Leila Chudori - Home

I inhaled, wondering if I might catch a scent of perfume, the indication of a woman’s presence in the room. I looked around the room: at the bookshelf, the clothes tree, the rack on the back of the door, and the open-sided armoire as well. No photographs of a woman to be seen. No women’s T-shirt or a forgotten bra that might have revealed the inhabitant’s nocturnal activity. I often left articles of clothing and other items at Nara’s apartment — markers of possession, I suppose — but there was nothing like that here, in this room. I suddenly slapped my cheek to stop myself from pondering this issue any longer and sat down at the desk.

Just as I opened the laptop, Alam came into the room carrying two mugs of hot tea and handed one to me. I carefully placed the mug on the desk, far from the laptop, afraid that it might spill. Again I thought the room was too orderly.

“You know, Lintang, this wasn’t my first time being terrorized and not the first time for the staff of Satu Bangsa either. Whenever something like this has happened, we’ve lodged protests through both official and non-official channels and held a press conference; but the news is almost never picked up by the Indonesian media, It’s too sycophantic to support an organization like our own.”

“I was overly emotional earlier. Forgive me for that,” I said. “I was insensitive, thinking only of myself and my own work.”

“Listen to me, Lintang,” he said as he took my hand. “Mita and Gilang suggested I bring you here for a reason, but first let me tell you that we cannot let ourselves be defeated by terror, can’t let ourselves be defeated by evil. And also that because we’re now accustomed to being terrorized, we are now always prepared.”

I said nothing, waiting for further explanation. To my complete surprise, Alam then opened a door in the wall and motioned for me to look in. What was it? A storeroom? A panic room? A closet for shoes and clothing? Alam switched a knob and a light came on inside. Now my mouth dropped open. The small room, this closet or storeroom or whatever it was, was lined with shelves filled with manila folders and video cassettes.

“What is this?”

“What you see here are copies of documents from Satu Bangsa, our archive, which we move every six months: six months at Gilang’s, then to Mita’s, and then to my place.”

I was astounded. No wonder they appeared to be calm. Too calm, I remember thinking. Obviously they had been angry for the material loss caused by the destruction of their electronic equipment; but they knew at least that their most important documents had been saved.

“Some of the documents we duplicate in the traditional way, in print form; others we save on diskettes. But everything is here. Even all our video recordings.”

My eyes opened wide and my heart skipped a beat.

“Alam, are you telling me …”

He smiled and then bent down to pick up a stack of video cassettes all neatly labeled: “Lintang-Pram,” “Lintang-Mrs. D,” “Lintang-Surti,” “Lintang-Djoko,” “Lintang-Aji Suryo” …

“Oh my God!” I shrieked. “Is it, it really …?”

“Yes, it really is,” he said, placing the stack on the desk. “Mita makes copies of all our visual records and our files.”

I don’t know how to describe my emotions, but it felt like my heart was ready to jump from my throat. Excited, relieved, happy, and glad, I suddenly threw my arms around Alam and hugged him as tightly as I could. Looking up, my lips searched hungrily for his and, finding them, I pushed him backwards against the wall. He responded in kind, showering my face and neck with kisses as his hands ripped open my blouse, scattering its buttons on the floor. Whirling our bodies around, he now pressed my bare back against the wall. We didn’t even remove the rest of our clothes, so fierce was the desire we had suppressed for reasons of politeness and etiquette.

Just as I had imagined — actually even more than I had imagined every night since our first meeting — Alam possessed an immense and indescribably delicious power. How he so easily pinpointed the sensitive spots of my body, I didn’t know and certainly didn’t care, but that dark and overcast Jakarta morning was suddenly like the Parisian sky on the fourteenth of July, alight with bursts of fireworks.

Sunlight slipping through the window shades highlighted Alam’s features, who was fast asleep beside me. I studied the bridge of his nose and his thick black eyebrows. Pulling my knees up and then hoisting my body into a sitting position, I sat on the bed. Looking down at the buttons of my blouse on the floor, I smiled, remembering the heat of Alam’s body as he stripped me of my clothing. Alam’s once orderly bedroom now looked like it had been struck by a storm, or lightning, perhaps — by un coup de foudre . I had no idea what my next step would be, what I should do, or where I would go. Nara, Alam; Nara, Alam … Such a mad situation this was for me.

I would begin with small steps. First I would tidy Alam’s room. It was obvious that Alam was obsessively neat and orderly. Then I would dress, go home, and see about getting my laptop repaired. I would also make sure that my video camera was working properly and then review the work I still had to do to complete my final assignment. That was more important. The question of Nara versus Alam was one that I would put in a drawer in the back of my brain for now.

Alam groaned, then mumbled a question, asking me the time.

“Seven-thirty,” I answered, as I wrapped the top sheet around myself and began to stand. “I have to straighten your room.”

Alam threw his right arm around my waist, preventing me from moving further away from him. “It’s still early. Where are you going?”

His hand slowly removed the sheet that was covering me. He then began to stroke my breasts. “I want to look at you.” He pulled me around and on top of him, our groins now linked. Was this un coup de foudre or perhaps a lightning storm? I did not know. But what I did know is that once again, on that previously quiet morning, a new storm ravaged Alam’s bedroom.

DEAR AYAH AND MAMAN

,

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to answer my own question: what can I pluck from I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A. How can I even understand this place? Have you seen the news about the killing of students at Trisakti University yesterday? That the military could open fire on unarmed students is indefensible. I was there, at Trisakti yesterday, and didn’t get back to the house until morning, so have slept only a few hours as a result.

At breakfast, Om Aji said that after the shootings yesterday, Jakarta is likely to blow. He and Tante Retno became very worried when I told them that I had gone to Trisakti campus and spent part of last night at Sumber Waras Hospital. It’s because I don’t want you worrying about me, too, that I’m writing this e-mail to you now.

For the past two days Alam and Bimo have been saying that the free-speech rallies for students — which have been going on since May 1—are gathering steam and likely to reach their peak by May 20. News about this has been circulating among students on and off campuses — off campus, mostly through Forkot (an acronym for “City Forum”) which was established to link up students from the various universities around the city — and among political activist groups and independent

journalists as well. I’m sure that the “flies” buzzing around campus (the term that Alam uses for military intelligence agents) have already conveyed this news to the campus security, because security at all of the campuses I’ve visited since May 9 has been very tight.