Surely she had inserted a susuk into the soft tissue of her body as a talisman. That, at least, is what her neighbours whispered. There was something mesmerising in her allure and some found this terrifying. Not a few were convinced that Salimah had turned to magic, that she had made a dark sacrifice, probably a life, for her beauty. But her fans didn’t care. Sexy widow or the reincarnation of Nini Pelet, complete with her love potions, the woman was a knockout.

‘Is this addictive or what?’ Salimah shouted in the microphone. ‘Let’s see you move!’

Salimah’s voice reverberated even after the concert. The night market had already dispersed but, cradling cheap liquor, men were still jabbering about how she moved.

‘Who would you go for, Cici or Salimah? A girl, or a lady with experience?’

‘As if you know the difference.’

‘Salimah has such a great butt, she must work it around in bed.’

It wasn’t just the drunks who daydreamed about Salimah. Innocent youth and upstanding husbands did, too. They showered her with small gifts. A kid or two would look for her backstage, where the ladies changed in a makeshift cubicle that was overflowing with cosmetics and costumes, speckled with snack crumbs and heady with the scent of deodorant. The boys, harmless enough to trespass on this female domain, delivered gifts from Salimah’s fans.

‘Hey, Miss Salimah, somebody bought you martabak. Here.’

‘Who?’

‘Same as usual, Solihin.’

Salimah thought back to how so many teenage girls, herself included, would steal glances at Solihin when he was on his way to the mosque. Salimah was certain that he gazed back at her, but for years he never dared make a move and he ended up marrying another woman instead. He was struggling for recognition in the community and courting Salimah wouldn’t help. Besides, he thought that Salimah would only be interested in rich men, who would spoil her with expensive dresses but never offer to marry her. Now, even after sending her several gifts, Solihin pretended not to notice when Salimah smiled at him in the street.

The slightly cracked and clouded mirror reflected Salimah’s make-up-free face. She was busily trimming her eyebrows with a pair of clippers. Whether or not she had the help of a charm, half an hour later that mirror revealed an enchantress.

Salimah left the martabak untouched. She passed it on to the band, so they would have a snack when they finished performing.

Salimah sometimes invited men on stage to dance with her. Now and then a man would take the opportunity to snuggle up to her and peek at her cleavage, or even try to kiss her on the cheek. Fans who overstepped their bounds got a shove from Salimah but, still, she smiled and her eyes twinkled mischievously as she sang. ‘So many times, I’ve played around with love…’