Second out-pouring of considerable vehement NOISE
Which is Yu-speak for here's what else I've written for the horrifying challenge that is, NaNoWriMo.
Rufus has the weirdest likes.
oOoOo
It’s been a while since I’ve come to visit Wolfram here in his home. Cecilie is a wonderful woman, but after we both lost Aurel, I never felt any strong urge to come here.
It’s quite late; Marque has taken over the bed in the guestroom, and I’m still up.
I used to do this a lot, before I had Marque.
The floor is cold, and the wood of the bed frame is rough against my back, but leaning against the bed means I can see the sky, and also has the added bonus of putting me close enough to my son to hear his soft breathing.
He does breathe so very prettily.
I’ll be tired in the morning. It’s horrifyingly late, but experience has shown that I’m much wiser in the dark than I am in the daytime. I remember telling my mother about it, when I was still forced into buckled shoes and a pinafore.
I swore that my school results would be just as startlingly wonderful as brother Aur’s if only they would hold the examinations at night.
My father then told me that the obvious solution was for me to take a long luxurious nap for half the duration of the exam, wake up, put on sunglasses, and pretend it was near midnight.
I tried that for Arts, and the teacher had come to meet my mum to ask her if she knew that I was capable of writing in tongues.
My father was fed cold liver for a week, and I was introduced to the joys and wonder of a good cup of tea.
Still, my best thinking happens at night. It’s pretty outside, the moon not overwhelmingly bright, the clouds tinted with purple and sleep.
I’m worried about my family here.
The only one I’m a direct relative of is Wolfram, but I can’t help but internally bemoan the fate of his brothers and mother.
Another use of night thinking: Marque isn’t awake. The tyrant insists I worry too much about too many people, and would distract me with a question or a pout.
I suspect he believes he knows what’s better for me than I do.
Given a choice, I’d be overjoyed to drag the whole family along on this trip. Cecilie hasn’t gone on a vacation with her family since she lost her last husband, and I want a chance to remind her that even if her sons are strong-willed and intelligent, they can’t stand forever without her.
Cecilie laughed when I suggested this.
Gwen, the oldest though he is, was more preoccupied with how I had gotten his number than with my brilliant plan.
Conrad was unreadable. He smiles, says he’ll think about it. Now my calls remain unreturned, and my messages rerouted to his secretary.
There isn’t much I can do. It certainly didn’t help that I’ve been on the move since Marque was born, rarely being able to meet any of them.
I regret that the most, when I think of my travels. It feels like I have… let them down.
Too late for me to do anything about that. It’s already been eight years, and maybe if I had realised it earlier we would be closer.
I didn’t. So I’ll fix it as best I can.
Marque’s hair is so fine. The strands slip through my fingers so easily, even if he’s miraculously unmoving on the bed. It’s similar to stroking a pet; I was not joking when I said my son is a balm for a weary soul.
Bringing Wolfram would be the first step. I’ll help him through the hell of getting over a person you were certain was the One. It’ll probably happen a few times more in the course of his life; our bloodline takes love seriously, and each one feels like the One.
He’ll come home, and maybe his revived joy will rub off on Grumpy and Mona Lisa. Cecilie could hopefully find it in herself to be in love with her children.
I hope.
Where to go?
Marque’s been pestering me to go to New Zealand after he re-watched all 3 Lord of The Rings movies in one night.
The purpose of this round of travelling is to force Wolf to enjoy himself, and I doubt that would work in a country where sheep outnumber people.
Plus, Cecilie will be there with her paramour.
Fan Fan.
My name is odd enough that I usually don’t hold anyone accountable for the name their parents forced onto them. Sadly, I can’t hold my unbiased views for this particular incident.
It is the name of a performing panda in a Chinese circus, is what it is.
Besides, I want it to be somewhere warm. Almost in spite of where I was born, the cold slows down my brain functions almost to a halt.
Let us head for the equator then.
Marque shifts in his bed, and starts to snore gently every few breaths.
The natural rhythm of a talented percussionist. My son is so brilliant!
Oh, Madagascar?
The language would be a bit of a hassle. I don’t know a word of Mala… Malagasy, I believe. French is fine, but Marque revels in mistaking gender identities, and Wolfram has already demonstrated the length and breadth of his enviable knowledge.
Marseilles is gorgeous.
I think one of my old classmates lives there… or was it Malaysia?
Wait, wait! Exactly the same problem. French, French, and more French. I can just see it, Marque scaring everyone with messed up genders, Wolfram cross and huffily saying “Je ne sais pas” over and over again.
The horror. Plus it’d be cold.
Another name, another name, I’ve only just mentioned it, what was it?
Madagascar, Marseilles, Mal-
I sense a pattern here. Must be thoughts of my darling baby that caused the influx of Ms.
Right, Malaysia!
It’s smack on the equator, and English is very widely spoken, and it’s an Asian nation.
Asians are a pleasure to deal with; quiet, non-argumentative, hate confrontations.
I wouldn’t want one for a lover, because I dislike too much quiet, but for a continent it’s an admirable way to behave.
I’m probably grossly over or under exaggerating their traits; limited experience couldn’t possibly be a solid enough a foundation for me to make a generalisation of an entire continent.
How rash of me, then.
The little I’ve managed to glean from short cuts through Indonesia and Thailand would point towards quiet kindness though; the screams and fighting are unfair blemishes.
The coffee shop Marque and I had stopped at in Thailand was at a rest stop; the lady at the counter couldn’t understand a word of English, and all I could ask for were glass noodles and chicken.
The woman had carefully unscrewed the lid of every jar in the shop, letting me smell each and point to the ones I wanted to make a drink of.
She could have been a militant or zealot. I doubt she was. We didn’t meet a single person in either country that had tried to hurt us, so I happily ignore fights and minor wars in favour of believing in the kindness of people.
Even if I have heard that some racial unrest is stirring in Malaysia, I doubt anyone there is so rash so as to incite an actual race war.
Maybe.
Besides, it’s gloriously warm, the humidity will frizz Wolfram’s hair, Marque won’t be surrounded by blonds, and I think Amalina lives there.
Marque has beautiful dark hair, but mine is a deep blonde. His youngest cousin is blond, his aunt is blonde, his online friends are blond.
Such is the lack of variety in the people I know; Marque gets rather sick of us sometimes.
