That fan was Solihin, who used to lavish her with gifts. Not long ago, he had been appointed village head. Previously, Solihin had memorised the songs that Salimah crooned. He became intimate with her rhythms and sighs, calculating to the second when she would perform her signature moves. He gawked when she wiped away her sweat or got too hot and undid her jacket, revealing bare shoulders that sparkled in the lights. Salimah now looked strange, even creepy. She was no longer an object of fantasy, no longer capable of making anyone obsess over her.

He asked Salimah to become his second wife, unofficially. The power he now wielded allowed him everything he always wanted but couldn’t have. Only Salimah had escaped him. To his astonishment, she refused. If she had rejected him ten years before, perhaps he wouldn’t have been devastated. But now was different. He was a village head and Salimah was no longer a dangdut queen. Was his offer not an act of compassion, as when the Prophet had married middle-aged widows?

Clear images of the former Salimah hovered before Solihin’s eyes, disconcerting him. While making love to his wife, Solihin saw Salimah’s red lips. But reality can’t keep up its deceptions indefinitely. His wife’s hips were not those of Salimah, whose sensuous thrusts had so bewitched him. Solihin had never in his life been known to be wild or to gamble or drink. Yet, being addicted to a widow was more dangerous.

Battling to conceal his desperation, he made a new offer. If Salimah wouldn’t be his wife, then Solihin wanted to see her as she used to be, when she captivated men, when the succulence of her body and her sighs haunted his wickedest imaginings.

The village head wanted Salimah to dance for him and for that he was prepared to give whatever she asked.

‘You only want me to dance?’ asked Salimah in disbelief.

Solihin paused. Then, in a low voice, muffling his lust, his anger and his disappointment, he said, ‘I want to watch you strip as you move.’

Solihin tried to meet Salimah’s eyes without blinking but her gaze, no less piercing than when she sang all those years ago, challenged his pride. He licked his parched lips. Salimah burst into savage, mocking laughter.

‘If that’s what you want, then it’s an expensive gift I’m after.’

‘Money isn’t a problem,’ said Solihin, impatient but trying to protect his dignity. ‘Do you want a motorbike? I hear Asep wants to drive a motorcycle taxi.’

Salimah shook her head.

‘A house?’

When he let those words escape, Solihin realised he was gambling. He had gone too far. He felt an uncontrollable surge of lust. Salimah shook her head firmly. She pressed against Solihin and whispered slowly in his ear.

Solihin was aghast. His knees went weak.

Salimah’s loyal fans knew that she never joked. She played for keeps.