"Ballerina," I called out.

I deliberately directed my call at her in hopes of provoking a response or to see if she was listening to me. She seemed to be lost in her unique ballet-like dance; a dance of her own invention and  creation, an artist in her own right.

"Perhaps she dances for money," I thought to myself as my eyes diligently traced after her without missing a beat.

"I don't have any money," I said with a stern voice to make sure she heard me.

She turned my direction and flashed a grin, followed by a chuckle, thinking it was all a joke, which it was; there was a hint of shyness that prevented her from projecting a full smile.

Her eyes danced about my face, trying to read my thoughts; an impossible task as far as I knew.

"I don't want your money," she said matter of factly. "What you did over there was beautiful." She indicated the spot where we stayed hidden from those despotic police officers.

And when our eyes were about to meet, she shied away then returned to her prancing as if to seduce me with her magnificent, elegant female form with supermodel legs; very uncharacteristic of a Cambodian girl.

Although, she seemed like she didn't put too much effort into her prinking and coiffing, she looked like she was ready to compete in a beauty contest; she already had the confidence and intelligence to win it, but she wouldn't want to be seen in the midst of the foofaraw that accompanyies each beauty pageant; she wouldn't fit in in an environment like that; she was sophisticated in her own eccentric way.

"Could she be from around here?" I  thought to myself. "She's pretty."

I was hoping she would be one of the neighboring kids. If she was, I wouldn't have to travel elesewhere. I would remain here so I could catch a glimpse of her on a daily basis, and that would be enough for starter. My days as a nomad would end; I would still have to steal in order to feed my hunger; if not, I would die of malnutrition like the many who lost their lives during the Khmer Rouge time. I must not be one of them, especially after the fact.

"You look like you're always in deep thoughts," she said then twirled away from me, teasing, toying, and it was working on my psyche.

My eyes rightfully, unconsciously flitted after her; they knew there was a possibility she could be my soul mate. I was too young to be aware of such thing so my eyes took charge with my full cooperation.

"She's old," I debated with my chatterbox.

A person as young as I was shouldn't be thinking of a girl like her in a romantic way; she appeared to be at least five years my senior.

"I'm not that old," she replied as if she had read my thought, maybe did; maybe she had special power only a few knew about, and they, too, kept it a secret.

A man mingling with an older woman was not an unacceptable practice in Cambodia; it would be frown upon; rumors about the couple would spread like wild fire. The parents of the couple would be shamed until they could no longer show their faces in public.

She sensed my mind was always in constant motion; none of it is a fault of mine; I have an active imagination; according to Eistein, imagination is more important than knowledge. I could only contain my mind within my the range of capability, within the parameter of my mind. As long as it could not run away with my life, destroying it or hurting another being in the process and as long as I could continue to bend, shape and mold it, I could careless how my mind chose to rebel against me.

It's a mind; it likes to wander and always be in constant craving for more knowledge. She could help me satisfy its appetite and possibly discipline it with me.

Let the heart be pliable but never the mind. The mind must be constantly disciplined; it's like a toddler that's always pushing the boundaries with sky's the limit attitude. A mind that is not well disciplined can take us to the gutter and kick us to the curb then land us in a jail cell; a life of challenges is the forseeable future for such a mind.

Her skirt rose and waved serpentinely with the motion of her twirls, exposing her thighs intermttently. I could see her flawless, pearl crushed skin. I hadn't witnessed anything like that before. She was showing me a whole new world -- a world I didn't even know existed; my life was about to get more interesting.

My mind was expanding by the minutes as it absorbed what she was willing to show me.

My eyes widened as big as flying saucers; she was an alien to me at this point, "Definitely a creature not of this earth."

"No human that I knew could effortlessly produce such fluid movements," a thought streaked across my mind butt naked.

For a moment, I was transported to another realm, another dimension which felt like nirvana, liberating me from the often dull, quotidian beats of street life.

My heart afluttered whenever she sent it towards heaven. She could have that effect on me almost at will. Luckily, my heart had not been broken, yet. It had been pliable to her will. I was afraid it would soon break.

So far, I felt like I was walking on clouds, lighter than air; I was floating, not like a helium balloon that kept going skyward but like an astronaut hopping on the surface of the moon, almost like gravity couldn't effect me.

She had the power to rid of gravity that kept my feet planted to the ground. She was a true magician; she had put a spell on me.

She may not be a ballerina, but she sure pirouetted like one, and I was the only audience in this trash filled alley which her show was taking place, surrounded by empty buildings riddled with bullets, victims of the recent civil war that had traumatized Cambodia to these days.

"She's a stripper. She dances for money," I concluded as she drew me closer to her with every flash of her thighs. This may explain her reason for fleeing those police officers. Prostitution was illegal in Cambodia -- a Buddhist country.

Of course, I was only speculating; there was no reason for me to dissemble; I had always been candid with those I encountered.

Women during the time of the Khmer Rouge dressed in black with sleeves down to their wrists and pants down to their ankles, and they would return home lethargic with face caked in mud or maybe I was too young to take notice of girls; muchless, judging them on their looks and attractiveness then she stepped into my life and make me look at girls from a different perspective. 

