“Why do you mean, an ‘insult’?” Mas Hananto asked me in a shrill voice when I criticized the editor-in-chief’s decision to transfer Bang Amir.
“Because it’s idiotic, transferring Bang Amir like that. It was obviously done for political reasons. Isn’t that so?” I asked Mas Hananto in turn. “And if that’s the case, it’s a bad decision.”
Mas Hananto looked at me sourly but he didn’t refute my accusation. “And where is there not politics in life?” he asked instead—another habit that infuriated me, always answering a question with one of his own. Just because he was my superior, my mentor, and better than me in many respects, it didn’t mean he was always right. Sure, everything was political, but to have “exiled” Bang Amir for any reason—and this was for sheer political reasons—wasn’t the right thing to do. And not only was it not right; it wasn’t fair.
“In every struggle, we have to be ready for times that require sacrifice,” Mas Hananto told me.
God, I thought, now he’s sounding like Bung Karno. What was the connection between the so-called struggle and Bang Amir’s transfer?
The scowl on my face appeared to make Mas Hananto uneasy, but I was angry and I wanted him to know it. Apparently sensing this and also knowing that if he tried to counter me our argument would only grow worse, he wisely turned and walked away.
That evening I decided to visit Bang Amir at his home, which was just a becak-ride from Nusantara News, on a small and shady side street off Salemba Boulevard. His wife Saidah—a woman with wonderfully long wavy hair and the tender voice of a mother who never seemed angry or impatient—answered my knock on the door. She invited me in and ushered me to the living room.
“Bang Amir is praying. He won’t be long. I’ll make some coffee,” she said as she retreated to the kitchen in the back.
I nodded. Looking down at the coffee table in front of my chair, I saw Capita Selecta, one of Natsir’s works, and several other titles as well along with a notebook and a fountain pen with its cap on. I knew that Bang Amir was a Masyumi follower, of course; and though I hardly knew Natsir himself and had scant knowledge of the ideology behind his Masyumi Party, the man struck me as being courteous and sincere. One day, in a conversation with Bang Amir at the office, he started talking about Natsir and told me how he hoped that Natsir would soon be released from the prison in Malang where he was being held. Unfortunately, because of a news deadline, we were never able to finish this conversation.
“Dimas Suryo …”
Bang Amir had a low and deep voice, like that of the popular bass vocalist, Rahmat Kartolo. Sometimes I found myself talking to him just to hear the rhythmic cadence of his sultry voice. But I was interested in what he had to say—and not just his criticism of the editor-in-chief, whose management style seemed to derive from herd instinct; I was interested in his other thoughts and ideas as well.
I stood to greet Bang Amir and we warmly shook hands. I stopped myself from blurting out how shocked I was not to see him in the editorial room, but I guessed he was able to intuit the reason for my visit, namely a sense of solidarity with him as a fellow journalist and editor. I’m sure he also guessed that I strongly disagreed with the editor-in-chief’s decision to transfer him to another section. Whatever the case, we jumped into ready conversation, talking about this and that, while drinking tubruk coffee and smoking kretek, completely skirting the subject that was on each other’s mind.
During the course of our conversation, Bang Amir revealed how he had come to meet his wife Saidah. Their first meeting was at the wedding of a friend, he told me, and when they looked at each other, they had immediately fallen in love. Amir stressed that as long as Saidah was beside him, he would be able to overcome whatever peril might befall him. “Even a transfer to the marketing division,” he added sardonically, finally entering that taboo domain. “When I pray, I always thank God for having given me Saidah to stand beside me. Without her, I would be a boat adrift. With her, I am able to maintain my balance and feel calm.”
As if having said enough about the sensitive issue, Bang Amir immediately segued into commentary of a more spiritual nature. “I believe that Allah shows the blessings He has bestowed on me by providing, inside myself, a small and private space, a little vacuum as it were, which only He and I occupy. And it is in there I go, Dimas, whenever I am trying to understand what is happening.
