Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Abruptly,withnothingspecialinmind,Icameawayfromthewindowandputonmyraincoat,cashmeremuffler,galoshes,woollengloves,andoverseascap(thelastofwhich,I’mstilltold,Iworeatanangleallmyown—slightlydownoverbothears).Then,aftersynchronizingmywristwatchwiththeclockinthelatrine,Iwalkeddownthelong,wetcobblestonehillintotown.Iignoredtheflashesoflightningallaroundme.Theyeitherhadyournumberonthemortheydidn’t.
Inthecenteroftown,whichwasprobablythewettestpartoftown,Istoppedinfrontofachurchtoreadthebulletinboard,mostlybecausethefeaturednumerals,whiteonblack,hadcaughtmyattentionbutpartlybecause,afterthreeyearsintheArmy,I’dbecomeaddictedtoreadingbulletinboards.Atthree-fifteen,theboardstated,therewouldbechildren’s-choirpractice.Ilookedatmywristwatch,thenbackattheboard.Asheetofpaperwastackedup,listingthenamesofthechildrenexpectedtoattendpractice.Istoodintherainandreadallthenames,thenenteredthechurch.
Adozenorsoadultswereamongthepews,severalofthembearingpairsofsmall-sizerubbers,solesup,intheirlaps.Ipassedalongandsatdowninthefrontrow.Ontherostrum,seatedinthreecompactrowsofauditoriumchairs,wereabouttwentychildren,mostlygirls,ranginginagefromaboutseventothirteen.Atthemoment,theirchoircoach,anenormouswomanintweeds,wasadvisingthemtoopentheirmouthswiderwhentheysang.
