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by Leila S. Chudori

“Yes?” Dimas lifted his brow.

  Just as is done in Indonesia, the younger men were apparently waiting for the most senior person to give them permission to eat. Nervously, Raditya raised his spoon and fork and stuttered: “Ehem, shall we start, Pak Dimas?”

  As if coming out of a trance, Dimas quickly answered: “Oh, please, please, go ahead.” He looked around to see his three friends standing, hands crossed, in front of the kitchen door. “If you’d like more, just ask Yazir,” he said to Lintang, then turned and made his way back to the kitchen. But Lintang’s three uncles remained outside, pretending to be busy, even as they kept their eyes on her.

  “Sorry,” Lintang said in English, shaking her head. “They’re all very protective. They’ve never had anyone from the embassy come into the restaurant before.”

  “No problem,” Yos said. “We understand.” He then lowered his head and dug into his meal, as if not wanting to raise his head again. The succulent pieces of beef rendang seemed to melt on his tongue. He forgot his friends’ presence and didn’t notice that Raditya and Hans had also lost themselves in the plates of food before them.

  The three young diplomats seemed to have forgotten where they were, so engrossed were they in eating the beef rendang, the chicken curry whose sauce nestled with the steaming hot rice, and the spiced cubes of fried calves liver with diced potatoes. On each plate was also a portion of Padang-style green chili sauce.

  Not caring that they were in Paris and ignoring their spoons and forks, just as they would do at a Padang restaurant in Indonesia, they dug into their meals with their right hands. Dear God, this was heaven. Why were they forbidden to come here?

  Lintang signaled for Yazir to fetch finger bowls.

  “My father still likes to cook himself, especially when we have special visitors,” Lintang said, opening the conversation. “And it’s been so long since I’ve been here, Ayah insisted that he was going to cook.”

  The three young diplomats nodded, ignoring Lintang’s explanation. Their attention was on the scrumptious rendang and curried chicken.

  “Aren’t you forbidden to eat here?” Lintang then asked, as if intentionally hoping to disturb the visitors’ pleasure. “Wasn’t there an official announcement to that effect from Jakarta?”

  Risjaf, Tjai, and Nugroho, who were still standing within hearing distance, immediately pricked up their ears.

  Hans reluctantly raised his head. “I don’t give a damn!” he swore in English, his lips smeared with oil. “Who could turn down an offer of rendang as good as this?” he said and turned back to his plate.

  Raditya and Yos said nothing at all, so busy were they with their portions of curried chicken.

  Raditya had broken into a sweat from the spicy heat of the meal, and Lintang laughed to see him wriggle out of his suit jacket and struggle to remove it without staining the sleeve with his right hand, wet from oil and curry sauce.

  Even though she had already eaten two plates of nasi kuning earlier, Lintang ate her own plate of nasi Padang enthusiastically.

  “My God, Lintang, where do you put all that food?” Nara laughed, knowing how much Lintang had eaten that day.

  All the plates were completely clean and the scent of cloves from kretek cigarettes now filled the air.

  Yos leaned against the back of his chair and watched the smoke he had exhaled. “Oh, God,” he moaned, “I really do not want to go back to the office.”

  Except for Lintang, who was nibbling on iced jackfruit, the diners were now smoking, slowly playing with their cigarettes as if they were on vacation, without a care in the world.

  Finally, when his cigarette was just a stub, Hans took out a folder from his valise and removed a multiple-page form.

  “This is a visa form. For your name, write ‘Lintang Utara.’ Don’t use Suryo.”

  Lintang furrowed her forehead. “And this box, for the family name?”

  “That’s where you write ‘Utara.’ For all we care, that is your last name,” said Yos in English with an airy tone. “The important thing is that you get to Jakarta, right?”

  Lintang nodded and proceeded to fill in the form.

  Risjaf and Nugroho seemed less nervous now. They had begun to move around the restaurant, taking care of other customers. And Tjai was once again buried in his figures.

  “Weird,” Lintang remarked as she intoned and wrote: “First name ‘Lintang.’ Family name ‘Utara.’”