Poor darling. I have heard him cry alone, but here lies more examples of my silliness.
I never did comfort him while he wallowed in misery that he didn’t look like his family.
That was purely my fault, and by default it’s my fault that he’s upset.
It usually works out well, when I tell him his hair is the most glorious sight I have ever seen, and if there was a hair dye that was strong enough to darken my hair to the level of prettiness his hair flaunts, we’d be sporting the same colour like a shot.
He’d protest, he always does. He likes my long braid, and likes the colour.
He feels better, at least.
I’ve always wondered if I have been incredibly lucky to get Marque for a child.
It was an easy birth, and he never cried much.
Quiet, he was always so quiet, even when I made a silly face or tickled his round tummy with the tips of my hair. He’d look at me, and his dark eyes are always so solemn and serious, it feels like Marque is wearing glasses even though he doesn’t.
It feels like he was mature from birth. Like he knew it never is easy to raise a child alone. Like he wanted to make my job easy for me.
His cheeks are a joy to kiss. They’re as soft as he is.
I worry about him more than Wolfram and his family combined.
It can’t be healthy to be so tolerant and thoughtful when you’re so young, can it?
We’ve been traversing the world almost since he could crawl, because staying at any one place for long begins to hurt me. Memories catch up, even if you’re on the other side of the world from where they were first forged.
Wolfram going with me is a momentary leave; what I do is the graceful art of running.
But I have to stop, soon. For Marque.
He gets another kiss for being so sweet.
Perhaps Wolfram with us could persuade me to grow roots here near my only remaining family.
Perhaps Wolfram will learn much from seeing a bit more of the world, and become stronger.
Perhaps Marque will finally insist upon staying still, and I will finally comply.
I’m going to bed now. Night thoughts are wiser than day ones, but I will never be smart enough to stop worrying.
I do love them.
oOoOo
Ouch.
Who this side of hell would poke me at eight damn A.M in the morning?
“…Mum”
Ngh. The pillow smells sweet, so I move deeper into it.
“Mum!”
Ngh. Hush, get the message, go away.
Oof.
I don’t want to. Don’t want to, but I have to, so I do.
Eye, open, please.
Don’t scream, don’t scream!
“Marque, what the-“
Yes, bit down on the comforter. No mother should curse in front of her child. Even if said child is currently sitting on top of her, weighing down her chest, making it harder to breath.
Said child is also grinning like a murderer. His position doesn’t help.
I’m so proud I didn’t scream like a little girl.
“Marque, what did I say about mummy and sleep?”
Now he smiles angelically. Given his dark features, he looks like an exotic cherub.
The glint in his eyes is all mischief, sadly. Rufus Von, pretty, witty and gay, is not a morning woman.
“One, never to call you mummy on pain of being called Marquee Marque, and two, I can only wake you up before nine “damn” A.M if the house is on fire or I’m getting married”
He softens the insult with a kiss on my cheek. His breath is sweet; little Marque must have gotten up much earlier.
Other eye, if you would be so kind?
Yup, he’s been up a while. Fresh-faced, new clothes, brushed hair.
I probably look a mess; I didn’t braid my hair before going to sleep yesterday.
One of the smaller cushions is probably taking refuge in my hair, somewhere.
All right, slight show of control. Nobody likes a spoilt child.
Growl, growl, you silly little brat you, I’m not letting you watch God (?) Save someone-or-other, growl.
Smart parenting at eight damn A.M?
Check.
“What?”
He’s gotten under the covers, and I hug him.
I never thought about it, but is it possible I have a fetish for hugging? I hug my son every other minute, have hugged Wolf a combined total of 17 times since we arrived here yesterday morning, have nearly choked the house-cat with my over-affectionate love, and gave pillars longing looks when I was left alone for an hour yesterday.
I somehow doubt that’s normal; the magazine I read about obsessions didn’t state “excessive need to hug” under “Top 10 Things You Can’t Live Without Doing”
Then again, the name of the writer was Staycee with a “Cee”, so maybe I should be a bit more discerning.
“Will Wolfram be following us when we leave again?”
Oh. Did I not mention this when we were playing yesterday?
Wait, that was a say-out-loud thought, not a keep quiet one.
A peck on his dark curls.
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday? He’s following us for a couple of months. Now, your cousin Wolf is currently suffering from a terrible bout of heartache. What should a well-trained, highly smart son-of-Rufus do?”
He smiles, I smile back.
No teeth, of course. He may have brushed his, but I have yet to get my hands on my Braun.
“Feed him lots of ice cream and compare the evil slanderer to sea slugs?”
How could anyone resist laughter at that?
And since I’d bought him a thick tome on oceanic invertebrates a month ago, I have no doubt the comparison will be highly accurate.
Wonder if Wolf has a test for Biology sometime soon? He could learn a lot from little Marque.
“Sounds good to me. How does Malaysia sound for our next trip?”
“But mum! I thought we were going to New Zealand! So we could stand by the river and cosplay as Galadriel and Frodo and stuff!”
He pouts, but this is not the usual I’m-annoying-but-you-love-me-anyway pout.
It’s his I-want-it-my-way pout.
I probably do spoil him considerably, since I don’t know what would be the correct dosage of anything.
Doesn’t mean he gets his way all the time. I’m not that incompetent.
“We can do that next time, Marque”
“But mum-“
“Next time, Marque. Cousin Wolf needs to be distracted. Not forced to dress as a metrosexual elf. Who isn’t even as pretty as he is”
I wonder if I pouted as much as he did when I was small.
God bless my mother’s heart and her infinite patience if I did.
I poke the little frown on his little forehead.
“Be kind, Marque, and don’t make faces. Do you want to look like cousin Gwen at age 8? Doesn’t Malaysia sound nice?”
“Where’s that?”
A bit of a tantrum. I know I’m supposed to nip this kind of behaviour in the bud, but I don’t know how. Someone should write a manual on how
to care for children.
A Newbie’s Guide to Having Babies
… How to bring them up well, not just the fun stuff that got you children to begin with.
Maybe I will, if I have more time. Anissina certainly wouldn’t mind publishing it.
Oh dear, I have to tell her I’m going on the move again. She’ll be very annoyed if the books she sent for me to review end up lost in Nicaragua.
Again.
“North of Singapore, south of Thailand. Temperate climate all year round, population 25 million or so, multiracial in the most lucid sense of the word”
No response. He can be a bit stubborn.
