Dancing Queen

Boom-Da-Da-Da-Da-Boom! Boom-Da-Da-Da-Da-Boom!

Beads of perspiration were slowly sliding down her nape. The smoke machine spouted its jet of mistiness.

She closed her eyes and danced, swinging her hips from side to side. She imagined a group of refined and elegant audience in bow ties and evening gowns. But the rave music pounding in her ears simply blew the imagination apart each time she tried comforting herself. This was no Royal Ballet troop performing The Swan Lake before Queen Elizabeth. This was a god damn sleazy, girly bar.

She continued swaying her body to the rhythm of the music. The crowd of men sitting below the stage was getting frenzy. Their breath reeked of booze. From the corners of her eyes, she saw her stage partner gyrating wildly with the pole. The men cheered. They wanted more.

The DJ nodded his head, signalling the end of the first set. They both took a bow and walked off stage. The crowd of men sneaked tips into their lacy brassieres as they walked past. They wanted flesh. They were hungry for flesh. Yes, they were, these men in their un-ironed shirts and unkempt hair. “How much for tonight?” one of them shouted. The rest of his mates cheered loudly.

Her face flushed with fury. Men can be so weak, she thought. But who was the weaker one now? She rushed to the wash closet and into one of the cubicles. Not even time to shut the broken door, she retched into the bowl.

“You better get used to it soon, sister. It’s already been a week. Just treat it like any other job. Don’t get personal. It’s legal and we’re making our living. Look at how much tips you got stuffed in your breast tonight and you’ll come back for more! You said you love dancing………"

She looked at Thuy, powdering herself and re-applying fire engine red lipstick on her luscious lips. Thuy continued talking on and on as she adjusted her breasts into her next outfit. Disgusted, she locked herself in the cubicle. She took out the stash of money from her lacy brassiere and counted them. “500,000 Dong,” she thought. And then she imagined making ten times the amount, if only….

A loud bang startled her.

“We’re up next! Hurry up! You’re not even dressed! Get over it girl!”

She opened the door and looked at Thuy. Thuy was clearly a veteran with this scene. Thuy had no qualms about dancing in skimpy outfits, baring her cleavage for the deprived audience. A mutual friend had introduced Thuy when she was looking for work.

They went on stage to perform their next set. He sat there, amongst the rowdy crowd, watching her. Watching her close her eyes as she swayed, her face expressionless. They had told him this club was worth checking-out. Now, he wasn’t sure if they were referring to the clinically white interior decoration with ultra-violet lights, or the girl on stage with her eyes closed. There was something about her, he thought. She was not a beauty queen, but there was something about her, certainly.

As their final set ended, she braced herself for the ordeal of her breasts being squished by a hundred palms. She thought only of the money waiting to be uncovered once she gets to the wash closet. Suddenly, she felt someone hold her hand. Then she felt a bill being slipped into her palms. She looked at him. She had seen him here before. They exchanged stares for a mere second before Thuy rushed her off.

She looked at the USD100 bill. He had given her USD100 without stuffing it in her breasts. Why? If anyone in the crowd had that much of a tip to be generous with, they would have wanted to tear her flesh away as violently as possible.

“He gave you how much???” Thuy exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement. “Oh, sister, he wants to have sex with you!” Thuy continued excitedly about the amount of Mac make-up or new dresses from SXS she could buy with the money. Thuy was different. Thuy loved typical women’s decorative items. That’s her main reason for loving money. She could obtain all these easily. Yet, she will never go the extreme of bedding for money. She looked at Thuy and thought, for all the ways she danced appallingly on stage, she might as well have.

The next few nights, she began to notice she had a fan in the midst of the crowd. She saw him staring intently at her, night after night.

“Meet me outside. I’ll wait for you.” The note had read.

He saw her coming out from the backroom exit, walking down the alleyway. She was out of her skimpy-too-much-lace, two-piece outfit and is now in casual low-cut jeans and a baby-blue blouse.

