The Hunters by James Salter

Author:James Salter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Counterpoint Press
Published: 2012-07-26T04:00:00+00:00

14

They did not stay long at the Astor. That morning, DeLeo began packing. He had made some telephone calls and arranged for them to move to the Hosokawa. Cleve was not enthusiastic.

“Why?” he asked. “This place seems fine to me.”

“You’ll like it better there. I guarantee it.”

“I don’t like moving. Does it have a bar?”

“Of course.”

“A barber shop?”

“No barber shop.”

“I knew it,” Cleve said. “We’ll have to shave ourselves there.”

“What an inconvenience. Why don’t you get started packing?”

“It’s just that I’m accustomed to service. And this fellow here is a terrific barber.”

“How do you know? You shaved yourself this morning.”

“I like the way he limps.”

“I haven’t noticed him doing any limping.”

“He has a bad leg. I think he was wounded in the war. I’ve been looking forward to hearing about it tomorrow morning with a nice hot towel on my face.”

“Come on. Maybe we can come back some time for a haircut.”

It was not a long trip. The Hosokawa was less than half a mile away. Despite himself, Cleve liked it the moment he entered. It had once been the residence of a prince, and beautifully maintained grounds encircled it. Also, it was distinctly more Oriental. They had to remove their shoes at the entrance and put on the hotel’s slippers.

They stopped at the bar for a drink and read through the newspapers. There was not much in them about the war. The front was quiet, and there had been no air action at all. They went in to lunch. The dining room opened onto the gardens. It was a rare afternoon. Sunshine made the evergreens glisten, and a stream as clear as ice passed soundlessly among carefully set rocks streaked with pale moss. They were the only ones eating. There was, overall, the dignity of a great estate. The food was excellent. They had not had breakfast and were hungry.

That night they started at the Mimatsu, which DeLeo called a place of great historical interest. For reasons of his own, he said. It was a night club the size of an auditorium. Hostesses in evening gowns came to sit with them.

“Fighter pirot, no?” one said, smiling.

“How can you tell?”

“Aw same fighter pirot, big here,” she pointed to her wrist where a watch might be, then to her lap, “sma’ here.”

To applaud the floor show they were given a kind of fireworks that exploded into confetti. Each act was followed by a barrage of sharp explosions and blizzards of colored paper drifting through the spotlight beams. DeLeo’s girl wore a dress of tight, violet satin. She said that her name was Sunday. She looked more Indonesian than Japanese and had dazzling, even teeth.

“Every day is a horiday with me,” she smiled.

It was like a musical comedy about shore leave, Cleve thought. There was a fountain bathed in rainbow lighting in the center of the dance floor. DeLeo was drinking and breaking the glasses. People at other tables turned around every time he smashed one, shouting, and the waiter charged him for a glass each round.

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