“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?
Lintang handed me the sheets of paper, then left the room. The next thing I heard was the sound of her bedroom door closing. Just a soft click. Not a slam.
I looked at the top sheet. Handwritten, with well structured Indonesian in neat and regular penmanship. A letter for Dimas. I never read letters addressed to my husband, unless he specifically asked me to join him in reading them together. And I didn’t want to read the letter, but Lintang… She had come across it. Where had she found it? I scanned the sheets of paper, one by one. All were letters from Surti Anandari, dating from the late 1960s, after the military had captured her husband. But wait, there were other letters too, dating from 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1982 … I looked at one.
Dearest Dimas,
I must thank you again for the assistance you sent to me through Aji. I never doubt the goodness of your heart or that of Vivienne, and Nug, Tjai, and Risjaf as well.
Congratulations on the opening of Tanah Air Restaurant! I am so happy that the four of you have been able to work together to make a go of it and overcome the challenges you’ve had to face there, in that distant land. I know that it couldn’t have been easy for you to build something from nothing — and a restaurant, no less, a real business whose manner of operation you would have all had to study, like a child learning to crawl, then to walk, then to run, and to endure. But I have no doubt
whatsoever that you will succeed, especially because you love the kitchen, with all its spices, and the culinary world, as much as you love the world of literature.
I can see you in the kitchen, enjoying every second you spend mixing your spices, treating them like living creatures, helping them to find their perfect mate so that they might commingle and then become one to produce a new taste altogether. Though I’ve never myself believed in destiny, the fact that the four of you have ended up establishing a restaurant together surely must be fate.
Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam are well. Kenanga is engaged to Fahri, Mas Amri’s boy, and will be getting married soon. Bulan is a student in the Faculty of English Literature at the University of Indonesia, and Alam is waiting to see if he’s been accepted for enrollment at either the Faculty of Law or the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences at U.I. The money from the four of you has made it much easier for them to get an education. Mas Hananto was so fortunate to have had loyal friends like the four of you.
And I, too, feel fortunate to have known a man as good as you, who respects and honors women. I will never forget your kindness and good-heartedness. I hold dear my memories of you and the gifts you have given to me; they are mine to keep forever and will never fade or be forgotten, because you are everywhere. Not just in the kitchen, or in the color of turmeric or the scent of cloves, but you flow everywhere. Everywhere and always.