“Hello. I just wanted to buy you a cup of coffee,” he said as she approached him.

“There’s no coffee place opened at this hour,” she replied him, feeling very nervous.

“Oh, the ones on the sidewalks are still opened, I believe,” he said smilingly.

They sat at the 5-foot way on Nguyen Van Thu street, sipping hot coffee. The chilly air of the night was pleasurable after a night at a stuffy girly bar. After the rainy season and nearing the Tet Festivals, the air was always cooling. I should’ve brought my sweater, she thought. The silence between them only made the surrounding sounds of teaspoon stirring a coffee cup more obvious. Saigon, in the wee hours of the morning, has toned down from blaring honking to soft clinking of a teaspoon.

“Do you have a name that I can perhaps call you, other than ‘em’?” he asked. His hair was slightly ruffled by the winds. His fair skin was a contrast to his dark hair and brows. But he looked pleasant. He looked sincere.

Startled by his question, she answered abruptly, “Hoa Hong.”

“Hoa Hong….. does it mean anything?”

She looked at him. She was growing nervous, yet agitated by the minute. What does he want? She dug her nails into her jeans, trying to calm herself down. Ironically, the soft metal clinking of teaspoon in coffee cup was a comfort. The darkness save for a small light bulb at the stall was a comfort.

“Do you want to have sex with me because you gave me one hundred dollars? I will give it back to you because I don’t have sex for money.”

He eyed her, a little taken aback by her remark. He studied her features. The air carried her fringe softly, toying with it playfully, tossing it around. He blinked once, quickly. It was a memory snapshot. He wanted to remember her that way. His heart warmed at that snapshot. Asian women have always appealed to him. But this one, he thought, had captured every meaning of beauty.

“No, that was not my intention. I’m sorry you felt that way,” he finally said.

She kept silent. She thought of all those times, her mother have warned her against being seen with a foreign man. “You know how those bastards are always after our local whores for a cheap fuck! I don’t want you branded as one by walking next to a white man!” She cringed. “If only you could look at me now, ma. I’m no better than a whore,” she thought silently, of her bed-ridden mother, in their home province, Can Tho.

He saw an entwined mixed of emotions in her eyes. Her face expressionless, yet her eyes, her eyes spelt sadness, frustration. And it seemed distant. He broke her train of thoughts.

“So, tell me what does Hoa Hong means?”

“It means rose, a flower,” she replied, casting her eyes lower than his. He noticed the slight act of natural submission. For a while now, he had thought that the submissive side of Asian women were lost in the throes of development. Clearly, this girl is not from the city then, he thought.

“That’s sweet, really. A rose. I like it.”

“It’s not good.”

“Why is it not good? A rose is a very pretty flower.”

“Because Vietnamese people believe that if you name a daughter after a flower, she will never be happy in this life.”

Right there and then, he wanted to be the one to give her a perfect life. A happy life. Maybe there was something in the air that night that made him want to reach out, to hold her hand, and never to let go. His memory went back to his earlier ‘snapshot’. He knew what was missing from that picture. A smile. Yet, right now, he didn’t know how to tell her that.

“But my mother loved roses, that’s why,” she continued, seemingly unaware of his thoughts.

“Are you tired? Do you want to go home to rest?” he asked gently, realizing it was way past a normal person’s bedtime. He would gladly squat at this miserably shaky table, looking at her for the rest of the night. However, he did not want to keep her out too late.

Once again, agitated by not knowing what was this white man’s objective of pursuit, she questioned him. “What do you want? From me?”