Not that I have a right to complain. I remember burying all our luggage in the backyard after mum and dad said that our family vacation for that year would not be to the ocean.
I think I was 9. I’ve always had extremely strong upper body muscles, and even being slightly shorter than the shovel, I had father’s precious Samsonite suitcase six feet under in much swiftness.
At least, six feet to a nine year old.
Which, considering the time it took for him to dig it out, wasn’t very deep.
I got scolded and fed nothing but spaghetti for a month.
Mum knew the best way to punish me is to withhold variety in my food.
Point is, I was a terror when I was young.
Also point is, I am incapable of withholding delicious food from my son.
Which may be why his behaviour can be a bit headstrong sometimes.
“It’s warm there, Marque”
I sniffle a bit. I caught the flu the day before we arrived here, and I’m a bit pale.
Marque, the softy, swore to eradicate the flu by the time he hits puberty so that I don’t have to pop flu medicine ever again.
A bit of manipulation does not a bad mother make. He worries more about my health than I do.
“You don’t eat enough,” he’d said. Hah! He consults the pyramid of nutrition every time we go grocery shopping, and looks after our diet. He’ll say we need more protein and I’ll cook meat, more fibre and I cook vegetables.
Suffice it to say, health, and my health in particular, is my son’s Kryptonite.
How loveable is that?
A warm, small hand plasters itself to my forehead.
The frown grows deeper. He’s wobbling, and he will fall.
Like an enraged but resigned adult, he purses his lips before sighing.
“Fine, mum. Malaysia it is. National language Malaysian, English widely spoken, culture uncertain and thoroughly mixed with many of their fellow Asian countries. Ruling party didn’t win the majority in the elections held earlier this year, and their currency is cheap”
I smile at him, and he smiles back.
“Boleh bercakap bahasa Malaysia?”
Marque understands basic Indonesian, and the words are eerily similar to Malay. I ask him if he can speak the Malaysian language.
I’m no expert, but former classmate Amalina was Malaysian. Even if I don’t know where she lives now.
Marque smiles evilly, and I can just tell what he’s about to say.
“Sah yah tak ta hoo”
Despicable pronunciation, but darling, I understood that.
If you don’t know this, what do you know?
oOoOo
We get out of bed, later.
Marque runs off to presumably jump on my nephew, whom I have been given to understand suffers from the same morning sickness as I do.
Incoherency until the first dose of caffeine, or a shower, or until 9 A.M.
I go and take a shower. Even when it’s frigidly cold, like the early spring we spent in an apartment in Rome, I have to take shower.
Even when, like that time in Rome, the temperature is 14°C and the water is cold as ice.
My hair curls a little, so it drapes longer when it’s wet.
The water in the shower was blessedly hot, and I didn’t even glance at the deep, tiled bathing pool.
I dislike baths, because they’re so dull. Sitting there, splashing about a little, then resuming non-movement. Showers are done standing up, they’re fast, and they’re comparatively active.
I washed my hair, and dried it well.
It’s past halfway down my back. I wonder if I should chop it off.
Get it to Wolfram’s cropped length. His hair frames his face well enough.
But Marque wants me to grow it even longer.
Something about cosplaying Chi, or Qi, whatever makes sense.
I’ll keep it long, for now.
The towels are fresh and thick, and I am in love. Few things non-living give me as much pleasure as a thick, fluffy towel that’s freshly laundered. The smelll, the feel, the softness, makes me want to propose to someone.
I don’t know who exactly.
A toss up between the creator of towels, the manufacturer of the specimen I’m in love with, or the woman who washed it so magnificently.
Ah, the beauty of indiscriminate love! I’m happy today; the towel is a good omen.
Would people excuse me if I broke into song while I’m walking to find my son and nephew?
As Foul Ole Ron would say, bugger this for a lark.
“Saya anak Malaysia! Saya anak Malaysia! Saya anak Malaysia!”
Silly, silly song. I remembered asking Amalina what on earth she was singing, and she told me it was her nerd-brother’s favourite song.
It reminded her of home. Even though our school was decent, and our neighbourhood was lovely, it made sense that she would still pine for her home country.
The chorus, the bit that I just broke into with dire disregard for talent, pitching and tone, is a spirited repetition of “I am a child of Malaysia!” over and over again.
Fleas were involved in the song; I don’t remember where.
A perfect song, given the circumstances. I’m calling Ani and getting Amalina’s number.
If ever there was a woman thoroughly interested in other women in a completely platonic way, it would have to be Anissina.
Makes you appreciate feminists, really, getting to know Anissina. The estimate made at our last class reunion had it that at least half of all women in power in the world knew Anissina well. Owning a publishing company and a personality like hers would get you that.
She’s tall and red-headed. Marque adores her, whenever we manage to meet.
In return she adores him, and never fails to hammer home the importance of putting women first for anything that is good and right.
Anyways, Anissina likes to keep in contact and listen to our stories.
The ones she herself enjoys she begs use of; then prints it for children under the series Adventures of Baroness Von Karbelnikoff series.
She would know where Amalina is.
Probably the exact coordinates of Secretary Rice too, but a lady doesn’t ask.
My cell phone is a beautiful, sleek clamshell, full of fascinating gadgetry and near-magical capabilities.
None of which are within the scope of my understanding. Which covers setting the date and time, making and receiving calls, and messaging.
I message Anissina, certain to use the roaming plus sign before her number.
I don’t even bother connecting with the net on my phone. Marque has a ridiculously technology-riddled laptop, and all manner of surfing of the World Wide Web is done there.
He studies long distance via the Internet, so an expensive personal computer is well worth it.
Otherwise I’d be the one teaching him geometry. And that could not end pretty for either of us.
The quite tune of Down to Earth.
Oh gods, it’s my phone! A message, a message.
Anissina the eternally prompt.
Amalina is living in Malaysia! What a stroke of luck. No country is as fun to discover as a country with a friend as a guide. The people are
more honest, the places more natural.
The experience becomes, therefore, so much more meaningful.
Number please, Anissina dearest.
The clamshell was about to make a return to the pocket of my fresh shorts, before something solid and heavy slams into me.
I hit the ground cursing, fully-prepared to scream blue murder at the violent motion. I haven’t had my tea yet, damn it!
