“Are you going to a wake or something?” she then asked. “Or getting married?! Jasmine flowers are for the newly married or nearly buried.”
Hmm… Then why had Ayah asked me to take jasmine to Tante Surti?
“Whatever… I just need to know where can I buy some jasmine flowers for tomorrow.”
“Well, at the cemetery, for one. Come on, I’ll take you. You’re the one always touting the charms of graveyards — like a flâneur,” she said, imitating my expression. Andini smiled and blinked her eyes.
I grabbed one of the extra cushions on the couch and threw it at her, truly pleased at that moment to have a cousin my age.
Om Aji, seated in his lazy chair, looked up and interrupted. “Dini, ask Irah to buy some when she goes to the market tomorrow morning. Are they for Tante Surti?” he then asked me. “I’m sure your father asked you to bring some for her.”
I nodded in surprise. How did he know such a thing?
The Prawiro family home on Jalan Percetakan Negara in the Salemba area of Jakarta was an older building that looked in need of renovation. Its original white color was now closer to light brown. Even so, the small lawn and garden out front were well maintained, and the house was framed by lantana shrubs with showy heads of purple and yellow flowers. My video camera was in the bag hanging from my shoulder, and in my hand was a clear plastic container with strings of jasmine flowers. (Tante Retno insisted that putting them in the container would help to keep the flowers fresh.) The gate to Tante Surti’s home was unlocked and it creaked when I opened it. I looked around at the yard and imagined Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam, who must have spent whole days playing there as children.
I knocked on the door. An older woman, a housemaid, I assumed, opened the door and invited me to come inside, then led me to the living room where she invited me to take a chair. The clackety-clack sound of a foot-driven pedal sewing machine came to me from a side room. Alam had told me that after her husband’s death, Tante Surti had supported herself and her family as a seamstress, and that she had two assistants to help with the sewing orders she received.
In the room were a long rattan recliner and a lazy chair that looked to be in need of retirement. Dozens of old and faded photographs in frames filled the bookshelf. A tall vase of white carnations perched on an Indies-style upright stand helped to freshen the room. A large photograph of the Hananto family hung on the living room wall. Om Hananto, still young and good-looking, held a baby in his arms — Alam, for sure. Beside him were two girls: Kenanga and Bulan, of course. And standing next to them was—mon Dieu! — Tante Surti? It was no wonder that my father and Om Hananto had once vied for her attention. She looked like a film star the great filmmaker Usmar Ismail might have discovered. She wasn’t just pretty, with her thick wavy hair framing her oval face with almond-shaped eyes and finely shaped nose. She was stunning, with a magnetic appeal. Her full lips were a wonderfully natural shape — unlike those of many women today who manipulate their shape with lipstick around the edges to make them appear thinner or transforming thin lips to resemble hunks of steak, like Brigitte Bardot’s lips when she was young. No, Tante Surti’s lips were natural, perfectly formed, and required no disguise or manipulation. Like Maman, Tante Surti appeared to be a woman who did not depend on cosmetics to enhance her natural beauty. Maybe a light brush of the powder puff or a dab of lipstick on occasion, but that was enough. And certainly no rouge or mascara, either.
Hanging beside this formal photograph was another one that arrested my gaze: Alam dressed in some kind of martial art fighting gear — maybe karate, maybe tae kwon do, I didn’t know the difference. He appeared to be of primary school age but even then, next to his teammates, he looked tall and fit for his age. A montage of photographs showed him in action and wearing a black belt. It must have been from those beginnings that he acquired the set of muscles visible beneath his shirt. Alam had his father’s face: handsome, stern, and masculine. Both Kenanga and Bulan were blessed with their mother’s beauty; but Kenanga, despite her obvious charms, did not smile in any of the photographs on display. She looked serious, almost forlorn. Her sister Bulan, on the other hand, was always posing and staring straight into the camera with a friendly smile.
“Hello. You must be Lintang.”
A woman of about sixty years of age stood in front of me: Surti Anandari, who was no less attractive in her later years than she had been as a young woman. What differentiated the present Surti from the one in the faded photograph was that her hair was now silver in color and her skin of a different texture. Nonetheless, for a woman who had suffered so much in life, she remained poised and erect. Alam must have gotten his eagle-like eyes, which had a piercing gleam, from his mother.
I extended my hand and bowed slightly. She took my hand, embraced me warmly, and kissed my cheeks. Her eyes glistened as she stroked my hair.
“Such a beautiful daughter Dimas has,” she said, “Please have a seat. Would you like a refreshment?”
I sat down slowly on the sofa, still mesmerized by Tante Surti’s aura. She had a presence that filled the room. “Anything’s fine. Water would be OK.”
“I just split open a young coconut. Would you like some of that, with ice?”
Young coconut with ice on a hot day? A person would have to be crazy to object. Dingue! I nodded readily.
Tante Surti went into the kitchen and soon emerged with two bowls of young coconut with shaved ice and flavored syrup. The coconut tasted especially fresh, as if just cut from the tree. As we ate, we began our conversation, first seeking common ground: talking about my father’s friendship with Om Nug, Om Hananto, and Om Tjai when they were young; about going to school at the University of Indonesia at the time when Sukarno was president; and about the books they had difficulty in finding but which they usually managed to obtain from Dutch friends of Tante Surti’s father. After that, all the classic names emerged: Lord Byron, T.S. Eliot, on up to Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg and of course those Indonesian poets whose names were so common on the tongue, such as Chairil Anwar and Rivai Apin. Tante Surti was able to quote these poets’ words, and did so with great warmth as she spoke. Her face became overcast, however, when she said that 1965 marked the end of poetry in her life, that at that time poetry had changed it into an alien thing.
“Ever since that time, the only thing I was ever able to think about was how to survive and to protect the children,” she said, looking at me as her mind returned to Jakarta today.
I felt it was time to begin to record what Tante Surti was telling me, but then her mood suddenly changed, becoming lighter. Smiling broadly, she announced that it was about time for lunch. Would I like to join? This was an offer I was not about to refuse. Alam was right.
“Kenanga called earlier to tell me that she’d cooked ikan pindang serani, and that she would send some over to me. It should be here soon,” Tante Surti said as she fetched silverware for the meal.
I helped her set the table as she told me that Kenanga lived with her husband and children nearby. Because Tante Surti now lived alone — her two assistants and the servant went home in the evening — Kenanga often cooked for her mother, even though, Tante Surti insisted, she liked to cook as well. Bulan, Tante Surti said, worked in an advertising agency on Jalan Rasuna Said and lived in a boarding house in the Setiabudi area, which was close to that street, in order to be close to her office. Tante Surti told me that regardless of how busy Alam was, he always visited her on weekends.