Stephen Coleman had dragged himself up the steps into the bar. He couldn't remember what time that had been. The hotel lifts stopped two floors short of the top, obliging the clientele to struggle up a series of steps before arriving at the roof-top oasis with its magnificent view across the Saigon River. He had seen the group at the bar on arrival but the painful effort of climbing, together with the fact that he was in no mood for company, made him decide that he wanted to be alone.
Fifteen years of self-abuse had produced the red, telltale blotches and dark bags under his eyes. He didn't care. At least it helped disguise his identity, most of the time. Today, however, he suspected that his cover was blown, but he didn't particularly mind. He was concentrating on getting drunk.
He had not been on a binge of this magnitude for at least a year, and it had started with the Cathay Pacific flight from Hong Kong a week ago. Of course, he could blame the attractive Japanese flight stewardess. It was she who had offered him the newspaper that had triggered his present bender.
He thought back over that flight. As a rule, Coleman disliked reading on flight. He always found that the overhead light didn't quite match the position of the seat, and he didn't enjoy holding the reading material close to his eyes as the Chinese seemed to do. And then there was the problem of the black smudges he'd find from the poor print quality.
It never failed. Whenever he was given a newspaper he found that the print always seemed to come off on his hands and then, inevitably, smear over his shirt. And for some reason he could never understand, the moment he'd manage to fold the cumbersome oversized paper into some more manageable form, the cabin staff would commence serving meals! So he had taken the newspaper more to appease the smiling attendant than to provide himself with an update on world events.
He had refused the overly sweet pre-flight concoction served while the aircraft waited for the remaining passengers to board. Instead, he had requested a Chivas. The girl had smiled sweetly and apologized, citing the IATA regulations, or was it the Customs regulations, which prevented the consumption of alcoholic beverages before takeoff.
He had already been drinking prior to boarding and wasn't in a particularly good mood. He knew all too well that up forward in the first class section they would be pouring Bollinger or some other fascinating drinks down their throats while he sat crammed between the two Indian gentlemen in economy.
It was not that he did not have the means to fly first class. It just seemed more prudent to sit down the back with the tourists where he could maintain a low profile. Although he no longer needed to take such security precautions, it helped him to avoid bumping into old associates who might stir up the bitter memories which continued to haunt him. The skeletons of his past. There were more of these than he cared to remember.
Stephen drained the last dregs of his whisky then looked up blearily at the growing crowd in The Shakes Pub. He was pleased that the memories were becoming more vague with each year that passed, buried, as they were, under a deluge of alcohol and self-pity. What the hell! He didn't care too much any more.
His thoughts strayed back to the Cathay Pacific flight. The sector was only two hours so he hadn't taken too much notice of his seat allocation. Consequently, he found himself stuck between two overweight men whose bodies spilled over into his limited space. He remembered deliberately exaggerating his arm movements as he opened the pages of the large Sydney Morning Herald so as to annoy his neighbours. He had skimmed through the first few pages without particular interest in the happenings back in the land of his birth when suddenly he saw it, on page three.
He stared at the image before dropping his eyes to read the underlying caption. The lines blurred as the words meshed together. He stared at the photograph again and General Nathan Seda smiled back at him, almost mockingly.
Coleman had not wanted to read on but his attention was dragged like a magnet to the story accompanying the photograph. He read the article again, in disbelief.
His eyes remained transfixed to the photograph. Having finished the article, he unbuckled his safety belt and went in search of the flight attendant. The stewardess permitted Coleman to stand next to the galley only after he had complained about the other passenger's body odour. The male flight attendant, a Filipino, had smiled knowingly and presented Stephen with a full tumbler of Chivas with barely enough space for the single ice cube. For the remaining one-and-a-half hours of the flight his demeanour deteriorated to the point just short of being obnoxiously drunk.
And he had remained in that condition until he awoke some time later in his hotel room in the early hours of the morning with a raging thirst. Stumbling around the room, searching unsuccessfully for a light switch, he discovered the washbasin and drank copiously from the antiquated water system. Then he crawled back into bed.
Stephen grimaced with the memory. How could he have done such a reprehensible thing? He'd been living in the tropics long enough to know that drinking local water was tantamount to suicide! His judgement had been clouded by the tremendous infusion of alcohol. When he awoke for the second time, he had been completely disoriented. He tried to make some sense of his surroundings but there was nothing familiar about the room to indicate where he was. After some minutes, he gradually allowed himself an attempt to rise from the bed. A gigantic wave of nausea flowed from his stomach, forcing the bile upwards as he lurched forward in search of the bathroom.
He retched. The heaving attack continued until he was totally exhausted. The combination of alcohol and whatever filthy parasite that had infiltrated his body produced wracking spasms and extreme stomach cramp, causing the already exhausted Coleman to fall forward weakly, until the next wave forced him to produce the physical strength to raise his body back up to the toilet bowl.
The attacks continued. At last, totally debilitated by the spasms, he fell insensible to the bathroom floor where the room maids discovered him and raised the alarm.
After administering medication, the doctor had issued instructions to have him bathed and instructed the staff not to disturb the man until he had slept for at least a further ten hours. In the early evening he was given soup, after which he again fell into a deep sleep. As he'd slept, a constant flow of staff had passed through his room, concerned that he might die in their hotel, especially during their shift. It was a further twelve hours before he awoke and looked around the still unfamiliar room to see a serious faced short man watching him, obviously worried.
