Sài Gòn Tea
Sài Gòn, 1969
Trang stepped off the shuddering bus at Xa Cảng Miền Tây Station. Around her, passengers streamed out of different vehicles, their shoulders drooping like withered leaves. Unlike them, she wasn’t tired. Her eyes were open wide, watching. Quỳnh’s were, too. The station was in the outskirts of Sài Gòn, surrounded by ricefields, and to venture into the city, they took two other local buses, then a cyclo. The cyclo seat was too small for the three of them, so Quỳnh sat on Trang’s lap, holding their bag of clothes and several of her books.
“Trương Minh Ký Street,” Hân told the driver, who leaned forward, powering the cart attached behind his bike. His arms were wiry but muscular. Trang’s father used to have arms like those. Arms that had carried her to school, picked fruits high up on trees for her, hoed, and watered, and harvested. She had to do well at her job, send money home to free her parents from their debts, and allow her father to get the treatments he needed so he could walk and his arms could once again be the pillars of her family.
She held on to the cyclo’s steel frame as cars, motorbikes, and xe lam—three-wheeled mini buses—rushed past. She wondered who got to live inside the brick houses that lined the road. She admired the graceful áo dài dresses worn by the women walking on the pavements, and gasped at those wearing short, revealing miniskirts. Her mouth watered at the sight of colorfully decorated street stalls that sold all types of food, from noodle soup to desserts.
She searched for the con man. Perhaps here in Sài Gòn, she and Quỳnh could find him. They’d agreed that if they spotted him, Trang would follow him and Quỳnh would run and get the police.
A truck filled with foreign soldiers approached. They looked young and relaxed, very different from the men she’d seen patrolling her village. They flashed their smiles at the women, calling out something, laughing.
Hân called back something, and the men roared with laughter, clapping their hands.
“They say we’re beautiful girls.” Hân giggled as the truck sped away.
“What did you say?” Quỳnh asked.
“That they’re sexy boys.”
“Get out of here.” Quỳnh thumped Hân’s shoulder. “If you’re not careful, they might kidnap us and take us to America.”
“Oh, I wish.” Hân continued to laugh.
Trang gestured toward a group of Vietnamese military police in green fatigues and steel helmets. “They come to your bar, too?”
Hân shook her head. “They go to their own. Our bar is only for white men. Sometimes Black men come to ours, but it’s very rare.”
“So each group of soldiers has their own territory?” Quỳnh asked.
“You’re so clever.” Hân knocked her curled finger against Quỳnh’s head.
They passed a school. A group of girls dressed in white áo dài and matching white pants chased each other around a phượng tree whose flowers bloomed like red flames against the blue sky. Trang closed her eyes, wishing she could go back to her life as an innocent student. She promised herself that she would, once she’d earned enough money.
The cyclo chimed its bell as it entered a small alley. Street peddlers knitted their ways through the tiny lanes branching off it, their singsong voices urging people to buy sticky rice, mangoes, and steamed cassava.
Hân lived on the second story of a concrete building. As they removed their shoes, Trang was suddenly conscious of her brown feet and yellowish toenails against the cement floor. Near the entrance stood a small wooden altar where a statue of the Laughing Buddha sat behind a vase of marigolds and a plate of red dragon fruit. The lingering perfume of incense lifted Trang’s spirit.
Light poured into the room from a window. Two wooden beds stood on opposite corners and between them hung such beautiful clothes, Trang couldn’t take her eyes off them. Three girls were lying on a bed, singing a vọng cổ folk song.
“My roommates,” Hân said. “They also work at the bar.”
Trang nodded and listened to the vọng cổ soaring and dipping. The girls were good, their voices clear, coated with Mekong Delta accents. Trang knew the lyrics. It was “Lan và Điệp,” a tragic love song she’d often sung, swinging in her hammock. Trang wondered why love stories, especially beautiful love stories, had to be sad.
Would her blossoming love for Hiếu meet the same fate?
The girls finished singing and jumped down from the bed. One was tall, another had short hair, and the third girl had a dimple opening like a tiny flower on her right cheek.
“Trang and Quỳnh . . . from my village,” Hân told her roommates. “They’ll be joining us at the Hollywood.”
“First day in Sài Gòn?” the girl with the dimple looked her up and down.
