The Birdwoman's Palate Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE BIRDWOMAN’S PALATE

  “When history and climate change threaten to overpower us, we need books like Laksmi Pamuntjak’s The Birdwoman’s Palate to remind us that it is through love, culture, and sharing the good things nature has to offer we will find solace and the solutions for moving forward. It is a well-told tale that brings us closer, over time and space, in the hour of need.”

  —Sjón, author of The Whispering Muse and Moonstone: The Boy Who Never Was

  “A beautifully written novel: humane, humble, passionate, and ripe with culinary interactions . . . A fitting tribute from the author of Indonesia’s first independent good food guide.”

  —William Wongso, Indonesian culinary guru

  “The novel has an aura of a dream, too, a little shimmery—it’s in the idiom of twenty-first-century text speak, and yet, as I was reading, I thought of Dutch still lifes, with their artfully perfect fruit, flowers, fish, and meat, reminding us of mortality and decay amid beauty. The Birdwoman’s Palate for me is an incitement to take time to savor the present from the endless protocols that mask and organize human frailty.”

  —Margaret Cohen, author of The Novel and the Sea, professor, and Guggenheim Fellow

  “Who better to write a book about a culinary tour through Indonesia than Laksmi Pamuntjak, whose passion and knowledge of the local cuisine is unsurpassed. I still remember when she took us around Jakarta on a local food tour eighteen years ago. This book brings me back to the street satays and sit-down feasts we experienced together.”

  —Jean-Georges Vongerichten, award-winning chef, restaurateur, and author of Home Cooking with Jean-Georges

  PRAISE FOR LAKSMI PAMUNTJAK’S THE QUESTION OF RED

  “This magnificent, heart-wrenching novel is more than a long overdue look at Indonesia’s genocidal past. It is a poetic reflection on the traumas that divide a society and the emotional as well as political complexities in addressing and thus healing them.”

  —Ilija Trojanow, author of The Lamentations of Zeno, The Collector of Worlds, Along the Ganges, Mumbai to Mecca: A Pilgrimage to the Holy Sites of Islam

  “[The Question of Red] signals Laksmi Pamuntjak’s bravery and scope as a writer and may yet prove to be a landmark work of Southeast Asian writing.”

  —Tash Aw, author of The Harmony Silk Factory, winner of the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book

  “Great literature lights our way and helps us to understand distant worlds; the best books make us part of those worlds—with all their horror, as well as their resplendence and intelligence. That’s the kind of literature that Laksmi Pamuntjak writes.”

  —José Eduardo Agualusa, author of A General Theory of Oblivion, shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize

  “An absolute must-read . . . it holds so many important lessons about Indonesia.”

  —Die Zeit (Germany)

  “In The Question of Red, Laksmi Pamuntjak masterfully weaves a web of narratives dealing with a dark, bloody chapter of Indonesia’s history, the 1965–66 anti-communist purge—a topic that remains controversial to this day. It is more than a love story or a historical novel; it is also an erudite reflection of the stunning amalgam of what Indonesia is: a Muslim-majority country influenced by both the modern West and its Hindu heritage.”

  —Yenni Kwok, journalist for Time and the New York Times

  “One of Asia’s greatest modern love stories! It is never easy to combine personal tragedy and love with a political holocaust, but Pamuntjak writes with such enormous confidence, emotional maturity, and beauty that she has no problem merging the two. This novel, translated by herself into English, unquestionably places Indonesian fiction on the map of the twenty-first century and Pamuntjak as one of its principal writers.”

  —Ahmed Rashid, author of Pakistan on the Brink: The Future of America, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, longtime contributor to the New York Review of Books

  “Perfectly and poignantly captures the dizzying unsteadiness of a traumatized world poised between normalcy and catastrophe.”

  —Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, upon naming The Question of Red to the Top 8 Books of the 2015 Frankfurt Book Fair

  “With this novel, Laksmi Pamuntjak establishes herself firmly as one of the most eloquent writers of Indonesian history, intertwining scenes of great tension and reckless passion with sections of great historical interest . . . It needs a skillful pen to take on the Mahabharata and to rewrite Indonesia’s recent history.”

