Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Itwasoddlyradiant,ascertainsmall,qualifiedsmilessometimesare.Ismiledback,muchlessradiantly,keepingmyupperlipdownoveracoal-blackG.I.temporaryfillingshowingbetweentwoofmyfrontteeth.ThenextthingIknew,theyoungladywasstanding,withenviablepoise,besidemytable.Shewaswearingatartandress—aCampbelltartan,Ibelieve.Itseemedtometobeawonderfuldressforaveryyounggirltobewearingonarainy,rainyday."IthoughtAmericansdespisedtea,"shesaid.
Itwasn’ttheobservationofasmartaleckbutthatofatruth-loverorastatistics-lover.Irepliedthatsomeofusneverdrankanythingbuttea.Iaskedherifshe’dcaretojoinme.
"Thankyou,"shesaid."Perhapsforjustafractionofamoment."
Igotupanddrewachairforher,theoneoppositeme,andshesatdownontheforwardquarterofit,keepingherspineeasilyandbeautifullystraight.Iwentback—almosthurriedback—tomyownchair,morethanwillingtoholdupmyendofaconversation.WhenIwasseated,Icouldn’tthinkofanythingtosay,though.Ismiledagain,stillkeepingmycoal-blackfillingunderconcealment.Iremarkedthatitwascertainlyaterribledayout.
"Yes;quite,"saidmyguest,intheclear,unmistakablevoiceofasmall-talkdetester.Sheplacedherfingersflatonthetableedge,likesomeoneataseance,then,almostinstantly,closedherhands—hernailswerebittendowntothequick.Shewaswearingawristwatch,amilitary-lookingonethatlookedratherlikeanavigator’schronograph.
