The weather was not what one would have called clement. The temperature had dropped about ten degrees in as many minutes. Fortunately, the wise old coaches had remembered to advise everyone to bring along warm clothes, and these same wise old coaches presently asked everyone to change into them.
“We don’t want anyone falling sick now, do we?” said Coach Takato.
“This stinks,” said Sendoh querulously, cringing at the sight of himself in the full-length common-room mirror, in what was in his opinion an unsightly maroon sweatshirt. He was well aware that nobody wore old-fashioned sweatshirts like this anymore, and that anyone who cared enough about his appearance to have mastered the tricky art of maintaining resilient spikey hair would naturally be expected to wear only the latest fashion. His mom was doubtless responsible for this horror.
Koshino was not a little irked by Sendoh’s querulousness. He had always been of the opinion that manliness suffered at the hands of Sendoh and his vanity, and was determined to take the necessary steps to snuff the vanity out of him once and for all. He marched up to Sendoh, poked him between the ribs (as he’d often seen people do in the movies when they wanted to show the other person who was in charge), cracked his knuckles until they would crack no more, and said, “Sendoh, you know what? You’re the vainest person I’ve seen in my entire life. Suck it up like a man, and quit complaining.”
Koshino’s vituperation sounded a whole lot harsher in the thin mountain air, and gave more offense than he had intended.
Sendoh frowned.
“Take that back, Koshino.”
“Yeah, that was very harsh,” said Maki disapprovingly. “Not to mention downright mean.”
It wasn’t long before Koshino found himself on the receiving end of multiple disapproving looks.
“That was mean,” said Fujima. “You can’t just go around hurting people’s feelings like that just because they’re a tad vainer than norm— other people. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous that Sendoh’s better looking than you.”
A vein throbbed in Koshino’s temple. What a lot of people didn’t know was that physical appearances had always been a touchy subject for Koshino, who had grown embittered throughout junior high and high school by the fact that the girls he had taken a fancy to had all turned him down in order to go out with taller and better-looking guys.
“Me? Jealous of Sendoh?” he spat. “That’s got to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. If Sendoh had anything in the way of natural good looks, he wouldn’t have to spend so much time on his appearance.”
“Hey,” said Sendoh. “I am not ugly.”
“Of course you’re not, Sendoh,” said Maki. “Koshino doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
He wanted to obviate a fight if he could.
“To be honest,” said Ayako clinically, “you’re not bad looking. You could easily be an underwear model.”
She colored when she realized that what she had said was apt to be misconstrued as making a pass at Sendoh.
Koshino muttered something to the effect that Ayako had either seen few men in her life or was blind as a bat.
Miyagi let out a wail of consternation, and then growled, vowing not to rest till he’d pulled out of all of Sendoh’s ribs with his bare hands, and broken his jaws with his bare fists.
Sendoh was flattered by Ayako’s remarks.
“Thanks, Ayako.” He beamed at her. “I confess that I have often thought about being a model if I ever quit basketball.”
“No problem,” Ayako mumbled, feeling overpowered by embarrassment at having said such intimate things to Sendoh.
Sendoh turned to Koshino.
“You see, Koshino?” he said. “Nobody else thinks I’m ugly.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Koshino snapped.
So he’d failed to make Sendoh look like an idiot that time. But so what? There would doubtless be tons of other opportunities during the trip for exacting his revenge against Sendoh for tricking him into doing his homework for him all those times. Somebody had to put Sendoh in his place.
“What exactly is going on?”
Coach Taoka emerged from the coaches’ room, pulling on a gray overcoat that looked as if he had bought it in the 1920’s. “I heard yelling and swearing.”
“Nothing,” said Koshino quickly before he could be incriminated. He patted Sendoh on the shoulder for good measure.
Coach Taoka raised an eyebrow.
“If you say so,” he said.
“By the way, Coach,” Koshino went on. “I think you’re only supposed to wear an overcoat outdoors.”
“I’ll wear my overcoat anywhere I damn please,” snapped Coach Taoka. “And why haven’t you put on warm clothes yet? If you fall sick, it’s entirely on you. And get a grip on your swearing, Koshino, or I’ll have to write you up for anger management issues when we get back to Ryonan.”
“Have you been to a psychiatrist for your anger issues?” said Fujima. “I know a really good one. For Hanagata and his anorexia. I’m sure he’d fix you right up in no time.”
“Hanagata’s anorexic?” said Akagi incredulously, raising an eyebrow.
At first glance Hanagata wouldn’t normally elicit the remark “Oh my gosh! You’re anorexic!” He was skinny, sure, but not obscenely skinny. Now that someone confirmed it, it didn’t come as too much of a surprise.
Only a few of those present knew what “anorexia” even meant, which included most of the third years of immense intellect and a few others who were able to deduce that it had something to do with Hanagata’s being skinny. The rest of them thought of the wildest things: Sakuragi thought it was the name of Hanagata’s pet dog, which had some kind of disorder; Mitsui felt awfully smart when he guessed that it had something to do with the fact that Hanagata wore thick glasses; Miyagi supposed that “anorexia” meant “father” in Italian, which was the first foreign language that popped into his head; and last but not least, Kiyota thought it was synonymous with hair loss (perhaps he was thinking of “alopecia”), and helpfully advised Hanagata to use only herbal shampoos.
“What are we waiting for?” said Coach Takato emerging from the coaches’ room with Coach Anzai close behind. “Let’s go eat.”
Nobody would have guessed that the dining hall had ever been an execution chamber if they hadn’t been told so. It looked nothing like an execution chamber. That is, unless people in the past enjoyed treating convicts to generous amounts of good food before tying the noose around their necks, with sublime violin music playing in the background to make everyone feel good about the occasion.
Instead it looked like a ballroom. The ceiling was at least two stories high, and had ornate blue and gold patterns carved into it. It was painted like the sky. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center, and four smaller ones hung near each of the four corners. The crown molding was smooth and golden, and seemed to reach in toward the center of the ceiling as if to blur the boundary between the sublunary and the superlunary. Blue walls with floral patterns surrounded the many tables that had been laid out in the hall. Gold-framed works of art hung at intervals between ornate sconces. Twin gold pillars rose to the ceiling at each of the four corners to hold up the sky.
