The Wandering

by Intan Paramaditha

  ‘Can you please give me the flight number, ma’am?’

  ‘Eh … I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘The airline then?’

  The conversation makes you feel like an idiot. You don’t even know what flight Bob was on. He never told you, and you never asked. What kind of marriage is this? You call your mother-in-law in Minnesota and Angela in New York. They haven’t heard any news. You continue to wait.

  On Tuesday, you reach the conclusion that something bad has happened and decide to go to the police. A policewoman records details about your husband’s disappearance. She knits her eyebrows when you mention several traits (sixty-two years old, white, fat, asthmatic). She scans the front page of your passport, as if trying to convince herself that you’ve yet to turn thirty, and steals glances at your beautiful scarf. Upstanding public servant that she is, though, she finishes her report and says warmly, ‘We’ll do our best.’

  Your report completed, you feel so tense that your hands and feet have gone cold. You want to go to the toilet but immediately jettison the idea. The most important thing is to go back to the hotel and settle your nerves. You walk unsteadily towards the exit. A click of heels follows your steps. Someone calls to you softly, and you turn to see a woman in a red blazer and sunglasses.

  ‘Did you just report your husband missing?’

  You nod, a little dazed.

  ‘I’m the detective investigating your case,’ she says. ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’

  Again, you nod. The woman’s chic appearance stands out in a room filled with officers in dark blue uniform. But you’re too tired and confused to dwell on it. You walk to the bus stop and wait almost half an hour for a bus to take you back to the hotel.

  You sit all evening on your bed in a state of utter turmoil. You’ve never felt so lonely, so lost.

  You ask the hotel operator to connect you with Noel in San Francisco.

  ‘Noel, it’s me.’

  ‘Hey, sis! How’s it going? Enjoying LA?’

  You’re silent for a long time.

  ‘Hello?’ Noel isn’t sure you heard him. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Noel.’ Your voice begins to tremble. ‘My husband is missing.’

  Continue on to page 337.

  You stand for a long while in front of Maria’s room. You want to knock on her door and say goodbye, but you know that won’t fix anything. Maybe there’s no need, because nothing is broken or scratched. Her apartment is just a transit point, a temporary stopover that has brought two travellers together. Maria, an expat, and you, a tourist.

  Maria doesn’t need a saviour. For you to assume she wants to be saved can make it seem you’re judging her a second time. You don’t even know if she wants to leave all this, and she doesn’t need you.

  Continue on to page 345.

  This is the incident that occurred during your time with the Solidarity Club of Lost Husbands:

  That evening, after hearing Doña Manuela’s story in the bathroom, you returned with all sorts of feelings that you didn’t recognise and that shouldn’t have surfaced. Your head was buzzing with questions on the bus back to your basic motel. Once it was clear that Bob was missing, you’d immediately moved out of the three-star hotel where you’d been staying. Without him, you had to be frugal.

  Rain was falling, drops clinging to the foggy bus window. You caught glimpses of people passing by in the sodden city. They appeared for a moment and then seemed to evaporate, to go missing. Missing persons. Did Yunita ever imagine how her husband had died? Perhaps it’s better to be ‘missing’ – vaporous, gone without a trace – than a battered corpse that can be photographed, archived, remembered. But what right did you have to compare the two cases? You didn’t know. You never truly understood how Yunita and Doña Manuela had put their lives back together. In contrast, you felt lucky. Your loss was easier to deal with because you’d never loved your husband.

  Twilight in Los Angeles, and you felt utterly alone. You stared at the cars rushing past and the city lights as they started to come on. The fluorescent glow made your eyes water.

  Maybe it wasn’t the lights making them damp.

  You tugged the yellow cord by the window, signalling the bus driver to stop. With a thank you, you hopped off onto the sidewalk. Rain raked your face, chasing you. You longed to flee far away, anywhere, but you felt heavy, with a tightness in your chest, and your legs were too weak. Everything around you seemed to slow to a crawl.

