Девять рассказов
Just Before the War with the Eskimos
Hespokeexclusivelyfromthelarynx,asifhewerealtogethertootiredtoputanydiaphragmbreathintohiswords.
"Whathappened?"Ginnieasked,lookingathim.
"Oh....It’stoolongastory.IneverborepeopleIhaven’tknownforatleastathousandyears."Hestaredvaguely,discontentedly,inthedirectionofthewindows."ButIshallneveragainconsidermyselfeventheremotestjudgeofhumannature.Youmayquotemewildlyonthat."
"Whathappened?"Ginnierepeated.
"Oh,God.Thispersonwho’sbeensharingmyapartmentformonthsandmonthsandmonths—Idon’tevenwanttotalkabouthim....Thiswriter,"headdedwithsatisfaction,probablyrememberingafavoriteanathemafromaHemingwaynovel.
"What’dhedo?"
"Frankly,I’djustassoonnotgointodetails,"saidtheyoungman.Hetookacigarettefromhisownpack,ignoringatransparenthumidoronthetable,andlititwithhisownlighter.Hishandswerelarge.Theylookedneitherstrongnorcompetentnorsensitive.Yetheusedthemasiftheyhadsomenoteasilycontrollableaestheticdriveoftheirown."I’vemadeupmymindthatI’mnotevengoingtothinkaboutit.ButI’mjustsofurious,"hesaid."Imeanhere’sthisawfullittlepersonfromAltoona,Pennsylvania—oroneofthoseplaces.Apparentlystarvingtodeath.I’mkindanddecentenough—I’mtheoriginalGoodSamaritan—totakehimintomyapartment,thisabsolutelymicroscopiclittleapartmentthatIcanhardlymovearoundinmyself.Iintroducehimtoallmyfriends.
