"The little girl spit the chunk of flesh she had taken out on the floor and pressed her lips to him, beginning to drink as he fell." 

    Chantrea sat up on the soiled mattress thrown without care on the floor against the far wall of the dingy hut. She could hear Mr. Sok coming down the path, as well as another set of footsteps. He was bringing another of the sweaty men, she thought. They were always sweaty.

    It was the heat, perhaps, but she knew if she lived in Alaska instead of Cambodia, the men would still be sweaty when they came to see her. When they came to make her do things they shouldn’t.

    Maybe this one will be nice, she thought, unlike the last guy. Nice and clean and gentle. It always made it easier.

    She checked her long, black hair in the filthy mirror by the bed and adjusted the ribbons. She stood and straightened her pink dress, forcing a smile as the door swung open after a quick rap.

    “There my little girl!’’ Mr. Sok beamed, his wide smile brightening the room and his weathered face. “She beautiful, no sir?’’

    “Yes, yes she is,’’ the stocky American said, wiping his brow and licking his dry lips. Sweat had already stained most of his white shirt, she noticed, cursing to herself.

    “She yours. You have good time, get boom-boom all you want,’’ Mr. Sok said, his English still shaky despite years of catering to foreign clients. He bowed to the American and shuffled to the door, turning and winking at Chantrea before he slipped out.

    She liked Mr. Sok. He was nice to her and he had saved her from the other place, the one her mother had sold her to in Svay Pak. The brothel’s owner was mean to the kids and would hit them and starve them when business was slow. And business dried up when police starting raiding the red light district and scaring away the tourists.

    But Mr. Sok wasn’t like that. He reminded her of her grandfather, with his gentle manner, generous smile and sweet scent. She missed Grandpa. He was always good to her, despite the woe she brought to their family.

    “It wasn’t your fault dear. Don’t listen to her,’’ Grandpa would say when mother was drunk and cursed at her as she tended to Chantrea’s father.

    But she knew it was her fault. Mother was right. And now she had to pay the family back. She tried to think about that and not the middle-aged man clumsily making his way toward her.

    When it was over, he dressed quickly, not saying a word as he headed for the door to see what the next hut held for him.

    There were three others working for Mr. Sok now, two girls and one boy, all around 11 or 12. Chantrea and the boy each had their own huts and the other girls, sisters, shared one behind Mr. Sok’s modest house. Each customer would stop in every hut -- hers was the first -- and do whatever he pleased, for quite a bit of money. It was more than the tourists paid near the city, but it was safer here in the country and they got more for their money. Mr. Sok was very careful who he brought, so as not to alert the police to his business.

    She took a washcloth from the bucket across the room and cleaned herself, the cold water making her gasp. She got dressed and checked the mirror to fix her hair and then took out the doll that Grandpa had given her for her 9th birthday and brushed its hair as she waited for the next client. After a good 15 minutes, she heard feet kicking up dirt along the path. Another rap on the door and Mr. Sok was back with a new client.

    Mr. Sok gave his usual speech. “You like boom-boom, yes?” he said with a wide grin, patting the man on the shoulder. He reached out and tussled Chantrea’s hair, and said in Khmer, so the customer wouldn’t understand. “Last one tonight my dear, then we’ll have dinner, yes?”

   She smiled and nodded and Mr. Sok scurried out the door.

    The man didn’t look like the others. For starters, he wasn’t sweating as much. And he was very handsome. Most of her customers were fat or old. She guessed they couldn’t find love any other way but to pay for it. But not this guy. He probably had lots of girlfriends.

    They moved to the mattress and sat down. She reached out and touched his knee, but he gently guided her hand away.

    “Hello dear, what’s your name,’’ he said in a strong Australian accent.

    “Chantrea,’’ she whispered, then began to take off her dress.

    “Hold on dear, don’t do that,’’ he said, again gently guiding her arms down. “”I just want to talk to you.’’

    “Talk to me? What about?’’ she asked.

    “About how you got here. About the people who come here. Maybe I can get you some help,’’ he said. “I’m not a customer; I just told your boss that. I’m a journalist. My name is Nate. I’m working on a story about the child-slave trade in your country.’’

    He pulled out a tape recorder and a notebook from his pocket.

    “I no a slave! What you are talking about?” she said angrily.

    “Sweetie, you’re far too young to be doing what you’re doing. What Mr. Sok is doing to you is wrong.’’

   “He no do anything to me. He pay me good and he feed us once a week!’’ she said, her voice rising. “He take good care of me!”

    “Once a week? Oh sweet Jesus. Ok dear, he’s not taking care of you. He’s using you. Children aren’t supposed to live like this sweetie. I can help you and you can help others by telling your story. OK?”

    She didn’t want to, but he paid for her time, so she gave him what he wanted. It was her duty. She nodded.

    “How did you get started in this business,’’ he asked, then clicked his recorder on.

    She hesitated a moment, but she could tell the man meant well, and so she began to recount the events that led her mother to send her away. Nate interrupted every few minutes when he couldn’t understand her English or a new question popped up.

    “My birth no good. I not supposed to be there but I came anyway,’’ she said.

    Chantrea was born a month too early. When mother went into labor late that night, she sent her husband to fetch the midwife from the next village. It was very dark and he took a shortcut through the woods. He made it halfway before he stepped on the landmine.

    “He live, but his legs gone,’’ she told Nate. “He could not work no more.’’