  As you entered the motel lobby, the receptionist told you someone was waiting for you and pointed to the sofa. You looked at him in confusion; you hadn’t expected a visitor. The receptionist didn’t know what it was about either. You walked slowly over to the sofa, where a woman in a red blazer and sunglasses sat, legs crossed. You glanced at her stiletto heels. Who walks in the rain in shoes like that?

  ‘Can we talk? This is about your husband.’

  Her voice was crisp and clear. Before you could answer, she introduced herself as the detective investigating your husband’s disappearance. You nodded. Previously, the police had come to your hotel room, and you were called to the station. They questioned you about many things, ranging from your last conversation with Bob to whether you had a good marriage. Perhaps the police thought that everyone had a motive to eliminate Bob. A rift had appeared in your relationship with Bob’s family. Even Angela, who’d always been nice to you, began to keep her distance. You imagined that they blamed you somehow for Bob’s tragic disappearance or even suspected you.

  Unlike the uniformed police officers, the detective in front of you was dressed impeccably. The black umbrella she carried, neatly folded, was completely dry, as was she. You felt that you looked awful, hair soaked, cheeks wet, while she looked perfect in a mesh fascinator that obscured her face. Her nails and lipstick were scarlet. She was too beautiful for a detective, except perhaps Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting. You felt as though you’d seen her before, but your thoughts were in too much chaos to reconstruct where. She lowered her sunglasses slightly and looked towards the receptionist. In a half-whisper, she said, ‘Maybe we should go outside.’

  ‘But it’s raining.’

  ‘It’ll be better that way. You won’t need to wipe away your tears.’

  You fell silent.

  As if knowing what you didn’t dare ask, she continued: ‘Your mascara’s running. You look like a raccoon.’

  Without waiting for you to respond she stepped outside, certain you would follow.

  In front of the motel she opened her umbrella, black in colour and large enough to shelter you both. You complied when she asked you to hold it. She took out a silver lighter and a slim tobacco filter from her handbag while she walked. She tilted her head as she exhaled smoke, making you cough.

  ‘Forgive me for delivering bad news,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid your husband won’t be found.’

  She conveyed the findings of the investigation. A private jet from Amsterdam to Hong Kong had disappeared mid-flight, and it was probable that the plane had crashed into the ocean. Inside were a pilot and the two who had chartered the jet. One of them was Bob.

  You shook your head in disbelief. Bob had been in Frankfurt, not Amsterdam.

  ‘How much do you know about your husband?’

  You struggled to answer. Every time you talked to him on Skype, he’d been in a hotel room. You’d taken it for granted that the hotel room was in Frankfurt, but the interior would have looked the same anywhere: New York, Frankfurt, Amsterdam.

  ‘What was he doing in Amsterdam? Why was he going to Hong Kong?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that your husband was more than a fat, boring white guy.’

  Bob had another life that you didn’t understand. Of course. No need to be angry since you’d never tried to understand him. But maybe you felt angry now because you were alone and Bob was missing, quite likely dead. Your head throbbed. You paused, and the detective rushed to grab the umbrella as you staggered.

  You must have fainted for a
moment. The woman beside you continued to speak, but you could only make out distant sounds. You needed a long time to wake (maybe ‘wake’ isn’t the right term, but you really felt you had dozed off in mid-stride). All you heard clearly was her final sentence: ‘You are at a crossroads.’

  You stared ahead, dazed. Roads converged from four directions. The pedestrian light turned green, and people hurried across. Where were they going?

  Where were you going?

  ‘Return to New York and pack up. Start a new life.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ you asked stubbornly. ‘Maybe Bob will come back. He’s not dead yet.’

  ‘You don’t have to believe me. By all means, wait for Bob if you want. But you need to start a new life.’ The woman continued, this time more firmly: ‘You can’t keep those shoes forever.’

  Your body went stiff. You weren’t wearing your red shoes. How did this woman know? Who was she?

