Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
HelivedonthefirstfloorandheusuallycameuptoseeXwhenhehadafewrumorsorgripestounload.Hewasahuge,photogenicyoungmanoftwenty-four.Duringthewar,anationalmagazinehadphotographedhiminHurtgenForest;hehadposed,morethanjustobligingly,withaThanksgivingturkeyineachhand."Yawritin’letters?"heaskedX."It’sspookyinhere,forChrissake."Hepreferredalwaystoenteraroomthathadtheoverheadlighton.
Xturnedaroundinhischairandaskedhimtocomein,andtobecarefulnottosteponthedog.
"Thewhat?"
"Alvin.He’srightunderyourfeet,Clay.How’boutturningonthegoddamlight?"
Clayfoundtheoverhead-lightswitch,flickediton,thensteppedacrossthepuny,servant’s-sizeroomandsatdownontheedgeofthebed,facinghishost.Hisbrick-redhair,justcombed,wasdrippingwiththeamountofwaterherequiredforsatisfactorygrooming.Acombwithafountain-penclipprotruded,familiarly,fromtheright-handpocketofhisolive-drabshirt.Overtheleft-handpockethewaswearingtheCombatInfantrymen’sBadge(which,technically,hewasn’tauthorizedtowear),theEuropeanTheatreribbon,withfivebronzebattlestarsinit(insteadofalonesilverone,whichwastheequivalentoffivebronzeones),andthepre-PearlHarborserviceribbon.Hesighedheavilyandsaid,"Christalmighty."Itmeantnothing;itwasArmy.Hetookapackofcigarettesfromhisshirtpocket,tappedoneout,thenputawaythepackandrebuttonedthepocketflap.Smoking,helookedvacuouslyaroundtheroom.