Turns out it was Wolf’s brother Conrad, the grinning, annoying middle son of Wolfram’s warped family drama.
The one who smiles for no reason, and the one that didn’t reply my messages.
I’m upset with this one, yes I am.
I don’t even bother grabbing his hand to stand;
“I’m perfectly capable of getting to my feet by myself, thank you”
“Sorry, Rufus. I’ve been looking for you actually”
I arch an eyebrow, for dramatic effect. That, and I’ve been practicing it on every reflective surface for the past three months, nearly driving Marque insane with my insanity, and I refuse to die before I can use my “bemused curiosity” look on another sentient being.
He gets to call me Rufus, even if he’s almost 10 years younger.
I don’t know why, but I can hardly ask a man who towers over me to “be a sweetie and call me Auntie, there’s a dear little boy”
Anyways, exuding cool charisma, eyebrow arched.
“Yes?”
Hurrah, the smile looks more frazzled now! And I wonder if it’s childish to mentally gloat at the anxiety of someone who is, basically, my nephew.
Weird.
“I was informed that Wolfram will be joining you for a short adventure around the world.”
“Nice to know you wanted to see me to make a statement, Conrad”
I really am the incarnation of evil.
“It isn’t that! It’s just that… I’ve been really busy at work, Rufus, but I’m not blind. I know Wolfram’s been having love problems!”
Odd, how the whole family have problems with love. He made it sound like a dirty word.
Shiftily, conscience full of guilt, he fidgets.
That may just be my love of dramatics speaking, actually.
“I can’t help, because he doesn’t like me much, and Gwen can’t help, because… well, Gwen can’t help because he’s him”
Eh? He’s smiling again, but it’s not marginally more plastic than my Visa.
It actually looks honest. Amazing, a miracle so early in the day!
“It’s too late for a visit to exotic places to help me, but with mother gone, I’m glad we have you looking after Wolf, aunt Ru”
Holy hells, it’s the first time ever he’s called me aunt, and in true what-the-insert-expletive-here moment, he pecks my cheek.
The quivering arched eyebrow can’t take the suspense, and falls back down into place.
Smug bastard walks away chipper as ever. Did he not understand the depth of the ridiculously Kodak moment?
Too early in the day for this kind of thing.
My phone rings again, but I’m not in the mood to check it.
I’m running and shouting my head off for Marque. His mother is in need of a healing balm right now. Too much weirdness in the morning, before my shot of caffeine.
I can also tell Wolfram where we’ve decided to go. Unless my blamer-mouthed balm already broke the secret to him.
I wonder if I should tell him about his brother.
oOoOo
“I’ve already told your mother, your brothers, and left an “accidental” message for The Bitch to go green over. I’ve also called my Malaysian friend, and we’ll be staying with her as long as we feel like while we’re over there”
It’s maybe 2 hours after the Conrad In Association With Kodak Moment, and me, Wolf and Marque are having breakfast.
Wolf’s wolfing down pancakes, Marque is making his mark on the omelettes, and I’m making horribly unfunny puns.
For boys who don’t look much alike, the expression on their faces were remarkably similar.
Why-are-you-disturbing-me-eat? look. Family is a beautiful thing.
“Sorry to disturb you boys pigging out, but please be packed by Thursday. Plane is at noon on Friday, and Amalina will pick us up at the airport. The one who can name me the capital of Malaysia gets to choose his meals during the flight; the loser must eat fish for the entire length of the long-haul flight. The loser may request for an alternate meal, at the cost of loudly renouncing his manliness”
I slump back and wait for the fun. It’s an exercise in humility and intelligence, one that I’m very proud of coming up with.
Marque is furiously running down the list of names in his mind, I can tell by the way he whispers names to himself. My little cherubim knows that I’m dead serious. Wolfram stares at me, then at Marque, then back at me. Only now does the light of comprehension dawn in his eyes as he realises that sweet old aunt Ru is not messing around.
Marque is narrowing down the list; he’s ticking names off his fingers now. When he does this, it usually means he’s moment away from getting the answer.
Darling nephew Wolf has apparently subjected himself to the whim of a Higher Power, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed. I wonder how terrible his Geography is that even a simple question could send him into the depths of religion.
“Kuala Lumpur!”
“Ding ding ding! We have a winner! Winner gets a kiss on the cheek from the prettiest woman in the world”
What a sweet little smile.
“Good thing she’s my mum”
Little angel marches triumphantly to my chair, offering a cheek smudged with maple syrup to me. He gets his prize, and now I’m smiling like a smug bastard.
“Mum, I think cousin Wolfram is about to faint”
Evil smile, activate.
Amazing, how I still clearly remember the theme to the Power Rangers.
“What’s the matter, Wolf? Fish caught your tongue?”
Aww, he’s blustering and red-faced and utterly childish-looking!
He takes a deep breath, growls incoherently, takes another deep breath, and screams so loudly I swear the banisters shake with the force of
his indignant outrage.
“I HATE SEAFOOD!”
Marque gets off my chair, and solemnly walks to his upset cousin. With a great air of seriousness, his little hand pats his pretty cousin’s arm in companionable understanding.
Companionable, because I’ve made Marque go through it often enough to teach him whichever lesson I deemed he needed learning at the moment.
“Look on the bright side, Wolfram. You’ll be responsible for the death of the seafood you hate so much”
Not exactly unbelievably, Wolfram turns green in the face and runs out of the room probably in search of the nearest toilet.
My un-auntie-like behaviour is utterly excusable; only someone who is dead could resist laughing at the immaculate Wolfram Von Bielefeld running out of a room with a napkin neatly tucked into the collar his shirt in search of a washroom after being terribly scared by his petite cousin.
Marque grins at me like some nefarious elf, and I grin at him return. We’re a unit, he and I, and no one strikes me as funny as Marque.
Plus, we have the same dark humour that scares more people than it amuses. Which is ridiculous, because if humour doesn’t have a dark undertone, then it isn’t very humorous, is it?
We hear a howl of fury muffled by distance, and I think it’s safe to say Wolf found a toilet bowl in the nick of time. He’s terribly squeamish, with the most delicate stomach ever.
Still, that was one gratifying howl.
Marque walks back to me and we do a heartfelt hi-five.
oOoOo
yu: I've given up very early in the game dreaming that I can control this story
*insert nervous laughter here*
And damnit, this is how I imagine mothers and children should behave like! Me and my mum banter almost as scarily.
