Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Shesaysmylettersareahelluvalotmoreintelligentsincewebeengoin’aroundtogether."
Xlookedupandoverathim,andsaid,withgreateffort,"Thanks.Tellherthanksforme."
"Iwill.G’night!"Thedoorslammedshut,thistimeforgood.
Xsatlookingatthedoorforalongwhile,thenturnedhischairaroundtowardthewritingtableandpickeduphisportabletypewriterfromthefloor.Hemadespaceforitonthemessytablesurface,pushingasidethecollapsedpileofunopenedlettersandpackages.HethoughtifhewrotealettertoanoldfriendofhisinNewYorktheremightbesomequick,howeverslight,therapyinitforhim.Buthecouldn’tinserthisnotepaperintotherollerproperly,hisfingerswereshakingsoviolentlynow.Heputhishandsdownathissidesforaminute,thentriedagain,butfinallycrumpledthenotepaperinhishand.
Hewasawarethatheoughttogetthewastebasketoutoftheroom,butinsteadofdoinganythingaboutit,heputhisarmsonthetypewriterandrestedhisheadagain,closinghiseyes.
Afewthrobbingminuteslater,whenheopenedhiseyes,hefoundhimselfsquintingatasmall,unopenedpackagewrappedingreenpaper.Ithadprobablyslippedoffthepilewhenhehadmadespaceforthetypewriter.Hesawthatithadbeenreaddressedseveraltimes.Hecouldmakeout,onjustonesideofthepackage,atleastthreeofhisoldA.P.O.numbers.
Heopenedthepackagewithoutanyinterest,withoutevenlookingatthereturnaddress.Heopeneditbyburningthestringwithalightedmatch.
