A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter Read Free Book Online

every building is black.
    “He’s really nasty to her,” Dean says.
    “What do you mean?”
    “He’s got her right there in his hand,” he says, “and he’s just, you know, breaking her bones.”
    “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
    “I feel sorry for her,” he says.
    “Why? She’s all right. She made a good marriage. They have children, her husband’s doing well. It’s all important. I mean, you have to understand things. They have their own pleasures.”
    “She’s starved,” Dean says.
    “A little, probably. It’s because you were there tonight.”
    “Maybe.” He smiles.
    “Listen, when someone thinks you look like a movie actor, that’s something right there.”
    “Yes.”
    “Especially when you don’t even resemble him.”
    Dean laughs.
    Dijon is hung in mist. We drive along empty streets. He knows the way perfectly. In front of us the blue neon of the Rotonde appears. We park and walk to the door. Now we can hear music, out of place in the fog, the silence. When we step inside, the darkness shatters like glass. On a little stage rimmed with light a band is playing. Couples are dancing, everything is very loud.
    The waiter wants us to order champagne. Dean shakes his head: no, no. He knows the routine. We sit there watching it all.
    “What music,” he says.
    “Do you think it’s good?”
    “Christ, no,” he says.
    In the middle of the crowd is a girl with an African–I’m certain he’s a student–in a cheap grey suit. They have their arms around each other. As they dance it’s like a playing card revolving. The jack of spades vanishes slowly, the queen of diamonds is revealed. Their mouths come together in the dark.
    Across from us there are more Negroes, but these are Americans. Soldiers. One can see it immediately in their faces, their clothes. They have thick mouths, a certain crudity. And they’re big. They have great hands, broad shoulders. They seem ready to burst out of their clothes. There are Coke bottles on the table–for their French girls, of course. One of them sits in a skimpy, plaid dress, green I make it to be. Short-sleeved, though the night is cold. She turns her head a little. She’s very young. Pure, expressionless features. Suddenly I am in anguish, I don’t know why–she obviously cares nothing–but somehow because of her predicament. She looks sixteen. Her young arms flash softly in the gloom.
    Now one of them begins talking to her in that rich, melodious under-language. She doesn’t understand him–perhaps it’s the noise of the band. He leans closer. His mouth is moving just next to her ear. She nods her head then. She looks at him calmly and nods. The others are sitting with their huge forearms on the table, listening to the music, occasionally passing a word. I can’t see the other girl very well. Her hair is quite long. The music is crashing around us. The drummer’s face is wet.
    We have traveled from Innsbruck to bedlam. It’s no longer possible to talk. I’m very sleepy and suddenly a little depressed. I keep looking across to their table. When they leave, I am sure I know exactly how it will be. They’ll go out to a big, green Pontiac at least five years old, maybe a Ford. The muffler is broken. The sound of the engine is powerful and raw. She sits between two of them in the back. That means… I don’t really know what it means, what low, graceful phrases are offered in the dark. As Rilke says, there are no classes for beginners in life, the most difficult thing is always asked of one right away. Still, they are not so bad, these black men. They are very sweet, I have heard, they are very tender. They will spend every penny they have on a girl, absolutely everything. They are foolishly generous. I envy them for that.
    We drive in silence through a dense fog which swallows the headlights of the car. The yellow beams are smoking before us. Nothing can be seen. La Rotonde is very distant. The doors have closed behind us, the music has