Leila Chudori - Home

Nara slowly rubbed his lips against mine. A second reason for me to waver. I loved his kisses. He was always able to excite me.

“Kartini Day? You know, I’ve never read her book of letters. Do you think I should…”

“Good lord. You can research Kartini later. I bet you could count on one hand the number of Indonesians who have actually read From Darkness to Light . This is a ceremonial event, OK?”

“Do you think I should wear a kebaya ?”

“ Oui . A kebaya , a selendang , and all the other garb.”

Nara kissed me again. This time for a much longer time.

I first knew of kebaya from the photographs of my parents’ wedding. The pictures held a promise of something for me in the future. In them, Maman looked beautiful. Ayah, too, looked dashing in his suit, and the two of them were full of smiles. Now they were divorced, but the image of my mother’s beautiful white kebaya , a gift to her from my father’s family, remained clear in my memory.

Earlier today, I rushed to the Beaubourg library to find a copy of From Darkness to Light , the English translation of Door Duisternis tot Licht , a collection of letters from the aristocratic young woman Kartini dating from the end of the nineteenth century to her early death in childbirth at the age of twenty-four in 1904.

When I was in high school, Ayah had told me about Kartini and her struggle against Javanese feudalism for the advancement of women’s rights, but I had never read her letters. Fortunately, the Beaubourg library had a copy of the English translation and I was able to read about half of the book before I was forced to return home. Not too bad, I thought. At the very least, I wouldn’t appear to be completely stupid if anyone asked me about Kartini at the embassy celebration. But more important for me was that the celebration gave me the opportunity to wear a kebaya . I chose to wear an Encim kebaya , a pink one my mother owned. From Nara’s reaction, who said nothing except with his eyes, I knew I was right in my choice of this warm and cheerful color.

But Wisma Indonesia — the official Indonesian ambassador’s residence — was, for me, far from warm. This was my first time to the ambassador’s home, an immense, ostentatious building in Neully sur Seine, an elite area of Paris. Was Indonesia really a “developing country,” I wondered when seeing the place.

Upon entering the gate to the residence, I could hear the lively sound of gamelan music playing somewhere in the distance. Balinese gamelan music, for sure, with its rapidly paced notes punctuated by a hammering sound. I was trying to remember where I had first heard Balinese gamelan music — was it from a cassette of my father’s or one that Uncle Nug owned? — when a nudge of Nara’s hand on my elbow signaled me to enter the outer grounds, an area already full of attractive and well-dressed guests.

Most of the Indonesian women wore their hair in a high bouffant style, ratted underneath and sleekly smoothed over. Each must have used an entire can of hairspray to make their hair stand so stiffly high and in place. Weren’t they worried about being caught by a gust of wind? Or maybe they had birds resting inside their chignons, which resembled swallows’ nests.

The men were inconsistent in their apparel. Some wore suits and ties, but many others wore long-sleeved batik shirts. I favored the batik, which I thought was Indonesia’s most brilliant discovery. Ayah told me that his mother, my late grandmother, had been a skilled batik maker. To this day I am amazed at how a person with the use of just two fingers is able to create a painting so absolutely feminine on a stretch of cloth. When I was a little girl, Om Tjai once invited a batik artist to demonstrate her work at Tanah Air Restaurant. Every day after school, for the duration she was there, I would sit staring wide-eyed at the woman as she demonstrated her skills.

When Nara and I stepped into the portico of the residence where the ambassador and his wife were standing, we greeted the couple with a salaam, a quick rise of the hands, palms pressed together, our fingertips touching theirs. Because there were so many guests, I figured our hosts would not remember each and every one of the people they’d greeted. Inside the residence, we were greeted by a woman with a high bouffant who was dressed in a red kebaya and whose perfume was almost overpowering.

She motioned for us to proceed to the garden. “Go right in,” the woman said to Nara. “You know your way to the buffet. But first tell me, who is this young woman with you? She’s very lovely.”

“Tante Sur, let me introduce you to Lintang,” Nara said straightaway, quickly covering his gaffe in not having introduced me immediately.

“ Ayuneee. Truly beautiful. New to Paris, is she? I must say you do have an eye for the girls,” she said to Nara as if I had no ears. “Go in and help yourselves. There’s goat satay, gulai , and lots of other food.”

After saying that, this Tante Sur, who apparently was chairwoman or some such thing for the event’s organizing committee, immediately rushed from our side to give orders to her various assistants and liveried servants. In the distance, through a set of double doors at the rear of the large hall, I could see a stage in the rear garden of the residence. Now I knew why the sound of the gamelan music was so clear. The music was live, coming from a complete gamelan orchestra, not from a cassette. On the stage was a dancer, performing a Balinese pendet , a ritual dance of welcome. I was just admiring the long buffet table heaped with enough food for at least a thousand guests, when two young men of about Nara’s age came up to us. They shook Nara’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. One of the two was looking at me so hard, I quickly pretended to be busy trying to choose what to drink from among the many choices. Did I want a lychee drink or cendol on shaved ice?

“Lintang, this is Yos,” Nara said.

The man named Yos, who was dressed in a blue batik shirt, immediately shook my hand and broke into laughter. “No wonder you’ve never introduced us before. What a looker!” he said to Nara.

Yos continued to hold my hand as his eyes rolled upward in their sockets.

“And this handsome guy…”

“I’m Raditya,” the man said, not giving Nara a chance to finish his introduction. “I’m single, not married, and don’t have a girlfriend.”

Raditya was the one who had been staring so intently at me. From his way of dressing — a suit coat and shirt but no tie — I guessed him to be a junior diplomat at the Indonesian embassy. My surprise and unease with the manners of Nara’s two friends hadn’t quite receded when three more of his male friends came up to us, all with broad smiles on their faces.

“Lintang, this is Hans. This good-looking guy is Iwan. And this big hunk of a man is Galih.”

“Hans, why don’t you get her something to drink?” This was Raditya giving orders. “What would you like?” he then asked me. “Orange juice? Or maybe cendol or a cold lychee drink?”

I didn’t know how to react to this man’s aggressive behavior. I looked to Nara for help, but he just rolled his eyes and smiled.

Hans then reappeared with a glass of cold orange juice and offered it to me.

“ Merci .”

“ Tu es étudiante à la Sorbonne? ”

“ Oui , I’m in my last year.”

Yos stepped forward to nudge Hans aside.

“That’s a very beautiful kebaya ,” he said, looking me up and down.