Frowning, I turned around to find a girl standing in my doorway. I was a little taken aback by the sight of her. She was a head taller than me, and to look into her eyes I had to crane my neck upwards. Her pretty, oval face was framed within mane of corn-coloured hair which, let loose, meandered down her back. She was smiling hesitantly. One quick glance at what she was wearing awakened my manhood. Her white t-shirt was so closely fitting that her breasts strained against it, and a miniskirt with a small split in the front of her miniskirt revealed her thighs to whomever cared to steal a peek.

But it's usual for foreigners in Bali, in Kuta especially, to wear whatever they like. Their intent on having a good time seems to make them completely indifferent to their cultural surroundings. So the shock I had felt on first seeing my guest's outfit dissipated when I relaised she was a young bule girl, perhaps German, perhaps American, perhaps Australian. What did it matter anyway? In Bali, they all look the same: they all have fair hair, they're all tall and they all wear whatever they please.

"Are you Mr. Wayan?" she repeated in an English that was softly-spoken, yet clear. "Yes, I am."
"I'm Anna. Anna Winslet. Can I come in?"

I began to get anxious. My room was in a mess. Books, magazines, newspaper clippings, coffee glasses, a disheveled bed (where I had rolled rather vigorously with my girl the previous night, and where the thick, pervasive smell of sex and perfume remained). After considering her request for some time, I decided to invite her to sit on the verandah. But the young foreigner refused.

"I want to see what's in my father's room," she insisted, and her presumption that my room belonged to her father had left me powerless to stop her. I began to feel acutely ill at ease. But the girl had already made herself right at home, flinging her body down onto my unmade bed.

"Is this bed where I was conceived?" she asked, her voice smaller, more shy.
"What are you talking about?"
"It's simple. You are my father," she said, then jumped up from the bed and embraced me warmly. "Come on, Dad. Give me a big hug," she pleaded. Her body emitted a pleasant smell, but this did little to ease my confusion.
"I... I don't get it." I was panicking.
"You understand."
"No."

When girl released me from her embrace and faced me, I noticed that her eyebrows joined in the middle. "Well, mum said ..." and the girl recounted how my first meeting with her mother had been in a gallery in Ubud eighteen years ago, and how we met again several times after that, forming a relationship that ended in that one intimate encounter in this room of mine in one corner of Denpasar. She knew I was a writer and a cultural guide for foreign students, she knew my full name, the village I where I was born, my rented room in Denpasar, where I had gone to university, and other things. "Is it all true?" she asked, seeking confirmation of the story about me and her mother.

"Whatever," I replied, still doubting.
"Why?"
"So many foreign women have been my friend..."
"Not just your friend, but your lover?"
"Yeah. Something like that."
"Wow! I ddin't know my father was so interesting!" she exclaimed, and then smiled, whether sincerely or in mock or, I don't know. Then she embraced me again. "Whoever you are, you are still my father. At least I have a father. All my life in Chicago, how I have missed you!"

Still, I didn't return her embrace because remained unconvinced that I really did have a daughter. What if someone was trying to play a trick on me?

I gently released myself and slumped onto the floor, held my head in my hands and, paying scant regard to the young foreigner who claimed to be my daughter and was sitting on my bed, mumbled "I can't believe it! I can't..."

"But you have to believe it, Daddy. It's the truth. And what's so strange about it? It's not as if it's impossible. You met, you made love, and there was a risk involved. My presence in the world is a result of that risk. Well, there's nothing to be afraid of. Neither me nor my mother are going to burden you with anything. I just want you to accept me as your daughter."

I didn't respond immediately. But I knew she was right. There was nothing strange about it. I was making it out to be worse than it actually was. As she said, there was nothing to be afraid of.