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Sometime after Om Aji returned to Jakarta, Lintang received a thank-you letter from Andini for the gift of books she'd sent. Thereafter, the two of them soon became pen pals. Lintang was especially pleased to have a cousin like Andini who, like herself, was a fanatic reader. Over time, and with the advent of the Internet and their subscription to e-mail accounts two years previously, the traditional snail-mail exchange of letters between the cousins had changed into a rapid exchange of ideas through the virtual world.

Lintang imagined meeting her cousin for the first time and how happy she would be. Having grown up as an only child,
she had often wished for a sister or brother. She had some distant cousins from her mother's side of the family; but since her mother's brother, her Uncle Jean, had never married, she had no close cousins in France. She was excited and looking forward to meeting this sister-like cousin with whom she had corresponded for so many years.

Lintang's thoughts returned to her father's cache of correspondence. Looking through the stack, she found several more from Aji but then, when she saw one with a completely different kind of penmanship, her fingers stopped searching. She removed the letter from the pile. Surti Anandari. Her fingers trembled. The stationery had yellowed and the ink was somewhat faded, but she could still read the words clearly.

Jakarta, December 1968

             
Dear Dimas,

             
I don't know whether you will receive this letter or not. After having been detained for several months at the Budi Kemuliaan detention center, I am now home.

                   
In the many times I was interrogated, I didn't know what to say and didn't know how to answer their questions whenever they asked me about Hananto, because I really didn't know where he was. I wasn't lying then and I never will lie. I never knew what Hananto was up to—either in matters of love or politics. But they didn't believe me. Or simply didn't want to believe me.

                   
Since they captured Hananto last June, we've heard nothing from him directly. After he disappeared in October 1965, I only heard about—but didn't actually know—how he was able to move about, like a shadow in the mist, from one
village to another, from one city to another. I only heard of his peregrinations through the wind. And more than that, through silence.

                   
For the last three years, I have faced calamity, which was a risk I took on when I married Hananto. In each session, the interrogators threw at me the same set of questions from morning till night, with breaks of only a few minutes in duration. Sometimes the interrogators were polite. More often they shouted the same questions over and over like a cracked LP. Did I know about Hananto's activities, and what kind of activities his friends were engaged in? Did I know about the meetings that Hananto attended?

                   
But if I had to choose between the two kinds of interrogators who questioned me, I would choose the one who shouted and screamed at me rather than the soft-spoken one, who asked in a mild-mannered tone what I and Hananto did in bed. One interrogator, a middle-aged man, was truly vile. The day it was his turn to find out where Hananto was hiding—Was he with some family member? Was he at their home?—he asked his questions with his left hand in his pants pocket all the while. As he slipped in questions about our marital relations, he slowly masturbated. I was so disgusted, I refused to answer his questions. But then he began to ask about Kenanga—how old she was and whether she had begun to menstruate. That, I tell you, Dimas, was the worst kind of mental terror that I experienced! I wasn't as concerned with Bulan and Alam, as they were still so young. Being just six, Bulan looked on everything happening as a kind of game. In fact some of the guards and interrogators even gave her and Alam toys to play with. Alam was still of the age that he liked to be cuddled by almost anyone. Alam is such a
good-looking boy, and with his fair skin and curly hair, many of the inhabitants and detainees of Budi Kemuliaan took pity on him and gave him rice water as a substitute for milk.

                   
But Kenanga was almost a teenager. She knew that her father was being pursued and that we were being held there because of something he'd done.

                   
If I wasn't careful, I feared they might do something to her.

                   
One day, one of the interrogators politely asked if Kenanga could be assigned to clean one of the rooms in the building. I could say nothing but agree, even though it turns out that her job was to mop up the dried blood on the floor of the torture room. She once found a stingray tail in the room, matted with dried blood—but this she didn't tell me until a month afterwards. I had been down with a terrible fever for ever so long and she didn't want to make anything harder for me. She finally told me, crying all the while. She imagined her father being captured and that happening to him as well. She's seen too much. She's told me of the men she's seen, their bodies covered with blood and staggering all the way, as they were moved from one cell to another.

                   
I write this to you, Dimas, only to share with you and at once thank you for taking the time to send us assistance, even though as an exile you are in difficult straits and don't know what lies ahead.

                   
Whatever difficulties we here might face, we know and recognize that you are doing whatever you can to make our lives easier. For that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I know that you are a friend forever.

                   
Surti Anandari

Lintang breathed in and out, trying to fathom how her father's friends and family had coped in such straits, even as she began to become aware of the difficulties that she herself might face after her arrival in Jakarta. The letters she was reading were old ones, written ten, twenty or more years previously, but the Indonesian government now in power was still one and the same.

Lintang fingered another letter, written with a deft hand on white paper. She studied the penmanship: so neat and written in evenly spaced lines, almost as if by a machine because of its uniformity. The thought occurred to her that Indonesian teachers of penmanship must be very patient. Most of the samples of writing by Indonesians she'd seen were very similar and very neat—far different from the way that she and her French schoolmates wrote, paying little attention to the uniformity of size and shape of the letters they put on papers, not controlling their fingers, and letting them moved as they pleased.

