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Lintang felt certain that her father had a reason for this lecture on the semantics of ‘
flâneur.
' She would try to be patient. At the very least, listening to a lecture on etymology would be much more beneficial than hearing him expound on the awesomeness of Led Zeppelin.

“But I am most in agreement with the explanation provided by Charles Baudelaire, who said that activity on a journey is the same as a home for the
flâneur
, like water for fish. Passion and
work become one in the activity. A
flâneur
will forever be looking, and building his home in the flow and motion of movement. He might feel he has left his home, but in fact he built a home in his journey.”

“Like a seagull,” Lintang commented.

“Yes,” Dimas said, turning his head, as if being drawn back to the real world after being submerged in a sea of thought and semiotics. “That's what your mother used to say: like a seagull.”

In late spring, the Paris sun doesn't retire early from its duties. Père Lachaise Cemetery was still bright even though the hour showed it to be eventide. “I am still wandering, with or without a destination. I was still a
flâneur
when Surti asked me to throw down my anchor and seek port. I guess it was a logical risk. I shouldn't have been surprised when Surti chose for herself a man who was ready to stand beside her and was able to promise to protect her and their future children from anything the sky might cast down on them. That's all…”

Lintang nodded slowly, though her face was full of questions.

“And when you met Maman? Did you feel ready then? Or did you still feel yourself to be a
flâneur
?”

Dimas paused. He knew that his marriage to Vivienne had been based more on need and comfort than anything else, but he was also aware of how unfair that sounded. Certainly what he felt for Vivienne would always be pure and sincere. To this day, however, he did not know whether it was love or a comfortable sense of security. He so very much wanted to tell his daughter that settling in Paris, starting a family with her mother, and building a home in exile was not something he had ever wished or aspired to. But “exile” was not a word he ever would have said in front of Lintang's mother, because, for Vivienne, Paris was home. What he and his
three friends had done—jumping from Santiago to Havana and then to Peking before finally landing in Paris—had not been a journey they had made out of choice. They were not epigones; nor were they members of the Beat generation who wandered about the United States because of choice—to breathe in the air of freedom and to experiment with sex and drugs. He and his friends were forever haunted by a feeling of being watched and hunted as a result of their political choices—or, in his case and that of Tjai, as a result of their not choosing.

“I love your mother and everything about her. I love her because she gave me the most beautiful gift in the world, which is you.”

Finally, after having found the right formula for closing the topic of conversation, Dimas had provided an answer. But Lintang was a curious student, trained by both her parents and teachers not to accept at face value the answer given or what is written in a book.

“Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam… Are those names ones that you chose?”

Dimas almost fell over backward. He suddenly turned pale. Damn! Having such a bright daughter was as irritating as it was pleasing.

“Yes,” Dimas answered with a long sigh. “Those were names that I came up with long before the children were born. They represent the dreams of a young couple in love. But it was Surti who chose to give the names to her children. What you might…”

“Ayah! Don't underestimate me,” Lintang chastised with a smile. “Look at my name and look at theirs. They all have your fingerprints on them. Supposing I had a younger brother or sister, I'm sure you would have given them names like ‘Button Flower' or ‘Blue Sea.'”

Dimas broke out laughing. Just like Vivienne, Lintang had no space in herself for secrets or darkness. Everything had to be bright and glowing.

“Tell me, Ayah, once and for all, are you still a
flâneur
? Are you the inveterate wanderer who is always seeking, always traveling, never able to anchor?”

This time Dimas gave a sincere and honest answer: “I want to go home, Lintang. To a place that understands my odor, my physique, and my soul. I want to go home to Karet.”

After saying goodbye to her father at the door to his apartment, Lintang went to meet Narayana at
Au Petit Fer à Cheval
, the classic bistro in the Marais. She was late by ten minutes, but Nara greeted her warmly, impatient to possess her for the three days and nights he had so often mentioned to her. As soon as Lintang arrived at the table, one they had to reserve far in advance because of the café's popularity, Nara gave in to the desire he had postponed for so long and immediately embraced her and gave her a passionate kiss. Lintang neither resisted Nara's embrace nor encouraged him to continue. Her head was still full of Indonesian names unsuited for a French vocabulary: Karet, Surti, Hananto, Kenanga, Bulan, Alam, Karet, Bimo Nugroho, Karet, Chairil Anwar, Karet …

“What is it,
ma chérie
…”

“My father kept talking about Karet.”

“Karet?”

“A cemetery in Jakarta.”

“Oh …”

“He said it's not as grand or beautiful as the cemeteries here, that it's just a normal cemetery. But still, he said, Karet is the place
where he wants to go home!”

Why she had suddenly snapped at Nara and thrown this information in his face, Lintang didn't know; but sometimes, and for no apparent reason, Nara suddenly seemed to transform into a young aristocrat who had no idea that there were still places in the world where beggars existed and piles of shit littered the streets.

“I know of Karet, Lintang. I know it's a cemetery in Jakarta,” Nara answered patiently, trying to understand what she was really saying. He had been to Jakarta often. Lintang knew that.

