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Oh, Maman, I apologize for having made fun of you.

I noticed in the rear view mirror the taxi driver eyeing the two of us to see what would happen. I said nothing, did nothing. Alam laughed lightly, then touched my lips with his fingers. Even that was electrifying.
Le coup de foudre.

The next few days, as I was trying to set up an appointment to interview Indonesia's most famous former political prisoner, the novelist Pramoedya Ananta Toer, I ran into difficulty because of the author's own busy schedule. Alam promised to help find out the writer's upcoming schedule of activities. “Most of the time, when Pak Pramoedya gives a lecture or a talk, it's possible to ask him for an interview at the location of the talk,” Alam said. I had already arranged to meet three other former political prisoners, but those interviews weren't scheduled until two and three days hence. Thus, as my schedule for the next day was free, Alam called me at Om Aji's house and suggested that I use the opportunity to talk to his mother, whom I hadn't yet had the opportunity to meet. Alam wouldn't be able to be with me, however, because the government had just announced an increase in fuel prices and he had to help Bimo and Gilang supervise the demonstrations that were scheduled to take place at several locations in Jakarta the next morning.

“Do you think you can you find my mother's house on your own?” he asked me over the phone, “or do you need me to take you there?”

“Don't be ridiculous. Go off to your demonstration. I can take care of myself,” I told him, though secretly I liked his attention, even if only over the telephone.

“Andini told me earlier about what happened last night at the dinner with Rama's fiancée.”

“Oh, really, did she?”

“Yup. And are you all right?”

“I'm fine. I'm just worried about Rama and how his job and
his relationship with his fiancée might suffer because of what I said,” I answered, thinking of the drama that had taken place the previous night, which was truly embarrassing.

“Don't worry about it,” Alam said dismissively. “What with the way he's been and the things that he's done, Rama has hurt his family's feelings a lot,” he asserted angrily. “It's time for a little payback.”

“Maybe so, but my own behavior last night—that wasn't me either.”

“Don't blame yourself,” Alam lobbed back, “Rama knew what he'd gotten into.”

I didn't reply.

“So, do you want to meet at my mother's house later?” Alam asked in a softer voice. “How long do you think you'll be there? Maybe, when my business is done, I can come to Percetakan Negara to pick you up.”

I restrained my glee in hearing that he wanted to see me again the next day. So juvenile, so pubescent I'd suddenly become, like a teenager on the cusp of change. I should have been focusing my thoughts on the questions I would ask in upcoming interviews and the answers my respondents might give, but here I was trying to set my schedule so that it fit in with Alam's. This was ridiculous. What had happened to Nara? I really had to call Nara. It would be expensive, but I knew I had to call him.

“What time do you think you'll be done? I imagine my interview will be two, maybe three hours.”

Alam laughed. “You don't know my mother. First, she'll want to get to know you and then she'll invite you to join her for lunch or maybe even to cook a meal with her. Only after that will she let you interview her. I can see it taking most if not all of the day.”

“Well then, do you want to meet me at your mother's?”

Alam paused before answering. “Let's play it by ear and call each other in the afternoon. If you finish before I do, maybe we can meet somewhere halfway. You have Andini's extra cell, don't you?”

“Yes, I do, and I have mine, too, but it has my French number.” Now, I was feeling disappointed.

“OK then, gotta go. Good luck and take care.”

I put down the receiver of the phone in Om Aji's living room and sat down on the couch to reread the notes I had gathered thus far. So, my meeting with Alam tomorrow was still up in the air—or, at best, still uncertain as to when and where. I suddenly felt miserable and upset. But why was a meeting with this tall man, with the almost blue facial skin from having just shaved, so important to me? I had to forget about him—at least for now. I had other business to do, the first of which was to find out where to buy some flowers. My father had specifically requested that when I meet “Tante Surti”—which is how he always referred to her when speaking to me—I was supposed to bring her jasmine flowers.

When Andini came to join me, I asked her, “Din, where can I find jasmine flowers?”

“Jasmine? What? Who's
koit
?”

“‘
Koit
'?” I asked, not knowing the word.

Andini laughed. “Yeah, ‘
koit.
' That's Jakarta slang for dead, as in ‘kicked the bucket' or ‘bit the dust.' Never heard that one in Paris, huh?”

I took my notebook and wrote down the new word. Though I considered myself fluent in Indonesian, ever since setting foot in Jakarta, I'd been constantly writing down words that were foreign to my ears and not to be found in any dictionary. Andini was
constantly chiding me about my obsessive notetaking.

“Are you going to a wake or something?” she then asked. “Or getting married?! Jasmine flowers are for the newly married or nearly buried.”

Hmm… Then why had Ayah asked me to take jasmine to Tante Surti?

“Whatever… I just need to know where can I buy some jasmine flowers for tomorrow.”

“Well, at the cemetery, for one. Come on, I'll take you. You're the one always touting the charms of graveyards—like a
flâneur
,” she said, imitating my expression. Andini smiled and blinked her eyes.

I grabbed one of the extra cushions on the couch and threw it at her, truly pleased at that moment to have a cousin my age.

