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The banshee-like shriek of the steam whistle from the
putu
cart resounded again and again, as if calling out to me. But still I didn't move. Mixed with the whistle of the
putu
cart, I thought I could hear the sound of a human whistle as well. Listening more carefully, I heard the ringing of the bell that hung from the top of the door to the studio and then the tromping of heavy footsteps as they crossed the tiled space between the doorway and the sales counter in the back of the studio. Now I didn't know which was louder: the whistling of the
putu
cart or the beating of my heart.

My ear now to the door, I heard a stranger growl: “Hello.”

“Evening! May I help you,” came the reply of a familiar voice, that of Adi Tjahjono, owner of Tjahaja Photographic Studio.

“I'm looking for Pak Hananto.”

I couldn't hear Adi's reply but I imagined him being immediately on guard. I guessed that in addition to the stranger whose voice I'd heard, there were two or three other men as well.

“May I ask who you are?”

A different voice answered—“His cousin, from Central Java”—in a tone more educated and refined.

I waited for Adi to answer but heard no answer. Even if the man speaking was not my “cousin from Central Java,” because of the man's politesse and refined tone of voice, Adi could do nothing but to demonstrate a similar level of courtesy. Yet I heard him say nothing. I'm sure he was pondering how to respond.

Now I heard another voice, this one brisker and heavier in tone. “Ha-nan-to Pra-wi-ro, that would be his full name,” the speaker stressed, as if to warn Adi that he was ready to throttle him if Adi persisted in stalling or pretending not to remember.

In the darkroom, I stood, motionless, unable to think of what to do. I could still hear the wail-like whistle of the
putu
cart which, for some odd reason, now reminded me of Ravel's “Miroirs.” Why wasn't I hearing “Bolero,” I mused. Maybe because “Miroirs” helped to dampen my sense of sentimentality?

The darkroom had no window to the outside, meaning that if I were to try to slip out and run away, I would still have to pass through the door, which was adjacent to the sales counter and which further meant that no matter how fast my feet might carry me, the visitors would easily be able to stop me in my tracks. But, that said, right there and then I made up my mind that I no longer wanted to live on the run—not because of the discomfort and poverty such a life entailed, and not because I had lost the will to resist or to fight for my life, but because of the news I'd recently heard: Surti and the children had been moved from the detention center on Jalan Guntur to the one on Budi Kemuliaan. The point had come where I had to stop, not because I no longer believed in the struggle, but because I wanted Surti and our three children to be able to live in safety. I owed them at least that for their years of deprivation during the time I was living on the run.

The door to the darkroom creaked—why was it I never
remembered to oil the hinges?—and then I heard Adi calling to me, announcing the visit of my “cousin from Central Java” which was immediately drowned out by another long shriek from the
putu
cart. I couldn't quite make myself hear what was said after that but I knew the intent: I had to surrender.

Opening the doorway to the darkroom, I saw my friend. We stared at each other. I could see tears welling in Adi's eyes. I knew he was powerless. I nodded then took my jacket from the hook on the back of the door. It was April 6, 1968. I looked at my wrist, somehow forgetting for that instant I had lent my watch to Dimas Suryo, three years previously. Dimas, Nugroho, and Risjaf were now living in exile in Peking, I'd heard. Maybe my 17-jewel Titoni was helping him to keep better time. Strange, I thought, even after three years I could still detect a lighter band of color on the skin of my wrist.

As I emerged from the darkroom, the four “visitors from Central Java” immediately rose from the wooden bench in front of the till and stepped towards me, each with one hand inside his jacket, as I came out from behind the counter. More accurately, they surrounded me and were obviously prepared to shoot me in case I tried to escape. One of the four—the leader, I suppose—stepped closer towards me and smiled.

“Bapak Hananto, I am First Lieutenant Mukidjo.” His tone was polite, with the same level of refinement I had noted earlier. His eyes sparkled and his smile was one of great satisfaction. I caught a glint of gold as his smile widened. He must have been feeling intensely pleased; I was the last link in the chain the military had been seeking. Ever since the hunt for me began three years earlier, they had captured hundreds of friends and associates.

“Please come with us …”

First Lieutenant Mukidjo was acting in a truly civilized way—though I myself was mentally prepared to be kicked and beaten. From news I'd picked up from friends, the military detectives who had been assigned to track me down had dubbed me “the Shadow,” so frustrated they were in trying to find me. I nodded to the officer, then calmly walked towards the front door of the store as he and his three companions, who were dressed in civilian clothing, took their leave of Adi Tjahjono.

Night had fallen, without complaint and without pretext.

Flanked by two men, at both my front and back, I went with them to the two vehicles that were parked in front of Tjahaja Foto: a Nissan patrol truck and a canvas-roofed Toyota jeep. First Lieutenant Mukidjo with the gold-filled teeth told me to get in the back of the jeep. I saw in my mind the faces of Surti, Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam, and then those of my friends who were now so distant. I don't know why, but of all of them, it was only Dimas Suryo who stared back at me. As the truck's engine roared, I cast my eyes down Jalan Sabang to see Soehardi's steamed-
putu
cart, Pak Heri's satay stall, and, finally, for the last time, the slowly, seemingly sadly flashing neon lights of Tjahaja Photo Studio.

I

DIMAS SURYO

PARIS, MAY 1968

SHE EMERGED LIKE AN UNFINISHED LINE OF POETRY
.

Among the thousands of other Sorbonne students milling around, it was only her I noticed, standing beneath the bronze statue of Victor Hugo at the Sorbonne campus. Her thick and wavy brunette hair defied the wind's direction, but several unruly strands flittered about her face, obscuring her features. But, even with those strands flitting here and there, I glimpsed a pair of green eyes whose gleam was able to pierce my gloom-filled heart. For a moment she looked in my direction—one second, maybe two—but then went back to what she was doing: assigning marching orders to the other students around her. I was almost sure that she was concealing a smile.