    The family was already struggling to feed two children before Chantrea wriggled into their world and into the hands of an elderly neighbor, who had rushed over when she heard mother’s labor screams.

     Her parents raised her as best they could, but it was obvious to Chantrea they were wary of her.

    “She’s cursed,’’ she heard her mother whisper to a friend. “She’s brought nothing but bad luck to us.’’

    And it was true, Chantrea agreed. Father couldn’t work. Neither could her older brother, who took ill soon after her birth. Her cursed birth. The stress of the family’s debts wore on her mother, who tended the farm as best she could.

    “When I turned 11, she take me to see Phnom Penh, the big city,’’ she said, a smile crossing her lips for a second. “She say, ‘We go on vacation. Just us two.’ ’’

    Chantrea knew the family couldn’t afford a vacation, but she jumped at the rare glimpse of Mother’s kindness and ran to pack her clothes. She kissed her father goodbye and felt the tears on his cheek.

    “I ask why he cry, and Mother say he no feel good, that all. Time to go.’’

     After a day’s journey, with Chantrea on the edge of her seat in anticipation, they arrived in the nation’s capitol. The city was beautiful, with all the wonderful buildings and temples and beaches, and visitors from all over the world.

    Chantrea was having a great time taking in all the new sights, but she noticed her mom was quiet and looked nervous most of the day, especially when they reached a dirty old building outside downtown that looked like a hotel. She hoped they weren’t staying here. They couldn’t afford much better, but there was something about this place she didn’t like.

    Chantrea hesitated outside, but her mother pressed forward, dragging the girl in by her arm.

    “It’s time to earn your keep,’’ she told her, looking away as the proprietor of the business approached. The two adults stepped away to talk and she saw the man hand her mother an envelope. Her mom returned and hugged her, for the first time that Chantrea could remember, and quickly walked out the door without a word.

    Chantrea was angry at her mother for a while, but as time passed she realized that she was only looking out for the rest of the family. And it was Chantrea’s fault they were struggling. So this was her debt to pay.

    “Did you ever see her again?” Nate asked, barely looking up from his notepad.

    “Yes, I bring money for my family each month.’’

    “After what she did to you, you bring her money,’’ Nate asked, a bit taken aback.

    “Yes, she no happy to see me when I visit, but she take the money. That the important thing. Father need the money. He cannot work because of me.’’

    Nate stopped writing for a second and smiled at her as he shook his head.

    “You are such a sweet young girl. So loyal to your family,’’ he said. “So tell me, how did you get here? Do you remember,’’ he asked.

    “Yes. Mr. Sok brought me.’’

    “OK, from where?”

    “The other place by the city.’’

    “Where your mother left you?”

    “Yes.’’

     “So when did Mr. Sok buy you from the other brothel?”

    “He no buy me. I ask him to take me.’’

     “When was this?’’

    “Thirty years ago.’’

    He looked up from his notebook, again, his eyebrows arched in puzzlement.

    “I think you misunderstood dear. When did you first come here with Mr. Sok?” he said, talking slowly as if that would make her understand him better.

    “I told you. It was 1979.’’

    “But sweetie, you weren’t even born then. You’re only 12,’’ He countered, a bemused look on his face.

     “Mr. Sok said I’ll always be 12 if I came with him.’’

    “I…I don’t understand.’’

   “It’s not for you to understand,’’ Mr. Sok said as he entered the room and locked the door behind him. He held a large bell in his right hand. His usual wide smile was gone, making him look much older.

    The startled journalist jumped up from the bed, his notebook and pen falling to the dirt floor.

    “I don’t want any trouble sir. I just wanted to talk to the girl. Maybe you want to talk to me too. I won’t use your name. I just want to hear your story.’’

    “You hear enough. I know you mean well and I sorry for this,’’ Mr. Sok said. “But it dinner time.’’

    “OK, I’ll just be on my way then, so you two can eat in peace,’’ the journalist stammered and tried to act casually as he bent down to retrieve his supplies.

    Mr. Sok began ringing the bell.

    Nate started to get up when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck and heard a ripping noise. The little girl spit the chunk of flesh she had taken out on the floor and pressed her lips to him, beginning to drink as he fell. He reached behind him and threw the girl aside, staggering to his feet.

    He heard piercing cries coming from the other huts outside. As the blood poured from his wound, he started toward the door, but only made it a few feet before falling, weakened to his knees.

 He joined the chorus of screams as the girl and Mr. Sok closed in to finish their meal.

 

 ***

        The old woman finished her tea and brought the metal cup to the sink to rinse. Her body was weary from another day of tending to the animals and her husband. Since her son died and her eldest daughter moved to the city, she had no help on the farm.

    She was ready to take her tired bones to bed when she heard the scratching at the door.

    The awful scratching. She was back again. How long would God punish her like this? She had tried to make things right. She tried to buy the girl back from the brothel but it was too late. She had been murdered by a client.

    It’s been 30 years, she thought, and I’ve suffered enough. Please God, let me be.

    The scratching continued, a little louder now. She knew she would have to answer or it would go on all night.

    She made her way to the door and cracked it open. Chantrea smiled up at her and extended her hand, an envelope of money folded in it. She took the money, smiled at her daughter and looked away. She could swear the girl’s teeth were red.

    “I’m sorry Chantrea.’’ she said through her tears, then closed the door.

    The woman walked into her bedroom and toward the candle on the dresser. She stood in front of the mirror and looked away after she caught a glimpse of her tired, wrinkled face, then reached down and set the envelope on fire like the others.