Excerpt from The Flame Tree by Richard Lewis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"At least my balls are not black and rotting like yours," Isaac said in fluent gutter Javanese.

The three bencongs stared at him and then burst into helpless laughter, falling into one another's arms. When their mirth subsided, the first one asked, "Where are you going?"

"To see the dangdut singers in the town square."

"Why, we're three of them!" the second bencong said. "Come along with us, we'll make sure you get a good seat." They waved Isaac into their midst and merrily made their way to the town plaza, several blocks away.

The grassy plaza was big enough for two soccer fields. Majestic mahogany trees lined three sides. On the treeless north side stood a large wooden stage shaded by a canvas awning. Twin stacks of loudspeakers backed a fleet of microphones. The drums looked like a gym set. Technicians checked the sound system. The one wearing a T-shirt printed with the stern visage of Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar took the test mike and said in Indonesian, "The only good American is a dead American." He withdrew for a second and then put his mouth to the mike again to add, "But don't kill Eminem or Limp Bizkit." His friends on the stage laughed. Isaac, who'd never heard such a sentiment expressed publicly before, slowed his steps. He glanced around the rapidly filling square, an unease pricking him like a mosquito bite. At least fifty policemen in riot gear were filing out of the police station adjacent to the eastern side of the plaza and were assembling underneath the mahogany trees.

Maybe being here wasn't such a good idea.

"Don't worry," the petite bencong said. She -- for she was too pretty for Isaac to think of as a man -- knelt as far as her tight gown would allow and gave him a hug and a delicate kiss on the cheek. "That bastard is only a loudmouth; we'll keep you safe."

She took his hand and led him into the performers' tent, pitched on the windward side of the stage and cooled by the light breeze. Cloth screens sectioned the space into cubicles. Performers perched on stools in front of portable cosmetic stands and mirrors, touching up their makeup. The bencongs found their cubicle and put Isaac on a folding aluminum chair right next to the steps leading up to the stage. One flame-cheeked, kohl-eyed girl in black tights and a red tube top with a pin in her navel caught Isaac's gaze in her mirror and, after an initial flare of surprise at seeing a white boy, blew him a ruby-lipped kiss. His ears felt like they'd burst into flames.

From his seat, he had a good view of Wonobo's Grand Mosque on the other side of the wide avenue. Even though Isaac was a good Christian boy, he was proud that his town had the province's most beautiful mosque, so beautiful that National Geographic magazine had published a full-page photograph of it. The vast marble prayer hall could hold ten thousand worshippers. The central dome soared hundreds of feet into the air, thrusting a pure gold star and crescent insignia up to the clouds. A throng of several hundred men, most in Islamic robes or caftans, stood expectantly on the wide steps to the main entrance, ignoring the happenings on the square.

Ismail soon found him. "Can't miss your big blond head," he said, giving that crooked grin. Over his tattered jeans he wore a bright new T-shirt printed with the picture of the Tuan Guru. Isaac frowned. Ismail laughed, plucking at the sleeve. "There's a stand at the corner selling them. You want one?"

"No," Isaac said.

Ismail drew closer and whispered, "I didn't actually buy it, you know. It was sort of lying discarded on the ground."

The fact that Ismail had shoplifted the T-shirt made Isaac feel better about the fact that he was wearing it. "That's stealing," he said with mock sternness. "You'll get your hands chopped off."

Copyright © 2004 by Richard Lewis