Leila Chudori - Home

Mrs. Priasmoro, with perfectly coiffed hair and emitting the scent of expensive perfume, kissed Tante Retno on her left and right cheeks. They were then led into the living room, which looked to be half the size of a soccer field. Lintang doubted her ability to guess its actual size, but what she really couldn’t figure out is why, from the outside, the house hadn’t looked to be so immense.

The older couples immediately engaged themselves in friendly conversation. Lintang listened as they talked about topics she found to be on everyone’s tongue ever since she had arrived in Jakarta a few days before: the terrible traffic jams caused by the daily demonstrations and the increase in prices for almost everything, even though there still had been no official rise in the price of fuel.

When Rininta began to ask Lintang about Paris, she didn’t quite know how to answer her questions and comments. “Why is it so rare in Paris to find discounts on brand-name shoes and purses?” What? “How does one get front row seats at the fall fashion shows?” Are you kidding? “If I ever go there again, we can go together to see the sights. I don’t like the pictures I have of me standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.” Excuse me!

Lintang feared that she appeared to be stupid, but she really didn’t know how to respond. And Andini, not helping in the least to help smooth the crinkles in the conversation, made matters worse by giggling so much that she was soon bowed over with laughter. Andini was obviously thinking to herself how tragic it would be for her to have a sister-in-law whose only concerns were how to pose in front of the Eiffel Tower and where to sit at Paris fashion shows. Meanwhile, as Andini tried to stifle the laughter, Rama looked increasingly irritated. He glared at his sister, his eyes begging for her to be polite; but Andini’s wicked streak got the best of her and she kept asking more questions about Europe and pretending to be in awe when Rininta spoke of her shopping sprees and her search for clothing, shoes, and jewelry in the countries she visited.

“So you visited London, Amsterdam, Berlin, Bonn, Paris, Milan, and Brussels and all you did was shop?” Andini asked, as if in wonder of the idea.

“Well, yes, of course,” Rininta said with a smile. “I mean it’s so cheap over there. The branded items available here are always much more expensive and out of season besides. I mean, take for instance this limited-edition LV purse that Mama bought — it was so much cheaper there. We should have bought two because now I have to borrow it from her. You should the visit the Champs-Élysées. Mama and I just love shopping there!”

Hearing this conversation, Lintang smiled politely, or as best she could, but she was groaning inside. “Branded”? What in the world did she mean? O, mon Dieu . And “LV”? Was LV the abbreviation for Louis Vuitton? Champs-Élysées? Was Rininta really talking about brand names of goods that were so expensive only big-name celebrities, children of royalty, and wives of international tycoons could afford to buy them? There was, Lintang realized, a kind of irony — or was it parody? — that was apparent here. She had always thought of Indonesia as a developing country, one trapped in an endless cycle of spiraling debt; yet now she could see that a tiny percentage of people, at the very top of the population pyramid, were able to shop for Louis Vuitton purses and shoes in Paris.

Trying to be polite, Lintang did her best not to judge; but Andini held her eyes wide open in feigned amazement as she listened to Rininta’s tale of traveling from one boutique to the next with a group of her friends. Lintang knew her cousin was torturing Rininta without the pretty young woman being aware of it at all. Fortunately, dinner was announced, and Lintang went to the table feeling relieved that the night’s circus had come to an end. Or so she thought.

The dining table was immense and the array of dishes fantastic: In addition to two kinds of rice (steamed and fried), four kinds of shrimp crackers (curled, long, brown, and multi-colored), and three different kinds of sambal , there were, for the main course, a huge fish — a kind that Lintang didn’t recognize — in a turmeric sauce; braised chicken in a chili and shrimp-paste sauce; beef roulade; fried duck in butter sauce; goat satay with soy sauce dressing; stuffed calamari; grilled spiced prawns; and stir-fried mixed vegetables, simmered asparagus, and stink beans… My God, how many cooks and assistants did this family have to prepare all these things? Lintang thought of her father and of Yazir and Bahrum who would have had to jump through hoops in order to prepare a meal as grand as the one this evening.

Mr. Priasmoro invited them to take a seat at the table. As is usually the case in Indonesia, where no matter how official the meal might be, place cards are rarely used, none were on the table that night. This was something Lintang liked; it made meals much more familial — and she didn’t feel forced to have to sit beside someone she didn’t know. Tonight, on her left was Rininta and on her right was Tante Retno. Across the table in front of her were Rama and her uncle Aji. Meanwhile, at the one end of the table to her far left were Mrs. Priasmoro and Andini. Naturally, Mr. Priasmoro, director of Cita Karya, dressed in a purple silk batik shirt with a bird motif that glowed in the light of the room, sat at the head of the table.

“You first, Lintang. Please go ahead,” Mrs. Priasmoro beckoned. “This isn’t like in France, I’m sure; it’s just whatever we had on hand. I hope the food’s not too hot for you.”

Mrs. Priasmoro’s lilting voice soothed her guests. They all took turns serving themselves rice as the two kinds went around the table. Then they began to serve themselves the other dishes, taking one and then passing that dish to the person on their left. Lintang complimented herself on her choice of dishes: white rice, some of that fish with the turmeric sauce, green chili sambal , stuffed calamari, and simmered asparagus.

As she tried the various foods she’d taken, Lintang politely listened to Rininta chatter on about ever-rainy London and French people who refused to speak English. Lintang paid little attention to this talk, as she was more interested in trying to discern the spicing for the fish. The taste of the yellow sauce was unique: very piquant, a fantastic blend of different spices. She wanted to find out the recipe for her father.

“This fish is wonderful,” Lintang enthused, unable to hide her curiosity.

“Oh, that’s grouper,” Mrs. Priasmoro informed her, “but be careful of those little green chilies. They are very pedas .”

“Hot, very hot,” Rininta said as if Lintang didn’t understand Indonesian.”

“Oh, I’m used to hot food,” Lintang said to Mrs. Priasmoro. “My father likes to cook; in fact, he’s a chef.” Lintang ate her fish avidly. “I’d love to get the recipe for this fish.”

“Your father is a chef? In Paris?” Mrs. Priasmoro remarked in astonishment. “That’s amazing! I mean the bistros in Paris are the best in the world. Where is your father’s located?”

Unimaginable! Un-fucking-imaginable! Rama suddenly turned pale and stiff. He stopped chewing and looked at Lintang, not quite believing what he’d just heard. Aji and Retno sensed their son’s apprehension. But wasn’t Rama supposed to have already told the Priasmoros about his own family history — people seen as enemies of the state?

“Oh, it’s not a bistro; it’s a restaurant, an Indonesian restaurant,” Lintang clarified, “but it has a bar in it, too. In Paris, you can’t have a place without wine,” she emphasized.

“An Indonesian restaurant? Well that’s nice, very nice,” Mr. Priasmoro said with a nod. “It’s nice to know that white people like Indonesian food too, isn’t it, dear? It’s we Indonesians whose stomachs can’t adapt,” he stated, and then began to chuckle as he looked at his wife and daughter. “Remember that trip a few years ago — going all the way to Europe for holiday, and still spending half our day looking for rice?!”