“Yup…?”
“Where the hell are you?” Bimo demanded to know.
“Our visitor just arrived. Hold your horses, OK?” I glanced at Lintang and shut off my phone.
Lintang was seated directly in front of me.
Tall for a woman, almost the same height as me, but with fair skin and brown eyes, and a student at the Sorbonne. Daughter of Dimas Suryo, a political exile who had married… God, I’d suddenly forgotten her mother’s name. Whatever. A Frenchwoman.
“I’m sorry, Mas Alam. I’ve caught you at a bad time. It looks like you have to go somewhere.”
She seemed nervous as she rummaged through her knapsack, apparently looking for something.
“That’s all right. And call me Alam, by the way, without the ‘mas.’ So, you’re here to work on your master’s thesis?” I asked, trying to start the conversation in order to bring it more quickly to an end. Bimo was helpless sometimes, almost unable to function unless I was beside him.
“I’m making a documentary film, Mas … I’m sorry to bother you.”
Now she looked frustrated.
“I really am sorry to bother you,” she repeated, “but I’m here to interview a number of former political prisoners and their families. I could do it on my own, I know, but Om Nug insisted that I meet with you first.”
Her head was still stuck in the knapsack as she looked through its contents.
Om Nug…Om Nug was up to something, I knew. Whenever he wrote or called Bimo, he always asked him about our girlfriends—as if we were a pair of boys too stupid to find girlfriends for ourselves.
“Ah, here it is!”
Lintang took out a folded sheet of paper which she opened to reveal a list of names of the former political prisoners and their family members she intended to interview. At a glance, I could see among them many whom I knew very well, even some whose names were rarely in the news. The selection was a good one, even and across the board. It wasn’t only famous people she intended to interview.
“Those are the people I’d like interview but I need to be finished in three weeks or a month, at most.”
What? God couldn’t have created a perfect being. She was stunning, to be sure, but she was equally irritating to me for taking up my time. But I had to be patient, not because she was beautiful, but because she was the daughter of Om Dimas. And this was her first real day in Jakarta, after all, in the homeland she had never known and now would come to know only as an adult. That said, she seemed oblivious to the fact that she was visiting Indonesia at a time when it seemed that all hell could break loose.
“Why just a month?” I tried to smile.
She looked either confused or unprepared to answer my question. I looked at the list of names again. There were some who would be difficult to get an appointment to see, a number because they were very busy, but others because they would be reluctant to sit in front of a camera. I took a breath. I didn’t want to sound argumentative, but this was going to be troublesome. All of us at the office were super busy—with meetings, with strategy and planning sessions, and with our supervisory work in the streets. The military leaders who had engaged in a dialogue with organizations affiliated with the Association of Youth Organizations the month before might feel content that they had done their duty, but our intention to engage in actions in their support had not at all diminished. Gilang and dozens of people in other NGOs had made plans for the establishment of free-speech platforms throughout the city. Because the situation was daily growing ever more difficult to fathom, Bimo and I often took turns sleeping at the office. But, once again, this was the only daughter of Om Dimas, the man who had been my family’s umbrella.
“I assume you know that the names of the people you have here are on the government’s watch list?”
Lintang nodded. “I know that, and I know that the topic is controversial, but the way I’ve calculated it, it shouldn’t take more than three weeks, or at most four, to interview eight or nine of the former political prisoners and their families I have on my list.”
I didn’t know how to explain in so many words to this daughter of Om Dimas, who was completely foreign to Indonesia, that interviewing that number of former political prisoners and their families was not going to be the same as interviewing people on the street about the weather.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the abductions, right? And that many of the people who have been abducted have not returned? It’s only by chance Pius Lustrilanang survived—but after that press conference of his last week, he immediately left the country for Amsterdam.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Which means, or what I’m trying to say is, that the situation at present is very dangerous.”
Lintang nodded. I said nothing. I didn’t know whether she was naïve or full of herself, but she most definitely was a beautiful woman. Regardless, I could never be comfortable with a beautiful woman who was full of herself.
“Why the rush?” I then asked.
“Because I have a deadline.”
“Well, if you have such a tight deadline why did you choose such a difficult topic?” I didn’t know why I was suddenly acting like an older brother trying to give advice to his innocent and over-confident younger sister. “With the political climate as it is, you’d not only be endangering your sources; you’d be putting yourself in danger.”
I waited for Lintang to say something and began to become impatient for her to speak. She looked jumpy. Maybe she hadn’t thought I would be so stern or acerbic. But I wasn’t one to take pity on a woman just because of her gender. Having been born into a female household and raised by three women who were strong and self-reliant, I never gave in to whining or simpering. Lintang didn’t look that way—like a whining and spoiled brat—but she did look fidgety.
I was impatient by nature, I knew that, but I still didn’t want a person to become upset by something I’d said.
My cell phone started to scream again. This time it was Gilang calling, and I pressed the ignore button.
