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Alam inhaled and said, “You smell just fine!” He then spoke to the driver: “Driver, take us to Kampung Melayu, to the seafood food stalls, the ones near the hospital.”

Without even consulting me, Alam had made a decision for the both of us, just like that. And for once, I didn't object, even though I would have preferred to take a bath and refresh myself after another hot and muggy Jakarta day and the interview I had conducted with his mother.

Alam took a notebook from his knapsack and flipped it open. “I don't have much on tomorrow; just a planning session at the office. If you like, I can take you to a book discussion on Jalan Proklamasi where they'll be discussing the books that Pramoedya wrote when he was imprisoned on Buru Island. Pram is supposed to be there. If he is, you might be able to talk to him and get an appointment for a longer interview at his home. Would you like to do that?”

“Of course I would!” One of my goals was to interview Pramoedya and I was so happy I kissed Alam on the cheek. “This is the best news I've had since arriving here.
Merci
,
merci
.”

Alam's eyes were on the street rushing past the car's side window, but he raised and kissed the back of my hand. Again, I didn't object. At that moment Andini's cell phone rang. What song is that, I wondered, and why had she replaced the normal ringtone with it? No number appeared on the phone screen.

I pushed the answer button and spoke tentatively, “Hello…?”

“
Salut, ma chérie …
”

“Nara!” I looked at Alam and slowly released my hand from his grasp. He continued to stare out of the window, unaffected by my move.

“
Tu me manques
, Nara.” Even to my ear, I sounded overly enthusiastic in expressing my longing for him.

He laughed and said, “I miss you too.
Ça va?
”

“A bit tired, actually. Lots going on here.”

“How are your interviews going?”

“I just finished one.” I glanced at Alam, whose unblinking eyes remained trained on the Jakarta street. Though he showed no outward reaction to my conversation, I sensed that he was listening carefully.

“Have you interviewed Pramoedya or any other writers?”

“Not yet,” I told him. “My interview today was with Surti Anandari.”

“Ah, Hananto's wife, the friend of your father… Speaking of whom, you've heard about your father, right?”

“Yes, Maman called yesterday to tell me that she would be taking Ayah to the doctor today. I don't know what kind of threat she used, but at least she got him to obey,” I laughed.

“I miss your voice so much, and your laughter too,” Nara said. “At least now, we might find out what's wrong with your father. I just wanted to call, but now I have to go, Lintang. Be careful, my love.”

“
Salut
.”

“
Salut
.”

I shut off the thin cell phone as I tried to think of a way to restart my conversation with Alam and break the uncomfortable silence that had suddenly suffused the taxi. My mind went blank. I didn't know what to say. And Alam continued to torture me
with his own silence and by continuing to stare at the passing storefronts as if they were exotic tourist sites.

Suddenly, he turned and looked at me. “So Nara is…?”

“My boyfriend…”

“And this boyfriend of yours is telepathic or has the power to project himself to Jakarta just to remove your hand from mine?”

God, this was confusing. How was I to answer such a question? To talk with my boyfriend on the phone when my hand was being held by another man… How could I do that? Was it even ethical? But hadn't I gone past ethical bounds ever since…ever since
le coup de foudre
?

Alam now gave me a sharp glance. “Don't bother to answer,” he said in English. “Do you know why my mother dotes on
ikan pindang serani
, the spicy and sour milkfish soup? And turmeric? And jasmine flowers?”

I nodded my head, unsurely.

He looked at me intensely. “Those three things are symbols of a past love—an intense and deeply felt affection that could never be fulfilled.”

“…which is why my father always has a stock of turmeric in his apothecary jars,” I replied as if finally inserting the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

“I don't want such an ending: to love someone and then to lose that love and only be able to remember from a distance and wonder what might have happened.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Them. Your father and my mother. I don't doubt that my mother loved my father, and I am sure that your father loved your mother, too; but I am also just as sure that they loved each other. Their names, Dimas and Surti, are a symbol of lost hope and a broken love story.”

Alam bowed his head, bringing his face very close to my own, but then stopped, not touching me, directly in front of my nose. I could feel his breath, which smelled of menthol and made my blood course faster through my veins.

“I don't want to be like them. I know what I want and now, after thirty-three years, I I've finally found it.”

Now it was I who had to look out the window.

Jakarta, May 6, 1998

             
Ayah Dearest,

             
I was so happy to hear that you finally let Maman take you to see the doctor. Please ask her to call. I'd like to hear from her what the doctor said, because I know that you don't like talking about your health.

                   
One more request is for you to do whatever the doctor tells you to do. Please do this for me, and for everyone.

                   
Jakarta is not the way I thought it would be. It's so packed and crowded and so hot and humid and so different from how you yourself must imagine it to be. It's a megalopolis now with huge bedroom communities like Bekasi to the east, Tangerang to the west, and Bintaro and Pamulang to the south. The numerous toll roads and flyovers, arranged in pell-mell fashion as they are, make me feel sorry for any cartographer who had to make a map of the city.

                   
Om Aji and Tante Retno have been true saviors for me. They're like my fairy godparents and they treat me like their own child, the same way they treat Alam and Bimo. You are so lucky to have a brother as kind as Om Aji.