I wasn’t quite sure what Amir meant by this “private space” or that “little vacuum” but I was charmed by the imagery and dissolved in it like cocoa power in hot water. Whether it was because of his mellifluous voice or as a result of what he’d said, I said nothing in reply.
He took another sip of coffee and then asked out of the blue, “So, why don’t you want to get married and settle down?” yanking me back to the profane world.
I smiled. Suddenly, the image of Surti flashed before me. Bright. Shining. A kitchen smelling of turmeric. A kiss that overwhelmed my senses. I was startled. Why had her face appeared just now, when I was annoyed with Mas Hananto?
“That look on your face tells me you have someone already,” Amir said. “Is she pretty? Who is she?”
I smiled and shook my head. “It’s no one. I’m still single. But maybe one day…”
He smiled knowingly, like an elder brother. “Don’t worry. One day you’ll meet your Saidah.”
I was unnerved by Bang Amir’s sincerity. Shortly afterwards, when I stood to take my leave, I hugged him warmly. And as I walked away from the house to hunt for a becak, my heart felt like it was strapped in irons.
One night we finished writing up the news sooner than usual. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. At first I thought I’d find a bite to eat and go home, but then Mas Hananto signaled for me to come with him. When I asked where we were going, he just smiled and kept driving his beloved Nissan patrol jeep. On the way to wherever it was we were going, he mentioned that he and Mas Nugroho were in frequent correspondence with people close to Andrés Pascal Allende.
“You mean, as in the nephew of Salvador Allende?” I asked in awe, like some country hick when hearing the name of a celebrity.
“Yes,” he smiled, “and the founder of that country’s leftist party, the Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria.”
I said nothing, leery of knowing (or not wanting to know) what their correspondence was about.
At the corner of Jalan Tjidurian in Menteng, Mas Hananto turned left. I said nothing. Now I knew that we were heading to LEKRA’s headquarters. From a distance, I saw, sitting on the terrace of the large house being used as LEKRA’s office, a number of people engaged in casual conversation.
“I don’t know about this…” I whispered to my friend.
“Take it easy. I just want you to meet some of my friends. Plus, I have a book in there I want you to read.”
I sat down among the nine or ten people who were there and soon found myself falling into easy conversation with them. Almost unaware of the passing time, we stayed at the office until almost midnight, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Afterwards, Mas Hananto gave me a lift to my boarding house.
As I was getting out of the jeep, he handed me a copy of the Indonesian-language edition of John Steinbeck’s novel Of Mice and Men. “Pramoedya translated it,” Mas Hananto said to me, as if this gave the book official imprimatur. “The book is mine but you can have it.”
I said nothing but nodded my thanks.
“After you have read it, I want you to tell me if you still think social realism is not interesting.”
“What happened to Hananto and his family?” Vivienne’s voice broke the spell and yanked me back to Paris in 1968. I couldn’t give her an immediate answer. She seemed to acknowledge this and to understand that there were other chapters in my life’s story that should, in their telling, precede what had happened to Mas Hananto.
I stared into her green eyes and stroked her face. I stood and was shocked, suddenly aware of my naked body. I looked down at Vivienne who smiled as her eyes traced
my body’s shape, moving upwards from my legs to my chest.
“His wife Surti and their three children are still in detention,” I said flatly.
“Kenanga?”
“Yes, that’s their oldest”
“Such a pretty name.”
“It’s a kind of flower. I’m not sure what it is in French. The name of Bulan, their second child, means la lune and Alam means la nature. He’s the youngest, just three.” I said, chattering and looking away as I put on my trousers. I didn’t want Vivienne to know that those name were ones that I had once chosen when we were daydreaming. And by “we” I meant Surti and I.
“But what about Hananto?” Vivienne asked.
I was reluctant to say. The smoke rose from our cigarette, twirling in the air, taking me to a world of fog.
