Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Then,withfarmorezealthanhehaddoneanythinginweeks,hepickedupapencilstubandwrotedownundertheinscription,inEnglish,"Fathersandteachers,Iponder`Whatishell?’Imaintainthatitisthesufferingofbeingunabletolove."HestartedtowriteDostoevski’snameundertheinscription,butsaw—withfrightthatranthroughhiswholebody—thatwhathehadwrittenwasalmostentirelyillegible.Heshutthebook.
Hequicklypickedupsomethingelsefromthetable,aletterfromhisolderbrotherinAlbany.Ithadbeenonhistableevenbeforehehadcheckedintothehospital.Heopenedtheenvelope,looselyresolvedtoreadtheletterstraightthrough,butreadonlythetophalfofthefirstpage.Hestoppedafterthewords"Nowthattheg.d.warisoverandyouprobablyhavealotoftimeoverthere,howaboutsendingthekidsacoupleofbayonetsorswastikas..."Afterhe’dtornitup,helookeddownatthepiecesastheylayinthewastebasket.Hesawthathehadoverlookedanenclosedsnapshot.Hecouldmakeoutsomebody’sfeetstandingonalawnsomewhere.
Heputhisarmsonthetableandrestedhisheadonthem.Heachedfromheadtofoot,allzonesofpainseeminglyinterdependent.HewasratherlikeaChristmastreewhoselights,wiredinseries,mustallgooutifevenonebulbisdefective.
Thedoorbangedopen,withouthavingbeenrappedon.Xraisedhishead,turnedit,andsawCorporalZstandinginthedoor.CorporalZhadbeenX’sjeeppartnerandconstantcompanionfromDDaystraightthroughfivecampaignsofthewar.
