Aji pulled his van to a stop directly in front of a two-story house at the end of a street in the residential area of Lebak Bulus, South Jakarta. He didn’t immediately remove the key from the ignition. Retno, who would usually be checking her face in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car, this evening sat silently lost in thought as she twisted her wedding ring round her finger. In the back seat, Andini and Lintang waited for their elders to make a move. Through the front window, Aji and Retno could see Rama’s car parked directly in front of their Kijang van. Through the side rear window, Lintang studied the Priasmoro family home, an affluent-looking home with a large front yard, a water fountain, a high protective fence, and a watchman’s post on the corner of the street where the house sat.
“Well, are we going to get out?” Andini asked loudly.
Aji took a breath. “Can you see Rama anywhere?”
Andini pointed toward the house where her brother was standing in the front portico.
“Watch your tongue, Dini,” Aji said in warning as he turned towards his bright but saucy daughter.
Andini giggled and stuck out her tongue, causing her father to laugh.
The van’s occupants opened the doors of the van and got out slowly, as if there were chains on their ankles.
Rama, when seeing his family come up the walk towards the house, almost wanted to fly away, but he made himself stand in place. Next to him was his girlfriend, Rininta, who was dressed that night in long loose black slacks and a white satin blouse—a striking young woman with the beauty and delicacy of a smooth and flawless porcelain vase.
“Mama, Papa, this is Rininta.”
Rininta immediately took Rama’s parents’ right hands and kissed them lightly with her lips.
Andini and Lintang gave each other a questioning glance.
“This is my sister, Andini, and my cousin, Lintang.”
“Rama said you just came in from Paris,” Rininta said to Lintang.
“That’s right,” Lintang said, smiling politely.
“I’ve only been there twice, on trips with my parents to Europe,” Rininta said. “I look forward to talking to you,” she added amicably. Lintang smiled and nodded.
Once they had been ushered inside, the house, with its high ceilings, seemed even larger and more spacious than it had from the outside. Lintang felt like they were ants trapped at the bottom of a huge and empty upturned bucket. The quartet of guests stood in place, unsure if they’d be able to stop themselves from gaping at the large hanging chandelier overhead, falling over at the sight of the immense display of family photographs covering the room’s walls, or sinking into the soft plush carpet beneath their feet. But before Lintang could even to try to guess how rich Rama’s future in-laws must be, Mr. and Mrs. Priasmoro appeared before them and greeted them warmly.
Mrs. Priasmoro, with perfectly coiffed hair and emitting the scent of expensive perfume, kissed Tante Retno on her left and right cheeks. They were then led into the living room, which looked to be half the size of a soccer field. Lintang doubted her ability to guess its actual size, but what she really couldn’t figure out is why, from the outside, the house hadn’t looked to be so immense.
The older couples immediately engaged themselves in friendly conversation. Lintang listened as they talked about topics she found to be on everyone’s tongue ever since she had arrived in Jakarta a few days before: the terrible traffic jams caused by the daily demonstrations and the increase in prices for almost everything, even though there still had been no official rise in the price of fuel.
When Rininta began to ask Lintang about Paris, she didn’t quite know how to answer her questions and comments. “Why is it so rare in Paris to find discounts on brand-name shoes and purses?” What? “How does one get front row seats at the fall fashion shows?” Are you kidding? “If I ever go there again, we can go together to see the sights. I don’t like the pictures I have of me standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.” Excuse me!
Lintang feared that she appeared to be stupid, but she really didn’t know how to respond. And Andini, not helping in the least to help smooth the crinkles in the conversation, made matters worse by giggling so much that she was soon bowed over with laughter. Andini was obviously thinking to herself how tragic it would be for her to have a sister-in-law whose only concerns were how to pose in front of the Eiffel Tower and where to sit at Paris fashion shows. Meanwhile, as Andini tried to stifle the laughter, Rama looked increasingly irritated. He glared at his sister, his eyes begging for her to be polite; but Andini’s wicked streak got the best of her and she kept asking more questions about Europe and pretending to be in awe when Rininta spoke of her shopping sprees and her search for clothing, shoes, and jewelry in the countries she visited.