Hearing Nara's calm voice, Lintang suddenly felt guilty and started to cry. She hugged him, then took a sip of whatever it was he had been drinking.

“I'm so sorry,
mon chéri.
My father was in such a strange mood today.”

“Maybe he's just sad because you're leaving.”

“Leaving? I'm only going to be gone for a few weeks. At most a month and a half, if I have to extend. I have a deadline to meet.”

“But you've just been reunited and now you're going away.”

“Maybe you're right,” Lintang said in agreement with Nara's theory. “Maybe that's it.”

“I'm sure that's it. Your parents love you. And your relationship with them is not only that of parent and child; you are like a friend for them. But enough of this for now. It's getting late, my lovely. Let's get something to eat and then go home for dessert! I want to kidnap you now.”

Nara stroked Lintang's neck.

Lintang smiled and her eyes were aglow. She lifted Nara's glass and drank the rest of its contents in one swallow. “How about if we forget about having dinner tonight? We can pick up a bottle of wine and go to my apartment now.”

Nara grinned widely when he heard this brilliant idea.

“But you're going to be hungry,” Nara noted soberly. “I know you're going to get hungry.” He protested because he knew that if there was one thing that might get in the way of their lovemaking, it would be Lintang's empty stomach.

“After our kidnapping session, we can order Chinese,” Lintang suggested. “Come on, let's go!”

Lintang straightened her bag and Nara quickly paid the bill. On the sidewalk, they held each other closely as they walked.

“One and a half months is too long,
ma chérie.
Please make it just three weeks. More than that and I'm going to come and get you!” Nara nibbled Lintang's ear. He was restless and the Metro seemed so far away and would take so long that he immediately hailed a taxi and they soon set off in the direction of Belleville.

“
D'accord
!”

For three smoldering hours—three days was not realistic—Nara succeeded in making Lintang forget the word “Karet.” For three hours Lintang whispered a different vocabulary, an intimate one that further flamed Nara's passion. Weeks and weeks of delayed desire had to be allayed in that one night only. They turned up the music as loud as possible so that their neighbors, separated from them by only a thin wall, would not be bothered by the constant creaking of the bed and the high-pitched moans of its inhabitants. But after three boisterous and sweat-filled hours, when Nara was lying asleep and naked on the bed, Lintang opened her eyes to look at the ceiling. She got out of bed, wrapped herself in a sheet, and went into the kitchen. There, her father's words began to stir up her thoughts. She tried calming herself with a glass of water.

Through the large window in her apartment, Lintang could see the streetlights of Belleville washing the old buildings with their
glow: spice stores, a
boulangerie,
and the old apartment building across the street from her own. Suddenly, the streetlights began to die, one after another, and in just a few seconds the buildings outside had turned into tombstones, standing in a neat and even line. Lintang squinted her eyes to see. Directly in the middle of the row of tombstones, she could see a mound of fresh red clay earth, not yet covered by stone or cement, where a plain wooden plank was planted. On it was printed the simple words:
DIMAS SURYO
, 1930–1998.

III

SEGARA ALAM

A DIORAMA

JAKARTA
1993

THEY
'
RE ALL STANDING
, bodies bloodied, limbs injured—miniature statues that have been placed there, arranged just so, forever frozen in one position. Maybe a few facts can be gleaned from their assemblage; maybe the rest is just a series of poses.

The small figures behind the glass seem to be actors in some kind of play. One of them has been shot in a living room. Another one, tied to a chair, is being tortured. All kinds of cruelties have been carved into this extensive diorama which has served as the official history of this country for twenty-eight years.

I watch as a group of grade school students form a neat line behind their teacher and the museum guide, who proceeds to explain to the children how the communists abducted the generals and then hacked and slashed their bodies with swords and knives. Two of the boys press their foreheads to the glass, their eyes bulging as they take in the cruel sights they're seeing. Behind them is a group of junior high school girls, waiting to take their turn to look through the glass.

              
Ooh, yuck! Creepy! Those are bad guys.

              
Is that blood or ketchup, ma'am?

              
In the film, they were singing.

              
Be orderly now, and write down what you see for a report…

The first and second comments are from the grade school students and the third is from a junior high school student who is comparing the scene in the diorama to
The September 30 Movement: the Treachery of the Indonesian Communist Party
, a feature film that all students are obliged to watch annually around the time of the anniversary of the events depicted in the diorama.

This is history. Here, in this place, the powers that be have conflated a story capable of disrupting childhood memories, inserting in them scenes of defilement, corruption, and horror. Compared with the filmed enactment of the same events, which come across as highly theatrical if not outright melodramatic, the diorama is able to elicit a more powerful emotional reaction precisely because of its silence, which permits the mind greater room for a gory imagination. Who created this diorama? What was its original intent—a tool for information, education, propaganda, or entertainment? Or all of them together? Could the diorama's creator have known how effectively it would be used as an educational tale for the schoolchildren of this country, how this country's mentality would come to be shaped by wounds and paranoia?