Leila Chudori - Home

I never tried to figure out why I was more comfortable lounging in the den at Nara’s home than in my father’s apartment. Ayah’s collection of books was, in fact, much larger and with more interesting titles. I knew that I could easily spend hours on end talking to Nara, because the both of us were drawn to books of literature and philosophy. Nara had finished his studies in English literature at the Sorbonne and intended to pursue a master’s degree in comparative cultural studies at Cambridge University in the autumn of this year. Meanwhile, I was still working on my final assignment for my bachelor’s in cinematography. But, again, it was not just Nara that made me want to spend my free time in his parents’ apartment. His parents’ living room and their kitchen exuded a warm welcome and promise of comfort in any season.

I preferred helping Tante Jayanti slice garlic, grind spices, and grill meat to cooking at my parents’ apartment in the Marais. Even conversations about wayang characters, which I had engaged in with my parents when I was small, transferred themselves to the living room and terrace of the Lafebvre family apartment. Maybe it was because I simply liked to see how happy and comfortable this couple was with each other — or maybe because I was trying to recapture something that I had lost. I didn’t know.

I always imagined Jayanti Ratmi’s marriage to Gabriel Lafebvre to be just like that of the famed French photographer, Henri Cartier-Bresson, with the Javanese dancer Ratna Mohini in decades past. I often asked Gabriel to repeat the story of how he had come to be entranced by his future wife when he saw her perform a bedoyo court dance at an event sponsored by the Indonesian embassy in Paris. (What I didn’t ask was what the staff of the embassy was like or how the Indonesian diplomats had treated them — those same people who had no time for my father or his friends.)

Gabriel traded in exports and imports and had a wide circle of friends in the diplomatic community, including one who had worked at the Indonesian embassy. That night, his friend had invited Gabriel to try Indonesian food at an embassy reception being held in honor of Kartini Day. And it was there, at that celebration, that he met his “angel, descended from heaven.”

Gabriel and Tante Jayanti seemed to like me, or at least to accept my presence in Nara’s life. If they had their reservations, I could understand. Nara, their beloved and only son, was in a relationship with the daughter of an Indonesian political exile. They would have known full well that my father and his friends did not enjoy close links with the Indonesian embassy. But perhaps because I was the daughter she’d never had, Tante Jayanti like to share mother-daughter things with me. One of them was showing me her collection of kebaya . To me, a kebaya is the most demure piece of women’s apparel there is. Long in the sleeve and long at the waist, this high-buttoned blouse completely covers a woman’s upper body, yet there is no second guessing the wearer’s shape.

And Tante Jayanti did have a wonderful collection. She owned all sorts of kebaya , in both short and long styles. She also had an Encim kebaya , my favorite kind, the style that Eurasian and Chinese-Indonesian women in Indonesia typically used to wear. All of them were very feminine with intricate lacework that was the equal of any piece of Dutch or Belgian embroidery.

I had never seen a woman as beautiful as Tante Jayanti in a kebaya . I was convinced that the kebaya had been created for angels like her, who had descended from heaven to earth.

“I’m not an angel,” Tante Jayanti said to me, with a smile. “Our meeting — that of Gabriel and I — was simply a sign that we had to be together.” Her voice was as soft as silk.

I was entranced. A sign?

“I bet you’re talking to Jim Morrison!”

Oh, Nara… He knew that whenever something was on my mind, I would try to regain my composure at Père Lachaise Cemetery, the city’s huge garden cemetery in the 20th arrondissement. There I could sit for an entire day, reading in front of the huge gravestone of Oscar Wilde, which was as flamboyant in its style as the author himself; or rest beside the tomb of Honoré de Balzac. But most often I spent my time in Division Six, sitting next to the simple grave of Jim Morrison as I intoned the lyrics of “Light My Fire. My father still owned several albums by The Doors, which he treasured as much as he did his Indonesian records and cassettes by Koes Plus, Bing Slamet, Nick Mamahit, and Jack Lemmers.

As it was still fairly early in the day, the throngs of autumn visitors had yet to flock to the place. Nara sat beside me as I stared at Jim Morrison’s tombstone. My mother had introduced me to his music; and apart from his status as a musical legend he was, for me, a true and genuine songsman.

“‘Light My Fire’ is such an amazing song, a true work of poetry.”

Nara knew me well, both my nature and my habits. If I wasn’t ready to speak about something, I would choose a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with the subject at hand, which was, in this instance, my final assignment and Professor Dupont.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” I said to Nara, again avoiding the day’s most important theme in hopes that he would not pressure me.

“Of course I do — at the Beaubourg library, when I caused you to drop that big stack of books you’d just borrowed.”

Yes, that was Narayana: my savior angel who immediately and profusely apologized for knocking against me and then helped me to pick up the numerous heavy volumes I had borrowed. I remember the incident clearly. We were both freshman at the Sorbonne and still completely green behind the ears. How could I ever forget that event? But had there been a special sign, something telling us that we were fated to be together?

My father often said that “Light My Fire” by The Doors and the songs of Led Zeppelin were songs that always reminded him of the early days of his marriage to my mother, after the May Revolution in Paris.

“Your mother and Paris set me on fire,” said my father, who was more than prone to romanticizing the past. What songs were playing when I first met Nara? I couldn’t say for sure.

“What’s up?” Nara asked, interrupting my daydream.

I shook my head but finally saw that it was time to enter the territory of Professor Dupont and my final assignment: Indonesia. I told Nara quickly what Dupont had advised, in just three short sentences. I didn’t wish to rerun the entire embarrassing episode.

“Indonesia? He’s suggesting that you make a documentary about Indonesian politics?”

“Not ‘suggesting.’ ‘Commanding’ is the word. He said that I have to make something related to Indonesia, that I need to explore my roots. Seek out what it is that has shaped me — or some kind of philosophical thing like that.”

Nara frowned, but he didn’t seem put off by the idea, not like I was. In fact, he seemed to be mulling over my professor’s crazy suggestion.

“ Alors… ”

“ Alors, quoi? ”

“It’s not actually a bad idea.”

I looked at Nara’s handsome face. He mostly took after the Lafebvre side of the family: blue eyes, brown hair, fair skin, and rosy lips. His aquiline nose divided his face symmetrically and his cleft chin made most female students want to make love with him. Everyone said that Nara’s face belonged on a Hollywood billboard, pasted next to that of an equally attractive actress in some kind of fluffy romantic film comedy with an implausibly happy ending to its story. Justifiably, I suppose, Nara always got mad at me when I posed such a notion — linking his handsome appearance to something shallow and stupid. Being typically French, Nara was cynical about most things American. He had inherited a true French character. I saw almost no trace of Jayanti Ratmi in him, except for his fluency in Indonesian, and his academic interest in Asia.