Leila Chudori - Home

Rama felt relieved to see the conversation turning elsewhere.

“You ended up going to Chinatown, isn’t that right, sir?” Rama asked, not trusting his own ability to steer the conversation.

Aji was now certain that Rama hadn’t said anything to his prospective parents-in-law.

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly what we did. Actually there was an Indonesian restaurant in Paris. Where was it, dear? What’s the name of the street?”

“Rue de Vaugirard,” his wife reminded him while passing a dish of goat satay to Lintang. Lintang took the platter of skewered meat unaware of the unease in the air. She was impressed by the thickness and the marbling of the tender pieces of meat on which was drizzled a soy-based sambal and slivers of fried shallots.

“It was Rininta here who always had to have rice. We hadn’t been there even a week and she was already whining. But what were we supposed to do? We couldn’t go to that restaurant. It’s owned by communists!” Mr. Priasmoro said jocularly, not noticing the change on the faces of his guests. His words so surprised Lintang, she almost dropped the platter of satay. With a trembling hand, she placed the platter on the table.

“So what did we do in the end?” Rininta asked in feigned exasperation. “We ended up going to yet another café for more French food.”

“Well, we couldn’t go to that commie place. You don’t understand politics. And all you cared about was rice,” Mr. Priasmoro grumbled at his daughter, as if she were twelve years old. “Funny in a way how those communists became famous for their restaurant, with their names written up everywhere when the food wasn’t even special, or so I heard: just fried rice with an egg on top!” He guffawed but then caught himself: “Please, please help yourself to more,” he said to Aji and Retno.

“They don’t just serve fried rice!” Lintang suddenly exclaimed, her eyes ablaze.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod!” Andini whispered with evident excitement.

“What was that, dear?” Mrs. Priasmoro asked, giving Lintang a chance to clarify.

Rama looked like he wanted to slip from his chair to beneath the table.

“They don’t just serve fried rice with an egg on top. They have a complete Indonesian menu and all the dishes taste great. There’s Padang-style rendang , fried beef lung, shrimp with chili sauce, nasi kuning with all the fixings — tempeh, anchovies, and wilted vegetables. There’s also gulai anam and even ikan pindang serani , which are also very good, and the restaurant is always full from afternoon to night. It’s full!” Lintang spoke forcefully, her eyes brimming with tears.

Rama didn’t know whether to be angry or to crawl inside a hole in the ground to never come out again. Aji and Retno looked at each other — for now it was painfully obvious that their son had not kept his promise to speak to his future in-laws. Andini just smiled, while muttering ohmygod as she nibbled on the satay.

“Oh, is that so?” Mr. Priasmoro asked, giving Lintang a look of surprise. “Have you been there?”

“Yes, I have. I go there a lot. I was at the opening, in fact. My father is one of the founders of and the cook at Tanah Air Restaurant.”

Tears now streaming from her eyes, Lintang stood and quickly asked permission to go to the bathroom. Mrs. Priasmoro nodded and shakily pointed her finger in the direction of the bathroom as the tableau at the dining table turned into a scene on television where someone has pushed the pause button. Freeze frame. No one moved. No one spoke.

Lintang rushed to the sink in the bathroom, turned on the water, and washed her face. Tears and tap water turned to one. She scrubbed her face so hard that her cheeks and forehead turned red and puffy. She looked at her image in the mirror. Flaming red, anger-filled, and wild-looking. She didn’t recognize herself. And then there flashed on the glass the same blood-filled letters that she had seen in the Marais rising above a pile of fresh overturned red earth: “Dimas Suryo: 1930–1998.” Hot tears oozed from her eyes.

“Lintang.” Andini tapped the bathroom door.

“Yes.” Lintang tried to conceal her hoarse voice.

“Are you OK?”

“ Oui …Yes.”

Lintang coughed to try to clear her throat. Her voice still felt hoarse. Lintang didn’t care if someone looked down on her but she couldn’t sit still to hear her parents insulted.

“I’m coming in, Lintang. OK…?”

Lintang didn’t answer. She heard the sound of the door opening. She’d forgotten to lock the door. Andini was now standing behind her, kneading her shoulders.

“You go, girl!” Andini whispered in English. “I’m proud of you.”

Lintang looked at her crazy cousin and suddenly the two of them began to laugh.

“ Mon Dieu, I can’t imagine what your parents must feel. I have to apologize to them for ruining this occasion.” Lintang looked around for a tissue to dry her face.

“Don’t you worry,” Andini advised. “Tonight the guilty party is Rama. You’re the hero. Come on, let’s go home!” Andini took Lintang’s hand, which was still shaking.

The Kijang van carrying the Aji Suryo family crossed the streets of Jakarta still thick with people averse to a night at home. Each of the van’s occupants drowned themselves in thought.

“Put on some music, Papa,” Andini finally said, attempting to break the ice.

Her mother looked through the cassette box and chose a collection of traditional songs.

“Oh, God, Mother, not Waljinah. I can’t stand her singing keroncong .”

Young Andini had the makings of a dictator.

“Then what do you want?”

Andini leaned over the front seat and rifled through the cassettes. “There! Got one! Three Little Birds. ” Almost instantly, Bob Marley started rocking the Kijang, shattering the frozen atmosphere.

Aji shook his head. “Waljinah has a golden voice but we can’t play keroncong . Instead, we’ve got to hear this bump-bump-bump kind of music,” he grumbled but with a smile on his face.

Lintang put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder: “ Pardon , Om Aji…I’m so sorry for ruining tonight’s meal.”

Om Aji raised his left hand and patted the fingers on his shoulder. The weekend may not have turned out to be as calm and carefree as he might have liked, but his niece’s attitude had served to illuminate the dark roads on which they traveled. No doubt, Rama was feeling hurt and troubled right now, but the lesson learned tonight was to be honest and to stand up for what is right. Aji had never felt such relief as he did right now. And he felt an even greater appreciation for his brother, who had raised a daughter who was intelligent and held a firm hand.

“There’s no need at all to apologize,” he said to Lintang. “You didn’t ruin anything. In fact, you’ve made everything lighter and clearer for us all. Don’t ever apologize for standing up for principle.”

Lintang smiled as she fought back her tears. She clutched her uncle’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

Andini looked out the window as she sang along to Bob Marley’s lyrics. “ Don’t worry about a thing, ’Cause every little thing gonna be all right! ”

“LE COUP DE FOUDRE…” That’s how my mother described the first time she set eyes on my father at the Sorbonne campus in May 1968. Maman and Ayah always spoke of that time full of sentimentality for the revolution, for liberty, justice, and freedom. Although unspoken, yet clearly in the background, I suspect, was the ongoing sexual liberation at that time. (Prior to the May Revolution of 1968, Maman told me, dormitories on the Paris campus were segregated by gender, but not so thereafter.)