It was obvious she was not in the mood for a mumble, jumble inarticulate drivel about nothing in particular, and I was fine admiring her from a distance; she had confiscated all my thoughts; my mind was completely empty while my eyes were being pleasured by her prancing.

She had captivated me, and I was easily manipulated by her.  I was young and naive; any woman could play me, and I would be fine with it. Besides, I was not the type that would complain -- complaining was just a waste of energy, feeding negativeness, which I would never entertain.

"Do you enjoy watching me?" She finally asked me. "I could sense your eyes on my body."

I could have been more cautious; now that she had caught me gazing at her, I had to nod then smile in a response to her question. She didn't seem upset by my misconduct or maybe she welcomed it with open arms.

"You should know I don't mind," she pointed out the obvious; she was still friendly and convivial to me, which I found very pleasing; she was very a pleasant person.

She executed more pirouettes as best as she could, perhaps to hypnotise me, under umbrageous trees where the gentle breeze brushed her hair back, revealing more of her angelic face.

She glowed under streams of sunlight that had penetrated through the foliage within the tree canopy. I could see the halo along the contour of her face which gave her the appearance of an angel's.

"Why?" I inquired.

"Why what?"

"Why do you pull those stunts?"

"Do you mean my dancing?"

"Yes."

"I dance whenever I am happy," she said.

She was indeed replete with glee as seen in her eyes and smiles.

"Do you want me to stop?" She asked.

"No!" I shouted to her, "I enjoyed every moment of your performance."

If I had a  wish, I would wish for her show to have a everlasting life so others would have the opportunity to gawk at her as well. She could  definitely draw a crowd.

"Let's be frank. Do you enjoy my performance or watching me?"

"You," I said, being quite frank with her. She seemed to appreciate my frankness instead of storming off, screaming and shouting, being offended like most Cambodian girls would.

It was now clear to me, she was no ordinary Cambodian girl. There had to be more to her, and I couldn't wait to discover who she was.

She smiled, knowing full well she had gotten me cornered, in her grip, in a vise; she could hurt me if that was her intention.

From what I had gathered, she'd rather be hurt than be the perpetrator, the antagonist, the bane of my existence.

Maybe it wasn't too obvious to her; maybe she was too occupied with the task of pleasuring my eyes to notice, but I was already hypnotised by her, by her spirit at the first pirouette.

She didn't need to dance for me, and I would be as thrilled. She coud be seated, and I would be as blissful. Her appearance and presence were enough to keep me occupied and my mind sprinting a million miles per hour in circles.

I could make a gesture to her, asking her to stop and admit to her that I had enough, but I couldn't bring myself to execute such a motion; she had paralized me and my eyes stood frozen on her, with a smirk on their faces; they were as astounded as I was. My eyes would be quite upset with me if I were to tell her to stop expensing energy on my behalf.

"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked her, indicating her delicate dance moves, anticipating an elaborate story about the challenges and friends she made during her many years of training and how her instructor forced her to keep on stretching and bending her arms and legs.

"A television," she replied glibly; she was relishing the fact she had some knowledge about television broadcasting; maybe she had seen a television program somewhere within Phnom Penh; my ears perked up like those of a dog's, standing at full attention as if waiting for an important order from an army officer.

"A television," I asked and she nodded.

She noticed my astonished stare -- a television program was something that was constantly irking my mind; I had been curious about it since Sokom, always the raconteur, told me about such a thing several weeks ago.

He spoke of georgeous women in other countries exposing themselves on television, and that they were sauntering about the beaches in their two piece bikini. He got me intriqued, and I had been wanting to watch television ever since that titillating conversation.

"Do you want to see what a television looks like?" She asked.

She had rendered me speechless as if I was Superman and she was my cryptonite; all I could do was nod repeatedly to everything she said.

"Do you know what a television is?" She continued asking.

Of course, I knew what a television was. I saw several during my travel through empty buildings, intruding their empty rooms. I smashed their television screens and later their tubes simply because the atmosphere was quiet, and it needed to hear sounds similar to sounds of war that they had grown accustomed to.

I did everything there was to do to generate sounds in order to scare away the silence -- the kind of silence only a ghost town could tolerate, maybe celebrate, the kind of silence that would drive a boy like myself insane.

Traveling alone through a ghost town was not my cup of tea. It stirred every fiber of my being; it made every inch of my skin crawl.

My fear of ghosts had drastically effected my life. There were a certain parts of Phnom Penh I would not, dare not venture near, no matter what tempted or offered to me; I didn't care if there was a chestful of treasure for me to retrieve and keep.

I knew the inside of a television set, saw all its components, gagetries and circuitries but didn't know the inner workings of it or how it was put together. I hadn't watched a television program before; if I did, I couldn't recall it; in that sense, I didn't know what a television was and was eager to see one. And she had alluded to taking me to a working television.

