Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
ItispossiblethatIwasmistakenandIdonotwillfullyinviteanydisillusionsatthispointinmylife.Iamwillingtostayinthedark.
Eventoday,aslateasnow,IhaveatendencytowincewhenIrememberthatIbroughtadinnersuituptoLesAmiswithme.ButbringoneIdid,andafterI’dfinishedmylettertoSisterIrma,Iputiton.Thewholeaffairseemedtocalloutformygettingdrunk,andsinceIhadneverinmylifebeendrunk(forfearthatexcessivedrinkingwouldshakethehandthatpaintedthepicturesthatcoppedthethreefirstprizes,etc.),Ifeltcompelledtodressforthetragicoccasion.
WhiletheYoshotoswerestillinthekitchen,IslippeddownstairsandtelephonedtheWindsorHotel—whichBobby’sfriend,Mrs.X,hadrecommendedtomebeforeI’dleftNewYork.Ireservedatableforone,foreighto’clock.
Aroundseven-thirty,dressedandslickedup,IstuckmyheadoutsidemydoortoseeifeitheroftheYoshotoswereontheprowl.Ididn’twantthemtoseemeinmydinnerjacket,forsomereason.Theyweren’tinsight,andIhurrieddowntothestreetandbegantolookforacab.MylettertoSisterIrmawasintheinsidepocketofmyjacket.Iintendedtoreaditoveratdinner,preferablybycandlelight.
Iwalkedblockafterblockwithoutsomuchasseeingacabatall,letaloneanemptyone.Itwasroughgoing.TheVerdunsectionofMontrealwasinnosenseadressyneighborhood,andIwasconvincedthateverypasser-bywasgivingmeasecond,basicallycensoriouslook.
