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MAY
18, 1998

For two days now Alam hasn't spoken to me. Hasn't called or stopped by, much less touched me. After the “Nara incident,” he's been so busy it seems that I've barely caught sight of him at Satu Bangsa. There's been so much news in the air and rumors flying about meetings of various power holders and interest groups, but their common thread seems to be the same: a request for President Soeharto to resign.

I was sure that Alam was avoiding me so, finally, I decided to interview the last two people on my list of respondents on my own. But while I was conducting the interviews, talk about the hardships of 1965 invariably turned to the recent unrest and ongoing student demonstrations. I had to constantly remind myself of Professor Dupont's message to me: focus. Don't be swayed by news of today. It was fine for me to record the historical events of today out of personal interest, but I had to be able to separate my
emotions from the theme of my final assignment.

Then suddenly, after all my interviews were over, I felt relieved. For the first time since my arrival in Jakarta, I really wanted to go home to Paris in order to edit and finish my assignment and turn it in to Professor Dupont. Even more important for me, I wanted to go home to see Ayah and Maman. But just a second. I had just referred to Paris as the place I was “going home to.”

Was Paris really my home?

My cell phone rang. Mita. She ordered me to meet her at Parliament where the rest of the staff was heading. The students were on the march and heading to Parliament to occupy the building.

On the way there in a taxi, between urging the driver to get me to Parliament as fast as he could, I kept asking myself why Alam was persisting in his silent treatment towards me. Was it only because of Nara's call?

When I finally made it to the building, its grounds were full of students and public figures—almost a repeat of the scene at Trisakti several days previously. Every speaker was saying the same thing: a demand for
reformasi
and Soeharto's resignation. I wandered the area with a light feeling. It was so odd, the atmosphere that afternoon outside the clam-shaped parliament building seemed almost festive. It was hard to believe that such despicable and widespread horrors had taken place in this country just a few days before.

Free box meals were being handed out. Women in food vans appeared from out of nowhere to give food and beverages to the student orators and their crowd, who were clapping and singing songs I didn't know but whose most oft-repeated phrase was “down with the government.” Young couples held hands and hugged each other, as if they were on a date. I thought of my parents' first meeting and imagined the atmosphere here in Jakarta at
the moment to be much like it was in Paris at the time of the May Revolution in 1968. There was a heady mixture of politics and arts along with a celebration in the freedom of hormonal urges.

I caught sight of Mita waving her arm in the distance, standing in a group with Alam, Gilang, Andini, and Bimo on the low sloping series of stairs leading to the main entrance of the building. I smiled when I saw Andini.

“Hi …”

Bimo gave me a big hug. “How are you? It's been days since I've seen you.” He shot a glance at Alam. “And somebody else has been missing you too.”

Alam smiled faintly but didn't greet me. After just a momentary glance at me, he returned his attention to the speakers' stage.

“You owe me a story,” I whispered to Andini. As usual, she started laughing. Then she pinched Alam's arm. “Here she is! You've been telling Mita to call her all morning and now that she is here you don't say anything.”

Alam looked at Andini with raised eyebrows then turned his gaze back to the students, who were growing ever more wild in their enthusiasm: clapping loudly and shouting “Reform!” time and again. I felt like tinder had set fire to my heart. My blood rushed to my brain. This was terrible. I wasn't a teenager whose emotional state is expected to fluctuate with the temperature of love in the relationship she's in. But the fact was I felt so sad and disappointed whenever Alam kept a distance from me.

“I'm thirsty,” I said to Mita. “I'm going to go get something to drink.”

“Here, I have a bottle…” she started to say, but I shook my head and turned and walked away as quickly as I could, because I didn't want them to hear the pounding of my heart or see the
tears that were welling in my eyes.

Merde!
In Jakarta, I had turned into a sniveling adolescent. I swore heartily to myself in three languages—French, English, Indonesian; French, English, Indonesian—expelling all the worst words I could think of and mixing them together while I looked for a spot to be by myself among the students who filled the upper piazza surrounding the building. I had to still my heart and regain my energy.

My work was completed. There was no telling how long the occupation of the parliament building would last. It might be days or even weeks. And I didn't know what was really happening with Ayah. Nara had sounded so strange when he raised the topic of Ayah's illness. And Maman only ever gave the briefest of reports on what the doctors had to say.

How was I going to say goodbye to Alam? How could I even look him in the face if he was going to act cold towards me when I said goodbye? What if he acted snidely and give me the same toss-away smile that he had given me minutes before? Shit!

A hand touched my shoulder. I knew that hand. That smell.

“I thought you said you wanted to get something to drink,” Alam said from behind me in a friendly tone of voice.

Now I was angry and turned towards him: “What business is it of yours? And why are you following me anyway?”

Alam looked at me innocently.
Merde!
Men always play so dumb when they hurt a woman. I left him and found a place to sit down on the stairs. As I guessed he would, Alam followed me.

“How are you doing?” he asked politely.

“Fine. Just fine.”

Then we were silent. A silence ripe with questions and longing.

Finally, I spoke: “Where have you been? Two days and not
a peep from you,” I said in a voice that sounded flat and uncaring.

“I've been busy. Ever since the fourteenth, a lot of public figures and groups have been meeting with the president, and I want to get this down for the record. I've been interviewing the people who have met with the president and documenting what they had to say. … There's so much I want to tell you.”

