Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
Afterbreakfast,withouthavingtoleavethekitchen,M.YoshotoputonacollarlessshirtandMme.Yoshototookoffherapron,andthethreeofusfiledratherawkwardlydownstairstotheinstructors’room.There,inanuntidypileonM.Yoshoto’sbroaddesk,laysomedozenormoreunopened,enormous,bulging,Manillaenvelopes.Tome,theyhadanalmostfreshlybrushed-and-combedlook,likenewpupils.M.Yoshotoassignedmetomydesk,whichwasonthefar,isolatedsideoftheroom,andaskedmetobeseated.Then,withMme.Yoshotoathisside,hebrokeopenafewoftheenvelopes.HeandMme.Yoshotoseemedtoexaminetheassortedcontentswithsomesortofmethod,consultingeachother,nowandthen,inJapanese,whileIsatacrosstheroom,inmybluesuitandSulkatie,tryingtolooksimultaneouslyalertandpatientand,somehow,indispensabletotheorganization.Itookoutahandfulofsoft-leaddrawingpencils,frommyinsidejacketpocket,thatI’dbroughtfromNewYorkwithme,andlaidthemout,asnoiselesslyaspossible,onthesurfaceofmydesk.Once,M.Yoshotoglancedoveratmeforsomereason,andIflashedhimanexcessivelywinningsmile.Then,suddenly,withoutawordoralookinmydirection,thetwoofthemsatdownattheirrespectivedesksandwenttowork.Itwasaboutseven-thirty.
Aroundnine,M.Yoshototookoffhisglasses,gotupandpaddedovertomydeskwithasheafofpapersinhishand.I’dspentanhourandahalfdoingabsolutelynothingbuttryingtokeepmystomachfromgrowlingaudibly.