“They’ll find their own place, but need to make some money first,” Hân said. “Do you mind if they stay here for the time being?”
“Here?” The short-haired girl arched her eyebrows.
“Not a problem for me.” The tall girl shrugged. “We were new to this city once, and somebody helped us.”
“But you’ll have to sleep on the floor, we have no space on the beds,” the short-haired girl said.
“On this beautiful floor? We’d be glad.” Quỳnh beamed. “In return for your help, perhaps we can cook and clean?”
Trang wished she could have her younger sister’s quick thinking and confidence.
“Can’t say no to that.” The girl with the dimple clapped her hands.
The short-haired girl sniffed. “Perhaps something is wrong with my nose . . . but I’m smelling food . . .” She eyed the sedge bag next to Hân’s feet.
“Nothing can escape you, can it?” Hân laughed. “My mother wanted to spoil us, again.”
They sat on the floor, in a circle. As the stewed cá lóc fish and sticky rice melted in Trang’s mouth, she thought about her mother, alone now in their kitchen.
The short-haired girl picked up a piece of fish with her chopsticks. “You know the best thing you can do for yourself while in Sài Gòn?” She turned to Trang. “Find yourself an American boyfriend.”
Trang glanced at Quỳnh. There were many things she was not sure about, but she was certain about one thing: she wouldn’t want a soldier as a boyfriend. She’d witnessed some soldiers’ violent acts and being a soldier made her father miserable.
“American men . . . they can be generous, let me tell you.” The tall girl winked. “But beware. Some are big. They might break you.” She lowered her voice, and the others burst out laughing.
The girl with the dimple scooped sticky rice into her own bowl. “Your boyfriend doesn’t have to be an American. There are some Australians around, too. Any of them will do.”
Trang’s mouth fell open. Back home, Hân only mentioned Sài Gòn Tea and now—a foreign boyfriend? She was certain she could drink tea, and if she had a boyfriend, it could only be Hiếu.
“Don’t move too fast, you’re making them dizzy.” Hân laughed. “First things first. . . . Time for some training.” She turned to Trang and Quỳnh. “Now, listen carefully. When a soldier comes into our bar, he’ll want to talk to a beautiful girl like you. To do that, he must buy drinks for him and Sài Gòn Tea for you.”
“You get paid by the drinks he buys, so if he doesn’t purchase new ones after half an hour for himself and for you, tell him he should. And if he still doesn’t, leave him for another guy,” the tall girl said.
“Seriously?” Trang stopped chewing.
“Sure,” the short-haired girl said. “Flirt with as many soldiers as you want, but not when they’re already with another girl.”
Trang didn’t want to flirt with men. She’d talk to them and drink tea with them, and that’s all.
“Got it.” Quỳnh sounded enthusiastic. “First, we get the guys to buy us drinks. Second, we don’t steal customers from each other.”
The tall girl nodded. “In the bar, we drink from this.” She held up a tiny glass. “There’s no salary, but for each tea you get a man to buy you, you’ll get a share, and if he likes you, he’ll give you a tip.”
“Fantastic.” Quỳnh clapped her hands.
“But . . . Sài Gòn Tea is only tea, right?” Trang recalled the hesitation in Hân’s voice when she’d explained about the tea.
“Well . . . it’s supposed to be tea mixed with whiskey, that’s why the price for each glass is so high.” Hân giggled. “The soldiers who come to our bar are Americans, and American men are easy to cheat, you see? So there’s only tea in our glass. That way, we don’t get drunk; we can flirt with many men and get them to buy lots and lots of drinks. The bar makes money and so do we. A win-win situation.”
“Hold on,” said Quỳnh. “Don’t the men find out?”
“Nah, all the liquor that they swallow makes them so distracted, they don’t notice.” Hân shook her head. “And you also need to flirt, get their full attention so they don’t stare at your glass. . . . Hey, don’t look so worried. Whiskey and tea have the same brown color. Anyway, some Americans know that we cheat them, but they don’t care. They just want to talk to pretty girls. So the prettier you are, the better.”
Trang’s eyes widened. The idea of cheating Americans sounded dangerous. After all, they were big men who had weapons.
The short-haired girl filled the tiny glass with water. “It’s all about acting, really. . . . Be cool and you’ll be alright. Just pretend you’re drinking whiskey instead of plain tea.” She picked up the glass, held her head back, poured the water into her mouth, swallowed, winced, and banged the glass onto the floor.
The girls clapped. The short-haired girl wiped her mouth and filled the glass. Quỳnh’s turn. She tossed the water into her mouth, screwed up her face, and let out a big “ah.” Watching her, Trang was reminded about the men from her village after they’d swallowed mouthfuls of rice liquor.
Everyone clapped. The glass was again full. Trang thought about standing up, dragging Quỳnh out of the room and telling her to go home. But images of the lenders flickered in her mind. Just a few days before, they’d pushed her crying mother aside and carried off the family’s piglets.
Heat rose to Trang’s face. She poured the water down her throat and banged the empty glass onto the floor.
“Be more convincing.” The girl with the dimple filled the glass. She held it up, took a sip, shuddered, and put it down. She picked it up again, took another sip and clucked her tongue. “This American whiskey is damn good.” Her voice slurred and the other girls cheered.
“Now eat up,” said the tall girl. “We need to get ready for work soon. You have better things to wear?” She looked Quỳnh and Trang up and down.
Quỳnh eyed Trang. “We’re wearing our best clothes.”
“Ôi trời ơi.” The tall girl exclaimed. “But you look like grannies in those.” She stared at Trang’s white shirt and black pants.
“There’s no way you can come to work with us dressing like this.” Hân turned to the other girls. “But we’ll help them, right, Sisters?”
The girls nodded, giggling.
As Quỳnh and Trang washed the dishes, Hân checked their shoe and dress sizes. When the dishes were done, short skirts, high-heel shoes, and blouses had already been brought out and laid on the two beds.
“Where did you get these?” Quỳnh fingered a pink dress.
The material appeared so elegant, Trang didn’t dare touch it.
“My ex-boyfriend bought it for me, from Australia. He was there for R & R.” Hân looked proud.
“What’s R & R? Did you get to go to Australia with your boyfriend?” Quỳnh asked.
“R & R means Rest and Relaxation,” said the short-haired girl. “American soldiers get to go on holiday once a year. They can choose from many nice places . . . Hawaii, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Tokyo. . . . Your boyfriend can’t take you, but he might buy you presents.”
Trang shook her head in disbelief. American soldiers could take holiday from the war? Her father had fought alongside American soldiers but she hadn’t heard about him getting to go anywhere nice.
“So, you had a boyfriend? Where was he from?” she asked Hân. She wondered what else she didn’t know about her best friend.
“Oh, Hân has already forgotten about him.” The girl with the dimple flicked her hand. “We change boyfriends like people change shirts. American boyfriends are good for you, really. . . . Just don’t take them seriously. Have fun with them and let them buy you things.” She winked.
“Try this on.” As if trying to switch the topic, Hân gave Trang a blouse the color of young banana leaves. “I had it tailor-made at Chợ Lớn Market. It might fit you.”
Quỳnh had already stripped her clothes off and was putting on the pink dress. Trang turned away. She hadn’t seen her sister naked before. Their bodies were not to be shown to others.
“Come on, we don’t have much time.” Hân gave Trang a skirt and pair of shoes.
Trang faced the wall as she unbuttoned her shirt. She hoped nobody was looking. The blouse fit her, but it was so revealing that she had to put her hand in front of her chest.
The girls cheered and clapped as she practiced walking on high heels with Quỳnh.
“American boys will like them. Flowers from the field, ready to be picked,” one of the girls said, and the group burst with laughter again.
Trang looked at the blouse and skirt Hân had chosen for her, wishing that they would grow longer, larger.
“Take the clothes off and pack them for the bar,” Hân said. “We wear decent clothes on the way to work.” She winked.
Following her friend, Trang knelt in front of the altar. She prayed that Buddha would bring her nice customers today. But does Buddha grant bar girls blessings?
As they descended the stairs, Trang smiled at her younger sister and realized Quỳnh was nervous. A droplet of sweat was rolling down her forehead.
“We’ll be careful, and we’ll be fine.” She squeezed Quỳnh’s hand. She promised herself to watch over her little sister.
As they crossed two long streets, Trang didn’t dare look up. She held her bag of clothes above her face, pretending to shield herself from the sun, fearing someone from her village would recognize her.