“So you visited London, Amsterdam, Berlin, Bonn, Paris, Milan, and Brussels and all you did was shop?” Andini asked, as if in wonder of the idea.
“Well, yes, of course,” Rininta said with a smile. “I mean it’s so cheap over there. The branded items available here are always much more expensive and out of season besides. I mean, take for instance this limited-edition LV purse that Mama bought—it was so much cheaper there. We should have bought two because now I have to borrow it from her. You should the visit the Champs-Élysées. Mama and I just love shopping there!”
Hearing this conversation, Lintang smiled politely, or as best she could, but she was groaning inside. “Branded”? What in the world did she mean? O, mon Dieu. And “LV”? Was LV the abbreviation for Louis Vuitton? Champs-Élysées? Was Rininta really talking about brand names of goods that were so expensive only big-name celebrities, children of royalty, and wives of international tycoons could afford to buy them? There was, Lintang realized, a kind of irony—or was it parody?—that was apparent here. She had always thought of Indonesia as a developing country, one trapped in an endless cycle of spiraling debt; yet now she could see that a tiny percentage of people, at the very top of the population pyramid, were able to shop for Louis Vuitton purses and shoes in Paris.
Trying to be polite, Lintang did her best not to judge; but Andini held her eyes wide open in feigned amazement as she listened to Rininta’s tale of traveling from one boutique to the next with a group of her friends. Lintang knew her cousin was torturing Rininta without the pretty young woman being aware of it at all. Fortunately, dinner was announced, and Lintang went to the table feeling relieved that the night’s circus had come to an end. Or so she thought.
The dining table was immense and the array of dishes fantastic: In addition to two kinds of rice (steamed and fried), four kinds of shrimp crackers (curled, long, brown, and multi-colored), and three different kinds of sambal, there were, for the main course, a huge fish—a kind that Lintang didn’t recognize—in a turmeric sauce; braised chicken in a chili and shrimp-paste sauce; beef roulade; fried duck in butter sauce; goat satay with soy sauce dressing; stuffed calamari; grilled spiced prawns; and stir-fried mixed vegetables, simmered asparagus, and stink beans… My God, how many cooks and assistants did this family have to prepare all these things? Lintang thought of her father and of Yazir and Bahrum who would have had to jump through hoops in order to prepare a meal as grand as the one this evening.
Mr. Priasmoro invited them to take a seat at the table. As is usually the case in Indonesia, where no matter how official the meal might be, place cards are rarely used, none were on the table that night. This was something Lintang liked; it made meals much more familial—and she didn’t feel forced to have to sit beside someone she didn’t know. Tonight, on her left was Rininta and on her right was Tante Retno. Across the table in front of her were Rama and her uncle Aji. Meanwhile, at the one end of the table to her far left were Mrs. Priasmoro and Andini. Naturally, Mr. Priasmoro, director of Cita Karya, dressed in a purple silk batik shirt with a bird motif that glowed in the light of the room, sat at the head of the table.
“You first, Lintang. Please go ahead,” Mrs. Priasmoro beckoned. “This isn’t like in France, I’m
sure; it’s just whatever we had on hand. I hope the food’s not too hot for you.”
Mrs. Priasmoro’s lilting voice soothed her guests. They all took turns serving themselves rice as the two kinds went around the table. Then they began to serve themselves the other dishes, taking one and then passing that dish to the person on their left. Lintang complimented herself on her choice of dishes: white rice, some of that fish with the turmeric sauce, green chili sambal, stuffed calamari, and simmered asparagus.
As she tried the various foods she’d taken, Lintang politely listened to Rininta chatter on about ever-rainy London and French people who refused to speak English. Lintang paid little attention to this talk, as she was more interested in trying to discern the spicing for the fish. The taste of the yellow sauce was unique: very piquant, a fantastic blend of different spices. She wanted to find out the recipe for her father.
“This fish is wonderful,” Lintang enthused, unable to hide her curiosity.
“Oh, that’s grouper,” Mrs. Priasmoro informed her, “but be careful of those little green chilies. They are very pedas.”
“Hot, very hot,” Rininta said as if Lintang didn’t understand Indonesian.”