“Obviously it was nothing like this back in the day,” said Maki on perceiving the awe with which a dumbstruck Kiyota had been taking in the sight of the dining hall. “Did you think the hotel was going to let their guests eat in a dark chamber with blood splattered all over the walls, and with a miserable torch as the only source of illumination?”
“It certainly would’ve added a lot of flavor to the food, if you get my drift,” said Koure with a wink.
Maki didn’t get his drift.
It turned out that Kogure was alluding to the taste of blood.
“Those must be our tables over there,” said Coach Takato, nodding in the direction of the wall, where six large tables had been pushed together in pairs, so that each pair of tables was able to seat ten people. On each pair of tables was a card with the word “Basketball Party” written on it.
Fujima chuckled sensibly.
“I’m going to use the term ‘basketball party’ at every chance I get,” he said.
“Please don’t,” said Hanagata.
“Just look how much food there is!” Sakuragi dashed up to the buffet counter, and began drooling in front of it. “It was nice of the chefs to work so hard to make all this stuff just for me.”
Sakuragi felt that he owed it to those hardworking chefs to partake of each and every one of their dishes, and made several trips to the buffet counter before he began eating, surrounded by several platefuls of food, like a king.
“Hanamichi, you’re such a glutton,” said Miyagi in disgust when Hanamichi pushed the former’s plate out of the way to make room for his own.
“Nyahahahahahaha! Couldn’t help it, Ryota. There was so much food, I just couldn’t make up my mind!”
“So you took everything there was?” said Koshino incredulously, setting his plate down opposite Sakuragi.
“Only a bit of everything, you numbskull,” said Sakuragi. “I was nice enough to leave some for the rest of you.”
“I can see that,” Mitsui said acidly. “And do you think after you’re done with all that you’ll have room left for dessert?”
Sakuragi hadn’t thought about dessert. How could dessert have slipped his mind? Oh, he was such an idiot for forgetting about dessert! At any rate, he was sure he’d have room left for dessert after he was done with the main course.
“And if I don’t,” he said. “I’ll just have to order room service at night. Nyahahahahaha!”
He was about to launch into an impassioned discourse on how important a balanced diet was, and how he owed it all to Haruko’s love and affection for enabling him to eat healthy, when his eyes fell on Rukawa’s plate.
“Nyahahahahaha! Stupid fox! Is that all you’re going to eat? Are you trying to starve to death or something?”
Rukawa glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, and ignored him, as usual. He went back to eating his dinner, which was by no means insubstantial. Unless, of course, one compared it to Hanamichi’s, which would have made an elephant’s diet seem meager.
Sakuragi was in a good mind to pick up his fork and knife and make minced meat out of Rukawa, and defeat him once and for all, but something else caught his attention just then, and he couldn’t help letting out a gasp.
“Who on earth is that?” he said.
He was pointing at a large painting on the wall just behind their table. It was large by modern standards, and at first glance nothing that would stand out, say, at an art gallery. But on closer inspection the painting seemed to highlight its artist’s neurosis more than his artistic talents.
A waiter, having heard Sakuragi gasp, scurried over to the table.
“That, sir,” he asseverated, “is the first work of art that the hotel acquired after it was founded. Isn’t it a masterpiece?”
“You call this a masterpiece?” said Takano.
“The only piece that catches my eye is the one that’s missing,” said Nagano. “Where on earth is the rest of the body?”
The painting depicted a dozen villagers in traditional garb huddled around a slab of rock that was red with the blood of recent and past sacrifices. Blood ran down the sides of the rock, cascading over pebbles and sand like a river, and pooled around the villagers’ feet. The most recent sacrifice, it appeared, was that of a young blond girl. Only her decapitated head lay on the rock, eyes wide and glassy and lips dark with blood. Each of the villagers carried a torch in his hand, and more torches were visible in the background. The scene had a decidedly satanic aspect, and the artist’s attention to detail was frightening. He had drawn every face and every object photorealistically—yet there was something about the scene that transcended reality. One feared, if one stared at the painting for too long, that one would get sucked into it, with no way of returning.
“The artist,” the waiter went on, “wanted to portray a scene from an old legend that exists hereabouts. That little girl was sacrificed late in the eighteenth century, when this mansion was newly built. Back in those days Europe was regarded as a degraded and evil civilization. Christian missionaries from Europe often met this kind of fate if they failed to win over the locals completely.”
“Is this scene significant?”
“Very, sir, because the girl whose head is shown in the picture… her body is said to lie somewhere in this hotel.”
Kiyota laughed.
“Waiter, you’re off your rocker! How can a body last that long?”
“You mock the legend, sir,” said the waiter darkly. “If you don’t believe it, ask my colleagues: they have all seen the body themselves.”
“I’d like to see for myself, too,” said Hanagata.
The waiter shook his head.
“I’m afraid you can’t.”
“Why not?” said Uozumi.
“Because the body lives. The only way you can see it is if it chooses to appear before you.”
“What hogwash are you feeding my boys?” said Coach Taoka angrily from the next table.
“You are also a disbeliever, sir. You don’t believe that curses of this sort can stand the barrier of time.”
“Curses?” said Mitsui, raising an eyebrow.
“Curses,” repeated the waiter, nodding. He cast his eyes around to make sure the manager wasn’t nearby. “This hotel is cursed, because one of the forefathers of the founder of this hotel led the group that sacrificed the girl.”
“I don’t believe in curses,” said Akagi without much interest.
“Listen to the trees at night, sir: they whisper about death.”
“Leave us,” ordered Uozumi, and the aged waiter bowed low and left.
“So,” said Sendoh. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Of course not!” said Uozumi. “The only thing you’d hear whispering about death at night will be me, if you dare disturb my dinner now.”
The table erupted with laughter.
“We’ll check out the hotel tomorrow—how about that?” said Coach Takato. “You will see that there’s nothing to fear.”
“Great!” said Kiyota. “Jin and I are going to check out the entire hotel!”
“Ho, ho, ho!” said Coach Anzai. “He meant all of us.”
“Yeah, stupid,” said Jin with some embarrassment.