  Something in you urged you to take flight, and you sprinted away from the detective. But when you turned a corner, there she was again with her black umbrella. You covered your mouth to keep yourself from screaming. The woman’s face was pale, her lips too scarlet.

  ‘The shoes used to be mine.’

  Your throat felt parched as you asked: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Call me Hecate.’

  Shock set in, and her name echoed in your ears like a mantra. She was the witch that Devil referred to. You now realised that he had lied. Not only was this woman not dead, she was quite likely deathless.

  ‘Those shoes come with a curse. You’ll never stop travelling.’

  You retreated a step.

  ‘You’re telling me to go back to Indonesia?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  You looked at the passing cars. You felt tired, but you didn’t want to stop. Maybe you were addicted to adventure. You had to move on.

  ‘Then where?’

  You turned towards Hecate, but she had disappeared.

  You bought a plane ticket to New York and returned to Bob’s apartment. You still didn’t know where you’d go next. Maybe Bob was dead, but maybe it was Hecate who was wrong. Someday Bob could be found. But when would that time come? You refused to wait in this apartment, depending on Bob’s family, whose attitude towards you was growing colder by the day. You had to start a new life, whether Bob stayed in your thoughts or not. Maybe you should go back to Indonesia and wait for Bob there until you couldn’t take it any longer, and then give up. But was going home the best choice? Were there any choices? You decided to follow your intuition: pack first, then buy a ticket, rather than vice versa. Who knew, you might change your mind.

  You hoped to find some hint for guidance as you packed your things. There wasn’t much, no more than what fit into a large suitcase. As you sat cross-legged in front of your bag, you sensed a pair of eyes watching you.

  That woman. She was standing at the door to your bedroom in her red blazer and lipstick, just as when you’d first met in Los Angeles. You heaved a sigh.

  ‘Could you please not surprise me like that? Some of us can die young, you know!’

  You didn’t ask how she got in. After the appearance of ‘Richard’ that time, you realised that spirits had their own skeleton keys for Bob’s apartment. She looked sincere in her apology.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help you out?’

  Hecate wasn’t alone; in her right hand she carried a dog. It now dawned on you where you’d seen her. She was the woman who found your missing shoe. That woman, as you recalled, had also been holding a dog.

  ‘You’re everywhere, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m more reliable than that demon boyfriend of yours.’

  She’d always known that you had her shoes, but she’d let it go. You couldn’t arrive at a crossroads until you began to travel.

  ‘You didn’t have a dog in LA.’

  ‘I left it at a pet hotel.’

  You leaned in for a better look at her dog. A chihuahua. Its fur was sleek and glossy. ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘Cordelia. Cordelia, Regan and Goneril.’

  ‘Cordelia – what?’

  ‘Cordelia and her sisters, Regan and Goneril. She’s a three-in-one. A purebred.’ She smiled proudly.

  Hecate released her dog so she could hop down onto the carpet. You shrieked. Cordelia scampered around your feet. There was nothing wrong with that – except for the small matter of her three heads. As Cordelia tugged at your trousers, Regan and Goneril were busy yapping. They might have been keen to nip at your legs too, but three heads on a single body didn’t allow much leeway for any complicated manoeuvres.

  Your phone rang and Hecate commanded her pooch to let you go so you could answer it. Cordelia returned to Hecate’s arms obediently.

  From the receiver you heard a hoarse female voice. Doña Manuela. A few minutes later you turned to Hecate.

  ‘I have to go back to LA. Those people are family to me.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Soonyi passed away.’

  Your eyes felt hot and you looked down.

  Hecate approached you and stroked your hair. Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un. Who’d just quoted the Quran? You, or the witch?

  After Soonyi’s funeral, you and your friends stand in front of a Korean restaurant with umbrellas, waiting for the rain to subside. Andy, Carmencita and Doña Manuela continue chattering non-stop even though you’ve already talked for hours over galbi and soju. They still miss you, which makes you happy.