*sweatdrop*
Rufus has the weirdest likes.
oOoOo
It’s been a while since I’ve come to visit Wolfram here in his home. Cecilie is a wonderful woman, but after we both lost Aurel, I never felt any strong urge to come here.
It’s quite late; Marque has taken over the bed in the guestroom, and I’m still up.
I used to do this a lot, before I had Marque.
The floor is cold, and the wood of the bed frame is rough against my back, but leaning against the bed means I can see the sky, and also has the added bonus of putting me close enough to my son to hear his soft breathing.
He does breathe so very prettily.
I’ll be tired in the morning. It’s horrifyingly late, but experience has shown that I’m much wiser in the dark than I am in the daytime. I remember telling my mother about it, when I was still forced into buckled shoes and a pinafore.
I swore that my school results would be just as startlingly wonderful as brother Aur’s if only they would hold the examinations at night.
My father then told me that the obvious solution was for me to take a long luxurious nap for half the duration of the exam, wake up, put on sunglasses, and pretend it was near midnight.
I tried that for Arts, and the teacher had come to meet my mum to ask her if she knew that I was capable of writing in tongues.
My father was fed cold liver for a week, and I was introduced to the joys and wonder of a good cup of tea.
Still, my best thinking happens at night. It’s pretty outside, the moon not overwhelmingly bright, the clouds tinted with purple and sleep.
I’m worried about my family here.
The only one I’m a direct relative of is Wolfram, but I can’t help but internally bemoan the fate of his brothers and mother.
Another use of night thinking: Marque isn’t awake. The tyrant insists I worry too much about too many people, and would distract me with a question or a pout.
I suspect he believes he knows what’s better for me than I do.
Given a choice, I’d be overjoyed to drag the whole family along on this trip. Cecilie hasn’t gone on a vacation with her family since she lost her last husband, and I want a chance to remind her that even if her sons are strong-willed and intelligent, they can’t stand forever without her.
Cecilie laughed when I suggested this.
Gwen, the oldest though he is, was more preoccupied with how I had gotten his number than with my brilliant plan.
Conrad was unreadable. He smiles, says he’ll think about it. Now my calls remain unreturned, and my messages rerouted to his secretary.
There isn’t much I can do. It certainly didn’t help that I’ve been on the move since Marque was born, rarely being able to meet any of them.
I regret that the most, when I think of my travels. It feels like I have… let them down.
Too late for me to do anything about that. It’s already been eight years, and maybe if I had realised it earlier we would be closer.
I didn’t. So I’ll fix it as best I can.
Marque’s hair is so fine. The strands slip through my fingers so easily, even if he’s miraculously unmoving on the bed. It’s similar to stroking a pet; I was not joking when I said my son is a balm for a weary soul.
Bringing Wolfram would be the first step. I’ll help him through the hell of getting over a person you were certain was the One. It’ll probably happen a few times more in the course of his life; our bloodline takes love seriously, and each one feels like the One.
He’ll come home, and maybe his revived joy will rub off on Grumpy and Mona Lisa. Cecilie could hopefully find it in herself to be in love with her children.
I hope.
Where to go?
Marque’s been pestering me to go to New Zealand after he re-watched all 3 Lord of The Rings movies in one night.
The purpose of this round of travelling is to force Wolf to enjoy himself, and I doubt that would work in a country where sheep outnumber people.
Plus, Cecilie will be there with her paramour.
Fan Fan.
My name is odd enough that I usually don’t hold anyone accountable for the name their parents forced onto them. Sadly, I can’t hold my unbiased views for this particular incident.
It is the name of a performing panda in a Chinese circus, is what it is.
Besides, I want it to be somewhere warm. Almost in spite of where I was born, the cold slows down my brain functions almost to a halt.
Let us head for the equator then.
Marque shifts in his bed, and starts to snore gently every few breaths.
The natural rhythm of a talented percussionist. My son is so brilliant!
Oh, Madagascar?
The language would be a bit of a hassle. I don’t know a word of Mala… Malagasy, I believe. French is fine, but Marque revels in mistaking gender identities, and Wolfram has already demonstrated the length and breadth of his enviable knowledge.
Marseilles is gorgeous.
I think one of my old classmates lives there… or was it Malaysia?
Wait, wait! Exactly the same problem. French, French, and more French. I can just see it, Marque scaring everyone with messed up genders, Wolfram cross and huffily saying “Je ne sais pas” over and over again.
The horror. Plus it’d be cold.
Another name, another name, I’ve only just mentioned it, what was it?
Madagascar, Marseilles, Mal-
I sense a pattern here. Must be thoughts of my darling baby that caused the influx of Ms.
Right, Malaysia!
It’s smack on the equator, and English is very widely spoken, and it’s an Asian nation.
Asians are a pleasure to deal with; quiet, non-argumentative, hate confrontations.
I wouldn’t want one for a lover, because I dislike too much quiet, but for a continent it’s an admirable way to behave.
I’m probably grossly over or under exaggerating their traits; limited experience couldn’t possibly be a solid enough a foundation for me to make a generalisation of an entire continent.
How rash of me, then.
The little I’ve managed to glean from short cuts through Indonesia and Thailand would point towards quiet kindness though; the screams and fighting are unfair blemishes.
The coffee shop Marque and I had stopped at in Thailand was at a rest stop; the lady at the counter couldn’t understand a word of English, and all I could ask for were glass noodles and chicken.
The woman had carefully unscrewed the lid of every jar in the shop, letting me smell each and point to the ones I wanted to make a drink of.
She could have been a militant or zealot. I doubt she was. We didn’t meet a single person in either country that had tried to hurt us, so I happily ignore fights and minor wars in favour of believing in the kindness of people.
Even if I have heard that some racial unrest is stirring in Malaysia, I doubt anyone there is so rash so as to incite an actual race war.
Maybe.
Besides, it’s gloriously warm, the humidity will frizz Wolfram’s hair, Marque won’t be surrounded by blonds, and I think Amalina lives there.
Marque has beautiful dark hair, but mine is a deep blonde. His youngest cousin is blond, his aunt is blonde, his online friends are blond.
Such is the lack of variety in the people I know; Marque gets rather sick of us sometimes.
Poor darling. I have heard him cry alone, but here lies more examples of my silliness.