Kiyota frowned.
“That’s not fair,” he said. “I was hoping I’d get some alone time with my best friend Jin.”
“That so doesn’t sound right,” said Jin, shaking his head.
“Yeah, Kiyota,” said Ayako with a grin. “It sounds like you’d do anything for an excuse to be alone with Jin.”
Kiyota colored when he realized what he had said.
“I’m sure Sendoh would appreciate your company,” said Miyagi. He was still cross with Sendoh for getting Ayako to hit on him back in the common room.
“Quit picking on Sendoh,” said Koshino.
“Look who’s standing up for Sendoh now!” said Maki, rolling his eyes. “I mean, after all that drama in the common room, you’re the last person I would have expected to see standing up for Sendoh.”
“Nah,” said Sendoh. “It only looked like we were fighting, but it was all good-natured. We do that sort of thing all the time, but we’re still friends.”
“Just like Akagi and Uozumi,” said Kogure.
Uozumi frowned.
“Kogure, I would thank you not compare mature people like Akagi and me to those two twerps.”
“You’re the one who wanted to ditch basketball for cooking,” Koshino snapped. “How mature is that?”
“I quit after a couple of weeks,” Uozumi said coolly. “Cooking—not my thing.”
“That was pretty much established after my first visit to the restaurant,” said Akagi.
He recounted a lot of painful memories connected with Uozumi’s restaurant: how he had thought the lobster had been served was roast until it snapped its pincers and caught hold of his fork; how his ramen had been cooked for so long that the noodles had melted; and how his coffee had had salt instead of sugar.
“So yeah,” concluded Akagi. “Cooking—not his thing.”
“You didn’t have to go into that much detail, you know,” said Uozumi through clenched teeth.
“It was a temptation I couldn’t resist,” said Akagi coolly. “Like that time when I accidentally walked into the Shoyo locker room at the stadium after our game, and opened a shower stall and saw,”—he shifted uncomfortably—“Fujima’s butt. I went and told Maki straightaway.”
“Kenji!” Hanagata turned to his friend in surprise. “You never told me Akagi saw your butt!”
Fujima had sunk lower than the table.
Feebly he managed to whisper, “I was hoping I would never have to.”
“Yeah,” said Maki with a grin. “Just like you were hoping that Akagi wouldn’t come and tell me.”
“Something like that,” said Fujima with a sigh. There was no use attempting to protect his dignity when it was so far gone.
“How did it look?” asked Jin innocently.
“How did what look?” Akagi raised an eyebrow.
“Fujima’s butt.”
All eyes were on Jin.
“Why would you want to know how Fujima’s butt looked?” said Akagi, keeping his voice down with some effort.
Jin blushed.
“It’s just that… I’m a little self-conscious about my own butt, and how it’s not athletic enough.”
“How’d you manage to see your own butt?” said Kiyota in surprise. “I’ve often tried to, but I’ve never managed.”
“In the mirror, of course. If you stand with your back turned to the mirror, and look at your reflection, you can see your butt.”
Koshino couldn’t take it anymore.
“Waaaay too much information. Jin, have mercy!”
“But it’s true!” Jin protested. “I did see my butt. Ask Fukuda.”
All eyes were on Fukuda next, and he knew that he had no choice but to give everyone an explanation:
“I,” he began. He cleared his throat and went on: “I didn’t know he would actually do it. It was a dare. Back in junior high. Don’t ask.”
“Nothing could compel me to,” said Mitsui darkly. “Although Jin got me thinking. What does my butt look like? I guess I know what I’m doing this evening.”
“That’s enough!” said Maki. “And now, if everyone’s done eating, let’s go back upstairs.”
Sakuragi got up with his plate, and a waiter came out of nowhere, and snatched it out of his hands.
“No, no, no, sir!” the waiter squeaked. “It is the waiter’s job to clear the plates.”
He scurried off to the dish room.
“So much for my plate,” said Sakuragi bitterly, staring longingly after the receding form of the water as it disappeared through a door marked “Hotel Staff Only”. “I was going to get myself some more food!”
“Looks like the waiter knew that as well, Hanamichi,” said Ryota, laughing and nudging Sakuragi in the ribs with his elbow.
“But—” Sakuragi began, but he was cut short by a warning glare from Akagi. He had been about to say that the hotel staff had no right to curtail his dinner.
“Don’t worry, Hanamichi,” said Haruko pleasantly. “The restaurant will always be here. And we’ll be here, too—for quite some time.”
“Hardly, Haruko,” said Akagi. “We’re going upstairs right now.”
“Argh! You know what I meant, Takenori!”
“What if I said no?”
“Then I’m going to tell everyone what you brought in the little pouch in your bag!” said Haruko with a devious grin that wasn’t often seen on her lips.
Akagi’s eyes widened.
“You wouldn’t. Not if I say I’ll tell everyone why you’re really here.”
Haruko’s cheeks turned red, and she stole a glance at Rukawa to see if he was listening to their sister-brother skirmish. Fortunately, he seemed more interested in using his eyes to censure Sendoh, who had gone up to the salad bar to pick out as many pieces of lemon as he could find in the salad.
“I doubt that it’ll make much difference.” Haruko sighed.
“Fine then: the real reason you came here,” said Akagi, turning up his volume to make sure everyone could hear, “was because you wanted to give Ayako company.”
“Aw, that was awfully sweet of you, Haruko!” said Ayako, pinching Haruko’s cheek.
Haruko almost laughed aloud in relief.
“Don’t mention it.”
Hasegawa cleared his throat.
“Can we go already?”
“Seriously,” Uekusa concurred.
“You betcha!” Muto piped up.
Maki turned to them.
“Oh, sorry, you guys: we’ve been neglecting you all this while.”
“Don’t forget us,” said Ikegami, referring to Takasago and himself.
“What about me? What about me?! I wasn’t able to finish a single survey today!” Hikoichi whined.
“You don’t need to,” said Uozumi with a grimace.
“The point is: let’s get going,” said Maki.
“Honestly,” Coach Taoka grumbled. “Why does it take so much time to decide on something as trivial as going back upstairs?”
“They’re being nice, and taking turns,” said Coach Anzai. “Ho, ho, ho!”