“Oh, I’m used to hot food,” Lintang said to Mrs. Priasmoro. “My father likes to cook; in fact, he’s a chef.” Lintang ate her fish avidly. “I’d love to get the recipe for this fish.”
“Your father is a chef? In Paris?” Mrs. Priasmoro remarked in astonishment. “That’s amazing! I mean the bistros in Paris are the best in the world. Where is your father’s located?”
Unimaginable! Un-fucking-imaginable! Rama suddenly turned pale and stiff. He stopped chewing and looked at Lintang, not quite believing what he’d just heard. Aji and Retno sensed their son’s apprehension. But wasn’t Rama supposed to have already told the Priasmoros about his own family history—people seen as enemies of the state?
“Oh, it’s not a bistro; it’s a restaurant, an Indonesian restaurant,” Lintang clarified, “but it has a bar in it, too. In Paris, you can’t have a place without wine,” she emphasized.
“An Indonesian restaurant? Well that’s nice, very nice,” Mr. Priasmoro said with a nod. “It’s nice to know that white people like Indonesian food too, isn’t it, dear? It’s we Indonesians whose stomachs can’t adapt,” he stated, and then began to chuckle as he looked at his wife and daughter. “Remember that trip a few years ago—going all the way to Europe for holiday, and still spending half our day looking for rice?!”
Rama felt relieved to see the conversation turning elsewhere.
“You ended up going to Chinatown, isn’t that right, sir?” Rama asked, not trusting his own ability to steer the conversation.
Aji was now certain that Rama hadn’t said anything to his prospective parents-in-law.
“Yes, yes, that’s exactly what we did. Actually there was an Indonesian restaurant in Paris. Where was it, dear? What’s the name of the street?”
“Rue de Vaugirard,” his wife reminded him while passing a dish of goat satay to Lintang. Lintang took the platter of skewered meat unaware of the unease in the air. She was impressed by the thickness and the marbling of the tender pieces of meat on which was drizzled a soy-based sambal and slivers of fried shallots.
“It was Rininta here who always had to have rice. We hadn’t been there even a week and she was already whining. But what were we supposed to do? We couldn’t go to that restaurant. It’s owned by communists!” Mr. Priasmoro said jocularly, not noticing the change on the faces of his guests. His words so surprised Lintang, she almost dropped the platter of satay. With a trembling hand, she placed the platter on the table.
“So what did we do in the end?” Rininta asked in feigned exasperation. “We ended up going to yet another café for more French food.”
“Well, we couldn’t go to that commie place. You don’t understand politics. And all you cared about was rice,” Mr. Priasmoro grumbled at his daughter, as if she were twelve years old. “Funny in a way how those communists became famous for their restaurant, with their names written up everywhere when the food wasn’t even special, or so I heard: just fried rice with an egg on top!” He guffawed but then caught himself: “Please, please help yourself to more,” he said to Aji and Retno.
“They don’t just serve fried rice!” Lintang suddenly exclaimed, her eyes ablaze.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod!” Andini whispered with evident excitement.
“What was that, dear?” Mrs. Priasmoro asked, giving Lintang a chance to clarify.
Rama looked like he wanted to slip from his chair to beneath the table.
“They don’t just serve fried rice with an egg on top. They have a complete Indonesian menu and all the dishes taste great. There’s Padang-style rendang, fried beef lung, shrimp with chili sauce, nasi kuning with all the fixings—tempeh, anchovies, and wilted vegetables. There’s also gulai anam and even ikan pindang serani, which are also very good, and the restaurant is always full from afternoon to night. It’s full!” Lintang spoke forcefully, her eyes brimming with tears.
Rama didn’t know whether to be angry or to crawl inside a hole in the ground to never come out again. Aji and Retno looked at each other—for now it was painfully obvious that their son had not kept his promise to speak to his future in-laws. Andini just smiled, while muttering ohmygod as she nibbled on the satay.
“Oh, is that so?” Mr. Priasmoro asked, giving Lintang a look of surprise. “Have you been there?”
“Yes, I have. I go there a lot. I was at the opening, in fact. My father is one of the founders of and the cook at Tanah Air Restaurant.”
