Breakfast at the Rex

With one hand holding the silver tray, the waiter carefully places, first, the coaster, a napkin and finally, the tall, frosted glass of orange juice. Each item is arranged in an almost zen-like meditation on excellence.

The frosted glass perspires in the heat. Rivulets of sweat run the length of its shape, promising ice-cold refreshment.

The waiter hovers, awaiting instruction. "Thanks," is all I can mutter, engrossed in the regimentation of it all. Silently, the waiter moves away. In the distance, I hear the sound of cars and bicycle bells, but for the moment, I enjoy the quiet solitude of the rooftop garden. Mykos will be here soon. A breakfast meeting. A little solitude first helps me get my mind into gear.

In the distance, I can hear the thunder rumble of the oncoming monsoon.

It's 6.00 am, it's hot and close, and I am the first diner of the morning. I watch the waiters standing as though to attention in the shade of the servery. Quiet, respectful, lost in their thoughts, their reserve only spoilt as one of them yawns and the others laugh.

The roof garden here is exquisite, particularly the burst of colour the frangipanis and papaya provide. Their heavy scent hangs in the still, stale air of the upcoming storm. The whole of Saigon is on tenterhooks, awaiting the rains.

I scan a three-day-old copy of the New York Times and, for twenty minutes, enjoy the peace and tranquillity on offer. Ignoring the repetitive thunder that has been making its presence felt for days.

As each new guest arrives, I check to see if it's Mykos. The waiters become busy. In the far corner, two men, Americans, are seated. Their loud, accented voices carry across the rooftop terrace. The waiters fuss about them. Hoping not to be so easily recognised, I turn my attention away from the restaurant and gaze down at the square below.

Below, the Vietnamese go about their daily business. Along the tree-lined boulevards, small armies of mopeds, cars, and three-wheeled cyclos wait at the traffic lights. Water held back by an invisible dam. The lake of vehicles stretches back all the way to the last intersection.

The lights change. The dam bursts, allowing the mass of humanity to surge forward. First away are the slick motorcyclists, their chic girlfriends perched behind them performing a kind of precarious side-saddle. They sound their horns and gesticulate at the slower grandparents taking their grandchildren to school. In Vietnam, children are a collective responsibility. It is not unusual to see three children under six astride one moped or bicycle.

Cyclos drivers, when not carrying passengers, carry cargo. Heavily laden, they are forced to push start their charges and run along their precariously loaded vehicles until they reach sufficient speed to jump aboard. Once in place, they attempt to maintain momentum. Heavily muscled calfs struggle and strain until slowly, very slowly, the pedals turn, and the cyclos begin to pick up speed.

I look down at the headlines of my paper. "Trump wins!" The heavy, overcast day seems to mirror my own thoughts on the faraway election.

A slight breeze brings a brief hint of the kitchen, bacon, eggs and rice. Suddenly, I am hungry.

I break open the fresh baguettes on the table. A great invention leftover from the French. I turned back to the street. Two Buddhist monks sporting close-cropped hair and saffron robes walk along the sidewalk with a kind of foot-slapping walk that nearly all their Vietnamese have through their constant use of flip flops.

The waiters distract me from my observation as they fawn over a European man and his beautiful Vietnamese companion. The old man fires off salvos of rapid French, forcing the waiters to duck and dive from each new blast. 

Fascinated, I watch the man. He has a tanned complexion, a crew cut the colour of Krupp steel, and a narrow, angular face rounded off by a brush moustache. Elegantly attired in an off-white linen suit and pale blue shirt, a very stylish pair of sunglasses perched high on his head above the hairline. He would not be out of place in a cafe on the Champ-Elysees or the seafront of St. Tropez.

Our Frenchman is a dapper figure, and one or two of the breakfasting ladies show a keen interest in this whirlwind of the terrace. But he pales in comparison to his female companion. I can't help but stare. The girl's hair is long, straight, and lustrous. It seems to reflect the sun. Her Asian features have a smokey, heavy-lidded property associated with the best jazz. Her skin is dark and clear. Wearing no makeup other than the dark crimson slash on plump, firm lips.

This beauty is dressed traditionally in a brilliant white Ao Dai. The shirt tight, her breasts strain against thin silk. She sits with her legs crossed, revealing a golden ankle chain, smoking a cigarette. She is the epitome of calm and poise in contrast to her companion. 

My appetites awakened. I summoned the waiter.

"Monsieur?" 

"I'll have breakfast now, please."

 The waiter slipped away, elegant in his heavy cotton jacket and trousers. I checked my watch. As usual, Mykos is late. 

I wonder what his excuse will be this time. The weather, the traffic. It's always something with Mykos.

I try and ignore the Frenchman or, in truth, his beautiful companion, but eventually, I must look. I blush, embarrassed, as she catches me watching. She regards me with a kind of amusement before turning away and responding quietly in French to something her companion asked.

I think back to last night. I saw them both at the Lemongrass. A high-class restaurant in the heart of the city. They were much quieter and more self-involved there. The girl peeled the shells from the prawns. Selecting only the choicest pieces of meat for her beau, it was quietly erotic to see her slim, nimble fingers carefully dissect each prawn.

Sneaking another glance, I see the maître'd bring the Frenchman the house phone. For a few minutes, the man listens before becoming agitated. He bellows into the phone for a few minutes, causing everyone to look before slamming the phone down and striding away from the table.

She sits there alone, drinking her coffee. Oblivious to the knowing glances that surround her. The cigarette sits on the ashtray, forgotten, the smoke curling and circling upwards.

