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He took a calendar from his desk and counted off the amount of time that was left for me to find a topic for my final assignment to which he could agree. He muttered to himself as he took an empty form and then quickly wrote something on it in a hand that was fairly neat and even by European standards.

“You have six months to get to know Indonesia while undertaking research and taping your final assignment.
D'accord?
”

I took the form without replying, though my advisor's eyes demanded an answer.

“
D'accord
,” I was finally forced to agree.

“Surprise me. Come up with something brilliant. Come back to me when you have a clear plan.”

Because the professor then stood, I, too, was forced to stand. He was not going to allow more room for debate, much less a chance for me to refuse.

“Don't be late, Lintang. You know the consequences if you're unable to finish your work on time.”

The air in Professor Dupont's office suddenly felt stifling. April was indeed the cruelest month. At that moment, I heard the sound of the Metro, which seemed to be keeping time with the gusting wind.

From behind the Metro window, Paris looked gray and gloomy. Letters, words, posters, and photographs flashed past so quickly. Gray, black, white, gray…

My roots were in a foreign land. I was born in France, a country with a beautiful body and fragrant scent. But, according to my father, my blood came from another country, one far distant from the European land mass, a place that gave the world the scent of cloves and wasted sadness; a land of fecundity, rich with plants of myriad colors, shapes, and faiths, yet one that could crush its own citizens merely because of a difference in opinion.

Coursing through my veins was a kind of blood I did not know, but which was called Indonesia, and which melded with the other kind of blood in me called France. The flow of that foreign blood inside me always seemed to quicken and make my heart beat faster whenever I heard the sound of gamelan music in the biting cold of winter; when my father recounted tales from the shadow theater—about Ekalaya, for instance, the eternal outcast, or Bima, whose love went unrequited; or when Maman, in her halting Indonesian, would read to me Sitor Situmorang's poem about the prodigal son who, when finally returning home, still feels himself to be in a foreign land.

That blood in me felt at once foreign, pleasurable, and mysterious. All that was Indonesia and all that smelled of Indonesia was, for me, a site in a magical tale, one that existed only in dreams, like reading a novel set in a country I'd never visited.

Indonesia was for me a name on a map, little more than a concept. And the knowledge of that country, which supposedly flowed through my veins, had to make room for the French blood that was in me as well.

For the longest time, it seemed, I had forgotten about that foreign substance in myself.

A series of arguments between me and my father had taken their toll, and a long-simmering dispute between Maman and Ayah which had ended with their divorce had not made our relationship easier. A few months earlier the tension between us had peaked and we hadn't spoken to each other since that time—which meant, of course, that I had stopped going to Tanah Air Restaurant, which in turn meant I had long been separated from the restaurant's genial atmosphere, with its distinctive sound of gamelan music, and its interior walls decorated with shadow puppets, masks, and a map of Indonesia. Making things much more difficult for me was that I now rarely saw my father's friends: Om Nug, Om Risjaf, and Om Tjai, who were like true uncles for me. Yet another hardship was no longer being able to smell the scent of my father's goat curry, a dish that could compete with signature dishes of Europe's master chefs.

This estrangement between me and my father was thus, for me, hardly an ideal situation. But then having a father who was so complicated and filled with anger was not exactly easy either.

When the Metro came to a stop at Rue de Vaugirard station, I suddenly felt the need to leave the train and calm my thoughts. Professor Dupont's suggestion was a command I could not countermand. It meant that I somehow had to make a documentary film that was connected to my father or to Indonesia.

I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A.

On that spring morning, I felt myself being prodded to explore that foreign part of my body. I didn't want to do so, to thoroughly examine that region. There were things about Indonesia which for others would always seem to be exotic or unique—Java, Bali, Sumatra, the
Ramayana
, the
Mahabharata, Panji Semirang
, Srikandi, gamelan music, pink
kebaya
, the scent of
luwak
coffee, the
spicy taste of beef
rendang
, and mouth-watering richness of goat curry—but for me, whatever cultural exoticism that Indonesia had to offer was concealed. Ever since I was a girl, I had always been haunted by a political upheaval that my peers knew nothing about, an event whose gory details had been expunged from Indonesia's official history books.

TANAH AIR RESTAURANT
, 90
RUE DE VAUGIRARD
, 1985

Winter in Paris. The smell of fried chili
sambal bajak
assails the nose. The ground red chilies and garlic that stimulate my olfactory nerves is a most pleasing torture. Om Nug is a great cook, but for me, my father is the best cook in the world.

There was a basic difference between my father's cooking and that of Om Nug. Om Nug was a modern-day cook who had only begun to study the wealth of Indonesian spices after the band of four decided to establish a cooperative and open an Indonesian restaurant. Om Nug emphasized efficiency. For example, he saw the preparation of spices for
rendang
as something simple; there was no need for the kind of elaborate ritual that made life difficult. All the spices could be put into a blender into which he'd pour coconut milk from a can that he bought in Belleville.

Ayah, on the other hand, loved ritual. He was both obsessive about and possessive of his stone mortar, which an aunt of his had sent him from Yogyakarta. With his faithful mortar in hand, Ayah kept the blender at a distance. He ground his spices slowly and carefully, mixing in the coconut milk, little by little, while complaining occasionally about having been forced to use coconut milk from the can. Whatever the case, I had to admit that the spicing of my father's
rendang
had a far more arresting taste
than that of Om Nug, which he produced in a blender. I almost swooned whenever I tried my father's
rendang
or
gulai
, their taste was so good. But that meant that Ayah had had to lock himself inside the kitchen for much of the day in order to prepare his spices in the traditional way.

