Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
WhileIwasstillonmyfirstcupoftea,theyoungladyIhadbeenwatchingandlisteningtointhechoircameintothetearoom.Herhairwassoakingwet,andtherimsofbothearswereshowing.Shewaswithaverysmallboy,unmistakablyherbrother,whosecapsheremovedbyliftingitoffhisheadwithtwofingers,asifitwerealaboratoryspecimen.Bringinguptherearwasanefficient-lookingwomaninalimpfelthat—presumablytheirgoverness.Thechoirmember,takingoffhercoatasshewalkedacrossthefloor,madethetableselection—agoodone,frommypointofview,asitwasjusteightortenfeetdirectlyinfrontofme.Sheandthegovernesssatdown.Thesmallboy,whowasaboutfive,wasn’treadytositdownyet.Heslidoutofanddiscardedhisreefer;then,withthedeadpanexpressionofabornheller,hemethodicallywentaboutannoyinghisgovernessbypushinginandpullingouthischairseveraltimes,watchingherface.Thegoverness,keepinghervoicedown,gavehimtwoorthreeorderstositdownand,ineffect,stopthemonkeybusiness,butitwasonlywhenhissisterspoketohimthathecamearoundandappliedthesmallofhisbacktohischairseat.Heimmediatelypickeduphisnapkinandputitonhishead.Hissisterremovedit,openedit,andspreaditoutonhislap.
Aboutthetimetheirteawasbrought,thechoirmembercaughtmestaringoveratherparty.Shestaredbackatme,withthosehouse-countingeyesofhers,then,abruptly,gavemeasmall,qualifiedsmile.