Finally, they arrived in front of a door with a big, red sign that read “Hollywood Bar”. Trang knew about Hollywood for its films, and she wondered what Hollywood meant. In Vietnamese, a name almost always embodied a message. The name of her village, Phú Mỹ, meant “rich and beautiful,” which had been true a long time ago, before the war.
Inside, the air was dark and eerie, packed with the smell of smoke and liquor.
“Wait here,” Hân said before disappearing behind a wooden door.
To Trang’s left stood tables where fifteen or so girls and ten middle-aged women sat, yawning. Their faces had been painted by makeup, their clothes tight and revealing. Two young men stood behind a counter, washing a pile of glasses. Bottles of different colors and sizes lined the shelves behind them.
The wooden door swung open, and Hân walked out, together with an older woman. Layers of makeup covered the woman’s face. Her eyes were sharp, piercing through Trang. An aura of confidence and power emanated from the woman, and Trang knew she was the owner.
“Good afternoon, Madam.” Quỳnh bowed. “We beg you for a job. My Elder Sister Trang and I—”
“Come.” The madam snatched Trang’s hand, pulling her through the door. Trang looked back to make sure Quỳnh was following. They entered a room furnished with a large mirror, a low table, and several armchairs. A taxidermied tiger’s head hung on the wall. When Trang caught the animal’s cloudy, desperate eyes, a shudder ran down her spine: the eyes resembled those of a VC suspect being held by GIs on a road in her village.
The madam lit up a cigarette. “Speak any English?” She blew out circles of smoke.
“We learned it at school. We just need some time to practice it, Madam,” said Quỳnh as Trang tried to suppress her cough.
“You need to be fluent. Learn fast, for this is not a place for the stupid.”
From a drawer of her low table, the madam pulled out a pocket-sized English phrase book and gave it to Quỳnh. “I’m lending it to you for now. Go through it with your sister. Learn the phrases by heart.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Drink any liquor?”
Quỳnh and Trang looked at each other. They shook their heads.
“Then try . . . when you have to. And listen . . . your job is to charm the men into buying drinks and not let them find out what’s in your glass.” The madam sucked in another puff of her cigarette. “Because we only employ capable girls, there’s a one-week trial period. To pass, you need to meet a quota of six Sài Gòn Tea per night.”
Trang felt sweat running down her forehead. Hân had said on average she got customers to buy her ten teas each night.
“Have you picked your nicknames?”
“Yes, Madam. I’ll be Lan, and my sister Oanh,” Quỳnh said.
“Oanh? That’s too difficult for Americans. Kim will do.”
“Madam,” Trang said, “I like the name Kim . . . but I heard there’s already another Kim at the bar?”
“Americans can’t get enough of Kim.” The woman chuckled. “The other Kim is tall, so you’ll be short Kim. Is that set?”
“Dạ.” Trang bowed in agreement. Whatever. She wanted to shed herself of the stupid nickname as soon as she stepped out of the bar anyway.
The madam flicked her finger and ash scattered from her cigarette onto the floor. She dropped herself into an armchair. “Our bar is not just a normal bar. It’s special…” She took a drag of her cigarette and Trang wondered what “special” really meant.
“I named it Hollywood after the famous filmmaking city in America. . . . Only gorgeous and seductive girls can work here—” As the madam went on preaching, the tiger stared at Trang. Its eyes pleaded with her for help. Trang’s vision blurred and she saw the VC suspect looking at her from the dirt road of her village. He was being dragged by American soldiers. He was kicking his legs, screaming. “I’m innocent! I’m not a Việt Cộng . . . Please . . .”
“VC! VC!” An American soldier roared, pointing the gun at the man’s chest.
“No, no, no, no . . .” The man cried. “I know nothing about the ambush. I have no idea who killed your comrades. I am—”
A rifle butt cracked his face.
A hand slapped Trang’s cheek. “Cheer up. You’re not allowed to daydream about your boyfriend, you hear me?” The madam clucked her tongue. “And remember this, if an American wants to sleep with you, he’ll need to buy a ticket from the bar counter, the price depending on the number of hours. Forty percent of what he pays is yours.”
“We won’t . . . we won’t be doing that,” Quỳnh said.
