Morning. Heat hung moist and heavy, blurring lines. Clothes clung to bodies, and movements seemed to glide. I floated among these narrow alleys, alert lightly to avoid Nhieu Loc Canals rotten stink, afraid to disturb the obviously secret lives underneath these make-shift roofs. A pair of eyes twinkled in the blue haze of the morning, curiously peering from within the gentle darkness that enfolded the neighborhood. I pressed on, my conspicuously ankle boots crunching the earth, day-old rainwater, trim of a persimmon fruit, and heroin needles. This was not the first duration I made my move to the darkest side of my living district, a notorious prostitution district, home to a dying newborn mother and her two adopted children, home to death and wish!
She is twenty-something years old. She eagerly showed me a picture of pretty lady friend shyly smiling for the camera. A flower maiden in her long-tailed pastel Ao Dai, the girl radiates an unmistakable aura of simple rejoicing and an innocence that sustains youth. That was just back while ago, before she furlough school to sire the main source of income for a family of a cripple father and a mother recently diagnosed with cancer, to become a prostitute. She has aged dramatically, just this year, as if a storey of air has leaked out from under her skin.
Its AIDS, she said, her hands folded in her laps care wilted tulips, Im going to die soon, you know...
The pain of her life notwithstanding, as yet this is a story too familiar to countless Vietnamese. Prostitutes that I know live in the same district with me signalize a similar tale: they must step into much(prenominal) dark alleys, into the arms of alcohol-drenched men for their dying mother, for an incapacitated father, for a son needing surgery, a...
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