Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Hislookfinallysettledontheradio."Hey,"hesaid."Theygotthisterrificshowcomin’ontheradioinacouplaminutes.BobHope,andeverybody."
X,openingafreshpackofcigarettes,saidhehadjustturnedtheradiooff.
Undarkened,ClaywatchedXtryingtogetacigarettelit."Jesus,"hesaid,withspectator’senthusiasm,"yououghtaseeyourgoddamhands.Boy,haveyougottheshakes.Yaknowthat?"
Xgothiscigarettelit,nodded,andsaidClayhadarealeyefordetail.
"Nokidding,hey.IgoddamnearfaintedwhenIsawyouatthehospital.Youlookedlikeagoddamcorpse.Howmuchweightyalose?Howmanypounds?Yaknow?"
"Idon’tknow.HowwasyourmailwhenIwasgone?YouheardfromLoretta?"
LorettawasClay’sgirl.Theyintendedtogetmarriedattheirearliestconvenience.Shewrotetohimfairlyregularly,fromaparadiseoftripleexclamationpointsandinaccurateobservations.Allthroughthewar,ClayhadreadallLoretta’slettersaloudtoX,howeverintimatetheywere—infact,themoreintimate,thebetter.Itwashiscustom,aftereachreading,toaskXtoplotoutorpadouttheletterofreply,ortoinsertafewimpressivewordsinFrenchorGerman.
"Yeah,Ihadaletterfromheryesterday.Downinmyroom.Showittoyalater,"Claysaid,listlessly.Hesatupstraightontheedgeofthebed,heldhisbreath,andissuedalong,resonantbelch.Lookingjustsemi-pleasedwiththeachievement,herelaxedagain."Hergoddambrother’sgettin’outatheNavyonaccountofhiship,"hesaid."He’sgotthiship,thebastard."
