Alam took out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, but then only held it in his hands. I guessed he wanted to smoke but was suppressing the urge. “And if they do learn about Marxian theory, what’s the big deal anyway? By and large, it’s failed everywhere. Nobody here is interested in trying to put it into practice. I’m not. Bimo isn’t either. And this isn’t because of what happened to our families; it’s because of what we’ve read and studied on our own and because of reason.
“I’m looking forward to meeting Bimo,” I told Alam. “Om Nug is forever talking about him, of course, but his name has been mentioned to me by other people as well. From what I gather, the two of you are real close.”
“We’ve been like brothers ever since we were kids. When dealing with bullies, I was his big brother.” Alam glanced at me. “But in terms of girls, he was mine.”
I was curious. “Why’s that?”
“He always gave in, never had the nerve to face down the bullies,” he said.
“No, not that — the second part of your statement. Why was Bimo like your big brother when it came to girls?”
“Oh, that…” he said but then stopped speaking, his hand gripping the pack of cigarettes.
“If you want to smoke, go ahead,” I told him, feeling pity for him as he kept turning over the cigarette packet. “Just crack open the window a bit!” I added. “French people smoke a lot.” I rolled down the window on my side of the car a bit, then leaned over him to open the window on his side.
He frowned as my body brushed his.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Go ahead and smoke. You look nervous.”
“I am, but not because I need a cigarette,” he said as he shut the windows I had just opened. “I’m nervous because I want to kiss you.”
My blood immediately pulsed faster. My head pounded harder. All the organs in my body seemed to shiver with thrill when I heard that sentence spoken — spoken by a man I had met only several hours before yet was able to make my heart tremble. I knew at that moment Bimo was a big brother for Alam in matters of women because Alam was given to the reckless expression of his emotions, of stating things like he had just said.
Oh, Maman, I apologize for having made fun of you.
I noticed in the rear view mirror the taxi driver eyeing the two of us to see what would happen. I said nothing, did nothing. Alam laughed lightly, then touched my lips with his fingers. Even that was electrifying. Le coup de foudre.
The next few days, as I was trying to set up an appointment to interview Indonesia’s most famous former political prisoner, the novelist Pramoedya Ananta Toer, I ran into difficulty because of the author’s own busy schedule. Alam promised to help find out the writer’s upcoming schedule of activities. “Most of the time, when Pak Pramoedya gives a lecture or a talk, it’s possible to ask him for an interview at the location of the talk,” Alam said. I had already arranged to meet three other former political prisoners, but those interviews weren’t scheduled until two and three days hence. Thus, as my schedule for the next day was free, Alam called me at Om Aji’s house and suggested that I use the opportunity to talk to his mother, whom I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to meet. Alam wouldn’t be able to be with me, however, because the government had just announced an increase in fuel prices and he had to help Bimo and Gilang supervise the demonstrations that were scheduled to take place at several locations in Jakarta the next morning.
“Do you think you can you find my mother’s house on your own?” he asked me over the phone, “or do you need me to take you there?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Go off to your demonstration. I can take care of myself,” I told him, though secretly I liked his attention, even if only over the telephone.
“Andini told me earlier about what happened last night at the dinner with Rama’s fiancée.”
“Oh, really, did she?”
“Yup. And are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m just worried about Rama and how his job and his relationship with his fiancée might suffer because of what I said,” I answered, thinking of the drama that had taken place the previous night, which was truly embarrassing.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alam said dismissively. “What with the way he’s been and the things that he’s done, Rama has hurt his family’s feelings a lot,” he asserted angrily. “It’s time for a little payback.”
“Maybe so, but my own behavior last night — that wasn’t me either.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Alam lobbed back, “Rama knew what he’d gotten into.”
I didn’t reply.
“So, do you want to meet at my mother’s house later?” Alam asked in a softer voice. “How long do you think you’ll be there? Maybe, when my business is done, I can come to Percetakan Negara to pick you up.”
I restrained my glee in hearing that he wanted to see me again the next day. So juvenile, so pubescent I’d suddenly become, like a teenager on the cusp of change. I should have been focusing my thoughts on the questions I would ask in upcoming interviews and the answers my respondents might give, but here I was trying to set my schedule so that it fit in with Alam’s. This was ridiculous. What had happened to Nara? I really had to call Nara. It would be expensive, but I knew I had to call him.
“What time do you think you’ll be done? I imagine my interview will be two, maybe three hours.”
Alam laughed. “You don’t know my mother. First, she’ll want to get to know you and then she’ll invite you to join her for lunch or maybe even to cook a meal with her. Only after that will she let you interview her. I can see it taking most if not all of the day.”
“Well then, do you want to meet me at your mother’s?”
Alam paused before answering. “Let’s play it by ear and call each other in the afternoon. If you finish before I do, maybe we can meet somewhere halfway. You have Andini’s extra cell, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, and I have mine, too, but it has my French number.” Now, I was feeling disappointed.
“OK then, gotta go. Good luck and take care.”
I put down the receiver of the phone in Om Aji’s living room and sat down on the couch to reread the notes I had gathered thus far. So, my meeting with Alam tomorrow was still up in the air — or, at best, still uncertain as to when and where. I suddenly felt miserable and upset. But why was a meeting with this tall man, with the almost blue facial skin from having just shaved, so important to me? I had to forget about him — at least for now. I had other business to do, the first of which was to find out where to buy some flowers. My father had specifically requested that when I meet “Tante Surti”—which is how he always referred to her when speaking to me — I was supposed to bring her jasmine flowers.
When Andini came to join me, I asked her, “Din, where can I find jasmine flowers?”
“Jasmine? What? Who’s koit?”
“‘Koit’?” I asked, not knowing the word.
Andini laughed. “Yeah, ‘koit.’ That’s Jakarta slang for dead, as in ‘kicked the bucket’ or ‘bit the dust.’ Never heard that one in Paris, huh?”
I took my notebook and wrote down the new word. Though I considered myself fluent in Indonesian, ever since setting foot in Jakarta, I’d been constantly writing down words that were foreign to my ears and not to be found in any dictionary. Andini was constantly chiding me about my obsessive notetaking.