Lady of the Night

by Kate Coulter-Smith (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Netherlands

I was relieved to be outside - five of us girls had been squeezed uncomfortably into one tiny apartment. With only one cheap plastic fan and a window that lay stiff at a half-cracked position, it felt cooler outdoors even in the warm sun. A group of us sat on a set of rough concrete steps beside the canal, engaged in a heated discussion about what to do next, for we were tourists in a city of infinite things to do. I leaned back on the shaded steps and adjusted my slanted sunglasses. A bead of sweat escaped from the nape of my neck and ran down my lower back. My companions’ voices faded slightly into the background and I began to watch a woman across the street standing in a doorway. Her body was exposed, it’s shaping sculpted from light exercise - not perfect, but womanly. Across her breasts clung a small black bikini top and draped loosely around her hips lay a sheer black sarong. She held her arms above her head, gripping the chipped wooden door frame above and leaning her body forward, opened herself up to the passers-by. I watched her for a while and noticed her eyes had transformed from a light pool blue into a cloudy shade of muted grey. The skin around her eyes had loosened creating dark blue-black, puffy folds. Sun had bleached her ageing face, creating pigmented brown spots around her cheeks and nose, and the wrinkled lines on her forehead had become a permanent feature. Mascara from the night before edged its way down to the folds beneath her eyes and smudged slightly on her lower eyelids. The leftover foundation had absorbed into her skin, flaking on the driest parts of her face. Her eyebrows were un-kept with small brown hairs growing in different directions through the middle and sides, burrowing together when she frowned - which was often. She stood among the crowds of tourists, invisible to their gaze. Her features were so plain they did not invite interest or intrigue. It was 5 pm and the fluorescent red lights had lined the streets, flashing down onto the low-grade plastic windows below and reflecting in the muddy waters of the canal. Around the corner came a man. He sported a well-worn double-breasted coat much out of season for the summer evening. I did not see his face for his charcoal hat hid him well, but once he saw the woman he diverted his walking path, stopping for a moment and staring before moving closer. The woman smiled meekly at him and using her index finger beckoned him forward. The man walked hesitantly towards her so that they stood a few feet apart. I studied his side profile - he did not look attractive in my view. His greasy hair etched out along the sides of his hat and lay dishevelled on the collar of his coat. The woman dropped her left arm from the doorframe above, and I could see them conversing. I was now fully invested in the interaction, my chattering friends still unaware of my distraction. The woman nodded, moving her body slightly to one side and letting him enter. He passed behind her and out of view- she paused and looked for a moment out onto the street. Her tired eyes scanned the preoccupied crowd searching for something. A fleeting thought had me almost hoping we’d lock eyes, but she did not look my direction. With one breath, she closed the door behind them and drew the shutters quickly. And just like that the woman was gone, her body priced and sold. It was a new world for me. A new sense of the word ‘exchange’, where bodies could be used as a commodity. Sometimes I still think about the woman and how she had made me feel. I felt sad for her, sadder than I have ever felt for a stranger because, in ways, I understood the sacrifice she made. She had used her body - an asset, a constant - to forge a place in a complex world. And really, isn't that all any of us are doing?