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Once in a while he would drop by the repair shop to get someone to tune up the machine, and at other times he would stop by a stall and ask for a glass of coffee, before resuming his tour with a pipe that puffed out more smoke than his bike’s exhaust. He was only going to stop by for a moment when he spotted Jahro by his pond. Then the evening jaunt was cut short by the news brought by Ma Soma.
    Major Sadrah hurried toward his motorbike, which leant against a coconut tree, mounted it, and tried to kick-start the engine, always a problem. Several times it fired up only to die. Finally, getting a chance when the engine came on, he turned the gas up, making a clatter that sounded like a tin drum. He signaled the kyai, a teacher of the Koran, to climb on behind him, worried that the engine might conk out again. Kyai Jahro was soon firmly seated behind the Major, after washing his hands and feet at the spout, and throwing what was left of the bran into his pond. Trailing along the bumpy path, slippery from last night’s rain, the motorcycle felt frailer than a feverish donkey. The weight of two men was such a strain on the engine they had help it along now and then by pushing with their feet. The bike picked up speed as it arrived at a straight, flat road by the soccer field, and was followed at a distance by Ma Soma on his vintage bicycle.
    â€œStealing chickens, that’s the only bad thing the boy ever did,” Jahro said. “And the chickens were his father’s.”
    It was no secret. Everyone in the village knew Margio often stole his father’s chickens, not because he needed them, but out of spite. “I have no idea what was in the boy’s mind that he could think of gnawing on someone’s neck,” said Sadrah.
    Anwar Sadat himself now lay motionless under a brown batik cloth on the floor of his usually bright living room, now gloomy with unforgiving sorrow and echoing the undulating sobs of the women. The cloth was soaked with red, and curved to the contours of the corpse, while blood still flowed across the floor. Dark and clotted. No one dared to pull apart the curtain that divided the worlds of the living and the dead, for they were aware of the gaping wound, grimmer than any ghost. Just the thought of it made people nauseous and they would back away from the body.
    Two policemen arrived in a patrol car. Its red light kept swirling even after the siren had been killed. They both froze by the door, the only people who’d had the chance to turn down the cloth, just for a second, before putting it back. Now they felt like an integral part of the event, though they had no reason to stay. Anwar Sadat’s wife hadn’t let them take the body away for a postmortem, which was reasonable. There was no mystery about the cause of death or the killer. Anwar Sadat didn’t need to be examined, and the only things that would be granted to him were the ritual washing, the covering of his wound with cotton wool, prayers, and an immediate interment.
    It appeared that he wouldn’t be buried until the next morning. Maharani, his youngest daughter, was away at college and would not make it back before dawn. The fact the girl had been home last night only added to the drama. She had been there the whole week during her long holiday, before she suddenly took off that morning. People imagined the tragedy spreading all the way to Maharani’s lodgings, the girl still exhausted and unpacking. She would have to return all her belongings to her backpack or leave them behind altogether, exiting in tears and bearing a thousand questions, for she’d left her father in good health. No one had told her it was murder. There was just a short message that he had died, and now the girl was probably hurrying to catch the next bus or train home.
    At the house of mourning, groups of women flocked into the front yard and the terrace, whispering to each other and cooking up their own versions of what