Consulting the itching

Captain Zissou

At last I am undressing to shower in my over-decorated hotel room. The throb of the Mekong Delta at dusk is hammering at the balcony window. The journey from Ho-Chi-Min city to Can-Tho has taken six sweltering hours. God, it's great to finally get a good uninhibited scratch on that itch between my buttocks. What is it that has been killing me all day? In the shower, I feel carefully and find a hard little thing stuck there right on the rim. What the heck, a seed? A mystery. I scratch at it but it doesn't budge. It's too small and too smooth for me to get a proper grip and my nails are bitten short. Besides, there is a lot of hair down there that gets in the way of a clean grip; whenever I try to pull at the little thing, I pull the hair too. I need to get a clearer view of whatever this is, so I sit on the bed and spread my knees and bend as far over as possible. Ever tried to get a direct look at your anus? It's ridiculous: the further you contort your spine the further away your anus moves away from your face. I have searched everywhere for a hand mirror, but there is none and the reflection on my sunglasses lens is too dark to make anything out. The only available mirror is mounted on the bathroom wall, so straddling the pink basin I bend over with my head between my knees and try to raise my buttocks into view. But even though I part the cheeks and a bright neon strip illuminates the bathroom to a blinding glare, I cannot get a clear view. It's dark in there. What is this bloody thing?

Wait, I'm going out of my mind, I need to calm down and think this through. Okay, one expensive little bottle from the fridge to still the mind. And then it dawns on me: a week ago I fell asleep in the African sun on the warm grassy banks of a farm dam. This thing is a tick. I've had tick-bite fever before. It's not funny; the hallucinations seep through from the dark side. It must come out - now! But for that I need help. For about half a second I actually entertain the idea of asking my work colleague in the next room for help. But there is no way. He's Belgian, he is probably sleeping, he wears socks and sandals, and anyway, what would he think about this and what could I actually ask him to do? No, there's nothing for it, I need the help of a professional. I slip on some light cotton and sandals.

The carpet on the stairs down to the lobby is a beige stain-lit TV blue. I greet the snakefish in the foyer aquarium and step out of the aircon's chill into a wall of heat that slaps my back with a friendly layer of sweat. The street air smells of miles of river. I need a beer before this starts, so I stop at a pavement bar decorated with red Happy Chinese New Year chili bushes planted in round blue pots. The beer is ba ba ba (333) - served with a big chunk of ice in the glass. Just outside the loo is an enormous basin where a big carp scares the bejeezuz out of me by nibbling my finger as I rinse my hands. On the pavement is a cage split in half where a huge smiling snake and a bald deranged monkey must share the same violent dream through the meshing. The view across the road is a giant statue of general Ho-Chi-Min in suit and glasses which looks as if it is made of polystyrene covered with tin foil.

After my beer I continue walking. Past children selling Disney balloons, beggars twisted by Agent Orange poisoning still from the war, young couples in their pyjamas riding around on bicycles. Past the market where during the day they sell fresh baguette, frogs' legs, escargot and spicy snapping turtle. Past knockoff Nike's, artificial Adidases and a salesman peddling compressed air under a peeling communist mural showing muscular women in work shirts under a big red star.

Eventually I find what I am looking for: blue neon letters spelling "Whiskey bar" in looping cursive. Inside is an empty tiled foyer. For company I have only the squeak of my rubber soles. The inside of the lift is completely panelled in buffed bronze. It stops at the penthouse and the door opens into a tiny booth draped to the carpet in dark red velvet.

Pushing through the heavy curtains I step straight onto a dance floor. At the far end, clustered around the bar, is a flock of hostesses dancing in slow motion to what sounds like the Bee Gees being tortured. There is a very fat, very ugly German suit in a booth, being caressed by two heavily made-up girls who must be all of sixteen. Can I do this? This is not my scene. I almost turn to go when one of the dancers breaks off and glides towards me over pools of light. She is very pretty and as delicate as a bird. She is probably 23, but her perfect eyes are as ageless as sex. She's wearing a white au dai - the traditional Vietnamese silk dress split up the side to reveal matching silk pants underneath. Smiling, she asks, "Bon Jovi?"

"No, but thanks anyway."

She leads me to a dark booth at the edge of the dance floor. Two tinkling whiskeys appear. She speaks immaculate silence. After a while she softly touches my forearm with her left hand and with her right she scratches a white "150" into the brown of my skin. Good: long fingernails.

"OK, yes, 150 dong, fine. Can we go soon?" As we walk arm in arm down the street her hair at my shoulder smells of coconuts and lemons. First part of mission accomplished. She has no idea.

The crater-faced bellhop is too absorbed in his Kung Fu movie to notice us climbing the stairs to my room. There is no other way to do this but to get on with it. I take off my pants, go down on my hands and knees on the bed and try to communicate what needs to be done. She is confused. I explain again in my best charades: "Pull, you must pull the insect out of my bum, like this." I exaggerate the movement. "Pull, pull, insect, little creepy thing sucks blood."

It takes her a while, but at last it looks as if she understands. Kind of. Okay, I'm watching the wall, she's feeling around, feels like she's got hold of it … WOuW OW- a searing pain shoots through me. She's pulled out a big clump of anus hair and that hurts like hell. "No no no no no!" I shout. An involuntary tear has welled up in my eyes. "There's a tick, a little animal with legs and … " Oh my god, this is useless; how do I imitate a tick? She looks confused and hurt, poor thing. She thinks I'm a weirdo.

"Oh, come here, don't worry, I'm not a weirdo".

She still has the clump of hair in her fingers; their little white roots are struggling in the air. I take her hand gently and with my finger up against hers I guide her right to the tick. Aah, now she nods vigorously, now she really does understand. She fetches the bedside lamp and parts my buttocks and within seconds she has expertly twisted it out. Has she done this before? God, that feels good. It's out at last, out of my bloodstream. Showing it to me proudly she skips to the bathroom. I hear her chuckling while the toilet flushes.

She comes back to the bed in her pants alone. Milk chocolate and porcelain. Her shoulders are sharp and her waist is small and her nipples are very dark. As she walks she has a glint in her eye and licks her finger to a glisten.



LitNet: 15 June 2005

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