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infused my pores, my heart, and my soul with her warmth and emotion. I was silent, still hesitating, but I knew that that Vivienne could smell the bile in my blood and phlegm. And at that moment, I knew that I wanted, that I was willing, and that if ever I could hope for Vivienne to love me as much as I loved her, then I had to open the dark curtain concealing my past.
    I took from my pocket the letter I’d received from Kenanga—from Kenanga Prawiro, the oldest daughter of my friend and colleague, Mas Hananto—and I read the letter aloud, translating it into French as best as I could.
    Jakarta, August 1968
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Dear Om Dimas,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Not too long ago, when I was given the chance to see my grandmother, she told me that if I wanted to write to you, she would give my letter to Om Aji to send. He could include it with a letter that he was going to send to you. So that’s what I’m doing now.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  All of us here are sad but trying to hold up. In April, they arrested my father and nobody has seen him since. We don’t know where they’re holding him. That’s why, when they took Mother in, she took us with her. She said she couldn’t bear to be separated from us. And we didn’t want to be separated from her either. Bulan doesn’t seem to know that we’re actually in a detention center. And Alam doesn’t know anything at all. Some of the soldiers are nice to him, acting like uncles and giving him toys to play with.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  First we were taken from home to an office of sorts whose name I don’t know because it was some kind of abbreviation but it was in Jalan Budi Kemuliaan. I knew that because one time when my parents took us to see the National Monument where it was being constructed, we passed that way.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  They keep asking Mother questions, day in and day out, until she doesn’t know what to say. It’s worn her out. Her eyes are swollen and she has this gloomy look on her face all the time. When they’re doing that, they put me to work cleaning the place. They’ve given me a number of rooms to clean every day.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  At first I didn’t know what these rooms were for and usually it was just cigarette butts and ashes I had to sweep up.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  But then, one day I found the floor in one of the rooms covered with dried blood, which I had to wipe up. That’s when I knew what the rooms were being used for. That’s when I knew that all the cries I’d been hearing—from so many different men and women—were coming from those rooms.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  About a month ago I found in one of the rooms the tail of a sting ray all matted with flesh and blood. It gave me such a shock I started to shake and cry until I couldn’t stop. I don’t know how I finally managed to calm myself down. But this is something I’ve never told even Mother about because she’s worn out from having had to suffer for so long. I find it hard to eat anymore. The sight of food makes me want to vomit.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I’ve seen men of about my father’s age being herded down the hallways in this place with their faces covered with blood.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Why are they doing this, Om Dimas? Why are these people being tortured? And why do they keep interrogating Mother, asking her questions she cannot answer? I hear them shouting at