Девять рассказов

           Sheworenopartofhergrief,sotospeak,onhersleeve—infact,therewerenooutwardsignsatallofherlate,enviableconnectionswiththeDeceased.Herface,likealltheotherfacesinthepicture,hadbeendoneinacheap-priced,ready-madeflesh-tint.ItwaspainfullyclearthatSisterIrmaherselfhadfoundthecolorunsatisfactoryandhadtriedherunadvised,noblebesttotoneitdownsomehow.Therewerenootherseriousflawsinthepicture.None,thatis,worthyofanythingbutcavillingmention.Itwas,inanyconclusivesense,anartist’spicture,steepedinhigh,high,organizedtalentandGodknowshowmanyhoursofhardwork.

           Oneofmyfirstreactions,ofcourse,wastorunwithSisterIrma’senvelopeovertoM.Yoshoto.But,onceagain,Ikeptmyseat.Ididn’tcaretoriskhavingSisterIrmatakenawayfromme.Atlength,Ijustclosedherenvelopewithcareandplacedittoonesideofmydesk,withtheexcitingplantoworkonitthatnight,inmyowntime.Then,withfarmoretolerancethanI’dthoughtIhadinme,almostwithgoodwill,Ispenttherestoftheafternoondoingoverlaycorrectionsonsomemaleandfemalenudes(sanssexorgans)thatR.HowardRidgefieldhadgenteelyandobscenelydrawn.

           Towarddinnertime,IopenedthreebuttonsofmyshirtandstashedawaySisterIrma’senvelopewhereneitherthieves,nor,justtoplaysafe,theYoshotos,couldbreakin.