"You learned dancing from a television program?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

I became extremely excited about the possibility of she and I sitting in a dark room, side by side, watching a television program; it would be my first; I hoped I would enjoy it.

Growing up during the Khmer Rouge control, I didn't know what a television was and no one ever spoke of it. I learned about television and typewriters during playing war games with other kids in the neighbor in abandoned buildings. What could we do with a television set? We smashed the screen and glass tube then the set itself into pieces because we were curious about its inside.

With typewriters, we punched a few strokes because we liked hearing the sound they make then smashed them into tiny bits.

"Ballerina," I called out to her, unsure as to how she would respond to being called such.

She turned while prancing spritely, "Is that what you are calling me?"

I nodded enthusiastically while kept my fingers crossed; it was not a moment to upset her or destroy her moment of bliss. I had to choose my words carefully, anticipating her positive response.

"You think I'm a ballerina?"

"I think the name suits you," I replied knowing she wouldn't mind.

She threw a wink at me, it was quick, and I winked back at her. For a moment, we were connecting; we were soul mates.

"I like it," she said then projected a smile to assure me she was happy with being called Ballerina.

The sky had encompassed over her, shielding her from space debris; her eyes roved about it, not aware of all the junks revolving around the earth, right above her head.

"So blue." She pointed to sky as if I didn't know what she was referring to.

The sky was, indeed, blue, hardly a cloud in sight.

"You love it, don't you?" I asked; the moment seemed right.

She nodded jovially.

Our shadows had moved to the other side, telling me it was close to one o'clock in the afternoon. My hunger had started to disturb me, but I did not want to leave her.

"What's your name?" She turned to me, awaiting my reply.

I hesitated, teasing her.

"Oh, come on!"

"Sojean," I said.

Ballerina thoroughly looked from my head to my toes, appraising me like I was a piece of furniture she was considering of purchasing to enhance the looks of her massive living room then raised her face to meet mine.

"Do you speak French?" She asked.

I shook my head, not knowing why she put forth such a question. Her demeanor, facial expressions transformed afterward, which disconcerted me completely, and I couldn't understand why such a sudden change took place.

"My father spoke French," she said a moment later then tears started to emerge in her eyes. "I wanted to cry for the longest time."

I may not be a physiognomist but a quick glance at her indicated she was on the verge of bursting out crying. There were deep emotions she was surpressing, and those emotions had surfaced.

She was telling me her father had been executed by the Khmer Rouge soldiers because he was an intellectual, well educated man, a man of the upper class, a city man, a dangerous man to their regime.

"They were afraid of people like him. They knew a man's mind was more dangerous than a pen, a sword or any weapon invented by mankind," she explained. "He could incite a riot and overthrow their government. They had to declare him the enemy of the state and that he needed to be eliminated right away."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she told me about her beloved father. She was his little princess, the joy of his life.

"They took an ax to his head so they could save a bullet." She was making sure I understood the significance. Of course, I understood. Her story could be told by any teenager in Cambodia; it had been told many times before by different individuals. Her story was tragic like many others' but not unique, not to take away its significance.

It was true  the Khmer Rouge were so fond of their bullets. Using an ax to kill an individual was a means to save bullets; it was not used as an intent to inflict cruelty on their victims; I could be wrong with this assumption.

"He went away fast." I was referring to how quickly her father had died, and I wanted with those words to comfort her; I didn't know if it did their magic, but she seemed to calm down a knot, and I was happy that my intention had been met to her satisfaction.

While crying, she still managed to produce the most amazing smile, nodding, "He did go away fast."

Clearly, she still missed her father very deeply; she smiled because I was standing next to her, and she didn't want to bring me into her despair. At a moment like this, she was still concerned about my well being.

I wanted to comfort her with a hug, but we Cambodians do not practice hugging; we aren't accustomed to it. It's not part of our culture.

Boys and girls aren't supposed to be touching each other; if they did, their parents would demand answers as to why then forebade them from seeing each other again. Any touching would be viewed as a sexual misconduct or an intention to advance a sexual rendezvous.

A husband holding his wife's hand was rarely seen but happened on rare occasions.

Sex is a taboo, a forbidden subject.

I felt like I should be saying something more prudence to her, but my mind refused to cooperate. I couldn't think of anything clever to say to her. My mind complete abandoned me, leaving loss for words; it had complete betrayed me.

"I'm sorry." I finally was able to gather a few words together and delivered them to her as clearly as possible, but she appreared not to hear them.

"I miss him so much."  She wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled; she loved to smile, one of her idiosyncrasies, the leitmotif of her character.

"Did your father speak French, too?" she managed to ask while choking on her mixed emotions.

"Yes." I looked into her imbriferous eyes and saw she was a lot like me. We both recently lost our dad to the cruel hand of the Khmer Rouge.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "You don't seem like you miss him. Do you miss him?" 

I shook my head,"I didn't get the chance to get to know him."

"You were young?" She asked.

"Yes."

I told her what I learned from my father was that a human could cease to exit at any given moment due to the simplest circumstance, many elements want to rid of us.

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