James Salter - Cassada

“What do you mean?”

“She’s with the band.”

“You should have seen Ferguson. He certainly was sitting up all of a sudden.”

Isbell joined them.

“Marian says she likes the singer,” Mayann said.

“Ferguson likes her.”

“Don’t lay it all on Ferguson,” Marian said.

“He’s apparently more interested in music than we knew.”

“Lieutenant Ferguson!” Dunning called. Ferguson had just come back in the room.

“All present, sir!”

“Come over here a minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was just wondering… What do you think of this new singer?”

Ferguson made a sound like the growl of a cat.

“I thought so. What is it exactly you like?”

“The dress,” Ferguson said.

“What about it?”

“Do you think she’s wearing anything under it?” he said.

“She couldn’t be,” Mayann said.

“You think so?”

“There isn’t any room.”

“I was under the impression you liked her voice,” Dunning went on.

“Oh, yes,” Ferguson said. “That, too.”

He was the first one to go back when the band struck up again. The club steward meanwhile opened a dividing curtain that had been drawn between the two rooms. Those sitting at the table could now see. The singer, in a white dress with a little fringe at the bosom and hips, had walked up the three steps to the stage and its brilliant bath of light.

Godchaux, lingering behind, came to the bar.

“Enjoying yourself?” Mayann asked.

Godchaux gave a slight shrug. His face always wore a guileless expression.

“Do you want a drink?”

She called the bartender.

“Yes, Mrs. Dunning?” He was looking towards the stage. The singer was in the spotlight, her mouth near the microphone, the little fringe at the top trembling as she breathed.

“You’re too old for that, Hans. Give us a couple of drinks,” Mayann said.

He reached down for the glasses. “She’s prima, no?”

“Do you know where she’s from?” Godchaux asked.

“What’s that, Lieutenant?”

“Where’s she from?”

“Munich,” Hans said.

“That figures.”

“What would you like to drink?”

“Bourbon.”

“With water?”

“On the rocks.”

“Mrs. Dunning?”

“Give me another of these.” She pushed forward her nearly empty glass, ignoring the one her husband had left for her. To Godchaux she said, “How come you’re not in there with the rest of them straining your eyes?”

“Oh…”

“What is it, you already have a girlfriend?”

“Me?” Godchaux said. “Uh, not really. Not here. In Munich…”

“I see. So how do you handle it? Don’t you get horny?”

The smile, always ready to appear on Godchaux’s face, did, but it was embarrassed. He glanced at the floor.

“Well, don’t you?”

“I, uh… To be honest, I’m not used to talking like this.”

“With a woman?”

“I guess so.”

“Your face is all red.”

Something was occurring, perhaps it was occurring. He knew he was in good favor with the squadron commander; he had never thought beyond that. They drank for a while in silence and watched the singer. After the set was over, Ferguson brought her back with him. She was no less impressive at close hand.

“They want me to be drunk,” she said to Mayann. She held up a glass dark with whiskey.

“Can’t think what for,” Mayann said.

“Oh, ho,” the singer said, smiling.

Ferguson was on one side of her, Harlan on the other. They were asking her where in Munich she was from, what part? Someone started singing In München steht ein Hofbräuhaus and without much urging she joined in. Cassada had his glass raised high and was singing without knowing the words. He was watching their mouths and getting one every now and then.

“It’s nice having them back, isn’t it?” Jackie Grace said.

“What?”

“It’s nice having them back.”

“I don’t know,” Mayann said. “Sometimes I think I might like somebody else back.”

For a moment it was not understood. Then,

“Oh, Mayann. You!”

“Don’t you ever feel that way?”

“Oh, Mayann. Goodness!”

Ferguson had jumped up to make room for a waiter with a trayful of glasses and German champagne. “Put it right here,” he said.

“What’s all that for?” Harlan asked.

“Nothing,” Ferguson said. “Just champagne. A celebration.”

He was passing the bottles around to be opened. When the first cork popped there was a spurt that went across the table. Mayann jumped back.

“You idiot,” she said.

Cassada was holding a bottle by the neck, foam pouring over his hand. Standing up straight then, unsteady, “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said.

“What’s the matter with you?” The front of her dress was wet. She was holding it away from herself.

Cassada had come around the table and offered her his handkerchief. “Here, use this, Mrs. Dunning.”

“You use it.”

With the handkerchief still folded in a square, he bent down and began stroking. Mayann held her dress taut.

“Just stick to the wet spots,” she said. She could see him blush. He looked up.

“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Dunning. Can I pay to have it cleaned?”

She disregarded this.

“Can I get you a glass of champagne?” he asked.

“Instead of just pouring it on me, you mean?”

He didn’t know what to say. “I’m really sorry.”

He held the bottle in both hands while he poured, the bottom against his stomach. “Here you are,” he said politely.

The champagne made it a party. Lank-haired and whispering Ferguson was inviting the singer to ride into town with him on his motorcycle after the band finished. Harlan was talking to her, too. The gleam of her bare shoulders was drawing them to her, the white dress. The bachelors were in their glory. They were standing against the wall, singing and spilling champagne over themselves, shaking the bottle with a thumb over the top and then spraying it around, faces wet as swimmers’. The singing got louder and cruder. The bar closed but nobody left. Finally the club officer came by.

“It’s all right,” Dunning told him with a confident air.

“Certainly, Major,” the club officer said. He just wanted them to watch out for the furniture.

“We’re not going to hurt it,” somebody said.

They were certainly spilling enough champagne, the club officer remarked.

“Ahh,” Cassada muttered, “so that’s where it’s going.”

Dunning, undisturbed by the incident of the champagne, put an arm around Cassada’s shoulders. The singer was gone. She had sneaked out after the final number with a bandsman’s coat around her. “Well, how do you like the squadron, son?”

“I guess I like it fine.”

“You guess ? What the hell! Don’t you know you are in the best goddamn squadron in the Air Force. You guess ? Let me tell you something, people would kill to be in the spot you’re in. The best squadron and the best planes. Captain Isbell!” he called. “Who the hell is this man?”

“He’s a new lieutenant we’ve got.”

“Tell me his name again.”

“Lieutenant Cassada.”

“Is that your name?”

“Yes, sir,” Cassada said.

“Don’t you know anything?” Dunning demanded and squeezed Cassada’s shoulder as hard as he could, even grimacing as he did so.

In the November afternoon, deep blue, the clouds immaculate and tall, over the radio came a warning, first on tower frequency, then on that of each of the squadrons, repeated urgently, over and over,

“Attention, all 5th Group aircraft. Attention, all 5th Group aircraft. You are advised to return to base immediately. Return to base immediately.”