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Lintang handed me the sheets of paper, then left the room. The next thing I heard was the sound of her bedroom door closing. Just a soft click. Not a slam.

I looked at the top sheet. Handwritten, with well structured Indonesian in neat and regular penmanship. A letter for Dimas. I never read letters addressed to my husband, unless he specifically asked me to join him in reading them together. And I didn't want to read the letter, but Lintang… She had come across it. Where had she found it? I scanned the sheets of paper, one by one. All were letters from Surti Anandari, dating from the late 1960s, after the military had captured her husband. But wait, there were other letters too, dating from 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1982 … I looked at one.

             
Dearest Dimas,

             
I must thank you again for the assistance you sent to me through Aji. I never doubt the goodness of your heart or that of Vivienne, and Nug, Tjai, and Risjaf as well.

                   
Congratulations on the opening of Tanah Air Restaurant! I am so happy that the four of you have been able to work together to make a go of it and overcome the challenges you've had to face there, in that distant land. I know that it couldn't have been easy for you to build something from nothing—and a restaurant, no less, a real business whose manner of operation you would have all had to study, like a child learning to crawl, then to walk, then to run, and to endure. But I have no doubt
whatsoever that you will succeed, especially because you love the kitchen, with all its spices, and the culinary world, as much as you love the world of literature.

                   
I can see you in the kitchen, enjoying every second you spend mixing your spices, treating them like living creatures, helping them to find their perfect mate so that they might commingle and then become one to produce a new taste altogether. Though I've never myself believed in destiny, the fact that the four of you have ended up establishing a restaurant together surely must be fate.

                   
Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam are well. Kenanga is engaged to Fahri, Mas Amri's boy, and will be getting married soon. Bulan is a student in the Faculty of English Literature at the University of Indonesia, and Alam is waiting to see if he's been accepted for enrollment at either the Faculty of Law or the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences at U.I. The money from the four of you has made it much easier for them to get an education. Mas Hananto was so fortunate to have had loyal friends like the four of you.

                   
And I, too, feel fortunate to have known a man as good as you, who respects and honors women. I will never forget your kindness and good-heartedness. I hold dear my memories of you and the gifts you have given to me; they are mine to keep forever and will never fade or be forgotten, because you are everywhere. Not just in the kitchen, or in the color of turmeric or the scent of cloves, but you flow everywhere. Everywhere and always.

                   
Surti Anandari

At that moment I realized that I had never completely owned nor would ever completely own Dimas. At that instant I also knew why he continued to wish to return to the place that he so loved. Somewhere in the corner of his heart was Surti; there he owned her and there he could keep her along with all of his memories of her forever, eternalized in the spices found in those two apothecary jars. Surti was the scent of cloves and turmeric. All were one in Indonesia. That night I told Dimas I wanted to separate.

“Lintang …”

“Yes, Maman. I'm on the way to the Marais.”

“OK. Let me know how it goes. Once it stops raining, I'll stop by to see Ayah, too.”

“OK, Maman …”

“Lintang …”

“
Oui
…”

“Try not to argue, OK? Your father isn't well.”

“
Oui
, Maman, I understand. And after seeing that other side of Indonesia at the reception the other day, I think I will always be able to understand Ayah.”

AUX CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES, PARIS
, 1982

It was on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, that I, too, once came across another part of Indonesia. Given the normal state of my pocketbook, the area was not one I often frequented. By chance, however, a friend of mine from out of town had come to visit and, to get to her hotel, I had to walk down Avenue Montaigne. On that street, which is known for its expensive boutiques, that
“part” of Indonesia turned into a veritable party. In almost every store—Dior, Lacroix, Céline, and others—I saw groups of Indonesian women dressed in expensive clothing, with long flowing scarves and bouffant hairdos. Even from a distance I was able to catch the glitter of the diamond rings and the necklaces they wore. A few years earlier, the first time I'd seen this part of Indonesia, I had been astonished, because I had never before seen such obvious wealth displayed on a person's body. I had always tried to avoid interacting with this part of Indonesia, mostly because I worried that I would have nothing to say. But there on the Champs-Élysées, I came to see that this part of Indonesia was a comedic satire.

At another time and in another place, there was another part of Indonesia I came to see: this one dark, dirty, and foul-smelling. It happened a few weeks after the opening of Tanah Air Restaurant. That day, I was having a cup of coffee while correcting essays at L'Écritoire café on the Place de la Sorbonne. My eyes were looking down at my papers when there suddenly came into my view a pair of men's shoes. I then heard a man's shrill voice calling my name.

“Vivienne Deveraux! Or is it Vivienne Surrrrryoooo?”

I almost spilled my cup of coffee. An Indonesian man of middling height with slicked-back hair—he must have used a half a bottle of hair oil—was beaming at me. I immediately noticed his gold teeth. Who was he?

“May I?” the man asked, pointing at the empty seat across from me. What could I do but nod? The man extended his hand and said with a hiss in his voice: “I'm Sumarno. Back in the day, I was friends with Hananto, Dimas, Tjai, Nugroho, and Risjaf. Yeah, with all of them.”

“Oh, you're a friend of Dimas?” I asked hesitantly.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he nodded energetically. “We were all together in Jakarta, so I knew Dimas even before you knew him.”