Om Aji, seated in his lazy chair, looked up and interrupted. “Dini, ask Irah to buy some when she goes to the market tomorrow morning. Are they for Tante Surti?” he then asked me. “I'm sure your father asked you to bring some for her.”

I nodded in surprise. How did he know such a thing?

The Prawiro family home on Jalan Percetakan Negara in the Salemba area of Jakarta was an older building that looked in need of renovation. Its original white color was now closer to light brown. Even so, the small lawn and garden out front were well maintained, and the house was framed by lantana shrubs with showy heads of purple and yellow flowers. My video camera was in the bag hanging from my shoulder, and in my hand was a clear plastic container with strings of jasmine flowers. (Tante Retno insisted that putting them in the container would help to keep the flowers fresh.) The gate to Tante Surti's home was unlocked
and it creaked when I opened it. I looked around at the yard and imagined Kenanga, Bulan, and Alam, who must have spent whole days playing there as children.

I knocked on the door. An older woman, a housemaid, I assumed, opened the door and invited me to come inside, then led me to the living room where she invited me to take a chair. The clackety-clack sound of a foot-driven pedal sewing machine came to me from a side room. Alam had told me that after her husband's death, Tante Surti had supported herself and her family as a seamstress, and that she had two assistants to help with the sewing orders she received.

In the room were a long rattan recliner and a lazy chair that looked to be in need of retirement. Dozens of old and faded photographs in frames filled the bookshelf. A tall vase of white carnations perched on an Indies-style upright stand helped to freshen the room. A large photograph of the Hananto family hung on the living room wall. Om Hananto, still young and good-looking, held a baby in his arms—Alam, for sure. Beside him were two girls: Kenanga and Bulan, of course. And standing next to them was
—mon Dieu!—
Tante Surti? It was no wonder that my father and Om Hananto had once vied for her attention. She looked like a film star the great filmmaker Usmar Ismail might have discovered. She wasn't just pretty, with her thick wavy hair framing her oval face with almond-shaped eyes and finely shaped nose. She was stunning, with a magnetic appeal. Her full lips were a wonderfully natural shape—unlike those of many women today who manipulate their shape with lipstick around the edges to make them appear thinner or transforming thin lips to resemble hunks of steak, like Brigitte Bardot's lips when she was young. No, Tante Surti's lips were natural, perfectly formed, and required
no disguise or manipulation. Like Maman, Tante Surti appeared to be a woman who did not depend on cosmetics to enhance her natural beauty. Maybe a light brush of the powder puff or a dab of lipstick on occasion, but that was enough. And certainly no rouge or mascara, either.

Hanging beside this formal photograph was another one that arrested my gaze: Alam dressed in some kind of martial art fighting gear—maybe karate, maybe tae kwon do, I didn't know the difference. He appeared to be of primary school age but even then, next to his teammates, he looked tall and fit for his age. A montage of photographs showed him in action and wearing a black belt. It must have been from those beginnings that he acquired the set of muscles visible beneath his shirt. Alam had his father's face: handsome, stern, and masculine. Both Kenanga and Bulan were blessed with their mother's beauty; but Kenanga, despite her obvious charms, did not smile in any of the photographs on display. She looked serious, almost forlorn. Her sister Bulan, on the other hand, was always posing and staring straight into the camera with a friendly smile.

“Hello. You must be Lintang.”

A woman of about sixty years of age stood in front of me: Surti Anandari, who was no less attractive in her later years than she had been as a young woman. What differentiated the present Surti from the one in the faded photograph was that her hair was now silver in color and her skin of a different texture. Nonetheless, for a woman who had suffered so much in life, she remained poised and erect. Alam must have gotten his eagle-like eyes, which had a piercing gleam, from his mother.

I extended my hand and bowed slightly. She took my hand, embraced me warmly, and kissed my cheeks. Her eyes glistened
as she stroked my hair.

“Such a beautiful daughter Dimas has,” she said, “Please have a seat. Would you like a refreshment?”

I sat down slowly on the sofa, still mesmerized by Tante Surti's aura. She had a presence that filled the room. “Anything's fine. Water would be OK.”

“I just split open a young coconut. Would you like some of that, with ice?”

Young coconut with ice on a hot day? A person would have to be crazy to object.
Dingue!
I nodded readily.

Tante Surti went into the kitchen and soon emerged with two bowls of young coconut with shaved ice and flavored syrup. The coconut tasted especially fresh, as if just cut from the tree. As we ate, we began our conversation, first seeking common ground: talking about my father's friendship with Om Nug, Om Hananto, and Om Tjai when they were young; about going to school at the University of Indonesia at the time when Sukarno was president; and about the books they had difficulty in finding but which they usually managed to obtain from Dutch friends of Tante Surti's father. After that, all the classic names emerged: Lord Byron, T.S. Eliot, on up to Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg and of course those Indonesian poets whose names were so common on the tongue, such as Chairil Anwar and Rivai Apin. Tante Surti was able to quote these poets' words, and did so with great warmth as she spoke. Her face became overcast, however, when she said that 1965 marked the end of poetry in her life, that at that time poetry had changed it into an alien thing.