  ‘So how do you plan to “start a new life”?’ asks Andy.

  He raises his hands, making air quotes. They are a habit with Andy because, for him, everything is ‘as if’. At the Solidarity Club of Lost Husbands, you all know that starting a new life is a slippery concept; no border separates what comes before and what comes after loss. When will your new life begin? What marks it? A new life entails living with a ghost, and you have to be prepared. Even now Greg is present when Andy spends his nights with black coffee in the editing suite. And Carmencita, despite a sexiness that turns every man’s head, continues to terrorise Pablo and his new girlfriend with curse-filled emails and texts. She even plans to upload a photo of her rival onto a website for women who’ve been cheated on. The site lets users share the other woman’s identity along with a warning: watch out, this slut might steal your husband.

  Of course, after yet another fight with Andy, Carmencita doesn’t follow through with her plan.

  ‘Honey, don’t go around fulfilling stereotypes,’ Andy says.

  ‘Latina stereotypes, you mean?’ Carmencita retorts.

  ‘I mean stereotypes about women who have no self-respect.’

  ‘Bullshit. Racist!’

  ‘Don’t blame other women if your husband is a bastard,’ Doña Manuela interjects.

  Andy and Carmencita fall silent. Her sharp admonition is sufficient to put a stop to their quarrel.

  Doña Manuela asks you, ‘And while we’re on the subject of a new life: why don’t you move to LA?’

  Her question initially sounds ridiculous, but you start to weigh up new choices. Yes, in Los Angeles you’ll be helpless because you can’t drive, but maybe it’s time for a rebirth. New York, though foreign, has probably now become your comfort zone. Here you’ll find a job, learn to drive, even buy a car. In your imagination, there is no Prince Charming to rescue you, no green card. Only your hair blowing in the wind as you sit behind the wheel of a convertible. Your Orient Express.

  If you want to start a new life in LA, turn to page 352.

  If you feel the prospect of starting from zero in LA is too radical, maybe you should go back to New York and take more time to think things over. Turn to page 356.

  Noel comes to see you almost two weeks after your farewell in the hotel lobby. Again, he wears a V-neck and tight jeans, but this time he’s dressed entirely in black, as if to show respect for your missing husband. You are each wearing sunglasses, but as soon as he sees y
ou, he takes his off and hugs you tightly.

  ‘Thank you, Noel.’

  Your gratitude is heartfelt. You’ve never really been friends as such, except on the road, but he’s driven down from San Francisco to Los Angeles specifically to see you. He squeezes your hand.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t come sooner.’

  You go to an IHOP located not far from your hotel. You’re bored with it, because you keep going there when you don’t have other restaurant ideas, but you’re too tired to come up with an alternative. You take your seat and remove your sunglasses.

  ‘You look shattered!’ Noel exclaims.

  Maybe he thinks you’ve been crying all night, but you’re already past that stage. Now you’re dealing with long, sleepless nights filled with questions. What if Bob really isn’t found? What will you do with your life? Does your adventure end here?

  ‘Any more word from the police?’

  ‘No.’

  Noel only needs the latest updates because he’s been following what’s been happening from the start. You’ve spent hours on the phone telling him how you contacted the airport and Bob’s family before finally going to the police. Noel also knows you’re staying on at your hotel, waiting for news.

  You’ve communicated with Bob’s family several times, but you sense that their attitude is changing. Bob’s mother and Angela have known for days that Bob didn’t give you the flight number or departure time and that you didn’t ask. At first they thought you were irresponsible towards your marriage. But now they seem to harbour suspicions that you lie behind Bob’s disappearance somehow.

  A few days after you file your missing person report, a couple of police officers come to you. They poke around your hotel room and ask several questions. What did you and Bob talk about in your last Skype conversation? Who did you meet in San Francisco? Is your marriage all right? It dawns on you that you’ve become a suspect, perhaps as a result of pressure from Bob’s family.