Leila Chudori - Home

Lintang was astounded by this information. Could it really be that easy? But, at this point, she had neither the time nor the will to discuss the customary or, rather, “non-customary” use of family names in Indonesia. She completed the form, signed it, and affixed to it several regulation-size photographs of herself.

After the three men had finished eating a dessert of fried bananas, they began to say their goodbyes. Wanting to give her father the chance to thank the three men, she called for him to come out of the kitchen. But, still flummoxed about something, she spoke to them first: “Yos, Raditya, Hans… I want to thank you, but I also want to know why you’re doing this, why you’re helping me.”

The three of them looked at Narayana, who nodded.

Raditya, who had already stood to leave, sat back down again. He saw that Nugroho, Risjaf, and Tjai had joined Lintang’s father, and were also waiting for an answer to Lintang’s question.

“I don’t know, it’s just…”

“Come on. Tell them the story.”

“What story?”

“The whole story.”

“OK.” Raditya finally gathered will to speak. He looked at the older men flanking the table and then at Lintang. “What I was going to say is that it’s just that times have changed and we have to change with them. For far too long now, we Indonesians have let ourselves be imprisoned by the politics of the past. Like you, Lintang, we’re all from a new generation, born long after 1965. We have brains; we have our own minds. Why should we be told what to think?”

“What Raditya wants to say is this,” Hans added impatiently: “Before their first posting abroad, all candidates to the diplomatic corps have to take written and oral examinations. In the written exam is a question: ‘What would you do if a person you are speaking with tells you that he’s a communist?’”

Lintang’s eyes opened wide. Nara leaned forward. Risjaf, Tjai, and Nugroho raised their heads.

“What did you answer?” Lintang asked, impatient to hear this story being told in dribs and drabs.

Raditya glanced at his two colleagues and chuckled. “I wrote my answer in English: ‘That would be none of my business. Everybody has the right to his own political beliefs.’”

Lintang clamped her mouth shut in surprise. Dimas and his three friends broke into laughter. Nugroho even shook Raditya’s shoulders.

“Wow! And what did you answer?” Lintang said to Yos.

“I left it blank. I didn’t answer.”

“And I wrote, ‘Nothing. So?’” Hans put in.

Again the room sounded with the men’s laughter. Dimas laughed so hard he started to cry and held his stomach.

“So, what happened?” Nugroho asked. “Did they punish you?”

“Yes, they did,” Raditya answered. “They didn’t give us permission to leave that year — even though we were all set to go to our first posting; they delayed our departure for two years. Originally, I was supposed to go to England; Yos to Argentina; and Hans to Canada, but, instead, they gave us desk jobs in Jakarta, pushing pens and giving us trivial things to do. And we had to take a P-4 course, which is short for Pedoman Penghayatan dan Pengalaman Pancasila ,” Hans informed her, “the so-called ‘Guidelines for Instilling and Implementing the Nation’s Five Principles’—which was an exercise in boredom if there ever was one.”

Raditya then revealed that he had studied political science at the University of Toronto, in Canada, when his father, a senior diplomat, was posted there. “Any serious student of economics or politics is required to read all the important works, including those of Marx and Engels as well as those of other leftist writers, and the more modern thinkers who followed them. I had to study the various kinds of political thought. And it was precisely because of my reading that I came to see why communism had failed in many countries.” Raditya stood again and put on his suit jacket. “I think it’s ridiculous for the government to ban the study of communism. It shows that they think the people are stupid and can’t use their own brains to think. For years and years, the Indonesian people have been thought of and treated like idiots, unable to think for themselves.”

Dimas now understood why these three junior diplomats had dared to come to Tanah Air Restaurant in defiance of the official ban from Jakarta. It wasn’t a question of the succulence of his rendang or curried chicken. It was that they were members of a new generation who would not let their actions be dictated by rules they deemed to be irrational. They were a new and more intelligent generation, with the will and the ability to think independently.

Hans and Yos now stood as well.

“We’ve been following developments at home…” Nugroho said to Hans, trying to stall the young men’s departure, “and there have been large demonstrations in some cities. Maybe you can tell me if I’m right, but it seems to me that their cause this time is not just a rise in the price of fuel but a whole series of things that have happened since last year when the rupiah was unhooked from the dollar and the president reshuffled his cabinet.”

“It’s all because of KKN,” Risjaf interjected, citing the popular acronym. “That’s what’s wrong with the country: corruption, collusion, and nepotism.”

“But Soeharto acts like everything is just fine,” Dimas said in puzzlement. “The country’s a mess and he’s still planning to skip off to Cairo for that Islamic Nations Conference? Is that true?” he asked.

“It looks that way, sir,” Hans said. “And you’re right: the situation in Jakarta really is a mess.” He then looked at Lintang. “Be careful when you get there. Please do take care.”

“Thank you, Hans, and you, too, Raditya and Yos.”

The three younger men shook hands with Lintang’s father and his three colleagues. “I’m sure that one day things will change,” Yos said to Dimas as he gave each of the young men a hug.

Once again, Lintang felt herself to have been blessed with so many favors amidst the absurdity of I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A.

Just one week later, Lintang’s passport was returned to her with a tourist visa stamped inside. It was evening. Dimas and his two helpers were preparing food. Risjaf and Tjai were getting ready to greet the evening’s customers. Lintang had just finished having coffee and boiled bananas with Vivienne and Nara. Nara looked at his watch, then drank the rest of the coffee in his cup.

“Where are you going?” Risjaf asked, surprised to see Nara pick up his knapsack. “Aren’t you going to have dinner here tonight?”

“Can’t. I’m getting ready to go to London and have lots of stuff to do. And tomorrow, I have meetings with three of my teachers.”

“Where are you going? What university?” Risjaf asked.

“Cambridge.”

Risjaf raised his right thumb.

Nara kissed Lintang on the cheek and then said goodbye to Vivienne.

After Nara had gone, Lintang whispered to her mother: “Did Ayah tell you what was wrong? That it’s nothing serious, just some kind of liver infection?”

“Yes, why?”

Lintang shrugged her shoulders. “I’m worried…”

Vivienne looked towards the kitchen door. Dimas’s head could be seen through the door’s window. She felt the same way. Dimas had not shown her the results of his examination. She felt that she didn’t have the right to interfere with such matters anymore. She was not his wife, after all. But, at the same time…

“Wait here,” Vivienne said to Lintang. “I’ll try to find out more. Maybe this time he’ll be more open, but I can’t say for sure.”