I nodded and invited this Sumarno to order something for himself when the waiter approached. He asked for a cup of coffee. But this was strange, I thought. If he was a friend of Dimas, Nug, Tjai, and Risjaf, then why had he sought me out here, and alone?

How did he know where I was? And, even more creepy for me, how did he know I was Dimas's wife? How did he pick me out from among the many Sorbonne students and teachers who were at the café?

“Have you been in Paris long?” I asked for lack of anything else to say. I had no idea who he was or what his reason was for suddenly appearing at the café during my break between classes.

“Not toooo long…” He seemed to have a habit of drawing out his speech. “Just a few days, or, well, almost a week now.”

I took a sip of coffee to calm myself. I wanted to see Dimas, quickly. I had an uneasy feeling about the man. Who was he?

“I was juuuust at Tanah Air. I saw Dimas, Nugroho, Risjaf, and Tjai too. Amazing, amaaazing! Having been stranded in a foreign country like they were and then being able to make a go of it. Just ammaazzzing! And to be able to make a living from a restaurant that serves Indonesian food? That is quite something, really quite something!”

He then giggled for the longest while. I didn't know if what he'd just said was honest praise or pure cynicism. I began to gather my students' papers. He gulped his coffee as if he were in a hurry to go.

“I see you have to get back to your busy life as a teacher. Sorry if I've bothered you. But it's a good thing you have tenure at such
a large and prestigious university. Imagine if you didn't—what with your husband changing jobs so many times and you having a daughter to raise. Hmm, what's her name… Lintang Utara. Such a beautiful girl.”

I shivered as a chill ran down my spine, not because of the cold winter air but because I was sure this man had been someone evil and cruel in Dimas's past. Someone Dimas once knew, perhaps, but definitely not a friend. If he were a friend or even just a former acquaintance or colleague, he wouldn't have secretly sought me out and put on these airs of friendship and familiarity. God! What was he? An intelligence agent? Is that what Indonesian intelligence personnel were like? With gold teeth and a bucket of pomade on their hair, searching out the wives of their targets? I tried signaling for one of the waiters to bring me the bill, but they were all busy with other customers. Impatiently, I began to rummage through my bag, looking for my wallet.

“No, no, no, Vivienne! Please allow me,” Sumarno said. “Chalk it up as returning the favor that Dimas once showed me. Yes, back in those days in Jakarta, when he was still thick with Surti, he'd often treat me to food or drink at places on Cikini or in Senen Market. I had so little at the time, there's no way I could ever have gone to Paris like he did.”

My heart was pounding—and not because he had mentioned Surti's name, but because it was apparent that he was intentionally trying to terrorize me. I no longer had time for good manners. I stood, picked up my belongings, and walked away from the man to the cashier's counter. I paid for my coffee and the brioche I'd eaten, then walked back and past the table without saying anything. But then I stopped. I didn't like this. He had to know that I was not afraid of him. I turned, went back to the table and looked
down on this man with the hair pomade and gold teeth, then looked him sharply in the eye.

“Listen to me, Sumarno, or whatever your real name is. I don't know who you are or what you want by coming to see me here. And, frankly, I don't care. But I know that you are no friend of my husband. And if you ever again dare to show your face here or to bother me or my family, I will call the police. And in this country, at least, the police do their jobs. Get it?!”

Sumarno looked at me in surprise, but then nodded slowly. I left him and walked back towards campus with the wind pushing me in the back.

That night, when I went to Rue de Vaugirard, I told Dimas, Nug, Risjaf, and Tjai what had happened. Hearing my story, these aging men suddenly turned into a gang of angry youth: clenching their fists, slamming a knife into the table, and doing all sorts of primeval “manly” things.

But my instincts were right. Though Sumarno had been an acquaintance of Dimas, he was now called “Snitch” for having pointed out to the military who should be picked up.

People like Snitch are everywhere in the world, of course. They might even be behind the door or the walls of our homes. They have ears everywhere and a thousand poisoned tongues. I knew Dimas and his friends did not want to expend energy uselessly on getting angry at a louse like Snitch. My experience in meeting him was just one part of the country of Indonesia. I was convinced that another part of Indonesia would yield for me an experience that was much more honorable and intimate.

“Are you OK?” Dimas asked, stroking the back of my hair worriedly as we walked towards the Metro station.

“
Oui
, I'm fine. People like Sumarno are everywhere. Don't worry.
Matters like these I can handle on my own,” I said embracing Dimas for a feeling of safety and closeness.

Dimas laughed. “I called him a rat. You called him a louse. I don't know which description is more apt.”

We continued walking, embracing tightly as we did. He whispered how much he loved my strength. And then I asked myself, did he love me because I was strong and independent so that he did not have to protect me as Bima protected Drupadi? Or did he love me because he would not be able to breathe if ever I were to leave him? Why could I not find the answer?

BLOOD-FILLED LETTERS

AS TWILIGHT SLOWLY SETTLED ON THE MARAIS
, sadness also fell. Lintang could never understand why the area always evinced such a feeling of loneliness; the Marais was, after all, an area filled with cafés, galleries, and the homes of prominent French artists. Nara believed the Marais to be the hippest, most multicultural area of Paris. But Lintang could never decide whether the sadness of the place was caused by the colors of the twilight sky—thin strips of red, yellow, and orange—or because it always reminded her of her parents' divorce.