                
Is the wind not attempting

                
to touch those perfect lips …

The May breeze continued to mangle her hair. The spring sun jockeyed with the brisk end-of-season Parisian wind. As if irritated, she brushed her unruly hair aside—not with the graceful motion of a dancer nor with the kind of a toss a coquette might use to attract a man's attention. Hers was the motion of a woman made impatient by a minor disturbance. Her posture was stolid, her eyes unwavering.

Separating herself from her fellow students, she looked back to observe them from a distance. Her eyes held a smile, yet her lips remained even. Occasionally, she'd bite her lower lip, then check the watch on her wrist. A few minutes later, she placed her hands on her hips and turned around, her back to me.

A man approached with two bottles of 1644 beer in hand, one of which he gave to her. He wore eyeglasses and had curly hair. If he weren't so scraggly-looking, the French might have considered him handsome; but, from the look of him, I suspected he hadn't seen the inside of a bathtub in at least a week—much like the thousands of other students who were there on the Sorbonne campus demonstrating against the arrest of students from the University of Paris in Nanterre and who had opposed the government's shut-down of their campus.

The May air was suffused with the rank odor of rarely-washed bodies and the bad breath of mouths unfamiliar with toothpaste but partial to cheap booze which, in their coalescence, elicited an incomparable scent of resistance.

I felt envious.

I was jealous.

The battle lines in the struggle that was taking place in Paris at that moment were clear. Both the plaintiff and the accused were known to all. The struggle was one between students and workers against the De Gaulle government. In Indonesia, we were well acquainted with confusion and chaos, but were never quite sure which people were our friends and which ones were our opponents. We weren't even truly sure about the goals of the various combative parties—with the exception of “power,” that is. Everyone wanted power. How messy things were there, so very dark!

I had two letters tucked in my jacket pocket. Since the
beginning of the year anyone who was thought to have been a member of the PKI—or had family and friends, or colleagues and neighbors, in the Indonesian Communist Party—had been hunted down, detained, and interrogated. My brother Aji had frightening stories to tell about how many people had disappeared and how many more had died.

One of the two letters was from him, my brother Aji, who forbade me to come home. In previous posts he had told me of neighbors and acquaintances who had been swept up by the military. But this most recent letter contained news I never wanted to receive. My constant hope was that Mas Hananto would remain out of the military's reach. But now, the bad news had come: Mas Hananto, my friend, colleague, and boss; Surti's husband and father of Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam; and my inveterate sounding board, had been captured one month previously at the place where he'd been surreptitiously working on Jalan Sabang.

In an instant, a cloud fell over Paris. My heart darkened. I didn't want to open the second letter, which was from Kenanga, Mas Hananto's oldest child, because I knew that it would further paralyze my emotions.

It was ironic. It should have been me the military arrested in Jakarta that night, yet I was here, in Paris, amidst thousands of French students on the march. In their yells and cries, I somehow caught a whiff of stench from Jakarta's gutters mixed with the sweet smell of clove-laden
kretek
cigarettes and steaming black coffee. The bright gleam in the eyes of the French students reminded me of former friends in Jakarta whose fates I didn't know. With sparkling eyes and effervescent spirits, they demanded in loud voices a more just society (though, to be sure, some of those same idealistic students would one day become part of the same power structure
they vowed to tear down).

That same spirit emanated from the eyes of the brunette woman whose attention remained fixed on the unwashed man with curly hair and eyeglasses. Staring at him, her emerald eyes seemed to protrude from their sockets. As if agitated by the woman's penetrating gaze, the slovenly man left the woman's side. Gulping what was left of the beer in the bottle in his hand, he tossed the bottle into a trash can in such a flippantly dismissive manner that he seemed to be speaking of his feelings for the beautiful woman next to him.

I wanted to approach her. The color of her eyes was the green of unripe grapes mixed with the blue of the Indian Ocean. I wished to shelter in their color. Their green was the carpet of grass under my feet; their blue, the stretch of sky over my head. I wanted to rest on that carpet and dangle my feet from that sky. What painter could possibly have created the blue-green color of her eyes? What sculptor could have carved the fluidly sensuous form of her perfect body? My eyes went to her, my body was drawn towards her, yet my legs remained fixed in place, my feet those of a criminal, shackled in steel chains, awaiting execution. The blustering wind of the Parisian spring mocked my hesitation, making me stare down at my miserable earthbound feet.

But then, into my view, came another pair of legs, with faded jeans and a pair of dark blue tennis shoes. Slowly, I raised my eyes to see the blue-green eyes very close to my own.

“
Ça va
?”

Her blue-green eyes could smile.

She came to me like a line of poetry perfectly complete, restoring my breath which had suddenly ceased.

“
Ça va
…”

Vivienne Deveraux and I were soon to become two dots which, when melding together, formed a line that traced the pores of the body of Paris. Only a few weeks after our first brief meeting that evening on the Sorbonne campus, nature brought us together again on the Rive Gauche, on the southern bank of the Seine. I was at a kiosk there, studying a display of posters in various artistic styles and formats. Their sight took me back to Indonesia, some of them reminding me of Indonesian painters I knew of who used a garish palette of colors in their work: bright yellow, steaming pink, and vivid purple. But there was also the work of artists reminiscent of the woodblock prints of several Eastern European artists. The posters seemed to shout out at me—though I first had to search my mind for the meaning of their words: “
Toute la Presse est Toxique
,” “
La Lutte Continue
…”

“The struggle continues …”

Ah, that voice! It was she, again: Vivienne, the woman with the green eyes and the pair of lips whose only imperfection was that they were not locked with mine. She was standing next to me.