It didn’t take long for Mai to master the skills of a bar girl. The key was to know her customer. She would watch each GI as they arrived. Was he wearing a pair of nice pants, shirt, real shoes? Or was he dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and scruffy Adidas? How did the soldier hold himself? Was his posture upright and proud, or did he slink in hoping no one would notice? What about his attitude? Was he interested in his surroundings? Curious about the other patrons and staff? Or was there a condescending, cynical look, a “just give me my booze” expression?
By choosing a man who met her criteria, she was two steps ahead. She would give the man time to get used to the lighting and the cool temperature. She was eternally grateful to Chú and Cô Thạc for installing air-conditioning because it always meant a full house. Once a “qualified” GI headed to a table or booth, she would glide over. In a quiet but cheerful voice, she’d say, “Hello, there.”
She’d wait for the man’s reaction. If his face lit up or if he smiled, she’d ask if she could sit. If he didn’t respond, she’d adopt a little-girl-lost role. She’d tentatively ask if he could please help her. She’d just arrived in Saigon and was nervous about working at the bar, and she needed reassurance that she’d made the right decision. He could help by buying a drink from her. In the event the GI was a regular customer and already knew her, she’d greet him like a brother, make a fuss over him, and guide him to the table or booth at which they’d sat before, calling it their “spot.”
One of those methods always worked, and within a few weeks, she was earning ten times what she’d made at the Saigon Café, and more than officials who worked for the South Vietnamese government, the girls told her.
The first thing she did was buy more clothes, all of them colorful and seductive without being slutty, mostly pants and silky tops. In order to maintain her popularity, she needed to retain some of the mystery and allure that American soldiers attached to Asian women, so she made sure her clothes flattered her slim build. Occasionally she wore an áo dài, a tight fitting tunic with slits on the sides, over loose pants, although Cô Thạc preferred they dress Western-style.
After a few weeks she and Hạnh pooled their resources and searched for a nicer place to live. They found a neighborhood boardinghouse run by an older couple who were hard of hearing. The couple ran a camera shop on the ground floor of their tube house; they lived on the second and third floors and rented out the fourth and fifth. Mai told the couple they were nursing students on the night shift and would be asleep most of the day. The couple said that wasn’t a problem and showed them their largest room, on the fourth floor of the tube house. A small bath adjoined it. The room was large and clean and included two beds. The girls took it. They would move in two days later.
“I am so happy!” Hạnh clapped her hands together as they started back to the bar. “Here we are, from the country, and we’re living on our own in Saigon. My family back home will not believe it.”
“Where is home for you, Hạnh?”
“I am from the Central Highlands. A small village called Ba Na. Near Pleiku.”
“Why did you come to Saigon?”
“I am the number one child, but the only daughter. The NVA recruited my younger brothers. My mother didn’t want me to be involved in the war. They recruit women, too, you know.”
Mai nodded. “So your parents approved?”
Hạnh shook her head. “My father didn’t. He is a committed Communist. My mother arranged for me to ‘run away.’”
Mai bit her lip and went quiet. Then: “She must love you very much.”
Hạnh didn’t answer for a moment. “Yes.” She said it almost reverently. “I miss her.”
Their mood turned somber, and they walked in silence, both thinking about the families they had lost. They turned the corner and emerged from the French Quarter near the cathedral. A hot sun glinted off the stained-glass windows. Mai forced her mood to lighten. “We have each other now.”
Hạnh slipped her arm around Mai. “We do. And we have good jobs, and now, a nice place to live.” She smiled slyly. “And maybe something else.”
Mai turned to her. “What?”
Hạnh’s grin widened. “You know Chuck, the GI who comes in often?”
“Of course,” Mai said. “He always asks for you.”
Hạnh colored. “I know. I—I like him.”
Mai’s eyebrows arched. “And?”
Hạnh’s face grew beet red. “He would like to have some ‘private time’ with me.”
Mai was quiet for a moment. “And what would you like?”
“I would like that too,” Hạnh said.
“Ah. I see.” Mai turned her gaze from her friend to the street. “And you are hoping you can use our new apartment for this ‘private time’?”
Hạnh nodded.
Mai was both jealous of and happy for her friend. A man wanted her. An American. If things worked out, perhaps he would take her to America. That was the dream of every bar girl. To get an American to fall in love with them and whisk them off to the States, where life was easy and there was plenty of money. Of course, they didn’t talk about it to one another. No one wanted to confess to a dream that might not come true. They were under no illusions as to what the soldiers wanted. Some girls gave; others didn’t. The rumor at the Stardust was that only one bar girl had ever left for the U.S. with her soldier prince. They were said to be in California, but no one had heard from her. But now Hạnh had a chance. It might happen.
“You are sure this is what you want, Hạnh?”
Hạnh nodded.
“Well then, of course you can,” Mai answered. “Just let me know when, so I can make other arrangements.”
Hạnh squealed in delight and hugged Mai. Mai wondered if that would ever happen to her.