Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
When,finally,IcametothelunchbarwhereI’dboltedthe"ConeyIslandRed-Hots"onMonday,IdecidedtoletmyreservationattheHotelWindsorgobytheboard.Iwentintothelunchbar,satdowninanendbooth,andkeptmylefthandovermyblacktiewhileIorderedsoup,rollsandblackcoffee.IhopedthattheotherpatronswouldthinkIwasawaiteronhiswaytowork.
WhileIwasonmysecondcupofcoffee,ItookoutmyunmailedlettertoSisterIrmaandrereadit.Thesubstanceofitseemedtomeatriflethin,andIdecidedtohurrybacktoLesAmisandtouchitupabit.IalsothoughtovermyplanstovisitSisterIrma,andwonderedifitmightnotbeagoodideatopickupmytrainreservationslaterthatsameevening.Withthosetwothoughtsinmind—neitherofwhichreallygavemethesortofliftIneeded—Ileftthelunchbarandwalkedrapidlybacktoschool.
Somethingextremelyoutofthewayhappenedtomesomefifteenminuteslater.Astatement,I’maware,thathasalltheunpleasantearmarksofabuild-up,butquitethecontraryistrue.I’mabouttotouchonanextraordinaryexperience,onethatstillstrikesmeashavingbeenquitetranscendent,andI’dlike,ifpossible,toavoidseemingtopassitoffasacase,orevenaborderlinecase,ofgenuinemysticism.(Todootherwise,Ifeel,wouldbetantamounttoimplyingorstatingthatthedifferenceinspiritualsortiesbetweenSt.Francisandtheaverage,highstrung,Sundayleper-kisserisonlyaverticalone.)