“Er, Mr. Anzai, don’t mean to sound like a know-it-all or anything, but there’s no such thing as being nice and taking turns anymore: it’s all about survival of the fittest,” said Coach Takato.
Just then Uozumi bellowed at the top of his lungs, over the cacophony of lesser players bickering among themselves, “WE’RE GOING UPSTAIRS—NOW!”
“Ho, ho, ho! Is that what you were talking about?”
“Yup.”
“Argh! Give that back, Wild Monkey!”
“Let go, you redheaded monkey! It’s my pillow!”
“Stupid Wild Monkey! It’s mine!”
“No. It’s mine!”
“Mine!”
“Mine!”
“Er, Sakuragi, Kiyota,” said Hikoichi, walking timidly up to the warring primates with his notebook and pen ready in case he should be drawn into their skirmish. “Who does it really belong to?”
“Shut up, Hikoichi,” both Sakuragi and Kiyota yelled in unison, sending Hikoichi scurrying away.
The pen, evidently, was not as mighty as a sword.
“Mitsui, Mitsui!” Hikoichi said, running behind Mitsui for cover.
Mitsui had just returned from the bathroom, having finally glimpsed his butt. And what a glorious athlete’s butt it was!
“Stop them!” said Hikoichi.
Mitsui sighed.
“What is it this time?”
“He won’t give me back my pillow, Mitchy!” said Sakuragi, kicking Kiyota in the gut.
“It’s mine, you moron!” said Kiyota, punching Sakuragi in the face.
Mitsui rubbed his temples.
“Before I went into the bathroom, the two of you were fighting over my iPod. Where is it, by the way?”
“We settled that fight already,” said Sakuragi.
“And your iPod’s over there.” Kiyota said, pointing at the nearby trashcan.
“What the… how the… WHAT THE FUCK IS IT DOING IN THERE, AND WHY IS IT IN TWO PIECES?”
“It’s not nice to litter, so I put it in the trashcan,” said Hikoichi proudly.
Mitsui fished out his iPod from the trashcan. Or what remained of it.
With a fierce growl, he jumped into the raging war, and held Kiyota and Hanamichi up in the air by the scruffs of their necks.
“Explain this,” said Mitsui, putting them down, and holding up the remains of his priceless iPod. Unfortunately, it was truly priceless now, being worth almost nothing.
“He did that!” both Sakuragi and Kiyota said simultaneously, pointing at each other.
“Argh!” Mitsui said in exasperation and helplessness, falling to his hands and knees, and sobbing pathetically.
“Come on, Mitchy! We’re sorry!” said Sakuragi.
“Yeah, we’re sorry,” said Kiyota.
Neither of them understood what the big deal was.
Hikoichi, meanwhile, unnoticed by the others, was rapidly scribbling down something in his notebook to the effect that jocks that looked tough on the outside were in fact really soft and sensitive on the inside.
“Get away from me!” Mitsui wailed. He stood up abruptly, ran into the bathroom crying, and shut the door.
“This is all your fault, Wild Monkey!” Sakuragi said, rounding on Kiyota, and punching him in the gut.
“My fault?! You were the one that broke his iPod!” said Kiyota, kicking Sakuragi in the shin.
“Hey, Ayako,” said Haruko in the girls’ room, “guess what I brought with me!”
“What?”
“Cherry-flavored lipstick!”
“That’s so cool! Can I try some?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Sure. And you won’t guess what I brought.”
“What?” Haruko asked, her curiosity piqued.
A few moments later the whole room was filled with excited squeals.
“Boy, are those kids loud!” Coach Taoka complained.
“Very,” agreed Coach Takato.
“Ho, ho, ho! They’re only children, after all,” said Coach Anzai.
“Let’s not talk,” said Coach Taoka. “This is awkward enough as it is.”
“Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
“Er… Sendoh? What’re you up to?” said Fujima.
Fujima was lying on his bed, peering at Sendoh over the top of a magazine he was reading.
Sendoh was rummaging through his bag for something.
“Me? I’m looking for my Nintendo DS.”
“Why now of all times?” said Maki. “You should’ve played on the bus. I’m tired, and I want the lights out.”
He yawned to accentuate his point.
“I wanted to save battery,” said Sendoh. “I’m becoming awfully economical nowadays, you see.”
“So what will you be playing anyway?” said Fujima.
“Need for Speed: Carbon,” Sendoh replied. “I’m going to try and unlock the Porsche Carrera tonight. I’ve tried several times before, but man—I just keep losing the last race!”
“Good luck this time,” said Maki, disappearing into the bathroom with his pajamas draped over his arm.
“So, Rukawa,” Fujima began, “how’s life?”
He still wanted to keep up conversation, and since he knew there was no chance of getting anything out of Sendoh now that he was engrossed in his game, he had to make do with Rukawa.
Rukawa shrugged.
“I see…” said Fujima. Undeterred, he went on: “Yesterday I received a phone call from Mitsui. Would you like to know what he said?”
Again, Rukawa shrugged.
“All right,” said Fujima. “He said: ‘Fujima, I’m so darn jealous of you for being beautiful, talented and intelligent—all at the same time!’”
Rukawa expressed that he didn’t believe that one bit by withdrawing the little attention he had bothered giving to Fujima.
“You weren’t listening to any of that, were you?” said Fujima, sighing.
Rukawa shrugged.
Fujima was determined to get an actual response out of Rukawa or die trying.
“So, Rukawa,” said Fujima with a grin. “Akagi’s been telling me you haven’t been concentrating much in practice, and that your skills are deteriorating. Is that true?”
Rukawa shook his head.
“Aha!” Fujima said jubilantly. “So you do know more body language!”
“Rats!” said Sendoh loudly. “I lost again! Can you believe it?”
Fujima cast Sendoh a lugubrious look, but withdrew it within a millisecond, and instead focused it on his fingernails. He would need to get a manicure done soon.
“Give me that,” said Rukawa, snatching the DS out of Sendoh’s hands.
“Hey—!”
“Quiet,” Rukawa snapped. “I can win this this.”
Fujima’s jaw dropped.
“Rukawa just spoke!”
