‘The main thing is, I believe in God,’ she says. ‘You too – believe, child. Believe in God so that you don’t go wandering when you die.’
‘What guarantee is there?’
‘Eh, guarantee?’ She seems to mull over the question deeply as she adjusts her glasses. ‘There isn’t. But why haggle with God like a pawnbroker? In any case, the cathedral is very beautiful, built in the sixteenth century.’
In the end, you agree to go with her on a Wednesday afternoon, when there are no services. Even so, the cathedral still receives many visitors from near and far.
You put on your red shoes and join her. Those who have come to admire the building’s beauty turn their eyes towards your feet and whisper. You feel a pang of guilt about showing up to a church in your red shoes.
You take a seat in a pew and stare at the organ pipes, which extend all the way to the ceiling. Next to you, Victoria whispers, ‘Do you know where the Shoemaker is buried?’
You shake your head.
‘Should I?’
Without answering, she glances at your feet. Again you see that look, the wild-eyed look that appeared when she wanted to try on your shoes. She smiles broadly, revealing a row of half-rotten teeth.
‘Let’s go.’
Victoria gets up, and you follow her obediently. Her steps are so nimble that she almost seems to fly. She leads you down a corridor, past a small chapel on the left and a row of pillars on the right. Your red shoes tread across a floor of black flagstone, upon which several names are engraved.
‘Whose names are these?’
‘Those buried here. You’re stepping on their graves.’
You pause. The names are accompanied by dates and words you don’t understand, maybe prayers, maybe something else. You feel very uneasy. Your parents always reminded you not to step over graves. Respect the dead, they said. If ghosts are disturbed, they might haunt you and make you sick.
You step hesitantly, offering respectful greetings as you go: assalamualaikum.
You tread more carefully, but the clip-clop of your shoes can be heard. No one is there but you and Victoria, but you don’t hear her footfalls. She continues on until you arrive at a section of floor bearing the image of a pair of shoes. Step on the shoes, Victoria says. You obey. Victoria laughs.
‘He’s buried here, right beneath you. The Shoemaker, the one who made your red shoes.’
You stare at your feet.
Victoria moves closer. Her voice hoarse, she tells you a secret tale.
Continue on to page 378.
You decide to begin a new life in Los Angeles. You find a cheap apartment and start searching job listings. Noel visits you regularly for the first two months, but he’s busy with his own life. As time goes on, he stops coming. You don’t complain. Noel has done an admirable job of carrying out his role in your story. On a journey, nothing lasts forever.
Meanwhile, you develop a job-hunting strategy. You seek out an Indonesian community mosque and become friendly with those who attend. Your tactics bear fruit. One worshipper manages a restaurant, and she offers you work. As soon as you’ve secured a job, you stop going to mosque. Maybe this explains your bad luck: you treat a house of God as an employment agency. Pretty trashy.
One day, after a long time with no news from Noel, a package arrives in the mail from overseas with his name as the sender. You open it and discover a funny yellow toy car and a note.
Hey sis,
Sorry for not making it back to LA. A lot has been going on lately, and one day, I just felt really sick of my life. I didn’t want to be where I was. So I left.
And now, my life has become a series of miracles.
A letter can’t do justice to all my stories. Come visit me someday. I’ll tell you everything. For now, though, let me just say thanks for your beautiful shoes. My own gift might not be fancy, but I hope it’ll always remind you not to get discouraged about driving. I’m enjoying the sunshine on Bondi Beach these days, and I picture you driving around like a woman set free.
Big hugs,
Noel
You look at the return address. New South Wales, Australia. Did the red shoes take him there?
Life goes on for you in Los Angeles, devoid of miracles. Before you even realise it, two years have passed. Maybe someday a marvel will bring Bob back. You’re still waiting for him, but you’re also ready to accept that he’s dead, buried on land or in a watery grave, or vanished without a trace.