Lintang seemed to have overcome her apparent discomfort. “I know what’s happening. I’ve been following developments in the papers, and on CNN and the BBC. Everybody knows: my parents and my uncles in Paris and my advisor as well have all told me to be cautious, that the situation is getting serious. But I’ve been in demonstrations before and…”
“There are no comparisons,” I suddenly snapped. “From what I’ve seen, demonstrations in Europe are a polite affair—kind of like a meeting between future in-laws: enough to make your heart beat faster but, in the end, easy to control. Demonstrations in Europe are orderly and even when there is unrest, like what happened in Paris in May 1968, it’s still not in the dangerous category. But here, in Indonesia, with so many factions involved whose motives are completely uncertain, anything can happen. A peaceful demonstration can turn into a riot. Indonesians lose their heads easily, and when the situation is heated they can be easily ordered to do things they would not normally do. Look at the brutality of September 1965. Look at the riots of January 1974.
“None of us want anything untoward to happen. All of us want the demonstrations to proceed safely and peacefully. But, at the same time, we have to be prepared, because even a safe situation can quickly turn violent.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t disturb your work. If you can’t help me, that’s all right.”
Shit. Now what?
“Please, don’t get me wrong, Lintang. I’m just trying to explain the background to the situation here. You are Om Dimas’s daughter. He’s been like a father to us and if anything were to happen to you, I’d be the first to be blamed, not only by your father and your uncles at Tanah Air Restaurant, but also by my family.”
Lintang didn’t reply. She seemed not to have known that an entire welcome committee had been established for her visit and a red carpet rolled out for her arrival.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t come here to lie on the beach in Bali. I’m not a guest who needs to b
e cared for.”
I held my breath and reminded myself again of her parentage.
“That’s just it. Because you came here to make a documentary film, you can’t just interview those people like some foreign journalist who comes and goes in search of the daily news.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me. I know that. I’m not working for a college paper. This is serious work. I need to get to know my sources and their situation before any interview begins. And I will only record them if they agree and feel comfortable. This is not my first documentary film.”
“But with that approach and the number of people you want to interview, you’re not going to be able to finish all your work in a month’s time.” I was getting tired of the conversation and began to say whatever I felt. “Two months would be the minimum—unless you’re content to make something slipshod.”
A flash appeared in Lintang’s eyes as she yanked her head back and stared at me. “Do you think I would make something slipshod?”
She said “you” like it was a dirty word. How old was she, anyway: twenty-three, twenty-four? Now beginning to feel weary of this conversation, I leaned back in my chair. I wanted to get up and leave her sitting there, but I couldn’t. I could see my mother calling to complain at me for my discourteous behavior. And Kenanga, pounding on the door of my place like she did last year when she was upset with me because I had broken off my relationship with Rianti, whose future presence in my life had, unbeknownst to me, been blessed by my contrarian family. It wasn’t easy having been born into a family of vocal and strong-minded women. Every time I took a wrong step, I was blasted by criticism from all directions. And here I was, expected to sit and engage in a serious conversation with this Frenchwoman, but I was not able. It was getting towards noon; I was hungry; and I was sure that Bimo was angry with me for making him have to wait. The demonstration was sure to have started by this time.
“I’m sure that you do want to make a good and serious film,” I told her, “which is why I would argue that you can’t do it in a month. The topic is too difficult. Not too long ago, a crew from the BBC was here making a documentary about former political prisoners and they were here for several months.”
“I already know some of the names on my list. If I am disciplined, I am sure that I can finish in three to four works.”
I gave up, not wanting to debate with her any longer. Just like when Kenanga interrogated me: I’d give in purely out of boredom.
“OK, go ahead and contact those people. I’ll ask my friends here in the office to help you with information from our database. But please remember, these people are not celebrities who like to preen in front of the camera. It’s not easy for them to open their mouths or speak their minds.”
“I apologize for having disturbed you. If you can’t help me, that is perfectly fine.” She stood and gathered her things. “Really, I can do this on my own. I’m quite used to it.”
Oh, shit. What did I do now to make her angry?
She again started looking for something in her knapsack, lowering her head and sticking her hand into the bag. This time she quickly found what she was looking for.
“This is for you, from my father,” she said in a crackly voice. “My father said that your father gave it to him the last night they saw each other. My father wants you to have it.”
I was stunned to receive from her a classic old watch with Roman numerals on its face. A 17-jewel Titoni. The leather watch-band was obviously new, but the watch seemed to still be running well. My heart stopped beating. Suddenly, Lintang had vanished. Flabbergasted by how fast this Frenchwoman could walk, I rushed to follow her.
“Hey, hey, slow down…”
Lintang was already on the sidewalk in front of our office. Did she know Jakarta or where she was?
“Lintang…”
She turned. Damn it! I’d made her cry. What the hell…?
“I apologize.”
Lintang again looked for something in her knapsack, all the while saying “No need, no need,” Finally, she found a packet of tissues and blew her nose. A whole gob of snot came out. So she really was crying. Maybe I had been insensitive, but I was serious. I really didn’t know what I’d said that had upset her.
