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.