Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
Whenitbecamequiteunendurabletolistentofromasupineposition,Igotoutofbed,putonmyslippers,andwentoverinthedarkandsatdownononeofthefloorcushions.Isatcrossleggedforacoupleofhoursandsmokedcigarettes,squashingthemoutontheinstepofmyslipperandputtingthestubsinthebreastpocketofmypyjamas.(TheYoshotosdidn’tsmoke,andtherewerenoashtraysanywhereonthepremises.)Igottosleeparoundfiveinthemorning.
Atsix-thirty,M.Yoshotoknockedonmydoorandadvisedmethatbreakfastwouldbeservedatsix-forty-five.Heaskedme,throughthedoor,ifI’dsleptwell,andIanswered,"Oui!"Ithendressed—puttingonmybluesuit,whichIthoughtappropriateforaninstructorontheopeningdayofschool,andaredSulkatiemymotherhadgivenme—and,withoutwashing,hurrieddownthehalltotheYoshotos’kitchen.
Mme.Yoshotowasatthestove,preparingafishbreakfast.M.Yoshoto,inhisB.V.D.’sandtrousers,wasseatedatthekitchentable,readingaJapanesenewspaper.Henoddedtome,non-committally.Neitherofthemhadeverlookedmoreinscrutable.Presently,somesortoffishwasservedtomeonaplatewithasmallbutnoticeabletraceofcoagulatedcatsupalongtheborder.Mme.Yoshotoaskedme,inEnglish—andheraccentwasunexpectedlycharming—ifIwouldpreferanegg,butIsaid,"Non,non,madame—merci!"IsaidIneverateeggs.M.Yoshotoleanedhisnewspaperagainstmywaterglass,andthethreeofusateinsilence;thatis,theyateandIsystematicallyswallowedinsilence.