  “Not to worry,” Raditya said as he stubbed his cigarette. “With your French passport, the people at immigration aren’t going to be extra wary anyway. And even if they do notice that you have an Indonesian name, they probably aren’t going to give it any thought. Most Indonesians, especially the Javanese, rarely write down a family name. They don’t have one. Like Hesti Handayani, who works at the embassy here, and Retno Sulistyowati, a classmate of mine: their names are their own and they don’t put down another name to indicate who their mother or father might be. That’s what appears on their I.D. cards and in their passports.”

  Lintang was astounded by this information. Could it really be that easy? But, at this point, she had neither the time nor the will to discuss the customary or, rather, “non-customary” use of family names in Indonesia. She completed the form, signed it, and affixed to it several regulation-size photographs of herself.

  After the three men had finished eating a dessert of fried bananas, they began to say their goodbyes. Wanting to give her father the chance to thank the three men, she called for him to come out of the kitchen. But, still flummoxed about something, she spoke to them first: “Yos, Raditya, Hans… I want to thank you, but I also want to know why you’re doing this, why you’re helping me.”

  The three of them looked at Narayana, who nodded.

  Raditya, who had already stood to leave, sat back down again. He saw that Nugroho, Risjaf, and Tjai had joined Lintang’s father, and were also waiting for an answer to Lintang’s question.

  “I don’t know, it’s just…”

  “Come on. Tell them the story.”

  “What story?”

  “The whole story.”

  “OK.” Raditya finally gathered will to speak. He looked at the older men flanking the table and then at Lintang. “What I was going to say is that it’s just that times have changed and we have to change with them. For far too long now, we Indonesians have let ourselves be imprisoned by the politics of the past. Like you, Lintang, we’re all from a new generation, born long after 1965. We have brains; we have our own minds. Why should we be told what to think?”

  “What Raditya wants to say is this,” Hans added impatiently: “Before their first posting abroad, all candidates to the diplomatic corps have to take written and oral examinations. In the written exam is a question: ‘What would you do if a person you are speaking with tells you that he’s a communist?’”

  Lintang’s eyes opened wide. Nara leaned forward. Risjaf, Tjai, and Nugroho raised their heads.

  “What did you answer?” Lintang asked, impatient to hear this story being told in dribs and drabs.

  Raditya glanced at his two colleagues and chuckled. “I wrote my answer in English: ‘That would be none of my business. Everybody has the right to his own political beliefs.’”

  Lintang clamped her mouth shut in surprise. Dimas and his three friends broke into laughter. Nugroho even shook Raditya’s shoulders.

  “Wow! And what did you answer?” Lintang said to Yos.

  “I left it blank. I didn’t answer.”

  “And I wrote, ‘Nothing. So?’” Hans put in.

  Again the room sounded with the men’s laughter. Dimas laughed so hard he started to cry and held his stomach.

  “So, what happened?” Nugroho asked. “Did they punish you?”

  “Yes, they did,” Raditya answered. “They didn’t give us permission to leave that year—even though we were all set to go to our first posting; they delayed our departure for two years. Originally, I was supposed to go to England; Yos to Argentina;
and Hans to Canada, but, instead, they gave us desk jobs in Jakarta, pushing pens and giving us trivial things to do. And we had to take a P-4 course, which is short for Pedoman Penghayatan dan Pengalaman Pancasila,” Hans informed her, “the so-called ‘Guidelines for Instilling and Implementing the Nation’s Five Principles’—which was an exercise in boredom if there ever was one.”

  Raditya then revealed that he had studied political science at the University of Toronto, in Canada, when his father, a senior diplomat, was posted there. “Any serious student of economics or politics is required to read all the important works, including those of Marx and Engels as well as those of other leftist writers, and the more modern thinkers who followed them. I had to study the various kinds of political thought. And it was precisely because of my reading that I came to see why communism had failed in many countries.” Raditya stood again and put on his suit jacket. “I think it’s ridiculous for the government to ban the study of communism. It shows that they think the people are stupid and can’t use their own brains to think. For years and years, the Indonesian people have been thought of and treated like idiots, unable to think for themselves.”

