Surti Anandari
At that moment I realized that I had never completely owned nor would ever completely own Dimas. At that instant I also knew why he continued to wish to return to the place that he so loved. Somewhere in the corner of his heart was Surti; there he owned her and there he could keep her along with all of his memories of her forever, eternalized in the spices found in those two apothecary jars. Surti was the scent of cloves and turmeric. All were one in Indonesia. That night I told Dimas I wanted to separate.
“Lintang …”
“Yes, Maman. I’m on the way to the Marais.”
“OK. Let me know how it goes. Once it stops raining, I’ll stop by to see Ayah, too.”
“OK, Maman …”
“Lintang …”
“Oui…”
“Try not to argue, OK? Your father isn’t well.”
“Oui, Maman, I understand. And after seeing that other side of Indonesia at the reception the other day, I think I will always be able to understand Ayah.”
AUX CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES, PARIS, 1982
It was on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, that I, too, once came across another part of Indonesia. Given the normal state of my pocketbook, the area was not one I often frequented. By chance, however, a friend of mine from out of town had come to visit and, to get to her hotel, I had to walk down Avenue Montaigne. On that street, which is known for its expensive boutiques, that “part” of Indonesia turned into a veritable party. In almost every store — Dior, Lacroix, Céline, and others — I saw groups of Indonesian women dressed in expensive clothing, with long flowing scarves and bouffant hairdos. Even from a distance I was able to catch the glitter of the diamond rings and the necklaces they wore. A few years earlier, the first time I’d seen this part of Indonesia, I had been astonished, because I had never before seen such obvious wealth displayed on a person’s body. I had always tried to avoid interacting with this part of Indonesia, mostly because I worried that I would have nothing to say. But there on the Champs-Élysées, I came to see that this part of Indonesia was a comedic satire.
At another time and in another place, there was another part of Indonesia I came to see: this one dark, dirty, and foul-smelling. It happened a few weeks after the opening of Tanah Air Restaurant. That day, I was having a cup of coffee while correcting essays at L’Écritoire café on the Place de la Sorbonne. My eyes were looking down at my papers when there suddenly came into my view a pair of men’s shoes. I then heard a man’s shrill voice calling my name.
“Vivienne Deveraux! Or is it Vivienne Surrrrryoooo?”
I almost spilled my cup of coffee. An Indonesian man of middling height with slicked-back hair — he must have used a half a bottle of hair oil — was beaming at me. I immediately noticed his gold teeth. Who was he?
“May I?” the man asked, pointing at the empty seat across from me. What could I do but nod? The man extended his hand and said with a hiss in his voice: “I’m Sumarno. Back in the day, I was friends with Hananto, Dimas, Tjai, Nugroho, and Risjaf. Yeah, with all of them.”
“Oh, you’re a friend of Dimas?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he nodded energetically. “We were all together in Jakarta, so I knew Dimas even before you knew him.”
I nodded and invited this Sumarno to order something for himself when the waiter approached. He asked for a cup of coffee. But this was strange, I thought. If he was a friend of Dimas, Nug, Tjai, and Risjaf, then why had he sought me out here, and alone?
How did he know where I was? And, even more creepy for me, how did he know I was Dimas’s wife? How did he pick me out from among the many Sorbonne students and teachers who were at the café?
“Have you been in Paris long?” I asked for lack of anything else to say. I had no idea who he was or what his reason was for suddenly appearing at the café during my break between classes.
“Not toooo long…” He seemed to have a habit of drawing out his speech. “Just a few days, or, well, almost a week now.”
I took a sip of coffee to calm myself. I wanted to see Dimas, quickly. I had an uneasy feeling about the man. Who was he?
“I was juuuust at Tanah Air. I saw Dimas, Nugroho, Risjaf, and Tjai too. Amazing, amaaazing! Having been stranded in a foreign country like they were and then being able to make a go of it. Just ammaazzzing! And to be able to make a living from a restaurant that serves Indonesian food? That is quite something, really quite something!”
He then giggled for the longest while. I didn’t know if what he’d just said was honest praise or pure cynicism. I began to gather my students’ papers. He gulped his coffee as if he were in a hurry to go.
“I see you have to get back to your busy life as a teacher. Sorry if I’ve bothered you. But it’s a good thing you have tenure at such a large and prestigious university. Imagine if you didn’t — what with your husband changing jobs so many times and you having a daughter to raise. Hmm, what’s her name… Lintang Utara. Such a beautiful girl.”
I shivered as a chill ran down my spine, not because of the cold winter air but because I was sure this man had been someone evil and cruel in Dimas’s past. Someone Dimas once knew, perhaps, but definitely not a friend. If he were a friend or even just a former acquaintance or colleague, he wouldn’t have secretly sought me out and put on these airs of friendship and familiarity. God! What was he? An intelligence agent? Is that what Indonesian intelligence personnel were like? With gold teeth and a bucket of pomade on their hair, searching out the wives of their targets? I tried signaling for one of the waiters to bring me the bill, but they were all busy with other customers. Impatiently, I began to rummage through my bag, looking for my wallet.
“No, no, no, Vivienne! Please allow me,” Sumarno said. “Chalk it up as returning the favor that Dimas once showed me. Yes, back in those days in Jakarta, when he was still thick with Surti, he’d often treat me to food or drink at places on Cikini or in Senen Market. I had so little at the time, there’s no way I could ever have gone to Paris like he did.”
My heart was pounding — and not because he had mentioned Surti’s name, but because it was apparent that he was intentionally trying to terrorize me. I no longer had time for good manners. I stood, picked up my belongings, and walked away from the man to the cashier’s counter. I paid for my coffee and the brioche I’d eaten, then walked back and past the table without saying anything. But then I stopped. I didn’t like this. He had to know that I was not afraid of him. I turned, went back to the table and looked down on this man with the hair pomade and gold teeth, then looked him sharply in the eye.
“Listen to me, Sumarno, or whatever your real name is. I don’t know who you are or what you want by coming to see me here. And, frankly, I don’t care. But I know that you are no friend of my husband. And if you ever again dare to show your face here or to bother me or my family, I will call the police. And in this country, at least, the police do their jobs. Get it?!”
Sumarno looked at me in surprise, but then nodded slowly. I left him and walked back towards campus with the wind pushing me in the back.
That night, when I went to Rue de Vaugirard, I told Dimas, Nug, Risjaf, and Tjai what had happened. Hearing my story, these aging men suddenly turned into a gang of angry youth: clenching their fists, slamming a knife into the table, and doing all sorts of primeval “manly” things.