Девять рассказов
De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
Inthenineo’clocktwilight,asIapproachedtheschoolbuildingfromacrossthestreet,therewasalightonintheorthopedicappliancesshop.Iwasstartledtoseealivepersonintheshopcase,aheftygirlofaboutthirty,inagreen,yellowandlavenderchiffondress.Shewaschangingthetrussonthewoodendummy.AsIcameuptotheshowwindow,shehadevidentlyjusttakenofftheoldtruss;itwasunderherleftarm(herright"profile"wastowardme),andshewaslacingupthenewoneonthedummy.Istoodwatchingher,fascinated,tillsuddenlyshesensed,thensaw,thatshewasbeingwatched.Iquicklysmiled—toshowherthatthiswasanonhostilefigureinthetuxedointhetwilightontheothersideoftheglass—butitdidnogood.Thegirl’sconfusionwasoutofallnormalproportion.Sheblushed,shedroppedtheremovedtruss,shesteppedbackonastackofirrigationbasins—andherfeetwentoutfromunderher.Ireachedouttoherinstantly,hittingthetipsofmyfingersontheglass.Shelandedheavilyonherbottom,likeaskater.Sheimmediatelygottoherfeetwithoutlookingatme.Herfacestillflushed,shepushedherhairbackwithonehand,andresumedlacingupthetrussonthedummy.ItwasjustthenthatIhadmyExperience.Suddenly(andIsaythis,Ibelieve,withalldueself-consciousness),thesuncameupandspedtowardthebridgeofmynoseattherateofninety-threemillionmilesasecond.Blindedandveryfrightened—Ihadtoputmyhandontheglasstokeepmybalance.Thethinglastedfornomorethanafewseconds
