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whispered to my friend.
    â€œTake it easy. I just want you to meet some of my friends. Plus, I have a book in there I want you to read.”
    I sat down among the nine or ten people who were there and soon found myself falling into easy conversation with them. Almost unaware of the passing time, we stayed at the office until almost midnight, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Afterwards, Mas Hananto gave me a lift to my boarding house.
    As I was getting out of the jeep, he handed me a copy of the Indonesian-language edition of John Steinbeck’s novel Of Mice and Men. “Pramoedya translated it,” Mas Hananto said to me, asif this gave the book official imprimatur. “The book is mine but you can have it.”
    I said nothing but nodded my thanks.
    â€œAfter you have read it, I want you to tell me if you still think social realism is not interesting.”

    â€œWhat happened to Hananto and his family?” Vivienne’s voice broke the spell and yanked me back to Paris in 1968. I couldn’t give her an immediate answer. She seemed to acknowledge this and to understand that there were other chapters in my life’s story that should, in their telling, precede what had happened to Mas Hananto.
    I stared into her green eyes and stroked her face. I stood and was shocked, suddenly aware of my naked body. I looked down at Vivienne who smiled as her eyes traced my body’s shape, moving upwards from my legs to my chest.
    â€œHis wife Surti and their three children are still in detention,” I said flatly.
    â€œKenanga?”
    â€œYes, that’s their oldest”
    â€œSuch a pretty name.”
    â€œIt’s a kind of flower. I’m not sure what it is in French. The name of Bulan, their second child, means la lune and Alam means la nature. He’s the youngest, just three.” I said, chattering and looking away as I put on my trousers. I didn’t want Vivienne to know that those name were ones that I had once chosen when we were daydreaming. And by “we” I meant Surti and I.
    â€œBut what about Hananto?” Vivienne asked.
    I was reluctant to say. The smoke rose from our cigarette,twirling in the air, taking me to a world of fog.
    â€œMas Hananto was the last link in the chain to be captured. Most of the other members of the editorial board at Nusantara News had already been swept up. The only ones not arrested were members of either Islamic or anti-communist organizations. Of course, they were close to the military as well.”
    I sat down on the floor, silent in thought, counting the rising rings of smoke.
    â€œThere were these conferences for journalists in Santiago and Peking…” I finally began, attempting to give my gradually emerging story more historical context. “And Mas Hananto should have been the one to go to them with Mas Nugroho. He was more senior and much better than I in those kinds of networking jobs…” I stopped, searching for the words to continue. Vivienne stared at me, anxious to hear the rest. “But Mas Hananto couldn’t go. He had a ton of work to do, or so he said, and some pressing personal matters to settle as well. So I replaced him and went with Mas Nug instead. Neither was against my going or taking Mas Hananto’s place. Both thought I would learn a lot and gain some valuable experience besides.”
    Vivienne brushed her fingers over my hair.
    â€œIf he had gone, he wouldn’t have been captured,” I said, suddenly feeling a chill in my bones. I put on my shirt but still felt myself shaking.
    Vivienne frowned. “Not necessarily!”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause that’s not the way life works. If Hananto had gone, then everything else that happened would have been different. We don’t know what would have happened. Maybe you’d have been taken in or maybe not.”
    â€œI’d feel better if I was the one who had been captured. I don’t have a