Surrendering to the darkness, she saw a hand reaching for her. The woman of the well with infinite eyes. She drove the wolf away with a mere swish of the hand then took Dahlia and flew into the well.

Now she understood everything. The well was a sea of red wine.

Blood blackening boiling billowing.

Unfolding the origins of life.

And death.

The woman invited her—

to haunt eternally the boundless deep.

Yes.

Let’s do that.

Pa, Pa … See you later. Tomorrow I won’t be late. Goodnight, Pa.

They will meet again tomorrow at sunrise.

If she wakes up.

If.

The Obsessive Twist

Salimah twisted, sweaty and sinuous, bathed in the colourful lights. In skin-tight leggings and a beaded, black dress that hardly concealed her voluptuous curves, she swayed to the beat. Her cat-like eyes were framed by false lashes. They looked straight at the audience. The men, bewitched, swore to drop to their knees and surrender to the curve of her hips and to lavish kisses on her shiny black stiletto boots. Her mouth, rimmed with scarlet Viva lipstick, opened as she encouraged the crowd to dance.

No question about it, her killer moves made men obsessed.

The villagers adored a few other dangdut singers besides Salimah, like Tety Maryaty and Cici Ciara. They were equally skilled and had a similar pedigree: each had participated in the selection for festivals for Qu’ranic readings and each had dreamed of becoming a pop singer before finally joining the Red Honey Dangdut Band. Tety Maryaty was never seen out of her tufted shirt and leopard print pants; she was a bit too curvaceous to carry off the sporty look she so wished to emulate. Cici Ciara, on the other hand, tended towards a wistful expression and dreamy eyes; she could turn any song into something melancholy.

Unlike her peers, Salimah was never too peppy or too woeful. Her singing was dynamic. It was crisp and untamed. She called to mind Elvy Sukaesih, the Queen of Dangdut. Salimah’s movements were graceful, seductive, sometimes passionate. But she always seemed to be holding something back. It was as if her dress, which barely left her room to breathe, was keeping an enormous power in check. Many said the gleam in her eyes resembled Itje Trisnawati’s. But unlike Itje, who acted coquettishly, Salimah was never known to play around. Far from feeling discomforted by a man’s gaze, she relished it. And then crushed it. Her eyes inflicted a sting, as if she were constantly searching for something. Loyal fans fantasised about what she would be like if she ever let loose the fire she guarded within.

The women who grew up with Salimah knew she was older than she looked. They tracked her life history: married at seventeen; a mother a year later; divorced at twenty-three; single until now, age thirty. For a village dangdut singer, she wasn’t all that young.