Девять рассказов
Just Before the War with the Eskimos
Lethimclutterupthewholeapartmentwithhishorriblemanuscriptpapers,andcigarettebutts,andradishes,andwhatnot.IntroducehimtoeverytheatricalproducerinNewYork.Haulhisfilthyshirtsbackandforthfromthelaundry.Andontopofitall—"Theyoungmanbrokeoff."Andtheresultofallmykindnessanddecency,"hewenton,"isthathewalksoutofthehouseatfiveorsixinthemorning—withoutsomuchasleavinganotebehind—takingwithhimanythingandeverythinghecanlayhisfilthy,dirtyhandson."Hepausedtodragonhiscigarette,andexhaledthesmokeinathin,sibilantstreamfromhismouth."Idon’twanttotalkaboutit.Ireallydon’t."HelookedoveratGinnie."Iloveyourcoat,"hesaid,alreadyoutofhischair.HecrossedoverandtookthelapelofGinnie’spolocoatbetweenhisfingers."It’slovely.It’sthefirstreallygoodcamel’shairI’veseensincethewar.MayIaskwhereyougotit?"
"MymotherbroughtitbackfromNassau."
Theyoungmannoddedthoughtfullyandbackedofftowardhischair."It’soneofthefewplaceswhereyoucangetreallygoodcamel’shair."Hesatdown."Wasshetherelong?"
"What?"saidGinnie.
"Wasyourmothertherelong?ThereasonIaskismymotherwasdowninDecember.AndpartofJanuary.UsuallyIgodownwithher,butthishasbeensuchamessyyearIsimplycouldn’tgetaway."
"ShewasdowninFebruary,"Ginniesaid.
"Grand.Wheredidshestay?Doyouknow?"
"Withmyaunt."
Henodded.
