I walked down Tu Do Street from my hotel,
the Majestic, toward the opera house and the Continental. The Continental Hotel
is Graham Greene’s hangout, and the gathering place for press and diplomatic
types. In this Paris of the East there are impressive boulevards, sidewalk cafés and
colonial balconies. There are many bicyclists and pedestrians and military vehicles
jamming the street. The cafes are crowded, and loud music, mostly American
rock and roll, vibrates out to the sidewalks from the strip clubs. Life is good,
business is booming, and the Saigon night is young.
The motor scooters, old cars, and packed
buses, careen around the traffic circle, oblivious of the hand signals
of the policeman on his platform. Neon signs blaze, GIs are out in packs, MPs are on patrol, and the boy-girls whisper of secret pleasures as they skip
to walk beside you.
The Continental’s ground floor café is
enclosed by protective screens. I walked through the café into the lobby and on
through to the courtyard and up the steps to the bar. The bartender was middle-aged,
Vietnamese, who spoke English flawlessly. I mentioned Greene.
“Yes, Graham Greene,” he said. “The Quiet American…did you read the book
before coming here?” I replied that I had, and offered the thought that
everyone who came should read it.
He laughed, and said, “Yes, but of course
your government dislikes the book. I’ve read it many times.”
“Do you know what room Greene lived in
when he was writing the book?”
“I’m not supposed to say. It causes
problems,” he said, with a grin. “You’re on your way to R&R or home?”
“Home… tomorrow.”
“Well, in that case,” he said, “let me
see if the magic room is unoccupied, you can take a quick look.”
I was nursing my second beer when he
returned: “Come with me” he whispered.
We went up a service staircase to the
second floor. Room 214 is a corner room with tall bright windows, yellow
draperies, a chair and ottoman, a bed and matching nightstands, with a writing desk
and chair facing the wall. It was clean and empty, awaiting its next guest. I
stayed at the open door admiring the brass handles and letter box.
“You can go in for a minute if you like.”
“No, this is fine, thank you.”
Later I ran into a few friends in the bar and
stayed quite late. As I was leaving I looked across the room to my
conspirator to say goodbye. He saw me, smiled and waved me over.
Leaning across he said: “I forgot to
mention, our friend Graham Greene actually prefers the Majestic Hotel to this
one, and stays there now when he comes to Saigon. Do you know the Majestic?”
