Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Watchingher,IlitacigaretteandsaidIdidn’tthinkasenseofhumorwasofanyuseinarealpinch.
"Fathersaiditwas."
Thiswasastatementoffaith,notacontradiction,andIquicklyswitchedhorses.Inoddedandsaidherfatherhadprobablytakenthelongview,whileIwastakingtheshort(whateverthatmeant).
"Charlesmisseshimexceedingly,"Esmesaid,afteramoment."Hewasanexceedinglylovableman.Hewasextremelyhandsome,too.Notthatone’sappearancemattersgreatly,buthewas.Hehadterriblypenetratingeyes,foramanwhowasintransicallykind."
Inodded.IsaidIimaginedherfatherhadhadquiteanextraordinaryvocabulary.
"Oh,yes;quite,"saidEsme."Hewasanarchivist—amateur,ofcourse."
Atthatpoint,Ifeltanimportunatetap,almostapunch,onmyupperarm,fromCharles’direction.Iturnedtohim.Hewassittinginafairlynormalpositioninhischairnow,exceptthathehadonekneetuckedunderhim."Whatdidonewallsaytotheotherwall?"heaskedshrilly."It’sariddle!"
Irolledmyeyesreflectivelyceilingwardandrepeatedthequestionaloud.ThenIlookedatCharleswithastumpedexpressionandsaidIgaveup.
"Meetyouatthecorner!"camethepunchline,attopvolume.
ItwentoverbiggestwithCharleshimself.Itstruckhimasunbearablyfunny.Infact,Esmehadtocomearoundandpoundhimontheback,asiftreatinghimforacoughingspell."Now,stopthat,"shesaid.Shewentbacktoherownseat."Hetellsthatsameriddletoeveryonehemeetsandhasafiteverysingletime.
