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Mita again came to me and put her hand on my shoulder. Her voice was calm and without emotion: “Lintang, listen to me. You have to calm down. The more miserable you are, the happier they'll feel. That's what terrorism is about. We know who did this and we know why. That's how they operate.”

All I could think of was my lost work. Monsieur Dupont's comments. “But all my recordings, Mita… All the interviews for my final assignment: Pramoedya, Djoko, Tante Surti, Om Aji, Bimo, and all the other former political prisoners and political observers… All of them are gone, along with my laptop, my notes, my schedule planner.”

At that moment, Alam appeared with my video camera in his hand. It was a bit worse for wear, but it hadn't been destroyed.

I yelped with glee and threw my arms around him, but he quickly extricated himself from my embrace. Odi was smiling broadly at the sight—perhaps their first smile since earlier that morning.

“I found your laptop, too,” Alam said, “beneath one of the benches. It probably needs a re-boot, but try not to be so down. I'm sure everything will be fine. We'll get everything taken care of, one by one.”

I suddenly found myself embarrased. My loss was nothing compared to the damage the office had incurred, much less the suffering of the former political prisoners and the members of their families I had interviewed. What was the value of this material, collected in only a few weeks' time, compared to the lost years of people's lives?

“Thank you,” I blurted out, once again about ready to burst into tears, not because of my own predicament but because of the patience and kindness everyone had shown to me. Alam patted my shoulder. “I'm sorry for being so childish and thinking only about myself. Forgive me, please. Did you lose much stuff?”

I felt ashamed for not having asked this question before and for not having immediately pitched in to help them put the office back in order. I took a deep breath and stood up, then began to help Ujang straighten the desks and bookshelves and drawers that were lying about.

“Yeah, we lost some film footage and some document folders,” Agam said, but more to Alam than to me.

Alam nodded: “OK, I'll check and see what's missing.”

They both seemed calm when they spoke. Though obviously upset, they nonetheless were able to remain calm.

I again offered to help but my mind was going all over the place, thinking about what I would say to Professor Dupont. Suddenly, I began to panic again. “I'm going to need to borrow a computer and get online,” I said to Alam. “I have to request an extension from Professor Dupont. And I'll have to repeat all the interviews with my respondents. This is a
force majeure
,” I almost shouted. “I have to send an e-mail to Professor Dupont! …Or maybe I should call him. Yes, that would be better. I should call him!”

Mita stared at me, then said to Alam, “Alam, why don't you take
Lintang to your house and try to get her to calm down. Either that or give the girl a valium.”

Alam smiled at Mita and then told Gilang that he was going to take me to his house and that he would be back as soon as he could.

“Good idea,” Gilang said. He raised his right thumb in agreement with Alam's suggestion. “Make sure everything's OK.” He then glanced at me. “And there's no need to rush back soon.”

“Alright, will do. Can I use your jeep again?”

Gilang waved his hand as if to shoo us out the door. “Take it. I'm not going anywhere for a while.”

After we got into Gilang's jeep, I asked Alam, “Why are we going to your place?” I was surprised to see the street was quiet—probably the only street in Jakarta that was quiet that early morning.

“You said you wanted to borrow a computer, didn't you? You can use my laptop at home. Besides, I want to show you something,” he said with a grin.

I glanced back at my own laptop, resting beaten and forlorn on the back seat. I had to stop myself from swearing. I could only hope the screen wasn't broken. That would be expensive to fix or replace.

Alam rented a very small house on a side street in the South Jakarta area of Pondok Pinang. The house was painted white and looked to be well maintained. It was covered with green climbing plants. As the house had no garage, Alam parked Gilang's jeep on the street outside.

When Alam opened the door to his house, I felt like I was entering a large reading room, one both clean and comfortable.
Every wall of the large front room was covered with books, from floor to ceiling. I walked around the room, saying nothing but feeling thrilled to be surrounded by such a large repository of knowledge. At the back of the room were two doorways, one open, one closed. Through the open doorway I could see a small kitchen whose walls and cabinetry were painted entirely red. I guessed that the only thing it was used for was making coffee and instant noodles. The other doorway, whose door was closed, I assumed led to Alam's bedroom.

“You need to rest,” Alam said to me. “Why don't you lie down on the sofa there or in my room. My room is also where I work. There's a laptop on the desk. The password is SegaraAlam65 but I change it every week. Make yourself comfortable. I'll put on some water to boil,” he said, leaving me.

I entered Alam's bedroom-workroom and was amazed to see how it neat it was: almost too neat for a man living on his own, I thought. He must have a maid coming in regularly to clean up after him…or a girlfriend, I thought. Nara was fairly neat, but I would never have guessed Alam to be as obsessive about orderliness as he apparently was. Beside the closed laptop on Alam's desk were three 2-B pencils and three ballpoint pens, lined up neatly beside one another, like a military defile.

A number of books and piles of stationery were stacked so straight that I hesitated to touch them. There was a door in the wall next to the night table, a closet I guessed. I looked at the bed and the bedside table next to it. The Titoni watch his father had owned was there now. Beside it was a wooden framed photograph. Looking closer, I saw the photograph was of Om Hananto, the same one that my father had in his photo album. The photograph was dated 1965.

