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“Just look at you, eating like that. That should teach you not to fight with your father.” Nugroho was astonished to see Lintang wipe clean two whole plates of food.

Nara scratched his head; the rissole served as a starter had never tasted so good. When Dimas came out of the kitchen to check on them, he found that the
nasi kuning
and all the side dishes were gone, with only empty plates left on the table.

“Like something more?” he asked his daughter.

Lintang smiled widely.

“
O, mon Dieu
.” It was Nara who groaned.

Dimas laughed happily, then returned to the kitchen to fetch Lintang more food.

Shortly thereafter, three young men entered the restaurant. All were clean and good-looking in appearance, neatly dressed in suits and ties. Each carried a valise.

Risjaf, who was standing by the cash register, looked taken aback. He knew who the young men were and so he remained, standing there, unmoving and unsure what to do: whether to roll up his sleeves to fight or invite them to stay. They looked friendly, however, and even more than that, they looked hungry. Were they here for lunch? Nugroho lowered his glasses on the bridge of his nose and stared at them cautiously. Even Tjai forgot about his beloved calculator, he was so entranced.

It was Nara who spoke first, calling out to the three: “Raditya, Yos, Hans! Hi! Come on over here.”

Still looking surprised, Risjaf showed the young men the way. His suspicion diminished when he saw the three warmly shake Nara's hand, and then vanished altogether when Lintang rose, moved two tables together, told them to sit down, and handed them menus that Yazir had brought to the table.

“Am I seeing right,” Nugroho whispered to Risjaf. “It looks to me like those boys are from the embassy.”

“I was just going to try to find out who they are,” Risjaf answered.

“Good afternoon. May I be of assistance?”

Suddenly, Tjai was standing in front of their table. What the…? Nugroho and Risjaf stared quizzically at each other. Now, with Tjai exhibiting such authority over the situation, Yazir retreated in orderly fashion from the scene. Since when had Tjai shown interest in greeting customers and taking their orders? Tjai was a creature enamored with his calculator; so fixated was he on fiscal discipline that the restaurant's books were always neat and never
showed red on the bottom line. What could possibly have caused Tjai to leave his calculator and come down from his perch at the cash register to approach the three men who were now sitting around their lovely young “niece”?

Lintang took control of the field: “The Padang set menu is good. How about if we all get
nasi Padang
? That way you'll get a variety of dishes to try. And you too, Nara? That way I can steal food from you.”

“Four
nasi Padang
,” she said to Tjai. “And do you want to try the iced jackfruit?” Lintang asked the three men. “It's like this,” she said with her right thumb in the air.

The young men nodded like dullard cattle. Nara smiled, letting Lintang control the wheel. Tjai just stood there, not moving, not doing anything, just staring at these Indonesians who were strangers to the place.

Lintang quickly understood that these three men had to
kulo nuwun
, that being to offer their greetings to the restaurant owners.

“Oh, Om Tjai, this is Hans and Yos and Raditya.”

The three men stood and politely shook hands with Tjai. “And this is Om Nugroho and Om Risjaf. The other partner is my father, who is in the kitchen cooking. We call them the ‘four pillars' of Tanah Air Restaurant.”

The three nodded politely in the direction of Risjaf and Nugroho who stood somewhat at a distance, watching. Risjaf and Nugroho returned their nods.

Tjai wrote down their orders and then scuttled off towards the kitchen. Lintang imagined his gesticulations as he reported to her father that there were three young Indonesian diplomats sitting outside, in the restaurant, at a table with his daughter. Then she saw Om Nug and Om Risjaf disappear behind the kitchen
door as well. She was tempted to sneak into the kitchen just to overhear the tittle-tattle of the four pillars, who had never seen any representatives of the New Order government set foot in the restaurant ever since it opened.

Hans looked around at the walls of the restaurant. Raditya left the table to study the guest book on a side table near the entrance. He looked at the signatures and read the supportive messages of famous people who had dined there: Indonesia's leading poet, Rendra; the famous sociologist, Arief Budiman; Abdurrahman Wahid, head of Indonesia's leading Islamic organization, and his wife, Nuriah; Danielle Mitterrand, wife of the French prime minister; and others.

Only a few minutes passed before, suddenly, Dimas Suryo—yes, Dimas Suryo, Lintang's father—appeared at the table carrying several plates of
nasi Padang
. Lintang was sure he had come out of the kitchen to make sure that his daughter was not being scalped or in any other way violated by these three young men. She repressed a smile as she helped her father serve the meals.

“I know you only ordered four servings,” her father said to Lintang, “but I felt sorry for Nara. You're sure to eat most of his meal for him.”

Lintang motioned towards the visitors. “Ayah, this is Raditya and Hans and Yos. They're friends of Nara.”

The three young men rose instantly, like soldiers before a general.

Dimas shook their hands and then invited them to enjoy their meals. But he didn't make a move to leave the table where Lintang and the young men were seated. He stood, his hands now knitted together, watching them. No smile on his face.

“Ayah…?”

“Yes?” Dimas lifted his brow.

Just as is done in Indonesia, the younger men were apparently waiting for the most senior person to give them permission to eat. Nervously, Raditya raised his spoon and fork and stuttered: “Ehem, shall we start, Pak Dimas?”

As if coming out of a trance, Dimas quickly answered: “Oh, please, please, go ahead.” He looked around to see his three friends standing, hands crossed, in front of the kitchen door. “If you'd like more, just ask Yazir,” he said to Lintang, then turned and made his way back to the kitchen. But Lintang's three uncles remained outside, pretending to be busy, even as they kept their eyes on her.