Stephen shifted his position on the bar stool and lit another cigarette. He could recall the conversation he had as if it had happened just five minutes ago.
“Good morning, Mr Stephen Coleman
,
” the small wiry person had called clearly, “we were about to waken you.”
Stephen remembered watching the man for several moments before responding. He had assumed he was in some sort of hospital.
“Good morning,” he said, struggling to make a sound.
“The dryness in your throat is from the vomiting. Also, I would assume, the soreness surrounding your chest and rib cage. Your lower abdomen will be tender from the cramps at least until tomorrow. ” The doctor waited for some indication from Coleman that these symptoms were correct and, receiving no response, continued. “Is this your first time in Vietnam, Mr Coleman?”
Stephen eyed the man suspiciously.
“Do you mean that no one has checked my passport?”
“It is not usually part of our medical procedures,” the doctor answered caustically. He was a Southerner.
“Then maybe it should be,” Coleman ungraciously suggested.
“I see that not only do you show bad judgement but bad manners as well.”
Stephen studied the man and decided that he had gone too far.
“Sorry, Doc.” Stephen apologized. “Where am I?”
“Room 507, Rex Hotel, Ho Chi Minh City.”
He absorbed this information and decided there were other questions he should be asking but tiredness prevented him from pursuing these.
“Saigon? How long have I been here?” he asked.
“Just a day or so. You should rest now. We can talk when you have slept.”
“What is the medication, Doctor..?”
“My name is Thuan. The medication I have given you is a simple sedative to make you relax, together with pain killers and Geomyacin which would have reduced the cramps.”
“Thank you, Doctor Thuan. Again, I apologize for my rude behaviour.”
“You should rest as long as the cramps and nausea continue.” He hesitated and then added, “Avoid alcohol.”
Stephen nodded. The mere thought of whisky induced a warning twinge in his stomach. Satisfied that he would recover, Coleman had thanked the doctor and, following his advice, rested in the room for the remainder of the day.
By evening, Stephen remembered he was well enough to wander along the passageway and out onto the magnificent beer garden, where he sat, relaxing under the stars. He couldn't believe the sudden change in temperature. There were a number of stuffed animals placed around in frozen postures together with some rather fine sculptures of elephants in different artistic poses. A large domelike crown sat majestically on the centre roof structure, covered by hundreds of lights so that the hotel's popular garden setting could be easily identified from most parts of the city.
Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of the river's floating restaurants, brilliantly lit with thousands of lights strung in the shape of an enormous fish. The colourful lights and electrical display brought it alive.
He enjoyed the sense of history as he sat quietly on the iron garden chairs amidst the orchids and other pot plants, listening to the street noises five stories below. Taxis and buses fought for position in the traffic, moving perilously close to brave pedestrians who attempted to cross on the complicated pedestrian markings. The constant flow of motorbikes, cars and minibuses chased each other around the square and then into the dangerous roundabout.
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Stephen knew something about the Rex. He recalled that when Saigon fell in April of 1975, some eighteen months after the Americans, Australians and Koreans pulled out of the country, choppers could be seen hovering over the American Embassy compound just a few hundred metres away from this hotel. The noisy mechanical birds also swooped down to rescue the few remaining advisers caught unawares in this hotel, winching them straight out of the beer garden before whisking them away to the waiting transports at Tan Son Nhat. The Rex Hotel had been basically an officers billet where many of their number remained in the comfort none of the other addresses could offer.
Not two hundred metres to his left, as Coleman faced the river, he could see the newly renovated Caravelle which housed the Australian Embassy during the years of conflict that had claimed the lives of some five hundred young men from Down Under. He had been told that, immediately after hostilities had ceased, the new regime had turned the two upper levels, formerly occupied by his countrymen, into a dance hall and night club. This was used mainly for the elite Communist Party officials who then plagued the city.
Stephen was surprised to see that so much of the old Saigon had already disappeared. High rise monsters now dominated the skyline, changing the city into a mini metropolis not unlike other South East Asian capitals. It was quite depressing to see how the character of the city had changed. Forty years before it had been a city which had prided itself as being the most advanced of any other capital in the region with an infrastructure well ahead of Singapore and Hong Kong.
The Communists had changed all that. Mismanagement, graft and corruption were mixed together in a melting pot of confusing politics and religious dogma. These were stirred with the fear of reprisals which turned the former capital of South Vietnam into a cesspool of humanity, most of whom had only one wish in life â to flee.
And many did.
Now they were returning, carrying their new passports for the security these offered, visiting family and friends and cautiously checking around for investment opportunities. Their familiarity with the language and culture gave them a real edge over other foreign investors. The government welcomed them back with open arms and did not differentiate too much between these overseas Vietnamese which they called Viet Kieu and others, unless they became embroiled in anything remotely resembling political or religious activities.
Stephen recalled how he had observed a number of foreigners arguing with the white uniformed security guard near the beer garden's entrance. The Lilliputian-sized lifts stopped there as the building reached only to the fifth level, which accommodated the beer garden, a swimming pool and sauna area, the main restaurant and a small number of suite rooms, one of which he now occupied as a guest.
The men were accompanied by two Vietnamese girls dressed in
au zais
, the long white traditional dress and slacks. The security officer was adamant. The girls were not permitted into this section of the hotel unless they were guests. The police were severe when they caught local girls in areas of hotels where they were not permitted. Stephen had heard many tales of tourists who had slipped a girl into their room only to discover that the receptionist they had tipped to turn a blind eye had immediately betrayed them