Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Theyounglady,however,seemedslightlyboredwithherownsingingability,orperhapsjustwiththetimeandplace;twice,betweenverses,Isawheryawn.Itwasaladylikeyawn,aclosed-mouthyawn,butyoucouldn’tmissit;hernostrilwingsgaveheraway.
Theinstantthehymnended,thechoircoachbegantogiveherlengthyopinionofpeoplewhocan’tkeeptheirfeetstillandtheirlipssealedtightduringtheminister’ssermon.Igatheredthatthesingingpartoftherehearsalwasover,andbeforethecoach’sdissonantspeakingvoicecouldentirelybreakthespellthechildren’ssinginghadcast,Igotupandleftthechurch.
Itwasrainingevenharder.IwalkeddownthestreetandlookedthroughthewindowoftheRedCrossrecreationroom,butsoldierswerestandingtwoandthreedeepatthecoffeecounter,and,eventhroughtheglass,Icouldhearping-pongballsbouncinginanotherroom.Icrossedthestreetandenteredaciviliantearoom,whichwasemptyexceptforamiddle-agedwaitress,wholookedasifshewouldhavepreferredacustomerwithadryraincoat.Iusedacoattreeasdelicatelyaspossible,andthensatdownatatableandorderedteaandcinnamontoast.ItwasthefirsttimealldaythatI’dspokentoanyone.Ithenlookedthroughallmypockets,includingmyraincoat,andfinallyfoundacoupleofstaleletterstoreread,onefrommywife,tellingmehowtheserviceatSchrafft’sEighty-eighthStreethadfallenoff,andonefrommymother-in-law,askingmetopleasesendhersomecashmereyarnfirstchanceIgotawayfrom"camp."