Akagi had a strong presentiment that the hotel manager would either cancel their reservation or tell them off severely the next morning, and Uozumi said that he felt the same way.
“We don’t want anyone falling sick now, do we?” said Coach Takato.
“This stinks,” said Sendoh querulously, cringing at the sight of himself in the full-length common-room mirror, in what was in his opinion an unsightly maroon sweatshirt. He was well aware that nobody wore old-fashioned sweatshirts like this anymore, and that anyone who cared enough about his appearance to have mastered the tricky art of maintaining resilient spikey hair would naturally be expected to wear only the latest fashion. His mom was doubtless responsible for this horror.
Koshino was not a little irked by Sendoh’s querulousness. He had always been of the opinion that manliness suffered at the hands of Sendoh and his vanity, and was determined to take the necessary steps to snuff the vanity out of him once and for all. He marched up to Sendoh, poked him between the ribs (as he’d often seen people do in the movies when they wanted to show the other person who was in charge), cracked his knuckles until they would crack no more, and said, “Sendoh, you know what? You’re the vainest person I’ve seen in my entire life. Suck it up like a man, and quit complaining.”
Koshino’s vituperation sounded a whole lot harsher in the thin mountain air, and gave more offense than he had intended.
Sendoh frowned.
“Take that back, Koshino.”
“Yeah, that was very harsh,” said Maki disapprovingly. “Not to mention downright mean.”
It wasn’t long before Koshino found himself on the receiving end of multiple disapproving looks.
“That was mean,” said Fujima. “You can’t just go around hurting people’s feelings like that just because they’re a tad vainer than norm— other people. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous that Sendoh’s better looking than you.”
A vein throbbed in Koshino’s temple. What a lot of people didn’t know was that physical appearances had always been a touchy subject for Koshino, who had grown embittered throughout junior high and high school by the fact that the girls he had taken a fancy to had all turned him down in order to go out with taller and better-looking guys.
“Me? Jealous of Sendoh?” he spat. “That’s got to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. If Sendoh had anything in the way of natural good looks, he wouldn’t have to spend so much time on his appearance.”
“Hey,” said Sendoh. “I am not ugly.”
“Of course you’re not, Sendoh,” said Maki. “Koshino doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
He wanted to obviate a fight if he could.
“To be honest,” said Ayako clinically, “you’re not bad looking. You could easily be an underwear model.”
She colored when she realized that what she had said was apt to be misconstrued as making a pass at Sendoh.
Koshino muttered something to the effect that Ayako had either seen few men in her life or was blind as a bat.
Miyagi let out a wail of consternation, and then growled, vowing not to rest till he’d pulled out of all of Sendoh’s ribs with his bare hands, and broken his jaws with his bare fists.
Sendoh was flattered by Ayako’s remarks.
“Thanks, Ayako.” He beamed at her. “I confess that I have often thought about being a model if I ever quit basketball.”
“No problem,” Ayako mumbled, feeling overpowered by embarrassment at having said such intimate things to Sendoh.
Sendoh turned to Koshino.
“You see, Koshino?” he said. “Nobody else thinks I’m ugly.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Koshino snapped.
So he’d failed to make Sendoh look like an idiot that time. But so what? There would doubtless be tons of other opportunities during the trip for exacting his revenge against Sendoh for tricking him into doing his homework for him all those times. Somebody had to put Sendoh in his place.
“What exactly is going on?”
Coach Taoka emerged from the coaches’ room, pulling on a gray overcoat that looked as if he had bought it in the 1920’s. “I heard yelling and swearing.”
“Nothing,” said Koshino quickly before he could be incriminated. He patted Sendoh on the shoulder for good measure.
Coach Taoka raised an eyebrow.
“If you say so,” he said.
“By the way, Coach,” Koshino went on. “I think you’re only supposed to wear an overcoat outdoors.”
“I’ll wear my overcoat anywhere I damn please,” snapped Coach Taoka. “And why haven’t you put on warm clothes yet? If you fall sick, it’s entirely on you. And get a grip on your swearing, Koshino, or I’ll have to write you up for anger management issues when we get back to Ryonan.”
“Have you been to a psychiatrist for your anger issues?” said Fujima. “I know a really good one. For Hanagata and his anorexia. I’m sure he’d fix you right up in no time.”
“Hanagata’s anorexic?” said Akagi incredulously, raising an eyebrow.
At first glance Hanagata wouldn’t normally elicit the remark “Oh my gosh! You’re anorexic!” He was skinny, sure, but not obscenely skinny. Now that someone confirmed it, it didn’t come as too much of a surprise.
Only a few of those present knew what “anorexia” even meant, which included most of the third years of immense intellect and a few others who were able to deduce that it had something to do with Hanagata’s being skinny. The rest of them thought of the wildest things: Sakuragi thought it was the name of Hanagata’s pet dog, which had some kind of disorder; Mitsui felt awfully smart when he guessed that it had something to do with the fact that Hanagata wore thick glasses; Miyagi supposed that “anorexia” meant “father” in Italian, which was the first foreign language that popped into his head; and last but not least, Kiyota thought it was synonymous with hair loss (perhaps he was thinking of “alopecia”), and helpfully advised Hanagata to use only herbal shampoos.
“What are we waiting for?” said Coach Takato emerging from the coaches’ room with Coach Anzai close behind. “Let’s go eat.”
Nobody would have guessed that the dining hall had ever been an execution chamber if they hadn’t been told so. It looked nothing like an execution chamber. That is, unless people in the past enjoyed treating convicts to generous amounts of good food before tying the noose around their necks, with sublime violin music playing in the background to make everyone feel good about the occasion.
Instead it looked like a ballroom. The ceiling was at least two stories high, and had ornate blue and gold patterns carved into it. It was painted like the sky. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center, and four smaller ones hung near each of the four corners. The crown molding was smooth and golden, and seemed to reach in toward the center of the ceiling as if to blur the boundary between the sublunary and the superlunary. Blue walls with floral patterns surrounded the many tables that had been laid out in the hall. Gold-framed works of art hung at intervals between ornate sconces. Twin gold pillars rose to the ceiling at each of the four corners to hold up the sky.
