Cassada

by James Salter

  “He’s on A.O. today,” Dunning says.

  “Couldn’t he switch with someone?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to come,” Dunning says as if bored. He goes on reading.

  She cannot believe the relief even though it is something she lives on. For a moment she feels almost dizzy.

  “Bud.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to cook dinner. Let’s have a nice dinner.”

  “Fine,” he says, lifting the bottle, tilting it up.

  “What all would you like? Never mind, I’m going to surprise you.”

  “Don’t bother about me. I’ll get something at the Snack Bar.”

  “Why are you going to do that?”

  “I have to go out anyway. I have a Rod and Gun Club meeting.”

  “I thought that was Wednesdays.”

  “This is a special one.”

  “Oh.”

  His chin is in the air as he reads something at the top of the page.

  “I see they give his name today.”

  “I saw that,” she says. “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Somebody ought to tell her.”

  “She’ll hear about it.”

  “I just wonder if anybody’s going to tell her or if she’ll read it in the newspaper.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” He shakes the page flat to read it better.

  Mayann looks at her glass. There’s only a little left at the bottom of it.

  “Listen, let me cook us a dinner.”

  “I told you. I can’t.”

  “Can’t you just skip the goddamn meeting? Call and say you won’t be able to make it?”

  “I’m the president,” he reminds her.

  She drains the glass.

  “Isn’t there a vice-president?”

  “I have to be there.”

  “I guess so. I guess it’d be bad if you weren’t. There wouldn’t be anyone to rap the gavel or whatever you do.”

  He takes a swallow of beer. She goes to the refrigerator for some ice, two cubes of which she drops into her glass so he can hear it.

  “I let you down.”

  “Nah, Cassada was the one let us down.”

  “It was my job to . . . Well, there’s no point in going back over it. It’s hard to anticipate everything.”

  “He couldn’t cut it, that’s all. It could of been worse.”

  “I don’t see how,” Isbell said.

  “It could of been.”

  “The board’s going to give us a hundred percent pilot error. Supervisory error, too.”

  “The weather was a big factor. Plus materiel failure. You never know.”

  “That’s what I think they’ll give.”

  “They may not be as tough judging as you are.”

  “In a way I’ll be disappointed if they aren’t.”

  “What are you talking about? The next thing you’ll be committing hari-kari. These things happen. The bad thing is it happened to us. The board may clear both of us.”

  “Maybe. I know I could have stopped it from happening.”

  “Some things you can stop, some you can’t. I’ve seen pilots get killed when a bolt wasn’t safetied the way it should of been.” Dunning turns his hand palm up and makes a sudden downward arc with it. “You’ve seen it. Hell, it’s easy to second-guess. Put your ass in the cockpit and we’ll see how much you know.”

  “You wrote to his mother, I guess.”

  “I’m doing that,” Dunning says. “I mean I have to do that.”

  In the BOQ, Phipps, the summary court officer whose job it is to handle the personal effects, opens the door to Cassada’s room with a strange feeling. The air in the room seems unnaturally still. He has the regular instructions plus one additional one from the major, “Tear up any love letters.”

  In a top drawer of the dresser he finds a benzedrine inhaler, a chit book from the club in Tripoli, flashlight batteries, shoelaces, a few coins, and a notebook. In the notebook there are details of flights and a folded IOU from a pilot in the 72nd for twenty dollars. In the lower drawers are the clothes. A flying suit and uniforms hang in the closet. As he goes through the pockets of them Phipps has a feeling like that of looking at someone while they’re asleep, they might suddenly open their eyes. He has the feeling Cassada might come through the door and find him there.

  An inventory of belongings has to be made. Phipps begins to mark them down on a clipboard. Shirts, six blue, five khaki. He lifts them out and tosses them onto the bed.

  “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

  Ferguson, tall and hopeless, stands in the doorway in a flying suit.

  “They made me summary court officer,” Phipps says. He dropped his pencil. “I’m inventorying his things.”

  “Yeah, I was escort officer once.”

  “What’s that?” Phipps says, picking up the pencil.

  “You accompany the body. It’s not that much fun. It was when Vandeleur was killed, before you got here. His wife was still in the States with their kid, they hadn’t come over yet. When I went to the house she grabbed my hat, threw it in the street, and slammed the door. She wouldn’t even talk to me. She barred me from the funeral.”

  He takes out a cigarette and tries to light it with the Monopol lighter that’s on top of the dresser. It doesn’t work. He taps it on the palm of his hand a few times and tries again. There is something about Ferguson—he is accepted, but there is a kind of invisibility that clings to him as if he’s begun to paint himself out of the picture. In just a few years he will be killed in a crash at night, mistaking a dark area for a notch in the mountains near Vegas at five hundred miles an hour.

  “What is there?” he says. “Anything interesting?”

  In addition to the notebook there is a black address book.

  “What’s this?” Ferguson says, opening it and beginning to turn the pages. “Lommi. Who’s that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It’s a Munich number. You know her?”

  “Me? I’m married.”

