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That night, when she told me about her professor's comments and his suggestion for her final assignment, I immediately detected anxiety in her voice. I also heard notes of confusion and worry. To make a documentary film about her father's homeland and a part of its history that the Indonesian government had buried wouldn't just be difficult; it would be mentally taxing for even the soundest of minds. I didn't know where she would find all the materials she needed to properly research the subject of September 1965. From what little I knew, so much of the available literature
contained as many questions as answers. And besides all that, my hardheaded former husband and my equally stubborn daughter were not even speaking to each other.

Just as I had suspected, when I went into the kitchen and returned to the dining table with the platter of spaghetti
alle vongole
I had made, a happy look instantly appeared on Lintang's face. She smiled as she inhaled the scent of clams cooked in white wine. I had thought of putting on Led Zeppelin music—that really would have made the evening complete—but I didn't, because I knew that Lintang would mock me for it and think that I couldn't let go of my memories with her father. Instead, I put on a CD of music by Ravel, her favorite.

Lintang closed her eyes when she tried a spoonful of the sauce. Good, she liked it. But Lintang would not have been Lintang had she not then dropped a bomb into the midst of calm.

“To do the project, I'll probably have to go to Indonesia…”

There it was: the first shell shock. It took my breath away. I stirred the spaghetti and handed Lintang a bottle of white wine for her to open.

While she uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into our glasses, I busied myself dressing the salad, without saying anything.

“Maman…”

“Does Professor
Dupont
know that this is what you want to do?”

“He was the one who suggested it, who said that I should look at my own history.”

“But did he say anything about you having to fly off to Jakarta?”

Lintang ignored my question and dug into the spaghetti. Every bite she took seemed to make her more enthusiastic and she began to talk about what had happened at the Indonesian ambassador's residence earlier that evening.

“Just imagine it, Maman, when Nara and I first arrived at the reception, nobody paid much attention to me. There were so many people and so many kinds of food… Oh, the food was delicious! You should have tasted it. I bet if Ayah had had been there he would have praised the
pastel
, the beef tongue, and the iced lychee. I don't know where they managed to get it, but they even served iced young coconut.”

“But then…?” I cut in. Lintang and her father definitely had at least one thing in common: whenever the subject of food came up in conversation, they immediately turned their attention to that until they lost the focus of their story.

“What is it that makes you feel the need to go to Indonesia now? What subject do you intend to address in your documentary?”

“I'm not sure, Maman. At first, when Professor Dupont suggested that I look into Ayah's history, I thought of focusing on the fate of the victims of 1965 here in Paris, the families of political exiles. But then, I went to that Kartini Day party at the Indonesian ambassador's residence and…”

“And you saw another side of Indonesia.”

“Just a glimpse,
un petit aperçu
, but one so very different from the one I already know. It made me ask myself whether they, too, might be victims?”

“
Victimes?
”

“Yes, victims of indoctrination! You've got to hear what happened to me,” she said breathlessly. “All because of my presence at the reception, some of the people there started to panic, didn't know what to do. They were so nervous. I could see the questions running through their minds: How are we supposed to react to this daughter of Dimas Suryo? Are we supposed to be friendly, polite, engage her in small talk, or keep her at a distance? What would
the Home Office say? The Home Office bans us from eating at Tanah Air Restaurant but it shouldn't be a problem for her to be here, should it? But wait a minute… What about the ‘
bersih lingkungan
' policy. What do such terms as ‘a clean environment' and ‘political hygiene,' even mean? Just imagine, Maman, for people like me who weren't even born at the time of the September 30 Movement and live far distant from Indonesia, they still require a prescription for what to think.”

By now Lintang had wiped her plate clean. There was an excited look on her face, as if she had taken some kind of stimulant. Though I knew her animation didn't come from the alcohol, I circumspectly moved the bottle of wine to beyond her immediate reach.

“Maman,” she said, drawing a breath, “I've decided it's not enough for me just to listen to stories from Ayah, Om Nug, Om Tjai, and Om Risjaf. It's not enough to interview people at the embassy either. There's a historical context I need to understand—how the absurdity of this part of Indonesian history even began.”

This is the problem that comes from raising a child with books and a Sorbonne education.

“But…”

“And it's not enough, either, to go to the Netherlands or Germany to interview friends of Ayah there. I know that going elsewhere in Europe would be safer and less expensive, but am I going to find Indonesia there?”

Lintang's questions and her voice made her sound like her father.

“So, if you go to Indonesia, what will you record?”

“I'm not sure, Maman. I'm still tossing around ideas. But just
that one hour at the Kartini Day party has set my mind abuzz and got me to thinking that there's something more I need to study than just the impact of that event here on people in Europe.”

My daughter was both intelligent and mature, this I knew, but now she was making me worried. I didn't know whether to be proud or frightened. The thought of her going off on her own to Indonesia… Well, I just hoped the idea was merely an impulse.

