Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
ImailedmyletteranddrawingstoSisterIrmaaroundthree-thirtyinthemorning,goingouttothestreettodoit.Then,literallyoverjoyed,Iundressedmyselfwiththickfingersandfellintobed.
JustbeforeIfellasleep,themoaningsoundagaincamethroughthewallfromtheYoshotos’bedroom.IpicturedbothYoshotoscomingtomeinthemorningandaskingme,beggingme,toheartheirsecretproblemout,tothelast,terribledetail.Isawexactlyhowitwouldbe.Iwouldsitdownbetweenthematthekitchentableandlistentoeachofthem.Iwouldlisten,listen,listen,withmyheadinmyhands—tillfinally,unabletostanditanylonger,IwouldreachdownintoMme.Yoshoto’sthroat,takeupherheartinmyhandandwarmitasIwouldabird.Then,whenallwasputright,IwouldshowSisterIrma’sworktotheYoshotos,andtheywouldsharemyjoy.
Thefactisalwaysobviousmuchtoolate,butthemostsingulardifferencebetweenhappinessandjoyisthathappinessisasolidandjoyaliquid.Minestartedtoseepthroughitscontainerasearlyasthenextmorning,whenM.Yoshotodroppedbyatmydeskwiththeenvelopesoftwonewstudents.IwasworkingonBambiKramer’sdrawingsatthetime,andquitespleenlessly,knowingasIdidthatmylettertoSisterIrmawassafelyinthemail.ButIwasnowhereevennearlypreparedtofacethefreakishfactthatthereweretwopeopleintheworldwhohadlesstalentfordrawingthaneitherBambiorR.HowardRidgefield.