Jakarta, June 18, 1970

             
Om Dimas,

             
I feel like the sky in Jakarta has cracked apart and sharp pieces of dark metal are raining down on us.

                   
There's no end to the problems affecting us. I don't know if this is the start or the end of our suffering. For the last month, ever since they executed Bapak, I haven't been able to function at all. All I've been able to do is stay in my room until, finally, it seemed that I became part of the room's features, no different from the bed or the floor. I felt more useless by the day.

                   
Exactly a month ago, we were told to come to Salemba Prison in order to see Bapak for the last time. We were given two hours to talk to him before he was to be executed. What
were we supposed to say in those two hours when all we could do is imagine him standing in front of a row of men with rifles aimed at him?

                   
My father held Alam on his lap where he giggled and played with Bapak's fingers. Just five years old, of course he's going to look at the sky and see rainbows. Bulan, who had just turned eight, understood the meaning of “coming” and “going,” All she could do was cry and repeatedly ask if she was going to see Bapak again. Mother tried to be strong. She held Bapak's hand tightly and tried to stop herself from crying. Every once in a while, she would whisper something to him I couldn't hear.

                   
Trying to avoid the sadness, I sat as far away from Bapak as possible. I wasn't strong. I didn't know what to do to make my body sit up straight when all I really wanted to do was to scream and wail. I didn't cry and I don't know why, but I was actually proud not to leave a trail of tears in there. I didn't want to look at my father's face, which, on that day, in those two hours, looked so calm and wise. What could have been going through his mind?

                   
In the last thirty minutes, Bapak came to me, alone. He kneeled beside me and took my hands in his own. “Kenanga,” he said, “you are the tree that protects the entire family. You are the heartbeat of us all…”

                   
Still trying to avoid looking into his face, I stared down at my shoes, a rundown pair of sneakers I'd been wearing for years, and all I could think about at the time was to wonder where Mother had bought them and what color they once had been. Was it pink or orange? Their color had faded so much and the shoes were so stained, the only way to describe their color was a muddy brown.

                   
But then, suddenly, I felt my father's hands holding mine in his own. He said “Kenanga … I beg your forgiveness for all the trouble I have caused. Because I now must take my leave, I can ask only that you remain strong—for Mother, for Bulan, and for Alam…”

                   
I hate tears, I hate crying. Tears come and go as they please with no regard to me.

                   
Kenanga Prawiro

Lintang felt all her energy exhausted by these blood-filled letters—not only because she was spent from trying to chase away her own tears, crying for the broken family she didn't know, but because she suddenly felt so close to them all. Reading these blood-filled letters had made her feel bloodied herself. She wanted to find a message that might lift her spirits. Within the pile was one written on light blue paper. The letter was short, the penmanship superb. Jumping to the bottom of the paper, she saw from the signature that it was from her father's friend, Bang Amir.

Jakarta, 1969

             
My brother Dimas,

             
Having received your message, I now write to you. I am sorry for the loss of your mother, Dimas. I kneel and pray to God that He has taken her to His side. I hope that you and our fellow countrymen there in that distant land are strong and in good health.

                   
Do you remember our discussion that one time about the vacuum that each of us has inside, the one that only you and God can fill, to create a Union between you and God that can
never be broken or disturbed by anything or anyone? This is the right time for you to look at that space inside yourself, alone. To converse with it if that is your bent, or to be silent if that is what you choose. Either way, He will listen to you.

                   
He is always listening.

             
Your friend,

                   
Moh. Amir Jayadi

Unconsciously, Lintang held her chest. That vacuum. That little space in her body. That conversation between us and Him? Was it in her as well?

FLÂNEURS

On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur.

L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

LE PETIT PRINCE
,

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“
YOU CAN SEE CLEARLY ONLY WITH THE HEART
. The essence cannot be seen with the eyes.” That's the sentence from
The Little Prince
Lintang remembered best, ever since the first time her father read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's fantastic tale of a little boy whose plane crashes in the Sahara desert.

That night Lintang had one question. Or maybe she had a thousand questions—but one question, always starkly present, unendingly posing itself, was there in her heart. Would she have the clarity of mind to see and to decipher the complex problems that awaited her in Jakarta?

Lintang wasn't able to answer that question, at least not yet. But that night, and during the days and nights that followed, she typed almost nonstop, as if there were no tomorrow. Every so often she'd look at a book, a manuscript, a journal, a clipping, a paper, or an old photograph and then would begin to write again, to type again. Reading something more, using a yellow highlighter to underscore a phrase, she'd then write again. Countless cups of coffee filled her stomach, which was about to scream from high acid content, and Ravel's music filled her ears. Eyes open wide, she blinked as she studied the tens of pages in her proposal, checking its language for fluency and whether or not the sources that she quoted effectively bolstered her argument. In her proposal, Lintang
explained the importance of revealing information that had too long been buried by official Indonesian history; how necessary it was to provide a space and a place for those historical actors whose voices had been silenced. Lintang had to produce a convincing argument for her need to conduct her work in Indonesia, and not, for instance, in Paris or Amsterdam. The names of the sources she quoted ranged from well-known players to persons whose voices time had almost forgotten.