He bade her farewell as she mounted her Chinese-made motorbike. He had wanted to be her friend, he had told her. He walked on down the street, turning into Mac Dinh Chi road to the Somerset Chancellor Court serviced apartments. As he turned his key unlocking the door to his apartment, he made up his mind to look her up every night for coffee, and smiling hopefully, for it to progress to dinner someday.
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He looked at her face, as it rested on his hairy chest, her eyes closed. Her complexion was beautiful and he was tempted to kiss her again. Her skin was almost like soft satin. He closed his eyes, flashing back to the events of the past eight months. They had talked; they had gotten to know each other. So, lying next to him was another typical case of the human flesh, falling prey to social circumstances. Young girl, forced by the conditions of a dying mother and an alcoholic father to seek gold on the streets of Saigon, only to realize, there are much quicker ways of doing so, then to clean some backroom wash closet. But this girl had a dream. A dream that didn’t involve being swept away by a rich knight in shining armour. But just a simple dream of becoming a ballet dancer and dancing before a crowd of sophisticated audience. And she can dance. She certainly can dance. He smiled as he remembered her graceful movements copied from some dancer in the square box. But the dream was shattered by a father who constantly whiled away his time at the bia hois, drinking and gambling.

His arms enclosed around her tighter. He wanted to be her hero. She was not like the typical Vietnamese girl that all his mates talked about. She was not after his money. Hell, she didn’t even know how much money he had. She was just a simple girl, beautiful in her own ways, gentle and kind. She was perfect.

She opened her eyes. Lying under the sheets next to Ian, a sense of embarrassment suddenly overcame her. She was stark naked, next to a foreign man. But Ian was so gentle just now. He made sure she was ready, made sure she was not nervous, kissing her ever so softly, yet passionately. She thought of him, and how he had cared enough to listen. How he had started loving her since the first 5-foot way coffee they had. But where will all this lead? In time, he would have to go, finish his contract and leave her. Vietnam is after all, a place where foreigners make their money and get out. Hardly a retirement ground. She felt sad all over again.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked him, as her fingers twirled around the hair on his chest.

“Thinking, I would like you to stop working at that silly bar,” he answered, smiling at her.

Her eyes searched him. Doesn’t he know she needs the money?

“I know what you must be thinking, but I would look after you. And your mother. I promise,” he continued.

“What if you go away? Who will look after me then?” she asked, feeling slightly dazed at his sudden request. Is he starting to feel embarrassed that she is a sleazy dancer?

“If I go away, I want you to come with me. We would live in a house, have lots of babies, and there are many ballet schools in America too, you know. And then you can dance. You can dance for the President! You will charm him, like how you have charmed me!”

“I can go to a ballet school?” she asked disbelieving what she just heard. He nodded.

And for the first time, he saw her break into a real smile. He rolled her over and started kissing her again as he gently pushed her legs apart.
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The bus ride to Can Tho took them approximately 2 hours, with some leg-stretching stops along the way. He was going to meet her parents. This was not his first time in Can Tho. But it was a first time he was travelling with a local girl who hails from the province. He had always thought the sunlight in Can Tho special – like honey but lacked the dazzle.

Lying centrally in the Mekong Delta, Can Tho boasts of rich lands for farming purposes. With its dense canal networks, the city central where the green belts surround it, it is also known as “The Kingdom of Succulent Fruits and Flowers”. He especially loved the tamarinds, which is grown by the people of Can Tho as their livelihood.

He thought that something about the distinct smell of muddiness made Can Tho seemed surreal. As surreal as Hong standing next to him now, as she tried to flag down any willing xe ongs to take them to her humble abode.

“Three on a motorbike, okay?” she turned to ask Ian.

“Um… yea, okay,” he replied, trying to figure out how is it that the Vietnamese people carry so much load on their motorbikes, and yet survive another ride. He had seen them ferrying washing machines, sofa sets, even coffins on their tiny Honda Cups, while zig-zagging through the hellish traffic of Saigon city. But he had also seen a thousand of them, who never did survive another day, even if they did not carry heavy loads on them. The traffic conditions of Saigon were not something that a foreigner can easily understand.

They got on the motorbike, with Hoa Hong sitting, sandwiched in the middle between the xe ong, and him. The air was still cool to the skin. He just can’t bear for the hot season to come around after March. The humidity during then would seem like breathing through a warm, wet washrag. But for now, he will just enjoy the cool air.