Of course, life isn’t completely dull. In the end, you take driving lessons and buy a used car. Every time you feel ready to give up, you cast a glance at the yellow toy Noel gave you. You remember his own history of driving, the story he told you on the journey from San Francisco to Los Angeles and the little old lady whose car had a sticker that read Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere. Even though you still get nervous driving, at least you now know how. A stunning achievement – especially considering that you haven’t achieved anything meaningful in your life.
Does your story end here?
Without the red shoes, maybe there are no longer any adventures ahead. But you remain more than capable of creating your own trouble.
If you’re happy living in Los Angeles, without Bob, and finally able to drive, end your adventure here. Write the word FINIS below. Stay where you are in America, and don’t move. Change doesn’t always bring happiness. Seriously.
If you want a final adventure that might only create a spectacular mess, turn to page 405.
After you decide to start a new life in Los Angeles, you manage to find a cheap apartment and start looking at job vacancies. Some members of the Solidarity Club of Lost Husbands visit you regularly for the first two months, but over time your friends stop coming to see you. Everyone is busy with their own lives. You don’t complain. They’ve carried out their roles well in your story. On a journey, nothing lasts forever.
Meanwhile, you develop a job-hunting strategy. You seek out an Indonesian community mosque and become friendly with those who attend. Your tactics bear fruit. One worshipper manages a restaurant, and she offers you work. As soon as you’ve secured a job, you stop going to mosque. Maybe this explains your bad luck: you treat a house of God as an employment agency. Pretty trashy.
Life goes on for you in Los Angeles, devoid of miracles. Before you even realise it, two years have passed. Maybe someday a marvel will bring Bob back. You’re still waiting for him, but you’re also ready to accept that he’s dead, buried on land or in a watery grave, or vanished without a trace.
Of course, life isn’t completely dull. In the end, you take driving lessons and buy a used car. Even though you still get nervous driving, at least you now know how. A stunning achievement – especially considering that you haven’t achieved anything meaningful in your life.
Does your story end here?
Without the red shoes, maybe there are no longer any adventures ahead. But you remain more than capable of creating your own trouble.
If you’re happy living in Los Angeles, without Bob, and finally able to drive, end your adventure here. Write the word FINIS below. Stay where you are in America, and don’t move. Change doesn’t always bring happiness. Seriously.
If you want a final adventure that might only create a spectacular mess, turn to page 405.
You say goodbye to the Solidarity Club of Lost Husbands before returning to New York. You know, even though you exchange promises (‘Stop by next time you’re in LA!’ ‘I’ll be sure to visit!’), that it’s a final farewell.
It’s also the end for the red shoes.
Late one sunny afternoon you will walk in your shoes for the last time in New York. After putting on make-up and your favourite dress, you head to your favourite station, Grand Central. The rush-hour frenzy of workday’s end allows you to melt in among the crowds travelling beyond New York City, to Connecticut or elsewhere. Upon exiting the station, you walk towards Bryant Park. Off your shoulder hangs a faux-leather bag roomy enough for a pair o
f short boots. You’ll walk until you’re tired, take off your red shoes and replace them with the boots. You don’t know yet what you’re going to do with the shoes. There’s a good chance you’ll just leave them in Bob’s apartment for someone else to find one day.
‘Those shoes are perfect for dancing!’
You turn. An old woman knitting on a park bench waves to you. She may be seventy, or eighty, but she looks vivacious. She wears a long, light yellow jacket and a matching beret adorned with a sunflower. Her legs are wrapped in cream-coloured tights and red shoes with straps, like a schoolgirl.
You nod, say thank you, then continue walking. But praise alone doesn’t satisfy the woman. She asks where you got the shoes, and you approach her out of politeness. A gift from a friend, you say, which is true enough.
‘Ah, a friend.’ She lowers her glasses a little and studies your shoes. ‘There’s a shoemaker where I come from who makes red shoes.’
Granny turns out to be from the Netherlands. She’s on holiday in New York visiting her granddaughter.