  —Saskia Wieringa, author of Lubang Buaya, writing in the Jakarta Globe

  “This is a richly textured, multilayered novel—an intricate weave of erased histories, living memories, and formative myths of war and peace . . . With passion and exemplary commitment, Pamuntjak brings to life a forgotten era of turbulence, with its casualties, its victims, and its perpetrators. I was immersed in the novel’s world for a week, and when I emerged I was spellbound for days.”

  —Aamer Hussein, author of The Cloud Messenger and Another Gulmohar Tree

  “Laksmi Pamuntjak’s luminous imagination has brought us a seminal work of Southeast Asian literature. The Question of Red explores with urgent context and brilliant writing one of the world’s least known but most brutal political mass murders of the twentieth century. This profound meditation on memory and forgetting deserves a worldwide audience.”

  —Margaret Scott Rauch, Indonesia scholar, adjunct assistant professor of public administration, New York University

  “What makes [The Question of Red] not merely a historical epic or a common love story is the stylishness of its prose, the psychological depth of its characters, its reflexivity and erudition, and the meticulous research that lies at its heart, which breathes life to the setting and all the life situations and existential dilemmas it encompasses.”

  —Kompas (Indonesia)

  “This novel will join the pantheon of the all-time greats in Indonesian literature.”

  —Goenawan Mohamad, essayist, poet, founding editor of Tempo magazine

  “The best [Indonesian] novel since The Earth of Mankind tetralogy.”

  —J. B. Kristanto, journalist and literary critic

  “One of a few novels that stresses the sense of anxiety plaguing us in Indonesia these days: the anxiety that the terrifying ‘events of 1965’ will be lost, stripped from collective memory. We do not want to return to brutality.”

  —Tempo

  ALSO BY LAKSMI PAMUNTJAK

  The Question of Red

  There Are Tears in Things: Collected Poems and Prose 2001–2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Laksmi Pamuntjak

  Translated © 2018 by Tiffany Tsao and Laksmi Pamuntjak

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Aruna & Lidahnya in Indonesia in 2014 by Gramedia Pustaka Utama. Revised and edited by the author for this edition. Translated from Indonesian by Tiffany Tsao and revised by the author. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2018.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542048354 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542048354 (paperback
)

  ISBN-13: 9781503937345 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1503937348 (hardcover)

  Cover design by David Drummond

  CONTENTS

  A CULINARY MAP OF INDONESIA

  1 VIRUS

  2 BONO

  3 CAULIFLOWER AND SQUID

  4 FARISH

  5 NADEZHDA

  6 CHAMPAGNE AND POPCORN

  7 THE FIRST CASE

  8 BOTOK PAKIS AND RUJAK SOTO

  9 THE KING OF DUCK

  10 THE TROUBLEMAKER AND THE LEGENDARY WARUNG

  11 SAMPANG AND PAMEKASAN

  12 “FLY” SATAY AND “I LOVE MY SON” DUCK

  13 THE PRINCESS HAS LANDED

  14 A PERFECT CLUSTER OF PEMPEK

  15 CEK MIA’S GULO PUAN

  16 HE’S NO LONGER WITH US

  17 HEAVENLY CURRY

  18 CONSPIRACY

  19 SHRINES, KITSCH, AND TREACHERY

  20 SELAT PANJANG

  21 THE ANIMAL-LOVER

  22 IVORY AND STRIPES

  23 THE MELODY OF TASTE

  24 TOBA

  25 STONE BANANA RUJAK AND SATE MATANG

  26 COFFEE, MEN, AND PRIZEWINNING SONGBIRDS

  27 FAITH AND GOD

  28 LUST VERSUS LOVE

  29 CREAM, OYSTERS, AND THAT FISH SCENT OF MINE

  30 PENGKANG COUNTRY

  31 THE CIK WITH THE PINK ROLLERS

  32 WET

  33 THE CONFERENCE OF THE BIRDS

  34 SUPER-EXPENSIVE WINE AND THE KITAB ADAB AL-AKL

  35 CROCODILE

  36 DOING AND DREAMING

  NOTES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  A CULINARY MAP OF INDONESIA

