find a solution to this problem: some kind of business venture where we could work together on something that was personally satisfying (as well as profitable) for everyone concerned. The work had to be enjoyable. My first thought was to publish an Indonesian literary journal much like The Paris Review with short stories, poetry, novellas, and critical essays about Indonesian literature and translations of foreign literature in Indonesian. I had hardly begun to explain this idea when Tjai said drolly, “Which will have to be distributed free of charge because the number of people who can read Indonesian and are interested in Indonesian literature in Paris is about thirty.”
His answer was cynical, but he was right, of course. The literary landscape—both Indonesian and foreign—was littered with graveyards of dead journals and literary magazines. Even so, I loved the thought of us starting a serious literary journal. What an absolute delight that would be!
“I’m just trying to think of something we all like doing,” I grumbled. “We’re all writers, after all.”
Tjai said nothing, but his small mouth became a sour pucker—which meant he was saying to me, “Try using that thing behind your forehead.”
Tjai was the glue that held us together, the only one among us with no wacky side or affectations. He came from a Chinese family in Surabaya that believed completely in the value of hard work. His exile abroad, like that of many other Chinese-Indonesians, had very little to do with ideology and much more to do with race. Tjai was not in the least political; yet he knew, in the wake of events after September 30, 1965, that his family would be among the first to be arrested, because his brother Henry had active relations with Red Party officials in Peking.
Based on the history of race relations in Indonesia and the pogroms that had affected Chinese-Indonesians in the past, the decision of Tjai and Theresa to immediately flee to Singapore and then later join up with us in Paris was very pragmatic. Among us, Tjai was perhaps the only one whose personal life was free of melodrama. He was a straight arrow, honest to the core, good-hearted, and always on the right path. And it was because of this, his unerring record of shooting straight, that we trusted his unbiased and even cold-hearted analyses—even his assessment of the various ideas we had come up with for working together. Sure, I was sometimes rankled by his frankness, but I would be the first to admit that Tjai was almost always right.
Mas Nug threw in the idea of a political daily, to which, once again, Tjai rolled his eyes. “Look at that newsletter Dimas has been doing. The content is fine, but it depends on contributions to survive.”
As a result of the butcher Tjai’s rational way of thinking, our conversation quickly died. What could I say? He was our calculator.
Mas Nug sat next to the open window staring outside as he took a cigarette from a packet. After Lintang was born and Vivienne and I moved into a larger apartment, our home had become the place my friends usually gathered. It wasn’t all that spacious, but it had a pleasant atmosphere, which was helped greatly by the numerous potted plants that Vivienne had hung around the rooms. But this was summer, and even with the plants, little could be done to lower the actual temperature of the non-air-conditioned room.
In the hours that followed, our discussion became more uncertain and even less directed. Mas Nug suggested that we buy Indonesian kretek cigarettes wholesale in the Netherlands and then sell them retail in Paris. Once again, Tjai again threw a damp rag on the idea: “You mean, set up a cigarette stand? Have you thought about taxes? And are you ready to compete with other brands? What research have you done? How many people in Paris smoke kretek besides you and Dimas?”
As we fell into silence, once again, I began to chuckle to myself.
Risjaf then began to say something but, frankly, I can’t even remember what it was. The air was so hot, all I wanted to do was take off my clothes. It was a good thing that at that point Vivienne and Lintang came home, fresh from a swim at the public pool near our apartment. She immediately offered to make us some limeade. After the number of bottles of beers that we had consumed, limeade seemed like a good idea. Maybe that would help to clear our heads.
Vivienne signaled for me to follow her to the kitchen.
“Look at the time,” she said. “Maybe you should make a snack, something to eat.”
A brilliant idea, I thought. Indonesians can never think on an empty stomach. I was proud of Vivienne for being able to read the situation so quickly.
I searched the refrigerator and kitchen cupboard to see what was there: noodles, left-over chicken, some vegetables… Aha, I knew what to prepare. I nodded and looked at Vivienne who had read my mind and begun to assemble the things I would need: a wok, oil, and spices.
I stuck my head out of the kitchen and announced to my friends: “You guys go on without me. I’m going to whip up some fried noodles. Maybe in the meantime you can come up with a brilliant idea.”
Having just said that, I already knew the discussion would falter further and that the only thing they would try to do is find a place in the room where there might be a bit of moving air.
I quickly sliced the shallots, garlic, and green vegetables, and then chopped the chicken into bite-sized pieces. I only asked Vivienne to help prepare the ingredients; she had learned long ago that I didn’t like anyone touching my kitchen tools. Straightaway, she a put a finger’s length of water in a pot and set it on the stove to boil. She raised her eyes when I took some oil from a can in which I kept used oil, but refrained from saying anything. I knew that for health reasons Vivienne didn’t like me using this reused jelantah oil in my cooking, but I used only a little bit, just enough to add the flavor of the onions that had been fried in it, and that was the secret of my spice mixture. Maybe it wasn’t the most healthy, but it was always delicious.
In just a few minutes, I had prepared the fried noodles and put the platter on the dining table for my friends to help themselves. Lintang was the first to dish up. Her eyes closed with pleasure as she began to eat. “Un très bon plat!” she announced, sticking her small right thumb in the air. Of course, given that my daughter was also my biggest fan there was an element of bias in the appraisal. Lintang, now seven years old, was the light of my life.
My three friends attacked the table like a trio of prisoners who’d been fed charred rice for a week. Tjai used chopsticks to eat the noodles, moving them so quickly and easily that his bowl of noodles was empty and slick in just a short time. Risjaf, on the other hand, picked slowly at his portion, savoring each mouthful as he ate. Lintang, meanwhile, helped herself to a second portion; the bowl she was using was a child’s-size bowl. Vivienne smiled with satisfaction as we finished our bowls and then gave us permission to smoke.
While the rest of us stretched out on our chairs in the living room, staring at our embarrassingly protruding stomachs, Risjaf continued to eat his noodles slowly, not caring that the rest of us had already finished. With greasy lips, still slick from his noodles, he said offhandedly, “Why is it that you can’t get fried noodles this good anywhere in Paris?”
Mas Nug suddenly looked at Risjaf and blinked, as if a light bulb had come on in his head.
“Yeah, just think,” Risjaf went on, “how nice it would be if, whenever we pleased, we could eat fried noodles as good as Dimas makes. Or his fried rice smelling of shrimp paste. God, my mouth is beginning to water just thinking about it. Or his nasi kuning, like the kind he made for Lintang’s birthday, with nice crispy slices of tempeh.”
Suddenly, as if struck by what he was saying, Risjaf shrieked like a scientist who had just solved some kind of formula: “That’s it, Dimas! I know what business we can do! I’ve got it!”
Mas