I never did comfort him while he wallowed in misery that he didn’t look like his family.
That was purely my fault, and by default it’s my fault that he’s upset.
It usually works out well, when I tell him his hair is the most glorious sight I have ever seen, and if there was a hair dye that was strong enough to darken my hair to the level of prettiness his hair flaunts, we’d be sporting the same colour like a shot.
He’d protest, he always does. He likes my long braid, and likes the colour.
He feels better, at least.
I’ve always wondered if I have been incredibly lucky to get Marque for a child.
It was an easy birth, and he never cried much.
Quiet, he was always so quiet, even when I made a silly face or tickled his round tummy with the tips of my hair. He’d look at me, and his dark eyes are always so solemn and serious, it feels like Marque is wearing glasses even though he doesn’t.
It feels like he was mature from birth. Like he knew it never is easy to raise a child alone. Like he wanted to make my job easy for me.
His cheeks are a joy to kiss. They’re as soft as he is.
I worry about him more than Wolfram and his family combined.
It can’t be healthy to be so tolerant and thoughtful when you’re so young, can it?
We’ve been traversing the world almost since he could crawl, because staying at any one place for long begins to hurt me. Memories catch up, even if you’re on the other side of the world from where they were first forged.
Wolfram going with me is a momentary leave; what I do is the graceful art of running.
But I have to stop, soon. For Marque.
He gets another kiss for being so sweet.
Perhaps Wolfram with us could persuade me to grow roots here near my only remaining family.
Perhaps Wolfram will learn much from seeing a bit more of the world, and become stronger.
Perhaps Marque will finally insist upon staying still, and I will finally comply.
I’m going to bed now. Night thoughts are wiser than day ones, but I will never be smart enough to stop worrying.
I do love them.
oOoOo
Ouch.
Who this side of hell would poke me at eight damn A.M in the morning?
“…Mum”
Ngh. The pillow smells sweet, so I move deeper into it.
“Mum!”
Ngh. Hush, get the message, go away.
Oof.
I don’t want to. Don’t want to, but I have to, so I do.
Eye, open, please.
Don’t scream, don’t scream!
“Marque, what the-“
Yes, bit down on the comforter. No mother should curse in front of her child. Even if said child is currently sitting on top of her, weighing down her chest, making it harder to breath.
Said child is also grinning like a murderer. His position doesn’t help.
I’m so proud I didn’t scream like a little girl.
“Marque, what did I say about mummy and sleep?”
Now he smiles angelically. Given his dark features, he looks like an exotic cherub.
The glint in his eyes is all mischief, sadly. Rufus Von, pretty, witty and gay, is not a morning woman.
“One, never to call you mummy on pain of being called Marquee Marque, and two, I can only wake you up before nine “damn” A.M if the house is on fire or I’m getting married”
He softens the insult with a kiss on my cheek. His breath is sweet; little Marque must have gotten up much earlier.
Other eye, if you would be so kind?
Yup, he’s been up a while. Fresh-faced, new clothes, brushed hair.
I probably look a mess; I didn’t braid my hair before going to sleep yesterday.
One of the smaller cushions is probably taking refuge in my hair, somewhere.
All right, slight show of control. Nobody likes a spoilt child.
Growl, growl, you silly little brat you, I’m not letting you watch God (?) Save someone-or-other, growl.
Smart parenting at eight damn A.M?
Check.
“What?”
He’s gotten under the covers, and I hug him.
I never thought about it, but is it possible I have a fetish for hugging? I hug my son every other minute, have hugged Wolf a combined total of 17 times since we arrived here yesterday morning, have nearly choked the house-cat with my over-affectionate love, and gave pillars longing looks when I was left alone for an hour yesterday.
I somehow doubt that’s normal; the magazine I read about obsessions didn’t state “excessive need to hug” under “Top 10 Things You Can’t Live Without Doing”
Then again, the name of the writer was Staycee with a “Cee”, so maybe I should be a bit more discerning.
“Will Wolfram be following us when we leave again?”
Oh. Did I not mention this when we were playing yesterday?
Wait, that was a say-out-loud thought, not a keep quiet one.
A peck on his dark curls.
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday? He’s following us for a couple of months. Now, your cousin Wolf is currently suffering from a terrible bout of heartache. What should a well-trained, highly smart son-of-Rufus do?”
He smiles, I smile back.
No teeth, of course. He may have brushed his, but I have yet to get my hands on my Braun.
“Feed him lots of ice cream and compare the evil slanderer to sea slugs?”
How could anyone resist laughter at that?
And since I’d bought him a thick tome on oceanic invertebrates a month ago, I have no doubt the comparison will be highly accurate.
Wonder if Wolf has a test for Biology sometime soon? He could learn a lot from little Marque.
“Sounds good to me. How does Malaysia sound for our next trip?”
“But mum! I thought we were going to New Zealand! So we could stand by the river and cosplay as Galadriel and Frodo and stuff!”
He pouts, but this is not the usual I’m-annoying-but-you-love-me-anyway pout.
It’s his I-want-it-my-way pout.
I probably do spoil him considerably, since I don’t know what would be the correct dosage of anything.
Doesn’t mean he gets his way all the time. I’m not that incompetent.
“We can do that next time, Marque”
“But mum-“
“Next time, Marque. Cousin Wolf needs to be distracted. Not forced to dress as a metrosexual elf. Who isn’t even as pretty as he is”
I wonder if I pouted as much as he did when I was small.
God bless my mother’s heart and her infinite patience if I did.
I poke the little frown on his little forehead.
“Be kind, Marque, and don’t make faces. Do you want to look like cousin Gwen at age 8? Doesn’t Malaysia sound nice?”
“Where’s that?”
A bit of a tantrum. I know I’m supposed to nip this kind of behaviour in the bud, but I don’t know how. Someone should write a manual on how
to care for children.
A Newbie’s Guide to Having Babies
… How to bring them up well, not just the fun stuff that got you children to begin with.
Maybe I will, if I have more time. Anissina certainly wouldn’t mind publishing it.
Oh dear, I have to tell her I’m going on the move again. She’ll be very annoyed if the books she sent for me to review end up lost in Nicaragua.
Again.
“North of Singapore, south of Thailand. Temperate climate all year round, population 25 million or so, multiracial in the most lucid sense of the word”
No response. He can be a bit stubborn.