  “So are a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Captain Isbell.”

  “Isbell?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You don’t live in the BOQ. You don’t know what’s going on.”

  “He has a girlfriend in Munich?”

  “A prima one,” Ferguson says, never having seen her. “Cassada knew her.”

  “Is her name in that book?”

  “Maybe it’s Lommi. I don’t know. I was asking you.”

  He turns the pages and the sound of it, faint, is the only sound. Phipps was with a German girl just once, in Heidelberg, before his wife came over. They stood naked together in front of the mirror. He can see it still, even now, eyes open. He can see it all the time though he cannot see it again.

  “Addresses of people in Puerto Rico, looks like,” Ferguson says. He comes to something inside the back cover of the book and his face becomes baffled as he reads it. “Listen to this. Come gather for the great supper of God, to eat the flesh of kings, the flesh of captains, the flesh of mighty men . . .”

  “Say it again.”

  “What is it, Shakespeare?”

  “It’s not Shakespeare.”

  “Who knows what it is? Here.” Ferguson hands him the address book. Phipps is reading the lines when Ferguson says, “Hey, here’s something. What are you going to do with this?” He is pointing at the closet shelf.

  A bottle of Puerto Rican rum, half full. Ferguson takes it and unscrews the top.

  “Go ahead, take it if you want it,” Phipps tells him.

  “You don’t want it?”

  “No. Go ahead. Take it.”

  “Come on down when you’re finished,” Ferguson says, “and we’ll have a blast of this.” He screws the top back on. “For old Roberto. Wherever you are, pal,” he says.

  He
leaves and Phipps sits down and goes through the address book. Most of the pages are empty. There is only that one mysterious name, the name of Isbell’s girlfriend, Phipps is certain. He copies the telephone number down and reads the prophecy or vow or whatever it is again. The flesh of captains, the flesh of mighty men.

  Among the things to be sent to the family will be a manila envelope containing the contents of the flying suit he was wearing. The address book with Lommi—she was in fact the fabric designer who lived with her mother—erased would go in there.

  Two of them, well-fed, come through the inner doors and look around. The bar is empty but people are sitting at tables.

  “What’s it look like?” Barnes says.

  “There’s people here. It’s OK.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve been to every place in town.”

  They sit down at a table not far in the near-darkness from a party of eight.

  “Isn’t anything here,” Frank says, looking around for women.

  “Let’s have one drink.”

  “All right. One. I should have gone to the movie like I wanted to.”

  “What’s wrong? Aren’t you having a good time?”

  “Yeah, great. It’s always the same. You spend all your money and you got nothing to show for it.”

  “Well, you get lucky sometimes.”

  “They don’t hang around bars. You have to meet them in the daytime.”

  A girl in the party looks over at them then glances away.

  “I guess you’re right except it’s hard to get into town in the daytime.”

  The girl is looking. She has short hair brushed back like a boy’s. After a moment she turns away again.

  “Good evening,” the waitress says.

  “What do you want, Frank?”

  “I don’t want anything to drink. I’m on the early schedule.”

  “Coffee?” the waitress says.

  “Yeah, coffee.”

  “I’ll have a cognac,” Barnes says.

  “With Coke?”

  “No, just cognac. What do I look like?”

  “I beg your pardon?” the waitress says.

  The girl is looking at him again, every time his eyes drift there. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t do anything. She probably doesn’t speak English.

  “There’s just something about them, you know?” Barnes says.

  “About who?” Frank says.

  “The women. I mean, you see them walking along the street, they’re like horses.”

  “Yeah, I know. You shouldn’t drink the German cognac . . .”

  “Why is that?”

  “Stuff’ll kill you.”

  “It’s not so bad.” He is beginning to imagine her leaning over and saying something. His heart skips. The man sitting next to her turns to look and after a moment turns away. Frank has his back to them.

  “You ought to stick to beer,” Frank says. “They have real good beer down here. It’s only half the price, too.”

  “I know.” He feels like a frog with a light shining in his eyes. Perhaps she’s mistaking them for someone else. Finally the man touches her and she turns to him. He puts an arm around her shoulder and says something. She nods. She starts talking to the rest of them, or at least joining in, leaning on her elbows but every so often she looks over.

  “The coffee’s not even hot,” Frank says. “What’s the name of this place again?”

  “The Ark.”

  “Remind me to steer clear of here. What are you looking at all the time?” He turns his head just as they are getting up to leave at the other table. The girl pauses for a second. She’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater. Then she walks out.

  “No wonder you didn’t hear half of what I was saying,” Frank says.

  “Did you see her? I should have said something to her. I didn’t have the nerve.”

  “Finish your drink,” Frank says.

  In the vestibule on the way out Frank is struggling with his coat, a big checked coat that makes him look like a German when suddenly the girl comes back in.

  “Oh,” she says, “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Me?” Frank says, pointing at himself.

  “Me,” Barnes offers.

