"Waldrop, Howard - Man Mountain Gentian" - читать интересную книгу автора (Waldrop Howard)

wrestlers' ring-entering ceremonies.
Money, in this business, flowed like water, appearing in small envelopes in the mail, in the locker room, after feasts such as the one tonight.
Once a month Man-Mountain Gentian gathered them all up and took them to his accountant, who had instructions to give it all, above a certain princely level, away to charity. Other wrestlers had more, or less, or none of the same arrangements. The tax men never seemed surprised by whatever amount wrestlers reported.
He entered the club. Things were already rocking. One of the hostesses took his shoes and coat. She had to put the overcoat over her shoulders to carry it into the cloakroom.
The party was a haze of blue smoke, dishes, bottles, businessmen, wrestlers, and funny paper hats. Waitresses came in and out with more food. Three musicians played unheard on a raised dais at one side of the room.
Someone was telling a snappy story. The room exploded with laughter.
"Ah!" said someone. "Yokozuna Gentian has arrived."
Man-Mountain bowed deeply. They made two or three places for him at the low table. He saw that several of the host party were Americans. Probably one or more were from the CIA.
They and the Russians were still trying to perfect Zen-sumo as an assassination weapon. They offered active and retired sumotori large amounts of money in an effort to get them to develop their powers in some nominally destructive form. So far, no one he
knew of had. There were rumors about the Brazilians, however.
He could see it now, a future with premiers, millionaires, presidents, and paranoids in all walks of life wearing wire-mesh clothing and checking their Eveready batteries before going out each morning.
He had been approached twice, by each side. He was sometimes followed. They all were. People in governments simply did not understand.
He began to talk, while sake flowed, with Cast Iron Pekowski. Pekowski, now 12-2 for the tournament, had graciously lost his match with Typhoon Takanaka. (There was an old saying: In a tournament, no one who won more than nine matches ever beat an opponent who has lost seven. That had been the case with Takanaka. Eight was the number of wins needed to maintain current ranking.)
"I could feel him going," said Pekowski, in Polish. "I think we should talk to him about the May tournament."
"Have you mentioned this to his stablemaster?"
"I thought of doing so after the tournament. I was hoping you could come with me to see him."
"I'll be just another retired wrestler by then."
"Takanaka respects you above all the others. Your dampatsu-shiki ceremony won't be for another two weeks. They won't have cut off all your hair yet. And while we're at it, I still wish you would change your mind."
"Perhaps I could be Takanaka's dew sweeper and carry his ceremonial cloth for him when he enters his last tournament. I would be honored."
"Good! You'll come with me then, Friday morning?"
The hosts were much drunker than the wrestlers. Nayakano the stablemaster was feeling no pain but still remained upright. Mounds of food were being consumed. A businessman tried to grab-ass a waitress. This was going to become every bit as nasty as all such parties.
"A song! A song!" yelled the head of the fan club, a businessman in his sixties. "Who will favor us with a song?"
Man-Mountain Gentian got to his feet, went over to the musicians. He talked with the samisen player. Then he stood facing his drunk, attentive audience.
How many of these parties had he been to in his career? Two, three hundred? Always the same, drunkenness, discord, braggadocio on the part of the host clubs. Some fans really loved the sport, some lived vicariously through it. He would not miss the parties. But as the player began the tune he realized this might be the last party he would have to face.
He began to sing.
"I met my lover by still Lake Biwa
just before Taira war banners flew . . ."
And so on through all six verses, in a clear, pure voice belonging to a man half his size.
They stood and applauded him, some of the wrestlers in the stable looking away, as only they, not even the stablemaster, knew of his retirement plans and what this party probably meant.
He went to the stablemaster, who took him to the
club host, made apologies concerning the tournament and a slight cold, shook hands, bowed, and went out into the lobby, where the hostess valiantly brought him his shoes and overcoat. He wanted to help her, but she reshouldered the coat grimly and brought it to him.
He handed her a tip and signed the autograph she asked for.
It had begun to snow outside. The neon made the sky a swirling, multicolored smudge. Man-Mountain Gentian walked through the quickly emptying streets. Even the ever-present taxis scurried from the snow like roaches from a light. His home was only two kilometers away. He liked the stillness of the falling snow, the quietness of the city in times such as these.
"Shelter for a stormy night?" asked a ragged old man on a corner. Man-Mountain Gentian stopped.
"Change for shelter for an old man?" asked the beggar again, looking very far up at Gentian's face.
Man-Mountain Gentian reached in his pocket and took out three or four small ornate paper envelopes that had been thrust on him as he left the club.
The old man took them, opened one. Then another and another.
"There must be more than eight hundred thousand yen here," he said, very quietly and very slowly.
"I suggest either the Imperial or the Hilton," said Man-Mountain Gentian, then the wrestler turned and walked away.
The old man laughed, then straightened himself with dignity, stepped to the curb, and imperiously summoned an approaching pedicab.
Melissa was not home.
He turned on the entry light as he took off his shoes. He passed through the sparsely furnished, low living room, turned off the light at the other switch.
He went to the bathroom, put depilatory gel on his face, wiped it off.
He went to the kitchen, picked up half a ham, and ate it, washing it down with three liters of milk. He returned to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, went to the bedroom, unrolled his futon, and placed his cinder block at the head of it.
He punched a button on the hidden tape deck, and an old recording of Kimio Eto playing "Rukodan" on the koto quietly filled the house.
The only decoration in the sleeping room was Shuncho's print The Strongest and the Most Fair, showing a theater-district beauty and a sumotori three times her size; it was hanging on the far wall.
He turned off the light. Instantly the silhouettes of falling snowflakes showed through the paper walls of the house, cast by the strong streetlight outside. He watched the snowflakes fall as he listened to the music, and he was filled with mono no aware for the transience of beauty in the world.
Man-Mountain Gentian pulled up the puffed cotton covers, put his head on the building block, and drifted off to sleep.
They had let Hari off at his house. The interior of the runabout was warm. They were drinking coffee in the near-empty parking lot of Tokyo Sonic #113.
"I read somewhere you were an architect," said Killer Kudzu.