Issue #2

by Kathryn

“Come on, love. Dance with me” says the Australian tourist, the one that reminds of a used car salesman. His grip on the young girl’s arm contradicts his casual tone. “I’m paying for your time, aren’t I? I’m paying, so dance.” The girl giggles, nervously, and moves away from him. She is embarrassed. He looks to me as if for approval, as if he is sharing a joke, and, for a brief second, from politeness or maybe habit, I almost smile back. But, before the smile, the memory of other charmless men intervenes.

I am sitting in an Internet café bar in Saigon. It is two days before I return home and I am getting ready to leave in my mind. I ache for my own bed and a decent cup of coffee and to blend back into the crowds, unnoticed. I am sick of the heat and humidity. This café is my retreat.

Before the Australian tourist entered the café, the only noise was a background whirr of tinny pop songs. We sit in lines staring at computer screens. Communication is with a distant world, not each other. We speak, if at all, in low murmurs or whispers so as not to disturb each other. Like a library or a church, privacy and silence are sacrosanct.

Then he enters, bumbling and awkward. He talks too loud and disturbs the silence. He smiles and sits down opposite me.

He asks the questions all travellers ask: “Where are you from?” and “Where are you going?” When he discovers I am Australian too he expects instant camaradery. I reply with short answers and indicate that I have very important emails to answer.

Each time he calls one of the waitresses over, calling her love or petal or doll in his boom voice, I cringe. Each time he takes his beer and tips the girl with a sleazy wink or a sleazy touch, I flinch.

The weather breaks and rain slams violently onto the broken concrete street outside. The computer network, as if in response, stops dead.

“What’s going on here?” he says, too loudly. He calls one of the waitresses over and complains about the service. She shrugs. What can she do? He looks to see if I reflect his anger. I shrug. What can I do?

The waitresses are all young girls. They sit at the bar and gossip together. Yesterday, one of them was having a birthday and they handed around plates of rich cake with heavy, buttery icing. I wanted to ask whose birthday it was, so I could wish them a happy birthday but somehow it didn’t seem the right thing to do. They keep themselves removed from the customers except for that one gesture.

He grabs the girl. Tells her to dance. Commands her. Grips her with meaty hands that overwhelm her waist. He is paying and she must obey. She looks to her friends. They pretend not to notice. He looks to me. I look at the rain outside.

I shrink down behind my computer screen. I could speak. I could get involved. But I do nothing.

The man sings to the pop tune that is playing in the café. He moves but she stands still. He moves around her gyrating and twisting in a sickening display and still she doesn’t move.

I feel sick with indecision. Someone should do something. And I know it should be me. Instead I remain a spectator while the drama plays itself out.

At that moment someone speaks. The computers are working again. The man returns to his seat and the girl returns to her friends.

I pay up and leave. I don’t feel comfortable here any more.