“Obviously it was nothing like this back in the day,” said Maki on perceiving the awe with which a dumbstruck Kiyota had been taking in the sight of the dining hall. “Did you think the hotel was going to let their guests eat in a dark chamber with blood splattered all over the walls, and with a miserable torch as the only source of illumination?”
“It certainly would’ve added a lot of flavor to the food, if you get my drift,” said Koure with a wink.
Maki didn’t get his drift.
It turned out that Kogure was alluding to the taste of blood.
“Those must be our tables over there,” said Coach Takato, nodding in the direction of the wall, where six large tables had been pushed together in pairs, so that each pair of tables was able to seat ten people. On each pair of tables was a card with the word “Basketball Party” written on it.
Fujima chuckled sensibly.
“I’m going to use the term ‘basketball party’ at every chance I get,” he said.
“Please don’t,” said Hanagata.
“Just look how much food there is!” Sakuragi dashed up to the buffet counter, and began drooling in front of it. “It was nice of the chefs to work so hard to make all this stuff just for me.”
Sakuragi felt that he owed it to those hardworking chefs to partake of each and every one of their dishes, and made several trips to the buffet counter before he began eating, surrounded by several platefuls of food, like a king.
“Hanamichi, you’re such a glutton,” said Miyagi in disgust when Hanamichi pushed the former’s plate out of the way to make room for his own.
“Nyahahahahahaha! Couldn’t help it, Ryota. There was so much food, I just couldn’t make up my mind!”
“So you took everything there was?” said Koshino incredulously, setting his plate down opposite Sakuragi.
“Only a bit of everything, you numbskull,” said Sakuragi. “I was nice enough to leave some for the rest of you.”
“I can see that,” Mitsui said acidly. “And do you think after you’re done with all that you’ll have room left for dessert?”
Sakuragi hadn’t thought about dessert. How could dessert have slipped his mind? Oh, he was such an idiot for forgetting about dessert! At any rate, he was sure he’d have room left for dessert after he was done with the main course.
“And if I don’t,” he said. “I’ll just have to order room service at night. Nyahahahahaha!”
He was about to launch into an impassioned discourse on how important a balanced diet was, and how he owed it all to Haruko’s love and affection for enabling him to eat healthy, when his eyes fell on Rukawa’s plate.
“Nyahahahahaha! Stupid fox! Is that all you’re going to eat? Are you trying to starve to death or something?”
Rukawa glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, and ignored him, as usual. He went back to eating his dinner, which was by no means insubstantial. Unless, of course, one compared it to Hanamichi’s, which would have made an elephant’s diet seem meager.
Sakuragi was in a good mind to pick up his fork and knife and make minced meat out of Rukawa, and defeat him once and for all, but something else caught his attention just then, and he couldn’t help letting out a gasp.
“Who on earth is that?” he said.
He was pointing at a large painting on the wall just behind their table. It was large by modern standards, and at first glance nothing that would stand out, say, at an art gallery. But on closer inspection the painting seemed to highlight its artist’s neurosis more than his artistic talents.
A waiter, having heard Sakuragi gasp, scurried over to the table.
“That, sir,” he asseverated, “is the first work of art that the hotel acquired after it was founded. Isn’t it a masterpiece?”
“You call this a masterpiece?” said Takano.
“The only piece that catches my eye is the one that’s missing,” said Nagano. “Where on earth is the rest of the body?”
The painting depicted a dozen villagers in traditional garb huddled around a slab of rock that was red with the blood of recent and past sacrifices. Blood ran down the sides of the rock, cascading over pebbles and sand like a river, and pooled around the villagers’ feet. The most recent sacrifice, it appeared, was that of a young blond girl. Only her decapitated head lay on the rock, eyes wide and glassy and lips dark with blood. Each of the villagers carried a torch in his hand, and more torches were visible in the background. The scene had a decidedly satanic aspect, and the artist’s attention to detail was frightening. He had drawn every face and every object photorealistically—yet there was something about the scene that transcended reality. One feared, if one stared at the painting for too long, that one would get sucked into it, with no way of returning.
“The artist,” the waiter went on, “wanted to portray a scene from an old legend that exists hereabouts. That little girl was sacrificed late in the eighteenth century, when this mansion was newly built. Back in those days Europe was regarded as a degraded and evil civilization. Christian missionaries from Europe often met this kind of fate if they failed to win over the locals completely.”
“Is this scene significant?”
“Very, sir, because the girl whose head is shown in the picture… her body is said to lie somewhere in this hotel.”
Kiyota laughed.
“Waiter, you’re off your rocker! How can a body last that long?”
“You mock the legend, sir,” said the waiter darkly. “If you don’t believe it, ask my colleagues: they have all seen the body themselves.”
“I’d like to see for myself, too,” said Hanagata.
The waiter shook his head.
“I’m afraid you can’t.”
“Why not?” said Uozumi.
“Because the body lives. The only way you can see it is if it chooses to appear before you.”
“What hogwash are you feeding my boys?” said Coach Taoka angrily from the next table.
“You are also a disbeliever, sir. You don’t believe that curses of this sort can stand the barrier of time.”
“Curses?” said Mitsui, raising an eyebrow.
“Curses,” repeated the waiter, nodding. He cast his eyes around to make sure the manager wasn’t nearby. “This hotel is cursed, because one of the forefathers of the founder of this hotel led the group that sacrificed the girl.”
“I don’t believe in curses,” said Akagi without much interest.
“Listen to the trees at night, sir: they whisper about death.”
“Leave us,” ordered Uozumi, and the aged waiter bowed low and left.
“So,” said Sendoh. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Of course not!” said Uozumi. “The only thing you’d hear whispering about death at night will be me, if you dare disturb my dinner now.”
The table erupted with laughter.
“We’ll check out the hotel tomorrow—how about that?” said Coach Takato. “You will see that there’s nothing to fear.”
“Great!” said Kiyota. “Jin and I are going to check out the entire hotel!”
“Ho, ho, ho!” said Coach Anzai. “He meant all of us.”
“Yeah, stupid,” said Jin with some embarrassment.
Kiyota frowned.
“That’s not fair,” he said. “I was hoping I’d get some alone time with my best friend Jin.”