I inhaled, wondering if I might catch a scent of perfume, the
indication of a woman's presence in the room. I looked around the room: at the bookshelf, the clothes tree, the rack on the back of the door, and the open-sided armoire as well. No photographs of a woman to be seen. No women's T-shirt or a forgotten bra that might have revealed the inhabitant's nocturnal activity. I often left articles of clothing and other items at Nara's apartment—markers of possession, I suppose—but there was nothing like that here, in this room. I suddenly slapped my cheek to stop myself from pondering this issue any longer and sat down at the desk.

Just as I opened the laptop, Alam came into the room carrying two mugs of hot tea and handed one to me. I carefully placed the mug on the desk, far from the laptop, afraid that it might spill. Again I thought the room was too orderly.

“You know, Lintang, this wasn't my first time being terrorized and not the first time for the staff of Satu Bangsa either. Whenever something like this has happened, we've lodged protests through both official and non-official channels and held a press conference; but the news is almost never picked up by the Indonesian media, It's too sycophantic to support an organization like our own.”

“I was overly emotional earlier. Forgive me for that,” I said. “I was insensitive, thinking only of myself and my own work.”

“Listen to me, Lintang,” he said as he took my hand. “Mita and Gilang suggested I bring you here for a reason, but first let me tell you that we cannot let ourselves be defeated by terror, can't let ourselves be defeated by evil. And also that because we're now accustomed to being terrorized, we are now always prepared.”

I said nothing, waiting for further explanation. To my complete surprise, Alam then opened a door in the wall and motioned for me to look in. What was it? A storeroom? A panic room? A closet for shoes and clothing? Alam switched a knob and a light came
on inside. Now my mouth dropped open. The small room, this closet or storeroom or whatever it was, was lined with shelves filled with manila folders and video cassettes.

“What is this?”

“What you see here are copies of documents from Satu Bangsa, our archive, which we move every six months: six months at Gilang's, then to Mita's, and then to my place.”

I was astounded. No wonder they appeared to be calm. Too calm, I remember thinking. Obviously they had been angry for the material loss caused by the destruction of their electronic equipment; but they knew at least that their most important documents had been saved.

“Some of the documents we duplicate in the traditional way, in print form; others we save on diskettes. But everything is here. Even all our video recordings.”

My eyes opened wide and my heart skipped a beat.

“Alam, are you telling me …”

He smiled and then bent down to pick up a stack of video cassettes all neatly labeled: “Lintang-Pram,” “Lintang-Mrs. D,” “Lintang-Surti,” “Lintang-Djoko,” “Lintang-Aji Suryo” …

“Oh my God!” I shrieked. “Is it, it really …?”

“Yes, it really is,” he said, placing the stack on the desk. “Mita makes copies of all our visual records and our files.”

I don't know how to describe my emotions, but it felt like my heart was ready to jump from my throat. Excited, relieved, happy, and glad, I suddenly threw my arms around Alam and hugged him as tightly as I could. Looking up, my lips searched hungrily for his and, finding them, I pushed him backwards against the wall. He responded in kind, showering my face and neck with kisses as his hands ripped open my blouse, scattering its buttons on the floor.
Whirling our bodies around, he now pressed my bare back against the wall. We didn't even remove the rest of our clothes, so fierce was the desire we had suppressed for reasons of politeness and etiquette.

Just as I had imagined—actually even more than I had imagined every night since our first meeting—Alam possessed an immense and indescribably delicious power. How he so easily pinpointed the sensitive spots of my body, I didn't know and certainly didn't care, but that dark and overcast Jakarta morning was suddenly like the Parisian sky on the fourteenth of July, alight with bursts of fireworks.

Sunlight slipping through the window shades highlighted Alam's features, who was fast asleep beside me. I studied the bridge of his nose and his thick black eyebrows. Pulling my knees up and then hoisting my body into a sitting position, I sat on the bed. Looking down at the buttons of my blouse on the floor, I smiled, remembering the heat of Alam's body as he stripped me of my clothing. Alam's once orderly bedroom now looked like it had been struck by a storm, or lightning, perhaps—by
un coup de foudre
. I had no idea what my next step would be, what I should do, or where I would go. Nara, Alam; Nara, Alam … Such a mad situation this was for me.

I would begin with small steps. First I would tidy Alam's room. It was obvious that Alam was obsessively neat and orderly. Then I would dress, go home, and see about getting my laptop repaired. I would also make sure that my video camera was working properly and then review the work I still had to do to complete my final assignment. That was more important. The question of Nara versus Alam was one that I would put in a drawer in the back of my brain for now.

Alam groaned, then mumbled a question, asking me the time.

“Seven-thirty,” I answered, as I wrapped the top sheet around myself and began to stand. “I have to straighten your room.”

Alam threw his right arm around my waist, preventing me from moving further away from him. “It's still early. Where are you going?”

His hand slowly removed the sheet that was covering me. He then began to stroke my breasts. “I want to look at you.” He pulled me around and on top of him, our groins now linked. Was this
un coup de foudre
or perhaps a lightning storm? I did not know. But what I did know is that once again, on that previously quiet morning, a new storm ravaged Alam's bedroom.

MAY
1998

             
DEAR AYAH AND MAMAN
,

             
I don't know if I'll ever be able to answer my own question: what can I pluck from I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A. How can I even understand this place? Have you seen the news about the killing of students at Trisakti University yesterday? That the military could open fire on unarmed students is indefensible. I was there, at Trisakti yesterday, and didn't get back to the house until morning, so have slept only a few hours as a result.