Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
IturnedaroundandjustmissedbrushingnoseswithEsme’ssmallbrother.Ignoringme,headdressedhissisterinapiercingtreble:"MissMegleysaidyoumustcomeandfinishyourtea!"Hismessagedelivered,heretiredtothechairbetweenhissisterandme,onmyright.Iregardedhimwithhighinterest.HewaslookingverysplendidinbrownShetlandshorts,anavy-bluejersey,whiteshirt,andstripednecktie.Hegazedbackatmewithimmensegreeneyes."Whydopeopleinfilmskisssideways?"hedemanded.
"Sideways?"Isaid.Itwasaproblemthathadbaffledmeinmychildhood.IsaidIguesseditwasbecauseactors’nosesaretoobigforkissinganyoneheadon.
"HisnameisCharles,"Esmesaid."He’sextremelybrilliantforhisage."
"Hecertainlyhasgreeneyes.Haven’tyou,Charles?"Charlesgavemethefishylookmyquestiondeserved,thenwriggleddownwardandforwardinhischairtillallofhisbodywasunderthetableexcepthishead,whichheleft,wrestler’s-bridgestyle,onthechairseat."They’reorange,"hesaidinastrainedvoice,addressingtheceiling.Hepickedupacomerofthetableclothandputitoverhishandsome,deadpanlittleface.
"Sometimeshe’sbrilliantandsometimeshe’snot,"Esmesaid."Charles,dositup!"
Charlesstayedrightwherehewas.Heseemedtobeholdinghisbreath.
"Hemissesourfatherverymuch.Hewass-l-a-i-ninNorthAfrica."
Iexpressedregrettohearit.
Esmenodded."Fatheradoredhim."Shebitreflectivelyatthecuticleofherthumb."Helooksverymuchlikemymother—Charles,Imean.
