Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Sheputherhandsandwristsfartherforwardonthetable,andIrememberwantingtodosomethingaboutthatenormous-facedwristwatchshewaswearing—perhapssuggestthatshetrywearingitaroundherwaist.
"Usually,I’mnotterriblygregarious,"shesaid,andlookedoveratmetoseeifIknewthemeaningoftheword.Ididn’tgiveherasign,though,onewayortheother."IpurelycameoverbecauseIthoughtyoulookedextremelylonely.Youhaveanextremelysensitiveface."
Isaidshewasright,thatIhadbeenfeelinglonely,andthatIwasverygladshe’dcomeover.
"I’mtrainingmyselftobemorecompassionate.MyauntsaysI’materriblycoldperson,"shesaidandfeltthetopofherheadagain."Ilivewithmyaunt.She’sanextremelykindperson.Sincethedeathofmymother,she’sdoneeverythingwithinherpowertomakeCharlesandmefeeladjusted."
"I’mglad."
"Motherwasanextremelyintelligentperson.Quitesensuous,inmanyways."Shelookedatmewithakindoffreshacuteness."Doyoufindmeterriblycold?"
Itoldherabsolutelynot—verymuchtothecontrary,infact.Itoldhermynameandaskedforhers.Shehesitated."MyfirstnameisEsme.Idon’tthinkIshalltellyoumyfullname,forthemoment.Ihaveatitleandyoumayjustbeimpressedbytitles.Americansare,youknow."
IsaidIdidn’tthinkIwouldbe,butthatitmightbeagoodidea,atthat,toholdontothetitleforawhile.
Justthen,Ifeltsomeone’swarmbreathonthebackofmyneck.