I did in fact want to hear what Alam had to say; I'm sure the stories would be interesting. But I was still asking myself whether he realized what I had just said and what that implied.

“Mita said you finished your interviews.”

I nodded, now feeling slightly warmer towards him. At least he had tried to find out what I was doing. But then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, I started to cry.

Alam was startled and put his arm around my shoulder.

“I have to go home,” I sputtered.

“Home, to Paris?”

“Of course. Where else?”

For some time, he said nothing.

“Here, feel this,” he said, taking my hand and pressing my palm to his chest. “What is it you feel every time they shout ‘
Reformasi!
'?”

My heart beat faster and I felt my blood speed through my veins.

“Ever since meeting you, Lintang, I've felt that you are part of this place, that you are home here.”

A warm feeling spread through my chest.

“Do you think so?”

“I do. Your roots are here.”

I paused before speaking again.

“Why didn't you try to call me or contact me?” I snapped at him. My eyes were hot and tears began to fall again. “Why did
you just disappear these past two days? I know you were busy, but you could have told me.”

Alam looked at me. The light in his eyes was more subdued. “Listen to me, Lintang… Nara had just called you. He wants to see you. He wants to come here. But he could tell there was something different in you from the sound of your voice.”

I sensed a tone of sadness in what he said. My tears stopped instantly. I looked into Alam's face. Had he freshly shaved this morning?

“I wanted to give you space, Lintang. I want you to make your life decisions without pressure from anyone.”

I couldn't say anything in the face of Alam's explanation. Why did something so simple have to become something difficult?

“I've already told you, I don't want to part from you,” Alam said, “despite my bad reputation which Bimo keeps talking about!” He smiled.

The calls for “
Reformasi!
” had turned into a solid scream that was deafening, even though we were seated quite distant from the free-speech platform. The cry of “reform” pounded my eardrums. Meanwhile, from a different direction came the much fainter sound of students singing a ballad whose lyrics I knew well: “
…I can hear voices / wails of the wounded / people shooting arrows at the moon…
”

I was suddenly moved. My heart beat faster.

Alam knew I recognized the words. “Yes, those are the lyrics of one of Rendra's poems set to a song by Iwan Fals.”

Alam knew instantly why I was familiar with that poem. The off-key sound of the student voices was beautiful to my ears, even more stirring than a Ravel composition. Now I felt that I knew where my home was. I hugged Alam tightly. I didn't want to ever let go.

“Alam, don't ever again act like you want to give me space. I don't want a space that is empty except for me alone! I don't want distance from you. Not one centimeter. Not one millimeter.”

Alam held my face in his hands and kissed me even though my face was smeared with snot and tears.

EPILOGUE

JAKARTA, JUNE
10, 1998

             
My dearest Lintang,

             
Listen to these lines: When I die, the cry / that bursts from my heart / will forever be in my poem / that will never die…

                   
Subagio Sastrowardoyo's intimate relationship with death is suggested in his poem, “The Poem That Will Never Die.” For me this poem evokes something quite normal. And for that reason, I feel that my own death, which is now very close, is something usual as well—something ordinary for which there is no reason to lament. That said, I do ask your forgiveness for my not allowing your mother to reveal the results of my medical tests to you. The name of the disease alone—cirrhosis of the liver—was enough to make me feel uninterested. The disease has no aesthetic attraction and there is nothing interesting about it to discuss.

                   
Doctors and nurses were created to map the state of our bodily organs. Unfortunately, they often get this authoritarian streak when they do it. As a result, they are often able to influence our actions and emotions by what they say. And I for one would thoroughly object if you (or I) were to peg our lives (or deaths) on a doctor's words.

                   
After a long battle with your mother, who forced me to go
to the doctor to pick up the results from my final examination, I made a demand: that whatever the results of the tests, you were not to be told until your visit to Indonesia had ended. Especially after learning the news of the shootings of those students at Trisakti and then the horrendous anarchy that followed, I knew that it would be impossible to extract you from the midst of the madness the country was going through. This aside from the fact that the airport had been shut down and that many expatriates were fleeing Jakarta, at least temporarily.

                   
The atmosphere at the restaurant was also tense at that time. All of us were on tenterhooks as we watched the television, minute by minute, hour by hour. Even with the delays in news coverage, quite a lot of information was conveyed. (Apparently, CNN and other major news outlets deemed other world news to be far more important so that news about Indonesia was aired only a few times a day.)

                   
On May 21, when President Soeharto made his resignation speech, the whole lot of us roared aloud. The entire restaurant erupted in shouting. Our two cynics, Om Nug and Om Risjaf, yelled that they were going to find a goat to slaughter. (Don't ask me where they were going to find a goat in the middle of Paris!) And as if they didn't know better, they also said they were going to order plane tickets for all of us to come to Jakarta. Om Nug said that the New Order government had fallen, that we could at last go home and set foot in our native land.

                   
Your mother kept insisting that it was time for you to come back to Paris to see me but, I'm sorry, I had to forbid her from telling you so. By this time I was just surviving on medicines, but you were in the middle of finishing your assignment.

                   
And now I am surrounded by four white and boring walls
and a nurse with the look on her face that's likely to hasten my death. She never seems to smile, but then becomes delighted when she's sticking a needle in me to extract another blood sample.