Not that I have a right to complain. I remember burying all our luggage in the backyard after mum and dad said that our family vacation for that year would not be to the ocean.
I think I was 9. I’ve always had extremely strong upper body muscles, and even being slightly shorter than the shovel, I had father’s precious Samsonite suitcase six feet under in much swiftness.
At least, six feet to a nine year old.
Which, considering the time it took for him to dig it out, wasn’t very deep.
I got scolded and fed nothing but spaghetti for a month.
Mum knew the best way to punish me is to withhold variety in my food.
Point is, I was a terror when I was young.
Also point is, I am incapable of withholding delicious food from my son.
Which may be why his behaviour can be a bit headstrong sometimes.
“It’s warm there, Marque”
I sniffle a bit. I caught the flu the day before we arrived here, and I’m a bit pale.
Marque, the softy, swore to eradicate the flu by the time he hits puberty so that I don’t have to pop flu medicine ever again.
A bit of manipulation does not a bad mother make. He worries more about my health than I do.
“You don’t eat enough,” he’d said. Hah! He consults the pyramid of nutrition every time we go grocery shopping, and looks after our diet. He’ll say we need more protein and I’ll cook meat, more fibre and I cook vegetables.
Suffice it to say, health, and my health in particular, is my son’s Kryptonite.
How loveable is that?
A warm, small hand plasters itself to my forehead.
The frown grows deeper. He’s wobbling, and he will fall.
Like an enraged but resigned adult, he purses his lips before sighing.
“Fine, mum. Malaysia it is. National language Malaysian, English widely spoken, culture uncertain and thoroughly mixed with many of their fellow Asian countries. Ruling party didn’t win the majority in the elections held earlier this year, and their currency is cheap”
I smile at him, and he smiles back.
“Boleh bercakap bahasa Malaysia?”
Marque understands basic Indonesian, and the words are eerily similar to Malay. I ask him if he can speak the Malaysian language.
I’m no expert, but former classmate Amalina was Malaysian. Even if I don’t know where she lives now.
Marque smiles evilly, and I can just tell what he’s about to say.
“Sah yah tak ta hoo”
Despicable pronunciation, but darling, I understood that.
If you don’t know this, what do you know?
oOoOo
We get out of bed, later.
Marque runs off to presumably jump on my nephew, whom I have been given to understand suffers from the same morning sickness as I do.
Incoherency until the first dose of caffeine, or a shower, or until 9 A.M.
I go and take a shower. Even when it’s frigidly cold, like the early spring we spent in an apartment in Rome, I have to take shower.
Even when, like that time in Rome, the temperature is 14°C and the water is cold as ice.
My hair curls a little, so it drapes longer when it’s wet.
The water in the shower was blessedly hot, and I didn’t even glance at the deep, tiled bathing pool.
I dislike baths, because they’re so dull. Sitting there, splashing about a little, then resuming non-movement. Showers are done standing up, they’re fast, and they’re comparatively active.
I washed my hair, and dried it well.
It’s past halfway down my back. I wonder if I should chop it off.
Get it to Wolfram’s cropped length. His hair frames his face well enough.
But Marque wants me to grow it even longer.
Something about cosplaying Chi, or Qi, whatever makes sense.
I’ll keep it long, for now.
The towels are fresh and thick, and I am in love. Few things non-living give me as much pleasure as a thick, fluffy towel that’s freshly laundered. The smelll, the feel, the softness, makes me want to propose to someone.
I don’t know who exactly.
A toss up between the creator of towels, the manufacturer of the specimen I’m in love with, or the woman who washed it so magnificently.
Ah, the beauty of indiscriminate love! I’m happy today; the towel is a good omen.
Would people excuse me if I broke into song while I’m walking to find my son and nephew?
As Foul Ole Ron would say, bugger this for a lark.
“Saya anak Malaysia! Saya anak Malaysia! Saya anak Malaysia!”
Silly, silly song. I remembered asking Amalina what on earth she was singing, and she told me it was her nerd-brother’s favourite song.
It reminded her of home. Even though our school was decent, and our neighbourhood was lovely, it made sense that she would still pine for her home country.
The chorus, the bit that I just broke into with dire disregard for talent, pitching and tone, is a spirited repetition of “I am a child of Malaysia!” over and over again.
Fleas were involved in the song; I don’t remember where.
A perfect song, given the circumstances. I’m calling Ani and getting Amalina’s number.
If ever there was a woman thoroughly interested in other women in a completely platonic way, it would have to be Anissina.
Makes you appreciate feminists, really, getting to know Anissina. The estimate made at our last class reunion had it that at least half of all women in power in the world knew Anissina well. Owning a publishing company and a personality like hers would get you that.
She’s tall and red-headed. Marque adores her, whenever we manage to meet.
In return she adores him, and never fails to hammer home the importance of putting women first for anything that is good and right.
Anyways, Anissina likes to keep in contact and listen to our stories.
The ones she herself enjoys she begs use of; then prints it for children under the series Adventures of Baroness Von Karbelnikoff series.
She would know where Amalina is.
Probably the exact coordinates of Secretary Rice too, but a lady doesn’t ask.
My cell phone is a beautiful, sleek clamshell, full of fascinating gadgetry and near-magical capabilities.
None of which are within the scope of my understanding. Which covers setting the date and time, making and receiving calls, and messaging.
I message Anissina, certain to use the roaming plus sign before her number.
I don’t even bother connecting with the net on my phone. Marque has a ridiculously technology-riddled laptop, and all manner of surfing of the World Wide Web is done there.
He studies long distance via the Internet, so an expensive personal computer is well worth it.
Otherwise I’d be the one teaching him geometry. And that could not end pretty for either of us.
The quite tune of Down to Earth.
Oh gods, it’s my phone! A message, a message.
Anissina the eternally prompt.
Amalina is living in Malaysia! What a stroke of luck. No country is as fun to discover as a country with a friend as a guide. The people are
more honest, the places more natural.
The experience becomes, therefore, so much more meaningful.
Number please, Anissina dearest.
The clamshell was about to make a return to the pocket of my fresh shorts, before something solid and heavy slams into me.
I hit the ground cursing, fully-prepared to scream blue murder at the violent motion. I haven’t had my tea yet, damn it!
Turns out it was Wolf’s brother Conrad, the grinning, annoying middle son of Wolfram’s warped family drama.