  Dimas now understood why these three junior diplomats had dared to come to Tanah Air Restaurant in defiance of the official ban from Jakarta. It wasn’t a question of the succulence of his rendang or curried chicken. It was that they were members of a new generation who would not let their actions be dictated by rules they deemed to be irrational. They were a new and more intelligent generation, with the will and the ability to think independently.

  Hans and Yos now stood as well.

  “We’ve been following developments at home…” Nugroho said to Hans, trying to stall the young men’s departure, “and there have been large demonstrations in some cities. Maybe you can tell me if I’m right, but it seems to me that their cause this time is not just a rise in the price of fuel but a whole series of things that have happened since last year when the rupiah was unhooked from the dollar and the president reshuffled his cabinet.”

  “It’s all because of KKN,” Risjaf interjected, citing the popular acronym. “That’s what’s wrong with the country: corruption, collusion, and nepotism.”

  “But Soeharto acts like everything is just fine,” Dimas said in puzzlement. “The country’s a mess and he’s still planning to skip off to Cairo for that Islamic Nations Conference? Is that true?” he asked.

  “It looks that way, sir,” Hans said. “And you’re right: the situation in Jakarta really is a mess.” He then looked at Lintang. “Be careful when you get there. Please do take care.”

  “Thank you, Hans, and you, too, Raditya and Yos.”

  The three younger men shook hands with Lintang’s father and his three colleagues. “I’m sure that one day things will change,” Yos said to Dimas as he gave each of the young men a hug.

  Once again, Lintang felt herself to have been blessed with so many favors amidst the absurdity of I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A.

  Just one week later, Lintang’s passport was returned to her with a tourist visa stamped inside. It was evening. Dimas and his two helpers were preparing food. Risjaf and Tjai were getting ready to greet the evening’s customers. Lintang had just finished having coffee and boiled bananas with Vivienne and Nara. Nara looked at his watch, then drank the rest of the coffee in his cup.

  “Where are you going?” Risjaf asked, surprised to see Nara pick up his knapsack. “Aren’t you going to have dinner here tonight?”

  “Can’t. I’m getting ready to go to London and have lots of stuff to do. And tomorrow, I have meetings with three of my teachers.”

  “Where are you going? What university?” Risjaf asked.

  “Cambridge.”

  Risjaf raised his right thumb.

  Nara kissed Lintang on the cheek and then said goodbye to Vivienne.

  After Nara had gone, Lintang whispered to her mother: “Did Ayah tell you what was wrong? That it’s nothing serious, just some kind of liver infection?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Lintang shrugged her shoulders. “I’m worried…”

  Vivienne looked towards the kitchen door. Dimas’s head could be seen through the door’s window. She felt the same way. Dimas had not shown her the results of his examination. She felt that she didn’t have the right to interfere with such matters anymore. She was not his wife, after all. But, at the same time…

  “Wait here,” Vivienne said to Lintang. “I’ll try to find out more. Maybe this time he’ll be more open, but I can’t say for sure.”

  Vivienne stood and went towards the kitchen. After she’d disappeared behind the door, Lintang’s three uncles immediately sat down around her, then waited for her to consume the last piece of boiled banana, one of her favorite treats.

  “Here is the list of the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of your father’s and our friends,” said Tjai rapidly, exhibiting his natural sense of organization. “Some of them I’ve e-mailed; others I’ve had to contact by post.”

  Lintang read the list and noted the ones she had already contacted herself.

  Nugroho handed her another sheet of paper. “And here is the list of restaurants that you should visit, if you have time. “One of the restaurants I’ve listed is Padang Roda. Try to find out if it’s still there. And make sure you visit Senen Market. That’s where we always used to drink coffee and gab.”

  “That place is a shambles now,” remarked Risjaf who had been back and forth to Indonesia several times since getting permission to visit. “It’s a very different place now.”

