Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Usuallyhedroolswhenhelaughs.Now,juststop,please."
"It’soneofthebestriddlesI’veheard,though,"Isaid,watchingCharles,whowasverygraduallycomingoutofit.Inresponsetothiscompliment,hesankconsiderablylowerinhischairandagainmaskedhisfaceuptotheeyeswithacornerofthetablecloth.Hethenlookedatmewithhisexposedeyes,whichwerefullofslowlysubsidingmirthandtheprideofsomeonewhoknowsareallygoodriddleortwo.
"MayIinquirehowyouwereemployedbeforeenteringtheArmy?"Esmeaskedme.
IsaidIhadn’tbeenemployedatall,thatI’donlybeenoutofcollegeayearbutthatIliketothinkofmyselfasaprofessionalshort-storywriter.
Shenoddedpolitely."Published?"sheasked.
Itwasafamiliarbutalwaystouchyquestion,andonethatIdidn’tanswerjustone,two,three.IstartedtoexplainhowmosteditorsinAmericawereabunch—
"Myfatherwrotebeautifully,"Esmeinterrupted."I’msavinganumberofhislettersforposterity."
Isaidthatsoundedlikeaverygoodidea.Ihappenedtobelookingatherenormous-faced,chronographic-lookingwristwatchagain.Iaskedifithadbelongedtoherfather.
Shelookeddownatherwristsolemnly."Yes,itdid,"shesaid."HegaveittomejustbeforeCharlesandIwereevacuated."Self-consciously,shetookherhandsoffthetable,saying,"Purelyasamomento,ofcourse."Sheguidedtheconversationinadifferentdirection."I’dbeextremelyflatteredifyou’dwriteastoryexclusivelyformesometime.I’manavidreader."