45 uncomfortable minutes later, they arrived at the entrance of an alleyway. He had not been to this part of Can Tho. He read the sign above the narrow alley – “Khu Pho Van 4” He looked at the poor, crooked conditions of the houses (if you could call them houses) erected on both sides of the alley. The houses were narrow, as narrow as the alleyway and the fact that it was narrow made it seemed tall, although it was only one-and-a-half storeys. Kids in ragged, greasy clothes were playing catch on the alleyway, laughing, and shouting merrily. Suddenly, the air didn’t smell so fresh anymore. Horribly, it had started to smell very real. Very real indeed for those who hardly gave poverty a thought. It was so easy to brush aside poor living conditions and the arid smell of urination everywhere when one lived in luxury daily. Saigon was not the cleanest city in the world, but where he lived was definitely a hundred times cleaner. And he grew up in a very clean city in the United States. This was a reality slap right across his face. He suddenly wanted very much to hop on the xe ong and ride away from the stench.

She saw his look of hesitation on his face and felt embarrassed. She shouldn’t have brought him here. To show him the filthy condition she grew up in. To further accentuate her poverty level. She grimaced inwardly at the humiliating thought.

“We can go. It’s okay. My Mom is not well anyway,” she said, finding his eyes.

“No, no. Which one is yours?” he gestured vaguely to the houses. If she was embarrassed, he was even more so. Shame on you, Ian, he thought. He lived in a world of difference from this shit hole. He grew up never without enough money to splurge. He forgot reality lurks everywhere around the world. Yet, shame aside, he thought it easier to brush these realities aside than to face them. How much does it take to get rid of world poverty? Easy – a click on the mental “off” button.

He was relieved to find her home far away from the stench that made him want to throw out his breakfast this morning. He was even more relieved when she told him that her mother was asleep when they arrived at the house. But he knew he had to get out of here soonest possible. He couldn’t stay the night as planned earlier. It would be detrimental to his sanity. He promptly asked the directions to the wash closet. There, in the tiny outdoor toilet, he sent one of his mates a text message. Having done so, he got out of the toilet feeling better that in 2 hours, a call to rescue will come through.

Meanwhile, she could still sense his discomfort. She knew he minded the stench, the sights, everything, probably. And now, probably minded her as well. She should’ve came back to deliver the news alone. But, at that time, it had seen such a rude thing to do – to tell her mother she was getting married to a man who was not even going to show up at her home. She didn’t know which was worse now – getting married to a man who never went to her home, or to a man who was embarrassed to be anywhere near her home. She bit her lips as she climbed a steep and narrow staircase that led to the top floor. She remembered how her tiny feet fitted nicely on each step when she was just a kid. Now, half her feet jutted out as she climbed each step. She also remembered how she fell off this very same set of stairs when she was running away from her father. She suddenly became hard at the thoughts of her father. Vietnamese men can be so useless. The women worked, and worked and worked to support the family while the men whiled away their time being useless. Worse – they drink and gamble. Ian would be different – he is not Vietnamese. She comforted herself with this thought. So what if he didn’t like her living conditions? He would be her escape. Her chance of experiencing a new life. He would be her dream.

She changed the water in the basin next to her mother. Her mother’s eyes fluttered open. She wiped her mother and changed her clothes, a chore that was taken over by her aunty when she packed away to Saigon. As she did so, she spoke to her mother.

“Ma, I’m getting married.” She watched her mother’s expression, waiting for a response. Then, she remembered, her mother was too weak to speak. She continued speaking gently to her mother, careful not to disclose that Ian was a foreigner. What would she think? How would she react? She contemplated bringing Ian up to meet her. What if she got really upset and further aggravated her health? Would it be improper for the groom never to meet her mother? Her thoughts were interrupted by a commotion downstairs. “Oh, great,” she thought, her heart sinking lower and lower with each passing microseconds. She could hear her father speaking in a drunkard drawl as loudly as possible. She could hear Ian’s poor response to the foul Vietnamese language her father was spewing out.

She ran downstairs, hopping on the ball of her feet.

