Leila Chudori - Home

“Yes, we’ll take turns,” said Risjaf, eyes shining brightly.

“Have you already told Mas Nug?” I asked with a note of caution.

“No, but I’m going to go to his place and take Amira with me to introduce her…”

“Don’t!” Tjai and I yelped at once.

Risjaf looked back and forth between us. People in the throes of happiness often forget about other people’s pain. The look on Risjaf’s handsome face was one of complete innocence.

“Why?” he asked simply.

Tjai and I looked at other, as if to agree on a more detailed answer. For Risjaf, with all his artlessness, we had to present a clear and detailed picture.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I asked him. “Didn’t Mas Nug just receive a request for divorce from Rukmini?”

Risjaf slapped himself on the forehead. “Oh my God, that’s right! What was I thinking? So, do you think that maybe we shouldn’t tell Mas Nug? It would be such a shame if…”

“What would be such a shame?”

Vivienne’s and my apartment was much too small, not in the least ideal for trafficking in secrets. And as if to prove the point, Mas Nug had suddenly barged into the apartment, taking us completely by surprise.

Mas Nug looked at the three of us and then slapped Risjaf on the shoulder and laughed. “Hey, I heard you proposed to Mirza’s sister. That great! And she’s a looker, too! Congratulations!” He then threw his arms around Risjaf and gave him a big hug. Risjaf tentatively returned Mas Nug’s embrace.

Mas Nug then plopped himself down on the floor in front of the couch and turned on the small old television, which aired only French-language shows. Regardless, he focused his attention on the screen, giving it his rapt attention. Risjaf scratched his head. Stillness, an unspoken tension, filled the air.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going to Amira’s uncle’s place in the Marais,” Risjaf finally quipped. “She and her father are staying there.”

Mas Nug raised his thumb but his eyes remained on the television.

I sat down beside him. Tjai went into the kitchen to search the cupboard for coffee.

“It’s OK. I’m doing just fine,” Mas Nug said quietly to me as he watched the TV.

I nodded silently, still looking at Mas Nug whose eyes were pinned to the screen. Though he said nothing, I knew he appreciated my query-less presence. I could only imagine the sadness his heart must be feeling.

PARIS, OCTOBER 1982

All of that, of course, took place some fourteen years ago. I didn’t know at the time whether Mas Nug had been able to bury the painful memory of his divorce beneath the lowest layer of his heart or whether his gaiety, which he showed by whistling out of tune, was his way of isolating the sadness.

One day at my apartment, our temporary meeting place, when I was working on the details of the menu that we intended to include in our funding proposal, Tjai announced he had already managed to secure a fairly substantial sum of money from the dozens of Indonesian exiles who were scattered throughout Europe. What I found touching was that not all those who had contributed to the restaurant fund were even political exiles like ourselves. Several businessmen, friends of Mas Nug, also pitched in; the same was true of friends of Tjai in Jakarta who anonymously contributed to the cause with no evident thought of return. Tjai maintained a detailed list of contributors and the amounts given, his idea being that if these donors ever came to the restaurant, they would be seated at a special “sponsors table” and given a special menu.

Mas Nug explored the city in search of the perfect location for the restaurant for what seemed a very long time, but found no place to be satisfactory. Either its location was too distant, the water system in the building was not up to standard, or the place would require major renovation. The list went on and on. I knew he was growing tired from the hunt, but he continued to undertake his task with unfeigned happiness — just as Risjaf did when preparing a report on his survey of restaurants that offered Asian cuisines in Paris. One of his more interesting observations was that very few restaurants offered both a place for dining and a venue for events. This fact made me even more excited about the possibility opening Tanah Air, which, as we intended, would highlight both Indonesian cuisine and culture.

Nonetheless, the problem of location still remained, and I was beginning to tire of all the meetings in my apartment. Of course, Risjaf had the perfect justification for our meetings there: they could try my dishes at the same time. But my friends were not proper culinary critics; they’d happily munch on a boiled table if they were hungry.

But then, one day, Le Figaro came to the rescue!

Buried inside the classified section was a small advertisement which didn’t first catch our notice but became a game-changer in our quest. It was an advertisement for the sale of a family-owned restaurant located at 90 Rue de Vaugirard. We went to look at the place and to talk to its owners — a Vietnamese couple who had resided in Paris for almost twenty years. The restaurant occupied the ground and subterranean floors of a four-story early twentieth-century building. On the ground floor was the foyer, a cashier stand, and space enough for four to six tables. At the rear was the kitchen and a small office, beside which was a stairway leading to the lower floor, a much larger open space, with transom windows at the front and room enough for ten to twelve tables or more — a perfect place for private parties and special events.

Even as Tjai and Mas Nug were beginning their investigation of the restaurant’s public spaces I immediately felt at home; but, of course, I needed to see the kitchen. When the older couple opened the door to the kitchen, I saw inside a wide rectangular space with white tiled walls, a checkered black and white floor, and a large work table in the center that apparently served as an island for food preparation. There was a large and clean professional oven, which had been properly maintained — I didn’t see even a stray kernel of cooked rice. When I looked up to see hanging overhead a complete set of high-quality stainless steel pots, my heart was smitten. “Would you be willing to sell the cooking equipment as well?” I almost gasped.

The older man looked at his wife who smiled, showing the dimples in her cheeks. “We’re all from Asia. We like you and if the price is right, you can have the kitchen equipment too.”

I made a move to hug the woman, but Tjai, who had joined us by this time, immediately held me by the arm like an angry cat. I restrained myself as I allowed him to undertake his task of calculating the price, bargaining with the couple, negotiating the terms, and so on. The way he haggled with the owners reminded me of traders in Klewer, the traditional market in Solo: pretending not to be in need; feigning reluctance to buy; preparing to move to another stall because the same object there was far more attractive and much cheaper besides; but then, finally, smiling in assent when the seller agreed to his offer. The Vietnamese woman must have been smitten with us as well because she seemed uninterested in Tjai’s Klewer-market game and rushed to have the deal settled, with little bargaining at all. She nodded and shook hands with Tjai. Only then did Tjai signal that I was allowed to hug the couple, which I immediately did with an immense feeling of gratitude. I adored their kitchen and its equipment, which included almost everything commonly used in an Indonesian kitchen: large woks, small woks, strainers, steamers, numerous kinds of knives, and a large flat stone mortar (though I could see I would still need to bring my small mortar to prepare individual servings of freshly ground chili sambal ).