Девять рассказов

           Hisexpression—andmywordforitcamestraightoutofaFrencheditionofSaxRohmer’sFuManchubooks—wasinscrutable.Forsomereason,Iwassmilingfromeartoear.Icouldn’teventurnitdown,letaloneoff.

           ItwasabusrideofseveralmilesfromWindsorStationtotheschool.IdoubtifM.Yoshotosaidfivewordsthewholeway.Eitherinspite,orbecause,ofhissilence,Italkedincessantly,withmylegscrossed,ankleonknee,andconstantlyusingmysockasanabsorberfortheperspirationonmypalm.Itseemedurgenttomenotonlytoreiteratemyearlierlies—aboutmykinshipwithDaumier,aboutmydeceasedwife,aboutmysmallestateintheSouthofFrance—buttoelaborateonthem.Atlength,ineffecttosparemyselffromdwellingonthesepainfulreminiscences(andtheywerebeginningtofeelalittlepainful),Iswungovertothesubjectofmyparents’oldestanddearestfriend:PabloPicasso.LepauvrePicasso,asIreferredtohim.(IpickedPicasso,Imightmention,becauseheseemedtometheFrenchpainterwhowasbest-knowninAmerica.IroundlyconsideredCanadapartofAmerica.)ForM.Yoshoto’sbenefit,Irecalled,withashowyamountofnaturalcompassionforafallengiant,howmanytimesIhadsaidtohim,"M.Picasso,ofiallezvous?"andhow,inresponsetothisall-penetratingquestion,themasterhadneverfailedtowalkslowly,leadenly,acrosshisstudiotolookatasmallreproductionofhis"LesSaltimbanques"andtheglory,longforfeited,thathadbeenhis.