“Ian, that is my father,” she told him as she scrambled to his side. The good thing about a small house was that it only took you mere seconds to get you to any spot.

“Okay. Just that I can’t understand what he is saying, you know. My Vietnamese isn’t exactly advanced level.”

“Xin Chao, Ong. Ong khoe khong?” Ian tried to reverse the situation.

Surprisingly, it seemed to calm the old man.

Hoa Hong just watched on, disgusted by the money sign chinking away in her father’s eyes. She looked at her father in the eyes and said “Stay away from him, pa. Just stay out and stay away.”

“What? Can’t share a little wealth with your poor old man? When is the wedding?” her father said unashamedly.

“Just go to hell,” she replied in a low-tone.

Ian watched the fierce exchange of words, not understanding much of the peculiar conversation between father and daughter. Even more peculiar was the language. Although he had been in Vietnam for a while now, he couldn’t master the language, what with their six different tones and missing vowels. He felt even more uncomfortable now, and wished he had told the call to rescue to come in a whole hour earlier. Right now, he didn’t know if he should sit or continue to stand. But the old man helped the situation by walking back out of the house.

“Just ignore him. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard enough for you to be here, let alone see my father this way,” she looked at him, red-faced.

“No, no, sweetheart. I’m just fine. I’m just starting to feel comfortable in your small home,” he lied. He watched her, knowing she would not response. If she sensed the lie, she did not question. That was what he liked about her. She did not question him, and he never had to explain anything twice. He sat down on a stool and felt the dust and dirt transfer to his Guess jeans. He beckoned her over.

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine. I told her about the marriage. She’s resting now, and perhaps, there isn’t a need for you to meet her,” she said. After his ordeal with her father, she wasn’t ready to put him through another. Though of course, her mother would be far from having any response.

Moments later, her father returned with a packet that smelled of fried food. He disappeared in the backyard and appeared again carrying a dish of duong nuong. The old man placed the plate in front of him gesturing a thumbs-up sign to show that it was delicious. He looked at the plate, a sudden churning in his stomach. He was not unfamiliar with duong nuong. This was supposed to be Can Tho’s cuisine at its finest.

The duong is a big as a thumb, white in colour and looks like a bee worm. They nest on a branch of the date palm tree and the locals usually cut the branches off and strip it to get the worms out. It is then marinated in fish sauce, and the marination process is deemed ready when the worms start wriggling – a sign that the sauce has seeped in to their bodies. It is then grilled over charcoal till golden brown.

He turned away from the plate and looked at the smiling old man. Then, back again at the plate of bee worms. He had gotten out of this many times. But he had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of those times. Where was Hong? Better yet, where was the damn phone call? And he remembered – only an hour had passed since his text message. The old man took a seat beside him and started demonstrating the deliciousness of the duong nuong. Should he start shouting for help? It was suddenly very warm in the house, Ian thought. The old man then gestured to Ian to have some. To get it over with, Ian took one and popped it into his mouth. It tasted like fats, but also had a distinct sweetness to it. But Ian didn’t like it. He desperately scanned the room for any signs of water.

The old man stood up and suddenly said “Money, money,” and pointed to the dish and pointed to himself. It was easy to tell what he wanted – money. Not to buy more duong nuong but to supplement his habits.

“Oh, what the hell, “ Ian thought out loud. Just as he reached for his wallet, his mobile phone rang loudly. He never usually set the tone to the maximum loudness level. But today, he had wanted to make sure the ringing was heard all over Can Tho. He picked up the call, his rescue call. Never mind that this wasn’t the intended call which was due in another hour’s time. It was still a rescue call.

He spoke loudly over the phone. Again, something which he never usually did, finding it rude when people spoke loudly over their cell phone. Somehow, Americans the world over feel they have very good mobile phone ethics and as an American, he lived up to it. But not today. He didn’t need to do so today.

Hearing the conversation, Hoa Hong walked in.

“You have to go?”