The madam laughed, baring her teeth, white as the tiger’s. “Every girl who enters this place says that at first. But trust me, you won’t be able to hold yourself back.” She took another puff of her cigarette, her eyes squinted behind the smoke. “Change into your work clothes upstairs, then go charm the men. Get them to buy you each at least six Sài Gòn Tea, or else you’re gone after tonight.”
In the stuffy changing room, Trang sat on a chair as Hân applied makeup on her. From what she’d heard from the tiger madam, she feared the Hollywood was both a brothel and a bar. She wanted to leave. But what would she do with her sister in this big city? How would she help her parents repay their debts?
“Open your mouth, just slightly,” Hân ordered. “I’m lending you my lipstick, but after today you’ll have to buy your own. And cream and face powder.”
Trang blinked, her body numb. Out there in the bar, she would be một món hàng, to be examined, chosen or rejected by men. Hiếu’s face appeared in her mind. Why are you doing this? he asked.
“Done.” Hân pushed a mirror forward. A girl on the other side of the glass stared at Trang. She had big eyes and thick, red lips. Her skin glowed under a thick layer of powder. Trang had never worn makeup before and didn’t recognize herself.
Her thoughts flowed toward Hiếu. Last night, after the hard rain, he’d come looking for her, but Quỳnh said she wasn’t home. Unable to face him, Trang wrote a letter, only to tear it into pieces. She asked her mother to tell Hiếu that she’d gone to Sài Gòn for an office job and would be back soon. Even if he didn’t find out the truth, would she have the courage to lie to him, and still be able to look him in the eye?
Trang sighed and looked around. “Where’s the toilet?” She hated her habit of needing to go to the bathroom whenever she felt nervous.
“Outside . . . to your right.” Hân smeared red color onto Quỳnh’s lips. Quỳnh was silent; the meeting with the tiger madam seemed to have thrown a bucketful of cold water onto her soaring spirit.
The room next to the changing room was tiny and smelled of pee. Trang was sure it was the toilet but when she looked, there was no hole in the ground. Instead, a large ceramic bowl rose from the floor. She stood thinking, then took off her shoes, skirt, and underwear. She climbed onto the bowl. With her feet firmly placed on the bowl’s ring, she squatted down. Before she could relieve herself, she lost her balance. She jumped down.
She stared at the bowl. Perhaps it was used for face washing after all. Luckily, she hadn’t peed in it.
“What took you so long?” Hân snapped when she returned. “I’m doing my best to help you, but if you don’t do your part, the madam will kick all of us out.”
Trang didn’t answer. She gazed at Quỳnh, who appeared like a stranger with so much makeup on. Quỳnh was beautiful enough, she didn’t need makeup. She shouldn’t be around American soldiers, only in the company of respectful boys like Hiếu.
Trang caressed Quỳnh’s shoulder. “Be careful out there, please, em.”
Quỳnh nodded and adjusted Trang’s skirt. “You stay safe, too, chị Hai.”
They held each other’s arm, wanting the moment to last, knowing that their lives would never be the same as soon as they set foot into the bar.
As they left the changing room, Trang tapped on Hân’s elbow. “Is that the toilet?” Through the half-open door, the white ceramic bowl gleamed.
“Don’t tell me you climbed onto it, the way you do with our squatting toilet,” Hân said.
Trang felt her face turning red. “Shouldn’t I? How else can I pee?”
Hân burst out laughing. She pulled Quỳnh and Trang into the small room and closed the door. “This is an American toilet. To use, you just sit on it, like on a chair. Don’t climb onto it or you’ll break your neck.”
“That’s what I just did.” Trang giggled. “Oh . . . I’m such a rice farmer.”
“Flushing is easy.” Hân pressed a round metal button, sending water gushing into the bowl.
Trang’s mouth opened. Back at her village, every time she went to the toilet, she had to lug a pail of water all the way from the well. She couldn’t help but laugh. “You two head out to the bar first. I have to see for myself how this American wonder works . . .”
Not everything here was bad, after all.
When Trang stepped back into the bar, the lights were on. The room was illuminated in a reddish, misty glow. A strange type of music was playing. Except for the drums and guitar, she didn’t recognize the instruments. Several foreign men had appeared and were sitting around a table, drinking and smoking. Some women, Hân included, surrounded the men. Two men were standing, swaying to the music, each with their arms wrapped around a girl.
