WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence and grapic language. If that's not your bag, turn back now. Seriously.
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I entered the bar at the usual time. About half past six. By this time the heat of the day was dissipating, the sun an orange ball falling into the jungles to the west. Here in Ho Chi Minh the jungle was a place as alien as the moon. There, within the endless trees, the heat lingered longer but the light died swiftly. A dark chaos of screaming animals, biting insects and khaki demons stalking the black with no care for the sacred spirits of leaf and bark, soil and root. The jungle was a deep, ancient dimension which we city people avoided.
Ho Chi Minh, the Big Stink as the Americans had named it in their own language, was so different as to be a world away. Here the heat also lingered, but as dusk fell so lights chased away the shadows. In the city we feared the proximity of spirits and our lights were a way of shooing them back into their natural realm. Let the fighters sleep and walk among wraiths. We in Ho Chi Minh walked in the light of flourescent bulbs, neon and electricity. My father, whom I often thought about during these long days of survival, used to say that electric light was a wall, protecting us from the fear of our ancestors. I don't really know what he meant by that, but it sounded poetic enough to be true, and he was a wise man in his time.
Now he and my mother were old and I, their only daughter, a poor provider in their final years. My father's fingers were so swollen with stiffness that he could no longer work and my mother was bound to her whicker chair where she weaved baskets to sell as souvenirs, even though her eyes were now milky white and through them she could no more see her handiwork than the sad face of her daughter.
But I have flown across the story I was about to tell like a capricious bird. It is something I do and for that I apologise. I will try to return to the tale, for it weighs heavy on my mind and though I cannot escape its conclusion, I cannot help but run the sequence of events over and over out loud. For some reason it calms me to do so. It chases away the emotion I feel, the insanity I know will one day claim me forever, just as the flickering electric light of the grubby bulb swinging above chases away the fears of my ancestors.
I entered the bar at the usual time. About half past six. The usual crowd were gathering. Ly, with her slender legs and chest as flat as the beer soaked bartop upon which she leaned; Phuong, a beautiful, tall girl but much younger than the rest of us; Qui, whom we all named Turtle since that was what her name meant and also because she was short and plump with buds where the rest of us had breasts and an odd curve to her back; and Long, whose western shape and feisty personality attracted the Americans particularly.
The stone about my own neck took the fashion of parents too old to support themselves. Ly and Phuong were both mothers with babies born to men whose bodies now lay rotting somewhere in the primordial jungle. Qui was alone and no local man wanted her. The curve of her back was considered an ill omen, a sign that her offspring would be born possessed, if not outright demonic. In the Americans she found the affection - albeit brutal and uncaring - that her own kind refused to provide. Long was also alone, but out of choice. In times of peace she would surely have been the strong, elegant lady of a wealthy man and in our fantasies we other girls often imagined Long living this life. Her husband would be gentle but firm, clever but humble and he would stand at the heart of his community, a pillar to his own people, proud of his achievements and of his beautiful family.
But Long was not destined for such a life, nor such a man. To the eyes of the lustful Americans she was a trophy lay and soldiers stationed in all parts of Vietnam were known to gravitate to Ho Chi Minh just for a chance at sharing Long's bed.
To us, her friends, Long was a sadness. Within her heart was something black and crumbling that rarely breached the surface. She never showed her pathos to the men she screwed, nor even to those with whom she merely flirted. But we girls had seen it and it was, to us, like a stain marring the most exquisite and fragile dress. In her own way, Long was a human representation of our soveriegn home, the country we all adored. And as with our land, we were forced to watch the Americans rape Long repeatedly and without care. She was, to them, no more than meat. To me she was a sister; perhaps even a mother.