The one who smiles for no reason, and the one that didn’t reply my messages.
I’m upset with this one, yes I am.
I don’t even bother grabbing his hand to stand;
“I’m perfectly capable of getting to my feet by myself, thank you”
“Sorry, Rufus. I’ve been looking for you actually”
I arch an eyebrow, for dramatic effect. That, and I’ve been practicing it on every reflective surface for the past three months, nearly driving Marque insane with my insanity, and I refuse to die before I can use my “bemused curiosity” look on another sentient being.
He gets to call me Rufus, even if he’s almost 10 years younger.
I don’t know why, but I can hardly ask a man who towers over me to “be a sweetie and call me Auntie, there’s a dear little boy”
Anyways, exuding cool charisma, eyebrow arched.
“Yes?”
Hurrah, the smile looks more frazzled now! And I wonder if it’s childish to mentally gloat at the anxiety of someone who is, basically, my nephew.
Weird.
“I was informed that Wolfram will be joining you for a short adventure around the world.”
“Nice to know you wanted to see me to make a statement, Conrad”
I really am the incarnation of evil.
“It isn’t that! It’s just that… I’ve been really busy at work, Rufus, but I’m not blind. I know Wolfram’s been having love problems!”
Odd, how the whole family have problems with love. He made it sound like a dirty word.
Shiftily, conscience full of guilt, he fidgets.
That may just be my love of dramatics speaking, actually.
“I can’t help, because he doesn’t like me much, and Gwen can’t help, because… well, Gwen can’t help because he’s him”
Eh? He’s smiling again, but it’s not marginally more plastic than my Visa.
It actually looks honest. Amazing, a miracle so early in the day!
“It’s too late for a visit to exotic places to help me, but with mother gone, I’m glad we have you looking after Wolf, aunt Ru”
Holy hells, it’s the first time ever he’s called me aunt, and in true what-the-insert-expletive-here moment, he pecks my cheek.
The quivering arched eyebrow can’t take the suspense, and falls back down into place.
Smug bastard walks away chipper as ever. Did he not understand the depth of the ridiculously Kodak moment?
Too early in the day for this kind of thing.
My phone rings again, but I’m not in the mood to check it.
I’m running and shouting my head off for Marque. His mother is in need of a healing balm right now. Too much weirdness in the morning, before my shot of caffeine.
I can also tell Wolfram where we’ve decided to go. Unless my blamer-mouthed balm already broke the secret to him.
I wonder if I should tell him about his brother.
oOoOo
“I’ve already told your mother, your brothers, and left an “accidental” message for The Bitch to go green over. I’ve also called my Malaysian friend, and we’ll be staying with her as long as we feel like while we’re over there”
It’s maybe 2 hours after the Conrad In Association With Kodak Moment, and me, Wolf and Marque are having breakfast.
Wolf’s wolfing down pancakes, Marque is making his mark on the omelettes, and I’m making horribly unfunny puns.
For boys who don’t look much alike, the expression on their faces were remarkably similar.
Why-are-you-disturbing-me-eat? look. Family is a beautiful thing.
“Sorry to disturb you boys pigging out, but please be packed by Thursday. Plane is at noon on Friday, and Amalina will pick us up at the airport. The one who can name me the capital of Malaysia gets to choose his meals during the flight; the loser must eat fish for the entire length of the long-haul flight. The loser may request for an alternate meal, at the cost of loudly renouncing his manliness”
I slump back and wait for the fun. It’s an exercise in humility and intelligence, one that I’m very proud of coming up with.
Marque is furiously running down the list of names in his mind, I can tell by the way he whispers names to himself. My little cherubim knows that I’m dead serious. Wolfram stares at me, then at Marque, then back at me. Only now does the light of comprehension dawn in his eyes as he realises that sweet old aunt Ru is not messing around.
Marque is narrowing down the list; he’s ticking names off his fingers now. When he does this, it usually means he’s moment away from getting the answer.
Darling nephew Wolf has apparently subjected himself to the whim of a Higher Power, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed. I wonder how terrible his Geography is that even a simple question could send him into the depths of religion.
“Kuala Lumpur!”
“Ding ding ding! We have a winner! Winner gets a kiss on the cheek from the prettiest woman in the world”
What a sweet little smile.
“Good thing she’s my mum”
Little angel marches triumphantly to my chair, offering a cheek smudged with maple syrup to me. He gets his prize, and now I’m smiling like a smug bastard.
“Mum, I think cousin Wolfram is about to faint”
Evil smile, activate.
Amazing, how I still clearly remember the theme to the Power Rangers.
“What’s the matter, Wolf? Fish caught your tongue?”
Aww, he’s blustering and red-faced and utterly childish-looking!
He takes a deep breath, growls incoherently, takes another deep breath, and screams so loudly I swear the banisters shake with the force of
his indignant outrage.
“I HATE SEAFOOD!”
Marque gets off my chair, and solemnly walks to his upset cousin. With a great air of seriousness, his little hand pats his pretty cousin’s arm in companionable understanding.
Companionable, because I’ve made Marque go through it often enough to teach him whichever lesson I deemed he needed learning at the moment.
“Look on the bright side, Wolfram. You’ll be responsible for the death of the seafood you hate so much”
Not exactly unbelievably, Wolfram turns green in the face and runs out of the room probably in search of the nearest toilet.
My un-auntie-like behaviour is utterly excusable; only someone who is dead could resist laughing at the immaculate Wolfram Von Bielefeld running out of a room with a napkin neatly tucked into the collar his shirt in search of a washroom after being terribly scared by his petite cousin.
Marque grins at me like some nefarious elf, and I grin at him return. We’re a unit, he and I, and no one strikes me as funny as Marque.
Plus, we have the same dark humour that scares more people than it amuses. Which is ridiculous, because if humour doesn’t have a dark undertone, then it isn’t very humorous, is it?
We hear a howl of fury muffled by distance, and I think it’s safe to say Wolf found a toilet bowl in the nick of time. He’s terribly squeamish, with the most delicate stomach ever.
Still, that was one gratifying howl.
Marque walks back to me and we do a heartfelt hi-five.
oOoOo
yu: I've given up very early in the game dreaming that I can control this story
*insert nervous laughter here*
And damnit, this is how I imagine mothers and children should behave like! Me and my mum banter almost as scarily.
*sweatdrop*