What's taking so long? It's seven o'clock and time to eat! But I could see a delicious meal ahead.
Le dîner sera délicieux!
On the menu that night was
nasi kuning
with side dishes of
tempe kering
, little sticks of tempeh soaked in brine and then fried until crispy;
sayur urap
, mixed steamed vegetables with spiced coconut;
empal
, seasoned slices of tenderized fried beef that melted in your mouth; and
sambal goreng udang
, a dish made with shrimp and chili sauce. Ayah always made two kinds of
sambal
or hot sauce to further spice up a meal: a
sambal bajak
which was not too hot—Ayah always removed the seeds of the red chilies and parboiled the chili's flesh before frying it—and thus more palatable for the tongues of French clientele, and a crushed peanut
sambal
into which he blended small green chilies that were so hot the
sambal
could be enjoyed by only the most tempered of tongues in Paris: those of Maman and me.

Maman was busy going back and forth from kitchen to dining room helping Ayah and Om Nug. In December the restaurant was always full. Over the years, dinner at Tanah Air seemed to have evolved into a kind of culinary picnic for French families wanting to celebrate the Christmas season. But Ayah had promised that tonight would be a family night and that no matter how busy the restaurant was, he would find time to sit with Maman and me so that we could enjoy together the meal he had prepared.

My eyes were on Maman. She was holding in her arms two large wide-necked glass containers filled with
kerupuk
shrimp
crackers and was talking to Om Tjai and Ayah, who had just removed his white chef's smock, a sign that he was now free from duties and ready to eat. Come on! Why is it taking so long? Couldn't Maman and Ayah hear my stomach grumbling? Weren't they ever…

The door creaked. A cold winter's wind quickly swept into the dining room. And then I saw,
un
,
deux
,
trois
,
quatre—
four tall, hulking French men who filled the restaurant's foyer. They stood, not smiling, as if having no reason for coming to the restaurant except to cast their surly gazes.

“Police…” Maman whispered.

Police? The men weren't wearing the kind of uniform I usually saw policemen wearing on the streets.

I looked at Ayah. He seemed tense, with a fire suddenly flaring in his eyes, like the time I spilled a cup of
luwak
coffee on one of his books of poetry. I saw Om Nug and Om Tjai whisper something to him. Ayah bit his lips. I guessed they told him that it would be best for him not to do anything and let them deal with the police. But Ayah ignored them and immediately approached the four men. Together with Om Nug, he ushered the policemen to a quiet corner, away from the main dining area so that they wouldn't disturb the clientele. The restaurant was almost full.

“Lintang!” Maman called. She didn't like me sticking my nose into adult conversations.

I pretended to be deaf and watched the mini drama unfold as Ayah, Om Nug, and Om Tjai faced the unblinking policemen. I didn't want to miss a single thing. One of the policemen—I could see he had blue eyes—removed an identification card from his pocket.

I am Michel Durant,” he said, showing the card to Ayah, who
gave it a cursory glance, “and this is my partner, Luc Blanchard.” He didn't introduce the other two men.

“May I help you?”

“We received a report from the Indonesian embassy that a subversive meeting is being held here; that you're planning a political demonstration.”

Ayah's features hardened, a look that was somewhere between ghoulish humor and outright contempt. Om Nug, meanwhile, broke out in laughter. Maman's cheeks turned bright pink, a sign that she was angry. She immediately went up to the policemen and started chattering at them in French.

“Meeting? A subversive meeting? This is too much. Can't you see that we're busy preparing food for our customers?”

Maman's anger was evident from both the look on her face and the tone of her voice. The two officers, Michel Durant and Luc Blanchard, immediately stepped back as if being attacked by a rabid dog. The other two officers behind them backed away towards the door.

“The only thing we're doing here is cooking in the kitchen and serving meals to our customers. There's nothing political going on here,” said Ayah in a much calmer voice than Maman's.

“Take a seat if you wish and you can see what we are doing,” Maman said, putting her hands on her hips and turning away. When Maman got this way, I'd bet that even Mitterrand wouldn't want to take her on. Maman's bark caused Blue Eyes to fall back a few steps.

I always cringed whenever Maman stared so hard that her eyeballs bulged from their sockets. Even Ayah would retreat when her green eyes ballooned like that. Usually, he'd back down immediately or scamper off to another room. The four policemen—if
they really were policemen—looked nervous.

One of them, the thinnest and the youngest, plucked the courage to speak, “I'm sorry, Madame, but we're only carrying out orders.”

Blue Eyes quickly added, “If all you're doing here is cooking and serving meals, then that is what we'll report.”

At that moment Om Risjaf came out of the kitchen with a platter of
nasi kuning
and fried shrimp with chilies, the
sambal goreng udang
whose magic scent immediately suffused the air of the dining room. I watched as the policemen's nostrils flared and twitched.

“You'll pardon us,” Luc Blanchard said as he held his hand out to Maman, though his eyes were fixed on the platter of
nasi kuning
in Om Risjaf's hand. Calmer now, Maman extended her own hand to the man.