Quỳnh was at a table by herself, near the entrance. Trang joined her. “American soldiers,” Quỳnh said, “we’ll drink with them, we’ll make money from their tips. Promise me that we won’t sleep with them? Promise?”
Trang squeezed Quỳnh’s hand and nodded. She should have done a better job at persuading her younger sister to stay home. It should have been her sole responsibility to help her parents.
Trang needed to know if the foreign men carried weapons. She looked them up and down but saw no gun nor hand grenade. But they could be hiding guns inside their clothes.
She cocked her head, listening to conversations from the other table. The sounds were unfamiliar and made no sense. Hân had said the rusty English she’d learned at school hadn’t helped her at the beginning, and that it took her a few weeks to understand what was going on.
Trang studied the women around her, wondering about their reasons for working here, whether they were happy, and their future plans. She wanted to get to know each and every one of them, the way she needed to know Hân again.
She faced the entrance, hoping to see new customers coming in, when a voice said, “So, you’re the newbies?” Trang turned to see a girl around her age standing with her hands on her hips. Her hair was dyed blonde. Her diamond-shaped eyes, full lips, and high-bridged nose made her resemble the celebrated actress Thẩm Thúy Hằng. Her breasts were so huge, they overflowed from the neckline of her white, glittery dress.
“Oh, hello.” Trang stood up. “I’m Kim and this is my sister, Lan.” The bar names sounded so strange on her lips, she was sure she’d never get used to them.
The girl tossed her chin. “I saw you staring at me. Didn’t your parents teach you manners?”
Before Trang could answer, Quỳnh pushed herself between Trang and the girl. “Don’t you dare talk about our parents.”
“Hey, hey . . .” Hân ran to them. She bowed to the girl. “Elder Sister, forgive me for forgetting to introduce my very good friends to you. It’s my mistake, I’m very, very sorry.”
As the girl was glaring at Quỳnh, the bell at the door clinked. Trang turned to see a bald man stepping into the bar. The next thing she knew, the blonde-haired girl was by the man’s side, her arms slung around his neck.
“Who is she?” Trang asked, watching the couple exchange a passionate kiss.
“Tina is her bar name.” Hân shrugged. “She’s most popular with the men and the owner’s favorite. I think she wanted to check you out. Make sure that you aren’t competition.”
“How can we ever compete with her?” Trang asked.
“Just don’t get in her way, okay?” Hân lowered her voice. “Tina had a bad fight with another girl here several weeks ago. The next day, the girl was beaten up by some gangsters from Ông Lãnh Bridge. She’s still at the Đồn Đất Hospital.”
“And what did the police say?” Quỳnh frowned.
“You think the police care about our problems?” Hân walked away.
The bar was getting crowded. Whenever a man appeared, a flock of girls raced to him, clinging to his body. The man would choose someone and the rest would scatter back to their seats. Tina was surrounded by several men who looked at her as if they wanted to swallow her alive.
“How many boyfriends does she have, and how do we know if someone is already hers?” Trang mumbled.
“We need to get the men to come to us.” Quỳnh pulled Trang up. They stood leaning against the bar counter, facing the entrance. Next to Trang, a girl was playing cards with a soldier who rubbed his hand up and down her thigh.
A while later, two men stepped through the door. Brushing away the girls who hung onto them, they headed for the bar. “Here we go. Smile,” Quỳnh said, and Trang flashed her biggest grin, her face quivering.
The men ordered their drinks, then eyed the sisters. Trang smiled so hard, she felt as if her face were cracking.
The older man bent down to Trang. “Oát-xì do nêm?” he shouted above the music. His mustache looked like the whiskers of a tiger. His words sounded faintly familiar, but terror was a flood of water that drowned Trang’s thoughts. “Du a bíu-ti-phun,” the man continued. Trang shrank back, holding on to the chair behind her.
“Hey, relax. He likes you.” The girl next to Trang elbowed her.
“Could you help translate what he just told me?” Trang asked.
“Well . . . he said ‘What’s your name?’ and ‘You are beautiful.’ ” The girl turned and told the man something. They both laughed.
The girl winked at Trang. “I asked him to bring you away and give you some pleasure.” Glitter twinkled on her half-naked chest.
Next to Trang, Quỳnh was practicing her English with the younger man. Her voice was small, and it melted quickly into the swirling noise.
The mustached man told Trang something, making a drinking gesture.
