Mai rose from her cot and went to the mirror on the wall. Chipped and dirty, the mirror was marred by years of stains and smudges, but she didn’t see its flaws. She planted herself in front of it, pursed her mouth, applied the plum lipstick, and smacked her lips.
“I love it!” she chirped to the girl in the room with her. “But does it make me look older?”
The girl hesitated for a moment, then said, “At least seventeen.”
Mai grinned. “Perfect.”
For the past few days Mai had been staying with five other girls in a cramped two-room apartment in a tube house in the heart of downtown Saigon. Although it was filled with shabby, threadbare furniture, the place was only a few blocks from the Stardust Lounge on Tu Do Street. Hạnh, one of the girls from the refugee camp, had been hired as a bar girl there, and Mai begged Hạnh to take her with her. Hạnh reluctantly agreed but couldn’t promise she’d be hired.
“You’re only fifteen. Girls must be seventeen to work.”
“You’re only sixteen,” Mai shot back.
“Yes, but I’m tall for my age. I can pass. You . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Mai, who in fact wouldn’t be fifteen for another month, wasn’t worried. With the right clothes and makeup, she was sure she could pass for seventeen. Hạnh told her all the girls wore Western-style clothing, so Mai spent the last of her wages from the restaurant at the market. She bought a shiny blue halter top with sequins, a pair of tight white jeans, three-inch white high heels, and cosmetics. This evening was her interview at the Stardust. She dressed, carefully arranged her hair in a French twist, and finished applying her makeup. She twirled around in the mirror, inspecting herself from every angle. “So, how do I look?”
Hạnh raised her eyebrows. “Beautiful. Now, let’s go.”
The Stardust Lounge, named for a famous hotel in Las Vegas, was one of a string of bars with names like Hollywood, Tahiti, Miami Beach, and Brooklyn, all designed to lure in American GIs. Hạnh opened the door, and Mai tottered in, still getting acclimated to the heels. Once inside, she planted one hand on her hip and looked around, inspecting the surroundings with what she hoped was a sophisticated expression.
Chú Thạc and Cô Thạc, the owners, according to Hạnh, were just opening for the night. The bar was at the front near the entrance. Behind it a large room contained booths covered in fake leather on the sides and tables with cheap chairs in the center. At the far end was a makeshift stage for performances, which Hạnh told her were rare. Each table and booth had a votive vase with candles that were lit when customers sat. Someone had painted a spray of stars and moons of various sizes across the ceiling in white neon paint, which glowed faintly in the semidarkness. The star design was repeated on the front of the menus.
The faint residue of cigarette smoke hung in the air, but six fans hung from the ceiling. Hạnh told her this made the Stardust a unique bar.
“Why?” Mai asked.
“Air-conditioning.”
“Air what?”
“A machine that cools the air so it is not so hot indoors. They have a big unit in the back of the building. The fans circulate the air and keep it cool. It filters the cigarette smoke too. Well, a little.”
“It isn’t cold now.”
“They haven’t turned it on yet. You’ll see.”
Few of the bars were air-conditioned yet, which made the Stardust a popular draw for GIs used to chilled air in hot places. A girl could get used to it too.
Chú Thạc, a small, fleshy man, was behind the bar drying shot glasses with a towel. Two teenage boys, probably only a couple of years younger than Mai, mopped the floor. Hạnh had told Mai his wife did all the hiring, but Mai didn’t see her.
“Good evening, Chú Thạc,” Hạnh said. “This is the friend I told you about.” She introduced Mai. “Where is Cô Thạc?”
When Chú Thạc looked her over, his eyes widened a bit, and he smiled. Mai smiled back. He approved. He waved his hand toward the back of the room. “She’s in the kitchen making sure we have enough snacks.”
The girls walked to the back, passing the younger boys. Both stopped mopping to ogle Mai, which boosted her confidence. A fleeting thought of the sampan maker’s son from the next village flew into her mind. It felt like another life.
In the kitchen, which smelled of stale food and fresh disinfectant, Cô Thạc was counting out small packages of pretzels, nuts, potato chips, and rice snacks. When the girls came in, she finished her count before looking up. She was petite, like Mai, and moved with a lithe silkiness. Except for polished red nails that made her hands look like those of a Hollywood star, she wore no makeup. Frown lines were prominent on her forehead. Hạnh had said she could be cross if girls broke the rules. Now she nodded to Hạnh, then appraised Mai.
Mai felt like she was on display.
“How old are you?” The woman raised an eyebrow.
Her age? The first question? Crestfallen, Mai said, “Seventeen, Cô Thạc.”
Cô Thạc shook her head. “You’re not seventeen. Hạnh is only sixteen, and she towers over you.”
Hạnh’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that?”
Cô Thạc wrapped her arms across her chest, tapping her nails against her skin. “Do you think after five years of hiring bar girls I cannot tell how old you are?” She looked Mai over again and said scornfully, “You’re barely fifteen.”
There was no use lying about it, Mai thought. “That may be. But if I were still in my village, I would be promised in marriage already.”
Cô Thạc grunted. “And you didn’t want to marry the boy your parents arranged.”
Mai nodded. That was a lie as well, but she and Hạnh had decided not to tell Cô Thạc about the massacre. Hạnh had made it clear that their wages depended on the presence of American GIs. Cô Thạc would not hire a bar girl who might harbor a grudge against them—or worse, might act on it.
Mai was devastated that the Americans had killed her family, but unlike Tâm, she didn’t care about the war. The U.S. was all-powerful; the guerrillas would never win. For Mai to work at the Stardust, she was prepared to mentally cordon off what had happened back home. She would be consorting with the “enemy” every night. Persuading them to part with their money.
“You ever work in bar?” Cô Thạc asked in English.
Mai frowned. “Excuse me?”
She switched back to Vietnamese. “You do not speak English either. So. You are very pretty, but you are too young, and you do not speak English. Why should I hire you? Goodbye.” She turned around and gave Mai her back.
Mai begged. “I am practice every day,” she said haltingly in English. “And I work hard.” Then she, too, switched to Vietnamese. “My parents—they were killed in an attack on my village. I am on my own. I was in a refugee camp. I don’t want to stay there. Every night guns and bombs fire around me. I’ll sell many drinks. You will see.”
Cô Thạc opened a small package of peanuts, broke the wrapper, and popped a few into her mouth. She looked Mai over again as she crunched and swallowed the nuts. Mai knew the woman was making a decision. She couldn’t go back to the refugee camp. She just couldn’t.
Then, “You want to be a bar girl? You talk. You flirt. You tell customers you are seventeen. You bring them as many drinks as possible. You do not drink at all. We pay you half the price of the drinks. You want more money? That is your business. There is a small hotel behind us on the next block. It is clean.”
Mai knew what she was referring to. She wouldn’t be needing the hotel, but she kept her mouth shut.
“But you must, you must practice your English. You need to talk better.”
Mai nodded. “I will. Every day.”
She motioned to Hạnh. “You practice with her.”
Mai nodded again. “When do I start?”
“Tonight,” Cô Thạc said. “We shall see.”
Mai grinned. She and Hạnh hugged each other.