“Yes, I have an urgent matter to attend to. I’ll take the next bus out to Saigon. No problem.”

“Okay,” she said. She can’t help but feel the call was too well-timed. But she kept quiet.

“Give this money to your father. Thank him for the delicious duong nuong,” he said, waving a wad of cash in front of her.

“No, no. Keep it. He will just use it to gamble and drink more.”

Just then, the money was snatched from his hands, and he turned just in time to watch the back of the old man walking out the door, shouting “Cam On” and tucking the newly found wealth into his pockets.
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“You’re going to what???!!” David exclaimed, trickles of beer escaped from the corners of his mouth.

“Dude, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Marry a Vietnamese woman? They’re just good for fucks. Not for real!” Jonah chipped in, knocking his beer mug against David’s beer mug as a sign of being in cahoots.

“Hey, look, Hong is nothing like that, alright! And speaking of which – your call to rescue never did come, you bastard! I could’ve been dead for all you cared, right? So why bother if I am getting married to a Vietnamese woman or not? Ian answered, agitated by his mates’ responses. He looked at them and thought of all the typical stereotyping that has been going on around him – the stereotyping of Vietnamese females, the stereotyping of foreigner males. The stereotypical role is surely not far from the truth, but God willing, he had found someone different, and hopefully, she thinks of it that way too. In some ways, he was simple like her, coming from small Raleigh city, in North Carolina; he certainly doesn’t have the airs of a New York Yankee like his beer swigging mates. Sure, he brushed the realities of the world aside, but at least he was well in control of his manhood. He thought of the conditions he saw today. 37 years of his life, and today, he met with his first reality. He truly led a sheltered life. He shook his head, as if doing that would shake the image out of his mind.

“Yo, dude, they’re always sweet like that until you pop the ring into her finger. And then it is – give me your credit card, give me your wallet, give me your passport. Your bachelor days are over. And if you so much as look at another female, your eyes will be dug out and fed to the crows! Better yet, she’ll make soup out of it and feed it back to you!” David cooed, and Jonah once again took a swig of his beer as a show of support.

“Hey look, one of my office colleagues married one. I can set you two up, and you can exchange some vital information. Really.” Jonah said nonchalantly.

“Look, just congratulate me for finding me a wife, okay? My contract’s ending soon, and I’d sure like to bring Hong with me.” Ian butted in, facial expression looking exasperated in his attempt to stop the way the conversation was going.

“Alright, alright. A toast to Ian and his new wife!”

“Well, Ian, if at all, I can offer you this much of a condolence – at least you’re not stuck at home with a super-sized American woman!”

They all laughed at the remark and made another toast.
____________________________________________________________

“I have to go home to North Carolina for awhile, Hong dear. It’s to make the final arrangement for work and all. I’ll be back next week, and my good friend at the embassy had said the visa arrangement would be all good by then, alright, love?” he kissed her on the forehead.

“What about ma?” she asked, wanting to make sure she carried out her filial duties even though she’s running on towards her dreams.

“Don’t worry. I will make the arrangements for her too. Just that with her, it is a little more difficult. But I promise I will do my best, ok?” he touched her face reassuringly. And she smiled.

That was Hong again, as submissive and as gullible. He had no intentions of bringing an old woman who is on the brink of dying to America. The whole process would be too complicated and would take a hell of a longer time. He can just see the amount of time rushing to and from the embassy just to sort everything out. No, too much trouble. Too much reminder of the real world. He wanted Hong to be beautiful always, without a poverty-ridden past. He could keep things that way. Perfect. He would be a hero in a perfect world.

She watched him. He looked restless. But there was no need to join the rest of the world in tearful farewells at the departure hall. He would be back for her.

He heard the last call for his flight. He held her hands, kissed them and said “I’ll be back.” He then looked at her as he stood up and kissed her forehead. With that, he hurriedly made his way to the boarding room.

She watched him walk away, not turning even once to wave. Painful tears welled-up in her eyes as she realized he had not dared look into her eyes as he said “I’ll be back.”