A coincidence.

Life finds a way.

The small café at the corner’s been gathering buzz lately. Allen, the sole policeman of the district, didn’t pay much attention to it. Not because he wasn’t curious, they were all curious in that district, but because he couldn’t: he was married. The buzz, turned out, was a new barista, and by the unprecedented number of customers, she must have been quite the eye-catcher.

First there were the youngins, too young and broke to be in a café casually, so they hovered outside peeking in, hoping for a free glimpse. Then there were the universities kids, who were broke but reckless (and desperate) enough to go straight in, order, sit, and stare. There were so many of them that the owner had to impose a 1-hour sitting limit. Their eyes were on one little girl behind the counter, with skin like porcelain, a face which dreams were made of, long, curvy lashes, deep, penetrating, saddened eyes. Her eyes, her gaze, had an innocence of the summer sky.

Allen wasn’t some monk, and he went to the café eventually, on the guise of “inspecting the recent commotion.” She was wearing a typical barista outfit: black shirt, black short skirt, black apron. Ornworn, the owner’s wife (the name’s Viking or something), waddled her way to Allen. She never walked, always waddled. Her husband said it was that very walk that attracted him in the first place. Ornworn spoke like she walked, there was a softness in it.

“Officer, a hard-working man like you deeeeeserveeee~ a drink on us. What will it be? Coffee? Tea?”

“I’m on business, Mrs Ornworn. You forgot to update the registry for the little lady over there.” – Allen pointed at the barista, who was trying her best to put on a smile.

“Her name’s Barbara. Barb for short. She’s heeeere for the Uni. Came from the countryside, and they don’t give out ID over there.”

Allen knew Ornworn was lying. There was no registered territory that would dare defy the Agency’s law by such an extent. Before he could say anything, Ornworn excused herself by pretending there was a phone call. He decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Little girl, how long’ve you been here?” – He deliberately stood in front of the counter, first to cover her from all of the men, second to make sure no one disturbs them. No one’s leaving until he’s done.

“Two years, Sir.”

“Which Uni you goin’ to?”

“No, Sir. I’m here to find my uncle.”

“That’s a first.”

“He’s my father’s little brother. He’s a photographer. I got lost, so I ended up here.”

“LIES!” – Was what Allen was about to say.  He held it back. Her eyes were too clear, too trustworthy. No, her whole being seem incapable of lying.

Allen, however, was not one to let his guard down so easy. He’s seen enough baristas in his time, with prepared scripts of a sob story, that ended up being sold or straight up was a prostitute themselves. Barbara didn’t look it, nor did it seem like she was kidnapped by Ornworn and her husband. But you’ll never know.

“Your ID?”

“Mrs Ownworn has…” – Barb was stopped midway by, what Allen assumed was Mrs Ornworn shaking her head behind him. If Barb wasn’t beaten before, she’s going to be now.

“Don’t miiiind~ her, Officer. Here, please, coffee.”

Allen felt a bag was slit into his back pocket. Whatever it was they were hiding, they were willing to pay big for it.

“Oh no, I’m on business Mrs Ornworn, so I’m just going to take my leave.” – Allen knew the courtesy. A cop who would impose further after a bribe would be a bad cop.  

It didn’t surprise Allen to find Barb with an old man during a raid of a brothel. He turned away while they clothed themselves, then left it for the other deputies to do paperwork. Later back at his office, Barb was on her knees before he could utter a word. She cried and begged.

“It was my first time, please. I beg you Sir please let me go.”

She was different than the other prostitutes, who were still trying to run away or challenging deputies to a fight. Allen sighed. Maybe there was some truth in her after all. He used the very same bribery from Mrs Ornworn to give his deputies, and so Barb was acquitted, simple as that. He took her back to the café.

Only to see her back at his office some days later, with a written report of what happened. Sitting opposite him, Barbara didn’t just look like she’d shed some weight, it was like her stomach’d eaten her inside out.

“Thank you, Sir, for what you’ve done for me.” – Her voice was fragile, from the lack of food, no doubt, but there was also a melancholy so twisted Allen felt like crying.

Please read the report, she said, and left. It was more like a novel that gripped Allen the more he dug into it, a novel of secrets from the author itself, a novel of a young girl’s illogicality.

The story went: When Barb was about 12, which was a decade ago, she was doing her homework when a car arrived at the village. An exciting event like no other for such remote part of the country, little Barb and the children gathered to see the two men, who was red as beets due to the heat. They were, as Allen knew well, on a enlightenment mission, to bring knowledge to our brethren in every corner. Allen knew not how many were drafted, but it mattered little to little Barb, who was excitedly volunteer for one of the men to take a picture of her. A camera was something Barb, even now, rarely got to experience, so the kid in the story quickly got dressed. She was the only kids to have her picture taken, while the others surrounded the photo op in circles, giving her oohs and aahs whenever she struck a pose. The man asked for her name, along with the promise he’ll send her the pictures when they were done developing.

The 12-year-old loss sleep for days, yearning for the day she’d see herself in a picture. She even skipped school to look at herself in the mirror. The man said he was from the city. As hopes and dreams often go, she was increasingly frustrated as the days went on, yet no news were to be found. NO! She was adamant, to herself and to her mother and teachers. He wouldn’t lie! Adults don’t lie. Of all the kids, why picked her? That must mean something. She must mean something. She prayed to Buddha everyday that, for her to mean something.

And she did. Turned out her picture was chosen for a National Award, printed first page on newspaper as well as several books. Village girl, taken by N.G. N.G., Barb knew, was the name of the man. That was the start of Barb’s search for N.G., for in her waking thoughts, she was still hoping he’d send her the rest of the photos. Most of the days, she feared the worst: maybe something’s happened to him? Years flew, and while the newspaper clippings yellowed, her feelings for the man turned slowly, surely, red. She couldn’t remember his face very well, but Barb knew N.G. was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful man in the world. When she graduated high school, Barb felt herself no longer yearning for the picture, but for the man behind the camera, his image grew all the more gorgeous as she stepped into womanhood.

Naturally, she swore to go to the city to find him. She’d already had everything mapped out: N.G., who’s long retired since losing his muse, will wander the City taking pictures of the scenery. Suddenly, Barb will come into frame for a fraction of a second. And that is how they will reunite, and how she’ll lean on him, hold his hands, tell him how long she’s waited. And they’ll kiss.

Reality is reality, and the 12-year-old was now 22. Her trip to the City was, naturally, less than smooth-sailing. She’s ran away from the village, jumped on a fruit truck and hid beneath the mangosteens. Penniless and without an ID, she was quickly captured and sold to Mrs Ornworn. The little money she made, she used to ask around for the famous photographer N.G. Until one day, Mrs Ornworn promised her an opportunity for more money: prostitution.

to be continued.