Saturday, September 6, 2014

Saigon Hotel, March 1970


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?”



No comments: