Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Itsfacewasmuchtoolargeforherslenderwrist."Youwereatchoirpractice,"shesaidmatter-of-factly."Isawyou."
IsaidIcertainlyhadbeen,andthatIhadheardhervoicesingingseparatelyfromtheothers.IsaidIthoughtshehadaveryfinevoice.
Shenodded."Iknow.I’mgoingtobeaprofessionalsinger."
"Really?Opera?"
"Heavens,no.I’mgoingtosingjazzontheradioandmakeheapsofmoney.Then,whenI’mthirty,IshallretireandliveonaranchinOhio."Shetouchedthetopofhersoaking-wetheadwiththeflatofherhand."DoyouknowOhio?"sheasked.
IsaidI’dbeenthroughitonthetrainafewtimesbutthatIdidn’treallyknowit.Iofferedherapieceofcinnamontoast.
"No,thankyou,"shesaid."Ieatlikeabird,actually."
Ibitintoapieceoftoastmyself,andcommentedthatthere’ssomemightyroughcountryaroundOhio."Iknow.AnAmericanImettoldme.You’retheeleventhAmericanI’vemet."
Hergovernesswasnowurgentlysignallinghertoreturntoherowntable—ineffect,tostopbotheringtheman.Myguest,however,calmlymovedherchairaninchortwosothatherbackbrokeallpossiblefurthercommunicationwiththehometable."YougotothatsecretIntelligenceschoolonthehill,don’tyou?"sheinquiredcoolly.
Assecurity-mindedasthenextone,IrepliedthatIwasvisitingDevonshireformyhealth.
"Really,"shesaid,"Iwasn’tquitebomyesterday,youknow."
IsaidI’dbetshehadn’tbeen,atthat.Idrankmyteaforamoment.