                   
During my time here so far, Alam, Bimo, and Andini have
been of great help to me. I regret not having ever met them before. If I had known them since childhood, how very different my life might have been. They are such wonderful cousins to have; they fill my life here with friendship and color. It's only their language I sometimes find difficult to understand. I've been writing down all their favorite swear words. They are very aesthetically challenging.

                   
Please tell Om Nug that I delivered his packet of things for Bimo: the letter, some recent photographs, and the book,
Men without Women
, by Hemingway. Bimo was very happy to receive them.

                   
My meeting with Tante Rukmini and her husband, the general, was strange and cold. It will take more time than I have now to describe the atmosphere in their home but, suffice it to say, it was so oppressive as to make me feel weary.

                   
If I successfully finish my work here, I will owe it all to the friends I've made at Satu Bangsa, who have been especially accommodating and have helped me to secure interviews with numerous sources. They also let me use their desktop computer to edit the footage from my interviews. Mita, who heads the documentation section, is very good at operating the equipment and has given me a lot of help. Because of all their help, by the time I return home, most of my recordings will have already been neatly indexed and catalogued. I've been trying my best to keep up with my note-keeping, as well, writing up my notes as soon as possible after each interview, because often, outside of the actual interview, my respondents provide me with interesting information and observations that I might be able to use in voice-over narration.

                   
My interviews have, in a sense, taken the form of sporadic
conversations: the first with Om Aji at his home, followed by others at the Museum of the Treachery of the Indonesian Communist Party. After that I filmed one session with Bimo, and the other day I spent almost an entire day interviewing Tante Surti at her home in Jalan Percetakan Negara. Before the interview, we feasted on
ikan pindang serani
that Kenanga made. She is, I must say, the strongest young woman I have ever met in my life.

                   
Interviewing Tante Surti was the most troubling one for me, because I've known of her and her family ever since I was a kid. Someday I'll show you my filmed interview with her—after it's been edited, of course.

                   
I finally managed to get an interview with Pramoedya Ananta Toer, whose works I had read in English translation. Now Alam has lent me the original Indonesian versions to read. I went to a discussion of the Buru Quartet with Alam, Bimo, and Gilang (the head of Satu Bangsa). In the end, the discussion got around to his autobiographical work,
The Mute's Soliloquy
, which made me very happy indeed. I'm extremely pleased with the footage I captured of Pramoedya that day. He is so very much alive that I'm sure viewers will find the material interesting. He didn't just answer previously scripted questions. He was spontaneous. It was a standing-room-only crowd, and questions were fired at him from all directions. There were good questions, clever questions, clichéd questions, questions from fans, critical questions, blow-mouth questions (a term I got from Alam meaning talking just to hear oneself speak). It was a very thorough discussion and I was able to record everything.

                   
After the question-answer session, I got the chance to
interview Pramoedya, though not for very long. He briefly told me about his imprisonment, his exile on Buru Island, how he was able to write, and about his family as well. Most of the information he gave me I already knew from books and interviews with him I'd read in the press, but it's always different hearing something for yourself.

                   
I think I might have come up with a title for my film: in Indonesian, “Mendengar Suara dari Seberang” and, in English, “Voices from the Other Side.” (Professor Dupont has insisted that besides French, I also give the film English subtitles).

                   
Just as we were leaving the site of the discussion on Jalan Proklamasi, Alam and Bimo suddenly told me to get into Gilang's jeep, fast. After getting in, Gilang took off from the place like a bat out of hell. Turns out, he had spotted a number of “flies” at the discussion, that being the term activists use for undercover military intelligence agents. I myself hadn't noticed anyone out of the ordinary, because all my attention had been on Pram.

                   
Things are heating up here. After the government raised the price of fuel, all other prices rose as well, bringing people out to the street to demonstrate in ever greater numbers. The military has attempted to engage in “dialogue” the student activists who are coordinating the demonstration, but the students have continued to demonstrate. Student demands are not confined to the price of fuel and the Rp. 100 trillion the government has provided in subsidies for certain banks (many of them owned by the president's cronies); they are demanding sweeping governmental reform, including that President Soeharto step down. Even with all of this going on, the president has decided to attend the upcoming High Level G-15 Conference, in
Cairo—as if the problems affecting this country are minor and will soon blow over and go away.

                   
Alam and Bimo are up to their necks in work, determining strategy, supervising the students, and helping them to unite in a coordinated mass movement. According to Gilang, this is one student movement that both political activists and the mass media are happy to support because their demand is also the same: Reform!

                   
Rama, an alumnus of Trisakti University, found it hard to believe when Alam told him that a free-speech platform had been set up on the campus, where anyone was free to speak, even to criticize the New Order government.

                   
All because of me, I'm afraid to say, Rama was called in by his superiors for an “interview” and subjected to intensive questioning. How was it, his superiors wanted to know, that a person like him from a “tainted background” could get by undiscovered and find a job at a state-owned enterprise? I feel very guilty for what happened, even though Om Aji insists that incident that night was a blessing in disguise.