Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
Butithadacertaincumulativeeffect,consideringwhereIwassitting,andbythetimelunchhourrolledaround,Ihadtobeverycarefulnottosmudgemytranslationswiththesweatyheelsofmyhands.Asiftomakethingsstillmoreoppressive,M.Yoshoto’shandwritingwasjustbarelylegible.Atanyrate,whenitcametimeforlunch,IdeclinedtojointheYoshotos.IsaidIhadtogotothepostoffice.ThenIalmostrandownthestairstothestreetandbegantowalkveryrapidly,withnodirectionatall,throughamazeofstrange,underprivileged-lookingstreets.WhenIcametoalunchbar,Iwentinsideandboltedfour"ConeyIslandRed-Hots"andthreemuddycupsofcoffee.
OnthewaybacktoLesAmisDesVieuxMaitres,Ibegantowonder,firstinafamiliar,faint-heartedwaythatImoreorlessknewfromexperiencehowtohandle,theninanabsolutepanic,iftherehadbeenanythingpersonalinM.Yoshoto’shavingusedmeexclusivelyasatranslatorallmorning.HadoldFuManchuknownfromthebeginningthatIwaswearing,amongothermisleadingattachmentsandeffects,anineteen-year-oldboy’smoustache?Thepossibilitywasalmostunendurabletoconsider.Italsotendedtoeatslowlyawayatmysenseofjustice.HereIwas—amanwhohadwonthreefirst-prizes,averyclosefriendofPicasso’s(whichIactuallywasbeginningtothinkIwas)—beingusedasatranslator.Thepunishmentdidn’tbegintofitthecrime.Foronething,mymoustache,howeversparse,wasallmine;ithadn’tbeenputonwithspiritgum.
