Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Buthewasayoungmanwhohadnotcomethroughthewarwithallhisfacultiesintact,andformorethananhourhehadbeentriple-readingparagraphs,andnowhewasdoingittothesentences.Hesuddenlyclosedthebook,withoutmarkinghisplace.Withhishand,heshieldedhiseyesforamomentagainsttheharsh,wattyglarefromthenakedbulboverthetable.
Hetookacigarettefromapackonthetableandlititwithfingersthatbumpedgentlyandincessantlyagainstoneanother.Hesatbackatrifleinhischairandsmokedwithoutanysenseoftaste.Hehadbeenchain-smokingforweeks.Hisgumsbledattheslightestpressureofthetipofhistongue,andheseldomstoppedexperimenting;itwasalittlegameheplayed,sometimesbythehour.Hesatforamomentsmokingandexperimenting.Then,abruptly,familiarly,and,asusual,withnowarning,hethoughthefelthisminddislodgeitselfandteeter,likeinsecureluggageonanoverheadrack.Hequicklydidwhathehadbeendoingforweekstosetthingsright:hepressedhishandshardagainsthistemples.Heheldontightforamoment.Hishairneededcutting,anditwasdirty.Hehadwasheditthreeorfourtimesduringhistwoweeks’stayatthehospitalinFrankfortontheMain,butithadgotdirtyagainonthelong,dustyjeepridebacktoGaufurt.CorporalZ,whohadcalledforhimatthehospital,stilldroveajeepcombat-style,withthewindshielddownonthehood,armisticeornoarmistice.TherewerethousandsofnewtroopsinGermany.