Tears now streaming from her eyes, Lintang stood and quickly asked permission to go to the bathroom. Mrs. Priasmoro nodded and shakily pointed her finger in the direction of the bathroom as the tableau at the dining table turned into a scene on television where someone has pushed the pause button. Freeze frame. No one moved. No one spoke.
Lintang rushed to the sink in the bathroom, turned on the water, and washed her face. Tears and tap water turned to one. She scrubbed her face so hard that her cheeks and forehead turned red and puffy. She looked at her image in the mirror. Flaming red, anger-filled, and wild-looking. She didn’t recognize herself. And then there flashed on the glass the same blood-filled letters that she had seen in the Marais rising above a pile of fresh overturned red earth: “Dimas Suryo: 1930–1998.” Hot tears oozed from her eyes.
“Lintang.” Andini tapped the bathroom door.
“Yes.” Lintang tried to conceal her hoarse voice.
“Are you OK?”
“Oui…Yes.”
Lintang coughed to try to clear her throat. Her voice still felt hoarse. Lintang didn’t care if someone looked down on her but she couldn’t sit still to hear her parents insulted.
“I’m coming in, Lintang. OK…?”
Lintang didn’t answer. She heard the sound of the door opening. She’d forgotten to lock the door. Andini was now standing behind her, kneading her shoulders.
“You go, girl!” Andini whispered in English. “I’m proud of you.”
Lintang looked at her crazy cousin and suddenly the two of them began to laugh.
“Mon Dieu, I can’t imagine what your parents must feel. I have to apologize to them for ruining this occasion.” Lintang looked around for a tissue to dry her face.
“Don’t you worry,” Andini advised. “Tonight the guilty party is Rama. You’re the hero. Come on, let’s go home!” Andini took Lintang’s hand, which was still shaking.
The Kijang van carrying the Aji Suryo family crossed the streets of Jakarta still thick with people averse to a night at home. Each of the van’s occupants drowned themselves in thought.
“Put on some music, Papa,” Andini finally said, attempting to break the ice.
Her mother looked through the cassette box and chose a collection of traditional songs.
“Oh, God, Mother, not Waljinah. I can’t stand her singing keroncong.”
Young Andini had th
e makings of a dictator.
“Then what do you want?”
Andini leaned over the front seat and rifled through the cassettes. “There! Got one! Three Little Birds.” Almost instantly, Bob Marley started rocking the Kijang, shattering the frozen atmosphere.
Aji shook his head. “Waljinah has a golden voice but we can’t play keroncong. Instead, we’ve got to hear this bump-bump-bump kind of music,” he grumbled but with a smile on his face.
Lintang put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder: “Pardon, Om Aji…I’m so sorry for ruining tonight’s meal.”
Om Aji raised his left hand and patted the fingers on his shoulder. The weekend may not have turned out to be as calm and carefree as he might have liked, but his niece’s attitude had served to illuminate the dark roads on which they traveled. No doubt, Rama was feeling hurt and troubled right now, but the lesson learned tonight was to be honest and to stand up for what is right. Aji had never felt such relief as he did right now. And he felt an even greater appreciation for his brother, who had raised a daughter who was intelligent and held a firm hand.
“There’s no need at all to apologize,” he said to Lintang. “You didn’t ruin anything. In fact, you’ve made everything lighter and clearer for us all. Don’t ever apologize for standing up for principle.”
Lintang smiled as she fought back her tears. She clutched her uncle’s hand and squeezed it tightly.
Andini looked out the window as she sang along to Bob Marley’s lyrics. “Don’t worry about a thing, ’Cause every little thing gonna be all right!”
FADED PICTURES
“LE COUP DE FOUDRE…” That’s how my mother described the first time she set eyes on my father at the Sorbonne campus in May 1968. Maman and Ayah always spoke of that time full of sentimentality for the revolution, for liberty, justice, and freedom. Although unspoken, yet clearly in the background, I suspect, was the ongoing sexual liberation at that time. (Prior to the May Revolution of 1968, Maman told me, dormitories on the Paris campus were segregated by gender, but not so thereafter.)
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