Leila Chudori - Home

It was such a cliché, so damned banal and mediocre that Dimas was relucant to talk or think about the topic, even to himself.

Dimas held his stomach, which had begun to feel queasy. He took the bottle of pills he had just paid for at the hospital. Opening the cap, he popped two tablets into his hand and then swallowed them straightaway.

Paris was preparing to welcome the beginning of summer. Dimas counted the number of summer days that he still might see.

Ever since the first time Lintang set foot on the campus of the Sorbonne as a freshman student, the wide corridors of the main hall held a special place in her memory. The Sorbonne was where she first met Narayana; where she first recorded autumn’s falling leaves and winter’s chilling winds; where she learned to wait patiently for the right moment, for those few seconds, when a flower opened in bloom; and where she had honed her editing skills by sifting through hours of film footage to find the most arresting images and most interesting quotes of the people she’d interviewed. But the most important thing, and what made the experience different from her primary years of education, was that the Sorbonne had made Lintang feel accepted, a natural part of academic life, where questions of a student’s skin color or appearance were of no concern. She felt at the Sorbonne a life of freedom, one which she and her fellow classmates had been invited to explore, to plunge into the world of intellectual life. Nothing was more exciting and stimulating.

Professor Dupont’s challenge for her to take a closer look at her own history had brought her here, to this corridor. Today, walking down one hallway and then another on the way to her advisor’s office, Lintang felt that she had already embarked on a journey towards a foreign destination called Indonesia. The door was open. Lintang took a breath, gave the door a rap, and then stuck her head inside.

Seeing Lintang’s face, Professor Dupont waved for her to come inside. “Lintang …”

“Professor…”

Dupont smiled widely. “Amazing!”

Lintang breathed a sigh of relief. “Hmm, oui ?”

Dupont nodded and took Lintang’s proposal from a stack of folders.

“The topic is interesting and unique. No other student has done such a thing before. You have a clear focus — even if you yourself might be seen to be a victim of the events of 1965 in Indonesia.”

“ Attendez, Professeur. I don’t think I want to include myself as a victim.”

Professor Dupont stared at Lintang with his blue eyes. His eyes smiled, though his lips revealed no emotion.

“I understand. But in the eyes of the viewer, the outsider, that is how you will be seen. Because you’ve never had the chance to know that part of yourself: your father’s homeland.”

Lintang said nothing.

“This could be an amazing documentary film — as long as you can bring it on time, that is, and are able to stay faithful to your focus.”

“But Professor, about my final point…?”

“You mean, the need for you to do the work in Indonesia? I don’t see a problem,” the professor answered. “I’ll give my recommendation to the dean. Some funding should be available, but you’ll probably have to come up with some of your own as well.”

Lintang had to resist throwing her arms around her advisor and giving him a big hug. But from the happy look she gave him, Professor Dupont could see in her eyes two gleaming stars.

“I’ll send in my recommendation today. You’ll need to wait a day or two for approval but, after that, we can meet again to discuss the technical details.”

“ Merci , professor.”

Lintang took her advisor’s hand and shook it happily.

“ De rien, Lintang.” He gave her a serious look. “Your documentary film is about the joys and sorrows of mankind, about life and life’s history. C’est la vie et l’histoire de la vie. As such, you must not see your work merely as my final assignment for you. Your film must come from here.” He pointed to his chest. “Not just from your brain alone.”

On ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur. We can see clearly by using the heart.

“ D’accord, monsieur. ”

“You must be careful, Lintang. Indonesia is going through a period of unrest. Students and activists are taking to the streets. But you have to remain focused. Even more important, you must finish your work on time. If you are late, you will not graduate. Tu comprends ?”

“ Je comprends. Merci, monsieur. ”

Lintang ran the entire length of the hallway. She felt that she was reaching for something. Reaching for something that had always been foreign inside her. Plucking something from I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A.

Nasi kuning, ayam goreng kremes, kering tempe, sambal bajak teri, urap tabur kelapa … My God. Yellow rice, coconut-battered fried chicken, tempeh sticks with peanuts and chili, fried hot pepper sauce with dried and salted white fish, steamed vegetables with grated coconut… It was unreal! Lintang was really going to Jakarta where she would be able to get those dishes any time she wanted. Even so, she still dug into her father’s cooking like an inmate who had been fed on stale rice and salt for the past two years. She tried everything, ate everything, almost not even chewing before she swallowed.

“Just look at you, eating like that. That should teach you not to fight with your father.” Nugroho was astonished to see Lintang wipe clean two whole plates of food.

Nara scratched his head; the rissole served as a starter had never tasted so good. When Dimas came out of the kitchen to check on them, he found that the nasi kuning and all the side dishes were gone, with only empty plates left on the table.

“Like something more?” he asked his daughter.

Lintang smiled widely.

“ O, mon Dieu .” It was Nara who groaned.

Dimas laughed happily, then returned to the kitchen to fetch Lintang more food.

Shortly thereafter, three young men entered the restaurant. All were clean and good-looking in appearance, neatly dressed in suits and ties. Each carried a valise.

Risjaf, who was standing by the cash register, looked taken aback. He knew who the young men were and so he remained, standing there, unmoving and unsure what to do: whether to roll up his sleeves to fight or invite them to stay. They looked friendly, however, and even more than that, they looked hungry. Were they here for lunch? Nugroho lowered his glasses on the bridge of his nose and stared at them cautiously. Even Tjai forgot about his beloved calculator, he was so entranced.

It was Nara who spoke first, calling out to the three: “Raditya, Yos, Hans! Hi! Come on over here.”

Still looking surprised, Risjaf showed the young men the way. His suspicion diminished when he saw the three warmly shake Nara’s hand, and then vanished altogether when Lintang rose, moved two tables together, told them to sit down, and handed them menus that Yazir had brought to the table.

“Am I seeing right,” Nugroho whispered to Risjaf. “It looks to me like those boys are from the embassy.”

“I was just going to try to find out who they are,” Risjaf answered.

“Good afternoon. May I be of assistance?”

Suddenly, Tjai was standing in front of their table. What the…? Nugroho and Risjaf stared quizzically at each other. Now, with Tjai exhibiting such authority over the situation, Yazir retreated in orderly fashion from the scene. Since when had Tjai shown interest in greeting customers and taking their orders? Tjai was a creature enamored with his calculator; so fixated was he on fiscal discipline that the restaurant’s books were always neat and never showed red on the bottom line. What could possibly have caused Tjai to leave his calculator and come down from his perch at the cash register to approach the three men who were now sitting around their lovely young “niece”?