“Lintang…”
I put my hand on her arm. She said nothing, but didn’t yank it away either. Suddenly, out of the blue, a crazy idea came into my head.
“Listen, Lintang, let me take you somewhere interesting for you to record. I promise that from there you will be able to find the context for the topic of your final assignment. Follow me!”
She stared at me curiously with her large and tear-filled eyes. “Where?”
Images of the statues in the diorama danced around in front of me like characters on a carousel. This blood-filled diorama continued to flash before me. And at that moment I knew: Lintang Utara would make a documentary film full of significance and heretofore silenced voices.
BIMO NUGROHO
MY CHILDHOOD HOME. A house filled with tension and disappointment. I never wanted to go back there again. But that is where my mother resides, still silently serving the man she calls her husband at a house in the Tebet area of Jakarta, where he took her along with the risk that she would bring me with her as well.
When my mother married Bapak Prakosa—whom I will never be able to call “Father”—I knew that my life would change. But even though my father, my real bapak, had disappeared from our lives long before, this didn’t mean that I had to willingly accept this man’s presence in my life. In our lives.
Bapak Prakosa was not an evil man—though his career in the military was not a profession that would immediately endear him to many. But he also wasn’t a person who gladly or wholeheartedly accepted the burden that the woman he married brought with her. Bapak Prakosa viewed raising me as an unwanted but necessary duty, something he had to do for the beautiful woman he had taken for his wife. It was a risk he had to take.
I never tried to be the son he wanted. For him, a boy who liked to doodle and draw was fairly useless, not much of a male child at all. That my classmates at school often heckled me because my real father, Nugroho Dewantoro, was said to be a traitor to the state was not a subject I ever brought up at our meals together. The bruises on my body and my puffed lips were always caused by “having fallen on the stairs at school” or “getting roughed up when playing soccer.” (Since when did I ever play soccer?) All those incidents I remember well and have transformed them into comic-strips. Maybe someday I’ll publish the collection.
One very determinant day in my life occurred when I was in junior high school. Ibu had gone somewhere and was not at home. Pak Prakosa called for me.
“Do you think I don’t know that you’re getting beat up by kids at school?” he stated more than asked.
I didn’t answer. My eyes studied the ceramic tiles on the floor of my stepfather’s home.
“Do you think I can’t tell the difference between a bruise that comes from a fall and one from being beaten?”
The tiles looked expensive. Maybe that’s what they call “marble”?
“I am your father. Listen to me!”
You are not my father.
Pak Prakosa came close and stared at me. A cold look. But also a gleam that spoke of his will to put some gumption into this soft stepson of his.
“Fight back! Don’t take it. Beat them up!”
Now I stared at my shoes.
“Are you listening, Bimo?” He clenched my hand and shaped my fingers into a fist.
“This is how you do it, with a clenched fist. Come on!”
Listlessly, I clenched my fist.
“Do it right!”
He took a cigarette and lit it. “I don’t want to see you get beat up again by other boys. Fight back! Do you get it?”
I nodded.
“Where’s your voice?”
“Yes, sir.”
His words of advice were useless, of course. Once, when I was in junior high, I was bea
ten by three classmates, big and burly guys they seemed to me. It was Alam who came to my rescue. But when Pak Prakosa saw me come home with bruises all over my body, he was so disgusted with me that he jabbed the lighted end of his cigarette into my arms and thighs. That was his usual choice of punishment, the one he meted out whenever he found something wrong in me.
It was around that time that I began to see my home as a hell hole, filled with tension and disappointment. My poor mother was too blind to see. Either that or she was too busy erasing all traces of my real father, the man whose child she had borne but who had disappeared from her life. There were no photographs of my real father on display in the house. No personal effects that he had ever owned. Not even any letters from him to me—at least not until one day when Alam came to the house to give me a letter that my father had sent to the Hananto family home. Somehow, my real father had at last figured out that if he wanted to communicate with me, it would have be through an intermediary. Thereafter, when he wanted to speak to me, he’d first call Om Aji’s or Tante Surti’s and tell them when and where he was going to call back. They would then call me and I would go and wait wherever it was he was going to call. I especially liked it when he called me at Om Aji’s, because it gave me an excuse to see Andini, whom I was secretly fond of. I’d always borrow her books and pretend to forget to return them to her.
No one else in the world knew about what I was going through except Alam. Maybe Andini suspected. And I suppose Kenanga, Bulan, and Tante Surti might have guessed as well, since Alam was always getting punished at school for standing up for me. That Tante Surti often invited me to stay overnight at their house was another indication that she knew something of my troubled relationship with my stepfather.
Once, when Alam and I were in senior high, this gang of boys beat me up, tied me to a pole, and took turns pissing on me. Alam came in like a superhero to save me and beat the shit out of those guys. Afterwards, when the principal called my mother to school, it was difficult for me to lie anymore about what was happening. I was just happy that on that particular day God showed mercy on me. Pak Prakosa happened to be on duty out of town, so I managed to escape punishment from him.
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