‘My name is Victoria,’ she says without being asked. ‘Just call me Tante Victoria.’
‘Tante … ?’
She stretches her hand towards you. She seems a bit impatient.
‘In Dutch tante means aunt.’
You know that. You call all your parents’ friends Tante and Oom, although of course you don’t remember that those words are a leftover from the colonial era.
Granny (who prefers to be called Tante) wants to chat. A few details won’t hurt you. You ask if her own shoes are from this Dutch shoemaker. She shakes her head and replies, ‘The Shoemaker is dead. He’s buried in a church not far from my house.’
Oh. You nod. Buried, in a church. The conversation’s turn leaves you feeling a little ill at ease.
‘My granddaughter might be the same age as you. She’s writing a novel,’ she says. ‘Are you like her, a descendant of Scheherazade?’
‘Scheherazade?’
‘Yes, like in One Thousand and One Nights. A woman who is a spinner of tales.’
‘I don’t know,’ you say, a little confused. ‘But in my travels, I encounter a lot of stories.’
‘I hope they’re happy stories! My granddaughter likes to write weird stories. Horror stories. Uh, no. Adventure stories. Well, something like that. Ah, I don’t know. The two are quite similar, right?’
She laughs. You’re not sure why, but you don’t see anything funny in what she says. The blurring of the boundary between horror and adventure frightens you slightly.
‘Yes, that kid really likes to daydream,’ she says. ‘What’s your favourite toy?’
‘T-toy?’
‘Yes, toy!’
‘Um … trains.’
‘My granddaughter likes airplanes. She idolised Amelia Earhart.’
Victoria then tells you a little about Amelia Earhart, a famous aviator in the early twentieth century, the first woman to fly across the Atlantic. One day, she decided to embark upon a very ambitious journey. The plane went missing.
‘Missing?’
‘Never found, to this day.’
You’re taken aback. Suddenly your husband flashes before you, along with Doña Manuela and the Solidarity Club of Lost Husbands.
‘My granddaughter has lived in New York for years,’ continues Victoria. She shakes her head. ‘Ah, young women nowadays. They always want to go far, just like Amelia Earhart.’
‘Don’t you like to travel, Tante?’
‘I’m old,’ she says, but then her expression changes. ‘Hmm, yesterday, though, I took the train from Grand Central towards Bronxville. You know, the city is very beautiful …’
She natters at length about leaving the city on her own and upsetting her granddaughter. Although sorry to have worried her, she appears proud of her solo adventure in a foreign city. Now it’s your turn to shake your head. Seems like grandma and granddaughter aren’t so different.
It’s getting dark. You bid Victoria goodbye, having already chatted with her too long. She puts her knitting into a bag and you pause, a little reluctant to leave her alone as night falls. She gestures for you to go. No need to wait for me, she says. My granddaughter will come. You nod and walk towards Bryant Park Station. Once you descend the subway steps, you’ve reached a decision. You will return to Indonesia – without your red shoes.
In the midst of the crowd waiting for the F train, you hear a familiar voice.
‘I already warned you. You’ll regret it.’
A man in a suit and a black hat stands behind you. Devil.
‘Where are my red shoes?’
‘They don’t belong to you.’
‘Return the shoes, and your story will end here.’
You stare straight at the Devil and slowly let go of your red shoes. He looks pleased at your obedience.
No. This isn’t how you want your story to end. Maybe you really do have to part with your shoes, but you don’t want Devil to be the cause. You have two choices: throw the shoes onto the tracks and witness their destruction, or run off with them – who knows where.
If you want to throw the red shoes onto the tracks, turn to the next page.
If you want to run off with the shoes, turn to page 372.
You hold your red shoes in front of Devil, dangling them like you’re luring him with candy. But before he can reach them, you hurl them with all the strength you can muster into the middle of the train tracks.
‘All yours.’