“You know, Maman, how you're always telling me that the people of your generation liked to experiment and to explore all kinds of opportunities… Is that supposed to be true only for your generation?”

I shook my head. “Of course not. After you've done the research for your proposal, if it looks like you really have to go, then as long as you can get the funding, how could I object?”

“
Ne sois pas comme ça, Maman
,” Lintang said in reprimand. “
Écoute, Maman
,” she added, as she raised her glass of wine. “Whatever it is that we can pluck from I.N.D.O.N.E.S.I.A, that's what I want to do.”

I stood and pressed my lips to her forehead. If she had started to quote Jalaluddin Rumi, what was I going to do?

“Listen, Lintang… If I were to be honest, I'd have to say that I would prefer for you to do your fieldwork here in Paris or somewhere else close by.” Pausing for a moment, I then asked, “Have you spoken to your father?”

I had used my final weapon.

Lintang suddenly choked, but then quickly drank off the glass of wine like it was water.

“Not yet,” she said after a cough.

“Thirsty, are you?” I remarked with a laugh. “You wouldn't go to Indonesia without speaking to him first, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well have you thought about how you will enter the country?”

Lintang said nothing for a moment. “I'm not sure. But I met some younger diplomats earlier. Maybe I'll ask them. They might know the best way.”

Apparently, Lintang had already come to a decision on part of her life's plan. Saying nothing more, I cleared the dishes from the table and took them into the kitchen. Lintang followed behind. As she loaded the dishwasher, I cut two pieces from the cherry tart I'd also made—another of Lintang's favorites—and put them on plates. Instead of returning to the dining room, we ate the tart there in the kitchen, savoring the taste of the cherries as we stood next to each other. It was moments like this I missed. Together with Lintang. Together with Dimas.

“Maman …”

“
Oui
.”

Lintang was using her fork to move a small piece of the tart around her plate—which meant she was trying to figure out the words for something sensitive she had to say.

“Do you think Ayah is an Ekalaya?”

I pulled the stopper off a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter and poured myself a glass. Red wine, this time.

“
Non
.”

“
Non?
Why not?”

“He's a Bima, always ready to protect the woman he loves.”

“
Salut
, Dimas.”

“Viv…”

“
Ça va?
”

Dimas cleared his throat.

“
Ça va bien.
”

“Dimas…”

“I'm sorry about the hospital calling you. Don't worry. I'll go and pick up the results.”

“The call from the hospital didn't bother me, Dimas. I'm worried, is all. Have you thought about Lintang?”

“Of course I've thought about her.”

“OK, so when are you going to pick up the results?”

The sound of Dimas snorting was that of a calf being led off to slaughter.

“You still need to rest. I can pick them up for you. …As long as I have a letter from you.”

“No, no, no need,” Dimas hurriedly said. “I'll go pick them up for sure. If I'm not up to it, Mas Nug or Risjaf can help.”

“Promise?” I asked.

“I promise.”

“Then I'll call you tomorrow. Lintang will be coming to see you.”

“
Merci
, Vivienne.”

SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS, PARIS
, 1988

In the living room of our apartment was an Indonesia that Dimas Suryo had recreated. Two
wayang
figures hung on the wall—Ekalaya and Bima—along with several masks, gifts that friends had brought back from Indonesia. There was a batik runner on the top of the bookshelf and a batik map of Indonesia in Lintang's room. But the most curious items were two apothecary jars, tucked between books on the shelf where Dimas had put them. One jar was filled
with cloves; the other with turmeric powder. I never understood why Dimas stored these jars in the living room and not in the kitchen, or in the bedroom, for that matter.

Both Lintang and I had asked Dimas that question. He answered by taking from the one jar a handful of cloves and telling us to inhale their scent.

He then spoke in his story-telling voice: “Cloves have such an exotic aroma that many a sharp-nosed European sailor was able to smell them continents away. And these seamen competed to subjugate and control the spice-laden archipelago where clove trees grew. They even planted the name of their own country in that place and called it the Dutch Indies, making it a part of the land from whence they came.”

“Then why turmeric, Ayah?” Lintang asked, wide-eyed as she stared at the yellow powder in the other jar.

That question, Dimas never answered; he just smiled and let Lintang inhale the sharp scent of the turmeric powder. Her nostrils twitched as she did this.

This scene took place time and again. Dimas replaced the contents of the jars annually, after the scent of the spices had begun to fade. Sometimes he received shipments of the spices from friends in the Netherlands; sometimes directly from Jakarta when friends brought them back as a souvenir from their trip. But there was one time when he was forced to pay an arm and a leg for them at the Asian food import store in Belleville. It happened only once, and only after multiple arguments between us because I didn't agree spending what little extra money we had just so that Dimas could savor the scent of memories.

Then one night, when Dimas was busy at the restaurant, Lintang came into my room with a pale face and teary eyes.

“Maman…”

She was holding sheets of paper in her hand. I didn't know what they were, but they were fluttering because of her trembling hand. Heavens! What was wrong?