Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Iwasgettingatrifleposture-consciousandIsatupsomewhatstraighterinmyseat.
"YouseemquiteintelligentforanAmerican,"myguestmused.
Itoldherthatwasaprettysnobbishthingtosay,ifyouthoughtaboutitatall,andthatIhopeditwasunworthyofher.
Sheblushed-automaticallyconferringonmethesocialpoiseI’dbeenmissing."Well.MostoftheAmericansI’veseenactlikeanimals.They’reforeverpunchingoneanotherabout,andinsultingeveryone,and—Youknowwhatoneofthemdid?"
Ishookmyhaad.
"Oneofthemthrewanemptywhiskeybottlethroughmyaunt’swindow.Fortunately,thewindowwasopen.Butdoesthatsoundveryintelligenttoyou?"
Itdidn’tespecially,butIdidn’tsayso.Isaidthatmanysoldiers,allovertheworld,werealongwayfromhome,andthatfewofthemhadhadmanyrealadvantagesinlife.IsaidI’dthoughtthatmostpeoplecouldfigurethatoutforthemselves.
"Possibly,"saidmyguest,withoutconviction.Sheraisedherhandtoherwetheadagain,pickedatafewlimpfilamentsofblondhair,tryingtocoverherexposedearrims."Myhairissoakingwet,"shesaid."Ilookafright."Shelookedoveratme."Ihavequitewavyhairwhenit’sdry."
"Icanseethat,Icanseeyouhave."
"Notactuallycurly,butquitewavy,"shesaid."Areyoumarried?"
IsaidIwas.
Shenodded."Areyouverydeeplyinlovewithyourwife?OramIbeingtoopersonal?"
Isaidthatwhenshewas,I’dspeakup.