“That so doesn’t sound right,” said Jin, shaking his head.
“Yeah, Kiyota,” said Ayako with a grin. “It sounds like you’d do anything for an excuse to be alone with Jin.”
Kiyota colored when he realized what he had said.
“I’m sure Sendoh would appreciate your company,” said Miyagi. He was still cross with Sendoh for getting Ayako to hit on him back in the common room.
“Quit picking on Sendoh,” said Koshino.
“Look who’s standing up for Sendoh now!” said Maki, rolling his eyes. “I mean, after all that drama in the common room, you’re the last person I would have expected to see standing up for Sendoh.”
“Nah,” said Sendoh. “It only looked like we were fighting, but it was all good-natured. We do that sort of thing all the time, but we’re still friends.”
“Just like Akagi and Uozumi,” said Kogure.
Uozumi frowned.
“Kogure, I would thank you not compare mature people like Akagi and me to those two twerps.”
“You’re the one who wanted to ditch basketball for cooking,” Koshino snapped. “How mature is that?”
“I quit after a couple of weeks,” Uozumi said coolly. “Cooking—not my thing.”
“That was pretty much established after my first visit to the restaurant,” said Akagi.
He recounted a lot of painful memories connected with Uozumi’s restaurant: how he had thought the lobster had been served was roast until it snapped its pincers and caught hold of his fork; how his ramen had been cooked for so long that the noodles had melted; and how his coffee had had salt instead of sugar.
“So yeah,” concluded Akagi. “Cooking—not his thing.”
“You didn’t have to go into that much detail, you know,” said Uozumi through clenched teeth.
“It was a temptation I couldn’t resist,” said Akagi coolly. “Like that time when I accidentally walked into the Shoyo locker room at the stadium after our game, and opened a shower stall and saw,”—he shifted uncomfortably—“Fujima’s butt. I went and told Maki straightaway.”
“Kenji!” Hanagata turned to his friend in surprise. “You never told me Akagi saw your butt!”
Fujima had sunk lower than the table.
Feebly he managed to whisper, “I was hoping I would never have to.”
“Yeah,” said Maki with a grin. “Just like you were hoping that Akagi wouldn’t come and tell me.”
“Something like that,” said Fujima with a sigh. There was no use attempting to protect his dignity when it was so far gone.
“How did it look?” asked Jin innocently.
“How did what look?” Akagi raised an eyebrow.
“Fujima’s butt.”
All eyes were on Jin.
“Why would you want to know how Fujima’s butt looked?” said Akagi, keeping his voice down with some effort.
Jin blushed.
“It’s just that… I’m a little self-conscious about my own butt, and how it’s not athletic enough.”
“How’d you manage to see your own butt?” said Kiyota in surprise. “I’ve often tried to, but I’ve never managed.”
“In the mirror, of course. If you stand with your back turned to the mirror, and look at your reflection, you can see your butt.”
Koshino couldn’t take it anymore.
“Waaaay too much information. Jin, have mercy!”
“But it’s true!” Jin protested. “I did see my butt. Ask Fukuda.”
All eyes were on Fukuda next, and he knew that he had no choice but to give everyone an explanation:
“I,” he began. He cleared his throat and went on: “I didn’t know he would actually do it. It was a dare. Back in junior high. Don’t ask.”
“Nothing could compel me to,” said Mitsui darkly. “Although Jin got me thinking. What does my butt look like? I guess I know what I’m doing this evening.”
“That’s enough!” said Maki. “And now, if everyone’s done eating, let’s go back upstairs.”
Sakuragi got up with his plate, and a waiter came out of nowhere, and snatched it out of his hands.
“No, no, no, sir!” the waiter squeaked. “It is the waiter’s job to clear the plates.”
He scurried off to the dish room.
“So much for my plate,” said Sakuragi bitterly, staring longingly after the receding form of the water as it disappeared through a door marked “Hotel Staff Only”. “I was going to get myself some more food!”
“Looks like the waiter knew that as well, Hanamichi,” said Ryota, laughing and nudging Sakuragi in the ribs with his elbow.
“But—” Sakuragi began, but he was cut short by a warning glare from Akagi. He had been about to say that the hotel staff had no right to curtail his dinner.
“Don’t worry, Hanamichi,” said Haruko pleasantly. “The restaurant will always be here. And we’ll be here, too—for quite some time.”
“Hardly, Haruko,” said Akagi. “We’re going upstairs right now.”
“Argh! You know what I meant, Takenori!”
“What if I said no?”
“Then I’m going to tell everyone what you brought in the little pouch in your bag!” said Haruko with a devious grin that wasn’t often seen on her lips.
Akagi’s eyes widened.
“You wouldn’t. Not if I say I’ll tell everyone why you’re really here.”
Haruko’s cheeks turned red, and she stole a glance at Rukawa to see if he was listening to their sister-brother skirmish. Fortunately, he seemed more interested in using his eyes to censure Sendoh, who had gone up to the salad bar to pick out as many pieces of lemon as he could find in the salad.
“I doubt that it’ll make much difference.” Haruko sighed.
“Fine then: the real reason you came here,” said Akagi, turning up his volume to make sure everyone could hear, “was because you wanted to give Ayako company.”
“Aw, that was awfully sweet of you, Haruko!” said Ayako, pinching Haruko’s cheek.
Haruko almost laughed aloud in relief.
“Don’t mention it.”
Hasegawa cleared his throat.
“Can we go already?”
“Seriously,” Uekusa concurred.
“You betcha!” Muto piped up.
Maki turned to them.
“Oh, sorry, you guys: we’ve been neglecting you all this while.”
“Don’t forget us,” said Ikegami, referring to Takasago and himself.
“What about me? What about me?! I wasn’t able to finish a single survey today!” Hikoichi whined.
“You don’t need to,” said Uozumi with a grimace.
“The point is: let’s get going,” said Maki.
“Honestly,” Coach Taoka grumbled. “Why does it take so much time to decide on something as trivial as going back upstairs?”
“They’re being nice, and taking turns,” said Coach Anzai. “Ho, ho, ho!”
“Er, Mr. Anzai, don’t mean to sound like a know-it-all or anything, but there’s no such thing as being nice and taking turns anymore: it’s all about survival of the fittest,” said Coach Takato.