  Cities visited in the novel, with key local dishes named below

  1

  VIRUS

  In my dream, I watch as Koh Copin is gunned down, shot dead just as he’s ladling broth into a bowl of noodles. He crumples immediately, tumbling face-first into the pot of steaming stock, and Cik Lani and her two flunkies drag his lifeless body away from the stove and lay him down on the restaurant floor. His head and face are garnished with strands of yellow egg noodles, vermicelli, and bits of leafy greens. His eyes look funny—wide open and bulging, as though in surprise, like the eyes of a grouper when it realizes it’s taken the bait. His nose, thankfully not his strongest feature, is all mashed up like an overcooked wonton.

  I scream. Or maybe not. But I do feel a rush of sadness because Koh Copin is no longer the King of Noodles—and this, after he reluctantly sullied his menu by adding liang tea and assorted fishballs, both of which he thought profoundly un-Chinese. I remember him saying, “When I die, a thousand years from now, Copin’s Noodles will be the top noodle joint in town.”

  Now look at him. He can’t even compete with Awat’s Noodle House across the road.

  Something comes over me. I watch myself step momentarily into the scene and touch Cik Lani’s arm. She’s staring at her husband’s body—sallow, slack, his T-shirt covering only half of his paunch. Everything seems sadder and so much more exposed under the neon light. I smell urine. The entire restaurant smells of it. Wet paper towels are scattered on the floor, as if they can salvage what’s left of the noodle man.

  “You can’t let them get away with it,” I tell Cik Lani. “Awat’s kids must have been behind this. You have to avenge your husband before they figure out how to make a better fishball.”

  “Are you nuts?” says Cik Lani, her voice hoarse.

  For a split second, she looks blank.

  Suddenly, she stands up and walks outside. I watch her cross the busy street with long, manly strides, the steps of a crusader, paying the chaotic traffic no mind. When she reaches Awat’s Noodle House, she calmly takes out a gun and starts shooting everybody inside the restaurant: the old grandma in charge of making black bean sambal, the young woman behind the cash register, a pair of servers wrapping fishcakes in banana leaves, two of Koh Awat’s nephews who are preparing Bangka-style noodles at the food cart out front, a customer reaching into a glass jar at the counter for some prawn crackers, three oblivious diners slurping up their tofu and fishcake noodle soup.

  Silence. The kind you read about in thrillers and murder accounts. The eerie calm between the act itself and the realization of what’s happened. It’s over too fast, and why on earth is it so hot? The air fills with the rank fumes of gun smoke and vinegar, and another, more nauseating smell—fear, sweat? I can’t tell.

  For an instant I don’t know whether to applaud or call the police, but before I can do or say anything, I find myself in a high-end Japanese restaurant, the kind that only serves multicourse omakase and thrives quietly on word of mouth.

  Before me lies a piece of toro sushi, singular and luminous. From its iridescence and its milk-fed-veal-like pinkness, I know it must be a Tuesday, or a Friday, and I smile because I’ve barely hit thirty-five and am about to taste that impossible cliché—the taste of heaven.

  When I look up, the sushi master chef is staring back at me. It’s Koh Copin.

  “Now this is what I call real magic,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Not only did you rise from the dead, you also had the good sense to bring a piece of heaven with you. YOU ROCK!”

  November 2012

  “You’re late,” says the woman when the elevator doors open. “Did you just wake up?”

  Yes, and I’m regretting it already.

  “They’re in the meeting room.” Her tone is curt, as if I’ve done her some personal wrong.

