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I was just about ready to leave the room when Ujang came in, bringing with him…
Wow! What the
…?

“Alam, this is Lintang,” Ujang said with a huge grin on his face. “She said she has an appointment to see you,” and then in undertone: “Sheesh, I thought she was a movie star.”

So this is Lintang?
Hot damn!

“Hello…Mas Alam? I'm Lintang, Dimas's daughter.”

“Dimas Suryo… Oh, yeah, yeah, of course!” I said quickly, interrupting her to hide my sudden goofiness, and immediately shook her hand. From all accounts, I knew that Om Dimas was a good-looking man but, my God, what must her mother look like!?

Ujang was still standing at the side, looking left and right as if waiting for instructions.

“What's with you?” I asked him.

“Maybe she's thirsty…? She came here by motor-taxi. That's awfully gutsy,” Ujang tittered as if something were funny. “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea, or maybe a bottle of cold tea?” he asked Lintang, eager to help. Usually by this time he would have
forgotten the visitor and plopped himself in his chair outside and started to snore. Hmm…

“Oh, water will do, thank you.”

So polite.

Ujang turned and walked toward the kitchen, giving a thumbsup sign as he left. Asshole.

“Please, have a seat. Did you just come from Om Aji's? When did you get in?”

“Last night. Yes, I'm staying at Om Aji's house.”

“And how is Om Nug? And your father? Is he in good shape?”

“Om Nug is fine. He misses Bimo and gave me a letter and package to give to him. My father, well, he's fine too. Om Tjai and Om Risjaf are also in good shape.”

Ujang returned with a glass of water in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face. Ujang was always the first to act up whenever I received a female visitor in our chaotic office. He pitied me because I was still single and was always giving me advice—and more attention than any woman would—about the importance of tying the knot of intention with a good and honorable woman, or some kind of bullshit like that.

Though Ujang could see that I had begun to lose my patience with him, he just stood there, rolling his eyes.

“So, how can I help you?” I asked Lintang while peeking at my watch. At that moment my cell phone started to ring and this time I was forced to answer because Bimo is one person who does not understand the emphatic use of the word “no.”

“Yup…?”

“Where the hell are you?” Bimo demanded to know.

“Our visitor just arrived. Hold your horses, OK?” I glanced at Lintang and shut off my phone.

Lintang was seated directly in front of me.

Tall for a woman, almost the same height as me, but with fair skin and brown eyes, and a student at the Sorbonne. Daughter of Dimas Suryo, a political exile who had married… God, I'd suddenly forgotten her mother's name. Whatever. A Frenchwoman.

“I'm sorry, Mas Alam. I've caught you at a bad time. It looks like you have to go somewhere.”

She seemed nervous as she rummaged through her knapsack, apparently looking for something.

“That's all right. And call me Alam, by the way, without the ‘
mas.
' So, you're here to work on your master's thesis?” I asked, trying to start the conversation in order to bring it more quickly to an end. Bimo was helpless sometimes, almost unable to function unless I was beside him.

“I'm making a documentary film, Mas … I'm sorry to bother you.”

Now she looked frustrated.

“I really am sorry to bother you,” she repeated, “but I'm here to interview a number of former political prisoners and their families. I could do it on my own, I know, but Om Nug insisted that I meet with you first.”

Her head was still stuck in the knapsack as she looked through its contents.

Om Nug…Om Nug was up to something, I knew. Whenever he wrote or called Bimo, he always asked him about our girlfriends—as if we were a pair of boys too stupid to find girlfriends for ourselves.

“Ah, here it is!”

Lintang took out a folded sheet of paper which she opened to reveal a list of names of the former political prisoners and their
family members she intended to interview. At a glance, I could see among them many whom I knew very well, even some whose names were rarely in the news. The selection was a good one, even and across the board. It wasn't only famous people she intended to interview.

“Those are the people I'd like interview but I need to be finished in three weeks or a month, at most.”

What? God couldn't have created a perfect being. She was stunning, to be sure, but she was equally irritating to me for taking up my time. But I had to be patient, not because she was beautiful, but because she was the daughter of Om Dimas. And this was her first real day in Jakarta, after all, in the homeland she had never known and now would come to know only as an adult. That said, she seemed oblivious to the fact that she was visiting Indonesia at a time when it seemed that all hell could break loose.

“Why just a month?” I tried to smile.

She looked either confused or unprepared to answer my question. I looked at the list of names again. There were some who would be difficult to get an appointment to see, a number because they were very busy, but others because they would be reluctant to sit in front of a camera. I took a breath. I didn't want to sound argumentative, but this was going to be troublesome. All of us at the office were super busy—with meetings, with strategy and planning sessions, and with our supervisory work in the streets. The military leaders who had engaged in a dialogue with organizations affiliated with the Association of Youth Organizations the month before might feel content that they had done their duty, but our intention to engage in actions in their support had not at all diminished. Gilang and dozens of people in other NGOs had made plans for the establishment of free-speech platforms
throughout the city. Because the situation was daily growing ever more difficult to fathom, Bimo and I often took turns sleeping at the office. But, once again, this was the only daughter of Om Dimas, the man who had been my family's umbrella.

“I assume you know that the names of the people you have here are on the government's watch list?”

Lintang nodded. “I know that, and I know that the topic is controversial, but the way I've calculated it, it shouldn't take more than three weeks, or at most four, to interview eight or nine of the former political prisoners and their families I have on my list.”