“Sorry,” Lintang said in English, shaking her head. “They're all very protective. They've never had anyone from the embassy come into the restaurant before.”

“No problem,” Yos said. “We understand.” He then lowered his head and dug into his meal, as if not wanting to raise his head again. The succulent pieces of beef
rendang
seemed to melt on his tongue. He forgot his friends' presence and didn't notice that Raditya and Hans had also lost themselves in the plates of food before them.

The three young diplomats seemed to have forgotten where they were, so engrossed were they in eating the beef
rendang
, the chicken curry whose sauce nestled with the steaming hot rice, and the spiced cubes of fried calves liver with diced potatoes. On each plate was also a portion of Padang-style green chili sauce.

Not caring that they were in Paris and ignoring their spoons and forks, just as they would do at a Padang restaurant in Indonesia, they dug into their meals with their right hands. Dear God, this was heaven. Why were they forbidden to come here?

Lintang signaled for Yazir to fetch finger bowls.

“My father still likes to cook himself, especially when we have
special visitors,” Lintang said, opening the conversation. “And it's been so long since I've been here, Ayah insisted that he was going to cook.”

The three young diplomats nodded, ignoring Lintang's explanation. Their attention was on the scrumptious
rendang
and curried chicken.

“Aren't you forbidden to eat here?” Lintang then asked, as if intentionally hoping to disturb the visitors' pleasure. “Wasn't there an official announcement to that effect from Jakarta?”

Risjaf, Tjai, and Nugroho, who were still standing within hearing distance, immediately pricked up their ears.

Hans reluctantly raised his head. “I don't give a damn!” he swore in English, his lips smeared with oil. “Who could turn down an offer of
rendang
as good as this?” he said and turned back to his plate.

Raditya and Yos said nothing at all, so busy were they with their portions of curried chicken.

Raditya had broken into a sweat from the spicy heat of the meal, and Lintang laughed to see him wriggle out of his suit jacket and struggle to remove it without staining the sleeve with his right hand, wet from oil and curry sauce.

Even though she had already eaten two plates of
nasi kuning
earlier, Lintang ate her own plate of
nasi Padang
enthusiastically.

“My God, Lintang, where do you put all that food?” Nara laughed, knowing how much Lintang had eaten that day.

All the plates were completely clean and the scent of cloves from
kretek
cigarettes now filled the air.

Yos leaned against the back of his chair and watched the smoke he had exhaled. “Oh, God,” he moaned, “I really do not want to go back to the office.”

Except for Lintang, who was nibbling on iced jackfruit, the diners were now smoking, slowly playing with their cigarettes as if they were on vacation, without a care in the world.

Finally, when his cigarette was just a stub, Hans took out a folder from his valise and removed a multiple-page form.

“This is a visa form. For your name, write ‘Lintang Utara.' Don't use Suryo.”

Lintang furrowed her forehead. “And this box, for the family name?”

“That's where you write ‘Utara.' For all we care, that is your last name,” said Yos in English with an airy tone. “The important thing is that you get to Jakarta, right?”

Lintang nodded and proceeded to fill in the form.

Risjaf and Nugroho seemed less nervous now. They had begun to move around the restaurant, taking care of other customers. And Tjai was once again buried in his figures.

“Weird,” Lintang remarked as she intoned and wrote: “First name ‘Lintang.' Family name ‘Utara.'”

“Not to worry,” Raditya said as he stubbed his cigarette. “With your French passport, the people at immigration aren't going to be extra wary anyway. And even if they do notice that you have an Indonesian name, they probably aren't going to give it any thought. Most Indonesians, especially the Javanese, rarely write down a family name. They don't have one. Like Hesti Handayani, who works at the embassy here, and Retno Sulistyowati, a classmate of mine: their names are their own and they don't put down another name to indicate who their mother or father might be. That's what appears on their I.D. cards and in their passports.”

Lintang was astounded by this information. Could it really be that easy? But, at this point, she had neither the time nor the will
to discuss the customary or, rather, “non-customary” use of family names in Indonesia. She completed the form, signed it, and affixed to it several regulation-size photographs of herself.

After the three men had finished eating a dessert of fried bananas, they began to say their goodbyes. Wanting to give her father the chance to thank the three men, she called for him to come out of the kitchen. But, still flummoxed about something, she spoke to them first: “Yos, Raditya, Hans… I want to thank you, but I also want to know why you're doing this, why you're helping me.”

The three of them looked at Narayana, who nodded.

Raditya, who had already stood to leave, sat back down again. He saw that Nugroho, Risjaf, and Tjai had joined Lintang's father, and were also waiting for an answer to Lintang's question.

“I don't know, it's just…”

“Come on. Tell them the story.”

“What story?”

“The whole story.”

“OK.” Raditya finally gathered will to speak. He looked at the older men flanking the table and then at Lintang. “What I was going to say is that it's just that times have changed and we have to change with them. For far too long now, we Indonesians have let ourselves be imprisoned by the politics of the past. Like you, Lintang, we're all from a new generation, born long after 1965. We have brains; we have our own minds. Why should we be told what to think?”

“What Raditya wants to say is this,” Hans added impatiently: “Before their first posting abroad, all candidates to the diplomatic corps have to take written and oral examinations. In the written exam is a question: ‘What would you do if a person you are speaking with tells you that he's a communist?'”

Lintang's eyes opened wide. Nara leaned forward. Risjaf, Tjai, and Nugroho raised their heads.

“What did you answer?” Lintang asked, impatient to hear this story being told in dribs and drabs.

Raditya glanced at his two colleagues and chuckled. “I wrote my answer in English: ‘That would be none of my business. Everybody has the right to his own political beliefs.'”