Just then Uozumi bellowed at the top of his lungs, over the cacophony of lesser players bickering among themselves, “WE’RE GOING UPSTAIRS—NOW!”
“Ho, ho, ho! Is that what you were talking about?”
“Yup.”
*
“Argh! Give that back, Wild Monkey!”
“Let go, you redheaded monkey! It’s my pillow!”
“Stupid Wild Monkey! It’s mine!”
“No. It’s mine!”
“Mine!”
“Mine!”
“Er, Sakuragi, Kiyota,” said Hikoichi, walking timidly up to the warring primates with his notebook and pen ready in case he should be drawn into their skirmish. “Who does it really belong to?”
“Shut up, Hikoichi,” both Sakuragi and Kiyota yelled in unison, sending Hikoichi scurrying away.
The pen, evidently, was not as mighty as a sword.
“Mitsui, Mitsui!” Hikoichi said, running behind Mitsui for cover.
Mitsui had just returned from the bathroom, having finally glimpsed his butt. And what a glorious athlete’s butt it was!
“Stop them!” said Hikoichi.
Mitsui sighed.
“What is it this time?”
“He won’t give me back my pillow, Mitchy!” said Sakuragi, kicking Kiyota in the gut.
“It’s mine, you moron!” said Kiyota, punching Sakuragi in the face.
Mitsui rubbed his temples.
“Before I went into the bathroom, the two of you were fighting over my iPod. Where is it, by the way?”
“We settled that fight already,” said Sakuragi.
“And your iPod’s over there.” Kiyota said, pointing at the nearby trashcan.
“What the… how the… WHAT THE FUCK IS IT DOING IN THERE, AND WHY IS IT IN TWO PIECES?”
“It’s not nice to litter, so I put it in the trashcan,” said Hikoichi proudly.
Mitsui fished out his iPod from the trashcan. Or what remained of it.
With a fierce growl, he jumped into the raging war, and held Kiyota and Hanamichi up in the air by the scruffs of their necks.
“Explain this,” said Mitsui, putting them down, and holding up the remains of his priceless iPod. Unfortunately, it was truly priceless now, being worth almost nothing.
“He did that!” both Sakuragi and Kiyota said simultaneously, pointing at each other.
“Argh!” Mitsui said in exasperation and helplessness, falling to his hands and knees, and sobbing pathetically.
“Come on, Mitchy! We’re sorry!” said Sakuragi.
“Yeah, we’re sorry,” said Kiyota.
Neither of them understood what the big deal was.
Hikoichi, meanwhile, unnoticed by the others, was rapidly scribbling down something in his notebook to the effect that jocks that looked tough on the outside were in fact really soft and sensitive on the inside.
“Get away from me!” Mitsui wailed. He stood up abruptly, ran into the bathroom crying, and shut the door.
“This is all your fault, Wild Monkey!” Sakuragi said, rounding on Kiyota, and punching him in the gut.
“My fault?! You were the one that broke his iPod!” said Kiyota, kicking Sakuragi in the shin.
*
“Hey, Ayako,” said Haruko in the girls’ room, “guess what I brought with me!”
“What?”
“Cherry-flavored lipstick!”
“That’s so cool! Can I try some?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Sure. And you won’t guess what I brought.”
“What?” Haruko asked, her curiosity piqued.
A few moments later the whole room was filled with excited squeals.
*
“Boy, are those kids loud!” Coach Taoka complained.
“Very,” agreed Coach Takato.
“Ho, ho, ho! They’re only children, after all,” said Coach Anzai.
“Let’s not talk,” said Coach Taoka. “This is awkward enough as it is.”
“Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
*
“Er… Sendoh? What’re you up to?” said Fujima.
Fujima was lying on his bed, peering at Sendoh over the top of a magazine he was reading.
Sendoh was rummaging through his bag for something.
“Me? I’m looking for my Nintendo DS.”
“Why now of all times?” said Maki. “You should’ve played on the bus. I’m tired, and I want the lights out.”
He yawned to accentuate his point.
“I wanted to save battery,” said Sendoh. “I’m becoming awfully economical nowadays, you see.”
“So what will you be playing anyway?” said Fujima.
“Need for Speed: Carbon,” Sendoh replied. “I’m going to try and unlock the Porsche Carrera tonight. I’ve tried several times before, but man—I just keep losing the last race!”
“Good luck this time,” said Maki, disappearing into the bathroom with his pajamas draped over his arm.
“So, Rukawa,” Fujima began, “how’s life?”
He still wanted to keep up conversation, and since he knew there was no chance of getting anything out of Sendoh now that he was engrossed in his game, he had to make do with Rukawa.
Rukawa shrugged.
“I see…” said Fujima. Undeterred, he went on: “Yesterday I received a phone call from Mitsui. Would you like to know what he said?”
Again, Rukawa shrugged.
“All right,” said Fujima. “He said: ‘Fujima, I’m so darn jealous of you for being beautiful, talented and intelligent—all at the same time!’”
Rukawa expressed that he didn’t believe that one bit by withdrawing the little attention he had bothered giving to Fujima.
“You weren’t listening to any of that, were you?” said Fujima, sighing.
Rukawa shrugged.
Fujima was determined to get an actual response out of Rukawa or die trying.
“So, Rukawa,” said Fujima with a grin. “Akagi’s been telling me you haven’t been concentrating much in practice, and that your skills are deteriorating. Is that true?”
Rukawa shook his head.
“Aha!” Fujima said jubilantly. “So you do know more body language!”
“Rats!” said Sendoh loudly. “I lost again! Can you believe it?”
Fujima cast Sendoh a lugubrious look, but withdrew it within a millisecond, and instead focused it on his fingernails. He would need to get a manicure done soon.
“Give me that,” said Rukawa, snatching the DS out of Sendoh’s hands.
“Hey—!”
“Quiet,” Rukawa snapped. “I can win this this.”
Fujima’s jaw dropped.
“Rukawa just spoke!”
*
Akagi had a strong presentiment that the hotel manager would either cancel their reservation or tell them off severely the next morning, and Uozumi said that he felt the same way.
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