  “Most important is for you to visit the family of our late friend, Om Hananto. Tante Surti…”

  “Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam… All their names are written down,” Lintang said, interrupting Nugroho, who was too busy looking for the addresses of other friends to notice the rising impatience in her voice.

  Lintang still hadn’t decided quite what she felt towards this hodgepodge family of hers. There was something odd and complex in the relationship between her father and the rest of them. What was it between him and his late friend Hananto and his wife, Surti? (What was she supposed to call her? Tante? Aunty?) What kind of weird ménage à trois was it anyway? Where did she and her mother fit in this strange configuration? And what about Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam? She didn’t know them at all, yet they seemed so familiar. She had read their letters, after all. Why did her father feel more responsible for those three children, in particular, than, for example, the children of other former political prisoners?

  Lintang was still studying the names and addresses Tjai and Nugroho had given to her when her parents came out of the kitchen. All eyes turned towards Dimas and Vivienne.

  Nugroho couldn’t resist goading this odd couple whom he knew still loved each other. “If you were still teenagers, I’d have a snide comment for you, like ‘What were you doing in there?’ or ‘You sure were in there a long time!’”

  Dimas waved his hand dismissively, signaling he couldn’t be bothered to respond. “Vivienne came in to ask about the results of my medical checkup. She thinks I’m sick and hiding something from her,” he groused. “I don’t know why she simply can’t accept that I, in my twilight years, can still be so fit and healthy and handsome!”

  Vivienne shrugged and sat back down next to Lintang. “That was a failure,” she whispered.

  Lintang smiled. “Let me try, Maman. Tomorrow we’re having lunch together and then going to Antoine Martin’s.”

  Vivienne nodded, but didn’t expect her daughter to succeed where she hadn’t.

  Risjaf offered some words of advice: “I’d just like to say, Lintang, that whenever you meet someone connected with the Soeharto government, your first reaction shouldn’t be antipathy. Many have actually helped us. Just like those three young diplomats. Some have even sent financial assistance or found jobs for the children of former political prisoners at their offices. So, what I’m saying is that as a student researcher, you had best adopt a neutral positio
n.”

  Lintang nodded in reply.

  “Your uncle Aji will explain it all to you.” Dimas stroked his daughter’s hair. “For the most part, the kids of friends of ours who work for the mass media don’t go by their own names.”

  “What? Haven’t you ever told Lintang about Rama, Aji’s boy?” Nugroho asked, surprised.

  Dimas scratched his chin, which wasn’t at all itchy. “I’ll let Aji explain. Lintang will be staying at his house.”

  The others said nothing. Lintang looked left and right, not knowing what had happened to her cousin.

  Dimas immediately changed the subject. “So, now that your ticket and visa are in order, what about your equipment: cassettes, tape recorder, laptop, notes, pens, and so on?”

  Lintang nodded. “All I have left to do is to pack.”

  “Before you pack,” Nugroho started to say as he removed a thick brown envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Lintang, “this is from all of us here. It’s still in francs but you can change it when you get to Jakarta.”

  “Iki opo to?” Dimas asked in Javanese, not knowing his friends’ plan.

  “It’s not a lot,” Risjaf said to Lintang, “but maybe it will help. For us here, you are our daughter too.”

  Lintang looked at her three uncles, from one face to another, with tears beginning to well in her eyes. Tjai nodded, reaffirming what Risjaf had said. This was crazy. Lintang knew very well that none of her uncles were rich, with money to give away.

  “I got a stipend from my department,” she said to them, “and I have some savings as well. I’ve been working part-time, and Maman…”

  Nugroho, too, had tears in his eyes: “Listen, Lintang. We can’t go to Jakarta. Only Risjaf has been able to go there. That’s why you are going for us. You will be our eyes and ears.”

  Lintang felt her throat constrict. Suddenly unable to speak, she squeezed Nugroho’s hand.

  “Please, Lintang, go see my Bimo and tell him that I am just as healthy as I was when I left thirty-four years ago. And that I am just as handsome as I was when I saw him in Singapore fifteen years ago. We talk on the telephone, but I almost never get to see him. Who can afford the airfare? Please take as many photographs of him as you can.”