Девять рассказов

           Then,Thursdaymid-afternoon,feelinggoodandjumpy,Istartedinononeofthetwonewstudents,anAmericanfromBangor,Maine,whosaidinhisquestionnaire,withwordy,Honest-Johnintegrity,thathewashisownfavoriteartist.Hereferredtohimselfasarealist-abstractionist.Asformyafter-schoolhours,TuesdayeveningItookabusintoMontrealproperandsatthroughaCartoonFestivalWeekprogramatathird-ratemoviehouse—whichlargelyentailedbeingawitnesstoasuccessionofcatsbeingbombardedwithchampagnecorksbymicegangs.Wednesdayevening,Igatheredupthefloorcushionsinmyroom,piledthemthreehigh,andtriedtosketchfrommemorySisterIrma’spictureofChrist’sburial.

           I’mtemptedtosaythatThursdayeveningwaspeculiar,orperhapsmacabre,butthefactis,Ihavenobill-fillingadjectivesforThursdayevening.IleftLesAmisafterdinnerandwentIdon’tknowwhere—perhapstoamovie,perhapsforjustalongwalk;Ican’tremember,and,foronce,mydiaryfor1939letsmedown,too,forthepageIneedisatotalblank.

           Iknow,though,whythepageisablank.AsIwasreturningfromwhereverI’dspenttheevening—andIdorememberthatitwasafterdark—Istoppedonthesidewalkoutsidetheschoolandlookedintothelighteddisplaywindowoftheorthopedicappliancesshop.Thensomethingaltogetherhideoushappened.