CHAPTER 1
I feel between my legs, aching where the forceps has poked its cold, steel tongue. Maybe the
doctor has left something behind in there. What do they really do with our blood? This sweet
young blood, tasting of mud. They take so much. Along the bench, in the itchy heat some girls
shiver. They have blue patches about their lips, even when the sun outside has grown angry.
Soon we’ll trudge back to the hotel, and sprawl in the yard and sun ourselves. When it’s cool, we
talk of plans and dreams, squatting on the cold, concrete slabs, feeling the sun dry the sweat and
sperm from a busy night. Most of us rise early to feed the monks; the lucky ones scramble to the
bank.
‘I’ve nearly enough for an apartment,’ said one this morning.
‘No wonder,’ said another. ‘That Turk seems to like you’.
‘You talk! You’re sitting on a goldmine!’
She smiled. ‘A lucky strike.’
We tilted our heads back for the sun. We talked more of escape there than in jail.
Someone came out of the toilet. Old Madam Lew shuffled to the oldest chair and fell into it like
a plate of hot rice. She moved slowly, legs apart. From the toilet a trickle of liquid crawled about
the yard, licked at our toes, our ankles. We hardly noticed the rancid smell.
‘Where’s Kuan?’ someone asked.
I squinted into my hands, opened my nail polish. ‘They haven’t let her out yet.’
‘Her German will be mad.’
‘The lucky hag.’
‘She gave them cheek,’ I touched up the paintwork on my toes. ‘She walked right into it.’
Drops of lacquer spilt on the step, red as blood, soon vanished.
One girl sponged at her cheeks. It’s nice to wear no make-up during the day, showing
your face, any face, to the sun. ‘One day I’ll buy a dress shop,’ she said. ‘I’ll become a lady of
business, with lots of girls to order about. And no drunk men.’ Tiny pustules littered her neck.
Madam Lew snorted and shifter in her chair. Maybe she hears, but she only wets her lips.
Skin pools beneath her eyes; she rarely smiles. I wonder at her own past – the thousands of men,
the dreams. ‘Are you awake, Madam Lew?’ I asked.
‘I think she died yesterday.’
‘Her ghost hasn’t forgotten to go to the toilet.’
‘Just as well.’
The old woman opened her mouth, but only to cough.
In the morning, twice a week, we stroll down to the clinic. In pairs, we pass the
shopkeepers, shoo the teasing children. Regular clients vanish as we pass (their wives notice, and
clouds of argument stir in our wake).
Inside the clinic is like a busy shop, with men and women crushed together. No one
makes romantic advances in here.
‘You,’ said the nurse. ‘This way.’
‘My name is Wah. You know that by now; all these visits.’
‘Next,’ said the doctor. He was tucking something into his back pocket as I went in.
‘Now, what’s the matter with you?’
In the waiting room, I soothe the sore place where the forceps have been nosing.
‘I feel tired,’ I say.
‘Make the most of it,’ says Lee.
‘Do you think he’ll propose marriage?’
‘Mmm.’ Lee has a regular client: one or two Australians staying at the hotel. She is the
prettiest girl. We say, ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’, but secretly we’d like to scratch her eyes out. The
Australian has her permanently booked. He’s hooked. He’s hooked: now she will reel him in.
‘Will you go to live in Australia?’
‘I hope so.’
‘And your family?’
She pouts. ‘They pretend to approve, because of the money. To hell with them.’
‘You must make peace with them.’
Her lips squeeze like a fist. I think of my own family, my daughter who must be six years
old now. And the shame. There is no peace to be made.
‘San-Lin,’ says Lee. ‘My Aussie has a friend. I’ll introduce you.’
‘Oh?’
‘We could live in Australia together.’
‘Or Germany, like Kuan.’
Lee looks away. She has not mentioned Kuan, does not want to know.
The Australians seem O.K. They’re big and hairy like the Americans, but not so
generous. And the Germans, who want dirty acts. Better than the smelly Arabs, or the Dutch who
argue over the price. Not that I can choose my clients. They come like tourists to our narrow
rooms.
On the way back, one girl is missing. ‘She’s seeing the travel agent.’ whispers Lee.
‘Where for?’
‘Hong Kong.’ She grins until her ears wrinkle. Stories of Hong Kong tease the air like
wind chimes. Rumours of fortunes to be made, of wealthy clients to set you up in style, of girls
retiring after six months. It just takes a little cash.
‘Write to us,’ I ask her.
She smiles, ‘On gold paper?’
Back at the hotel, Pheu Wang is shouting. Some Iranian customers have been waiting in
the foyer. Their rickshaws clog the entrance. ‘Where have you been, you rats’ droppings?!’ yells
Pheu. We scatter to dress, slip into something less comfortable. The Iranians cheer when they see
us in veils – mostly just veils.
I get the fattest one, so we charge him more. It’s thirsty work, especially in the afternoon.
And in the back of my mind drifts an image – the golden rooftops of Hong Kong appear, brilliant
in the sunlight, as vivid as Nirvana, too bright to watch.