The F train is pulling into the station, and the people around you turn. Some cry out. A woman covers her mouth in shock, as if finding it incomprehensible that someone would throw away such good shoes. You’re deliberately creating a public scene, and Devil can’t budge. His red eyes narrow. ‘You’re not the one who gets to say when my story ends,’ you hiss.
Without having the chance to pull your boots from the bag, you turn your back on Devil and flee. You fight through the crowd, colliding with whoever blocks your path, and race up the stairs towards street level. Your flight feels endless, but you run and run until you’re certain that Devil is no longer following you. Gasping, you finally stop and kneel in front of a small supermarket. The man behind the cash register is busy texting. He looks up, but then returns to his phone. Maybe he’s witnessed too many chase scenes.
Who knows what the shoes’ fate was. Maybe Devil tried to retrieve them, but he’d have needed to use powers that would have immediately attracted people’s attention. It’s also entirely possible that the F train was too fast, even for Devil, and now the shoes lie in a mangled heap.
There are no adventures. There are no gifts.
After throwing your shoes onto the train tracks, you decide to bestow a gift upon yourself. You buy a one-way ticket to Indonesia, dated February 1, 2009, your birthday. A small travel agency in Queens manages to find you a cut-price ticket from New York to Jakarta, using digital rather than demonic devices.
On the night of your departure, you take a moment to pray for Bob: May you be well, Bob, wherever you are. If fate is kind, we will meet again.
You weigh up whether to go to the airport by subway or taxi. The taxi will take you there faster, with far fewer hassles, but will set you back some fifty or sixty dollars. Cost, time and stress aside, taxi and subway hold different meanings for you. A taxi means reliving the first day of your adventure: finding yourself hurrying somewhere in a stuffy vehicle, unsure how you had arrived there. Your journey will be a ritual return to square one, before you leave everything behind. But taking the subway will repeat a different ritual one last time. New York’s trains have been your Orient Express. Trains that are always late on weekends, packed and dirty, with b-boys doing acrobatics on the poles, oblivious men killing time by manspreading, the stench of armpits in summer – every spicy sweet feeling of the New York subway has brought you marvels and misadventures; the train has sanctified you as a citizen.
If you go to JFK by taxi, turn to the next page.
If you go to JFK by train, turn to page 371.
John F. Kennedy Airport, New York, February 1, 2009
You decide to go to JFK by taxi. There turns out to be nothing remarkable or romantic about the experience: you’re stuck in a traffic jam, trapped making small talk with a garrulous driver. Going to Indonesia? Are you Muslim? Assalamualaikum, sister. I come from Pakistan. I heard that Indonesia has more Muslims than any other country in the world. Such conversations happen frequently enough to bore you. But you have to admit that membership in the international ummah has its perks. You’ve received a fifty-cent discount off your roadside coffee for responding to assalamualaikum with waalaikumsalam.
After checking in your bags and going through security, you walk to the waiting area for your flight. Finally, you can relax a while and read. Next to you, a woman is scribbling away in a notebook with her left hand. You can’t read her words, but the way her script tilts to the right amuses you. She puts down her pen for a moment and removes a packet of crisps from her bag. Continuing to focus her attention on her notebook, she pops a handful into her mouth. She eats with her left hand. You remember your recitation teacher’s words: eating and drinking with your left hand is satanic. Maybe a lot of demons roam this city.
Singing in a staccato rhythm makes those around you turn. Well, show me the way to the next whiskey bar. A man in his fifties smiles broadly at Jim Morrison’s voice. It appears to be the left-handed woman’s ringtone. With a sheepish expression, she presses a button on her phone to answer the call and walks to a corner to chat. Well, that’s careless. She abandons her bag beside you, an open invitation to theft.
The airline clerk announces a name over a loudspeaker. The woman returns to her seat and takes her bag, coat and all the things she had left so cavalierly. Half running, she goes to the flight desk. You heave a listless sigh and return to your reading.
The Wandering Page 31
