Cassada by James Salter Page A

Mayann said. She was laying out matches she had torn from a book of them. They formed a pyramid, five matches in the bottom row, three in the next, then one. Godchaux shook his head.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    The rules, she explained, were simple. From any one row any number of matches could be removed. Then it was the other player’s turn, and so forth. The loser was the one who picked up the last match.
    â€œYou go,” she said.
    Godchaux looked at the matches for a minute or two and picked up the single match. Mayann picked up two from the row of five. Godchaux casually picked up the remaining three from the same row. That left three matches in what had been the middle row. Mayann picked up two of them.
    â€œI get it,” he said.
    She laid them out again. This time he looked longer at the matches and picked up one from the row of five. She took away twofrom the same row. Godchaux took away one from the row of three. Mayann picked up the lone match from the top row.
    Godchaux sat examining the situation. He saw he had lost again. If he picked up one or both matches from either row, she would remove both from the other row or just one.
    â€œYou win,” he said. “Is there a trick to it?”
    â€œNo trick.”
    â€œThere must be some trick.”
    â€œWhat makes you think so?”
    â€œYou always win.”
    The waitress was bringing their order.
    â€œNot always,” Mayann said. “You look like someone who wins.”
    He glanced up. She was not looking at him but at the plate being put before her.
    â€œ Danke schoen, ” she said to the waitress.
    â€œHow did you and the major meet?” Godchaux said as he began to eat.
    â€œWe met in college.”
    â€œBefore he went to flying school.”
    â€œI was pregnant when he went to flying school.”
    â€œOh, you were already married.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œI was pregnant,” she said, “but I took care of it like a good girl.”
    Godchaux didn’t know what to say. He nodded a little vaguely and, stealing a glance at her, continued to eat.
    â€œBud thinks the world of you, I guess you know that.”
    Godchaux said nothing.
    â€œHe thinks . . . well, what do I need to tell you that for? Don’t you want to know what I think?”
    She had often teased him. She did not seem to be teasing now.
    â€œYeah,” he said, admiring her.
    â€œDon’t you already know?”
    Trier was a port town, on the Moselle, and possessed, though neither of them had heard of it, a celebrated garment said to be the robe of Christ. It was not ordinarily on display and was brought out only rarely, when it attracted great crowds. Close to the well-preserved Roman gate was the chief hotel of the town. It had survived the war undamaged—Trier was not heavily bombed—and was comfortable if a little old-fashioned. In such hotels one expected comfort. The hallways were wide and the doors of the rooms, which were large and seemed to have too much space, were glossy with a perfect, almost plastic coat of white.
    The hotel was the Porta Nigra, named for the Roman gate. It was there, not only on that day but on a number thereafter that Lancelot, aware of the danger, went with his queen.

The clouds were spread in all directions like a layer of curdled milk. Far above them flew two Canadians looking, as always, for a fight. No one else was up, however, and they had turned homeward when, at the very last, they saw two contrails, lower, distant, to the south.
    â€œLet’s get those.”
    â€œI’m down to twelve hundred pounds,” the wingman said.
    â€œThat’s plenty.”
    They began a slow turn to bring themselves over and behind, and then rolled down. It was perfect. They hadn’t been seen. As they closed they saw the big droptanks, bathtubs. Americans. Four hundred knots. Almost in range. Suddenly the two planes in front of them pulled up together in a left