Mai’s mood turned sour that night. She asked the bartender at the Stardust to mix her drinks with real liquor. The bartender cocked his head but did what she asked. Mai didn’t have much tolerance for alcohol; after two drinks her rage at being abandoned by Chị Tâm had dulled, replaced with a sense of deep isolation. Chị Tâm was right about one thing, and Mai couldn’t stop thinking about it. No one cared whether she lived or died, except, perhaps, Hạnh. To Chú Thạc and Cô Thạc, she was just a bar girl. To Bà Phạm, the monthly rent. She wasn’t sure about Sandy.
Hạnh stuck close to Mai that evening, which Mai appreciated. Hạnh would never talk to her the way Chị Tâm had. Finally, though, Hạnh said, “I know you don’t want to talk about your sister—”
“You’re right.” She cut Hạnh off.
“There’s something you should know.”
Mai threw Hạnh a wary glance. She hoped Hạnh wasn’t going to lecture her too.
“I was outside the camera shop smoking a cigarette when your sister came out. And I saw something poking out of her pants pocket.”
“What?”
Hạnh blinked. “It was a black-and-white-checkered scarf.”
It took a moment for Mai to register. “Tâm had a khăn rằn?”
Hạnh nodded.
Mai’s hand flew to her mouth. The khăn rằn was a common scarf worn in the Mekong Delta. Since the war started, however, it had become a symbol through which Viet Cong fighters, who had no uniforms and wore everyday clothes, recognized one another during combat. Wearing it now, of course, was illegal, and anyone found with the scarf could be arrested. Even executed. Astonished, Mai said, “My sister is going to fight with the Viet Cong!”
By the time Sandy showed up, Mai, on her fourth mai tai, was tipsy and loud. For her the evening had become a gray fog of cigarette smoke broken up occasionally by vivid colors like the paintings of those French painters the nuns from the Catholic school had showed them. When she spotted Sandy, she clumsily waved a hand in the air. He came over, sized her up, then glanced at Hạnh, who rolled her eyes.
Mai saw them. “You share secrets? What about?” Her words were slurred.
Sandy caught her arm in an effort to help her get up, but she pushed him away. “No.” She shook her head. “I finish my drink.”
“You’ve had enough,” Sandy said. “Hạnh, get our princess some coffee.” He had taken to calling her that. Usually Mai loved the nickname, but tonight she was so out of sorts she blurted out, “Not your princess.” She leaned back against her chair and swiveled her head. The action made her dizzy and nauseous.
Hạnh came back with a steaming cup of coffee, but Mai pushed it away. “Too hot,” she complained.
“Feeling cross, are we?” Sandy said.
Mai looked over. “Take me home.”
Hạnh nodded. “Good idea.”
Mai tried to get up but stumbled and bumped into the table. The coffee sloshed over the rim. Some spilled onto her dress. “Ayii!”
“I have an idea.” Sandy picked her up and held her in his arms. “You’re such a slip of a girl. You’re lighter than my field gear.”
Mai suddenly giggled at the thought of being carried into battle, but her mood darkened again. “My sister come today. She fight with Viet Cong.”
Sandy look puzzled. Hạnh held up her hand to indicate it was a long story.
“Well,” Sandy said, “we can talk about it. Right now, princess, I’m taking you home.”
Sandy carried her from the Vespa all the way up to the fourth floor. The fresh breeze whipped up by the motorbike had sobered her somewhat, and she felt loose, as if nothing mattered. Sandy took the key from Mai and opened the door. Mai and Hạnh had divided the room with a flowered sheet so they both had privacy. Mai went to her half of the room and sat on the bed. Sandy sat beside her. Mai began to tell him about Tâm’s visit, but he stopped her by gently touching his index finger to her lips. She stopped. The silence was broken only by the sound of their breathing. He leaned over and kissed her. She returned it. His fingers slipped behind her head and unpinned her hair. As it fell, their kisses became longer and deeper. He gently pressed against her until she lay back on the bed. He followed and positioned himself on top.
When she felt how hard he was, she knew what was about to happen, but this time she wanted it. Wanted him to fill the empty spaces in her body and her heart. He wanted it too, because his touch grew more insistent. Little by little, he helped her take off her blouse, her pants, and her underwear. She helped him with his clothes.
As he stroked her naked body, she shivered. She felt like an instrument whose strings he could pluck at will. He kept stroking. She began to move in a way she never had before, and with each movement, her desire mounted. When he explored her private places, which, up until now, no one had ever touched, soft cries escaped her lips. She arched her pelvis toward him. Finally, he entered her.
She gasped at the pain.
“You are a virgin?” he whispered, surprised.
She nodded.
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” she breathed. And it was. The pain was already subsiding.
He began to thrust. “Oh, Mai. Little Mai. Now you belong to me.”
“Yes,” she whispered back, equally surprised at how wonderful it felt. “Yes. I belong to you.”