“Mas Hananto was the last link in the chain to be captured. Most of the other members of the editorial board at Nusantara News had already been swept up. The only ones not arrested were members of either Islamic or anti-communist organizations. Of course, they were close to the military as well.”
I sat down on the floor, silent in thought, counting the rising rings of smoke.
“There were these conferences for journalists in Santiago and Peking…” I finally began, attempting to give my gradually emerging story more historical context. “And Mas Hananto should have been the one to go to them with Mas Nugroho. He was more senior and much better than I in those kinds of networking jobs…” I stopped, searching for the words to continue. Vivienne stared at me, anxious to hear the rest. “But Mas Hananto couldn’t go. He had a ton of work to do, or so he said, and some pressing personal matters to settle as well. So I replaced him and went with Mas Nug instead. Neither was against my going or taking Mas Hananto’s place. Both thought I would learn a lot and gain some valuable experience besides.”
Vivienne brushed her fingers over my hair.
“If he had gone, he wouldn’t have been captured,” I said, suddenly feeling a chill in my bones. I put on my shirt but still felt myself shaking.
Vivienne frowned. “Not necessarily!”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not the way life works. If Hananto had gone, then everything else that happened would have been different. We don’t know what would have happened. Maybe you’d have been taken in or maybe not.”
“I’d feel better if I was the one who had been captured. I don’t have a family.”
“You have your mother and your brother.”
I didn’t reply. I knew Vivienne was trying to comfort me. She had a good heart, a gentle soul, but there was no way I was going to feel consoled when I thought of what had happened to Surti and her children. My cigarette was a stub in my fingers.
Vivienne lit a new kretek. She took a drag then handed it to me.
THE TRIVELI AREA OF JAKARTA;
SEPTEMBER 5, 1965
I was on my fifth cigarette already and Mas Hananto was still getting it off with that woman in her house. I looked at my watch. Two o’clock in the morning! I swore that if he didn’t settle his business and show his face before I finished the cigarette, I was going to leave him. I didn’t care if he groused at me the next day at work. And what was he doing in there anyway? He had a beautiful wife: Surti, who was perfect in almost every way. He had no reason to betray her. I couldn’t understand the man’s behavior but, as I was his friend, I also couldn’t remain oblivious to his proclivity for extramarital affairs.
This was the third time Mas Hananto had forced me to go with him when he went to see Marni. He needed me along to provide an alibi in case Surti asked where or with whom he had been.
Hearing a sound, I looked around to see Mas Hananto finally coming out of Marni’s place. As he approached me, I could see that he was sweating but also beaming with satisfaction. With a big shit-eating grin on his face, he came over to where I was standing beside the cigarette vendor’s kiosk near where he had parked his car. Son of a bitch!
“What is it?” he asked while lighting a cigarette.
“What do you mean ‘what is it’?”
“Why that hang-dog look on your face?”
“This is the last time I’m coming here with you!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not your lackey, that’s why, and I don’t want to have to lie to Surti.”
Mas Hananto’s face was expressionless. He had always been very good at concealing his emotions. He just smoked his cigarette. We walked towards the car not speaking. The Jakarta sky was absent of stars, a mirror of my heart. I liked Mas Hananto. And I liked women, too; but for me, supposing I had a wife, especially one as lovely and faithful as Surti, that would mean I had made my choice in life. That would mean there would be no more playing around.
“What’s special about Marni anyway?” I asked, breaking the silence.
Mas Hananto smiled. He knew that I couldn’t stay mad at him for too long. “She makes all the cells in my body seem to come alive,” he said with a glow in his eyes.
“Do you love her?”
He gave me a funny sideways look, and the kind of smirk that always made my blood rush to my temples because of the over-confident way he spoke. He was always so sure that nothing he did could possibly create problems for other people.
“Surti is my wife, my life’s companion. But with Marni, I feel the passionate excitement of the proletarian class.”
Pow!
Mas Hananto suddenly toppled over. I was amazed, because I hadn’t thought the fist of my right hand could move so fast to strike his jaw.
