Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Ilookexactlylikemyfather."Shewentonbitingathercuticle."Mymotherwasquiteapassionatewoman.Shewasanextrovert.Fatherwasanintrovert.Theywerequitewellmated,though,inasuperficialway.Tobequitecandid,FatherreallyneededmoreofanintellectualcompanionthanMotherwas.Hewasanextremelygiftedgenius."
Iwaited,receptively,forfurtherinformation,butnonecame.IlookeddownatCharles,whowasnowrestingthesideofhisfaceonhischairseat.WhenhesawthatIwaslookingathim,heclosedhiseyes,sleepily,angelically,thenstuckouthistongue—anappendageofstartlinglength—andgaveoutwhatinmycountrywouldhavebeenaglorioustributetoamyopicbaseballumpire.Itfairlyshookthetearoom.
"Stopthat,"Esmesaid,clearlyunshaken."HesawanAmericandoitinafish-and-chipsqueue,andnowhedoesitwheneverhe’sbored.Juststopit,now,orIshallsendyoudirectlytoMissMegley."
Charlesopenedhisenormouseyes,assignthathe’dheardhissister’sthreat,butotherwisedidn’tlookespeciallyalerted.Heclosedhiseyesagain,andcontinuedtorestthesideofhisfaceonthechairseat.
Imentionedthatmaybeheoughttosaveit—meaningtheBronxcheer—tillhestartedusinghistitleregularly.Thatis,ifhehadatitle,too.
Esmegavemealong,faintlyclinicallook."Youhaveadrysenseofhumor,haven’tyou?"shesaid—wistfully."FathersaidIhavenosenseofhumoratall.HesaidIwasunequippedtomeetlifebecauseIhavenosenseofhumor."