  I slip in next to her halfheartedly, though I could have just taken the stairs—the building is only two stories high. I recognize the woman, but in my frazzled state I’m hesitant about making small talk. From the corner of my eye, I see that her smooth brow is now furrowed again—as though she’s deciding on the proper course of action. I wonder: Do I stay quiet? Do I come right out and tell her, “Shut up. I don’t even know your name. You have no right to ask me anything”? And how on earth does she know I’m late because I overslept?

  I rack my brain trying to remember her name. Nina—that’s it. From R&D. Fifteen years of service and passed up for promotion at least a half dozen times. Figures—bitter, shriveled, reduced to dissecting the habits of others. (Story of my life, too, but that’s for another time.)

  I smile at her, twice in fact, but I refuse to say anything. Now, there’s no way that I can slip away to the cafeteria to grab a quick breakfast. I avert my eyes from the mirror in the elevator. I don’t really want to know what I look like.

  But before I tell you about my two lives—food and avian politics—one heaven, the other earth, I should explain that I am what people in my business call an epidemiologist. It’s the glorified term for an outbreak expert. It’s a taxing business, outbreaks, and you can’t be at it all the time. When there’s a real outbreak, it’s doomsday. When there’s none (which is usually the case), your entire life is pointless. You are pointless. So these days I only consult on epidemiological matters. It’s more dignified that way. You only get to work when you know you’re being useful.

  The conference room I’m heading to is one of many at the Directorate of Outbreak Control and Infrastructure Rehabilitation. Even by Indonesian standards, this is an excessively long name, so the bureaucrats have, for their own benefit, helpfully shortened it to DOCIR. (I’m sure it’s for our benefit, too. After all, we’re an acronym-obsessed country for a reason. So we play along.) DOCIR is part of the Ministry of Social Wellness and Fitness—which I’ll simply refer to as “the Ministry” from here on out, even though it also goes by the moniker SoWeFit.

  Anyway, the Ministry is headquartered on Jalan Perwira in East Jakarta, which is all very fitting because perwira means high-ranking official, and, well, you get the gist.

  I should also explain that I’m not a staff member for this august, if slightly anxious, institution. Technically, I’m not a staff member anywhere, but for the past si
x years DOCIR has been working with OneWorld, a small but kick-ass NGO based in South Jakarta that I consult for. Of all the NGOs that have solicited my services, OneWorld is the only one that hasn’t written me off. They seem to value my expertise. In fact, they even seem to like me—especially since 2005, when avian flu took the world by storm.

  Let me explain further, since many of you may be too young, blissfully unaware, or willfully ignorant to remember what happened back then. In 2005, the Indonesian government, ever the panicky establishment, formed a special consortium (with, of course, the requisite lengthy title: the Avian Flu Action Coordination Committee, or AFACC). As often happens, state-endorsed overreaction stirred up nationwide panic, and soon people were scrambling to get rid of their pet chickens, ducks, and other birds, fearing contamination. It is worth noting that there was at this time a conspicuous upsurge in the production of homemade abon ayam—dry-fried shredded chicken. Simply to die for when sprinkled over rice or toast.

  In retrospect, I wouldn’t be too bitter about any of this if it hadn’t affected my favorite aunt, who runs an organic farm in West Java. One day, her aviary, for years a source of pride and sustenance, suddenly disappeared, just like that. Four turkeys, three Bangkok chickens, at least a dozen pigeons.

  “Really?” I asked. She’s rational, fearless, her own woman. Surely this is only temporary, I reasoned silently. But when I pressed her further, the possibility that she—of all people!—was turning into the multitude began to flicker in my head; for there she was, shrugging indifferently, saying it was time to “pare down,” to “consolidate,” as though she’d just gotten rid of some old clothes.

  You have to understand. This woman loved birds—both the feeding and the eating of them. I still remember how she’d adopt stray chickens in order to keep them off the streets. And how we’d take weekend trips to Chinatown to gorge ourselves on roast duck. She also supplied me with the only recipes for confit de canard and duck a l’orange that were actually any good and that kept my penny-pinching friends from OneWorld happy whenever they came to my place with a hankering for Western cuisine.