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had happened. Five oil palm trees and a starfruit tree decorated the spacious yard where little children liked to swing on a tire that dangled from a branch. By the roadside a majestic flame tree shed petals that scattered on a carpet of Japanese stiltgrass, on which small children would play-fight and roll around and where a raft of turkeys roamed. At each of two corners was a pond, with fat goldfish and lotus plants and little splashing fountains. On the edges and in the middle of these ponds were a number of stone sculptures: semi-nude women doing hand laundry and children swimming, all produced by Anwar Sadat’s very own skillful hands.
    Another of his artworks familiar to the neighbors was a wooden slit drum in the shape of a penis, hanging in front of the house. It functioned as a bell for guests. Years ago he had arrived as an art institute graduate, selling paintings by the beach, before getting married and settling in the village. He always said that he was an admirer of Raden Saleh, and displayed his own reproductions of the great painter’s work in his house, including the famous tiger and bison fight, shamelessly imitating the man’s techniques. He was not at all bothered by the fact that his artistic reputation was known only among the people around his house.
    He married a trainee midwife, who once dropped by and asked him to paint her portrait. Anwar Sadat made the girl look far more beautiful than she had ever really been, and she fell in love with him for that. Not wanting to break the girl’s heart, he married her instantly, later to find himself very rich as the girl was heiress to half the township’s land. Ater that he was no longer so eager to pursue artistic fame of any sort, owing to the inheritance of his wife who also worked as a midwife at the hospital. But of course he still painted and made sculptures, mostly portraits of people he knew, and impeccable copies of Raden Saleh’s masterpieces. Save for a portrait of Major Sadrah in the man’s own house, his canvases collectively displayed a myriad of beautiful women.
    He really had no job after he gave up painting professionally. He spent his boundless free time playing chess with Sadrah, sponsoring the village soccer club, and chasing girls. The last of these habits, the pursuit and seduction of girls, and sometimes widows or willing wives, was done with more passion than he ever put into his painting. This too was no secret, because a secret couldn’t stay long in the mouth of any of his neighbors. Even so, the immoral impression he gave never eclipsed people’s respect for him, and at every meeting they would let him give lengthy speeches, and he always turned out to be an eloquent speaker. He was charming, and for that reason people forgave him. Plus there was the fact that few of his friends could honestly claim to be better behaved.
    That morning nobody had seen the grim reaper resting on his shoulder. Anwar Sadat was a jolly devil who never looked glum, as if death might never touch him. As usual he went to the pancake stall for breakfast, where he jostled with teenagers in school uniform looking worried as they waited for the school bell. Anyone there would have heard jokes from his fried-tempeh-and-pancake-stuffed mouth. Anwar Sadat would have been sitting on the small bench, before the smoldering stove, while the vendor poured batter into the griddle on the stove, turning the fritters over and over in a wok full of boiling oil. He would have pinched the chins of girls in school uniform until they protested at the lewdness, and pulled to one side to avoid his sudden attempt to peck at their cheeks.
    They would remember him clearly, wearing plain white shorts and an undershirt bearing the ABC jewelry store logo. He was chubby and a little sluggish, due to age and lack of exercise, yet he would brag that his cock was as solid as a horn, and never concealed his explosive lust. That morning he talked a lot,