“Attends!” Once again, Vivienne’s voice suddenly tore away the scrim from my past, startling me. She raised her brows inquisitively. “Why were you so angry?”
Vivienne deserved an answer, but my voice was caught in my throat. How was I to explain to Vivienne who Surti was to me? The stem of jasmine that never wilted.
“You were angry because you were in love with her!”
Now I was the one knocked over—or, more precisely, dumb-founded by the ability of this Frenchwoman to read my heart.
I had spoken volumes to Vivienne about Jakarta and the political situation there, and never once had she interrupted me. But now, this one time, she instantly knew I was leaving something out and she cut off my story. Hmm…
I coughed to clear my throat. “Surti and I once were close…”
“You were in love with her,” Vivienne said, correcting me, “and you were angry because Hananto was two-timing the woman you once loved.” Vivienne stared at me to assess whether her assumption was correct. “Or, possibly,” she added, “because you were still in love with her.”
I hastened to explain. “What I was feeling at that time was only that Mas Hananto was squandering the affection of a woman who loved him—the same woman who had given him Kenanga and Bulan,” I said honestly, though still avoiding her question.
Vivienne continued to stare at me, a small smile tugging on her lips.
“That was then, Vivienne. We all have a past,” I said sincerely, hoping that the light in her beautiful green eyes would not fade. “I’m serious. And now I care for and respect Surti as I would a sister. She is—or was, rather—my best friend’s wife.”
Vivienne still looked unsure. I myself was unsure. I knew that whenever I mentioned Surti’s name, my heart felt a jolt of pain. And hearing the names of Kenanga, Bulan, and even Alam, the youngest whom I had never known, still made my heart leap. I was the one who dreamt up their names. I don’t know if Mas Hananto ever knew that.
In a firm voice, Vivienne now asked me to continue my story.
THE TRIVELI AREA OF JAKARTA;
SEPTEMBER 5, 1965
Mas Hananto rubbed his rub his jaw in pain. Inside the cigarette kiosk, the vendor snored, unaware of the disturbance outside.
“Mas Han …”
Hananto turned away, avoiding the look in my eye. “You still haven’t gotten over her, have you?”
I didn’t answer. It would have be
en a waste of time, what with the anger boiling in each of us.
“What time is it anyway?” I mumbled, suddenly feeling my body begin to wilt. My knees seemed to have lost their caps.
“Three,” Mas Hananto said brusquely, looking at his watch, a 17-jewel Titoni which was like a second heart for him and never free from his wrist. “That’s why I keep telling you to go to Senen Market and buy yourself a watch. You’re always having to ask other people the time.”
His tone was rough, but I could tell he was no longer angry. His jaw must have been hurting him, though.
I sat down beside him on the bumper of his jeep. “This will be the last time I interfere in your personal affairs,” I told him, “but I need to tell you that the way you live your life, with your family here and you going off to see Marni or some other woman there, shows that you are not consistent.”
Mas Hananto helped himself to a pack of cigarettes from the kiosk, placed a bill to cover the cost beside the still-sleeping vendor, opened the packet, and then offered a stick to me. He signaled for me to get into the jeep.
The streets in Jakarta were silent. Silence and smoke suffused the jeep’s interior.
In what seemed just a moment, we found ourselves already driving by the construction site of the unfinished National Monument in the park facing the presidential palace. From the disarray of the site, it was hard to guess when construction would be completed.
“So, you don’t think I’m consistent?” Mas Hananto suddenly muttered.
A strange question, I thought, coming from a man like Mas Hananto, who was so sure of the political ideology he had chosen to follow and the woman he had selected to be a helpmate in his life.
“I say that,” I told him, “because you have a family. A family requires stability and consistency. If you can’t control yourself and are always giving in to impulse, then you shouldn’t have gotten married. All you’re going to do is to make other people suffer.”
Mas Hananto glanced at me. “You’re not saying this because of Surti?”
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