Leila Chudori - Home

I sat down on the floor, silent in thought, counting the rising rings of smoke.

“There were these conferences for journalists in Santiago and Peking…” I finally began, attempting to give my gradually emerging story more historical context. “And Mas Hananto should have been the one to go to them with Mas Nugroho. He was more senior and much better than I in those kinds of networking jobs…” I stopped, searching for the words to continue. Vivienne stared at me, anxious to hear the rest. “But Mas Hananto couldn’t go. He had a ton of work to do, or so he said, and some pressing personal matters to settle as well. So I replaced him and went with Mas Nug instead. Neither was against my going or taking Mas Hananto’s place. Both thought I would learn a lot and gain some valuable experience besides.”

Vivienne brushed her fingers over my hair.

“If he had gone, he wouldn’t have been captured,” I said, suddenly feeling a chill in my bones. I put on my shirt but still felt myself shaking.

Vivienne frowned. “Not necessarily!”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not the way life works. If Hananto had gone, then everything else that happened would have been different. We don’t know what would have happened. Maybe you’d have been taken in or maybe not.”

“I’d feel better if I was the one who had been captured. I don’t have a family.”

“You have your mother and your brother.”

I didn’t reply. I knew Vivienne was trying to comfort me. She had a good heart, a gentle soul, but there was no way I was going to feel consoled when I thought of what had happened to Surti and her children. My cigarette was a stub in my fingers.

Vivienne lit a new kretek . She took a drag then handed it to me.

THE TRIVELI AREA OF JAKARTA;

SEPTEMBER 5, 1965

I was on my fifth cigarette already and Mas Hananto was still getting it off with that woman in her house. I looked at my watch. Two o’clock in the morning! I swore that if he didn’t settle his business and show his face before I finished the cigarette, I was going to leave him. I didn’t care if he groused at me the next day at work. And what was he doing in there anyway? He had a beautiful wife: Surti, who was perfect in almost every way. He had no reason to betray her. I couldn’t understand the man’s behavior but, as I was his friend, I also couldn’t remain oblivious to his proclivity for extramarital affairs.

This was the third time Mas Hananto had forced me to go with him when he went to see Marni. He needed me along to provide an alibi in case Surti asked where or with whom he had been.

Hearing a sound, I looked around to see Mas Hananto finally coming out of Marni’s place. As he approached me, I could see that he was sweating but also beaming with satisfaction. With a big shit-eating grin on his face, he came over to where I was standing beside the cigarette vendor’s kiosk near where he had parked his car. Son of a bitch!

“What is it?” he asked while lighting a cigarette.

“What do you mean ‘what is it’?”

“Why that hang-dog look on your face?”

“This is the last time I’m coming here with you!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not your lackey, that’s why, and I don’t want to have to lie to Surti.”

Mas Hananto’s face was expressionless. He had always been very good at concealing his emotions. He just smoked his cigarette. We walked towards the car not speaking. The Jakarta sky was absent of stars, a mirror of my heart. I liked Mas Hananto. And I liked women, too; but for me, supposing I had a wife, especially one as lovely and faithful as Surti, that would mean I had made my choice in life. That would mean there would be no more playing around.

“What’s special about Marni anyway?” I asked, breaking the silence.

Mas Hananto smiled. He knew that I couldn’t stay mad at him for too long. “She makes all the cells in my body seem to come alive,” he said with a glow in his eyes.

“Do you love her?”

He gave me a funny sideways look, and the kind of smirk that always made my blood rush to my temples because of the over-confident way he spoke. He was always so sure that nothing he did could possibly create problems for other people.

“Surti is my wife, my life’s companion. But with Marni, I feel the passionate excitement of the proletarian class.”

Pow!

Mas Hananto suddenly toppled over. I was amazed, because I hadn’t thought the fist of my right hand could move so fast to strike his jaw.

“ Attends !” Once again, Vivienne’s voice suddenly tore away the scrim from my past, startling me. She raised her brows inquisitively. “Why were you so angry?”

Vivienne deserved an answer, but my voice was caught in my throat. How was I to explain to Vivienne who Surti was to me? The stem of jasmine that never wilted.

“You were angry because you were in love with her!”

Now I was the one knocked over — or, more precisely, dumb-founded by the ability of this Frenchwoman to read my heart.

I had spoken volumes to Vivienne about Jakarta and the political situation there, and never once had she interrupted me. But now, this one time, she instantly knew I was leaving something out and she cut off my story. Hmm…

I coughed to clear my throat. “Surti and I once were close…”

“You were in love with her,” Vivienne said, correcting me, “and you were angry because Hananto was two-timing the woman you once loved.” Vivienne stared at me to assess whether her assumption was correct. “Or, possibly,” she added, “because you were still in love with her.”

I hastened to explain. “What I was feeling at that time was only that Mas Hananto was squandering the affection of a woman who loved him — the same woman who had given him Kenanga and Bulan,” I said honestly, though still avoiding her question.

Vivienne continued to stare at me, a small smile tugging on her lips.

“That was then, Vivienne. We all have a past,” I said sincerely, hoping that the light in her beautiful green eyes would not fade. “I’m serious. And now I care for and respect Surti as I would a sister. She is — or was, rather — my best friend’s wife.”

Vivienne still looked unsure. I myself was unsure. I knew that whenever I mentioned Surti’s name, my heart felt a jolt of pain. And hearing the names of Kenanga, Bulan, and even Alam, the youngest whom I had never known, still made my heart leap. I was the one who dreamt up their names. I don’t know if Mas Hananto ever knew that.

In a firm voice, Vivienne now asked me to continue my story.

THE TRIVELI AREA OF JAKARTA;

SEPTEMBER 5, 1965

Mas Hananto rubbed his rub his jaw in pain. Inside the cigarette kiosk, the vendor snored, unaware of the disturbance outside.

“Mas Han …”

Hananto turned away, avoiding the look in my eye. “You still haven’t gotten over her, have you?”

I didn’t answer. It would have been a waste of time, what with the anger boiling in each of us.

“What time is it anyway?” I mumbled, suddenly feeling my body begin to wilt. My knees seemed to have lost their caps.

“Three,” Mas Hananto said brusquely, looking at his watch, a 17-jewel Titoni which was like a second heart for him and never free from his wrist. “That’s why I keep telling you to go to Senen Market and buy yourself a watch. You’re always having to ask other people the time.”

His tone was rough, but I could tell he was no longer angry. His jaw must have been hurting him, though.