I didn't know how to explain in so many words to this daughter of Om Dimas, who was completely foreign to Indonesia, that interviewing that number of former political prisoners and their families was not going to be the same as interviewing people on the street about the weather.

“I'm sure you've heard of the abductions, right? And that many of the people who have been abducted have not returned? It's only by chance Pius Lustrilanang survived—but after that press conference of his last week, he immediately left the country for Amsterdam.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Which means, or what I'm trying to say is, that the situation at present is very dangerous.”

Lintang nodded. I said nothing. I didn't know whether she was naïve or full of herself, but she most definitely was a beautiful woman. Regardless, I could never be comfortable with a beautiful woman who was full of herself.

“Why the rush?” I then asked.

“Because I have a deadline.”

“Well, if you have such a tight deadline why did you choose
such a difficult topic?” I didn't know why I was suddenly acting like an older brother trying to give advice to his innocent and over-confident younger sister. “With the political climate as it is, you'd not only be endangering your sources; you'd be putting yourself in danger.”

I waited for Lintang to say something and began to become impatient for her to speak. She looked jumpy. Maybe she hadn't thought I would be so stern or acerbic. But I wasn't one to take pity on a woman just because of her gender. Having been born into a female household and raised by three women who were strong and self-reliant, I never gave in to whining or simpering. Lintang didn't look that way—like a whining and spoiled brat—but she did look fidgety.

I was impatient by nature, I knew that, but I still didn't want a person to become upset by something I'd said.

My cell phone started to scream again. This time it was Gilang calling, and I pressed the ignore button.

Lintang seemed to have overcome her apparent discomfort. “I know what's happening. I've been following developments in the papers, and on CNN and the BBC. Everybody knows: my parents and my uncles in Paris and my advisor as well have all told me to be cautious, that the situation is getting serious. But I've been in demonstrations before and…”

“There are no comparisons,” I suddenly snapped. “From what I've seen, demonstrations in Europe are a polite affair—kind of like a meeting between future in-laws: enough to make your heart beat faster but, in the end, easy to control. Demonstrations in Europe are orderly and even when there is unrest, like what happened in Paris in May 1968, it's still not in the dangerous category. But here, in Indonesia, with so many factions involved
whose motives are completely uncertain, anything can happen. A peaceful demonstration can turn into a riot. Indonesians lose their heads easily, and when the situation is heated they can be easily ordered to do things they would not normally do. Look at the brutality of September 1965. Look at the riots of January 1974.

“None of us want anything untoward to happen. All of us want the demonstrations to proceed safely and peacefully. But, at the same time, we have to be prepared, because even a safe situation can quickly turn violent.”

“Don't worry. I won't disturb your work. If you can't help me, that's all right.”

Shit. Now what?

“Please, don't get me wrong, Lintang. I'm just trying to explain the background to the situation here. You are Om Dimas's daughter. He's been like a father to us and if anything were to happen to you, I'd be the first to be blamed, not only by your father and your uncles at Tanah Air Restaurant, but also by my family.”

Lintang didn't reply. She seemed not to have known that an entire welcome committee had been established for her visit and a red carpet rolled out for her arrival.

“I'm sorry, but I didn't come here to lie on the beach in Bali. I'm not a guest who needs to be cared for.”

I held my breath and reminded myself again of her parentage.

“That's just it. Because you came here to make a documentary film, you can't just interview those people like some foreign journalist who comes and goes in search of the daily news.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me. I know that. I'm not working for a college paper. This is serious work. I need to get to know my sources and their situation before any interview begins. And I will only record them if they agree and feel comfortable.
This is not my first documentary film.”

“But with that approach and the number of people you want to interview, you're not going to be able to finish all your work in a month's time.” I was getting tired of the conversation and began to say whatever I felt. “Two months would be the minimum—unless you're content to make something slipshod.”

A flash appeared in Lintang's eyes as she yanked her head back and stared at me. “Do you think I would make something slipshod?”

She said “you” like it was a dirty word. How old was she, anyway: twenty-three, twenty-four? Now beginning to feel weary of this conversation, I leaned back in my chair. I wanted to get up and leave her sitting there, but I couldn't. I could see my mother calling to complain at me for my discourteous behavior. And Kenanga, pounding on the door of my place like she did last year when she was upset with me because I had broken off my relationship with Rianti, whose future presence in my life had, unbeknownst to me, been blessed by my contrarian family. It wasn't easy having been born into a family of vocal and strong-minded women. Every time I took a wrong step, I was blasted by criticism from all directions. And here I was, expected to sit and engage in a serious conversation with this Frenchwoman, but I was not able. It was getting towards noon; I was hungry; and I was sure that Bimo was angry with me for making him have to wait. The demonstration was sure to have started by this time.

“I'm sure that you do want to make a good and serious film,” I told her, “which is why I would argue that you can't do it in a month. The topic is too difficult. Not too long ago, a crew from the BBC was here making a documentary about former political prisoners and they were here for several months.”

“I already know some of the names on my list. If I am disciplined, I am sure that I can finish in three to four works.”

I gave up, not wanting to debate with her any longer. Just like when Kenanga interrogated me: I'd give in purely out of boredom.

“OK, go ahead and contact those people. I'll ask my friends here in the office to help you with information from our database. But please remember, these people are not celebrities who like to preen in front of the camera. It's not easy for them to open their mouths or speak their minds.”