‘Like therapy for fear of heights?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Like singing in nightclubs.’

  She handed me a card with the address of a lounge in Haight-Ashbury. She would be singing later that night, at nine o’clock, performing songs from the seventies. I’ll do my best, I said, because that night I’d been invited to a party hosted by the foundation that was funding my stay in San Francisco.

  Maybe I sounded as if I was playing hard to get, but I really didn’t want to give the impression of being overly intrigued.

  ‘No problem. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’

  I felt like I was listening to a magic spell. At eight that night, at the party, I drank a glass of wine and chatted with artists while stealing constant glances at my watch. After greeting a few people I considered important, I hurried outside and took a taxi to the club where Karina was singing.

  *

  Chapter 2

  Saigon, 2001

  10 p.m. at the nightclub. Jeffrey Winston arrived late. Karina Le, in a sparkling silver chemise, was singing her last song. Her straight dark brown hair framed her face, a little too neatly.

  Jeffrey chose a seat in a corner of the bar. He was still panting, trying to catch his breath. He had just been in a cafe with Trung Nguyen and a colleague of his, held back in discussion about their theatre project. They had talked for hours, but, as ever, Jeffrey was neither willing nor able to cut short a conversation when Trung was involved. Trung eventually departed for a family gathering, leaving Jeffrey to hear further details from his colleague. Though keen to go hear Karina perform again, Jeffrey stayed on, knowing how much the project meant to Trung.

  Now Jeffrey allowed himself to become immersed in infatuation like a teenager. Karina stared out into the audience at him, though later he wondered whether her eyes were fixed on him or another man sitting behind. He wanted to break her stare, but the opposite occurred. Karina’s gaze left him fragile, transparent, simple to read.

  After her last song, Karina descended from the stage, the audience’s applause trailing after her. The club’s lighting grew dimmer, but Jeffrey’s adoration remained bright. Ever more clearly he saw Karina sway in her sparkling chemise, striding towards him. Jeffrey felt sure he had never met a woman as beautiful as Karina in all his life, but something in her appearance evoked a sense of intimacy, as if he had long dreamed of her. He ransacked his brain for words that would sound smart and sexy. When Karina arrived at his side, he managed a nervous smile and blurted out:

  ‘Your hair is nice.’

  *

  San Francisco, 2005

  ‘You know this is a wig, right?’

  I should have known from the start. Her hair was too perfect, but I didn’t care, because it was impossible to separate her hair from her whole being.

  ‘I’m imitating my muse, my inspiration. Anna Karina.’ Then she added, worried I didn’t recognise the reference, ‘A French star of the 1960s.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But why? Because you have the same name?’

  Without answering, she turned and greeted the bartender.

  When she had a martini in hand, I asked her another questi
on. ‘So, you’ve been travelling the world and having all sorts of fun?’

  ‘All sorts of fun? Where?’

  ‘Monte Carlo?’

  ‘Oh.’ She laughed, realising I was referring to the song she had just been singing. As far as she was concerned, Charlene’s ‘I’ve Never Been to Me’ was a conservative, if not sappy, narrative about travel. Its message: your adventure is meaningless without returning to a home, or more precisely, to a household.

  ‘That’s not what you want?’

  ‘What? To return to Kansas and marry some random white guy?’ she said with a sneer.

  ‘Then why do you sing that song?’

  She sipped her drink, then stroked my cheek. ‘It’s so retro and it’s fun, darling.’

  *

  Singapore, 2007

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  It wasn’t the legal implications that Isaac Ginsberg was thinking of when he inserted this cautionary note in his novel. I believe he was covering up a living, breathing plot that existed outside the book I held in my hands. And if you knew Karina, you’d understand how he intended the note to be read. As an invitation.

  ‘Think about it,’ Karina said one day. ‘You’re standing on the balcony of a tall building, and a warning notice reads “Don’t lean against the railing”. What do you want to do? Lean against it. Because of the sign, a danger that hasn’t even crossed your mind now has a name.’

  When Isaac Ginsberg declared that everything was fiction, contrary to his expectations, he invited me to think otherwise. Not everything is fictional, not everything is coincidence. And apparently there was a truth that he wanted to keep for himself.

  ‘With me, you’ll never be safe.’

  Such was Karina’s warning. And because the warning was an invitation, I knew that being with her was the one and only thing I wanted.