Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
IfeltitreassuringlywithmyfingersasIhurriedbacktoschool.ButthemoreIthoughtaboutthewholeaffair,thefasterIwalked,tillfinallyIwasalmosttrotting,asifanyminuteIhalf-expectedtobestonedfromalldirections.ThoughI’dtakenonlyfortyminutesorsoforlunch,boththeYoshotoswereattheirdesksandatworkwhenIgotback.Theydidn’tlookuporgiveanysignthatthey’dheardmecomein.Perspiringandoutofbreath,Iwentoverandsatdownatmydesk.Isatrigidlystillforthenextfifteenortwentyminutes,runningallkindsofbrand-newlittlePicassoanecdotesthroughmyhead,justincaseM.Yoshotosuddenlygotupandcameovertounmaskme.And,suddenly,hedidgetupandcomeover.Istooduptomeethim—headon,ifnecessary—withafreshlittlePicassostory,but,tomyhorror,bythetimehereachedmeIwasminustheplot.Ichosethemomenttoexpressmyadmirationforthegoose-in-flightpicturehangingoverMme.Yoshoto.Ipraiseditlavishlyatsomelength.IsaidIknewamaninParis—averywealthyparalytic,Isaid—whowouldpayM.Yoshotoanypriceatallforthepicture.IsaidIcouldgetintouchwithhimimmediatelyifM.Yoshotowasinterested.Luckily,however,M.Yoshotosaidthepicturebelongedtohiscousin,whowasawayvisitingrelativesinJapan.Then,beforeIcouldexpressmyregret,heaskedme—addressingmeasM.DaumierSmith—ifIwouldkindlycorrectafewlessons.Hewentovertohisdeskandreturnedwiththreeenormous,bulgingenvelopes,andplacedthemonmydesk.