Trang nodded. “Sài Gòn Tea,” she mumbled.
The man’s face lifted into a broad smile. He shouted something over the counter. The bartender nodded, hurried away and returned. He gave Trang a small glass, filled with a dark brown liquid and the man a large one in a lighter color. Trang’s heartbeat quickened. She had no idea what was in her drink. She hoped it was only tea. If the American caught her, she’d blame it on the bartender.
The man looked into Trang’s eyes as he clinked his glass against hers. Trang’s lips trembled as she raised the liquid to her mouth. It smelled stale. She took a sip, tasting something bitter, yet it cooled her throat. She winced and pretended to shudder. A few steps away, the tiger madam was flirting with a soldier. She was laughing so hard, her whole body shaking.
The man pulled up a chair and made Trang sit down next to him. One hand around her shoulders, his other hand held his glass, which he lifted to his lips over and over, whispering to himself. At one moment, Trang was sure he was weeping, but when she dared sneak a look, his eyes were dry.
Trang ordered another Sài Gòn Tea, reminding herself to try to take advantage of her first customer. She looked for Quỳnh. There was her younger sister, dancing, moving her body, swinging her hips, tottering on her high heels, just like the girls around her. Where did Quỳnh learn to dance like that? She shouldn’t let the man hold her so tight.
Tina approached Trang. “Your sister is ugly as a wild pig.” She giggled. Arm-in-arm with a muscle-bound man, she moved to the bar’s entrance and disappeared into the night.
Fear, cold as ice, slid down Trang’s spine. Tina had chosen Quỳnh and her as enemies. But why?
The mustached man kept drinking, the bartender refilling his glass whenever it was empty. Once Trang had finished three Sài Gòn Teas, he stood up, pulled her to his solid chest, and said something that sounded so tender she wished she could understand it. Then he pushed a bill into her palm.
A red one-dollar note. It wasn’t a real American dollar, but a Military Payment Certificate. Trang’s father had shown it to her, explaining that American soldiers got paid in MPC and used it for currency. Trang would need to figure out how to change the note into Vietnamese đồng before it expired. She smiled up at the man. “Cám ơn ông.” She thanked him, calling him Sir. Given their age difference, she should address him as “Uncle” and call herself “Niece,” but perhaps not when she was trying to flirt with him.
As she watched the man stagger toward the door, the bartender tapped on her shoulder. “Keep this safe.” He gave her a copy of the bill the man had paid. “Give it to Madam by the end of the night.”
She studied it. “But why four Sài Gòn Tea? I only drank three.”
“Shh.” He winked and rushed to another customer.
A smile blossomed onto Trang’s lips. She loved the fact that her countrymen found different ways to make money out of Americans. Americans were so rich anyway, a little cheating wouldn’t bring them any harm.
A hand caressed her neck. A tall, white man bent down, his bloodshot eyes staring straight into hers. “Chào em. Em vui không?” His Vietnamese was pretty good.
“Chào anh,” she returned his greeting, but didn’t answer his question whether she was happy. How could she ever find happiness here? If she had a choice, she’d rather be back in her field, nursing rice seedlings into young plants, spreading a carpet of green onto the barren soil, then, in a few months, harvesting golden seeds packed with the sweet blessings of Mother Earth. As a farmer, she was a creator, an artist.
But she’d been given no choice. She pushed the dollar bill deep into her skirt pocket, then held on to it. She’d send this, all of this, home.
The man leaned closer. “Em đệp qua.” His accents were slightly wrong. As she was about to answer that she wasn’t beautiful, he leaned closer, his breath pungent with tobacco and liquor. “You cherry girl?” he asked in Vietnamese.
“What?” she moved away from him.
“Want some private time, just you and me?” He winked.
She walked away, wanting to look for Quỳnh.
“Shouldn’t you be entertaining him?” The tiger madam blocked her way, frowning at her.
Trang tilted her chin toward the man. “He’s scaring me, Madam.”
“No need to be afraid of me, darling.” The man reached for her hand, but she stepped back.
“Now, don’t you be silly.” The tiger madam waved a finger at Trang. “This nice young man just wants to talk to you.”
“Talk? But he’s suggested a private time.”
“And what’s wrong with that? You don’t even need to go far.” The woman smiled but her eyes were cold. “We have private rooms at the back of the bar.”