Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
"Makeitextremelysqualidandmoving,"shesuggested."Areyouatallacquaintedwithsqualor?"
IsaidnotexactlybutthatIwasgettingbetteracquaintedwithit,inoneformoranother,allthetime,andthatI’ddomybesttocomeuptoherspecifications.Weshookhands.
"Isn’titapitythatwedidn’tmeetunderlessextenuatingcircumstances?"
Isaiditwas,Isaiditcertainlywas.
"Goodbye,"Esmesaid."Ihopeyoureturnfromthewarwithallyourfacultiesintact."
Ithankedher,andsaidafewotherwords,andthenwatchedherleavethetearoom.Sheleftitslowly,reflectively,testingtheendsofherhairfordryness.
Thisisthesqualid,ormoving,partofthestory,andthescenechanges.Thepeoplechange,too.I’mstillaround,butfromhereonin,forreasonsI’mnotatlibertytodisclose,I’vedisguisedmyselfsocunninglythateventhecleverestreaderwillfailtorecognizeme.
Itwasaboutten-thirtyatnightinGaufurt,Bavaria,severalweeksafterV-EDay.StaffSergeantXwasinhisroomonthesecondfloorofthecivilianhomeinwhichheandnineotherAmericansoldiershadbeenquartered,evenbeforethearmistice.Hewasseatedonafoldingwoodenchairatasmall,messy-lookingwritingtable,withapaperbackoverseasnovelopenbeforehim,whichhewashavinggreattroublereading.Thetroublelaywithhim,notthenovel.AlthoughthemenwholivedonthefirstfloorusuallyhadfirstgrabatthebookssenteachmonthbySpecialServices,Xusuallyseemedtobeleftwiththebookhemighthaveselectedhimself.