  A slight intake of breath, ja. She nods her head. “You’re not a pilot, are you?”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “From Furstenfeldbruck, the airfield?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes. I wondered. I heard planes flying over all day. You’re not from the group up by Trier?”

  “The 5th?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, we’re from France. Chaumont. What’s your name?”

  “But perhaps you know something. The other day there was an accident . . .”

  “We heard about it. Two planes. The ops officer of a squadron and another guy.”

  “The 44th Squadron,” Frank puts in.

  “And were they . . . they were both killed?”

  “Just one.”

  “Oh. Which one?”

  “The wingman, I think. Why, did you know them?”

  “Yes, maybe. Thank you,” she says and quickly goes out.

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  She is almost running to a car at the curb. As she gets in, it drives off. The two of them watch it go.

  “Barnes, you’re unconscious,” Frank says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re just unconscious.”

  In the car Barnes sits with his legs doubled up in front of him, knees touching the dashboard.

  “Who do you suppose she was looking for?”

  “What makes you think she was looking for someone?” Frank says, turning the ignition switch. “She was looking for you, you unconscious bastard.”

  “No, she knew somebody. I could tell from her eyes.”

  “Her eyes? Is that what you noticed?”

  They drive past endless blocks of apartments, every window dark. On the hidden streets there are countless others. The city is unknowable. They think they know it, they will always say they do.

  “I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Probably never will.”

  “Who knows? With your luck . . .”

  “If I wasn’t expecting to, I might. Isn’t that the way it always is?”

  “How would I know?” Frank says.

  “She looked Russian or, you know, from somewhere.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find any Russians around here.”

  “Way back, I mean,” Barnes says.

  Grace and his wife left in March, Phipps and Julie a few weeks after. Everyone went down to see them off. It was a regular thing, very much like a funeral except for the champagne. They stood around bundled against the cold, the women gossiping. Finally the train pulled out, everyone waving.

  A month later it was the Isbells’ turn. The grey of winter had vanished, the sky was bright. One for the road, they kept saying to him as they poured. Marian was sipping hers, talking and holding her hand over the top of the paper cup whenever someone tried to fill it, turning her head every so often to check on her children.

  “Come on, Captain. One for the road.”

  “Yeah, one for the railroad.”

  Finally all the faces were looking up at them from the platform, faces they knew well and new ones that would slowly take over. So long, see you in the States. Don’t be like everybody else, now; don’t forget to write. A few waves and then the irrevocable, the train began to move. Isbell and his wife were waving. He held a daughter up. Marian lifted the other. They all waved.

  The train went along the river, one steep bank of which was in sunshine. They sat watching the vineyards and small towns pass. Isbell felt drowsy. A warm square of sunshine was drifting across his lap. His eyes began to close. A paper cup was rolling around beneath the seat every time the train swayed a little. It hit something, lay still, then rolled back the other way.

 
His eyes opened sometime later when they began to slow. Coblenz, where they were to change. Marian stood up and began to put coats on the girls as the train rattled over switches. Slowly they came into the station. Marian herded the children down the aisle in front of her.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, turning to Isbell.

  “Thirsty.”

  He followed along, struggling with the bags. The platform was crowded. The car had been hot; it was different outside. The air smelled fresh. Faces bright and smiling. He took some deep breaths. The day felt better.

  There was a fifteen-minute wait. Before long the train appeared, a big, blue one, the engine gleaming. The cars floated by. BREMEN EXPRESS, the plaques on them read, KÖLN, DÜSSELDORF, ESSEN, DORTMUND, HANNOVER.

  “Here it is, Daddy!” The older girl jumped up and her sister began squealing, too, waving her arms.

  “I don’t think this is ours.”

  “Here it is!” they cried.

  Marian took their hands. “All right,” she said, “ssh. Be still.”

  “Isn’t it ours?” they pleaded.

  “No, not yet. Are you sure?” she asked Isbell.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “You could ask somebody.”

  The train was still moving past. The Speiswagen eased by, slowing, little chimneys on the roof, white tablecloths within. Part of the crowd moved along as it stopped, flowing to where the doors would be. A good-looking woman in her thirties got on in front of where Isbell was standing. He saw her appear in the corridor and then sit next to the window. His thoughts turned to Munich, the times there.

  “Hold your daddy’s hand for a minute,” Marian instructed.

  Isbell reached out. A small hand found his. Marian was searching in her handbag for a Kleenex.

  “When will ours come, Daddy?” An adoring face was turned up towards his.

  “Oh, in a few minutes. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  The perfect father, suitcases surrounding him, tickets in his pocket. He glanced towards the window where the woman was sitting, well-groomed and alone, as the car began to move, bearing her off. This time of year in Munich the Isar was racing under the bridges, rushing pale green, bringing the city to life. What did they feel flying down, seeing the last snow of winter in seams along the ground? Then coming in high over the blued city, the countless streets, the anticipation, the joy. They were dancing at the Palast, faces damp and youthful, streets at midnight, Sunday afternoons, the way those times the breath began to pour from her, the first ja. The Express was gliding faster. She was going away. Ja. Ja. Ja!