waits outside. Nita and Didi have met with her before and are not as ill-at-ease
as we are. Ibu Darmo is not ill-at-ease at all. She sits back with her legs crossed,
looking us over. She neither satisfies us with redemptive rage and juicy tales
nor offers a study of resigned accommodation. She merely tolerates our presence.
She is, as the French say, correct; i.e., minimally polite and not much
more. No one makes us feel quite so stopped up short. Reading through the transcripts
of a previous interview, all five of us are struck by this elderly woman
with her blunt phrases, her keen memory for details and dialogued scenes. This
is someone, we imagine, who might "speak back to the archive" in interesting
ways that we could still hear