I think of her tearful farewells at the airport. In the last month I've seen her three times crying as she waves off some French businessmen as he begins his long journey home. Then, after a twenty-minute break to freshen up, she welcomes another gentleman off the next flight.

For all this, though, I know I'm a little in love with her or perhaps the idea of her. When I wake from half-remembered fevered dreams, it's always her face that I remember.

"Monsieur," the waiter says as he delivers my breakfast. Tearing my eyes away, I attacked my food with gusto. The first taste attempts to satisfy my urges, and as I butter the toast, I see my guest has finally arrived. My own storm is here. Those moments of peace now over.

"Ricky!" Mykos calls as he strides across the terrace, breaking the subdued atmosphere. 

"Ricky, sorry I'm late." 

Mykos has too much chest hair. It pokes out of his shirt that should be fastened higher. Gold chains hang around his neck, and rings adore nearly every finger. His bald head shines in the sunlight. He is as pot-bellied as a Buddha. He couldn't be anything other than Greek.

The thunder warns us all of the impending storm. Mykos draws up a chair and shakes my hand vigorously. All bluster and noise. Thunder in our overcast day. The waiter appears, and before I can offer, he orders, "I'll have what he's having and coffee as well." The waiter slips quietly away, letting us talk. 

"How was court yesterday?" I ask. 

"Ricky, it will spoil the digestion." He jokes before launching into today's story. "For three years, I have fought this, and yet nothing surprises me anymore, and everything surprises me."

Mykos talks as much with his hands as he does with his mouth.

"The judge today blocked my evidence six months after saying it was admissible. I challenged him by telling him he had already allowed it in the case. Still, that bastard is obviously after another bribe. He has now declared a month-long recess". 

Mykos shakes his head, looking forlorn. He looks around the terrace and is instantly cheered up, "Good God, look at that beauty." He stares with unconcealed lust. The whole terrace can't help but hear him. The girl gives him a look that should kill but fails to penetrate Mykos's lustful veneer.

"Now that would be a reason to stay, eh Rickie," he leers.

She picks up her cigarettes and leaves.

"I thought you had a girl here?" my voice has a gritted edge to it. 

"A bed warmer, nothing else." Mykos is a pig, but he is an observant pig.

The big Greek looks at me and smiles, "Always you fall for the wrong ones, eh Ricky?" He chides.

I add milk to my coffee, biding my time. Knowing, like the monsoon, it will soon come. Mykos lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke above us.

He sits back, appearing relaxed, but the feverish smoking tells a different story.

"Ricky, I hate this place. I want to go home. See my wife and two boys. " He looks forlorn. "Why did I ever think to build here?"

"Money?" It's a simple answer. I could have easily said greed. Mykos had got greedy, not sharing the wealth enough. My report tells me a big man was left out. But that was three years ago. The boat now missed. Now, the building is all Chinese.

"Well, I might be able to help you there." I bait the hook. 

"Ricky, my friend, do not joke about such things. What can you know about my case?" Like a drown man reaching for a helping hand. I have Mykos's full attention.

"Fresh evidence, perhaps." 

"Wait! What? How? I mean, why? I mean... do you really?" His eyes are alight with hope.

"The American embassy has tracked down the original contractor. They have sworn statements even the best-brought judges dare not hide. Especially if they put their full weight behind it." then I add the knock out punch. "They are willing to talk to Hanoi about it. Straighten things out."

Mykos sits upright. I finish my coffee, aware his eyes never leave mine. "Richard, for many years now you've told me you don't know anyone at the embassy."

Lying comes so easily to me. "I didn't, but a buddy recently flew in from Langley. He asked me to show him around. Introduce him to a few of the locals. He owed me a favour. He found your contractor." 

"Langley, eh?" Mykos understands the hint. 

"Yeah, he was based there for a few years..." I leave it casual, no reason to labour the point.

For the next few minutes we silently eat our food. Mykos does little more than push the food around the plate. All appetite gone, his face a mask of concentration. I can almost hear his brain turning over. He is desperate to go home. He wants to go back to his fat wife and teenage sons. I deal in desperate people.

"What would I have to do to get this help?" he asks quietly. My fish is on the line. Now, all I have to do is reel him in.

"Nothing much. Make a few introductions, that's all. You have been here on and off for over 10 years. There must be a lot of people you can introduce my friend to." I cajole.

"Just introductions?"

"Yeah, just introductions," I reassure. 

"Can I think about it?"

'Yes, but don't take too long. Twenty-four hours and I am told this offer is off the table," my voice is even, but the threat is implied. I can see Mykos is heartbroken. Several times, he moves his lips as if to speak. Finally, all he says is "OK." 

He finishes his coffee. Then takes his leave. His half-eaten breakfast is a mausoleum to our friendship. 

I think back to the war. The Rex Hotel was always the place of journalists and spooks. They relied on each other for information. Fifty years later, things haven't changed much. Everyone still needs information. It's just a different type of war. Commerce is king. Vietnam is ripe for overseas investment. The Chinese and Russians have the edge on us. We have a long way to go to catch up, but knowing the right people helps.

The first spots of rain begin to fall. Diners move indoors, but instead, I move to the rail overlooking the street below. I see Mykos. He looks upset, angry even. He'll calm down. He needs me, and my friends and my friends need him. Once he's helped us out, he can go back to Melbourne. Then he can help us out some more. A man like Mykos is too good an opportunity to lose. The rain begins to fall more heavily as I stand in the rain, watching Mykos summon a cab. The monsoon has arrived.