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The slim novel came my way quite by accident. I had stumbled across a review of the film The Lover and ordered a VHS copy through my movie-of-the-month club. Soon after, I got my hands on a paperback with a cinema-still cover and was not disappointed. I was also fifteen and a half, a virgin consumed with the mysteries of sex, of forbidden encounters. I was also going to be a writer. I read the book and watched the film again and again. I insist on wearing them.
She is fixated on this particular, outlandish ensemble, as stubborn as a child playing dress up. But the faint hint of pedophilia, of prostitution, fell so far into the background that it became practically invisible to me then, obscured by the striking imagery and strange, lush atmosphere of colonial Saigon. I was determined that my own induction into the world of sex would contain the exotic and the forbidden, whenever that time came.
I had my chance the summer before senior year, when my high school offered a trip to France and England. I worked and saved up for months, my best friend and I having convinced our parents of the worthiness of visiting Versailles and Windsor Castle. Behind closed bedroom doors, we prepared for the sexual adventures we felt sure would arise from being sixteen, largely unsupervised, and in Europe, where the liberties of drinking and sex abounded.
I might not be wearing gold heels and a fedora on a ferry crossing the Mekong, but we would arrive in Paris in June; I could wear a tight skirt and high, strappy sandals and, with luck, meet an alluring Frenchman. When we arrived in Paris, however, the skies were gloomy, the temperature chilly. Our suitcases bulged with what we had envisioned ourselves strutting around Paris in—halter tops, flimsy sundresses. Undaunted, my best friend and I each changed from our travel clothes into provocative summer outfits.
