She paused, thinking her father might say something, but he said nothing. “For both practical and economic reasons, I think it would make more sense to make a documentary about the families of Indonesian political exiles who are now scattered about here in France and other countries of Europe…” Lintang glanced at her father. Still no reaction. “At the same time, I’m afraid it might be too personal, and I don’t want to make something that turns out to be overly subjective. I do want to get to know Indonesia, however, even if it’s only for a few weeks or a month. I want to find out what the country is now like, what with its blood-filled history, and whether its people…”
Dimas could only nod silently in response, his thoughts now untethered. He wanted to tell her that he had always wanted to be the one to take her and her mother to Indonesia and to introduce them to Jakarta, Bogor, Solo, Yogyakarta, Semarang, and the other cities he had known prior to 1965. He wanted to explain to her that there was something special about Indonesia, that the country held a special allure, but that even he didn’t know what it was: whether it was the smell of the red clay earth after a tropical rainstorm; the exotic fruit — mangosteens, star fruit, jack fruit, rambutan — with their odd shapes and colors; the women of Central Java, particularly Solo, who spoke so slowly and rhythmically; or the dictatorial manner of pedicab drivers who thrust their index finger in the air when wanting to cross the road, causing all the motor vehicles to stop obediently. But what in fact did he know about his homeland now? His firsthand knowledge of the country had stopped after 1965; and Jakarta and Solo in 1998 were sure to be far different from what they had been thirty-three years previously. There probably weren’t becak anymore dominating the streets of Jakarta and Solo. Elegant women who could sit silently composed for hours on end, with canting in hand, blowing through the hot wax dipper to miraculously change a stretch of plain white cotton cloth into a batik cloth of mind-boggling beauty and design, were probably a rarity. What about the fruit and the traditional cakes—kelepon, nagasari, cucur, getuk lindri, and the like — that were set out for him in the evening with a glass of strong hot tea into which he would drop chunks of rock sugar, after he and his brother Aji came home from Quranic study? Possibly gone too. But even if for most people such things had vanished with the advent of modern-day life, he was sure that he would find them somewhere, in what pockets of traditional life still remained, just to show them to Lintang. Dimas studied his daughter’s face, which was at once so Indonesian and French as well. Her nose was aquiline but didn’t dominate her small face. Her skin was fair but not the white, freckled kind. Hers was white and warm-looking, like a glass of heated milk, a mixture of his light chocolate flesh and Vivienne’s white skin. Her eyes were dark brown, like his own. Her thick wavy black hair was his as well. But overall, her posture and bearing were that of her mother — which is why she was often taken for his former wife’s young sister. Both were tall, slender, and beautiful. The only distinctive difference was Vivienne’s eyes, that amazing color of green. Dimas tried to imagine Lintang in the midst of the busy metropolis that Jakarta had become, but could not get a clear picture. Both CNN and BBC television had begun to air news clips about demonstrations taking place in several Indonesian cities. This was worrisome for him. He was sure that Lintang must have participated in student demonstrations at the Sorbonne; but students in Europe and the situation in Europe were undoubtedly very different from that of Indonesia. Yet if he expressed his fears, Lintang was sure to be offended, and they would wind up in another argument.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Lintang finally asked.
“Have you spoken about this with your mother?” Dimas took the safe route, hoping that Vivienne had used the “parent card” with her daughter, even though it no longer had much currency in France and especially not for Lintang, who was now twenty-three years old. She was an adult and could go wherever she wanted to go, with or without her parents’ permission. That she talked to them at all about her plans was a sign that she cared for them and respected their opinions. But she wasn’t asking for their blessing, much less their permission.
“I have, but she asked the same thing, whether I had spoken about this with you.” Lintang seemed somewhat miffed.
“OK, then let me say this: first focus on Professor Dupont’s requirements. What is it you want from your final assignment? What must you show in your documentary film? After that, given Indonesia’s history and the events and impact of 1965 on the country, you have to be very judicious and use a macro lens in choosing your subject of focus. You have to be sharp and clear. The subject of 1965, with all its confusion and characters, all its victims and impacts, and the bloodbath that was perpetrated to achieve change in the country’s power structure, is a vast one. And then, beyond that, there is the very sensitive matter that you will also have to face—”
“That I am the daughter of Dimas Suryo,” Lintang cut in.
“That’s right,” her father answered. “You’ve spent your entire life in Paris, far from what happened over there. You were cut off from Indonesia. You don’t know it. You’ve never experienced it, never met its people, never smelled its soil or heard the sound of leaves slapped by showers in the rainy season. You’ve never gotten to know your Indonesian relatives: your grandparents, your aunts and uncles, or your cousins. All that you know is what you’ve heard from me and what you’ve overheard at the restaurant. You still don’t know the country firsthand.”
Dimas took a breath, ignoring the ache he felt in his stomach. “In Indonesia, everything will be different. If you intend to interview the families of political prisoners, you have to know that there will always be someone watching and recording what you do — especially because of the family name you carry.”
Lintang nodded.
“Have you thought about how you’re going to get a visa to go to Indonesia? All the years that I’ve been here, I still haven’t been able—”
Lintang interrupted her father, impatiently: “I met someone at the embassy, a junior diplomat who said that he would help.”
Dimas looked at his daughter in surprise and silently praised her foresightedness. Wherever had she attained her planning skills?
“And you must always remember,” Dimas continued, “that my crime — being part of the ‘political fornication’ engaged in by PKI, LEKRA, and whatever other groups you want to mention — is a permanent one that will extend beyond my generation. Like it or not, you have inherited my political sins and they are now your burden to bear.” He looked at his daughter with affection. “Let us only pray they won’t be a millstone for your future children as well.”
“‘Political fornication…’” Lintang mused. “I’ve never come across that term in any of the books on political theory that I have read. Je dois me rappeler. I must remember that one. You, my father, have a gift for words.”