The House of Eros

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The girl stood motionless in the band of deep moonshadow between the edge of the forest and the silvered sand. Waiting, she faced towards the open sea, taller than most Vietnamese women, her gleaming features an elusive mixture of East and West.

As she watched the changing shadows on the surface of the water she hummed softly to herself, olive arms clasped before her, her weight on one hip, a knee braced forward between the curtain folds of her long cotton skirt.

What tune was it? A favourite of the American days. Somebody had told her that. She tried for a few moments to stretch her memory. But she was too young. It was over fifteen years since the Americans had left. For her there were few memories there to stretch.

In response to something seen or heard she stopped humming. Standing quietly, she picked up her sandals and walked barefoot to the edge of the shadow. She could see now, where the moonlight shimmered on the sea, a dark shape moving east to west across her front, perhaps five hundred yards from the beach. As the boat came closer she frowned as she made her decision. The sail was the right shape, the black untidy rhomboid of the Cahn Roc fishing villages. The stern was low in the water, the prow high and curving. She looked at her watch, a heavy military watch. The time was right too. More or less.

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